Pomander Walk
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Title: Pomander Walk
Creator: Louis Napoleon Parker
Illustrator: J. Scott Williams
Release date: January 9, 2015 [eBook #47925]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47925
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POMANDER WALK ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: Marjolaine]
[Illustration: Title page]
*Pomander
Walk*
by
LOUIS N. PARKER
AUTHOR OF
ROSEMARY
ILLUSTRATIONS by
J. SCOTT WILLIAMS
LONDON
JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
MCMXII
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
GEORGE C. TYLER
FOR VALOUR
[Illustration: Contents headpiece]
*Contents*
CHAPTER
I. Concerning the Walk in General
II. How Sir Peter Antrobus and Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, Esquire, Smoked a
Pipe Together
III. Concerning Number Four and Who Lived in It
IV. Concerning a Mysterious Lady and an Elderly Beau
V. Concerning What You Have All Been Waiting For
VI. In which Pomander Walk is not Quite Itself
VII. Showing How History Repeats Itself
VIII. Concerning a Great Conspiracy
IX. In which Old Lovers Meet, and the Conspiracy Comes to a Head
X. In Which the Mysterious Lady Reappears and Helps Jack to Vanish
XI. Pomander Walk Takes a Dish of Tea
XII. In which the Old Conspiracy is Triumphant and a New Conspiracy is
Hatched
XIII. In which Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus is More Determined Than Ever
to Fire the Little Brass Gun
XIV. In which Miss Barbara Pennymint Hears the Nightingale and the
Lamps are Lighted
XV. Showing How the Roundabout Road Leads Back to the Starting Point
[Illustration: Illustrations headpiece]
*Illustrations*
Marjolaine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
Jim--a very active old sailor in spite of his stiff leg
She spent at least one hour with him every day, listening, as she told
the sympathising Walk, to her dead lover's voice
"That's right, Brooke! Do your duty, and ---- the consequences!"
The Reverend Jacob Sternroyd, D.D.
Caroline Thring
Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn at his ease
"Let us sit quite still and think hard whether we'd like to meet again"
"She placed her arm very tenderly over her shoulders and gently called
her by name"
"It's enough to give a body the fantoddles--as my poor dear mother used
to say"
He started off like an alarm clock
He seized him by the sleeve, and dragged him, bewildered and protesting,
to the Gazebo
As the sun came out, out came Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, as resplendent
as the sun
The Eyesore seized the animal by the scruff of his neck and hurled him
into the river
Then he resumed. "Brooke," says he, "Brooke, my Boy"--just like that
"Peter!" he cried, scandalised
*CHAPTER I*
*CONCERNING THE WALK IN GENERAL*
[Illustration: Chapter I headpiece]
It lies out Chiswick way, not far from Horace Walpole's house where
later Miss Pinkerton conducted her Academy for Young Ladies. It is
still there, although it was actually built in 1710; but London has
gradually stretched its tentacles towards it, and they will soon absorb
it. Where Marjolaine and Jack made love, there will be a row of blatant
shops, and Sir Peter's house will be replaced by a flaring gin-palace.
It has fallen from its high estate nowadays; and Mrs. Poskett's prophecy
has come true: one of its dainty houses--I think it is the one in which
the Misses Pennymint lived--is now indeed occupied by a person who earns
a precarious living with a mangle.
Even in the days I am writing about, it was old--ninety-five years
old--and had seen many ups and downs; for I am writing of events that
took place in 1805: the year of Trafalgar; the year of Nelson's death.
At that time it was a charming, quaint little crescent of six very small
red-brick houses, close to the Thames, facing due south, and with a
beautiful view across the river.
Why it was called Pomander Walk is more than I can tell you. There is a
tradition that the builder had inherited a beautiful gold pomander of
Venetian filigree and that the word struck him as being pretty and
having an old-world flavour about it. It certainly conferred a sort of
quiet dignity on the crescent; almost too much dignity, indeed, at
first, for it seemed to make the letting of the houses difficult.
Common people fought shy of it, because of the name, yet the houses were
so small that wealthy folk--the Quality--wouldn't look at them.
Ultimately, however, they were occupied by gentlefolk in reduced
circumstances; people who had an eye for the picturesque, people who
sought retirement; and the owner was happy.
In 1805 it had grown mellow with age. The red bricks of which it was
built had lost the crudeness of their original colour and had acquired a
delicious tone restful to the eye. Pomander Walk was, in fact, one of
the prettiest nooks near London. It stood--and stands--on a little plot
of ground projecting into the river. At the upper end it was cut off
from the rest of the parish of Chiswick by Pomander Creek, which ran a
long way inland and formed a sort of refuge for lazy barges, one of
which was generally lying there with its great brown sail hanging loose
to dry. Chiswick Parish Church was only a little way across the creek,
but in order to get to it you had to walk very nearly a mile to the
first bridge, and I am afraid Sir Peter Antrobus too often made that an
excuse for not attending more than two services on a Sunday.
The little houses were built in the sober and staid style introduced
during the reign of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Anne (now deceased). The
architect had taken a slily humorous delight in making them miniature
copies of much more pretentious town mansions. Each little house had
its elaborate door with a shell-shaped lintel; each had its miniature
front-garden, divided from the road-way by elaborate iron railings; and
each had an ornate iron gate with link-extinguisher complete. You might
have thought the houses were meant to be inhabited by very small Dukes,
so stately were they in their tiny way. The ground-floor sitting-rooms
all had bow-windows, and in each bow-window the occupants displayed
their dearest treasures, generally under a glass globe. A glance at
these would almost have been enough to tell you what manner of people
their owners were. In the first, at the top corner of the crescent,
stood the model of a man-of-war. The second displayed a silver cup with
the arms of the City of London carefully turned outward for the
passer-by to admire respectfully; the third showed a stuffed canary; the
fourth was empty--I will tell you why later; the fifth presented a
pinchbeck snuff-box, and in the sixth there was an untidy pile of old
books.
In front of the crescent lay a delightful lawn, always admirably kept.
Jim, Sir Peter Antrobus's man, mowed it regularly every Saturday
afternoon. This lawn was protected on the river-side by a chain hanging
from white posts. You never saw posts so white as those were, for every
Saturday evening Jim--a very active old sailor in spite of his stiff
leg--gave them a fresh coat of paint; he even went so far as to paint
the chain as well.
[Illustration: JIM,--A VERY ACTIVE OLD SAILOR IN SPITE OF HIS STIFF LEG]
In the lower corner of the lawn, and facing the bend of the river, stood
what the inhabitants of the Walk called the Gazebo, a little shelter
formed by a well-trimmed boxwood hedge, in which was a rustic seat. Sir
Peter Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn would sit there on warm summer
evenings and discuss the news of the day--or, let me rather say--the
news of the day before yesterday; for the only journal they saw was a
three days old "Globe" which Sir Peter's cousin sent him when he had
done with it, and when he thought of it.
The great charm of the Gazebo was that it was sufficiently removed from
the houses to ensure strict privacy: the ladies of the Walk, who shared
fully in their sex's attribute of curiosity, could neither see nor hear
what went on in its seclusion, and Sir Peter, who thought he was a
woman-hater, was all the more fond of it on that account. In his own
house he really could not talk at his ease, for his voice had, by long
struggles against gales, acquired a tremendous carrying power; the
party-wall was very thin, and his next-door neighbour, Mrs. Poskett,
was--or, at least, so he imagined--always listening.
But the pride of the Walk was a great elm-tree standing in the centre of
the lawn, and shading it delightfully. A very ancient tree, much older
than the Walk: indeed, the crescent had, in a manner of speaking, been
built round it. At its base Jim--there was really no limit to the
things Jim could do--had built a comfortable seat which encircled its
trunk, and this seat was the special prerogative of the ladies of the
Walk when it was not occupied by Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's numerous progeny.
I think I have told you all that is necessary about the external
features of the Walk. You must see it with sympathetic eyes, if you are
not to laugh at it: a little crescent of six very small old red-brick
houses; in front of them, six tiny gardens full at all seasons of the
year of bright old-fashioned flowers; then the highly ornamental
railings and stately gates; then a red-brick pavement, or side-walk;
then a broad path; and then the lawn, the elm-tree, and the Gazebo.
Beyond this, the Thames, bearing great brown barges up to Richmond or
down to Chelsea, according to the state of the tide; and the Parish
Church of Chiswick, half buried in the foliage of stately trees, as a
fitting background.
You could not find a quieter, more peaceful, or more forgotten spot near
London in a month's search; for the only way into the Walk was along a
very narrow path by the side of Pomander Creek: a path the children of
Chiswick had been sternly forbidden to use, and which even their elders
only attempted when they were more than usually sober, for fear of
falling into the creek. So, although the Walk was nominally open to the
public, it was not a thoroughfare, as you had to go out the same way as
you went in. Strangers very seldom found their way to its precincts, and
to all intents and purposes the lawn and the Gazebo had grown to be the
private property of the inhabitants. As their rooms were extremely
small, they made the lawn a sort of common drawing-room, where they
entertained each other in a modest way with a dish of tea. After Mr.
Basil Pringle and Madame Lachesnais and her daughter had come to live in
the Walk there would even be music on the lawn. Madame would bring out
her harp, Mr. Pringle his violin, and Marjolaine would sing quaint old
French ditties.
I pity the unhappy stranger who stumbled into the Walk on such an
occasion. The music would stop dead. Teacups would hang suspended
half-way to expectant lips, and all eyes would be turned on the intruder
with a stare which, if he had any marrow, would infallibly freeze it.
Then to see Sir Peter throw his chest out, march up to the stranger and
ask him what he wanted in a voice which masked a volcanic rage under
courteous tones, was to behold a thing never to be forgotten. All the
stranger could do was to stammer an apology and beat a retreat; but for
days the memory of the unknown danger he had escaped would haunt him.
Sir Peter Antrobus--Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus--was not a person to be
trifled with, I assure you. In the first place, he lived in the corner
house as you entered the Walk. This gave him a sort of prescriptive
right to sovereignty. You must also consider that he was an Admiral and
that his gallantry had earned him a knighthood. He was, indeed, the
only specimen of actual nobility the Walk had to show, though Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn could, by much pressure, be induced to admit, that if
everyone had his rights and if lawyers were not such scoundrels, he
himself--but he always broke off there and left you wondering what
degree of the peerage he had claims to. But Sir Peter was undoubtedly a
knight, and his title gave him the _pas_ in all the Walk's social
functions. Not only that, but the Walk looked up to him as its natural
leader and adviser. None of the inhabitants would ever dream of making
any little improvements to their houses without having first consulted
the Admiral. It was he who determined when the lawn needed mowing, the
Gazebo trimming, and it was he who fixed the date for painting the
wood-work and railings of the houses. Also, he chose the colour: a
good, useful green; and anyone who had dared depart from the precise
shade chosen by him, would have heard of it. He was to all intents and
purposes an autocrat, and the Walk trembled at his nod. His rule was
very gentle, however. He kept his one remaining eye steadily fixed on
the Walk; but although it wore a threatening frown and could flash in
fury, the expression lurking in its depth was one of affection. He
loved the Walk with all his heart; he was proud of it with all his soul.
His one ambition was to keep it as spick and span as his own quarterdeck
had been. I think, indeed, he confused it in his mind to some extent
with that quarterdeck, for in his little garden he had erected the model
of a mast, on which he hoisted the Union Jack with his own hands
regularly at sunrise, and as regularly struck it at sunset. And once,
when the Regent had gone by in the Royal barge on his way to Richmond,
he had come out in gala uniform, and dipped it in a Royal salute in the
finest style. The Admiral was salt from head to foot and right through.
He used to call himself a piece of salt junk: for he had been at sea
ever since he was a lad of ten. His bravery and high spirits had
cleared the road for him at a time when the sea was a path of glory for
British mariners, and his culminating recollection was the battle of
Copenhagen, in which he had taken part with Nelson. His only cause for
complaint was that he had been put on half-pay too early. Was not a man
of sixty, hale, hearty, and in the full possession of all his faculties,
worth two whipper-snappers of thirty? And did the loss of an eye
disqualify him? Could he not spy the enemy as quickly with one eye as
with two? As a matter of fact, you could only use one eye with a
spy-glass, and so, what was the good of the other? Answer him that!
Very well, then.
But these outbursts only came in moments of great depression; generally
after his monthly excursion into town to draw his pay. On these
occasions it was his habit to visit the coffee-houses where sea-captains
of his own standing congregated; in the afternoon he would dine with a
few cronies at the Hummums; later, he might take a taste of the newest
play at Covent Garden--he maintained that the Drama, like the Navy, was
going to the dogs--and after the play there usually followed a jorum of
punch and a church-warden pipe in some hostelry where glees were sung.
Then, in the small hours, he would be lifted into an old, ramshackle
shay, by the faithful Jim; Jim would be lifted beside him, and together
they would steer a devious course towards Chiswick, where the village
constable was on the look-out for them, and would pilot them along the
perilous Creek, unlock the door for them, and deposit them safely in the
passage. What happened after that, which saw the other to bed, or
whether either of them ever got beyond the foot of the stairs, it were
the height of indiscretion to enquire. An English gentleman's house is
his castle, and if an English gentleman is too tired to go upstairs that
is nobody's business but his own.
The Walk was always aware of these excursions, and on the mornings
following upon them it had become the rule to make as little noise as
possible, so as not to disturb the Admiral's repose. When he ultimately
woke on such mornings it was small wonder he took a jaundiced view of
life, prophesied the immediate stranding of His Majesty's entire Fleet
owing to puerile navigation, and was, generally, in his least amiable
and least hopeful mood. Small wonder, also, that he railed against a
purblind and imbecile government for putting a seasoned officer on the
shelf. A headache modifies one's outlook, and, as Mrs. Poskett was fond
of saying, one should be especially considerate with a man, more
especially a sailor-man, the day after he had drawn his pay--most
especially a sailor-man who, at the mature age of sixty, was still a
bachelor.
If Sir Peter was a bachelor, that was not Mrs. Poskett's fault. She
herself had only narrowly missed belonging to the minor nobility.
Alderman Poskett, her deceased husband, had died just as he was ripe for
the Shrievalty, and, sure enough, the year he would have been Sheriff
the King had dined with the Lord Mayor, and Poskett would infallibly
have received a knighthood, had he been alive. Mrs. Poskett felt, in a
confused way, that she had been badly used, and that the Walk would only
be stretching ordinary courtesy very slightly by addressing her as Lady
Poskett. Unfortunately this never occurred to the Walk, and as Mrs.
Poskett was determined to achieve the title somehow, she had cast her
eyes on Sir Peter. The latter, however, had not been a handsome
midshipman, and a still handsomer Captain, without acquiring
considerable experience in the wiles of the sex, and, so far, Mrs.
Poskett's blandishments had met with only negative success. Mrs.
Poskett lived next door to the Admiral, and to her great distress there
was a sort of subdued feud between them; a feud she could do nothing to
abate. Could she be expected to get rid of Sempronius, for the sake of
Sir Peter? In the first place, it is not so easy to get rid of a
long-haired, yellow Persian cat. Once, in a fit of desperation at the
failure of her siege on the Admiral's affections, she had put Sempronius
in a market-basket, and she and Abigail--her little maid, fresh from a
Charity School--had carried him quite half a mile and let him loose,
after a tragic farewell, in the middle of a cabbage-field. But when
they got home disconsolate, there was Sempronius washing his face in
front of the fire as if nothing had happened. After that there was
never again any question of getting rid of him. If the Admiral really
feared for the safety of his thrush, why did n't he get rid of the
thrush? Only once had Sempronius been found sitting on the roof of the
osier cage, and extending a soft paw downwards through its bars; the
thrush was singing blithely all the time, and you could see by the
expression on Sempronius's face that his only feeling was one of
admiration for the song. But the Admiral had taken on amazingly, had
stormed and sworn, and promised to throw Sempronius into the river if he
ever caught him at such games again.
Since that day Mrs. Poskett had felt that she had a very uphill task
before her; but she had set herself to work to become Lady Antrobus with
increased determination. She was heartily encouraged in this by Miss
Ruth Pennymint, who lived in the third house from the top corner--lived
there with her much younger sister, Miss Barbara.
Miss Ruth, elderly and kind hearted, was an inveterate matchmaker. As
she explained to her bosom friend, Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn, "My dear," she
said, "I've lived three years with a tragic instance of what comes of
blighted affections; and I'll take precious good care nobody else's
affections get blighted if I can help it." To which Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn
replied, "And well I understand your meaning, Ruth; for if Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn had n't asked me to marry him, what I should ha' done I
don't know." Whereupon the two ladies, for no obvious reason, wept
together and were greatly comforted.
It seems that Miss Barbara had years ago been more or less affianced to
a Lieutenant in the Navy. Not a young lieutenant, an elderly lieutenant
with several characteristics which were doubtful recommendations. But
time had softened the image of the gallant tar in Miss Barbara's
recollection, and the more it receded, the more romantic it had become,
until now she was, not so much in love with her recollections of him, as
with what she could remember of the ideal she had set up in her own
mind.
In the flesh, Lieutenant Charles--no one had ever heard his surname--had
been a very short, puffy man, with a completely bald head. His language
was interlarded with expletives, suitable, perhaps, to intercourse with
rough sailors in a gale, but devastating on shore in the company of
ladies. Personally, I am not at all certain he had ever actually
proposed to Miss Barbara. I don't believe he knew how.
The two ladies were living near the Docks at the time, with their
father, who was something in linseed; and I have no doubt Lieutenant
Charles found the old man's Port-wine agreeable and liked to bask in
Miss Barbara's pretty smiles. For Miss Barbara was very pretty indeed; a
bonny, plump little thing, by nature all mirth and laughter. She did
not so much walk as hop like a little bird. She was altogether like a
bird. Her father had always called her his dicky-bird. She kissed just
as a bird pecks, and when she spoke or laughed, it was exactly like the
twitter of birds settling down to sleep at sunset.
Whether she had ever really been in love with the lieutenant is another
question I must leave unanswered. It is only barely conceivable. To be
sure, girls do fall in love with the most improbable men: even short and
puffy ones; and perhaps the lieutenant's strange oaths bewitched her in
some inexplicable way. The only evidence of practical romance I can
bring forward, is that the lieutenant did undoubtedly present Miss
Barbara on one of his home-comings from distant parts with a grey parrot
with a red tail. To be sure, he may have found the bird an intolerable
nuisance; but this is an ill-natured suggestion. Whether this gift was
intended as a hint, whether the parrot was meant as a dove and harbinger
of a coming proposal, or whether it was an economical return for much
liquid refreshment, the world will never know, for the same night the
lieutenant's inglorious career came to an equally inglorious end.
This combination of what might, with a little violence, be construed as
a lover's gift with the tragic loss of the lover, was the turning-point
in Miss Barbara's life. Henceforth she convinced herself that she had
been engaged to marry Charles, and she vowed herself to perpetual
spinsterhood and the care of the parrot.
The care of the parrot was no such easy matter. The bird had made a
long journey in the lieutenant's cabin, and had acquired all the
lieutenant's most picturesque expressions. He was not, therefore, a
bird you could admit into general society with any feeling of comfort,
for although he was generally sulky in the presence of strangers, he
would occasionally, and when you least expected them, rap out a string
of uncomplimentary references to their personal appearance, and consign
them, body and soul, to unmentionable localities, with a clearness of
utterance which left no doubt as to his meaning.
When Papa Pennymint died, it was found that linseed had not been a
commodity for which the demand had been sufficient to build up anything
approaching a fortune. As a matter of fact, the old man had died just
in time to avoid bankruptcy, and the two ladies had been obliged to sell
their pretty home and to take refuge in Pomander Walk, out of reach of
the genteel friends who had known them in the days of their prosperity.
Of course the bird had come with them; but he had not left his language
behind, and Barbara was forced to keep him shut up in the little back
parlour, out of earshot. There she spent at least one hour with him
every day, listening, as she told the sympathising Walk, to her dead
lover's voice; and it was this constant companionship with the
loquacious bird which had fostered and developed in her mind the legend
of her unhappy love.
[Illustration: SHE SPENT AT LEAST ONE HOUR WITH HIM EVERY DAY,
LISTENING, AS SHE TOLD THE SYMPATHISING WALK, TO HER DEAD LOVER'S VOICE]
As a detail, I may as well add here that Barbara had christened the
parrot Doctor Johnson, in honour of the mighty lexicographer, about whom
she knew nothing except that an engraved portrait of him used to hang in
what her father called his study, and that when she asked him who the
original was and what he had done, he said, "Oh, I don't know. Seems he
talked a lot." The parrot talked a lot, and so he was called Doctor
Johnson. I should very much have liked to hear the observations the
Giant of Fleet Street would have made, had he lived long enough to be
aware of the compliment.
How the Misses Pennymint made both ends meet was a never-ending subject
of discussion between Mrs. Poskett and Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn. They
regretfully came to the conclusion that the two ladies positively worked
for their living. This was a serious aspersion on the Walk--but there
was a worse one.
