"Terribly dreadfully awful, my Porges."
"But you neverdotell lies,—do you, Uncle Porges?"
"No!"
"An'—thereisa Money Moon, isn't there?"
"Why of course there is."
"An' youaregoing to marry my Auntie Anthea in the full o' the moon, aren't you?"
"Yes, my Porges."
"Why then—everything's all right again,—so let's go an' sit under the hay-stack, an' talk 'bout ships."
"But why of ships?" enquired Bellew, rising.
"'Cause I made up my mind, this morning, that I'd be a sailor when I grow up,—a mariner, you know, like Peterday, only I'd prefer to have both my legs."
"You'd find it more convenient, perhaps."
"You know all 'bout oceans, an' waves, and billows, don't you UnclePorges?"
"Well, I know a little."
"An' are you ever sea-sick,—like a 'landlubber?'"
"I used to be, but I got over it."
"Was it a very big ship that you came over in?"
"No,—not so very big, but she's about as fast as anything in her class, and a corking sea-boat."
"What's her name?"
"Her name?" repeated Bellew, "well, she was called the—er 'Silvia.'"
"That's an awful' pretty name for a ship."
"Hum!—so so,—but I have learned a prettier, and next time she puts out to sea we'll change her name, eh, my Porges?"
"We?" cried Small Porges, looking up with eager eyes, "do you mean you'd take me to sea with you,—an' my Auntie Anthea, of course?"
"You don't suppose I'd leave either of you behind, if I could help it, do you? We'd all sail away together—wherever you wished."
"Do you mean," said Small Porges, in a suddenly awed voice, "that it is—your ship,—your very own?"
"Oh yes-"
"But,—do you know, Uncle Porges, you don't look as though you had a ship—for your very own, somehow."
"Don't I?"
"You see, a ship is such a very big thing for one man to have for his very own self. An' has it got masts, an' funnels, an' anchors?"
"Lots of 'em."
"Then, please, when will you take me an' Auntie Anthea sailing all over the oceans?"
"Just so soon as she is ready to come."
"Then I think I'd like to go to Nova Zembla first,—I found it in my jogafrey to-day, an' it sounds nice an' far off, doesn't it?"
"It does, Shipmate!" nodded Bellew.
"Oh! that's fine!" exclaimed Small Porges rapturously, "you shall be the captain, an' I'll be the shipmate, an' we'll say Aye Aye, to each other—like the real sailors do in books,—shall we?"
"Aye, aye Shipmate!" nodded Bellew again.
"Then please, Uncle Por—I mean Captain,—what shall we name our ship,—I mean the new name?"
"Well, my Porges,—I mean, of course, shipmate,—I rather thought of calling her—Hallo!—why here's the Sergeant."
Sure enough, there was Sergeant Appleby sitting under the shade of "KingArthur"—but who rose, and stood at attention as they came up.
"Why Sergeant, how are you?" said Bellew, gripping the veteran's hand."You are half an hour before your usual time, to-day,—nothing wrong,I hope?"
"Nothing wrong, Mr. Bellew, sir—I thank you. No, nothing wrong, but this—is a—memorable occasion, sir. May I trouble you to—step behind the tree with me—for half a moment, sir?"
Suiting the action to the word, the Sergeant led Bellew to the other side of the tree, and there, screened from view of the house, he, with a sudden, jerky movement, produced a very small leather case from his pocket, which he handed to Bellew.
"Not good enough—for such a woman—I know, but the best I could afford, sir!" said the Sergeant appearing profoundly interested in the leaves overhead, while Bellew opened the very small box.
"Why—it's very handsome, Sergeant!" said Bellew, making the jewels sparkle in the sun,—"anyone might be proud of such a ring."
"Why, it did look pretty tidy—in the shop, sir,—to me, and Peterday. My comrade has a sharp eye, and a sound judgment in most things, sir—and we took—a deal of trouble in selecting it. But now—when it comes to—giving it toHer,—why it looks—uncommon small, and mean, sir."
"A ruby, and two diamonds, and very fine stones, too, Sergeant!"
"So I made so bold as to—come here sir," pursued the Sergeant still interested in the foliage above, "half an hour afore my usual time—to ask you, sir—if you would so far oblige me—as to—hand it to her—when I'm gone, sir."
"Lord, no!" said Bellew, smiling and shaking his head, "not on your life, Sergeant! Why man it would lose half its value in her eyes if any other than you gave it to her. No Sergeant, you must hand it to her yourself, and, what's more, you must slip it upon her finger."
"Good Lord! sir!" exclaimed the Sergeant, "I could never do that!"
"Oh yes you could!"
"Not unless you—stood by me—a force in reserve, as it were, sir."
"I'll do that willingly, Sergeant."
"Then—p 'raps sir—you might happen to know—which finger?"
"The third finger of the left hand, I believe Sergeant."
"Here's Aunt Priscilla now," said Small Porges, at this juncture.
"Lord!" exclaimed the Sergeant, "and sixteen minutes afore her usual time!"
Yes,—there was Miss Priscilla, her basket of sewing upon her arm, as gentle, as unruffled, as placid as usual. And yet it is probable that she divined something from their very attitudes, for there was a light in her eyes, and her cheeks seemed more delicately pink than was their wont. Thus, as she came toward them, under the ancient apple-trees, despite her stick, and her white hair, she looked even younger, and more girlish than ever.
At least, the Sergeant seemed to think so, for, as he met her look, his face grew suddenly radiant, while a slow flush crept up under the tan of his cheek, and the solitary hand he held out to her, trembled a little, for all its size, and strength.
"Miss Priscilla, mam—" he said, and stopped. "Miss Priscilla," he began again, and paused once more.
"Why—Sergeant!" she exclaimed, though it was a very soft little exclamation indeed,—for her hand still rested in his, and so she could feel the quiver of the strong fingers, "why—Sergeant!"
"Miss Priscilla,—" said he, beginning all over again, but with no better success.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla, "I do believe he is going to forget to enquire about the peaches!"
"Peaches!" repeated the Sergeant, "Yes, Priscilla."
"And—why?"
"'Cause he's brought you a ring," Small Porges broke in, "a very handsome ring, you know, Aunt Priscilla,—all diamonds an' jewels, an' he wants you to please let him put it on your finger—if you don't mind."
"And—here it is!" said the Sergeant, and gave it into her hand.
Miss Priscilla stood very silent, and very still, looking down at the glittering gems, then, all at once, her eyes filled, and a slow wave of colour dyed her cheeks:
"Oh Sergeant!" she said, very softly, "Oh Sergeant, I am only a poor, old woman—with a lame foot!"
