technical education it imparts. The object here is to furnish in the
day school such an elementary practical knowledge as will prepare boys
to become intelligent apprentices; in the evening school, on the other
hand, to furnish higher theoretical instruction to boys and men really
at work. The workshop is for the use of day scholars only; the evening
pupils find their practical training in their daily work, and come to
the College to learn the theory. The day school aims at teaching the
pupils on the technical side the elements of the constructive arts and
the character of materials, concurrently with thorough education in the
interpretation of working drawings. It is explicitly intimated that
‘it is by no means intended that a boy should learn his trade in the
College, but only that he should lay the foundation of the scientific
and technical knowledge which has become an essential concomitant of
trade experience and manual dexterity.’ This distinction has to be
borne in mind; for Gordon’s College is not an ‘apprenticeship school,’
such, for instance, as the one maintained by the Paris municipality in
the Boulevard de la Villette, which turns out its pupils, at the end of
a three years’ course, as having finished their apprenticeship, and as
being ready for employment as journeymen, or even as foremen. The fault
of this system of training artisans is that it underrates what is to be
learned in the ordinary workshop; and instead of having recourse to it,
the governing body of Gordon’s College set to work on the lines just
mentioned.
It is obviously impossible as yet to discern the effect which this
improved technical education will have upon the arts and industries
of the town; but some estimate of the actual work accomplished may
be formed from the following account of models exhibited at the last
distribution of prizes, which we take from a local paper:
‘A large number of drawings by the pupils attracted much attention, and
a special feature was an exhibition of models executed in the workshop
in the course of the year. These models were the work of the pupils,
and an examination showed that they were highly finished, and that
in every instance the greatest care had been taken, down even to the
most minute detail. The models were large in number, and diverse in
character. One was a very fine sample of a suspension bridge, measuring
twelve feet in length, and weighted so as to show the strain it was
capable of sustaining. There was also what is known as a roof-truss, an
arrangement for finding what, under given circumstances, would be the
strain put upon the rafters and the rods. Then there was a model crane
adjusted for a precisely similar purpose, and very neatly finished
apparatus for experimenting with the inclined plane, the lever, and
friction coil, &c. A number of well-finished specimens of electrical
apparatus formed part of the exhibits, including one or two very good
galvanometers and a small electrical engine. In woodwork the variety
was large. A walking-stick was shown which on occasion could be
transformed into a tripod stand for surveying. There were also models
of the various jointings employed in woodwork, and several excellent
specimens of work both in wood and iron. Possibly the most striking
feature of the whole display was a sectional model of a steam-engine,
which measured some thirteen feet in length and showed all the working
parts. It was also provided with means of adjustment to find by
experiment the effect of varying the dimensions of the various parts.
The entire model was coloured in accordance with the ordinary rule in
engineering works. Among the ordinary articles shown were a grindstone
frame, a vice-bench, and a number of smithy tools. It may be mentioned
that the whole of the work in connection with the models was not only
executed by the boys themselves, but that in every case they had also
prepared the working drawings.’
It is not too much to infer that elementary instruction which produces
such results as these will prove an important factor in the work of
after-life; and we may safely conclude that the College is not unlikely
to realise a large measure of the success which it deserves, besides
serving as an example to other scholastic and commercial communities.
THE MINER’S PARTNER.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.
Never before had Ben from mental excitement passed a sleepless night;
his seasoned, iron nerves had borne him through a multitude of
perils—from hostile Indians, from white enemies; from the bear, the
wolf, the snake; from fire and flood; and when the time had come for
him to sleep, he slept soundly; when his rough meals were prepared, he
ate well. But it was different now. The recollection of the face which
confronted his own at the restaurant, haunted him, broke his sleep into
fitful dozing, and filled these unrefreshing snatches with terrible
dreams. Yet, when the bright morning came, he persuaded himself that he
must have been mistaken—that he had exaggerated some chance resemblance
into the identity of his dead partner.
Ben’s reflections touched upon what was growing into another dreadful
form of mental excitement. He began to fear that he had not seen the
man at all, that it was merely a delusion, a vision of the brain.
