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THE MONEY MOON

A Romance

By

JEFFERY FARNOL

Author of "The Broad Highway," etc.

Frontispiece by A.I. KELLER

1911

To "JENNIFER"

The One and Only

Whose unswerving FAITH was an Inspiration
Whose GENEROSITY is a bye-word;
This book is dedicated as a mark of GRATITUDE and AFFECTION

Jeffery Farnol Feb. 10, 1910

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I WHICH, BEING THE FIRST, IS, VERY PROPERLY, THE SHORTEST CHAPTER IN THE BOOK

II HOW GEORGE BELLEW SOUGHT COUNSEL OF HIS VALET

III WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A HAYCART, AND A BELLIGERENT WAGGONER

IV HOW SMALL PORGES IN LOOKING FOR A FORTUNE FOR ANOTHER, FOUND AN UNCLE FOR HIMSELF INSTEAD

V HOW BELLEW CAME TO ARCADIA

VI OF THE SAD CONDITION OF THE HAUNTING SPECTRE OF THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN

VII WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF AMONG OTHER MATTERS, WITH "THE OLD ADAM"

VIII WHICH TELLS OF MISS PRISCILLA, OF PEACHES, AND OF SERGEANT APPLEBY LATE OF THE 19TH HUSSARS

IX IN WHICH MAY BE FOUND SOME DESCRIPTION OF ARCADIA, AND GOOSEBERRIES

X HOW BELLEW AND ADAM ENTERED INTO A SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT

XI OF THE "MAN WITH THE TIGER MARK"

XII IN WHICH MAY BE FOUND A FULL, TRUE, AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE SALE

XIII HOW ANTHEA CAME HOME

XIV WHICH, AMONG OTHER THINGS, HAS TO DO WITH SHRIMPS, MUFFINS, AND TIN WHISTLES

XV IN WHICH ADAM EXPLAINS

XVI IN WHICH ADAM PROPOSES A GAME

XVII HOW BELLEW BEGAN THE GAME

XVIII HOW THE SERGEANT WENT UPON HIS GUARD

XIX IN WHICH PORGES BIG, AND PORGES SMALL DISCUSS THE SUBJECT OF MATRIMONY

XX WHICH RELATES A MOST EXTRAORDINARY CONVERSATION

XXI OF SHOES, AND SHIPS, AND SEALING WAX, AND THE THIRD FINGER OF THE LEFT HAND

XXII COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE

XXIII HOW SMALL PORGES, IN HIS HOUR OF NEED, WAS DESERTED BY HIS UNCLE

XXIV IN WHICH SHALL BE FOUND MENTION OF A CERTAIN BLACK BAG

XXV THE CONSPIRATORS

XXVI HOW THE MONEY MOON ROSE

XXVII IN WHICH IS VERIFIED THE ADAGE OF THE CUP AND THE LIP

XXVIII WHICH TELLS HOW BELLEW LEFT DAPPLEMERE IN THE DAWN

XXIX OF THE MOON'S MESSAGE TO SMALL PORGES, AND HOW HE TOLD IT TO BELLEW—IN A WHISPER

XXX HOW ANTHEA GAVE HER PROMISE

XXXI WHICH, BEING THE LAST, IS, VERY PROPERLY, THE LONGEST, IN THE BOOK

CHAPTER I

Which, being the first, is, very properly, the shortest chapter in the book

When Sylvia Marchmont went to Europe, George Bellew being, at the same time, desirous of testing his newest acquired yacht, followed her, and mutual friends in New York, Newport, and elsewhere, confidently awaited news of their engagement. Great, therefore, was their surprise when they learnt of her approaching marriage to the Duke of Ryde.

Bellew, being young and rich, had many friends, very naturally, who, while they sympathized with his loss, yet agreed among themselves, that, despite Bellew's millions, Sylvia had done vastly well for herself, seeing that a duke is always a duke,—especially in America.

There were, also, divers ladies in New York, Newport, and elsewhere, and celebrated for their palatial homes, their jewels, and their daughters, who were anxious to know how Bellew would comport himself under his disappointment. Some leaned to the idea that he would immediately blow his brains out; others opined that he would promptly set off on another of his exploring expeditions, and get himself torn to pieces by lions and tigers, or devoured by alligators; while others again feared greatly that, in a fit of pique, he would marry some "young person" unknown, and therefore, of course, utterly unworthy.

How far these worthy ladies were right, or wrong in their surmises, they who take the trouble to turn the following pages, shall find out.

CHAPTER II

How George Bellew sought counsel of his Valet

The first intimation Bellew received of the futility of his hopes was the following letter which he received one morning as he sat at breakfast in his chambers in St. James Street, W.

MY DEAR GEORGE—I am writing to tell you that I like you so much that I am quite sure I could never marry you, it would be too ridiculous. Liking, you see George, is not love, is it? Though, personally, I think all that sort of thing went out of fashion with our great-grandmother's hoops, and crinolines. So George, I have decided to marry the Duke of Ryde. The ceremony will take place in three weeks time at St. George's, Hanover Square, and everyone will be there, of course. If you care to come too, so much the better. I won't say that I hope you will forget me, because I don't; but I am sure you will find someone to console you because you are such a dear, good fellow, and so ridiculously rich.

So good-bye, and best wishes,

Ever yours most sincerely,

SYLVIA.

Now under such circumstances, had Bellew sought oblivion and consolation from bottles, or gone headlong to the devil in any of other numerous ways that are more or less inviting, deluded people would have pitied him, and shaken grave heads over him; for it seems that disappointment (more especially in love) may condone many offences, and cover as many sins as Charity.

But Bellew, knowing nothing of that latter-day hysteria which wears the disguise, and calls itself "Temperament," and being only a rather ordinary young man, did nothing of the kind. Having lighted his pipe, and read the letter through again, he rang instead for Baxter, his valet.

Baxter was small, and slight, and dapper as to person, clean-shaven, alert of eye, and soft of movement,—in a word, Baxter was the cream of gentlemen's gentlemen, and the very acme of what a valet should be, from the very precise parting of his glossy hair, to the trim toes of his glossy boots. Baxter as has been said, was his valet, and had been his father's valet, before him, and as to age, might have been thirty, or forty, or fifty, as he stood there beside the table, with one eye-brow raised a trifle higher than the other, waiting for Bellew to speak.

"Baxter."

"Sir?"

"Take a seat."

"Thank you sir." And Baxter sat down, not too near his master, nor too far off, but exactly at the right, and proper distance.

"Baxter, I wish to consult with you."

"As between Master and Servant, sir?"

"As between man and man, Baxter."

"Very good, Mr. George, sir!"

"I should like to hear your opinion, Baxter, as to what is the proper, and most accredited course to adopt when one has been—er—crossed in love?"

"Why sir," began Baxter, slightly wrinkling his smooth brow, "so far as I can call to mind, the courses usually adopted by despairing lovers, are, in number, four."

"Name them, Baxter."

"First, Mr. George, there is what I may term, the Course
Retaliatory,—which is Marriage—"

"Marriage?"

"With—another party, sir,—on the principle that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out, and—er—pebbles on beaches, sir; you understand me, sir?"

"Perfectly, go on."

"Secondly, there is the Army, sir, I have known of a good many enlistments on account of blighted affections, Mr. George, sir; indeed, the Army is very popular."

"Ah?" said Bellew, settling the tobacco in his pipe with the aid of the salt-spoon, "Proceed, Baxter."

"Thirdly, Mr. George, there are those who are content to—to merely disappear."

"Hum!" said Bellew.

"And lastly sir, though it is usually the first,—there is dissipation,
Mr. George. Drink, sir,—the consolation of bottles, and—"

"Exactly!" nodded Bellew. "Now Baxter," he pursued, beginning to draw diagrams on the table-cloth with the salt-spoon, "knowing me as you do, what course should you advise me to adopt?"

"You mean, Mr. George,—speaking as between man and man of course,—you mean that you are in the unfortunate position of being—crossed in your affections, sir?"

"Also—heart-broken, Baxter."

"Certainly, sir!"

"Miss Marchmont marries the Duke of Hyde,—in three weeks, Baxter."

"Indeed, sir!"

"You were, I believe, aware of the fact that Miss Marchmont and I were as good as engaged?"

"I had—hem!—gathered as much, sir."

"Then—confound it all, Baxter!—why aren't you surprised?"

"I am quite—over-come, sir!" said Baxter, stooping to recover the salt-spoon which had slipped to the floor.

"Consequently," pursued Bellew, "I am—er—broken-hearted, as I told you—"

"Certainly, sir."

"Crushed, despondent, and utterly hopeless, Baxter, and shall be, henceforth, pursued by the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been."

"Very natural, sir, indeed!"

"I could have hoped, Baxter, that, having served me so long,—not to mention my father, you would have shown just a—er shade more feeling in the matter."

"And if you were to ask me,—as between man and man sir,—why I don't show more feeling, then, speaking as the old servant of your respected father, Master George, sir,—I should beg most respectfully to say that regarding the lady in question, her conduct is not in the least surprising, Miss Marchmont being a beauty, and aware of the fact, Master George. Referring to your heart, sir, I am ready to swear that it is not even cracked. And now, sir,—what clothes do you propose to wear this morning?"

"And pray, why should you be so confident of regarding the—er—condition of my heart?"

"Because, sir,—speaking as your father's old servant, Master George, I make bold to say that I don't believe that you have ever been in love, or even know what love is, Master George, sir."

Bellew picked up the salt-spoon, balanced it very carefully upon his finger, and put it down again.

"Nevertheless," said he, shaking his head, "I can see for myself but the dreary perspective of a hopeless future, Baxter, blasted by the Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been;—I'll trouble you to push the cigarettes a little nearer."

"And now, sir," said Baxter, as he rose to strike, and apply the necessary match, "what suit will you wear to-day?"

"Something in tweeds."

"Tweeds, sir! surely you forget your appointment with the Lady Cecily Prynne, and her party? Lord Mountclair had me on the telephone, last night—"

"Also a good, heavy walking-stick, Baxter, and a knap-sack."

"A knap-sack, sir?"

"I shall set out on a walking tour—in an hour's time."

"Certainly, sir,—where to, sir?"

"I haven't the least idea, Baxter, but I'm going—in an hour. On the whole, of the four courses you describe for one whose life is blighted, whose heart,—I say whose heart, Baxter, is broken,—utterly smashed, and—er—shivered beyond repair, I prefer to disappear—in an hour, Baxter."

"Shall you drive the touring car, sir, or the new racer?"

"I shall walk, Baxter, alone,—in an hour."

CHAPTER III

Which concerns itself with a hay-cart, and a belligerent Waggoner

It was upon a certain August morning that George Bellew shook the dust of London from his feet, and, leaving Chance, or Destiny to direct him, followed a hap-hazard course, careless alike of how, or when, or where; sighing as often, and as heavily as he considered his heart-broken condition required,—which was very often, and very heavily,—yet heeding, for all that, the glory of the sun, and the stir and bustle of the streets about him.

Thus it was that, being careless of his ultimate destination, Fortune condescended to take him under her wing, (if she has one), and guided his steps across the river, into the lovely land of Kent,—that county of gentle hills, and broad, pleasant valleys, of winding streams and shady woods, of rich meadows and smiling pastures, of grassy lanes and fragrant hedgerows,—that most delightful land which has been called, and very rightly, "The Garden of England."

It was thus, as has been said, upon a fair August morning, that Bellew set out on what he termed "a walking tour." The reservation is necessary because Bellew's idea of a walking-tour is original, and quaint. He began very well, for Bellew,—in the morning he walked very nearly five miles, and, in the afternoon, before he was discovered, he accomplished ten more on a hay-cart that happened to be going in his direction.

He had swung himself up among the hay, unobserved by the somnolent driver, and had ridden thus an hour or more in that delicious state between waking, and sleeping, ere the waggoner discovered him, whereupon ensued the following colloquy:

THE WAGGONER. (Indignantly) Hallo there! what might you be a doing of in my hay?

BELLEW. (Drowsily) Enjoying myself immensely.

THE WAGGONER. (Growling) Well, you get out o' that, and sharp about it.

BELLEW. (Yawning) Not on your life! No sir,—'not for Cadwallader and all his goats!'

THE WAGGONER. You jest get down out o' my hay,—now come!

BELLEW. (Sleepily) Enough, good fellow,—go to!—thy voice offends mine ear!

THE WAGGONER. (Threateningly) Ear be blowed! If ye don't get down out o' my hay,—I'll come an' throw ye out.

BELLEW. (Drowsily) 'Twould be an act of wanton aggression that likes me not.

THE WAGGONER. (Dubiously) Where be ye goin'?

BELLEW. Wherever you like to take me; Thy way shall be my way, and—er—thy people—(Yawn) So drive on, my rustic Jehu, and Heaven's blessings prosper thee!

Saying which, Bellew closed his eyes again, sighed plaintively, and once more composed himself to slumber.

But to drive on, the Waggoner, very evidently, had no mind; instead, flinging the reins upon the backs of his horses, he climbed down from his seat, and spitting on his hands, clenched them into fists and shook them up at the yawning Bellew, one after the other.

"It be enough," said he, "to raise the 'Old Adam' inside o' me to 'ave a tramper o' the roads a-snoring in my hay,—but I ain't a-going to be called names, into the bargain. 'Rusty'—I may be, but I reckon I'm good enough for the likes o' you,—so come on down!" and the Waggoner shook his fists again.

He was a very square man, was this Waggoner, square of head, square of jaw, and square of body, with twinkling blue eyes, and a pleasant, good-natured face; but, just now, the eyes gleamed, and the face was set grimly, and, altogether, he looked a very ugly opponent.

Therefore Bellew sighed again, stretched himself, and, very reluctantly, climbed down out of the hay. No sooner was he fairly in the road, than the Waggoner went for him with a rush, and a whirl of knotted fists. It was very dusty in that particular spot so that it presently rose in a cloud, in the midst of which, the battle raged, fast and furious.

And, in a while, the Waggoner, rising out of the ditch, grinned to see
Bellew wiping blood from his face.

"You be no—fool!" panted the Waggoner, mopping his face with the end of his neckerchief. "Leastways—not wi' your fists."

"Why, you are pretty good yourself, if it comes to that," returned Bellew, mopping in his turn. Thus they stood a while stanching their wounds, and gazing upon each other with a mutual, and growing respect.

"Well?" enquired Bellew, when he had recovered his breath somewhat, "shall we begin again, or do you think we have had enough? To be sure, I begin to feel much better for your efforts, you see, exercise is what I most need, just now, on account of the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been,—to offset its effect, you know; but it is uncomfortably warm work here, in the sun, isn't it?"

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "it be."

"Then suppose we—er—continue our journey?" said Bellew with his dreamy gaze upon the tempting load of sweet-smelling hay.

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner again, beginning to roll down his sleeves, "suppose we do; I aren't above giving a lift to a chap as can use 'is fists,—not even if 'e is a vagrant, and a uncommon dusty one at that;—so, if you're in the same mind about it, up you get,—but no more furrin curses, mind!" With which admonition, the Waggoner nodded, grinned, and climbed back to his seat, while Bellew swung himself up into the hay once more.

"Friend," said he, as the waggon creaked upon its way, "Do you smoke?"

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner.

"Then here are three cigars which you didn't manage to smash just now."

"Cigars! why it ain't often as I gets so far as a cigar, unless it be Squire, or Parson,—cigars, eh!" Saying which, the Waggoner turned and accepted the cigars which he proceeded to stow away in the cavernous interior of his wide-eaved hat, handling them with elaborate care, rather as if they were explosives of a highly dangerous kind.

Meanwhile, George Bellew, American Citizen, and millionaire, lay upon the broad of his back, staring up at the cloudless blue above, and despite heart break, and a certain Haunting Shadow, felt singularly content, which feeling he was at some pains with himself to account for.

"It's the exercise," said he, speaking his thought aloud, as he stretched luxuriously upon his soft, and fragrant couch, "after all, there is nothing like a little exercise."

"That's what they all say!" nodded the Waggoner. "But I notice as them as says it, ain't over fond o' doing of it,—they mostly prefers to lie on their backs, an' talk about it,—like yourself."

"Hum!" said Bellew, "ha! 'Some are born to exercise, some achieve exercise, and some, like myself, have exercise thrust upon them.' But, anyway, it is a very excellent thing,—more especially if one is affected with a—er—broken heart."

"A w'ot?" enquired the Waggoner.

"Blighted affections, then," sighed Bellew, settling himself more comfortably in the hay.

"You aren't 'inting at—love, are ye?" enquired the Waggoner cocking a somewhat sheepish eye at him.

"I was, but, just at present," and here Bellew lowered his voice, "it is a—er—rather painful subject with me,—let us, therefore, talk of something else."

"You don't mean to say as your 'eart's broke, do ye?" enquired the Waggoner in a tone of such vast surprise and disbelief, that Bellew turned, and propped himself on an indignant elbow.

"And why the deuce not?" he retorted, "my heart is no more impervious than anyone else's,—confound it!"

"But," said the Waggoner, "you ain't got the look of a 'eart-broke cove, no more than Squire Cassilis,—which the same I heard telling Miss Anthea as 'is 'eart were broke, no later than yesterday, at two o'clock in the arternoon, as ever was."

"Anthea!" repeated Bellew, blinking drowsily up at the sky again, "that is a very quaint name, and very pretty."

"Pretty,—ah,—an' so's Miss Anthea!—as a pict'er."

"Oh, really?" yawned Bellew.

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "there ain't a man, in or out o' the parish, from Squire down, as don't think the very same."

But here, the Waggoner's voice tailed off into a meaningless drone that became merged with the creaking of the wheels, the plodding hoof-strokes of the horses, and Bellew fell asleep.

He was awakened by feeling himself shaken lustily, and, sitting up, saw that they had come to where a narrow lane branched off from the high road, and wound away between great trees.

"Yon's your way," nodded the Waggoner, pointing along the high road,
"Dapplemere village lies over yonder, 'bout a mile."

"Thank you very much," said Bellew, "but I don't want the village."

"No?" enquired the Waggoner, scratching his head.

"Certainly not," answered Bellew.

"Then—what do ye want?"

"Oh well, I'll just go on lying here, and see what turns up,—so drive on, like the good fellow you are."

"Can't be done!" said the Waggoner.

"Why not?"

"Why, since you ax me—because I don't have to drive no farther. There be the farm-house,—over the up-land yonder, you can't see it because o' the trees, but there it be."

