The Money Moon - Jeffery Farnol
"He did."
"Just as usual; yes he always does,--and every year he gives me three
lumps of sugar,--and I only take one, you know. It's a pity," sighed
Miss Priscilla, "that it was his right arm,--a great pity!" And here she
sighed again, and, catching herself, glanced up quickly at Bellew, and
smiled to see how completely absorbed he was in contemplation of the
silent figure in the window-seat. "But, after all, better a right
arm--than a leg," she pursued,--"at least, I think so!"
"Certainly!" murmured Bellew.
"A man with only one leg, you see, would be almost as helpless as
an--old woman with a crippled foot,--"
"Who grows younger, and brighter, every year!" added Bellew, turning to
her with his pleasant smile, "yes, and I think,--prettier!"
"Oh, Mr. Bellew!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla shaking her head at him
reprovingly, yet looking pleased, none the less,--"how can you be so
ridiculous,--Good gracious me!"
"Why, it was the Sergeant who put it into my head,--"
"The Sergeant?"
"Yes,--it was after I had given him your message about peaches, Aunt
Priscilla and--"
"Oh dear heart!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla, at this juncture, "Prudence
is out, to-night, and I promised to bake the bread for her, and here I
sit chatting, and gossipping while that bread goes rising, and rising
all over the kitchen!" And Miss Priscilla laid aside her sewing, and
catching up her stick, hurried to the door.
"And I was almost forgetting to wish you 'many happy returns of the day,
Aunt Priscilla!'" said Bellew, rising.
At this familiar appellation, Anthea turned sharply, in time to see him
stoop, and kiss Miss Priscilla's small, white hand; whereupon Anthea
must needs curl her lip at his broad back. Then he opened the door, and
Miss Priscilla tapped away, even more quickly than usual.
Anthea was half-sitting, half-kneeling among the cushions in the corner
of the deep window, apparently still lost in contemplation of the moon.
So much so, that she did not stir, or even lower her up-ward gaze, when
Bellew came, and stood beside her.
Therefore, taking advantage of the fixity of her regard, he, once more,
became absorbed in her loveliness. Surely a most unwise proceeding--in
Arcadia, by the light of a midsummer moon! And he mentally contrasted
the dark, proud beauty of her face, with that of all the women he had
ever known,--to their utter, and complete disparagement.
"Well?" enquired Anthea, at last, perfectly conscious of his look, and
finding the silence growing irksome, yet still with her eyes
averted,--"Well, Mr. Bellew?"
"On the contrary," he answered, "the moon is on the wane!"
"The moon!" she repeated, "Suppose it is,--what then?"
"True happiness can only come riding astride the full moon you
know,--you remember old Nannie told us so."
"And you--believed it?" she enquired scornfully.
"Why, of course!" he answered in his quiet way.
Anthea didn't speak but, once again, the curl of her lip was eloquent.
"And so," he went on, quite unabashed, "when I behold Happiness riding
astride the full moon, I shall just reach up, in the most natural manner
in the world, and--take it down, that it may abide with me, world
without end."
"Do you think you will be tall enough?"
"We shall see,--when the time comes."
"I think it's all very ridiculous!" said Anthea.
"Why then--suppose you play for me, that same, plaintive piece you were
playing as I came in,--something of Grieg's I think it was,--will you,
Miss Anthea?"
She was on the point of refusing, then, as if moved by some capricious
whim, she crossed to the piano, and dashed into the riotous music of a
Polish Dance. As the wild notes leapt beneath her quick, brown fingers,
Bellew, seated near-by, kept his eyes upon the great, red rose in her
hair, that nodded slyly at him with her every movement. And surely, in
all the world, there had never bloomed a more tantalizing, more wantonly
provoking rose than this! Wherefore Bellew, very wisely, turned his eyes
from its glowing temptation. Doubtless observing which, the rose, in
evident desperation, nodded, and swayed, until, it had fairly nodded
itself from its sweet resting-place, and, falling to the floor, lay
within Bellew's reach. Whereupon, he promptly stooped, and picked it up,
and,--even as, with a last, crashing chord, Anthea ceased playing, and
turned, in that same moment he dropped it deftly into his coat pocket.
