It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of August—for Samuel Taylor Coleridge to the contrary, I cannot conceive why June should be held to form a monopoly of leafiness—and Billy Bunting of theAvalanchewas proceeding along Lantern Lane, close to the Docks, when he beheld a female in distress. A hulking tramp with designs upon her purse, had compelled the lady to stop, and she was crying in vain to the great brick wall on either side, to help her. To “bear down upon” them, to call upon the villain to “belay there;” to knock him senseless in the roadway, and to offer his assistance to beauty in distress—to do all this, was, as is well-known to those conversant withthe literature of the Rolling Deep—the work of a moment.
Billy loved a pretty face, and it was a pretty-one, of that plump and red kind so admired by sailors, which through tears looked up at Billy now. Giving the prostrate form of the tramp a kick, he gallantly offered his arm to the maiden, saying,—
“I must tow you out of the way of that skulking land-shark, my beauty.”
She, nothing displeased, took the offered arm; and declared that she was “soobliged she couldn’t tell.”
“An’ wot’s yer name, my pretty poppet?”
“Polly,” she replied, with a blush that enhanced her many charms.
“An’ yer t’other name is—”
“Smith,” she replied, coyly.
“H’m. Wot d’ye think of Bunting as a name—come now?”
“Sweetly bee-utiful,” she murmured.
“That’smyname.”
“No!” she exclaimed in a tone that betokened a delighted surprise.
Those who make long voyages must needs put up with short courtships, and Billy Buntinghad not been many days acquainted with Miss Smith before she had promised to be his, and the marriage was duly solemnised at the Little Bethel, Lancington St., by Mr. Morth, the esteemed pastor of that conventicle. They spent the day at Gravesend, enjoying its natural and artificial beauties, including the Rosherville Gardens, where they were almost as happy as the advertisements of that pleasaunce would lead one to suppose. And then they returned to their humble lodging in Belt Alley, E.
Alas! for the brevity of human happiness. Poor Polly Andrews was no sooner married to her Jack Tarpey than thePromise of the Maywas ordered on a twelve months’ voyage. And Polly Smith has been but a brief fortnight the adored wife of Billy Bunting when theAvalancheis ready to go sailing about the world for a similar period. But, cheer up, brave hearts! Courage, dear souls!
“There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloftTo keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”
“There’s a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloftTo keep watch o’er the life of poor Jack.”
And the little Cherub who, from that elevated position, is solicitous concerning thewell-being of poor Jack, will no doubt exhibit an equal solicitude in the case of poor Billy Bunting. But it is useless to preach philosophy to breaking hearts. It was a sad scene that which took place on the quay as Polly bid her Bill adieu. She could but hope; he could but hope, and a year after all is only three hundred and sixty-five miserable little days. It will soon be over.
But theAvalanchewas not to be a year out of port.
And here comes the interesting part of this strange narrative.
At the beginning of September, in the year of which I am writing, a very violent and lasting gale burst over certain Northern latitudes. And nowhere was that gale felt more severely than in the Bay of Biscay. Many lives were lost in that ill-omened water—for why it should be called a “Bay” while the Adriatic is called a “Sea,” I have never since the happy days of boyhood been able to discover. The waves rose mountains high, the wind blew a hurricane, and everything that out-lived the first fury of the elements scudded along under bare poles. That everythingdidnotout-live the first fury of the elements will appear presently.
One of the vessels encountering that memorable storm was theAvalanche. She encountered it, and overcame it, but with considerable loss to herself. Her mainmast had been snapped in two like a brittle twig. Her canvas was in shreds, part of her bulwarks was swept away, and the pumps were continually at work, to lessen the volume of water that half filled her hold. Though all was calm now, she could not move.
“There she lay” several days, “in the Bay of Biscay O!” At last the inevitable “sail in sight appeared.” It was a sail however that promised no assistance. For when examined through the glass it appeared to be a raft, with a solitary human being on board. There was much speculation as it bore down upon them; at last the raft touched theAvalanche, and its sole occupant, worn out with hunger, thirst, anxiety, and fear, was helped up the side of theAvalanche, and fell upon the deck in a faint that looked uncommonly like death. Unremitting attention and a judicious administration of rum brought him to; and whenhe was sufficiently restored he informed his rescuers that his name was Jack Tarpey, of thePromise of the May; which doomed vessel having encountered the late gales in the Bay succumbed to the last and worst, and went down with all hands, save three who had taken to the raft, His two companions had died of cold and exhaustion. He alone survived of all the crew.
Billy Bunting was a tender-hearted fellow, and “took to” this shipwrecked mariner. They became indeed such chums that Jack bade fair to forget the excellent Joey Copper: now no more. At last relief came to theAvalanche, and the disabled vessel was assisted on her homeward way. As the days sped on, the friendship between Jack and Billy increased. They had a bond of sympathy in common. Both had married Polls, and both these Polls lived in Belt Alley, E.
“She’s that fond o’ me, Jack—bless her,” Billy would say.
“Ah, she do love me, Bill—bless ’er old ’art,” Jack would reply.
It was a long and weary business getting theAvalancheinto dock. And it was a longand weary time before Bill and Jack were allowed to go ashore—for Jack had joined the crew of theAvalanche. But the day of emancipation did eventually arrive. And more exultant mariners never left a ship. Neither of these happy-go-lucky sons of Neptune could remember the number of his house in Belt Alley, but each could swear to the external appearance of it. So they chartered a four-wheeler, and as they drove down the alley each had his eye on the window.
