CHAPTER XV.

'Will no one protect me?' wailed the lady , , ,"Will no one protect me?" wailed the lady…

"Hulloa!" cried a voice on the bank above, "what be all this?"

And Peter Dearlove pushed aside the bushes and descended to the shingle, closely followed by Paul. He was just in time, for Miss Limpenny, with a thankful little cry, staggered and fell fainting into his arms.

"Mercy 'pon us!" exclaimed Peter, seeing only the lady, and not at first the cause of her distress, "'tes Miss Limpenny."

"Well, I'm jiggered!" ejaculated Paul, "so 'tes."

The Twins bent over the lady, and looked at each other in dismay. To Mr. Fogo the tableau might have borne a ridiculous likeness to that scene inCymbelinewhere Guiderius and Arviragus stoop over the unconscious Imogen. But Mr. Fogo, as he stood neck-high in water, was far beyond drawing any such comparison; and Peter, instead of adjuring Miss Limpenny to fear no more the heat o' the sun, accinged himself to the practical difficulty.

"Did 'ee iver hear tell o' what's best to be done when a leddy's took like this?" he asked his brother.

"No," answered Paul; "Tamsin was niver took this way. But that there little book us used to study when her had the whoopin'-cough an' measles wud likely tell all about et; I wish 'twas here. Wait a bit. I remembers the 'Instructions for Discoverin' th' Appariently Drownded.' Do 'ee reckon Miss Limpenny here es 'appariently drownded'?"

"Why, no."

"I don't think so nuther. Ef she was," added Paul regretfully, "you'd have to be extry partic'lar not to roll her body 'pon casks. That was a great p'int."

"'Tes a long step round to fetch that book," sighed Peter.

"An' terrable long words i' th' index when you've got et. Stop, now: es et faintin', do 'ee think?"

"Well," answered Paul thoughtfully, "etmou'tbe faintin'."

"'Cos, ef so, the best way es to hold the sufferer upsi-down an' dash cold water over the face."

"That wud be takin' too much of a liberty, wudn' et, Paul?"

But at this point the blood came trickling back into Miss Limpenny's cheeks; the eyelids fluttered, opened; she gasped a little, looked up, and—

"Is he gone?" she asked in a weak whisper.

"Gone? Who, ma'am?"

"The monster."

"Light-headed yet," muttered Peter. But following Miss Limpenny's stare the brothers caught sight of Mr. Fogo simultaneously, and for the first time. Their mahogany faces grew sensibly paler.

"Well, this beats cock-fightin'!"

"Would you mind taking that lady away?" pleaded Mr. Fogo, through his chattering teeth; "I am very cold indeed, and wish to dress."

"Oh! that voice again," sobbed Miss Limpenny; "please tell him to go away."

Being nonplussed by these two appeals, Peter addressed his reply to his brother.

"I dunno, Paul, as we've a-got to the bottom o' this; but I reck'n Mr. Fogo's been a-lettin' hes principles take 'n too far. As for dislikin' womankind, 'tes in a way 'scuseable p'raps; but notices es wan thing, an' teasin' anuther."

"That's so, Peter. Ef 'tes a matter o' fash'n, tho', I dunno as we've any call to interfere, not knawin' what's what."

"Ef you plaise, sir," shouted Peter, "Paul an' me wants to know whether you be a-doin' et by way o' bein' fash'nubble?"

"I don't know what you mean. I only wish to be allowed to get at my clothes. I really am suffering considerably, being quite unused to these long immersions."

Peter looked around and caught sight of the neat pile of Mr. Fogo's attire lying underneath the bank. Light began to dawn on him; he turned to Miss Limpenny—

"You'll excuse me, ma'am, but was you present by any chance when—?"

"Heaven forbid!" she cried, and put her hands before her face.

"Then, beggin' your pard'n, but how did you come here?"

"I was wandering on the bank—and lost in thought—and came upon these—these articles. And then—oh! I cannot, I cannot."

"Furder question es," pursued Peter, with an interrogative glance at his brother, who nodded, "why not ha' gone away?"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Limpenny, "I never thought of it!"

She gathered up her skirts, and disdaining the assistance of the gallant Paul, clambered up the bank, and with a formal bow left the Twins staring. As she remarked tearfully to Lavinia that evening, "What one requires in these cases is presence of mind, my dear," and she heaved a piteous little sigh.

"But consider," urged the sympathetic Lavinia, "your feelings at the moment. I am sure that under similar circumstances"—she shuddered— "I should have behaved in precisely the same way."

