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

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And with a chuckle, Caleb sent the boat spinning into deep water.
Scarce daring to look at their father, the Misses Buzza plunged their
oars into the brine, and the Admiral, still shaking his fist, was
borne slowly out of sight. At last even his language failed upon the
breeze.

Caleb quietly returned to his work.

"Thicky Adm'ral," he observed, contemplatively, after a silence of a
minute or so, "puts me in mind o' Humphrey Hambly's ducks, as is said
to look larger than they be."

He paused in the act of wringing a shirt, to look at Mr. Fogo.

The next instant the shirt was lying on the shingle, and Caleb had
sprung upon his master, taken him by the shoulders, and was shaking
him with might and main.

"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"

"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the
shaking. "What's all this?"

"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the
treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig.
You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"

Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to
rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and
sternly watched his recovery.

"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering.
Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those
extraordinary people gone?"

"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone--like Jemmy Rule's larks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough--Adm'ral Buzza in
full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout
their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet
and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o'
tar."

"Tar, Caleb?"

"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode
away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat
from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.

When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a
brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere
to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his
ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors
to see that all was right.

"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room
door.

Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose
plank in the flooring, and looked up.

"All right, Caleb, thank you."

"I was afear'd you might be none compass agen."

"What?"

"None compass--Greek for 'mazed.' Good-bye for the present, sir."

Caleb borrowed a hammer, a nail or two, and a spade, and descended
again to the beach. Here he chose a spot carefully, and began to dig
a large hole in the shingle. This finished, he turned to the board,
and spent some time with the brush in his hand and his head on one
side, thinking. Then he began to paint vigorously.

Half-an-hour later, a tall post with a board on top stood on the
beach at Kit's House. On the board, in letters six inches long, was
tarred the following inscription:--

TAKE NOTICE.

ALL WIMMEN
FOUND TRAPESING ON THIS
BEECH WILL BE DEALT
WITH ACCORDING
TO THE LAW.

Above this notice jauntily rested the Admiral's cocked-hat, which had
drifted ashore further up on the shingle--an awful witness to the
earnestness of the threat and the vanity of human greatness.

Caleb stood in front of his handiwork and gazed at it with honest
pride for some minutes; then went into the house to fetch Mr. Fogo
forth to look. He was absent for some minutes. When he returned
with his master, their eyes were greeted with a curious sight.

On the spit of shingle, and staring open-mouthed at the notice, stood
the Twins, their honest faces expressing the extreme of perplexity.
A few yards off the shore, in their boat, waited Tamsin, and leant
quietly on her paddles.

[Illustration: Staring open-mouthed at the notice.]

At the sight of her, Caleb's face fell a full inch; but he led his
master down and planted him resolutely in front of the board.
Mr. Fogo stared helplessly from it to the Twins.

"Mornin', sir," said Peter, after a long pause. His face wore a
deepened colour, and he smiled awkwardly.

"Good-morning," replied Mr. Fogo.

"A fine mornin'," repeated Peter, with a long gaze at the board, "an'
no mistake."

There was another long interval, during which everybody stared hard
at the Notice.

"'Tes a powerful fine mornin'," Peter re-asserted very slowly, "ef so
be as your station in life es in noways connected with turmuts.
Ef 'tes the less us says about the mornin' the better." With this
observation Peter looked hard at Mr. Fogo, as if the ball of
conversation now lay in that gentleman's hands.

"What do 'ee think o' this 'ere Notice?" broke in Caleb.

Paul twitched his yellow bandanna and smiled evasively.

"'Tes very pretty writin', sir, sure-ly," he replied, addressing Mr.
Fogo. "Nice thick down-strokes, an' all as it shou'd be."

"Uncommon fash'nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a'ready," added
Peter.

Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism.
Mr. Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his
eyes fixed on his handiwork.