So, Bellew sighed resignedly, and, perforce, climbed down into the road.

"What do I owe you?" he enquired.

"Owe me!" said the Waggoner, staring.

"For the ride, and the—er—very necessary exercise you afforded me."

"Lord!" cried the Waggoner with a sudden, great laugh, "you don't owe me nothin' for that,—not nohow,—I owe you one for a knocking of me into that ditch, back yonder, though, to be sure, I did give ye one or two good 'uns, didn't I?"

"You certainly did!" answered Bellew smiling, and he held out his hand.

"Hey!—what be this?" cried the Waggoner, staring down at the bright five-shilling piece in his palm.

"Well, I rather think it's five shillings," said Bellew. "It's big enough, heaven knows. English money is all O.K., I suppose, but it's confoundedly confusing, and rather heavy to drag around if you happen to have enough of it—"

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "but then nobody never has enough of it,—leastways, I never knowed nobody as had. Good-bye, sir! and thankee, and—good luck!" saying which, the Waggoner chirrupped to his horses, slipped the coin into his pocket, nodded, and the waggon creaked and rumbled up the lane.

Bellew strolled along the road, breathing an air fragrant with honey-suckle from the hedges, and full of the song of birds; pausing, now and then, to listen to the blythe carol of a sky-lark, or the rich; sweet notes of a black-bird, and feeling that it was indeed, good to be alive; so that, what with all this,—the springy turf beneath his feet, and the blue expanse over-head, he began to whistle for very joy of it, until, remembering the Haunting Shadow of the Might Have Been, he checked himself, and sighed instead. Presently, turning from the road, he climbed a stile, and followed a narrow path that led away across the meadows, and, as he went, there met him a gentle wind laden with the sweet, warm scent of ripening hops, and fruit.

On he went, and on,—heedless of his direction until the sun grew low, and he grew hungry; wherefore, looking about, he presently espied a nook sheltered from the sun's level rays by a steep bank where flowers bloomed, and ferns grew. Here he sat down, unslinging his knap-sack, and here it was, also, that he first encountered Small Porges.

CHAPTER IV

How Small Porges in looking for a fortune for another, found an Uncle for Himself instead

The meeting of George Bellew and Small Porges, (as he afterward came to be called), was sudden, precipitate, and wholly unexpected; and it befell on this wise:

Bellew had opened his knap-sack, had fished thence cheese, clasp-knife, and a crusty loaf of bread, and, having exerted himself so far, had fallen a thinking or a dreaming, in his characteristic attitude, i.e.:—on the flat of his back, when he was aware of a crash in the hedge above, and then, of something that hurtled past him, all arms and legs, that rolled over two or three times, and eventually brought up in a sitting posture; and, lifting a lazy head, Bellew observed that it was a boy. He was a very diminutive boy with a round head covered with coppery curls, a boy who stared at Bellew out of a pair of very round, blue eyes, while he tenderly cherished a knee, and an elbow. He had been on the brink of tears for a moment, but meeting Bellew's quizzical gaze, he manfully repressed the weakness, and, lifting the small, and somewhat weather-beaten cap that found a precarious perch at the back of his curly head, he gravely wished Bellew "Good afternoon!"

"Well met, my Lord Chesterfield!" nodded Bellew, returning the salute, "are you hurt?"

"Just a bit—on the elbow; but my name's George."

"Why—so is mine!" said Bellew.

"Though they call me 'Georgy-Porgy.'"

"Of course they do," nodded Bellew, "they used to call me the same, once upon a time,—

Georgy Porgy, pudding and pie
Kissed the girls, and made them cry,

though I never did anything of the kind,—one doesn't do that sort of thing when one is young,—and wise, that comes later, and brings its own care, and—er—heart-break." Here Bellew sighed, and hacked a piece from the loaf with the clasp-knife. "Are you hungry, Georgy Porgy?" he enquired, glancing up at the boy who had risen, and was removing some of the soil and dust from his small person with his cap.

"Yes I am."

"Then here is bread, and cheese, and bottled stout,—so fall to, good comrade."

"Thank you, but I've got a piece of bread an' jam in my bundle,—"

"Bundle?"

"I dropped it as I came through the hedge, I'll get it," and as he spoke, he turned, and, climbing up the bank, presently came back with a very small bundle that dangled from the end of a very long stick, and seating himself beside Bellew, he proceeded to open it. There, sure enough, was the bread and jam in question, seemingly a little the worse for wear and tear, for Bellew observed various articles adhering to it, amongst other things, a battered penknife, and a top. These, however, were readily removed, and Georgy Porgy fell to with excellent appetite.

"And pray," enquired Bellew, after they had munched silently together, some while, "pray where might you be going?"

"I don't know yet," answered Georgy Porgy with a shake of his curls.

"Good again!" exclaimed Bellew, "neither do I."

"Though I've been thinking of Africa," continued his diminutive companion, turning the remain of the bread and jam over and over thoughtfully.

"Africa!" repeated Bellew, staring, "that's quite a goodish step from here."

"Yes," sighed Georgy Porgy, "but, you see, there's gold there, oh, lots of it! they dig it out of the ground with shovels, you know. Old Adam told me all 'bout it; an' it's gold I'm looking for, you see, I'm trying to find a fortune."

"I—er—beg your pardon—?" said Bellew.

"Money, you know," explained Georgy Porgy with a patient sigh, "pounds, an' shillings, an' bank-notes—in a sack if I can get them."

"And what does such a very small Georgy Porgy want so much money for?"

"Well, it's for my Auntie, you know, so she won't have to sell her house, an' go away from Dapplemere. She was telling me, last night, when I was in bed,—she always comes to tuck me up, you know, an' she told me she was 'fraid we'd have to sell Dapplemere an' go to live somewhere else. So I asked why, an' she said ''cause she hadn't any money,' an' 'Oh Georgy!' she said, 'oh Georgy, if we could only find enough money to pay off the—the—'"

"Mortgage?" suggested Bellew, at a venture.

"Yes,—that's it, but how did you know?"

"Never mind how, go on with your tale, Georgy Porgy."

"'If—we could only find enough money, or somebody would leave us a fortune,' she said,—an' she was crying too, 'cause I felt a tear fall on me, you know. So this morning I got up, awful' early, an' made myself a bundle on a stick,—like Dick Whittington had when he left home, an' I started off to find a fortune."

"I see," nodded Bellew.

"But I haven't found anything—yet," said Georgy Porgy, with a long sigh, "I s'pose money takes a lot of looking for, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes," Bellew answered. "And do you live alone with your Auntie then, Georgy Porgy?"

"Yes;—most boys live with their mothers, but that's where I'm different, I don't need one 'cause I've got my Auntie Anthea."

"Anthea!" repeated Bellew, thoughtfully. Hereupon they fell silent, Bellew watching the smoke curl up from his pipe into the warm, still air, and Georgy Porgy watching him with very thoughtful eyes, and a somewhat troubled brow, as if turning over some weighty matter in his mind; at last, he spoke:

"Please," said he, with a sudden diffidence, "where do you live?"

"Live," repeated Bellew, smiling, "under my hat,—here, there, and everywhere, which means—nowhere in particular."

"But I—I mean—where is your home?"

"My home," said Bellew, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, "my home lies beyond the 'bounding billow."

"That sounds an awful' long way off."

"It is an awful' long way off."

"An' where do you sleep while—while you're here?"

"Anywhere they'll let me. To-night I shall sleep at some inn, I suppose, if I can find one, if not,—under a hedge, or hay-rick."

"Oh!—haven't you got any home of your own, then,—here?"

"No."

"And—you're not going home just yet,—I mean across the 'bounding billow?'"

"Not yet."

"Then—please—" the small boy's voice was suddenly tremulous and eager, and he laid a little, grimy hand upon Bellew's sleeve, "please—if it isn't too much trouble—would you mind coming with me—to—to help me to find the fortune?—you see, you are so very big, an'—Oh!—will you please?"

George Bellew sat up suddenly, and smiled; Bellew's smile was, at all times, wonderfully pleasant to see, at least, the boy thought so.

"Georgy Porgy," said he, "you can just bet your small life, I will,—and there's my hand on it, old chap." Bellew's lips were solemn now, but all the best of his smile seemed, somehow, to have got into his gray eyes. So the big hand clasped the small one, and as they looked at each other, there sprang up a certain understanding that was to be an enduring bond between them.

"I think," said Bellew, as he lay, and puffed at his pipe again, "I think I'll call you Porges, it's shorter, easier, and I think, altogether apt; I'll be Big Porges, and you shall be Small Porges,—what do you say?"

"Yes, it's lots better than Georgy Porgy," nodded the boy. And so Small Porges he became, thenceforth. "But," said he, after a thoughtful pause, "I think, if you don't mind, I'd rather call you——Uncle Porges. You see, Dick Bennet—the black-smith's boy, has three uncles an' I've only got a single aunt,—so, if you don't mind—"

"Uncle Porges it shall be, now and for ever, Amen!" murmured Bellew.

"An' when d'you s'pose we'd better start?" enquired Small Porges, beginning to re-tie his bundle.

"Start where, nephew?"

"To find the fortune."

"Hum!" said Bellew.

"If we could manage to find some,—even if it was only a very little, it would cheer her up so."

"To be sure it would," said Bellew, and, sitting up, he pitched loaf, cheese, and clasp-knife back into the knap-sack, fastened it, slung it upon his shoulders, and rising, took up his stick.

"Come on, my Porges," said he, "and, whatever you do—keep your 'weather eye' on your uncle."

"Where do you s'pose we'd better look first?" enquired Small Porges, eagerly.

"Why, first, I think we'd better find your Auntie Anthea."

"But,—" began Porges, his face falling.

"But me no buts, my Porges," smiled Bellew, laying his hand upon his new-found nephew's shoulder, "but me no buts, boy, and, as I said before,—just keep your eye on your uncle."

CHAPTER V

How Bellew came to Arcadia

So, they set out together, Big Porges and Small Porges, walking side by side over sun-kissed field and meadow, slowly and thoughtfully, to be sure, for Bellew disliked hurry; often pausing to listen to the music of running waters, or to stare away across the purple valley, for the sun was getting low. And, ever as they went, they talked to one another whole-heartedly as good friends should.

And, from the boy's eager lips, Bellew heard much of "Auntie Anthea," and learned, little by little, something of the brave fight she had made, lonely and unaided, and burdened with ancient debt, to make the farm of Dapplemere pay. Likewise Small Porges spoke learnedly of the condition of the markets, and of the distressing fall in prices in regard to hay, and wheat.

"Old Adam,—he's our man, you know, he says that farming isn't what it was in his young days, 'specially if you happen to be a woman, like my Auntie Anthea, an' he told me yesterday that if he were Auntie he'd give up trying, an' take Mr. Cassilis at his word."

"Cassilis, ah!—And who is Mr. Cassilis?"

"He lives at 'Brampton Court'—a great, big house 'bout a mile from Dapplemere; an' he's always asking my Auntie to marry him, but 'course she won't you know."

"Why not?"

"Well, I think it's 'cause he's got such big, white teeth when he smiles,—an' he's always smiling, you know; but Old Adam says that if he'd been born a woman he'd marry a man all teeth, or no teeth at all, if he had as much money as Mr. Cassilis."

The sun was low in the West as, skirting a wood, they came out upon a grassy lane that presently led them into the great, broad highway.

Now, as they trudged along together, Small Porges with one hand clasped in Bellew's, and the other supporting the bundle on his shoulder, there appeared, galloping towards them a man on a fine black horse, at sight of whom, Porges' clasp tightened, and he drew nearer to Bellew's side.

When he was nearly abreast of them, the horse-man checked his career so suddenly that his animal was thrown back on his haunches.

"Why—Georgy!" he exclaimed.

"Good evening, Mr. Cassilis!" said Small Porges, lifting his cap.

Mr. Cassilis was tall, handsome, well built, and very particular as to dress. Bellew noticed that his teeth were, indeed, very large and white, beneath the small, carefully trained moustache; also his eyes seemed just a trifle too close together, perhaps.

"Why—what in the world have you been up to, boy?" he enquired, regarding Bellew with no very friendly eye. "Your Aunt is worrying herself ill on your account,—what have you been doing with yourself all day?"

Again Bellew felt the small fingers tighten round his, and the small figure shrink a little closer to him, as Small Porges answered,

"I've been with Uncle Porges, Mr. Cassilis."

"With whom?" demanded Mr. Cassilis, more sharply.

"With his Uncle Porges, sir," Bellew rejoined, "a trustworthy person, and very much at your service."

Mr. Cassilis stared, his hand began to stroke and caress his small, black moustache, and he viewed Bellew from his dusty boots up to the crown of his dusty hat, and down again, with supercilious eyes.

"Uncle?" he repeated incredulously.

"Porges," nodded Bellew.

"I wasn't aware," began Mr. Cassilis, "that—er—George was so very fortunate—"

"Baptismal name—George," continued Bellew, "lately of New York,
Newport, and—er—other places in America, U.S.A., at present of
Nowhere-in-Particular."

"Ah!" said Mr. Cassilis, his eyes seeming to grow a trifle nearer together, "an American Uncle? Still, I was not aware of even that relationship."

"It is a singularly pleasing thought," smiled Bellew, "to know that we may learn something every day,—that one never knows what the day may bring forth; to-morrow, for instance, you also may find yourself a nephew—somewhere or other, though, personally, I—er doubt it, yes, I greatly doubt it; still, one never knows, you know, and while there's life, there's hope. A very good afternoon to you, sir. Come, nephew mine, the evening falls apace, and I grow aweary,—let us on—Excelsior!"

Mr. Cassilis's cheek grew suddenly red, he twirled his moustache angrily, and seemed about to speak, then he smiled instead, and turning his horse, spurred him savagely, and galloped back down the road in a cloud of dust.

"Did you see his teeth, Uncle Porges?"

"I did."

"He only smiles like that when he's awful' angry," said Small Porges shaking his head as the galloping hoof-strokes died away in the distance, "An' what do you s'pose he went back for?"

"Well, Porges, it's in my mind that he has gone back to warn our Auntie
Anthea of our coming."

Small Porges sighed, and his feet dragged in the dust.

"Tired, my Porges?"

"Just a bit, you know,—but it isn't that. I was thinking that the day has almost gone, an' I haven't found a bit of the fortune yet."

"Why there's always to-morrow to live for, my Porges."

"Yes, 'course—there's always to-morrow; an' then,—I did find you, you know, Uncle Porges."

"To be sure you did, and an uncle is better than nothing at all, isn't he,—even if he is rather dusty and disreputable of exterior. One doesn't find an uncle every day of one's life, my Porges, no sir!"

"An' you are so nice an' big, you know!" said Porges, viewing Bellew with a bright, approving eye.

"Long, would be a better word, perhaps," suggested Bellew, smiling down at him.

"An' wide, too!" nodded Small Porges. And, from these two facts he seemed to derive a deal of solid comfort, and satisfaction for he strode on manfully once more.

Leaving the high-road, he guided Bellew by divers winding paths, through corn-fields, and over stiles, until, at length, they were come to an orchard. Such an orchard as surely may only be found in Kent,—where great apple-trees, gnarled, and knotted, shot out huge branches that seemed to twist, and writhe; where were stately pear trees; where peaches, and apricots, ripened against time-worn walls whose red bricks still glowed rosily for all their years; where the air was sweet with the scent of fruit, and fragrant with thyme, and sage, and marjoram; and where the black-birds, bold marauders that they are, piped gloriously all day long. In the midst of this orchard they stopped, and Small Porges rested one hand against the rugged bole of a great, old apple tree.

"This," said he, "is my very own tree, because he's so very big, an' so very, very old,—Adam says he's the oldest tree in the orchard. I call him 'King Arthur' 'cause he is so big, an' strong,—just like a king should be, you know,—an' all the other trees are his Knights of the Round Table."

But Bellew was not looking at "King Arthur" just then; his eyes were turned to where one came towards them through the green,—one surely as tall, and gracious, as proud and beautiful, as Enid, or Guinevere, or any of those lovely ladies, for all her simple gown of blue, and the sunbonnet that shaded the beauty of her face. Yes, as he gazed, Bellew was sure and certain that she who, all unconscious of their presence, came slowly towards them with the red glow of the sunset about her, was handsomer, lovelier, statelier, and altogether more desirable than all the beautiful ladies of King Arthur's court,—or any other court so-ever.

But now Small Porges finding him so silent, and seeing where he looked, must needs behold her too, and gave a sudden, glad cry, and ran out from behind the great bulk of "King Arthur," and she, hearing his voice, turned and ran to meet him, and sank upon her knees before him, and clasped him against her heart, and rejoiced, and wept, and scolded him, all in a breath. Wherefore Bellew, unobserved, as yet in "King Arthur's" shadow, watching the proud head with its wayward curls, (for the sunbonnet had been tossed back upon her shoulders), watching the quick, passionate caress of those slender, brown hands, and listening to the thrilling tenderness of that low, soft voice, felt, all at once, strangely lonely, and friendless, and out of place, very rough and awkward, and very much aware of his dusty person,—felt, indeed, as any other ordinary human might, who had tumbled unexpectedly into Arcadia; therefore he turned, thinking to steal quietly away.

"You see, Auntie, I went out to try an' find a fortune for you," Small Porges was explaining, "an' I looked, an' looked, but I didn't find a bit—"

"My dear, dear, brave Georgy!" said Anthea, and would have kissed him again, but he put her off:

"Wait a minute, please Auntie," he said excitedly, "'cause I did find—something,—just as I was growing very tired an' disappointed, I found Uncle Porges—under a hedge, you know."

"Uncle Porges!" said Anthea, starting, "Oh! that must be the man Mr.
Cassilis mentioned—"

"So I brought him with me," pursued Small Porges, "an' there he is!" and he pointed triumphantly towards "King Arthur."

Glancing thither, Anthea beheld a tall, dusty figure moving off among the trees.

"Oh,—wait, please!" she called, rising to her feet, and, with Small Porges' hand in hers, approached Bellew who had stopped with his dusty back to them.

"I—I want to thank you for—taking care of my nephew. If you will come up to the house cook shall give you a good meal, and, if you are in need of work, I—I—" her voice faltered uncertainly, and she stopped.

"Thank you!" said Bellew, turning and lifting his hat.

"Oh!—I beg your pardon!" said Anthea.

Now as their eyes met, it seemed to Bellew as though he had lived all his life in expectation of this moment, and he knew that all his life he should never forget this moment. But now, even while he looked at her, he saw her cheeks flush painfully, and her dark eyes grow troubled.

