Meanwhile, the subject of the previous conversation is seated in a
private room before a merry crackling fire, small reflections of which
lurk here and there in the dark polished oak with which the walls are
panelled. Everything in the apartment has an extremely comfortable
appearance save its living occupant, and his features wear an
expression totally at variance with his surroundings. He is twisting a
crumpled note between his fingers; while, judging from the expression
with which he regards it, his feelings can scarcely be of an agreeable
nature. The offending epistle is written in a bold decided hand, which
harmonises well with the short and haughty tenor of its contents. As a
perusal of this may enable the reader more clearly to understand the
ensuing narrative, a copy is here inserted:
Colonel Thorpe presents his compliments to Lieutenant Ainslie,
and in reply to that gentleman’s letter of this morning, begs
to state that any overtures from him relating to Miss Thorpe
will receive an absolute negative. It is also requested that
Lieut. A. will discontinue his visits to Coombe Hall, as Col.
T. wishes him distinctly to understand that this decision is
final.
_Dec. 22, 1760._
The exasperated recipient of this ungracious piece of writing makes
a movement as if to consign it to the hungry blaze which is roaring
up the chimney; but checking himself ere the action is performed, he
places the missive in a side-pocket, and falling back in his chair,
resigns himself to a long train of unenviable reflections.
* * * * *
Next morning, the sun, first a dull crimson, and then yellow as a
copper ball, slowly mounted above the horizon and pierced cloud and
vapour with its struggling rays. Snow-clad roofs and chimneys, whose
quaint outlines could scarcely be distinguished from the leaden sky
a short time before, now became flooded with a rich golden light,
contrasting strangely with the blue mist that lingered in the shadows.
As yet, it was only the high gables and towers which had caught the
cheering beams; the streets and lesser thoroughfares were gloomy, dark,
and silent, while ruts and gutters were fast bound with King Frost. The
good people of Fridswold had not the reputation of being early risers,
and with a few exceptions, the streets were almost totally deserted;
but our friend who figured last night as a guest at the _George_, at
least appeared to be no sluggard, for he was out, and walking quickly
along, the iron-tipped heels of his riding-boots bringing forth a smart
click from the frost-hardened ground.
Lieutenant Ainslie was not bent upon sight-seeing; he had other matters
to attend to. The wintery beauties of the early morning seemed
completely lost upon the young officer, and he passed the great west
front of the minster—all flecked with ‘hoary flakes’—without bestowing
so much as a glance upon it. His course was continued until the
irregular outskirts of the town were left behind, when a large imposing
red-brick mansion came within sight. The grounds which surrounded it
were separated from the public highway by a substantial wall of rough
masonry; while parallel with this wall extended a belt of fine trees,
now leafless, and shivering as if with cold. Keeping to the road until
a turn shut out the palatial residence from view, the young officer,
after a hasty look around him, vaulted the wall, and then shaped his
way across the white stretch of private ground.
Slowly and uncertainly he proceeded, often stopping to look back, and
more than once referring to his watch as well as to a dainty note, the
writing of which was in a delicate female hand. At length, after many
turnings and much doubtful wandering, he emerged from the underwood
and entered upon a small cleared inclosure containing a rustic
summer-house, now fretted with a glittering network of snow and ice.
Into this the lieutenant stepped, frequently looking out in a furtive
manner from the narrow doorway, as if in expectation of some one.
After a long interval of anxious expectation, certain sounds were heard
which seemed to indicate the approach of a human being. The soldier
sprang eagerly forward, and then as quickly shrunk back again. A slight
crackling of dry twigs was followed by a hoarse cough, and the cough
was followed by the unwelcome appearance of a red-faced man with a gun
upon his shoulder, but fortunately not passing in the direction of
the arbour. The lieutenant knew him at once. It was the fiery-faced
man whom he had seen at the inn the previous evening. ‘Ah,’ said he
to himself, ‘I see it all. Colonel Thorpe’s gamekeeper—sent down last
night to play the spy upon me. It is well he has not seen me now.’
Not many minutes afterwards, a young lady burst into the arbour, with a
little cry, half of fear and half of pleasure. It could be nothing more
nor less than a lovers’ meeting after all.
The lovers’ first tender greetings over, they seated themselves side
by side in the little arbour, and talked to each other in a low voice.
The state of alarm in which she evidently was, sent a brighter flush of
colour to her lovely face, and enhanced in her lover’s eyes the graces
of her person.