"And I am a poor, old soldier—with only one arm, Priscilla."
"You are the strongest, and gentlest, and bravest soldier in all the world, I think!" she answered.
"And you, Priscilla, are the sweetest, and most beautifulwomanin the world, Iknow!And so—I've loved you all these years, and—never dared to tell you so, because of my—one arm."
"Why then," said Miss Priscilla, smiling up at him through her tears, "if you do—really—think that,—why,—it's this finger, Sergeant!"
So the Sergeant, very clumsily, perhaps, because he had but the one hand, slipped the ring upon the finger in question. And Porges, Big, and Small, turning to glance back, as they went upon their way saw that he still held that small white hand pressed close to his lips.
Coming events cast their shadows before
"I s'pose they'll be marrying each other, one of these fine days!" saidSmall Porges as they crossed the meadow, side by side.
"Yes, I expect so, Shipmate," nodded Bellew, "and may they live long, and die happy, say I."
"Aye, aye, Captain,—an' Amen!" returned Small Porges.
Now as they went, conversing of marriage, and ships, and the wonders, and marvels of foreign lands,—they met with Adam who stared up at the sky and muttered to himself, and frowned, and shook his head.
"Good arternoon, Mr. Belloo sir,—an' Master Georgy!"
"Well, Adam, how are the hops?"
"'Ops sir,—there never was such 'ops,—no, not in all Kent, sir. All I'm wishin' is that they was all safe picked, an' gathered. W'ot do you make o' them clouds, sir,—over there,—jest over the p'int o' the oast-house?"
Bellew turned, and cast a comprehensive, sailor-like glance in the direction indicated.
"Rain, Adam, and wind,—and plenty of it!" said he.
"Ah! so I think, sir,—driving storm, and thrashing tempest!"
"Well, Adam?"
"Well, sir,—p'raps you've never seen w'ot driving rain, an' raging wind, can do among the 'op-bines, sir. All I wish is that they 'ops was all safe picked an' gathered, sir!" And Adam strode off with his eye still turned heaven-ward, and shaking his head like some great bird of ill-omen.
So the afternoon wore away to evening, and with evening, came Anthea; but a very grave-eyed, troubled Anthea, who sat at the tea-table silent, and preoccupied,—in so much, that Small Porges openly wondered, while Miss Priscilla watched over her, wistful, and tender.
Thus, Tea, which was wont to be the merriest meal of the day, was but the pale ghost of what it should have been, despite Small Porges' flow of conversation, (when not impeded by bread and jam), and Bellew's tactful efforts. Now while he talked light-heartedly, keeping carefully to generalities, he noticed two things,—one was that Anthea made but a pretence at eating, and the second, that though she uttered a word, now and then, yet her eyes persistently avoided his.
Thus, he, for one, was relieved when tea was over, and, as he rose from the table, he determined, despite the unpropitious look of things, to end the suspense, one way or another, and speak to Anthea just so soon as she should be alone.
But here again he was balked and disappointed, for when Small Porges came to bid him good-night as usual, he learned that "Auntie Anthea" had already gone to bed.
"She says it's a head-ache," said Small Porges, "but I 'specks it's the hops, really, you know."
"The hops, my Porges?"
"She's worrying about them,—she's 'fraid of a storm, like Adam is. An' when she worries,—I worry. Oh Uncle Porges!—if only my prayers can bring the Money Moon—soon, you know,—very soon! If they don't bring it in a day or two,—'fraid I shall wake up, one fine morning, an' find I've worried, an' worried myself into an old man."
"Never fear, Shipmate!" said Bellew in his most nautical manner, "'all's well that ends well,'—a-low, and aloft all's a-taunto. So just take a turn at the lee braces, and keep your weather eye lifting, for you may be sure of this,—if the storm does come,—it will bring the Money Moon with it."
Then, having bidden Small Porges a cheery "Good-night"—Bellew went out to walk among the roses. And, as he walked, he watched the flying wrack of clouds above his head, and listened to the wind that moaned in fitful gusts. Wherefore, having learned in his many travels to read, and interpret such natural signs and omens, he shook his head, and muttered to himself—even as Adam had done before him.
Presently he wandered back into the house, and, filling his pipe, went to hold communion with his friend—the Cavalier.
And thus it was that having ensconced himself in the great elbow-chair, and raised his eyes to the picture, he espied a letter tucked into the frame, thereof. Looking closer, he saw that it was directed to himself. He took it down, and, after a momentary hesitation, broke the seal, and read:
Miss Devine presents her compliments to Mr. Bellew, and regrets to say that owing to unforeseen circumstances, she begs that he will provide himself with other quarters at the expiration of the month, being the Twenty-third inst.
Bellew read the lines slowly, twice over, then, folding the note very carefully, put it into his pocket, and stood for a long time staring at nothing in particular. At length he lifted his head, and looked up into the smiling eyes of the Cavalier, above the mantel.
"Sir," said he, very gravely, "it would almost seem that you were in the right of it,—that yours is the best method, after all!" Then he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and went, slowly, and heavily, up-stairs to bed.
It was a long time before he fell asleep, but he did so at last, for Insomnia is a demon who rarely finds his way into Arcadia. But, all at once, he was awake again,—broad awake, and staring into the dark, for a thousand voices seemed to be screaming in his ears, and eager hands were shaking, and plucking at window and lattice. He started up, and then he knew that the storm was upon them, at last, in all its fury,—rain, and a mighty wind,—a howling raging tempest. Yes, a great, and mighty wind was abroad,—it shrieked under the eaves, it boomed and bellowed in the chimneys, and roared away to carry destruction among the distant woods; while the rain beat hissing against the window-panes.
Surely in all its many years the old house of Dapplemere had seldom borne the brunt of such a storm, so wild,—so fierce, and pitiless!
And, lying there upon his bed, listening to the uproar, and tumult,Bellew must needs think of her who had once said:
"We are placing all our hopes, this year, upon the hops!"
How Small Porges, in his hour of need, was deserted by his Uncle
"Ruined, sir!—Done for!—Lord love me! they ain't worth the trouble o? gatherin'—w'ot's left on 'em, Mr. Belloo sir."
"So bad as that, Adam?"
"Bad!—ah, so bad as ever was, sir!" said Adam, blinking suspiciously, and turning suddenly away.
"Has Miss Anthea seen,—does she know?"
