Mr Piggin’s Plan of Campaign

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 17, 27 April 1907, Page 35

Mr Piggin’s Plan of Campaign

By

JOHN K. LEYS

Wherein the quick and dead meet again, somewhat to the latter’s discomfiture

■W<R- SAMUEL PIGGIN was a substantial man in both senses I I of the word. I B His portly form and his rubi- ▼ cund face surmounted by coarse reddish hair without a tinge of gray, and adorned by short square-cut whisksuggested the John Hull rathei than the Brother Jonathan type of AngloSaxon. He owned a large grazing farm in the vicinity of Boville, Pennsylvania, and raised a large quantity of excellent stock. His farm was in admirable condition, and free from encumbrances. So was he himself. He was a bachelor. For well-nigh fifty years he had resisted the blandishments of the female sex, but Fate at last overtook him in the person of Miss Barbara Nuttall Robins, head saleslady in the mantle and jacket department of Messrs. Smart and Busscl’s dry-goods emporium. Miss Robins had obtained that responsible position chiefly in virtue of her figure, which, without being absolutely stout, was admirably adapted to the display of the garments which it was her business to sell. Ami Mr. Piggin, having a professional’s eye for excellence in physical development. fe'l in love, not so much with Miss Robin's qualities of heart and mind (about which, indeed, he knew but little) as with her red cheeks, her bold dark eyes, ami her handsome figure. Miss Robins was at first not at all attracted by the farmer's personality, but he was what people call “a fine figure of a man" in spite of his bulk; he had no objectionable relatives; be seemed good-natured; and above all. he had ’’acres o’ charms." So she accepted him, and they were married. Many an old maid in Boville, when the wedding was announced, pursed up her lips, shook her head, and prophesied disaster/ The jovial spirits of the neighbourhood grinned when Mr. Piggin’s name was mentioned. Some said he was a bold man. Some said he was a fool. Nearly every man Jack of them envied him. For the first few months all went well. Mrs. Piggin. sitting erect and handsome in her husbands buggy, seemed emphatically the right woman in the right -place* But before long the ineradicable differences engendered by a quarter of a century’s disparity in years began to show themselves. Mrs. Piggin was fond of gadding about, of music and dancing, and. was not averse to a little mild flirtation. Mr. Piggin was addicted to none of these things, lienee came remonstrances on the one Bide and scornful laughter on the other,

angry threats which were received with cold defiance, sullenness, suspicion, and all the rest of it.

In a short time Mr. Piggin’s jealous imaginings centred themselves upon a certain Captain Trevor, an Englishman who had inherited a small estate in the district, and had settled down on it. He was a tall, good-looking man, a favourite with women, and an open admirer of Mrs. Piggin. He was often heard to say that she had thrown herself away.

Mrs. Piggin, who was as fond of admiration as the rest of her sex, recefved the captain’s homage with a heightened colour and a beaming eye, signs of gratification so highly displeasing to her husband that he went so far as to tell’ Captain Trevor that if he found him talking to his wife again he would make a surgical case of him.

Mrs. Piggin not unnaturally resented this, ami she took her revenge by treating her husband with a high, sniffing disdain and a frigid politeness which he found it very hard to bear.

So unpleasant had life become for him that he was glad when business .’called him away to the town of Durham, in Ohio. Part of this business was to collect the interest due upon a mortgage which he held on the residence of a physician named Macready. Dr. Macready, who hailed from the city of Aberdeen, in the kingdom of Scotland, was an elderly man. He had not

been a success in life. His practice was not large, and was far from lucrative. Rival practitioners sneered at him among themselves as an old woman, half a century behind the limes.

Unfortunately, Dr. Macready was not prepared to pay up the arrears of interest on his mortgage, and he hoped to induce a forbearing frame of mind in liis creditor by the primitive method of inviting him. to dinner. The invitation was accepted; the dinner was good, and of so tongue-loosen-ing a quality that Mr. Piggin felt impelled to speak of that which was nearest his heart; to wit, his matrimonial difficulties. The Scotch doctor, thin and bright-

eyed and wiry as an old gray rat, smiled in an aggravating, thin-lipped way. He was unmarried.

“I see you're laughing at me," began the farmer angrily, but the Scotchman raised his hand to interrupt, and said, in the precise manner of the old school:

“Not laughing at you, Mr. Piggin. Don’t think it for a moment. Nor at your matrimonial experiences, which are not exactly mirthful in their character, but at a story' 1 remember once reading.

