The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

The Bronze-Haired Girl

"If you will pass me my guitar," said George, "I will sing to you."

"I would rather you washed up," I replied. "It would be more of a novelty."

"For one who professes to be an artist," returned George, with unruffled serenity, "you are painfully lacking in sensibility. A man who can speak of washing up ten minutes after tea on a golden June evening——"

"If you are going to get poetical, George," I said, "I would sooner you sang. Here you are."

I reached out an arm into the tent, and tossed him across the somewhat battered banjo which was lying on his bed. He caught it neatly with his left hand.

"I believe you would play cricket with a Stradivarius," he said reproachfully. "What shall I sing?"

"Anything short."

"I shall sing something sad," he went on, disregarding my interruption. "I always feel very wistful after tea. Besides, I am in love with the bronze-haired girl at Otter's Holt, and perhaps she will hear me and think that I am unhappy."

"She is much more likely to think that I am," said I. "Fire ahead."

He twanged two or three experimental chords, tightened a couple of pegs, and then settling down again in his basket-chair, launched out pathetically into the time-honoured ballad of "London Bridge":

Hurry along, sorrow and song,
    All is vanity 'neath the sun;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
    Until the river no more shall run.

"I shall not applaud you," I said, when he had finished. "You might mistake courtesy for an encore."

"I wonder if the bronze-haired girl heard me?" murmured George, laying down the banjo.

"Unless she is deaf," I pointed out, "she could scarcely have avoided it. She probably thinks we are a couple of music-hall comedians."

"Perhaps I had better call to-morrow and apologize," said George thoughtfully.

I looked him in the eyes.

"George," I observed, "if I find you thrusting your society on that defenceless young woman, I shall communicate with the local policeman."

"She is not defenceless," objected George. "She has a dog and an old woman with her; and as for youth—well, I am but a lad myself."

I laughed unkindly.

"In the matter of hair," I said, glancing at the top of George's head.

"Hair," said George hastily, "has nothing to do with it. Hair is an excrescence, a hideous and perpetual reminder of our arboreal ancestry."

"You had better tell her that," I replied. "She would appreciate it."

"I was not speaking of bronze hair. You never saw a bronze-haired monkey."

"It may be dyed," I suggested.

George picked up his banjo.

"Such blasphemy," he said, "deserves a heavy punishment. I shall sing you 'Beauty's Eyes.'"

"Is there no option?" I pleaded.

With his thumb on the strings, George paused.

"Yes," he said, "you can wash up."

I did.

Next morning at breakfast George announced his intention of walking over to Chertsey.

"They are taking entries for the regatta," he explained. "And I want to put our names down for the double punting."

"How about getting a couple of insurance policies at the same time?" I suggested. (I have punted with George before.)

"What's your programme?" he inquired, disregarding my excellent proposal.

"I shall go up the Bourne," I said. "I want to finish my picture, and the light is just right this morning."

"Well, don't collar the sardines," he replied selfishly. "I should like 'em for supper."

He sauntered off about half-past ten, stopping in the garden to pick our only carnation for his buttonhole.

After some research, I unearthed a tinned tongue, some bread and butter, a cake, and last, but not least, a bottle of claret. These I transplanted tenderly to the punt, and then, putting in my painting materials, pushed off in leisurely fashion up the backwater.

As I passed Otter's Holt, the long, low, creeper-covered bungalow that adjoined our own camping-ground, I caught a glimpse of the girl who had inflamed George's susceptible heart. She was lying in a deck-chair in the verandah, reading a book. By her side crouched a large brindled bulldog, who looked up and emitted a sharp "woof!" as the splash of my punt-pole reached his ears.

His mistress put out a small reproving hand. "Lie down, sir!" she said, in a voice that no decent bulldog could possibly have resisted.

"There are excuses for George," I said to myself as an intervening dump of willow shut out any further observations.

The Bourne, as is usual on weekdays, was delightfully deserted. I pushed my way slowly up its narrow course, thrusting aside the overhanging bushes, and startling an occasional kingfisher into a streak of living blue.

My destination was just round the fourth bend, a place where the sunshine played a bewitching game of hide-and-seek through the branches of an elm. It was this tracery of light and shadow that I was attempting to transfer to my canvas.

Tying the punt up to the bank, I pulled out my paints and set to work. It was one of those mornings which make one doubt whether any conceivable heaven could really be as attractive as earth. An infinitely faint breeze just stirred the leaves overhead, and only the occasional splash of a fish or the shrill twitter of a bird disturbed the fragrant silence around.

For about an hour I laboured at my picture with commendable industry. But somehow or other I did not make as rapid progress as such diligence deserved. A vision of a girl with bronze hair kept flitting before my eyes in the most elusive and disconcerting fashion. Once I actually found myself murmuring, "Lie down, sir!" apparently in an attempt to analyze the peculiar charm with which these three words seemed to be associated.

For a person of well-regulated mind this was distinctly humiliating. I began to take myself to task. "Because a young woman happens to address a bulldog in your hearing," I inquired, "is that any reason why you should waste an entire morning?"

Getting no reply, I continued with increasing sternness: "You are as bad as George. You are making an idiot of yourself over a red-haired slip of a girl whom you have only seen about three times in your life. Why, if it comes to that, you don't even know her name! Sir, I am disgusted with you."

Relieved by this Johnsonian rebuke, I again turned to my picture, and for twenty minutes or so worked on with unruffled concentration. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was hungry.

I moved aside my paints, carefully laid down the canvas in the end of the punt, and, pulling out the luncheon-basket from under the seat, began to prepare my frugal but well-earned meal. The tongue, my chef-d'œuvre, was encased in one of those ingenious tins which you open by twisting a key. I was deep in this fascinating process when my ears were assailed by the sudden splash of an approaching craft.

I looked up with a frown. Such an intrusion on my privacy seemed to me to savour of gross impertinence. I had come to regard the Bourne as my private property, which I was magnanimous enough to open to the public cm Saturdays and Sundays. And here was some coarse-grained stranger thrusting his way in at one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon.

"In future," I said to myself, "I shall mine the channel."

Nearer and nearer came that offensive splash, varied by the occasional swish of a parted bush, and the creaking of an indifferently handled punt-pole. Assuming an expression of cold displeasure, I sat up and waited on Fate. At last the nose of a punt thrust itself round the bend, and a moment later the intruder emerged into full view.