"Ah! she were out at dawn, and Oh Lord, Mr. Belloo sir! I can't never forget her poor, stricken face,—so pale and sad it were. But she never said nothing, only: 'Oh, Adam!—my poor hops!' An' I see her lips all of a quiver while she spoke. An' so she turned away, an' came back to the 'ouse, sir. Poor lass! Oh poor lass!" he exclaimed, his voice growing more husky. "She's made a brave fight for it, sir,—but it weren't no use, ye see,—it'll be 'Good-bye' for her to Dapplemere, arter all, that there mortgage can't never be paid now,—nohow."
"When is it due?"
"Well, according to the bond, or the deed, or whatever they calls it,—it be doo—tonight, at nine o'clock, sir,—though Old Grimes,—as a special favour, an' arter much persuading,—'ad agreed to hold over till next Saturday,—on account o' the 'op-picking. But now—seeing as there ain't no 'ops to be picked,—why he'll fore-close to-night, an' glad enough to do it, you can lay your oath on that, Mr. Belloo sir."
"To-night!" said Bellew, "to-night!" and he stood, for a while with bent head, as though lost in profound thought. "Adam," said he, suddenly, "help me to harness the mare, I must drive over to the nearest rail-road depot,—hurry, I must be off, the sooner, the better."
"What!—be you—goin' sir?"
"Yes;—hurry, man,—hurry!"
"D'ye mean as you're a-goin' to leave her—now, in the middle o' all this trouble?"
"Yes, Adam,—I must go to London—on business,—now hurry, like a good fellow." And so, together they entered the stable, and together they harnessed the mare. Which done, staying not for breakfast, Bellew mounted the driver's seat, and, with Adam beside him, drove rapidly away.
But Small Porges had seen these preparations, and now came running all eagerness, but ere he could reach the yard, Bellew was out of ear-shot.
So there stood Small Porges, a desolate little figure, watching the rapid course of the dogcart until it had vanished over the brow of the hill. And then, all at once the tears welled up into his eyes hot, and scalding, and a great sob burst from him, for it seemed to him that his beloved Uncle Porges had failed him at the crucial moment,—had left him solitary just when he needed him most.
Thus Small Porges gave way to his grief, hidden in the very darkest corner of the stable, whither he had retired lest any should observe his weakness, until having once more gained command of himself, and wiped away his tears with his small, and dingy pocket-handkerchief, he slowly re-crossed the yard, and entering the house went to look for his Auntie Anthea.
And, after much search, he found her—half-lying, half-kneeling beside his bed. When he spoke to her, though she answered him, she did not look up, and he knew that she was weeping.
"Don't, Auntie Anthea,—don't!" he pleaded. "I know Uncle Porges has gone away, an' left us, but you've got me left, you know,—an' I shall be a man—very soon,—before my time, I think. So—don't cry,—though I'm awful' sorry he's gone, too—just when we needed him the most, you know!"
"Oh Georgy!" she whispered, "my dear, brave little Georgy! We shall only have each other soon,—they're going to take Dapplemere away from us,—and everything we have in the world,—Oh Georgy!"
"Well, never mind!" said he, kneeling beside her, and drawing one small arm protectingly about her, "we shall always have each other left, you know,—nobody shall ever take you away from me. An' then—there's the—Money Moon! It's been an awful' long time coming,—but it may come to-night, or tomorrow night.Hesaid it would be sure to come if the storm came, an' so I'll find the fortune for you at last. I know I shall find itsome daya course—'cause I've prayed, an' prayed for it so very hard, an'Hesaid my prayers went straight up to heaven, an' didn't get blown away, or lost in the clouds. So—don't cry, Auntie Anthea let's wait—just a little longer—till the Money Moon comes."
In which shall be found mention of a certain black bag
"Baxter!"
"Sir?"
"Get me a pen, and ink!"
"Yes, sir."
Now any ordinary mortal might have manifested just a little surprise to behold his master walk suddenly in, dusty and dishevelled of person, his habitual languor entirely laid aside, and to thus demand pen and ink, forthwith. But then, Baxter, though mortal, was the very cream of a gentleman's gentleman, and the acme of valets, (as has been said), and comported himself accordingly.
"Baxter!"
"Sir?"
"Oblige me by getting this cashed."
"Yes, sir."
"Bring half of it in gold."
"Sir," said Baxter, glancing down at the slip of paper, "did you say—half, sir?"
"Yes, Baxter,—I'd take it all in gold only that it would be rather awkward to drag around. So bring half in gold, and the rest in—five pound notes."
"Very good, sir!"
"And—Baxter!"
"Sir?"
"Take a cab!"
"Certainly sir." And Baxter went out, closing the door behind him.Meanwhile Bellew busied himself in removing all traces of his journey,and was already bathed, and shaved, and dressed, by the timeBaxter returned.
Now gripped in his right hand Baxter carried a black leather bag which jingled as he set it down upon the table.
"Got it?" enquired Bellew.
"I have, sir."
"Good!" nodded Bellew. "Now just run around to the garage, and fetch the new racing car,—the Mercedes."
"Now, sir?"
"Now, Baxter!"
Once more Baxter departed, and, while he was gone, Bellew began to pack,—that is to say, he bundled coats and trousers, shirts and boots into a portmanteau in a way that would have wrung Baxter's heart, could he have seen. Which done, Bellew opened the black bag, glanced inside, shut it again, and, lighting his pipe, stretched himself out upon an ottoman, and immediately became plunged in thought.
So lost was he, indeed, that Baxter, upon his return was necessitated to emit three distinct coughs,—(the most perfectly proper, and gentleman-like coughs in the world) ere Bellew was aware of his presence.
"Oh!—that you, Baxter?" said he, sitting up, "back so soon?"
"The car is at the door, sir."
"The car?—ah yes, to be sure!—Baxter."
"Sir?"
"What should you say if I told you—" Bellew paused to strike a match, broke it, tried another, broke that, and finally put his pipe back into his pocket, very conscious the while of Baxter's steady, though perfectly respectful regard.
"Baxter," said he again.
"Sir?" said Baxter.
"What should you say if I told you that I was in love—at last,Baxter!—Head over ears—hopelessly—irretrievably?"
"Say, sir?—why I should say,—indeed, sir?"
"What should you say," pursued Bellew, staring thoughtfully down at the rug under his feet, "if I told you that I am so very much, in love that I am positively afraid to—tell her so?"
"I should say—very remarkable, sir!"
Bellew took out his pipe again, looked at it very much as if he had never seen such a thing before, and laid it down upon the mantelpiece.
"Baxter," said he, "kindly understand that I am speaking to you as—er—man to man,—as my father's old and trusted servant and my early boy-hood's only friend; sit down, John."
"Thank you, Master George, sir."
