Talk of earthquakes! not all the earthquakes that have rumbled in
Ecuador or toppled over the spires and dwellings of Peru could compare,
in the matter of dogged pertinacity, with that earthquake which
diurnally and hourly shocked little Gertie's dwelling, quivered the
white dimity curtains of little Gertie's bed and shook little Gertie's
frame. A graceful, rounded little frame it was; yet strong, and firmly
knit--perhaps in consequence of its having been from infancy so
constantly and so well shaken together.
Her neat little body was surmounted by a head which no sculptor in
search of an antique model would have chosen. Gertie's profile was not
Grecian; her features were not classic--but they were comely, and rosy,
and so sweet that most people wanted to kiss them, and many people did.
Gertie did not object. Probably, being only six, she imagined that this
was the ordinary and natural method of salutation. Yet it was
observable that the child did not reciprocate kisses except in one or
two special cases. She had evidently a mind of her own, a fact which
was displayed most strikingly, in the passionate manner in which she
reciprocated the embraces of John Marrot, her father, when that large
hairy individual came in of an evening, and, catching her in his long
arms, pressed her little body to his damp pilot-cloth-coated breast and
her chubby face to his oily, smoke-and-soot begrimed countenance,
forgetful for the moment of the remonstrance from his wife that was sure
to follow:--
"Now then, John, there you go again. You ain't got no more power of
subjewin' your feelings than one of your own ingines, w'ich is the
schreechin'ist, fizzin'ist, crashin'ist, bustin' things I ever 'ad the
misfortune to 'ave to do with. There's a clean frock just put on this
mornin' only fit for the wash-tub now?"
But John was an easy-going man. He was mild, kind, sedate,
undemonstrative by nature, and looked upon slight matrimonial breezes as
being good for the health. It was only Gertie who could draw him into
demonstrations of feeling such as we have described, and, as we have
said, she always reciprocated them violently, increasing thereby the
wash-tub necessity tenfold.
It would have been strange indeed if John Marrot could have been much
put about by a small matrimonial breeze, seeing that his life was spent
in riding on an iron monster with white-hot lungs and boiling bowels
which carried him through space day and night at the rate of fifty miles
an hour! This, by the way, brings us back to our text--earthquakes.
Gertie's house--or Gertie's father's house, if you prefer it--stood
close to the embankment of one of our great arterial railways--which of
them, for reasons best known to ourself, we don't intend to tell, but,
for the reader's comfort, we shall call it the Grand National Trunk
Railway. So close did the house stand to the embankment that timid
female passengers were known occasionally to scream as they approached
it, under the impression that the train had left the rails and was about
to dash into it--an impression which was enhanced and somewhat justified
by the circumstance that the house stood with one of its corners;
instead of its side, front, or back; towards the line; thereby inducing
a sudden sensation of wrongness in the breasts of the twenty thousand
passengers who swept past it daily. The extreme edge of its most
protruding stone was exactly three yards four inches--by measurement--
from the left rail of the down line.
Need we say more to account for the perpetual state of earthquakedom, in
which that house was involved?
But the tremors and shocks to which it was exposed--by night and by
day--was not all it had to bear. In certain directions of the wind it
was intermittently enveloped in clouds of mingled soot and steam, and,
being situated at a curve on the line where signalling became imminently
needful, it was exposed to all the varied horrors of the whistle from
the sharp screech of interrogation to the successive bursts of
exasperation, or the prolonged and deadly yell of intimidation, with all
the intermediate modulations--so that, what with the tremors, and
shocks, and crashes, and shrieks, and thunderous roar of trains,
Gertie's father's house maintained an upright front in circumstances
that might have been equalled but could not have been surpassed by those
of the Eddystone Lighthouse in the wildest of winter storms, while it
excelled that celebrated building in this, that it faced a storm which
knew no calm, but raged furiously all the year round.
John Marrot was an engine-driver on the Grand National Trunk Railway.
