.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 47925
   :PG.Title: Pomander Walk
   :PG.Released: 2015-01-09
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Louis \N. Parker
   :MARCREL.ill: \J. Scott Williams
   :DC.Title: Pomander Walk
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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POMANDER WALK
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   .. _`Marjolaine`:

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      Marjolaine

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      Title page

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      Pomander
      Walk

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      by

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      LOUIS N. PARKER

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      AUTHOR OF
      ROSEMARY

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      ILLUSTRATIONS by
      J. SCOTT WILLIAMS

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      LONDON
      JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
      MCMXII

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      THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.


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      TO
      GEORGE C. TYLER
      FOR VALOUR

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   Contents headpiece

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   Contents

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   CHAPTER

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\I.  `Concerning the Walk in General`_

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\II.  `How Sir Peter Antrobus and Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, Esquire, Smoked a Pipe Together`_

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\III.  `Concerning Number Four and Who Lived in It`_

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\IV.  `Concerning a Mysterious Lady and an Elderly Beau`_

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\V.  `Concerning What You Have All Been Waiting For`_

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\VI.  `In which Pomander Walk is not Quite Itself`_

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\VII.  `Showing How History Repeats Itself`_

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\VIII.  `Concerning a Great Conspiracy`_

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\IX.  `In which Old Lovers Meet, and the Conspiracy Comes to a Head`_

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\X.  `In Which the Mysterious Lady Reappears and Helps Jack to Vanish`_

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\XI.  `Pomander Walk Takes a Dish of Tea`_

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\XII.  `In which the Old Conspiracy is Triumphant and a New Conspiracy is Hatched`_

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\XIII.  `In which Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus is More Determined Than Ever to Fire the Little Brass Gun`_

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\XIV.  `In which Miss Barbara Pennymint Hears the Nightingale and the Lamps are Lighted`_

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\XV.  `Showing How the Roundabout Road Leads Back to the Starting Point`_

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   Illustrations headpiece

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   Illustrations

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`Marjolaine`_ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`Jim—a very active old sailor in spite of his stiff leg`_

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`She spent at least one hour with him every day,
listening, as she told the sympathising Walk,
to her dead lover's voice`_

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`"That's right, Brooke!  Do your duty, and —— the consequences!"`_

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`The Reverend Jacob Sternroyd, D.D.`_

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`Caroline Thring`_

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`Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn at his ease`_

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`"Let us sit quite still and think hard whether
we'd like to meet again"`_

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`"She placed her arm very tenderly over her
shoulders and gently called her by name"`_

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`"It's enough to give a body the fantoddles—as
my poor dear mother used to say"`_

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`He started off like an alarm clock`_

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`He seized him by the sleeve, and dragged him,
bewildered and protesting, to the Gazebo`_

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`As the sun came out, out came Mr. Jerome
Brooke-Hoskyn, as resplendent as the sun`_

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`The Eyesore seized the animal by the scruff of
his neck and hurled him into the river`_

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`Then he resumed.  "Brooke," says he, "Brooke,
my Boy"—just like that`_

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`"Peter!" he cried, scandalised`_

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.. _`CONCERNING THE WALK IN GENERAL`:

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   CHAPTER I


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   CONCERNING THE WALK IN GENERAL

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.. _`Chapter I headpiece`:

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   Chapter I headpiece

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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.

.. _`JIM—A VERY ACTIVE OLD SAILOR IN SPITE OF HIS STIFF LEG`:

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   :alt: JIM,—A VERY ACTIVE OLD SAILOR IN SPITE OF HIS STIFF LEG

   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.

.. _`SHE SPENT AT LEAST ONE HOUR WITH HIM EVERY DAY, LISTENING, AS SHE TOLD THE SYMPATHISING WALK, TO HER DEAD LOVER'S VOICE`:

.. figure:: images/img-016.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: SHE SPENT AT LEAST ONE HOUR WITH HIM EVERY DAY, LISTENING, AS SHE TOLD THE SYMPATHISING WALK, TO HER DEAD LOVER'S VOICE

   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.





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.. _`HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II

.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN,
   ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER

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.. _`Chapter II headpiece`:

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   Chapter II headpiece

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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.

.. _`"THAT'S RIGHT, BROOKE!  DO YOUR DUTY, AND —— THE CONSEQUENCES!"`:

.. figure:: images/img-024.jpg
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   :alt: "THAT'S RIGHT, BROOKE!  DO YOUR DUTY, AND —— THE CONSEQUENCES!"

   "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.





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.. _`CONCERNING NUMBER FOUR AND WHO LIVED IN IT`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   CONCERNING NUMBER FOUR AND WHO LIVED IN IT

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   Chapter III headpiece

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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!"

.. _`THE REVEREND JACOB STERNROYD, D.D.`:

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   :alt: THE REVEREND JACOB STERNROYD, D.D.

   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.





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.. _`CONCERNING A MYSTERIOUS LADY AND AN ELDERLY BEAU`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   CONCERNING A MYSTERIOUS LADY, AND AN ELDERLY BEAU

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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-à-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-à-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."

.. _`CAROLINE THRING`:

.. figure:: images/img-062.jpg
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   :alt: CAROLINE THRING

   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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONCERNING WHAT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONCERNING WHAT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter V headpiece`:

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   :alt: Chapter V headpiece

   Chapter V headpiece

.. vspace:: 2

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!—*Voilà*!"

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.

.. _`MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN AT HIS EASE`:

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   :alt: MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AT HIS EASE

   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."

.. _`"LET US SIT QUITE STILL AND THINK HARD WHETHER WE'D LIKE TO MEET AGAIN"`:

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   :alt: "LET US SIT QUITE STILL AND THINK HARD WHETHER WE'D LIKE TO MEET AGAIN"

   "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 voilà, Maman chèrie!"

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.





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.. _`IN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF

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   Chapter VI headpiece

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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.





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.. _`SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF

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.. _`Chapter VII headpiece`:

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   :alt: Chapter VII headpiece

   Chapter VII headpiece

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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.

.. _`"SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"`:

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   :alt: "SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"

   "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.  "Chérie—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, chérie," 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.  Chérie, chérie, 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.

"Mère, chérie," 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, chérie, 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.





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.. _`CONCERNING A GREAT CONSPIRACY`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONCERNING A GREAT CONSPIRACY

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   Chapter VIII headpiece

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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."

.. _`"IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES—AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"`:

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   :alt: "IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"

   "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.

"Où 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, voilà le chapeau de
Mademoiselle."  Then, pointing to the Gazebo,
"Mademoiselle doit être 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.





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   CHAPTER IX


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   IN WHICH OLD LOVERS MEET, AND THE
   CONSPIRACY COMES TO A HEAD

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   Chapter IX headpiece

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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 chérie."

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.





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.. _`IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS LADY REAPPEARS AND HELPS JACK TO VANISH`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS LADY REAPPEARS
   AND HELPS JACK TO VANISH

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   Chapter X headpiece

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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 married at once.  Then it'll be
afterwards."

"No, no, no!!" cried Marjory.  "It's no
use."  She turned to him with pretty appeal.
"Don't ask me, will you?"  Then she went on
in a tone of middle-aged common-sense:
"Besides, we can't be married at once.  In your
stupid England, the parson has to ask the
congregation three times whether they have any
objection.  As if they could n't make up their
minds the first time! and as if it was any of
their business at all!"

"Banns—!  Hang!" said Jack, scratching
his head.  That helped him.  "I know!" he
cried, "Licence!"

"Don't ask me!"  She caressed his coat-collar
coaxingly.  "You won't ask me, will you?
What is a licence?"

"Well," said Jack, with an air of profound
knowledge and experience, "You go to a Bishop, and he
gives you a document, and then you go to the
nearest church—and—and—there you are!"

"I don't believe you're there at all," she
said, pouting.  She turned away in despair.
"Oh, it's no use!"  But she turned back with
new hope.  "Do you know any Bishops?"

"Not one," said Jack, ruefully.

Her head rested on his shoulder, and made a
prop for his.  "It's discouraging!" they both
sighed, sinking on the seat in the Gazebo, and
looking as woe-begone as the Babes in the Wood.

Down came the rain, pattering on the leaves
of the elm.  The Eyesore had come back,
hatless and in his shirt sleeves, and had
executed a brief dance of delight over the three
fish Jack had caught for him.  He had only
got back just in time to avert disaster, for
Sempronius, seeing the Walk deserted, had been on
the very point of raiding the fish.  The Eyesore
sat on his box and resumed his melancholy sport,
resigned to the loss of his outer garment,
oblivious of the rain, but keeping a wary eye on
the cat.

The Reverend Doctor Sternroyd emerged
from his house.  I say emerged, because it was
a slow and difficult manoeuvre.  He was loaded
as usual.  His green umbrella occupied his right
arm, while his left encircled a number of ancient
tomes; so he had to come through his door
sideways and down his steps backwards, and
the gate presented a new and complicated
problem.  Then he discovered it was raining,
and, of course, he tried to open his umbrella
while he was still under the arch of his gate.
At the best of times the opening of that
umbrella was a matter of diplomacy and patience.
You did not open it just when you wanted to,
but only when it was willing.  In a wind it would
open itself and turn itself inside out; but in a
shower it needed coaxing.  Its ribs all went in
different directions and it required the greatest
skill to induce anything approaching unanimity.
The chances were that by the time you had got
the umbrella open, the shower had ceased and
the sun was shining; and as it was just as
difficult to close it, you probably gave up, and
resigned yourself to looking eccentric.

The Reverend Doctor got inextricably mixed
up with his books, his half-open umbrella, and
the gate.  He felt he must use strong language.
"Tut, tut!" said he.

Marjolaine heard him.  "Hush!" she whispered,
warningly.

"Why?" asked Jack.

She peeped round the edge of the Gazebo.
"The Reverend Doctor Sternroyd coming out
of his gate!"

"A parson?" Jack almost shouted.

"Yes."

"By George!" exclaimed Jack; and while
she was gasping, "What are you going to do?"
he had rushed across the lawn and slapped the
Doctor on the back.

"Dear me!" cried the startled Doctor, as his
books slid from under his arm and the umbrella
opened with a report like a gun's.  "Dear me!
Tut, tut!"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor," Jack apologised,
picking up the books and helping the
parson through the gate.  Then he seized him by
the sleeve and dragged him bewildered and
protesting to the Gazebo.

.. _`HE SEIZED HIM BY THE SLEEVE, AND DRAGGED HIM, BEWILDERED AND PROTESTING, TO THE GAZEBO`:

.. figure:: images/img-170.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: HE SEIZED HIM BY THE SLEEVE, AND DRAGGED HIM, BEWILDERED AND PROTESTING, TO THE GAZEBO

   HE SEIZED HIM BY THE SLEEVE, AND DRAGGED HIM, BEWILDERED AND PROTESTING, TO THE GAZEBO

"Sempronius!  Sempronius!" cried Mrs. Poskett,
appearing at her window.  "Come in, you
bad cat, you 'll get wet through!"

But Sempronius was deeply engrossed, and
Mrs. Poskett closed her window in despair.

Meanwhile Jack had forced the outraged
Doctor down on to the seat, Marjolaine had
relieved him of the umbrella, and Jack had
tossed his books into a corner.

"Sit down, Doctor," said Jack, "here,
between us."

"But, my dear young friends—" began the
Doctor, protestingly.

"You'd get your feet wet, Sir, and catch
cold.  My name's Jack Sayle."

Marjolaine interrupted him.  "His name is
the Honourable John Sayle," she explained with
great importance, "and he's the only son of
Lord Otford."

She had touched a spring.  If there was one
thing the Doctor was more familiar with than
another, it was heraldry.  He started off like
an alarm clock, and all the exclamations and
gesticulations of the impatient lovers were incapable
of stopping him.

.. _`HE STARTED OFF LIKE AN ALARM CLOCK`:

.. figure:: images/img-150.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: HE STARTED OFF LIKE AN ALARM CLOCK

   HE STARTED OFF LIKE AN ALARM CLOCK

"Otford: or, on a fesse azure between in chief,
a sinister arm embowed and couped at the
shoulder fessewise vested of the second, holding
in the hand proper a martel gules, and in base a
cerf regardant passant vert, three martlets of
the first.  Crest: out of a crest-coronet a blasted
oak—"

"Oh!" cried Marjory, stopping her ears.

"—motto: Sayle and Return."

"Doctor!" shouted Jack, shaking him, "when
you 've quite done, we want to get married; and
you 've got to get a licence!"

The boy and girl were leaning excitedly
across him.  They spoke alternately and
breathlessly.

"Because," said Marjolaine, "we 're in a
dreadful hurry and Maman won't hear of it—"

"And my father wants me to marry Caroline
Thring, which is wicked—"

"And of course I'll never do it, and it's no
use asking me, but—"

"We're going to be married anyhow, and if
you don't help we shall run away—"

"And you would n't like to be the cause of
our doing that, would you?"  She had slipped
to her knees.

"And we love each other—"  Jack also was
on his knees, facing her.

"Very, very dearly!" they both concluded.
And to the horror of the learned Doctor, their
lips met.

He rose, indignant.  "I am deeply shocked.
Profoundly surprised.  I shall make a point of
informing Madame Lachesnais and his lordship."

Jack leapt to his feet.  "Oh, I say, you can't,
you know!" he protested, "because we took you
into our confidence!"

The antiquary was as nearly angry as he had
ever been in his life.  "I did not ask for your
confidence!" he exclaimed.

"Well—you've got it!" said Jack, conclusively.

Marjolaine laid her hand on the Doctor's arm
and looked up at him with great pathetic
eyes—the stricken deer.  "And, Doctor, dear—think
of when you were young!"

"Eh?" said the Doctor, startled.  "How did
you know?—And if I did run away with my
blessed Araminta—"

"Ah!—there, you see!" cried Jack, delighted.

"—I had every excuse," protested the Doctor.
"My blessed Araminta was deeply interested in
flint arrowheads."

"And I 'm sure you were very, very happy,"
said Marjolaine, laying her hand on his shoulder.

The Doctor looked at her.  The Doctor dug
his snuff-box out of a remote waistcoat-pocket.
The Doctor took snuff.  The Doctor drew out a
great, brown handkerchief.  The Doctor blew
his nose.  His snuff was very strong, and had
made his eyes water.  Finally he said, "Ah,
my child, she has been dead thirty years!"

"Dear Doctor Sternroyd!" murmured Marjolaine.

He pulled himself together.  "But this is so
harebrained!  A special licence is not so easily
had.  His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury—"

"Oh, my goodness! an *Arch*\bishop!"—cried
Marjolaine, deeply impressed.

"The Archbishop of Canterbury requires
excellent reasons."

"I 've told you," cried Jack impatiently, "we
love each other!"

The antiquary could not help smiling.  "I
fear that would hardly satisfy his Grace!"

"Wicked old gentleman!" pouted Marjolaine.

"We'll find a reason," said Jack, confidently;
and after a moment's thought: "Here you are!
My leave 's up in a month: only just time for the
honeymoon!"

"H'm!" said the Antiquary.  "Even that
does not seem to me sufficiently convincing."

He had risen, and now turned and looked at
them as they sat watching him eagerly and
hopefully.  They looked so charming, so young, so
innocent, and so deeply in love with each other,
that the Doctor was touched.  For years he
had been buried in his musty old books, and
suddenly he was confronted with life, with youth
starting out on its career.  It would be good to
make these children happy.

