 CHAPTER XXVI. Evening had deepened into night, a night of ineffable calm, a night of an all-pervading quietude. A horse snorted in the stable nearby, a dog barked in the distance, but these sounds served only to render the silence the more profound by contrast. It was indeed a night wherein pixies and elves and goblins and fairies might weep their magic spells. A night wherein tired humanity dreamed those dreams that seemed so hopelessly impossible by day. And overall the moon rose high and higher in solemn majesty, filling the world with her pale loveliness and brooding over it like the gentle goddess she is. Even the distant dog seemed to feel something of all this for, after a futile bark or two, he gave it up altogether and was heard no more. And Bellow, gazing up at Luna's pale serenity, smiled and nodded as much to say, you'll do, and so stood leaning upon his spade, listening to that deep hush which seems a sigh breathed by earth to listening sky. Now all at once upon this quietude there rose a voice upraised in fervent supplication, wherefore, treading very softly, Bellow came and peeping round the hay-rick, beheld small porges upon his knees. He was equipped for travel and the perils of the road, for beside him lay a stick, and tied to this stick was a bundle that bulged with his most cherished possessions. His cheeks were wet with great tears that glistened in the moon-beams, but he wept with eyes tight shut and with his small hands clasped close together, and thus he spoke, albeit much shaken, and hindered by sobs. I suppose you think I bother you an awful lot, dear lord, and so I do, but you haven't sent the money-moon yet, you see, and now my auntie on face got to leave Dappomir, if I don't find the fortune for her soon. I know I'm crying a lot, and real men don't cry, but it's only because I'm awful, lonely and disappointed, and nobody can see me so it doesn't matter, but dear lord, I've looked and looked everywhere, and I haven't found a single sovereign yet, and I've prayed to you, and prayed to you for the money-moon, and it's never come. So now, dear lord, I'm going to Africa, and I want you to please take care of my auntie on face till I come back. Sometimes I'm afraid my prayers can't quite manage to get up to you, because of the clouds and wind, but tonight there isn't any, so if they do reach you, please, oh please, let me find the fortune, and if you don't mind, let him come back to me, dear lord, I mean my uncle Porches, you know, and now that's all, dear lord, so amen. As the prayer ended, Bellew stole back, and, coming to the gate of the rickyard, leaned there waiting, and presently, as he watched, he saw a small fig tree merge from behind the big haystack and come striding manfully toward him, his bundle upon his shoulder, and with the moon bright in his curls. But, all at once, small Porches saw him and stopped, and the stick and bundle fell to the ground and lay neglected. Why, my Porches, said Bellew at trifle huskily, perhaps, why, shipmate, and he held out his hands. Then small Porches uttered a cry, and came running, and in next moment big Porches had him in his arms. Oh, uncle Porches, then you have come back to me. Aye, aye, shipmate, why, then, my prayers did reach. Why, of course, prayers always reach, my Porches. Then, oh, do you suppose I shall find the fortune, too? Not a doubt of it. Just look at the moon. The moon? Why, haven't you noticed how peculiar it is tonight? A peculiar repeated small Porches breathlessly, turning to look at it. Why, yes, my Porches, big, you know, and yellow, like a very large sovereign. Do you mean—oh, do you mean it's the— But here small Porches choked suddenly, and could only look his question. Well, the money-moon? Oh, yes, there it is at last, my Porches. Take a good look at her. I don't suppose we shall ever see another. Small Porches stood very still, and gazed up at the moon's broad yellow disc, and as he looked, the tears welled up in his eyes again, and a great sob broke from him. I'm so glad—he whispered so awful glad. Then suddenly he dashed away his tears and slipped his small trembling hand into bellows. Quick, Uncle Porches, said he, Mr. Crimes is coming tonight, you know, and we must find the money in time. Where shall we look first? Well, I guess the orchard will do, to start with. Then let's go, now. But we shall need a couple spades, shipmate. Oh, must we dig? Yes, I fancy that's a—a digging moon, my Porches, from the look of it. Ah, there's a spade, nice and handy. You take that, and I'll—I'll manage with this pitchfork. But you can't dig with a—oh, well, you can do the digging, and I'll just, uh, prod, you know. Ready? Then heave ahead, shipmate. So they set out, hand in hand, spade and pitchfork on shoulder, and presently were come to the orchard. It's an awful big place to dig up a fortune in, said small Porches, glancing about. Where do you suppose we better begin? Well, shipmate, between you and me, under the pitchfork here, I rather fancy King Arthur knows more than most people would think. Anyway, we'll try him. You dig on that side, and I'll prod on this. Saying which, Bell who pointed to a certain spot where the grass looked somewhat uneven and peculiarly bumpy, and bidding small Porches get to work, went round to the other side of the great tree. Being there, he took out his pipe, purely from force of habit, and stood with it clenched in his teeth, listening to the scrape of small Porches' spade. Presently he heard a cry, a panting, breathless cry but full of joy unspeakable. I've got it! Oh, Uncle Porches! I've found it! Small Porches was down upon his knees, pulling and tugging at a sack he had partially unearthed, and which, with Bell who's aid, he dragged forth into the moonlight. In the twinkling of an eye the string was cut, and, plunging in a hand, small Porches brought up a fistful of shining sovereigns, and among them a crumpled banknote. It's all right, Uncle Porches! he nodded, his voice all of a quaver. It's all right now! I've found the fortune I've prayed for. Gold, you know, and banknotes in a sack. Everything will be all right now! And while he spoke he rose to his feet, and, lifting the sack with an effort, swung it across his shoulder, and set off toward the house. Is it heavy, shipmate? Awful heavy! he panted, but I don't mind it's gold, you see. But as they crossed the rose-garden, Bell who laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. Porches, said he, where is your Auntie Anfeya? In the drawing-room, waiting for Mr. Grimes. Then come this way. And, turning, Bell who led small Porches up and along the terrace. Now, my Porches, he admonished him, when we come to the drawing-room windows, they're open, you see. I want you to hide with me in the shadows, and wait until I give you the word. Aye, aye, Captain! panted small Porches. When I say, heave ahead, shipmate, why then you will take your treasure upon your back and march straight into the room, you understand? Aye, aye, Captain! Why, then, come on, and mum's the word. Very cautiously they approached the long French windows and paused in the shadow of a great rose-bush nearby. From where he stood, Bell who could see Anfeya and Miss Priscilla, and between them, sprawling in an easy chair, was Grimes, while Adam, hat in hand, scowled in the background. All I can say is I'm very sorry for you, Miss Anfeya, Grimes was saying. Ah, that I am, but glad as you've took it so well, no crying nor nonsense. Here he turned to look at Miss Priscilla, whose everlasting sowing had fallen to her feet, and lay there all unnoticed while her tearful eyes were fixed upon Anfeya, standing white-faced beside her. And when, when shall ye be ready to leave, to vacate Dappelmere, Miss Anfeya? Grimes went on. Not as I mean to hurry your mind, only I should like you to name a day. Now, as Bell who watched, he saw Anfeya's lips move, but no sound came. Miss Priscilla saw also, and, catching the nerveless hand, drew it to her bosom, and wept over it. Calm, calm, expostulated Grimes, jingling the money in his pockets. Calm, calm, Miss Anfeya, ma'am, all as I'm axing you is when. All as I want you to do is, but here, Adam, who had been screwing and ringing at his hat, now stepped forward and, tapping Grimes upon the shoulder, pointed to the door. Mr. Grimes, city, Miss Anfeya's told you all as you come here to find out. She's told you as she can't pay, so now suppose you go. But all I want to know is when she'll be ready to move, and I ain't a going till I do, so you get out of my way. Suppose you go, repeated Adam. Get out of my way, do you