CHAPTER VII.

Many of the advantages that wait upon the readers of this history are, I should hope, by this time obvious. Among them must be reckoned the privilege of taking precedence of Admiral Buzza—of paying a visit to "The Bower" not only several minutes in advance of that great man, but moreover on terms of the utmost intimacy.

Shortly before eleven on Monday morning the Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys was shaving contemplatively. He was a tall, thin man, with light, closely cropped hair, a drooping moustache that hid his mouth, and a nose of the order aquiline, and species "chiselled." For the present the lower half of his face was obscured with lather. His dress—I put it thus in case Miss Limpenny should read these lines—was that usually worn by gentlemen under similar circumstances.

Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys was just taking his first stroke with the razor, when the creaking of the garden gate caused him to glance out of window. The effect of this was to make him cut his cheek; whereupon he both bled and swore simultaneously and profusely.

On the gravel walk stood Admiral Buzza with his three daughters.

Again the great man was in full dress. Behind him in Indian file advanced Sophia, Jane, Calypso, each in a straight frock of vivid yellow surmounted by a straw hat of such enormous brim as to lend them a fearful likeness to three gigantic fungi. As far as the hats allowed one to see from above, each wore sandal-shoes, and carried a small green parasol, neatly folded.

At the sight of this regiment of visitors, Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys paused with razor in air and blood trickling down his chin. The Admiral marched resolutely up the path and struck three distinct knocks upon the door.

It was opened by the youth in buttons.

The Admiral produced a sheaf of visiting cards and handed them to the page, as if inviting him to select one, note it carefully, and restore it to the pack.

"Is the Honourable Frederic Goodwyn-Sandys or the Honourable Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys at home?"

Words cannot do justice to the Admiral's tone.

The regiment was marched into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rose to receive them.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rose to receive them.Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rose to receive them.

She was undeniably beautiful; not young, but rather in that St. Martin's Summer when a woman learns for the first time the value of her charms. Her hair was of a glossy black, her lips red and full, her figure and grey morning gown two miracles. But on her eyes and voice you shall hear Mr. Moggridge, who subsequently wasted a deal of Her Majesty's time and his own paper upon this subject. From a note-book of his, the early pages of which are constant to a certain Sophia, I select the following—

"TO GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING."Whenas abroad, to greet the morn,I mark my Graciosa walk,In homage bends the whisp'ring corn;Yet, to confessIts awkwardness,Must hang its head upon the stalk.And when she talks, her lips do healThe wound her lightest glances give.In pity, then, be harsh and dealSuch wounds, that IMay hourly dieAnd, by a word revived, live!

Whenas abroad, to greet the morn,I mark my Graciosa walk,In homage bends the whisp'ring corn;Yet, to confessIts awkwardness,Must hang its head upon the stalk.And when she talks, her lips do healThe wound her lightest glances give.In pity, then, be harsh and dealSuch wounds, that IMay hourly dieAnd, by a word revived, live!

All this was very shocking of Mr. Moggridge; for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys was nothisGraciosa at all. But it was what we were fated to come to, in Troy. And Graciosa's voice and smile were certainly inspiring.

Let us return to "The Bower." The Admiral having presented his daughters, and arranged them in line again, cleared his throat and began—

"Though aware that, as judged by the standard of the best society, this visit may be condemned as premature, I have thought right to stifle such apprehensions in my anxiety to assure you of a welcome in Troy—I may say, an open-armed welcome."

Here the Admiral actually spread his arms abroad. His hostess retreated a step.

"My daughters,—Calypso, I perceive an errant curl—my daughters, madam, will bear me out when I say that only excess of feeling prevents their mother from joining in this—may I call it so?—this ovation."

(In point of fact, Mrs. Buzza had been judged too red in the eyes to accompany the Admiral.)

"Ever since I beheld you and your husband—whom I do not see" (here the Admiral stared ferociously under a table), "but who, I trust, is in health—for the first time in church yesterday"— (Oh, Admiral Buzza!)—"I have been forcibly reminded of an expression in one of our British poets, which runs—Sophia, how the devil does it run?"

Neither of the Misses Buzza had the faintest idea. Their father's efforts to remember it were interrupted by Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, who begged them, with a charming smile, to be seated.

"My husband," she said, "will be down in a minute or two. It is really most kind of you to call; for, as strangers, we are naturally anxious to hear about the place and its people."

Her voice, which was low and musical, came with the prettiest trip upon the tongue. There was just the faintest shade of brogue in it— for instance, she said "me husband"—but I cannot attempt to reproduce it.