Mr. Fogo emerged in so benumbed a condition, his teeth chattered so loudly, and his nose had grown so appallingly blue, that the Twins, who had in delicacy at first retired to a little distance, were forced to return and help him into his clothes. Even then, however, he continued to shiver to such an extent that the pair, after consulting in whispers for some moments, took off their coats, wrapped him carefully about, set him in the stern of his boat, and, jumping in themselves, pushed off and rowed rapidly homewards.

Their patient endeavoured to express his thanks, but was gravely desired not to mention it. For ten minutes or so the Twins rowed in silence, at the end of this time Paul suddenly dropped the bow oar; then, leaning forward, touched his brother on the shoulder and whispered one word—

"Shenachrum."

"Or Samson," said Peter.

"I think poorly o' Samson."

"Wi' hes hair on?"

"Wi' or wi'out, I don't lay no store by Samson."

"Very well, then—Shenachrum."

The rowing was resumed, and Mr. Fogo left to speculate on these dark sayings. But as the boat drew near the column of blue smoke that, rising from the hazels on the left bank, marked the whereabouts of the Dearloves' cottage, he grew aware of a picture that, perhaps by mere charm of composition, set his pulse extravagantly beating.

At the gate above the low cliff, her frock of pink print distinct against the hazels, stood Tamsin Dearlove, and looked up the river.

She was bare-headed; and the level rays of evening powdered her dark tresses with gold, and touched the trees behind into bronze. One hand shielded her eyes; the other rested on the half-open gate, and swayed it softly to and fro upon its hinge. As she stood thus, some happy touch of opportunity, some trick of circumstance or grouping, must, I think, have helped Mr. Fogo to a conclusion he had been seeking for weeks. It is certain that though he has since had abundant opportunities of studying Tamsin, and noting that untaught grace of body in which many still find the secret of her charm, to his last day she will always be for him the woman who stood, this summer evening, beside the gate and looked up the river.

And yet, as the boat drew near, the pleasantest feature in the picture was the smile with which she welcomed her brothers, though it contained some wonder to see them in Mr. Fogo's boat, and gave place to quick alarm as she remarked the extreme blueness of that gentleman's nose and the extreme pallor of his other features.

"Tamsin, my dear, es the cloth laid?"

"Yes, Peter, and the kettle ready to boil."

"We was thinkin' as Shenachrum would be suitin' Mr. Fogo better. He've met wi' an accident."

"Again?" There was something of disdain in her eyes as she curtseyed to him, but it softened immediately. "You're kindly welcome, sir," she added, "and the Shenachrum shall be ready in ten minutes."

Within five minutes Mr. Fogo was seated by the corner of the hearth, and watching her as she heated the beer which, together with rum, sugar, and lemon, forms the drink known and loved by Trojans as Shenachrum. The Twins had retired to wash in the little out-house at the back, and their splashing was audible every now and again above the crackling of the wood fire, which now, as before, filled the kitchen with fragrance. Its warmth struck kindly into Mr. Fogo's knees, and coloured Tamsin's cheeks with a hot red as she bent over the flame. He watched her profile in thoughtful silence for some moments, and then fell to staring at the glowing sticks and the shadows of the pot-hooks and hangers on the chimney-back.

"So that is Shenachrum?" he said at last, to break the silence.

"Yes."

"And what, or who, is Samson?"

"Samson is brandy and cider and sugar."

"With his hair on?"

She laughed.

"That means more brandy. Samson was double as strong, you know, with his hair on."

"I see."

The silence was resumed. Only the tick-tack of the tall clock and the splashing of the Twins disturbed it. She turned to glance at him once, and then, seeing his gaze fixed upon the fire that twinkled on the rim of his spectacles and emphasised the hollows of his face, had looked for a moment more boldly before she bent over her task again.

"She is quite beautiful, but—"

He spoke in a dreamy abstracted tone, as if addressing the pot-hooks. Tamsin started, set down the pan with a clatter, and turned sharply round.

"Eh?" said Mr. Fogo, aroused by the clatter, "you were saying—?" And then it struck him that he had spoken aloud. He broke off, and looked up with appealing helplessness.

There was a second's pause.

"Youwere saying—"

The words came as if dragged from her by an effort. Her eyes were full of wrath as she stood above him and waited for his reply.

"I am very sorry," he stammered; "I never meant you to hear."

"You were talking of—?"

"Of you," he answered simply. He was horribly frightened; but it was not in the man's nature to lie, or even evade the question.

The straightforwardness of the reply seemed to buffet her in the face. She put up a hand against the chimney-piece and caught her breath.

