 Chapter 15 of THE MONEY-MUNE The Money-Moon, a romance, by Jeffrey Farnall. Chapter 15, in which Adam explains. Adam? Yes, Miss Anthea. How much money did Mr. Bellow give you to buy the furniture? Miss Anthea was sitting in her great elbow chair, leaning forward with her chin in her looking at him in the way which always seemed to Adam as though she could see into the very most recesses of his mind. Therefore Adam twisted his hat in his hands and stared at the ceiling and the floor and the table before Miss Anthea and the wall behind Miss Anthea, anywhere but at Miss Anthea. You ask me how much it were, Miss Anthea? Yes, Adam. Well, it were a goodish sum. Was it fifty pounds? Fifty pound! repeated Adam, in a tone of lofty disdain. No, Miss Anthea, it were not fifty pound. Do you mean it was more? Ah, not at Adam. I mean as it were a sight more. If you was to take the fifty pound dimension, add twenty more, and then another twenty to that, and then come to ten more to that, why then you'd be a bit nier the figure. A hundred pounds! exclaimed Anthea aghast. Ah, a hundred pound! not at Adam, rolling the words upon his tongue with great gusto. One hundred pound! were the sum, Miss Anthea. Oh, Adam! Lord loved you, Miss Anthea, that worth nothing. That were only a flea-bite, as you might say. He give more, ah, nigh, double as much as that, for the side-board. Nonsense, Adam! It be gospel true, Miss Anthea, that their side-board were the plum of the sails, so to speak, in old Grimes it set his heart on it, d'ye see? Well it were bid up to eighty-six pound, and then old Grimes he goes twenty more, making it a hundred and six. Then, just as I thought it were all over, and just as that their old Grimes were beginning to swell herself up with triumph, and get that red in the face as he were a sight to behold, Mr. Bello, who'd been lighten his pipe all this time, up and says fifty up. He says in his quiet way, making it a hundred and fifty-six pound, Miss Anthea, which were too much for Grimes, Lord, and I thought is that their man were going to burst Miss Anthea, and Adam gave vent to his great laugh at the mere recollection. But Anthea was grave enough, and the troubled look in her eyes quickly sobered him. A hundred and fifty-six pounds! she repeated in an odd voice, but it is awful. Steepish, pretty steepish for an old sideboard. I'll allow, Miss Anthea, but you'll see it what a personal matter betwixt Grimes and Mr. Bello. He began to think as they never would have left off Bidden, and by George, I don't believe as Mr. Bello ever would have left off Bidden. You see, there's some about that Mr. Bello, whether it be his voice or his eye or his chin, I don't know, but there be some about him, and says, but he distinct that if so be, he should happen to set his mind on a thing why he's a going to get it, and he ain't a going to give in, until he do get it. You see, Miss Anthea, he's so very quiet in his ways, and speaks so soft in general. Perhaps that's it. Say, for instance, he were to ask you for something, and you said, no, well, he wouldn't make no fuss about it, not him, he'd just take it. That's what he knew, as for that bear sideboard, he'd have sat there a-bidding and a-bidding all night, I do believe. But Adam, why did he do it? Why did he buy all that furniture? Well, to keep it from being took away perhaps. Oh, Adam, what am I to do? Do, Miss Anthea? The mortgage must be paid off, dreadfully soon, you know that, and I can't, oh, I can't give the money back. Why, give it back? No, of course not, Miss Anthea, but I can't keep it. Can't keep it, Miss Anthea, ma'am, and why not? Because I'm very sure he doesn't want all those things. The idea is quite absurd, and yet, even if the hops do well, the money they bring will hardly be enough by itself, and so I was selling my furniture to make it up, and now, oh, what am I to do? And she leaned her head wearily upon her hand. Now seeing her distress, Adam, all sturdy loyalty that he was, must knead sigh in sympathy, and fell once more to twisting his hat, until he had fairly wrung it out of all semblance to its kind, twisting and screwing it between his strong hands as though he would feign ring out of it some solution to the problem that so perplexed his mistress. Then, all at once, the frown vanished from his brow, his grip loosened upon his unfortunate hat, and his eye brightened with a sudden glean. Miss Anthea, said he, drawing a step near and lowering his voice mysteriously, supposen as I was to tell you, that he did want that furniture. Ah, and what did it bag? Now how can he, Adam? It isn't as though he lived in England. Said Anthea, shaking her head, his home is thousands of miles away. He is an American, and besides, ah, but then, even a American may get married, Miss Anthea, ma'am, said Adam. Married, she repeated, glancing up very quickly. Adam, what do you mean? Why, you must know, began Adam, ringing at his head again, ever since the day I found him asleep in your hay. Miss Anthea, ma'am, Mr. Bellew has been very kind and friendly like. Mr. Bellew and me have smoked a good many social pipes together, and when men smoke together, Miss Anthea, they likewise talk together. Yes, well, said Anthea, rather breathlessly, and taking up a pencil that happened to be lying near to hand. And Mr. Bellew, continued Adam, heavily, Mr. Bellew has done me the honor here, Adam paused to give an extra twist to his hat. The honor, Miss Anthea, yes, Adam, of confiding to me is hopes, said Adam, slowly, finding it much harder to frame his well-meaning falsehood than he had supposed. His H-O-P-E-S-Opes, Miss Anthea, of settling down very soon, and of marrying a fine young lady as he had his eye on, a goodish tie, having noted, from childhoods hour, Miss Anthea, and his lives up to London. Yes, Adam, well, consequently, he bought all your furniture to set up the housekeeping, don't you see? Yes, I see, Adam. Her voice was low, soft, and gentle as ever, but the pencil was tracing meaningless crawls in her shaking fingers. So you don't have to be no wise-backered about keeping the money, Miss Anthea. Oh, no, no, of course not. I understand. It was just a business transaction. Ah, that's it, a business transaction. Got it, Adam. So you'll put the money on one side to help pay off the mortgage, eh, Miss Anthea? Yes. If the ops come up to what they promised to come up to, you'll be able to get real old grimes for a good in all, Miss Anthea. Yes, Adam. And you'll be quite easy in your mind now, Miss Anthea, about keeping the money? Quite. Thank you, Adam, for telling me. You can go now. Why then? Good night, Miss Anthea, ma'am. The mortgage is as good as paid. There ain't no such ops nowhere near so good as our own be. And you're quite free of care, and happy-hearted, Miss Anthea? Quite. Oh, quite, Adam. But when Adam's heavy tread had died away, when she was all alone, she behaved rather strangely for one so free of care, and happy-hearted. Something bright and glistening, splashed upon the paper before her. The pencil slipped from her fingers, and with a sudden, choking cry, she swayed forward and hit her face in her hands. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of The Money-Moon. This Librabox recording is in the public domain. The Money-Moon. A Romance. By Jeffrey Farnall. Chapter 16. In which Adam proposes a game. To be or not to be. Bellow leaned against the mighty bowl of King Arthur, and stared up at the moon with knitted brows. That is the question. Whether I shall brave the slings and arrows and things, and speak to-night, and have done with it, one way or another, or live on, a while, secure this uncertainty, to wait, whether I shall, at this so early stage, pit all my chances of happiness against the chances of losing her, and with her, in small porges, and bless him, and all the quaint and lovable beings of this wonderful Arcadia of mine. Four, if her answer be no, what recourse have I? What is there left me but to go wandering forth again, following the wind, and with the gates of Arcadia shut upon me forever? To be or not to be? That is the question. Be that you, Mr. Bellouser. Even so, Adam, come, sit ye a while, good-nave, and gaze upon Diane's loveliness, and smoke, and let us converse of dead kings. Why, kings ain't much in my line, sir, living or deadens. I mean never having seen any, except a picture, and that tore, though very lifelike, but why I were a-looking for you was to act shit to back me up, and to, uh, play the game, Mr. Bellouser. Why, as to that, my good Adam, my gentle daftness, my rugged euphemio, you may rely on me to the utmost. Are you in trouble? Is it counsel you need, or only money? Fill your pipe, and while you smoke, confide your cares to me, put me wise, or, as your French cousins would say, make me au fête. Well, began Adam, when his pipe was well alight. In the first place, Mr. Bellouser, I begs to remind you, as Miss Anthea sold her furniture, to raise enough money as with what the ops will bring, might go to pay off the mortgage, for good in all, sir. Yes. Well, tonight, sir, Miss Anthea caused me into the parlor to axe, or as you might say, inquire, as to the why, and likewise the wherefore of you a buy in all that furniture. Did she, Adam? Ah! Why did he do it? says she. Well, to keep it from being took away, perhaps, says I, sharp as any gimble it, sir. Good! Noted, Bellous. Ah! But it won't no good, sir. Returned, Adam, because she says, as our own being in America, you couldn't really need the furniture. Or yet want the furniture, and blessed if she wasn't talking of handing you the money back again. Hmm! said Bellous. Seeing which, sir, and because she must have that money if she hopes to keep the roof of Dappelmere over her head, I there and then made up, or as you might say, concocted, a story, an anecdote, or a yarn, upon the spot, Mr. Bellouser. Most excellent Machiavelli. Proceed. I told her, sir, as you bought that furniture on account of you being wishful to settle down. Or that she starts and looks at me with her eyes big and surprised like. I told her, likewise, as you had told me under quiet, or as you might say, confidential, that you bought that furniture to set up housekeeping on account of you being on the pint of marrying a fine young lady up to London. What? Bellous didn't move, nor did he raise his voice. Nevertheless Adam started back and instinctively threw up his arm. You told her that? I did, sir. But you knew it was a confounded lie. I noted, but I'd tell a hundred, ah, thousands of lies, confounded or otherwise, to save Miss Anthea. To save her? From new a nation, sir, from losing Dappelmere farm and