Upon this hinted desire for information, the Admiral bestowed his cocked-hat under the chair, and began—

"Our small town, ma'am, may be viewed in many aspects—as an emporium of commerce, a holiday centre, or a health resort. In our trade you would naturally, with your tastes, find little interest. It is rather our scenic advantages, our romantic fortresses, our river (pronounced by many to equal the Rhine), our mild atmosphere—"

"On the contrary, I take the greatest interest in your trade."

The Admiral lifted his brows and smiled, as one who would imply "You are kind enough to say so, but really, with your high connections, that can hardly be seriously believed." What he said was—

"It is indeed good of you to interest yourself in our simple tastes. We are (I confess it) to some degree—ahem!—mercantile, and as citizens of Troy esteem it our duty to acquaint ourselves (theoretically) with the products of other lands. To this end I have had all my daughters carefully grounded in the 'Child's Guide to Knowledge.' Jane, my dear, what is Gamboge?"

"A vegetable, gummy juice, of a most beautiful yellow colour, chiefly brought from Gambodia in the East Indies," repeated Jane, with a glance at her gown.

"You see, ma'am," explained her father with a wave of the hand, "it is a form of instruction in which the rawness of the material is to some extent veiled by a clothing of picturesque accessories. This will be even more noticeable in the case of Soy. Calypso, inform Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys of the humorous illusion under which our seamen labour with regard to Soy."

But at this point the door opened, and Mr. Samuel Buzza entered, with Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys himself.

The introductions were gone through; the Admiral let off another speech of welcome, and plunged with the Honourable Frederic into a long discussion of Troy, its scenery and neighbourhood; the three girls sat bolt upright, each on the edge of her chair; and their brother took his hostess' extended hand with a bashful grin.

"Ah, Mr. Buzza, I am interested in you already—my husband has been telling me how he met you."

"Proud to hear it," muttered Sam.

"Oh, yes. I hope we shall be great friends. It is so kind of you all to call."

Sam asked her not to mention it; and looked at his father, whose face was by this time purple with conversation.

"I say, ain't the old boy enjoying himself, though!" he remarked in a sudden burst of confidence. "What do you think of him?"

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys smiled sweetly, and replied that the Admiral was "so thorough."

"Thorough old duffer, you mean. Look at him. What with his gold spangles and his talking to Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, he's as proud as a cock on a wall."

His hostess laughed. "You are very frank," she said.

"That's me all over," replied Sam, evidently pleased. "You see, I ain't polite—not a ladies' man in any way."

"There I am sure you do yourself injustice."

"No, 'pon my word! I never had any practice."

"What, not among all the charming girls I saw in church yesterday? Oh, Mr. Buzza, you mustn't tell methat." A look from the dark eyes accompanied this sentence.

Now, very few young men of Sam's stamp greatly mind being considered gay Lotharios. So that when he repeated that "'Pon his word he wasn't," he also turned his neck about in his collar for a second or so, smiled meaningly, and altogether looked rather pleased than not.

"I'm afraid you are a very sad character, Mr. Buzza."

"No, really now."

"And are deceiving me horribly."

"No, really; wouldn't think of it."

"Sam!" broke in the Admiral's voice in tones of thunder.

"Yes, sir."

"How does Mr. Moggridge describe the 'Man-o'-War' Hotel?"

"Says the beer's falling off, sir. Itdid, once upon a time, taste of the barrel, but now he'll be hanged if it tastes of anything at all. It ought—"

"Don't be a fool, sir! I mean in that poem of his from 'Ivy Leaves: or, Tendrils from Troy.'"

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. Let me see—"

Before he could recall it, Sophia finished the quotation, timidly. "I think, papa, I can remember it:—"

'And thou,Quaint hostel! 'neath whose mould'ring gable endsIn amber draught I slake my noonday thirst…'

"Something like that, I think, papa."

"Ah, to be sure: 'mould'ring gable ends,' a most accurate description. It used to belong to—" and the Admiral plunged again into a flood of conversation.

"You must bring this Mr. Moggridge and introduce him," said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys to Sam. "He is a Collector of Customs, is he not? Do you think he would recite any of his verses to me?"

"By the hour. But I shouldn't advise you to ask him. It's all about my sister."

"Which?"

"The eldest there—Sophy's her name—and don't judge from appearances; the family diet is not hardware."

"Hush, sir! you must not be rude. That reminds me that I ought to go and speak to them."

"You won't get anything out of them. If you want a subject, though, I'll give you the straight tip—lambs. I've heard them talk about lambs by the hour. Say they are nice and soft and woolly: that'll draw them out."

"You are a great quiz, I perceive."

"No, really, now, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys."

"But, really yes, Mr. Buzza. I shall have to cure you, I see, before I can trust my husband in your company."

She rose and left him to his flutter of pleased excitement. Oh, Sam! Sam! To fall from innocence was bad enough, but to fall thus easily!