hear? Because, Adam went on, if you don't, Mr. Grimes, the old Adam be arising inside of me to that degree as I shall be frosted to catch you by the collar of your jacket, and heave you out, Mr. Grimes, sir, so suppose you go. Hereupon Mr. Grimes rose, put on his hat, and muttering to himself, stamped indignantly from the room, and Adam, shutting the door upon him, turned to Miss Anfeya, who stood white-lipped and dry-eyed, while gentle of Miss Priscilla fondled her listless hand. Don't, don't look that way, Miss Anfeya, said Adam. I'd rather see you cry than look so. It'd be hard to afterlet the old place go, but he've had chipmate. Whispered bellow, obedient to his command, small porges with his burden upon his back, ran forward and stumbled into the room. It's all right, Auntie Anfeya," he cried. I've got the fortune for you. I've found the money I prayed for. Here it is! Oh, here it is!" The sack fell jingling to the floor, and, at next moment, he had poured a heap of shining gold and crumbled banknotes at Anfeya's feet. For a moment no one moved. Then, with a strange horse cry, Adam had flung himself down upon his knees and caught up a great handful of the gold. Then, while Miss Priscilla sobbed with her arms about small porges, and Anfeya stared down at the treasure, wide-eyed, and with her hands pressed down upon her heart, Adam gave a sudden, great laugh, and, springing up, came running out through the window, never spying bellow in his haste, and shouting as he ran, Grimes! he roared. Oh, Grimes! Come back and be paid! Come back! We've had our little joke with you! Now come back and be paid!" Then, at last, Anfeya's stony calm was broken. Her bosom heaved with tempestuous sobs, and, next moment, she had thrown herself upon her knees and had clasped her arms about small porges and Aunt Priscilla mingling kisses with her tears. As for Bello, he turned away, and, treading a familiar path, found himself beneath the shadow of King Arthur. Therefore he sat down, and, lighting his pipe, stared up at the glory of the full-orbed moon. Happiness, said he, speaking his thought aloud, happiness shall come riding astride the full moon. Now I wonder. CHAPTER XXVII The Money-Moon, a romance, by Geoffrey Farnall. CHAPTER XXVII, in which is verified the adage of the cup and the lip. Now as he sat thus, plunged in thought, he heard the voice of one who approached in toning a familiar chant or refrain. His voice was harsh, albeit not unmusical, and the words of the chant were these. When I am dead, dittle, dittle, as well may hap, bury me deep, dittle, dittle, under the tap. Under the tap, dittle, dittle, I'll tell you. Lord! exclaimed the singer, breaking off suddenly. Be that you, Mr. Bello, sir. Stay in good soothe, Adam, the very same. But you sing, Adam? Ah! How you sing, Mr. Bello, sir? And if you ask me why, then I'll tell you because I'm happy-hearted and full of J-O-Y joy, sir. The mortgage be paid off at last, Mr. Bello, sir. Miss Anfeya be out of debt. Free, sir, and all along a master Georgie. God bless him. Oh! said Bello. That's good. Exclaimed Adam. Ah! Mr. Bello, sir. It be more than good. It saved Miss Anfeya's home for her. And betwixt to a niece, sir. I think it saved her, too. And it be all along of that master Georgie. Lord, sir, many is the time I've watched that there blessed boy a-seekin' and a-searchin' a-poken at a pryin' round the place a-lookin' for his fortune. But Lord bless my eyes and limbs, sir. I never thought as he'd find nothin'. Why, of course not, Adam. Ah! But that's just where I mistook Mr. Bello, sir. Because he did. Did what, Adam? Found the fortune as he were always a-lookin' for. A sack of gold and sovereign, sir. And banknotes, Mr. Bello, sir. Bushels on him. Enough. Ah! More and enough to pay off that mortgage, and to send that dear old Grimes about his business, and away from Dappelmere for good in all, sir. Oh! So Grimes is really paid off, then, is he, Adam? I done it myself, sir. With these here two ands. Three thousand pound, I counted over to him, and five hundred more in banknotes, sir, while Miss Anthea set by like one in a dream. Altogether, there were five thousand pound, as that blessed boy dug up out of the orchard. Done up all in a potato sack, under this very identical tree as Yume, a-setting under Mr. Bello, sir. Ah! God! I be half-minded to take a shovel and have a try at fortune-hottin' myself. Only there ain't much chance of finding another hereabouts. Besides, the boy prayed for that fortune. Ah! Long and hard he prayed, Mr. Bello, sir. And tooks due in me, sir. I ain't been much of a prayer myself since my old mother died. Anyhow, the mortgage be paid off, sir. Miss Anthea is free, and is joyful, and happy-hearted I be this night. Prudence and me'll be gettin' married soon now. And when I think of her, cookin'— Lord, Mr. Bello, sir, all is I say is God bless Master Georgie. Good night, sir. And may your dreams be as happy as mine. I'll be supposin' I do dray, which you seldom. Good night, sir." Long after Adam's cheery whistle had died away, Bello sat pipe in mouth, staring up at the moon. At length, however, he rose and turned his steps towards the house. Mr. Bello, he started, and turning, saw Anthea standing amid her roses. For a moment they looked upon each other in silence as though each dreaded to speak. Then suddenly she turned and broke a great rose from its stem and stood twisting it between her fingers. Why did you do it? she asked. Do it? he repeated. I mean the fortune. Georgie told me how you helped him to find it, and I know how it came there, of course. Why did you do it? You didn't tell him how it came there, asked Bello anxiously. No, she answered. I think it would break his heart if he knew. And I think it would have broken his heart if he had never found it, said Bello, and I couldn't let that happen, could I? Anthea did not answer, that he saw that her eyes were very bright in the shadow of her lashes, though she kept them lowered to the rose in her fingers. Anthea said he suddenly and reached out his hand to her, but she started and drew from his touch. Don't, she said, speaking almost in a whisper. Don't touch me. Oh, I know you have paid off the mortgage. You have bought back my home for me as you bought back my furniture. Why? why? I was nothing to you or you to me. Why have you lately under this obligation? You know I can never hope to return your money. Oh, why? Why did you do it? Because I... Love you, Anthea. Have loved you from the first, because everything I possess in the world is yours, even as I am. You forget, she broke and prowled her, you forget everything but my love for you, Anthea, everything but that I want you for my wife. I'm not much of a fellow, I know, but could you learn to love me enough to marry me some day, Anthea? Would you have dared to say this to me before tonight, before your money had bought back the roof over my head? Oh, haven't I been humiliated enough? You have taken from me the only thing I had left, my independence, stolen it from me. Oh, hadn't I been shamed enough? Now as she spoke she saw that his eyes were grown suddenly big and fierce, and at that moment her hands were caught in his powerful clasp. Let me go!" she cried. No! said he, shaking his head, not until you tell me if you love me. Speak, Anthea! Loose my hands! She threw up her head proudly and her eyes gleamed and her cheeks flamed with sudden anger. Loose me! she repeated. But Bellow only shook his head and his chin seemed rather more prominent than usual as he answered, tell me that you love me, or that you hate me, whichever it is, but until you do, you hurt me!" said she, and then, as his fingers relaxed. With a sudden, passionate cry she had broken free, but even so he had caught and swept her up in his arms and held her close against his breast. And now, feeling the hopelessness of further struggle, she lay passive while her eyes flamed up into his and his eyes looked down into hers. Her long, thick hair had come loose, and now, with a sudden quick gesture, she drew it across her face, veiling it from him. Wherefore he stooped his head above those lustrous tresses. Anthea! he murmured, and the masterful voice was strangely hesitating, and the masterful arms about her were wonderfully gentle. Anthea, do you love me? Lower he bent, and lower, until his lips touched her hair, until beneath that fragrant veil his mouth sought and found hers. And in that breathless moment he felt them quiver responsive to his caress. And then he had set her down, she was free, and he was looking at her with a newfound radiance in his eyes. Anthea! he said, wonderingly. Why, then, you do? But as he spoke, she hit her face in her hands. Anthea! he repeated. Oh! she whispered, I hate you, despise you. Oh! you shall be paid back every penny, every farthing, and very soon. Next week. I marry Mr. Cassilis. And so she turned, and fled away, and left him standing there amid the roses. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 28 Chapter 28 Chapter 28 Chapter 28 Chapter 28 Kristen left Dapalmer in the dawn. Far in the east, a grey streak marked the advent of another day, and upon all things was a solemn hush, a great, and awful, stillness that was like the stillness of death. The earth was a place of gloom and mist where spectral shadows writhed and twisted and flitted under a frowning heaven, and out of the gloom there came a breath, sharp and damp, and exceeding chill. Therefore, as Belugay's down from the frowning heaven to the gloom of earth below with its ever-moving, misty shapes, he shivered involuntarily. In another hour it would be day, and with the day the gates of Arcadia would open for his departure, and he must go forth to become once more a wanderer, going up and down and to and fro in the world until his course was run. And yet it was worth having lived for this one golden month, and in all his wanderings needs must he carry with him the memory of her who had taught him how deep and high, how wide and infinitely far-reaching that thing called love may really be. And Porges, dear quaint small Porges, where under heaven could he ever find again such utter faith such pure unaffected loyalty and devotion as throbbed within that small warm heart, how could he ever bid good-bye to loving-eager little small Porges. And then there was Miss Priscilla, and the strong gentle sergeant and Peter Day, and Sturdy Adam, and Prudence, and the rosy-cheeked maids. How well they all suited this wonderful Arcadia! Yes, indeed he, and he only, had been out of place, and so he must go, back to the every day matter-of-fact world. But how could he ever say good-bye to faithful loving small Porges? Far in the east the gray streak had brightened and broadened, and was already tinged with a faint pink that deepened and deepened as he watched. Although had seen the glory of many a sunrise and diver's wild places of the earth, and hither too had always felt deep within him the responsive thrill the exhilaration of hope newborn and joyful expectation of the great unknown future. But now he watched the varying cues of pink and scarlet and saffron and gold with gloomy brow and somber eyes. Now presently the blackbird who lived in the apple-tree beneath his window, the tree of the inquisitive turn of mind, this blackbird fellow, opening a drowsy eye, must needs give vent to a croak, very hoarse and feeble, then, apparently having yawned prodigiously and stretched himself wing and leg, he tried a couple of notes, in a hesitating, tentative sort of fashion, shook himself, repeated the two notes, tried three, found them mellower and more what the waiting world very justly expected of him, grew more confident, tried four, tried five, grew perfectly assured, and so burst forth into the full golden melody of his morning song. Then bellow, leaning out from his casement, as the first bright beams of the rising sun gilded the topmost leaves of the tree, thus apostrophized the unseen singer. I suppose you will be piping away down in your tree there, old fellow, long after Arcadia has faded out of my life. Well, it will be only natural and perfectly right, of course. She will be here and may perhaps stop to listen to you. Now if, somehow, you could manage to compose for me a song of memory some evening when I'm gone, some evening when she happens to be sitting idle and watching the moon rise over the upland yonder, if at such a time you could just manage to remind her of me why I'd thank you. And so good-bye, old fellow. Saying which, bellow turned from the window and took up a certain bulging, bestrapped portmanteau while the blackbird, having evidently hearkened to his request with much grave attention, fell a-singing more gloriously than ever. Meanwhile Bellow descended the great wide stair, soft afoot and cautious of step, yet pausing once to look towards a certain closed door, and so presently let himself quietly out into the dawn. The dew sparkled in the grass. It hung in glittering jewels from every leaf and twig, while, now and then, a shining drop would fall upon him as he passed, like a great tear. Now as he reached the orchard, up rose the sun in all his majesty, filling the world with the splendor of his coming, before whose kindly beams the skulking mists and shadows shrank afrighted, and fled utterly away. This morning King Arthur wore his grandest robes of state, for his mantle of green was thick sown with a myriad flaming gems, very different he looked from that dark shrouded giant who had so lately been conspirator number two. Yet perhaps for this very reason Bellow paused to lay a hand upon his mighty rugged ball, and, doing so, turned and looked back at the house of Dappelmere. And truly never had the old house seemed so beautiful, so quaint and peaceful as now. Its every stone and beam had become familiar, and, as he looked, seemed to find an individuality of its own. The very lattices seemed to look back at him like so many wistful eyes. Therefore George Bellow, American citizen, millionaire, traveller, explorer, and lover sighed as he turned away, sighed as he strode on through the green and golden morning, and resolutely looked back no more. CHAPTER XXIX Of the moon's message to small Porges, and how he told it to Bellow, in a whisper. Bellow walked on at a good pace with his back turned resolutely towards the house of Dappelmere, and thus, as he swung into that narrow grassy lane that wound away between trees, he was much surprised to hear a distant hail. Facing sharp about, he aspired a diminutive figure whose small legs trotted very fast, and whose small fist waved a weather-beaten cap. Bellow's first impulse was to turn and run. But Bellow rarely acted on impulse. Before he set down the bulging portmanteau, seated himself upon it, and, taking out pipe and tobacco, waited for his pursuer to come up. "'Oh, Uncle Porges!' panted a voice. "'You did walk so awful fast, and I called and called, but you never heard. And now, please, where are you going?' "'Going,' said Bellow, searching through his pockets for a match. "'Going, my Porges, why?' "'For a stroll, to be sure. Just to walk before breakfast, you know. But then why have you brought your bag?' "'Bag,' repeated Bellow, stooping down to look at it. "'Why? So I have. Please, why?' persisted small Porges, suddenly anxious. "'Why did you bring it?' "'Well, I expected it was to bear me company. But how is it you are out so very early, my Porges?' "'Why, I couldn't sleep last night, you know, because I kept on thinking and thinking about the fortune. So I got up in the middle of the night, and dressed myself, and sat in the big chair by the window, and looked at the money-moon. And I stared at it, and stared at it, till a wonderful thing happened. And what do you suppose?' "'I don't know.' "'Well, all at once, while I stared up at it, the moon changed itself into a great big face. But I didn't mind a bit, because it was a very nice sort of face, rather like a gnomes' face, only without the beard, you know. And while I looked at it, it talked to me, and it told me a lot of things. And that's how I know that you are going away, because you are, you know, aren't you?' "'Why, my Porges,' said Bellow, fumbling with his pipe. "'Why, shipmate, I—' "'Since you ask me, I am.' "'Yes, I was afraid the moon was right,' said small Porges, and turned away. But Bellow had seen the stricken look in his eyes. Therefore he took small Porges in the circle of his big arm, and holding him thus, explaining to him how that in this great world each of us must walk his appointed way, and that there must and always will be partings, but that also there must and always shall be meetings. "'And so, my Porges, if we have to say good-bye now, the sooner we shall meet again, some day, somewhere.' But small Porges only sighed, and shook his head in hopeless dejection. "'Does she know you're going—I mean, my auntie, Anfeya?' "'Oh, yes, she knows, Porges.' "'Then I suppose that's why she was crying so, in the night.' "'Crying?' "'Yes. She's cried an awful lot lately, hasn't she? Last night, when I woke up, you know, and couldn't sleep, I went into her room, and she was crying, with her face hidden in the pillow, and