everything she has in the world. I'd love you. The ops could never bring in by their selves all the three thousand pounds as is owing. It had to be expected. But if that three thousand pounds they'd paid over to that dirty grimes by next Saturday week, as ever was, that dirty grimes turns Miss Anthea out of Dappelmere with Master Georgie and poor little Miss Priscilla. And what'll become of them then? I don't know. Lord, when I think of it, the old Adam do rise up in me to that extent as I minded to take a pitchfork and go and skewer that their grimes to his own chimbly corner. You see, Mr. Bellew, sir. He went on, seeing Bellew was silent still. Miss Anthea, be that proud, and independent, that she'd never notook your money, sir, if I hadn't told her that their lie. So that's why I did tell her that their lie. I see. Not at Bellew. I see. Yes. You did quite right. You acted for the best, and you did quite right, Adam. Yes. Quite right. Thank you, sir. And so this is the game I am to play, is it? That's it, sir. If she asks you, are you going to get married, you tell her, yes, to a lady as you've known from your childhood's hour. Living in London? That's all, sir. That's all, is it, Adam? Said Bellew slowly, turning to look up at the moon again. It doesn't sound very much, does it? I'll play your game, Adam. Yes, you may depend on me. Thank you, Mr. Bellew, sir. Thank you, sir, though I do hope as you'll excuse me for taking such liberties and making so free with your art and your affections, sir. Oh, certainly, Adam. The cause excuses everything. Then good night, sir. Good night, Adam. So this good, well-meaning Adam strode away, proud on the whole of his night's work, leading Bellew to frown up at the moon, with teeth clenched tight upon his pipe-stem. CHAPTER XVII. How Bellew began the game. Now in this life of ours there be games of many and diverse sorts, and all are calculated to try the nerve, courage, or skill of the player as the case may be. Bellew had played many kinds of games in his day, and, among others, had once been famous as a right tackle on the Harvard Eleven. Upon him he yet bore certain scars received upon a memorable day when Yale, flushed with success, saw their hitherto invincible line rent and burst asunder, saw a figure torn, bruised, and bleeding flash out and away down the field to turn defeat into victory, and then to be born off honorably to hospital and bed. If Bellew thought of this, by any chance, as he sat there, staring up at the moon, it is very sure that, had the choice been given him, he would joyfully have chosen the game of torn flesh and broken bones or any other game, no matter how desperate, rather than this particular game that Adam had invented and thrust upon him. Presently Bellew knocked the ashes from his pipe and, rising, walked on slowly toward the house. As he approached he heard someone playing the piano, and the music accorded well with his mood, or his mood with the music, for it was haunting and very sweet, and with a recurring melody in a minor key that seemed to voice all the sorrow of humanity past present and to come. Drawn by the music he crossed the rose-garden and, reaching the terrace, paused there, for the long French windows were open, and from where he stood he could see Anthea seated at the piano. She was dressed in a white gown of some soft, clinging material, and among the heavy braids of her hair was a single great red rose. And as he watched he thought she had never looked more beautiful than now, with the soft glow of the candles upon her, for her face reflected the tender sadness of the music. It was in the mournful droop of her scarlet lips and the somber depths of her eyes. Close beside her sat little Miss Priscilla, busy with her needle as usual. But now she paused, and lifting her head in her quick, bird-like way, looked up at Anthea long and fixedly. "'Anthea, my dear,' she said suddenly, "'I'm fond of music, and I love to hear you play, as you know. But I never heard you play quite so—dowfully, dear me, no, that's not the right word—nor dismal, but, I mean, something between the two. I thought you were fond of Grig, Aunt Priscilla. So I am, but then, even in his gayest moments, poor Mr. Grig was always breaking his heart over something, or other, and, oh, gracious! There's Mr. Bellew at the window. Oh, pre-come in, Mr. Bellew, and tell us how you liked Peter Day and the Muffins.' "'Thank you,' said Bellew, stepping in through the long French window. But I should like to hear Miss Anthea play again, first, if she will.' But Anthea, who had already risen from the piano, shook her head. "'I only play when I feel like it, to please myself and Aunt Priscilla,' said she, crossing to the broad, low window-seat, and leaning out into the fragrant night. "'Why, then?' said Bellew, seeking into the easy chair that Miss Priscilla indicated with a little stab of her needle. Why, then, the Muffins were delicious, Aunt Priscilla, and Peter Day was just exactly what a one-legged mariner ought to be. And the shrimps, Mr. Bellew?' inquired Miss Priscilla, busy at her sewing again. "'Out-shrimped all of the shrimps, so-ever,' he answered, glancing to where Anthea sat with her chin, propped in her hand, gazing up at the waning moon, seemingly quite oblivious of him. "'And did he pour out the tea?' inquired Miss Priscilla, from the china-pot with the blue flowers and the Chinese Mandarin fanning himself, and very awkward, of course, with his one hand, I don't mean the Mandarin, Mr. Bellew, and very full of apologies?' He did. "'Just as usual, yes, he always does, and every year he gives me three lumps of sugar, and I only take one, you know. It's a pity,' sighed Miss Priscilla, that it was his right arm, a great pity. And here she sighed again, and, catching herself, glanced up quickly at Bellew, and smiled to see how completely absorbed he was in contemplation of the silent figure in the window-seat. But, after all, better a right arm than a leg, she pursued, at least I think so, certainly, murmured Bellew. A man with only one leg, you see, would be almost as helpless as an old woman with a crippled foot. "'Who grows younger and brighter every year?' added Bellew, turning to her with his pleasant smile. "'Yes, and I think prettier.' "'Oh, Mr. Bellew!' exclaimed Miss Priscilla, shaking her head at him, reprovingly, yet, looking pleased, nonetheless, how can you be so ridiculous, good gracious me?' Why? It was the sergeant who put it into my head. The sergeant? Yes. It was after I had given him your message about peaches at Priscilla, and— "'Oh, dear heart,' exclaimed Miss Priscilla at this juncture, prudence is out to-night, and I promise to bake her bread for her, and here I sit chatting and gossiping, while that bread goes rising and rising all over the kitchen. And Miss Priscilla laid aside her sewing, and, catching up her stick, hurried to the door. And I was almost forgetting to wish you many happy returns of the day, Aunt Priscilla,' said Bellew, rising. At this familiar appellation, Aunt Thea turned sharply, in time to see him stoop, and kissed Miss Priscilla's small, white hand, whereupon Aunt Thea must needs curl her lip at his broad back. Then he opened the door, and Miss Priscilla tapped away, even more quickly than usual. Aunt Thea was half sitting, half kneeling among the cushions in the corner of the deep window, apparently still lost in contemplation of the moon, so much so that she did not stir, or even lower her upward gaze when Bellew came and stood beside her. Therefore, taking advantage of the fixity of her regard, he once more became absorbed in her loveliness, surely a most unwise proceeding, in Arcadia by the light of a midst of a moon, as he mentally contrasted the dark, proud beauty of her face, with that of all the women he had ever known, to their utter and complete disparagement. Well, inquired Aunt Thea, at last perfectly conscious of his look, at finding the silence growing irksome, yet still with her eyes averted. Well, Mr. Bellew! On the contrary, he answered, the moon is on the wane. The moon, she repeated, suppose it is, what then? True happiness can only come riding astride the full moon, you know. You remember old Nani told us so. And you believed it, she inquired scornfully. Why, of course, he answered in his quiet way. Aunt Thea didn't speak, but once again the curl of her lip was eloquent. And so he went on, quite unabashed, when I behold happiness riding astride the full moon, I shall just reach up, in the most natural manner in the world, and take it down, that it may abide with me world without end. Do you think you will be tall enough? We shall see when the time comes. I think it's all very ridiculous, said Aunt Thea. Why then? Suppose you play for me that same plaintive piece you were playing as I came in, something of Greeks I think it was. Will you, Miss Aunt Thea? She was on the point of refusing, then, as if moved by some capricious whim, she crossed to the piano and dashed into the riotous music of a Polish dance. As the wild notes leapt beneath her quick-brown fingers, Balu, seated nearby, kept his eyes upon the great red rose in her hair, that knotted slyly at him with her every movement. And surely in all the world there had never bloomed a more tantalizing, more wantingly provoking rose than this, wherefore Balu very wisely turned his eyes from its glowing temptation. Doubtless observing which the rose in evident desperation knotted and swayed until it had fairly knotted itself from its sweet resting place and, falling to the floor, lay within Balu's reach, whereupon he promptly stooped and picked it up and, even as with a last crashing chord Aunt Thea ceased playing, and turned, in that same moment he dropped it deftly into his coat-pocket. Oh, by the way, Mr. Balu, she said, speaking as if the idea had but just entered her mind, what do you intend to do about all your furniture? Do about it? He repeated, settling the rose carefully in a corner of his pocket where it would not be crushed by his pipe. I mean, where would you like it, stored, until you consent and have it taken away? Well, I rather thought of keeping it, where it was, if you didn't mind. I'm afraid it would be impossible, Mr. Balu. Why, then, the barn will be an excellent place for it. I don't suppose the rats in mice will do it any real harm, and as for the damp and the dust, oh, you know what I mean, exclaimed Aunt Thea, beginning to tap the floor impatiently with her foot. Of course we can't go on using the things, now that they are your property, it wouldn't be right. Very well, he nodded, his fingers questing anxiously after the rose