The Money Moon - Jeffery Farnol
So they clasped hands, very solemnly, Big Porges, and Small Porges, and
turned each his appointed way, the one up, the other down, the lane. But
lo! as they went Small Porges' tears were banished quite; and Bellew
strode upon his way, his head held high, his shoulders squared, like one
in whom Hope has been newborn.
CHAPTER XXX
_How Anthea gave her promise_
"And so--he--has really gone!" Miss Priscilla sighed as she spoke, and
looked up from her needle-work to watch Anthea who sat biting her pen,
and frowning down at the blank sheet of paper before her. "And so, he
is--really--gone?"
"Who--Mr. Bellew? Oh yes!"
"He went--very early!"
"Yes."
"And--without any breakfast!"
"That was--his own fault!" said Anthea.
"And without even--saying 'Good-bye'!"
"Perhaps he was in a hurry," Anthea suggested.
"Oh dear me, no my dear! I don't believe Mr. Bellew was ever in a hurry
in all his life."
"No," said Anthea, giving her pen a vicious bite, "I don't believe he
ever was; he is always so--hatefully placid, and deliberate!" and here,
she bit her pen again.
"Eh, my dear?" exclaimed Miss Priscilla, pausing with her needle in
mid-air, "did you say--hatefully?"
"Yes."
"Anthea!"
"I--hate him, Aunt Priscilla!"
"Eh?--My dear!"
"That was why I--sent him away."
"You--sent him away?"
"Yes."
"But--Anthea--why?"
"Oh Aunt Priscilla!--surely you never--believed in the--fortune? Surely
you guessed it was--_his_ money that paid back the mortgage,--didn't
you, Aunt,--didn't you?"
"Well, my dear--. But then--he did it so very--tactfully, and--and--I
had hoped, my dear that--"
"That I should--marry him, and settle the obligation that way, perhaps?"
"Well, yes my dear, I did hope so--"
"Oh!--I'm going to marry--"
"Then why did you send--"
"I'm going to marry Mr. Cassilis--whenever he pleases!"
"Anthea!" The word was a cry, and her needle-work slipped from Miss
Priscilla's nerveless fingers.
"He asked me to write and tell him if ever I changed my mind--"
"Oh--my dear! my dear!" cried Miss Priscilla reaching out imploring
hands, "you never mean it,--you are all distraught to-day--tired, and
worn out with worry, and loss of sleep,--wait!"
"Wait!" repeated Anthea bitterly, "for what?"
"To--marry--him! O Anthea! you never mean it? Think,--think what you are
doing."
"I thought of it all last night, Aunt Priscilla, and all this morning,
and--I have made up my mind."
"You mean to write--?"
"Yes."
"To tell Mr. Cassilis that you will--marry him?"
"Yes."
But now Miss Priscilla rose, and, next moment, was kneeling beside
Anthea's chair.
"Oh my dear!" she pleaded, "you that I love like my own flesh and
blood,--don't! Oh Anthea! don't do what can never be undone. Don't give
your youth and beauty to one who can never--never make you happy,--Oh
Anthea--!"
"Dear Aunt Priscilla, I would rather marry one I don't love than have to
live beholden all my days to a man that I--hate!" Now, as she spoke,
though her embrace was as ready, and her hands as gentle as ever, yet
Miss Priscilla saw that her proud face was set, and stern. So, she
presently rose, sighing, and taking her little crutch stick, tapped
dolefully away, and left Anthea to write her letter.
And now, hesitating no more, Anthea took up her pen, and wrote,--surely
a very short missive for a love-letter. And, when she had folded, and
sealed it, she tossed it aside, and laying her arms upon the table, hid
her face, with a long, shuddering sigh.
In a little while, she rose, and taking up the letter, went out to find
Adam; but remembering that he had gone to Cranbrook with Small Porges,
she paused irresolute, and then turned her steps toward the orchard.
Hearing voices, she stopped again, and glancing about, espied the
Sergeant, and Miss Priscilla. She had given both her hands into the
Sergeant's one, great, solitary fist, and he was looking down at her,
and she was looking up at him, and upon the face of each, was a great
and shining joy.
