Part 6 (1/2)

His gaze, travelling over the low parapet of the quay-wall, rested on the quiet harbour, the s.h.i.+ps swinging slowly with the tide, the farther sh.o.r.e touched with the sunset glory. Evensong, the close of day, the end of deeds, the twilit pa.s.sing of man--all these the scene, the hour suggested. And yet (the Major poured out a gla.s.s of the green-sealed Madeira) this life was good and desirable.

The Major's garden (as I have said) was a narrow one, in width about half the depth of his house, terminating in the ”Terrace” and a narrow quay-door, whence a ladder led down to the water. Alongside this garden ran the rear wall of the Custom House, which ab.u.t.ted over the water, also with a ladder reaching down to the foresh.o.r.e, and not five yards from the Mayor's. On the street side one window of the Custom House raked the Mayor's porch; in the rear another and smaller window overlooked his garden, and this might have been a nuisance had the Collector of Customs, Mr. Pennefather, been a less considerate neighbour. But no one minded Mr. Pennefather, a little, round, self-depreciating official who, before coming to Troy, had served as clerk in the Custom House at Penzance, and so, as you might say, had learnt his business in a capital school: for the good feeling between the Customs officials and the free-traders of Mount's Bay, and the etiquette observed in their encounters, were a by-word throughout the Duchy.

The Major, glancing up as he sipped his Madeira and catching sight of Mr. Pennefather at his window, nodded affably.

”Ah! Good evening, Mr. Collector!”

”Good evening, Major! You'll excuse my seeming rudeness in overlooking you. To tell the truth, I had just closed my books, and the sight of your tulips--”

”A fair show this year--eh?” The Major took pride in his tulips.

”Magnificent! I was wondering how you will manage when the bulbs deteriorate; for, of course, there's no renewing them from Holland, nor any prospect of it while this war lasts.”

The Major sipped his wine. ”Between ourselves, Mr. Collector, I have heard that forbidden goods find their way into this country somehow.

Eh?”

The Collector laughed. ”But the price, Major? That is where it hits us, even in the matter of tulips. War is a terrible business.”

”It has been called the sport of kings,” answered the Major, crossing his legs with an air of careless greatness, and looking more like the Prince Regent than ever.

”I have sometimes wondered, being of a reflective turn, on the--er-- far-reaching consequences of events which, to the casual eye, might appear insignificant. An infant is born in the remote island of Corsica. Years roll on, and we find our gardens denuded of a bulb, the favourite habitat of which must lie at least eight hundred miles from Corsica as the crow flies. How unlikely was it, sir, that you or I, considering these tulips with what I may perhaps call our finite intelligence--”

”Step around, Mr. Collector, and have a look at them. You can unfold your argument over a gla.s.s of wine, if you will do me that pleasure.”

The Major had a high opinion of Mr. Pennefather's conversation; he was accustomed to say that it made you think.

”If you are sure, sir, it will not incommode you?”

”Not in the least. I expect Hansombody will join us presently.

Scipio, bring out the brown sherry.”

Now the Major had not invited Dr. Hansombody; yet that he expected him is no less certain than that, while he spoke, Dr. Hansombody was actually lifting the knocker of the front door.

How did this happen? The Major--so used was he to the phenomenon-- accepted it as a matter of course. Hansombody (good soul!) had a wonderful knack of turning up when wanted. But what attracted him?

Was it perchance that magnetic force of will which our Major, and all truly great men, unconsciously exert? No; the explanation was a simpler one, though the Major would have been inexpressibly shocked had he suspected it.

Miss Marty and Dr. Hansombody were mutually enamoured.

They never told their love. To acknowledge it nakedly to one another--nay, even to themselves--had been treason. What?

Could Miss Marty disturb the comfort, could her swain destroy the confidence, could they together forfeit the esteem, of their common hero? In converse they would hymn antiphonally his virtues, his graces of mind and person; even as certain heathen fanatics, wounding themselves in honour of their idol, will drown the pain by loud clas.h.i.+ngs of cymbals.

They never told their love, and yet, as the old song says:

”But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that ye may, Blind Love, if so ye call him, He will find out his way.”

Miss Marty had found out a way.

The Major's house, as you have been told, looked down the length of Fore Street; and on the left hand (the harbour side) of Fore Street, at some seventy yards' distance, Dr. Hansombody resided over his dispensary, or, as he preferred to call it, his ”Medical Hall.”

The house stood aligned with its neighbours but overtopped them by an attic storey; and in the north side of this attic a single window looked up the street to the Major's windows--Miss Marty's among the rest--and was visible from them.

Behind this attic window the Doctor, when released from professional labours, would sit and read, or busy himself in arranging his cases of b.u.t.terflies, of which he had a famous collection; and somehow--I cannot tell you when or how, except that it began in merest innocence--Miss Marty had learnt to signal with her window-blind and the Doctor to reply with his. This evening, for instance, by lowering her blind to the foot of the second pane from the top, Miss Marty had telegraphed,--