expression of satisfied calm was upon his face. The great change was
coming. Landor summoned his mother. Hearing her voice John Philp opened
his eyes and stared round the room. Then he raised himself, and with a
last dying effort shrieked,—
“It’s the di’monds as does it; damn ’em.”
He fell back, and Landor closed his eyes and drew the sheet over his
face.
XIX.
_PICTURES ON THE LINE_.
ALL through his own part of the country John Osbaldiston was familiarly
known as “Nails.” And this expressive locution was adopted in the first
place to indicate the business out of which the millionaire had amassed
his fortune; and in the second place to give some necessarily inadequate
notion of the hardness of his nature. As John Osbaldiston was a
millionaire it may be taken for granted that his nick-name was never
mentioned before his face. Besides being the possessor of enormous
wealth the retired nail-maker was a Justice of the Peace, a
Deputy-Lieutenant, and lived in confident expectation that when the
Radicals came in—if they ever _did_ come in—he should be rewarded for his
unswerving devotion by a baronetcy. The beauty of this hope was somewhat
marred when Osbaldiston reflected that his wife was dead, and that he had
no son to inherit the title. He was a hard, pompous man, full of
prejudices, and the happiest moments of his life were those which he
spent upon the bench sentencing the peccant rustics. Fortunately for the
country side, John Osbaldiston never sat on the bench alone, and his own
view as to the depravity of human nature could not take effect in
sentences unless a majority of the bench was with him. And the majority
never was with him.
John Osbaldiston’s father had founded the business in the town of
Belchester and had purchased the estate upon which John now lived, and to
which he had greatly added; absorbing the estates of the smaller country
gentlemen as in other days he had absorbed the business of the smaller
nail-makers. The house on the estate was a large, solid building,
without any pretensions to architectural beauty, but capable of holding
in its vast apartments half the _élite_ of the county, if half the
_élite_ of the county should ever feel inclined to visit it together.
John Osbaldiston was a great picture buyer, and his galleries were the
envy of his neighbours, and even of patrons of the Fine Arts living at a
distance. Indeed, the fame of the Osbaldiston collection had travelled
almost as far as his nails. He was not much of a critic. Some people
said that he was not much of a judge, but bought pictures as farmers buy
sheep—by the brand. Whatever truth there may be in these reflections,
one thing is certain, that many of the best examples of the most esteemed
painters had found their way into the galleries of Bradland Hall—as the
Osbaldiston house was called. Whether the contemplation of these
accumulated works of art gave the millionaire any artistic pleasure it is
impossible to say; but he was very proud of their possession, and it gave
him an exquisite sense of satisfaction when at any sale in London his
agent outbid the agent of his blue-blooded neighbour, the Duke of
Sandown, for the possession of an example which both were anxious to
acquire. But, notwithstanding this pride of possession, the nail-maker
of Belchester was not ostentatious. His nature was a puzzle. He was as
inscrutable as he was hard.
The Master of Bradland Hall had one possession which gave him more
anxiety than all his other treasures put together; and that possession
was his daughter Bella, a thoughtless, light-hearted, high-spirited girl
of seventeen, who had been a source of untold trouble to a succession of
nursery-governesses, governesses, masters, mistresses, and professors.
Her nature was as soft as the paternal nature was hard. She was easily
led, though difficult to drive, and worst of all, was not awed to any
appreciable extent by the frowns of her father, when he did frown at her,
which, comparatively speaking, was seldom. What little affection he had
to bestow was given to his only child—the child of his old age; and it
must be admitted at once, that if Bella reciprocated the affection, she
had a most undemonstrative way of doing it. The daughter had a way of
putting her father down, which amounted almost to snubbing. Done in
private, the old gentleman bore such unfilial ebullitions in silence;
though when performed before the menials he resented it with great
bitterness. I have already said that John Osbaldiston was full of
prejudices. For the purposes of this narrative it is necessary to
mention but one of them. He had a rooted antipathy to railways and
everything connected with them. This was no doubt strange in a man who
had made his money in connection with iron, and whose commercial course
was entirely connected with the manufacturing town of Belchester. But
his rooted antipathy may be accounted for by the fact that, on two
occasions he came into collision with a railway company—not on the lines,
but in the law courts—and that on each occasion he was beaten by the
defendant company. The first occasion was a mere affair connected with
alleged negligence resulting in the loss of a consignment of nails. But
the second occasion was when the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway
Company proposed to have a branch line from Belchester to Balt—a little
village situated on the Bradland estate. Osbaldiston spent thousands and
thousands in opposing the Bill, and when finally it was passed, went to
law on the question of compensation; though, on a fine night, with the
wind blowing towards him, the shriek of the engine could barely be heard
at the Hall. It was then that John Osbaldiston declared his eternal
hatred of all railways whatsoever, and swore a great oath that he would
never travel by that means of transit, so long as there was any other
mode of conveyance available.
