For three months Carstairs worked steadily at the beginning of things
electrical; he cleaned the switchboard and regulated the volts; he
took orders from a youth, rather younger and considerably less
experienced than himself. For those three months the world seemed a
very dull place to him.
Then, quite by accident, as these things always happen, he met a man,
a casual caller, who wished to see round the works; the shift
engineer told Carstairs off to show him round, because it was "too
much fag" to do it himself.
He was an oldish man with whiskers and heavy, bushy eyebrows, just
turning grey; his questions were few and to the point, and Carstairs
seemed to feel he had met a kindred spirit at once. He listened
attentively to Carstairs' clear and concise explanations, and when it
was over he did not offer him a shilling as sometimes happened, but
in the casual, unemotional, north-country way, he handed him his card
and asked if he would like to see round his works "over yonder."
Carstairs glanced from the card in his hand to the rather shabby
individual, with the "dickey," and slovenly, dirty tie, in front of
him.
"Thanks, I'll come to-morrow," he said.
"Will ye? Then ye'll find me there at nine."
"I'll be there at nine, too."
"Then I'll see ye." He held out his hand and gave Carstairs a
vigorous grip. The name on the card was the name of a partner of a
very prominent firm of engine builders.
Carstairs felt a singular sense of satisfaction for the rest of the
evening; his perturbed mind seemed at peace, somehow.
Next morning, punctually at nine, he called at the office and was
shown round the extensive works by the old man in person. He
explained and Carstairs listened and made occasional comments or
asked questions. And ever and anon he felt a pair of keen eyes
regarding him in thoughtful, shrewd glances. When they had finished
the circuit of the works, Carstairs broached the subject of his
patent, he felt an extreme friendliness towards this rough, shrewd
man, and he knew that his labours on the patent were at last going to
bear fruit.
The old man listened. "You have a model?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll come round and see it." And so he did there and then.
In the dingy little back room of Carstairs' diggings, he examined
critically and minutely the small model.
"Ye made this yerself?"
"I did."
"Ay!" It was a grunt of distinct approval.
They took it to pieces and spread the parts out on the table, the old
man examining them one by one. He offered no comment, and Carstairs
put it together again and turned it with his hand, showing the
beautiful smooth running of it.
"Yon's well made! Are ye a fitter?"
"Oh, no!"
"Are ye not? I was. Will ye bring it round to the office?"
"Certainly." Carstairs dismantled it and wrapped the various parts
up in paper.
"I'll take those," the old man said, and seizing two of the heavier
parts, he tucked them under his arm. And thus, carrying it between
them, they returned to the big works. There a long consultation was
held. The junior partner (an ex-officer of the Royal Engineers) was
called in, and the final result was that the firm undertook to
manufacture the engine and pay royalties to Carstairs.
"I must see a lawyer and get advice as to the terms of the
agreement," Carstairs said. "I'm only free in the mornings this
week. Will that suit you?"
"What are ye getting yonder?" the old man asked, bluntly.
"A pound a week?"
"Well, ye can start here in the drawing office on Monday at £2. Will
that do ye?"
"Thanks, I'll give notice to-day."
The next six months passed like six days to Carstairs; he hadn't time
to write to any of his friends and only an occasional scribble to his
mother. At the end of that time the first engine built on his model
was finished and had completed a most satisfactory run. Then he took
a holiday, and went home.
He had entirely lost track of all his friends and station
acquaintances.
"Bessie is not engaged," his father told him, "but Darwen still
pesters her with his attentions."
Jack was thoughtful. "She's a jolly decent girl, Bessie! If Darwen
were only honest! I shall go up to London, I want to see his
mother." So next day Carstairs went off.
He called at Darwen's office.
"Hullo, old chap! How's the Carstairs' patent high-speed engine
going? Eh?"
It was the same old, handsome, healthy Darwen; bright-eyed,
pink-cheeked, lively.
"Oh, alright. Is your mother in London?"
"Well, I'm blowed!" There was that little flicker of the eyelids
that Carstairs knew so well. "Yes, there you are," he handed him a
card with an address on it.
"Thanks! When will you be out?"
"Ye gods. Ha! Ha! Ha! Good old Carstairs. The northern air is
simply wonderful for the nerves. Ha! Ha! Ha! I tell you what.
I'll go out this evening, just to oblige you. I'll go to the
theatre. I haven't seen the new thing at Daly's yet."
"Thanks!" Carstairs turned and went away. He made his way to the
address in South Kensington that Darwen had given him. It was a
boarding-house; he asked for Mrs Darwen and sent in his card. The
German page-waiter sort of chap showed him up to their private
sitting-room.