A little while ago a young man--well, a youngish man--with one shoulder
a little higher than the other, had come to live with the Pennymints. At
first they let it be understood that he was a distant cousin come on a
visit; but when weeks passed and then months, he could no longer be
described as a visitor, and the Walk had to face the fact that not only
did the Misses Pennymint work for their living, but that they also kept
a lodger. At first the Walk was consoled with the idea that at any rate
he looked like a gentleman, and might possibly be one. But lately it had
been discovered that he was a mere common fiddler, and played every
evening in the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens. Yet, in spite of his
ungentlemanly profession, the man did, undoubtedly, behave like a
gentleman. Moreover, it was very difficult to tax the Misses Pennymint
with their ungenteel goings-on; because there was not an inhabitant of
the Walk who had not experienced some kindness at their hands.
I hope I have conveyed the impression of a quiet and contented little
community. I am sorry to have to add that there was one fly in the
amber of their content. In the early spring of 1805 a mysterious figure
had suddenly appeared in the Walk. A fisherman. A gaunt creature in an
indescribable slouch hat: the sort of hat you do not pick up when you
see it lying in the road; his bony form was encased in a long,
nondescript linen garment, something like a carter's smock-frock. This
had once been white, but was now of every shade of brown. It had
enormous pockets, bulging with unthinkable contents. One morning the
Walk had awakened to find him sitting at the corner where Pomander Creek
empties into the Thames; sitting on an old box, with a dreadful tin
vessel full of worms at his side; sitting fishing. The Walk rubbed its
eyes and wondered what the Admiral would say. When the Admiral came out
of his house he stopped aghast. Then he gathered himself together for a
mighty effort. But it came to nothing: you cannot argue with a man who
refuses to argue back. The fisherman met Sir Peter's first onslaught
with a curt "Public thoroughfare," and then definitely closed his lips.
Sir Peter raked him fore and aft, but never got another syllable out of
him. Ultimately he retired baffled and beaten. Henceforward the
fisherman came to his pitch every day, except Sunday. The Walk grew
accustomed, if not reconciled, to his presence by slow degrees. They
spoke of him among themselves as the Eyesore.
*CHAPTER II*
*HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN,
ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER*
[Illustration: Chapter II headpiece]
On Saturday afternoon, May 25, 1805, Pomander Walk was looking its very
best. The sun transfigured the old houses; the elm rustled in the
river-breeze; the Admiral's thrush was singing wistfully; Mrs. Poskett's
cat, Sempronius, was seated in her little front garden, wistfully
listening to the bird's song; the Eyesore was patiently wasting worms on
discriminating fish who knew a hook when they saw it; and Sir Peter
Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, both in their shirt-sleeves, were
finishing a game of quoits.
"A ringer!" shouted Sir Peter, whose quoit had fallen fairly over the
peg. Then he hurried up to the quoits, and, measuring their respective
distances from it with a huge bandana handkerchief, added, "One maiden
to you, Brooke! Game all! Peeled, by Jehoshaphat!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn flicked the dust off his waistcoat with magnificent
indifference. The Admiral produced a boatswain's whistle, and in answer
to a blast, his man, Jim, appeared at an upstair window. "Ay, ay,
Admiral!"
"The usual. Here, under the elm. And look lively."
"Ay, ay, sir!"
Jim disappeared like a Jack-in-the-box. "We must play it off," said Sir
Peter.
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn protested. "Another time, Sir Peter. It is very
warm, and my eye is out."
"So 's mine," cried the Admiral, with a guffaw; "but I see straight,
what?"
It was a matter of principle with Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn never to take the
slightest notice of the Admiral's jokes. Sir Peter might be the
autocrat of the Walk, although Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had his own views even
on that point; but he himself was the acknowledged wit and man of
fashion, and from that position nothing should shake him. He had spied
Miss Ruth Pennymint working in her open bow-window, and Mrs. Poskett
busy with her flowers. Assuming his grandest manner, he said warningly:
"Should we not resume our habiliments? The fair are observing us."
"Gobblessmysoul!" cried Sir Peter, shocked at being discovered in
undress. They hastily helped each other into their coats, which were
lying on the bench under the elm. Meanwhile, Jim had brought out a tray
with two pewters, two long clay pipes, a jar of tobacco and a lighted
candle, and had placed it on the bench. From the open upstair window of
the Pennymint's house came the strains of a violin: one passage, played
over and over again, with varying degrees of success.
"Wish Mr. Pringle would stop his infernal scraping," growled the
Admiral.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn shrugged his shoulders with condescending pity. "Poor
fellow! What a way of earning his living!"
Sir Peter turned to the quarter from which the music came, and, making a
speaking-trumpet of his hands, roared, "Mr. Pringle! Mr. Pringle,
ahoy!"
A hideous wrong note, as if the player had been scared out of his wits,
was the answer, and Basil Pringle appeared at the window. "I beg your
pardon, Admiral; I was engrossed."
"Join us under the elm, what?"
"With pleasure. I 'll just put away my Strad."
As Basil retired Sir Peter turned to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "His what?"
"His Stradivarius," answered the latter, and as that obviously conveyed
no meaning, "his violin."
"Oh! His fiddle! Why could n't he say so?--Jim!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Another pewter."
"Ay, ay, sir." Jim hobbled off into the Admiral's house and Sir Peter
and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn stood, facing each other, each grasping his pewter
of foaming ale.
"Well!" cried Sir Peter, "The King!"
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was not to be put off with so curt a toast.
Planting his feet firmly together, and throwing his chest out, he boomed
in a formal and stately manner, "His Most Gracious Majesty, King George
the Third, God bless him!"
The Admiral eyed him curiously for a moment, and seemed about to speak,
but thought better of it; and for an appreciable time the faces of both
gentlemen were hidden. When they came to light again it was with a
great sigh of satisfaction, and they both settled down on the bench for
quiet enjoyment.
"Now!" cried Sir Peter, "a pipe of tobacco with you, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?"
"Delighted!"
"St. Vincent. Prime stuff: and--in your ear--smuggled!"
"No!--reely?"
The two men leant over the candle and lighted their pipes with artistic
care.
"Was you at a banquet again last night, Brooke?" asked the Admiral,
during this process.
"Yes--yes," replied the other, with splendid indifference. "The
Guildhall. All the hote tonn."
"Lucky dog," said Sir Peter, smacking his lips: "turtle, eh?"
With the air of a man jaded by too much enjoyment Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
condescended to enlarge. "As usual. Believe me, personally I should
much prefer seclusion and meditation in the company of poets and
philosophers, or dallying with Selina; but my friends are good enough to
insist. Only last night," with a side glance to watch the effect he was
producing, "Fox--my good friend, the Right Honourable Charles James
Fox--said, 'Brooke, my boy'--just like that--'Brooke, my boy, what would
our banquets be without you?'"
Sir Peter was deeply impressed. He felt himself in touch with the great
world. "Gobblessmysoul!" he cried. "What's your average?"
"I am sorry to say, I usually have to wrench myself away from my
precious Selina four nights a week."
"Think o' that, now!--By the way, how is she?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned his lack-lustre eyes fondly towards his house.
"Selina? Cheerful, sir. Selina is faint but pursuing. We have now
been in the holy state of matrimony five years, and never a word of
complaint has fallen from the dear soul's lips."
"Re-markable! And all that time Pomander Walk has seen scarcely
anything of her."
"She has been much occupied--much occupied," put in Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
with a deprecatory flourish of his pipe. And, as if in corroboration of
his statement, the door of his house opened and a pretty maidservant
came out, carrying a year-old baby in her arms. "Chck! chck!" said Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn.
"Four olive-branches in five years!" cried Sir Peter, instinctively
sidling away from the baby.
"Of the female sex," explained Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn: "all of the female
sex. This is Number Four. Chck! chck!"
Mrs. Poskett, attracted by the baby, had hastily come out of her door
carrying her cat, Sempronius, in her arms, and was beckoning to the
maid.
"And another coming!" roared the Admiral. "That's right, Brooke! Do
your duty, and damn the consequences!--But let's have a boy next time,"
he went on, heedless of Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's frantic signals, "let 's
have a boy, and make a sailor of him!--Gobblessmysoul!" For Mrs.
Poskett, having dropped the cat in the garden, had come up to the tree,
and was simpering with pretty modesty.
[Illustration: "THAT'S RIGHT, BROOKE! DO YOUR DUTY, AND ---- THE
CONSEQUENCES!"]
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said she. "Oh--don't put your pipes away,
please. I have been well trained. Alderman Poskett smoked even
indoors. May I sit down?" She planted herself between the two men.
"Now, go on talking, just as though I was n't here."
There was an awkward pause. Fortunately at this moment Jim created a
diversion by bringing the third pewter. To his amazement Mrs. Poskett
promptly seized it. "For me? How thoughtful of you!" she cried; and
while Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn looked on too much astonished to
speak, she drained it as to the manner born.
"Jim, another," grunted the Admiral.
But Mrs. Poskett protested. "Oh, no, I could n't! Reely and posivitely
I could n't!"
"We was expecting Mr. Pringle, ma'am," said the Admiral, stiffly.
But the hint was entirely lost. "Ah, poor Mr. Pringle! Poor fellow!
An unhappy life, I fear; and him with one shoulder higher than the
other. Not that you notice it much when you look at him sideways.
There. I was rather alarmed when he arrived a month ago. Can't be too
careful, and me a lone woman. A musician, you know. One never knows
what their morals may be."
"Hoho!" shouted Sir Peter, "he's quiet enough--except when he 's making
a noise!"
Mrs. Poskett looked puzzled. She never could see a joke.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn received it with his customary stony stare and at once
broke in. "He is some sort of cousin to the Misses Pennymint, I am
told?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Poskett, with a sniff, "we are told. But who knows?--I
fear--" she sank her voice to a mysterious whisper--"I fear he
is--hush!--a lodger!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was genuinely shocked. "You don't say so!"
The Admiral began to grow uncomfortable. He hated tittle-tattle.
"Where's that cat of yours, ma'am?" he cried, with sudden suspicion.
"Sempronius? The dear thing is so happy. He 's in the front garden,
listening to your dear thrush."
"By Jehoshaphat!" cried the Admiral, half rising.
"Oh, don't be alarmed! Sempronius adores him. He would n't touch a
hair of his head."
"I warn you, ma'am," growled Sir Peter, reluctantly sinking back into
his seat, "if he does, I 'll wing him." From which you might gather the
speakers thought that thrushes had hair and cats wings.
Now Basil Pringle, who had carefully laid his famous Strad in its case
and covered it with a magnificent silk handkerchief, joined the little
group under the elm. He was--apart from a very slight malformation of
one shoulder--a good-looking fellow. He had the musician's pensive
face, and a pair of very tender brown eyes, and his hands were the true
violinist's hands, with long and lissome fingers. Jim hobbled up at the
same time with a fresh pewter of ale.
"Ah, Mr. Pringle," said the Admiral, hospitably, "here 's your pewter."
But Basil waved it away. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Poskett--Gentlemen.
Thank you, Admiral, but I 'm sure you 'll excuse me. I have a long
night's work."
Jim was ready for the occasion. He hobbled back quicker than he had
come, and drained the pewter at one draught under the very nose of the
Eyesore.
"Fiddling at Vauxhall?" asked the Admiral.
"As usual, Sir Peter. It is a gala night. Fireworks."
Mrs. Poskett gave a little scream of delight.
"Fireworks! Oh, ravishing!"
"And Mrs. Poole is to sing; and Incledon."
Up jumped the Admiral, slapping his thigh. "Incledon! Then, by gum, I
must be there! He was a sailor, y' know. I remember him in '85, on the
_Raisonable_. Lord Hervey, and Pigot and Hughes--they 'd have him up to
sing glees together!--Lord! Did ye ever hear him sing:
'A health to the Captain and officers too,
And all who belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa'?"
Now, the Admiral's voice was an admirable substitute for a fog-horn, but
as a vehicle for a ballad, it left much to be desired. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
writhed in melodramatic agony, and even Mrs. Poskett winced. Basil
tried to turn the enthusiast's thoughts into a gentler channel by
interpolating that to-night Incledon was to sing "Tom Bowling." At once
the Admiral's face took on an expression of the tenderest pathos. "Tom
Bowling?--Ah!" and he was off again, in a roar he intended for a mere
sentimental whisper
"Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling--"
This was too much for Jim's feelings, never more receptive to melodious
sorrow than when he had just absorbed a pint of ale, and he joined his
master in a sympathetic howl.
Mrs. Poskett was overcome. "Oh, don't, Sir Peter," she cried.
"Alderman Poskett used to sing just like that. You could hear him a
mile off, but you could never tell what the tune was." The tender
recollection very nearly moved her to tears.
Sir Peter stopped his song abruptly, with a penitent, "Gobblessmysoul!
I beg your pardon!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn felt he had been out of the conversation long enough.
He turned condescendingly to Basil. "Are we not to see the Misses
Pennymint to-day?"
"They are very busy," replied the young violinist.
Mrs. Poskett saw her opportunity. "I saw Miss Ruth sewing at a
ball-dress," she said; and then added with a meaning look at Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn, "I wonder which of them is going to a ball?"
Basil knew from experience what was coming. Mrs. Poskett continued,
"I've seen them making wedding-dresses, and even," with pretty
confusion, "even christening robes."
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned to her with an outraged expression: "I trust
you do not insinuate Pomander Walk harbours mantua-makers?"
"It harbours a poor, hunchback fiddler," remarked Basil, very quietly.
Sir Peter was getting red in the face. "The Misses Pennymint are
estimable ladies, and we are fortunate to have them among us.
Frequently when I have my periodical headaches--"
"Hum," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
"The result, sir, of voyages in unhealthy regions!--they have sent me
their home-made lavender water. When you had your last fit of asthma,
Mrs. Poskett, did n't they come and sit with you and give you
treacle-posset? And when Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn presented you with your
fourth daughter, whose calves-foot jelly comforted her? We have nothing
to do with their means of livelihood; we are, I am happy to say, like
one family. What, Brooke?"
Thus appealed to, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could only assent: but he did so
with a bad grace, and with a contemptuous glance at Basil. It was
really too bad of Sir Peter to suggest that he, Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn,
the Man of Fashion, the friend of the Right Honourable Charles James
Fox, had anything in common with this shabby musician.
Mrs. Poskett bridled. "Do you include the French people at Number
Four?" she said.
"They are not French, ma'am," retorted the Admiral, "and if they were,
they couldn't help it."
Mrs. Poskett pointed with a giggle to the Eyesore, who was at that
moment lovingly fixing one more worm on his hook. "Do you include the
Eyesore?"
"No, I do not!" roared the Admiral, in a rage. "He doesn't live here.
If England were under a proper government, he would be hanged for
trespassing. I 've tried to remove him, as you know, but--ha!--it
appears he has as much right here as any of us."
"After all," said Basil, soothingly, "he never moves from one spot."
"He never speaks to anybody," added Mrs. Poskett.
"He'd better not, ma'am!"
And Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn summed up with a laugh, "And I will do him the
justice to say, he never catches a fish!"
Basil held up a warning hand, for the door of Number Four had just
opened.
*CHAPTER III*
*CONCERNING NUMBER FOUR AND WHO LIVED IN IT*
[Illustration: Chapter III headpiece]
If I had had to give an account of Number Four even six months before
this story opens I should have been forced to admit it was a blot on the
Walk. The people who occupied it had left without paying their rent,
which was in itself a thing likely to cast discredit on the whole Walk.
But they did worse than that. Just before leaving, they managed, on one
plausible pretext or another, to wheedle sums of varying amounts out of
almost all their neighbours. Out of every one of them, in fact, except
the Reverend Jacob Sternroyd, D.D., who lived all alone in the sixth and
last house, and about whom I shall have more to say by-and-by. For
weeks the Walk remained hopeful of seeing its money back. Then came
doubt, and lastly, a period of very bad temper during which everybody
told everybody else they had said so all along, and if people had only
listened to them--! The owner of the house, a very fat brewer at
Brentford, put in a dreadful old Irishwoman as caretaker, and she would
sit on the front door-steps--the actual door-steps, in the open, where
the whole Walk could not avoid seeing her--and smoke a filthy short
black pipe: a sight terrible to behold.
When remonstrated with, she retorted volubly in incomprehensible
Milesian. The Admiral himself had attacked her.
"Now, my good woman, we can't have you smoking here."
The old woman looked up at him with bleary eyes, and puffed in his face.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"What for should I not hear, darlint?"
"You are not to smoke here!"
"Who says so?"
"I say so. If you don't go indoors, I 'll come and take the pipe out of
your mouth."
"Will you so? You bring your ugly face inside that gate and see phwat
I'll do to ye!"
"Do you know who I am?"
"Sure an' I do. Yer father sowld stinkin' fish on Dublin quay when I
was ridin' in me carriage."
"You foul-mouthed old woman--!"
"Don't you 'ould woman' me, neither. You go to hell and watch ould Nick
stirrin' up yer grandmother!"
[Illustration: THE REVEREND JACOB STERNROYD, D.D.]
No gentleman could hope to carry on a conversation on these lines with
any success when all the windows of the Walk were open, and all the
inhabitants listening behind the curtains. The Admiral went straight to
the Brentford brewer, but the latter gave him no redress. He only asked
whether the Admiral had taken the old lady's advice.
She was not only in herself an intolerable nuisance, but she prevented
desirable tenants from taking the house. Whenever any candidate
appeared she had an excruciating toothache; or she was doubled up with
rheumatism; or she shook the whole house with a ghastly churchyard
cough. The sympathy of the enquirer forced the information from her
that she had been sprightly and well, a picture of a woman, till she
came to Pomander Walk. Mind you, she was n't saying anything against
the house. It was a good enough house; though, to be sure, the rats
were something awful. Still, some people liked rats. In desperate
cases she even went so far as to hint that the house was haunted. She
was a foolish old woman, of course, but why did locked doors open of
themselves? Doors she had locked with her own hands. They did say that
the last tenant had hanged himself in the garret. And by that time the
enquirer had given her half-a-crown, and had left her in the undisputed
possession of her cutty-pipe on the doorstep.
This fertility of imagination led to her undoing, however. For upon
hearing of it (from the Admiral, of course) the brewer sent his wife in
the guise of an enquiring tenant, and subsequently turned the old woman
out without any ceremony whatever.
But the Walk did not recover its self-respect for some time. The house
was still undeniably empty. The windows got dirty; dead leaves covered
the door-step; the paint peeled off the woodwork and the railings; some
wretched boys threw a dead dog into the garden, where it lay hidden for
days; and, besides, the old woman's suggestion that the house was
haunted, left its poison behind. Presently Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse
saw a face gibbering behind the window, and had hysterics; and next Miss
Barbara Pennymint distinctly saw a hand beckoning to her from the same
window and fled, shrieking, to her sister.
The Admiral pooh-poohed the whole thing and made elaborate arrangements
to spend a night in the house with Jim. Jim expressed his delight at
the prospect of such an adventure, and went about describing exactly
what he would do to the ghost if he saw it; but he had very bad luck
when the time came, with a sudden attack of sciatica which glued him to
his bed. The curious thing was that however often the Admiral postponed
the day for the undertaking, Jim's sciatica inevitably returned when the
day came. So time slipped away. The Admiral said he would explore the
mystery alone, but it slipped his memory.
So the house remained tenantless, and when the Walk was painted
according to the Admiral's instructions, Number Four had to be passed
over, and consequently looked more woe-begone than ever.
And the next thing the Walk knew was that it woke one morning to find
strange men bringing loads of furniture, amongst which was a harp, a
_forte-piano_, and a guitar-case, and that painters--not their own
painters, but an entirely unknown lot--were at work scraping off the old
paint.
The Admiral rushed out--I am shocked to say, in his slippers and
shirt-sleeves--and was told that the house was let; let, without any
sort of warning or notice; let, so to speak, over the heads of the Walk;
over his own head. And the men could not tell him the name of the new
tenant. All they knew was that it was a lady. A lady with a name they
could n't pronounce. A foreign name. Foreign? _Foreign_?--Yes; French,
by the sound of it.
This was beyond anything the Admiral or the Walk had ever had to cope
with. However, the Admiral mastered his indignation and contented
himself with giving the painters strict and minute instructions as to
the precise shade of green they were to use so as to make the house
uniform with the rest.
He had to go to London next day to draw his pay. We know the inevitable
consequences of that excursion. The following morning he woke at midday
in a very bad humour. The first thing he saw when he threw open his
window, was Sempronius digging up his sweet peas; and the next was
Number Four painted a creamy white.
I draw a veil.
It was no use appealing to the brewer. He said he had nothing to do
with it; and when it was pointed out to him that the chaste uniformity
of the Walk was ruined, he impertinently suggested that the entire Walk
might get itself painted all over again, and painted sky-blue.
So the Admiral took his time, determined to give this malapert and
intrusive foreign woman--she had now become a woman--a severe lesson.
A few days later the house was taken possession of by an elderly female
servant--a stout and florid Bretonne, who went about, as Mrs. Poskett
said, looking a figure of fun in her national costume.
Then began such a scrubbing and brushing and washing at Number Four as
the Walk had never seen. The bolder spirits--not the Admiral: he
reserved himself for the enemy-in-chief--Mrs. Poskett, and Mrs.
Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, made tentative approaches, but were repulsed with
great slaughter: the Bretonne could not speak a word of English. When,
however, she proceeded to tie a rope from the elm--the sacred Elm---to
the Gazebo, to hang rugs across it and beat them to the tune of
"_Malbroucq s'en va-t-en guerre_" sung with immense gusto, Sir Peter was
forced to attack her himself. He had picked up a smattering of French
in the wars, and the Walk lined its window with eager faces to witness
his victory.
Alas, the Bretonne now pretended not to understand the Admiral's French,
and replied to all his remonstrances, commands, and objurgations, with
"Bien, mon vieux!" while she banged more lustily on the rugs and covered
the now apoplectic Admiral with layers of dust.
The Admiral promised his subjects--Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, I am sorry to say,
indulged in a cynical smile--that the very first hour the Frenchwoman
came into residence--the very first hour, mind you--he would teach her
her place.
The next day the house was ready for her, and the Walk could but shudder
as it looked at it: it had become so un-English. The steps were as
white as snow; the garden was trim and neat; the quiet cream paint was
offensively cheerful; the brass knocker was a poem; the windows gleamed,
positively gleamed, in the sun, and behind them were coquettish lace
curtains. The crowning offence was that every window-sill was loaded
with growing flowers. Mr. Pringle said the house standing in the midst
of its prim neighbours reminded him of a laughing young girl surrounded
by her maiden aunts; and Miss Ruth Pennymint told him he ought to know
better than to say such things in the presence of ladies.
The Admiral himself as this story proceeds, shall tell you in his own
words of the startling effect produced by the arrival of the new
tenants. Suffice it to say that it was totally unexpected, and that the
Walk was forced to readjust its views in every particular. At the point
of time we have now reached, Madame Lachesnais and her daughter,
Marjolaine, were the most popular inhabitants of the Walk, and nobody
had anything but good to say of them.
Wherefore, when, as recorded in the previous chapter, Mr. Pringle held
up a warning hand and said "Madame!" all turned expectantly.
It was quite a little procession that now issued from Number Four.
First came Nanette, the servant, spick and span in her Bretonne dress,
with a cap of dazzling whiteness. On her arm was a great market-basket.
She was followed by Madame herself, a tall and graceful person no longer
in the first bloom of youth, but, in spite of the traces of sorrow on
her face, still beautiful. She was dressed in some quiet, grey
material, for she was still in half-mourning for her late husband; her
delicate throat and hands were set off by exquisite old lace. She moved
with a sort of floating grace, very charming to watch. There was
distinction and well-bred self-possession in every line. Behind her
followed her daughter, Marjolaine, a charming girl of nineteen. There
is no necessity for more particular description. A charming girl of
nineteen is the loveliest thing on earth, and more need not be said.
The Admiral and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn leaped to their feet as Madame
appeared. Both threw their chests out and assumed their finest company
manner, to such an extent, indeed, that Mrs. Poskett could not repress a
contemptuous sniff.
Madame came graciously towards the group. "Ah! Good afternoon," she
said, in a pleasant voice, with only the slightest trace of a French
accent. "I am going marketing in Chiswick with Nanette. Nanette cannot
speak a word of English, you know." Then she turned to her daughter.
"Marjolaine, you may take your book under the tree, if our friends will
have you." Marjolaine was talking to Mr. Basil Pringle. "It is nearly
time for my singing-lesson, Maman."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Basil, I fear you find her very backward."
Basil could only murmur, "O no, Madame, I assure you--"
It was noticeable that everyone who spoke to Madame did so with a sense
of subdued reverence.
Madame turned to Marjolaine. "Ask Miss Barbara to chaperone you, as I
have to go out."
"Bien, Maman."
"You are to speak English, dear."
"Bien, Maman--O! I mean yes, mother!"
Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn both sidled up to Madame, while Mrs.
Poskett stood utterly neglected and looked on with the air of an injured
saint.
"May I not offer you my escort?" said both gentlemen in one breath.
"O no!" laughed Madame. "I have Nanette. Nothing can happen to me while
I have Nanette."
"As if anything ever could happen in Chiswick!" said Mrs. Poskett, a
little spitefully.
Madame signalled to Nanette to lead the way, and followed her past the
Eyesore and out of the Walk, convoyed by the gallant Admiral as far as
the corner, where he stood looking after her an appreciable time.
Meanwhile Marjolaine had run up to the railings of Number Three where
Miss Ruth Pennymint was sewing in the window.
"Miss Ruth," she cried, "is Barbara busy?"
Miss Ruth looked up from her work with a smile as she saw the eager
young face. "She's closeted with Doctor Johnson."
"Will you ask her to come out when she's done?" and Marjolaine came back
to the tree. Basil rose from his seat. "Pray don't move," said the
young girl, prettily, "Barbara will be here in a moment. She is with
Doctor Johnson."
Basil's face was very grave. It looked almost like the face of a man
who finds himself in the presence of a great tragedy; or of one who
knows he is fighting an insuperable obstacle. "Ah, yes," he sighed,
"Doctor Johnson. Surely that is very pathetic." And he turned away and
leant disconsolately against the railings, with his eyes fixed on the
door of Number Three.
"Come and sit down, Missie, come and sit down," cried the Admiral,
heartily.
Marjolaine accepted his invitation. "I used to be so afraid of you, Sir
Peter!"
"Gobblessmysoul! Why?"
"You were so angry with us for painting our house white!"
"Hum," coughed the Admiral, looking guiltily at Mrs. Poskett and Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn. "Ah--hum!--the others were green, ye see. But it's an
admirable contrast."
Mrs. Poskett sniffed. She had not forgotten the Admiral's ignominious
surrender.
Now Miss Ruth and Miss Barbara came out of their house, hand in hand, as
usual. Miss Ruth was, as we are aware, considerably older than her
sister, and still treated her like a pet child. Barbara disengaged
herself as soon as she caught sight of Marjolaine, rushed at her with
bird-like hops, and pecked a little kiss off each cheek as a bird pecks
at a cherry.
"Oh, Marjolaine, dearest!" she cried with enthusiasm, "Doctor Johnson
has been most extraordinarily eloquent!" The two girls walked away
together with their arms gracefully entwined around each other's waists.
Ruth joined the others under the tree.
"Good afternoon," she said, "Dear Barbara!--She has just had her hour
with the parrot. Her memories of Lieutenant Charles are at their
liveliest."
Mr. Basil, who had never taken his eyes off Barbara, heaved a
soul-rending sigh, and came up to Miss Ruth.
"Very unwholesome, _I_ think," said Mrs. Poskett, sharply. Miss Ruth
explained to Basil: "Lieutenant Charles was in His Majesty's Navy, you
know, and dear Barbara was affianced to him."
"So I have heard," answered Basil, coldly. As a matter of fact, he had
heard it on an average twice every day. Ruth went on relentlessly,
"Unhappily he was abruptly removed from this earthly sphere."
Bare politeness forced Basil to show some interest. After all, Ruth was
Barbara's sister. "I presume he fell in battle?"
"Say rather in single combat."
The Admiral with difficulty suppressed a guffaw. He whispered to Basil
with a hoarse chuckle, "As a matter of fact he was knocked on the head
outside a gin-shop."
"But," the unconscious Ruth went on, "he had bestowed a token of his
affection on dear Barbara, in the shape of the remarkable bird you may
have seen."
Basil had seen him often and had heard him constantly. For whenever the
bird was left alone, he filled the air incessantly with ear-piercing
shrieks.
"Doctor Johnson," continued Ruth, "named after the great Lexicographer
in consideration of his astonishing fluency of speech. Doctor Johnson
is Barbara's only consolation."
Basil suppressed a groan. The obstacle! The obstacle!
"Yes, dear," said Barbara, who had come up with Marjolaine. She spoke
with pretty melancholy, but with a side-glance at Basil. "Yes, dear, he
speaks with Charles's voice, and says the very things Charles used to
say."
Basil moved away. This was almost more than he could bear.
"How lovely!" cried Marjolaine. "I wish I could hear him!"
"Ah, no!" Barbara's chubby face fell into the nearest approach to
solemnity she could manage. "Not even you may share that melancholy
joy. The things he says are too sacred."
Sir Peter had sidled up to Basil. "I tell you, sir, that bird's
language would silence Billingsgate. The atmosphere of that room must be
solid, sir--solid." Basil stared at him with amazed reproof, and the
Admiral turned to Marjolaine. "Well, Missie, we all hope you 've grown
to like the Walk?"
"I love it! And so does Maman."
The Admiral grew enthusiastic. He turned towards the houses glowing in
the late sun. "It is a sheltered haven. Look at it! A haven of
content! What says the poet? 'The world forgetting, by the world
forgot.'"
All had turned with him. They were just an ordinary, every-day set of
people. There was not a poet among them, if we except Basil, and yet
the Walk, basking in the evening sun, touched some chord in each heart.
The Admiral saw his flag drooping in the still air, and remembered his
fighting days; Mrs. Poskett thought of Sempronius, and her tea-kettle
simmering on the hob; Ruth was grateful for the shelter her little house
had given her in her misfortune; Barbara thought of Doctor Johnson
and--must I say it?--of Basil; Basil thought of Barbara; Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn thought of patient, unattractive Selina, and the four baby
girls; Marjolaine, in her fresh girlhood, could only think of how pretty
the flowers looked in the window.
Barbara exclaimed, "When the sunlight falls on it so, how lovely it is!"
Basil looked into her blue eyes, and murmured, "It reminds me of the
music I am at work on."
"What is that?" cried Marjolaine. "It sounds beautiful--through the
wall."
The musician's enthusiasm was kindled; he grew eloquent. "It is by a
new German composer: a man called Beethoven. My old violin-master,
Kreutzer, sent it me.--Ah! These new Germans! They are so complicated;
so difficult. I am old-fashioned, you know. I had the honour of
playing under Mr. Haydn at the Salomon concerts. Yes! and in the very
first performance of his immortal Oratorio, 'The Creation,' at
Worcester. So perhaps I am prejudiced. Yet this new music is very
wonderful; very heart-searching." He stopped abruptly, realising he was
talking to deaf ears. Sir Peter came to his rescue.
"I don't know anything about your new-fangled fiddle-faddles; but, by
Jehoshaphat, Pringle, play me a hornpipe, and I 'll dance till your arms
drop off!"
He hummed the tune, and with amazing agility sketched a few steps, while
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn put up his quizzing glass and eyed him with a superior
smile. "Oh!" laughed Marjolaine, clapping her hands, "you must teach
me!"
"That I will, Missie! and the sooner the better."
Mrs. Poskett was furious. "No fool like an old fool," she whispered in
Ruth's ear.
Barbara, who had been up to Mrs. Poskett's gate to stroke Sempronius,
came running down with a little cry of horror. She pointed to the
frouzy figure of the Eyesore. "Look! The Eyesore 's going to smoke!"
And, sure enough, after removing an indescribable handkerchief, a greasy
newspaper, obviously containing his lunch, half an apple, a large piece
of cheese, a huge pocket-knife, and a lump of coal he had picked up in
the road, the Eyesore had dragged out a horrible little clay pipe and a
dreadful little paper packet of tobacco. The Walk stood petrified.
When the Eyesore smoked, everybody had to go indoors and shut their
windows.
"His poisonous tobacco!" cried Ruth. "Can you not speak to him,
Admiral?"
"I can, Madam, but he'll answer back."
"And then," said Mrs. Poskett somewhat tartly, "of course you are
helpless."
"Not at all, ma'am. I hope I can swear with any man; but--the ladies!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had been observing the Eyesore. "Thank heaven," he
whispered, "his pipe won't draw."
For the Eyesore was trying to blow through the stem, was knocking his
pipe on the palm of his hand, was endeavouring to run a straw through
it: all without success. Finally, in an access of rage, he tossed it
aside and sullenly resumed his fishing. A sigh of relief went up from
the whole Walk. They were saved.
Now a quaint figure came slowly round the corner. "Ah!" cried Basil,
"here is our good Doctor Sternroyd!"
"With his books, as usual," added Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "What a brain!"
"Old dryasdust!" laughed Sir Peter. But pointing to the Doctor, Basil
motioned them all to silence.
And, to be sure, the Doctor was worth looking at. He was dressed in the
fashion of fifty years before. Indeed, I should doubt whether in all
those fifty years he had had a new suit of clothes. On his head was a
venerable hat of indefinite shape; under his left arm a great bundle of
old books; under his right a venerable umbrella of generous proportions,
which had once been green. Fortunately his coat had originally been
snuff-coloured, so that the spilled snuff made no difference to it. His
small-clothes were shabby; his lean shanks were encased in grey worsted
stockings, and the great silver buckles on his shoes were tarnished.
At the present moment, however, it was not so much his appearance as his
actions that arrested the Walk's attention. He had come in dreamily as
usual with his lack-lustre eyes seeing nothing in spite of their great
silver-rimmed spectacles. Suddenly his attention was attracted by
something lying at his feet. He stopped, picked it up laboriously, and
examined it minutely, pushing his spectacles over his forehead for the
purpose.
"Bless the man!" cried Mrs. Poskett. "He 's picked up the Eyesore's
filthy pipe!"
And now he was exhibiting all the symptoms of frantic joy. Utterly
unconscious of the people watching him, he indulged in delighted
chuckles, and his withered old legs quite independently of their
master's volition executed a sort of grotesque dance. He looked very
much like a crane that had caught a fish.
"But why the step-dance?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with a laugh.
Sir Peter hailed him. "Doctor Sternroyd, ahoy!"
The Doctor looked from one to the other in genuine amazement. It was
evident his mind had been wandering in some remote world.
"Dear me! Tut, tut!" he stammered. "I had not observed you!" Then,
with a radiant face, "Ah, my friends, congratulate me!"
All gathered round him, and the Admiral asked, "What about, Doctor?"
"This," said the reverend gentleman, holding up the trophy. "This. A
beautiful specimen of an early Elizabethan tobacco-pipe!"
It was with the greatest difficulty the Admiral restrained a great burst
of laughter from the onlookers. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn got as far as "That,
sir? Why, that's--" when a tremendous dig from the Admiral's elbow
deprived him of his wind, and sent him backward clucking like an
infuriated turkey-cock.
"I do not wonder at your surprise," continued the antiquary. "Yes,
Ladies and Gentlemen, they are sometimes found in the alluvial deposit
of the Thames; but even my friend, the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose
specialty they are, does not possess so perfect a specimen in his entire
collection."
Again the Admiral was obliged to exercise all his authority in order to
suppress unseemly mirth or explanations. Doctor Sternroyd went on with
the tone of regret assumed by a man of learning in the presence of an
ignorant and unappreciative audience. "Ah, you don't understand the
value of these things. Out of this fragment it is possible to
reconstruct an entire epoch. I see Sir Walter Raleigh's fleet bringing
home the fragrant weed from the distant plantations; I see him enjoying
its vapours in his pleasaunce at Sherborne; I see Drake solacing himself
with it on board the Golden Hind. Yes, yes, I shall read a paper on
it.--Ah! if only my dear wife, my beloved Araminta, were here now!"
With mingled melancholy and triumph he drifted across the lawn and into
his house--the last house of the crescent.
"Amazing!" said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn; "but why would n't you let me tell
him, Sir Peter?"
There was a wistful look on Sir Peter's face as he replied. "Ah,
Brooke! We all live on our illusions. The more we believe, the happier
we are!"
This was beyond Brooke; but Miss Ruth understood and sighed her assent.
*CHAPTER IV*
*CONCERNING A MYSTERIOUS LADY, AND AN ELDERLY BEAU*
[Illustration: Chapter IV headpiece]
This was evidently to be a memorable afternoon in the annals of Pomander
Walk; for no sooner had it recovered from its mirth over the Doctor's
antiquarian discovery than Jim, who had been training the sweet peas at
the corner of the Admiral's house, shouted hoarsely:
"Admiral! Pirate in the offing!"
Such a startling announcement was well calculated to silence all
laughter; and the imposing figure who now appeared round the corner
certainly did nothing to encourage mirth: a very tall, very gaunt, very
bony lady, severely but richly dressed; her face hidden in the remote
recesses of a more than usually capacious poke bonnet. She was followed
by an enormous footman carrying a gold-headed cane in one hand, while a
fat pug reposed on his other arm. The Walk was paralysed and could only
stare and gasp. Who was she? Where did she come from? Whom did she
want?
She stopped and examined the Eyesore through her uplifted _face-a-main_,
as if he had been some strange, unpleasant animal. "Fellow," she said,
"is this Pomander Lane?" A shudder ran through the Walk. Pomander
_Lane_, indeed!--The only answer the lady got from the Eyesore was that
at that precise moment he found it agreeable to scratch his back. With
an exclamation of disgust she turned from him only to find herself face
to face with Jim. Now Jim was not pretty to look at.
"Fellow, is this Pomander Lane?" she repeated.
"You 've a-lost yer bearin's, mum," replied the old tar huskily and not
too cordially.
"What savages!" muttered the Lady as she turned to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
"You! Is this Pomander Lane?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had laid himself out to fascinate her with his
courtliest manner, but the "You!" with which she addressed him aroused
the turkey-cock within him, and it was an icy and raging Brooke-Hoskyn
who replied, "This, ma'am, is Pomander _Walk_!"
"Same thing," said the Lady contemptuously.
"Excuse me, ma'am--!" exclaimed Sir Peter hotly.
But she waved him aside and proceeded in a tone intended to be
ingratiating, and therefore more offensive than any tone she could have
chosen, "My good people"--imagine the Walk's feelings!--"I have
undertaken to look after the morals of this part of your parish. I have
made it my duty to give advice and distribute alms."
Morals--parish--advice--alms! Had the Walk ever heard such words
uttered within its genteel precincts? The Lady turned to Ruth, who
happened to be at her side. "Where are your children?"
Ruth stood aghast. She could only breathe indignantly, "I am a
spinster."
"Are there no children?" said the Lady reproachfully.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse happened to pass at the moment on her way into
the house. The Lady stopped her. "Ah, yes." Mrs. Poskett and the
Admiral had sunk in helpless surprise on the bench under the elm. The
Lady turned to them. "The father and mother, I suppose?"
Mrs. Poskett and the Admiral started apart, as if they had been shocked
by a galvanic battery. Mrs. Poskett uttered an indignant scream; the
Admiral could only gasp, "Gobblessmysoul!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, purple in the face, came clucking down. "This,
ma'am, is my youngest. The youngest of four--at present."
The Lady looked him up and down. "I will give your wife instructions
about their management--"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn danced with rage. "You'll--haha!--She'll teach
Selina!--Hoho!--Oh, that's good!"
But the Lady had caught sight of Marjolaine, who with Barbara was
standing by the Gazebo. Both young ladies, I regret to say, were
laughing immoderately. Brushing the Admiral aside, she sailed
imposingly across to them and addressed Marjolaine, who was by this time
looking demure, and overdoing it.
"What do I see?" said the Lady severely, examining Marjolaine through
her glasses. "Curls? At your age, curls? Fie!" Then shaking a lank
finger at her, "Mind! your hair must be quite straight when next I
come."
To the delight of the Walk Marjolaine made a pretty and submissive
curtsey, and answered, "Yes, ma'am; but don't come again in a hurry.
Give me lots and lots of time!"
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett and Ruth had been urging the Admiral on. Now he
approached the Lady in his quarter-deck manner, and said,
"Madam--hum--we give alms, and we do not take advice. You 're on the
wrong tack. You 're out of your reckoning." Then, pointing grandly to
the only entrance to the Walk, "That is your course for Pomander Lane."
"Yes," said Brooke-Hoskyn, with the same action, "That!"
"Yes," said all the ladies, pointing melodramatically to the corner,
"That!"
"Jim," ordered the Admiral, "pilot the lady out."
"Ay, ay, sir."
The Lady eyed them all in turn through her _face-a-main_. "Very well,"
she said, with magnificent scorn. "I was told I should have difficulty
here. I was told you only go to church twice on Sundays. I did not
expect to find you so bad as you are. I shall come again. I am not so
easily beaten. I shall certainly come again!"
In grim silence she gathered her skirts about her and departed as she
had come, followed by the footman and the fat pug.
When she had turned the corner the Walk once more indulged in a burst of
laughter.
"What a figure of fun!" cried Ruth.
"I gave here her sailing orders--what?" chuckled the Admiral.
And Mrs. Poskett gazed into his face with admiration.
"What a wonderful man you are, Sir Peter!"
When they had all recovered, Basil came to Marjolaine and eagerly
reminded her it was high time for her singing-lesson.
Marjolaine appealed to Barbara: "Maman told me to ask you to come with
me."
Barbara gave a little hop of delight, but Ruth exclaimed, "Shall I take
your place, dear?"
"No, no," cried Barbara, almost as if she were in a fright, "I love to
hear her." Barbara, Marjolaine, and Basil moved slowly towards Number
Three, while Ruth approached Mrs. Poskett. "Will you come in and take a
dish of tea?"
"No," replied Mrs. Poskett, "no, thank you," and then, with a giggle,
"I'm going--you'll never guess!--I 'm going to comb my wig."
Seeing the ladies all strolling towards their houses the Admiral once
more challenged Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn to play off the rubber at quoits. But
he declined. "I think not, Sir Peter. Selina will be expecting me."
Mrs. Poskett stopped. "I wonder you can bear to leave her so much
alone."
