Part 13

Mrs. Poskett tripped joyously to Madame's house; knocked, and was admitted.

The Admiral seized his friend by both hands with enthusiasm. "Here! Come in! Come in and have a glass of port-wine!"

"But if Madame--" began Lord Otford.

"Come in! She won't budge from the house if she sees you here. Pamela will warn us, when she's got her, and," ruefully, "she'll get her, fast enough." They turned to go towards Sir Peter's house; but Lord Otford stopped short, in surprise.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had opened his upstairs window and was leaning out, fanning himself with his handkerchief.

"Hoskyn, by all that's wonderful!" said Lord Otford, eyeing unconscious Brooke-Hoskyn through his lorgnette.

Sir Peter corrected him. "Brooke-Hoskyn; with a hyphen. I said you must know him."

"Know him!" cried Lord Otford, laughing, "Know my old butler! I should think so!"

"What?" asked the Admiral, not believing his ears.

"He married my cook, Mrs. Brooke! And now he 's City toast master."

Sir Peter gave a low whistle. "That's it, is it?" What a triumph! "When the Walk knows that--!"

"That's your man of fashion, is it, Peter?" laughed Lord Otford.

But the Admiral was thinking. "No!" he cried, suddenly, "Damme! No! he's a good fellow, and I'm not a blackguard!--Jack, follow my lead." He made a speaking-trumpet with his hands and roared, as if Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had been a mile away, "Ahoy! Brooky, my boy! Here 's your old friend, Otford."

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn nearly fell out of the window.

"Glad to see you, Hoskyn," said Lord Otford, cheerfully, with an amiable wave of his hand.

"Oh, don't!" groaned Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, hoarsely. "Oh, my Lord!--Not at this moment! I ain't equal to it, your Lordship! I reely ain't!"

"Sorry you're ill," said Lord Otford, with a pleasant laugh. "Too much to eat, and too little to do. What you want is a family to keep you lively!"

"A family!" almost shrieked Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "Oh, my Lord!" He disappeared abruptly from the window, and Lord Otford and the Admiral went arm-in-arm and laughing heartily into the latter's house.

It was now quite dark in the Walk: the translucent darkness of a perfect June night. The stillness was so great that you could hear the river lapping against the bank as it flowed by. Behind the tower of Chiswick Church the sky shone pale, but, above, it melted into purple in which the stars seemed to hang loose. Even the leaves of the elm had ceased to whisper together and had gone to sleep. Here and there in the Walk a faint light appeared behind drawn blinds and closed curtains. Presently the bow window of the Misses Pennymint's house was gently opened, and Barbara and Basil appeared. Their arms were twined round each other, and Barbara's pretty head reposed against her lover's shoulder. Framed in the jasmine that encircled the window, they made as touching a picture as you could wish to see. They stood quite still, inhaling the fragrance of the slumbering elm, and thinking thoughts unutterable.

As they opened their window Jack opened his. He was famished, and there was no sign of Marjolaine. Could she have forgotten him?

"'On such a night as this--'" began Basil, in his richest and deepest notes.

Jack whistled a flourish very softly.

"Hark, Basil," whispered Barbara, looking up into his eyes. "Hark! The nightingale!"

Jack whistled a little louder.

"Do you think that is the nightingale, dearest?" ventured Basil.

Jack whistled loud and impatiently.

"At least let us make believe it is," murmured Barbara.

Jack's whistle rose to a screech.

"My own one!" boomed Basil, in a voice like subdued but passionate thunder.

Jack was just on the point of a despairing effort, when Madame's door opened. He craned forward in the hope of seeing Marjolaine emerge, but had to withdraw swiftly, for Mrs. Poskett came down the steps, followed by Madame.

"The air is so balmy, it's a pity to stay indoors," Mrs. Poskett was saying.

"We were just coming out," answered Madame. "Marjolaine is strangely restless." She had come down the steps and now saw Barbara and Basil in the window. She stopped astonished. "Ah--?--Why!--Really?--"

"Yes!" cried Barbara, joyfully, clinging closer to Basil. "We are to be married at once! We are going to ask Doctor Sternroyd to get us a licence."

"My own one!" Basil's deep diapason reverberated through the night.

"Oh! I am so very glad!" said Madame, in her most charming manner.

But to Basil even this gentle congratulation seemed almost like a desecration. "Come in, my own," he throbbed, "lest the winds of heaven visit your face too roughly."

