CHAPTER XV
That evening Carstairs hung round the post office from half-past seven to half-past eight, he was thinking of going away when Mrs Darwen's new maid turned the corner at the end of the street, he waited under the big arc light outside the main entrance. As she came into the light, he stepped up and raised his hat.
"Good evening, Miss Darkey," the name almost stuck in his throat.
"Good evening, Mr Carstairs," she gave him a polite bow.
"How is your mother?" he asked.
"Better, thank you." She hardly seemed inclined to stop.
"What was the matter?" he asked. He was rather at his wits' end for something to say to detain her.
"I don't know," she answered. She looked at him, he thought, with a little amusement. "We gipsies never give names to our complaints. It may have been appendicitis, or fever, or a cold. Mother took herb tea, and she's better now."
"I'm glad of that," he said and stuck.
She passed on into the post office.
"Well, I'm damned," he said to himself. He was beginning to lose his temper. He watched her purchase some stamps at the counter—her profile seemed even better than her full face; the contemplation of her beauty cast a spell over him, for once in his life Carstairs felt rather hopeless. She did not look like a servant in her best clothes, but like a lady in poor circumstances. He noticed the obsequious civilities of the clerk at the counter, and thought what a pitiful ass the fellow was. He stepped up to her again as she came out, a little blaze of anger in his eyes.
"Look here! What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she answered, gazing at him in cold surprise.
"Well, why didn't you speak to me the other evening?" He was rather flabbergasted, he could not realize that this was the meek little girl he had known in Scotland.
She raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. "It's not usual for servants to speak to guests, unless they are spoken to," she said.
"No, er—may I walk home with you?" As he looked into her eyes he thought for a moment, he saw some resemblance to Darwen.
She hesitated a second, and he, watching closely, caught the light of a little look that made him feel very happy. "Yes, if you like," she said, and just for a moment the long black lashes swept the cheek as he had seen them once before.
With much alacrity he stepped on to the off side, and they proceeded down the street.
"You've changed wonderfully since I saw you last," he said.
"Have I?" she asked.
"Improved," he said, "wonderfully! I had no idea that much improvement was possible, but I see it was." Carstairs was not usually a man of many words, yet that glimpse of the 'something' in her eye seemed to have loosened his tongue. He noticed that she flushed slightly with pleasure.
"You're improved, too," she said, "you're older. How's Miss Bevengton?"
They were just turning the corner. A long vista of electric lamps and lighted shops opened out before their gaze. He was just about to answer her question (which had struck a jarring note) when the whole long perspective of light suddenly became eclipsed, went out, as if by magic.
"Confound it! That's a breakdown at the works. I shall have to go. I'll put you on your road home, and then, if you'll excuse me, I'll make a bee line for the works."
"You need not trouble about me," she said. "You seem to forget that I piloted you through the woods when you couldn't see your hand before your face."
He hesitated; the trouble at the works called to him like a siren. As a result of many years of habit, other things seemed to fade into temporary insignificance.
"Are you quite sure you don't mind?" he asked.
"Quite," she answered.
Something in her tone seemed to warn him, but he didn't quite grasp the situation. His brain seemed clogged, the siren of groaning engines and flashing fuses seemed to hold his mind enthralled. He held out his hand.
"Good-bye."
She took it coldly. "Good-bye," she said, and turned and was swallowed up in the darkness.
At the bottom of the street Carstairs jumped into a hansom and dashed up to the works shortly after the breakdown had occurred. He found the shift engineer (a very young man with a very young moustache) trying to do fourteen different things at once, and incidentally, by vigorous tugging, endangering the very existence of the moustache. When a breakdown happens at an electric lighting station, it is the lot of the shift engineer to be called upon to do fourteen different things at once. In the first place, various fools, in various parts of the town, ring up on the telephone to tell him the lights are out: as if he were not painfully aware of it at the start, for it may be taken as an axiom, that when the lights are out in the town, they are very much in in the works; then the engine-drivers get flurried at the unusual display of fireworks around their engines; the switchboard attendant (who is usually a budding shift engineer) makes a frantic grab for the wrong switch and jerks it out, making confusion worse confounded; then the stokers get excited because their boilers are blowing off like to burst and they can't see the water in them; and at the finish of all when the poor shift (usually a very young man) is priding himself on getting rather well out of a tight place, the chief (usually also a very young man) rings up to ask why in thunder he did not do something altogether different, or why he did not do what he did in much quicker time, or else waits till next morning and harshly asks why the shift engineer had not arrived, in a small fraction of a minute, at the same idea of what was best, that he, the chief, had, after a night's rest and a few hours' consideration.
When Carstairs arrived the very young man in question had just decided to cut all the other thirteen things and stick to the one vital point. He was getting another machine ready as Carstairs mounted the switchboard steps.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Pump juice into it," the very young man answered with a little joyous gleam in his eyes. 'Pumping juice into it' is theoretically a rotten way of treating a fault, but practically the act operates as a soothing balm to the troubled and revengeful soul of the junior engineer.
Carstairs, although a capable and careful engineer, was very youthful himself. "Alright. Let it go," he said. "Old Farrell will take all night to locate it probably, otherwise."
So they "pumped juice into it" for some time, and burnt out several yards of expensive cable, till almost simultaneously with the mains superintendent and his gang of disreputable looking labourers, a policeman arrived to report "smoke issuing from between the paving stones at the corner of High Street."
"There you are!" Carstairs said, triumphantly. "There's your fault accurately located for you right away. I don't know what you mains chaps want Wheatstone Bridges and Potentiometers, etc., for."
"It's all very well," grumbled Farrell. "But who is going to locate the other faults you've started in the process."
"My dear chap, you must do something for your living."
The mains superintendent grunted, and went away.
Carstairs got on the station "bike," and cycled out to Darwen's. The cook opened the door to him. He was rather disappointed, but he did not dwell on it long. He was ushered into the drawing-room. He shook hands with Mrs Darwen.
"Breakdown in High Street," he announced bluntly.
Darwen was sitting at the piano, he had swung round to face Carstairs as he entered. "Hurray!" he answered in an unemotional voice at the announcement of the news.
"I was just turning the corner of High Street with—a friend." He caught Mrs Darwen's eye as he hesitated slightly on the word, she smiled delighted approval. Darwen's eyes gave a little flicker from his mother to Carstairs, and unnoticed, he smiled, ever so slightly, too: Carstairs continued. "I had just turned the corner when the lights went out. I—er—jumped into a hansom—"
Mrs Darwen looked at him in pained surprise, so that he stopped in wonder.
"What about your friend?" Darwen asked, and his eyes were very bright.
"I—er—I left her in the street." For three generations or more, the Carstairs had spoken the truth (mostly), this, the youngest scion of the sturdy old stock, could not easily bend to deception.
