"Why, not so much lately, sir. Last time were yesterday, jest afore Master Georgy come 'ome. I were at work here in the yard, an' Squire comes riding up to me, smiling quite friendly like,—which were pretty good of him, considering as Job Jagway ain't back to work yet. 'Oh Adam!' sez he, 'so you're 'aving a sale here at Dapplemere, are you?' Meaning sir, a sale of some bits, an' sticks o' furnitur' as Miss Anthea's forced to part wi' to meet some bill or other. 'Summat o' that sir,' says I, making as light of it as I could. 'Why then, Adam,' sez he, 'if Job Jagway should 'appen to come over to buy a few o' the things,—no more fighting!' sez he. An' so he nods, an' smiles, an' off he rides. An' sir, as I watched him go, the 'Old Adam' riz up in me to that extent as it's a mercy I didn't have no pitchfork 'andy."
Bellew, sitting on the shaft of a cart with his back against a rick, listened to this narration with an air of dreamy abstraction, but Adam's quick eyes noticed that despite the unruffled serenity of his brow, his chin seemed rather more prominent than usual.
"So that was why you were feeling gloomy, was it, Adam?"
"Ah! an' enough to make any man feel gloomy, I should think. Miss Anthea's brave enough, but I reckon 'twill come nigh breakin' 'er 'eart to see the old stuff sold, the furnitur' an' that,—so she's goin' to drive over to Cranbrook to be out o' the way while it's a-doin'."
"And when does the sale take place?"
"The Saturday arter next, sir, as ever was," Adam answered. "But—hush,—mum's the word, sir!" he broke off, and winking violently with a side-ways motion of the head, he took up his pitch-fork. Wherefore, glancing round, Bellew saw Anthea coming towards them, fresh and sweet as the morning. Her hands were full of flowers, and she carried her sun-bonnet upon her arm. Here and there a rebellious curl had escaped from its fastenings as though desirous (and very naturally) of kissing the soft oval of her cheek, or the white curve of her neck. And among them Bellew noticed one in particular,—a roguish curl that glowed in the sun with a coppery light, and peeped at him wantonly above her ear.
"Good morning!" said he, rising and, to all appearance, addressing the curl in question, "you are early abroad this morning!"
"Early, Mr. Bellew!—why I've been up hours. I'm generally out at four o'clock on market days; we work hard, and long, at Dapplemere," she answered, giving him her hand with her grave, sweet smile.
"Aye, for sure!" nodded Adam, "but farmin' ain't what it was in my young days!"
"But I think we shall do well with the hops, Adam."
"'Ops, Miss Anthea,—lord love you!—there ain't no 'ops nowhere so good as ourn be!"
"They ought to be ready for picking, soon,—do you think sixty people will be enough?"
"Ah!—they'll be more'n enough, Miss Anthea."
"And, Adam—the five-acre field should be mowed today."
"I'll set the men at it right arter breakfast,—I'll 'ave it done, trust me, Miss Anthea."
"I do, Adam,—you know that!" And with a smiling nod she turned away. Now, as Bellew walked on beside her, he felt a strange constraint upon him such as he had never experienced towards any woman before, and the which he was at great pains with himself to account for. Indeed so rapt was he, that he started suddenly to find that she was asking him a question:
"Do you—like Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew?"
"Like it!" he repeated, "like it? Yes indeed!"
"I'm so glad!" she answered, her eyes glowing with pleasure. "It was a much larger property, once,—Look!" and she pointed away across corn-fields and rolling meadow to the distant woods. "In my grandfather's time it was all his—as far as you can see, and farther, but it has dwindled since then, and to-day, my Dapplemere is very small indeed."
"You must be very fond of such a beautiful place."
"Oh, I love it!" she cried passionately, "if ever I had to—give it up,—I think I should—die!" She stopped suddenly, and as though somewhat abashed by this sudden outburst, adding in a lighter tone: "If I seem rather tragic it is because this is the only home I have ever known."
"Well," said Bellew, appearing rather more dreamy than usual, just then, "I have journeyed here and there in this world of ours, I have wandered up and down, and to and fro in it,—like a certain celebrated personage who shall be nameless,—yet I never saw, or dreamed, of any such place as this Dapplemere of yours. It is like Arcadia itself, and only I am out of place. I seem, somehow, to be too common-place, and altogether matter-of-fact."
"I'm sure I'm matter-of-fact enough," she said, with her low, sweet laugh that, Bellew thought, was all too rare.
"You?" said he, and shook his head.
"Well?" she enquired, glancing at him through her wind-tossed curls.
"You are like some fair, and stately lady out of the old romances," he said gravely.
"In a print gown, and with a sun-bonnet!"
"Even so!" he nodded. Here, for no apparent reason, happening to meet his glance, the colour deepened in her cheek and she was silent; wherefore Bellew went on, in his slow, placid tones. "You surely, are the Princess ruling this fair land of Arcadia, and I am the Stranger within your gates. It behoves you, therefore, to be merciful to this Stranger, if only for the sake of—er—our mutual nephew."
Whatever Anthea might have said in answer was cut short by Small Porges himself who came galloping towards them with the sun bright in his curls.
"Oh, Uncle Porges!" he panted as he came up, "I was 'fraid you'd gone away an' left me,—I've been hunting, an' hunting for you ever since I got up."
"No, I haven't gone away yet, my Porges, you see."
"An' you won't go—ever or ever, will you?"
"That," said Bellew, taking the small hand in his, "that is a question that we had better leave to the—er—future, nephew."
"But—why!"
"Well, you see, it doesn't rest with me—altogether, my Porges."
"Then who—" he was beginning, but Anthea's soft voice interrupted him.
"Georgy dear, didn't Prudence send you to tell us that breakfast was ready?"
"Oh yes! I was forgetting,—awfull' silly of me wasn't it! But you are going to stay—Oh a long, long time, aren't you, Uncle Porges?"
"I sincerely hope so!" answered Bellew. Now as he spoke, his eyes,—by the merest chance in the world, of course,—happened to meet Anthea's, whereupon she turned, and slipped on her sunbonnet which was very natural, for the sun was growing hot already.
"I'm awful' glad!" sighed Small Porges, "an' Auntie's glad too,—aren't you Auntie?"
"Why—of course!" from the depths of the sunbonnet.
"'Cause now, you see, there'll be two of us to take care of you. UnclePorges is so nice an' big, and—wide, isn't he, Auntie?"
"Y-e-s,—Oh Georgy!—what are you talking about?"
"Why I mean I'm rather small to take care of you all by myself alone, Auntie, though I do my best of course. But now that I've found myself a big, tall Uncle Porges,—under the hedge, you know,—we can take care of you together, can't we, Auntie Anthea?"
But Anthea only hurried on without speaking, whereupon Small Porges continued all unheeding:
"You 'member the other night, Auntie, when you were crying, you said you wished you had some one very big, and strong to take care of you—"
"Oh—Georgy!"
Bellew heartily wished that sunbonnets had never been thought of.