"Ah!" sighed Barbara. What beautiful language he used, to be sure, and how different from Charles's. Closely linked they sank back into the darkness of the room.

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Poskett, alluding to them. "I wonder who'll be getting married next!" She and Madame came and sat under the elm.

Marjolaine crept very cautiously down the steps. She was elaborately concealing something in the folds of her dress. She stole along the railings, watching her mother and Mrs. Poskett, till she got to Doctor Sternroyd's gate. There she swiftly deposited two packages just inside the railing. Then she joined the others, looking as innocent as a lamb.

Mrs. Poskett said simperingly, "I wanted you to be the first to hear of my betrothal."

"I hope he'll make you very happy," said Madame, cordially.

"I 'll see to that!" answered Mrs. Poskett; and her manner showed she meant it.

"Isn't it wonderful, Maman!" exclaimed Marjolaine. "An angel's wing has touched Pomander Walk, and everybody's going to be married!"

"Yes, my poor child," said Madame, and held out her hand sympathetically to draw her daughter to her heart. But Marjolaine had turned away, and was singing! Actually singing!

"In Scarlet Town--" she had begun.

"Surely, you are not going to sing!" said Madame, almost reproachfully.

"Let her, Ma'am," said Mrs. Poskett, "'t will keep her quiet."

So Marjolaine stood between her mother and Doctor Sternroyd's house, and sang.

"In Scarlet Town, where I was born There was a fair Maid dwellin'--"

"Ah! these pathetic old ballads!" sighed Madame, turning to Mrs. Poskett.

At the first note of Marjolaine's song Jack had appeared at the window. Marjolaine now half turned to him, and went on:--

"A pigeon-pie and a loaf of bread Are just behind the railin'!"

The lamplighter, a wizened little man with a face like a ferret's, came running round the corner with his short ladder over his shoulder. He put it against the lamp-post opposite the Admiral's house, swarmed up it like a squirrel, lighted the lamp, slid down the ladder, and ran quickly to the lamp at Doctor Sternroyd's.

Jack had the door ajar, and was eagerly peeping out; but in the darkness he could see nothing.

"The lamplighter!" exclaimed Madame Lachesnais, with some surprise. "I thought there was a moon to-night."

"Perhaps he's forgotten," answered Mrs. Poskett. "Anyhow, he 'll come and put out the lights as soon as the moon rises."

Marjolaine saw Jack's dilemma and began singing again:--

"All in the merry month of May When green buds they were swellin'!"

The lamplighter was on his ladder lighting the Doctor's lamp.

"I should like to congratulate the Admiral," said Madame.

"I 'll send him out to you," answered Mrs. Poskett, eagerly. She saw her chance of obliging Lord Otford. Madame rose with her and accompanied her towards Sir Peter's house. Marjolaine turned towards Jack, pointing with violent gesticulations to where the victuals lay:--

"You'll find the parcels where I say By lookin' or by smellin'!"

Then she ran into the summer-house.

Jack caught sight of the food, and with a delighted "Ha!" crept down the steps. Unfortunately, however, the lamplighter had heard Marjolaine's words and followed the direction in which she had pointed. His little ferret eyes gleamed greedily.

Madame left Mrs. Poskett to go into the house, and turned to where she had left her daughter, but no Marjolaine was to be seen. "Marjolaine!" she called, anxiously.

Marjolaine came slowly out of the Gazebo. Her hands were folded in front of her and her eyes were cast down. She looked altogether as subdued as a Saint in a stained-glass window.

"Me voila, Maman," she said, demurely.

Madame sat under the elm, a little to the right of the trunk.

Marjolaine came and knelt at her feet and seized both her hands so that she held the poor, deluded lady with her back to the houses, while she herself could watch Jack in his quest of the pigeon-pie.

Madame was glad of this opportunity of saying a few well-chosen words to her daughter.

She began very gravely:--"Marjolaine, you are putting on this gaiety to please me--"

"No, Maman," said Marjolaine; but at that moment the lamplighter slid down his ladder, and, creeping on all fours, began stalking the pigeon-pie. She saw it was going to be a race between the lamplighter and Jack for the coveted prize, and she could not suppress a little startled "Oh!"

"Why do you cry out like that?" asked Madame, with deep concern.

