The Second Delivery

by Barry Pain

THE SECOND DELIVERY

By BARRY PAIN.

MR. JAMES MONTALBIN, bachelor, aged fifty-six, a member of the Cabinet Club, possessed good health, independent means, scholarly tastes, and the services of Mrs. Bowes, who was the best cook-housekeeper in London. But, like the rest of us, he was open to criticism. For example, he was an epicure.

The Occasional Help said that Mr. Montalbin he made a god of his belly, if ever any man did.

Mrs. Bowes replied that it would be better if the Occasional Help sometimes talked about something she understood. Mr. Montalbin knew how to live, and that was all there was to be said about that.

The Occasional Help came at fixed hours to assist Mrs. Bowes. An ex-butler came for the evening, and waited at table when Mr. Montalbin entertained his friends. Mrs. Bowes did not greatly approve of either of these assistants. She said that it made her fairly sick to see people doing things that she could do better herself. There are fat cooks who are good-tempered and emotional, but will never rise very high as cooks, and there are thin cooks who are a little temperamental—perhaps when the tradesmen do not bring just what was ordered, or bring it too late—but possess enthusiasm for their work and become artists. It was to the latter class that Mrs. Bowes belonged, and she knew it and said it.

"Other servants," she observed to the Occasional Help, "are merely servants, but cooks, if they are what I mean by cooks, are artists."

"Very likely," said the Occasional Help, who seldom disagreed with Mrs. Bowes. "I hadn't noticed that now, until you come to mention it."

Mrs. Bowes was the only servant who resided in the flat, and she had become absolutely invaluable to Mr. James Montalbin. He could go away for a holiday and leave her in charge with absolute confidence. He still checked the weekly-books occasionally, but he had never yet found a mistake in them. She looked after his clothes better than the valet whom he had dismissed had ever done. If he dined alone, she doubled the parts of cook and parlourmaid, and both of them were excellent impersonations. She had been with him four years, when one night; at his club, the thought crossed his mind that she really cooked just as well as the club chef. He dismissed the thought as blasphemous, but it returned. He raised her wages that night. In the course of the next year he felt quite certain that she was even better than the club chef, and raised her wages again. He was on the point of raising them once more in the sixth year, when she came into the dining-room at breakfast time and said that she wished to give a month's notice.

For a few moments Mr. Montalbin was too shocked to speak. It was as if the floor had opened under him and he had been precipitated into a bottomless pit. Life without Mrs. Bowes, to one who for a long time had experienced her perfections, seemed to him unthinkable. Then he pulled himself together and actually smiled.

"Come, come, Mrs. Bowes," he said, "this won't do at all. I can't hear of anything of that sort. It's impossible. If you've anything to complain of, or any alteration that you would like to have made, just tell me what it is, and I've no doubt that I can meet your views. I was thinking only yesterday that you were really worth more money than I was paying you."

"It's not that, sir," said Mrs. Bowes. "It's—well, to put it plainly, I'm thinking of getting married again."

Mr. Montalbin would far sooner have married the woman himself than let her go. He did not say that, but what he did say was an even worse blunder.

"What, Mrs. Bowes, marriage? At your time of life?"

Now, Mrs. Bowes was only forty-eight, and looked rather younger. The Occasional Help, possibly from motives that were not wholly disinterested, had once said that she would not give her a day over thirty-nine.

Mr. Montalbin, unconscious of his blunder, went on. "And whom do you intend to marry, Mrs. Bowes?"

"I am engaged to the Second Delivery, sir."

"Engaged to the which?"

"The Second Delivery, sir. The postman, you know."

Mr. Montalbin went on from bad to worse. "You can't mean that," he said. "You're old enough to be the boy's mother."

"That is as it may be," said Mrs. Bowes, which was as near to actual rudeness as she had ever approached.

"Well, well," said Mr. Montalbin, "we'll say no more about it just now. Here you are, with a comfortable home and everything you want. Give it all up, and I don't know what will become of you. A postman's wife doesn't live as you do. Just think it over. Use your common-sense. See where your real advantage lies. And I'll speak to you about it again to-morrow."

"I don't think, sir," said Mrs. Bowes at the door, "that you will find I've changed my mind in any way."

