From the earliest records of history we learn that man has ever been
envious of the birds, and of all other winged creatures. He has longed
and striven to fly. He has also signally failed to do so.
We say "failed" advisedly, because his various attempts in that
direction have usually resulted in disappointment and broken bones. As
to balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships;
balloons merely float and glide, when not otherwise engaged in tumbling,
collapsing, and bursting.
This being so, we draw attention to the fact that the nearest approach
we have yet made to the sensation of flying is that achieved by rushing
down a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfect
ball-bearings bicycle! Skating cannot compare with this, for that
requires exertion; bicycling down hill requires none. Hunting cannot,
no matter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element of
bumping, which, however pleasant in itself, is not suggestive of the
smooth swift act of flying.
We introduce this subject merely because thoughts somewhat similar to
those which we have so inadequately expressed were burning in the brain
of a handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as,
with legs over the handles, he flashed--if he did not actually fly--down
one of our Middlesex hills on his way to London.
Urgent haste was in every look and motion of that young man's fine eyes
and lithe body. He would have bought wings at any price had that been
possible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of his
wheel--a fifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man's legs were
long, as well as strong.
Arrived at the bottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet to
the treadles, and drove the machine vigorously up the opposite slope.
It was steep, but he was powerful. He breathed hard, no doubt, but he
never flagged until he gained the next summit. A shout burst from his
lips as he rolled along the level top, for there, about ten miles off,
lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, and with only an
amber-tinted canopy of its usual smoke above it.
Among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which he
swept, innumerable birds warbled or twittered their astonishment that he
could fly with such heedless rapidity through that beautiful country,
and make for the dismal town in such magnificent weather. One aspiring
lark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill of
self gratulation that it had not been born a man. Even the cattle
appeared to regard the youth as a sort of ornithological curiosity, for
the sentiment, "Well, you are a goose!" was clearly written on their
mild faces as he flew past them.
Over the hill-top he went--twelve miles an hour at the least--until he
reached the slope on the other side; then down he rushed again, driving
at the first part of the descent like an insane steam-engine, till the
pace must have increased to twenty miles, at which point, the whirl of
the wheel becoming too rapid, he was obliged once more to rest his legs
on the handles, and take to repose, contemplation, and wiping his heated
brow--equivalent this, we might say, to the floating descent of the
sea-mew. Of course the period of rest was of brief duration, for,
although the hill was a long slope, with many a glimpse of loveliness
between the trees, the time occupied in its flight was short, and, at
the bottom a rustic bridge, with an old inn and a thatched hamlet, with
an awkwardly sharp turn in the road beyond it, called for wary and
intelligent guidance of this lightning express.
Swiftly but safely to the foot of the hill went John Barret (that was
the youth's name), at ever-increasing speed, and without check; for no
one seemed to be moving about in the quiet hamlet, and the old English
inn had apparently fallen asleep.
A delicious undulating swoop at the bottom indicates the crossing of the
bridge. A flash, and the inn is in rear. The hamlet displays no sign
of life, nevertheless Barret is cautious. He lays a finger on the brake
and touches the bell. He is half-way through the hamlet and all goes
well; still no sign of life except--yes, this so-called proof of every
rule is always forthcoming, except that there is the sudden appearance
of one stately cock. This is followed immediately by its sudden and
unstately disappearance. A kitten also emerges from somewhere, glares,
arches, fuffs, becomes indescribable, and--is not! Two or three
children turn up and gape, but do not recover in time to insult, or to
increase the dangers of the awkward turn in the road which is now at
hand.
Barret looks thoughtful. Must the pace be checked here? The road is
open and visible. It is bordered by grass banks and ditches on either
side. He rushes close to the left bank and, careering gracefully to the
right like an Algerine felucca in a white squall, dares the laws of
gravitation and centrifugal force to the utmost limitation, and
describes a magnificent segment of a great circle. Almost before you
can wink he is straight again, and pegging along with irresistible
pertinacity.
Just beyond the hamlet a suburban lady is encountered, with clasped
hands and beseeching eyes, for a loose hairy bundle, animated by the
spirit of a dog, stands in the middle of the road, bidding defiance to
the entire universe! The hairy bundle loses its head all at once,
likewise its heart: it has not spirit left even to get out of the way.
