At Sunwich Port, Complete

“Withered branch!” began Mr. Wilks; “‘ere, look ‘ere, Teddy–”

“All the others ‘ave gone,” pursued Mr. Silk, “and they’re beckoning to you.”

“Let ‘em beckon,” said Mr. Wilks, coldly. “I’m not going yet.”

“You’re not young,” said Mr. Silk, gazing meditatively at the grate, “and I envy you that. It can only be a matter of a year or two at most before you are sleeping your last long sleep.”

“Teddy!” protested Mrs. Silk.

“It’s true, mother,” said the melancholy youth. “Mr. Wilks is old. Why should ‘e mind being told of it? If ‘e had ‘ad the trouble I’ve ‘ad ‘e’d be glad to go. But he’ll ‘ave to go, whether ‘e likes it or not. It might be tonight. Who can tell?”

Mr. Wilks, unasked, poured himself out another glass of ale, and drank it off with the air of a man who intended to make sure of that. It seemed a trifle more flat than the last.

“So many men o’ your age and thereabouts,” continued Mr. Silk, “think that they’re going to live on to eighty or ninety, but there’s very few of ‘em do. It’s only a short while, Mr. Wilks, and the little children’ll be running about over your grave and picking daisies off of it.”

“Ho, will they?” said the irritated Mr. Wilks; “they’d better not let me catch ‘em at it, that’s all.”

“He’s always talking like that now,” said Mrs. Silk, not without a certain pride in her tones; “that’s why I asked you in to cheer ‘im up.”

“All your troubles’ll be over then,” continued the warning voice, “and in a month or two even your name’ll be forgotten. That’s the way of the world. Think ‘ow soon the last five years of your life ‘ave passed; the next five’ll pass ten times as fast even if you live as long, which ain’t likely.”

“He talks like a clergyman,” said Mrs. Silk, in a stage whisper.

Mr. Wilks nodded, and despite his hostess’s protests rose to go. He shook hands with her and, after a short but sharp inward struggle, shook hands with her son. It was late in the evening as he left, but the houses had not yet been lit up. Dim figures sat in doorways or stood about the alley, and there was an air of peace and rest strangely and uncomfortably in keeping with the conversation to which he had just been listening. He looked in at his own door; the furniture seemed stiffer than usual and the tick of the clock more deliberate. He closed the door again and, taking a deep breath, set off towards the life and bustle of the Two Schooners.

CHAPTER X

Time failed to soften the captain’s ideas concerning his son’s engagement, and all mention of the subject in the house was strictly forbidden. Occasionally he was favoured with a glimpse of his son and Miss Kybird out together, a sight which imparted such a flavour to his temper and ordinary intercourse that Mrs. Kingdom, in unconscious imitation of Mr. James Hardy, began to count the days which must elapse before her niece’s return from London. His ill-temper even infected the other members of the household, and Mrs. Kingdom sat brooding in her bedroom all one afternoon, because Bella had called her an “overbearing dish-pot.”

The finishing touch to his patience was supplied by a little misunderstanding between Mr. Kybird and the police. For the second time in his career the shopkeeper appeared before the magistrates to explain the circumstances in which he had purchased stolen property, and for the second time he left the court without a stain on his character, but with a significant magisterial caution not to appear there again.

Jack Nugent gave evidence in the case, and some of his replies were deemed worthy of reproduction in the Sunwich Herald, a circumstance which lost the proprietors a subscriber of many years’ standing.

One by one various schemes for preventing his son’s projected alliance were dismissed as impracticable. A cherished design of confining him in an asylum for the mentally afflicted until such time as he should have regained his senses was spoilt by the refusal of Dr. Murchison to arrange for the necessary certificate; a refusal which was like to have been fraught with serious consequences to that gentleman’s hopes of entering the captain’s family.

Brooding over his wrongs the captain, a day or two after his daughter’s return, strolled slowly down towards the harbour. It was afternoon, and the short winter day was already drawing towards a close. The shipping looked cold and desolate in the greyness, but a bustle of work prevailed on the Conqueror, which was nearly ready for sea again. The captain’s gaze wandered from his old craft to the small vessels dotted about the harbour and finally dwelt admiringly on the lines of the whaler Seabird, which had put in a few days before as the result of a slight collision with a fishing-boat. She was high out of the water and beautifully rigged. A dog ran up and down her decks barking, and a couple of squat figures leaned over the bulwarks gazing stolidly ashore.