And, seeing all this, Anthea felt herself very lonely all at once, and,
turning aside, saw all things through a blur of sudden tears. She was
possessed, also, of a sudden, fierce loathing of the future, a horror
because of the promise her letter contained. Nevertheless she was firm,
and resolute on her course because of the pride that burned within her.
So thus it was that as the Sergeant presently came striding along on his
homeward way, he was suddenly aware of Miss Anthea standing before him;
whereupon he halted, and removing his hat, wished her a
"good-afternoon!"
"Sergeant," said she, "will you do something for me?"
"Anything you ask me, Miss Anthea, mam,--ever and always."
"I want you to take this letter to--Mr. Cassilis,--will you?"
The Sergeant hesitated unwontedly, turning his hat about and about in
his hand, finally he put it on, out of the way.
"Will you, Sergeant?"
"Since you ask me--Miss Anthea mam--I will."
"Give it into his own hand."
"Miss Anthea mam--I will."
"Thank you!--here it is, Sergeant." And so she turned, and was gone,
leaving the Sergeant staring down at the letter in his hand, and shaking
his head over it.
Anthea walked on hastily, never looking behind, and so, coming back to
the house, threw herself down by the open window, and stared out with
unseeing eyes at the roses nodding slumberous heads in the
gentle breeze.
So the irrevocable step was taken! She had given her promise to marry
Cassilis whenever he would, and must abide by it! Too late now, any hope
of retreat, she had deliberately chosen her course, and must follow
it--to the end.
"Begging your pardon, Miss Anthea mam--!"
She started, and glancing round, espied Adam.
"Oh!--you startled me, Adam,--what is it?"
"Begging your pardon, Miss Anthea, but is it true as Mr. Belloo be gone
away--for good?"
"Yes, Adam."
"Why then all I can say is--as I'm sorry,--ah! mortal sorry I be, an' my
'eart, mam, my 'eart likewise gloomy."
"Were you so--fond of him, Adam?"
"Well, Miss Anthea,--considering as he were--the best, good-naturedest,
properest kind o' gentleman as ever was; when I tell you as over an'
above all this, he could use his fists better than any man as ever I
see,--him having knocked me into a dry ditch, though, to be sure I
likewise drawed his claret,--begging your pardon, I'm sure, Miss Anthea;
all of which happened on account o' me finding him a-sleeping in your
'ay, mam;--when I tell you furthermore, as he treated me ever as a man,
an' wern't noways above shaking my 'and, or smoking a pipe wi'
me--sociable like; when I tell you as he were the finest gentleman, and
properest man as ever I knowed, or heard tell on,--why, I think as the
word 'fond' be about the size of it, Miss Anthea mam!" saying which,
Adam nodded several times, and bestowed an emphatic backhanded knock to
the crown of his hat.
"You used to sit together very often--under the big apple tree, didn't
you, Adam?"
"Ah!--many an' many a night, Miss Anthea."
"Did he--ever tell you--much of his--life, Adam?"
"Why yes, Miss Anthea,--told me summat about his travels, told me as
he'd shot lions, an' tigers--away out in India, an' Africa."
"Did he ever mention--"
"Well, Miss Anthea?" said he enquiringly, seeing she had paused.
"Did he ever speak of--the--lady he is going to marry?"
"Lady?" repeated Adam, giving a sudden twist to his hat.
"Yes,--the lady--who lives in London?"
"No, Miss Anthea," answered Adam, screwing his hat tighter, and tighter.
"Why--what do you mean?"
"I mean--as there never was no lady, Miss Anthea,--neither up to Lonnon,
nor nowhere's else, as I ever heard on."
"But--oh Adam!--you--told me--"
"Ah!--for sure I told ye, but it were a lie, Miss Anthea,--leastways, it
weren't the truth. Ye see, I were afraid as you'd refuse to take the
money for the furnitur' unless I made ye believe as he wanted it
uncommon bad. So I up an' told ye as he'd bought it all on account o'
him being matrimonially took wi' a young lady up to Lonnon--"
"And then--you went to--him, and warned him--told him of the story you
had invented?"
