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Astonishing History of Troy Town

<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> <h3>OF CERTAIN LEPERS; AND TWO BROTHERS, WHO, BEING MUCH ALIKE, LOVED THEIR SISTER, AND RECOMMENDED THE USE OF GLOBES.</h3> I must here clear myself on a point which has no doubt caused the reader some indignation. "We remarked," he or she will say, "that, some chapters back, the Admiral described Troy as a 'beautiful little town.' Why, then, have we had no description of it, no digressions on scenery, no word-painting?" To this I answer—Dear sir, or madam, no one who has known Troy was ever yet capable of describing it. If you doubt me, visit the town and see for yourself. I will for the moment suppose you to do so. What happens? On the first day you take a boat and row about the harbour. "Scenery!" you exclaim, "why, what could you have more? Here is a lovely harbour flanked by bold hills to right and left; here are the ruined castles, witnesses of the great days when Troy sent ships to carry the English army to Agincourt; here axe grey houses huddled at the water's edge, hoary, battered walls and quay-doors coated with ooze and green weed. Such is Troy, and on the further shore quaint Penpoodle faces it, where a silver creek, dividing, runs up to Lanbeg; further up, the harbour melts into a river where the old ferry-boat plies to and from the foot of a tiny village straggling up the hill; further yet, and the jetties mingle with the steep woods beside the roads, where the vessels lie thickest; ships of all builds and of all nations, from the trim Canadian timber-ship to the corpulent Billy-boy. Why, the very heart of the picturesque is here. What more can you want?" On the second day you will see all this from the harbour again, or perhaps you will cross the ferry and climb the King's Walk on the opposite bank; you will see it all, but with a change. It is more lovely, but not the same. On the third day you will cast about in your mind to explain this; and so in time you will come to find that it is the spirit of Troy that plays this trick upon you. For you will have learnt to love the place, and love, as you know, dear sir or madam, is apt to affect the eyesight. The eyes of Mr. Fogo, as Caleb pulled sturdily up with the tide, were passing through the first of these stages. "This," he said at length, reflectively, "is one of the loveliest spots I have looked upon." Caleb, in whom humanity and Trojanity were nicely compounded, flushed a bright copper-colour with pleasure. "'Tes reckoned a tidy spot," he answered modestly, "by them as cares for voos an' such-like." "There, now," he went on, after a pause, and turning round, "yonder's Kit's House, wi' Kit's Cottage, next door. You can't see the house so plain, 'cos 'tes behind the trees. But there 'tes, right enough." "Is the cottage uninhabited, too?" "Both on 'em. Ha'nted they do say. By the way, I niver axed 'ee whether you minded ghostes?" "Ghosts?" "Iss, ghostes. This 'ere place was a Lazarus one time, where they kept leppards." "Leopards? How very singular!" murmured Mr. Fogo. "Ay, leppards as white as snow, as the sayin' goes." "Oh, I see," said Mr. Fogo, suddenly enlightened. "You mean that this was a Lazar-house." "That's so—a Lazarus. The leppards used to live there together, and when they died, they was berried at dead o' night down at thicky spit you sees yonder. No one had dealin's wi' 'em nor went nigh 'em, 'cept that they was allowed to make ropes. 'Tesn' so many years that the rope-walk was moved down to th' harbour mouth." Caleb stopped rowing, and leant forward on his paddles. "These 'ere leppards in time got to be quite a happy famb'ly—'cept, of course, they warn't happy, 'cos nobody wudn' have nuthin' to say to 'em. Well, the story goes as one on 'em got falled in love wi' by a very nice gal down in Troy, and one fine day she ups an' tells her sorrowin' parents that she's agoin' to marry a leppard. 'Not ef we knows et,' says they; 'we forbids the banns'; and wi' that they went off to bed thinkin' as they'd settled et. 'But,' says Parson Lasky—" "Who was he?" interrupted Mr. Fogo. "On'y a figger o' speech, sir, and nothin' to do wi' the yarn, as the strollin' actor said when his theayter cotched a-fire. Wot I meant was, that very night the gal gets a boat an' rows up to Kit's House, arter leavin' a letter to say as she'd drownded hersel'. An' there she lived in hidin', 'long wi' the leppards for the rest of her days, which, by the tale, warn't many, an' she an' her sweetheart was berried in wan grave." Caleb paused for breath. "And the ghosts?" said Mr. Fogo, much interested. "Some ha' seed her rowin' about here in a boat, o' dark nights; and others swear to seein' all the leppards a-marchin' down wi' her corpse to the berryin'-ground. Leastways, that's the tale. Jan Spettigue was the last as seed 'em, but as he be'eld three devils on his own chimbly-piece the week arter, along o' too much rum, p'r'aps he made a mistake. Anyways, 'tes a moral yarn, an' true to natur'. These young wimmen es a very detarmined sex, whether 'tes a leppard in the case or a Rooshan." Mr. Fogo had fallen into a reflective silence. "'Tes a thousand pities