"But you did you know, Auntie, an' so that was why I went out an' found my Uncle Porges for you,—so that he—"
But here, Mistress Anthea, for all her pride and stateliness, catching her gown about her, fairly ran on down the path and never paused until she had reached the cool, dim parlour. Being there, she tossed aside her sunbonnet, and looked at herself in the long, old mirror, and,—though surely no mirror made by man, ever reflected a fairer vision of dark-eyed witchery and loveliness, nevertheless Anthea stamped her foot, and frowned at it.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then again, "Oh Georgy!" and covered her burning cheeks.
Meanwhile Big Porges, and Small Porges, walking along hand in hand shook their heads solemnly, wondering much upon the capriciousness of aunts, and the waywardness thereof.
"I wonder why she runned away, Uncle Porges?"
"Ah, I wonder!"
"'Specks she's a bit angry with me, you know, 'cause I told you she was crying."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"An Auntie takes an awful lot of looking after!" sighed Small Porges.
"Yes," nodded Bellew, "I suppose so,—especially if she happens to be young, and—er—"
"An' what, Uncle Porges?"
"Beautiful, nephew."
"Oh! Do you think she's—really beautiful?" demanded Small Porges.
"I'm afraid I do," Bellew confessed.
"So does Mr. Cassilis,—I heard him tell her so once—in the orchard."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"Ah! but you ought to see her when she comes to tuck me up at night, with her hair all down, an' hanging all about her—like a shiny cloak, you know."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"Please Uncle Porges," said Georgy, turning to look up at him, "what makes you hum so much this morning?"
"I was thinking, my Porges."
"'Bout my Auntie Anthea?"
"I do admit the soft impeachment, sir."
"Well, I'm thinking too."
"What is it, old chap?"
"I'm thinking we ought to begin to find that fortune for her after breakfast."
"Why, it isn't quite the right season for fortune hunting, yet—at least, not in Arcadia," answered Bellew, shaking his head.
"Oh!—but why not?"
"Well, the moon isn't right, for one thing."
"The moon!" echoed Small Porges.
"Oh yes,—we must wait for a—er—a Money Moon, you know,—surely you've heard of a Money Moon?"
"'Fraid not," sighed Small Porges regretfully, "but—I've heard of aHoney-moon—"
"They're often much the same!" nodded Bellew.
"But when will the Money Moon come, an'—how?"
"I can't exactly say, my Porges, but come it will one of these fine nights. And when it does we shall know that the fortune is close by, and waiting to be found. So, don't worry your small head about it,—just keep your eye on your uncle."
Betimes they came in to breakfast where Anthea awaited them at the head of the table. Then who so demure, so gracious and self-possessed, so sweetly sedate as she. But the Cavalier in the picture above the carved mantel, versed in the ways of the world, and the pretty tricks and wiles of the Beau Sex Feminine, smiled down at Bellew with an expression of such roguish waggery as said plain as words: "We know!" And Bellew, remembering a certain pair of slender ankles that had revealed themselves in their hurried flight, smiled back at the cavalier, and it was all he could do to refrain from winking outright.
Which tells of Miss Priscilla, of peaches, and of Sergeant Appleby late of the 19th Hussars
Small Porges was at his lessons. He was perched at the great oak table beside the window, pen in hand, and within easy reach of Anthea who sat busied with her daily letters and accounts. Small Porges was laboriously inscribing in a somewhat splashed and besmeared copy-book the rather surprising facts that:
A stitch in time, saves nine. 9.
That:
The Tagus, a river in Spain. R.
and that:
Artaxerxes was a king of the Persians. A.
and the like surprising, curious, and interesting items of news, his pen making not half so many curls, and twists as did his small, red tongue. As he wrote, he frowned terrifically, and sighed oft betwixt whiles; and Bellew watching, where he stood outside the window, noticed that Anthea frowned also, as she bent over her accounts, and sighed wearily more than once.
It was after a sigh rather more hopeless than usual that, chancing to raise her eyes they encountered those of the watcher outside, who, seeing himself discovered, smiled, and came to lean in at the open window.
"Won't they balance?" he enquired, with a nod toward the heap of bills, and papers before her.
"Oh yes," she answered with a rueful little smile, "but—on the wrong side, if you know what I mean."
"I know," he nodded, watching how her lashes curled against her cheek.
"If only we had done better with our first crop of wheat!" she sighed.
"Job Jagway said it was mouldy, you know,—that's why Adam punched him in the—"
"Georgy,—go on with your work, sir!"
"Yes, Auntie!" And immediately Small Porges' pen began to scratch, and his tongue to writhe and twist as before.
"I'm building all my hopes, this year, on the hops," said Anthea, sinking her head upon her hand, "if they should fail—"
"Well?" enquired Bellew, with his gaze upon the soft curve of her throat.
"I—daren't think of it!"
"Then don't—let us talk of something else—"
"Yes,—of Aunt Priscilla!" nodded Anthea, "she is in the garden."
"And pray who is Aunt Priscilla?"
"Go and meet her."
"But—"
"Go and find her—in the orchard!" repeated Anthea, "Oh do go, and leave us to our work."
Thus it was that turning obediently into the orchard, and looking about, Bellew presently espied a little, bright-eyed old lady who sat beneath the shadow of "King Arthur" with a rustic table beside her upon which stood a basket of sewing. Now, as he went, he chanced to spy a ball of worsted that had fallen by the way, and stooping, therefore, he picked it up, while she watched him with her quick, bright eyes.
"Good morning, Mr. Bellew!" she said in response to his salutation, "it was nice of you to trouble to pick up an old woman's ball of worsted." As she spoke, she rose, and dropped him a courtesy, and then, as he looked at her again, he saw that despite her words, and despite her white hair, she was much younger, and prettier than he had thought.
"I am Miss Anthea's house-keeper," she went on, "I was away when you arrived, looking after one of Miss Anthea's old ladies,—pray be seated. Miss Anthea,—bless her dear heart!—calls me her aunt, but I'm not really—Oh dear no! I'm no relation at all! But I've lived with her long enough to feel as if I was her aunt, and her uncle, and her father, and her mother—all rolled into one,—though I should be rather small to be so many,—shouldn't I?" and she laughed so gaily, and unaffectedly, that Bellew laughed too.
"I tell you all this," she went on, keeping pace to her flying needle, "because I have taken a fancy to you—on the spot! I always like, or dislike a person—on the spot,—first impressions you know! Y-e-e-s," she continued, glancing up at him side-ways, "I like you just as much as I dislike Mr. Cassilis,—heigho! how I do—detest that man! There, now that's off my mind!"
"And why?" enquired Bellew, smiling.
"Dear me, Mr. Bellew I—how should I know, only I do,—and what's more—he knows it too! And how," she enquired, changing the subject abruptly, "how is your bed,—comfortable, mm?"
"Very!"
"You sleep well?"
"Like a top!"
"Any complaints, so far?"
"None whatever," laughed Bellew, shaking his head.
"That is very well. We have never had a boarder before, and Miss Anthea,—bless her dear soul! was a little nervous about it. And here's the Sergeant!"
"I—er—beg your pardon—?" said Bellew.
