"Sergeant," said Bellew, after they had walked some distance, "I have a message for you."
"For me, sir?"
"From Miss Priscilla."
"From—indeed, sir!"
"She bid me tell you that—the peaches are riper to-night than ever they were."
The Sergeant seemed to find in this a subject for profound thought, and he strode on beside Bellew very silently, and with his eyes straight before him.
"'That the peaches were riper,—to-night,—than ever they were?'" said he at last.
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Riper!" said the Sergeant, as though turning this over in his mind.
"Riper than ever they were!" nodded Bellew.
"The—peaches, I think, sir?"
"The peaches, yes." Bellew heard the Sergeant's finger rasping to and fro across his shaven chin.
"Mr. Bellew, sir—she is a—very remarkable woman, sir!"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
"A—wonderful woman!"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
"The kind of woman that—improves with age, sir!"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Talking of—peaches, sir, I've often thought—she is—very like a peach—herself, sir."
"Very, Sergeant, but—"
"Well, sir?"
"Peaches do—notimprove with age, Sergeant,—'and the peaches are—riper than ever they were,—to-night!'" The Sergeant stopped short, and stared at Bellew wide-eyed.
"Why—sir," said he very slowly, "you don't mean to say you—think as she—meant—that—?"
"But I do!" nodded Bellew. And now, just as suddenly as he had stopped, the Sergeant turned, and went on again.
"Lord!" he whispered—"Lord! Lord!"
The moon was rising, and looking at the Sergeant, Bellew saw that there was a wonderful light in his face, yet a light that was not of the moon.
"Sergeant," said Bellew, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "why don't you speak to her?"
"Speak to her,—what me! No, no, Mr. Bellew!" said the Sergeant, hastily. "No, no,—can't be done, sir,—not to be mentioned, or thought of, sir!" The light was all gone out of his face, now, and he walked with his chin on his breast.
"The surprising thing to me, Sergeant, is that you have never thought of putting your fortune to the test, and—speaking your mind to her, before now."
"Thought of it, sir!" repeated the Sergeant, bitterly, "thought of it!—Lord, sir! I've thought of it—these five years—and more. I've thought of it—day and night. I've thought of it so very much that I know—I never can—speak my mind to her. Look at me!" he cried suddenly, wheeling and confronting Bellew, but not at all like his bold, erect, soldierly self,—"Yes, look at me,—a poor, battered, old soldier—with his—best arm gone,—left behind him in India, and with nothing in the world but his old uniform,—getting very frayed and worn,—like himself, sir,—a pair o' jack boots, likewise very much worn, though wonderfully patched, here and there, by my good comrade, Peterday,—a handful of medals, and a very modest pension. Look at me, with the best o' my days behind me, and wi' only one arm left—and I'm a deal more awkward and helpless with that one arm than you'd think, sir,—look at me, and then tell me how could such a man dare to speak his mind to—such a woman. What right has—such a man to even think of speaking his mind to—such a woman, when there's part o' that man already in the grave? Why, no right, sir,—none in the world. Poverty, and one arm, are facts as make it impossible for that man to—ever speak his mind. And, sir—that man—never will. Sir,—good night to you!—and a pleasant walk!—I turn back here."
Which the Sergeant did, then and there, wheeling sharp right about face; yet, as Bellew watched him go, he noticed that the soldier's step was heavy, and slow, and it seemed that, for once, the Sergeant had even forgotten to put on his imaginary spurs.
In which Adam explains
"Adam!"
"Yes, Miss Anthea."
"How much money did Mr. Bellew give you to—buy the furniture?"
Miss Anthea was sitting in her great elbow chair, leaning forward with her chin in her hand, looking at him in the way which always seemed to Adam as though she could see into the verimost recesses of his mind. Therefore Adam twisted his hat in his hands, and stared at the ceiling, and the floor, and the table before Miss Anthea, and the wall behind Miss Anthea—anywhere but at Miss Anthea.
"You ax me—how much it were, Miss Anthea?"
"Yes, Adam."
"Well,—it were a goodish sum."
"Was it—fifty pounds?"
"Fifty pound!" repeated Adam, in a tone of lofty disdain, "no, MissAnthea, it werenotfifty pound."
"Do you mean it was—more?"
"Ah!" nodded Adam, "I mean as it were a sight more. If you was to take the fifty pound you mention, add twenty more, and then another twenty to that, and then come ten more to that,—why then—you'd be a bit nigher the figure—"
"A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Anthea, aghast.
"Ah! a hundred pound!" nodded Adam, rolling the words upon his tongue with great gusto,—"one—hundred—pound, were the sum, Miss Anthea."
"Oh, Adam!"
"Lord love you, Miss Anthea!—that weren't nothing,—that were only a flea-bite, as you might say,—he give more—ah! nigh double as much as that for the side-board."
"Nonsense, Adam!"
"It be gospel true, Miss Anthea. That there sideboard were the plum o' the sale, so to speak, an' old Grimes had set 'is 'eart on it, d'ye see. Well, it were bid up to eighty-six pound, an' then Old Grimes 'e goes twenty more, making it a hundred an' six. Then—jest as I thought it were all over, an' jest as that there Old Grimes were beginning to swell hisself up wi' triumph, an' get that red in the face as 'e were a sight to behold,—Mr. Belloo, who'd been lightin' 'is pipe all this time, up and sez,—'Fifty up!' 'e sez in his quiet way, making it a hundred an' fifty-six pound, Miss Anthea,—which were too much for Grimes,—Lord! I thought as that there man were going to burst, Miss Anthea!" and Adam gave vent to his great laugh at the mere recollection. But Anthea was grave enough, and the troubled look in her eyes quickly sobered him.
"A hundred and fifty-six pounds!" she repeated in an awed voice, "but it—it is awful!"
"Steepish!" admitted Adam, "pretty steepish for a old sideboard, I'll allow, Miss Anthea,—but you see it were a personal matter betwixt Grimes an' Mr. Belloo. I began to think as they never would ha' left off biddin', an' by George!—I don't believe as Mr. Belloo ever would have left off biddin'. Ye see, there's summat about Mr. Belloo,—whether it be his voice, or his eye, or his chin,—I don't know,—but there be summat about him as says, very distinct that if so be 'e should 'appen to set 'is mind on a thing,—why 'e's a-going to get it, an' 'e ain't a-going to give in till 'e do get it. Ye see, Miss Anthea, 'e's so very quiet in 'is ways, an' speaks so soft, an' gentle,—p'raps that's it. Say, for instance, 'e were to ax you for summat, an' you said 'No'—well, 'e wouldn't make no fuss about it,—not 'im,—he'd jest—take it, that's what he'd do. As for that there sideboard he'd a sat there a bidding and a bidding all night I do believe."
"But, Adam, why did he do it! Why did he buy—all that furniture?"
