'Get out of My House,' he Roared.
“I'm sorry to have intruded,” said Hardy, as he crossed the room and paused at the door; “it is none of my business, of course. I thought that I saw an opportunity of doing your son a good turn—he is a friend of mine—and at the same time paying off old scores against Kybird and Nathan Smith. I thought that on that account it might suit you. Good afternoon.”
He walked out into the hall, and reaching the front door fumbled clumsily with the catch. The captain watching his efforts in grim silence began to experience the twin promptings of curiosity and temptation.
“What is this wonderful plan of yours?” he demanded, with a sneer.
“Just at present that must remain a secret,” said the other. He came from the door and, unbidden, followed the captain into the room again.
“What do you want to visit at my house for?” inquired the latter, in a forbidding voice.
“To see your daughter,” said Hardy.
The captain had a relapse. He had not expected a truthful answer, and, when it came, in the most matter-of-fact tone, it found him quite unprepared. His first idea was to sacrifice his dignity and forcibly eject his visitor, but more sensible thoughts prevailed.
“You are quite sure, I suppose, that your visits would be agreeable to my daughter?” he said, contemptuously.
Hardy shook his head. “I should come ostensibly to see you,” he said, cheerfully; “to smoke a pipe with you.”
“Smoke!” stuttered the captain, explosively; “smoke a pipe with ME?”
“Why not?” said the other. “I am offering you my services, and anything that is worth having is worth paying for. I suppose we could both smoke pipes under pleasanter conditions. What have you got against me? It isn't my fault that you and my father have quarrelled.”
“I don't want anything more to say to you,” said the captain, sternly. “I've shown you the door once. Am I to take forcible measures?”
Hardy shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said, moving to the door again.
“So am I,” said the other.
“It's a pity,” said Hardy, regretfully. “It's the chance of a lifetime. I had set my heart on fooling Kybird and Smith, and now all my trouble is wasted. Nathan Smith would be all the better for a fall.”
The captain hesitated. His visitor seemed to be confident, and he would have given a great deal to prevent his son's marriage and a great deal to repay some portion of his debt to the ingenious Mr. Smith. Moreover, there seemed to be an excellent opportunity of punishing the presumption of his visitor by taking him at his word.
“I don't think you'd enjoy your smoking here much,” he said, curtly.
“I'll take my chance of that,” said the other. “It will only be a matter of a few weeks, and then, if I am unsuccessful, my visits cease.”
“And if you're successful, am I to have the pleasure of your company for the rest of my life?” demanded the captain.
“That will be for you to decide,” was the reply. “Is it a bargain?”
The captain looked at him and deliberated. “All right. Mondays and Thursdays,” he said, laconically.
Hardy saw through the ruse, and countered.
“Now Swann is ill I can't always get away when I wish,” he said, easily. “I'll just drop in when I can. Good day.”
He opened the door and, fearful lest the other should alter his mind at the last moment, walked briskly down the path to the gate. The captain stood for some time after his departure deep in thought, and then returned to the garden to be skilfully catechized by Miss Nugent.
“And when my young friend comes with his pipe you'll be in another room,” he concluded, warningly.
Miss Nugent looked up and patted his cheek tenderly. “What a talent for organization you have,” she remarked, softly. “A place for everything and everything in its place. The idea of his taking such a fancy to you!”
The captain coughed and eyed her suspiciously. He had been careful not to tell her Hardy's reasons for coming, but he had a shrewd idea that his caution was wasted.
“Today is Thursday,” said Kate, slowly; “he will be here to-morrow and Saturday. What shall I wear?”
The captain resumed his gardening operations by no means perturbed at the prophecy. Much as he disliked the young man he gave him credit for a certain amount of decency, and his indignation was proportionately great the following evening when Bella announced Mr. Hardy. He made a genial remark about Shylock and a pound of flesh, but finding that it was only an excellent conversational opening, the subject of Shakespeare's plays lapsed into silence.
