FAMILY ARRANGEMENTS—MOTHER AND SON—SEPARATE INTERESTS—A WIDOW’S DAY-DREAMS—FEMALE CONFIDENCES—THE RULE OF CONTRARY
“My dear Mount, I think, after all, I shall spend the winter at Bubbleton,” said Lady Mount Helicon to her hopeful son, as they sat one sunny afternoon in her well-furnished drawing-room. London was emptying fast; a few of the lingerers still contrived to keep up a semblance of gaiety, and those who stayed on, like Lady Mount Helicon, because they had no country-houses to go to, voted it so much pleasanter now the crush and hurry of the season was over. But even these could not conceal from themselves that they were but “the last roses of summer,” that “all the world” was rushing out of town, and they had no business here any longer. The water-carts were getting very slack, and the dust unbearable; the Ride and the ring were fitting haunts for a hermit, and the Serpentine was gloomy as the Styx. Dinadam was inhaling appetite in his deer-forest—Long-Acre was tempting Providence in his yacht—Mrs. Blacklamb was breaking hearts at Cowes—ministers had celebrated their many defeats during the session by their annual fish-dinner at Greenwich—and grouse were advertised at five shillings a brace in Leadenhall Market. Yes, the season was over, and Mount would not have been here instead of in Perthshire had it not been for the absolute necessity of his writing his autograph in person for the ulterior disappointment of a Hebrew, and his own immediate benefit. He was an excellent son when he had nothing better to do, and now sat for hours with his mother and talked over his own plans and hers with the most perfect open-heartedness.
“Bubbleton,” said he, “mother, and why Bubbleton?”
“Can’t you see, Mount?” replied her ladyship; “Bubbleton is within visiting distance of Newton-Hollows.”
“What then?” rejoined her son; “I thought you had made up your mind to drop them when you found they were of no use.”
“So I should, my dear,” confessed the diplomatic lady, “if things had turned out as I expected; but don’t you see that the game is not yet half played out? That unfortunate boy who went off to the Cape has been severely wounded; you know they put on mourning for him, thinking he was dead; and it is quite on the cards that he may not recover; he never looked strong; then our little friend is as great an heiress as ever; and I am sure, with your eloquence, you could easily persuade her that it was jealousy, or pique, or something equally flattering, that made you so remiss for a time, and it would be all on again. Besides, I have been making a good many inquiries lately in a roundabout way, and I find that, even if the ‘beau cousin’ should return safe and sound, there will be a large sum of ready money to which the girl will be entitled when she comes of age. You want money, Mount, I fancy?”
“Not a doubt of it, my dear mother,” replied he; “this has been my worst year for a long time, and you know I never holloa before I’m hurt. Goodwood ought to have pulled me through, if ‘Sennacherib’ hadn’t failed at the last stride. I am afraid to say, and I can believe you had rather not hear, what that odd six inches cost me. No, mother, I can’t go on much longer; I don’t see my way a bit. If a general election comes I shall have to bolt.”
“Listen to me, Mount,” said her ladyship. “I have a plan that may save us all yet. I shall take a house at Bubbleton for the winter, and wherever I have a roof over my head you know I am too happy to give you a home. You can send down two or three horses, and hunt quietly in the neighbourhood, instead of going off to Melton with eight or ten, and losing a fortune at whist; and of all places I know, Bubbleton is the most likely for something to turn up—then if we should arrange matters with Miss Kettering, everything will go smoothly; but there is one thing I must beg of you, my dear Mount, and that is to give up the turf. It is all I ask,” said her ladyship, with tears in her eyes—“all I ask in return for my devotion to your interests is to sell those horrid race-horses, and give the thing up altogether.”
Mount made a wry face—“Sennacherib,” notwithstanding his defeat, which, as usual, was from no lack of speed or stamina, but entirely in consequence of the way the race was run—“Sennacherib” was the very darling of his heart; and he had, besides, amongst his yearlings, such a filly, that promised, as far as babies of that age can promise, to have the speed of the wind. Must these treasures go to Tattersall’s? Must the hopes of Olympic triumphs and future mines of wealth be all knocked down to the highest bidder, as the stud of a nobleman declining racing? It was a bitter pill; but he knew his mother was a strong-minded woman—he knew that if she insisted on the sacrifice being made a part of the bargain, nothing would induce her to fulfil her share unless he fulfilled his. He recollected how, in his father’s time, crabbed as that respectable nobleman undoubtedly was, my lady always got her own way in the long-run, and he determined to make a virtue of necessity and give in, consoling himself with the reflection that, when all was arranged, he could easily buy some more horses with his wife’s money. So he promised with a good grace, and his mother kissed him, and called him “her own dear boy”; and the pair separated—my lord to get upon “Trictrac” and ride down to Richmond, whither there is no occasion for us to follow him—my lady to write sundry little notes to her friends, to consult with her agent about letting her house in London—and then, with a good book upon her knee, to indulge in dreamy castle-building schemes for upholding the integrity of the house of Mount Helicon, not unmixed with rosier visions as regarded her own prospects for the future.
This pair, whatever might be their failings as regarded the rest of the world, seemed at all events blamelessly to fulfil their duties each towards the other. Yet behind this apparent sincerity and affection each was playing a separate game, totally irrespective of aught but self; each was actuated solely by motives of interest; each had a separate path to pursue, a separate object to attain. Mount Helicon came readily into his mother’s views for the best of all reasons. Everything that could save the disbursement of a shilling was now of paramount importance to him. After a problematic trip to Norway in Long-Acre’s yacht he would literally not have a roof to cover him. It was all very well to make a great merit of giving up Melton, and to dwell on the sacrifice he made on his mother’s account in foregoing the delights of that very charming place; but Mount had now neither hunters nor the means of getting them, and a man at Melton without money or horses is like a fish out of water, or a teetotaller at an Irish wake. Everything had failed with him lately. Successful as were his literary schemes, their profits were but a drop in the ocean compared with his necessities. Goodwood had nearly finished him, and he hardly dared think of Doncaster, so unfortunate were his investments on the coming St. Leger. He could see only one way out of his difficulties—to sell himself and his title to some wealthy young lady, and he rather fancied giving Blanche the opportunity of becoming a purchaser; that which he would have considered a mere pittance some six months ago he now looked upon as a very fair competence; and the chance of young Kettering’s death, with the reversion of that large property, was a contingency by no means to be despised; so he submitted, with as good a grace as he could, to selling his race-horses, and spending the winter at Bubbleton with his mother, inwardly resolving that when he had secured his object he would break out again into fresh extravagances, and shine with redoubled splendour.
