Chapter Seven.On the Down Line.I couldn’t stop indoors, for I couldn’t bear to see them all. The children didn’t seem to mind it so much, for they ran about and played, and their little hearts were light; but there was some one sitting by the wretched little fire, looking that pale and worn and miserable, that it went quite to one’s heart.Christmas-morning, with the bright sun shining in through the dirty windows, while from everywhere the rays went flashing as they lighted upon the frost, rime, or snow. Such of the blue sky as we could see from our court, was as bright and clear a blue as could be seen out in the country, while the pavement looked dry, and you could hear the snow crunch under the people’s feet. But there was no brightness with us, and at last I went out, for I couldn’t stop indoors.Was it my fault? I kept asking myself; had I tried hard enough to get took on again; or ought we to have been more saving when I had a situation? Ah! I asked myself all this again and again as I went out, leaving them at home in a regular state of beggary; for we had come down to the last shilling.I’ve always noticed as poor men keep their hands in their pockets; and I did mine that sharp, cold morning, and went sauntering along the streets, wondering what it would all come to, and how we were to manage. There was every one I met looking cheerful and bright; here and there shops a little way open, just as if they were winking at you, because they were so full of all sorts of good things; people were going in and coming out with loaded baskets; while, when I got near the baker’s, it was enough to make a hungry man savage to see the stream of people, with their happy, jolly faces, bearing in geese, turkeys, and great fat mottled pieces of beef; and all looking as though there wasn’t such a thing as poverty.Everybody seemed in a hurry, and every face seemed twinkling and bright with the thoughts of good things to come, till at last, from feeling low and miserable, I got to be reckless and savage, and felt as if I should have liked to have had it out with the world there on the spot.Every one you met in the big streets was like nature that morning—dressed in the best clothes; some bound for church, some out visiting; and do what I would, I couldn’t find one face that looked miserable. There were the cabs and carriages rattling along; ’buses loaded; the bells ringing merrily; while there seemed to be a something in the air that made you feel bright in spite of yourself; and after being savage for an hour and a half, I seemed to catch the infection from the people about, and more than once I caught myself going to whistle.But the thoughts of what I’d left at home made me stop short, with my face all screwed up, and from going to one extreme I got to another; and at last, ready to break down, I found myself sitting on the stone-setting of the railings of one of the West End churches.Beadle comes out after a bit and has a look at me, as much as to say, “Are you a beggar, or ain’t you?” but he never says nothing; and after a bit he goes in again. Policeman comes by beating his white gloves together, and he looks very suspiciously at me, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind; and then he goes on, and says nothing. And there I sat in the cold, feeling nothing but the misery gripping at my heart, and at last, seeing nothing but a pale worn face in a bare room, where a troop of hungry children were wanting bread.Sounds strange that, and some may think it stretched. But let them climb some of the dirty stairs at the East end, and they can find such sights any day and every day.No; I could see nothing then, but the place we called home; and I might have sat there till I froze, if all at once something that seemed almost like a vision had not come before me; for as I sat there with my head upon my hands, there came a light touch, and looking up, there stood a little bright-eyed, golden-haired child before me, her beautiful cheeks ruddy with the keen air, while a tiny bright tear was in each eye, as with a pitying look she pushed a penny into my hand; when I was so utterly took aback, that her bright scarlet cloak was some distance off as she tripped along beside a tall stately lady, before I could recover myself.That did it. It seemed to bear down pride, anger, everything, and taking me so suddenly, I couldn’t bear it, but there in that open street my head went down again upon my hands, and in the hopeless misery of my heart I cried like a child.But only for a minute, when I jumped up and hurried along the street, to catch one more sight of the bright pitying little angel; but she was gone, and at last, making sure that she had gone into one of the houses, I walked slowly back to the churchyard.When I got there the people were beginning to come out of the big church: carriages were drawing up; from out of the open doors there came the rolling sound of the organ; and as I stood there against the railings, watching the happy-looking crowd, it seemed to me that I must be a sort of impostor, for to see how folks were dressed there couldn’t be such a thing as misery in the world.All at once I started, and took hold of the railing, for I heard a voice that put me in mind of the time when I was started from the Great Central line. Just in front of me, and coming towards a carriage that a lad held open, were a lady and gentleman dressed tip-top, and he was laughing and chatting to her. But I only just saw that she was very handsome, for I was watching the gentleman’s eyes—bright, piercing blue eyes, such as you seldom see; and in a regular state of muddle in my own mind, and wondering about where those eyes had come across me before, I leaned forward right in the way, staring fixed-like at him.“Stand back, my good fellow,” he says, and then, just as the lady lightly stepped into the carriage, he stops short, fixes those eyes of his on to mine, and then, with his hand playing with his big brown moustache, he burst out laughing, when I knew him in a moment. Itwashim; and as I thought of the misery of the past year that he had caused, something seemed to rise up in me, and for a moment I felt as if I could have knocked him down. But the clenching of my fist made me feel that penny, and that brought up another face, when turning dejected once more, I turned aside, saying—“Ah! it’s fun for you, but pretty nigh death for me;” but before I’d got two steps off, he had his hand on my shabby blackened moleskin jacket, and he says—“Gently, my friend, I must introduce you;” and before I knew what he was about, he had me at the door of the carriage, and he says—“Look, Marian, here’s our honest charioteer, the Vulcan who drove us down to Moreton;” and then he whispered something that made the lady smile, and a bright colour come all over her handsome face. “Do you drive the mail now?” he says, turning to me.“Nevertouched a handle since, sir,” I says. “They had me afore the board two mornings after, and discharged me.” And then the thoughts of it all seemed too much for me, and I turned husky and choky, and couldn’t speak for a minute, when I says, with a sort of gulp:—“Can’t help it, sir; I’ve been werry hard drove since—wife—children—” and then I choked again as I shunted off what I was saying.“Stand back a bit,” says the gentleman to his servant, and then, in so kind and gentle a way, he says to me—“Why, my poor fellow, I wouldn’t have had this happen on any account;” and then I saw a tear or two in his lady’s beautiful eyes, and they both stopped talking to me a good quarter of an hour, free as could be, telling me that they had me to thank for much happiness, as theirs was a runaway match. And at last, when they drove off, nodding and smiling at me, I had the gentleman’s card, so as to call on him next morning, when he said his father, being a railway director, I should be took on the line at once; and, what was more to the purpose then, there were five sovereigns in my hand.I didn’t know what to do, whether to laugh or cry; and I’m sure I must have looked like a madman as I tore through the streets, and rushed upstairs into our room, when the first thing I did was to scrape up every bit of coal at the bottom of the cupboard and put it a-top of the fire.“Lay the cloth, my lass,” I says, seizing a dish; “and, Lord bless you, look alive!” The children stared, and then laughed and clapped their hands, while I rushed out to the cook’s shop in the lane, looking like a wolf.There was a roast goose just up, and cissing away in the big pewter dish all amongst the gravy, with the stuffing a smelling that rich, it was enough to drive you mad.Just as I slipped into the door, the waiter—red-nosed chap—with a dirty white wisp of a handkercher round his neck, looking like a seedy undertaker—the waiter says: “Two goose—apple sauce—and taters;” and the master sticks his fork into the buzzum, and makes a cut as sent the stuffing all out of a gush.“Hold hard,” I says, “that’s mine;” and ketching hold of one leg, before he knew what I was up to, it was on my dish. “Now then, ladle on that gravy,” I says, “and let’s have the setrers;” and saying that, I dabs a sovrin down on the edge of the pewter.I think they were going to send out for a policeman, but the sight of that little bit of metal settled it, and five minutes after I was carrying the change—not much of it neither—the goose under a cover, and the waiter following behind with a tray, with vegetables, sauce, and aside the great wedge of pudding, a pot of half-and-half.When the waiter had gone out of the room, and the little ones were hooraying and tapping with their knives, I got to the top of the table, the wife went to the bottom, and I began to say grace, when our eyes met, she ran to me, and then for a good ten minutes she was a sobbing in my arms; while I—there; that’s private, and I think I’ve confessed enough.There; I don’t care whose it was, or where it was, all I know is this, that there wasn’t such a dinner eaten or enjoyed anywhere that day throughout the length and breadth of our old country; and though sometimes it was hard to see where I stuck the fork, or cut with the knife, I was smiling all the time. As for the wife, she would keep breaking down till I shouted at her, when she went at it and helped me keep the young ones going; and at last of all I’d have taken a shilling for what was left of the goose, and whoever bought it wouldn’t have been the best off in the bargain.The very next week I was took on the London, Highshare, and Ploughshare railway, and that through the gent who got me discharged from the Great Central, which happened this way.The Christmas-Eve afore what I’ve told you was one of those yaller, smoky, foggy times, when trains are all later than they should be, even worse than might be expected at Christmas-time. The lamps were burning in the booking offices all day, while the steam hung like a cloud in the roof of the terminus. I was sitting in the engine-shed on our horse—steam-horse you know—waiting to run the mail down to the north, when Ben Davis, my stoker, says:“There they goes again, ‘bang, bang,’ I wonder what it’s cost the company to-day in fog signals;” and then as I didn’t say nothing, he says, “Ah! this is just such a night as it was four years agone, when poor Tom Harris was cut up the night afore the pitch in,”—smash you know. “Poor Tom; he knowed it was a-comin’ to that, and he told me all about it; for I stoked him.”Just then time was up, and all hot and hissing, I runs out to the switches, and comes back on to the down line, where we were coupled on to the train, when Ben goes on: “Poor chap; he’d been outer sorts for some time, and I do think he took more than he should; but one way and another, he was horribly low-spirited, and would quite upset you with the way he’d talk. The last night as I stoked him, he got telling me his reg’lar tale, about a run down he had, and one as he had never forgotten about, being on full swing in a terribly dark foggy night, he heard a whistle, and looking back he could see a train coming on at an awful rate just behind him, when of course he put on more steam. But that didn’t seem no good; for coming round the curve, he could see the train closing up fast; and at last, when half mad with fear, and ready to jump off, he saw that the train was on the up line, and the next minute it was alongside his; and there they two were racing abreast of each other; when he slackened, the other slackened; and when he did t’other, they did t’other. Same length train; same size engine; same lights; and fire door open like his; so that he could see the driver’s face; and he says, says he, ‘I nearly dropped; for it was me as was driving that ’tother train.’ On they goes together into the tunnel, and out they goes together. When he looked back, there was all the carriages lit up, and all just as if it was his own train; but whistling at the short stations when he did, and keeping an exactly same pace. It was like being in a cloud, the fog was so heavy; while the steam from both funnels mixed together.“It was Christmas-eve, just like this; and yet cold as it was, he said, poor chap, the water dripped from his face as they rushed on. He knew it couldn’t last long, for there’d be an up-train directly, and then there must be a fearful smash; but yet something seemed to tell him as there wouldn’t; and watching as they went by station after station, he stood trembling at his post. All at once he could see the up-train coming; and then he put on a spurt so as to be ahead when the smash came; but that was no use, for the train kept aside his, and then all at once there was a shriek, and a rush, and the up-train was right behind; while along side his, there was that same engine just in the same place, and him a-driving it. Poor Tom used to make me creep when he told that tale, and he didn’t live long arter; for one night there was something wrong in front of our engine, when he wouldn’t wait till we stopped, but got along as we were going, and when I was expecting him to come back, and looked—for I’d been putting on more coal—there was some blood splashed all about the screen, and when I stopped and run back, there was poor Tom lying all to bits in the six foot. And they do say as he’s been seen by some of the chaps a running a ghost engine along the line at express rate, sometimes one line, and sometimes the other; and when he meets another train, there’s a whistle and shriek, and he’s gone.”