"Peter!" he cried, scandalised
*CHAPTER I*
*CONCERNING THE WALK IN GENERAL*
[Illustration: Chapter I headpiece]
It lies out Chiswick way, not far from Horace Walpole's house where
later Miss Pinkerton conducted her Academy for Young Ladies. It is
still there, although it was actually built in 1710; but London has
gradually stretched its tentacles towards it, and they will soon absorb
it. Where Marjolaine and Jack made love, there will be a row of blatant
shops, and Sir Peter's house will be replaced by a flaring gin-palace.
It has fallen from its high estate nowadays; and Mrs. Poskett's prophecy
has come true: one of its dainty houses--I think it is the one in which
the Misses Pennymint lived--is now indeed occupied by a person who earns
a precarious living with a mangle.
Even in the days I am writing about, it was old--ninety-five years
old--and had seen many ups and downs; for I am writing of events that
took place in 1805: the year of Trafalgar; the year of Nelson's death.
At that time it was a charming, quaint little crescent of six very small
red-brick houses, close to the Thames, facing due south, and with a
beautiful view across the river.
Why it was called Pomander Walk is more than I can tell you. There is a
tradition that the builder had inherited a beautiful gold pomander of
Venetian filigree and that the word struck him as being pretty and
having an old-world flavour about it. It certainly conferred a sort of
quiet dignity on the crescent; almost too much dignity, indeed, at
first, for it seemed to make the letting of the houses difficult.
Common people fought shy of it, because of the name, yet the houses were
so small that wealthy folk--the Quality--wouldn't look at them.
Ultimately, however, they were occupied by gentlefolk in reduced
circumstances; people who had an eye for the picturesque, people who
sought retirement; and the owner was happy.
In 1805 it had grown mellow with age. The red bricks of which it was
built had lost the crudeness of their original colour and had acquired a
delicious tone restful to the eye. Pomander Walk was, in fact, one of
the prettiest nooks near London. It stood--and stands--on a little plot
of ground projecting into the river. At the upper end it was cut off
from the rest of the parish of Chiswick by Pomander Creek, which ran a
long way inland and formed a sort of refuge for lazy barges, one of
which was generally lying there with its great brown sail hanging loose
to dry. Chiswick Parish Church was only a little way across the creek,
but in order to get to it you had to walk very nearly a mile to the
first bridge, and I am afraid Sir Peter Antrobus too often made that an
excuse for not attending more than two services on a Sunday.
The little houses were built in the sober and staid style introduced
during the reign of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Anne (now deceased). The
architect had taken a slily humorous delight in making them miniature
copies of much more pretentious town mansions. Each little house had
its elaborate door with a shell-shaped lintel; each had its miniature
front-garden, divided from the road-way by elaborate iron railings; and
each had an ornate iron gate with link-extinguisher complete. You might
have thought the houses were meant to be inhabited by very small Dukes,
so stately were they in their tiny way. The ground-floor sitting-rooms
all had bow-windows, and in each bow-window the occupants displayed
their dearest treasures, generally under a glass globe. A glance at
these would almost have been enough to tell you what manner of people
their owners were. In the first, at the top corner of the crescent,
stood the model of a man-of-war. The second displayed a silver cup with
the arms of the City of London carefully turned outward for the
passer-by to admire respectfully; the third showed a stuffed canary; the
fourth was empty--I will tell you why later; the fifth presented a
pinchbeck snuff-box, and in the sixth there was an untidy pile of old
books.
In front of the crescent lay a delightful lawn, always admirably kept.
Jim, Sir Peter Antrobus's man, mowed it regularly every Saturday
afternoon. This lawn was protected on the river-side by a chain hanging
from white posts. You never saw posts so white as those were, for every
Saturday evening Jim--a very active old sailor in spite of his stiff
leg--gave them a fresh coat of paint; he even went so far as to paint
the chain as well.
