Molly's Recruit

by E. R. Punshon

TALES OF COUNTRY LIFE

THE PRIZE.

BY

E. R. PUNSHON.

“OLD EXPECTATIONS” was the name he used to go by in our neighbourhood. He was a little, old man, shabbily dressed, pensioned off on eighteen shillings a week by a wealthy philanthropic merchant in whose office he had worked for something like half a century till old age and improved modern conditions and so on made his resignation necessary. His gratitude towards his old employer for the pension granted him was deep and touching. I remember once when I was with him he pointed to the walls of a big workhouse we were passing and said, “But for the mercy of God and the goodness of Sir —— I should be there.”

Tears were in his eyes as he spoke. It was very touching. I should like to give his benefactor’s name in full, but the goodness of such men will be rewarded in another and a better world. He had been married, but his wife was dead and the children were scattered; dead, too, perhaps, or abroad. He never spoke of them, and one gathered that they had not turned out altogether well. It was perhaps because he was a little lonely that there grew up in him the great passion of his old age, his love for his landlady’s little crippled daughter, Jinny. The nickname that we used to call him by—“Old Expectations”—arose from this, for often when he was with the child or speaking of her he would hint at what he would do for her when he had received certain sums of money he appeared to expect.

Owing to the kindness of one of the residents in the district, a very great doctor had been called in to examine little Jinny, some of whose symptoms rather puzzled our local man. The verdict was to the effect that no improvement was likely. The climate and surroundings were against her. The great man added in a somewhat apologetic manner that no doubt a prolonged stay in the South of France, with care and good food, might set her up for life. No doubt he saw that this was quite impossible, and he did not dwell on it much. When one or two questions were asked him, he emphasised the fact that the stay must be a long one, three years at least.

I suppose perhaps a month or two might have been managed, but three years! The Vicar did talk vaguely about writing to certain societies that might be induced to help, and there was a little talk about raising a subscription, but it got no further than talk. Naturally. There were many other cases in which a smaller expenditure of money offered equal or better prospects of beneficent results. Four or five hundred pounds would be required, and that is a lot of money, and one little cripple girl more or less—well, you can see for yourself the thing was hopeless from the start. Besides, the great doctor hadn’t guaranteed anything. All he had said was that three or four years in the South of France might work wonders. And, as Jinny’s mother said herself, “What must be, must be.” And she said again, “’Tain’t for the likes of us to expect too much.” This last remark was felt to be very sensible and proper, and was quoted with some approval. The wife of our local big wig referred to it at a meeting of the Primrose League, and asked, with great bitterness and indignation, and amidst thunders of applause, what the Insurance Act did for such a case as that of this poor little crippled creature? I believe there was some idea of having the child photographed and using the photograph with the legend, “A victim of the Insurance Act,” at the next election; but, thank Heaven, ours is a safe Conservative seat and we weren’t bothered with a contest, so the photograph idea wasn’t necessary. Jinny’s mother was a good deal disappointed, I fear—a mother’s natural, harmless vanity, you know.

When “Old Expectations” heard that the subscription idea was—well, one can’t say it had been dropped, because it had never been taken up—well, anyhow, when he heard he seemed rather pleased than not. “I should prefer to do everything myself,” he said. And another time he said, “If certain expectations of mine are realised, Jinny shall have her three years, or as long as necessary, by the Mediterranean.”

It was after this that he became generally known as “Old Expectations.” Most people thought he was endeavouring to save the money, and certainly he never seemed to have a penny to spare. He even gave up the use of tobacco. What he did with his eighteen shillings weekly was rather a puzzle. He paid Jinny’s mother twelve and six for board and lodging. He never bought any new clothes; of that we were sure, for we could see those he had growing visibly more aged day by day, with every now and then a fresh patch or a new darn becoming visible. His laundry would cost him another sixpence or shilling perhaps, but still, allowing for everything, one felt he ought to have a shilling or two to spare for pocket money and odds and ends. But he even took presently to passing the collection at church. It was this, when we noticed it, that gave us the idea he might be trying to save up to take Jinny away. We all knew how devoted he was to the child. Someone calculated that it would take him rather more than two centuries to effect his purpose, and we were all rather amused and yet sorry for the poor old man. The vicar even thought it well to hint to him that he should not deprive himself of necessities in the pursuit of a hopeless aim; but “Old Expectations” was rather huffy. It was the word “hopeless” that offended him apparently. He said his plans for Jinny’s welfare were not so chimerical as the Vicar seemed to think. He admitted that he contemplated being able at no distant time to give Jinny the stay abroad the doctor had recommended. There were, in fact, certain expectations ... they might be realised any week ... or there might be delay ... but certainly any week might find him in a position to carry out the plans he had formed. He would say no more, and the Vicar was rather impressed. People began to wonder if the old man really did benefit under some will or some trust. But, as others pointed out, I did myself, if these expectations were in any degree tangible they could certainly be turned into cash. There was quite a lot of talk and gossip about it, and several people tried to get at the truth. But he would never say much, only that his expectations were firmly founded and that they might be realised—well, any week In that case little Jinny....

