CHAPTER XV.
PALMERSTON'S GENIUS.
"You're welcome as blossom, my dear," said Mrs Bowldler to Fancy Tabb, who had dropped in, as she put it, for a look around. The child was allowed a couple of hours off duty in the afternoon to take a walk and blow away the cobwebs of the Chandler's gloomy house: her poor shop-drudge of a father having found courage to wring this concession from Mr Rogers for her health's sake. "You're welcome as blossom, but you must work for your welcome. Come and help me to cut bread-and-butter. . . . Palmerston! You bring the kettle and pour a little water into the teapots, just to get 'em heated."
"Company, is it?" asked Fancy, laying aside her cloak.
"Company?" Mrs Bowldler sniffed. "We've had enough of company to last us this side of the grave. Ho, I trust the name of company will not be breathed in my hearing for some time to come!"
"What is it, then?"
"Freaks, I hope; maggots, as my poor dear tender mother used to say; and all casting double work on the establishment. We must dine separate, all of a sudden; and now we must have our tea served separate; and from dinner to tea-time sitting in writing, the pair of us, till I wonder it haven't brought on a rush of blood to our poor heads."
"Writing?" echoed Fancy. She desisted from spreading the butter and eyed Mrs Bowldler doubtfully, pursing up her lips. "I don't like the look of that. What are they writing, do you suppose?"
"It don't become me to guess," answered Mrs Bowldler. "Belike they're making their wills and leaving one another the whole of their property."
"I hope not. They'd make a dreadful mess of it without a lawyer to help."
"They're making a dreadful mess on the tablecloth—or, as I should
say, on the tablecloths, respectively, as the case may be. Blots.
There's one or two you couldn't cover with a threepenny bit.
Captain Hunken especially; and it cost four-and-ninepence only last
July, which makes the heart bleed."
"They haven't quarrelled, have they?" asked Fancy.
"Quarrelled? No, of course they haven't quarrelled. What put such a thing into your head, child?"
"I don't know. . . . But I don't like this writin'; it's unnatural.
And they're livin' apart, you say?"
"They didn't even breakfast together. But that was an accident, Captain
Hunken having walked out early and taken the parrot."
"Funny thing to take for a walk."
"Which," explained Mrs Bowldler with a glance at Palmerston, "I had to lodge a complaint with Captain Hocken yesterday relative to its conversation, and he must have spoken about it; for Captain Hunken went out at eight o'clock taking the bird with him, cage and all, and when he came back they were minus."
Fancy pondered. "What did the parrot say?" she asked.
"You mustn't ask, my dear. I couldn't tell it to anything less than a married woman."
"That's a pity; because I wanted to know, quick. I suppose, now, you haven't a notion what he did with the bird?"
"Not a notion."
"I thought not. Well, I have. He's been an' gone an' given it away to
Mrs Bosenna, up at Rilla."
Mrs Bowldler turned pale and gripped the edge of the table.
"I'll bet you any money," Fancy nodded slowly.
"Ho! catch me ere I faint!" panted Mrs Bowldler.
"Why, what's the matter? She's a married woman, or has been."
"If only you'd heard—"
"Yes, it's a pity," agreed Fancy, and turned about. "Pam!"
"Yes, Miss," answered Palmerston.
"Call me 'Fancy.'"
"Yes, Miss Fancy."
She stamped her small foot. "There's no 'Miss' about it. How stupid you are—when you see I'm in a hurry, too! Call me 'Fancy.'"
"Y-yes—Fancy," stammered Palmerston, blushing furiously, shutting his eyes and dropping his voice to a whisper.
"That's better. . . . What does it feel like? Pleasant?"
"V-very pleasant, miss—Fancy, I mean. It—it'll come in time," pleaded Palmerston, still red to the eyes.
"That's right, again. Because I want you to marry me, Pammy dear."
"Well! the owdacious!" exclaimed Mrs Bowldler in a kind of hysterical titter, snatching at her bodice somewhere over the region of her heart. Fancy paid no heed to her.
"Only we must make a runaway match of it," she went on, "for there's no time to lose, it seems."
For answer Palmerston burst into a flood of tears.
"There now!" Mrs Bowldler of a sudden became serious. "You might have known he's too soft to be teased. . . . Oh, be quiet, do, Palmerston! Think of your namesake!"
A bell jangled overhead.
"Captain Hocken's bell!—and the child's face all blubbered, which he hates to see, while as for Captain Hunken—there! it that isn't his bell going too in the adjoining! Palmerston, pull yourself together and be a man."
"I c-can't, missus," sobbed Palmerston. "He—he said yesterday as he'd g-give me the sack the next time he saw my eyes red."
"Well, I must take 'em their tea myself, I suppose," said Mrs Bowldler, who had a kind heart. "No, Palmerston, your eyes are not fit. But you see how I'm situated?" she appealed to Fancy.
"Do you usually let them ring for tea?" Fancy asked.
"No, child. There must be something wrong with them both, or else with my clock," answered Mrs Bowldler with a glance up at the timepiece. "But twenty-five past four, I take you to witness! and I keep it five minutes fast on principle."
"There is something wrong," Fancy assured her. "If you'll take my advice, you'll go in and look injured."
"I couldn't keep 'em waiting, though injured I will look," promised Mrs Bowldler, catching up one of the two tea-trays. "Palmerston had better withdraw into the grounds and control himself. I will igsplain that I have sent him on an errand connected with the establishment."
She bustled forth. Fancy closed the door after her; then turned and addressed Palmerston.
"Dry your eyes, you silly boy," she commanded. Palmerston obeyed and stood blinking at her—alternately at her and at his handkerchief which he held tightly crumpled into a pad; whereupon she demanded, somewhat cruelly:
"Now, what have you to say for yourself?" He was endeavouring to answer when Mrs Bowldler came running in and caught up the other tea-tray.