"The Sergeant!" repeated Miss Priscilla, with a prim little nod, "Sergeant Appleby, late of the Nineteenth Hussars,—a soldier every inch of him, Mr. Bellew,—with one arm—over there by the peaches." Glancing in the direction she indicated, Bellew observed a tall figure, very straight and upright, clad in a tight-fitting blue coat, with extremely tight trousers strapped beneath the insteps, and with a hat balanced upon his close-cropped, grizzled head at a perfectly impossible angle for any save an ex-cavalry-man. Now as he stood examining a peach-tree that flourished against the opposite wall, Bellew saw that his right sleeve was empty, sure enough, and was looped across his broad chest.
"The very first thing he will say will be that 'it is a very fine day,'" nodded Miss Priscilla, stitching away faster than ever, "and the next, that 'the peaches are doing remarkably well,'—now mark my words, Mr. Bellew." As she spoke, the Sergeant wheeled suddenly right about face, and came striding down towards them, jingling imaginary spurs, and with his stick tucked up under his remaining arm, very much as if it had been a sabre.
Being come up to them, the Sergeant raised a stiff arm as though about to salute them, military fashion, but, apparently changing his mind, took off the straw hat instead, and put it on again, more over one ear than ever.
"A particular fine day, Miss Priscilla, for the time o' the year," said he.
"Indeed I quite agree with you Sergeant," returned little Miss Priscilla with a bright nod, and a sly glance at Bellew, as much as to say, "I told you so!" "And the peaches, mam," continued the Sergeant, "the peaches—never looked—better, mam." Having said which, he stood looking at nothing in particular, with his one hand resting lightly upon his hip.
"Yes, to be sure, Sergeant," nodded Miss Priscilla, with another sly look. "But let me introduce you to Mr. Bellew who is staying at Dapplemere." The Sergeant stiffened, once more began a salute, changed his mind, took off his hat instead, and, after looking at it as though not quite sure what to do with it next, clapped it back upon his ear, in imminent danger of falling off, and was done with it.
"Proud to know you, sir,—your servant, sir!"
"How do you do!" said Bellew, and held out his hand with his frank smile. The Sergeant hesitated, then put out his remaining hand.
"My left, sir," said he apologetically, "can't be helped—left my right—out in India—a good many years ago. Good place for soldiering, India, sir—plenty of active service—chances of promotion—though sun bad!"
"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla, without seeming to glance up from her sewing, "Sergeant,—your hat!" Hereupon, the Sergeant gave a sudden, sideways jerk of the head, and, in the very nick of time, saved the article in question from tumbling off, and very dexterously brought it to the top of his close-cropped head, whence it immediately began, slowly, and by scarcely perceptible degrees to slide down to his ear again.
"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla again, "sit down,—do."
"Thank you mam," said he, and proceeded to seat himself at the other end of the rustic bench, where he remained, bolt upright, and with his long legs stretched out straight before him, as is, and has been, the manner of cavalrymen since they first wore straps.
"And now," said he, staring straight in front of him, "how might MissAnthea be?"
"Oh, very well, thank you," nodded Miss Priscilla.
"Good!" exclaimed the Sergeant, with his eyes still fixed, "very good!" Here he passed his hand two or three times across his shaven chin, regarding an apple-tree, nearby, with an expression of the most profound interest:
"And how," said he again, "how might Master Georgy be?"
"Master Georgy is as well as ever," answered Miss Priscilla, stitching away faster than before, and Bellew thought she kept her rosy cheeks stooped a little lower over her work. Meanwhile the Sergeant continued to regard the tree with the same degree of lively interest, and to rasp his fingers to and fro across his chin. Suddenly, he coughed behind hand, whereupon Miss Priscilla raised her head, and looked at him.
"Well?" she enquired, very softly:
"And pray, mam," said the Sergeant, removing his gaze from the tree with a jerk, "how might—you be feeling, mam?"
"Much the same as usual, thank you," she answered, smiling like a girl, for all her white hair, as the Sergeant's eyes met hers.
"You look," said he, pausing to cough behind his hand again, "you look—blooming, mam,—if you'll allow the expression,—blooming,—as you ever do, mam."
"I'm an old woman, Sergeant, as well you know!" sighed Miss Priscilla, shaking her head.
"Old, mam!" repeated the Sergeant, "old, mam!—nothing of the sort, mam!—Age has nothing to do with it.—'Tisn't the years as count.—We aren't any older than we feel,—eh, sir?"
"Of course not!" answered Bellew.
"Nor than we look,—eh sir?"
"Certainly not, Sergeant!" answered Bellew.
"And she, sir,—she don't look—a day older than—"
"Thirty five!" said Bellew.
"Exactly, sir, very true! My own opinion,—thirty five exactly, sir."
"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla, bending over her work again, "Sergeant,—your hat!" The Sergeant, hereupon, removed the distracting head-gear altogether, and sat with it upon his knee, staring hard at the tree again. Then, all at once, with a sudden gesture he drew a large, silver watch from his pocket,—rather as if it were some weapon of offence,—looked at it, listened to it, and then nodding his head, rose to his feet.
"Must be going," he said, standing very straight, and looking down at little Miss Priscilla, "though sorry, as ever,—must be going, mam,—Miss Priscilla mam—good day to you!" And he stretched out his hand to her with a sudden, jerky movement. Miss Priscilla paused in her sewing, and looked up at him with her youthful smile:
"Must you go—so soon, Sergeant? Then Good-bye,—until to-morrow," and she laid her very small hand in his big palm. The Sergeant stared down at it as though he were greatly minded to raise it to his lips, instead of doing which, he dropped it, suddenly, and turned to Bellew:
"Sir, I am—proud to have met you. Sir, there is a poor crippled soldier as I know,—My cottage is very small, and humble sir, but if you ever feel like—dropping in on him, sir,—by day or night, he will be—honoured, sir, honoured! And that's me—Sergeant Richard Appleby—late of the Nineteenth Hussars—at your service, sir!" saying which, he put on his hat, stiff-armed, wheeled, and strode away through the orchard, jingling his imaginary spurs louder than ever.
"Well?" enquired Miss Priscilla in her quick, bright way, "Well Mr. Bellew, what do you think of him?—first impressions are always best,—at least, I think so,—what do you think of Sergeant Appleby?"
"I think he's a splendid fellow," said Bellew, looking after theSergeant's upright figure.
"A very foolish old fellow, I think, and as stiff as one of the ram-rods of one of his own guns!" said Miss Priscilla, but her clear, blue eyes were very soft, and tender as she spoke.
"And as fine a soldier as a man, I'm sure," said Bellew.
"Why yes, hewasa good soldier, once upon a time, I believe,—he won the Victoria Cross for doing something or other that was very brave, and he wears it with all his other medals, pinned on the inside of his coat. Oh yes, he was a fine soldier, once, but he's a very foolish old soldier, now,—I think, and as stiff as the ram-rod of one of his own guns. But I'm glad you like him, Mr. Bellew, and he will be proud, and happy for you to call and see him at his cottage. And now, I suppose, it is half past eleven, isn't it?"