"Oh! by the way, Mr. Bellew," she said, speaking as if the idea had but
just entered her mind, "what do you intend to do about--all your
furniture?"
"Do about it?" he repeated, settling the rose carefully in a corner of
his pocket where it would not be crushed by his pipe.
"I mean--where would you like it--stored until you can send, and have
it--taken away?"
"Well,--I--er--rather thought of keeping it--where it was if you didn't
mind."
"I'm afraid that will be--impossible, Mr. Bellew."
"Why then the barn will be an excellent place for it, I don't suppose
the rats and mice will do it any real harm, and as for the damp, and
the dust--"
"Oh! you know what I mean!" exclaimed Anthea, beginning to tap the floor
impatiently with her foot. "Of course we can't go on using the things
now that they are your property, it--wouldn't be--right."
"Very well," he nodded, his fingers questing anxiously after the rose
again, "I'll get Adam to help me to shift it all into the barn,
to-morrow morning."
"Will you please be serious, Mr. Bellew!"
"As an owl!" he nodded.
"Why then--of course you will be leaving Dapplemere soon, and I should
like to know exactly when, so that I can--make the necessary
arrangements."
"But you see, I am not leaving Dapplemere soon or even thinking of it."
"Not?" she repeated, glancing up at him in swift surprise.
"Not until--you bid me."
"I?"
"You!"
"But I--I understood that you--intend to--settle down?"
"Certainly!" nodded Bellew, transferring his pipe to another pocket
altogether, lest it should damage the rose's tender petals. "To settle
down has lately become the--er--ambition of my life."
"Then pray," said Anthea, taking up a sheet of music, and beginning to
study it with attentive eyes, "be so good as to tell me--what you mean."
"That necessarily brings us back to the moon again," answered Bellew.
"The moon?"
"The moon!"
"But what in the world has the moon to do with your furniture?" she
demanded, her foot beginning to tap again.
"Everything!--I bought that furniture with--er--with one eye on the
moon, as it were,--consequently the furniture, the moon, and I, are
bound indissolubly together."
"You are pleased to talk in riddles, to-night, and really, Mr. Bellew, I
have no time to waste over them, so, if you will excuse me--"
"Thank you for playing to me," he said, as he held the door open for
her.
"I played because I--I felt like it, Mr. Bellew."
"Nevertheless, I thank you."
"When you make up your mind about--the furniture,--please let me know."
"When the moon is at the full, yes."
"Can it be possible that you are still harping on the wild words of poor
old Nannie?" she exclaimed, and once more, she curled her lip at him.
"Nannie is very old, I'll admit," he nodded, "but surely you remember
that we proved her right in one particular,--I mean about the Tiger
Mark, you know."
Now, when he said this, for no apparent reason, the eyes that had
hitherto been looking into his, proud and scornful,--wavered, and were
hidden under their long, thick lashes; the colour flamed in her cheeks,
and, without another word, she was gone.
CHAPTER XVIII
_How the Sergeant went upon his guard_
The Arcadians, one and all, generally follow that excellent maxim which
runs:
"Early to bed, and early to rise Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and
wise."
Healthy they are, beyond a doubt, and, in their quaint, simple fashion,
profoundly wise. If they are not extraordinarily wealthy, yet are they
generally blessed with contented minds which, after all, is better than
money, and far more to be desired than fine gold.
Now whether their general health, happiness, and wisdom is to be
attributed altogether to their early to bed proclivities, is perhaps a
moot question. Howbeit, to-night, long after these weary Arcadians had
forgotten their various cares, and troubles in the blessed oblivion of
sleep, (for even Arcadia has its troubles) Bellew sat beneath the shade
of "King Arthur" alone with his thoughts.
Presently, however, he was surprised to hear the house-door open, and
close very softly, and to behold--not the object of his meditations, but
Miss Priscilla coming towards him.
As she caught sight of him in the shadow of the tree, she stopped and
stood leaning upon her stick as though she were rather disconcerted.