"I have an idea," he said, with a humorous
twinkle.  "The Archbishop, who is a very good
friend of mine, is forming a collection of
antiquities.  Now—" he searched in all his
pockets—"I found a rare Elizabethan tobacco-pipe
here the other day."  He produced it and
polished it carefully on his sleeve.  Marjolaine, I am
sorry to say, hid her face in her handkerchief,
and was attacked by a fit of coughing which
shook her from head to foot.  "Perhaps,"
continued the Doctor, eyeing the pipe with fond
regret, "perhaps if I were to offer that to his
Grace, it might oil the wheels."  He sighed deeply.
"Yes!—It will be a wrench, but I 'll take it to
Lambeth to-morrow—Ah, no!  To-morrow
is Sunday!"

"Dash it!" cried Jack, petulantly.  "What a
way Sunday has of coming in the wrong part of
the week!"

"Hush!" said Doctor Sternroyd, reprovingly,
"Monday, then."

"And you'll marry us the same day?" asked Jack.

"No, no!" replied the Doctor.  "The day
after, perhaps."

Marjolaine ticked the days off on her fingers.
"Saturday—Sunday—Monday—Tuesday—!
Four whole days!—"

The lovers looked at each other disconsolately,
and together sighed, "Oh, dear!"

"And what am I to do till then?" cried Jack.
"I daren't go home.  My father 's quite capable
of having me kidnapped and sent to my ship!"

Marjolaine clung to him with a little cry.  "Oh,
Jack!"

He turned to Doctor Sternroyd with sudden
decision.  "Doctor!  You must give me a bed."

The Doctor failed to understand.  "Give you—?"

"A bed."

Doctor Sternroyd threw up his hands in
protest.  "And incur your noble father's
displeasure?"

"On the contrary.  He'd be deeply grateful
to you for showing me hospitality."

"Ah," sighed the Antiquary, shaking his
head, "you'll find me poor company, young
gentleman."

"It's only for two days," said Jack lightly.
"We can play chess."  He turned to Marjolaine.
"And every evening we'll meet in the Gazebo.
I 'll whistle so:—" he executed a fragment which
Marjolaine repeated, more or less—"and you 'll
come out."

Doctor Sternroyd was troubled; but this young
man had a way with him.  "Ah, well!" he sighed,
sitting down and motioning them to sit beside
him.  "Now you must give me full particulars:
your names, ages, professions, if any—"

"How exciting!" cried Marjolaine, clapping
her hands.

The Antiquary picked up one of the books.
"'*Epicteti quæ supersunt Dissertationes*,'" he
read, affectionately.  "A pencil!  Now,
Mr. Sayle—"  So they bent their heads together, and
were very busy, giving the dates of birthdays,
and all their histories, which Doctor Sternroyd
meticulously entered on the fly-leaf of the tome.

The rain had ceased.  The sun was again
shining brightly, turning the rain-drops on the
foliage of the elm into diamonds.  The air
sparkled, newly washed.  The Eyesore in his corner
had, for some time, been showing symptoms of
discomfort.  With appetites refreshed by the
shower, the fish were displaying a lively interest
in his bait.  To be sure, they refused to swallow
his hook; but they nibbled at his worm with
great zest, and kept his float bobbing up and
down in a manner which made it impossible for
him to attend to anything else.  Yet out of the
corner of his eye he could see Sempronius,
stretched at full length, creeping slowly, almost
imperceptibly, but with deadly determination,
towards the fish Jack had caught.

The Eyesore said "Hoo!" but Sempronius
took no notice.  The Eyesore kicked; but
Sempronius was out of reach.  The Eyesore shook
his disengaged fist; but Sempronius only smiled.

As the sun came out, out came Mr. Jerome
Brooke-Hoskyn, as resplendent as the sun.  He
was truly wonderful to behold: his magnificent
beaver hat poised at an improbable angle, his
buckles glittering, and his vast person imposing
under the countless capes of his driving-coat.
Just as he had swaggered to his gate he was
evidently arrested by a voice from the upper
chamber.

.. _`AS THE SUN CAME OUT, OUT CAME MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AS RESPLENDENT AS THE SUN`:

.. figure:: images/img-176.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: AS THE SUN CAME OUT, OUT CAME MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AS RESPLENDENT AS THE SUN

   AS THE SUN CAME OUT, OUT CAME MR. JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN, AS RESPLENDENT AS THE SUN

"Eh?  What?" he asked peevishly, making an
ear-trumpet of his hand.  "Late home?—Yes; I
told you I should be.  Pitt is to speak, and when
once he's on his legs the Lord only knows when
he'll stop.  But I have the doorkey.  What?
Yes, I did!  I found the keyhole easily enough,
but the key was twisted.  What?"  He grew
purple with indignation.  "Sober!—Reely,
Selina!—"  The Walk was astir, as he observed to his
confusion.  "Dammit, Ma'am, they'll hear you
howling all round the Walk!"  He turned just
in time to face Miss Ruth, who had come sailing
up to him.  Everybody was either at their
open windows, or had come out to taste the fresh
air.  The Admiral was fussing with his sweet
peas; Jim was helping him; Mrs. Poskett was
watching the Admiral; Basil Pringle was
struggling with the Kreutzer Sonata; Barbara had
left Doctor Johnson and was leaning out of the
lower window; listening to Basil.  Even the
servants were out and about; only Madame was
missing.

Miss Ruth addressed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
"Off to the whirl of fashion so early?"

Brooke-Hoskyn did his best to edge her away
from the house while he nervously pulled on his
buckskin gloves.  "H'm, it is a long way to the
City," he explained, "my good friends, the
Goldsmiths' Company—a banquet to the
Chinese Ambassador—my shay is waiting round the
corner."

Miss Ruth tried to pass him.  "I'll go and
sit with your wife," she said, with the kindest
intention.

"On no account!" he answered, not too politely,
interposing his solid bulk between her and the
gate.  Seeing her bridle, he corrected himself.
"Most kind of you, to be sure; but—ah—not
just now.  I left the dear soul asleep, and
dreaming of the angels."

Miss Ruth turned away disappointed, and her
attention was at once diverted by the Eyesore's
extraordinary antics.  Sempronius, that intelligent
cat, clearly comprehending that the fisherman
could not leave his rod, was preparing to
spring at the fish.

"Oh! look at the Eyesore!" cried Miss Ruth.

"Haha!" laughed Brooke-Hoskyn.  "Sempronius
is about to snatch his fish!  Observe
his antics!  Reely, most amusing!"

In the Gazebo the lovers and Doctor Sternroyd
had finished, and the Doctor closed the
book with a sigh of satisfaction.  "There!  I
think that's all!"  They prepared to leave their
shelter, unconscious of the excitement in the
Walk.

But at that moment the Eyesore, driven to
desperation by the threatened loss of his fish,
sprang at Sempronius with uncontrollable fury,
seized the animal by the scruff of his neck,
and—*horresco referens*—hurled him into the river.
Then he picked up his fish, and bolted.

.. _`THE EYESORE SEIZED THE ANIMAL BY THE SCRUFF OF HIS NECK AND HURLED HIM INTO THE RIVER`:

.. figure:: images/img-182.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE EYESORE SEIZED THE ANIMAL BY THE SCRUFF OF HIS NECK, AND HURLED HIM INTO THE RIVER

   THE EYESORE SEIZED THE ANIMAL BY THE SCRUFF OF HIS NECK, AND HURLED HIM INTO THE RIVER

Ruth screamed; Barbara screamed; Nanette
and Jane screamed; while Mrs. Poskett waved
her arms and screamed louder than any of them:
"Sempronius!—Save him!"

Ruth turned wildly to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
"Save him!"

"In these clothes!" cried he, much offended.

They had all forgotten the hero of the Battle
of Copenhagen.  To fling his coat to Jim; to
seize the Eyesore's landing-net; to stumble
down the steps to the river; and to capture the
squirming cat, was the work of a moment.

Mrs. Poskett had rushed out of her house
just in time to meet the Admiral bringing the
drenched cat up the steps again.  In his open
window Basil struck up "See the Conquering
Hero Comes," and, while Marjolaine, Jack and
Doctor Sternroyd stood petrified in the Gazebo,
all the rest of the Walk formed an admiring
circle round the Admiral and Mrs. Poskett.

"Your cat, Ma'am," said Sir Peter with the
simple dignity becoming to the doer of a great
deed, as he handed her the struggling and yelling
animal.

And what do you think she did?  She
tossed—tossed!—the cat to Jim, and, exclaiming, "My
hero!  My preserver!" flung her arms round the
Admiral's neck and kissed him on both cheeks.

And at that precise moment, while the whole
Walk had gone frenzied with excitement, while
the Admiral was standing stupefied, only able
to ejaculate "Gobblessmysoul!" a great many
times in succession; at that precise moment
the gaunt Mysterious Lady entered the Walk,
followed by her gigantic footman.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
fled.

"'Ware pirate, Admiral!" shouted Jim.  All
the women, except Mrs. Poskett, who was lying
half unconscious in the Admiral's arms, rushed
to their doors, where they stood, watching
further developments.

The Mysterious Lady had her *face-à-main* up,
and her disgusted stare wandered from the
excited women to the dishevelled group formed by
Mrs. Poskett and the Admiral.  "What horrible
people!" she exclaimed.  She bore down on Sir
Peter, who had managed to shake off his fair
burden, and stood panting with suppressed fury.

"You dreadful old man—" she began.

"Eh?" cried the Admiral.  "You, again!
Don't you speak to me!  I'm dangerous!"

The three conspirators in the Gazebo were
listening with all their ears.

"You don't know whom you're addressing!"
said the Lady, haughtily.

"I don't, and I don't want to," answered the
Admiral, mopping his brow.

The Lady drew herself up to her full height.
"I am Caroline Thring!"

"Caroline—!" ejaculated the Admiral, who
had caught sight of Marjolaine and Jack.  But
the situation was too much for him, and he sank
speechless on the seat under the elm.

"Caroline!  Oh, my stars!" cried Jack.

Fortunately the Honourable Caroline Thring
turned away from the Gazebo and examined
the houses, where all the women were standing
on guard, prepared to defend the doors with
their lives.  Marjolaine had time to gather her
wits.  She saw the Eyesore's smock and hat
lying where Jack had thrown them.  "Put those
on!  Quick!" she cried.

"Where is the girl with the curls?" asked
Caroline, turning fiercely on Sir Peter.

"I—I—I—don't know," he stammered.

"In the summer-house, no doubt," said she,
beginning to advance towards it.

"She 's coming!" whispered Jack, who was not
nearly ready.  Then, to Doctor Sternroyd, who
was standing first on one leg and then on the
other and alternately opening and shutting his
umbrella in his helpless bewilderment, "Doctor!
Lie!  Lie, as you never lied before in your life!"

But Sir Peter had jumped up, and was barring
Caroline's way.  "You mustn't go there!—You
can't go there!—You shan't go there!"

Caroline gave him a look and brushed him
away with a contemptuous motion of her
*face-à-main*.  "Stand aside, intoxicated person!"

"Intoxicated!—Me!" screamed the Admiral,
sinking back on the seat.

Caroline found herself face to face with Doctor
Sternroyd, whom Marjolaine had thrust forward,
just as you throw your wife or your child to the
wolves when you are sleighing in Siberia.  "A
clergyman!" she cried, examining him with
surprise.

"A humble clerk in holy orders, Ma'am,"
stammered the Antiquary.

Now Caroline saw Marjolaine with difficulty
supporting a decrepit old man in a very bad hat
and a very dirty smock.  Really quite a touching
picture.

"Who is this?" she asked, almost mollified.

"A poor man, your Ladyship," said Marjolaine,
with a pretty curtsey.  "I'm teaching him his
letters, your Ladyship."  Another curtsey.  Then
she had an inspiration.  She pointed to Doctor
Sternroyd.  "And this kind clergyman is going
to give him some soup, your ladyship."  When
she had completed her third curtsey, she turned
to Jack.  "Come, good man.  Lean on me."

Caroline was much moved.  "I'm glad my
first visit bore such good fruit," she said
patronisingly.  Then seeing with what extreme difficulty
the poor old man walked, and not to be outdone
by a mere chit of a girl, she said to Jack, "Give
me your other arm."  And so Jack was slowly
escorted towards Doctor Sternroyd's house, while
the Walk looked on and admired.

The Walk was puzzled.  Here was the Eyesore,
suddenly grown very old, being led into one of
their houses, and the Admiral uttered no protest!
As a matter of fact the Admiral was too much
occupied in mastering his desire to laugh, to
move from his seat.  The rest of the Walk
felt that Caroline was the common enemy,
and even the Eyesore sank into secondary
importance.

For all but Basil.  Basil, who had watched the
entire adventure from his window, nearly spoilt
the whole thing.  He had seen the Eyesore run
away—yet here was the Eyesore—!

"But the Eyesore ran away!  Who's—?"
he shouted.

Sir Peter recovered breath enough to gasp,
"Hold your tongue!"

"Well, but, Doctor Sternroyd—" protested Basil.

"Hold your silly tongue, sir!" cried the Doctor
to Basil's infinite amazement.

Jack disappeared into the Antiquary's house
and the Antiquary himself stood at the door
waving his umbrella like a sword.  Caroline
turned to Marjolaine.  "You're a good little
girl," she said, kindly.  "Here's a six-penny
bit."  Marjolaine, quite equal to the occasion,
received it with a fourth curtsey, and a modest
"Thank you, my Lady."

I think Caroline had some idea of following into
Doctor Sternroyd's house to see that her ancient
*protégé* was well bestowed, but just as she got to
the gate the Doctor slammed the door violently
in her face; and the whole Walk took its cue
from him, so that as Caroline passed along the
Walk haughtily tossing her head, every window
was closed with a bang, and every door was
slammed with a bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

And Marjolaine and the Admiral sat under the
tree and shouted with laughter!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`POMANDER WALK TAKES A DISH OF TEA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   POMANDER WALK TAKES A DISH OF TEA

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`Chapter XI headpiece`:

.. figure:: images/img-185.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Chapter XI headpiece

   Chapter XI headpiece

.. vspace:: 2

The Walk had got through Sunday as best it
could.  It had gone to church; it had read
good books; the Admiral had carefully
laid "Hervey's Meditations among the Tombs"
open on his knees, and his bandana over his head,
and had tried to sleep his Sunday sleep.  But it
was only a fitful slumber.  Too many things had
happened and were happening in the Walk.  There
was Jack, concealed in Doctor Sternroyd's house,
for one.  What did that mean?  Sir Peter had
called on Doctor Sternroyd, but the latter stood
in his doorway with the door only ajar, and
would not allow him to cross the threshold.  He
had kept a wary eye on the Walk and he was
sure Jack and Marjolaine had not met.  He
himself had sat under the elm to an unconscionable
hour, and had made it impossible for the
lovers to meet.  He would not betray them, but
on the other hand there should be no underhand
goings on.  He had tried to intercept Marjolaine
and talk to her like the Dutch uncle he had
alluded to, but she laughed in his face, and ran
away.  But that was not all that troubled him.
He had undoubtedly been embraced, in the
presence of the whole Walk, by Mrs. Poskett.  There
was no blinking that fact; and he felt that his
neighbours, with gross unfairness, put the blame
on him.  After the morning service, Miss Ruth
Pennymint, who had gone to church alone,
refused to walk home with him for the first time
in his experience, and only gave a very lame
excuse.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn looked at him with
a disapproving eye.  Mrs. Poskett had not shown
herself since the awful scene with the cat.  He
had instructed Jim to reconnoitre; I don't
know how Jim carried out that delicate task,
but he came back to his master with the report
that Mrs. Poskett was mortal bad, to be sure.
Even Basil Pringle had been very distant with
him when they met after church.