A momentary lean of the bicycle first to the left and then to the right
describes what artists call "the line of beauty," in a bight of which
the bundle remains behind, crushed in spirit, but unhurt in body.
At the bottom of the next hill a small roadside inn greets our cyclist.
That which cocks, kittens, dangers, and dogs could not effect, the inn
accomplishes. He "slows." In front of the door he describes an airy
circlet, dismounting while yet in motion, leans the lightning express
against the wall, and enters. What! does that vigorous, handsome,
powerful fellow, in the flush of early manhood, drink? Ay, truly he
does.
"Glass of bitter, sir?" asks the exuberant landlord.
"Ginger," says the young man, pointing significantly to a bit of blue
ribbon in his button-hole.
"Come far to-day, sir?" asks the host, as he pours out the liquid.
"Fifty miles--rather more," says Barret, setting down the glass.
"Fine weather, sir, for bicycling," says the landlord, sweeping in the
coppers.
"Very; good-day."
Before that cheery "Good-day" had ceased to affect the publican's brain
Barret was again spinning along the road to London.
It was the road on which the mail coaches of former days used to whirl,
to the merry music of bugle, wheel, and whip, along which so many men
and women had plodded in days gone by, in search of fame and fortune and
happiness: some, to find these in a greater or less degree, with much of
the tinsel rubbed off, others, to find none of them, but instead
thereof, wreck and ruin in the mighty human whirlpool; and not a few to
discover the fact that happiness does not depend either on fortune or
fame, but on spiritual harmony with God in Jesus Christ.
Pedestrians there still were on that road, bound for the same goal, and,
doubtless, with similar aims; but mail and other coaches had been driven
from the scene.
Barret had the broad road pretty much to himself.
Quickly he ran into the suburban districts, and here his urgent haste
had to be restrained a little.
"What if I am too late!" he thought, and almost involuntarily put on a
spurt.
Soon he entered the crowded thoroughfares, and was compelled to curb
both steed and spirit. Passing through one of the less-frequented
streets in the neighbourhood of Finchley Road, he ventured to give the
rein to his willing charger.
But here Fortune ceased to smile--and Fortune was to be commended for
her severity.
Barret, although kind, courteous, manly, sensitive, and reasonably
careful, was not just what he ought to have been. Although a hero, he
was not perfect. He committed the unpardonable sin of turning a street
corner sharply! A thin little old lady crossed the road at the same
identical moment, slowly. They met! Who can describe that meeting?
Not the writer, for he did not see it; more's the pity! Very few people
saw it, for it was a quiet corner. The parties concerned cannot be said
to have seen, though they felt it. Both went down. It was awful,
really, to see a feeble old lady struggling with an athlete and a
bicycle!
Two little street boys, and a ragged girl appeared as if by magic. They
always do!
"Oh! I say! Ain't he bin and squashed 'er?"
Such was the remark of one of the boys.
"Pancakes is plump to 'er," was the observation of the other.
The ragged girl said nothing, but looked unspeakable things.
Burning with shame, trembling with anxiety, covered with dust and
considerably bruised, Barret sprang up, left his fallen steed, and,
raising the little old lady with great tenderness in his arms, sat her
on the pavement with her back against the railings, while he poured out
abject apologies and earnest inquiries.
Strange to say the old lady was not hurt in the least--only a good deal
shaken and very indignant.
Stranger still, a policeman suddenly appeared in the distance. At the
same time a sweep, a postman, and a servant girl joined the group.
Young Barret, as we have said, was sensitive. To become the object and
centre of a crowd in such circumstances was overwhelming. A climax was
put to his confusion, when one of the street arabs, observing the
policeman, suddenly exclaimed:--
"Oh! I say, 'ere's a bobby! What a lark. Won't you be 'ad up before
the beaks? It'll be a case o' murder."
"No, it won't," retorted the other boy; "it'll be a case o' manslaughter
an' attempted suicide jined."
Barret started up, allowing the servant maid to take his place, and saw
the approaching constable. Visions of detention, publicity, trial,
conviction, condemnation, swam before him.
