Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “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’ sup-per 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.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Any hopes which Hardy might have entertained as to the attitude of Miss Nugent were dispelled the first time he saw her, that dutiful daughter of a strong-willed sire favouring him with a bow which was exactly half an inch in depth and then promptly bestowing her gaze elsewhere. He passed Captain Nugent next day, and for a week afterwards he had only to close his eyes to see in all its appalling virulence the glare with which that gentleman had acknowledged his attempt at recognition.

  He fared no better in Fullalove Alley, a visit to Mr. Wilks eliciting the fact that that delectable thoroughfare had been put out of bounds for Miss Nugent. Moreover, Mr. Wilks was full of his own troubles and anxious for any comfort and advice that could be given to him. All the alley knew that Mrs. Silk had quarrelled with her son over the steward, and, without knowing the facts, spoke their mind with painful freedom concerning them.

  “She and Teddy don’t speak to each other now,” said Mr. Wilks, gloomily, “and to ‘ear people talk you’d think it was my fault.”

  Hardy gave him what comfort he could. He even went the length of saying that Mrs. Silk was a fine woman.

  “She acts like a suffering martyr,” exclaimed Mr. Wilks. “She comes over ‘ere dropping hints that people are talking about us, and that they ask ‘er awkward questions. Pretending to misunderstand ‘er every time is enough to send me crazy; and she’s so sudden in what she says there’s no being up to ‘er. On’y this morning she asked me if I should be sorry if she died.”

  “What did you say?” inquired his listener.

  “I said ‘yes,’” admitted Mr. Wilks, reluctantly. “I couldn’t say anything else; but I said that she wasn’t to let my feelings interfere with ‘er in any way.”

  Hardy’s father sailed a day or two later, and after that nothing happened. Equator Lodge was an impregnable fortress, and the only member of the garrison he saw in a fortnight was Bella.

  His depression did not escape the notice of his part
ner, who, after first advising love-philtres and then a visit to a well-known specialist for diseases of the heart, finally recommended more work, and put a generous portion of his own on to the young man’s desk. Hardy, who was in an evil temper, pitched it on to the floor and, with a few incisive remarks on levity unbecoming to age, pursued his duties in gloomy silence.

  A short time afterwards, however, he had to grapple with his partner’s work in real earnest. For the first time in his life the genial shipbroker was laid up with a rather serious illness. A chill caught while bathing was going the round of certain unsuspected weak spots, and the patient, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, was taking a greater interest in medical works than his doctor deemed advisable.

  “Most interesting study,” he said, faintly, to Hardy, as the latter sat by his bedside one evening and tried to cheer him in the usual way by telling him that there was nothing the matter with him. “There are dozens of different forms of liver complaint alone, and I’ve got ’em all.”

  “Liver isn’t much,” said his visitor, with the confidence of youth.

  “Mine is,” retorted the invalid; “it’s twice its proper size and still growing. Base of the left lung is solidifying, or I’m much mistaken; the heart, instead of waltzing as is suitable to my time of life, is doing a galop, and everything else is as wrong as it can be.”

  “When are you coming back?” inquired the other.

  “Back?” repeated Swann. “Back? You haven’t been listening. I’m a wreck. All through violating man’s primeval instinct by messing about in cold water. What is the news?”

  Hardy pondered and shook his head. “Nugent is going to be married in July,” he said, at last.

  “He’d better have had that trip on the whaler,” commented Mr. Swann; “but that is not news. Nathan Smith told it me this morning.”

  “Nathan Smith?” repeated the other, in surprise.

  “I’ve done him a little service,” said the invalid. “Got him out of a mess with Garth and Co. He’s been here two or three times, and I must confess I find him a most alluring rascal.”

  “Birds of a feather—” began Hardy, superciliously.

  “Don’t flatter me,” said Swann, putting his hand out of the bed-clothes with a deprecatory gesture.

  “I am not worthy to sit at his feet. He is the most amusing knave on the coast. He is like a sunbeam in a sick room when you can once get him to talk of his experiences. Have you seen young Nugent lately? Does he seem cheerful?”

  “Yes, but he is not,” was the reply.

  “Well, it’s natural for the young to marry,” said the other, gravely. “Murchison will be the next to go, I expect.”

  “Possibly,” returned Hardy, with affected calmness.

  “Blaikie was saying something about it this morning,” resumed Swann, regarding him from half-closed lids, “but he was punching and tapping me all about the ribs while he was talking, and I didn’t catch all he said, but I think it’s all arranged. Murchison is there nearly every day, I understand; I suppose you meet him there?”

  Mr. Hardy, whistling softly, rose and walked round the room, uncorking medicine bottles and sniffing at their contents. A smile of unaffected pleasure lit up his features as he removed the stopper from one particularly pungent mixture.

  “Two tablespoonfuls three times a day,” he read, slowly. “When did you have the last, Swann? Shall I ring for the nurse?”

  The invalid shook his head impatiently. “You’re an ungrateful dog,” he muttered, “or you would tell me how your affair is going. Have you got any chance?”

  “You’re getting light-headed now,” said Hardy, calmly. “I’d better go.”

  “All right, go then,” responded the invalid; “but if you lose that girl just for the want of a little skilled advice from an expert, you’ll never forgive yourself — I’m serious.”

  “Well, you must be ill then,” said the younger man, with anxiety.

