Part 26 (1/2)

That Mrs. Simpson discovered her great uncle to have been a baronet on this earth.

That Mrs. Payne had prefixed ”Ellicome” to her surname, and spoke of ”_the_ Ellicome-Paynes, you know.”

That Mr. Moggridge had been heard to speak of Sam Buzza as a ”low fellow.”

That Sam had retorted by terming the poet a ”conceited a.s.s.”

And--

That Admiral Buzza intended a Picnic.

To measure the importance of this last item, you must know that a Trojan picnic is no ordinary function. To begin with, it is essentially patriotic--devoted, in fact, to the cult of the Troy river, in honour of which it forms a kind of solemn procession.

Undeviating tradition has fixed its goal at a sacred rock, haunted of heron and kingfisher, and wrapped around with woodland, beside a creek so tortuous as to simulate a series of enchanted lakes.

Here the self-respecting Trojan, as his boat cleaves the solitude, will ask his fellows earnestly and at regular intervals whether they ever beheld anything more lovely; and they, in duty bound and absolute truthfulness, will answer that they never did.

It follows that a Trojan picnic depends for its success to quite a peculiar degree upon the weather. But on the day of the Admiral's merry-making, this was, beyond cavil, kind. Four boats started from the Town Quay; four boats--alas!--could by this time contain the _c.u.meelfo_ of Troy; for everybody who was anybody had been invited, and n.o.body (with the exception of the Honourable Frederic, who could not leave his telescope) had refused. Sam Buzza did not start with the rest, but was to follow later; and in his absence Mr. Moggridge paid impressive court to Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, though uneasily, for Sophia's saddened eyes were upon him.

Yet everybody seemed in the best of spirits and tempers.

The Admiral, after bestowing his wife in another boat, and glaring vindictively at Kit's House, where the figure of Mr. Fogo was visible on the beach, grew exceedingly jocose, and cracked his most admired jokes, including his famous dialogue with the echo just beyond Kit's House--a performance which Miss Limpenny declared she had seldom heard him give with such spirit. She herself, spurred to emulation, told her favourite story, which began, ”In the Great Exhibition of Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-one, when her Majesty--long may she reign!--partook of a public luncheon--” and contained a most diverting incident about a cherry-pie. And always, at decent intervals, she would exclaim--

”Did you ever see anything more lovely?”

To which the Admiral as religiously would reply--

”Really, I never did.”

Indeed the scene was, as Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, in another boat, observed, ”Like a poet's dream”--a remark at which Mr. Moggridge blushed very much. I wish I could linger and describe with amorous precision the bright talk, the glories of the day, each bend and vista of the river which I have loved from childhood; but amid the stress of events now crowding with epic vehemence on Troy, the Muse must hasten. Fain would she dally over the disembarkation, the feast, the manner in which Admiral Buzza carved the chicken-pie, and his humorous allusion to the merry thought; or dwell upon the salad compounded by Mr. Moggridge, the spider that was found in it, and the conundrum composed upon that singular occurrence; or loiter to tell how Miss Lavinia upset the claret cup over the Vicar's coat-tails, and, in her confusion, said it ”did not signify,” which was very amusing. On this, and more, would she blithely discourse, did not sterner themes invite her.

It happened that on this particular morning Mr. Fogo had been restless beyond his wont. For a full hour he had wandered on the beach, as Caleb expressed it, ”Back'ards an' forrards, like Boscas'le Fair.” He had taken up mallet and chisel; had set them down at the end of half an hour for his paintbox, and ruined a well-meaning sketch of the previous day; had deserted this in turn for another ramble on the beach, and finally returned, with a helpless look, to Caleb, who sat whistling and splicing a rope upon the little quay.

”Hurried in mind, sir, like Pomeroy's cat,” suggested he sympathetically.

”I have no acquaintance with the animal you mention,” said his master.

”I reckon 'twas she as got killed by care, sir. I niver knawed mysel' but wan animal as got downright put-goin' i' that way, an'

that were a hen.”

”A hen?”

”Iss, sir. Et happen'd up to Penh.e.l.lick, the las' year I stayed 'long wi' Lawyer Mennear. 'Twas a reg'lar fool-body, this hen--a black Minorcy she were; but no egg iver laid were fuller o' meat than she o' good-feelin'; an' prenciple! she'd enuff prenciple to stock a prayer-meetin'. But high prenciple in a buffllehead's like a fish-bone i' the throat--useful, but out o' place.

”Well, sir, th' ould Mennear wan day bought a baker's dozen of porc'lain eggs over to Summercourt Fair: beautiful eggs they were, an' you cudn' tell mun from real, 'cept by the weight. The very nex'

day, findin' as hes Minorcy were layin' for a brood i' the loft above the cowshed, he takes up the true egg while the old fowl were away an' sets a porc'lain egg in place of et. In cou'se, back comes the hen, an' bein' a daft body, as I told 'ee, an' not used to these 'ere refinements o' civilizashun, niver doubts but 'tes the same as she laid. 'Twarn't long afore her'd a-laid sax more, and then her sets to work to hatch mun out.

”Nat'rally, arter a while the brood was all hatched out, 'ceptin', o'

cou'se, the porc'lain egg. The mother didn't take no suspishun but 'twere all right, on'y a bit stubborn. So her sot down for two days more, an' did all a hen cud do to hatch that chick. No good; 'twudn'

budge. You niver seed a fowl that hurted in mind; but niver a thought o' givin' in. No, sir. 'Twasn' her way. Her jes' c.o.c.ked her head aslant, tuk a long stare at the cussed thing, an' said, so plain as looks cud say, 'Well, I've a-laid this egg, an' I reckon I've a-got to hatch et; an' ef et takes me to th' aluminium, I'll see et out.'”

”The millennium,” corrected Mr. Fogo, who was much interested.

”Not bein' over-eddicated, sir,” said Caleb, with unconscious severity, ”that old hen, I reckon, said 'aluminium.' But niver mind.