CHAPTER XX.

"THE COMMODORE'S PROGRESS.

"You've heerd me spake, sir, o' Joe Bonaday, him as made poetry 'long wi' me wan time when lying becalmed off Ilfrycombe?"

"Certainly."

"Well, this Joe were a Barnstaple man, bred an' born. But he had a brother—Sam were hes name—as came an' settled out Carne way; 'Ould These-an'-Thicky,' us used to call 'n. Sam was a crowder,[2]you must knaw, an' used to play the fiddle over to Tregarrick Fair; but he cudn' niver play more'n two tunes. 'Which'll 'ee ha',' he used to say, 'which'll 'ee ha'—these or thicky?' That's why, tho' he was christened Sam, us used to call 'n These-an'-Thicky for short."

"I see."

"This 'ere Sam Bonaday, tho' he came an' settled down i' these parts, was a bettermost body i' some ways, an' had a-seen a heap o' life 'long wi' ould Commodore Trounce. Sam was teetotum to the Commodore, an' acted currier when th' ould man travelled, which he did a brave bit—brushin' hes clothes, an' shinin' hes boots, an' takin' the tickets, an' the res'. The Commodore were mighty fond o' Sam: an' as for Sam, he used to say he mou't ha' been the Commodore's brother— on'y, you see, he warn't."

"I think I understand," said Mr. Fogo.

"Iss, sir. Well, t'ward the end o' hes days the Commodore were stashuned out at Gibraltar, an' o' cou'se takes Sam. He'd a-been ailin' for a tidy spell, had the Commodore, an' I reckon that place finished 'un; for he hadn' been there a month afore he tuk a chill, purty soon Sam saw 'twas on'y a matter o' time afore th' ould man wud go dead.

"Sam kep' hes maaster goin' 'pon brandy an' milk for a while; but wan day he comes in an' finds 'un settin' up in bed an' starin'. The Commodore was a little purgy,[3]bustious[4]sort o' man, sir, wi' a squinny eye an' mottles upon hes face pretty near so thick as the Milky Way; an' he skeered Sam a bit, settin' up there an' glazin'.

"Th' ould man had no more sproil[5]nor a babby, an' had pretty nigh lost hes mouth-speech, but he beckons Sam to the bed, and whispers—

"' Sam, you've a-been a gude sarvent to me.'

"'Gude maasters makes gude sarvents,' says Sam, an' falls to cryin' bitterly.

"'You'm down i' my will,' says the Commodore, 'so you've no call to take on so. But look 'ee here, Sam; there's wan thing more I wants 'ee to do for your old maaster. I've a-been a Wanderin' Jewel all my life,' says he, '—wanderer 'pon the face o' the earth, like—like—'

"'Cain,' says Sam.

"'Well, not azackly. Hows'ever, you an' me, Sam, have a-been like Jan Tresize's geese, never happy unless they be where they bain't, an' that's the truth. An' now,' says he, 'I've a-tuk a consait I'd like my ould bones to be carr'd home to Carne, an' laid to rest 'long wi' my haveage.[6]All the Trounces have a-been berried in Carne Churchyard, Sam, an' I'm thinkin' I'd like to go back to mun, like the Prodigious Son. So what I wants 'ee to do es this:—When I be dead an' gone, you mus' get a handy box made, so's I shall carry aisy, an' take me back to England. You'll find plenty o' money for the way i' the skivet[7]o' my chest there, i' the corner.'

"''Tes a brave long way from here to England,' says Sam.

"'I knaws what you be thinkin' 'bout,' says the Commodore. 'You'm reckonin' I'll spile on the way. But I don't mean 'ee to go by say. You mus' take me 'cross the bay an' then ship aboard a train, as'll take 'ee dro Seville, an' Madrid, an' Paris, to Dover. 'Tes a fast train,' says he, 'as trains go i' these parts; but I'm doubtin' ef et starts ivery day or only dree times a week. I reckon, tho', ef you finds out, I can manage so's my dyin' shan't interfere wi' that.'

"Well, Sam was forced to promise, an' the Commodore seemed mighty relieved, an' lay still while Sam read to 'n out o' the books that th' ould man had by 'n. There was the Bible, and the Pellican's Progress, an' Philip Quarles, an' Hannah Snell, the female sodger. Sam read a bit from each, an' when he comes to that part about Christ'n crossing the river, th' ould man sets up sudden an' calls, 'Land, Sam, land! Fetch a glass, lad!'—just like that, sir; an' wi' that falls back dead.

