Great events meanwhile were happening in Troy. On the eighth morning of his eclipse Admiral Buzza was startled by a brisk step upon the stairs; the devil's tattoo was neatly struck upon his bed-room door, and the head of Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys looked in.
"Ah! Admiral, here you are; like What's-his-name in the ruins of Thingummy. You'll pardon me coming up, but my wife is downstairs with Mrs. Buzza, and I was told I should find you here. Don't rise— 'no dress,' as they say. May I smoke? Thanks. And how are you by this time? I heard something of your mishap, but not the rights of it. I'll sit down, and you can tell me all about it."
Here was affability indeed. The Admiral conquered his first impulse of diving beneath the bed-clothes, and, lying back, recounted his misadventure at some length. The Honourable Frederic listened and smoked with perfect gravity. At the close he said—
"Very dirty treatment, 'pon my word; though I'm not sure I don't sympathise with the fellow in warning off the women. But why stay in bed?"
"There are feelings,"—began the Admiral.
"Ah! to be sure—injured feelings—ungrateful country—blow, blow, thou winter wind, &c. So you take to bed, like the Roman gentleman who went too; forget the place. Gets rid of the women, too; nuisance—women—when you're upset; nonsense, that about pain and anguish playing the deuce, and a ministering angel thou—tommy-rot, I call it. Can't be bothered, now, in bed—turn round and snore; wife has hysterics—snore louder. Capital! I've a mind to try the same plan when Geraldine is fussing and fuming. These infernal women—"
I am sorry to say that the Admiral, instead of defending Mrs. Buzza, began to exculpate Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.
"But your wife is so charming, so—"
"Of course, my dear sir; so is Mrs. Buzza."
"She was termed the 'Belle of Portsmouth' at the Ball where I proposed to her," remarked the Admiral, with some complacency.
"To be sure; trust a sailor to catch the pretty girls—eh?"
The Admiral chuckled feebly.
"But these women—"
"Ah! yes; these women—"
"Bachelor life was pleasant—eh, Admiral?"
"Ah!"
The two men looked at each other. A smile spread over either countenance. I regret to say the Admiral winked, and then chuckled again.
"Admiral, you must get up."
The Admiral stared interrogatively; his visitor pursued, with some inconsequence—"By the way, is there a club here?"
"There's the 'Jolly Trojans' down at the 'Man-o'-War'; they meet on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and—"
"Low lot, I suppose?"
"Well, yes," admitted the Admiral; "a certain amount of good fellowship prevails, I understand; but low, of course—distinctly low."
The Honourable Frederic tapped his boot reflectively with his malacca.
"Admiral," he said at last, "you ought to found a Club here."
"Bless my heart! I never thought of it."
"It is your duty."
"You think so?"
"Sure of it."
"I will get up," said the Admiral decisively. He started out of bed, and looked around for his clothes.
"Nice place, the country," pursued the Honourable Frederic thoughtfully; "fresh eggs, and grass to clean your pipe with—but apt to be dull. Now, a pleasant little society; cards, billiards, and socialreunions—select, of course—"
"Of course. Do you happen to be sitting on my trousers?"
"Eh? No, I believe—no. Let me see—limited loo and a modest pool of an evening. Hullo! what's the matter?"
The Admiral had rushed to the door.
"Emily!" he bawled down the stairs.
"Well, I'll be going. Can't find your trousers? Admiral, it's the last straw. But we'll be revenged, Admiral. We'll found a Club; and, by George, sir, we'll call it 'The Inexpressibles'! Ta-ta for the present," and Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys retired.
But what was being discussed below when the Admiral's voice disturbed his wife? Alas! you shall hear.
"These men," Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys was saying, "are all alike. But, my dear, why not disregard his absurd humours? I have revolted from Frederic long ago."
"You don't say so!"
"It is a fact. Take my advice and do the same. It needs courage at first, but they are all cowards—oh, such cowards, my dear! Revolt. Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip—"
"My dear, I should faint."
"Oh, poor soul! Reflect! How pretty the domestic virtues are, but how impossible! Besides, how unfashionable!"
Mrs. Buzza reflected.
"I will!" she exclaimed at last. Just then her husband's voice detonated in the room above. She arose, trembling like a leaf. "Be firm," said her adviser.
"I will."
"Sit down again. It will do him no harm to wait."
Mrs. Buzza obeyed, still trembling.
It was at this moment that the Honourable Frederic re-entered the room, and looked around with a slow smile.
"Nellie," he observed, when they were outside the house, "you're a vastly clever woman, my love."
"How's the Admiral?" was the reply.
"He nibbles, my angel; he bites."
"I heard him barkin'. An' how long will Brady be givin' us?"
"Two months, my treasure."