"Well,—to keep it from being took away, p'raps!"
"Oh, Adam!—what am I to do?"
"Do, Miss Anthea?"
"The mortgage must be paid off—dreadfully soon—you know that, and—I can't—Oh, I can't give the money back—"
"Why—give it back!—No, a course not, Miss Anthea!"
"But I—can't—keep it!"
"Can't keep it, Miss Anthea mam,—an' why not?"
"Because I'm very sure he doesn't want all those things,—the idea is quite—absurd! And yet,—even if the hops do well, the money they bring will hardly be enough by itself, and so—I was selling my furniture to make it up, and—now—Oh! what am I to do?" and she leaned her head wearily upon her hand.
Now, seeing her distress, Adam all sturdy loyalty that he was, must needs sigh in sympathy, and fell, once more, to twisting his hat until he had fairly wrung it out of all semblance to its kind, twisting and screwing it between his strong hands as though he would fain wring out of it some solution to the problem that so perplexed his mistress. Then, all at once, the frown vanished from his brow, his grip loosened upon his unfortunate hat, and his eye brightened with a sudden gleam.
"Miss Anthea," said he, drawing a step nearer, and lowering his voice mysteriously, "supposing as I was to tell you that 'e did want that furnitur',—ah! an' wanted it bad?"
"Now how can he, Adam? It isn't as though he lived in England," said Anthea, shaking her head, "his home is thousands of miles away,—he is an American, and besides—"
"Ah!—but then—even a American—may get married. Miss Anthea, mam!" said Adam.
"Married!" she repeated, glancing up very quickly, "Adam—what do you mean?"
"Why you must know," began Adam, wringing at his hat again, "ever since the day I found him asleep in your hay, Miss Anthea, mam, Mr. Belloo has been very kind, and—friendly like. Mr. Belloo an' me 'ave smoked a good many sociable pipes together, an' when men smoke together, Miss Anthea, they likewise talk together."
"Yes?—Well?" said Anthea, rather breathlessly, and taking up a pencil that happened to be lying near to hand.
"And Mr. Belloo," continued Adam, heavily, "Mr. Belloo has done me—the—the honour," here Adam paused to give an extra twist to his hat,—"the—honour, Miss Anthea—"
"Yes, Adam."
"Of confiding to me 'is 'opes—" said Adam slowly, finding it much harder to frame his well-meaning falsehood than he had supposed, "his—H-O-P-E-S—'opes, Miss Anthea, of settling down very soon, an' of marryin' a fine young lady as 'e 'as 'ad 'is eye on a goodish time,—'aving knowed her from childhood's hour, Miss Anthea, and as lives up to Lonnon—"
"Yes—Adam!"
"Consequently—'e bought all your furnitur' to set up 'ousekeepin', don't ye see."
"Yes,—I see, Adam!" Her voice was low, soft and gentle as ever, but the pencil was tracing meaningless scrawls in her shaking fingers.
"So you don't 'ave to be no-wise back-ard about keepin' the money, MissAnthea."
"Oh no,—no, of course not, I—I understand, it was—just a—business transaction."
"Ah!—that's it,—a business transaction!" nodded Adam, "So you'll put the money a one side to help pay off the mortgage, eh, Miss Anthea?"
"Yes."
"If the 'ops comes up to what they promise to come up to,—you'll be able to get rid of Old Grimes—for good an' all, Miss Anthea."
"Yes, Adam."
"An' you be quite easy in your mind, now, Miss Anthea—about keepin' the money?"
"Quite!—Thank you, Adam—for—telling me. You can go now."
"Why then—Good-night! Miss Anthea, mam,—the mortgage is as good as paid,—there ain't no such 'ops nowhere near so good as our'n be. An'—you're quite free o' care, an' 'appy 'earted, Miss Anthea?"
"Quite—Oh quite, Adam!"
But when Adam's heavy tread had died away,—when she was all alone, she behaved rather strangely for one so free of care, and happy-hearted. Something bright and glistening splashed upon the paper before her, the pencil slipped from her fingers, and, with a sudden, choking cry, she swayed forward, and hid her face in her hands.
In which Adam proposes a game
"To be, or not to be!" Bellew leaned against the mighty bole of "King Arthur," and stared up at the moon with knitted brows. "That is the question!—whether I shall brave the slings, and arrows and things, and—speak tonight, and have done with it—one way or another, or live on, a while, secure in this uncertainty? To wait? Whether I shall, at this so early stage, pit all my chances of happiness against the chances of—losing her, and with her—Small Porges, bless him! and all the quaint, and lovable beings of this wonderful Arcadia of mine. For, if her answer be 'No,'—what recourse have I,—what is there left me but to go wandering forth again, following the wind, and with the gates of Arcadia shut upon me for ever? 'To be, or not to be,—that is the question!'"
"Be that you, Mr. Belloo, sir?"
"Even so, Adam. Come sit ye a while, good knave, and gaze upon Dian's loveliness, and smoke, and let us converse of dead kings."
"Why, kings ain't much in my line, sir,—living or dead uns,—me never 'aving seen any—except a pic'ter,—and that tore, though very life like. But why I were a lookin' for you was to ax you to back me up,—an' to—play the game, Mr. Belloo sir."
"Why—as to that, my good Adam,—my gentle Daphnis,—my rugged Euphemio,—you may rely upon me to the uttermost. Are you in trouble? Is it counsel you need, or only money? Fill your pipe, and, while you smoke, confide your cares to me,—put me wise, or, as your French cousins would say,—make me 'au fait.'"
"Well," began Adam, when his pipe was well alight, "in the first place, Mr. Belloo sir, I begs to remind you, as Miss Anthea sold her furnitur' to raise enough money as with what the 'ops will bring, might go to pay off the mortgage,—for good an' all, sir."
"Yes."
"Well, to-night, sir, Miss Anthea calls me into the parlour to ax,—or as you might say,—en-quire as to the why, an' likewise the wherefore of you a buyin' all that furnitur'."
"Did she, Adam?"
"Ah!—'why did 'e do it?' says she—'well, to keep it from bein' took away, p'raps,' says I—sharp as any gimblet, sir."
"Good!" nodded Bellew.
"Ah!—but it weren't no good, sir," returned Adam, "because she sez as 'ow your 'ome being in America, you couldn't really need the furnitur',—nor yet want the furnitur',—an' blest if she wasn't talkin' of handing you the money back again."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"Seeing which, sir, an' because she must have that money if she 'opes to keep the roof of Dapplemere over 'er 'ead, I, there an' then, made up,—or as you might say,—concocted a story, a anecdote, or a yarn,—upon the spot, Mr. Belloo sir."
"Most excellent Machiavelli!—proceed!"