In the early spring of 1879, John Osbaldiston was sitting in his library
delivering himself of portentous platitudes on the subject of frivolity,
for the edification of Miss Bella, when the afternoon post arrived, and
brought a letter bearing the Belchester postmark. Having perused it,
John Osbaldiston settled his neck in his collar, and handed the
communication to his daughter, who read it out with many interjections of
disapproval. The following is a copy of the letter.
“BELCHESTER INSTITUTE,
BELCHESTER —, 1879.
“DEAR SIR,—A Committee having been appointed to consider the
long-mooted question of opening a Loan Exhibition of Works of Art, in
connection with the Institute, it has been resolved to hold the
proposed Exhibition in the summer of the present year. Regarding
your own long and honourable connection with the town, it has been
resolved to consult you generally on the subject, and to request you
to lend us a few examples from your magnificent collection. When it
is known that you have contributed to the walls of our Exhibition,
the example upon the minds of other collectors will be prodigious,
and the success of our efforts be secured.
“Your obedient servant,
AMOS BLACK, _Hon. Sec._
“JOHN OSBALDISTON, ESQ., J.P., D.L.”
“Well, I never,” exclaimed Bella. “Such impudence!”
“I see nothing impudent about it,” replied the father, sternly. “I owe
everything to Belchester. Belchester shall not find me ungrateful.”
“Of course not, dear papa. But supposing Belchester rewards your
gratitude by poking its umbrellas through your Titians or by cutting
little bits out of your Turners!”
“Belchester has trusted _me_. _I_ will trust Belchester,” replied her
parent, pompously.
“But you _can’t_ send to Belchester,” she said, trying another tack.
“And why, pray?”
“Because there is no way of sending them except by the Great Nor’-West by
Western Railway Company’s branch line.”
“They shall go by van,” he replied decisively.
And there was an end of the matter.
The distance between Bradland Hall and Belchester is nearly thirty miles,
and when John Osbaldiston had replied to the Secretary of the Belchester
Institute, graciously according to the request of the Committee, he
personally saw to the selection and packing of the pictures, in a van
also selected with great care. He made arrangement for a change of
horses on the road, and he consigned the precious cargo to two men, in
whose steadiness, and sobriety, and general possession of character, he
could place the utmost confidence. These selected characters quite
justified the confidence reposed in them, and drove so steadily and so
slowly, that the roadside population might have supposed the van to
contain a corpse.
Two miles from Belchester there is a level crossing; and over this
crossing the van containing Osbaldiston’s masterpieces had to be taken.
Just as the hoofs of the off horse left the up line his knees seemed to
give way, he fell, and seemed unable to get up again. Every effort was
made to raise him; but in vain. Then attempts were made to move the van
which stood right across the rails. But too late. It all seemed to
occur in a moment. The express came rushing up. The van was knocked
into matchwood, and the masterpieces from Bradland Hall were master
_pieces_ indeed—mere fragments of frame and canvas, some strewed by the
side of the line, and some adhering to the engine and carriages of the
express, which lay on its side a short distance further on.
A telegram brought John Osbaldiston to the spot in process of time. And
he spent many days in Belchester mad with himself, with the Institute,
with the railway, and with the world in general. When he returned home
his anger was increased. He found a letter from Bella:—
“DEAR PA.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be
married. He is a man very highly connected, but has been
unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western.