again. I'll get at him to help me to shift it all into the barn tomorrow morning. Will you please be serious, Mr. Balu? As an owl, he nodded. Why, then, of course you will be leaving Dappelmere soon, and I should like to know exactly when, so that I can make the necessary arrangements. But you see, I am not leaving Dappelmere soon, or even thinking of it. Not, she repeated, glancing up at him in swift surprise. Not until you bit me. I? You. But I? I understood that you intend to settle down. Certainly, nodded Balu, transferring his pipe to another pocket altogether lest it should damage the rose's tender petals. To settle down has lately become the ambition of my life. Then pray, said Aunt Thea, taking up a sheet of music and beginning to study it with attentive eyes, be so good as to tell me what you mean. That necessarily brings us back to the moon again, answered Balu. The moon? The moon. But what in the world has the moon to do with your furniture? She demanded her foot beginning to tap again. Everything. I bought that furniture with one eye on the moon, as it were. Consequently, the furniture, the moon, and I, are bound in this solubly together. You are pleased to talk in riddles tonight, and really, Mr. Balu, I have no time to waste over them, so if you will excuse me. Thank you for playing to me, he said, as he held the door open for her. I played because I felt like it, Mr. Balu. Nevertheless I thank you. When you make up your mind about the furniture, please let me know. When the moon is at the fold, yes. Can it be possible that you are still harping on the wild words of poor old Nani? She exclaimed, and once more she curled her lip at him. Nani is very old, I'll admit, he nodded, but surely you remember that we proved her right in one particular. I mean about the tiger-mark, you know. Now when he said this, for no apparent reason, the eyes that had hitherto been looking into his, proud and scornful, slaved her, and were hidden under their long thick lashes. The color flamed in her cheeks, and, without another word, she was gone. CHAPTER XVIII How the Sergeant went upon his guard. The Arcadians, one and all, generally follow that excellent maxim which runs, early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise. Healthy they are, beyond a doubt, and, in their quaint, simple fashion, profoundly wise. If they are not extraordinarily wealthy, yet are they generally blessed with contented minds which, after all, is better than money and far more to be desired than fine gold. Now whether their general health, happiness, and wisdom is to be attributed altogether to their early-to-bed proclivities is perhaps a moot question. How be it, to-night, long after these weary Arcadians had forgotten their various cares and troubles in the blessed oblivion of sleep, for even Arcadia has its troubles, Balus sat beneath the shade of King Arthur alone with his thoughts. Presently, however, he was surprised to hear the house-door open and close very softly, and, to behold, not the object of his meditations, but Miss Priscilla coming towards him. As she caught sight of him in the shadow of the tree, she stopped and stood, leaning upon her stick as though she were rather disconcerted. "'Aunt Priscilla!' said he, rising. "'Oh, it's you!' she exclaimed, just as though she hadn't known it all along. "'Dear me, Mr. Bellew, how lonely you look and dreadfully thoughtful! Good gracious!' And she glanced up at him with her quick, girlish smile. "'I suppose you are wondering what I am doing out here at this unhollowed time of night. It must be nearly eleven o'clock. Oh, dear me, yes you are. Well, sit down, and I'll tell you. Let us sit here in the darkest corner. There. Oh, dear heart, how bright the moon is to be sure!' So saying, Miss Priscilla ensconced herself at the very end of the rustic bench, where the deepest shadow lay. "'Well, Mr. Bellew,' she began, as you know, today is my birthday. As to my age, I am—let us say—just turn twenty-one—and, being younger and foolish, Mr. Bellew, I have come out here to watch another very foolish person, a ridiculous old sergeant of hussars who will come marching along very soon to mount Gar in full regimentals. Mr. Bellew, with his busby on his head, at his braided tunic endowment, and his great big boots, and with his spurs jingling, and his sabre bright under the moon. "'So, then, you know he comes? Why, of course I do, and I love to hear the jingle of his spurs, and to watch the glitter of his sabre. So every year I come here, and sit among the shadows, where he can't see me, and watch him go, march, march, marching, up and down, and to and fro, until the clock strikes twelve, and he goes marching home again. Oh, dear me, it's all very foolish, of course, but I love to hear the jingle of his spurs. And have you sat here watching him every year? Every year! And has he never guessed you were watching him? O gracious me, of course not! Don't you think, Aunt Priscilla, that you are just a little cruel? Cruel? Why, what do you mean?" "'I gave him your message, Aunt Priscilla.' "'What message? That, to-night, the peaches were riper than ever they were?' "'Oh!' said Miss Priscilla, and waiting expectantly for Bellow to continue. But as he was silent she glanced at him, and seeing him staring at the moon, she looked at it also. And after she had gazed for perhaps half a minute, as Bellow was still silent, she spoke, though in a very small voice, indeed. And what did he say? Who?" inquired Bellow. "'Why, the sergeant, to be sure.' "'Well, he gave me to understand that a poor old soldier, with only one arm left, must be content to stand aside, always, and hold his peace, just because he was a poor maimed old soldier.' "'Don't you think that you have been just a little cruel all these years, Aunt Priscilla?' "'Sometimes one is cruel only to be kind,' she answered. "'Aunt the peaches ripe enough after all, Aunt Priscilla?' "'Overripe,' she said bitterly, "'oh, they are overripe.' "'Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?' "'No,' she answered. "'No. "'There's this.' And she held up a little crutch-stick. "'Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?' "'Oh, isn't that enough?' Bellow rose. "'Where are you going?' "'What are you going to do?' she demanded. "'Wait,' said he, smiling down at her perplexity. And so he turned, and crossing to a certain corner of the orchard. When he came back, he held out a great glowing peach towards her. "'You were quite right,' he nodded. It was so ripe that it fell at a touch. But as he spoke, she drew him down beside her in the shadow. "'Hush,' she whispered. "'Listen.' Now, as they sat there, very silent, faint and far away upon the still night air, they heard a sound. A silvery, rhythmic sound it was, like the musical clash of fairy symbols which drew rapidly nearer and nearer. And Bellow felt that Miss Priscilla's hand was trembling upon his arm as she leaned forward, listing with a smile upon her potted lips and a light in her eyes that was ineffably tender. Nearer came the sound, and nearer, until presently, now in moonlight, now in shadow, there strode a tall, martial figure in all the glory of braided tunic, and Ferd Dullman, the three chevrons upon his sleeve and many shining metals upon his breast, a stalwart, soldierly figure, despite the one empty sleeve, who moved with a long, swinging stride that only the cavalryman can possess. Being come beneath a certain lattice window, the sergeant halted, and, next moment, his glittering sabre flashed up to the salute. Then, with it upon his shoulder, he wheeled, and began to march up and down, his spurs jingling, his sabre gleaming, his dolmen swinging, his sabre glittering each time he wheeled. While Miss Priscilla, leaning forward, watched him wide-eyed, and with hands tight clasped. Then, all at once, with a little fluttering sigh, she rose. Thus the sergeant, as he marched to and fro, was suddenly aware of one who stood in the full radiance of the moon, at with one hand outstretched towards him. And now, as he paused, disbelieving his very eyes, he saw that in her extended hand she held a great ripe peach. Sergeant! She said, speaking almost in a whisper, oh, sergeant, won't you take it? The heavy sabre thuttered down into the grass, and he took a sudden step towards her. But even now he hesitated, until, coming nearer yet, he could look down into her eyes. Then he spoke, and his voice was very hoarse and uneven. Miss Priscilla, he said, oh, Priscilla, and with the word, he had fallen on his knees at her feet, and his strong, solitary arm was folded close about her. CHAPTER XIX In which Porjus big and Porjus small discussed the subject of matrimony. What is it, my Porjus? Well, I'm a bit worried, you know. Worried? Yes. Afraid I shall be an old man before my time, Uncle Porjus. Adam says it's worry that age is a man, and it killed a cat, too. And why do you worry? Oh, it's my auntie, Aunt Thea, of course. She was crying again last night. Crying? Bellu had been lying flat upon his back in the fragrant shadow of the hay-rick. But now he set up, very suddenly, so suddenly that small Porjus started. Crying? He repeated last night. Are you sure? Oh, yes. You see, she forgot to come and talk me up last night, so I creeped downstairs, very quietly, you know, to see why. And I found her bending over the table, all sobbing and crying. At first she tried to pretend that she wasn't, but I saw the tears quite plain. Her cheeks were all wet, you know. And when I put my arms round her to comfort her a bit and asked her what was the matter, she only kissed me a lot and said nothing, nothing, only a headache. And why was she crying, you suppose, my Porjus? Oh, money, of course, he sighed. What makes you think it was money? Because she'd been talking to Adam. I heard him say good night as I creeped down the stairs. Ah! said Bellu, staring straight before him. His beloved pipe had slipped from his fingers and, for a wonder, they all neglected. It was after she had talked with Adam, was it, my Porjus? Yes. That's why I knew it was about money. Adam's always talking about mortgages and bills and money. Oh, Uncle Porjus, how I do hate money. It is sometimes a confounded nuisance, not at Bellu. But I do wish we had some, so we could pay all her bills and mortgages for her. She'd be so happy, you know, and go about singing like she used to. And I shouldn't worry myself into an old man before my time. Oh, wrinkled and gray, you know, and all would be revelry in joy, if only she had enough golden banknotes. And she was crying, you say, demanded Bellu again, his gaze still far away. Yes. You are quite sure