"I told her, sir, as you bought that furnitur' on account of you being wishful to settle down,—whereat she starts, an' looks at me wi' her eyes big, an' surprised-like. I told 'er, likewise, as you had told me on the quiet,—or as you might say,—con-fi-dential, that you bought that furnitur' to set up 'ouse-keeping on account o' you being on the p'int o' marrying a fine young lady up to Lonnon,—"
"What!" Bellew didn't move, nor did he raise his voice,—neverthelessAdam started back, and instinctively threw up his arm.
"You—told her—that?"
"I did sir."
"But you knew it was a—confounded lie."
"Aye,—I knowed it. But I'd tell a hundred,—ah! thousands o' lies, con-founded, or otherwise,—to save Miss Anthea."
"To save her?"
"From ruination, sir! From losing Dapplemere Farm, an' every thing she has in the world. Lord love ye!—the 'ops can never bring in by theirselves all the three thousand pounds as is owing,—it ain't to be expected,—but if that three thousand pound ain't paid over to that dirty Grimes by next Saturday week as ever was, that dirty Grimes turns Miss Anthea out o' Dapplemere, wi' Master Georgy, an' poor little Miss Priscilla,—An' what'll become o' them then,—I don't know. Lord! when I think of it the 'Old Adam' do rise up in me to that extent as I'm minded to take a pitch-fork and go and skewer that there Grimes to his own chimbley corner. Ye see Mr. Belloo sir," he went on, seeing Bellew was silent still, "Miss Anthea be that proud, an' independent that she'd never ha' took your money, sir, if I hadn't told her that there lie,—so that's why I did tell her that here lie."
"I see," nodded Bellew, "I see!—yes,—you did quite right. You acted for the best, and you—did quite right, Adam,—yes, quite right"
"Thankee sir!"
"And so—this is the game I am to play, is it?"
"That's it, sir; if she ax's you,—'are you goin' to get married?'—you'll tell her 'yes,—to a lady as you've knowed from your childhood's hour,—living in Lonnon,'—that's all, sir."
"That's all is it, Adam!" said Bellew slowly, turning to look up at the moon again. "It doesn't sound very much, does it? Well, I'll play your game,—Adam,—yes, you may depend upon me."
"Thankee, Mr. Belloo sir,—thankee sir!—though I do 'ope as you'll excuse me for taking such liberties, an' making so free wi' your 'eart, and your affections, sir?"
"Oh certainly, Adam!—the cause excuses—everything."
"Then, good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, Adam!"
So this good, well-meaning Adam strode away, proud on the whole of his night's work, leaving Bellew to frown up at the moon with teeth clenched tight upon his pipe-stem.
How Bellew began the game
Now in this life of ours, there be games of many, and divers, sorts, and all are calculated to try the nerve, courage, or skill of the player, as the case may be. Bellew had played many kinds of games in his day, and, among others, had once been famous as a Eight Tackle on the Harvard Eleven. Upon him he yet bore certain scars received upon a memorable day when Yale, flushed with success, saw their hitherto invincible line rent and burst asunder, saw a figure torn, bruised, and bleeding, flash out and away down the field to turn defeat into victory, and then to be borne off honourably to hospital, and bed.
If Bellew thought of this, by any chance, as he sat there, staring up at the moon, it is very sure that, had the choice been given him, he would joyfully have chosen the game of torn flesh, and broken bones, or any other game, no matter how desperate, rather than this particular game that Adam had invented, and thrust upon him.
Presently Bellew knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising, walked on slowly toward the house. As he approached, he heard someone playing the piano, and the music accorded well with his mood, or his mood with the music, for it was haunting, and very sweet, and with a recurring melody in a minor key, that seemed to voice all the sorrow of Humanity, past, present, and to come.
Drawn by the music, he crossed the Rose Garden, and reaching the terrace, paused there; for the long French windows were open, and, from where he stood, he could see Anthea seated at the piano. She was dressed in a white gown of some soft, clinging material, and among the heavy braids of her hair was a single great, red rose. And, as he watched, he thought she had never looked more beautiful than now, with the soft glow of the candles upon her; for her face reflected the tender sadness of the music, it was in the mournful droop of her scarlet lips, and the sombre depths of her eyes. Close beside her sat little Miss Priscilla busy with her needle as usual, but now she paused, and lifting her head in her quick, bird-like way, looked up at Anthea, long, and fixedly.
"Anthea my dear," said she suddenly, "I'm fond of music, and I love to hear you play, as you know,—but I never heard you play quite so—dolefully? dear me, no,—that's not the right word,—nor dismal,—but I mean something between the two."
"I thought you were fond of Grieg, Aunt Priscilla."
"So I am, but then, even in his gayest moments, poor Mr. Grieg was always breaking his heart over something, or other. And— Gracious!—there's Mr. Bellew at the window. Pray come in, Mr. Bellew, and tell us how you liked Peterday, and the muffins?"
"Thank you!" said Bellew, stepping in through the long French window, "but I should like to hear Miss Anthea play again, first, if she will?"
But Anthea, who had already risen from the piano, shook her head:
"I only play when I feel like it,—to please myself,—and Aunt Priscilla," said she, crossing to the broad, low window-seat, and leaning out into the fragrant night.
"Why then," said Bellew, sinking into the easy-chair that Miss Priscilla indicated with a little stab of her needle, "why then the muffins were delicious, Aunt Priscilla, and Peterday was just exactly what a one-legged mariner ought to be."
"And the shrimps, Mr. Bellew?" enquired Miss Priscilla, busy at her sewing again.
"Out-shrimped all other shrimps so ever!" he answered, glancing to where Anthea sat with her chin propped in her hand, gazing up at the waning moon, seemingly quite oblivious of him.
"And did—He—pour out the tea?" enquired Miss Priscilla, "from the china pot with the blue flowers and the Chinese Mandarin fanning himself,—and very awkward, of course, with his one hand,—I don't mean the Mandarin, Mr. Bellew,—and very full of apologies?"
"He did."
"Just as usual; yes he always does,—and every year he gives me three lumps of sugar,—and I only take one, you know. It's a pity," sighed Miss Priscilla, "that it was his right arm,—a great pity!" And here she sighed again, and, catching herself, glanced up quickly at Bellew, and smiled to see how completely absorbed he was in contemplation of the silent figure in the window-seat. "But, after all, better a right arm—than a leg," she pursued,—"at least, I think so!"
"Certainly!" murmured Bellew.
"A man with only one leg, you see, would be almost as helpless as an—old woman with a crippled foot,—"
"Who grows younger, and brighter, every year!" added Bellew, turning to her with his pleasant smile, "yes, and I think,—prettier!"
"Oh, Mr. Bellew!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla shaking her head at him reprovingly, yet looking pleased, none the less,—"how can you be so ridiculous,—Good gracious me!"