“That’s werry pretty,” I says. “I’d have that put in a book, if I was you;” and just then there was a bit of door banging, the second bell rang, the guard’s whistle chirrupped, and then with a scream we started, the steam puffing out of the funnel in round white balls, and slowly spreading overhead till it came faster, and hanging over us like a plume of white feathers, it streamed back over the train.Such a night: thick as thick; and every now and then it was “bang, bang” as we went over the fog signals, and had to pull up and go very slowly, so that we were a good ten minutes going the first half-mile; and then past the first short station we went very slowly.Thirty-five miles down was our first stoppage, where we took in water, and then another forty took us to Moreton, which was our next stoppage. By degrees we got on faster and faster, but the darkness was something terrible; while the signal lights at the short stations were almost useless, for I couldn’t see them till we were close up, so being already very late through its being Christmas-time I pushed her along, trusting to the line being all clear.“Ah!” says Ben all at once, “we’re jest a-coming to the spot where poor Tom was cut up. Poor old chap,” he says; “and it was just here as he first saw that train running by his side.”Now, of course, I knew well enough that it was all gammon; but Ben talked so serious that it give me quite a shiver, and as we came suddenly upon the lights of a station, and raced through, my heart gave a jump, for it almost seemed as if a train was aside us; and even after passing the station, I looked out, for there was the train lights reflected on the fog on each side; but directly after I laughed at myself.“It was just about here as he must have gone down,” says Ben to me—shouting in my ear, for we were going fast; “and they do say as sometimes he mounts an engine and—Yah-h-h!” cried the poor fellow, falling down upon his hands and knees; while regularly took aback, I shrunk trembling up in the corner of the screen, and there stopped staring at a horrible looking figure, as seemed to start all at once into the light just as if he’d rose out of the coals. And then he came right up to me, for poor Ben had fainted.As we were staring at one another I could see as the figure was buttoned up in an oilskin coat, while a close fur cap covered its head, and a handkercher was round the lower part of the face, so that I could see nothing but a pair of fierce bright eyes; and there it stood with one hand holding the side of the screen.As long as I kept quiet it never moved; but directly I tried to get to my place it motioned me back. At last, half-desperate, I faced it; for a bit of thinking told me it must be a man, though Ben’s story had a bit upset me.“Here’s Richford close here,” I shouts, “where we stops;” but in a moment I saw the barrel of a pistol flashing in the light of the fire, and then I shrunk back again into the corner. If he would only have turned his back for a moment I should have pinned him, but he only glanced round once, when Ben shuffled back into the far corner of the tender; and there we were five minutes after rushing through Richford at full speed.“Now,” he says, leaning down to me, “rouse up, and push on faster; and don’t you dare to stop till we get to Moreton:” and when a man says this to you with a pistol in his hand, why, what else can you do but mind.“Now,” thinks I, “this is a pretty go;” and then I kicks up Ben to come and stoke; but he wouldn’t move, and what wanted doing I had to do myself; and so we raced on, for he made me put on more steam, seeing through my dodge in a moment, when I slackened instead; and on we went, with the night seeming to grow darker every moment. But it was race on, past station after station like a flash; and, one way and another, I began to grow excited. The guard had been letting go at the gong, but of course I could take no notice; no doubt, too, he had screwed down his break, but that seemed to make very little difference, with the metals in such a greasy state with the heavy frosty mist; and we raced along at such a rate as I’ve never been at since.More than once, I made sure we should be crash into the tail of some goods-train; but though we passed several coming up, nothing was in our way, and at last, after the wildest ride I ever had, we began to get near Moreton, just as the water was beginning to get low. “And now,” he says, fiercely, “draw up just this side of the station;” and I nodded: but, for all that, I meant to have run right in, but he was too quick for me, and screwed down the brake so that we stopped a good fifty yards short of the platform, when he leaped down, and I was going to follow, but a rough voice said, “Stand back,” and I could see some one in front of me; while, by the lights of the train, I just saw a carriage next the tender opened, and some one hurried off to where a couple of lights were shining; and I could hear horses stamping; and then—it all didn’t take a minute—there was the trampling of hoofs and the rolling of wheels, and the man who stopped me from getting down was gone.“Get up,” I says to Ben, as we run into the station; “it warn’t a ghost:” but Ben seemed anything but sure on that point. While, as we finished our journey that night, I put that and that together, and made out as this chap, who must have been a plucky fellow, got from the next carriage on to the tender while we were crawling through the fog just outside London; and all to prevent stopping at Richford, where, no doubt, somebody had telegraphed for him to be taken; while, though the message would perhaps be repeated to Moreton, it was not sure to be so, and his dodge of stopping short where a conveyance was in waiting made that all right.I drove the up-mail next day to town; but that was my last on the Great Central, for, when summoned before the Board, it was pay off, and go; and that, too, without a character.
I couldn’t stop indoors, for I couldn’t bear to see them all. The children didn’t seem to mind it so much, for they ran about and played, and their little hearts were light; but there was some one sitting by the wretched little fire, looking that pale and worn and miserable, that it went quite to one’s heart.
Christmas-morning, with the bright sun shining in through the dirty windows, while from everywhere the rays went flashing as they lighted upon the frost, rime, or snow. Such of the blue sky as we could see from our court, was as bright and clear a blue as could be seen out in the country, while the pavement looked dry, and you could hear the snow crunch under the people’s feet. But there was no brightness with us, and at last I went out, for I couldn’t stop indoors.
Was it my fault? I kept asking myself; had I tried hard enough to get took on again; or ought we to have been more saving when I had a situation? Ah! I asked myself all this again and again as I went out, leaving them at home in a regular state of beggary; for we had come down to the last shilling.
I’ve always noticed as poor men keep their hands in their pockets; and I did mine that sharp, cold morning, and went sauntering along the streets, wondering what it would all come to, and how we were to manage. There was every one I met looking cheerful and bright; here and there shops a little way open, just as if they were winking at you, because they were so full of all sorts of good things; people were going in and coming out with loaded baskets; while, when I got near the baker’s, it was enough to make a hungry man savage to see the stream of people, with their happy, jolly faces, bearing in geese, turkeys, and great fat mottled pieces of beef; and all looking as though there wasn’t such a thing as poverty.
Everybody seemed in a hurry, and every face seemed twinkling and bright with the thoughts of good things to come, till at last, from feeling low and miserable, I got to be reckless and savage, and felt as if I should have liked to have had it out with the world there on the spot.
Every one you met in the big streets was like nature that morning—dressed in the best clothes; some bound for church, some out visiting; and do what I would, I couldn’t find one face that looked miserable. There were the cabs and carriages rattling along; ’buses loaded; the bells ringing merrily; while there seemed to be a something in the air that made you feel bright in spite of yourself; and after being savage for an hour and a half, I seemed to catch the infection from the people about, and more than once I caught myself going to whistle.
But the thoughts of what I’d left at home made me stop short, with my face all screwed up, and from going to one extreme I got to another; and at last, ready to break down, I found myself sitting on the stone-setting of the railings of one of the West End churches.
Beadle comes out after a bit and has a look at me, as much as to say, “Are you a beggar, or ain’t you?” but he never says nothing; and after a bit he goes in again. Policeman comes by beating his white gloves together, and he looks very suspiciously at me, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind; and then he goes on, and says nothing. And there I sat in the cold, feeling nothing but the misery gripping at my heart, and at last, seeing nothing but a pale worn face in a bare room, where a troop of hungry children were wanting bread.
Sounds strange that, and some may think it stretched. But let them climb some of the dirty stairs at the East end, and they can find such sights any day and every day.
No; I could see nothing then, but the place we called home; and I might have sat there till I froze, if all at once something that seemed almost like a vision had not come before me; for as I sat there with my head upon my hands, there came a light touch, and looking up, there stood a little bright-eyed, golden-haired child before me, her beautiful cheeks ruddy with the keen air, while a tiny bright tear was in each eye, as with a pitying look she pushed a penny into my hand; when I was so utterly took aback, that her bright scarlet cloak was some distance off as she tripped along beside a tall stately lady, before I could recover myself.
That did it. It seemed to bear down pride, anger, everything, and taking me so suddenly, I couldn’t bear it, but there in that open street my head went down again upon my hands, and in the hopeless misery of my heart I cried like a child.
But only for a minute, when I jumped up and hurried along the street, to catch one more sight of the bright pitying little angel; but she was gone, and at last, making sure that she had gone into one of the houses, I walked slowly back to the churchyard.
When I got there the people were beginning to come out of the big church: carriages were drawing up; from out of the open doors there came the rolling sound of the organ; and as I stood there against the railings, watching the happy-looking crowd, it seemed to me that I must be a sort of impostor, for to see how folks were dressed there couldn’t be such a thing as misery in the world.
All at once I started, and took hold of the railing, for I heard a voice that put me in mind of the time when I was started from the Great Central line. Just in front of me, and coming towards a carriage that a lad held open, were a lady and gentleman dressed tip-top, and he was laughing and chatting to her. But I only just saw that she was very handsome, for I was watching the gentleman’s eyes—bright, piercing blue eyes, such as you seldom see; and in a regular state of muddle in my own mind, and wondering about where those eyes had come across me before, I leaned forward right in the way, staring fixed-like at him.
“Stand back, my good fellow,” he says, and then, just as the lady lightly stepped into the carriage, he stops short, fixes those eyes of his on to mine, and then, with his hand playing with his big brown moustache, he burst out laughing, when I knew him in a moment. Itwashim; and as I thought of the misery of the past year that he had caused, something seemed to rise up in me, and for a moment I felt as if I could have knocked him down. But the clenching of my fist made me feel that penny, and that brought up another face, when turning dejected once more, I turned aside, saying—
“Ah! it’s fun for you, but pretty nigh death for me;” but before I’d got two steps off, he had his hand on my shabby blackened moleskin jacket, and he says—
“Gently, my friend, I must introduce you;” and before I knew what he was about, he had me at the door of the carriage, and he says—“Look, Marian, here’s our honest charioteer, the Vulcan who drove us down to Moreton;” and then he whispered something that made the lady smile, and a bright colour come all over her handsome face. “Do you drive the mail now?” he says, turning to me.
“Nevertouched a handle since, sir,” I says. “They had me afore the board two mornings after, and discharged me.” And then the thoughts of it all seemed too much for me, and I turned husky and choky, and couldn’t speak for a minute, when I says, with a sort of gulp:—
“Can’t help it, sir; I’ve been werry hard drove since—wife—children—” and then I choked again as I shunted off what I was saying.
“Stand back a bit,” says the gentleman to his servant, and then, in so kind and gentle a way, he says to me—“Why, my poor fellow, I wouldn’t have had this happen on any account;” and then I saw a tear or two in his lady’s beautiful eyes, and they both stopped talking to me a good quarter of an hour, free as could be, telling me that they had me to thank for much happiness, as theirs was a runaway match. And at last, when they drove off, nodding and smiling at me, I had the gentleman’s card, so as to call on him next morning, when he said his father, being a railway director, I should be took on the line at once; and, what was more to the purpose then, there were five sovereigns in my hand.
I didn’t know what to do, whether to laugh or cry; and I’m sure I must have looked like a madman as I tore through the streets, and rushed upstairs into our room, when the first thing I did was to scrape up every bit of coal at the bottom of the cupboard and put it a-top of the fire.
“Lay the cloth, my lass,” I says, seizing a dish; “and, Lord bless you, look alive!” The children stared, and then laughed and clapped their hands, while I rushed out to the cook’s shop in the lane, looking like a wolf.
There was a roast goose just up, and cissing away in the big pewter dish all amongst the gravy, with the stuffing a smelling that rich, it was enough to drive you mad.
Just as I slipped into the door, the waiter—red-nosed chap—with a dirty white wisp of a handkercher round his neck, looking like a seedy undertaker—the waiter says: “Two goose—apple sauce—and taters;” and the master sticks his fork into the buzzum, and makes a cut as sent the stuffing all out of a gush.
“Hold hard,” I says, “that’s mine;” and ketching hold of one leg, before he knew what I was up to, it was on my dish. “Now then, ladle on that gravy,” I says, “and let’s have the setrers;” and saying that, I dabs a sovrin down on the edge of the pewter.