"Axin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to mention et," began
Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between
his fingers, "but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin' as
fash'nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou'dn't have
introoded--spesh'ly Tamsin. Tamsin was thinkin' this mornin' as a
pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl'm'n down at
Kit's House, wi' ha'f a dozen fresh eggs or so, 'cos her Minorcy hen
began to lay agen last week, an' the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays
double yolks; an' Paul an' me agreed you wudn' be above acceptin' a
little present o' this natur', not seemin' proud, an' Tamsin shou'd
bring et hersel', the eggs bein' hers in a manner o' speakin'.
But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an' iver since us seed the
board here, her's been keepin' her distance in the boat yonder; on'y
us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou'd do to make
things ship-shape an' fitty for 'ee."

At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was
several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.

"Ship-shape an' fitty--not wishful for to introod. That's so,
Peter," echoed his brother.

Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose
eyes were obstinately averted.

"Caleb!"

"Sir."

"Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore."

With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name.
Tamsin looked up.

"Ef 'ee please, you'm to come ashore, to wance!"

The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped
lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the
Notice.

"There's a few young potatoes at the bottom," she said, with a
curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo. "They're the earliest
and best anywhere in these parts. Can you cook potatoes?" she asked,
suddenly turning to Caleb. Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek
was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of
defiance.

"Iss, to be sure," grinned Caleb. "Why, us does our own washin'."

Tamsin's eyes travelled without bashfulness over the array upon the
beach.

"Pretty washing, I expect!" She walked up and took some of the
clothes into her hand. "Look here--not half-wrung--and some fallen
in the mud and dirtied worse than ever."

With fine contempt she moved among the clothes, wrung them, spread
them out again, and even returned with some to the wash-tub.
Like four whipped schoolboys the males looked on as she tucked up the
sleeves of her neat print gown.

"Soap, too, left to float in the wash-tub, and--salt water I declare!
Caleb, empty this and get some soft water from the old butt by the
back door. Oh, you poor, helpless baby!"

Mr. Fogo, though the words were not spoken to him, winced and turned
to stare abstractedly at the river.

"Sir," said Caleb from his hammock that night, "cudn' 'ee put in a
coddysel?"

"A codicil?"

"Iss, just to say, 'No wimmen allowed but Tamsin Dearlove--us don't
mind she.' Wudn' that do, sir?"

"I'm afraid not, Caleb. By-the-bye, how does your Notice run?
'All women found trespassing will be--'"

"Dealt wi' 'cordin' to the law, sir."

"Dear me, Caleb!" murmured Mr. Fogo, "but I trust that under no
circumstances should I deal with a woman otherwise than according to
the law."

CHAPTER IX.

OF A TOWN THAT WOULD LAUGH AT THE GREAT. AND HOW A DULL COMPANY WAS
CURED BY AN IRISH SONG.

We left the Misses Buzza engaged in rowing their papa homewards.
The Three Queens as they steered King Arthur to Avilion can have been
no sadder pageant. It is true the Misses Buzza grieved for no
Excalibur, but the Admiral had lost his cocked-hat.

Picture to yourself that procession: the journey past the jetties;
the faces that grinned down from overhanging hulls, or looked out
hurriedly at casements and grew pale; the blue-jerseyed Trojan
lounging on the quay, and pausing in his whistle to stare; the Trojan
maidens gazing, with arrested needle; the shipwrights dropping mallet
and tar-pot; the ferrymen resting on their oars; the makers of ship's
biscuit rushing out, with aprons flying, to see the sight; the
butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker--each and all agog.
Then imagine the Olympian mirth that ran along the waterside when
Troy saw the joke, and, hand on hip, laughed with all its lungs.

But even this was not the worst: no, nor the crowd of urchins
that followed from the landing-stage and cheered at intervals.
It was when Admiral Buzza looked up and spied the face of Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys at an upper window of "The Bower," that the cup of
his humiliation indeed brimmed over.

Mrs. Buzza, "tittivating" at the mirror, heard the stir, and,
presentient of evil, rushed down-stairs. She saw her lord restored
to her, dear but damp. Yet she "nor swooned, nor uttered cry:" she
simply sat violently and suddenly down upon the hall-chair, and
piteously stared.

"Emily, get up!"

She did so.

"You are wet, my love," she ventured timorously.

"_Wet!_ Woman, is this the time for airy _persiflage?_"

"My love," replied Mrs. Buzza, meekly, "nothing was further from my
thoughts."