"I beg your pardon!" said she again, "I—I thought—Mr. Cassilis gave me to understand that you were—"

"A very dusty, hungry-looking fellow, perhaps," smiled Bellew, "and he was quite right, you know; the dust you can see for yourself, but the hunger you must take my word for. As for the work, I assure you exercise is precisely what I am looking for."

"But—" said Anthea, and stopped, and tapped the grass nervously with her foot, and twisted one of her bonnet-strings, and meeting Bellew's steady gaze, flushed again, "but you—you are—"

"My Uncle Porges," her nephew chimed in, "an' I brought him home with me 'cause he's going to help me to find a fortune, an' he hasn't got any place to go to 'cause his home's far, far beyond the 'bounding billow,'—so you will let him stay, won't you, Auntie Anthea?"

"Why—Georgy—" she began, but seeing her distressed look, Bellew came to her rescue.

"Pray do, Miss Anthea," said he in his quiet, easy manner. "My name is Bellew," he went on to explain, "I am an American, without family or friends, here, there or anywhere, and with nothing in the world to do but follow the path of the winds. Indeed, I am rather a solitary fellow, at least—I was, until I met my nephew Porges here. Since then, I've been wondering if there would be—er—room for such as I, at Dapplemere?"

"Oh, there would be plenty of room," said Anthea, hesitating, and wrinkling her white brow, for a lodger was something entirely new in her experience.

"As to my character," pursued Bellew, "though something of a vagabond, I am not a rogue,—at least, I hope not, and I could pay—er—four or five pounds a week—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Anthea, with a little gasp.

"If that would be sufficient—"

"It is—a great deal too much!" said Anthea who would have scarcely dared to ask three.

"Pardon me!—but I think not," said Bellew, shaking his head, "you see, I am—er—rather extravagant in my eating,—eggs, you know, lots of 'em, and ham, and beef, and—er—(a duck quacked loudly from the vicinity of a neighbouring pond),—certainly,—an occasional duck! Indeed, five pounds a week would scarcely—"

"Three would be ample!" said Anthea with a little nod of finality.

"Very well," said Bellew, "we'll make it four, and have done with it."

Anthea Devine, being absolute mistress of Dapplemere, was in the habit of exerting her authority, and having her own way in most things; therefore, she glanced up, in some surprise, at this tall, dusty, rather lazy looking personage; and she noticed, even as had Small Porges, that he was indeed very big and wide; she noticed also that, despite the easy courtesy of his manner, and the quizzical light of his gray eyes, his chin was very square, and that, despite his gentle voice, he had the air of one who meant exactly what he said. Nevertheless she was much inclined to take issue with him upon the matter; plainly observing which, Bellew smiled, and shook his head.

"Pray be reasonable," he said in his gentle voice, "if you send me away to some horrible inn or other, it will cost me—being an American, —more than that every week, in tips and things,—so let's shake hands on it, and call it settled," and he held out his hand to her.

Four pounds a week! It would be a veritable God-send just at present, while she was so hard put to it to make both ends meet. Four pounds a week! So Anthea stood, lost in frowning thought until meeting his frank smile, she laughed.

"You are dreadfully persistent!" she said, "and I know it is too much,—but—we'll try to make you as comfortable as we can," and she laid her hand in his.

And thus it was that George Bellew came to Dapplemere in the glory of the after-glow of an August afternoon, breathing the magic air of Arcadia which is, and always has been, of that rare quality warranted to go to the head, sooner, or later.

And thus it was that Small Porges with his bundle on his shoulder, viewed this tall, dusty Uncle with the eye of possession which is oft-times an eye of rapture.

And Anthea? She was busy calculating to a scrupulous nicety the very vexed question as to exactly how far four pounds per week might be made to go to the best possible advantage of all concerned.

CHAPTER VI

Of the sad condition of the Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been

Dapplemere Farm House, or "The Manor," as it was still called by many, had been built when Henry the Eighth was King, as the carved inscription above the door testified.

The House of Dapplemere was a place of many gables, and latticed windows, and with tall, slender chimneys shaped, and wrought into things of beauty and delight. It possessed a great, old hall; there were spacious chambers, and broad stairways; there were panelled corridors; sudden flights of steps that led up, or down again, for no apparent reason; there were broad, and generous hearths, and deep window-seats; and everywhere, within, and without, there lurked an indefinable, old-world charm that was the heritage of years.

Storms had buffeted, and tempests had beaten upon it, but all in vain, for, save that the bricks glowed a deeper red where they peeped out beneath the clinging ivy, the old house stood as it had upon that far day when it was fashioned,—in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Five Hundred and Twenty-four.

In England many such houses are yet to be found, monuments of the "Bad Old Times"—memorials of the "Dark Ages"—when lath and stucco existed not, and the "Jerry-builder" had no being. But where, among them all, might be found such another parlour as this at Dapplemere, with its low, raftered ceiling, its great, carved mantel, its panelled walls whence old portraits looked down at one like dream faces, from dim, and nebulous backgrounds. And where might be found two such bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-footed, deft-handed Phyllises as the two buxom maids who flitted here and there, obedient to their mistress's word, or gesture. And, lastly, where, in all this wide world, could there ever be found just such another hostess as Miss Anthea, herself? Something of all this was in Bellew's mind as he sat with Small Porges beside him, watching Miss Anthea dispense tea,—brewed as it should be, in an earthen tea-pot.

"Milk and sugar, Mr. Bellew?"

"Thank you!"

"This is blackberry, an' this is raspberry an' red currant—but the blackberry jam's the best, Uncle Porges!"

"Thank you, nephew."

"Now aren't you awful' glad I found you—under that hedge, Uncle
Porges?"

"Nephew,—I am!"

"Nephew?" repeated Anthea, glancing at him with raised brows.

"Oh yes!" nodded Bellew, "we adopted each other—at about four o'clock, this afternoon."

"Under a hedge, you know!" added Small Porges.

"Wasn't it a very sudden, and altogether—unheard of proceeding?" Anthea enquired.

"Well, it might have been if it had happened anywhere but in Arcadia."

"What do you mean by Arcadia, Uncle Porges?"

"A place I've been looking for—nearly all my life, nephew. I'll trouble you for the blackberry jam, my Porges."

"Yes, try the blackberry,—Aunt Priscilla made it her very own self."

"You know it's perfectly—ridiculous!" said Anthea, frowning and laughing, both at the same time.

"What is, Miss Anthea?"

"Why that you should be sitting here calling Georgy your nephew, and that I should be pouring out tea for you, quite as a matter of course."

"It seems to me the most delightfully natural thing in the world," said
Bellew, in his slow, grave manner.

"But—I've only known you—half an hour—!"

"But then, friendships ripen quickly—in Arcadia."

"I wonder what Aunt Priscilla will have to say about it!"

"Aunt Priscilla?"

"She is our housekeeper,—the dearest, busiest, gentlest little housekeeper in all the world; but with—very sharp eyes, Mr. Bellew. She will either like you very much,—or—not at all! there are no half measures about Aunt Priscilla."

"Now I wonder which it will be," said Bellew, helping himself to more jam.

"Oh, she'll like you, a course!" nodded Small Porges, "I know she'll like you 'cause you're so different to Mr. Cassilis,—he's got black hair, an' a mestache, you know, an' your hair's gold, like mine,—an' your mestache—isn't there, is it? An' I know she doesn't like Mr. Cassilis, an' I don't, either, 'cause—"

"She will be back to-morrow," said Anthea, silencing Small Porges with a gentle touch of her hand, "and we shall be glad, sha'n't we, Georgy? The house is not the same place without her. You see, I am off in the fields all day, as a rule; a farm,—even such a small one as Dapplemere, is a great responsibility, and takes up all one's time—if it is to be made to pay—"

"An' sometimes it doesn't pay at all, you know!" added Small Porges, "an' then Auntie Anthea worries, an' I worry too. Farming isn't what it was in Adam's young days,—so that's why I must find a fortune—early tomorrow morning, you know,—so my Auntie won't have to worry any more—"

Now when he had got thus far, Anthea leaned over, and, taking him by surprise, kissed Small Porges suddenly.

"It was very good, and brave of you, dear," said she in her soft, thrilling voice, "to go out all alone into this big world to try and find a fortune for me!" and here she would have kissed him again but that he reminded her that they were not alone.

"But, Georgy dear,—fortunes are very hard to find,—especially round
Dapplemere, I'm afraid!" said she, with a rueful little laugh.

"Yes, that's why I was going to Africa, you know."

"Africa!" she repeated, "Africa!"

"Oh yes," nodded Bellew, "when I met him he was on his way there to bring back gold for you—in a sack."

"Only Uncle Porges said it was a goodish way off, you know, so I 'cided to stay an' find the fortune nearer home."

And thus they talked unaffectedly together until, tea being over, Anthea volunteered to show Bellew over her small domain, and they went out, all three, into an evening that breathed of roses, and honeysuckle.

And, as they went, slow-footed through the deepening twilight, Small Porges directed Bellew's attention to certain nooks and corners that might be well calculated to conceal the fortune they were to find; while Anthea pointed out to him the beauties of shady wood, of rolling meadow, and winding stream.

But there were other beauties that neither of them thought to call to his attention, but which Bellew noted with observing eyes, none the less:—such, for instance, as the way Anthea had of drooping her shadowy lashes at sudden and unexpected moments; the wistful droop of her warm, red lips, and the sweet, round column of her throat. These, and much beside, Bellew noticed for himself as they walked on together through this midsummer evening…. And so, betimes, Bellew got him to bed, and, though the hour was ridiculously early, yet he fell into a profound slumber, and dreamed of—nothing at all. But, far away upon the road, forgotten, and out of mind,—with futile writhing and grimaces, the Haunting Shadow of the Might Have Been jibbered in the shadows.

CHAPTER VII

Which concerns itself among other matters, with "the Old Adam"

Bellew awakened early next morning, which was an unusual thing for Bellew to do under ordinary circumstances since he was one who held with that poet who has written, somewhere or other, something to the following effect:

"God bless the man who first discovered sleep. But damn the man with curses loud, and deep, who first invented—early rising."

Nevertheless, Bellew, (as has been said), awoke early next morning, to find the sun pouring in at his window, and making a glory all about him. But it was not this that had roused him, he thought as he lay blinking drowsily,—nor the black-bird piping so wonderfully in the apple-tree outside,—a very inquisitive apple-tree that had writhed, and contorted itself most un-naturally in its efforts to peep in at the window;—therefore Bellew fell to wondering, sleepily enough, what it could have been. Presently it came again, the sound,—a very peculiar sound the like of which Bellew had never heard before, which, as he listened, gradually evolved itself into a kind of monotonous chant, intoned by a voice deep, and harsh, yet withal, not unmusical. Now the words of the chant were these:

"When I am dead, diddle, diddle, as well may hap,
Bury me deep, diddle, diddle, under the tap,
Under the tap, diddle, diddle, I'll tell you why,
That I may drink, diddle, diddle, when I am dry."

Hereupon, Bellew rose, and crossing to the open casement leaned out into the golden freshness of the morning. Looking about he presently espied the singer,—one who carried two pails suspended from a yoke upon his shoulders,—a very square man; that is to say, square of shoulder, square of head, and square of jaw, being, in fact, none other than the Waggoner with whom he had fought, and ridden on the previous afternoon; seeing which, Bellew hailed him in cheery greeting. The man glanced up, and, breaking off his song in the middle of a note, stood gazing at Bellew, open-mouthed.

"What,—be that you, sir?" he enquired, at last, and then,—"Lord! an' what be you a doing of up theer?"

"Why, sleeping, of course," answered Bellew.

"W'ot—again!" exclaimed the Waggoner with a grin, "you do be for ever a-sleepin' I do believe!"

"Not when you're anywhere about!" laughed Bellew.

"Was it me as woke ye then?"

"Your singing did."

"My singin'! Lord love ye, an' well it might! My singin' would wake the dead,—leastways so Prudence says, an' she's generally right, —leastways, if she ain't, she's a uncommon good cook, an' that goes a long way wi' most of us. But I don't sing very often unless I be alone, or easy in my mind an' 'appy-'earted,—which I ain't."

"No?" enquired Bellew.

"Not by no manner o' means, I ain't,—contrariwise my 'eart be sore an' full o' gloom,—which ain't to be wondered at, nohow."

"And yet you were singing."

"Aye, for sure I were singin', but then who could help singin' on such a mornin' as this be, an' wi' the black-bird a-piping away in the tree here. Oh! I were singin', I don't go for to deny it, but it's sore 'earted I be, an' filled wi' gloom sir, notwithstanding."

"You mean," said Bellew, becoming suddenly thoughtful, "that you are haunted by the Carking Spectre of the—er Might Have Been?"

"Lord bless you, no sir! This ain't no spectre, nor yet no skellington,—which, arter all, is only old bones an' such,—no this ain't nothin' of that sort, an' no more it ain't a thing as I can stand 'ere a maggin' about wi' a long day's work afore me, axing your pardon, sir." Saying which, the Waggoner nodded suddenly and strode off with his pails clanking cheerily.

Very soon Bellew was shaved, and dressed, and going down stairs he let himself out into the early sunshine, and strolled away towards the farm-yard where cocks crew, cows lowed, ducks quacked, turkeys and geese gobbled and hissed, and where the Waggoner moved to and fro among them all, like a presiding genius.

"I think," said Bellew, as he came up, "I think you must be the Adam I have heard of."

"That be my name, sir."

"Then Adam, fill your pipe," and Bellew extended his pouch, whereupon Adam thanked him, and fishing a small, short, black clay from his pocket, proceeded to fill, and light it.

"Yes sir," he nodded, inhaling the tobacco with much apparent enjoyment, "Adam I were baptized some thirty odd year ago, but I generally calls myself 'Old Adam,'"

"But you're not old, Adam."

"Why, it ain't on account o' my age, ye see sir,—it be all because o' the Old Adam as is inside o' me. Lord love ye! I am nat'rally that full o' the 'Old Adam' as never was. An' 'e's alway a up an' taking of me at the shortest notice. Only t'other day he up an' took me because Job Jagway ('e works for Squire Cassilis, you'll understand sir) because Job Jagway sez as our wheat, (meanin' Miss Anthea's wheat, you'll understand sir) was mouldy; well, the 'Old Adam' up an' took me to that extent, sir, that they 'ad to carry Job Jagway home, arterwards. Which is all on account o' the Old Adam,—me being the mildest chap you ever see, nat'rally,—mild? ah! sucking doves wouldn't be nothin' to me for mildness."

"And what did the Squire have to say about your spoiling his man?"

"Wrote to Miss Anthea, o' course, sir,—he's always writing to Miss Anthea about summat or other,—sez as how he was minded to lock me up for 'sault an' battery, but, out o' respect for her, would let me off, wi' a warning."

"Miss Anthea was worried, I suppose?"

"Worried, sir! 'Oh Adam!' sez she, 'Oh Adam! 'aven't I got enough to bear but you must make it 'arder for me?' An' I see the tears in her eyes while she said it. Me make it 'arder for her! Jest as if I wouldn't make things lighter for 'er if I could,—which I can't; jest as if, to help Miss Anthea, I wouldn't let 'em take me an'—well, never mind what,—only I would!"

"Yes, I'm sure you would," nodded Bellew. "And is the Squire over here at Dapplemere very often, Adam?"

"Why, not so much lately, sir. Last time were yesterday, jest afore Master Georgy come 'ome. I were at work here in the yard, an' Squire comes riding up to me, smiling quite friendly like,—which were pretty good of him, considering as Job Jagway ain't back to work yet. 'Oh Adam!' sez he, 'so you're 'aving a sale here at Dapplemere, are you?' Meaning sir, a sale of some bits, an' sticks o' furnitur' as Miss Anthea's forced to part wi' to meet some bill or other. 'Summat o' that sir,' says I, making as light of it as I could. 'Why then, Adam,' sez he, 'if Job Jagway should 'appen to come over to buy a few o' the things,—no more fighting!' sez he. An' so he nods, an' smiles, an' off he rides. An' sir, as I watched him go, the 'Old Adam' riz up in me to that extent as it's a mercy I didn't have no pitchfork 'andy."

Bellew, sitting on the shaft of a cart with his back against a rick, listened to this narration with an air of dreamy abstraction, but Adam's quick eyes noticed that despite the unruffled serenity of his brow, his chin seemed rather more prominent than usual.

"So that was why you were feeling gloomy, was it, Adam?"

"Ah! an' enough to make any man feel gloomy, I should think. Miss Anthea's brave enough, but I reckon 'twill come nigh breakin' 'er 'eart to see the old stuff sold, the furnitur' an' that,—so she's goin' to drive over to Cranbrook to be out o' the way while it's a-doin'."

"And when does the sale take place?"

"The Saturday arter next, sir, as ever was," Adam answered. "But—hush,—mum's the word, sir!" he broke off, and winking violently with a side-ways motion of the head, he took up his pitch-fork. Wherefore, glancing round, Bellew saw Anthea coming towards them, fresh and sweet as the morning. Her hands were full of flowers, and she carried her sun-bonnet upon her arm. Here and there a rebellious curl had escaped from its fastenings as though desirous (and very naturally) of kissing the soft oval of her cheek, or the white curve of her neck. And among them Bellew noticed one in particular,—a roguish curl that glowed in the sun with a coppery light, and peeped at him wantonly above her ear.

"Good morning!" said he, rising and, to all appearance, addressing the curl in question, "you are early abroad this morning!"

"Early, Mr. Bellew!—why I've been up hours. I'm generally out at four o'clock on market days; we work hard, and long, at Dapplemere," she answered, giving him her hand with her grave, sweet smile.

"Aye, for sure!" nodded Adam, "but farmin' ain't what it was in my young days!"

"But I think we shall do well with the hops, Adam."

"'Ops, Miss Anthea,—lord love you!—there ain't no 'ops nowhere so good as ourn be!"

"They ought to be ready for picking, soon,—do you think sixty people will be enough?"

"Ah!—they'll be more'n enough, Miss Anthea."

"And, Adam—the five-acre field should be mowed today."

"I'll set the men at it right arter breakfast,—I'll 'ave it done, trust me, Miss Anthea."

"I do, Adam,—you know that!" And with a smiling nod she turned away. Now, as Bellew walked on beside her, he felt a strange constraint upon him such as he had never experienced towards any woman before, and the which he was at great pains with himself to account for. Indeed so rapt was he, that he started suddenly to find that she was asking him a question:

"Do you—like Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew?"