"What is 'but'?" she asked with a kind of breathless vehemence. "Finish your sentence. What right have you to talk of me?" she went on, as he did not reply. "If I am not a lady, what is that to you? Oh!" she persisted, in answer to the swift remonstrance on his face, "I can end your sentence: 'She is quite beautiful, but—quitelow, of course.' What right have you to call me either—to speak of me at all? We were content enough before you came—Peter and Paul and I. Why cannot you let us alone? I hate you! Yes, I hope there is no doubt now that I am low—hate you!"

She stamped her foot in passion as two angry tears sparkled in her eyes.

"Why, Tamsin!" cried Paul's voice at the door, "the Shenachrum not ready yet? I niver knawed 'ee so long afore."

She turned sharply, caught up the pan, and stooped over the fire again. But the glow on her cheeks now was hotter than any fire could bring.

"'Tes rare stuff, sir," said the Twin encouragingly, as Tamsin filled a steaming glass, and handed it, without a look, to Mr. Fogo. "Leastways, 'tes thought a deal of i' these parts by them as, wi'out bein' perlite, es yet reckoned jedges."

Mr. Fogo took the glass and sipped bravely. The stuff was so hot that tears sprang to his eyes, but he gulped it down, nevertheless.

"An' now, sir," began Peter, who had joined the group, and was looking on approvingly, "Paul an' me was considerin' in the back-kitchen, an' agreed that makin' so bold as to ax 'ee, an' hopin' 'twont' be thought over free, you must stay the night, seein' you've took this cold, an' the night air bein', as es well known, terrable apt to give 'ee inflammation."

"We'd planned," put in Paul, "to go down wi' the boat to Kit's House an' fetch up your things, and tell Caleb about et, so's he shudn' be decomposed. An' Tamsin'll tell 'ee there's a room at your sarvice, an' reckoned purty—lookin' on to the bee-skeps an' the orchard at the back," he explained with a meaning glance at Tamsin, who was silent.

"Why, Tamsin, girl, what's amiss that you don't spake?" asked Peter; and then his amazement got the better of his tact, as he added in a stage whisper, "'Tes on'y to change rooms. Paul an' me can aisy sleep down here afore the fire; an' us on'y offered your room as bein' more genteel—"

"I assure you," broke in Mr. Fogo, "that I am quite recovered of my chill, thanks to your kindness, and would rather return—much rather: though I thank you all the same." He spoke to the Twins, but kept his eyes on Tamsin.

"No kindness at all," muttered Peter. His face fell, and he, too, looked at the girl.

Finding their eyes upon her, she was compelled to speak.

"Mr. Fogo wudn' care for the likes o' what we cou'd offer him," she said. Then, seeing the pain on the men's faces, she added with an effort to be gracious, "But ef he can put up wi' us, he knows he shall be made welcome."

She did not look up, and her voice, in which the peculiar sing-song of Trojan intonation was intentionally emphasised, sounded so strangely that still greater amazement fell upon the Twins.

"Why, Tamsin, I niver knawed 'ee i' this mood afore," stammered Paul.

"I assure you," interposed Mr. Fogo, "that I value your hospitality more than I can say, and shall not forget it. But it would be absurd to accept it when I am so near home. If one of you would consent to row me down to Kit's House, it would be the exact kindness I should prefer."

The Twins assented, though not without regret at his refusal to accept more. Paul agreed to row him down, and the two started in the early twilight. As he shook Peter's hand, Mr. Fogo looked at Tamsin.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night, sir."

She did not offer to shake hands; she scarcely even looked up, but stood there before the chimney-place, with the fire-light outlining her form and throwing into deep shadow the side of her face that was towards him. One arm was thrown up to grasp the mantelshelf, and against this her head rested. The other hung listlessly at her side. And this was the picture Mr. Fogo carried out into the grey evening.

As the door closed upon him, Peter sank into the stiff-backed chair beside the hearth with a puzzled sigh.

"Why, Tamsin," he said, as he slowly drew out his pipe and filled it, "what ailed 'ee, girl, to behave like that?"

Looking up, he saw a tear, and then a second, drop brightly on the hearth-stone.

"Little maid!"

Before he could say more she had stepped to him, and, sitting on the chair-arm, had flung her arms around his neck and drawn his head towards her, that he might not look into her face.

"I hate him," she sobbed—"I hate him! I wish I had never seen him. He despises us, and—and I was so happy before he came."

The Twin set down his pipe upon his knee, and stared into the fire.

"As for hatin', Tamsin," he said gravely, "'tain't right. Us shud love our neighbours, Scriptur' says; an' I reckon that includes tenants. I' the matter o' hes despisin' us, I dunno as you'm right nuther. He's fash'nubble, o' cou'se; but very conformable, considerin'—very conformable. You bain't sorry us let Kit's House, eh, Tamsin? Not hankerin'—"

"No, no."