In a few moments and with charming tact, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys had drawn the Misses Buzza into a lively conversation; had told Sophy of some new songs; and had even promised them all some hints on the very latest gowns, before Sam Buzza, weary of silence, called across the room—

"I say, dad, what do you think is the news about the seedy-looking fellow you treated by mistake to all that speechifying?"

The Admiral looked daggers, but Sam was imperturbable.

"Ho, ho! I say, Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, the governor took him for you, and welcomed him to Troy in his best style-flower in his buttonhole and all—'twas as good as a play. Well, the fellow has taken Kit's House."

"Kit's House!"

"Yes, and lives there all alone, with Caleb Trotter for servant. I'd advise you to call, now that you've got your Sunday best on. I'm sure he'd like to thank you for that speech you made him."

"Be quiet, sir!"

"Oh, very well; only I thought I'd mention it. I'm afraid I must be going, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys." Sam held out his hand.

"Must you? Good-bye, then," she said, "but remember, you have to come and be taught innocence."

"Oh, I'll remember, never fear," answered Sam, and departed.

The Admiral also rose.

"I trust," he said, "that this may be the beginning of a pleasant intimacy. My wife will be most happy to give you any information concerning our little town that I may have omitted. By the way, how is Lord Sinkport? I really forgot to ask. Quite well? I am so glad. I was afraid the gout—Come, Sophy, my dear, we have trespassed long enough. Good-morning!"

He was gone. Scarcely, however, could his host and hostess exchange glances before he reappeared.

"Oh, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, that quotation—I have just remembered it. It was, 'Welcome, little strangers!' The original, I believe, has the singular—'little stranger'—but the slight change makes it more appropriate. 'Welcome, little strangers!' Good-morning!"

O Troy, Troy! Scarcely had the garden gate creaked again, when Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked at each other for a moment, then sank into arm-chairs, and broke into peals of the most unaffected laughter.

"Nellie, hand me a cigar. This beats cock-fighting."

"Whist, me dear!" answered the lady, relapsing into honest brogue, "but Brady is the bhoy to know the ropes."

"I believe you, Nellie."

Outside the garden gate the Admiral had fallen into a brown study.

"I perceive," he said, at length, very thoughtfully, "that wine and biscuits have gone out of fashion, as concomitants of a morning call. In some ways I regret it; but they are evidently people of extreme refinement. Sophy, how badly your gown sits."

"Why, it was only yesterday, papa, that you praised it so!"

"Did I? H'm! Well, well, now for the boat."

"The boat, papa?"

"Certainly, Sophy; we are going to call at Kit's House."

It was a bright April morning, and the Admiral's boat, as it swept proudly past the little town, cast a wealth of bright reflection on the water. Inhabitants of Troy, sitting at their windows, and overlooking the harbour, caught sight of the yellow dresses, the blue coat with its gold lace, and the red face beneath the cocked-hat, and whispered to each other that something was in the wind.

Jane and Calypso rowed—for the Trojan maidens in those days were not above pulling an oar, and did not mind blisters—while Sophia sat in the bows, her mushroom hat "a world too wide" for the little green parasol hoisted above it. The Admiral himself held the tiller ropes, and occasionally gave a word of command. It was a gracious spectacle.

But as the boat drew clear of the jetties with their press of vessels, and Kit's Cottage hove in sight, the Admiral's eyes, which were fixed ahead, grew suddenly very large and round.

"This is very extraordinary!" he muttered, "very extraordinary indeed!"

"What is it, papa?" and the three Misses Buzza simultaneously turned their mushroom hats to look.

"I cannot tell, Sophia; but to me it appears as if these people were—not to put too fine a point upon it—washing."

It was quite true. On the little beach, Mr. Fogo, with his sleeves turned up and a large apron pinned around him, was standing before a huge tub, industriously washing. The tub rested on a couple of stools. A little to the left, Caleb Trotter, with his back turned to the river, was wringing the articles of male costume which his master handed him, and disposing them about the shingle to dry.

Washing-day.Washing-day

The Admiral had chosen a washing-day for his first call at Kit's House.

The approach of the boat was at first unperceived; for Caleb, as I said, had his back turned to it, and Mr. Fogo's spectacles were bent over his employment.

"Really," murmured the Admiral, as his eye travelled over the beach, "anything more indelicate—Why, Miss Limpenny might be rowing this way for anything they know. Hi, sir!"

Still grasping the tiller-lines, the Admiral stood up on the stern seat and shouted.

At the sound Mr. Fogo raised his spectacles and blandly stared through them at the strangers. Caleb started, turned suddenly round, and came rushing down the beach, his right hand frantically waving them back, his left grasping a pair of—(Oh! Miss Limpenny!)