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn felt the implied reproach. With a countenance full of
woe, he replied, "It tears my heart-strings, ma'am; but she will have it
so. 'Brooke,' she says--or 'Jerome,' as the case may be--'your place is
in the fashionable world, among the hote tonn.' So I sacrifice my
inclination to her pleasure."
"How unselfish of you!" said Ruth.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn continued more cheerfully. "She has many innocent
pastimes. At the present moment the dear soul is joyously darning my
socks."
By this time Mrs. Poskett and the other ladies were on their respective
door-steps. Mrs. Poskett gave a startled cry and called the Admiral's
attention to the corner of the Walk, where four men in livery had just
deposited a sedan chair. "Company, Sir Peter!" she cried.
Sir Peter turned abruptly and examined the person who was with
difficulty emerging from the sedan. "Eh?-- Gobblessmysoul! Is it
possible?-- My old friend, Lord Otford!" He bustled up to the
newcomer, shouting "Otford! Otford!"
Now the name had had a magical effect on Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. At the
sound of it the colour had all vanished from his fat cheeks, the
strength seemed to have gone out of his legs, and his knees were
knocking together. "Lord Otford, by all that's unlucky!" he exclaimed.
Mrs. Poskett had swept back to the elm. She happened to have a very
becoming dress on, and she was determined the noble lord should see it.
She caught sight of Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's face. "What's the matter?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn pulled himself together with a mighty effort.
"Nothing, ma'am." Then with great dignity, "He and I differ in
politics. There might be bloodshed." And while Mrs. Poskett exclaimed
"Well, I never!" he had dashed into his house as a rabbit dashes into
its burrow.
Mrs. Poskett sailed up to her house trying to catch his lordship's eye.
I am afraid all the ladies were anxious to be noticed, for all lingered
at their doors. A real, live lord was not an ordinary sight in Pomander
Walk. And this one happened to be a handsome one; well set up, dressed
in the height of fashion, yet quietly, as a gentleman should dress; and
carrying his forty-five years as though they had been no more than
thirty.
"You're looking well, Peter!" he exclaimed, still shaking the Admiral by
the hand.
"My dear Jack! My dear old Jack!" cried the latter. "Here! come into
the house!"
"No, no," laughed his friend, with a suspicious glance at the diminutive
window. "Stuffy. No. Looks pleasant under the elm."
"Why, come along, then!" shouted the Admiral, dragging him towards the
tree.
Lord Otford took off his hat to Mrs. Poskett with an elaborate bow. "I
say, Peter, in clover, you rascal!"
"Dam fine woman--what?"
Here Lord Otford caught sight of Marjolaine just disappearing in the
doorway of Number Three. He stopped short. "Ay, and pretty gel on
door-step." Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, "By Jove!"
"Dainty little thing, eh?" said the Admiral with a chuckle.
"Yes," replied the nobleman, pensively. "Reminds me vaguely--" but he
changed the subject. "Well! You're hale and hearty!"
"Nothing amiss with you, neither," laughed Sir Peter, sitting on the
bench and drawing his friend down beside him. "I am glad to see you!
Thought you was in Russia."
"Got home a month ago, Peter. Not married yet?"
"Peter Antrobus married? That's a good 'un." Up went the Admiral's
finger to his nose. "No, my Lord. All women, yes. One woman, no!"
"Sure nobody can hear us?"
Sir Peter looked round cautiously. Save for the Eyesore, absorbed in
his placid effort to catch fish, there was no sign of life in the Walk.
Nobody was visible at the windows. From Number Three came the sound of
a fresh young voice singing scales and arpeggios.
"Quite safe, Jack," said he.
"Peter, I want your help."
"Woman?" asked Sir Peter.
"Yes. Not my woman, though, this time. It's about my boy--Jack."
"Aha! Got into a mess? Chip of the old block--what?"
"No, no. Marriage."
"Gobblessmysoul! How old is he?"
"Twenty-five."
"Good Lord!"
"I want to see Jack settled. There 's the succession to think of."
"You talk as though you was a king."
"Well, so I am, in a small way. Think of the estate! I want Jack to
take the reins."
"How can he, when he 's on the sea?"
"He's to retire as soon as he gets his Captaincy."
The Admiral jumped up. "Retire! Now! With Boney ready to gobble us
up!"
Otford drew him down again. "Don't you see? With all this battle and
bloodshed, now's the time for Jack to give me a grandson. He 's my only
child, remember. Why, hang it, man, if he was to die without issue, the
title and the estates would go to that infernal whig scoundrel, James
Sayle."
"That won't do," Sir Peter assented, wisely nodding his head.
"Of course it won't. Now, there's old Wendover's gel--Caroline Thring."
[Illustration: CAROLINE THRING]
The Admiral made a wry face. "Caroline Thring? I've heard of her.
Never seen her: but heard of her. Eccentric party, ain't she? And did
n't I hear there was an affair with Young Beauchamp?"
"That's fallen through. She's an estimable person."
"Ugh," said the Admiral.
"People call her eccentric," Lord Otford continued, hotly, "because she
goes about doing good--distributing alms--"
The Admiral was about to exclaim, but Otford gave him no time. "You 're
prejudiced, you old reprobate. Wendover 's willing, and there's nothing
in the way. The estates join. She's sole heiress. Gad, sir, that
alliance would make Jack the biggest man in the Three Kingdoms."
"Is Jack fond of her?"
"Does n't object to her. Hesitates. Says he don't want to marry at
all. Says he has n't had his fling."
"Well--what's it all got to do with me?"
"Ever since Jack's been home on leave, he's done nothing but talk about
you--"
"Good lad!" cried Sir Peter, slapping his thigh. "I loved him when he
was a middy on board the _Termagant_."
"And he loves you. Coming to look you up. To-day, very likely. When he
comes, refer to Caroline--carelessly. Say what a fine gel she is.
Don't say a word about the estate. These young whipper-snappers have
such high-and-mighty ideas about marrying for money. Refer to young
Beauchamp. Say in your time young fellers did n't let other young
fellers cut 'em out. See?"
"You 're a wily old fox, Jack. But, hark'ee! Sure he's not in love with
anybody else?"
"He says he is n't. Oh, there may be a Spanish Senorita!--Gad! I
should almost be ashamed of him if there wasn't!--But there's no--no--"
"No Lucy Pryor?" said the Admiral carelessly.
The name seemed to fall on Lord Otford like a blow. He sat quite still
a moment, looking straight before him into who knows what memories. At
last he said very sadly, "No. No Lucy Pryor."
The Admiral realised his own tactlessness. He took Lord Otford's hand.
"I beg your pardon, Jack. I 'm sorry."
"It still hurts, Peter," said his Lordship with a wistful smile. "Like
an old bullet.--Well! You 'll do what you can, eh?--I don't want you to
overdo it. Just edge him in the right direction."
"Keep his eye in the wind, what?"
"That's it.--Well? Any new-comers in the Walk?"
"Yes," chuckled the Admiral, "two oil lamps. One in front of my house,
and one in front of Sternroyd's. They wanted to give us their
new-fangled, stinking gas, but the whole Walk mutinied."
"Very fine, but--"
"They 're only used when there's no moon."
"But I meant new people!"
"Oh! Ah! Yes!--" Then with a sort of smack of the lips indicative of
the highest appreciation, "A French widow and her daughter."
At once Lord Otford showed a lively interest. "French, eh?--What? the
little gel I saw going in?"
"Yes," answered the Admiral, rising and leading his friend towards the
Gazebo where his whisper would no longer make the windows of the Walk
rattle. "Yes. They're not really French, y' know. Mother's the widow
of a Frenchman. Madame Lachesnais."
This sounded very dull. His Lordship stifled a yawn, but he noticed the
Admiral's kindling eye, and felt constrained to continue the subject.
"Pleasant?"
"De-lightful!" answered Sir Peter, kissing the tips of his fingers at an
imaginary ideal. "The Walk was shy of 'em at first. So was I. Thought
they was foreigners. Foreigners are all very well for you and me, Jack.
We 're men o' the world. But think of Mrs. Poskett! Think of the
Misses Pennymint! Think of Mr. and Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn!"
Lord Otford started slightly at the last name.
"Eh? Mr. and Mrs. what?"
"Brooke-Hoskyn. Sh!" pointing to the house with his thumb. "Very
distinguished man. Moves in the highest circles. Hote tonn, Jack. Dines
in town regularly four times a week."
"Man of family?" asked Lord Otford.
"Family?" roared the Admiral. "Well, I should say so. Four little gels
in five years, and more to come! Never met him?"
"I seem to remember a man called Hoskyn," said his friend nonchalantly.
The Admiral shook his head in dismissal of the undistinguished Hoskyn.
"No, no. This is Brooke-Hoskyn; Brooke--h'm--Hoskyn; with a hyphen."
Lord Otford had had enough of Brooke-Hoskyn. "Go on about the French
widow."
"Well, one morning their shay was signalled from the back of the Misses
Pennymint. We'd all been watching for their coming, y' know, because of
their house having been painted white--but that's another yarn
altogether. Shays can't get beyond the corner of Pomander Lane; so I
had time to put on my uniform, and my medals, and my cocked hat--"
"Meant to show 'em you was Admiral on your own quarter-deck, eh?"
"That's it. And then--" the Admiral glowed with enthusiasm--"well, then
Madame came round the corner; and then Mademerzell. They did n't walk,
Jack, they floated. And what did I do? I just sneaked back into
harbour, and struck my colours. Yes!-- She was the most gracious
creature I 'd ever seen. And the gel--! Well, you saw her." He paused
for a moment, and then added in a curiously subdued voice: "They brought
something new into the Walk."
Lord Otford looked at him enquiringly. "What do you mean?"
It was some little time before Sir Peter answered. He sat gazing into
vacancy a moment, like a man who is remembering happier things, calling
up a mental picture of a beautiful landscape--or perhaps of a beautiful
face--suddenly smitten by the recollection of his own youth. At last,
with something like a sigh he went on.
"We're rather an elderly lot, y'know. Beyond our springtime, Jack, and
that's the truth. When we sit and think, we think of the past, and try
not to think of the future. And, suddenly, here was this Grace and
Beauty and Youth in the midst of us. It gave the Walk a shock, I can
tell ye. All the women lay-to in repairing-dock for days. Mrs. Poskett
never showed her nose till she 'd got a new wig from town; Pringle tells
me he caught poor little Barbara Pennymint looking at herself in the
glass and crying; and Brooke-Hoskyn says his wife, who had watched 'em
come from her window, not being able to get downstairs, poor soul,
sobbed her heart out and made him swear he loved her."
"By Jove!" cried Lord Otford, "you make me want to see these paragons!"
"Well, Madame 's only gone shopping. She 'll be back directly. Wait,
and I 'll present you."
"No," said his friend, signalling to the sedan-bearers. "Not to-day.
I'm on my way to old Wendover, at Brentford."
"Ah! That marriage! Well, I hope I shall see Jack soon."
"You'll help me, won't you?"
"I will. I will. God bless you."
Sir Peter escorted his friend to the sedan; saw him safely into it and
walked at its side until it turned the corner. As he came back he found
himself face to face with Marjolaine, who had finished her lesson and
was coming out of Number Three with a book in her hand.
"There, now, Missie," he cried, "if you'd come a moment earlier, I'd
have presented you to a very great man!"
"Oh?"
At his door the Admiral put his hand up to his mouth and whispered
confidentially--a confidential whisper which could have been heard the
other side of the river--"I say!--We 'll have a go at that horn-pipe
by-and-by--what?" And chuckling he went into his house.
Marjolaine came slowly to the elm, seated herself, and proceeded to read
the "Adventures of Telemachus."
*CHAPTER V*
*CONCERNING WHAT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR*
[Illustration: Chapter V headpiece]
The sun shone; the thrush sang; the leaves of the elm rustled; the great
river flowed silently; the breeze came and kissed Marjolaine and
whispered "Wake up! Wake up! Something is going to happen!" But she
could not hear. She only thought Telemachus was even duller than usual,
and as she read of Mentor she thought of the Reverend Doctor Sternroyd.
Presently--whether it was the breeze that blew her thoughts away, or the
singing of the thrush, I cannot say--she lost the thread of the story;
stopped thinking at all; and just sat with her elbow on her knee and her
chin in her hand, looking with her great brown eyes into--what?
The Eyesore saw her. I cannot dip into the Eyesore's mind. I cannot
tell you what influenced him. I only know he grew restless. He looked
at her over his shoulder once or twice as she sat there, "In maiden
meditation, fancy free," and suddenly he got up, laid his rod carefully
across the chains, and stole out on tip-toe. Was it a glimmering sense
that he was no company for this pretty maid lost in thought? Was it a
dim realisation that his ungainly figure had no business to intrude on
her meditations? Whatever the cause, he stole out on tip-toe and was
lost to sight. Perhaps he was only thirsty.
Marjolaine did not notice his going. Nor did she see Jack come. Jack
came apparently out of the river. As a matter of fact he tied his boat
to a ring at the foot of Pomander Stairs and leaped on shore. A
delightful young fellow, the sort of young man you take to, the moment
you set eyes on him. Obviously a sailor. His lieutenant's undress
jacket was over his arm. A wiry figure, lissome as a willow and as
tough as steel; a face tanned by many suns; true sailor's eyes looking
frankly and fearlessly at the world.
He was evidently in search of something or somebody. He came down the
Walk examining all the houses curiously; and suddenly he found himself
face to face with Marjolaine.
His shadow fell across her book. She looked up; and their eyes met.
Marjolaine was much too well-bred to show any surprise, but, as a matter
of fact, she was very much surprised indeed. Here was a new and
terrible situation. A total stranger standing looking at her; her
mother and Nanette gone to Chiswick; the Admiral shut in his house; and
not another soul in sight. Even the Eyesore would have been a sort of
moral support, but even the Eyesore had deserted her. However: Courage!
If she went on with her book the stranger would go. So she went on with
her book, grimly.
But the stranger did not move. When a young sailor-man sees an
extremely pretty girl, his instinct is to stand still and look. Jack
stood still. I will not say he was not nervous. He was. But he
conquered his nervousness, like the brave fellow he was, and stood his
ground.
Marjolaine began to get angry. This was an outrage. She looked up at
him once more, and this time there was a flash in her eyes which was
meant to annihilate him. It did. If she had not looked up, he might
ultimately have gone reluctantly away. But this look finished him and
rooted him to the spot.
Marjolaine returned to her book. But Telemachus had taken on a new
shape. He had laughing blue eyes and he carried a naval jacket with
gold buttons over his arm. Also he stood looking at her. This was
intolerable. If the stranger would not move, she must. It went horribly
against her pride to retreat in the face of the enemy, but if the enemy
would n't retreat, what were you to do?
She closed the book with an angry bang and rose to her feet. The
movement roused Jack to a sense of his own inexplicable behaviour.
"I beg your pardon!" he stammered, involuntarily.
Marjolaine eyed him haughtily from head to foot. She had read somewhere
that this is what a well-bred young woman should do under similar
circumstances.
"Why?" said she, raising her eyebrows.
"Oh, I'm so glad you said 'Why?'" cried Jack, with evident relief.
Marjolaine had not expected this. She was genuinely puzzled and a
little off her guard. She could only repeat, but this time quite
naturally, "Why?"
"Well," said Jack, very volubly, "if you'd said, 'There's no occasion,'
or if you hadn't said anything, our conversation would have been
finished, you know."
Marjolaine could have stamped with vexation. Of course she ought to have
said nothing. And here she was entrapped into what this very bold young
man described as a "conversation"!
"The conversation is finished," she said, trying to pass him.
But he held up his hand. "No. It's my turn to ask you a question!"
"_Hein?_" she cried, more than ever on her dignity. He had the
impudence to accuse her of asking him a question!
Jack remembered his manners. With a low bow he presented himself. "I
'm Jack Sayle, at your service. I 'm a lieutenant in the Navy; and I
've just rowed down from Richmond--three miles. I 'm home on leave; and
I 'm looking for an old friend."
"All that is very interesting," said Marjolaine, "but it is n't a
question," and once more she tried to get by.
Jack felt rather injured. She might have shown a little more interest
in the autobiography he had just favoured her with. "I thought it was
polite to tell you who I was. As for the question: it 's uncommon hot,
and when I saw this terrace I said there 'd be sure to be one here. Is
there?"
"What?" cried Marjolaine, this time really stamping her foot.
"An inn?"
"Certainly not."
"Can't you tell me where there is one?"
"I do not frequent them," answered she, freezingly.
"No?" said Jack, crestfallen. "Sorry. I am dry. You see, I 've rowed
all the way from Richmond. Five miles."
Marjolaine had manoeuvred safely inside her own gate. She felt she
could afford a parting shot at him. "I 'm afraid you 'll have to row
all the way back again. Good afternoon." By this time her hand grasped
the handle of the door.
Jack addressed the world in general. "Curious, how different everything
is."
Marjolaine turned. "Different what is?"
"Why, if I 'd met an old gentleman outside his house in Spain, and he 'd
seen how I was suffering, he 'd have said his house was mine."
Marjolaine indignantly came down one step. "I am not an old gentleman; I
haven't any house in Spain; and it's a shame to say I 'm inhospitable!"
Jack's face wore an inscrutable smile. He protested. "I didn't. I
only said it was different."
Marjolaine came back to the gate.
"Are you really suffering?" she asked.
Jack turned away to hide an unmistakable grin. He spoke in a hollow
voice. "Intolerably." Then he turned to her with a haggard
countenance. "Look at my face!"
Marjolaine came out of the gate. Ah, Marjolaine! The moth and the
candle!
"I can't ask you in, because Maman and Nanette are out."
Jack staggered to the seat under the elm, and sank on it like a man in
the last stage of exhaustion. "It's of no consequence. I must row
back. Seven miles. Against the tide. Ah, well!"
Marjolaine was genuinely sorry for him. He really was very good-looking.
"I'm sure Maman would ask you in, if she were here."
"I 'm quite sure of that."
"And I think she would not like me to be--as you say--inhospitable."
"I didn't say it; but I'm quite sure she would n't."
Marjolaine's kind little heart was quite melted. This good-looking young
man spoke so very humbly.
"I might--I might bring you out something--"
A gleam of triumph crossed Jack's face, but he answered with the air of
a martyr: "Oh! don't trouble!"
Marjolaine's sense of the proprieties got the better of her again.
"What would the neighbours say if they saw me feeding an entire
stranger?"
Jack leaped up in indignant protest. "But I 'm not! I 've told you my
name. That's as much as anybody ever knows about anybody!"
Marjolaine was now in the shadow of the elm. She examined every house in
the Walk. "Number One 's asleep; Number Two 's combing her wig; Number
Three 's working; Number Five's nursing one of the four; and Number
Six"--poor Doctor Sternroyd!--"doesn't matter. I 'll risk it." She
turned to go in, but stopped. "What would you like?"
Jack protested, "Oh, my dear young lady!--It's not for me to say.
Anything you offer me--anything!"
Ticking the items off on her pretty fingers, Marjolaine enumerated the
various beverages stored in her mother's cupboard. "We have elderberry
wine; cowslip wine; red-currant wine; and gooseberry wine."
Jack's face was a study. It had grown so long that Marjolaine exclaimed
with genuine sympathy, "Why, you look quite ill! Which do you say?"
It was a choice between poison and discourtesy, but Jack was equal to
it. "I 've been brought up very simply. I should never have the
presumption to ask for any of those. Have n't you any ale?"
"Ale!" cried Marjolaine, "how low!"
"I said I 'd been brought up simply."
"We have no ale."
Before he could stop himself Jack had cried "And this is England!"
But Marjolaine had had an idea. "I know! There 's Maman's claret. She
takes it for her health. What do you say to _that_?"
Jack had not tried it, and did n't know what he might be likely to say
to it. He could only stammer, "Oh, it's better than--better than--" he
was going to add elderberry, or cowslip, but caught himself up in
time--"better than ale."
"Ah!--Now, will you wait a moment under the tree?"
"I'll wait hours, anywhere!"
Marjolaine caught sight of a figure moving about in Number Three. She
came on tip-toe to Jack. You see, by this time there was quite a
conspiracy between them.
"No! Better!" she whispered. "Go into the Gazebo."
Jack could only stare at her. "Into the what?"
She ran across to the summer-house, Jack following her.
"Here," she cried, "in the summer-house. And keep quite still."
For a moment a horrible suspicion crossed Jack's mind. "I say! You
will come back? You 're not going to leave me here to perish of thirst?"
"That would be a good joke!" she laughed.
"I 'll carve your name while you 're gone!"
"No, you won't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know it!--_Voila_!"
And before he could stop her she had tripped into the house.
Jack sat for a moment in a sort of silent rapture.
Then all he said to himself was "By George!" three times repeated; and
if you don't know what that exclamation meant, I 'm sure I can't tell
you.
Marjolaine had left the "Adventures of Telemachus" on the seat in the
Gazebo. Under ordinary circumstances Jack would have avoided picking up
a book; but this was her book; it had been in her hands; her eyes had
looked at it; it was not so much a book as a part of the little goddess;
so he picked it up tenderly and tenderly opened it. There, on the
fly-page, was a name.--"Lucy Pryor"--Of course! Her name! Lucy
Pryor--just the sort of pretty, simple name she would have. Aha! but
now he'd astonish her! She should find he had carved her name, after
all! Out came his sailor's knife, and to work he went, and as he carved
he sang a little song to himself, the words of which were, "Lucy, Lucy,
Lucy Pryor." He was not a poet.
