"Thank you, mum."
Sir Peter appeared at the door. Unfortunately he caught sight of Mrs.
Poskett. He retreated, half-closed the door, and only showed his head
through the opening.
"Jim!" he cried.
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Haul it down yourself."
Mrs. Poskett gave a cry of disappointment. Had she spent ten shillings
in vain?
But Jim was equal to the occasion. His voice was a beautiful blend of
pathos and wounded dignity. "No, Admiral. Not after what passed your
lips."
"Damme! I can't leave it hoisted all night!" roared the Admiral.
"That's as mebbe," said Jim, beginning to stump off. "Even the lubberly
son of a sea-cook 'as 'is feelin's, same as them wot's 'igher placed."
And he stumped round the corner.
"Here! Jim!" roared the Admiral, in distress and fury. "Come back! you
mutinous scoundrel!" But Jim was gone.
What was the Admiral to do? Was he to leave the flag up, contrary to
all precedent? That was unthinkable. On the other hand was he to offer
himself as a target for Mrs. Poskett's sarcasms? Yet again, was he to
show the white feather in the presence of the enemy? No! He'd be hanged
if he would. He slapped himself on the chest to give himself courage,
and came down the steps. "Cheer up, my hearty!" he cried; and then he
hummed what he thought was the tune of "Oh! dear! what can the matter
be?" and began hauling down the flag.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had sidled casually along the railings, as if she
were going nowhere in particular and didn't mind when she got there. But
she timed herself carefully, so that she was close to Sir Peter just as
he was entangled in the lines.
"Admiral!" she said, very gently.
"Ma'am?" growled he, continuing to extricate himself.
"Why do you force me to address you?" she asked reproachfully, and with
great dignity.
Sir Peter was taken aback. "Me! Force you! Gobblessmysoul!" he
exclaimed, "Well, I'm--"
"For your own good," said Mrs. Poskett, solemnly. "Oh, Sir Peter, you
was King of the Walk on Friday. Now Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn will usurp that
title."
This fetched him. He left the flag lying at the foot of the mast, and
came out into the open. "Will he so, Ma'am!" he said, fiercely.
"So he will!" Having enticed him from behind the security of his
railings, Mrs. Poskett knew he would follow wherever she led him. She
led him at once towards the elm.
"The Walk says you have lowered the prestige of His Majesty's Navy."
The Admiral had indeed turned to go back; but this brought him to her
side. "Dash it and hang it, Ma'am! what do you mean?"
"Well, you know what I mean," said Mrs. Poskett, with pretty confusion.
"The entire Walk saw you press me to your heart!"
The Admiral was helpless. His own recollections of what had happened on
Saturday were extremely vague. What with the rescue of the cat and the
sudden appearance of Caroline Thring, together with the subsequent
escape of Jack, he had lost all sense of actualities. Moreover, it was
impossible for him to accuse Mrs. Poskett of having embraced him. A
gentleman does not do such things. So he could only stammer weakly, "I
didn't, did I?"
Mrs. Poskett flashed at him indignantly. "The entire Walk witnessed the
outrage, and the entire Walk is indignant that nothing has come of it."
"Gobblessmysoul!" muttered the Admiral.
Mrs. Poskett followed up her advantage. "'Oh, how unsailor-like!'"--that
is what the Walk says: "'How unsailor-like!'"
Imagine the stab. He, Admiral Sir Peter Antrobus, with more than forty
years of service in His Majesty's Navy to his credit; the hero of
Copenhagen; the friend of Nelson; he, who had given an eye for his
country--unsailor-like!
He pushed his wig back and mopped his brow. "It doesn't say that!" he
murmured, horrified.
But Mrs. Poskett was mercilessly emphatic. "It says that." Then she
steered on another tack. "I 'm only a lone widow," she said, with an
air of martyrdom. "If Alderman Poskett were alive, he 'd see you did
the right thing by his wife. But I!--I must leave my once happy home!"
"But--dash it and hang it--!" protested Sir Peter, struggling in the web
that was being woven around him.
"You cannot alter facts by swearing," said the widow. "Can I bear the
sneers of a Pennymint? the arched eyebrows of a Brooke-Hoskyn? I cannot.
I must let my beautiful house," with a side glance at him and
considerable stress, "my freehold house. Let it to an undesirable
tenant: a person with a mangle."
A mangle in Pomander Walk! "Gobblessmysoul!" said the Admiral. Also he
had been set thinking. Freehold, eh?
