A MIDNIGHT VIGIL
Mr. William Barracombe was the most punctual of men. He entered his
office in Mincing Lane precisely at ten o'clock on Thursday morning.
His letters had already been sorted and arranged in two neat piles on
his desk. Topmost on one of them was a cablegram from Toronto: "Meet
me home eleven p.m. Smith." He never admitted that anything would
surprise him, and in fact he showed no sign of excitement, but looked
through his correspondence methodically, distributing the papers among
several baskets to be dealt with by respective members of his staff,
or by himself. This done, he rang for the office boy, ordered him to
remove the baskets, and then took up the cablegram again.
"By Jove!" he said to himself.
He reached down his A B C and looked out a train for Cosham.
"I may as well go down to dinner," he thought.
His next proceeding was to telephone to his chambers instructing his
man to meet him at Waterloo with his suit-case. Then he wrote a
telegram to Mrs. Smith announcing that he would dine with her that
evening. Thereupon he was ready to tackle the business problems which
would absorb his attention until five o'clock.
On arriving at Cosham Park he was taken to the study, where Kate Smith
was awaiting him.
"You have heard from Charley?" she said anxiously, after shaking
hands.
"Yes. Have you?"
"He wired 'All well.' He is very economical. All his messages have
been just those two words, except yesterday's from Honolulu. That was
'Father safe.'"
"That's magnificent. He didn't tell me that, the rascal. Like you, I
have nothing before but 'All well.'"
"Do tell me what he wired you this time. I was afraid when we got your
telegram that something had happened."
"Not a bit of it. He expects to be here at eleven."
"How delightful! I am quite proud of him, really. You can come and see
Mother now. I wanted to speak to you first because she knows nothing
about Charley's journey. I thought it best to keep it from her until
I knew about Father, and having kept it so long I decided to leave it
for Charley to tell himself. I don't know whether I can manage it. I'm
so excited I could scream."
"Don't mind me. Ah! How d'ye do, Mrs. Smith?" The lady had just
entered. "You'll forgive my presumption?"
"Not at all--that is, an old friend like you doesn't presume, Mr.
Barracombe. Have you heard from Charley lately?"
"A word or two. He's coming home to-night. He asked me to meet him
here."
"How vexing! I mean, I wish I had known before; I can tell you what I
couldn't tell a stranger: we've fish for only three. But I am glad the
dear boy will have a few hours at home before he rejoins his ship. It
was very annoying that his leave should be spoilt. I am sure his
captain works him too hard."
"I don't fancy he'll consider his leave spoilt. But don't be concerned
about the fish; he won't be home till eleven."
"My bed-time is ten; I haven't made an exception for years; but I
shall certainly sit up for him; if you'll play cribbage with me to
keep me awake. We dine at eight. You know your room?"
A servant entered.
"Please, m'm, there's a man asking for Mr. Charley."
"Who is he, Betts?"
"A stranger to me, m'm. His name is Barton, and he's a farmer sort of
man."
"Did you tell him that Mr. Charley is not at home?"
"Yes, m'm. He said he'd wait."
"Tell him that Mr. Charley will not be in till eleven. He had better
call again."
The servant returned in a minute or two.
"Please, m'm, the man says he don't mind waiting. He has come miles
special to see Mr. Charley, and he says he won't be put off. He seems
a bit put out, m'm."
"I'll go and see him, Mother," said Kate. "It may be important."
"Perhaps Mr. Barracombe will go with you, my dear. The man may be
intoxicated."
Kate and Mr. Barracombe proceeded to the hall, where stood a man in
rough country garments, his calves encased in brown leather leggins.
"You wish to see my brother?" said Kate.
"I do so, if Mr. Charles Thusidger Smith, R.N., be your brother, miss.
He give me this card wi's name prented on it, and vowed and declared
he'd send me a cheque as soon as he got my bill for the damage he
done. 'Tis a week come Saturday since I sent my bill, and daze me if
I've got a cheque or even had any answer. That's not fair dealing; it
bean't proper; that's what _I_ say."
Mr. Barracombe's eyes twinkled. He glanced at Kate, and said--
"Your name is B-B--"
"Barton, sir; Firtop Farm, Mottisfont."
"What is this b-b-bill for d-d-damages you speak of?"
"Why, sir, 'twas like this. Last Thursday night as was, I was just
a-strippin' off my coat to go to bed when I heard a randy of a noise
out-along, and my dogs set up a-barkin', and goin' to look, there was
a airyplane had shoved hisself into my hayrick, and a young feller
a-splutterin' and hollerin', and usin' all manner of heathen language
to my dog. He cooled down arter a bit, when I'd spoke to him pretty
straight, axin' who'd pay for the mess he'd made, and he went
down-along to village, sayin' he'd take a bed there for hisself and
his man, and pay me what was fair. Drown me if he wasn't back in
half-an-hour, all of a heat, tellin' me in a commandin' way--being an
officer by what he said--to pull down my fence and help him hoist that
airyplane on to the road. I wouldn't stir a finger till he'd promised
faithful to pay, not me; then we worked me and some labourin' men he
brought, till we was all of a sweat, and we got the dratted thing out,
and off she went, whizzin' and buzzin' in a way I never did see. Come
mornin' I took a look at things, and there was half my hay not worth a
cuss for horse or ass, and thirty feet of fence fit for nowt but
firewood. 'Send in your bill,' says he, and send it I did, and neither
song nor sixpence have I got for it. Thinks I, I'll go and see if he
give me a right name and address, and a mighty moil 'twas to find the
place, and no train back till mornin', and my wife don't know where I
be."