He is so handsome, and we are so happy. Do forgive us.
“BELLA.”
“Never!” cried the crushed nail-maker. And he never did.
XX.
_THE DEVIL’S PLAYTHINGS_.
ON the first day of April in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and seventy-five the following advertisement appeared in the
_Times_ newspaper.
“HOUSEMAID AND COMPANION.—Wanted immediately a smart active young
woman, who thoroughly understands her business: a small house, and
only one in family: washing given out: must have first-class
references; good wages given; send copies of discharges to Mrs. G.,
Lambird Cottage, Thornton Heath.”
The “Mrs. G.” who advertised in these terms was a widow lady, named
Gillison, and among those who applied for the situation was Susan
Copeland, of the village of Stockbury in the county of Kent. How a copy
of the _Times_ happened to arrive in Stockbury, does not appear upon the
evidence. But in all probability it had been sent to the Vicar, and the
wife of that worthy clergyman, who had an insatiable thirst for the
knowledge that is to be obtained from advertisements, came upon this
“Want” of Mrs. Gillison, and brought it before the notice of Susan
Copeland. Susan was the model villager, the prize-girl of Stockbury, and
having served brilliantly as an under nurse to the Vicar’s family, she
was now anxious, as the saying goes, “to better herself.” Susan was a
tall brown-eyed girl. She affected great simplicity in her dress, wore
her hair brushed flat down on her forehead, and in a general way looked
more like a Puritan maiden than is customary with the daughters of
Kentish farmers. Susan was eighteen years of age, and was engaged to
Thomas Ash. As Susan Copeland was the model girl of Stockbury, it was
only right that she should become engaged to the model young man. And
that young man was Tom. He had secured all the prizes in the Boys’
department, while she had been sedulously engaged in acquiring all the
honours from the Girls’. Indeed, these two swooped down upon the prize
list, and by reason of their superior attainments and conspicuous virtue
swept off all before them.
Satisfied with the Vicar’s report, Mrs. Gillison of Thornton Heath
engaged Susan in the real and somewhat unusual capacity of “Housemaid and
Companion” at a yearly salary of £20, which to a Stockbury girl appeared
a tolerable fortune. And it was arranged that Thomas Ash should take his
betrothed to London, and deliver her safely at the house of Mrs.
Gillison. There was much sorrow in the village of Stockbury, when Susan
took her departure for the great metropolis, and her boxes contained many
tokens of the affectionate esteem in which she was held by her
contemporaries. All thoughts of rivalry were now lost in a universal
sentiment of sorrow. It was felt that in losing Miss Copeland, Stockbury
was robbed of much of its moral lustre. It is not necessary to enumerate
the presents which her friends forced upon her. Most of them had taken
the shape of literature, and ranged from the “Dairyman’s Daughter” to the
hymnal of the inimitable Watts; from “Baxter’s Saints’ Rest” presented by
the Vicar to a highly coloured history of Jack and the Beanstalk, the
gift of a small brother. So beloved, respected, and lamented, Susan left
her native village proudly escorted by the man who hereafter was to lead
her to the altar.
Mrs. Gillison, when she had duly inspected, cross-examined, and
examined-in-chief her new “housemaid and companion,” professed herself
entirely satisfied; and Susan, who had a fine literary taste of her own,
was delighted to find that her duties would be very light and that she
would have the coveted leisure in which to improve her mind. Mrs.
Gillison was an active, smart little woman, who did her own cooking.
