JACK CARSTAIRS
OF THE POWER HOUSE

CHAPTER I

A young engineer stood at the gates of the electric power house yard watching the sun set. It was the middle of June, in the north of Scotland, where the summer days are very long and very beautiful.

The sun sank slowly behind a little wooded hill, throwing into strong relief a clump of fir trees at the summit, and making lanes of golden light along the sparkling rushing river where the silver salmon leapt in sportive joy. As the last edge of the sun disappeared behind the hill, a sudden hush seemed to descend on all the land. The power house was about a mile from the little town that nestled at the foot of the hills. It was a bare, brick building standing alone on the river-bank in the middle of a large tract of waste moorland. Inside, a stalwart, bearded highlander sat on a box eating his "piece," and drinking tea from a can; he and the young engineer at the door were the only occupants of the place. There was no machinery running, a battery was doing the work, for the needs of this little town in summer time were very small.

The young man at the door gazed around him enchanted with the beauty of the evening; the sudden hush that fell on everything seemed to strike him too. He felt subdued with a great awe, the great and awful majesty of Nature seemed thrust upon him suddenly; only the faint rustle of the long grass near the water served to make the stillness more intense; some crisis in Nature seemed impending.

Suddenly a strange note struck his ear, and immediately afterwards all the usual sounds of life started afresh; a robin and a thrush commenced to sing simultaneously, several birds started chirping all around, a salmon splashed heavily in the river, the distant moo of a cow was borne in upon his ears, the Scotsman inside moved his box with a harsh creak: all these things seemed to start off at once, as though some tension were removed, some crisis past.

The engineer looked in the direction of the sound that had at first broken the stillness and perceived a young girl, with a basket on her arm, raking over the heaps of ashes outside the boiler-house in search of stray bits of coal or coke.

He looked at her intently, with an unusual interest. There was a gipsy camp not far off, and some members of the tribe were usually hovering round the works for what they could pick up; as a rule they were very young and very dirty. This girl seemed about seventeen, and somewhat clean; every movement showed graceful, even lines. He strolled towards her.

"Looking for coal?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she answered.

She stood up and looked him in the eyes steadily.

He looked at her steadily too, and so they stood; brown eyes gazing into grey. He wondered greatly at the singular clearness of hers, big, and of a marvellous shade of dark brown, the white absolutely clear; the colour like some beautifully tinted crystal. He noticed eyes, and he gazed into hers for some time, dispassionately, as something inanimate, noting their marvellous perfection.

He smiled with pleasure, and instantly noted a gleam of pleasure in her eyes also. Then he shifted his gaze and took in a general impression of the face. It was remarkably beautiful, every feature was even and in perfect harmony. The eyebrows were delicately pencilled lines of deepest black. The eyelashes unusually long, they drooped downwards, and as he looked at her, the whole head took a gentle bend downwards in natural and graceful modesty before the open admiration in his eyes.

"You won't find much there. Come over here," he said. He led the way to the coal heap. She followed in silence.

"Help yourself," he said grandly, with a wave of the arm, giving away what didn't belong to him. As a general rule he was consistently conscientious in these details, but under the influence of those eyes he cast honesty to the four winds of heaven.

"Thank you, sir," she said, and stooped to fill her basket.

The graceful movements and even poise of her figure appealed to him immensely. He was somewhat of an athlete, and he noted with pleasure the firm fulness of the arms (which were bare to the elbow), and the throat and neck (which were quite unprotected). Her jet black hair hung down below her waist in heavy, wavy tresses. Her short black skirt (faded to almost a light green) showed a neat ankle and fair proportion of shapely leg. He stood back and watched her closely. The skin, where it was visible about the face and throat, was rather dark, probably dirty, he thought, yet it did not seem offensive, though he was usually fastidious in such things. He took life very seriously did this young man, very seriously indeed; he was bent on making his fortune, his fortune and a name—nothing less. He was nineteen; older than his years in many things, younger in a lot.

The gipsy girl stood up. "Thank you, sir," she said again, and moved haltingly towards the gate, glancing up at him with her big brown eyes and dropping them again as she caught his.

"Don't go!" he said, stepping forward. "Put that basket down and come in and have a look at the engines. Have you ever seen a dynamo? An electric machine, you know. Thing that makes the light for those big lamps in the street."

"I've seen them at the shows."

"Shows?" he repeated, questioningly.

"Roundabouts," she explained.

"Oh!" he said. "That's nothing. Come in here!"

She put down the basket and followed him with a look of pleasure. She glanced furtively at the roof as they passed through the doorway, and stepped quickly close up to him, her eyes rolled widely round in obvious apprehension. He looked at her with amusement.

She caught his eye and smiled too. "Lovely," she said, as she glanced round the clean and well-kept little engine-room. "Lovely," she repeated, as her eyes were held by the bright lacquered copper switches and instruments set on the enamelled slate switchboard.

"It's like a church."

He looked at her quickly. "Have you ever been to church?"

"I've been inside and I've looked in through the windows," she answered.

"What do you do on Sundays?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"I work on Sundays, the same as any other day," he said.

"It's wicked to work on Sunday," she said.

"Or any other time," he added, smiling.

"Gipsies don't do much work," she admitted, smiling too.

"I think I'll turn gipsy."

"You'll go a long way before you see gipsies your colour," she said, glancing at his fresh face and light brown hair.

He held out his hand suddenly. "Look here! Tell my fortune, will you?"

She took him by the wrist and gazed at his palm earnestly for some minutes seeming to feel his pulse all the while.

"Good," she said, "very good," and dropping his hand, moved to the door.

He looked at her curiously, the fun had faded from her face, the liquid eyes seemed heavily shaded with sorrow. He stepped after her.

"Do you people really believe what you say?" he asked.

"Yes. Good, very good—for you," she answered, and passed through the door. With the sky overhead and the air of heaven on her face, she altered at once. "Thank you, sir, for the coal." She smiled brightly.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Come over again, will you? I want to talk to you." He looked into her eyes and she flushed with pleasure under the tan, or dirt, whichever it was.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cake of chocolate (that was one of the things in which he was younger than his years). "I say, do you eat chocolate?"