Darwen laughed aloud. "Carstairs has got a girl, mater," he said with much amusement. "He was just regaling her with a little light converse about volts and engines when the lights went out, and he forgot all about the girl, and hurried off to the works." He paused and looked from his mother to Carstairs with brilliant sparkling eyes. "What's her name, Carstairs?"
Carstairs looked helplessly at Mrs Darwen and remained silent.
She looked perplexed, angry, and sorrowful, all at once.
Darwen laughed again. "Oh, mater!" he said. "I didn't think it of you! Accessory before and after the fact. Aiding and abetting old Carstairs to break a poor girl's heart: he was getting on so nicely too, just about to propose, when something distracted his attention and he forgot all about it, and the girl and everything else, so that she came in here half way between tears and chucking the pots and pans about. And now, two hours afterwards, old Carstairs turns up to finish the remark he was about to make. And it's lucky for you, old chap, that she's not in, because she'd either have gazed at you as if you were an unclean reptile, or else she'd have chucked the furniture at you."
Carstairs sat down limply. "Has she gone away again?" he asked helplessly.
"Yes. The same boy came and fetched her, her mother is worse. She thinks nothing of walking ten miles across country at this time of night. I offered to pay for a cab or something, but she wouldn't hear of it."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs Darwen. D'you—d'you think she was really offended?"
"Of course she was. I passed her in the hall as she came in, but don't let that worry you, old chap. The course of true love never did run smooth, you know if there were none of these little obstructions and full stops and side issues, the real thing would never be awakened. You may take it as an axiom that if a girl never feels she'd like to chuck the fire-irons at you, she doesn't care tuppence about you; at least, that sort, with those eyebrows and eyes, and that free, swinging carriage. I'm in love with that girl myself."
Carstairs sighed somewhat heavily. "Then you'd better get out of love as soon as you can," he said, with a little laugh, "or we shall fight. I begin to appreciate the spirit of the duelling age, I think it would give me real pleasure to scrap with somebody just now." He laughed again, but there was a gleam in his eyes that both Darwen and his mother noticed. Darwen's face lighted up with appreciation, but his mother looked very sad.
"I wonder how this shut-down will affect our chances of a rise?" Carstairs remarked.
"Oh, that's alright, old chap. I have so many good friends on the council now, that I'm not a bit afraid: There's going to be a duel between old Donovan and the doctor. It'll be rather good, I expect, pity you can't come to see the fun: they're going to rebel against the iron rule of Dr Jameson, the whole council is sick of his autocracy. Donovan will open the ball with a sledge-hammer attack; Jenkins will back him up with some nasty hits below the belt; the old Doctor will roar like a bull in pain, but I think he'll be beaten this time. I shall enjoy it anyway."
He swung round to the piano again, and dashed into a lively waltz tune. "That's the first dance I ever danced with Isabel Jameson," he said over his shoulder. "This is ours, I believe!" "Thanks very much." "Very nice floor." "Yes." "Rotten weather!" etc., etc., he quoted, laughing lightly. "Then, three months later, behind those imitation palms at the foot of the stairs, to the strains of this tune in the distance (he changed to a very slow dreamy waltz) I proposed to her. If it hadn't been for this tune, I shouldn't have done it that night. But it was so appropriate, the opportunity seemed unique, so I spoke up. Isabel, (I never really cared for the name of Isabel, you know), Isabel, may I call you Isabel? I love you. Then—"
His mother stepped up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Hush, Charlie! You don't know what you're saying."
"I assure you, mater, I remember it quite distinctly. It was one of the most exciting events—"
"My boy, the girl's going round the town looking like a shadow since the engagement was broken off."
"Is she? I'm very sorry, I haven't seen her." He seemed thoughtful for a minute. "She was alright, you know, jolly decent in fact, but we could never have paired—she was silly. There is a Providence, mater. ''Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,' you know; these little afflictions sort of temper our natures, accentuate and harden the good qualities we possess."
"And the bad."
"That's so, of course. Good and bad, simply a matter of opinion. I'm an optimist, I see no bad in the world, it's all good. Carstairs there is a grumpy old pessimist, he hasn't got time to smile, he's too busy trying to decide what's good and bad, and honest and dishonest, etc. And he don't know at the finish. Comes round here trying to steal my girl and talks about fighting when I expostulate with him. I tell you the more you think about honesty, the more fogged you get."
"My dear chap, in that respect I'm not fogged in the least."
Darwen strode over to him and clapped him on the shoulder, "Buck up then, and go in and win, I surrender all rights. Take a day off to-morrow and drive over to this place in a cab. Take a nice little gold watch or something, as a peace offering. Then, if I were you, on the strict Q.T., I should give her a punch in the eye; her ma'mas for generations past were probably wooed that way, and it would appeal to her in spite of herself."
His mother laughed and looked at Carstairs. "Really I should go over if I were you."
"Can't go to-morrow," Carstairs said definitely. "Got to see the test of that new engine."
Darwen drew himself up and threw out his chest with mock gravity. "I'm the chief, and I tell you you can go."
"You can say what you like, I'm not going unless you give me the sack."
"I'd do that for two pins. Shall I, mater?"
"No, not now. She'll be back in a few days."
"Perhaps. Oh, these consciences. Thank God, I haven't one."
His mother stood up and looked at him sorrowfully. "I don't believe you have very much, Charlie, but pray God you may get one."
Darwen laughed. "That's alright, mater. I've got a jolly good conscience, but I keep it in the background," he said.
Carstairs stood up and held out his hand to Mrs Darwen. "Good night. I'm afraid I've kept you up."
"Oh no," she said. "Drop in whenever you can."
"Thanks, I will." He went out into the night and wended his way slowly home. As he turned the corner of the long tree-shaded street in which his diggings were, a man sprang out of a shrubbery behind, and rushed at him with a heavy bludgeon. Carstairs, lost in reverie, pivoted on his heels at the sound, and ducking mechanically as the stick descended, shot out a straight left for the man's face. It was not a heavy blow, but now thoroughly awakened, he stepped in and followed up with a terrific right hand drive on the chin.
He dropped like a log, and Carstairs bent over him, looking into his face. Even by the dim light of the distant gas lamp, he recognised his old acquaintance Sam Lee, the gipsy. He was not knocked out, but only partly dazed by the blow, and as Carstairs bent over him, he suddenly lashed out with a huge hobnailed boot and caught him a vicious kick in the stomach. Writhing in pain, Carstairs collapsed in the gutter, helpless.
The gipsy staggered to his feet, and picking up his bludgeon made towards him. Just then a large, dark form loomed suddenly into view round the corner. A bull's-eye lantern flashed a sudden light on the scene, and Sam Lee sprinted off down the road with a particularly limping shuffle, but at a good speed. The policeman started in pursuit, but gave it up as hopeless before he had gone very far; he stopped, blew a shrill call on his whistle, and returned to Carstairs who had now got upon his feet, still bent double with pain.
"What is it, sir?" he asked. "Robbery with violence, or what?"
"Brutal assault, or attempted murder, God knows which," Carstairs groaned.
