The Money Moon - Jeffery Farnol
"A fine fellow is Dick, sir!" nodded Peterday, beginning to fill a long
clay pipe, "Lord!--what a sailor he 'd ha' made, to be sure!--failing
which he's as fine a soldier as ever was, or will be, with enough
war-medals to fill my Sunday hat, sir. When he lost his arm they gave
him the V.C., and his discharge, sir,--because why--because a soldier
wi' one arm ain't any more good than a sailor wi' one leg, d'ye see. So
they tried to discharge Dick, but--Lord love you!--they couldn't,
sir,--because why?--because Dick were a soldier bred and born, and is as
much a soldier to-day, as ever he was,--ah! and always will be--until he
goes marching aloft,--like poor Tom Bowling,--until one as is General of
all the armies, and Admiral of all the fleets as ever sailed, shall call
the last muster roll, sir. At this present moment, sir," continued the
sailor, lighting his pipe with a live coal from the fire, "my messmate
is a-sitting to the leeward o' the plum tree outside, a polishing of his
jack-boots,--as don't need polishing, and a burnishing of his spurs,--as
don't need burnishing. And because why?--because he goes on guard,
to-night, according to custom."
"On guard!" repeated Bellew, "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Of course you don't, sir," chuckled Peterday, "well then, to-night he
marches away--in full regimentals, sir,--to mount guard. And--where, do
you suppose?--why, I'll tell you,--under Miss Priscilla's window! He
gets there as the clock is striking eleven, and there he stays, a
marching to and fro, until twelve o'clock. Which does him a world o'
good, sir, and noways displeases Miss Priscilla,--because why?--because
she don't know nothing whatever about it." Hereupon, Peterday rose, and
crossing to a battered sea-man's chest in the corner, came back with
three or four tin whistles which he handed to Bellew, who laid aside his
pipe, and, having selected one, ran tentatively up and down the scale
while Peterday listened attentive of ear, and beaming of face.
"Sir," said he, "what do you say to 'Annie Laurie' as a start--shall we
give 'em 'Annie Laurie'?--very good!--ready?--go!"
Thus, George Bellew, American citizen, and millionaire, piped away on a
tin whistle with all the gusto in the world,--introducing little trills,
and flourishes, here and there, that fairly won the one-legged
sailor's heart.
They had already "given 'em" three or four selections, each of which had
been vociferously encored by Peterday, or Bellew,--and had just finished
an impassioned rendering of the "Suwanee River," when the Sergeant
appeared with his boots beneath his arm.
"Shipmate!" cried Peterday, flourishing his whistle, "did ye ever hear a
tin whistle better played, or mellerer in tone?"
"Meller--is the only word for it, comrade,--and your playing sirs,
is--artistic--though doleful. P'raps you wouldn't mind giving us
something brighter--a rattling quick-step? P'raps you might remember one
as begins:
'Some talk of Alexander
And some, of Hercules;'
if it wouldn't be troubling you too much?"
Forthwith they burst forth into "The British Grenadiers?" and never did
tin whistles render the famous old tune with more fire, and dash. As the
stirring notes rang out, the Sergeant, standing upon the hearth, seemed
to grow taller, his broad chest expanded, his eyes glowed, a flush crept
up into his cheek, and the whole man thrilled to the music as he had
done, many a time and oft, in years gone by. As the last notes died
away, he glanced down at the empty sleeve pinned across his breast,
shook his head, and thanking them in a very gruff voice indeed, turned
on his heel, and busied himself at his little cupboard. Peterday now
rose, and set a jug together with three glasses upon the table, also
spoons, and a lemon, keeping his "weather-eye" meanwhile, upon the
kettle,--which last, condescending to boil obligingly, he rapped three
times with his wooden leg.
"Right O, shipmate!" he cried, very much as though he had been hailing
the "main-top," whereupon the Sergeant emerged from between the
clothes-press and the dresser with a black bottle in his hand, which he
passed over to Peterday who set about brewing what he called a "jorum o'
grog," the savour of which filled the place with a right pleasant
fragrance. And, when the glasses brimmed, each with a slice of lemon
a-top,--the Sergeant solemnly rose.