And that such a delusion should take the form of Rube Steele was not
surprising, bearing in mind the fact, which was never long absent from
his thoughts, that he had given this man a blow which, if it had not,
as he formerly supposed, caused the man’s death, must have very nearly
done so. No doubt the blow was struck in self-defence; but even murder
in self-defence is not a thing which a man can in his calmer moments
recall without some sense of remorse.
He was early at the hotel, and taking his regular seat, waited
with a nervous anxiety, such as he had rarely experienced before,
the appearance of the stranger. He had not long to wait. Almost as
soon as he was seated, a figure entered the saloon which there was
no mistaking, and all Ben’s consolatory theories as to a casual
resemblance deceiving him, fled on the instant. The stoop of the long
body and neck, the crafty glance the man threw around on entering, his
very step—these were all Rube Steele’s; and to the dismay of Ben, the
new-comer evidently glanced round the saloon in search of _him_, for
the moment he saw him, his face lighted up with a smile, and he came to
the table.
‘Glad to see you again!’ said he, extending a hand which a horrible
fascination compelled Ben to seize and shake; but the familiarity of
the touch was more horrible still. He felt—he knew for a certainty, he
had touched that hand a thousand times.
‘I thought mebbe you made this your regular dining location,’ continued
the other; ‘and I have kinder taken a fancy to you.’
‘In-deed!’ gasped Ben, wondering as to what would come next.
‘Yes, I have; that is so,’ replied the stranger. ‘I reckon you have not
been located in this city very long?’
‘Not very long,’ said Ben, who had not once removed his eyes from the
other’s face. ‘I came from the West—from the mining country.’
‘Possible!’ ejaculated the stranger. ‘Wal, now, I take a great interest
in the mining countries, and like to hear tell of them. Were you from
Californy, or Nevady, or’——
‘From Colorado,’ gasped Ben, who almost began to fancy that he was
losing his senses, so certain was he that the man was Rube, and yet
so inconsistent with this belief was the whole of his conversation,
especially his liking for Ben, and his anxiety to hear of the mines.
When they separated, it was with another shake of the hand, and a
strongly expressed hope on the part of the stranger that they might
meet again the next day. ‘Either the critter is a ghost,’ thought
Ben—‘and in that case there _are_ ghosts—or I am going crazy; or he is
Rube Steele; and I know that is impossible. I won’t go to this hotel
any more; and soon as we get married, Ruth and I will live out of the
city, and that is a comfort.’
Fortified by this reflection, he was able to bear up somewhat better on
this day, and to accept Mr Showle’s invitation with a calmer mind. He
arrived early at the merchant’s house. Ruth came in soon afterwards,
and he was pleased to see that she, too, looked more cheerful. Ruth had
relieved her mind, as she confessed to Ben, by telling him her trouble;
and now he knew it, she felt that the worst was over. It was to avoid
her half-brother, she owned, that she had wished Ben to live so far
from town, and as he had now really arrived, he was glad they had
agreed upon this precaution.
They were conversing cheerfully enough, when a knock was heard at the
outer door, and Mr Showle, rising, exclaimed: ‘There is Morede! I know
his knock. Indeed, he takes care we shall hear him.—I am sure you will
like him, Creelock, and he is very anxious to see you.—Ah! Mr Morede!
you are punctual, then! Come in, and let me introduce you to our friend
Creelock.’ Saying this, he shook hands with the new arrival, and led
him to where Ben was standing.
‘I think,’ said Mr Morede, as he took Ben’s hand with a smile, ‘I am
not entirely a stranger to Mr Creelock. I have had the pleasure of
dining with him more than once at the _Ocean House_.’
Yes, he had; of course he had. Of course he was not a stranger to
Ben—far from it, and Ben knew it well; for here was his mysterious
companion at dinner, the new partner in Showle and Bynnes, and Ruth’s
half-brother, all turning out to be not only one and the same person,
but were also each and every one Rube Steele, his treacherous partner,
whom he had left for dead in Colorado! And why did he not recognise
Ben, as Ben had recognised him? Of all the strange features in this
bewildering matter, this was the strangest.
Ben shook hands, as an automaton might have done, and spoke as though
in a trance; the odd tone and character of his replies, and his fixed
stare, evidently attracting the notice of Ruth and Mr Showle.