The Admiral glared upon her for a moment, but the retort died upon
his lips. He flung his hands out with an appealing gesture and
something like a sob.

"Emily," he cried, hoarsely, "Troy has laughed at me again. Put me
to bed."

O forgiving heart of woman! In a moment her arms were about him, and
her tears mingling with the general dampness of the Admiral's
costume. Then, having wept her fill, she smiled a little, dried her
eyes, and put the Admiral to bed.

Out of doors Troy still laughed at the mishap. The whole story was
soon related (with infinite humour) by the unfilial Sam. Down at the
"Man-o'-War," in the bar-parlour, for seven days it formed the sole
topic of discussion; and Mr. Moggridge (who ought to have respected
Sophia's father) even wrote a humorous ode upon the theme,
beginning--

"Ye gods and little fishes . . ."

and full of the quaintest conceits. For seven days, from dawn to
nightfall, the river off Kit's House was crowded with boat-loads of
curious gazers, and the Steam-Tug Company (Limited) neglected its
serious business to run special excursions to the scene of the
catastrophe.

The Trojan maidens especially would stare at the Notice by the
half-hour (that being the time allowed by the Steam-Tug Company), and
hope, with much blushing and giggling, to catch a glimpse of Mr.
Fogo. But the hermit remained steadily indoors.

Meanwhile the Admiral sulked in bed, and nursed his ill-humour.
On Tuesday he was strangely softened and quiet; but:--

On Wednesday he recovered, and began to bully his wife as fiercely as
ever.

On Thursday he broke the bell-rope again, and the servant gave
warning.

On Friday he threatened to make his will, and refused his food.

On Saturday he was still fasting.

On Sunday he ate voraciously, drank four glasses of grog, and threw
the wash-hand basin out of window.

On Monday Mrs. Buzza revolted, and took herself off, with the girls,
to Miss Limpenny's party.

Yes. Miss Limpenny had mustered courage to put on her best brooch
and call at "The Bower" with Lavinia. Nor did her daring end here;
it took the form of a little three-cornered note on that very
evening, and on the next morning Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys
accepted.

"Have great pleasure in accepting," read Miss Limpenny to her sister.
"The very words. I'm sure it's most affable."

"We must have cheesecakes--the famous cheesecakes--of course,"
reflected Miss Lavinia, "and a dish of trifle, and jellies, and--oh,
Priscilla!"

"What, Lavinia?"

"Do you think a Tipsy Cake would be unbecoming?"

Miss Limpenny knit her brows over this bold proposal.

"I disapprove of the name," she said. "It has always seemed to me a
trifle--ahem!--'fast,' if I may call it so. Still, we need not
mention its name at supper, and the taste is undeniably grateful.
But, Lavinia, I was thinking of a more important matter. Who are to
be asked?"

"Why not everybody, Priscilla dear?"

"The Simpsons, for instance? It is true his father was a respectable
solicitor, and even Mayor of Devonport I have heard, but Mr.
Simpson's taste in _badinage_ is such as I cannot always approve.
It is very well in Troy here, where everybody knows them, but the
Goodwyn-Sandys are certain to be most particular, and, Lavinia, that
crimson gown of hers!"

"It _is_ bright," assented Miss Lavinia.

"And the Saunders! What a pity the girls cannot be invited without
the boys."

"The boys have always come before, Priscilla."

Miss Limpenny groaned. "To meet an Honourable, Lavinia!"

The leaven was working.

However, on the following Monday everybody was assembled in the
little drawing-room. The Vicar was there in evening dress; the
doctor and his wife; Mr. Simpson and Mrs. Simpson in the crimson
gown; the Saunders boys in carpet slippers (at sight of which Miss
Limpenny went hot and cold by turns); the Misses Buzza in
book-muslin, with ultramarine sashes and bronze shoes laced
sandal-wise; their mother in green satin and deadly terror lest the
Admiral's voice should penetrate the party-wall. Mr. Moggridge was
frowning gloomily in a corner at some humorous story of Sam Buzza's
telling. In short, with the exception of their Admiral, all Trojan
society had gathered to do honour to the new-comers.

Miss Limpenny, nervously toying with her best brooch, rose in a
flutter as the door opened and admitted them.

