The Astonishing History of Troy Town Part 17

Sophia looked at Mr. Moggridge. He had always turned over the pages for her so devotedly. Surely he would make some sign now. Alas! all his eyes were for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I will try," she a.s.sented with something dangerously like a sob.

She stepped to the "Collard" at a pace remorselessly timed to the "Dead March," and chose her ballad--a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the tinkling prelude.

"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove, to Cupid, and to Venus--"

_Thrum-thrum-thrum_ went the double ba.s.s next door. Mr. Moggridge looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night!

He had never thought so before.

"That he might die, if he betrayed A single vow that pa.s.sed between us."

"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued--

"O careless G.o.ds, to hear so ill, And cheat the maid on you relying; For false Lysander's thriving still, And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying."

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed cheeks left the piano.

"That is all--a little effort not worth--"

"Oh, it is yours! But," with a sweet smile, "I ought to have guessed. You must write a song for me one of these days."

"Do you sing?" cried the delighted Mr. Moggridge.

Sam, who had been waiting for a chance to speak, shouted across the room--"I say, Miss Limpenny, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys will sing if you ask her."

After very little solicitation, and with none of the coyness common to amateurs, she seated herself at the instrument, quietly pulled off her gloves, and dashed without more ado into a rollicking Irish ditty.

"Be aisy an' list to a chune That's sung uv bowld Tim, the dragoon; Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss To be stalin' a kiss-- Or a brace--by the light uv the moon, Aroon, Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

"Really!" murmured Miss Limpenny. The keys of the decorous "Collard"

clashed as they had never clashed before. The guests, at first shocked and startled, began to be carried away with the reckless swing of the music. The Vicar stared for a moment, and then began gradually to nod his head to the measure.

"You must sing the last line in chorus, please," said Mrs.

Goodwyn-Sandys from the piano--

"Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

It was sung timidly at first. Nothing daunted, the performer plunged into the next verse--

"Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick!

For he's gone from the land uv the quick: But he's still makin' luv To the leddies above, An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick, Avick, Niver fear but he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

There was no doubt this time. By the spirit of her mad singing, by some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole company seemed possessed. Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the Vicar. He was actually joining in the chorus! And what a chorus!

She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went up.

"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sth.o.r.e, And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore; For they've only to sip But the tip uv his lip, An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more, Asth.o.r.e, By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"

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.