There was something about the vessel which took his fancy, and he stood for some time on the edge of the quay, looking at her. In a day or two she would sail for a voyage the length of which would depend upon her success; a voyage which would for a long period keep all on board of her out of the mischief which so easily happens ashore. If only Jack–

He started and stared more intently than before. He was not an imaginative man, but he had in his mind’s eye a sudden vision of his only son waving farewells from the deck of the whaler as she emerged from the harbour into the open sea, while Amelia Kybird tore her yellow locks ashore. It was a vision to cheer any self-respecting father’s heart, and he brought his mind back with some regret to the reality of the anchored ship.

He walked home slowly. At the Kybirds’ door the proprietor, smoking a short clay pipe, eyed him with furtive glee as he passed. Farther along the road the Hardys, father and son, stepped briskly together. Altogether a trying walk, and calculated to make him more dissatisfied than ever with the present state of affairs. When his daughter shook her head at him and accused him of going off on a solitary frolic his stock of patience gave out entirely.

A thoughtful night led to a visit to Mr. Wilks the following evening. It required a great deal of deliberation on his part before he could make up his mind to the step, but he needed his old steward’s assistance in a little plan he had conceived for his son’s benefit, and for the first time in his life he paid him the supreme honour of a call.

The honour was so unexpected that Mr. Wilks, coming into the parlour in response to the tapping of the captain’s stick on the floor, stood for a short time eyeing him in dismay. Only two minutes before he had taken Mr. James Hardy into the kitchen to point out the interior beauties of an ancient clock, and the situation simply appalled him. The captain greeted him almost politely and bade him sit down. Mr. Wilks smiled faintly and caught his breath.

“Sit down,” repeated the captain.

“I’ve left something in the kitchen, sir,” said Mr. Wilks. “I’ll be back in half a minute.”

The captain nodded. In the kitchen Mr. Wilks rapidly and incoherently explained the situation to Mr. Hardy.

“I’ll sit here,” said the latter, drawing up a comfortable oak chair to the stove.

“You see, he don’t know that we know each other,” explained the apologetic steward, “but I don’t like leaving you in the kitchen.”

“I’m all right,” said Hardy; “don’t you trouble about me.”

He waved him away, and Mr. Wilks, still pale, closed the door behind him and, rejoining the captain, sat down on the extreme edge of a chair and waited.

“I’ve come to see you on a little matter of business,” said his visitor.

Mr. Wilks smiled; then, feeling that perhaps that was not quite the right thing to do, looked serious again.

“I came to see you about my—my son,” continued the captain.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilks. “Master Jack, you mean?”

“I’ve only got one son,” said the other, unpleasantly, “unless you happen to know of any more.”

Mr. Wilks almost fell off the edge of the chair in his haste to disclaim any such knowledge. His ideas were in a ferment, and the guilty knowledge of what he had left in the kitchen added to his confusion. And just at that moment the door opened and Miss Nugent came briskly in.

Her surprise at seeing her father ensconced in a chair by the fire led to a rapid volley of questions. The captain, in lieu of answering them, asked another.

“What do you want here?”

“I have come to see Sam,” said Miss Nugent. “Fancy seeing you here! How are you, Sam?”

“Pretty well, miss, thank’ee,” replied Mr. Wilks, “considering,” he added, truthfully, after a moment’s reflection.

Miss Nugent dropped into a chair and put her feet on the fender. Her father eyed her restlessly.

“I came here to speak to Sam about a private matter,” he said, abruptly.

“Private matter,” said his daughter, looking round in surprise. “What about?”

“A private matter,” repeated Captain Nugent. “Suppose you come in some other time.”

Kate Nugent sighed and took her feet from the fender. “I’ll go and wait in the kitchen,” she said, crossing to the door.

Both men protested. The captain because it ill-assorted with his dignity for his daughter to sit in the kitchen, and Mr. Wilks because of the visitor already there. The face of the steward, indeed, took on such extraordinary expressions in his endeavour to convey private information to the girl that she gazed at him in silent amazement. Then she turned the handle of the door and, passing through, closed it with a bang which was final.

Mr. Wilks stood spellbound, but nothing happened. There was no cry of surprise; no hasty reappearance of an indignant Kate Nugent. His features working nervously he resumed his seat and gazed dutifully at his superior officer.

“I suppose you’ve heard that my son is going to get married?” said the latter.

“I couldn’t help hearing of it, sir,” said the steward in self defence— “nobody could.”