it back for an exchange some days afterwards; not only that, but he came three times during the next week and nearly ruined his nervous system with tea.
The party finally mounted the char-a-bancs, just as I was about to offer the baby for twenty-five pounds, and dirt cheap at that. Meanwhile I gave the driver a cup of lukewarm tea, for which I refused absolutely to accept any remuneration.
I had cleared the tables before Mrs. Bobby returned, flushed and panting, with the guilty cow. Never shall I forget that good dame’s astonishment, her mild deprecations, her smiles—nay, her tears—as she inspected my truly English account and received the silver.
| s. | d. | |
| Nine teas… . | 3 | 6 |
| Cream … . | 7 | |
| Bread-and-butter . . | 1 | 6 |
| Extra teas… . | 9 | |
| Marmalade… . | 6 | |
| Three tips… . | 2 | 0 |
| Four roses and mignonette… . | 1 | 8 |
| Three carnations . . | 6 | |
| Canary … . | 12 | 0 |
| Cage … . | 1 | 0 |
| ——— | ||
| 24 | 0 | |
I told her I regretted deeply putting down the marmalade so low as sixpence; but as they had not touched it, it did not matter so much, as the entire outlay for the entertainment had been only about a shilling. On that modest investment, I considered one pound three shillings a very fair sum to be earned by an inexperienced ‘licensed victualler’ like myself, particularly as I am English only by adoption, and not by birth.
Chapter XXV.
Et Ego in Arcadia Vixit
I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate open once or twice, but a single stray customer, after my hungry and generous horde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a refreshing slumber, dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an English inn, and that I was the barmaid. This blissful vision had been of all too short duration when I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby’s apologetic voice.
“It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I’ve got to go and patch up the fence, and smooth over the matter of the turnips with Mrs. Gooch, who is that snorty I don’t know ‘ow ever I can pacify her. There is nothing for you to do, miss, only if you’ll kindly keep an eye on the customer at the yew-tree table. He’s been here for ‘alf an hour, miss, and I think more than likely he’s a foreigner, by his actions, or may be he’s not quite right in his ‘ead, though ‘armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him turn two of them into the ‘olly’ocks. He has been feeding bread-and-butter to the dog, and now the baby is on his knee, playing with his fine gold watch. He gave me a ‘alf-a-crown and refused to take a penny change; but why does he stop so long, miss? I can’t help worriting over the silver cream-jug that was my mother’s.”
Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to keep my promised eye on the mysterious customer. I lifted back the purple clematis to get a better view.
It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a parcel, strode under the window.
I (gasping). “How did you come here?”
He. “By the usual methods, dear.”
I. “You shouldn’t have come without asking. Where are all your fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn’t an hotel within four miles?”
He. “That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn’t endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It is really autumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you are a little glad to see me.”
(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite me first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of his convincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled for ever.)
I. “Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad, indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are here.”
He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a ladder). “Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet things to me?”
I. “Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I’m committing the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this second-story window.”
He. “Don’t pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of Mrs. Bobby’s creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won’t you come down?”
I. “I like it very much up here.”
He. “You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you didn’t ‘paint me out,’ after all?”
I. “No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset.”
He. “You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when I was not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty Pen!”
I. “Suppose we compromise. My sitting-room is just below; will you walk in and look at my sketches until I come? You needn’t ring; the bell is overgrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it; it might almost be an American hotel, but it is Arcadia!”
He. “It is Paradise; and alas! here comes the serpent!”
I. “It isn’t a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England.—Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of mine from America. Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in the world, and the owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea-tables, and the baby.—The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty, Mrs. Bobby, was that he has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must give him
