[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 143.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
A YEAR’S POSTAL WORK.
Government Blue-books, to an ordinary reader, are tedious and
uninteresting enough; but even to the most ordinary of readers,
the annual Report of the Postmaster-general is at once curious and
interesting. Baron von Liebig once affirmed that the commercial
prosperity of a country was to be gauged by the sale of chemicals. This
may or may not be true; but we think the growth of the postal system
in all its multifarious branches—the amount of the deposits in the
savings-banks; the purchase of annuities and life policies; the amount
of money transmitted by means of postal orders; the correspondence,
growing by leaps and bounds, with all parts of the globe; the countless
telegrams—those flashing messengers of joy and despair, good and
ill—and last, but by no means least, the thousands of millions of
letters annually delivered in the United Kingdom alone—all these are
a sure index, not only of the commercial growth and prosperity of the
nation, but also of the spread of education. A brief résumé of the
Postmaster-general’s Report for the year ending March 31, 1886, may
prove interesting to our readers.
The number of letters delivered in the United Kingdom alone reaches
the astounding total of 1,403,547,900, this being an increase of 3.2
per cent., and giving an average to each person of 38.6. If we add
to this the post-cards, book-packets, circulars, newspapers, and
parcels transmitted by the postal authorities, we have a grand total
of 2,091,183,822, an increase of 4.2 per cent.; and an average to each
person of 57.5. Of this total, 84 per cent. were delivered in England
and Wales (27.4 per cent. being delivered in the London postal district
alone), 9.6 per cent. in Scotland, and 6.4 per cent. in Ireland. It
will be at once seen that the necessary staff for the successful
carrying out of such a colossal undertaking must be on a like scale;
and this is the case, the total number of officers on the permanent
staff being about 51,500, showing an increase during the past year of
3310. Of this small army 3456 are women. In addition to these there
are, it is estimated, about 45,000 persons of private occupations,
who are employed to assist in carrying on the operations of the
department during a portion of the day. An increase of business brings
a decrease in charge, this again inducing a fresh increase; thus, it
has become possible to reduce the rate of postage on letters exceeding
twelve ounces in weight, from one penny per ounce to a halfpenny per
two ounces; a letter thus weighing fifteen ounces formerly cost 1s.
3d., whereas it can now be sent for 5d. The natural result is a large
increase in the number of such letters.
We now come to the latest branch from the parent stem—the parcel post.
It is highly satisfactory to learn that there has been an increase
in the parcels carried of about three and a half millions, giving an
increase in money of £84,000. In England and Wales, 22,198,000 parcels
were despatched; in Scotland, 2,690,000; and in Ireland, 1,527,000. The
list of provinces and countries to which parcels can be sent has also
been enlarged. We learn that the first despatch of foreign and colonial
parcels took place on the 1st of July 1885; and by the 1st of January
1886, arrangements had been completed for the interchange of parcels
with twenty-seven different countries. The total number despatched up
to the 31st of March was 71,900, and the number received, 40,800. The
largest business was transacted with Germany, with which country in six
months 46,000 parcels were exchanged. India shows a business at the
rate of 36,000 parcels in the six months; and the smallest business
recorded is one parcel in three months for the island of Tortola.
An amusing article might very well be written on postal curiosities,
and the authorities might make a most interesting museum of the various
articles committed to their care. This museum, we venture to suggest
to the Postmaster-general, might be thrown open to the inspection of
the public at a small fee, and might help to swell the receipts of the
department. We read that at the commencement of the parcel post with
Belgium, several cages of live birds were received; but the despatch of
live birds being contraband, a veto was put upon the practice. On other
occasions, a live pigeon, a live fowl, and no fewer than a hundred
and fifty live frogs, passed through the postal hands; while such
unpleasant, not to say aggressive, passengers as wild bees and snakes
were transmitted in numbers apparently ‘too numerous to mention.’ In
all these cases the contents of the parcels were detected and retained;
but it is fair to assume that many other packages containing other
curiosities passed through unchallenged. Among the contents of parcels
received in the Returned Letter Office in Dublin, having been stopped
as contraband, were two hens, eight mice, and two hedgehogs. One of the
hens was an invalid, and in a bad state of health; and was addressed
to a veterinary surgeon in London, whom, doubtless, she wished to
consult. Every possible care was taken of the interesting invalid, but
all efforts were unavailing;—she died in the office! Let us turn to the
brighter side of the picture—the remaining hen, as also the mice and
hedgehogs, were delivered to their owners ‘safe and sound in wind and
limb.’ Possibly the moribund fowl was sent to the ‘Dead Letter’ Office.
