At Sunwich Port, Complete

It was a week after Mr. Kybird’s visit to the alley that he went, as usual, for a stroll up and down the High Street. The evening was deepening, and some of the shops had already lit up, as Mr. Silk, with his face against the window-pane, tried in vain to penetrate the obscurity of Mr. Kybird’s shop. He could just make out a dim figure behind the counter, which he believed to be Amelia, when a match was struck and a gas jet threw a sudden light in the shop and revealed Mr. Jack Nugent standing behind the counter with his hand on the lady’s shoulder.

One glance was sufficient. The next moment there was a sharp cry from Miss Kybird and a bewildered stare from Nugent as something, only comparable to a human cracker, bounced into the shop and commenced to explode before them.

“Take your ‘and off,” raved Mr. Silk. “Leave ‘er alone. ‘Ow dare you? D’ye hear me? ‘Melia, I won’t ‘ave it! I won’t ‘ave it!”

“Don’t be silly, Teddy,” remonstrated Mr. Nugent, following up Miss Kybird, as she edged away from him.

“Leave ‘er alone, d’ye ‘ear?” yelled Mr. Silk, thumping the counter with his small fist. “She’s my wife!”

“Teddy’s mad,” said Mr. Nugent, calmly, “stark, staring, raving mad. Poor Teddy.”

He shook his head sadly, and had just begun to recommend a few remedies when the parlour door opened and the figure of Mr. Kybird, with his wife standing close behind him, appeared in the doorway.

“Who’s making all this noise?” demanded the former, looking from one to the other.

“I am,” said Mr. Silk, fiercely. “It’s no use your winking at me; I’m not going to ‘ave any more of this nonsense. ‘Melia, you go and get your ‘at on and come straight off ‘ome with me.”

Mr. Kybird gave a warning cough. “Go easy, Teddy,” he murmured.

“And don’t you cough at me,” said the irritated Mr. Silk, “because it won’t do no good.”

Mr. Kybird subsided. He was not going to quarrel with a son-in-law who might at any moment be worth ten thousand pounds.

“Isn’t he mad?” inquired the amazed Mr. Nugent.

“Cert’nly not,” replied Mr. Kybird, moving aside to let his daughter pass; “no madder than you are. Wot d’ye mean, mad?”

Mr. Nugent looked round in perplexity. “Do you mean to tell me that Teddy and Amelia are married?” he said, in a voice trembling with eagerness.

“I do,” said Mr. Kybird. “It seems they’ve been fond of one another all along, and they went up all unbeknown last Friday and got a license and got married.”

“And if I see you putting your ‘and on ‘er shoulder ag’in” said Mr. Silk, with alarming vagueness.

“But suppose she asks me to?” said the delighted Mr. Nugent, with much gravity.

“Look ‘ere, we don’t want none o’ your non-sense,” broke in the irate Mrs. Kybird, pushing her way past her husband and confronting the speaker.

“I’ve been deceived,” said Mr. Nugent in a thrilling voice; “you’ve all been deceiving me. Kybird, I blush for you (that will save you a lot of trouble). Teddy, I wouldn’t have believed it of you. I can’t stay here; my heart is broken.”

“Well we don’t want you to,” retorted the aggressive Mrs. Kybird. “You can take yourself off as soon as ever you like. You can’t be too quick to please me.”

Mr. Nugent bowed and walked past the counter. “And not even a bit of wedding-cake for me,” he said, shaking a reproachful head at the heated Mr. Silk. “Why, I’d put you down first on my list.”

He paused at the door, and after a brief intimation that he would send for his effects on the following day, provided that his broken heart had not proved fatal in the meantime, waved his hand to the company and departed. Mr. Kybird followed him to the door as though to see him off the premises, and gazing after the receding figure swelled with indignation as he noticed that he favoured a mode of progression which was something between a walk and a hornpipe.

Mr. Nugent had not been in such spirits since his return to Sunwich, and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, he walked on in a state of growing excitement until he was clear of the town. Then he stopped to consider his next move, and after a little deliberation resolved to pay a visit to Jem Hardy and acquaint him with the joyful tidings.

That gentleman, however, was out, and Mr. Nugent, somewhat irritated at such thoughtlessness, stood in the road wondering where to go next. It was absolutely impossible for him to sleep that night without telling the good news to somebody, and after some thought he selected Mr. Wilks. It was true that relations had been somewhat strained between them since the latter’s attempt at crimping him, but he was never one to bear malice, and tonight he was full of the kindliest thoughts to all mankind.