"I did, Miss Anthea; at first, I thought as he were going to up an' give
me one for myself, but, arterwards he took it very quiet, an' told me as
I'd done quite right, an' agreed to play the game. An' that's all about
it, an' glad I am as it be off my mind at last. Ah' now, Miss Anthea
mam, seeing you're that rich--wi' Master Georgy's fortun',--why you can
pay back for the furnitur'--if so be you're minded to. An' I hope as you
agree wi' me as I done it all for the best, Miss Anthea?"
Here, Adam unscrewed his hat, and knocked out the wrinkles against his
knee, which done, he glanced at Anthea:
"Why--what is it, Miss Anthea?"
"Nothing, Adam,--I haven't slept well, lately--that's all"
"Ah, well!--you'll be all right again now,--we all shall,--now the
mortgage be paid off,--shan't we, Miss Anthea?"
"Yes, Adam."
"We 'ad a great day--over to Cranbrook, Master Georgy an' me, he be in
the kitchen now, wi' Prudence--a-eating of bread an' jam. Good-night,
Miss Anthea mam, if you should be wanting me again I shall be in the
stables,--Good-night, Miss Anthea!" So, honest, well-meaning Adam
touched his forehead with a square-ended finger, and trudged away. But
Anthea sat there, very still, with drooping head, and vacant eyes.
And so it was done, the irrevocable step had been taken; she had given
her promise! So now, having chosen her course, she must follow
it--to the end.
For, in Arcadia, it would seem that a promise is still a sacred thing.
Now, in a while, lifting her eyes, they encountered those of the smiling
Cavalier above the mantel. Then, as she looked, she stretched out her
arms with a sudden yearning gesture:
"Oh!" she whispered, "if I were only--just a picture, like you."
CHAPTER XXXI
_Which, being the last, is, very properly, the longest in the book_
In those benighted days when men went abroad cased in steel, and, upon
very slight provocation, were wont to smite each other with axes, and
clubs, to buffet and skewer each other with spears, lances, swords, and
divers other barbarous engines, yet, in that dark, and doughty age,
ignorant though they were of all those smug maxims, and excellent
moralities with which we are so happily blessed,--even in that
unhallowed day, when the solemn tread of the policeman's foot was all
unknown,--they had evolved for themselves a code of rules whereby to
govern their life, and conduct. Amongst these, it was tacitly agreed
upon, and understood, that a spoken promise was a pledge, and held to be
a very sacred thing, and he who broke faith, committed all the cardinal
sins. Indeed their laws were very few, and simple, easily understood,
and well calculated to govern man's conduct to his fellow. In this day
of ours, ablaze with learning, and culture,--veneered with a fine
civilization, our laws are complex beyond all knowing and expression;
man regulates his conduct--to them,--and is as virtuous, and honest as
the law compels him to be.
This is the age of Money, and, therefore, an irreverent age; it is also
the age of Respectability (with a very large R),--and the
policeman's bludgeon.
But in Arcadia--because it is an old-world place where life follows an
even, simple course, where money is as scarce as roguery, the old law
still holds; a promise once given, is a sacred obligation, and not to be
set aside.
Even the Black-bird, who lived in the inquisitive apple tree,
understood, and was aware of this, it had been born in him, and had
grown with his feathers. Therefore,--though, to be sure, he had spoken
no promise, signed no bond, nor affixed his mark to any agreement, still
he had, nevertheless, borne in mind a certain request preferred to him
when the day was very young. Thus, with a constancy of purpose worthy of
all imitation, he had given all his mind, and thought, to the
composition of a song with a new theme. He had applied himself to it
most industriously all day long, and now, as the sun began to set, he
had at last corked it all out,--every note, every quaver, and trill;
and, perched upon a look-out branch, he kept his bold, bright eye turned
toward a certain rustic seat hard by, uttering a melodious note or two,
every now and then, from pure impatience.
