Part 5

Marjolaine had left the "Adventures of Telemachus" on the seat in the Gazebo. Under ordinary circumstances Jack would have avoided picking up a book; but this was her book; it had been in her hands; her eyes had looked at it; it was not so much a book as a part of the little goddess; so he picked it up tenderly and tenderly opened it. There, on the fly-page, was a name.--"Lucy Pryor"--Of course! Her name! Lucy Pryor--just the sort of pretty, simple name she would have. Aha! but now he'd astonish her! She should find he had carved her name, after all! Out came his sailor's knife, and to work he went, and as he carved he sang a little song to himself, the words of which were, "Lucy, Lucy, Lucy Pryor." He was not a poet.

The Eyesore came slowly round the corner. Seeing the little lady was no longer on the seat, he drew his line out of the water--I need hardly record the fact that there was no fish on it. With a sigh he seated himself on his box, with his back to the Walk; patiently he placed a new worm on the empty hook, and in a moment he was immersed in his contemplative occupation. There was utter silence in the Walk.

Then the upstairs window of Number Five was thrust open and Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, at his ease in his shirt-sleeves, and enjoying a church-warden pipe, leant out. He was evidently conversing with his wife, and was in his tenderest mood.

"What a pity, my dearest Selina, you are temporarily deprived of the use of your limbs! The river is flowing by--What? Do I expect it to stop? No, of course I don't. Why check my musings? I say, the river is flowing by. Not a living thing is in sight except the Eyesore; and he enhances the beauty of his surroundings by sheer contrast. My smoke does not incommode you, my own?--You can bear it?--Dear soul! Am I the man to deprive you of an innocent pleasure?--"

He might have gone on all the afternoon in this strain, but at this moment Marjolaine came very cautiously out of her house carrying a tray on which was a bottle of claret, a tumbler, and a cake. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was immediately absorbed in this new and inexplicable phenomenon. What could it mean? He watched Marjolaine half-way across the lawn. Then in his softest and most caressing tones he exclaimed, "Why, Miss Marjory--!" Marjolaine gave a little cry and very nearly let all the things drop. She stood aghast.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn continued, "Is your mother in the Gazebo?"

Before Marjolaine could think of anything to say she had said "No."

"Indeed?--Then why this genteel refection?" Here Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was forced to look over his shoulder into the room and answer the invisible Selina. "Yes, my own. I am speaking to Miss Marjory."

Meanwhile Jack was signalling frantically to Marjolaine, who, on her part, was as frantically motioning him to keep still. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn again leant forward, and Jack vanished only just in time.

Marjolaine explained. "I--I always take a little refreshment at this hour."

It was quite obvious that Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn did not believe her.

"How singularly unobservant I am! I have never noticed it. Wait one moment. I 'll come and help you."

This would never do. "No, thank you," cried Marjolaine, "I am sure your wife wants you." And she added, as a parting shot, "She sees so little of you!"

Then taking her courage in both hands she hurried into the Gazebo, where she and Jack stood, pictures of horror, silently awaiting Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's next move.

The latter leant far out of his window vainly endeavouring to peer round the corner. "Curious, very curious," he muttered.

"Did you hear him?" asked Marjory, in a tragic whisper.

"If he comes here I 'll punch his head," growled Jack.

"Be quiet!"--And again they both listened.

But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's attention was engaged by Selina, and it was clear from his remarks that the dear lady was not in her pleasantest humour. "No, my dear, of course I did n't mean to go.--_Do_ you think her an ugly little thing?--Matter of taste.--Oh, come! Not jealous, my own one?--Hold your hand?--Oh, certainly, if you wish it!" And down came the window with a crash and what sounded very like a fine Saxon monosyllable.

Marjolaine and Jack, hearing the window close, uttered a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness!" cried Marjolaine; and then, being a daughter of Eve, "Now you see what you 've done!"

"'Pon my honour, I 've done nothing. Just waited hours."

"Hours, indeed!" said the girl, scornfully.

"It seemed hours," answered Jack, insinuatingly. "It seemed hours--Miss--Lucy Pryor."

"Lucy Pryor? Oh! you got that out of the book! That was Maman's name before she married. My name's Lachesnais."