[Illustration: JIM,--A VERY ACTIVE OLD SAILOR IN SPITE OF HIS STIFF LEG]
In the lower corner of the lawn, and facing the bend of the river, stood
what the inhabitants of the Walk called the Gazebo, a little shelter
formed by a well-trimmed boxwood hedge, in which was a rustic seat. Sir
Peter Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn would sit there on warm summer
evenings and discuss the news of the day--or, let me rather say--the
news of the day before yesterday; for the only journal they saw was a
three days old "Globe" which Sir Peter's cousin sent him when he had
done with it, and when he thought of it.
The great charm of the Gazebo was that it was sufficiently removed from
the houses to ensure strict privacy: the ladies of the Walk, who shared
fully in their sex's attribute of curiosity, could neither see nor hear
what went on in its seclusion, and Sir Peter, who thought he was a
woman-hater, was all the more fond of it on that account. In his own
house he really could not talk at his ease, for his voice had, by long
struggles against gales, acquired a tremendous carrying power; the
party-wall was very thin, and his next-door neighbour, Mrs. Poskett,
was--or, at least, so he imagined--always listening.
But the pride of the Walk was a great elm-tree standing in the centre of
the lawn, and shading it delightfully. A very ancient tree, much older
than the Walk: indeed, the crescent had, in a manner of speaking, been
built round it. At its base Jim--there was really no limit to the
things Jim could do--had built a comfortable seat which encircled its
trunk, and this seat was the special prerogative of the ladies of the
Walk when it was not occupied by Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's numerous progeny.
I think I have told you all that is necessary about the external
features of the Walk. You must see it with sympathetic eyes, if you are
not to laugh at it: a little crescent of six very small old red-brick
houses; in front of them, six tiny gardens full at all seasons of the
year of bright old-fashioned flowers; then the highly ornamental
railings and stately gates; then a red-brick pavement, or side-walk;
then a broad path; and then the lawn, the elm-tree, and the Gazebo.
Beyond this, the Thames, bearing great brown barges up to Richmond or
down to Chelsea, according to the state of the tide; and the Parish
Church of Chiswick, half buried in the foliage of stately trees, as a
fitting background.
You could not find a quieter, more peaceful, or more forgotten spot near
London in a month's search; for the only way into the Walk was along a
very narrow path by the side of Pomander Creek: a path the children of
Chiswick had been sternly forbidden to use, and which even their elders
only attempted when they were more than usually sober, for fear of
falling into the creek. So, although the Walk was nominally open to the
public, it was not a thoroughfare, as you had to go out the same way as
you went in. Strangers very seldom found their way to its precincts, and
to all intents and purposes the lawn and the Gazebo had grown to be the
private property of the inhabitants. As their rooms were extremely
small, they made the lawn a sort of common drawing-room, where they
entertained each other in a modest way with a dish of tea. After Mr.
Basil Pringle and Madame Lachesnais and her daughter had come to live in
the Walk there would even be music on the lawn. Madame would bring out
her harp, Mr. Pringle his violin, and Marjolaine would sing quaint old
French ditties.
I pity the unhappy stranger who stumbled into the Walk on such an
occasion. The music would stop dead. Teacups would hang suspended
half-way to expectant lips, and all eyes would be turned on the intruder
with a stare which, if he had any marrow, would infallibly freeze it.
Then to see Sir Peter throw his chest out, march up to the stranger and
ask him what he wanted in a voice which masked a volcanic rage under
courteous tones, was to behold a thing never to be forgotten. All the
stranger could do was to stammer an apology and beat a retreat; but for
days the memory of the unknown danger he had escaped would haunt him.