"I doubt, my dear, we'm poor hands to take care of 'ee, Paul an' me. Us talks et over togither at times, an' agrees 'twas wrong not to ha' sent 'ee away to school. Us got a whack o' handbills down, wan time, from different places. You wudn' believe et, my dear," he went on, with something like a laugh, "but Paul an' me a'most came to words over they handbills. 'Tes a curious fac', but at the places where they allowed most holidays, they was most partic'lar about takin' your own spoon and fork, an' Paul was a stickler agen that. Et grew to be a matter o' prenciple wi' Paul that wheriver you went you shudn' take your own spoon and fork. So us niver came to no understandin'. I doubt 'twas selfish an' us can't understand maidens an' their ways; but say, my dear, ef there's anything can be set right, an' us'll try—"

"No, no. Let me sit here beside you, and I shall be better presently."

She drew a low stool to his side, and sat with her head against his knee, and her dark eyes watching the fire. Peter laid one hand gently on her hair, and wound the brown locks around his fingers.

"All right now?" he asked, after several minutes had passed with no sound but the ticking of the clock.

"All right beside you, brother. It is always all right beside you."

Mr. Fogo and Paul performed the journey back to Kit's House in silence; for Paul was yet wondering at his sister's behaviour, and Mr. Fogo busy with thoughts he could hardly have interpreted. As they drew near the little quay, they discerned through the darkness, now fast creeping over the river, a boat pushed off by a solitary figure that jumped aboard and began to pull towards them.

"Ahoy, there!" It was Caleb's voice.

"Ahoy, Caleb!" shouted Paul in answer; "anything wrong?"

"Have 'ee seen maaster?"

"Iss, an' got un safe an' sound."

Caleb peered through the gloom and descried Mr. Fogo. Whatever relief this may have been to his feelings, it called forth no expression beyond a grunt. He turned his boat and pulled back in time to help his master ashore. Paul was dismissed with some words of thanks which he declared unnecessary. He would row back in Mr. Fogo's boat, he said, if he might be allowed, and would bring her down in the early morning. With this and a hearty "Good-night" he left the pair to walk up to the house together.

Caleb was unusually silent during supper, and when his master grew cheery and related the adventures of the day, offered no comment beyond a series of mysterious sounds expressing mental discontent rather than sympathy. Finally, when Mr. Fogo had finished he looked up and began abruptly—

"Ef you plaise, sir, I wants to gie warnin'."

"Give warning?"

"Iss, sir; notiss to go." And Caleb stared fiercely at his master.

"But, my dear Caleb, you surely don't mean—?"

"I do, tho'."

"Are you dissatisfied with the place or the wages?"

"That's et, sir—the wages."

"If they are too low—"

"They bain't; they be a darned sight too high."

Mr. Fogo leant back in his chair.

"Too high!" he gasped.

"Look 'ee here, sir: here be I, so lazy as La'rence, an' eatin' my head off 'pon a pund a week an' my small-clothes, on condishun I looks arter 'ee. Very well; what happens? 'Tes Dearlove, Dearlove, Dearlove all the time. Fust Tamsin brings 'ee back, and then Paul, an' nex' time I reckon 'twill be Peter's turn. Where-fore, sir, seein' I can't offer to share wages wi' the Twins, much less wi' Tamsin, I wants to go."

Caleb knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, rising, stared at his master for some seconds and with much determination.

Mr. Fogo argued the case for some time without effect. But so sincerely did he paint his helplessness, and nervous aversion to new faces, that at length, after many pros and cons, Caleb consented to give him one more chance. "But mind, sir," he added, "the nex' time you'm brought home by a Dearlove, 'go' 's the word." On this understanding they retired to rest, but it was long before Mr. Fogo could shut his memory upon the panorama of the day's experiences.

Let us return to the picnickers. After what had passed between Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys and Mr. Moggridge on the river's bank, it may seem strange that the lady should have chosen Sam Buzza to row her home, for the two youths were now declared rivals for her goodwill. But I think we may credit her with a purpose.

At any rate, when the lengthening shadows and retreating tide hinted return, Sam, who had arrived late in a designedly small dingey, asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys to accompany him, and she, with little demur, complied. It did not matter greatly, as propriety would be saved by their nearness to the larger boats; and so the party started together.

But this arrangement, though excellent, did not last long; for, curiously enough, the dingey soon began to take a formidable lead of the next boat, in which the traitorous Moggridge was pulling stroke, and gazing, with what courage he could summon, into Sophia's eyes. Indeed, so quickly was the lead increased, that at the end of two miles the larger boats had shrunk to mere spots in the distance.