The Admiral turned and twisted in his chair.
Surely the flies were more troublesome than
usual so early in the summer.

He was so put about that, contrary to his usual
custom, he went to church again in the evening.
Madame Lachesnais was there, and to his
confusion asked him to escort her home.  Marjolaine
walked on in front with Mr. Pringle and Ruth.

Madame had noticed the curious discomfort
that pervaded the Walk.  She had seen and
heard nothing of yesterday's occurrences, as she
had been shut in her own little room at the back
of the house, busy with her own troubles.  She
took the Admiral into her confidence.  Did he
know what was the matter with the Walk?  It
seemed as if some imp of mischief had set
everybody by the ears.  She had ventured to address
Doctor Sternroyd that morning, and he had
turned even paler than usual—positively green—and
had run away from her.  What was the matter
with Mrs. Poskett?  Why had not Barbara been
to church all day?  And he, himself, why was he
so silent?  Why did he seem to wish to avoid her?

The Admiral was greatly troubled.  He could
only stammer that he supposed it was the change
in the weather.  "Well," said Madame, "I
cannot let our good friends go on like this.  Why,
we should be unable to live together in the Walk,
if we were not all on excellent terms with each
other."  And so the next morning all the
inhabitants of the Walk received a pretty little
three-cornered note, asking them to an *al fresco*
tea-party that evening, under the elm.

Jack had never spent such a Sunday, and
privately registered a vow he would never
spend such another.  Doctor Sternroyd did all
his own housekeeping; he said he would rather
spend his money on a book than on a cook.  He
invariably rose at six.  He routed Jack out at
that hour.  At half-past six he was at work in
his study, even on Sundays.  At nine he made
his breakfast, a thin cup of tea and a very thin
rasher of bacon.  What Jack did between six
and nine, I do not know.  After breakfast the
Doctor went back to his study and he gave Jack
his great manuscript work on "Prehistoric
Remains found in the Alluvial Deposit of the
Estuary of the Thames, together with Observations
on the Cave-dwellers of Ethiopia," to while
away the time.  When the Doctor went to church
he locked Jack in his room.  After church he
went for a long walk and forgot all about Jack.
And he had forgotten all about him when he
came back, so that Jack was forced to raise a
perfect riot before he could get released.  By
midday on Monday Jack had worked his way
through every edible thing in the house, and on
Monday afternoon the Doctor not only had to
go and see the Archbishop of Canterbury on the
subject of the licence, but had been strictly
enjoined by Jack to bring home food.

.. vspace:: 2

Fortunately for Madame's tea-party, that
Monday evening was an ideal one.  June had
come and the roses in the little gardens had
taken the opportunity to burst into bloom.  The
elm was in its fresh summer garb.  The setting
sun shone level through its leaves and turned
them all to burnished gold.  It gilded the entire
Walk, and set the panes in the windows flashing
and flaming; even the dirty little oil lamps were
glorified as they reflected the golden blaze.  The
river shimmered with opal and amethyst; and a
great barge, drifting down with the tide, might
have borne Cleopatra and all her retinue, so
gorgeously was it transfigured.

Not all the Walk was present.  The Doctor, as
we have just seen, was engaged with the
Archbishop, and with his own marketing.  Miss
Barbara had sent a polite excuse.  Her actual
words were "Miss Barbara Pennymint presents
her Compliments to Madame Lachesnais and is
much obliged for her kind invitation to tea.
Miss Barbara Pennymint much regrets she cannot
avail herself of Madame Lachesnais' proffered
hospitality as I am engaged in an educational
experiment."

Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn, of course, was absent, as
usual, for purely personal and private reasons.

But all the others were there.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
was resplendent in a plum-coloured
suit, of which the breeches fitted so tightly, and
of which the waist was so narrow, that he scarcely
dared breathe.

Mrs. Poskett and Ruth had put on their best
gowns; the Admiral wore his gala uniform
with all his medals, and his three-cornered hat.
Madame herself was a vision of loveliness.  She
had discarded her half-mourning for the occasion;
but what she wore I cannot tell you, except
that it was a soft blue, and that there was
graceful lace about her neck and wrists.  If you wish
to see what she looked like, you have only to
examine a Book of the Modes of 1805, and
you will find her there.  Even Mr. Basil Pringle
was brushed.

Nanette and Jim—Jim in his best clothes—waited
on Madame's guests.  The latter were
all on their best behaviour.  You never saw
anything more elegant than the way Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
stuck out his little finger as he raised
his cup to his lips; you never heard prettier
protests than when Marjolaine offered Mrs. Poskett
a third helping of cake.  "I couldn't!
I reely and truly couldn't!—Well, since you
insist!"

But do what Madame would she could not
put her guests quite at their ease.  A sort of
blight brooded over their spirits.  This was
particularly noticeable in their attitude towards
Sir Peter.  They treated him with unaccustomed
aloofness; they kept him at arm's length;
they did not respond to his sallies; with the
result that his sallies became more forced as
the evening wore on.  As a contrast to this
gentle gloom, Marjolaine's high spirits amazed
her mother.  This child, who only last Saturday
was broken-hearted, to-day was laughing and
blithe, rallying her guests, prettily playing the
hostess, the only life in the party.  Madame
watched her with puzzled anxiety.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with the calf of his leg
well displayed, and his little finger well at right
angles to his cup, bowed elegantly.  "Ah, Ladies,
there is nothing so comforting as a dish of tea
after dinner.  It is prodigiously soothing!"

There seemed no appropriate rejoinder, but
Mrs. Poskett exploded with "Nothing can
soothe the broken heart."  She spoke into
her cup, but her eyes wandered towards the
Admiral.

Sir Peter tried to change the conversation.
Also he felt it was time to assert himself.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had been monopolising the
notice of the ladies far too long.

"Hah!" he cried, "I 've always said Pomander
Walk was a Haven of Content.  Look at it!"  You
remember that the last time he made a
similar remark everybody obediently turned at
his command.  Imagine his feelings, then, when
on this occasion nobody paid the slightest
attention.  On the contrary, they ostentatiously
turned to each other and began spirited conversations
about nothing in particular.  He repeated,
"I say, look at it!" but only drew a glare from
Brooke-Hoskyn.

Marjolaine came to the rescue.  She tripped
up to him and put her arm through his.  "There 's
something the matter with the Walk this evening,
Sir Peter.  I 'm the only merry one among you!"

Madame could not help exclaiming with grave
remonstrance, "Marjolaine!"

Marjolaine came close to her mother.  "Oh,
let me laugh, Maman!"  She proceeded in a
whisper, "They are so droll!  Sir Peter is afraid
of Mrs. Poskett; Mrs. Poskett is almost in
tears; Mr. Basil is gloomy; Ruth is in a bad
temper; and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn has n't got
over Saturday's banquet."

"But you, Marjolaine—!" exclaimed Madame
with quiet reproof.

"You told me to fight it, Maman," said Marjolaine,
with a shy laugh.  Then she ran across to
Basil, who was watching the door through which
Barbara might still come.  He was wondering
what demon had persuaded him to accept this
invitation, which had brought him out of doors,
when he might have stayed indoors where he
would at least have been under the same roof as
Barbara.

The Admiral had bravely recovered from his
rebuff.  He came up to Brooke-Hoskyn.  "Well,
Brooke, my boy!  Did n't see you in church
yesterday.  Too much turtle on Saturday—what?"
and down came the flat of his hand with
a round thwack on Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's broad
back.

To be accused of having overeaten yourself
when you are suffering from a bad headache is
extremely annoying; to be slapped on the back
when you are swallowing hot tea is infuriating.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned on Sir Peter.
"Nothing of the sort, sir!—I deprecate these
unseemly familiarities.  I was detained from
divine service because I chose to sit at home and
hold my dear Selina's hand!"  And he turned
his back on Sir Peter.

"Um," said the latter.  His playful banter
was certainly not being well received.

Mrs. Poskett looked up at Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
with melancholy eyes.  "How is your wife?"
she said, "that dear, innocent lamb."

"Gambolling, Ma'am," he answered, airily.
"Figuratively speaking, Selina is gambolling."

"How wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Poskett,
sympathetically.

Basil Pringle felt that something drastic
must be done if they were to live through the
evening.  He addressed Marjolaine.  "Miss
Marjory, won't you cheer us with a song?"

Madame Lachesnais interposed quickly: this
was putting her poor child's courage to too severe
a test.  "I am sure she would prefer not to sing
this evening."

But Marjolaine exclaimed merrily, "Oh, yes,
Maman, if they would like it!"

Madame could only admire her indomitable
pluck.  "Brave child!" she murmured.

"Sing that pretty little thing about the blue
ribbon," cried the Admiral, and hummed the
first bar.

"Ha!" mockingly cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.

The Admiral faced him angrily: "Well, sir?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn eyed him calmly through
his quizzing glass, and said coldly, "What, sir?"

Madame interposed with her most amiable
smile.  "Sir Peter, Mrs. Poskett's cup is empty."

"Is it?" growled Sir Peter, without moving.
But Madame's hand was stretched out to receive
it, and he had to yield.

"Oh hang!—Your cup, Ma'am."  He almost
snatched it from her.

"How kind and gentle you are," almost sobbed
Mrs. Poskett, with an adoring glance.

The Admiral answered her with a glare.
"Kind be—" he was silenced by a stern "Hush!"
from Basil, and had to relieve his feelings by
inarticulate splutterings.

Marjolaine stood in the centre of the circle,
with her hands folded in front of her, and sang
very simply and unaffectedly:

   |  "Oh, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |  Dear, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |  Oh, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |      Johnny 's so long at the fair.
   |  He promised he 'd buy me a fairing should please me,
   |  And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me,
   |  He promised he 'd buy me a bunch of blue ribbons
   |      To tie up my bonny brown hair."
   |

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn applauded in the grand
manner with the tips of his fingers, as if he had
been at the Opera.  "Brava!  Brava!" he cried,
with the discrimination of a connoisseur.

"Brava be hanged!" roared the Admiral.
"Capital!"  He turned to Miss Ruth.  "Where's
little Miss Barbara?"

To his consternation Miss Ruth hissed a
fierce "Hsssh!" at him.

"Well, I 'm—!" he muttered to himself.

Marjolaine sang the second verse.  You are to
understand that she made a very pleasant picture
as she stood warbling the quaint old ballad with
unaffected simplicity.  Jack evidently thought
so, for, braving the danger of discovery, he stood,
gaunt and hungry, watching her from behind the
curtains in Doctor Sternroyd's window.  Indeed,
all the Walk was affected by her charm.  Heads
nodded to the tune; feet kept time to the rhythm;
hearts melted—Mrs. Poskett's heart, especially.
She gazed reproachfully at the Admiral.  What,
indeed, could the matter be? and why, indeed,
was her Johnnie, whose name was Peter, so long
at the fair?  Jim and Nanette had come into the
circle, fascinated by the song.  Jim was trying
to insinuate an arm round Nanette's ample
waist, but only got pinched for his pains.

   |  "He promised he'd buy me a basket of posies,
   |  A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,
   |  A little straw hat to set off the blue ribbons
   |      That tie up my bonny brown hair.
   |  And it's oh, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |  Dear, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |  Oh, dear!  What can the matter be?
   |      Johnny 's so long at the fair!"
   |

Almost unconsciously the whole Walk drifted
into the song, so that the last lines were being
sung by everybody.  The Admiral, indeed, who
never knew when a song was over, went on long
after everybody else had finished.  In his
enthusiasm he added weird shouts to the
words:—"Oh!  Damme!  Ahoy!  What can the matter be?"

Mrs. Poskett burst into loud sobs.  "Oh,
don't!—I can't bear it!"

Ruth turned fiercely on the Admiral.  "Brute!"
she cried.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was stopping both ears
with his hands.  "Mong doo!  Mong doo!" he
drawled.  And then in that curiously official
manner he sometimes dropped into, "Pray
silence for the Admiral's song!"  It was a very
irritating manner.

Sir Peter made furiously towards him.  "By
Jehoshaphat—!"

But Madame, ever alert, stopped him.  She
held out a full cup.  "Sir Peter," she said, with
her sweetest smile, indicating Mrs. Poskett,
"take her another dish of tea."

"Me, Ma'am!" protested the outraged Admiral;
but there was no resisting that smile, and
he took it like a lamb—an angry lamb.  "It's
a confounded conspiracy," he growled.  He
thrust the tea under Mrs. Poskett's nose.  "Your
tea, Ma'am!"

"How sweet of you!" sobbed Mrs. Poskett.

The Admiral danced with rage.  "Dash it
and hang it, Ma'am, you're crying into it!"

Marjolaine had taken Miss Ruth aside.
"Where is Barbara?" she asked.

"It's enough to make a saint swear," answered
Ruth, snappishly.  "She's been locked in with
Doctor Johnson since Saturday.  Locked in!
Only comes out for meals."  Marjolaine laughed
quietly to herself.

Sir Peter had been moving restlessly round
the Walk.  He now found himself face to face
with Basil.  "Pringle," he said, "can you tell
me what's come over the Walk?"

Basil drew himself up.  "The Walk has
lofty ideals, sir," he said sternly.  "Perhaps you
have fallen short of them."  He turned away
and stalked towards Barbara's house.

The Admiral was left speechless.  He—he!
Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus—had been snubbed
by Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, by Ruth, and now
by this—this fiddler-fellow!  He could only
mutter, "Well!—blister my paint—!"

He was aroused by the booming of Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's
voice.

"Yes, Ladies," that great man was saying,
"Sherry was in fine condition on Saturday!"

The Admiral was not going to hoist the white
flag.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn must be put in his
proper place.  "And port, too, eh, Brooke, my boy?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn eyed him sternly and
haughtily.  "My name is Brooke-Hoskyn, sir,
and I was referring to my Right Honourable
friend, Richard Brinsley Sheridan!"

"Why couldn't you say so?" grumbled Sir
Peter.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn continued.  "As I was
about to say when—" he looked contemptuously
at the Admiral—"when I was interrupted—What
wit!  What brilliance!"

"Oh, do tell us!" cried Ruth.  The ladies all
hung on his lips.  He tasted the full flavour
of popularity.  He let it linger on his palate.
He was in no hurry.  "In order to appreciate
the point, you must remember how sultry the
weather was on Saturday."

"Gave you a headache, what?" put in the
irrepressible Admiral.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn did his best to wither
him with a look.  Then he resumed.  "Brooke,
says he—Brooke, my boy"—just like that—all
craned forward: they must not miss the
point—"it's a very warm night."  His audience
waited.  Yes?  The rest of the story?  He
looked from one to the other a little
uncomfortably.  When they found nothing more was
coming they turned to each other, puzzled.
Could this be all?  Was their perspicacity at
fault?  or where was the joke?  The Admiral,
bolder than the rest, gave voice to the general
feeling.  "H'm.  I don't see much in that."