this 'ere place should be empty, wi' a lean-to Crystal Pallis—by which I means a conserva-tory, sir—an' gardens, an' room for a cow, an' a Pyll o' ets own—" "A what?" "Pyll, sir, otherwise a creek—'c, r, double e, k—an arm o' the sea,' as the spellin' book says." A curious fascination stole over Mr. Fogo as he looked earnestly at the house round which these memories hung. Standing on an angle formed by the bending river, and the little creek, and behind a screen of trees—elms almost too old to feel the sap of spring, a chestnut or two, and a few laurels and sombre firs, that had cracked with their roots the grey garden wall and sprawled down to the beach below—the stained and yellow frontage looked down towards the busy harbour, as it seemed with a sense of serene decay, haunted but without disquietude, like the face of an old lady who has memories and lives in them, though she deigns to contemplate a life from which her hopes, with her old friends and lovers, have dropped out. Perhaps Mr. Fogo had some sympathy with this mood; for Caleb, after waiting some time for his reply, took to his paddles again with a will, and presently the boat, sweeping round a projecting rock, passed into a very different scene. Here the river, shut in on the one side with budding trees to the water's edge, on the other with bracken and patches of ploughed land to where the cliffs broke sheer away, stretched for some miles without bend or break. Far ahead a blue bank of woodland closed the view. Not a sound disturbed the stillness, not a sail broke the placid expanse of water. But a true Trojan must still be talking. Presently Caleb resumed. "'Tes a luvly spot, as you said, sir. Mr. Moggridge down at the customs—he's a poet, as maybe you know—has written a mint o' verses about this 'ere place. 'Natur', he says:—" <blockquote><blockquote> "Natur' has 'ere assoomed her softest garb;     'Ere would I live an' die </blockquote></blockquote> "—which I calls a very touchin' sentiment, an' like what they says in a nigger song." With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms. On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was curling up from among the dense woodland. Caleb headed the boat for this smoke, ran her nose on the pebbles beneath a low cliff, and stepped out. "'Ere we are, sir." "But I don't see any house," said Mr. Fogo, perplexed. "All in good time, sir," replied Mr. Trotter, and having fastened up the boat, led the way. A narrow flight of steps, hewn out of the rock, led up to the little cliff. At the top, and almost hidden by bushes, stood a low gate. Thence the path wound for a space between walls of budding hazel, and at its end quite unexpectedly a tiny cottage burst upon Mr. Fogo's view. Little dreaming that the owner of Kit's House could live in such humility, he was considerably surprised when Caleb stepped up and struck a rousing knock upon the door. It was opened by a comely girl with a white apron pinned before her neat stuff gown, and a face as fresh and healthful as a spring day. "Why, Caleb," she cried, "who would have thought it? Come inside; you're as welcome as flowers in May." "And you," replied Caleb gallantly, "are a-lookin' so sweet as blossom. Here's a gentlem'n come to call upon 'ee, my dear. An' how's Peter an' Paul? Brave, I hopes." "Both, thank you, Caleb," said the maiden, curtseying without embarrassment to Mr. Fogo. "Won't you come in, sir?" It was noticeable that Mr. Fogo at this point became very nervous, but he crossed the threshold in answer to this invitation. Mr. Trotter followed. The fragrant smoke of a wood fire filled the room in which Mr. Fogo found himself. It was a rude kitchen, with white limeash floor, and for ceiling, a few whitewashed beams and the planching of the bedroom above. All was scrupulously clean. In the flickering obscurity of the chimney depended a line of black pot-hooks and hangers; a trivet and a pair of bellows furnished the hearth; from the capacious rack hung a rich stock of hams and sides of bacon, curing in the smoke; an English clock stood in one corner, a tall cupboard in another, and a geranium in the window-seat. Along the side opposite the door, and parallel to a dresser of shining crockery, ran a strong deal table. Some high-backed chairs, a pair of brass candlesticks with snuffers, a book or two, a few old hats, and a lanthorn, on various pegs, completed the furniture of the place. But Mr. Fogo's gaze was riveted on two men who rose together at his entrance from the table where they were seated, side by side, at their tea. Both tall, both adorned with crisp curls of black hair—with clean-shaven, mahogany faces, and the gentlest of possible smiles, the twins came forward to greet the stranger. So appallingly alike were they that Mr. Fogo felt a ridiculous desire to run away, nor could help fancying himself the victim of a disordered dream. The Twins advanced upon him simultaneously with outstretched horny palms. He noticed that even their dress was precisely similar, with the single exception that one wore a red, the other a yellow bandanna handkerchief loosely knotted about his throat. <center> <ANTIMG src="images/FIG5.JPG" alt="The Twins advanced upon him simultaneously."