It was an absurd situation, but he was host and Hardy allowed him to see pretty plainly that he was a guest. He answered the latter's remarks with a very ill grace, and took covert stock of him as one of a species he had not encountered before. One result of his stock-taking was that he was spared any feeling of surprise when his visitor came the following evening.
“It's the thin end of the wedge,” said Miss Nugent, who came into the room after Hardy had departed; “you don't know him as well as I do.”
“Eh?” said her father, sharply.
“I mean that you are not such a judge of character as I am,” said Kate; “and besides, I have made a special study of young men. The only thing that puzzles me is why you should have such an extraordinary fascination for him.”
“You talk too much, miss,” said the captain, drawing the tobacco jar towards him and slowly filling his pipe.
Miss Nugent sighed, and after striking a match for him took a seat on the arm of his chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I can quite understand him liking you,” she said, slowly.
The captain grunted.
“And if he is like other sensible people,” continued Miss Nugent, in a coaxing voice, “the more he sees of you the more he'll like you. I do hope he has not come to take you away from me.”
'i Do Hope he Has Not Come to Take You Away from Me.'
The indignant captain edged her off the side of his chair; Miss Nugent, quite undisturbed, got on again and sat tapping the floor with her foot. Her arm stole round his neck and she laid her cheek against his head and smiled wickedly.
“Nice-looking, isn't he?” she said, in a careless voice.
“I don't know anything about his looks,” growled her father.
Miss Nugent gave a little exclamation of surprise. “First thing I noticed,” she said, with commendable gravity. “He's very good-looking and very determined. What are you going to give him if he gets poor Jack out of this miserable business?”
“Give him?” said her father, staring.
“I met Jack yesterday,” said Kate, “and I can see that he is as wretched as he can be. He wouldn't say so, of course. If Mr. Hardy is successful you ought to recognize it. I should suggest one of your new photos in an eighteenpenny frame.”
She slipped off the chair and quitted the room before her father could think of a suitable retort, and he sat smoking silently until the entrance of Mrs. Kingdom a few minutes later gave him an opportunity of working off a little accumulated gall.
While the junior partner was thus trying to obtain a footing at Equator Lodge the gravest rumours of the senior partner's health were prevalent in the town. Nathan Smith, who had been to see him again, ostensibly to thank him for his efforts on his behalf, was of opinion that he was breaking up, and in conversation with Mr. Kybird shook his head over the idea that there would soon be one open-handed gentleman the less in a world which was none too full of them.
“We've all got to go some day,” observed Mr. Kybird, philosophically. “'Ow's that cough o' yours getting on, Nat?”
Mr. Smith met the pleasantry coldly; the ailment referred to was one of some standing and had been a continual source of expense in the way of balsams and other remedies.
“He's worried about 'is money,” he said, referring to Mr. Swann.
“Ah, we sha'n't 'ave that worry,” said Mr. Kybird.
“Nobody to leave it to,” continued Mr. Smith. “Seems a bit 'ard, don't it?”
“P'r'aps if 'e 'ad 'ad somebody to leave it to 'e wouldn't 'ave 'ad so much to leave,” observed Mr. Kybird, sagely; “it's a rum world.”
He shook his head over it and went on with the uncongenial task of marking down wares which had suffered by being exposed outside too long. Mr. Smith, who always took an interest in the welfare of his friends, made suggestions.
“I shouldn't put a ticket marked 'Look at this!' on that coat,” he said, severely. “It oughtn't to be looked at.”
“It's the best out o' three all 'anging together,” said Mr. Kybird, evenly.
“And look 'ere,” said Mr. Smith. “Look what an out-o'-the-way place you've put this ticket. Why not put it higher up on the coat?”
“Becos the moth-hole ain't there,” said Mr. Kybird.
Mr. Smith apologized and watched his friend without further criticism.
“Gettin' ready for the wedding, I s'pose?” he said, presently.
Mr. Kybird assented, and his brow darkened as he spoke of surreptitious raids on his stores made by Mrs. Kybird and daughter.