"A reg'lar Krismas panty-mime for nuffin'!" remarked the ragged girl,
breaking silence for the first time.
Scarcely knowing what he did, Barret leaped towards his bicycle, set it
up, vaulted into the saddle, as he well knew how, and was safely out of
sight in a few seconds.
Yet not altogether safe. A guilty conscience pursued, overtook, and sat
upon him. Shame and confusion overwhelmed him. Up to that date he had
been honourable, upright, straightforward; as far as the world's
estimation went, irreproachable. Now, in his own estimation, he was
mean, false, underhand, sneaking!
But he did not give way to despair. He was a true hero, else we would
not have had anything to write about him. Suddenly he slowed, frowned,
compressed his lips, described a complete circle--in spite of a
furniture van that came in his way--and deliberately went back to the
spot where the accident had occurred; but there was no little lady to be
seen. She had been conveyed away, the policeman was gone, the little
boys were gone, the ragged girl, sweep, postman, and servant maid--all
were gone, "like the baseless fabric of a vision," leaving only new
faces and strangers behind to wonder what accident and thin old lady the
excited youth was asking about--so evanescent are the incidents that
occur; and so busily pre-occupied are the human torrents that rush in
the streets of London!
The youth turned sadly from the spot and continued his journey at a
slower pace. As he went along, the thought that the old lady might have
received internal injuries, and would die, pressed heavily upon him:
Thus, he might actually be a murderer, at the best a man-slaughterer,
without knowing it, and would carry in his bosom a dreadful secret, and
a terrible uncertainty, to the end of his life!
Of course he could go to that great focus of police energy--Scotland
Yard--and give himself up; but on second thoughts he did not quite see
his way to that. However, he would watch the daily papers closely.
That evening, in a frame of mind very different from the mental
condition, in which he had set out on his sixty miles' ride in the
afternoon, John Barret presented himself to his friend and old
schoolfellow, Bob Mabberly.
"You're a good fellow, Barret; I knew you would come; but you look warm.
Have you been running?" asked Mabberly, opening the door of his lodging
to his friend. "Come in: I have news for you. Giles Jackman has agreed
to go. Isn't that a comfort? for, besides his rare and valuable
sporting qualities, he is more than half a doctor, which will be
important, you know, if any of us should get ill or come to grief. Sit
down and we'll talk it over."
Now, it was a telegram from Bob Mabberly which led John Barret to
suddenly undertake a sixty miles' ride that day, and which was thus the
indirect cause of the little old lady being run down. The telegram ran
as follows:--
"Come instanter. As you are. Clothes unimportant. Yacht engaged.
Crew also. Sail, without fail, Thursday. Plenty more to say when we
meet."
"Now, you see, Bob, with your usual want of precision, or care, or some
such quality--"
"Stop, Barret. Do be more precise in the use of language. How can the
want of a thing be a _quality_?"
"You are right, Bob. Let me say, then, that with your usual unprecision
and carelessness you sent me a telegram, which could not reach me till
late on Wednesday night, after all trains were gone, telling me that you
sail, without fail, on Thursday, but leaving me to guess whether you
meant Thursday morning or evening."
"How stupid! My dear fellow, I forgot that!"
"Just so. Well to make sure of losing no time, instead of coming here
by trains, which, as you know, are very awkward and slow in our
neighbourhood, besides necessitating long waits and several changes, I
just packed my portmanteau, gun, rods, etcetera, and gave directions to
have them forwarded here by the first morning train, then took a few
winks of sleep, and at the first glimmer of daylight mounted my wheel
and set off across country as straight as country roads would permit
of--and--here I am."
"True, Barret, and in good time for tea too. We don't sail till
morning, for the tide does not serve till six o'clock, so that will give
us plenty of time to put the finishing touches to our plans, allow your
things to arrive, and permit of our making--or, rather, renewing--our
acquaintance with Giles Jackman. You remember him, don't you?"
"Yes, faintly. He was a broad, sturdy, good-humoured, reckless, little
boy when I last saw him at old Blatherby's school."
