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The Long-Lost Uncle
by
“How did you meet her, uncle?” Herbert interposed, aware that his uncle had not been accustomed to move in theatrical circles.
“How did I meet her? I met her by setting about to meet her. I had for t’ meet her. I got Harry Burisford, th’ manager o’ th’ theatre thou knowst, for t’ introduce us. Then I give a supper, nephew–I give a supper at Turk’s Head, but private like.”
“Was that the time when you were supposed to be at the Ratepayers’ Association every night?” Herbert asked blandly.
“It was, nephew,” said Si, with equal blandness.
“Then no doubt those two visits to Manchester, afterwards–“
“Exactly,” said Si. “Th’ company went to Manchester and stopped there a fortnight. I told her fair and square what I meant and what I was worth. There was no beating about the bush wi’ me. All her friends told her she’d be a fool if she wouldn’t have me. She said her’d write me yes or no. Her didn’t. Her telegraphed me from Sunderland for go and see her at once. It was that morning as I left. I thought to be back in a couple o’ days and to tell thee as all was settled. But women! Women! Her had me dangling after her from town to town for a week. I was determined to get her, and get her I did, though it cost me my beard, and the best part o’ that four hundred. I married her i’ Halifax, lad, and it were the best day’s work I ever did. You never seed such a woman. Big and plump–and sing! By—-! I never cared for singing afore. And her knows the world, let me tell ye.”
“You might have sent us word,” said Herbert.
Silas grew reflective. “Ah!” he said. “I might–and I mightn’t. I didn’t want Hanbridge chattering. I was trapesing wi’ her from town to town till her engagement was up–pretty near six months. Then us settled i’ rooms at Scarborough, and there was other things to think of. I couldn’t leave her. Her wouldna’ let me. To-day was the fust free day I’ve had, and so I run down to fix matters. And nice weather I’ve chosen! Her aunt’s spending the night wi’ her.”
“Then she’s left the stage.”
“Of course she’s left th’ stage. What ‘ud be th’ sense o’ her painting her face and screeching her chest out night after night for a crowd o’ blockheads, when I can keep her like a lady. Dost think her’s a fool? Her’s the only woman wi’ any sense as ever I met in all my life.”
“And you want to come here and live?”
“No, us dunna! At least her dunna. Her says her hates th’ Five Towns. Her says Hanbridge is dirty and too religious for her. Says its nowt but chapels and public-houses and pot-banks. So her ladyship wunna’ come here. No, nephew, thou shalt buy this house for six hundred, and be d–d to thy foreclosure! And th’ furniture for a hundred. It’s a dead bargain. Us’ll settle at Scarborough, Liz and me. Now this water’s getting chilly. I’ll nip up to thy room and find some other clothes.”
“You can’t go up just now,” said Herbert.
“But I mun go at once, nephew. Th’ water’s chilly, and I’ve had enough on it.”
“The fact is we’re using my old bedroom for a sort of a nursery, and Alice and Jane Sarah are just giving the baby its bath.”
“Babby!” cried Silas. “Shake hands, nephew. Give us thy fist. I may as well out wi’ it. I’ve gotten one mysen. Pour some more hot water in here, then.”