Lady Mount Helicon, too, had her own ends to further in her affectionate and hospitable invitation to her son. She had found out that his agreeable qualities, his large acquaintance, and his brilliant reputation, always succeeded in filling her house with those whom she was pleased to term “the best men,” fastidious individuals who never condescended to dine with her when Mount and she kept separate establishments. Now my lady calculated that with her title, her cook, and her celebrated son, she would create a prodigious sensation at Bubbleton, where neither rank, talent, nor faultless cutlets are as common as in London; and that with these attractions in her house, she would have an opportunity of seeing all the male eligibles whom that salubrious locality might bring together. And she could thus judge of them at her leisure, and pick and choose at her caprice. That was the end in view. The idea of entering once more into the holy bonds of matrimony had long been present to her ladyship’s mind; and when she consulted her looking-glass, and saw reflected her large, comely form, her still healthy complexion, and her well-arranged hair, by courtesy called auburn, but sufficiently red to lose little of its youthful appearance from an occasional silver line, she grudged more and more that all these charms should be wasted on a widow’s lonely lot, and resolved that when the time came, and the man, it would be no fault of hers if she did not stand again at the altar in the coloured robes of a bride who adds the advantage of experience to the ripe maturity of autumnal beauty. Bubbleton, then, was the very place from which to select the fortunate man. Its frequenters were many of them steady-going, respectable gentlemen of middle age, and like all unmarried middle-aged men, unless completely ruined, sufficiently well-to-do in the world. Such are by no means ineligible matches for a widow; and then, should none of these be found willing to aspire to such happiness, might not General Bounce surrender at discretion, if properly invested—more particularly should the other matrimonial scheme progress favourably, and the relationship thus created afford opportunities for surprises, coups-de-main, or the tardier but no less fatal advances of a regular blockade? He certainly had paid her attention in London; he was a stout, soldier-like man for his years; above all, he had a charming place at Newton-Hollows, and a good fortune of his own. Yes, faute de mieux, the General would do very well; and then the two families might live together, and if Blanche did succeed to everything, what a piece of luck it would be for them all! And her ladyship, with all her knowledge of the world, actually deluded herself into the idea that the two establishments could keep the peace for an hour together in the same house, or that Mount, after he had got all he could, and had no further use for his mother, would hear of such an arrangement for one single moment. So Lady Mount Helicon rose and smoothed her hair in the mirror over the chimney-piece, and looked at a miniature of herself, done before she married, and lying on the drawing-room table; and persuaded herself she was wonderfully little altered since then, and returned in haste to her good book and her seat with her back to the light, you may be sure, as a knock at the door announced an arrival, and her well-powdered figure-footman ushered in Lady Phœbe Featherhead.
THE VOYAGE HOME—“WHOM TO MARRY”—DISINTERESTED ADVICE—THE LOOKER-ON SEES MOST OF THE GAME—A FOG IN THE CHANNEL—FRANK’S STRIKING ARGUMENTS—LADIES FIRST—THE REMNANT ON THE WRECK—HOPE ON THE HORIZON—HAIRBLOWER’S OFFER
In these days of steam and perpetual locomotion everybody has been a voyage of some sort over the seas; and one of these uncomfortable expeditions is so like another, that it is needless to describe the transit of Frank Hardingstone and Cousin Charlie from the Cape home. There were but few passengers on board the Phlegethon, and those were as much bored with the length and monotony of their voyage as passengers usually are; they ate, drank, smoked, walked the deck, pestered the professionals with perpetual questions as to when they should make the Needles, and otherwise comported themselves so as to lengthen as much as possible the apparent duration of their imprisonment. Charlie was as idle and impatient as the rest. Frank alone seemed an exception to the general rule; when not reading hard in his cabin he was sure to be found studying steam in the engine-room, “shooting the sun” with the captain, or learning navigation with the mate. “There’s a good man spoilt in making that chap a gentleman,” was the constant remark of these worthies, who contracted an immense love and admiration for Frank. Yet of late he had maintained a grim reserve very foreign to his usual open demeanour, and more especially in the society of Cousin Charlie. He did not shun him, nor did that careless and good-humoured young gentleman perceive any difference in his friend’s manner; but Frank could not conceal from himself that he was not thoroughly at ease with the boy for whom he had endured so much. He felt that he had given up his dearest hopes for his young protégé—that he had sacrificed to him the inestimable treasure of Blanche Kettering’s love; he had on one or two occasions even done such violence to his feelings as to touch upon the subject of their approaching marriage in his conversations with her cousin, and had been surprised and disgusted at the coldness with which so engrossing a topic was received by the young gentleman most concerned. Frank could have borne it better, he thought, had Charlie been worthy of the blessing in store for him—had he appreciated the unspeakable bliss which others would have given all on earth to enjoy; but to yield her to one who scarce seemed willing to stretch out his hand to receive her—to resign all that made life valuable to another, and to find that other appreciated the object as little as the sacrifice—this was indeed a hard task; but Frank thought it his duty so to act, and resolved, with his usual determination and forgetfulness of self, that he would lose no opportunity of forcing upon Charlie the absolute necessity of marrying the only woman he had himself ever loved. Thus the voyage drew to a close. Contrary winds were baffled by the power of steam; the good ship stemmed the mountain waves of the Bay of Biscay, and at length the coast of England was hailed; and, though labouring in a heavy gale of wind and a cross-pitching sea, they were steaming steadily up the Channel, and congratulating themselves that to-morrow they would once more set foot on English ground. Frank and Charlie were on deck, enjoying the broken gleams of an afternoon’s sun, that shone fitfully through the mists and storm-rack driving fast overhead; and their conversation naturally enough turned upon their own plans and intentions when they should get ashore. Charlie was full of his horses and his anticipations of sport in game-preserve and hunting-field, with sundry speculations as to the state of “Haphazard’s” legs, much damaged by the never-to-be-forgotten steeple-chase; and it was with difficulty Frank could command his attention whilst he made a final effort to impress upon him the absolute necessity of his making up his mind and marrying his pretty cousin forthwith.
“It’s not fair upon any one,” said Frank, holding manfully on to the mizen-topmast stay, “it’s not doing as you’d be done by, to keep a thing of this sort off and on; it’s not fair upon your family; it’s not fair upon your uncle; and, above all, it’s not fair upon Miss Kettering herself. I conceive that you are bound, as a gentleman, to make all necessary arrangements, so that the business may be concluded within a month of your arrival at Newton-Hollows.”