.. _`THEN HE RESUMED.  "BROOKE," SAYS HE, "BROOKE, MY BOY"—JUST LIKE THAT`:

.. figure:: images/img-198.jpg
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   :alt: THEN HE RESUMED.  "BROOKE," SAYS HE,—"BROOKE, MY BOY,"—JUST LIKE THAT

   THEN HE RESUMED.  "BROOKE," SAYS HE,—"BROOKE, MY BOY,"—JUST LIKE THAT

"Nobody ever suspected you of having a
sense of humour," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
severely.  However, he felt that his first effort
had not been the success he had hoped for, and
he tried again.  "Ah!"—said he, brightening
up, "and my friend, H.R.H. the P. of W.!"  He
uttered the cabalistic letters with a mixture
of mystery and airy familiarity.  There was an
awed "Oh-h!" from all his hearers except Sir
Peter.  The latter exclaimed impatiently, "Your
friend who?"

The reply came with crushing weight.  "His
Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, sir!"  The
Admiral reeled under the shock of this broadside.

Mrs. Poskett leant forward eagerly.  "What
did the dear Prince say?  My poor husband knew
him well," she explained.  "When Mr. Alderman
Poskett was Sheriff, the dear Prince frequently
dined with the Corporation, and many 's the time
he said to Poskett, 'Mr. Sheriff, you must be
knighted,' but Poskett went and died—"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was annoyed.  He was
being interrupted, which is a thing intolerable,
and his own anecdote was being supplanted.  He
held up a deprecatory hand.  "It was not so much
what he said," he explained, "as his manner of
saying it.  Just:—'Ah, Brooke!'—but oh! the
elegance!  Oh, the condescension!"

Sir Peter broke out with, "Well, of all the—!"

But Madame stopped him with a touch on
his arm.  "Do you ever make speeches,
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?" she asked sweetly.

The great man looked at her with something
like suspicion.  For a moment he was undeniably
flustered.  But he mastered himself with an effort
and replied with a fair assumption of carelessness,
"Short ones, Ma'am.  Frequent, but short.
I have proposed the health of many gentlemen
of distinction."

"How clever you must be!" cried Ruth,
admiringly.

"Oh—!" protested Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with
exquisite modesty.

Madame pointed to the river, now gleaming
in the afterglow.  "How strangely empty the
Walk looks without our fisherman!"

"I was wondering what I missed," said Basil,
"of course!  The Eyesore!"

"He leaves a blank," added Ruth.

Marjolaine laughed.  "He was a sort of statue."

Mrs. Poskett confided tearfully to her tea-cup.
"The Walk is not the Walk without him."

Sir Peter was genuinely astonished.  "Why,
he tried to drown your cat, Ma'am!"

Madame playfully shook her finger at him,
"Oh, Sir Peter! have you driven the poor man away?"

The Walk eyed him severely, and all cried as
with one voice, "For shame, Sir
Peter!"  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn went on booming, "Shame!
Shame!" all by himself, long after the others
were silent.

The Admiral's patience was nearly exhausted.
Here was Madame turning against him now.
The injustice of it infuriated him.  He stamped
with rage.  "But, hang it and dash it, I haven't
seen him!" he roared.  But nobody believed
him.  All shook their heads gloomily, and said "Ah!"





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.. _`IN WHICH THE OLD CONSPIRACY IS TRIUMPHANT AND A NEW CONSPIRACY IS HATCHED`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   IN WHICH THE OLD CONSPIRACY IS TRIUMPHANT
   AND A NEW CONSPIRACY IS HATCHED

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.. _`Chapter XII headpiece`:

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   :alt: Chapter XII headpiece

   Chapter XII headpiece

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Little Miss Barbara Pennymint came
flying out of her house: a little more
and she would have flown over the railings.
Her cheeks were glowing with joy, her eyes
glittering with excitement.  She saw nothing of
the tea-party, but dashed headlong into the
midst of it as a sea-mew dashes at a lighthouse.
"Marjory!  Marjory!" she cried.  Then she
saw all the people staring at her, and stopped,
abashed.  "Oh!  I had forgotten!" she exclaimed,
and spread her wings to fly back again, but
Madame stopped her.

"A dish of tea, Miss Barbara?"

"No!" cried Barbara, violently, but remembering
her manners she corrected herself.  "Oh,
no, thank you!"  She hopped and skipped to
Marjolaine, who had come half-way to meet her.
"Marjory," she said, overflowing with
excitement, "can I speak to you?"

Before Marjolaine could answer, Sir Peter had
borne down on them.  Here, at last, was
somebody who had not snubbed him yet.  "Ah, Miss
Barbara," he bellowed, with clumsy playfulness,
"I didn't see you in church yesterday!"

As if Barbara wanted to be reminded of that!

"Wasn't I there?" she stammered, utterly
taken aback.  "I don't remember."  She tried
to get away, but the Admiral was inexorable.
"Come, now!  Come, now!  What was the text?"

Unhappy little Barbara saw all the eyes of
the Walk fixed on her.  She had to say something.
"Oh!  I know!" she cried at last, and proceeded
volubly, "'If any of you know of any cause or
just impediment—'"

"Barbara!" screamed Miss Ruth, indignantly,
while the others laughed at her confusion.
Basil heaved a great sigh.  Still thinking of the
lost one!  Marjolaine came to the rescue and
drew Barbara away from her tormentor.  "Come
away, Babs!"  She turned severely on poor Sir
Peter, "Don't worry her, Sir Peter!"

"Try to put some sense in her, Miss Marjory,"
said Ruth, as the two girls ran away, with their
arms, as usual, round each others' waists.

The Admiral was crushed.  "Even Missie!"
he groaned.  But he saw Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
preparing to tell another anecdote.  This gave
him new courage.  Putting on his courtliest
manner, he exclaimed, "Well, Ladies!  To-morrow
is the Fourth of June!"

"As this is the Third," interrupted
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with fine sarcasm, "you might
safely have left us to infer that, sir!"

He was standing close to Mrs. Poskett, who
had not moved from her seat under the elm.
Sir Peter came and faced him, so that the poor
lady found herself, as she afterwards described it,
between the upper and the nether millstone.

If Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could wield sarcasm,
so could Sir Peter when he was put to it.  He
spoke with dangerous politeness.  "But it seems
necessary to remind the bosom friend of H.R.H. the
P. of W. that it is the birthday of His Most
Gracious Majesty King George the Third!—"  The
shot told.  For a moment Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
was silenced.  Sir Peter went on, conscious
of victory, "Ladies, I warn you not to be
alarmed when you hear me fire the salute as
usual!"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn leaped—positively leaped
at his opportunity.  "As usual!—Ha!  That
brass popgun of yours—"

"Popgun!—" roared the Admiral, leaning
across Mrs. Poskett.

"I said popgun, sir!—has never gone off, yet!"

Mrs. Poskett was in a dreadful flutter.  She
held up her cup and saucer deprecatingly to
each of the infuriated gentlemen in turn, and
each automatically seized them and rattled them
in the other's face.  Jim—moved by his guilty
conscience—was signalling frantically to
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn not to betray him.

The Admiral was purple in the face.  "Because
some infernal scoundrel has always tampered
with the charge!"  The accumulated
grievances of the evening welled up within him.
"But to-night," he went on, thrusting the cup
and saucer roughly on Mrs. Poskett and spilling
the tea over her beautiful silk gown, "to-night,
I'll load it myself! and, damme!  I'll take it to
bed with me!"  And with that he stumped off
in a rage into his house, thrusting the innocent
Basil and the terrified Jim out of his way with
horrible objurgations.

"Now, Ladies!" said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
triumphantly, "you see the man's real nature!"

Poor Mrs. Poskett's nerves were completely
shattered, and she was trying to drink tea out
of her empty cup.

Ruth came and sat beside her.  "We shall
break the Admiral down, yet, my dear.  His
temper is all due to conscience."

"Alderman Poskett was just like that whenever
he had sanded the sugar," said Mrs. Poskett,
tearfully.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was devoting himself to
Madame.  Jim and Nanette were removing the
tea-things into Madame's house, and that
rascally Jim, who was old enough to know
better—but is anybody ever old enough to know
better?—was making the most of his chances.

Marjolaine and Barbara had retired into the
Gazebo.  "Yes!" twittered Barbara, continuing
their conversation, "he's learnt it!  He does
surround it with flowers of speech, but he says
it quite clearly."

"Dear Doctor Johnson!" cried Marjolaine,
laughing, and clapping her hands.

Barbara shuddered reminiscently.  "But I
cannot bear his eye on me!  It's like Charles's.
And he is moulting—which more than ever
increases the resemblance.  Oh, Marjory, he
looked at me so coldly all the time I was teaching
him!"

"Never mind how he looked, if he'll only talk!"

Barbara embraced her frantically.  "How
can I ever thank you?"

Basil was standing by the chains that separated
the Walk from the river.  The melancholy of
the evening had entered his soul.  Ruth came
up to him.  He was an idiot, to be sure, yet her
heart went out to him in sympathy.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
and Mrs. Poskett were thanking Madame
for her hospitality.  Jack could be seen peeping
impatiently out of Doctor Sternroyd's window,
or striding to and fro in the room like a caged
tiger at feeding time.

Marjolaine whispered to Barbara.  "If you
are really and truly grateful, you may be able
to help me!  I'll tell you a great secret."  She
drew Barbara close to her.  "I am to be married
to-morrow!"

Barbara screamed aloud, and all the people
in the Walk turned in alarm.

"Is anything the matter?" enquired Miss
Ruth, anxiously.

"No, no!" said Marjolaine, laughing.  "Yes,"
she went on, when the others had resumed their
conversation, "married secretly to-morrow.
Swear you won't tell anybody if you live to be
ninety!"

"Yes! oh, yes!" cried Barbara, hopping from
twig to twig.  (I cannot help it: she really was
exactly like a bird!)  "I mean, No! oh, no!"

"And you must be bridesmaid!"

Barbara's face expressed rapture.  "Marjory!"  And
then with eager curiosity, "Who is it?"

"Sh!" whispered Marjolaine.  She pointed to
Doctor Sternroyd's house.  "There!"

Barbara was genuinely amazed.  She had
heard of May and December, but this was May
of this year and December of the year-before-last.
"Not Doctor Sternroyd?" she asked aghast.

Marjolaine burst out laughing.  "No, no!"  She
pointed again where Jack was standing
behind the curtain, the picture of misery.  "There!
At the window!"

Barbara gazed and understood.  "Oh, how
lovely!" she cried, alluding to the romance and
secrecy.

But, of course Marjolaine accepted the epithet
for Jack.  "Yes, is n't he?"  She drew Barbara
to the elm.  "We are to be married by special
licence."

"What's that?" asked Barbara.

"I don't know.  Doctor Sternroyd's getting
it.  It lets you go and be married anywhere,
whenever you like."

"Heavenly!" cried Barbara.  "If Doctor
Johnson teaches Basil what I 've taught Doctor
Johnson, Doctor Sternroyd shall get me a licence,
too."

"Yes," said Marjolaine, "we'll keep him
busy."  Then she turned to where Basil was
gloomily watching them, and called, "Mr. Basil!"

Basil hurried forward eagerly, "Yes, Miss
Marjory?"

"Barbara is not feeling very well," said
Marjolaine, sympathetically; and immediately
Barbara looked languishing and pathetic.

"Heavens!" cried Basil in genuine alarm,
"Shall I play to her?"

"Oh, no!" cried Marjolaine, innocently, "it's
not so bad as that.  But it's her evening hour
with Doctor Johnson, and she does n't feel quite
equal to it."

Ruth had overheard this last statement.
"Why, bless her heart!" she interrupted tartly,
"she 's been sitting with that bird all day!"

Barbara lifted great reproachful eyes at her.
"Unkind Ruth!  The lonely bird!"

Marjolaine went on rapidly, addressing Basil,
"So she wondered whether you would take her
place for once."

"Why, of course!" cried Basil.  "With the
greatest pleasure in life!"

Barbara glanced at him out of the corner of
her eye, and said very demurely, "Oh, but you
don't know what you may hear."

"Yes," exclaimed Ruth, sharply, "he swears
horribly."

"I'll soothe his savage breast!" cried Basil,
enthusiastically.  "I 'll be Orpheus with his
Lute!  I 'll play the Kreutzer Sonata to him!"

Barbara turned anxiously to Marjolaine: this
wouldn't do at all!

"No! no!" cried the latter, "just let him
talk!  Just let him talk!"

But Basil was already inside the house.
Marjolaine and Barbara retired, giggling, into the
Gazebo, where they sat and twittered mutual
confidences.  Ruth joined the other ladies, who
were listening to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.  The
Admiral was leaning out of his upstair window
to take in his thrush.

"Indeed, yes," continued Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
"I have collected the witty sayings of my
distinguished friends.  I shall make a book of them.
A small quarto.  I shall call it, 'Pearls'"—he
caught sight of the Admiral—"'Pearls before
Swine.'"  The Admiral disappeared.  Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
proceeded, "Did I tell you my friend
Sherry's bonn mott about the weather?"

"Yes!  Oh, yes!" cried all three ladies, with
alacrity, and fled from him, leaving him abashed
and rather offended.  He saw Barbara in the
Gazebo, and brightened up.  "Ah! but Miss
Barbara was not there!"  He crossed on tip-toe,
and, much to her alarm, seized her by the arm
and dragged her to the elm.  "Imagine, then,"
he boomed, condescendingly, while Barbara
signalled in vain to Marjolaine for help,
"Imagine, then, that you are standing—ah—just
where you are standing; and I am Sheridan."  Barbara
had no idea of what he was talking
about.  Had he suddenly gone mad?  If so, was
he harmless?  "You remember how we perspired
on Saturday evening?"  "Oh!" cried
Barbara, with disgust.  "I come up to
you—so."  He suited the action to the word.  "I
place my hand familiarly on your shoulder—so—"

"Really!" cried Barbara, indignantly.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn explained.  "You understand:
you are Sheridan—no; I am Sheridan
and you are me.  And I—that is Sheridan—say
to you—I mean, me—'Brooke, my boy—'"

Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's pretty maid, came
rushing out of the house.  She was in a flutter
of excitement; also she was in a dreadful
hurry—and here was her master, talking to a lady!

"'Brooke, my boy'"—repeated Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
leading up to his point.

"Master—!  Master—!" whispered Jane, hoarsely.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn waved her away impatiently.

"'Brooke, my boy—'" he repeated for the
third time.  But Jane was tugging at his
coat-tails.

"What is it?" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
peevishly.  "What the devil is it?  Go away!"

Jane clung to him like a limpet.  "Master!"
she cried again; and then, putting her lips close
to his ear and covering them with one hand, while
with the other she pointed frantically to the
upstairs window, she whispered a piece of news
which petrified him and made his eyes start out
of his head.  Then she ran back into the house
as quickly as she had come.

"Eh?  What?" he cried, in great perturbation.
"There, now!—So like Selina!  Spoilt the
point of my story!"  He turned to the utterly
bewildered Barbara, with half a mind to
continue his anecdote, but thought better of it,
and with a brusque, "Excuse me!" dashed
headlong into the house.

Madame, who had been quietly conversing
with Mrs. Poskett and Ruth, came to Marjolaine.
"I think I shall go in.  Will you come, Marjolaine?"

"Oh, Maman," pleaded Marjolaine, "I have
so much to say to Barbara!"  She accompanied
her mother to their gate.

"You are so feverish—so unlike yourself—!
You are not going to be indisposed?"