I think they were going to send out for a policeman, but the sight of that little bit of metal settled it, and five minutes after I was carrying the change—not much of it neither—the goose under a cover, and the waiter following behind with a tray, with vegetables, sauce, and aside the great wedge of pudding, a pot of half-and-half.
When the waiter had gone out of the room, and the little ones were hooraying and tapping with their knives, I got to the top of the table, the wife went to the bottom, and I began to say grace, when our eyes met, she ran to me, and then for a good ten minutes she was a sobbing in my arms; while I—there; that’s private, and I think I’ve confessed enough.
There; I don’t care whose it was, or where it was, all I know is this, that there wasn’t such a dinner eaten or enjoyed anywhere that day throughout the length and breadth of our old country; and though sometimes it was hard to see where I stuck the fork, or cut with the knife, I was smiling all the time. As for the wife, she would keep breaking down till I shouted at her, when she went at it and helped me keep the young ones going; and at last of all I’d have taken a shilling for what was left of the goose, and whoever bought it wouldn’t have been the best off in the bargain.
The very next week I was took on the London, Highshare, and Ploughshare railway, and that through the gent who got me discharged from the Great Central, which happened this way.
The Christmas-Eve afore what I’ve told you was one of those yaller, smoky, foggy times, when trains are all later than they should be, even worse than might be expected at Christmas-time. The lamps were burning in the booking offices all day, while the steam hung like a cloud in the roof of the terminus. I was sitting in the engine-shed on our horse—steam-horse you know—waiting to run the mail down to the north, when Ben Davis, my stoker, says:
“There they goes again, ‘bang, bang,’ I wonder what it’s cost the company to-day in fog signals;” and then as I didn’t say nothing, he says, “Ah! this is just such a night as it was four years agone, when poor Tom Harris was cut up the night afore the pitch in,”—smash you know. “Poor Tom; he knowed it was a-comin’ to that, and he told me all about it; for I stoked him.”
Just then time was up, and all hot and hissing, I runs out to the switches, and comes back on to the down line, where we were coupled on to the train, when Ben goes on: “Poor chap; he’d been outer sorts for some time, and I do think he took more than he should; but one way and another, he was horribly low-spirited, and would quite upset you with the way he’d talk. The last night as I stoked him, he got telling me his reg’lar tale, about a run down he had, and one as he had never forgotten about, being on full swing in a terribly dark foggy night, he heard a whistle, and looking back he could see a train coming on at an awful rate just behind him, when of course he put on more steam. But that didn’t seem no good; for coming round the curve, he could see the train closing up fast; and at last, when half mad with fear, and ready to jump off, he saw that the train was on the up line, and the next minute it was alongside his; and there they two were racing abreast of each other; when he slackened, the other slackened; and when he did t’other, they did t’other. Same length train; same size engine; same lights; and fire door open like his; so that he could see the driver’s face; and he says, says he, ‘I nearly dropped; for it was me as was driving that ’tother train.’ On they goes together into the tunnel, and out they goes together. When he looked back, there was all the carriages lit up, and all just as if it was his own train; but whistling at the short stations when he did, and keeping an exactly same pace. It was like being in a cloud, the fog was so heavy; while the steam from both funnels mixed together.
“It was Christmas-eve, just like this; and yet cold as it was, he said, poor chap, the water dripped from his face as they rushed on. He knew it couldn’t last long, for there’d be an up-train directly, and then there must be a fearful smash; but yet something seemed to tell him as there wouldn’t; and watching as they went by station after station, he stood trembling at his post. All at once he could see the up-train coming; and then he put on a spurt so as to be ahead when the smash came; but that was no use, for the train kept aside his, and then all at once there was a shriek, and a rush, and the up-train was right behind; while along side his, there was that same engine just in the same place, and him a-driving it. Poor Tom used to make me creep when he told that tale, and he didn’t live long arter; for one night there was something wrong in front of our engine, when he wouldn’t wait till we stopped, but got along as we were going, and when I was expecting him to come back, and looked—for I’d been putting on more coal—there was some blood splashed all about the screen, and when I stopped and run back, there was poor Tom lying all to bits in the six foot. And they do say as he’s been seen by some of the chaps a running a ghost engine along the line at express rate, sometimes one line, and sometimes the other; and when he meets another train, there’s a whistle and shriek, and he’s gone.”
“That’s werry pretty,” I says. “I’d have that put in a book, if I was you;” and just then there was a bit of door banging, the second bell rang, the guard’s whistle chirrupped, and then with a scream we started, the steam puffing out of the funnel in round white balls, and slowly spreading overhead till it came faster, and hanging over us like a plume of white feathers, it streamed back over the train.
Such a night: thick as thick; and every now and then it was “bang, bang” as we went over the fog signals, and had to pull up and go very slowly, so that we were a good ten minutes going the first half-mile; and then past the first short station we went very slowly.
Thirty-five miles down was our first stoppage, where we took in water, and then another forty took us to Moreton, which was our next stoppage. By degrees we got on faster and faster, but the darkness was something terrible; while the signal lights at the short stations were almost useless, for I couldn’t see them till we were close up, so being already very late through its being Christmas-time I pushed her along, trusting to the line being all clear.
“Ah!” says Ben all at once, “we’re jest a-coming to the spot where poor Tom was cut up. Poor old chap,” he says; “and it was just here as he first saw that train running by his side.”
Now, of course, I knew well enough that it was all gammon; but Ben talked so serious that it give me quite a shiver, and as we came suddenly upon the lights of a station, and raced through, my heart gave a jump, for it almost seemed as if a train was aside us; and even after passing the station, I looked out, for there was the train lights reflected on the fog on each side; but directly after I laughed at myself.
“It was just about here as he must have gone down,” says Ben to me—shouting in my ear, for we were going fast; “and they do say as sometimes he mounts an engine and—Yah-h-h!” cried the poor fellow, falling down upon his hands and knees; while regularly took aback, I shrunk trembling up in the corner of the screen, and there stopped staring at a horrible looking figure, as seemed to start all at once into the light just as if he’d rose out of the coals. And then he came right up to me, for poor Ben had fainted.
As we were staring at one another I could see as the figure was buttoned up in an oilskin coat, while a close fur cap covered its head, and a handkercher was round the lower part of the face, so that I could see nothing but a pair of fierce bright eyes; and there it stood with one hand holding the side of the screen.
As long as I kept quiet it never moved; but directly I tried to get to my place it motioned me back. At last, half-desperate, I faced it; for a bit of thinking told me it must be a man, though Ben’s story had a bit upset me.
“Here’s Richford close here,” I shouts, “where we stops;” but in a moment I saw the barrel of a pistol flashing in the light of the fire, and then I shrunk back again into the corner. If he would only have turned his back for a moment I should have pinned him, but he only glanced round once, when Ben shuffled back into the far corner of the tender; and there we were five minutes after rushing through Richford at full speed.
“Now,” he says, leaning down to me, “rouse up, and push on faster; and don’t you dare to stop till we get to Moreton:” and when a man says this to you with a pistol in his hand, why, what else can you do but mind.
“Now,” thinks I, “this is a pretty go;” and then I kicks up Ben to come and stoke; but he wouldn’t move, and what wanted doing I had to do myself; and so we raced on, for he made me put on more steam, seeing through my dodge in a moment, when I slackened instead; and on we went, with the night seeming to grow darker every moment. But it was race on, past station after station like a flash; and, one way and another, I began to grow excited. The guard had been letting go at the gong, but of course I could take no notice; no doubt, too, he had screwed down his break, but that seemed to make very little difference, with the metals in such a greasy state with the heavy frosty mist; and we raced along at such a rate as I’ve never been at since.
More than once, I made sure we should be crash into the tail of some goods-train; but though we passed several coming up, nothing was in our way, and at last, after the wildest ride I ever had, we began to get near Moreton, just as the water was beginning to get low. “And now,” he says, fiercely, “draw up just this side of the station;” and I nodded: but, for all that, I meant to have run right in, but he was too quick for me, and screwed down the brake so that we stopped a good fifty yards short of the platform, when he leaped down, and I was going to follow, but a rough voice said, “Stand back,” and I could see some one in front of me; while, by the lights of the train, I just saw a carriage next the tender opened, and some one hurried off to where a couple of lights were shining; and I could hear horses stamping; and then—it all didn’t take a minute—there was the trampling of hoofs and the rolling of wheels, and the man who stopped me from getting down was gone.
“Get up,” I says to Ben, as we run into the station; “it warn’t a ghost:” but Ben seemed anything but sure on that point. While, as we finished our journey that night, I put that and that together, and made out as this chap, who must have been a plucky fellow, got from the next carriage on to the tender while we were crawling through the fog just outside London; and all to prevent stopping at Richford, where, no doubt, somebody had telegraphed for him to be taken; while, though the message would perhaps be repeated to Moreton, it was not sure to be so, and his dodge of stopping short where a conveyance was in waiting made that all right.
I drove the up-mail next day to town; but that was my last on the Great Central, for, when summoned before the Board, it was pay off, and go; and that, too, without a character.