"I wish to—confess to you, John, that—er—regarding the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been,—you were entirely in the right. At that time I knew no more the meaning of the—er—the word, John—"
"Meaning the word—Love, Master George!"
"Precisely; I knew no more about it than—that table. But during these latter days, I have begun to understand, and—er—the fact of the matter is—I'm—I'm fairly—up against it, John!"
Here, Baxter, who had been watching him with his quick, sharp eyes nodded his head solemnly:
"Master George," said he, "speaking as your father's old servant, and your boyhood's friend,—I'm afraid you are."
Bellew took a turn up and down the room, and then pausing in front of Baxter, (who had risen also, as a matter of course), he suddenly laid his two hands upon his valet's shoulders.
"Baxter," said he, "you'll remember that after my mother died, my father was always too busy piling up his millions to give much time or thought to me, and I should have been a very lonely small boy if it hadn't been for you, John Baxter. I was often 'up against it,' in those days, John, and you were always ready to help, and advise me;—but now,—well, from the look of things, I'm rather afraid that I must stay 'up against it'—that the game is lost already, John. But which ever way Fate decides—win, or lose,—I'm glad—yes, very glad to have learned the true meaning of—the word, John."
"Master George, sir,—there was a poet once—Tennyson, I think, who said,—'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,' and I know—that he was—right. Many years ago,—before you were born, Master George, I loved—and lost, and that is how I know. But I hope that Fortune will be kinder to you, indeed I do."
"Thank you, John,—though I don't see why she should be." And Bellew stood staring down at the rug again, till aroused by Baxter's cough:
"Pray sir, what are your orders, the car is waiting downstairs?"
"Orders?—why—er—pack your grip, Baxter, I shall take you with me, this time, into Arcadia, Baxter."
"For how long, sir?"
"Probably a week."
"Very good, sir."
"It is now half-past three, I must be back in Dapplemere at eight. Take your time—I'll go down to look at the machine. Just lock the place up, and—er—don't forget the black bag."
Some ten minutes later the great racing car set out on its journey, with Bellew at the wheel, and Baxter beside him with the black bag held firmly upon his knee.
Their process was, necessarily, slow at first, on account of the crowded thoroughfares. But, every now and then, the long, low car would shoot forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus-wheels, dodging hansoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless manner. But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat calm and unruffled, since he knew, by long experience, that Bellew's eye was quick and true, and his hand firm and sure upon the wheel.
Over Westminster Bridge, and along the Old Kent Road they sped, now fast, now slow,—threading a tortuous, and difficult way amid the myriad vehicles, and so, betimes, they reached Blackheath.
And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had aforetime, shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman Legionaries,—up Shooter's Hill, and down,—and so into the open country.
And, ever as they went, they talked. And not as master and servant but as "between man and man,"—wherefore Baxter the Valet became merged and lost in Baxter the Human,—the honest John of the old days,—a gray haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged cosmopolitan who listened to, and looked at, Young Alcides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master George, of years ago.
"So you see, John, if all thingsdogo well with me, we should probably take a trip to the Mediterranean."
"In the—'Silvia,' of course, Master George?"
"Yes; though—er—I've decided to change her name, John."
"Ah!—very natural—under the circumstances, Master George," said honestJohn, his eyes twinkling slyly as he spoke, "Now, if I might suggest anew name it would be hard to find a more original one than 'The HauntingSpectre of the—"
"Bosh, John!—there never was such a thing, you were quite right, as I said before, and—by heaven,—potato sacks!"
"Eh,—what?—potato sacks, Master George?"
They had been climbing a long, winding ascent, but now, having reached the top of the hill, they overtook a great, lumbering market cart, or wain, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely surly-faced man in a smock-frock.
"Hallo there!" cried Bellew, slowing up, "how much for one of your potato-sacks?"
"Get out, now!" growled the surly-faced man, in a tone as surly as his look, "can't ye see as they're all occipied?"
"Well,—empty one."
"Get out, now!" repeated the man, scowling blacker than ever.
"I'll give you a sovereign for one."
"Now, don't ye try to come none o' your jokes wi' me, young feller!" growled the carter. "Sovereign!—bah!—Show us."
"Here it is," said Bellew, holding up the coin in question. "Catch!" and, with the word, he tossed it up to the carter who caught it, very dexterously, looked at it, bit it, rubbed it on his sleeve, rang it upon the foot-board of his waggon, bit it again and finally pocketed it.
"It's a go, sir," he nodded, his scowl vanishing as by magic; and as he spoke, he turned, seized the nearest sack, and, forthwith sent a cascade of potatoes rolling, and bounding all over the road. Which done, he folded up the sack, and handed it down to Bellew who thrust it under the seat, nodded, and, throwing in the clutch, set off down the road. But, long after the car had hummed itself out of sight, and the dust of its going had subsided, the carter sat staring after it—open-mouthed.
If Baxter wondered at this purchase, he said nothing, only he bent his gaze thoughtfully upon the black leather bag that he held upon his knee.
On they sped between fragrant hedges, under whispering trees, past lonely cottages and farm-houses, past gate, and field, and wood, until the sun grew low.
At last, Bellew stopped the automobile at a place where a narrow lane, or cart track, branched off from the high road, and wound away between great trees.
"I leave you here," said he as he sprang from the car, "this is Dapplemere,—the farmhouse lies over the up-land, yonder, though you can't see it because of the trees."
"Is it far, Master George?"
"About half a mile."
"Here is the bag, sir; but—do you think it is—quite safe—?"
"Safe, John?"
"Under the circumstances, Master George, I think it would be advisable to—to take this with you." And he held out a small revolver. Bellew laughed, and shook his head.
"Such things aren't necessary—here in Arcadia, John,—besides, I have my stick. So good-bye, for the present, you'll stay at the 'King's Head,'—remember."
"Good-night, Master George, sir, goodnight! and good fortune go with you."
"Thank you!" said Bellew, and reached out his hand, "I think we'll shake on that, John!"
So they clasped hands, and Bellew turned, and set off along the grassy lane. And, presently, as he went, he heard the hum of the car grow rapidly fainter and fainter until it was lost in the quiet of the evening.
The Conspirators
The shadows were creeping down, and evening was approaching, as Bellew took his way along that winding lane that led to the House of Dapplemere.