Marjolaine caught sight of Jack in the Doctor's
study.  "Oh, Maman!" she cried, throwing her
arms round her mother's neck and kissing her
with quite unusual ardour, "I am so well, so
well!—I never was so well!"

Madame looked at her searchingly.  Could
her daughter be heartless?  To be sure, she
herself had besought her to forget her girlish
love, but Marjolaine had forgotten it too quickly.
Madame went into her house with an uneasy
mind and a troubled countenance.

Miss Ruth had been arguing with Mrs. Poskett.
"Well," she said, evidently alluding to
the Admiral, "That's what I should do!  Bring
him to his knees."

There was a dangerous glitter in Mrs. Poskett's
eyes as she replied, "I brought Poskett to his:
why should n't I bring Peter?"

"Strike while the iron's hot.  He knows we're
all disappointed with him, and he's ashamed of
himself.  Now's the time, when he ain't sure of
himself.  Come along in.  Put on your prettiest
cap.  I'll help you."

Just as they were at Mrs. Poskett's gate they
saw Doctor Sternroyd come shuffling round the
corner.  His manner was furtive, and he was
burdened with a variety of small parcels.

"Dear me, Doctor!  How you are loaded!"
cried Miss Ruth.

The antiquary had evidently hoped to get
home unnoticed.  "Good evening, Ladies!" he
stammered, in confusion.  "Pray excuse me if
I cannot remove my hat."

"And not books, this time?" said Mrs. Poskett.

"No, no, no!" cried the antiquary, looking
as guilty as if he had been caught carrying stolen
goods.  "Not books.  Not what you might call
books.  Just parcels.  Simple necessaries, I
assure you."  He made a wide curve in order not
to come into closer contact with Ruth and
Mrs. Poskett, and they went laughing into the latter's
house.  But the wide curve brought him up
against Marjolaine and Barbara, who had come
out of the Gazebo.  "More women!" groaned
the Doctor; and before either of them had
spoken he had added hastily, "Simple
necessaries, I do assure you!"

Barbara hopped up to him eagerly.  She
touched all the parcels, which he vainly tried
to keep out of her reach.  "Doctor," she said,
eagerly, "which is the licence?"

The Doctor was utterly taken aback.  "Eh?
Oh, dear!  dear!  Miss Marjory, you told her!"

"Of course," said Marjory.  "She's my dearest
friend!"

"Tut, tut!—Dear, dear!—What says the
Swan of Avon?  'Who was't betrayed the
Capitol?—A woman!'"

Jack had opened the window and now leant
out and said in a ghastly whisper, "Doctor!—For
Heaven's sake look sharp with the victuals!"

"There, there!" cried the flustered Doctor,
as he shuffled on into the house, "the cuckoo
in the nest!"

At the same instant Mr. Basil Pringle came
bounding out of the Misses Pennymint's house,
shouting, "Miss Barbara!"

Barbara leant half-swooning against
Marjolaine.  "Oh!—he's coming!"

"Oh, Miss Barbara!" repeated Basil, breathlessly.

"Has Doctor Johnson bitten you?" asked
Marjolaine, mischievously.

"Oh, that gifted bird!" exclaimed Basil,
rapturously.

"Did he speak?" asked Marjolaine, while
Barbara panted expectant.

"Speak!—Ah!—"  Basil had no words.

Doctor Sternroyd's window was violently
thrown open by Jack.  It was nearly dark in the
Walk, and Jack was reckless.  "Marjory!" he
called.  Marjory was very much startled.
Anybody might come out at any moment.

"Oh! take care!" she cried, as she ran up to
within whispering distance of him.

Barbara, with bent head and blushing cheeks
was trying to keep Basil to the point.  "What
did he say, Mr. Basil?"

"Come closer!" whispered Jack to Marjolaine,
and after assuring herself that no one was looking,
she crept inside the little garden.

Basil came impulsively towards Barbara.
"Shall I tell you?  Dare I tell you?" he asked
passionately, yet shyly.

"You know best," said Barbara, making an
invisible pattern on the grass with her dainty
foot.

Basil took his courage in both hands.  "He
said—it was all in one breath—He said,
'O-burn-your-lungs-and-liver-you-lubberly-son-of-a-
lop-eared-weevil-tell-Barbara-you-love-her!'"

"Oh, Mr. Basil!" sighed Barbara, and threw
herself headlong into his arms.

"But it's true!—It's true!" he cried
enthusiastically.  "Come! let me tell you my own
way!"  And without more ado, he picked her up
and carried her bodily into the Gazebo.

"It's perfectly monstrous!" Jack was explaining
angrily to Marjolaine, who was now under
his window.  "The old fossil's brought two eggs,
a red herring, and a pot of currant jelly!"

"Poor Jack!" exclaimed Marjolaine sympathetically,
yet with a note of laughter in her voice.

"Is that rations for a grown man?" asked
Jack pathetically.  "Says he'll make an
omelette!  Two eggs!  An omelette!  Ho!"

Here the Eyesore crept cautiously back to his
post.  He had not dared come in broad daylight,
but now that it was nearly dark he hoped
he would be unobserved.

From the Gazebo came the voices of the other
lovers in long-drawn notes.

"My own!" said Basil, in a stupendous bass.

"My Basil!" echoed Barbara.

Rapture.  Oblivion.  An endless embrace.

"Can't you send that object for food?" said
Jack, pointing to the Eyesore.

"I daren't speak to him," answered
Marjolaine, with a little shiver of dislike.  "He
always turns out to be somebody else.  Jack! if
you 'll be good, I 'll get it myself!"

"Angel!  But make haste!  I'm starving!"

"If you hear me singing, look out of the
window," whispered Marjolaine, kissing her
hand to him.  And with that she ran lightly into
her own house, and Jack retired to wait with
what patience he could muster.

"And now, what is the next thing to do?"
asked Basil, rising and leading Barbara towards
the house.

"We must tell Ruth," said Barbara, with a
sound practical idea of clinching the matter.
There should be no mistake this time.

"Yes! at once!" cried Basil, nobly.  "Oh!"
he exclaimed, with a burst of grateful sentiment,
"I 'll buy Doctor Johnson a golden chain!"

Barbara's pretty head was reposing affectionately
on his shoulder.  "And I 'll wear it for
him.  The dear bird."

"The dear, dear bird!" they repeated in
melodious unison.

Not otherwise did Romeo and Juliet breathe
soft nothings in the gardens of Verona.  Not
otherwise did Paolo and Francesca talk
exquisite nonsense when they had very injudiciously
left off reading.  Not otherwise—but why
pursue the subject?  You and I have been just
as happy, and just as foolish.

Ruth brought Mrs. Poskett, resplendent in a
new cap and various other seductive devices,
out of the house.  Barbara fluttered to her sister.
"Dear Ruth!  Come in quickly!  Basil and I
have such news for you!"

Ruth saw it at a glance.  At last they had
shed one form of idiocy to take on another.
Now, perhaps, she would enjoy a little peace.
"Very well," she said.  Then she made a low
curtsey to Mrs. Poskett, and said, meaningly,
"Courage—Lady Antrobus!"

Alas, poor Admiral!  The knell of thy freedom
has sounded.  Shut thyself in thy house as thou
wilt: close thy shutters; make fast thy doors;
yea, train the little brass cannon on the Walk:
nothing will help.  Thy fair enemy is cruising
at the harbour's mouth, with pennons flaunting
to the breeze, and all her deadly armoury of
sighs, tears, threats, reproaches and languishing
glances made ready for action; and nothing
thou canst do will serve.  Through long years
thou hast sailed light-heartedly from many ports,
leaving broken, or, at any rate, damaged hearts
behind thee.  Now the Hour of Retribution has
struck, and the Avenger is here.  Thy day of
conquests is past, and it is thou who wilt be led
captive in chains of roses.  There is none to
sympathise with thee.  On the contrary, it is my firm
conviction that the whole Walk will hang out
banners to celebrate thy defeat.





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.. _`IN WHICH ADMIRAL SIR PETER ANTROBUS IS MORE DETERMINED THAN EVER TO FIRE THE LITTLE BRASS GUN`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   IN WHICH ADMIRAL SIR PETER ANTROBUS IS MORE THAN
   EVER DETERMINED TO FIRE THE LITTLE BRASS GUN

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   Chapter XIII headpiece

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Mrs. Poskett found herself—if you
did not count the Eyesore: and
nobody ever had counted him, yet—alone
in the Walk.  The sun had set, and the
evening twilight itself had almost merged into
night.  The river gleamed a pale green, as if
it were loath to surrender the last remnant of
day.  It was a propitious hour for amorous
dalliance, but Mrs. Poskett felt she had much
to do ere she could hope to be engaged in any
such pleasant pastime.  She sat some moments
under the elm considering her position.  She
was face to face with a difficult problem.  Here
she was, under the elm, and there was Sir Peter,
safely barricaded in his own house.  That he
was not in a good humour she knew.  The house
looked forbidding.  The door was tightly closed.
The windows were shut, and the blinds drawn.
Somewhere behind those drawn blinds the
Admiral was fuming.  She yearned to hold his hand
and comfort him and soothe his feelings, wounded,
as well she knew, by the sneers and open mutiny
of the Walk.  But how to get at him?  She could
not go to his house.  She could not call him.  All
the conventions and proprieties rose up like an
impregnable wall against either of those courses.
And even if she called him, he would not come.
On the contrary, he would retire like Hamlet to
some more remote part of his ramparts, and
pretend he had n't heard her.  She must employ some
stratagem.  But what stratagem?  Pomander
Walk was not a good nursery for stratagems,
she thought, little knowing how many plots and
schemes and conspiracies had been concocted
and were still seething all around her.

She was on the point of giving up in despair
when she caught sight of the Eyesore.  She
looked at his back—which was all she could see
of him—and brooded a long time.  At last she
rose and stole over to him on tip-toe.  She felt
for a coin in the little bead-embroidered bag
that hung from her wrist.  Two or three times
she opened her mouth as if about to speak, but
each time she closed it again upon the unspoken
word.  Finally, however, she made up her mind.

"My good man," she said, rather condescendingly.

The Eyesore never stirred.  She might as well
have addressed one of the chain-posts.  She
tried again: this time a trifle more urbanely.
"Mister!—"

A sort of wave of acknowledgment ran down
the back of the Eyesore's coat, just as a horse
shivers at the touch of a fly; but that was all.
She made one more effort: now with a courteous
appeal.  "Sir!—You threw Sempronius into
the river on Saturday—here's a crown for you."

I cannot explain what connection there was in
her mind between the crime and the reward,
except that in some confused way she considered
the former as a sort of introduction entitling her
to address him.

The Eyesore only put his hand behind his
back with the open palm upward.  When
Mrs. Poskett had dropped the huge coin into it, he
brought it slowly round, bit it, spat on it, and
pocketed it.  But he said no word.  Mrs. Poskett
proceeded hastily, indicating the Admiral's
house.  "Now I want you to knock at
that door."

The Eyesore followed the direction of her finger
with a bleary eye.  What!  He knock at the door
of his enemy and persecutor! and be captured
by him!  That was her little game, was it?  And
she thought to lure him to his doom with a
miserable bait of five shillings.  But he'd show her!
To Mrs. Poskett's amazement, alarm, and
admiration, he picked up a stone, hurled it with
unerring aim at the door, and incontinently
bolted round the corner.  Mrs. Poskett fled
behind the elm and awaited the upshot with a
beating heart.

Jim appeared, red-faced, at the door.  He
looked up and down the Walk, but seeing it
empty, muttered, "Cuss them boys!" and was
turning to go in again, when Mrs. Poskett called him.

"Good evening, Mr. Jim," she said, in her
blandest tones.

"'Evening, mum!" answered Jim, touching
his forelock.  "Them boys ought to be drownded,
is what I says; and I wish I had the doing
of it."

"You have a responsible post, Mr. Jim."

"Ay, ay, mum.  Bosun o' the Admiral's gig."

"Oh, more than that, Mr. Jim.  Chief officer,
and cook, and gardener—what lovely peas!"  It
was much too dark to see the peas, but she
knew they grew all around Jim's heart.

"Ah," he assented, and added with meaning,
"takes a oncommon lot o' moistenin', though."

"It is thirsty weather, Mr. Jim."  Mrs. Poskett
was searching in her bag again.

Jim's eyes gleamed.  "And a truer word you
never spoke, Lady."

"Mr. Bosun," said Mrs. Poskett, insidiously,
"I want to see the Admiral."

Jim shook his head gloomily.  "Ah! 'tis dirty
weather he's makin' of it, sure 'nough.  He've
a-locked hisself in by hisself if you'll believe me;
an' he's a-swearin' somethin' 'orrible for to 'ear!"

"Mr. Bosun," said Mrs. Poskett, holding up a
beautiful, bright new crown-piece between her
finger and thumb, "would five shillings quench
your thirst?"

Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Well, Lady, I can't say but 'twould take the
edge off it."

To his disgust, Mrs. Poskett retreated a step.
"But I must see Sir Peter."

Jim scratched his head—which was his way
of expressing deep reflection.  He caught sight
of the Admiral's flag hanging motionless.  "I've
got it!" he cried.  "Sheer off a cable's length,
Lady."

Mrs. Poskett retired to the extreme end of the
Walk.  Jim made a speaking-trumpet of both
hands and bellowed, "Admiral, ahoy!"

The Admiral's window went up so suddenly,
the Admiral's head shot out so abruptly, and his
voice was so fierce, that Mrs. Poskett could not
suppress a little scream.

"D'ye want to wake the dead?" roared the Admiral.

"Axing your pardon, Admiral—sunset."

"What of it, you lubber?"  The Admiral
was quite unaware of Mrs. Poskett's presence,
or I am sure he would not have used such
an expression.

"Shall I haul the flag down, Admiral?" asked
Jim, with well-feigned astonishment.

You may judge of what the Admiral had gone
through from the fact that this was the first
time in recorded history he had neglected to
perform this ritual.

"On your life!" he cried, in great agitation.
"I've hoisted it and struck it with my own
hands, morning and night, any time these five
years.  D' ye think I'll have a lubberly son of a
sea-cook like you do it now?"

He vanished from his window as abruptly as
he had appeared.  Jim hobbled towards
Mrs. Poskett.  "Got him, Lady!" he chuckled.

Mrs. Poskett handed him the coin.  "Here,
and thank you."

"Thank you, mum."

Sir Peter appeared at the door.  Unfortunately
he caught sight of Mrs. Poskett.  He retreated,
half-closed the door, and only showed his head
through the opening.

"Jim!" he cried.

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"Haul it down yourself."

Mrs. Poskett gave a cry of disappointment.
Had she spent ten shillings in vain?

But Jim was equal to the occasion.  His
voice was a beautiful blend of pathos and
wounded dignity.  "No, Admiral.  Not after
what passed your lips."

"Damme!  I can't leave it hoisted all night!"
roared the Admiral.

"That's as mebbe," said Jim, beginning to
stump off.  "Even the lubberly son of a sea-cook
'as 'is feelin's, same as them wot's 'igher
placed."  And he stumped round the corner.

"Here!  Jim!" roared the Admiral, in distress
and fury.  "Come back! you mutinous
scoundrel!"  But Jim was gone.