"Yes, just half past!" nodded Bellew, glancing at his watch.
"Exact to time, as usual!" said Miss Priscilla, "I don't think the Sergeant has missed a minute, or varied a minute in the last five years,—you see, he is such a very methodical man, Mr. Bellew!"
"Why then, does he come every day, at the same hour?"
"Every day!" nodded Miss Priscilla, "it has become a matter of habit with him."
"Ah?" said Bellew, smiling.
"If you were to ask me why he comes, I should answer that I fancy it is to—look at the peaches. Dear me, Mr. Bellew! what a very foolish old soldier he is, to be sure!" Saying which, pretty, bright-eyed Miss Priscilla, laughed again, folded up her work, settled it in the basket with a deft little pat, and, rising, took a small, crutch stick from where it had lain concealed, and then, Bellew saw that she was lame.
"Oh yes,—I'm a cripple, you see," she nodded,—"Oh very, very lame! my ankle, you know. That is why I came here, the big world didn't want a poor, lame, old woman,—that is why Miss Anthea made me her Aunt, God bless her! No thank you,—I can carry my basket. So you see,—he—has lost an arm,—his right one, and I—am lame in my foot. Perhaps that is why—Heigho! how beautifully the black birds are singing this morning, to be sure!"
In which may be found some description of Arcadia, and gooseberries
Anthea, leaning on her rake in a shady corner of the five-acre field, turned to watch Bellew who, stripped to his shirt-sleeves, bare of neck, and arm, and pitch-fork in hand, was busy tossing up great mounds of sweet-smelling hay to Adam who stood upon a waggon to receive it, with Small Porges perched up beside him.
A week had elapsed since Bellew had found his way to Dapplemere, a week which had only served to strengthen the bonds of affection between him and his "nephew," and to win over sharp-eyed, shrewd little Miss Priscilla to the extent of declaring him to be: "First a gentleman, Anthea, my dear, and Secondly,—what is much rarer, now-a-days,—a true man!" A week! and already he was hail-fellow-well-met with everyone about the place, for who was proof against his unaffected gaiety, his simple, easy, good-fellowship? So he laughed, and joked as he swung his pitch-fork, (awkwardly enough, to be sure), and received all hints, and directions as to its use, in the kindly spirit they were tendered. And Anthea, watching him from her shady corner, sighed once or twice, and catching herself, so doing, stamped her foot at herself, and pulled her sunbonnet closer about her face.
"No, Adam," he was saying, "depend upon it, there is nothing like exercise, and, of all exercise,—give me a pitch-fork."
"Why, as to that, Mr. Belloo, sir," Adam retorted, "I say—so be it, so long as I ain't near the wrong end of it, for the way you do 'ave of flourishin' an' a whirlin' that theer fork, is fair as-tonishin', I do declare it be."
"Why you see, Adam, there are some born with a leaning towards pitch-forks, as there are others born to the pen, and the—er—palette, and things, but for me, Adam, the pitch-fork, every time!" said Bellew, mopping his brow.
"If you was to try an' 'andle it more as if itwasa pitchfork now, Mr. Belloo, sir—" suggested Adam, and, not waiting for Bellew's laughing rejoinder, he chirrupped to the horses, and the great waggon creaked away with its mountainous load, surmounted by Adam's grinning visage, and Small Porges' golden curls, and followed by the rest of the merry-voiced hay-makers.
Now it was, that turning his head, Bellew espied Anthea watching him, whereupon he shouldered his fork, and coming to where she sat upon a throne of hay, he sank down at her feet with a luxurious sigh. She had never seen him without a collar, before, and now she could not but notice how round, and white, and powerful his neck was, and how the muscles bulged upon arm, and shoulder, and how his hair curled in small, damp rings upon his brow.
"It is good," said he, looking up into the witching face, above him, "yes, it is very good to see you idle—just for once."
"And I was thinking it was good to see you work,—just for once."
"Work!" he exclaimed, "my dear Miss Anthea, I assure you I have become a positive glutton for work. It has become my earnest desire to plant things, and grow things, and chop things with axes; to mow things with scythes. I dream of pastures, and ploughs, of pails and pitchforks, by night; and, by day, reaping-hooks, hoes, and rakes, are in my thoughts continually,—which all goes to show the effect of this wonderful air of Arcadia. Indeed, I am as full of suppressed energy, these days, as Adam is of the 'Old Adam.' And, talking of Adam reminds me that he has solemnly pledged himself to initiate me into the mysteries of swinging a scythe to-morrow morning at—five o'clock! Yes indeed, my heart bounds responsive to the swish of a scythe in thick grass, and my soul sits enraptured upon a pitch-fork."
"How ridiculous you are!" she laughed.
"And how perfectly content!" he added.
"Is anyone ever quite content?" she sighed, glancing down at him, wistful-eyed.
"Not unless they have found Arcadia," he answered.
"Have you then?"
"Yes," he nodded complacently, "oh yes, I've found it."
"Are you—sure?"
"Quite sure!"
"Arcadia!" she repeated, wrinkling her brows, "what is Arcadia and—where?"
"Arcadia," answered Bellew, watching the smoke rise up from his pipe, with a dreamy eye, "Arcadia is the—Promised Land,—the Land that everyone tries to find, sometime or other, and may be—anywhere."
"And how came you to—find it?"
"By the most fortunate chance in the world."
"Tell me," said Anthea, taking a wisp of hay, and beginning to plait it in dexterous, brown fingers, "tell me how you found it."
"Why then you must know, in the first place," he began in his slow, even voice, "that it is a place I have sought for in all my wanderings, and I have been pretty far afield,—but I sought it so long, and so vainly, that I began to think it was like the El Dorado of the old Adventurers, and had never existed at all."
"Yes?" said Anthea, busy with her plaiting.
"But, one day,—Fate, or Chance, or Destiny,—or their benevolent spirit, sent a certain square-shouldered Waggoner to show me the way, and, after him, a very small Porges,—bless him!—to lead me into this wonderful Arcadia."
"Oh, I see!" nodded Anthea, very intent upon her plaiting.
"But there is something more," said Bellew.
"Oh?" said Anthea.
"Shall I tell you?"
"If—it is—very interesting."
"Well then, in this delightful land there is a castle, grim, embattled, and very strong."
"A castle?" said Anthea, glancing up suddenly.
"The Castle of Heart's Desire."
"Oh!" said she, and gave all her attention to her plaiting again.
"And so," continued Bellew, "I am waiting, very patiently, until, in her own good time, she who rules within, shall open the gate to me, or—bid me go away."
Into Bellew's voice had crept a thrill no one had ever heard there before; he leaned nearer to her, and his dreamy eyes were keen now, and eager. And she, though she saw nothing of all this, yet, being a woman, knew it was there, of course, and, for that very reason, looked resolutely away. Wherefore, once again, Bellew heartily wished that sunbonnets had never been invented.