"Hi! you must go back. Go away, I tell 'ee!" he gesticulated.

"What on—"

"Go away; no females allowed here. Off with 'ee this moment!"

"Put down those —s, sir," yelled the Admiral.

"Sarve 'ee right: no business to come: 'tes Bachelor's Hall, this, an' us don't want no womankind trapesin' here: so keep your distance. Go 'long!" And Caleb began to wave again.

"Sir," cried the Admiral, appealing to Mr. Fogo, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary reception?"

"Eh? What?" said that gentleman, who apparently had fallen into a fit of deep abstraction. "I beg your pardon. I did not quite catch—"

"What is the meaning of all this, sir?" The Admiral was scarlet with passion.

"Oh, it's quite right, I believe—quite right. Caleb will tell you." As he gave this astonishing answer in a far-away tone, Mr. Fogo's spectacles rested on his visitor for a moment with a smile of deepest benevolence. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his washing.

The Admiral positively danced with rage.

"There, what did I tell 'ee?" exclaimed Caleb triumphantly. "That's your answer, and now you can go 'long home. Off with 'ee!"

The Admiral's reply would probably have contained some strong words. It was arrested by a catastrophe.

During this altercation the tide had been rising, and carried the boat gently up towards the little beach. As the Admiral opened his mouth to retort, the boat's nose jarred upon a sunken heap of pebbles. The shock was slight, but enough to upset his equilibrium. Without any warning, the Admiral's heels shot upwards, and the great man himself, with a wild clutch at vacancy, soused backwards— cocked-hat and all—into the water.

The three Misses Buzza with one accord clasped their hands and uttered dismal shrieks; the three mushroom hats shook with terror. Mr. Fogo looked up from his washing.

"Papa! oh, save him—save our dear Papa!"

There was no danger. Presently a crimson face rose over the boat's stern, blowing like a grampus. A pair of dripping epaulets followed; and then the Admiral stood up, knee-deep in water, and swore and spat alternately.

How different from that glittering hero, at sight of whom, not an hour before, the Trojan dames at their lattices had stopped their needlework to whisper! Down his nose and chin ran a pitiable flood; his scanty locks, before so wiry and obstinate, lay close against his ears; his gorgeous uniform, tarnished with slime, hung in folds, and from each fold poured a separate cascade; the whole man had become suddenly shrunken.

Speechless with rage, the little man clambered over the stern and shook his fist at the wondering spectacles of Mr. Fogo.

"You shall repent this, sir! You shall—Jane, push the boat off at once!"

But even the dignity of a fine exit was denied the Admiral. The boat was by this time firmly aground, and he was forced to stand, forming large pools upon the stern-board, while the grinning Caleb pushed her off. And still Mr. Fogo looked mildly on, with his hands in the wash-tub.

"Do you hear me, sir? You shall repent this!" raved the Admiral.

"Now, don't 'ee go upsettin' yourself again, 'cos wance es enough. An' 't'ain't no good to be vexed wi' Maaster, 'cos he don't mind 'ee. 'Tes like Smoothey's weddin'—all o' one side. Next time, I hopes you'll listen when you'm spoken to."

And with a chuckle, Caleb sent the boat spinning into deep water. Scarce daring to look at their father, the Misses Buzza plunged their oars into the brine, and the Admiral, still shaking his fist, was borne slowly out of sight. At last even his language failed upon the breeze.

Caleb quietly returned to his work.

"Thicky Adm'ral," he observed, contemplatively, after a silence of a minute or so, "puts me in mind o' Humphrey Hambly's ducks, as is said to look larger than they be."

He paused in the act of wringing a shirt, to look at Mr. Fogo.

The next instant the shirt was lying on the shingle, and Caleb had sprung upon his master, taken him by the shoulders, and was shaking him with might and main.

"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"

"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the shaking. "What's all this?"

"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig. You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"

Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and sternly watched his recovery.

"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering. Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those extraordinary people gone?"

"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone—like Jemmy Rule's larks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough—Adm'ral Buzza in full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o' tar."

"Tar, Caleb?"

"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.

When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors to see that all was right.

"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room door.

Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose plank in the flooring, and looked up.

"All right, Caleb, thank you."

"I was afear'd you might be none compass agen."

"What?"

"None compass—Greek for 'mazed.' Good-bye for the present, sir."

Caleb borrowed a hammer, a nail or two, and a spade, and descended again to the beach. Here he chose a spot carefully, and began to dig a large hole in the shingle. This finished, he turned to the board, and spent some time with the brush in his hand and his head on one side, thinking. Then he began to paint vigorously.

Half-an-hour later, a tall post with a board on top stood on the beach at Kit's House. On the board, in letters six inches long, was tarred the following inscription:—

TAKE NOTICE.ALL WIMMENFOUND TRAPESING ON THISBEECH WILL BE DEALTWITH ACCORDINGTO THE LAW.