"Which it appears," she panted, "he is in a hurry to catch the post; and I hope the Lord will forgive me for saying that Palmerston had just this instant returned and would go with it. But he has it done up in an envelope, and says boys are not to be trusted. When I was a girl in my teens," pursued Mrs Bowldler, luckily discovering that the second teapot had no water in it, and hastening to the kettle, "we learnt out of a Child's Compendium about a so-called ancient god of the name of Mercury, whence the stuff they put into barometers to go up for fine weather. He had wings on his boots, or was supposed to: which it would be a convenience in these days, with Palmerston's unfortunate habits. For goodness' sake, child," she addressed Fancy, "take him out somewhere, that I mayn't perjure myself twice in one day!"
She vanished.
"Now, what have you to say for yourself?" Fancy turned again upon Palmerston and repeated her question.
"That's what's the matter with me, Miss—Fancy, I mean," confessed he, after a painful struggle with his emotions. "I never had nothing to say for myself, not in this world: and—and—" he plucked up courage— "you got no business to play with me the way you did just now!" he blurted.
"Who said I was a-playin' with you?" Fancy demanded; but Palmerston did not heed.
"And right a-top of your sayin' as writin' was unnatural!" he continued.
She stared at him. "What has that to do with it? . . . Besides, whatever you're drivin' at, I didn' mean as all writin' was unnatural. I got to do enough of it for Mr Rogers, the Lord knows! But for them two, as have spent the best part of their lives navigatin' ships, it do seem—well, we'll call it unmanly somehow."
"That makes it all the worse," growled Palmerston, sticking both hands in his pockets and forcing himself to meet her stare, against which he nodded sullenly. "A man has to lift himself somehow—when he wants something, very bad."
"What is it you want?" asked Fancy.
"You know what it is, right enough." He glowered at her hardily, being desperate now and beyond shame.
"Do 'I?" But she blenched, meeting his eyes as be continued to nod.
"Yes, you do," persisted he. "I wants to marry ye, one of these days; and you can't round on me, either, for outin' with it; for 'twas your own suggestion."
"Oh, you silly boy!" Fancy reproved him, while conscious of a highly delicious thrill and an equally delicious fear. ("O, youth, youth! and the wonder of first love!") She cast about for escape, and forced a laugh. "Do you know, you're the very first as has ever proposed to me."
"I was thinkin' as much," said the unflattering Palmerston. "Come to that, you was the first as ever offered marriage to me."
"But I didn't! I mean," urged Fancy, "it was only in joke."
"Joke or not," said Palmerston, "you can't deny it." Suddenly weakening, he let slip his advantage. "But I wouldn' wish to marry one that despised me," he declared. "I had enough o' bein' despised—in the Workhouse."
"I never said I despised you, Pammy," Fancy protested.
"Yes, you did; or in so many words—'Unmanly,' you said."
"But that was about writing." She opened her eyes wide. "You don't mean to tell me that's the trouble? . . . What have you been writing?"
"A book," owned Palmerston with gloom. "A man must try to raise himself somehow."
"Of course he must. What sort of book?"
"It's—it's only a story."
"Why," she reassured him, "I heard of a man the other day who wrote a story and made A Thousand Pounds. It was quite unexpected, and surprised even his friends."
"It must be the same man Mrs Bowldler told me about. His name was Walter Scott, and he called it 'Waverley' without signing his name to it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a book called 'Picnic' by Boss, and made pounds. So I've called mine 'Pickerley,' by way of drawing attention,—but, of course, if you think there's no chance, I suppose there isn't," wound up Palmerston, with a sudden access of despondency.
"Oh, Palmerston," exclaimed Fancy, clasping her hands, "if it should only turn out that you're a genius!"
"It would be a bit of all right," he agreed, his cheerfulness reviving.
"I have heard somewhere," she mused, "or perhaps I read it on the newspaper, that men of genius make the very worst husbands, and a woman must be out of her senses to marry one."
Again Palmerston's face fell. "I mayn't be one after all," he protested, but not very hopefully.
"Oh yes, I am sure you are! And, what's more, if you make a hit, as they say, I don't know but I might overlook it and take the risk. You see, I'm accustomed to living with Mr Rogers, who is bound to go to hell and that might turn out to be a sort of practice."
The boy stood silent, rubbing his head. He wanted time to think this out. Such an altered face do our ambitions present to most of us as they draw closer, nearer to our grasp!
Suddenly Fancy clapped her hands. "Why, of course!" she cried. "I always had an idea, somewhere inside o' me, that I'd be a lady one of these days—very important and covered all over with di'monds, so that all the other women would envy me. You know that feelin'?"
"No-o," confessed Palmerston.
"You would if you were a woman. But, contrariwise, what I like almost better is keepin' shop—postin' up ledgers, makin' out bills, to account rendered, second application, which doubtless has escaped your notice, and all that sort of thing. I saw a shop in Plymouth once with young women by the dozen sittin' at desks, and when they pulled a string little balls came rollin' towards them over on their heads like the stars in heaven, all full of cash; and they'd open one o' these balls and hand you out your change just as calm and scornful as if they were angels and you the dirt beneath their feet. You can't think how I longed to be one o' them and behave like that. But the two things didn't seem to go together."
"What two things?"
"Why, sittin' at a desk like that and sittin' on a sofa and sayin' 'How d'e do, my dear? It's so good of you to call in this dreadful weather, especially as you have to hire. . . .' But now," said Fancy, clasping her hands, "I see my way: that is, if you're really a genius. You shall write your books and I'll sell them. 'Mr and Mrs Palmerston Burt, Author and—what's the word?—pub—publicans—no, publisher; Author and Publisher.' It's quite the highest class of business: and if any one tried to patronise me I could always explain that I just did it to help, you bein' a child in matters of business. Geniuses are mostly like that."
"Are they?"
"Yes, that's another of their drawbacks. And," continued Fancy, "you'd be a celebrity of course, which means that we should be in the magazines, with pictures—A Corner of the Library, and The Rose-garden, looking West, and Mrs Palmerston Burt is not above playing with the Baby, and you with your favourite dog—for we'd have both, by that time. Oh, Pammy, where is the book?"
"Upstairs, mostly, but I got a couple o' chapters upon me—" Palmerston tapped his breast-pocket—"If you really mean as you'd like—" He hesitated, his colour changing from red to white. Here, on the point of proving it, the poor boy feared his fate too much.