"Well, sir, Sam was 'most out o' hes wits, fust along, for grief to lose hes maaster; but he warn't the man to go back 'pon hes word. So he loses no time, but, bein' a handy man, rigs up a wooden chest wi' the help o' a ship's carpenter, an' a tin case to ship into this, an' dresses up the Commodore inside, an' nails 'un down proper; an' wi'in twenty-four hours puts across in a boat, 'long wi' hes charge, for to catch the train.

"He hadn' barely set foot on shore, an' was givin' orders about carryin' the chest up to the stashun, un' thinkin' 'pon the hollerness o' earthly ways, as was nat'ral, when up steps a chap in highly-coloured breeches an' axes 'un ef he'd anything to declare.

"Sam had disremembered all 'bout the Customs, you see, sir.

"Hows'ever, et mou't ha' been all right, on'y Sam, though he could tackle the lingo a bit—just enough to get along wi' on a journey, that es—suddenly found that he disknowledged the Spanish for 'corpse.' He found out, sir, afore the day was out; but just now he looks at the chap i' the colour'd breeches and says—

"'No, I ha'nt.'

"'What's i' that box?' says the chap.

"Now this was azackly what Sam cudn' tell 'un; so, for lack of anything better, he says—

"'What's that to you?'

"'I reckon I must ha' that chest open,' says the chap.

"'I reckon you'll be sorry ef you do,' says Sam.

"'Tell me what's inside, then.'

"'Why, darn your Spanish eyes!' cries Sam, 'can't 'ee see I be tryin' to think 'pon the word for corpse?'

"But the chap cudn', of cou'se; so he called another in breeches just as gay as hes own, on'y stripier; and then for up ten minutes 'twas Dover to pay, all talkers an' no listeners. I reckon 'twas as Sal said to the Frenchman, 'The less you talks, the better I understands 'ee.' But Sam's blud were up by this time. Hows'ever, nat'rally he was forced to gi'e way, and they tuk the box into the Custom House, an' sent for hammer an' screw-driver.

"'Seems to me,' says the chap, prizin' the lid open a bit, an' snifnn', 'et smells oncommon like sperrits.'

"'I'm thinkin',' says Sam, efyou'dbeen kep' goin' on brandy-an'-milk for a week an' more,you'dsmell like sperrits.'

"'I guess 'tes sperrits,' says wan.

"'Or 'baccy,' says anuther.

"'Or furrin fruits,' says a third.

"'Well, you'm wrong,' says Sam, ''cos 'tes a plain British Commodore; an' I reckon ef you taxesthatsort o' import, you dunno what's good for 'ee.'

"At las', sir, they prizes open the chest an' the tin case, an' there, o' cou'se, lay th' ould man, sleepin' an' smilin' so paiceful-like he looked ha'f a Commodore an' ha'f a cherry-bun."

"I suppose you mean 'cherubim,' Caleb?" corrected Mr. Fogo.

"I s'pose I do, sir; tho' I reckon th' ould man seemed happier than he were, havin' been a 'nation scamp in hes young days, an' able to swear to the las' so's t'wud pretty nigh fetch the mortar out'n a brick wall. Hows'ever, that's not to the p'int here.

"Aw, sir, you may fancy how them poor ign'rant furriners left that Custom House. Sam told me arterwards 'twere like shellin' peas— spakin' in pinafores—"

"Metaphors," said Mr. Fogo.

"That's et—met-afores. Anyway, they jest fetched a yell, an' thenwent, sir. I guess Sam knawed the Spanish for 'corpse' afore they was gone. In less 'n a minnit not a pair o' coloured breeches cud you find, not ef you wanted them fancy articles ever so. Sam chuckles a bit to hissel', fas'ens down the lid so well as he cud, h'ists the Commodore aboard a wheelbarrer, an' trundles 'un off to the train.

"He cotches the train jest as 'twere startin', an' sails away in a fust-class carr'ge all to hissel', wi' the Commodore laid 'long the seat opposite; 'for,' said Sam, 'drat expense when a fun'ral's goin'!' An' all the way he chuckles an' grins to hissel', to think o' the start he'd gi'ed they Custom House rascals; an' at las' he gets that tickled he's bound to lie back an' fairly hurt hissel' wi' laffin'.

"I reckon, tho', he laffed a bit too early; for jest then the train slowed down, and pulled up at a stashun. Sam looked out an' saw a dapper little man a-bustlin' up an' down the platform, like a bee in a bottle, an' pryin' into the carr'ge windeys same as ef the train were a peep-show. Presently he opens the door of Sam's compartment, an' axes, holdin' up a tellygram—

"'Be you the party as es travellin' wi' a dead man?'