Sir Peter Antrobus--Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus--was not a person to be
trifled with, I assure you. In the first place, he lived in the corner
house as you entered the Walk. This gave him a sort of prescriptive
right to sovereignty. You must also consider that he was an Admiral and
that his gallantry had earned him a knighthood. He was, indeed, the
only specimen of actual nobility the Walk had to show, though Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn could, by much pressure, be induced to admit, that if
everyone had his rights and if lawyers were not such scoundrels, he
himself--but he always broke off there and left you wondering what
degree of the peerage he had claims to. But Sir Peter was undoubtedly a
knight, and his title gave him the _pas_ in all the Walk's social
functions. Not only that, but the Walk looked up to him as its natural
leader and adviser. None of the inhabitants would ever dream of making
any little improvements to their houses without having first consulted
the Admiral. It was he who determined when the lawn needed mowing, the
Gazebo trimming, and it was he who fixed the date for painting the
wood-work and railings of the houses. Also, he chose the colour: a
good, useful green; and anyone who had dared depart from the precise
shade chosen by him, would have heard of it. He was to all intents and
purposes an autocrat, and the Walk trembled at his nod. His rule was
very gentle, however. He kept his one remaining eye steadily fixed on
the Walk; but although it wore a threatening frown and could flash in
fury, the expression lurking in its depth was one of affection. He
loved the Walk with all his heart; he was proud of it with all his soul.
His one ambition was to keep it as spick and span as his own quarterdeck
had been. I think, indeed, he confused it in his mind to some extent
with that quarterdeck, for in his little garden he had erected the model
of a mast, on which he hoisted the Union Jack with his own hands
regularly at sunrise, and as regularly struck it at sunset. And once,
when the Regent had gone by in the Royal barge on his way to Richmond,
he had come out in gala uniform, and dipped it in a Royal salute in the
finest style. The Admiral was salt from head to foot and right through.
He used to call himself a piece of salt junk: for he had been at sea
ever since he was a lad of ten. His bravery and high spirits had
cleared the road for him at a time when the sea was a path of glory for
British mariners, and his culminating recollection was the battle of
Copenhagen, in which he had taken part with Nelson. His only cause for
complaint was that he had been put on half-pay too early. Was not a man
of sixty, hale, hearty, and in the full possession of all his faculties,
worth two whipper-snappers of thirty? And did the loss of an eye
disqualify him? Could he not spy the enemy as quickly with one eye as
with two? As a matter of fact, you could only use one eye with a
spy-glass, and so, what was the good of the other? Answer him that!
Very well, then.
But these outbursts only came in moments of great depression; generally
after his monthly excursion into town to draw his pay. On these
occasions it was his habit to visit the coffee-houses where sea-captains
of his own standing congregated; in the afternoon he would dine with a
few cronies at the Hummums; later, he might take a taste of the newest
play at Covent Garden--he maintained that the Drama, like the Navy, was
going to the dogs--and after the play there usually followed a jorum of
punch and a church-warden pipe in some hostelry where glees were sung.
Then, in the small hours, he would be lifted into an old, ramshackle
shay, by the faithful Jim; Jim would be lifted beside him, and together
they would steer a devious course towards Chiswick, where the village
constable was on the look-out for them, and would pilot them along the
perilous Creek, unlock the door for them, and deposit them safely in the
passage. What happened after that, which saw the other to bed, or
whether either of them ever got beyond the foot of the stairs, it were
the height of indiscretion to enquire. An English gentleman's house is
his castle, and if an English gentleman is too tired to go upstairs that
is nobody's business but his own.
The Walk was always aware of these excursions, and on the mornings
following upon them it had become the rule to make as little noise as
possible, so as not to disturb the Admiral's repose. When he ultimately
woke on such mornings it was small wonder he took a jaundiced view of
life, prophesied the immediate stranding of His Majesty's entire Fleet
owing to puerile navigation, and was, generally, in his least amiable
and least hopeful mood. Small wonder, also, that he railed against a
purblind and imbecile government for putting a seasoned officer on the
shelf. A headache modifies one's outlook, and, as Mrs. Poskett was fond
of saying, one should be especially considerate with a man, more
especially a sailor-man, the day after he had drawn his pay--most
especially a sailor-man who, at the mature age of sixty, was still a
bachelor.
If Sir Peter was a bachelor, that was not Mrs. Poskett's fault. She
herself had only narrowly missed belonging to the minor nobility.