Charlie looked rather aghast. “Well, but,” said he, “I should have to leave the regiment. You wouldn’t have me bring Blanche out to Kaffirland—poor little Blanche, she’d be frightened to death, and I know I should have to sell out—Frank, I couldn’t bear to leave the regiment. I like soldiering better than anything.”
“We can’t help that,” rejoined his friend. “You’ve a duty to perform in life, and you must go through with it. You’re not to live for yourself alone; and look how many people are interested in this question. In the first place, there’s your cousin. In consequence of this will they’ve found, you have been the innocent cause of robbing her of a princely inheritance; this is the only method by which you can replace her in her former advantageous position. It was evidently intended all through by your uncle and your poor aunt that this marriage should take place, and their wishes ought to be your law. Then the General has set his heart upon it, I know, and you are both under great obligations to that kind old man. But all these considerations are as nothing compared with the feelings of Blanche herself. Charlie, would you begin by supplanting her in her birthright, and finish by breaking her heart?”
Charlie looked wofully disconcerted. This was altogether a new light, and he stammered out, “Of course I should like to do what’s right, but I don’t want to give up the army;—and—and—I’m very fond of Blanche, you know, and all that, but I don’t think I quite like her well enough to marry her.”
“Not like her!” exclaimed Hardingstone, to whom this latter reason was totally incomprehensible, “not like such a girl as that—the loveliest, the sweetest, the most angelic, the most ladylike creature on the face of the earth—I’ve never seen anything the least to be compared to her in my experience; and you talk of not liking her!”
“Hang it, Frank!” interposed the lad, “I wish you’d marry her yourself. I’ll go shares with her in fortune; there’s more than enough for us both, and you’re much fitter to be a respectable man than I am.”
The shaft went deep into his heart, but the strong man never winced or failed for a moment. “What right have you,” he broke in, almost fiercely, “what right have you to talk of giving her money, and laying her under obligations? Like Falstaff,” he added, relapsing into his usual manner, “you owe her yourself and the money too. For Heaven’s sake, Charlie, don’t tamper with the happiness of a lifetime—honour, duty, expediency, all point one way—do not, for a mere whim, neglect that which, left undone, you will repent ever afterwards. Promise me, now promise me, Charlie, that you will marry your cousin before you again leave Newton-Hollows.”
Charlie bit his lip, stroked his moustaches, looked first one way, and then another; and finally, blushing crimson over his wasted face, exclaimed, “Never, Frank—if you must know it, you had better know it now—never, I tell you, and for the best of all reasons; of course it goes no farther, but the fact is, I—I like somebody else much better.”
“And do you think you are the only person that has to sacrifice inclination—nay, happiness, existence itself—to duty? Do you think you are to be exempt from the common lot of man—to receive everything and give up nothing? Do you owe no duty to your cousin? Are you not all-in-all to her? And are you to destroy all the hopes of her lifetime, to break her young heart, as you have destroyed her prospects, for your own selfish gratification? Trust me, Charlie, she loves you, and whether you care for her or not, unless your word is irrevocably pledged to another, it is your duty to marry her, and marry her you must!”
“You’re wrong, Frank,” said Charlie, with a roguish smile; “you’re wrong—you’re a sharp fellow generally, but you’re out of your reckoning here. Blanche has exactly the same regard for me that a sister has for a brother—but love, as you and I understand the word, bless you, she hasn’t a notion of it, as far as I am concerned; but I’ll tell you whom I think she does love, Frank—ah! you may wince and turn pale, but you ought to know, and I’ll tell you. Frank, do you remember the Guyville ball?—why! you’re not pale now—I should never have mentioned it if you hadn’t driven me into a corner, but now out it shall come. Do you remember when you came up and turned away without asking her to dance, while we were waltzing together? Well, when Blanche looked up, her eyes were full of tears, and she said to me, ‘What’s the matter with Mr. Hardingstone? I’m afraid he’s offended with us.’ And I said, ‘Blanche, you little flirt, he thinks you’ve jilted him.’ And she blushed over her face and neck and shoulders—ay, redder than you are now, old boy; and she followed you with such a loving, piteous look—and I saw it all in a moment. Yes, Frank, Blanche is over head and ears in love with you, and I’m glad of it, for there’s no other man in the world that’s worthy of her; and you shall marry her, Frank, and I won’t, and I’ll get drunk at the wedding—but let’s go below now. These cold evenings make me cough, and I suppose the steward will manage some supper for us, though it is blowing so hard;” with which gastronomic aspiration hungry Charlie disappeared down the hatchway, and left an altered man behind him, to pace the deck in a confused state of tumultuous, almost delirious happiness.
Frank was anything but a vain man; he always considered himself as possessing no attractions for the other sex; and that such a girl as Blanche Kettering should look upon him favourably was a happiness he had scarcely allowed himself to picture in his dreams; but now that it was suggested by another, now that it appeared to impartial eyes neither an impossibility nor an absurdity, a thousand trifling circumstances rose in his recollection—a thousand little lights and shades of looks, and tones, and expressions, came back to him distinct and vivid, with a meaning and a colouring they had never possessed before, and he could hardly restrain the happiness that gushed up in his bosom and sparkled in his eye, as after a few minutes of delicious solitude on deck, he joined the party at supper in the cabin, and one and all remarked that now the voyage was nearly over, the grave Mr. Hardingstone appeared to be quite a different man. To their questions as to the weather, he stated that it was “a beautiful night”; which caused the captain to look at him as an undoubted lunatic, inasmuch as the sea was getting up rapidly, and a thick mist was driving over the face of the waters. With the passengers he joked and laughed, and played vingt-et-un, and made himself so universally popular and agreeable, that those very persons who had all along voted him an odd, reserved, uncomfortable sort of fellow, now almost regretted that they should so soon be parted from such a rand of good-humour and merriment as they discovered, all too late, in their fellow-passenger.
The night grew blacker as the mist increased with the somewhat moderating gale, and a long, heaving swell came rolling up from the Atlantic, each succeeding sea appearing to rear its gigantic volume higher, farther, fiercer than its predecessor, and still the good ship steamed on through the darkness. A light at her foretop, and an indistinct glimmer at the binnacle, only made the surrounding obscurity appear more palpable, and through the dense fog, which seemed to pervade the very deck, and to hang around the spars and tackle, it was difficult to distinguish the two phantom figures at the wheel and the look-out man in the bows. The captain ever and anon dived to his cabin to consult his chart, and re-appearing on the wet, slippery deck, cast an anxious eye at the ship’s compass, and the course she was lying—then glanced to windward, where some huge wave flung its crest of foam into the light, and sporting with that powerful steamer as with a plaything, dashed its beating spray, in wantonness of strength, high over the protecting bulwarks, till the very yards dripped and streamed with brine. A few gruff words, unintelligible to the landsmen, were addressed to the struggling steersmen, and again the captain glanced anxiously at the compass, and knit his brows and seemed ill at ease. Between the decks, confiding passengers snored in their berths and dreamt of home. Little thought they of darkness and fog and driving seas. They had paid their passage-money, and they were to be delivered safe at their destination—was it not in the bond? They were, besides, in the Channel; and the ladies on board derived unspeakable relief and consolation from the knowledge that they were once more in soundings—and they, too, slept the sleep of innocence and security. So midnight passed, and still the good ship held steadily on.