She entered almost immediately, looking older and whiter, her eyes
more bleared and her cheeks deeply furrowed. She looked him sadly in
the face.
"I knew you'd quarrel," she said.
"I'm sorry," he answered. "It couldn't be helped; we didn't really
quarrel, I called on him to-day."
"Ah!" There was a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. "Why didn't you
call on me before you left Southville?"
"I couldn't--then, he'd just broken me--chucked me aside like a
broken chisel. I sent you my best respects."
"Yes, so he said: I wondered if he lied. You're--so--I thought you
would have called--about the girl."
"I couldn't, I was broke, that was why."
"You don't usually shirk."
"No, I try not to. It didn't occur to me in that light."
"Ah!" She gave a deep sigh. "You're the best man, I think, I've
ever met. You want to know where she is?"
"Yes."
"Then you have a good appointment?"
"Well, a firm is manufacturing my engine. We think it's bound to go."
"Charlie's got an engine, too." She was watching him very closely.
"Has he?" Carstairs was rather interested.
"The drawings are in his room. I'll go and get them."
He put out a hand to stop her. "I don't expect he'd like me to see
them," he said.
"Oh! but I want you to. I can trust you."
"You think I mightn't be tempted to get revenge by cribbing his
ideas?"
"No. I know you. Besides yours is finished."
He was very serious. "That's so, but I'm full of ideas for
improvements and other things, and it is most difficult, when one
sees a thing that is appropriate, not to assimilate it consciously or
unconsciously into one's own ideas."
"Still, I'll get them," she answered. She went out and came back in
a minute or two with a drawing board and a roll of tracings.
Carstairs glanced over the drawing, and allowed just a slight smile
to pucker up the corners of his eyes.
"Ah! I knew," she said, "that's your engine."
"Oh, no!" he answered. "It's not my engine."
She looked at him and saw he was speaking the truth. She spread out
the tracing. "That girl from your lodgings in Southville brought
that round one day when he was out; he never gets angry, but I know
he was annoyed because she'd left it."
Carstairs bent down and examined it. "It's done rather well," he
said; "girls are good tracers. I left that for her to copy."
"Oh! I didn't think you--I didn't know you knew. I wanted to warn
you."
"Thanks very much, but it wasn't necessary."
She heaved a very deep sigh of relief. "That's been on my mind like
a ton weight. I was afraid my boy was a thief. Very often I was on
the point of writing to you, but--you hadn't called."
Carstairs was bent low over the drawing examining some fine work very
closely, he was so deeply interested he did not look up as she spoke.
"That's excellent work! Darwen was always an artist, in everything,"
he said.
"Yes," she answered, proudly, "he's very clever. I'm so sorry you
quarrelled. I knew that girl would come between you."
He looked up, impassive as usual.
"Yes," she repeated, "but you're the one she really likes, I know."
Mrs Darwen seemed to have grown visibly younger.
Carstairs straightened himself and stood looking down at her with his
calm steady grey eyes. "Ye-es," he said, he was thinking rapidly.
"Yes, I hope that's true. Will you give me her address; has
she--er--got a situation?"
"Oh, no! she's been in London, having her voice trained. She's got a
magnificent voice."
"Where did she get the money from?" he asked, he was quite pale, and
his grey eyes glittered like newly fractured steel.
She looked at him aghast, frightened; she put an imploring hand on
his arm. "The girl's honest. I know she is. I'm sure of it; she
was saving. I know she was saving. Perhaps Lady Cleeve----"
"Perhaps Charlie----"
"No, no! I know she wouldn't take anything from him,
because--because that was why she left."
Carstair's face lightened. "Will you give me her address?" he asked.
"She's gone down to her people again, she came to me yesterday.
They're encamped down at the old place near Southville; it suits her
father down there, he's getting old and Scotland was too cold for
him."
The words brought back a luminous vision to Carstairs; his eyes took
on a far-away look. "My word! she was full of pluck," he said,
aloud, but really to himself.
Mrs Darwen smiled with great pleasure. "If--when you've married her,
you'll be friends with Charlie again----?"
He came to earth suddenly and considered. "We shall be friends," he
said, "from now onwards, but I'm afraid we can never again be chums.
I'll call and see him before I go to the station."
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you, I'm so glad."
He shook hands and left her, and half an hour later he called at her
son's office. The office boy showed him in and he held out his hand.
Darwen grasped it with a warm friendly smile.
"In the presence of other people," Carstairs said, as the door closed
behind the office boy, "we are friends, because your mother is one of
the best women on this earth. How she came to have such a whelp as
you, Lord only knows. Do you agree?"
"My dear chap, I am honoured and delighted. It is not often one gets
an opportunity of shaking an honest man by the hand, even though the
excuse for doing so is a lie." He smiled his most charming smile.
"You're putting on weight, Carstairs."
"Yes, but I'm in the pink of condition."
"So am I."
"That's good. Your mother isn't looking so well."
"No, I've noticed it myself." A shade of real anxiety passed across
Darwen's face.
Carstairs noted it, and his opinion of Darwen went up; he stepped up
close. "Look here," he said, "she was worried because she thought
her son was a damned rogue. I've told her--at least given her to
understand, that he is not, and you'll find her looking a different
woman. Do you see?" He turned and went out.
Darwen sat back in his chair lost in thought. "That man always makes
me think. Wonderful man, wonderful man. Damn him!" He sat up
suddenly and went on with his work.
That night Carstairs reached Southville; he got out and put up at a
hotel for the night. Before going to bed he went out and strolled
round the town in the silence of the late evening. Old memories
crowded back on him, and although they were not always of pleasant
happenings, the taste of them was sweet; he had progressed since
then, and he felt, in the bones of him, he knew, that he was going
forward. His steps turned mechanically towards the electric lighting
works, and before he quite realized where he was going, he found
himself facing the old familiar big gates with the little wicket at
the side. He looked at his watch. "Eleven o'clock! Wonder who's
on." He paused a minute, then opened the wicket and went in.
"Probably some of the men who knew me are still here," he thought.
The engine room was just the same. The hum of the alternators and
the steady beat of the engines thrilled his blood. He stood in the
doorway for some minutes in silence. The sight of running machinery
was meat and drink to him. A little square-shouldered man wandered
up to ask him what he wanted. Carstairs held out his hand. "Hullo,
Bounce, have you forgotten me?"
"Well, I never. Mister Carstairs! I ain't forgotten you, sir, but
you was in the dark."
"Any one I know left on the staff? Who's in charge?"
"A new engineer, sir. They be all new since your time."
"All new! Ye gods, how fellows do shift about."
"They do, sir. I've seen hundreds come and go since I've been here."
So they stood talking for some time. "I suppose you're off at
twelve, Bounce?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's nearly that now. I'll wait. You can come round to my hotel
and get a drink."
"Thank you, sir. I'll go and wash and change. Would you like to see
the engineer?"
"No, thanks, I'll just sit on this box and watch the wheels going
round: same old box, same old wheels. How many hours of the night
have I spent sitting on this box listening to your damn lies, Bounce?"
"God only knows, sir."
Carstairs sat and waited, and all sorts of fresh fancies and ideas
thronged through his brain as the wheels went round and the
alternators hummed and the corliss gear clicked. A distinct and
complete idea for a valuable improvement shaped itself in his mind as
he watched and listened. He stood up and stretched himself with a
sigh of great content. "By Jove, if old Wagner composed music like
that, he'd have done a damn sight more for humanity," he said to
himself, with a smile at the sacrilege of the thought. To Carstairs,
Wagner was a drawing-room conjurer, not to be thought of at the same
instant as men who designed engines. Bounce came down the
engine-room towards him with his wide-legged sailor's roll. He was
attired in a blue-serge suit, spotlessly clean and neat. His strong,
clean-cut features and steady, piercing eyes showed to great
advantage in the artificial light and against the dark background of
his clothes.
"By Jove, Bounce, I can't understand why it is you're not Prime
Minister of England."
The little man's bright eyes twinkled, but his features never
relaxed. "I can't understand it myself," he said.
They went off together to the hotel, where Carstairs drank whisky and
Bounce rum. The waiter looked at him somewhat superciliously, till
he met Bounce's eye fair and square, then he seemed impressed.
"Dr Jameson is dead. Mr Jenkins is chairman of the committee now."
"Yes, I know."
They were silent for some minutes.
"Do you know this county well, Bounce?"
"Pretty well, sir."
"Ah--do you remember my telling you about a gipsy girl?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want to find her; she's round here somewhere, near the new
water-works."
"I know, sir."
"Good man. Can you drive--a horse I mean?"
"Yes, sir."
Carstairs stood up. "Now, look here, Bounce, I really cannot
understand--what the devil is there you can't do?"
"I dunno, sir."
"Can you drive a perambulator?"
"Yes--an' nurse the baby."
"Go on. Tot up what you can do. Honest. No lies, mind."
"Alright. Here goes. I can walk and run and swim; box and wrestle
and fence; shoot a revolver, rifle, or big gun; push a perambulator,
hand cart, or wheel barrow; drive a steam engine, horse, or a motor
car; stroke a boiler, feed a baby, the missus, an' the kids; scrub a
floor, table, or furniture; make and mend and wash my own clothes;
light a fire, make tea, coffee, or cocoa; make the beds and clean the
rooms; wash up dishes, lay the table and wait at same; clean the
windows, paint a house, and walk along the roof." Here he started to
digress. "I remember once in Hong Kong----"
"That'll do, I've heard all about Hong Kong. Let's hear about
Bounce."
"There ain't much more that I can do," he said.
"Nonsense! you sing."
"Oh, yes! Sing a song, play the mouth organ. Catch fish (when they
bite), dance the waltz, polka, hornpipe, quadrilles, lancers, and
schottische." He paused.
"Go on."
"There ain't no more. Oh, yes! read an' write an' do sums." He
scratched his head. "Sometimes," he added.
"I said no lies."
"Alright, cross out sums."
"What about ropes?"
"Oh, yes! I can splice, reave, whip, knot, bend, an' gen'rally
handle ropes."
"Can you shave yourself and cut your own hair?"
"Yes an' no, but mind, I have 'ad a try at that. I come aboard drunk
once in----"
"Shut up. What else can you do?"
"Drink a bottle of rum, brandy, whisky, gin, port, sherry, champagne,
beer, or any alcoholic liquors, with anybody; and spin a yarn with
the best."
"Very good. I give you a first-class character. Will you come out
for a drive with me in the morning and look after the horse while
I--while I'm engaged?"
"Yes, sir, I will. I knows all about it. I courted my missus
between the spells of three-year cruises."
"Alright. Half-past eight, here."
"Yes, sir."
Carstairs tossed him his tobacco pouch. "You can take all that's in
that."
"Thank you, sir. I forgot as to mention as I could smoke and chew
any baccy on the market. This yer--this yer," he reflected,
thoughtfully, as he emptied the pouch, "is what we calls boys'
terbaccer."
"Go on home, Bounce."
"Yes, sir." He doubled up with violent mirth.
"You should have added that you could laugh like a baby elephant."
"Yes, sir." He doubled up again, then, suddenly straightening
himself, saluted in all solemnity. "To-morrow morning at half-past
eight, sir." He turned and made his way out.
Next morning punctually at half-past eight Carstairs and Bounce set
off in a hired dog-cart for the gipsy camp. They drove along the
beautiful country side chatting lightly till they came (over the top
of a hill) into sudden view of a torn and trampled valley, teeming
with men; little locomotives steamed fussily in all directions;
gantry cranes wheeled and pivoted and travelled with large blocks of
stone from one place to another.
"That's the new water-works," Bounce said.
"Alright, let's go down, some of the men will be sure to know where
the camp is." They drove down to the deeply rutted, slushy,
entrance, a five-barred gate was kept permanently open by the furrows
of rick brown earth turned up by the heavy cart wheels. A strongly
built, healthy looking individual dressed in a tweed suit and yellow
leggings and a cloth cap, was picking his way carefully through the
deep mud of the gateway: he was the resident engineer. Carstairs
pulled up and shouted to him across the hedge, "I say, is there a
gipsy camp near here?"
The young man carefully balanced himself on a flat stone in the
middle of the sea of mud, then he looked up and pointed with his
hand. "Yes, over there! Go down to the bottom of the hill and turn
to your left, there's a bit of a common there. Light green common,
they call it."
"Thanks!" Carstairs whipped up and drove away. "Healthy chaps those
'civils' always are," he remarked.
"'Civils'?" Bounce asked.
"Civil Engineers."
"Oh!"
They drove in silence till they reached the bottom of the hill and
turned to the right.
"Ah, there it is. Fancy that girl walking out here by night."
"That's one thing I don't like--walking," Bounce answered.
"No? Here! Catch hold! while I get out and go over there."
The common was a triangular piece of land between the forks of two
roads; in one place it was fairly flat most of the rest of it was
composed of miniature hills and dales, with steep sloping sides and
flat bottoms, inclined in places to be marshy. It was on the flat
portion, under the shelter of one of these miniature hills, that the
caravans were drawn up in a scattered group.
Carstairs walked up to the one he recognised, with the little brass
handled stairway, the bright paint and fancy leather work; a little
crowd of ragged urchins and mongrel curs trailed after him. He
mounted the steps and rapped at the little door. It was promptly
opened and a woman looked out; although she was much more haggard and
worn looking he recognised her at once, and he saw that she
recognised him.
"She's not here, she's gone into the town to buy things for father."
"Which town? Not Southville?"
"No,----." She mentioned a little country town about four miles
away. "She'll be back this evening."
He stood on the step and stroked his chin in thought. "I've driven
over from Southville, but my man can go back with the horse. Where
do you think I could get lodgings near here?"
"There's a public house in the village."
"Where's that?"
"Back along the road you came, only turn to the left."
"Thanks. I'll call again to-morrow. You're sure she'll be here?"
"Yes, father's ill."
"I'm sorry to hear that. What's the matter?"
"He's dying."
"Dying! Don't say that."
The woman shook her head. "Would you like to see him, sir?"
"Ah! Er--" Carstairs stood still a moment. "Yes, I should. Can I
talk to him? Something important?"
"Oh, yes. He knows he's going, and it would do him good to hear what
you've got to say."
He stared at her in quick surprise for a moment, and then stepped
after her into the caravan. It was scrupulously clean and
expensively upholstered; the sides were partitioned off horizontally
into little bunks with neat brass rods and curtains to shut them in;
there were windows along the front and back and sides with snowy
white lace curtains to them; it was not at all dingy, but very light
and bright. The woman drew aside a curtain and showed the
silver-haired old man supported in a half-sitting position in the
bunk.
Carstairs could see at once that he was very weak, and also that he
was very well attended to.
The old man looked him steadily in the eyes. "I've seen you before.
How are you?" he said. The voice was very low.
"I'm first class, thank you. I'm sorry to see you're not so well."
"Yes, I'm dying. We've all got to die some time. You want to marry
my daughter?"
[Illustration: "YES, I'M DYING"]
"Yes," Carstairs answered, in some surprise, nevertheless.
"Oh! She told me," the old man nodded feebly towards the gipsy
woman. "She knows everything."
Carstairs was silent.
"Who are you?" the old man asked, after a pause, during which he had
closed his eyes and remained quite still.
"My name is Carstairs--Jack Carstairs. I'm the son of the Reverend
Hugh Carstairs, Vicar of Chilcombe in Gloucestershire."
There was a short silence, then the old man spoke again. "Who was
your grandfather?"
"He was a captain in the navy." Carstairs was rather surprised.
"That's alright. I suppose we can't expect anything better. Get
those papers!" His last remark was addressed to the woman.
Carstairs stood silently wondering--mystified. He heard the woman
unlocking something at the back of the caravan, then she came up and
held out some parchment-looking papers. The old man took them in a
feeble thin hand and laid them on the bed clothes in front of him.
"I am Sir Thomas D'Arcy," he said.
Carstairs was astonished beyond measure, but his countenance showed
very little of it.
"Yes," the old man continued, slowly, "I am Sir Thomas D'Arcy, one
time plain Thomas D'Arcy, Professor of Music at Oxford, profligate
and drunkard. This gipsy woman is my legally married wife, and that
girl is my daughter; there is no estate, and the money is all spent.
You can marry the girl when you are getting £400 a year."
"Well, I'm damned." Carstairs thought it so fervently that for a
moment he feared it must be visible on his face, but the old man was
resting with closed eyes.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, at length.
"Quite," Carstairs answered.
"What are you getting now?"
"£150 a year."
"Ah--that's not much."
"No--but I expect in the next six months to receive royalties on
patents to the extent at least of the other £250."
"Very good--expectations do not always materialize. However, those
are the conditions. You can go now."
He was moving away when the old man held up a feeble, detaining hand.
Carstairs stayed in silence.
"There are other D'Arcys, but no relation to us. I am the last. We
were really French, a French noble family--with a strain of Italian
running in us too----" He rested again.
Carstairs pondered deeply while the old man paused. Something of the
outlines of the features in their deathly pallor seemed familiar to
him. He gazed hard at the face as it lay with closed eyes on the
pillows, then he asked, speaking slowly. "Do you know a Mrs Darwen?"
The resemblance he had traced to the portrait in Mrs Darwen's album.
"Miss Darwen!"
"No; Mrs Darwen, she has one son."
"Exactly. My son. She's Miss Darwen. Do you know him?"
"I've met him." Carstairs' face was like a carven stone.
"Ah! She was the daughter of a yeoman farmer in Oxfordshire, rather
well to do, but of course I couldn't marry her--then; the boy--is he
any good?"
"He's very clever."
"He would be that, of course."
"Your daughter knows him."
"Does she? I don't know who she knows. You must marry her. She
mustn't--mustn't know."
The old man sank back on his pillows and closed his eyes. Carstairs
watched him for a minute or so, then turned and looked
interrogatively at the woman. "Asleep?" he asked, quietly.
She nodded. "Resting," she answered, and Carstairs made his way very
quietly out of the caravan.
"I'll come again to-morrow," he said.