In my agitation I dropped the tongue in the butter. It was the bronze-haired girl from Otter's Holt!

Then a series of incidents occurred with the bewildering rapidity of a cinematograph. Disturbed, apparently, by my unfortunate lapsus linguæ, the bulldog, which was crouching in the stern of the punt, leaped forward, barking his defiance. In his ardour he cannoned heavily against a basket reposing on the seat. There was a splash, a cry of despair from the bronze-haired maiden, and the aforesaid basket settled down peacefully at the bottom of the Bourne.

Let it be stated to my credit that I rose to the situation with some promptness. Unhitching the painter by a dexterous twitch, I snatched up my pole, and, with a couple of sharp shoves, sped gracefully to the rescue.

"I am so sorry," I said. "I am afraid I frightened your dog. May I make amends by getting out the basket?"

"It's very kind of you," she said simply. "Of course, it wasn't your fault at all. Come here sir!" This last to the dog.

I turned my sleeves up to the shoulders, and, leaning over the side of the punt, groped down through the shallow water until I got hold of the handle. Then, dripping but triumphant, I extracted my burden.

"I hope there is nothing to spoil in it," I said.

She smiled and shook her head.

"It's only a matter of a few sandwiches. I am very much obliged to you, and extremely sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble."

"On the contrary," I replied, "it is I and the dog who ought to apologize to you."

"I can't imagine why he was so silly," she said, administering a reproving pat to the animal, who still eyed me with some disfavour. "As a rule, he is as good as gold in a boat."

"What do you call him?" I inquired, in a shameless attempt to prolong the conversation.

"Winston Churchill," she said, with another smile. "He was christened before I got him."

"His jaw is certainly well developed," I observed.

She laughed, and a short pause followed.

"Well," she said, "I must be getting back."

"But really," I protested, "you have only just arrived." Then a sudden fit of recklessness seized me. "Don't go because your lunch is spoiled," I pleaded. "I have a whole tongue, to say nothing of some excellent bread, and some good, if rather dilapidated, butter. As the destroyer of your sandwiches I can surely without impertinence offer you a fair compensation."

She shook her head, still smiling.

"Oh, I don't think you are impertinent," she said, "but I believe that no really nice girl ever accepts an invitation from a perfect stranger. It would distress me to think that I was outside the pale."

Her brown eyes twinkled so deliriously that I cast subterfuge to the winds.

"Do stay," I begged. "I have been alone all the morning wrestling with an obstinate picture, and I am desperately in need of a little cheering society. Besides, there is nothing so very unconventional in the idea. Winston Churchill will make a most efficient chaperon."

She wavered.

"And you can cut me afterwards," I added.

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"Your arguments," she said, "are most persuasive."

We pulled the two punts alongside each other and fastened them to the bank. By this time Winston Churchill seemed to have accepted me as a harmless and necessary evil. He sat up in the stern and watched me with intelligent interest, while I completed my preparations for lunch.

"You are in his good books now," said the bronze-haired girl, stroking him gently down the back with her fingers. "He thinks that people who provide food cannot be altogether bad."

I handed her the plate.

"To give tongue," I said, "is the recognized method of expressing friendship in canine circles."

"And, I suppose, giving the only plate implies the same idea amongst human beings?"

"George and I generally eat off paper," I replied. "We prefer it. We are leading the simple life."

"Yes," she said; "I heard you yesterday. If I remember rightly, you had arrived at the conclusion that all was vanity."

I held out a cunningly carved slice of bread-and-butter.

"George," I said, "was responsible for the song, and Solomon for the sentiments. I am innocent."

She accepted both the bread-and-butter and the apology.

"You are an artist," she said, "to say nothing of being a knight-errant. One cannot have all the talents."

"When I was a small boy," I remarked, "I remember I had a nurse who used to check my incipient tendency to sarcasm by saying warningly: 'Hush, Master Jack! No one will love you if you talk like that.'"

"No, no!" she cried, with a protesting little laugh. "I really meant it for a compliment. I paint very badly myself, but I know good work when I see it. Yours is delightful."

"I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion," I said.

She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock bewilderment.

"And who is Mr. Rosenthal? He sounds very rich."

"He is a patron of the arts," I explained. "His father provided the British army with shoe-leather for some years, and the son dispenses the proceeds from a castle at Cookham. This trifle has been commissioned for the banquet-hall."

"You must feel very proud," she observed gravely. "May I look at it more closely?"

I handed her the canvas, and, propping it up in her punt, she proceeded to criticize it with an intelligence and knowledge that considerably surprised me.

"I have my doubts as to your painting so badly," I said, with some suspicion.

She shook her head.

"My father is an artist," she answered. "I have inherited his taste without his abilities."

"Has he a taste for cheap claret?" I inquired, holding up the bottle.

"For about half a glass, I think."

I poured it out, and filled my own.

"To Mr. Rosenthal," she said gaily.

"For my own part," I said, "I shall drink to Winston Churchill. I find his habit of upsetting baskets a most commendable one."

We passed on unhurriedly to the cheese and cake courses. As our acquaintance mellowed, the almost nervous flippancy with which we had bridged over its earlier stages gradually died away. Quite unaffected, and gifted with a most refreshing sense of humour, the bronze-haired girl proved a delightful companion. She had evidently been brought up in an unusual sort of atmosphere, for she chatted away easily about art and books and people, without a trace of that embarrassing shyness of opinion which seems to be the hallmark of a conventionally educated girl.

On the ground that she was chiefly responsible for their present condition, she insisted on helping me wash up our scanty luncheon outfit.

"A plate is such a nice, clean thing by nature," she said, swishing it about in the water, "that I always think one ought to attend to it immediately after lunch. It must suffer horribly if you leave it lying about all covered with grease or jam. I think I shall start a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Plates."

When we had packed away everything into the basket, she accepted one of those excellent Russian cigarettes which my friend M. Demidoff makes for me, and, arranging our cushions, we lay back luxuriously in our respective punts and talked aimlessly, volubly, and cheerfully about everything on God's earth. From where I was lying I could just see the tip of her nose, and I directed my conversation to that.