There was, moreover, a boy kept on the premises to carry coal, clean
boots, and perform other menial offices. Indeed, Susan’s duties were, in
the first place, to keep clean the few rooms, of which Lambird Cottage
consisted, and to afford to Mrs. Gillison that companionship which is
found desirable by widow ladies of a certain age. Mrs. Gillison was not
a lady of much education—her husband had been a pork butcher in the
Walworth Road—and it was part of Susan’s duty to read to her in the
evening the entertaining fictions which she purchased when she took her
walks abroad. The old lady was omniverous, but chiefly relished the
stirring fictions compiled by the Penny Dreadful authors, and at times
had appetite for such boy’s literature as dealt with pirates or robbers,
or the wild Indians of the West. Dickens she rated “a low feller,” but
she revelled in Ouida, and was particularly partial to the earlier
fictions of Bulwer Lytton. Susan Copeland’s excursions into the field of
fiction had hitherto gone no further than “Ministering Children,” and
other books with a religious purpose. Her mind, therefore, became
greatly expanded while reading for her mistress, and she became possessed
of many views of life, which were to her at once strange and stimulating.
When Susan had been three months with the widow of the pork butcher her
mistress handed her five golden sovereigns, that being the amount of
wages then due, and Susan went out to the contiguous village of Croydon
to purchase a new bonnet. She had never before purchased a head-dress so
fashionable. Her tastes, however, had improved since she left the little
village of Stockbury, and she wanted a bonnet which would suit the new
style of doing her hair; for, with the consent of her mistress, she no
longer wore her hair brushed flat down on the forehead like a Puritan,
but adopted the fashionable “fringe” just then, to the eternal shame of
English womanhood, coming into vogue. A “housemaid and companion” is a
more privileged person than a housemaid, or a companion, and when Susan
returned from Croydon with her purchase she walked into Mrs. Gillison’s
sitting-room without knocking at the door. Mrs. Gillison was sitting at
the table and started when her servant entered—started, then grew pale,
then grew red, and then looked down with a shamefaced expression, more
like that of a peccant school-girl than that of a grown woman. On the
table before her lay a pack of cards with their faces exposed. Mrs.
Gillison had, in fact, been discovered in the act of playing “Patience.”
It would be ridiculous to assert that the mere act of engaging in this
very monotonous and even foolish pursuit is wicked in itself, and should
occasion a blush on the cheek of matured innocence. But Susan Copeland
had been brought up to consider cards the devil’s plaything, and Mrs.
Gillison had often heard her express her opinions on the subject, when
she happened upon an allusion to the card-table in any of the novels
which she read. Indeed, so great was the confusion of the widow at being
discovered in the midst of an occupation which that model Sunday scholar
regarded with honest and hearty aversion that not only did she blush, she
added to her sin by uttering a deliberate falsehood.
“I—I—was only tellin’ my fortune,” she said in an apologetic tone.
But in the countenance of her maid she saw pictured neither aversion nor
reproach, but only awakened interest and active curiosity. She took up a
King and an Ace, regarded them carefully, and then said slowly,—
“And so these are real cards?”
Much relieved her mistress answered,—
“Of course. There ain’t much harm in ’em, is there?”
“Not to _look_ at,” replied the cautious handmaiden. “But I suppose the
wickedness is in playing with them.”
“Not a bit. There never was a better man than my husband, and me an’ him
played cribbage every night of our lives.”
Susan never took her eyes off the King and Ace which she still held. She
was fascinated. She had even forgotten about her new bonnet. She said
in a dreamy, half-conscious sort of way,—
“I believe it must be in the playing the wickedness is. I would like to
see what it is. Will you show me—so that I may avoid it?”
Never in her life did Mrs. Gillison comply more willingly with a request.
“Of course, my dear, of course. Sit down opposite me there. Pick ’em
all up. That’s right. Now hand ’em to me. This is the way we shuffle.
D’ye see? And that’s the way we cut. There’s no harm in that, is there?
Now run an’ fetch the cribbage board off my chest of drawers. It’s a
long board with ivory in it, an’ a lot of little holes at the side. Run
along.”
In another half hour Susan had begun to master the intricacies of the
game, and was pegging away with an ardour which astonished even Mrs.
Gillison, who was delighted at this new departure. The last words she
said to herself as she turned into bed were,—
“What a treasure that girl is to be sure!”
Strange to relate the following evening found Mrs. Gillison and Susan
Copeland sitting at the same table with the same cribbage board between
them, evincing the same determined interest in the game. Susan had quite
made up her mind that she had not yet arrived at the sinful phase of card
playing.