He burst into Mr. Wilks’s front room suddenly and then pulled up short. The steward, with a pitiable look of anxiety on his pallid features, was leaning awkwardly against the mantelpiece, and opposite him Mrs. Silk sat in an easy-chair, dissolved in tears.

“Busy, Sam?” inquired Mr. Nugent, who had heard of the steward’s difficulties from Hardy.

“No, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, hastily; “sit down, sir.”

He pushed forward a chair and, almost pulling his visitor into it, stood over him attentively and took his hat.

“Are you quite sure I’m not interrupting you?” inquired the thoughtful Mr. Nugent.

“Certain sure, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, eagerly. “I was just ‘aving a bit of a chat with my neighbour, Mrs. Silk, ‘ere, that’s all.”

The lady in question removed her handkerchief from her eyes and gazed at him with reproachful tenderness. Mr. Wilks plunged hastily into conversation.

“She came over ‘ere to tell me a bit o’ news,” he said, eyeing the young man doubtfully. “It seems that Teddy–”

Mr. Nugent fetched a mighty sigh and shook his head; Mrs. Silk gazed at him earnestly.

“Life is full of surprises, sir,” she remarked.

“And sadness,” added Mr. Nugent. “I hope that they will be happy.”

“It struck me all of a ‘eap,” said Mrs. Silk, rolling her handkerchief into a ball and placing it in her lap. “I was doing a bit of ironing when in walks Teddy with Amelia Kybird, and says they was married last Friday. I was that shaken I didn’t know what I did or what I said. Then I came over as soon as I could, because I thought Mr. Wilks ought to know about it.”

Mr. Wilks cleared his throat and turned an agonized eye on Mr. Nugent. He would have liked to have asked why Mrs. Silk should think it necessary to inform him, but the fear of precipitating a crisis stayed his tongue.

“What I’m to do, I don’t know,” continued Mrs. Silk, feebly. “You can’t ‘ave two queens in one ‘ouse, so to speak.”

“But she was walking out with Teddy long ago,” urged Mr. Wilks. “It’s no worse now than then.”

“But I wouldn’t be married by license,” said Mrs. Silk, deftly ignoring the remark. “If I can’t be asked in church in the proper way I won’t be married at all.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Nugent; “there’s something so sudden about a license,” he added, with feeling.

“Me and Mr. Wilks was talking about marriage only the other day,” pursued Mrs. Silk, with a bashfulness which set every nerve in the steward’s body quivering, “and we both agreed that banns was the proper way.

“You was talking about it,” corrected Mr. Wilks, in a hoarse voice. “You brought up the subject and I agreed with you—not that it matters to me ‘ow people get married. That’s their affair. Banns or license, it’s all one to me.”

“I won’t be married by license,” said Mrs. Silk, with sudden petulance; “leastways, I’d rather not be,” she added, softening.

Mr. Wilks took his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose violently. Mrs. Silk’s methods of attack left him little opportunity for the plain speaking which was necessary to dispel illusions. He turned a watery, appealing eye on to Mr. Nugent, and saw to his surprise that that gentleman was winking at him with great significance and persistence. It would have needed a heart of stone to have been unaffected by such misery, and tonight Mr. Nugent, thankful for his own escape, was in a singularly merciful mood.

“All this sounds as though you are going to be married,” he said, turning to Mrs. Silk with a polite smile.

The widow simpered and looked down, thereby affording Mr. Nugent an opportunity of another signal to the perturbed steward, who sat with such a look of anxiety on his face lest he should miss his cue that the young man’s composure was tried to the utmost.

“It’s been a understood thing for a long time,” she said, slowly, “but I couldn’t leave my son while ‘e was single and nobody to look after ‘im. A good mother makes a good wife, so they say. A woman can’t always ‘ave ‘er own way in everything, and if it’s not to be by banns, then by license it must be, I suppose.”

“Well, he’ll be a fortunate man, whoever he is,” said Mr. Nugent, with another warning glance at Mr. Wilks; “and I only hope that he’ll make a better husband than you do, Sam,” he added, in a low but severe voice.

Mrs. Silk gave a violent start. “Better husband than ‘e does?” she cried, sharply. “Mr. Wilks ain’t married.”

Mr. Nugent’s baseless charge took the steward all aback. He stiffened in his chair, a picture of consternation, and guilt appeared stamped on every feature; but he had the presence of mind to look to Mr. Nugent’s eye for guidance and sufficient strength of character to accept this last bid for liberty.

“That’s my business, sir,” he quavered, in offended tones.

“But you ain’t married?” screamed Mrs. Silk.

