The Astonishing History of Troy Town Part 33

It was the second time she had been asked the question to-day.

A faint smile crossed her face.

"Well?" she said again.

"I mean," he answered with a nervous laugh, "I don't like to see it-- and--I meant, if I could help you--"

"To run away? Will you help me to run away?" Her eyes suddenly blazed upon him, and as she bent forward, and almost hissed the words, he involuntarily drew back a step.

"Well," he stammered, "he's a good fellow, really, is your husband-- he's been very good to me and all that--"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, turning away, "I thought so. Come, we are wasting time."

"Stop!" cried Sam.

But she had pa.s.sed swiftly down the sloping deck and dropped into the boat without his a.s.sistance. He followed unsteadily, untied the painter, and jumped down after her. They rowed for some time in silence after the retreating picnickers. Before they came abreast of the hindmost boat, however, Sam spoke--

"Look here. I can't help myself, and that's the truth. If you want to run away I'll help you." He groaned inwardly as he said it.

She made no reply, but kept her eyes fixed on his face, as if weighing his words. Nor, beyond a cool "Good-night" at parting on the quay, did another word pa.s.s between them.

"What luck?" asked the Honourable Frederic as his wife entered the drawing-room of "The Bower." He was stretched in an arm-chair before the fire, and turned with a glance of some anxiety at her entrance.

She looked about her wearily, took off her hat, tossed it across to a table, and, sinking into the armchair opposite, began to draw off her gloves.

"I'm sick to death of all this, me dear--of 'the Cause,' of Brady, of these people, of meself."

Her face wore a grey look that made her seem a full ten years older.

"Won't you include me in the list, my love?" asked her husband amiably.

"I would," she replied, "only I've already said as much twice this very afternoon."

She laughed a fatigued little laugh, and looked around her again.

The drawing-room had greatly changed since first we visited it with Admiral Buzza, and the local tradesmen regarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys'

account with some complacency as they thought of payment after Midsummer. For the strangers were not of the cla.s.s that goes to the Metropolis or to the Co-operative Stores; from the outset they had announced a warm desire to benefit the town of Troy. This pretty drawing-room was one of the results, and it only wanted a certain number of cheques from the Honourable Frederic to make the excellence of the arrangement complete.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys took a leisurely survey of the room while her husband awaited information.

"The pote is hooked," she said at last, "an' so's Master Sam."

"The poet is our first card," replied her husband, searching his pocket and producing a letter. "The _Maryland_ should be here to-morrow or next day. Upon my word, Nellie, I don't want to ask questions, but you've done exceedingly well."

"Better than well, me dear. I've found a _place_--an illigant hidin'

in an owld schooner up the river."

"Safe?"

"As a church. I'll take yez to't to-morra. Master Sam tells me sorra a sowl goes nigh ut. He tuk me to see ut. I say, me darlint, I'd be lettin' that young fool down aisier than the pote. He's a poor little sn.o.b, but he's more like a man than Moggridge."

"He's a bad a.s.s, is Moggridge," a.s.sented the Honourable Frederic.

"Come, Nellie, we've a day's work before us, remember."

A friend of mine, the son of steady-going Nihilist parents, and therefore an authority, a.s.sures me that the Honourable Frederic cannot have been a conspirator for the simple reason that he shaved his chin regularly. Be this as it may, to-night he smiled mysteriously as he rose, and winked at his wife in a most plebeian way. I regret to say that both smile and wink were returned.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Winked . . . in a most plebeian way.]

CHAPTER XVI.

OF STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS; AND THAT THE NOMINALISTS ERR WHO HOLD A THING TO BE WHAT IT IS CALLED.

At two o'clock next morning Mr. Moggridge closed the door of his lodgings behind him, and stepping out into the street stood for some moments to ponder.

A smile sat upon his lips, witness to pleasure that underlies poetic pains. The Collector of Customs was in humour this morning, and had written thirty lines of Act IV. of _Love's Dilemma: a Comedy_, before breakfast, for it was his custom to rise early and drink regularly of the waters of Helicon before seeking his office.

It is curious that the Civil Service should so often divide its claims with the Service of the Muse. I remember that the Honourable Frederic once drew my attention to this, and supplied me with several instances:--"There was What's-his-name, you know, and t'other Johnny up in the Lakes, and a heap I can't remember at the moment--fancy it must come from the stamps--licked off with the gum, perhaps."

Be that as it may, Mr. Moggridge had written thirty lines this morning, and was even now, as he stood in the street and stared at the opposite house, repeating to himself a song he had just composed for his hero. It is worth quoting, for, with slight alteration, I know no better clue to the poet's mood at the time. The play has since been destroyed, for reasons of which some hint may be found in the next few chapters; but the unfinished song is still preserved among the author's notes, where it is headed--

A HYMN OF LOVE.

"Toiling lover, loose your pack, All your sighs and tears unbind; Care's a ware may break a back, May not bend a maiden's mind.

"Loose, and follow to a land Where the tyrant's only fee Is the kissing of a hand And the bending of a knee.

"In that State a man shall need Neither priest nor lawgiver: Those same slips that are his creed Shall confess their wors.h.i.+pper.

"All the laws he must obey, Now in force and now repealed, s.h.i.+ft in eyes that s.h.i.+ft as they--

"'s.h.i.+ft as they,' 's.h.i.+ft as they,'" mused Mr. Moggridge. "Let me see--"

'Till alike with kisses sealed.'

"That was it. With another verse, and a little polis.h.i.+ng, I will take it to Geraldine and ask her--"

At this point the poet glanced down the street, and, to his surprise, beheld Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advancing towards him.

"Good-morning," she nodded with a charming smile, "I was coming to look for you. I have a favour to ask."

"A favour? Is it _the_--?"

"Well, it's rather prosaic for _the_--" she laughed. "In fact, it's _tea_."

"Tea?"