A few amusing incidents which have occurred in the Returned Letter
Office are given in the Report. They are so curious and few, that
they but serve to whet our appetite. The number of returned letters,
&c., received in the office was 12,822,067, an increase of 4.7 per
cent. over the previous year. Of this number, 441,765 were hopelessly
unreturnable, as many as 26,928 being posted _without any address_,
and of the latter number, 1620 contained in cash and cheques the
astonishing amount of £3733, 17s. 5d. This reveals a carelessness which
is as extraordinary as it is culpable. Should any letter or package
go astray, the department is invariably blamed, and the honesty of
the letter-carriers impugned; but the following instance shows where
the blame should sometimes be laid. ‘Complaint was made last year at
Liverpool that a packet containing a bottle of wine and a box of figs
had been duly posted, but not delivered. Upon further inquiry, the
sender ascertained that the person to whom the packet was intrusted to
post, had eaten the figs and drunk the wine.’ Again, the department was
blamed because a certain letter addressed to ‘Mrs Jones, Newmarket,
near Blyth,’ did not reach its destination. It appeared, however, that
no less than twenty-nine ladies residing at that place, owned that
interesting but by no means uncommon name, and the postal authorities
were unable to decide which was _the_ Mrs Jones. Another letter was
received in Glasgow addressed as follows: ‘Mrs ——, 3 miles from where
the cattle is sold on the Duke of Buccleugh’s ground.’
Two letters were alleged to be missing in Scotland. Inquiry was made
at the address of the first letter, which, being registered, was
undoubtedly delivered; when, after half an hour’s search, it was
discovered amongst an accumulation of twelve months’ letters heaped
upon a desk. The second letter was put into the box at the correct
address; this box was cleared by a charwoman every Monday. Having
failed to notice it one Monday, it lay till the following Monday.
Another charge was more serious. A letter containing a cheque for a
considerable sum of money and duly posted was missing; the postal
authorities were accused of the theft. The charge was, however, cleared
up, and the letter-carrier’s honesty vindicated in so strange a manner,
that we quote the Report itself for authority. ‘It was ultimately found
amongst the straw of a kennel, torn into fragments, but no pieces
missing. The postman had duly delivered the letter, having, at the
request of the addressee, pushed it with others under the front-door;
and some puppies had carried it to the kennel and torn it.’ Moral—Do
not be quick to accuse, lest thereby you condemn the innocent; and be
careful to have a proper letter-box.
Perhaps, to the political economist, the most interesting portion of
the Report is that which deals with the Post-office Savings-bank. It
is highly satisfactory to learn that the business of this department
shows a considerable increase during the year. The total amount due
to depositors on the 31st of December was £47,697,838, an increase of
£2,924,065 over the previous year. In addition to this, the balance
of government stock held by depositors at the close of the year was
£2,452,252; making the total amount due to depositors £50,150,090,
this being distributed over 3,535,650 separate accounts. The greatest
_number_ of deposits made in one day was 48,568, on the 31st of
January, amounting to £99,913; but the largest _amount_ deposited
in one day was on the 1st of January, and amounted to £124,843. The
greatest number of withdrawals in one day, 20,835, amounting to
£60,643, was on the 22d of December; but the largest amount, £66,981,
was withdrawn on the 16th of December. The average amount of each
deposit was £2, 6s. 5d.; of each withdrawal, £5, 15s. 10d. The number
of accounts remaining open at the end of the year is thus divided:
Av. balance
Number. Prop. to Pop. due to each
depositor.
£ s. d.
England and Wales 3,272,701 1 to 8 13 10 8
Scotland 127,172 1 to 31 7 12 6
Ireland 135,777 1 to 36 17 19 2
The life-insurance business shows an increase during the year of 109 in
number, and of £13,003 in amount.
The inland money-order business continues to diminish; this is owing
to the introduction of postal orders, which took place in 1880, since
which date the annual number issued has been decreased by about six
millions. On the other hand, with the colonies, and in both directions
with foreign countries, there has been a ‘satisfactory increase.’ The
Report recommends the use of money orders in preference to postal
orders, in spite of their involving more trouble, on the ground of the
greater security. It appears there is ‘a frequent or almost universal
omission on the part of the public to take so ordinary a precaution as
to fill in the name of the person to whom the order is payable, and the
office at which it should be cashed.’ It goes on to add that a proposal
to reduce the rates will shortly be under consideration. The orders
issued in India and the colonies show an increase of 29,000 in number,
amounting to £18,000; while the increase in the orders issued on board
Her Majesty’s ships is as many as 67,900, or, in cash, £43,400.
The telegraph department’s figures do not so readily lend themselves
to comparison, as during the last six months the sixpenny rate has
been in force. Comparing the last six months with the corresponding
period in the year 1884-85, we have an increase of 48 per cent., and
a decrease of £40,233 in the revenue; but against this loss must be
placed the sum of £18,214 received on account of the large additional
number of abbreviated telegraph addresses; this reduces the loss caused
by the reduced rate to £22,019. The increase in the number of local
messages in London alone was no less than 74 per cent. The twenty-seven
telephone exchanges have now 1255 subscribers; and since the 1st of
April 1883 we are told that some 1400 miles of line have been laid, for
which some 29,000 miles of wire and £64,000 worth of red fir poles from
Norway have been used. The pneumatic-tube system, too, is coming still
more into use, and a rate of speed has been attained varying between
seventeen and thirty-four miles an hour according to circumstance.
The gross revenue for the year was £10,278,865; while the gross
expenditure was £7,569,983; the net revenue, therefore, was £2,708,882,
being an increase of £62,584 on the previous year.
New post-offices have been opened in 371 places in the United Kingdom,
and about 860 letter-boxes been added. Not only have Her Majesty’s
lieges had their letters carried and their parcels delivered with
speed and almost unfailing accuracy, but, after all expenses have
been deducted, the postal arrangements have been so satisfactorily
carried out, that the public purse has been swelled by a profit of over
£2,700,000.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XLVII.