Had there been anyone to see, (which there was not), they might have noticed something almost furtive in his manner of approach, for he walked always under the trees where the shadows lay thickest, and paused, once or twice, to look about him warily. Being come within sight of the house, he turned aside, and forcing his way through a gap in the hedge, came by a roundabout course to the farm-yard. Here, after some search, he discovered a spade, the which, (having discarded his stick), he took upon his shoulder, and with the black leather bag tucked under his arm, crossed the paddock with the same degree of caution, and so, at last, reached the orchard. On he went, always in the shadow until, at length, he paused beneath the mighty, knotted branches of "King Arthur." Never did conspirator glance about him with sharper eyes, or hearken with keener ears, than did George Bellew,—or Conspirator No. One, where he now stood beneath the protecting shadow of "King Arthur,"—or Conspirator No. Two, as, having unfolded the potato sack, he opened the black leather bag.
The moon was rising broad, and yellow, but it was low as yet, and "King Arthur" stood in impenetrable gloom,—as any other thorough-going, self-respecting conspirator should; and now, all at once, from this particular patch of shadow, there came a sudden sound,—a rushing sound,—a chinking, clinking, metallic sound, and, thereafter, a crisp rustling that was not the rustling of ordinary paper.
And now Conspirator No. One rises, and ties the mouth of the sack with string he had brought with him for the purpose, and setting down the sack, bulky now and heavy, by Conspirator No. Two, takes up the spade and begins to dig. And, in a while, having made an excavation not very deep to be sure, but sufficient to his purpose, he deposits the sack within, covers it with soil, treads it down, and replacing the torn sod, carefully pats it down with the flat of his spade. Which thing accomplished, Conspirator No. One wipes his brow, and stepping forth of the shadow, consults his watch with anxious eye, and, thereupon, smiles,—surely a singularly pleasing smile for the lips of an arch-conspirator to wear. Thereafter he takes up the black bag, empty now, shoulders the spade, and sets off, keeping once more in the shadows, leaving Conspirator No. Two to guard their guilty secret.
Now, as Conspirator No. One goes his shady way, he keeps his look directed towards the rising moon, and thus he almost runs into one who also stands amid the shadows and whose gaze is likewise fixed upon the moon.
"Ah?—Mr. Bellew!" exclaims a drawling voice, and Squire Cassilis turns to regard him with his usual supercilious smile. Indeed Squire Cassilis seems to be even more self-satisfied, and smiling than ordinary, to-night,—or at least Bellew imagines so.
"You are still agriculturally inclined, I see," said Mr. Cassilis, nodding towards the spade, "though it's rather a queer time to choose for digging, isn't it?"
"Not at all, sir—not at all," returned Bellew solemnly, "the moon is very nearly at the full, you will perceive."
"Well, sir,—and what of that?"
"When the moon is at the full, or nearly so, I generally dig, sir,—that is to say, circumstances permitting."
"Really," said Mr. Cassilis beginning to caress his moustache, "it seems to me that you have very—ah—peculiar tastes, Mr. Bellew."
"That is because you have probably never experienced the fierce joys of moon-light digging, sir."
"No, Mr. Bellew,—digging—as a recreation, has never appealed to me at any time."
"Then sir," said Bellew, shaking his head, "permit me to tell you that you have missed a great deal. Had I the time, I should be delighted to explain to you exactly how much, as it is—allow me to wish you a very good evening."
Mr. Cassilis smiled, and his teeth seemed to gleam whiter, and sharper than ever in the moon-light:
"Wouldn't it be rather more apropos if you said—'Good-bye' Mr. Bellew?" he enquired. "You are leaving Dapplemere, shortly, I understand,—aren't you?"
"Why sir," returned Bellew, grave, and imperturbable as ever,—"it all depends."
"Depends!—upon what, may I ask?"
"The moon, sir."
"The moon?"
"Precisely!"
"And pray—what can the moon have to do with your departure?"
"A great deal more than you'd think—sir. Had I the time, I should be delighted to explain to you exactly how much, as it is,—permit me to wish you a very—good evening!"
Saying which, Bellew nodded affably, and, shouldering his spade, went upon his way. And still he walked in the shadows, and still he gazed upon the moon, but now, his thick brows were gathered in a frown, and he was wondering just why Cassilis should chance to be here, to-night, and what his confident air, and the general assurance of his manner might portend; above all, he was wondering how Mr. Cassilis came to be aware of his own impending departure. And so, at last, he came to the rick-yard,—full of increasing doubt and misgivings.
How the money moon rose
Evening had deepened into night,—a night of ineffable calm, a night of an all pervading quietude. A horse snorted in the stable nearby, a dog barked in the distance, but these sounds served only to render the silence the more profound, by contrast. It was, indeed, a night wherein pixies, and elves, and goblins, and fairies might weave their magic spells, a night wherein tired humanity dreamed those dreams that seem so hopelessly impossible by day.
And, over all, the moon rose high, and higher, in solemn majesty, filling the world with her pale loveliness, and brooding over it like the gentle goddess she is. Even the distant dog seemed to feel something of all this, for, after a futile bark or two, he gave it up altogether, and was heard no more.
And Bellew, gazing up at Luna's pale serenity, smiled and nodded,—as much as to say, "You'll do!" and so stood leaning upon his spade listening to:
"That deep hush which seems a sighBreathed by Earth to listening sky."
Now, all at once, upon this quietude there rose a voice up-raised in fervent supplication; wherefore, treading very softly, Bellew came, and peeping round the hay-rick, beheld Small Porges upon his knees. He was equipped for travel and the perils of the road, for beside him lay a stick, and tied to this stick was a bundle that bulged with his most cherished possessions. His cheeks were wet with great tears that glistened in the moon-beams, but he wept with eyes tight shut, and with his small hands clasped close together, and thus he spoke,—albeit much shaken, and hindered by sobs:
"I s'pose you think I bother you an awful lot, dear Lord,—an' so I do, but you haven't sent the Money Moon yet, you see, an' now my Auntie Anthea's got to leave Dapplemere—if I don't find the fortune for her soon. I know I'm crying a lot, an' real men don't cry,—but it's only 'cause I'm awful—lonely an' disappointed,—an' nobody can see me, so it doesn't matter. But, dear Lord, I've looked an' looked everywhere, an' I haven't found a single sovereign yet,—an' I've prayed to you, an' prayed to you for the Money Moon an'—it's never come. So now, dear Lord, I'm going to Africa, an' I want you to please take care of my Auntie Anthea till I come back. Sometimes I'm 'fraid my prayers can't quite manage to get up to you 'cause of the clouds, an' wind, but to-night there isn't any, so, if they do reach you, please—Oh! please let me find the fortune, and, if you don't mind, let—himcome back to me, dear Lord,—I mean my Uncle Porges, you know. An' now—that's all, dear Lord, so Amen!"