"Ah!" the policeman said, producing a note-book. "It's Mr Carstairs of the electric light, ain't it, sir?"
"That's it, and the other man is Sam Lee, gipsy who was condemned for burglary about two years ago."
"Oh, that's it, is it? He was only let out a week ago. 'As 'e got anything agen you, sir?"
Two other policemen were already in view. Carstairs, almost himself again, waited till they arrived, and told all three the tale. They listened with no sign of surprise, (the English policeman is never surprised), but they took profuse notes.
"We'll soon 'ave 'im," they said.
Next morning at the works, Carstairs sat in Darwen's office, and told him the tale of his adventure.
"Well, it doesn't matter a curse if it all comes out now, old chap, your position here is firmly established."
Carstairs was thoughtful. "My people won't like if it gets into the papers. I wonder what the girl thinks about it."
"Oh, you may bet your boots she's used to that sort of thing. I'm going off to the meeting now. Wish you could come too, sure to be some fun. However, you'll see that engine tested?"
"Yes. I'll put 'em through their paces. The contractor's men are downstairs now."
"Ah, well, ta ta. You'll be worth £50 more per annum when I see you again." Darwen laughed and disappeared through the door.
Carstairs went down into the engine-room, and looked all round the new engine and dynamo. "Seems to me damn small for the power," he said to himself.
Late that evening they met again in the office. Darwen was beaming. "You've got your fifty quid, old chap, and I've got my hundred. It was grand, never had so much sport in all my life. Donovan opened the ball: I tell you I hardly recognized myself under his glowing eulogies. The Doctor objected. Then Donovan went for him. By Jove! old Donovan can talk. But the old Doctor was grand, he stood up at the head of the table with his great chest heaving and his beard seemed to quiver with anger. 'Retract,' he roared, when old Donovan got personal, I tell you he fairly frightened 'em. If I hadn't been there, he'd have crumpled 'em all up. I'll swear they each and every one of 'em shivered when the old man glared at 'em. Bull baiting's not in it. Donovan was about collapsed when I caught his eye and frowned at him, then we went for the Doctor like a tiger. The others seemed to buck up then, till the old man roared. 'Get outside, sir, you're not fit to speak to a decent assembly,' he said. Then I put my spoke in, I swear Donovan would have gone if I hadn't. 'Come! Come! Doctor,' I said. 'Hold your tongue, sir,' he roared. 'You've no right to speak at all.' That old man thinks he's the schoolmaster of this town. Then Jenkins gave him a hit below the belt. 'This is Mr Darwen, not Mr Wakeley,' he said. That's a patient of the Doctor's, who died the other day with something the matter with his tongue. The old man took no notice. Then Evans gave him another dig, and Smith had a rap at him. Little Winter got up to speak to him too, but when the old man wagged his beard at him, his knees gave way, and he sat down suddenly without saying a word; I never saw anything funnier. Then Sullivan got up and screamed like a man with the devil behind him. (I was the devil, most pleasant sensation I've ever experienced). Donovan capped it, and John Brown put a word in for us, too. I like that navvy, and I think the Doctor does too, he very seldom bullies him, and gets as good as he gives him. They ought to put up a grand scrap, those two, if they ever got going, just about a weight. Anyhow it's passed alright, and there's no mistake Donovan worked like a Trojan. How did the test pan out?"
"Oh, it's off. The damn thing wouldn't do much more than three quarters of its load. I knew it wouldn't."
"Go on! Is that right?" Darwen's face expressed incredulous surprise, there was a sort of smile there too, with a strange little flicker of the eyelids whose long lashes were drawn down till they almost completely shaded the brilliant, beautiful eyes.
"That's quite correct."
"This is serious. We must have another test to-morrow. I'll be in myself."
"Alright, but I know she can't do it. She hasn't got the dimensions, anywhere."
Darwen laughed suddenly. "You're such a stickler. We mustn't be too hard on them, you know, Peace on earth, etc., you know. And we've just had a rise."
"That's alright, of course, but I imagine we want what we pay for."
"Yes, yes, of course," Darwen said, picking up his hat. "Good night." He went off rather suddenly.
CHAPTER XVI
That evening Carstairs went to call on Mrs Darwen to ascertain if the girl had got back again. She had. He almost ran into her just outside the house, she was going towards the town.
He turned and walked beside her. "How's your mother?" he asked.
"Better," she said coldly. She kept very far away from him.
"I'm sorry I had to run away and leave you the other night."
"It didn't matter in the least. I was rather glad."
Carstairs had a momentary impulse to turn on his heel and leave her for good and all without any more words, but he was by nature an inquirer, he liked to get to the bottom of things, besides he was in love with this girl and he felt there must be some vital misunderstanding somewhere.
"I see," he said, "that sweep has been telling you some of his cursed lies with his music lessons."
She stopped and faced him. "Will you kindly tell me which way you are going? Because I'll go a different way. Or is it necessary to make a fuss?"
He stared at her in amazement for a moment, then he stepped a little closer and looked into her eyes. "I am going back to my diggings in Clere Road. I shall never come this way again. I wish I could leave this rotten town and these rotten people for ever. But let me tell you that that man is a rogue, how great a rogue only God knows. And if you think he's going to marry you, you're greatly mistaken. He's deceived two girls in this town, and the Lord only knows how many more elsewhere. He could paper his room with girls' photographs and girls' letters."
"Thanks," she said in icy politeness; she had studied the manners of her superiors to some purpose, but in her they did not seem a burlesque as is usually the case with the superior servant.
He looked at her steadily for some moments in silence, and she returned his gaze quite calmly. "I was in love with you," he said, "and I felt I had done your friend Sam Lee an injustice. Now I feel that I have done him a kindness in saving him from a very exceptional fool."
"I am honoured," she said. "Your friend and benefactor, Mr Darwen, has at least the manners of a gentleman."
"I'll take your word for it. I imagine you know, the penny novelettes describe the article very minutely." He looked into her eyes and saw that they blazed with anger; the sight reminded him of a similar occasion in Scotland when she carried a big stick and they stood facing each other at the door of his diggings. His anger faded at once. "I'm sorry, I've behaved like a cad, but the issues were so important, to me. An apology, I suppose, is all the reparation I can offer." He turned and walked away, leaving her there.
She stood and watched him till he was out of sight, but he never looked back. He was not built that way. On his way to the works next morning, Carstairs heard the news-boys shouting, "mysterious murder of Councillor Donovan." He bought a paper and read the account.
"At an early hour this morning Police Constable Garret observed a body floating down the river near the High Street Bridge. On being dragged ashore, it was at once recognized as that of Councillor Donovan, proprietor of the Blue Anchor Hotel, Dock Street. The unfortunate gentleman's neck was dislocated, and his ribs squashed in as though by some powerful animal."
Carstairs did not read any more, but hurried on down to the works; he searched out Bounce in the engine-room.