What was the Admiral to do?  Was he to
leave the flag up, contrary to all precedent?
That was unthinkable.  On the other hand was
he to offer himself as a target for Mrs. Poskett's
sarcasms?  Yet again, was he to show the white
feather in the presence of the enemy?  No!
He'd be hanged if he would.  He slapped
himself on the chest to give himself courage, and
came down the steps.  "Cheer up, my hearty!"
he cried; and then he hummed what he
thought was the tune of "Oh! dear! what can
the matter be?" and began hauling down the flag.

Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had sidled casually
along the railings, as if she were going nowhere
in particular and didn't mind when she got there.
But she timed herself carefully, so that she was
close to Sir Peter just as he was entangled in the
lines.

"Admiral!" she said, very gently.

"Ma'am?" growled he, continuing to extricate himself.

"Why do you force me to address you?" she
asked reproachfully, and with great dignity.

Sir Peter was taken aback.  "Me!  Force
you!  Gobblessmysoul!" he exclaimed, "Well, I'm—"

"For your own good," said Mrs. Poskett,
solemnly.  "Oh, Sir Peter, you was King of the
Walk on Friday.  Now Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn
will usurp that title."

This fetched him.  He left the flag lying at
the foot of the mast, and came out into the
open.  "Will he so, Ma'am!" he said, fiercely.

"So he will!"  Having enticed him from
behind the security of his railings, Mrs. Poskett
knew he would follow wherever she led him.
She led him at once towards the elm.

"The Walk says you have lowered the prestige
of His Majesty's Navy."

The Admiral had indeed turned to go back;
but this brought him to her side.  "Dash it
and hang it, Ma'am! what do you mean?"

"Well, you know what I mean," said Mrs. Poskett,
with pretty confusion.  "The entire
Walk saw you press me to your heart!"

The Admiral was helpless.  His own recollections
of what had happened on Saturday were
extremely vague.  What with the rescue of the
cat and the sudden appearance of Caroline
Thring, together with the subsequent escape
of Jack, he had lost all sense of actualities.
Moreover, it was impossible for him to accuse
Mrs. Poskett of having embraced him.  A
gentleman does not do such things.  So he could
only stammer weakly, "I didn't, did I?"

Mrs. Poskett flashed at him indignantly.
"The entire Walk witnessed the outrage, and
the entire Walk is indignant that nothing has
come of it."

"Gobblessmysoul!" muttered the Admiral.

Mrs. Poskett followed up her advantage.
"'Oh, how unsailor-like!'"—that is what the
Walk says: "'How unsailor-like!'"

Imagine the stab.  He, Admiral Sir Peter
Antrobus, with more than forty years of service
in His Majesty's Navy to his credit; the hero of
Copenhagen; the friend of Nelson; he, who had
given an eye for his country—unsailor-like!

He pushed his wig back and mopped his
brow.  "It doesn't say that!" he murmured,
horrified.

But Mrs. Poskett was mercilessly emphatic.
"It says that."  Then she steered on another
tack.  "I 'm only a lone widow," she said, with
an air of martyrdom.  "If Alderman Poskett
were alive, he 'd see you did the right thing by
his wife.  But I!—I must leave my once happy
home!"

"But—dash it and hang it—!" protested
Sir Peter, struggling in the web that was being
woven around him.

"You cannot alter facts by swearing," said
the widow.  "Can I bear the sneers of a
Pennymint? the arched eyebrows of a Brooke-Hoskyn?
I cannot.  I must let my beautiful house,"
with a side glance at him and considerable stress,
"my freehold house.  Let it to an undesirable
tenant: a person with a mangle."

A mangle in Pomander Walk!  "Gobblessmysoul!"
said the Admiral.  Also he had been
set thinking.  Freehold, eh?

"To be sure, the expense of moving is nothing,"
proceeded Mrs. Poskett, airily, "when one
has Four-hundred a year in the Funds.  But
oh! my lovely furniture will be chipped! and,
oh! how shall I part from my friends?"

The Admiral was moved.  He was undeniably
moved.  A freehold house, Four-hundred a year
in the Funds, and lovely furniture.—And,
mind you, the widow was buxom; he himself had
described her as a "Dam fine woman."  As she
stood there in tearful confusion, she looked
distinctly agreeable; plump and comfortable.  To
be sure, the sun had gone down.

"But it's not so bad as that?" said the
Admiral, with something approaching sympathy.

"It's worse!" cried Mrs. Poskett.  "And
that innocent cat, Sempronius!—What will he
say?  He took a chill on Saturday and he's
lying before the kitchen fire wrapped up in a piece
of flannel.  When I move, the change will kill
him.  Oh, why did n't you leave him to drown?"
she sobbed aloud.

The Admiral was much stirred.  A woman's
tears always bowled him over.  He could stand
anything but that.

"Dash it and hang it, Ma'am, don't cry!"

"It is n't as if I was older," sobbed
Mrs. Poskett.  "I could be much older!  But I'm
young enough to have a tender heart!"  She
mastered herself with an heroic effort; swallowed
her sobs; drove back her tears; and stood before
him, the picture of stoic calm, of noble resignation.
"But never mind!  I will be brave!
You—you—shall—not—see—me—weep!"  Then
she howled.

Sir Peter was indescribably distressed.
"But—Gobblessmysoul!—" he stammered—"what
am I to do with Jim, and the flagstaff, and the
brass gun, and the thrush, and the sweet peas?"
and, pointing to his house, "What am I to do
with Number One?"

Mrs. Poskett raised one tear-bedewed eye
from her handkerchief.  "Knock a door through
and make one house of them!" she exclaimed,
as if sweeping away an absurdity.  "Oh, these
paltry details!"  Then she lifted her face to his
with a smile.  Thus does the sun look when it
emerges from behind a rain-cloud.  "Sweet
peas?  What could be more appropriate?  Ain't
I Pamela Poskett? and ain't you Peter?"

The tearful smile, so winsome, so appealing,
was irresistible.  "Damme, you 're right!"
cried the Admiral, surrendering at discretion.
"You've swept me fore and aft!  You've blown
me out of the sea!  By George, Ma'am, I 'll
marry you if you 'll have me!"

Once more, as when he saved her cat,
Mrs. Poskett threw her comfortable arms round Sir
Peter's neck.  "I 'll have you, Peter," she cried
joyfully; and she added in a tone which clinched
the matter, "I've got you!"

There was an eloquent silence.  The old elm
shook its leaves with a ripple of laughter.  It
had seen many things in its long life, but never
anything so epically grand as the widow's
victory and the Admiral's surrender.  Troy
town was besieged in vain during ten long years,
and was then only conquered by a horse.
Five years Mrs. Poskett had besieged Sir Peter
and her victory was due to a cat.  You seize
the analogy?  When you remember, further,
that Basil had been inveigled by a parrot, you
will realise the danger—or utility, according
to your point of view—of keeping domestic
pets: the undoubted risk of having any commerce
with other peoples' domestic pets—especially
if they are Greeks or widows.  I mean, the
people.

The Admiral was conquered, and like a gentleman,
he made the best of his defeat.  That is
the way to turn it into a moral victory.  "I 'll
haul out the brass gun and fire it to-night!"
he cried, enthusiastically.  "That'll tell the Walk!"

"I 'll tell the Walk!" said Mrs. Poskett, masking
her quite legitimate triumph under renewed
endearments.

They say drowning men see all their past lives
in a flash.  As the Admiral felt Mrs. Poskett's
arms tighten round his neck, he had a similar
experience.  All the eyes he had ever looked into
seemed to be gazing reproachfully at him out
of the darkness; all the names he had ever
whispered seemed now to be whispering in his
ear.  Dolores, Inez, Mariette, Suzette, Paquita,
Frederike, Jette, Karen—I know not how
many more—like a swarm of bees they buzzed
around him.  Then, too, he suddenly remembered
that upstairs in his old sailor's chest; the chest
that had accompanied him all over the world,
there was a splendid and varied assortment of
locks of hair: black, brown, golden, auburn,
frankly red, straw-coloured, chestnut, and one
off which the dye had faded and shown it
uncompromisingly grey.  He must remember to
destroy them before—well, before the door
was knocked through.

What escapes he had had!  What a mercy he
had not married that fiery Spaniard; that still
more blazing Brazilian; that fickle Portuguese;
that frivolous Mam'selle; that straw-coloured
Dane.  He began to realise that Mrs. Poskett
was, like the Walk itself, a Harbour of Refuge.
Here was no rhapsodical nonsense, but safe
comfort, with a freehold house, solid furniture,
and Four-hundred a year.  Almost unconsciously
his arms closed round her.  She gave
a great, contented sigh, as her head sank on his
shoulder.  To have drawn this response from
him was, indeed, victory!  I wonder what she
would have done if she could have read his
thoughts, if she could have seen the long procession
of seductive females that was passing across
his mental vision.  I am convinced that the
prospective title would have consoled her, and
that she would have accepted his past for the
sake of her future.

They were abruptly aroused from their
happiness, however.  Unperceived by them, Lord
Otford had entered the Walk.  He had come
slowly along the crescent, examining each house
in turn, evidently trying to make up his mind
to knock at one of them.  He retraced his steps
and had his hand on the handle of the Admiral's
gate, when his attention was attracted by the
sound of murmuring voices.  Evidently the
voices of lovers.  Quickly and angrily he came
down, just in time to witness the Admiral
implant a chaste but conclusive salute on
Mrs. Poskett's ample brow.

"Peter!" he cried, scandalised.

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   "PETER!" HE CRIED, SCANDALISED





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.. _`IN WHICH MISS BARBARA PENNYMINT HEARS THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE LAMPS ARE LIGHTED`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


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   IN WHICH MISS BARBARA PENNYMINT HEARS THE
   NIGHTINGALE, AND THE LAMPS ARE LIGHTED

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The Admiral tried to start away from
Mrs. Poskett, but though her hands slipped
from his neck they clung to his arm.
"Gobblessmysoul!  Lord Otford!" he cried.

Mrs. Poskett had a delicious foretaste of
future greatness.  Here, at the very threshold
of her betrothal, was a real, live lord.  It was
well worth all she had been through.  "Present
me, Peter," she whispered, "and tell him."

It is not so easy to tell an old friend you are
going to be married, when you yourself are old
enough to know better.  The Admiral made a
bad job of it.  "Um—my neighbour—Mrs. Poskett—"
he mumbled, weakly.

"Widow of Alderman Poskett," she broke
in.  "And if Poskett had n't died when he did—"

The Admiral cut her short.  He presented
his friend to her.  "Um—Lord Otford—"
then he tried bravely to explain the equivocal
attitude in which they had been discovered.
"Um—I am—she is—we are—"  He broke
down under Otford's eye.

For Otford was looking at him in a confounded
quizzical way, as much as to say "Do all the
neighbours in Pomander Walk come out and
kiss in the dark?"  So the Admiral turned
crestfallen to Mrs. Poskett, "No, hang it!
You tell him!"

Mrs. Poskett was quite equal to the occasion.
She made Lord Otford a magnificent curtsey,
just as she had curtseyed to the Lord Mayor's
Lady, years ago.  "Happy to meet any friend
of my future husband," she said, with charming
condescension.

Lord Otford responded to her curtsey with
an equally elaborate bow.  "Am I to understand—?"

"Yes, Jack," interposed Sir Peter, impatiently,
"understand.  Understand without further palaver."

Lord Otford bowed again.  "My felicitations,"
said he.  Mrs. Poskett had expected more;
but Lord Otford was evidently preoccupied,
and abruptly changed the subject.  "Madam,
can you spare him a little while?"

Mrs. Poskett was much put out.  Was she
to be thrust aside so unceremoniously in the
first flush of her triumph?  She bridled, and
answered with some asperity, "I am sure no
real friend of Sir Peter's would wish to tell him
anything his future wife may not hear."

Lord Otford recognised he had made a tactical
mistake.  He seized one of her plump hands,
kissed it, and explained with an air of the
greatest consideration, "I assure you, Ma'am,
the matter is strictly personal to myself."

How could any lady resist such delightful
manners?  Mrs. Poskett melted at once.  She
shook a playful finger at him.  "Naughty Lord
Otford!"—she turned to the Admiral—"Well,
Peter; I 'll wait at the gate.  But not more than
five minutes, mind!"  And with a roguish shake
of all her curls and all her ribbons she tripped
up to the Admiral's gate, where she stood
planning how his house and hers were to be turned
into one, and how the sweet pea was to be
trained over both, at the same time striving
to hear as much as possible of what the two
friends were saying.

"Peter!" exclaimed Lord Otford, as soon
as she was out of earshot, "Jack 's disappeared!"

The Admiral's conscience smote him uneasily.
He knew the rascally Jack was in Doctor Sternroyd's
house; he himself had helped to get him
there; and here was the unfortunate father,
his own bosom friend, in distress.  What was he
to do?  Betray Jack?  Impossible.  No.  He
would see the matter through.  At any rate, he
would gain time.

"Serves you right," he growled.

Lord Otford was deeply hurt.  "Did I say,
'Serves you right,' just now?"

"Just now?" repeated Sir Peter, not grasping
his friend's meaning.  Lord Otford pointed
with his gold-headed cane to where the widow
was examining the houses.

"Otford!" cried the Admiral, angrily; but
his friend interrupted him impatiently.  "Peter!
He 's run away with that gel!"

"That he has n't!" replied Sir Peter, greatly
relieved at being able to speak the truth for
once.  "The gel's here."

"Fact?" asked Lord Otford.

"Solemn," affirmed the Admiral.

Lord Otford strode up and down in deep
thought.  He brought himself up in front of
the Admiral.  There was evidently something
more on his mind.  "Peter," he said, "do you
know who her mother is?"

Sir Peter was getting impatient.  He saw all
the old, narrow-minded prejudices being trotted
out once more.  "You're not going to begin
that again!" he cried, angrily.

"She's Lucy Pryor," said Lord Otford quietly.

The Admiral stared at him.  For a moment
the name conveyed no meaning.  "Lucy
Pryor—?"  Then the meaning suddenly flashed
on him, and he gasped, "Not Lucy Pryor!"

"Lucy Pryor!" repeated Lord Otford.  "Ha!"
he cried, with bitter self-mockery, "I was telling
her how impossible the marriage was—"

"And she turned out to be Lucy Pryor!"  The
Admiral was so hugely delighted that for
a moment he was unable to go on.  "Jack, my
boy," he roared, doubled up with laughter,
"you must have felt like six-pennorth o'
ha'-pence—what?"

"I did," answered Lord Otford, grimly; and
then he added shamefacedly, "But now I—I
want to see her again.  I must see her again."

"Never know when you 've had enough, eh?"
chuckled Sir Peter, wiping the tears from his
streaming eyes.

"Laugh, you brute!" cried Lord Otford.
"Laugh!  Well you may.  She 'll never allow
me inside her house.  She was magnificent!
*Patuit dea*, Peter!  She came the Goddess!"

"What did I tell you?" laughed Sir Peter,
waving his handkerchief triumphantly.  "Didn't
I say—?"

"Can't you coax her out here?" interrupted
his friend.

"Me!" cried the Admiral.  "No!—I've told
you: I 'll have nothing to do with it!"

Try how she might, Mrs. Poskett had only
been able to pick up fragments of the
conversation, but those had been enough to arouse
her curiosity.  Also she felt she had been
standing neglected much too long.  "Now, you two,"
she said, coming between them, "I'm sure
you 've gossiped long enough."