“Stop!” shouted Bill, “that’s my ’ouse.”
“An’ mine,” echoed Jack, thinking that affairs were now culminating towards a coincidence. A blind was pulled suddenly down, and cabby thought he heard boys practising with a pistol in the back-yard. The mariners heard nothing. They were both knocking at the same door. There was no answer. They knocked again. Still no answer. They broke the door down. On the floor lay a plump, red-faced girl, shot through the heart, a pistol in her hand. Both exclaimed at the same moment,—
“Polly!”
On searching her boxes, they found thatshe had piously preserved copies of the certificates of her marriage to each—together with vouchers for two other unions since contracted.
Aboutten years ago Mr. Landor was the lessee and manager of the Lugubreum Theatre, and John Philp was his master carpenter. In those days the staple of the Lugubreum entertainment was melodrama, preceded by farce. Mr. Landor found Philp, who was about thirty-five years of age, exceedingly useful. He was quick, intelligent, and ingenious. He had been brought up to the stage-carpentering business from his earliest days, and had omitted to soak his faculties in gin, as is too often the practice with gentlemen of his profession. Philp’s powers of invention were indeed notorious, and many famous contrivances, without which certain celebrated sensational scenes must have miserably failed, could be traced to hissuggestions. He was, withal, a modest, cheery-little fellow, much beloved by his associates, and greatly respected by his employer, who regarded him as one of his most valuable allies.
John Philp lived in a part of old Camberwell, that had not then been disturbed by the invasion of the speculative builder. He rented a substantially built little cottage of five rooms, with quite a large garden in the back. Philp’s gardening was, it must be admitted, of a somewhat theatrical kind. He had erected a flagstaff painted in stripes, on the top of which was a weather-cock of his own contrivance—an indicator which to the very last he believed told him what way the wind blew. At the end of the garden was a formidable grotto—the effect of which was somewhat marred by the introduction of pieces of coloured glass. On the side walk were placed two wooden pedestals, also painted in various bright colours; upon these stood statuettes of his favourite great men. Upon one was William Shakespear—copied from the famous work once erected in Garrick’s Villa, and now standing in the British Museum. And uponthe other was Mr. Dion Boucicault, appealing to the dog Tatters—an animal which is often alluded to in theShaughraun, but never appears in that interesting production.
John Philp’s widowed mother lived with him in Artesian Cottages, and kept house for him. She was a brisk, wholesome-looking old lady, and was very proud of her son—as indeed she had a right to be—and would grow garrulous about his merits, his personal beauty, and his infantile maladies, at the mere mention of his name. John was very much attached to the old lady—devoting his Sunday afternoons to her entertainment. What happy days those were when she sat in an arbour in the Greyhound at Dulwich, drinking tea, while John sipped his ale and smoked his pipe. What royal times, too, when the funds permitted a trip to Gravesend; and when shrimps and most marvellous water-cresses formed an addition to the feast. And what words can describe that period of delirious excitement when a buoyant exchequer and the closing of the Lugubreum for repairs, permitted that memorable week at Margate. Alas! such happiness was to be short-lived. And thebeginning of the sorrow of Mrs. Philp was to be mysteriously bound up with the success in this country ofopera bouffe.
Mr. Landor was an astute man, and had no exalted notion of his functions as a manager. He laughed at those who prated about “High Art,” and the rest of it, and spoke of himself as a business man, whose object in life was to make money, by supplying a certain commodity for which there existed a public demand. Now the public demand for melodrama and farce became very slack. Heavy villains and sensational “sets” became a drug in the market; and Mr. Landor having duly weighed the pros and cons of the matter, determined to alter the character of his theatre and makeopera bouffehis leading suit. Old supporters of the Lugubreum growled. But the public came. The dissemination of paper was stopped. The free list was entirely suspended. And the Lugubreum was doing a roaring trade. Philp still held his position as head carpenter, with labours necessarily lightened, but with salary undiminished.
For the successful illustration of burlesque, one of the most essential elements is a chorusof shapely young women, who have no objection to as liberal a display of their personal charms as a manager may deem advisable. And among the chorus ladies engaged to Mr. Landor was Miss Carry Adair. This fascinating damsel was the daughter of a lodging-house keeper in Islington, named O’Flaherty, and in assisting her mother—whose education had been somewhat neglected—to cook the accounts of the young city gentlemen who lodged with them, acquired those habits of caution and economy, which have characterised her throughout her career. At the age of eighteen she left her mother’s care, and was employed by a court dressmaker in Bond Street in the capacity of a live model, to display to their best advantage the goods of her employer. While acting in this useful, if humble capacity, she was seen by Sir Mornington Cresswell, who had come to inspect a court dress ordered by Lady Cresswell. Sir Mornington is a well-known philanthropist, and took an immediate interest in the young woman, urging her to take suitable apartments in the region abutting on Regent’s Park, and finally obtaining for her an engagement atthe Lugubreum. Sir Mornington being one of those reserved and unassuming Christians, who do not let the left hand know what the right is doing, kept the latest instance of his kindly and discriminating philanthropy a secret from his wife.