And presently, sure enough, he spied her for whom he waited,--the tall,
long limbed, supple-waisted creature--whose skin was pink and gold like
the peaches and apricots in the garden, and with soft, little rings of
hair that would have made such an excellent lining to a nest. From this
strictly utilitarian point of view he had often admired her hair, (had
this Black-bird fellow), as she passed to and fro among her flowers, or
paused to look up at him and listen to his song, or even sometimes to
speak to him in her sweet, low voice.
But to-day she seemed to have forgotten him altogether, she did not even
glance his way, indeed she walked with bent head, and seemed to keep her
eyes always upon the ground.
Therefore the black-bird hopped a little further along the branch, and
peered over to look down at her with first one round eye, and then the
other, as she sank upon the seat, near by, and leaned her head wearily
against the great tree, behind. And thus he saw, upon the pint and gold
of her cheek, something that shone, and twinkled like a drop of dew.
If the Black-bird wondered at this, and was inclined to be curious, he
sturdily repressed the weakness,--for here was the audience--seated,
and waiting--all expectation for him to begin.
So, without more ado, he settled himself upon the bough, lifted his
head, stretched his throat, and, from his yellow bill, poured forth a
flood of golden melody as he burst forth into his "Song of Memory."
And what a song it was!--so full of passionate entreaty, of tender
pleading, of haunting sweetness, that, as she listened, the bright drop
quivering upon her lashes, fell and was succeeded by another, and
another. Nor did she attempt to check them, or wipe them away, only she
sat and listened with her heavy head pillowed against the great tree,
while the Blackbird, glancing down at her every now and then with
critical eye to mark the effect of some particularly difficult passage,
piped surely as he had never done before, until the listener's proud
face sank lower and lower, and was, at last, hidden in her hands. Seeing
which, the Black-bird, like the true artist he was, fearing an
anti-climax, very presently ended his song with a long-drawn,
plaintive note.
But Anthea sat there with her proud head bowed low, long after he had
retired for the night. And the sun went down, and the shadows came
creeping stealthily about her, and the moon began to rise, big and
yellow, over the up-land; but Anthea still sat there with her head, once
more resting wearily against "King Arthur," watching the deepening
shadows until she was roused by Small Porges' hand upon hers and his
voice saying:
"Why,--I do believe you're crying, Auntie Anthea, an' why are you
here--all alone, an' by yourself?"
"I was listening to the Black-bird, dear,--I never heard him sing quite
so--beautifully, before."
"But black-birds don't make people cry,--an' I know you've been
crying--'cause you sound--all quivery, you know."
"Do I, Georgy?"
"Yes,--is it 'cause you feel--lonely?"
"Yes dear."
"You've cried an awful lot, lately, Auntie Anthea."
"Have I, dear?"
"Yes,--an' it--worries me, you know."
"I'm afraid I've been a great responsibility to you, Georgy dear," said
she with a rueful little laugh.
"'Fraid you have; but I don' mind the 'sponsibility,--'I'll always take
care of you, you know!" nodded Small Porges, sitting down, the better to
get his arm protectingly about her, while Anthea stooped to kiss the top
of his curly head. "I promised my Uncle Porges I'd always take care of
you, an' so I will!"
"Yes, dear."
"Uncle Porges told me--"
"Never mind, dear,--don' let's talk of--him."
"Do you still--hate him, then, Auntie Anthea?"
"Hush, dear!--it's very wrong to--hate people."
"Yes, a course it is! Then--perhaps, if you don't hate him any more--you
like him a bit,--jest a--teeny bit, you know?"
"Why--there's the clock striking half-past eight, Georgy!"
"Yes, I hear it,--but--do you,--the teeniest bit? Oh! can't you like him
jest a bit--for my sake, Auntie Anthea? I'm always trying to please
you,--an' I found you the fortune, you know, so now I want you to please
me,--an' tell me you like him--for my sake."
"But--Oh Georgy dear!--you don't understand."
"--'cause you see," Small Porges, continued, "after all, I found him for
you--under a hedge, you know--"
"Ah!--why did you, Georgy dear? We were so happy--before--he came--"
"But you couldn't have been, you know; you weren't married--even then,
so you couldn't have been really happy, you know;" said Small Porges
shaking his head.