her hair all about her.' "'Crying?' "'Yes. And she said she wished she was dead. So then, of course, I tried to comfort her, you know. And she said, I'm a dreadful failure, Georgie, dear, with the farm and everything else. I've tried to be a father and mother to you, and I failed in that, too. So now I'm going to give you a real father.' And she told me she was going to marry Mr. Cassilis. But I said, no, because I arranged for her to marry you and live happy ever after. But she got awful angry again, and said she'd never marry you if you were the last man in the world, because she spiced you so.' "'And that would seem to settle it,' nodded Bello gloomily. "'So it's good-bye, my porches. We may as well shake hands now and get it over.' And Bello rose from the portmanteau, and sighing held out his hand. "'Oh! Wait a minute,' cried Small Porches, eagerly. "'I haven't told you what the moon said to me last night.' "'Ah, to be sure. We were forgetting that,' said Bello, with an absent look and a trifle weirly. "'Why, then, please sit down again so I can speak into your ear, because what the moon told me to tell you is a secret, you know.' So, perforce, Bello receded himself upon his portmanteau, and, drawing Small Porches close, bent his head down to the anxious little face. And so Small Porches told him exactly what the moon had said. And the moon's message, whatever it was, seemed to be very short and concise, as all really important messages should be. But these few words had a wondrous and magical effect upon George Bello. For a moment he stared wide-eyed at Small Porches like one awaking from a dream. Then the gloom vanished from his brow and he sprang to his feet. And, being upon his feet, he smote his clenched fist down into the palm of his hand with a resounding smack. "'By heaven!' he exclaimed, and took a turn to and fro across the width of the lane, and, seeing Small Porches watching him, caught him suddenly up in his arms and hugged him. "'And the moon will be at the full tonight,' said he. Thereafter he sat him down upon his portmanteau again with Small Porches upon his knee, and they talked confidentially together with their heads very close together and in muffled tones. When at last Bellou rose his eyes were bright and eager, and his square chin prominent and grimly resolute. "'So you quite understand, my Porches?' "'Yes, yes, oh, I understand!' Where the little bridge spans the brook. The tree is a thicker there. "'Aye, aye, captain!' Then fairly well, shipmate, good-bye, my Porches! And remember!' So they clasped hands very solemnly, Big Porches and Small Porches, and turned each his appointed way, the one up, the other down the lane. But lo, as they went, Small Porches' tears were banished quite, and Bellou strode upon his way, his head held high, his shoulders squared, like one in whom hope has been new-born. CHAPTER XXX how Anthea gave her promise. "'And so he has really gone?' Miss Priscilla sighed as she spoke, and looked up from her needle-work to watch Anthea, who sat, biting her pen, and frowning down at the blank sheet of paper before her. "'And so he is really gone?' "'Who? Mr. Bellou?' "'Oh, yes. He went very early.' "'Yes. And without any breakfast!' "'That was his own fault,' said Anthea. "'And without even saying good-bye?' "'Perhaps he was in a hurry,' Anthea suggested. "'Oh, dear me, no, my dear, I don't believe Mr. Bellou was ever in a hurry in all his life.' "'No,' said Anthea, giving her pen a vicious bite, I don't believe he ever was. He is always so hatefully placid and deliberate.' And here she bit her pen again. "'Aye, my dear,' exclaimed Miss Priscilla, pausing with her needle in mid-air, "'did you say, hatefully?' "'Yes. Anthea, I hate him, Aunt Priscilla. "'Aye, my dear!' "'That was why I sent him away.' "'You sent him away?' "'Yes. "'But, Aunt Thea, why?' "'Oh, Aunt Priscilla, surely you never believed in the fortune? Surely you guessed it was his money that paid back the mortgage? Didn't you, Aunt? Didn't you?' "'Well, my dear, but then he did it so very tactfully, and I had hoped, my dear, that I should marry him and settle the obligation that way, perhaps. "'Well, yes, my dear, I did hope so. "'Oh, I'm going to marry.' "'Then why did you send? "'I'm going to marry Mr. Kasselis whenever he pleases. "'Aunt Thea!' The word was a cry, and her needle-work slipped from Miss Priscilla's nervolous fingers. He asked me to write and tell him if ever I changed my mind. "'Oh, my dear, my dear,' cried Miss Priscilla, reaching out, imploring hands. "'You never mean it. You are all distraught today, tired and worn out with worry, and loss of sleep. Wait!' "'Wait,' repeated Aunt Thea bitterly, for what? "'To marry him, oh, Aunt Thea, you never mean it. Think! Think what you are doing!' "'I thought of it all last night, Aunt Priscilla, and all this morning, and I have made up my mind.' "'You mean to write?' "'Yes.' "'To tell Mr. Kasselis that you will marry him?' "'Yes.' "'But now Miss Priscilla rose, and next moment was kneeling beside Aunt Thea's chair. "'Oh, my dear,' she pleaded, "'you that I love like my own flesh and blood?' "'Don't.' "'Oh, Aunt Thea, don't do what can never be undone. Don't give your youth and beauty to one who can never—never make you happy. Oh, Aunt Thea!' "'Dear Aunt Priscilla, I would rather marry one I don't love than have to live beholden all my days to a man that I hate!' Now as she spoke, though her embrace was as ready and her hands as gentle as ever, yet Miss Priscilla saw that her proud face was set and stern. So she presently rose, sighing and, taking her little crutch-stick, tapped dolefully away, and left Aunt Thea to write her letter. And now, hesitating no more, Aunt Thea took up her pen and wrote—surely a very short missive for a love-letter—and when she had folded and sealed it she tossed it aside, and, laying her arms upon the table, hid her face with a long, shuddering sigh. In a little while she rose, and, taking up the letter, went out to find Adam. But remembering that he had gone to Cranbrook with small porges, she paused irresolute and then turned her steps toward the orchard. Hearing voices she stopped again and, glancing about, aspired the sergeant and Miss Priscilla. She had given both her hands into the sergeant's one great solitary fist, and he was looking down at her, and she was looking up at him, and upon the face of each was a great and shining joy. And seeing all this, Aunt Thea felt herself very lonely all at once, and, turning aside, saw all things through a blur of sudden tears. She was possessed also of a sudden fierce loathing of the future, a horror because of the promise her letter contained. Nevertheless she was firm, and resolute on her course because of the pride that burned within her. So thus it was that as the sergeant presently came striding along on his homeward way he was suddenly aware of Miss Aunt Thea standing before him, whereupon he halted, and, removing his hat, wished her a good afternoon. "'Sargent,' said she, "'will you do something for me?' "'Anything you ask me, Miss Aunt Thea-ma'am, ever and always. I want you to take this letter to Mr. Cassilis, will you?' The sergeant hesitated unwontedly, turning his hat about and about in his hand. Finally he put it on out of the way. "'Will you, Sergeant?' "'Since you ask me, Miss Aunt Thea-ma'am, I will. Give it into his own hand.' "'Miss Aunt Thea-ma'am, I will. Thank you. Here it is, Sergeant.' And so she turned and was gone, leaving the sergeant standing down at the letter in his hand and shaking his head over it. Aunt Thea walked on hastily, never looking behind, and so coming back to the house, threw herself down by the open window, and stared out with unseeing eyes at the roses knotting slumberous heads in the gentle breeze. So the irrevocable step was taken. She had given her promise to Mary Cassilis whenever he would, and must abide by it. Too late now, any hope of retreat, she had deliberately chosen her course and must follow it to the end. "'Begging your pardon, Miss Aunt Thea-ma'am.' She started, and, glancing round, aspired Adam. "'Oh, you startled me, Adam. What is it? Begging your pardon, Miss Aunt Thea, but is it true, as Mr. Bello be gone away, for good?' "'Yes, Adam.' "'Why, then, all I can say is, as I'm sorry, oh, I'm mortal sorry, I be, in my art, ma'am. My art, likewise, glue me.' "'Were you so fond of him, Adam?' "'Well, Miss Aunt Thea, considering, as he were, the best, good-naturedist, properest kind of gentleman as ever was. When I tell you, is over and above all this. He could use his fists better than any man as ever