you saw the tears, my Porjus. Oh, yes. And there was one on her nose, too. A big one that shone awful bright, twinkled, you know. And she said it was only a headache, did she? Yes. But that meant money. Money always makes her headache lately. Oh, Uncle Porjus, I suppose people do find fortunes sometimes, don't they? Why yes, to be sure they do. Then I wish I knew where they looked for them. Said he, with a very big sigh, indeed. I've hunted and hunted in all the attics, and the cupboards, and under hedges, and in titches, and prayed and prayed, you know, every night. Then of course you'll be answered, my Porjus. Do you really suppose I shall be answered? You'll see it's such an awful long way for one small prayer to have to go, from here to heaven. And there's clouds that get in the way, and I'm afraid my prayers aren't quite big or heavy enough, and get lost and blown away in the wind. You know, my Porjus, said Bellow, drawing his arm about the small disconsolate figure. You may depend upon it, that your prayers fly straight up into heaven, and that neither the clouds nor the wind can come between or blow them away. So just keep on praying, old chap, and when the time is right, they'll be answered, never fear. Answered? Do you mean, oh, Uncle Porjus, do you mean the money-moon? The small hand upon Bellow's arm quivered at his voice trembled with eagerness. Why, yes, to be sure. The money-moon, my Porjus, it's bound to come, one of these fine nights. Ah! But when? Oh, when will the money-moon ever come? Well, I can't be quite sure, but I rather fancy, from the look of things, my Porjus, that it will be pretty soon. Oh, I do hope so, for her sake and my sake. You see, she may go getting herself married to Mr. Casalus if something doesn't happen soon, and I shouldn't like that, you know. Neither should I, my Porjus, but what makes you think so? Why, he's always bothering her and asking her to, you see. She always says no, of course, but one of these fine days I'm afraid she'll say yes, accidentally, you know. Heaven forbid, nephew. Does that mean you hope not? Indeed, yes. Then I say heaven forbid, too, because I don't think she'd ever be happy in Mr. Casalus's great big house, and I shouldn't either. Why, of course not. You never go about asking people to marry you, do you, Uncle Porjus? Well, it could hardly be called a confirmed habit of mine. That's one of the things I like about you so. All the time you've been here you haven't asked my auntie on fey once, have you? No, my Porjus. Not yet. Oh. But you don't mean that you ever will? Would you be very grieved and angry if I did, some day soon, my Porjus? Well, I didn't think you were that kind of a man, answered small Porjus, sighing and shaking his head regretfully. I'm afraid I am, nephew. Do you really mean that you want to marry my auntie on fey? I do. As much as Mr. Casalus does? A great deal more, I think. Small Porjus sighed again and shook his head very gravely, indeed. Uncle Porjus said he, I'm surprised at you. I rather feared you would be, nephew. It's also awful still, you know. Why do you want to marry her? Because, like a prince in a fairytale, I'm a rather anxious to live happily ever after. Oh, said small Porjus, turning this over in his mind, I never thought of that. Marriage is a very important institution, you see, my Porjus, especially in this case, because I can't possibly live happily ever after unless I marry first. How can I? No, I suppose not. Small Porjus admitted, albeit reluctantly, after he had pondered the matter awhile with wrinkled brow. But why pick out my auntie on Thea? Just because she happens to be your auntie on Thea, of course. Small Porjus sighed again. Why, then, if she's got to be married some day so she can live happily ever after? Well, I suppose you'd better take her, Uncle Porjus. Thank you, old chap. I mean to. I'd rather you took her than Mr. Casalus, and why, there he is. Who? Mr. Casalus, and he's stopped, and he's twisting his mustache. Mr. Casalus, who had been crossing the paddock, had indeed stopped, and was twisting his black mustache, as if he were hesitating between two courses. Finally, he pushed open the gate, and, approaching Bello, saluted him with that supercilious air which Miss Priscilla always declared she found so trying. Ah, Mr. Bello! What might it be this morning, the pitchfork, the scythe, or the plow, he inquired. Neither, sir, this morning it is matrimony. Eh! I beg your pardon. Matrimony? With a very large M, sir, knotted Bello. Marriage, sir, wedlock. My nephew and I are discussing it in its aspects, philosophical, sociological, and—that is, surely, rather a peculiar subject to discuss with a child, Mr. Bello. Meaning my nephew, sir? I mean younger George there. Precisely, my nephew, small Porjus. I refer, said Mr. Castellus, with slow and crushing emphasis, to Miss Divine's nephew. And mine, Mr. Castellus, mine by their mutual adoption and inclination. And I repeat that your choice of subjects is peculiar, to say the least of it. But then mine is rather a peculiar nephew, sir. But surely it was not to discuss nephews, mine or anyone else's, that you are hither come and our ears do wait upon you. Pray be seated, sir. Thank you. I prefer to stand. Strange! murmured Bello, shaking his head. I never stand if I can sit, or sit if I can lie down. I should like you to define exactly your position. Here at Dappelmere, Mr. Bello. Lou's sleepy glance missed nothing of the other's challenging attitude. At his ear, nothing of Mr. Castellus's authoritative tone. Therefore his smile was most engaging, as he answered. My position here, sir, is truly the most enviable in the world. Prudence is an admirable cook. Particularly as regard Yorkshire pudding, gentle little Miss Priscilla is the most ant-like and perfect of housekeepers. And Miss Anthea is our sovereign lady, before whose radiant beauty small porges and I alike true knights and gallant gentles do constant homage, and in whose behalf small porges and I do stand prepared to wage stern battle by day or by night. Indeed, said Mr. Castellus, and his smile was even more supercilious than usual. Yes, sir, not in bellow. I do confess me a most fortunate and happy white, who, having wandered hither and yon upon this planet of ours, which is so vast and so very small, has by the most happy chance found his way hither into Arcady. And may I inquire how long you intend to lead this Arcadian existence? I fear I cannot answer that question until the full of the moon, sir. At present I grieve to say I do not know. Mr. Castellus struck his riding-boot a sudden smart wrap with his whip, his eyes snapped, and his nostrils dilated as he glanced down into Bellow's imperturbable face. At least you know, and will perhaps explain, what prompted you to buy all that furniture? You were the only buyer at the sale, I understand. Who bought anything? Yes, not at Bellow. Loved prey, what was your object? You, a stranger. Well, replied Bellow slowly as he began to fill his pipe, I bought it because it was there to buy, you know. I bought it because furniture is apt to be rather useful now and then. I acquired the chairs to, er, sit in, the tables to, er, put things on, and don't quibble with me, Mr. Bellow. I beg your pardon, Mr. Castellus. When I ask a question, sir, I am in the habit of receiving a direct reply. And when I am asked a question, Mr. Castellus, I am in the habit of answering precisely as I please, or not at all. Mr. Bellow, let me impress upon you, once and for all, that Miss Divine has friends, old and tried friends, to whom she can always turn for aid in any financial difficulty she may have to encounter, friends who can more than tide over all her difficulties without the, er, interference of strangers. And as one of her oldest friends, I demand to know by what right you force your wholly unnecessary assistance upon her. My very good sir, returned Bellow, shaking his head in gentle reproof. Really, you seem to forget that you are not addressing one of your grooms or footmen. Consequently, you force me to remind you of the fact. Furthermore, that is no answer, said Mr. Castellus, his gloved hands, tight-clenched upon his hunting-crop, his whole attitude one of menace. Furthermore, pursued Bellow placidly, settling the tobacco in his pipe with his thumb, you can't continue to, er, demand until all is blue. And I should continue to lie here, and smoke, and gaze up at the smiling serenity of heaven. The black brows of Mr. Castellus met in a sudden frown. He tossed his whip aside, and took a sudden quick stride towards the recumbent Bellow with so evident an intention that small porges shrank instinctively further within the encircling arm. But at that psychic moment, very fortunately for all concerned, there came the sound of a quick light step, and Anfea stood between them. Mr. Castellus! Mr. Bellow! She exclaimed, her cheeks flushed, and her bosom heaving with the haste she had made. Pray, whatever does this mean? Bellow rose to his feet, and, seeing Castellus was silent, sugar's head and smiled. Upon my word I hardly know Miss Anfea. Our friend Mr. Castellus seems to have got himself all worked up over the sail, I fancy. The furniture exclaimed Anfea, and stamped her foot with vexation. That wretched furniture! Of course you explained your object in buying it, Mr. Bellow. Well no, we hadn't got as far as that. Now when he had said this, Anfea's eyes flashed, sudden scorn at him, and she curled her lip at him, and turned her back upon him. Mr. Bellow bought my furniture because he intends to set up housekeeping. He is to be married, soon, I believe. When the moon is at the fall, nodded Bellow. Married! exclaimed Mr. Castellus, his frown vanishing as if by magic. Oh, indeed! I am on my way to the hop-gardens, if you care to walk with me, Mr. Castellus? And with the words, Anfea turned, and as he watched them walk away together, Bellow noticed upon the face of Mr. Castellus an expression very like triumph, and in his general air a suggestion of proprietorship that jarred upon him most unpleasantly. Why do you frown so, Uncle Porges? I was thinking, nephew. Well, I'm thinking too. Knotted small Porges, his brows knitted portentiously, and thus they sat, big and a little Porges, frowning in unison at space for quite a while. Are you sure you never told my Auntie Anfea that you were going to marry her? inquired small Porges at last. Quite sure, comrade, why? Then how did she know you were going to marry her and settle down? Marry her and settle down? Yes, at the fall of the moon, you know. I really don't know, my Porges, unless she guessed it. I suspect she