Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “You’re not going to keep on at this water-side work, I suppose?” said Hardy, making another effort to give the conversation a serious turn.

  “The foreman doesn’t think so,” replied the other, as he helped himself to some whisky; “he has made several remarks to that effect lately.”

  He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully, by no means insensible to the comfort of his surroundings. He had not been in such comfortable quarters since he left home seven years before. He thought of the untidy litter of the Kybirds’ back parlour, with the forlorn view of the yard in the rear. Something of his reflections he confided to Hardy as he rose to leave.

  “But my market value is about a pound a week,” he concluded, ruefully, “so I must cut my coat to suit my cloth. Good-night.”

  He walked home somewhat soberly at first, but the air was cool and fresh and a glorious moon was riding in the sky. He whistled cheerfully, and his spirits rose as various chimerical plans of making money occurred to him. By the time he reached the High Street, the shops of which were all closed for the night, he was earning five hundred a year and spending a thousand. He turned the handle of the door and, walking in, discovered Miss Kybird entertaining company in the person of Mr. Edward Silk.

  “Halloa,” he said, airily, as he took a seat. “Don’t mind me, young people. Go on just as you would if I were not here.”

  Mr. Edward Silk grumbled something under his breath; Miss Kybird, turning to the intruder with a smile of welcome, remarked that she had just thought of going to sleep.

  “Going to sleep?” repeated Mr. Silk, thunder-struck.

  “Yes,” said Miss Kybird, yawning.

  Mr. Silk gazed at her, open-mouthed. “What, with me ‘ere?” he inquired, in trembling tones.

  “You’re not very lively company,” said Miss Kybird, bending over her sewing. “I don’t think you’ve spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour, and before that you were talking of death-warnings. Made my flesh creep, you did.”

  “Shame!” said Mr. Nugent.

  “You didn’t say anything to me about your flesh creeping,” muttered Mr. Silk.

  “You ought to have seen it creep,” interposed Mr. Nugent, severely.

  “I’m not talking to you,” said Mr. Silk, turning on him; “when I want the favour of remarks from you I’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t you talk to my gentlemen friends like that, Teddy,” said Miss Kybird, sharply, “because I won’t have it. Why don’t you try and be bright and cheerful like Mr. Nugent?”

  Mr. Silk turned and regarded that gentleman steadfastly; Mr. Nugent meeting his gaze with a pleasant smile and a low-voiced offer to give him lessons at half a crown an hour.

  “I wouldn’t be like ‘im for worlds,” said Mr. Silk, with a scornful laugh. “I’d sooner be like anybody.”

  “What have you been saying to him?” inquired Nugent.

  “Nothing,” replied Miss Kybird; “he’s often like that. He’s got a nasty, miserable, jealous disposition. Not that I mind what he thinks.”

  Mr. Silk breathed hard and looked from one to the other.

  “Perhaps he’ll grow out of it,” said Nugent, hopefully. “Cheer up, Teddy. You’re young yet.”

  “Might I arsk,” said the solemnly enraged Mr. Silk, “might I arsk you not to be so free with my Christian name?”

  “He doesn’t like his name now,” said Nugent, drawing his chair closer to Miss Kybird’s, “and I don’t wonder at it. What shall we call him? Job? What’s that work you’re doing? Why don’t you get on with that fancy waistcoat you are doing for me?”

  Before Miss Kybird could deny all knowledge of the article in question her sorely tried swain created a diversion by rising. To that simple act he imparted an emphasis which commanded the attention of both beholders, and, drawing over to Miss Kybird, he stood over her in an attitude at once terrifying and reproachful.

  “Take your choice, Amelia,” he said, in a thrilling voice. “Me or ‘im — which is it to be?”

  “Here, steady, old man,” cried the startled Nugent. “Go easy.”

  “Me or ‘im?” repeated Mr. Silk, in stern but broken accents.

  Miss Kybird giggled and, avoiding his gaze, looked pensively at the faded hearthrug.

  “You’re making her blush,” said Mr. Nugent, sternly. “Sit down, Teddy; I’m ashamed of you. We’re both ashamed of you. You’re confusing us dreadfully proposing to us both in this way.”