"Like it!" he repeated, "like it? Yes indeed!"

"I'm so glad!" she answered, her eyes glowing with pleasure. "It was a much larger property, once,—Look!" and she pointed away across corn-fields and rolling meadow to the distant woods. "In my grandfather's time it was all his—as far as you can see, and farther, but it has dwindled since then, and to-day, my Dapplemere is very small indeed."

"You must be very fond of such a beautiful place."

"Oh, I love it!" she cried passionately, "if ever I had to—give it up,—I think I should—die!" She stopped suddenly, and as though somewhat abashed by this sudden outburst, adding in a lighter tone: "If I seem rather tragic it is because this is the only home I have ever known."

"Well," said Bellew, appearing rather more dreamy than usual, just then, "I have journeyed here and there in this world of ours, I have wandered up and down, and to and fro in it,—like a certain celebrated personage who shall be nameless,—yet I never saw, or dreamed, of any such place as this Dapplemere of yours. It is like Arcadia itself, and only I am out of place. I seem, somehow, to be too common-place, and altogether matter-of-fact."

"I'm sure I'm matter-of-fact enough," she said, with her low, sweet laugh that, Bellew thought, was all too rare.

"You?" said he, and shook his head.

"Well?" she enquired, glancing at him through her wind-tossed curls.

"You are like some fair, and stately lady out of the old romances," he said gravely.

"In a print gown, and with a sun-bonnet!"

"Even so!" he nodded. Here, for no apparent reason, happening to meet his glance, the colour deepened in her cheek and she was silent; wherefore Bellew went on, in his slow, placid tones. "You surely, are the Princess ruling this fair land of Arcadia, and I am the Stranger within your gates. It behoves you, therefore, to be merciful to this Stranger, if only for the sake of—er—our mutual nephew."

Whatever Anthea might have said in answer was cut short by Small Porges himself who came galloping towards them with the sun bright in his curls.

"Oh, Uncle Porges!" he panted as he came up, "I was 'fraid you'd gone away an' left me,—I've been hunting, an' hunting for you ever since I got up."

"No, I haven't gone away yet, my Porges, you see."

"An' you won't go—ever or ever, will you?"

"That," said Bellew, taking the small hand in his, "that is a question that we had better leave to the—er—future, nephew."

"But—why!"

"Well, you see, it doesn't rest with me—altogether, my Porges."

"Then who—" he was beginning, but Anthea's soft voice interrupted him.

"Georgy dear, didn't Prudence send you to tell us that breakfast was ready?"

"Oh yes! I was forgetting,—awfull' silly of me wasn't it! But you are going to stay—Oh a long, long time, aren't you, Uncle Porges?"

"I sincerely hope so!" answered Bellew. Now as he spoke, his eyes,—by the merest chance in the world, of course,—happened to meet Anthea's, whereupon she turned, and slipped on her sunbonnet which was very natural, for the sun was growing hot already.

"I'm awful' glad!" sighed Small Porges, "an' Auntie's glad too,—aren't you Auntie?"

"Why—of course!" from the depths of the sunbonnet.

"'Cause now, you see, there'll be two of us to take care of you. Uncle
Porges is so nice an' big, and—wide, isn't he, Auntie?"

"Y-e-s,—Oh Georgy!—what are you talking about?"

"Why I mean I'm rather small to take care of you all by myself alone, Auntie, though I do my best of course. But now that I've found myself a big, tall Uncle Porges,—under the hedge, you know,—we can take care of you together, can't we, Auntie Anthea?"

But Anthea only hurried on without speaking, whereupon Small Porges continued all unheeding:

"You 'member the other night, Auntie, when you were crying, you said you wished you had some one very big, and strong to take care of you—"

"Oh—Georgy!"

Bellew heartily wished that sunbonnets had never been thought of.

"But you did you know, Auntie, an' so that was why I went out an' found my Uncle Porges for you,—so that he—"

But here, Mistress Anthea, for all her pride and stateliness, catching her gown about her, fairly ran on down the path and never paused until she had reached the cool, dim parlour. Being there, she tossed aside her sunbonnet, and looked at herself in the long, old mirror, and,—though surely no mirror made by man, ever reflected a fairer vision of dark-eyed witchery and loveliness, nevertheless Anthea stamped her foot, and frowned at it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then again, "Oh Georgy!" and covered her burning cheeks.

Meanwhile Big Porges, and Small Porges, walking along hand in hand shook their heads solemnly, wondering much upon the capriciousness of aunts, and the waywardness thereof.

"I wonder why she runned away, Uncle Porges?"

"Ah, I wonder!"

"'Specks she's a bit angry with me, you know, 'cause I told you she was crying."

"Hum!" said Bellew.

"An Auntie takes an awful lot of looking after!" sighed Small Porges.

"Yes," nodded Bellew, "I suppose so,—especially if she happens to be young, and—er—"

"An' what, Uncle Porges?"

"Beautiful, nephew."

"Oh! Do you think she's—really beautiful?" demanded Small Porges.

"I'm afraid I do," Bellew confessed.

"So does Mr. Cassilis,—I heard him tell her so once—in the orchard."

"Hum!" said Bellew.

"Ah! but you ought to see her when she comes to tuck me up at night, with her hair all down, an' hanging all about her—like a shiny cloak, you know."

"Hum!" said Bellew.

"Please Uncle Porges," said Georgy, turning to look up at him, "what makes you hum so much this morning?"

"I was thinking, my Porges."

"'Bout my Auntie Anthea?"

"I do admit the soft impeachment, sir."

"Well, I'm thinking too."

"What is it, old chap?"

"I'm thinking we ought to begin to find that fortune for her after breakfast."

"Why, it isn't quite the right season for fortune hunting, yet—at least, not in Arcadia," answered Bellew, shaking his head.

"Oh!—but why not?"

"Well, the moon isn't right, for one thing."

"The moon!" echoed Small Porges.

"Oh yes,—we must wait for a—er—a Money Moon, you know,—surely you've heard of a Money Moon?"

"'Fraid not," sighed Small Porges regretfully, "but—I've heard of a
Honey-moon—"

"They're often much the same!" nodded Bellew.

"But when will the Money Moon come, an'—how?"

"I can't exactly say, my Porges, but come it will one of these fine nights. And when it does we shall know that the fortune is close by, and waiting to be found. So, don't worry your small head about it,—just keep your eye on your uncle."

Betimes they came in to breakfast where Anthea awaited them at the head of the table. Then who so demure, so gracious and self-possessed, so sweetly sedate as she. But the Cavalier in the picture above the carved mantel, versed in the ways of the world, and the pretty tricks and wiles of the Beau Sex Feminine, smiled down at Bellew with an expression of such roguish waggery as said plain as words: "We know!" And Bellew, remembering a certain pair of slender ankles that had revealed themselves in their hurried flight, smiled back at the cavalier, and it was all he could do to refrain from winking outright.

CHAPTER VIII

Which tells of Miss Priscilla, of peaches, and of Sergeant Appleby late of the 19th Hussars

Small Porges was at his lessons. He was perched at the great oak table beside the window, pen in hand, and within easy reach of Anthea who sat busied with her daily letters and accounts. Small Porges was laboriously inscribing in a somewhat splashed and besmeared copy-book the rather surprising facts that:

A stitch in time, saves nine. 9.

That:

The Tagus, a river in Spain. R.

and that:

Artaxerxes was a king of the Persians. A.

and the like surprising, curious, and interesting items of news, his pen making not half so many curls, and twists as did his small, red tongue. As he wrote, he frowned terrifically, and sighed oft betwixt whiles; and Bellew watching, where he stood outside the window, noticed that Anthea frowned also, as she bent over her accounts, and sighed wearily more than once.

It was after a sigh rather more hopeless than usual that, chancing to raise her eyes they encountered those of the watcher outside, who, seeing himself discovered, smiled, and came to lean in at the open window.

"Won't they balance?" he enquired, with a nod toward the heap of bills, and papers before her.

"Oh yes," she answered with a rueful little smile, "but—on the wrong side, if you know what I mean."

"I know," he nodded, watching how her lashes curled against her cheek.

"If only we had done better with our first crop of wheat!" she sighed.

"Job Jagway said it was mouldy, you know,—that's why Adam punched him in the—"

"Georgy,—go on with your work, sir!"

"Yes, Auntie!" And immediately Small Porges' pen began to scratch, and his tongue to writhe and twist as before.

"I'm building all my hopes, this year, on the hops," said Anthea, sinking her head upon her hand, "if they should fail—"

"Well?" enquired Bellew, with his gaze upon the soft curve of her throat.

"I—daren't think of it!"

"Then don't—let us talk of something else—"

"Yes,—of Aunt Priscilla!" nodded Anthea, "she is in the garden."

"And pray who is Aunt Priscilla?"

"Go and meet her."

"But—"

"Go and find her—in the orchard!" repeated Anthea, "Oh do go, and leave us to our work."

Thus it was that turning obediently into the orchard, and looking about, Bellew presently espied a little, bright-eyed old lady who sat beneath the shadow of "King Arthur" with a rustic table beside her upon which stood a basket of sewing. Now, as he went, he chanced to spy a ball of worsted that had fallen by the way, and stooping, therefore, he picked it up, while she watched him with her quick, bright eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Bellew!" she said in response to his salutation, "it was nice of you to trouble to pick up an old woman's ball of worsted." As she spoke, she rose, and dropped him a courtesy, and then, as he looked at her again, he saw that despite her words, and despite her white hair, she was much younger, and prettier than he had thought.

"I am Miss Anthea's house-keeper," she went on, "I was away when you arrived, looking after one of Miss Anthea's old ladies,—pray be seated. Miss Anthea,—bless her dear heart!—calls me her aunt, but I'm not really—Oh dear no! I'm no relation at all! But I've lived with her long enough to feel as if I was her aunt, and her uncle, and her father, and her mother—all rolled into one,—though I should be rather small to be so many,—shouldn't I?" and she laughed so gaily, and unaffectedly, that Bellew laughed too.

"I tell you all this," she went on, keeping pace to her flying needle, "because I have taken a fancy to you—on the spot! I always like, or dislike a person—on the spot,—first impressions you know! Y-e-e-s," she continued, glancing up at him side-ways, "I like you just as much as I dislike Mr. Cassilis,—heigho! how I do—detest that man! There, now that's off my mind!"

"And why?" enquired Bellew, smiling.

"Dear me, Mr. Bellew I—how should I know, only I do,—and what's more—he knows it too! And how," she enquired, changing the subject abruptly, "how is your bed,—comfortable, mm?"

"Very!"

"You sleep well?"

"Like a top!"

"Any complaints, so far?"

"None whatever," laughed Bellew, shaking his head.

"That is very well. We have never had a boarder before, and Miss Anthea,—bless her dear soul! was a little nervous about it. And here's the Sergeant!"

"I—er—beg your pardon—?" said Bellew.

"The Sergeant!" repeated Miss Priscilla, with a prim little nod, "Sergeant Appleby, late of the Nineteenth Hussars,—a soldier every inch of him, Mr. Bellew,—with one arm—over there by the peaches." Glancing in the direction she indicated, Bellew observed a tall figure, very straight and upright, clad in a tight-fitting blue coat, with extremely tight trousers strapped beneath the insteps, and with a hat balanced upon his close-cropped, grizzled head at a perfectly impossible angle for any save an ex-cavalry-man. Now as he stood examining a peach-tree that flourished against the opposite wall, Bellew saw that his right sleeve was empty, sure enough, and was looped across his broad chest.

"The very first thing he will say will be that 'it is a very fine day,'" nodded Miss Priscilla, stitching away faster than ever, "and the next, that 'the peaches are doing remarkably well,'—now mark my words, Mr. Bellew." As she spoke, the Sergeant wheeled suddenly right about face, and came striding down towards them, jingling imaginary spurs, and with his stick tucked up under his remaining arm, very much as if it had been a sabre.

Being come up to them, the Sergeant raised a stiff arm as though about to salute them, military fashion, but, apparently changing his mind, took off the straw hat instead, and put it on again, more over one ear than ever.

"A particular fine day, Miss Priscilla, for the time o' the year," said he.

"Indeed I quite agree with you Sergeant," returned little Miss Priscilla with a bright nod, and a sly glance at Bellew, as much as to say, "I told you so!" "And the peaches, mam," continued the Sergeant, "the peaches—never looked—better, mam." Having said which, he stood looking at nothing in particular, with his one hand resting lightly upon his hip.

"Yes, to be sure, Sergeant," nodded Miss Priscilla, with another sly look. "But let me introduce you to Mr. Bellew who is staying at Dapplemere." The Sergeant stiffened, once more began a salute, changed his mind, took off his hat instead, and, after looking at it as though not quite sure what to do with it next, clapped it back upon his ear, in imminent danger of falling off, and was done with it.

"Proud to know you, sir,—your servant, sir!"

"How do you do!" said Bellew, and held out his hand with his frank smile. The Sergeant hesitated, then put out his remaining hand.

"My left, sir," said he apologetically, "can't be helped—left my right—out in India—a good many years ago. Good place for soldiering, India, sir—plenty of active service—chances of promotion—though sun bad!"

"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla, without seeming to glance up from her sewing, "Sergeant,—your hat!" Hereupon, the Sergeant gave a sudden, sideways jerk of the head, and, in the very nick of time, saved the article in question from tumbling off, and very dexterously brought it to the top of his close-cropped head, whence it immediately began, slowly, and by scarcely perceptible degrees to slide down to his ear again.

"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla again, "sit down,—do."

"Thank you mam," said he, and proceeded to seat himself at the other end of the rustic bench, where he remained, bolt upright, and with his long legs stretched out straight before him, as is, and has been, the manner of cavalrymen since they first wore straps.

"And now," said he, staring straight in front of him, "how might Miss
Anthea be?"

"Oh, very well, thank you," nodded Miss Priscilla.

"Good!" exclaimed the Sergeant, with his eyes still fixed, "very good!" Here he passed his hand two or three times across his shaven chin, regarding an apple-tree, nearby, with an expression of the most profound interest:

"And how," said he again, "how might Master Georgy be?"

"Master Georgy is as well as ever," answered Miss Priscilla, stitching away faster than before, and Bellew thought she kept her rosy cheeks stooped a little lower over her work. Meanwhile the Sergeant continued to regard the tree with the same degree of lively interest, and to rasp his fingers to and fro across his chin. Suddenly, he coughed behind hand, whereupon Miss Priscilla raised her head, and looked at him.

"Well?" she enquired, very softly:

"And pray, mam," said the Sergeant, removing his gaze from the tree with a jerk, "how might—you be feeling, mam?"

"Much the same as usual, thank you," she answered, smiling like a girl, for all her white hair, as the Sergeant's eyes met hers.

"You look," said he, pausing to cough behind his hand again, "you look—blooming, mam,—if you'll allow the expression,—blooming,—as you ever do, mam."

"I'm an old woman, Sergeant, as well you know!" sighed Miss Priscilla, shaking her head.

"Old, mam!" repeated the Sergeant, "old, mam!—nothing of the sort, mam!—Age has nothing to do with it.—'Tisn't the years as count.—We aren't any older than we feel,—eh, sir?"

"Of course not!" answered Bellew.

"Nor than we look,—eh sir?"

"Certainly not, Sergeant!" answered Bellew.

"And she, sir,—she don't look—a day older than—"

"Thirty five!" said Bellew.

"Exactly, sir, very true! My own opinion,—thirty five exactly, sir."

"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla, bending over her work again, "Sergeant,—your hat!" The Sergeant, hereupon, removed the distracting head-gear altogether, and sat with it upon his knee, staring hard at the tree again. Then, all at once, with a sudden gesture he drew a large, silver watch from his pocket,—rather as if it were some weapon of offence,—looked at it, listened to it, and then nodding his head, rose to his feet.

"Must be going," he said, standing very straight, and looking down at little Miss Priscilla, "though sorry, as ever,—must be going, mam,—Miss Priscilla mam—good day to you!" And he stretched out his hand to her with a sudden, jerky movement. Miss Priscilla paused in her sewing, and looked up at him with her youthful smile:

"Must you go—so soon, Sergeant? Then Good-bye,—until to-morrow," and she laid her very small hand in his big palm. The Sergeant stared down at it as though he were greatly minded to raise it to his lips, instead of doing which, he dropped it, suddenly, and turned to Bellew:

"Sir, I am—proud to have met you. Sir, there is a poor crippled soldier as I know,—My cottage is very small, and humble sir, but if you ever feel like—dropping in on him, sir,—by day or night, he will be—honoured, sir, honoured! And that's me—Sergeant Richard Appleby—late of the Nineteenth Hussars—at your service, sir!" saying which, he put on his hat, stiff-armed, wheeled, and strode away through the orchard, jingling his imaginary spurs louder than ever.

"Well?" enquired Miss Priscilla in her quick, bright way, "Well Mr. Bellew, what do you think of him?—first impressions are always best,—at least, I think so,—what do you think of Sergeant Appleby?"

"I think he's a splendid fellow," said Bellew, looking after the
Sergeant's upright figure.

"A very foolish old fellow, I think, and as stiff as one of the ram-rods of one of his own guns!" said Miss Priscilla, but her clear, blue eyes were very soft, and tender as she spoke.

"And as fine a soldier as a man, I'm sure," said Bellew.

"Why yes, he was a good soldier, once upon a time, I believe,—he won the Victoria Cross for doing something or other that was very brave, and he wears it with all his other medals, pinned on the inside of his coat. Oh yes, he was a fine soldier, once, but he's a very foolish old soldier, now,—I think, and as stiff as the ram-rod of one of his own guns. But I'm glad you like him, Mr. Bellew, and he will be proud, and happy for you to call and see him at his cottage. And now, I suppose, it is half past eleven, isn't it?"

"Yes, just half past!" nodded Bellew, glancing at his watch.

"Exact to time, as usual!" said Miss Priscilla, "I don't think the Sergeant has missed a minute, or varied a minute in the last five years,—you see, he is such a very methodical man, Mr. Bellew!"

"Why then, does he come every day, at the same hour?"

"Every day!" nodded Miss Priscilla, "it has become a matter of habit with him."

"Ah?" said Bellew, smiling.

"If you were to ask me why he comes, I should answer that I fancy it is to—look at the peaches. Dear me, Mr. Bellew! what a very foolish old soldier he is, to be sure!" Saying which, pretty, bright-eyed Miss Priscilla, laughed again, folded up her work, settled it in the basket with a deft little pat, and, rising, took a small, crutch stick from where it had lain concealed, and then, Bellew saw that she was lame.