"Aunt Priscilla!" said he, rising.
"Oh!--it's you?" she exclaimed, just as though she hadn't known it all
along. "Dear me! Mr. Bellew,--how lonely you look, and dreadfully
thoughtful,--good gracious!" and she glanced up at him with her quick,
girlish smile. "I suppose you are wondering what I am doing out here at
this unhallowed time of night--it must be nearly eleven o'clock. Oh dear
me!--yes you are!--Well, sit down, and I'll tell you. Let us sit
here,--in the darkest corner,--there. Dear heart!--how bright the moon
is to be sure." So saying, Miss Priscilla ensconced herself at the very
end of the rustic bench, where the deepest shadow lay.
"Well, Mr. Bellew," she began, "as you know, to-day is my birthday. As
to my age, I am--let us say,--just turned twenty-one and, being young,
and foolish, Mr. Bellew, I have come out here to watch another very
foolish person,--a ridiculous, old Sergeant of Hussars, who will come
marching along, very soon, to mount guard in full regimentals, Mr.
Bellew,--with his busby on his head, with his braided tunic and dolman,
and his great big boots, and with his spurs jingling, and his sabre
bright under the moon."
"So then--you know he comes?"
"Why of course I do. And I love to hear the jingle of his spurs, and to
watch the glitter of his sabre. So, every year, I come here, and sit
among the shadows, where he can't see me, and watch him go march, march,
marching up and down, and to and fro, until the clock strikes twelve,
and he goes marching home again. Oh dear me!--it's all very foolish, of
course,--but I love to hear the jingle of his spurs."
"And--have you sat here watching him, every year?"
"Every year!"
"And he has never guessed you were watching him?"
"Good gracious me!--of course not."
"Don't you think, Aunt Priscilla, that you are--just a little--cruel?"
"Cruel--why--what do you mean?"
"I gave him your message, Aunt Priscilla."
"What message?"
"That 'to-night, the peaches were riper than ever they were.'"
"Oh!" said Miss Priscilla, and waited expectantly for Bellew to
continue. But, as he was silent she glanced at him, and seeing him
staring at the moon, she looked at it, also. And after she had gazed for
perhaps half a minute, as Bellew was still silent, she spoke, though in
a very small voice indeed.
"And--what did--he say?"
"Who?" enquired Bellew.
"Why the--the Sergeant, to be sure."
"Well, he gave me to understand that a poor, old soldier with only one
arm left him, must be content to stand aside, always and--hold his
peace, just because he was a poor, maimed, old soldier. Don't you think
that you have been--just a little cruel--all these years, Aunt
Priscilla?"
"Sometimes--one is cruel--only to be--kind!" she answered.
"Aren't the peaches ripe enough, after all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Over-ripe!" she said bitterly, "Oh--they are over-ripe!"
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"No," she answered, "no, there's--this!" and she held up her little
crutch stick.
"Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?"
"Oh!--isn't--that enough?" Bellew rose. "Where are you going--What are
you going to do?" she demanded.
"Wait!" said he, smiling down at her perplexity, and so he turned, and
crossed to a certain corner of the orchard. When he came back he held
out a great, glowing peach towards her.
"You were quite right," he nodded, "it was so ripe that it fell at a
touch."
But, as he spoke, she drew him down beside her in the shadow:
"Hush!" she whispered, "Listen!"
Now as they sat there, very silent,--faint and far-away upon the still
night air, they heard a sound; a silvery, rhythmic sound, it was,--like
the musical clash of fairy cymbals which drew rapidly nearer, and
nearer; and Bellew felt that Miss Priscilla's hand was trembling upon
his arm as she leaned forward, listening with a smile upon her parted
lips, and a light in her eyes that was ineffably tender.