When Mr Dupuy heard from his daughter’s own lips the news of her
engagement to Harry Noel, his wrath at first was absolutely unbounded;
he stormed about the house, and raved and gesticulated. He refused ever
to see Harry Noel again, or to admit of any proffered explanation, or
to suffer Nora to attempt the defence of her own conduct. He was sure
no defence was possible, and he wasn’t going to listen to one either,
whether or not. He even proposed to kick Harry out of doors forthwith
for having thus taken advantage in the most abominable manner of his
very peculiar and unusual circumstances. Whatever came, he would never
dream of allowing Nora to marry such an extremely ungentlemanly and
mean-spirited fellow.
But Mr Dupuy didn’t sufficiently calculate upon the fact that in this
matter he had another Dupuy to deal with, and that that other Dupuy
had the indomitable family will quite as strongly developed within her
as he himself had. Nora stuck bravely to her point with the utmost
resolution. As long as she was not yet of age, she said, she would
obey her father in all reasonable matters; but as soon as she was
twenty-one, Orange Grove or no Orange Grove, she would marry Harry
Noel outright, so that was the end of it; and having delivered herself
squarely of this profound determination, she said not a word more upon
the subject, but left events to work out their own course in their own
proper and natural fashion.
Now, Mr Dupuy was an obstinate man; but his obstinacy was of that
vehement and demonstrative kind which grows fiercer and fiercer the
more you say to it, but wears itself out, of pure inanition, when
resolutely met by a firm and passive silent opposition. Though she was
no psychologist, Nora had hit quite unconsciously and spontaneously
upon this best possible line of action. She never attempted to
contradict or gainsay her father, whenever he spoke to her angrily,
in one of his passionate outbursts, against Harry Noel; but she went
her own way, quietly and unobtrusively, taking it for granted always,
in a thousand little undemonstrative ways, that it was her obvious
future rôle in life to marry at last her chosen lover. And as water by
continual dropping wears a hole finally in the hardest stone, so Nora
by constant quiet side-hints made her father gradually understand that
she would really have Harry Noel for a husband, and no other. Bit by
bit, Mr Dupuy gave way, sullenly and grudgingly, convinced in his own
mind that the world was being rapidly turned topsy-turvy, and that it
was no use for a plain, solid, straightforward old gentleman any longer
to presume single-handed upon stemming the ever-increasing flood of
revolutionary levelling sentiment. It was some solace to his soul, as
he yielded slowly inch by inch, to think that if for once in his life
he had had to yield, it was at least to a born Dupuy, and not to any
pulpy, weak-minded outsider whatever.
So in the end, before the steamer was ready to sail, he had been
brought, not indeed to give his consent to Nora’s marriage—for that
was more than any one could reasonably have expected from a man of his
character—but to recognise it somehow in an unofficial dogged fashion
as quite inevitable. After all, the fellow was heir to a baronetcy,
which is always an eminently respectable position; and his daughter
in the end would be Lady Noel; and everybody said the young man had
behaved admirably on the night of the riot; and over in England—well,
over in England it’s positively incredible how little right and proper
feeling people have got upon these important racial matters.
‘But one thing I will _not_ permit,’ Mr Dupuy said with decisive
curtness. ‘Whether you marry this person Noel, Nora, or whether you
don’t—a question on which it seems, in this new-fangled order of
things that’s coming up nowadays, a father’s feelings are not to be
consulted—you shall not marry him here in Trinidad. I will not allow
the grand old name and fame of the fighting Dupuys of Orange Grove
to be dragged through the mud with any young man whatsoever, in this
island. If you want to marry the man Noel, miss, you shall marry him in
England, where nobody on earth will know anything at all about it.’
‘Certainly, papa,’ Nora answered most demurely. ‘Mr Noel would
naturally prefer the wedding to take place in London, where his own
family and friends could all be present; and besides, of course there
wouldn’t be time to get one’s things ready either, before we leave the
West Indies.’
When the next steamer was prepared to sail, it carried away a large
contingent of well-known residents from the island of Trinidad. On
the deck, Edward and Marian Hawthorn stood waving their handkerchiefs
energetically to their friends on the wharf, and to the great body of
negroes who had assembled in full force to give a parting cheer to ‘de
black man fren’, Mr Hawtorn.’ Harry Noel, in a folding cane-chair, sat
beside them, still pale and ill, but bowing, it must be confessed,
from time to time a rather ironical bow to his late assailants, at the
cheers, which were really meant, of course, for his more popular friend
and travelling companion. Close by stood Nora, not sorry in her heart
that she was to see the last that day of the land of her fathers, where
she had suffered so terribly and dared so much. And close by, too, on
the seat beside the gunwale, sat Mr and Mrs Hawthorn the elder, induced
at last, by Edward’s earnest solicitation, to quit Trinidad for the
evening of their days, and come to live hard by his own new home in
the mother country. As for Mr Dupuy, he had no patience with the open
way in which that man Hawthorn was waving his adieux so abominably to
his fellow-conspirators; so, by way of escaping from the unwelcome
demonstration, he was quietly ensconced below in a corner of the
saloon, enjoying a last parting cigar and a brandy cocktail with some
of his old planter cronies, who were going back to shore by-and-by in
the pilot boat. As a body, the little party downstairs were all agreed
that when a man like our friend Dupuy here was positively driven out
of the island by coloured agitators, Trinidad was no longer a place
fit for any gentleman with the slightest self-respect to live in. The
effect of this solemn declaration was only imperceptibly marred by the
well-known fact that it had been announced with equal profundity of
conviction, at intervals of about six months each, by ten generations
of old Trinidad planters, ever since the earliest foundation of the
Spanish colony in that island.