So there was silence while Anthea stared away across the golden corn-fields, yet saw nothing of them, and Bellew looked upon those slender, capable fingers, that had faltered in their plaiting and stopped. And thus, upon the silence there broke a sudden voice shrill with interest:
"Go on, Uncle Porges,—what about the dragons? Oh, please go on!—there's always dragons in 'chanted castles, you know, to guard the lovely Princess,—aren't you going to have any dragons that hiss, you know, an' spit out smoke, an' flames? Oh!—do please have a dragon." And Small Porges appeared from the other side of the hay-mow, flushed, and eager.
"Certainly, my Porges," nodded Bellew, drawing the small figure down beside him, "I was forgetting the dragons, but there they are, with scaly backs, and iron claws, spitting out sparks and flames, just as self-respecting dragons should, and roaring away like thunder."
"Ah!" exclaimed Small Porges, nestling closer to Bellew, and reaching out a hand to Auntie Anthea, "that's fine! let's have plenty of dragons."
"Do you think a—er—dozen would be enough, my Porges?"
"Oh yes! But s'pose the beautiful Princess didn't open the door,—what would you do if you were really a wandering knight who was waiting patiently for it to open,—what would you do then?"
"Shin up a tree, my Porges."
"Oh but that wouldn't be a bit right—would it, Auntie?"
"Of course not!" laughed Anthea, "it would be most un-knight-like, and very undignified."
"'Sides," added Small Porges, "you couldn't climb up a tree in your armour, you know."
"Then I'd make an awful' good try at it!" nodded Bellew.
"No," said Small Porges, shaking his head, "shall I tell you what you ought to do? Well then, you'd draw your two-edged sword, an' dress your shield,—like Gareth, the Kitchen Knave did,—he was always dressing his shield, an' so was Lancelot,—an' you'd fight all those dragons, an' kill them, an' cut their heads off."
"And then what would happen?" enquired Bellew.
"Why then the lovely Princess would open the gate, an' marry you of course, an' live happy ever after, an' all would be revelry an' joy."
"Ah!" sighed Bellew, "if she'd do that, I think I'd fight all the dragons that ever roared,—and kill them too. But supposing she—er—wouldn't open the gate."
"Why then," said Small Porges, wrinkling his brow, "why then—you'd have to storm the castle, of course, an' break open the gate an' run off with the Princess on your charger,—if she was very beautiful, you know."
"A most excellent idea, my Porges! If I should happen to find myself in like circumstances, I'll surely take your advice."
Now, as he spoke, Bellew glanced at Anthea, and she at him. And straightway she blushed, and then she laughed, and then she blushed again, and, still blushing, rose to her feet, and turned to find Mr. Cassilis within a yard of them.
"Ah, Miss Anthea," said he, lifting his hat, "I sent Georgy to find you, but it seems he forgot to mention that I was waiting."
"I'm awful' sorry, Mr. Cassilis,—but Uncle Porges was telling us 'bout dragons, you know," Small Porges hastened to explain.
"Dragons!" repeated Mr. Cassilis, with his supercilious smile, "ah, indeed! dragons should be interesting, especially in such a very quiet, shady nook as this,—quite an idyllic place for story-telling, it's a positive shame to disturb you," and his sharp, white teeth gleamed beneath his moustache, as he spoke, and he tapped his riding-boot lightly with his hunting-crop as he fronted Bellew, who had risen, and stood bare-armed, leaning upon his pitch-fork. And, as in their first meeting, there was a mute antagonism in their look.
"Let me introduce you to each other," said Anthea, conscious of this attitude,—"Mr. Cassilis, of Brampton Court,—Mr. Bellew!"
"Of nowhere in particular, sir!" added Bellew.
"And pray," said Mr. Cassilis perfunctorily as they strolled on across the meadow, "how do you like Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew?"
"Immensely, sir,—beyond all expression!"
"Yes, it is considered rather pretty, I believe."
"Lovely, sir!" nodded Bellew, "though it is not so much the beauty of the place itself, that appeals to me so much as what it—contains."
"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Cassilis, with a sudden, sharp glance, "to what do you refer?"
"Goose-berries, sir!"
"I—ah—beg your pardon?"
"Sir," said Bellew gravely, "all my life I have fostered a secret passion for goose-berries—raw, or cooked,—in pie, pudding or jam, they are equally alluring. Unhappily the American goose-berry is but a hollow mockery, at best—"
"Ha?" said Mr. Cassilis, dubiously.
"Now, in goose-berries, as in everything else, sir, there is to be found the superlative, the quintessence,—the ideal. Consequently I have roamed East and West, and North and South, in quest of it."
"Really?" said Mr. Cassilis, stifling a yawn, and turning towards MissAnthea with the very slightest shrug of his shoulders.
"And, in Dapplemere," concluded Bellew, solemnly, "I have, at last, found my ideal—"
"Goose-berry!" added Anthea with a laugh in her eyes.
"Arcadia being a land of ideals!" nodded Bellew.
"Ideals," said Mr. Cassilis, caressing his moustache, "ideals and—ah—goose-berries,—though probably excellent things in themselves, are apt to pall upon one, in time; personally, I find them equally insipid,—"
"Of course it is all a matter of taste!" sighed Bellew.
"But," Mr. Cassilis went on, fairly turning his back upon him, "the subject I wished to discuss with you, Miss Anthea, was the—er —approaching sale."
"The sale!" she repeated, all the brightness dying out of her face.
"I wished," said Cassilis, leaning nearer to her, and lowering his voice confidentially, "to try to convince you how—unnecessary it would be—if—" and he paused, significantly.
Anthea turned quickly aside, as though to hide her mortification from Bellew's keen eyes; whereupon he, seeing it all, became, straightway, more dreamy than ever, and, laying a hand upon Small Porges' shoulder, pointed with his pitch-fork to where at the other end of the "Five-acre" the hay-makers worked away as merrily as ever:
"Come, my Porges," said he, "let us away and join yon happy throng, and—er—
'With Daphnis, and Clo, and BlowsabelWe'll list to the—er—cuckoo in the dell.'"
So, hand in hand, the two Porges set off together. But when they had gone some distance, Bellew looked back, and then he saw that Anthea walked with her head averted, yet Cassilis walked close beside her, and stooped, now and then, until the black moustache came very near the curl—that curl of wanton witchery that peeped above her ear.
"Uncle Porges—why do you frown so?"
"Frown, my Porges,—did I? Well, I was thinking."
"Well, I'm thinking too, only I don't frown, you know, but I'm thinking just the same."
"And what might you be thinking, nephew?"
"Why I was thinking that although you're so awful fond of goose-berries, an' though there's lots of ripe ones on the bushes I've never seen you eat a single one."
How Bellew and Adam entered into a solemn league and covenant
"Look at the moon to-night, Uncle Porges!"
"I see it."
"It's awfull' big, an' round, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's very big, and very round."
"An'—rather—yellow, isn't it?"
"Very yellow!"
"Just like a great, big golden sovereign, isn't it"
"Very much like a sovereign, my Porges."
"Well, do you know, I was wondering—if there was any chance that it was a—Money Moon?"
They were leaning out at the lattice, Small Porges, and Big Porges. Anthea and Miss Priscilla were busied upon household matters wholly feminine, wherefore Small Porges had drawn Bellew to the window, and there they leaned, the small body enfolded by Bellew's long arm, and the two faces turned up to the silvery splendour of the moon.