  Mr. Silk regarded him with a scornful eye, but Miss Kybird, bidding him not to be foolish, punctuated her remarks with the needle, and a struggle, which Mr. Silk regarded as unseemly in the highest degree, took place between them for its possession.

  Mr. Nugent secured it at last, and brandishing it fiercely extorted feminine screams from Miss Kybird by threatening her with it. Nor was her mind relieved until Mr. Nugent, remarking that he would put it back in the pincushion, placed it in the leg of Mr. Edward Silk.

  Mr. Kybird and his wife, entering through the shop, were just in time to witness a spirited performance on the part of Mr. Silk, the cherished purpose of which was to deprive them of a lodger. He drew back as they entered and, raising his voice above Miss Kybird’s, began to explain his action.

  “Teddy, I’m ashamed of you,” said Mr. Kybird, shaking his head. “A little joke like that; a little innercent joke.”

  “If it ‘ad been a darning-needle now—” began Mrs. Kybird.

  “All right,” said the desperate Mr. Silk, “‘ave it your own way. Let ‘Melia marry ‘im — I don’t care — I give ‘er up.”

  “Teddy!” said Mr. Kybird, in a shocked voice. “Teddy!”

  Mr. Silk thrust him fiercely to one side and passed raging through the shop. The sound of articles falling in all directions attested to his blind haste, and the force with which he slammed the shop-door was sufficient evidence of his state of mind.

  “Well, upon my word,” said the staring Mr. Kybird; “of all the outrageyous—”

  “Never mind ‘im,” said his wife, who was sitting in the easy chair, distributing affectionate smiles between her daughter and the startled Mr. Nugent. “Make ‘er happy, Jack, that’s all I arsk. She’s been a good gal, and she’ll make a good wife. I’ve seen how it was between you for some time.”

  “So ‘ave I,” said Mr. Kybird. He shook hands warmly with Mr. Nugent, and, patting that perturbed man on the back, surveyed him with eyes glistening with approval.

  “It’s a bit rough on Teddy, isn’t it?” inquired Mr. Nugent, anxiously; “besides—”

  “Don’t you worry about ‘im,” said Mr. Kybird, affectionately. “He ain’t worth it.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Mr. Nugent, truthfully. The situation had developed so rapidly that it had caught him at a disadvantage. He had a dim feeling that, having been the cause of Miss Kybird’s losing one young man, the most elementary notions of chivalry demanded that he should furnish her with another. And this idea was clearly uppermost in the minds of her parents. He looked over at Amelia and with characteristic philosophy accepted the position.

  “We shall be the handsomest couple in Sunwich,” he said, simply.

  “Bar none,” said Mr. Kybird, emphatically.

  The stout lady in the chair gazed ax the couple fondly. “It reminds me of our wedding,” she said, softly. “What was it Tom Fletcher said, father? Can you remember?”

  “‘Arry Smith, you mean,” corrected Mr. Kybird.

  “Tom Fletcher said something, I’m sure,” persisted his wife.

  “He did,” said Mr. Kybird, grimly, “and I pretty near broke ‘is ‘ead for it. ‘Arry Smith is the one you’re thinking of.”

  Mrs. Kybird after a moment’s reflection admitted that he was right, and, the chain of memory being touched, waxed discursive about her own wedding and the somewhat exciting details which accompanied it. After which she produced a bottle labelled “Port wine” from the cupboard, and, filling four glasses, celebrated the occasion in a befitting but
sober fashion.

  “This,” said Mr. Nugent, as he sat on his bed that night to take his boots off, “this is what comes of trying to make everybody happy and comfortable with a little fun. I wonder what the governor’ll say.”

  CHAPTER IX

  The news of his only son’s engagement took Captain Nugent’s breath away, which, all things considered, was perhaps the best thing it could have done. He sat at home in silent rage, only exploding when the well-meaning Mrs. Kingdom sought to minimize his troubles by comparing them with those of Job. Her reminder that to the best of her remembrance he had never had a boil in his life put the finishing touch to his patience, and, despairing of drawing-room synonyms for the words which trembled on his lips, he beat a precipitate retreat to the garden.

