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“If you go and disappear for a twelvemonth and more, uncle, and leave no address, you must take the consequence. I never knew till after you’d gone that you’d mortgaged this house for four hundred pounds to Callear, the fish-dealer.”

“Who towd thee that?”

“Callear told me.”

“Callear had no cause to be uneasy. I wrote him twice as his interest ‘ud be all right when I come back.”

“Yes, I know. But you didn’t give any address. And he wanted his money back. So he came to me.”

“Wanted his money back!” cried Silas, splashing about in the hidden tub and grimacing. “He had but just lent it me.”

“Yes, but Tomkinson, his landlord, died, and he had the chance of buying his premises from the executors. And so he wanted his money back.”

“And what didst tell him, lad?”

“I told him I would take a transfer of the mort-gage.”

“Thou! Hadst gotten four hundred pounds i’ thy pocket, then?”

“Yes. And so I took a transfer.”

“Bless us! This comes o’going away! But where didst find th’ money?”

“And what’s more,” Herbert continued, evading the question, “as I couldn’t get my interest I gave you notice to repay, uncle, and as you didn’t repay–“

“Give me notice to repay! What the dev–? You hadna’ got my address.”

“I had your legal address–this house, and I left the notice for you in the parlour. And as you didn’t repay I–I took possession as mortgagee, and now I’m–I’m foreclosing.”

“Thou’rt foreclosing!”

Silas stood up in the tub, staggered, furious, sweating. He would have stepped out of the tub and done something to Herbert had not common prudence and the fear of the blanket falling off restrained his passion. There was left to him only one thing to do, and he did it. He sat down again.

“Bless us!” he repeated feebly.

“So you see,” said Herbert.

“And thou’st been living here ever since–alone, wi’ Jane Sarah?”

“Not exactly,” Herbert replied. “With my wife.”

Fully emboldened now, he related to his uncle the whole circumstances of his marriage.

Whereupon, to his surprise, Silas laughed hilariously, hysterically, and gulped down the remainder of the whisky.

“Where is her?” Silas demanded.

“Upstairs.”

“I’ my bedroom, I lay,” said Silas.

Herbert nodded. “May be.”

“And everything upside down!” proceeded Uncle Silas.

“No!” said Herbert. “We’ve put all your things in my old room.”

“Have ye! Ye’re too obliging, lad!” growled Silas. “And if it isn’t asking too much, where’s that china pig as used to be on the chimney-piece in th’ kitchen there? Her’s smashed it, eh?”

“No,” said Herbert, mildly. “She’s put it away in a cupboard. She didn’t like it.”

“Ah! I was but wondering if ye’d foreclosed on th’ pig too.”

“Possibly a few things are changed,” said Herbert. “But you know when a woman takes into her head–“

“Ay, lad! Ay, lad! I know! It was th’ same wi’ my beard. It had for go. Thou’st under the domination of a woman, and I can sympathize wi’ thee.”

Herbert gave a long, high whistle.

“So that’s it?” he exclaimed. And he suddenly felt as if his uncle was no longer an uncle but a brother.

“Yes,” said Silas. “That’s it. I’ll tell thee. Pour some more hot water in here. Dost remember when th’ Carl Rosa Opera Company was at Theatre Royal last year? I met her then. Her was one o’ Venus’s maidens i’ th’ fust act o’ Tannhaeuser, and her was a bridesmaid i’ Lohengrin, and Siebel i’ Faust, and a cigarette girl i’ summat else. But it was in Tannhaeuser as I fust saw her on the stage, and her struck me like that.” Silas clapped one damp hand violently on the other. “Miss Elsa Venda was her stage name, but her was a widow, Mrs Parfitt, and had bin for ten years. Seemingly her husband was of good family. Finest woman I ever seed, nephew. And you’ll say so. Her’d ha’ bin a prima donna only for jealousy. Fust time I spoke to her I thought I should ha’ fallen down. Steady with that water. Dost want for skin me alive? Yes, I thought I should ha’ fallen down. They call’n it love. You can call it what ye’n a mind for call it. I nearly fell down.”