"Why, it was the Sergeant who put it into my head,—"
"The Sergeant?"
"Yes,—it was after I had given him your message about peaches, AuntPriscilla and—"
"Oh dear heart!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla, at this juncture, "Prudence is out, to-night, and I promised to bake the bread for her, and here I sit chatting, and gossipping while that bread goes rising, and rising all over the kitchen!" And Miss Priscilla laid aside her sewing, and catching up her stick, hurried to the door.
"And I was almost forgetting to wish you 'many happy returns of the day,Aunt Priscilla!'" said Bellew, rising.
At this familiar appellation, Anthea turned sharply, in time to see him stoop, and kiss Miss Priscilla's small, white hand; whereupon Anthea must needs curl her lip at his broad back. Then he opened the door, and Miss Priscilla tapped away, even more quickly than usual.
Anthea was half-sitting, half-kneeling among the cushions in the cornerof the deep window, apparently still lost in contemplation of the moon.So much so, that she did not stir, or even lower her up-ward gaze, whenBellew came, and stood beside her.
Therefore, taking advantage of the fixity of her regard, he, once more, became absorbed in her loveliness. Surely a most unwise proceeding—in Arcadia, by the light of a midsummer moon! And he mentally contrasted the dark, proud beauty of her face, with that of all the women he had ever known,—to their utter, and complete disparagement.
"Well?" enquired Anthea, at last, perfectly conscious of his look, and finding the silence growing irksome, yet still with her eyes averted,—"Well, Mr. Bellew?"
"On the contrary," he answered, "the moon is on the wane!"
"The moon!" she repeated, "Suppose it is,—what then?"
"True happiness can only come riding astride the full moon you know,—you remember old Nannie told us so."
"And you—believed it?" she enquired scornfully.
"Why, of course!" he answered in his quiet way.
Anthea didn't speak but, once again, the curl of her lip was eloquent.
"And so," he went on, quite unabashed, "when I behold Happiness riding astride the full moon, I shall just reach up, in the most natural manner in the world, and—take it down, that it may abide with me, world without end."
"Do you think you will be tall enough?"
"We shall see,—when the time comes."
"I think it's all very ridiculous!" said Anthea.
"Why then—suppose you play for me, that same, plaintive piece you were playing as I came in,—something of Grieg's I think it was,—will you, Miss Anthea?"
She was on the point of refusing, then, as if moved by some capricious whim, she crossed to the piano, and dashed into the riotous music of a Polish Dance. As the wild notes leapt beneath her quick, brown fingers, Bellew, seated near-by, kept his eyes upon the great, red rose in her hair, that nodded slyly at him with her every movement. And surely, in all the world, there had never bloomed a more tantalizing, more wantonly provoking rose than this! Wherefore Bellew, very wisely, turned his eyes from its glowing temptation. Doubtless observing which, the rose, in evident desperation, nodded, and swayed, until, it had fairly nodded itself from its sweet resting-place, and, falling to the floor, lay within Bellew's reach. Whereupon, he promptly stooped, and picked it up, and,—even as, with a last, crashing chord, Anthea ceased playing, and turned, in that same moment he dropped it deftly into his coat pocket.
"Oh! by the way, Mr. Bellew," she said, speaking as if the idea had but just entered her mind, "what do you intend to do about—all your furniture?"
"Do about it?" he repeated, settling the rose carefully in a corner of his pocket where it would not be crushed by his pipe.
"I mean—where would you like it—stored until you can send, and have it—taken away?"
"Well,—I—er—rather thought of keeping it—where it was if you didn't mind."
"I'm afraid that will be—impossible, Mr. Bellew."
"Why then the barn will be an excellent place for it, I don't suppose the rats and mice will do it any real harm, and as for the damp, and the dust—"
"Oh! you know what I mean!" exclaimed Anthea, beginning to tap the floor impatiently with her foot. "Of course we can't go on using the things now that they are your property, it—wouldn't be—right."
"Very well," he nodded, his fingers questing anxiously after the rose again, "I'll get Adam to help me to shift it all into the barn, to-morrow morning."
"Will you please be serious, Mr. Bellew!"
"As an owl!" he nodded.
"Why then—of course you will be leaving Dapplemere soon, and I should like to know exactly when, so that I can—make the necessary arrangements."
"But you see, I am not leaving Dapplemere soon or even thinking of it."
"Not?" she repeated, glancing up at him in swift surprise.
"Not until—you bid me."
"You!"
"But I—I understood that you—intend to—settle down?"
"Certainly!" nodded Bellew, transferring his pipe to another pocket altogether, lest it should damage the rose's tender petals. "To settle down has lately become the—er—ambition of my life."
"Then pray," said Anthea, taking up a sheet of music, and beginning to study it with attentive eyes, "be so good as to tell me—what you mean."
"That necessarily brings us back to the moon again," answered Bellew.
"The moon?"
"The moon!"
"But what in the world has the moon to do with your furniture?" she demanded, her foot beginning to tap again.
"Everything!—I bought that furniture with—er—with one eye on the moon, as it were,—consequently the furniture, the moon, and I, are bound indissolubly together."
"You are pleased to talk in riddles, to-night, and really, Mr. Bellew, I have no time to waste over them, so, if you will excuse me—"
"Thank you for playing to me," he said, as he held the door open for her.
"I played because I—I felt like it, Mr. Bellew."
"Nevertheless, I thank you."
"When you make up your mind about—the furniture,—please let me know."
"When the moon is at the full, yes."
"Can it be possible that you are still harping on the wild words of poor old Nannie?" she exclaimed, and once more, she curled her lip at him.
"Nannie is very old, I'll admit," he nodded, "but surely you remember that we proved her right in one particular,—I mean about the Tiger Mark, you know."
Now, when he said this, for no apparent reason, the eyes that had hitherto been looking into his, proud and scornful,—wavered, and were hidden under their long, thick lashes; the colour flamed in her cheeks, and, without another word, she was gone.
How the Sergeant went upon his guard
The Arcadians, one and all, generally follow that excellent maxim which runs:
"Early to bed, and early to rise Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise."
Healthy they are, beyond a doubt, and, in their quaint, simple fashion, profoundly wise. If they are not extraordinarily wealthy, yet are they generally blessed with contented minds which, after all, is better than money, and far more to be desired than fine gold.
Now whether their general health, happiness, and wisdom is to be attributed altogether to their early to bed proclivities, is perhaps a moot question. Howbeit, to-night, long after these weary Arcadians had forgotten their various cares, and troubles in the blessed oblivion of sleep, (for even Arcadia has its troubles) Bellew sat beneath the shade of "King Arthur" alone with his thoughts.
Presently, however, he was surprised to hear the house-door open, and close very softly, and to behold—not the object of his meditations, but Miss Priscilla coming towards him.