She took it shyly.

He watched her bite a piece off and noticed the even regularity of her teeth, and the perfect shape of her mouth, though the lips were somewhat full.

"When will you come again? To-morrow? Oh! I forgot! To-morrow I shall be on all night. Will you come over early in the morning, or any time between midnight and eight o'clock in the morning? I'll bring you down some chocolate, if you like it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Will you come?"

"Yes," she answered, and her head took a gentle droop downwards, half averted, the long lashes swept her cheek and a rich red flushed beneath the russet brown of her skin.

He looked at her with pleasure, he felt his own colour rising a little too. He experienced a strange thrill, he felt older somehow, a sense of responsibility, of protection.

She turned and went away, glancing back over her shoulder as she went.

He went inside, and spoke to the Scotsman. "We'll put the engine on now, Mac." He busied himself with the engine and the switchboard. The girl was lost to sight and memory, but a sense, a something remained.

Next day the young engineer went on duty at midnight; he passed the gipsy camp on his way; four caravans stood silent and dark, and five ragged tents showed faint and ghostly in the moonlight, a fire smouldered in one corner. At the works he relieved another young man like himself, and the bearded highlander. They put on their hats and coats and bade him good-night, and he was left alone, all alone in the dimly lighted engine room with nothing running, everything still, except for the ghostly, uncanny rattle of the steam condensing in the now idle steam pipes.

Going into the little room which served as office, mess room, and test room combined, he took off his hat and coat and rolled back his shirt sleeves. He was a well built young man, standing just on six feet in his boots, with regular, handsome features and strong, prominent chin and nose; the arms that he exposed to view were substantial and very muscular, the hands were spread by the use of hand tools, they were not pretty, but very strong and serviceable. He walked briskly out and carefully looked all round—the plant, the switchboard, the engines, the recording instrument, the battery and boilers; he opened the furnace doors and gazed in at the fires to see that they were properly "banked;" then he went round with a scribbling block and took the meter readings, carefully entering them in the log book; then he opened the door and stepped out into the northern summer night.

He looked round on the fair prospect with extreme pleasure, the hills all round with the mountains in the background, the irregular patches of wood, the few straggling houses showing white and distinct in the moonlight, the little town close by with its few twinkling lights; all spoke to him of peace and pleasure yet strangely, too, of ambition. He would own one of those houses on the hillside as a summer resort. Time would tell, he had no doubt, he was quite confident, he felt it in him. He worked while other fellows played. Worked! Lord! Yes! he stoked boilers and drove engines, he cleaned brass work and did navvies' work, all for ten shillings per week. He smiled, the idea did not depress him in the least.

Suddenly the figure of a girl appeared round the corner of the building. The gipsy girl, he knew her figure at once. He knew she would come, but he had not expected her at this hour.

She advanced slowly, shyly; as she turned the corner she had been active, full of life; she seemed to droop as she caught sight of him standing alone in his shirt sleeves in the moonlight. She came close up and stood before him.

"I've come," she said.

She raised her eyes and looked into his—they seemed all alight, veritably to sparkle like gems.

He was rather taken aback, but did not show it; his features were impassive, he also felt a tingling of the pulses, and his eyes showed that as he looked into hers.

"Come inside," he said; he led the way, he wanted time to think.

"This way," he continued. She followed him, a pace to the rear.

He led the way into the little office and pulled out a chair. "Sit down," he said.

She sat down, somewhat uncomfortably, somewhat nervously, as one who was not used to it.

Going to his coat hanging on the wall he took a packet of chocolate from it. She watched him with a sort of dog-like observance.

"Here you are," he said. He handed her the chocolate, drew another chair out, and sat down facing her.

"What have you been doing all day?"

"Gathering sticks," she answered. He noticed that she did not speak with her mouth full, it seemed a natural refinement, perhaps because she observed him carefully finish munching a piece of chocolate before he put the question to her—anyhow she did the same.

They sat and looked at each other in silence for some minutes. He was observing her very closely; he noticed that her hands were clean, comparatively; they were not large and very well shaped, it was obvious that she did not do much work; everything about her denoted natural grace and, it seemed to him, refinement; but ever and anon her eyes rolled widely round, taking in everything; in this confined atmosphere, sitting on this made-to-order chair, she was obviously not at ease.

He drew his chair up closer to her and looked into her eyes. "You're very beautiful. Are all gipsy girls beautiful?"

She flushed, gave her head a little toss, slightly imperious. "My mother is the Queen of the gipsies."

"Then you are a princess. You look it. Tell me what you do all day."

"Nothing," she answered, simply.

"That's good," he laughed.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Everything," he said, and laughed again.

"Where do you come from?"

"England, the south of England, Gloucestershire. Have you been there?"

"Yes," she answered. "I've been through Gloucestershire and Somersetshire and Devonshire and Warwickshire and Staffordshire. I've been all round England and Scotland."

His eyes lighted up. "Have you been to Cheltenham?"

"Yes," she said, and told him about it and the country round; she seemed to have observed everything. They talked of the counties and the people, the fields and the woods, the birds and beasts, till she stood up and pushed the chair back.

"I don't like this—let's go out and sit on the wall by the river."

So they went outside and sat on the little low wall with the smooth cement top that marked the tunnel where the water pipes went into the works.

They sat down side by side, eating chocolates and saying nothing, looking at the east and watching the sky begin to lighten with the first faint indication of dawn. All was hushed, and silent the river at their feet swirled past in glassy, rapid smoothness, on the opposite bank the sedges stirred and rustled stealthily, just moved by the scarcely perceptible breeze.

They sat there for a long time, exchanging occasional remarks and lapsing long between replies. The spirit of the night, the silent, pensive night, seemed on the girl and he did not want to talk. The cloak of peace was around her; she was at one with nature; she laughed in the sunshine and wept in the rain. To the young engineer the silence of the night had a very different message; this universal peace and stillness spoke to him, somehow, of strife, vigorous strife, of great difficulties attempted and overcome, of progress, eternal progress; he made many resolves of what he would do, and the more he had done, the more, he felt, he would be able to enjoy these moments of rest and reflection. Some day he would marry, and this was the sort of girl he would like, a refined and educated edition of this; some one with a soul, a mind, and a body, not a mere clothes-horse. Her remarks had shown a natural refinement, a depth of feeling and thought that exactly suited his own, she appreciated nature and that was the foundation of all things to him.