Marjolaine had the greatest difficulty in the world to keep from laughing. "Nothing, Maman!" she said, volubly. "You are not to be anxious about me. I am quite, quite happy."

The race was continuing. Although Jack saw the lamplighter's manoeuvre, he could not move quickly, for fear of making a noise and being heard by Madame.

"I saw Lord Otford yesterday," Madame continued.

Marjolaine's entire attention was absorbed by the rivals. "You saw--?" she repeated, vaguely. But at that moment the lamplighter was perceptibly gaining on Jack. "Oh! Oh!" she cried, with a stifled laugh.

Madame was shocked. "Marjolaine, you are laughing!"

"No, no!" cried Marjolaine, "it was--it was surprise."

"He was very stern, very indignant," her mother proceeded; "but I did not flinch. I told him you--"

The lamplighter snatched the pigeon-pie and fled. Jack, speechless with rage and disappointment, was on the point of rushing after him, but, to his horror, he caught sight of his father coming out of the Admiral's house, and only just had time to bolt back into the Antiquary's.

Marjolaine gave up. In an uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter she dashed into her own house, almost knocking Lord Otford over on her way, and leaving her poor mother utterly dumbfounded on the seat. Had grief affected the poor child's brain? Madame rose hurriedly to follow her daughter--and there stood Lord Otford.

*CHAPTER XV*

*SHOWING HOW THE ROUNDABOUT ROAD LEADS BACK TO THE STARTING POINT*

"Lord Otford!" cried Madame.

"Forgive me," he said, very gently.

"Pray allow me to pass!" for he was standing right in her road. "I am very anxious about my child."

"If I am any judge," said he, with a smile, "that young lady is in the best of health and spirits."

Madame was indignant. "You are mistaken. She is--" but this would never do; she was just going to let out that Marjolaine was heart-broken because of Jack Sayle's desertion: the very last thing Lord Otford must know. "Yes, of course," she corrected herself. "She is well and happy, but--"

"Then," said Lord Otford, "will you favour me with a few moments?"

She could not help noticing with some satisfaction how different his manner was from when they had last met. Then he had tried to bluster and bully; now he was all deference. But she would not yield a jot. She drew herself up proudly.

"I can see no use in renewing our painful--"

He interrupted her deprecatingly. "I am in a grave perplexity. My son has disappeared--"

Madame took him up quickly. "And you suspect us of harbouring him!" she cried, with genuine anger.

"No, no!" he protested. "On my honour, no!"

"Then--?"

"Ah, do be patient," he continued, almost humbly. "I am here on an errand of conciliation."

"Conciliation!" echoed Madame, with a touch of scorn.

"Jack," Lord Otford began explaining, "is very dear to me."

"Marjolaine is very dear to me," said Madame, defiantly.

Lord Otford bowed. "Precisely. I have been considering. Are we justified in keeping these two young people apart?"

Madame looked at him in amazement. "Do you say that?"

"I do," he smilingly affirmed. "Marjolaine, being her mother's daughter, must be a charming gel."

Madame waved the compliment aside. He went on.

"And although Jack is my son, he is a thoroughly good fellow."

"But he is contracted to marry--" Madame interrupted.

"That is all upset," said Lord Otford; and the curious thing was that he did not seem at all put out. "Carrie Thring has taken the bit between her teeth and eloped with the curate."

Madame looked at him sharply. "And your hopes being dashed in that quarter, you come--"

"No, you are not fair!" protested Lord Otford. "I think I should have come in any case. Seeing you on Saturday has revived many memories--"

"It needed some such shock."

Lord Otford winced; but he continued bravely. "I made up my mind not to act my own father over again. If Jack loved your daughter, he was to marry her."

"That is no longer the question," said Madame with emphasis. "My daughter refuses to marry your son."

"Why? Because she does not love him?" His voice was very grave and very searching. Madame tried to answer. She would have given worlds to have been able to say "Yes." But she could not say it, and she was silent. Lord Otford was watching her keenly.

"No!" he said, almost severely. "No; but only because you tell her to refuse. She simply obeys out of habit. You are undertaking a heavy responsibility. Ah! Why punish these children because I behaved like a fool years ago, when I knew no better?"

Madame sank on the seat under the elm. Was he right? Had she acted in mere selfishness? Was she breaking Marjolaine's heart only to gratify something very like spite?