Above this notice jauntily rested the Admiral's cocked-hat, which had drifted ashore further up on the shingle—an awful witness to the earnestness of the threat and the vanity of human greatness.

Caleb stood in front of his handiwork and gazed at it with honest pride for some minutes; then went into the house to fetch Mr. Fogo forth to look. He was absent for some minutes. When he returned with his master, their eyes were greeted with a curious sight.

On the spit of shingle, and staring open-mouthed at the notice, stood the Twins, their honest faces expressing the extreme of perplexity. A few yards off the shore, in their boat, waited Tamsin, and leant quietly on her paddles.

Staring open-mouthed at the notice.Staring open-mouthed at the notice.

At the sight of her, Caleb's face fell a full inch; but he led his master down and planted him resolutely in front of the board. Mr. Fogo stared helplessly from it to the Twins.

"Mornin', sir," said Peter, after a long pause. His face wore a deepened colour, and he smiled awkwardly.

"Good-morning," replied Mr. Fogo.

"A fine mornin'," repeated Peter, with a long gaze at the board, "an' no mistake."

There was another long interval, during which everybody stared hard at the Notice.

"'Tes a powerful fine mornin'," Peter re-asserted very slowly, "ef so be as your station in life es in noways connected with turmuts. Ef 'tes the less us says about the mornin' the better." With this observation Peter looked hard at Mr. Fogo, as if the ball of conversation now lay in that gentleman's hands.

"What do 'ee think o' this 'ere Notice?" broke in Caleb.

Paul twitched his yellow bandanna and smiled evasively.

"'Tes very pretty writin', sir, sure-ly," he replied, addressing Mr. Fogo. "Nice thick down-strokes, an' all as it shou'd be."

"Uncommon fash'nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a'ready," added Peter.

Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism. Mr. Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his eyes fixed on his handiwork.

"Axin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to mention et," began Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between his fingers, "but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin' as fash'nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou'dn't have introoded—spesh'ly Tamsin. Tamsin was thinkin' this mornin' as a pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl'm'n down at Kit's House, wi' ha'f a dozen fresh eggs or so, 'cos her Minorcy hen began to lay agen last week, an' the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays double yolks; an' Paul an' me agreed you wudn' be above acceptin' a little present o' this natur', not seemin' proud, an' Tamsin shou'd bring et hersel', the eggs bein' hers in a manner o' speakin'. But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an' iver since us seed the board here, her's been keepin' her distance in the boat yonder; on'y us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou'd do to make things ship-shape an' fitty for 'ee."

At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.

"Ship-shape an' fitty—not wishful for to introod. That's so, Peter," echoed his brother.

Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose eyes were obstinately averted.

"Caleb!"

"Sir."

"Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore."

With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name. Tamsin looked up.

"Ef 'ee please, you'm to come ashore, to wance!"

The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the Notice.

"There's a few young potatoes at the bottom," she said, with a curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo. "They're the earliest and best anywhere in these parts. Can you cook potatoes?" she asked, suddenly turning to Caleb. Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of defiance.

"Iss, to be sure," grinned Caleb. "Why, us does our own washin'."

Tamsin's eyes travelled without bashfulness over the array upon the beach.

"Pretty washing, I expect!" She walked up and took some of the clothes into her hand. "Look here—not half-wrung—and some fallen in the mud and dirtied worse than ever."

With fine contempt she moved among the clothes, wrung them, spread them out again, and even returned with some to the wash-tub. Like four whipped schoolboys the males looked on as she tucked up the sleeves of her neat print gown.

"Soap, too, left to float in the wash-tub, and—salt water I declare! Caleb, empty this and get some soft water from the old butt by the back door. Oh, you poor, helpless baby!"

Mr. Fogo, though the words were not spoken to him, winced and turned to stare abstractedly at the river.

"Sir," said Caleb from his hammock that night, "cudn' 'ee put in a coddysel?"

"A codicil?"

"Iss, just to say, 'No wimmen allowed but Tamsin Dearlove—us don't mind she.' Wudn' that do, sir?"

"I'm afraid not, Caleb. By-the-bye, how does your Notice run? 'All women found trespassing will be—'"

"Dealt wi' 'cordin' to the law, sir."

"Dear me, Caleb!" murmured Mr. Fogo, "but I trust that under no circumstances should I deal with a woman otherwise than according to the law."

We left the Misses Buzza engaged in rowing their papa homewards. The Three Queens as they steered King Arthur to Avilion can have been no sadder pageant. It is true the Misses Buzza grieved for no Excalibur, but the Admiral had lost his cocked-hat.

