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Astonishing History of Troy Town

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<h3>CHAPTER XXV.</h3> <h3>WHICH ENDS THE STORY OF TROY.</h3> The wedding took place in less than two months after Mr. Fogo's dinner-party. A longer interval would have proved, I believe, fatal to both Peter and Paul, who wore themselves thin over small anxieties, from the trousseau to the cake. Three days before the wedding, for instance, they rowed down to Kit's House and awoke Caleb at 4.30 a.m. by throwing gravel against his window. "Oh, 'tes you," said Caleb, as he thrust open the lattice; "what's amiss now?" "We have been considerin' which of us two es to gi'e Tamsin away." "Toss up." "We have tossed up—scores o' times." "Well?" "The results," said Peter gravely, "es versified." "What?" "Otherwise, various. The results es various—inclinin' to Paul." "Well, let Paul do it." "Peter es oulder," objected Paul. "By dree minnits—which don't fairly count," put in Peter. "Peter," observed Caleb, "looks th' oulder—by full dree minnits." "Paul went to school afore me," said Peter, "by two days—along o' measles." "Look 'ere," decided Caleb, "let Paul gi'e her away, an' you, bein' the better spokesman, can propose th' health o' the bride an' bridegroom." This satisfied them, and so it was arranged at the wedding. I am not going to describe the ceremony—at which I had the privilege of holding my friend's hat—beyond saying that woman, as is usual on these occasions, was a success, and man a dismal failure. There was one exception. When little Susie Clemow, who at Mr. Fogo's express desire was one of the bridesmaids, identified the bridegroom with the strange gentleman who had frightened her in the lane, and burst into loud screams in the middle of the service, I could not sufficiently admire the readiness with which Peter Dearlove produced a packet of brandy-balls from his tail-pocket to comfort her, or the prescience which led him to bring such confectionery to a wedding. At the breakfast, too, which, owing to the dimensions of the Dearloves' cottage, was perforce select, Peter again shone. In proposing the health of Mr. and Mrs. Fogo, he said— "On an occasion like the present et becomes us not to repine. These things es sent us for our good" (here he looked doubtfully at the cake), "an' wan man's meat es t'other's p'ison, which I hopes" (severely) "you knawed wi'out my tellin' 'ee; an' I shudn' wonder ef Paul an' me was to draw lots wan o' these fine days as to which o' us shud take the pledge—I means, the plunge—an' go an' scarify hissel' 'pon the high menial altar." Immense excitement at this point prevailed among certain elderly spinsters present. "That was a joke," explained the speaker, with a sudden and stony solemnity, "an' I hopes 'twill be tuk in the sperrit in which 'twas meant. An' wi' that I gi'es Tamsin's health an' that o' P. Fogo, Esquire, to whom she has been this day made man an' wife; an' bless them an' their dear offspring!" At this point he was sitting down when Paul leant across and whispered in his ear. "You are right, Paul," said the orator—"or offsprings. Bless their dear offspring or offsprings—as the case may be." And with this he resumed his seat amid frantic applause. The Twins alone escorted the bride and bridegroom to the railway-station; and with the accident that there befell, the chronicle of Mr. Fogo's adventures may for the present close. While the brothers saw Tamsin to her carriage, and with their white waistcoats and gigantic favours planted awe in the breast of the travelling public, the bridegroom dived into the Booking Office to take the tickets for London; for Mr. and Mrs. Fogo were to spend some days in the Metropolis before crossing the Channel. Now it so happened that in the Booking Office there hung a gorgeous advertisement of one of the principal Steamship Companies, representing a painted ship, the S.S. Popocatepetl, upon a painted ocean, with a deckload of passengers in all varieties of national and fancy costume. Mr. Fogo, as his eye rested on this company, halted and looked more closely. "That Highlander," he said, "is out of drawing." Purse in hand, he paused before the advertisement and slowly yielded to its spell. His eyes grew fixed and glassy: tickets, train, and waiting bride had passed out of his mind. Mr. Fogo's fit was upon him. Meanwhile the Twins, unconscious of the flight of time, and untutored in the ways of locomotives, were loading their sister with parting advice. "This 'ere," remarked Peter, pulling a bulky parcel from his pocket, "contains a variety o' useful articles for travellin', which I've a-reckoned up durin' the past week an' meant to hand 'ee at the las' moment. There's a wax candle an' a box o' lucifers for the tunnels, an' a roll o' diach'lum plaister in case o' injury, an' 'Foxe's Book o' Martyrs,' ef you shud tire o' lookin' out at the windey, an' Thorley's-Food-for-Cattle Almanack for the las' thirteen year all done up separate, an' addressed to 'Mr. P. Dearlove, juxty Troy.' 