Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “She can get home alone all right,” he whispered.

  Miss Nugent drew herself up disdainfully; Dr. Murchison, looking scandalized at his brusqueness, hastened to the rescue.

  “As a medical man,” he said, with a considerable appearance of gravity, “I don’t think that Mrs. Kybird ought to go home alone.”

  “Think not?” inquired Hardy, grimly.

  “Certain of it,” breathed the doctor.

  “Well, why don’t you take her?” retorted Hardy; “it’s all on your way. I have some news for Miss Nugent.”

  Miss Nugent looked from one to the other, and mischievous lights appeared in her eyes as she gazed at the carefully groomed and fastidious Murchison. From them she looked to the other side of the room, where Mrs. Kybird was stolidly eyeing Mrs. Kingdom, who was trying in vain to appear ignorant of the fact.

  “Thank you very much,” said Miss Nugent, turning to the doctor.

  “I’m sorry,” began Murchison, with an indignant glance at his rival.

  “Oh, as you please,” said the girl, coldly. “Pray forgive me for asking you.”

  “If you really wish it,” said the doctor, rising. Miss Nugent smiled upon him, and Hardy also gave him a smile of kindly encouragement, but this he ignored. He crossed the room and bade Mrs. Kingdom good-bye; and then in a few disjointed words asked Mrs. Kybird whether he could be of any assistance in seeing her home.

  “I’m sure I’m much obliged to you,” said that lady, as she rose. “It don’t seem much use for me waiting for my future son-in-law. I wish you good afternoon, ma’am. I can understand now why Jack didn’t come.”

  With this parting shot she quitted the room and, leaning on the doctor’s arm, sailed majestically down the path to the gate, every feather on her hat trembling in response to the excitement below.

  “Good-natured of him,” said Hardy, glancing from the window, with a triumphant smile.

  “Very,” said Miss Nugent, coldly, as she took a seat by her aunt. “What is the news to which you referred just now? Is it about my father?”

  CHAPTER XVI

  The two ladies received Mr. Hardy’s information with something akin to consternation, the idea of the autocrat of Equator Lodge as a stowaway on board the ship of his ancient enemy proving too serious for ordinary comment. Mrs. Kingdom’s usual expressions of surprise, “Well, I never did!” and “Good gracious alive!” died on her lips, and she sat gazing helpless and round-eyed at her niece.

  “I wonder what he said,” she gasped, at last.

  Miss Nugent, who was trying to imagine her father in his new role aboard the Conqueror, paid no heed. It was not a pleasant idea, and her eyes flashed with temper as she thought of it. Sooner or later the whole affair would be public property.

  “I had an idea all along that he wasn’t in London,” murmured Mrs. Kingdom. “Fancy that Nathan Smith standing in Sam’s room telling us falsehoods like that! He never even blushed.”

  “But you said that you kept picturing father walking about the streets of London, wrestling with his pride and trying to make up his mind to come home again,” said her niece, maliciously.

  Mrs. Kingdom fidgeted, but before she could think of a satisfactory reply Bella came to the door and asked to speak to her for a moment. Profiting by her absence, Mr. Hardy leaned towards Miss Nugent, and in a low voice expressed his sorrow at the mishap to her father and his firm conviction that everything that could be thought of for that unfortunate mariner’s comfort would be done. “Our fathers will probably come back good friends,” he concluded. “There is nothing would give me more pleasure than that, and I think that we had better begin and set them a good example.”

  “It is no good setting an example to people who are hundreds of miles away,” said the matter-of-fact Miss Nugent. “Besides, if they have made friends, they don’t want an example set them.”

  “But in that case they have set us an example which we ought to follow,” urged Hardy.

  Miss Nugent raised her eyes to his. “Why do you wish to be on friendly terms?” she asked, with disconcerting composure.

  “I should like to know your father,” returned Hardy, with perfect gravity; “and Mrs. Kingdom — and you.”

  He eyed her steadily as he spoke, and Miss Nugent, despite her utmost efforts, realized with some indignation that a faint tinge of colour was creeping into her cheeks. She remembered his covert challenge at their last interview at Mr. Wilks’s, and the necessity of reading this persistent young man a stern lesson came to her with all the force of a public duty.

  “Why?” she inquired, softly, as she lowered her eyes and assumed a pensive expression.

  “I admire him, for one thing, as a fine seaman,” said Hardy.

  “Yes,” said Miss Nugent, “and—”

  “And I’ve always had a great liking for Mrs. Kingdom,” he continued; “she was very good-natured to me when I was a very small boy, I remember. She is very kind and amiable.”

  The baffled Miss Nugent stole a glance at him. “And—” she said again, very softly.

  “And very motherly,” said Hardy, without moving a muscle.

  Miss Nugent pondered and stole another glance at him. The expression of his face was ingenuous, not to say simple. She resolved to risk it. So far he had always won in their brief encounters, and monotony was always distasteful to her, especially monotony of that kind.

  “And what about me?” she said, with a friendly smile.

