CHAPTER XVIII.

OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD START UPON A DARK ADVENTURE, BUT HAD TWO MINDS UPON IT.

At ten o'clock on this same morning Mr. Samuel Buzza sat by the Club window, alternately skimming his morning paper and sipping his morning draught. He was alone, for the habit of early rising was fast following the other virtues of antique Troy, and the members rarely mustered in force before eleven.

He had read all the murders and sporting intelligence, and was about to glance at the affairs of Europe, when Mrs. Cripps, the caretaker, entered in a hurry and a clean white apron.

"If you please, sir, there's Seth Udy's little boy below with a note for you. I'd have brought it up, but he says he must give it hisself."

Sam, descending with some wonder, encountered Mr. Moggridge in the passage. The rivals drew aside to let each other pass. On the doorstep stood a ragged urchin, and waved a letter.

"For you, sir; an' plaise you'm to tell me 'yes' or 'no,' so quick as possible."

Sam took the letter, glanced at the neat, feminine handwriting of the address, and tore open the envelope.

"Dear Mr. Buzza, If you care to remember what was spoken the other evening, you will to-night help a most unhappy woman. You will go to the captain's cabin of the Wreck which we visited together, and find there a small portmanteau. It may be carried in the hand, and holds the few necessaries I have hidden for my flight, but please carry it carefully. If you will be waiting with this by the sign-post at the Five-Lanes' corner, at 11.30 to-night, no words of mine will repay you. Should you refuse, I am a wretched woman; but in any case I know I may trust you to say no word of this.

"Look out for the closed carriage and pair. A word to the bearer will tell me that I may hope, or that you care nothing for me. G. G.-S.

"P.S.—Be very careful not to shake the portmanteau."

"What be I to say, plaise, sir?"

Sam, who had read the letter for a third time syllable by syllable, looked around helplessly.

"Ef you plaise, what be I to say?"

Sam very heartily wished both boy and letter to the devil. He groaned aloud, and was about to answer, when he paused suddenly.

In the room above Mr. Moggridge was singing a jaunty stave.

The sound goaded Sam to madness; he ground his teeth and made up his mind.

"Say 'yes,'" he answered, shortly.

The word was no sooner spoken than he wished it recalled. But the urchin had taken to his heels. With an angry sigh Sam let circumstance decide for him, and returned to the reading-room.

No doubt the consciousness that pique had just betrayed his judgment made him the more inclined to quarrel with the poet. But assuredly the sight that met his eyes caused his blood to boil; for Mr. Moggridge was calmly in possession of the chair and newspaper which Sam had but a moment since resigned.

"Excuse me, but that is my chair and my paper."

"Eh?" The poet looked up sweetly. "Surely, the Club chair and the Club paper—"

"I have but this moment left them."

"By a singular coincidence, I have but this moment taken possession of them."

"Give them up, sir."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, sir."

At this point Sam was seized with the unlucky inspiration of quoting from Mr. Moggridge's published works:

"Forbid the flood to wet thy feet, Or bind its wrath in chains; But never seek to quench the heat That fires a poet's veins!"

This stanza, delivered with nice attention to its author's drawing-room manner, was too much.

"Sir, you are no gentleman!"

"You seem," retorted Sam, "to be an authority on manners as well as on Customs. I won't repeat your charge; but I'll be dashed if you're a poet!"

My Muse is in a very pretty pass. Gentlest of her sisterhood, she has wandered from the hum of Miss Limpenny's whist-table into the turmoil of Mars. Even as one who, strolling through a smiling champaign, finds suddenly a lion in his path, and to him straightway the topmost bough of the platanus is dearer than the mother that bare him—in short, I really cannot say how this history would have ended, had not Fortune at this juncture descended to the Club-room in form and speech like to Admiral Buzza.

The Admiral did not convey his son away in a hollow cloud, or even break the Club telescope in Mr. Moggridge's hand; he made a speech instead, to this effect:

"My sons, attend and cease from strife implacable; neither be as two ravening whelps that, having chanced on a kid in the dells of the mountain, dispute thereover, dragging this way and that with gnashing jaws. For to youth belong anger and biting words, but to soothe is the gift of old age."

What the Admiral actually said was—"Hullo! what the devil are you young cubs quarrelling about?"

And now, satisfied that no blood is to be spilt, the Muse hies gladly to a very different scene.

In the drawing-room of "The Bower" Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys was sitting with a puzzled face and a letter on her lap. She had gone to the front door to learn Sam Buzza's answer, and, having dismissed her messenger, was returning, when the garden-gate creaked, and a blue-jerseyed man, with a gravely humorous face, stood before her. The new comer had regarded her long and earnestly before asking—

"Be you Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys?"

"I am."

"Answerin' to name o' Geraldine, an' lawful wife o' party answerin' to name o' Honorubble Frederic?"

"Certainly!" she smiled.

"H'm. Then this 'ere's for you." And the blue-jerseyed man handed a letter, and looked at her again, searchingly.

"Is there an answer?"

"No, I reckon."

She was turning, when the man suddenly laid a finger on her arm.

"Axin' pardon, but you'll let 'un down aisy, won't 'ee? He don't bear no malice, tho' he've a-suffered a brave bit. Cure 'un, that's what I say—cure 'un: this bein', o' cou'se, atween you an' me. An' look 'ee here," he continued, with a slow nod; "s'posin' the party lets on as he's a-falled in love wi' another party, I reckon you won't be the party to hinder et. Mind, I bain't sayin' you cou'd, but you won't try, will 'ee? That's atween you an' me, o' cou'se."

The man winked solemnly, and turned down the path. Before she recovered of her astonishment he had paused again at the gate, and was looking back.

"That's understood," he nodded; "atween you an' me an' the gate-post, o' cou'se."

With that he had disappeared.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, if bewildered at this, was yet more astonished at the contents of the letter.

"Fogo?" she repeated, with a glance at the signature—"Fogo? Won't that be the name of the woman-hater up at Kit's House, me dear?"

"Certainly," answered the Honourable Frederic.

"Then I'll trouble yez to listen to this."

She read as follows:—

"My Dear Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, When last you left me I prayed that we might never meet again. But time is stronger than I fancied, and here I am writing to you. Fate must have been in her most ironical mood to bring us so near in this corner of the world. I thought you were in another continent; but if you will let me accept the chance which brings us together, and call upon you as an old friend, I shall really be grateful: for there will be much to talk about, even if we avoid, as I promise to do, all that is painful; and I am very lonely. I have seen your husband, and hope you are very happy.—Believe me, very sincerely yours, Philip Fogo."

"What does it mean?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys helplessly.

"It means, Nellie, that we have just time enough, and none to spare; in other words, that 'Goodwyn-Sandys' has come near to being a confoundedly fatal—"

"Then he must have known—"

"Known! My treasure, where are your wits? Beautiful namesake— jilted lover—'hence, perjured woman'—bleeding heart—years pass— marry another—finger of fate—Good Lord!" wound up the Honourable Frederic. "I met the fellow one day, and couldn't understand why he stared so—gave me the creeps—see it all now."

He lay back in his chair and whistled.

There was a tap at the drawing-room door, and the buttoned youth announced that Mrs. Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. The Honourable Frederic obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in.

Her appearance was extraordinary. Her portly figure shook; her eyes were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged askew the "front" under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair on one side in a distracted moment. A sob rent her bosom as she entered.

"My poor soul!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "you are in trouble."

Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded instead.

"What is the matter?"

"It's—it's him."

"The Admiral?"

Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again.

"What has he done now?"

"S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door," she moaned. "Oh! w-what shall I do?"

"Leave him!"

Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared.

"You could see the m-marks quite plain," she wailed.

"What! Did he strike you?"

"I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups. They were real W-worcester."

"Leave him! Oh! I have no patience," and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys stamped her little foot, "with you women of Troy. Will you always be dolls— dolls with a painted smile for all man's insane caprices? Will you never—?"

"I don't paint," put in Mrs. Buzza feebly.

"Revolt, I say! Leave him this very night! Oh! if I could—"

"If you please 'm," interrupted the page, throwing open the door, "here's Mrs. Simpson, an' says she must see you partic'lar."

Mrs. Buzza had barely time to dry her eyes and set her bonnet straight, before Mrs. Simpson rushed into the room. The new comer's face was crimson, and her eyes sparkled.

"Oh! Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, I must—"

At this point she became aware of Mrs. Buzza, stopped abruptly, sank into a chair, and began aimlessly to discuss the weather.

This was awkward; but the situation became still further strained when Mrs. Pellow was announced, and bursting in with the same eagerness, came to a dead halt with the same inconsequence. Mrs. Saunders followed with white face and set teeth, and Mrs. Ellicome-Payne in haste and tears.

"Pray come in," said their hostess blandly; "this is quite like a mothers' meeting."

The reader has no doubt guessed aright. Though nobody present ever afterwards breathed a word as to their reasons for calling thus at "The Bower," and though the weather (which was serene and settled) alone supplied conversation during their visit, the truth is that the domestic relations of all these ladies had coincidently reached a climax. It seems incredible; but by no other hypothesis can I explain the facts. If the reader can supply a better, he is entreated to do so.

At length, finding the constraint past all bearing, Mrs. Buzza rose to go.

"You will do it?" whispered her hostess as they shook hands.

She could not trust herself to answer, but nodded and hastily left the room. At the front door she almost ran against a thin, mild-faced gentleman. He drew aside with a bow, and avoided the collision; but she did not notice him.

"I will do it," she kept repeating to herself, "in spite of the poor girls."