"He spoke i' Spanish, o' cou'se, sir; but, not knowin' the tongue, I tells et to you in English."

"I had guessed that to be the reason," replied Mr. Fogo.

"Well, Sam were a bit tuk aback, but he answers—

"'Iss, I be. Why?'

"'Want 'un berried?'

"'Why, no, not partic'lar. Sooner or later, o' cou'se; but, thank'ee all the same, I'm thinkin' to do et a bit furder on.'

"'Then,' says the dapper man, 'I'll trouble you to hand over the berryin' fees for this parish.'

"'But I baint goin' to berry deceased i' this parish.'

"'That don't matter. Ef a corpse has use o' this parish, he's got to pay fees.'

"'How's that?'

"'Why, a corpse es dead,' says the chap; 'you'll allow that, I s'pose?'

"'Iss,' says Sam, 'I reckon I'll allow that.'

"'An' ef a corpse es i' this parish, he's dead i' this parish?'

"'Likely he es,' admits Sam.

"'Well, 'cordin' to law, anybody dead i' this parish es boun' to be berried i' this parish, an' therefore to pay fees,' says the man; 'and now I hopes you'll hand over the money, 'cos the train's waitin'.'

"Sam was for a raisin' a rumpus, an' gathered a crowd roun' the door; but they all sided wi' the dapper man, and said 'twas Spaniards' law, an' ef he wudn' pay, he must get out an' berry the Commodore there an' then. So he gi'ed in and pulled out the money, an' off they starts, the dapper man standin' an' bowin' 'pon the platform.

"Well, Sam leant back an' ciphered et out, an' cudn' see the sense o't. 'But,' says he, 'when you'm in Turkey you do as the Turkeys do, 'cordin' to the proverb, so I guess 'tes all right; an' ef et 'pears wrong, 'tes on'y that I bain't used to travellin' wi' corpses;' an' wi' that he settles down an' goes to sleep.

"He hadn' been long sleepin' when the train pulls up agen, an' arter a minnit in comes anuther chap wi' a tellygram.

"'Deceased?' axes the chap, pointin' to the chest.

"'Mod'rately,' says Sam.

"'Wants berryin' p'raps?' says the chap.

"'I reckon he'll hold on a bit longer.'

"'Next parish, likely?'

"'Why, iss,' says Sam, 'or next arter that.'

"'Ah, what et es to be rich!' says the man, kind o' envious-like.

"'What do 'ee mean by that?' Sam axes.

"'Niver mind,' answers the man. ''Twarn't no bus'ness o' mines. Wud 'ee kindly hand me the fees for this parish?'

"Well, Sam argeys the matter agen, but i' the end he pays up: 'Tho',' says he, 'I'd a notion travellin' were costly afore this, but darn me! you've got to be dead afore you sizes et. I've heerd as a man can't take nuthin' out o' this world, but blest ef I iver got the grip o' that tex' till I travelled i' Spain.'

"Well, sir, purty soon the same thing happened agen, an', to shorten the yarn, ivery time they got into a new parish an' pulled up, in walked a chap wi' a tellygram an' axed for berryin'-fees. Luckily, there was money to pay mun, for the Commodore had left a bravish sum for travellin' expenses, and by-'m-by Sam begins to take a sort o' pride in pullin' out hes purse.

"'Talk 'bout fun'rals!' says he, 'I reckon this es suthin'like. Adm'ral Nelson! why, Adm'ral Nelson didn' cost ha'f so much! An' you ain't but a Commodore,' says he. 'Devil fly away wi' 'ee, maaster, but so long as the coin lasts Sam won't cry 'Woa!''

"The words warn't fairly out o' hes mouth, sir, when the train draws up, an' in steps another man. He comed in so quiet that Sam didn' see 'un at first; but when he turned roun', there was the man standin' an' starin' at 'un. 'Twas a strange-looking party, dressed i' black—a better-most body, like.

"'Aw, good eveling!' says Sam.

"'Good eveling,' says the man i' black, an' nods t'wards the chest. 'How's deceased?'

"'Gettin' a bit costly,' answers Sam, 'but doin' purty well, consederin'. You'm wantin' more fees, I reckon'; an' wi' that he dives hes hand into hes trowsy-pocket.

"'I don't want no fees,' says the man.

"Sam was knacked 'pon a heap wi' this.

"'Well, then, you'm the fust man I've a-met in Spain as doesn',' he says.

"That ain't onlikely,' says the man; and Sam noticed for the fust time that he'd a-been speakin' English all along. 'I be a-travellin', same as you,' he adds.

"'You'll 'scuse me, sir, but this compartment es resarved.'

