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Astonishing History of Troy Town

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<h3>CHAPTER XXII.</h3> <h3>IN WHICH SEVERAL ATTEMPTS ARE MADE TO PUT A PERIOD TO THIS HISTORY.</h3> The congregation at St. Symphorian's on this memorable Sunday morning numbered nine persons. Possibly this was the reason why, against all precedent, the Vicar's sermon terminated at "thirdly." Woman has been stated so often, and by such capable observers, to be more inquisitive than man, that I will content myself with establishing an exception. Of these nine persons, five were women, and the remainder held the salaried posts of organist, organ-blower, pew-opener, and parish-clerk. Of the women, one was Tamsin Dearlove. It is noteworthy that Caleb spent his morning at "The Bower." Service was over, and Tamsin was rowing homewards. She was alone; for Troy was not the Dearloves' parish, and the Twins attended their own church—being, indeed, churchwardens. As she pulled quietly upwards, a shade of thought rested on her pretty face. I do not know of what she was thinking; and may add that if I did, I should not tell you. I would as lief rob a church. She had passed the jetties, and was pulling her left paddle to turn the corner off Kit's House, when a flash crossed the heaven from behind her, and in an instant followed that rending explosion which (at different distances) has been twice presented to the reader, and with pardonable pride; for the story of Troy has now a catastrophe as well as episodes, and is vindicated as a theme. As soon as the throbbing of the atmosphere and the buzzing in her ears began to die away, two swift thoughts crossed her brain. Oddly enough, the first was for the safety of Kit's House. She glanced over her shoulder. A mere film of smoke hung over the creek, and to the right of this she saw the house standing, seemingly unharmed. Then came the second thought— If the explosion came from the creek, where the light smoke hung, there would be a wave. She half turned on the thwart and looked intently. Yes. It was curling towards her, widening from the creek's mouth, and arching with a hateful crest. On it came, a dark and glossy wall; and she knew that if it broke or caught her boat in the least aslant, she must be either swamped or overset. With a sound that was half a sob and half a prayer she grasped her paddles and, still looking over her shoulder, gently moved the boat's nose to face it. A moment, and it rose above her, hissing death; another, and the boat was caught high in air, tottered on the summit, and then with a shiver shot swiftly down into the trough beyond—safe. A second wave followed, and a third, but with less peril. She was still tossed, but as she saw that mass of water hurled upon the shore, and sweeping angrily but with broken force towards the harbour, she knew that she could thank Heaven for her escape. She pulled towards the creek. Already the air was clear; but as she glanced again her eye missed something familiar. And then it struck her that the old schooner had gone. At that instant, as if in confirmation, a shattered board bumped against the boat's side. She looked, and noticed that far and near the water was strewn with such fragments. She was pausing for a second to consider, when she caught sight of a black object lying on the mud beside the shore, and with a short cry fell to rowing with all her strength. She guided the boat as nearly up to it as the mud allowed, and then, catching up her skirts, jumped into the ooze and waded. It was Mr. Fogo; but whether dead or alive she could not say. Down on the mud she knelt, and, turning him gently over, looked into his face. It was streaked with slime, and powdered with a yellowish flake, as of sand. His locks were singed most pitifully. She started up, took him by the shoulders, and tried to drag him up to the firmer shingle. Mr. Fogo opened his eyes and shut them again, feebly. "Not dead! Oh! thank Heaven you are not dead." With a sob she dropped again beside him, and brushed the flaked powder from his eye-lashes. He opened his eyes again. "Would you mind speaking up? I—I think I am a little deaf." "I thought you were dead," she cried, in a louder tone. "No-o, I am not dead. Oh! no; decidedly I am not dead. It—it was the Tea, I fancy." He added this apologetically, much as some gentlemen are wont to plead "the salmon." Apparently believing the explanation sufficient, he shut his eyes again, and seemed inclined to go to sleep. "The Tea?" questioned Tamsin, chafing his hands. "Or the Honey, perhaps—or the Putty," he answered drowsily. Then, opening his eyes and sitting up with a start, "Upon my soul, I don't know which. It called itself Tea, but I'm—bound—to— admit—" He was nodding again. Utterly perplexed, Tamsin leant back and regarded him. "Can you walk, if you lean on my arm?" "Walk? Oh! yes, I can walk. Why not?" But it seemed that he was mistaken; for, in attempting to start, he groped about for a bit and then sat down suddenly. Tamsin helped him to his feet. The reader has long ago guessed the cause of the catastrophe. It was dynamite—conspirators' dynamite, and therefore ill-prepared. Now dynamite, when it explodes, acts, we are told, with "local partiality"; and of this term we may remark— <blockquote><blockquote> That it is given as an explanation by men of science, Without being a "scientific" explanation; But is, in fact, a "metaphysical" explanation, And therefore no explanation at all of The astonishing fact that dynamite hits one thing and does not hit another. </blockquote></blockquote> In the case of Mr. Fogo, his top-hat had vanished, but the brim still clung to his head, like a halo. His spectacles and one boot had gone; the other boot was unlaced. His coat was split up the back, and his collar had broken away, but his tie was barely disarranged. He has since declared that he left the schooner with two-and-sixpence in his trowser pocket, and came ashore with two-and-a-penny; but this was in an account delivered to a scientific audience, and is thought to have been a joke. From head to foot he was besmeared with black mud; for the rotten stern must have parted and fallen with the first touch of the explosion, so that the wave caught him as he toppled out, and flung him at once upon the shallows. But Tamsin's Sunday frock was already ruined. She made him rest his hand on her shoulder, and so, with one arm thrown round him for steadiness, led him down the beach, and with infinite difficulty got him across the mud and into the boat. <center> <ANTIMG src="images/FIG15.JPG" alt="With infinite difficulty got him across the mud."