_Which, being the last, is, very properly, the longest in the book_
In those benighted days when men went abroad cased in steel, and, upon
very slight provocation, were wont to smite each other with axes, and
clubs, to buffet and skewer each other with spears, lances, swords, and
divers other barbarous engines, yet, in that dark, and doughty age,
ignorant though they were of all those smug maxims, and excellent
moralities with which we are so happily blessed,--even in that
unhallowed day, when the solemn tread of the policeman's foot was all
unknown,--they had evolved for themselves a code of rules whereby to
govern their life, and conduct. Amongst these, it was tacitly agreed
upon, and understood, that a spoken promise was a pledge, and held to be
a very sacred thing, and he who broke faith, committed all the cardinal
sins. Indeed their laws were very few, and simple, easily understood,
and well calculated to govern man's conduct to his fellow. In this day
of ours, ablaze with learning, and culture,--veneered with a fine
civilization, our laws are complex beyond all knowing and expression;
man regulates his conduct--to them,--and is as virtuous, and honest as
the law compels him to be.
This is the age of Money, and, therefore, an irreverent age; it is also
the age of Respectability (with a very large R),--and the
policeman's bludgeon.
But in Arcadia--because it is an old-world place where life follows an
even, simple course, where money is as scarce as roguery, the old law
still holds; a promise once given, is a sacred obligation, and not to be
set aside.
Even the Black-bird, who lived in the inquisitive apple tree,
understood, and was aware of this, it had been born in him, and had
grown with his feathers. Therefore,--though, to be sure, he had spoken
no promise, signed no bond, nor affixed his mark to any agreement, still
he had, nevertheless, borne in mind a certain request preferred to him
when the day was very young. Thus, with a constancy of purpose worthy of
all imitation, he had given all his mind, and thought, to the
composition of a song with a new theme. He had applied himself to it
most industriously all day long, and now, as the sun began to set, he
had at last corked it all out,--every note, every quaver, and trill;
and, perched upon a look-out branch, he kept his bold, bright eye turned
toward a certain rustic seat hard by, uttering a melodious note or two,
every now and then, from pure impatience.
And presently, sure enough, he spied her for whom he waited,--the tall,
long limbed, supple-waisted creature--whose skin was pink and gold like
the peaches and apricots in the garden, and with soft, little rings of
hair that would have made such an excellent lining to a nest. From this
strictly utilitarian point of view he had often admired her hair, (had
this Black-bird fellow), as she passed to and fro among her flowers, or
paused to look up at him and listen to his song, or even sometimes to
speak to him in her sweet, low voice.
But to-day she seemed to have forgotten him altogether, she did not even
glance his way, indeed she walked with bent head, and seemed to keep her
eyes always upon the ground.
Therefore the black-bird hopped a little further along the branch, and
peered over to look down at her with first one round eye, and then the
other, as she sank upon the seat, near by, and leaned her head wearily
against the great tree, behind. And thus he saw, upon the pint and gold
of her cheek, something that shone, and twinkled like a drop of dew.
If the Black-bird wondered at this, and was inclined to be curious, he
sturdily repressed the weakness,--for here was the audience--seated,
and waiting--all expectation for him to begin.
So, without more ado, he settled himself upon the bough, lifted his
head, stretched his throat, and, from his yellow bill, poured forth a
flood of golden melody as he burst forth into his "Song of Memory."
And what a song it was!--so full of passionate entreaty, of tender
pleading, of haunting sweetness, that, as she listened, the bright drop
quivering upon her lashes, fell and was succeeded by another, and
another. Nor did she attempt to check them, or wipe them away, only she
sat and listened with her heavy head pillowed against the great tree,
while the Blackbird, glancing down at her every now and then with
critical eye to mark the effect of some particularly difficult passage,
piped surely as he had never done before, until the listener's proud
face sank lower and lower, and was, at last, hidden in her hands. Seeing
which, the Black-bird, like the true artist he was, fearing an
anti-climax, very presently ended his song with a long-drawn,
plaintive note.
But Anthea sat there with her proud head bowed low, long after he had
retired for the night. And the sun went down, and the shadows came
creeping stealthily about her, and the moon began to rise, big and
yellow, over the up-land; but Anthea still sat there with her head, once
more resting wearily against "King Arthur," watching the deepening
shadows until she was roused by Small Porges' hand upon hers and his
voice saying:
"Why,--I do believe you're crying, Auntie Anthea, an' why are you
here--all alone, an' by yourself?"
"I was listening to the Black-bird, dear,--I never heard him sing quite
so--beautifully, before."
"But black-birds don't make people cry,--an' I know you've been
crying--'cause you sound--all quivery, you know."
"Do I, Georgy?"
"Yes,--is it 'cause you feel--lonely?"
"Yes dear."
"You've cried an awful lot, lately, Auntie Anthea."
"Have I, dear?"
"Yes,--an' it--worries me, you know."
"I'm afraid I've been a great responsibility to you, Georgy dear," said
she with a rueful little laugh.
"'Fraid you have; but I don' mind the 'sponsibility,--'I'll always take
care of you, you know!" nodded Small Porges, sitting down, the better to
get his arm protectingly about her, while Anthea stooped to kiss the top
of his curly head. "I promised my Uncle Porges I'd always take care of
you, an' so I will!"
"Yes, dear."
"Uncle Porges told me--"
"Never mind, dear,--don' let's talk of--him."
"Do you still--hate him, then, Auntie Anthea?"
"Hush, dear!--it's very wrong to--hate people."
"Yes, a course it is! Then--perhaps, if you don't hate him any more--you
like him a bit,--jest a--teeny bit, you know?"
"Why--there's the clock striking half-past eight, Georgy!"
"Yes, I hear it,--but--do you,--the teeniest bit? Oh! can't you like him
jest a bit--for my sake, Auntie Anthea? I'm always trying to please
you,--an' I found you the fortune, you know, so now I want you to please
me,--an' tell me you like him--for my sake."
"But--Oh Georgy dear!--you don't understand."
"--'cause you see," Small Porges, continued, "after all, I found him for
you--under a hedge, you know--"
"Ah!--why did you, Georgy dear? We were so happy--before--he came--"
"But you couldn't have been, you know; you weren't married--even then,
so you couldn't have been really happy, you know;" said Small Porges
shaking his head.
"Why Georgy--what do you mean?"
"Well, Uncle Porges told me that nobody can live happy--ever after,
unless they're married--first. So that was why I 'ranged for him to
marry you, so you could _both_ be happy, an' all revelry an' joy,--like
the fairy tale, you know."
"But, you see, we aren't in a fairy tale, dear, so I'm afraid we must
make the best of things as they are!" and here she sighed again, and
rose. "Come, Georgy, it's much later than I thought, and quite time you
were in bed, dear."
"All right, Auntie Anthea,--only--don't you think it's jest a bit--cruel
to send a boy to bed so very early, an' when the moon's so big, an'
everything looks so--frightfully fine? 'sides--"
"Well, what now?" she asked, a little wearily as, obedient to his
pleading gesture, she sat down again.
"Why, you haven't answered my question yet, you know."
"What question?" said she, not looking at him.
"'Bout my--Uncle Porges."
"But Georgy--I--"
"You do like him--jest a bit--don't you?--please?" Small Porges was
standing before her as he waited for her answer, but now, seeing how she
hesitated, and avoided his eyes, he put one small hand beneath the
dimple in her chin, so that she was forced to look at him.
"You do, please,--don't you?" he pleaded.
Anthea hesitated; but, after all,--_He_ was gone, and nobody could hear;
and Small Porges was so very small; and who could resist the entreaty in
his big, wistful eyes? surely not Anthea. Therefore, with a sudden
gesture of abandonment, she leaned forward in his embrace, and rested
her weary head against his manly, small shoulder:
"Yes!" she whispered.
"Jest as much as you like--Mr. Cassilis?" he whispered back.
"Yes!"
"A--bit more--jest a teeny bit more?"
"Yes!"
"A--lot more,--lots an' lots,--oceans more?"
"Yes!"
The word was spoken, and, having uttered it, Anthea grew suddenly hot
with shame, and mightily angry with herself, and would, straightway,
have given the world to have it unsaid; the more so, as she felt Small
Porges' clasp tighten joyfully, and, looking up, fancied she read
something like triumph in his look.
She drew away from him, rather hastily, and rose to her feet.
"Come!" said she, speaking now in a vastly different tone, "it must be
getting very late--"
"Yes, I s'pecks it'll soon be nine o'clock, now!" he nodded.
"Then you ought to be in bed, fast asleep instead of talking
such--nonsense, out here. So--come along--at once, sir!"
"But, can't I stay up--jest a little while? You see--"
"No!"
"You see, it's such a--magnif'cent night! It feels as though--things
might happen!"
"Don't be so silly!"
"Well, but it does, you know."
"What do you mean--what things?"
"Well, it feels--gnomy, to me. I s'pecks there's lots of elves
about--hidden in the shadows, you know, an' peeping at us."
"There aren't any elves,--or gnomes," said Anthea petulantly, for she
was still furiously angry with herself.
"But my Uncle Porges told me--"
"Oh!" cried Anthea, stamping her foot suddenly, "can't you talk of
anyone, or anything but--him? I'm tired to death of him and his
very name!"
"But I thought you liked him--an awful lot, an'--"
"Well, I don't!"
"But, you said--"
"Never mind what I said! It's time you were in bed asleep,--so come
along--at once, sir!"
So they went on through the orchard together, very silently, for Small
Porges was inclined to be indignant, but much more inclined to be hurt.
Thus, they had not gone so very far, when he spoke, in a voice that he
would have described as--quivery.
"Don't you think that you're--just the teeniest bit--cruel to me, Auntie
Anthea?" he enquired wistfully, "after I prayed an' prayed till I found
a fortune for you!--don't you, please?" Surely Anthea was a creature of
moods, to-night, for, even while he spoke, she stopped, and turned, and
fell on her knees, and caught him in her arms, kissing him many times:
"Yes,--yes, dear, I'm hateful to you,--horrid to you! But I don't mean
to be. There!--forgive me!"
"Oh!--it's all right again, now, Auntie Anthea, thank you. I only
thought you were jest a bit--hard, 'cause it is such a--magnif'cent
night, isn't it?"
"Yes dear; and perhaps there are gnomes, and pixies about. Anyhow, we
can pretend there are, if you like, as we used to--"
"Oh will you? that would be fine! Then, please, may I go with you--as
far as the brook? We'll wander, you know,--I've never wandered with you
in the moonlight,--an' I do love to hear the brook talking to
itself,--so--will you wander--jest this once?"
"Well," said Anthea, hesitating, "it's very late!--"
"Nearly nine o 'clock, yes! But Oh!--please don't forget that I found a
fortune for you--"
"Very well," she smiled, "just this once."
Now as they went together, hand in hand through the moonlight, Small
Porges talked very fast, and very much at random, while his eyes,
bright, and eager, glanced expectantly towards every patch of
shadow,--doubtless in search of gnomes, and pixies.
But Anthea saw nothing of this, heard nothing of the suppressed
excitement in his voice, for she was thinking that by now, Mr. Cassilis
had read her letter,--that he might, even then, be on his way to
Dapplemere. She even fancied, once or twice, that she could hear the
gallop of his horse's hoofs. And, when he came, he would want
to--kiss her!
"Why do you shiver so, Auntie Anthea, are you cold?"
"No, dear."
"Well, then, why are you so quiet to me,--I've asked you a
question--three times."
"Have you dear? I--I was thinking; what was the question?"
"I was asking you if you would be awful frightened s'posing we did find
a pixie--or a gnome, in the shadows; an' would you be so very awfully
frightened if a gnome--a great, big one, you know,--came jumping out
an'--ran off with you,--should you?"
"No!" said Anthea, with another shiver, "No, dear,--I think I should
be--rather glad of it!"
"Should you, Auntie? I'm--so awful glad you wouldn't be frightened. A
course, I don't s'pose there are gnomes--I mean great, big
ones,--really, you know,--but there might be, on a magnif'cent night,
like this. If you shiver again Auntie you'll have to take my coat!"
"I thought I heard a horse galloping--hush!"
They had reached the stile, by now, the stile with the crooked, lurking
nail, and she leaned there, a while, to listen. "I'm sure I heard
something,--away there--on the road!"
"I don't!" said Small Porges, stoutly,--"so take my hand, please, an'
let me 'sist you over the stile."
