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Astonishing History of Troy Town

<h3>CHAPTER XXIII.</h3> <h3>HOW ONE LOVER TOOK LEAVE OF HIS WITS, AND TWO CAME TO THEIR SENSES.</h3> But Mr. Fogo was not to try again on the morrow. For Caleb, stealing up in the grey dawn to assure himself that his master was comfortably asleep, found him tossing in a high fever, and rowed down to Troy for dear life and the Doctor. Returning, he found that the fever had become delirium. Mr. Fogo, indeed, was sitting up in bed, and rattling off proposals of marriage at the rate of some six a minute, without break or pause. He was very red and earnest, rolled his eyes most strangely, and wandered in his address from Tamsin to Geraldine, and back again with a vehemence that gravelled all logic. "Lord ha' mussy!" cried Caleb at last. "Do 'ee hush, that's a dear. 'Tes sinful—all these gallons o' true affecshun a-runnin' to waste. You'm too lovin' by half, as Sam said when hes wife got hugged by a bear. What do 'ee think, sir?" The last sentence was addressed to the little Doctor, who, after staring at the patient for some minutes without noticeable result, nodded his head, announced that the fever must run its course, and promised to send a capable nurse up to Kit's House without delay. "Beggin' your pard'n, Doctor," interposed Caleb with firmness, "but I've a-got my orders." "Eh?" "I've a-got my orders. Plaise God, an' wi' plenty o' doctor's trade, [1] us'll pull 'un round: but nobody nusses maaster 'ceptin' you an' me—leastways, no womankind." "This is nonsensical." "Nonsensical, do 'ee say? Look 'ee here, Doctor; do 'ee think I'd trust a woman up here wi' maaster a-makin' offers o' marriage sixteen to the dozen? Why, bless 'ee, sir, her'd be down an' ha' the banns called afore night, an' maaster not fit to shake hes head, much less say as the Prayer Books orders—'I renounce mun all.' That's a woman, Doctor, an' ef any o' the genteel sex sets foot on Kit's beach I'll—I'll stone her." The Doctor gave way in the end and withdrew, promising another visit before evening. When he returned, however, at five in the afternoon, he found, with some wonder, a woman quietly installed in the sick-room. It happened thus:— Barely an hour after the Doctor's departure, Caleb, sitting at his master's bedside, heard footsteps on the gravel walk, and looked out of window. "Hist!" he called softly; and Peter Dearlove, followed by Paul, stepped round the angle of the house into sight. The Twins bore a look of the gravest perplexity and a large market basket. "Hulloa!" said Caleb, "what's up?" The pair looked at each other. At length Peter began with a serious face and unwonted formality of tone— "Es Mr. Fogo wi'in?" "Why, iss," Caleb allowed, "he's inside." "We was a-wishin' to request o' the pleasure"—here Peter looked at Paul, who nodded—"the pleasure o' an interval o' five minnits." "Interview," corrected Paul. "I misdoubts," answered his brother, "that you are wrong, Paul. I remember the expresshun 'pon the programme o' a Sleight o' Hand Entertainment, an' there et said 'Interval'—'An Interval o' Five Minnits.'" "Ef that's so," broke in Caleb from above with fine irony, "p'raps you wudn' mind handin' up your visitin' cards an' doin' the thing proper. At present maaster's busy." "Busy?" "Iss. A-makin' proposals o' marriage—which es a serious thing, an' not to be interrupted." The Twins set down the basket and stared at each other. Paul was the first to recover. "Ef 'tes fully allowable to put the question, Peter an' me wud like to knaw the young leddy's name. 'Tes makin' bould to ax, but there's a reason." "Well," said Caleb, disappearing for a moment and then poking his head forth again, "at the present moment 'tes a party answerin' to the name o' Geraldin'. A minnit agone 'twas—But maybe you'd better step up an' see for yoursel'." "What!" "Step up an' see." "Now, Peter," said the Twin, turning from Caleb to contemplate his brother, "puttin' the case (an' far be et from me to say et cudn' be) as you was payin' your addresses to a young leddy answerin' to the name o' Geraldin' (which she wudn' be call'd that, anyway), an' puttin' the case as you was a-makin' offers o' marriage, an' a pair o' twin-brothers (same as you an' me might be) walked up to the front door an' plumped in afore you'd well finished talkin' o' the weather-prospec's (bein' a slow man, though a