“Their idea of a wedding,” he said, bitterly, “is to dress up and make a show; my idea is a few real good old pals and plenty of licker.”
“You'll 'ave to 'ave both,” observed Nathan Smith, whose knowledge of the sex was pretty accurate.
Mr. Kybird nodded gloomily. “'Melia and Jack don't seem to 'ave been 'itting it off partikler well lately,” he said, slowly. “He's getting more uppish than wot 'e was when 'e come here first. But I got 'im to promise that he'd settle any money that 'e might ever get left him on 'Melia.”
Mr. Smith's inscrutable eyes glistened into something as nearly approaching a twinkle as they were capable. “That'll settle the five 'undred,” he said, warmly. “Are you goin' to send Cap'n Nugent an invite for the wedding?”
'are You Goin' to Send Cap'n Nugent an Invite for The Wedding?'
“They'll 'ave to be asked, o' course,” said Mr. Kybird, with an attempt at dignity, rendered necessary by a certain lightness in his friend's manner. “The old woman don't like the Nugent lot, but she'll do the proper thing.”
“O' course she will,” said Mr. Smith, soothingly. “Come over and 'ave a drink with me, Dan'l it's your turn to stand.”
Gossip from one or two quarters, which reached Captain Nugent's ears through the medium of his sister, concerning the preparations for his son's marriage, prevented him from altering his mind with regard to the visits of Jem Hardy and showing that painstaking young man the door. Indeed, the nearness of the approaching nuptials bade fair to eclipse, for the time being, all other grievances, and when Hardy paid his third visit he made a determined but ineffectual attempt to obtain from him some information as to the methods by which he hoped to attain his ends. His failure made him suspicious, and he hinted pretty plainly that he had no guarantee that his visitor was not obtaining admittance under false pretences.
“Well, I'm not getting much out of it,” returned Hardy, frankly.
“I wonder you come,” said his hospitable host.
“I want you to get used to me,” said the other.
The captain started and eyed him uneasily; the remark seemed fraught with hidden meaning. “And then?” he inquired, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“Then perhaps I can come oftener.”
The captain gave him up. He sank back in his chair and crossing his legs smoked, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was difficult to know what to do with a young man who was apparently destitute of any feelings of shame or embarrassment. He bestowed a puzzled glance in his direction and saw that he was lolling in the chair with an appearance of the greatest ease and enjoyment. Following the direction of his eyes, he saw that he was gazing with much satisfaction at a photograph of Miss Nugent which graced the mantelpiece. With an odd sensation the captain suddenly identified it as one which usually stood on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, and he wondered darkly whether charity or mischief was responsible for its appearance there.
In any case, it disappeared before the occasion of Hardy's next visit, and the visitor sat with his eyes unoccupied, endeavouring to make conversation with a host who was if anything more discourteous than usual. It was uphill work, but he persevered, and in fifteen minutes had ranged unchecked from North Pole explorations to poultry farming. It was a relief to both of them when the door opened and Bella ushered in Dr. Murchison.
The captain received the new arrival with marked cordiality, and giving him a chair near his own observed with some interest the curt greeting of the young men. The doctor's manner indicated polite surprise at seeing the other there, then he turned to the captain and began to talk to him.
For some time they chatted without interruption, and the captain's replies, when Hardy at last made an attempt to make the conversation general, enabled the doctor to see, without much difficulty, that the latter was an unwelcome guest. Charmed with the discovery he followed his host's lead, and, with a languid air, replied to his rival in monosyllables. The captain watched with quiet satisfaction, and at each rebuff his opinion of Murchison improved. It was gratifying to find that the interloper had met his match.
Hardy sat patient. “I am glad to have met you tonight,” he said, after a long pause, during which the other two were discussing a former surgical experience of the captain's on one of his crew.
“Yes?” said Murchison.
“You are just the man I wanted to see.”
“Yes?” said the doctor, again.