The Eyesore came slowly round the corner. Seeing the little lady was no
longer on the seat, he drew his line out of the water--I need hardly
record the fact that there was no fish on it. With a sigh he seated
himself on his box, with his back to the Walk; patiently he placed a new
worm on the empty hook, and in a moment he was immersed in his
contemplative occupation. There was utter silence in the Walk.
Then the upstairs window of Number Five was thrust open and Mr. Jerome
Brooke-Hoskyn, at his ease in his shirt-sleeves, and enjoying a
church-warden pipe, leant out. He was evidently conversing with his
wife, and was in his tenderest mood.
[Illustration: MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AT HIS EASE]
"What a pity, my dearest Selina, you are temporarily deprived of the use
of your limbs! The river is flowing by--What? Do I expect it to stop?
No, of course I don't. Why check my musings? I say, the river is
flowing by. Not a living thing is in sight except the Eyesore; and he
enhances the beauty of his surroundings by sheer contrast. My smoke
does not incommode you, my own?--You can bear it?--Dear soul! Am I the
man to deprive you of an innocent pleasure?--"
He might have gone on all the afternoon in this strain, but at this
moment Marjolaine came very cautiously out of her house carrying a tray
on which was a bottle of claret, a tumbler, and a cake. Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn was immediately absorbed in this new and inexplicable
phenomenon. What could it mean? He watched Marjolaine half-way across
the lawn. Then in his softest and most caressing tones he exclaimed,
"Why, Miss Marjory--!" Marjolaine gave a little cry and very nearly let
all the things drop. She stood aghast.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn continued, "Is your mother in the Gazebo?"
Before Marjolaine could think of anything to say she had said "No."
"Indeed?--Then why this genteel refection?" Here Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was
forced to look over his shoulder into the room and answer the invisible
Selina. "Yes, my own. I am speaking to Miss Marjory."
Meanwhile Jack was signalling frantically to Marjolaine, who, on her
part, was as frantically motioning him to keep still. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
again leant forward, and Jack vanished only just in time.
Marjolaine explained. "I--I always take a little refreshment at this
hour."
It was quite obvious that Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn did not believe her.
"How singularly unobservant I am! I have never noticed it. Wait one
moment. I 'll come and help you."
This would never do. "No, thank you," cried Marjolaine, "I am sure your
wife wants you." And she added, as a parting shot, "She sees so little
of you!"
Then taking her courage in both hands she hurried into the Gazebo, where
she and Jack stood, pictures of horror, silently awaiting Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn's next move.
The latter leant far out of his window vainly endeavouring to peer round
the corner. "Curious, very curious," he muttered.
"Did you hear him?" asked Marjory, in a tragic whisper.
"If he comes here I 'll punch his head," growled Jack.
"Be quiet!"--And again they both listened.
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's attention was engaged by Selina, and it was
clear from his remarks that the dear lady was not in her pleasantest
humour. "No, my dear, of course I did n't mean to go.--_Do_ you think
her an ugly little thing?--Matter of taste.--Oh, come! Not jealous, my
own one?--Hold your hand?--Oh, certainly, if you wish it!" And down
came the window with a crash and what sounded very like a fine Saxon
monosyllable.
Marjolaine and Jack, hearing the window close, uttered a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness!" cried Marjolaine; and then, being a daughter of Eve,
"Now you see what you 've done!"
"'Pon my honour, I 've done nothing. Just waited hours."
"Hours, indeed!" said the girl, scornfully.
"It seemed hours," answered Jack, insinuatingly. "It seemed
hours--Miss--Lucy Pryor."
"Lucy Pryor? Oh! you got that out of the book! That was Maman's name
before she married. My name's Lachesnais."
"Beg pardon?"
"La-ches-nais. Marjolaine Lachesnais. You don't pronounce the middle
_s_."
"Are you French?"
"My father was." She had filled the tumbler with claret and was holding
it out to Jack. "Never mind about all that. Make haste."
Jack rose to his feet, tumbler in hand.
"Marjolaine--? That means Marjoram, does n't it?"
"Do you know French?"
Jack bowed as he swallowed the claret. He swallowed unwisely. It was a
lady's claret, and that and a lady's cigar are things to be avoided by
the judicious. Indeed Jack was shaken from head to foot by a convulsive
shudder. "Oh Lord!" said he involuntarily. But he pulled himself
together like a man. "I beg pardon!--Know French? Very little.
Marjoram--sweet Marjoram--how appropriate!"
Marjolaine was eyeing him with grave suspicion. "You are not drinking.
It is Maman's claret!"
Jack gazed stonily at his half-empty tumbler. "Does she--does she take
this for her health?"
"Yes. As medicine."
"As medicine--I understand."
"You said you were thirsty."
"It's a wonderful wine. Quenches your thirst at once." He put the
glass away from him.
"Take some cake?" said Marjolaine.
She had forgotten to bring a knife, so Jack, sailorlike, broke the cake
in two pieces.
"I say!" he cried, "you must have some too, or I shall feel greedy!"
And there they sat, like two children, contentedly munching and swinging
their legs.
"I shall call you Marjory," said Jack, between two bites.
"They all do," answered Marjolaine, with her mouth full.
"Do they?" asked Jack ferociously. "Who?"
Marjolaine waved her cake at the Walk in general. "Oh--the neighbours."
"Impudence!" growled Jack. But he recovered quickly. "I say! Isn't
this delightful?"
"It's very strange. Do you know, you are the first young man I 've ever
spoken to, in all my life?"
Jack's eyes expressed his joy. "No!--that's first-rate!"
Marjolaine stared at him with astonishment. "Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. I hate young men."
"Then you ought to live here. Here--everybody is--oh!--so old!"
"Poor little girl," said Jack, with deep sympathy.
"Why?"
"Must be so lonely."
"Oh, no! One cannot feel lonely where there 's a river. Twice every
day it brings down news from the meadows, where the flowers are, and the
cattle, standing knee-deep in its margin, and the _demoiselles_--how do
you say?--dragonflies--and the willows, dipping their branches in it.
And then, when the tide turns, it comes back from the great town, and
sings of the ships and the crowded bridges, and the King and Queen
taking their pleasure in great, golden barges. And the sea-gulls come
with it, and it sings of the sea!"
Her eyes were flashing; her face was transfigured; Jack was leaning
forward eagerly, and if there had been any loophole of escape for him
before, there was certainly none now.
"Do you love the sea?"
"What do I know of it?" said she, coming to earth again. "I have only
crossed from Dunkerque to Tilbury. But that was lovely! It was very
rough; and I stood against the mast, and my hair blew all about, and I
shouted for joy!--Oh! I should love to be a pirate!"
"Fine!" cried Jack, as excited as she. "Tell you what! We 'll charter
a ship, and sweep the seas, and bang the enemy!"
"'We'?--Why, you're going away in a minute, and I shall never see you
again."
There was a pause. Marjolaine's words had brought them both to a sense
of reality. Finally Jack spoke, and his voice had a new ring of
earnestness.
"Marjory--do you mean that?"
She turned wonderingly innocent eyes on him. "Why should you come
again?"
"Think a moment. Let us both think. We are very young, and I know I 'm
hasty. Let us sit quite still, and think hard whether we 'd like to
meet again. Let us look at each other and not speak."
[Illustration: "LET US SIT QUITE STILL AND THINK HARD WHETHER WE'D LIKE
TO MEET AGAIN"]
She met his look quite frankly for a moment--but only for a moment.
Slowly her head sank and her eyes half closed, and when she spoke, she
spoke very shyly. "I do not see why you should not come again," she
whispered.
"I see why I should! I must!--But it must be differently."
"Differently--?"
"I mustn't come on the sly. I'll get an introduction."
"But none of your friends are likely to know anybody in Pomander Walk!"
Jack leaped up. "Is this Pomander Walk?" he almost shouted. "Why, that
's what I Ve been looking for all the afternoon. That's where my friend
lives--the Admiral!"
It was Marjolaine's turn to be astonished.
"Not Sir Peter Antrobus!"
"Yes!--Do you know him?"
"Why, he's the King of the Walk! He lives at Number One. If you 're
quite quiet you can almost hear him snoring!"
"Why, there we are then! I'm introduced! I'm on a proper footing! The
whole thing's ship-shape! O Marjory, what a relief!"
"But I don't understand--"
"Yes, you do. He 's my father's oldest friend. I served under him as a
middy on board the _Termagant_. I 'm very fond of him. I 'll come and
see him to-morrow!"
Marjolaine clapped her hands. "And then he can introduce you to Maman!"
"Don't you see? It's grand! I'll come and see him often--every
day--twice a day. If he 's out, I can sit under the elm and wait for
him--with you. Oh! are n't you glad?"
"I'm very glad you 've found your old friend," she answered demurely.
"What's to-day?"
"Quintidi. Fifth Prairial. Year Thirteen--" she replied without
thinking.
Jack could only stare. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh," she laughed, "I had forgotten I was in England. Saturday."
Jack's face sank. "Then to-morrow 's Sunday. Hang. Well! I'll come on
Monday. Shall you be here?"
"I am always here."
"Be under the elm." He thought a moment, and then added insidiously,
"Shall you your mother about to-day?"
Marjolaine hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the
proper formalities had been observed. "On Monday; when you've been
introduced."
"That's it!" cried Jack. "And now I'll be off." He took both her hands
in his. "Good-bye. Oh, but it's good to be alive! It's good to be
young! The river is good that brought me here! The sun is good that
made me thirsty!"
"And the claret was good?"
"The claret--! Nectar!--Oh, Jack!--Jack!--"
Marjolaine held up the glass, still half full.
"Finish it, then."
Jack started back in horror, but seeing the dawning surprise on her
face, bravely seized the tumbler and dashed it off. Thus swiftly was
his perjury avenged.
"Good-bye, little Marjory. Till Monday!"
She looked up at him wistfully. "You think you will come?"
"Think!" cried Jack; and every lover's vow was in the one word.
"Slip to your boat, quickly!" cried Marjolaine, peeping round the corner
of the Gazebo. But before he could move she gave a startled cry and
motioned him back. For the Muffin-man had entered the Walk ringing his
bell.
"Dash it! What's that?" cried Jack.
"Keep still! It's the Muffin-man!"
"I'm off!"
"Wait!" Now she was peeping through an opening in the box-wood hedge.
"Jack! The whole Walk's awake! Look!"
Jack's head was very close to hers. "I can't see; your hair's in the
way. Don't move!" For a moment they stood watching.
And indeed the Walk was awake. The Muffin-man's bell had acted like
magic. The Admiral and Jim were already bargaining with him. Mrs.
Poskett was on her doorstep with a plate in her hand. So was Ruth
Pennymint. Barbara was in the garden, and Basil was telling her just
how many muffins he wanted from the upstairs window; Jane, Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn's maid, was waiting impatiently; and Dr. Sternroyd had
come out of his house book in hand, and was making frantic signals so as
not to be overlooked. And they were all talking, and gesticulating, and
calling.
"By Jove!" cried Jack excitedly, "there's old Antrobus!"
"All of them! All of them!" wailed Marjolaine.
"They 're all buying muffins--greedy pigs!--They won't see me." He made
as if to dash out.
Marjolaine held him back. "Yes, they will. Let me go first. I'll get
them talking, and then you can slip away." But she started back with a
suppressed scream.
"What now?" cried Jack.
"Maman and Nanette!"
Yes. As ill-luck would have it Madame Lachesnais and her old servant
turned the corner at this moment, and with a friendly word to each of
her neighbours Madame was coming slowly towards the Gazebo.
"They must not come here!" cried Marjolaine in distress. "I cannot
explain you before the whole Walk!--Is my hair straight?"
"Lovely!--Monday?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm frightened."
"Monday?" insisted Jack.
"Yes! Yes!"
But meanwhile Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had come out of his house, and taking
advantage of the hubbub in the Walk had crossed--shall I say like a
sleuth-hound?--more like a sleuth-cat, if there be such an animal--to
the Gazebo. So that when Marjolaine came forward to intercept her
mother, she ran straight into his arms.
"All right, Miss Marjory," he whispered, with something very like a
wink, "I'll fetch the things for you."
"No, no!" cried Marjolaine, in agony.
Her mother caught sight of her and called her.
For a moment Marjolaine stood irresolute. Then, with an almost
hysterical laugh, she ran to her mother. "Me voila, Maman cherie!"
Jack was peering through the hole in the hedge, looking for a chance of
escape. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn put his head slily round the corner of the
Gazebo--and, sure enough, just as he had suspected--there was a young
man!
What with the Muffin-man, and Madame, and Marjolaine running to and fro
and button-holing everybody who seemed to be inclined to drift towards
the summer-house, the Walk's attention was fully occupied. Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn lifted his fat hand and brought it down with a sounding
thwack on Jack's shoulder.
"What the devil--?" cried Jack, turning fiercely on his assailant. And
then in amazement, "Hoskyn! By all that's improbable, old Hoskyn!"
If it were possible for a large man to shrivel, the great Mr. Jerome
Brooke-Hoskyn seemed to shrivel as he recognised Jack. He could only
stammer, "You, sir--you!--"
"Hoskyn!" repeated Jack. And then, suspiciously, "What the devil are
you doing here?"
I hate to have to write the words, but Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had all the
obsequious manner of a well-trained servant. "I beg pardon, sir," he
muttered, and turned to go.
But Jack caught him by the lapel of his coat. "No, no, Hoskyn; you don't
get off so easily. What are you doing here?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned sulky. "I'm living here, sir."
"The doose you are!--Well, you're in the nick of time. Be a good fellow
and fetch my hat out of the boat."
"Certainly, sir," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. But as he started to do so, he
caught sight of the Admiral. He turned to Jack and said respectfully
but firmly, "I'm very sorry, Master Jack; but I can't do it."
"Why not?"
"I'm looked up to here, sir. I should lose prestige."
Jack eyed him half with suspicion and half with mockery. "I say,
Hoskyn, what's your little game?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was getting angry. "What's yours, sir?" he asked
defiantly.
"What the devil do you mean?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn pointed an accusing finger at the wine and the crumbs
of cake. "I mean--this."
"What of it? What do you insinuate?" cried Jack fiercely.
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's blood was up, and he was not to be intimidated.
"It ain't right, sir. It ain't right for you to come here like a snake
in the grass drinking claret and making love to our little Miss Marjory.
I won't help you! I'll be damned if I do!"
"Do you mean I'm doing something underhand?"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn looked at him sternly. "Well--ain't you, sir?"
"I'll devilish soon show you!" shouted Jack, trying to pass him.
But now Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn fell into a sudden panic. "Don't betray me,
sir! Don't, sir!" he entreated, trying to stop him.
Jack thrust him roughly aside with an angry, "Out of my way!" and poor
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn sank on the seat in the summer-house, gasping, "Good
Lord! He'll tell the whole Walk!"
Jack had acted on the spur of the moment; but now that he was face to
face with all the inhabitants of the Walk a sudden shyness took hold of
him and he stood irresolute. Marjolaine had sat down exhausted on the
seat under the elm, and Madame Lachesnais was coming towards her.
Little Barbara Pennymint was the first to see Jack. She gave a demure
little scream and ran to the Admiral. "Look! A stranger!" Sir Peter
was on his dignity at once. He came straight at Jack. "Now, sir--may I
ask--?"
"Admiral," cried Jack, saluting.
"Eh," said the Admiral, fixing his one eye on the young man,
"Gobblessmysoul! what a coincidence!" He seized Jack's hand and nearly
wrung it off, while the whole Walk watched with amazed curiosity, and
Marjolaine looked on with delight. "I'm delighted to see you, my
lad!--De-lighted!" He turned to Madame Lachesnais as the social leader
of the Walk. "Madame Lachesnais!" he cried, holding Jack by the hand,
"Let me have the honour of presenting my gallant young friend, the
Honourable Jack Sayle, son of my old friend, Lord--"
He never got any further. At the words, "Jack Sayle," Madame, who had
been standing smilingly to welcome the young man, gave a sharp cry,
swayed, and sank swooning in Nanette's arms.
Then what a commotion there was, to be sure! Marjolaine ran to her
mother, Mrs. Poskett, Ruth and Barbara crowded round her or rushed about
vaguely, crying, "Salts! Quick!" The Admiral stood petrified a moment.
Then he hurried Jack towards the boat. "Get away, Jack!" Jack
resisted. "But--!"
"Away with you!" insisted the Admiral in a raucous whisper.
"Discretion!--They'll have to unhook her!"
But the Eyesore went on fishing.
*CHAPTER VI*
*IN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF*
[Illustration: Chapter VI headpiece]
The Admiral was much troubled. A week had elapsed since Madame fainted,
and although the mysterious process of unhooking her, together with a
dash of water on her face, and the salts, had brought her to very
rapidly, a cloud had seemed to hang over the Walk since that moment. It
was certainly not itself, and it had grown less like itself as the days
passed. Madame was apparently quite well, yet she stayed within doors,
or, if she came out, her face was more than usually sad, and she walked
with slow steps, like one who bears a heavy burden of sorrow. She was
not seen in church on Sunday. Marjolaine was there, bright and happy.
She had assured everybody there was nothing really serious the matter
with her mother: only a headache. On Monday morning Marjolaine was
still her usual merry self, but as the morning wore into the afternoon
and the afternoon into the evening she grew restless. The Admiral
noticed that she kept on going to the river-bank and looking up and down
stream as if she were expecting someone. On Tuesday she was out very
early, still apparently watching. On Wednesday she grew silent, and
refused to have her usual singing-lesson on the plea that she was not
feeling very well. On Thursday she turned unnaturally gay, but there
was a hard note in her laughter, and Sir Peter had caught her sobbing in
the Gazebo. Fortunately she had not noticed him, and he was able to
retire without disturbing her. But he himself was greatly disturbed.
The more so as he had seen that Madame was watching her daughter
intently, and that every change in Marjolaine was reflected on the elder
lady's face.
Friday found Marjolaine pale and dejected; and here was midday on
Saturday, and she had not yet appeared!
Could she be sickening for a serious illness? Sir Peter was nervous and
anxious. He was also put out by the fact that although Jack Sayle had
promised as he hurriedly rowed away, that he would come to see him on
the Monday, the whole week had passed without a sign of the young
lieutenant, and without any word of explanation.
But the entire Walk was nervous and anxious. It had grown so accustomed
to Marjolaine's songs and merry laughter, that as she grew silent and
grave, the Walk grew silent and grave with her. Mrs. Poskett's temper
underwent a change for the worse, and she and Ruth Pennymint very nearly
had words over a milk-can which the dairy-man had carelessly hung on the
wrong railing. Ruth's ill-humour was aggravated by the behaviour of
Barbara and Basil. They went about sighing and turning up the whites of
their eyes; Barbara shut herself up two and three hours every day with
the parrot, and Basil ground at the slow movement of the Kreutzer
Sonata, repeating one particularly heart-rending passage so persistently
that Ruth wanted to scream.
But the man who behaved most strangely of all was Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
That magnificent creature showed all the symptoms of a guilty
conscience. It is true he strutted about the Walk, dressed as
faultlessly as ever, swung his tassled cane with much of his old
elegance, and took snuff with all the airy grace imaginable. And
yet--and yet--! Somehow, his clothes seemed to hang loosely on him.
Somehow, his hat, though poised at a rakish angle, no longer conveyed
the old devil-may-care impression. His face no longer beamed with
unassailable self-satisfaction. There was a furtive look in his eyes,
as though he were constantly on the watch. It is a low comparison to
apply, but if you have ever seen a dog who knows he has just stolen a
piece of meat, you have seen Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. Once, when the Admiral,
who was stubbornly resisting the universal depression, came up behind
him unobserved and suddenly slapped him on the back, he screamed--he
positively screamed. "Thought the Bow-street runners was after you?"
roared the Admiral heartily. But the tone of fury with which he replied
"Certainly not, sir! How dare you?" was so sincere that Sir Peter did
not pursue the joke. Evidently he had indeed thought the runners were
after him.
The Walk was like a drooping flower, and even the Eyesore felt the
depressing influence; he fished less hopefully than ever, and it was
noticed that he interrupted his fishing more frequently for excursions
outside the bounds of Pomander Walk: excursions from which he returned
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and returned each time
perhaps a trifle less steadily.
Now, all these good people had lost their usual good spirits and their
cheery outlook on life merely because one little girl had left off
laughing; and she had left off laughing because one very young man had
not kept his word.
The servants of the Walk were very busy this Saturday morning. Jane,
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, was explaining to Abigail, Mrs. Poskett's
little maid, that nothing should persuade her to continue wearing the
Charity-School costume after she had risen to the dignity of domestic
service. Jim was feverishly polishing the Admiral's little brass
cannon. That brass cannon was the apple of the Admiral's remaining eye;
and at the same time the plague of his life. On every state occasion,
such as the King's birthday, or the anniversary of the Battle of
Copenhagen, he would, to the great terror of the Walk, have it out,
plant it pointing truculently to the opposite side of the river and,
standing well away from it, apply a match. This was always an agonised
moment of suspense for the Walk. But invariably the gun refused to go
off. The Admiral's expletives, however, supplied an efficient
substitute. I am sorry to say the failure to explode was always due to
an act of treachery on Jim's part. The Walk subscribed five shillings
towards that ancient mariner's liquid refreshment, and the ancient
mariner withdrew the charge in the dead of night. To-day he was
polishing the gun well in view of all the houses. The King's birthday
was approaching, and the Walk needed a gentle reminder that unless it
wished to be stunned and to have all its windows broken, now was the
time to start the usual collection.