Have you ever come across a sma' vol lum entitled ‘Passages from the Note Book of Nathaniel Hawthorne’?”

“No. Who’s he, anyway?” “Man, I wonder at ye. lie’s one American author you may be proud of, though he is seldom read now, 1 b dieve, except by the selec’ few. “Well, I was saying I minded a bit story in that book about a gentleman situated somewhat in the way you are as regarded his conjugal relations. He became so anxious to know for certain what his wife’s conduct would be if her were left entirely to the freedom of her own will, that he gave out that lie was dead, and remained as one dead, if my memory serves me right, for a period of over twenty years. “And in order that he might the better observe his widow’s behaviour, he actually took the house opposite to his own, and lived there during the twenty years entirely unknown to Iter. It. strikes me he must have eexrcised conseederablc discretion in his outgoings and incomings ” ‘'That’s a magnificent idea!*” broke in -Mr. Piggin, bringing his ponderous fist down upon the mahogany. “A firstprize notion, I call it. And what’s more, I’ll do it!” The doctor stared across the table, saying nothing. “You must help me through with it, doctor.” “Me? No fear! Man. you're daft!” “I'm as sane as you are,” retortci Mr. Piggin, “and you must help me, for you can fix itall up about burial certificates and so on. I mean to do it. I want to know how long my wife would remain a widow if she thought I had quitted tor good. I want to know—oh, a lot of things I shall never feel sure about, so long as 1 remain alive. So 1 must l.e dead, not for twenty years, but long enough for my purpose. See?’’ “No, I don’t seel I don’t see anything except that you hid fair to make a thunderin’ big fool of yourself. As if nature hadn't done enough in that line already,” he added under his breath. “What's that yer sayin’?” “I'm sayin’ that such plans are not that easy carried out.” “Well, you've got to find a way to get them carried out.” “But, besides bein’ very difficult, owin’ to the strictness of the burial regulations, it’s clean impossible.” “It’s not impossible, and it’s got to be done. And it’s up to you to do it.” “And get two years in the State penitentiary? Not likely!” “Oh, stuff! Look here, doc. I b

lievc you can help me if you choose, without running any great risk. Rut 1 don't want you to do it for nothing. I’m not unreasonable. I'll tell you what I’ll do. | “H you put this thing slick through, see me decently dead and buried, so that my wife may come and weep over my tomb. I’ll put your mortgage in the fire. There! Is it a bargain?’’ Ihe .Scotchman's keen eyes glared hungrily. lie opened his lips to refuse, but no sound came. That mortgage had been (he curse of his existence. He had felt ho could never pay it off, and it was a perpetual struggle to meet the interest. To have the incubus removed would bo like having the shackles knocked off, after having worn them for years. He got up, his face twitching with excitement, and nervously fell to pacing the room. The farmer stuck his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat a habit which was specially repugnant to the feelings of Mrs. Piggin puffed his cigar, ami watched the doctor’s struggles with a callous eye. “It would be gross cruelty to your wife.” cried the doctor, stopping short in his peregrinations. Mr. Biggin liughed bitterly. “Much she'd care.” he said coarsely, “as long as .the will is all right.” "You don't mind, then, what amount of pain you give her?’’ asked the doctor, regarding him with something like contempt. “She won't mind. 1 tell ver. Not a skeeter.” “And what about your property? Suppose your executor takes it into hi* head to sell your farm?” “Oh, I’ll provide for that. I’ll leave instructions that my will is not to be proved for three months from the date of my death. Three months ’ll do. My wife will want to marry again before three months are over, or I'm a Dutchman. “Now. what do you say? Can you fix it for me, right away?” “Well, maybe 1 could select a patient from the poorhouse, one that had not long to live, and had n« near relatives.” “I might have him removed to private lodgings, under the pretence that he had a curious disease that 1 wanted to study at my leisure. Then I might get him to change bis name.” “I don't see what all that has to do with me.” said the farmer, knitting hl* brows. The doctor’s lip curled contemptuous“Ho might, for example, take the

name of Samuel Piggin, though if he happened to be a man with artistic posaibeelities, he might perhaps object to it.

“tVe'll say that he takes it,” went on the doctor hastily, observing a heavy frown gathering on his creditor’s brow. “We’ll suppose he takes the name, and die, and is buried under it. The poorhouse authorities are not likely to make any inquiries, being glad to get the man off their hands.

