The Last.
But the supposed death of Stephen Lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. It only opened her eyes a little. After the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. The poor woman’s heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted.
It was while she was in this condition that Mrs Mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. That poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. She was, as her male friends would have said, “screwed” when she knocked at Mrs Lockley’s door.
The poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered.
“My dear Mrs Lockley,” began Mrs Mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, “it do grieve me to see you like this—a’most as much as wen my—”
“You’re drunk!” interrupted Mrs Lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation.
“Well, my dear,” replied Mrs Mooney, with a deprecatory smile, “that ain’t an uncommon state o’ things, an’ you’ve no call to be ’ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin’ a little consolation now an’ then when she can get it. I just thought I’d like to comfort—”
“I don’t want no comfort,” cried Mrs Lockley in a sharp tone. “Leave me. Go away!”
There was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife that Mrs Mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. She did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. After a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the “Blue Boar.” On her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than Pat Stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction.
“Pat, my boy!” exclaimed the woman in surprise, “wherever did you come from?”
“From the North Sea,” said Pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. “I say, old woman, drunk again?”
“Well, boy, who denyses of it?”
“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“No, I ain’t. Why should I? Who cares whether I’m drunk or sober?”
“Who cares, you unnat’ral old bundle o’ dirty clo’es? Don’t Eve care? An’ don’t Fred Martin an’ Bob Lumpy care? An’ don’t I care, worse than all of ’em put together, except Eve?”
“You, boy?” exclaimed the woman.
“Yes, me. But look here, old gal; where are you goin’? To have a drink, I suppose?”
“Jus’ so. That’s ’xactly where I’m a-steerin’ to.”
“Well, now,” cried Pat, seizing the woman’s hand, “come along, an’ I’ll give you somethin’ to drink. Moreover, I’ll treat you to some noos as’ll cause your blood to curdle, an’ your flesh to creep, an’ your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!”
Thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, Mrs Mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in Gorleston to which we have already referred.
“Ain’t it comf’r’able?” asked the boy, as his companion gazed around her. “Now then, missis,” he said to the attendant, with the air of an old frequenter of the place, “coffee and wittles for two—hot. Here, sit down in this corner, old lady, where you can take in the beauties o’ the place all at one squint.”
Almost before he had done speaking two large cups of hot coffee and two thick slices of buttered bread lay before them.
“There you are—all ship-shape. Now drink, an’ no heel-taps.”
Mrs Mooney drank in dumb surprise, partly at the energy and cool impudence of the boy, and partly at the discovery that there was more comfort in hot coffee than she had expected.
“You’ve heard, in course, that the Lively Poll is at the bottom of the North Sea?” said Pat.
Mrs Mooney set down her cup with a sigh and a sudden expression of woe mingled with reproof, while she remarked that there was no occasion to be lighthearted on such a subject.
“That’s all you know,” retorted Pat. “Of course we was told the moment we came alongside the wharf this mornin’, that somebody had bin blowin’ half a gale o’ lies about it, but Stephen Lockley ain’t drownded, not he, an’ don’t mean to be for some time. He was aboard of the Sunbeam at the time his wessel went down an’ all the rest of ’em, except poor Jay an’ Hawkson, an’ we’ve brought ’em all ashore. You see we got so damaged in a gale that came on to blow the wery next day that we’ve bin forced to run here for repairs. Skipper Lockley’s away up at this here minit to see his wife—leastwise, he’s waitin’ outside till one o’ the parsons goes and breaks the noos to her. The skipper didn’t see no occasion for that, an’ said he could break the noos to her hisself, but the parson said he didn’t know what the consikences might be, so Stephen he gave in, an’—. Now, old girl, if you keep openin’ of your mouth an’ eyes at that rate you’ll git lockjaw, an’ never be able to go to sleep no more.”
There was, indeed, some ground for the boy’s remark, for his “noos” had evidently overwhelmed Mrs Mooney—chiefly with joy, on account of her friend Mrs Lockley, to whom, even when “in liquor”, she was tenderly attached. She continued to gaze speechless at Pat, who took advantage of the opportunity to do a little private business on his own account.
Taking a little bit of blue ribbon with a pin attached to it from his pocket, he coolly fixed it on Mrs Mooney’s breast.
“There,” said he gravely, “I promised Bob that I’d make as many conwerts as I could, so I’ve conwerted you!”
Utterly regardless of her conversion, Mrs Mooney suddenly sprang from her seat and made for the door.
“Hallo, old gal! where away now!” cried the boy, seizing her skirt and following her out, being unable to stop her.
“I’m a-goin’ to tell Eve, an’ won’t she be glad, for she was awful fond o’ Lockley!”
“All right, I’m with ’ee. Cut along.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Eve,............