I see. Him having knocked me into a dry ditch, though, to be sure, I likewise, drawed his claret, begging your pardon, I'm sure, Miss Aunt Thea, all of which happened on account of me finding him asleep in your aim, ma'am. When I tell you furthermore, as he treated me ever as a man, and want no ways above shaking my hand, or smoking a pipe with me, so she were like, would I tell you, as he were, the finest gentleman, and properest man as ever I knowed, or her tell on, why, I think, is the word, fond, be about the size of it, Miss Aunt Thea, ma'am.' Saying which, Adam nodded several times, and bestowed an emphatic back-handed knock to the crown of his hat. You used to sit together very often under the big apple-tree, didn't you, Adam? Ah, many a night, Miss Aunt Thea. Did he ever tell you much of his life, Adam? Right, yes, Miss Aunt Thea. Told me something about his travels. Told me as he'd shot lions and tigers, a way out in India, in Africa. Did he ever mention— Well, Miss Aunt Thea, said he inquiringly, seeing she had paused. Did he ever speak of the lady he is going to marry? Lady? Repeated Adam, giving a sudden twist to his hat. Yes, the lady, who lives in London. No, Miss Aunt Thea, answered Adam, screwing his hat tighter and tighter. Why, what do you mean? I mean, as there never was no lady, Miss Aunt Thea, neither up in London, nor nowhere else, as I have heard on. But— Oh, Adam, you—you told me. Ah, for sure I told you, but it were a lie, Miss Aunt Thea, at least ways it weren't the truth. You see, I was afraid as you'd refuse to take the money for the furniture, unless I made you believe as he wanted it uncommon bad. So I up and told ye, as he'd bought it all, and accounted him being matrimonially took, with a young lady, up to London. And then you went to him and warned him, told him of the story you had invented? I did, Miss Aunt Thea. At first I thought as he were going to up and give me one for myself, but afterwards he took it very quiet, and told me as I'd done quite right, and agreed to play the game. That's all about it, and glad I am as it be off my mind at last. Now, Miss Aunt Thea, ma'am, seeing you're that rich, with Master George's fortune, why, you can pay back for the furniture, if so be your minded, too, and I hope as you'll agree with me as I'd done it all for the best, Miss Aunt Thea. Here Adam unscrewed his hat and knocked out the wrinkles against his knee, which done he glanced at Aunt Thea. Why, what is it, Miss Aunt Thea? Nothing, Adam, I haven't slept well lately, that's all. Ah, well, you'll be all right again now, we all shall. Now the mortgage be paid off, shout to me, Miss Aunt Thea. Yes, Adam. We had a great day, over to Grandbook Master Georgey and me. He be in the kitchen now, with prudence, eaten of bread and jam. Good night, Miss Aunt Thea, ma'am. If you should be watching me again, I shall be in the stables. Good night, Miss Aunt Thea." So honest, well-meaning Adam touched his forehead with a square-ended finger and trudged away, but Aunt Thea sat there, very still, with drooping head and vacant eyes. And so it was done. The irrevocable step had been taken. She had given her promise. So now, having chosen her course, she must follow it to the end. For in Arcadia it would seem that a promise is still a sacred thing. Now in a while, lifting her eyes, they encountered those of the smiling Cavalier above the mantle. Then as she looked, she stretched out her arms with a sudden yearning gesture. Oh, she whispered, if I were only, just a picture, like you. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of The Money-Moon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Money-Moon, a romance by Geoffrey Farnell. Chapter 31, which, being the last, is very properly the longest in the book. In those benighted days, when men went abroad, cased in steel, and upon very slight provocation, were wont to smite each other with axes and clubs, to buffet and skewer each other with spears, lances, swords, and divers other, barbarous engines. Yet in that dark and doubty age, ignorant though they were of all those smug maxims and excellent moralities, with which we are so happily blessed, even in that unhallowed day, when the solemn tread of the policeman's foot was all unknown, they had evolved for themselves a code of rules whereby to govern their life and conduct. Amongst these it was tacitly agreed upon and understood that a spoken promise was a pledge, and held to be a very sacred thing, and he who broke faith committed all the cardinal sins. Indeed their laws were very few, and simple, easily understood, and well calculated to govern man's conduct to his fellow. In this day of ours, ablaze with learning and culture, veneered with a fine civilization, our laws are complex beyond all knowing and expression. Man regulates his conduct to them, and is as virtuous and honest as the law compels him to be. This is the age of money, and therefore an irreverent age. It is also the age of respectability, with a very large r, and the policeman's bludgeon. But in Arcadia, because it is an old world place where life follows an even simple course, where money is as scarce as roguery, the old law still holds. A promise once given is a sacred obligation, and not to be set aside. And the blackbird, who lived in the inquisitive apple-tree, understood, and was aware of this, it had been born in him, and had grown with his feathers. Therefore, though to be sure he had spoken no promise, signed no bond, nor affixed his mark to any agreement, still he had, nevertheless, born in mind a certain request preferred to him when the day was very young. Thus, with a constancy of purpose worthy of all imitation, he had given all his mind and thought to the composition of a song with a new theme. He had applied himself to it most industriously all day long, and now, as the sun began to set, he had at last worked it all out, every note, every quaver, and trill. And perched upon a lookout-branch, he kept his bold bright eye turn toward a certain rustic seat hard by, uttering a melodious note or two every now and then, from pure impatience. And presently, sure enough, he spied her for whom he waited, the tall, long limbed, supple-waisted creature whose skin was pink and gold like the peaches and apricots in the garden, and with soft little rings of hair that would have made such an excellent lighting to a nest. From this strictly utilitarian point of view he had often admired her hair, had this Blackbird fellow, as she passed to and fro among her flowers, or paused to look up at him and listen to his song, or even sometimes to speak to him in her sweet, low voice. But today she seemed to have forgotten him altogether. She did not even glance his way, indeed she walked with bent head, and seemed to keep her eyes always upon the ground. Therefore the Blackbird hopped a little further along the branch, and peered over to look down at her with first one round eye and then the other, as she sank upon the seat, nearby, and leaned her head wearily against the great tree behind. And thus he saw upon the pink and gold of her cheek something that shone and twinkled like a drop of dew. If the Blackbird wondered at this, and was inclined to be curious, he sturdily repressed the weakness, for here was the audience, seated and waiting, all expectation for him to begin. So without more ado he settled himself upon the bow, lifted his head, stretched his throat, and, from his yellow bill, poured forth a flood of golden melody as he burst forth into his song of memory. And what a song it was, so full of passionate entreaty, of tender pleading, of haunting sweetness that, as she listened, the bright drop quivering upon her lashes fell, and was exceeded by another and another. Nor did she attempt to chuck them or wipe them away, only she sat and listened with her heavy-head pillowed against the great tree. While the Blackbird, glancing down at her every now and then, with critical eye to mark the effect of some particularly difficult passage, piped surely as he had never done before, until the listener's proud face sank lower and lower, and was, at last, hidden in her hands. Seeing which, the Blackbird, like the true artist he was, fearing an anticlimax, very presently ended his song with a long-drawn, plaintive note. But Aunt Théa sat there with her proud head bowed low, long after he had retired for the night. And the sun went down, and the shadows came creeping stealthily about her, and the moon began to rise big and yellow over the upland. But Aunt Théa still sat there with her head, once more resting wearily