As she caught sight of him in the shadow of the tree, she stopped and stood leaning upon her stick as though she were rather disconcerted.
"Aunt Priscilla!" said he, rising.
"Oh!—it's you?" she exclaimed, just as though she hadn't known it all along. "Dear me! Mr. Bellew,—how lonely you look, and dreadfully thoughtful,—good gracious!" and she glanced up at him with her quick, girlish smile. "I suppose you are wondering what I am doing out here at this unhallowed time of night—it must be nearly eleven o'clock. Oh dear me!—yes you are!—Well, sit down, and I'll tell you. Let us sit here,—in the darkest corner,—there. Dear heart!—how bright the moon is to be sure." So saying, Miss Priscilla ensconced herself at the very end of the rustic bench, where the deepest shadow lay.
"Well, Mr. Bellew," she began, "as you know, to-day is my birthday. As to my age, I am—let us say,—just turned twenty-one and, being young, and foolish, Mr. Bellew, I have come out here to watch another very foolish person,—a ridiculous, old Sergeant of Hussars, who will come marching along, very soon, to mount guard in full regimentals, Mr. Bellew,—with his busby on his head, with his braided tunic and dolman, and his great big boots, and with his spurs jingling, and his sabre bright under the moon."
"So then—you know he comes?"
"Why of course I do. And I love to hear the jingle of his spurs, and to watch the glitter of his sabre. So, every year, I come here, and sit among the shadows, where he can't see me, and watch him go march, march, marching up and down, and to and fro, until the clock strikes twelve, and he goes marching home again. Oh dear me!—it's all very foolish, of course,—but I love to hear the jingle of his spurs."
"And—have you sat here watching him, every year?"
"Every year!"
"And he has never guessed you were watching him?"
"Good gracious me!—of course not."
"Don't you think, Aunt Priscilla, that you are—just a little—cruel?"
"Cruel—why—what do you mean?"
"I gave him your message, Aunt Priscilla."
"What message?"
"That 'to-night, the peaches were riper than ever they were.'"
"Oh!" said Miss Priscilla, and waited expectantly for Bellew to continue. But, as he was silent she glanced at him, and seeing him staring at the moon, she looked at it, also. And after she had gazed for perhaps half a minute, as Bellew was still silent, she spoke, though in a very small voice indeed.
"And—what did—he say?"
"Who?" enquired Bellew.
"Why the—the Sergeant, to be sure."
"Well, he gave me to understand that a poor, old soldier with only one arm left him, must be content to stand aside, always and—hold his peace, just because he was a poor, maimed, old soldier. Don't you think that you have been—just a little cruel—all these years, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Sometimes—one is cruel—only to be—kind!" she answered.
"Aren't the peaches ripe enough, after all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Over-ripe!" she said bitterly, "Oh—they are over-ripe!"
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"No," she answered, "no, there's—this!" and she held up her little crutch stick.
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Oh!—isn't—that enough?" Bellew rose. "Where are you going—What are you going to do?" she demanded.
"Wait!" said he, smiling down at her perplexity, and so he turned, and crossed to a certain corner of the orchard. When he came back he held out a great, glowing peach towards her.
"You were quite right," he nodded, "it was so ripe that it fell at a touch."
But, as he spoke, she drew him down beside her in the shadow:
"Hush!" she whispered, "Listen!"
Now as they sat there, very silent,—faint and far-away upon the still night air, they heard a sound; a silvery, rhythmic sound, it was,—like the musical clash of fairy cymbals which drew rapidly nearer, and nearer; and Bellew felt that Miss Priscilla's hand was trembling upon his arm as she leaned forward, listening with a smile upon her parted lips, and a light in her eyes that was ineffably tender.
Nearer came the sound, and nearer, until, presently, now in moonlight, now in shadow, there strode a tall, martial figure in all the glory of braided tunic, and furred dolman, the three chevrons upon his sleeve, and many shining medals upon his breast,—a stalwart, soldierly figure, despite the one empty sleeve, who moved with the long, swinging stride that only the cavalry-man can possess. Being come beneath a certain latticed window, the Sergeant halted, and, next moment, his glittering sabre flashed up to the salute; then, with it upon his shoulder, he wheeled, and began to march up and down, his spurs jingling, his sabre gleaming, his dolman swinging, his sabre glittering, each time he wheeled; while Miss Priscilla leaning forward, watched him wide-eyed, and with hands tight clasped. Then, all at once,—with a little fluttering sigh she rose.
Thus, the Sergeant as he marched to and fro, was suddenly aware of one who stood in the full radiance of the moon,—and with one hand outstretched towards him. And now, as he paused, disbelieving his very eyes, he saw that in her extended hand she held a great ripe peach.
"Sergeant!" she said, speaking almost in a whisper, "Oh Sergeant—won't you—take it?"
The heavy sabre thudded down into the grass, and he took a sudden step towards her. But, even now, he hesitated, until, coming nearer yet, he could look down into her eyes.
Then he spoke, and his voice was very hoarse, and uneven:
"Miss Priscilla?" he said, "Priscilla?—Oh, Priscilla!" And, with the word, he had fallen on his knees at her feet, and his strong, solitary arm was folded close about her.
In which Porges Big, and Porges Small discuss the subject of Matrimony
"What is it, my Porges?"
"Well,—I'm a bit worried, you know."
"Worried?"
"Yes,—'fraid I shall be an old man before my time, Uncle Porges. Adam says it's worry that ages a man,—an' it killed a cat too!"
"And why do you worry?"
"Oh, it's my Auntie Anthea, a course!—she was crying again last night—"
"Crying!" Bellew had been lying flat upon his back in the fragrant shadow of the hay-rick, but now he sat up—very suddenly, so suddenly that Small Porges started. "Crying!" he repeated, "last night! Are you sure?"
"Oh yes! You see, she forgot to come an' 'tuck me up' last night, so I creeped downstairs,—very quietly, you know, to see why. An' I found her bending over the table, all sobbing, an' crying. At first she tried to pretend that she wasn't, but I saw the tears quite plain,—her cheeks were all wet, you know; an' when I put my arms round her—to comfort her a bit, an' asked her what was the matter, she only kissed me a lot, an' said 'nothing! nothing,—only a headache!'"
"And why was she crying, do you suppose, my Porges?"
"Oh!—money, a course!" he sighed.
"What makes you think it was money?"
"'Cause she'd been talking to Adam,—I heard him say 'Good-night,' as I creeped down the stairs,—"
"Ah?" said Bellew, staring straight before him. His beloved pipe had slipped from his fingers, and, for a wonder, lay all neglected. "It was after she had talked with Adam, was it, my Porges?"
"Yes,—that's why I knew it was 'bout money; Adam's always talking 'bout morgyges, an' bills, an' money. Oh Uncle Porges, how I do—hate money!"