did. She's awful clever at guessing things, but do you know? Well, I'm thinking I don't just like the way she smiled at Mr. Castellus. I never saw her look at him like that before, as if she were awful glad to see him, you know. So I don't think I'd wait till the fall of the moon if I were you. I think you'd better marry her this afternoon. What?" said Belu, clapping him on the shoulder, is a very admirable idea. I'll mention it to her on the first available opportunity, my Porges. But the opportunity did not come that day, nor the next, nor the next after that. For it seemed that with the approach of the hop-picking, Anfea had no thought or time for anything else. Wherefore Belu smoked many pipes and, as the days were on, missed his soul in patience, which is a most excellent precept to follow, in all things but love. CHAPTER XX Which relates a most extraordinary conversation. In the days which now ensued, while Anfea was busied out of doors, and Miss Priscilla was busied indoors, and small Porges was diligently occupied with his lessons, at such times Belu would take his pipe and go to sit and smoke in company with the cavalier in the great picture above the carved chimney-piece. A right jovial companion at all times was this cavalier, an optimist he, from the curling feather in his broad-brimmed beaver hat, to the spurs at his heels. Handsome, gay, and debonair was he, with lips up curving to a smile beneath his mustachio, and a quizzical light in his grey eyes, very like that in Belu's own. Moreover, he wore the knowing, waggish air of one well-versed in all the ways of the world, and mankind in general, and, what is infinitely more, of the sex feminine in particular. First was he, beyond all doubt, in their pretty tricks and foibles, since he had ever been a diligent student of feminine capriciousness when the merry monarch ruled the land. Hence it became customary for Belu to sit with him and smoke, and take counsel of this pru cavalier upon the unfortunate turn of affairs, whereof ensued many remarkable conversations of which the following was one. Belu. No, sir, emphatically I do not agree with you. To be sure you may have had more experience than I in such affairs, but then it was such a very long time ago. The Cavalier. Interrupting or seeming to. Belu, again I beg to differ from you. Women are not the same to-day as they ever were. Judging by what I have read of the ladies of your day, and King Charles's court at Whitehall, I should say not. At least, if they are, they act differently, and consequently must be, er, wooed differently. The methods employed in your day would be wholly inadequate and quite out of place in this. The Cavalier. Shaking his head and smirking, or seeming to. Belu. Well, I am willing to bet you anything you like, that if you were to step down out of your frame, change your velvets and laces for trousers and coat, leave off your great parook, and wear a derby hat instead of that picturesque floppy affair, and try your fortune with some twentieth-century damsel, your high-sounding gallantries and flattering phrases would fall singularly flat, and you would be promptly turned down, sir. The Cavalier. Tossing his love-locks, or seeming to. Belu. The strong hand, you say? Hum! History tells us that William the Conqueror wooed his lady with a club, or a battle-axe, or something of the sort, and she consequently liked him the better for it. Which was all very natural and proper, of course, in her case, seeing that hers was the day of battle-axes and things. But then, as I said before, sir, the times are sadly changed. Women may still admire strength of the body and even, occasionally, of mind, but the theory of dog-women and walnut-tree is quite obsolete. The Cavalier. Frowning and shaking his head, or seeming to. Belu. Ha! You don't believe me? Well, that is because you are obsolete, too. Yes, sir, as obsolete as your hat, or your boots, or your long rapier. Now, for instance, suppose I were to ask your advice in my own case. You know precisely how the matter stands at present between Miss Anthea and myself. You also know Miss Anthea personally, since you have seen her much and often, and have watched her grow from childhood into, erm, glorious womanhood. I repeat, sir, glorious womanhood. Thus you ought to know and understand her far better than I. For I do confess she is a constant source of bewilderment to me. Now, since you do know her so well, what course should you adopt? Were you in my place? The Cavalier. Smirking more knowingly than ever, or seeming to. Belu. Preposterous, quite absurd, and just what I might have expected. Carry her off, indeed. No, no, we are not living in your bad old glorious days, when a maid's no was generally taken to mean yes, or when a lover might swing his reluctant mistress up to his saddle-bow and ride off with her, leaving the world far behind. Today it is all changed. Sadly changed. Your age was a wild age, a violent age, but in some respects perhaps a rather glorious age. Your advice is singularly characteristic, and of course quite impossible, alas. Carry her off, indeed. Hereupon Belu sighed, and, turning away, lighted his pipe, which had gone out, and buried himself in the newspaper. End of Chapter XXI of Shoes and Ships and Ceiling Wax and the Third Finger of the Left Hand. So Belu took up the paper. The house was very quiet, for small porges was deep in the vexatious rules of the multiplication-table, and something he called jugga-free. Anthea was out, as usual, and Miss Priscilla was busy with her numerous household duties. Thus the brooding silence was unbroken, save for the occasional murmur of a voice, the jingle of the housekeeping keys, and the quick light tap-tap of Miss Priscilla's stick. Therefore Belu read the paper, and let it be understood that he regarded the daily news sheet as the last resource of the utterly bored. Now presently, as he glanced over the paper with a negative interest, his eye was attracted by a long paragraph beginning. At St. George's, Hanover Square, by the right reverend the bishop of Sylvia Cecile Merchmond, to his grace the Duke of Ride K. G. K. C. B. Below followed a full, true, and particular account of the ceremony which, it seemed, had been graced by royalty. George Belu read it halfway through, and yawned, positively and actually yawned, and thereafter laughed. And so I have been in Arcadia only three weeks. I have known on Thea only twenty-one days. Hey, ridiculously short time, as time goes, in any other place but Arcadia, and yet sufficient to lay forever the er-haunting specter of the might of then. Lord, what a preposterous ass I was! Baxter was quite right, utterly and completely right. Now, let us suppose that this paragraph had read, to-day at St. George's, Hanover Square, on Thea Divine, to... No! No! Confound it! And Belu crumpled up the paper, and tossed it into a distant corner. I wonder what Baxter would think of me now, good old faithful John, the haunting specter of the might of then. What a preposterous ass! What a monumental idiot I was! Posterous ass isn't a very pretty word, Uncle Porches, or continental idiot! Said a voice behind him, and turning, he beheld small Porches, somewhat stained, and bespattered with ink, who shook a reproving head at him. "'Drew, nephew,' he answered, but they are sometimes very apt, and in this instance particularly so. Small Porches drew near, and seating himself upon the arm of Belu's chair, looked at his adopted uncle, long, and steadfastly. "'Uncle Porches,' said he at last, "'You never tell stories, do you? I mean, lies, you know?' "'Oh, indeed, I hope not, Porches. Why do you ask?' "'Well, because my auntie Ante is afraid you do.' "'Is she? Hm! Why?' When she came to tuck me up last night, she sat down on my bed, and talked to me a long time. And she sighed a lot, and said she was afraid I didn't care for her any more. Which is awful silly, you know. Yes, of course, not in Belu. And then she asked me why I was so fond of you, and I said, "'Cause you were my uncle Porches that I found under a hedge.' And then she got more angrier than ever, and she said she wished I'd left you under the hedge.' "'Did she, my Porches?' "'Yes. She said she wished she'd never seen you, and she'd be awful glad when you'd gone away. So I told her you weren't ever going away, and that you were waiting for the money-moon to come, and bring us the fortune. And then she shook her head, and said, "'Oh, my dear, you mustn't believe anything he says to you about the moon or anything else, because he tells lies.' And she said, "'Lies, twice.'" "'Ah! And did she stamp her foot, Porches?' "'Yes, I think she did. And then she said there wasn't such a thing as a money-moon, and she told me you were going away very soon to get married, you know. And what did you say?' "'Oh, I told her that I was going, too. And then I thought she was going to cry. And she said, "'Oh, Georgie, I didn't think you'd leave me, even for him. So then I had to explain how we had arranged that she was going to marry you so that we could all live happily ever after. I mean that it was all settled, you know, and that you were going to speak to her on the first opportunity. And then she looked at me a long time and asked me, "'Was I sure you had said so?' And then she got awful angry indeed and said, "'How dare he? Oh, how dare he? So, of course, I told her you'd dare anything, even a dragon, because you are so big and brave, you know. So then she went and stood at the window, and she was so angry she cried. And I nearly cried, too. But at last she kissed me good night and said, "'You were a man that never meant anything you said, and that I must never believe you any more, and that you were going away to marry a lady in London, and that she was very glad because then we should all be happy again,' she posed. So she kissed me again and tucked me up and went away. But it was a long, long time before I could go to sleep, because I kept on thinking and thinking, supposing there really wasn't any Money Moon after all. Supposing you were going to marry another lady in London. You see, it would be also frightfully awful, wouldn't it? Terribly, dreadfully awful, my porges. But you never do tell lies, do you, Uncle Porges? No. And there is a Money Moon, isn't there? Why, of course there is. And you are going to marry my Auntie Anthea in the Full of the Moon, aren't you? Yes, my porges. Why then? Everything's all righty, kid. So let's go and sit under the haystack and talk about chips. But why ships, inquired Bellow, rising. Because I made up my mind this morning that I'd be a sailor when I grew up, a mariner, you know, like