“Never mind,” said Nugent, pacifically. “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it; it’s a sore subject with Sam. And I daresay there were faults on both sides. Weren’t there, Sam?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, in a voice which he strove hard to make distinct; “especially ‘ers.”

“You—you never told me you were married,” said Mrs. Silk, breathlessly.

“I never said I wasn’t,” retorted the culprit, defiantly. “If people liked to think I was a single man, I don’t care; it’s got nothing to do with them. Besides, she lives at Stepney, and I don’t ‘ear from ‘er once in six months; she don’t interfere with me and I don’t interfere with her.”

Mrs. Silk got up from her chair and stood confronting him with her hand grasping the back of it. Her cold eyes gleamed and her face worked with spite as she tried in vain to catch his eye. Of Mr. Nugent and his ingenuous surprise at her behaviour she took no notice at all.

“You’re a deceiver,” she gasped; “you’ve been behaving like a single man and everybody thought you was a single man.”

“I hope you haven’t been paying attentions to anybody, Sam,” said Mr. Nugent in a shocked voice.

“A-ah,” said Mrs. Silk, shivering with anger. “Ask ‘im; the deceiving villain. Ask anybody, and see what they’ll tell you. Oh, you wicked man, I wonder you can look me in the face!”

Truth to tell, Mr. Wilks was looking in any direction but hers. His eyes met Nugent’s, but there was a look of such stern disdain on that gentleman’s face that he was fain to look away again.

“Was it a friend of yours?” inquired the artless Mr. Nugent.

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Silk, recovering herself. “Never mind who it was. You wait till I go and tell Teddy,” she continued, turning to the trembling Mr. Wilks. “If ‘e’s got the ‘art of a man in ‘im you’ll see.”

With this dire threat, and turning occasionally to bestow another fierce glance upon the steward, she walked to the door and, opening it to its full extent, closed it behind her with a crash and darted across the alley to her own house. The two men gazed at each other without speaking, and then Mr. Wilks, stepping over to the door, turned the key in the lock.

“You’re not afraid of Teddy?” said the staring Nugent.

“Teddy!” said Mr. Wilks, snapping his huge fingers. “I’m not afraid o’ fifty Teddies; but she might come back with ‘im. If it ‘adn’t ha’ been for you, sir, I don’t know wot wouldn’t ‘ave happened.”

“Go and draw some beer and get me a clean pipe,” said Nugent, dropping into a chair. “We’ve both been mercifully preserved, Sam, and the best thing we can do is to drink to our noble selves and be more careful for the future.”

Mr. Wilks obeyed, and again thanking him warmly for his invaluable services sat down to compile a few facts about his newly acquired wife, warranted to stand the severest cross-examination which might be brought to bear upon them, a task interspersed with malicious reminiscences of Mrs. Silk’s attacks on his liberty. He also insisted on giving up his bed to Nugent for the night.

“I suppose,” he said later on, as Mr. Nugent, after a faint objection or two, took his candle—“I suppose this yarn about my being married will get about?”

“I suppose so,” said Nugent, yawning, as he paused with his foot on the stair. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Wilks, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. “Nothing.”

“What about it?” repeated Mr. Nugent, sternly.

“Nothing, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, with an insufferable simper. “Nothing, only it’ll make things a little bit slow for me, that’s all.”

Mr. Nugent eyed him for a space in speechless amazement, and then, with a few strong remarks on ingratitude and senile vanity, mounted the winding little stairs and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXV

The day after Mr. Silk’s sudden and unexpected assertion of his marital rights Mr. Kybird stood in the doorway of his shop, basking in the sun. The High Street was in a state of post-prandial repose, and there was no likelihood of a customer to interfere with his confidential chat with Mr. Nathan Smith, who was listening with an aspect of great severity to his explanations.

“It ought not to ‘ave happened,” he said, sharply. “It was Teddy done it,” said Mr. Kybird, humbly.

Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t ‘ave happened if I’d been there,” he observed, arrogantly.

“I don’t see ‘ow” began Mr. Kybird.

“No, o’ course you don’t,” said his friend. “Still, it’s no use making a fuss now. The thing is done. One thing is, I don’t suppose it’ll make any diff–”

“Difference,” suggested Mr. Kybird, after waiting for him to finish.

“Difference,” said Mr. Smith, with an obvious effort. His face had lost its scornful expression and given way to one almost sheepish in its mildness. Mr. Kybird, staring at him in some surprise, even thought that he detected a faint shade of pink.

“We ain’t all as clever as wot you are, Nat,” he said, somewhat taken aback at this phenomenon. “It wouldn’t do.”

