With a view to avoiding the awkwardness of a chance meeting with any member of the Nugent family Hardy took the sea road on his way to the office the morning after the captain's return. Common sense told him to leave matters for the present to the healing hand of Time, and to cultivate habits of self-effacement by no means agreeable to one of his temperament.
Despite himself his spirits rose as he walked. It was an ideal spring morning, cool and sunny. The short turf by the side of the road was fragrant under his heel, and a light wind stirred the blueness of the sea. On the beach below two grizzled men of restful habit were endeavouring to make an old boat waterproof with red and green paint.
A long figure approaching slowly from the opposite direction broke into a pleasant smile as he drew near and quickened his pace to meet him.
“You're out early,” said Hardy, as the old man stopped and turned with him.
“'Ave to be, sir,” said Mr. Wilks, darkly; “out early and 'ome late, and more often than not getting my dinner out. That's my life nowadays.”
“Can't you let her see that her attentions are undesirable?” inquired Hardy, gravely.
'Can't You Let Her See That Her Attentions Are Undesirable?''
“I can't be rude to a woman,” said the steward, with a melancholy smile; “if I could, my life would ha' been very different. She's always stepping across to ask my advice about Teddy, or something o' that sort. All last week she kept borrowing my frying-pan, so at last by way of letting 'er see I didn't like it I went out and bought 'er one for herself. What's the result? Instead o' being offended she went out and bought me a couple o' neck-ties. When I didn't wear 'em she pretended it was because I didn't like the colour, and she went and bought two more. I'm wearing one now.”
He shook his head ruefully, and Hardy glanced at a tie which would have paled the glories of a rainbow. For some time they walked along in silence.
“I'm going to pay my respects to Cap'n Nugent this afternoon,” said Mr. Wilks, suddenly.
“Ah,” said the other.
“I knew what it 'ud be with them two on the same ship,” continued Mr. Wilks. “I didn't say nothing when you was talking to Miss Kate, but I knew well enough.”
“Ah,” said Hardy again. There was no mistaking the significance of the steward's remarks, and he found them somewhat galling. It was all very well to make use of his humble friend, but he had no desire to discuss his matrimonial projects with him.
“It's a great pity,” pursued the unconscious Mr. Wilks, “just as everything seemed to be going on smoothly; but while there's life there's 'ope.”
“That's a smart barge over there,” said Hardy, pointing it out.
Mr. Wilks nodded. “I shall keep my eyes open this afternoon,” he said reassuringly. “And if I get a chance of putting in a word it'll be put in. Twenty-nine years I sailed with the cap'n, and if there's anybody knows his weak spots it's me.”
He stopped as they reached the town and said “good-bye.” He pressed the young man's hand sympathetically, and a wink of intense artfulness gave point to his last remark.
“There's always Sam Wilks's cottage,” he said, in a husky whisper; “and if two of 'is friends should 'appen to meet there, who'd be the wiser?”
He gazed benevolently after the young man's retreating figure and continued his stroll, his own troubles partly forgotten in the desire to assist his friends. It would be a notable feat for the humble steward to be the means of bringing the young people together and thereby bringing to an end the feud of a dozen years. He pictured himself eventually as the trusted friend and adviser of both families, and in one daring flight of fancy saw himself hobnobbing with the two captains over pipes and whisky.
Neatly dressed and carrying a small offering of wallflowers, he set out that afternoon to call on his old master, giving, as he walked, the last touches to a little speech of welcome which he had prepared during dinner. It was a happy effort, albeit a trifle laboured, but Captain Nugent's speech, the inspiration of the moment, gave it no chance.
He started the moment the bowing Mr. Wilks entered the room, his voice rising gradually from low, bitter tones to a hurricane note which Bella. could hear in the kitchen without even leaving her chair. Mr. Wilks stood dazed and speechless before him, holding the wallflowers in one hand and his cap in the other. In this attitude he listened to a description of his character drawn with the loving skill of an artist whose whole heart was in his work, and who seemed never tired of filling in details.
“If you ever have the hardihood to come to my house again,” he concluded, “I'll break every bone in your misshapen body. Get!”
Mr. Wilks turned and groped his way to the door. Then he went a little way back with some idea of defending himself, but the door of the room was slammed in his face. He walked slowly down the path to the road and stood there for some time in helpless bewilderment. In all his sixty years of life his feelings had never been so outraged. His cap was still in his hand, and, with a helpless gesture, he put it on and scattered his floral offering in the road. Then he made a bee-line for the Two Schooners.
Though convivial by nature and ever free with his money, he sat there drinking alone in silent misery. Men came and went, but he still sat there noting with mournful pride the attention caused by his unusual bearing. To casual inquiries he shook his head; to more direct ones he only sighed heavily and applied himself to his liquor. Curiosity increased with numbers as the day wore on, and the steward, determined to be miserable, fought manfully against an ever-increasing cheerfulness due to the warming properties of the ale within.
“I 'ope you ain't lost nobody, Sam?” said a discomfited inquirer at last.
Mr. Wilks shook his head.
“You look as though you'd lost a shilling and found a ha'penny,” pursued the other.
“Found a what?” inquired Mr. Wilks, wrinkling his forehead.
“A ha'penny,” said his friend.
“Who did?” said Mr. Wilks.
The other attempted to explain and was ably assisted by two friends, but without avail; the impression left on Mr. Wilks's mind being that somebody had got a shilling of his. He waxed exceeding bitter, and said that he had been missing shillings for a long time.
“You're labourin' under a mistake, Sam,” said the first speaker.
Mr. Wilks laughed scornfully and essayed a sneer, while his friends, regarding his contortions with some anxiety, expressed a fear that he was not quite himself. To this suggestion the steward deigned no reply, and turning to the landlord bade him replenish his mug.
“You've 'ad enough, Mr. Wilks,” said that gentleman, who had been watching him for some time.
Mr. Wilks, gazing at him mistily, did not at first understand the full purport of this remark; but when he did, his wrath was so majestic and his remarks about the quality of the brew so libellous that the landlord lost all patience.
“You get off home,” he said, sharply.
“Listen t' me,” said Mr. Wilks, impressively.
“I don't want no words with you,” said the land-lord. “You get off home while you can.”
“That's right, Sam,” said one of the company, putting his hand on the steward's arm. “You take his advice.”
Mr. Wilks shook the hand off and eyed his adviser ferociously. Then he took a glass from the counter and smashed it on the floor. The next moment the bar was in a ferment, and the landlord, gripping Mr. Wilks round the middle, skilfully piloted him to the door and thrust him into the road.
'he Took a Glass from the Counter and Smashed It on The Floor.'
The strong air blowing from the sea disordered the steward's faculties still further. His treatment inside was forgotten, and, leaning against the front of the tavern, he stood open-mouthed, gazing at marvels. Ships in the harbour suddenly quitted their native element and were drawn up into the firmament; nobody passed but twins.
“Evening, Mr. Wilks,” said a voice.
The steward peered down at the voice. At first he thought it was another case of twins, but looking close he saw that it was Mr. Edward Silk alone. He saluted him graciously, and then, with a wave of his hand toward the sky, sought to attract his attention to the ships there.
“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.
'the Great Thing Was to Get Teddy Silk Home.'
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' supper 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.