A mist swept before her eyes as she passed down the road. She staggered a little, with a vague feeling that the world was ending somehow; but she repeated—

"I will do it. I have been a good wife to him; but it's all over now—it's all over to-night."

The mild-faced gentleman into whom Mrs. Buzza had so nearly run in her agitation was Mr. Fogo. A certain air of juvenility sat upon him, due to a new pair of gloves and the careful polish which Caleb had coaxed upon his hat and boots. His clothes were brushed, his carriage was more erect; and the page, who opened the door, must, after a scrutiny, have pronounced him presentable, for he was admitted at once.

Undoubtedly the page blundered; but the events of the past hour had completely muddled the poor boy's wits, and perhaps the sight of one of his own sex was grateful, coming as it did after so many agitated females. At any rate, Mr. Fogo and his card entered the Goodwyn-Sandys' drawing-room together.

I leave you to imagine his feelings. In one wild instant the scene exploded on his senses. He staggered back against the door, securely pinning the retreating page between it and the doorpost, and denuding the Goodwyn-Sandys' livery of half a dozen buttons. The four distracted visitors started up as if to escape by the window. Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advanced.

She was white to the lips. A close observer might have read the hunted look that for one brief moment swept over her face. But when she spoke her words were cold and calm.

"You wish to see my husband, Mr.—?" She hesitated over the name.

"Not in the least," stammered Mr. Fogo.

There was an awful silence, during which he stared blankly around on the ladies.

"Then may I ask—?"

"I desired to see Gerald—I mean, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys—but—"

"I am Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. Would you mind stating your business?"

Mr. Fogo started, dropped his hat, and leant back against the door again.

"You!"

"Certainly." Her mouth worked slightly, but her eyes were steady.

"You are she that—was—once—Geraldine—O'Halloran?"

"Certainly."

"Excuse me, madam," said Mr. Fogo, picking up his hat and addressing Mrs. Simpson politely, "but the mole on your chin annoys me."

"Sir!"

"Annoys me excessively. May I ask, was it a birth-mark?"

"He is mad!" screamed the ladies, starting up and wringing their hands. "Oh, help! help!"

Mr. Fogo looked from one to another, and passed his hand wearily over his eyes.

"You are right," he murmured; "I fancy—do you know—that I must be— slightly—mad. Pray excuse me. Would one of you mind seeing me home?" he asked with a plaintive smile.

His eyes wandered to Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, who stood with one hand resting on the table, while the other pointed to the door.

"Help! help!" screamed the ladies.

Without another word he opened the door and tottered out into the passage. At the foot of the stairs he met the Honourable Frederic, who had been attracted by the screams.

"It's all right," said Mr. Fogo; "don't trouble. I shall be better out in the open air. There are women in there"—he pointed towards the drawing-room—"and one with a mole. I daresay it's all right— but it seemed to me a very big mole."

And leaving the Honourable Frederic to gasp, he staggered from the house.



What happened in the drawing-room of "The Bower" after he left it will never be known, for the ladies of Troy are silent on the point.



It was ten o'clock at night, the hour when men may cull the bloom of sleep. Already the moon rode in a serene heaven, and, looking in at the Club window, saw the Admiral and Lawyer Pellow—"male feriatos Troas"—busy with a mild game of ecarte. There were not enough to make up a loo to-night, for Sam and Mr. Moggridge were absent, and so—more unaccountably—was the Honourable Frederic. The moon was silent, and only she, peering through the blinds of "The Bower," could see Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys hastily packing their boxes; or beneath the ladder, by the Admiral's quay-door, a figure stealthily unmooring the Admiral's boat.



To say that Sam Buzza did not relish his task were but feebly to paint his feelings, as, with the paddles under one arm, and the thole-pins in his pocket, he crept down the ladder and pushed off. Never before had the plash of oars seemed so searching a sound; never had the harbour been so crowded with vessels; and as for buoys, small craft, and floating logs, they bumped against his boat at every stroke. The moon, too, dogged him with persistent malice, or why was it that he rode always in a pool of light? The ships' lamps tracked him as so many eyes. He carried a bull's-eye lantern in the bottom of his boat, and the smell of its oil and heated varnish seemed to smell aloud to Heaven.

With heart in mouth, he crossed the line of the ferry, and picked his way among the vessels lying off the jetties. On one of these vessels somebody was playing a concertina, and as he crept under its counter a voice hailed him in German. He gave no answer, but pulled quickly on. And now he was clear again, and nearing Kit's House under the left bank. There was no light in any window, he noticed, with a glance over his shoulder. Still in the shadow, and only pulling out, here and there, to avoid a jutting rock, he gained the creek's mouth, and rowed softly up until the bulwarks of the old wreck overhung him.

The very silence daunted him now; but it must be gone through. Thinking to deaden fear by hurry, he caught up the lantern, leapt on board with the painter, fastened it, and crept swiftly towards the poop.

He gained the hatch, and paused to turn the slide of his lantern. The shaft of light fell down the companion as into a pitch-dark well. He could feel his heart thumping against his ribs as he began the descent, and jumping with every creak of the rotten boards, while always behind his fright lurked a sickening sense of the guilty foolishness of his errand.

At the ladder's foot he put his hand to his damp brow, and peered into the cabin.

In a moment his blood froze. A hoarse cry broke from him.

For there—straight ahead—a white face with straining eyes stared into his own!

And then he saw it was but his own reflection in a patch of mirror stuck into the panel opposite.

But the shock of that pallid mask confronting him had already unnerved him utterly.

He drew his eyes away, glanced around, and spied a black portmanteau propped beside a packing-case in the angle made by the wall and the flooring. In mad haste to reach the open air, but dimly remembering Geraldine's caution, he grasped the handles, flung a look behind him, and clambered up the ladder again, and out upon deck.

The worst was over; but he could not rest until again in his boat. As he untied the painter, he noticed the ray of his lantern dancing wildly up and down the opposite bank with the shaking of his hand. Cursing his forgetfulness, he turned the slide, slipped the lantern into his pocket, and, lowering himself gently with the portmanteau, dropped, seized the paddles, and rowed away as for dear life.

He had put three boats' lengths between him and the hull, and was drawing a sigh of relief, when a voice hailed him, and then—

A tongue of flame leapt out, and a loud report rang forth upon the night. He heard something whistle by his ear. Catching up the paddles again, he pulled madly out of the creek, and away for the opposite bank of the river; ran his boat in; and, seizing the portmanteau, without attempt to ship the oars or fasten the painter, leapt out; climbed, slipped, and staggered over the slippery stones; and fled up the hill as though a thousand fiends were at his heels.



CHAPTER XIX.

THAT A SILVER BULLET HAS VIRTUE: WITH A WARNING TO COMMODORES.

"Well, sir," remarked Caleb at ten o'clock that evening, after an hour's watching had passed and brought no sign of a ghost, "I wish this 'ere sperrit, ef sperrit et be, wud put hissel' out to be punkshal. They do say as the Queen must wait while her beer's a-drawin'; but et strikes me ghost-seein' es apt to be like Boscas'le Fair, which begins twelve an' ends at noon."

Caleb caressed a huge blunderbuss which lay across his knee, and caused Mr. Fogo no slight apprehension.

"Et puts me i' mind," he went on, as his master was silent, "o' th' ould lidden [1] as us used to sing when us was tiny mites:—"

Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me right, Where was I last Sat'rday night? I seed a chimp-champ champin' at his bridle, I seed an ould fox workin' hissel' idle. The trees did shever, an' I did shake, To see what a hole thic' fox did make.

"Now I comes to think 'pon et, 'tes Sat'rday night too; an' that's odd, as Martha said by her glove."

Still Mr. Fogo was silent.

"As for the blunderbust, sir, there's no call to be afeard. Tes on'y loaded wi' shot an' a silver shillin'. I heerd tell that over to Tresawsen, wan time, they had purty trouble wi' a lerrupin' big hare, sir. Neither man nor hound cud cotch her; an' as for bullets, her tuk in bullets like so much ballast. Well, sir, th' ould Squire were out wi' his gun wan day, an' 'way to track thicky hare, roun' an' roun', for up ten mile; an' the more lead he fired, the better plaised her seemed. 'Darn et!' says the old Squire at las'. ''Tes witchcraf; I'll try a silver bullet.' So he pulls out a crown-piece an' hammers 'un into a slug to fit hes gun. He'd no sooner loaded than out pops the hare agen, not twenty yards off, an' right 'cross the path. Th' ould man blazed away, an' this time hit her sure 'nuff: hows'ever, her warn't too badly wounded to nip roun' the knap o' the hill an' out o' sight. 'I'll ha' 'ee!' cries the Squire; an' wi' that pulls hot foot roun' the hill. An' there, sir, clucked in under a bit o' rock, an' pantin' for dear life, were ould Mally Skegg. I tell 'ee, sir, the Squire made no more to do, but 'way to run, an' niver stopped till he were safe home to Tresawsen. That's so. Mally were a witch, like her mother afore her; an' the best proof es, her wore a limp arter this to the day o' her death."

Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction to ask—

"Do you seriously believe it was a ghost that I saw last night?"

"That's as may be. Ef 'taint, 'tes folks as has no bus'ness hereabouts. I've heerd tell as you'm wi'in the law ef you hails mun dree times afore firin'. That's what I means to do, anyway. As for ghostes, I do believe, an' I don't believe."

"What? That a man's spirit comes back after death to trouble folks?"