Certainly he was devoted to the child. One rather odd result was that in spite of his age and his poverty he grew to be quite an influential and respected figure in the neighbourhood. People repeated to each other that he had “expectations”; it was understood that in some not distant day he would be very well off, and plenty of people were very civil to him in the hope of being in his good books when the day of his prosperity should dawn. I think he could have borrowed largely on the strength of this general and widespread belief if he had wished to, though no doubt it was his reticence and air of mystery and reserve that impressed us so much. One thing we were all sure of was that if he ever did come in for his money little Jinny would benefit. Jinny’s mother used sometimes to be congratulated on her child’s prospective good fortune.

But meanwhile the old man grew more thin, more pale, more shabby every day. My wife said he was starving himself. Certainly his clothes were dreadfully thin and the boots he wore simply not fit to go out in. He had to take his walks abroad alone now, as little Jinny was no longer able to come out. One used to see him wandering about with a notebook in his hand, muttering to himself. My own idea was that he composed poetry as a hobby, because once when I happened to overtake him I saw over his shoulder his open notebook in his hand and the page covered with short lines of irregular length, exactly like the lines of a poem. Besides, there was about him something feeble and useless and gentle that fitted in with one’s idea of poets. However, he closed the book somewhat hurriedly, and I said nothing except to ask him about little Jinny. He shook his head, the doctor had given a bad report. But the next time I met him he seemed in a bright and even excited mood. I remember I noticed before he spoke how his dim old eyes shone this morning, and the idea flashed across my mind that perhaps the expectations were going to be realised at last. He had a letter in his hand he was just going to post. He held it in one hand and kept touching it with the other in a tender and caressing manner as one had been used to see him touch little Jinny’s head. I asked him about the child, and he said the doctor seemed to dread the coming winter. He added, however, that he hoped ... the fact was that he had some reason.... He tapped the letter he held in his hand. I could not see the address, but he said again that he had some reason ... the fact was that a considerable sum of money might be due to him in two weeks. He was not sure yet, but he had some reason ... he asked me how long it would take him and Jinny to get to the South of France. “Expense will be no object,” he said, as he hurried off.

Really, I was more than a little impressed. His eyes had seemed positively to shine, there had been a flush on his cheeks.... “Well, in two weeks we shall know something, perhaps,” I said to my wife.

But in less than two weeks poor “Old Expectations” was in his grave. That very day, soon after I had spoken to him, a heavy shower came on. I had reached home and was safe indoors, but the old man was caught in it, and his deplorable boots were no protection at all. The bad cold he caught developed into pneumonia. It proved fatal in a very few days. A good pair of boots might have prolonged his life for years, and one had a guilty feeling as one surveyed one’s own array of boots and shoes. Still, it was his own fault in a way, for on his regular eighteen shillings a week he ought to have been able to keep his boots in decent repair, and then, as Jinny’s mother said, “What must be, must be.”

The day after the funeral the vicar came across to see me. He said a letter had arrived that morning for “Old Expectations.” Jinny’s mother had brought it to him. She could hardly remember such a thing happening before, she said. The Vicar thought it his duty to open it, and within he found a cheque tor £500.

“Then,” I said, as soon as I had recovered my breath, “his expectations——”

“Well, yes, in a way,” agreed the Vicar “It seems the money is a prize awarded in some newspaper competition.”

That was, in fact, the secret of the old man’s expectations. He had relied upon winning some day or another, and now he had won, only he was dead.

The prize was one awarded by a widely circulated penny paper. It was given every week to the person most nearly fulfilling the conditions laid down, and each attempt each person made had to be accompanied by a fee of sixpence. It was the necessity of providing the sixpences for his repeated attempts that had kept our poor old friend so short of money and made him deprive himself of so many things he needed.

That day when I met him he must have been on his way to post what proved the winning attempt. Evidently he had felt specially confident of success, a well grounded confidence it had been, too, only——

However, now he was dead, and here was the cheque. The Vicar wanted to know if I thought we were entitled to use it for Jinny’s benefit, as our old friend would have wished. I saw certain difficulties, and asked if there were a will. We looked. There did not seem to be one. I suppose the actual situation that had arisen had not been foreseen. We found evidence, however, that there were, or had been, children and grandchildren, but no hint of the present address of any relative.

In the end the £500 went into Chancery, and is there still, and likely to stay.

And Jinny?

Well, I am afraid ... of course, if the weather continues mild, she may pull through till the warm weather comes. After all, as Jinny’s mother said when she was last at our house to do some washing, “What must be, must be, and it ain’t for the likes of us to expect too much.”