rather, would gild refined gold, Miss Limpenny."
And the Admiral as invariably broke in with—
"Come, Sophy! remember the proverb about little birds that can sing and won't sing."
This prelude having been duly recited, the Misses Buzza would together trip to the piano, on which the two younger girls in duet were used to accompany Sophia's artless ballads. The performance gained a character of its own from a habit to which Calypso clung, of counting the time in an audible aside: as thus—
Sophia (singing): "Oh, breathe but a whispered command." Calypso: "One, two, three, four." Sophia: "I'll lay down my life for thee!" Calypso: "One, two, three, four."
—the effect of which upon strangers has been known to be paralysing, though we who were cumeelfo pretended not to notice it. But Sophy could also accompany her own songs, such as, "Will you love me then as now?" and "I'd rather be a daisy," with much feeling. She was clever, too, with the water-colour brush, and to her we owe that picture of " H.M.S. Calypso in a Storm," which hangs to this day over the Admiral's mantelpiece.
I could dwell on this evening for ever; not that the company was so large as usual, but because it was the last night of our simplicity. With the next morning we passed out of our golden age, and in the foolishness of our hearts welcomed the change.
It was announced to us in this manner—
The duets had been beaten out of Miss Limpenny's piano—an early Collard, with a top like a cupboard, fluted in pink silk and wearing a rosette in front; the performers, on retiring, had curtseyed in acknowledgment of the Vicar's customary remark about the "Three Graces "; the Admiral had wrung from his double-bass the sounds we had learnt to identify with elfin merriment (though suggestive, rather, of seasick mutineers under hatches), and our literary collector, Mr. Moggridge, was standing up to recite a trifle of his own—"flung off"—as he explained, "not pruned or polished."
The hush in the drawing-room was almost painful—for in those days we all admired Mr. Moggridge—as the poet tossed back a stray lock from his forehead, flung an arm suddenly out at right angles to his person, and began sepulchrally—
"Maiden"—
(Here he looked very hard at Miss Lavinia Limpenny.)
"Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard
Beside yon grassy mound?
The night hath fallen, the rain is raining hard
Damp is the ground."
Mrs. Buzza shivered, and began to weep quietly.
"Maiden, why claspest thou that cold, cold stone
Against thy straining breast?
Tell me, what dost thou at this hour alone?
(Persuasively) The lambs have gone to rest. The maiden lifted up her tearful gaze, And thus she made reply: 'My mother, sir, is—'"
But the secret of her conduct remains with Mr. Moggridge, for at this moment the door opened, and the excited head of Sam Buzza, the Admiral's only son, was thrust into the room.
"I say, have you heard the news? 'The Bower' is let."
"What!"
All eyes were fixed on the newcomer. The Vicar woke up. Even the poet, with his arm still at right angles and the verse arrested on his lips, turned to stare incredulously.
"It's a fact; I heard it down at the Man-o'-War Club meeting, you know," he explained. "Goodwyn-Sandys is his name, the Honourable Goodwyn-Sandys, brother to Lord Sinkport—and what's more, he is coming by the mid-day train to-morrow."
The poet's arm dropped like a railway signal. There was a long pause, and then the voices broke out all together—
"Only fancy!"
"There now!"
"'The Bower' let at last!"
"An Honourable, too!"
"What is he like?"
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I never did!"
"Miss Limpenny," gasped the Admiral, at length, "where is your Burke?"
It lay between the "Cathedrals of England" and "Gems of Modern Art"; under the stereoscope. Miss Lavinia produced it.
"Let me see," said the Admiral, turning the pages. "Sinkport—Sinkport—here we are—George St. Leonards Goodwyn-Sandys, fourth baron—H'm, h'm, here it is—only brother, Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys, b. 1842—married—"
"Married!"
"1876—Geraldine, eighth daughter of Sheil O'Halloran of Kilmacuddy Court, County Kerry—blank space for issue—arms: gules, a bar sinist—Ahem! Well, upon my word!"
"I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Buzza, after the excitement had cooled a little—"I'm sure I only hope they will settle down to our humble ways."
"Emily," snapped her husband, "you speak like a fool. Pooh! Let me tell you, ma'am, that our ways in Troy are not humble!"
Outside, in Miss Limpenny's back garden, the laurestinus bushes sighed as they caught those ominous words. So might Eden have sighed, aware of its serpent.
CHAPTER II.
HOW AN ADMIRAL TOOK ONE GENTLEMAN FOR ANOTHER,
AND WAS TOLD THE DAY OF THE MONTH.
Next morning, almost before the sun was up, all Troy was in possession of the news; and in Troy all that is personal has a public interest. It is this local spirit that marks off the Trojan from all other minds.
In consequence long before ten o'clock struck, it was clear that some popular movement was afoot; and by half-past eleven the road to the railway station was crowded with Trojans of all sorts and conditions—boatmen, pilots, fishermen, sailors out of employ, the local photographer, men from the ship-building yards, makers of ship's biscuit, of ropes, of sails, chandlers, block and pump manufacturers, loafers—representatives, in short, of all the staple industries: women with baskets—women with babies, women with both, even a few farmers in light gigs with their wives, or in carts with their families, a sprinkling from Penpoodle, across the harbour—high and low, Church and Dissent, with children