"It is sometimes a confounded nuisance!" nodded Bellew.
"But I do wish we had some,—so we could pay all her bills, an' morgyges for her. She'd be so happy, you know, an' go about singing like she used to,—an' I shouldn't worry myself into an old man before my time,—all wrinkled, an' gray, you know; an' all would be revelry, an' joy, if only she had enough gold, an' bank-notes!"
"And she was—crying, you say!" demanded Bellew again, his gaze still far away.
"Yes."
"You are quite sure you saw the—tears, my Porges?"
"Oh yes! an' there was one on her nose, too,—a big one, that shone awful' bright,—twinkled, you know."
"And she said it was only a headache, did she?"
"Yes, but that meant money,—money always makes her head ache, lately. Oh Uncle Porges!—I s'pose people do find fortunes, sometimes, don't they?"
"Why yes, to be sure they do."
"Then I wish I knew where they looked for them," said he with a very big sigh indeed, "I've hunted an' hunted in all the attics, an' the cupboards, an' under hedges, an' in ditches, an' prayed, an' prayed, you know,—every night."
"Then, of course, you'll be answered, my Porges."
"Do you really s'pose I shall be answered? You see it's such an awful' long way for one small prayer to have to go,—from here to heaven. An' there's clouds that get in the way; an' I'm 'fraid my prayers aren't quite big, or heavy enough, an' get lost, an' blown away in the wind."
"No, my Porges," said Bellew, drawing his arm about the small disconsolate figure, "you may depend upon it that your prayers fly straight up into heaven, and that neither the clouds, nor the wind can come between, or blow them away. So just keep on praying, old chap, and when the time is ripe, they'll be answered, never fear."
"Answered?—Do you mean,—oh Uncle Porges!—do you mean—the Money Moon?" The small hand upon Bellew's arm, quivered, and his voice trembled with eagerness.
"Why yes, to be sure,—the Money Moon, my Porges,—it's bound to come, one of these fine nights."
"Ah!—but when,—oh! when will the Money Moon ever come?"
"Well, I can't be quite sure, but I rather fancy, from the look of things, my Porges, that it will be pretty soon."
"Oh, I do hope so!—for her sake, an' my sake. You see, she may go getting herself married to Mr. Cassilis, if something doesn't happen soon, an' I shouldn't like that, you know."
"Neither should I, my Porges. But what makes you think so?"
"Why he's always bothering her, an' asking her to, you see. She always says 'No' a course, but—one of these fine days, I'm 'fraid she'll say 'Yes'—accidentally, you know."
"Heaven forbid, nephew!"
"Does that mean you hope not?"
"Indeed yes."
"Then I say heaven forbid, too,—'cause I don't think she'd ever be happy in Mr. Cassilis's great, big house. An' I shouldn't either."
"Why, of course not!"
"Younever go about asking people to marry you, do you Uncle Porges!"
"Well, it could hardly be called a confirmed habit of mine."
"That's one of the things I like about you so,—all the time you've been here you haven't asked my Auntie Anthea once, have you?"
"No, my Porges,—not yet."
"Oh!—but you don't mean that you—ever will?"
"Would you be very grieved, and angry, if I did,—some day soon, myPorges?"
"Well, I—I didn't think you were that kind of a man!" answered SmallPorges, sighing and shaking his head regretfully.
"I'm afraid I am, nephew."
"Do you really mean that you want to—marry my Auntie Anthea?"
"I do."
"As much as Mr. Cassilis does?"
"A great deal more, I think."
Small Porges sighed again, and shook his head very gravely indeed:
"Uncle Porges," said he, "I'm—s'prised at you!"
"I rather feared you would be, nephew."
"It's all so awful' silly, you know!—why do you want to marry her?"
"Because, like a Prince in a fairy tale, I'm—er—rather anxious to—live happy ever after."
"Oh!" said Small Porges, turning this over in his mind, "I never thought of that."
"Marriage is a very important institution, you see, my Porges,—especially in this case, because I can't possibly live happy ever after, unless I marry—first—now can I?"
"No, I s'pose not!" Small Porges admitted, albeit reluctantly, after he had pondered the matter a while with wrinkled brow, "but why pick out—my Auntie Anthea?"
"Just because she happens to be your Auntie Anthea, of course."
Small Porges sighed again:
"Why then, if she's got to be married some day, so she can live happy ever after,—well,—I s'pose you'd better take her, Uncle Porges."
"Thank you, old chap,—I mean to."
"I'd rather you took her than Mr. Cassilis, an'—why there he is!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Cassilis. An' he's stopped, an' he's twisting his mestache."
Mr. Cassilis, who had been crossing the paddock, had indeed stopped, and was twisting his black moustache, as if he were hesitating between two courses. Finally, he pushed open the gate, and, approaching Bellew, saluted him with that supercilious air which Miss Priscilla always declared she found so "trying."
"Ah, Mr. Bellew! what might it be this morning,—the pitchfork—the scythe, or the plough?" he enquired.
"Neither, sir,—this morning it is—matrimony!"
"Eh!—I beg your pardon,—matrimony?"
"With a large M, sir," nodded Bellew, "marriage, sir,—wedlock; my nephew and I are discussing it in its aspects philosophical, sociological, and—"
"That is surely rather a—peculiar subject to discuss with a child, Mr.Bellew—"
"Meaning my nephew, sir?"
"I mean—young George, there."
"Precisely,—my nephew, Small Porges."
"I refer," said Mr. Cassilis, with slow, and crushing emphasis, "to MissDevine's nephew—"
"And mine, Mr. Cassilis,—mine by—er—mutual adoption, and inclination."
"And I repeat that your choice of subjects is—peculiar, to say the least of it."
"But then, mine is rather a peculiar nephew, sir. But, surely it was not to discuss nephews,—mine or anyone else's, that you are hither come, and our ears do wait upon you,—pray be seated, sir."
"Thank you, I prefer to stand."
"Strange!" murmured Bellew, shaking his head, "I never stand if I can sit, or sit if I can lie down."
"I should like you to define, exactly, your position—here atDapplemere, Mr. Bellew."
Bellew's sleepy glance missed nothing of the other's challenging attitude, and his ear, nothing of Mr. Cassilis's authoritative tone, therefore his smile was most engaging as he answered:
"My position here, sir, is truly the most—er—enviable in the world. Prudence is an admirable cook,—particularly as regard Yorkshire Pudding; gentle, little Miss Priscilla is the most—er Aunt-like, and perfect of housekeepers; and Miss Anthea is our sovereign lady, before whose radiant beauty, Small Porges and I like true knights, and gallant gentles, do constant homage, and in whose behalf Small Porges and I do stand prepared to wage stern battle, by day, or by night."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Cassilis, and his smile was even more supercilious than usual.
