At Sunwich Port, Complete

“That was the bargain,” said the captain, stiffly. “And now I’ll bid you good-day.”

“I am sorry that my presence should be so distasteful to you,” said the mortified Hardy.

“Distasteful, sir?” said the captain, sternly. “You have forced yourself on me for twice a week for some time past. You have insisted upon talking on every subject under the sun, whether I liked it or not. You have taken every opportunity of evading my wishes that you should not see my daughter, and you wonder that I object to you. For absolute brazenness you beat anything I have ever encountered.”

“I am sorry,” said Hardy, again.

“Good evening,” said the captain

“Good evening.”

Crestfallen and angry Hardy moved to the door, pausing with his hand on it as the captain spoke again.

“One word more,” said the older man, gazing at him oddly as he stroked his grey beard; “if ever you try to come bothering me with your talk again I’ll forbid you the house.”

“Forbid me the house?” repeated the astonished Hardy.

“That’s what I said,” replied the other; “that’s plain English, isn’t it?”

Hardy looked at him in bewilderment; then, as the captain’s meaning dawned upon him, he stepped forward impulsively and, seizing his hand, began to stammer out incoherent thanks.

“You’d better clear before I alter my mind,” said Captain Nugent, roughly. “I’ve had more than enough of you. Try the garden, if you like.”

He took up a paper from the table and resumed his seat, not without a grim smile at the promptitude with which the other obeyed his instructions.

Miss Nugent, reclining in a deck-chair at the bottom of the garden, looked up as she heard Hardy’s footstep on the gravel. It was a surprising thing to see him walking down the garden; it was still more surprising to observe the brightness of his eye and the easy confidence of his bearing. It was evident that he was highly pleased with himself, and she was not satisfied until she had ascertained the reason. Then she sat silent, reflecting bitterly on the clumsy frankness of the male sex in general and fathers in particular. A recent conversation with the captain, in which she had put in a casual word or two in Hardy’s favour, was suddenly invested with a new significance.

“I shall never be able to repay your father for his kindness,” said Hardy, meaningly, as he took a chair near her.

“I expect he was pleased at this marriage,” said Miss Nugent, coldly. “How did it happen?”

Mr. Hardy shifted uneasily in his chair. “There isn’t much to tell,” he said, reluctantly; “and you—you might not approve of the means by which the end was gained.”

“Still, I want to hear about it,” said Miss Nugent.

For the second time that evening Hardy told his story. It seemed more discreditable each time he told it, and he scanned the girl’s face anxiously as he proceeded, but, like her father, she sat still and made no comment until he had finished. Then she expressed a strong feeling of gratitude that the Nugent family had not been mixed up in it.

“Why?” inquired Hardy, bluntly.

“I don’t think it was a very nice thing to do,” said Miss Nugent, with a superior air.

“It wouldn’t have been a very nice thing for you if your brother had married Miss Kybird,” said the indignant Jem. “And you said, if you remember, that you didn’t mind what I did.”

“I don’t,” said Miss Nugent, noticing with pleasure that the confident air of a few minutes ago had quite disappeared.

“You think I have been behaving badly?” pursued Hardy.

“I would rather not say what I think,” replied Miss Nugent, loftily. “I have no doubt you meant well, and I should be sorry to hurt your feelings.”

“Thank you,” said Hardy, and sat gloomily gazing about him. For some time neither of them spoke.

“Where is Jack now?” inquired the girl, at last. “He is staying with me for a few days,” said Hardy. “I sincerely hope that the association will not be injurious to him.”

“Are you trying to be rude to me?” inquired Miss Nugent, raising her clear eyes to his.

“I am sorry,” said Hardy, hastily. “You are quite right, of course. It was not a nice thing to do, but I would do a thousand times worse to please you.”

Miss Nugent thanked him warmly; he seemed to understand her so well, she said.

“I mean,” said Hardy, leaning forward and speaking with a vehemence which made the girl instinctively avert her head—“I mean that to please you would be the greatest happiness I could know. I love you.”

Miss Nugent sat silent, and a strong sense of the monstrous unfairness of such a sudden attack possessed her. Such a declaration she felt ought to have been led up to by numerous delicate gradations of speech, each a little more daring than the last, but none so daring that they could not have been checked at any time by the exercise of a little firmness.

“If you would do anything to please me,” she said at length in a low voice, and without turning her head, “would you promise never to try and see me or speak to me again if I asked you?”

“No,” said Hardy, promptly.

Miss Nugent sat silent again. She knew that a good woman should be sorry for a man in such extremity, and should endeavour to spare his feelings by softening her refusal as much as possible, little as he might deserve such consideration. But man is impatient and jumps at conclusions. Before she was half-way through the first sentence he leaned forward and took her hand.

“Oh, good-bye,” she said, turning to him, with a pleasant smile.

“I am not going,” said Hardy, quietly; “I am never going,” he added, as he took her other hand.

Captain Nugent, anxious for his supper, found them there still debating the point some two hours later. Kate Nugent, relieved at the appearance of her natural protector, clung to him with unusual warmth. Then, in a kindly, hospitable fashion, she placed her other arm in that of Hardy, and they walked in grave silence to the house.

THE END