Nearer came the sound, and nearer, until, presently, now in moonlight,
now in shadow, there strode a tall, martial figure in all the glory of
braided tunic, and furred dolman, the three chevrons upon his sleeve,
and many shining medals upon his breast,--a stalwart, soldierly figure,
despite the one empty sleeve, who moved with the long, swinging stride
that only the cavalry-man can possess. Being come beneath a certain
latticed window, the Sergeant halted, and, next moment, his glittering
sabre flashed up to the salute; then, with it upon his shoulder, he
wheeled, and began to march up and down, his spurs jingling, his sabre
gleaming, his dolman swinging, his sabre glittering, each time he
wheeled; while Miss Priscilla leaning forward, watched him wide-eyed,
and with hands tight clasped. Then, all at once,--with a little
fluttering sigh she rose.
Thus, the Sergeant as he marched to and fro, was suddenly aware of one
who stood in the full radiance of the moon,--and with one hand
outstretched towards him. And now, as he paused, disbelieving his very
eyes, he saw that in her extended hand she held a great ripe peach.
"Sergeant!" she said, speaking almost in a whisper, "Oh Sergeant--won't
you--take it?"
The heavy sabre thudded down into the grass, and he took a sudden step
towards her. But, even now, he hesitated, until, coming nearer yet, he
could look down into her eyes.
Then he spoke, and his voice was very hoarse, and uneven:
"Miss Priscilla?" he said, "Priscilla?--Oh, Priscilla!" And, with the
word, he had fallen on his knees at her feet, and his strong, solitary
arm was folded close about her.
CHAPTER XIX
_In which Porges Big, and Porges Small discuss the subject of Matrimony_
"What is it, my Porges?"
"Well,--I'm a bit worried, you know."
"Worried?"
"Yes,--'fraid I shall be an old man before my time, Uncle Porges. Adam
says it's worry that ages a man,--an' it killed a cat too!"
"And why do you worry?"
"Oh, it's my Auntie Anthea, a course!--she was crying again last
night--"
"Crying!" Bellew had been lying flat upon his back in the fragrant
shadow of the hay-rick, but now he sat up--very suddenly, so suddenly
that Small Porges started. "Crying!" he repeated, "last night! Are
you sure?"
"Oh yes! You see, she forgot to come an' 'tuck me up' last night, so I
creeped downstairs,--very quietly, you know, to see why. An' I found her
bending over the table, all sobbing, an' crying. At first she tried to
pretend that she wasn't, but I saw the tears quite plain,--her cheeks
were all wet, you know; an' when I put my arms round her--to comfort her
a bit, an' asked her what was the matter, she only kissed me a lot, an'
said 'nothing! nothing,--only a headache!'"
"And why was she crying, do you suppose, my Porges?"
"Oh!--money, a course!" he sighed.
"What makes you think it was money?"
"'Cause she'd been talking to Adam,--I heard him say 'Good-night,' as I
creeped down the stairs,--"
"Ah?" said Bellew, staring straight before him. His beloved pipe had
slipped from his fingers, and, for a wonder, lay all neglected. "It was
after she had talked with Adam, was it, my Porges?"
"Yes,--that's why I knew it was 'bout money; Adam's always talking 'bout
morgyges, an' bills, an' money. Oh Uncle Porges, how I do--hate money!"
"It is sometimes a confounded nuisance!" nodded Bellew.
"But I do wish we had some,--so we could pay all her bills, an' morgyges
for her. She'd be so happy, you know, an' go about singing like she used
to,--an' I shouldn't worry myself into an old man before my time,--all
wrinkled, an' gray, you know; an' all would be revelry, an' joy, if only
she had enough gold, an' bank-notes!"
"And she was--crying, you say!" demanded Bellew again, his gaze still
far away.
"Yes."
"You are quite sure you saw the--tears, my Porges?"
"Oh yes! an' there was one on her nose, too,--a big one, that shone
awful' bright,--twinkled, you know."
"And she said it was only a headache, did she?"
"Yes, but that meant money,--money always makes her head ache, lately.
Oh Uncle Porges!--I s'pose people do find fortunes, sometimes,
don't they?"
"Why yes, to be sure they do."
"Then I wish I knew where they looked for them," said he with a very big
sigh indeed, "I've hunted an' hunted in all the attics, an' the
cupboards, an' under hedges, an' in ditches, an' prayed, an' prayed, you
know,--every night."