"I dunno 'bout sperrit: but I heerd a tale wance 'bout a man's remains as gi'ed a peck o' trouble arter death. 'Twas ould Commodore Trounce as the remains belonged to, an' 'tes a queer yarn, ef you niver heerd et afore."

Caleb looked at his master. Mr. Fogo had not yet told the story of his call at "The Bower"; but Caleb saw that he was suffering, and had planned this story as a diversion.

The bait took. Mr. Fogo looked up expectant, and lit a fresh pipe. So Caleb settled himself in his corner of the window-seat, and, still keeping an eye on the old schooner, began—

"THE COMMODORE'S PROGRESS.

"You've heerd me spake, sir, o' Joe Bonaday, him as made poetry 'long wi' me wan time when lying becalmed off Ilfrycombe?"

"Certainly."

"Well, this Joe were a Barnstaple man, bred an' born. But he had a brother—Sam were hes name—as came an' settled out Carne way; 'Ould These-an'-Thicky,' us used to call 'n. Sam was a crowder, [2] you must knaw, an' used to play the fiddle over to Tregarrick Fair; but he cudn' niver play more'n two tunes. 'Which'll 'ee ha',' he used to say, 'which'll 'ee ha'—these or thicky?' That's why, tho' he was christened Sam, us used to call 'n These-an'-Thicky for short."

"I see."

"This 'ere Sam Bonaday, tho' he came an' settled down i' these parts, was a bettermost body i' some ways, an' had a-seen a heap o' life 'long wi' ould Commodore Trounce. Sam was teetotum to the Commodore, an' acted currier when th' ould man travelled, which he did a brave bit—brushin' hes clothes, an' shinin' hes boots, an' takin' the tickets, an' the res'. The Commodore were mighty fond o' Sam: an' as for Sam, he used to say he mou't ha' been the Commodore's brother— on'y, you see, he warn't."

"I think I understand," said Mr. Fogo.

"Iss, sir. Well, t'ward the end o' hes days the Commodore were stashuned out at Gibraltar, an' o' cou'se takes Sam. He'd a-been ailin' for a tidy spell, had the Commodore, an' I reckon that place finished 'un; for he hadn' been there a month afore he tuk a chill, purty soon Sam saw 'twas on'y a matter o' time afore th' ould man wud go dead.

"Sam kep' hes maaster goin' 'pon brandy an' milk for a while; but wan day he comes in an' finds 'un settin' up in bed an' starin'. The Commodore was a little purgy, [3] bustious [4] sort o' man, sir, wi' a squinny eye an' mottles upon hes face pretty near so thick as the Milky Way; an' he skeered Sam a bit, settin' up there an' glazin'.

"Th' ould man had no more sproil [5] nor a babby, an' had pretty nigh lost hes mouth-speech, but he beckons Sam to the bed, and whispers—

"' Sam, you've a-been a gude sarvent to me.'

"'Gude maasters makes gude sarvents,' says Sam, an' falls to cryin' bitterly.

"'You'm down i' my will,' says the Commodore, 'so you've no call to take on so. But look 'ee here, Sam; there's wan thing more I wants 'ee to do for your old maaster. I've a-been a Wanderin' Jewel all my life,' says he, '—wanderer 'pon the face o' the earth, like—like—'

"'Cain,' says Sam.

"'Well, not azackly. Hows'ever, you an' me, Sam, have a-been like Jan Tresize's geese, never happy unless they be where they bain't, an' that's the truth. An' now,' says he, 'I've a-tuk a consait I'd like my ould bones to be carr'd home to Carne, an' laid to rest 'long wi' my haveage. [6] All the Trounces have a-been berried in Carne Churchyard, Sam, an' I'm thinkin' I'd like to go back to mun, like the Prodigious Son. So what I wants 'ee to do es this:—When I be dead an' gone, you mus' get a handy box made, so's I shall carry aisy, an' take me back to England. You'll find plenty o' money for the way i' the skivet [7] o' my chest there, i' the corner.'

"''Tes a brave long way from here to England,' says Sam.

"'I knaws what you be thinkin' 'bout,' says the Commodore. 'You'm reckonin' I'll spile on the way. But I don't mean 'ee to go by say. You mus' take me 'cross the bay an' then ship aboard a train, as'll take 'ee dro Seville, an' Madrid, an' Paris, to Dover. 'Tes a fast train,' says he, 'as trains go i' these parts; but I'm doubtin' ef et starts ivery day or only dree times a week. I reckon, tho', ef you finds out, I can manage so's my dyin' shan't interfere wi' that.'

"Well, Sam was forced to promise, an' the Commodore seemed mighty relieved, an' lay still while Sam read to 'n out o' the books that th' ould man had by 'n. There was the Bible, and the Pellican's Progress, an' Philip Quarles, an' Hannah Snell, the female sodger. Sam read a bit from each, an' when he comes to that part about Christ'n crossing the river, th' ould man sets up sudden an' calls, 'Land, Sam, land! Fetch a glass, lad!'—just like that, sir; an' wi' that falls back dead.

"Well, sir, Sam was 'most out o' hes wits, fust along, for grief to lose hes maaster; but he warn't the man to go back 'pon hes word. So he loses no time, but, bein' a handy man, rigs up a wooden chest wi' the help o' a ship's carpenter, an' a tin case to ship into this, an' dresses up the Commodore inside, an' nails 'un down proper; an' wi'in twenty-four hours puts across in a boat, 'long wi' hes charge, for to catch the train.

"He hadn' barely set foot on shore, an' was givin' orders about carryin' the chest up to the stashun, un' thinkin' 'pon the hollerness o' earthly ways, as was nat'ral, when up steps a chap in highly-coloured breeches an' axes 'un ef he'd anything to declare.

"Sam had disremembered all 'bout the Customs, you see, sir.

"Hows'ever, et mou't ha' been all right, on'y Sam, though he could tackle the lingo a bit—just enough to get along wi' on a journey, that es—suddenly found that he disknowledged the Spanish for 'corpse.' He found out, sir, afore the day was out; but just now he looks at the chap i' the colour'd breeches and says—

"'No, I ha'nt.'

"'What's i' that box?' says the chap.

"Now this was azackly what Sam cudn' tell 'un; so, for lack of anything better, he says—

"'What's that to you?'

"'I reckon I must ha' that chest open,' says the chap.

"'I reckon you'll be sorry ef you do,' says Sam.

"'Tell me what's inside, then.'

"'Why, darn your Spanish eyes!' cries Sam, 'can't 'ee see I be tryin' to think 'pon the word for corpse?'

"But the chap cudn', of cou'se; so he called another in breeches just as gay as hes own, on'y stripier; and then for up ten minutes 'twas Dover to pay, all talkers an' no listeners. I reckon 'twas as Sal said to the Frenchman, 'The less you talks, the better I understands 'ee.' But Sam's blud were up by this time. Hows'ever, nat'rally he was forced to gi'e way, and they tuk the box into the Custom House, an' sent for hammer an' screw-driver.

"'Seems to me,' says the chap, prizin' the lid open a bit, an' snifnn', 'et smells oncommon like sperrits.'

"'I'm thinkin',' says Sam, ef you'd been kep' goin' on brandy-an'-milk for a week an' more, you'd smell like sperrits.'

"'I guess 'tes sperrits,' says wan.

"'Or 'baccy,' says anuther.

"'Or furrin fruits,' says a third.

"'Well, you'm wrong,' says Sam, ''cos 'tes a plain British Commodore; an' I reckon ef you taxes that sort o' import, you dunno what's good for 'ee.'

"At las', sir, they prizes open the chest an' the tin case, an' there, o' cou'se, lay th' ould man, sleepin' an' smilin' so paiceful-like he looked ha'f a Commodore an' ha'f a cherry-bun."

"I suppose you mean 'cherubim,' Caleb?" corrected Mr. Fogo.

"I s'pose I do, sir; tho' I reckon th' ould man seemed happier than he were, havin' been a 'nation scamp in hes young days, an' able to swear to the las' so's t'wud pretty nigh fetch the mortar out'n a brick wall. Hows'ever, that's not to the p'int here.

"Aw, sir, you may fancy how them poor ign'rant furriners left that Custom House. Sam told me arterwards 'twere like shellin' peas— spakin' in pinafores—"

"Metaphors," said Mr. Fogo.

"That's et—met-afores. Anyway, they jest fetched a yell, an' then went, sir. I guess Sam knawed the Spanish for 'corpse' afore they was gone. In less 'n a minnit not a pair o' coloured breeches cud you find, not ef you wanted them fancy articles ever so. Sam chuckles a bit to hissel', fas'ens down the lid so well as he cud, h'ists the Commodore aboard a wheelbarrer, an' trundles 'un off to the train.

"He cotches the train jest as 'twere startin', an' sails away in a fust-class carr'ge all to hissel', wi' the Commodore laid 'long the seat opposite; 'for,' said Sam, 'drat expense when a fun'ral's goin'!' An' all the way he chuckles an' grins to hissel', to think o' the start he'd gi'ed they Custom House rascals; an' at las' he gets that tickled he's bound to lie back an' fairly hurt hissel' wi' laffin'.

"I reckon, tho', he laffed a bit too early; for jest then the train slowed down, and pulled up at a stashun. Sam looked out an' saw a dapper little man a-bustlin' up an' down the platform, like a bee in a bottle, an' pryin' into the carr'ge windeys same as ef the train were a peep-show. Presently he opens the door of Sam's compartment, an' axes, holdin' up a tellygram—

"'Be you the party as es travellin' wi' a dead man?'

"He spoke i' Spanish, o' cou'se, sir; but, not knowin' the tongue, I tells et to you in English."