* * * * *
Some twelve months before the present meeting, Colonel Thorpe made a
sudden resolve to spend the winter in London; and fearing to leave
this his only daughter out of his sight for any length of time, he
determined to take her with him also. The season was a tolerably gay
one; but the colonel, an austere man, though much in request at the
houses of titled and wealthy friends, cared little for society, and
constantly refused invitations both on behalf of himself and his
daughter. Such a high pressure of circumspection could not last for
ever. Receiving an earnest request from Lady Hardy—a friend of many
years’ standing—that they would honour a fashionable entertainment with
their presence, Colonel Thorpe somewhat relented, and meeting Amy’s
wistful gaze with a smile which he intended to be severely pleasant, he
told her to prepare herself to accompany him on the following Thursday.
At this intelligence the young lady was naturally delighted; and even
her severe parent condescended to relax and bring himself to converse
about the forthcoming ball. This agreeable demeanour he sustained until
about the middle of the festive evening, when, as if by magic, his
spirits suddenly lowered to freezing temperature. He had observed that
a well-favoured, handsome young gallant had danced three times with
his daughter in the course of the evening. Now, the crusty old colonel
did by no means approve of this, and was not aware that his daughter
had more than once met the same young gallant since coming to London.
In answer to inquiries which he made as to the unknown partner of his
daughter, he learned that his name was Ainslie, that he was a subaltern
in the Guards, and the only son of a widow lady of title, once wealthy,
but now reduced in circumstances. His informant added, that though the
young officer was not rich, he was of prepossessing manners—a piece
of information which scarcely appeared to afford gratification to
the master of Coombe Hall. Immediately upon receipt of this news the
angry colonel sought out Miss Thorpe from among the dancers, and after
bidding a hasty adieu to his hostess, drove away with his daughter from
the house.
Colonel Thorpe’s temper was not improved when, on the day following
the ball, he received a call from Ainslie; but in a short political
conversation which ensued, the visitor—strangely enough—contrived to
advance in his good graces considerably. Still, the colonel, who was
habitually suspicious, did not encourage the young officer. He had only
the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that the penniless son of Sir
Henry Ainslie, deceased, was a suitor for his daughter’s hand.
‘Amy,’ he said to himself, ‘must return to Coombe Hall. The wiles of
this dangerous young man can be kept at a safe distance there.’
But railways were as yet things of the future, and the weather became
an unexpected ally in Ainslie’s favour, the colonel’s departure being
thus delayed for fully a week. During this time Reginald contrived to
see Miss Thorpe several times, as well as to ingratiate himself with
her father, who listened to his visitor’s conversation and wit with a
mingled feeling of approval and distrust. The time passed quickly; and
when Reginald parted from Amy Thorpe it was with many protestations of
eternal devotion, to which that young lady replied with equal warmth.
Colonel Thorpe wished Ainslie a formal ‘Good-bye,’ and the lovers were
separated from each other for a weary space of ten months.
The interval was not unfraught with change. Reginald had the good
fortune to be raised in rank, and now entered upon his full grade of
lieutenant. Since the departure of Amy Thorpe he had endeavoured to
keep up a correspondence with her; but the age in which they lived,
though practically a fast one, was slow enough in some respects, and
the means of communication were so unsatisfactory, that long intervals
elapsed between an interchange of letters.
At the close of October 1760, the tidings of King George II.’s death
became known throughout the greater part of the kingdom; and following
closely upon the spreading of this intelligence came a letter from Amy
to Reginald, containing the joyful news that Colonel Thorpe was on his
way to London to attend the opening of parliament by the new king, and
that his daughter was coming with him. Ainslie, after the expiration of
a few days, presented himself at Colonel Thorpe’s former apartments,
where the first person he encountered was that worthy officer himself,
stiff, irritable, and in a decidedly unpleasant temper. Their
conversation commenced with a formal exchange of civilities, and
Reginald seated himself on the chair which was pointed out to him, calm
and unruffled in countenance, but with a heart which he had steeled and
prepared for the worst.
Colonel Thorpe was glad that Lieutenant Ainslie had called, as he
wished to have some serious conversation with him. There had been a—in
fact there had been a correspondence kept up with his daughter, an
interchange of letter-writing and—and that sort of thing, which must be
discontinued.
‘Am I to understand, sir,’ said the young officer, with difficulty
repressing his growing wrath—‘am I to understand that you wish me to
resign all pretensions to Miss Thorpe’s hand?’