"Mr. Bellew, and comrade," said he, lifting his glass, "I give you--Miss
Priscilla!"
"God bless her!" said Peterday.
"Amen!" added Bellew. So the toast was drunk,--the glasses were emptied,
re-filled, and emptied again,--this time more slowly, and, the clock
striking nine, Bellew rose to take his leave. Seeing which, the Sergeant
fetched his hat and stick, and volunteered to accompany him a little
way. So when Bellew had shaken the sailor's honest hand, they set
out together.
"Sergeant," said Bellew, after they had walked some distance, "I have a
message for you."
"For me, sir?"
"From Miss Priscilla."
"From--indeed, sir!"
"She bid me tell you that--the peaches are riper to-night than ever they
were."
The Sergeant seemed to find in this a subject for profound thought, and
he strode on beside Bellew very silently, and with his eyes straight
before him.
"'That the peaches were riper,--to-night,--than ever they were?'" said
he at last.
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Riper!" said the Sergeant, as though turning this over in his mind.
"Riper than ever they were!" nodded Bellew.
"The--peaches, I think, sir?"
"The peaches, yes." Bellew heard the Sergeant's finger rasping to and
fro across his shaven chin.
"Mr. Bellew, sir--she is a--very remarkable woman, sir!"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
"A--wonderful woman!"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
"The kind of woman that--improves with age, sir!"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Talking of--peaches, sir, I've often thought--she is--very like a
peach--herself, sir."
"Very, Sergeant, but--"
"Well, sir?"
"Peaches do--_not_ improve with age, Sergeant,--'and the peaches
are--riper than ever they were,--to-night!'" The Sergeant stopped short,
and stared at Bellew wide-eyed.
"Why--sir," said he very slowly, "you don't mean to say you--think as
she--meant--that--?"
"But I do!" nodded Bellew. And now, just as suddenly as he had stopped,
the Sergeant turned, and went on again.
"Lord!" he whispered--"Lord! Lord!"
The moon was rising, and looking at the Sergeant, Bellew saw that there
was a wonderful light in his face, yet a light that was not of the moon.
"Sergeant," said Bellew, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "why don't you
speak to her?"
"Speak to her,--what me! No, no, Mr. Bellew!" said the Sergeant,
hastily. "No, no,--can't be done, sir,--not to be mentioned, or thought
of, sir!" The light was all gone out of his face, now, and he walked
with his chin on his breast.
"The surprising thing to me, Sergeant, is that you have never thought of
putting your fortune to the test, and--speaking your mind to her,
before now."
"Thought of it, sir!" repeated the Sergeant, bitterly, "thought of
it!--Lord, sir! I've thought of it--these five years--and more. I've
thought of it--day and night. I've thought of it so very much that I
know--I never can--speak my mind to her. Look at me!" he cried suddenly,
wheeling and confronting Bellew, but not at all like his bold, erect,
soldierly self,--"Yes, look at me,--a poor, battered, old soldier--with
his--best arm gone,--left behind him in India, and with nothing in the
world but his old uniform,--getting very frayed and worn,--like himself,
sir,--a pair o' jack boots, likewise very much worn, though wonderfully
patched, here and there, by my good comrade, Peterday,--a handful of
medals, and a very modest pension. Look at me, with the best o' my days
behind me, and wi' only one arm left--and I'm a deal more awkward and
helpless with that one arm than you'd think, sir,--look at me, and then
tell me how could such a man dare to speak his mind to--such a woman.
What right has--such a man to even think of speaking his mind to--such a
woman, when there's part o' that man already in the grave? Why, no
right, sir,--none in the world. Poverty, and one arm, are facts as make
it impossible for that man to--ever speak his mind. And, sir--that
man--never will. Sir,--good night to you!--and a pleasant walk!--I turn
back here."
Which the Sergeant did, then and there, wheeling sharp right about face;
yet, as Bellew watched him go, he noticed that the soldier's step was
heavy, and slow, and it seemed that, for once, the Sergeant had even
forgotten to put on his imaginary spurs.
CHAPTER XV
_In which Adam explains_
"Adam!"
"Yes, Miss Anthea."
"How much money did Mr. Bellew give you to--buy the furniture?"