sure)—now, what I wants to knaw es, wud 'ee like et yoursel'?" "No, I shudn'." "Well, I reckon'd not. An' that bein' so, Go's the word." "Afore Peter talks 'bout gettin' a wife," broke in Caleb, "he'd better read 'bout Peter's wife's mother. She was sick wi' a fever, I've heerd, an' so's maaster. Ef you don't believe, walk up an' see; 'cos 'tain't good for a sick man to ha' all this palaverin' outside hes windey." The Twins stared, whispered together, took off their boots, and softly entered the house. At the door of the sick-room Caleb met them. "Brain fever," he whispered, "which es on'y catchin' for them as has brains to catch et wi'." The trio stood together at the foot of the bed on which Mr. Fogo tossed and chattered. Peter and Paul looked from the sick man to their hats, and back again in silence. At length the elder Twin spoke— "I' the matter o' behavin' rum, some folks does it wi' cause an' others not so. But I reckons ef you allows as there's likely a cause, you'm 'pon the safe side—'speshully wi' Mr. Fogo. Wherefore, Caleb, what's the meanin' o' this here?" "Tamsin!" The answer came so pat from the sick man's lips that Peter fairly jumped. Caleb looked up with finger on lip and a curious smile on his weather-tanned face. "Don't leave me! Look! There are devils around me—cold white devils—devils with blank faces—no features, only flesh. Look! Sunday, Monday, Tuesday—every day with a devil, every day in the year—look, look!" "Pore soul!" whispered Paul; "an' 'tes Leap Year, too, which makes wan extry." "Don't leave me, Tamsin—don't leave me!" The sick man's voice rose to a scream. Caleb bent forward and tried to soothe him. The mahogany faces of the Twins were blanched. They whispered apart— "You was right, Peter." "Aye, more's the pity. I thought the lass misliked 'un—the bigger fool I. 'Twas on'y yestiddy I guessed more was troublin' her than her soiled gown, an' tax'd her wi' et. We used to pride oursel' on knawin' her wants afore her spoke—an' now—" Peter weakly concluded with a sigh. "Bring Tamsin down an' help me here," said Caleb, from across the room. The pair started. "That es," he went on, "ef she'll come. You heerd maaster? Well, he said purty much the same to her yestiddy; so her won't be frightened. Leastways, go an' say you'm comin' yoursel' to help nuss; 'cos ef you won't I'll nuss 'un alone, an' ef that's the case, you'm a queer pair o' Christians, as the Devil said to the two black pigs." "Fact es," hesitated Peter, "I'd a-larnt so much las' evenin' from Tamsin, though she were main loth to tell; an' Paul agreed as we'd call this mornin' an' tell Mr. Fogo as 'twarn't right for 'n to set hes thoughts 'pon Tamsin, who isn' a leddy, nor to put notions in her head as'll gi'e her pain hereafter. An' that's all 'bout et; an' us brought a whack o' vegetable produce 'long wi' us, jes' to show there was no ill-feelin's. But as et turns out, neither argyment nor vegetables bein' acceptable to a party that's sick wi' a fever, I be clane floored for what to do." "Well, now, I've a-told 'ee. An' don't let the grass grow 'neath your feet, 'cos 'twill grow fast enough over your heads some day." The Twins, unable to cope with Caleb's determination, stole noiselessly out. And thus it was that when, late in the afternoon, the little Doctor returned, he found Peter and Paul, in large blue aprons, busily helpless downstairs, and Tamsin, bright-eyed and warm of cheek, seated by the sick man's bedside. On the following morning, which the reader, should he care to calculate, will find to be Tuesday, Admiral Buzza dropped his newspaper with a start, and glared across the breakfast-table. "What is it, my love?" inquired his wife. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" "Wrong? Oh! no," replied the Admiral grimly, "nothing—wrong. Oblige me by listening to this, madam." He took up the paper and read aloud: <center> "ANOTHER DYNAMITE PLOT. A WHOLE TOWN DECEIVED—EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS. ESCAPE OF THE SUSPECTED PERSONS. THE DYNAMITE FIENDS STILL AT LARGE. </center> "The existence of another of these atrocious conspiracies aimed at the security of our public buildings and the safety of peaceful citizens, has been brought to light by certain recent occurrences at the romantic little seaport town of Troy. We have reason to believe that the suspicions of the police have been for some time aroused; and it