"Yes, sir," nodded Bellew, "I do confess me a most fortunate, and happy, wight who, having wandered hither and yon upon this planet of ours, which is so vast, and so very small,—has, by the most happy chance, found his way hither into Arcady."
"And—may I enquire how long you intend to lead this Arcadian existence?"
"I fear I cannot answer that question until the full o' the moon, sir,—at present, I grieve to say,—I do not know."
Mr. Cassilis struck his riding-boot a sudden smart rap with his whip; his eyes snapped, and his nostrils dilated, as he glanced down into Bellew's imperturbable face.
"At least you know, and will perhaps explain, what prompted you to buy all that furniture? You were the only buyer at the sale I understand."
"Who—bought anything, yes," nodded Bellew.
"And pray—what was your object,—you—a stranger?"
"Well," replied Bellew slowly, as he began to fill his pipe, "I bought it because it was there to buy, you know; I bought it because furniture is apt to be rather useful, now and then,—I acquired the chairs to—er—sit in, the tables to—er—put things on, and—"
"Don't quibble with me, Mr. Bellew!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cassilis!"
"When I ask a question, sir, I am in the habit of receiving a direct reply,—"
"And when I am asked a question, Mr. Cassilis, I am in the habit of answering it precisely as I please,—or not at all."
"Mr. Bellew, let me impress upon you, once and for all, that Miss Devine has friends,—old and tried friends, to whom she can always turn for aid in any financial difficulty she may have to encounter,—friends who can more than tide over all her difficulties without the—interference of strangers; and, as one of her oldest friends, I demand to know by what right you force your wholly unnecessary assistance upon her?"
"My very good sir," returned Bellew, shaking his head in gentle reproof, "really, you seem to forget that you are not addressing one of your grooms, or footmen,—consequently you force me to remind you of the fact; furthermore,—"
"That is no answer!" said Mr. Cassilis, his gloved hands tight-clenched upon his hunting-crop,—his whole attitude one of menace.
"Furthermore," pursued Bellew placidly, settling the tobacco in his pipe with his thumb, "you can continue to—er demand, until all's blue, and I shall continue to lie here, and smoke, and gaze up at the smiling serenity of heaven."
The black brows of Mr. Cassilis met in a sudden frown, he tossed his whip aside, and took a sudden quick stride towards the recumbent Bellew with so evident an intention, that Small Porges shrank instinctively further within the encircling arm.
But, at that psychic moment, very fortunately for all concerned, there came the sound of a quick, light step, and Anthea stood between them.
"Mr. Cassilis!—Mr. Bellew!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed, and her bosom heaving with the haste she had made, "pray whatever does this mean?"
Bellew rose to his feet, and seeing Cassilis was silent, shook his head and smiled:
"Upon my word, I hardly know, Miss Anthea. Our friend Mr. Cassilis seems to have got himself all worked up over the—er—sale, I fancy—"
"The furniture!" exclaimed Anthea, and stamped her foot with vexation. "That wretched furniture! Of course you explained your object in buying it, Mr. Bellew?"
"Well, no,—we hadn't got as far as that."
Now when he said this, Anthea's eyes flashed sudden scorn at him, and she curled her lip at him, and turned her back upon him:
"Mr. Bellew bought my furniture because he intends to set up house-keeping—he is to be married—soon, I believe."
"When the moon is at the full!" nodded Bellew.
"Married!" exclaimed Mr. Cassilis, his frown vanishing as if by magic."Oh, indeed—"
"I am on my way to the hop-gardens, if you care to walk with me, Mr. Cassilis?" and, with the words, Anthea turned, and, as he watched them walk away, together,—Bellew noticed upon the face of Mr. Cassilis an expression very like triumph, and, in his general air, a suggestion of proprietorship that jarred upon him most unpleasantly.
"Why do you frown so, Uncle Porges?"
"I—er—was thinking, nephew."
"Well, I'm thinking, too!" nodded Small Porges, his brows knitted portentously. And thus they sat, Big, and Little Porges, frowning in unison at space for quite a while.
"Are you quite sure you never told my Auntie Anthea that you were going to marry her?" enquired Small Porges, at last.
"Quite sure, comrade,—why?"
"Then how did she know you were going to marry her, an' settle down?"
"Marry—her, and settle down?"
"Yes,—at the full o' the moon, you know."
"Why really—I don't know, my Porges,—unless she guessed it."
"I specks she did,—she's awful' clever at guessing things! But, do you know—"
"Well?"
"I'm thinking I don't just like the way she smiled at Mr. Cassilis, I never saw her look at him like that before,—as if she were awful' glad to see him, you know; so I don't think I'd wait till the full o' the moon, if I were you. I think you'd better marry her—this afternoon."
"That," said Bellew, clapping him on the shoulder, "is a very admirable idea,—I'll mention it to her on the first available opportunity, my Porges."
But the opportunity did not come that day, nor the next, nor the next after that, for it seemed that with the approach of the "Hop-picking" Anthea had no thought, or time, for anything else.
Wherefore Bellew smoked many pipes, and, as the days wore on, possessed his soul in patience, which is a most excellent precept to follow—in all things but love.
Which relates a most extraordinary conversation
In the days which now ensued, while Anthea was busied out of doors and Miss Priscilla was busied indoors, and Small Porges was diligently occupied with his lessons,—at such times, Bellew would take his pipe and go to sit and smoke in company with the Cavalier in the great picture above the carved chimney-piece.
A right jovial companion, at all times, was this Cavalier, an optimist he, from the curling feather in his broad-brimmed beaver hat, to the spurs at his heels. Handsome, gay, and debonair was he, with lips up-curving to a smile beneath his moustachio, and a quizzical light in his grey eyes, very like that in Bellew's own. Moreover he wore the knowing, waggish air of one well versed in all the ways of the world, and mankind in general, and, (what is infinitely more),—of the Sex Feminine, in particular. Experienced was he, beyond all doubt, in their pretty tricks, and foibles, since he had ever been a diligent student of Feminine Capriciousness when the "Merry Monarch" ruled the land.
Hence, it became customary for Bellew to sit with him, and smoke, and take counsel of this "preux chevalier" upon the unfortunate turn of affairs. Whereof ensued many remarkable conversations of which the following, was one:
BELLEW: No sir,—emphatically I do not agree with you. To be sure, you may have had more experience than I, in such affairs,—but then, it was such a very long time ago.
THE CAVALIER: (Interrupting, or seeming to)!!!
BELLEW: Again, I beg to differ from you, women are not the same to-day as they ever were. Judging by what I have read of the ladies of your day, and King Charles's court at Whitehall,—I should say—not. At least, if they are, they act differently, and consequently must be—er—wooed differently. The methods employed in your day would be wholly inadequate and quite out of place, in this.
THE CAVALIER: (Shaking his head and smirking,—or seeming to)!!!
