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“What’s wrong?”

“The fellow belongs to yours.”

“The deuce he does! Slew him round and show his face.”

“Oh, Nandy, Nandy!”–this was Miss Sophia’s voice–“Have you really been and gone and enlisted!”

“No, miss, I ha’n’t,”–by this time Nandy was blubbering for very fright. He tore himself loose and fell at Miss Sophia’s feet. “But I was takin’ a bath, miss–for my skin’s sake, as advised by you–and a sojer came and took my clothes by main force,”–here Nandy sobbed aloud–“I–I think, miss, he must ha’ meant to desert!”

“Hey!” One of the officers took him again by the collar. “What’s that you’re saying? A deserter . . . left you these clothes and bolted? . . . Oh, stop your whining and answer! When? Where?”

Nandy checked his tears–but not his sobs–and pointed. “Down by the foreshore, sir . . . not a quarter of an hour since . . . he took the way up the Lynher, towards St. Germans . . .”

“Here, Appleshaw, this is serious! Trehane, Drury–you’ll help us? A man of ours, deserted. . . . You’ll excuse us, ladies–we’ll bring the fellow back to you if we catch him. Show us the way, youngster–down by the creek, did you say? Tallyho, boys! One and all! Yoicks forra’d! Go-one away!”–and, dragging Nandy with them, the pack pelted out of the garden.

VIII.

Now you understand how it was that Dr. Clatworthy and Miss St. Maur, entering the garden ten minutes later, saw but a bevy of disconsolate maidens strolling the paths, and no uniform nor sign of one.

“There!” said Miss St. Maur, pointing with her parasol. “There, sir! What did I tell you?”

Dr. Clatworthy stared about him and mopped the crown of his head. “But when I assure you, madam–“

“Oh, cruel, cruel!” Miss St. Maur burst into tears.

“Madam!” Dr. Clatworthy looked about him again. The young ladies had turned and were withdrawing slowly to the far end of the walk. By this time, you must know, the light had fallen dim, but with the moon rising and the sun not gone altogether. “Madam! Dear madam!” said Dr. Clatworthy, and was pressing her, polite as a lamb, towards the nearest arbour to seat her there and persuade her. But before he could pilot her past the laylock-bush, forth from that very arbour stepped a couple, and from the next arbour another couple, and both couples took the garden path, and in each couple the heads were closer together than necessary for ordinary talk, and the eyes of them seemingly too well occupied to notice the doctor and Miss St. Maur by the laylock-bush.

You see, Mr. Hardcastle, who belonged to the Navy, hadn’t felt the need to trouble himself about a deserter from the sister service; and Mounseer Raynold had found a cousin, and naturally felt no concern in chasing a man to strengthen the British army.

“My dear madam!” said Dr. Clatworthy, and led Miss St. Maur towards the arbour. For certain he had recognised Miss Sophia; but maybe he let her go then and there from his thoughts. And Miss St. Maur by his side was weeping bitterly.

Dr. Clatworthy wasn’t used to a woman in tears. He took Miss St. Maur’s hand, and by and by, finding her sobs didn’t stop, he pressed it, and . . .

Well, that’s all the story. I’ve heard my mother tell it a score of times, and always when she came to this point, she’d laugh and tell me to marry for choice before I came to fifty, or else trust to luck and buy a handkerchief.