Chapter Eight.Preparing for Christmas.“You want to go to sleep? Well you shall directly, but I want to say just a word about next week and Christmas-Day.”“Well say away,” I said very drowsily.“Well, dear,” said Mrs Scribe, “You see mamma’s coming.”“Sorry to hear it,” I said in an undertone.“For shame,” said Mrs S. “How can you talk in that way, when you know what interest she takes in you, and how she praises all you write. No, now, it isn’t gammon, as you so politely call it. Well, and if she did say you always introduced ‘the wife,’ or ‘the missus,’ so often, what then? You would not have her flatter you, and say what she didn’t mean, would you now, dear?”I couldn’t help it, for the wind was easterly and I was very tired, so I only said, “Bother!” But there, I dare not commit to paper all that was said to me upon the subject. A word or two will suffice upon a matter familiar to every Benedict.“Ah, sir,” said Mrs S, “you did not say ‘bother’ after that walk when we gathered cowslips, and I gave you leave to speak to mamma. What did you say then?”“Too long ago to recollect,” I said.“No it is not, sir. You said—”“There, for goodness sake, don’t be casting all one’s follies in one’s teeth,” I exclaimed.“Well then, just listen quietly to what I was going to say about mamma coming.”“Go on then.”“Now don’t be a cross old goose, and—”“Gander,” I suggested.“Now don’t be so stupid and tiresome, dear, but just listen. Now, Mrs Parabola’s furniture is going to be sold to-morrow, and you’d better go and pick up a few things.”“Pick up,” I said, “why they won’t let you have anything unless you pay for it.”“Dear me, how exceedingly witty,” said Mrs S. “Have you quite finished, sir?”I felt scorched, so held my tongue, and submitted to the scolding.“Now I see that Jane has completely ruined that dinner-service: the vegetable-dish covers are all broken but one, and that has no handle; the soup tureen has a great piece out of the side; there are only five soup plates left, while as to the dinner plates, they are that cracked and chipped, and—”“If you want a new service, why don’t you say so, and not go dodging about and beating the bush in that way?” I exclaimed viciously.“Then you know, dear,” continued Mrs S, without noticing my remark, “we want some more glass, and I’d get one of those nice wool mattresses Mrs Parabola was so proud of, and we must have a fresh carpet in the dining-room, for ours is perfectly disgraceful. What? people come to see us and not our carpets? Well I suppose they do, but we need not disgrace them by making believe to be so poor. And let’s see, there’s a very pretty china tea-service that I certainly would get, dear, and a few of those damask table-cloths and napkins.”“‘Those damask table-cloths and napkins?’” I said. “Why, how the dickens do you know anything about them?”“Why, I went to see, of course, and the auctioneer’s men were very civil and let us go over the house.”“Humph,” I said. “Anything else you would like?” When if she did not keep on talk, talk, talk for a good hour about the odds and ends, as she called them, that it would be advantageous to buy.Now, it so happened that when I married I thought I had properly furnished my house; but year after year I have gone on finding out that this was a complete mistake, while now, at the end of some thirteen years, it seems to me to be as far from perfect as ever. But here, in this case, as Mrs Scribe’s mamma was coming down to spend Christmas, I could of course say nothing, so after faithfully promising that I would visit Mrs Parabola’s during the three days’ sale, I was allowed to go to sleep.“Going to the sale, Retort?” I said the next day to a friend.“Well, no,” was the stammered reply; “I never buy at sales.”“Never mind, walk there with me.” Mr Retort consented, and we strolled on together to where a gaily-patterned hearthrug hung out of a window, bearing one of the auctioneer’s bills. Men were hanging about with porters’ knots, and mostly wearing head coverings composed of Brussels carpet; Abram was there, Isaac was there, Jacob was there, and the whole of the twelve patriarchs, all looking hook-nosed, unctuous, unsoaped, and evidently revelling in the idea of what a glorious “knock out” there would be after the sale. The dining-room was set apart for selling purposes; the long table stood, with all the leaves in, while its telescopic principle was so put to it that in places it was quite out of focus, and the leaves did not meet. The “elegantly-designed genuine Turkey carpet” was ingeniously folded, so that all the worn parts were hidden, and the brighter and unworn portions prominently spread out upon the long table. The scroll fender stood upon the chimney-piece, the plated-ware upon the sideboard, while ranged along the walls were the bureaus and wardrobes out of the bedrooms; at which innovation, or rather intrusion, the large portraits upon the walls gazed down most ferociously.“Porter, sir?” said a man, touching his carpet-cap to Retort.“No, thank you, my man,” said my friend, politely, “I never take beer.”“No, sir, I mean to carry home what you buy,” said the man.“Oh, dear me, no,” said Retort, “I never purchase at sales.”The man thrust a ribald tongue into his long lank cheek, while, at the same moment I was earnestly examining the aforesaid Turkey carpet, and wondering whether it would be an improvement upon the one in our own room, when a man, whose name must have been Isaacs or Moss, insinuatingly offered me a catalogue.“Thank you,” I said: “I have one.”“Shouldn’t recommend it, sir,” said the new-comer. “The drawing-room carpet would just suit you, for it by rights should have been laid in a dining-room.”“Thanks,” I said, “but don’t let me detain you.”No detention in the least. Mr Isaacs was a broker, and for the usual trifling commission he could secure anything in the sale for me at a considerable reduction in the price I should have to give.“For you see,” said Mr Isaacs, see-sawing the edge of a leaf of the catalogue between two of his excessively dirty teeth, “if you attempt to bid for yourself the brokers will consider that you are taking the bread out of their mouths, and combine against you, and run things up. Couldn’t secure a thing yourself, I assure you, sir.”“Isn’t this a public auction?” I said, in what was meant to be a dignified way.“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mr Isaacs; “but you see, sir, these sort of things are always managed for gentlemen by brokers. Gentlemen never bid for themselves.”I left Mr Isaacs under the impression that I was not a gentleman, since I fully intended to bid for myself, and steadfastly refused to pay attention to the various eligible lots he kept introducing to my notice as I passed from room to room of the mansion, gradually getting better filled with visitors bound on bargain-seeking errands.“Why, you’ll pay dear enough for what you buy, depend upon it,” said Retort. “What with brokers and buyers, I don’t see much chance for you.”“Perhaps not, but look here,” I said. “This is how I manage: I get, say in a corner, where I can just see the auctioneer’s face, and then taking care not to make much movement or to do anything that will take the enemy’s attention, I give him a quiet nod for my bid each time, while seeing that I am a buyer, he always looks out for my nods. Don’t you see?”“Just so,” said Retort, “a capital plan, no doubt.”The sale began, and having obtained a pretty good place, I bid for several little things. Two or three times over I saw that the brokering clique were running them up, but by a judicious bit of management I let them run on, and then left my friends with the last bid, so that they were quite satisfied and let me bid and buy as I liked.I had secured, as the day wore on, several undoubted bargains, amongst which was some of the damask linen which had taken Mrs Scribe’s fancy; but the room was insufferably hot and stuffy, and evidently too much for poor Retort, who disappeared.At length the dining-room Turkey carpet came on, and in spite of various shabby parts, I made up my mind to have it for divers reasons, among which I might enumerate its probably going for a song; secondly, durability; thirdly, its eminent respectability, for no one could find fault with a dining-room covered by a Turkey carpet.“Five pun’,” said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer’s introductory remarks.I nodded.“Five ten—five ten—six—six ten—seven—seven ten—eight ten—nine ten. Nine ten,” said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the excitement of the moment, I stood confessed. Now I had set ten pounds down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised to find how quickly it had reached to “nine ten,” as the auctioneer termed it. However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be running me up again. So on went the bidding again, till it had reached to fourteen pounds.“Let the gentleman have it,” said Mr Isaacs, with a grin. But, no, “fifteen pounds” was bid from somewhere else—evidently by a confederate.“Sixteen,” I formed with my mouth.“Seventeen bid,” cried the hammer-man.“I will have it,” I muttered, “in spite of the scoundrels, for it would cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there’s no wear in them.”“Going at seventeen—seventeen—sev-en-teen—sev-en-teen. Going at seven-teen. ‘Eighteen.’ I thank you, sir. Eighteen—eighteen—eighteen. Nineteen is bid,” said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned and chuckled.“Not half its vally yet, sir,” cried Mr Isaacs. “Don’t give it away, sir. Orter make fifty pun’, at the least.”“Thou villainous Shylock,” I muttered to myself, “but I can afford a few pounds sooner than be beaten.”“This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman’s mansion, now stands at nineteen pounds,” cried the man in the rostrum. “Say another pound for you, sir!”I nodded.“Twenty pounds—twenty—twenty—guineas—twenty-one pound is offered. It’s against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds.”I nodded again.“Twenty-two pounds,” cried the auctioneer. “Twenty-two pounds. Any advance upon twenty-two pounds,” he continued, amid much chuckling, when, as there was no further reply to the challenges, I became the fortunate owner of the carpet at double its worth.“Name,” cried the auctioneer, and then catching my eye, he nodded, and went on with the next lot.“I’ll keep out of sight again, I think,” I muttered, and returned to my corner, feeling very hot and bristly, as I determined to reopen the knocking-out discussion in the morning papers, for it was evident that I was the victim of a conspiracy.But I was warm in temper as well as body, and therefore determined not to be driven away, so I purchased an elegant set of card and occasional tables at about double their value; gave six pounds ten for the damaged dinner-service; seven pounds for the china; five guineas for a wool mattress, and found myself at last bidding twelve shillings an ounce for some of the plate.The Jews seemed frantic with delight, but I knew all the while it was only to conceal their anger and annoyance; and, though I kept carefully out of sight, I knew the bolts and shafts of their coarse allusions were being directed at me, while their hidden confederate on the opposite side of the room bid furiously. Once or twice I felt disposed to leave off, and let the high-priced lots be knocked down to the Israelitish villain. “But no,” I said, “I’ll have what I want in spite of them, and cunning as they are;” for the rascals kept sending their chaff flying at their confederate as well.“What a good job Retort has gone!” I muttered; “I shall never have the face to tell anyone what I have given.” And now, as it was fast getting dusk, and our Jewish friends were beginning to be sportive and indulge in such little freaks of fancy as bonneting the porters, and accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their fellows, all of which tended to make the confusion worse than before, I left the auctioneer hurrying through the last of that day’s lots, and made the best of my way out; when, to my surprise, I found Retort in the hall.“Ah, well met!” I exclaimed, hurriedly following his example; and thrusting my pencilled catalogue into my pocket, feeling very desirous not to talk of the day’s purchases until a little softened down by dinner and a glass or two of sherry. However, Retort did not seem at all disposed to speak upon the subject; and, after a little pressing, the touchy bachelor consented to dine with me and take pot luck.But pot luck that day was nothing to be grumbled at, for Mrs Scribe had exerted herself to have everything snug, as she afterwards told me, in consequence of my having been “a good boy,” and undertaken to get the few things she wanted before mamma came down. So pot luck that day consisted of some well-made ox-tail soup—not at all burnt—caught, as our queen of the kitchen terms it—a nice flakey bit of crimped cod with oysters; boiled fowls and tongue; two species of kickshaws; Stilton and celery. The bottled ale was good, the sherry pleasant, and Mrs S amiability itself; so that by degrees the creature comforts acted like anodyne or unguent to my raw temper; and when my smiling partner left us over our wine, I leaped out of my chair, opened the door, and earned the smile tendered for my acceptance.“Hem!” said Retort, as soon as we were alone.“Come, fill your glass, Tom,” I said; “that’s a capital glass of wine, even if it isn’t one of your wonderful vintages. I call that Pantheon Port—fit drink for all the gods—ruby Ambrosia.”“Hum,” said Retort very superciliously—“Gilbey’s, eh?”“Now, I do call that shabby,” I said, “to sneer at a fellow because he frankly offers you a cheap glass, and isn’t above owning to it. Now, if you had dined with old Blunkarn, he’d have given you a worse glass, and vowed it was ’20 port.”“But how did you get on at the sale?” said Retort hastily, so as to change the subject.“Rascally!” I exclaimed, firing up. “Those confounded Jews!”“Wasn’t it scandalous,” said Retort.“The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!” I exclaimed.“The scoundrels ought to be indicted for conspiracy,” said my friend.“I’llshow them up, my boy,” I said. “I’ll send columns to the papers if they’ll only put them in.”“Ah, do,” said my companion. “Now, you see, I bid for a thing or two.”“You,” I said; “why, what for? Bachelor in lodgings?”“Well—er—er—yes,” said Retort, stammering, “er—er at present, you know—at present.”“Why, you don’t mean to say—” I burst out.“Hush, my dear fellow! don’t speak so loud.”“That you’ve proposed to Miss Visite?”“Well—er—yes, my dear sir, I have,” simpered the great booby.“Then I congratulate you,” I exclaimed. “Here, Nelly,” I said, running towards the door.“No, no, no—don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Retort, dragging me back towards the table; “don’t call Mrs Scribe. Let me break it to her gently some other time. I’d rather do it myself.”“Just as you like,” I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the future Mrs Retort’s most honoured name.“Well,” continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, “I was telling you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I couldn’t get a thing.”“Yes, it was too bad,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.“Here, Emily,” I said, when the maiden answered the bell, “fetch that catalogue out of my coat-pocket in the dressing-room. Don’t show it to any one else. Bring it straight here;” for I was rather alarmed lest Mrs Scribe should see the figures made beside the lots I had secured.Emily soon returned, and then, with a somewhat darkened brow, I began to refer to the different items.“What did you bid for, Tom?” I said to my friend, who was poring over the list, evidently deep in for furnishing. “But I never thought of your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were sweet after Miss V.”“Why, you don’t suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had not wanted things, do you?”“Never gave it a thought,” said I. “And so you didn’t buy anything after all?”“No,” said Retort. “Did you?”“Well—er—er—um, ye-e-es; a few things—a few.”“Things went dear, though, didn’t they?”“Well, yes, on the whole, they did. But what did you bid for?”“Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds.”I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn’t speak.“Then,” continued my dear friend, “I wanted those card and occasional tables, but couldn’t get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at six ten, and the china for seven pounds. Then I took a strong fancy to that wool mattress, but of course I wasn’t going to give five guineas for it. It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one could buy it new for the money, or less.”“Did you bid for any of the plate?” I gasped in husky tones.“Well, ’pon my word, old chap, I’m half ashamed to own it, but I really was stupid enough to go as far as eleven and sixpence an ounce for it—which is an absurd price, you know. But there, thank goodness! I’ve escaped, for I haven’t bought a single lot.”I did not speak for quite five minutes, for the simple reason that I could not. What was I to do, or what was I to say? I wanted to call him names, and take him by the collar to shake him till his teeth chattered. But who could so treat a guest?“Let’s go up and have some tea,” I said at last, very hoarsely; and then, recovering myself, I stopped him, for I felt sure he would begin talking upstairs, while Mrs Scribe, on the subject being broached, would ask—what as yet she had not had opportunity for—what I had secured.“Stop a minute, Tom,” I said. “Don’t say a word about the sale upstairs.”He looked at me strangely, and kept his counsel as well as mine—and not a single word has since passed our lips; but in after days, when dining at our house in company with his wife, I have seen his eyes wander from the Turkey carpet to the dinner-service, and again, in the drawing-room, from the occasional tables to the china tea-cups and saucers; and then he has glanced darkly at me, with the look of a found-out conspirator, and I have looked darkly at him. But, no, not even to the wife of my bosom have I ever unburdened myself respecting the prices I paid for the new acquisitions to our furnishing department. While as to that five-guinea wool mattress, I could almost swear that, whoever stuffed it, stuffed in the miserable sheep’s trotters and bones, for whenever by chance we have slept in the visitors’ room, upon airing principles, I have always felt lumps right through the feather bed.“No, my love, the price has nothing to do with you,” I said, while being cross-questioned. “You have the things, so you ought to be satisfied.”“So I am, and it’s very good of you,” said Mrs Scribe; “and now you’ll be good, too, and not tease mamma—now, won’t you!”“All right.”“And I say, dear.”“Well!” (from under the counterpane).“Don’t, now—same as you did last time—don’t ask poor mamma how long she means to stay.”“All right,” (very muffled in tone).“No, dear, it isn’t all right if you ask her such a thing. It looks as if you meant that you wanted to get rid of her again.”“So I do,” (this time so smothered that it was audible only to self).“Good-night, dear.”“Goonight.”“What a nice, comfortable, pleasant-feeling, long-napped carpet, George. I do like a Turkey carpet above all things; it is so warm and aristocratic-looking, and then, too, so durable. Now, I’m sure, my dear, I am right in saying that you picked it up a bargain at a sale.”“Yes, that he did, mamma dear,” said Mrs Scribe; “but he won’t tell me what he gave for it. Do tease him till he tells you.”“Now, how much was it, sir?”“Another slice of turkey, Mrs Cubus?”“Well, really, my dear, I don’t think—er—er—well, it really is a delicious turkey. Oh! half that, George. And why don’t you say mamma? Yes, just the least bit of stuffing, and—er—a chestnut or two. That’s quite enough gravy, thank you. Now, what did you give for the carpet?”“Oh,” I said, “it’s Christmas-time, so I shall make a riddle of it. Guess.”“Well, let me see,” said Mrs S’s Mamma. “You gave—what shall I say? About eighteen feet square, isn’t it?”“Very good—that’s it exact.”“Well, then, my dear, as you bought it a bargain, I should say you gave five pounds for it—or say guineas—but, no, I’ll say pounds.”“Capital!” I said, with the most amiable smile I ever had upon my countenance; “I did give five pounds for it.”“Plus seventeen,” I whispered into my waistcoat.“What, dear?”“Merry Christmas to you,” I said, bowing over my glass of sherry.And that was my last bargain-hunt.
“You want to go to sleep? Well you shall directly, but I want to say just a word about next week and Christmas-Day.”
“Well say away,” I said very drowsily.
“Well, dear,” said Mrs Scribe, “You see mamma’s coming.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said in an undertone.
“For shame,” said Mrs S. “How can you talk in that way, when you know what interest she takes in you, and how she praises all you write. No, now, it isn’t gammon, as you so politely call it. Well, and if she did say you always introduced ‘the wife,’ or ‘the missus,’ so often, what then? You would not have her flatter you, and say what she didn’t mean, would you now, dear?”
I couldn’t help it, for the wind was easterly and I was very tired, so I only said, “Bother!” But there, I dare not commit to paper all that was said to me upon the subject. A word or two will suffice upon a matter familiar to every Benedict.
“Ah, sir,” said Mrs S, “you did not say ‘bother’ after that walk when we gathered cowslips, and I gave you leave to speak to mamma. What did you say then?”
“Too long ago to recollect,” I said.
“No it is not, sir. You said—”
“There, for goodness sake, don’t be casting all one’s follies in one’s teeth,” I exclaimed.
“Well then, just listen quietly to what I was going to say about mamma coming.”
“Go on then.”
“Now don’t be a cross old goose, and—”
“Gander,” I suggested.
“Now don’t be so stupid and tiresome, dear, but just listen. Now, Mrs Parabola’s furniture is going to be sold to-morrow, and you’d better go and pick up a few things.”
“Pick up,” I said, “why they won’t let you have anything unless you pay for it.”
“Dear me, how exceedingly witty,” said Mrs S. “Have you quite finished, sir?”
I felt scorched, so held my tongue, and submitted to the scolding.
“Now I see that Jane has completely ruined that dinner-service: the vegetable-dish covers are all broken but one, and that has no handle; the soup tureen has a great piece out of the side; there are only five soup plates left, while as to the dinner plates, they are that cracked and chipped, and—”
“If you want a new service, why don’t you say so, and not go dodging about and beating the bush in that way?” I exclaimed viciously.
“Then you know, dear,” continued Mrs S, without noticing my remark, “we want some more glass, and I’d get one of those nice wool mattresses Mrs Parabola was so proud of, and we must have a fresh carpet in the dining-room, for ours is perfectly disgraceful. What? people come to see us and not our carpets? Well I suppose they do, but we need not disgrace them by making believe to be so poor. And let’s see, there’s a very pretty china tea-service that I certainly would get, dear, and a few of those damask table-cloths and napkins.”
“‘Those damask table-cloths and napkins?’” I said. “Why, how the dickens do you know anything about them?”
“Why, I went to see, of course, and the auctioneer’s men were very civil and let us go over the house.”
“Humph,” I said. “Anything else you would like?” When if she did not keep on talk, talk, talk for a good hour about the odds and ends, as she called them, that it would be advantageous to buy.
Now, it so happened that when I married I thought I had properly furnished my house; but year after year I have gone on finding out that this was a complete mistake, while now, at the end of some thirteen years, it seems to me to be as far from perfect as ever. But here, in this case, as Mrs Scribe’s mamma was coming down to spend Christmas, I could of course say nothing, so after faithfully promising that I would visit Mrs Parabola’s during the three days’ sale, I was allowed to go to sleep.
“Going to the sale, Retort?” I said the next day to a friend.
“Well, no,” was the stammered reply; “I never buy at sales.”
“Never mind, walk there with me.” Mr Retort consented, and we strolled on together to where a gaily-patterned hearthrug hung out of a window, bearing one of the auctioneer’s bills. Men were hanging about with porters’ knots, and mostly wearing head coverings composed of Brussels carpet; Abram was there, Isaac was there, Jacob was there, and the whole of the twelve patriarchs, all looking hook-nosed, unctuous, unsoaped, and evidently revelling in the idea of what a glorious “knock out” there would be after the sale. The dining-room was set apart for selling purposes; the long table stood, with all the leaves in, while its telescopic principle was so put to it that in places it was quite out of focus, and the leaves did not meet. The “elegantly-designed genuine Turkey carpet” was ingeniously folded, so that all the worn parts were hidden, and the brighter and unworn portions prominently spread out upon the long table. The scroll fender stood upon the chimney-piece, the plated-ware upon the sideboard, while ranged along the walls were the bureaus and wardrobes out of the bedrooms; at which innovation, or rather intrusion, the large portraits upon the walls gazed down most ferociously.
“Porter, sir?” said a man, touching his carpet-cap to Retort.
“No, thank you, my man,” said my friend, politely, “I never take beer.”
“No, sir, I mean to carry home what you buy,” said the man.
“Oh, dear me, no,” said Retort, “I never purchase at sales.”
The man thrust a ribald tongue into his long lank cheek, while, at the same moment I was earnestly examining the aforesaid Turkey carpet, and wondering whether it would be an improvement upon the one in our own room, when a man, whose name must have been Isaacs or Moss, insinuatingly offered me a catalogue.
“Thank you,” I said: “I have one.”
“Shouldn’t recommend it, sir,” said the new-comer. “The drawing-room carpet would just suit you, for it by rights should have been laid in a dining-room.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but don’t let me detain you.”
No detention in the least. Mr Isaacs was a broker, and for the usual trifling commission he could secure anything in the sale for me at a considerable reduction in the price I should have to give.
“For you see,” said Mr Isaacs, see-sawing the edge of a leaf of the catalogue between two of his excessively dirty teeth, “if you attempt to bid for yourself the brokers will consider that you are taking the bread out of their mouths, and combine against you, and run things up. Couldn’t secure a thing yourself, I assure you, sir.”
“Isn’t this a public auction?” I said, in what was meant to be a dignified way.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mr Isaacs; “but you see, sir, these sort of things are always managed for gentlemen by brokers. Gentlemen never bid for themselves.”
I left Mr Isaacs under the impression that I was not a gentleman, since I fully intended to bid for myself, and steadfastly refused to pay attention to the various eligible lots he kept introducing to my notice as I passed from room to room of the mansion, gradually getting better filled with visitors bound on bargain-seeking errands.
“Why, you’ll pay dear enough for what you buy, depend upon it,” said Retort. “What with brokers and buyers, I don’t see much chance for you.”
“Perhaps not, but look here,” I said. “This is how I manage: I get, say in a corner, where I can just see the auctioneer’s face, and then taking care not to make much movement or to do anything that will take the enemy’s attention, I give him a quiet nod for my bid each time, while seeing that I am a buyer, he always looks out for my nods. Don’t you see?”
“Just so,” said Retort, “a capital plan, no doubt.”
The sale began, and having obtained a pretty good place, I bid for several little things. Two or three times over I saw that the brokering clique were running them up, but by a judicious bit of management I let them run on, and then left my friends with the last bid, so that they were quite satisfied and let me bid and buy as I liked.
I had secured, as the day wore on, several undoubted bargains, amongst which was some of the damask linen which had taken Mrs Scribe’s fancy; but the room was insufferably hot and stuffy, and evidently too much for poor Retort, who disappeared.
At length the dining-room Turkey carpet came on, and in spite of various shabby parts, I made up my mind to have it for divers reasons, among which I might enumerate its probably going for a song; secondly, durability; thirdly, its eminent respectability, for no one could find fault with a dining-room covered by a Turkey carpet.
“Five pun’,” said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer’s introductory remarks.
I nodded.
“Five ten—five ten—six—six ten—seven—seven ten—eight ten—nine ten. Nine ten,” said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the excitement of the moment, I stood confessed. Now I had set ten pounds down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised to find how quickly it had reached to “nine ten,” as the auctioneer termed it. However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be running me up again. So on went the bidding again, till it had reached to fourteen pounds.
“Let the gentleman have it,” said Mr Isaacs, with a grin. But, no, “fifteen pounds” was bid from somewhere else—evidently by a confederate.
“Sixteen,” I formed with my mouth.
“Seventeen bid,” cried the hammer-man.
“I will have it,” I muttered, “in spite of the scoundrels, for it would cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there’s no wear in them.”
“Going at seventeen—seventeen—sev-en-teen—sev-en-teen. Going at seven-teen. ‘Eighteen.’ I thank you, sir. Eighteen—eighteen—eighteen. Nineteen is bid,” said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned and chuckled.
“Not half its vally yet, sir,” cried Mr Isaacs. “Don’t give it away, sir. Orter make fifty pun’, at the least.”
“Thou villainous Shylock,” I muttered to myself, “but I can afford a few pounds sooner than be beaten.”
“This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman’s mansion, now stands at nineteen pounds,” cried the man in the rostrum. “Say another pound for you, sir!”
I nodded.
“Twenty pounds—twenty—twenty—guineas—twenty-one pound is offered. It’s against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds.”
I nodded again.
“Twenty-two pounds,” cried the auctioneer. “Twenty-two pounds. Any advance upon twenty-two pounds,” he continued, amid much chuckling, when, as there was no further reply to the challenges, I became the fortunate owner of the carpet at double its worth.
“Name,” cried the auctioneer, and then catching my eye, he nodded, and went on with the next lot.