By three o'clock I had decided firmly that arrangements must be made which would involve the possibility of our meeting freely in the future; and when at four she sat up suddenly and said she must go home, I had arrived at a state in which I was quite unable to contemplate existence without her.

"We shall expect you to tea to-morrow, then," she said, "provided it is not too violent a break in the simple life. Of course, if Mr. George likes to bring his banjo—" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"No—no," I interrupted; "don't let us be morbid on a day like this."

She gave me her dear, cool, slender hand for a moment, and then, with the blessed Winston Churchill sitting up amiably in the stern of the punt, she pushed off down the stream.

It was not until she had vanished round the bend that I remembered I had never asked her name.

George was still away when I got back. As it was after five, however, I decided not to wait for him. I put the kettle on the "Primus," and walked about the bungalow, singing "Who is Sylvia?" and other similar ballads until it boiled over. Then I made tea, and sat down in a delightfully contented frame of mind. I was so happy that I ate all the sardines before I noticed what I was doing.

George came in a moment afterwards.

"Hallo!" he said. "Still at breakfast?"

"I breakfasted, George," I answered, "exactly two centuries ago."

"Well, that must account for the horrible energy with which you're eating now." He looked round the table. "Here, hang it," he added, in a sudden tone of horror, "you've finished the sardines!"

"I am sorry, George," I said penitently. "I have been in a very exalted, spiritual meditation, and I did not notice what I was eating."

He sat down with a disbelieving grunt.

"Well, next time an attack comes on, get out some of those mouldy biscuits. This is a nice way to treat one who has been slaving for your benefit. I was looking forward to those sardines all the way home."

"What have you been doing?" I inquired, in a timely effort to turn the conversation into a less poignant channel.

George opened a bottle of Bass, and helped himself to an impressive slice of cake.

"Well," he said, "I shoved our names down for the double punting all right. As far as I can see, we've got a jolly good chance, if you'll only take it seriously."

"I take it very seriously," I interrupted.

"Barton was there," went on George; "he is entering with his brother. It would be rather fun if we were to run up against them in the finals."

"We are certain to do that," I observed, "if we get so far."

"I went back to Barton's place to lunch," said George. "And, oh, by the way, I found out all about the bronze-haired girl at Otter's Holt. Barton knows her well."

I struck a match to light my cigarette.

"Indeed!" I remarked carelessly.

"Yes; she's married."

I suppose I must have opened my mouth, for the cigarette dropped on the table.

"She's what?" I exclaimed, after a moment's pause.

"Married," said George, with a laugh. "Her husband's in the wool market. His name's Congreve; Barton says he's a very decent fellow. They've taken Otter's Holt for the summer."

If you can imagine the end of the world coming just as you had inherited a large fortune, you will get a very fair idea of my emotions at that moment. I stared at George in a kind of ghastly amazement; then, with an effort, I moistened my lips.

"I don't believe it," I said.

"It's true, though," said George. "Barton is coming over to stay with them next month. Just my atrocious luck! I always fall in love with women who either hate me or have already got husbands."

I suppose something in my face must have attracted his attention, for he stopped and looked at me curiously.

"What's the matter, old man?" he asked. "Feeling bad?"

With a big effort I pulled myself together, and picked up the cigarette which I had dropped.

"Nothing much, George," I said. "I've got a bit of a headache. Too many sardines, I expect."

"You have been sitting about in the sun without a hat again," said George severely. "I told you what would happen. Now, if you had a little less hair, like me, you might have a little more sense." He got up and put his hand on my shoulder. "You tumble in and lie down," he added. "I'll wash up."

And George did.

I spent what I believe is generally called "a wretched night." It must have been about two in the morning when I finally consigned Barton and the bronze-haired girl, and my own ridiculous emotions, to the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely over on my side, dropped into a troubled, useless sort of sleep.

I was awake again at six, roused by the vigorous carolling of a thrush, whose own love affairs were apparently in excellent order. George was still sleeping. I crawled out carefully so as not to disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river.

There was the promise of another lovely day in the air, and the warm early-morning sunshine seemed to bathe one in a kind of comforting caress. By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on the bank, my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to what I believed to be a more or less philosophic resignation.

After all, I said to myself, there was nothing to be gained by weeping and gnashing one's teeth. It was distinctly distressing that my only attempt at falling in love should have met with so disastrous a check; still, other people had had equally unpleasant experiences, and had managed to survive them. Was it not brave old George Wither who had summed up the situation in that delightfully reasonable couplet:

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back. It comforted me to persuade myself that I agreed with them.

I found George outside the tent, shaving.

"Hallo!" he said. "Feeling fitter?"

"I am quite well this morning, thank you, George," I answered.

"In that case," said he kindly, "you may cook breakfast."

I unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather elusive slices round the frying-pan, I debated with myself as to whether I should mention the invitation to tea. I had no intention of going myself—that would be altogether too great a strain upon my philosophy—but as my adventure of the previous day was bound to come out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an afternoon's entertainment. Still, in my present state of mind, I shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be involved by my telling him. I felt that anything in the nature of chaff, even from George, would be quite unbearable. So, like Mrs. Grimmage, "I just went on cookin', and said nuffin'."

It was the boy from Dunton's Boathouse who eventually supplied the solution to the problem, in the shape of the morning post. There was a letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an exclamation of disgust.

"What's the matter?" I inquired.

"My futile partner," said George, "is sick of a cold, and desires me to come up to town for the day. Fancy catching cold this weather!"

"It suggests considerable skill," I admitted. "Are you going?"

"Must," answered George sadly. "He says that a man is coming to see us about designing some pigsties. In the present state of architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity."

"From your ideas of keeping the tent tidy," I observed, "you ought to be an authority on the subject."

"I shall be down by the six-thirty," said George. "What will you do with yourself?"

"I shall spend the day," I replied, "in trying to forget certain incidents which ought never to have happened."

"If you forget them all," said George cynically, "you will have a busy time."

My self-imposed programme, though excellent in theory, did not prove very successful in practice. George went off, grumbling, at about half-past eight, and, having washed up the breakfast-things, and tidied up the tent, I made an attempt to settle down to some black-and-white work, which an impatient editor had just reminded me was several days overdue.

At the end of an hour all I had completed was a very passable likeness of Mrs. Congreve punting. I sat and stared at it in a kind of stupid trance. It seemed impossible to believe that my beautiful romance of yesterday was dead and buried in some obscure vestry. My whole nature rose up in passionate revolt against such an incredible idea. All the pseudo-resignation on which I had prided myself in the early morning deserted me in the hour of need. I began to recall the way she spoke, the charming manner in which the corners of her mouth turned up before she laughed, and the gracious atmosphere of tenderness and humour in which she seemed to live.

At last, with a groan, I threw down the pencil, and got up from my chair.

"Hang it," I said, "I can't stand this any longer!"

I walked to the door of the tent, and looked out. Except for a couple of barges, emerging from the lock, the river was deserted. On the further bank, however, alongside of Dunton's Boathouse, a motor-car was just discharging a giggling cargo of flimsily dressed damsels and beflannelled youths.

I glanced at them inhospitably, and then a sudden idea struck me. Why not walk over to Brooklands and watch the motor-racing? A savage four-mile-an-hour tramp across country was exactly the medicine I needed; and then there was always the chance of seeing somebody killed. I felt that a real, good sanguinary smash-up would appeal to me immensely in my present state of mind.

Without wasting any further time I picked up my hat and stick, and then, after looking in at Williamson's bungalow, and asking him to keep an eye on our tent, I set off across the fields in the direction of Weybridge.

It was not until I had reached and was walking up the main street that I remembered I had sent no message to Otter's Holt. After all, I had accepted the invitation to tea, and some sort of an excuse, however futile, was obviously needed. I turned in at the post office, and, after a moment's hesitation, wrote out the following telegram:

"Am very sorry we shall not be able to come to tea this afternoon. Called away on urgent business."

Then, having put my name to this lie, I addressed it to Mrs. Congreve, Otter's Holt, Shepperton, and handed it in.

If Brooklands failed to provide me with a catastrophe, it at least helped me to take my mind off my own affairs. Amongst the competitors was a man called Carfax, whom I knew fairly well as a fellow-member of the Barbarians. He was driving a monstrous 90 h.p. abortion; and, after the racing was over, he took me for a spin round the track, at the bracing speed of about eighty miles an hour. Subsequently we dropped in for tea with some friend of his, who had built himself a turreted atrocity in red brick, looking out over Brooklands grounds. Here I met three or four other motor enthusiasts, and listened in dazed humility while they discussed with some warmth the relative merits of various magnetos and carburettors.

It must have been well after six when I started to walk back to Shepperton. The evening was delightfully warm and still, and, soothed by a mild Cabana, which my host had insisted on my accepting before I left, I strolled leisurely on, wrapped once more in a kind of melancholy submission to destiny. I was even able to let my thoughts wander over the events of the previous afternoon without awakening any other emotion but a vague, luxurious sadness. For the moment I seemed to have escaped from my own personality, and to be looking down like one of the gods with infinite pity upon the tragedy of human desire.

Turning off half-way along the canal, I struck into a short cut which led across the fields to the spot where our tent was pitched. About half a mile from the river this path ran through the yard of the farm from which we purchased our eggs and milk. At this point it was really a private thoroughfare, but the farmer, in view of George's profitable appetite, made no objection to our using it as often as we pleased.

I was just opening the gate which led into the yard, when a sharp "woof" brought me to an abrupt halt. The wild suspicion that held me momentarily paralyzed was confirmed a moment later. There was a pattering of feet, and Winston Churchill sidled out from the porch of the house. The moment he saw who it was, he sat down in the mud, and threw up his accursed head in a howl of welcome. With a supreme effort I turned to flee, but it was too late. The door of the farm opened, and—and——

God in heaven! How good it was to see her again!

She was carrying a jug of milk in her dear hands, and she stood still and looked at me with a grave smile.

I took off my hat.

"I hope," she said, "that the urgent business has come to a successful conclusion."

I felt quite incapable of saying anything except "Yes."

"I am glad of that," she went on, "because you missed a very good tea."

Then a sudden insanity gripped me by the throat, and I committed that most unpardonable of all blunders—I told the truth.

"There was no urgent business!" I blurted out. "The telegram was a lie!"

She wrinkled up her forehead again, in that altogether adorable way of her own.

"Indeed?" she said. "And why should you send me a lie?"

I dropped the cigar which I was holding, and ground it into the mud with my boot.

"I heard you were married," I said hoarsely.

There was a moment's silence, and then, as I live, she began to laugh.

"Oh!" she said, "that accounts for the telegram! But it seems a poor reason for wasting a cigar."

I stared at her dully. "I suppose I must appear a particularly ludicrous sort of idiot," I said. "My only excuse is that I can't help it. Good-bye!"

She put out one hand, as though to stop me.

"Before you go," she said gently, "you might tell me when I was married. After all, it's only natural that I should be a little interested in the matter."

I clutched hold of the gate. Everything except her face had suddenly become dim and distant.

"Do you mean—do you mean to say that it's a mistake?" I gasped.

"There are some people," she answered mischievously, "who say that marriage is always a mistake."

"But George—Barton—Congreve," I stammered.

"You have not got his Christian names quite right," she interrupted. "They are Walter Vernon. I know, you see, because he happens to be my brother-in-law."

"Then you're not married?" I shouted wildly.

"No," she said. "But isn't it a little unnecessary to inform the entire neighbourhood of the fact?"

I laid my head down on the gate, and relieved my feelings in an insane outburst of laughter. When I felt better, I straightened myself and wiped my eyes.

"George is responsible," I said. "He came home yesterday and told me that you were."

"Untruthfulness," she answered, smiling, "seems to play an important part in the simple life."

"He had described you to a man called Barton," I explained, "and the scoundrel had pronounced you to be Mrs. Congreve."

"Ah," she said, "my sister also has red hair. She and Walter came down this afternoon. But for the urgent business, you would have met them at tea."

I looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly all the ridiculous little trimmings of life whisked away into the infinite. I opened the gate, and took the milk-jug out of her hands.

"I love you!" I said simply.

"That is very nice of you," she answered; "but do be careful with the milk."

"I love you," I repeated, with firmness, "and I want you to marry me."

The corners of her mouth twitched divinely.

"This," she said, "is no place for a proposal. If you really want to marry me, you must come up to Otter's Holt, and woo me properly."

But her eyes had given me my answer.

His Reverence

A little company of men, three convicts and two warders, swung out under the great granite arch that leads into Dartmoor Prison. Turning to the left, they strode past the Governor's garden with its gay beds of tulips and hyacinths, and still keeping up a brisk pace, emerged a few minutes later into the main street of Princetown. Here they came to a halt in front of a depressing-looking stone building which bore an inscription announcing it to be the "Recreation Rooms."

Two villagers were standing chatting on the further side of the road, but beyond the briefest of brief glances they betrayed no interest in the arrival of the party. For the inhabitants of Princetown the spectacle of convicts and warders has lost that attraction which it still possesses for the citizens of less happily situated towns. It is only the visitors to the hotel who stare, and on the present occasion there were no visitors about. They were all out on the moor, getting the best of a fine spring morning, and as many trout as it might please Fate to deceive.

One of the warders unlocked the door, and the small party mounted the steps and entered the building. The interior certainly showed some traces of the recreation referred to outside. At the further end of the room was a stage set for an out-of-door scene, while a number of chairs piled up in the body of the hall suggested that an entertainment of some kind was under early contemplation.

"All them chairs have got to be set out in rows," remarked the warder who had opened the door. "Don't take the front lot too near the stage, and leave a space up the middle, so as folks can pass in and out. Bascombe, you come along with me!"

The convict addressed, a burly man of about sixty, with twinkling black eyes, followed the warder up a small flight of steps at the side of the stage into a room beyond.

It was a nondescript sort of apartment, serving apparently the triple purpose of a green-room, a dressing-room, and a scene-painter's studio. A large theatrical basket with Clarkson's label on it stood in the centre of the floor, and propped against the walls were several pieces of blank stage canvas awaiting the artist's hand.

"That's them, Bascombe," said the warder, jerking his thumb at the latter articles. "We want you to paint a room on 'em. It's supposed to be a scholar's room at Oxford College. D'ye think you can do it?"

The convict nodded his head.

"It's for 'Dick's Uncle,' ain't it, sir?" he drawled. "I remember the set. Saw it from the gallery at the old Strand."

"That's right," said the warder. "Well, you shove along with it. There are your paints and brushes."

He pointed to a small wooden table where a supply of scene-painter's accessories were neatly laid out.

The convict wandered slowly round the room, inspecting the various pieces of canvas with a critical eye. Then, selecting the largest, he pulled up the table alongside, and taking the palette in his hand began to prepare his colours.

It was soon evident that he was no novice at his business. The few bold strokes in charcoal with which he outlined his sketch had all that firmness and accuracy that only come from long practice.

With fascinated eyes the warder gazed upon the process. The gradual emergence of an interior at Oxford College, in reply to the apparently irresponsible dabs and daubs of a convict, seemed to him to savour of the miraculous. Only the iron sense of discipline which permeated their relations prevented him from openly expressing his admiration to the artist.

After watching the work for about a quarter of an hour, he at length rose reluctantly to his feet, picking up the rifle which he had balanced against a chair.

"I'm goin' on the stage to see about the gas brackets, Bascombe," he said. "I'll be back in a minute. You push on with that there paintin'. We want it ready for the re'earsal Friday, if you can manage it."

He crossed the room to a door, which apparently opened into the street, and, turning the handle, satisfied himself that it was properly locked. Then, after a final look round and a last approving glance at the canvas, he clumped off through the narrow exit that led to the stage.

For a minute or so after his departure the convict continued to paint. He was sketching in the rough outline of a fire-place, and the operation evidently engrossed his entire attention. As he worked he whistled softly and tunefully, stepping back every now and then to contemplate his labours. At last he laid down his brush, and, stretching himself with a prolonged yawn, gazed listlessly about him. His eye fell on the big basket in the centre of the room. He stared at it for a moment in a sort of idle curiosity, then with a swift glance at the door through which the warder had gone out he stepped noiselessly across and lifted the lid.

Inside were several suits of clothes neatly folded and tied into separate bundles. There were also two or three cardboard boxes, each one labelled with a different name. For a moment the convict contemplated them thoughtfully; then with a sudden grin he bent down and lifted up one of the boxes. A second glance at the door assured him that he was still unobserved. Opening his find he took out its contents—a carefully dressed wig of silver-grey hair. A moment later he was standing in front of a small looking-glass upon the wall, complacently regarding its effect upon his own cropped head.

The transformation was certainly a successful one. Coming right down on his forehead, without a scalp-piece to destroy the illusion, the wig altered his appearance to an extraordinary extent. But for the hideous broad-arrowed jacket below he might easily have passed for a rugged, good-natured-looking barrister or country parson.

Something of this incongruity of costume seemed to strike Mr. Bascombe. With a broadening grin, he retraced his steps to the basket and silently continued his researches.

The first bundle of clothes which he examined consisted of an old-fashioned suit of large checks, evidently intended for a comic gentleman of mature years. Placing them on one side, he next pulled out a blue and buff livery, gaily ornamented with brass buttons. It was a handsome costume, but with the sensibility of a true artist Mr. Bascombe realized at once that it was unsuited to the remainder of his appearance. Laying it carefully on top of the other, he again rummaged in the basket, his efforts on this occasion being rewarded by a roll of sombre garments tied round with a piece of red tape. He slipped off the latter, and, depositing a pair of trousers and waistcoat on the ground, held up a long black coat of clerical cut.

Now, Mr. Bascombe was the possessor of a richly-developed sense of humour, which for five years had been suffering from a deplorable lack of exercise. Even with the certainty of punishment ahead, he was quite unable to resist the temptation offered by this outfit. The sight of the warder's face when that gentleman returned would, he felt, be more than sufficient compensation for the reduced diet and loss of marks that would inevitably follow.

Five minutes' swift and silent work, and the metamorphosis was complete. He stood before the glass smiling hugely at his reflection—a perfect specimen of a weather-beaten parson of the Jack Russell school.

Up till then no idea but that of startling the warder had entered his head. He had drifted into the jest quite undeliberately, dressing himself up solely out of a sense of mischievous amusement. It was the unexpected perfection of his disguise that suddenly suggested to him the possibilities of the situation.