"Then, of course, you'll be answered, my Porges."
"Do you really s'pose I shall be answered? You see it's such an awful'
long way for one small prayer to have to go,--from here to heaven. An'
there's clouds that get in the way; an' I'm 'fraid my prayers aren't
quite big, or heavy enough, an' get lost, an' blown away in the wind."
"No, my Porges," said Bellew, drawing his arm about the small
disconsolate figure, "you may depend upon it that your prayers fly
straight up into heaven, and that neither the clouds, nor the wind can
come between, or blow them away. So just keep on praying, old chap, and
when the time is ripe, they'll be answered, never fear."
"Answered?--Do you mean,--oh Uncle Porges!--do you mean--the Money
Moon?" The small hand upon Bellew's arm, quivered, and his voice
trembled with eagerness.
"Why yes, to be sure,--the Money Moon, my Porges,--it's bound to come,
one of these fine nights."
"Ah!--but when,--oh! when will the Money Moon ever come?"
"Well, I can't be quite sure, but I rather fancy, from the look of
things, my Porges, that it will be pretty soon."
"Oh, I do hope so!--for her sake, an' my sake. You see, she may go
getting herself married to Mr. Cassilis, if something doesn't happen
soon, an' I shouldn't like that, you know."
"Neither should I, my Porges. But what makes you think so?"
"Why he's always bothering her, an' asking her to, you see. She always
says 'No' a course, but--one of these fine days, I'm 'fraid she'll say
'Yes'--accidentally, you know."
"Heaven forbid, nephew!"
"Does that mean you hope not?"
"Indeed yes."
"Then I say heaven forbid, too,--'cause I don't think she'd ever be
happy in Mr. Cassilis's great, big house. An' I shouldn't either."
"Why, of course not!"
"_You_ never go about asking people to marry you, do you Uncle Porges!"
"Well, it could hardly be called a confirmed habit of mine."
"That's one of the things I like about you so,--all the time you've been
here you haven't asked my Auntie Anthea once, have you?"
"No, my Porges,--not yet."
"Oh!--but you don't mean that you--ever will?"
"Would you be very grieved, and angry, if I did,--some day soon, my
Porges?"
"Well, I--I didn't think you were that kind of a man!" answered Small
Porges, sighing and shaking his head regretfully.
"I'm afraid I am, nephew."
"Do you really mean that you want to--marry my Auntie Anthea?"
"I do."
"As much as Mr. Cassilis does?"
"A great deal more, I think."
Small Porges sighed again, and shook his head very gravely indeed:
"Uncle Porges," said he, "I'm--s'prised at you!"
"I rather feared you would be, nephew."
"It's all so awful' silly, you know!--why do you want to marry her?"
"Because, like a Prince in a fairy tale, I'm--er--rather anxious
to--live happy ever after."
"Oh!" said Small Porges, turning this over in his mind, "I never thought
of that."
"Marriage is a very important institution, you see, my
Porges,--especially in this case, because I can't possibly live happy
ever after, unless I marry--first--now can I?"
"No, I s'pose not!" Small Porges admitted, albeit reluctantly, after he
had pondered the matter a while with wrinkled brow, "but why pick
out--my Auntie Anthea?"
"Just because she happens to be your Auntie Anthea, of course."
Small Porges sighed again:
"Why then, if she's got to be married some day, so she can live happy
ever after,--well,--I s'pose you'd better take her, Uncle Porges."
"Thank you, old chap,--I mean to."
"I'd rather you took her than Mr. Cassilis, an'--why there he is!"
"Who?"
"Mr. Cassilis. An' he's stopped, an' he's twisting his mestache."
Mr. Cassilis, who had been crossing the paddock, had indeed stopped,
and was twisting his black moustache, as if he were hesitating between
two courses. Finally, he pushed open the gate, and, approaching Bellew,
saluted him with that supercilious air which Miss Priscilla always
declared she found so "trying."
"Ah, Mr. Bellew! what might it be this morning,--the pitchfork--the
scythe, or the plough?" he enquired.
"Neither, sir,--this morning it is--matrimony!"