"You saw that man who was killed in the garden at Chilcombe, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that looks like the same thing, doesn't it?" Carstairs handed him the paper.
Bounce read it with a serious face. "Looks like the same," he said.
"Look here," Carstairs looked at his watch. "Come on down to the mortuary with me, we'll have a look at it, and you can tell the police what the other chap was like."
So they went off together, and on the way Bounce explained. "When we was on the China station, we called at Borneo once, some of our chaps went ashore and went up country a bit. They seen the niggers come running out of the woods, shouting like hell, so they goes in to see what the trouble was. There was a monkey there. He wasn't so very big, an' one of our chaps went in to capture him—well, when they brought 'im back to the ship, 'e looked just like that bloke I seen at Chilcombe."
A policeman let them into the mortuary, and as Bounce gazed on the dead body of Councillor Donovan, he shook his head in mystification. "Just the same," he said. "Exactly the same."
Carstairs was very serious. "This is damnable," he said. "I must see Darwen."
The policeman took profuse notes from Bounce, and then they returned to the works together. Carstairs proceeded at once to Darwen's office.
He held out a paper. "Have you seen that?" he asked.
Darwen read it thoughtfully and slowly, then he whistled softly. "Poor old Donovan," he said. He seemed lost in thought for a moment or so, then he repeated, "Poor old Donovan. And only yesterday he got us our rises, Carstairs."
"What do you make of it?" Carstairs was watching him closely.
"Oh, murder, of course. Singular resemblance to that chap who was killed over at your place."
"That's what struck me." He caught just a quick glance from Darwen's dark, penetrating eyes.
"There's no doubt, of course, between ourselves, that Donovan got entangled in his own web, some of the particularly sharp tools he employed have eventually cut him." He looked Carstairs steadily in the eyes as he spoke.
"Ye—es, I suppose that's it. This is a damn funny place. I don't like it a bit."
"You're right, old chap. It is funny. The world's funny. Old Donovan lived down among the docks with sailors and foreigners; all sorts, Lascars, Chinamen, and niggers frequented his pub; besides, he was a bookmaker. God only knows how he met his end. Poor devil!"
"He's not much loss to civilization, that's a certainty, but it seems to come rather near home, somehow."
"Don't let that worry you, old chap. How about this test?"
"Well, the engine's running, but she won't do her load. That little fool from the contractors calmly opened the emergency valve, letting high pressure steam into the low pressure cylinder, when I wasn't looking. 'How's that?' he said, triumphantly. Of course I knew what he'd done at once."
Darwen smiled. "You must give 'em a bit, old chap." He leaned back in his office chair, and looked up at Carstairs, who was standing.
"A bit. By George! If she passes on load, she can't pass, by pounds, on the steam consumption. However, you're the chief. It's for you to pass it, not me."
"You mistake, old chap." Darwen's voice was remarkably suave and silvery. "That's part of your job, to test all the engines."
"Very well, then I don't pass it. I'll stop it at once and tell them to start taking it down to return to the makers."
"That won't do, old chap, we must have the engine, can't get on without it much longer. You know that better than I do."
"Alright, then let us take it at three quarters its specified power.
"That's absurd, old chap."
"Well, I have nothing further to suggest, unless you test the engine and pass it yourself."
"No, I shan't do that. Perhaps—er—perhaps some other chief assistant would do it."
"Quite so."
Darwen stood up and going over to Carstairs placed a hand affectionately on his shoulder. "Look here, Carstairs, we must have that engine. I'm going to have it, and you're going to pass it. I'll come down and have a look at it while he's got the by-pass open, so that I shall be able to say that I saw it doing the load alright, then you can give me the steam consumption figures for the run. See?"
"Yes, I see very clearly, but I'm not going to do it."
"My dear chap," Darwen beamed with the best of good nature. "Think what it means! In your position I'd have done it. I've got past that now. You're getting £250, or you will be next month, and just waiting to step into my job when I leave, which I can assure you won't be long. Don't be an ass, Carstairs. I'm going to have that engine."
"That, of course, is for you to say."
A momentary gleam of anger like a flash of forked lightning shot across Darwen's face, but he smiled again banteringly. "I can't understand how such a clever chap as you can be such a fool. You don't seem able to grasp the fact that the cleverness one is paid for in this world, is the cleverness to outwit other people, not the ability to disentangle abstruse problems in the higher mathematics. Trot on down and get me out the figures for the steam consumption like a good chap."
"Look here, Darwen, I'm not going to do your dirty work. I'm sick and tired of you and your roguery. You're a liar, and a cheat and a thief. God only knows if you aren't worse!"
"Dear boy! The elite of mankind is composed of such people. As long as you don't call me a fool, you won't offend me. Are you going to pass that engine?"
"No."
"Alright. Good-bye. Call at the office for a month's screw to-morrow morning." He sat down again in his chair and leaned over his table.
Carstairs laughed. "You're calling me a fool," he said, "but I'm not a bit offended. I know it's the reflection entirely of your own intellectual shortcoming. What do you think Dr Jameson would say? What would the council? the whole blooming town say? If I told them I'd got the sack because I refused to pass an engine which wasn't up to specification. I imagine, Mr Darwen, you're prepared to reconsider your decision, for a start, eh? just for a start."
"By Jove, Carstairs, I'm proud of you, and it's all my teaching, every bit. 'Ye ponderous Saxon swingeth ye sledge hammer.'" Darwen smiled like the rising sun in June. "God! what glorious weather we're getting. Look at the sky, Carstairs! Did you ever see a sky like that in October?"
"The sky's alright. I should have thought the the earth beneath your feet had more concern with you." He pointed downwards with his finger. He was feeling rather well pleased with himself.
"Well done, Carstairs. The earth is good. I adore the earth, that is nature. Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood. It's a pity you don't ready poetry, Carstairs." He smiled, genially.
Carstairs remained silent, impassive. He watched him as he watched an engine when he tested it; looking at everything, expecting anything.
"When I was taking my before-breakfast walk this morning, I came across a slow-worm; rather late for a slow-worm in October, isn't it?"
"Couldn't say."
"Ah! I thought you were an observer of these things. It's rather a pity. Still, I'll proceed. I touched his tail with my stick, and—you know the usual result—he promptly waggled it off and left it on the footpath while the rest of him disappeared in the long grass. Now the slow-worm thought that was smart, but it was really only silly. I didn't want his tail, or the rest of him; he thought I did, he was used to people who did, he thought I was a common or garden fool. So do you, Carstairs. You can go right now to Dr Jameson or to the devil himself; in fact, you can do what you damn well please. I have no further use for you, and that being the case, I don't intend to carry you around on my back any longer."
"Very well." Carstairs turned without another word and opened the door.
"Stop a minute."
Carstairs turned.
"Shut the door half a minute. Won't you sit down?"
"No, thanks."
"Ah! the strange uncouth ways of the Saxon. However, it doesn't matter. You don't want to hit a fellow when he's down, Carstairs?"
