With keen curiosity Carstairs turned up at the police court to watch
the trial of "Sam Lee, of no fixed abode," on a charge of burglary.
The prisoner pleaded not guilty, but the evidence was too damning,
and he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment.
Carstairs came away with a feeling of relief like a schoolboy on
holidays. Any lingering feeling of pity that he had entertained for
the man he felt he had wronged, was dispelled by the sight of the
hard, savage face in the dock. He studied it closely at his leisure
and in the daylight, as the man stood there on his defence, the beau
ideal of the Bill Sykes of fiction. A face of very great animal
strength, showing extreme tenacity of purpose, and unrestrained
passion, in every line of the features; he was considerably thicker
and heavier about the chest and shoulders than when Carstairs had met
him face to face in the dim light of the dawn in Scotland; the eyes
had not the shifty, suspicious expression that one associates with
the habitual criminal; they were dark and deep set, protected by
massive bony projections all round; eyebrow and cheek bone rose in
strong relief above and below; the eye itself was steady and slowly
moving, it glowed with a sort of slumbering, malignant hatred; he
looked the magistrate and the police and everyone else steadily in
the eyes with a surly defiance. This was the child of the moorland
and the wood transplanted to the slums, absorbing into the depths of
his strong, deep nature the terrible germs of the diseased life of
the city. Apparently he didn't see Carstairs, or if he did, he gave
no sign of recognition.
The following Sunday Darwen was on shift, but Carstairs went to
church all alone, to St James'. On the way out the vicar's wife and
two daughters met him. The good lady greeted him effusively.
"And where's Mr Darwen?" she asked. Carstairs observed that both the
daughters' eyes seemed to light up with super-added interest as they
awaited his reply. "He's on shift," he said.
"How horrid," the elder daughter remarked, "to have to go
to--er--business on Sunday."
Carstairs laughed. "Call it work," he said, "sort of thing you take
your coat off to."
"But not on Sunday?"
"Well, perhaps a little less than on other days. As a matter of fact
it's mostly pretence, just to show you are really ready if necessary.
But what you really do is to walk about with your eyes and ears as
wide open as they'll go, like the officer of a ship, you know."
"Oh, but the officers do more than that. I've seen them."
"So do we sometimes; in fact, in some of the cheap and nasty
stations, where the chief is an ex-ironmonger, and the councillors
are labourers out of a job, we have to do quite a lot with our hands,
and so, of course, do less with our heads."
"Why! the chief here is an ex-ironmonger, isn't he?" Carstairs
raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly an ironmonger, was he?"
The vicar's wife intervened. "Do you think he is really competent?
There has been a lot of dissatisfaction in the town, you know."
"Well, we caught a burglar for you the other night," Carstairs evaded
the question.
"Yes, I'm so glad! Oh! I hope you and Mr Darwen will come to our
little dances; we hold a series every winter, you know. They're
rather nice. Mrs Mellor is the moving spirit and men are so scarce.
They start soon now."
"Thanks very much, I shall be very pleased to, and I know Darwen
will."
Talking thus, Carstairs accompanied them till their ways divided,
then he proceeded thoughtfully by himself to his diggings. He sat
down in the big easy chair. Darwen's book-shelf was at his elbow; he
glanced idly along the names on the backs. "Curious taste for an
engineer to read poetry," he mused. His eye rested on "The Prince"
by Machiavelli. "Darwen's favourite," he thought. He took it down
and glanced through it. It was a dainty, leather-covered volume with
gilt edges. Three hours later when Darwen returned, he found
Carstairs deeply immersed in the last chapter of his favourite book.
He looked at him curiously. "Hullo! Got 'The Prince,' have you?
How do you like it?"
"Well, I want to think about it. He seems to point out that you
mustn't do things by halves. By the way, I went to church this
morning."
"Good man."
"Had a long yarn with Mrs Moorhouse and the little Moorhouses."
"What had they got to say for themselves?"
"Said the lights were bad."
"Good."
"And that the chief was an ironmonger."
"Good."
"And they've got some dances coming off which they hope we'll attend."
"You said we would, of course."