Mr. Smith made a strange noise in his throat and turned on him sharply. Mr. Kybird, still staring in surprise at his unwonted behaviour, drew back a little, and then his lips parted and his eyes grew round as he saw the cause of his friend’s concern. An elderly gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard and a yellow rose in his button-hole was just passing on the other side of the road. His tread was elastic, his figure as upright as a boy’s, and he swung a light cane in his hand as he walked. As Mr. Kybird gazed he bestowed a brisk nod upon the bewildered Mr. Smith, and crossed the road with the evident intention of speaking to him.

“How do, Smith?” he said, in a kindly voice.

The boarding-master leaned against the shop-window and regarded him dumbly. There was a twinkle in the shipbroker’s eyes which irritated him almost beyond endurance, and in the doorway Mr. Kybird—his face mottled with the intensity of his emotions—stood an unwelcome and frantic witness of his shame.

“You’re not well, Smith?” said Mr. Swann, shaking his head at him gently. “You look like a man who has been doing too much brain-work lately. You’ve been getting the better of some-body, I know.”

Mr. Smith gasped and, eyeing him wickedly, strove hard to recover his self-possession.

“I’m all right, sir,” he said, in a thin voice. “I’m glad to see you’re looking a trifle better, sir.”

“Oh, I’m quite right, now,” said the other, with a genial smile at the fermenting Mr. Kybird. “I’m as well as ever I was. Illness is a serious thing, Smith, but it is not without its little amusements.”

Mr. Smith, scratching his smooth-shaven chin and staring blankly in front of him, said that he was glad to hear it.

“I’ve had a long bout of it,” continued the ship-broker, “longer than I intended at first. By the way, Smith, you’ve never spoken to anybody of that business, of course?”

“Of course not, sir,” said the boarding-master, grinding his teeth.

“One has fancies when one is ill,” said Mr. Swann, in low tones, as his eye dwelt with pleasure on the strained features of Mr. Kybird. “I burnt the document five minutes after you had gone.”

“Did you, reely?” said Mr. Smith, mechanically.

“I’m glad it was only you and the doctor that saw my foolishness,” continued the other, still in a low voice. “Other people might have talked, but I knew that you were a reliable man, Smith. And you won’t talk about it in the future, I’m quite certain of that. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Smith managed to say, “Good afternoon,” and stood watching the receding figure as though it belonged to a species hitherto unknown to him. Then he turned, in obedience to a passionate tug at his coat sleeve from Mr. Kybird.

“Wot ‘ave you got to say for yourself?” demanded that injured person, in tones of suppressed passion. “Wot do you mean by it? You’ve made a pretty mess of it with your cleverness.”

“Wonderful old gentleman, ain’t he?” said the discomfited Mr. Smith. “Fancy ‘im getting the better o’ me. Fancy me being ‘ad. I took it all in as innercent as you please.”

“Ah, you’re a clever fellow, you are,” said Mr. Kybird, bitterly. “‘Ere’s Amelia lost young Nugent and ‘is five ‘undred all through you. It’s a got-up thing between old Swann and the Nugent lot, that’s wot it is.”

“Looks like it,” admitted Mr. Smith; “but fancy ‘is picking me out for ‘is games. That’s wot gets over me.”

“Wot about all that money I paid for the license?” demanded Mr. Kybird, in a threatening manner. “Wot are you going to do about it?”

“You shall ‘ave it,” said the boarding-master, with sudden blandness, “and ‘Melia shall ‘ave ‘er five ‘undred.”

“‘Ow?” inquired the other, staring.

“It’s as easy as easy,” said Mr. Smith, who had been greatly galled by his friend’s manner. “I’ll leave it in my will. That’s the cheapest way o’ giving money I know of. And while I’m about it I’ll leave you a decent pair o’ trousers and a shirt with your own name on it.”

While an ancient friendship was thus being dissolved, Mr. Adolphus Swann was on the way to his office. He could never remember such a pleasant air from the water and such a vivid enjoyment in the sight of the workaday world. He gazed with delight at the crowd of miscellaneous shipping in the harbour and the bustling figures on the quay, only pausing occasionally to answer anxious inquiries concerning his health from seafaring men in tarry trousers, who had waylaid him with great pains from a distance.

He reached his office at last, and, having acknowledged the respectful greetings of Mr. Silk, passed into the private room, and celebrated his return to work by at once arranging with his partner for a substantial rise in the wages of that useful individual.

“My conscience is troubling me,” he declared, as he hung up his hat and gazed round the room with much relish.