"No, but I want to knock him down."
"Ah! the incomprehensible Saxon. You wouldn't see a poor devil with an old mother and a wife and family chucked out on the streets, or sent to quod?"
"What are you pulling my leg about now? You haven't got a wife and family."
"Me! Oh dear, no. I'm not down. Ha! ha! You can't touch me, old chap. I haven't passed the engine. As a matter of fact I told the contractor's man yesterday I was afraid she wouldn't do, and I drafted a letter to the firm, telling them so. It's not sent yet; the clerks are awaiting my signature to the typed copy."
"Then what have you been playing all this game about?"
"This is the game of life, dear boy, a sort of universal high jinks. Let me explain. I'm going to have that engine, and if you kick up a row, either before or after, you won't touch me. All that will happen will be that half a dozen poor fools, who are at present earning a precarious living as tools, tools of the inexpensive order, will be chucked aside."
Carstairs stepped to the door again. "Alright, we shall see."
"Don't be in such a beastly hurry. Sit down."
"No, thanks."
"Alright. In case of a rumpus, the first man to go overboard would be Winter, poor little helpless Winter. He was rushed into the council because he was a fool, he accepted a five-pound note because he was a thundering fool, and his wife was ill and the kids hadn't got togs, and because everybody else was having five-pound notes. He'd be the first sacrifice. Poor old Winter, he looks like a thief; really, he's got a better (or worse) conscience than a nonconformist minister; that five pounds has pulled him down astonishingly, I've watched him wither away. And his kids, poor little mites! All through nature one observes that the small units increase at an astonishingly high ratio. He only got one five quid."
Carstairs was silent as a carven image.
"You're damned hard, you know, Carstairs. Then there's the contractor's man there. He'd get the bullet, and two or three fitters also. Possibly a clerk or two and my chief assistant would go to quod, even the honest and highly virtuous Mr Carstairs, son of the vicar of Chilcombe, who would die, with his wife, broken-hearted."
"That'll do, Darwen. I'll go and see Dr Jameson and a solicitor at once."
"Carstairs, the mater's taken a fancy to you, and I'll admit you appeal to me more than any man I've ever met. So damned ponderous. Your moment of inertia must be simply enormous. Isn't it possible to save you in your own despite." He touched an electric bell. An office boy appeared.
"Ask Mr Slick if he'll come up here a minute, will you, please." Darwen was invariably excessively polite, even to the minutest and most sub-divided portions of humanity.
"Slick and I will endeavour to show you, Carstairs, that you've got 'no case,' as I believe they say in law."
Mr Slick appeared.
"Ah! Here you are!" Darwen shook hands cordially. "Mr Carstairs is not satisfied with your engine, Mr Slick. Won't come up to specification, he says."
Mr Slick raised his eyebrows; he was a hard-looking citizen, with strong prominent jaw and piercing blue eyes. "I understood that he expressed himself as quite pleased yesterday."
"That's absurd, Slick, you know very well——"
Darwen held up his hand. "Don't wrangle in my office, please, gentlemen! You have some support for your statement, of course, Mr Slick?"
"Of course; my two erectors heard him say it."
"Yes. I think I understand the Shift Engineer to say he was present also. The fact is I've written to your firm expressing approval of the engine, on, as I understand, Mr Carstairs' advice. Now there seems to be some hitch. However, we will come down and see to that presently, Mr Slick. Thanks very much for coming up."
The contractor's engineer looked inquiringly at Darwin, then he disappeared through the door again.
Darwen turned to Carstairs. "Do you comprehend that you're bowled out, yet."
"No. By Jove! I don't."
Darwen's eyes were wide with admiration. "Ye gods! Ye gods!" he said. "Look here, Carstairs, you and I must continue to be pals, I'll share with you. When I came here, the councillors were sharing the 'profits,' and old Jones was getting an occasional five quid. Now, I get the profits and the councillors get the occasional five quid. See? Will you go halves? And I tell you halves is something pretty good, too!"
"No, I won't. I'll have my market price as an engineer—no more and no less. I can do for one dollar what any fool can do for two. I want my share of the dollar I save."
"You won't get it, old chap."
"But I will! I'll tell you what I'll do. If you chuck this sharp practice and send those engines back, we'll make this place pay well, and the council shall give us our whack."
Darwen was thoughtful for a minute. "They won't do it," he said. "The fool in the street, the voter, whose mind runs in shillings per week, wouldn't let them. In municipal work it doesn't pay to be honest."
Carstairs stroked his chin in perplexity. "You're an enigma to me. You seem such a sound sort of chap in most things. Damn it! One doesn't expect a Clifton man to be a blasted rogue. Can't you run on straight lines? You know you're bound to get bowled out sooner or later."
"Don't be such a pessimist, Carstairs. I hate pessimists. Let me assure you, you are equally an enigma to me. I fail entirely to comprehend your mind. Why do you worry and dissipate your energies deciding what is right and what is wrong? What you really want to know is, what is best. There is nothing wrong in this best of all worlds, only degrees of rightness. All effort that produces no tangible personal benefit is so much wasted energy. You're not an Atlas, you can't carry the world on your shoulders. The whole scheme of nature was evolved for the benefit of individuals, not classes, or masses, or groups. The proof of the pudding is in the eating: I'm always happy, and the keenest source of my pleasure is in out-witting my fellow-men. Life is a perpetual game of skill, and like the integral calculus there are no rules. You're a mathematician, you like mathematics. I've seen you grubbing your snout into 'Salmon's Conic Sections' just on top of a Sunday's dinner. Why don't you step up with me into the higher planes of really applied mathematics; applied as all such things should be, to men and women? We'd have a rare time, you and I. When we boxed the other day we agreed at the start that we would slog; we started out to bump each other for all we were worth; we both got several severe punches; I got a split lip and you got a black eye, but we enjoyed it, didn't we?"
Carstairs sat down with a heavy plump into a chair. "You ought to be put in an asylum, not in prison," he said, wearily. "I wonder if I gave you a good hammering if it would do any good."
"Not a bit, old chap. Besides, I rather doubt your ability to do it."
"There's an element of uncertainty," Carstairs admitted.
They regarded each other with measuring eyes. Carstairs allowed his gaze to roam slowly over the thick, clean neck, the well-developed, lissom-looking shoulders, and last of all rested on the clean-cut, patrician face with the small, neat moustache just shading the well-moulded, full red lips, quite closed; and the brilliant, clear eyes that sparkled with a bold, clear intelligence. They were two splendid animals, these two young men, spotlessly clean, well groomed.
"I tell you what, Darwen. I'll fight you now, to a finish, whether you keep those engines or whether I get the sack."
"Thanks, old chap, that's a new form of the gamble of our early youth—'heads, I win; tails, you lose.' But we shall come to a scrap all the same some day, I know."
"That's so; I'm going away to open the campaign now." Carstairs picked up his hat. "I'll call for my screw, Monday. By the way, I suppose it will be at the increased rate?"