“Yes,” said the other, nodding. “I've been very busy of late owing to my partner's illness, and you are attending several people I want to hear about.”
“Indeed,” said Murchison, with a half-turn towards him.
“How is Mrs. Paul?” inquired Hardy.
“Dead!” replied the other, briefly.
“Dead!” repeated Mr. Hardy. “Good Heavens! I didn't know that there was much the matter with her.”
“There was no hope for her from the first,” said Murchison, somewhat sharply. “It was merely a question of prolonging her life a little while. She lived longer than I deemed possible. She surprised everybody by her vitality.”
“Poor thing,” said Hardy. “How is Joe Banks?”
“Dead,” said Murchison again, biting his lip and eyeing him furiously.
“Dear me,” said Hardy, shaking his head; “I met him not a month ago. He was on his way to see you then.”
“The poor fellow had been an invalid nearly all his life,” said Murchison, to the captain, casually. “Aye, I remember him,” was the reply.
“I am almost afraid to ask you,” continued Hardy, “but shut up all day I hear so little. How is old Miss Ritherdon?”
Murchison reddened with helpless rage; Captain Nugent, gazing at the questioner with something almost approaching respect, waited breathlessly for the invariable answer.
“She died three weeks ago; I'm surprised that you have not heard of it,” said the doctor, pointedly.
“Of course she was old,” said Hardy, with the air of one advancing extenuating circumstances.
“Very old,” replied the doctor, who knew that the other was now at the end of his obituary list.
“Are there any other of my patients you are anxious to hear about?”
'are There Any Other of My Patients You Are Anxious To Hear About?'
“No, thank you,” returned Hardy, with some haste.
The doctor turned to his host again, but the charm was broken. His talk was disconnected, owing probably to the fact that he was racking his brain for facts relative to the seamy side of shipbroking. And Hardy, without any encouragement whatever, was interrupting with puerile anecdotes concerning the late lamented Joe Banks. The captain came to the rescue.
“The ladies are in the garden,” he said to the doctor; “perhaps you'd like to join them.”
He looked coldly over at Hardy as he spoke to see the effect of his words. Their eyes met, and the young man was on his feet as soon as his rival.
“Thanks,” he said, coolly; “it is a trifle close indoors.”
Before the dismayed captain could think of any dignified pretext to stay him he was out of the room. The doctor followed and the perturbed captain, left alone, stared blankly at the door and thought of his daughter's words concerning the thin end of the wedge.
He was a proud man and loth to show discomfiture, so that it was not until a quarter of an hour later that he followed his guests to the garden. The four people were in couples, the paths favouring that formation, although the doctor, to the detriment of the border, had made two or three determined attempts to march in fours. With a feeling akin to scorn the captain saw that he was walking with Mrs. Kingdom, while some distance in the rear Jem Hardy followed with Kate.
He stood at the back door for a little while watching; Hardy, upright and elate, was listening with profound attention to Miss Nugent; the doctor, sauntering along beside Mrs. Kingdom, was listening with a languid air to an account of her celebrated escape from measles some forty-three years before. As a professional man he would have died rather than have owed his life to the specific she advocated.
Kate Nugent, catching sight of her father, turned, and as he came slowly towards them, linked her arm, in his. Her face was slightly flushed and her eyes sparkled.
“I was just coming in to fetch you,” she observed; “it is so pleasant out here now.”
“Delightful,” said Hardy.
“We had to drop behind a little,” said Miss Nugent, raising her voice. “Aunt and Dr. Murchisonwilltalk about their complaints to each other! They have been exchanging prescriptions.”
The captain grunted and eyed her keenly.
“I want you to come in and give us a little music,” he said, shortly.
Kate nodded. “What is your favourite music, Mr. Hardy?” she inquired, with a smile.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Hardy can't stay,” said the captain, in a voice which there was no mistaking.
Hardy pulled out his watch. “No; I must be off,” he said, with a well-affected start. “Thank you for reminding me, Captain Nugent.”