"I had guessed that to be the reason," replied Mr. Fogo.

"Well, Sam were a bit tuk aback, but he answers—

"'Iss, I be. Why?'

"'Want 'un berried?'

"'Why, no, not partic'lar. Sooner or later, o' cou'se; but, thank'ee all the same, I'm thinkin' to do et a bit furder on.'

"'Then,' says the dapper man, 'I'll trouble you to hand over the berryin' fees for this parish.'

"'But I baint goin' to berry deceased i' this parish.'

"'That don't matter. Ef a corpse has use o' this parish, he's got to pay fees.'

"'How's that?'

"'Why, a corpse es dead,' says the chap; 'you'll allow that, I s'pose?'

"'Iss,' says Sam, 'I reckon I'll allow that.'

"'An' ef a corpse es i' this parish, he's dead i' this parish?'

"'Likely he es,' admits Sam.

"'Well, 'cordin' to law, anybody dead i' this parish es boun' to be berried i' this parish, an' therefore to pay fees,' says the man; 'and now I hopes you'll hand over the money, 'cos the train's waitin'.'

"Sam was for a raisin' a rumpus, an' gathered a crowd roun' the door; but they all sided wi' the dapper man, and said 'twas Spaniards' law, an' ef he wudn' pay, he must get out an' berry the Commodore there an' then. So he gi'ed in and pulled out the money, an' off they starts, the dapper man standin' an' bowin' 'pon the platform.

"Well, Sam leant back an' ciphered et out, an' cudn' see the sense o't. 'But,' says he, 'when you'm in Turkey you do as the Turkeys do, 'cordin' to the proverb, so I guess 'tes all right; an' ef et 'pears wrong, 'tes on'y that I bain't used to travellin' wi' corpses;' an' wi' that he settles down an' goes to sleep.

"He hadn' been long sleepin' when the train pulls up agen, an' arter a minnit in comes anuther chap wi' a tellygram.

"'Deceased?' axes the chap, pointin' to the chest.

"'Mod'rately,' says Sam.

"'Wants berryin' p'raps?' says the chap.

"'I reckon he'll hold on a bit longer.'

"'Next parish, likely?'

"'Why, iss,' says Sam, 'or next arter that.'

"'Ah, what et es to be rich!' says the man, kind o' envious-like.

"'What do 'ee mean by that?' Sam axes.

"'Niver mind,' answers the man. ''Twarn't no bus'ness o' mines. Wud 'ee kindly hand me the fees for this parish?'

"Well, Sam argeys the matter agen, but i' the end he pays up: 'Tho',' says he, 'I'd a notion travellin' were costly afore this, but darn me! you've got to be dead afore you sizes et. I've heerd as a man can't take nuthin' out o' this world, but blest ef I iver got the grip o' that tex' till I travelled i' Spain.'

"Well, sir, purty soon the same thing happened agen, an', to shorten the yarn, ivery time they got into a new parish an' pulled up, in walked a chap wi' a tellygram an' axed for berryin'-fees. Luckily, there was money to pay mun, for the Commodore had left a bravish sum for travellin' expenses, and by-'m-by Sam begins to take a sort o' pride in pullin' out hes purse.

"'Talk 'bout fun'rals!' says he, 'I reckon this es suthin' like. Adm'ral Nelson! why, Adm'ral Nelson didn' cost ha'f so much! An' you ain't but a Commodore,' says he. 'Devil fly away wi' 'ee, maaster, but so long as the coin lasts Sam won't cry 'Woa!''

"The words warn't fairly out o' hes mouth, sir, when the train draws up, an' in steps another man. He comed in so quiet that Sam didn' see 'un at first; but when he turned roun', there was the man standin' an' starin' at 'un. 'Twas a strange-looking party, dressed i' black—a better-most body, like.

"'Aw, good eveling!' says Sam.

"'Good eveling,' says the man i' black, an' nods t'wards the chest. 'How's deceased?'

"'Gettin' a bit costly,' answers Sam, 'but doin' purty well, consederin'. You'm wantin' more fees, I reckon'; an' wi' that he dives hes hand into hes trowsy-pocket.

"'I don't want no fees,' says the man.

"Sam was knacked 'pon a heap wi' this.

"'Well, then, you'm the fust man I've a-met in Spain as doesn',' he says.

"That ain't onlikely,' says the man; and Sam noticed for the fust time that he'd a-been speakin' English all along. 'I be a-travellin', same as you,' he adds.

"'You'll 'scuse me, sir, but this compartment es resarved.'

"'That's a pity,' says the stranger, ''cos the train's a-started.'

"So 'twas. Sam hadn' a-noticed et, but they was movin' on. Hows'ever, he detarmined to make the best o't; so he ups and says, perlite-like—

"'Terrable hot weather this, ain't et, sir?' Somehow et seemed to Sam as ef et had got hotter sence the stranger comed in.

"'I don't feel so mighty hot,' says the man. 'But there, I've a-been a gude deal in hot countries. How's deceased takin' the journey?' says he.

"'He ain't complainin'; but, then, in life he warn't a complainin' sort. Aw, sir, but a man must be over-nice ef a fun'ral like thes don't satisfy 'n. Phew! but 'tes awful!'

"'What's awful?'

"'The heat,' answers Sam, moppin' his forehead; 'but I s'pose you'm a traveller, an' 'customed to heat.'

"'Why, iss,' says t'other, 'I do travel a purty passel to an' fro 'pon th' earth. Few folks travels more'n me.'

"Well, et kep' gettin' hotter an' hotter; an' Sam cussed an' mopped, an' mopped an' cussed, an' all the time the stranger were cool an' aisy. He kep' axin', too, 'bout th' ould Commodore an' hes past life, an' 'peared to take interes' in Sam, an' altogither seemed a proper gen'l'm'n. An' all the time et kep' gettin' hotter an' hotter, till Sam were fairly runnin' to waste wi' sweatin'. At las' he pops hes head out'n the windey for fresh air, an' cries out—

"'Hulloa! here's a stashun.'

"Well, the train pulls up, an' Sam says to the stranger—

"'Look 'ee here. Wud 'ee mind keepin' your eye 'pon th' ould man while I runs out to get a drink? I reckoned I knawed thirst afore this,' he says, 'but I were mistook.'

"The stranger was very willin', and away Sam goes.

"He warn't away more'n a minnit; but when he comes back an' takes a look at the platform, my! Sir! there warn't no trace of the train to be seen—not a vestment. You see, they don't blaw no whissle in Spain when the train goes; an' there was poor Sam left stranded.

"Well, he tellygrafs o' cou'se to the nex' stashun, an' in less 'n an hour back comes an answer to say as they searched the train when et stopped, an' there warn't no corpse there, nor chest, nor nuthin'. An' ef you'll believe me, sir," concluded Caleb, bending forward and touching his master's knee, "th' ould Commodore ha'n't niver been found fro' that day to this. Et 'most broke Sam's heart; an', as he said to me wan time, 'For all I knaws 'twas the devil; and for all I knaws th' ould maaster be travellin' roun' Spain to this day; but ef so,' says he, 'I reckon by this time he's like Patty Ward's pig—no lavender.'"

"That's a very curious tale," said Mr. Fogo, as Caleb leant back in the window-seat and awaited its effect.

"'Tes so true, sir, as I'm here—or so Sam used to say. An' the moral goes agen talkin' lightly o' what a man don't understand," he added reflectively. "But forebodin' es so bad as witch-craf', an' 'tes more'n likely they won't come to-night; but if they does, 'tes on'y fair to ax mun who they be dree times afore firin'. What's fair for man es fair—"

He broke off and clutched his master by the arm.

"Look, sir—look!"

About the deck of the old schooner a shaft of light was dancing fitfully—now here, now there, up and down—and all without visible source or guidance.

The two watchers leapt to their feet and peered out at the window.

The strange brilliance flickered to and fro, falling even on the further bank, and threading with a line of yellow the silver-grey of the moonlight. Then it ceased suddenly.

Caleb and his master waited breathlessly. Half a minute passed without further sign. Then they heard a light splash or two, and Mr. Fogo pointed frantically at the line of the moon's reflection on the creek.

"There! Look—the boat!"

Caleb whipped the blunderbuss up to his shoulder and shouted—

"Who be 'ee? Darn 'ee, here goes—wan, two, dree, all to wanst!"

He pulled the trigger. A tongue of flame leapt forth and burst upon the night with a terrific explosion; and as Caleb fell backwards with the shock, the clumsy engine slipped from his fingers and fell with a clatter upon Mr. Fogo's instep.

When the pair recovered and looked forth again, the echoes had died away, and once more the night was tranquil.

Footnotes, Chapter XIX [1] A monotonous chant or burthen. [2] A fiddler. [3] Thick-set. [4] Stout. [5] Strength. [6] Kin. [7] A concealed compartment or drawer.



CHAPTER XX.

HOW CERTAIN CHARACTERS FOUND THEMSELVES, AT DEAD OF NIGHT, UPON THE FIVE LANES ROAD.

Panting, slipping, with aching sides, but terror at his heels, Sam Buzza tore up the hill. Lights danced before him, imaginary voices shouted after; but he never glanced behind. The portmanteau was monstrously heavy, and more than once he almost dropped it; but it was tightly packed, apparently, for nothing shook inside it. Only the handles creaked in his grasp.