Miss Anthea was sitting in her great elbow chair, leaning forward with
her chin in her hand, looking at him in the way which always seemed to
Adam as though she could see into the verimost recesses of his mind.
Therefore Adam twisted his hat in his hands, and stared at the ceiling,
and the floor, and the table before Miss Anthea, and the wall behind
Miss Anthea--anywhere but at Miss Anthea.
"You ax me--how much it were, Miss Anthea?"
"Yes, Adam."
"Well,--it were a goodish sum."
"Was it--fifty pounds?"
"Fifty pound!" repeated Adam, in a tone of lofty disdain, "no, Miss
Anthea, it were _not_ fifty pound."
"Do you mean it was--more?"
"Ah!" nodded Adam, "I mean as it were a sight more. If you was to take
the fifty pound you mention, add twenty more, and then another twenty to
that, and then come ten more to that,--why then--you'd be a bit nigher
the figure--"
"A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Anthea, aghast.
"Ah! a hundred pound!" nodded Adam, rolling the words upon his tongue
with great gusto,--"one--hundred--pound, were the sum, Miss Anthea."
"Oh, Adam!"
"Lord love you, Miss Anthea!--that weren't nothing,--that were only a
flea-bite, as you might say,--he give more--ah! nigh double as much as
that for the side-board."
"Nonsense, Adam!"
"It be gospel true, Miss Anthea. That there sideboard were the plum o'
the sale, so to speak, an' old Grimes had set 'is 'eart on it, d'ye see.
Well, it were bid up to eighty-six pound, an' then Old Grimes 'e goes
twenty more, making it a hundred an' six. Then--jest as I thought it
were all over, an' jest as that there Old Grimes were beginning to swell
hisself up wi' triumph, an' get that red in the face as 'e were a sight
to behold,--Mr. Belloo, who'd been lightin' 'is pipe all this time, up
and sez,--'Fifty up!' 'e sez in his quiet way, making it a hundred an'
fifty-six pound, Miss Anthea,--which were too much for Grimes,--Lord! I
thought as that there man were going to burst, Miss Anthea!" and Adam
gave vent to his great laugh at the mere recollection. But Anthea was
grave enough, and the troubled look in her eyes quickly sobered him.
"A hundred and fifty-six pounds!" she repeated in an awed voice, "but
it--it is awful!"
"Steepish!" admitted Adam, "pretty steepish for a old sideboard, I'll
allow, Miss Anthea,--but you see it were a personal matter betwixt
Grimes an' Mr. Belloo. I began to think as they never would ha' left off
biddin', an' by George!--I don't believe as Mr. Belloo ever would have
left off biddin'. Ye see, there's summat about Mr. Belloo,--whether it
be his voice, or his eye, or his chin,--I don't know,--but there be
summat about him as says, very distinct that if so be 'e should 'appen
to set 'is mind on a thing,--why 'e's a-going to get it, an' 'e ain't
a-going to give in till 'e do get it. Ye see, Miss Anthea, 'e's so very
quiet in 'is ways, an' speaks so soft, an' gentle,--p'raps that's it.
Say, for instance, 'e were to ax you for summat, an' you said
'No'--well, 'e wouldn't make no fuss about it,--not 'im,--he'd
jest--take it, that's what he'd do. As for that there sideboard he'd a
sat there a bidding and a bidding all night I do believe."
"But, Adam, why did he do it! Why did he buy--all that furniture?"
"Well,--to keep it from being took away, p'raps!"
"Oh, Adam!--what am I to do?"
"Do, Miss Anthea?"
"The mortgage must be paid off--dreadfully soon--you know that, and--I
can't--Oh, I can't give the money back--"
"Why--give it back!--No, a course not, Miss Anthea!"
"But I--can't--keep it!"
"Can't keep it, Miss Anthea mam,--an' why not?"
"Because I'm very sure he doesn't want all those things,--the idea is
quite--absurd! And yet,--even if the hops do well, the money they bring
will hardly be enough by itself, and so--I was selling my furniture to
make it up, and--now--Oh! what am I to do?" and she leaned her head
wearily upon her hand.