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys reflected for a moment, and then made the following extraordinary reply—
"Be aisy, me dear. In six weeks I'll be ready to elope from yez."
What passed between the Admiral and Mrs. Buzza when they were left together was never fully known. But it was quickly whispered that in No. 2, Alma Villas, the worm had turned. Oddly enough, the spread of conjugal estrangement did not end here. It began to be rumoured that Lawyer Pellow and his wife had "differences "; that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson dined at different hours; and that the elder Miss Strip had broken off a very suitable match with a young ship's chandler, on the ground that ship's candles were not "genteel." It was about this time, too, that Mrs. Wapshot, at the confectionery shop, refused to walk with Mr. Wapshot on the Rope-walk after Sunday evening service, because domestic bliss was "horrid vulgar"; and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' dictum that "one admirer, at least, was no more than a married woman's due," only failed of acceptance because the supply of admirers in Troy fell short of the demand. She had herself annexed Samuel Buzza and Mr. Moggridge.
Meanwhile the Admiral was not idle; and had anything been needed to whet his desire for a Club, it would have been found in a dreadful event that happened shortly afterwards.
It was May-morning, and the Admiral was planted in the sunshine outside No. 2, Alma Villas, loudly discussing the question of the hour with Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, Lawyer Pellow, and the little Doctor.
"No, we can't have him," he was roundly declaring; "the Club must be select, or it is useless to discuss it further."
"Must draw the line somewhere," murmured the Honourable Frederic.
"Quite so; at this rate we shall be admitting all the 'Jolly Trojans.'"
Just then an enormous wheelbarrow was observed approaching, seemingly by supernatural means, for no driver could be seen. The barrow was piled to a great height, and staggered drunkenly from side to side of the road; but the load, whatever it was, lay hidden beneath a large white cloth.
"H'm!" said the little Doctor dubiously. "Well, of course, you know best, but I should have thought that as an old inhabitant of Troy—"
"Pooh, my dear fellow," snapped the Admiral, "it is natural that the feelings of a few will be hurt; but if once we begin to elect the 'Jolly Trojans'—"
The barrow had drawn near meanwhile, and now halted at the Admiral's feet. From behind it stepped into view an exceeding small boy, attired mainly in a gigantic pair of corduroys that reached to the armpits, and were secured with string around the shoulders. His face was a mask of woe, and he staunched his tears on a very grimy shirt-sleeve as he stood and gazed mutely into the Admiral's face.
"Go away, boy!" said Admiral Buzza severely.
The boy sobbed loudly, but made no sign of moving.
"Go away, I tell you!"
"'Tes for you, sir."
"For me? What does the boy mean?"
"Iss, sir. Missusses orders that I was to bring et to Adm'ral Buzza's; an' ef I don't pay out Billy Higgs for this nex' time I meets wi' 'un—"
"The child's daft!" roared the Admiral. "D–––– the boy! what has Billy Higgs to do with me?"
Fig11.
"Poured a teacupful o' water down the nape o' my breeches when I'd got ha'f-way up the hill an' cudn' set the barrow down to fight 'un—the coward! Boo-hoo!" and tears flowed again at the recollection.
"What is it?"
"Cake, sir."
"Cake!"
"Iss, sir—cake."
The youth stifled a sob, and removed the white cover from the wheelbarrow.
"Bless my soul!" gasped the Admiral, "there must be some mistake."
"It certainly seems to be cake," observed the Honourable Frederic, examining the load through his eye-glass; "and very good cake, too, by the smell."
'It certainly seems to be cake,' observed the Honourable Frederic."It certainly seems to be cake," observed the Honourable Frederic.
'It certainly seems to be cake,' observed the Honourable Frederic."It certainly seems to be cake," observed the Honourable Frederic.
He was right. High on the barrow, and symmetrically piled, rested five-and-twenty huge cakes—yellow cakes such as all Trojans love— each large as a mill-stone, tinctured with saffron, plentifully stowed with currants, and crisp with brown crust, steaming to heaven, and wooing the nostrils of the gods.
"Bless my soul!" repeated the Admiral, "but I never ordered this."
Each member of the group in turn advanced, inspected the cake, sniffed the savour, pronounced it excellent, and looked from the Admiral to the boy for explanation.
"Mrs. Dymond down to the 'Man-'o-War' sent et, sir, wi' her compliments to Maaster Sam, an' hopin' as he'll find et plum i' the bakin' as it leaves her at present, an' the currants all a-picked careful, knowin' as he'd a sweet tooth."
"Sam! Do you mean to tell me that Sam—that my son—orderedthis?Upon my word, of all—"
"Didn' azackly order et, sir. Won et fair an' square. Bill Odgers comed nex' wi' seven-an'-ninety gallon. But Master Sam topped the lot by a dozen gallon aisy."