Otford turned to her.  "Madam," said he,
in his most winning manner, "will you do me
a great favour?"—

"I'm sure your lordship wouldn't ask me
anything unbecoming," she replied, with pretty
modesty.

"Will you persuade Madame Lachesnais to
come out and taste the evening air, not telling
her I am here?"

Mrs. Poskett looked at him enquiringly, and
with a woman's intuition read an affirmation
in his eyes.

"Don't do anything of the sort, Pamela!"
cried the Admiral, warningly.

She turned sharply on him.  How
thick-headed men were, to be sure!  "Peter, I'm
ashamed of you!"  Then she addressed Lord
Otford, "With great pleasure, my Lord.  Me
and Peter 's that happy, we want to see
everybody ditto."

The Admiral stared from one to the other in
amazement.  What did she mean?  What could
she mean, but one thing?  "Gobblessmysoul,
Jack!" he cried at last, in utter amazement,
"Is that it?"

"That's it!" said Mrs. Poskett, with a laugh.

"That's it!" said Lord Otford, with a
melancholy smile.

Mrs. Poskett tripped joyously to Madame's
house; knocked, and was admitted.

The Admiral seized his friend by both hands
with enthusiasm.  "Here!  Come in!  Come in
and have a glass of port-wine!"

"But if Madame—" began Lord Otford.

"Come in!  She won't budge from the house
if she sees you here.  Pamela will warn us,
when she's got her, and," ruefully, "she'll
get her, fast enough."  They turned to go
towards Sir Peter's house; but Lord Otford
stopped short, in surprise.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had opened his upstairs
window and was leaning out, fanning himself
with his handkerchief.

"Hoskyn, by all that's wonderful!" said
Lord Otford, eyeing unconscious Brooke-Hoskyn
through his lorgnette.

Sir Peter corrected him.  "Brooke-Hoskyn;
with a hyphen.  I said you must know him."

"Know him!" cried Lord Otford, laughing,
"Know my old butler!  I should think so!"

"What?" asked the Admiral, not believing
his ears.

"He married my cook, Mrs. Brooke!  And
now he 's City toast master."

Sir Peter gave a low whistle.  "That's it, is
it?"  What a triumph!  "When the Walk
knows that—!"

"That's your man of fashion, is it, Peter?"
laughed Lord Otford.

But the Admiral was thinking.  "No!" he cried,
suddenly, "Damme!  No! he's a good fellow,
and I'm not a blackguard!—Jack, follow my
lead."  He made a speaking-trumpet with his
hands and roared, as if Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had
been a mile away, "Ahoy!  Brooky, my boy!
Here 's your old friend, Otford."

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn nearly fell out of the window.

"Glad to see you, Hoskyn," said Lord Otford,
cheerfully, with an amiable wave of his hand.

"Oh, don't!" groaned Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn,
hoarsely.  "Oh, my Lord!—Not at this moment!
I ain't equal to it, your Lordship!  I reely ain't!"

"Sorry you're ill," said Lord Otford, with a
pleasant laugh.  "Too much to eat, and too
little to do.  What you want is a family to keep
you lively!"

"A family!" almost shrieked Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.
"Oh, my Lord!"  He disappeared abruptly
from the window, and Lord Otford and
the Admiral went arm-in-arm and laughing
heartily into the latter's house.

It was now quite dark in the Walk: the
translucent darkness of a perfect June night.  The
stillness was so great that you could hear the
river lapping against the bank as it flowed by.
Behind the tower of Chiswick Church the sky
shone pale, but, above, it melted into purple in
which the stars seemed to hang loose.  Even the
leaves of the elm had ceased to whisper together
and had gone to sleep.  Here and there in the
Walk a faint light appeared behind drawn blinds
and closed curtains.  Presently the bow window
of the Misses Pennymint's house was gently
opened, and Barbara and Basil appeared.  Their
arms were twined round each other, and Barbara's
pretty head reposed against her lover's shoulder.
Framed in the jasmine that encircled the window,
they made as touching a picture as you could
wish to see.  They stood quite still, inhaling
the fragrance of the slumbering elm, and
thinking thoughts unutterable.

As they opened their window Jack opened
his.  He was famished, and there was no
sign of Marjolaine.  Could she have forgotten him?

"'On such a night as this—'" began Basil,
in his richest and deepest notes.

Jack whistled a flourish very softly.

"Hark, Basil," whispered Barbara, looking
up into his eyes.  "Hark!  The nightingale!"

Jack whistled a little louder.

"Do you think that is the nightingale, dearest?"
ventured Basil.

Jack whistled loud and impatiently.

"At least let us make believe it is," murmured
Barbara.

Jack's whistle rose to a screech.

"My own one!" boomed Basil, in a voice
like subdued but passionate thunder.

Jack was just on the point of a despairing
effort, when Madame's door opened.  He craned
forward in the hope of seeing Marjolaine emerge,
but had to withdraw swiftly, for Mrs. Poskett
came down the steps, followed by Madame.

"The air is so balmy, it's a pity to stay
indoors," Mrs. Poskett was saying.

"We were just coming out," answered
Madame.  "Marjolaine is strangely restless."  She
had come down the steps and now saw
Barbara and Basil in the window.  She stopped
astonished.  "Ah—?—Why!—Really?—"

"Yes!" cried Barbara, joyfully, clinging closer
to Basil.  "We are to be married at once!  We
are going to ask Doctor Sternroyd to get us a
licence."

"My own one!"  Basil's deep diapason reverberated
through the night.

"Oh!  I am so very glad!" said Madame, in
her most charming manner.

But to Basil even this gentle congratulation
seemed almost like a desecration.  "Come in,
my own," he throbbed, "lest the winds of heaven
visit your face too roughly."

"Ah!" sighed Barbara.  What beautiful language
he used, to be sure, and how different from
Charles's.  Closely linked they sank back into
the darkness of the room.

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Poskett, alluding
to them.  "I wonder who'll be getting married
next!"  She and Madame came and sat under
the elm.

Marjolaine crept very cautiously down the
steps.  She was elaborately concealing something
in the folds of her dress.  She stole along the
railings, watching her mother and Mrs. Poskett,
till she got to Doctor Sternroyd's gate.  There
she swiftly deposited two packages just inside
the railing.  Then she joined the others, looking
as innocent as a lamb.

Mrs. Poskett said simperingly, "I wanted
you to be the first to hear of my betrothal."

"I hope he'll make you very happy," said
Madame, cordially.

"I 'll see to that!" answered Mrs. Poskett; and
her manner showed she meant it.

"Isn't it wonderful, Maman!" exclaimed
Marjolaine.  "An angel's wing has touched
Pomander Walk, and everybody's going to be
married!"

"Yes, my poor child," said Madame, and held
out her hand sympathetically to draw her
daughter to her heart.  But Marjolaine had turned
away, and was singing!  Actually singing!

"In Scarlet Town—" she had begun.

"Surely, you are not going to sing!" said
Madame, almost reproachfully.

"Let her, Ma'am," said Mrs. Poskett, "'t will
keep her quiet."

So Marjolaine stood between her mother and
Doctor Sternroyd's house, and sang.

   |  "In Scarlet Town, where I was born
   |    There was a fair Maid dwellin'—"
   |

"Ah! these pathetic old ballads!" sighed
Madame, turning to Mrs. Poskett.

At the first note of Marjolaine's song Jack
had appeared at the window.  Marjolaine now
half turned to him, and went on:—

   |  "A pigeon-pie and a loaf of bread
   |    Are just behind the railin'!"
   |

The lamplighter, a wizened little man with a
face like a ferret's, came running round the
corner with his short ladder over his shoulder.
He put it against the lamp-post opposite the
Admiral's house, swarmed up it like a squirrel,
lighted the lamp, slid down the ladder, and ran
quickly to the lamp at Doctor Sternroyd's.

Jack had the door ajar, and was eagerly peeping
out; but in the darkness he could see nothing.

"The lamplighter!" exclaimed Madame Lachesnais,
with some surprise.  "I thought there was
a moon to-night."

"Perhaps he's forgotten," answered Mrs. Poskett.
"Anyhow, he 'll come and put out
the lights as soon as the moon rises."

Marjolaine saw Jack's dilemma and began
singing again:—

   |  "All in the merry month of May
   |    When green buds they were swellin'!"
   |

The lamplighter was on his ladder lighting
the Doctor's lamp.

"I should like to congratulate the Admiral,"
said Madame.

"I 'll send him out to you," answered Mrs. Poskett,
eagerly.  She saw her chance of obliging
Lord Otford.  Madame rose with her and
accompanied her towards Sir Peter's house.
Marjolaine turned towards Jack, pointing with
violent gesticulations to where the victuals lay:—

   |  "You'll find the parcels where I say
   |    By lookin' or by smellin'!"

Then she ran into the summer-house.

Jack caught sight of the food, and with a
delighted "Ha!" crept down the steps.
Unfortunately, however, the lamplighter had heard
Marjolaine's words and followed the direction
in which she had pointed.  His little ferret
eyes gleamed greedily.

Madame left Mrs. Poskett to go into the house,
and turned to where she had left her daughter,
but no Marjolaine was to be seen.  "Marjolaine!"
she called, anxiously.

Marjolaine came slowly out of the Gazebo.
Her hands were folded in front of her and her
eyes were cast down.  She looked altogether as
subdued as a Saint in a stained-glass window.

"Me voilà, Maman," she said, demurely.

Madame sat under the elm, a little to the
right of the trunk.

Marjolaine came and knelt at her feet and
seized both her hands so that she held the poor,
deluded lady with her back to the houses, while
she herself could watch Jack in his quest of the
pigeon-pie.

Madame was glad of this opportunity of
saying a few well-chosen words to her daughter.

She began very gravely:—"Marjolaine, you
are putting on this gaiety to please me—"

"No, Maman," said Marjolaine; but at that
moment the lamplighter slid down his ladder, and,
creeping on all fours, began stalking the pigeon-pie.
She saw it was going to be a race between the
lamplighter and Jack for the coveted prize, and
she could not suppress a little startled "Oh!"

"Why do you cry out like that?" asked
Madame, with deep concern.

Marjolaine had the greatest difficulty in the
world to keep from laughing.  "Nothing,
Maman!" she said, volubly.  "You are not to
be anxious about me.  I am quite, quite happy."

The race was continuing.  Although Jack saw
the lamplighter's manoeuvre, he could not
move quickly, for fear of making a noise and
being heard by Madame.

"I saw Lord Otford yesterday," Madame
continued.

Marjolaine's entire attention was absorbed
by the rivals.  "You saw—?" she repeated,
vaguely.  But at that moment the lamplighter
was perceptibly gaining on Jack.  "Oh!  Oh!"
she cried, with a stifled laugh.

Madame was shocked.  "Marjolaine, you are
laughing!"

"No, no!" cried Marjolaine, "it was—it
was surprise."

"He was very stern, very indignant," her
mother proceeded; "but I did not flinch.  I
told him you—"

The lamplighter snatched the pigeon-pie and
fled.  Jack, speechless with rage and disappointment,
was on the point of rushing after him, but,
to his horror, he caught sight of his father coming
out of the Admiral's house, and only just had
time to bolt back into the Antiquary's.

Marjolaine gave up.  In an uncontrollable fit
of hysterical laughter she dashed into her own
house, almost knocking Lord Otford over on
her way, and leaving her poor mother utterly
dumbfounded on the seat.  Had grief affected
the poor child's brain?  Madame rose hurriedly
to follow her daughter—and there stood Lord Otford.





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   CHAPTER XV


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   SHOWING HOW THE ROUNDABOUT ROAD LEADS BACK
   TO THE STARTING POINT

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"Lord Otford!" cried Madame.

"Forgive me," he said, very gently.

"Pray allow me to pass!" for he was
standing right in her road.  "I am very anxious
about my child."

"If I am any judge," said he, with a smile,
"that young lady is in the best of health and
spirits."

Madame was indignant.  "You are mistaken.
She is—" but this would never do; she was
just going to let out that Marjolaine was
heart-broken because of Jack Sayle's desertion: the
very last thing Lord Otford must know.  "Yes,
of course," she corrected herself.  "She is well
and happy, but—"

"Then," said Lord Otford, "will you favour
me with a few moments?"

She could not help noticing with some
satisfaction how different his manner was from
when they had last met.  Then he had tried to
bluster and bully; now he was all deference.
But she would not yield a jot.  She drew
herself up proudly.

"I can see no use in renewing our painful—"

He interrupted her deprecatingly.  "I am
in a grave perplexity.  My son has disappeared—"

Madame took him up quickly.  "And you
suspect us of harbouring him!" she cried, with
genuine anger.

"No, no!" he protested.  "On my honour, no!"

"Then—?"

"Ah, do be patient," he continued, almost
humbly.  "I am here on an errand of conciliation."

"Conciliation!" echoed Madame, with a touch
of scorn.

"Jack," Lord Otford began explaining, "is
very dear to me."

"Marjolaine is very dear to me," said Madame,
defiantly.

Lord Otford bowed.  "Precisely.  I have been
considering.  Are we justified in keeping these
two young people apart?"

Madame looked at him in amazement.  "Do
you say that?"

"I do," he smilingly affirmed.  "Marjolaine,
being her mother's daughter, must be a charming gel."

Madame waved the compliment aside.  He
went on.

"And although Jack is my son, he is a
thoroughly good fellow."

"But he is contracted to marry—" Madame
interrupted.

"That is all upset," said Lord Otford; and
the curious thing was that he did not seem at all
put out.  "Carrie Thring has taken the bit
between her teeth and eloped with the curate."

Madame looked at him sharply.  "And your
hopes being dashed in that quarter, you come—"

"No, you are not fair!" protested Lord Otford.
"I think I should have come in any case.  Seeing
you on Saturday has revived many memories—"

"It needed some such shock."

Lord Otford winced; but he continued bravely.  "I
made up my mind not to act my own
father over again.  If Jack loved your daughter,
he was to marry her."

"That is no longer the question," said Madame
with emphasis.  "My daughter refuses to marry
your son."

"Why?  Because she does not love him?"  His
voice was very grave and very searching.
Madame tried to answer.  She would have
given worlds to have been able to say "Yes."  But
she could not say it, and she was silent.
Lord Otford was watching her keenly.

"No!" he said, almost severely.  "No; but
only because you tell her to refuse.  She simply
obeys out of habit.  You are undertaking a heavy
responsibility.  Ah!  Why punish these children
because I behaved like a fool years ago, when I
knew no better?"

Madame sank on the seat under the elm.  Was
he right?  Had she acted in mere selfishness?
Was she breaking Marjolaine's heart only to
gratify something very like spite?

Lord Otford leant over her, and now there
was a ring of passion in his voice.  "And why
punish me now, so late?  Is it not possible for
me to atone—Lucy?"

"Lord Otford!" she cried, trying to rise.

"Don't stop me now!  Don't go away!" he
entreated, motioning her back.  "Ah! we are
poor creatures at best!  We go blindly past our
happiness.  Let us hark back, Lucy, and try
to find the trail we missed!"

"We!" cried Madame.

"I."

Madame was profoundly stirred.  His voice
had not changed at all in all those years: just
so had he murmured passionate words in the old
vicarage garden.  She must take care, or she
would fall under the spell of it again—and that
must not be.  She must take care; harden her
heart; put on a panoply of steel.

"I have been quite happy," she said at last,
very defiantly.

"I know it," he answered, "and I am glad to
know it."

