The Astonishing History of Troy Town Part 29

Peter looked around and caught sight of the neat pile of Mr. Fogo's attire lying underneath the bank. Light began to dawn on him; he turned to Miss Limpenny--

"You'll excuse me, ma'am, but was you present by any chance when--?"

"Heaven forbid!" she cried, and put her hands before her face.

"Then, beggin' your pard'n, but how did you come here?"

"I was wandering on the bank--and lost in thought--and came upon these--these articles. And then--oh! I cannot, I cannot."

"Furder question es," pursued Peter, with an interrogative glance at his brother, who nodded, "why not ha' gone away?"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Limpenny, "I never thought of it!"

She gathered up her skirts, and disdaining the a.s.sistance of the gallant Paul, clambered up the bank, and with a formal bow left the Twins staring. As she remarked tearfully to Lavinia that evening, "What one requires in these cases is presence of mind, my dear," and she heaved a piteous little sigh.

"But consider," urged the sympathetic Lavinia, "your feelings at the moment. I am sure that under similar circ.u.mstances"--she shuddered-- "I should have behaved in precisely the same way."

Mr. Fogo emerged in so benumbed a condition, his teeth chattered so loudly, and his nose had grown so appallingly blue, that the Twins, who had in delicacy at first retired to a little distance, were forced to return and help him into his clothes. Even then, however, he continued to shiver to such an extent that the pair, after consulting in whispers for some moments, took off their coats, wrapped him carefully about, set him in the stern of his boat, and, jumping in themselves, pushed off and rowed rapidly homewards.

Their patient endeavoured to express his thanks, but was gravely desired not to mention it. For ten minutes or so the Twins rowed in silence, at the end of this time Paul suddenly dropped the bow oar; then, leaning forward, touched his brother on the shoulder and whispered one word--

"Shenachrum."

"Or Samson," said Peter.

"I think poorly o' Samson."

"Wi' hes hair on?"

"Wi' or wi'out, I don't lay no store by Samson."

"Very well, then--Shenachrum."

The rowing was resumed, and Mr. Fogo left to speculate on these dark sayings. But as the boat drew near the column of blue smoke that, rising from the hazels on the left bank, marked the whereabouts of the Dearloves' cottage, he grew aware of a picture that, perhaps by mere charm of composition, set his pulse extravagantly beating.

At the gate above the low cliff, her frock of pink print distinct against the hazels, stood Tamsin Dearlove, and looked up the river.

She was bare-headed; and the level rays of evening powdered her dark tresses with gold, and touched the trees behind into bronze.

One hand shielded her eyes; the other rested on the half-open gate, and swayed it softly to and fro upon its hinge. As she stood thus, some happy touch of opportunity, some trick of circ.u.mstance or grouping, must, I think, have helped Mr. Fogo to a conclusion he had been seeking for weeks. It is certain that though he has since had abundant opportunities of studying Tamsin, and noting that untaught grace of body in which many still find the secret of her charm, to his last day she will always be for him the woman who stood, this summer evening, beside the gate and looked up the river.

And yet, as the boat drew near, the pleasantest feature in the picture was the smile with which she welcomed her brothers, though it contained some wonder to see them in Mr. Fogo's boat, and gave place to quick alarm as she remarked the extreme blueness of that gentleman's nose and the extreme pallor of his other features.

"Tamsin, my dear, es the cloth laid?"

"Yes, Peter, and the kettle ready to boil."

"We was thinkin' as Shenachrum would be suitin' Mr. Fogo better.

He've met wi' an accident."

"Again?" There was something of disdain in her eyes as she curtseyed to him, but it softened immediately. "You're kindly welcome, sir,"

she added, "and the Shenachrum shall be ready in ten minutes."

Within five minutes Mr. Fogo was seated by the corner of the hearth, and watching her as she heated the beer which, together with rum, sugar, and lemon, forms the drink known and loved by Trojans as Shenachrum. The Twins had retired to wash in the little out-house at the back, and their splashing was audible every now and again above the crackling of the wood fire, which now, as before, filled the kitchen with fragrance. Its warmth struck kindly into Mr. Fogo's knees, and coloured Tamsin's cheeks with a hot red as she bent over the flame. He watched her profile in thoughtful silence for some moments, and then fell to staring at the glowing sticks and the shadows of the pot-hooks and hangers on the chimney-back.

"So that is Shenachrum?" he said at last, to break the silence.

"Yes."

"And what, or who, is Samson?"

"Samson is brandy and cider and sugar."

"With his hair on?"

She laughed.

"That means more brandy. Samson was double as strong, you know, with his hair on."

"I see."

The silence was resumed. Only the tick-tack of the tall clock and the splashing of the Twins disturbed it. She turned to glance at him once, and then, seeing his gaze fixed upon the fire that twinkled on the rim of his spectacles and emphasised the hollows of his face, had looked for a moment more boldly before she bent over her task again.

"She is quite beautiful, but--"

He spoke in a dreamy abstracted tone, as if addressing the pot-hooks.

Tamsin started, set down the pan with a clatter, and turned sharply round.

"Eh?" said Mr. Fogo, aroused by the clatter, "you were saying--?"

And then it struck him that he had spoken aloud. He broke off, and looked up with appealing helplessness.

There was a second's pause.

"_You_ were saying--"

The words came as if dragged from her by an effort. Her eyes were full of wrath as she stood above him and waited for his reply.

"I am very sorry," he stammered; "I never meant you to hear."

"You were talking of--?"

"Of you," he answered simply. He was horribly frightened; but it was not in the man's nature to lie, or even evade the question.

The straightforwardness of the reply seemed to buffet her in the face. She put up a hand against the chimney-piece and caught her breath.

"What is 'but'?" she asked with a kind of breathless vehemence.

"Finish your sentence. What right have you to talk of me?" she went on, as he did not reply. "If I am not a lady, what is that to you?

Oh!" she persisted, in answer to the swift remonstrance on his face, "I can end your sentence: 'She is quite beautiful, but--quite _low_, of course.' What right have you to call me either--to speak of me at all? We were content enough before you came--Peter and Paul and I.