Just two months later, Mr Dupuy was seated alone at his solitary lunch
in the London club to which Harry Noel had temporarily introduced him
as an honorary guest. It was the morning after Nora’s wedding, and Mr
Dupuy was feeling naturally somewhat dull and lonely in that great
unsympathetic world of London. His attention, however, was suddenly
attracted by two young men at a neighbouring table, one of whom
distinctly mentioned in an audible tone his new son-in-law’s name,
‘Harry Noel.’ The master of Orange Grove drew himself up stiffly and
listened with much curiosity to such scraps as he could manage to catch
of their flippant conversation.
‘O yes,’ one of them was saying, ‘a very smart affair indeed, I can
tell you. Old Sir Walter down there from Lincolnshire, and half the
smartest people in London at the wedding breakfast. Very fine fellow,
Noel, and comes in to one of the finest estates in the whole of
England. Pretty little woman, too, the bride—nice little girl, with
such winning little baby features.’
‘Ah!’ drawled out the other slowly. ‘Pretty, is she? Ah, really. And
pray, who was she?’
Mr Dupuy’s bosom swelled with not unnatural paternal pride and pleasure
as he anticipated the prompt answer from the wedding guest: ‘One of the
fighting Dupuys of Trinidad.’
But instead of replying in that perfectly reasonable and intelligible
fashion, the young man at the club responded slowly: ‘Well, upon my
word, I don’t exactly know who she was, but somebody colonial, any
way, I’m certain. I fancy from Hong-kong, or Penang, or Demerara, or
somewhere.—No; Trinidad—I remember now—it was certainly either St Kitts
or Trinidad. Oh, Trinidad, of course, for Mrs Hawthorn, you know—Miss
Ord that was—wife of that awfully clever Cambridge fellow Hawthorn,
who’s just been appointed to a permanent something-or-other-ship at the
Colonial Office—Mrs Hawthorn knew her when she was out there during
that nigger row they’ve just been having; and she pointed me out the
bride’s father, a snuffy-looking old gentleman in the sugar-planting
line, over in those parts, as far as I understood her. Old gentleman
looked horribly out of it among so many smart London people. Horizon
apparently quite limited by rum and sugar.—O yes, it was a great catch
for her, of course, I needn’t tell you; but I understand this was the
whole story of it. She angled for him very cleverly; and, by Jove, she
hooked him at last, and played him well, and now she’s landed him and
fairly cooked him. It appears, he went out there not long before this
insurrection business began, to look after some property they have
in the island, and he stopped with her father, who, I daresay, was
accustomed to dispensing a sort of rough-and-ready colonial hospitality
to all comers, gentle and simple. When the row came, the snuffy old
gentleman in the sugar-planting line, as luck would have it, was
the very first man whose house was attacked—didn’t pay his niggers
regularly, they tell me; and this young lady, posing herself directly
behind poor Noel, compelled him, out of pure politeness, being a
chivalrous sort of man, to fight for her life, and beat off the niggers
single-handed for half an hour or so. Then he gets cut down, it seems,
with an ugly cutlass wound: she falls fainting upon his body, for all
the world like a Surrey melodrama; Hawthorn rushes in with drawn pistol
and strikes an attitude; and the curtain falls: tableau. At last,
Hawthorn manages to disperse the niggers; and my young lady has the
agreeable task of nursing Noel at her father’s house, through a slow
convalescence. Deuced clever, of course: makes him save her life first,
and then she helps to save his. Has him both ways, you see—devotion and
gratitude. So, as I say, she lands him promptly: and the consequence
is, after a proper interval, this smart affair that came off yesterday
over at St George’s.’
Once more the world reeled visibly before Mr Dupuy’s eyes, and he
rose up from that hospitable club table, leaving his mutton cutlet
and tomato sauce almost untasted. In the heat of the moment, he was
half inclined to go back again immediately to his native Trinidad, and
brave the terrors of vivisection, rather than stop in this atrocious,
new-fangled, upsetting England, where the family honours of the
fighting Dupuys of Orange Grove were positively reckoned at less than
nothing. He restrained himself, however, with a violent effort, and
still condescends, from summer to summer, fitfully to inhabit this
chilly, damp, and unappreciative island. But it is noticeable that he
talks much less frequently now of the Dupuy characteristics than he
did formerly (the population of Great Britain being evidently rather
bored than otherwise by his constant allusions to those remarkable
idiosyncrasies); and some of his acquaintances have even observed
that since the late baronet’s lamented decease, a few months since,
he has spoken more than once with apparent pride and delight of ‘my
son-in-law, Sir Harry Noel.’
It is a great consolation to Tom Dupuy to this day, whenever anybody
happens casually to mention his cousin Nora in his presence, that he
can rub his hands gently one over the other before him, and murmur
in his own peculiar drawl: ‘I always told you she’d end at last by
marrying some confounded woolly-headed brown man.’