The colonel did not exactly say that; he said the correspondence must
be discontinued for—for a time. If at some future date Lieutenant
Ainslie could show satisfactory proofs that he would be able to
maintain his daughter in a position of comfort and dignity consistent
with that in which she had been brought up, he (Colonel Thorpe) might
feel disposed to listen to any advances Lieutenant Ainslie thought
proper to make. Till then, all interchange of sentiment must cease.
That was all; Colonel Thorpe had nothing further to say.
Ere another week had passed, during which the lovers met but once,
the colonel’s apartments were again vacant, and Reginald Ainslie was
wondering at what remote period of his life he should again see Amy
Thorpe. Poverty was the bane of the young soldier, and the monotonous
round of barrack-life was by no means the royal road to wealth.
Reginald, however, had for some time been meditating over a deep-laid
purpose, the object of which was to recover an ancient property which
his immediate ancestors, by their Jacobite proclivities, had forfeited.
On obtaining leave of absence, therefore, shortly before Christmas, he
set out for Fridswold, and made a series of excursions to Coombe Hall,
to lay before his beloved Amy all his hopes and fears, and to receive
from her encouragement in his momentous quest. But his proposed visit
had been put a stop to by the colonel’s letter, and now this secret
meeting in the arbour was the next expedient of the faithful pair.
For a while, the joy of meeting was so great that all other things were
forgotten; but Reginald could not long shut his eyes to the barrier
which destiny and the will of Colonel Thorpe had placed between the
lovers. He was still poor; he was not yet able to fulfil the colonel’s
stipulation. But he had hopes, and these he could now breathe into
Amy’s sympathetic ear.
‘What would you say, Amy, if I were to tell you that I am the bearer of
good tidings?’
‘I should say the news might be too good to be true,’ replied Miss
Thorpe. ‘O Reginald, it cannot be; you do not mean it?’
‘I do, Amy,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘For what purpose do you suppose
I undertook this journey?’ he added, after a pause, and turning so as
to face his fair companion.
The girl’s blue eyes opened to their fullest extent, and she answered
in a slight tone of wonderment: ‘To see me. Was it not so, Reginald?’
‘It was, dearest,’ said the lieutenant; ‘but if I were to say that I
came in search of you alone, my words would be false.’
‘Then pray, sir, may I not know your other reason?’ inquired Amy
laughingly. ‘Have you an appointment to meet some other distressed
damsel in these lonely parts?’
‘Nothing of the kind,’ replied Ainslie, more earnestly than the
question seemed to warrant. ‘You alone, Amy, I came to see, and it is
principally on your account that I am about to journey farther.’
‘On my account!’
‘Yes, Amy, yours; this journey is all for your sake. I will explain
myself. For some time past, I have been urged to take a singular step
by one who believes that our lost wealth may be actually regained.
The idea is a vague and most likely a visionary one, and had I never
met you, Amy, it is probable that the task of unravelling this coil
might not have been essayed. It was Colonel Thorpe who clenched my
half-hearted resolution by informing me that I must not hope to call
you mine until possessed of sufficient affluence to maintain you in a
position equal to that in which you had been brought up. Those words
struck home. I instantly formed a fixed determination, and am now
about to follow it up, for which purpose I intend to start this very
afternoon.’
‘This afternoon!’ echoed Amy. ‘Why so soon, Reginald? You have been
here no time at all. When did you arrive?’
‘The day before yesterday,’ replied Ainslie. ‘But do not blame me,
dearest, for not seeing you before. I repaired to Coombe Hall almost
directly after I got here, hoping to see both you and your father, and
having no thought that admittance would be refused.’
‘O Reginald, I am so sorry!’ faltered the girl. ‘What could I do? Did
they really refuse to admit you?’
‘They did,’ answered the young officer. ‘But I am perfectly aware it
was no fault of yours. I then wrote to your father, asking permission
to see you, telling him that I had some expectation of recovering what
my parent so unfortunately lost, when I hoped to be able to maintain
you in a manner worthy of our ancient house. But two hours afterwards,
my letter was returned!—yes, returned, Amy, and with it was inclosed
a note from your father forbidding me to enter the house or seek an
interview with his daughter. I disobeyed the latter part of his
injunction, and have succeeded, darling, in meeting you once more.’
As we intend to follow Reginald in his quest, it is needless to repeat
here the story of his hopes as he hastily unfolded them in the ears
of Amy Thorpe; enough that, after remaining together as long as, or
perhaps longer than prudence enjoined, the two tore themselves asunder,
with thrice-repeated vows of fidelity and affection. The remembrance of
their tender parting was to Reginald in after-years like a strain of
sweet, bygone music passing through his memory.