Lord Otford leant over her, and now there was a ring of passion in his voice. "And why punish me now, so late? Is it not possible for me to atone--Lucy?"

"Lord Otford!" she cried, trying to rise.

"Don't stop me now! Don't go away!" he entreated, motioning her back. "Ah! we are poor creatures at best! We go blindly past our happiness. Let us hark back, Lucy, and try to find the trail we missed!"

"We!" cried Madame.

"I."

Madame was profoundly stirred. His voice had not changed at all in all those years: just so had he murmured passionate words in the old vicarage garden. She must take care, or she would fall under the spell of it again--and that must not be. She must take care; harden her heart; put on a panoply of steel.

"I have been quite happy," she said at last, very defiantly.

"I know it," he answered, "and I am glad to know it."

"But I purchased my happiness dearly." She turned on him with bitter resentment. "You have never realised the suffering you inflicted on me!"

"I can imagine it," he answered, almost voicelessly.

"No, you cannot," she retorted. "Only those who have gone through it can imagine it. Ah! think of pride insulted; ideals smirched; faith trampled on; tenderness turned back on itself!"

"I know it all," he murmured.

Madame went on, more as if she were communing with herself. "Nature is very strong, very merciful. I had not forgotten! Never, for one moment! But life covered the memory." She paused a moment, sunk in thought. When she spoke again it was in a gentler voice. "Then Jules came, and offered me his companionship. I gave him all I could, and he was content. Oh! the good, true, generous man!"

Once more Lord Otford winced; but he contrived to say with genuine feeling, "I honour him." After all, Jules was dead.

"And I honour his memory," said Madame, gravely.

Lord Otford spoke very earnestly. "We are quite frank, Lucy: you loved your husband; I loved my wife--"

"And there is no more to be said," concluded Madame, rising, with a little sigh.

"Ah! but there is!" he exclaimed, standing and facing her. "Face your own soul, Lucy, and tell me: did the thought of the old vicarage garden at Otford never haunt you?"

She looked straight into his eyes. "Never with any suggestion of disloyalty to Jules," she said firmly.

"That I am sure of. But it came. I know." He dropped his voice, came closer, and spoke with deep feeling. "Lucy, Lucy, it was always there! It never left you, as it never left me! It was the fragrant refuge, into which we crept in our solitary moments--never with disloyalty on your side or mine--but for consolation, for rest. Is that true?"

"It was merely the echo of an old song--" she murmured, under her breath.

"But how sweet! How tender!"

"And how sad!" Her strength was going. Every word he said seemed to draw the strength out of her. Her heart yearned to him; her whole soul cried out for him; and only her will resisted. She made one more effort. "No! No!" she cried, "I banished the memories! I banish them now!"

"You could not! You cannot!" he whispered, passionately. "No one can!--Think of these two children: Marjolaine and Jack. Suppose we part them now: suppose they go their different ways: do you think either of them will forget the flowing river, the sheltering elm, or the words they have whispered under it? Never!--Lucy, Lucy--" he was bending over her where she sat, and his voice had all the old thrill--"though we go astray from first love; though we undervalue it; yes! though we desecrate it, it never dies!--On revient toujours a ses premiers amours!"

But the years that had flown! the unrelenting years! what of them?

"We cannot retrace our steps," she said, sadly, "we cannot undo suffering; we cannot win back innocence."

"We can!" he cried. "We started from the garden; we have been a long journey with all its chances and adventures; and now we are at the garden gate again: the flowers we loved are beckoning to us; the birds we loved are calling us; we have but to lift the latch--Lucy, shall we not open the gate and enter the garden?"

"We cannot recall the sunrise--"

"But the sunset can be as beautiful!"

"We are old," she said; but her voice had no conviction. As a matter of fact, at that particular moment she felt she was eighteen.

"I deny it!" he laughed. He felt assured of victory. "Do I feel old? Do you look old?--I can't vault a five-barred gate, but I can open it and get on the other side just as quickly!"

She looked up at him with a wistful smile. "But--but there are other things--"

"There is, above all, happiness! If we have no children of our own, Lucy, we shall have our grandchildren."

"No!" she cried, rising, and shaking her head. "I have been too persuasive. Marjolaine's love has been nipped in the bud. And besides, Jack has run away from her."

"Not he, if I know the young rascal!" He took both her hands in his. "You tell me Marjolaine is well and happy?"

