Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - The Astonishing History of Troy Town

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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."

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