"Why Georgy--what do you mean?"
"Well, Uncle Porges told me that nobody can live happy--ever after,
unless they're married--first. So that was why I 'ranged for him to
marry you, so you could _both_ be happy, an' all revelry an' joy,--like
the fairy tale, you know."
"But, you see, we aren't in a fairy tale, dear, so I'm afraid we must
make the best of things as they are!" and here she sighed again, and
rose. "Come, Georgy, it's much later than I thought, and quite time you
were in bed, dear."
"All right, Auntie Anthea,--only--don't you think it's jest a bit--cruel
to send a boy to bed so very early, an' when the moon's so big, an'
everything looks so--frightfully fine? 'sides--"
"Well, what now?" she asked, a little wearily as, obedient to his
pleading gesture, she sat down again.
"Why, you haven't answered my question yet, you know."
"What question?" said she, not looking at him.
"'Bout my--Uncle Porges."
"But Georgy--I--"
"You do like him--jest a bit--don't you?--please?" Small Porges was
standing before her as he waited for her answer, but now, seeing how she
hesitated, and avoided his eyes, he put one small hand beneath the
dimple in her chin, so that she was forced to look at him.
"You do, please,--don't you?" he pleaded.
Anthea hesitated; but, after all,--_He_ was gone, and nobody could hear;
and Small Porges was so very small; and who could resist the entreaty in
his big, wistful eyes? surely not Anthea. Therefore, with a sudden
gesture of abandonment, she leaned forward in his embrace, and rested
her weary head against his manly, small shoulder:
"Yes!" she whispered.
"Jest as much as you like--Mr. Cassilis?" he whispered back.
"Yes!"
"A--bit more--jest a teeny bit more?"
"Yes!"
"A--lot more,--lots an' lots,--oceans more?"
"Yes!"
The word was spoken, and, having uttered it, Anthea grew suddenly hot
with shame, and mightily angry with herself, and would, straightway,
have given the world to have it unsaid; the more so, as she felt Small
Porges' clasp tighten joyfully, and, looking up, fancied she read
something like triumph in his look.
She drew away from him, rather hastily, and rose to her feet.
"Come!" said she, speaking now in a vastly different tone, "it must be
getting very late--"
"Yes, I s'pecks it'll soon be nine o'clock, now!" he nodded.
"Then you ought to be in bed, fast asleep instead of talking
such--nonsense, out here. So--come along--at once, sir!"
"But, can't I stay up--jest a little while? You see--"
"No!"
"You see, it's such a--magnif'cent night! It feels as though--things
might happen!"
"Don't be so silly!"
"Well, but it does, you know."
"What do you mean--what things?"
"Well, it feels--gnomy, to me. I s'pecks there's lots of elves
about--hidden in the shadows, you know, an' peeping at us."
"There aren't any elves,--or gnomes," said Anthea petulantly, for she
was still furiously angry with herself.
"But my Uncle Porges told me--"
"Oh!" cried Anthea, stamping her foot suddenly, "can't you talk of
anyone, or anything but--him? I'm tired to death of him and his
very name!"
"But I thought you liked him--an awful lot, an'--"
"Well, I don't!"
"But, you said--"
"Never mind what I said! It's time you were in bed asleep,--so come
along--at once, sir!"
So they went on through the orchard together, very silently, for Small
Porges was inclined to be indignant, but much more inclined to be hurt.
Thus, they had not gone so very far, when he spoke, in a voice that he
would have described as--quivery.
"Don't you think that you're--just the teeniest bit--cruel to me, Auntie
Anthea?" he enquired wistfully, "after I prayed an' prayed till I found
a fortune for you!--don't you, please?" Surely Anthea was a creature of
moods, to-night, for, even while he spoke, she stopped, and turned, and
fell on her knees, and caught him in her arms, kissing him many times:
"Yes,--yes, dear, I'm hateful to you,--horrid to you! But I don't mean
to be. There!--forgive me!"
