The Astonishing History of Troy Town Part 44

"A durn sight."

Why had we been denied that perspicacity now?

So with a heavy burden, and heavier conscience (both of Mrs.

Goodwyn-Sandys' packing), he trudged forward, kicking up clouds of dust that sparkled in the moonlight. Presently the ascent grew more gradual, the hedges lower, and over their tops he could feel the upland air breathing coolly from the sea. And now the sign-post hove in sight, and the cross-roads stretching whitely into distance.

If we take the town of Troy as a base, lying north and south, this sign-post forms the apex of a triangle which has two high-roads for its remaining sides--the one road entering Troy from the north by the hill which Sam had just ascended, the other running southwards and ending with a steep declivity at no great distance from "The Bower."

It was by this southern road, of course, that Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys would come. Sam looked along it, but all as yet was silent.

He pulled out his watch again, and, finding that he had still twenty minutes to spare, set down his load at the foot of the signpost, and began to walk to and fro.

So gloomy were his reflections that, to soothe his nerves, he pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then, for lack of anything better to do, rekindled his lantern, and resumed his walk.

The cigar was barely half smoked when he heard a noise in the distance.

Yes, there was no doubt. It was the sound of horses. Sam caught up the portmanteau, and stared down the highway. For a full minute he listened to the advancing clatter, and presently, around an angle of the road, a chaise and pair broke into view, and came up at a gallop.

Sam advanced a step or two; a white handkerchief was thrust out at the window, and the driver pulled up suddenly. Then the face of Mrs.

Goodwyn-Sandys looked anxiously out.

"Ah! you are there," she exclaimed with a little cry of relief.

"I have been so afraid. Have you got it?"

In the moonlight, and that pretty air of timidity on her face, she was more ravis.h.i.+ng than ever. Her voice called as a siren's; her eyes drew Sam irresistibly. In a second all his fears, doubts, scruples, were flung to the winds. He held up the portmanteau, and advanced to the carriage door.

"Here it is. Geraldine--"

"Oh! thanks, thanks. How can I show my thanks?"

The perfume of her hair floated out upon the night with the music of her tone until they both fairly intoxicated him.

He opened the door of the chaise.

"Where shall I stow it?" he asked.

"Here, opposite me; be very careful of it."

In the darkness he saw a huge bundle of rugs piled by Geraldine's side.

"Where am I to sit?" he asked, as he bestowed the portmanteau carefully.

He looked up into her face. The loveliest smile rested on him, for one instant, from those incomparable eyes. She did not answer, but held out her hand with the grace of a maiden confessing her first pa.s.sion. He seized the ungloved fingers, and kissed them.

"Geraldine!"

At this moment a low chuckle issued from the bundle of rugs.

Sam dropped the hand, and started back as if stung. A hateful thought flashed upon him.

"Moggridge? But no--"

He seized his lantern, and turned the slide. A stream of light shot into the corner of the chaise, and revealed--the bland face of Mr.

Goodwyn-Sandys!

There was an instant of blank dismay. Then, with a peal of laughter, Geraldine sank back among the cus.h.i.+ons.

"_Good_-night!" said the Honourable Frederic with grim affability; then, popping his head out at the further window, "Drive on, John!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and Sam, with that pitiless laugh still pealing in his ears, was left standing on the high-road.

In the tumult of the moment, beyond a wild sense of injustice, it is my belief that his brain accomplished little. He stared dully after the retreating chaise, until it disappeared in the direction of Five Lanes; and then he groaned aloud.

There was a patch of turf, now heavy with dew, beside the sign-post.

Upon this he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, and head between his hands, strove to still the giddy whirl in his brain. And as his folly and its bitterness found him out, the poor fool rocked himself, and cursed the day when he was born. If any one yet doubt that Mr. Moggridge was an inspired singer, let him turn to that sublime aspiration in _Sophronia: a Tragedy_--

"Let me be criminal, but never weak; For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin Without its brave apparel"--

and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.

_Pat, pat, pat!_

It was the m.u.f.fled sound of footsteps on the dusty road. He looked up. A dark figure, the figure of a woman, was approaching. Its air of timorous alertness, and its tendency to seek the shadow of the hedge-row, gave him some confidence. He arose, and stepped forward into the broad moonlight.

The woman gave a short gasp and came to a halt, shrinking back against the hedge. Something in her outline struck sharply on Sam's sense, though with a flash of doubt and wonder. She carried a small handbag, and wore a thick veil over her face.

"Who are you?" he asked gently. "Don't be afraid."

The woman made no answer--only cowered more closely against the hedge; and he heard her breath coming hard and fast. Once more--and for the third time that night--Sam pulled the slide of his lantern.

"_Mother!_"

"Oh! Sam, Sam, don't betray me! I'll go back--indeed I'll go back!"

"In Heaven's name, mother, what are you doing here?"

The retort was obvious, but Mrs. Buzza merely cried--

"Dear Sam, have pity on me, and take me back! I'll go quietly--quite quietly."

The idea of his mother (who weighed eighteen stone if an ounce) resisting with kicks and struggles might have caused Sam some amus.e.m.e.nt, but his brain was overcrowded already.

"It's a judgment," she went on incoherently, wringing her hands; "and I thought I had planned it so cleverly. I dressed up his double-ba.s.s, Sam, and put it in the bed--oh! I am a wicked woman--and pinned a note to the pin-cus.h.i.+on to say he had driven me to it, throwing the breakfast things over the quay-door--real Worcester, Sam, and marked at the bottom of each piece; and a carriage from the Five Lanes Hotel to meet me at twelve o'clock; but I'd rather go home, Sam; I've been longing, all the way, to go back; it's been haunting me, that double-ba.s.s, all the time--with my nightcap, too--the one with real lace--on the head of it. Oh! take me home, Sam. I'm a wicked woman!"

Sam, after all, was a Trojan, and I therefore like to record his graces. He drew his mother's arm within his with much tenderness, kissed her, and began to lead her homewards quietly and without question.

But the poor soul could not be silent; and so, very soon, the whole story came out. At the mention of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys Sam shut his teeth sharply.

"I shall never be able to face her, Sam."