“Silk is happy enough,” said Hardy. “It is the best thing that could have happened to him.”

“I should like to raise everybody’s wages,” said the benevolent Mr. Swann, as he seated himself at his desk. “Everything is like a holiday to me after being cooped up in that bedroom; but the rest has done me a lot of good, so Blaikie says. And now what is going to happen to you?”

Hardy shook his head.

“Strike while the iron is hot,” said the ship-broker. “Go and see Captain Nugent before he has got used to the situation. And you can give him to understand, if you like (only be careful how you do it), that I have got something in view which may suit his son. If you fail in this affair after all I’ve done for you, I’ll enter the lists myself.”

The advice was good, but unnecessary, Mr. Hardy having already fixed on that evening as a suitable opportunity to disclose to the captain the nature of the efforts he had been making on his behalf. The success which had attended them had put him into a highly optimistic mood, and he set off for Equator Lodge with the confident feeling that he had, to say the least of it, improved his footing there.

Captain Nugent, called away from his labours in the garden, greeted his visitor in his customary short manner as he entered the room. “If you’ve come to tell me about this marriage, I’ve heard of it,” he said, bluntly. “Murchison told me this afternoon.”

“He didn’t tell you how it was brought about, I suppose?” said Hardy.

The captain shook his head. “I didn’t ask him,” he said, with affected indifference, and sat gazing out at the window as Hardy began his narration. Two or three times he thought he saw signs of appreciation in his listener’s face, but the mouth under the heavy moustache was firm and the eyes steady. Only when he related Swann’s interview with Nathan Smith and Kybird did the captain’s features relax. He gave a chuckling cough and, feeling for his handkerchief, blew his nose violently. Then, with a strange gleam in his eye, he turned to the young man opposite.

“Very smart,” he said, shortly.

“It was successful,” said the other, modestly.

“Very,” said the captain, as he rose and confronted him. “I am much obliged, of course, for the trouble you have taken in the affairs of my family. And now I will remind you of our agreement.”

“Agreement?” repeated the other.

The captain nodded. “Your visits to me were to cease when this marriage happened, if I wished it,” he said, slowly.

“That was the arrangement,” said the dumb-founded Hardy, “but I had hoped–. Besides, it has all taken place much sooner than I had anticipated.”

“That was the bargain,” said the captain, stiffly. “And now I’ll bid you good-day.”

“I am sorry that my presence should be so distasteful to you,” said the mortified Hardy.

“Distasteful, sir?” said the captain, sternly. “You have forced yourself on me for twice a week for some time past. You have insisted upon talking on every subject under the sun, whether I liked it or not. You have taken every opportunity of evading my wishes that you should not see my daughter, and you wonder that I object to you. For absolute brazenness you beat anything I have ever encountered.”

“I am sorry,” said Hardy, again.

“Good evening,” said the captain

“Good evening.”

Crestfallen and angry Hardy moved to the door, pausing with his hand on it as the captain spoke again.

“One word more,” said the older man, gazing at him oddly as he stroked his grey beard; “if ever you try to come bothering me with your talk again I’ll forbid you the house.”

“Forbid me the house?” repeated the astonished Hardy.

“That’s what I said,” replied the other; “that’s plain English, isn’t it?”

Hardy looked at him in bewilderment; then, as the captain’s meaning dawned upon him, he stepped forward impulsively and, seizing his hand, began to stammer out incoherent thanks.

“You’d better clear before I alter my mind,” said Captain Nugent, roughly. “I’ve had more than enough of you. Try the garden, if you like.”

He took up a paper from the table and resumed his seat, not without a grim smile at the promptitude with which the other obeyed his instructions.

Miss Nugent, reclining in a deck-chair at the bottom of the garden, looked up as she heard Hardy’s footstep on the gravel. It was a surprising thing to see him walking down the garden; it was still more surprising to observe the brightness of his eye and the easy confidence of his bearing. It was evident that he was highly pleased with himself, and she was not satisfied until she had ascertained the reason. Then she sat silent, reflecting bitterly on the clumsy frankness of the male sex in general and fathers in particular. A recent conversation with the captain, in which she had put in a casual word or two in Hardy’s favour, was suddenly invested with a new significance.

“I shall never be able to repay your father for his kindness,” said Hardy, meaningly, as he took a chair near her.

“I expect he was pleased at this marriage,” said Miss Nugent, coldly. “How did it happen?”

Mr. Hardy shifted uneasily in his chair. “There isn’t much to tell,” he said, reluctantly; “and you—you might not approve of the means by which the end was gained.”