"Gallons! What the devil is the boy talking bout?"
"Beer, sir—beer; fust prize for top score o' beer drunk down to the 'Man-o'-War' sence fust o' November last. He's a wunner for beer, es Maaster Sam," pursued the relentless urchin, who by this time had forgotten his tears. "Hunderd an' nine gallons, sir, an' Bill Odgers so jallous as fire—says he'd ha' won et same as he did last time, on'y Maaster Sam's got the longer purse—offered to fight 'un, an' the wuss man to pay for both nex' time."
Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys turned aside to conceal a smile. Lawyer Pellow rubbed his chin. The Admiral stamped.
"Take it away!"
"Where be I to take it to, plaise, sir?"
"Take it away—anywhere; take it to the devil!"
But worse remained for the little man. During this conversation there had come unperceived up the road a gentleman of mild appearance, dressed in black, and carrying under his arm a large parcel wrapped about with whitey-brown paper.
The new-comer, who was indeed our friend Mr. Fogo, now advanced towards the Admiral with a bow.
"Admiral Buzza, I believe?"
The Admiral turned and faced the speaker; his jaw fell like a signal flag; but he drew himself up with fine self-repression.
"Sir, I am Admiral Buzza."
"I have come," said Mr. Fogo, quietly pulling the pins out of his parcel, "to restore what I believe is your property (Will somebody oblige me by holding this pin? Thank you), and at the same time to apologise for the circumstances under which it came into my hands. (Dear me, what a number of pins, to be sure!) I have done what lay in my power with a clothes-brush and emery-powder to restore it to its pristine brilliance. The treatment (That is the last, I think) has not, I am bound to admit, answered my expectations; its result, however, is as you see."
Here Mr. Fogo withdrew the wrapper and with a pleasant smile held out—a cocked hat.
The Admiral, purple with fury, bounced back like a shot on a red-hot shovel; stared; tried to speak, but could not; gulped; tried again; and finally, shaking his fist in Mr. Fogo's face, flung into the house and slammed the front door.
The cause of this transport turned a pair of bewildered spectacles on the others, and found them convulsed with unseemly mirth. He singled out the Honourable Frederic, and addressed himself to that gentleman.
"I have not the pleasure to be acquainted with you, sir; but if you can supply me with any reason for this display of temper, believe me—"
"My name is Goodwyn-Sandys, sir, at your—"
"What!"
Mr. Fogo dropped the cocked hat and sat down suddenly among the cakes.
"Are you," he gasped—"are you Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys—the Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Good—? Heavens!"
"No, sir," said the Honourable Frederic, who had grown a thought pale. "Goodwyn, sir—Goodwyn-Sandys. What then?"
"I never saw your face before," murmured Mr. Fogo faintly.
"That, sir, if a misfortune, is one which you share with a number of your fellow-men. And permit me to tell you, sir," continued Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, with unaccountable change of mood, "that I consider your treatment of my friend Admiral Buzza unworthy of a gentleman, sir—unworthy of a gentleman. Come, Doctor; come, Pellow—I want a word or two more with you about this Club."
And Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys ruffled away, followed by his two slightly puzzled companions.
For the space of two minutes Mr. Fogo gazed up the road after them. Then he sighed, took off his spectacles, and wiped them carefully.
"Sothat," he said slowly, "is the man she married."
"Iss, sir."
Mr. Fogo started, turned round on the barrow, and beheld the urchin from the "Man-o'-War."
"Little boy," he said sternly, "your conduct is unworthy of a—I mean, what are you doing here?"
"You've a-been an' squashed a cake," said the boy.
Mr. Fogo gave him a shilling, and hurried away down the road; but stopped once or twice on his homeward way to repeat to himself—
"Sothat—is the man—she married."
It took Admiral Buzza several days to recover his composure; but when he did, the project of the new Club grew with the conjugal disintegration of Troy, and at a rate of progress scarcely inferior. Within a week or two a house was hired in Nelson Row, a brass-plate bearing the words "Trojan Club" affixed to the door, and Admiral Buzza installed in the Presidential Chair. The Presidential Chair occupied the right-hand side of the reading-room window, which overlooked the harbour; and the Presidential duties consisted mainly in conning the morning papers and discussing their contents with Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, who usually sat, with a glass of whiskey and the Club telescope, on the left-hand side of the window. Indeed, it would be hard to say to which of the two, the whiskey or the telescope, the Honourable Frederic more sedulously devoted himself: it is certain, at least, that under the Admiral's instruction he soon developed a most amazing familiarity with nautical terms, was a mine of information (almost as soon as the Club invested in a Yacht Register) on the subject of Lord Sinkport's yacht, the auxiliary screwNiobe, and swept the horizon with a persistence that made his fellow-members stare.
