'BRING HOME THE BRIDE SO FAIR!'
'Poor Jack!' that was all Madge's cry. She did not care what
arrangement was being got up by the parents and guardians interested.
She did not want her fortune settled on herself. To her it did not
matter whether the brewery was in Southampton or in Jerusalem. All her
piteous appeal was that her dear Jack should be got out of prison; and
the opinion that she had formed of the gross tyranny, and cruelty, and
obstinacy of English law was of a character that dare not be set forth
here.
'What is the use of it?' she would say. 'What good can it do except to
keep people miserable?'
'My dear child,' the sighing and sorely-troubled mother would answer,
'the Vice-Chancellor has admitted that it can do no good. But the
authority of the Court must be vindicated----'
'It is nothing but a mean and contemptible revenge?' exclaimed Madge.
However, Mr. Tom took a much more cool and business-like view of the
matter.
'When he is let out,' he remarked, 'I hope the Vice-chancellor will
make the other side pay the costs of all these applications and
proceedings. I don't see why we should pay, simply because Jack
Hanbury went and made an ass of himself.'
'I beg you to remember that you are speaking of my husband?' said
Madge, with a sudden fierceness.
'Oh, well, but didn't he?' Mr. Tom said. 'What was the use of bolting
like that, when he knew he must be laid by the heels? Why didn't he go
to his father and uncle to begin with, and get them to make this
arrangement they have now, and then have gone to the chief clerk and
showed him that there was no objection anywhere----'
'It was because you were all against him,' said poor Madge, beginning
to cry. 'Everybody--everybody. And now he may be shut up there for a
whole year--or two years----'
'Oh, but he isn't so badly off,' said Mr. Tom, soothingly. 'You can
see they treat him very well. By Jingo, if it was the treadmill,
now--that would exercise his toes for him. I tried it once in York
Castle; and I can tell you when you find this thing pawing at you over
your head it's like an elephant having a game with you. Never mind,
Madge. Don't cry. Look here; I'll bet you five sovereigns to one that
they let him out on the next application--that's for Thursday. Are you
on?'
'Do you mean it?' she said, looking up.
'I do.'
It was wonderful how quickly the light came into her face.
'Then there is a chance?' she said. 'I can't believe the others; for
they are only trying to comfort me. But if you would bet on it,
Tom--then there's really a chance.'
'Bet's off. You should have snapped at it, Madge. Never mind, you'll
have your dear Jack: that'll do instead.'
That afternoon Mary Beresford, now Mrs. Rupert, called, and Mr. Tom,
with much dignity of manner, came into the room holding an open letter
in his hand,
'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'and friends assembled, I have a piece
of news for you. Mr. Francis Holford King, late Commander in Her
Majesty's Navy, has just contracted a--what d'ye call it?--kind of
engagement with Miss Anne Beresford of that ilk. It strikes me this is
what is termed consolation-stakes----'
'There you are quite wrong,' said Madge, promptly and cheerfully. 'He
meant to make me the consolation-stakes: for it was Nan that he wanted
to marry all the way through.'
'Well, I shall be glad to see you all married,' said Tom. 'I've had
enough bother with you.'
'You look quite worn out,' his eldest sister remarked.
'At least,' he said, sitting down in an easy-chair and stretching out
his legs, 'at least I have gained some wisdom. I see the puzzlement
you girls are in who haven't got to earn your own living. You don't
know what on earth to do with yourselves. You read Ruskin, and think
you should be earnest; but you don't know what to be earnest about.
Then you take to improving your mind; and cram your head full of
earth-currents, and equinoxes, and eclipses of the moon. But what does
it all come to? You can't do anything with it. Even if you could come
and tell me that a lime-burner in Jupiter has thrown his wig into the
fire, and so altered the spectrum, what's that to me? Then you have a
go at philanthropy--that's more practical; Sunday-school teaching,
mending children's clothes, doing for other people what they ought to
do for themselves, and generally cultivating pauperism. Then, lo and
behold! in the middle of all this there comes by a good-looking young
fellow; and phew! all your grand ideas are off like smoke; and it's all
"Dear Jack!" and "Dear Alfred!" and "I'll go to the ends of the earth
with my sodger laddie!" Oh, I know what life is. I see you girls
begin with all your fine ideas, and reading up, and earnestness----'
'I suppose, then, there is no such thing as the formation of
character,' said his eldest sister, calmly.
'The formation of character!' exclaimed Mr. Tom. 'Out of books? Why,
the only one among you who has any character worth mentioning is Nan.
Do you think she got it out of books? No, she didn't. She got it--she
got it----'
Here Mr. Tom paused for a second; but only to make a wilder dash.
'----out of the sunlight! There's a grand poetical idea for you. Nan
has been more in the open than any of you; and the sunlight has filled
her brain, and her mind, and her disposition altogether----'
'I presume that also accounts for the redness of her hair?' said Mrs.
Rupert.
Tom rose to his feet. There was an air of resignation on his face as
he left the room. He said, half to himself,
'Well, Nature was right in making me a man. I couldn't have mustered
up half enough spite to make a passable woman.'
Now, the end of the Madge and Jack episode was in this wise. On the
second application the Vice-Chancellor flatly refused to release the
young man from prison. His gross offence had not yet been purged. It
was quite true, his Lordship admitted, that the young lady and the
guardians and relatives on both sides were also sharing in this
punishment; and it was unfortunate. Moreover, arrangements had now
been made which seemed to render the marriage a perfectly eligible one,
if only it had been properly brought about. Nevertheless the Court
could not overlook the young man's conduct; in prison he was; and in
prison he must remain.
More tears on the part of Madge. More advice from Mr. Tom that she
should go and plead with the Vice-Chancellor herself; he was sure her
pretty, weeping eyes would soften the flintiest heart. Correspondence
addressed by Captain Frank King to Admiral Sir George Stratherne,
K.C.B., containing suggestions not in consonance with the lofty
integrity of British courts of law.
Then, at last, the Vice-chancellor relented. Mr. Hanbury had given an
undertaking to execute any settlement the Court might think fit with
regard to the young lady's property. Then he must pay all costs of the
proceedings, likewise the guardians' costs. This being so, his
Lordship was disposed to take a merciful view of the case; and would
make an order discharging the young man from prison.
'Oh, Jack,' poor Madge exclaimed, when he was restored to her, 'shall I
ever forget what you have suffered for my sake?'
Jack looked rather foolish among all these people; but at last he
plucked up courage, and went and made a straightforward apology to Lady
Beresford; and said he hoped this piece of folly would soon be
forgotten; and that Madge would be happy after all. The sisters were
disposed to pet him. Tom tolerated him a little. Then there was a
general bustle; for they were all (including Frank King) going down
again to Brighton; and they made a large party.
How clear the air and the sunlight were after the close atmosphere of
London! The shining sea--the fresh breeze blowing in--the busy
brightness and cheerfulness of the King's Road--it all seemed new and
delightful again! And of course amidst the general clamour and
commotion of getting into the house, who was to take much notice of
Nan, or watch her self-conscious shyness, or regard the manner in which
she received Frank King after his absence? You see, Nan was always
wanted to do things, or fetch things, or send for things. 'She's a
house-keeperish kind of young party,' Tom used to say of her, when he
had coolly sent her to look out his shooting-boots.
The spring-time was come; not only was the sunshine clearer, and the
wind from the sea softer and fresher, but human nature, also, grew
conscious of vague anticipations and an indefinable delight, Flowers
from the sheltered valleys behind the downs began to appear in the
streets. The year was opening; soon the colours of the summer would
shining over the land.
'Nan-nie,' said Frank King to her who was most occasions now his only
and dear companion, they were walking along one of the country ways,
'don't you think June is a good month to get married in?'
'Frank dear,' she said, 'I haven't had much experience.'