“I am glad to have been of service,” said the other, looking his grimmest.
He acknowledged the young man's farewell with a short nod and, forgetting his sudden desire for music, continued to pace up and down with his daughter.
“What have you been saying to that—that fellow?” he demanded, turning to her, suddenly.
Miss Nugent reflected. “I said it was a fine evening,” she replied, at last.
“No doubt,” said her father. “What else?”
“I think I asked him whether he was fond of gardening,” said Miss Nugent, slowly. “Yes, I'm sure I did.”
“You had no business to speak to him at all,” said the fuming captain.
“I don't quite see how I could help doing so,” said his daughter. “You surely don't expect me to be rude to your visitors? Besides, I feel rather sorry for him.”
“Sorry?” repeated the captain, sharply. “What for?”
“Because he hasn't got a nice, kind, soft-spoken father,” said Miss Nugent, squeezing his arm affectionately.
The appearance of the other couple at the head of the path saved the captain the necessity of a retort. They stood in a little knot talking, but Miss Nugent, contrary to her usual habit, said but little. She was holding her father's arm and gazing absently at the dim fields stretching away beyond the garden.
At the same time Mr. James Hardy, feeling, despite his bold front, somewhat badly snubbed, was sitting on the beach thinking over the situation. After a quarter of an hour in the company of Kate Nugent all else seemed sordid and prosaic; his own conduct in his attempt to save her brother from the consequences of his folly most sordid of all. He wondered, gloomily, what she would think when she heard of it.
'he Wondered, Gloomily, What She Would Think when She Heard of It.'
He rose at last and in the pale light of the new moon walked slowly along towards the town. In his present state of mind he wanted to talk about Kate Nugent, and the only person who could be depended upon for doing that was Samson Wilks. It was a never-tiring subject of the steward's, and since his discovery of the state of Hardy's feelings in that quarter the slightest allusion was sufficient to let loose a flood of reminiscences.
It was dark by the time Hardy reached the alley, and in most of the houses the lamps were lit behind drawn blinds. The steward's house, however, was in darkness and there was no response when he tapped. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. A dim figure rose with a start from a chair.
“I hope you were not asleep?” said Hardy.
“No, sir,” said the steward, in a relieved voice. “I thought it was somebody else.”
He placed a chair for his visitor and, having lit the lamp, slowly lowered the blind and took a seat opposite.
“I've been sitting in the dark to make a certain party think I was out,” he said, slowly. “She keeps making a excuse about Teddy to come over and see me. Last night 'e talked about making a 'ole in the water to celebrate 'Melia Kybird's wedding, and she came over and sat in that chair and cried as if 'er 'art would break. After she'd gone Teddy comes over, fierce as a eagle, and wants to know wot I've been saying to 'is mother to make 'er cry. Between the two of 'em I 'ave a nice life of it.”
“He is still faithful to Miss Kybird, then?” said Hardy, with a sudden sense of relief.
“Faithful?” said Mr. Wilks. “Faithful ain't no word for it. He's a sticker, that's wot 'e is, and it's my misfortune that 'is mother takes after 'im. I 'ave to go out afore breakfast and stay out till late at night, and even then like as not she catches me on the doorstep.”
“Well, perhaps she will make a hole in the water,” suggested Hardy.
Mr. Wilks smiled, but almost instantly became grave again. “She's not that sort,” he said, bitterly, and went into the kitchen to draw some beer.
He drank his in a manner which betokened that the occupation afforded him no enjoyment, and, full of his own troubles, was in no mood to discuss anything else. He gave a short biography of Mrs. Silk which would have furnished abundant material for half-a-dozen libel actions, and alluding to the demise of the late Mr. Silk, spoke of it as though it were the supreme act of artfulness in a somewhat adventurous career.
Hardy walked home with a mind more at ease than it had been at any time since his overtures to Mr. Swann. The only scruple that had troubled him was now removed, and in place of it he felt that he was acting the part of a guardian angel to Mr. Edward Silk.