He gained the top, shifted the load to his left hand, and raced down the other side of the hill. How he reached the bottom he cannot clearly call to mind; but he dug his heels well into the turf, and arrived without a fall. At the foot of the slope a wire fence had to be crossed; next the railway line, then, across the embankment, another fence, which kept a shred of his clothing. A meadow followed, and then he dropped over the hedge into the high road.

Here he stopped, set down the portmanteau, and looked about him. All was quiet. So vivid was the moonlight that as looking down the road he could mark every bush, every tuft of grass almost, on the illumined side. Not a soul was in sight.

The night was warm, and his flight had heated him intolerably. He felt for his handkerchief to mop his brow, but snatched his hand away.

His coat was burning. It was the lantern. Like a fool he had forgotten to blow it out, and an abominable smell of oil and burning cloth now arose from his pocket. He stifled the smouldering fire, pulled out the lantern, and looked at his watch.

It wanted twenty minutes to eleven.

He had plenty of time; so, having extinguished the lantern, and bestowed it in another pocket, he caught up his burden and began to walk up the road at a leisurely pace.

His terrors had cooled, but nevertheless he wished himself well out of the scrape. The report of the gun still rang in his ears and in fancy he could hear again the buzz of that bullet by his ear. More than once a shadow lying across the white road gave him a twinge of fear; and when a placid cow poked its nose over the hedge above him, and lowed confidentially, he leapt almost out of his skin.

The task before him, too, gave him no small anxiety. The directions in the letter were plain enough, but not so the intention of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. Did she mean him to elope with her? He did not care to face the question. The Admiral, though an indulgent father, was not extravagant; and Sam had but seven-and-sixpence in his pocket. This was an excellent sum for long whist at threepenny points, but would hardly defray the cost of an elopement. Besides, he did not want to elope.

"No words of mine will repay you." Now he came to consider, these words wore an awkward look. Good Heavens! he had a mind to drop the portmanteau and run home. What had he done to be tempted so? And why had these people ever come to Troy?

Ah! Sam, that was the question we should have asked ourselves months ago. Some time before, at a concert in the Town Hall, I remember that Mr. Moggridge sang the line—

"Too late the balm when the heart is broke!"

And a Trojan voice at the back assented—

"A durn sight."

Why had we been denied that perspicacity now?

So with a heavy burden, and heavier conscience (both of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' packing), he trudged forward, kicking up clouds of dust that sparkled in the moonlight. Presently the ascent grew more gradual, the hedges lower, and over their tops he could feel the upland air breathing coolly from the sea. And now the sign-post hove in sight, and the cross-roads stretching whitely into distance.

If we take the town of Troy as a base, lying north and south, this sign-post forms the apex of a triangle which has two high-roads for its remaining sides—the one road entering Troy from the north by the hill which Sam had just ascended, the other running southwards and ending with a steep declivity at no great distance from "The Bower."

It was by this southern road, of course, that Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys would come. Sam looked along it, but all as yet was silent. He pulled out his watch again, and, finding that he had still twenty minutes to spare, set down his load at the foot of the signpost, and began to walk to and fro.

So gloomy were his reflections that, to soothe his nerves, he pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then, for lack of anything better to do, rekindled his lantern, and resumed his walk.

The cigar was barely half smoked when he heard a noise in the distance.

Yes, there was no doubt. It was the sound of horses. Sam caught up the portmanteau, and stared down the highway. For a full minute he listened to the advancing clatter, and presently, around an angle of the road, a chaise and pair broke into view, and came up at a gallop.

Sam advanced a step or two; a white handkerchief was thrust out at the window, and the driver pulled up suddenly. Then the face of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked anxiously out.

"Ah! you are there," she exclaimed with a little cry of relief. "I have been so afraid. Have you got it?"

In the moonlight, and that pretty air of timidity on her face, she was more ravishing than ever. Her voice called as a siren's; her eyes drew Sam irresistibly. In a second all his fears, doubts, scruples, were flung to the winds. He held up the portmanteau, and advanced to the carriage door.

"Here it is. Geraldine—"

"Oh! thanks, thanks. How can I show my thanks?"

The perfume of her hair floated out upon the night with the music of her tone until they both fairly intoxicated him.

He opened the door of the chaise.

"Where shall I stow it?" he asked.

"Here, opposite me; be very careful of it."

In the darkness he saw a huge bundle of rugs piled by Geraldine's side.

"Where am I to sit?" he asked, as he bestowed the portmanteau carefully.

He looked up into her face. The loveliest smile rested on him, for one instant, from those incomparable eyes. She did not answer, but held out her hand with the grace of a maiden confessing her first passion. He seized the ungloved fingers, and kissed them.

"Geraldine!"

At this moment a low chuckle issued from the bundle of rugs. Sam dropped the hand, and started back as if stung. A hateful thought flashed upon him.

"Moggridge? But no—"

He seized his lantern, and turned the slide. A stream of light shot into the corner of the chaise, and revealed—the bland face of Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys!

There was an instant of blank dismay. Then, with a peal of laughter, Geraldine sank back among the cushions.

"Good-night!" said the Honourable Frederic with grim affability; then, popping his head out at the further window, "Drive on, John!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and Sam, with that pitiless laugh still pealing in his ears, was left standing on the high-road.

In the tumult of the moment, beyond a wild sense of injustice, it is my belief that his brain accomplished little. He stared dully after the retreating chaise, until it disappeared in the direction of Five Lanes; and then he groaned aloud.

There was a patch of turf, now heavy with dew, beside the sign-post. Upon this he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, and head between his hands, strove to still the giddy whirl in his brain. And as his folly and its bitterness found him out, the poor fool rocked himself, and cursed the day when he was born. If any one yet doubt that Mr. Moggridge was an inspired singer, let him turn to that sublime aspiration in Sophronia: a Tragedy—

"Let me be criminal, but never weak; For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin Without its brave apparel"—

and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.

Pat, pat, pat!

It was the muffled sound of footsteps on the dusty road. He looked up. A dark figure, the figure of a woman, was approaching. Its air of timorous alertness, and its tendency to seek the shadow of the hedge-row, gave him some confidence. He arose, and stepped forward into the broad moonlight.

The woman gave a short gasp and came to a halt, shrinking back against the hedge. Something in her outline struck sharply on Sam's sense, though with a flash of doubt and wonder. She carried a small handbag, and wore a thick veil over her face.

"Who are you?" he asked gently. "Don't be afraid."

The woman made no answer—only cowered more closely against the hedge; and he heard her breath coming hard and fast. Once more—and for the third time that night—Sam pulled the slide of his lantern.

"Mother!"

"Oh! Sam, Sam, don't betray me! I'll go back—indeed I'll go back!"

"In Heaven's name, mother, what are you doing here?"

The retort was obvious, but Mrs. Buzza merely cried—

"Dear Sam, have pity on me, and take me back! I'll go quietly—quite quietly."

The idea of his mother (who weighed eighteen stone if an ounce) resisting with kicks and struggles might have caused Sam some amusement, but his brain was overcrowded already.

"It's a judgment," she went on incoherently, wringing her hands; "and I thought I had planned it so cleverly. I dressed up his double-bass, Sam, and put it in the bed—oh! I am a wicked woman—and pinned a note to the pin-cushion to say he had driven me to it, throwing the breakfast things over the quay-door—real Worcester, Sam, and marked at the bottom of each piece; and a carriage from the Five Lanes Hotel to meet me at twelve o'clock; but I'd rather go home, Sam; I've been longing, all the way, to go back; it's been haunting me, that double-bass, all the time—with my nightcap, too—the one with real lace—on the head of it. Oh! take me home, Sam. I'm a wicked woman!"

Sam, after all, was a Trojan, and I therefore like to record his graces. He drew his mother's arm within his with much tenderness, kissed her, and began to lead her homewards quietly and without question.

But the poor soul could not be silent; and so, very soon, the whole story came out. At the mention of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys Sam shut his teeth sharply.

"I shall never be able to face her, Sam."

"I don't think you need trouble about that, mother," he answered grimly.

"But I do. It was she—"

But at this moment, from the hedge, a few yards in front, there issued a hollow groan.

They halted, and questioned each other with frightened eyes.

"Geraldine!" wailed the voice. "Cruel, perjured Geraldine!"

"It was going on just like this," whispered Mrs. Buzza, "when I came along. I shut my eyes, and ran past as hard as I could; but my head was so full of voices and cries that I didn't know if 'twas real or only my fancy."

"Geraldine!" continued the voice. "Oh! dig my grave—my shroud prepare; for she was false as she was fair. Geraldine, my Geraldine!"

"Moggridge, by all that's holy!" cried Sam.

It was even so. They advanced a few yards, and to the right of the road, beside a gate, they saw him. The poet reclined limply against the hedge, and with his head propped upon a carpet-bag gazed dolefully into the moon's face.

"Thou bid'st me," he began again, "thou bid'st me think no more about thee; but, tell me, what is life without thee? A scentless flower, a blighted—"

At the sound of their footsteps he looked round, stared blankly into Sam's face, and then, snatching up the carpet-bag, leapt to his feet and tore down the road as fast as he could go.

Sam paused. They had reached the brow of the steeper descent, where the road takes a sudden determination, and plunges abruptly into the valley, Below, the roofs of the little town lay white and sparkling, and straight from a wreath of vapour the graceful tower of St. Symphorian leapt into the clearer heaven. Beyond, a network of lights glimmered, like fire-flies, from the vessels at anchor in the harbour. The Penpoodle Hill, on the further shore, wore a tranquil halo; and to the right, outside the harbour's mouth, the grey sea was laced with silver.

"Did you ever see anything more lovely?"