But Fancy insisted. They escaped together to Captain Hunken's garden; and there, in the summer-house—by this time almost in twilight—he showed her the precious manuscript. It was written (like many another first effort of genius) on very various scraps of paper, the most of which had previously enwrapped groceries.
"And to think," breathed Fancy, recognising some of Mr Rogers's trade wrappers, "that maybe I've seen dad doin' up those very parcels, and never guessed—well, go on! Read it to me."
"I—I don't read at all well," faltered Palmerston.
She tapped her foot. "I don't care how bad you read so long as you don't keep me waitin' a moment longer."
"This is Chapter Nine. . . . If you like, of course, I could start by tellin' you what the other chapters are about—"
"Please don't talk any more, but read!"
"Oh, very well. The chapter is called 'Ernest makes Another Attempt.' Ernest is what Mrs Bowldler calls the hero, which means that the book is all about him. It begins—"
'It was late in the evening following upon the events related in the previous chapter'
—I got that out of a paper Mrs Bowldler carries about in her pocket. It is called 'Bow Bells,' and you can depend on it, for it's all about the highest people—
'when Ernest rang at the bell of Number 20 Grovener Square.'
—I got that address, too, out of Mrs Bowldler. She said you couldn' go higher than that. 'Not humanly speakin'' was her words, though I don't quite know what she meant."
"But," objected Fancy, "you might want to start higher, in another book. We can't expect to live all our lives on this one: and there oughtn't to be any come-down."
Palmerston smiled and waved his manuscript with an air of mastery.
He had thought of this.
"There's Royalty!"
"O-oh!" Fancy caught her breath. She felt sure now of his genius.
"We must feel our way," said Palmerston; "I believe in flyin' as high as you like so long as you're on safe ground. Of course," he went on, "there is a danger. I don't know who really lives in Grovener Square at Number 20; but they're almost sure not to be called Delauncy, and so there's no real hurt to their feelin's."
"Mrs Bowldler might know."
"You don't understand," explained Palmerston, who seemed, since breaking the ice of his confession, to have grown some inches taller, and altogether more masterful. "She don't know why I put all these questions to her. She sets it down to curiosity: when, all the time, I'm pumpin' her."
"Oh!" Fancy collapsed.
Palmerston resumed:—
"'The second footman ushered him to the boudoir, where already he had lit several lamps, casting a subdued shade of rose colour. The Lady Herm Intrude reclined on a console in an attitude which a moment since had been one of despair, but was now languid to the point of carelessness.'"
"What's a console?" inquired Fancy.
"They have one in all the best drawing-rooms," answered Palmerston.
"Mrs Bowldler—"
"Oh, go on!" She was beginning to feel jealous, or almost jealous.
"'She was attired in a gown of old Mechlin, with a deep fall and an indication of orange blossoms, and carried a shower bouquet of cluster roses, the—
"No, I've scratched that out. It said 'the gift of the bridegroom,' and
I got it from a fashionable wedding; but it won't do in this place."
'Amid these luxurious surroundings Ernest felt
his brain in a whirl. He cast himself on his knees
before the recumbent figure on the console which
gave no sign of life unless a long-drawn and
half-stifled sob, which seemed to strangle its owner,
might be so interpreted.
"Lady Herm Intrude," he cried in broken accents, "for
the second time, I love you."'"
"It's lovely, Palmerston! Lovely!" gasped Fancy. "Why was he loving her for the second time?"
"He was telling her for the second time. He had loved her from the first—it's all in the early chapters. . . . This is the second time he told her: and he has to do it twice more before the end of the book."
'As he waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for some answer, he could almost smell the perfume of the orchids which floated from a neighbouring vase and filled the apartment with its high-class articles of furniture, the product of many lands.'
"Oh, Palmerston! And you that never had an 'ome of your own, since you was nine—not even a Scattered one! However did you manage to think of it all?"
She caught the manuscript from him and peered at it, straining her eyes in the dark.
"If you could fetch a lamp now?" she suggested.
But the boy stepped close and stood beside her, dominant.
"You know how I came to do it," he said. "Yes—I'm glad you like it. I'll fetch a lamp. But—"
As she pored over the manuscript, he bent and suddenly planted a great awkward kiss on the side of her cheek.
Thereupon he fled in quest of the lamp.
CHAPTER XVI
IS IN TWO PARTS.
PART I.
Cai and 'Bias supped together that night, greatly to Mrs Bowldler's relief. But they exchanged a very few words during the meal, being poor hands at dissimulation.
The meal, for the third time running, was laid in Cai's parlour, Mrs Bowldler having delicately elected to ignore the upset caused by the parrot and to treat yesterday as a dies non. 'Bias, if he noted this, made no comment.
The cloth having been removed, they drew their chairs as usual to front the fireplace. Cai arose, found a clean church-warden pipe on the mantelshelf, passed it to 'Bias, and selected one for himself.
"I sent off that letter to-day," he said carelessly.
"Right," said 'Bias; "I sent mine, too."
"Four-thirty post, mine went by."
"So did mine."
"She'll get 'em together, then, first delivery to-morrow."
"Ay."
"That puts us all square. She'll be amused, I shouldn't wonder."
"I didn' try to be amusin' in mine," said 'Bias after a pause, puffing stolidly.
"No more did I." Cai filled and lit his pipe in silence. His conscience troubled him a little. "Well," said he, dropping into his arm-chair, "the matter's settled one way or another, so far as we're consarned. The letters are in the post, and there's no gettin' them out unless by Act o' Parliament. I don't mind tellin' you just what I said, if you think 'twould be fairer-like."
"I'm agreeable."
"You won't take it amiss that I pitched it pretty strong?"
"Not at all," answered 'Bias. "Come to that, I pitched it pretty strong myself."
Cai smiled tolerantly, and felt for the rough draft in his pocket. He fished it forth, unfolded the paper, and spread it on his knee under the lamp-light. Then, having adjusted his glasses, he picked up his pipe again.
"I just started off," said he, "by hintin' that she might be a bit surprised at hearin' from me."
"That's true enough," agreed 'Bias. "She'll be more'n surprised, if I'm not mistaken."
"I don't see why."