The declining sun shone in Sam's eyes as he rowed, and his companion, with her sunshade so disposed as to throw her face into shadow, observed him in calm silence. The sunshade was of scarlet silk, and in the softened light stealing through it her cheek gained all the freshness of maidenhood. Her white gown, gathered about the waist with a band of scarlet, not only fitted her figure to perfection, but threw up the colour of her skin into glowing relief. To Sam she appeared a miracle of coolness and warmth; and as yet no word was spoken.

At length, and not until they had passed the Dearloves' cottage, she asked—

"Why were you late?"

"Was I missed?"

"Of course. You younger men of Troy seem strangely blind to your duties—and your chances."

The last three words came as if by after-thought; Sam looked up quickly.

"Chances? You said 'chances,' I believe?"

"I did. Was there not Miss Saunders, for instance?"

Sam's lip curled.

"Miss Saunders is not a chance; she is a certainty. Did she, for instance, announce that the beauty of the day made her sad—that even amid the wealth of summer something inside her whispered 'Autumn'?"

"She did."

"She always does; I have never picnicked with Miss Saunders but something inside her whispered 'Autumn'!"

"A small bore," suggested Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "that never misses fire."

Sam tittered and resumed—

"If it comes to duties, your husband sets the example; he hasn't moved from the club window to-day."

"Oh!" she exclaimed shortly, "I never asked you to imitate my husband."

Sam ceased rowing and looked up; he was familiar with the tone, but had never heard it so emphasised before.

"Look here," he said; "something's wrong, that's plain. It's a rude question, but—does he neglect you?"

She laughed with some bitterness, and perhaps with a touch of self-contempt.

"You are right; it is a rude question: but—he does not."

There was a moment's silence, and then she added—

"So it's useless, is it not, to wish that he would?"

The blood about Sam's heart stood still. Were the words a confession or a sneer. Did they refer to her or to him? He would have given worlds to know, but her tone disclosed nothing.

"You mean—?"

She gave him no answer, but turned her head to look back. In the distant boats they had fallen to singing glees. In this they obeyed tradition: for there is one accomplishment which all Trojans possess—of fitting impromptu harmonies to the most difficult air. And still in the pauses of the music Miss Limpenny would exclaim—

"Did you ever see anything more lovely?"

And the Admiral would reply—

"Really, I never did."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys could not, of course, hear this. But the voices of the singers stole down the river and touched her, it may be, with some sense of remorse for the part she was playing in this Arcadia.

"We are leaving the others a long way behind," she said irresolutely.

"Do you wish to wait for them?"

For a moment she seemed about to answer, but did not. Sam pulled a dozen vigorous strokes, and the boat shot into the reach opposite Kit's House.

"That," she said, resting her eyes on the weather-stained front of Mr. Fogo's dwelling, "is where the hermit lives, is it not? I should like to meet this man that hates all women."

Sam essayed a gallant speech, but she paid no heed to it.

"What a charming creek that is, beyond the house! Let us row up there and wait for the others."

The creek was wrapped in the first quiet of evening. There was still enough tide to mirror the tall trees that bent towards it, and reflect with a grey gleam one gable of the house behind. Two or three boats lay quietly here by their moorings; beside them rested a huge red buoy, and an anchor protruding one rusty tooth above the water. Where the sad-looking shingle ended, a few long timbers rotted in the ooze. Nothing in this haunted corner spoke of life, unless it were the midges that danced and wheeled over the waveless tide.

"Yonder lies the lepers' burial-ground," said Sam, and pointed.

"I have heard of them" (she shivered); "and that?"

She nodded towards the saddest ruin in this sad spot, the hull of what was once a queenly schooner, now slowly rotting to annihilation beside the further shore. She lay helplessly canted to starboard, her head pointing up the creek. Her timbers had started, her sides were coated with green weed; her rudder, wrenched from its pintle, lay hopelessly askew. On her stern could still be read, in blistered paint, her name, "The Seven Sistersof Troy." There she lay dismantled, with a tangle of useless rigging, not fit for saving, left to dangle from her bulwarks; and a quick fancy might liken her, as the tide left her, and the water in her hold gushed out through a dozen gaping seams, to some noble animal that had crept to this corner to bleed to death.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked towards the wreck with curious interest.

"I should like to examine it more closely," she said.

For answer Sam pulled round the schooner, and let the boat drift under her overhanging side.

"You can climb aboard if you like," he said, as he shipped the sculls and, standing up, grasped the schooner's bulwarks. "Stop, let me make the painter fast."

He took up the rope, swung himself aboard, and looped it round the stump of a broken davit; then bent down and gave a hand to his companion. She was agile, and the step was of no great height; but Sam had to take both her hands before she stood beside him, and ah! but his heart beat cruelly quick.