Carry Adair was a great success in her new vocation. She was tall, of liberal contour, had big expressionless eyes, and masses of magnificent brown hair. It was her mission in life to be “a doosid fine woman.” The callow connoisseurs of the stalls proclaimed her to be a “doosid fine woman.” And so her reputation was made, although as far as histrionic capability is concerned, she was absolutely devoid of it. She was withal, an excessively discreet young person, and was never known to indulge in the unseemly jests, which, in the dressing-rooms, formed the current coin of conversation; and, indeed, had been known on many occasions to rebuke her companions when adouble entendreoffended her keen susceptibilities. It was this trait in her character which won the sympathies of John Philp. He was sensible, no doubt, of her merely physical attributes. But he regardedher as an innocent and artless girl, thrown into the society of those who were by no means particular. He longed to shield her from the evil which is in the world, and as a preliminary to this missionary enterprise he fell hopelessly in love with her. He had given himself, body and soul, to the thrall of a woman who had no more capacity for an honest affection than the table upon which I am writing.
And she—what did she do? She led him on. She permitted him to hold her heavy sealskin as she enveloped herself in it. She permitted him to kiss the diamonds that covered her fingers. And then in the very dressing-room where she would not permit the use of an indelicate expression, she mimicked the comic agony of her lover, for the edification of the Lotties and the Totties who shrieked with laughter at her irresistible sallies. For Carry was not without a certain flow of vulgar humour, which she had acquired probably while waiting on her young city gentlemen in the Islingtonian lodging-house. On the evening when poor John Philp brought himself to ask the awful question, she wasparticularly amusing. She showed how he blushed and stammered as he described his little place in Camberwell; how he spoke of his mother’s devotion; and the happy effects of living on a gravel soil. Then she narrated with some spirit how she squeezed his hand, and begged for time to consider the proposal. Carry being the possessor of some means, was in the habit of treating her friends of the dressing room; so her jokes all took immensely, and the Lotties and Totties agreed that poor John Philp was an “old stoopid.”
About a fortnight after John Philp’s proposal, Landor was coming down the steps of Evans’s Hotel in Covent Garden at twelve o’clock one night. He was passed on the steps by Miss Adair, enveloped in a white satin opera cloak, and apparently in full evening dress. She was on the arm of a young gentleman with a little yellow moustache—anavant courrierof that Crutch and Toothpick Brigade which has since become famous. The manager saw her enter a brougham which was waiting in front. She was followed by the young gentleman, and was driven rapidly off.The vehicle was followed on foot by a man with pale face and livid lips, and without any hat on. In the face of that pursuing figure, Mr. Landor recognised John Philp, the master carpenter. And being a man of the world he shrugged his shoulders, lit another cigarette, and went on to the Garrick Club, of which institution he is one of the most agreeable ornaments.
John Philp never again entered the stage-door of the Lugubreum. He threw up his situation, alleging illness as an excuse. He wanted change of air. Landor regretted his determination, and looked out for somebody to take his place. Three months after he received a letter from his oldemployé, asking him “for God’s sake” to come and see him. Landor went; Artesian Cottage had evidently been somewhat neglected. The creepers were trailing about in slovenly branches, and the little garden path was covered with grass. Mrs. Philp looked worn and weary, and accompanied with sobs the answers which she gave the manager. She led the way into her son’s bedroom. He was a shadow of his former self, but a smile overspread his countenanceas he recognised his old master. He stretched his poor transparent hand across the counterpane, and grasping the manager’s hand, said feebly,—
“Itiskind of you, sir.”
Then he motioned his mother to leave the room.
“I’m breaking up fast, sir,” he said, “but afore I go I wished to give you something—as—as a keepsake. You’ve been a good friend to me, sir, but I’m afraid I seemed ungrateful.”
The manager answered him that he had always valued and respected him.
Then John put his hand under the pillow, and drew out a ring with a small diamond set in it. This he handed to Landor.
“I bought it for her,” he stuttered; “I wanted to show her that a working man could buy jewels as well as the swells. I pinched myself to get it, an’ the very night I ’ad it in my pocket to give her, I followed her ’ome to—to—I can’t say it, sir—it chokes me.”
Landor took the ring. The master carpenter fell back on his pillow. An expression of satisfied calm was upon his face. Thegreat change was coming. Landor summoned his mother. Hearing her voice John Philp opened his eyes and stared round the room. Then he raised himself, and with a last dying effort shrieked,—
“It’s the di’monds as does it; damn ’em.”
He fell back, and Landor closed his eyes and drew the sheet over his face.
Allthrough his own part of the country John Osbaldiston was familiarly known as “Nails.” And this expressive locution was adopted in the first place to indicate the business out of which the millionaire had amassed his fortune; and in the second place to give some necessarily inadequate notion of the hardness of his nature. As John Osbaldiston was a millionaire it may be taken for granted that his nick-name was never mentioned before his face. Besides being the possessor of enormous wealth the retired nail-maker was a Justice of the Peace, a Deputy-Lieutenant, and lived in confident expectation that when the Radicals came in—if they everdidcome in—he should be rewarded for his unswervingdevotion by a baronetcy. The beauty of this hope was somewhat marred when Osbaldiston reflected that his wife was dead, and that he had no son to inherit the title. He was a hard, pompous man, full of prejudices, and the happiest moments of his life were those which he spent upon the bench sentencing the peccant rustics. Fortunately for the country side, John Osbaldiston never sat on the bench alone, and his own view as to the depravity of human nature could not take effect in sentences unless a majority of the bench was with him. And the majority never was with him.