"Well, I'm damned."
"It's all in the game, you know. No need to lose your temper over it."
"Good, jolly good. I see I'm converting you. By Jove, you shall have it."
"Thanks. Good-bye."
"I say!"
"Hullo!"
"Mind! There are no rules. No rules whatever."
"Thanks for the tip. I see I'm converting you."
"Not at all, old chap. I want a run for my money, that's all."
"Well, I'll do my best. Ta-ta." Carstairs disappeared.
CHAPTER XVII
Carstairs went straight from the works to Dr Jameson's private house. The Doctor was seriously ill and could not be seen, so he went back to his diggings in deep thought. "Better go home and see the guv'nor before I do anything now. Oh, the fearful and wonderful British law," he thought to himself. He saw the landlady and gave notice.
"Have you got another appointment, Mr Carstairs?" she asked.
"No, I've got the sack," he answered.
"Oh!" she said. "Has Mr Darwen—" she stopped; she wanted to know all about it, but did not know how to ask.
"Mr Darwen has sacked me, yes," he said; Carstairs was a most unsatisfactory subject for a woman to tackle, he left so much to the imagination. "I shall leave about three o'clock on Monday afternoon," he explained, as a conclusion to the subject. He produced his drawing board and settled down to do a good afternoon's work on his slowly evolving patent. As he bent low over the board, scrutinizing some fine detail work, his eye caught an extra pin-hole on the edge of the clean white board. He dug the point of his pencil thoughtfully into it. "That's funny," he said to himself. "I don't remember to have done that." He looked around at the three other corners and saw pin-holes in all of them. It was a new board and he had never had a sheet of paper on it of the size indicated by the pin-holes. "Some devil has been taking a tracing of this, our esteemed friend, Darwen, or his agents, no doubt." He leaned back in his chair in deep thought for a time, then he bent forward and set to work vigorously again.
He was still busy when the landlady's daughter brought in his tea. He looked up casually and caught her eye bent on his work with extreme interest. "Good evening, Miss Hughes," he said.
"Good evening, Mr Carstairs," she answered, and she had summoned up a defiant sort of air to meet his eye.
Carstairs' face was like the Sphinx. "I'm going up to London to-morrow. Would you mind letting me have breakfast at half-past six? I shall come back by the eleven twenty, but I've got a very important piece of work here I want to finish before I go, so please don't let me be disturbed for the rest of the evening."
"Certainly, Mr Carstairs. Half-past six, and I'll see no one disturbs you."
"Thanks very much." Carstairs regarding her steadily with his calm, inquiring eyes, caught a gleam in hers that she did not want to be seen; he gave no sign, and she went away quite oblivious of the fact that he had read her like an open book.
Next day he went off to London and saw his lawyer brother; they talked over his case against Darwen, and his brother very quickly decided that he had "no case." So Carstairs returned, and in the stillness of the wee sma' hours he examined the drawing again, and found, as he expected, four more pin-holes. He did not smile; when in company his mirth was seldom excessive, when alone, his features never for one second relaxed their attitude of calm seriousness. He replaced the drawing board in its position, leaning against the wall behind the piano, and went to bed.
The following Monday he called at the office for his month's pay. He waited at the little shutter that the men were paid at, while the office boy went to fetch a clerk who fetched another clerk, who consulted with the first clerk, and called a third clerk and sent the office boy for a book and a pen, then they all three consulted together again and reprimanded the office boy before handing the cheque through the little shutter. Which entire rigmarole was the outcome of insufficient work, and too sufficient pomposity. While Carstairs waited, Darwen opened the door of his office.
"Hullo, old chap, come inside. Here, Morris, bring that cheque along with you." He held out his hand.
Carstairs ignored it. "Thanks, I won't stay, I'm just going off to Chilcombe."
Darwen laughed. "A Saxon," he said, "is an individual who proceeds along 'strait' lines. I was going to ask you to come home with me this evening. The mater would like to see you."
"Thanks very much. I should like to see your mother, but I'm afraid I can't stop this evening."
The clerk brought out the cheque. Darwen took it and, glancing over it, handed it on to Carstairs. "There you are, old chap. I'm sorry it's the last."
Carstairs took it. "Thanks," he said. "Good-bye," and turning on his heel he went out for the last time.
Darwen watched him through the window as he walked down the street with his long swinging stride. "The reason, personified, of why England owns half the earth," he said, to himself. "And equally the reason that she doesn't own the whole of it," he added, thoughtfully.
He lay back in his chair and gazed far into the future, mental pictures in many colours shaped themselves in kaleidoscopic procession across the white expanse of ceiling. For half an hour he sat thus, then sitting suddenly upright, and drawing in his outstretched legs, he plunged back into the present among the papers on his table.
Some six months later, in the dining-room at Chilcombe Vicarage, there was held a family council of war. The old vicar was there, Commander Carstairs was there, Phillip and Stanley Carstairs were there, and they all looked serious. For six months Jack Carstairs had been applying for each and every one of the multitudinous appointments advertized in the technical papers, with no results; he had learned through the same medium that Darwen had been appointed to one of the London stations at £750 per annum, to start; and that evening he had returned from making personal application for a very junior appointment at £1 per week in a neighbouring town. The chief (of German antecedent), the personification of ignorance and bombast, had catechized and bullied him, cross-examined and contradicted him, and finally abruptly refused him the billet.
Jack was speaking, and they all listened attentively. "When a German ex-gasfitter, with a little elementary arithmetic and less electrical catalogue information, talks to me as though he were a miniature Kaiser and I the last-joined recruit of his most unsatisfactory regiment, and then refuses me a switchboard attendant's job on technical grounds, then, I admit, my thoughts lightly turn to robbery with violence as a recreation and means of livelihood. He'd have liked me to say 'yes, sir,' and 'no, sir,' and 'please, sir,' and touch my cap and grovel in the dirt. I'd see him in hell first."
"I always said, Hugh, you ought to have put that boy in the Service," the sailor interjected, quite seriously.
The others smiled, a wry, sickly sort of smile.
"Can't we—er—don't we know somebody with some influence on these councils who would use it on Jack's behalf." It was the artist who spoke.
The young engineer stood up suddenly with unwonted passion. "Damn it! I'm not a blasted mendicant! I'm a competent engineer! It's no use talking rot about modesty. I know what I have done and can do again. I say I'm a competent engineer. I've been getting two hundred and fifty quid a year, and earning it, saving it for the people who paid me. And I am willing to take a quid, one blasted quid a week, and I can't get it. I'm not going to beg for my own cursed rights. In all those hundreds of jobs I've applied for, I must have been the best man on my paper form alone. If I can't live as an engineer in my own cursed country, then, by God! I'll steal." He turned on his father with blazing eyes. "I say, I'll steal, and if any blundering idiot or flabby fool tries to stop me, I'll kill him dead. The first law of life is to live. What do you say to that? You preach platitudes from the pulpit every Sunday, what have you to say to the logic of the engine room?"