"To be sure, the expense of moving is nothing," proceeded Mrs. Poskett,
airily, "when one has Four-hundred a year in the Funds. But oh! my
lovely furniture will be chipped! and, oh! how shall I part from my
friends?"
The Admiral was moved. He was undeniably moved. A freehold house,
Four-hundred a year in the Funds, and lovely furniture.--And, mind you,
the widow was buxom; he himself had described her as a "Dam fine woman."
As she stood there in tearful confusion, she looked distinctly
agreeable; plump and comfortable. To be sure, the sun had gone down.
"But it's not so bad as that?" said the Admiral, with something
approaching sympathy.
"It's worse!" cried Mrs. Poskett. "And that innocent cat,
Sempronius!--What will he say? He took a chill on Saturday and he's
lying before the kitchen fire wrapped up in a piece of flannel. When I
move, the change will kill him. Oh, why did n't you leave him to
drown?" she sobbed aloud.
The Admiral was much stirred. A woman's tears always bowled him over.
He could stand anything but that.
"Dash it and hang it, Ma'am, don't cry!"
"It is n't as if I was older," sobbed Mrs. Poskett. "I could be much
older! But I'm young enough to have a tender heart!" She mastered
herself with an heroic effort; swallowed her sobs; drove back her tears;
and stood before him, the picture of stoic calm, of noble resignation.
"But never mind! I will be brave! You--you--shall--not--see--me--weep!"
Then she howled.
Sir Peter was indescribably distressed. "But--Gobblessmysoul!--" he
stammered--"what am I to do with Jim, and the flagstaff, and the brass
gun, and the thrush, and the sweet peas?" and, pointing to his house,
"What am I to do with Number One?"
Mrs. Poskett raised one tear-bedewed eye from her handkerchief. "Knock
a door through and make one house of them!" she exclaimed, as if
sweeping away an absurdity. "Oh, these paltry details!" Then she
lifted her face to his with a smile. Thus does the sun look when it
emerges from behind a rain-cloud. "Sweet peas? What could be more
appropriate? Ain't I Pamela Poskett? and ain't you Peter?"
The tearful smile, so winsome, so appealing, was irresistible. "Damme,
you 're right!" cried the Admiral, surrendering at discretion. "You've
swept me fore and aft! You've blown me out of the sea! By George,
Ma'am, I 'll marry you if you 'll have me!"
Once more, as when he saved her cat, Mrs. Poskett threw her comfortable
arms round Sir Peter's neck. "I 'll have you, Peter," she cried
joyfully; and she added in a tone which clinched the matter, "I've got
you!"
There was an eloquent silence. The old elm shook its leaves with a
ripple of laughter. It had seen many things in its long life, but never
anything so epically grand as the widow's victory and the Admiral's
surrender. Troy town was besieged in vain during ten long years, and
was then only conquered by a horse. Five years Mrs. Poskett had besieged
Sir Peter and her victory was due to a cat. You seize the analogy?
When you remember, further, that Basil had been inveigled by a parrot,
you will realise the danger--or utility, according to your point of
view--of keeping domestic pets: the undoubted risk of having any
commerce with other peoples' domestic pets--especially if they are
Greeks or widows. I mean, the people.
The Admiral was conquered, and like a gentleman, he made the best of his
defeat. That is the way to turn it into a moral victory. "I 'll haul
out the brass gun and fire it to-night!" he cried, enthusiastically.
"That'll tell the Walk!"
"I 'll tell the Walk!" said Mrs. Poskett, masking her quite legitimate
triumph under renewed endearments.
They say drowning men see all their past lives in a flash. As the
Admiral felt Mrs. Poskett's arms tighten round his neck, he had a
similar experience. All the eyes he had ever looked into seemed to be
gazing reproachfully at him out of the darkness; all the names he had
ever whispered seemed now to be whispering in his ear. Dolores, Inez,
Mariette, Suzette, Paquita, Frederike, Jette, Karen--I know not how many
more--like a swarm of bees they buzzed around him. Then, too, he
suddenly remembered that upstairs in his old sailor's chest; the chest
that had accompanied him all over the world, there was a splendid and
varied assortment of locks of hair: black, brown, golden, auburn,
frankly red, straw-coloured, chestnut, and one off which the dye had
faded and shown it uncompromisingly grey. He must remember to destroy
them before--well, before the door was knocked through.