But the captain grew more restless and disturbed, and he ordered the steam to be slackened, and a sailor to be slung over the side, and to heave the lead; and these were wise and seamanlike precautions, but they were a few minutes too late. As the words left his mouth, a shock that made that huge fabric shake again brought him to the deck. True to his seaman nature, he shouted to “back the engines,” even as he fell; but she was aground, and it was too late. Ere he recovered his legs he knew too well what had happened. Sea after sea came pouring over the deck; one of the men at the wheel was washed overboard, the other barely saved as he clung for dear life to the helm: everything that was not secured went at once by the board, and the dashing waves plunging heavily into the engine-room, put out the fires, and reduced that triumph of man’s ingenuity to a mere helpless log upon the waters. The seamen came tumbling up to the forecastle, every man as he had slept, half-dressed, and even now scarce awake; yet such is the force of habit, that confusion prevailed more than alarm, and here and there even a jest arose to lips which in a few hours might probably be silenced for ever. But if not sole mistress on deck, Fear could boast of undivided dominion below. Shrieks and sobs and wailing prayers burst from the affrighted passengers, as they rushed tumultuously from their respective berths into the saloon, and asked wildly what had happened, and inquired with white lips if there was any danger; one said, “Is there any hope?” and the panic increased as it spread, and wives clung upon their husbands’ breasts, and pressed their children to their sides, and screamed in an unbearable agony of fear; and one, a strong, stout man, shouted for help as though terror had turned his brain, and raved of his wife and his little ones at home—that home, on firm dry land, that he had never known how to prize before; then a white-haired minister, one of honest John Wesley’s followers, proposed in a calm, steady voice that each and all should kneel down and pray; but the affrighted mass, now wavering and struggling to the hatchway, paid no attention to the good man’s suggestion; for each strove to reach the deck as though it were a haven of safety, each instinctively shrank from the idea of perishing in that dark, dreadful cabin, and the selfishness of man came out and developed itself even in that maddened crowd as they pushed each other aside and struggled who should be first to reach the door.
“Charlie! where are you?” exclaimed Frank Hardingstone’s unshaken voice, as he emerged already dressed from his cabin into the seething confusion of the saloon.
“Here!” said Charlie, struggling to free himself from the embraces of a stout old Frenchwoman, who, wild with terror, was choking the lad as she clung round his neck and implored him to be her preserver—“Here! Frank, we’re aground, I think; I want to get on deck and make myself useful, if this old woman would let me go!”
Charlie freed himself from the venerable dame’s embrace, but she clung hard to his garments, and he was forced to slip out of the dressing-gown which he had put on at the first moment of alarm, and leaving it in her grasp, to make his escape clad only in his shirt and trousers. When he reached the deck he found Frank already there, having put himself under the captain’s orders, and now lending his assistance to restore discipline as far as possible, and to clear the wreck. The huge ship heaved and shivered in her throes, as wave after wave washed her farther on to the shoal; the fog, too, added to the confusion of the scene, and as it became doubtful whether her timbers could stand against the violence of these successive shocks, even the sturdy seamen began to hint at her going to pieces—and the cry, though none knew whence it first arose, thrilled from stem to stern, “The boats! the boats! Launch the boats!”
“By Him that made me! I’ll strike the first man dead that stirs without orders,” cried the captain, heaving a broad axe above his head, his voice rising through the confusion of the crew and the dash of the leaping waves.
“Can the boats live in such a sea?” whispered Frank, as he stood by the captain’s side, prepared to lend him any assistance he might require.
“Undoubtedly, sir!” was the reply; “it’s our only chance. We’ll get the women and children in first. Mr. Hardingstone, you’re a man! take charge of the larboard boat—let no man into it without orders—we may save them all yet!” and the captain sprang to the starboard boat, laid hold of the “davits,” and sang out, “Lower away, men, easy!” whilst Frank, in a hurried whisper, gave his orders to Charlie, who was as cool as a cucumber throughout.
“Charlie, keep the hatchway with the steward—he’s a bold fellow—don’t let a single man up till the women and children are all on deck. If any fellow runs rusty, knock him down!”
By this time order was to a certain degree restored—the passengers were indeed in a frightful state below, when they found their egress barred, as they thought, so arbitrarily, from all hopes of safety; but on deck every man had his own duty to perform, and the magic power of discipline, assisted by the dawn, which was now struggling into light, bid fair to give them every chance of safety that knowledge and experience could suggest. But one man was mutinous. A strong, black-bearded fellow, with a dogged, lowering countenance, who had been most assiduous in helping Hardingstone to lower away the larboard boat, no sooner found it launched than he made a rush for the side, to place himself, as he hoped, in safety, regardless of the helpless and the weak.
“Stand back!” said Frank, in a voice of thunder; “wait for your turn.”
“Turn be ——,” growled the man; “who made you skipper? D’ye think I’d lose my life for a land-lubber like you?”
“I warn you!” said Frank, clenching his fist, and looking dangerous. The man advanced as though to push him aside. Frank drew himself together and struck out. He knocked him clean off his legs on to the deck, where he lay stunned and bleeding.
“Serve him right,” cried Charlie from the hatchway—an observation which was echoed by the crew; and Frank had no further difficulty in preserving discipline at the station of which he had taken the command. One by one, pale trembling women, and bewildered little children, pattering on the deck with bare feet, and enveloped in shawls, petticoats, anything that had been first caught up in the hurry of the moment, were handed through the hatchway, and lowered carefully over the side into the heaving boats. There they clung together, shivering and drenched with spray, some of the women with scarce any other covering than their white night-dresses, their long wet hair hanging about their shoulders; but even in that extremity thinking only of their children, and regardless of their own sufferings and danger. Poor things! how scared they were by the first minute-gun that boomed from the wreck! for the captain, assisted by Frank Hardingstone’s coolness, and now equal to any emergency, had not neglected the precaution of making every possible signal of distress. Then the male passengers were drafted singly, and handed over the side by the dauntless seamen. Some behaved gallantly enough, and offered to stand by the ship and the captain to the last; some trembled and cowered, submissively obeying every order given them, and apparently rendered totally helpless by fear. One sturdy little boy, of some ten or eleven years, clung manfully to a toy, the property of his infant sister; and when compelled to lay hold of the guiding-rope with both hands, seized the bauble between his teeth, and so reached his mother in the boat. The rough sailors gave him a cheer.