"Just so. Your portrait is correct. I saw him last month, after a good
many years' interval, and he is exactly what he was, but considerably
exaggerated at every point. He is not, indeed, a little, but a middle
sized man now; as good-humoured as ever; much more reckless; sturdier
and broader a great deal, with an amount of hair about his lip, chin,
and head generally that would suffice to fit out three or four average
men. He has been in India--in the Woods and Forests Department, or
something of that sort--and has killed tigers, elephants, and such-like
by the hundred, they say; but I've met him only once or twice, and he
don't speak much about his own doings. He is home on sick-leave just
now."
"Sick-leave! Will he be fit to go with us?" asked Barret, doubtfully.
"Fit!" cried Mabberly. "Ay, much more fit than you are, strong and
vigorous though you be, for the voyage home has not only cured him; it
has added superabundant health. Voyages always do to sick
Anglo-Indians, don't you know? However ill a man may be in India, all
he has to do is to obtain leave of absence and get on board of a ship
homeward bound, and straightway health, rushing in upon him like a
river, sends him home more than cured. So now our party is made up,
yacht victualled, anchor tripped; and--`all's well that ends well.'"
"But all is not ended, Bob. Things have only begun, and, as regards
myself, they have begun disastrously," said Barret, who thereupon
related the incident of the little old lady being run down.
"My dear fellow," cried Mabberly, laughing, "excuse me, don't imagine me
indifferent to the sufferings of the poor old thing; but do you really
suppose that one who was tough enough, after such a collision, to sit up
at all, with or without the support of the railings, and give way to
indignant abuse--"
"Not abuse, Bob, indignant looks and sentiments; she was too thorough a
lady to think of abuse--"
"Well, well; call it what you please; but you may depend upon it that
she is not much hurt, and you will hear nothing more about the matter."
"That's it! That's the very thing that I dread," returned Barret,
anxiously. "To go through life with the possibility that I may be an
uncondemned and unhung murderer is terrible to think of. Then I can't
get over the meanness of my running away so suddenly. If any one had
said I was capable of such conduct I should have laughed at him. Yet
have I lived to do it--contemptibly--in cold blood."
"Contemptibly it may have been, but not in cold blood, for did you not
say you were roused to a state of frenzied alarm at the sight of the
bobby? and assuredly, although unhung as yet, you are not uncondemned,
if self-condemnation counts for anything. Come, don't take such a
desponding view of the matter. We shall see the whole affair in the
morning papers before sailing, with a report of the old lady's name and
condition--I mean condition of health--as well as your unmanly flight,
without leaving your card; so you'll be able to start with an easy--Ha!
a cab! yes, it's Jackman. I know his manservant," said Mabberly, as he
looked out at the window.
Another moment and a broad-chested man, of about five-and-twenty, with a
bronzed face--as far as hair left it visible--a pair of merry blue eyes,
and a hearty manner, was grasping his old schoolfellows by the hand, and
endeavouring to trace the likeness in John Barret to the quiet little
boy whom he used to help with his tasks many years before.
"Man, who would have thought you could have grown into such a great
long-legged fellow?" he said stepping back to take a more perfect look
at his friend, who returned the compliment by asking who could have
imagined that he would have turned into a Zambezian gorilla.
"Where'll I put it, sor?" demanded a voice of metallic bassness in the
doorway.
"Down there--anywhere, Quin," said Jackman turning quickly; "and be off
as fast as you can to see after that rifle and cartridges."
"Yes, sor," returned the owner of the bass voice, putting down a small
portmanteau, straightening himself, touching his forehead with a
military salute, and stalking away solemnly.
"I say, Giles, it's not often one comes across a zoological specimen
like that. Where did you pick him up?" asked Mabberly.
"In the woods and forests of course," said Jackman, "where I have picked
up everything of late--from salary to jungle fevers. He's an old
soldier--also on sick-leave, though he does not look like it. He came
originally from the west of Ireland, I believe; but there's little of
the Irishman left, save the brogue and the honesty. He's a first-rate
servant, if you know how to humour him, and, being a splendid cook, we
shall find him useful."
"I hope so," said Mabberly, with a dubious look.
"Why, Bob, do you suppose I would have offered him as cook and steward
if I had not felt sure of him?"
"Of course not; and I would not have accepted him if I had not felt sure
of you, Giles, my boy; so come along and let's have something to eat."