'Now, look here, Nan,' he said--the others were a long way ahead, and
he could scold her as he liked. 'You may have some strong
points--wisdom, perhaps--and a capacity for extracting money out of
people for lifeboats--and a knack of boxing the ears of small boys whom
you find shying stones at sparrows--I say you may have your strong
points; but flippancy isn't one of them. And this is a very serious
matter.'
'I know it is,' said Nan, demurely. 'And far more serious than you
imagine. For, do you know, Frank, that the moment I get married I
shall cease to be responsible for the direction of my own life
altogether. You alone will be responsible. Whatever you say I should
do, I will do; what you say I must think, or believe, or try for, that
will be my guide. Don't you know that I have been trying all my life
to get rid of the responsibility of deciding for myself? I nearly
ended--like such a lot of people!--in "going over to the Church." Oh,
Frank,' she said, 'I think if it hadn't been for you I should have
married a clergyman, and been good.'
She laughed a little, soft, low laugh; and continued:
'No, I think that never could have happened. But I should have done
something--gone into one of those visiting sisterhoods, or got trained
as a nurse--you don't know what a good hospital nurse you spoiled in
me. However, now that is not my business. Undine got a soul when she
married; I give up mine. I shall efface myself. It's you who have to
tell me what to think, and believe, and try to do.'
'Very well,' said he. 'I shall begin by advising you to give up
cultivating the acquaintance of tinkers and gipsies; and first of all
to resolve not to speak again to Singing Sal.'
'Oh, but that's foolish--that is unnecessary!' she said, with a stare;
and he burst out laughing.
'Here we are at the outset!' he said. 'But don't you think, Nan-nie,
you might let things go on as they are? You haven't done so badly
after all. Do you know that people don't altogether detest you? Some
of them would even say that you made the world a little brighter and
pleasanter for those around you; and that is always something.'
'But it's so little,' said Nan. 'And--and I had thought of--of I don't
know what, I believe--in that Cathedral at Lucerne--and now I am going
to do just like everybody else. It's rather sneaky.'
'What is?' he asked. 'To be a good woman?'
'Oh, you are not philosophical,' she said. 'And me--me too. My brain,
what there was of it, is clean gone; my heart has got complete mastery.
It is really ludicrous that my highest ambition, and my highest
delight, should be to be able to say "I love you," and to go on saying
it any number of times. But then, dear Frank, when all this nonsense
is over between us, then we will set to work and try and do some good.
There must be something for us to do in the world.'
'Oh yes, no doubt,' he said, 'and do you know when I think this
nonsense will be over between you and me, Nan?--when you and I are
lying dead together in Kingscourt churchyard.'
She touched his hand with her hand--for a moment.
'And perhaps not even then, Frank.'
* * * * * *
Well, it was a double wedding, after all; and Mr. Roberts was
determined that it should be memorable in Brighton, if music, and
flowers, and public charities would serve. Then Mr. and Mrs. Jack
Hanbury were to come along from Southampton; and Mr. Jacomb had, in the
most frank and manly fashion, himself asked permission to assist at the
marriage ceremony. There were, of course, many presents; two of which
were especially grateful to Nan. The first was a dragon-fly in rubies
and diamonds, the box enclosing which was wrapped round by a sheet of
note-paper really belonging to Her Majesty, and hailing from Whitehall.
These were the words scrawled on the sheet of paper:--
'_This is for the wedding of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH, who has now
completed the list of her atrocities by jilting her oldest
sweetheart.--G. S._'
The second present that was particularly prized by Nan carries us on to
the wedding-day. It was one of the clearest of clear June days; a
fresh southerly wind tempering the heat; there was scarcely a cloud in
the blue. How these rumours get about it is impossible to say; but a
good many people seemed to have discovered that there was to be a
double wedding; and there was an unusual crowd about the entrance to
the church and along both sides of the roofed portico. Among these
people was one who attracted a little mild polite curiosity. She was a
country-looking, fresh-complexioned young woman, who was smartly
dressed and trim as to ribbons and such things; and she held in her
hand a basket of fairly good size and of fancy wicker-work. And this
basket, those nearest her could see, held nothing else than a mass of
wild roses, all with the thorns carefully removed from the stems, and
set in a bed of moss and sweetbrier leaves. It was such a bouquet,
surely, as had never been presented to a bride before--if, indeed, it
was, intended for the bride.
That was soon to be seen. The great organ was still pealing out
Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March' (Mr. Tom had offered to give 10 pounds to
the poor-box of the choir if the choristers would play instead the
Swedish 'Bring home the bride so fair!')--(forgetting that there were
two brides, and that Edith was dark) when the first of the bridal
procession came along, Edith and her husband and her bridesmaids. Then
came Nan. As she was passing, the fresh-coloured wench timidly stepped
forward and offered her the basket of wild roses. Nan stopped; glanced
at her, and recognised her; and then, to the wonder of the crowd, they
saw the young bride take the basket with her trembling white-gloved
fingers, while the other hand was boldly put forward to shake hands
with the country lass. Singing Sal was greatly taken aback; but she
took Nan's hand for the briefest second, and managed to say something
quite incoherent about 'long life and happiness, Miss--I beg your
pardon, Miss--Ma'am;' and then the gleaming procession passed on.
Nan was very proud of that basket of wild flowers. She would not part
with it. She had it placed before her on the table when all the people
had assembled and sat down. And perhaps there was one there who,
looking alternately at the bright-eyed bride who sat beside him, and at
that basket of wild roses, red, and white, and pink, and whitish-red
and whitish-pink, may have said to himself that there was no red one
there half so red as her lips, and no white one half so white as her
clear and shining soul.
FINIS.
THE PUPIL OF AURELIUS
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OF 'MACLEOD OF DARE,' 'SUNRISE,' ETC.
NEW EDITION
LONDON
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1882
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A Blow Faced
II. Alone in London
III. A Fellow-sufferer
IV. A Resolve
V. Treasure Trove
VI. The End of the Episode
CHAPTER I.
A BLOW FACED.
On a Sunday morning in the early part of November 1878 a stranger
arrived at Euston Square, and passed from the gloom of the station into
the brighter air of the London streets, there pausing for a second or
two to look around him. He was a man of about fifty, short, thin,
wiry, square-shouldered; his features firm even to sternness, and
hardened by exposure to wind and weather; his hair gray; his beard also
gray and clipped short. The harshness of his face, however, was in a
measure tempered by the look of his eyes; these were calm and
contemplative, perhaps even with a shade of melancholy in them. For
the rest, he was well and warmly clad in home-spun cloth; and he
carried with him a small hand-bag, which appeared to be his only
luggage.
He hesitated only for a moment. As he turned off to the left he met
two labourers coming along.
'This is the way to London Bridge, is it not?' he asked, slowly, and
with a strong northern accent.
'Yes, sir,' said one of them; and then, as he looked after the
departing stranger, he took the pipe from his mouth and grinned, and
said to his companion,
'Scottie means to walk it.'
The new-comer's next encounter was less satisfactory. A drunken-faced
woman jumped up from a door-step and begged for alms. He had not seen
her. Instinctively his hand went to his pocket. Then he glanced at
her.
'No!' he said, with unnecessary severity, and passed on.
But instantly the woman was transformed into a cursing and swearing
virago. She followed him, making the little thoroughfare resound with
her shrill abuse. Most people would, in such circumstances, have
looked out for a policeman, or tried to get away somewhere, but this
man turned round and stood still and regarded the woman. There was
neither anger nor surprise nor scorn in his look, but a calm
observation. He listened to her foul language, as if wishing to
understand it; and he regarded the bloated face and bleared eyes. The
woman was not prepared for this examination. With another parting
volley she slunk off. Then the new-comer continued on his way, saying
only to himself:
'It is strange. I do not think that God could have meant any of His
creatures to be like that.'