“I suppose,” she ventured on this occasion, “that the sin of it is when
you play for money.”
“I don’t see no sin in playin’ for money. Me an’ my husband always
played sixpence a game.”
“Suppose—suppose,” said Susan, doubtfully, “that we try—just to see.”
Mrs. Gillison was delighted. She was at heart as determined a gambler as
ever punted at Monaco. She had now discovered in her Paragon the only
virtue in which she had considered her wanting. So they continued their
game—only playing for sixpences. When Mrs. Gillison retired _that_ night
her last observation was,—
“’Ow that gurl do improve in her card playin’ to be sure.”
And indeed Mrs. Gillison did not do her _protégée_ more than justice.
She did improve with rapid strides. The same faculty which enabled her
to take away the village school prizes from all comers, now gave her the
power of acquiring the mysteries of the pack. In time she began to
consider cribbage a somewhat slow amusement, and her mistress, nothing
loath, undertook to open up for her the beauties of _écarté_. This Susan
considered an altogether more agreeable pastime. And after she had
played it a week her mistress on going to bed made _this_ remark,—
“The way that gurl turns up the King is astonishin’.”
It was astonishing. In fact, Susan turned the King up with such success
that at the end of twelve months her mistress owed her five hundred
pounds which she could not pay. Then it was that Susan discovered the
sinfulness of cards. It consisted in playing and not paying. She told
her mistress so, and considered that she was only doing her duty as a
religious and well brought-up young woman in warning that abandoned
person of the danger of giving way to habits of dishonesty. This little
monetary difficulty occasioned unpleasantness between mistress and maid.
Relations between them became strained. Mrs. Gillison was—to use her own
expression—dying for a game of cards, and Susan Copeland refused to play
except for ready money. Eventually it became so apparent that the
unscrupulous old woman either would not or could not pay what she had
lost, that Susan in the defence of her just rights was obliged to call in
her legal adviser.
Thomas Ash, still true to his Susan, and pining at a separation so
lengthened, had obtained a situation in the London police, and although
he had not succeeded in getting put upon the Thornton Heath district he
felt that he was near his sweetheart, and could occasionally have an
interview with her when off duty. One evening Susan told her mistress
that her friend had called, and the old lady, now looking worn and faded,
followed her maid to the kitchen, where, to her great surprise and
terror, she beheld a policeman of formidable size and severe aspect. She
burst out crying and begged Susan to spare her—not to arrest her and she
would pay all—she would indeed. Thomas Ash reassured the lady, informing
her that he was present in his private capacity to advise, not in his
public capacity to arrest. He was present to assist, not to alarm. The
advice which he gave was simple and direct. He advised her to sell her
house and furniture, and so settle Susan’s demand. The defaulting
gambler at first refused, but Thomas Ash put the heinousness of her crime
in such a very strong light that she at last consented, and Lambird
Cottage with its contents became the property of strangers.
Ash left the police and took a beer house called the “Spotted Cow,” and
in due course married Susan. They are greatly respected by their
customers, and have shown unexampled kindness to the wretched woman, who
tried to rob the gentle Susan. They have, for a consideration paid
quarterly, given Mrs. Gillison a home, and she endeavours to prove her
gratitude by doing all the kitchen work, mending the socks of the only
child, and preparing the linen, for another which is daily expected.
Sometimes Susan will lend her six pennies of an evening with which to
play cribbage, and they play quite happily till the Paragon has won the
pennies all back again.
XXI.
_LOVE AND A DIARY_.
YOU will find recorded in a hundred places the history of the flirt, who,
carrying her affectation of coldness too far, is misunderstood at last by
her lover. He, devoted man, leaves her presence to wander about the
world, while she atones for her indiscretion by a life-long repentance.
This capricious maiden figures in comedy, tragedy, and farce. She is the
heroine of innumerable novels, and her folly and fidelity form the theme
of at least one popular song. In this Tale she figures once again; and
the only excuse for presenting her is that she appears in connection with
a circumstance or coincidence so strange as to appear incredible. It is
nevertheless absolutely true.