But the most noticeable feature in this nautical craze was the disproportionate attention which the Honourable Frederic lavished on barques. It was the first rig that he learnt to distinguish, and his early interest developed before long into something like a passion.
One morning, for instance, Sam Buzza lounged into the reading-room and observed—
"I say, have you seen that American barque that came in last night— theMaritana?"
"What name?" asked Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, looking up suddenly.
"TheMaritana, or theMariana, orMary Ann, or something of the—Hullo! what's wrong?"
But the Honourable Frederic had caught up his hat and fled. Half an hour afterwards, when he returned, his usual calm self, the little Doctor took occasion to remark, "Upon my word, you might be a detective, you keep such a look-out on the harbour"—a remark which caused Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys to laugh so consumedly that the Doctor, without exactly seeing the point, began to think he had perpetrated quite a considerable joke.
But let no one imagine that the disruption of Trojan morals avoided heart-burning or escaped criticism. For the line which Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys declared must be drawn somewhere was found not only to bisect the domestic hearth, but to lead to a surprising number of social problems. It fell across the parallels of our small society, and demonstrated that Mrs. A and Mrs. B could never meet; that one room could not contain the two unequal families X and Y; and that while one rested on the basis of trade, and the other on professional skill, it was unreasonable to expect the apex Mrs. Y to coincide with the apex Mrs. X. Finally the New Geometry culminated in a triumphant process, which proved that while Mrs. Simpson was allowed to imbibe tea and scandal in the company of the great, her husband must sip his gin and water in solitude at home.
We had always been select in Troy; but then, In the old days,allTroy had been included in the term. When Mr. Simpson had spoken of the "Jack of Oaks" (meaning the Knave of Clubs), or had said "fainaiguing" (where others said "revoking"), we had pretended not to notice it, until at length we actually did not. So that a human as well as a philological interest attaches to the date when fashion narrowed the meaning ofCumeelfoto exclude the Jack of Oaks, and sent Mr. Simpson home to his gin and water.
The change was discussed with some asperity in the bar-parlour of the "Man-o'-War."
"The hupper classes in Troy es bloomin' fine nowadays," remarked Rechab Geddye (locally known as Rekkub) over his beer on the night when the resignations of Mr. Buzza Junior and Mr. Moggridge had been received by the "Jolly Trojans."
"Ef they gets the leastest bit finer, us shan't be able to see mun," answered Bill Odgers, who was reckoned a wit. "I have heerd tell as Trojans was cousins an' hail-fellow-well-met all the world over; but the hayleet o' this place es a-gettin' a bit above itsel'."
"That's a true word, Bill," interposed Mrs. Dymond from the bar; "an' to say 'Gie us this day our daily bread,' an' then turn up a nose at good saffron cake es flyin' i' the face o' Pruvvidence, an' no less."
"I niver knawed good to come o' titled gentry yet," said Bill.
"You doan't say that?" exclaimed Rekkub, who was an admirer of Bill's Radical views.
"I do, tho'. Look at King Richard—him i' the play-actin'. I reckon he was wan o' the hupper ten ef anybody. An' what does he do? Why, throttles a pair o' babbies, puts a gen'l'm'n he'd a gridge agen into a cask o' wine—which were the spoliation o' both—murders 'most ivery wan he claps eyes on, an' then when he've a-got the jumps an' sees the sperrits an' blue fire, goes off an' offers to swap hes whole bloomin' kingdom for a hoss—a hoss, mind you, he hadn' seen, let alone not bein' in a state o' mind to jedge hoss-flesh. What's true o' kings I reckon es true o' Hon'rubbles; they'm all reared up to the same high notions, an' I reckon us'll find et out afore long. I niver seed no good in makin' Troy fash'nubble mysel'."
The historian of Troy here feels at liberty to pass over six weeks with but scanty record. During that time the Bankshire rose bloomed over Kit's House, peered in at the windows, and found Mr. Fogo for the most part busied in peaceful carpentry, though with a mysterious trouble in his breast that at times drove him afield on venturous perambulations, or to his boat to work off by rowing his too-meditative fit. From these excursions he would return tired in body but in heart eased, and resume his humdrum life tranquilly enough; though Caleb was growing uneasy, and felt it necessary, more than once, to retire apart and "have et out," as he put it, with his conscience.
"Question es," he would repeat, "whether I be justyfied in meddlin' wi' the Cou'se o' Natur'—'speshully when the Cou'se o' Natur' es sich as I approves. An' s'posin' I bain't, furder question es, whether I be right in receivin' wan pound a week an' a new set o' small-clothes."