"Beg pardon?"

"La-ches-nais. Marjolaine Lachesnais. You don't pronounce the middle _s_."

"Are you French?"

"My father was." She had filled the tumbler with claret and was holding it out to Jack. "Never mind about all that. Make haste."

Jack rose to his feet, tumbler in hand.

"Marjolaine--? That means Marjoram, does n't it?"

"Do you know French?"

Jack bowed as he swallowed the claret. He swallowed unwisely. It was a lady's claret, and that and a lady's cigar are things to be avoided by the judicious. Indeed Jack was shaken from head to foot by a convulsive shudder. "Oh Lord!" said he involuntarily. But he pulled himself together like a man. "I beg pardon!--Know French? Very little. Marjoram--sweet Marjoram--how appropriate!"

Marjolaine was eyeing him with grave suspicion. "You are not drinking. It is Maman's claret!"

Jack gazed stonily at his half-empty tumbler. "Does she--does she take this for her health?"

"Yes. As medicine."

"As medicine--I understand."

"You said you were thirsty."

"It's a wonderful wine. Quenches your thirst at once." He put the glass away from him.

"Take some cake?" said Marjolaine.

She had forgotten to bring a knife, so Jack, sailorlike, broke the cake in two pieces.

"I say!" he cried, "you must have some too, or I shall feel greedy!" And there they sat, like two children, contentedly munching and swinging their legs.

"I shall call you Marjory," said Jack, between two bites.

"They all do," answered Marjolaine, with her mouth full.

"Do they?" asked Jack ferociously. "Who?"

Marjolaine waved her cake at the Walk in general. "Oh--the neighbours."

"Impudence!" growled Jack. But he recovered quickly. "I say! Isn't this delightful?"

"It's very strange. Do you know, you are the first young man I 've ever spoken to, in all my life?"

Jack's eyes expressed his joy. "No!--that's first-rate!"

Marjolaine stared at him with astonishment. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I hate young men."

"Then you ought to live here. Here--everybody is--oh!--so old!"

"Poor little girl," said Jack, with deep sympathy.

"Why?"

"Must be so lonely."

"Oh, no! One cannot feel lonely where there 's a river. Twice every day it brings down news from the meadows, where the flowers are, and the cattle, standing knee-deep in its margin, and the _demoiselles_--how do you say?--dragonflies--and the willows, dipping their branches in it. And then, when the tide turns, it comes back from the great town, and sings of the ships and the crowded bridges, and the King and Queen taking their pleasure in great, golden barges. And the sea-gulls come with it, and it sings of the sea!"

Her eyes were flashing; her face was transfigured; Jack was leaning forward eagerly, and if there had been any loophole of escape for him before, there was certainly none now.

"Do you love the sea?"

"What do I know of it?" said she, coming to earth again. "I have only crossed from Dunkerque to Tilbury. But that was lovely! It was very rough; and I stood against the mast, and my hair blew all about, and I shouted for joy!--Oh! I should love to be a pirate!"

"Fine!" cried Jack, as excited as she. "Tell you what! We 'll charter a ship, and sweep the seas, and bang the enemy!"

"'We'?--Why, you're going away in a minute, and I shall never see you again."

There was a pause. Marjolaine's words had brought them both to a sense of reality. Finally Jack spoke, and his voice had a new ring of earnestness.

"Marjory--do you mean that?"

She turned wonderingly innocent eyes on him. "Why should you come again?"

"Think a moment. Let us both think. We are very young, and I know I 'm hasty. Let us sit quite still, and think hard whether we 'd like to meet again. Let us look at each other and not speak."

She met his look quite frankly for a moment--but only for a moment. Slowly her head sank and her eyes half closed, and when she spoke, she spoke very shyly. "I do not see why you should not come again," she whispered.

"I see why I should! I must!--But it must be differently."

"Differently--?"

"I mustn't come on the sly. I'll get an introduction."

"But none of your friends are likely to know anybody in Pomander Walk!"

Jack leaped up. "Is this Pomander Walk?" he almost shouted. "Why, that 's what I Ve been looking for all the afternoon. That's where my friend lives--the Admiral!"