"Yes; but hysterical. You saw for yourself, just now."

"Is she a flighty coquette?"

"Certainly not!"

"Then I 'll bet you a new hat--No! a diamond tiara!--she knows where Jack is, and there 's an understanding between them!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Madame, as the possibility of this idea struck her.

"Lucy!" cried Lord Otford, drawing her to him, "both couples shall be married on the same day!"

You have no idea how pretty Madame looked in her confusion and happiness. You have no idea how young and handsome Lord Otford looked in his victory. Love had set the clock back for both of them--and they were young man and young maid again.

What had become of Madame's resentment? What had become of all the arguments she had thought of when he first began to speak? His voice had effaced them all. It was so natural to be loved by him and to love him, that no other thing seemed possible. She had nothing to say. She could only breathe a great sigh of contentment as he touched her: she felt as if she had parted with him in the garden only last night; and to-night he had come again; and all was as it should be; and all was well.

But suddenly she started away from him.

"Jack!" she cried, with horror, "we shall have to tell them!"

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Otford with comic dismay.

"I can't face Marjolaine!" said Madame, with a pretty blush, which, however, was wasted in the darkness.

"Jack'll roast me properly!" groaned Lord Otford.

"You see it's hopeless! We've been telling them how utterly impossible their marriage is, and now we propose to get married ourselves! How they 'll laugh at us!"

"Let 'em!" cried Lord Otford. "By Gad, it shall be happy laughter!" And therewith he drew Madame into his arms and kissed her; and I cannot honestly say she resisted.

But they were interrupted by Doctor Sternroyd, who at that very moment came stumbling out of his house. Also the Eyesore and Jim came round the corner together, with their arms affectionately round each other's necks and every symptom of having spent the larger part of Mrs. Poskett's bribes. The Eyesore found his box with difficulty and sank on it with relief. It was with a shaky hand he took up his rod and fell to fishing again. Jim meandered deviously into the Admiral's house.

"Sh!" whispered Madame, warningly, as she saw the antiquary. She turned to him with that preternatural calmness which ladies know so well how to assume under such circumstances, and said, alluding to something he was carrying in his hand, "Why, Doctor, are you fetching milk so late? I can give you some."

"No, Ma'am," said the Doctor, with suppressed rage. "I am not seeking the lacteal fluid. As you see me, I, the Reverend Jacob Sternroyd, Doctor of Divinity and Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, am on my way to procure Ale!--" And with a face expressive of the utmost disgust he held out a very diminutive white milk-jug.

"Oh!" said Madame, with a tinge of astonishment. Then, in order to account for the presence of a stranger, she added, "This is Lord Otford."

With a cry of "Good Heavens!" the conscience-stricken Doctor let the jug fall. Happily it fell on the lawn and was not damaged.

With native courtesy Lord Otford picked it up and handed it to its owner. "Allow me: your jug, I think." Then, as a sudden idea occurred to him, "By the way, Doctor--" he cast a meaning glance at Madame--"can you tell me anything about a marriage-licence?"

Madame looked down, with another very becoming blush: but the Doctor's behaviour was quite extraordinary. He threw up his hands in guilty despair. "I said so! I knew it would come out!--" He appealed to Madame. "Miss Barbara told you!"

"Yes--but--" answered Madame, puzzled and astonished.

The Doctor continued rapidly, while the couple could only stare at him in mute amazement.

"I wash my hands of it! Two whole days, one of which was the blessed Sabbath, I have been up to my neck in cabals and intrigues! I have done!--" He fumbled in his pockets and ultimately produced a legal-looking document. "My Lord, it was very kind of you to approach the subject so considerately, but here is what you ask for. His Grace was very reluctant, but the pipe, which I now fear was not genuine, did it." Then, as if he had unburdened himself of some oppressive load of guilt, he cried, "Hah! My conscience is white again! I will tell the young fire-brand!" And with that he hurried back into the house, calling, "Jack! Jack!"

"But what is all this?" cried Lord Otford. He unfolded the paper and took it under the lamp. As soon as he had read the first lines, he gave a cry of amused surprise. "What do you say now, Lucy?"--Then he read aloud, "John Sayle, of Pomander Walk, in the Parish of Chiswick, bachelor, and Marjolaine Lachesnais, also of Pomander Walk, spinster--"

"Under our very noses!" exclaimed Madame, half vexed and half amused.