The dawn was rapidly brightening; on the opposite side of the river a stoat poked an inquiring nose through the long grass at the top of the bank. Silently the girl gripped his arm and pointed to it, together they watched it come cautiously into full view sniffing the air; very slowly, very cautiously, it made its way, its head upraised, moving with a graceful swaying motion from side to side; it was the caution of the pursuer and not of the pursued, there was no terror in it. The young engineer watched it in fascination, then it disappeared again in the grass.

"The stoat gets a better time than the rabbit," he propounded, after a thoughtful pause.

"Rabbits!" she said, in disgust, "rabbits are good to eat, that's all. Everything kills rabbits, they play and play and never think—I've watched them for hours and hours."

He jumped up. "I must go and have a look round inside now." He looked at her steadily with approval, and more; there was a light in her eyes as she looked up at him too.

"Will you come over to-morrow night?" he asked. There was a touch of suspense in his voice.

"Yes," she said.

"Good-bye then," he held out his hand.

She took it somewhat shyly.

He held her rather long, looking at her thoughtfully, he seemed in doubt, then he slowly released her hand and turned away. "Good-bye till to-morrow then," he said.

"Good-bye," she answered.

Next night he was outside before half-past twelve, waiting. He saw her leave the camp and come towards him springing lightly from tuft to tuft over the rough ground.

"Hullo!" she said, and looked up at him, her wondrous eyes beaming pleasure.

"How are you?" he answered, gravely, shaking hands. The limitations of the Englishman bound him fast. "Come inside," he continued.

She drew back with a little expression of repugnance. "I don't like houses," she said.

"I've got some sweets in there. Come in and get them, and then we'll go outside again."

She followed him meekly, and he took her into the little office and tilted the contents of four different little bags on to a clean newspaper.

"There you are!" he said.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with childish glee.

He shovelled them into the bags again and handed them to her.

"There you are, those are for you; now we'll go outside."

"You take some too." She opened the bags and held them out to him.

"Thanks," he answered, gravely selecting two or three from each packet.

They walked in silence to the door, then he paused under the lamp. "Look here, you never told my fortune. Finish it, will you?"

She stopped and looked at the hand he held out under the light. "I don't know very much yet. You're very strong."

"Fairly," he agreed, doubling up his biceps. "You said I had a good fortune. How do you know that?"

"By the feel," she answered. She took him by the wrist again and seemed lost in wonder. "Think of what you'd like," she said.

He shut his eyes and conjured up his favourite vision. A great industrial centre; a huge machinery shop; teeming workmen, strong and greasy; and himself in the centre, thinking, feeling, living for it all.

"Oh!" she said.

He opened his eyes to find her gazing at him in open wonder and astonishment.

"Have you ever had a wild rabbit in your hands and felt its heart beat?"

"Can't say that I have."

"I have. And a weasel and a stoat with their heads tied. And cats and dogs and birds and all sorts. You feel like a dog, a trained fighting dog when he's going to fight—and win."

He smiled, somewhat indulgently. "Very probably," he said. "I'm a bit of a sportsman, football, and that sort of thing, you know. I've got a pistol in there; I put in time shooting rats along the river bank when I'm by myself and not reading."

"Come on down by the river bank now and I'll show you some birds' nests. I found them to-day."

"Wait till it gets lighter," he answered. "We'll climb up that hill and watch the sun rise."

So they started off together across the intervening space of moorland, the tall athletic young man and the slender graceful girl, and the great silver moon looked down at it all with a parental smile, as he has on countless such scenes since the birth of man.

"I'll race you," the engineer said.

"All right," she answered, and broke into a run, bounding lightly over the rough ground like a young deer. But the trained athlete kept pace with her easily, he did not pass her, but kept a pace behind; she glanced back and sprinted faster; still he hung on her rear till they were within a hundred yards of the hill.

"A final spurt," he said, and she bounded away again. He could have passed her then, too, but he did not.

"I won," she said.

"Yes, you won," he agreed, looking at her with marked approval. Her head was thrown back a little and her breast heaved steadily, taking great deep long, breaths. She was slightly flushed and her eyes sparkled brightly. They had run a quarter of a mile, and without a pause they went straight up the hill taking it quickly and easily.

It took them a quarter of an hour to get to the top, up the zigzag, stony pathway through the pine wood. She led the way and brought him out to a little clearing at the head of a miniature precipice.

"There!" she said, and pointed up the valley of the river straight at the lightening dawn.

"Grand!" he ejaculated, and they sat down side by side on the bed of soft brown pine needles where the ground sloped gradually towards the cliff. The deep gloom of the pine wood closed behind them like a curtain; down below, at their feet, they could see the tops of the trees in the gorge; out in front spread the beautiful valley with the silent river threading its way down the heart of it.

They sat and gazed in silence, listening to the indistinct rustle of nocturnal life in the wood behind them, and the air above: a rustle of leaves, a faint crackle of twigs, a little scream, and some woodland tragedy was past and gone, some tiny life was sped.

An owl hooted above them many times, long-drawn, awe-inspiring, suited to the night.

"That's a brown owl," she said.

"How do you know it's not a barn owl?" he asked.

She looked at him in wonder. "Why! it's a different tune."

"Tune?" he repeated, in amusement. "I didn't know there was any difference," he added, apologetically.

"Listen!" she commanded, holding his arm suddenly. There was a flutter of wings in a tree not far away, a little agonized scream, then all was silent. "That's a weasel, or a stoat got a bird," she explained.

"Weasels don't climb trees," he said.

"Don't they?" she asked, in amused sarcasm.

"I didn't know," he admitted, meekly.

The dawn was brightening rapidly, lighting up all the valley, turning the sombre river to a thread of silver, throwing out the white farmhouses into strong relief, stirring birds and beasts to a new life.

They stood up and gazed over it enchanted.

"Look at that man!" she said.

He followed the direction of her finger. "I can't see a man."