He turned a rapid glance on the locked door, and another on the pile of convict clothes that lay huddled together beside the basket. For an instant he stood undecided, then stealthily as a cat he again stepped across the room and picked up his discarded garments. Tying them round with the piece of red tape, he thrust them down into the bottom of the basket, covering them over with the two suits and the box that he had previously taken out. This done, he shut the lid, and once more stood motionless, listening intently to the sounds that reached him from the hall. He could hear nothing but the dull tramp of his fellow-convicts' feet passing up and down, and the clatter of the chairs as they were set in their places.

With the grin still embedded on his countenance he slipped noiselessly across to the outer door. Bending down, he examined the lock. It was a simple affair—almost insultingly simple for a gentleman of Mr. Bascombe's capabilities.

He straightened himself and cast a quick look round the room. On the wall hung a large coloured portrait of King Edward VII, poorly disguised as a British Admiral. Mr. Bascombe lifted it down with a delicate care that may have been due to loyalty, and swiftly unfastened the thick wire by which it had been suspended. From this he twisted off a piece about ten inches in length, and, picking up the palette knife from the table, resumed his crouching position in front of the door.

For about a minute and a half he remained in this attitude, a faint scratching noise and his own heavy breathing being the only audible indications of his labour. Then suddenly came a grating sound, followed a moment later by a sharp click.

Mr. Bascombe did not wait to see if he had been overheard. Rising quickly and silently to his feet, he opened the door just wide enough to enable him to reconnoitre his position. Except for a black cat luxuriously scratching herself in the sunshine, the roadway opposite was empty. A swift glance up and down showed him there was no one nearer than the post office. Without a trace of hurry or nervousness he stepped out and closed the door behind him. A moment later with magnificent unconcern he was sauntering slowly down the street.

The few people that he passed paid no particular attention to him. A sunburned, holiday-making clergyman, with smiling countenance and leisurely gait, is almost as common a sight in Princetown as a convict. Stopping now and then to look into the shop windows, he pursued his unhurried way until he reached the corner of the street opposite the Moorlands Hotel.

Till that moment the problem of what to do with his liberty had not crossed Mr. Bascombe's mind. His faculties had been wholly absorbed in the delicious and unwonted sense of freedom to which he had been so long a stranger. But the sight of that large gold-lettered inscription upon the white building on the other side of the street brought him back to more practical considerations. It suggested to him that liberty, especially liberty of such a precarious nature as his was likely to prove, should be put to prompt and satisfactory service.

Being a gentleman of action, he did not wait upon his thoughts. Moistening his lips, he crossed the road, and still with the same deliberate dignity mounted the two or three stone steps that led into the hotel.

A large, fat-faced waiter who was standing just inside saw him coming and pulled open the door of the comfortably furnished lounge, bowing obsequiously as he did so. Mr. Bascombe entered, and looked round with the air of a man well pleased with his environment.

"I want to see the landlord," he remarked.

Again the waiter bowed.

"Yes, sir, I will fetch him, sir. Will you take a seat for a moment?"

He indicated a large, comfortable-looking ottoman upholstered in green leather.

With a little grunt of satisfaction Mr. Bascombe settled himself down upon the article in question. His enjoyment of its comfortable cushions was heightened by the remembrance of the hard wooden stool which for five years had constituted his only form of sitting accommodation. Half closing his eyes, he leaned back in an attitude of luxurious abandonment. There was no one in the lounge beside himself, the only sound that reached him being a faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond varied once by the sharp popping of a cork. At the latter noise a slow smile crept over the convict's face, and once more he thoughtfully passed his tongue across his lips.

His solitude was broken by the entrance of the landlord, a cheery-looking little man with grey side-whiskers and a slight stammer.

"G-good morning, sir," he began; "sorry to have k-kept you waiting."

"That's all right," replied Mr. Bascombe graciously. "I want to know if you can let me have a room."

"Oh, yes, sir—n-no difficulty about that. Just for the night, or will you be staying for a f-f-few days?"

"I'm in no hurry," returned Mr. Bascombe, stretching himself contentedly; then, thinking that perhaps he ought to be more explicit, he added with a touch of native humour, "It's pleasant to to be in a comfortable hotel again after what I've had to put up with lately."

"Indeed, sir!" said the landlord. "Perhaps you're on a w-w-walking tour?"

He looked round as though expecting to see the inevitable knapsack.

Mr. Bascombe interpreted the glance correctly.

"Yes," he said, "that's it. I've got my baggage coming on by train."

The landlord nodded his head.

"Nothing like walking light," he commented.

"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe, rising to his feet. "By the way, can I have something to eat? It's a bit early, I know, but the fact is I didn't have much of a breakfast this morning."

"Why, c-certainly, sir, of course. Lunch won't be ready till one o'clock, but you can have anything c-c-cold, or a chop, or s-s-steak, if you pre-prefer it."

"Ah! a steak will do me proud," said Mr. Bascombe with enthusiasm. "A big 'un for choice, with plenty of potatoes."

"Anything to drink, sir?"

Mr. Bascombe paused a moment so as to let the full beauty of the question sink into his understanding. Then he replied playfully:

"Well, I think a drop of Burgundy might help it down."

The landlord, whose previous experience of touring clergymen had led him to regard them as a joyless and unprofitable brood, was delighted at the mingled geniality and broad-mindedness of his guest. With a "Certainly, sir; I'll fetch it you myself," he led the way across the lounge and threw open the door of the coffee-room.

"Perhaps you'd like to g-go to your room first, sir?" he suggested.

Mr. Bascombe cast a contemplative look at his hands.

"I could do with a wash, couldn't I?" he admitted cheerfully. "Dirty work climbing these hills."

"Oh, we'll soon remedy that, sir!" laughed the landlord. He rang the bell, and an undersized youth with a shock of red hair appeared from somewhere in the back regions.

"T-t-take this gentleman up to Number Six, Albert, and g-get him some hot water. I'll order your lunch, sir," he added. "It will be ready almost as soon as you are."

Ten minutes later, with comparatively clean hands and a superlatively acute appetite, Mr. Bascombe re-entered the coffee-room.

The fat waiter, who was just putting the finishing touches to a small table by the window, looked up as he came in.

"I've laid your lunch 'ere, sir," he remarked. "It's more cheerful like."