It was Marjolaine's turn to be astonished.

"Not Sir Peter Antrobus!"

"Yes!--Do you know him?"

"Why, he's the King of the Walk! He lives at Number One. If you 're quite quiet you can almost hear him snoring!"

"Why, there we are then! I'm introduced! I'm on a proper footing! The whole thing's ship-shape! O Marjory, what a relief!"

"But I don't understand--"

"Yes, you do. He 's my father's oldest friend. I served under him as a middy on board the _Termagant_. I 'm very fond of him. I 'll come and see him to-morrow!"

Marjolaine clapped her hands. "And then he can introduce you to Maman!"

"Don't you see? It's grand! I'll come and see him often--every day--twice a day. If he 's out, I can sit under the elm and wait for him--with you. Oh! are n't you glad?"

"I'm very glad you 've found your old friend," she answered demurely.

"What's to-day?"

"Quintidi. Fifth Prairial. Year Thirteen--" she replied without thinking.

Jack could only stare. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh," she laughed, "I had forgotten I was in England. Saturday."

Jack's face sank. "Then to-morrow 's Sunday. Hang. Well! I'll come on Monday. Shall you be here?"

"I am always here."

"Be under the elm." He thought a moment, and then added insidiously, "Shall you your mother about to-day?"

Marjolaine hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the proper formalities had been observed. "On Monday; when you've been introduced."

"That's it!" cried Jack. "And now I'll be off." He took both her hands in his. "Good-bye. Oh, but it's good to be alive! It's good to be young! The river is good that brought me here! The sun is good that made me thirsty!"

"And the claret was good?"

"The claret--! Nectar!--Oh, Jack!--Jack!--"

Marjolaine held up the glass, still half full.

"Finish it, then."

Jack started back in horror, but seeing the dawning surprise on her face, bravely seized the tumbler and dashed it off. Thus swiftly was his perjury avenged.

"Good-bye, little Marjory. Till Monday!"

She looked up at him wistfully. "You think you will come?"

"Think!" cried Jack; and every lover's vow was in the one word.

"Slip to your boat, quickly!" cried Marjolaine, peeping round the corner of the Gazebo. But before he could move she gave a startled cry and motioned him back. For the Muffin-man had entered the Walk ringing his bell.

"Dash it! What's that?" cried Jack.

"Keep still! It's the Muffin-man!"

"I'm off!"

"Wait!" Now she was peeping through an opening in the box-wood hedge. "Jack! The whole Walk's awake! Look!"

Jack's head was very close to hers. "I can't see; your hair's in the way. Don't move!" For a moment they stood watching.

And indeed the Walk was awake. The Muffin-man's bell had acted like magic. The Admiral and Jim were already bargaining with him. Mrs. Poskett was on her doorstep with a plate in her hand. So was Ruth Pennymint. Barbara was in the garden, and Basil was telling her just how many muffins he wanted from the upstairs window; Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's maid, was waiting impatiently; and Dr. Sternroyd had come out of his house book in hand, and was making frantic signals so as not to be overlooked. And they were all talking, and gesticulating, and calling.

"By Jove!" cried Jack excitedly, "there's old Antrobus!"

"All of them! All of them!" wailed Marjolaine.

"They 're all buying muffins--greedy pigs!--They won't see me." He made as if to dash out.

Marjolaine held him back. "Yes, they will. Let me go first. I'll get them talking, and then you can slip away." But she started back with a suppressed scream.

"What now?" cried Jack.

"Maman and Nanette!"

Yes. As ill-luck would have it Madame Lachesnais and her old servant turned the corner at this moment, and with a friendly word to each of her neighbours Madame was coming slowly towards the Gazebo.

"They must not come here!" cried Marjolaine in distress. "I cannot explain you before the whole Walk!--Is my hair straight?"

"Lovely!--Monday?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm frightened."

"Monday?" insisted Jack.

"Yes! Yes!"

But meanwhile Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had come out of his house, and taking advantage of the hubbub in the Walk had crossed--shall I say like a sleuth-hound?--more like a sleuth-cat, if there be such an animal--to the Gazebo. So that when Marjolaine came forward to intercept her mother, she ran straight into his arms.

