to be unfeeling, but you’d try the temper of a saint. I’m sure I wonder I haven’t done it before. Why I married a stingy man I don’t know.”
“Why I married at all I don’t know,” said her husband, in a deep voice.
“We were both fools,” said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; “that’s what it was. However, it can’t be helped now.”
“Some men would go and leave you,” said Mr. Hatchard.
“Well, go,” said his wife, bridling. “I don’t want you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said the other.
“It ain’t nonsense,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “If you want to go, go. I don’t want to keep you.”
“I only wish I could,” said her husband, wistfully.
“There’s the door,” said Mrs. Hatchard, pointing. “What’s to prevent you?”
“And have you going to the magistrate?” observed Mr. Hatchard.
“Not me,” was the reply.
“Or coming up, full of complaints, to the ware-house?”
“Not me,” said his wife again.
“It makes my mouth water to think of it,” said Mr. Hatchard. “Four years ago I hadn’t a care in the world.”
“Me neither,” said Mrs. Hatchard; “but then I never thought I should marry you. I remember the first time I saw you I had to stuff my handkerchief in my mouth.”
“What for?” inquired Mr. Hatchard.
“Keep from laughing,” was the reply.
“You took care not to let me see you laugh,” said Mr. Hatchard, grimly. “You were polite enough in them days. I only wish I could have my time over again; that’s all.”
“You can go, as I said before,” said his wife.
“I’d go this minute,” said Mr. Hatchard, “but I know what it ‘ud be: in three or four days you’d be coming and begging me to take you back again.”
“You try me,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. “I can keep myself. You leave me the furniture—most of it is mine—and I sha’n’t worry you again.”
“Mind!” said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. “If I go, I never come back again.”
“I’ll take care of that,” said his wife, equably. “You are far more likely to ask to come back than I am.”
Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on by a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage and, putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway regarding her.
“I’ve a good mind to take you at your word,” he said, at last.
“Good-night,” said his wife, briskly. “If you send me your address, I’ll send your things on to you. There’s no need for you to call about them.”
Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards he began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning; before he had walked fifty he was certain of it.
He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to get his breakfast elsewhere. It was the longest day in Mr. Hatchard’s experience, and, securing modest lodgings that evening, he overslept himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in ten years.
His personal effects arrived next day, but no letter came from his wife, and one which he wrote concerning a pair of missing garments received no reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by paying the carriage.
In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that his weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his first experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant things to a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles. He changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his wife’s continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett, and poured his troubles into that gentleman’s reluctant ear.
“If she was to ask me to take her back,” he concluded, “I’m not sure, mind you, that I wouldn’t do so.”
“It does you credit,” said Mr. Pett. “Well, ta-ta; I must be off.”
“And I expect she’d be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,” said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other’s sleeve.
Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.
“It wants to be done cleverly, though,” said Mr. Hatchard, “else she might get the idea that I wanted to go back.”
“I s’pose you know she’s moved?” said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man anxious to change the conversation.
“Eh?” said the other.
“Number thirty-seven, John Street,” said Mr. Pett. “Told my wife she’s going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden name.”
He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down, and a bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.
On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the corner of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized the curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the room, leaned over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the window-sash:
He walked away whistling, and after going a little way turned and passed it again. He passed in all four times, and then, with an odd grin lurking at the corners of his mouth, strode up to the front door and knocked loudly. He heard somebody moving about inside, and, more with the idea of keeping his courage up than anything else, gave another heavy knock at the door. It was thrown open hastily, and the astonished face of his wife appeared before him.
“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.
Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma’am,” he said, politely.
“What do you want?” repeated his wife.
“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the bill in the window.”
Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.
“Well?” she gasped.
“I’d like to see the rooms,” said the other.
“But you ain’t a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.
“I’m as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.”
“You ain’t young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I’m three years younger than what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.
His wife’s lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard put his foot in.
“If you don’t want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.
“I don’t take the first that comes,” said his wife.
“I’ll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard,