So Christopher became a boarder at No. 7 Maple Street, Liberty Hall to the favoured, though personally he found little enough freedom there. There seemed to be so many rules and regulations, and such show of etiquette, and this was not the thing, and that showed lack of breeding, and the other showed really deplorable taste. He began to feel he was a very difficult person to suit. He had detested the rough ignorant crowd on the Janet Coombe, his father's vessel, and longed for people of culture and understanding; now he had found them they were scarcely better, for they were narrow and pretentious, with small hearts and stilted views.

It was certainly a queer circle in which he had found himself, and though he worked hard at the Post Office it was a dry, tedious business, and he often sighed for the fresh air of Plyn, and the sound of the sea. Until, of course, Bertha Parkins returned to the boarding-house. Christopher never forgot the first moment he saw her.

He had returned from his work and entered the drawing-room where the boarders a.s.sembled before the evening meal. Mrs Parkins had hurried forward. 'My dearest Bertha is a stranger to you, Mr Coombe. May I present my eldest daughter? '

A tall, graceful girl turned from the piano where she had been looking over some music, and bowed distantly. 'I am delighted you have become one of us, Mr Coombe,' she said. Christopher gaped at her, blushing to the roots of his hair. Could she possibly be a Parkins? Why, she was beautiful and stately, like a princess. She was a picture, she was the drawing by Mr Marcus Stone in the dining-room, of a lady sitting in a garden dressed in white. How clumsy and awkward she must think him with his country manners and his Cornish accent. Her sisters could not hold a candle to her for looks. Such grace too, or deportment as Harry Frisk would say, and her simple, almost severe dress, her soft brown hair swept away from the high forehead.

Christopher was a curious young man. He was nearing twenty-three, and he had never as yet considered women except in the light of a relative. Now suddenly this cold, stately, utterly beautiful Miss Bertha had made her appearance, leaving him quite bewildered and a prey to a host of new painful and perplexing emotions. Firstly he was tongue-tied in her presence, he found himself unable to utter a word that seemed reasonably sensible or intelligent. At once he was self-conscious, and lost his ease, he was terrified lest he should make some idiotic social blunder, taboo at No. 7, that would cause her pain and displeasure.

He began to go to church regularly on Sundays, he read the same authors he found in the hands of his divinity, in order to exchange opinions concerning them, and then when she turned to him with an encouraging smile and asked him a question, he was covered in confusion and stammered something perfectly unintelligible.

Gradually, of course, his feelings became stronger. He found to his amazement that Miss Bertha was not above entering into conversation, accepting small bunches of flowers for her room, bunches which grew larger as his sentiments grew bolder; that she was willing to walk home with him from church on Sundays, exchange books and discuss Mr Gladstone without animosity.

Gradually Christopher realized he was in love. There was no use in denying it, he could not withstand this strange thing that had come upon him. He loved Bertha Parkins. He was miserable and unhappy when not in her company, his long days in the Post Office seemed interminable, until the evenings brought him back to her again.

Had the other inhabitants of No. 7 noticed his emotions, he wondered? They had. Mrs Crisp muttered her suspicions to Mrs Stodge, Miss Davis sighed sentimentally as she dreamed some waltz on the piano. Miss Edith and Miss May whispered in corners, and Mr Black the tallow merchant listened at keyholes. He was the first to inform Christopher that the entire household was waiting for him to take steps.

'Here, Coombe,' he said in his familiar manner, 'this sort of thing can't go on. Doing yourself no good, nor the girl neither. Go and get her.'

'I don't know what you mean, Black,' said Christopher stiffly, 'nor to whom you are referring.'

'He! He! - you can't fool me, you dog. I've watched you. Can't contain yourself when a certain nameless one is present. She's not made of ice either. Soon melt, if you teach her the trick. By George, wish I were twenty years younger.Teach her myself.' Christopher turned his back. He would box the fellow's ears if he said another word. To drag Miss Parkins in the mud like that. It was at this moment that Harry Frisk came to his aid.

'I say, old chap, no offence, but - what are your intentions regarding a lady known to us both?'

Christopher swallowed and took a grip of himself.

'What do you mean?' he said faintly.

'Well, only it's devilish awkward for me. I mean, the girls have no father and no brother, and I sort of hold myself responsible. Mrs P. trusts me. What are you going to do?'

'I - I - what can I do?'

'Well, declare yourself, old boy.'

'I'm sorry, but I honestly haven't the courage. I've never thought of such a thing. She's far too good for me, why . . .'

'Oh! I don't know.You're smart enough.You've got a good position at the P.O. You could support a wife, I dare say.'

'A wife - good heavens, you suggest I should ask Miss Parkins to become my wife?'

'Why, yes. What do you think I meant?'

'I hardly know - forgive me, I must have been mad. You advise me to propose to Miss Parkins, to offer her marriage?'

'Certainly, old fellow. d.a.m.n bad form to do anything else.'

'Oh! of course - of course. She is the soul of honour, I - really - phew! old man, I am in a regular state.'

'Well, think it over. You can scarcely remain here without making a declaration. She must expect it.'

'Impossible. She cannot have the slightest suspicion.'

'I'm not so sure. Anyway, don't lose heart over it. Pull yourself together if you get my meaning. No offence?'

'Oh! None. Thanks, Harry.'

The weeks pa.s.sed and Christopher Coombe had not yet summoned up enough courage to speak his mind.

Things might have gone on like this indefinitely had it not been for the return of Stanley from Africa on 26 April. Bertha had expressed a wish to join the crowd at Victoria Station and catch a glimpse of London's idol, and her mother had refused until Christopher timidly offered his escort. This, of course, was another matter; Mrs Parkins smiled approval, and her daughter flushed with pleasure. Instantly there was an electric feeling in the boarding-house that the great moment was approaching. Black, the tallow merchant, took an extra gla.s.s of wine at dinner, and tried to hold Miss Tray's hand under the table, much to that lady's indignation; effeminate Mr Wooten summoned up sufficient virility to play cat's cradle with May Parkins, and Mr Arnold Stodge read Ouida's new novel aloud to his wife.

Christopher and Bertha took up their usual positions by the piano to sing duets, while Miss Davis fluttered the music nervously.

'It is a wonderful thing how your voice, Mr Coombe, and Bertha's harmonize,' she murmured daringly.

Bertha lowered her eyes and Christopher's heart leapt in his breast.

Did it mean, could she possibly . . .?

Miss Davis struck the opening bars, and Christopher's light baritone joined Bertha's clear soprano.

O! that we two were maying, What feeling the young man put into his voice, what pa.s.sion into the words! If he had not the courage to propose, he could at least declare himself in song. Bertha was smiling at him over the top of Miss Davis's head.

He felt that until this moment nothing in his life had held any value at all. Plyn, the country, his father, the ship, none of these had existed, he had been born merely to look into Bertha's eyes and to read the answer to the question he dared not ask. He was swept with an affection for the boarding-house, for everyone in it, even old Black himself was a good fellow. And it was spring and he was twenty-three, and he was taking her tomorrow to see Stanley return; they would drive round Regent's Park afterwards in a hansom cab - they would, if he threw himself in the Ca.n.a.l afterwards.

O! that we two were maying

Down the stream of a soft spring breeze

And like children with violets playing

In the shade of the whispering trees.

'Charming, charming,' said Mrs Parkins, feeling for her handkerchief.

With hot trembling hands Christopher propped another sheet of music on the stand before Miss Davis.

'Play the last verse slow and very soft,' he muttered fiercely, and she nodded in sympathy, her heart beating.

With his eyes aflame, and tremor in his voice, he plunged once more into song- I will give you a fine silken gown,

Madam, will you walk,

Madam, will you talk.

Why must she shake her head in such determination. Could not she see that he was laying his very life at her feet?

Miss Davis pressed heavily upon the soft pedal, her fingers scarcely touched the keys.

With doubled ardour, his voice cracking with emotion, Christopher sang the last verse.

I will give you the keys of my heart,

And we will be married till death us do part,

Madam, will you walk,

Madam will you talk,

Madam, will you walk and talk with me?

The following evening Christopher and Bertha were packed tight in the crowd gathered outside Victoria Station.

They caught one glimpse of the celebrated traveller, guarded from the cheering ma.s.ses by a cordon of police, and then he was gone.

'What a splendid figure of a man,' exclaimed Bertha, her eyes shining. 'Don't you agree with me, Mr Coombe?'

'I scarcely saw him, Miss Parkins, but I take your word for it of course.'

They climbed into an omnibus that would take them in the direction of home. Christopher's brain was afire with plans. It was impossible to return at once, the opportunity of being alone with Bertha could not be wasted thus.

Presently they descended from the bus at the top of Baker Street, and Bertha was preparing to change into the next, when Christopher seized her arm.

'Miss Parkins,' he said hurriedly, 'surely there is no need to be so pressed. It is a fine evening; would you consider it very improper if I suggest we took a little turn in Regent's Park in a hansom?'

'Oh! Mr Coombe - I hardly think - perhaps - it certainly would be very delightful.'

'Then you don't object? Hurrah! Pardon my excitement, dear Miss Parkins, I scarcely know what I am about. If we walk along we shall soon pick one up, in pa.s.sing.'

Ten minutes later, Christopher Coombe and Bertha Parkins were inside a hansom, driving briskly round the outer circle. Christopher glanced at his companion, m.u.f.fled in her fur stole although it was April, and her hands hidden in her m.u.f.f. Her veil was fastened tight to her hat. Forgetting himself, entirely losing his head, he stretched out his hand and took one of hers from the shelter of the m.u.f.f. To his wild delight she did not remove it. She sighed, and drew her fur closer to her chin. Feeling that the world would crash for all he cared, Christopher said not a word, and they proceeded round the outer circle in silence. This was pure heaven; never, never had he known such ecstasy of bliss.

He rose, and tapped on the ceiling. The cabbie lifted the trap and peered down. 'Once more round the Park, please,' cried Christopher firmly.

He sat down again, and nerved himself for the ordeal in front of him.

'Miss Parkins,' he began, 'Miss Bertha - I - can I call you Bertha?'

A soft pressure of her hand was his answer.

'You will hate me, despise me, for what I am about to say,' he continued, 'I have no right to weary you with my foolish notions. I'm not fit to touch the hem of your skirt let alone anything above.'

Good G.o.d - what was he saying? This was not what he meant at all.

'No - No - at least, not that - what I mean to say is - Oh! Bertha, would you rather - perhaps - shall we go home?' He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his brow.

'What are you trying to tell me?' she said gently. Modesty forbade her to go further than this.

'That's just it - I'm not sure - confound it. Bertha, dear Bertha, forgive my expression. I do not know what I want to say - what I am longing, burning to say in fact. For months I have struggled with myself but in vain. I am convinced that I am now going to earn your distrust of me for ever, that this is the moment when my future agony will begin, never to end.'