"Oh!--it's all right again, now, Auntie Anthea, thank you. I only
thought you were jest a bit--hard, 'cause it is such a--magnif'cent
night, isn't it?"
"Yes dear; and perhaps there are gnomes, and pixies about. Anyhow, we
can pretend there are, if you like, as we used to--"
"Oh will you? that would be fine! Then, please, may I go with you--as
far as the brook? We'll wander, you know,--I've never wandered with you
in the moonlight,--an' I do love to hear the brook talking to
itself,--so--will you wander--jest this once?"
"Well," said Anthea, hesitating, "it's very late!--"
"Nearly nine o 'clock, yes! But Oh!--please don't forget that I found a
fortune for you--"
"Very well," she smiled, "just this once."
Now as they went together, hand in hand through the moonlight, Small
Porges talked very fast, and very much at random, while his eyes,
bright, and eager, glanced expectantly towards every patch of
shadow,--doubtless in search of gnomes, and pixies.
But Anthea saw nothing of this, heard nothing of the suppressed
excitement in his voice, for she was thinking that by now, Mr. Cassilis
had read her letter,--that he might, even then, be on his way to
Dapplemere. She even fancied, once or twice, that she could hear the
gallop of his horse's hoofs. And, when he came, he would want
to--kiss her!
"Why do you shiver so, Auntie Anthea, are you cold?"
"No, dear."
"Well, then, why are you so quiet to me,--I've asked you a
question--three times."
"Have you dear? I--I was thinking; what was the question?"
"I was asking you if you would be awful frightened s'posing we did find
a pixie--or a gnome, in the shadows; an' would you be so very awfully
frightened if a gnome--a great, big one, you know,--came jumping out
an'--ran off with you,--should you?"
"No!" said Anthea, with another shiver, "No, dear,--I think I should
be--rather glad of it!"
"Should you, Auntie? I'm--so awful glad you wouldn't be frightened. A
course, I don't s'pose there are gnomes--I mean great, big
ones,--really, you know,--but there might be, on a magnif'cent night,
like this. If you shiver again Auntie you'll have to take my coat!"
"I thought I heard a horse galloping--hush!"
They had reached the stile, by now, the stile with the crooked, lurking
nail, and she leaned there, a while, to listen. "I'm sure I heard
something,--away there--on the road!"
"I don't!" said Small Porges, stoutly,--"so take my hand, please, an'
let me 'sist you over the stile."
So they crossed the stile, and, presently, came to the brook that was
the most impertinent brook in the world. And here, upon the little
rustic bridge, they stopped to look down at the sparkle of the water,
and to listen to its merry voice.
Yes, indeed to-night it was as impertinent as ever, laughing, and
chuckling to itself among the hollows, and whispering scandalously in
the shadows. It seemed to Anthea that it was laughing at her,--mocking,
and taunting her with--the future. And now, amid the laughter, were
sobs, and tearful murmurs, and now, again, it seemed to be the prophetic
voice of old Nannie:
"'By force ye shall be wooed and by force ye shall be wed, and there is
no man strong enough to do it, but him as bears the Tiger Mark
upon him!'"
The "Tiger Mark!" Alas! how very far from the truth were poor, old
Nannie's dreams, after all, the dreams which Anthea had very nearly
believed in--once or twice. How foolish it had all been! And yet
even now--
Anthea had been leaning over the gurgling waters while all this passed
through her mind, but now,--she started at the sound of a heavy
foot-fall on the planking of the bridge, behind her, and--in that same
instant, she was encircled by a powerful arm, caught up in a strong
embrace,--swung from her feet, and borne away through the shadows of the
little copse.
It was very dark in the wood, but she knew, instinctively, whose arms
these were that held her so close, and carried her so easily--away
through the shadows of the wood,--away from the haunting, hopeless dread
of the future from which there had seemed no chance, or hope of escape.
And, knowing all this, she made no struggle, and uttered no word. And
now the trees thinned out, and, from under her lashes she saw the face
above her; the thick, black brows drawn together,--the close set of the
lips,--the grim prominence of the strong, square chin.