The Astonishing History of Troy Town. Arthur Quiller-Couch
performers, on retiring, had curtseyed in acknowledgment of the Vicar's customary remark about the "Three Graces "; the Admiral had wrung from his double-bass the sounds we had learnt to identify with elfin merriment (though suggestive, rather, of seasick mutineers under hatches), and our literary collector, Mr. Moggridge, was standing up to recite a trifle of his own—"flung off"—as he explained, "not pruned or polished."
The hush in the drawing-room was almost painful—for in those days we all admired Mr. Moggridge—as the poet tossed back a stray lock from his forehead, flung an arm suddenly out at right angles to his person, and began sepulchrally—
"Maiden"—
(Here he looked very hard at Miss Lavinia Limpenny.)
"Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard
Beside yon grassy mound?
The night hath fallen, the rain is raining hard
Damp is the ground."
Mrs. Buzza shivered, and began to weep quietly.
"Maiden, why claspest thou that cold, cold stone
Against thy straining breast?
Tell me, what dost thou at this hour alone?
(Persuasively) The lambs have gone to rest. The maiden lifted up her tearful gaze, And thus she made reply: 'My mother, sir, is—'"
But the secret of her conduct remains with Mr. Moggridge, for at this moment the door opened, and the excited head of Sam Buzza, the Admiral's only son, was thrust into the room.
"I say, have you heard the news? 'The Bower' is let."
"What!"
All eyes were fixed on the newcomer. The Vicar woke up. Even the poet, with his arm still at right angles and the verse arrested on his lips, turned to stare incredulously.
"It's a fact; I heard it down at the Man-o'-War Club meeting, you know," he explained. "Goodwyn-Sandys is his name, the Honourable Goodwyn-Sandys, brother to Lord Sinkport—and what's more, he is coming by the mid-day train to-morrow."
The poet's arm dropped like a railway signal. There was a long pause, and then the voices broke out all together—
"Only fancy!"
"There now!"
"'The Bower' let at last!"
"An Honourable, too!"
"What is he like?"
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I never did!"
"Miss Limpenny," gasped the Admiral, at length, "where is your Burke?"
It lay between the "Cathedrals of England" and "Gems of Modern Art"; under the stereoscope. Miss Lavinia produced it.
"Let me see," said the Admiral, turning the pages. "Sinkport—Sinkport—here we are—George St. Leonards Goodwyn-Sandys, fourth baron—H'm, h'm, here it is—only brother, Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys, b. 1842—married—"
"Married!"
"1876—Geraldine, eighth daughter of Sheil O'Halloran of Kilmacuddy Court, County Kerry—blank space for issue—arms: gules, a bar sinist—Ahem! Well, upon my word!"
"I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Buzza, after the excitement had cooled a little—"I'm sure I only hope they will settle down to our humble ways."
"Emily," snapped her husband, "you speak like a fool. Pooh! Let me tell you, ma'am, that our ways in Troy are not humble!"
Outside, in Miss Limpenny's back garden, the laurestinus bushes sighed as they caught those ominous words. So might Eden have sighed, aware of its serpent.
CHAPTER II.
HOW AN ADMIRAL TOOK ONE GENTLEMAN FOR ANOTHER,
AND WAS TOLD THE DAY OF THE MONTH.
Next morning, almost before the sun was up, all Troy was in possession of the news; and in Troy all that is personal has a public interest. It is this local spirit that marks off the Trojan from all other minds.
In consequence long before ten o'clock struck, it was clear that some popular movement was afoot; and by half-past eleven the road to the railway station was crowded with Trojans of all sorts and conditions—boatmen, pilots, fishermen, sailors out of employ, the local photographer, men from the ship-building yards, makers of ship's biscuit, of ropes, of sails, chandlers, block and pump manufacturers, loafers—representatives, in short, of all the staple industries: women with baskets—women with babies, women with both, even a few farmers in light gigs with their wives, or in carts with their families, a sprinkling from Penpoodle, across the harbour—high and low, Church and Dissent, with children by the hundred. Some even proposed to ring the church bells and fire the cannon at the harbour's mouth; but the ringers and artillerymen preferred to come and see the sight. As it was, the "George" floated proudly from the church tower, and the Fife and Drum Temperance Band stood ready at the corner of East Street. All Troy, in fact, was on tip-toe.
Meanwhile, as few in the crowd possessed Burke or Debrett, the information that passed from mouth to mouth was diverse and peculiar, but, as was remarked by a laundress in the crowd to a friend: "He may be the Pope o' Rome, my dear, an' he may be the Dook o' Wellington, an' not a soul here wud know t'other from which no mor'n if he was Adam. All I says is—the Lord send he's a professin' Christian, an' has his linen washed reg'lar. My! What a crush! I only wish my boy Jan was here to see; but he's stayin' at home, my dear, cos his father means to kill the pig to-day, an' the dear child do so love to hear'n screech."
The Admiral, who happened by the merest chance to be sauntering along the Station Road this morning, in his best blue frock-coat with a flower in the buttonhole, corrected some of the rumours, but without much success. Finding the throng so thick, he held a long debate between curiosity and dignity. The latter won, and he returned to No. 2, Alma Villas, in a flutter, some ten minutes before the train was due.
By noon the crowd was growing impatient. But hardly had the church clock chimed the hour when the shriek of a whistle was heard from up the valley. Amid wild excitement a puff of white smoke appeared, then another, and finally the mid-day train steamed serenely into the station.
As it drew up, a mild spectacled face appeared at the window of a first-class carriage, and asked—
"Is this Troy?"
"Yessir—terminus. Any luggage, sir?"
The mild face got out. It belonged to the only stranger in the train.
"There is only a black portmanteau," said he. "Ah, that is it. I shall want it put in the cloakroom for an hour or two while I go into the town."
The stranger gave up his ticket—a single ticket—and stepped outside the station. He was a mild, thin man, slightly above middle height, with vacant eyes and a hesitating manner. He wore a black suit, a rather rusty top-hat, and carried a silk umbrella.
"Here he comes!"
"Look, that's him!"
"Give 'un a cheer, boys."
"Hip, hip, hoor-roar!"
The sound burst upon the clear sky in a deafening peal. The stranger paused and looked confused.