Nanette came out of Number Four, carrying a rug and a bamboo cane,
evidently bent on beating the former on the lawn. Jane drew Jim's
attention to her. Then began a battle of tongues. Jim tried to explain
that this was not allowed. If she wanted to beat the rug, she must do
so in the back garden. Words, none of which either could understand,
grew high; Abigail and Jane joined in, and the place became a veritable
Babel of screaming voices and of wildly waving arms.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn opened his window violently. "What's all this?" he
cried; and he was such an amazing apparition that the voices sank to
sudden silence and the servants rushed, helter-skelter, into their
respective houses.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was finishing his toilet. He was brushing his hair.
It stood out on each side of his head like a sort of double mane, and
his face looked exactly like the representations of a flaming sun on the
cover of an almanac. He was carrying on a conversation with Selina, and
both he and his wife were evidently in a bad humour.
"But, my own Selina," said he, "what was I to do? Be reasonable. I
only wrote and told his lordship the boy was carrying on a clandestine
love-affair.--No, of course I did n't sign the letter.--None of my
business?--Now, Selina, if I had n't wrote he 'd have come again, and
all would have been disclosed. We should have been obleeged to leave
the Walk.--Drat the Walk?--Oh! fie! That is not how my ring-dove
customarily coos.--What? soft words butter no parsnips?--Selina,
Selina--! Does my Selina think she is in her kitchen?--Yes; I know I
've made Miss Marjory very unhappy; but we must make other people
unhappy, if we 're to be happy ourselves. I 'm sorry for her, very
sorry. She's a sweet creature." There was a sound of a broken tea-cup.
"There you go again!--You scold me for making her unhappy, and you scold
me for being sorry. There 's no pleasing you anyhow!"
In his perplexity he had brushed his hair over the top of his head, and
now he looked like an angry cockatoo.
Marjolaine came slowly and dejectedly out of her house. She heard Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn's voice and glanced up at him, but even his wild and
wonderful appearance failed to draw a smile from her. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
could not retire, much as he would have liked to. He waved a
conciliatory hair-brush at her, and cried with assumed cheerfulness,
"Ah, Miss Marjory--! How do you do?" then in response to some remark
from his wife, he turned and whispered peevishly, "I must speak to her;
it's only polite. Don't snivel." He addressed Marjolaine again,
deprecatorily, "You are looking a little pale."
Marjolaine drew herself up. It was intolerable that anybody should see
she was in trouble.
"I never felt better in my life," she said defiantly.
"But more like the lily than the rose?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn with
a fine touch of lyricism; and then to Selina, "No; I am not talking
nonsense! It was a quotation."
"How is Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn this morning?" asked Marjolaine.
"In the highest spirits!" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "My dear Selina," he
explained, turning towards the room, "Miss Marjory is kind enough to ask
after your health, and I am telling her you are in the highest spirits.
Do--not--snivel--she 'll hear you!" To Marjolaine, with a ghastly
smile, "Her gaiety is infectious; positively infectious!" Some hard
object, thrown with unerring aim, caught him in the small of the back.
"Oh, Lord!" he cried. "Excuse me, Miss Marjory; Selina has just
remembered a joke she wishes to tell me. Thus the hours pass in
innocent mirth and badinage. Excuse me!" He turned away. "You really
_are_--!" he cried, almost viciously; and slammed the window, and
disappeared.
But Marjolaine never smiled. She moved as one who had no particular
object in life. She drifted instinctively towards the river-bank
although she knew that strain her eyes as she might the little boat she
had looked for all the week was now less likely than ever to appear. At
one moment she seemed almost inclined to speak to the Eyesore; to ask
him whether he had seen what she had so long been vainly looking for.
But the Eyesore was at that instant impaling a worm, and was altogether
too revolting. She stood a moment looking up and down the stream, and
then turned away with a great sigh.
Mrs. Poskett's great yellow cat, Sempronius, was curled up in the sun
just behind the Gazebo. Marjolaine looked at him. She and he were fast
friends, and in happier times she would have had a friendly word for him
and an affectionate caress. To-day, even that was too much of an
effort. Fortunately Sempronius was asleep and did not notice her
inattention.
Sir Peter Antrobus opened his upstair window and hung the osier cage
with the thrush in it on its nail. He caught sight of the disconsolate
little figure. "Missie, ahoy!" he roared, as though he were hailing a
friendly craft in the offing. Marjolaine started.
"Oh, Sir Peter! You made me jump!"
"Sent a shot across your bows--what?" roared the Admiral.
"How's the thrush?" asked Marjolaine with an interest she did not feel.
"Peaky. Peaky. That confounded cat next door's been watching him.
Seen him about anywhere?"
Marjolaine pointed to where Sempronius was lying wrapped in innocent
slumber. "He's quite safe," she said. "There."
But the Eyesore was between him and Sir Peter, and the latter had to
twist himself into what was for so portly a gentleman a very unnatural
position in order to see him. "Eh? Where?"
"There," she answered, "there, behind the--" she was just going to say
"Eyesore," but stopped herself in time. "Behind the Gazebo."
"Oh, there! Well, if he moves I'll kill him!"
Marjolaine wondered. Could Sir Peter tell her what she so much wanted
to know? Could he, at least, be brought to talk about what her heart
was full of?
"Sir Peter," she said, with as much of her old cheerfulness as she could
summon, and with that pretty way of hers which no one could resist, "Are
you very busy? Could you spare time for a little chat?"
"With you?" cried the Admiral, gallantly. "Hours!" He vanished from the
window and was heard tumbling down his stairs two at a time. I believe
if he had been only a few years younger he would have slid down the
balustrade. Jim told Jane later in the day he had never seen anything
like it.
Marjolaine waited for him under the elm, and pondered how she was to
lead the conversation round to what she wanted to hear.
The Admiral burst out of his house. For once he took no notice of the
Eyesore. The cat, however, did arrest his attention. Sempronius,
scenting an enemy, was blinking at him out of one eye. Sempronius'
attitude towards the Admiral was one of armed neutrality. He knew Sir
Peter bore him no good-will, but he also knew Sir Peter dare not touch
him. Wherefore, although he kept a wary look-out, even the Admiral's
threatening gesture was not enough to make him stir from his sunny
corner.
Sir Peter came to Marjolaine.
"He's sitting there, watching the Eyesore like a tiger. Shows cats have
no sense. 'Pears to think the Eyesore's going to catch a fish! Ha!
Never caught a fish in his born days!" He took both Marjolaine's hands
in his. "Well, Missie; what can I do for you?"
"Talk to me," said Marjolaine.
Sir Peter was flattered and delighted. Their little Missie was coming
to life again. "Ah!--tell ye what," he said, swinging her hands, "If we
had that fiddler here, we might practise the hornpipe!" He whistled
gaily and tried to force her into the step.
"No, no!" she cried, breaking away from him; and then, more gently, "No:
not to-day!"
The Admiral looked at her anxiously out of his one eye. "Oh?" said he,
sympathetically, "In the doldrums?"
"Sir Peter," she cried, impulsively, "was you ever broken-hearted?"
"Lord bless your pretty eyes, yes! Every time I left port."
"Ah! but did the world seem like an empty husk? and did you want to sit
down and cry your eyes out?"
This was much worse than the Admiral had anticipated. He must try to
make her laugh.
"Well, ye see, I could only have cried one out, was it ever-so!"
"Then what did you do? How did you cure yourself?"
"Why, with a jorum of rum, to be sure!"
Marjolaine was disappointed. "Oh!--I can't do that!"
Sir Peter came closer. "What? Are you broken-hearted?"
Good heavens! What had she been saying? Had she given away her precious
secret?
"Certainly not!" she answered, with flaming cheeks. "Of course not.
It's nothing. Only somebody--somebody has broken their word."
"Look-a-that, now!" cried the Admiral, puzzled. "But I'll cure you!
I'll tell you a story. Something funny. How I lost my eye--what?" He
drew her down beside him on the seat under the elm. "Ye see, it was on
board o' the _Termagant_--"
"When you was with Nelson?" asked Marjolaine.
"Ay. Battle o' Copenhagen; year Eighteen-one."
Here was a possible opening. At any rate Marjolaine would try.
"I suppose you had many officers under you?" she insinuated.
"Hundreds!" cried Sir Peter, enthusiastically; and then, feeling he had
conveyed an exaggerated impression, "well--when I say hundreds--!" his
memory awoke. "Ah! I was somebody, then!--But this infernal
government--!"
Marjolaine laid her hand soothingly on his arm. "I suppose some of them
were quite young?" she said, with splendidly assumed indifference.
Every woman is a born actress.
"Middies?" cried the Admiral, with magnificent contempt. "Lord love ye,
I took no notice o' them! Passel o' powder-monkeys!" Then he added
with a touch of tender recollection, "Not but what Jack Sayle--"
"Jack what?" said Marjolaine quickly, as if she had not heard.
"Sayle. Jack Sayle. You know. Young feller I presented to your
lady-mother a week ago. Time she swooned--"
"Oh, yes."
"Gobblessmysoul! I was startled! I thought--"
The Admiral must not be allowed to wander from the only topic that
mattered. Marjolaine interrupted him. "Was he on your ship?"
"What, Jack Sayle? Ay, was he. And a fine young feller, too. Of
course you was much too agitated to notice him last Saturday. Gad! I
wonder he has n't been to see me all the week. Promised he would. Said
he 'd come last Monday."
"Did he?" cried Marjory. So he had broken his word in two places!
"He did. There! He's only on leave, and he has heavy social duties.
Only son of Lord Otford, y' know."
"Lord Otford!" Marjolaine repeated, amazed. The name and the title
somehow impressed her with a sense of vague fear.
"Ay, ay," the unconscious Admiral proceeded garrulously. "My old
friend. Otford's selfish about him. Ye see, the boy 'll come into a
great estate. Half a county. And the old man's anxious about his
marriage."
"Whose marriage?" asked Marjory, almost voicelessly.
"Why, Jack's, to be sure!--Lord!--they marry 'em now before they 're out
of their swaddling clothes. Otford's in a hurry to secure the
succession--" He stopped abruptly. This was really not a subject to
discuss with a young girl. "Hum!--what I was about to say--er--the
Honourable Caroline Thring--!"
"Caroline Thring"--Marjolaine repeated the name to herself. It was a
name to remember.
"Ay--daughter and sole heiress of Lord Wendover. Not my sort. Goes
about doing good--like the party last Saturday. But the two estates 'll
cover the county. It's an undoubted match--"
Marjolaine had heard all she wanted--and more. She felt she would break
down if the Admiral went on. She looked all around the Walk for help;
for some excuse to break off the conversation. There was only
Sempronius. "I think--" she just gave herself time to make up her mind
as to what she could think--"I think I saw Sempronius stirring!"
Sir Peter jumped up. "Damn that cat!" he cried--"Beg pardon!--I'll--"
But the golden-haired Sempronius was sound asleep with his bushy tail
over his nose.
Whether the Eyesore was shocked by the Admiral's bad language--which
seems unlikely--or whether he was moved by his usual thirst, he dropped
his fishing-rod, and vanished round the corner.
The Admiral hurried back.
"No. He 's quiet enough." He saw Marjolaine's sad face and added,
"Gobblessmysoul! Here I 've been boring you about a young feller you
don't know--" To his amazement Marjolaine turned her face away
abruptly. The Admiral stopped short. Why did she turn away? Was it
possible that--? How long had Jack been in the Walk when he met him a
week ago? "_Do_ you know him?" said he. Marjolaine was silent. Sir
Peter gave a low whistle. He took her gently by the shoulder and turned
her towards him. "Here, I say, young woman--You just look me in the
eye." He pointed to his good one. "This eye." Marjolaine stood before
him in confusion. It made her angry to feel confused. Why should she
feel confused? "I--I have seen him once," she answered bravely.
"Have you, begad!--So that's what he was cruising about here for, was
it?--But I'll teach him!"
Marjolaine was very angry indeed. "Sir Peter!" she flashed at him, "If
you breathe it, I 'll never speak to you again!"
"D' ye think I 'll have him coming here--?"
"But he's not coming here!" cried Marjolaine; and with a meaning of her
own: "Oh, don't you see he's not coming?--Swear you won't breathe a word
to a living soul! Swear! Swear!"
"Damme!" cried the Admiral. "I must think that over. And as for you,"
he added, with humorous sternness, "you come and sit under the tree and
I 'll talk to you like a Dutch uncle."
Marjolaine saw Mrs. Poskett at her window. It would not do for Sir Peter
to talk to her like an uncle--Dutch or otherwise. "Sir Peter!" she
cried, "Sempronius is going to jump!"
Sir Peter rushed to the cat again, and again found him sound asleep. He
turned furiously towards Marjolaine, but Mrs. Poskett intercepted him.
"Good morning, Sir Peter!"
Sir Peter looked up, where the widow was shaking the ribbons of her cap
at him. "Morning, ma'am," he said, sulkily. "Your cat--"
"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Poskett, craning forward to see her pet. "Dear
Sempronius!--Don't disturb him! He's so happy!"
"But--!"
"I 'm sure it's going to rain," the widow explained. "He always sits
there when he feels rain coming; because the fish rise, and he loves
watching them."
"Confounded nonsense," growled Sir Peter.
Mrs. Poskett closed her window, and Sir Peter was on the point of
returning to Marjolaine and having it out with her, when Madame
Lachesnais came out of her house. Of course that made all conversation
with the girl impossible, and as he did not feel he could meet the
mother, knowing what he now knew, there was nothing left for him but to
salute her and beat a hasty retreat into his own house and think things
over.
*CHAPTER VII*
*SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF*
[Illustration: Chapter VII headpiece]
Engrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the
river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be
the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week;
but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had
evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains.
Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded
from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter
had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time--long ago: twenty
years ago and more--when she herself had looked and spoken and moved,
just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for
that. In Marjolaine's case there could be no reason. No one had
crossed her young life--or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so
suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant
memories of her own youth!--Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine
had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable.
Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy
until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition
when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure?
In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had
borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy
exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely
possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they
cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders.
And, to be sure, her own father--she had lost her mother in early
youth--had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist
cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl's
sentimental nonsense. But she--had she paid enough attention to her
daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security
by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man--Jack Sayle,
of all people in the world!--had won Marjolaine's heart, why, here were
the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It
must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind.
Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however,
and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and
would do it.
She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for
the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending
low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried
across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her
shoulders and gently called her by her name.
[Illustration: "SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND
GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"]
The touch of her mother's arm, the sound of her mother's voice let loose
the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms
round her mother's waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat
down beside her and drew her very close. "Cherie--my darling! What is
the matter?"
Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed
the tears from her eyes, as she answered--"Nothing, Maman. I think--it
is so beautiful here!--So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a
little on your heart."
There was a sad smile on Madame's face. As if you cried because the sun
was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured
soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week?
Cry, my darling, and tell me."
"There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs.
"Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the
river. "There was something; but--" and down went her head on her
mother's breast--"there is nothing now."
Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!--I
tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time
in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were
parted."
"Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that
was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no
longer exists. It has"--she made one of her quaint little gestures--"it
has--evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her
face.
Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then,
there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young
girl's heart? "Ah, cherie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists:
it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you
tell me."
Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her
some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of
puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and
anxious to speak, she had nothing to say.
"Tell me," repeated Madame.
"I can't, Maman."
"Why not?"
"I cannot begin alone: I don't know how."
"Shall I help you, Marjolaine?"
"Can you?"
Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might
lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively.
"Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger,
that young man--"
There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet.
Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her
breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her,
the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he
were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"--she spoke
quietly but intensely--"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and--"
her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not
turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had
stood--"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always
known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he
were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things
that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I
could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was
only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and
flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on!
And all the time my heart was singing!--He told me his name; and my
heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her
voice sank to an awed whisper. "And--Mother!--I seemed to step out of
childhood suddenly, into--into what, Mother?--What was it?"
"Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far,
so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been
transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour.
Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had
stepped across the threshold of childhood.
But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me
with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again--but he
never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had
taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet.
"He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried
away!--Oh, mother, what is it?"
Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having
unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a
mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us,
poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while
this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the
fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"
Marjolaine looked up at her with great, innocent eyes. "But it would
have been the same if you had been there!"
"I suppose so," said Madame, sadly. "There is no barrier against it:
not even a mother's arms."
"But what is it?" asked Marjolaine, wistfully.
Her mother looked at her searchingly, and Marjolaine met her gaze
steadfastly, with her clear, truthful eyes. It was patent she did not
indeed know what caused this new pain at her heart. Madame looked long.
Her daughter seemed, in a way, suddenly to have become a stranger to
her. This child was a child no longer, and her mother no longer held
the first place in her heart. Yes! and if Marjolaine had suddenly leapt
out of childhood, then she, the mother, must begin to face old age: she
was the mother of a marriageable girl. She would fight against this
while she could; not for unworthy or small motives, but to keep her
daughter's companionship. Who was this Jack Sayle that he should come
like a thief in the night and steal Marjolaine's youth, her happiness
and her peace of mind, and tear the girl out of her mother's arms? "No,"
she said, at last, "I will not tell you. If I told you it would grow
stronger; and it must not. It shall not. You must win yourself back,
as I did. Oh! but sooner, and more completely!"
Marjolaine was amazed. Had her mother gone through what she was going
through now? "As you did--?" she cried, in a voice which betrayed her
astonishment.
Madame smiled sadly. "My dearest dear, the young never realise they are
not beginning the world. Your story is mine."
With a cry of "Oh, mother!" Marjolaine nestled closer.
"Yes; but mine was longer and therefore left more pain in its track.
Cherie, cherie, I am not telling you this to make light of your sorrow,
but to show you I know what your pain is: to show you how to fight now,
now, with all your might, to win yourself back." She paused a moment,
to gather her thoughts and to gather strength. Then she continued very
softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself, "It was years and
years ago, in my father's garden--in the old vicarage garden--that I
felt the sun and the song enter my heart. He and I were very young and
very happy." Madame paused. "And then he rode away; and I never saw him
again."
"Maman!" whispered Marjolaine, stroking her mother's cheek.
"We had lived in our dream a whole year; so my love--"
Marjolaine started at the word. "Love!" Was this love?--
But her mother did not notice her, and went on; "So my love had time to
grow. Its roots were twined round my heart; and when he left me, and
tore the roots out of me, I thought he had torn my heart out with them."
"Like me," said Marjolaine, below her breath.
Madame drew her closer, and whispered, "Would you like to know his
name?"
There was something in her mother's voice which told Marjolaine her
mother had some special reason for asking her. "Yes; what was it?" she
asked, hushed, and very tenderly.
Her mother looked straight into her eyes and answered slowly,
"Jack--Sayle."
Marjolaine recoiled in amazement. "Mother!--I don't understand!"
"The father of the boy you have seen!"
"How wonderful!"
"Much more wonderful things happen every day. It's much more wonderful
that I can tell you this now: that I ever grew out of my love. For I
loved him--ah, how deeply!"
There was a long silence.
Here was a curious thing. If any profane eye had lighted on the
group--the young girl kneeling at Madame's feet in the green coolness of
the elm; that profane eye would have got the impression that here were a
mother and daughter closely linked in some common sorrow, and clinging
to each other for mutual consolation. In one sense that impression would
have been the right one; but in one sense only. Their thoughts were
worlds apart. Madame was remembering the days when she was Lucy Pryor,
the daughter of the vicar of Otford. The great Lord Otford was Lord of
the Manor, and his son, the Honourable John Sayle, being a delicate lad,
was studying desultorily with the Vicar. The Vicar was more interested
in butterflies than in Greek roots, and the boy and girl spent most of
their time in the great vicarage garden. Thus the lad had grown strong
and well set up. He was gazetted into the Army, and sent to America,
where the war had just broken out. There he stayed five years. Lucy
treasured the dearest memories of her playfellow, and when he came back,
a splendid lieutenant, it is hardly necessary to say that they fell
seriously in love. Their love was patent to everyone except the vicar
and the old Lord. When the latter discovered it, his fury was
indescribable. He drove the vicar out of his living, and had him
transferred to a miserable parish in the East-end of London, where there
was n't a single butterfly; and he sent his son, who had retired from
the army, on the Grand Tour. The lovers parted, vowing to be faithful;
but young Sayle very soon forgot his vows in the excitement of travel.
At Rome he met the Honourable Mabel Scott, daughter of Lord Polhousie,
and, to cut a long story short, he married her, without a thought for
poor Lucy, whom the shock nearly killed. Nor did he ever know the blow
he had inflicted, nor ever hear from her, or of her, again. She was lost
in the wilderness of London. A few years later he had succeeded his
father, and was sent as Ambassador to Vienna. In the same year his son
John--our Jack--was born, and his birth was closely followed by the
mother's death.
