Part 6

The servants of the Walk were very busy this Saturday morning. Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, was explaining to Abigail, Mrs. Poskett's little maid, that nothing should persuade her to continue wearing the Charity-School costume after she had risen to the dignity of domestic service. Jim was feverishly polishing the Admiral's little brass cannon. That brass cannon was the apple of the Admiral's remaining eye; and at the same time the plague of his life. On every state occasion, such as the King's birthday, or the anniversary of the Battle of Copenhagen, he would, to the great terror of the Walk, have it out, plant it pointing truculently to the opposite side of the river and, standing well away from it, apply a match. This was always an agonised moment of suspense for the Walk. But invariably the gun refused to go off. The Admiral's expletives, however, supplied an efficient substitute. I am sorry to say the failure to explode was always due to an act of treachery on Jim's part. The Walk subscribed five shillings towards that ancient mariner's liquid refreshment, and the ancient mariner withdrew the charge in the dead of night. To-day he was polishing the gun well in view of all the houses. The King's birthday was approaching, and the Walk needed a gentle reminder that unless it wished to be stunned and to have all its windows broken, now was the time to start the usual collection.

Nanette came out of Number Four, carrying a rug and a bamboo cane, evidently bent on beating the former on the lawn. Jane drew Jim's attention to her. Then began a battle of tongues. Jim tried to explain that this was not allowed. If she wanted to beat the rug, she must do so in the back garden. Words, none of which either could understand, grew high; Abigail and Jane joined in, and the place became a veritable Babel of screaming voices and of wildly waving arms.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn opened his window violently. "What's all this?" he cried; and he was such an amazing apparition that the voices sank to sudden silence and the servants rushed, helter-skelter, into their respective houses.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was finishing his toilet. He was brushing his hair. It stood out on each side of his head like a sort of double mane, and his face looked exactly like the representations of a flaming sun on the cover of an almanac. He was carrying on a conversation with Selina, and both he and his wife were evidently in a bad humour.

"But, my own Selina," said he, "what was I to do? Be reasonable. I only wrote and told his lordship the boy was carrying on a clandestine love-affair.--No, of course I did n't sign the letter.--None of my business?--Now, Selina, if I had n't wrote he 'd have come again, and all would have been disclosed. We should have been obleeged to leave the Walk.--Drat the Walk?--Oh! fie! That is not how my ring-dove customarily coos.--What? soft words butter no parsnips?--Selina, Selina--! Does my Selina think she is in her kitchen?--Yes; I know I 've made Miss Marjory very unhappy; but we must make other people unhappy, if we 're to be happy ourselves. I 'm sorry for her, very sorry. She's a sweet creature." There was a sound of a broken tea-cup. "There you go again!--You scold me for making her unhappy, and you scold me for being sorry. There 's no pleasing you anyhow!"

In his perplexity he had brushed his hair over the top of his head, and now he looked like an angry cockatoo.

Marjolaine came slowly and dejectedly out of her house. She heard Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's voice and glanced up at him, but even his wild and wonderful appearance failed to draw a smile from her. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could not retire, much as he would have liked to. He waved a conciliatory hair-brush at her, and cried with assumed cheerfulness, "Ah, Miss Marjory--! How do you do?" then in response to some remark from his wife, he turned and whispered peevishly, "I must speak to her; it's only polite. Don't snivel." He addressed Marjolaine again, deprecatorily, "You are looking a little pale."

Marjolaine drew herself up. It was intolerable that anybody should see she was in trouble.

"I never felt better in my life," she said defiantly.

"But more like the lily than the rose?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn with a fine touch of lyricism; and then to Selina, "No; I am not talking nonsense! It was a quotation."

"How is Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn this morning?" asked Marjolaine.

"In the highest spirits!" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "My dear Selina," he explained, turning towards the room, "Miss Marjory is kind enough to ask after your health, and I am telling her you are in the highest spirits. Do--not--snivel--she 'll hear you!" To Marjolaine, with a ghastly smile, "Her gaiety is infectious; positively infectious!" Some hard object, thrown with unerring aim, caught him in the small of the back. "Oh, Lord!" he cried. "Excuse me, Miss Marjory; Selina has just remembered a joke she wishes to tell me. Thus the hours pass in innocent mirth and badinage. Excuse me!" He turned away. "You really _are_--!" he cried, almost viciously; and slammed the window, and disappeared.