This nice point in casuistry was settled for the time by his waiving claim to the small-clothes, and inserting in his old pair a patch of blue seacloth that contrasted extravagantly with the veteran stuff— so extravagantly as to compel Mr. Fogo's attention.
"Does it never strike you," he asked one day as Caleb was stooping over the wood-pile, "that the repairs in your trousers, Caleb, are a trifle emphatic?Purpureus, late qui splendeat—h'm, h'm—adsuitur pannus. I mean, in the seat of your—"
"Conscience, sir," said Caleb abruptly. "Some ties a bit o' string round the finger to help the mem'ry. I does et this way."
"Well, well, I should have thought it more apt to assist the memory of others. Still, of course, you know best."
And Mr. Fogo resumed his work, and thought no more about it; but Caleb alternated between moods of pensiveness and fussy energy for some days after.
In Troy, summer was leading on a train of events not to be classed among periodic phenomena. It stands on record, for instance—
That Loo began to be played at the Club, and the Admiral's weekly accounts to grow less satisfactory than in the days when he and Mrs. Buzza were steadfast opponents at Whist.
That Mrs. Simpson discovered her great uncle to have been a baronet on this earth.
That Mrs. Payne had prefixed "Ellicome" to her surname, and spoke of "theEllicome-Paynes, you know."
That Mr. Moggridge had been heard to speak of Sam Buzza as a "low fellow."
That Sam had retorted by terming the poet a "conceited ass."
And—
That Admiral Buzza intended a Picnic.
To measure the importance of this last item, you must know that a Trojan picnic is no ordinary function. To begin with, it is essentially patriotic—devoted, in fact, to the cult of the Troy river, in honour of which it forms a kind of solemn procession. Undeviating tradition has fixed its goal at a sacred rock, haunted of heron and kingfisher, and wrapped around with woodland, beside a creek so tortuous as to simulate a series of enchanted lakes. Here the self-respecting Trojan, as his boat cleaves the solitude, will ask his fellows earnestly and at regular intervals whether they ever beheld anything more lovely; and they, in duty bound and absolute truthfulness, will answer that they never did.
It follows that a Trojan picnic depends for its success to quite a peculiar degree upon the weather. But on the day of the Admiral's merry-making, this was, beyond cavil, kind. Four boats started from the Town Quay; four boats—alas!—could by this time contain thecumeelfoof Troy; for everybody who was anybody had been invited, and nobody (with the exception of the Honourable Frederic, who could not leave his telescope) had refused. Sam Buzza did not start with the rest, but was to follow later; and in his absence Mr. Moggridge paid impressive court to Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, though uneasily, for Sophia's saddened eyes were upon him.
Yet everybody seemed in the best of spirits and tempers. The Admiral, after bestowing his wife in another boat, and glaring vindictively at Kit's House, where the figure of Mr. Fogo was visible on the beach, grew exceedingly jocose, and cracked his most admired jokes, including his famous dialogue with the echo just beyond Kit's House—a performance which Miss Limpenny declared she had seldom heard him give with such spirit. She herself, spurred to emulation, told her favourite story, which began, "In the Great Exhibition of Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-one, when her Majesty—long may she reign!—partook of a public luncheon—" and contained a most diverting incident about a cherry-pie. And always, at decent intervals, she would exclaim—
"Did you ever see anything more lovely?"
To which the Admiral as religiously would reply—
"Really, I never did."
Indeed the scene was, as Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, in another boat, observed, "Like a poet's dream"—a remark at which Mr. Moggridge blushed very much. I wish I could linger and describe with amorous precision the bright talk, the glories of the day, each bend and vista of the river which I have loved from childhood; but amid the stress of events now crowding with epic vehemence on Troy, the Muse must hasten. Fain would she dally over the disembarkation, the feast, the manner in which Admiral Buzza carved the chicken-pie, and his humorous allusion to the merry thought; or dwell upon the salad compounded by Mr. Moggridge, the spider that was found in it, and the conundrum composed upon that singular occurrence; or loiter to tell how Miss Lavinia upset the claret cup over the Vicar's coat-tails, and, in her confusion, said it "did not signify," which was very amusing. On this, and more, would she blithely discourse, did not sterner themes invite her.
It happened that on this particular morning Mr. Fogo had been restless beyond his wont. For a full hour he had wandered on the beach, as Caleb expressed it, "Back'ards an' forrards, like Boscas'le Fair." He had taken up mallet and chisel; had set them down at the end of half an hour for his paintbox, and ruined a well-meaning sketch of the previous day; had deserted this in turn for another ramble on the beach, and finally returned, with a helpless look, to Caleb, who sat whistling and splicing a rope upon the little quay.
"Hurried in mind, sir, like Pomeroy's cat," suggested he sympathetically.