  “You,” said Hardy, with a gravity of voice belied by the amusement in his eye; “you are the daughter of the fine seaman and the niece of the good-natured and motherly Mrs. Kingdom.”

  Miss Nugent looked down again hastily, and all the shrew within her clamoured for vengeance. It was the same masterful Jem Hardy that had forced his way into their seat at church as a boy. If he went on in this way he would become unbearable; she resolved, at the cost of much personal inconvenience, to give him a much-needed fall. But she realized quite clearly that it would be a matter of time.

  “Of course, you and Jack are already good friends?” she said, softly.

  “Very,” assented Hardy. “Such good friends that I have been devoting a lot of time lately to considering ways and means of getting him out of the snares of the Kybirds.”

  “I should have thought that that was his affair,” said Miss Nugent, haughtily.

  “Mine, too,” said Hardy. “I don’t want him to marry Miss Kybird.”

  For the first time since the engagement Miss Nugent almost approved of it. “Why not let him know your wishes?” she said, gently. “Surely that would be sufficient.”

  “But you don’t want them to marry?” said Hardy, ignoring the remark.

  “I don’t want my brother to do anything shabby,” replied the girl; “but I shouldn’t be sorry, of course, if they did not.”

  “Very good,” said Hardy. “Armed with your consent I shall leave no stone unturned. Nugent was let in for this, and I am going to get him out if I can. All’s fair in love and war. You don’t mind my doing anything shabby?”

  “Not in the least,” replied Miss Nugent, promptly.

  The reappearance of Mrs. Kingdom at this moment saved Mr. Hardy the necessity of a reply.

  Conversation reverted to the missing captain, and Hardy and Mrs. Kingdom together drew such a picture of the two captains fraternizing that Miss Nugent felt that the millennium itself could have no surprises for her.

  “He has improved very much,” said Mrs. Kingdom, after the door had closed behind their visitor; “so thoughtful.”

  “He’s thoughtful enough,” agreed her niece.

  “He is what I call extremely considerate,” pursued the elder lady, “but I’m afraid he is weak; anybody could turn him round their little finger.”

  “I believe they could,” said Miss Nugent, gazing at her with admiration, “if he wanted to be turned.”

  The ice thus broken, Mr. Hardy spent the following day or two in devising plausible reasons for anoth
er visit. He found one in the person of Mr. Wilks, who, having been unsuccessful in finding his beloved master at a small tavern down by the London docks, had returned to Sunwich, by no means benefited by his change of air, to learn the terrible truth as to his disappearance from Hardy.

  “I wish they’d Shanghaid me instead,” he said to that sympathetic listener, “or Mrs. Silk.”

  “Eh?” said the other, staring.

  “Wot’ll be the end of it I don’t know,” said Mr. Wilks, laying a hand, which still trembled, on the other’ knee. “It’s got about that she saved my life by ‘er careful nussing, and the way she shakes ‘er ‘ead at me for risking my valuable life, as she calls it, going up to London, gives me the shivers.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hardy; “she can’t marry you against your will. Just be distantly civil to her.”

  “‘Ow can you be distantly civil when she lives just opposite?” inquired the steward, querulously. “She sent Teddy over at ten o’clock last night to rub my chest with a bottle o’ liniment, and it’s no good me saying I’m all right when she’s been spending eighteen-pence o’ good money over the stuff.”

  “She can’t marry you unless you ask her,” said the comforter.

  Mr. Wilks shook his head. “People in the alley are beginning to talk,” he said, dolefully. “Just as I came in this afternoon old George Lee screwed up one eye at two or three women wot was gossiping near, and when I asked ‘im wot ‘e’d got to wink about he said that a bit o’ wedding-cake ‘ad blowed in his eye as I passed. It sent them silly creeturs into fits a’most.”

  “They’ll soon get tired of it,” said Hardy.

  Mr. Wilks, still gloomy, ventured to doubt it, but cheered up and became almost bright when his visitor announced his intention of trying to smooth over matters for him at Equator Lodge. He became quite voluble in his defence, and attached much importance to the fact that he had nursed Miss Nugent when she was in long clothes and had taught her to whistle like an angel at the age of five.

  “I’ve felt being cut adrift by her more than anything,” he said, brokenly. “Nine-an’-twenty years I sailed with the cap’n and served ‘im faithful, and this is my reward.”

  Hardy pleaded his case next day. Miss Nugent was alone when he called, and, moved by the vivid picture he drew of the old man’s loneliness, accorded her full forgiveness, and decided to pay him a visit at once. The fact that Hardy had not been in the house five minutes she appeared to have overlooked.

  “I’ll go upstairs and put my hat and jacket on and go now,” she said, brightly.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Hardy. His voice expressed admiring gratitude; but he made no sign of leaving his seat.

  “You don’t mind?” said Miss Nugent, pausing in front of him and slightly extending her hand.

  “Not in the least,” was the reply; “but I want to see Wilks myself. Perhaps you’ll let me walk down with you?”

  The request was so unexpected that the girl had no refusal ready. She hesitated and was lost. Finally, she expressed a fear that she might keep him waiting too long while she got ready — a fear which he politely declined to consider.