'Bout this last, I wants Mr. Fogo to post wan at ivery stashun where you stops, so's we may knaw you've got there safe." "I see," broke in Paul, who had been spelling through the notices with which the carriage was adorned, "there's a fine not exceedin' saxty shillin' ef you communicates wi' the guard wi'out reason, an' wuss ef you cuts the cush'ns or damages the compartment. You'd bes' call Mr. Fogo's 'tention to that." "An' warn 'un not to get out while the train's i' motion; but you was al'ays thoughtful, Tamsin. God bless thee, little maid! Et makes my head swim o' whiles to think 'pon the times I've a-danced 'ee 'pon my knee, an' now you'm a married woman!" "God bless you both, my dear brothers!" "Amazin'," said Paul; "I see the Cumpenny won't hold itsel' liable for—" There was a slamming of doors, a shriek of the whistle, and the train began to move away. At the same moment Mr. Fogo darted out of the Booking Office, and came tearing up the platform. "Where's my wife?" he cried. "Which carriage—?" It was too late. The carriage was already beyond the platform, and the train had gathered speed. But presence of mind belongs not to experience only. At the end of the train was hitched an empty clay-truck, bound on a return journey to Five Lanes Junction. Quick as thought the Twins, as Mr. Fogo rushed up to them, caught him by the coat collar and seat of his trousers, and with one timely heave sent him flying into this. When he staggered to his feet— hatless, without spectacles, and besmeared with clay from head to foot—the train was fifty yards beyond the station. And so, staring back mournfully at the little group upon the platform, he vanished from their sight. "That," said Peter, turning slowly to his brother, "was nibby-gibby." "Tamsin mou't ha' communicated wi' the guard," responded Paul, "on'y that, wi'out sufficient reason, wud ha' been not exceedin' saxty shillin'. Do 'ee think 'twud ha' been held sufficient reason?" "I dunno. I reckon they mou't ha' made et two-pund-ten, all things conseddered," said his brother thoughtfully, "but there's no knawin'." It is always hateful to say good-bye to friends, and here, with his leave, the reader shall be left to guess on the later fortunes of Tamsin and Mr. Fogo, the Twins and Caleb. It may be, if he care, and the Fates so order it, he shall some day follow them through new adventures; but it will be far from Troy Town. And for the present they shall fare as his imagination pleases. Of Tamsin, however, who is thus left with her good or sorry fortune before her, something shall be hinted. Public opinion at Troy condemned her marriage. As Miss Limpenny neatly asked, "If we were all to marry beneath us, pray where should we stop?" "We should go on," replied the Admiral, "ad libitum." I am inclined to think he meant "ad infinitum;" but the argument is quite as cogent as it stands. And yet, since they returned to Kit's House, which they did after an absence of three years, Mr. and Mrs. Fogo have been called upon by the Cumeelfo. Some months ago the Admiral button-holed me in the street. "I say, who are all those people staying with—with your friends? I mean, the strangers I saw in Church yesterday—a very creditable lot, upon my word." "I am glad you approve of them," I answered gravely. "The lady with the spectacles is Miss Gamma Girton, the Novelist of Agnosticism; the tall man in black, Thomas Daniel, the critic—" "Oh, literary people." "Quite. Then there is Sir Inchcape Bell, the great Engineer; and Lady Judy Twitchett—her husband (the young man with the bald head) sits for Horkey-boro', you know, and will be in the Cabinet with the next—" But the Admiral was already hurrying down the street. That very afternoon he took his family up to Kit's House, to call; and has been calling at short intervals ever since. The Goodwyn-Sandys, unless we are sharper than the police, we shall never see again. So close was the pursuit, however, that they were forced to leave the portmanteau in the cloak-room at Paddington Station, where it was discovered and opened. It contained a highly curious clock-work toy, and enough dynamite to raze St. Paul's to the ground. Even without exploding, it converted three statesmen to Home Rule. Mr. Moggridge's resignation of his post in the Customs was received without expressed regret. He has since married Sophia Buzza, and edits a Conservative paper in Wales. I see that another volume of his verse is in the press. It is to be called "Throbs: and other Trifles," and will include the epithalamium written by him for his own nuptials, as well as his "Farewell to Troy!"—a composition which Mrs. Buzza said she defied "you to read without feeling as if geese were walking over your grave." Sam Buzza has gone to College.   And what of Troy Town? By degrees the old phrases, old catch-words, and old opinions have come to reign again. Troy's unchanged loveliness too, the daily round full of experiences familiar as old friends, the dear monotony of sight and sound in the little port—all have made for healing and oblivion. If you question us on a certain three months in our life, the chances are you will get no answer. We have agreed to forget, you see; and so we are beginning to persuade ourselves, almost, that those months have never been. Almost. But, as a fact, Mrs. Buzza had been right. "It will never be the same again-never!" Something we have lost, and I think that something is Troy. For strangers have come amongst us, and have formed a society of their own. The Town is grown out of our knowledge. They have built, and are building, mansions of stucco, and a hotel of hideous brick; a fifth-rate race-meeting threatens the antique regatta; and before all this the savour of Trojan life is departing. Ilion is down, and by no assault of war. And yet— The evening before last I passed up the road in front of No. I, Alma Villas. The air was warm, and through the half-opened window a voice stole out— "In the Great Exhibition of 1851, my dear, Her Majesty the Queen, while partaking of luncheon—" <hr class="full" noshade> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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