"'That's a pity,' says the stranger, ''cos the train's a-started.'

"So 'twas. Sam hadn' a-noticed et, but they was movin' on. Hows'ever, he detarmined to make the best o't; so he ups and says, perlite-like—

"'Terrable hot weather this, ain't et, sir?' Somehow et seemed to Sam as ef et had got hotter sence the stranger comed in.

"'I don't feel so mighty hot,' says the man. 'But there, I've a-been a gude deal in hot countries. How's deceased takin' the journey?' says he.

"'He ain't complainin'; but, then, in life he warn't a complainin' sort. Aw, sir, but a man must be over-nice ef a fun'ral like thes don't satisfy 'n. Phew! but 'tes awful!'

"'What's awful?'

"'The heat,' answers Sam, moppin' his forehead; 'but I s'pose you'm a traveller, an' 'customed to heat.'

"'Why, iss,' says t'other, 'I do travel a purty passel to an' fro 'pon th' earth. Few folks travels more'n me.'

"Well, et kep' gettin' hotter an' hotter; an' Sam cussed an' mopped, an' mopped an' cussed, an' all the time the stranger were cool an' aisy. He kep' axin', too, 'bout th' ould Commodore an' hes past life, an' 'peared to take interes' in Sam, an' altogither seemed a proper gen'l'm'n. An' all the time et kep' gettin' hotter an' hotter, till Sam were fairly runnin' to waste wi' sweatin'. At las' he pops hes head out'n the windey for fresh air, an' cries out—

"'Hulloa! here's a stashun.'

"Well, the train pulls up, an' Sam says to the stranger—

"'Look 'ee here. Wud 'ee mind keepin' your eye 'pon th' ould man while I runs out to get a drink? I reckoned I knawed thirst afore this,' he says, 'but I were mistook.'

"The stranger was very willin', and away Sam goes.

"He warn't away more'n a minnit; but when he comes back an' takes a look at the platform, my! Sir! there warn't no trace of the train to be seen—not a vestment. You see, they don't blaw no whissle in Spain when the train goes; an' there was poor Sam left stranded.

"Well, he tellygrafs o' cou'se to the nex' stashun, an' in less 'n an hour back comes an answer to say as they searched the train when et stopped, an' there warn't no corpse there, nor chest, nor nuthin'. An' ef you'll believe me, sir," concluded Caleb, bending forward and touching his master's knee, "th' ould Commodore ha'n't niver been found fro' that day to this. Et 'most broke Sam's heart; an', as he said to me wan time, 'For all I knaws 'twas the devil; and for all I knaws th' ould maaster be travellin' roun' Spain to this day; but ef so,' says he, 'I reckon by this time he's like Patty Ward's pig—no lavender.'"

"That's a very curious tale," said Mr. Fogo, as Caleb leant back in the window-seat and awaited its effect.

"'Tes so true, sir, as I'm here—or so Sam used to say. An' the moral goes agen talkin' lightly o' what a man don't understand," he added reflectively. "But forebodin' es so bad as witch-craf', an' 'tes more'n likely they won't come to-night; but if they does, 'tes on'y fair to ax mun who they be dree times afore firin'. What's fair for man es fair—"

He broke off and clutched his master by the arm.

"Look, sir—look!"

About the deck of the old schooner a shaft of light was dancing fitfully—now here, now there, up and down—and all without visible source or guidance.

The two watchers leapt to their feet and peered out at the window.

The strange brilliance flickered to and fro, falling even on the further bank, and threading with a line of yellow the silver-grey of the moonlight. Then it ceased suddenly.

Caleb and his master waited breathlessly. Half a minute passed without further sign. Then they heard a light splash or two, and Mr. Fogo pointed frantically at the line of the moon's reflection on the creek.

"There! Look—the boat!"

Caleb whipped the blunderbuss up to his shoulder and shouted—

"Who be 'ee? Darn 'ee, here goes—wan, two, dree, all to wanst!"

He pulled the trigger. A tongue of flame leapt forth and burst upon the night with a terrific explosion; and as Caleb fell backwards with the shock, the clumsy engine slipped from his fingers and fell with a clatter upon Mr. Fogo's instep.

When the pair recovered and looked forth again, the echoes had died away, and once more the night was tranquil.

[1] A monotonous chant or burthen.(return)[2] A fiddler.(return)[3] Thick-set.(return)[4] Stout.(return)[5] Strength.(return)[6] Kin.(return)[7] A concealed compartment or drawer.(return)

Panting, slipping, with aching sides, but terror at his heels, Sam Buzza tore up the hill. Lights danced before him, imaginary voices shouted after; but he never glanced behind. The portmanteau was monstrously heavy, and more than once he almost dropped it; but it was tightly packed, apparently, for nothing shook inside it. Only the handles creaked in his grasp.

