Ernest Hornung - The Unbidden Guest

“Missy, my dear, is it possible” (so he put it) “that you have run short of the needful?”

“It’s a fact,” said Missy light-heartedly.

“But how, my dear, have you managed to do that?”

“How? Let’s see. I gave a lot away – to a woman in the steerage – whose husband went and died at sea. He died of dropsy. I nursed him, I did. Rather! I helped lay him out when he was dead. But don’t go telling anybody – please.”

Mr. Teesdale had shuddered uncontrollably; now, however, he shifted the reins to his right hand in order to pat Missy with his left.

“You’re a noble girl. You are that! Yet it’s only what I should have expected of their child. I might ha’ known you’d be a noble girl.”

“But you won’t tell anybody?”

“Not if you’d rather I didn’t. That proves your nobility! About how much would you like, my dear, to go on with?”

“Oh, twenty pounds.”

Mr. Teesdale drew the breeze in through the broken ranks of his teeth.

“Wouldn’t – wouldn’t ten do, my dear?”

“Ten? Let’s think. No, I don’t think I could do with a penny less than twenty. You see, a wave came into the cabin and spoilt all my things. I want everything new.”

“But I understood you had such a good voyage, Missy?”

“Not from me you didn’t! Besides, it was my own fault: I gone and left the window open, and in came a sea. Didn’t the captain kick up a shine! But I told him it was worse for me than for him; and look at the old duds I’ve got to go about in all because! Why, I look quite common – I know I do. No; I must have new before I come out to stay at the farm.”

“I’m sure our Arabella dresses simple,” the farmer was beginning; but Missy cut him short, and there was a spot of anger on each of her pale cheeks as she broke out:

“But this ain’t simple – it’s common! I had to borrow the most of it. All my things were spoilt. I can’t get a new rig-out for less than twenty pounds, and without everything new – ”

“Nay, come!” cried old David, in some trouble. “Of course I’ll let you have anything you want – I have your father’s instructions to do so. But – but there are difficulties. It’s difficult at this moment. You see the banks are closed, and – and – ”

“Oh, don’t you be in any hurry. Send it when you can; then I’ll get the things and come out afterwards. Why, here we are at Lonsdale Street!”

“But I want you to come out soon. How long would it take you to get everything?”

“To-day’s Thursday. If I had it to-morrow I could come out on Monday.”

“Then you shall have it to-morrow,” said David, closing his lips firmly. “Though the banks are closed, there’s the man we send our milk to, and he owes me a lump more than twenty pound. I’ll go to him now and get the twenty from him, or I’ll know the reason why! Yes, and I’ll post it to you before I go back home at all! What address must I send it to, Missy?”

“What address? Oh, to the General Post Office. I don’t want the folks I am staying with to know. They offered to lend me, and I wouldn’t. Will you stop, please?”

“Quite right, my dear, quite right. I was the one to come to. You’ll find it at the – ”

“Do you mind stopping?”

“Why, we’re not there yet. We’re not even in Bourke Street.”

“No, but please stop here.”

“Very well. Here we are, then, and it’s only six past. But why not drive right on to the theatre – that’s what I want to know?”

Missy hesitated, and hesitated, until she saw the old man peering into her face through the darkness that seemed to have fallen during the last five minutes. Then she dropped her eyes. They had pulled up alongside the deep-cut channel between road-metal and curb-stone, whereby you shall remember the streets of Melbourne. Nobody appeared to be taking any notice of them.

“I see,” said David very gently. “And I don’t wonder at it. No, Missy, it’s not at all the sort of turn-out for your friends to see you in. Jump down, my dear, and I’ll just drive alongside to see that nothing happens you. But I won’t seem to know you, Missy – I won’t seem to know you!”

Lower and lower, as the old man spoke, the girl had been hanging her head; until now he could see nothing of her face on account of her fringe; when suddenly she raised it and kissed his cheek. She was out of the buggy next moment.

She walked at a great rate, but David kept up with her by trotting his horse, and they exchanged signals the whole way. Close to the theatre she beckoned to him to pull up again. He did so, and she came to the wheel with one of her queer, inscrutable smiles.

“How do you know,” said she, “that I’m Miriam Oliver at all?”

The rays from a gas-lamp cut between their faces as she looked him full in the eyes.

“Why, of course you are!”

“But how do you know? ”

“Nay, come, what a question! What makes you ask it, Missy?”

“Because I’ve given you no proof. I brought an introduction with me and I went and forgot to give it to you. However, here it is, so you may as well put it in your pipe and smoke it.”

She took some letters out of her pocket as she spoke, and shifted the top one to the bottom until she came to an envelope that had never been through the post. This she handed up to David, who recognised his old friend’s writing, which indeed had caught his eye on most of the other envelopes also. And when she had put these back in her pocket she held out her dirty-gloved hand.

“So long,” she said. “You won’t know me when I turn up on Monday.”

“Stop!” cried David. “You must let me know when to send the buggy for you, and where to. It’ll never do to have you coming out in the ‘bus again.”

“Right you are. I’ll let you know. So long again – and see here. I think you’re the sweetest and trustingest old man in the world!”

She was far ahead, this time, before the buggy was under way again.

“Naturally,” chuckled David, following her hair through the crowd. “I should hope so, indeed, when it’s a child of John William Oliver, and one that you can love for her own sake an’ all! But what made her look so sorry when she gave me the kiss? And what’s this? Nay, come, I must have made a mistake!”

He had flattered himself that his eyes never left the portals where they had lost sight of the red hair, and when he got up to it what should it be but the stage door? The words were painted over it as plain as that. The mistake might be Missy’s; but a little waiting by the curb convinced Mr. Teesdale that it was his own; for Missy never came back, as he argued she must have done if she really had gone in at the stage door.

Mr. Teesdale drove on to the inn at which he was in the habit of putting up when in town with the buggy. His connection with the house was very characteristic. Many years before the landlord had served him in a menial capacity, but for nearly as many that worthy had been infinitely more prosperous than poor David, who, indeed, had never prospered at all. They were good friends, however, for the farmer had a soul too serene for envy, and a heart too simple to be over-sensitive concerning his own treatment at the hands of others. Thus he never resented his old hand’s way with him, which would have cut envy, vanity, or touchiness, to the quick. He came to this inn for the sake of old acquaintance; it never occurred to him to go elsewhere; nor had he ever been short or sharp with his landlord before this evening, when, instead of answering questions and explaining what had brought him into Melbourne twice in one day, Mr. Teesdale flung the reins to the ostler, and himself out of the yard, with the rather forbidding reply that he was there on business. He was, indeed; though the business was the birth of the last half-hour.