HOW ONE LOVER TOOK LEAVE OF HIS WITS, AND TWO CAME TO THEIR SENSES.
But Mr. Fogo was not to try again on the morrow.
For Caleb, stealing up in the grey dawn to assure himself that his
master was comfortably asleep, found him tossing in a high fever, and
rowed down to Troy for dear life and the Doctor. Returning, he found
that the fever had become delirium. Mr. Fogo, indeed, was sitting up
in bed, and rattling off proposals of marriage at the rate of some
six a minute, without break or pause. He was very red and earnest,
rolled his eyes most strangely, and wandered in his address from
Tamsin to Geraldine, and back again with a vehemence that gravelled
all logic.
"Lord ha' mussy!" cried Caleb at last. "Do 'ee hush, that's a dear.
'Tes sinful--all these gallons o' true affecshun a-runnin' to waste.
You'm too lovin' by half, as Sam said when hes wife got hugged by a
bear. What do 'ee think, sir?"
The last sentence was addressed to the little Doctor, who, after
staring at the patient for some minutes without noticeable result,
nodded his head, announced that the fever must run its course, and
promised to send a capable nurse up to Kit's House without delay.
"Beggin' your pard'n, Doctor," interposed Caleb with firmness, "but
I've a-got my orders."
"Eh?"
"I've a-got my orders. Plaise God, an' wi' plenty o' doctor's
trade, [1] us'll pull 'un round: but nobody nusses maaster 'ceptin'
you an' me--leastways, no womankind."
"This is nonsensical."
"Nonsensical, do 'ee say? Look 'ee here, Doctor; do 'ee think I'd
trust a woman up here wi' maaster a-makin' offers o' marriage sixteen
to the dozen? Why, bless 'ee, sir, her'd be down an' ha' the banns
called afore night, an' maaster not fit to shake hes head, much less
say as the Prayer Books orders--'I renounce mun all.' That's a
woman, Doctor, an' ef any o' the genteel sex sets foot on Kit's beach
I'll--I'll _stone_ her."
The Doctor gave way in the end and withdrew, promising another visit
before evening. When he returned, however, at five in the afternoon,
he found, with some wonder, a woman quietly installed in the
sick-room. It happened thus:--
Barely an hour after the Doctor's departure, Caleb, sitting at his
master's bedside, heard footsteps on the gravel walk, and looked out
of window.
"Hist!" he called softly; and Peter Dearlove, followed by Paul,
stepped round the angle of the house into sight. The Twins
bore a look of the gravest perplexity and a large market basket.
"Hulloa!" said Caleb, "what's up?"
The pair looked at each other. At length Peter began with a serious
face and unwonted formality of tone--
"Es Mr. Fogo wi'in?"
"Why, iss," Caleb allowed, "he's inside."
"We was a-wishin' to request o' the pleasure"--here Peter looked at
Paul, who nodded--"the pleasure o' an interval o' five minnits."
"Interview," corrected Paul.
"I misdoubts," answered his brother, "that you are wrong, Paul.
I remember the expresshun 'pon the programme o' a Sleight o' Hand
Entertainment, an' there et said 'Interval'--'An Interval o' Five
Minnits.'"
"Ef that's so," broke in Caleb from above with fine irony, "p'raps
you wudn' mind handin' up your visitin' cards an' doin' the thing
proper. At present maaster's busy."
"Busy?"
"Iss. A-makin' proposals o' marriage--which es a serious thing, an'
not to be interrupted."
The Twins set down the basket and stared at each other. Paul was the
first to recover.
"Ef 'tes fully allowable to put the question, Peter an' me wud like
to knaw the young leddy's name. 'Tes makin' bould to ax, but there's
a reason."
"Well," said Caleb, disappearing for a moment and then poking his
head forth again, "at the present moment 'tes a party answerin' to
the name o' Geraldin'. A minnit agone 'twas--But maybe you'd
better step up an' see for yoursel'."
"What!"
"Step up an' see."
"Now, Peter," said the Twin, turning from Caleb to contemplate his
brother, "puttin' the case (an' far be et from me to say et cudn' be)
as you was payin' your addresses to a young leddy answerin' to the
name o' Geraldin' (which she wudn' be call'd that, anyway), an'
puttin' the case as you was a-makin' offers o' marriage, an' a pair
o' twin-brothers (same as you an' me might be) walked up to the front
door an' plumped in afore you'd well finished talkin' o' the
weather-prospec's (bein' a slow man, though a sure)--now, what I
wants to knaw es, wud 'ee like et yoursel'?"
"No, I shudn'."
"Well, I reckon'd not. An' that bein' so, Go's the word."
"Afore Peter talks 'bout gettin' a wife," broke in Caleb, "he'd
better read 'bout Peter's wife's mother. She was sick wi' a fever,
I've heerd, an' so's maaster. Ef you don't believe, walk up an' see;
'cos 'tain't good for a sick man to ha' all this palaverin' outside
hes windey."
The Twins stared, whispered together, took off their boots, and
softly entered the house. At the door of the sick-room Caleb met
them.
"Brain fever," he whispered, "which es on'y catchin' for them as has
brains to catch et wi'."
The trio stood together at the foot of the bed on which Mr. Fogo
tossed and chattered. Peter and Paul looked from the sick man to
their hats, and back again in silence. At length the elder Twin
spoke--
"I' the matter o' behavin' rum, some folks does it wi' cause an'
others not so. But I reckons ef you allows as there's likely a
cause, you'm 'pon the safe side--'speshully wi' Mr. Fogo. Wherefore,
Caleb, what's the meanin' o' this here?"
"Tamsin!"
The answer came so pat from the sick man's lips that Peter fairly
jumped. Caleb looked up with finger on lip and a curious smile on
his weather-tanned face.
"Don't leave me! Look! There are devils around me--cold white
devils--devils with blank faces--no features, only flesh.
Look! Sunday, Monday, Tuesday--every day with a devil, every day in
the year--look, look!"
"Pore soul!" whispered Paul; "an' 'tes Leap Year, too, which makes
wan extry."
"Don't leave me, Tamsin--don't leave me!"
The sick man's voice rose to a scream. Caleb bent forward and tried
to soothe him. The mahogany faces of the Twins were blanched.
They whispered apart--
"You was right, Peter."
"Aye, more's the pity. I thought the lass misliked 'un--the bigger
fool I. 'Twas on'y yestiddy I guessed more was troublin' her than
her soiled gown, an' tax'd her wi' et. We used to pride oursel' on
knawin' her wants afore her spoke--an' now--"
Peter weakly concluded with a sigh.
"Bring Tamsin down an' help me here," said Caleb, from across the
room.
The pair started.
"That es," he went on, "ef she'll come. You heerd maaster? Well, he
said purty much the same to her yestiddy; so her won't be frightened.
Leastways, go an' say you'm comin' yoursel' to help nuss; 'cos ef you
won't I'll nuss 'un alone, an' ef that's the case, you'm a queer pair
o' Christians, as the Devil said to the two black pigs."
"Fact es," hesitated Peter, "I'd a-larnt so much las' evenin' from
Tamsin, though she were main loth to tell; an' Paul agreed as we'd
call this mornin' an' tell Mr. Fogo as 'twarn't right for 'n to set
hes thoughts 'pon Tamsin, who isn' a leddy, nor to put notions in her
head as'll gi'e her pain hereafter. An' that's all 'bout et; an' us
brought a whack o' vegetable produce 'long wi' us, jes' to show there
was no ill-feelin's. But as et turns out, neither argyment nor
vegetables bein' acceptable to a party that's sick wi' a fever, I be
clane floored for what to do."
"Well, now, I've a-told 'ee. An' don't let the grass grow 'neath
your feet, 'cos 'twill grow fast enough over your heads some day."
The Twins, unable to cope with Caleb's determination, stole
noiselessly out. And thus it was that when, late in the afternoon,
the little Doctor returned, he found Peter and Paul, in large blue
aprons, busily helpless downstairs, and Tamsin, bright-eyed and warm
of cheek, seated by the sick man's bedside.
On the following morning, which the reader, should he care to
calculate, will find to be Tuesday, Admiral Buzza dropped his
newspaper with a start, and glared across the breakfast-table.