Mr. Nathan Smith, usually one of the most matter-of-fact men in the world, came out of Mr. Swann's house in a semi-dazed condition, and for some time after the front door had closed behind him stood gaping on the narrow pavement.
He looked up and down the quiet little street and shook his head sadly. It was a street of staid and substantial old houses; houses which had mellowed and blackened with age, but whose quaint windows and chance-opened doors afforded glimpses of comfort attesting to the prosperity of those within. In the usual way Mr. Nathan Smith was of too philosophical a temperament to experience the pangs of envy, but to-day these things affected him, and he experienced a strange feeling of discontent with his lot in life.
“Some people 'ave all the luck,” he muttered, and walked slowly down the road.
'Some People 'ave All the Luck,' he Muttered.'
He continued his reflections as he walked through the somewhat squalid streets of his own quarter. The afternoon was wet and the houses looked dingier than usual; dirty, inconvenient little places most of them, with a few cheap gimcracks making a brave show as near the window as possible. Mr. Smith observed them with newly opened eyes, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, thought of the draw-backs and struggles of the poor.
In his own untidy little den at the back of the house he sat for some time deep in thought over the events of the afternoon. He had been permitted a peep at wealth; at wealth, too, which was changing hands, but was not coming his way. He lit his pipe and, producing a bottle of rum from a cupboard, helped himself liberally. The potent fluid softened him somewhat, and a half-formed intention to keep the news from Mr. Kybird melted away beneath its benign influence.
“After all, we've been pals for pretty near thirty years,” said Mr. Smith to himself.
He took another draught. “Thirty years is a long time,” he mused.
He finished the glass. “And if 'e don't give me something out of it I'll do 'im as much 'arm as I can,” he continued; and, buttoning up his coat, he rose and set out in the direction of the High Street.
The rain had ceased and the sun was making faint efforts to break through watery clouds. Things seemed brighter, and Mr. Smith's heart beat in response. He was going to play the part of a benefactor to Mr. Kybird; to offer him access, at any rate, to such wealth as he had never dreamed of. He paused at the shop window, and, observing through a gap in the merchandise that Mr. Kybird was behind the counter, walked in and saluted him.
“I've got news for you,” he said, slowly; “big news.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Kybird, with indifference.
“Big news,” repeated Mr. Smith, sinking thoughtlessly into the broken cane-chair and slowly extricating himself. “Something that'll make your eyes start out of your 'ed.”
The small black eyes in question were turned shrewdly in his direction. “I've 'ad news of you afore, Nat,” remarked Mr. Kybird, with simple severity.
The philanthropist was chilled; he fixed his eyes in a stony stare on the opposite wall. Mr. Kybird, who had ever a wholesome dread of falling a victim to his friend's cuteness, regarded him with some uncertainty, and reminded him of one or two pieces of information which had seriously depleted his till.
“Banns up yet for the wedding?” inquired Mr. Smith, still gazing in front of him with fathomless eyes.
“They'll be put up next week,” said Mr. Kybird.
“Ah!” said his friend, with great emphasis. “Well, well!”
“Wot d'ye mean by 'well, well'?” demanded the other, with some heat.
“I was on'y thinking,” replied Mr. Smith, mildly. “P'r'aps it's all for the best, and I'd better 'old my tongue. True love is better than money. After all it ain't my bisness, and I shouldn't get much out of it.”
“Out of wot, Nat?” inquired Mr. Kybird, uneasily.
Mr. Smith, still gazing musingly before him, appeared not to hear the question. “Nice after the rain, ain't it?” he said, slowly.
“It's all right,” said the other, shortly.
“Everything smells so fresh and sweet,” continued his nature-loving friend; “all the little dickey-birds was a-singing as if their little 'arts would break as I come along.”
“I don't wonder at it,” said the offended Mr. Kybird.
“And the banns go up next week,” murmured the boarding-master to himself. “Well, well.”
“'Ave you got anything to say agin it?” demanded Mr. Kybird.