Peter Day, only I'd prefer to have both of my legs. You'd find it more convenient, perhaps. You know all about oceans and waves and pillows, don't you, Uncle Porges? Well, I know a little. And are you ever seasick like a landlubber? I used to be, but I got over it. Was it a very big ship that you came over in? Oh, no, not so very big, but she's about as fast as anything in her class, and a corking sea-boat. What's her name? Her name? Repeated Bellow. Well, she was called the Sylvia. That's an awful pretty name for a ship. Hmm. So-so. But I have learned a prettier, and next time, she puts out to sea, will change her name, eh, my porges? We? Quite small porges, looking up with ear-eyes. Do you mean you take me to sea with you, and my Auntie Anthea, of course? You don't suppose I'd leave either of you behind if I could help it, do you? We'd all sail away together, wherever you wished. Do you mean, said small porges, in a suddenly odd voice, that it is your ship, your very own? Oh, yes. But do you know, Uncle Porges, you don't look as though you had a ship, for your very own, somehow. Don't I? You see, a ship is such a very big thing for one man to half of his very own self, and has it got masts, and funnels, and anchors? Lots of them. Then please, will you take me and Auntie Anthea sailing all over the oceans? Just so soon as she is ready to come. Did I think I'd like to go to Nova Zambla first? I found it on my geography today, and it sounds nice and far off, doesn't it? It does, shipmate, knotted bellow. Oh, that's fine, exclaimed small porges rapturously. You shall be the captain, and I'll be the shipmate, and we'll say aye-aye to each other, like the real sailors do in books, shall we? Aye-aye, shipmate, knotted bellow again. Then please, Uncle Por- I mean captain, what shall we name our ship? I mean the new name. Well, my porges, I mean, of course, shipmate, I rather thought of calling her... Hello? Why, here's the Sergeant. Sure enough, there was Sergeant Appleby sitting under the shade of King Arthur, but who rose and stood at attention as they came up. Why, Sergeant, how are you? said Bellow, gripping the veteran's hand. You are half an hour before your usual time today. Nothing wrong, I hope? Nothing wrong, Mr. Bellow, sir. I thank you. No, nothing wrong, but this is a memorable occasion, sir. May I trouble you to step behind the tree with me for half a moment, sir? Suiting the action to the word, the sergeant led Bellow to the other side of the tree, and there, screened from view of the house, he, with a sudden, jerky movement, produced a very small other case from his pocket, which he handed to Bellow. Not good enough for such a woman, I know, but the mistake could afford, sir, said the sergeant, appearing profoundly interested in the leaves overhead, while Bellow opened the very small box. Why, it's very handsome, Sergeant, said Bellow, making the jewel sparkle in the sun. Anyone might be proud of such a ring. Why, it did look pretty tidy in the shop, sir, to me and Peter Day. My comrade has a sharp eye, and a sound judgment in most things, sir, and he took a deal of trouble in selecting it. But now, when it comes to giving it to her, why, it looks uncommon small and mean, sir. A ruby, and two diamonds, and very fine stones, too, Sergeant. So I made so bold as to come here, sir, pursued the sergeant still interested in the foliage above, half an hour for my usual time, to ask you, sir, if you would so far oblige me as to hand it to her when I'm gone, sir. Lord, no, said Bellow, smiling and shaking his head. Not on your life, Sergeant. Why, man, it would lose half its value in her eyes if any other than you gave it to her. No, Sergeant, you must hand it to her yourself, and, what's more, you must slip it upon her finger. Good Lord, sir, exclaimed the sergeant. I could never do that. Oh, yes you could. Not unless you stood beside me, a force in reserve as it were, sir. I'll do that willingly, Sergeant. Then, perhaps, sir, you might happen to know which finger. The third finger of the left hand, I believe, Sergeant. Here's Aunt Priscilla now, said small porgyus at this juncture. Lord, exclaimed the sergeant, and sixteen minutes of all her usual time. Yes, there was Miss Priscilla, her basket of sewing upon her arm, as gentle as unruffled, as placid as usual. And yet it is probable that she divined something from their very attitudes, for there was a light in her eyes, and her cheeks seemed more delicately pink than was their walt. Thus, as she came toward them, under the ancient apple-trees, despite her stick and her white hair, she looked even younger, and more girlish than ever. At least the sergeant seemed to think so, for, as he met her look, his face grew suddenly radiant, while a slow flush crept up under the tan of his cheek, and the solitary hand he held out to her troubled a little, for all its size and strength. Miss Priscilla, ma'am, he said, and stopped. Miss Priscilla, he began again, and paused once more. Why, Sergeant! she exclaimed, though it was a very soft little exclamation indeed, for her hand still rested in his, and so she could feel the quiver of the strong fingers. Why, Sergeant! Miss Priscilla, said he, beginning all over again, but with no better success. Goodness me, exclaimed Miss Priscilla, I too believe he is going to forget to inquire about the peaches. Peaches, repeated the sergeant, yes, Priscilla. And why? Because he's bought you a ring, small porges broke in. A very handsome ring, you know, Aunt Priscilla, all diamonds and jewels, and he wants you to please let him put it on your finger, if you don't mind. And here it is, said the sergeant, and gave it into her hand. Miss Priscilla stood very silent, and very still, looking down at the glittering gems, then, all at once, her eyes filled, and a slow wave of color dyed her cheeks. Oh, Sergeant! she said very softly, oh, Sergeant, I am only a poor old woman with a lame foot, and I am a poor old soldier with only one arm, Priscilla. You are the strongest and gentlest and bravest soldier in all the world, I think, she answered. And you, Priscilla, are the sweetest and most beautiful woman in the world, I know. And so I've loved you all these years, and never dared to tell you so because of my one arm. Why then, said Miss Priscilla, smiling up at him through her tears, if you do really think that, oh, why, it's this finger, Sergeant. So the sergeant, very clumsily, perhaps, because he had but the one hand, slipped the ring upon the finger in question, and porges, big and small, turning to glance back as they went upon their way, saw that he still held that small, white hand pressed close to his lips. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Of The Money-Moon This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Money-Moon, a romance by Jeffrey Farnell. Chapter 22 Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before I suppose they'll be marrying each other one of these fine days, said Small Porges as they crossed the meadow side by side. Yes, I expect so, shipmate, not in bellow, and may they live long and die happy, say I. I, I, Captain, and I, men, returned Small Porges. Now as they went, conversing of marriage and ships, and the wonders and marvels of foreign lands, they met with Adam, who stared up at the sky, and muttered to himself, and frowned, and shook his head. Good afternoon, Mr. Bellew, sir, and Master Georgie. Well, Adam, how are the hops? Ops, sir, there never were such hops, new, not in all kits, sir, and I'm wishing is that they was all safe-picked and gathered. What do you make of them clouds, sir, over there, just over the pint of the Oast House? Bellew turned and cast a comprehensive sailor-like glance in the direction indicated. Rain, Adam, and wind, and plenty of it, said he. Ah, so I think, sir, driving-store, man, to thrashing tempest. Well, Adam, well, sir, perhaps you've never seen what driving rain and raging wind can do among the ops-bind, sir. All I wish is that the ops was all safe-picked and gathered, sir. And Adam strode off with his eye still turned heavenward, and shaking his head like some great bird of ill omen. So the afternoon wore away to evening, and with evening came on Thea. But a very grave-eyed, troubled on Thea, who sat at the tea-table silent and preoccupied, in so much that small Porges openly wondered, while Miss Priscilla watched over her, wistful and tender. Thus tea, which was won't to be the merriest meal of the day, was but the pale ghost of what it should have been, despite small Porges's flow of conversation, when not impeded by bread and jam, and Bellew's tactful efforts. Now, while he talked lightheartedly, keeping carefully to generalities, he noticed two things. One was that on Thea made but a pretense at eating, and the second, that though she uttered a word now and then, yet her eyes persistently avoided his. Thus he, for one, was relieved when tea was over, and, as he rose from the table, he determined, despite the unpropitious look of things, to end the suspense one way or another, and speak to on Thea just so soon as she should be alone. But here again he was balked and disappointed, for when small Porges came to bid him good night as usual, he learned that Auntie on Thea had already gone to bed. She says it's a headache, said small Porges, but I suspect it's the hops really, you know. The hops, my Porges? She's worrying about them. She's afraid of a storm like Adam is. And when she worries, I worry. Oh, Uncle Porges, if only my prayers could bring the money-moon soon, you know, very soon. If they don't bring it in a day or two, afraid I shall wake up one fine morning and find I've worried and worried myself into an old man. Never fear, shipmate, said Bellow in his most nautical manner. All's well that ends well. A lo and a loft, all's a tonto. So just take a turn at the lee braces and keep your weather eye lifting, for you may be sure of this. If the storm does come, it will bring the money-moon with it. Thus having bidden small Porges a cheery good night, Bellow went out to walk among the roses. And as he walked he watched the flying rack of clouds above his head, and listened to the wind that moaned in fitful gusts. Wherefore, having learned in his many travels to read and interpret such natural signs in omens, he shook his head and muttered to himself, even as Adam had done before him. Presently he wandered back into the house and, filling his pipe, went to hold communion with his friend the cavalier. And thus it was, that having ensconced himself in the great elbow-chair, and raised his eyes to the picture, he aspired a letter tucked into the