  “Well, we’ll see,” said the marvelling Miss Nugent to herself as she went slowly upstairs. “He’s got impudence enough for forty.”

  She commenced her preparations for seeing Mr. Wilks by wrapping a shawl round her shoulders and reclining in an easy-chair with a novel. It was a good story, but the room was very cold, and even the pleasure of snubbing an intrusive young man did not make amends for the lack of warmth. She read and shivered for an hour, and then with chilled fingers lit the gas and proceeded to array herself for the journey.

  Her temper was not improved by seeing Mr. Hardy sitting in the dark over a good fire when she got downstairs.

  “I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting,” she said, crisply.

  “Not at all,” said Hardy. “I’ve been very comfortable.”

  Miss Nugent repressed a shiver and, crossing to the fire, thoughtlessly extended her fingers over the blaze.

  “I’m afraid you’re cold,” said Hardy.

  The girl looked round sharply. His face, or as much of it as she could see in the firelight, bore a look of honest concern somewhat at variance with the quality of his voice. If it had not been for the absurdity of altering her plans on his account she would have postponed her visit to the steward until another day.

  The walk to Fullalove Alley was all too short for Jem Hardy. Miss Nugent stepped along with the air of a martyr anxious to get to the stake and have it over, and she answered in monosyllables when her companion pointed out the beauties of the night.

  A bitter east wind blew up the road and set her yearning for the joys of Mr. Wilks’s best room. “It’s very cold,” she said, shivering.

  Hardy assented, and reluctantly quickened his pace to keep step with hers. Miss Nugent with her chin sunk in a fur boa looked neither to the right nor the left, and turning briskly into the alley, turned the handle of Mr. Wilks’s door and walked in, leaving her companion to follow.

  The steward, who was smoking a long pipe over the fire, looked round in alarm. Then his expression changed, and he rose and stammered out a welcome. Two minutes later Miss Nugent, enthroned in the best chair with her toes on the fender, gave her faithful subject a free pardon and full permission to make hot coffee.

  “And don’t you ever try and deceive me again, Sam,” she said, as she sipped the comforting beverage.

  “No, miss,” said the steward, humbly. “I’ve ‘ad a lesson. I’ll never try and Shanghai anybody else agin as long as I live.”

  After this virtuous sentiment he sat and smoked placidly, with occasional curious glances divided between his two visitors. An idle and ridiculous idea, which occurred to him in connection with them, was dismissed at once as too preposterous for a sensible steward to entertain.

  “Mrs. Kingdom well?” he inquired.

  “Quite well,” said the girl. “If you take me home, Sam, you shall see her, and be forgiven by her, too.”

  “Thankee, miss,” said the gratified steward.

  “And what about your foot, Wilks?” said Hardy, somewhat taken aback by this arrangement.

  “Foot, sir?” said the unconscious Mr. Wilks; “wot foot?”

  “Why, the bad one,” said Hardy, with a significant glance.

  “Ho, that one?” said Mr. Wilks, beating time and waiting further revelations.

  “Do you think you ought to use it much?” inquired Hardy.

  Mr. Wilks looked at it, or, to be more exact, looked at both of them, and smiled weakly. His previous idea recurred to him with renewed force now, and several things in the young man’s behaviour, hitherto disregarded, became suddenly charged with significance. Miss Nugent looked on with an air of cynical interest.

  “Better not run any risk,” said Hardy, gravely. “I shall be very pleased to see Miss Nugent home, if she will allow me.”

  “What is the matter with it?” inquired Miss Nugent, looking him full in the face.

  Hardy hesitated. Diplomacy, he told himself, was one thing; lying another. He passed the question on to the rather badly used Mr. Wilks.

  “Matter with it?” repeated that gentleman, glaring at him reproachfully. “It’s got shootin’ pains right up it. I suppose it was walking miles and miles every day in London, looking for the cap’n, was too much for it.”

  “Is it too bad for you to take me home, Sam?” inquired Miss Nugent, softly.

  The perturbed Mr. Wilks looked from one to the other. As a sportsman his sympathies were with Hardy, but his duty lay with the girl.

  “I’ll do my best, miss,” he said; and got up and limped, very well indeed for a first attempt, round the room.

  Then Miss Nugent did a thing which was a puzzle to herself for some time afterwards. Having won the victory she deliberately threw away the fruits of it, and declining to allow the steward to run any risks, accepted Hardy’s escort home. Mr. Wilks watched them from
the door, and with his head in a whirl caused by the night’s proceedings mixed himself a stiff glass of grog to set it right, and drank to the health of both of them.

  The wind had abated somewhat in violence as they walked home, and, moreover, they had their backs to it. The walk was slower and more enjoyable in many respects than the walk out. In an unusually soft mood she replied to his remarks and stole little critical glances up at him. When they reached the house she stood a little while at the gate gazing at the starry sky and listening to the crash of the sea on the beach.

  “It is a fine night,” she said, as she shook hands.

  “The best I have ever known,” said Hardy. “Good-bye.”

  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.