'Tis time, though, that we went back to Merry-Garden.
The rising tide--and I ought to have told you that the tides that day were
close upon the top of the springs, with high-water at five o'clock or
thereabouts--the rising tide had barely carried Mr. Jope and his party
from Nandy's sight, round the bend, before another boatload of
pleasure-seekers hove in sight at the mouth of the creek. They were
twelve in all, and the boat a twenty-foot galley belonging to one of the
war-ships in the Hamoaze. She had been borrowed for the afternoon by the
ship's second lieutenant, a Mr. Hardcastle, and with him he had brought
the third lieutenant, besides a score of young officers belonging to the
garrison--a captain and two cornets of the 4th Dragoons, a couple of
gunners--officers, that is, of the Artillery--an elderly major and an
ensign of the Marines, and the rest belonging to the Thirty-second
Regiment of Foot (one of 'em, if I recollect, the Doctor). The last of
the party was a slip of an officer of the French Navy--Raynold by name--
that had been taken prisoner by Mr. Hardcastle's ship, and bore no malice
for it: a cheerful, good-natured lad, and (now that he hadn't an excuse
for fighting 'em) as merry with these young Britons as they were glad to
have him of their party.
Nandy, of course, knew no more about them than what his eyes told him,
that they were a party of officers from Plymouth come to enjoy themselves
at Merry-Garden. But the sight of them as they brought their boat to the
quay and landed--the first customers of the afternoon--put him in mind
that the time was drawing near for Miss Sophia to arrive with her
class-mates, and that Dr. Clatworthy would soon be turning up to squire
them around the orchard and entertain them at tea. He wickedly hoped that
the doctor hadn't left home before Mr. Jope reached Hi-jeen Villa.
But the thought of Mr. Jope reminded him of what Mr. Jope had said
concerning his pimples; and this again reminded him of what his beloved
Miss Sophia had said on the same subject. He had promised her to continue
taking mud-baths on his own account, even after he had cut his lucky (as
he put it) from Hi-jeen Villa. . . . To be sure, one bath wouldn't produce
any immediate result. _That_ wasn't to be expected. But it would be a
guarantee of good faith, as they say in the newspapers: and though he
hadn't time to dig a pit after the fashion of the baths in the doctor's
garden, still there was plenty of mud along the lower foreshore to give
him a nice soft roll; and a plenty of water for a swim, to wash himself
clean: and lastly (as he reckoned, having no watch) a plenty of time to do
this and be dressed again before the dear creature arrived. So Nandy,
with a stomach full of virtue, turned his back on the quay and started to
walk down the creek along the foreshore, to a corner where he might reckon
on being free from observation.
Meantime the young officers, that had landed and strolled up to the
cottage, were being received by Susannah, and in a twitter, poor soul!
"Her mistress was out--called away upon sudden business. Still, if they
would take the ups with the downs, she would do her best to have tea ready
in half an hour's time: and meanwhile they might roam the orchards and eat
as many cherries as they had a mind to, and all for sixpence a head.
Thirteen sixpences came--yes, surely--to six-and-sixpence. She would
rather they paid when Aunt Barbree returned. Or, if they preferred it,
there was a skittle-alley at the end of the garden, with a small
bowling-green . . ."
They preferred the bowling-green. Susannah conducted them to it, unlocked
the box of bowls, and was returning to the house in a fluster, when, in
the verandah before the front door, she came plump upon a bevy of young
ladies, all as pretty as you please in muslin frocks and great summer hats
to shield their complexions: whereof one, a little older than the rest
(but pretty, notwithstanding), stepped forward and inquired, in a
foreign-speaking voice, for Dr. Clatworthy.
"But he is in retard then!" this lady cried, when Susannah answered that,
although she knew Dr. Clatworthy well, not a fur or feather of him had she
seen that day (which was her way of putting it). "Ah, but how vexing!
And Miss St. Maur was positive he would be beforehand!"
"Lor' bless you, my pretty!" said Susannah, "If the doctor promised to be
here, you may be sure he will be here."