The old vicar smiled, somewhat sorrowfully. "I might say that you are possessed of a devil," he said, with quiet humour. "Your engineering experience ought to tell you that it's no use ramming your head against a brick wall."
Jack sat down. "That's so," he said, "there's an obstruction somewhere; the thing to do is to find it out and remove it."
"I tell you, Hugh! the initial mistake was in not putting that boy into the Service; though there's a maxim there that promotion comes 80 per cent. by chance, 18 per cent. by influence, and 2 per cent. by merit."
"That's rot, you know, unless you mean to say that 18 per cent. of the men in the Service are snivelling cheats."
The sailor was thoughtful. "There are some cheats in the Navy, but not many; as a rule it's not the man's own fault that he is promoted by influence. At the same time you can't afford to get to loo'ard of your skipper, much depends on one man's word, but that man is usually a——"
"Sportsman," Jack interrupted.
"Well! 'an officer and a gentleman' they call him. The Service would have suited you."
"My dear uncle, I have all respect for the Service, but at the same time I should not wish to be anything but an engineer, and engineers in the Service at the present time are somewhat small beer. Anyway, as a money-making concern, the Service don't pan out anything great. Bounce told me that the seamen haven't had a rise in pay since Nelson's time."
The sailor laughed. "That's a good old A.B.'s growl," he said. "I gather, too, that engineering is not panning out so very great as a money-making concern just now."
"No! you're right. I'm a bit sick when I think of it, too, it's rather sickening. I've got a model upstairs of an engine that would make any man's fortune, and I can't get the fools to take it up. I think I shall have to break away for the States."
They were all silent for some minutes till the old vicar rose. "Shall we go to bed?" he said, and they proceeded upstairs, solemnly, silently, in single file.
The weeks passed away and Jack's uncle went back to sea, and his brothers returned to London, and another brother came and went. The winter changed to spring, the days lengthened out and grew brighter, and still Jack Carstairs could get nothing to do, nor get any one to take up his patent. Then one morning amongst the two or three letters awaiting him was one with a penny stamp: the ha'penny ones he knew were the stereotyped replies of the various municipalities to the effect that they "regretted" his application had not been successful; it was a way they had, they sent these things with a sort of grim humour about a month after he had seen by the papers that some one else had been appointed; it wasn't very often they went to the extravagance of a penny stamp for a refusal, so he opened that first, glancing casually at the city arms emblazoned on the flap of the envelope; enclosed was a typewritten letter, he was appointed switchboard attendant at £1 per week.
Carstairs gazed at it sternly with bitter hatred of all the world in his heart. "A blasted quid," he said, aloud. "Ye gods! a quid a week! And Darwen, the cheat, is getting £750." He hadn't fully realized when he was writing his applications for these small appointments, exactly the extent of his fall; but now, as he had it in typewritten form before his eyes, and signed, he looked again, signed by a man who had served his time with him.
Mrs Carstairs was humbly thankful for small mercies, but the old vicar, whom Jack found alone in his study, looked into his son's eyes and read the bitterness of soul there. "Do you think it would be wise to refuse and wait for something better. This is your home you know. You can work on your patent."
"I thought of all that before I applied," Jack answered. "The patent! The path of the inventor seems the most difficult and thorny path of all."
The old man's eyes brightened; he liked the stern definiteness of his youngest son. "It does seem hard," he said. "I don't understand these things, but I think you are wise to take this appointment."
"Oh, yes! I have no idea of refusing, but when I think that that lying cheat, Darwen, is getting £750 a year, it makes me feel pretty sick."
"I know, Jack; we see these things in the Church the same as everywhere else; the cheat seems sometimes to prosper. Why it should be so, I cannot comprehend; the cheat must inevitably cheat himself as the liar lies to himself, so that they both live in a sort of fool's paradise; they both unaccountably get hold of the wrong end of the stick; they imagine that they are successful if they satisfy others that they have done well, while the only really profitable results ensue when one satisfies oneself that one has done well; then and only then, can real intellectual, moral, and physical, progress follow. It is possible to imagine a being of such a low order of morality that he could feel a real intellectual pleasure in outwitting his fellow-men by cheating; such an one, it seems to me, must be very near the monkey stage of development. As man progresses intellectually he sets his intellect harder and harder tasks to perform, else he declines. It is possible that the cheat may occasionally reap very material and worldly advantages by his cheating. Some few apparently do, though the number must be extremely small and the intellectual capacity exceedingly great, for they are constantly pitted, not against one, but against the whole intellect of the world, including their brother cheats. The rewards and the punishments alike, in the great scheme of the Universe, are spread out unto the third and the fourth generation; the progeny of the cheat, in my experience, decline in intellect and moral force till probably the lowest depths of insanity and idiocy are reached. This great law of punishment for the sins of the fathers is beyond my mental grasp, but that it is so I cannot doubt; it is in fact, to me, the greatest proof that there must be something beyond the grave. You understand, Jack, I'm not in the pulpit, this is worldly wisdom, but I want to set these things before you as they appear to me. You must forget Darwen; you reap no profit from his success or failure, but you expend a large amount of valuable energy in brooding over it. 'Play up, and play the game,' Jack. Don't cheat because others are cheating, if you do you are bound to become less skilful in the real game. Think it over, Jack, 'Keep your eyes in the boat,' don't think about the other crew or the prize, simply 'play the game.' Have you told your mother you're going?"
"Yes."
"Did you say you wanted to borrow some of my books?"
"No, thanks. I've got all the books I want. You've seen my two packing cases full."
"Ah, yes! I'd forgotten. So you're going to-morrow. That's rather soon, isn't it?"
"I told them that if appointed I'd start at once. I'm going to pack and then whip round and say good-bye to my friends."
"Ah, of course. I'll see you off in the morning; six o'clock, did you say?"
"Yes, six ten at the station."
So Jack took his hat and stick and strolled round to his few friends in the village to tell them he was going. The Bevengtons were furthest away, and he called there last. Bessie had been away in London and other places, nearly all the time he had been home, when he called now she was home. He had heard she was coming.
"I've come to say good-bye, Mrs Bevengton. I've got a job, and I'm going up north again."
They both looked pleased; Mrs Bevengton really liked Jack. "When are you going?" she asked.
"To-morrow morning."
Bessie's jaw dropped, she was keenly disappointed, and she looked, Jack thought, in the pink of condition, more so than usual.
"I hope it's a good appointment, Jack," Mrs Bevengton said; she was disappointed too.
"A quid a week," he answered, bluntly, looking at her steadily.
Her jaw dropped also. "Oh, but I suppose it will lead on to better things."
"Twenty-five bob at the end of six months," he said, with rather a cynical little smile. Out of the tail of his eye he regarded Bessie, she had flushed a deep red at the mention of his microscopical salary. She seemed more matured, her manner impressed him with a sense of responsibility, an air of definiteness that appealed to him immensely; he saw now that her lips closed suddenly. She had made up her mind to something.