John Osbaldiston’s father had founded the business in the town of Belchester and had purchased the estate upon which John now lived, and to which he had greatly added; absorbing the estates of the smaller country gentlemen as in other days he had absorbed the business of the smaller nail-makers. The house on the estate was a large, solid building, without any pretensions to architectural beauty, but capable of holding in its vast apartments half theéliteof the county, if half theéliteof the county should ever feel inclined to visit it together. John Osbaldiston was a greatpicture buyer, and his galleries were the envy of his neighbours, and even of patrons of the Fine Arts living at a distance. Indeed, the fame of the Osbaldiston collection had travelled almost as far as his nails. He was not much of a critic. Some people said that he was not much of a judge, but bought pictures as farmers buy sheep—by the brand. Whatever truth there may be in these reflections, one thing is certain, that many of the best examples of the most esteemed painters had found their way into the galleries of Bradland Hall—as the Osbaldiston house was called. Whether the contemplation of these accumulated works of art gave the millionaire any artistic pleasure it is impossible to say; but he was very proud of their possession, and it gave him an exquisite sense of satisfaction when at any sale in London his agent outbid the agent of his blue-blooded neighbour, the Duke of Sandown, for the possession of an example which both were anxious to acquire. But, notwithstanding this pride of possession, the nail-maker of Belchester was not ostentatious. His nature was a puzzle. He was as inscrutable as he was hard.
The Master of Bradland Hall had one possession which gave him more anxiety than all his other treasures put together; and that possession was his daughter Bella, a thoughtless, light-hearted, high-spirited girl of seventeen, who had been a source of untold trouble to a succession of nursery-governesses, governesses, masters, mistresses, and professors. Her nature was as soft as the paternal nature was hard. She was easily led, though difficult to drive, and worst of all, was not awed to any appreciable extent by the frowns of her father, when he did frown at her, which, comparatively speaking, was seldom. What little affection he had to bestow was given to his only child—the child of his old age; and it must be admitted at once, that if Bella reciprocated the affection, she had a most undemonstrative way of doing it. The daughter had a way of putting her father down, which amounted almost to snubbing. Done in private, the old gentleman bore such unfilial ebullitions in silence; though when performed before the menials he resented it with great bitterness. I have already said that John Osbaldiston was full of prejudices. For thepurposes of this narrative it is necessary to mention but one of them. He had a rooted antipathy to railways and everything connected with them. This was no doubt strange in a man who had made his money in connection with iron, and whose commercial course was entirely connected with the manufacturing town of Belchester. But his rooted antipathy may be accounted for by the fact that, on two occasions he came into collision with a railway company—not on the lines, but in the law courts—and that on each occasion he was beaten by the defendant company. The first occasion was a mere affair connected with alleged negligence resulting in the loss of a consignment of nails. But the second occasion was when the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company proposed to have a branch line from Belchester to Balt—a little village situated on the Bradland estate. Osbaldiston spent thousands and thousands in opposing the Bill, and when finally it was passed, went to law on the question of compensation; though, on a fine night, with the wind blowing towards him, the shriek of the engine could barely be heard at the Hall. It was thenthat John Osbaldiston declared his eternal hatred of all railways whatsoever, and swore a great oath that he would never travel by that means of transit, so long as there was any other mode of conveyance available.
In the early spring of 1879, John Osbaldiston was sitting in his library delivering himself of portentous platitudes on the subject of frivolity, for the edification of Miss Bella, when the afternoon post arrived, and brought a letter bearing the Belchester postmark. Having perused it, John Osbaldiston settled his neck in his collar, and handed the communication to his daughter, who read it out with many interjections of disapproval. The following is a copy of the letter.
“Belchester Institute,Belchester—, 1879.“Dear Sir,—A Committee having been appointed to consider the long-mooted question of opening a Loan Exhibition of Works of Art, in connection with the Institute, it has been resolved to hold the proposed Exhibition in the summer of the present year. Regarding your own long and honourable connection with the town, it has been resolved to consult you generally on the subject, and to request you to lend us a few examples from your magnificent collection. When it is known that you have contributed to the walls of ourExhibition, the example upon the minds of other collectors will be prodigious, and the success of our efforts be secured.“Your obedient servant,Amos Black,Hon. Sec.“John Osbaldiston,Esq., J.P., D.L.”
“Belchester Institute,Belchester—, 1879.
“Dear Sir,—A Committee having been appointed to consider the long-mooted question of opening a Loan Exhibition of Works of Art, in connection with the Institute, it has been resolved to hold the proposed Exhibition in the summer of the present year. Regarding your own long and honourable connection with the town, it has been resolved to consult you generally on the subject, and to request you to lend us a few examples from your magnificent collection. When it is known that you have contributed to the walls of ourExhibition, the example upon the minds of other collectors will be prodigious, and the success of our efforts be secured.
“Your obedient servant,Amos Black,Hon. Sec.
“John Osbaldiston,Esq., J.P., D.L.”
“Well, I never,” exclaimed Bella. “Such impudence!”
“I see nothing impudent about it,” replied the father, sternly. “I owe everything to Belchester. Belchester shall not find me ungrateful.”
“Of course not, dear papa. But supposing Belchester rewards your gratitude by poking its umbrellas through your Titians or by cutting little bits out of your Turners!”
“Belchester has trustedme.Iwill trust Belchester,” replied her parent, pompously.
“But youcan’tsend to Belchester,” she said, trying another tack.
“And why, pray?”
“Because there is no way of sending them except by the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company’s branch line.”
“They shall go by van,” he replied decisively.
And there was an end of the matter.
The distance between Bradland Hall and Belchester is nearly thirty miles, and when John Osbaldiston had replied to the Secretary of the Belchester Institute, graciously according to the request of the Committee, he personally saw to the selection and packing of the pictures, in a van also selected with great care. He made arrangement for a change of horses on the road, and he consigned the precious cargo to two men, in whose steadiness, and sobriety, and general possession of character, he could place the utmost confidence. These selected characters quite justified the confidence reposed in them, and drove so steadily and so slowly, that the roadside population might have supposed the van to contain a corpse.
Two miles from Belchester there is a level crossing; and over this crossing the van containing Osbaldiston’s masterpieces had to be taken. Just as the hoofs of the off horse left the up line his knees seemed to give way, he fell, and seemed unable to get up again. Every effort was made to raise him; but in vain. Then attempts were made to move the van which stood right across the rails. Buttoo late. It all seemed to occur in a moment. The express came rushing up. The van was knocked into matchwood, and the masterpieces from Bradland Hall were masterpiecesindeed—mere fragments of frame and canvas, some strewed by the side of the line, and some adhering to the engine and carriages of the express, which lay on its side a short distance further on.
A telegram brought John Osbaldiston to the spot in process of time. And he spent many days in Belchester mad with himself, with the Institute, with the railway, and with the world in general. When he returned home his anger was increased. He found a letter from Bella:—
“Dear Pa.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be married. He is a man very highly connected, but has been unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western. He is so handsome, and we are so happy. Do forgive us.“Bella.”
“Dear Pa.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be married. He is a man very highly connected, but has been unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western. He is so handsome, and we are so happy. Do forgive us.
“Bella.”
“Never!” cried the crushed nail-maker. And he never did.
Onthe first day of April in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five the following advertisement appeared in theTimesnewspaper.
“Housemaid and Companion.—Wanted immediately a smart active young woman, who thoroughly understands her business: a small house, and only one in family: washing given out: must have first-class references; good wages given; send copies of discharges to Mrs. G., Lambird Cottage, Thornton Heath.”
“Housemaid and Companion.—Wanted immediately a smart active young woman, who thoroughly understands her business: a small house, and only one in family: washing given out: must have first-class references; good wages given; send copies of discharges to Mrs. G., Lambird Cottage, Thornton Heath.”
The “Mrs. G.” who advertised in these terms was a widow lady, named Gillison, and among those who applied for the situation was Susan Copeland, of the village of Stockbury in the county of Kent. How a copy of theTimeshappened to arrive in Stockbury,does not appear upon the evidence. But in all probability it had been sent to the Vicar, and the wife of that worthy clergyman, who had an insatiable thirst for the knowledge that is to be obtained from advertisements, came upon this “Want” of Mrs. Gillison, and brought it before the notice of Susan Copeland. Susan was the model villager, the prize-girl of Stockbury, and having served brilliantly as an under nurse to the Vicar’s family, she was now anxious, as the saying goes, “to better herself.” Susan was a tall brown-eyed girl. She affected great simplicity in her dress, wore her hair brushed flat down on her forehead, and in a general way looked more like a Puritan maiden than is customary with the daughters of Kentish farmers. Susan was eighteen years of age, and was engaged to Thomas Ash. As Susan Copeland was the model girl of Stockbury, it was only right that she should become engaged to the model young man. And that young man was Tom. He had secured all the prizes in the Boys’ department, while she had been sedulously engaged in acquiring all the honours from the Girls’. Indeed, these two swooped down upon theprize list, and by reason of their superior attainments and conspicuous virtue swept off all before them.
Satisfied with the Vicar’s report, Mrs. Gillison of Thornton Heath engaged Susan in the real and somewhat unusual capacity of “Housemaid and Companion” at a yearly salary of £20, which to a Stockbury girl appeared a tolerable fortune. And it was arranged that Thomas Ash should take his betrothed to London, and deliver her safely at the house of Mrs. Gillison. There was much sorrow in the village of Stockbury, when Susan took her departure for the great metropolis, and her boxes contained many tokens of the affectionate esteem in which she was held by her contemporaries. All thoughts of rivalry were now lost in a universal sentiment of sorrow. It was felt that in losing Miss Copeland, Stockbury was robbed of much of its moral lustre. It is not necessary to enumerate the presents which her friends forced upon her. Most of them had taken the shape of literature, and ranged from the “Dairyman’s Daughter” to the hymnal of the inimitable Watts; from “Baxter’s Saints’Rest” presented by the Vicar to a highly coloured history of Jack and the Beanstalk, the gift of a small brother. So beloved, respected, and lamented, Susan left her native village proudly escorted by the man who hereafter was to lead her to the altar.
Mrs. Gillison, when she had duly inspected, cross-examined, and examined-in-chief her new “housemaid and companion,” professed herself entirely satisfied; and Susan, who had a fine literary taste of her own, was delighted to find that her duties would be very light and that she would have the coveted leisure in which to improve her mind. Mrs. Gillison was an active, smart little woman, who did her own cooking. There was, moreover, a boy kept on the premises to carry coal, clean boots, and perform other menial offices. Indeed, Susan’s duties were, in the first place, to keep clean the few rooms, of which Lambird Cottage consisted, and to afford to Mrs. Gillison that companionship which is found desirable by widow ladies of a certain age. Mrs. Gillison was not a lady of much education—her husband had been a pork butcher in the Walworth Road—and it was part ofSusan’s duty to read to her in the evening the entertaining fictions which she purchased when she took her walks abroad. The old lady was omniverous, but chiefly relished the stirring fictions compiled by the Penny Dreadful authors, and at times had appetite for such boy’s literature as dealt with pirates or robbers, or the wild Indians of the West. Dickens she rated “a low feller,” but she revelled in Ouida, and was particularly partial to the earlier fictions of Bulwer Lytton. Susan Copeland’s excursions into the field of fiction had hitherto gone no further than “Ministering Children,” and other books with a religious purpose. Her mind, therefore, became greatly expanded while reading for her mistress, and she became possessed of many views of life, which were to her at once strange and stimulating.
When Susan had been three months with the widow of the pork butcher her mistress handed her five golden sovereigns, that being the amount of wages then due, and Susan went out to the contiguous village of Croydon to purchase a new bonnet. She had never before purchased a head-dress so fashionable.Her tastes, however, had improved since she left the little village of Stockbury, and she wanted a bonnet which would suit the new style of doing her hair; for, with the consent of her mistress, she no longer wore her hair brushed flat down on the forehead like a Puritan, but adopted the fashionable “fringe” just then, to the eternal shame of English womanhood, coming into vogue. A “housemaid and companion” is a more privileged person than a housemaid, or a companion, and when Susan returned from Croydon with her purchase she walked into Mrs. Gillison’s sitting-room without knocking at the door. Mrs. Gillison was sitting at the table and started when her servant entered—started, then grew pale, then grew red, and then looked down with a shamefaced expression, more like that of a peccant school-girl than that of a grown woman. On the table before her lay a pack of cards with their faces exposed. Mrs. Gillison had, in fact, been discovered in the act of playing “Patience.” It would be ridiculous to assert that the mere act of engaging in this very monotonous and even foolish pursuit is wicked in itself, and should occasion a blush on thecheek of matured innocence. But Susan Copeland had been brought up to consider cards the devil’s plaything, and Mrs. Gillison had often heard her express her opinions on the subject, when she happened upon an allusion to the card-table in any of the novels which she read. Indeed, so great was the confusion of the widow at being discovered in the midst of an occupation which that model Sunday scholar regarded with honest and hearty aversion that not only did she blush, she added to her sin by uttering a deliberate falsehood.
“I—I—was only tellin’ my fortune,” she said in an apologetic tone.
But in the countenance of her maid she saw pictured neither aversion nor reproach, but only awakened interest and active curiosity. She took up a King and an Ace, regarded them carefully, and then said slowly,—
“And so these are real cards?”
Much relieved her mistress answered,—
“Of course. There ain’t much harm in ’em, is there?”
“Not tolookat,” replied the cautious handmaiden. “But I suppose the wickedness is in playing with them.”
“Not a bit. There never was a better man than my husband, and me an’ him played cribbage every night of our lives.”
Susan never took her eyes off the King and Ace which she still held. She was fascinated. She had even forgotten about her new bonnet. She said in a dreamy, half-conscious sort of way,—
“I believe it must be in the playing the wickedness is. I would like to see what it is. Will you show me—so that I may avoid it?”
Never in her life did Mrs. Gillison comply more willingly with a request.
“Of course, my dear, of course. Sit down opposite me there. Pick ’em all up. That’s right. Now hand ’em to me. This is the way we shuffle. D’ye see? And that’s the way we cut. There’s no harm in that, is there? Now run an’ fetch the cribbage board off my chest of drawers. It’s a long board with ivory in it, an’ a lot of little holes at the side. Run along.”
In another half hour Susan had begun to master the intricacies of the game, and was pegging away with an ardour which astonished even Mrs. Gillison, who was delighted at thisnew departure. The last words she said to herself as she turned into bed were,—
“What a treasure that girl is to be sure!”
Strange to relate the following evening found Mrs. Gillison and Susan Copeland sitting at the same table with the same cribbage board between them, evincing the same determined interest in the game. Susan had quite made up her mind that she had not yet arrived at the sinful phase of card playing.
“I suppose,” she ventured on this occasion, “that the sin of it is when you play for money.”
“I don’t see no sin in playin’ for money. Me an’ my husband always played sixpence a game.”
“Suppose—suppose,” said Susan, doubtfully, “that we try—just to see.”
Mrs. Gillison was delighted. She was at heart as determined a gambler as ever punted at Monaco. She had now discovered in her Paragon the only virtue in which she had considered her wanting. So they continued their game—only playing for sixpences. When Mrs. Gillison retiredthatnight her last observation was,—
“’Ow that gurl do improve in her card playin’ to be sure.”
And indeed Mrs. Gillison did not do herprotégéemore than justice. She did improve with rapid strides. The same faculty which enabled her to take away the village school prizes from all comers, now gave her the power of acquiring the mysteries of the pack. In time she began to consider cribbage a somewhat slow amusement, and her mistress, nothing loath, undertook to open up for her the beauties ofécarté. This Susan considered an altogether more agreeable pastime. And after she had played it a week her mistress on going to bed madethisremark,—
“The way that gurl turns up the King is astonishin’.”
It was astonishing. In fact, Susan turned the King up with such success that at the end of twelve months her mistress owed her five hundred pounds which she could not pay. Then it was that Susan discovered the sinfulness of cards. It consisted in playing and not paying. She told her mistress so, and considered that she was only doing her duty as a religious and well brought-up young womanin warning that abandoned person of the danger of giving way to habits of dishonesty. This little monetary difficulty occasioned unpleasantness between mistress and maid. Relations between them became strained. Mrs. Gillison was—to use her own expression—dying for a game of cards, and Susan Copeland refused to play except for ready money. Eventually it became so apparent that the unscrupulous old woman either would not or could not pay what she had lost, that Susan in the defence of her just rights was obliged to call in her legal adviser.
Thomas Ash, still true to his Susan, and pining at a separation so lengthened, had obtained a situation in the London police, and although he had not succeeded in getting put upon the Thornton Heath district he felt that he was near his sweetheart, and could occasionally have an interview with her when off duty. One evening Susan told her mistress that her friend had called, and the old lady, now looking worn and faded, followed her maid to the kitchen, where, to her great surprise and terror, she beheld a policeman of formidable size and severe aspect. She burstout crying and begged Susan to spare her—not to arrest her and she would pay all—she would indeed. Thomas Ash reassured the lady, informing her that he was present in his private capacity to advise, not in his public capacity to arrest. He was present to assist, not to alarm. The advice which he gave was simple and direct. He advised her to sell her house and furniture, and so settle Susan’s demand. The defaulting gambler at first refused, but Thomas Ash put the heinousness of her crime in such a very strong light that she at last consented, and Lambird Cottage with its contents became the property of strangers.
Ash left the police and took a beer house called the “Spotted Cow,” and in due course married Susan. They are greatly respected by their customers, and have shown unexampled kindness to the wretched woman, who tried to rob the gentle Susan. They have, for a consideration paid quarterly, given Mrs. Gillison a home, and she endeavours to prove her gratitude by doing all the kitchen work, mending the socks of the only child, and preparing the linen, for another which isdaily expected. Sometimes Susan will lend her six pennies of an evening with which to play cribbage, and they play quite happily till the Paragon has won the pennies all back again.
Youwill find recorded in a hundred places the history of the flirt, who, carrying her affectation of coldness too far, is misunderstood at last by her lover. He, devoted man, leaves her presence to wander about the world, while she atones for her indiscretion by a life-long repentance. This capricious maiden figures in comedy, tragedy, and farce. She is the heroine of innumerable novels, and her folly and fidelity form the theme of at least one popular song. In this Tale she figures once again; and the only excuse for presenting her is that she appears in connection with a circumstance or coincidence so strange as to appear incredible. It is nevertheless absolutely true.
Those who have followed the red deer onExmoor need not be told that Dulverton is a hunting centre, situated on the border of Somerset. Such readers will recall, not unpleasantly, the morning bustle in the yard of the “Lion” when there has been a meet in the neighbourhood. The rubbing down of nags, the excitement of grooms, the greetings of red-coated sportsmen. Among those who most enthusiastically supported the Devon and Somerset Stag hounds at the date of this story’s commencement were Squire Arbery and his daughter Kate. She was an excellent horsewoman, and understood the long, precipitous coombes, and knew how to take the deceptive moor-bog, which showed as solid ground to the uninitiated, and was generally in at the death, when the stag, with glassy eye, outstretched tongue, and quivering flank, fell beneath the fangs of the pack.
Kate Arbery had performed in such scenes, times without number, and had invariably succeeded in exciting the admiration of the field. The admiration of one unfortunate wight had developed into a passion. His name was Chilcott. The Chilcotts were hunting men from all time, and Henry Chilcott valued hisaccomplishments because he believed they would give him favour in the eyes of Miss Arbery. Henry was young and enthusiastic. His brother Arthur, who was two years his senior, regarded the infatuation of Henry as one of the heaviest misfortunes which could have befallen him.
“Take my word for it, Harry, she has no heart,” he would say to him at times.
But the other replied lightly that he couldn’t see how such an anatomical omission was possible, and fell more and more hopelessly in love every day. These people belonged to the same sphere, and opportunities for the interchange of sentiment were frequent. Upon Henry Chilcott the effect of such interchanges of sentiment with Kate Arbery varied. Sometimes he would return to his home elated, beaming, and hilarious. At other times he would come back down-hearted, misanthropic, and despairing. And his brother, interpreting the symptoms, knew that Kate had given him high reasons for hope, or that she had treated him with studied coldness and hauteur. Harry’s nature was a singularly simple and unsuspecting one. He attributed her varyingmoods to anything but the right cause. But after a year of assiduous attention and of much love-making of the kind when no word of love has been spoken, Harry Chilcott determined to know the worst.
There had been a meet at Anstey Barrows, and after a long and exciting chase the stag was killed at the Water’s-meet on the Lynn. But few of those who saw the stag break were in at the death. Among those few were Kate Arbery and her admirer. After they had witnessed the agreeable spectacle of disembowelling “the stag of ten,” an operation completed with great nicety and despatch by the huntsmen, they rode together slowly in the direction of home—for their horses were by no means so fresh as when they streamed away towards the water from Anstey Barrows. Then he spoke. And she, full of high spirits and the keen sense of enjoyment born of sport, at first bantered her gallant, and then snubbed him. She was simply borne away by a fine flow of animal spirits. He accepted her answers seriously and in silence. He had received his sentence, and he had no right to question the wisdom of the judge. Though shemight, he thought, have been less cruelly severe in her manner of awarding it.
The grey shades of evening were closing in by the time they reached her father’s gates. As they were flung open, Kate saw that Harry held his horse in.
“You’ll come up to the house, will you not?” she said.
He answered sorrowfully,—
“No, I wish to say good-bye.”
“Oh! good-bye, then.”