“I’ll keep out of sight again, I think,” I muttered, and returned to my corner, feeling very hot and bristly, as I determined to reopen the knocking-out discussion in the morning papers, for it was evident that I was the victim of a conspiracy.
But I was warm in temper as well as body, and therefore determined not to be driven away, so I purchased an elegant set of card and occasional tables at about double their value; gave six pounds ten for the damaged dinner-service; seven pounds for the china; five guineas for a wool mattress, and found myself at last bidding twelve shillings an ounce for some of the plate.
The Jews seemed frantic with delight, but I knew all the while it was only to conceal their anger and annoyance; and, though I kept carefully out of sight, I knew the bolts and shafts of their coarse allusions were being directed at me, while their hidden confederate on the opposite side of the room bid furiously. Once or twice I felt disposed to leave off, and let the high-priced lots be knocked down to the Israelitish villain. “But no,” I said, “I’ll have what I want in spite of them, and cunning as they are;” for the rascals kept sending their chaff flying at their confederate as well.
“What a good job Retort has gone!” I muttered; “I shall never have the face to tell anyone what I have given.” And now, as it was fast getting dusk, and our Jewish friends were beginning to be sportive and indulge in such little freaks of fancy as bonneting the porters, and accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their fellows, all of which tended to make the confusion worse than before, I left the auctioneer hurrying through the last of that day’s lots, and made the best of my way out; when, to my surprise, I found Retort in the hall.
“Ah, well met!” I exclaimed, hurriedly following his example; and thrusting my pencilled catalogue into my pocket, feeling very desirous not to talk of the day’s purchases until a little softened down by dinner and a glass or two of sherry. However, Retort did not seem at all disposed to speak upon the subject; and, after a little pressing, the touchy bachelor consented to dine with me and take pot luck.
But pot luck that day was nothing to be grumbled at, for Mrs Scribe had exerted herself to have everything snug, as she afterwards told me, in consequence of my having been “a good boy,” and undertaken to get the few things she wanted before mamma came down. So pot luck that day consisted of some well-made ox-tail soup—not at all burnt—caught, as our queen of the kitchen terms it—a nice flakey bit of crimped cod with oysters; boiled fowls and tongue; two species of kickshaws; Stilton and celery. The bottled ale was good, the sherry pleasant, and Mrs S amiability itself; so that by degrees the creature comforts acted like anodyne or unguent to my raw temper; and when my smiling partner left us over our wine, I leaped out of my chair, opened the door, and earned the smile tendered for my acceptance.
“Hem!” said Retort, as soon as we were alone.
“Come, fill your glass, Tom,” I said; “that’s a capital glass of wine, even if it isn’t one of your wonderful vintages. I call that Pantheon Port—fit drink for all the gods—ruby Ambrosia.”
“Hum,” said Retort very superciliously—“Gilbey’s, eh?”
“Now, I do call that shabby,” I said, “to sneer at a fellow because he frankly offers you a cheap glass, and isn’t above owning to it. Now, if you had dined with old Blunkarn, he’d have given you a worse glass, and vowed it was ’20 port.”
“But how did you get on at the sale?” said Retort hastily, so as to change the subject.
“Rascally!” I exclaimed, firing up. “Those confounded Jews!”
“Wasn’t it scandalous,” said Retort.
“The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!” I exclaimed.
“The scoundrels ought to be indicted for conspiracy,” said my friend.
“I’llshow them up, my boy,” I said. “I’ll send columns to the papers if they’ll only put them in.”
“Ah, do,” said my companion. “Now, you see, I bid for a thing or two.”
“You,” I said; “why, what for? Bachelor in lodgings?”
“Well—er—er—yes,” said Retort, stammering, “er—er at present, you know—at present.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say—” I burst out.
“Hush, my dear fellow! don’t speak so loud.”
“That you’ve proposed to Miss Visite?”
“Well—er—yes, my dear sir, I have,” simpered the great booby.
“Then I congratulate you,” I exclaimed. “Here, Nelly,” I said, running towards the door.
“No, no, no—don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Retort, dragging me back towards the table; “don’t call Mrs Scribe. Let me break it to her gently some other time. I’d rather do it myself.”
“Just as you like,” I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the future Mrs Retort’s most honoured name.
“Well,” continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, “I was telling you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I couldn’t get a thing.”
“Yes, it was too bad,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.
“Here, Emily,” I said, when the maiden answered the bell, “fetch that catalogue out of my coat-pocket in the dressing-room. Don’t show it to any one else. Bring it straight here;” for I was rather alarmed lest Mrs Scribe should see the figures made beside the lots I had secured.
Emily soon returned, and then, with a somewhat darkened brow, I began to refer to the different items.
“What did you bid for, Tom?” I said to my friend, who was poring over the list, evidently deep in for furnishing. “But I never thought of your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were sweet after Miss V.”
“Why, you don’t suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had not wanted things, do you?”
“Never gave it a thought,” said I. “And so you didn’t buy anything after all?”
“No,” said Retort. “Did you?”
“Well—er—er—um, ye-e-es; a few things—a few.”
“Things went dear, though, didn’t they?”
“Well, yes, on the whole, they did. But what did you bid for?”
“Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds.”
I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn’t speak.
“Then,” continued my dear friend, “I wanted those card and occasional tables, but couldn’t get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at six ten, and the china for seven pounds. Then I took a strong fancy to that wool mattress, but of course I wasn’t going to give five guineas for it. It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one could buy it new for the money, or less.”
“Did you bid for any of the plate?” I gasped in husky tones.
“Well, ’pon my word, old chap, I’m half ashamed to own it, but I really was stupid enough to go as far as eleven and sixpence an ounce for it—which is an absurd price, you know. But there, thank goodness! I’ve escaped, for I haven’t bought a single lot.”
I did not speak for quite five minutes, for the simple reason that I could not. What was I to do, or what was I to say? I wanted to call him names, and take him by the collar to shake him till his teeth chattered. But who could so treat a guest?
“Let’s go up and have some tea,” I said at last, very hoarsely; and then, recovering myself, I stopped him, for I felt sure he would begin talking upstairs, while Mrs Scribe, on the subject being broached, would ask—what as yet she had not had opportunity for—what I had secured.
“Stop a minute, Tom,” I said. “Don’t say a word about the sale upstairs.”
He looked at me strangely, and kept his counsel as well as mine—and not a single word has since passed our lips; but in after days, when dining at our house in company with his wife, I have seen his eyes wander from the Turkey carpet to the dinner-service, and again, in the drawing-room, from the occasional tables to the china tea-cups and saucers; and then he has glanced darkly at me, with the look of a found-out conspirator, and I have looked darkly at him. But, no, not even to the wife of my bosom have I ever unburdened myself respecting the prices I paid for the new acquisitions to our furnishing department. While as to that five-guinea wool mattress, I could almost swear that, whoever stuffed it, stuffed in the miserable sheep’s trotters and bones, for whenever by chance we have slept in the visitors’ room, upon airing principles, I have always felt lumps right through the feather bed.
“No, my love, the price has nothing to do with you,” I said, while being cross-questioned. “You have the things, so you ought to be satisfied.”
“So I am, and it’s very good of you,” said Mrs Scribe; “and now you’ll be good, too, and not tease mamma—now, won’t you!”
“All right.”
“And I say, dear.”
“Well!” (from under the counterpane).
“Don’t, now—same as you did last time—don’t ask poor mamma how long she means to stay.”
“All right,” (very muffled in tone).
“No, dear, it isn’t all right if you ask her such a thing. It looks as if you meant that you wanted to get rid of her again.”
“So I do,” (this time so smothered that it was audible only to self).
“Good-night, dear.”
“Goonight.”
“What a nice, comfortable, pleasant-feeling, long-napped carpet, George. I do like a Turkey carpet above all things; it is so warm and aristocratic-looking, and then, too, so durable. Now, I’m sure, my dear, I am right in saying that you picked it up a bargain at a sale.”
“Yes, that he did, mamma dear,” said Mrs Scribe; “but he won’t tell me what he gave for it. Do tease him till he tells you.”
“Now, how much was it, sir?”
“Another slice of turkey, Mrs Cubus?”
“Well, really, my dear, I don’t think—er—er—well, it really is a delicious turkey. Oh! half that, George. And why don’t you say mamma? Yes, just the least bit of stuffing, and—er—a chestnut or two. That’s quite enough gravy, thank you. Now, what did you give for the carpet?”
“Oh,” I said, “it’s Christmas-time, so I shall make a riddle of it. Guess.”
“Well, let me see,” said Mrs S’s Mamma. “You gave—what shall I say? About eighteen feet square, isn’t it?”
“Very good—that’s it exact.”
“Well, then, my dear, as you bought it a bargain, I should say you gave five pounds for it—or say guineas—but, no, I’ll say pounds.”
“Capital!” I said, with the most amiable smile I ever had upon my countenance; “I did give five pounds for it.”
“Plus seventeen,” I whispered into my waistcoat.
“What, dear?”
“Merry Christmas to you,” I said, bowing over my glass of sherry.
And that was my last bargain-hunt.
Chapter Nine.The Ice-Breaking.Down by the woods in the rocky valley,Where the babbling waves of the river sally,Where the pure source gushesAnd the wild fount rushes,There’s the sound of the roarThat is heard on the shore,Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;For down from each hillWith resistless will,The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,Dash’d at the North to the Ice-king’s rout;Then off and away,For the livelong dayHas rush’d through the woodlands - no longer gay,Splitting the branches;While avalanchesOf melting snowBend the pine-boughs low,And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.And now once againComes the pitiless rain,Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous soundsOn the wintry breeze,Louder and louder by rising degrees.The Ice-king is routed - his reign is past,And the frost-bound river is rending fast;And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.Splitting and rending,The ice unbending,As with mighty burrow,It carves out a furrowOf churning wreck;While, as if at its beck,The foam-capped streamsLoose the Ice-king’s beams,And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,Now sinks - now rises,As each stream still prises,Till the loosen’d river in fury rollsAway through the valley; while icy scrollsAre swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,And snow-drift and ice joins the West’s rude levy;Which at barrier scouts,At each rock mound shouts;Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,Tingeing the waters with many a stain;Foaming along in an eddying sweep,And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.Away tears the riverWith an earthquake’s speed,Over the snow-cover’d lowland mead,Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,Whirling along on its bosom the reedAnd the sharp, jagg’d ice and the harmless bead,With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,Till the hills where it passes quiver.Away and away, and still onward away,And there’s ruin and havoc in lowland this day;For the waters brownIn their rage tear down,Menacing shipping and threatening the town;They’ve beat down the weir,And dash’d at each pier,And swept o’er the bank to the widespread mere,Whose icy sheet,As though torn by heat,Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;While now for the bridge,There’s an icy ridgeOn the river’s breast,Swept along by the West,Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,Till the bridge goes down,By the flooded town,Where the lowing kine and the penn’d flocks drown.But the damm’d stream rages,For naught assuagesIts thirst for ruin;And again undoingThe toil of years,It hurries along till the rocks it wears.And now there’s a crash and a mighty rattleAs a stalwart mound gives the river battle;And soon engaging,The waves leap raging,Where the mound is gash’d,By the churn’d ice dash’d,While from out of the dam,With the force of a ram,Comes each huge, strong beam,On the breast of the stream,With the speed of an arrow,Where the banks are narrow;But the rocky faceStays the furied race,As round it the waters in madness enlace;Lashing and tearingWith rage unsparing,To beat down the stayIn the deadly fray;And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;But the hill stoutheartedThe water has parted,And away in a sever’d stream they tearLike famish’d lions fresh from their lair,Devouring, destroying, and bearing awayEach barrier, bank, or each timber’d stay;Till they slacken their race by the sandy vergeOf the parent sea, whose wild, restless surgeLashes the shore.Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,Lost in the billows that hurrying riseTo welcome the treasures they pour.
Down by the woods in the rocky valley,Where the babbling waves of the river sally,Where the pure source gushesAnd the wild fount rushes,There’s the sound of the roarThat is heard on the shore,Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;For down from each hillWith resistless will,The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,Dash’d at the North to the Ice-king’s rout;Then off and away,For the livelong dayHas rush’d through the woodlands - no longer gay,Splitting the branches;While avalanchesOf melting snowBend the pine-boughs low,And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.And now once againComes the pitiless rain,Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous soundsOn the wintry breeze,Louder and louder by rising degrees.The Ice-king is routed - his reign is past,And the frost-bound river is rending fast;And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.Splitting and rending,The ice unbending,As with mighty burrow,It carves out a furrowOf churning wreck;While, as if at its beck,The foam-capped streamsLoose the Ice-king’s beams,And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,Now sinks - now rises,As each stream still prises,Till the loosen’d river in fury rollsAway through the valley; while icy scrollsAre swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,And snow-drift and ice joins the West’s rude levy;Which at barrier scouts,At each rock mound shouts;Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,Tingeing the waters with many a stain;Foaming along in an eddying sweep,And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.Away tears the riverWith an earthquake’s speed,Over the snow-cover’d lowland mead,Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,Whirling along on its bosom the reedAnd the sharp, jagg’d ice and the harmless bead,With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,Till the hills where it passes quiver.Away and away, and still onward away,And there’s ruin and havoc in lowland this day;For the waters brownIn their rage tear down,Menacing shipping and threatening the town;They’ve beat down the weir,And dash’d at each pier,And swept o’er the bank to the widespread mere,Whose icy sheet,As though torn by heat,Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;While now for the bridge,There’s an icy ridgeOn the river’s breast,Swept along by the West,Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,Till the bridge goes down,By the flooded town,Where the lowing kine and the penn’d flocks drown.But the damm’d stream rages,For naught assuagesIts thirst for ruin;And again undoingThe toil of years,It hurries along till the rocks it wears.And now there’s a crash and a mighty rattleAs a stalwart mound gives the river battle;And soon engaging,The waves leap raging,Where the mound is gash’d,By the churn’d ice dash’d,While from out of the dam,With the force of a ram,Comes each huge, strong beam,On the breast of the stream,With the speed of an arrow,Where the banks are narrow;But the rocky faceStays the furied race,As round it the waters in madness enlace;Lashing and tearingWith rage unsparing,To beat down the stayIn the deadly fray;And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;But the hill stoutheartedThe water has parted,And away in a sever’d stream they tearLike famish’d lions fresh from their lair,Devouring, destroying, and bearing awayEach barrier, bank, or each timber’d stay;Till they slacken their race by the sandy vergeOf the parent sea, whose wild, restless surgeLashes the shore.Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,Lost in the billows that hurrying riseTo welcome the treasures they pour.
Down by the woods in the rocky valley,Where the babbling waves of the river sally,Where the pure source gushesAnd the wild fount rushes,There’s the sound of the roarThat is heard on the shore,Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;For down from each hillWith resistless will,The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,Dash’d at the North to the Ice-king’s rout;Then off and away,For the livelong dayHas rush’d through the woodlands - no longer gay,Splitting the branches;While avalanchesOf melting snowBend the pine-boughs low,And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.And now once againComes the pitiless rain,Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous soundsOn the wintry breeze,Louder and louder by rising degrees.The Ice-king is routed - his reign is past,And the frost-bound river is rending fast;And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.Splitting and rending,The ice unbending,As with mighty burrow,It carves out a furrowOf churning wreck;While, as if at its beck,The foam-capped streamsLoose the Ice-king’s beams,And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,Now sinks - now rises,As each stream still prises,Till the loosen’d river in fury rollsAway through the valley; while icy scrollsAre swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,And snow-drift and ice joins the West’s rude levy;Which at barrier scouts,At each rock mound shouts;Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,Tingeing the waters with many a stain;Foaming along in an eddying sweep,And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.Away tears the riverWith an earthquake’s speed,Over the snow-cover’d lowland mead,Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,Whirling along on its bosom the reedAnd the sharp, jagg’d ice and the harmless bead,With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,Till the hills where it passes quiver.Away and away, and still onward away,And there’s ruin and havoc in lowland this day;For the waters brownIn their rage tear down,Menacing shipping and threatening the town;They’ve beat down the weir,And dash’d at each pier,And swept o’er the bank to the widespread mere,Whose icy sheet,As though torn by heat,Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;While now for the bridge,There’s an icy ridgeOn the river’s breast,Swept along by the West,Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,Till the bridge goes down,By the flooded town,Where the lowing kine and the penn’d flocks drown.But the damm’d stream rages,For naught assuagesIts thirst for ruin;And again undoingThe toil of years,It hurries along till the rocks it wears.And now there’s a crash and a mighty rattleAs a stalwart mound gives the river battle;And soon engaging,The waves leap raging,Where the mound is gash’d,By the churn’d ice dash’d,While from out of the dam,With the force of a ram,Comes each huge, strong beam,On the breast of the stream,With the speed of an arrow,Where the banks are narrow;But the rocky faceStays the furied race,As round it the waters in madness enlace;Lashing and tearingWith rage unsparing,To beat down the stayIn the deadly fray;And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;But the hill stoutheartedThe water has parted,And away in a sever’d stream they tearLike famish’d lions fresh from their lair,Devouring, destroying, and bearing awayEach barrier, bank, or each timber’d stay;Till they slacken their race by the sandy vergeOf the parent sea, whose wild, restless surgeLashes the shore.Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,Lost in the billows that hurrying riseTo welcome the treasures they pour.
Chapter Ten.A Horror of Horrors.“Very, very glad to see you, my boy,” said my friend Broxby, as I reached his house quite late on Christmas-eve, when he introduced me to his wife, a most amiable woman of an extremely pleasing countenance; to Major and Mrs Major Carruthers, a very pimply-faced gentleman, with a languishing wife troubled with an obliquity of vision, which worried me greatly that evening from her eye seeming to be gazing upon me, while its owner wore a perpetual smile upon her lip. Mrs Major Carruthers’ brother was also there, a young man, like myself, of a poetic turn, and troubled with headaches, besides several others, ladies and gentlemen, who occupied divers relative distances in connection with my friend Broxby and his charming wife.“Why you’re as nervous and bashful as ever, my boy,” said Broxby, in his rough, good-natured way, and I tried to laugh it off, particularly as it was said before so many people in the well-lit drawing-room; but even before the fearful shock my nerves received I always was of a terribly nervous temperament, a temperament which makes me extremely susceptible.As I am now forty I have given up all hopes of ever getting the better of it, even as I have felt compelled to give up the expectation of whiskers, curling hair, and—well no, not yet, for, as the poet says, “We may be happy yet,” and some fond, loving breast may yet throb for me in the future. I may add that my hair is fair, my face slightly freckled, and that I have a slight lisp, but it is so slight that you do not notice it when you get used to me.After a long, cold ride down by train to Ancaster, and a six miles’ ride in Broxby’s dog-cart from the station, where I was met by his groom, the well-lit drawing-room seemed so cheering and comfortable, and as I grew a little more at home I began to be glad that I had left my chambers to their fate for the time, and come down to bask awhile in the light of so many lustrous orbs.I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major Carruthers having rested her eye upon me and smiled sweetly, when as a matter of course I felt bound to do either one thing or the other, look angry and suppose that she was laughing at me, or smile sympathetically in return. I did the latter, when, as I said before, I became confused to see that Major Carruthers was frowning fiercely at me, while his face looked quite currant-dumplingified from the fierce hue assumed by his pimples. But just at that moment a servant announced something to my host, who came forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and I followed him out of the room into his study, where a small table was spread expressly for my delectation.“You see we dined two hours ago, Augustus, so I’m going to chat and have a glass of sherry with you while you freshen up. I thought it would be more snug for you here in my study, so cut away.”I must confess to having felt hungry, and I directly commenced the meal, while my friend chatted pleasantly about the party I had met in the drawing-room.“Why, we must find you a wife, one of those fair maidens, my boy. A good, strong-minded, lovable woman would be the making of you. Good people, those Carruthers, only the Major is so fearfully jealous of his wife—simple, quiet, good-hearted soul as ever breathed. And oh, by the bye, I have to apologise to you for something really unavoidable. I would not trouble you if I could help myself, but I can’t. You see the Major is a first cousin of my wife’s, and we always ask them to our little gatherings, while it so happened that Mrs Major’s brother was staying with them, when, as it was either bring him or stay away themselves, Laura, my wife you know, thoughtlessly said ‘Bring him,’ never stopping to think that every bed in the house was engaged. What to do I could not think, nor where to put him, till at last I said to myself why Gus Littleboy will help me out of the difficulty, and therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my inhospitable marrowbones and ask you to sleep double. We’ve put you in the blue room, where there’s an old four-poster that is first cousin to the great bed of Ware, so that you can lie almost a quarter of a mile from each other, more or less you know, so you won’t mind, will you old fellow, just to oblige us you know?”Of course I promised not to mind, and a great deal more, but still I did mind it very much, for I omitted to say that, er—that er—I am extremely modest, and the fact of having a gentleman in the same room was most painful to my feelings.We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was Christmas-time, and people are expected to come out a little. So I brought out two or three conjuring tricks that I had purchased in town, and Broxby showed them off while I tried to play one or two tricks with cards; but, somehow or another, when Mrs Major Carruthers drew a card, I had forgotten the trick, and she had to draw another card which she dropped; and, when it was on the carpet, we both stooped together to pick it up; and you’ve no idea how confusing it was, for we knocked our heads together, when I distinctly heard some one go “Phut” in precisely the same way as a turkey-cock will when strutting; when, to my intense dismay, I again found that the Major was scowling at me fiercely.“Then I should go to bed if I were you, Timothy,” I heard Mrs Major say soon after; and, on looking across the room, I saw that she was talking to her brother, but her eye was upon me, and she was smiling, so that I felt perfectly horrified, and looked carefully round at the Major; but he was playing cards, and did not see me.So Mr T Peters left the room, and Broxby did all he could to amuse his visitors, till the ladies, one and all, declared they must retire, when the gentlemen drew round the fire; and a bright little kettle having been set upon the hob and a tray of glasses placed upon the table, my friend brewed what he called a night-cap, a portion of which I left four of them discussing when Broxby rang for a candlestick, and told the maid to show me the bedroom.“Did you have my portmanteau taken up?” I said to the maid.“Yes, sir.”“And carpet-bag?”“Yes, sir.”“And writing-case?”“Oh yes, sir; all there—that’s the door, sir; you’ll find everything well-aired, and a nice fire;” and then the maiden tripped off and disappeared at the back. But I had left my skin rug in the hall; and, as it was so excessively cold, I went down the broad staircase once more, and fetched it; returned to the bedroom door, opened it to make sure I was right—not a doubt of it: nice fire—the great four-post bedstead with the great blue hangings. No; they were green, and I was about to start back, only a heavy breath from the bed told me that I was right; and, besides, I recollected that blue always looked green by candle-light; and this was the case, too, with the paper I observed.“Most extraordinary people that Major and his wife,” I thought; and then I wound up my watch, laid it upon the chimney-piece, carefully locked and bolted the door, and then, drawing a chair up to the fire, sat down to give my feet a good warm. The room was most comfortably furnished, and the chair soft and well stuffed; when, what with the heat of the fire, the cold wind during my ride, and, perhaps, partly owing to the night-cap I had partaken of, I fell into a sort of doze, and then the doze deepened into a sleep, in which I dreamed that the Major had called me out for endeavouring to elope with his wife, when it was that strange eye of hers which had run away with me, while her set of false teeth were in full chase behind to seize me like some rabid dog.The horror became so great at last that I started from my sleep, kicking the fender as I did so, when the fire-irons clattered loudly.“What’s that?” cried a familiar voice, which sounded rather softly, as if from beneath the clothes.“Only the fire-irons, my dear sir,” I said, blandly—“I kicked them.” The next moment an exclamation made me turn sharply round; when, horror of horrors! there was a set of teeth upon the dressing-table, and from between the curtains of the bed Mrs Major’s eyes fixing me in the most horrifying way.“Monster!” cried a cracked voice, which sent me sprawling up against the wash-stand, whose fittings clattered loudly; while at one and the same moment I heard the voice of the Major talking, and the loud, hearty laugh of Broxby upon the stairs.I was melting away fast when more of Mrs Major appeared through the curtains; in fact, the whole of her head, night-cap, papers and all, and the cracked voice shrieked—“Monster, there’s help at hand!—Alfred, Alfred, help! help!” and then the head disappeared; when I heard from inside the curtains a choking, stifling noise; and then came a succession of shrieks for aid.“For pity’s sake, silence, madam!” I cried, running to the door; but the next moment I ran back.“Open this door, here!—open!” roared the Major, kicking and thundering, so that the panels cracked. “Matilda, my angel, I am here.”“Don’t, don’t; pray don’t scream, ma’am,” I implored.“Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!” shrieked Mrs Major.“Here, hi! oh! villain! A man’s voice! Break in the door; smash it off the hinges. I am here, Matilda, I am here. Broxby, what is this?” roared the Major; and then the door cracked and groaned beneath the blows thundered upon it.“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Mrs Major.“What shall I do?” I muttered, wringing my hands and trembling like a leaf. I ran to the bed to implore Mrs Major to be still, but she only shrieked the louder. I ran to the door, but fled again on hearing the thunderings and roarings of the Major, who beat frantically, louder and louder.“Sir, sir,” I cried, “it’s a mistake.”“Oh! villain,” he shrieked. “Here, here, a poker; my pistols. Broxby, there’ll be murder done.”“Madam, oh! madam,” I cried, in agony, “have pity, and hear me.”“Oh! oh! oh! help! help!” shrieked the wretched woman; when I heard the door going crack, crack; the panel was smashed in, and the sounds of the hubbub of voices entered the room, wherein I could detect that of the Major, more like a wild beast than anything, when, dashing to the window, I pushed back the fastener, threw up the sash, and crept out, lowered myself down till I hung by my hands, when, with my last look, I saw an arm reaching through the broken panel, the bolt slipped, the key turned, and a rush of people into the room; when, losing my hold, I fell crash into a tree, and then from branch to branch to the ground, where I lay, half-stunned, upon the cold snow.“There he is,” shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief round my head to screen it from the icy breeze. I ran till I was breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on till I had passed the six miles between Broxby’s Beat and Ancaster, where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to four.One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of forty miles an hour. But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on Boxing-day.I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my health’s sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt, though my clothes were much torn. It was about eight days after that a letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark, directed to me in Broxby’s familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows:—“Dear Dick,—You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.“Yours affectionately,“Joe Broxby.”I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never recover the shock.
“Very, very glad to see you, my boy,” said my friend Broxby, as I reached his house quite late on Christmas-eve, when he introduced me to his wife, a most amiable woman of an extremely pleasing countenance; to Major and Mrs Major Carruthers, a very pimply-faced gentleman, with a languishing wife troubled with an obliquity of vision, which worried me greatly that evening from her eye seeming to be gazing upon me, while its owner wore a perpetual smile upon her lip. Mrs Major Carruthers’ brother was also there, a young man, like myself, of a poetic turn, and troubled with headaches, besides several others, ladies and gentlemen, who occupied divers relative distances in connection with my friend Broxby and his charming wife.
“Why you’re as nervous and bashful as ever, my boy,” said Broxby, in his rough, good-natured way, and I tried to laugh it off, particularly as it was said before so many people in the well-lit drawing-room; but even before the fearful shock my nerves received I always was of a terribly nervous temperament, a temperament which makes me extremely susceptible.
As I am now forty I have given up all hopes of ever getting the better of it, even as I have felt compelled to give up the expectation of whiskers, curling hair, and—well no, not yet, for, as the poet says, “We may be happy yet,” and some fond, loving breast may yet throb for me in the future. I may add that my hair is fair, my face slightly freckled, and that I have a slight lisp, but it is so slight that you do not notice it when you get used to me.
After a long, cold ride down by train to Ancaster, and a six miles’ ride in Broxby’s dog-cart from the station, where I was met by his groom, the well-lit drawing-room seemed so cheering and comfortable, and as I grew a little more at home I began to be glad that I had left my chambers to their fate for the time, and come down to bask awhile in the light of so many lustrous orbs.
I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major Carruthers having rested her eye upon me and smiled sweetly, when as a matter of course I felt bound to do either one thing or the other, look angry and suppose that she was laughing at me, or smile sympathetically in return. I did the latter, when, as I said before, I became confused to see that Major Carruthers was frowning fiercely at me, while his face looked quite currant-dumplingified from the fierce hue assumed by his pimples. But just at that moment a servant announced something to my host, who came forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and I followed him out of the room into his study, where a small table was spread expressly for my delectation.
“You see we dined two hours ago, Augustus, so I’m going to chat and have a glass of sherry with you while you freshen up. I thought it would be more snug for you here in my study, so cut away.”
I must confess to having felt hungry, and I directly commenced the meal, while my friend chatted pleasantly about the party I had met in the drawing-room.
“Why, we must find you a wife, one of those fair maidens, my boy. A good, strong-minded, lovable woman would be the making of you. Good people, those Carruthers, only the Major is so fearfully jealous of his wife—simple, quiet, good-hearted soul as ever breathed. And oh, by the bye, I have to apologise to you for something really unavoidable. I would not trouble you if I could help myself, but I can’t. You see the Major is a first cousin of my wife’s, and we always ask them to our little gatherings, while it so happened that Mrs Major’s brother was staying with them, when, as it was either bring him or stay away themselves, Laura, my wife you know, thoughtlessly said ‘Bring him,’ never stopping to think that every bed in the house was engaged. What to do I could not think, nor where to put him, till at last I said to myself why Gus Littleboy will help me out of the difficulty, and therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my inhospitable marrowbones and ask you to sleep double. We’ve put you in the blue room, where there’s an old four-poster that is first cousin to the great bed of Ware, so that you can lie almost a quarter of a mile from each other, more or less you know, so you won’t mind, will you old fellow, just to oblige us you know?”
Of course I promised not to mind, and a great deal more, but still I did mind it very much, for I omitted to say that, er—that er—I am extremely modest, and the fact of having a gentleman in the same room was most painful to my feelings.
We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was Christmas-time, and people are expected to come out a little. So I brought out two or three conjuring tricks that I had purchased in town, and Broxby showed them off while I tried to play one or two tricks with cards; but, somehow or another, when Mrs Major Carruthers drew a card, I had forgotten the trick, and she had to draw another card which she dropped; and, when it was on the carpet, we both stooped together to pick it up; and you’ve no idea how confusing it was, for we knocked our heads together, when I distinctly heard some one go “Phut” in precisely the same way as a turkey-cock will when strutting; when, to my intense dismay, I again found that the Major was scowling at me fiercely.
“Then I should go to bed if I were you, Timothy,” I heard Mrs Major say soon after; and, on looking across the room, I saw that she was talking to her brother, but her eye was upon me, and she was smiling, so that I felt perfectly horrified, and looked carefully round at the Major; but he was playing cards, and did not see me.
So Mr T Peters left the room, and Broxby did all he could to amuse his visitors, till the ladies, one and all, declared they must retire, when the gentlemen drew round the fire; and a bright little kettle having been set upon the hob and a tray of glasses placed upon the table, my friend brewed what he called a night-cap, a portion of which I left four of them discussing when Broxby rang for a candlestick, and told the maid to show me the bedroom.
“Did you have my portmanteau taken up?” I said to the maid.
“Yes, sir.”
“And carpet-bag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And writing-case?”
“Oh yes, sir; all there—that’s the door, sir; you’ll find everything well-aired, and a nice fire;” and then the maiden tripped off and disappeared at the back. But I had left my skin rug in the hall; and, as it was so excessively cold, I went down the broad staircase once more, and fetched it; returned to the bedroom door, opened it to make sure I was right—not a doubt of it: nice fire—the great four-post bedstead with the great blue hangings. No; they were green, and I was about to start back, only a heavy breath from the bed told me that I was right; and, besides, I recollected that blue always looked green by candle-light; and this was the case, too, with the paper I observed.
“Most extraordinary people that Major and his wife,” I thought; and then I wound up my watch, laid it upon the chimney-piece, carefully locked and bolted the door, and then, drawing a chair up to the fire, sat down to give my feet a good warm. The room was most comfortably furnished, and the chair soft and well stuffed; when, what with the heat of the fire, the cold wind during my ride, and, perhaps, partly owing to the night-cap I had partaken of, I fell into a sort of doze, and then the doze deepened into a sleep, in which I dreamed that the Major had called me out for endeavouring to elope with his wife, when it was that strange eye of hers which had run away with me, while her set of false teeth were in full chase behind to seize me like some rabid dog.
The horror became so great at last that I started from my sleep, kicking the fender as I did so, when the fire-irons clattered loudly.
“What’s that?” cried a familiar voice, which sounded rather softly, as if from beneath the clothes.
“Only the fire-irons, my dear sir,” I said, blandly—“I kicked them.” The next moment an exclamation made me turn sharply round; when, horror of horrors! there was a set of teeth upon the dressing-table, and from between the curtains of the bed Mrs Major’s eyes fixing me in the most horrifying way.
“Monster!” cried a cracked voice, which sent me sprawling up against the wash-stand, whose fittings clattered loudly; while at one and the same moment I heard the voice of the Major talking, and the loud, hearty laugh of Broxby upon the stairs.
I was melting away fast when more of Mrs Major appeared through the curtains; in fact, the whole of her head, night-cap, papers and all, and the cracked voice shrieked—
“Monster, there’s help at hand!—Alfred, Alfred, help! help!” and then the head disappeared; when I heard from inside the curtains a choking, stifling noise; and then came a succession of shrieks for aid.
“For pity’s sake, silence, madam!” I cried, running to the door; but the next moment I ran back.
“Open this door, here!—open!” roared the Major, kicking and thundering, so that the panels cracked. “Matilda, my angel, I am here.”
“Don’t, don’t; pray don’t scream, ma’am,” I implored.
“Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!” shrieked Mrs Major.
“Here, hi! oh! villain! A man’s voice! Break in the door; smash it off the hinges. I am here, Matilda, I am here. Broxby, what is this?” roared the Major; and then the door cracked and groaned beneath the blows thundered upon it.
“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Mrs Major.
“What shall I do?” I muttered, wringing my hands and trembling like a leaf. I ran to the bed to implore Mrs Major to be still, but she only shrieked the louder. I ran to the door, but fled again on hearing the thunderings and roarings of the Major, who beat frantically, louder and louder.
“Sir, sir,” I cried, “it’s a mistake.”
“Oh! villain,” he shrieked. “Here, here, a poker; my pistols. Broxby, there’ll be murder done.”
“Madam, oh! madam,” I cried, in agony, “have pity, and hear me.”
“Oh! oh! oh! help! help!” shrieked the wretched woman; when I heard the door going crack, crack; the panel was smashed in, and the sounds of the hubbub of voices entered the room, wherein I could detect that of the Major, more like a wild beast than anything, when, dashing to the window, I pushed back the fastener, threw up the sash, and crept out, lowered myself down till I hung by my hands, when, with my last look, I saw an arm reaching through the broken panel, the bolt slipped, the key turned, and a rush of people into the room; when, losing my hold, I fell crash into a tree, and then from branch to branch to the ground, where I lay, half-stunned, upon the cold snow.
“There he is,” shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief round my head to screen it from the icy breeze. I ran till I was breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on till I had passed the six miles between Broxby’s Beat and Ancaster, where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to four.
One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of forty miles an hour. But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on Boxing-day.
I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my health’s sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt, though my clothes were much torn. It was about eight days after that a letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark, directed to me in Broxby’s familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows:—
“Dear Dick,—You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.“Yours affectionately,“Joe Broxby.”
“Dear Dick,—You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.
“Yours affectionately,
“Joe Broxby.”
I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never recover the shock.