"Oh yes,—I'm a cripple, you see," she nodded,—"Oh very, very lame! my ankle, you know. That is why I came here, the big world didn't want a poor, lame, old woman,—that is why Miss Anthea made me her Aunt, God bless her! No thank you,—I can carry my basket. So you see,—he—has lost an arm,—his right one, and I—am lame in my foot. Perhaps that is why—Heigho! how beautifully the black birds are singing this morning, to be sure!"

CHAPTER IX

In which may be found some description of Arcadia, and gooseberries

Anthea, leaning on her rake in a shady corner of the five-acre field, turned to watch Bellew who, stripped to his shirt-sleeves, bare of neck, and arm, and pitch-fork in hand, was busy tossing up great mounds of sweet-smelling hay to Adam who stood upon a waggon to receive it, with Small Porges perched up beside him.

A week had elapsed since Bellew had found his way to Dapplemere, a week which had only served to strengthen the bonds of affection between him and his "nephew," and to win over sharp-eyed, shrewd little Miss Priscilla to the extent of declaring him to be: "First a gentleman, Anthea, my dear, and Secondly,—what is much rarer, now-a-days,—a true man!" A week! and already he was hail-fellow-well-met with everyone about the place, for who was proof against his unaffected gaiety, his simple, easy, good-fellowship? So he laughed, and joked as he swung his pitch-fork, (awkwardly enough, to be sure), and received all hints, and directions as to its use, in the kindly spirit they were tendered. And Anthea, watching him from her shady corner, sighed once or twice, and catching herself, so doing, stamped her foot at herself, and pulled her sunbonnet closer about her face.

"No, Adam," he was saying, "depend upon it, there is nothing like exercise, and, of all exercise,—give me a pitch-fork."

"Why, as to that, Mr. Belloo, sir," Adam retorted, "I say—so be it, so long as I ain't near the wrong end of it, for the way you do 'ave of flourishin' an' a whirlin' that theer fork, is fair as-tonishin', I do declare it be."

"Why you see, Adam, there are some born with a leaning towards pitch-forks, as there are others born to the pen, and the—er—palette, and things, but for me, Adam, the pitch-fork, every time!" said Bellew, mopping his brow.

"If you was to try an' 'andle it more as if it was a pitchfork now, Mr. Belloo, sir—" suggested Adam, and, not waiting for Bellew's laughing rejoinder, he chirrupped to the horses, and the great waggon creaked away with its mountainous load, surmounted by Adam's grinning visage, and Small Porges' golden curls, and followed by the rest of the merry-voiced hay-makers.

Now it was, that turning his head, Bellew espied Anthea watching him, whereupon he shouldered his fork, and coming to where she sat upon a throne of hay, he sank down at her feet with a luxurious sigh. She had never seen him without a collar, before, and now she could not but notice how round, and white, and powerful his neck was, and how the muscles bulged upon arm, and shoulder, and how his hair curled in small, damp rings upon his brow.

"It is good," said he, looking up into the witching face, above him, "yes, it is very good to see you idle—just for once."

"And I was thinking it was good to see you work,—just for once."

"Work!" he exclaimed, "my dear Miss Anthea, I assure you I have become a positive glutton for work. It has become my earnest desire to plant things, and grow things, and chop things with axes; to mow things with scythes. I dream of pastures, and ploughs, of pails and pitchforks, by night; and, by day, reaping-hooks, hoes, and rakes, are in my thoughts continually,—which all goes to show the effect of this wonderful air of Arcadia. Indeed, I am as full of suppressed energy, these days, as Adam is of the 'Old Adam.' And, talking of Adam reminds me that he has solemnly pledged himself to initiate me into the mysteries of swinging a scythe to-morrow morning at—five o'clock! Yes indeed, my heart bounds responsive to the swish of a scythe in thick grass, and my soul sits enraptured upon a pitch-fork."

"How ridiculous you are!" she laughed.

"And how perfectly content!" he added.

"Is anyone ever quite content?" she sighed, glancing down at him, wistful-eyed.

"Not unless they have found Arcadia," he answered.

"Have you then?"

"Yes," he nodded complacently, "oh yes, I've found it."

"Are you—sure?"

"Quite sure!"

"Arcadia!" she repeated, wrinkling her brows, "what is Arcadia and—where?"

"Arcadia," answered Bellew, watching the smoke rise up from his pipe, with a dreamy eye, "Arcadia is the—Promised Land,—the Land that everyone tries to find, sometime or other, and may be—anywhere."

"And how came you to—find it?"

"By the most fortunate chance in the world."

"Tell me," said Anthea, taking a wisp of hay, and beginning to plait it in dexterous, brown fingers, "tell me how you found it."

"Why then you must know, in the first place," he began in his slow, even voice, "that it is a place I have sought for in all my wanderings, and I have been pretty far afield,—but I sought it so long, and so vainly, that I began to think it was like the El Dorado of the old Adventurers, and had never existed at all."

"Yes?" said Anthea, busy with her plaiting.

"But, one day,—Fate, or Chance, or Destiny,—or their benevolent spirit, sent a certain square-shouldered Waggoner to show me the way, and, after him, a very small Porges,—bless him!—to lead me into this wonderful Arcadia."

"Oh, I see!" nodded Anthea, very intent upon her plaiting.

"But there is something more," said Bellew.

"Oh?" said Anthea.

"Shall I tell you?"

"If—it is—very interesting."

"Well then, in this delightful land there is a castle, grim, embattled, and very strong."

"A castle?" said Anthea, glancing up suddenly.

"The Castle of Heart's Desire."

"Oh!" said she, and gave all her attention to her plaiting again.

"And so," continued Bellew, "I am waiting, very patiently, until, in her own good time, she who rules within, shall open the gate to me, or—bid me go away."

Into Bellew's voice had crept a thrill no one had ever heard there before; he leaned nearer to her, and his dreamy eyes were keen now, and eager. And she, though she saw nothing of all this, yet, being a woman, knew it was there, of course, and, for that very reason, looked resolutely away. Wherefore, once again, Bellew heartily wished that sunbonnets had never been invented.

So there was silence while Anthea stared away across the golden corn-fields, yet saw nothing of them, and Bellew looked upon those slender, capable fingers, that had faltered in their plaiting and stopped. And thus, upon the silence there broke a sudden voice shrill with interest:

"Go on, Uncle Porges,—what about the dragons? Oh, please go on!—there's always dragons in 'chanted castles, you know, to guard the lovely Princess,—aren't you going to have any dragons that hiss, you know, an' spit out smoke, an' flames? Oh!—do please have a dragon." And Small Porges appeared from the other side of the hay-mow, flushed, and eager.

"Certainly, my Porges," nodded Bellew, drawing the small figure down beside him, "I was forgetting the dragons, but there they are, with scaly backs, and iron claws, spitting out sparks and flames, just as self-respecting dragons should, and roaring away like thunder."

"Ah!" exclaimed Small Porges, nestling closer to Bellew, and reaching out a hand to Auntie Anthea, "that's fine! let's have plenty of dragons."

"Do you think a—er—dozen would be enough, my Porges?"

"Oh yes! But s'pose the beautiful Princess didn't open the door,—what would you do if you were really a wandering knight who was waiting patiently for it to open,—what would you do then?"

"Shin up a tree, my Porges."

"Oh but that wouldn't be a bit right—would it, Auntie?"

"Of course not!" laughed Anthea, "it would be most un-knight-like, and very undignified."

"'Sides," added Small Porges, "you couldn't climb up a tree in your armour, you know."

"Then I'd make an awful' good try at it!" nodded Bellew.

"No," said Small Porges, shaking his head, "shall I tell you what you ought to do? Well then, you'd draw your two-edged sword, an' dress your shield,—like Gareth, the Kitchen Knave did,—he was always dressing his shield, an' so was Lancelot,—an' you'd fight all those dragons, an' kill them, an' cut their heads off."

"And then what would happen?" enquired Bellew.

"Why then the lovely Princess would open the gate, an' marry you of course, an' live happy ever after, an' all would be revelry an' joy."

"Ah!" sighed Bellew, "if she'd do that, I think I'd fight all the dragons that ever roared,—and kill them too. But supposing she—er—wouldn't open the gate."

"Why then," said Small Porges, wrinkling his brow, "why then—you'd have to storm the castle, of course, an' break open the gate an' run off with the Princess on your charger,—if she was very beautiful, you know."

"A most excellent idea, my Porges! If I should happen to find myself in like circumstances, I'll surely take your advice."

Now, as he spoke, Bellew glanced at Anthea, and she at him. And straightway she blushed, and then she laughed, and then she blushed again, and, still blushing, rose to her feet, and turned to find Mr. Cassilis within a yard of them.

"Ah, Miss Anthea," said he, lifting his hat, "I sent Georgy to find you, but it seems he forgot to mention that I was waiting."

"I'm awful' sorry, Mr. Cassilis,—but Uncle Porges was telling us 'bout dragons, you know," Small Porges hastened to explain.

"Dragons!" repeated Mr. Cassilis, with his supercilious smile, "ah, indeed! dragons should be interesting, especially in such a very quiet, shady nook as this,—quite an idyllic place for story-telling, it's a positive shame to disturb you," and his sharp, white teeth gleamed beneath his moustache, as he spoke, and he tapped his riding-boot lightly with his hunting-crop as he fronted Bellew, who had risen, and stood bare-armed, leaning upon his pitch-fork. And, as in their first meeting, there was a mute antagonism in their look.

"Let me introduce you to each other," said Anthea, conscious of this attitude,—"Mr. Cassilis, of Brampton Court,—Mr. Bellew!"

"Of nowhere in particular, sir!" added Bellew.

"And pray," said Mr. Cassilis perfunctorily as they strolled on across the meadow, "how do you like Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew?"

"Immensely, sir,—beyond all expression!"

"Yes, it is considered rather pretty, I believe."

"Lovely, sir!" nodded Bellew, "though it is not so much the beauty of the place itself, that appeals to me so much as what it—contains."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Cassilis, with a sudden, sharp glance, "to what do you refer?"

"Goose-berries, sir!"

"I—ah—beg your pardon?"

"Sir," said Bellew gravely, "all my life I have fostered a secret passion for goose-berries—raw, or cooked,—in pie, pudding or jam, they are equally alluring. Unhappily the American goose-berry is but a hollow mockery, at best—"

"Ha?" said Mr. Cassilis, dubiously.

"Now, in goose-berries, as in everything else, sir, there is to be found the superlative, the quintessence,—the ideal. Consequently I have roamed East and West, and North and South, in quest of it."

"Really?" said Mr. Cassilis, stifling a yawn, and turning towards Miss
Anthea with the very slightest shrug of his shoulders.

"And, in Dapplemere," concluded Bellew, solemnly, "I have, at last, found my ideal—"

"Goose-berry!" added Anthea with a laugh in her eyes.

"Arcadia being a land of ideals!" nodded Bellew.

"Ideals," said Mr. Cassilis, caressing his moustache, "ideals and—ah—goose-berries,—though probably excellent things in themselves, are apt to pall upon one, in time; personally, I find them equally insipid,—"

"Of course it is all a matter of taste!" sighed Bellew.

"But," Mr. Cassilis went on, fairly turning his back upon him, "the subject I wished to discuss with you, Miss Anthea, was the—er —approaching sale."

"The sale!" she repeated, all the brightness dying out of her face.

"I wished," said Cassilis, leaning nearer to her, and lowering his voice confidentially, "to try to convince you how—unnecessary it would be—if—" and he paused, significantly.

Anthea turned quickly aside, as though to hide her mortification from Bellew's keen eyes; whereupon he, seeing it all, became, straightway, more dreamy than ever, and, laying a hand upon Small Porges' shoulder, pointed with his pitch-fork to where at the other end of the "Five-acre" the hay-makers worked away as merrily as ever:

"Come, my Porges," said he, "let us away and join yon happy throng, and—er—

'With Daphnis, and Clo, and Blowsabel
We'll list to the—er—cuckoo in the dell.'"

So, hand in hand, the two Porges set off together. But when they had gone some distance, Bellew looked back, and then he saw that Anthea walked with her head averted, yet Cassilis walked close beside her, and stooped, now and then, until the black moustache came very near the curl—that curl of wanton witchery that peeped above her ear.

"Uncle Porges—why do you frown so?"

"Frown, my Porges,—did I? Well, I was thinking."

"Well, I'm thinking too, only I don't frown, you know, but I'm thinking just the same."

"And what might you be thinking, nephew?"

"Why I was thinking that although you're so awful fond of goose-berries, an' though there's lots of ripe ones on the bushes I've never seen you eat a single one."

CHAPTER X

How Bellew and Adam entered into a solemn league and covenant

"Look at the moon to-night, Uncle Porges!"

"I see it."

"It's awfull' big, an' round, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's very big, and very round."

"An'—rather—yellow, isn't it?"

"Very yellow!"

"Just like a great, big golden sovereign, isn't it"

"Very much like a sovereign, my Porges."

"Well, do you know, I was wondering—if there was any chance that it was a—Money Moon?"

They were leaning out at the lattice, Small Porges, and Big Porges. Anthea and Miss Priscilla were busied upon household matters wholly feminine, wherefore Small Porges had drawn Bellew to the window, and there they leaned, the small body enfolded by Bellew's long arm, and the two faces turned up to the silvery splendour of the moon.

But now, Anthea came up behind them, and, not noticing the position of Bellew's arm as she leaned on the other side of Small Porges, it befell that her hand touched, and for a moment, rested upon Bellew's hand, hidden as it was in the shadow. And this probably began it.

The air of Arcadia, as has been said before, is an intoxicating air; but it is more, it is an air charged with a subtle magic whereby the commonest objects, losing their prosaic, matter-of-fact shapes, become transfigured into things of wonder, and delight. Little things that pass as mere ordinary common-places,—things insignificant, and wholly beneath notice in the every day world, become fraught with such infinite meaning, and may hold such sublime, such undreamed of possibilities —here in Arcadia. Thus, when it is recorded that Anthea's hand accidentally touched, and rested upon Bellew's—the significance of it will become at once apparent.

"And pray," said Anthea, laying that same hand in the most natural manner in the world, upon the Small Porges' curls, "Pray what might you two be discussing so very solemnly?"

"The moon," answered Small Porges. "I was wondering if it was a Money
Moon, an' Uncle Porges hasn't said if it is, yet."

"Why no, old chap," answered Bellew, "I'm afraid not."

"And pray," said Anthea again, "what might a Money Moon be?"

"Well," explained Small Porges, "when the moon's just—just so, then you go out an'—an' find a fortune, you know. But the moon's got to be a Money Moon, and you've got to know, you know, else you'll find nothing, of course."

"Ah Georgy dear!" sighed Anthea, stooping her dark head down to his golden curls, "don't you know that fortunes are very hard to get, and that they have to be worked for, and that no one ever found one without a great deal of labour, and sorrow?"

"'Course—everyone can't find fortunes, Auntie Anthea, I know that, but we shall,—my Uncle Porges knows all about it, you see, an' I know that we shall. I'm sure as sure we shall find one, some day, 'cause, you see, I put it in my prayers now,—at the end, you know. I say: 'An' please help me an' my Uncle Porges to find a fortune when the Money Moon comes,—a big one, world without end—Amen!' So you see, it's all right, an' we're just waiting till the Money Moon comes, aren't we, Uncle Porges?"

"Yes, old chap, yes," nodded Bellew, "until the Money Moon comes."

And so there fell a silence between them, yet a silence that held a wondrous charm of its own; a silence that lasted so long that the coppery curls drooped lower, and lower upon Bellew's arm, until Anthea, sighing, rose, and in a very tender voice bade Small Porges say 'Goodnight!' the which he did, forthwith, slumberous of voice, and sleepy eyed, and so, with his hand in Anthea's, went drowsily up to bed.

Wherefore, seeing that Miss Priscilla had bustled away into the kitchen, Bellew sauntered out into the rose-garden to look upon the beauty of the night. The warm air was fragrant with dewy scents, and the moon, already high above the tree-tops, poured down her gentle radiance upon the quaint, old garden with its winding walks, and clipped yew hedges, while upon the quiet, from the dim shadow of the distant woods, stole the soft, sweet song of a nightingale.

Bellew walked a path bordered with flowers, and checkered with silver patches of moon-light, drinking in the thousand beauties about him, staring up at the glory of the moon, the indigo of the sky, and listening to the voice of the lonely singer in the wood. And yet it was of none of these he was thinking as he paused under the shadow of "King Arthur,"—nor of Small Porges, nor of any one or anything in this world but only of the sudden, light touch of a warm, soft hand upon his. "Be that you, sir?" Bellew started and now he found that he had been sitting, all this while, with an empty pipe between his teeth, yet content therewith; wherefore he shook his head, and wondered.

"Be that you, Mr. Beloo, sir?"

"Yes Adam, it is I."

"Ah! an' how might you be feelin' now—arter your exercise wi' the pitch-fork, sir?"

"Very fit, I thank you, Adam. Sit down, and smoke, and let us converse together."

"Why thankee sir," answered Adam, producing the small, black clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and accepting Bellew's proffered pouch. "I've been up to the 'ouse a visitin' Prudence, the cook,—an' a rare cook she be, too, Mr. Beloo sir!"

"And a rare buxom girl into the bargain, Adam!"

"Oh, ah!—she's well enough, sir; I won't go for to deny as she's a fine, up-standing, well-shaped, tall, an' proper figure of a woman as ever was, sir,—though the Kentish lasses be a tidy lot, Mr. Beloo sir. But, Lord! when you come to think of her gift for Yorkshire Puddin', likewise jam-rollers, and seed-cake,—(which, though mentioned last, ain't by no manner o' means least),—when you come to think of her brew o' ale, an' cider, an' ginger wine,—why then—I'm took, sir, I'm took altogether, an' the 'Old Adam' inside o' me works hisself into such a state that if another chap—'specially that there Job Jagway gets lookin' her way too often, why it's got to get took out o' him, or took out o' me in good 'ard knocks, Mr. Belloo, sir."

"And when are you going to get married, Adam?"

"Well sir, we was thinkin' that if Miss Anthea has a good season, this year, we'd get it over an' done wi' some time in October, sir,—but it's all accordin'."

"According to what?"