"There in the yard, carrying a pail."

"Good Lord! I can see a bit of a black dot, that is all."

She laughed with amusement. "A black dot," she repeated. "What's the matter with your eyes?"

He looked into her marvellous orbs with wonder and admiration. "I'm usually considered to have good eyes," he said, "but they're not in it with yours. You must be related to the golden eagle."

"I've seen a golden eagle's nest, and killed one too."

He pulled out his watch. "By Jove! I must get back to the works, somebody will be stealing the dynamos, or the coal," he added, looking at her with a sudden smile.

She smiled too and they disappeared into the wood, down the stony paths and across the bit of moorland. He stopped at the gate of the works and held out his hand.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

He held her hand, looking into her eyes. "You'll come again to-morrow?"

"Yes," she answered, steadily looking at him with her wonderful eyes.

Still retaining his grip of her hand, he pulled her gently towards him.

She came, somewhat reluctantly; the colour overspread her face. There was doubt in her eyes. He passed his disengaged arm round her neck and kissed her on her full red lips.

A wild wonder sprang to her eyes. "Gipsies don't kiss," she said, as she gazed at him.

"Don't they?" he said, "then I'll do it again in case you forget," and he did, a long kiss. He looked at her in astonished admiration, the deep colour that mantled on her cheek, and the vivid light in her eyes made a picture the like of which he had never seen.

She turned away and bounded off across the moorland to her people's camp. He watched her with bright eyes, she turned and waved a hand to him then disappeared among the caravans. He went into the little works very thoughtful for he knew that he was violently in love with this beautiful girl—this child of nature, and he seemed up against a blank wall.

He paced the little engine room slowly, chin on breast, gazing unseeing at the tiles on the floor. "I'll tell her not to come again," he said to himself. For he was a very conscientious and a very ambitious young man.

That was decided. He threw back his shoulders and raised his head with a feeling of relief. Going out into the boiler house, he opened the furnace doors, and taking a fire rake in his hands, pushed back the banked fires and spread them over the grates, he sprinkled a few shovels full of coal over them, opened the dampers, blew down the gauge glasses, and went into his little office again to read.

Mostly he read technical works, but the book he picked up now contained the life story of George Stephenson. There was a full page portrait in it too: this fascinated the young engineer—he gazed at it long and earnestly. To him it seemed the face of the greatest of all Englishmen, of all men; statesmen, soldiers, philosophers, none of them had left such a monument behind them, none had done so much for civilization as this great man whose features he gazed upon. "And he was a fighter, too," he said to himself. "Beat the prize fighter bully of his village, and without training. He must have been always fit and lived very straight and clean." He put down the book and went outside.

The sun was now bright and powerful, but still low down in the sky. The young engineer gazed all around at the fairy scene, enchanted with the beauty of the landscape; yet he carried in his mind's eye still the frontispiece of the book, a strong, sturdy figure, and a firm, composed, yet kindly face. The picture seemed to haunt him. "The ideal engineer," he said to himself, "would never get angry, only think, think, deeper and deeper. He would be absolutely firm, but not a brute. The engineer must handle men as well as material, and this north country collier did it!" He felt his biceps. "A great engineer of to-day has laid it down that physical fitness is the essential ground work of engineering success."

"Why not me too?" he asked himself.

Next night the gipsy girl appeared earlier than usual, he was not outside, and she ventured timidly in, walking on tip-toe, her eyes glancing quickly all round her. She advanced to the foot of the switchboard steps and stayed there.

He saw her then and went down to speak to her. She held out her hand. He took it gravely. She looked up at him underneath her long lashes, then her eyes drooped, the colour mounted to her cheek, she let her hand rest limply in his. He looked at her steadily for a minute, holding her hand, then he drew her towards him and kissed her.

"You like kissing," he said. She looked up at him with all her soul in her wonderful dark eyes.

"Yes—you," she said, simply.

"Go and sit down, I've got some work to do yet. My coat's hanging up in the office there. There's some sweets in the pocket, take them out."

She went like an obedient child.

In ten minutes' time he went to her. "We'll go up on the hill again," he said, "and you shall tell me what all the sounds and squeaks and all that we hear in the wood mean."

So they started off, and at the edge of the wood a dusky shape scampered off from the grass and disappeared into the gloom.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Badger," she answered, promptly, in some surprise.

They commenced the ascent of the steep, stony path.

"Supposing I broke my leg, what would you do?" he asked.

"Carry you," she said.

"Think you could?"

She laughed, and going close up to him, put her arms round him and lifted him easily.

"Well done," he said.

They went to the top and sat down again in the old place, the little clearing, overlooking the valley. They sat for some time in silence.

"Who are you going to marry?" she asked.

He looked at her sharply. "Poor little devil," he thought, "is it possible—" Then he looked into her eyes very steadily, rather sadly. "I haven't any idea who I shall marry, yet," he said. "Probably some girl that I shall meet at home, some girl who lives in a house about the same size that my father lives in. A girl who reads and writes, and perhaps plays the piano and sings, who can look after a house and manage servants and see that everything is looked after properly. That is," he added, thoughtfully, "if I can ever make enough money to keep such a girl."

She was silent, and he thought perhaps he had been too brutal.

"I hope that she will be as beautiful and graceful as you, but one can't have everything."

"What does your father do?" she asked, and her tone was one of interested inquiry simply.

"He's a parson."

"Keeps a church?"

"Exactly, or the church keeps him."

"I can play the fiddle and concertina and sing," she said.

"Can you?" he asked, in surprise.

"Yes, father says I'm good."

"I've no doubt you are," he said, with some amusement. He wondered what the gipsy standard of music was.

Suddenly he noticed her raise her head, listening intently, he watched her with interest; the delicate nostrils quivered, she seemed to be smelling something.

"There's someone in the wood," she said.

"All right. Let 'em stop there."

"Come into the dark," she whispered. She moved silently into the shadow of the pine trees.

He was getting up to follow her when a rough looking man in a round fur cap, a suit with big poacher pockets to the coat and gaiters protecting his trousers, and carrying a big stick under his arm, came out into the moonlight.