"I have no acquaintance with the animal you mention," said his master.
"I reckon 'twas she as got killed by care, sir. I niver knawed mysel' but wan animal as got downright put-goin' i' that way, an' that were a hen."
"A hen?"
"Iss, sir. Et happen'd up to Penhellick, the las' year I stayed 'long wi' Lawyer Mennear. 'Twas a reg'lar fool-body, this hen—a black Minorcy she were; but no egg iver laid were fuller o' meat than she o' good-feelin'; an' prenciple! she'd enuff prenciple to stock a prayer-meetin'. But high prenciple in a buffllehead's like a fish-bone i' the throat—useful, but out o' place.
"Well, sir, th' ould Mennear wan day bought a baker's dozen of porc'lain eggs over to Summercourt Fair: beautiful eggs they were, an' you cudn' tell mun from real, 'cept by the weight. The very nex' day, findin' as hes Minorcy were layin' for a brood i' the loft above the cowshed, he takes up the true egg while the old fowl were away an' sets a porc'lain egg in place of et. In cou'se, back comes the hen, an' bein' a daft body, as I told 'ee, an' not used to these 'ere refinements o' civilizashun, niver doubts but 'tes the same as she laid. 'Twarn't long afore her'd a-laid sax more, and then her sets to work to hatch mun out.
"Nat'rally, arter a while the brood was all hatched out, 'ceptin', o' cou'se, the porc'lain egg. The mother didn't take no suspishun but 'twere all right, on'y a bit stubborn. So her sot down for two days more, an' did all a hen cud do to hatch that chick. No good; 'twudn' budge. You niver seed a fowl that hurted in mind; but niver a thought o' givin' in. No, sir. 'Twasn' her way. Her jes' cocked her head aslant, tuk a long stare at the cussed thing, an' said, so plain as looks cud say, 'Well, I've a-laid this egg, an' I reckon I've a-got to hatch et; an' ef et takes me to th' aluminium, I'll see et out.'"
"The millennium," corrected Mr. Fogo, who was much interested.
"Not bein' over-eddicated, sir," said Caleb, with unconscious severity, "that old hen, I reckon, said 'aluminium.' But niver mind. Her sot, an' sot, an' kept on settin', an' neglected the rest o' they chicks for what seemingly to her was the call o' duty, till wan' by wan they all died. 'Twas pitiful, sir; an' the wust was to see her lay so much store by that egg. Th' ould Mennear was for takin' et away; but 'twud ha' broke her heart. As 'twas, what wi' anxi'ty an' too little food, her wore to a shadow. I seed her was boun' to die, anyway; an' wan arternoon, as I was in the cowshed, I heerd a weakly sort o' cluckin' overhead, an' went up to look. 'Twas too late, sir. Th' ould hen was lying beside th' egg, glazin' at et in a filmy sort o' way, an' breathin' terrable hard. When I comes, she gi'es a look same as to say, 'I reckon I've a-got to go. I've a-been a mother to that there egg; an' I'd ha' liked to see't through afore I went. But, seemingly, 'twarn't ordained.' An' wi' that there was a kind o' flutter, an' when I turned her over I seed her troubles were done. Thet fowl, sir, hadpassed."
"You tell the story with such sympathy, Caleb, that I appeal to you the more readily for advice. I find it hard to concentrate my attention this morning."
"Ef I mou't make free to shake 'ee agen—"
"I should prefer any other cure."
"Very well, sir. Ihaveheerd, from trippers as comes to Troy, to spend the day an' get drunk in anuther parish for vari'ty's sake, as a pennorth o' say es uncommon refreshin'."
"A pennyworth of sea?"
"That's so, sir. Twelve in a boat, an' a copper a head to the boatman to row so far as there an' back, which es cheap an' empt'in' at the price, as a chap told me."
"You advise me to take a row?"
"Iss, sir; on'y I reckon you'd best go up the river, ef you'm goin' alone. Though whether you prefers the resk o' meetin' Adm'ral Buzza to bein' turned topsy-versy outside the harbour-mouth, es a question I leaves to you. 'Tes a matter o' taste, as Mounseer said by the yaller frog."
Mr. Fogo decided to risk an encounter with the Admiral. In a few minutes he was afloat, and briskly rowing in the wake of the picnic-party.
But black Care, that clambers aboard the sea-going galley, did not disdain a seat in the stern of Mr. Fogo's boat. She sat her down there, and would not budge for all his pulling. Neither could the smile of the clear sky woo her thence, nor the voices of the day; but as on ship-board she must still be talking to the man at the wheel, and on horseback importunately whispering to the rider from her pillion, so now she besieged the ear of Mr. Fogo, to whom her very sex was hateful.