“But I mean,” he said, “shake hands with me. For it is good-bye for ever.”
Had he been a close observer of human nature he would have seen that Kate reddened and then turned white. She recovered herself in a moment, however. He approached her. She held out her hand. He bent over it and said “Good-bye.” She felt a hot tear fall that seemed to burn through her glove. But she only said with supreme airiness of manner, “Good-bye,” and galloped up through the avenue of chestnuts.
Harry was as good as his word. He took the portion of goods that fell to him, and went into a far country. And now MissArbery began to evince an interest in Arthur Chilcott, which she had never before exhibited. She made all sorts of excuses for seeing that gentleman, and at last she did what she might have done before, confessed her love for Harry, and commanded his brother to bring him back to her. Ladies do occasionally make preposterous demands of this sort, imagining that it is the duty of Society at large, to repair the evil of their own making. But Arthur was cynical. He professed himself unable to reconcile Kate’s expressions with Kate’s actions.
“I will prove to you that I love him. You are his brother. You shall see my diary. You shall read my confessions. And then you will bring him back, will you not?” she pleaded.
To a woman in her present state of mind, Arthur Chilcott knew that he might as well say “Yes” as anything else. Besides which “yes” is more easily said than any other word in the language. So he said it; and received, with many injunctions as to strict secrecy, the precious diary. It was folded up in brown paper. He put it into his pocket;took leave of Miss Arbery and the Squire, and went home.
Arthur Chilcott, though capable of advising well when consulted about the affairs of others, was not triumphantly discreet in the conduct of his own. And soon after the departure of his brother, he became very badly afflicted with the mania for that species of gambling, which goes by the name of speculation. He dabbled in all sorts and conditions of stocks, and in the course of a couple of years, had muddled away his whole fortune. Chilcott Manor, with the fine grounds attached, had to be brought to the hammer. The pictures, books, plate, and wines were duly entered in the unsympathetic pages of the auctioneer, and Arthur came up to London, to live in chambers, heartily wishing that he had never indulged in any sport more hazardous than hunting the red-deer of Exmoor.
Harry Chilcott, after many wanderings in foreign lands, during the course of which he had never forwarded an address, or any indication of the course of his aimless adventures, arrived in London. He was tolerably well cured of his passion—or fancied that he was,which is perhaps not exactly the same thing. Happening to pass through Holborn one day, he stopped at the second-hand bookshop of Mr. Whalley, and began turning over the volumes that lay higgledy-piggledy in a deal box bearing the intimation, “All these at fourpence.” Of course this intimation did not mean that the whole boxful would be sold for that ridiculously inadequate sum, but that each volume could be purchased for a simple groat. The box contained a miscellaneous and somewhat battered assortment of literary works. There was an odd volume of Swift’s “Letters to Stella;” a “Euclid” minus the title page; volume the fourth of Rollin’s “Ancient History;” three or four numbers of “Blackwood;” a “Book of Common Prayer” with one clasp, an incomplete copy of “The Whole Duty of Man” and—
And! what is this?
Harry Chilcott took up a little book of manuscript. His hand trembled as he opened it and gazed at the handwriting. He turned eagerly to the flyleaf. One word was written there—
“Kate.”
It was enough. He ran into the shop, deposited fourpence, and rushed with his prize to the Charing Cross Hotel, at which establishment, probably for economical reasons, he was staying. He locked himself into his room, and as he read page after page, uttered that scrap of autobiographical intelligence, which at some time or other most of the sons of Adam have felt impelled to repeat—“What a fool I have been!” Against the dates of an entire twelve months were entries in which Kate Arbery confessed her affection; entries in which she admitted regret that she should have teased her lover; entries in which she vowed that she would never marry mortal man unless Harry Chilcott asked her to be his.
Finally he turned to the date of the day following that upon which he had bidden her “good-bye for ever.” And he read thus,—
“(Date.) I have not slept all night thinking of my darling. How could I have been so cruel? He is so patient—so kind. But he did notmean‘good-bye.’ It cannot be. Imustsee him. You will come back to me, Harry, Iknowyou will. I could cry my eyes out with vexation.”
And so on.
The infatuated man shut the book, and absolutely shouted with exultation,—
“Yes! Kate, I have got your message, and I fly to your arms.”
Before carrying into effect this resolution he purchased garments more suitable to the accepted lover than the rough, and, indeed, eccentric clothes which he had picked up on his travels. Then he wrote to his brother Arthur, believing that unhappy speculator still to be in the neighbourhood of Dulverton, and the following evening he and his portmanteau were delivered safe and sound at the door of the “Lion.” There was great commotion in the principal room of that famous inn. Indeed, a high carousal was being carried on, and loud songs and louder laughter filled the establishment. Harry was in high spirits himself, and would have joined the hilarious farmers had it not been that the waiter, who conducted him to his room, informed him that the roysterers downstairs were celebrating the marriage of Miss Kate Arbery to Parson Snowe, a ceremony which had been performed that morning in the parish church.
For about an hour the disappointed lover sat silent. Then he took the Diary and wrote in it, “A wedding present for Parson Snowe.” He wrapped the volume up, addressed it to the reverend bridegroom, and trudged to the post-office with it. Arrived there, however, his better nature triumphed. He went back to the “Lion,” and undoing the packet turned once more to the page in which Kate commanded him to come back. He reverently kissed the entry. Then he thrust Kate’s Diary into the flames, and silently watched it burn away to white ashes.
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