"What is it, my love?" inquired his wife. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Wrong? Oh! no," replied the Admiral grimly, "nothing--wrong.
Oblige me by listening to this, madam." He took up the paper and
read aloud:
"ANOTHER DYNAMITE PLOT.
A WHOLE TOWN DECEIVED--EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS.
ESCAPE OF THE SUSPECTED PERSONS.
THE DYNAMITE FIENDS STILL AT LARGE.
"The existence of another of these atrocious conspiracies aimed at
the security of our public buildings and the safety of peaceful
citizens, has been brought to light by certain recent occurrences at
the romantic little seaport town of Troy. We have reason to believe
that the suspicions of the police have been for some time aroused;
and it is to their unaccountable dilatoriness we owe it that the
conspirators have for the time made good their escape and still
continue to menace our lives and property. It appears that some
months back a couple, giving the names of the Honourable Mr. and Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys--"
["Really, Samuel, if you cannot eat an ordinary egg without
clattering the spoon in that unseemly manner, I must ask you to
suspend your meal until I have finished."]
"appeared at Troy as tenants of one of the most fashionable villa
residences in that town. The _elite_ [ahem] of the neighbourhood,
too easily cajoled [h'm], and little suspecting their villainous
designs, received the newcomers with open arms and a lamentable lack
of inquisitiveness."
"Well, really," put in Mrs. Buzza, "I don't know what they call
'inquisitiveness'; if a brass telescope--Why, Sam, dear, how pale you
are!"
"Through the gross carelessness, we can hardly bring ourselves to say
the connivance, of the Custom House officials, they were allowed to
land with impunity a considerable quantity of dynamite, with which on
Saturday night they decamped. Their disappearance remained
unsuspected up to a late hour on Sunday morning, when 'The Bower' was
visited, and (to borrow the words of the great master of prose)
_non sunt inventi_. The neatness with which the escape was executed
points to the disquieting conclusion that they did not want for
assistance."
"I'll ask you to excuse me," said Sam, rising abruptly and leaving
the room. A sick terror possessed his heart; visions of the dock and
the felon's cell followed him as he picked up his hat and crept into
the street. Outside, the morning was serene, with the promise of a
broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness
would have been better. He shivered: at the corner of the street he
met the local policeman and winced.
But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his
steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly
as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table.
If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered
cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater,
pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid
significance.
Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more
than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this,
however, was forgotten now.
"Is that you, Sam? Come in."
Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper
feebly, and groaned.
"Moggridge, old man--"
"Sam!"
"What a pair of asses we have been!
"The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.
"I know," nodded Sam; "is it true, d'ye think?"
"My heart forebodes," said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further--
"my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about
with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal--"
"Pooh!" broke in Sam; "stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I
know, but after all _I'm_ the sufferer."
The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him.
"_I_ carried the bag up to Five Lanes; _I_ put the infernal stuff
into her very hands; _I_--"
"_You?_"
Sam nodded desperately. "She asked me to elope with her--to meet her
at Five Lanes."
Mr. Moggridge staggered up to his feet, and fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket.
"You are mad!" he gasped. "She asked _me_ to elope with her--_me_ to
meet her at the top of Troy Hill. Look here!" He held out a crumpled
letter. Sam took it, glanced at it, produced an exactly similar
note, and handed it to his friend.
They read each the other's letter sentence by sentence, and in
doleful antiphon. At the conclusion they looked up, and met each
other's gaze; whereat Mr. Moggridge smote his brow and cried--
"False, false!"
While Sam pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and emitted
a long breath, as though, his cup being full, he must needs blow off
the froth.
"Do you mean to say," he asked, after a pause, "that you helped her
to land the stuff?"
"I thought it was Tea."
"And you never examined it?"
"She told me it was Tea."
"Moggridge, you have been given away, as the Yankees put it. I have
been sold, which is bad; but you have been 'given away,' which is
worse."
"You were sold for 'love,' which is pretty much the same, I take it,
as being given away," objected the Poet testily.
"Not at all the same, Moggridge, as being given away--with half a
pound of Tea."
Footnote, Chapter XXIII
[1] Medicine.