Mr. Bascombe regarded the preparations with an approving eye.

"Good lad," he said, seating himself in the comfortable arm-chair set out for him. "This'll just about suit my complaint. Now you bung along and hurry up the cook."

A momentary flicker of surprise illumined the fat waiter's face, but with the true philosophy of his order he recovered himself immediately.

"Yes, sir," he remarked with an ingratiating smile. "Shan't keep you waiting a minute, sir."

He shuffled out into the kitchen, where he repeated the phrase to the cook.

"Told me to bung along and 'urry up 'is dinner. Fancy a parson speaking like that!"

"P'r'aps 'e's a Roman Catholic," suggested the cook.

Left to himself, Mr. Bascombe extracted a toothpick from the wine-glass on the table, and, leaning back in his chair, directed his gaze out of the window. He perceived at once that for some reason or other the usually placid main thoroughfare of Princetown was in a state of no little animation. Outside the grocer's shop opposite the hotel a group of six or seven men and women stood in the roadway talking eagerly and staring up the street. Their agitation seemed to be in some way connected with the prison, for as a warder came running hastily past they all turned and followed him with their eyes. Mr. Bascombe instinctively pushed back his chair.

At that moment the door of the coffee-room swung open and the landlord hurried in, carrying a bottle of Burgundy in his hand. His face was flushed and excited.

"I'm sorry to have been so long, sir," he began, "but the fact is we've had a b-b-bit of a shock. A warder has just been round to tell us that there's a c-c-convict loose in Princetown."

"Gawd bless my soul!" cried Mr. Bascombe, "you don't say so!" Picking up the bottle of Burgundy, he poured himself out a glass, and drained it at a gulp. "Give me quite a turn," he explained, filling it up again.

The landlord regarded him sympathetically.

"Yes, sir, I d-don't wonder. The whole of P-P-Princetown's in a rare state about it."

Mr. Bascombe, who still seemed to be suffering from the shock, raised his glass a second time and took two or three long, deliberate sips.

"How did the beggar get away?" he inquired, setting it down again with a deep breath.

"Well, sir, it seems as how, b-being a scene-painter by trade, the warders had taken him down to the Recreation Rooms to p-paint a bit o' stuff for the p-p-play they're doing next week. They left him for a minute in the room behind the stage, and when they came back they found he'd f-forced the door and slipped out."

"Careless! careless!" interpolated Mr. Bascombe, filling up his glass.

"Yes, sir, but the amazing thing is, what's happened to him? Being in c-c-convict clothes, one would think he must have been spotted directly he showed his nose outside."

A slow smile stole across Mr. Bascombe's face.

"It's a fair puzzler," he admitted. "If he'd got some sort of a disguise like, now, one could understand it; but——"

There was a clatter of hoofs, and several uniformed men on horseback galloped past the hotel. The landlord ran to the window.

"There g-goes the civil g-g-guard," he stammered.

Mr. Bascombe again raised his glass.

"Here's luck to 'em!" he remarked generously.

As he drank the toast the fat waiter re-entered bearing a well-laden tray, which he put down on the neighbouring table.

"Ah! Here's your lunch, sir," said the landlord. "I told them to send you up the c-c-cold tart and a bit of cheese as well. I thought you'd be able to manage a square meal after your walk."

"You thought correct," said Mr. Bascombe gratefully.

The waiter deposited a dish in front of him, and removed the cover. From a large steak, crowned with little brown curls of onion, a most exquisite flavour mounted into the air. Mr. Bascombe reverently transferred the entire pile to his own plate, and then helped himself to a majestic hoard of chipped potatoes.

"You're sure you've got everything you want, sir?" inquired the landlord with unintentional sarcasm.

His guest gazed meditatively round the table,

"Well, I think we might say a cigar, and a glass of port wine to top up with," he observed. "No hurry about 'em."

"I'll bring them in, sir, if you'll just tell the waiter when you're ready."

"Right-o," murmured Mr. Bascombe, lifting a huge forkful to his mouth.

"Shall I fill your glass, sir?" inquired the waiter, as the landlord departed.

Mr. Bascombe nodded.

"You needn't stop here, Percy," he remarked when the operation was completed. "I can get through this little lot on my own."

"Very well, sir," said the waiter. "There's a bell on the mantelpiece, sir, if you want me."

He withdrew to the kitchen, pondering darkly on the unconventional habits of the Roman Catholic clergy.

Unembarrassed by company, Mr. Bascombe gave himself up without reserve to the enjoyment of his meal. Having finished the steak and mopped up the gravy with a bit of bread, he reluctantly pushed back his plate and turned his attention to the tart. Two generous helpings of this luxury sufficed him, his repast concluding with a slab of bread-and-cheese that must effectually have filled up any spare corners remaining.

While he ate he kept an amused eye on the window, noting the various symptoms of unrest which were still apparent in the street. It seemed as though most of the able-bodied men in Princetown were joining in the search. Armed with sticks or pitchforks, they came hurrying past one after another to offer their services. In every case Mr. Bascombe gravely drank the health of the new arrival.

Finally, when the Burgundy was finished, he got up a little unsteadily from the table and rang the bell. It was answered by the waiter.

Mr. Bascombe looked at him affectionately.

"'Ullo, Percy!" he remarked; "back again, eh?"

"Yes, sir; you rang, sir."

"So I did. You're quite right, Percy. What was it I wanted?" His face brightened. "Oh, yes, the port wine and a cigar—the best quality cigar, mark you. None of your penny stinkers. You tell old whiskers; he'll see to it."

"Yes, sir," murmured the waiter with a gasp.

He retired from the room, to be succeeded a minute later by the landlord, bearing an aged-looking black bottle in one hand and a large cigar-box in the other.

"I hope you enjoyed your lunch, sir," he said, placing these treasures on the table.

"First-rate," replied Mr. Bascombe, smacking his lips.

"You found the wine all right, sir?"

Mr. Bascombe nodded humorously.

"Yes, he was hiding in the bottle, but I got him out."

This witticism was much to the taste of the landlord, who laughed uproariously.

"That's g-good, sir! G-g-got him out! Well, I've got something here that I think you'll find the right sort. A drop of real g-g-genuine '58—c-c-comet year, you know, sir. I don't offer it to many gentlemen."