THE END.
REBEL-CATCHING.
We were in camp, and our chief was a very distinguished officer of
middle age, who had won his first spurs in the Indian Mutiny, and
had been winning additional spurs ever since. We were a small party,
which perhaps partly accounted for the chief’s communicativeness, for
to induce him to narrate any of his own experiences under ordinary
circumstances was well nigh an impossibility. Be this as it may, on
this occasion he did abate a little of his habitual reserve, and though
he would not even hint at one of the score of incidents in which his
coolness and gallantry had been almost historical, still, what he did
tell us may be of some general interest. Moreover, to the best of my
knowledge—and I can claim something more than a nodding acquaintance
with the literature of the Sepoy Revolt—the two following stories have
never been even alluded to in print. I am sorry I cannot recollect the
exact words in which they were told; but I will do my best, and will
only ask that any deficiencies in the narrative may be attributed to
me, and not to the anonymous speaker.
‘Talking of catching rebels reminds me that I had a good deal to do in
that line in the Mutiny days. I was only a youngster, not much more
than a boy at the time; but I suppose I was rather zealous and active,
for I was given a small independent command, a troop of native cavalry
and a handful of infantry, and posted near the Nepal frontier to look
out for rebels. This was quite at the fag-end of the Mutiny; and my
chief duty was to catch, if possible, one or two noted scoundrels
who had hitherto escaped, and who, it was supposed, might try to
take refuge in the Nepal valley. Amongst the objects of my especial
solicitude was a subahdar [native officer] who had taken a prominent
part in the massacre of women and children at Cawnpore. I had full
permission to shoot this hound if only I could catch him; and I waited
longingly for some tidings of his whereabouts. At last, one evening a
native arrived at my post, and declared that the subahdar was lying
hid in a village some little distance off, on the Nepal side of the
frontier. I had got my chance, and I was not going to lose it by delay.
Getting together my troop of cavalry, I made a night-march to the
village, and in the very early morning, before any of the inhabitants
were astir, I drew a _cordon_ round it, and waited. When day broke, I
sent a message to the head-man of the village and explained matters. I
called upon him to deliver up the subahdar, and pointed out that I was
master of the situation. To my disgust, the head-man declared that he
could not give up the subahdar, for the simple reason that he was not
in the village at all. However, my information had been trustworthy,
and I did not like the idea of having had a long and troublesome march
for nothing, so I ordered a search. This was accordingly made, but with
no results except that of putting me into a rather bad temper. Finally,
I said to the head-man that every single inhabitant of the place should
turn out by a given time that day, or I would burn the village over
their heads. The head-man sorrowfully consented; and man, woman, and
child evacuated the huts, after which the troopers scoured the village
in their endeavours to find their man. But not a sign of him was
present, and I began to feel that I had been befooled. Somewhat sick at
heart, I ordered my troopers to stop searching and to prepare for the
return march.
‘As the troopers were trotting up to fall in, one of them happened to
pass a small hut in which was a heap of most innocent-looking but not
very savoury rubbish. Through the doorway the trooper casually poked
his lance at this heap, more for swagger or to show his zeal than with
any hope of making a discovery. Suddenly, up from the rubbish jumped a
scared figure, who was promptly caught and brought to me. It was the
subahdar!’
The speaker went on to say that they made short work of the scoundrel,
who had reddened his foul hands with the blood of English ladies and
children. He had his trial; but the evidence was conclusive, and mercy
was out of the question. The subahdar was shot; and when one reads
the details of the two massacres at Cawnpore, one is tempted to think
that the death was too good for him. Our chief concluded this episode
by noting that he subsequently had no difficulty in explaining to the
Nepalese authorities his conduct towards the villagers, which had been,
to say the least, somewhat brusque. These authorities looked upon the
matter as rather humorous than otherwise, and certainly not worthy of
serious notice.
‘Another curious thing happened to me,’ continued the chief, ‘during
the time that I was rebel-hunting. One day I caught a criminal with a
very peculiar face, one that I could not help remembering rather more
clearly than I generally remember the countenances of natives. This
particular rebel had done something particularly bad, and had to be
shot without delay. I gave the necessary orders for a firing-party
to be formed, and the execution was duly carried out. Something
prevented me from being actually present on the ground, but there was a
native officer, and my men were presumably to be trusted. I remember
distinctly hearing the volley delivered by the firing-party, and when
I subsequently inquired whether everything had been all right, it was
reported to me that the man was dead.
‘About a fortnight afterwards, a man was brought in to me whose face
seemed strangely familiar. Suddenly it flashed on my mind that this was
the very man whose death-knell I had heard only a few days ago. Looking
at him closely, I said: “How is this? Who are you? Surely I had you
shot a fortnight ago?”
“It is true, sahib,” said the poor wretch. “I am the man your soldiers
caught, and I was brought before your honour, and you ordered me to
be shot. I was taken out, and they stood me on the edge of a _nala_
[a dried-up watercourse], and fired. Sahib, they hit me; but I was
not dead, and I dropped into the _nala_ and crept away. Your soldiers
never came to look for me, and I escaped. By evil chance, I have been
captured again. But, sahib, do not order me to be shot again.”