Alderman Poskett, her deceased husband, had died just as he was ripe for
the Shrievalty, and, sure enough, the year he would have been Sheriff
the King had dined with the Lord Mayor, and Poskett would infallibly
have received a knighthood, had he been alive. Mrs. Poskett felt, in a
confused way, that she had been badly used, and that the Walk would only
be stretching ordinary courtesy very slightly by addressing her as Lady
Poskett. Unfortunately this never occurred to the Walk, and as Mrs.
Poskett was determined to achieve the title somehow, she had cast her
eyes on Sir Peter. The latter, however, had not been a handsome
midshipman, and a still handsomer Captain, without acquiring
considerable experience in the wiles of the sex, and, so far, Mrs.
Poskett's blandishments had met with only negative success. Mrs.
Poskett lived next door to the Admiral, and to her great distress there
was a sort of subdued feud between them; a feud she could do nothing to
abate. Could she be expected to get rid of Sempronius, for the sake of
Sir Peter? In the first place, it is not so easy to get rid of a
long-haired, yellow Persian cat. Once, in a fit of desperation at the
failure of her siege on the Admiral's affections, she had put Sempronius
in a market-basket, and she and Abigail--her little maid, fresh from a
Charity School--had carried him quite half a mile and let him loose,
after a tragic farewell, in the middle of a cabbage-field. But when
they got home disconsolate, there was Sempronius washing his face in
front of the fire as if nothing had happened. After that there was
never again any question of getting rid of him. If the Admiral really
feared for the safety of his thrush, why did n't he get rid of the
thrush? Only once had Sempronius been found sitting on the roof of the
osier cage, and extending a soft paw downwards through its bars; the
thrush was singing blithely all the time, and you could see by the
expression on Sempronius's face that his only feeling was one of
admiration for the song. But the Admiral had taken on amazingly, had
stormed and sworn, and promised to throw Sempronius into the river if he
ever caught him at such games again.
Since that day Mrs. Poskett had felt that she had a very uphill task
before her; but she had set herself to work to become Lady Antrobus with
increased determination. She was heartily encouraged in this by Miss
Ruth Pennymint, who lived in the third house from the top corner--lived
there with her much younger sister, Miss Barbara.
Miss Ruth, elderly and kind hearted, was an inveterate matchmaker. As
she explained to her bosom friend, Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn, "My dear," she
said, "I've lived three years with a tragic instance of what comes of
blighted affections; and I'll take precious good care nobody else's
affections get blighted if I can help it." To which Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn
replied, "And well I understand your meaning, Ruth; for if Mr.
Brooke-Hoskyn had n't asked me to marry him, what I should ha' done I
don't know." Whereupon the two ladies, for no obvious reason, wept
together and were greatly comforted.
It seems that Miss Barbara had years ago been more or less affianced to
a Lieutenant in the Navy. Not a young lieutenant, an elderly lieutenant
with several characteristics which were doubtful recommendations. But
time had softened the image of the gallant tar in Miss Barbara's
recollection, and the more it receded, the more romantic it had become,
until now she was, not so much in love with her recollections of him, as
with what she could remember of the ideal she had set up in her own
mind.
In the flesh, Lieutenant Charles--no one had ever heard his surname--had
been a very short, puffy man, with a completely bald head. His language
was interlarded with expletives, suitable, perhaps, to intercourse with
rough sailors in a gale, but devastating on shore in the company of
ladies. Personally, I am not at all certain he had ever actually
proposed to Miss Barbara. I don't believe he knew how.
The two ladies were living near the Docks at the time, with their
father, who was something in linseed; and I have no doubt Lieutenant
Charles found the old man's Port-wine agreeable and liked to bask in
Miss Barbara's pretty smiles. For Miss Barbara was very pretty indeed; a
bonny, plump little thing, by nature all mirth and laughter. She did
not so much walk as hop like a little bird. She was altogether like a
bird. Her father had always called her his dicky-bird. She kissed just
as a bird pecks, and when she spoke or laughed, it was exactly like the
twitter of birds settling down to sleep at sunset.