is to their unaccountable dilatoriness we owe it that the conspirators have for the time made good their escape and still continue to menace our lives and property. It appears that some months back a couple, giving the names of the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys—" ["Really, Samuel, if you cannot eat an ordinary egg without clattering the spoon in that unseemly manner, I must ask you to suspend your meal until I have finished."] "appeared at Troy as tenants of one of the most fashionable villa residences in that town. The elite [ahem] of the neighbourhood, too easily cajoled [h'm], and little suspecting their villainous designs, received the newcomers with open arms and a lamentable lack of inquisitiveness." "Well, really," put in Mrs. Buzza, "I don't know what they call 'inquisitiveness'; if a brass telescope—Why, Sam, dear, how pale you are!" "Through the gross carelessness, we can hardly bring ourselves to say the connivance, of the Custom House officials, they were allowed to land with impunity a considerable quantity of dynamite, with which on Saturday night they decamped. Their disappearance remained unsuspected up to a late hour on Sunday morning, when 'The Bower' was visited, and (to borrow the words of the great master of prose) non sunt inventi. The neatness with which the escape was executed points to the disquieting conclusion that they did not want for assistance." "I'll ask you to excuse me," said Sam, rising abruptly and leaving the room. A sick terror possessed his heart; visions of the dock and the felon's cell followed him as he picked up his hat and crept into the street. Outside, the morning was serene, with the promise of a broiling noon; but as far as Sam was concerned, Egyptian darkness would have been better. He shivered: at the corner of the street he met the local policeman and winced. But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his steps were bending. The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table. If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater, pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid significance. Sam paused at the door. The two friends had barely spoken for more than a month. Three days ago they had all but fought. All this, however, was forgotten now. "Is that you, Sam? Come in." Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper feebly, and groaned. "Moggridge, old man—" "Sam!" "What a pair of asses we have been! "The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper. "I know," nodded Sam; "is it true, d'ye think?" "My heart forebodes," said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further— "my heart forebodes 'tis true, 'tis true; then deck my shroud about with rue, and lay me 'neath the dismal—" "Pooh!" broke in Sam; "stuff and nonsense, man! It's bad for you, I know, but after all I'm the sufferer." The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him. "I carried the bag up to Five Lanes; I put the infernal stuff into her very hands; I—" "You?" Sam nodded desperately. "She asked me to elope with her—to meet her at Five Lanes." Mr. Moggridge staggered up to his feet, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. "You are mad!" he gasped. "She asked me to elope with her—me to meet her at the top of Troy Hill. Look here!" He held out a crumpled letter. Sam took it, glanced at it, produced an exactly similar note, and handed it to his friend. They read each the other's letter sentence by sentence, and in doleful antiphon. At the conclusion they looked up, and met each other's gaze; whereat Mr. Moggridge smote his brow and cried— "False, false!" While Sam pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and emitted a long breath, as though, his cup being full, he must needs blow off the froth. "Do you mean to say," he asked, after a pause, "that you helped her to land the stuff?" "I thought it was Tea." "And you never examined it?" "She told me it was Tea." "Moggridge, you have been given away, as the Yankees put it. I have been sold, which is bad; but you have been 'given away,' which is worse." "You were sold for 'love,' which is pretty much the same, I take it, as being given away," objected the Poet testily. "Not at all the same, Moggridge, as being given away—with half a pound of Tea." <blockquote class="footnote"> [1] Medicine. 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