Now, seeing her distress, Adam all sturdy loyalty that he was, must
needs sigh in sympathy, and fell, once more, to twisting his hat until
he had fairly wrung it out of all semblance to its kind, twisting and
screwing it between his strong hands as though he would fain wring out
of it some solution to the problem that so perplexed his mistress. Then,
all at once, the frown vanished from his brow, his grip loosened upon
his unfortunate hat, and his eye brightened with a sudden gleam.
"Miss Anthea," said he, drawing a step nearer, and lowering his voice
mysteriously, "supposing as I was to tell you that 'e did want that
furnitur',--ah! an' wanted it bad?"
"Now how can he, Adam? It isn't as though he lived in England," said
Anthea, shaking her head, "his home is thousands of miles away,--he is
an American, and besides--"
"Ah!--but then--even a American--may get married. Miss Anthea, mam!"
said Adam.
"Married!" she repeated, glancing up very quickly, "Adam--what do you
mean?"
"Why you must know," began Adam, wringing at his hat again, "ever since
the day I found him asleep in your hay, Miss Anthea, mam, Mr. Belloo has
been very kind, and--friendly like. Mr. Belloo an' me 'ave smoked a good
many sociable pipes together, an' when men smoke together, Miss Anthea,
they likewise talk together."
"Yes?--Well?" said Anthea, rather breathlessly, and taking up a pencil
that happened to be lying near to hand.
"And Mr. Belloo," continued Adam, heavily, "Mr. Belloo has done
me--the--the honour," here Adam paused to give an extra twist to his
hat,--"the--honour, Miss Anthea--"
"Yes, Adam."
"Of confiding to me 'is 'opes--" said Adam slowly, finding it much
harder to frame his well-meaning falsehood than he had supposed,
"his--H-O-P-E-S--'opes, Miss Anthea, of settling down very soon, an' of
marryin' a fine young lady as 'e 'as 'ad 'is eye on a goodish
time,--'aving knowed her from childhood's hour, Miss Anthea, and as
lives up to Lonnon--"
"Yes--Adam!"
"Consequently--'e bought all your furnitur' to set up 'ousekeepin',
don't ye see."
"Yes,--I see, Adam!" Her voice was low, soft and gentle as ever, but the
pencil was tracing meaningless scrawls in her shaking fingers.
"So you don't 'ave to be no-wise back-ard about keepin' the money, Miss
Anthea."
"Oh no,--no, of course not, I--I understand, it was--just a--business
transaction."
"Ah!--that's it,--a business transaction!" nodded Adam, "So you'll put
the money a one side to help pay off the mortgage, eh, Miss Anthea?"
"Yes."
"If the 'ops comes up to what they promise to come up to,--you'll be
able to get rid of Old Grimes--for good an' all, Miss Anthea."
"Yes, Adam."
"An' you be quite easy in your mind, now, Miss Anthea--about keepin' the
money?"
"Quite!--Thank you, Adam--for--telling me. You can go now."
"Why then--Good-night! Miss Anthea, mam,--the mortgage is as good as
paid,--there ain't no such 'ops nowhere near so good as our'n be.
An'--you're quite free o' care, an' 'appy 'earted, Miss Anthea?"
"Quite--Oh quite, Adam!"
But when Adam's heavy tread had died away,--when she was all alone, she
behaved rather strangely for one so free of care, and happy-hearted.
Something bright and glistening splashed upon the paper before her, the
pencil slipped from her fingers, and, with a sudden, choking cry, she
swayed forward, and hid her face in her hands.
CHAPTER XVI
_In which Adam proposes a game_
"To be, or not to be!" Bellew leaned against the mighty hole of "King
Arthur," and stared up at the moon with knitted brows. "That is the
question!--whether I shall brave the slings, and arrows and things,
and--speak tonight, and have done with it--one way or another, or live
on, a while, secure in this uncertainty? To wait? Whether I shall, at
this so early stage, pit all my chances of happiness against the chances
of--losing her, and with her--Small Porges, bless him! and all the
quaint, and lovable beings of this wonderful Arcadia of mine. For, if
her answer be 'No,'--what recourse have I,--what is there left me but to
go wandering forth again, following the wind, and with the gates of
Arcadia shut upon me for ever? 'To be, or not to be,--that is the
question!'"