"Don't you? . . . Well, no offence. It's a very good way to begin. In fact," said 'Bias in a slightly patronising tone, "it's pretty much how I began myself. Only I went on quick to hope she wasn't—how d'ye call it?"
"I don't know what word you used. I should have said affronted,' if I take your meanin'."
'Bias gave a start. "As it happens I—er—hit on that very word.
I remember, because it looked funny to me, spelt with two f's.
But I went on to say that I meant honourable, and that she mustn't blame
me, because this kind o' thing happened without respect o' persons."
Cai sat up, stiff and wondering. He took off his glasses and wiped them. "You said—that?" he asked slowly.
"I said a damned sight more than that," chuckled 'Bias. "I said that love had its victims as well as its something else beginning with a v, which I forget the exact expression at this moment, and that I'd never looked on myself as bein' in the former cat—no, case. You can't think how I pitched it," said 'Bias, folding his hands comfortably over his stomach. "The words seemed just to flow from the pen."
"Oh, can't I?" Cai, sitting up with rigid backbone, continued to gaze at him. "Oh, they did—did they? And maybe you didn' go on to explain you weren't precisely in the first flush o' youth—not what you might call a passionate boy—"
It was 'Bias's turn to sit erect. He sat erect, breathing hard. "There—there's nothing unusual about the expression, is there?" he stammered. "Though how you come to guess on it—"
"You've been stealin' my letter, somehow!" flamed Cai.
But 'Bias did not seem to hear. He continued to breathe hard, to stare into vacancy. "Did you pay a visit to Peter Benny this mornin'?" he asked at length, very slowly.
"Well, yes—if you must know," Cai answered sullenly, his wrath checked by confusion, much as the onset of a tall wave is smothered as it meets a backwash.
"That's right," 'Bias nodded. "Somehow or 'nother Benny's sold us a dog: and, what's more, he sold us the same dog. . . . I don't think," went on 'Bias after a pause, "that it showed very good feelin' on your part, your goin' to Benny."
"Why not?" demanded Cai, whose thoughts were beginning to work. "Far as I can see you did the very same thing; so anyway you can't complain."
"Yes, I can. You know very well I never set up to be a scholar, same as you. By rights you're the scratch boat on this handicap, yet you tried to steal allowance. I thought you'd a-been a better sportsman."
"My goin' to Benny," urged Cai sophistically, "was a case of one eddicated man consultin' another, as is frequently done."
"Oh, is it? Well, you done it pretty thoroughly, I must say."
"Whereas your goin' was a clean case o' tryin' to pass off goods that weren't your own, or anything like it. . . . Come, I'll put it to you another way. Supposin' your letter had worked the trick, and she'd said 'yes' on the strength of it—I'm puttin' this for argyment's sake, you understand?"
"Go on."
"And supposin' one day, after you was married, she'd come to you and said, ''Bias, I want a letter written. I thought o' writin' it myself, but you're such a famous hand at a letter.' A nice hole you'd a-been in!"
"No, I shouldn'. I'd say, 'You rate me too high, my dear. Still,' I'd say, 'if you insist upon it, you just scribble down the main points on a sheet o' paper, and I'll take a walk and think it over.' Then I'd carry it off to Benny." 'Bias, who so far had held the better of the argument by keeping his temper, clinched his triumph with a nod and refilled his pipe.
"Benny's an old man, and might die at any moment," objected Cai.
"Now you're gettin' too far-fetched altogether. . . . Besides, 'twouldn't be any affair o' yours—would it?—after I'm married to her."
"Well, you won't be—now: and no more shall I," said Cai bitterly.
"Benny's seen to that!"
"'Tis a mess, sure enough," agreed 'Bias, lighting his pipe and puffing.
"She'll be affronted—oh, cuss the word! Just fancy it, to-morrow morning, when she opens her post! A nice pair of jokers she'll think us!" Cai paced the room. "Couldn't we go up to-night and explain?"
"Five minutes to ten," said 'Bias with a glance at the clock. "Ask her to get out o' bed and come down to hear we've made fools of ourselves? I don't see myself. You can do what you like, o' course."
"I shan't sleep a wink," declared Cai, still pacing. "How on earth
Benny—" He halted of a sudden. "You don't suppose Benny himself—"
"Ch't! a man of his age. . . . No, I'll tell you how it happened, as I allow: and, if so, Benny's not altogether to blame. First you goes to him, and wants a letter written. You give him no names, but he learns enough to guess how the wind sits . . . am I right, so far?"
Cai nodded.
"So he writes the letter and off you goes with it. Later on, in I drops with pretty much the same request. I remember, now, the old fellow behaved rather funny: asked me something about bein' the 'first person,' and then wanted to know if I didn' wish the letter written for a friend. I wasn't what you might call at my ease with the job, and so—as the time was gettin' on for dinner, too—I let it go at that."
"You did? . . . But so did I!"
"Hey?"
"I let Benny think he was writin' it for a friend o' mine. Far as I remember, he suggested it. . . . Yes, he certainly did," said Cai with an effort of memory.
"It don't matter," said 'Bias after a few seconds' reflection. "He took it for granted that one of us was tellin' lies: and likely enough he's chucklin' now at the thought of our faces when the thing came to be cleared up. Come to consider, there was no vice about the trick, 'specially as he wouldn' take any money from me."
"Nor from me," Cai dropped into his chair and reached for the tobacco-jar. "Well," he sighed, "the man's done for both of us, that's all!"
"Not a bit," said 'Bias sturdily. "We'll walk up early to-morrow, and explain. Ten to one it'll put her in the best o' tempers, havin' such a laugh against us both."
PART II.
"He can't have known!" said Mrs Bosenna early next morning, sitting in a high-backed chair beside the kitchen-table. Her face was slightly flushed, and the toe of her right shoe kept an impatient tap-tap on the flagged floor. "He can't possibly have known."
"We'll hope not," said Dinah. "It's thoughtless, though—put it at the best: and any way it don't speak too well for his past."
"He may have bought it, you know," urged Mrs Bosenna; "late in life."
"Well, he's no chicken," allowed Dinah; "since you put it like that."
"I wasn't referring to Captain Hunken, you silly woman. I meant it."
"Eh?" said Dinah. "Oh!—him?"