frame thereof. Looking closer, he saw that it was directed to himself. He took it down, and, after a momentary hesitation, broke the seal and read. Misdivine presents her compliments to Mr. Bellow, and regrets to say that, owing to unforeseen circumstances, she begs that he will provide himself with other quarters at the expiration of the month, being the twenty-third instant. Bellow read the lines slowly, twice over, then folding the note very carefully, put it into his pocket, and stood for a long time staring at nothing in particular. At length he lifted his head, and looked up into the smiling eyes of the cavalier above the mantle. Sir, said he very gravely, it would almost seem that you were in the right of it, that yours is the best method after all. Then he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and went slowly and heavily upstairs to bed. It was a long time before he fell asleep, but he did so at last, for insomnia is a demon who rarely finds his way into Arcadia. But all at once he was awake again, broad awake and stirring into the dark, for a thousand voices seemed to be screaming in his ears, and eager hands were shaking and plucking at window and lattice. He started up, and then he knew that the storm was upon them at last, in all its fury, rain and a mighty wind, a howling raging tempest. Yes, a great and mighty wind was abroad. It shrieked under the eaves, it boomed and bellowed in the chimneys, and roared away to carry destruction among the distant woods, while the rain beat hissing against the window-panes. Surely in all its many years the old house of Dapamir had seldom borne the brunt of such a storm, so wild, so fierce, and pitiless. And lying there upon his bed, listening to the uproar and tumult, Bellu must needs think of her who had once said, We are placing all our hopes this year upon the hops. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Of the Money-Moon This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Money-Moon, a romance by Geoffrey Farnell. Chapter 23 How small Porges, in his hour of need, was deserted by his uncle. Rurient, sir! Done for! Lord, love me, they ain't worth the trouble of gathering what's left on him, Mr. Bellu, sir. So bad is that, Adam! Bad? Ah, so bad as ever was, sir! said Adam, blinking suspiciously and turning suddenly away. Has Miss Anthea seen? Does she know? Ah, she were out at dawn, and oh Lord, Mr. Bellu, sir! I can't never forget her poor stricken face. So pale and sad it were. But she never said nothing, only, oh, Adam, my poor hops. And I see her lips all of a quiver while she spoke. And so she turned away and came back to the house, sir. Poor lass! Oh, poor lass! He exclaimed, his voice growing more husky. She's made a brave fight for it, sir. But it won't no use, you see. It'll be a good buy for her to Dappelmere, after all, that their mortgage can't never be paid now, know-how. When is it due? Well, according to the bond, or the deed, or whatever they call it, it be due to-night, at nine o'clock, sir. Though old Grimes, as a special favour and utter much persuading, had agreed to hold over till next Saturday on account of the opt-picking. But now, seeing as there ain't no opts to be picked, while he'll foreclose to-night, and glad enough to do it, you can lay your oath on that, Mr. Bellows, sir. To-night, said Bellow, to-night. And he stood for a while with bent head, as though lost in profound thought. Adam, said he suddenly, helped me to harness the mare. I must drive over to the nearest railroad depot. Hurry, I must be off, the sooner the better. What? Be you going, sir? Yes, hurry, man, hurry. Do you mean as you're going to Lever, now, in the middle of all this trouble? Yes, Adam, I must go to London, on business. Now hurry, like a good fellow. And so, together they entered the stable, and together they harnessed the mare. Which done, staying not for breakfast, Bellow mounted the driver's seat, and, with Adam beside him, drove rapidly away. But small porges had seen these preparations, and now came running all eagerness, but ere he could reach the yard, Bellow was out of earshot. So there stood small porges, a desolate little figure, watching the rapid course of the dog-cart until it had vanished over the brow of the hill. And then, all at once, the tears welled up into his eyes, hot and scalding, and a great sob burst from him, for it seemed to him that his beloved Uncle Porges had failed him at the crucial moment, had left him solitary just when he needed him most. Thus small porges gave way to his grief, hidden in the very darkest corner of the stable, whether he had retired lest any should observe his weakness, until having once more gained command of himself, he wiped away his tears with his small and dingy pocket-hankerchief, he slowly recross the yard, and entering the house went to look for his Auntie Anthea. And after much search he found her, half lying, half kneeling beside his bed. When he spoke to her, though she answered him, she did not look up, and he knew that she was weeping. Don't, Auntie Anthea, don't, he pleaded. I know Uncle Porges has gone away and left us, but you've got me, you know, and I shall be a man very soon before my time, I think, so who don't cry, though I'm awful sorry he's gone too, just when we needed him the most, you know. Oh, Georgie! she whispered. My dear brave little Georgie, we shall only have each other soon. They're going to take Tappelmere away from us, and everything we have in the world. Oh, Georgie! Well, never mind, said he, kneeling beside her, and drawing one small arm protectingly about her. We shall always have each other left, you know. Nobody shall ever take you away from me, and then there's the money-moon. It's been an awful long time coming, but it may come tonight, or tomorrow night. He said it would be sure to come if the storm came, and so I'll find the fortune for you at last. I know I shall find it some day, of course, because I've prayed and prayed for it so very hard, and he said my prayers went straight up to heaven, and didn't get blown away, or lost in the clouds. So don't cry, Auntie Anthea. Let's wait just a little longer till the money-moon comes. of a certain black bag. Any ordinary mortal might have manifested just a little surprise to behold his master walk suddenly in, dusty and disheveled of person, his habitual langer entirely laid aside, and to thus demand pen and ink forthwith. But then Baxter, though mortal, was the very cream of a gentleman's gentleman, and the acme of valance, as has been said, and comported himself accordingly. Baxter! Sir! Oblige me by getting this cashed. Yes, sir. Bring half of it in gold. Sir! said Baxter, glancing down at the slip-up paper. Did you say half, sir? Yes, Baxter. I'd take it all in gold, only that it would be rather awkward to drag around. So bring half in gold and the rest in five-pound notes. Very good, sir. And Baxter? Sir, take a cab. Suddenly, sir. And Baxter went out, closing the door behind him. Meanwhile, Bellew busied himself in removing all traces of his journey, and was already bathed and shaved and dressed by the time Baxter returned. Now, gripped in his right hand, Baxter carried a black leather bag which jingled as he set it down upon the table. Got it? inquired Bellew. I have, sir. Good! nodded Bellew. Now just run around to the garage and fetch the new racing car, the Mercedes. Now, sir. Now, Baxter. Once more Baxter departed, and while he was gone, Bellew began to pack. That is to say, he bundled coats and trousers, shirts and boots into a portmanteau in a way that would have wrung Baxter's heart, could he have seen. Which done, Bellew opened the black bag, glanced inside, shut it again, and, lighting his pipe, stretched himself out upon an ottoman, and immediately became plunged in thought. So lost was he indeed that Baxter, upon his return, was necessitated to emit three distinct coves. The most perfectly proper and gentlemanlike coves in the world, ere Bellew was aware of his presence. Oh, that you, Baxter? said he, sitting up back so soon. The car is at the door, sir. The car? Yes, to be sure. Baxter. Sir, what should you say if I told you? Bellew paused to strike a match, broke it, tried another, broke that, and finally put his pipe back into his pocket, very conscious the while of Baxter's steady, though perfectly respectful regard. Baxter, said he again. Sir? said Baxter. What should you say if I told you that I was in love, at last Baxter, head over ears hopelessly, irretrovably? Say, sir? Why, I should say, indeed, sir. What should you say, pursued Bellew, staring thoughtfully down at the rug under his feet, if I told you that I am so very much in love, that I am positively afraid to tell her so? I should say, very remarkable, sir. Bellew took out his pipe again, looked at it very much as if he had never seen such a thing before, and laid it down upon the mantelpiece. Baxter, said he, kindly understand that I am speaking to you as a man to man, as my father's old and trusted servant, and my early boyhood's only friend. Sit down, John. Thank you, Master George, sir. I wish to confess to you, John, that her regarding the haunting specter of the might of Ben, you were entirely in the right. At that time I knew no more the meaning of the word, John, meaning the word love, Master George. Precisely. I knew no more about it than that table. But during these latter days I have begun to understand, and the fact of the matter is, I am fairly up against it, John. Here Baxter, who had been watching him with his quick sharp eyes, nodded his head solemnly. Master George, said he, speaking as your father's old servant, and your boyhood's friend, I am afraid you are. Bellew took a turn up and down the room, and then pausing in front of Baxter, who had risen also as a matter of course, he suddenly laid his two hands upon his valet's shoulders. Baxter, said he, you'll remember that after my mother died, my father was always too busy piling up his millions to give much time or thought to me, and I should have been a very lonely small boy if it hadn't been for you, John Baxter. I was often up against it in those days, John, and you were always ready to help and advise me. But now, well, from the look of things, I'm rather afraid that I must stay up against it, that the game is lost already, John, but whichever way fate decides, win or lose, I'm glad, yes, very glad to have learned the true meaning of the word, John. Master George, sir, there was a poet once, Tennyson, I think, who said, it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, and I know that he was right. Many years ago, before you