But Marjolaine never smiled. She moved as one who had no particular object in life. She drifted instinctively towards the river-bank although she knew that strain her eyes as she might the little boat she had looked for all the week was now less likely than ever to appear. At one moment she seemed almost inclined to speak to the Eyesore; to ask him whether he had seen what she had so long been vainly looking for. But the Eyesore was at that instant impaling a worm, and was altogether too revolting. She stood a moment looking up and down the stream, and then turned away with a great sigh.

Mrs. Poskett's great yellow cat, Sempronius, was curled up in the sun just behind the Gazebo. Marjolaine looked at him. She and he were fast friends, and in happier times she would have had a friendly word for him and an affectionate caress. To-day, even that was too much of an effort. Fortunately Sempronius was asleep and did not notice her inattention.

Sir Peter Antrobus opened his upstair window and hung the osier cage with the thrush in it on its nail. He caught sight of the disconsolate little figure. "Missie, ahoy!" he roared, as though he were hailing a friendly craft in the offing. Marjolaine started.

"Oh, Sir Peter! You made me jump!"

"Sent a shot across your bows--what?" roared the Admiral.

"How's the thrush?" asked Marjolaine with an interest she did not feel.

"Peaky. Peaky. That confounded cat next door's been watching him. Seen him about anywhere?"

Marjolaine pointed to where Sempronius was lying wrapped in innocent slumber. "He's quite safe," she said. "There."

But the Eyesore was between him and Sir Peter, and the latter had to twist himself into what was for so portly a gentleman a very unnatural position in order to see him. "Eh? Where?"

"There," she answered, "there, behind the--" she was just going to say "Eyesore," but stopped herself in time. "Behind the Gazebo."

"Oh, there! Well, if he moves I'll kill him!"

Marjolaine wondered. Could Sir Peter tell her what she so much wanted to know? Could he, at least, be brought to talk about what her heart was full of?

"Sir Peter," she said, with as much of her old cheerfulness as she could summon, and with that pretty way of hers which no one could resist, "Are you very busy? Could you spare time for a little chat?"

"With you?" cried the Admiral, gallantly. "Hours!" He vanished from the window and was heard tumbling down his stairs two at a time. I believe if he had been only a few years younger he would have slid down the balustrade. Jim told Jane later in the day he had never seen anything like it.

Marjolaine waited for him under the elm, and pondered how she was to lead the conversation round to what she wanted to hear.

The Admiral burst out of his house. For once he took no notice of the Eyesore. The cat, however, did arrest his attention. Sempronius, scenting an enemy, was blinking at him out of one eye. Sempronius' attitude towards the Admiral was one of armed neutrality. He knew Sir Peter bore him no good-will, but he also knew Sir Peter dare not touch him. Wherefore, although he kept a wary look-out, even the Admiral's threatening gesture was not enough to make him stir from his sunny corner.

Sir Peter came to Marjolaine.

"He's sitting there, watching the Eyesore like a tiger. Shows cats have no sense. 'Pears to think the Eyesore's going to catch a fish! Ha! Never caught a fish in his born days!" He took both Marjolaine's hands in his. "Well, Missie; what can I do for you?"

"Talk to me," said Marjolaine.

Sir Peter was flattered and delighted. Their little Missie was coming to life again. "Ah!--tell ye what," he said, swinging her hands, "If we had that fiddler here, we might practise the hornpipe!" He whistled gaily and tried to force her into the step.

"No, no!" she cried, breaking away from him; and then, more gently, "No: not to-day!"

The Admiral looked at her anxiously out of his one eye. "Oh?" said he, sympathetically, "In the doldrums?"

"Sir Peter," she cried, impulsively, "was you ever broken-hearted?"

"Lord bless your pretty eyes, yes! Every time I left port."

"Ah! but did the world seem like an empty husk? and did you want to sit down and cry your eyes out?"

This was much worse than the Admiral had anticipated. He must try to make her laugh.