Picture to yourself that procession: the journey past the jetties; the faces that grinned down from overhanging hulls, or looked out hurriedly at casements and grew pale; the blue-jerseyed Trojan lounging on the quay, and pausing in his whistle to stare; the Trojan maidens gazing, with arrested needle; the shipwrights dropping mallet and tar-pot; the ferrymen resting on their oars; the makers of ship's biscuit rushing out, with aprons flying, to see the sight; the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker—each and all agog. Then imagine the Olympian mirth that ran along the waterside when Troy saw the joke, and, hand on hip, laughed with all its lungs.

But even this was not the worst: no, nor the crowd of urchins that followed from the landing-stage and cheered at intervals. It was when Admiral Buzza looked up and spied the face of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys at an upper window of "The Bower," that the cup of his humiliation indeed brimmed over.

Mrs. Buzza, "tittivating" at the mirror, heard the stir, and, presentient of evil, rushed down-stairs. She saw her lord restored to her, dear but damp. Yet she "nor swooned, nor uttered cry:" she simply sat violently and suddenly down upon the hall-chair, and piteously stared.

"Emily, get up!"

She did so.

"You are wet, my love," she ventured timorously.

"Wet!Woman, is this the time for airypersiflage?"

"My love," replied Mrs. Buzza, meekly, "nothing was further from my thoughts."

The Admiral glared upon her for a moment, but the retort died upon his lips. He flung his hands out with an appealing gesture and something like a sob.

"Emily," he cried, hoarsely, "Troy has laughed at me again. Put me to bed."

O forgiving heart of woman! In a moment her arms were about him, and her tears mingling with the general dampness of the Admiral's costume. Then, having wept her fill, she smiled a little, dried her eyes, and put the Admiral to bed.

Out of doors Troy still laughed at the mishap. The whole story was soon related (with infinite humour) by the unfilial Sam. Down at the "Man-o'-War," in the bar-parlour, for seven days it formed the sole topic of discussion; and Mr. Moggridge (who ought to have respected Sophia's father) even wrote a humorous ode upon the theme, beginning—

"Ye gods and little fishes…"

and full of the quaintest conceits. For seven days, from dawn to nightfall, the river off Kit's House was crowded with boat-loads of curious gazers, and the Steam-Tug Company (Limited) neglected its serious business to run special excursions to the scene of the catastrophe.

The Trojan maidens especially would stare at the Notice by the half-hour (that being the time allowed by the Steam-Tug Company), and hope, with much blushing and giggling, to catch a glimpse of Mr. Fogo. But the hermit remained steadily indoors.

Meanwhile the Admiral sulked in bed, and nursed his ill-humour. On Tuesday he was strangely softened and quiet; but:—

On Wednesday he recovered, and began to bully his wife as fiercely as ever.

On Thursday he broke the bell-rope again, and the servant gave warning.

On Friday he threatened to make his will, and refused his food.

On Saturday he was still fasting.

On Sunday he ate voraciously, drank four glasses of grog, and threw the wash-hand basin out of window.

On Monday Mrs. Buzza revolted, and took herself off, with the girls, to Miss Limpenny's party.

Yes. Miss Limpenny had mustered courage to put on her best brooch and call at "The Bower" with Lavinia. Nor did her daring end here; it took the form of a little three-cornered note on that very evening, and on the next morning Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys accepted.

"Have great pleasure in accepting," read Miss Limpenny to her sister. "The very words. I'm sure it's most affable."

"We must have cheesecakes—the famous cheesecakes—of course," reflected Miss Lavinia, "and a dish of trifle, and jellies, and—oh, Priscilla!"

"What, Lavinia?"

"Do you think a Tipsy Cake would be unbecoming?"

Miss Limpenny knit her brows over this bold proposal.

"I disapprove of the name," she said. "It has always seemed to me a trifle—ahem!—'fast,' if I may call it so. Still, we need not mention its name at supper, and the taste is undeniably grateful. But, Lavinia, I was thinking of a more important matter. Who are to be asked?"

"Why not everybody, Priscilla dear?"

"The Simpsons, for instance? It is true his father was a respectable solicitor, and even Mayor of Devonport I have heard, but Mr. Simpson's taste inbadinageis such as I cannot always approve. It is very well in Troy here, where everybody knows them, but the Goodwyn-Sandys are certain to be most particular, and, Lavinia, that crimson gown of hers!"

"Itisbright," assented Miss Lavinia.

"And the Saunders! What a pity the girls cannot be invited without the boys."

"The boys have always come before, Priscilla."

Miss Limpenny groaned. "To meet an Honourable, Lavinia!"

The leaven was working.