were born, Master George, I loved and lost, and that is how I know, but I hope that fortune will be kinder to you indeed I do. Thank you, John, though I don't see why she should be, and Belle stood staring down at the rug again till aroused by Baxter's cough. Pray, sir, what are your orders? The car is waiting downstairs. Orders? Why, um, pack your grip, Baxter. I shall take you with me this time into Arcadia, Baxter. For how long, sir? Probably a week. Very good, sir. It is now half-past three. I must be back and dapple near at eight. Take your time. I'll go down to look at the machine. Just lock the place up and, uh, don't forget the black bag. Some ten minutes later the great racing car set out on its journey with Belle with the wheel and Baxter beside him with the black bag held firmly upon his knee. Their process was, necessarily, slow at first on account of the crowded thoroughfares. But every now and then the long, low car would shoot forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus wheels, dodging handsoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless manner. But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat calm and unruffled, since he knew by long experience that Belle's eye was quick and true at his hand firm and short upon the wheel. Over Westminster Bridge and along the old Kent Road they sped, now fast, now slow, threading a tortuous and difficult way amid the myriad vehicles, and so betimes they reached Blackheath. And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had a foretime shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman legionnaires, up, shooters hill, and down, and so into the open country. And ever as they went they talked, and not as master and servant but as between man and man. Wherefore Baxter the Vallet became merged and lost in Baxter the Human, the honest John of the Old Days, a gray-haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged Cosmopolitan who listened to and looked at young El Cides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master George of years ago. So you see, John, if all things do go well with me, we should probably take a trip to the Mediterranean. In the Sylvia, of course, Master George? Yes, though I've decided to change the name, John. Ah, very natural under the circumstances, Master George, said honest John, his eyes twinkling slightly as he spoke. Now, if I might suggest a new name, it would be hard to find a more original one than the haunting specter of the Bosch John. There never was such a thing. You were quite right, as I said before, and by heaven! Potato sacks! Eh, what? Potato sacks? Master George? They had been climbing a long winding ascent, but now, having reached the top of the hill, they overtook a great lumbering market cart, or wane, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely surly-faced man in a smock frock. Hello there, cried Bellew, slowing up. How much for one of your potato sacks? Get out now! growled the surly-faced man in a tone as surly as his look. Can't you see that they're all occupied? Well, empty one. Get out now! repeated the man, scowling blacker than ever. I'll give you a sovereign for one. No, don't you try to come, none of your jokes for me, young feller! growled the carter. Sovereign! Bah! Show us! Here it is! said Bellew, holding up the coin in question. Catch! And with the word he tossed it up to the carter, who caught it very dexterously, looked at it, bid it, rubbed it on his sleeve, rang it upon the footboard of his wagon, bid it again, and finally pocketed it. It's a go, sir! he nodded, his scowl vanishing as if by magic, and as he spoke he turned, seized the nearest sack, and, forthwith, set a cascade of potatoes rolling and bounding all over the road. Which done, he folded up the sack and handed it down to Bellew, who thrust it under the seat, nodded, and, throwing in the clutch, set off down the road. But long after the car had hummed itself out of sight, and the dust of its going had subsided, the carter sat staring after it, open mouth. If Baxter wondered at this purchase, he said nothing, only he bent his gaze thoughtfully upon the black leather bag that he held upon his knee. On they sped between fragrant hedges, under whispering trees, past lonely cottages and farmhouses, past gate and field and wood, until the sun grew low. At last Bellew stopped the automobile at a place where a narrow lane or cart track branched off from the high road and wound away between great trees. I leave you here, said he as he sprang from the car. This is Dappelmere. The farmhouse lies over the upland yonder, though you can't see it because of the trees. Is it far, Master George? About half a mile. Here is the bag, sir, but do you think it is quite safe? Safe, John? Under the circumstances, Master George, I think it would be advisable to take this with you. And he held out a small revolver. Bellew laughed and shook his head. Such things aren't necessary here in Arcadia, John. Besides, I have my stick, so good-bye for the present. You'll stay at the king's head, remember? Good night, Master George, sir. Good night, and good fortune go with you. Thank you, said Bellew, and reached out his hand. I think we'll shake on that, John. So they clasped hands, and Bellew turned and set off along the grassy lane. And presently, as he went, he heard the hum of the car grow rapidly fainter and fainter until it was lost in the quiet of the evening. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of The Money-Moon This liver-box recording is in the public domain. The Money-Moon, a romance, by Geoffrey Farnall. Chapter 25 The Conspirators The shadows were creeping down, and evening was approaching, as Bellew took his way along that winding lane that led to the house of Dappelmere. Had there been anyone to see, which there was not, they might have noticed something almost furtive in his manner of approach, for he walked always under the trees where the shadows lay thickest, and paused, once or twice, to look about him warily. Being come within sight of the house, he turned aside, and forcing his way through a gap in the hedge came by a roundabout course to the farmyard. Here, after some search, he discovered a spade, the witch, having discarded his stick, he took upon his shoulder, and, with the black leather bag tucked under his arm, crossed the paddock with the same degree of caution, and so at last reached the orchard. On he went, always in the shadow, until at length, he paused beneath the mighty, knotted branches of King Arthur. Never did conspirator glance about him with sharper eyes, or harken with keener ears, than did George Bellew, or conspirator number one, where he now stood beneath the protecting shadow of King Arthur, or conspirator number two, as, having unfolded the potato sack, he opened the black leather bag. The moon was rising broad and yellow, but it was low as yet, and King Arthur stood in impenetrable gloom, as any other thoroughgoing, self-respecting conspirator should, and now, all at once, from this particular patch of shadow, there came a sudden sound, a rushing sound, a chinking, clinking, metallic sound, and thereafter a crisp rustling that was not the rustling of ordinary paper. And now conspirator number one rises and ties the mouth of the sack with string he had brought with him for the purpose, and, setting down the sack, bulky now and heavy by conspirator number two, takes up the spade and begins to dig. And, in a while, having made an excavation not very deep, to be sure, but sufficient to his purpose, he deposits the sack within, covers it with soil, treads it down, and, replacing the torn sod, carefully pats it down with the flat of his spade. Which thing accomplished? conspirator number one wipes his brow, and stepping forth of the shadow, consults his watch with anxious eye, and, thereupon, smiles, surely a singularly pleasing smile for the lips of an arch conspirator to wear. Thereafter he takes up the black bag, empty now, shoulders the spade, and sets off, keeping once more in the shadows, leaving conspirator number two to guard their guilty secret. Now, as conspirator number one goes his shady way, he keeps his look directed towards the rising moon, and thus he almost runs into one who also stands amid the shadows, at whose gaze is likewise fixed upon the moon. Ah, Mr. Bellew! exclaims a drawing voice, and Squire Cassilus turns to regard him with his usual supercilious smile. Indeed, Squire Cassilus seems to be even more self-satisfied and smiling than ordinary tonight, or at least Bellew imagined so. You are still agriculturally inclined, I see, said Mr. Cassilus, nodding towards the spade, though it's rather a queer time to choose for digging, isn't it? Not at all, sir, not at all, returned Bellew solemnly. The moon is very nearly at the fall you will perceive. Well, sir, what of that? When the moon is at the fall, or nearly so, I generally dig, sir, that is to say, as circumstances permitting. Really, said Mr. Cassilus, beginning to caress his moustache, it seems to me that you have very peculiar tastes, Mr. Bellew. That is because you have probably never experienced the first choice of moonlight digging, sir. No, Mr. Bellew, digging as a recreation has never appealed to me at any time. Then, sir, said Bellew, shaking his head, permit me to tell you that you have missed a great deal. Had I the time, I should be delighted to explain to you exactly how much, as it is, allow me to wish you a very good evening. Mr. Cassilus smiled, and his teeth seemed to gleam whiter and sharper than ever in the moonlight. Wouldn't it be rather more apropos if you said, good-bye, Mr. Bellew? He inquired. You are leaving Dapplemere shortly, I understand, aren't you? Why, sir, returned Bellew, grave and imperturbable as ever, it all depends. Depends upon what may I ask? The moon, sir. The moon? Precisely. And pray, what can the moon have to do with your departure? What a great deal more than you'd think, sir. Had I the time, I should be delighted to explain to you exactly how much, as it is, permit me to wish you a very good evening. Saying which, Bellew nodded affably, and, shouldering his spade, went upon his way. And still he walked in the shadows, and still he gazed upon the moon. But now his thick brows were gathered in a frown, and he was wondering just why Cassilus should chance to be here, tonight, and what his confident air and the general assurance of his manner might portend. Above all, he was wondering how Mr. Cassilus came to be aware of his own impending departure. And so, at last, he came to the rickyard, full of increasing doubt and misgivings.