against King Arthur, watching the deepening shadows, until she was roused by small Porgyus's hand upon hers, at his voice, saying, Why, I do believe you're crying, Aunt Théa, and why are you here, all alone and by yourself? I was listening to the Blackbird, dear. I never heard him sing quite so beautifully before. But Blackbirds don't make people cry, and I know you've been crying, because you sound all quivery, you know. Do I, Georgie? Yes. Is it because you feel lonely? Yes, dear. You've cried an awful lot lately, Aunt Théa. Have I, dear? Yes. And it worries me, you know. Oh, I'm afraid I've been a great responsibility to you, Georgie, dear. She said with a rueful little laugh. Afraid you have! But I don't mind the responsibility. I'll always take care of you, you know. Not at small Porgyus, sitting down, the better to get his arm protectingly about her, while Aunt Théa stooped to kiss the top of his curly head. I promise my Uncle Porgyus I'd always take care of you, and so I will. Yes, dear. Uncle Porgyus told me, never mind, dear, don't let's talk of him. Do you still hate him, then, Auntie Aunt Théa? Hush, dear, it's very wrong to hate people. Yes, of course it is. Then perhaps, if you don't hate him anymore, you like him a bit. Just a teeny bit, you know. Why? There's the clock striking half past age, Georgie. Yes, I hear it. What? Do you, the teeniest bit, oh, can't you like him just a bit for my sake, Auntie Aunt Théa? I'm always trying to please you, and I found you the fortune, you know. So now I want you to please me, and tell me you like him for my sake. But, oh, Georgie, dear, you don't understand. Because you see, small Porgyus continued, after all, I found him for you, under a hedge, you know. Ah, why did you, Georgie, dear? We were so happy before he came. But you couldn't have been, you know. You weren't married even then. So you couldn't have been really happy, you know, said small Porgyus, shaking his head. Why, Georgie, what do you mean? Well, Uncle Porgyus told me that nobody can live happy ever after, unless they're married first. So that was why I arranged for him to marry you, so you could both be happy, and all revelry enjoy, like the fairy-tale you know. But you see, we aren't in a fairy-tale, dear, so I'm afraid we must make the best of things as they are. And here she sighed again, and rose. Come, Georgie, it's much later than I thought, and quite time you were in bed, dear. All right, Auntie Aunt Théa, only don't you think it's just a bit cruel to send a boy to bed in so very early, and when the moon so big and everything looks so frightfully fine? Sides. Well, what now, she asked, a little weirly, as obedient to his pleading gesture, she sat down again. Why, you haven't answered my question yet, you know. What question, said she, not looking at him? About my Uncle Porgyus. Well, Georgie, I, you do like him just a bit, don't you, please? Small Porgyus was standing before her as he waited for her answer. But now, seeing how she hesitated and avoiding his eyes, he put one small hand beneath the dipple in her chin, so that she was forced to look at him. You do, please, don't you? He pleaded. Aunt Théa hesitated, but, after all, he was gone, and nobody could hear. And small Porgyus was so very small. And who could resist the entreaty in his big, wistful eyes? Surely not, Aunt Théa. Therefore with a sudden gesture of abandonment she leaned forward in his embrace, and rested her weary head against his manly, small shoulder. Yes, she whispered, just as much as you like, Mr. Castellus? He whispered back. Yes. A bit more? Just a teeny bit more? Yes. A lot more? Lots and lots? Oceans more? Yes. The word was spoken, and having uttered it, Aunt Théa grew suddenly hot with shame and mightily angry with herself, and would straight way have given the world to have it unsaid. The more so as she felt small, Porgyus' clasp tightened joyfully, and looking up, fancied she read something like triumph in his look. She drew away from him, rather hastily, and rose to her feet. Come! Said she, speaking now in a vastly different tone. It must be getting very late. Yes, I specced it'll soon be nine o'clock now, he nodded. Then you ought to be in bed, fast asleep, instead of talking such nonsense out here. So come along, at once, sir. But can't I stay up just a little while? You see, no. You see, it's just a magnificent night. It feels as though things might happen. Don't be so silly. Well, but it does, you know. What do you mean? What things? Well, it feels. Know me, to me. I specced there's lots of elves about, hidden in the shadows, you know, and peeping at us. There aren't any elves or gnomes, said Anthea, petulantly, for she was still furiously angry with herself. But my uncle Porchus told me, oh!" cried Anthea, stomping her foot suddenly. Can't you talk of any one or anything but him? I'm tired to death of him and his very name. But I thought you liked him an awful lot, and, well, I don't. But you said, never mind what I said. Last time you were in bed asleep, so come along at once, sir. So they went on through the orchard together, very silently, for small Porchus was inclined to be indignant, but much more inclined to be hurt. Thus they had not gone so very far when he spoke in a voice that he would have described as quivery. Don't you think that you're just the teeniest bit cruel to me, Aunty Anthea? He inquired wistfully, after I prayed and prayed till I found a fortune for you. Don't you? Please? Surely Anthea was a creature of moods to-night, for even while he spoke she stopped and turned, and fell on her knees and caught him in her arms, kissing him many times. Yes, yes, dear, I'm hateful to you, horrid to you, but I don't mean to be there. Forgive me. Oh, it's all right again now, Aunty Anthea, thank you. I only thought you were just a bit hard, because it is such a magnificent night, isn't it? Yes, dear, and perhaps there are gnomes and pixies about. Anyhow, we could pretend there are, if you like, as we used to. Oh, will you? Oh, that would be fine, and then please, may I go with you, as far as the brook? We'll wander, you know. I've never wandered with you in the moonlight, and they do love to hear the brook talking to itself, so will you wander, just this once? Well, said Aunthea, hesitating. It's very late, nearly nine o'clock, yes, but oh, please don't forget that I found a fortune for you. Very well, she smiled, just this once. Now as they went together, hand in hand, through the moonlight, small porges talked very fast and very much at random, while his eyes, bright and eager, glanced expectantly towards every patch of shadow, doubtless in search of gnomes and pixies. But Aunthea saw nothing of this, heard nothing of the suppressed excitement in his voice, for she was thinking that by now Mr. Basilis had read her letter, that he might, even then, be on his way to Dappelmere. She even fancied, once or twice, that she could hear the gallop of his horse's hooves, and when he came he would want to kiss her. Why do you shiver so, Aunthea? Are you cold? No, dear. Well, then, why are you so quiet to me? I've asked you a question three times. Oh, have you, dear, I was thinking. That was the question. I was asking you if you would be awful frightened, supposing we did find a pixie or a gnome in the shadows, and would you be so very awfully frightened if a gnome, a great big one, you know, came jumping out and ran off with you? Should you? No, said Aunthea, with another shiver. No, dear. I think I should be rather glad of it. Should you, Aunthea? I'm so awful glad you wouldn't be frightened. Of course, I don't suppose there are gnomes, I mean, great big ones, really, you know, but there might be on a magnificent night like this. If you shiver again, Aunthea, you'll have to take my coat. I thought I heard a horse galloping. Hush! They had reached the stile by now, the stile with the crooked, lurking nail, and she leaned there awhile to listen. I'm sure I heard something. No way, there, on the road. I don't, said small porches stoutly, so take my hand, please, and let me assist you over the stile. So they crossed the stile and, presently, came to the brook that was the most impertinent brook in the world, and here, upon the little rustic bridge, they stopped to look down at the sparkle of the water and to listen to its merry voice. Yes indeed, to-night it was as impertinent as ever, laughing and chuckling to itself among the hollows, and whispering scandalously in the shadows. It seemed to Aunthea that it was laughing at her, mocking and taunting her with the future. And now, amid the