"Eh!--I beg your pardon,--matrimony?"
"With a large M, sir," nodded Bellew, "marriage, sir,--wedlock; my
nephew and I are discussing it in its aspects philosophical,
sociological, and--"
"That is surely rather a--peculiar subject to discuss with a child, Mr.
Bellew--"
"Meaning my nephew, sir?"
"I mean--young George, there."
"Precisely,--my nephew, Small Porges."
"I refer," said Mr. Cassilis, with slow, and crushing emphasis, "to Miss
Devine's nephew--"
"And mine, Mr. Cassilis,--mine by--er--mutual adoption, and
inclination."
"And I repeat that your choice of subjects is--peculiar, to say the
least of it."
"But then, mine is rather a peculiar nephew, sir. But, surely it was not
to discuss nephews,--mine or anyone else's, that you are hither come,
and our ears do wait upon you,--pray be seated, sir."
"Thank you, I prefer to stand."
"Strange!" murmured Bellew, shaking his head, "I never stand if I can
sit, or sit if I can lie down."
"I should like you to define, exactly, your position--here at
Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew."
Bellew's sleepy glance missed nothing of the other's challenging
attitude, and his ear, nothing of Mr. Cassilis's authoritative tone,
therefore his smile was most engaging as he answered:
"My position here, sir, is truly the most--er--enviable in the world.
Prudence is an admirable cook,--particularly as regard Yorkshire
Pudding; gentle, little Miss Priscilla is the most--er Aunt-like, and
perfect of housekeepers; and Miss Anthea is our sovereign lady, before
whose radiant beauty, Small Porges and I like true knights, and gallant
gentles, do constant homage, and in whose behalf Small Porges and I do
stand prepared to wage stern battle, by day, or by night."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Cassilis, and his smile was even more supercilious
than usual.
"Yes, sir," nodded Bellew, "I do confess me a most fortunate, and happy,
wight who, having wandered hither and yon upon this planet of ours,
which is so vast, and so very small,--has, by the most happy chance,
found his way hither into Arcady."
"And--may I enquire how long you intend to lead this Arcadian
existence?"
"I fear I cannot answer that question until the full o' the moon,
sir,--at present, I grieve to say,--I do not know."
Mr. Cassilis struck his riding-boot a sudden smart rap with his whip;
his eyes snapped, and his nostrils dilated, as he glanced down into
Bellew's imperturbable face.
"At least you know, and will perhaps explain, what prompted you to buy
all that furniture? You were the only buyer at the sale I understand."
"Who--bought anything, yes," nodded Bellew.
"And pray--what was your object,--you--a stranger?"
"Well," replied Bellew slowly, as he began to fill his pipe, "I bought
it because it was there to buy, you know; I bought it because furniture
is apt to be rather useful, now and then,--I acquired the chairs
to--er--sit in, the tables to--er--put things on, and--"
"Don't quibble with me, Mr. Bellew!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cassilis!"
"When I ask a question, sir, I am in the habit of receiving a direct
reply,--"
"And when I am asked a question, Mr. Cassilis, I am in the habit of
answering it precisely as I please,--or not at all."
"Mr. Bellew, let me impress upon you, once and for all, that Miss Devine
has friends,--old and tried friends, to whom she can always turn for aid
in any financial difficulty she may have to encounter,--friends who can
more than tide over all her difficulties without the--interference of
strangers; and, as one of her oldest friends, I demand to know by what
right you force your wholly unnecessary assistance upon her?"
"My very good sir," returned Bellew, shaking his head in gentle reproof,
"really, you seem to forget that you are not addressing one of your
grooms, or footmen,--consequently you force me to remind you of the
fact; furthermore,--"
"That is no answer!" said Mr. Cassilis, his gloved hands tight-clenched
upon his hunting-crop,--his whole attitude one of menace.
"Furthermore," pursued Bellew placidly, settling the tobacco in his pipe
with his thumb, "you can continue to--er demand, until all's blue, and I
shall continue to lie here, and smoke, and gaze up at the smiling
serenity of heaven."