As the prayer ended Bellew stole back, and coming to the gate of the rick-yard, leaned there waiting. And, presently, as he watched, he saw a small figure emerge from behind the big hay-stack and come striding manfully toward him, his bundle upon his shoulder, and with the moon bright in his curls.
But, all at once, Small Porges saw him and stopped, and the stick and bundle fell to the ground and lay neglected.
"Why—my Porges!" said Bellew, a trifle huskily, perhaps, "why, Shipmate!" and he held out his hands. Then Small Porges uttered a cry, and came running, and next moment Big Porges had him in his arms.
"Oh, Uncle Porges!—then you—have come back to me!"
"Aye, aye, Shipmate."
"Why, then—my prayersdidreach!"
"Why, of course,—prayers always reach, my Porges."
"Then, oh!—do you s'pose I shall find the fortune, too?"
"Not a doubt of it,—just look at the moon!"
"The—moon?"
"Why, haven't you noticed how—er—peculiar it is to-night?"
"Peculiar?" repeated Small Porges breathlessly, turning to look at it.
"Why, yes, my Porges,—big, you know, and—er—yellow,—like—er—like a very large sovereign."
"Do you mean—Oh! do you mean—it's—the—" But here Small Porges choked suddenly, and could only look his question.
"The Money Moon?—Oh yes—there she is at last, my Porges! Take a good look at her, I don't suppose we shall ever see another."
Small Porges stood very still, and gazed up at the moon's broad, yellow disc, and, as he looked the tears welled up in his eyes again, and a great sob broke from him.
"I'm so—glad!" he whispered. "So—awful—glad!" Then, suddenly, he dashed away his tears and slipped his small, trembling hand into Bellew's.
"Quick, Uncle Porges!" said he, "Mr. Grimes is coming to-night, you know—an' we must find the money in time. Where shall we look first?"
"Well, I guess the orchard will do—to start with."
"Then let's go—now."
"But we shall need a couple of spades, Shipmate."
"Oh!—must we dig?"
"Yes,—I fancy that's a—er—digging moon, my Porges, from the look of it. Ah! there's a spade, nice and handy, you take that and I'll—er—I'll manage with this pitchfork."
"But you can't dig with a—"
"Oh! well—you can do the digging, and I'll just—er—prod, you know.Ready?—then heave ahead, Shipmate."
So they set out, hand in hand, spade and pitch-fork on shoulder, and presently were come to the orchard.
"It's an awful big place to dig up a fortune in!" said Small Porges, glancing about. "Where do you s'pose we'd better begin?"
"Well, Shipmate, between you and me, and the pitch-fork here, I rather fancy 'King Arthur' knows more than most people would think. Any way, we'll try him. You dig on that side, and I'll prod on this."
Saying which, Bellew pointed to a certain spot where the grass looked somewhat uneven, and peculiarly bumpy, and, bidding Small Porges get to work, went round to the other side of the great tree.
Being there, he took out his pipe, purely from force of habit, and stood with it clenched in his teeth, listening to the scrape of Small Porges' spade.
Presently he heard a cry, a panting, breathless cry, but full of a joy unspeakable:
"I've got it!—Oh, Uncle Porges—I've found it!"
Small Porges was down upon his knees, pulling and tugging at a sack he had partially unearthed, and which, with Bellew's aid, he dragged forth into the moonlight. In the twinkling of an eye the string was cut, and plunging in a hand Small Porges brought up a fistful of shining sovereigns, and, among them, a crumpled banknote.
"It's all right, Uncle Porges!" he nodded, his voice all of a quaver. "It's all right, now,—I've found the fortune I've prayed for,—gold, you know, an' banknotes—in a sack. Everything will be all right again now." And, while he spoke, he rose to his feet, and lifting the sack with an effort, swung it across his shoulder, and set off toward the house.
"Is it heavy, Shipmate?"
"Awful heavy!" he panted, "but I don't mind that—it's gold, you see!" But, as they crossed the rose-garden, Bellew laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder.
"Porges," said he, "where is your Auntie Anthea?"
"In the drawing-room, waiting for Mr. Grimes."
"Then, come this way." And turning, Bellew led Small Porges up, and along the terrace.
"Now, my Porges," he admonished him, "when we come to the drawing-room windows,—they're open, you see,—I want you to hide with me in the shadows, and wait until I give you the word—"
"Aye, aye, Captain!" panted Small Porges.
"When I say 'heave ahead, Shipmate,'—why, then, you will take your treasure upon your back and march straight into the room—you understand?"
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Why, then—come on, and—mum's the word."
Very cautiously they approached the long French windows, and paused in the shadow of a great rose-bush, near-by. From where he stood Bellew could see Anthea and Miss Priscilla, and between them, sprawling in an easy chair, was Grimes, while Adam, hat in hand, scowled in the background.
"All I can say is—as I'm very sorry for ye, Miss Anthea," Grimes was saying. "Ah! that I am, but glad as you've took it so well,—no crying nor nonsense!" Here he turned to look at Miss Priscilla, whose everlasting sewing had fallen to her feet, and lay there all unnoticed, while her tearful eyes were fixed upon Anthea, standing white-faced beside her.
"And when—when shall ye be ready to—leave, to—vacate Dapplemere, Miss Anthea?" Grimes went on. "Not as I mean to 'urry you, mind,—only I should like you to—name a day."
Now, as Bellew watched, he saw Anthea's lips move, but no sound came. Miss Priscilla saw also, and catching the nerveless hand, drew it to her bosom, and wept over it.
"Come! come!" expostulated Grimes, jingling the money in his pockets. "Come, come, Miss Anthea, mam!—all as I'm axing you is—when? All as I want you to do is—"
But here Adam, who had been screwing and wringing at his hat, now stepped forward and, tapping Grimes upon the shoulder, pointed to the door:
"Mister Grimes," said he, "Miss Anthea's told ye all as you come here to find out,—she's told ye as she—can't pay, so now,—s'pose you—go."
"But all I want to know is when she'll be ready to move, and I ain't a going till I do,—so you get out o' my way!"
"S'pose you go!" repeated Adam.
"Get out o' my way,—d'ye hear?"
"Because," Adam went on, "if ye don't go, Mister Grimes, the 'Old Adam' be arising inside o' me to that degree as I shall be forced to ketch you by the collar o' your jacket, and—heave you out, Mr. Grimes, sir,—so s'pose you go."
Hereupon Mr. Grimes rose, put on his hat, and muttering to himself, stamped indignantly from the room, and Adam, shutting the door upon him, turned to Miss Anthea, who stood white-lipped and dry-eyed, while gentle little Miss Priscilla fondled her listless hand.