“No,” said I; “I will not do that—not this time, at anyrate. You are
free, and had better make the best use of your legs. But if I catch you
again, I shall really be obliged to have you shot in downright earnest.
Be off, and take care you don’t fall a third time into my hands.”
‘And he didn’t.’
Our chief commented on the native’s tale of his hairbreadth escape as
being what Yankees would call ‘rather thin.’ He seemed himself to think
that the firing-party had been tampered with, a contingency which he
had, in his subsequent rebel-catching adventures, taken care to avert.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER III.
Le Gautier was not far wrong in his estimate of Carlo Visci. The game
the former was playing was a dangerous one. He had met the youthful
Genevieve in one of his country excursions, and, struck by her beauty,
conceived the idea of finding some slight amusement in her society.
It was not hard, in that quiet place, with his audacity and talents,
to make himself known to her; nor did the child—for she was little
more—romantic, passionate, her head filled with dreams of love and
devotion, long remain cold to his advances. Friendship soon ripens
into love in the sunny South, where temperaments are warmer, and the
cold restraints of northern society do not exist. The Frenchman had
no sinister intentions when he commenced his little flirtation—a mere
recreation _pour passer le temps_ on his side; but alas for good
intentions; the moth may not approach too near the flame without
scorching its wings. Begun in playfulness, almost sport, the thing
gradually ripened into love—love such as most women never know, love
encountered by keen wit and a knowledge of the evil side of life. When
the story opens, Genevieve had known Le Gautier for six months—had
known him, loved him, and trusted him.
But Le Gautier was already tired of his broken toy. It was all very
well as a pastime; but the gilded chains were beginning to chafe,
and besides, he had ambitious schemes into which any calculations of
Genevieve never entered. He had been thinking less of dark passionate
eyes lately than of a fair English face, the face of Enid Charteris; so
in his mind he began to revolve how he could best free himself from the
Italian girl, ere commencing his campaign against the heart and fortune
of Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ heiress. Come what may now, he must file his
fetters.
Filled with this virtuous and manly resolution, he set out the
following afternoon for the Villa Mattio. It was Visci’s whim to keep
his sister there, along with a younger sister, a child as yet, little
Lucrece, both under the charge of a sleepy old _gouvernante_. In
spite of his faults, Visci was a good brother, having too sincere an
affection for his sister to keep her with him among the wild student
spirits he affected, fearing contamination for her mind. And so she
remained in the country; Visci running down from the city to see her,
each time congratulating himself upon the foresight he had displayed
in such an arrangement as this, little thinking he had thus caused the
greatest evil he had to fear.
Le Gautier walked on till the white façade and stucco pillars of the
villa were in sight, and then, striking across a little path leading
deep into a thick shady wood, all carpeted with spring flowers, threw
himself upon the grass to wait. There was a little shrine here by the
side of a tiny stream, with the crucifix and a rude stone image of the
Virgin in a dark niche; evidently a kind of rustic woodland sanctuary.
But Le Gautier did not notice these things as he lay there; and there
was a frown upon his brow, and a thoughtful, determined look upon his
face, which boded ill for some one.
He had not long to wait. Pushing the branches of the trees aside and
coming towards him with eager, elastic step, was a girl. She was
tall and slight; not more than seventeen, in fact, and her dark eyes
and clear-cut features gave promise of great beauty. There was a
wistful, tender smile upon her face as she came forward—a smile tinged
with pain, as she noted the moody face of the man lying there, but
nevertheless a smile which betokened nothing but perfect, trusting,
unutterable love. Le Gautier noted this in his turn, and it did not
tend to increase his equanimity. It is not easy for a man, when he is
going to commit a base action, to preserve his equanimity when met with
perfect confidence by the victim. For a moment she stood there, looking
at him, neither speaking for a brief space.
‘How ridiculously happy you look, Genevieve,’ Le Gautier said
irritably. ‘It is a great compliment to me, but’——
The girl looked at him shyly, as she leant against a tree, the shafts
of light through the leaves playing upon her lustrous coronal of dusky
hair and showing the happy gleam in her eyes. ‘I am always contented
when you are here, Hector,’ she answered softly.
‘And never at any other time, I suppose?’
‘I cannot say that. I have many things to do, but I can always find
time to think of you. I dwell upon you when you are away, and think
what I should do if you were to leave me. Ah, yes, I know you will not
do that; but if you did, I should die.’
Le Gautier groaned inwardly. Time had been when he had dwelt with
pleasure on these outpourings of an innocent heart.
‘You are not one of the dying order of heroines, Genevieve. By no
means. And so you often wonder what you would do if I were to leave
you?’
The girl half started from her reclining position, with her scarlet
lips parted, and a troubled expression on her face. ‘You speak very
strangely to-day, Hector,’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Precisely what I say. You are anxious to know how you would feel if I
left you. Your curiosity shall be gratified. I am going to leave you.’
‘To leave me! Going away, Hector, and without me?’ Genevieve wondered
vaguely whether she heard the words aright. She started and pressed her
hand to her heart, as if to still its rebellious beating. Going away?
The warmth seemed to have departed from the scene, the bright light
grew dim as gradually the words forced themselves upon her; and the
cold numbness of despair froze her trembling limbs.