He gained the top, shifted the load to his left hand, and raced down the other side of the hill. How he reached the bottom he cannot clearly call to mind; but he dug his heels well into the turf, and arrived without a fall. At the foot of the slope a wire fence had to be crossed; next the railway line, then, across the embankment, another fence, which kept a shred of his clothing. A meadow followed, and then he dropped over the hedge into the high road.

Here he stopped, set down the portmanteau, and looked about him. All was quiet. So vivid was the moonlight that as looking down the road he could mark every bush, every tuft of grass almost, on the illumined side. Not a soul was in sight.

The night was warm, and his flight had heated him intolerably. He felt for his handkerchief to mop his brow, but snatched his hand away.

His coat was burning. It was the lantern. Like a fool he had forgotten to blow it out, and an abominable smell of oil and burning cloth now arose from his pocket. He stifled the smouldering fire, pulled out the lantern, and looked at his watch.

It wanted twenty minutes to eleven.

He had plenty of time; so, having extinguished the lantern, and bestowed it in another pocket, he caught up his burden and began to walk up the road at a leisurely pace.

His terrors had cooled, but nevertheless he wished himself well out of the scrape. The report of the gun still rang in his ears and in fancy he could hear again the buzz of that bullet by his ear. More than once a shadow lying across the white road gave him a twinge of fear; and when a placid cow poked its nose over the hedge above him, and lowed confidentially, he leapt almost out of his skin.

The task before him, too, gave him no small anxiety. The directions in the letter were plain enough, but not so the intention of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. Did she mean him to elope with her? He did not care to face the question. The Admiral, though an indulgent father, was not extravagant; and Sam had but seven-and-sixpence in his pocket. This was an excellent sum for long whist at threepenny points, but would hardly defray the cost of an elopement. Besides, he did not want to elope.

"Nowordsof mine will repay you." Now he came to consider, these words wore an awkward look. Good Heavens! he had a mind to drop the portmanteau and run home. What had he done to be tempted so? And why had these people ever come to Troy?

Ah! Sam, that was the question we should have asked ourselves months ago. Some time before, at a concert in the Town Hall, I remember that Mr. Moggridge sang the line—

"Too late the balm when the heart is broke!"

And a Trojan voice at the back assented—

"A durn sight."

Why had we been denied that perspicacity now?

So with a heavy burden, and heavier conscience (both of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' packing), he trudged forward, kicking up clouds of dust that sparkled in the moonlight. Presently the ascent grew more gradual, the hedges lower, and over their tops he could feel the upland air breathing coolly from the sea. And now the sign-post hove in sight, and the cross-roads stretching whitely into distance.

If we take the town of Troy as a base, lying north and south, this sign-post forms the apex of a triangle which has two high-roads for its remaining sides—the one road entering Troy from the north by the hill which Sam had just ascended, the other running southwards and ending with a steep declivity at no great distance from "The Bower."

It was by this southern road, of course, that Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys would come. Sam looked along it, but all as yet was silent. He pulled out his watch again, and, finding that he had still twenty minutes to spare, set down his load at the foot of the signpost, and began to walk to and fro.

So gloomy were his reflections that, to soothe his nerves, he pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then, for lack of anything better to do, rekindled his lantern, and resumed his walk.

The cigar was barely half smoked when he heard a noise in the distance.

Yes, there was no doubt. It was the sound of horses. Sam caught up the portmanteau, and stared down the highway. For a full minute he listened to the advancing clatter, and presently, around an angle of the road, a chaise and pair broke into view, and came up at a gallop.

Sam advanced a step or two; a white handkerchief was thrust out at the window, and the driver pulled up suddenly. Then the face of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked anxiously out.

"Ah! you are there," she exclaimed with a little cry of relief. "I have been so afraid. Have you got it?"

In the moonlight, and that pretty air of timidity on her face, she was more ravishing than ever. Her voice called as a siren's; her eyes drew Sam irresistibly. In a second all his fears, doubts, scruples, were flung to the winds. He held up the portmanteau, and advanced to the carriage door.

"Here it is. Geraldine—"

"Oh! thanks, thanks. How can I show my thanks?"

The perfume of her hair floated out upon the night with the music of her tone until they both fairly intoxicated him.

He opened the door of the chaise.

"Where shall I stow it?" he asked.

"Here, opposite me; be very careful of it."

In the darkness he saw a huge bundle of rugs piled by Geraldine's side.