Now, it chanced that when Mr. Montalbin was going out that morning he encountered, at the entrance to the flats, the Second Delivery, whose other name was Bifton. Mr. Montalbin was acquainted with Bifton. He not only said "Good morning!" to Bifton when they met, but often—for he was a kind man—would add a remark upon the weather. On the day before the last Bank Holiday he had bestowed a ten-shilling note on Bifton wherewith to embellish the holiday. He had afterwards thought it foolish, but he now remembered the incident with joy. Nor had Bifton forgotten it. He was a somewhat sullen-looking youth.

"Morning," said Mr. Montalbin briskly. "I've just been hearing about you. I understand you mean to marry my housekeeper."

"Well, sir, it's been spoken of," said Bifton. "I suppose that's what it comes to."

"Well," said Mr. Montalbin, "I'm sure I hope you will be very happy together. She's a little elderly for a fine young man in the prime of life like yourself, isn't she?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," said Bifton. "I don't want to stick in the Post Office for ever, pension or no pension."

"I see," said Mr. Montalbin, "I see. No doubt Mrs. Bowes has put some money by—enough to start a business, perhaps."

"It was to be in the greengrocery."

"Well, you know," said Mr. Montalbin, "Mrs. Bowes has been with me a long time, and I should be sorry if she made any mistake that would bring her unhappiness in the end. I'm not sure I couldn't arrange better for you. Where could I see you to have a little talk over this? Three o'clock this afternoon, say. Possibly there is some pub near here that you know of."

"There's 'The Red Lion,' corner of Elstow Street. It's quiet enough in the saloon bar there. If you could make it half-past two"—he had excellent reasons for suggesting this change in the hour—"I could be there then."

"Certainly. Very good. I shall expect you there at half-past two. Not a word of this to Mrs. Bowes, of course."

"Not likely, sir," said Bifton. "I don't tell her everything. I believe in beginning as you mean to go on."

Mr. Montalbin got into a taxi and drove to his bank. There he drew a cheque for fifty pounds and took ten five-pound notes for it. It might not cost quite as much as that, but it was just as well to be prepared. He had, curiously enough, the feeling that he was doing a right and generous thing. He was trying to save an old servant from a fatal error. Incidentally, he would consider it cheap if by an expenditure of fifty pounds he could still retain the services of Mrs. Bowes. He went on to his club; read the papers, lunched there, not without the thought that he could have lunched better at home, and then went on to his assignation. The two conspirators met in the crimson plush seclusion of "The Red Lion." Mr. Montalbin presented Bifton with an excessively large glass of port, gave a plausible reason for not partaking of the cat-poison himself, and got to business at once.

"Well, now, if you were a free man and had got a little capital at your disposal, would you still want to marry Mrs. Bowes?"

"She's a good woman."

"I don't doubt it."

"I don't know any woman as I respect more."

"She deserves it."

"The letter I should send wouldn't blame her for anything—it would blame myself rather. Then, if I'd got thirty-five or forty pounds over and above the little bit I've banked, I'd hop it."

"You would—er—hop it? Now, that's interesting. And where would you go?"

"America, and never hesitate. That's a grand country. I've got a brother out there, and he's done splendid. He's always writing to me to come out and join him. A man that really is a man can make his way in America."

"And you wouldn't take Mrs. Bowes with you?"

"Well, no. It would be no kindness to her, sir. She's—well, there's no woman I respect more, but she's not so young as she was some time ago."

"Too old to transplant? I think you're right. Very well, you can go to America. I'll give you the money."

"You, sir? Give it to me what has no claim on you?"

"You've no claim, but Mrs. Bowes has." He produced his pocket-case. "Thirty-five pounds I think you said."

"Or forty. It might be best to be on the safe side. And if I only had words to speak the gratitude in my heart——"

"That's all right. It's better to be on the safe side, and a little too much money often lures a young man into habits of extravagance. Thirty-five. Seven five-pound notes. Here's a pencil and a bit of paper. Write that, in consideration of thirty-five pounds received, you agree to give up Mrs. Bowes, and sign it, and those five-pound notes will be yours."

The little arrangement was soon concluded. As Mr. Montalbin returned to the club, he shook hands with himself. The way he had managed the miserable Bifton had been masterly. And if Bifton, whom neither Montalbin nor anybody else entirely trusted, attempted to keep the thirty-five pounds and annex, by way of marriage, Mrs. Bowes' savings as well, he knew very well that he had but to show Mrs. Bowes that pencilled document, and Bifton's chances would be gone for ever. Never had he felt more satisfied with an expenditure of thirty-five pounds.