"So I've caught you, have I?"

"What do you mean?" The young engineer's tone was angry, imperious.

"You knows, you an' that girl. I seen her go away." Without more ado, he rushed viciously at the engineer and lashed out a sweeping blow with his bludgeon.

The young athlete sprang nimbly aside, and as the gipsy turned to make a second onslaught, the girl came out of the darkness of the wood behind and sprang on his back like a wild cat, pulling him over backwards and wrenching the stick from his grasp. She threw it to the engineer. "Take that," she said, "and watch him."

The gipsy, cursing and spitting like an angry cat, lashed out with his feet and caught the girl in the ribs.

With a little sob, like a punctured balloon, she sank down, a huddled, helpless heap. The gipsy lashed out again at her and then scrambled to his feet.

The engineer stood over him. "You swine," he said, and he brought the stick down over the man's shoulders for all he was worth. It was ash and very stout; there was not much "give" in it. He gave a coughing gasp, then closed with his assailant.

They wrestled fiercely. The gipsy was shorter and not so heavy, but exceedingly strong; he strove to work the engineer backwards towards the cliff, his hands sought his throat.

The girl sat up. "Mind the edge," she screamed. "Throw him over."

The gipsy staggered backwards.

The latent savagery of the chimpanzee and the fierce deep passion of the sportsman who had been "fouled" were aroused side by side in the breast of the young engineer. He sprang forward again and struck the falling man another furious blow; he seemed to yield easily; it was almost like striking the empty air. There was not that sense of springy resistance which is the whole source of pleasure in a blow well delivered and reaching well home.

With a sudden chilling of the blood he realized that the man was over the edge, falling downwards on to the trees. He felt sick with horror and tried to throw himself back, only to discover that the impetus of his own forward progress was too much for him. He slowed up and hung for (it seemed to him) many minutes just balanced, then gradually tilted forwards towards the tops of the trees that showed down below in the faint light of the rising dawn. He seemed to be moving very slowly—slowly, forwards. He glanced out over the valley below him and got a clear impression of the view; he saw an owl flit past between himself and the tree tops; he heard it hoot, its long drawn, melancholy hoot. Then he felt a sudden jerk behind, something pulled him backwards, he felt his centre of gravity shift till his legs had control of his body again. Then the blood rushed from his heart with a mighty bound; he sank down on the soft bed of the weather-browned pine needles.

"Good God!"

The girl leaned over him, her eyes alight. "I thought I was over too," she said.

"I thought that brute had killed you," he said.

She stretched herself and suddenly relaxed with a little gasp. "I'm all right. I've got a pain, that's all."

The horror of the whole situation was suddenly borne in upon him.

"Holy God!" he said. "That's man killed."

"I hope so," she said.

"Hush!" he said, "you mustn't say that. If he is, I'm a murderer."

"Then I hope he's not."

"Who is he?" he asked.

"My sweetheart—the man I'm going to marry—if he's alive," she answered, simply.

"Oh! Great God in heaven!" he said, and he held out his hands to the rising sun, gazing out on the smiling valley and beautiful hills in the peaceful stillness of the early dawn.

CHAPTER II

They wended their way slowly down the steep path, the girl giving little gasps of pain at every few steps.

"Look here!" he said, "you're damaged. Let me carry you."

"I'm all right. I've got a pain, that's all."

"Rot!" he said, and without more ado he picked her up in his arms. She was very light considering the strength she had displayed. "Say how you are easiest," he said.

"Quite easy like this," she answered.

So they proceeded slowly down the stony, rocky hillside, the girl cradled in his arms with her arms round his neck easing her weight as much as possible.

He had to stop and rest frequently, laying her gently on a bed of pine needles or moss.

"You're very strong," she said.

"Yes, by God, too strong sometimes," he said, bitterly.

She put her fingers gently on his wrist and felt his pulse. "You're a winner," she said.

"Meaning that I shall out distance the constable," he asked with a grim humour.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Carstairs. Jack Carstairs. It'll be in all the papers soon. Can you read?"

"No."

"Lucky girl."

So carrying on a disjointed conversation they worked their way round to the foot of the cliff.

"Shall I take you back to the camp or shall I have a look for the—man, first?"

"We'll have a look for Sam first. I'm all right on level ground."

"No, you're not. You stay there." He put her down on the ground, and made his way through the trees to the cliff.

He searched up and down; there was no sign of a body dead or alive, no sign of derangement, nothing to indicate tragedy. There was a rustle of bird life all round him and a cheerful chorus of early morning song in the bushes outside, for this was just on the edge of the wood. He went up and down gazing over head and under foot; the trees here were mostly firs, young spruce firs with heavy, carpety foliage interlocking, shutting out the light.

He went back to the girl. "I'll take you back and go for a doctor while your people come and look for him."

"He's gone home," she said.

That one word "home" is used to describe a vast number of widely differing places.

"I hope to God he has—to the camp, I mean."

Picking her up in his arms again, he carried her out across the strip of moorland to the camp.

The gipsies were out and astir, there seemed to be a sort of meeting going on among the tents and caravans. Jack Carstairs walked into the centre of them and deposited his burden on the ground.

The girl sat up. "There's Sam," she said, pointing to a young gipsy sitting propped up against the wheel of a caravan. His face was deathly pale, and one eye was bulged out like a small balloon.

The young engineer's heart gave a great bound at the sight of him.

"So you were not killed," he said.

"'Taint no fault of yours," the man growled. The gipsies gathered round.

"Where's mother?" the girl asked.

A woman of about fifty, eagle-eyed, black-haired, descended the steps of a particularly well-appointed caravan and went over to the girl, and felt her carefully all over. "Who did it?" she asked.

"Sam kicked me," the girl answered.

The gipsies made no sound, but dark glistening eyes rolled from the recumbent gipsy to the tall, fair-haired young Englishman.

"Who's this?" the mother asked.

"The man at the electric light, that gave me the coal."

The young man felt a pair of piercing black eyes gazing searchingly into his, they seemed to see right into his brain: he was aware of a strange tingling sensation in his blood as the woman looked at him.

"Are you going to marry the girl?" she asked,

"No!" he said, simply.