‘Come, Creelock!’ cried the latter presently; ‘you are not yourself
to-night. Where are your mining stories and your prairie adventures?
I have been praising you all the time to our friend Morede here, as a
sort of live volume of entertainment on these matters, and you are not
saying a word about them.’
‘Mr Showle is entirely right; he is so,’ said Morede; ‘and I reckon
I shall be quite pleased to sit around and hear somethin’ about the
western mines. I always do like to hear tell of them.’
‘Do you?’ exclaimed Ben, rousing himself in a species of desperation,
and resolving to bring this horrible torture to a finish. ‘Shall I tell
you an adventure of my own?’
‘Just so,’ returned Morede, with a pleased smile. ‘I should like it
above all things.’
‘Then,’ said Ben—and his answering smile was of a somewhat grimmer
character, in spite of himself, than Morede’s had been—‘then I will
tell you how my pardner at the mines introduced a stranger, who robbed
me of fifteen hundred dollars. This stranger came, I should tell you,
with information about Indians, on the war-path who were likely to
be around our camp. But it was an arranged plot. He was a mean cuss,
this stranger; he or his friends robbed the placers and broke the
stamp-mill. It was either him or my pardner that shot at me from a
gully; and the bullet went through my hat and cut away some of my hair.
That was not the only time my pardner got his desperadoes to shoot at
me; so I will tell you about _him_.’
Thereupon, stimulated by the desperate impulse we have alluded to,
Ben proceeded to relate a part of the plot which had been devised
for his ruin by his crafty partner; the incidents attendant on which
greatly excited, and sometimes almost appalled his hearers, none
among whom listened with more palpable interest than did Mr Morede.
Ben told all, up to the action of the Vigilantes, but could not bring
himself to speak of the final scene at the pool; there was something
too horrible in the idea of describing _that_ to his listeners. When
Ben had finished, which he did by saying, ‘What do you think of that,
Mr Morede?’ and looking his new partner straight in the face, the
latter exclaimed, in what seemed the most genuine manner possible:
‘First-rate, Mr Creelock! I admire you. I see you have the real grit;
and I wish I had been there to help you in such a fix. But, to my
thinking, your partner was the worse of the two.’
‘He was,’ said Ben drily.
‘And he ought to have had his reward,’ continued Morede.
‘He had it,’ said Ben, with increased dryness.
‘Good! Good!’ cried Morede; and other comments being made, the
conversation became general.
Morede bore his part all through the evening without a single allusion
which could induce Ben to suppose he had the slightest remembrance of
him, or had ever before heard a syllable relating to the dangerous
stranger or the robberies. When they parted for the night, too, he
was particularly demonstrative in his friendliness to Creelock,
making quite a ‘smart oration,’ as Mr Showle afterwards remarked, on
the agreeable evening he had passed, and the pleasure it would give
him to be associated in business, and as he hoped, in still closer
relationship with a man whom he admired and liked so much at first
sight as he did Mr Creelock. Ben went home after this speech in doubt
as to whether it was himself or every one around him that was going mad.
Day after day passed, and the new partners in the firm met frequently,
with no diminution in the friendship which Mr Morede had from the first
professed for Ben. They did not meet at the hotel, however; the strain
on Ben’s nerves was bad enough when they met as part of a group. A
_tête-à-tête_ was more than he could stand with a man whom he believed
to have killed, but who was now walking about as unconcernedly as
though he had never been stretched by the side of that Colorado pool.
So confounded had Ben been by the apparition, that he had never thought
of asking the Christian name of Mr Morede, and it came upon him as a
new shock when he received a note from the warehouse on some business
matters signed ‘Reuben Morede,’ while he could have sworn to the
handwriting in a court of justice. This did not increase his certainty,
for it could admit of no increase; he _was_ certain, and could not
go beyond that; but it seemed to make the position more dreadful and
complicated. Now and then, too, he would find, if he turned quickly
round, Mr Morede gazing fixedly upon him—an earnest gaze, as though
he were striving to recall something to his memory; and this was not
agreeable to Creelock.