"To the 'ops, sir,—the H-O-P-S—'ops, sir. They're comin' on fine,—ah! scrumptuous they be! If they don't take the blight, sir, they'll be the finest 'ops this side o' Maidstone. But then, if they do take the blight,—why then my 'opes is blighted likewise sir,—B-L-I-T-E-D, —blighted, Mr. Belloo sir!" which said, Adam laughed once, nodded his head several times, and relapsed into puffing silence.

"Mr. Cassilis was over to-day, Adam," said Bellew, after a while pursuing a train of thought.

"Ah sir!—I seen him,—'e also seen me. 'E told me as Job Jagway was up and about again,—likewise Job Jagway will be over 'ere to-morrow, along wi' the rest of 'em for the sale, sir."

"Ah yes,—the sale!" said Bellew, thoughtfully.

"To think o' that there Job Jagway a coming over here to buy Miss Anthea's furnitur' do set the Old Adam a workin' inside o' me to that amazin' extent as I can't sit still, Mr. Belloo sir! If that there Job crosses my path to-morrer—well—let 'im—look out, that's all!" saying which, Adam doubled up a huge, knotted fist and shook it at an imaginary Job.

"Adam," said Bellew, in the same thoughtful tone, "I wonder if you would do something for me?"

"Anything you ax me, sir, so long as you don't want me to—"

"I want you to buy some of that furniture for me."

"What!" exclaimed Adam, and vented his great laugh again, "well, if that ain't a good 'un, sir! why that's just w'ot I'm a going to do! Ye see, I ain't w'ot you might call a rich cove, nor yet a millionaire, but I've got a bit put by, an' I drawed out ten pound, yesterday. Thinks I,—'here's to save Miss Anthea's old sideboard, or the mirror as she's so fond of, or if not—why then a cheer or so,—they ain't a going to get it all,—not while I've got a pound or two,' I sez to myself."

"Adam," said Bellew, turning suddenly, "that sentiment does you credit, that sentiment makes me proud to have knocked you into a ditch,—shake hands, Adam." And there, beneath the great apple tree, while the moon looked on, they very solemnly shook hands.

"And now, Adam," pursued Bellew, "I want you to put back your ten pounds, keep it for Prudence,—because I happen to have rather more than we shall want,—see here!" And, with the words, Bellew took out a leathern wallet, and from this wallet, money, and bank-notes,—more money, and more bank-notes than Adam had ever beheld in all his thirty odd years, at sight of which his eyes opened, and his square jaw relaxed, to the imminent danger of his cherished clay pipe.

"I want you to take this," Bellew went on, counting a sum into Adam's nerveless hand, "and to-morrow, when the sale begins, if any one makes a bid for anything, I want you to bid higher, and, no matter what, you must always buy—always, you understand?"

"But sir,—that there old drorin'-room cab'net wi' the—carvings—"

"Buy it!"

"An' the silver candle-sticks,—and the four-post bed-stead,—an' the—"

"Buy 'em, Adam,—buy everything! If we haven't enough money there's plenty more where this came from,—only buy!—You understand?"

"Oh yes sir, I understand! 'Ow much 'ave you give me? Why, here's—forty-five,—fifty,—sixty,—Lord!—"

"Put it away, Adam,—forget all about it till to-morrow,—and not a word, mind!"

"A hundred pound!" gasped Adam, "Lord!—Oh I won't speak of it, trust me, Mr. Belloo, sir! But to think of me a walking about wi' a hundred pound in my pocket,—Lord! I won't say nothing—but to think of Old Adam wi' a hundred pound in his pocket, e'Cod! it do seem that comical!" saying which, Adam buttoned the money into a capacious pocket, slapped it, nodded, and rose. "Well sir, I'll be going,—there be Miss Anthea in the garden yonder, and if she was to see me now there's no sayin' but I should be took a laughin' to think o' this 'ere hundred pound."

"Miss Anthea!—where?"

"Comin' through the rose-gardin. She be off to see old Mother Dibbin. They call Mother Dibbin a witch, an' now as she's down wi' the rheumatics there ain't nobody to look arter 'er,—'cept Miss Anthea,—she'd ha' starved afore now if it 'adn't been for Miss Anthea, but Lord love your eyes, an' limbs, Mr. Belloo sir! Miss Anthea don't care if she's a witch, or fifty witches, not she! So good-night, Mr. Belloo sir, an' mum's the word!"

Saying which, Adam slapped his pocket again, nodded, winked, and went upon his way.

CHAPTER XI

Of the "Man with the Tiger Mark"

It is a moot question as to whether a curl can be more alluring when it glows beneath the fiery kisses of the sun, or shines demurely in the tender radiance of the moon. As Bellew looked at it now,—that same small curl that nodded and beckoned to him above Anthea's left ear,—he strongly inclined to the latter opinion.

"Adam tells me that you are going out, Miss Anthea."

"Only as far as Mrs. Dibbin's cottage,—just across the meadow."

"Adam also informs me that Mrs. Dibbin is a witch."

"People call her so."

"Never in all my days have I seen a genuine, old witch,—so I'll come with you, if I may?"

"Oh, this is a very gentle old witch, and she is neither humpbacked, nor does she ride a broom-stick,—so I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, Mr. Bellew."

"Then, at least, I can carry your basket,—allow me!" And so, in his quiet, masterful fashion he took the basket from her arm, and walked on beside her, through the orchard.

"What a glorious night it is!" exclaimed Anthea suddenly, drawing a deep breath of the fragrant air,—"Oh! it is good to be alive! In spite of all the cares, and worries, life is very sweet!"

After this, they walked on some distance in silence, she gazing wistfully upon the beauties of the familiar world about her while he watched the curl above her ear until she, becoming aware of it all at once, promptly sent it back into retirement, with a quick, deft little pat of her fingers.

"I hope," said Bellew at last, "I do sincerely hope that you 'tucked up' my nephew safe in bed,—you see—"

"Your nephew, indeed!"

"Our nephew, then; I ask because he tells me that he can't possibly sleep unless you go to 'tuck him up,'—and I can quite believe it."

"Do you know, Mr. Bellew, I'm growing quite jealous of you, he can't move a step without you, and he is for ever talking, and lauding your numberless virtues!"

"But then—I'm only an uncle, after all, and if he talks of me to you, he talks of you to me, all day long."

"Oh, does he!"

"And, among other things, he told me that I ought to see you when your hair is down, and all about you."

"Oh!" exclaimed Anthea.

"Indeed, our nephew is much luckier than I, because I never had an aunt of my own to come and 'tuck me up' at night with her hair hanging all about her—like a beautiful cloak. So, you see, I have no boyish recollections to go upon, but I think I can imagine—"

"And what do you think of the Sergeant?" Anthea enquired, changing the subject abruptly.

"I like him so much that I am going to take him at his word, and call upon him at the first opportunity."

"Did Aunt Priscilla tell you that he comes marching along regularly every day, at exactly the same hour?"

"Yes,—to see how the peaches are getting on!" nodded Bellew.

"For such a very brave soldier he is a dreadful coward," said Anthea, smiling, "it has taken him five years to screw up courage enough to tell her that she's uncommonly young for her age. And yet, I think it is just that diffidence that makes him so lovable. And he is so simple, and so gentle—in spite of all his war medals. When I am moody, and cross, the very sight of him is enough to put me in humour again."

"Has he never—spoken to Miss Priscilla,—?"

"Never,—though, of course, she knows, and has done from the very first. I asked him once, why he had never told her what it was brought him so regularly,—to look at the peaches,—and he said, in his quick, sharp way: 'Miss Anthea,—can't be done, mam,—a poor, battered, old soldier,—only one arm,—no mam.'"

"I wonder if one could find just such another Sergeant outside Arcadia," said Bellew, "I wonder!"

Now they were approaching a stile towards which Bellew had directed his eyes, from time to time, as, for that matter, curiously enough, had Anthea; but to him it seemed that it never would be reached, while to her, it seemed that it would be reached much too soon. Therefore she began to rack her mind trying to remember some gate, or any gap in the hedge that should obviate the necessity of climbing it. But, before she could recall any such gate, or gap, they were at the stile, and Bellew, leaping over, had set down the basket, and stretched out his hand to aid her over. But Anthea, tall, and lithe, active and vigorous with her outdoor life, and used to such things from her infancy, stood a moment hesitating. To be sure, the stile was rather high, yet she could have vaulted it nearly, if not quite, as easily as Bellew himself, had she been alone. But then, she was not alone, moreover, be it remembered, this was in Arcadia of a mid-summer night. Thus, she hesitated, only a moment, it is true, for, seeing the quizzical look in his eyes that always made her vaguely rebellious,—with a quick, light movement, she mounted the stile, and there paused to shake her head in laughing disdain of his out-stretched hand; then—there was the sound of rending cambric, she tripped, and, next moment, he had caught her in his arms. It was for but a very brief instant that she lay, soft and yielding, in his embrace, yet she was conscious of how strong were the arms that held her so easily, ere they set her down.

"I beg your pardon!—how awkward I am!" she exclaimed, in hot mortification.

"No," said Bellew, shaking his head, "it was a nail, you know, a bent, and rusty nail,—here, under the top bar. Is your dress much torn?"

"Oh, that is nothing, thank you!"

So they went on again, but now they were silent once more, and very naturally, for Anthea was mightily angry,—with herself, the stile, Bellew, and everything concerned; while he was thinking of the sudden, warm clasp of her arms, of the alluring fragrance of her hair, and of the shy droop of her lashes as she lay in his embrace. Therefore, as he walked on beside her, saying nothing, within his secret soul he poured benedictions upon the head of that bent, and rusty nail.

And presently, having turned down a grassy lane and crossed a small but very noisy brook that chattered impertinences among the stones and chuckled at them slyly from the shadows, they eventually came upon a small, and very lonely little cottage bowered in roses and honeysuckle,—as are all the cottages hereabouts. But now Anthea paused, looking at Bellew with a dubious brow.

"I ought to warn you that Mrs. Dibbin is very old, and sometimes a little queer, and sometimes says very—surprising things."

"Excellent!" nodded Bellew, holding the little gate open for her, "very right and proper conduct in a witch, and I love surprises above all things."

But Anthea still hesitated, while Bellew stood with his hand upon the gate, waiting for her to enter. Now he had left his hat behind him, and, as the moon shone down on his bare head, she could not but notice how bright, and yellow was his hair, despite the thick, black brows below.

"I think I—would rather you waited outside,—if you don't mind, Mr.
Bellew."

"You mean that I am to be denied the joy of conversing with a real, live, old witch, and having my fortune told?" he sighed. "Well, if such is your will—so be it," said he obediently, and handed her the basket.

"I won't keep you waiting very long,—and—thank you!" she smiled, and, hurrying up the narrow path, she tapped at the cottage door.

"Come in! come in!" cried an old, quavering voice, albeit, very sharp, and piercing. "That be my own soft dove of a maid,—my proud, beautiful, white lady! Come in! come in!—and bring him wi' you,—him as is so big, and strong,—him as I've expected so long,—the tall, golden man from over seas. Bid him come in, Miss Anthea, that Goody Dibbin's old eyes may look at him at last."

Hereupon, at a sign from Anthea, Bellew turned in at the gate, and striding up the path, entered the cottage.

Despite the season, a fire burned upon the hearth, and crouched over this, in a great elbow-chair, sat a very bent, and aged woman. Her face was furrowed, and seamed with numberless lines and wrinkles, but her eyes were still bright, and she wore no spectacles; likewise her white hair was wonderfully thick, and abundant, as could plainly be seen beneath the frill of her cap, for, like the very small room of this very small cottage, she was extremely neat, and tidy. She had a great, curving nose, and a great, curving chin, and what with this and her bright, black eyes, and stooping figure, she was very much like what a witch should be,—albeit a very superior kind of old witch.

She sat, for a while, staring up at Bellew who stood tall, and bare-headed, smiling down at her; and then, all at once, she nodded her head three several, and distinct times.

"Right!" she quavered, "right! right,—it be all right!—the golden man as I've watched this many an' many a day, wi' the curly hair, and the sleepy eye, and the Tiger-mark upon his arm,—right! right!"

"What do you mean by 'Tiger-mark?'" enquired Bellew.

"I mean, young master wi' your golden curls,—I mean as, sitting here day in, and day out, staring down into my fire, I has my dreams,—leastways, I calls 'em my dreams, though there's them as calls it the 'second sight.' But pray sit down, tall sir, on the stool there; and you, my tender maid, my dark lady, come you here—upon my right, and, if you wish, I'll look into the ink, or read your pretty hand, or tell you what I see down there in the fire. But no,—first, show what you have brought for Old Nannie in the blessed basket,—the fine, strong basket as holds so much. Yes, set it down here—where I can open it myself, tall sir. Eh,—what's this?—Tea! God bless you for the tea, my dear! And eggs, and butter,—and a cold chicken!—the Lord bless your kind heart, Miss Anthea! Ah, my proud lady, happy the man who shall win ye! Happy the man who shall wed ye, my dark, beautiful maid. And strong must he be, aye, and masterful he who shall wake the love-light in those dark, great, passionate eyes of yours. And there is no man in all this world can do it but he must be a golden man—wi' the Tiger-mark upon him."

"Why—oh Nannie—!"

"Aye,—blush if ye will, my dark lady, but Mother Dibbin knows she's seen it in the fire, dreamed it in her dreams, and read it in the ink. The path lies very dark afore ye, my lady,—aye very dark it be, and full o' cares, and troubles, but there's the sun shining beyond,—bright, and golden. You be proud, and high, and scornful, my lady,—'tis in your blood,—you'll need a strong hand to guide ye,—and the strong hand shall come. By force you shall be wooed, and by force you shall be wed,—and there be no man strong enough to woo, and wed ye, but him as I've told ye of—him as bears the Tiger-mark."

"But Nannie," said Anthea again, gently interrupting her, and patting the old woman's shrivelled hand, "you're forgetting the basket,—you haven't found all we've brought you, yet."

"Aye, aye!" nodded old Nannie, "the fine, strong basket,—let's see what more be in the good, kind basket. Here's bread, and sugar,—and—"

"A pound of your favourite tobacco!" said Anthea, with a smiling nod.

"Oh the good weed! The blessed weed!" cried the old woman, clutching the package with trembling fingers. "Ah! who can tell the comfort it has been to me in the long, long days, and the long, long nights,—the blessed weed! when I've sat here a looking and a looking into the fire. God bless you, my sweet maid, for your kindly thought!" and, with a sudden gesture, she caught Anthea's hand to her lips, and then, just as suddenly turned upon Bellew.

"And now, tall sir, can I do ought for ye? Shall I look into the fire for ye, or the ink, or read your hand?"

"Why yes," answered Bellew, stretching out his hand to her, "you shall tell me two things, if you will; first, shall one ever find his way into the 'Castle of Heart's Desire,' and secondly;—When?"

"Oh, but I don't need to look into your hand to tell you that, tall sir, nor yet in the ink, or in the fire, for I've dreamed it all in my dreams. And now, see you, 'tis a strong place, this Castle,—wi' thick doors, and great locks, and bars. But I have seen those doors broke' down,—those great locks, and bars burst asunder,—but—there is none can do this but him as bears the Tiger-Mark. So much for the first. And, for the second,—Happiness shall come a riding to you on the full moon,—but you must reach up—and take it for yourself,—if you be tall enough."

"And—even you are not tall enough to do that, Mr. Bellew!" laughed Anthea, as she rose to bid Old Nannie "Good-night," while Bellew, unnoticed, slipped certain coins upon a corner of the chimney-piece. So, old Nannie blessed them, and theirs,—past, present, and future, thoroughly and completely, with a fine comprehensiveness that only a genuinely accomplished old witch might hope to attain to, and, following them to the door, paused there with one shrivelled, claw-like hand up-lifted towards the sky:

"At the full o' the moon, tall sir!" she repeated, "at the full o' the moon! As for you, my dark-eyed lady, I say, by force you shall be wooed, and by force ye shall be wed, aye! aye!—but there is no man strong enough except he have the Tiger-Mark upon him. Old Nannie knows,—she's seen it in the ink, dreamed it in the fire, and read it all in your pretty hand. And now—thank ye for the tea, my pretty, and God bless ye for the good weed, and just so sure as you've been good, and kind to old Nannie, so shall Fortune be good and kind to you, Miss Anthea."

"Poor old Nannie!" said Anthea, as they went on down the grassy lane, "she is so very grateful for so little. And she is such a gentle old creature really, though the country folk do call her a witch and are afraid of her because they say she has the 'evil eye,'—which is ridiculous, of course! But nobody ever goes near her, and she is dreadfully lonely, poor old thing!"

"And so that is why you come to sit with her, and let her talk to you?" enquired Bellew, staring up at the moon.

"Yes."

"And do you believe in her dreams, and visions?"

"No,—of course not!" answered Anthea, rather hurriedly, and with a deeper colour in her cheeks, though Bellew was still intent upon the moon. "You don't either,—do you?" she enquired, seeing he was silent.

"Well, I don't quite know," he answered slowly, "but she is rather a wonderful old lady, I think."

"Yes, she has wonderful thick hair still," nodded Anthea, "and she's not a bit deaf, and her eyes are as clear, and sharp as ever they were."

"Yes, but I wasn't meaning her eyes, or her hair, or her hearing."

"Oh,—then pray what were you pleased to mean?"

"Did you happen to notice what she said about a—er—Man with, a—Tiger-Mark?" enquired Bellew, still gazing up at the moon.

Anthea laughed:

"The Man with the Tiger-Mark,—of course! he has been much in her dreams, lately, and she has talked of him a great deal,—"

"Has she?" said Bellew, "ha!"

"Yes,—her mind is full of strange twists, and fancies,—you see she is so very old,—and she loves to tell me her dreams, and read the future for me."

"Though, of course, you don't believe it," said Bellew.

"Believe it!" Anthea repeated, and walked some dozen paces, or so, before she answered,—"no, of course not."

"Then—none of your fortune,—nothing she told you has ever come true?"

Once more Anthea hesitated, this time so long that Bellew turned from his moon-gazing to look at her.

"I mean," he went on, "has none of it ever come true,—about this Man with the Tiger-Mark, for instance?"

"No,—oh no!" answered Anthea, rather hastily, and laughed again. "Old Nannie has seen him in her dreams—everywhere,—in India, and Africa, and China; in hot countries, and cold countries—oh! Nannie has seen him everywhere, but I have seen him—nowhere, and, of course, I never shall."

"Ah!" said Bellew, "and she reads him always in your fortune, does she?"