Mrs. Buzza murmured the words with no desire to be answered. It was the old Trojan formula, and there was peace in the sound of it.

"Do you know," she cried, turning to Sam, "we were very happy before these people came. We shall never be the same again—never. Sam, I feel as if our innocence had ended, Oh! I am a wicked woman. Look below, Sam dear, I have never thought of it before, but how sweet it would have been to have enclosed the old town in a ring-fence, and lived our days in quiet! It is too late now; more will come, and they will build and alter, and no one will be able to stop it. Even if these people should go, it will never be the same again. Oh! I am a sinful woman."

Sam looked at his mother. Something familiar, but hitherto half-comprehended, spoke to him in her words. He drew her arm once more within his own, and they descended the hill together.

Stealing like ghosts into the front hall of No. 2, Alma Villas, they were startled to perceive the dining-room door ajar, and a light shining out into the passage. Creeping forward on tip-toe, they peeped in.

Beside the table and with his back towards them, sat the Admiral in his dressing-gown. His right hand grasped the throat of the double-bass, on the top of which nodded Mrs. Buzza's night-cap. His left fumbled with a large miniature that lay on the table before him—a portrait of Mrs. Buzza, taken in the days when she was still Emily Rogers and the Belle of Portsmouth; and from this to the instrument and back again the Admiral's gaze wandered, as if painfully comparing the likeness.



"Hornaby!" This was the Admiral's Christian name.

"Emily!"

He turned and stared at her stupidly. The look was pitiful. She flung herself before him.

"Forgive me, Hornaby! I never thought—I mean, it was all a—"

"Practical joke," suggested Sam.

"No, no. I meant to go, but I have come back. Hornaby, can you forgive me?"

He raised her up, and drew her towards him very tenderly.

"I—I thought it had killed me," he muttered hoarsely. "Emily, I have treated you badly."

Sam discreetly withdrew.



CHAPTER XXI.

THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN.

Next morning Mr. Fogo was aroused from sleep by the rattle of breakfast-cups, and the voice of Caleb singing below—

"O, Amble es a fine town, wi' ships in the bay, An' I wish wi' my heart I was on'y there to-day; I wish wi' my heart I was far away from here, A-sittin' in my parlour, an' a-talkin' to my dear."

This was Caleb's signal for his master to rise; and he would pipe out his old sea-staves as long as Mr. Fogo cared to listen. Often, of an evening, the two would sit by the hour, Caleb trolling lustily with red cheeks, while his master beat time with his pipe stem, and joined feebly in the chorus—

"Then 'tes home, dearie, home—O, 'tes home I wants to be! My tawps'les are h'isted, an' I must out to sea. Then 'tes home, dearie, home!"

Mr. Fogo arose and looked forth at the window. The morning was perfect; the air fresh with dew and the scent of awakening roses. Across the creek the old hull lay as peacefully as ever.

"I will explore it this very morning," thought Mr. Fogo to himself.

The resolve was still strong as he descended to breakfast. Caleb was still singing—

"O, ef et be a lass, she shall wear a goulden ring; An' ef et be a lad, he shall live to sarve hes king; Wi' hes buckles, an' hes butes, an' hes little jacket blue, He shall walk the quarter-deck, as hes daddy used to do. Then 'tes home—"

"Mornin', sir, an' axin' your pardon for singin' o' Sunday. How be feelin' arter et?—as Grace said to her cheeld when her rubbed in the cough-mixtur' an' made 'un swaller the lineament."

"Do you mean after the ghost?"

"Iss, sir. There's no dead body about, so ghost et were. I were a-thinkin', wi' your lave, sir, I'd go down to Troy to church this mornin'; I wants to be exercised a bit arter all this witchcraf'."

Mr. Fogo wondered at this proposal to go to church for exercise, but readily granted leave. Nor was it until Caleb had departed that "exorcised" occurred to him as a varia lectio.

Left to himself, Mr. Fogo spent a tranquil hour among his roses; and then, remembering his determination, unmoored his boat and prepared to satisfy his doubts.

The tide was low—so low that on the further side of the old wreck his paddles plunged once or twice into mud. Nor was it easy to swing himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two failures he stood upon deck.

All was desolation. He peered down into the hold, where the water lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered deadlight into the forecastle. The water was here, too, though it had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing to explain the mystery.

Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the poop, and peered down the companion. The light was too dim to reveal anything. Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain's cabin.

The first thing to catch his eye was an empty packing-case, with a heap of shavings and cotton-wool beside it. On the side of the case was printed in blue letters—" Wapshott and Sons. Chicago. Patent Compressed Tea. With Care." Mr. Fogo poked his nose inside it. A faint smell of tea still lingered about the wood.

Next he inspected the cupboards. Some were open and all unlocked. He went over them all. At the end he found himself the richer by—

A watch-glass. Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all coated with verdigris). A pair of nut-crackers. Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "Where shall I be To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners." A key. An oily rag. The cap of a telescope. An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison. For Dick Collins, when his leg is bad."

On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his eye.

He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove.

Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-buttoned glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear.

"This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler wearing this, still less a ghost."

With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth.

It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two. It was perhaps two inches in depth. On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend—

"WAPSHOTTS' PATENT COMPRESSED TEA."

"Beware of Imitations."

The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy.

Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize.

He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister. In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid.

"Very curious tea this," remarked Mr. Fogo. "It's a deal more like putty—or Californian honey."

The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight.

He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze. He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck. The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud—

There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers—and the old hull had passed from decay to annihilation.



This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian's, Troy, began to summon the town to worship.

A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement. It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' costume, and marched churchwards in haste. But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further.

Who first whispered the news is disputed. It is conjectured that Mrs. Tripp, whose cow supplied "The Bower" with milk, learnt the facts from the buttoned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain. I might here paint Mrs. Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as "Rumour," after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice.

This much is sure—that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth—

"Es et true, do'ee think?"

"Certain—carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night—not a word said."

"My!"

"Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed."

"That's a true word."

Then this happened—

The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.

The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume. As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence. The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.

Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment. One tradesman, a furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door and knocked.

The boy in buttons answered with a white face. In a moment the truth was out.

This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar. In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the parson. The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation. Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window. She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years.

Then as if by one impulse passion gave way to action. Like an invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door (whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall, swarmed into the drawing-room—upstairs—all over the house.

Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of indecision, but for no long time.

"Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every stick of mine will I take off this morning!"

He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out towards the lawn.

A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up.

It was the signal for a general sack. Flinging off his Sunday coat, each deluded tradesman seized upon his property, or ransacked the house until he found it. The ironmonger caught up his fire-irons, the carpenter pulled down his shelves, the grocer dived into the pantry and emerged with tea and candles. It is said that the coal-merchant—who was a dandy—procured a sack, and with his own hand emptied the coal-cellar within half an hour.

As each fresh article was confiscated, the crowd cheered anew.

Never was such a scene in Troy. Even the local aristocracy— the Cumeelfo—mingled with the throng and watched the havoc as curiously as their neighbours.

No member of the Buzza family was there, nor Mr. Moggridge. But few others did Miss Limpenny fail to perceive as she sat with hands hanging limply and mourned to Lavinia—

"What disgrace! What a lasting blemish upon our society! There goes Hancock with the music-stool. To run away just before quarter-day, and they so refined to all appearance, so—My dear, they will have the house down. Papa told me once that during the Bristol riots— I declare, there's the Doctor looking on! I wonder how he can."

And the poor lady hid her face in her hands.

By half past twelve all was over, and "The Bower" stripped of every article of furniture or consumption for which the money was owing. And yet, to the honour of Troy, no single theft or act of wanton destruction was perpetrated. Save for the trampled flowers and marks of dusty boots upon the carpets, the house was left as it stood on the day when Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys arrived. It should be mentioned, perhaps, that Seth Udy's little boy was detected with his fist in a jar of moist sugar; but Mrs. Udy, it was remarked, was a Penpoodle woman.

The sack was accomplished; and the crowd, heated but conscious of a duty done, was returning with the spoil, when towards the north a white glare leapt into the heaven and as suddenly vanished. In a moment or so a dull roar followed, and the earth shuddered underfoot.

Troy trembled. It remembered its neglected Sabbath, and trembled again.



CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH SEVERAL ATTEMPTS ARE MADE TO PUT A PERIOD TO THIS HISTORY.

The congregation at St. Symphorian's on this memorable Sunday morning numbered nine persons. Possibly this was the reason why, against all precedent, the Vicar's sermon terminated at "thirdly."

Woman has been stated so often, and by such capable observers, to be more inquisitive than man, that I will content myself with establishing an exception. Of these nine persons, five were women, and the remainder held the salaried posts of organist, organ-blower, pew-opener, and parish-clerk. Of the women, one was Tamsin Dearlove. It is noteworthy that Caleb spent his morning at "The Bower."

Service was over, and Tamsin was rowing homewards. She was alone; for Troy was not the Dearloves' parish, and the Twins attended their own church—being, indeed, churchwardens. As she pulled quietly upwards, a shade of thought rested on her pretty face. I do not know of what she was thinking; and may add that if I did, I should not tell you. I would as lief rob a church.

She had passed the jetties, and was pulling her left paddle to turn the corner off Kit's House, when a flash crossed the heaven from behind her, and in an instant followed that rending explosion which (at different distances) has been twice presented to the reader, and with pardonable pride; for the story of Troy has now a catastrophe as well as episodes, and is vindicated as a theme.