Now let us see what manner of man this was who was passing into the
larger space and wan sunlight of Euston Road, making for London Bridge,
with but little hurry, and always with his eyes regarding the withered
trees, or the closed shops, or the early omnibuses, with an observation
that had no curiosity in it, rather as if these were mere passing
phenomena that left no permanent impression on a mind too busily
occupied with its own speculations.
His name was John Douglas. His father had been a small shipowner in
Greenock, and, dying, had left this, his eldest son, a fortune of about
10,000 pounds. John Douglas, after patient judgment of the matter,
arrived at the conclusion that it was far from just and fitting that he
should have the exclusive use of this money, so he lent 7000 pounds, or
thereabouts, to his two younger brothers, who forthwith took it, and,
unhappily, themselves also, to the bottom of the sea, in a vessel
which, recklessly, they had not insured. Thereupon John Douglas,
having still over 3000 pounds, invested it in what was then considered
a safe concern, and finding his wants very few and very simple,
repaired to the Renfrewshire coast, and found there a small cottage
overlooking the Firth of Clyde and the sea, where he could live cheaply
and comfortably. And he did live there very comfortably and
contentedly, though not quite to the satisfaction of his neighbours,
who resented the intrusion amongst them of a man who minded his own
business, who would not listen to any tittle-tattle, who was absolutely
indifferent as to what opinion, good or ill, they might have of him,
and who took long and solitary walks among the hills on Sundays as on
other days.
It ought to be said here at the outset that this man's character is not
set up as in any way an exemplar. If mankind at large were so many
John Douglases the world would not get on at all. We should have no
iron bridges built, or Atlantic cables laid, or financial companies
started, and we certainly should not have any man-killing machines a
million or half-a-million strong; whereas every well-conducted person
knows that such things are now-a-days absolutely necessary. The truth
is, that John Douglas, or Captain Douglas, as the neighbours called him
with a kind of grudging respect, was a skulker from the battle of
humanity. What he wanted was a beach of white sand, a hot day, a blue
sea, a book, a pipe, and the absence of his fellow-creatures. He was
kind to such people as he was forced to meet; and he was a favourite
amongst the children in that part, for he bought them toys and
sweetmeats when he went to Greenock; but he preferred the society of
his books to that of his neighbours, and he was impatient of idle talk.
Indeed, what was the use of their conversing with a man who was far
more interested in the first blossoming of the furze in spring than in
a Cabinet crisis, and who would go away and search for birds' nests in
the woods, for the mere pleasure of looking at them, when the whole
civilised world, from the Cloch Lighthouse all the way to Largs, was
convulsed with the news that minister in a parish adjacent had been
heard to say something disrespectful about Calvin?
The three books, one or other of which John Douglas usually carried
with him on his rambles by sea-shore or through some country lanes,
were the New Testament, Marcus Aurelius, and Tannahill's Poems; but
perhaps it was the wise Emperor with whom he most closely communed as
the waves rippled along the sand, and the shifting lights crossed the
clear blue of the Arran hills. He had so entered into the spirit of
that proud and patient stoicism, that he considered himself proof
against anything that might happen to him in life or in death. It was
a voice from far away, it is true--muffled, as if from the tomb; but it
was human, sympathetic, kindly in the main.
'Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man to do what thou hast
in hand with perfect and simple dignity, and feeling of affection, and
freedom, and justice; and to give thyself relief from all other
thoughts. And thou wilt give thyself relief, if thou doest every act
of thy life as if it were the last, laying aside all carelessness and
passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and
self-love, and discontent with the portion which has been given to
thee. Thou seest how few the things are, the which if a man lays hold
of, he is able to live a life which flows in quiet, and is like the
existence of the gods; for the gods, on their part, will require
nothing more from him who observes these things.'
And again:
'If thou workest at that which is before thee, following right reason
seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to
distract thee, but keeping thy divine part pure, as if thou shouldst be
bound to give it back immediately; if thou holdest to this, expecting
nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with thy present activity
according to nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound
which thou utterest, thou wilt live happy. And there is no man who is
able to prevent this.'
Or if one should not find any great work in the world to tackle?--
'Always bear this in mind, that very little indeed is necessary for
living a happy life. And because thou hast despaired of becoming a
dialectician, and skilled in the knowledge of nature, do not for this
reason renounce the hope of being both free and modest and social and
obedient to God.'
Or has one been injured?--
'The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrongdoer.'
Why should one desire praise or fear blame?--
'Which of these things is beautiful because it is praised, or spoiled
by being blamed? Is such a thing as an emerald made worse than it was
if it is not praised? or gold, ivory, purple, a lyre, a little knife, a
flower, a shrub?'
John Douglas knew nothing of the opinion in which he was held by his
neighbours; and, if he had known, he would not have heeded one jot.
Now it was in the waning of the year, when the great fuchsia-tree
covering the front of Braeside Cottage had dropped all its dark-red
bells, and when the rowan-trees along the road were yellowing, though
masses of the scarlet berries still remained to delight the eye, that
the news of the breaking of the City of Glasgow Bank came to these
parts. There were those who knew that the residue of Captain Douglas's
small fortune was invested in that flourishing concern, which had been
paying dividends of 10 and 11 per cent; and they also suspected that he
would know nothing of the terrible crash, for he seldom read
newspapers. But not one of them would go and take the bad news to him.
If he had not been a very sociable man, it was not through pride. He
had done many generous actions. The children were fond of him. They
waited for himself to find out the misfortune that had overtaken him.
Douglas's first intimation was contained in a letter sent him by a
solicitor in Greenock. The vague reference to what had happened he did
not understand at first; but he called his old housekeeper and bade her
to bring him the newspapers of the last few days; and then he sat down,
quietly and composedly, and read the story of his ruin.
First came rumours about a certain bank. Then the definite statement
that the City of Glasgow Bank had suspended payment. Then guesses at
the deficit, beginning with 3,000,000 pounds, along with indignant
comments about the manner in which the business of the bank had been
conducted, and commiseration for the shareholders, the large majority
of whom, it was anticipated, would have to surrender every farthing of
which they were possessed.
Douglas read on and read through; and was neither shocked nor
bewildered. He even remembered something about an official
communication which he had opened a day or two before, and hastily
dropped in order to fling a book at a strange cat that had come into
the garden, and was cowering in wait for a chaffinch. He scarcely knew
enough of business to understand who the creditors were; but he could
perceive that if they had even 2,000,000 pounds owing to them, the
first calls would far more than sweep away his little property and
leave him a beggar. Very well. He looked at the newspapers again;
there was nothing in these crumpled sheets that could hurt him. A
branch of a tree blown down by the wind on the top of his head could
hurt him; or a chimney-pot falling from a roof; or a horse lifting its
leg and kicking him; but a newspaper report he could thrust into the
fire. He looked out of the window; the broad waters of the Firth were
all ruffled into a dark blue by the morning breeze, and the sunlight
shone along the yellow shores of Innellan; and far in the south Arran's
jagged peaks were a clear blue among the silvery clouds: these things
could not be altered by anything happening in Glasgow. He looked at
his hands; there were ten fingers there that had not done much work in
the world; surely it was time they should try? And surely they could
win for him bread and milk, or at the worst bread and water? In the
meantime the thought of the cat had recalled to him that he had not as
yet scattered crumbs for the birds that morning. That was the first
thing to be done; and so he went and did it.
There can be no doubt that this contemptuous indifference was largely
the result of the teachings of Marcus Aurelius, which this solitary man
had drank in until they seemed to have got absorbed into his very
blood. But there was something more; there was a vein of personal
pride of a very distinct kind. He would not admit to himself that any
number of bank-directors in Glasgow or elsewhere had the power to harm
him. Moreover, when, after waiting a considerable time to see how
things would go, he went to Greenock to consult the solicitor who had
written to him, and to whom he was known, this stubborn pride and
independence came out more strongly than ever.