‘Yes, I am going away,’ Le Gautier repeated in a matter-of-fact manner,
but always with his eyes anywhere but on the girl’s face. ‘Indeed, I
have no alternative; and as to taking you with me, it is impossible.’
‘I have dreamt of something like this,’ Genevieve intoned in a low
vague voice, her look seemingly far away. ‘It has been forced upon me,
though I have tried not to think so, that you have been growing colder
day by day. And now you come and tell me that you are going to leave
me! There is no regret in your voice, no sorrow in your face. You will
go away and forget, leaving me here in my sorrow, mourning for my lost
love—leaving me here heartbroken—deceived!’
‘You should go on the stage,’ Le Gautier replied sardonically. ‘Your
talents are wasted here. Let me assure you, Genevieve, speaking as a
man who has had a little experience, that if you can get up a scene
like this upon the boards, there is money in it.’
‘You are cruel!’ the girl cried, dashing her tears away impetuously—‘you
are cruel! What have I done to deserve this from you, Hector? You wish
to leave me; that you will not come back again, my heart assures me.’
‘Your heart is a prophetic organ, then, _caro mio_. Now, do look at
the thing in a rational light. I am under the orders of the League; to
disobey is death to me; and to take you with me is impossible. We must
forget all our little flirtations now, for I cannot tell when I may be
in Italy again. Now, be a sensible girl; forget all about unfortunate
me. No one possibly can know; and when the prince appears, marry him.
Be assured that I shall tell no foolish tales.’
Gradually, surely, the blood crept into the girl’s face as she listened
to these mocking words. She drew herself up inch by inch, her eyes
bright and hard, her head thrown back. There was a look of infinite
withering scorn upon her as she spoke, sparing not herself in the
ordeal. ‘And that is the thing I loved!’ she said, each word cold
and clear—‘that is the thing to which I gave all my poor heart! I
understand your words only too well. I am abandoned. But you have not
done with me yet. My turn will come, and then—beware!’
‘A truce to your histrionics,’ Le Gautier cried, all the tiger aroused
in him now, and only too ready to take up the gage thrown down. ‘Do
you think I have no occupation, nothing to dwell upon but romantic
schoolgirls one kills pleasant hours with in roaming about the world!
You knew well enough the thing could not last. I leave for London
to-morrow; so, be sensible, and let us part friends.’
‘Friends!’ she echoed disdainfully. ‘You and I friends! You have made a
woman of me. From this moment, I shall only think of you with loathing!’
‘Then why think of me at all? It is very hard a man cannot have a
little amusement without such a display of hysterical affection as
this. For goodness’ sake, Genevieve, do be sensible!’
Stung to madness by this cruel taunt, she took one step towards him and
stopped, her whole frame thrilling with speechless, consuming rage. It
would have gone hard with him then, could she have laid her hand upon a
weapon. Then all at once she grew perfectly, rigidly calm. She stepped
to the little sanctuary, and took down the wooden cross, holding it
in her right hand. ‘Before you go, I have a word to say to you,’ she
said between her clenched white teeth. ‘You are a man; I am a poor
defenceless girl. You are endowed with all the falseness and deceit
that flesh is heir to; I am ignorant of the great world that lies
beyond the horizon. You fear no harm from me now; I shall evoke no arm
in my defence; but my time will come. When you have nearly accomplished
your most cherished schemes, when you have your foot upon the goal of
your crowning ambition, when fortune smiles her brightest upon your
endeavours—then I shall strike! Not till then shall you see or hear of
me; but the hour will come. Beware of it!’
‘Perfection!’ Le Gautier cried. ‘You only want’——
‘Not another word!’ the girl commanded. ‘Now, go!—mean, crawling hound,
base deceiver of innocent girls! Go! and never look upon my face again;
it shall be the worse for you if you do! Go! and forget my passionate
words; but the time will come when they shall come back to you. Go!’
With steady hand she pointed to the opening in the wood; and without
another word he slunk away, feeling, in spite of his jaunty air, a
miserable, pitiful coward indeed.
As he turned to go, Genevieve watched him down the long avenue out of
sight, and then, sinking on her knees, she sobbed long and bitterly, so
full of her grief and care that she was oblivious to her surroundings.
Her face was deadly pale, her white lips moved passionately, as she
knelt there weeping, half praying, half cursing herself in her despair.
‘Genevieve!’
The word, uttered in a tone of wonder and alarm, was repeated a second
time before the agitated girl looked up. Salvarini was standing there,
his usually grave face a prey to suspicion and alarm, a look which
did not disguise entirely an expression of tenderness and affection.
Genevieve rose to her feet and wiped away her tears. It was some
moments before she was calm enough to speak to the wondering man at her
side.
‘I have chosen an unfortunate moment for my mission,’ Salvarini
mournfully continued; ‘I am afraid my presence is unwelcome
here.—Genevieve, there is something behind this I do not understand. It
must be beyond an ordinary grief to move you like this.’
‘There are some sorrows we dare not think of,’ Genevieve replied with
an air of utter weariness.—‘Luigi, do not press me now. Some day,
perhaps, I will ask you to help me.’
‘I am afraid a brother is the fittest confidant in a case like this.