  His son bore his new honours bravely. To an appealing and indignant letter from his sister he wrote gravely, reminding her of the difference in their years, and also that he had never interfered in her flirtations, however sorely his brotherly heart might have been wrung by them. He urged her to forsake such diversions for the future, and to look for an alliance with some noble, open-handed man with a large banking account and a fondness for his wife’s relatives.

  To Jem Hardy, who ventured on a delicate re-monstrance one evening, he was less patient, and displayed a newly acquired dignity which was a source of considerable embarrassment to that well-meaning gentleman. He even got up to search for his hat, and was only induced to resume his seat by the physical exertions of his host.

  “I didn’t mean to be offensive,” said the latter. “But you were,” said the aggrieved man. Hardy apologized.

  “Talk of that kind is a slight to my future wife,” said Nugent, firmly. “Besides, what business is it of yours?”

  Hardy regarded him thoughtfully. It was some time since he had seen Miss Nugent, and he felt that he was losing valuable time. He had hoped great things from the advent of her brother, and now his intimacy seemed worse than useless. He resolved to take him into his confidence.

  “I spoke from selfish motives,” he said, at last. I wanted you to make friends with your father again.”

  “What for?” inquired the other, staring.

  “To pave the way for me,” said Hardy, raising his voice as he thought of his wrongs; “and now, owing to your confounded matrimonial business, that’s all knocked on the head. I wouldn’t care whom you married if it didn’t interfere with my affairs so.”

  “Do you mean,” inquired the astonished Mr. Nugent, “that you want to be on friendly terms with my father?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Nugent gazed at him round-eyed. “You haven’t had a blow on the head or anything of that sort at any time, have you?” he inquired.

  Hardy shook his head impatiently. “You don’t seem to suffer from an excess of intellect yourself,” he retorted. “I don’t want to be offensive again, still, I should think it is pretty plain there is only one reason why I should go out of my way to seek the society of your father.”

  “Say what you like about my intellect,” replied the dutiful son, “but I can’t think of even one — not even a small one. Not — Good gracious! You don’t mean — you can’t mean—”

  Hardy looked at him.

  “Not that,” said Mr. Nugent, whose intellect had suddenly become painfully acute— “not her?”

  “Why not?” inquired the other.

  Mr. Nugent leaned back in his chair and regarded him with an air of kindly interest. “Well, there’s no need for you to worry about my father for that,” he said; “he would raise no objection.”

  “Eh?” said Hardy, starting up from his chair.

  “He would welcome it,” said Mr. Nugent, positively. “There is nothing that he would like better; and I don’t mind telling you a secret — she likes you.”

  Hardy reddened. “How do you know?” he stammered.

  “I know it for a fact,” said the other, impressively. “I have heard her say so. But you’ve been very plain-spoken about me, Jem, so that I shall say what I think.”

  “Do,” said his bewildered friend.

  “I think you’d be throwing yourself away,” said Nugent; “to my mind it’s a most unsuitable match in every way. She’s got no money, no looks, no style. Nothing but a good kind heart rather the worse for wear. I suppose you know she’s been married once?”

  “What!” shouted the other. “Married?”

  Mr. Nugent nodded. His face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay.

  “I thought everybody knew it,” he said. “We have never disguised the fact. Her husband died twenty years ago last — —”

  “Twenty” said his suddenly enlightened listener. “Who? — What?”

  Mr. Nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame.

  “Dear — aunt,” he choked, “how pleas — pleased she’d be if — she knew. Don’t look like that, Hardy. You’ll kill me.”

  “You seem amused,” said Hardy, between his teeth.

  “And you’ll be Kate’s uncle,” said Mr. Nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Poor little Kate.”

  He put his head on the table again. “And mine,” he wailed. “Uncle jemmy! — will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?”

  Mr. Hardy’s expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim.

  “Well, I’ll do what I can for you,” he observed, “but I suppose you know Kate’s off for a three months’ visit to London to-morrow?”

  The other observed that he didn’t know it, and, taught by his recent experience, eyed him suspiciously.