The gipsies gathered in closer.

"Come here," the woman said.

He advanced and looked her squarely in the eyes.

She caught hold of his wrist, and lifting his hand examined his palm. She gazed at it long and earnestly, ever and anon glancing up into his eyes. She dropped it suddenly.

"Alright! Go away," she said.

The little circle of gipsy men fell back and opened out for him to go his way.

"What's the matter with that man?" he asked, pointing to Sam.

"Broke his leg," a gipsy man answered.

"What saved him?"

"The trees—he fell on the fir trees."

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out all the money he had, about seven shillings. "Here, get the girl whatever you can. Shall I send a doctor?

"Doctor?" the woman repeated in scorn, "no!"

"Alright," he said, and made his way unmolested past the silent, fierce-eyed men.

He went back to the little works and fired up the boilers and got steam ready for the day man to start the engine when he came in.

That night he went down about ten o'clock and crossed over to the gipsies. The whole camp was gathered in a circle round the embers of a fire.

He stopped on the outside edge. "How's the girl?" he asked.

"Alright," the old woman answered.

"And the man?"

"Alright," she repeated.

He was turning to go away when she spoke again in singularly sweet and winning tones. "Won't you come and sit down, sir?"

"Thanks," he answered, stopping in doubt.

"And father'll play."

A young gipsy immediately got up and disappeared into the flashy looking caravan, to reappear with a violin and bow in his hands.

An old man who had lain stretched out before the fire arose and took the instrument; he fingered it lovingly. Carstairs looked at him with curiosity; he was attired in an old frock coat, green with age, and the silk facings threadbare; straightened out he would have been as tall as Carstairs himself, but he was bent and bowed, his knees tottered, his face was the uniform purple-red of the confirmed drunkard. He tried the strings with his fingers, tuning up. They brought forward a chair, and he sat down. The face, Carstairs thought, showed something of refinement and good breeding even in its bloated, blotched condition. He pushed back his greasy cap and showed a head of fine silver-grey hair; the mouth was in constant motion, twitching, compressing, relaxing. He passed the bow across the strings, making a harsh, jarring scream; then he seemed to settle down, and Carstairs was entranced.

He dropped down beside one of the gipsies and sat silent, lost in beautiful, entrancing thought. All that was best in his life came back to him, his highest thoughts and loftiest ambition were stirred and enlarged, his resolution strengthened, his soul uplifted. He glanced round the circle of rough, mahogany-coloured faces. Dark eyes glistened like precious jewels in the flickering firelight, the rough lines of the features seemed softened.

And all this achieved by a tottering, degraded old drunkard.

The player passed on from tune to tune, only pausing to take a drink from a bottle that the old woman handed him. Many of the strains were familiar to the young engineer; he understood they were "masterpieces" difficult to render. And wonder and a great pity stirred in him side by side at the awful contrast, the inexpressible beauty of the music and the despicable condition of the player. But he, too, seemed to straighten out and grow taller; he stood up, the mouth became steadier, the bleared eyes seemed quite brilliant in the dim light.

Slowly dying down, growing gradually less, the music stopped. Then dropping bow and fiddle the musician made straight for the brass-finished, leather-upholstered caravan, and disappeared inside.

There was silence round the little circle of the gipsies, no one stirred; Carstairs was lost in reverie, ideas thronged through his brain; he was lost to the present, his soul seemed free of his body, delving about in the unknown depths of the future.

A young gipsy started up from the circle and picked up the fiddle and bow. For Carstairs that broke the spell, he looked up and found the gipsy woman's eyes upon him.

He arose and went over to her. "What lovely music," he said. "Who is he?"

"My husband," she answered.

"Oh!" he said. He held out his hand. "Good-bye! you must thank him very much for me."

She took his hand and looked into his eyes in the fixed firelight. "You like music?" she asked.

"Very much," he answered.

He felt a strange feeling of friendliness for this woman, her presence seemed to give him a sensation of comfort, of hope.

Wending his way out of the gipsy camp he crossed to the little works.

"Sorry I'm late."

"Oh, it's alright."

They passed the technical news of the day, then the bearded Scotsman and the other young engineer departed.

Carstairs stood at the door watching them go away along the winding path beside the river, towards the little town. He hadn't altogether shaken off the reverie induced by the music; he gazed out into the silence of the night; in the beautiful half light of the northern night, he could see far up the valley. Long after his companions had disappeared from view he stood there gazing out over the silent landscape, and for once his thoughts were not entirely of himself, of his ambitions and resolves: he wondered at the old man who played the beautiful music, the old woman and the girl, their offspring; it seemed incredible, the girl was so different from either of them. He went inside, closing the wicket gate in the big doors behind him, then going into the little office he produced a drawing-board and instruments and settled down resolutely to work; for he had ideas, many of them, and his occupation gave him ample time for thought.

Next night he went down early to call at the camp again, but when he got there, he found, with a disappointment he was astonished at, the gipsies were gone.

"Cancelled out," he said to himself, for Carstairs thought mathematically. Still, as he spoke, he felt a doubt if the factor were really eliminated.

So time, relentless time, passed away, and Carstairs went his daily round, working and studying, planning and dreaming. Very often in the early summer mornings when he had been on all night, and found it impossible to study any more, he would take his pistol and wander out along the river bank looking for rats or water voles. Always the vision of the gipsy girl came back to him. Her verdict "you're a winner," occurred to him as he fired at the rats or selected some inanimate mark to aim at, and always hit, for his hand was strong and steady and his eye very keen. One day as he wandered so, pistol in hand, there was a sudden swirl in the water, a gleam of silver shot heavenwards, he pointed the pistol and pulled just as the salmon touched the water again, it dived instantly, but there was something wrong with it, the white belly seemed unduly prominent, it was obviously impeded by something.

"Hit! by Jove!" Carstairs said, as the big fish came to the surface and lay quite still floating down with the stream. "A winner," he said, and he wondered thoughtfully if it would always be so.

Then he went on holiday, ten days, back to his home in Gloucestershire, the country vicarage and the Cotswold hills, where the pick of the old prize fighters came from; and there was much of the prize fighter in Carstairs' composition, perhaps it was in the air.