"So afraid we are late! but the clocks at 'The Bower' have not yet
recovered from their journey."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys gazed calmly about her. There was a rustle
throughout the room; two pink spots appeared on Miss Limpenny's
cheeks; she stumbled in her words of welcome. The Vicar frowned and
looked puzzled.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys wore a low-necked gown!

It was a shock; but it passed. She was wonderfully pretty, all
admitted, in her gown of a rich amber satin draped with delicate
folds of black lace; around her white throat a diamond necklace
glistened. How well I can remember her as she stood there toying
with a button of her glove! And how mean and dowdy we all looked
beside this glittering vision!

The Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys meanwhile
stared at us all calmly but firmly through his eye-glass. I saw
young Horatio Saunders meet that gaze and sink into his carpet
slippers. I saw Mr. Moggridge frown terribly, and cross his arms.
Sam Buzza came forward--

"Ah, how d'ye do? How d'ye do, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys? Looking round
for the governor? He's been in bed for a week."

I think we all envied Samuel Buzza at this moment.

"Ah, nothing serious, I hope?" drawled Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"Serious, ha, ha! Haven't you heard--"

"Sam, dear!" expostulated Mrs. Buzza.

"All right, mother. He can't hear," and Sam plunged into the story.

The ice was broken. In a few moments a whist party was made up to
include the Honourable Frederic, and Miss Limpenny breathed more
freely. Mr. Moggridge was led up by Sam, and introduced.

"Ah, indeed! Mr. Moggridge, I have been so longing to know you."

Sam looked a trifle vexed. The poet simpered that he was happy.

"Of course I have been reading 'Ivy Leaves.' So mournful I thought
them, yet somehow so attractive. How _did_ you write it all?"

Mr. Moggridge confessed amiably that he "didn't quite know."

"Let me see; those lines beginning--"

'O give me wings to--to--'

"I forget for the moment how it goes on."

"'To fly away,'" suggested the bard.

"Ah, exactly; 'to fly away.' So simple--just what one _would_ wish
wings for, you know. It struck me very much when I read it.
When did you think of it, Mr. Moggridge?"

The poet blushed and began to look uncomfortable.

"Ah! you are reticent. Excuse me; I ought not to probe a poet's
soul. Still, I should like to be able to tell my friends--"

"The--the fact is," stammered Mr. Moggridge, "I--I thought of them--
in--my bath."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys leaned back and laughed--a pretty rippling laugh
that shook the diamonds upon her throat. Sam guffawed, and by this
action sprang that little rift between the friends that widened
before long into a gulf.

"I shall ask you to copy them into my Album. I always victimise a
lion when I meet one."

This was said with a glance full of compensation. Mr. Moggridge
tried to look very leonine indeed. Across the room another pair of
eyes gently reproached him. Never before had he tarried so long from
Sophia's side. Poor little heart! beating so painfully beneath your
dowdy muslin bodice. It was early yet for you to ache.

"Oh, ah, Dick Cheddar--knew him well," came in the sonorous tones of
the Honourable Frederic from the whist-table. "So you were at
College with him--first cousin to Lord Stilton--get the title if he
only outlives the old man--good fellow, Dick--but drinks."

"Dear me," said the Vicar; "I am sorry to hear that. He was wild at
Christchurch, but nothing out of the way. Why, I remember at the
Aylesbury Grinds--"

Miss Limpenny, who did not know an Aylesbury Grind from a Bampton
Lecture, yet detected an unfamiliar ring in the Vicar's voice.

"He fought a welsher," pursued the Vicar, "just before riding in a
race. 'Rollingstone,' his horse was, and Cheddar's eyes closed
before the second fence. 'Tom,' he called to me--I was on a mare
called Barmaid--"

I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He--our Vicar--
riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet
the descent of the thunderbolt.

"Lord Ballarat was riding too," the Vicar went on, "and young Tom
Beauchamp, son of the Bishop--"

"Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth," interpolated the
Honourable Frederic.

"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him.
I've put him to bed many a time when--"

It was too much.

"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.

But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The
chandeliers rattled, the egg-shell china danced upon the what-not,
and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in
the company.