Further and further he rowed in vain attempt to shake off this incubus; passed at some distance the rock where the picnickers had spread their meal (luckily, the Admiral's back was turned to the river), doubled the next bend, ran his boat ashore on a little patch of shingle overarched with trees, and, stepping out, sat down to smoke a pipe.
Secure from observation, he could hear the laughter of the picnickers borne melodiously through the trees; and either this or the tobacco chased his companion from his side; for his brow cleared, the puffs of smoke came more calmly, and before the pipe was smoked out, Mr. Fogo had sunk into a most agreeable fit of abstraction.
He was rudely aroused by the sound of voices close at hand. Indeed, the speakers were but a few yards off, on the bank above him.
Now Mr. Fogo was the last man to desire to overhear a conversation. But the first word echoed so aptly his late musings, and struck his memory, too, with so deep a pang, that before he recovered it was too late.
"Geraldine!"
"Oh! why is it?"—(it was a woman's voice that asked the question, though not the voice that Mr. Fogo had half expected to hear, and his very relief brought a shudder with it)—"oh! why is it that a man and a woman cannot talk together except in lies? You ask if I am unhappy. Say what you mean. Do I hate my husband? Well, then—yes!"
"My dear Mrs.—"
"Is that frank enough? Oh! yes, I have lied so consistently throughout my married life that I tell the truth now out of pure weariness. I detest him: sometimes I feel that I must kill either Fred or myself, and end it all."
"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Fogo, cowering more closely. "This country teems with extraordinary people!"
He held his breath as the deeper voice answered—
"Had I thought—"
"Stop! I know what you would say, and it is untrue. Be frank as I am. You had half-guessed my secret, and were bound to convince yourself: and why? Shall I tell you, or will you copy my candour and speak for yourself?"
Dead silence followed this question. After some seconds the woman's voice resumed—
"Ah! all men are cowards. Well, I will tell you. Your question implied yet another, and it was, Do I, hating my husband, love you?"
"Geraldine!"
"Do you still wish that question answered? I will do you that favour also: Listen: for the life of me—I don't know."
And the speaker laughed—a laugh full of amused tolerance, as though her confession had left her a careless spectator of its results. Mr. Fogo shuddered.
"In heaven's name, Geraldine, don't mock me!"
"But it is true. HowshouldI know? You have talked to me, read me your verses—and, indeed, I think them very beautiful. You have with comparative propriety, because in verse, invited me to fly with thee to a desolate isle in the Southern Sea—wherever that is—and forgetting my shame and likewise blame, while you do the same with name and fame and its laurel-leaf, go to moral grief on a coral reef—"
"Geraldine, you are torturing me."
"Do I not quote correctly? My point is this:—A woman will listen to talk, but she admires action. Prove that you are ready, not to fly to a coral reef, but to do me one small service, and you may have another answer."
"Name it."
Mr. Fogo, peering through the bushes as one fascinated, saw an extremely beautiful woman confronting an extremely pale youth, and fancied also that he saw a curious flash of contempt pass over the woman's features as she answered—
"Really unless you kill the Admiral next time he makes a pun, I do not know that just now I need such a service. By to-morrow, though, or the next day, I may think of one. Until then"—she held out her hand—"wait patiently, and be kind to Sophia."
Mr. Moggridge started as though stung by a snake; but, recollecting himself, imprinted a kiss upon the proffered fingers. Again Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys laughed with unaffected mirth, and again the hidden witness saw that curious gleam of scorn—only now, as the young man bent his head, it was not dissembled.
They were gone. Mr. Fogo sank back against the bushes, drew a long breath, and passed his hand nervously over his eyes; but though the scene had passed as a dream, the laugh still rang in his ears.
"It is a judgment on me!" muttered the poor man—"a judgment! They are all alike."
Curiously enough, his next reflection appeared to contradict this view of the sex.
"An extraordinary woman! But every fresh person I meet in this place is more eccentric than the last. Let me see," he continued, checking off the list on his fingers; "there's Caleb, and that astounding Admiral, and the Twins, and Tamsin—"
Mr. Fogo stared very hard at the water for some seconds.
"And Tamsin," he repeated slowly. "Hullo! my feet seem to be in the water—and, bless my soul! what has become of the boat?"
He might well ask. The tide had been steadily rising as he crouched under the banks, and was now lapping his boots. Worse than this, it had floated off the boat, which he had carelessly forgotten to secure, and drifted it up the river, at first under cover of the trees, afterwards more ostentatiously into mid-channel.
Mr. Fogo rushed up the patch of shingle until brought to a standstill by its sudden declension into deep water. There was no help for it. Not a soul was in sight. He divested himself rapidly of his clothes, piled them in a neat little heap beyond reach of the tide, and then with considerable spirit plunged into the flood and struck out in pursuit of the truant.