She went on to explain, as she had explained to the officers, that she was
alone on the premises--her mistress had been called away upon sudden
business--but if they would take the ups with the downs. . . . Then, her
curiosity overcoming her--for, of course, she had heard gossip of the
doctor's intentions--"And which of you," she asked, "is he going to marry,
making so bold?"
"If Dr. Clatworthy is so ungallant--" began Miss Sophia, jabbing with the
point of her parasol at a crevice in the flagstones of the verandah.
"Fie, dear!" cried Ma'amselle Julie, interrupting.
"Well, at any rate, the mazzards are ripe," said Miss Sophia, "and I see
no fun in waiting."
"So _that's_ the maid," said Susannah to herself, and pitied her--having
herself no great admiration for Dr. Clatworthy, in spite of his riches:
but she assured them that the doctor--the most punctual of men--would
certainly arrive within a few minutes. And the mazzards were crying out
to be eaten. If the young ladies would make free of the orchards while
she fit and boiled the kettle . . .
"The fun of it is," said Miss Sophia to Ma'amselle Julie ten minutes
later, as they were staining their pretty lips with the juice of the black
mazzards, "that if Dr. Clatworthy doesn't appear--"
"But he will, dear."
"The fun of it is that we haven't, I believe, eighteenpence between us
all."
"Miss St. Maur was positive that he would be punctual," said Ma'amselle
Julie.
"But he isn't, you see: and--oh, my dear, is it so wicked?--you can't
think how I wish he would never come--never, never, never!"
"Sophia!"
"Even," went on Miss Sophia, nodding her head, "if I've eaten all these
cherries under false pretences, and have to go to prison for it!"
Well, somehow, in all this the young ladies had been drawing nearer and
nearer to the bowling-green, where the young officers were skylarking and
trundling the bowls at the fat major at three shots a penny, and the pool
going to the player who caught him on the ankles. When they were tired of
this they came strolling forth in a body, the most of them with arms
linked, just as Susannah appeared at the end of the path carrying a tray
piled with tea-things.
"Hallo! Petticoats, begad!" said the youngest ensign among them; and
Ma'amselle Julie, linking an arm in Miss Sophia's, was turning away with a
proper show of ignorance that any such thing as a party of young men
existed in the world, when a voice cried out--
"Julie!"
"Eh?" the lady turned, all white in the face. "Eh? What--Edoo-ard?
My cousin Edoo-ard?"
"Dear Julie!" It was the young French officer, and he ran and caught her
by both hands and kissed them. "To think of meeting you, here in England!
But let me introduce my friends--my friends the enemy." And here he
rattled off their names in a hurry.
"Really, one would suppose that Dr. Clatworthy was lost!" said Miss Sophia
with a cold-seeming bow and a glance along the path.
"You have ordered tea here?" asked the young naval lieutenant,
Mr. Hardcastle.
"There _was_ to have been tea."
"I do hope, miss," said he, "that we are not ousting you from your table?"
"To tell the truth," said Miss Sophia, "I know nothing about the
arrangements. A gentleman was to have been here to receive us--indeed we
have come at his invitation; but he is in no hurry, it seems."
"Indeed, miss," put in Susannah, "and I'm sure I don't know what to do!
The gentlemen, here, have engaged the big summer-house, which holds forty
at a pinch, and there's no other place that'll seat more than half a
dozen. Of course," said she, "the two parties could sit at the long
table, one at each end--"
But here young Mr. Hardcastle, after a glance at Miss Julie and her young
Frenchman--that were already deep in talk together--cut Susannah short
with a sly wink. He was a lad of great presence of mind, and rose in
later life to be an Admiral.
"Ladies," said he, "I feel sure that if we leave the arrangements entirely
to this good woman, your worthy squire--whenever he chooses to put in an
appearance--will find nothing to complain of."