So they crossed the stile, and, presently, came to the brook that was
the most impertinent brook in the world. And here, upon the little
rustic bridge, they stopped to look down at the sparkle of the water,
and to listen to its merry voice.
Yes, indeed to-night it was as impertinent as ever, laughing, and
chuckling to itself among the hollows, and whispering scandalously in
the shadows. It seemed to Anthea that it was laughing at her,--mocking,
and taunting her with--the future. And now, amid the laughter, were
sobs, and tearful murmurs, and now, again, it seemed to be the prophetic
voice of old Nannie:
"'By force ye shall be wooed and by force ye shall be wed, and there is
no man strong enough to do it, but him as bears the Tiger Mark
upon him!'"
The "Tiger Mark!" Alas! how very far from the truth were poor, old
Nannie's dreams, after all, the dreams which Anthea had very nearly
believed in--once or twice. How foolish it had all been! And yet
even now--
Anthea had been leaning over the gurgling waters while all this passed
through her mind, but now,--she started at the sound of a heavy
foot-fall on the planking of the bridge, behind her, and--in that same
instant, she was encircled by a powerful arm, caught up in a strong
embrace,--swung from her feet, and borne away through the shadows of the
little copse.
It was very dark in the wood, but she knew, instinctively, whose arms
these were that held her so close, and carried her so easily--away
through the shadows of the wood,--away from the haunting, hopeless dread
of the future from which there had seemed no chance, or hope of escape.
And, knowing all this, she made no struggle, and uttered no word. And
now the trees thinned out, and, from under her lashes she saw the face
above her; the thick, black brows drawn together,--the close set of the
lips,--the grim prominence of the strong, square chin.
And now, they were in the road; and now he had lifted her into an
automobile, had sprung in beside her, and--they were off, gliding swift,
and ever swifter, under the shadows of the trees.
And still neither spoke, nor looked at each other; only she leaned away
from him, against the cushions, while he kept his frowning eyes fixed
upon the road a-head; and ever the great car flew onward faster, and
faster; yet not so fast as the beating of her heart, wherein shame, and
anger, and fear, and--another feeling strove and fought for mastery.
But at last, finding him so silent, and impassive, she must needs steal
a look at him, beneath her lashes.
He wore no hat, and as she looked upon him,--with his yellow hair, his
length of limb, and his massive shoulders, he might have been some
fierce Viking, and she, his captive, taken by strength of arm--borne
away by force.--By force!
And, hereupon, as the car hummed over the smooth road, it seemed to find
a voice,--a subtle, mocking voice, very like the voice of the
brook,--that murmured to her over and over again:
"By force ye shall be wooed, and by force ye shall be wed."
The very trees whispered it as they passed, and her heart throbbed in
time to it:
"By force ye shall be wooed, and by force ye shall be wed!" So, she
leaned as far from him as she might, watching him with frightened eyes
while he frowned ever upon the road in front, and the car rocked, and
swayed with their going, as they whirled onward through moonlight and
through shadow, faster, and faster,--yet not so fast as the beating of
her heart wherein was fear, and shame, and anger, and--another feeling,
but greatest of all now, was fear. Could this be the placid, soft-spoken
gentleman she had known,--this man, with the implacable eyes, and the
brutal jaw, who neither spoke to, nor looked at her, but frowned always
at the road in front.
And so, the fear grew and grew within her,--fear of the man whom she
knew,--and knew not at all. She clasped her hands nervously together,
watching him with dilating eyes as the car slowed down,--for the road
made a sudden turn, hereabouts.
And still he neither looked at, nor spoke to her; and therefore, because
she could bear the silence no longer, she spoke--in a voice that sounded
strangely faint, and far-away, and that shook and trembled in spite
of her.
"Where are you--taking me?"
"To be married!" he answered, never looking at her.
"You--wouldn't--dare!"
"Wait and see!" he nodded.
"Oh!--but what do--you mean?" The fear in her voice was more manifest
than ever.
"I mean that you are mine,--you always were, you always must and shall
be. So, I'm going to marry you--in about half-an-hour, by
special license."
Still he did not even glance towards her, and she looked away over the
country side all lonely and desolate under the moon.
"I want you, you see," he went on, "I want you more than I ever wanted
anything in this world. I need you, because without you my life will be
utterly purposeless, and empty. So I have taken you--because you are
mine, I know it,--Ah yes! and, deep down in your woman's heart, you know
it too. And so, I am going to marry you,--yes I am, unless--" and here,
he brought the car to a standstill, and turning, looked at her for the
first time.
And now, before the look in his eyes, her own wavered, and fell, lest he
should read within them that which she would fain hide from him,--and
which she knew they must reveal,--that which was neither shame, nor
anger, nor fear, but the other feeling for which she dared find no name.
And thus, for a long moment, there was silence.
At last she spoke, though with her eyes still hidden:
"Unless!" she repeated breathlessly.
"Anthea,--look at me!"
But Anthea only drooped her head the lower; wherefore, he leaned
forward, and--even as Small Porges had done,--set his hand beneath the
dimple in her chin, and lifted the proud, un-willing face:
"Anthea,--look at me!"
And now, what could Anthea do but obey?
"Unless," said he, as her glance, at last, met his, "unless you can tell
me--now, as your eyes look into mine,--that you love Cassilis. Tell me
that, and I will take you back, this very instant; and never trouble you
again. But, unless you do tell me that, why then--your Pride shall not
blast two lives, if I can help it. Now speak!"
But Anthea was silent, also, she would have turned aside from his
searching look, but that his arms were about her, strong, and
compelling. So, needs must she suffer him to look down into her very
heart, for it seemed to her that, in that moment, he had rent away every
stitch, and shred of Pride's enfolding mantle, and that he saw the
truth, at last.
But, if he had, he gave no sign, only he turned and set the car humming
upon its way, once more.
On they went through the midsummer night, up hill and down hill, by
cross-road and bye-lane, until, as they climbed a long ascent, they
beheld a tall figure standing upon the top of the hill, in the attitude
of one who waits; and who, spying them, immediately raised a very stiff
left arm, whereupon this figure was joined by another. Now as the car
drew nearer, Anthea, with a thrill of pleasure, recognized the Sergeant
standing very much as though he were on parade, and with honest-faced
Peterday beside him, who stumped joyfully forward, and,--with a bob of
his head, and a scrape of his wooden leg,--held out his hand to her.
Like one in a dream she took the sailor's hand to step from the car, and
like one in a dream, she walked on between the soldier and the sailor,
who now reached out to her, each, a hand equally big and equally gentle,
to aid her up certain crumbling, and time-worn steps. On they went
together until they were come to a place of whispering echoes, where
lights burned, few, and dim.
And here, still as one in a dream, she spoke those words which gave her
life, henceforth, into the keeping of him who stood beside her,--whose
strong hand trembled as he set upon her finger, that which is an emblem
of eternity.
Like one in a dream, she took the pen, and signed her name, obediently,
where they directed. And yet,--could this really be herself,--this
silent, submissive creature?
And now, they were out upon the moon-lit road again, seated in the car,
while Peterday, his hat in his hand, was speaking to her. And yet,--was
it to her?
"Mrs. Belloo, mam," he was saying, "on this here monumentous occasion--"
"Monumentous is the only word for it, Peterday!" nodded the Sergeant.
"On this here monumentous occasion, Mrs. Belloo," the sailor proceeded,
"my shipmate, Dick, and me, mam,--respectfully beg the favour of
saluting the bride;--Mrs. Belloo, by your leave--here's health, and
happiness, mam!" And, hereupon, the old sailor kissed her, right
heartily. Which done, he made way for the Sergeant who, after a moment's
hesitation, followed suit.
"A fair wind, and prosperous!" cried Peterday, flourishing his hat.
"And God--bless you--both!" said the Sergeant as the car shot away.
So, it was done!--the irrevocable step was taken! Her life and future
had passed for ever into the keeping of him who sat so silent beside
her, who neither spoke, nor looked at her, but frowned ever at the road
before him.
On sped the car, faster, and faster,--yet not so fast as the beating of
her heart wherein there was yet something of fear, and shame,--but
greatest of all was that other emotion, and the name of it was--Joy.
Now, presently, the car slowed down, and he spoke to her, though without
turning his head. And yet, something in his voice thrilled through her
strangely.
"Look Anthea,--the moon is at the full, to-night."
"Yes!" she answered.
"And Happiness shall come riding astride the full moon!" he quoted. "Old
Nannie is rather a wonderful old witch, after all, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"And then there is--our nephew,--my dear, little Porges! But for him,
Happiness would have been a stranger to me all my days, Anthea. He
dreamed that the Money Moon spoke to him, and--but he shall tell you of
that, for himself."
But Anthea noticed that he spoke without once looking at her; indeed it
seemed that he avoided glancing towards her, of set design, and purpose;
and his deep voice quivered, now and then, in a way she had never heard
before. Therefore, her heart throbbed the faster, and she kept her gaze
bent downward, and thus, chancing to see the shimmer of that which was
upon her finger, she blushed, and hid it in a fold of her gown.
"Anthea."
"Yes?"
"You have no regrets,--have you?"
"No," she whispered.
"We shall soon be--home, now!"
"Yes."
"And are you--mine--for ever, and always? Anthea, you--aren't--afraid of
me any more, are you?"
"No."
"Nor ever will be?"
"Nor--ever will be."
Now as the car swept round a bend, behold yet two other figures standing
beside the way.
"Yo ho, Captain!" cried a voice, "Oh--please heave to, Uncle Porges!"
And, forth to meet them, came Small Porges, running. Yet remembering
Miss Priscilla, tapping along behind him, he must needs turn back,--to
give her his hand like the kindly, small gentleman that he was.
And now--Miss Priscilla had Anthea in her arms, and they were kissing
each other, and murmuring over each other, as loving women will, while
Small Porges stared at the car, and all things pertaining thereto, more
especially, the glaring head-lights, with great wondering eyes.
At length, having seen Anthea, and Miss Priscilla safely stowed, he
clambered up beside Bellew, and gave him the word to proceed. What pen
could describe his ecstatic delight as he sat there, with one hand
hooked into the pocket of Uncle Porges' coat, and with the cool night
wind whistling through his curls. So great was it, indeed, that Bellew
was constrained to turn aside, and make a wide detour, purely for the
sake of the radiant joy in Small Porges' eager face.
When, at last, they came within sight of Dapplemere, and the great
machine crept up the rutted, grassy lane, Small Porges sighed,
and spoke:
"Auntie Anthea," said he, "are you sure that you are married--nice
an'--tight, you know?"
"Yes, dear," she answered, "why--yes, Georgy."
"But you don't look a bit diff'rent, you know,--either of you. Are you
quite--sure? 'cause I shouldn't like you to disappoint me,--after all."
"Never fear, my Porges," said Bellew, "I made quite sure of it while I
had the chance,--look!" As he spoke, he took Anthea's left hand,
drawing it out into the moonlight, so that Small Porges could see the
shining ring upon her finger.
"Oh!" said he, nodding his head, "then that makes it all right I s'pose.
An' you aren't angry with me 'cause I let a great, big gnome come an'
carry you off, are you, Auntie Anthea?"
"No, dear."
"Why then, everything's quite--magnif'cent, isn't it? An' now we're
going to live happy ever after, all of us, an' Uncle Porges is going to
take us to sail the oceans in his ship,--he's got a ship that all
belongs to his very own self, you know, Auntie Anthea,--so all will be
revelry an' joy--just like the fairy tale, after all."
And so, at last, they came to the door of the ancient House of
Dapplemere. Whereupon, very suddenly, Adam appeared, bare-armed from the
stables, who, looking from Bellew's radiant face to Miss Anthea's shy
eyes, threw back his head, vented his great laugh, and was immediately
solemn again.
"Miss Anthea," said he, wringing and twisting at his hat, "or--I think I
should say,--Mrs. Belloo mam,--there ain't no word for it! least-ways
not as I know on, nohow. No words be strong enough to tell the
J-O-Y--j'y, mam, as fills us--one an' all." Here, he waved his hand to
where stood the comely Prudence with the two rosy-cheeked maids peeping
over her buxom shoulders.