Once on board Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys displayed the most eager inquisitiveness, almost endangering her beautiful neck as she peered down into the hole where the water lay, black and gloomy. She turned and walked aft with her feet in the scuppers, and her right hand pressed against the deck, so great was the cant on the vessel. It was uphill walking too, for the schooner was sagged in the waist, and the stern tilted up to a considerable height. Nevertheless she reached the poop at last. Sam followed.

"I want to see the captain's cabin," she explained.

Sam wondered, but led the way. It was no easy matter to descend the crazy ladder, and in the cabin itself the light was so dim that he struck a match. Its flare revealed a broken table, a horsehair couch, and a row of cupboards along the walls. On the port side these had mostly fallen open, and the doors in some cases hung by a single hinge. There was a terrible smell in the place. Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked around.

"Does the water ever come up here?" she asked.

Sam lit another match.

"No," he said, stooping and examining the floor.

"You are quite sure?"

Her tone was so eager that he looked up.

"Yes, I am quite sure; but why do you ask?"

She did not answer: nor, in the faint light, could he see her face. After a moment's silence she said, as if to herself—

"This is just the place."

"For what?"

"For—for an Irish jig," she laughed with sudden merriment. "Come, try a step upon these old timbers."

"For heaven's sake take care!" cried Sam. "There may be a trap-hatch where you stand, and these boards are rotten through and through. Ten minutes ago you were mournful," he added, in wonder at her change of mood.

"Was I?" She broke out suddenly into elfish song—

"'Och! Pathrick O'Hea, but I'm sad, Bedad!Och! darlint, 'tis bad to be sad.''Hwat's this?' says he.'Why, a kiss,' says she.''Tis a cure,' says he.'An' that's sure,' says she.'Och! Pat, you're a sinsible lad, Bedad!Troth, Pat, you're a joole uv a lad!'"

She broke off suddenly and shivered.

"Come, let us go; this place suffocates me."

She turned and ran up the crazy ladder. At the top she turned and peered down upon the dumbfounded Sam.

"Nobody comes here, I suppose?"

"I should think not."

"I mean, the owner never comes to—"

"To visit his cargo?" laughed Sam. "No, the owner is dead. He was a wicked old miser, and I guess in the place where he is now he'd give a deal for the water in this ship; but I never heard he was allowed to come back for it."

She leant her hands on the taffrail, and looked over the stern.

"Hark! There are the other boats. Don't you hear the voices? They have passed us by, and we must make haste after them."

She turned upon him with a smile. Without well knowing what he did he laid his hand softly on her arm.

"Stop, I want a word before you go."

"Well?"

Her large eyes, gleaming on him through the dusk, compelled and yet frightened him. He trembled and stammered vaguely—

"You said just now—you hinted, I mean—that you were unhappy with Mr.—with your husband. Is that so?"

It was the second time she had been asked the question to-day. A faint smile crossed her face.

"Well?" she said again.

"I mean," he answered with a nervous laugh, "I don't like to see it— and—I meant, if I could help you—"

"To run away? Will you help me to run away?" Her eyes suddenly blazed upon him, and as she bent forward, and almost hissed the words, he involuntarily drew back a step.

"Well," he stammered, "he's a good fellow, really, is your husband— he's been very good to me and all that—"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, turning away, "I thought so. Come, we are wasting time."

"Stop!" cried Sam.

But she had passed swiftly down the sloping deck and dropped into the boat without his assistance. He followed unsteadily, untied the painter, and jumped down after her. They rowed for some time in silence after the retreating picnickers. Before they came abreast of the hindmost boat, however, Sam spoke—

"Look here. I can't help myself, and that's the truth. If you want to run away I'll help you." He groaned inwardly as he said it.

She made no reply, but kept her eyes fixed on his face, as if weighing his words. Nor, beyond a cool "Good-night" at parting on the quay, did another word pass between them.

"What luck?" asked the Honourable Frederic as his wife entered the drawing-room of "The Bower." He was stretched in an arm-chair before the fire, and turned with a glance of some anxiety at her entrance.

She looked about her wearily, took off her hat, tossed it across to a table, and, sinking into the armchair opposite, began to draw off her gloves.

"I'm sick to death of all this, me dear—of 'the Cause,' of Brady, of these people, of meself."

Her face wore a grey look that made her seem a full ten years older.

"Won't you include me in the list, my love?" asked her husband amiably.

"I would," she replied, "only I've already said as much twice this very afternoon."