Marjolaine, too, was thinking hard. All sorts of new ideas, new
conceptions, were looming on her horizon. They came as angels,
certainly, but angels with flaming swords. It seemed that great
happiness could be inextricably interwoven with great misery, so that a
simple human being could not tell where the one began and the other
ended. It seemed that a man could say one thing and mean another: that
he could look like the Archangel Michael and yet not mean what he said.
It seemed that you could be wounded in all your finest and most
sensitive nerves just for looking at a man. It seemed also, that your
pride was of no use to you whatever, but deserted you when it was most
needed, or, rather, turned against you, and helped to hurt you. This
must be enquired into.
"Mere, cherie," she whispered.
"What, my darling?" asked Madame, coming out of her dream.
Marjolaine pressed her hand to her heart. There was an actual physical
pain there, as if an iron band were crushing it. "Is this--is what I
feel--love?"
"Ah!" cried Madame, "I have betrayed myself. I did not mean you to know.
I am afraid it was going to be--love."
"Going to be! But it is! Or else, this ache? What is it?"
"Crush it now!" Madame was distressed. She would not allow Marjolaine's
young life to be blighted as her own had been. "Crush it now!
Fiercely! ruthlessly! and it will be nothing. You have only seen him
once--"
"Does that make any difference?"
What could one answer to such a question? One could only ignore it.
"You must be very brave; very determined; and put the thought of him
away."
Marjolaine shook her head sadly. How could she put the thought of him
away? It was in her. It filled her. It was she herself. And did she
want to put it away? Would she put it away if she could? It seemed to
her that if the thought were withdrawn now, she would be left a hollow
husk of a thing, with no thought at all.
Madame saw she had gone too far too quickly. "Dear, I know. It took me
a long time, because I had been happy so long; but at last, when your
father came, I was able to put my hand in his, and look straight into
his eyes."
Here was a new mystery for Marjolaine. So good and beautiful a woman as
her mother could love twice, then?
"Mother," said she, with grave enquiry, "did you love my father as much
as you had loved Jack?"
However good and blameless we may be, it is a very uncomfortable
experience to be cross-examined by utter, single-minded innocence.
"Listen," said Madame, "life is long, and nature merciful. I recovered
very slowly; but I tried to be brave; I tried to take an interest in the
life around me: the sordid, sunless life of the very poor, so much
sadder than my own. Then Jules Lachesnais came to live with us--with my
father and me--in order to study the English language and our political
institutions. A great friendship sprang up between us. When my father
died, Jules urged me to marry him. I was utterly alone in the world; I
felt a deep affection for him; and I consented."
She waited for Marjolaine to say something; but Marjolaine was silent.
"He took me to France, where you were born. We went through the horrors
of the Revolution side by side. He played an active part in those
horrible days; always on the side of justice and moderation. The aim of
his life was to see his country under a constitutional government, such
as he had learnt to admire during his stay in England. The excesses he
was forced to witness disgusted him, and he resisted them with all his
might." Madame was lost in her reminiscences. "Ah, yes! You were too
young to know; but we all ran grave risks of falling victims to the
guillotine. Your father hailed Napoleon as a deliverer; but when
Napoleon began to usurp power, he foresaw the dawning tyranny; still
more when Napoleon was made consul for life. He retired more and more
from public affairs, thereby incurring the tyrant's anger and again
endangering his life. When Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor your father
protested publicly--think of the courage! He was expelled, and he died
disappointed and heartbroken. He was a brave, true man, faithful to his
ideals. I was very proud of him; very happy and contented. And I _am_
very happy and contented now," she added defiantly,--"or I shall be,
when I see you have won the victory!"
But Marjolaine was merciless. This was all very well, as far as her
mother was concerned. "But what became of poor Jack?" she asked.
"Poor Jack!" Madame laughed bitterly. "Poor Jack had married some great
lady!"
At once poor Jack had lost all Marjolaine's sympathy. She muttered
between her teeth, "Caroline Thring."
"I tell you," protested Madame--and perhaps she protested just a shade
too strongly--"I ceased to think of him. I forgot him."
Marjolaine's brow was puckered in thought. Could one forget? "But,
mother," she said, very simply, "if you had forgotten him, why did you
swoon when you heard his name?"
Down went the cloak of self-deception Madame had so carefully wrapped
round herself. She took her daughter's face in both her hands and looked
at her sadly. "Ah! my little girl is become a woman indeed! The
innocence of the dove, and the guile of the serpent!--Well! Think over
what I have told you. Come, now, cherie, you promise to fight?"
"Yes," said Marjolaine, without conviction.
"You promise to conquer?"
"I promise to try."
"At least you see there can be nothing between Lord Otford's son and my
daughter?"
"Yes." Oh, what a hesitating yes!
Madame folded her in her arms. "Try to lighten someone else's sorrow,"
she said, kissing her tenderly, "then you will forget your own, and the
roses will bloom in your cheeks again."
The Walk was beginning to show signs of life. The Eyesore came
slouching back, and resumed his fishing with a lack-lustre eye. The
early housekeeping having got itself done, the ladies of the Walk were
showing themselves at their windows, tending their flowers or dusting
their ornaments. Miss Ruth Pennymint came bustling out of her door,
with needlework. She looked up at the overcast sky and held up the back
of her hand.
"Ah," said Madame, catching sight of her. "Coming into the fresh air to
work, Miss Ruth?"
Miss Ruth was evidently not in the best of tempers. "Of course it's
going to rain," she snapped.
"Oh, not yet," said Madame, conciliatorily.
"Do you mind if I sew here?" said Miss Ruth. "It's so lonesome in the
house, when Barbara's locked up with that precious bird!"
What could be the matter? The word "precious" was uttered in a manner
which conveyed an exactly opposite meaning. Madame said soothingly,
"That is so touching!" And Ruth snorted. There is no other word. She
snorted. Madame and Marjolaine glanced at each other, and both moved
towards the house. But Miss Ruth had no intention of being left alone.
"Marjory!" she called. Marjolaine came back; and Madame went into
Number Four alone.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*CONCERNING A GREAT CONSPIRACY*
[Illustration: Chapter VIII headpiece]
Now Marjolaine did not want to talk to Miss Ruth just at that moment,
and it says much for her sweetness of character that she came back
docilely. "Marjory," said Miss Ruth, looking at her searchingly, "you
haven't had a singing-lesson this week."
Marjolaine was confused, and a little angry. She had just exhausted the
subject with her mother, and it was too bad to be thrust into the midst
of it again by this comparative stranger. So she answered rather
coldly, "I have n't been quite myself."
"So I saw," said Miss Ruth, examining her over her spectacles. A hot
flush rose to Marjolaine's cheeks. Had she really been wearing her
heart on her sleeve, and showing the whole Walk the state of her
feelings? She must be more careful in future.
"Anything the matter?" asked Miss Ruth.
Marjolaine answered hastily, "Oh, nothing. Nothing to speak of."
"H'm," said Miss Ruth, violently biting off a cotton-end. Then she
added, "Barbara was quite upset."
"How sweet of her!" cried Marjolaine.--Dear, sympathetic little Barbara!
"Oh! Not so much about you," said Miss Ruth rather acidly. "But she
looks forward to sitting with you and Mr. Pringle, when you are
singing."
"Is she so fond of music?" asked Marjolaine, glad to turn the
conversation into a less personal channel.
"Bless your dear heart, no!" exclaimed Miss Ruth sharply. "Now, would
she sit and listen to you if she were? She does n't know one note from
another."
It seemed to Marjolaine that the conversation was becoming rather
personal, so she held her tongue.
But Miss Ruth evidently had something on her mind of which she was
anxious to relieve herself.
"No, it is n't that," she said with a world of meaning which challenged
enquiry.
Marjolaine obliged her, although she felt no interest. "What is it,
then?"
Having succeeded in getting the question she wanted, Miss Ruth made a
feint of retreating. "Pfft!" she said, with the action of blowing some
annoying insect away, and then, cryptically, "Oh! grant me patience!"
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, astonished at her violence.
"Well!" cried Ruth, still more sharply. "It seems to me the whole house
is bewitched--that ever I should say such a thing."
Marjolaine grew more and more surprised. "Oh! I thought you were so
happy!"
"I 'm happy enough," snapped Ruth, "because I 'm not a fool. But what
with that feller upstairs, and Barbara down, a body has no peace of her
life."
Now, what could she mean? Of course Mr. Pringle was upstairs, and of
course Barbara was downstairs. How could that perfectly natural state
of things affect the peace of Miss Ruth's life?
"Tell me," said Marjolaine.
"Ha' n't you noticed anything? No. I s'pose you 're too young. Don't
know sheeps' eyes when you see 'em!"
What on earth had sheeps' eyes come into the story for?
"Sheeps' eyes?" Marjolaine asked, utterly puzzled.
"'T is n't for me to say anything," Miss Ruth continued, "but with him
mooning about the house, like"--words failed her--"like I don't know
what; and her moping, like a hen with the pip, it's enough to give a
body the fantoddles--as my poor, dear mother used to say."
[Illustration: "IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR
DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"]
Marjolaine suddenly saw light. Here, under her very eyes, was another
romance, like her own--only, of course, on an infinitely lower plane,
because it held no thread of tragedy--and she had been blind to it.
This was lovely! But she must make sure. She turned to Miss Ruth and
asked eagerly--"Are they--are they fond of each other?"
Ruth quite unnecessarily bit off another cotton-end. "I don't know!"
she cried crossly; but at once added, "Yes, of course they are!"
Marjolaine was more puzzled than ever. "Then, why don't they say so?"
she asked, quite simply.
"That's what I want to know," said Miss Ruth.
Lovers who might be perfectly happy, kept apart for want of a word,
thought Marjolaine. How wicked, and how silly! "You should speak to Mr.
Basil," she said, with all the gravity of her nineteen years and of her
bitter experience.
"Me!" cried Miss Ruth. "Bless your dear heart, he 'd up and run away.
He 's that shy a body can't look at him but he wants to hide in a
cupboard. He 's got it into his silly head he is n't good enough. As
if anybody'd notice his shoulder!"
"Perhaps," said Marjolaine, pensively, "if Barbara showed him she liked
him--Why don't you speak to her? Sympathetically."
"So I did, just now. Told her she was an idiot. What did she do? She
burst out crying, and went and shut herself up with that parrot."
"Ah!" sighed Marjolaine, with a pathetic look at the Gazebo, where she
had been so happy so short a time, so long ago, "Ah, yes! The old love!"
How well she understood!
"Old frying-pan!" cried Ruth.
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, deeply shocked. "The poor parrot."
"Oh, that bird!--Marjory!" said Ruth, firmly, as if the time had come to
utter a bitter but necessary truth at all costs, "Marjory, there are
times when I 'd give anybody a two-penny bit to wring that bird's neck!"
But Marjolaine had not been listening to her. The mention of the parrot
had set her thoughts working; her face suddenly lighted up with the
inspired look of one who has just conceived an epoch-making idea.
"Ruth!" she cried, running up to her.
Ruth naturally thought she was shocked. "Well, I don't care! I mean it.
If it was n't for that bird--"
But Marjolaine had snatched Ruth's needlework away and was trying to
drag her from the seat by both hands. "I was n't thinking of the bird!
Yes, I was thinking of the bird, but I was n't thinking what you thought
I was thinking. Oh! what nonsense you make me talk!"
"Whatever's got into the child's head?" cried Miss Ruth, swept off her
feet.
"Come!" insisted Marjolaine. "Quick! Come, and tell Barbara I want
her."
"What do you want her for?" asked Miss Ruth, struggling.
"I must n't tell you yet, she may refuse."
"Bless us and save us!" cried Miss Ruth, now on her feet, and struck by
the change in Marjolaine's appearance, "now your cheeks are glowing
again!"
"Maman said they would!" laughed Marjolaine. Positively, for the moment
she had forgotten her sorrows. "Come along!"
"Wait! My mouth 's full of pins!"
Seeing the two ladies under the tree, Sir Peter Antrobus had come out,
anxious for a little conversation. He was much disappointed when he
observed they were leaving the lawn.
"Going in, just as I'm coming out?" said he, reproachfully.
"Yes," laughed Marjolaine on the top step, and looking up at the
threatening sky, "like the little people in the weather cottages: you
come out for the rain; and I go in for the sunshine." Which, of course
was extremely inaccurate, but the correct statement would have spoiled
her meaning entirely.
"How are the peas coming on, Admiral?" asked Miss Ruth, for the sake of
politeness.
Sir Peter's temper was already ruffled by the disappointment of his
sociable intentions. Now he burst out, "How the doose can they come on,
Ma'am, when that everlasting cat roots 'em up every night?"
I am sorry to say, Miss Ruth laughed as he disappeared into the house.
The Admiral came towards Sempronius, who was now wide awake and watching
the Eyesore's float with lively interest; he shook his fist at him--I
mean the Admiral shook his fist at the cat--with comic fury, and found
himself shaking his fist at Lord Otford, who had just turned the corner.
"Shaking your fist at me, Peter?" asked Lord Otford, with a grim laugh.
"Hulloa, Otford!" cried the Admiral, feeling rather foolish.
Moreover, he was not particularly pleased to see Otford at that precise
moment. Only half-an-hour ago he had surprised Marjolaine's confidence.
He had not had time to think the matter over and make up his mind, and
now that he found himself without warning face to face with Jack's
father, he was torn between two conflicting emotions. On the one hand
he felt he ought to tell Otford about Jack and Marjolaine. That was his
plain duty; but it was one of those forms of duty which everybody tries
to find some plausible excuse for evading. He had surprised
Marjolaine's confidence: she had not given it voluntarily. On the other
hand he suspected that Jack's breach of faith in not coming near the
Walk for a whole week was due to some interference on the part of his
father, and he was so fond of Marjolaine, and so jealous of the status
of the Walk, that he resented such interference even before he knew
whether Otford had interfered. His keen eye saw, even while they were
shaking hands, that there was something on his friend's mind.
"How are you?" asked Lord Otford, perfunctorily. "Have you a moment to
spare?"
"All day; thanks to this confounded government," growled the Admiral.
Lord Otford plunged into the thick of his business at once. "I am in
great trouble," he blurted out, in the tone of a man who expects
sympathy.
He didn't get it. "Damme! you're in trouble once a week!" said the
Admiral. "Here! Come into the Gazebo."
Lord Otford started at the word. "The Gazebo?--Ha! Very appropriate!"
"Eh? Why?" asked Sir Peter, sitting on the seat in the summer-house and
making room for his friend beside him. Lord Otford produced a crumpled
letter from his pocket. "Here! Read this!" said he, thrusting it under
Sir Peter's nose.
"Can't," said the latter, curtly, "haven't my spy-glass on me!"
"Well, listen." Lord Otford read the letter aloud, with ill-suppressed
fury.--"'My lord--It is my painful duty to inform your Lordship that
your Lordship's son, the Hon. John Sayle, is carrying on a clandestine
love-affair with Mademoiselle Marjolaine Lachesnais, of Pomander
Walk--'"
The Admiral had grown purple in the face. "Belay, there!" he roared.
Lord Otford took no notice, but went on reading: "'Yesterday they were
together for an hour in the Gazebo--'"
The Admiral would have no more of it. "When did you get that, and who
sent it?" he roared. The fact that the information was true was quite
outweighed by the implication that an inhabitant of the Walk could have
been guilty of the lowest form of treachery.
"It's signed, 'Your true Friend and Well-wisher,'" said Lord Otford,
"and I had it on Sunday."
The Admiral could hardly speak. "Do you mean to say that damned,
anonymous, Sabbath-breaking rag came from Pomander Walk?"
"I presume so."
"Who sent it?" cried the Admiral, jumping up and walking to and fro in a
towering rage. "Show me the white-livered scoundrel, and by Jehoshaphat!
I 'll break every bone in his body!" He turned sharply towards Otford.
"Is it a man's writing, or a woman's?"
"It's vague: might be anybody's."
The Admiral was passing the houses of the Walk in review. "Can't be
Sternroyd--Brooke-Hoskyn--Pringle--We 're none of us anonymous
slanderers." His eye fell on the Eyesore with momentary suspicion.
"Was it the Eyesore?"
"The Eyesore?" repeated Lord Otford, not understanding.
"That scare-crow, fishing. No; of course not. He does n't know you, and
I don't believe he can write.--But, what of it, Jack? You're not
worried by that rubbish! Why, it's a pack o' lies!" (Oh, Admiral,
Admiral!) Lord Otford tried to speak. "Don't interrupt!--I'm here all
the time. Nothing happens in Pomander Walk that I don't know. Don't
interrupt!--I was here when Jack came last Saturday. He went back in
his boat before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' because Madame swooned!"
He wiped his brow, and had the grace to add "Lord, forgive me!" as a
silent prayer. After all, he had told no lie. He had only omitted to
say how long Jack had been there before he saw him. And as he did n't
know, what could he have said?
Otford found his opportunity of speaking at last. "Now, perhaps you 'll
allow me to say it's all true," he shouted.
The Admiral shouted louder. "Do you take this blackguard's word rather
than mine?" he roared, pointing to the letter. It was intolerable he
should be doubted, even if he were not telling the whole truth.
"You confounded old porcupine," Lord Otford roared back at him, "Jack 's
owned up to the whole thing!"
"What!" yelled the Admiral. "Don't shout like that! D' ye want the
whole Walk to hear?--Sit down. Tell me again: quietly!"
"When I 'd read this letter, I taxed him with it," said Lord Otford,
"and he owned up. He came here last Saturday: met the damned little
French gel--"
"Jack!" roared the Admiral, flaring up.
"I'll withdraw 'damned.' Sat an hour in this infernal
what-d'-ye-call-it, and thinks he 's in love with her." Sir Peter was
about to speak. "Don't interrupt!--You know the Sayles when their blood
's up. My blood was up. Jack's confounded blood was up. You can
imagine the scene we had. He's as pig-headed and obstinate as--as--"
"As his father," put in Sir Peter.
"Don't interrupt!" roared Lord Otford. "He's thrown over Caroline
Thring--won't hear of her." Sir Peter chuckled. "The utmost I could
get out of him was that he 'd wait a week to make sure of what he calls
his mind."
"Aha!" said Sir Peter, delighted.
"Mind! Puppy! All the week he's gone about like a bear with a sore
head! Had the impudence to refuse to speak to me! This morning he had
the impudence to speak! And what d' ye think he said?"
"Serves ye right, whatever it was!" cried Sir Peter.
Lord Otford didn't hear him. "He said, 'The week 's up, and I 'm going
to Pomander Walk!'"
"Good lad!" roared Sir Peter, slapping his thigh, and breaking into a
loud guffaw.
"What!" shouted Lord Otford, jumping up. "You're mad! Think of what's
at stake! Ninety-thousand acres!--For the daughter of a Frenchwoman from
the Lord knows where. Who was the gel's father?--Or, rather, who was
n't?"
"Jack!" roared the Admiral, in a burst of fury, jumping up in his turn
and facing Otford.
"I withdraw!" cried Otford. "But think of it!" He was looking at the
Walk. In the grey light of the coming shower the houses were certainly
not seen at their best. "Think of it!" he said with a sweep of his cane
condemning the whole Walk to instant annihilation. "An Otford taking
his wife from these--these--Almshouses!"
The Admiral was livid--apoplectic--hysterical. Words failed him. His
voice failed him. He could only gasp, "Almshouses!--Pomander
Walk!--Almshouses!"
Lord Otford was alarmed at the effect his words had produced. "There!
there!" he cried, almost conciliatorily, "I withdraw 'Almshouses!'"
"Withdraw more, sir!" said the Admiral, and for all his almost grotesque
rage, there was a ring in his voice which compelled respect. "How dare
you come here, abusing the sweetest, brightest, most winsome--"
"I believe you 're in love with her yourself!" cried Otford.
"And, damme, why not?--Take care how you talk about innocent ladies you
've never set eyes on!"
"That's it!" cried Otford, glad to get on safer ground. "That's why I
'm here. You are to present me to this Madame--whatever her confounded
name is."
"In your present temper?" roared Sir Peter, whose own temper was at
boiling point. "I'll walk the plank first!" He pointed to Madame's
house. "There's her house: the white paint. Go and pay your respects."
He came close up to Otford, and spoke straight into his face. "Your
respects, Jack! You 'll find you have to!"
"I can't force my way into the house, unaccompanied, and you know it!"
"Then stay away, and be hanged!"
Lord Otford was nonplussed. He caught sight of the Gazebo. "I 'll stay
here," he said doggedly, sitting down like a man who means never to move
again, "and if Jack shows his nose--!"
The Admiral had begun to stride towards his house. He came back and put
his red face round the side of the Gazebo. "I shall be watching, sir!"
this with blood-curdling calmness. "And if you dare raise a disturbance,
I 'll--" he could not think of anything bad enough. "I 'll--damme! I
'll set the Eyesore at you!"
He stumped off towards his home again, while Lord Otford sank back in
his seat, folded his arms, and said, "Ha!" with grim determination.
At that moment Jack came hurrying round the corner and ran straight into
the Admiral's arms. At that fateful moment also Madame must needs come
out of her house. Fortunately she was preoccupied and did not see the
frantic pantomime with which Sir Peter tried to explain to Jack that his
father was hidden in the Gazebo. Madame called, "Marjolaine!