He asked Ruth, as guardedly as possible, about her brother’s past
career; but she knew nothing of it since he had left home. He had gone
West, she knew; but he would not now utter a syllable in explanation,
or even say how he had been employed. Ben could not press her very much
upon the subject, as it was evidently a painful one. His departure from
home had been caused by some disgraceful, possibly fatal broil—that was
clear; so Ben forbore to question her.
The day of his wedding drew nigh. Ruth had left her school; their
home was so far advanced in its improvements that it would be quite
ready by the time they returned from their trip; and then—to add still
greater pleasure and éclat to the festivities—the gallant energetic
old gentleman Mr Bynnes paid a short visit to Cincinnati. Like the
restless Yankee he was, he had already sold his new estate at a very
considerable profit; so was now, at seventy years of age, looking out
for some fresh investment for his dollars, and employment for his time.
He had seen Ben before leaving Cincinnati, and appeared to like him
then; and seeing him a little more at leisure now, he liked him more.
The bluff, straightforward, perhaps rough manner, which Creelock could
never shake off, seemed to please the old man mightily, and he was
never so happy as when in his company. Ben, with his nightmare always
oppressing him, had asked a little about Reuben Morede, who he knew was
a connection of Mr Bynnes. But the latter was not communicative about
the new partner, although there was a tantalising hesitation in his
manner, which made Ben think he could a tale unfold, did he choose.
Well, the wedding-day came; and the simple ceremony performed in Mr
Showle’s drawing-room, made Ben and Ruth man and wife. Then came what
answers to the wedding-breakfast of the Britisher, and this was on a
scale, for variety and display, to put the old country on its mettle,
although it was only given by an American storekeeper. After the first
part of the feast was over, Mr Bynnes got Ben by himself and insisted
upon having a final glass of champagne with him. ‘I know you have got
just the best wife in the States,’ said the old gentleman; ‘and you are
the kind of man to make a good husband, _I_ can see. I feel as glad to
see little Ruth Alken happily settled, as if she was a gal of my own—I
do. After all these years, too, to think her brother is going to clear
up and quit his tricks! I always liked the boy; but he has had some
real bad ways. You asked me about him, you know.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Ben.
‘Wal, I did not like to let out agen him,’ pursued Mr Bynnes; ‘but
it can’t do harm now anyway, that I can see. He has been mining in
Colorado, and has been up to some queer tricks there. He was nigh
killed by his partner—he was; that is so.’
‘Nearly killed!’ echoed Ben.
‘Ah! most oncommon nigh,’ said Mr Bynnes. ‘Also he was nigh upon
lynched by the Vigilantes. His partner found out that he was—Rube was,
I mean—playing him false, planning to rob and perhaps murder him; so it
is supposed from the mark on his head that he hit him down with some
blunt instrument, possibly a club, and left him for dead at the mine.
He was found lying by some of the miners, who carried him to Flume
City, and I heard all about it from the doctor who attended him. It is
a real extraordinary case. He recovered, as you see; but his memory
from a certain time has entirely gone. His boyish days he remembers
quite well; but does not appear to have the least idea that he ever
went to the mines or was ever injured. We have tried him in every way;
but his mind is a perfect blank. Strange, is it not?’
‘Very strange,’ assented Ben, who, we need hardly say, was listening
with breathless interest.
‘His brain is injured, no doubt,’ continued the elder; ‘for his skull
was fractured. The doctor says it is to be hoped that he will never
recover his memory; for if he does, he will probably go mad, and do
some more mischief before he dies. It is a strange case.—Here we are!
just having a friendly drink at parting.’ This was in reply to one or
two of the party who came to interrupt the lengthened gossip, and the
conference was broken up.
* * * * *
Often, during his eastern trip, did Ben recur to the strange story
he had heard, and often did he debate with himself whether or not he
should tell his wife what he had learned; but he thought it better on
the whole to be silent. It was with a great feeling of relief, however,
that he found, upon his return to Cincinnati, that Morede was absent,
having just left to accompany Mr Bynnes in his inspection of a property
in Colorado.