She laughed a fatigued little laugh, and looked around her again. The drawing-room had greatly changed since first we visited it with Admiral Buzza, and the local tradesmen regarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys' account with some complacency as they thought of payment after Midsummer. For the strangers were not of the class that goes to the Metropolis or to the Co-operative Stores; from the outset they had announced a warm desire to benefit the town of Troy. This pretty drawing-room was one of the results, and it only wanted a certain number of cheques from the Honourable Frederic to make the excellence of the arrangement complete.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys took a leisurely survey of the room while her husband awaited information.

"The pote is hooked," she said at last, "an' so's Master Sam."

"The poet is our first card," replied her husband, searching his pocket and producing a letter. "TheMarylandshould be here to-morrow or next day. Upon my word, Nellie, I don't want to ask questions, but you've done exceedingly well."

"Better than well, me dear. I've found aplace—an illigant hidin' in an owld schooner up the river."

"Safe?"

"As a church. I'll take yez to't to-morra. Master Sam tells me sorra a sowl goes nigh ut. He tuk me to see ut. I say, me darlint, I'd be lettin' that young fool down aisier than the pote. He's a poor little snob, but he's more like a man than Moggridge."

"He's a bad ass, is Moggridge," assented the Honourable Frederic. "Come, Nellie, we've a day's work before us, remember."

A friend of mine, the son of steady-going Nihilist parents, and therefore an authority, assures me that the Honourable Frederic cannot have been a conspirator for the simple reason that he shaved his chin regularly. Be this as it may, to-night he smiled mysteriously as he rose, and winked at his wife in a most plebeian way. I regret to say that both smile and wink were returned.

Winked . . . in a most plebeian way.Winked … in a most plebeian way.

At two o'clock next morning Mr. Moggridge closed the door of his lodgings behind him, and stepping out into the street stood for some moments to ponder.

A smile sat upon his lips, witness to pleasure that underlies poetic pains. The Collector of Customs was in humour this morning, and had written thirty lines of Act IV. ofLove's Dilemma: a Comedy, before breakfast, for it was his custom to rise early and drink regularly of the waters of Helicon before seeking his office. It is curious that the Civil Service should so often divide its claims with the Service of the Muse. I remember that the Honourable Frederic once drew my attention to this, and supplied me with several instances:—"There was What's-his-name, you know, and t'other Johnny up in the Lakes, and a heap I can't remember at the moment—fancy it must come from the stamps—licked off with the gum, perhaps."

Be that as it may, Mr. Moggridge had written thirty lines this morning, and was even now, as he stood in the street and stared at the opposite house, repeating to himself a song he had just composed for his hero. It is worth quoting, for, with slight alteration, I know no better clue to the poet's mood at the time. The play has since been destroyed, for reasons of which some hint may be found in the next few chapters; but the unfinished song is still preserved among the author's notes, where it is headed—

A HYMN OF LOVE."Toiling lover, loose your pack,All your sighs and tears unbind;Care's a ware may break a back,May not bend a maiden's mind."Loose, and follow to a landWhere the tyrant's only feeIs the kissing of a handAnd the bending of a knee."In that State a man shall needNeither priest nor lawgiver:Those same slips that are his creedShall confess their worshipper."All the laws he must obey,Now in force and now repealed,Shift in eyes that shift as they—

A HYMN OF LOVE.

"Toiling lover, loose your pack,All your sighs and tears unbind;Care's a ware may break a back,May not bend a maiden's mind."Loose, and follow to a landWhere the tyrant's only feeIs the kissing of a handAnd the bending of a knee."In that State a man shall needNeither priest nor lawgiver:Those same slips that are his creedShall confess their worshipper."All the laws he must obey,Now in force and now repealed,Shift in eyes that shift as they—

"'Shift as they,' 'shift as they,'" mused Mr. Moggridge. "Let me see—"

'Till alike with kisses sealed.'

"That was it. With another verse, and a little polishing, I will take it to Geraldine and ask her—"

At this point the poet glanced down the street, and, to his surprise, beheld Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advancing towards him.

"Good-morning," she nodded with a charming smile, "I was coming to look for you. I have a favour to ask."

"A favour? Is itthe—?"

"Well, it's rather prosaic forthe—" she laughed. "In fact, it'stea."

"Tea?"

"Yes. It's rather a long story; but it comes to this. You see, Fred is very particular about the tea he drinks."

"Indeed?"

"It's a fact, I assure you. Well, when we were travelling in the states, Fred happened to come across some tea he liked particularly, at Chicago. And the funny thing about this tea is that it is compressed. It is called 'Wapshotts' Patent Compressed Tea;' now I daresay," added Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys demurely, "that you wouldn't think it possible for compressed tea to be good."

"To tell you the truth," said Mr. Moggridge, "I have never given the subject a thought."