"Don't,—don't look that way, Miss Anthea," said Adam. "I'd rayther see you cry, than look so. It be 'ard to 'ave to let the old place go, but—"
"Heave ahead, Shipmate!" whispered Bellew.
Obedient to his command Small Porges, with his burden upon his back, ran forward, and stumbled into the room.
"It's all right, Auntie Anthea!" he cried, "I've got the fortune for you,—I've found the money I prayed for,—here it is, oh!—here it is!"
The sack fell jingling to the floor, and, next moment, he had poured a heap of shining gold and crumpled banknotes at Anthea's feet.
For a moment no one moved, then, with a strange hoarse cry, Adam had flung himself down upon his knees, and caught up a great handful of the gold; then while Miss Priscilla sobbed with her arms about Small Porges, and Anthea stared down at the treasure, wide-eyed, and with her hands pressed down upon her heart, Adam gave a sudden, great laugh, and springing up, came running out through the window, never spying Bellew in his haste, and shouting as he ran:
"Grimes!" he roared, "Oh! Grimes, come back an' be paid. Come back—we've had our little joke wi' you,—now come back an' be paid!"
Then, at last, Anthea's stony calm was broken, her bosom heaved with tempestuous sobs, and, next moment, she had thrown herself upon her knees, and had clasped her arms about Small Porges and Aunt Priscilla, mingling kisses with her tears. As for Bellew, he turned away, and, treading a familiar path, found himself beneath the shadow of "King Arthur." Therefore, he sat down, and lighting his pipe, stared up at the glory of the full-orbed moon.
"Happiness," said he, speaking his thought aloud, "'Happiness shall come riding astride the full moon!' Now—I wonder!"
In which is verified the adage of the cup and the lip.
Now as he sat thus, plunged in thought, he heard the voice of one who approached intoning a familiar chant, or refrain,—the voice was harsh, albeit not unmusical, and the words of the chant were these:
"When I am dead, diddle diddle, as well may hap,Bury me deep, diddle diddle, under the tap,Under the tap, diddle diddle, I'll tell you—"
"Lord!" exclaimed the singer, breaking off suddenly, "be that you, Mr.Belloo, sir?"
"Yea, in good sooth, Adam, the very same,—but you sing, Adam?"
"Ah!—I sing, Mr. Belloo, sir, an' if you ax me why, then I tell you because I be 'appy-'earted an' full o' j-o-y, j'y, sir. The mortgage be paid off at last, Mr. Belloo, sir,—Miss Anthea be out o' debt,—free, sir,—an' all along o' Master Georgy, God bless him!"
"Oh!" said Bellew, "—er—that's good!"
"Good!" exclaimed Adam, "Ah, Mr. Belloo sir! it be more than good,—it's saved Miss Anthea's home for her, and—betwixt you an' me, sir,—I think it's saved her too. An' it be all along o' that Master Georgy! Lord sir! many's the time as I've watched that theer blessed b'y a-seekin', an' a-searchin', a pokin' an' a pryin' round the place a-lookin' for 'is fortun',—but, Lord bless my eyes an' limbs, sir!—I never thought as he'd find nothin'."
"Why, of course not, Adam."
"Ah!—but that's jest where I were mistook, Mr. Belloo, sir,—because 'e did."
"Did what, Adam?"
"Found the fortun' as he were always a-lookin' for,—a sack o' golden soverings, sir, an' bank-notes, Mr. Belloo, sir,—bushels on 'em; enough—ah! more 'n enough to pay off that mortgage, and to send that theer old Grimes about his business,—an' away from Dapplemere for good an' all, sir."
"So Grimes is really paid off, then, is he, Adam?"
"I done it myself, sir,—wi' these here two 'ands,—Three thousand pound I counted over to him, an' five hundred more—in banknotes, sir, while Miss Anthea sat by like one in a dream. Altogether there were five thousand pound as that blessed b'y dug up out o' the orchard—done up all in a pertater sack, under this very i-dentical tree as you'm a set-tin' under Mr. Belloo sir. E'cod, I be half minded to take a shovel and have a try at fortun'-huntin' myself,—only there ain't much chance o' findin' another, hereabouts; besides—that b'y prayed for that fortun', ah! long, an' hard he prayed, Mr. Belloo sir, an'—'twixt you an' me, sir, I ain't been much of a pray-er myself since my old mother died. Anyhow, the mortgage be paid off, sir, Miss Anthea's free, an' 'tis joy'ful, an' 'appy-'earted I be this night. Prudence an' me'll be gettin' married soon now,—an' when I think of her cookin'—Lord, Mr. Belloo sir!—All as I say is God bless Master Georgy! Good-night, sir! an' may your dreams be as 'appy as mine,—always supposin' I do dream, —which is seldom. Good-night, sir!"
Long after Adam's cheery whistle had died away, Bellew sat, pipe in mouth, staring up at the moon. At length, however, he rose, and turned his steps towards the house.
"Mr. Bellew!"
He started, and turning, saw Anthea standing amid her roses. For a moment they looked upon each other in silence, as though each dreaded to speak, then suddenly, she turned, and broke a great rose from its stem, and stood twisting it between her fingers.
"Why did you—do it?" she asked.
"Do it?" he repeated.
"I mean the—fortune. Georgy told me—how you—helped him to find it, and I—knowhow it came there, of course. Why did you—do it?"
"You didn't tell him—how it came there?" asked Bellew anxiously.
"No," she answered, "I think it would break his heart—if he knew."
"And I think it would have broken his heart if he had never found it," said Bellew, "and I couldn't let that happen, could I?" Anthea did not answer, and he saw that her eyes were very bright in the shadow of her lashes though she kept them lowered to the rose in her fingers.
"Anthea!" said he, suddenly, and reached out his hand to her. But she started and drew from his touch.
"Don't!" she said, speaking almost in a whisper, "don't touch me. Oh! I know you have paid off the mortgage—you have bought back my home for me as you bought back my furniture! Why?—why? I was nothing to you, or you to me,—why have you laid me under this obligation,—you know I can never hope to return your money—oh! why,—why did you do it?"
"Because I—love you, Anthea, have loved you from the first. Because everything I possess in this world is yours—even as I am."
"You forget!" she broke in proudly, "you forget—"
"Everything but my love for you, Anthea,—everything but that I want you for my wife. I'm not much of a fellow, I know, but—could you learn to—love me enough to—marry me—some day, Anthea?"