"Well, ye see, I could only have cried one out, was it ever-so!"

"Then what did you do? How did you cure yourself?"

"Why, with a jorum of rum, to be sure!"

Marjolaine was disappointed. "Oh!--I can't do that!"

Sir Peter came closer. "What? Are you broken-hearted?"

Good heavens! What had she been saying? Had she given away her precious secret?

"Certainly not!" she answered, with flaming cheeks. "Of course not. It's nothing. Only somebody--somebody has broken their word."

"Look-a-that, now!" cried the Admiral, puzzled. "But I'll cure you! I'll tell you a story. Something funny. How I lost my eye--what?" He drew her down beside him on the seat under the elm. "Ye see, it was on board o' the _Termagant_--"

"When you was with Nelson?" asked Marjolaine.

"Ay. Battle o' Copenhagen; year Eighteen-one."

Here was a possible opening. At any rate Marjolaine would try.

"I suppose you had many officers under you?" she insinuated.

"Hundreds!" cried Sir Peter, enthusiastically; and then, feeling he had conveyed an exaggerated impression, "well--when I say hundreds--!" his memory awoke. "Ah! I was somebody, then!--But this infernal government--!"

Marjolaine laid her hand soothingly on his arm. "I suppose some of them were quite young?" she said, with splendidly assumed indifference. Every woman is a born actress.

"Middies?" cried the Admiral, with magnificent contempt. "Lord love ye, I took no notice o' them! Passel o' powder-monkeys!" Then he added with a touch of tender recollection, "Not but what Jack Sayle--"

"Jack what?" said Marjolaine quickly, as if she had not heard.

"Sayle. Jack Sayle. You know. Young feller I presented to your lady-mother a week ago. Time she swooned--"

"Oh, yes."

"Gobblessmysoul! I was startled! I thought--"

The Admiral must not be allowed to wander from the only topic that mattered. Marjolaine interrupted him. "Was he on your ship?"

"What, Jack Sayle? Ay, was he. And a fine young feller, too. Of course you was much too agitated to notice him last Saturday. Gad! I wonder he has n't been to see me all the week. Promised he would. Said he 'd come last Monday."

"Did he?" cried Marjory. So he had broken his word in two places!

"He did. There! He's only on leave, and he has heavy social duties. Only son of Lord Otford, y' know."

"Lord Otford!" Marjolaine repeated, amazed. The name and the title somehow impressed her with a sense of vague fear.

"Ay, ay," the unconscious Admiral proceeded garrulously. "My old friend. Otford's selfish about him. Ye see, the boy 'll come into a great estate. Half a county. And the old man's anxious about his marriage."

"Whose marriage?" asked Marjory, almost voicelessly.

"Why, Jack's, to be sure!--Lord!--they marry 'em now before they 're out of their swaddling clothes. Otford's in a hurry to secure the succession--" He stopped abruptly. This was really not a subject to discuss with a young girl. "Hum!--what I was about to say--er--the Honourable Caroline Thring--!"

"Caroline Thring"--Marjolaine repeated the name to herself. It was a name to remember.

"Ay--daughter and sole heiress of Lord Wendover. Not my sort. Goes about doing good--like the party last Saturday. But the two estates 'll cover the county. It's an undoubted match--"

Marjolaine had heard all she wanted--and more. She felt she would break down if the Admiral went on. She looked all around the Walk for help; for some excuse to break off the conversation. There was only Sempronius. "I think--" she just gave herself time to make up her mind as to what she could think--"I think I saw Sempronius stirring!"

Sir Peter jumped up. "Damn that cat!" he cried--"Beg pardon!--I'll--" But the golden-haired Sempronius was sound asleep with his bushy tail over his nose.

Whether the Eyesore was shocked by the Admiral's bad language--which seems unlikely--or whether he was moved by his usual thirst, he dropped his fishing-rod, and vanished round the corner.

The Admiral hurried back.