As soon as the throbbing of the atmosphere and the buzzing in her ears began to die away, two swift thoughts crossed her brain. Oddly enough, the first was for the safety of Kit's House. She glanced over her shoulder. A mere film of smoke hung over the creek, and to the right of this she saw the house standing, seemingly unharmed. Then came the second thought—

If the explosion came from the creek, where the light smoke hung, there would be a wave.

She half turned on the thwart and looked intently.

Yes. It was curling towards her, widening from the creek's mouth, and arching with a hateful crest. On it came, a dark and glossy wall; and she knew that if it broke or caught her boat in the least aslant, she must be either swamped or overset.

With a sound that was half a sob and half a prayer she grasped her paddles and, still looking over her shoulder, gently moved the boat's nose to face it.

A moment, and it rose above her, hissing death; another, and the boat was caught high in air, tottered on the summit, and then with a shiver shot swiftly down into the trough beyond—safe.

A second wave followed, and a third, but with less peril. She was still tossed, but as she saw that mass of water hurled upon the shore, and sweeping angrily but with broken force towards the harbour, she knew that she could thank Heaven for her escape.

She pulled towards the creek. Already the air was clear; but as she glanced again her eye missed something familiar. And then it struck her that the old schooner had gone. At that instant, as if in confirmation, a shattered board bumped against the boat's side. She looked, and noticed that far and near the water was strewn with such fragments.

She was pausing for a second to consider, when she caught sight of a black object lying on the mud beside the shore, and with a short cry fell to rowing with all her strength. She guided the boat as nearly up to it as the mud allowed, and then, catching up her skirts, jumped into the ooze and waded.

It was Mr. Fogo; but whether dead or alive she could not say. Down on the mud she knelt, and, turning him gently over, looked into his face. It was streaked with slime, and powdered with a yellowish flake, as of sand. His locks were singed most pitifully. She started up, took him by the shoulders, and tried to drag him up to the firmer shingle.

Mr. Fogo opened his eyes and shut them again, feebly.

"Not dead! Oh! thank Heaven you are not dead."

With a sob she dropped again beside him, and brushed the flaked powder from his eye-lashes.

He opened his eyes again.

"Would you mind speaking up? I—I think I am a little deaf."

"I thought you were dead," she cried, in a louder tone.

"No-o, I am not dead. Oh! no; decidedly I am not dead. It—it was the Tea, I fancy."

He added this apologetically, much as some gentlemen are wont to plead "the salmon."

Apparently believing the explanation sufficient, he shut his eyes again, and seemed inclined to go to sleep.

"The Tea?" questioned Tamsin, chafing his hands.

"Or the Honey, perhaps—or the Putty," he answered drowsily. Then, opening his eyes and sitting up with a start, "Upon my soul, I don't know which. It called itself Tea, but I'm—bound—to— admit—"

He was nodding again. Utterly perplexed, Tamsin leant back and regarded him.

"Can you walk, if you lean on my arm?"

"Walk? Oh! yes, I can walk. Why not?"

But it seemed that he was mistaken; for, in attempting to start, he groped about for a bit and then sat down suddenly. Tamsin helped him to his feet.

The reader has long ago guessed the cause of the catastrophe. It was dynamite—conspirators' dynamite, and therefore ill-prepared. Now dynamite, when it explodes, acts, we are told, with "local partiality"; and of this term we may remark—

That it is given as an explanation by men of science, Without being a "scientific" explanation; But is, in fact, a "metaphysical" explanation, And therefore no explanation at all of The astonishing fact that dynamite hits one thing and does not hit another.

In the case of Mr. Fogo, his top-hat had vanished, but the brim still clung to his head, like a halo. His spectacles and one boot had gone; the other boot was unlaced. His coat was split up the back, and his collar had broken away, but his tie was barely disarranged. He has since declared that he left the schooner with two-and-sixpence in his trowser pocket, and came ashore with two-and-a-penny; but this was in an account delivered to a scientific audience, and is thought to have been a joke.

From head to foot he was besmeared with black mud; for the rotten stern must have parted and fallen with the first touch of the explosion, so that the wave caught him as he toppled out, and flung him at once upon the shallows. But Tamsin's Sunday frock was already ruined. She made him rest his hand on her shoulder, and so, with one arm thrown round him for steadiness, led him down the beach, and with infinite difficulty got him across the mud and into the boat.



She managed to push off at last, and pulled rapidly across for Kit's House. Hitherto Mr. Fogo's condition had slightly resembled a drunken stupor; but now he shivered violently and looked about him.

"Where am I?"

"Safe and sound, I hope."

He passed his hand over his eyes and shivered again.

"I remember. Something—blew up, did it not? The canister, I think."

She nodded encouragingly.

"Where did you come from?" he asked abruptly.

"From church."

"Oh! from church. Do you know, I'm very glad to see you—I am, indeed, I hope you'll come often, now that—Excuse me," he broke off with a weak smile, "but I fancy I'm talking nonsense."

She nodded again.

"I am aching all over," he added with a shiver.

She pulled the boat up to the little quay. "Now I wonder where Caleb is," she said to herself, as she stood up and looked around; "but he's like most men, always in the way or out of the way." She turned suddenly with a white face. "Caleb was not with you?"

To her hearty relief Mr. Fogo understood the question and shook his head. She helped him ashore. Though he walked with pain, he made an obvious effort to lighten his weight on her shoulder; and this returning bashfulness was a good sign, she thought. They passed slowly up the steps; at the top he acknowledged her help with a grateful look, but neither spoke until he was seated in a chair by the kitchen fireplace.

Then she withdrew her attention for a moment to glance round upon the clumsy appliances and masculine untidiness of the place. She noticed that fully half the window-panes had been shattered by the explosion; but otherwise the house had barely suffered.

"Is there any brandy or whiskey in the house?"

He shook his head.

"If you want to drink—" he began, but stopped hastily and added, "I beg your pardon."

"Is there any tea?"

He pointed to the cupboard, but dropped his arm with a groan. She was at his side in a moment.

"Now, listen to me. You are not to stir or speak, but only to nod or shake your head when I ask a question. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"That's right."

She stepped to the cupboard, produced the tea and a box of matches; then, stooping down, rekindled the fire with the help of some sticks which she found in the oven, and put the kettle on the flame. This done, she sought and found the tea-things.

"Milk?" she asked.

He nodded towards a blue jug on the mantel-shelf.

"Milk on the mantel-shelf! That's like a man."

But at this point the kettle began to boil. She filled the tea-pot, and replaced the kettle on the hob. As she turned, she was aware of a clearer look in Mr. Fogo's eyes. She smiled and nodded.

"You are better."

"Much. I can remember it all, after a fashion. Did I talk nonsense?"

"A little." She smiled again.

His eyes followed her as she moved about the kitchen. Presently he said—

"You are very good to me."

"I think I am."

"Tamsin—"

She turned suddenly to the table, and caught up the teapot.

"Do you know," she asked, "that tea is worthless if it stands for more than five minutes?"

She filled a cup, and gave it to him with a hand that trembled slightly. He sipped, and scalded his lip.

"Tamsin—"

"My name is Dearlove," she said shortly, "and you are spilling the tea."

There was silence for a minute or so. Mr. Fogo stirred his tea abstractedly. Tamsin, whose shoes were soaked, put one foot upon the fender, and bent her gaze upon the fire.

"I would give something," observed Mr. Fogo suddenly, in desperate reverie, "to know how other people manage it. It was moonlight when I proposed to Geraldine. I began by squeezing her hand, if I remem—"

He looked up, and found her regarding him with eyes ablaze.

But luckily at this moment the door opened, and Caleb appeared. He was evidently much agitated; but at sight of Tamsin and the woeful figure in the armchair, he halted on the threshold and stared dumbly.

"I think," said Tamsin, "you had better put your master to bed."

"Mussy 'pon us, what's been doin'?"

Briefly she told as much as she knew. With each successive sentence Caleb's mouth and eyes opened wider.

"And now," she ended, "as Peter and Paul have been waiting for their dinner this half-hour, I will be going. Don't trouble to come with me; but attend to your master. Good-morning, sir."

She dropped him a low curtsey and was gone. He started up.

"Where be goin', sir? Sit down; you'm not fit to stir."

But Mr. Fogo had passed him, and was out of the room in a moment. In spite of the pain that racked every limb, he overtook Tamsin in the porch.

"What are you doing?" she cried. "Go back to bed."

As she faced him, he could see that her eyes were full of angry tears. The sight checked him.

"It's—it's of no consequence," he stammered, "only I was going to ask you to be my wife."

For answer she turned on her heel, and walked resolutely down the steps.

Mr. Fogo stood and watched her until she disappeared, and then crawled painfully back into the house.

"An' now, sir," said Caleb, as he led his master to bed, "warnin' et es. This day month, I goes, unless—"

"Unless what, Caleb?"

"Well, sir, I reckons there be on'y wan way out o't, as the cat said by the sausage-machine, an' that es—to marry Tamsin Dearlove."

"My dear Caleb," groaned Mr. Fogo, "I only wish I could! But I will try again to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW ONE LOVER TOOK LEAVE OF HIS WITS, AND TWO CAME TO THEIR SENSES.

But Mr. Fogo was not to try again on the morrow.

For Caleb, stealing up in the grey dawn to assure himself that his master was comfortably asleep, found him tossing in a high fever, and rowed down to Troy for dear life and the Doctor. Returning, he found that the fever had become delirium. Mr. Fogo, indeed, was sitting up in bed, and rattling off proposals of marriage at the rate of some six a minute, without break or pause. He was very red and earnest, rolled his eyes most strangely, and wandered in his address from Tamsin to Geraldine, and back again with a vehemence that gravelled all logic.