"But you have not yet told me, Bob," said Jackman, while the three
friends were discussing their meal, "what part of the world you intend
to visit. Does your father give you leave to go wherever you please,
and stay as long as you choose?"
"No; he limits me to the Western Isles."
"That's an indefinite limitation. D'you mean the isles of the Western
Pacific?"
"No; only those of the west of Scotland. And, to tell you the truth, I
have no settled or definite plan. Having got leave to use the yacht all
the summer on condition that I don't leave our own shores, I have
resolved to begin by running at once to the wildest and farthest away
part of the kingdom, leaving circumstances to settle the rest."
"A circumstantial account of the matter, no doubt, yet rather vague.
Have you a good crew?"
"Yes; two men and a boy, one of the men being skipper, and the nearest
approach to a human machine you ever saw. He is a Highlander, a
thorough seaman, hard as mahogany and about as dark, stiff as a poker,
self-contained, silent, except when spoken to, and absolutely obedient."
"And we set sail to-morrow, early?" asked Barret.
"Yes; after seeing the morning papers," said Mabberly with a laugh.
This, of course, turned the conversation on the accident, much to the
distress of Barret, who feared that the jovial, off-hand reckless man
from the "woods and forests" would laugh at and quiz him more severely
than his friend Bob. To his surprise and great satisfaction, however,
he found that his fears were groundless, for Jackman listened to the
account of the incident quite gravely, betrayed not the slightest
tendency to laugh, or even smile; asked a good many questions in an
interested tone, spoke encouragingly as to the probable result, and
altogether showed himself to be a man of strong sympathy as well as high
spirits.
Next morning found our three adventurers dropping down the Thames with
the first of the ebb tide, and a slight breeze from the south-west;
Mabberly and Jackman in the very small cabin looking after stores, guns,
rods, etcetera; Barret anxiously scanning the columns of a newspaper;
Quin and the skipper making each other's acquaintance with much of the
suspicion observable in two bull-dogs who meet accidentally; the boy in
the fore part of the vessel coiling ropes; and the remainder of the crew
at the helm.
"Port! port! stiddy," growled the skipper.
"Port it is; steady," replied the steersman in a sing-song professional
tone, as a huge steamer from the antipodes went slowly past, like a
mighty leviathan of the deep.
"Is it to the north, south, east, or west we're bound for, captain?"
asked Quin, with a voice like that of a conciliatory bassoon.
"I don't know where we're bound for," growled the skipper slowly.
"Starboard a bit; stiddy!"
"Steady!" sang out the man at the tiller.
A few hours carried them into the German Ocean. Here Quin thought he
would try again for a little information.
"Sure it's nor'-east we're steerin', captain," he remarked in a casual
way.
"No, it's not," growled the skipper, very much through his nose; "she's
headin' west."
"It's to _somewhere_ that coorse will take us in the ind, no doubt, if
we carry on?" suggested Quin, interrogatively.
"Ay; oot to sea," replied the skipper.
Quin was obliged to give it up for the time being.
For some time they were nearly becalmed; then, as the land dropped
astern and the shades of night deepened, the wind fell altogether, and,
when the stars came out, a profound calm prevailed over the gently
undulating sea. The exuberant spirits of our three friends were subdued
by the sweet influences around, and, as the hour for rest drew near, the
conversation, which at first became fitful, dropped at last to silence.
This was broken at length by Jackman saying, to the surprise of his
companions, "What d'you say to reading a chapter before turning in? I'm
fond of striking what's called a key-note. If we begin this
pleasure-trip with an acknowledgment of our dependence on God, we shall
probably have a really pleasant time of it. What say you?"
Both Mabberly and Barret gladly agreed to their friend's proposal--for
both had been trained in God-fearing families--though neither would have
had the courage to make the proposal himself. The crew were invited to
join, and thus family worship was established on board the _Fairy_ from
the first day.
Only one point is worthy of note in connection with this--although no
one noted it particularly at the time, namely, that the portion of
Scripture undesignedly selected contained that oft-quoted verse, "Ye
know not what a day may bring forth."
The truth of this was very soon thrust home upon them by stern
experience.