What escapes he had had! What a mercy he had not married that fiery
Spaniard; that still more blazing Brazilian; that fickle Portuguese;
that frivolous Mam'selle; that straw-coloured Dane. He began to realise
that Mrs. Poskett was, like the Walk itself, a Harbour of Refuge. Here
was no rhapsodical nonsense, but safe comfort, with a freehold house,
solid furniture, and Four-hundred a year. Almost unconsciously his arms
closed round her. She gave a great, contented sigh, as her head sank on
his shoulder. To have drawn this response from him was, indeed,
victory! I wonder what she would have done if she could have read his
thoughts, if she could have seen the long procession of seductive
females that was passing across his mental vision. I am convinced that
the prospective title would have consoled her, and that she would have
accepted his past for the sake of her future.
They were abruptly aroused from their happiness, however. Unperceived
by them, Lord Otford had entered the Walk. He had come slowly along the
crescent, examining each house in turn, evidently trying to make up his
mind to knock at one of them. He retraced his steps and had his hand on
the handle of the Admiral's gate, when his attention was attracted by
the sound of murmuring voices. Evidently the voices of lovers. Quickly
and angrily he came down, just in time to witness the Admiral implant a
chaste but conclusive salute on Mrs. Poskett's ample brow.
"Peter!" he cried, scandalised.
[Illustration: "PETER!" HE CRIED, SCANDALISED]
*CHAPTER XIV*
*IN WHICH MISS BARBARA PENNYMINT HEARS THE
NIGHTINGALE, AND THE LAMPS ARE LIGHTED*
[Illustration: Chapter XIV headpiece]
The Admiral tried to start away from Mrs. Poskett, but though her hands
slipped from his neck they clung to his arm. "Gobblessmysoul! Lord
Otford!" he cried.
Mrs. Poskett had a delicious foretaste of future greatness. Here, at
the very threshold of her betrothal, was a real, live lord. It was well
worth all she had been through. "Present me, Peter," she whispered,
"and tell him."
It is not so easy to tell an old friend you are going to be married,
when you yourself are old enough to know better. The Admiral made a bad
job of it. "Um--my neighbour--Mrs. Poskett--" he mumbled, weakly.
"Widow of Alderman Poskett," she broke in. "And if Poskett had n't died
when he did--"
The Admiral cut her short. He presented his friend to her. "Um--Lord
Otford--" then he tried bravely to explain the equivocal attitude in
which they had been discovered. "Um--I am--she is--we are--" He broke
down under Otford's eye.
For Otford was looking at him in a confounded quizzical way, as much as
to say "Do all the neighbours in Pomander Walk come out and kiss in the
dark?" So the Admiral turned crestfallen to Mrs. Poskett, "No, hang it!
You tell him!"
Mrs. Poskett was quite equal to the occasion. She made Lord Otford a
magnificent curtsey, just as she had curtseyed to the Lord Mayor's Lady,
years ago. "Happy to meet any friend of my future husband," she said,
with charming condescension.
Lord Otford responded to her curtsey with an equally elaborate bow. "Am
I to understand--?"
"Yes, Jack," interposed Sir Peter, impatiently, "understand. Understand
without further palaver."
Lord Otford bowed again. "My felicitations," said he. Mrs. Poskett had
expected more; but Lord Otford was evidently preoccupied, and abruptly
changed the subject. "Madam, can you spare him a little while?"
Mrs. Poskett was much put out. Was she to be thrust aside so
unceremoniously in the first flush of her triumph? She bridled, and
answered with some asperity, "I am sure no real friend of Sir Peter's
would wish to tell him anything his future wife may not hear."
Lord Otford recognised he had made a tactical mistake. He seized one of
her plump hands, kissed it, and explained with an air of the greatest
consideration, "I assure you, Ma'am, the matter is strictly personal to
myself."
How could any lady resist such delightful manners? Mrs. Poskett melted
at once. She shook a playful finger at him. "Naughty Lord
Otford!"--she turned to the Admiral--"Well, Peter; I 'll wait at the
gate. But not more than five minutes, mind!" And with a roguish shake
of all her curls and all her ribbons she tripped up to the Admiral's
gate, where she stood planning how his house and hers were to be turned
into one, and how the sweet pea was to be trained over both, at the same
time striving to hear as much as possible of what the two friends were
saying.
"Peter!" exclaimed Lord Otford, as soon as she was out of earshot, "Jack
's disappeared!"
The Admiral's conscience smote him uneasily. He knew the rascally Jack
was in Doctor Sternroyd's house; he himself had helped to get him there;
and here was the unfortunate father, his own bosom friend, in distress.
What was he to do? Betray Jack? Impossible. No. He would see the
matter through. At any rate, he would gain time.
"Serves you right," he growled.