"Be that you, Mr. Belloo, sir?"
"Even so, Adam. Come sit ye a while, good knave, and gaze upon Dian's
loveliness, and smoke, and let us converse of dead kings."
"Why, kings ain't much in my line, sir,--living or dead uns,--me never
'aving seen any--except a pic'ter,--and that tore, though very life
like. But why I were a lookin' for you was to ax you to back me up,--an'
to--play the game, Mr. Belloo sir."
"Why--as to that, my good Adam,--my gentle Daphnis,--my rugged
Euphemio,--you may rely upon me to the uttermost. Are you in trouble? Is
it counsel you need, or only money? Fill your pipe, and, while you
smoke, confide your cares to me,--put me wise, or, as your French
cousins would say,--make me 'au fait.'"
"Well," began Adam, when his pipe was well alight, "in the first place,
Mr. Belloo sir, I begs to remind you, as Miss Anthea sold her furnitur'
to raise enough money as with what the 'ops will bring, might go to pay
off the mortgage,--for good an' all, sir."
"Yes."
"Well, to-night, sir, Miss Anthea calls me into the parlour to ax,--or
as you might say,--en-quire as to the why, an' likewise the wherefore
of you a buyin' all that furnitur'."
"Did she, Adam?"
"Ah!--'why did 'e do it?' says she--'well, to keep it from bein' took
away, p'raps,' says I--sharp as any gimblet, sir."
"Good!" nodded Bellew.
"Ah!--but it weren't no good, sir," returned Adam, "because she sez as
'ow your 'ome being in America, you couldn't really need the
furnitur',--nor yet want the furnitur',--an' blest if she wasn't talkin'
of handing you the money back again."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"Seeing which, sir, an' because she must have that money if she 'opes to
keep the roof of Dapplemere over 'er 'ead, I, there an' then, made
up,--or as you might say,--concocted a story, a anecdote, or a
yarn,--upon the spot, Mr. Belloo sir."
"Most excellent Machiavelli!--proceed!"
"I told her, sir, as you bought that furnitur' on account of you being
wishful to settle down,--whereat she starts, an' looks at me wi' her
eyes big, an' surprised-like. I told 'er, likewise, as you had told me
on the quiet,--or as you might say,--con-fi-dential, that you bought
that furnitur' to set up 'ouse-keeping on account o' you being on the
p'int o' marrying a fine young lady up to Lonnon,--"
"What!" Bellew didn't move, nor did he raise his voice,--nevertheless
Adam started back, and instinctively threw up his arm.
"You--told her--that?"
"I did sir."
"But you knew it was a--confounded lie."
"Aye,--I knowed it. But I'd tell a hundred,--ah! thousands o' lies,
con-founded, or otherwise,--to save Miss Anthea."
"To save her?"
"From ruination, sir! From losing Dapplemere Farm, an' every thing she
has in the world. Lord love ye!--the 'ops can never bring in by
theirselves all the three thousand pounds as is owing,--it ain't to be
expected,--but if that three thousand pound ain't paid over to that
dirty Grimes by next Saturday week as ever was, that dirty Grimes turns
Miss Anthea out o' Dapplemere, wi' Master Georgy, an' poor little Miss
Priscilla,--An' what'll become o' them then,--I don't know. Lord! when I
think of it the 'Old Adam' do rise up in me to that extent as I'm minded
to take a pitch-fork and go and skewer that there Grimes to his own
chimbley corner. Ye see Mr. Belloo sir," he went on, seeing Bellew was
silent still, "Miss Anthea be that proud, an' independent that she'd
never ha' took your money, sir, if I hadn't told her that there lie,--so
that's why I did tell her that here lie."
"I see," nodded Bellew, "I see!--yes,--you did quite right. You acted
for the best, and you--did quite right, Adam,--yes, quite right"
"Thankee sir!"
"And so--this is the game I am to play, is it?"
"That's it, sir; if she ax's you,--'are you goin' to get
married?'--you'll tell her 'yes,--to a lady as you've knowed from your
childhood's hour,--living in Lonnon,'--that's all, sir."