At length the passengers were disposed of; a few cloaks and pea-jackets were thrown in to cover the women; the ship’s compass was placed in one of the boats; a crew of seamen were told off, and seized the oars; the mate took the command; strict injunctions were given for the boats to keep together; and they shoved off into that heaving sea. It was now broad daylight, and the rain falling heavily.
“Thank God, sir,” said the captain, with a sigh of relief, “we’ve disposed of the passengers. The wind’s falling now, with this wet, and they’ll make the land in three or four hours. I trust in Providence every hair of their heads will be saved; and we’ve nothing to think of but ourselves.”
“There’s a dozen of us left,” said Frank, looking round on the dripping group, who were clinging to the different parts of the wreck, consisting of one or two subordinate officers, the boatswain, and a few old, weather-beaten seamen; “that boat will hold us all, if she will swim; but she’s rather a cockle-shell for such a sea as this,” he observed, pointing to a small, shallow skiff that hung at the stern, and which had not yet been lowered.
“It’s our best chance,” said the captain, looking very grave, as another rolling sea made the wreck heave and quiver and strain, as if she must go to pieces; “but she’ll never hold us all. I’ll stand by the ship to the last; and you two gentlemen, to whose coolness, under Providence, the passengers owe their lives, will bear witness I did my duty. God bless you! Lower away, men; cheerily, oh!” So the boat was lowered, and as she touched the water she filled and sank, and appeared again, bottom uppermost, some fifty yards away; and so the last chance of escape was cut off. The little party looked at each other in blank dismay; even Frank’s bold heart tightened itself for an instant in the pressure of despair. Only the gruff boatswain found words to say, “That bit plug, that didn’t ought to have been neglected, ’s worth exactly twelve men’s lives. This here’s a stopper over all, blessed if it ain’t.” There was nothing to be done now but to wait manfully for death. Poor Charlie was already half-dead with cold; but Frank took off his own pea-jacket and wrapped it round the lad, and lashed him to the foremast; for though the weather had moderated considerably, a sea came every now and then driving over the deck, and carrying everything before it. The wreck was by this time filling fast, and sinking gradually: already she had settled by the stern, and only her bows and a part of the forecastle remained above water. On this the sufferers were congregated, and few words did they interchange, for consolation or hope there was none in this world. Their powder was exhausted—true, there was plenty below, in the powder-magazine, but that was long ago swamped, so that their very cries for help must be silenced—that iron voice, their sole chance of rescue, must be dumb. The fog, too, began to clear away, and a bright gleam of sunshine ever and anon shone out upon the yellow, foam-crested waves, and glistened on the white wings of the dipping sea-gulls. By degrees the blue sky peered overhead, and the gap widened and widened, and the mists rising in wreaths from the waters, now heaving and subsiding into rest, floated lazily away, and the discoloured sea became bright and blue, and the sun burst forth into a glorious autumn day, and the warmth of his rays almost comforted those poor wet wretches, clinging hopelessly to the wreck. It seemed hard to die on such a day, but exhaustion was beginning to tell upon some of the sufferers, and the lassitude of despair was creeping over them with its drowsy influence, and the reason of more than one began to give way. So they waited and spoke not, and some strove to pray, and some shut their eyes as if in sleep; and noon came, and the day was bright and hot, and the sea-birds screamed and soared, and everything was full of joy and life, and only that little circle of twelve were doomed to die. Frank and Charlie were together, and every now and then each pressed the other’s hand, but neither spoke. The captain, who was nearest them, seemed stupefied with despair; and he, too, spoke not. They were a silent company. The day crept on: every minute was precious, yet the minutes dragged on like lead. Once the captain stirred, and Frank, glancing eagerly at his face, was aware of a strange light upon it, and a gleam in his fixed eye that was almost unearthly. Was it insanity? Could it be hope? Frank’s breath stopped as he followed the direction of the captain’s gaze, but he could see nothing, save the glancing waters and the hopeless sky-line. But still the captain stared, and the old boatswain, too, was looking eagerly in the same direction, and another seaman seemed to wake from his stupor, and Frank strained his eyes, and at last he was aware of a black speck on the horizon, and, ere he could trust his sight, the stout old captain burst into tears, and a feeble cheer rose from the exhausted seamen, a cheer that thrilled through Frank’s very marrow, for he knew that they were saved.
“What is it?” said Charlie, faintly, opening his heavy eyes.
“It’s a boat,” was the reply—“a boat; the bitterness of death is past, thank God! thank God!”
Then came the painful suspense, the agony of hope and fear; it might after all be but a spar, or a black fish, or anything save what they wished. No—it was a boat, a real boat; but her crew might not see them—they might be fishing—they might never think of the wreck; then the poor exhausted fellows strained their throats in a feeble hail, or rather a hoarse, desperate shriek. But the boat is bearing down upon them—she nears them. “Wreck ahoy! hilli-ho!” Never was music like to this on mortal ear. Her sharp nose comes dancing and dipping over the waves, the glance of her oars flashes in the sun; now they can distinguish the forms of the rowers—now the cheery voices of their countrymen gladden their very heart’s core—and now she is alongside; and despair is over—suspense and misery are forgotten—and the past is like a dream.
The steamer had struck far nearer the shore than her reckoning had given the captain reason to suppose, and her guns had at length been heard by some fishermen on the beach at St. Swithin’s. There was a heavy sea running; but the lifeboat was soon manned, and our old friend Hairblower himself took the stroke-oar, and manfully those gallant fellows pulled till they reached the wreck. They had fallen in with the ship’s boats about half-way from the shore, and now brought the welcome news of their almost undoubted safety.
“To think of you and Master Charles being aboard, sir,” said Hairblower, who seemed to consider the whole matter of the wreck as an every-day occurrence. “This is, indeed, what may well be called ‘a circumstance,’ if ever there was ‘a circumstance’ hereaway;” and he settled his two friends comfortably in the stern of the lifeboat, ere he busied himself to place the rest of the rescued seamen where they would least interfere with the efforts of the oarsmen. They were soon safely disposed, and by sundown, wet, weary, and exhausted, they stood once more upon that shore which they had scarcely dared to hope they should ever see again.
When Charlie woke the following morning in a comfortable room at the Royal Hotel, the first person that greeted his opening eyes was honest Hairblower. That worthy had taken entire possession of his former protégé, and now made his appearance with a steaming glass of hot brandy-and-water, the only orthodox breakfast, in his opinion, for a man who had been wrecked the day before; though rather disgusted at Charlie’s obstinacy in refusing this specific, he was extremely anxious to assist him through his toilet, and was only to be got rid of by an assurance that his young favourite would be down to breakfast, where he would answer all his questions, and listen to all his protestations, in an incredibly short space of time. Hairblower accordingly drank the brandy-and-water himself, and waited patiently during what appeared to him an unreasonably long period to spend in the process of adornment.
When Frank and Charlie met in the coffee-room, the sailor too made his appearance, and, with much circumlocution, managed to deliver himself of a request which had evidently been all the morning brewing in his mind.
“If it was not a liberty, Master Charles, and you, too, Mr. Hardingstone, I should make bold to ask of you both to let me join company in a cruise. I conclude as you’re bound to London this afternoon at the latest—soon as ever you’ve got rigged out decent and presentable. Well, gentlemen, you see I’ve a little business, too, in London town. I haven’t been there not since, Mr. Hardingstone, you lent me a hand so kind, and I’ve got to be there, sooner or later, about the fishing business; for, you see, my mates, they wish me to be spokesman like with our governor, and he can’t leave London—so, in course, I must go to him. Now, if it wasn’t too great a liberty, I should be proud if you gentlemen would let me wait upon you, just for the voyage like. I can’t bear to part with you so soon: and though you’ve no luggage, seeing all your traps is still aboard, and spoilt by now, and I can’t be useful to you, I should like just to see you and Master Charlie safe into London town, and shake you both by the hand there afore we part.”
Need we say the permission was joyfully granted, and that the afternoon train bore the trio in company to the metropolis, whence Charlie and Frank were to start next day together for Newton-Hollows?
THE TOAD WITHOUT THE JEWEL—AN INCLINED PLANE—TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE—THE FIRST PARALLEL—THE FAMILY GONE OUT—A PLAN OF THE CITADEL—HOW TO GET IN—NO QUARTER—A TRIP BY RAIL—STRANGE COMPANY
“Sweet are the uses of adversity” to some malleable natures, which, bending to the storm, rise from it softened and refreshed as from an April shower; but there are desperate and rebellious spirits on whom grief and misfortune seem to have an exactly opposite effect. Such are more prone to kindle into resistance or smoulder in despair, and whilst the humbled penitent kneels meekly to kiss the rod, the hardened offender gnashes his teeth in impotent fury, and glories in his mad career as he forces himself from bad to worse, even to the very threshold of destruction—“game,” as the poor fool calls it, “game to the last.”
Such was the disposition of Tom Blacke. When his child died, the whole of his better nature seemed to have followed the infant to the grave. He had nothing now to care for in the world; and it is needless to enlarge upon the danger of such a state. His wife’s misconduct—for she, poor woman, maddened by despair, had but followed her husband’s example, in drowning sorrow with drunkenness—added fuel to the flames; and Tom was descending, just as gradually and as surely as one who walks step by step into a cellar, down into the lowest abyss of infamy and crime. The gradations are imperceptible, there are many windings in the path, but it never fails to terminate in the black gulf. At first the wayfarer may be easily checked and turned aside; but every onward step increases his velocity and his helplessness (the laws of gravitation are no less true in the moral than the physical world), and though a gossamer might have held him at starting, a chain of iron shall not break his fall as he nears the bottom. The beginning, too, is as insidious as it is effectual. The cheerful glass, the harbinger of good fellowship and kindliness, who would be such a churl as to deny a man the harmless pleasure of indulging in moderation with a friend? But one cheerful glass creates a craving for another, and ere long the liquor begins to have a charm of its own independent of the company. Then the dose must be increased, or it loses its power, and nightly indulgence begins to be followed by daily reaction; so a trifling stimulant is taken in the morning, just to steady the nerves and keep the cold out—a salutary precaution in this damp climate! Then the pleasure becomes a necessity, and partial intoxication begins to be the normal condition of the man. Meanwhile the habit is expensive, but who can doubt that the moral sense becomes blunted in so unnatural a state? and the drain on his means is supplied by the toper’s application of his wages or other resources to his own brutal gratification. Self-indulgence soon destroys the sense of self-respect, and the temptation to procure money is irresistible, for without money how can he purchase drink? So the man first begins to lie, then to cheat, and lastly to steal. He has now arrived at the second stage in his downward journey. He has enlisted in a profession which has its rules, its customs, its triumphs—nay, to a certain extent, its pleasures—but from which there is no release. The drunkard is now a thief, and, to deaden the stings of conscience, no less a drunkard still. Then comes madness, for a state of habitual excitement can but be called madness, and visions of daring recklessness rise in the brandy-sodden brain—perhaps a sort of false ambition to triumph amongst his fellow-ruffians impels him to crimes of deeper dye than any he has yet contemplated, perhaps a vague longing for peril, perhaps a morbid thirst for blood. The wretch plots under the inspiration of brandy, and spurs himself to action with the same maddening stimulant. His nerves fail him at the critical moment, or the frenzy of despair dyes his hand with the ineffaceable stain of murder. In the one case a living death in the hulks separates him for ever from his fellow-men; in the other, the just retaliation of the law leaves his body quivering on the gallows, whilst his name becomes a byword and a curse in the mouths of generations yet unborn. This is the third and last stage of the downward journey; further we dare not follow the culprit; but few arrive at this awful ending without having gone regularly through all the previous gradations. Tom Blacke had only reached the second stage. He was now a professional thief and receiver of stolen goods. The lodgings in the Mews could now show curiosities and valuables that any one but a policeman would have been surprised to find in such a place. Gold watches, silks and shawls and trinkets, yards of brocade, ells of lace, and last, not least, a caldron always on the boil for the manufacture of that all-absorbing fluid which is called “white soup,” and sold by the ounce, surrounded the once virtuous Gingham in her once respectable home. She, too, was on the downward track, and she drank to stupefy the sense of guilt, which she could not altogether stifle, and from which she had not energy to extricate herself. Mr. Blacke, however, as he began again to be called, allowed no conscientious scruples to interfere with business. He dressed well now, always had plenty of money at command, might be seen at many places of public resort, and though aware that the police had their eye on him—to use a common expression, that they were only giving him “rope enough to hang himself,” and would undoubtedly “want” him ere long—he appeared resolved to live out his little hour with the usual blind recklessness and infatuation of his kind.
Blacke was a plotting villain, and he had been for some time meditating a daring sweep that should eclipse all his previous doings, and, if not thwarted, realise a share of booty that would place him above want for the rest of his life. In order to discover and frustrate his plans, we must take the liberty of overhearing a conversation carried on between him and his confederate, in a small snug parlour off the bar of that very public-house in which Hairblower had been so shamefully hocussed and robbed on his former visit to the metropolis—an excursion he was not likely soon to forget.
“Bring a quartern of gin,” said Tom to the flaunting maid who waited on him, as he took his seat at the council-table, with a bloodshot eye and shaking hand, that showed such a stimulus was by no means unnecessary. “Shut the door, girl,” he added, in a threatening voice, as the undiluted spirit was placed on the table between him and his companion; “this gentleman and me has matters of business to talk over; see that we’re not disturbed—d’ye understand?” The girl gave a saucy smile of intelligence, and left the two worthies to their consultation.
“My service to you,” said Tom, abruptly, as he lifted a brimming wine-glass full of gin to his shaking lips.
“Here’s luck,” laconically replied the gentleman addressed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and turning his glass down upon the table to show how religiously he had drained every drop.
There was an ominous silence—Tom felt the moment had arrived to explain the whole of his plans, and he paused a little, like some skilful general, as he ran over in his mind how he should impart them in the clearest manner to his companion, a man of somewhat obtuse intellect, though strong and resolute in action, and who was indeed no other than Mr. Fibbes. That worthy’s appearance had decidedly changed for the worse since we had the honour of making his acquaintance at the truly British game of skittles, or even since we last took leave of him in earnest conversation with his patron, Major D’Orville. He had sustained two domestic afflictions, from each of which he had suffered severely: the one in the loss of his little black-eyed wife, who had been suddenly taken from him, and who, although, as he himself said, she was a “rum ’un when she was raised,” had certainly kept him out of a deal of mischief; the other, in the premature death of his pride and prime favourite, Jessie, whose sufferings during distemper and subsequent dissolution he averred would have moved “a ’eart of stone.” Under the influence of these combined sorrows Mr. Fibbes had neglected his person, and taken more decidedly to drinking than formerly, and was now seldom or never in his right senses; a fact sufficiently attested by his bloated red face, his dull leaden eye, and general appearance of dissolute recklessness. He was indeed ripe for mischief, or, to use his own words, “up to anythink, from skinning a pig to smothering a Harchbishop,” a frame of mind very likely to lead to dangerous consequences. Tom filled his glass once more, and opened the plan of his campaign.
“It must be done to-night, Mr. Fibbes,” he remarked, with polite energy; “this is the last night we can manage it cleverly, on account of the moon. See now—I’ve been down in the neighbourhood to make sure. My missus, she knows the place as well as I know you. Bless you! she was bred and born there. But I wouldn’t trust to that. I’ve been waiting down about there for a week. At last, the family they all goes out a hairin’ in the phaeton or what not—I walks boldly up to the front door and rings the bell. Up comes the housekeeper, all in a fluster, settling of a clean cap—thinks I, the footman’s gone with the carriage, and the butler’s out shootin’, and directly his back’s turned, the under butler he’s off courtin’, and the boy when the coast’s clear, he runs out to play cricket, so there’s no one left but the women—trust me for managin’ of them.”
“Good,” said Mr. Fibbes, approvingly, as he filled and emptied his glass.
“‘Is the General at home?’ says I, quite promiscuous, and looking up and down the portico like a harchitect.
“‘No, sir,’ says she, politely enough; ‘did you wish to see him?’
“‘It’s of no consequence,’ says I, pulling a bundle of prints and a measuring-line out of my pocket, ‘merely a small matter of business; the General’s confidential servant would do as well.’ Ye see I knowed the butler was out, else he’d have answered the door.
“‘Perhaps you’ll leave a message, sir,’ says she.
“‘O ma’am,’ says I, ‘it’s a matter of no importance, only I am going to town by the train to-night. Perhaps, ma’am, as you seem to be the governess, or a relative of the family, you might give me permission to do all I want.’
“‘What is it?’ says she, looking as pleased as Punch.
“‘Well, ma’am,’ says I, ‘the fact is, I’m engaged in preparing a work for publication that shall comprise all the principal seats of the nobility and gentry in the Midland Counties; would you oblige me by glancing over the proofs? and if there are any that strike your fancy, pray favour me by acceptin’ of them,’ says I. ‘Your noble family owns one of the finest residences we have yet surveyed, and we shall be proud to do justice to it.’”
“Good,” again grunted Mr. Fibbes, who was beginning to weary of the detail, and wanted more gin to keep him awake.
“Well,” resumed Tom, “with that she takes me into the hall, and shows me over the drawing-room, and the dining-room, and the conservatories; and she stops and pints out a statue—rank indecent, I calls it, without a rag of clothin’ to bless itself—and the pictures, and what not; but I wasn’t satisfied with this here; what I wanted was to know where the plunder was stowed, and though pictures may be very profitable to them as sells ’em, the plate-basket’s more in my line of business than those shammy gold frames that make such a show, and isn’t worth half-a-crown a yard. ‘You’ll excuse me, miss,’ says I (they likes to be called miss when the bloom’s off ’em a little), ‘but I’ve always understood as the offices in this house is a perfect pattern as regards servants’ accommodation and general arrangement. Now, my governor, he’s building a country residence for the Earl of Aircastle, and if it wasn’t takin’ too great a liberty, I might ask to be allowed to inspect the basement; I could get a hint or two that would please his lordship, who’s a very particular man—uncommon.’ With that she hesitated a little, and looked hard at me, so I goes at her again: ‘I wouldn’t detain you, miss,’ says I, ‘but perhaps you’d be so good as to ring for any of the hupper servants, and they could do all I want.’
“‘Oh,’ says she, smiling again, ‘I’ll show you over the offices myself.’ With that, blessed if she didn’t take me down-stairs, and walk me through the sculleries, and the kitchen, and the pantry, and the servants’ hall, and the back-kitchen, and the housemaid’s closets—precious corners they was, too, for a game of hide-and-seek—and the butler’s room, where he sleeps the nights he isn’t off to Bubbleton on the sly; and I could put my hand on the plate-chest in the dark, and I know where the General keeps his money, and there’s gold watches and such like in the drawing-room, that would make a matter of a hundred pounds directly they saw old Sharon’s back-shop; and I kept my eyes open, as you may easily believe, and I’ve got it all in my head now, let alone a bit of a plan I’ve taken of the place just in the rough;” and with this Tom pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket, and proposed with its aid to elucidate the manœuvres he proceeded to put in practice. “You and I can do it all,” said Tom, “just the same as we stripped the old hall near Devizes. I don’t relish more than two, not if a job’s any way ticklish, and I do like to finish off my work neatly, I confess. Now, look ye here, Mr. Fibbes, this is how we’ll act—the station’s not ten minutes’ walk from the house, and the mail-train stops there about 12.50. There’s a luggage-train comes by about three in the mornin’ that would bring us back quite handy, and we should have plenty of time to finish off handsome, and so be home to breakfast. Take another drain, Mr. Fibbes: talking’s dry work.”
Mr. Fibbes seemed to think the same of listening, and acquiesced with great good-will.
Tom Blacke got up, opened the door to see no one was eaves-dropping, peeped into the cupboard, and into a red-curtained snuggery off the bar, commanded by a small window in the room he now occupied; and having satisfied himself that both were empty, proceeded to unfold his plans.
“We’ll leave the trap behind us this turn, Mr. Fibbes. We can carry all we shall want; there’s my light valise and the blue bag will hold everything; we shan’t take anything that’s very hot, nor yet very heavy. You mind to put on the green spectacles, just for the journey, and I’ll be the man with the prospectuses, the same as before, for the station-master’s a smart chap, and maybe he’ll know me again.”
“I mustn’t forget the jemmy,” grunted Mr. Fibbes.
“The jemmy!” replied Tom, in a tone of injured feeling; “what’s the use of the jemmy? This ain’t a rough job, Mr. Fibbes; you seem to take no pride in your profession! No, no; you just put the centre-bit in your coat-pocket for a precaution, and leave the rest to me. The back-scullery’s our place; it’s got a regular sash window, and opens with a common hasp; there’s a shutter, too, but I see a cobweb across it when I was there, and I think maybe they sometimes forget to fasten it. So you and me we alights at the station as though to walk into Bubbleton, then we come quietly up to the house, takes a bit of brown paper and treacle, and so breaks a pane in that scullery window without a chink of noise, then in goes a hand to unhasp it, and you and me, Mr. Fibbes, we walks in without a hinvitation. Now, look you here,” and Tom produced his chart of the interior, “we goes quietly into the butler’s room—he’s safe to be at Bubbleton, because it’s a theatre night—we takes a piece out of the cupboard with a centre-bit—none of your noisy jemmies—and we stows away the plate in the blue bag; then we creeps along the passage, and so up the back-stairs there” (pointing to the plan with his finger) “into the drawing-room; and here, Mr. Fibbes, I shall want your assistance, in case of haccidents. Ye see one of the ladies she sleeps above the drawing-room, and ladies is mostly light sleepers. Now, from what I’ve heard tell of this one—the governess she was—she’s as likely as not to come down if she hears any disturbance. She might know me, for she’s seen me along of my missus in Grosvenor Square. If she should walk in—. Take another drain, Mr. Fibbes—what’s that noise?” broke off Tom, abruptly, his white face beaded with perspiration, and his lip working in guilty trepidation.
“Noise? there’s no noise,” replied his confederate, looking doggedly up to him, though a strange light shone too in his bloodshot eyes; “if she should walk in, what then?”
“Why, run the long knife into her,” hissed out the less daring villain; “it makes no noise, and she’ll tell no tales.”
“Share and share alike, and it’s a bargain,” said Mr. Fibbes, dashing his great hand heavily down on the table. “D—n me, Tom, you’re a deep ’un; you put me in front in that last job, and so help me I didn’t clear five pounds. I’ll have none of these games this turn, and if I have to whip out the ‘bread-winner,’ I’ll be allowed something handsome over and above, see if I won’t.”
“Of course, Mr. Fibbes,” replied Tom, “honour amongst gentlemen. You understand the plan now, I think, or would you like me to go over it once more?”
“Bother the plan,” remarked Mr. Fibbes, who was a man of action rather than a man of science; “let’s have another quartern and be off—why, it’s getting dark now.”
“Easy,” said Tom, “we’ll just call at my place for the instruments, and so walk on to the station. It’s a nice fresh night for a jaunt into the country; but what a thing it is when gentlemen can combine business with pleasure!”
Mr. Fibbes grunted a hoarse laugh of approbation, and, having finished their gin, these two worthy members of society walked off, arm-in-arm, on their nefarious expedition. It is needless to say that Newton-Hollows was the house for which they were bound. General Bounce and his unconscious family, resting peacefully and securely as usual, were to be robbed, and, if any resistance arose, were to be murdered before daylight, and this because Tom Blacke, being, as he said, connected with them by marriage, and having received many acts of kindness from the warm-hearted old General, had obtained a sufficient knowledge of the inside of his dwelling and the habits of his household to make a descent upon his property with every prospect of success. After a vehement discussion with Mr. Fibbes, who was extremely anxious to travel first class, and whose aristocratic prejudices were so shocked when he found his confederate would by no means consent to this imprudent arrangement, that he nearly threw up the job altogether, the worthy couple stowed themselves away in a roomy compartment of the second class, and were soon steaming along from the lights of London, into the dark, broken masses of the cool, fresh country.
Though, in this instance, the power of steam seemed friendly to the purpose of these two finished ruffians, they could not divest themselves of certain superstitious misgivings, which probably they would not have entertained had they been bounding along on two free-going horses, like the gentlemen highwaymen of the olden time, or even bowling merrily down the road in the light spring-cart, and behind the “varmint” bay mare that made the pride of a cracksman in the early part of the present century. But the rail! there was a deal of insecurity about the rail. That electric telegraph, too, was the devil. At every station they almost expected to see the face of some too well-known detective glaring in behind the station-master’s lamp, and to hear the unwelcome though civil greeting with which he would request the favour of their company. Then might he not be even now in the next carriage, separated from them by that half-inch of woodwork? Mr. Fibbes scowled as he contemplated the possibility of such proximity, and clutched more than once at the long knife. Still they sped on, uninterrupted; half the journey was already satisfactorily performed. A succession of respectable good-humoured second-class passengers got in and out, and handed their bundles and pattens and umbrellas across the two housebreakers, and entered into conversation with them, and thought the dark smaller man a vastly accommodating person, and his morose companion a stout well-to-do grazier coming home from Smithfield, judging of them just as we cannot help judging of our temporary companions, particularly when travelling, and making probably no worse shots than we all do in these fancy biographies à la minute. But there was a man in the next carriage to the two professionals who puzzled everybody. A stout fellow he was, with a shiny hat, but no power on earth could get him to utter a syllable. Some thought he was dumb, and some made sure he was drunk.