  “It’s quite true,” said Nugent; “she’s going to stay with some relatives of ours. She used to be very fond of one of the boys — her cousin Herbert — so you mustn’t be surprised if she comes back engaged. But I daresay you’ll have forgotten all about her in three months. And, anyway, I don’t suppose she’d look at you if you were the last man in the world. If you’ll walk part of the way home with me I’ll regale you with anecdotes of her chilhood which will probably cause you to change your views altogether.”

  In Fullalove Alley Mr. Edward Silk, his forebodings fulfilled, received the news of Amelia Kybird’s faithlessness in a spirit of’ quiet despair, and turned a deaf ear to the voluble sympathy of his neighbours. Similar things had happened to young men living there before, but their behaviour had been widely different to Mr. Silk’s. Bob Crump, for instance, had been jilted on the very morning he had arranged for his wedding, but instead of going about in a state of gentle melancholy he went round and fought his beloved’s father — merely because it was her father — and wound up an exciting day by selling off his household goods to the highest bidders. Henry Jones in similar circumstances relieved his great grief by walking up and down the alley smashing every window within reach of his stick.

  But these were men of spirit; Mr. Silk was cast in a different mould, and his fair neighbours sympathized heartily with him in his bereavement, while utterly failing to understand any man breaking his heart over Amelia Kybird.

  His mother, a widow of uncertain age, shook her head over him and hinted darkly at consumption, an idea which was very pleasing to her son, and gave him an increased interest in a slight cold from which he was suffering.

  “He wants taking out of ‘imself,” said Mr. Wilks, who had stepped across the alley to discuss the subject with his neighbour; “cheerful society and ‘obbies — that’s what ‘e wants.”

  “He’s got a faithful ‘eart,” sighed Mrs. Silk. “It’s in the family; ‘e can’t ‘elp it.”

  “But ‘e might be lifted out of it,” urged Mr. Wilks. “I ‘ad several disappointments in my young days. One time I ‘ad a fresh gal every v’y’ge a’most.”

  Mrs. Silk sniffed and looked up the alley, whereat two neighbours who happen
ed to be at their doors glanced up and down casually, and retreated inside to continue their vigil from the windows.

  “Silk courted me for fifteen years before I would say ‘yes,’” she said, severely.

  “Fifteen years!” responded the other. He cast his eyes upwards and his lips twitched. The most casual observer could have seen that he was engaged in calculations of an abstruse and elusive nature.

  “I was on’y seven when ‘e started,” said Mrs. Silk, sharply.

  Mr. Wilks brought his eyes to a level again. “Oh, seven,” he remarked.

  “And we was married two days before my nineteenth birthday,” added Mrs. Silk, whose own arithmetic had always been her weak point.

  “Just so,” said Mr. Wilks. He glanced at the sharp white face and shapeless figure before him. “It’s hard to believe you can ‘ave a son Teddy’s age,” he added, gallantly.

  “It makes you feel as if you’re getting on,” said the widow.

  The ex-steward agreed, and after standing a minute or two in silence made a preliminary motion of withdrawal.

  “Beautiful your plants are looking,” said Mrs. Silk, glancing over at his window; “I can’t think what you do to ’em.”

  The gratified Mr. Wilks began to explain. It appeared that plants wanted almost as much looking after as daughters.

  “I should like to see ’em close,” said Mrs. Silk. “Come in and ‘ave a look at ’em,” responded her neighbour.

  Mrs. Silk hesitated and displayed a maidenly coyness far in excess of the needs of the situation. Then she stepped across, and five seconds later the two matrons, with consternation writ large upon their faces, appeared at their doors again and, exchanging glances across the alley, met in the centre.

  They were more surprised an evening or two later to see Mr. Wilks leave his house to pay a return visit, bearing in his hand a small bunch of his cherished blooms. That they were blooms which would have paid the debt of Nature in a few hours at most in no way detracted from the widow’s expressions of pleasure at receiving them, and Mr. Wilks, who had been invited over to cheer up Mr. Silk, who was in a particularly black mood, sat and smiled like a detected philanthropist as she placed them in water.