"It's an earthquake!" shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up
with an oath.

Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be
expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the
rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly
white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his
conscience.

"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.

"Or a landslip," suggested Sam Buzza.

"Or a paroxysm of Nature," said Mr. Moggridge (though nobody knew
what he meant).

"Or the end of the world," hazarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mrs. Buzza timidly, "but I think it
may be my husband."

"Is your husband a volcano, madam?" snapped Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys,
rather sharply.

Mrs. Buzza might have answered "Yes," with some colour of truth; but
she merely said, "I think it must be his double-bass. My husband is
apt in hours of depression to seek the consolation of that
instrument."

"But, my dear madam, what is the tune?"

"I think," she faltered, "I am not sure, but I rather think, it is
the 'Dead March' in _Saul_."

There was no doubt of it. The notes by this time vibrated piteously
through the party-wall, and with their awful solemnity triumphed over
all conversation. Tones became hushed, as though in the presence of
death; and the Vicar, in his desperate attempts to talk, found his
voice chained without mercy to the slow foot of the dirge. He tried
to laugh.

"Really, this is too absurd--ha! ha! _Tum-tum-tibby-tum_." The
effort ended in ghastly failure. _Thrum-thrum-tiddy-thrum_ went the
Admiral's instrument.

Miss Limpenny grew desperate. "Sophia," she pleaded, "pray sing us
one of your cheerful ballads."

Sophia looked at Mr. Moggridge. He had always turned over the pages
for her so devotedly. Surely he would make some sign now. Alas! all
his eyes were for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I will try," she assented with something dangerously like a sob.

She stepped to the "Collard" at a pace remorselessly timed to the
"Dead March," and chose her ballad--a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's
composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she
thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the
tinkling prelude.

"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove,
to Cupid, and to Venus--"

_Thrum-thrum-thrum_ went the double bass next door. Mr. Moggridge
looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night!
He had never thought so before.

"That he might die, if he betrayed
A single vow that passed between us."

"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued--

"O careless gods, to hear so ill,
And cheat the maid on you relying;
For false Lysander's thriving still,
And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying."

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed
cheeks left the piano.

"That is all--a little effort not worth--"

"Oh, it is yours! But," with a sweet smile, "I ought to have
guessed. You must write a song for me one of these days."

"Do you sing?" cried the delighted Mr. Moggridge.

Sam, who had been waiting for a chance to speak, shouted across the
room--"I say, Miss Limpenny, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys will sing if you ask
her."

After very little solicitation, and with none of the coyness common
to amateurs, she seated herself at the instrument, quietly pulled off
her gloves, and dashed without more ado into a rollicking Irish
ditty.

"Be aisy an' list to a chune
That's sung uv bowld Tim, the dragoon;
Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss
To be stalin' a kiss--
Or a brace--by the light uv the moon,
Aroon,
Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

"Really!" murmured Miss Limpenny. The keys of the decorous "Collard"
clashed as they had never clashed before. The guests, at first
shocked and startled, began to be carried away with the reckless
swing of the music. The Vicar stared for a moment, and then began
gradually to nod his head to the measure.

"You must sing the last line in chorus, please," said Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys from the piano--

"Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

It was sung timidly at first. Nothing daunted, the performer plunged
into the next verse--

"Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick!
For he's gone from the land uv the quick:
But he's still makin' luv
To the leddies above,
An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick,
Avick,
Niver fear but he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

There was no doubt this time. By the spirit of her mad singing, by
some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole
company seemed possessed. Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the
Vicar. He was actually joining in the chorus! And what a chorus!
She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went
up.

"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore;
For they've only to sip
But the tip uv his lip,
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more,
Asthore,
By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"

It was no longer an assembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a
room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song.
Laughingly, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rested her finger on the keys and
looked around. These stolid Trojans had caught fire. There was the
little Doctor purple all above his stock; there was the Vicar with
inflated cheeks and a hag-ridden stare; there was Mr. Moggridge
snapping his fingers and almost capering; there was Miss Limpenny
with her under-jaw dropped and her eyes agape. They were charmed,
bewitched, crazy.

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