"Lord ha' mussy!" cried Caleb at last. "Do 'ee hush, that's a dear. 'Tes sinful—all these gallons o' true affecshun a-runnin' to waste. You'm too lovin' by half, as Sam said when hes wife got hugged by a bear. What do 'ee think, sir?"

The last sentence was addressed to the little Doctor, who, after staring at the patient for some minutes without noticeable result, nodded his head, announced that the fever must run its course, and promised to send a capable nurse up to Kit's House without delay.

"Beggin' your pard'n, Doctor," interposed Caleb with firmness, "but I've a-got my orders."

"Eh?"

"I've a-got my orders. Plaise God, an' wi' plenty o' doctor's trade, [1] us'll pull 'un round: but nobody nusses maaster 'ceptin' you an' me—leastways, no womankind."

"This is nonsensical."

"Nonsensical, do 'ee say? Look 'ee here, Doctor; do 'ee think I'd trust a woman up here wi' maaster a-makin' offers o' marriage sixteen to the dozen? Why, bless 'ee, sir, her'd be down an' ha' the banns called afore night, an' maaster not fit to shake hes head, much less say as the Prayer Books orders—'I renounce mun all.' That's a woman, Doctor, an' ef any o' the genteel sex sets foot on Kit's beach I'll—I'll stone her."

The Doctor gave way in the end and withdrew, promising another visit before evening. When he returned, however, at five in the afternoon, he found, with some wonder, a woman quietly installed in the sick-room. It happened thus:—

Barely an hour after the Doctor's departure, Caleb, sitting at his master's bedside, heard footsteps on the gravel walk, and looked out of window.

"Hist!" he called softly; and Peter Dearlove, followed by Paul, stepped round the angle of the house into sight. The Twins bore a look of the gravest perplexity and a large market basket.

"Hulloa!" said Caleb, "what's up?"

The pair looked at each other. At length Peter began with a serious face and unwonted formality of tone—

"Es Mr. Fogo wi'in?"

"Why, iss," Caleb allowed, "he's inside."

"We was a-wishin' to request o' the pleasure"—here Peter looked at Paul, who nodded—"the pleasure o' an interval o' five minnits."

"Interview," corrected Paul.

"I misdoubts," answered his brother, "that you are wrong, Paul. I remember the expresshun 'pon the programme o' a Sleight o' Hand Entertainment, an' there et said 'Interval'—'An Interval o' Five Minnits.'"

"Ef that's so," broke in Caleb from above with fine irony, "p'raps you wudn' mind handin' up your visitin' cards an' doin' the thing proper. At present maaster's busy."

"Busy?"

"Iss. A-makin' proposals o' marriage—which es a serious thing, an' not to be interrupted."

The Twins set down the basket and stared at each other. Paul was the first to recover.

"Ef 'tes fully allowable to put the question, Peter an' me wud like to knaw the young leddy's name. 'Tes makin' bould to ax, but there's a reason."

"Well," said Caleb, disappearing for a moment and then poking his head forth again, "at the present moment 'tes a party answerin' to the name o' Geraldin'. A minnit agone 'twas—But maybe you'd better step up an' see for yoursel'."

"What!"

"Step up an' see."

"Now, Peter," said the Twin, turning from Caleb to contemplate his brother, "puttin' the case (an' far be et from me to say et cudn' be) as you was payin' your addresses to a young leddy answerin' to the name o' Geraldin' (which she wudn' be call'd that, anyway), an' puttin' the case as you was a-makin' offers o' marriage, an' a pair o' twin-brothers (same as you an' me might be) walked up to the front door an' plumped in afore you'd well finished talkin' o' the weather-prospec's (bein' a slow man, though a sure)—now, what I wants to knaw es, wud 'ee like et yoursel'?"

"No, I shudn'."

"Well, I reckon'd not. An' that bein' so, Go's the word."

"Afore Peter talks 'bout gettin' a wife," broke in Caleb, "he'd better read 'bout Peter's wife's mother. She was sick wi' a fever, I've heerd, an' so's maaster. Ef you don't believe, walk up an' see; 'cos 'tain't good for a sick man to ha' all this palaverin' outside hes windey."

The Twins stared, whispered together, took off their boots, and softly entered the house. At the door of the sick-room Caleb met them.

"Brain fever," he whispered, "which es on'y catchin' for them as has brains to catch et wi'."

The trio stood together at the foot of the bed on which Mr. Fogo tossed and chattered. Peter and Paul looked from the sick man to their hats, and back again in silence. At length the elder Twin spoke—

"I' the matter o' behavin' rum, some folks does it wi' cause an' others not so. But I reckons ef you allows as there's likely a cause, you'm 'pon the safe side—'speshully wi' Mr. Fogo. Wherefore, Caleb, what's the meanin' o' this here?"

"Tamsin!"

The answer came so pat from the sick man's lips that Peter fairly jumped. Caleb looked up with finger on lip and a curious smile on his weather-tanned face.

"Don't leave me! Look! There are devils around me—cold white devils—devils with blank faces—no features, only flesh. Look! Sunday, Monday, Tuesday—every day with a devil, every day in the year—look, look!"

"Pore soul!" whispered Paul; "an' 'tes Leap Year, too, which makes wan extry."

"Don't leave me, Tamsin—don't leave me!"

The sick man's voice rose to a scream. Caleb bent forward and tried to soothe him. The mahogany faces of the Twins were blanched. They whispered apart—

"You was right, Peter."

"Aye, more's the pity. I thought the lass misliked 'un—the bigger fool I. 'Twas on'y yestiddy I guessed more was troublin' her than her soiled gown, an' tax'd her wi' et. We used to pride oursel' on knawin' her wants afore her spoke—an' now—"

Peter weakly concluded with a sigh.

"Bring Tamsin down an' help me here," said Caleb, from across the room.

The pair started.

"That es," he went on, "ef she'll come. You heerd maaster? Well, he said purty much the same to her yestiddy; so her won't be frightened. Leastways, go an' say you'm comin' yoursel' to help nuss; 'cos ef you won't I'll nuss 'un alone, an' ef that's the case, you'm a queer pair o' Christians, as the Devil said to the two black pigs."

"Fact es," hesitated Peter, "I'd a-larnt so much las' evenin' from Tamsin, though she were main loth to tell; an' Paul agreed as we'd call this mornin' an' tell Mr. Fogo as 'twarn't right for 'n to set hes thoughts 'pon Tamsin, who isn' a leddy, nor to put notions in her head as'll gi'e her pain hereafter. An' that's all 'bout et; an' us brought a whack o' vegetable produce 'long wi' us, jes' to show there was no ill-feelin's. But as et turns out, neither argyment nor vegetables bein' acceptable to a party that's sick wi' a fever, I be clane floored for what to do."

"Well, now, I've a-told 'ee. An' don't let the grass grow 'neath your feet, 'cos 'twill grow fast enough over your heads some day."

The Twins, unable to cope with Caleb's determination, stole noiselessly out. And thus it was that when, late in the afternoon, the little Doctor returned, he found Peter and Paul, in large blue aprons, busily helpless downstairs, and Tamsin, bright-eyed and warm of cheek, seated by the sick man's bedside.

On the following morning, which the reader, should he care to calculate, will find to be Tuesday, Admiral Buzza dropped his newspaper with a start, and glared across the breakfast-table.

"What is it, my love?" inquired his wife. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Wrong? Oh! no," replied the Admiral grimly, "nothing—wrong. Oblige me by listening to this, madam." He took up the paper and read aloud:

"ANOTHER DYNAMITE PLOT. A WHOLE TOWN DECEIVED—EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS. ESCAPE OF THE SUSPECTED PERSONS. THE DYNAMITE FIENDS STILL AT LARGE.

"The existence of another of these atrocious conspiracies aimed at the security of our public buildings and the safety of peaceful citizens, has been brought to light by certain recent occurrences at the romantic little seaport town of Troy. We have reason to believe that the suspicions of the police have been for some time aroused; and it is to their unaccountable dilatoriness we owe it that the conspirators have for the time made good their escape and still continue to menace our lives and property. It appears that some months back a couple, giving the names of the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys—"

["Really, Samuel, if you cannot eat an ordinary egg without clattering the spoon in that unseemly manner, I must ask you to suspend your meal until I have finished."]

"appeared at Troy as tenants of one of the most fashionable villa residences in that town. The elite [ahem] of the neighbourhood, too easily cajoled [h'm], and little suspecting their villainous designs, received the newcomers with open arms and a lamentable lack of inquisitiveness."

"Well, really," put in Mrs. Buzza, "I don't know what they call 'inquisitiveness'; if a brass telescope—Why, Sam, dear, how pale you are!"

"Through the gross carelessness, we can hardly bring ourselves to say the connivance, of the Custom House officials, they were allowed to land with impunity a considerable quantity of dynamite, with which on Saturday night they decamped. Their disappearance remained unsuspected up to a late hour on Sunday morning, when 'The Bower' was visited, and (to borrow the words of the great master of prose) non sunt inventi. The neatness with which the escape was executed points to the disquieting conclusion that they did not want for assistance."

"I'll ask you to excuse me," said Sam, rising abruptly and leaving the room. A sick terror possessed his heart; visions of the dock and the felon's cell followed him as he picked up his hat and crept into the street. Outside, the morning was serene, with the promise of a broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness would have been better. He shivered: at the corner of the street he met the local policeman and winced.