'The question is,' said he, in his slow, emphatic way, 'do I owe the
money, or do I not owe the money?'
'No doubt of it, Captain Douglas,' the other remonstrated; 'you are
morally as well as legally bound. But the liquidators are human
beings; they do not wish to press for the uttermost farthing; and well
they know that this first call of 500 pounds on every 100 pounds of
stock will ruin many and many a poor creature, and turn him or her out
into the world. There is even a talk of a Relief Fund; I believe the
Lord Provost of Glasgow and other gentlemen----'
John Douglas's face flushed quickly.
'I wish not to hear of such things,' he said, with a touch of
resentment. Then he added more slowly, 'I will take money from no man.
I will earn my own living; if I cannot do that, what title have I to
live at all? But I will take this obligation from you yourself, Mr.
Campbell; if you will lend me five pounds, which I will repay to you.
And I would like to take with me a few portraits, of my family and
forbears, that can be of no use to any one; and one or two books
likewise; then the rest can go to the liquidators, to roup or scatter
to the winds as they see fit. I am a man of few words; I will repay
you the money, if my health remains to me; and it will be enough to
carry me to London and start me there.'
'To London!' said the tall fair man in spectacles.
'It is the great labour market of the world; it is natural I should go
there. Besides, there is another thing,' he added, with a trifle of
embarrassment. 'Our family were well known in these parts in former
years, and respected. I know not what I may have to turn my hand to.
I will begin where I can be alone.'
He was a wilful man, and he had his way. He got the five pounds and
the few pictures, and the three books named above; and when he entered
the third-class carriage that was to bear him through the night to
London, it was without fear. He had ten fingers, and he could live on
a crust of bread and a drink of clear water. What was the hardship?
Had not the great Emperor himself counted it among the blessings of his
life--one of the things for which he was ever to be grateful--that he
had been taught to work with his own hands?
CHAPTER II.
ALONE IN LONDON.
This, then, was the man who now found himself in the sickly daylight of
the great city, walking along the wide thoroughfare on this Sunday
morning. The grim and grizzled face was somewhat tired looking after
the long and wakeful journey, and the dark eyes were fatigued and
melancholy; but his step was light and firm. And it was well that it
was so. He had been in other large towns before, but not in this one;
and as he had determined to make for London Bridge, to get lodgings
near there,--seeing that that looked on the map to be about the centre
of the commercial district,--he had traced out the safest route, by
Pentonville Road and City Road down to the Bank. As he trudged and
trudged, however, and no Bank made its appearance, he gradually woke
himself out of that dreamy and contemplative mood. He began to make
inquiries about distance and so forth. The driver of a four-wheeled
cab, his purple bemuddled face lighting up with a dull sort of humour,
gave him a facetious invitation to get inside the tumble-down old
vehicle. The conductors of one or two passing omnibuses hailed him;
and he gathered from their 'Benk! Benk!' that at least he was in the
right direction. But he was not going to spend money causelessly; so
he trudged on.
At length, when he got to the wide square fronting the Royal Exchange,
the solitariness of the place struck him with a strange chill. All the
great buildings closed and deserted; not a habitable-looking house
anywhere. But there were numbers of people passing along the
thoroughfares--mostly groups of young men of about two-and-twenty,
tallow-faced, round-shouldered, wearing over-coats and billycock hats,
and smoking short pipes; and there were crowded omnibuses coming
rolling along (what a difference was this roar and rabble from the
quiet of the Sabbath morning far away there on the northern coast!),
and these people must live somewhere. So again he contentedly trudged
on; down King William Street; over the bridge spanning the misty river;
along the Borough Road; until he arrived at Union Street. He had so
far failed in his quest for lodgings; but in Union Street he espied a
coffee-house; and as he had become both tired and hungry, he entered
the dingy little place, sat down, and ordered a cup of coffee and a
roll and butter.
It was a kind of shelter, after all; though everything was dreadfully
dirty, and there was a heavy odour in the place. The waiter brought
him a greasy newspaper; but he put it aside. Then came his breakfast.
The butter was not touchable; but he reflected that it was a luxury
which he, living on another man's money, had had no right to order.
When he had paid back the 5 pounds, he would consider the question of
butter--though not butter such as this. He ate the dry roll, and
managed to swallow the strangely-tasting coffee; then he fell asleep;
and was eventually wakened by the ringing of church bells.
So, having paid his shot, he wandered out again into the pale and misty
sunlight; and as he had been struck by the appearance of St. Saviour's
in crossing the bridge, he strolled back thither, and entered the
church, and sat down in a pew. He remained through the earlier part of
the service; but when the sermon began, he left. The streets were now
quite busy, though the shops were closed. It was not like Sunday on
the shores of the Firth of Clyde.
'In any case,' he was thinking, 'it can be no great breaking of the
Sabbath that a man should provide himself with a lodging to cover his
head.'
Eventually, after much patient wandering and inquiring, he found a
house in the Southwark-bridge Road--he was attracted to it by the
presence of one or two flower-boxes on the window-sills--where he was
offered a small, fairly neat and clean bedroom for the sum of
three-and-sixpence per week. Thereupon the bargain was closed; and
John Douglas found himself established at least with headquarters, from
whence he could issue to fight his battle with the great forces of
London.
Well, day after day--nay, week after week--passed, and all his efforts
to obtain employment, had resulted in nothing. It was not through any
shame-facedness or fastidiousness or false pride. He was ready to do
anything. Many people thought this man a maniac, who calmly walked in
and offered, in his slow, methodic Scotch speech, to copy letters for
them, or do anything that could be pointed out to him, confessing, on
interrogation, that he had been in no employment before, and could
therefore produce no testimonials as to character or fitness. On his
own showing, there was nothing special he could do; though he had
bought a little treatise on book-keeping, and occasionally studied it
in the evenings. As he walked about the streets and observed how all
the people around him seemed to be fully occupied, and busy and
contented, it occurred to him as strange that they should all have
fallen into these grooves so naturally. He looked at the clerk giving
out tickets at a railway station, and thought, he could do that also.
Perhaps the business of the young men who every morning were to be seen
inside the big windows of the drapers' shops in the Borough Road,
decorating the place with ribbons and gowns, demanded a special
knowledge that he had not acquired; but it could not be difficult, for
example, to be a policeman? They seemed happy enough; good-natured;
sometimes even with a word of chaff for the costermonger whom they
ordered to move on, him and his barrow.
These not very anxious experiments, and quite idle speculations about
the uses of various forms of labour, might have gone on indefinitely
but for the very certain fact that Douglas's small stock of money was
being slowly but surely exhausted. Slowly, it is true; for he had
wholly given up tobacco; his dinner was a roll or a biscuit eaten in
the street; and as his landlady charged him sixpence for each
scuttleful of coals, he preferred to keep himself warm on these now
bitterly cold evenings by tramping about outside and looking at the
shops. That good woman, by the way, was sorely disappointed in this
new lodger, out of whom she could make no indirect profit; and she had
a waspish tongue. John Douglas regarded her taunts--almost amounting
to open insult--with a patient and mild curiosity. It was a little bit
of psychological study, and more interesting than book-keeping by
double entry. Meantime, things were becoming very serious; with all
his penuriousness, he had arrived at his last half-sovereign.
CHAPTER III.
A FELLOW-SUFFERER.
One night, a few minutes after nine, Douglas was returning home along
one of the badly-lit little thoroughfares in the Borough, when he saw
the figure of a woman slowly subside on to the pavement in front of
him. She did not fall; she trembled on to her knees as it were, and
then lay prone--near a doorstep. Well, he had grown familiar with the
sights of London streets; but even if the woman were drunk, as he
imagined, he would lift her up, until some policeman came along.
He went forward. It was not a woman, but a young girl of about
seventeen or so, who did not seem a drunken person.
'My lass, what is the matter with ye?' he said, kneeling down to get
hold of her.
'Oh, I am so ill--I am so ill!' the girl moaned, apparently to herself.
He tried to raise her. She was quite white, and almost insensible.
Then she seemed to come to; she struggled up a bit, and sought to
support herself by the handle of the door.
'I shall be all right,' she gasped. 'I am quite well. Don't tell
them. I am quite well--it was my knees that gave way----'
'Where do ye live, my lass?' said he, taking hold of her arm to support
her; for he thought she was going to sink to the ground again.
'Number twelve.'
'In this street?'
She did not answer,
'Come, I will help ye home, then.'
'No, no!' she said, in the same gasping way; 'I will sit down here a
few minutes. I shall be all right. I--I am quite well----'
'Ye are not going to sit down on a doorstep on a night like this,' he
said, severely. 'Come, pull yourself together, my lass. If it is
number twelve, you have only a few yards.'
He half-dragged and half-carried her along. He knocked loudly at the
door. There came to it a tall, black-a-vised woman, who, the moment
she saw the girl, cried out--
'Oh, Mary Ann, are you took bad again?'
'No--don't tell them,' the girl said, as she staggered into the narrow
passage. 'They'll turn me off. They said so the last time. I shall
be all right. But my head--is so bad.'
They got her into the dingy little parlour, and laid her down on the
horse-hair covered couch. Her hand was clasped to her head, and her
whole frame was shivering violently, as if with cold.
John Douglas, living that recluse life up there in the north, had never
before had to deal directly with sickness, and he was terribly anxious
and alarmed. What was he to do? His first wild notion, observing the
violent shivering, was to order hot whisky-and-water; then he thought
it would be better to send for a doctor. But the tall, dark woman did
not seem inclined to go or send for any doctor. She stood regarding
the girl quite apathetically.
'Poor Mary Anne!' she said, watching her, as if she were a dog in a
fit. 'She wasn't took as bad as this before. She's been starving
herself, she has, to keep her mother and her young sisters; and she
can't stand all day in the shop as she used to. I've seen it a-coming
on.'
'God bless me, woman,' said Douglas, angrily, 'we must do something
instead of standing and looking at the poor lass. Cannot you tell me
where the nearest doctor is? Has one been attending her?'
'Poor Mary Ann,' the woman said, composedly; 'she'll come out of it;
but it's worse this time. A doctor? She couldn't afford to have a
doctor, she couldn't. A doctor would be bringing physic; she can't pay
for physic, she can't. She owes me three weeks' rent, and I ain't ast
for it once, not once. Thirteen hours a day standing behind a counter
is too much for a slip of a girl like that. Poor Mary Anne! Is your
head bad, my dear?'
Douglas made use of a phrase which is not to be found anywhere in the
writings of Marcus Aurelius, and hurriedly left the house. He made for
the nearest chemist's shop, and asked the youth there where he should
find a doctor. The youth glanced towards the back room, and said Dr.
Sweeney was at hand. Dr. Sweeney was summoned, and appeared: a
hard-headed-looking youngish man, whom Douglas immediately bore away
with him.
The young Irish doctor did not seem much concerned when he saw his
patient. He seemed to be familiar with such cases. He said the girl
must be put to bed at once. She was merely suffering from a feverish
attack, on a system weakened by exhaustion and fatigue. Then he began
to question the landlady.
The usual story. Girl in a draper's shop; mother and sisters in the
country; sends them most of her earnings; probably does not take enough
food; long hours; constant standing; drinking tea to stave off hunger;
and so forth. Douglas listened in silence.
'And when she recovers from this attack, slight or severe,' he said at
length, 'what would restore that young lass to a proper state of
health?--can ye say that, doctor?'
'I can say it easily,' said the young Irishman, with a sarcastic smile.
'I can prescribe the remedies; and there are plenty of such cases;
unfortunately the patients are not in a position to follow my
prescriptions. I should prescribe good food, and fewer hours of work,
and an occasional week in the country air. It is easy to talk of such
things.'
'Ay, that is so,' said Douglas, absently.
He went home. He took from his pocket the biscuit, wrapped in a bit of
newspaper, that he had meant for his supper; but he put it on the top
of a little chest of drawers, thinking it would do for his breakfast in
the morning, and he would save so much. Then he went to the little
stock of money in his locked-up bag, and found there eight shillings
and sixpence. He took seven shillings of it, and went out again into
the cold night, and walked along to the house where the sick girl was.
'Mistress,' he said to the landlady, in his slow, staid way, 'I have
brought ye a little money that ye may buy any small things the lass may
want; it is all I can spare the now; I will call in the morning and see
how she is.'
'You needn't do that,' said the tall woman. 'Poor Mary Anne--she'll be
at the shop.'
'She shall not be at the shop!' he said, with a frown. 'Are ye a mad
woman? The girl is ill.'
'She'll have to be at the shop, or lose her place,' said the landlady,
with composure. 'There's too many young girls after situations
now-a-days, and they won't be bothered with weakly ones.'
CHAPTER IV.
A RESOLVE.
However, as it turned out, there was to be no shop for Mary Anne the
next day or for many a day to come. When John Douglas called in the
morning, he was informed that she was 'delirious-like.' She was
imploring the doctor--who had been there an hour before--not to let her
lose her situation. She was talking about her mother and sisters in an
incoherent way; also about one Pete, who appeared to have gone away to
Australia and never written since. Douglas looked at the girl, lying
there with her flushed face, closed eyes, and troubled breathing,
unconscious of his presence, only twisting the bed-clothes about with
her hot hands.
'Poor Mary Ann,' the landlady said contemplatively. 'If she dies,
she'll 'ave to be buried by the work'us. And if she lives, she'll be
worse off than ever; for they won't take a girl with cropped hair into
a shop, and the fear of infection besides. She ain't got a friend in
the world, she ain't; except her own people, and they're only a drain
on the poor thing. Poor Mary Ann! she have had a bad time of it.
Perhaps it would be kinder in Providence if He took her; for who's to
pay for her keep if she gets through the fever? Not that I would ask
to be paid for her lodging; I ain't one like that; there's her room,
and welcome; that's what I says to my husband when he come home last
night; and neither him nor me's afraid of fever, nor would turn out a
poor thing as have been took. But law! it would be months afore she'd
get another place; and she ain't got nobody to look after her.'
'What have you done with the money I gave you last night?' he asked.
'There it lies, sir--on the mantel-shelf. It ain't for me to touch; it
is for the doctor to give his orders about that money.'
'Just put this eighteenpence to it, mistress, and ask the doctor what
the poor lass may want. It is all I happen to have with me the now.'
Then he left; and walked away with an unusual air of determination He
was not downcast because he had parted with his last sixpence.
'It is even better thus,' this stern-faced man was saying to himself,
'for now we must face facts, and get rid of speculation. Let us begin
at the beginning--with one's ten fingers! Poor lass! It is a dreadful
place, a great city like this; it has no compassion. Surely, in the
country, she would not be so utterly thrown down in the race. Surely,
some one would say, "_At meal-time come thou hither and eat of the
bread, and dip thy morsel in the vinegar;_" and would command the young
men and say to them, "_Let her glean even among the sheaves, and
reproach her not. And let fall also some of the handfuls of purpose
for her, and leave them, that she may glean them, and rebuke her not._"
Poor lass! poor lass! Even that cadaverous-jawed, Tennants'-stalk of a
woman thinks it would be better for her to die.'
He walked quickly, his lips firm. It was a miserable morning; the
noisy thoroughfares full of mist and wet and mud; drifts of sleet
swooping round corners; the air raw and cold. The river was scarcely
visible when he crossed London Bridge; the steamers and ships were like
ghosts in the fog. He made his way as quickly as he could through the
crowded streets, until he reached Tower Hill; then he passed up into
the Minories; there he paused in front of one or two shops, in the
windows of which were the most miscellaneous objects--old clothes,
waterproof leggings, tin cans, and what not. At last he entered one of
these places, and after a great deal of haggling and argument, he
exchanged his coat of gray home-spun for a much shabbier looking dingy
blue over-coat, that appeared the kind of thing a pilot would wear. To
this was added a woollen comforter; there was no money in the
transaction. Douglas wrapped the comforter round his neck there and
then, and put on the coat; when he stepped out again into the mud and
snow and murky atmosphere, his appearance was much more reconcilable
with the neighbourhood.
Still walking quickly, he went down to the London and St. Katherine
Docks, passing under the shadow of the gaunt walls; and then along that
dismal thoroughfare, Nightingale Lane, that looks like a passage
between two great prisons; until at last, with moderate pace, and with
a certain anxious, nervous look, as if he did not wish himself to be
seen, he arrived at the entrance to a space at the corner of the London
Dock, which was enclosed with some rusted iron railings, and partially
roofed over.
In this shed, shivering in the cold, and occasionally moving so as to
avoid the whirling of the sleet, stood a number of most miserable
looking wretches, men and lads. John Douglas knew very well who these
were, and what they were there for. Here, so far as he had learned,
was the only place in London where a starving creature could get work,
without a character or qualification of any kind. Hither came those
who, through drink, or idleness, or sheer misfortune, had got right
down to the foot of the social ladder; waiting patiently in the dim
hope that some extra pressure of work inside would occur to give them
an hour or two's employment. Well, he did not hesitate long. He
seized a moment when the attention of these poor devils had been
attracted by some sound to the other side of the grating (where the
foreman was expected to appear), and glided in among the group, hoping
to be unperceived.
But what sharp eyes hunger makes! They had no sooner turned hopelessly
away again, than every man and lad of them caught sight of the
stranger. They did not resent his intrusion. They regarded him with
curiosity, and with apathy. He looked well-to-do for that kind of
work. Perhaps if he were one of the lucky ones, he would stand a pot
of beer on coming out in the afternoon.
But to their great astonishment, they were all to be lucky ones that
morning. The foreman appeared, ran his eye over the group, and engaged
the whole of them for the day,--all, except one dazed, drunken-looking
tatterdemalion of sixty or so, whom he warned off by name. Almost
before he knew where he was, John Douglas found himself at work in the
docks, at fivepence an hour.
CHAPTER V.
TREASURE TROVE.
The work was very easy, it seemed to him. What it might be in the
warehouses he knew not; but here his business was simply to haul a
small and light truck, carrying two boxes of oranges, from the
unloading steamer along the side of the basin to the barge which was
receiving them. The work was light, and there were pauses; moreover,
the snow had ceased, and the surroundings--the ships and barges and
what not--were picturesque enough; the scent of the oranges was
pleasant. And his companions, these poor wrecks of humanity who had
drifted into this curious, quiet little pool, were in the main
good-humoured, though most of them seemed too depressed to speak much.
Of course they instantly called him 'Scottie.' Scottie got through his
short day's work with satisfaction; and when at four o'clock the great
bell began to toll, and when his wages, two shillings and a penny, were
paid him, and when he set out for the gate, he was much contented, and
was considering that, if he did his work diligently and respectfully
and in silence, it was not at all unlikely that the foreman would take
him on as a regular hand, at four-and-twenty shillings a week.
He was thus thinking, and he had got almost to the gate, when something
ahead of him occurred that made him shrink back with a look of dismay
in his face. He saw that each man as he passed through the portal held
up his arms while one of the gatekeepers passed his hands over his
clothes. They were being searched. Douglas stood still; his whole
spirit in angry revolt. He would rather give up his day's wage, the
coat off his back, the cap from his head--anything than have to go
through this shameful ordeal. He looked back: could he not get out by
the wicket at which he entered, at the other end of the docks?
'Come on, Scottie; you ain't been prigging oranges, eh?' said one of
his mates, laughing at him.
Now it was quite clear that this searching of the outgoing labourers
was in most cases merely formal; but when the gatekeepers saw this man
hanging back, they naturally concluded he had been stealing. They
called to him to come along. He hesitated no longer. With a grim air
he advanced and held up his arms in the usual way. He would betray no
shame. Doubtless it was a necessary precaution. And as he had stolen
nothing, they could not hurt him by merely suspecting him.
But this gatekeeper's inspection was minute; and when he came to some
slight protuberance on the breast of the coat, which, indeed, Douglas
himself had not noticed, he demanded to know what it was. Nay, he had
the coat taken off. On examination, a part of the lining of the coat
was found to have been cut open and carefully sewn together again.
'Took all that trouble?' said the gatekeeper, glancing at him.
'I did not know there was any pocket there,' said Douglas, hurriedly;
'I got the coat only this morning.'
'Oh, indeed,' said the other, with a slight derisive laugh. 'I
shouldn't wonder if we found some tobacco all the same.'
The lining was ripped open, in the presence of the little crowd of
labourers, carmen, stevedores, and so forth, who, seeing something
unusual going on, had collected. Douglas certainly looked very guilty.
His face was burning red; and the natural sternness of his features
made him look as if he were angry at being detected. But, on the other
hand, the expression on the face of the big yellow-bearded gate-keeper
changed very suddenly, when he took from inside the lining a little
oblong parchment bag, flat and dirty, and opened it, and drew out a
thin packet of what turned out to be Bank of England notes. Not many,
it is true; but a marvel all the same. The gatekeeper glanced at the
culprit again, and said good-humouredly,
'Bought that coat this morning? Then you're in luck's way, my man,
that's all I can say. We don't keep them kind o' goods in our
warehouses. There ye are.'
He once more examined the dirty little parchment bag all over; there
was no scrap of writing on it, or on any of the notes.
'There ye are,' he said, giving him back both the coat and the valuable
package. 'There's some as would advertise in the papers about that
money; and there's some as would go to Scotland Yard, and expect to get
something; and there's some, seein' as there's no writin', as would
stick to it, and set up a shop. Where did you buy the coat, my man?'
'At an outfitter's in the Minories--it was an exchange for my own,'
said Douglas hastily; he was anxious above all things, money or no
money, to get away from this crowd of curious faces.
'An outfitter! yes, it's a fine name. Anyhow, the money don't belong
to _him_. Most likely, now, that coat belonged to some seafaring man
as got drownded, and the poor chap's things sold. Pass on there, my
lads!'
Douglas escaped from the crowd, and got away. He was greatly
bewildered and excited; not often in his life had he come through so
much in so short a time. He walked hard, and did not stop until he sat
down in his own little room, in the cold and dark.
Hour after hour he sat there, himself fighting with himself; or rather
his consciousness of what was right fighting with his great desire to
do something to help that luckless child, lying there a few streets
farther off, friendless, poverty-stricken, fever-stricken, with the
most hopeless of futures before her. He argued with himself that no
doubt the gatekeeper's guess was correct; the money had belonged to
some sailor or pilot, who had been drowned, and his personal effects,
whether found on his dead body, or perhaps in the hold of a derelict,
sold. Certainly these notes did not belong to the old-clothes' man in
the Minories. It almost seemed as if a special act of Providence had
placed this money at his disposal to succour this helpless one in her
sickness, and support and strengthen her in her convalescence. As for
himself, he never dreamed of touching it for his own uses. He had
found out at last one way of earning his own living. But even if he
were to be permanently employed, at twenty-four shillings a week, how
could he save enough out of that to give this girl generous
nourishment, and a little wine, and country air, when she should get
well enough again? In the meantime, were her mother and sisters to
starve? And it never occurred to him to ask why he should take this
sudden interest in this stranger girl or in her family. The fact was,
he had never before been confronted with so clear a case of hardship
and distress. The solitariness, the helplessness of the child appealed
to him: it was as if he had seen a wren threatened by a hawk, or a
rabbit seized by a weasel. He could not help interfering, and doing
his utmost.
And how could this money of a dead and unknown man be put to a better
use? Was he to go and bury it in Scotland Yard? Was he to advertise
for a crowd of impostors to claim it? He lit the gas and examined the
notes. There were seven--35 pounds--a fortune! He saw the girl in a
little cottage, the window open to let the first of the spring air into
the room, she lying well wrapped up on a couch, a few wild-flowers on
the table, daffodils and primroses from the woods, pink-tipped daisies
from the banks, the red dead-nettle from the hedge-rows, and perhaps
herself, to please him, and out of gratitude as it were, reading some
of Tannahill's songs, 'Loudon's bonnie woods and braes,' 'Langsyne,
beside the woodland burn,' 'Keen blows the wind o'er the Braes o'
Gleniffer,' 'We'll meet beside the dusky glen on yon burn side.' Poor
child! she had probably seen but little of the country during her hard
life. Would she be surprised when all the hawthorn came out, and the
lanes were scented? Perhaps he would be able to teach her a little of
the beauty of simple things, and remove from her mind the poor ideas
about what is great and admirable and desirable begotten in a large
city. 'Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin
not; and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not
arrayed like one of these.' No doubt her notion of what was most
beautiful and desirable in the world was to be dressed in satin, and
driving in a coach, with powdered footmen behind, to a Royal
Drawing-room.
All this was so specious and plausible. The money lying there seemed
to belong to him more than to any other. And what good might be done
with it! Even if the real owner were alive, surely he would assent.
Thirty-five pounds: ten pounds to be put into a savings bank in her
name; the rest to clear off the doctor's bill, give a weekly allowance
to her people, and enable her to get a couple of months, or even more,
with strict economy, in the country, before returning to the hard, dull
work of London.
'I did not know,' he said aloud, in his slow, deliberate Scotch way,
'that money could have such value.'
By-and-by he rose, put the notes into the bag again, and that in his
pocket; then he turned off the gas and went out, thinking he would walk
round and see how the girl was getting on. That is to say, he tried to
make himself believe that that was all there was in his mind; but he
knew very well that there was something else. There was a haunting,
uneasy consciousness. Suddenly, at the corner of the street, instead
of turning eastward as he should have done, he abruptly turned in the
other direction, and began to walk quickly. 'The money is not mine; I
will have none of it,' was his ultimate and fixed decision. 'No
dreams, man; no temptation. The first step to perdition is no doubt
smooth enough. If I can do the lass a good turn, it must be with my
own money.'
He walked to Scotland Yard, finding it without difficulty, for he knew
all the familiar features of London on the map; and there he told his
story, and delivered up the money, and left his address. He departed
with a light heart. Nay, when he had crossed Westminster Bridge again,
he looked out for a poor-looking coffee-house, and went in and had some
coffee and a roll, and thought he never had enjoyed any dinner more.
He looked at the evening paper, too, and then went out again into the
wet streets, and continued his way. He was further cheered by hearing
that the sick girl, though still feverish and perfectly weak and
prostrate, had not, in the doctor's opinion, caught any serious malady,
and only wanted time and care, and afterwards some better nourishment,
to bring her round.
CHAPTER VI.
THE END OF THE EPISODE.
So with courage and patience, and with a final gulp about that
searching business, he returned to his work at the docks, and very soon
got engaged as a permanent hand. He was a favourite with the foremen,
for he was industrious and minded his own business; but he was greatly
disliked by his companions. They would not believe, and he was at no
pains to convince them, that he had not kept the found money; and they
had expected him, if ever he returned to the docks, to stand treat
liberally. They were angry at Scottie's stinginess, and took to
taunting him. These casual jeers he heeded no more than the idle wind;
they could not hurt.
His savings slowly increased, his only serious expenditure being his
weekly rent. When, each morning at twelve o'clock, the great bell rang
in the docks, and the men and women came in with their baskets and
barrows, his dinner consisted of a couple of penny sausage-rolls ('bags
of mystery,' his mates called them), and these were really quite fresh
and clean and wholesome-looking. In the afternoon or evening he
generally went round to the house where the girl, Mary Ann Ellis, was
now so far recovered that she could sit propped up in bed for an hour
or so; and he would have a chat with her and her landlady, and a cup of
tea, with bread and butter--for which he privately paid. He found this
girl interesting, simple, and intensely grateful, but ignorant to a
degree that he had not thought possible in a human being capable of
reading. In one respect this was lucky, for she believed any nonsense
he told her; and the quite imaginary associations of ladies and
gentlemen for the dispensing of needful charity received her most
earnest thanks for those little sums that were sent to her mother, or
that enabled her to pay off her doctor's weekly bill.
One day John Douglas was leaving the docks as usual, when he was
overtaken by a tall and handsome young fellow, whom he knew to be
connected with the Customs department.
'I say, aren't you the man that found a lot of money?'
Douglas had grown sulky, or rather suspicious of foolery, and was
inclined to keep his own counsel. But the accent of this stranger went
straight to his heart; he had not heard the Scotch way of speaking for
many a day. So he turned and regarded the young man, and frankly told
him what he had done with the money. This led to further questions,
for the younger man's curiosity was aroused. It was the City of
Glasgow Bank, then? But why take to such work as this? Couldn't he
get into some office? Did he know a little of book-keeping?
The upshot of all this was that, about a week after, John Douglas found
himself installed as clerk at a tall desk in the back-room of a
co-operative store connected with the docks, at a salary of two pounds
a week; and the first and immediate result of this was that the
mysterious charitable associations of which he was apparently the
agent, commissioned him to inform Mary Ann Ellis that she need not try
to get any situation for at least two months' time, because fourteen
shillings a week would be paid to her during that period, to enable her
to get thoroughly well again.
John Douglas grew to be a proud man. He was proud of having paid off
that five pounds, and standing free of all the world; he was proud of
his gradually-increasing account at the Government Savings Bank as a
guarantee against future ill; but he was proudest of all of his
patient, whose convalescence he in a measure attributed to himself.
The days were longer now, and the weather fine; on the clear evenings,
or Saturday afternoons, these two would get into an omnibus, and go
away out to Camberwell Green, or Kennington Park, or Clapham Common,
and sit on a bench, and watch the young folks enjoying their sports and
diversions. He was better dressed now, and she had got into the way of
calling him 'Sir.' He told her a great deal about Scotland, and the
mountains, and the glens with the birch-trees and waterfalls; but he
always got into a difficulty when he came to the sea, which she had
never seen. She could not understand that.
'Now, lassie, look at that piece of water there,' he would say to her,
at the pond on Clapham Common. 'Cannot you imagine its going out and
out until it gets far beyond the trees and houses yonder, until it gets
beyond everything, and meets the sky?'
'I see what you mean, sir,' she would say; 'but I can't understand it:
for I can't help thinking, if there was nothing on the other side to
hold it up, it must tumble down. How can water hold itself up in the
air?'
'Dear, dear me, lass!' he would say impatiently, 'have I not explained
to ye how everything in the world, land and hills and everything, is
held together?'
'Yes, sir; but water shifts so,' she would say; and he would take to
something else.
The two months went by, and she got stronger and stronger, though
sometimes she grew a little anxious about her chances of getting
another situation. During this constant companionship, he had become
much attached--in a compassionate sort of fashion--to this child whom
chance had thrown in his way. He could see her good points, and her
weak ones. She was of a kindly disposition; truthful, he thought; with
no very distinct religion, but she had a general desire to be good;
simple and frugal in her ways of living,--though this was a necessity,
and she had no idea of frugality being in itself a virtue. On the
other hand, her views as to what was most to be desired in life were
simply the result of the atmosphere in which she had lived; and she
confessed to him that the most beautiful thing she had ever seen was
the arrivals at a Mansion House ball--the coloured stair-cloth, the
beautiful ladies, the brilliant uniforms. Her knowledge of politics
was entirely derived from the cartoons of the comic journals in the
shop windows; and she had any quantity of vague and vulgar prejudices
about Catholics, Radicals, and Jews. But this patient listener, who
seemed interested in her foolish little opinions, was a largely
tolerant man. Such things were; let us make the best of them,--that
was what he seemed to say. And as all the phenomena of the universe
appeared to him to be worthy of respectful attention--even if one did
not go the length of vexing one's self about any one of them--he was
willing to learn that, in the opinion of this profound observer, the
Catholic priests were bad men, who would let you do anything that was
wrong if only you paid them enough money for absolution.
One evening, when he went round as usual, he found Mary Ann in great
excitement; she had evidently been crying, and now she was laughing in
a half-crying way.
'What is the matter, lassie?' said he severely, for he did not like
'scenes.'
'Oh, sir, Pete has written--at last--at last!' she said, crying all the
more, but in a glad sort of way, and looking again at the letter she
held in her two hands.
'But who is Pete?'
'My sweetheart, sir; I never said anything about him--I thought he had
forgotten us--but now he says he wouldn't write until he had good news,
and now there is good news enough,--oh yes, there is! there is! For he
has got a good place, and good prospects--and here is money to take me
out, and my mother and sisters, too--all except fifteen pounds, Pete
says, and that he'll send in three months' time. Oh, sir! you don't
know what a good fellow Pete is!'
John Douglas sat down. His heart felt a little heavy; he scarcely knew
why. But he began to ask a few questions, in a slow matter-of-fact
way; and he did not remain long. He saw that the girl wanted to read
and re-read the good news to herself, and draw pictures of all that was
coming.
The next afternoon Mary Ann got a note from him, with an enclosure.
Thus it ran:--
'DEAR CHILD--You need not wait through three months of uncertainty. I
enclose for you what will make up the passage-money, and also pay the
expenses of your mother and sisters' coming to London. Accept this
quietly and sensibly, and do not make any fuss about it, nor when I see
you. I shall be busy this evening, and may not call.
'Your friend,
'JOHN DOUGLAS.'
But all the same Mary Ann came round quickly, and with her the tall,
gaunt, dark, composed landlady; and there was a great scene, Mary Ann
crying and accusing herself of unheard-of stupidity for not having
guessed that he all along had been her benefactor; and he, on the other
hand, sternly bidding her hold her peace and not talk foolishness.
'Ye did me a great service, ye foolish lass,' he said; 'ye made me take
to actual work when I was merely idling and loitering about. Ye gave
me an object to work for, and pleasant companionship for a space, and
now, if I must find something else, that is as it has been ordered; and
I maun bide my time.'
A few days afterwards he saw the mother when she arrived--a poor, limp
sort of creature--and the two bewildered little girls. He could not,
because of office work, go with them, as he had wished, to Southampton;
but he accompanied them to the railway station, early in the morning,
and bade them farewell. And as he turned away, he said to himself,
'These poor creatures I shall doubtless see no more in this world; but
they will have a little regard for me, perhaps, while they live, and
that is something. And now I will consider myself free to spend a
trifle of money on myself, when I get it saved again; and I will use it
during the holidays they speak of to take a trip back home again, and
see the old place, and that the graves of my people are taken care of.
And I may be able to make dispositions, too, so that when I'm taken I
may be placed there also; for it is but natural that one should wish to
rest among one's own.'
THE END.
THE FOUR MACNICOLS
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OF 'MACLEOD OF DARE,' 'SUNRISE,' ETC.
NEW EDITION
LONDON
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1882
[NOTE.--The following sketch of the founding of a Co-operative
Association by four Scotch boys was originally meant for young people;
but subsequently the writer ventured to think that it might prove
equally interesting, or even more interesting, to grown-up folk,
especially as parts of it are based on fact; and so it is now printed
here for the first time.]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Juventus Mundi
II. The Last of the Games
III. Altered Circumstances
IV. Further Endeavour
V. The High Road
THE FOUR MACNICOLS.
CHAPTER I.
JUVENTUS MUNDI.
It was on a bright and glorious morning in July that the great
chieftain, Robert of the Red Hand, accompanied by his kinsmen and
allies, put to sea in his war-galley, resolved to sweep the Spanish
main free of all his enemies, and thereafter to hold high revel in the
halls of Eilean-na-Rona. At least, that was how it appeared to the
imagination of the great chieftain himself, though the simple facts of
the case were a trifle less romantic. For this Robert of the Red Hand,
more familiarly known as Rob MacNicol, or even as plain Rob, was an
active, stout-sinewed, black-eyed lad of seventeen, whose only mark of
chieftainship apparently was that, unlike his brothers, he wore shoes
and stockings; these three relatives constituted his allies and
kinsmen; the so-called Spanish main was in reality an arm of the sea
better known in the Hebrides as Loch Scrone; and the war-galley was an
old, ramshackle, battered, and betarred boat belonging generally to the
fishing-village of Erisaig; for, indeed, the boat was so old and so
battered that nobody now seemed to claim any special ownership of it.
These four MacNicols,--Robert, Neil, Nicol, and Duncan,--were, it must
be admitted, an idle and graceless set, living for the most part a
hand-to-mouth, amphibious, curlew-like kind of life, and far more given
to aimless voyages in boats not belonging to them than inclined to turn
their hand to any honest labour. But this must be said in their excuse
that no boy or lad born in the village of Erisaig could by any means
whatsoever be brought to think of becoming anything else than a
fisherman. It was impossible to induce them to apprentice themselves
to any ordinary trade. They would wait until they were old enough to
go after the herring, like the others; that was man's work; that was
something like; that was different from staying ashore and twiddling
one's fingers over a pair of somebody else's shoes, or laboriously
shaping a block of sandstone for somebody else's house. This Rob
MacNicol, for example: it was only for want of a greater career that he
had constituted himself a dreaded sea-rover, a stern chieftain, etc.
etc. His secret ambition--his great and constant and secret
ambition--went far farther than that. It was to be of man's estate,
broad-shouldered and heavy-bearded; to wear huge black boots up to his
thighs, and a blue flannel jersey; to have a peaked cap (not forgetting
a brass button on each side by way of smartness); and then to come
along, in the afternoon, with a yellow oilskin tied up in a bundle, to
the wharf where the herring fleet lay, the admiration and the envy of
all the miserable creatures condemned to stay ashore.
In the meantime--in these days of joyous idleness, while as yet the
cares and troubles which this history will have to chronicle were far
away from him and his simply because they were unknown--Rob MacNicol,
if he could not be a fisherman, could be an imaginary chieftain, and in
that capacity he gave his orders as one who knew how to make himself
obeyed. As soon as they had shoved the boat clear of the smacks, the
jib was promptly set; the big lumps of stone that served for ballast
were duly shifted; the lug-sail, as black as pitch and full of holes,
was hoisted, and the halyards made fast; then the sheet was hauled in
by Nicol MacNicol, who had been ordered to the helm; and finally the
shaky old nondescript craft began to creep through the blue waters of
Erisaig Bay. It was a lovely morning; the light breeze from the land
seemed steady enough; altogether, nothing could have been more
auspicious for the setting out of the great chieftain and his kinsmen.
But great as he is, he is not above fearing the criticism of people
ashore on his method of handling a boat. Rob, from his proud position
at the bow, darted an angry glance at his helmsman.
'Keep her full, will ye?' he growled in an undertone. 'Do ye call that
steering, ye gomeril? Run her by Daft Sandy's boat? It is no better
than a cowherd you are at the steering.'