"'Him' if you like," Mrs Bosenna mused. "It can't possibly be a female, can it?"
"I should trust not, for the sake of a body's sex . . . to say things like that. Besides, I've surely been told somewhere—in the 'Child's Guide to Knowledge,' it may have been—that the females don't talk at all."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Pretty sure. It was something unnatural anyhow; or I shouldn' have remembered it."
"Well, and if so," said Mrs Bosenna, "one can see what Providence was driving at, which is always a comfort. . . . I was wondering now if you mind going and carrying him out to the garden somewhere. He couldn't take harm in this weather,—under the box-hedge, for instance."
Dinah shook her head. "I couldn', mistress; no really!"
"The chances are," said Mrs Bosenna persuasively, "he wouldn't say anything,—anything like that again, not in a blue moon."
"He said it to me first, and he said it to me again not ten minutes later. But, o' course, if you're so confident, there's nothing hinders your goin' and takin' him where you like. If you ask my opinion, though, he don't wait for no blue moons. He turns 'em blue as they come."
Mrs Bosenna tapped her foot yet more pettishly. "It's perfectly ridiculous," she declared, "to be kept out of one's own parlour by a bird! Go and call in William Skin, and tell him to take away the nasty thing."
"And him with a family?"
"He's hard of hearin'," said Mrs Bosenna.
"It's a hardness you can t depend on. I've knowed William hear fast enough,—when he wasn't wanted. He'll be wantin' to know, too, why we can't put the bird out for ourselves: his deafness makes him suspicious. . . . And what's more," wound up Dinah, "it won't help us, one way or 'nother, whether he hears or not. We shall go about thinkin he's heard; and I tell ye, mistress, I shan't be able to face that man again without a blush, not in my born life."
"It's perfectly ridiculous, I tell you!" repeated Mrs Bosenna, starting to her feet. "Am I to be forced to breakfast in the kitchen because of a bird?"
"Then, if so be as you're so proud as all that, why not go back to bed again, and I'll bring breakfast up to your room."
"Nonsense. Where d'ye keep the beeswax? And run you up to the little store-cupboard and fetch me down a fingerful of cotton-wool for my ears. I'll do it myself, since you're such a coward."
"'Tisn't that I'm a coward, mistress—"
"You're worse," interrupted her mistress severely.
"You never ought to know anything about such words, and it's a revelation to me wherever you managed to pick them up."
Dinah smoothed her apron. "I can't think neither," she confessed, and added demurely, "It could never have been from the old master, for I'm sure he'd never have used such."
Mrs Bosenna wheeled about, her face aflame. But before she could turn on Dinah to rend her, the sound of a horn floated up from the valley. Dinah's whole body stiffened at once. "The post!" she cried, and ran forth from the kitchen to meet it, without asking leave. Letters at Rilla Farm were rare exceedingly, for Mrs Bosenna made a point of paying ready-money (and exacting the last penny of discount) wherever it was possible; so that bills, even in the shape of invoices, were few. She had no relatives, or none whom she encouraged as correspondents, for, as the saying is, "she had married above her." For the same reason, perhaps, she had long since stopped the flow of sentimental letters from the girl-friends she had once possessed in Holsworthy, Devon. If Mrs Bosenna now and again found herself lonely at Rilla Farm in her widowhood, it is to be feared the majority of her old acquaintances would have agreed in asserting, with a touch of satisfied spite, that she had herself to blame,—and welcome!
"There's two!" announced Dinah, bursting back into the kitchen and waving her capture. "Two!—and the Troy postmark on both of 'em!"
"Put them down on the table, please. And kindly take a look at the oven. You needn't let the bread burn, even if I am to take breakfast in the kitchen."
"But ain't you in a hurry to open them, mistress?" asked Dinah, pretending to go, still hanging on her heel.
"Maybe I am; maybe I ain't." Mrs Bosenna picked up the two envelopes with a carelessness which was slightly overdone. They were sealed, the pair of them. She broke the seal of the first carefully, drew out the letter, and read—
"HONOURED MADAM,—You will doubtless be surprised—"
She turned to the last page and read the subscription—
"Yours obediently,"
"TOBIAS HUNKEN."
"Who's it from, mistress?" asked Dinah, making pretence of a difficulty with the oven door.
"Nobody that concerns you," snapped Mrs Bosenna, and hastily stowed the letter in the bosom of her bodice. She picked up the other. Of that, in turn, she broke the seal—
"HONOURED MADAM,—"
The handwriting was somewhat superior.
"HONOURED MADAM,—You will doubtless be surprised by the purport of this letter; as by the communication I feel myself impelled to make to you—"
Mrs Bosenna, mildly surprised, in truth, turned the epistle over.
It was signed—
"Your obedient servant,
"CAIUS HOCKEN."
She drew the first letter from her bodice. After the perusal of its first few sentences her cheeks put on a rosy glow.
But of a sudden she started, turned to the first letter again, and spread it on her lap.
"Well, if I ever!" breathed she, after a pause.
"A proposal! I knew it was!" cried Dinah, swinging about from the oven door.
Mrs Bosenna, if she heard, did not seem to hear. She was holding up both letters in turn, staring from the one to the other incredulously. Her roseal colour came and went.
"Them and their parrots! I'll teach 'em!"
Before Dinah could ask what was the matter, a bell sounded. It was the front door bell, which rang just within the porch.
Dinah smoothed her apron and bustled forth. It had always been her grievance—and her mistress shared it—against the nameless architect of Rilla farmstead, that he had made its long kitchen window face upon the strawyard, whereas a sensible man would have designed it to command the front door in flank, with its approaches. This mistake of his cost Dinah a circuit by way of the apple-room every time she answered the porch bell; for as little as any porter of old in a border fortress would she have dreamed of admitting a visitor without first making reconnaissance.
A minute later she ran back and thrust her head in at the kitchen-door.
"Mistress," she whispered excitedly, "it's them!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs Bosenna, as the bell jangled again. "They seem in a hurry, too." She smiled, and the smile, if the curve of her mouth forbade it to be grim, at any rate expressed decision. She picked up the two letters and slipped them into her pocket. "You can show them in."