"Where am I to sit?" he asked, as he bestowed the portmanteau carefully.

He looked up into her face. The loveliest smile rested on him, for one instant, from those incomparable eyes. She did not answer, but held out her hand with the grace of a maiden confessing her first passion. He seized the ungloved fingers, and kissed them.

"Geraldine!"

At this moment a low chuckle issued from the bundle of rugs. Sam dropped the hand, and started back as if stung. A hateful thought flashed upon him.

"Moggridge? But no—"

He seized his lantern, and turned the slide. A stream of light shot into the corner of the chaise, and revealed—the bland face of Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys!

There was an instant of blank dismay. Then, with a peal of laughter, Geraldine sank back among the cushions.

"Good-night!" said the Honourable Frederic with grim affability; then, popping his head out at the further window, "Drive on, John!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and Sam, with that pitiless laugh still pealing in his ears, was left standing on the high-road.

In the tumult of the moment, beyond a wild sense of injustice, it is my belief that his brain accomplished little. He stared dully after the retreating chaise, until it disappeared in the direction of Five Lanes; and then he groaned aloud.

There was a patch of turf, now heavy with dew, beside the sign-post. Upon this he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, and head between his hands, strove to still the giddy whirl in his brain. And as his folly and its bitterness found him out, the poor fool rocked himself, and cursed the day when he was born. If any one yet doubt that Mr. Moggridge was an inspired singer, let him turn to that sublime aspiration inSophronia: a Tragedy—

"Let me be criminal, but never weak;

For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin

Without its brave apparel"—

and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.

Pat, pat, pat!

It was the muffled sound of footsteps on the dusty road. He looked up. A dark figure, the figure of a woman, was approaching. Its air of timorous alertness, and its tendency to seek the shadow of the hedge-row, gave him some confidence. He arose, and stepped forward into the broad moonlight.

The woman gave a short gasp and came to a halt, shrinking back against the hedge. Something in her outline struck sharply on Sam's sense, though with a flash of doubt and wonder. She carried a small handbag, and wore a thick veil over her face.

"Who are you?" he asked gently. "Don't be afraid."

The woman made no answer—only cowered more closely against the hedge; and he heard her breath coming hard and fast. Once more—and for the third time that night—Sam pulled the slide of his lantern.

"Mother!"

"Oh! Sam, Sam, don't betray me! I'll go back—indeed I'll go back!"

"In Heaven's name, mother, what are you doing here?"

The retort was obvious, but Mrs. Buzza merely cried—

"Dear Sam, have pity on me, and take me back! I'll go quietly—quite quietly."

The idea of his mother (who weighed eighteen stone if an ounce) resisting with kicks and struggles might have caused Sam some amusement, but his brain was overcrowded already.

"It's a judgment," she went on incoherently, wringing her hands; "and I thought I had planned it so cleverly. I dressed up his double-bass, Sam, and put it in the bed—oh! I am a wicked woman—and pinned a note to the pin-cushion to say he had driven me to it, throwing the breakfast things over the quay-door—real Worcester, Sam, and marked at the bottom of each piece; and a carriage from the Five Lanes Hotel to meet me at twelve o'clock; but I'd rather go home, Sam; I've been longing, all the way, to go back; it's been haunting me, that double-bass, all the time—with my nightcap, too—the one with real lace—on the head of it. Oh! take me home, Sam. I'm a wicked woman!"

Sam, after all, was a Trojan, and I therefore like to record his graces. He drew his mother's arm within his with much tenderness, kissed her, and began to lead her homewards quietly and without question.

But the poor soul could not be silent; and so, very soon, the whole story came out. At the mention of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys Sam shut his teeth sharply.

"I shall never be able to face her, Sam."

"I don't think you need trouble about that, mother," he answered grimly.

"But I do. It was she—"

But at this moment, from the hedge, a few yards in front, there issued a hollow groan.

They halted, and questioned each other with frightened eyes.

"Geraldine!" wailed the voice. "Cruel, perjured Geraldine!"

"It was going on just like this," whispered Mrs. Buzza, "when I came along. I shut my eyes, and ran past as hard as I could; but my head was so full of voices and cries that I didn't know if 'twas real or only my fancy."

"Geraldine!" continued the voice. "Oh! dig my grave—my shroud prepare; for she was false as she was fair. Geraldine, my Geraldine!"

"Moggridge, by all that's holy!" cried Sam.

It was even so. They advanced a few yards, and to the right of the road, beside a gate, they saw him. The poet reclined limply against the hedge, and with his head propped upon a carpet-bag gazed dolefully into the moon's face.