Pardon me, if I am wrong; but when I hear you talking to a man—for his
voice came to me—and then I find you in such a plight as this, I must
think.—O Genevieve! my only love, my idol and dream since I first saw
your face, to have given your heart to some one unworthy of you. What
will Carlo say, when he hears of it?’
‘But he must not hear,’ Genevieve whispered, terrified. ‘Luigi, you
have surprised me; but you must keep my secret—I implore you.’
‘I can refuse no words of yours. But one thing you must, nay, shall
do—you must tell me who this man is; you must have an avenger.’
‘Luigi,’ the girl said, laying her hand gently upon his arm, ‘I shall
be my own avenger—that I have sworn by the cross I hold in my hand. If
it is for years, I can wait—and hope.’
‘That is a wrong spirit,’ Salvarini replied sorrowfully. ‘You are
mad just now with your wrongs. Stay here at home, and let me be your
champion. I love you too well to admire such sentiments from you yet.
I shall not press you now; but all time, for good or for evil, I shall
wait for you.’
‘Luigi, you are a good man, far too good for me. Listen! I must gratify
my revenge; till then, all must wait. Things alter; men change; but
when the time comes, and you are still the same, say “Come to me,” and
I shall be by your side.’
‘I shall never change!’ he replied as he touched the outstretched hand
with his lips gently.
Slowly and sadly they walked back towards the house—Genevieve calm and
collected now; Salvarini, mournfully resigned; pity and rage—pity for
the girl, and rage against her deceiver—alternately supreme in his
heart. For some time neither spoke.
‘Will you come in?’ she asked.
‘Not now,’ he replied, feeling instinctively that his presence would
only be an unwelcome restraint. ‘I had a message to bring from Carlo.
He and Sir Geoffrey and Miss Charteris are coming to-morrow.—And now,
remember, if you want a friend, you have one in me.—Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Luigi,’ she said mechanically. ‘You are very good. I shall
remember.’
Strangers coming to-morrow. The words bear on her brain like the roar
of countless hammers. Strangers coming; and how was she to meet them
now, with this wild sense of wrong burning within her vengeful Italian
heart, bruised but not crushed? She walked slowly up-stairs and sat
down in her room, thinking, till the evening light began to wane, and
the lamps of distant Rome to twinkle out one by one. The very silence
of the place oppressed her.
‘Are you coming down to supper, Genevieve?’
She aroused herself at these words, and looking up, saw a child
standing there before her. She was regarding her sister somewhat
curiously, and somewhat pitifully too; the latter, child as she
was, did not fail to notice the pale face and dark-ringed eyes. She
approached the older girl, throwing her arms round her neck and kissing
her gently. ‘What is the matter, _caro_?’ she asked in her soft liquid
Italian. ‘Have you one of your headaches again, sister? Let me comfort
you.’
‘I have something more than headache, Lucrece—some pain that no soft
words of yours can charm away. Run away down-stairs, child; I am not
fit to talk to you now.’
‘Please, Genevieve, I would rather stay with you.’
Genevieve looked out again across the landscape, lit here and there now
by twinkling lights, reflected from the happy firesides, till it was
too dark any longer to see aught but the ghostly shadows.
‘Lucrece!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘come here.’
The child hesitated for a moment, and obeyed, taking her sister’s cold
damp hand in her own, and waiting for her to speak.
‘Do you remember, Lucrece, the Golden City I used to tell you about
when you were a little one, the blessed place far away, where there is
no strife and no care, and every heart can rest?’
‘Yes, I remember, sister.’
‘And should you care to go with me?’
‘O yes, please. I would go anywhere with you and not be afraid.’
‘Then you shall go. When you go to your room to-night, do not take off
your clothes, but lie awake till I come for you. Only, mind, if you say
a word of this, you will not see the beautiful city.’
Through the rest of the hours, Genevieve moved about mechanically,
getting through the evening meal she scarcely knew how. Gradually time
passed on, one by one the members of the household retired. It was an
hour later when Genevieve entered her little sister’s room. ‘Lucrece,
are you awake?’ she whispered.
‘Yes, sister; I am waiting for you. Are we going now?’
‘Yes, we are going now. Walk softly, and hold my hand. Come, let us
hasten; we have far to go, and the way is weary.’
Silently they passed down the stairs, and out into the night-air, along
the path to Rome, walking on till they were lost in the darkness of the
night; Genevieve’s face stern and set; the little one’s, bright and
hopeful.
* * * * *
Gradually the east flushed with the golden splendour of the coming
dawn; the birds awoke to welcome up the sun; and after them, the
laggard morn. The orb of day saw strange things as he rose in the vault
of heaven: he saw two tired wayfarers sleeping on the roadside; and
then, later, the anxious faces of a party gathered at a pretty villa
by the Tiber. As he sank to rest again, he went down upon a party
searching woods and streams far and near; and as he dipped behind the
shoulder of the purple hills that night, his last red glimpse flushed
the faces of the stern sad-visaged group on their way to Rome. When
he rose again there were no wayfarers by the roadside, but a brother
on his knees praying for his lost darlings and strength to aid him in
his extremity. In Sol’s daily flight he saw hope lost, abandoned in
despair; but as came each morn, he brought a gentle healing, but never
Genevieve back to the Mattio woods again!
And so time passed on, bringing peace, if not forgetfulness.
(_To be continued._)
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.