This is equivalent to saying that he was a steady, sober, trustworthy
man. None but men of the best character are nowadays put in so
responsible a position. Nearly all the drivers on the line were of this
kind--some better than others, no doubt, but all good. Of course there
are exceptions to every rule. As in the best regulated families
accidents will happen, so, on the best conducted lines, an occasional
black sheep will get among the drivers, but this is the exception that
proves the rule. The rule in the Grand National Trunk Railway was--get
the best drivers and pay them well. The same may be said of the
firemen, whose ambition was ultimately to drive the iron chargers which
they fed. Besides being all that we have said, John was a big, burly,
soft-hearted, hard-headed man, who knew that two and two in ordinary
circumstances made four, and who didn't require to be told that his left
foot was not his right one.
It was generally supposed that John Marrot had no nerves, and that his
muscles had imbibed some of the iron of which his engine was composed.
This was a mistake, though there was some truth in both suppositions.
John's family consisted of himself when at home, which, although often,
was never for long; his wife--fat and fair, capable of being roused,
but, on the whole, a good, sensible, loving woman; his eldest daughter,
Lucy or Loo--nineteen, dark, pretty, and amiable; his youngest daughter,
Gertrude, _alias_ Gertie--six, sunny and serious, at least as serious as
was possible for one so young, so innocent, so healthy, and so happy as
she; his son Bob, aged twelve, who was a lamp-boy at the great station
not far off, and of whom it may be briefly said that he was "no better
than he should be," and, lastly, the baby--not yet at the walking period
of life, with a round head, round body, round eyes, and a round dozen at
least--if not more--of hairs standing straight up on the top of his bald
pate, suggesting the idea that he must at some period of his life have
been singed by a passing locomotive--an event not by any means beyond
the bounds of possibility, for it may be written, with more truth of
this, than of any other infant, that he had been born and nurtured amid
thunder, smoke, and blazes.
As might have been expected in the circumstances, he was a powerful
baby. We cannot afford space for a full description, but it would be
wrong to omit mention of the strength of his lungs. The imitative
tendency of children is proverbial. Clearly the locomotive was baby
Marrot's pattern in many things. No infant that ever drew breath
equalled this one at a yell. There was absolutely a touch of sublimity
in the sound of the duet--frequently heard--when baby chanced to be
performing a solo and his father's engine went shrieking past with a
running accompaniment! It is a disputed point to this day which of the
two beat the other; and it is an admitted fact that nothing else could
equal either.
There were two other inmates of John Marrot's house--not members of the
family. One was his fireman, William Garvie, who lodged with him, the
other a small servant or maid-of-all-work who led a rugged existence,
but appeared to enjoy it, although it kept her thin. Her name was Ann
Stocks, familiarly known as Nanny.
We are thus particular in describing the engine-driver's household
because, apart from other reasons, a group of human beings who could
live, and thrive, and eat, and sleep, and love, and learn, and so forth,
in such circumstances is noteworthy.
It was quite a treat--believe it, reader--to see little Gertie and the
baby slumber while the engines were apparently having "a night of it"
outside! Come with us and behold. It is 10:30 p.m. Father is crossing
country on the limited mail at any pace you choose between fifty and
eighty miles an hour, time having been lost at the last station, owing
to the unaccountable disappearance of a first-class passenger, and time
having to be made up by fair means or otherwise. His mate stands beside
him. In the family mansion pretty Loo sleeps like a "good angel," as
she is, in a small room farthest from the corner next the line, but with
her we have nothing to do at present. Nanny, also sound asleep, lies in
some place of profound obscurity among the coals in the lower regions of
the house, laying in that store of health and vigour which will enable
her to face the rugged features of the following day. We dismiss her,
also, with the hope that she may survive the coal-dust and the lack of
oxygen, and turn to the chief room of the house--the kitchen, parlour,
dining-room, drawing-room, nursery, and family bedroom all in one.