"No. He 's quiet enough." He saw Marjolaine's sad face and added, "Gobblessmysoul! Here I 've been boring you about a young feller you don't know--" To his amazement Marjolaine turned her face away abruptly. The Admiral stopped short. Why did she turn away? Was it possible that--? How long had Jack been in the Walk when he met him a week ago? "_Do_ you know him?" said he. Marjolaine was silent. Sir Peter gave a low whistle. He took her gently by the shoulder and turned her towards him. "Here, I say, young woman--You just look me in the eye." He pointed to his good one. "This eye." Marjolaine stood before him in confusion. It made her angry to feel confused. Why should she feel confused? "I--I have seen him once," she answered bravely.

"Have you, begad!--So that's what he was cruising about here for, was it?--But I'll teach him!"

Marjolaine was very angry indeed. "Sir Peter!" she flashed at him, "If you breathe it, I 'll never speak to you again!"

"D' ye think I 'll have him coming here--?"

"But he's not coming here!" cried Marjolaine; and with a meaning of her own: "Oh, don't you see he's not coming?--Swear you won't breathe a word to a living soul! Swear! Swear!"

"Damme!" cried the Admiral. "I must think that over. And as for you," he added, with humorous sternness, "you come and sit under the tree and I 'll talk to you like a Dutch uncle."

Marjolaine saw Mrs. Poskett at her window. It would not do for Sir Peter to talk to her like an uncle--Dutch or otherwise. "Sir Peter!" she cried, "Sempronius is going to jump!"

Sir Peter rushed to the cat again, and again found him sound asleep. He turned furiously towards Marjolaine, but Mrs. Poskett intercepted him. "Good morning, Sir Peter!"

Sir Peter looked up, where the widow was shaking the ribbons of her cap at him. "Morning, ma'am," he said, sulkily. "Your cat--"

"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Poskett, craning forward to see her pet. "Dear Sempronius!--Don't disturb him! He's so happy!"

"But--!"

"I 'm sure it's going to rain," the widow explained. "He always sits there when he feels rain coming; because the fish rise, and he loves watching them."

"Confounded nonsense," growled Sir Peter.

Mrs. Poskett closed her window, and Sir Peter was on the point of returning to Marjolaine and having it out with her, when Madame Lachesnais came out of her house. Of course that made all conversation with the girl impossible, and as he did not feel he could meet the mother, knowing what he now knew, there was nothing left for him but to salute her and beat a hasty retreat into his own house and think things over.

*CHAPTER VII*

*SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF*

Engrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week; but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains. Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time--long ago: twenty years ago and more--when she herself had looked and spoken and moved, just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for that. In Marjolaine's case there could be no reason. No one had crossed her young life--or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant memories of her own youth!--Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable. Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure? In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders. And, to be sure, her own father--she had lost her mother in early youth--had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl's sentimental nonsense. But she--had she paid enough attention to her daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man--Jack Sayle, of all people in the world!--had won Marjolaine's heart, why, here were the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind. Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however, and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and would do it.

She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her shoulders and gently called her by her name.

The touch of her mother's arm, the sound of her mother's voice let loose the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms round her mother's waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat down beside her and drew her very close. "Cherie--my darling! What is the matter?"

Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed the tears from her eyes, as she answered--"Nothing, Maman. I think--it is so beautiful here!--So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a little on your heart."

There was a sad smile on Madame's face. As if you cried because the sun was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week? Cry, my darling, and tell me."

"There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs. "Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the river. "There was something; but--" and down went her head on her mother's breast--"there is nothing now."

Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!--I tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were parted."

"Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no longer exists. It has"--she made one of her quaint little gestures--"it has--evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her face.

Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then, there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young girl's heart? "Ah, cherie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists: it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you tell me."

Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and anxious to speak, she had nothing to say.

"Tell me," repeated Madame.

"I can't, Maman."

"Why not?"

"I cannot begin alone: I don't know how."

"Shall I help you, Marjolaine?"

"Can you?"

Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively.

"Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger, that young man--"

There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet. Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her, the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"--she spoke quietly but intensely--"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and--" her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had stood--"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on! And all the time my heart was singing!--He told me his name; and my heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her voice sank to an awed whisper. "And--Mother!--I seemed to step out of childhood suddenly, into--into what, Mother?--What was it?"

"Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far, so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour. Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had stepped across the threshold of childhood.

But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again--but he never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet. "He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried away!--Oh, mother, what is it?"

Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us, poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"