"But I purchased my happiness dearly."  She
turned on him with bitter resentment.  "You
have never realised the suffering you inflicted
on me!"

"I can imagine it," he answered, almost
voicelessly.

"No, you cannot," she retorted.  "Only those
who have gone through it can imagine it.  Ah! think
of pride insulted; ideals smirched; faith
trampled on; tenderness turned back on itself!"

"I know it all," he murmured.

Madame went on, more as if she were
communing with herself.  "Nature is very strong,
very merciful.  I had not forgotten!  Never, for
one moment!  But life covered the memory."  She
paused a moment, sunk in thought.  When
she spoke again it was in a gentler voice.  "Then
Jules came, and offered me his companionship.
I gave him all I could, and he was content.
Oh! the good, true, generous man!"

Once more Lord Otford winced; but he contrived
to say with genuine feeling, "I honour
him."  After all, Jules was dead.

"And I honour his memory," said Madame, gravely.

Lord Otford spoke very earnestly.  "We are
quite frank, Lucy: you loved your husband; I
loved my wife—"

"And there is no more to be said," concluded
Madame, rising, with a little sigh.

"Ah! but there is!" he exclaimed, standing
and facing her.  "Face your own soul, Lucy,
and tell me: did the thought of the old vicarage
garden at Otford never haunt you?"

She looked straight into his eyes.  "Never
with any suggestion of disloyalty to Jules,"
she said firmly.

"That I am sure of.  But it came.  I know."  He
dropped his voice, came closer, and spoke
with deep feeling.  "Lucy, Lucy, it was always
there!  It never left you, as it never left me!
It was the fragrant refuge, into which we crept
in our solitary moments—never with disloyalty
on your side or mine—but for consolation, for
rest.  Is that true?"

"It was merely the echo of an old song—"
she murmured, under her breath.

"But how sweet!  How tender!"

"And how sad!"  Her strength was going.
Every word he said seemed to draw the strength
out of her.  Her heart yearned to him; her
whole soul cried out for him; and only her will
resisted.  She made one more effort.  "No!
No!" she cried, "I banished the memories!
I banish them now!"

"You could not!  You cannot!" he whispered,
passionately.  "No one can!—Think of these
two children: Marjolaine and Jack.  Suppose
we part them now: suppose they go their different
ways: do you think either of them will forget
the flowing river, the sheltering elm, or the words
they have whispered under it?  Never!—Lucy,
Lucy—" he was bending over her where she
sat, and his voice had all the old thrill—"though
we go astray from first love; though
we undervalue it; yes! though we desecrate it,
it never dies!—On revient toujours à ses
premiers amours!"

But the years that had flown! the unrelenting
years! what of them?

"We cannot retrace our steps," she said,
sadly, "we cannot undo suffering; we cannot
win back innocence."

"We can!" he cried.  "We started from the
garden; we have been a long journey with all
its chances and adventures; and now we are at
the garden gate again: the flowers we loved
are beckoning to us; the birds we loved are
calling us; we have but to lift the latch—Lucy,
shall we not open the gate and enter the
garden?"

"We cannot recall the sunrise—"

"But the sunset can be as beautiful!"

"We are old," she said; but her voice had
no conviction.  As a matter of fact, at that
particular moment she felt she was eighteen.

"I deny it!" he laughed.  He felt assured
of victory.  "Do I feel old?  Do you look
old?—I can't vault a five-barred gate, but I
can open it and get on the other side just as
quickly!"

She looked up at him with a wistful smile.
"But—but there are other things—"

"There is, above all, happiness!  If we have
no children of our own, Lucy, we shall have
our grandchildren."

"No!" she cried, rising, and shaking her
head.  "I have been too persuasive.  Marjolaine's
love has been nipped in the bud.  And
besides, Jack has run away from her."

"Not he, if I know the young rascal!"  He
took both her hands in his.  "You tell me
Marjolaine is well and happy?"

"Yes; but hysterical.  You saw for yourself,
just now."

"Is she a flighty coquette?"

"Certainly not!"

"Then I 'll bet you a new hat—No! a diamond
tiara!—she knows where Jack is, and there 's
an understanding between them!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Madame, as the possibility
of this idea struck her.

"Lucy!" cried Lord Otford, drawing her to
him, "both couples shall be married on the
same day!"

You have no idea how pretty Madame looked
in her confusion and happiness.  You have no
idea how young and handsome Lord Otford
looked in his victory.  Love had set the clock
back for both of them—and they were young
man and young maid again.

What had become of Madame's resentment?
What had become of all the arguments she had
thought of when he first began to speak?  His
voice had effaced them all.  It was so natural
to be loved by him and to love him, that no other
thing seemed possible.  She had nothing to
say.  She could only breathe a great sigh of
contentment as he touched her: she felt as if
she had parted with him in the garden only
last night; and to-night he had come again;
and all was as it should be; and all was well.

But suddenly she started away from him.

"Jack!" she cried, with horror, "we shall
have to tell them!"

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Otford with comic dismay.

"I can't face Marjolaine!" said Madame,
with a pretty blush, which, however, was wasted
in the darkness.

"Jack'll roast me properly!" groaned Lord Otford.

"You see it's hopeless!  We've been telling
them how utterly impossible their marriage is,
and now we propose to get married ourselves!
How they 'll laugh at us!"

"Let 'em!" cried Lord Otford.  "By Gad, it
shall be happy laughter!"  And therewith he
drew Madame into his arms and kissed her;
and I cannot honestly say she resisted.

But they were interrupted by Doctor Sternroyd,
who at that very moment came stumbling
out of his house.  Also the Eyesore and Jim
came round the corner together, with their
arms affectionately round each other's necks
and every symptom of having spent the larger
part of Mrs. Poskett's bribes.  The Eyesore
found his box with difficulty and sank on it
with relief.  It was with a shaky hand he took
up his rod and fell to fishing again.  Jim
meandered deviously into the Admiral's house.

"Sh!" whispered Madame, warningly, as
she saw the antiquary.  She turned to him
with that preternatural calmness which ladies
know so well how to assume under such
circumstances, and said, alluding to something
he was carrying in his hand, "Why, Doctor,
are you fetching milk so late?  I can give you
some."

"No, Ma'am," said the Doctor, with suppressed
rage.  "I am not seeking the lacteal
fluid.  As you see me, I, the Reverend Jacob
Sternroyd, Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of
the Society of Antiquaries, am on my way to
procure Ale!—"  And with a face expressive
of the utmost disgust he held out a very
diminutive white milk-jug.

"Oh!" said Madame, with a tinge of
astonishment.  Then, in order to account for the presence
of a stranger, she added, "This is Lord Otford."

With a cry of "Good Heavens!" the conscience-stricken
Doctor let the jug fall.  Happily it fell
on the lawn and was not damaged.

With native courtesy Lord Otford picked
it up and handed it to its owner.  "Allow me:
your jug, I think."  Then, as a sudden idea
occurred to him, "By the way, Doctor—" he
cast a meaning glance at Madame—"can you
tell me anything about a marriage-licence?"

Madame looked down, with another very
becoming blush: but the Doctor's behaviour was
quite extraordinary.  He threw up his hands in
guilty despair.  "I said so!  I knew it would
come out!—"  He appealed to Madame.
"Miss Barbara told you!"

"Yes—but—" answered Madame, puzzled
and astonished.

The Doctor continued rapidly, while the
couple could only stare at him in mute amazement.

"I wash my hands of it!  Two whole days,
one of which was the blessed Sabbath, I have
been up to my neck in cabals and intrigues!
I have done!—"  He fumbled in his pockets
and ultimately produced a legal-looking
document.  "My Lord, it was very kind of you to
approach the subject so considerately, but here
is what you ask for.  His Grace was very
reluctant, but the pipe, which I now fear was not
genuine, did it."  Then, as if he had unburdened
himself of some oppressive load of guilt, he
cried, "Hah!  My conscience is white again!
I will tell the young fire-brand!"  And with
that he hurried back into the house, calling,
"Jack!  Jack!"

"But what is all this?" cried Lord Otford.
He unfolded the paper and took it under the
lamp.  As soon as he had read the first lines, he
gave a cry of amused surprise.  "What do you
say now, Lucy?"—Then he read aloud, "John
Sayle, of Pomander Walk, in the Parish of
Chiswick, bachelor, and Marjolaine Lachesnais,
also of Pomander Walk, spinster—"

"Under our very noses!" exclaimed Madame,
half vexed and half amused.

"And old Dryasdust has been harbouring
Jack!  And now he 's gone to tell him!—Lucy,
let's see what desperate thing they 'll do next.
Come!"  He drew her gently into the Gazebo,
and for a moment there was complete silence
in the Walk.

But suddenly this was shattered by a fierce
outcry in Doctor Sternroyd's passage.  The
door was flung open and the Doctor appeared,
vainly trying to bar Jack's way.

"But, my dear young friend—" the Doctor
was protesting.

"Let me pass!" shouted Jack, livid, and
thrusting his host aside.  "For five years I 've
been a sailor, and I can't think of the words I
want!"

"Dear, dear!  Tut, tut!" said the Doctor;
but he did not wait.  The conspiracy at any
rate was off his mind.  He retired into his
house, and carefully locked the door.

Jack rushed to Marjolaine's house and
boldly performed a long rat-tat with the brass
knocker, muttering to himself all the time,
"The old fool!  Oh, my stars! the silly old fool!"

Nanette appeared.

"Tell Miss Marjory that—" began Jack,
violently.

"Plait-il?" said Nanette, impassively.

"Oh, hang!—Er—deet ah Madermerzell—"

But Marjolaine ran into the passage.  "Jack!"
she cried, much alarmed.  "Oh!  What is it?"

"Come out!  Come out!" cried Jack, seizing
her hand and dragging her hastily down the
steps, to Nanette's horror and indignation.

"Ah, mais!" the latter exclaimed, "Oú est donc
Madame?" and went in to look for her.

Jack was incoherent.  "Sternroyd!" he gasped.
"He had the licence!  Had it!  We were to be
married to-morrow!  And he 's gone and given
it—to whom do you think?—to my father!"

"Oh!" exclaimed poor Marjolaine, "then
all is over!"

"No!" he cried, with magnificent determination.
"All 's to begin again!  Take me to
your mother.  Then I 'll take you to my father."

Lord Otford and Madame Lachesnais had
come out of the summer-house.

"That is what you should have done at first,
sir!" said Lord Otford.

"Father!" cried Jack, amazed.

With a half-frightened cry of "Maman!"
Marjolaine threw herself in her mother's arms.

But Jack was not to be trifled with.  He
faced his father heroically.  "It's no use, sir!
You can cut me off with a shilling, but I mean
to marry Marjory!"

Marjolaine was not to be outdone in courage.
"Maman!" she said, with a radiant face, "he
came back; and I 'm going to marry him."

Lord Otford turned gravely to Madame.
"What do you say?"

"I say, God bless them."

"Maman!" cried Marjolaine, hugging her.

"And I, too, say God bless them!" cried Lord
Otford, heartily.

"Marjory!" shouted Jack; and in a moment
the lovers were in each other's arms.

"H'm," suggested Lord Otford, drily, "I
believe this is a public thoroughfare!"

The lovers separated abashed.  "Oh, sir!"
said Jack, "please give me back that document."

"Why, no, Jack," answered his father, "I
want that."  And he and Madame glanced at
each other guiltily.

"But, sir!" protested Jack.

"Um—the fact is—" Lord Otford had
never felt so shy in his life.  In vain he appealed
to Madame for support; she was much too busy
examining the very pretty point of her very
pretty shoe.  "I say, the fact is—with slight
alterations—it may come in useful.  Er—I,
too, am John Sayle—and—um—I, too, am
going to get married."

"Marjory," said Jack, very gravely, "my
father's trying to be funny."

But Marjolaine's attention was divided
between her mother and Lord Otford.  The clumsy
shyness of the one and the pretty confusion of
the other gave her, as she would have said in
French, furiously to think.  Besides which, we
must not forget she was in her Mother's confidence.

"Maman," she said, roguishly, "I believe!—Lord
Otford!  I believe—!"

"Believe, my child, believe!" cried Lord
Otford, glad not to have to enter into further
explanations.  He took her pretty head between
his hands, and kissed her.  "Here 's the
document, Jack; and—ah—there is a pleasant
seat under the elm; and agreeable retirement
in the—ah—Gazebo."

So he and Madame sat in the arbour, and
Jack and Marjolaine sat under the elm, and the
leaves of that wise old tree having been awakened
by Jack, asked each other with a pleasant
rustle which couple was the happier of the two.

There was a great to-do at the Admiral's.
I think Mrs. Poskett had been watching the
lovers; for now the door burst open, and the
Admiral and Jim hauled out the little brass
cannon, followed by Mrs. Poskett, all in a
flutter with pleasant alarm.  While they were
planting the gun close behind the unconscious
Eyesore's back, the lamplighter came running
in—he always ran—and put out the first
lamp.  Barbara and Basil came slowly out of
their house, and leant over the railings in a
close embrace, while Ruth stood watching
them from the upper window.  Basil, indeed,
had brought his fiddle.

"Haul her out!" roared Sir Peter, alluding
to the gun.

Mrs. Poskett uttered a little scream.  "Oh,
Peter!  I 'm frightened!"

Jim reassured her in a hoarse grunt.  "It 's
all right, Mum, I 've emptied her."

The lamplighter put out the lower lamp.

"What are you doing that for?" cried Jack.

The lamplighter pointing over his shoulder,
replied laconically, "Moon!" and ran off.

Sir Peter was just about to apply a lighted
candle to the touch-hole of the gun, when
Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, much dishevelled, threw
open his window, and cried in a horrified whisper,
"Sir Peter!  Sir Peter!—For Heaven's sake,
don't fire that gun!"

"Why the devil not, sir?" roared Sir Peter, angrily.

"Sh!" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, waving a
frantic hand.  "*It's a boy!*"

"Gobblessmysoul!" cried Sir Peter, "I'll
be godfather!"

And all the Walk was delighted, and the leaves
of the elm clapped their hands together in the
evening breeze.

Basil gently disengaged his arm from
Barbara's waist and began playing the slow
movement of the Kreutzer Sonata very, very softly.

Suddenly, behind the tower of Chiswick
Church, up leapt the great full moon, turning
the river to molten light, and flooding the Walk
with gold.

The Admiral and Mrs. Poskett hurried to
the Gazebo—but that was full.  They turned
to the seat under the elm—but that was
occupied.  "Gobblessmysoul!" said the Admiral.

So they had to be content to stand very close
together, watching the river.  And Sempronius
came and rubbed his arched back against the
Admiral's legs.  Jim and Nanette looked on
from their door-steps in amazement.

In his bow-window Doctor Sternroyd was
gazing fondly at a faded miniature, while with
his other hand he raised a glass of punch on
high.  "Araminta!" he sighed, and drank to her
memory.

"Oh, Selina!" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn.

In the Gazebo there was a very tender whisper:—"Lucy!"

Marjolaine's head sank on her lover's shoulder
with a happy, "Oh, Jack!"

Ruth was showering blossoms of jasmine on
Barbara and Basil.

There was a great silence, emphasized by
the yearning notes of Basil's fiddle.  And
through the silence came Ruth's voice, tender
and wistful:—

"Ah, well!—I'm sure we all hope they'll
live happily ever after!"—

And, for the first time in his life, the Eyesore
caught a fish.

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