Engine-drivers are not always so badly off for space in their domiciles,
but circumstances which are not worth mentioning have led John Marrot to
put up with little. In this apartment, which is wonderfully clean and
neat, there are two box-beds and a sort of crib. Baby sleeps--as only
babies can--in perfect bliss in the crib; Gertie slumbers with her
upturned sweet little face shaded by the white dimity curtains in one
bed; Mrs Molly Marrot snores like a grampus in the other. It is a wide
bed, let deep into the wall, as it were, and Mrs M's red countenance
looms over the counterpane like the setting sun over a winter fog-bank.
Hark? A rumble in the far distance--ominous and low at first, but
rapidly increasing to the tones of distant thunder. It is the night
express for the North--going at fifty miles an hour. At such a rate of
speed it might go right round the world in twenty-one days! While yet
distant the whistle is heard, shrill, threatening, and prolonged.
Louder and louder; it is nearing the curve now and the earth trembles--
the house trembles too, but Gertie's parted lips breathe as softly as
before; baby's eyes are as tight and his entire frame as still as when
he first fell asleep. Mrs Marrot, too, maintains the monotony of her
snore. Round the curve it comes at last, hammer and tongs, thundering
like Olympus, and yelling like an iron fiend. The earthquake is "on!"
The embankment shudders; the house quivers; the doors, windows, cups,
saucers, and pans rattle. Outside, all the sledge-hammers and anvils in
Vulcan's smithy are banging an _obbligato_ accompaniment to the hissing
of all the serpents that Saint Patrick drove out of Ireland as the
express comes up; still Gertie's rest is unbroken. She does indeed give
a slight smile and turn her head on the other side, as if she had heard
a pleasant whisper, but nothing more. Baby, too, vents a prolonged sigh
before plunging into a profounder depth of repose. Mrs Marrot gives a
deprecatory grunt between snores, but it is merely a complimentary
"Hallo! 's that you?" sort of question which requires no answer.
As the rushing storm goes by a timid and wakeful passenger happens to
lower the window and look out. He sees the house. "It's all over?" are
his last words as he falls back in his seat and covers his face with his
hands. He soon breathes more freely on finding that it is not all over,
but fifteen or twenty miles lie between him and the house he expected to
annihilate, before his nervous system has quite recovered its tone.
This, reader, is a mere sample of the visitations by which that family
was perpetually affected, though not afflicted. Sometimes the rushing
masses were heavy goods trains, which produced less fuss, but more of
earthquake. At other times red lights, intimating equally danger and
delay, brought trains to a stand close to the house, and kept them
hissing and yelling there as if querulously impatient to get on. The
uproar reached its culminating point about 12:45, on the night of which
we write, when two trains from opposite directions were signalled to
wait, which they did precisely opposite John Marrot's windows, and there
kept up such a riot of sound as feeble language is impotent to convey.
To the accustomed ears the whistle and clank of a checked and angry
pilot-engine might have been discerned amid the hullabaloo; but to one
whose experience in such matters was small, it might have seemed as
though six or seven mad engines were sitting up on end, like monster
rabbits on a bank, pawing the air and screaming out their hearts in the
wild delirium of unlimited power and ungovernable fury. Still, although
they moved a little, the sleepers did not awake--so potent is the force
of habit! However, it did not last long. The red lights removed their
ban, the white lights said "Come on," the monster rabbits gave a final
snort of satisfaction and went away--each with its tail of live-stock,
or minerals, or goods, or human beings, trailing behind it.
The temporary silence round the house was very intense, as may well be
believed--so much so that the heavy foot-fall of a man in the bypath
that led to it sounded quite intrusive.
He was a tall broad-shouldered man in a large pilot coat, cap and boots,
and appeared to walk somewhat lame as he approached the door. He tried
the handle. It was locked, of course.
"I thought so," he muttered in a low bass voice; "so much for a bad
memory."
He rapped twice on the door, loudly, with his knuckles and then kicked
it with his boot. Vain hope! If a burglar with a sledge-hammer had
driven the door in, he would have failed to tickle the drum of any ear
there. The man evidently was aware of this, for, changing his plan, he
went round to a back window on the ground-floor, and opened it at the
top with some difficulty. Peeping in he gazed for some time intently,
and then exclaimed under his breath, "Ha! it's open by good luck."