"Thou bid'st me," he began again, "thou bid'st me think no more about thee; but, tell me, what is life without thee? A scentless flower, a blighted—"

At the sound of their footsteps he looked round, stared blankly into Sam's face, and then, snatching up the carpet-bag, leapt to his feet and tore down the road as fast as he could go.

Sam paused. They had reached the brow of the steeper descent, where the road takes a sudden determination, and plunges abruptly into the valley, Below, the roofs of the little town lay white and sparkling, and straight from a wreath of vapour the graceful tower of St. Symphorian leapt into the clearer heaven. Beyond, a network of lights glimmered, like fire-flies, from the vessels at anchor in the harbour. The Penpoodle Hill, on the further shore, wore a tranquil halo; and to the right, outside the harbour's mouth, the grey sea was laced with silver.

"Did you ever see anything more lovely?"

Mrs. Buzza murmured the words with no desire to be answered. It was the old Trojan formula, and there was peace in the sound of it.

"Do you know," she cried, turning to Sam, "we were very happy before these people came. We shall never be the same again—never. Sam, I feel as if our innocence had ended, Oh! I am a wicked woman. Look below, Sam dear, I have never thought of it before, but how sweet it would have been to have enclosed the old town in a ring-fence, and lived our days in quiet! It is too late now; more will come, and they will build and alter, and no one will be able to stop it. Even if these people should go, it will never be the same again. Oh! I am a sinful woman."

Sam looked at his mother. Something familiar, but hitherto half-comprehended, spoke to him in her words. He drew her arm once more within his own, and they descended the hill together.

Stealing like ghosts into the front hall of No. 2, Alma Villas, they were startled to perceive the dining-room door ajar, and a light shining out into the passage. Creeping forward on tip-toe, they peeped in.

Beside the table and with his back towards them, sat the Admiral in his dressing-gown. His right hand grasped the throat of the double-bass, on the top of which nodded Mrs. Buzza's night-cap. His left fumbled with a large miniature that lay on the table before him—a portrait of Mrs. Buzza, taken in the days when she was still Emily Rogers and the Belle of Portsmouth; and from this to the instrument and back again the Admiral's gaze wandered, as if painfully comparing the likeness.

With his back towards them sat the Admiral.With his back towards them sat the Admiral.

"Hornaby!" This was the Admiral's Christian name.

"Emily!"

He turned and stared at her stupidly. The look was pitiful. She flung herself before him.

"Forgive me, Hornaby! I never thought—I mean, it was all a—"

"Practical joke," suggested Sam.

"No, no. I meant to go, but I have come back. Hornaby, can you forgive me?"

He raised her up, and drew her towards him very tenderly.

"I—I thought it hadkilledme," he muttered hoarsely. "Emily, I have treated you badly."

Sam discreetly withdrew.

Next morning Mr. Fogo was aroused from sleep by the rattle of breakfast-cups, and the voice of Caleb singing below—

"O, Amble es a fine town, wi' ships in the bay,An' I wish wi' my heart I was on'y there to-day;I wish wi' my heart I was far away from here,A-sittin' in my parlour, an' a-talkin' to my dear."

This was Caleb's signal for his master to rise; and he would pipe out his old sea-staves as long as Mr. Fogo cared to listen. Often, of an evening, the two would sit by the hour, Caleb trolling lustily with red cheeks, while his master beat time with his pipe stem, and joined feebly in the chorus—

"Then 'tes home, dearie, home—O, 'tes home I wants to be!My tawps'les are h'isted, an' I must out to sea.Then 'tes home, dearie, home!"

Mr. Fogo arose and looked forth at the window. The morning was perfect; the air fresh with dew and the scent of awakening roses. Across the creek the old hull lay as peacefully as ever.

"I will explore it this very morning," thought Mr. Fogo to himself.

The resolve was still strong as he descended to breakfast. Caleb was still singing—

"O, ef et be a lass, she shall wear a goulden ring;An' ef et be a lad, he shall live to sarve hes king;Wi' hes buckles, an' hes butes, an' hes little jacket blue,He shall walk the quarter-deck, as hes daddy used to do.Then 'tes home—"

"Mornin', sir, an' axin' your pardon for singin' o' Sunday. How be feelin' arter et?—as Grace said to her cheeld when her rubbed in the cough-mixtur' an' made 'un swaller the lineament."

"Do you mean after the ghost?"

"Iss, sir. There's no dead body about, so ghost et were. I were a-thinkin', wi' your lave, sir, I'd go down to Troy to church this mornin'; I wants to be exercised a bit arter all this witchcraf'."