BELLEW: Well, I'm willing to bet you anything you like that if you were to step down out of your frame, change your velvets and laces for trousers and coat, leave off your great peruke, and wear a derby hat instead of that picturesque, floppy affair, and try your fortune with some Twentieth Century damsel, your high-sounding gallantries, and flattering phrases, would fall singularly flat, and you would be promptly—turned down, sir.
THE CAVALIER: (Tossing his love-locks,—or seeming to)!!!
BELLEW: The "strong hand," you say? Hum! History tells us that William the Conqueror wooed his lady with a club, or a battle-axe, or something of the sort, and she consequently liked him the better for it; which was all very natural, and proper of course, in her case, seeing that hers was the day of battle-axes, and things. But then, as I said before, sir,—the times are sadly changed,—women may still admire strength of body, and even—occasionally—of mind, but the theory of "Dog, woman, and walnut tree" is quite obsolete.
THE CAVALIER: (Frowning and shaking his head,—or seeming to)!!!
BELLEW: Ha!—you don't believe me? Well, that is because you are obsolete, too;—yes sir, as obsolete as your hat, or your boots, or your long rapier. Now, for instance, suppose I were to ask your advice in my own case? You know precisely how the matter stands at present, between Miss Anthea and myself. You also know Miss Anthea personally, since you have seen her much and often, and have watched her grow from childhood into—er—glorious womanhood,—I repeat sir glorious womanhood. Thus, you ought to know, and understand her far better than I,—for I do confess she is a constant source of bewilderment to me. Now, since you do know her so well,—what course should you adopt, were you in my place?
THE CAVALIER: (Smirking more knowingly than ever,—or seeming to)!!!
BELLEW: Preposterous! Quite absurd!—and just what I might have expected. Carry her off, indeed! No no, we are not living in your bad, old, glorious days when a maid's "No" was generally taken to mean "Yes"—or when a lover might swing his reluctant mistress up to his saddle-bow, and ride off with her, leaving the world far behind. To-day it is all changed,—sadly changed. Your age was a wild age, a violent age, but in some respects, perhaps, a rather glorious age. Your advice is singularly characteristic, and, of course, quite impossible, alas!—Carry her off, indeed!
Hereupon, Bellew sighed, and turning away, lighted his pipe, which had gone out, and buried himself in the newspaper.
Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, and the third finger of the left hand
So Bellew took up the paper. The house was very quiet, for Small Porges was deep in the vexatious rules of the Multiplication Table, and something he called "Jogafrey," Anthea was out, as usual, and Miss Priscilla was busied with her numerous household duties. Thus the brooding silence was unbroken save for the occasional murmur of a voice, the jingle of the housekeeping keys, and the quick, light tap, tap, of Miss Priscilla's stick.
Therefore, Bellew read the paper, and let it be understood that he regarded the daily news-sheet as the last resource of the utterly bored.
Now presently, as he glanced over the paper with a negative interest his eye was attracted by a long paragraph beginning:
At St. George's, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend the Bishop of——, Silvia Cecile Marchmont, to His Grace the Duke of Ryde, K.G., K.C.B.
Below followed a full, true, and particular account of the ceremony which, it seemed, had been graced by Royalty. George Bellew read it half way through, and—yawned,—positively, and actually, yawned, and thereafter, laughed.
"And so, I have been in Arcadia—only three weeks! I have known Anthea only twenty-one days! A ridiculously short time, as time goes,—in any other place but Arcadia,—and yet sufficient to lay for ever, the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been. Lord! what a preposterous ass I was! Baxter was quite right,—utterly, and completely right! Now, let us suppose that this paragraph had read: 'To-day, at St. George's, Hanover Square, Anthea Devine to—' No no,—confound it!" and Bellew crumpled up the paper, and tossed it into a distant corner. "I wonder what Baxter would think of me now,—good old faithful John. The Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been,—What a preposterous ass!—what a monumental idiot I was!"
"Posterous ass, isn't a very pretty word, Uncle Porges,—or continental idiot!" said a voice behind him, and turning, he beheld Small Porges somewhat stained, and bespattered with ink, who shook a reproving head at him.
"True, nephew," he answered, "but they are sometimes very apt, and in this instance, particularly so."
Small Porges drew near, and, seating himself upon the arm of Bellew's chair, looked at his adopted uncle, long, and steadfastly.
"Uncle Porges," said he, at last, "you never tell stories, do you?—I mean—lies, you know."
"Indeed, I hope not, Porges,—why do you ask?"
"Well,—'cause my Auntie Anthea's 'fraid you do."
"Is she—hum!—Why?"
"When she came to 'tuck me up,' last night, she sat down on my bed, an' talked to me a long time. An' she sighed a lot, an' said she was 'fraid I didn't care for her any more,—which was awful' silly, you know."
"Yes, of course!" nodded Bellew.
"An' then she asked me why I was so fond of you, an' I said 'cause you were my Uncle Porges that I found under a hedge. An' then she got more angrier than ever, an' said she wished I'd left you under the hedge—"
"Did she, my Porges?"
"Yes; she said she wished she'd never seen you, an' she'd be awful' glad when you'd gone away. So I told her you weren't ever going away, an' that we were waiting for the Money Moon to come, an' bring us the fortune. An' then she shook her head, an' said 'Oh! my dear,—you mustn't believe anything he says to you about the moon, or anything else, 'cause he tells lies,'—an' she said 'lies' twice!"
"Ah!—and—did she stamp her foot, Porges?"
"Yes, I think she did; an' then she said there wasn't such a thing as a Money Moon, an' she told me you were going away very soon, to get married, you know."
"And what did you say?"
"Oh! I told her that I was going too. An' then I thought she was going to cry, an' she said 'Oh Georgy! I didn't think you'd leave me—even for him.' So then I had to s'plain how we had arranged that she was going to marry you so that we could all live happy ever after,—I mean, that it was all settled, you know, an' that you were going to speak to her on the first—opportunity. An' then she looked at me a long time an' asked me—was I sure you had said so. An' then she got awful' angry indeed, an' said 'How dare he! Oh, how dare he!' So a course, I told her you'd dare anything—even a dragon,—'cause you are so big, an' brave, you know. So then she went an' stood at the window, an' she was so angry she cried,—an' I nearly cried too. But at last she kissed me 'Good night' an' said you were a man that never meant anything you said, an' that I must never believe you any more, an' that you were going away to marry a lady in London, an' that she was very glad, 'cause then we should all be happy again she s'posed. So she kissed me again, an' tucked me up, an' went away. But it was a long, long time before I could go to sleep, 'cause I kept on thinking, an' thinking s'posing there really wasn't any Money Moon, after all! s'posing you were going to marry another lady in London!—You see, it would all be so—frightfully awful, wouldn't it?"