At the club he played three rubbers of bridge and—as generally happened when the cards all came his way—felt that he was playing better than usual. He won every rubber, and one of his opponents observed that he was a lucky man.

"I wouldn't say that," said Montalbin, "but I must admit that this is my lucky day—sort of day when everything goes right with you."

With such insolence do we challenge the fates. The day was not yet over.

Returning to his flat, he heard a man's voice in the kitchen. It was easily explained. The day before, Mrs. Bowes, referring to the gas supply for cooking, and not to her engagement, had said that she could not get sufficient pressure in the kitchen, and she would have to get a man to see to it. No doubt this was the man.

He rang the bell and ordered a whisky and soda. Such indulgence before dinner was unusual with him, but the day seemed to demand it. And Mrs. Bowes seemed a little unusual when she took the order—rather flustered, but distinctly radiant. What on earth had the woman got to be radiant about? It worried him. Explanations came when she returned with the drink.

"I think, sir," she said, "that I ought to tell you at once that I have decided not to marry the Second Delivery."

Thirty-five pounds wasted! Always the way—no woman ever knew her own mind ten minutes together. But however——

"You've decided very wisely. The boy may be all right—though I saw him going into a public-house only this afternoon—but he's no husband for you. Then I suppose that the notice you gave me this morning may be considered as cancelled."

"Oh, no, sir. Not at all, sir. One of my reasons for giving up Mr. Bifton is that my husband has come back to me unexpected."

"Your husband? When you came here you described yourself as a widow."

"So I did, sir. It was a manner of speaking. When I came to you, Bowes had left me three years before, and I've not seen or heard of him since till this day, and I've been with you over five years. For more than eight years in all he might have been dead as far as I knew. So the lawyer said it could be arranged for me and the Second Delivery, and no bigamy about it. Bowes was a clever man and a kind man when not under the influence of the habit, and it was my fault for speaking too harsh about the habit that drove him away."

"So you propose to live with a drunkard."

"Drunkard? Oh, no, sir. He's a changed man is Bowes. He's not got that look in his eye now. For the last five years he's been a lifelong teetotaler. You see, he went to America—it's a grand country, he tells me, and one where a man can push himself on. It happened that business took him into one of the wildest parts, called the Middle West, where, they only drink tea and keep Indians. So, being teetotal for want of temptation for six months, he never went back to the other thing when he could. He's prospered. He could afford to live like a gentleman for the rest of his life—only that's the last thing he'd care about. He's brought me a lovely gold watch. He says he should have come for me before if business hadn't detained him. He's spent money like water to find out where I was living. And now he wants to take me back with him, for he's in the high-class hotel business, where I can be useful. So I'm going. Why; if he'd only dropped me a postcard to say he was alive, I should never even have thought of that young postman. I've got Bowes in the kitchen now, sir, if you'd like to have a few words with him."

"Yes, I should like to have a few words with him," said Montalbin gloomily, "but I think I'd better not. I shall dine at the club."

"The dinner you ordered here, sir, is now being prepared——"

"You and Bowes can eat it. There's no such thing as gratitude in this world. Get me my hat."

At the club he selected a one-man table for dinner. He had suddenly formed a very low opinion of his species, and did not wish to consort with them. It was not a good dinner. At least, it was not what James Montalbin considered to be a good dinner. His spirits sank further. After dinner he prepared to enjoy his cigar—if you could call it enjoyment—in a remote and unpeopled corner of the smoking-room.

But a genial old friend of his had marked him down and came to him.

"Hullo, Montalbin! What were you doing, sulking all by yourself at dinner? You're not looking yourself."

"How do you mean—not looking myself?"

"Well, you look to me as if you'd been overdoing it. Absolutely played out—that's the impression you give. I should say you'd been working too hard at those blessed books of yours. Why don't you give it a rest?"

"Because I prefer work."

"Well, if I were your doctor, I'd bundle you out of the country at once. I'd give you a sea voyage. Why not try America? It's a grand country."

Montalbin rose to his feet. "Thank you," he said bitterly. "I've had enough America. Quite enough. Don't allude to it again, please."

And he stalked off into the Silence Room, where he sat down to the very careful composition of a very long advertisement for a cook-housekeeper.