Mr. Fogo wondered at this proposal to go to church for exercise, but readily granted leave. Nor was it until Caleb had departed that "exorcised" occurred to him as avaria lectio.

Left to himself, Mr. Fogo spent a tranquil hour among his roses; and then, remembering his determination, unmoored his boat and prepared to satisfy his doubts.

The tide was low—so low that on the further side of the old wreck his paddles plunged once or twice into mud. Nor was it easy to swing himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two failures he stood upon deck.

All was desolation. He peered down into the hold, where the water lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered deadlight into the forecastle. The water was here, too, though it had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing to explain the mystery.

Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the poop, and peered down the companion. The light was too dim to reveal anything. Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain's cabin.

The first thing to catch his eye was an empty packing-case, with a heap of shavings and cotton-wool beside it. On the side of the case was printed in blue letters—"Wapshott and Sons. Chicago. Patent Compressed Tea. With Care." Mr. Fogo poked his nose inside it. A faint smell of tea still lingered about the wood.

Next he inspected the cupboards. Some were open and all unlocked. He went over them all. At the end he found himself the richer by—

A watch-glass.Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all coated with verdigris).A pair of nut-crackers.Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "Where shall I be To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners."A key.An oily rag.The cap of a telescope.An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison. For Dick Collins, when his leg is bad."

On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his eye.

He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove.

Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-buttoned glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear.

"This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler wearing this, still less a ghost."

With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth.

It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two. It was perhaps two inches in depth. On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend—

"WAPSHOTTS' PATENT COMPRESSED TEA."Beware of Imitations."

The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy.

Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize.

He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister. In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid.

"Very curious tea this," remarked Mr. Fogo. "It's a deal more like putty—or Californian honey."

The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight.

He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze. He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck. The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud—

There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers—and the old hull had passed from decay to annihilation.

This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian's, Troy, began to summon the town to worship.

A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement. It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' costume, and marched churchwards in haste. But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further.

Who first whispered the news is disputed. It is conjectured that Mrs. Tripp, whose cow supplied "The Bower" with milk, learnt the facts from the buttoned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain. I might here paint Mrs. Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as "Rumour," after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice.

This much is sure—that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth—

"Es et true, do'ee think?"

"Certain—carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night—not a word said."

"My!"

"Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed."

"That's a true word."

Then this happened—

The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.

The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume. As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence. The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.

Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment. One tradesman, a furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door and knocked.

The boy in buttons answered with a white face. In a moment the truth was out.

This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar. In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the parson. The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation. Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window. She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years.

Then as if by one impulse passion gave way to action. Like an invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door (whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall, swarmed into the drawing-room—upstairs—all over the house.

Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of indecision, but for no long time.

"Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every stick of mine will I take off this morning!"

He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out towards the lawn.

A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up.

It was the signal for a general sack. Flinging off his Sunday coat, each deluded tradesman seized upon his property, or ransacked the house until he found it. The ironmonger caught up his fire-irons, the carpenter pulled down his shelves, the grocer dived into the pantry and emerged with tea and candles. It is said that the coal-merchant—who was a dandy—procured a sack, and with his own hand emptied the coal-cellar within half an hour.

As each fresh article was confiscated, the crowd cheered anew.

Never was such a scene in Troy. Even the local aristocracy— theCumeelfo—mingled with the throng and watched the havoc as curiously as their neighbours.

No member of the Buzza family was there, nor Mr. Moggridge. But few others did Miss Limpenny fail to perceive as she sat with hands hanging limply and mourned to Lavinia—

"What disgrace! What a lasting blemish upon our society! There goes Hancock with the music-stool. To run away just before quarter-day, and they so refined to all appearance, so—My dear, they will have the house down. Papa told me once that during the Bristol riots— I declare, there's the Doctor looking on! I wonder how hecan."

And the poor lady hid her face in her hands.

By half past twelve all was over, and "The Bower" stripped of every article of furniture or consumption for which the money was owing. And yet, to the honour of Troy, no single theft or act of wanton destruction was perpetrated. Save for the trampled flowers and marks of dusty boots upon the carpets, the house was left as it stood on the day when Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys arrived. It should be mentioned, perhaps, that Seth Udy's little boy was detected with his fist in a jar of moist sugar; but Mrs. Udy, it was remarked, was a Penpoodle woman.

The sack was accomplished; and the crowd, heated but conscious of a duty done, was returning with the spoil, when towards the north a white glare leapt into the heaven and as suddenly vanished. In a moment or so a dull roar followed, and the earth shuddered underfoot.

Troy trembled. It remembered its neglected Sabbath, and trembled again.

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