Whether she had ever really been in love with the lieutenant is another
question I must leave unanswered. It is only barely conceivable. To be
sure, girls do fall in love with the most improbable men: even short and
puffy ones; and perhaps the lieutenant's strange oaths bewitched her in
some inexplicable way. The only evidence of practical romance I can
bring forward, is that the lieutenant did undoubtedly present Miss
Barbara on one of his home-comings from distant parts with a grey parrot
with a red tail. To be sure, he may have found the bird an intolerable
nuisance; but this is an ill-natured suggestion. Whether this gift was
intended as a hint, whether the parrot was meant as a dove and harbinger
of a coming proposal, or whether it was an economical return for much
liquid refreshment, the world will never know, for the same night the
lieutenant's inglorious career came to an equally inglorious end.
This combination of what might, with a little violence, be construed as
a lover's gift with the tragic loss of the lover, was the turning-point
in Miss Barbara's life. Henceforth she convinced herself that she had
been engaged to marry Charles, and she vowed herself to perpetual
spinsterhood and the care of the parrot.
The care of the parrot was no such easy matter. The bird had made a
long journey in the lieutenant's cabin, and had acquired all the
lieutenant's most picturesque expressions. He was not, therefore, a
bird you could admit into general society with any feeling of comfort,
for although he was generally sulky in the presence of strangers, he
would occasionally, and when you least expected them, rap out a string
of uncomplimentary references to their personal appearance, and consign
them, body and soul, to unmentionable localities, with a clearness of
utterance which left no doubt as to his meaning.
When Papa Pennymint died, it was found that linseed had not been a
commodity for which the demand had been sufficient to build up anything
approaching a fortune. As a matter of fact, the old man had died just
in time to avoid bankruptcy, and the two ladies had been obliged to sell
their pretty home and to take refuge in Pomander Walk, out of reach of
the genteel friends who had known them in the days of their prosperity.
Of course the bird had come with them; but he had not left his language
behind, and Barbara was forced to keep him shut up in the little back
parlour, out of earshot. There she spent at least one hour with him
every day, listening, as she told the sympathising Walk, to her dead
lover's voice; and it was this constant companionship with the
loquacious bird which had fostered and developed in her mind the legend
of her unhappy love.
[Illustration: SHE SPENT AT LEAST ONE HOUR WITH HIM EVERY DAY,
LISTENING, AS SHE TOLD THE SYMPATHISING WALK, TO HER DEAD LOVER'S VOICE]
As a detail, I may as well add here that Barbara had christened the
parrot Doctor Johnson, in honour of the mighty lexicographer, about whom
she knew nothing except that an engraved portrait of him used to hang in
what her father called his study, and that when she asked him who the
original was and what he had done, he said, "Oh, I don't know. Seems he
talked a lot." The parrot talked a lot, and so he was called Doctor
Johnson. I should very much have liked to hear the observations the
Giant of Fleet Street would have made, had he lived long enough to be
aware of the compliment.
How the Misses Pennymint made both ends meet was a never-ending subject
of discussion between Mrs. Poskett and Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn. They
regretfully came to the conclusion that the two ladies positively worked
for their living. This was a serious aspersion on the Walk--but there
was a worse one.
A little while ago a young man--well, a youngish man--with one shoulder
a little higher than the other, had come to live with the Pennymints. At
first they let it be understood that he was a distant cousin come on a
visit; but when weeks passed and then months, he could no longer be
described as a visitor, and the Walk had to face the fact that not only
did the Misses Pennymint work for their living, but that they also kept
a lodger. At first the Walk was consoled with the idea that at any rate
he looked like a gentleman, and might possibly be one. But lately it had
been discovered that he was a mere common fiddler, and played every
evening in the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens. Yet, in spite of his
ungentlemanly profession, the man did, undoubtedly, behave like a
gentleman. Moreover, it was very difficult to tax the Misses Pennymint
with their ungenteel goings-on; because there was not an inhabitant of
the Walk who had not experienced some kindness at their hands.