"Where, mistress?"
"Here. And, Dinah, nothing about the post, mind! Now, run!"
CHAPTER XVII.
APPARENTLY DIVIDES INTO THREE.
"You'll pardon us, ma'am, for calling so early," began Cai. He was too far embarrassed to be conscious of any surprise at being ushered into the kitchen.
"—You do the apologisin', of course," had been 'Bias's words in the front porch. "Yours was the first letter written: and, besides, you're a speaker."
"You are quite welcome, the both of you," Mrs Bosenna assured him as he came to a halt. Her tone was polite, but a faint note of interrogation sounded in it. "You have had your breakfast?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah, you are early indeed! I was just about to sit down to mine."
"We don't want to interrupt, ma'am, but—" Here Cai looked helplessly at 'Bias.
"Go on," growled 'Bias.
"We—we don't want to seem rude—"
"Never mind rude," growled 'Bias again. "Get it over."
"The fact is, there's been a mistake: a painful mistake. At least," said Cai, growing more and more nervous under Mrs Bosenna's gaze of calm inquiry, "it would be painful, if it weren't so absurd." He forced a laugh.
"Don't make noises like that," commanded 'Bias. "Get it over."
"It's about those letters, ma'am."
"Letters?" Mrs Bosenna opened her dark eyes wide; and turned them interrogatively upon Dinah. "Letters?"
"Letters?" repeated Dinah, taking her cue.
Relief broke like a sun-burst over Cai's face. "But perhaps you don't read your letters, ma'am, until after breakfast? And, if so, we're in time."
"What letters?" asked Mrs Bosenna.
"They've surely been delivered, ma'am? In fact we met the postman coming from the house."
"Dear me—and did he tell you he had been deliverin' letters here?"
"No—he was on his round, and we took it for granted. Besides, we know they were posted in time."
"William Skin takes the letters some days," suggested Dinah, "if he happens to overtake the post on his way back with the cart. It saves the man a climb up the hill."
"I wonder—" mused Mrs Bosenna.
"Where is he?" Cai's bewildered brain darted at the impossible stratagem of intercepting Skin and getting the letters from him.
"Stabling the pony at this moment, I expect. . . . But I don't understand. What letters are you talkin' about? What sort of letters?"
"There—there was one from me and one from 'Bias—"
"Goodness!" she broke in, smiling pleasantly, "What, another invitation?"
"Well—" began Cai.
"Yes," struck in 'Bias.
"You might call it an invitation, o' sorts," Cai conceded.
"'Course you might," said 'Bias positively.
"You are very mysterious this morning, you two." The widow turned from one to another, her smile still hiding her amusement. "But let me guess. It appears you both wished to send me an invitation, and something has gone amiss with your letters."
"We both sent the same one," explained Cai, and blushed. "That's the long and short of it, ma'am."
"It doesn't seem so very dreadful." Mrs Bosenna's smile was sweetly reassuring. "You both wrote, when it was only necessary for one to write?"
"That's what I kept tellin' him, ma'am," put in 'Bias stoutly. "But he would put his oar in."
"Well, well. . . You both wished to give me pleasure, and each wrote without the other's knowledge—"
"No, we didn't," interrupted 'Bias again.
"Anyway," she harked back with a patient little sigh, "you had both planned your invitation to give me pleasure; and since it was the same—?" She paused on a note of interrogation.
"You might call it the same, ma'am—after a fashion," assented Cai.
She laughed. "Do you know," she said, "I forgot for a moment what friends you are; and it did cross my mind that maybe there were two invitations, and they clashed."
"But they do, ma'am!" groaned Cai.
"Eh? Yet you said just now. . . . So there are two, after all!"
"It's—it's this way, ma'am: the letters are the same, but the invitation as you call it—" Here Cai paused and cast an irritable glance in the direction of Dinah, who had stepped to the door of the oven to conceal her mirth. If the woman would but go he might be able to explain. "But the invitation don't apply similarly, not in both cases."
"That's queer, isn't it?" commented Mrs Bosenna. "And, supposin' I accept, to which of you must I write?"
"Me," said 'Bias with great promptitude.
"Not at all." Cai turned in wrath on his friend.
"I do think you might help, instead of standin' there and—"
"Can't I accept both?" suggested Mrs Bosenna sweetly.
"No, you certainly can't, ma'am. . . . And since the letters seemin'ly haven't reached you yet, we'd both of us take it as a favour if you'd hand 'em back to us without lookin' inside 'em. We—we want to try again, and send something calkilated to please you better. 'Tis a queer request, I'll grant you."
"It is," she agreed, cutting him short. "But what's the matter with the letters? Did you put any bad language into them by any chance?"
"Ma'am!" exclaimed Cai.
"Bad language?" protested 'Bias. "Why, to begin with, ma'am, I never use it. The language is too good, in a way, an' that's our trouble; only Cai, here, won't out with it, but keeps beatin' about the bush. You see, we went to Mr Benny for it."
"You went to Mr Benny?" she echoed as he hesitated. "For what, pray?"
"For the letters, ma'am. Unbeknowns to one another we went to Mr Benny—Mr Peter Benny—he havin' a gift with his pen—" 'Bias hesitated again, faltered, and came to a stop, aware that Mrs Bosenna's smile had changed to a frown; that she was regarding him with disapproval in her eyes, and that a red spot had declared itself suddenly upon either cheek.
"You don't seem to be makin' very good weather of it either," Cai taunted him; and with that, glancing at her for confirmation, he too noticed her changed expression and was dumb.
"Are you tellin' me,"—she seated herself stiffly, and they stood like culprits before her. "Are you tellin' me this is a game?"
"A—a what, ma'am?"
"A game!" She stamped her foot. "You've been makin' the town's mock o' me with Peter Benny's help—is that what you two funny seamen have walked up here to confess?"
"There was no names given, ma'am," stammered Cai. "I do assure you—"
"No names given!" Mrs Bosenna in a temper was terribly handsome. Her indignation so overawed the pair, as to rob them of all presence of mind for the moment. After all, where lay the harm in asking Mr Benny to word a simple invitation? Since the letters had not reached her, she could suspect no worse; and why, then, all this fuss? So they might have reasoned it out, had not conscience held them cowards—conscience and a creeping cold shade of mutual distrust. "No names given!" repeated the lady. "And I'm to believe that, just as I'm to believe, sir,"—she addressed herself stiffly to 'Bias—"that you never used bad language in your life!"