However, on the following Monday everybody was assembled in the little drawing-room. The Vicar was there in evening dress; the doctor and his wife; Mr. Simpson and Mrs. Simpson in the crimson gown; the Saunders boys in carpet slippers (at sight of which Miss Limpenny went hot and cold by turns); the Misses Buzza in book-muslin, with ultramarine sashes and bronze shoes laced sandal-wise; their mother in green satin and deadly terror lest the Admiral's voice should penetrate the party-wall. Mr. Moggridge was frowning gloomily in a corner at some humorous story of Sam Buzza's telling. In short, with the exception of their Admiral, all Trojan society had gathered to do honour to the new-comers.

Miss Limpenny, nervously toying with her best brooch, rose in a flutter as the door opened and admitted them.

"So afraid we are late! but the clocks at 'The Bower' have not yet recovered from their journey."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys gazed calmly about her. There was a rustle throughout the room; two pink spots appeared on Miss Limpenny's cheeks; she stumbled in her words of welcome. The Vicar frowned and looked puzzled.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys wore a low-necked gown!

It was a shock; but it passed. She was wonderfully pretty, all admitted, in her gown of a rich amber satin draped with delicate folds of black lace; around her white throat a diamond necklace glistened. How well I can remember her as she stood there toying with a button of her glove! And how mean and dowdy we all looked beside this glittering vision!

The Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys meanwhile stared at us all calmly but firmly through his eye-glass. I saw young Horatio Saunders meet that gaze and sink into his carpet slippers. I saw Mr. Moggridge frown terribly, and cross his arms. Sam Buzza came forward—

"Ah, how d'ye do? How d'ye do, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys? Looking round for the governor? He's been in bed for a week."

I think we all envied Samuel Buzza at this moment.

"Ah, nothing serious, I hope?" drawled Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"Serious, ha, ha! Haven't you heard—"

"Sam, dear!" expostulated Mrs. Buzza.

"All right, mother. He can't hear," and Sam plunged into the story.

The ice was broken. In a few moments a whist party was made up to include the Honourable Frederic, and Miss Limpenny breathed more freely. Mr. Moggridge was led up by Sam, and introduced.

"Ah, indeed! Mr. Moggridge, I have been so longing to know you."

Sam looked a trifle vexed. The poet simpered that he was happy.

"Of course I have been reading 'Ivy Leaves.' So mournful I thought them, yet somehow so attractive. Howdidyou write it all?"

Mr. Moggridge confessed amiably that he "didn't quite know."

"Let me see; those lines beginning—"

'O give me wings to—to—'

"I forget for the moment how it goes on."

"'To fly away,'" suggested the bard.

"Ah, exactly; 'to fly away.' So simple—just what onewouldwish wings for, you know. It struck me very much when I read it. When did you think of it, Mr. Moggridge?"

The poet blushed and began to look uncomfortable.

"Ah! you are reticent. Excuse me; I ought not to probe a poet's soul. Still, I should like to be able to tell my friends—"

"The—the fact is," stammered Mr. Moggridge, "I—I thought of them— in—my bath."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys leaned back and laughed—a pretty rippling laugh that shook the diamonds upon her throat. Sam guffawed, and by this action sprang that little rift between the friends that widened before long into a gulf.

"I shall ask you to copy them into my Album. I always victimise a lion when I meet one."

This was said with a glance full of compensation. Mr. Moggridge tried to look very leonine indeed. Across the room another pair of eyes gently reproached him. Never before had he tarried so long from Sophia's side. Poor little heart! beating so painfully beneath your dowdy muslin bodice. It was early yet for you to ache.

"Oh, ah, Dick Cheddar—knew him well," came in the sonorous tones of the Honourable Frederic from the whist-table. "So you were at College with him—first cousin to Lord Stilton—get the title if he only outlives the old man—good fellow, Dick—but drinks."

"Dear me," said the Vicar; "I am sorry to hear that. He was wild at Christchurch, but nothing out of the way. Why, I remember at the Aylesbury Grinds—"

Miss Limpenny, who did not know an Aylesbury Grind from a Bampton Lecture, yet detected an unfamiliar ring in the Vicar's voice.

"He fought a welsher," pursued the Vicar, "just before riding in a race. 'Rollingstone,' his horse was, and Cheddar's eyes closed before the second fence. 'Tom,' he called to me—I was on a mare called Barmaid—"

I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He—our Vicar— riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet the descent of the thunderbolt.

"Lord Ballarat was riding too," the Vicar went on, "and young Tom Beauchamp, son of the Bishop—"

"Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth," interpolated the Honourable Frederic.

"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him. I've put him to bed many a time when—"

It was too much.

"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.

But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The chandeliers rattled, the egg-shell china danced upon the what-not, and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in the company.

"It's an earthquake!" shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up with an oath.

Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his conscience.