"Would you have—dared to say this to me—before to-night?—before your money had bought back the roof over my head? Oh! haven't I been humiliated enough? You—you have taken from me the only thing I had left—my independence,—stolen it from me! Oh! hadn't I been shamed enough?"
Now, as she spoke, she saw that his eyes were grown suddenly big and fierce, and, in that moment, her hands were caught in his powerful clasp.
"Let me go!" she cried.
"No," said he, shaking his head, "not until you tell me if you—love me.Speak, Anthea."
"Loose my hands!" She threw up her head proudly, and her eyes gleamed, and her cheeks flamed with sudden anger. "Loose me!" she repeated. But Bellew only shook his head, and his chin seemed rather more prominent than usual, as he answered:
"Tell me that you love me, or that you hate me—whichever it is, but, until you do—"
"You—hurt me!" said she, and then, as his fingers relaxed,—with a sudden passionate cry, she had broken free; but, even so, he had caught and swept her up in his arms, and held her close against his breast. And now, feeling the hopelessness of further struggle, she lay passive, while her eyes flamed up into his, and his eyes looked down into hers. Her long, thick hair had come loose, and now with a sudden, quick gesture, she drew it across her face, veiling it from him; wherefore, he stooped his head above those lustrous tresses.
"Anthea!" he murmured, and the masterful voice was strangely hesitating, and the masterful arms about her were wonderfully gentle, "Anthea—do you—love me?" Lower he bent, and lower, until his lips touched her hair, until beneath that fragrant veil, his mouth sought, and found, hers, and, in that breathless moment, he felt them quiver responsive to his caress. And then, he had set her down, she was free, and he was looking at her with a new-found radiance in his eyes.
"Anthea!" he said, wonderingly, "why then—you do—?" But, as he spoke, she hid her face in her hands.
"Anthea!" he repeated.
"Oh!" she whispered, "I—hate you!—despise you! Oh! you shall be paid back,—every penny,—every farthing, and—very soon! Next week—I marry Mr. Cassilis!"
And so, she turned, and fled away, and left him standing there amid the roses.
Which tells how Bellew left Dapplemere in the dawn
Far in the East a grey streak marked the advent of another day, and upon all things was a solemn hush, a great, and awful stillness that was like the stillness of Death. The Earth was a place of gloom, and mist, where spectral shadows writhed, and twisted, and flitted under a frowning heaven, and out of the gloom there came a breath, sharp, and damp, and exceeding chill.
Therefore, as Bellew gazed down from the frowning Heaven to the gloom of Earth, below, with its ever-moving, misty shapes, he shivered involuntarily.
In another hour it would be day, and with the day, the gates of Arcadia would open for his departure, and he must go forth to become once more a wanderer, going up and down, and to and fro in the world until his course was run.
And yet it was worth having lived for, this one golden month, and in all his wanderings needs must he carry with him the memory of her who had taught him how deep and high, how wide and infinitely far-reaching that thing called "Love" may really be.
And—Porges!—dear, quaint, Small Porges! where under heaven could he ever find again such utter faith, such pure unaffected loyalty and devotion as throbbed within that small, warm heart? How could he ever bid "Good-bye" to loving, eager, little Small Porges?
And then there was Miss Priscilla, and the strong, gentle Sergeant, and Peterday, and sturdy Adam, and Prudence, and the rosy-cheeked maids. How well they all suited this wonderful Arcadia! Yes, indeed he, and he only, had been out of place, and so—he must go—back to the every-day, matter-of-fact world, but how could he ever say "Good-bye" to faithful, loving Small Porges?
Far in the East the grey streak had brightened, and broadened, and was already tinged with a faint pink that deepened, and deepened, as he watched. Bellew had seen the glory of many a sun-rise in divers wild places of the Earth, and, hitherto, had always felt deep within him, the responsive thrill, the exhilaration of hope new born, and joyful expectation of the great, unknown Future. But now, he watched the varying hues of pink, and scarlet, and saffron, and gold, with gloomy brow, and sombre eyes.
Now presently, the Black-bird who lived in the apple-tree beneath his window, (the tree of the inquisitive turn of mind), this Black-bird fellow, opening a drowsy eye, must needs give vent to a croak, very hoarse and feeble; then, (apparently having yawned prodigiously and stretched himself, wing, and leg), he tried a couple of notes,—in a hesitating, tentative sort of fashion, shook himself,—repeated the two notes,—tried three, found them mellower, and more what the waiting world very justly expected of him; grew more confident; tried four; tried five,—grew perfectly assured, and so burst forth into the full, golden melody of his morning song.
Then Bellew, leaning out from his casement, as the first bright beams of the rising sun gilded the top-most leaves of the tree, thus apostrophised the unseen singer:
"I suppose you will be piping away down in your tree there, old fellow, long after Arcadia has faded out of my life. Well, it will be only natural, and perfectly right, of course,—She will be here, and may, perhaps, stop to listen to you. Now if, somehow, you could manage to compose for me a Song of Memory, some evening when I'm gone,—some evening when She happens to be sitting idle, and watching the moon rise over the upland yonder; if, at such a time, you could just manage to remind her of—me, why—I'd thank you. And so,—Good-bye, old fellow!"
Saying which, Bellew turned from the window, and took up a certain bulging, be-strapped portmanteau, while the Black-bird, (having, evidently, hearkened to his request with much grave attention), fell a singing more gloriously than ever.
Meanwhile, Bellew descended the great, wide stair, soft of foot, and cautious of step, yet pausing once to look towards a certain closed door, and so, presently let himself quietly out into the dawn. The dew sparkled in the grass, it hung in glittering jewels from every leaf, and twig, while, now and then, a shining drop would fall upon him as he passed, like a great tear.
Now, as he reached the orchard, up rose the sun in all his majesty filling the world with the splendour of his coming,—before whose kindly beams the skulking mists and shadows shrank affrighted, and fled utterly away.
This morning, "King Arthur" wore his grandest robes of state, for his mantle of green was thick sewn with a myriad flaming gems; very different he looked from that dark, shrouded giant who had so lately been Conspirator No. Two. Yet, perhaps for this very reason, Bellew paused to lay a hand upon his mighty, rugged hole, and, doing so, turned and looked back at the House of Dapplemere.
And truly never had the old house seemed so beautiful, so quaint, and peaceful as now. It's every stone and beam had become familiar and, as he looked, seemed to find an individuality of its own, the very lattices seemed to look back at him, like so many wistful eyes.
Therefore George Bellew, American Citizen, millionaire, traveller, explorer, and—LOVER, sighed as he turned away,—sighed as he strode on through the green and golden morning, and resolutely—looked back no more.