Well, well . . . I can't tell you just how it happened: but happen it did,
and I daresay you've seen enough of the ways of young folk to understand
it. While Susannah bustled back to the house to fetch the relays, the two
parties fell to talking of the weather and the pretty flowers, and from
that to strolling little by little along the pathway; in a body at first;
but afterwards, as one young lady stopped to smell at a carnation, and
another to admire the splashes of colour on Aunt Barbree's York and
Lancaster roses, the company got separated into twos and fours, and the
fours broke up into twos, and the distance between pair and pair kept
getting wider and wider. Ma'amselle Julie ought to have hindered it,
overcome though she was with joy at meeting her kinsman. But she wasn't
to blame for what followed, and for my part I've a kind of notion that Mr.
Hardcastle must have found an opportunity and slipped half a crown into
Susannah's hand. . . . At any rate when Susannah rang a bell along the
lower path to announce that tea was ready, they came strolling back (and
from the variousest corners of the garden) to find that the silly woman
had gone and laid the tables, not in the big summer-house at all, but all
along in a line of little arbours.
Then, Of course, began the prettiest confusion, Ma'amselle Julie
protesting that she couldn't think of allowing such a thing, and Mr.
Hardcastle pointing out what a shame it would be to overwork poor Susannah
by making her lay the tables over again; and the young ladies in a flutter
between laughing and making believe to be angry, and one or two couples
agreeing that the dispute was all about nothing, and that they might as
well find a quiet arbour and wait till it was over.
Yes, yes . . . you understand? . . . And in the midst of it all, and just
as Mr. Hardcastle had carried his point and Ma'amselle Julie gave way,
declaring that never in this world would she be able to look Miss St. Maur
in the face again, who should come hurrying past the verandah but Dr.
Clatworthy himself!
In the babel of talking and laughing no one had heard his footstep; and he
came to a halt by a laylock-bush at the end of the verandah and stood
staring: and while he stared his face went red, and then white, and he
reeled back behind the bush and put both hands to his head.
What had he seen? His bride--his chosen Sophia--disappearing into an
arbour with a young man! And her youthful companions--pupils of an
establishment he had chosen with such care--making merry with a group of
uniformed officers--of soldiers--well known to be the most profligate of
men!
Oh, monstrous!
But what was to be done? Could he stalk into the midst of the party and
raise a scene? The young men might laugh at him. . . . Even supposing he
put them to rout, what next was he to do? He would find himself with
those abandoned girls left on his hands. A pleasant tea-party, that!
And Miss St. Maur might not be arriving for another hour. Could he spend
all that time in lecturing them? Could he even trust himself to speak to
Sophia? Dr. Clatworthy, still with his hands to his head, staggered down
the steps and forth from the garden.
He had done with Sophia for ever! His first demand of a woman worthy to
be his wife was that she should never have looked upon another man to make
eyes at him, and he had distinctly seen (Oh, monstrous, monstrous, to be
sure!). . . . He would go straight home and write Miss St. Maur a letter
the like of which that lady had never received in her life.
With these terrible thoughts working in his head, the poor man had crossed
a couple of fields on his way home when he looked up and saw Miss St. Maur
herself coming towards him along the footpath over the knap of the hill.
"Dr. Clatworthy!" cried Miss St. Maur.
"Ma'am," said Dr. Clatworthy.
"Why--why, wherever have you left dear Sophia and the rest of my charges?"
"At Merry-Garden, ma'am--and in various summer-houses, ma'am--and making
free, ma'am, with a vicious soldiery!"
"But it is impossible!" cried Miss St. Maur when he had told his tale of
horror. "I refuse to believe it. Indeed, sir, I can only think you have
taken leave of your senses!"
"Come and see for yourself, ma'am," said the doctor, cold as ice to look
at, but with an inside like a furnace.
He was forced almost to a run to keep pace with Miss St. Maur: but at the
steps leading up to the garden he made her promise him to go quiet, and
the pair tiptoed up and through the verandah and peered around the
laylock-bush.
"There!" cried Miss St. Maur, turning to him and pointing up the path with
her parasol.
To and fro along the path a party of young ladies was strolling
disconsolate. They walked in pairs, to be sure: and the hum of their
voices reached to the laylock-bush as they bent and discussed the flowers
in Aunt Barbree's border. Not a uniform, not a man, was in sight.
"There!" said Miss St. Maur. "There, sir! What did I tell you?"