"All right, Miss Marjory," he whispered, with something very like a wink, "I'll fetch the things for you."

"No, no!" cried Marjolaine, in agony.

Her mother caught sight of her and called her.

For a moment Marjolaine stood irresolute. Then, with an almost hysterical laugh, she ran to her mother. "Me voila, Maman cherie!"

Jack was peering through the hole in the hedge, looking for a chance of escape. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn put his head slily round the corner of the Gazebo--and, sure enough, just as he had suspected--there was a young man!

What with the Muffin-man, and Madame, and Marjolaine running to and fro and button-holing everybody who seemed to be inclined to drift towards the summer-house, the Walk's attention was fully occupied. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn lifted his fat hand and brought it down with a sounding thwack on Jack's shoulder.

"What the devil--?" cried Jack, turning fiercely on his assailant. And then in amazement, "Hoskyn! By all that's improbable, old Hoskyn!"

If it were possible for a large man to shrivel, the great Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn seemed to shrivel as he recognised Jack. He could only stammer, "You, sir--you!--"

"Hoskyn!" repeated Jack. And then, suspiciously, "What the devil are you doing here?"

I hate to have to write the words, but Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had all the obsequious manner of a well-trained servant. "I beg pardon, sir," he muttered, and turned to go.

But Jack caught him by the lapel of his coat. "No, no, Hoskyn; you don't get off so easily. What are you doing here?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned sulky. "I'm living here, sir."

"The doose you are!--Well, you're in the nick of time. Be a good fellow and fetch my hat out of the boat."

"Certainly, sir," said Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. But as he started to do so, he caught sight of the Admiral. He turned to Jack and said respectfully but firmly, "I'm very sorry, Master Jack; but I can't do it."

"Why not?"

"I'm looked up to here, sir. I should lose prestige."

Jack eyed him half with suspicion and half with mockery. "I say, Hoskyn, what's your little game?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was getting angry. "What's yours, sir?" he asked defiantly.

"What the devil do you mean?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn pointed an accusing finger at the wine and the crumbs of cake. "I mean--this."

"What of it? What do you insinuate?" cried Jack fiercely.

But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's blood was up, and he was not to be intimidated. "It ain't right, sir. It ain't right for you to come here like a snake in the grass drinking claret and making love to our little Miss Marjory. I won't help you! I'll be damned if I do!"

"Do you mean I'm doing something underhand?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn looked at him sternly. "Well--ain't you, sir?"

"I'll devilish soon show you!" shouted Jack, trying to pass him.

But now Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn fell into a sudden panic. "Don't betray me, sir! Don't, sir!" he entreated, trying to stop him.

Jack thrust him roughly aside with an angry, "Out of my way!" and poor Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn sank on the seat in the summer-house, gasping, "Good Lord! He'll tell the whole Walk!"

Jack had acted on the spur of the moment; but now that he was face to face with all the inhabitants of the Walk a sudden shyness took hold of him and he stood irresolute. Marjolaine had sat down exhausted on the seat under the elm, and Madame Lachesnais was coming towards her. Little Barbara Pennymint was the first to see Jack. She gave a demure little scream and ran to the Admiral. "Look! A stranger!" Sir Peter was on his dignity at once. He came straight at Jack. "Now, sir--may I ask--?"

"Admiral," cried Jack, saluting.

"Eh," said the Admiral, fixing his one eye on the young man, "Gobblessmysoul! what a coincidence!" He seized Jack's hand and nearly wrung it off, while the whole Walk watched with amazed curiosity, and Marjolaine looked on with delight. "I'm delighted to see you, my lad!--De-lighted!" He turned to Madame Lachesnais as the social leader of the Walk. "Madame Lachesnais!" he cried, holding Jack by the hand, "Let me have the honour of presenting my gallant young friend, the Honourable Jack Sayle, son of my old friend, Lord--"

He never got any further. At the words, "Jack Sayle," Madame, who had been standing smilingly to welcome the young man, gave a sharp cry, swayed, and sank swooning in Nanette's arms.