> The Twins advanced upon him simultaneously. </center> "You'm kindly welcome, sir," said the Twin with the red bandanna; and the Twin with the yellow neck-cloth murmured "kindly welcome," like an echo. "Stop a bit," interposed Caleb, "let's do a bit of introducin'. This here es Mr. Fogo, gent, as es thinkin' of rentin' Kit's House, and es come for that puppos'. That there es Peter Dearlove—him wi' the red neckercher; likewise Paul Dearlove—him wi' the yaller. An', beggin' yer pardon for passin' over the ladies, this es Tamsin Dearlove (christ'n'd Thomasina), dearly beloved sister o' the same," concluded Caleb, with a sudden recollection of having read something like this on a tombstone. Tamsin curtseyed, and the two horny palms were again presented. Not knowing which to take first, Mr. Fogo held his umbrella between his knees and gave them a hand a-piece. "I am afraid, Mr.—" He hesitated with a suspicion that he ought to say "Messrs." "Dearlove," suggested Caleb; "an' reckoned a purty name, too." "I am afraid, Mr. Dearlove," repeated Mr. Fogo, compromising matters by staring hard between the Twins, "that we have interrupted you." "Not at all, sir," said Peter. "Sit down, sir, ef you'm not proud. Tamsin, bring a cup for the gentleman. A piece o' pasty, sir? Tamsin es famous for pasties." Mr. Fogo, remembering that, with the exception of the mug of beer at the "King of Prussia," he had not broken his fast since the morning, and seeing also that the hospitality was anxiously sincere, complied. In a few moments both he and Caleb were seated before a steaming pasty. Tamsin poured out the tea. She was a full twenty years younger than her brothers, as could be seen notwithstanding their boyish look, which came from innocence and clean-shaven faces. It was pleasant to see their almost fatherly pride in her. Mr. Fogo noted it vaguely, but an inexplicable nervousness seemed to have overtaken him since entering the cottage. "I came," he said at last, "to inquire about Kit's House, which I hear is to let." "Thankin' you kindly, sir," answered Peter; "an' I won't say but what we shall be glad to let et. But Paul and I ha' been puttin' our heads togither, and we allow 'tes for Tamsin to say." Here he looked at Paul, who nodded gravely and repeated, in his former mechanical tone, "for Tamsin to say." Mr. Fogo looked more distressed than ever. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he began, with a quick glance at the girl, who was quietly pouring tea; "I did not know." "No offence, sir. On'y, don't you see, 'tes this way. Kit's House es a gran' place wi' a slaty roof an' a I-talian garden, and a mighty deal too fine for the likes of Paul an' me. But wi' Tamsin 'tes another thing. We both agree she ought to be a leddy—not but what she's a better gal than tens o' thousands o' leddies—an' more than once we've offered to get her larnt the pi-anner an' callysthenics, an' the use o' globes, an' all such things which we knows to be usual in gran' sussiety; on'y she sticks to et to bide along wi' we. God bless her! I say, an' a rough life et must be for her." Tamsin turned away towards the fireplace, and became very busy among the pot-hooks and hangers. Her brother pulled out a red handkerchief—a fellow to the one around his neck—mopped his face and proceeded— "Well, as I was a-saying, seein' she was bent on bein' wi' us, Paul and me allowed to each other that we'd set up in fine style at Kit's House, so as not to rob her of what es her doo: that es to say—one of us wou'd live down there wi' a car'ge and pair o' hosses, and cut a swell wi' dinner parties an' what-not, while the other bided here an' tilled 'taties, turn and turn about. But she wudn' hear o' that, neither. She's a terrible stubborn gal, bless her!" "We shou'd ha' been slow at larnin' the ropes, just at fust," he resumed after a moment's silence, "not bein' scholards, partikler at the use o' globes, which I have heerd es diffycult, though very entertainin' in company when you knows how 'tes done. But we was ready to try a hand—on'y she wudn' have et, an' so et has gone on. But, beggin' your pardon, sir, and hopin' no offence, she shall give her answer afore 'tes too late. Eh, Paul?" "You have spoken, Peter," said the other twin, very slowly, "like a printed book. Let Tamsin speak her mind about et." The girl came forward from the fireplace, and Mr. Fogo, as he stole a glance at her, could see that her eyes were red. "What do 'ee say, Tamsin? Must we let Kit's House, or shall we leave th' ould place an' go an' make a leddy of 'ee?" Tamsin's reply was to fall on her knees before the speaker and break into a fit of weeping. "Don't ask me, don't ask me! I don't want to be a lady, an' I won't leave you. Don't ask me, my dear, dear brothers!" Peter stroked the dark head buried in his lap, while Paul blew his nose violently in a yellow bandanna, and replied to Mr. Fogo. "Very well, sir, so be et. There's the key of Kit's House yonder on the nail. Ef you likes to look over the place, one of us will follow you presently, and then, supposin' et to be to your likin', us can talk over terms."   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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