> With infinite difficulty got him across the mud. </center> She managed to push off at last, and pulled rapidly across for Kit's House. Hitherto Mr. Fogo's condition had slightly resembled a drunken stupor; but now he shivered violently and looked about him. "Where am I?" "Safe and sound, I hope." He passed his hand over his eyes and shivered again. "I remember. Something—blew up, did it not? The canister, I think." She nodded encouragingly. "Where did you come from?" he asked abruptly. "From church." "Oh! from church. Do you know, I'm very glad to see you—I am, indeed, I hope you'll come often, now that—Excuse me," he broke off with a weak smile, "but I fancy I'm talking nonsense." She nodded again. "I am aching all over," he added with a shiver. She pulled the boat up to the little quay. "Now I wonder where Caleb is," she said to herself, as she stood up and looked around; "but he's like most men, always in the way or out of the way." She turned suddenly with a white face. "Caleb was not with you?" To her hearty relief Mr. Fogo understood the question and shook his head. She helped him ashore. Though he walked with pain, he made an obvious effort to lighten his weight on her shoulder; and this returning bashfulness was a good sign, she thought. They passed slowly up the steps; at the top he acknowledged her help with a grateful look, but neither spoke until he was seated in a chair by the kitchen fireplace. Then she withdrew her attention for a moment to glance round upon the clumsy appliances and masculine untidiness of the place. She noticed that fully half the window-panes had been shattered by the explosion; but otherwise the house had barely suffered. "Is there any brandy or whiskey in the house?" He shook his head. "If you want to drink—" he began, but stopped hastily and added, "I beg your pardon." "Is there any tea?" He pointed to the cupboard, but dropped his arm with a groan. She was at his side in a moment. "Now, listen to me. You are not to stir or speak, but only to nod or shake your head when I ask a question. Do you understand?" He nodded. "That's right." She stepped to the cupboard, produced the tea and a box of matches; then, stooping down, rekindled the fire with the help of some sticks which she found in the oven, and put the kettle on the flame. This done, she sought and found the tea-things. "Milk?" she asked. He nodded towards a blue jug on the mantel-shelf. "Milk on the mantel-shelf! That's like a man." But at this point the kettle began to boil. She filled the tea-pot, and replaced the kettle on the hob. As she turned, she was aware of a clearer look in Mr. Fogo's eyes. She smiled and nodded. "You are better." "Much. I can remember it all, after a fashion. Did I talk nonsense?" "A little." She smiled again. His eyes followed her as she moved about the kitchen. Presently he said— "You are very good to me." "I think I am." "Tamsin—" She turned suddenly to the table, and caught up the teapot. "Do you know," she asked, "that tea is worthless if it stands for more than five minutes?" She filled a cup, and gave it to him with a hand that trembled slightly. He sipped, and scalded his lip. "Tamsin—" "My name is Dearlove," she said shortly, "and you are spilling the tea." There was silence for a minute or so. Mr. Fogo stirred his tea abstractedly. Tamsin, whose shoes were soaked, put one foot upon the fender, and bent her gaze upon the fire. "I would give something," observed Mr. Fogo suddenly, in desperate reverie, "to know how other people manage it. It was moonlight when I proposed to Geraldine. I began by squeezing her hand, if I remem—" He looked up, and found her regarding him with eyes ablaze. But luckily at this moment the door opened, and Caleb appeared. He was evidently much agitated; but at sight of Tamsin and the woeful figure in the armchair, he halted on the threshold and stared dumbly. "I think," said Tamsin, "you had better put your master to bed." "Mussy 'pon us, what's been doin'?" Briefly she told as much as she knew. With each successive sentence Caleb's mouth and eyes opened wider. "And now," she ended, "as Peter and Paul have been waiting for their dinner this half-hour, I will be going. Don't trouble to come with me; but attend to your master. Good-morning, sir." She dropped him a low curtsey and was gone. He started up. "Where be goin', sir? Sit down; you'm not fit to stir." But Mr. Fogo had passed him, and was out of the room in a moment. In spite of the pain that racked every limb, he overtook Tamsin in the porch. "What are you doing?" she cried. "Go back to bed." As she faced him, he could see that her eyes were full of angry tears. The sight checked him. "It's—it's of no consequence," he stammered, "only I was going to ask you to be my wife." For answer she turned on her heel, and walked resolutely down the steps. Mr. Fogo stood and watched her until she disappeared, and then crawled painfully back into the house. "An' now, sir," said Caleb, as he led his master to bed, "warnin' et es. This day month, I goes, unless—" "Unless what, Caleb?" "Well, sir, I reckons there be on'y wan way out o't, as the cat said by the sausage-machine, an' that es—to marry Tamsin Dearlove." "My dear Caleb," groaned Mr. Fogo, "I only wish I could! But I will try again to-morrow."   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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