"Only," pursued Adam, "I be glad--ah! mortal glad, I be,--as 'tis you,
Mr. Belloo sir. There ain't a man in all the world,--or--as you might
say,--uni-verse, as is so proper as you to be the husband to our Miss
Anthea--as was,--not nohow, Mr. Belloo sir. I wish you j'y, a j'y as
shall grow wi' the years, an' abide wi' you always,--both on ye."
"That is a very excellent thought Adam!" said Bellew, "and I think I
should like to shake hands on it." Which they did, forthwith.
"An' now, Mrs. Belloo mam," Adam concluded, "wi' your kind permission,
I'll step into the kitchen, an' drink a glass o' Prue's ale--to your
'ealth, and 'appiness. If I stay here any longer I won't say but what I
shall burst out a-singing in your very face, mam, for I do be that
'appy-'earted,--Lord!"
With which exclamation, Adam laughed again, and turning about, strode
away to the kitchen with Prudence and the rosy-cheeked maids, laughing
as he went.
"Oh my dears!" said little Miss Priscilla, "I've hoped for this,--prayed
for it,--because I believe he is--worthy of you, Anthea, and because you
have both loved each other, from the very beginning; oh dear me; yes you
have! And so, my dears,--your happiness is my happiness and--Oh,
goodness me! here I stand talking sentimental nonsense while our Small
Porges is simply dropping asleep as he stands."
"'Fraid I am a bit tired," Small Porges admitted, "but it's been a
magnif'cent night. An' I think, Uncle Porges, when we sail away in your
ship, I think, I'd like to sail round the Horn first 'cause they say
it's always blowing, you know, and I should love to hear it blow. An'
now--Good-night!"
"Wait a minute, my Porges, just tell us what it was the Money Moon said
to you, last night, will you?"
"Well," said Small Porges, shaking his head, and smiling, a slow, sly
smile, "I don't s'pose we'd better talk about it, Uncle Porges, 'cause,
you see, it was such a very great secret; an 'sides,--I'm awful sleepy,
you know!" So saying, he nodded slumberously, kissed Anthea sleepily,
and, giving Miss Priscilla his hand, went drowsily into the house.
But, as for Bellew it seemed to him that this was the hour for which he
had lived all his life, and, though he spoke nothing of this thought,
yet Anthea knew it, instinctively,--as she knew why he had avoided
looking at her hitherto, and what had caused the tremor in his voice,
despite his iron self-control; and, therefore, now that they were alone,
she spoke hurriedly, and at random:
"What--did he--Georgy mean by--your ship?"
"Why, I promised to take him a cruise in the yacht--if you cared to
come, Anthea."
"Yacht!" she repeated, "are you so dreadfully rich?"
"I'm afraid we are," he nodded, "but, at least, it has the advantage of
being better than if we were--dreadfully poor, hasn't it?"
Now, in the midst of the garden there was an old sun-dial worn by time,
and weather, and it chanced that they came, and leaned there, side by
side. And, looking down upon the dial, Bellew saw certain characters
graven thereon in the form of a poesy.
"What does it say, here, Anthea?" he asked. But Anthea shook her head:
"That, you must read for yourself!" she said, not looking at him.
So, he took her hand in his, and, with her slender finger, spelled out
this motto.
Time, and youthe do flee awaie, Love, Oh! Love then, whiles ye may.
"Anthea!" said he, and again she heard the tremor in his voice, "you
have been my wife nearly three quarters of an hour, and all that time I
haven't dared to look at you, because if I had, I must have--kissed you,
and I meant to wait--until your own good time. But Anthea, you have
never yet told me that you--love me--Anthea?"
She did not speak, or move, indeed, she was so very still that he needs
must bend down to see her face. Then, all at once, her lashes were
lifted, her eyes looked up into his--deep and dark with passionate
tenderness.
"Aunt Priscilla--was quite--right," she said, speaking in her low,
thrilling voice, "I have loved you--from the--very beginning, I think!"
And, with a soft, murmurous sigh, she gave herself into his embrace.
Now, far away across the meadow, Adam was plodding his homeward way,
and, as he trudged, he sang to himself in a harsh, but not unmusical
voice, and the words of his song were these:
"When I am dead, diddle diddle, as well may hap
You'll bury me, diddle diddle, under the tap,
Under the tap, diddle diddle, I'll tell you why,
That I may drink, diddle diddle, when I am dry."
THE END