Gathering a handful of gravel, he threw it into the house with
considerable force.
The result proved that he had not aimed at random, for the shower
entered the open door of Nanny's sleeping-cellar and fell smartly on her
face.
It is well-known that sailors, although capable of slumbering through
loud and continuous noises, can be awakened by the slightest touch, so
likewise Nanny. On receiving the shower of gravel she incontinently
buried her head in the blankets, drew an empty coal-scuttle over her
shoulders and began to shout thieves! and murder! at the top of her
voice. Having taken such pains to muffle it, of course no one heard her
cries. The man, if a burglar, had evidently a patient philosophical
turn of mind, for he calmly waited till the damsel was exhausted, and
when she at length peeped out to observe the effect of her heroic
efforts at self-preservation he said quietly, "Nanny, lass, don't be a
fool! It's me; open the door; I've gone an' forgot my latch-key."
"Oh la! master, it ain't you, is it? It ain't thieves and robbers, is
it?"
"No, no. Open the door like a good girl."
"And it ain't an accident, is it?" continued Nanny partially dressing in
haste. "Oh, I knows it's a accident, Missus always prophesied as a
accident would come to pass some day, which has come true. You're not
maimed, master?"
"No, no; be quick, girl!"
"Nor Willum ain't maimed, is he? He ain't dead? Oh _don't_ say Willum
is--"
"Bill Garvie's all right," said the engine-driver, as he brushed past
the girl and went up-stairs.
Now, although Mrs Marrot's ears were totally deaf to locomotives they
were alert enough to the sound of her husband's voice. When, therefore,
he entered the kitchen, he found her standing on the floor with an ample
shawl thrown round her.
"Nothing wrong?" she inquired anxiously.
"Nothing, Molly, my dear, only I got a slight bruise on the leg in the
engine-shed to-day, and I had to go up an' show it to the doctor, d'ye
see, before comin' home, which has made me later than usual."
"Are you _sure_ it's not a back hurt, father?" asked Loo, coming in at
the moment--also enveloped in a shawl, and looking anxious.
"Sure? ay, I'm sure enough; it's only a scratch. See here."
Saying this he removed one of his boots, and pulling up his trousers
displayed a bandaged leg.
"Well, but we can't see through the bandages, you know," said Mrs
Marrot.
"Let me take them off, father, and I'll replace--"
"Take 'em off!" exclaimed John, pulling down the leg of his trouser and
rising with a laugh. "No, no, Loo; why, it's only just bin done up all
snug by the doctor, who'd kick up a pretty shindy if he found I had
undid it. There's one good will come of it anyhow, I shall have a day
or two in the house with you all; for the doctor said I must give it a
short rest. So, off to bed again, Loo. This is not an hour for a
respectable young woman to be wanderin' about in her night-dress. Away
with you!"
"Was any one else hurt, father?" said Loo. She asked the question
anxiously, but there was a slight flush on her cheek and a peculiar
smile which betrayed some hidden feeling.
"No one else," returned her father. "I tell 'ee it wasn't an accident
at all--it was only a engine that brushed up agin me as I was comin' out
o' the shed. That's all; so I just came home and left Will Garvie to
look after our engine. There, run away."
Loo smiled, nodded and disappeared, followed by Mrs Marrot, who went,
like a sensible woman, to see that her alarmed domestic was all right.
While she was away John went to the crib and kissed the rosy cheek of
his sleeping boy. Then he bent over the bed with the white dimity
curtains to Miss Gertie's forehead, for which purpose he had to remove a
mass of curly hair with his big brown hand.
"Bless you, my darling," he said in silent speech, "you came near bein'
fatherless this night--nearer than you ever was before." He kissed her
again tenderly, and a fervent "thank the Lord!" rose from his heart to
heaven.
In less than half-an-hour after this the engine-driver's family sank
into profound repose, serenaded by the music of a mineral train from the
black country, which rushed laboriously past their dwelling like an
over-weighted thunderbolt.