The Reverend Hugh Carstairs was tall and well built, silver haired and clean shaven; his religion was of the comfortable order; he did not consider it necessary to be miserable in order to be good. He was clean in mind and body, rather sporting and rather intellectual. His good lady was somewhat similar, less sporting and less intellectual, more homely and more pious. The product of the union was six well-grown, healthy Englishmen. Jack was the youngest.

His parents received him with undemonstrative but deep-felt pleasure. Up to the present Jack had been, if not the most prosperous, the least expensive of the six; engineering to him had been more or less compulsory because cheap, or comparatively so. The other five had absorbed large sums in their education, and up to the present made small return on capital invested. Jack didn't gamble or drink expensive drinks; he didn't paint pictures or play any musical instrument. As far as his parents knew he had had no love affairs. He was a very sober young man. His mother said he feared God. His father, that he respected himself. The truth was that he had an ambition to bulk very big at some future date, and so had not the time for indulgence in the ordinary common or garden vices and pastimes.

He kissed his mother and shook hands solemnly with his father.

"I want to take some of your books away with me when I go, guv'nor," he said.

His parents looked at him with approval. "What sort of books?"

"Oh! 'maths.' I find I don't know as much mathematics as I thought I did."

His mother looked somewhat disappointed, his father pleased. The dividends on classics did not pan out very well in his experience.

"I'm working out an idea, you know; rather good thing if it's workable. Want some more 'maths,' to read up the authorities on the subject."

"A patent?"

"Yes."

"Ah," his mother sighed, something seemed to touch a sensitive chord. "You know Phillip is going out to India?"

"Yes. Plantation, isn't it?"

"Yes, in a very nice part of the country, I believe."

"What's he going to get?"

"Twenty pounds a month," his father answered.

"That isn't much for a man twenty-four years old, is it? Fitters get that out there."

"My dear boy!" His mother was grieved.

"What's the matter, mater?"

"You have such a sordid way of looking at things."

"Have I? I'm sorry. The aim and object of life at present is to make money."

The Rev. Hugh regarded his son with quiet approval. "It keeps you occupied," he said, "and as long as you're honest."

Jack was silent. "As a general rule I am," he said, at length. "Stole a basketful of coal the other day, though."

"Coal? Whatever for?"

"Gave it away to the poor." He waved his arm lightly with a smile.

His father smiled too, he had Jack's eyes, grey and shrewd. "To a certain extent the end justified the means," he said, "That is, in the common court of our conscience. I suppose it was very cold up in Scotland?"

"On that particular day it was, I think, if anything warmer than it is down here to-day. I should like to be whitewashed, but—the end was a very pretty gipsy girl, whom I afterwards kissed, and punched her affianced husband—broke his leg."

"Good gracious! you're joking."

"Not a bit, mater. I'm going to shine as the villain of the family; it's in me, for under the given circumstance, I'd do the same again." He gave them the main outlines of the case, concisely, hiding nothing.

"I think you'd better leave Scotland," his mother said.

"So do I, mater," he agreed. "I want more money."

The Rev. Hugh's grey eyes twinkled merrily. "Everything comes to him who goes and fetches it," he said.

"That's an engineering precept, guv'nor. An engineer is a man who fetches things. You ought to have been an engineer, not a bally old parson."

"Jack!"

"Sorry, mater, that's a lapsus fungus, or words to that effect."

"Lapsus linguæ, you mean."

"Is it? Oh! fungus seemed to me rather suggestive of the tongue."

Jack was standing up with his back to the mantel-piece. His father smiled, then he stood up, too, and, laying a hand on his son's broad shoulder, looked with solemn, benevolent eyes into the eyes that were level with, and so like, his own. "Go on fetching things, my boy, but never forget that the object of life is happiness. And happiness is only possible to an easy conscience. It is nice to win the match, but better to lose than cheat. I should leave these gipsy girls alone, if I were you."

"Singular, if you please, guv'nor, it's only one, and she's gone away."

"Quite so. I was generalizing."

Jack was thoughtful. "Up to the present," he said, "it is not necessary to generalize, but thanks all the same."

The Rev. Hugh looked at his son, at the steady eyes and close, firm mouth; the lines were very definite, almost cruel; such men do not have many love affairs. "I think you can take care of yourself," he said.

Jack was perfectly sober. "I think so, too," he agreed.

CHAPTER III

The vicarage at Chilcombe, Jack's home, was a fairly large, well-built house with plenty of ground round it, forming a complete rectangle. Two sides of it (bordering the road) were bounded by seven-foot walls, a third side was a thick, tall hedge, and the fourth (furthest from the house) was a brook, or river—a sort of cross, a big brook or a small river—deeply bordered with willow trees and blackberry bushes. Two close wooden gates in the seven-foot wall opened on to a small brown-gravel drive, which led by a single short curve through a shrubbery of laurel bushes to the front entrance porch. A big room at the other side of the house opened out by French windows on to a lawn. There was a big chestnut tree in one corner of this lawn, with a seat round it; in the summer there were usually two or three hammock chairs spread out in the shade of it also. Jack was lounging in one of these latter the morning after his arrival, while his mother did knitting in a more sedate-looking but less comfortable chair at his side, when Mrs Bevengton and Bessie came round the corner of the house. Mrs Bevengton was the doctor's wife, and Bessie was her daughter. Bessie was fairly tall and distinctly plump—"fatty" Jack used to call her when he was younger; she was not really fat, though not angularly hard; there was no superfluous tissue about her. She could play tennis all day long, run with the beagles, or row two or three miles on the river without getting "done up." She had a good pink colour and dimples on each cheek which were nearly always in evidence, for she smiled at most things. Her hair was light brown and curly; it was always straying out of place and framing her happy, smiling face in little light brown curves.

Bessie said, "How are you Jack?" and Jack answered, "First-class. How are you?"

Mrs Bevengton looked at him critically. "What are you doing now, Jack?" she asked.

"Earning ten bob a week, Mrs Bevengton," he answered, with just a flicker of a smile. The doctor's wife was inclined to be a materialist in worldly matters.

Bessie's dimples burst into renewed prominence, and a frizzy curl strayed out from over her forehead. She said nothing, but her blue eyes danced in the sunlight as she glanced round the three faces in front of her, and endeavoured to suppress the rebellious curl.

Mrs Carstairs looked severe. "How absurdly you talk, Jack."

"The truth is usually absurd, mater."

Mrs Bevengton continued to regard him with a critical, calculating eye.

"That's just a start, of course?" she said.

"Well, I hope it's not the finish, Mrs Bevengton."

Mrs Bevengton looked at Bessie, then back again at Jack. He seemed very steady-looking and confident; she had only a vague notion of what he was doing, but had an impression that electrical engineering was a safe sort of thing, displacing the Church as the thing to put the fool of the family into. Still, the Carstairs so far had not "got on."

"I suppose it's a good er—profession, isn't it, Jack?"

Jack looked at his hands which would have compared favourably with a young carpenter's. "Fairly good, I think," he said, "for the right men. About the same as doctoring, only more pleasant—to the young mind at least."

Mrs Carstairs smiled approval.

The doctor's wife was puzzled. He spoke too soberly for a Carstairs—and nineteen. She looked at Mrs Carstairs. "When does Phillip leave?"

"Oh, not for six weeks yet."

Jack looked at Bessie. "Come on, Bessie! I'll give you a game of tennis. Expect you'll beat me easily now. Haven't had a game since last summer."

"Don't they play in Scotland?"

"Oh, yes, they play, but I don't."

So they played, and it was very close, but Bessie did not win.

"I believe you've been practising," she said.

"No, I haven't," he answered. "Come on down to the brook and see if that old trout is still there."

"That old trout," was an ancient retainer of the Carstairs family, weighing some two to two and a half pounds. Six successive sons had tried to catch him: bright red worms, "dopping" blue bottles, artificial flies, gentles and green caterpillars had been tried in vain; the veteran shook his head and slowly winked the other eye as he lazily flapped his tail in the gentle current, regarding the tempting baits and eager faces peering over the blackberry bushes with easy unconcern. Twice they had waded through the shallows, three abreast, with butterfly nets, after frightening him from his deep hole, but without success: once, indeed, with the aid of wire netting, was the speckled warrior landed, high and dry; but after performing a joyous war-dance, hand in hand, round the panting, kicking champion, the means were voted underhand and mean—not sporting—so by unanimous consent he was consigned to the deep again, never afterwards, by fair means or foul, to be lured thence. In later days he reigned supreme, monarch of all he surveyed, for many yards on either side of the willow tree, his seat. It was considered the correct thing, when on holidays, to feed him with worms and gentles and other tit-bits.

So, rackets in hands, they strolled down to the brook and peeped cautiously over the top of a blackberry bush, down into a deep hole under the roots of an overhanging willow tree; silently they pressed forward, for the bush had grown and obscured the view more than it used to. Suddenly there was a slip, a little scream, a sound of tearing dress material, a splash, and Bessie was in the stream.

Jack knew that Bessie could not swim, one of the few athletic accomplishments she had not acquired. The water was six or seven feet deep for two or three hundred yards on either side of the hole, which was nine or ten feet deep, the banks were very steep.

Without a second's pause, Jack burst his way through the bushes and into the stream; the brambles clung to him and let him down gently. He found Bessie floundering hopelessly, head under water, one leg elevated in the air, held securely by a tangle of brambles, so keeping her in an inverted position.

He grabbed an overhanging branch of the willow tree with one hand and reached down for Bessie's hair with the other. He succeeded in raising her head above water. She clutched his arm frantically, half-unconscious, she had quite lost her reason.

"Steady! Steady!" he said, soothingly. "Kick your leg free."

She was unable to comprehend, so he gave a vigorous tug at her; the brambles yielded pliantly, but did not let go.

"Damn the thing," he said. He tugged again, and the fresh green willow branch broke off short at the rotten old trunk. Bessie's head sank under water again, and she clutched him in a despairing grasp; he "trod water" vigorously and tried to pull her clear of the bramble; then he tried to get free of her grasp so that he might get at the bramble at close quarters, but she clung to him in despairing energy, and she was very strong. Twice he lifted her head out of water and let her get a breath, but the effort drove him very deep down himself, and he was beginning to feel the strain.

He looked round him in search of inspiration. The water was running very placidly and calmly past him, all dappled with round spots of sunlight coming through the leaves of the trees. A little way off, his mother and Bessie's mother sat quietly chatting in the shade of the chestnut tree, a cow grazed peacefully very near the opposite bank; he could hear the steady "munch" of her jaws; a willow wren trilled out a pretty little warble on a tree near by; and Bessie was drowning. Jack wondered what to do. It never occurred to him to shout for help, he never shouted for help—he was not built that way.

"Her grip will relax when she gets unconscious," he said to himself, and thinking so, he pulled her head deeper under water and tugged to get free of her grip. This time he succeeded, and instantly hauled himself up the bank by means of the entangled leg and set it free. It was very simple; two interlaced briars formed a stirrup, that was all. He raised the foot and it was free at once. Then he dropped back into the water and getting under her, raised her head, and swam with her down stream where the bank shelved down; getting out and laying her on the grass, he applied his rudimentary knowledge of artificial resuscitation; he saw a gentle heaving of the breast, then picked her up and hurried towards the house.

Mrs Bevengton saw him coming and ran to meet him.

"Whatever is the matter?" she said. She was very pale, but not hysterical. Jack noted her behaviour with approval.

"Bessie fell into the brook, got her head fixed under water for some time; she's breathing alright." He hurried on into the house with her.

The doctor was immediately sent for while Mrs Bevengton administered all she knew, and in half an hour Bessie was sitting up in bed, Jack's bed, drinking hot beef tea. She smiled genially. "I'm sorry to give you all this trouble, Mrs Carstairs," she said.

That evening Jack's sailor uncle paid a surprise visit—his were nearly always surprise visits; he came and went like the sea breeze, fresh, boisterous, and invigorating. As they sat smoking after dinner and commenting on the morning's catastrophe, Commander John Carstairs, R.N., looked across at his nephew and namesake through the smoke.