That evening Carstairs hung round the post office from half-past
seven to half-past eight, he was thinking of going away when Mrs
Darwen's new maid turned the corner at the end of the street, he
waited under the big arc light outside the main entrance. As she
came into the light, he stepped up and raised his hat.
"Good evening, Miss Darkey," the name almost stuck in his throat.
"Good evening, Mr Carstairs," she gave him a polite bow.
"How is your mother?" he asked.
"Better, thank you." She hardly seemed inclined to stop.
"What was the matter?" he asked. He was rather at his wits' end for
something to say to detain her.
"I don't know," she answered. She looked at him, he thought, with a
little amusement. "We gipsies never give names to our complaints.
It may have been appendicitis, or fever, or a cold. Mother took herb
tea, and she's better now."
"I'm glad of that," he said and stuck.
She passed on into the post office.
"Well, I'm damned," he said to himself. He was beginning to lose his
temper. He watched her purchase some stamps at the counter--her
profile seemed even better than her full face; the contemplation of
her beauty cast a spell over him, for once in his life Carstairs felt
rather hopeless. She did not look like a servant in her best
clothes, but like a lady in poor circumstances. He noticed the
obsequious civilities of the clerk at the counter, and thought what a
pitiful ass the fellow was. He stepped up to her again as she came
out, a little blaze of anger in his eyes.
"Look here! What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she answered, gazing at him in cold surprise.
"Well, why didn't you speak to me the other evening?" He was rather
flabbergasted, he could not realize that this was the meek little
girl he had known in Scotland.
She raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. "It's not usual for
servants to speak to guests, unless they are spoken to," she said.
"No, er--may I walk home with you?" As he looked into her eyes he
thought for a moment, he saw some resemblance to Darwen.
She hesitated a second, and he, watching closely, caught the light of
a little look that made him feel very happy. "Yes, if you like," she
said, and just for a moment the long black lashes swept the cheek as
he had seen them once before.
With much alacrity he stepped on to the off side, and they proceeded
down the street.
"You've changed wonderfully since I saw you last," he said.
"Have I?" she asked.
"Improved," he said, "wonderfully! I had no idea that much
improvement was possible, but I see it was." Carstairs was not
usually a man of many words, yet that glimpse of the 'something' in
her eye seemed to have loosened his tongue. He noticed that she
flushed slightly with pleasure.
"You're improved, too," she said, "you're older. How's Miss
Bevengton?"
They were just turning the corner. A long vista of electric lamps
and lighted shops opened out before their gaze. He was just about to
answer her question (which had struck a jarring note) when the whole
long perspective of light suddenly became eclipsed, went out, as if
by magic.
"Confound it! That's a breakdown at the works. I shall have to go.
I'll put you on your road home, and then, if you'll excuse me, I'll
make a bee line for the works."
"You need not trouble about me," she said. "You seem to forget that
I piloted you through the woods when you couldn't see your hand
before your face."
He hesitated; the trouble at the works called to him like a siren.
As a result of many years of habit, other things seemed to fade into
temporary insignificance.
"Are you quite sure you don't mind?" he asked.
"Quite," she answered.
Something in her tone seemed to warn him, but he didn't quite grasp
the situation. His brain seemed clogged, the siren of groaning
engines and flashing fuses seemed to hold his mind enthralled. He
held out his hand.
"Good-bye."
She took it coldly. "Good-bye," she said, and turned and was
swallowed up in the darkness.
At the bottom of the street Carstairs jumped into a hansom and dashed
up to the works shortly after the breakdown had occurred. He found
the shift engineer (a very young man with a very young moustache)
trying to do fourteen different things at once, and incidentally, by
vigorous tugging, endangering the very existence of the moustache.
When a breakdown happens at an electric lighting station, it is the
lot of the shift engineer to be called upon to do fourteen different
things at once. In the first place, various fools, in various parts
of the town, ring up on the telephone to tell him the lights are out:
as if he were not painfully aware of it at the start, for it may be
taken as an axiom, that when the lights are out in the town, they are
very much in in the works; then the engine-drivers get flurried at
the unusual display of fireworks around their engines; the
switchboard attendant (who is usually a budding shift engineer) makes
a frantic grab for the wrong switch and jerks it out, making
confusion worse confounded; then the stokers get excited because
their boilers are blowing off like to burst and they can't see the
water in them; and at the finish of all when the poor shift (usually
a very young man) is priding himself on getting rather well out of a
tight place, the chief (usually also a very young man) rings up to
ask why in thunder he did not do something altogether different, or
why he did not do what he did in much quicker time, or else waits
till next morning and harshly asks why the shift engineer had not
arrived, in a small fraction of a minute, at the same idea of what
was best, that he, the chief, had, after a night's rest and a few
hours' consideration.
When Carstairs arrived the very young man in question had just
decided to cut all the other thirteen things and stick to the one
vital point. He was getting another machine ready as Carstairs
mounted the switchboard steps.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"Pump juice into it," the very young man answered with a little
joyous gleam in his eyes. 'Pumping juice into it' is theoretically a
rotten way of treating a fault, but practically the act operates as a
soothing balm to the troubled and revengeful soul of the junior
engineer.
Carstairs, although a capable and careful engineer, was very youthful
himself. "Alright. Let it go," he said. "Old Farrell will take all
night to locate it probably, otherwise."
So they "pumped juice into it" for some time, and burnt out several
yards of expensive cable, till almost simultaneously with the mains
superintendent and his gang of disreputable looking labourers, a
policeman arrived to report "smoke issuing from between the paving
stones at the corner of High Street."
"There you are!" Carstairs said, triumphantly. "There's your fault
accurately located for you right away. I don't know what you mains
chaps want Wheatstone Bridges and Potentiometers, etc., for."
"It's all very well," grumbled Farrell. "But who is going to locate
the other faults you've started in the process."
"My dear chap, you must do something for your living."
The mains superintendent grunted, and went away.
Carstairs got on the station "bike," and cycled out to Darwen's. The
cook opened the door to him. He was rather disappointed, but he did
not dwell on it long. He was ushered into the drawing-room. He
shook hands with Mrs Darwen.
"Breakdown in High Street," he announced bluntly.
Darwen was sitting at the piano, he had swung round to face Carstairs
as he entered. "Hurray!" he answered in an unemotional voice at the
announcement of the news.
"I was just turning the corner of High Street with--a friend." He
caught Mrs Darwen's eye as he hesitated slightly on the word, she
smiled delighted approval. Darwen's eyes gave a little flicker from
his mother to Carstairs, and unnoticed, he smiled, ever so slightly,
too: Carstairs continued. "I had just turned the corner when the
lights went out. I--er--jumped into a hansom--"
Mrs Darwen looked at him in pained surprise, so that he stopped in
wonder.
"What about your friend?" Darwen asked, and his eyes were very bright.
"I--er--I left her in the street." For three generations or more,
the Carstairs had spoken the truth (mostly), this, the youngest scion
of the sturdy old stock, could not easily bend to deception.
Darwen laughed aloud. "Carstairs has got a girl, mater," he said
with much amusement. "He was just regaling her with a little light
converse about volts and engines when the lights went out, and he
forgot all about the girl, and hurried off to the works." He paused
and looked from his mother to Carstairs with brilliant sparkling
eyes. "What's her name, Carstairs?"
Carstairs looked helplessly at Mrs Darwen and remained silent.
She looked perplexed, angry, and sorrowful, all at once.
Darwen laughed again. "Oh, mater!" he said. "I didn't think it of
you! Accessory before and after the fact. Aiding and abetting old
Carstairs to break a poor girl's heart: he was getting on so nicely
too, just about to propose, when something distracted his attention
and he forgot all about it, and the girl and everything else, so that
she came in here half way between tears and chucking the pots and
pans about. And now, two hours afterwards, old Carstairs turns up to
finish the remark he was about to make. And it's lucky for you, old
chap, that she's not in, because she'd either have gazed at you as if
you were an unclean reptile, or else she'd have chucked the furniture
at you."
Carstairs sat down limply. "Has she gone away again?" he asked
helplessly.
"Yes. The same boy came and fetched her, her mother is worse. She
thinks nothing of walking ten miles across country at this time of
night. I offered to pay for a cab or something, but she wouldn't
hear of it."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs Darwen. D'you--d'you think she was
really offended?"
"Of course she was. I passed her in the hall as she came in, but
don't let that worry you, old chap. The course of true love never
did run smooth, you know if there were none of these little
obstructions and full stops and side issues, the real thing would
never be awakened. You may take it as an axiom that if a girl never
feels she'd like to chuck the fire-irons at you, she doesn't care
tuppence about you; at least, that sort, with those eyebrows and
eyes, and that free, swinging carriage. I'm in love with that girl
myself."
Carstairs sighed somewhat heavily. "Then you'd better get out of
love as soon as you can," he said, with a little laugh, "or we shall
fight. I begin to appreciate the spirit of the duelling age, I think
it would give me real pleasure to scrap with somebody just now." He
laughed again, but there was a gleam in his eyes that both Darwen and
his mother noticed. Darwen's face lighted up with appreciation, but
his mother looked very sad.
"I wonder how this shut-down will affect our chances of a rise?"
Carstairs remarked.
"Oh, that's alright, old chap. I have so many good friends on the
council now, that I'm not a bit afraid: There's going to be a duel
between old Donovan and the doctor. It'll be rather good, I expect,
pity you can't come to see the fun: they're going to rebel against
the iron rule of Dr Jameson, the whole council is sick of his
autocracy. Donovan will open the ball with a sledge-hammer attack;
Jenkins will back him up with some nasty hits below the belt; the old
Doctor will roar like a bull in pain, but I think he'll be beaten
this time. I shall enjoy it anyway."
He swung round to the piano again, and dashed into a lively waltz
tune. "That's the first dance I ever danced with Isabel Jameson," he
said over his shoulder. "This is ours, I believe!" "Thanks very
much." "Very nice floor." "Yes." "Rotten weather!" etc., etc., he
quoted, laughing lightly. "Then, three months later, behind those
imitation palms at the foot of the stairs, to the strains of this
tune in the distance (he changed to a very slow dreamy waltz) I
proposed to her. If it hadn't been for this tune, I shouldn't have
done it that night. But it was so appropriate, the opportunity
seemed unique, so I spoke up. Isabel, (I never really cared for the
name of Isabel, you know), Isabel, may I call you Isabel? I love
you. Then--"
His mother stepped up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Hush, Charlie! You don't know what you're saying."
"I assure you, mater, I remember it quite distinctly. It was one of
the most exciting events--"
"My boy, the girl's going round the town looking like a shadow since
the engagement was broken off."
"Is she? I'm very sorry, I haven't seen her." He seemed thoughtful
for a minute. "She was alright, you know, jolly decent in fact, but
we could never have paired--she was silly. There is a Providence,
mater. ''Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved
at all,' you know; these little afflictions sort of temper our
natures, accentuate and harden the good qualities we possess."
"And the bad."
"That's so, of course. Good and bad, simply a matter of opinion.
I'm an optimist, I see no bad in the world, it's all good. Carstairs
there is a grumpy old pessimist, he hasn't got time to smile, he's
too busy trying to decide what's good and bad, and honest and
dishonest, etc. And he don't know at the finish. Comes round here
trying to steal my girl and talks about fighting when I expostulate
with him. I tell you the more you think about honesty, the more
fogged you get."
"My dear chap, in that respect I'm not fogged in the least."
Darwen strode over to him and clapped him on the shoulder, "Buck up
then, and go in and win, I surrender all rights. Take a day off
to-morrow and drive over to this place in a cab. Take a nice little
gold watch or something, as a peace offering. Then, if I were you,
on the strict Q.T., I should give her a punch in the eye; her ma'mas
for generations past were probably wooed that way, and it would
appeal to her in spite of herself."
His mother laughed and looked at Carstairs. "Really I should go over
if I were you."
"Can't go to-morrow," Carstairs said definitely. "Got to see the
test of that new engine."
Darwen drew himself up and threw out his chest with mock gravity.
"I'm the chief, and I tell you you can go."
"You can say what you like, I'm not going unless you give me the
sack."
"I'd do that for two pins. Shall I, mater?"
"No, not now. She'll be back in a few days."
"Perhaps. Oh, these consciences. Thank God, I haven't one."
His mother stood up and looked at him sorrowfully. "I don't believe
you have very much, Charlie, but pray God you may get one."
Darwen laughed. "That's alright, mater. I've got a jolly good
conscience, but I keep it in the background," he said.
Carstairs stood up and held out his hand to Mrs Darwen. "Good night.
I'm afraid I've kept you up."
"Oh no," she said. "Drop in whenever you can."
"Thanks, I will." He went out into the night and wended his way
slowly home. As he turned the corner of the long tree-shaded street
in which his diggings were, a man sprang out of a shrubbery behind,
and rushed at him with a heavy bludgeon. Carstairs, lost in reverie,
pivoted on his heels at the sound, and ducking mechanically as the
stick descended, shot out a straight left for the man's face. It was
not a heavy blow, but now thoroughly awakened, he stepped in and
followed up with a terrific right hand drive on the chin.
He dropped like a log, and Carstairs bent over him, looking into his
face. Even by the dim light of the distant gas lamp, he recognised
his old acquaintance Sam Lee, the gipsy. He was not knocked out, but
only partly dazed by the blow, and as Carstairs bent over him, he
suddenly lashed out with a huge hobnailed boot and caught him a
vicious kick in the stomach. Writhing in pain, Carstairs collapsed
in the gutter, helpless.
The gipsy staggered to his feet, and picking up his bludgeon made
towards him. Just then a large, dark form loomed suddenly into view
round the corner. A bull's-eye lantern flashed a sudden light on the
scene, and Sam Lee sprinted off down the road with a particularly
limping shuffle, but at a good speed. The policeman started in
pursuit, but gave it up as hopeless before he had gone very far; he
stopped, blew a shrill call on his whistle, and returned to Carstairs
who had now got upon his feet, still bent double with pain.
"What is it, sir?" he asked. "Robbery with violence, or what?"
"Brutal assault, or attempted murder, God knows which," Carstairs
groaned.
"Ah!" the policeman said, producing a note-book. "It's Mr Carstairs
of the electric light, ain't it, sir?"
"That's it, and the other man is Sam Lee, gipsy who was condemned for
burglary about two years ago."
"Oh, that's it, is it? He was only let out a week ago. 'As 'e got
anything agen you, sir?"
Two other policemen were already in view. Carstairs, almost himself
again, waited till they arrived, and told all three the tale. They
listened with no sign of surprise, (the English policeman is never
surprised), but they took profuse notes.
"We'll soon 'ave 'im," they said.
Next morning at the works, Carstairs sat in Darwen's office, and told
him the tale of his adventure.
"Well, it doesn't matter a curse if it all comes out now, old chap,
your position here is firmly established."
Carstairs was thoughtful. "My people won't like if it gets into the
papers. I wonder what the girl thinks about it."
"Oh, you may bet your boots she's used to that sort of thing. I'm
going off to the meeting now. Wish you could come too, sure to be
some fun. However, you'll see that engine tested?"
"Yes. I'll put 'em through their paces. The contractor's men are
downstairs now."
"Ah, well, ta ta. You'll be worth £50 more per annum when I see you
again." Darwen laughed and disappeared through the door.
Carstairs went down into the engine-room, and looked all round the
new engine and dynamo. "Seems to me damn small for the power," he
said to himself.
Late that evening they met again in the office. Darwen was beaming.
"You've got your fifty quid, old chap, and I've got my hundred. It
was grand, never had so much sport in all my life. Donovan opened
the ball: I tell you I hardly recognized myself under his glowing
eulogies. The Doctor objected. Then Donovan went for him. By Jove!
old Donovan _can_ talk. But the old Doctor was grand, he stood up at
the head of the table with his great chest heaving and his beard
seemed to quiver with anger. 'Retract,' he roared, when old Donovan
got personal, I tell you he fairly frightened 'em. If I hadn't been
there, he'd have crumpled 'em all up. I'll swear they each and every
one of 'em shivered when the old man glared at 'em. Bull baiting's
not in it. Donovan was about collapsed when I caught his eye and
frowned at him, then we went for the Doctor like a tiger. The others
seemed to buck up then, till the old man roared. 'Get outside, sir,
you're not fit to speak to a decent assembly,' he said. Then I put
my spoke in, I swear Donovan would have gone if I hadn't. 'Come!
Come! Doctor,' I said. 'Hold your tongue, sir,' he roared. 'You've
no right to speak at all.' That old man thinks he's the schoolmaster
of this town. Then Jenkins gave him a hit below the belt. 'This is
Mr Darwen, not Mr Wakeley,' he said. That's a patient of the
Doctor's, who died the other day with something the matter with his
tongue. The old man took no notice. Then Evans gave him another
dig, and Smith had a rap at him. Little Winter got up to speak to
him too, but when the old man wagged his beard at him, his knees gave
way, and he sat down suddenly without saying a word; I never saw
anything funnier. Then Sullivan got up and screamed like a man with
the devil behind him. (I was the devil, most pleasant sensation I've
ever experienced). Donovan capped it, and John Brown put a word in
for us, too. I like that navvy, and I think the Doctor does too, he
very seldom bullies him, and gets as good as he gives him. They
ought to put up a grand scrap, those two, if they ever got going,
just about a weight. Anyhow it's passed alright, and there's no
mistake Donovan worked like a Trojan. How did the test pan out?"
"Oh, it's off. The damn thing wouldn't do much more than three
quarters of its load. I knew it wouldn't."
"Go on! Is that right?" Darwen's face expressed incredulous
surprise, there was a sort of smile there too, with a strange little
flicker of the eyelids whose long lashes were drawn down till they
almost completely shaded the brilliant, beautiful eyes.
"That's quite correct."
"This is serious. We must have another test to-morrow. I'll be in
myself."
"Alright, but I know she can't do it. She hasn't got the dimensions,
anywhere."
Darwen laughed suddenly. "You're such a stickler. We mustn't be too
hard on them, you know, Peace on earth, etc., you know. And we've
just had a rise."
"That's alright, of course, but I imagine we want what we pay for."
"Yes, yes, of course," Darwen said, picking up his hat. "Good
night." He went off rather suddenly.