But now, Anthea came up behind them, and, not noticing the position of Bellew's arm as she leaned on the other side of Small Porges, it befell that her hand touched, and for a moment, rested upon Bellew's hand, hidden as it was in the shadow. And this probably began it.
The air of Arcadia, as has been said before, is an intoxicating air; but it is more, it is an air charged with a subtle magic whereby the commonest objects, losing their prosaic, matter-of-fact shapes, become transfigured into things of wonder, and delight. Little things that pass as mere ordinary common-places,—things insignificant, and wholly beneath notice in the every day world, become fraught with such infinite meaning, and may hold such sublime, such undreamed of possibilities —here in Arcadia. Thus, when it is recorded that Anthea's hand accidentally touched, and rested upon Bellew's—the significance of it will become at once apparent.
"And pray," said Anthea, laying that same hand in the most natural manner in the world, upon the Small Porges' curls, "Pray what might you two be discussing so very solemnly?"
"The moon," answered Small Porges. "I was wondering if it was a MoneyMoon, an' Uncle Porges hasn't said if it is, yet."
"Why no, old chap," answered Bellew, "I'm afraid not."
"And pray," said Anthea again, "what might a Money Moon be?"
"Well," explained Small Porges, "when the moon's just—just so, then you go out an'—an' find a fortune, you know. But the moon's got to be a Money Moon, and you've got to know, you know, else you'll find nothing, of course."
"Ah Georgy dear!" sighed Anthea, stooping her dark head down to his golden curls, "don't you know that fortunes are very hard to get, and that they have to be worked for, and that no one ever found one without a great deal of labour, and sorrow?"
"'Course—everyone can't find fortunes, Auntie Anthea, I know that, but we shall,—my Uncle Porges knows all about it, you see, an' I know that we shall. I'm sure as sure we shall find one, some day, 'cause, you see, I put it in my prayers now,—at the end, you know. I say: 'An' please help me an' my Uncle Porges to find a fortune when the Money Moon comes,—a big one, world without end—Amen!' So you see, it's all right, an' we're just waiting till the Money Moon comes, aren't we, Uncle Porges?"
"Yes, old chap, yes," nodded Bellew, "until the Money Moon comes."
And so there fell a silence between them, yet a silence that held a wondrous charm of its own; a silence that lasted so long that the coppery curls drooped lower, and lower upon Bellew's arm, until Anthea, sighing, rose, and in a very tender voice bade Small Porges say 'Goodnight!' the which he did, forthwith, slumberous of voice, and sleepy eyed, and so, with his hand in Anthea's, went drowsily up to bed.
Wherefore, seeing that Miss Priscilla had bustled away into the kitchen, Bellew sauntered out into the rose-garden to look upon the beauty of the night. The warm air was fragrant with dewy scents, and the moon, already high above the tree-tops, poured down her gentle radiance upon the quaint, old garden with its winding walks, and clipped yew hedges, while upon the quiet, from the dim shadow of the distant woods, stole the soft, sweet song of a nightingale.
Bellew walked a path bordered with flowers, and checkered with silver patches of moon-light, drinking in the thousand beauties about him, staring up at the glory of the moon, the indigo of the sky, and listening to the voice of the lonely singer in the wood. And yet it was of none of these he was thinking as he paused under the shadow of "King Arthur,"—nor of Small Porges, nor of any one or anything in this world but only of the sudden, light touch of a warm, soft hand upon his. "Be that you, sir?" Bellew started and now he found that he had been sitting, all this while, with an empty pipe between his teeth, yet content therewith; wherefore he shook his head, and wondered.
"Be that you, Mr. Beloo, sir?"
"Yes Adam, it is I."
"Ah! an' how might you be feelin' now—arter your exercise wi' the pitch-fork, sir?"
"Very fit, I thank you, Adam. Sit down, and smoke, and let us converse together."
"Why thankee sir," answered Adam, producing the small, black clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and accepting Bellew's proffered pouch. "I've been up to the 'ouse a visitin' Prudence, the cook,—an' a rare cook she be, too, Mr. Beloo sir!"
"And a rare buxom girl into the bargain, Adam!"
"Oh, ah!—she's well enough, sir; I won't go for to deny as she's a fine, up-standing, well-shaped, tall, an' proper figure of a woman as ever was, sir,—though the Kentish lasses be a tidy lot, Mr. Beloo sir. But, Lord! when you come to think of her gift for Yorkshire Puddin', likewise jam-rollers, and seed-cake,—(which, though mentioned last, ain't by no manner o' means least),—when you come to think of her brew o' ale, an' cider, an' ginger wine,—why then—I'm took, sir, I'm took altogether, an' the 'Old Adam' inside o' me works hisself into such a state that if another chap—'specially that there Job Jagway gets lookin' her way too often, why it's got to get took out o' him, or took out o' me in good 'ard knocks, Mr. Belloo, sir."
"And when are you going to get married, Adam?"
"Well sir, we was thinkin' that if Miss Anthea has a good season, this year, we'd get it over an' done wi' some time in October, sir,—but it's all accordin'."
"According to what?"
"To the 'ops, sir,—the H-O-P-S—'ops, sir. They're comin' on fine,—ah! scrumptuous they be! If they don't take the blight, sir, they'll be the finest 'ops this side o' Maidstone. But then, if they do take the blight,—why then my 'opes is blighted likewise sir,—B-L-I-T-E-D, —blighted, Mr. Belloo sir!" which said, Adam laughed once, nodded his head several times, and relapsed into puffing silence.
"Mr. Cassilis was over to-day, Adam," said Bellew, after a while pursuing a train of thought.
"Ah sir!—I seen him,—'e also seen me. 'E told me as Job Jagway was up and about again,—likewise Job Jagway will be over 'ere to-morrow, along wi' the rest of 'em for the sale, sir."
"Ah yes,—the sale!" said Bellew, thoughtfully.
"To think o' that there Job Jagway a coming over here to buy Miss Anthea's furnitur' do set the Old Adam a workin' inside o' me to that amazin' extent as I can't sit still, Mr. Belloo sir! If that there Job crosses my path to-morrer—well—let 'im—look out, that's all!" saying which, Adam doubled up a huge, knotted fist and shook it at an imaginary Job.
"Adam," said Bellew, in the same thoughtful tone, "I wonder if you would do something for me?"
"Anything you ax me, sir, so long as you don't want me to—"
"I want you to buy some of that furniture for me."
"What!" exclaimed Adam, and vented his great laugh again, "well, if that ain't a good 'un, sir! why that's just w'ot I'm a going to do! Ye see, I ain't w'ot you might call a rich cove, nor yet a millionaire, but I've got a bit put by, an' I drawed out ten pound, yesterday. Thinks I,—'here's to save Miss Anthea's old sideboard, or the mirror as she's so fond of, or if not—why then a cheer or so,—they ain't a going to get it all,—not while I've got a pound or two,' I sez to myself."