"Yes, and to-morrow I'm going to look up a dancing expert and take
lessons. It's as well to do the thing well while you're about it."
"I say again, Carstairs, there's much of the original Saxon in you.
How long did it take you to come to this decision?"
"About half an hour--that is to say, it took me that time to decide
that I would go in for dancing. The rest followed as a sort of
corollary."
Darwen's eyes gleamed with approval. "I'll play you a tune," he
said; he struck a note idly and listened to the vibrations
tentatively for a few moments. "The foundation of engineering
science is a knowledge of the strength of material," he observed
thoughtfully. "Before one builds a bridge or an engine it is
necessary to correctly apportion the size and quality of the various
parts." He struck up into a lively dance tune.
"That's a waltz, isn't it?"
"Yes, why?"
"I want to get the hang of the tune, that's all."
Darwen laughed, and rattled on waltz after waltz, till he was tired.
Next day Carstairs consulted the local directory and made a note of
all the teachers of dancing, and for the following three weeks, he
waltzed for an hour a day, as regular as clockwork. Darwen
alternately chaffed and encouraged him, but he took it all alike with
a steady, tolerant smile, puffing slowly at his pipe. Then the first
of the little dances came off; a select gathering of about sixty
dancers with two dear old ladies to see that the proprieties were
observed. It was a suite of rooms in a comparatively big house which
had once been the residence of wealthy gentlemen, but had now dropped
into the professional quarters of a dancing master. Carstairs
acquitted himself with credit, and Darwen with distinction. He
spotted the elder Miss Jameson (daughter of the chairman of the
electricity committee) and asked to be introduced; he danced three
times with her with great success.
She was rather small, distinctly pretty, of the doll type; with
innocent, wide-open, blue eyes, and a perfect little mouth. She was
a good talker in a slightly affected juvenile sort of way; her brain,
however, was more active than it appeared; she had a lively sense of
precisely what was best for Miss Jameson. Darwen was a good talker
too, so they rattled on brightly and humorously from one subject to
another. She had a fine sense of humour, which he appreciated
immensely. He brought the subject round to the electricity works.
"I'm assisting the corporation on its way to bankruptcy," he
remarked, laughing lightly.
"How?" she enquired, and he observed by the solid interest in her eye
that she had swallowed the bait.
"Oh! I'm not doing it maliciously, of course, only following my
instructions, which are, to waste coal."
"Really?" she asked, in doubt how to take him.
He laughed again. "I'm not giving it away to the poor, or anything
of that sort, you know. But we're very, very safe here, safe from
possible failure as far as steam goes, and the price we pay for our
safety is high, excessive, it seems to me, in the matter of coal."
"Oh, but it's better to be safe, isn't it?"
"I don't know! Life is run on sporting chances, you know. It's the
ultra-cautious man who makes a mess of things and dies young."
She laughed. "I went over the electricity works once with father and
Mr Jones."
"What did you think of it?"
"Just nothing at all. Father and Mr Jones were explaining one
against the other. I don't think either of them knew much about it."
"Poor Jones! he's not really an engineer, you know."
"No, I know; he used to keep an ironmonger's shop."
"So I've heard. Would you care to come round again under--h'm--more
competent guidance?"
She laughed lightly and fixed him at once. "Thanks, very much, I
will, and I shall bring a friend, an awfully clever girl, a B.Sc.
She's interested in these sort of things, and mother."
"I shall be really delighted; as long as you come, I don't care who
you bring."
On their way home after it was all over, Darwen said to Carstairs,
"Truly, fortune favours the bold. Do you remember that passage of
old Nick's about fortune and women, that they both favoured the
young? Youth is simply a matter of indiscretions; many old fools of
sixty ought to be wheeled round in perambulators."
Carstairs paused to light a cigarette, his face illuminated by the
fitful flare of the match, was pre-occupied, absent. "From which I
conclude," he observed between the puffs, "that you have been
indiscreet."
"Not indiscreet, simply bold, and you, you seem to have something on
your mind."
"Ye--es! It's being borne in upon me very forcibly that there is no
girl that I have met yet to compare in face or form or intelligence,
that is to say, my idea of intelligence, with a certain gipsy maiden
in Scotland, or at least, Chilcombe."