"Come on out for a walk, Jack," she said. "I haven't had a look round the old place for nearly a year. We shall be back to tea, mother."
She got her hat and they walked briskly down the pleasant village street in the glorious spring sunshine; every one they passed greeted them with civility and respect. Jack regarded them with pleasure; he told Bessie they were the stiffest, hardest, and most genuinely civil crowd he had ever encountered. "Perhaps I'm biassed," he said, "but I like men and these chaps appeal to me more than any others I've met so far."
They turned across the fields and went more slowly. "I've been having a good time, Jack, while I've been away."
"So I expect," he answered.
"Well, I've been to a lot of dances and parties and theatres, etc. I suppose I've enjoyed it—in a way."
"Yes, I should think you would—in most ways."
"Jack!" she was walking very slowly. "Two men—three men, asked me to marry them."
"Ah! I suppose they were not the right ones." He did not quite know what to say.
"Well, two of them were not—but one of them—it was Mr Darwen."
"Good Lord!" Jack turned as though he had been shot. "Are you going to marry him?"
"I don't quite know. I've come home to decide. I don't think I care for him in quite the right way. Why did he break off his engagement to Miss Jameson?"
"Ah—er—I—" Carstairs was thinking, thinking, thinking. He wondered what to do and what to say.
"He told me that he thought he was in love with her till he saw me, then he knew he wasn't."
"Er—yes."
"He's very nice and very handsome, still I know I don't care for him as—as I do for some one else."
Carstairs was silent, he was trying to think. The situation was getting beyond him, he had a fleeting idea of trying to change the subject, of closing the matter; but he knew that once closed it could never be re-opened, and he wanted to do the right thing. They were silent for some minutes.
"Jack?" she asked, and the struggle was painful. "Has my money made any difference to you?"
"Half a minute!" he said, hastily. "Don't say any more, please. Let me think"—he paused—"Five years ago I met a girl in Scotland."
"And you love her, Jack?"
"Yes. I thought not at one time, but I know now that I do."
They walked for a long time in silence, then she spoke.
"I'll write to Mr Darwen to-night and tell him that if he likes to wait a long, long time, I'll marry him," she said.
Carstairs was silent; the great big English heart of him was torn asunder.
"Why don't you speak, Jack? Mr Darwen's your friend, isn't he? He's handsome and so kind and attentive, and if he cares for me as—as he says he does, I think I ought to marry him. I couldn't before, but now—don't you think I ought?"
"Well, er—it's more a question for the guv'nor. Will you let me explain the situation to him, and then he'll see you. The guv'nor's very wise, in these things, and it's his province, you know. I should like you to talk to him."
"Thanks—thanks. I will."
That night Jack Carstairs sat up very late with his father in his study. And next morning the train whisked him north, to the dim, grey north, and the engines, and the steam, and the hard, hard men, mostly engineers. Jack was very sad and silent in his corner of a third-class carriage all the way.
CHAPTER XVIII
For three months Carstairs worked steadily at the beginning of things electrical; he cleaned the switchboard and regulated the volts; he took orders from a youth, rather younger and considerably less experienced than himself. For those three months the world seemed a very dull place to him.
Then, quite by accident, as these things always happen, he met a man, a casual caller, who wished to see round the works; the shift engineer told Carstairs off to show him round, because it was "too much fag" to do it himself.
He was an oldish man with whiskers and heavy, bushy eyebrows, just turning grey; his questions were few and to the point, and Carstairs seemed to feel he had met a kindred spirit at once. He listened attentively to Carstairs' clear and concise explanations, and when it was over he did not offer him a shilling as sometimes happened, but in the casual, unemotional, north-country way, he handed him his card and asked if he would like to see round his works "over yonder."
Carstairs glanced from the card in his hand to the rather shabby individual, with the "dickey," and slovenly, dirty tie, in front of him.
"Thanks, I'll come to-morrow," he said.
"Will ye? Then ye'll find me there at nine."
"I'll be there at nine, too."
"Then I'll see ye." He held out his hand and gave Carstairs a vigorous grip. The name on the card was the name of a partner of a very prominent firm of engine builders.
Carstairs felt a singular sense of satisfaction for the rest of the evening; his perturbed mind seemed at peace, somehow.
Next morning, punctually at nine, he called at the office and was shown round the extensive works by the old man in person. He explained and Carstairs listened and made occasional comments or asked questions. And ever and anon he felt a pair of keen eyes regarding him in thoughtful, shrewd glances. When they had finished the circuit of the works, Carstairs broached the subject of his patent, he felt an extreme friendliness towards this rough, shrewd man, and he knew that his labours on the patent were at last going to bear fruit.
The old man listened. "You have a model?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll come round and see it." And so he did there and then.
In the dingy little back room of Carstairs' diggings, he examined critically and minutely the small model.
"Ye made this yerself?"
"I did."
"Ay!" It was a grunt of distinct approval.
They took it to pieces and spread the parts out on the table, the old man examining them one by one. He offered no comment, and Carstairs put it together again and turned it with his hand, showing the beautiful smooth running of it.
"Yon's well made! Are ye a fitter?"
"Oh, no!"
"Are ye not? I was. Will ye bring it round to the office?"
"Certainly." Carstairs dismantled it and wrapped the various parts up in paper.
"I'll take those," the old man said, and seizing two of the heavier parts, he tucked them under his arm. And thus, carrying it between them, they returned to the big works. There a long consultation was held. The junior partner (an ex-officer of the Royal Engineers) was called in, and the final result was that the firm undertook to manufacture the engine and pay royalties to Carstairs.
"I must see a lawyer and get advice as to the terms of the agreement," Carstairs said. "I'm only free in the mornings this week. Will that suit you?"
"What are ye getting yonder?" the old man asked, bluntly.
"A pound a week?"
"Well, ye can start here in the drawing office on Monday at £2. Will that do ye?"
"Thanks, I'll give notice to-day."
The next six months passed like six days to Carstairs; he hadn't time to write to any of his friends and only an occasional scribble to his mother. At the end of that time the first engine built on his model was finished and had completed a most satisfactory run. Then he took a holiday, and went home.
He had entirely lost track of all his friends and station acquaintances.
"Bessie is not engaged," his father told him, "but Darwen still pesters her with his attentions."
Jack was thoughtful. "She's a jolly decent girl, Bessie! If Darwen were only honest! I shall go up to London, I want to see his mother." So next day Carstairs went off.
He called at Darwen's office.
"Hullo, old chap! How's the Carstairs' patent high-speed engine going? Eh?"
It was the same old, handsome, healthy Darwen; bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, lively.
"Oh, alright. Is your mother in London?"
"Well, I'm blowed!" There was that little flicker of the eyelids that Carstairs knew so well. "Yes, there you are," he handed him a card with an address on it.