“Cert'nly not,” replied the other. “On'y don't blame me when it's too late; that's all.”
Mr. Kybird, staring at him wrathfully, turned this dark saying over in his mind. “Too late for wot?” he inquired.
“Ah!” said Nathan Smith, slowly. “Nice and fresh after the rain, ain't it? As I come along all the little dickey-birds—”
“Drat the little dickey-birds,” interrupted Mr. Kybird, with sudden violence. “If you've got anything to say, why don't you say it like a man?”
'if You've Got Anything to Say, Why Don't You Say It Like A Man?'
The parlour door opened suddenly before the other could reply, and revealed the face of Mrs. Kybird. “Wot are you two a-quarrelling about?” she demanded. “Why don't you come inside and sit down for a bit?”
Mr. Smith accepted the invitation, and following her into the room found Miss Kybird busy stitching in the midst of a bewildering assortment of brown paper patterns and pieces of cloth. Mrs. Kybird gave him a chair, and, having overheard a portion of his conversation with her husband, made one or two casual inquiries.
“I've been spending a hour or two at Mr. Swann's,” said Mr. Smith.
“And 'ow is 'e?” inquired his hostess, with an appearance of amiable interest.
The boarding-master shook his head. “'E's slipping 'is cable,” he said, slowly. “'E's been making 'is will, and I was one o' the witnesses.”
Something in Mr. Smith's manner as he uttered this simple statement made his listeners anxious to hear more. Mr. Kybird, who had just entered the room and was standing with his back to the door holding the handle, regarded him expectantly.
“It's been worrying 'im some time,” pursued Mr. Smith. “'E 'asn't got nobody belonging to 'im, and for a long time 'e couldn't think 'ow to leave it. Wot with 'ouse property and other things it's a matter of over ten thousand pounds.”
“Good 'eavens!” said Mr. Kybird, who felt that he was expected to say something.
“Dr. Blaikie was the other witness,” continued Mr. Smith, disregarding the interruption; “and Mr. Swann made us both promise to keep it a dead secret till 'e's gone, but out o' friendship to you I thought I'd step round and let you know.”
The emphasis on the words was unmistakable; Mrs. Kybird dropped her work and sat staring at him, while her husband wriggled with excitement.
“'E ain't left it to me, I s'pose?” he said, with a feeble attempt at jocularity.
“Not a brass farden,” replied his friend, cheerfully. “Not to none of you. Why should 'e?
“He ain't left it to Jack, I s'pose?” said Miss Kybird, who had suspended her work to listen.
“No, my dear,” replied the boarding-master. “E's made 'is will all ship-shape and proper, and 'e's left everything—all that 'ouse property and other things, amounting to over ten thousand pounds—to a young man becos 'e was jilt—crossed in love a few months ago, and becos 'e's been a good and faithful servant to 'im for years.”
“Don't tell me,” said Mr. Kybird, desperately; “don't tell me that 'e's been and left all that money to young Teddy Silk.”
“Well, I won't if you don't want me to,” said the accommodating Mr. Smith, “but, mind, it's a dead secret.”
Mr. Kybird wiped his brow, and red patches, due to excitement, lent a little variety to an otherwise commonplace face; Mrs. Kybird's dazed inquiry. “Wot are we a-coming to?” fell on deaf ears; while Miss Kybird, leaning forward with lips parted, fixed her eyes intently on Mr. Smith's face.
“It's a pity 'e didn't leave it to young Nugent,” said that gentleman, noting with much pleasure the effect of his announcement, “but 'e can't stand 'in: at no price; 'e told me so 'imself. I s'pose young Teddy'll be quite the gentleman now, and 'e'll be able to marry who 'e likes.”
Mr. Kybird thrust his handkerchief into his tail-pocket, and all the father awoke within him. “Ho, will 'e?” he said, with fierce sarcasm. “Ho, indeed! And wot about my daughter? I 'ave 'eard of such things as breach o' promise. Before Mr. Teddy gets married 'e's got to 'ave a few words with me.”
