Homeward Bound

"Homeward Bound" by W. W. Jacobs is a collection of humorous short stories that capture the essence of life in early 20th-century England. Known for his witty observations and character-driven narratives, Jacobs often focuses on the quirks and idiosyncrasies of everyday people, particularly those from the working class. Through a blend of comedy and poignancy, the stories explore themes of home, relationships, and the often absurd situations that arise in the pursuit of happiness. Jacobs’ engaging storytelling and sharp dialogue make this collection a delightful reflection on the human experience.

• Short story

								
Mr. Hatchard's conversation for nearly a week had been confined to
fault-finding and grunts, a system of treatment designed to wean Mrs.
Hatchard from her besetting sin of extravagance. On other occasions the
treatment had, for short periods, proved successful, but it was quite
evident that his wife's constitution was becoming inured to this physic
and required a change of treatment. The evidence stared at him from
the mantelpiece in the shape of a pair of huge pink vases, which had
certainly not been there when he left in the morning. He looked at them
and breathed heavily.

“Pretty, ain't they?” said his wife, nodding at them.

“Who gave 'em to you?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, sternly.

His wife shook her head. “You don't get vases like that given to you,”
she said, slowly. “Leastways, I don't.”

“Do you mean to say you bought 'em?” demanded her husband.

Mrs. Hatchard nodded.

“After all I said to you about wasting my money?” persisted Mr.
Hatchard, in amazed accents.

Mrs. Hatchard nodded, more brightly than before.

“There has got to be an end to this!” said her husband, desperately. “I
won't have it! D'ye hear? I won't—have—it!”

“I bought 'em with my own money,” said his wife, tossing her head.

“Your money?” said Mr. Hatchard. “To hear you talk anybody 'ud think
you'd got three hundred a year, instead o' thirty. Your money ought to
be spent in useful things, same as what mine is. Why should I spend
my money keeping you, while you waste yours on pink vases and having
friends in to tea?”

Mrs. Hatchard's still comely face took on a deeper tinge.

“Keeping me?” she said, sharply. “You'd better stop before you say
anything you might be sorry for, Alfred.”

“I should have to talk a long time before I said that,” retorted the
other.

“I'm not so sure,” said his wife. “I'm beginning to be tired of it.”

“I've reasoned with you,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “I've argued with
you, and I've pointed out the error of your ways to you, and it's all no
good.”

“Oh, be quiet, and don't talk nonsense,” said his wife.

“Talking,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “as I said before, is no good. Deeds,
not words, is what is wanted.”

He rose suddenly from his chair and, taking one of the vases from the
mantelpiece, dashed it to pieces on the fender. Example is contagious,
and two seconds later he was in his chair again, softly feeling a
rapidly growing bump on his head, and gazing goggle-eyed at his wife.

Taking One of the Vases from The Mantelpiece, he Dashed It To Pieces on
the Fender.

“And I'd do it again,” said that lady, breathlessly, “if there was
another vase.”

Mr. Hatchard opened his mouth, but speech failed him. He got up and left
the room without a word, and, making his way to the scullery, turned
on the tap and held his head beneath it. A sharp intake of the breath
announced that a tributary stream was looking for the bump down the neck
of his shirt.

He was away a long time—so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was
beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard
him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying
his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.

“I—I hope I didn't hurt you—much?” said his wife.

Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.

“You might have killed me,” he said at last, in thrilling tones. “Then
what would you have done?”

“Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my
arms,” said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. “I don't want 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

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes