For Better or Worse Page #3

"For Better or Worse" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating short story that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of a seaside village, the narrative follows a couple whose seemingly mundane life is disrupted by unexpected events that test their bond and commitment to one another. Jacobs blends humor with poignant moments, showcasing his signature storytelling style and keen insight into human nature. Through clever dialogue and vivid characterizations, the story delves into the idea that true devotion often involves navigating life's challenges together.

• Short story

								


Mr. Davis passed the back of his hand across his eyes in a dazed fashion
and stared at her.

"Is--is somebody passing himself off as me?"  he demanded.  "'Cos if he
is I'll 'ave you both up for bigamy."

"Certainly not."

"But--but--"

Mr. Davis turned and looked blankly at his friend.  Mr. Wotton met his
gaze with dilated eyes.

"You say you recognize me as your wife?"  said the old lady.

"Certainly," said Mr. Davis, hotly.

"It's very curious," said the other--"very.  But are you sure?  Look
again."

Mr. Davis thrust his face close to hers and stared hard.  She bore his
scrutiny without flinching.

"I'm positive certain," said Mr. Davis, taking a breath.

"That's very curious," said the old lady; "but, then, I suppose we are a
bit alike.  You see, Mrs. Davis being away, I'm looking after her house
for a bit.  My name happens to be Smith."

Mr. Davis uttered a sharp exclamation, and, falling back a step, stared
at her open-mouthed.

"We all make mistakes," urged Mr. Wotton, after a long silence, "and
Ben's sight ain't wot it used to be.  He strained it looking out for a
sail when we was on that desert----"

"When--when'll she be back?"  inquired Mr. Davis, finding his voice at
last.

The old lady affected to look puzzled.  "But I thought you were certain
that I was your wife?"  she said, smoothly.

"My mistake," said Mr. Davis, ruefully.  "Thirty-five years is a long
time and people change a bit; I have myself.  For one thing, I must say
I didn't expect to find 'er so stout."

"Stout!"  repeated the other, quickly.

"Not that I mean you're too stout," said Mr. Davis, hurriedly--"for
people that like stoutness, that is.  My wife used to 'ave a very good
figger."

Mr. Wotton nodded.  "He used to rave about it on that des----"

"When will she be back?"  inquired Mr. Davis, interrupting him.

Mrs. Smith shook her head.  "I can't say," she replied, moving towards
the door.  "When she's off holidaying, I never know when she'll return.
Shall I tell her you called?"

"Tell her I----certainly," said Mr. Davis, with great vehemence.  "I'll
come in a week's time and see if she's back."

"She might be away for months," said the old lady, moving slowly to the
passage and opening the street door.  "Good-afternoon."

She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glass
as they passed disconsolately into the street.  Then she went back into
the parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long and
earnestly into the mirror.

Mr. Davis returned a week later--alone, and, pausing at the gate, glanced
in dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to be
sold.  He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted by
the trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispirited
fashion before Mrs. Smith.

"Not back yet?"  he inquired, gruffly.

The old lady shook her head.

"What--what--is that bill for?"  demanded Mr. Davis, jerking his thumb
towards it.

"She is thinking of selling the house," said Mrs. Smith.  "I let her know
you had been, and that is, the result.  She won't comeback.  You won't
see her again."

"Where is she?"  inquired Mr. Davis, frowning.

Mrs. Smith shook her head again.  "And it would be no use my telling
you," she said.  "What she has got is her own, and the law won't let you
touch a penny of it without her consent.  You must have treated her
badly; why did you leave her?"

"Why?"  repeated Mr. Davis.  "Why?  Why, because she hit me over the 'ead
with a broom-handle."

Mrs. Smith tossed her head.

"Fancy you remembering that for thirty-five years!"  she said.

"Fancy forgetting it!"  retorted Mr. Davis.

"I suppose she had a hot temper," said the old lady.

"'Ot temper?"  said the other.  "Yes."  He leaned forward, and holding
his chilled hands over the fire stood for some time deep in thought.

"I don't know what it is," he said at last, "but there's a something
about you that reminds me of her.  It ain't your voice, 'cos she had a
very nice voice--when she wasn't in a temper--and it ain't your face,
because--"

"Yes?"  said Mrs. Smith, sharply.  "Because it don't remind me of her."

"And yet the other day you said you recognized me at once," said the old
lady.

"I thought I did," said Mr. Davis.  "One thing is, I was expecting to see
her, I s'pose."

There was a long silence.

"Well, I won't keep you," said Mrs. Smith at last, "and it's no good for
you to keep coming here to see her.  She will never come here again.
I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you don't look over and above
respectable.  Your coat is torn, your trousers are patched in a dozen
places, and your boots are half off your feet--I don't know what the
servant must think."

"I--I only came to look for my wife," said Mr. Davis, in a startled
voice.  "I won't come again."

"That's right," said the old lady.  "That'll please her, I know.  And if
she should happen to ask what sort of a living you are making, what shall
I tell her?"

"Tell her what you said about my clothes, ma'am," said Mr. Davis, with
his hand on the door-knob.  "She'll understand then.  She's known wot it
is to be poor herself.  She'd got a bad temper, but she'd have cut her
tongue out afore she'd 'ave thrown a poor devil's rags in his face.
Good-afternoon."

"Good-afternoon, Ben," said the old woman, in a changed voice.

Mr. Davis, half-way through the door, started as though he had been shot,
and, facing about, stood eyeing her in dumb bewilderment.

"If I take you back again," repeated his wife, "are you going to behave
yourself?"

"It isn't the same voice and it isn't the same face," said the old woman;
"but if I'd only got a broomhandle handy----"

Mr. Davis made an odd noise in his throat.

"If you hadn't been so down on your luck," said his wife, blinking her
eyes rapidly, "I'd have let you go.  If you hadn't looked 'so miserable I
could have stood it.  If I take you back, are you going to behave
yourself?"

Mr. Davis stood gaping at her.

"If I take you back again," repeated his wife, speaking very slowly, "are
you going to behave yourself?"

"Yes," said Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last.  "Yes, if you are."
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