“'E's behaved very bad,” said Mrs. Kybird, nodding.
“'E come 'ere night after night,” said Mr. Kybird, working himself up into a fury; “'e walked out with my gal for months and months, and then 'e takes 'imself off as if we wasn't good enough for'im.”
“The suppers 'e's 'ad 'ere you wouldn't believe,” said Mrs. Kybird, addressing the visitor.
“Takes 'imself off,” repeated her husband; “takes 'imself off as if we was dirt beneath 'is feet, and never been back to give a explanation from that day to this.”
“I'm not easy surprised,” said Mrs. Kybird, “I never was from a gal, but I must say Teddy's been a surprise to me. If anybody 'ad told me 'e'd ha' behaved like that I wouldn't ha' believed it; I couldn't. I've never said much about it, becos my pride wouldn't let me. We all 'ave our faults, and mine is pride.”
“I shall bring a breach o' promise action agin 'im for five thousand pounds,” said Mr. Kybird, with decision.
“Talk sense,” said Nathan Smith, shortly.
“Sense!” cried Mr. Kybird. “Is my gal to be played fast and loose with like that? Is my gal to be pitched over when 'e likes? Is my gal—”
“Wot's the good o' talking like that to me?” said the indignant Mr. Smith. “The best thing you can do is to get 'er married to Teddy at once, afore 'e knows of 'is luck.”
“And when'll that be?” inquired his friend, in a calmer voice.
“Any time,” said the boarding-master, shrugging his shoulders. “The old gentleman might go out tonight, or again 'e might live on for a week or more. 'E was so weak 'e couldn't 'ardly sign 'is name.”
“I 'ope 'e 'as signed it all right,” said Mr. Kybird, starting.
“Safe as 'ouses,” said his friend.
“Well, why not wait till Teddy 'as got the money?” suggested Mrs. Kybird, with a knowing shake of her head.
“Becos,” said Mr. Smith, in a grating voice, “be-cos for one thing 'e'd be a rich man then and could 'ave 'is pick. Teddy Silk on a pound or thereabouts a week and Teddy Silk with ten thousand pounds 'ud be two different people. Besides that 'e'd think she was marrying 'im for 'is money.”
“If 'e thought that,” said Mrs. Kybird, firmly, “I'd never forgive 'im.”
“My advice to you,” said Nathan Smith, shaking his forefinger impressively, “is to get 'em married on the quiet and as soon as possible. Once they're tied up Teddy can't 'elp 'imself.”
“Why on the quiet?” demanded Mr. Kybird, sharply.
The boarding-master uttered an impatient exclamation. “Becos if Mr. Swann got to 'ear of it he'd guess I'd been blabbing, for one thing,” he said, sharply, “and for another, 'e left it to 'im partly to make up for 'is disappointment—he'd been disappointed 'imself in 'is younger days, so 'e told me.”
“Suppose 'e managed to get enough strength to alter 'is will?”
Mr. Kybird shivered. “It takes time to get married, though,” he objected.
“Yes,” said Mr. Smith, ironically, “it does. Get round young Teddy, and then put the banns up. Take your time about it, and be sure and let Mr. Swann know. D'ye think 'e wouldn't understand wot it meant, and spoil it, to say nothing of Teddy seeing through it?
“Well, wot's to be done, then?” inquired the staring Mr. Kybird.
“Send 'em up to London and 'ave 'em married by special license,” said Mr. Smith, speaking rapidly—“to-morrow, if possible; if not, the day after. Go and pitch a tale to Teddy tonight, and make 'im understand it's to be done on the strict q.t.”
“Special licenses cost money,” said Mr. Kybird. “I 'ave 'eard it's a matter o' thirty pounds or thereabouts.”
Mr. Nathan Smith rose, and his eyes were almost expressive. He nodded good-night to the ladies and crossed to the door. Mrs. Kybird suddenly seized him by the coat and held him.