Then what a commotion there was, to be sure! Marjolaine ran to her mother, Mrs. Poskett, Ruth and Barbara crowded round her or rushed about vaguely, crying, "Salts! Quick!" The Admiral stood petrified a moment. Then he hurried Jack towards the boat. "Get away, Jack!" Jack resisted. "But--!"

"Away with you!" insisted the Admiral in a raucous whisper. "Discretion!--They'll have to unhook her!"

But the Eyesore went on fishing.

*CHAPTER VI*

*IN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF*

The Admiral was much troubled. A week had elapsed since Madame fainted, and although the mysterious process of unhooking her, together with a dash of water on her face, and the salts, had brought her to very rapidly, a cloud had seemed to hang over the Walk since that moment. It was certainly not itself, and it had grown less like itself as the days passed. Madame was apparently quite well, yet she stayed within doors, or, if she came out, her face was more than usually sad, and she walked with slow steps, like one who bears a heavy burden of sorrow. She was not seen in church on Sunday. Marjolaine was there, bright and happy. She had assured everybody there was nothing really serious the matter with her mother: only a headache. On Monday morning Marjolaine was still her usual merry self, but as the morning wore into the afternoon and the afternoon into the evening she grew restless. The Admiral noticed that she kept on going to the river-bank and looking up and down stream as if she were expecting someone. On Tuesday she was out very early, still apparently watching. On Wednesday she grew silent, and refused to have her usual singing-lesson on the plea that she was not feeling very well. On Thursday she turned unnaturally gay, but there was a hard note in her laughter, and Sir Peter had caught her sobbing in the Gazebo. Fortunately she had not noticed him, and he was able to retire without disturbing her. But he himself was greatly disturbed. The more so as he had seen that Madame was watching her daughter intently, and that every change in Marjolaine was reflected on the elder lady's face.

Friday found Marjolaine pale and dejected; and here was midday on Saturday, and she had not yet appeared!

Could she be sickening for a serious illness? Sir Peter was nervous and anxious. He was also put out by the fact that although Jack Sayle had promised as he hurriedly rowed away, that he would come to see him on the Monday, the whole week had passed without a sign of the young lieutenant, and without any word of explanation.

But the entire Walk was nervous and anxious. It had grown so accustomed to Marjolaine's songs and merry laughter, that as she grew silent and grave, the Walk grew silent and grave with her. Mrs. Poskett's temper underwent a change for the worse, and she and Ruth Pennymint very nearly had words over a milk-can which the dairy-man had carelessly hung on the wrong railing. Ruth's ill-humour was aggravated by the behaviour of Barbara and Basil. They went about sighing and turning up the whites of their eyes; Barbara shut herself up two and three hours every day with the parrot, and Basil ground at the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata, repeating one particularly heart-rending passage so persistently that Ruth wanted to scream.

But the man who behaved most strangely of all was Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. That magnificent creature showed all the symptoms of a guilty conscience. It is true he strutted about the Walk, dressed as faultlessly as ever, swung his tassled cane with much of his old elegance, and took snuff with all the airy grace imaginable. And yet--and yet--! Somehow, his clothes seemed to hang loosely on him. Somehow, his hat, though poised at a rakish angle, no longer conveyed the old devil-may-care impression. His face no longer beamed with unassailable self-satisfaction. There was a furtive look in his eyes, as though he were constantly on the watch. It is a low comparison to apply, but if you have ever seen a dog who knows he has just stolen a piece of meat, you have seen Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. Once, when the Admiral, who was stubbornly resisting the universal depression, came up behind him unobserved and suddenly slapped him on the back, he screamed--he positively screamed. "Thought the Bow-street runners was after you?" roared the Admiral heartily. But the tone of fury with which he replied "Certainly not, sir! How dare you?" was so sincere that Sir Peter did not pursue the joke. Evidently he had indeed thought the runners were after him.

The Walk was like a drooping flower, and even the Eyesore felt the depressing influence; he fished less hopefully than ever, and it was noticed that he interrupted his fishing more frequently for excursions outside the bounds of Pomander Walk: excursions from which he returned wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and returned each time perhaps a trifle less steadily.

Now, all these good people had lost their usual good spirits and their cheery outlook on life merely because one little girl had left off laughing; and she had left off laughing because one very young man had not kept his word.