I hope I have conveyed the impression of a quiet and contented little
community. I am sorry to have to add that there was one fly in the
amber of their content. In the early spring of 1805 a mysterious figure
had suddenly appeared in the Walk. A fisherman. A gaunt creature in an
indescribable slouch hat: the sort of hat you do not pick up when you
see it lying in the road; his bony form was encased in a long,
nondescript linen garment, something like a carter's smock-frock. This
had once been white, but was now of every shade of brown. It had
enormous pockets, bulging with unthinkable contents. One morning the
Walk had awakened to find him sitting at the corner where Pomander Creek
empties into the Thames; sitting on an old box, with a dreadful tin
vessel full of worms at his side; sitting fishing. The Walk rubbed its
eyes and wondered what the Admiral would say. When the Admiral came out
of his house he stopped aghast. Then he gathered himself together for a
mighty effort. But it came to nothing: you cannot argue with a man who
refuses to argue back. The fisherman met Sir Peter's first onslaught
with a curt "Public thoroughfare," and then definitely closed his lips.
Sir Peter raked him fore and aft, but never got another syllable out of
him. Ultimately he retired baffled and beaten. Henceforward the
fisherman came to his pitch every day, except Sunday. The Walk grew
accustomed, if not reconciled, to his presence by slow degrees. They
spoke of him among themselves as the Eyesore.
*CHAPTER II*
*HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN,
ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER*
[Illustration: Chapter II headpiece]
On Saturday afternoon, May 25, 1805, Pomander Walk was looking its very
best. The sun transfigured the old houses; the elm rustled in the
river-breeze; the Admiral's thrush was singing wistfully; Mrs. Poskett's
cat, Sempronius, was seated in her little front garden, wistfully
listening to the bird's song; the Eyesore was patiently wasting worms on
discriminating fish who knew a hook when they saw it; and Sir Peter
Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, both in their shirt-sleeves, were
finishing a game of quoits.
"A ringer!" shouted Sir Peter, whose quoit had fallen fairly over the
peg. Then he hurried up to the quoits, and, measuring their respective
distances from it with a huge bandana handkerchief, added, "One maiden
to you, Brooke! Game all! Peeled, by Jehoshaphat!"
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn flicked the dust off his waistcoat with magnificent
indifference. The Admiral produced a boatswain's whistle, and in answer
to a blast, his man, Jim, appeared at an upstair window. "Ay, ay,
Admiral!"
"The usual. Here, under the elm. And look lively."
"Ay, ay, sir!"
Jim disappeared like a Jack-in-the-box. "We must play it off," said Sir
Peter.
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn protested. "Another time, Sir Peter. It is very
warm, and my eye is out."
"So 's mine," cried the Admiral, with a guffaw; "but I see straight,
what?"
It was a matter of principle with Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn never to take the
slightest notice of the Admiral's jokes. Sir Peter might be the
autocrat of the Walk, although Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had his own views even
on that point; but he himself was the acknowledged wit and man of
fashion, and from that position nothing should shake him. He had spied
Miss Ruth Pennymint working in her open bow-window, and Mrs. Poskett
busy with her flowers. Assuming his grandest manner, he said warningly:
"Should we not resume our habiliments? The fair are observing us."
"Gobblessmysoul!" cried Sir Peter, shocked at being discovered in
undress. They hastily helped each other into their coats, which were
lying on the bench under the elm. Meanwhile, Jim had brought out a tray
with two pewters, two long clay pipes, a jar of tobacco and a lighted
candle, and had placed it on the bench. From the open upstair window of
the Pennymint's house came the strains of a violin: one passage, played
over and over again, with varying degrees of success.
"Wish Mr. Pringle would stop his infernal scraping," growled the
Admiral.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn shrugged his shoulders with condescending pity. "Poor
fellow! What a way of earning his living!"
Sir Peter turned to the quarter from which the music came, and, making a
speaking-trumpet of his hands, roared, "Mr. Pringle! Mr. Pringle,
ahoy!"
A hideous wrong note, as if the player had been scared out of his wits,
was the answer, and Basil Pringle appeared at the window. "I beg your
pardon, Admiral; I was engrossed."
"Join us under the elm, what?"
"With pleasure. I 'll just put away my Strad."