"Adam," said Bellew, turning suddenly, "that sentiment does you credit, that sentiment makes me proud to have knocked you into a ditch,—shake hands, Adam." And there, beneath the great apple tree, while the moon looked on, they very solemnly shook hands.
"And now, Adam," pursued Bellew, "I want you to put back your ten pounds, keep it for Prudence,—because I happen to have rather more than we shall want,—see here!" And, with the words, Bellew took out a leathern wallet, and from this wallet, money, and bank-notes,—more money, and more bank-notes than Adam had ever beheld in all his thirty odd years, at sight of which his eyes opened, and his square jaw relaxed, to the imminent danger of his cherished clay pipe.
"I want you to take this," Bellew went on, counting a sum into Adam's nerveless hand, "and to-morrow, when the sale begins, if any one makes a bid for anything, I want you to bid higher, and, no matter what, you must always buy—always, you understand?"
"But sir,—that there old drorin'-room cab'net wi' the—carvings—"
"Buy it!"
"An' the silver candle-sticks,—and the four-post bed-stead,—an' the—"
"Buy 'em, Adam,—buy everything! If we haven't enough money there's plenty more where this came from,—only buy!—You understand?"
"Oh yes sir, I understand! 'Ow much 'ave you give me? Why, here's—forty-five,—fifty,—sixty,—Lord!—"
"Put it away, Adam,—forget all about it till to-morrow,—and not a word, mind!"
"A hundred pound!" gasped Adam, "Lord!—Oh I won't speak of it, trust me, Mr. Belloo, sir! But to think of me a walking about wi' a hundred pound in my pocket,—Lord! I won't say nothing—but to think of Old Adam wi' a hundred pound in his pocket, e'Cod! it do seem that comical!" saying which, Adam buttoned the money into a capacious pocket, slapped it, nodded, and rose. "Well sir, I'll be going,—there be Miss Anthea in the garden yonder, and if she was to see me now there's no sayin' but I should be took a laughin' to think o' this 'ere hundred pound."
"Miss Anthea!—where?"
"Comin' through the rose-gardin. She be off to see old Mother Dibbin. They call Mother Dibbin a witch, an' now as she's down wi' the rheumatics there ain't nobody to look arter 'er,—'cept Miss Anthea,—she'd ha' starved afore now if it 'adn't been for Miss Anthea, but Lord love your eyes, an' limbs, Mr. Belloo sir! Miss Anthea don't care if she's a witch, or fifty witches, not she! So good-night, Mr. Belloo sir, an' mum's the word!"
Saying which, Adam slapped his pocket again, nodded, winked, and went upon his way.
Of the "Man with the Tiger Mark"
It is a moot question as to whether a curl can be more alluring when it glows beneath the fiery kisses of the sun, or shines demurely in the tender radiance of the moon. As Bellew looked at it now,—that same small curl that nodded and beckoned to him above Anthea's left ear,—he strongly inclined to the latter opinion.
"Adam tells me that you are going out, Miss Anthea."
"Only as far as Mrs. Dibbin's cottage,—just across the meadow."
"Adam also informs me that Mrs. Dibbin is a witch."
"People call her so."
"Never in all my days have I seen a genuine, old witch,—so I'll come with you, if I may?"
"Oh, this is a very gentle old witch, and she is neither humpbacked, nor does she ride a broom-stick,—so I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, Mr. Bellew."
"Then, at least, I can carry your basket,—allow me!" And so, in his quiet, masterful fashion he took the basket from her arm, and walked on beside her, through the orchard.
"What a glorious night it is!" exclaimed Anthea suddenly, drawing a deep breath of the fragrant air,—"Oh! it is good to be alive! In spite of all the cares, and worries, life is very sweet!"
After this, they walked on some distance in silence, she gazing wistfully upon the beauties of the familiar world about her while he watched the curl above her ear until she, becoming aware of it all at once, promptly sent it back into retirement, with a quick, deft little pat of her fingers.
"I hope," said Bellew at last, "I do sincerely hope that you 'tucked up' my nephew safe in bed,—you see—"
"Your nephew, indeed!"
"Our nephew, then; I ask because he tells me that he can't possibly sleep unless you go to 'tuck him up,'—and I can quite believe it."
"Do you know, Mr. Bellew, I'm growing quite jealous of you, he can't move a step without you, and he is for ever talking, and lauding your numberless virtues!"
"But then—I'm only an uncle, after all, and if he talks of me to you, he talks of you to me, all day long."
"Oh, does he!"
"And, among other things, he told me that I ought to see you when your hair is down, and all about you."
"Oh!" exclaimed Anthea.
"Indeed, our nephew is much luckier than I, because I never had an aunt of my own to come and 'tuck me up' at night with her hair hanging all about her—like a beautiful cloak. So, you see, I have no boyish recollections to go upon, but I think I can imagine—"
"And what do you think of the Sergeant?" Anthea enquired, changing the subject abruptly.
"I like him so much that I am going to take him at his word, and call upon him at the first opportunity."
"Did Aunt Priscilla tell you that he comes marching along regularly every day, at exactly the same hour?"
"Yes,—to see how the peaches are getting on!" nodded Bellew.
"For such a very brave soldier he is a dreadful coward," said Anthea, smiling, "it has taken him five years to screw up courage enough to tell her that she's uncommonly young for her age. And yet, I think it is just that diffidence that makes him so lovable. And he is so simple, and so gentle—in spite of all his war medals. When I am moody, and cross, the very sight of him is enough to put me in humour again."
"Has he never—spoken to Miss Priscilla,—?"
"Never,—though, of course, she knows, and has done from the very first. I asked him once, why he had never told her what it was brought him so regularly,—to look at the peaches,—and he said, in his quick, sharp way: 'Miss Anthea,—can't be done, mam,—a poor, battered, old soldier,—only one arm,—no mam.'"
"I wonder if one could find just such another Sergeant outside Arcadia," said Bellew, "I wonder!"
Now they were approaching a stile towards which Bellew had directed his eyes, from time to time, as, for that matter, curiously enough, had Anthea; but to him it seemed that it never would be reached, while to her, it seemed that it would be reached much too soon. Therefore she began to rack her mind trying to remember some gate, or any gap in the hedge that should obviate the necessity of climbing it. But, before she could recall any such gate, or gap, they were at the stile, and Bellew, leaping over, had set down the basket, and stretched out his hand to aid her over. But Anthea, tall, and lithe, active and vigorous with her outdoor life, and used to such things from her infancy, stood a moment hesitating. To be sure, the stile was rather high, yet she could have vaulted it nearly, if not quite, as easily as Bellew himself, had she been alone. But then, she was not alone, moreover, be it remembered, this was in Arcadia of a mid-summer night. Thus, she hesitated, only a moment, it is true, for, seeing the quizzical look in his eyes that always made her vaguely rebellious,—with a quick, light movement, she mounted the stile, and there paused to shake her head in laughing disdain of his out-stretched hand; then—there was the sound of rending cambric, she tripped, and, next moment, he had caught her in his arms. It was for but a very brief instant that she lay, soft and yielding, in his embrace, yet she was conscious of how strong were the arms that held her so easily, ere they set her down.