"I didn' say that, ma'am—not exactly," urged the bewildered 'Bias. "I dunno what's this about bad language. Who's been usin' bad language? Not me."
"Not since your prize-fightin' days, perhaps, Captain Hunken."
"My prize-fightin' days? My pr—Whoever told you, ma'am, as ever I had any, or behaved so?"
"You had better ask your friend here."
"Hey?"
"Perhaps," said Mrs Bosenna sarcastically, "that goes back beyond your memory! Your parrot, if I may say so, has a better one."
"Missus!" expostulated Dinah modestly, while "Oh good Lord!" muttered Cai with a start. His friend's eye was on him, too, fixed and suspicious.
"The parrot?" 'Bias, albeit innocent, took alarm.
"Why, what has he been doin'?"
"It isn't anything he did, sir," protested Dinah, taking courage to face about again from the oven door. "It's what he said."
"I meant to warn you—" began Cai; but 'Bias beat him down thunderously—
"What did he say?" he demanded of Dinah.
"Oh, I couldn't, sir! I really couldn't!"
"I meant to warn you," interposed Cai again. "There's a—a screw loose somewhere in that bird. Didn't I tell you only the night before last that Mrs Bowldler couldn't get along with him?"
"You did," admitted 'Bias, his tone ominously calm. "But you didn' specify: not when I told you I was goin' to bring the bird up here to Rilla."
"No, I didn': for, in the first place, I couldn', not knowin' what language the bird used."
He would have said more, but 'Bias turned roughly from him to demand of the women—
"Well, what did he say? . . . Did he say it in your hearin', ma'am?"
"Ahem!—er—partially so," owned Mrs Bosenna.
"It's no use you're askin' what he said," added Dinah; "for no decent woman could tell it. And, what's more, the mistress is takin' her breakfast here in the kitchen because she durstn't go nigh the parlour."
"And I got that bird off a missionary! A decenter speakin' parrot I've never known, so far as my experience goes—and I've known a good few."
"Folks have different notions on these matters; different standards, so to speak," suggested Mrs Bosenna icily.
"It's my opinion," put in Cai, "that missionary did you in the eye."
"Oh, that's your opinion, is it? Well, you'd best take care, my joker, or you'll get something in the eye yourself."
"We don't want any prize-fightin' here, if you please," commanded Mrs
Bosenna.
"There again!" foamed 'Bias, with difficulty checking an oath. "A prize-fighter, am I? Who put that into your head, ma'am? Who's been scandalisin' me to you?" He turned, half-choking, and shook a minatory finger at Cai.
"I—I didn' say I had any objection to fightin'-men, not when they're quiet," Mrs Bosenna made haste to observe in a pacificatory tone. In fact she was growing nervous, and felt that she had driven her revenge far enough. "My late husband was very fond of the—the ring—in his young days."
It is easier, however, to arouse passions than to allay them. 'Bias continued to shake a finger at Cai, and Cai (be it said in justice) faced the accusation gamely.
"I never scandalised you," he answered. "In fact I done all in my power to remove the impression." Feeling this to be infelicitous—in a sort of despair with his tongue, which had taken a twist and could say nothing aright this morning—he made haste to add in a tone at once easy and awkward, "It's my belief, 'Bias, as your parrot ain't fit to be left alone with females."
"Well, I'm goin' to wring his neck anyway," promised 'Bias; "and, if some folks aren't careful, maybe I won't stop with his."
Cai, though with rising temper, kept his nonchalance. "With you and me the creatur' don't feel the temptation, and consikently there's a side of his character hidden from us. But in female company it comes out. You may depend that's the explanation."
"Why, of course it is," chimed in Mrs Bosenna with sudden—suspiciously sudden—conviction. "How clever of Captain Hocken to think of it!"
"Yes, he's clever," growled 'Bias, unappeased. "Oh, he's monstrous clever, ma'am, is Caius Hocken! Such a friend, too! . . . And now, perhaps, he'll explain how it happened—he bein' so clever and such a friend—as he didn't find this out two nights ago and warn me?"
"I did warn ye, 'Bias," Cai's face had gone white under the taunt. "But I'll admit to you I might have pitched it stronger. . . . If you remember, on top of discussin' the parrot we fell to discussin' something—something more important to both of us; and that drove the bird out o' my head. It never crossed my mind again till bedtime, and then I meant to warn ye next day at breakfast."
"You're good at explanations, this mornin'," sneered 'Bias. "Better fit there was no need, and you'd played fair."
"'Played fair'!"—Cai flamed up at last—"I don't take that from you, 'Bias Hunken, nor yet from any one! You fell into your own trap—that's what happened to you. . . . 'Played fair'? I suppose you was playin' fair when you sneaked off unbeknowns and early to Rilla that mornin', after we'd agreed—"
"Well?" asked 'Bias, as Cai came to a halt.
"You know well enough what we agreed," was Cai's tame conclusion.
"Where's the bird, ma'am?" asked 'Bias dully. Both men felt that all was over between them now, though neither quite understood how it had happened. "It—it seems I've offended you, and I ask your pardon. As for my doin' this o' purpose—well, you must believe it or not. That's as conscience bids ye. . . . But one warnin' I'll give— A bad friend don't us'ally make a good husband."
He motioned to Dinah to lead the way to the parlour, and so, with a jerk of the head, took his leave, not without dignity.
Mrs Bosenna promptly burst into tears.
Cai, left alone with her and with the despair in his heart, slowly (scarce knowing what he did) drew forth a red spotted handkerchief and eyed it. Maybe he had, to begin with, some intention of proffering it. But he stood still, a figure of woe, now glancing at Mrs Bosenna, anon staring fixedly at the handkerchief as if in wonder how it came in his hand. He noted, too, for the first time that the tall clock in the corner had an exceptionally loud tick.
"Go away!" commanded Mrs Bosenna after a minute or so, looking up with tear-stained eyes. It seemed that she had suddenly became aware of his presence.
