Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

In accordance with his plan his return to his native town was heralded by a few short visits at respectable intervals. A sort of human butterfly, he streaked rapidly across one or two streets, alighted for half an hour to resume an old friendship, and then disappeared again. Having given at least half-a-dozen hints of this kind, he made a final return to Ramsbury and entered into occupation of his new house.

“It does you credit, Jernshaw,” he said, gratefully. “I should have made a rare mess of it without your help.”

“It looks very nice,” admitted his friend. “Too nice.”

“That’s all nonsense,” said the owner, irritably.

“All right,” said Mr. Jernshaw. “I don’t know the sex, then, that’s all. If you think that you’re going to keep a nice house like this all to yourself, you’re mistaken. It’s a home; and where there’s a home a woman comes in, somehow.”

Mr. Barrett grunted his disbelief.

“I give you four days,” said Mr. Jernshaw.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Prentice and her daughter came on the fifth. Mr. Barrett, who was in an easy-chair, wooing slumber with a handkerchief over his head, heard their voices at the front door and the cordial invitation of his housekeeper. They entered the room as he sat hastily smoothing his rumpled hair.

“Good afternoon,” he said, shaking hands.

Mrs. Prentice returned the greeting in a level voice, and, accepting a chair, gazed around the room.

“Nice weather,” said Mr. Barrett.

“Very,” said Mrs. Prentice.

“It’s—it’s quite a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Barrett.

“We thought we should have seen you before,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but I told Louisa that no doubt you were busy, and wanted to surprise her. I like the carpet; don’t you, Louisa?”

Miss Prentice said she did.

“The room is nice and airy,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but it’s a pity you didn’t come to me before deciding. I could have told you of a better house for the same money.”

“I’m very well satisfied with this,” said Mr. Barrett. “It’s all I want.”

“It’s well enough,” conceded Mrs. Prentice, amiably. “And how have you been all these years?”

Mr. Barrett, with some haste, replied that his health and spirits had been excellent.

“You look well,” said Mrs. Prentice. “Neither of you seem to have changed much,” she added, looking from him to her daughter. “And I think you did quite well not to write. I think it was much the best.”

Mr. Barrett sought for a question: a natural, artless question, that would neutralize the hideous suggestion conveyed by this remark, but it eluded him. He sat and gazed in growing fear at Mrs. Prentice.

“I—I couldn’t write,” he said at last, in desperation; “my wife–”

“Your what?” exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, loudly.

“Wife,” said Mr. Barrett, suddenly calm now that he had taken the plunge. “She wouldn’t have liked it.”

Mrs. Prentice tried to control her voice. “I never heard you were married!” she gasped. “Why isn’t she here?”

“We couldn’t agree,” said the veracious Mr. Barrett. “She was very difficult; so I left the children with her and–”

“Chil–” said Mrs. Prentice, and paused, unable to complete the word.

“Five,” said Mr. Barrett, in tones of resignation. “It was rather a wrench, parting with them, especially the baby. He got his first tooth the day I left.”

The information fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Prentice, for once in her life thoroughly at a loss, sat trying to collect her scattered faculties. She had come out prepared for a hard job, but not an impossible one. All things considered, she took her defeat with admirable composure.

“I have no doubt it is much the best thing for the children to remain with their mother,” she said, rising.

“Much the best,” agreed Mr. Barrett. “Whatever she is like,” continued the old lady. “Are you ready, Louisa?”

Mr. Barrett followed them to the door, and then, returning to the room, watched, with glad eyes, their progress up the street.

“Wonder whether she’ll keep it to herself?” he muttered.

His doubts were set at rest next day. All Ramsbury knew by then of his matrimonial complications, and seemed anxious to talk about them; complications which tended to increase until Mr. Barrett wrote out a list of his children’s names and ages and learnt it off by heart.

Relieved of the attentions of the Prentice family, he walked the streets a free man; and it was counted to him for righteousness that he never said a hard word about his wife. She had her faults, he said, but they were many thousand miles away, and he preferred to forget them. And he added, with some truth, that he owed her a good deal.

For a few months he had no reason to alter his opinion. Thanks to his presence of mind, the Prentice family had no terrors for him. Heart- whole and fancy free, he led the easy life of a man of leisure, a condition of things suddenly upset by the arrival of Miss Grace Lindsay to take up a post at the elementary school. Mr. Barrett succumbed almost at once, and, after a few encounters in the street and meetings at mutual friends’, went to unbosom him-self to Mr. Jernshaw.

“What has she got to do with you?” demanded that gentleman.

“I—I’m rather struck with her,” said Mr. Barrett.

“Struck with her?” repeated his friend, sharply. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve no business to think of such things.”

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Barrett, in tones that were sharper still.

“Why not?” repeated the other. “Have you forgotten your wife and children?”

Mr. Barrett, who, to do him justice, had forgotten, fell back in his chair and sat gazing at him, open-mouthed.

“You’re in a false position—in a way,” said Mr. Jernshaw, sternly.

“False is no name for it,” said Mr. Barrett, huskily. “What am I to do?”

“Do?” repeated the other, staring at him. “Nothing! Unless, perhaps, you send for your wife and children. I suppose, in any case, you would have to have the little ones if anything happened to her?”

Mr. Barrett grinned ruefully.

“Think it over,” said Mr. Jernshaw. “I will,” said the other, heartily.

He walked home deep in thought. He was a kindly man, and he spent some time thinking out the easiest death for Mrs. Barrett. He decided at last upon heart-disease, and a fort-night later all Ramsbury knew of the letter from Australia conveying the mournful intelligence. It was generally agreed that the mourning and the general behaviour of the widower left nothing to be desired.

“She’s at peace at last,” he said, solemnly, to Jernshaw.

“I believe you killed her,” said his friend. Mr. Barrett started violently.