laughter, were sobs and tearful murmurs, and now, again, it seemed to be the prophetic voice of old nanny. By fuss ye shall be wooed, and by fuss ye shall be wed, and there is no man strong enough to do it, but him is bears the tiger-mark upon him. The tiger-mark? Alas! How very far from the truth were poor old nannies' dreams. After all, the dreams which Aunthea had very nearly believed in, once or twice, how foolish it had all been. And yet, even now, Aunthea had been leaning over the gurgling waters while all this passed through her mind. But now she started at the sound of a heavy footfall on the planking of the bridge behind her, and, in that same moment, she was encircled by a powerful arm, caught up in a strong embrace, swung from her feet, and borne away through the shadows of the little cops. It was very dark in the wood, but she knew, instinctively, whose arms these were that held her so close and carried her so easily, away through the shadows of the wood, away from the haunting hopeless dread of the future from which there had seemed no chance or hope of escape. And knowing all this, she made no struggle, and uttered no word. And now the trees thinned out, and from under her lashes she saw the face above her, the thick black brows drawn together, the close set of the lips, the grim prominence of the strong square chin. And now they were in the road, and now he lifted her into an automobile, had sprung in beside her, and they were off, gliding swift, and ever swifter under the shadows of the trees, and still neither spoke nor looked at each other, only she leaned away from him against the cushions while he kept his frowning eyes fixed upon the road ahead. And ever the great car flew onward faster and faster, yet not so fast as the beating of her heart, were in shame and anger and fear and another feeling strove and fought for mastery. But at last, finding him so silent and impassive, she must needs steal a look at him beneath her lashes. He wore no hat, and as she looked upon him, with his yellow hair, his length of limb, and his massive shoulders, he might have been some fierce viking, and she his captive, taken by strength of arm, borne away by force. By force! And hereupon, as the car hummed over the smooth road, it seemed to find a voice, a subtle mocking voice, very like the voice of the brook, that murmured to her over and over again. By force you shall be wooed, and by force you shall be wed. Very trees whispered it as they passed, and her heart throbbed in time to it. By force you shall be wooed, and by force you shall be wed. So she leaned as far from him as she might, watching him with frightened eyes while he frowned ever upon the road in front, and the car rocked and swayed with their going, as they whirled onward through the moonlight, and through the shadow, faster and faster. Yet not so fast as the beating of her heart, where in was fear and shame and anger and another feeling. But greatest of all now was fear. Could this be the placid, saw-spoken gentleman she had known, this man with the implacable eyes and the brutal jaw, who neither spoke to nor looked at her, but frowned always at the road in front, and so the fear grew and grew within her, fear of the man whom she knew, and knew not at all. She clasped her hands nervously together, watching him with dilating eyes as the car slowed down, for the road made a sudden turn hereabouts. And still he neither looked at nor spoke to her, and therefore, because she could bear the silence no longer, she spoke, in a voice that sounded strangely faint and far away, and that shook and trembled in spite of her. Where are you taking me? To be married, he answered, never looking at her, you wouldn't dare. Wait and see, he nodded. Oh! But what do you mean? The fear in her voice was more manifest than ever. I mean that you are mine. You always were, you always must and shall be. So I'm going to marry you, in about half an hour, by special license. Still he did not even glance towards her, and she looked away over the countryside, all lonely and desolate under the moon. I want you, you see, he went on. I want you more than I ever wanted anything in this world. I need you, because without you my life would be utterly purposeless and empty. So I have taken you. Because you are mine, I know it. Ah, yes, and deep down in your woman's heart, you know it too. And so I am going to marry you, yes I am, unless—and here he brought the car to a standstill, and, turning, looked at her for the first time. And now, before the look in his eyes, her own wavered and fell, lest he should read within them that which she would feign hide from him, and which she knew they must reveal, that which was neither shame, nor anger, nor fear, but the other feeling for which she dared find no name. And thus, for a long moment, there was silence. At last she spoke, though with her eyes still hidden. Unless—she repeated breathlessly—Anthea, look at me. But Anthea only drooped her head the lower, wherefore he leaned forward and, even as small porges had done, set his hand beneath the dip in her chin and lifted the proud, unwilling face. Anthea, look at me. And now what could Anthea do but obey? Unless—said he, as her glance at last met his—unless you can tell me, now, as your eyes look into mine, that you love Casalus, tell me that, and I will take you back this very instant and never trouble you again. Not unless you do tell me that, why then, your pride shall not blast two lives if I can help it. Now speak. But Anthea was silent. Also she would have turned aside from his searching look, but that his arms were about her, strong and compelling. So needs must she suffer him to look down unto her very heart, for it seemed to her that, in that moment, he had rent away every stitch and shred of prides and folding mantel, and that he saw the truth at last. But if he had, he gave no sign. Only he turned and set the car humming upon its way once more. On they went through the Midsummer Night, uphill and downhill by Crossroad and Bylane, until, as they climbed along Ascent, they beheld a tall figure standing upon the top of the hill, the attitude of one who waits and who, spying them, immediately raised a very stiff left arm, whereupon the figure was joined by another. Now as the car drew nearer, Anthea with a thrill of pleasure recognized the sergeant standing very much as though he were on parade, and with honest face Peter Day beside him, who stumped joyfully forward, ad, with a bob of his head and a scrape of his wooden leg, held out his hand to her. Like one in a dream she took the sailor's hand to step from the car, and, like one in a dream, she walked on between the soldier and the sailor, who now reached out to her, each a hand equally big and equally gentle, to aid her up certain crumbling and time-worn steps. On they went together until they were come to a place of whispering echoes, where lights burned, few, and dim. And here, still as one in a dream, she spoke those words which gave her life, henceforth, into the keeping of him who stood beside her, who strong hand trembled as he set upon her finger that which is an emblem of eternity. Like one in a dream she took the pen and signed her name obediently, where they directed. And yet could this really be herself this silent, submissive creature? And now they were out upon the moonlit road again, seated in the car, while Peter Day, his hat in his hand, was speaking to her. And yet was it to her? Mrs. Bellew, ma'am, he was saying, on this here momentous occasion, momentous is the only word for it, Peter Day, not of the sergeant, on this here momentous occasion, Mrs. Bellew, the sailor preceded, my shipmate Dick and me, ma'am, respectfully beg the favour of saluting the bride. Mrs. Bellew, by your leave, here's health and happiness, ma'am. And hereupon the old sailor kissed her right heartily, which done he made way for the sergeant, who, after a moment's hesitation, followed suit. A fair wind and prosperous, cried Peter Day, flourishing his hat, and God bless you both, said the sergeant, as the car shot away. So it was done. The irrevocable step was taken. Her life and future had passed forever into the keeping of him, who sat so silent beside her, who neither spoke nor looked at her, but frowned ever at the road before him. On spread the car, faster and faster. Yet not so fast as the beating of her heart, wherein there was yet something of fear, and shame, but greatest of all was that other emotion. And the name of it was Joy. Now presently the car slowed down, and he spoke to her, though without turning his head. And