"And I listen very patiently," Anthea nodded, "because it pleases her so much, and it is all so very harmless, after all, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered Bellew, "and very wonderful!"

"Wonderful?—poor old Nannie's fancies!—What do you mean by wonderful?"

"Upon my word, I hardly know," said Bellew, shaking his head, "but 'there are more things in heaven, and earth,' etc., you know, and this is one of them."

"Really!—now you grow mysterious, Mr. Bellew."

"Like the night!" he answered, turning to aid her across the impertinent brook that chuckled at them, and laughed after them, as only such a very impertinent brook possibly could.

So, betimes, they reached the stile, and crossed it, this time without mishap, despite the lurking nail and, all too soon for Bellew, had traversed the orchard, and were come to the garden where the roses all hung so still upon their stems that they might have been asleep, and filling the air with the perfume of their dreams.

And here they paused, perhaps because of the witchery of the moon, perhaps to listen to the voice of the nightingale who sang on more gloriously than ever. Yet, though they stood so close together, their glances seldom met, and they were very silent. But at last, as though making up her mind, Anthea spoke:

"What did you mean when you said Old Nannie's dreams were so wonderful?" she asked.

"I'll show you!" he answered, and, while he spoke, slipped off his coat, and drawing up his shirt-sleeve, held out a muscular, white arm towards her. He held it out in the full radiance of the moon, and thus, looking down at it, her eyes grew suddenly wide, and her breath caught strangely as surprise gave place to something else; for there, plain to be seen upon the white flesh, were three long scars that wound up from elbow to shoulder. And so, for a while, they stood thus, she looking at his arm, and he at her.

"Why—" said she at last, finding voice in a little gasp,—"why then—"

"I am the Man with the Tiger Mark!" he said, smiling his slow, placid smile. Now, as his eyes looked down into hers, she flushed sudden, and hot, and her glance wavered, and fell beneath his.

"Oh!" she cried, and, with the word, turned about, and fled from him into the house.

CHAPTER XII

In which may be found a full, true, and particular account of the sale

"Uncle Porges, there's a little man in the hall with a red, red nose, an' a blue, blue chin,—"

"Yes, I've seen him,—also his nose, and chin, my Porges."

"But he's sticking little papers with numbers on them, all over my Auntie Anthea's chairs,—an' tables. Now what do you s'pose he's doing that for?"

"Who knows? It's probably all on account of his red nose, and blue chin, my Porges. Anyway, don't worry about him,—let us rather, find our Auntie Anthea."

They found her in the hall. And it was a hall, here, at Dapplemere, wide, and high, and with a minstrel's gallery at one end; a hall that, years and years ago, had often rung with the clash of men-at-arms, and echoed with loud, and jovial laughter, for this was the most ancient part of the Manor.

It looked rather bare, and barren, just now, for the furniture was all moved out of place,—ranged neatly round the walls, and stacked at the farther end, beneath the gallery where the little man in question, blue of chin, and red of nose, was hovering about it, dabbing little tickets on chairs, and tables,—even as Small Porges had said.

And, in the midst of it all, stood Anthea, a desolate figure, Bellew thought, who, upon his entrance, bent her head to draw on her driving gloves, for she was waiting for the dog-cart which was to bear her, and Small Porges to Cranbrook, far away from the hollow tap of the auctioneer's hammer.

"We're getting rid of some of the old furniture, you see, Mr. Bellew," she said, laying her hand on an antique cabinet nearby,—"we really have much more than we ever use."

"Yes," said Bellew. But he noticed that her eyes were very dark and wistful, despite her light tone, and that she had laid her hand upon the old cabinet with a touch very like a caress.

"Why is that man's nose so awful' red, and his chin so blue, Auntie
Anthea?" enquired Small Porges, in a hissing stage whisper.

"Hush Georgy!—I don't know," said Anthea.

"An' why is he sticking his little numbers all over our best furniture!"

"That is to guide the auctioneer."

"Where to,—an' what is an auctioneer?"

But, at this moment, hearing the wheels of the dog-cart at the door,
Anthea turned, and hastened out into the sunshine.

"A lovely day it do be for drivin'," said Adam touching his hat, "an' Bess be thinkin' the same, I do believe!" and he patted the glossy coat of the mare, who arched her neck, and pawed the gravel with an impatient hoof. Lightly, and nimbly Anthea swung herself up to the high seat, turning to make Small Porges secure beside her, as Bellew handed him up.

"You'll—look after things for me, Adam?" said Anthea, glancing back wistfully into the dim recesses of the cool, old hall.

"Aye,—I will that, Miss Anthea!"

"Mr. Bellew, we can find room for you if you care to come with us?"

"Thanks," said he, shaking his head, "but I rather think I'll stay here, and—er—help Adam to—to—look after things, if you don't mind."

"Then,—'Good-bye!'" said Anthea, and, nodding to Adam, he gave the mare her head, and off they went.

"Good-bye!" cried Small Porges, "an' thank you for the shilling Uncle
Porges."

"The mare is—er—rather fresh this morning, isn't she, Adam?" enquired
Bellew, watching the dog-cart's rapid course.

"Fresh sir?"

"And that's rather a—er—dangerous sort of thing for a woman to drive, isn't it?"

"Meanin' the dog-cart, sir?"

"Meaning the dog-cart, Adam."

"Why, Lord love ye, Mr. Belloo sir!" cried Adam with his great laugh, "there ain't nobody can 'andle the ribbons better than Miss Anthea,—there ain't a horse as she can't drive,—ah! or ride, for that matter,—not no-wheres, sir."

"Hum!" said Bellew, and, having watched the dog-cart out of sight, he turned and followed Adam into the stables.

And here, sitting upon a bale of hay, they smoked many pipes together in earnest converse, until such time as the sale should begin.

As the day advanced, people began arriving in twos and threes, and, among the first, the Auctioneer himself. A jovial-faced man, was this Auctioneer, with jovial manner, and a jovial smile. Indeed, his joviality seemed, somehow or other, to have got into the very buttons of his coat, for they fairly winked, and twinkled with joviality. Upon catching sight of the furniture he became, if possible, more jovial than ever, and beckoning to his assistant,—that is to say to the small man with the red nose and the blue chin, who, it seemed answered to the name of Theodore,—he clapped him jovially upon the back,—(rather as though he were knocking him down to some unfortunate bidder),—and immediately fell into business converse with him,—albeit jovial still.

But all the while intending purchasers were arriving; they came on horse, and afoot, and in conveyances of every sort and kind, and the tread of their feet, and the buzz of their voices awoke unwonted echoes in the old place. And still they came, from far and near, until some hundred odd people were crowded into the hall.

Conspicuous among them was a large man with a fat, red neck which he was continually mopping at, and rubbing with a vivid bandanna handkerchief scarcely less red. Indeed, red seemed to be his pervading colour, for his hair was red, his hands were red, and his face, heavy and round, was reddest of all, out of whose flaming circumference two diminutive but very sharp eyes winked and blinked continually. His voice, like himself, was large with a peculiar brassy ring to it that penetrated to the farthest corners and recesses of the old hall. He was, beyond all doubt, a man of substance, and of no small importance, for he was greeted deferentially on all hands, and it was to be noticed that people elbowed each other to make way for him, as people ever will before substance, and property. To some of them he nodded, to some he spoke, and with others he even laughed, albeit he was of a solemn, sober, and serious nature, as becomes a man of property, and substance.

Between whiles, however, he bestowed his undivided attention upon the furniture. He sat down suddenly and heavily, in chairs; he pummelled them with his plump, red fists,—whereby to test their springs; he opened the doors of cabinets; he peered into drawers; he rapped upon tables, and altogether comported himself as a thoroughly knowing man should, who is not to be hocussed by veneer, or taken in by the shine, and splendour of well applied bees-wax. Bellew, watching all this from where he sat screened from the throng by a great carved sideboard, and divers chairs, and whatnots,—drew rather harder at his pipe, and, chancing to catch Adam's eye, beckoned him to approach.

"Who is that round, red man, yonder, Adam?" he enquired, nodding to where the individual in question was engaged at that moment poking at something or other with a large, sausage-like finger.

"That!" replied Adam in a tone of profound disgust, "that be Mr. Grimes, o' Cranbrook, sir. Calls hisself a corn-chandler,—but I calls 'im,—well, never mind what, sir,—only it weren't at corn-chandling as 'e made all 'is money, sir,—and it be him as we all work, and slave for,—here at Dapplemere Farm."

"What do you mean, Adam?"

"I mean as it be him as holds the mortgage on Dapplemere, sir."

"Ah,—and how much?"

"Over three thousand pound, Mr. Belloo sir!" sighed Adam, with a hopeless shake of the head, "an' that be a powerful lot o' money, sir."

Bellew thought of the sums he had lavished upon his yacht, upon his three racing cars, and certain other extravagances. Three thousand pounds,—fifteen thousand dollars! It would make her a free woman,—independent,—happy! Just fifteen thousand dollars,—and he had thrown away more than that upon a poker game, before now!

"Lord!" exclaimed Adam, "the very sight o' that theer Grimes's pig eyes a-starin' at Miss Anthea's furnitur' do make the Old Adam rise up in me to that amazin' extent, Mr. Belloo sir—why, jest look at 'im a-thumpin' an' a poundin' at that theer chair!" Saying which, Adam turned, and elbowing his way to where Mr. Grimes was in the act of testing the springs of an easy chair, he promptly,—and as though forced by a struggling mob,—fell up against Mr. Grimes, and jostled Mr. Grimes, and trod heavily upon the toes of Mr. Grimes, and all with an expression of the most profound unconsciousness and abstraction, which, upon the indignant Corn-chandler's loud expostulations, immediately changed to a look of innocent surprise.

"Can't you look where you're going?—you clumsy fool!" fumed the irate
Grimes, redder of neck than ever.

"Ax your pardon, Mr. Grimes," said Adam solemnly, "but what wi' people's legs, an' cheer legs, an' the legs o' tables,—not to mention sideboards an' cab'nets,—which, though not 'aving no legs, ain't to be by no manner o' means despised therefore,—w'ot wi' this an' that, an' t'other, I am that con-fined, or as you might say, con-fused, I don't know which legs is mine, or yourn, or anybody else's. Mr. Grimes sir,—I makes so bold as to ax your pardon all over again, sir." During which speech, Adam contrived, once more, to fall against, to tread upon, and to jostle the highly incensed Mr. Grimes back into the crowd again. Thereafter he became a Nemesis to Mr. Grimes, haunting him through the jungle of chairs, and tables, pursuing him into distant corners, and shady places, where, so sure as the sausage-like finger poised itself for an interrogatory poke, or the fat, red fist doubled itself for a spring-testing punch, the innocent-seeming Adam would thereupon fall against him from the rear, sideways, or in front.

Meanwhile, Bellew sat in his secluded corner, watching the crowd through the blue wreaths of his pipe, but thinking of her who, brave though she was, had nevertheless run away from it all at the last moment. Presently, however, he was aware that the Corn-chandler had seated himself on the other side of the chiffonier, puffing, and panting with heat, and indignation,—where he was presently joined by another individual,—a small, rat-eyed man, who bid Mr. Grimes a deferential "Good-day!"

"That there Adam," puffed the Corn-chandler, "that there Adam ought to be throwed out into the stables where he belongs. I never see a man as was so much growed to feet and elbers, in all my days! He ought to be took," repeated the Corn-chandler, "and shook, and throwed out into the yard."

"Yes," nodded the other, "took, and shook, and throwed out—neck, and crop, sir! And now,—what might you think o' the furniture, Mr. Grimes?"

"So so, Parsons," nodded Grimes, "so so!"

"Shall you buy?"

"I am a-going," said the Corn-chandler with much deliberation, "I am a-going to take them tapestry cheers, sir, likewise the grand-feyther clock in the corner here, likewise the four-post bed-stead wi' the carved 'ead-board,—and—most particular, Parsons, I shall take this here side-board. There ain't another piece like this in the county, as I know of,—solid ma-hogany, sir!—and the carvings!" and herewith, he gave two loud double knocks upon the article of furniture in question. "Oh! I've 'ad my eye on this side-board for years, and years,—knowed I'd get it some day, too,—the only wonder is as she ain't had to sell up afore now."

"Meaning Miss Anthea, sir?"

"Ah,—her! I say as it's a wonder to me,—wo't wi' the interest on the mortgage I 'old on the place, and one thing and another,—it's a wonder to me as she's kept her 'ead above water so long. But—mark me, Parsons, mark me,—she'll be selling again soon, and next time it'll be lock, stock, and barrel, Parsons!"

"Well, I don't 'old wi' women farmers, myself!" nodded Parsons. "But,—as to that cup-board over there,—Sheraton, I think,—what might you suppose it to be worth,—betwixt friends, now?" enquired Parsons, the rat eyed.

"Can't say till I've seed it, and likewise felt it," answered the Corn-chandler, rising. "Let me lay my 'and upon it, and I'll tell you—to a shilling," and here, they elbowed their way into the crowd. But Bellew sat there, chin in hand, quite oblivious to the fact that his pipe was out, long since.

The tall, old grand-father clock ticking in leisurely fashion in the corner behind him, solemn and sedate, as it had done since, (as the neat inscription upon the dial testified), it had first been made in the Year of Grace 1732, by one Jabez Havesham, of London;—this ancient time-piece now uttered a sudden wheeze, (which, considering its great age, could scarcely be wondered at), and, thereafter, the wheezing having subsided, gave forth a soft, and mellow chime, proclaiming to all and sundry, that it was twelve o'clock. Hereupon, the Auctioneer, bustling to and fro with his hat upon the back of his head, consulted his watch, nodded to the red nosed, blue-chinned Theodore, and, perching himself above the crowd, gave three sharp knocks with his hammer.

"Gentlemen!" he began, but here he was interrupted by a loud voice upraised in hot anger.

"Confound ye for a clumsy rascal! Will ye keep them elbers o' yourn to out o' my weskit, eh? Will ye keep them big feet o' yourn to yeself? If there ain't room enough for ye,—out ye go, d'ye hear—I'll have ye took, and shook,—and throwed out where ye belong; so jest mind where ye come a trampin', and a treadin'."

"Tread!" repeated Adam, "Lord! where am I to tread? If I steps backward I tread on ye,—If I steps sideways I tread on ye, if I steps for-ard I tread on ye. It do seem to me as I can't go nowhere but there you be a-waitin' to be trod on, Mr. Grimes, sir."

Hereupon the Auctioneer rapped louder than ever, upon which, the clamour subsiding, he smiled his most jovial smile, and once more began:

"Gentlemen! you have all had an opportunity to examine the furniture I am about to dispose of, and, as fair minded human beings I think you will admit that a finer lot of genuine antique was never offered at one and the same time. Gentlemen, I am not going to burst forth into laudatory rodomontade, (which is a word, gentlemen that I employ only among an enlightened community such as I now have the honour of addressing),—neither do I propose to waste your time in purposeless verbiage, (which is another of the same kind, gentlemen),—therefore, without further preface, or preamble, we will proceed at once to business. The first lot I have to offer you is a screen,—six foot high,—bring out the screen, Theodore! There it is, gentlemen,—open it out, Theodore! Observe, Gentlemen it is carved rosewood, the panels hand painted, and representing shepherds, and shepherdesses, disporting themselves under a tree with banjo and guitar. Now what am I offered for this hand-painted, antique screen,—come?"

"Fifteen shillings!" from someone deep hidden in the crowd.

"Start as low as you like, gentlemen! I am offered a miserable fifteen shillings for a genuine, hand-painted—"

"Sixteen!" this from a long, loose-limbed fellow with a patch over one eye, and another on his cheek.

"A pound!" said Adam, promptly.

"A guinea!" nodded he of the patches.

"Twenty-five shillin's!" said Adam.

"At twenty-five shillings!" cried the Auctioneer, "any advance?—a genuine, hand-painted, antique screen,—going at twenty-five—at twenty-five,—going—going—gone! To the large gentleman in the neckcloth, Theodore!"

"Theer be that Job Jagway, sir," said Adam, leaning across the side-board to impart this information,—"over yonder, Mr. Belloo sir,—'im as was bidding for the screen,—the tall chap wi' the patches. Two patches be pretty good, but I do wish as I'd give him a couple more, while I was about it, Mr. Belloo sir." Here, the Auctioneer's voice put an end to Adam's self-reproaches, and he turned back to the business in hand.

"The next lot I'm going to dispose of, gentlemen, is a fine set of six chairs with carved antique backs, and upholstered in tapestry. Also two arm-chairs to match,—wheel 'em out, Theodore! Now what is your price for these eight fine pieces,—look 'em over and bid accordingly."

"Thirty shillings!" Again from the depths of the crowd.

"Ha! ha!—you joke sir!" laughed the Auctioneer, rubbing his hands in his most jovial manner, "you joke! I can't see you, but you joke of course, and I laugh accordingly, ha! ha! Thirty shillings for eight, fine, antique, tapestried, hand-carved chairs,—Oh very good,—excellent, upon my soul!"

"Three pound!" said the fiery-necked Corn-chandler.

"Guineas!" said the rat-eyed Parsons.

"Four pound!" nodded the Corn-chandler.

"Four pound ten!" roared Adam.

"Five!" nodded Grimes, edging away from Adam's elbow.

"Six pound ten!" cried Adam.

"Seven!"—from Parsons.

"Eight!" said Grimes.

"Ten!" roared Adam, growing desperate.

"Eleven!" said Grimes, beginning to mop at his neck again.

Adam hesitated; eleven pounds seemed so very much for those chairs, that he had seen Prudence and the rosy-cheeked maids dust regularly every morning, and then,—it was not his money, after all. Therefore Adam hesitated, and glanced wistfully towards a certain distant corner.

"At eleven,—at eleven pounds!—this fine suite of hand-carved antique chairs, at eleven pounds!—at eleven!—at eleven, going—going!—"

"Fifteen!" said a voice from the distant corner; whereupon Adam drew a great sigh of relief, while the Corn-chandler contorted himself in his efforts to glare at Bellew round the side-board.

"Fifteen pounds!" chanted the Auctioneer, "I have fifteen,—I am given fifteen,—any advance? These eight antique chairs, going at fifteen!—going! for the last time,—going!—gone! Sold to the gentleman in the corner behind the side-board, Theodore."

"They were certainly fine chairs, Mr. Grimes!" said Parsons shaking his head.

"So so!" said the Corn-chandler, sitting down heavily, "So so, Parsons!" and he turned to glare at Bellew, who, lying back in an easy chair with his legs upon another, puffed at his pipe, and regarded all things with a placid interest.

