Part 17 (2/2)

It was no longer an a.s.sembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song.

Laughingly, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rested her finger on the keys and looked around. These stolid Trojans had caught fire. There was the little Doctor purple all above his stock; there was the Vicar with inflated cheeks and a hag-ridden stare; there was Mr. Moggridge snapping his fingers and almost capering; there was Miss Limpenny with her under-jaw dropped and her eyes agape. They were charmed, bewitched, crazy.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys saw this, and broke into a silvery laugh.

The infection spread. In an instant the whole room burst into a peal, a roar. They laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks; they held their sides and laughed again. She had them at her will.

There was no more wonder after this. At supper the talk was furious and incessant; Miss Lavinia spoke of a ”tipsy-cake,” and never blushed; the Vicar took wine with everybody, and told more stories of Three-bottle Beauchamp; even Sophia laughed with the rest, although her heart was aching--for still her poet neglected her and hung with her brother on the lips of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. I saw him bring the poor girl's cloak in the hall afterwards and receive the most piteous of glances. I doubt if he noticed it.

Outside, the Admiral's double-ba.s.s was still droning the ”Dead March”

to Miss Limpenny's laurestinus grove. It was the requiem of our decorum. Long after I was in bed that night I heard the voice of Mr.

Moggridge trolling down the street--

”An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick!”

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys had ”taught us the trick,” indeed.

CHAPTER X.

OF ONE EXCURSION AND MANY ALARUMS.

”Caleb!” said Mr. Fogo on the morning after Miss Limpenny's party.

”Aye, aye, sir!” Caleb paused in his carpentering to look up.

”It is a lovely morning; I think I will take my easel and go for a walk. You are sure that the crowds have gone at last?”

”All gone, sir. Paice and quiet at last--as Bill said when he was left a widow. Do 'ee want me to go 'long wi' 'ee, sir?”

”No, thank you, Caleb. I shall go along the hills on this side of the river.”

”You'd best let me come, sir, or you'll be wool-gatherin' and wand'rin' about till goodness knows what time o' night.”

”I shall be back by four o'clock.”

”Stop a minnit, sir; I have et. I'll jest put that alarmin' clock o'

yourn in your tail-pocket an' set et to ha'f-arter-dree, an' that'll put you in mind when 'tes time to come hom'. 'Tes a wonnerful in-jine, this 'ere clock,” reflected Caleb as he carefully set the alarum, ”an' chuck-full o' sense, like Malachi's cheeld. Lor', what a thing es Science, as Jenifer said when her seed the tellygrarf-clerk in platey b.u.t.tons an' red facin's to his breeches.

Up the path, sir, an' keep to the left. Good-bye, sir! Now, I'd gie summat,” soliloquised Caleb as he watched his master ascend the hill, ”to be sure of seein' him back safe an' sound afore nightfall.

Aw dear! 'tes a terrable 'sponsible post, bein' teetotum to a babby!”

With this he walked back to the house, but more than once halted on his way to ponder and shake his head ominously.

Mr. Fogo meanwhile, with easel and umbrella on his arm, climbed the hill slowly and with frequent pauses to turn and admire the landscape. It was the freshest of spring mornings: the short turf was beaded with dew, the furze-bushes on either hand festooned with gossamer and strung with mimic diamonds. As he looked harbourwards, the radiance of sky mingling with the glitter of water dazzled and bewildered his sight: below, and at the foot of the steep woods opposite, the river lay cool and shadowy, or vanished for a s.p.a.ce beneath a cliff, where the red plough-land broke abruptly away with no more warning than a crazy hurdle. Distinct above the dreamy hum of the little town, the ear caught the rattle of anchor-chains, the cries of an outward-bound crew at the windla.s.s, the clanking of trucks beside the jetties; the creaking of oars in the thole-pins of a tiny boat below ascended musically; the very air was quick with all sounds and suggestions of spring, and of man going forth to his labour; the youthfulness of the morning ran in Mr. Fogo's veins, and lent a buoyancy to his step.

By this time the town was lost to view; next, the bend of Kit's House vanished, and now the broad flood spread in a silver lake full ahead.

On the ridge the pure air was simply intoxicating after the languor of the valley. Mr. Fogo began to skip, to snap his fingers, to tilt at the gossamer with his umbrella, and once even halted to laugh hilariously at nothing. An old horse grazing on an isolated patch of turf looked up in mild surprise; Mr. Fogo blushed behind his spectacles and hurried on.

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