"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.

"Or a landslip," suggested Sam Buzza.

"Or a paroxysm of Nature," said Mr. Moggridge (though nobody knew what he meant).

"Or the end of the world," hazarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mrs. Buzza timidly, "but I think it may be my husband."

"Is your husband a volcano, madam?" snapped Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, rather sharply.

Mrs. Buzza might have answered "Yes," with some colour of truth; but she merely said, "I think it must be his double-bass. My husband is apt in hours of depression to seek the consolation of that instrument."

"But, my dear madam, what is the tune?"

"I think," she faltered, "I am not sure, but I rather think, it is the 'Dead March' inSaul."

There was no doubt of it. The notes by this time vibrated piteously through the party-wall, and with their awful solemnity triumphed over all conversation. Tones became hushed, as though in the presence of death; and the Vicar, in his desperate attempts to talk, found his voice chained without mercy to the slow foot of the dirge. He tried to laugh.

"Really, this is too absurd—ha! ha!Tum-tum-tibby-tum." The effort ended in ghastly failure.Thrum-thrum-tiddy-thrumwent the Admiral's instrument.

Miss Limpenny grew desperate. "Sophia," she pleaded, "pray sing us one of your cheerful ballads."

Sophia looked at Mr. Moggridge. He had always turned over the pages for her so devotedly. Surely he would make some sign now. Alas! all his eyes were for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I will try," she assented with something dangerously like a sob.

She stepped to the "Collard" at a pace remorselessly timed to the "Dead March," and chose her ballad—a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the tinkling prelude.

"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove,to Cupid, and to Venus—"

Thrum-thrum-thrumwent the double bass next door. Mr. Moggridge looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night! He had never thought so before.

"That he might die, if he betrayedA single vow that passed between us."

"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued—

"O careless gods, to hear so ill,And cheat the maid on you relying;For false Lysander's thriving still,And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying."

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed cheeks left the piano.

"That is all—a little effort not worth—"

"Oh, it is yours! But," with a sweet smile, "I ought to have guessed. You must write a song for me one of these days."

"Do you sing?" cried the delighted Mr. Moggridge.

Sam, who had been waiting for a chance to speak, shouted across the room—"I say, Miss Limpenny, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys will sing if you ask her."

After very little solicitation, and with none of the coyness common to amateurs, she seated herself at the instrument, quietly pulled off her gloves, and dashed without more ado into a rollicking Irish ditty.

"Be aisy an' list to a chuneThat's sung uv bowld Tim, the dragoon;Sure, 'twas he'd niver missTo be stalin' a kiss—Or a brace—by the light uv the moon,Aroon,Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

"Really!" murmured Miss Limpenny. The keys of the decorous "Collard" clashed as they had never clashed before. The guests, at first shocked and startled, began to be carried away with the reckless swing of the music. The Vicar stared for a moment, and then began gradually to nod his head to the measure.

"You must sing the last line in chorus, please," said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys from the piano—

"Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

It was sung timidly at first. Nothing daunted, the performer plunged into the next verse—

"Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick!For he's gone from the land uv the quick:But he's still makin' luvTo the leddies above,An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick,Avick,Niver fear but he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

There was no doubt this time. By the spirit of her mad singing, by some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole company seemed possessed. Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the Vicar. He was actually joining in the chorus! And what a chorus! She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went up.

"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore;For they've only to sipBut the tip uv his lip,An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more,Asthore,By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"

It was no longer an assembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song. Laughingly, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rested her finger on the keys and looked around. These stolid Trojans had caught fire. There was the little Doctor purple all above his stock; there was the Vicar with inflated cheeks and a hag-ridden stare; there was Mr. Moggridge snapping his fingers and almost capering; there was Miss Limpenny with her under-jaw dropped and her eyes agape. They were charmed, bewitched, crazy.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys saw this, and broke into a silvery laugh. The infection spread. In an instant the whole room burst into a peal, a roar. They laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks; they held their sides and laughed again. She had them at her will.

There was no more wonder after this. At supper the talk was furious and incessant; Miss Lavinia spoke of a "tipsy-cake," and never blushed; the Vicar took wine with everybody, and told more stories of Three-bottle Beauchamp; even Sophia laughed with the rest, although her heart was aching—for still her poet neglected her and hung with her brother on the lips of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. I saw him bring the poor girl's cloak in the hall afterwards and receive the most piteous of glances. I doubt if he noticed it.

Outside, the Admiral's double-bass was still droning the "Dead March" to Miss Limpenny's laurestinus grove. It was the requiem of our decorum. Long after I was in bed that night I heard the voice of Mr. Moggridge trolling down the street—

"An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys had "taught us the trick," indeed.

Back to Index Next