Sailors Knots | Page 7

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 reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got
a brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment
on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by
paying the carriage.
In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those
home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his
married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that his
weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his first
experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant things to
a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles. He
changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his wife's
continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett, and
poured his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.
"If she was to ask me to take