When 1 see that the end is near, I notify you. You come here, and—disappear. 1 certify that Samuel Piggin died of some disease that acts quickly, ami everybody in Boville supposes, of course, that it is you that has gone off the hooks.

“Your wife may come to the funeral if she has a mind —I would not advise that the interment should take place at Boville. in view of after events. Of tours', the casket would be closed bebefore her arrival, in case she should care to —”

"1 here, that’ll do,” said the farmer dark! v.

“At the end of the three months,” continued the doctor, “you come back from New York, or whereever you may have been, and we can say that the identity of the names led to the false report of your death being circulated.” "Dr. Macready,” said Mr. Piggin, rising ami solemnly holding out his enormous paw—“ Dr. Macready, sir, you are a genius. There’s no doubt about it. A living original genius!” “Not quite that, Mr Piggin,” said the doctor, lighting a fresh cigar. The unholy compact was concluded. The mortgage was produced and deposited at a bank to abide the issue of the enterprise, along with a signed receipt for principal and interest. A poor patient was found who was perfectly willing to exchange the poorhouse hospital ward for comfortable lodgings, and offered no objection to the proposed change in his patronymic. In a few weeks he departed this life, and it was given out that Mr Samuel Piggin, having gone to Durham on business, had been suddenly taken ill and died there.

His wife, attired in most becoming mourning-garments, attended the funeral; and a fortnight later a neat marble headstone, inscribed with laudatory epithets that might have caused an angel to blush had they been addressed to him, was raised upon the spot. So touched was Mr Piggin by the inscription when he perused it that he turned to Dr. Macready, who accompanied him, and declared his intention of abandoning bis scheme and going home at onee. The doctor, however, remembering that the mortgage had not yet been surrendered to him, dissuaded the farmer from taking this step, suggesting that very likely the precise form of tho epitaph had been left to the taste and imagination of the marble-mason; which, indeed, upon investigation, turned out to be the ease. IT. Tim next few weeks were unquestionably the most wretched Mr Piggin had ever spent in the whole course of his life. lie had forgotten that the contour of his figure presented an insuperable obstacle to his playing syp upon his wife personally. Sir John Falstaff would not have been harder to disguise. So Mr Pippin was forced to withdraw himself from all his accustomed haunts and employ a private detective to keep him informed of his wife’s movements. The agent informed him that despite his utmost vigilance he could detect nothing unbecoming in Mrs Piggin’s demeanor as a widow. Captain Trevor visited her. but only occasionally. There seemed to be no prospect of that hasty second marriage which Mr Piggin halfhoped, half feared to hear of. A month went by, and Mrs Piggin left Boville and took a furnished house in tho larger town of Swinden. Captain Trevor left Boville about the same time, ami shortly afterward turned up in Swinden. This looked suspicious, certainly, and Mr Piggin encouraged tho private detective to extra diligence and watched' every mall with feverish anxiety. A fortnight later things took an unexpected turn. A friend wroto to him Baying that reports of his death had reached Porcdpolis, and that it was imperative, if his material interests wore not to Ire sacrificed, that ho should appear in person to contradict these rumours. Mr Piggin hurried northward, but he

had scarcely reached the capital of slaughter-houses when he turned and rushed south again as fast as steam could carry him. He had received authentic positive information that on the very next day but one Mrs Piggin would be joined in wedlock to his hated rival, Captain Trevor.

Trains are always most unpunctual when there is some supremely important reason why they should be up to time, and Mr Piggin’s experience was most exasperating. He missed making a connection, which detained him for several hours, and he began to think that he might not arrive in time to interrupt the wedding.

He might have telegraphed, but that would have been throwing away his triumph. Besides, a telegram, however disquieting it might be to the bride, might not be decisive from a legal point of view. It might even be tossed aside as the work of some irresponsible jester. Mr Piggin felt that his personal attendance at the ceremony was absolutely necessary, and as the delays in his journey grew more and more numerous and more and more irritating he became half mad with rage and anxiety'. It was close upon 12 o’clock when Mr Piggin's train arrived at Swinden. The detective, responsive to an urgent telegram, was on the platform awaiting him.

“Doubt if you are in time,” said that gentleman, consulting his watch. “At 12 noon the sheriff was to tie the knot, and it is eleven-fifty-three now.” Mr Piggin hurled himself into a cab and drove off to the sheriff’s office, snorting defiance and threats of vengeance en route.

But before he could reach the courthouse his impatience drove him out of the cab. Without saying a word to the driver he scrambled out, leaped to the sidewalk, rushed along it like a tornado, and burst into the sheriff’s room, erving—“Stop! stop! Hold on! I’m alive, Barbara. I’m alive!” A small group was assembled before a green baize-covered table at the upper- end of the room. A tall, lanky man with a bald head of a bilious yellow colour, flanked by rows of formidable law books, sat behind the table. In front of it stood his wife and Captain Trevor, their hands joined. Two men whom he did not know, witnesses, apparently, stood behind them. Enraged at the sight of his wife holding his rival’s hand, Mr Piggin rushed upon them and tore them asunder. “Thank God, I’m in time!” he gasped, breathless from emotion and physical exertion combined. “What the hell do you mean, sir?” asked the sheriff, with a gravity that made his outrageous language sound almost correct. “I’m this woman's husband, supposed to be dead!” yelled Mr Piggin. “I’m here to prevent bigamy, and to choke this rat’s life out!” He turned on the captain with an aspect so ferocious that the bridegroom visibly paled and stepped backward. “Barbara, you can come home with me. You don’t get rid of me so easily,” he said grimly. His wife answered nothing, but turned on him a hard stare and then held out her right hand to the captain. “Go on with the ceremony, if you please, sir,” she said to the sheriff. “Barbara, don’t you know me!” bellowed the unfortunate Mr Piggin. “No!" “Not know mo! And I your lawful husband,” howled the farmer in a tone of ludicrous bewilderment. “Why, Barbara, you can’t, mean that you don’t know me, even?” “I never saw you before and I don’t want ever to see you again, said the bride in a tone of cold indifference. So amazed was Air Piggin that he peered close into the bride’s face to assure himself that lie had not, after all, made a ghastly mistake. No, it was Barbara Piggin, or no Barbara Piggin had ever been. “Book here, ma’am, this man says he’s your husband,” said the sheriff. “My husband is dead,” said the lady calmly. “I’ve his burial certificate in my pocket.” She produced it as she spoke, and Mr Piggin gazed open-mouthed into the pit he had dug for himself. “Samuel Piggin,” said the sheriff, reading from the certificate —“nm— urn —died at Durham. Buried at same place—urn—um. Seems quite in order. You can’t be the Samuel Piggin mentioned here.”

Captain Trevor fixed his monocle in his eye. “There couldn’t possibly be two men with such a filthy name,” he drawleel. Mr Piggin, exasperated beyond bearing, smote him on the cheek with his open hand so that he staggered away some six or eight yards and sat down suddenly with his back against the wall.

“I say, we’ll have no brawling here!” cried tho sheriff. He struck a bell smartly and four stalwart policemen entered.

“Mind that man, and if he commits any act of violence take him into custody. This man says he is your husband, madam, but you ought to know, and you say he’s not. You also produce a death certificate, which I hold to be Srima facie evidence of your husband’s eath. The ceremony may go on.” “Captain Trevor,” said the luckless Mr Piggin, “I hope you don’t bear malice. But this is my wife. You know she is. You know me, don’t you?”

Captain Trevor once more fixed his monocle in its place and gazed calmly at Mr Piggin’s infuriated countenance. “Don’t know him from Adam, by Jove!” he ejaculated.

Mr Piggin made a threatening movement, and a constable at once pounced upon him. “Join your hands and let’s get it over with, if you want to,” said the sheriff succinctly, and the ceremony proceeded. Mr Piggin, his first madness past, felt stunned.

He stood as one that neither heard nor understood, breathing hard, and from time to time passing an immense bandanna handkerchief over his brow. The policeman watched him closely, but he gave them no trouble. When all was over and the bride and the bridegroom, with their friends, had left the room, he sank helpless into a chair.

The constables looked at each other ■doubtfully; they feared he was going to have a fit. But the sound of wheels jin the street aroused him. He ran down-stairs, jumped into his own cab, which had pulled up at the corner, calling out to the driver: “Follow that cab wherever it goes. Double fare!”

The day was cold and gloomy; it rained at intervals; the month was December; yet. Mr Piggin felt neither rain nor cold. The dull fire smouldering within him outmatched and overcame the effects of the elements without. lie was standing outside the door of Ihis wife’s hired mansion, listening to the sounds of revelry within. There was a confused noise of voices and laughter, with much clattering of plates, and now and then a lusty cheer. Then a time of comparative silence, followed by the shrill notes of a woman's voice, with the tinkle of a piano, after which a man sang. Then a march was played, then a waltz, nd almost immediateiy came the beat and rhythm of feet moving in unison, the swish of feminine garments. They were feasting and dancing while lie stood outside, too much bewildered for anger, intent on one thing only. He must see his wife again and make one more appeal to her. The gloomy twilight closed in and darkness fell. Still the outcast stood crouching against the’ wall, watching dully the moving shadows on the win-dow-blind. He. could not understand what had happened. It was all an unintelligible maze to him. It was impossible that his wife should not know him. And yet, he remembered with a sudden thrill of surprise, she had shown no sign of astonishment at his sudden appearance. Surely a genuine widow on finding her husband turn up at her second wedding would faint, or show some similar sign of emotion. She might be expected to say that she was glad to see him—or the reverse. His wife had done neither. No astonishment, no anger, no emotion, of any kind. Had she been expecting him? Had the Scotch doctor played him false? It certainly looked like it! And the marriage? What if it were a sham? What if— He darted out from his lair under the house-front, and seized a passer-by by tho arm. “Say, mister, what’s the sheriff’s name?” he yelled in his ear. “Are you a darned lunatic, or what?” roared the other, shaking himself free. “Can't you Bee I’m in dead earnest?

Sa your sheriff tall and thin and bald leaded?”

“Not he. I guess you've got the wrong mule by the tail. That’s Lawyer Nuttall ’’

"Nuttall!” cried Mr Piggin, with a yell so appalling that his interlocutor •prang forward and took to bis heels, glad to get away. "My wife’s uncle!” muttered the unfortunate man to himself, as he crept back to his corner under the wall of the house. “I’ve often heard her speak of her Uncle Nuttall, the lawyer. What can it all mean?”

A carriage drove up, its lamps flashing through the rain, and pulled up almost at his feet. Then came another, and another, till there was quite a string of them. The house-door was thrown open; there was laughing and chattering. Mr Piggin flattened himself against the wall and kept his eyes fixed on the doorway.

A lady came out, something gauzy and fleecy about her head. It was not his wife —he was certain of that. Then an hider lady’. Then Captain Trevor! They entered the first carriage and drove off. Mr Piggin gasped and stared.

The laurels and the darkness concealed him, but he could hear and seo all that passed. He heard the laughing words of adieu; he saw the guests run down the steps and enter their carriages and drive away. But his wife was not among them. A horrible thought struck him.

Had the cabman brought him to the wrong house? Ho was shaking from head to foot, dazed, faint with hunger. The door above him opened, and a light appeared. The house was very quiet now. And a voice that he knew well was saying in a gentle tone: “Hadn’t you better come inside, Sam dear? You’ll catch cold if you stay out there much longer.” “So you knew me all the time. Barbara?” asked Mr Piggin when, an hour later, he sat by the fire, warmed, and comforted.

His wife laughed lightly

“Your’e not the sort of man one wouldn’t remember, my dear Sammy,’’ said she, and Mr Piggin did not feel quite certain whether he ought to construe the remark as a compliment or the reverse.

“I suppose that ilernetl Scotch doctor gave me away?” he said.

“Yes, he did, as soon as he got his mortgage back.” “And I suppose the marriage was a put-up thing, a mock business, got tip on purpose to pay me out?” “And to bring you back to me, Sammy,” said Mrs Piggin, edging a little nearest to him.

“I guess it was chiefly to get the laugh on your side, and I don’t deny you bested me.”

“But whatever made you do such a thing, Sam? What made you play me such a cruel trick?” Mr Piggin fidgeted a little in his chair before he replied: “Well, you see, I wanted to know—l wanted to make certain whether, if you thought yourself a widow, you would marry that Britisher.” Mrs Piggin laughed softly to herself. “And are you any more certain now?” she asked. “No, but ” “My dear Sam,” said his wife in a more serious tone, “you never made a greater mistake in your life. Captain Trevor may suit some people, but I for one don’t admire his ways. Anyhow, he won’t count for much with us after today. He has sold his estate at Boville and is going back to England next week.” “Come, that’s good news, and I’d best say right now, I s’pose. that I was wrong in that matter all through. You don’t bear malice, I hope, Babs?” “Oh, dear, no,” said Mrs Piggin, cheerfully, “but you scarcely deserve to be forgiven so easily.” “No, I don’t reckon I do,” said Mr Piggin, thoughtfully, “but there ain’t many women like you, Babs, anyhow. That’s a fact,”

The subjugation of Mr Piggin was complete.