"Yes, try the blackberry—Aunt Priscilla made it her very own self."
"You know it's perfectly—ridiculous!" said Anthea, frowning and laughing, both at the same time.
"What is, Miss Anthea?"
"Why that you should be sitting here calling Georgy your nephew, and that I should be pouring out tea for you, quite as a matter of course."
"It seems to me the most delightfully natural thing in the world," said
Bellew, in his slow, grave manner.
"But—I've only known you—half an hour—!"
"But then, friendships ripen quickly—in Arcadia."
"I wonder what Aunt Priscilla will have to say about it!"
"Aunt Priscilla?"
"She is our housekeeper—the dearest, busiest, gentlest little housekeeper in all the world; but with—very sharp eyes, Mr. Bellew. She will either like you very much—or—not at all! there are no half measures about Aunt Priscilla."
"Now I wonder which it will be," said Bellew, helping himself to more jam.
"Oh, she'll like you, a course!" nodded Small Porges, "I know she'll like you 'cause you're so different to Mr. Cassilis—he's got black hair, an' a mestache, you know, an' your hair's gold, like mine—an' your mestache—isn't there, is it? An' I know she doesn't like Mr. Cassilis, an' I don't, either, 'cause—"
"She will be back to-morrow," said Anthea, silencing Small Porges with a gentle touch of her hand, "and we shall be glad, sha'n't we, Georgy? The house is not the same place without her. You see, I am off in the fields all day, as a rule; a farm—even such a small one as Dapplemere, is a great responsibility, and takes up all one's time—if it is to be made to pay—"
"An' sometimes it doesn't pay at all, you know!" added Small Porges, "an' then Auntie Anthea worries, an' I worry too. Farming isn't what it was in Adam's young days—so that's why I must find a fortune—early tomorrow morning, you know—so my Auntie won't have to worry any more—"
Now when he had got thus far, Anthea leaned over, and, taking him by surprise, kissed Small Porges suddenly.
"It was very good, and brave of you, dear," said she in her soft, thrilling voice, "to go out all alone into this big world to try and find a fortune for me!" and here she would have kissed him again but that he reminded her that they were not alone.
"But, Georgy dear—fortunes are very hard to find—especially round
Dapplemere, I'm afraid!" said she, with a rueful little laugh.
"Yes, that's why I was going to Africa, you know."
"Africa!" she repeated, "Africa!"
"Oh yes," nodded Bellew, "when I met him he was on his way there to bring back gold for you—in a sack."
"Only Uncle Porges said it was a goodish way off, you know, so I 'cided to stay an' find the fortune nearer home."
And thus they talked unaffectedly together until, tea being over, Anthea volunteered to show Bellew over her small domain, and they went out, all three, into an evening that breathed of roses, and honeysuckle.
And, as they went, slow-footed through the deepening twilight, Small Porges directed Bellew's attention to certain nooks and corners that might be well calculated to conceal the fortune they were to find; while Anthea pointed out to him the beauties of shady wood, of rolling meadow, and winding stream.
But there were other beauties that neither of them thought to call to his attention, but which Bellew noted with observing eyes, none the less:—such, for instance, as the way Anthea had of drooping her shadowy lashes at sudden and unexpected moments; the wistful droop of her warm, red lips, and the sweet, round column of her throat. These, and much beside, Bellew noticed for himself as they walked on together through this midsummer evening. … And so, betimes, Bellew got him to bed, and, though the hour was ridiculously early, yet he fell into a profound slumber, and dreamed of—nothing at all. But, far away upon the road, forgotten, and out of mind—with futile writhing and grimaces, the Haunting Shadow of the Might Have Been jibbered in the shadows.
CHAPTER VII
Which concerns itself among other matters, with "the Old Adam"
Bellew awakened early next morning, which was an unusual thing for Bellew to do under ordinary circumstances since he was one who held with that poet who has written, somewhere or other, something to the following effect:
"God bless the man who first discovered sleep. But damn the man with curses loud, and deep, who first invented—early rising."
Nevertheless, Bellew, (as has been said), awoke early next morning, to find the sun pouring in at his window, and making a glory all about him. But it was not this that had roused him, he thought as he lay blinking drowsily—nor the black-bird piping so wonderfully in the apple-tree outside—a very inquisitive apple-tree that had writhed, and contorted itself most un-naturally in its efforts to peep in at the window;—therefore Bellew fell to wondering, sleepily enough, what it could have been. Presently it came again, the sound—a very peculiar sound the like of which Bellew had never heard before, which, as he listened, gradually evolved itself into a kind of monotonous chant, intoned by a voice deep, and harsh, yet withal, not unmusical. Now the words of the chant were these:
"When I am dead, diddle, diddle, as well may hap,
Bury me deep, diddle, diddle, under the tap,
Under the tap, diddle, diddle, I'll tell you why,
That I may drink, diddle, diddle, when I am dry."
Hereupon, Bellew rose, and crossing to the open casement leaned out into the golden freshness of the morning. Looking about he presently espied the singer—one who carried two pails suspended from a yoke upon his shoulders—a very square man; that is to say, square of shoulder, square of head, and square of jaw, being, in fact, none other than the Waggoner with whom he had fought, and ridden on the previous afternoon; seeing which, Bellew hailed him in cheery greeting. The man glanced up, and, breaking off his song in the middle of a note, stood gazing at Bellew, open-mouthed.
"What—be that you, sir?" he enquired, at last, and then—"Lord! an' what be you a doing of up theer?"
"Why, sleeping, of course," answered Bellew.
"W'ot—again!" exclaimed the Waggoner with a grin, "you do be for ever a-sleepin' I do believe!"
"Not when you're anywhere about!" laughed Bellew.
"Was it me as woke ye then?"
"Your singing did."
"My singin'! Lord love ye, an' well it might! My singin' would wake the dead—leastways so Prudence says, an' she's generally right—leastways, if she ain't, she's a uncommon good cook, an' that goes a long way wi' most of us. But I don't sing very often unless I be alone, or easy in my mind an' 'appy-'earted—which I ain't."
"No?" enquired Bellew.
"Not by no manner o' means, I ain't—contrariwise my 'eart be sore an' full o' gloom—which ain't to be wondered at, nohow."
"And yet you were singing."
"Aye, for sure I were singin', but then who could help singin' on such a mornin' as this be, an' wi' the black-bird a-piping away in the tree here. Oh! I were singin', I don't go for to deny it, but it's sore 'earted I be, an' filled wi' gloom sir, notwithstanding."
"You mean," said Bellew, becoming suddenly thoughtful, "that you are haunted by the Carking Spectre of the—er Might Have Been?"
"Lord