Cai picked up his hat. "I was waitin' your leave, ma'am."
"Go, please!"
He went. He was indeed anxious to be gone. Very likely at the white gate below by the stream, 'Bias was standing in wait to knock his head off. Cai did not care. Nothing mattered now—nothing but a desire to follow 'Bias and have another word with him. It might even be. . . . But no: 'Bias was lost to him, lost irrevocably. Yet he craved to follow, catch up with him, plead for one more word.
He went quickly down the path to the gate, but of 'Bias there was no sign.
Poor Cai! He took a step or two down the road, and halted. Since 'Bias was not in sight there would be little chance of overtaking him on this side of the town; and in the street no explanation would be possible.
Cai turned heavily, set his face inland, and started to walk at a great pace. As though walking could exorcise what he carried in his heart!
Meanwhile 'Bias went striding down the valley with equal vigour and even more determination. His right hand gripped the parrot-cage, swinging it as he strode, and at intervals bumping it violently upon the calf of his right leg, much to his discomfort, very much more to that of the bird— which nevertheless, though bewildered by the rapid nauseating motion, and at times flung asprawl, obstinately forbore to reproduce the form of words so offensive in turn to Mrs Bowldler and the ladies at Rilla.
Once or twice, as his hand tired, and the rim of the cage impinged painfully on his upper ankle-bone, 'Bias halted and swore—
"All right, my beauty! You just wait till we get home!"
He had never wrung a bird's neck, and had no notion how to start on so fell a deed. He was, moreover, a humane man. Yet resolutely and without compunction he promised the parrot its fate.
A little beyond the entrance of the town, by the gateway of Mr Rogers's coal store, he came on a group—a trio—he could not well pass without salutation. They were Mr Rogers (in his bath-chair and wicked as ever) and Mr Philp, with Fancy Tabb in attendance as usual.
"Well, I hope you're satisfied this time?" Mr Rogers was saying.
"I suppose I must be," Mr Philp was grumbling in answer. "But all I can say is, coals burn faster than they used."
"It's the way with best Newcastle." Mr Rogers, who had never sold a ton of Newcastle coal in his life (let alone the best), gave his cheerful assurance without winking an eye.
"So you've told me more'n once," retorted Mr Philp. "I never made a study o' trade rowts, as they're called; but more'n once, too, it's been in my mind to ask ye how Newcastle folk come to ship their coal to Troy by way o' Runcorn."
Mr Rogers blinked knowledgeably. "It shortens the distance," he replied, "by a lot. But you was sayin' as coals burned faster. Well, they do, and what's the reason?"
"Ah!" said Mr Philp. "That's what I'd like to know."
"Well, I'll give 'ee the information, and nothin' to pay. Coals burn faster as a man burns slower. You're gettin' on in life; an' next time you draw your knees higher the grate you can tell yourself that, William Philp. . . . Hullo! there's Cap'n Hunken! . . . Mornin', Cap'n. That's a fine bird you're carryin'."
"A parrot, by the looks of it," put in Mr Philp.
"Sherlock 'Omes!" Mr Rogers congratulated him curtly.
"'Mornin', Mr Rogers—mornin', Mr Philp!" 'Bias halted and held out the cage at half-arm's length. "Yes, 'tis a fine bird I'm told." He eyed the parrot vindictively.
"Talks?"
"Damn! That's just it."
"What can it say?"
"Dunno. Wish I did. Will ye take the bird for a gift, or would ye rather have sixpence to wring its neck?"
"Both," suggested Mr Philp with promptitude.
"What yer wrigglin' for like that, at the back o' my chair, you Tabb's child?" asked Mr Rogers, whose paralysis prevented his turning his head.
"Offer for 'n, master!" whispered Fancy. Mr Rogers, if he heard, made no sign. "D'ye mean it?" he inquired of 'Bias. "I'm rather partial to parrots, as it happens: and it's a fine bird. What's the matter with it?"
"I don't know," 'Bias confessed again. "I wish somebody'd find out: but they tell me it can't be trusted with ladies."
"Is that why you're takin' it for a walk? . . . Well, I'll risk five bob, if it's goin' cheap."
Mr Philp's face fell. "I'd ha' gone half-a-crown, myself," he murmured resignedly; "but I can't bid up against a rich man like Mr Rogers. . . . You don't know what the creetur says?"
"No more'n Adam—only that it's too shockin' for human ears. If Mr Rogers cares to take the bird for five shillin', he's welcome, and good riddance. Only he won't never find out what's wrong with him."
"Honest?" asked Mr Rogers.
"Honest. I've lived alongside this bird seven years; he was bought off a missionary; and I don't know."
"Ah, well!" sighed Mr Philp. "Money can't buy everything. But I don't mind bettin' I'd ha' found out."
"Would ye now?" queried Mr Rogers with a wicked chuckle. "I'll put up a match, then. The bird's mine for five shillin': but Philp shall have him for a month, and I'll bet Philp half-a-crown he don't discover what you've missed. Done, is it?"
"Done.'" echoed Mr Philp, appealing to 'Bias and reaching out a hand for the cage.
"Done!" echoed 'Bias. "Five shillin' suits me at any time, and I'm glad to be rid o' the brute."
"There's one stippylation," put in Mr Rogers. "Philp must tell me honest what he discovers. . . . You, Tabb's child, you're jogglin' my chair again!"
So 'Bias, the five shillings handed over, went his way; relieved of one burden, but not of the main one.
"Well, if I ever!" echoed Dinah, returning to the kitchen at Rilla.
"If that wasn't a masterpiece, and no mistake!"
"Is the bird gone?" asked her mistress. "Then you might fry me a couple of sausages and lay breakfast in the parlour."
Dinah sighed. "'Tis lovely," she said, "to be able to play the fool with men . . . 'tis lovely, and 'tis what women were made for. But 'tis wasteful o' chances all the same. There goes two that'll never come back."
"You leave that to me," said Mrs Bosenna, who had dried her eyes. "Joke or no, you'll admit I paid them out for it. Now don't you fall into sentiments, but attend to prickin' the sausages. You know I hate a burst sausage."