That very evening the young lieutenant quitted Fridswold. His way
lay in a different direction from that leading to Coombe Hall, and
the farewell glance he gave back only showed him the black bulk of
the minster towering above a mass of smoky chimneys. The suburbs
of the town were speedily left behind, and soon a prospect lay
before Reginald’s eyes which for savage desolation he had never seen
surpassed. Extending as far as the eye could reach, stretched a dreary
waste of flooded fields, black peat, broken ice, and frozen sedge,
dotted at remote intervals with a few scanty willows. The wind was
rising again, bringing up with it heavy clouds, and its moaning voice
rustled among the patches of alder and withered rushes like a low,
dying murmur. Taking warning by these signs, Reginald urged his horse
forward to a quicker pace than hitherto, riding swiftly and eagerly
into the gathering darkness of the night.
THE RING-TRICK.
A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.
Some four years ago I was one of the many hundreds of somewhat
aspiring youths who were seeking positions as Civil servants under
our government. In order better to work up for the very difficult
examinations which it is necessary to pass in order to gain these
positions, I had joined the evening classes of a well-known London
college. These classes were held twice in every week, and it was on
my way to one of them from my home—I live in a northern suburb of the
metropolis—that the events I am about to relate took place.
I had alighted, at about five o’clock on an autumn evening, from a
train at the King’s Cross terminus of the Great Northern Railway, and
was proceeding along the Euston Road, when, having half an hour to
spare, I turned off to the right to enter Euston Station. As I passed
under the heavy stone portico just to the south of this immense depôt,
I observed a man about two yards in front of me, who, just as I noticed
him, came to an abrupt halt and stooped down. So suddenly, indeed, did
he do this, that I stumbled over him, and tendered an apology for what
was not my error. As he regained his vertical position, he spoke to me,
and said in a confidential tone: ‘Did you see that?’
I asked him what he meant.
‘Why, this diamond ring. I nearly trod on it. Just look here.’ And he
showed me what was apparently a gold diamond ring; and then went on
to say, that if I had seen it, I should have my share of the find; or
that, as he was a poor man, and as it might arouse suspicion for the
ring to be found in his possession, and since, as he could not get rid
of it, it would be useless to him, he would sell it to me for a trifle.
I was not at that time—owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of London
ways—so cautious as I am now; and thinking, from the various government
stamps upon the ring, that it was indeed a valuable one, I told him I
would think about it, if the diamond were a good one.
‘Come up here,’ said he, pointing to some back street, ‘and let us see
if it will cut glass.’
I walked with him in the direction he indicated, and with much coolness
he tested the stone upon a shop-window. Surely enough, it made a deep
incision in the glass.
‘Well,’ I said, feeling now tolerably convinced of the genuineness of
the ring, ‘I would give you ten shillings for it, but I unfortunately
have a few pence only in my pocket.’
‘Ah, that’s a pity. Do you live far from here?’
‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘some twelve miles at least.’
‘Ah, well, there you are, you see; that’s a pity, because you are a
gentleman, and the ring would be all right with you; but I am only a
poor messenger—at this moment I am on one of my errands—earning a pound
a week, and if I tried to sell it, people would suspect me. However,
since you say you have not enough money, I will keep the ring and
attempt to get rid of it. At anyrate, we’ll part friends. Come and have
something to drink with me.’
I refused, for the man was not of a very attractive appearance, being
dreadfully pock-marked and squinting in his right eye. So we said
good-evening and separated, he to carry out his errand, I to walk on
into Euston terminus.
On relating the adventure to my friends, we came to the conclusion
that the man was an impostor, and had purposely dropped the ring and
stooped to pick it up immediately in front and for the sole edification
of myself, evidently hoping that I should purchase it—probably a sham
one—from him.
Two years after the above had occurred, my business—I had abandoned
the idea of the Civil service—led me one evening along that wondrous
thoroughfare the Strand. Proceeding westwards, about midway between the
Temple Bar memorial and Charing Cross, I collided somewhat violently
with a man immediately in front of me, who had stooped with the evident
intention of picking up something off the ground. He turned round
sharply and exclaimed: ‘Did you see that?’ at the same time showing me
a gold diamond ring, which he stated he had found on the pavement, and
on which he had nearly trodden.
I will not weary the reader with a verbatim account of the conversation
which then ensued. Suffice it for me to say that I had recognised in
the man before me the pock-marked and squinting hero of the Euston Road
of two years before. In order, however, further to convince myself that
my impressions as to this were correct, I, apparently taking interest
in what he had found, allowed him to do and say, act for act and
word for word, all that he did and said on the first occasion of my
meeting him. He tested the diamond by cutting glass; said he was a poor
messenger earning a pound a week; was even then on one of his errands;
thought that the discovery of such a ring in his possession would
excite suspicion; and—— Well, I neither need, nor will I, rewrite the
whole of the first portion of this narration, for what now took place
was its precise counterpart.
I taxed the swindler with having played the same rôle at Euston
Station, two years previously.
He replied, in the most naïve manner: ‘Ah, then I was in Liverpool.’
But he was, I suspect, somewhat astonished to find out that I knew him.
Again did he ask me to drink with him and to part friends.
It is almost needless to add, that though I might have done the latter,
I certainly did not do the former, he being evidently a swindler. And
so we separated for the second time, he disappearing up one of the
tributary streets of the Strand, I proceeding about my business.
It struck me as being very wonderful that this man, whose profession
it doubtless was to entrap people—young and unsuspecting—in the manner
I have described, should have on two separate occasions, between
which there was an interval of two years, singled out myself as an
intended victim to his fraud, since I am but one of tens of thousands
of the youth daily to be remarked walking in the London streets. The
remarkable blunder of the impostor proves how correct is the well-known
proverb, ‘A liar should have a good memory;’ and the facts here
narrated may perhaps serve to put others on their guard against the
wiles of London street swindlers.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
INVESTIGATIONS ON LIGHTS AND LIGHTHOUSES.
For some time past a series of observations and experiments have been
carried on under the auspices of a Committee of the Elder Brethren
of the Trinity House, at the South Foreland, chiefly relating to
the measurement of lights by means of a photometer—the invention of
Mr Vernon Harcourt—the standard light of which burns with wonderful
regularity and uniformity. The Committee are now engaged on a still
more interesting series of observations, which are made from the sea,
and which will more nearly concern sailors. These experiments and
observations for testing the capabilities of various lights will be
peculiarly remarkable, as craft of almost all descriptions will be
enlisted in this work: the mail-packets, the Peninsular and Oriental
liners, pilot vessels of different nationalities, trading-ships, and
French cruisers. The electric light, of course, is immensely superior
to either gas or paraffine oil; but even this, from its whiteness and
dazzling brilliancy, has not been found to be so very much better, in
thick hazy weather, than either oil or gas, the reddish-yellow of the
latter perhaps showing better through the haze of a sea-fog than the
white glare of the former. All these points will, however, be carefully
gone into, and every sort of test applied to discover the best and
safest light to direct mariners to and by our coasts; and when all is
completed, the Committee will record their useful labours in a full
Report to the Board of Trade, a document which will possess peculiar
interest for all who have at heart the welfare of ships and sailors.
LEVEL-CROSSING GATES.
Level crossings on railways have always been considered dangerous to
the public, and are generally looked upon with disfavour; and yet, in
certain places and positions, it is next to impossible to avoid them.
Therefore, wherever a level crossing exists, gates must be provided to
arrest the traffic on the road when a train approaches the crossing;
and it is clear that the more perfect the arrangement for the opening
and closing of the gates, the better for the safety of the public. An
ingenious proposal has been made in France to call in the powerful
aid of electricity for the purpose of opening and closing gates of
this description. The gates are kept closed across the line by a catch
governed by an electro-magnet. An approaching train, by a simple
arrangement, is made to close the electric circuit at a stated distance
from the gates, and the catch is therefore released and the gates
are opened and kept open for the passage of the train. When the last
carriage has passed, the circuit is broken and the gates are made to
shut, when they are kept closed by the catch already referred to. The
same current also rings a bell to give warning of the approach of the
train.
A HAWTHORN STORY.
Pink and white in snowy shower,
Shade and light and leaf and thorn,
From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom
Through diamond lattices scented the room,
When a child of the summer was born.
Golden green and creaking swing—
Boy and girl are playmates now.
‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’
‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply,
Under the hawthorn bough.
Oh, perfume sweet!—_she_ pulled the branch;
Flowers on her face fell tenderly;
At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’
Light in the lattice and stars above,
And ‘Take this bloom from me.’
Summer again, and a last good-bye,
Fair head resting in sunset ray;
Beyond the window and western glow
Fancy flutters to long ago:
‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’
Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye—
‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’
Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed,
Manhood’s tears from a drooping head
Trickling on still cold hand.
Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree,
Where’er his lonely footsteps fly,
Arise and waft her memory sweet;
White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet
Beyond the last good-bye!’
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._