"I beg your pardon!—how awkward I am!" she exclaimed, in hot mortification.
"No," said Bellew, shaking his head, "it was a nail, you know, a bent, and rusty nail,—here, under the top bar. Is your dress much torn?"
"Oh, that is nothing, thank you!"
So they went on again, but now they were silent once more, and very naturally, for Anthea was mightily angry,—with herself, the stile, Bellew, and everything concerned; while he was thinking of the sudden, warm clasp of her arms, of the alluring fragrance of her hair, and of the shy droop of her lashes as she lay in his embrace. Therefore, as he walked on beside her, saying nothing, within his secret soul he poured benedictions upon the head of that bent, and rusty nail.
And presently, having turned down a grassy lane and crossed a small but very noisy brook that chattered impertinences among the stones and chuckled at them slyly from the shadows, they eventually came upon a small, and very lonely little cottage bowered in roses and honeysuckle,—as are all the cottages hereabouts. But now Anthea paused, looking at Bellew with a dubious brow.
"I ought to warn you that Mrs. Dibbin is very old, and sometimes a little queer, and sometimes says very—surprising things."
"Excellent!" nodded Bellew, holding the little gate open for her, "very right and proper conduct in a witch, and I love surprises above all things."
But Anthea still hesitated, while Bellew stood with his hand upon the gate, waiting for her to enter. Now he had left his hat behind him, and, as the moon shone down on his bare head, she could not but notice how bright, and yellow was his hair, despite the thick, black brows below.
"I think I—would rather you waited outside,—if you don't mind, Mr.Bellew."
"You mean that I am to be denied the joy of conversing with a real, live, old witch, and having my fortune told?" he sighed. "Well, if such is your will—so be it," said he obediently, and handed her the basket.
"I won't keep you waiting very long,—and—thank you!" she smiled, and, hurrying up the narrow path, she tapped at the cottage door.
"Come in! come in!" cried an old, quavering voice, albeit, very sharp, and piercing. "That be my own soft dove of a maid,—my proud, beautiful, white lady! Come in! come in!—and bring him wi' you,—him as is so big, and strong,—him as I've expected so long,—the tall, golden man from over seas. Bid him come in, Miss Anthea, that Goody Dibbin's old eyes may look at him at last."
Hereupon, at a sign from Anthea, Bellew turned in at the gate, and striding up the path, entered the cottage.
Despite the season, a fire burned upon the hearth, and crouched over this, in a great elbow-chair, sat a very bent, and aged woman. Her face was furrowed, and seamed with numberless lines and wrinkles, but her eyes were still bright, and she wore no spectacles; likewise her white hair was wonderfully thick, and abundant, as could plainly be seen beneath the frill of her cap, for, like the very small room of this very small cottage, she was extremely neat, and tidy. She had a great, curving nose, and a great, curving chin, and what with this and her bright, black eyes, and stooping figure, she was very much like what a witch should be,—albeit a very superior kind of old witch.
She sat, for a while, staring up at Bellew who stood tall, and bare-headed, smiling down at her; and then, all at once, she nodded her head three several, and distinct times.
"Right!" she quavered, "right! right,—it be all right!—the golden man as I've watched this many an' many a day, wi' the curly hair, and the sleepy eye, and the Tiger-mark upon his arm,—right! right!"
"What do you mean by 'Tiger-mark?'" enquired Bellew.
"I mean, young master wi' your golden curls,—I mean as, sitting here day in, and day out, staring down into my fire, I has my dreams,—leastways, I calls 'em my dreams, though there's them as calls it the 'second sight.' But pray sit down, tall sir, on the stool there; and you, my tender maid, my dark lady, come you here—upon my right, and, if you wish, I'll look into the ink, or read your pretty hand, or tell you what I see down there in the fire. But no,—first, show what you have brought for Old Nannie in the blessed basket,—the fine, strong basket as holds so much. Yes, set it down here—where I can open it myself, tall sir. Eh,—what's this?—Tea! God bless you for the tea, my dear! And eggs, and butter,—and a cold chicken!—the Lord bless your kind heart, Miss Anthea! Ah, my proud lady, happy the man who shall win ye! Happy the man who shall wed ye, my dark, beautiful maid. And strong must he be, aye, and masterful he who shall wake the love-light in those dark, great, passionate eyes of yours. And there is no man in all this world can do it but he must be a golden man—wi' the Tiger-mark upon him."
"Why—oh Nannie—!"
"Aye,—blush if ye will, my dark lady, but Mother Dibbin knows she's seen it in the fire, dreamed it in her dreams, and read it in the ink. The path lies very dark afore ye, my lady,—aye very dark it be, and full o' cares, and troubles, but there's the sun shining beyond,—bright, and golden. You be proud, and high, and scornful, my lady,—'tis in your blood,—you'll need a strong hand to guide ye,—and the strong hand shall come. By force you shall be wooed, and by force you shall be wed,—and there be no man strong enough to woo, and wed ye, but him as I've told ye of—him as bears the Tiger-mark."
"But Nannie," said Anthea again, gently interrupting her, and patting the old woman's shrivelled hand, "you're forgetting the basket,—you haven't found all we've brought you, yet."
"Aye, aye!" nodded old Nannie, "the fine, strong basket,—let's see what more be in the good, kind basket. Here's bread, and sugar,—and—"
"A pound of your favourite tobacco!" said Anthea, with a smiling nod.
"Oh the good weed! The blessed weed!" cried the old woman, clutching the package with trembling fingers. "Ah! who can tell the comfort it has been to me in the long, long days, and the long, long nights,—the blessed weed! when I've sat here a looking and a looking into the fire. God bless you, my sweet maid, for your kindly thought!" and, with a sudden gesture, she caught Anthea's hand to her lips, and then, just as suddenly turned upon Bellew.
"And now, tall sir, can I do ought for ye? Shall I look into the fire for ye, or the ink, or read your hand?"
"Why yes," answered Bellew, stretching out his hand to her, "you shall tell me two things, if you will; first, shall one ever find his way into the 'Castle of Heart's Desire,' and secondly;—When?"
"Oh, but I don't need to look into your hand to tell you that, tall sir, nor yet in the ink, or in the fire, for I've dreamed it all in my dreams. And now, see you, 'tis a strong place, this Castle,—wi' thick doors, and great locks, and bars. But I have seen those doors broke' down,—those great locks, and bars burst asunder,—but—there is none can do this but him as bears the Tiger-Mark. So much for the first. And, for the second,—Happiness shall come a riding to you on the full moon,—but you must reach up—and take it for yourself,—if you be tall enough."
"And—even you are not tall enough to do that, Mr. Bellew!" laughed Anthea, as she rose to bid Old Nannie "Good-night," while Bellew, unnoticed, slipped certain coins upon a corner of the chimney-piece. So, old Nannie blessed them, and theirs,—past, present, and future, thoroughly and completely, with a fine comprehensiveness that only a genuinely accomplished old witch might hope to attain to, and, following them to the door, paused there with one shrivelled, claw-like hand up-lifted towards the sky: