Kitabı oku: «At Sunwich Port, Complete», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVII

The weeks passed all too quickly for James Hardy. He saw Kate Nugent at her own home; met her, thanks to the able and hearty assistance of Mr. Wilks, at Fullalove Alley, and on several occasions had the agreeable task of escorting her back home.

He cabled to his father for news of the illustrious stowaway immediately the Conqueror was notified as having reached Port Elizabeth. The reply—“Left ship”—confirmed his worst fears, but he cheerfully accepted Mrs. Kingdom’s view that the captain, in order to relieve the natural anxiety of his family, had secured a passage on the first vessel homeward bound.

Captain Hardy was the first to reach home. In the early hours of a fine April morning the Conqueror steamed slowly into Sunwich Harbour, and in a very short time the town was revelling in a description of Captain Nugent’s first voyage before the mast from lips which were never tired of repeating it. Down by the waterside Mr. Nathan Smith found that he had suddenly attained the rank of a popular hero, and his modesty took alarm at the publicity afforded to his action. It was extremely distasteful to a man who ran a quiet business on old-fashioned lines and disbelieved in advertisement. He lost three lodgers the same day.

Jem Hardy was one of the few people in Sunwich for whom the joke had no charms, and he betrayed such an utter lack of sympathy with his father’s recital that the latter accused him at last of wanting a sense of humour.

“I don’t see anything amusing in it,” said his son, stiffly.

Captain Hardy recapitulated one or two choice points, and was even at some pains to explain them.

“I can’t see any fun in it,” repeated his son. “Your behaviour seems to me to have been deplorable.”

“What?” shouted the captain, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Captain Nugent was your guest,” pursued the other; “he got on your ship by accident, and he should have been treated decently as a saloon passenger.”

“And been apologized to for coming on board, I suppose?” suggested the captain.

“It wouldn’t have been amiss,” was the reply.

The captain leaned back in his chair and regarded him thoughtfully. “I can’t think what’s the matter with you, Jem,” he said.

“Ordinary decent ideas, that’s all,” said his son, scathingly.

“There’s something more in it than that,” said the other, positively. “I don’t like to see this love-your-enemy business with you, Jem; it ain’t natural to you. Has your health been all right while I’ve been away?”

“Of course it has,” said his son, curtly. “If you didn’t want Captain Nugent aboard with you why didn’t you put him ashore? It wouldn’t have delayed you long. Think of the worry and anxiety you’ve caused poor Mrs. Kingdom.”

“A holiday for her,” growled the captain.

“It has affected her health,” continued his son; “and besides, think of his daughter. She’s a high-spirited girl, and all Sunwich is laughing over her father’s mishap.”

“Nugent fell into his own trap,” exclaimed the captain, impatiently. “And it won’t do that girl of his any harm to be taken down a peg or two. Do her good. Knock some of the nonsense out of her.”

“That’s not the way to speak of a lady,” said Jem, hotly.

The offended captain regarded him somewhat sourly; then his face changed, and he got up from his chair and stood before his son with consternation depicted on every feature.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” he said, slowly; “you don’t mean to tell me that you’re thinking anything of Kate Nugent?”

“Why not?” demanded the other, defiantly; “why shouldn’t I?”

Captain Hardy, whistling softly, made no reply, but still stood eyeing him.

“I thought there was some other reason for your consideration besides ‘ordinary decent ideas,’” he said, at last. “When did it come on? How long have you had it?”

Mr. Hardy, jun., in a studiously unfilial speech, intimated that these pleasantries were not to his taste.

“No, of course not,” said the captain, resuming his seat. “Well, I’m sorry if it’s serious, Jem, but I never dreamt you had any ideas in that quarter. If I had I’d have given old Nugent the best bunk on the ship and sung him to sleep myself. Has she given you any encouragement?”

“Don’t know,” said Jem, who found the conversation awkward.

“Extraordinary thing,” said the captain, shaking his head, “extraordinary. Like a play.”

“Play?” said his son, sharply.

“Play,” repeated his father, firmly. “What is the name of it? I saw it once at Newcastle. The lovers take poison and die across each other’s chests because their people won’t let ‘em marry. And that reminds me. I saw some phosphor-paste in the kitchen, Jem. Whose is it?”

“I’m glad to be the means of affording you amusement,” said Jem, grinding his teeth.

Captain Hardy regarded him affectionately. “Go easy, my lad,” he said, equably; “go easy. If I’d known it before, things would have been different; as I didn’t, we must make the best of it. She’s a pretty girl, and a good one, too, for all her airs, but I’m afraid she’s too fond of her father to overlook this.”

“That’s where you’ve made such a mess of things,” broke in his son. “Why on earth you two old men couldn’t—”

“Easy,” said the startled captain. “When you are in the early fifties, my lad, your ideas about age will be more accurate. Besides, Nugent is seven or eight years older than I am.”

“What became of him?” inquired Jem.

“He was off the moment we berthed,” said his father, suppressing a smile. “I don’t mean that he bolted—he’d got enough starch left in him not to do that—but he didn’t trespass on our hospitality a moment longer than was necessary. I heard that he got a passage home on the Columbus. He knew the master. She sailed some time before us for London. I thought he’d have been home by this.”

It was not until two days later, however, that the gossip in Sunwich received a pleasant fillip by the arrival of the injured captain. He came down from London by the midday train, and, disdaining the privacy of a cab, prepared to run the gauntlet of his fellow-townsmen.

A weaker man would have made a detour, but he held a direct course, and with a curt nod to acquaintances who would have stopped him walked swiftly in the direction of home. Tradesmen ran to their shop-doors to see him, and smoking amphibians lounging at street corners broke out into sunny smiles as he passed. He met these annoyances with a set face and a cold eye, but his views concerning children were not improved by the crowd of small creatures which fluttered along the road ahead of him and, hopeful of developments, clustered round the gate as he passed in.

It is the pride and privilege of most returned wanderers to hold forth at great length concerning their adventures, but Captain Nugent was commendably brief. At first he could hardly be induced to speak of them at all, but the necessity of contradicting stories which Bella had gleaned for Mrs. Kingdom from friends in town proved too strong for him. He ground his teeth with suppressed fury as he listened to some of them. The truth was bad enough, and his daughter, sitting by his side with her hand in his, was trembling with indignation.

“Poor father,” she said, tenderly; “what a time you must have had.” “It won’t bear thinking of,” said Mrs. Kingdom, not to be outdone in sympathy.

“Well, don’t think of it,” said the captain, shortly.

Mrs. Kingdom sighed as though to indicate that her feelings were not to be suppressed in that simple fashion.

“The anxiety has been very great,” she said, shaking her head, “but everybody’s been very kind. I’m sure all our friends have been most sympathetic. I couldn’t go outside the house without somebody stopping me and asking whether there was any news of you. I’d no idea you were so popular; even the milkman–”

“I’d like some tea,” interrupted the captain, roughly; “that is, when you have finished your very interesting information.”

Mrs. Kingdom pursed her lips together to suppress the words she was afraid to utter, and rang the bell.

“Your master would like some tea,” she said, primly, as Bella appeared. “He has had a long journey.” The captain started and eyed her fiercely; Mrs. Kingdom, her good temper quite restored by this little retort, folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him with renewed sympathy.

“We all missed you very much,” said Kate, softly. “But we had no fears once we knew that you were at sea.”

“And I suppose some of the sailors were kind to you?” suggested the unfortunate Mrs. Kingdom. “They are rough fellows, but I suppose some of them have got their hearts in the right place. I daresay they were sorry to see you in such a position.”

The captain’s reply was of a nature known to Mrs. Kingdom and her circle as “snapping one’s head off.” He drew his chair to the table as Bella brought in the tray and, accepting a cup of tea, began to discuss with his daughter the events which had transpired in his absence.

“There is no news,” interposed Mrs. Kingdom, during an interval. “Mr. Hall’s aunt died the other day.”

“Never heard of her,” said the captain. “Neither had I, till then,” said his sister. “What a lot of people there are one never hears of, John.” The captain stared at her offensively and went on with his meal. A long silence ensued.

“I suppose you didn’t get to hear of the cable that was sent?” said Mrs. Kingdom, making another effort to arouse interest.

“What cable?” inquired her brother.

“The one Mr. Hardy sent to his father about you,” replied Mrs. Kingdom.

The captain pushed his chair back and stared her full in the face. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

His sister explained.

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been speaking to young Hardy?” exclaimed the captain.

“I could hardly help doing so, when he came here,” returned his sister, with dignity. “He has been very anxious about you.”

Captain Nugent rose and strode up and down the room. Then he stopped and glanced sharply at his daughter.

“Were you here when he called?” he demanded.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“And you—you spoke to him?” roared the captain.

“I had to be civil,” said Miss Nugent, calmly; “I’m not a sea-captain.”

Her father walked up and down the room again. Mrs. Kingdom, terrified at the storm she had evoked, gazed helplessly at her niece.

“What did he come here for?” said the captain.

Miss Nugent glanced down at her plate. “I can’t imagine,” she said, demurely. “The first time he came to tell us what had become of you.”

The captain stopped in his walk and eyed her sternly. “I am very fortunate in my children,” he said, slowly. “One is engaged to marry the daughter of the shadiest rascal in Sunwich, and the other—”

“And the other?” said his daughter, proudly, as he paused.

“The other,” said the captain, as he came round the table and put his hand on her shoulder, “is my dear and obedient daughter.”

“Yes,” said Miss Nugent; “but that isn’t what you were going to say. You need not worry about me; I shall not do anything that would displease you.”

CHAPTER XVIII

With a view to avoiding the awkwardness of a chance meeting with any member of the Nugent family Hardy took the sea road on his way to the office the morning after the captain’s return. Common sense told him to leave matters for the present to the healing hand of Time, and to cultivate habits of self-effacement by no means agreeable to one of his temperament.

Despite himself his spirits rose as he walked. It was an ideal spring morning, cool and sunny. The short turf by the side of the road was fragrant under his heel, and a light wind stirred the blueness of the sea. On the beach below two grizzled men of restful habit were endeavouring to make an old boat waterproof with red and green paint.

A long figure approaching slowly from the opposite direction broke into a pleasant smile as he drew near and quickened his pace to meet him.

“You’re out early,” said Hardy, as the old man stopped and turned with him.

“‘Ave to be, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, darkly; “out early and ‘ome late, and more often than not getting my dinner out. That’s my life nowadays.”

“Can’t you let her see that her attentions are undesirable?” inquired Hardy, gravely.

“I can’t be rude to a woman,” said the steward, with a melancholy smile; “if I could, my life would ha’ been very different. She’s always stepping across to ask my advice about Teddy, or something o’ that sort. All last week she kept borrowing my frying-pan, so at last by way of letting ‘er see I didn’t like it I went out and bought ‘er one for herself. What’s the result? Instead o’ being offended she went out and bought me a couple o’ neck-ties. When I didn’t wear ‘em she pretended it was because I didn’t like the colour, and she went and bought two more. I’m wearing one now.”

He shook his head ruefully, and Hardy glanced at a tie which would have paled the glories of a rainbow. For some time they walked along in silence.

“I’m going to pay my respects to Cap’n Nugent this afternoon,” said Mr. Wilks, suddenly.

“Ah,” said the other.

“I knew what it ‘ud be with them two on the same ship,” continued Mr. Wilks. “I didn’t say nothing when you was talking to Miss Kate, but I knew well enough.”

“Ah,” said Hardy again. There was no mistaking the significance of the steward’s remarks, and he found them somewhat galling. It was all very well to make use of his humble friend, but he had no desire to discuss his matrimonial projects with him.

“It’s a great pity,” pursued the unconscious Mr. Wilks, “just as everything seemed to be going on smoothly; but while there’s life there’s ‘ope.”

“That’s a smart barge over there,” said Hardy, pointing it out.

Mr. Wilks nodded. “I shall keep my eyes open this afternoon,” he said reassuringly. “And if I get a chance of putting in a word it’ll be put in. Twenty-nine years I sailed with the cap’n, and if there’s anybody knows his weak spots it’s me.”

He stopped as they reached the town and said “good-bye.” He pressed the young man’s hand sympathetically, and a wink of intense artfulness gave point to his last remark.

“There’s always Sam Wilks’s cottage,” he said, in a husky whisper; “and if two of ‘is friends should ‘appen to meet there, who’d be the wiser?”

He gazed benevolently after the young man’s retreating figure and continued his stroll, his own troubles partly forgotten in the desire to assist his friends. It would be a notable feat for the humble steward to be the means of bringing the young people together and thereby bringing to an end the feud of a dozen years. He pictured himself eventually as the trusted friend and adviser of both families, and in one daring flight of fancy saw himself hobnobbing with the two captains over pipes and whisky.

Neatly dressed and carrying a small offering of wallflowers, he set out that afternoon to call on his old master, giving, as he walked, the last touches to a little speech of welcome which he had prepared during dinner. It was a happy effort, albeit a trifle laboured, but Captain Nugent’s speech, the inspiration of the moment, gave it no chance.

He started the moment the bowing Mr. Wilks entered the room, his voice rising gradually from low, bitter tones to a hurricane note which Bella. could hear in the kitchen without even leaving her chair. Mr. Wilks stood dazed and speechless before him, holding the wallflowers in one hand and his cap in the other. In this attitude he listened to a description of his character drawn with the loving skill of an artist whose whole heart was in his work, and who seemed never tired of filling in details.

“If you ever have the hardihood to come to my house again,” he concluded, “I’ll break every bone in your misshapen body. Get!”

Mr. Wilks turned and groped his way to the door. Then he went a little way back with some idea of defending himself, but the door of the room was slammed in his face. He walked slowly down the path to the road and stood there for some time in helpless bewilderment. In all his sixty years of life his feelings had never been so outraged. His cap was still in his hand, and, with a helpless gesture, he put it on and scattered his floral offering in the road. Then he made a bee-line for the Two Schooners.

Though convivial by nature and ever free with his money, he sat there drinking alone in silent misery. Men came and went, but he still sat there noting with mournful pride the attention caused by his unusual bearing. To casual inquiries he shook his head; to more direct ones he only sighed heavily and applied himself to his liquor. Curiosity increased with numbers as the day wore on, and the steward, determined to be miserable, fought manfully against an ever-increasing cheerfulness due to the warming properties of the ale within.

“I ‘ope you ain’t lost nobody, Sam?” said a discomfited inquirer at last.

Mr. Wilks shook his head.

“You look as though you’d lost a shilling and found a ha’penny,” pursued the other.

“Found a what?” inquired Mr. Wilks, wrinkling his forehead.

“A ha’penny,” said his friend.

“Who did?” said Mr. Wilks.

The other attempted to explain and was ably assisted by two friends, but without avail; the impression left on Mr. Wilks’s mind being that somebody had got a shilling of his. He waxed exceeding bitter, and said that he had been missing shillings for a long time.

“You’re labourin’ under a mistake, Sam,” said the first speaker.

Mr. Wilks laughed scornfully and essayed a sneer, while his friends, regarding his contortions with some anxiety, expressed a fear that he was not quite himself. To this suggestion the steward deigned no reply, and turning to the landlord bade him replenish his mug.

“You’ve ‘ad enough, Mr. Wilks,” said that gentleman, who had been watching him for some time.

Mr. Wilks, gazing at him mistily, did not at first understand the full purport of this remark; but when he did, his wrath was so majestic and his remarks about the quality of the brew so libellous that the landlord lost all patience.

“You get off home,” he said, sharply.

“Listen t’ me,” said Mr. Wilks, impressively.

“I don’t want no words with you,” said the land-lord. “You get off home while you can.”

“That’s right, Sam,” said one of the company, putting his hand on the steward’s arm. “You take his advice.”

Mr. Wilks shook the hand off and eyed his adviser ferociously. Then he took a glass from the counter and smashed it on the floor. The next moment the bar was in a ferment, and the landlord, gripping Mr. Wilks round the middle, skilfully piloted him to the door and thrust him into the road.

The strong air blowing from the sea disordered the steward’s faculties still further. His treatment inside was forgotten, and, leaning against the front of the tavern, he stood open-mouthed, gazing at marvels. Ships in the harbour suddenly quitted their native element and were drawn up into the firmament; nobody passed but twins.

“Evening, Mr. Wilks,” said a voice.

The steward peered down at the voice. At first he thought it was another case of twins, but looking close he saw that it was Mr. Edward Silk alone. He saluted him graciously, and then, with a wave of his hand toward the sky, sought to attract his attention to the ships there.

“Yes,” said the unconscious Mr. Silk, sign of a fine day to-morrow. “Are you going my way?”

Mr. Wilks smiled, and detaching himself from the tavern with some difficulty just saved Mr. Silk from a terrible fall by clutching him forcibly round the neck. The ingratitude of Mr. Silk was a rebuff to a nature which was at that moment overflowing with good will. For a moment the steward was half inclined to let him go home alone, but the reflection that he would never get there softened him.

“Pull yourself t’gether,” he said, gravely, “Now, ‘old on me.”

The road, as they walked, rose up in imitation of the shipping, but Mr. Wilks knew now the explanation: Teddy Silk was intoxicated. Very gently he leaned towards the erring youth and wagged his head at him.

“Are you going to hold up or aren’t you?” demanded Mr. Silk, shortly.

The steward waived the question; he knew from experience the futility of arguing with men in drink. The great thing was to get Teddy Silk home, not to argue with him. He smiled good-temperedly to himself, and with a sudden movement pinned him up against the wall in time to arrest another fall.

With frequent halts by the way, during which the shortness of Mr. Silk’s temper furnished Mr. Wilks with the texts of several sermons, none of which he finished, they at last reached Fullalove Alley, and the steward, with a brief exhortation to his charge to hold his head up, bore down on Mrs. Silk, who was sitting in her doorway.

“I’ve brought ‘im ‘ome,” he said, steadying himself against the doorpost; “brought ‘im ‘ome.”

“Brought ‘im ‘ome?” said the bewildered Mrs. Silk.

“Don’ say anything to ‘im,” entreated Mr. Wilks, “my sake. Thing might ‘appen anybody.”

“He’s been like that all the way,” said Mr. Silk, regarding the steward with much disfavour. “I don’t know why I troubled about him, I’m sure.”

“Crowd roun ‘im,” pursued the imaginative Mr. Wilks. “‘Old up, Teddy.”

“I’m sure it’s very kind of you, Mr. Wilks,” said the widow, as she glanced at a little knot of neighbours standing near. “Will you come inside for a minute or two?”

She moved the chair to let him pass, and Mr. Wilks, still keeping the restraining hand of age on the shoulder of intemperate youth, passed in and stood, smiling amiably, while Mrs. Silk lit the lamp and placed it in the centre of the table, which was laid for supper. The light shone on a knuckle of boiled pork, a home-made loaf, and a fresh-cut wedge of cheese.

“I suppose you won’t stay and pick a bit o’ supper with us?” said Mrs. Silk.

“Why not?” inquired Mr. Wilks.

“I’m sure, if I had known,” said Mrs. Silk, as she piloted him to a seat, “I’d ‘ave ‘ad something nice. There, now! If I ‘aven’t been and forgot the beer.”

She left the table and went into the kitchen, and Mr. Wilks’s eyes glistened as she returned with a large brown jug full of foaming ale and filled his glass.

“Teddy mustn’t ‘ave any,” he said, sharply, as she prepared to fill that gentleman’s glass.

“Just ‘alf a glass,” she said, winsomely.

“Not a drop,” said Mr. Wilks, firmly.

Mrs. Silk hesitated, and screwing up her forehead glanced significantly at her son. “‘Ave some by-and-by,” she whispered.

“Give me the jug,” said Mr. Silk, indignantly. “What are you listening to ‘im for? Can’t you see what’s the matter with ‘im?”

“Not to ‘ave it,” said Mr. Wilks; “put it ‘ere.”

He thumped the table emphatically with his hand, and before her indignant son could interfere Mrs. Silk had obeyed. It was the last straw. Mr. Edward Silk rose to his feet with tremendous effect and, first thrusting his plate violently away from him, went out into the night, slamming the door behind him with such violence that the startled Mr. Wilks was nearly blown out of his chair.

“He don’t mean nothing,” said Mrs. Silk, turning a rather scared face to the steward. “‘E’s a bit jealous of you, I s’pose.”

Mr. Wilks shook his head. Truth to tell, he was rather at a loss to know exactly what had happened.

“And then there’s ‘is love affair,” sighed Mrs. Silk. “He’ll never get over the loss of Amelia Kybird. I always know when ‘e ‘as seen her, he’s that miserable there’s no getting a word out of ‘im.”

Mr. Wilks smiled vaguely and went on with his supper, and, the meal finished, allowed himself to be installed in an easy-chair, while his hostess cleared the table. He sat and smoked in high good humour with himself, the occasional remarks he made being received with an enthusiasm which they seldom provoked elsewhere.

“I should like t’ sit ‘ere all night,” he said, at last.

“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Silk, playfully.

“Like t’ sit ‘ere all night,” repeated Mr. Wilks, somewhat sternly. “All nex’ day, all day after, day after that, day–”

Mrs. Silk eyed him softly. “Why would you like to sit here all that time?” she inquired, in a low voice.

“B’cause,” said Mr. Wilks, simply, “b’cause I don’t feel’s if I can stand. Goo’-night.”

He closed his eyes on the indignant Mrs. Silk and fell fast asleep. It was a sound sleep and dreamless, and only troubled by the occasional ineffectual attempts of his hostess to arouse him. She gave up the attempt at last, and taking up a pair of socks sat working thoughtfully the other side of the fire-place.

The steward awoke an hour or two later, and after what seemed a terrible struggle found himself standing at the open door with the cold night air blowing in his face, and a voice which by an effort of memory he identified as that of Edward Silk inviting him “to go home and lose no time about it.” Then the door slammed behind him and he stood balancing himself with some difficulty on the step, wondering what had happened. By the time he had walked up and down the deserted alley three or four times light was vouchsafed to him and, shivering slightly, he found his own door and went to bed.