Darwen's eyes gleamed--the thrill of the waltz, the excitement of the
evening, was in his blood. "Damme! I must see this girl. I observe
that in many things our tastes agree, perhaps I may be able to
relieve you of her."
"No! By Jove! you won't!" Carstairs faced round abruptly and looked
him in the eyes.
They looked at each other for some moments, then Darwen smiled. "By
Jove, Carstairs, you are badly hit."
"Well, perhaps I am. But, you know, none of those girls to-night
gave me an impression of genuineness; artificial and superficial,
stereotyped, unoriginal, like the pawns on a chess-board, only
capable of moving (intellectually) in one direction; they all held
precisely the same views on precisely the same subjects, and they had
absolutely no reasons for holding them, and yet they are so
superlative."
"Dear boy, they're young."
"So was the kid. Seventeen, I think she said. Yet she gave me the
impression of having thought about things."
"You're Saxon, Germanic, heavy. Have you read any German philosophy?"
"No! Why?"
"It suggests lager beer and sausage, many generations of 'em. Flat,
ponderous, indigestible. I prefer champagne, and--er--some of those
French dishes, you know."
"No, I don't know."
"Well! damn you for a Saxon, I don't either, but I've heard of 'em.
You ought to have said you knew! Don't you see how you prick the
effervescing bubbles of conversation?"
"Not at all! It seems to me I'm keeping it going."
"Yes, with a sledge hammer."
"Alright. England was built with the sledge hammer. I admit that
I'm naturally a slogger."
"Precisely; you prefer the cutlass to the rapier."
"Not a bit, I prefer the twelve-inch gun. Which brings me naturally
to Bounce. Do you admire Bounce?"
"I do."
"Then I can explain. Bounce bears the same relation to the other men
that the gipsy kid bears to other girls."
"Then I admit that she must be good."
They let themselves into their diggings, and Darwen sat down in an
easy chair, and whistling softly to himself one of the tunes he had
just been dancing to, he gazed absently in front of him, but there
was a happy light in his eyes; he stopped whistling suddenly and
addressed Carstairs, who was mixing himself a whiskey and soda.
"Do you know I have an idea that our respected chief will not be with
us much longer?"
"Why?"
"He'll get the sack, or have to resign."
"In that case he'll get his deserts. Can't understand how he got the
job."
"No, you have no comprehension whatever of the rapier, or perhaps we
should say the stiletto, or the back stairs."
"Suppose Robinson will get the job."
"Robinson will go first, I'm afraid." There was a touch of real
sorrow in Darwen's voice.
"You're a funny chap, you know, Darwen. Who's going to get it, then?"
"Well, I shall have a shot for it, of course. How would you like
Robinson's job?"
"First class, for a time."
"Precisely. 'For a time.' I don't imagine that either of us will
petrify here." Darwen's eyes had a strangely humorous glitter, he
arose and stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Good-night,
old chap!"
"Good-night."
A few days later Darwen showed Mrs and Miss Jameson and their clever
friend (who was also exceedingly plain, such is the balance of
nature) round the works. Carstairs was on shift. His coat was off,
his hands grimy. Darwen introduced him, the old lady and the clever
girl took possession of him. The clever girl catechised and examined
Carstairs like a police court lawyer. The old lady listened with
dignity and entire mental oblivion.
Darwen and Miss Jameson wandered off by themselves.
While the clever girl was asking Carstairs for precise chemical
information as to the residual scale left in the boiler, Darwen was
explaining in an obscure corner of the works that that collection of
big tanks was a water softener, where there were great big hammers
going round to crack up the lumps in the water.
Carstairs and the clever girl argued about "ides" and "ates." Darwen
and the pretty girl laughed and joked and made ribald remarks in the
face of dignified 1000 H.P. engines.
A week later the second of the little dances came off. Carstairs
took it seriously, and Darwen lightly. One of the dear old ladies
who acted as chaperone this time was Mrs Jameson. Darwen was most
attentive. He fetched her wraps when she got cold, and saw that she
had a liberal supply of the best refreshments going. He was asked to
call on Sunday.
He did so. The old doctor and he discussed the electricity works.
"The place ought to pay, you know," Darwen said, and the doctor shook
his head.
Then a big dance came off, and Darwen sent Miss Jameson a spray of
flowers, white roses. He was a regular caller at the house now.
It was well into December and the mayor was holding a huge reception
at the Town Hall, when the electric light failed and could not be got
on again. Darwen was on shift. The entire switchboard was burnt
down. The mayor in his robes and the other councillors in evening
dress, descended in anger upon the works, which were not far from the
Town Hall. The chief was away, but Robinson was sent for in a cab.
He came, he saw, and remained helpless and useless.
Darwen was very cool and very civil, but the councillors did not
bully him, he stood inches taller than any one of them, and there was
a sort of snaky glitter in his eye; he did not seem the sort of man
to be bullied. It was obvious he was master of the situation, the
massive-looking Robinson was in a pitiable state of collapse.
Next day in answer to a wire the chief returned. The gods (which is
the press) called for a human sacrifice. The local influence of
Robinson was big, but the chairman seemed unaccountably heavy in
favour of Darwen; then the mayor and several aldermen had seen that
Darwen knew his work, while apparently Robinson did not. The chief
sacked Robinson, and Darwen, as next in seniority, was promoted in
his stead.
A month later the engagement of Darwen to Miss Jameson was publicly
announced.
All this time Carstairs had pursued the even tenor of his way
undisturbed. He grew more silent and thoughtful than ever; of Darwen
he saw very little, except when they met at the works, or at dances,
which Carstairs still consistently attended. There was a light of
triumph continually in Darwen's eyes; he seemed very happy over his
engagement. After he was made chief assistant he and Carstairs saw
more of each other at the works; they spent long hours in
consultation about the work, a common bond seemed to be drawing them
even closer together. One day Carstairs remarked, "I'm going home
for a week end next week. Would you and Miss Jameson care to come
with me?"
"Thanks, old man, I should like to go, and I think the girl would
too."
On the Saturday afternoon the three of them set out for Chilcombe.
When they arrived there was quite a house party. Stephen, Jack's
artist brother, was at home, and Commander John Carstairs and the
Bevengtons were invited to spend Sunday. As the five big men sat
smoking after dinner, the old vicar repeated his congratulations to
Darwen. "I hope Jack will be as lucky," he observed. "Hasn't he
shown any decided preference at any of those dances yet?"
"No! honestly I can't say that I've observed it."
"Oh, but Jack's booked," Commander Carstairs remarked.
"How? To whom?"
"Why! the girl he pulled out of the river, of course. You can't get
out of that, Jack."
"Pulled out of the river?" Darwen asked in surprise. "You never told
me, Jack."
"No. I don't think the subject ever arose, did it?" Jack puffed
solemnly at his pipe.
"There's no need to talk about it, it's a settled thing, eh, Jack?"
the sailor would not be denied his chaff.
They looked expectantly at him, but he continued to puff away in
silence, there was just a suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.
"What's her name?" Darwen asked.
"Bessie Bevengton. She's coming here to-morrow."
"That's alright, Jack; I'll see that you're not disturbed," Commander
Carstairs said boisterously.
"Jack'll have to make up his mind soon then; she's a catch in the
marriage market now. Her uncle left her ten thousand pounds the
other day."
"Ten thousand pounds! Why, that would cover a multitude of sins,"
Darwen observed.
The Reverend Hugh smiled. "Oh, but I'm sure she doesn't want any
gilding. She's a very nice girl and good looking."
The budding artist opened his mouth languidly, he was going to speak.
They paused to listen, it seemed that he had something weighty to
say. "She's--ah!--somewhat obese, don't you know." They laughed.
This young man had been budding for a very long time, but as yet he
had produced no appreciable flower. Cheltenham and Oxford had made
him a finished gentleman, but not apparently able to earn his own
living. He was a taller edition of Jack, rather better looking, but
he lacked the steadiness of eye and firmness of mouth. "If I had ten
thousand pounds I'd go to Paris and settle down."
"What should you do, Jack?"
"Jack and I are working out a patent in the corporation's time."
Darwen looked at the Reverend Hugh with bright, hopeful eyes.
"Ah! is that the thing you told me about, Jack?" his father asked.
"No--o, this is another."
"Something better?"
"Well, hardly as valuable I expect."
"Is that the----" Darwen paused, but Carstairs said no word, so he
proceeded. "The thing you're working out on the night shift?"
"Was working out. It's finished now, or very nearly."
"Finished!" Darwen's eyes grew abnormally large and bright. "Have
you patented it?"
"No. It's in the rough yet. Quite a secret still."
"At the works?"
"No--o."
"Going to make more than ten thousand out of it, Jack?" The sailor
had been watching Darwen intently.
"I rather hope so."
Next day the Bevengtons came back from church with them, and spent
the entire day at the Vicarage. They were a jolly party. Darwen, as
usual, was the life and soul of it. He was very attentive to Miss
Jameson, but he often caught Bessie Bevengton's eye. Jack and she
were never left alone, they exchanged common-places and chaff.
"Oh, Jack!" she said, and she seemed to watch him closely. "You know
that handsome housemaid at Lady Cleeve's?"
"Yes!" Jack answered, and Darwen gave him a quick glance that Bessie
saw.
"Well, a little while ago she horsewhipped the footman; he offended
her somehow. They say she's stronger than a good many men."
Again Darwen shot a meaning glance at Carstairs, and again Bessie saw
it.
"Bully for the girl," and there was a thrill of admiration in his
voice that was apparent to all.
"Personally, I don't like amazons," the artist remarked.
"I suppose she got the sack?" Jack asked.
"Oh no. Lady Cleeve is quite interested in her. The footman was
discharged."
"Serve him right."
There was an awkward pause in the conversation, then Jack spoke
again. "Do you remember a man called Bounce sailing with you, uncle?
A sailor, an A.B., a boxer."
"Bounce? Bounce?"
"He was on the 'Mediterranean.'"
"Ah! Yes! I remember. Bull-dog Bounce, they called him; he had
half a dozen other nicknames, too. I remember one night hearing a
voice on the lower deck, 'Halgernon Hedward, I shall tell your ma'ma
of you.' He was a splendid fellow, great pity he left the Service."
"Yes. He's sorry himself now. He's an engine-driver with us."
"A pity, a great pity! He dived overboard once in the Indian Ocean,
swarming with sharks, to get his straw hat which had dropped over. I
had to reprimand him for quitting the ship without leave."
They all laughed, and the sailor launched into a host of anecdotes.
On the following Monday as they went back together, Miss Jameson
said, "What an exceedingly nice girl Miss Bevengton is."
Jack answered "yes," so that when they were alone together, his
fiancée told Darwen that Carstairs was not in love with Bessie
Bevengton.
Meanwhile things at the electricity works had progressed, there had
been another failure of the supply. All the churches in the town
were in darkness on Sunday night, and a steam pipe had burst and
scalded a man to death. The papers were frantic. Some demanded a
complete review of the staff of the electricity works, others
suggested that the chief be asked to resign. All agreed that
something would have to be done.
The committee sat in solemn conclave. "Who shall we sacrifice?" they
asked, and the heavy weight of Dr Jameson made it the chief. He
pointed out that during the short time Darwen had been chief
assistant, the coal costs had gone down enormously, and he was in a
position to say that still further sweeping reductions could be made
if that brilliant young engineer were allowed a free hand. Dr
Jameson was known as the strong man of the council; he usually had
things his way, and he did so now.
So Mr Jones was asked to resign, and Mr Darwen promoted in his stead
at a salary of £350 per annum. Jones had had £500, but this was only
to commence. It was probable, the doctor said, that if he made it
pay, he would have no difficulty in getting £750 in time.
Carstairs was made chief assistant at £200 per annum to commence.
"I suppose you'll get married soon now," Carstairs asked.
Darwen smiled happily. "Not very long I expect. I'm giving up these
diggings, though, of course. The mater is coming over to live with
me," he said.