"No, of course; being a poet, you wouldn't. But it's very good, all the same: you buy it in cakes, and have to be very particular that 'Wapshott and Sons' is written on each cake: of course it isn'treallywritten—"

"Of course not; but you'll excuse me if I don't yet see—"

"To be sure you don't until I have explained. Well, you see, men are so particular about what they eat and drink, and are always thinking about it—I don't mean poets, of course. I suppose you, for instance, only think about gossamer and things."

"I don't know that I think much about gossamer," said Mr. Moggridge.

"Well, moonbeams, then. But Fred is different. Ever since he left Chicago he has been talking about that tea. I wonder you never heard him."

"I have not, to my knowledge."

"No? Well, at last, finding it couldn't be bought in England, he sent across for a chest. We had the invoice a few days ago, and here it is."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys produced a scrap of paper, and went on—

"You see, it's coming in a ship called theMaryland, and ought to be here about this time. Well, Fred was looking through his telescope before breakfast this morning—he's always looking through a telescope now, and knows, I believe, every rig of every vessel in the world—when he calls out, 'Hullo! American barque!' in his short way. Of course, I didn't know at first what he meant, and mixed it up with that stuff—Peruvian bark, isn't it?—that you give to your child, if you have one, and do not let it untimely die, or something of the sort. But afterwards he shouted, 'I shouldn't wonder if she's theMaryland;' and then I understood, and it struck me that it would be so nice to come to you and pay the 'duty,' or whatever you call it, on the tea, and at the same time, if you were very good, you would take me over the ship with you, and show me how you did your work. It's very complicated, I daresay: but I'll be quiet as a mouse, and won't interrupt you at all."

She paused for breath. The Collector smiled, and handed back the invoice.

"It seems all right," he said. "Let us hurry to the Custom House. An hour in your company, Geraldine, will transfigure even the dull round of duty."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys smiled back divinely. She thought it extremely probable.

A few minutes later the poet sat by Geraldine's side—sweet proximity!—in the stern of one of Her Majesty's boats, while two "minions," as he was wont in verse to term his subordinates, rowed them towards a shapely barque that had just dropped anchor not far from the Bower Slip.

She flew a yellow flag in sign that she hailed from a foreign port, and as the Customs' boat dropped under her quarter Mr. Moggridge shouted—

"Maryland, ahoy!"

"Ahoy!" answered a gruff voice, and a red face looked over the side.

"Captain?" inquired Mr. Moggridge.

"That's me—Uriah T. Potter, Cap'n. Customs, I guess," said the red-faced man, with a slow look at Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"Clean bill of health?"

"Waal, two fo'c's'le hands down with whoopin'-cough: take it you won't keep us in quarantine for that."

The Collector helped Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys up the ship's side. As she alighted on deck a swift glance passed between her and the red-faced man. Quite casually she laid two fingers on her chin. Uriah T. Potter did the same; but Mr. Moggridge was giving some instructions to his minions at the moment, and did not notice it.

"Anything to declare?" he asked.

"Mainly corn aboard, an' tinned fruits for Port o' London. Reas'nable deal o' tea an' 'baccy, though, for you to seal—shipped for same place. By the way, chest o' tea for party living hereabouts—Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner—guess that's the reason for putting in at this one-hoss place," wound up Uriah T. Potter, with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy.

"This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys," said the Collector.

"Proud to make your 'cquaintance, marm." The Captain held out his hand to the lady, who shook it affably.

"Let's see the cargo," said Mr. Moggridge.

The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the ship, and slipping her fingers timidly into the Collector's hand on the dark companion stairs. He seized and raised them to his lips.

"Oh, you poets!" expostulated she.

"Where the tyrant's only fee," murmured Mr. Moggridge."Is the kissing of a hand."

"What, more verses? You shall repeat them to me."

I am afraid that in the obscurity below, Mr. Moggridge inspected the weighing of ship's stores and sealing of excisable goods in a very perfunctory manner. There were so many dim corners and passages where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the minions were sufficient for the work. They rummaged here and there among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence.

They were seated together on a cask, and Mr. Moggridge had possessed himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand.

"You think the verses obscure?" he was whispering. "Ah! Geraldine, if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves to grace my measure!'"

"Who's she?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her companion's verse so highly.

"'The merchant, to conceal his treasure,Conveys it in a borrowed name,'"

Mr. Moggridge began to quote.—"Why, Geraldine, what is the matter? Are you faint?"

"No; it is nothing."

"I thought you seemed pale. As I was saying—"

'The merchant, to conceal his treasure—'

"Yes, yes, I know," said she, rising abruptly. "It is very hot and close down here."

"Then youwerefaint?"

"Here's your chest, marm," called the voice of Uriah T. Potter.

She turned and walked towards it. It was a large, square packing-case, and bore the legends—

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