It is hardly necessary by this time to inform my readers that Miss Priscilla Limpenny was a lady of sensibility. We have already seen her obey the impulse of the heart rather than the cool dictates of judgment: her admiration of natural beauty she has herself confessed more than once during the voyage up the river. But lest more than a due share of this admiration should be set down to patriotism, I wish to put it on record that she possessed to an uncommon degree an appreciative sense of the poetic side of Nature. She was familiar with the works of Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L., and had got by heart most of the effusions in "Affection's Keepsake" and "Friendship's Offering." Nay, she had been, in her early youth, suspected, more than vaguely, of contributing fugitive verse to a periodical known as theHousehold Packet. She had even, many years ago, met the Poet Wordsworth "at the dinner-table," as she expressed it, "of a common friend," and was never tired of relating how the great man had spoken of the prunes as "pruins," and said "Would you obleege me with the salt?"
With such qualifications for communion with nature it is not wonderful that, on this particular afternoon, Miss Limpenny should have wandered pensively along the river's bank, and surrendered herself to its romantic charm. Possessed by the spirit of the place and hour, she even caught herself straying by the extreme brink, and repeating those touching lines from "Affection's Keepsake":—
"The eye roams widely o'er glad Nature's face,To mark each varied and delightful scene;The simple and magnificent we trace,While loveliness and brightness intervene;Oh! everywhere is something found to—"
"The eye roams widely o'er glad Nature's face,To mark each varied and delightful scene;The simple and magnificent we trace,While loveliness and brightness intervene;Oh! everywhere is something found to—"
"The eye roams widely o'er glad Nature's face,To mark each varied and delightful scene;The simple and magnificent we trace,While loveliness and brightness intervene;Oh! everywhere is something found to—"
At this point Miss Limpenny's gaze lost its dreamy expansiveness, and grew rigid with horror. Immediately before her feet, and indelicately confronting her, lay a suit of man's clothing.
It is a curious fact, though one we need not linger to discuss, that while clothes are the very symbol and first demand of decency, few things become so flagrantly immodest when viewed in themselves and apart from use. The crimson rushed to Miss Limpenny's cheek. She uttered a cry and looked around.
Inexorable fate, whose compulsion directed that gaze! If raiment apart from its wearer be unseemly, how much more—
About thirty yards from her, wading down the stream, and tugging the painter of his recovered boat, advanced Mr. Fogo.
To add a final touch of horror, that gentleman, finding that the damp on his spectacles completely dimmed his vision, had deposited them in the boat, and was therefore blind to the approaching catastrophe. Unconscious even of observation, he advanced nearer and nearer.
Miss Limpenny's emotion found vent in a squeal.
Mr. Fogo, heard, halted, and gazed blankly around.
"How singular!" he murmured. "I could have sworn I heard a cry."
He made another step. The sound was repeated, more shrilly.
"Again! And, dear me, it sounds human—as of some fellow-creature in distress."
"Go away! Go away at once!"
"Eh? Bless my soul, what can it be?" Mr. Fogo stared in the direction whence the voice proceeded, but of course without seeing anything.
"I beg your pardon?" he observed mildly.
"Go away!"
"If you will allow me—" he began, courteously addressing vacancy.
"Monster!"
The awful truth began to dawn upon him, and was followed by a hasty impulse to dive.
"If," he stammered, "I am right in supposing myself to address a lady—"
"Don't talk to me, but go away."
"I was about to ask permission to resume my spectacles, which I have unfortunately laid aside."
"No, no. That would be worse. Oh! go away at once."
"Pardon me, madam. I am aware that spectacles are insufficient as a—I mean, I did not propose to consider them in the light of a costume, but as an assistance to my sight, without which—"
"Oh! I shall faint."
"Without which it will be impossible for me to extricate myself from this extremely unfortunate situation. I am notoriously short-sighted, madam, and at this distance could not tell you from Adam—I should say, from Eve," continued Mr. Fogo, desperately reaching out for his spectacles and adjusting them.
By the imperfect glimpse which he obtained through the glasses (which were still damp) he was almost moved to adopt his first impulse of deserting the boat and diving. But even if he swam away the case would be no better, for this unreasonable female stood sentry beside his clothes.
"If I might make a suggestion, madam—"
But by this time Miss Limpenny had broken forth into a series of sobs and plaintive cries for protection. Alas! the rest of the picnic-party were deep within the woods, and out of hearing.
"Believe me, my dear madam—"
"I am not your dear madam."
"I have no other intention than to get out of this."
"Ah! he confesses it."
"I assure you—"
"Will no one protect me?" wailed the lady, wringing her hands and sobbing anew. But help was near, though from an unexpected quarter.