In about a week after this time, Mr Showle received a letter from Mr
Bynnes announcing the almost sudden death of Morede! ‘And we had a bad
time with him,’ said the writer. ‘Perhaps it was because we came to
Colorado that he all at once got back his mind; but whatever it was,
he woke one morning like a fiend or a wild Indian. He raved about the
mines, talked of horrible things he had done; said the fellows here
would tremble even now at Rube Steele’s name; and we have found out
that he, or some one like him, was known in these parts as Rube Steele,
a year or two back. Tell Mr Creelock that he was frantic against _him_.
He was sensible enough in other things; but he was always calling
for his pistol, and vowed that he would shoot Ben Creelock on sight!
Told me that Ben was the man who had broken his skull and had set
the Vigilantes on his friends. I tell you, Abel Showle, it was real
frightful, and we were all glad when he died; though my heart ached for
him, when I recollected the bright, clever boy he was; his mother’s
only son, too. But he is gone now; and bad as he may have been, I don’t
think we will tell Ruth of his later life, as he had caused her a deal
of misery, and she don’t need to think any worse of him.’[1]
The kindly, shrewd old merchant’s advice was followed; and Ruth
Creelock, although she did not feign passionate grief for the
half-brother who had so injured all who ought to have been dear to him,
yet spoke of him with a softened feeling, which must have been changed
had she known of the deadly enmity which once existed between the dead
man and her husband.
[1] For a similar case of lapsed memory, see Carpenter’s _Mental
Physiology_, 4th edition, pp. 460-465.
MISS MARRABLE’S ELOPEMENT.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
Miss Martha Marrable, a spinster lady of five-and-fifty, is the last
of her race. Her only brother, Mr Clement Marrable, never married, and
died twenty years ago at Baden-Baden, whither he had gone to drink
the waters; and her two sisters, Maria and Lætitia, although they did
marry, did not live to become middle-aged women. The elder, Maria,
after becoming the wife of Mr Langton Larkspur, of the firm of Scrip,
Larkspur, and Company, bankers, of Threadneedle Street, gave birth to a
single child, a daughter, who was named Lucy; and the younger, Lætitia,
having been led to the altar by Mr Septimus Allerton, of the firm of
Allerton, Bond, and Benedict, brokers, of Pancake Lane, presented
her husband with twin girls, of whom one only—and she was called
Amy—survived her extreme infancy. It is therefore not astonishing
that Miss Martha Marrable, a well-to-do woman without family ties, is
exceedingly fond of the daughters of her two dead sisters. She usually
has them to stay with her at least twice a year—once in the early
summer at her house in Grosvenor Street; and once in the autumn at the
seaside, or in Italy, whither she goes occasionally, accompanied—to
the great wonder of the foreigners—by a courier, a man-servant, two
maids, eleven boxes, and a green parrot. And as she is very kind to
her nieces, and denies them nothing, it is not surprising that they
are fully as fond of her as she is of them. But Miss Martha Marrable
is growing old; whereas Miss Lucy Larkspur and Miss Amy Allerton are
both young, and intend to remain so for some years to come. It is not,
therefore, to be expected that the three ladies should invariably think
exactly alike on all subjects. And indeed, I am happy to say that there
are not many women who do agree with Miss Marrable upon all questions;
for although she is as good-hearted an old spinster as ever breathed,
she is, unfortunately, a man-hater.
I have looked into the dictionary to see what the verb ‘to hate’
signifies, and I find that it means ‘to despise,’ or ‘to dislike
intensely.’ Let it not, however, be supposed that the word ‘man-hater’
is a stronger one than ought to be applied to Miss Marrable; for I
am really not quite certain that it is altogether strong enough. She
regards men as inferior animals, and looks down upon them with lofty
contempt. ‘Who,’ she once said to her niece Lucy, ‘has turned the world
upside down, filled it with poverty and unhappiness, and deluged it
with blood? It is Man, Lucy. If woman had always governed the earth, we
should have had no Cæsar Borgias, no Judge Jefferieses, no Bonapartes,
and no Nana Sahibs.’ And yet Miss Martha Marrable can never see a
vagrant begging in the street without giving him alms. The truth is,
that although she detests and despises man, she pities him; just as she
pities the poor idiot whom she sometimes sees grinning and gibbering by
the wayside in Italy.