It is not intended to record in these pages all the bids that were made as the afternoon advanced, for that would be fatiguing to write, and a weariness to read; suffice it that lots were put up, and regularly knocked down but always to Bellew, or Adam. Which last, encouraged by Bellew's bold advances, gaily roared down, and constantly out-bid all competitors with such unhesitating pertinacity, that murmurs rose, and swelled into open complaint. In the midst of which, the fiery-visaged Corn-chandler, purple now, between heat, and vexation, loudly demanded that he lay down some substantial deposit upon what he had already purchased, failing which, he should, there and then, be took, and shook, and throwed out into the yard.

"Neck, and crop!" added Mr. Parsons.

"That seems to be a fair proposition," smiled the Auctioneer, who had already experienced some doubts as to Adam's financial capabilities, yet with his joviality all unruffled,—"that seems to be a very fair proposal indeed. If the gentleman will put down some substantial deposit now—"

"Aye, for sure!" nodded Adam, stepping forward; and, unbuttoning a capacious pocket he drew out a handful of bank-notes, "shall I gi'e ye a hundred pound,—or will fifty be enough?"

"Why," said the Auctioneer, rubbing his hands as he eyed the fistful of bank-notes, "ten pound will be all that is necessary, sir,—just to ensure good faith, you understand."

Hereupon, Bellew beckoning to Adam, handed him a like amount which was duly deposited with the Auctioneer.

So, once more, the bidding began,—once more lots were put up,—and knocked down—now to Adam, and now to Bellew. The bed with the carved head-board had fallen to Adam after a lively contest between him, and Parsons, and the Corn-chandler, which had left the latter in a state of perspiring profanity, from which he was by no means recovered, when the Auctioneer once more rapped for silence.

"And now, gentlemen, last, but by no means least, we come to the gem of the sale,—a side-board, gentlemen,—a magnificent, mahogany side-board, being a superb example of the carver's art! Here is a side-board, gentlemen, which,—if it can be equalled,—cannot be excelled—no, gentlemen, not if you were to search all the baronial halls, and lordly mansions in this land of mansions, and baronials. It is a truly magnificent piece, in perfect condition,—and to be sold at your own price. I say no more. Gentlemen,—how much for this magnificent, mahogany piece?"

"Ten pound!"

"Eleven!"

"Fifteen!"

"Seventeen!" said Adam, who was rapidly drawing near the end of his resources.

"Eighteen!" This from Job Jagway.

"Go easy there, Job!" hissed Adam, edging a little nearer to him, "go easy, now,—Nineteen!"

"Come, come Gentlemen!" remonstrated the Auctioneer, "this isn't a coal-scuttle, nor a broom, nor yet a pair of tongs,—this is a magnificent mahogany side-board,—and you offer me—nineteen pound!"

"Twenty!" said Job.

"Twenty-one!" roared Adam, making his last bid, and then, turning, he hissed in Job's unwilling ear,—"go any higher, an' I'll pound ye to a jelly, Job!"

"Twenty-five!" said Parsons.

"Twenty-seven!"

"Twenty-eight!"

"Thirty!" nodded Grimes, scowling at Adam.

"Thirty-two!" cried Parsons.

"Thirty-six!"

"Thirty-seven!"

"Forty!" nodded Grimes.

"That drops me," said Parsons, sighing, and shaking his head.

"Ah!" chuckled the Corn-chandler, "well, I've waited years for that side-board, Parsons, and I ain't going to let you take it away from me—nor nobody else, sir!"

"At forty!" cried the Auctioneer, "at forty!—this magnifi—"

"One!" nodded Bellew, beginning to fill his pipe.

"Forty-one's the bid,—I have forty-one from the gent in the corner—"

"Forty-five!" growled the Corn-chandler.

"Six!" said Bellew.

"Fifty!" snarled Grimes.

"One!" said Bellew.

"Gent in the corner gives me fifty-one!" chanted the Auctioneer—"any advance?—at fifty-one—"

"Fifty-five!" said Grimes, beginning to mop at his neck harder than ever.

"Add ten!" nodded Bellew.

"What's that?" cried Grimes, wheeling about.

"Gent in the corner offers me sixty-five,—at sixty-five,—this magnificent piece at sixty-five! What, are you all done?—at sixty-five, and cheap at the price,—come, gentlemen, take your time, give it another look over, and bid accordingly."

The crowd had dwindled rapidly during the last hour, which was scarcely to be wondered at seeing that they were constantly out-bid—either by a hoarse voiced, square-shouldered fellow in a neck-cloth, or a dreamy individual who lolled in a corner, and puffed at a pipe.

But now, as Grimes, his red cheeks puffed out, his little eyes snapping in a way that many knew meant danger (with a large D)—as the rich Corn-chandler, whose word was law to a good many, turned and confronted this lounging, long-legged individual,—such as remained closed round them in a ring, in keen expectation of what was to follow. Observing which, the Corn-chandler feeling it incumbent upon him now or never, to vindicate himself as a man of property, and substance, and not to be put down, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, spread his legs wide apart, and stared at Bellew in a way that most people had found highly disconcerting, before now. Bellew, however, seemed wholly unaffected, and went on imperturbably filling his pipe.

"At sixty-five!" cried the Auctioneer, leaning towards Grimes with his hammer poised, "at sixty-five—Will you make it another pound, sir!—come,—what do you say?"

"I say—no sir!" returned the Corn-chandler, slowly, and impressively, "I say no, sir,—I say—make it another—twenty pound, sir!" Hereupon heads were shaken, or nodded, and there rose the sudden shuffle of feet as the crowd closed in nearer.

"I get eighty-five! any advance on eighty-five?"

"Eighty-six!" said Bellew, settling the tobacco in his pipe-bowl with his thumb.

Once again the Auctioneer leaned over and appealed to the Corn-chandler, who stood in the same attitude, jingling the money in his pocket, "Come sir, don't let a pound or so stand between you and a side-board that can't be matched in the length and breadth of the United Kingdom,—come, what do you say to another ten shillings?"

"I say, sir," said Grimes, with his gaze still riveted upon Bellew, "I say—no sir,—I say make it another—twenty pound sir!"

Again there rose the shuffle of feet, again heads were nodded, and elbows nudged neighbouring ribs, and all eyes were focussed upon Bellew who was in the act of lighting his pipe.

"One hundred and six pounds!" cried the Auctioneer, "at one six!—at one six!—"

Bellew struck a match, but the wind from the open casement behind him, extinguished it.

"I have one hundred and six pounds! is there any advance, yes or no?—going at one hundred and six!"

Adam who, up till now, had enjoyed the struggle to the utmost, experienced a sudden qualm of fear.

Bellew struck another match.

"At one hundred and six pounds!—at one six,—going at one hundred and six pounds—!"

A cold moisture started out on Adam's brow, he clenched his hands, and muttered between his teeth. Supposing the money were all gone, like his own share, supposing they had to lose this famous old side-board,—and to Grimes of all people! This, and much more, was in Adam's mind while the Auctioneer held his hammer poised, and Bellew went on lighting his pipe.

"Going at one hundred and six!—going!—going!—"

"Fifty up!" said Bellew. His pipe was well alight at last, and he was nodding to the Auctioneer through a fragrant cloud.

"What!" cried Grimes, "'ow much?"

"Gent in the corner gives me one hundred and fifty six pounds," said the Auctioneer, with a jovial eye upon the Corn-chandler's lowering visage, "one five six,—all done?—any advance? Going at one five six,—going! going!—gone!" The hammer fell, and with its tap a sudden silence came upon the old hall. Then, all at once, the Corn-chandler turned, caught up his hat, clapped it on, shook a fat fist at Bellew, and crossing to the door, lumbered away, muttering maledictions as he went.

By twos and threes the others followed him until there remained only Adam, Bellew, the Auctioneer, and the red-nosed Theodore. And yet, there was one other, for, chancing to raise his eyes to the minstrel's gallery, Bellew espied Miss Priscilla, who, meeting his smiling glance, leaned down suddenly over the carved rail, and very deliberately, threw him a kiss, and then hurried away with a quick, light tap-tap of her stick.

CHAPTER XIII

How Anthea came home

"Lord!" said Adam, pausing with a chair under either arm, "Lord, Mr. Belloo sir,—I wonder what Miss Anthea will say?" with which remark he strode off with the two chairs to set them in their accustomed places.

Seldom indeed had the old hall despite its many years, seen such a running to and fro, heard such a patter of flying feet, such merry voices, such gay, and heart-felt laughter. For here was Miss Priscilla, looking smaller than ever, in a great arm chair whence she directed the disposal and arrangement of all things, with quick little motions of her crutch-stick. And here were the two rosy-cheeked maids, brighter and rosier than ever, and here was comely Prudence hither come from her kitchen to bear a hand, and here, as has been said, was Adam, and here also was Bellew, his pipe laid aside with his coat, pushing, and tugging in his efforts to get the great side-board back into its customary position; and all, as has also been said, was laughter, and bustle, and an eager haste to have all things as they were,—and should be henceforth,—before Anthea's return.

"Lord!" exclaimed Adam again, balanced now upon a ladder, and pausing to wipe his brow with one hand and with a picture swinging in the other, "Lord! what ever will Miss Anthea say, Mr. Belloo sir!"

"Ah!" nodded Bellew thoughtfully, "I wonder!"

"What do you suppose she'll say, Miss Priscilla, mam?"

"I think you'd better be careful of that picture, Adam!"

"Which means," said Bellew, smiling down into Miss Priscilla's young, bright eyes, "that you don't know."

"Well, Mr. Bellew, she'll be very—glad, of course,—happier I think, than you or I can guess, because I know she loves every stick, and stave of that old furniture,—but—"

"But!" nodded Bellew, "yes, I understand."

"Mr. Bellew, if Anthea,—God bless her dear heart!—but if she has a fault—it is pride, Mr. Bellew, Pride! Pride! Pride!—with a capital P!"

"Yes, she is very proud."

"She'll be that 'appy-'earted," said Adam, pausing near-by with a great armful of miscellaneous articles, "an' that full o' joy as never was! Mr. Belloo sir!" Having delivered himself of which, he departed with his load.

"I rose this morning—very early, Mr. Bellew,—Oh! very early!" said Miss Priscilla, following Adam's laden figure with watchful eyes, "couldn't possibly sleep, you see. So I got up,—ridiculously early,—but, bless you, she was before me!"

"Ah!"

"Oh dear yes!—had been up—hours! And what—what do you suppose she was doing?" Bellew shook his head.

"She was rubbing and polishing that old side-board that you paid such a dreadful price for,—down on her knees before it,—yes she was! and polishing, and rubbing, and—crying all the while. Oh dear heart! such great, big tears,—and so very quiet! When she heard my little stick come tapping along she tried to hide them,—I mean her tears, of course, Mr. Bellew, and when I drew her dear, beautiful head down into my arms, she—tried to smile. 'I'm so very silly, Aunt Priscilla,' she said, crying more than ever, 'but it is so hard to let the old things be taken away,—you see,—I do love them so! I tell you all this, Mr. Bellew, because I like you,—ever since you took the trouble to pick up a ball of worsted for a poor, old lame woman—in an orchard,—first impressions, you know. And secondly, I tell you all this to explain to you why I—hum!—"

"Threw a kiss—from a minstrel's gallery, to a most unworthy individual,
Aunt Priscilla?"

"Threw you a kiss, Mr. Bellew,—I had to,—the side-board you know,—on her knees—you understand?"

"I understand!"

"You see, Mr. Belloo sir," said Adam, at this juncture, speaking from beneath an inlaid table which he held balanced upon his head,—"it ain't as if this was jest ordinary furnitur' sir,—ye see she kind-er feels as it be all part o' Dapplemere Manor, as it used to be called, it's all been here so long, that them cheers an' tables has come to be part o' the 'ouse, sir. So when she comes, an' finds as it ain't all been took,—or, as you might say,—vanished away,—why the question as I ax's you is,—w'ot will she say? Oh Lord!" And here, Adam gave vent to his great laugh which necessitated an almost superhuman exertion of strength to keep the table from slipping from its precarious perch. Whereupon Miss Priscilla screamed, (a very small scream, like herself) and Prudence scolded, and the two rosy-cheeked maids tittered, and Adam went chuckling upon his way.

And when the hall was, once more, its old, familiar, comfortable self, when the floor had been swept of its litter, and every trace of the sale removed,—then Miss Priscilla sighed, and Bellew put on his coat.

"When do you expect—she will come home?" he enquired, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Well, if she drove straight back from Cranbrook she would be here now,—but I fancy she won't be so very anxious to get home to-day,—and may come the longest way round; yes, it's in my mind she will keep away from Dapplemere as long as ever she can."

"And I think," said Bellew, "Yes, I think I'll take a walk. I'll go and call upon the Sergeant."

"The Sergeant!" said Miss Priscilla, "let me see,—it is now a quarter to six, it should take you about fifteen minutes to the village, that will make it exactly six o'clock. You will find the Sergeant just sitting down in the chair on the left hand side of the fire-place,—in the corner,—at the 'King's Head,' you know. Not that I have ever seen him there,—good gracious no! but I—happen to be—acquainted with his habits, and he is as regular and precise as his great, big silver watch, and that is the most precise, and regular thing in all the world. I am glad you are going," she went on, "because to-day is—well, a day apart, Mr. Bellew. You will find the Sergeant at the 'King's Head,'—until half past seven."

"Then I will go to the 'King's Head,'" said Bellew. "And what message do you send him?"

"None," said Miss Priscilla, laughing and shaking her head,—"at least,—you can tell him, if you wish,—that—the peaches are riper than ever they were this evening."

"I won't forget," said Bellew, smiling, and went out into the sunshine. But, crossing the yard, he was met by Adam, who, chuckling still, paused to touch his hat.

"To look at that theer 'all, sir, you wouldn't never know as there'd ever been any sale at all,—not no'ow. Now the only question as worrits me, and as I'm a-axin' of myself constant is,—what will Miss Anthea 'ave to say about it?"

"Yes," said Bellew, "I wonder!" And so he turned, and went away slowly across the fields.

Miss Priscilla had been right,—Anthea was coming back the longest way round,—also she was anxious to keep away from Dapplemere as long as possible. Therefore, despite Small Porges' exhortations, and Bess's champing impatience, she held the mare in, permitting her only the slowest of paces, which was a most unusual thing for Anthea to do. For the most part, too, she drove in silence seemingly deaf to Small Porges' flow of talk, which was also very unlike in her. But before her eyes were visions of her dismantled home, in her ears was the roar of voices clamouring for her cherished possessions,—a sickening roar, broken, now and then, by the hollow tap of the auctioneer's cruel hammer. And, each time the clamouring voices rose, she shivered, and every blow of the cruel hammer seemed to fall upon her quivering heart. Thus, she was unwontedly deaf and unresponsive to Small Porges, who presently fell into a profound gloom, in consequence; and thus, she held in the eager mare who therefore, shied, and fidgeted, and tossed her head indignantly.

But, slowly as they went, they came within sight of the house, at last, with its quaint gables, and many latticed windows, and the blue smoke curling up from its twisted chimneys,—smiling and placid as though, in all this great world, there were no such thing to be found as—an auctioneer's hammer.

And presently they swung into the drive, and drew up in the courtyard. And there was Adam, waiting to take the mare's head,—Adam, as good-natured, and stolid as though there were no abominations called, for want of a worse name,—sales.

Very slowly, for her, Anthea climbed down from the high dog-cart, aiding Small Porges to earth, and with his hand clasped tight in hers, and with lips set firm, she turned and entered the hall. But, upon the threshold, she stopped, and stood there utterly still, gazing, and gazing upon the trim orderliness of everything. Then, seeing every well remembered thing in its appointed place,—all became suddenly blurred, and dim, and, snatching her hand from Small Porges' clasp, she uttered a great, choking sob, and covered her face.

But Small Porges had seen, and stood aghast, and Miss Priscilla had seen, and now hurried forward with a quick tap, tap of her stick. As she came, Anthea raised her head, and looked for one who should have been there, but was not. And, in that moment, instinctively she knew how things came to be as they were,—and, because of this knowledge, her cheeks flamed with a swift, burning colour, and with a soft cry, she hid her face in Miss Priscilla's gentle bosom. Then, while her face was yet hidden there, she whispered:

"Tell me—tell me—all about it."

But, meanwhile, Bellew, striding far away across the meadows, seeming to watch the glory of the sun-set, and to hearken to a blackbird piping from the dim seclusion of the copse a melodious "Good-bye" to the dying day, yet saw, and heard it not at all, for his mind was still occupied with Adam's question:—

"What would Miss Anthea say?"

CHAPTER XIV

Which, among, other things, has to do with shrimps, muffins, and tin whistles

A typical Kentish Village is Dapplemere with its rows of scattered cottages bowered in roses and honeysuckle,—white walled cottages with steep-pitched roofs, and small latticed windows that seem to stare at all and sundry like so many winking eyes.

There is an air redolent of ripening fruit, and hops, for Dapplemere is a place of orchards, and hop-gardens, and rick-yards, while, here and there, the sharp-pointed, red-tiled roof of some oast-house pierces the green.

Though Dapplemere village is but a very small place indeed, now-a-days,—yet it possesses a church, grey and ancient, whose massive Norman tower looks down upon gable and chimney, upon roof of thatch and roof of tile, like some benignant giant keeping watch above them all. Near-by, of course, is the inn, a great, rambling, comfortable place, with time-worn settles beside the door, and with a mighty sign a-swinging before it, upon which, plainly to be seen (when the sun catches it fairly) is that which purports to be a likeness of His Majesty King William the Fourth, of glorious memory. But alas! the colours have long since faded, so that now, (upon a dull day), it is a moot question whether His Majesty's nose was of the Greek, or Roman order, or, indeed, whether he was blessed with any nose at all. Thus, Time and Circumstances have united to make a ghost of the likeness (as they have done of the original, long since) which, fading yet more, and more, will doubtless eventually vanish altogether,—like King William himself, and leave but a vague memory behind.

Now, before the inn was a small crowd gathered about a trap in which sat two men, one of whom Bellew recognised as the rednecked Corn-chandler Grimes, and the other, the rat-eyed Parsons.

The Corn-chandler was mopping violently at his face and neck down which ran, and to which clung, a foamy substance suspiciously like the froth of beer, and, as he mopped, his loud brassy voice shook and quavered with passion.