  “Twice,” said Mr. Swann, lying on his back and apparently addressing the ceiling, “twice I have given this young man invaluable assistance, and each time he has bungled.”

  Hardy laughed and, the nurse returning to the room, bade him “good-bye” and departed. After the close atmosphere of the sick room the air was delicious, and he walked along slowly, deep in thought. From Nathan Smith his thoughts wandered to Jack Nugent and his unfortunate engagement, and from that to Kate Nugent. For months he had been revolving impossible schemes in his mind to earn her gratitude, and possibly that of the captain, by extricating Jack. In the latter connection he was also reminded of that unhappy victim of unrequited affection, Edward Silk.

  It was early to go indoors, and the house was dull. He turned and retraced his steps, and, his thoughts reverting to his sick partner, smiled as he remembered remarks which that irresponsible person had made at various times concerning the making of his last will and testament. Then he came to a sudden standstill as a wild, forlorn-hope kind of idea suddenly occurred to him. He stood for some time thinking, then walked a little way, and then stopped again as various difficulties presented themselves for solution. Finally, despite the lateness of the hour, he walked back in some excitement to the house he had quitted over half an hour before with the intention of speaking to the invalid concerning a duty peculiarly incumbent upon elderly men of means.

  The nurse, who came out of the sick room, gently closing the door after her, demurred a little to this second visit, but, receiving a promise from the visitor not to excite the invalid, left them together. The odour of the abominable physic was upon the air.

  “Well?” said the invalid.

  “I have been thinking that I was rather uncivil a little while ago,” said Hardy.

  “Ah!” said the other. “What do you want?”

  “A little of that skilled assistance you were speaking of.”

  Mr. Swann made an alarming noise in his throat. Hardy sprang forward in alarm, but he motioned him back.

  “I was only laughing,” he explained.

  Hardy repressed his annoyance by an effort, and endeavoured, but with scant success, to return the other’s smile.

  “Go on,” said the shipbroker, presently.

  “I have thought of a scheme for upsetting Nugent’s marriage,” said Hardy, slowly.

  “It is just a forlorn hope which depends for its success on you and Nathan Smith.”

  “He’s a friend of Kybird’s,” said the other, drily.

  “That is the most important thing of all,” rejoined Hardy. “That is, next to your shrewdness and tact; everything depends upon you, really, and whether you can fool Smith. It is a great thing in our favour that you have been taking him up lately.”

  “Are you coming to the point or are you not?” demanded the shipbroker.

  Hardy looked cautiously round the room, and then, drawing his chair close to the bed, leaned over the prostrate man and spoke rapidly into his ear.

  “What?” cried the astounded Mr. Swann, suddenly sitting up in his bed. “You — you scoundrel!”

  “It’s to be done,” said Hardy.

  “You ghoul!” said the invalid, glaring at him. “Is that the way to talk to a sick man? You unscrupulous rascal!”

  “It’ll be amusement for you,” pleaded the other, “and if we are successful it will be the best thing in the end for everybody. Think of the good you’ll do.”

  “Where you get such rascally ideas from, I can’t think,” mused the invalid. “Your father is a straightforward, honest man, and your partner’s uprightness is the talk of Sunwich.”

  “It doesn’t take much to make Sunwich talk,” retorted Hardy.

  “A preposterous suggestion to make to a man of my standing,” said the shipbroker, ignoring the remark. “If the affair ever leaked out I should never hear the end of it.”

  “It can’t leak out,” said Hardy, “and if it does there is no direct evidence. They will never really know until you die; they can only suspect.”

  “Very wel
l,” said the shipbroker, with a half-indulgent, half-humorous glance. “Anything to get rid of you. It’s a crack-brained scheme, and could only originate with a young man whose affections have weakened his head — I consent.”

  “Bravo!” said Hardy and patted him on the back; Mr. Swann referred to the base of his left lung, and he apologized.

  “I’ll have to fix it up with Blaikie,” said the invalid, lying down again. “Murchison got two of his best patients last week, so that it ought to be easy. And besides, he is fond of innocent amusement.”

  “I’m awfully obliged to you,” said Hardy.

  “It might be as well if we pretended to quarrel,” said the invalid, reflectively, “especially as you are known to be a friend of Nugent’s. We’ll have a few words — before my housekeeper if possible, to insure publicity — and then you had better not come again. Send Silk instead with messages.”

  Hardy thanked him and whispered a caution as a footstep was heard on the landing. The door opened and the nurse, followed by the housekeeper bearing a tray, entered the room.

  “And I can’t be worried about these things,” said Swann, in an acrimonious voice, as they entered. “If you are not capable of settling a simple question like that yourself, ask the office-boy to instruct you.

  “It’s your work,” retorted Hardy, “and a nice mess it’s in.”

  “H’sh!” said the nurse, coming forward hastily. “You must leave the room, sir. I can’t have you exciting my patient.”

  Hardy bestowed an indignant glance at the invalid.

  “Get out!” said that gentleman, with extraordinary fierceness for one in his weak condition. “In future, nurse, I won’t have this person admitted to my room.”

  “Yes, yes; certainly,” said the nurse. “You must go, sir; at once, please.”

  “I’m going,” said Hardy, almost losing his gravity at the piteous spectacle afforded by the house-keeper as she stood, still holding the tray and staring open-mouthed at the combatants. “When you’re tired of skulking in bed, perhaps you’ll come and do your share of the work.”