"That's all is it, Adam!" said Bellew slowly, turning to look up at the
moon again. "It doesn't sound very much, does it? Well, I'll play your
game,--Adam,--yes, you may depend upon me."
"Thankee, Mr. Belloo sir,--thankee sir!--though I do 'ope as you'll
excuse me for taking such liberties, an' making so free wi' your 'eart,
and your affections, sir?"
"Oh certainly, Adam!--the cause excuses--everything."
"Then, good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, Adam!"
So this good, well-meaning Adam strode away, proud on the whole of his
night's work, leaving Bellew to frown up at the moon with teeth clenched
tight upon his pipe-stem.
CHAPTER XVII
_How Bellew began the game_
Now in this life of ours, there be games of many, and divers, sorts, and
all are calculated to try the nerve, courage, or skill of the player, as
the case may be. Bellew had played many kinds of games in his day, and,
among others, had once been famous as a Eight Tackle on the Harvard
Eleven. Upon him he yet bore certain scars received upon a memorable day
when Yale, flushed with success, saw their hitherto invincible line rent
and burst asunder, saw a figure torn, bruised, and bleeding, flash out
and away down the field to turn defeat into victory, and then to be
borne off honourably to hospital, and bed.
If Bellew thought of this, by any chance, as he sat there, staring up at
the moon, it is very sure that, had the choice been given him, he would
joyfully have chosen the game of torn flesh, and broken bones, or any
other game, no matter how desperate, rather than this particular game
that Adam had invented, and thrust upon him.
Presently Bellew knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising, walked on
slowly toward the house. As he approached, he heard someone playing the
piano, and the music accorded well with his mood, or his mood with the
music, for it was haunting, and very sweet, and with a recurring melody
in a minor key, that seemed to voice all the sorrow of Humanity, past,
present, and to come.
Drawn by the music, he crossed the Rose Garden, and reaching the
terrace, paused there; for the long French windows were open, and, from
where he stood, he could see Anthea seated at the piano. She was dressed
in a white gown of some soft, clinging material, and among the heavy
braids of her hair was a single great, red rose. And, as he watched, he
thought she had never looked more beautiful than now, with the soft glow
of the candles upon her; for her face reflected the tender sadness of
the music, it was in the mournful droop of her scarlet lips, and the
sombre depths of her eyes. Close beside her sat little Miss Priscilla
busy with her needle as usual, but now she paused, and lifting her head
in her quick, bird-like way, looked up at Anthea, long, and fixedly.
"Anthea my dear," said she suddenly, "I'm fond of music, and I love to
hear you play, as you know,--but I never heard you play quite
so--dolefully? dear me, no,--that's not the right word,--nor
dismal,--but I mean something between the two."
"I thought you were fond of Grieg, Aunt Priscilla."
"So I am, but then, even in his gayest moments, poor Mr. Grieg was
always breaking his heart over something, or other. And--
Gracious!--there's Mr. Bellew at the window. Pray come in, Mr. Bellew,
and tell us how you liked Peterday, and the muffins?"
"Thank you!" said Bellew, stepping in through the long French window,
"but I should like to hear Miss Anthea play again, first, if she will?"
But Anthea, who had already risen from the piano, shook her head:
"I only play when I feel like it,--to please myself,--and Aunt
Priscilla," said she, crossing to the broad, low window-seat, and
leaning out into the fragrant night.
"Why then," said Bellew, sinking into the easy-chair that Miss Priscilla
indicated with a little stab of her needle, "why then the muffins were
delicious, Aunt Priscilla, and Peterday was just exactly what a
one-legged mariner ought to be."
"And the shrimps, Mr. Bellew?" enquired Miss Priscilla, busy at her
sewing again.
"Out-shrimped all other shrimps so ever!" he answered, glancing to where
Anthea sat with her chin propped in her hand, gazing up at the waning
moon, seemingly quite oblivious of him.
"And did--_He_--pour out the tea?" enquired Miss Priscilla, "from the
china pot with the blue flowers and the Chinese Mandarin fanning
himself,--and very awkward, of course, with his one hand,--I don't mean
the Mandarin, Mr. Bellew,--and very full of apologies?"