At Sunwich Port, Complete

“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 happened 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.

“Good evenin’, Teddy,” he said, breezily, with a side-glance at his hostess. “What a lovely day we’ve ‘ad.”

“So bright,” said Mrs. Silk, nodding with spirit.

Mr. Wilks sat down and gave vent to such a cheerful laugh that the ornaments on the mantelpiece shook with it. “It’s good to be alive,” he declared.

“Ah, you enjoy your life, Mr. Wilks,” said the widow.

“Enjoy it!” roared Mr. Wilks; “enjoy it! Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t everybody enjoy their lives? It was what they was given to us for.”

“So they was,” affirmed Mrs. Silk; “nobody can deny that; not if they try.”

“Nobody wants to deny it, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Wilks, in the high voice he kept for cheering-up purposes. “I enjoy every day o’ my life.”

He filled his pipe, chuckling serenely, and having lit it sat and enjoyed that. Mrs. Silk retired for a space, and returning with a jug of ale poured him out a glass and set it by his elbow.

“Here’s your good ‘ealth, ma’am,” said Mr. Wilks, raising it. “Here’s yours, Teddy—a long life and a ‘appy one.”

Mr. Silk turned listlessly. “I don’t want a long life,” he remarked.

His mother and her visitor exchanged glances.

“That’s ‘ow ‘e goes on,” remarked the former, in an audible whisper. Mr. Wilks nodded, reassuringly.

“I ‘ad them ideas once,” he said, “but they go off. If you could only live to see Teddy at the age o’ ninety-five, ‘e wouldn’t want to go then. ‘E’d say it was crool hard, being cut off in the flower of ‘is youth.”

Mrs. Silk laughed gaily and Mr. Wilks bellowed a gruff accompaniment. Mr. Edward Silk eyed them pityingly.

“That’s the ‘ardship of it,” he said, slowly, as he looked round from his seat by the fireplace; “that’s where the ‘ollowness of things comes in. That’s where I envy Mr. Wilks.”

“Envy me?” said the smiling visitor; “what for?”

“Because you’re so near the grave,” said Mr. Silk.

Mr. Wilks, who was taking another draught of beer, put the glass down and eyed him fixedly.

“That’s why I envy you,” continued the other.

“I don’t want to live, and you do, and yet I dessay I shall be walking about forty and fifty years after you’re dead and forgotten.”

“Wot d’ye mean—near the grave?” inquired Mr. Wilks, somewhat shortly.

“I was referring to your age,” replied the other; “it’s strange to see ‘ow the aged ‘ang on to life. You can’t ‘ave much pleasure at your time o’ life. And you’re all alone; the last withered branch left.”