He carefully poured out a glassful and held it up to the light.

Mr. Bascombe sniffed it, took a long sip, and then set down the wineglass with a wink.

"A little bit of orlright," was his verdict. "Have a glass yourself, landlord?"

"Thank you, sir; I don't mind if I do."

While he was translating his words into action Mr. Bascombe opened the cigar-box, which was full of long, light brown Havanas.

"I d-don't know if these are too large, sir?" observed the landlord. "I can g-g-get you a smaller brand if you pre-prefer it."

"Don't you trouble yourself," replied his obliging guest.

He selected one, bit off the end, and, lighting it with a match from a stand on the mantelpiece, blew out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke. It was the supreme moment of his adventure. He felt that Fate had nothing more to offer him.

"N-no news of the convict yet, sir," remarked the landlord. "The whole of P-Princetown's out hunting for him."

"Yes," said Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle. "I've been watching 'em go by. Very handy lot o' chaps they looked." He was silent for a moment, then suddenly an idea—a terrific; dazzling idea—flooded his imagination. "Can you let me have a carriage?" he inquired.

"Why, c-certainly, sir. How far are you thinking of going?"

Mr. Bascombe puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.

"I want to go and see the Governor of Princetown. He's a pal o' mine, old Marshall is. He'd be cut up something horrid if he heard I'd gone away without looking him up."

At the mention of Colonel Marshall's name the landlord's respect for his unconventional visitor visibly increased.

"I'll s-s-send out and order the victoria at once, sir," he said. "It's only about half a mile to the Governor's house, but I expect you've had enough walking for to-day."

"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe. "Driving's more my mark this afternoon."

"And w-what train shall we meet your luggage by, sir? The six-thirty?"

This seemed as good a train as any other to the owner of this imaginary encumbrance, so he nodded his head.

"Tell 'em to be careful with it, won't you?" he added.

"Oh, yes, sir! That will be all right. You'll be wanting d-d-dinner, I suppose, sir?"

A sad, prophetic smile flitted across Mr. Bascombe's face.

"I expect I shall," he said simply.

An interval of about seven minutes ensued between the landlord's departure and the clatter of the victoria as it drew up at the front door. That this time was not wholly wasted by Mr. Bascombe might have been gathered either from the reduced weight of the port bottle or the increased unsteadiness of his own gait as he crossed the hall. He managed to reach the vehicle without disaster, however, and climbing in smiled a dignified farewell at the landlord, who had come out to see him off.

The latter watched his guest drive away with a slightly puzzled expression.

"Blessed if I don't b-believe his Reverence had a d-drop too much," he muttered.

His Reverence certainly had. He lay back in the victoria as it rolled up the main street feeling immeasurably at peace with mankind. A gracious haze blurred the animated little groups of women that still clustered in front of the doorways and mellowed their excited chatter into a drowsy and not unpleasing murmur. Had the drive been a few hundred yards longer he would probably have arrived in a state of slumber, but the jerk of the carriage as it drew up in front of the Governor's gate just saved him from this social solecism. He blinked doubtfully for a moment, and then, recognizing his surroundings, clambered cautiously out.

"Am I to wait, sir?" inquired the driver.

The question seemed to afford Mr. Bascombe some amusement.

"Yes, you wait, old sport," he replied; "shan't be longer than I can help."

Then, before the astonished driver had recovered from the shock of this unexpected address, he pushed open the wooden gate that led into the Governor's garden and advanced in graceful spirals up the well-kept drive. A vigorous pull at the front-door bell resulted in the appearance of a neat, dark-eyed housemaid. Mr. Bascombe gazed at her with approval.

"Good morning, my dear," he remarked affably, holding on to the doorpost to steady himself. "Is the Colonel at home?"

"Yes, sir," said the maid.

"Well, tell him that an old college friend of his would like to see him."

For an instant the girl looked at him doubtfully; then, reassured by the clerical costume, invited him to step inside. Abandoning his support with extreme care, Mr. Bascombe followed her into a comfortably-furnished study on the left-hand side of the hall.

"Will you take a seat, sir?" she said.

The invitation was a shade superfluous, for his legs having suddenly failed him, the visitor had already sat down abruptly in a large easy chair against the wall.

The uncertainty in the girl's face deepened into dismay.

"I will tell Colonel Marshall you are here," she said shortly, and with that she hastened from the room, shutting the door behind her.

Mr. Bascombe just had time to pull himself together before the Governor entered. Colonel Marshall was a tall, soldierly-looking man with upturned grey moustache and humorous eyes of a keen blue. The maid had evidently apprised him of her experience, for he looked over his caller with mingled curiosity, amusement, and suspicion.

"Well, sir," he said, "and what can I do for you?"

Mr. Bascombe, feeling that it would be tempting Providence, made no attempt to rise. He just sat still and smiled.

"You don't know me?" he observed affably.

"I am afraid not," said the Governor.

"Ah," replied Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle, "that's the disguise, sir!"

Lifting up his hand he removed the wig.

The Governor stared at him for a moment in amazement.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "it's Bascombe!"

The convict bowed.

"You'll excuse my not getting up, sir. No intention of being disrespectful—been lunching at the Moorlands Hotel."

The Governor sat down in a chair and burst into a roar of laughter.

"You scoundrel!" he chuckled. "You've given us a nice chase. Half the warders are out after you now. What on earth induced you to bolt, and where did you get those clothes?"

He broke down again and shook with suppressed merriment.

Thus adjured, Mr. Bascombe unfolded his story. He told it quite simply, making no attempt to apologize for his escape, or to seek avoidance in any way of the punishment that awaited him. The Governor listened with vast interest and amusement, his sense of humour temporarily overcoming the amazing irregularity of the whole proceedings. When Mr. Bascombe described his lunch, and the production of the '58 port, he lay back in his chair and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

Finally, when the narrative was finished, he got up.

"Well, Bascombe," he said, with a smile, "you've had your fun, and now you've got to pay for it."

The convict, who was beginning to feel better, rose instantly to his feet and saluted.

The Governor not unkindly laid his hand upon the old sinner's shoulder.

"You're a disgrace to the prison, Bascombe," he said, "but I'll do my best for you."

And Colonel Marshall kept his word.