yet something in his voice thrilled through her strangely. "'Lukanthea, the moon is at the full to-night.' "'Yes,' she answered, and, happiness shall come riding astride the full moon,' he quoted. "'Old nanny is rather a wonderful old witch, after all, isn't she?' "'Yes.' And then there is our nephew, my dear little porges, but for him happiness would have been a stranger to me all my days, Anthea. He dreamed that the money-moon spoke to him, and—but he shall tell you of that for himself.' But Anthea noticed that he spoke without once looking at her. Indeed it seemed that he avoided, glancing towards her, of such design and purpose, and his deep voice quivered now and then in a way that she had never heard before. Therefore her heart throbbed the faster, and she kept her gaze bent downward, and thus, chanceing to see the shimmer of that which was upon her finger, she blushed and hid it in a fold of her gown. "'Anthea.' "'Yes.' "'You have no regrets, have you?' "'No,' she whispered. "'We shall soon be home now.' "'Yes.' "'And you are, mine, forever and always?' "'Anthea.' "'You aren't afraid of me any more, are you?' "'No.' "'Nor ever will be, nor ever will be.' "'Now as the car swept round a bend, behold, yet two other figures standing beside the way.' "'Yo-ho, Captain!' cried a voice. "'Oh, please, heave to, Uncle Porges!' And forth to meet them came small Porges running. Yet remembering Miss Priscilla tapping along beside him, he must needs turn back, to give her his hand like the kindly, small gentleman that he was. And now Miss Priscilla had Aunt Thea in her arms, and they were kissing each other and murmuring over each other as loving women will, while small Porges stared at the car, and all things pertaining thereto, more especially the glaring headlights, with great, wondering eyes. At length, having seen Aunt Thea and Miss Priscilla safely stowed, he clambered up beside Bello, and gave him the word to proceed. What Pen could describe his ecstatic delight as he sat there, with one hand hooked into the pocket of Uncle Porges's coat, and with the cool night wind whistling through his curls. So great was it, indeed, that Bello was constrained to turn aside, and make a wide detour, purely for the sake of the radiant joy in small Porges's eager face. When at last they came within sight of Dappelmere, and the great machine crept up the rutted, grassy lane, small Porges sighed, and spoke. "'Auntie Aunt Thea,' said he, "'are you sure you are married, nice and tight, you know?' "'Yes, dear,' she answered why, "'yes, Georgie. But you don't look a bit different, you know, either of you. Are you quite sure, because I shouldn't like you to disappoint me, after all?' "'Never fear,' my Porges said Bello. I made quite sure of it while I had the chance. Look!' As he spoke, he took Aunt Thea's left hand, drawing it out into the moonlight, so that small Porges could see the shining ring upon her finger. "'Oh!' said he, nodding his head. "'Then that makes it all right, I suppose. When you aren't angry with me, because I let a great big gnome come and carry you off, are you, Auntie Aunt Thea?' "'No, dear.' "'Why, then, everything's quite magnificent, isn't it? And now we're going to live happy ever after. All of us, and Uncle Porges, is going to take us to sail the oceans in a ship. He's got a ship that all belongs to his very own self, you know, Auntie Aunt Thea, so all will be revelry and joy, just like the fairy tale after all.' And so at last they came to the door of the ancient house of Dappelmere, whereupon, very suddenly, Adam appeared, bare-armed from the stables, who, looking from Bellew's radiant face to Miss Aunt Thea's shy eyes, threw back his head, ventured his great laugh, and was immediately solemn again. "'Miss Aunt Thea,' said he, ringing and twisting at this hat, or, I think I should say, Mrs. Bellew, ma'am, there ain't no word for it. At least, not as I know on, know how. No words be strong enough to tell me that J. O. Y. joy, ma'am, as feels us, one in all.' Here he waved his hand, to where stood the comely prudence with the two rosy-cheeked maids peeping over her buxom shoulders. "'Only,' pursued Adam, I be glad, ah, mucher glad, I be. As to you, Mr. Bellew, sir. There ain't a man in all the world, or as you might say, universe, as each so proper as you to be the husband to our Miss Aunt Thea. This was not know-how, Mr. Bellew, sir. I wish you joy, a joy you shall grow with the ears, and abide with your always, both on ye.' "'That is a very excellent thought, Adam,' said Bellew, and I think I should like to shake hands on it.' "'Which they did, forthwith.' "'And now, Mrs. Bellew, ma'am,' Adam concluded, with your kind permission, I'll step into the kitchen and drink a glass of pruse ale, to your health and happiness. If I stay here any longer, I won't say, but what I shall burst out a cigarette in your very face, ma'am, for I do be that happy-hearted. Lord!' With which exclamation, Adam laughed again, and, turning about, strode away to the kitchen, with prudence and the rosy-cheeked maids laughing as he went. "'Oh, my tears,' said little Miss Priscilla. I've hoped for this, prayed for it, because I believe he is worthy of you, aren't they, and because you have both loved each other from the very beginning. Oh, dear me, that you have. And so, my dears, your happiness is my happiness. Oh, goodness me! Here I stand, talking sentimental nonsense, while our small porches is simply dropping asleep as he stands. I'm afraid I am a bit tired,' small porches admitted, but it's been a magnificent night. And I think, Uncle Porches, when we sail away on your ship, I think I'd like to sail round the horn first, because they say it's always blowing, you know, and I should love to hear it blow. And now, good night!' "'Wait a minute, my porches. Just tell us what it was the money-moon said to you last night, will you?' "'Well,' said small porches, shaking his head and smiling a slow, sly smile. "'I don't suppose we'd better talk about it, Uncle Porches, because, you see, there was such a very great secret and sights. I'm awful sleepy, you know.' So saying he knotted slumberously, kissed Antea sleepily, and, giving Miss Priscilla his hand, went drowsily into the house. But, as for Bello, it seemed to him that this was the hour for which he had lived all his life, and, though he spoke nothing of this thought, yet Antea knew it instinctively, as she knew why he had avoided looking at her hither too, and what had caused the tremor in his voice, despite his iron self-control, and, therefore, now that they were alone, she spoke hurriedly at it random. "'What did he, Georgie, mean by your ship?' "'Why, I promised to take him a cruise in the yacht, if you cared to call him, Antea.' "'Yacht,' she repeated, "'are you so dreadfully rich?' "'I'm afraid we are,' he nodded, but at least it has the advantage of being better than if we were dreadfully poor, hasn't it?' Now in the midst of the garden there was an old sundial worn by time and weather, and a chance that they came and had leaned there side by side. And, looking down upon the dial, Bello saw certain characters graven thereon in the form of a poesy. "'What does it say here, Antea?' he asked. But Antea shook her head. "'That you must read for yourself,' she said, not looking at him. So he took her hand in his and, with her slender finger, spelled out this motto. "'Time and youth do flee away. Love, oh, love, then, while ye may.' "'Antea,' said he, and again she heard the tremor in his voice. "'You have been my wife nearly three quarters of an hour. And all that time I haven't dared to look at you, because if I had, I must have kissed you, and I meant to wait, until your own good time. But, Antea, you have never yet told me that you love me.' "'Antea?' She did not speak or move. Indeed she was so very still that he needs must bend down to see her face. Then all at once her lashes were lifted. Her eyes looked up into his, deep and dark, with passionate tenderness. "'Ante Priscilla was quite right,' she said, speaking in her low thrilling voice. "'I have loved you from the very beginning, I think. But a soft, murmurous sigh.' She gave herself into his embrace. Now, far away across the meadow, Adam was plodding his homeward way, and as he trudged, he sang to himself in a harsh but not a musical voice, and the words of his song were these. "'When I am dead, diddle, diddle, as well, may Hap, you'll bury me 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.' End of Chapter 31 End of The Money Moon by Jeffrey Farnle, recording by John Leader Bloomington, Illinois.