Marjolaine!" As we know, Marjolaine was with the Misses Pennymint, and
Madame received no answer. Lord Otford heard her from his hiding-place.
"Aha!" he said to himself, "the mother!" and he sat up at attention.
"Gobblessmysoul!" whispered the Admiral, hoarsely. "The father here,
and the mother there! Jack! Get away!"
Madame had turned to her house and was calling her old servant.
"Nanette!"
Jack refused to budge. What he said I do not know; but Sir Peter grew
still more frantic. Nanette appeared at the upstairs window. "Quoi,
Madame?"
"I 'll be hanged if I stir!" said Jack.
"Ou est donc Mademoiselle?" said Madame.
"Je ne sais pas, Madame." Madame went back into her little garden, and
looked into the ground-floor window.
"Come inside, then!" said Sir Peter to Jack. But Jack saw the Eyesore,
who was placidly fishing, and a broad grin spread all over his face.
"No! Better idea!" he chuckled. He imparted the idea to the horrified
Admiral in a whisper.
Madame spoke to Nanette again. "Vite! Allez voir si son chapeau est
dans sa chambre!"
Nanette disappeared from the window, and Madame stood impatiently
looking up at it awaiting her return.
Whatever Jack had said to the Admiral was of such a nature as to fill
that ancient salt with horror. He threw up his arms, cried, "I wash my
hands of it!" and dashed into his house. Jack quickly said something to
the Eyesore which caused the latter to fling his rod down with alacrity,
and, amazing to relate, he and Jack hurried round the corner and out of
sight together.
Nanette reappeared with a huge Leghorn straw hat. "Oui, Madame, voila
le chapeau de Mademoiselle." Then, pointing to the Gazebo,
"Mademoiselle doit etre au pavillon."
"Non," said Madame, "je viens de l'appeler." But a sudden suspicion
flashed across her mind. Could Marjolaine be there with Jack, and afraid
to show herself? "Serait-il possible?"--she cried, and came hurriedly
towards the summer-house.
Lord Otford had heard her conversation with Nanette, and had risen; so
that Madame found herself abruptly face to face with her faithless
lover.
*CHAPTER IX*
*IN WHICH OLD LOVERS MEET, AND THE
CONSPIRACY COMES TO A HEAD*
[Illustration: Chapter IX headpiece]
Madame knew him at a glance. To some extent she had been prepared for
his coming by Jack's previous visit. As Jack was acquainted with Sir
Peter, it was quite likely Lord Otford was also, and nothing was more
probable than that he should come to look up his old friend.
Nevertheless this sudden confrontation startled her, and she could not
suppress a little "Oh!" of surprise.
Lord Otford, on his part, was too much occupied with his own anger, his
outraged dignity, to pay more than very superficial attention to her.
Moreover she had changed a great deal more than he. He had left her, a
mere strip of a girl, and now she was a dignified and very beautiful
woman. He was not thinking of Lucy Pryor at all at the moment, while
her thoughts, if the truth must be told, were full of the Jack Sayle of
old days. So they began their little duel with unequal weapons. Madame
was absolutely self-possessed: Otford could not suppress a certain
amount of nervousness in the presence of this calm and stately lady who
was so utterly different from anything he had expected. However, he
pulled himself together and put on his grandest and most overwhelming
manner.
"I am the trespasser," he said, with a condescending bow, in answer to
her startled cry. She inclined her head very slightly, and turned to go.
"May I detain you a moment?" said he, quickly.
She stopped and half turned towards him. "I am at a loss--" she said
coldly, with raised eyebrows.
He explained. "I heard you calling your daughter." Then, very stiffly,
"I presume you are Madame--ah--" he made pretence to consult the
anonymous letter; this haughty person should know she was not of
sufficient importance for him even to remember her name, "Madame
Lachesnais."
Madame bowed almost imperceptibly and something very like a mischievous
smile lurked in the corners of her lips.
"I am Lord Otford--" he gave his name quite simply, as a gentleman
should, yet he managed to convey that it was a great name and that he
expected the announcement of it to make its effect.
Madame made a slight movement with her hand as if she were brushing away
something of no moment whatever; as if she declined to receive a name
which could have no importance for her; as if she did n't care whether
his name were Otford or Snooks. This disconcerted him. It was a new
experience, and it was unpleasant. For the sake of something to say he
pointed to the seat under the tree. "Ah--pray be seated." Madame saw
the advantage she had already gained. She spoke as she might have
addressed a poor beetle: "What you have to say can be of so little
consequence--"
Lord Otford flushed angrily. Here was he, a great nobleman with a
grievance, and this totally insignificant woman was treating him like a
child! He spoke with some warmth. "I beg your pardon! What I have to
say is of the utmost consequence."
"I shall be surprised," said Madame--"and I am waiting."
Lord Otford was still fuming. Her manner was really most disconcerting.
"You--you make it somewhat difficult, ma'am," he blustered.
Nothing could stir her calmness. "Then why give yourself the trouble?"
she said; and again moved as if to go.
"Pray wait!" cried he, hastily. All the fine outworks of sarcasm and
irony which he had elaborately prepared against this meeting had
vanished before the icy blast of her imperturbable coolness. He was
hot; he was uncomfortable. He could only stammer, "The fact is--my
foolish son--"
Madame held up a delicate hand and stopped him. "Ah!" she said, with a
well-bred rebuke of his excitement, "I can spare you any further
discomfort. Your son forced his acquaintance on my daughter in my
absence a week ago. Be assured we are willing to overlook his lack of
manners. The circumstance need not be further alluded to."
Here was a nice thing! In those few words she had turned the tables on
him. Instead of metaphorically grovelling in the dust at his feet and
entreating his pardon, she had become the accuser, and he now found
himself forced to speak on the defensive.
"It must be alluded to! I must explain!" he cried.
"No explanation or apology is required," she went on implacably, "since
under no circumstances shall we allow the acquaintance to continue."
Was he on his head or his heels? These were practically the very words
he had meant to use. This was the shell he had meant to hurl into the
enemy's camp, and here it was, exploding under his own feet!
"But my son has pledged his word to come again, and--"
Again she interrupted him. "Make yourself easy on that score," she
said; and now there was even a note of contempt in her voice. "He has
broken his word."
"That was my doing!" cried Lord Otford, almost apologetically. "I
persuaded him to wait a week. I regret to say he means to come to-day."
"Well," answered Madame, with the utmost indifference, "Pomander Walk is
public, and we cannot prevent him."
"But he 'll see your daughter!"
"I think not. Unless he breaks into the house."
"Upon my soul, I believe he 'll go that length!" What Lord Otford had
intended should be a menace, turned to an appeal. "That is where I ask
for your co-operation."
Madame looked him up and down with indignant protest. Really, he might
have been poor Snooks. "Pardon me," she said, "not co-operation." She
drew herself up and her eyes flashed. "But I shall defend my own."
She laid a peculiar stress on the word "defend," which arrested his
attention.
"'Defend'?" said he, with amazement. "What do you mean?"
She looked him straight in the face, and spoke with intense feeling. "I
mean, that no member of your family is likely to cross my threshold."
There was something so threatening, so avenging in her voice, that he
fell back a pace and said, hushed, "You speak as though you nursed a
grudge against my family!"
Madame smiled scornfully. "Oh! no grudge whatever." Then she added
slowly and very quietly, "But I remember!"
"Remember what?" cried he, more and more bewildered.
For a moment she did not answer. Then she turned to him and spoke. "Am
I so changed--Jack Sayle?"
He stared. "Indeed, ma'am--" then suddenly he saw and remembered. He
could only exclaim, "Good God!"
"Are you still puzzled?" she asked, with that mysterious smile of hers.
"Lucy!"
"Lucy Pryor," she assented. She bowed and turned away.
Lord Otford was stunned. "No--no," he stammered. "Stop!--this alters
the case entirely!"
She turned on him with raised eyebrows. "How?"
He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment.
All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come
flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his
experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again,
deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart--his only
sweetheart--the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals
of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I--I don't know. I am stunned!--After
all these years!"
She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself
be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him
standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out
in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had
hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced
the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness.
"Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford
meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor
who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining
for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew
firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother--and a
mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery
returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic
countenance, my lord!"
Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry
with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good
day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he
was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the
Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate
creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the
less hearty curse.
Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised
how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was
scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with
the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the
old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied
adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed
merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and
to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he
still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her
limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was
unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize
her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she
would not let him come to life again.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning
out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a
thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of
the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss!
Puss! Puss!"
But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's
voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish!
Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his
prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said
Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his
mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely
stalked that fish. Not before.
The Admiral also had seen the skies darken. It was time to take in the
thrush. So he leant out of his upstairs window to unhook the osier
cage. His window and Mrs. Poskett's were so close together
that--well--the Admiral and the widow could, at a pinch, have kissed if
they had been so minded. But nothing was further from, the Admiral's
thoughts.
"Sempronius!" screamed Mrs. Poskett.
"Ah!" chuckled the Admiral, "it's no use calling him, ma'am. He 's got
his eye on the fish!"
"You don't mean to say the Eyesore's caught one!" cried Mrs. Poskett.
The Admiral laughed as he looked at the Eyesore. Laughed more than the
occasion seemed to justify. "Ay, ay! he's wonderfully patient and
persistent!"
The widow's face, as he leant out to see the fish, was very near the
Admiral's.
"Astonishing what patience and persistence 'll do, Admiral," said she,
coquettishly. She withdrew quickly and closed her window.
The Admiral was puzzled. What did she mean? But he shook off his
forebodings. He turned to where the Eyesore, buried more than usual in
his horrible old hat, was putting on new bait, and gave a low whistle.
The Eyesore signalled to him to be quiet and at that moment he became
aware of Madame, who was moving away from the Gazebo. "Gobblessmysoul!
Madame!" he muttered to himself with inexplicable confusion, and hastily
withdrew out of sight with his thrush.
Miss Barbara Pennymint came hopping down her steps, followed by
Marjolaine. Madame had recovered her self-possession. "Ah!" she cried,
seeing Marjolaine, "I was a little alarmed about you. Did you not hear
me call?"
"No, Maman cherie."
Madame turned to Barbara. "Don't let her stay out if it rains." And
with a pleasant nod to the two girls she moved into her house. She had
need to be alone.
Marjolaine and Barbara locked their arms round each others' waists and
came across the lawn.
Barbara turned up her pretty nose. "The Eyesore looks more revolting
than ever!"
"Dreadful," assented Marjolaine, with a shudder. At this instant the
Eyesore caught another fish! and Marjolaine gave a cry of surprise.
Sempronius sat and watched.
"What's he doing now?" asked Barbara, in a whisper.
Marjolaine looked. Then she covered Barbara's eyes with her hand.
"Don't look!" and in a tragic whisper, "He's putting on a worm!"
"Oh!" cried Barbara, with a shiver of disgust. They came down to the
elm.
"It was impossible," said Marjolaine, "to talk in Ruth's presence, with
Doctor Johnson screaming in the next room."
"Dearest," answered Barbara confidentially, "shall I confess that
sometimes that bird--" she broke off--"but no! it were disloyal. Only,
if Charles had given me a lock of his hair, perhaps it would have made
less noise. Yet, now I think of it, that is a selfish wish, for he had
been scalped."
"How dreadful!" cried Marjolaine. But she was full of her great idea,
and went on at once. "Barbara, were you very much in love?"
Barbara's face grew very serious. "Dearest," she said reproachfully,
"is that quite a delicate question?"
"Well," said Marjolaine, "I mean, are you still as much in love as
ever?"
Barbara avoided her eyes. But she spoke with almost exaggerated
feeling. "Dearest! Do you think love can change?"
Marjolaine thought a moment. I suppose she was consulting her own
heart. Then she spoke very firmly. "No! I don't think so!"
"And do I not hear the sound of my darling's voice every time Doctor
Johnson yells? Is not that enough to keep the flame of love alive even
in the ashes of a heart however dead? Oh! if only that innocent fowl
had been present when Charles used different language!"
"But did he?" asked Marjolaine innocently.
"I sometimes wonder," answered Barbara, deep in thought.
Marjolaine felt she had said a tactless thing. She must try to soften
it. "Perhaps the loss of his hair--" she began.
"Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a
lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil's window from which
the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came
throbbing. "And--oh, dearest!--can any physical infirmity affect true
love?" she cried rapturously.
At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously
leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not."
"I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm.
Marjolaine took both Barbara's hands in hers and forced her to face her.
She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?"
Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!--how
searching you are!"
"Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?"
Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine's
sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest--did your mother match
those lovely silks?"
Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin
beautifully," she said.
Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped
all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked
dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way,
she perched on Marjolaine's finger and pecked her on each cheek.
"I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine.
The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for
the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came
nearer the girls.
Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you
will never tell a living soul?"
"Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore's caught another fish!"
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara.
Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the
Eyesore, too!"
"I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery
element."
"Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms."
"Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!--I shall let the
worm i' the bud feed on my damaged cheek."
The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering
together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer.
"Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil's cheek is
being fed on, too?"
"Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara.
Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it
is?"
Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then
she added, shortly, "Then why does n't he speak?"
"Suppose he 's too shy?"
Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n't men silly?"--She
luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long."
Marjolaine breathed into her ear, "But suppose a third person spoke!"
"You!" exclaimed Barbara, with delight.
"No!" said Marjolaine, rather shocked. "That would not do at all. I
could n't." The Eyesore was very near them. Marjolaine saw him.
"Hush!" she whispered, and drew Barbara away. "Hush! The Eyesore!"
Barbara looked from her to the Eyesore and back again with bewilderment.
"You don't mean he 's to be Cupid's messenger!"
Marjolaine laughed. "No, no. Listen." She sank her voice to a
mysterious whisper. In spite of her own sorrow she was enjoying herself
immensely. "Listen, and try not to scream." Barbara quivered with
excitement. Marjolaine went on, "Doctor Johnson talks, does n't he?"
Barbara looked at her in amazement. "Doctor John--?"
"And he learns easily?"
"But what--?"
"Let Basil hear it from him!" said Marjolaine, triumphantly.
"Hear what?" almost screamed Barbara.
Marjolaine laughingly took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Oh, you
little goose!" she cried. Then she added, very deliberately and
clearly, "Teach the parrot to say--'Barbara loves you!'"
Barbara did, I assure you, leap into the air, and Marjolaine had her
hand over her mouth only just in time to stifle a scream which would
have brought the entire Walk to its doors and windows.
But Barbara was seized with instant remorse.
She put Marjolaine away from her with a gesture which would have done
credit to Mrs. Siddons. She spoke in a tone of mingled heroism and
reproach: "Charles's only gift, turned to such uses! Oh, Marjory!"
Marjolaine was quite unabashed. "Would n't Charles be pleased to know
his gift had been the means of making you happy?"
"From what I can remember of him, I should say decidedly not," said
Barbara, rather snappishly.
The Eyesore was now close to the Gazebo.
"Look!" cried Marjolaine. "The Eyesore's invading the whole Walk!"
But little Barbara cared. Also her momentary remorse had entirely
vanished. If she had been on a tree she would have hopped from branch
to branch. As it was she hopped all across the lawn, clapping her hands
and twittering. "Oh! I can't bother about him!" she said. "Let him
invade! Oh! it's such a splendid idea! Oh! you 're such a clever girl!
Oh! my goodness, what shall I do?"
Marjolaine was anxious on the Eyesore's account. Were the Admiral to
see him, there would be a terrible outburst of anger. "I'll speak to
him," she said, summoning all her courage, "I 'll save him from Sir
Peter's wrath!"
"No! no!" cried Barbara; "stick to business! Tell me more about the
bird!"
"Stand by me!" entreated Marjolaine. "Hold my hand!"
"I daren't! I'm frightened!" cried Barbara, "and--and--and I want to
begin teaching the bird!"
"Treacherous Barbara!" cried Marjolaine. But before the words were out
of her mouth Barbara had scuttled into the house and slammed the door.
And before Marjolaine had recovered from that shock the Eyesore had
hurled his hat and smock into the Gazebo, and she was in Jack's arms.
*CHAPTER X*
*IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS LADY REAPPEARS
AND HELPS JACK TO VANISH*
[Illustration: Chapter X headpiece]
Marjolaine was bewildered, overjoyed, indignant, and too breathless even
to cry out. Jack swept her off her feet. "Come into the Gazebo!" he
cried, and before she could remember where she was, she was on the seat
in the summer-house and Jack had hold of both her hands and was saying
impetuously, "Marjory, I love you!"
She sank into his arms, utterly overwhelmed. It was as if a cyclone had
whirled her away. "I love you, I love you, little Marjory," he was
murmuring into her ear. "I loved you the first moment I saw you under
the elm!"
Under the elm! Her memory came rushing back. She broke away from him
and her eyes flashed indignantly. "How dare you!" she cried. "Oh! how
dare you! I didn't know what I was doing. Go away! You broke your
word! You never came!"
"I come now!" he answered, with a fine air of injured innocence.
"In a horrible disguise!" said she, looking with disgust at the
Eyesore's hat and smock lying disconsolately where Jack had thrown them,
"and too late!" She broke into sobs. "I have promised not to love you!"
"Whom have you promised?"
"My dear, dear Mother."
She had stood up and was trying to look like a dutiful daughter. But he
made that very difficult by seizing her hand and drawing her down to his
side again.
"Don't you love me?" said he.
"If I did, I 've promised not to!" she replied firmly.
"What 's the use of that, if you do?" Jack did n't know it, but he had
put a question which undermined all first principles.
"_I_ keep my word!" she replied, with great dignity. It was no answer
to his question, but it saved her for the moment. The implied reproach
turned his position and forced him to be on the defensive.
"So do I!" he said, quite boldly and unabashed: so unabashed that she
could only stare at him in amazement and cry "Oh!"
"Differently," he explained. "I told my father; and I promised I 'd
stay away a week, to make sure. I 've made sure, and I 've come. Is n't
that keeping my word?"
Marjolaine was shaken, and he had stated his case so cunningly that she
could not, on the spur of the moment, put her finger on the weak
point--the truth being, that she did not want to. "It seems so, when
you tell it, but--"
"Do they want you to marry somebody else?" said he.
"No."
"Well, they want me to!" and he added with modest but conscious virtue,
"but I refused."
"That's it!" cried Marjolaine, remembering all the Admiral had
innocently let drop. "You 're a great man; by-and-by you 'll live in
marble halls; and you never said a word about it!"
"Hang it all!" cried Jack, protesting with all his might, "I told you my
name! I can't go about shouting I 'm a lord's son!"
But Marjolaine had not done. "And you 're going to marry a great lady
who owns half a county and goes about doing good. The Hon--Hon--" what
a nuisance it was that she could not keep her sobs down!--"the
Honourable Caroline Thring!--Oh, does n't it sound horrid!"
"I 'm not going to marry her!" Jack almost shouted. "And she does n't
want to marry me; and there 's only one girl in the world for me, and
that's you--you--you!"
He tried to draw her down again, but she resisted. Caroline Thring was
not the only obstacle. "Jack," she said, with tragic solemnity, "I 'm
the one girl in the world you can never marry!"
Her manner was so intense, that even Jack was, for the moment, awed.
"You speak as if you meant it!" he said, staring at her in astonishment.
"I do!" Her manner grew more and more solemn. She looked like the
Tragic Muse, and I am not sure she did not rather enjoy the impression
she was creating. Her voice rang deep and hollow. "We are fated to
part."
"Why on earth--?" cried Jack, almost frightened.
"It is a terrible secret," she answered. Then she suddenly sat down
beside him. "Sit close! Oh, closer!" Now she was a child again,
revelling in a good story. "Listen. Your father loved my mother when
they were both very young--"
"No!" cried Jack.
"'M. And he went on loving her for years and years and years! And then
he left her for ever, just as you left me last Saturday; and went and
married the Honourable Caroline Thring."
"What!" cried Jack, utterly bewildered.
"Oh, well--same thing--some other great lady."
Jack gave a low whistle.
"And Maman 's never forgotten it, just as I never should. And that's
why she fainted when she heard your name."
Jack whistled again. Then a new idea occurred to him. "That accounts
for my father's temper just now."
Marjolaine was puzzled. "Just now?" she asked.
"When I landed, he was here with your mother."
"Oh!" cried Marjolaine, astonished and frightened.
"Sir Peter told me," Jack went on. "It was a close shave. I had just
time to borrow the fisherman's coat and hat. When my father came away
he was perfectly furious. He did n't know me, but he swore at me
horribly."
Marjolaine nodded wisely. "You see! Maman had been telling him exactly
what she thought about him. Oh, Jack, they are enemies and we must part
forever." She stood up and resumed her finest tragedy-queen manner.
"It is what they call a blood-feud!"
Jack sprang to his feet. "Then we must marry to wipe it out!" he cried.
"Marjory, we must fly!"
"Fly--?"
"Fly!--run away!--elope!"
"Leave Maman--!" cried Marjolaine, very properly shocked. "I could n't
do it!"
"You 'd have to if we were married," he argued.
"Afterwards, perhaps," answered the ever-ready Marjolaine, "but not
before."
Jack thought he would clinch the matter. "We'll be marrie
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