"Very annoying. What's the amount of your b-b-bill?"
"Here it be. Cast your eye on it, sir. I ain't overcharged a penny."
He handed Mr. Barracombe a soiled paper folded many times--"To damage
to hay, repairing fence, and cleaning up, _£_4 2_s_ 4-1/2_d_."
"What's the ha'penny?" asked Mr. Barracombe.
"I never thowt there'd be any question of a ha'penny, drown me if I
did. The ha'penny be for the ball of twine we used to get fence
straight. I didn't want it set up all crissmacross, mind 'ee, and you
have to draw a line same as when you're plantin' 'taties."
"Well, Mr. B-B-Barton, I'm sorry Mr. Smith isn't at home, but the
f-fact is he's been for a voyage round the world, and won't be home
till eleven."
"That's a good 'un. Round the world! Why, I tell 'ee this was only a
se'nnight ago. I seed him myself. He couldn't get a half nor a quarter
round the world in the time. My son Jock be a sailor, and he don't do
it under six months. That won't wash with Isaac Barton. No, no, if
he'll be home at eleven he hain't been round the world. Anyway, I'll
bide till he comes. I dussn't show my face to home without _£_4 2_s._
4-1/2_d._, railway fare extry."
"If that's the case I'd b-better p-p-pay you myself. Mr. Smith will
settle with me. Here's a f-f-five-pound note: that will pay your
b-b-bill and your f-fare, and leave something over for a b-bed in the
village if you can't get home to-night."
"Well now, that's handsome, be dazed if it hain't."
"Just receipt your bill, w-will you? By the b-bye, Mr. Smith didn't
pay you anything on account?"
"I won't tell a lie. He did. He give me a pound, but that don't come
in the reckonin'. Hay was _£_3, wood fifteen shillin', men's time
_£_1, beer two shillin', odds and ends five shillin', nails
four-pence, twine a ha'penny, makin' _£_5, 2_s._ 4-1/2_d._ I've a-took
off _£_1, leavin' _£_4 2_s_. 4-1/2_d._"
"Very well. Here's a s-stamp."
The farmer receipted the bill.
"Thank'ee, sir." He cleared his throat, "If I med make so bold, sir,
meanin' no offence--"
"What n-now?"
"Why, sir, speakin' in my simple common way, I never hears a body
stutter in his talk but I think of my brother Sam and how he cured
hisself. He was a terrible bad stutterer in his young days, he was,
nearly bustin' hisself tryin' to get it out, poor soul. But a clever
parson chap learned him how to cure hisself, and if I med make so
bold, I'll tell 'ee how 'twas done."
"I shall be d-delighted."
"Well, this parson chap--ah! he was a clever feller, everywhere except
in the pulpit--he said to my brother, 'Sam,' says he--he always talked
in that homely way--'Sam, poor feller, I'll tell 'ee what the bishop
told me when I stuttered so bad I couldn't say 'Dearly beloved
brethren' without bub--bub--bubbing awful. 'Say the bub--bub--bub
inside yerself,' says he, 'and then you can stutter as long as you
like without a soul knowin' it. My brother Sam thowt 'a med as well
give it a trial, and he did, and bless 'ee, in a week he could talk as
straightforward as the Prime Minister, and no one 'ud ever know what a
terrible lot of b's and m's and other plaguey letters he swallered.
Try it, sir; say 'Baby mustn't bother mummy' that way ten times every
morning afore breakfast, and 'Pepper-pots and mustard plasters' afore
goin' to bed, and I lay you'll get over it as quick as my brother
Sam. Good-night, sir and miss, and thank 'ee."
"Why _do_ you pretend so?" said Kate, laughing, when the door was
shut.
"My dear Kate, I have stuttered for pleasure and profit ever since I
discovered the efficacy of it at school. When I didn't know my lesson
one day I put on a stammer, and my bub--bub--bubbing, as the farmer
calls it, made the master so uncomfortable that, ever afterwards, at
the first sign of it he passed me over. That's why I'm such a fool
to-day."
"You're incorrigible. Come, it's time to dress for dinner."
The time between dinner and eleven passed all too slowly. Mrs. Smith
and Barracombe played cribbage; Kate was restless, opening a book,
laying it down, touching the piano, going to the window and peering
out into the dark.
"Why are you so restless to-night, Kate?" asked her mother. "One would
think that Charley had been away for months instead of a week."
"Ah, but you see, Mother, he hasn't--"
"Hasn't what--Fifteen two, fifteen four--Well, Kate?"
"Has never been quite so late home on his last night of leave, has he,
Mother?"
"That is true--one for his nob. I really think they ought to make him
a captain, for he seems to be an exceedingly useful officer. He went
away last Thursday, as I understood, on some business connected with a
wreck. I do hope none of the poor men were drowned. I often think of
my husband, Mr. Barracombe, on the other side of the world, going
about among those dreadful coral reefs, and I wish he would retire and
live safely at home. I could never understand what he finds
interesting in bits of stone and things of that sort, but of course he
is a very distinguished man."
So the good lady prattled on, placidly unconscious of her nearness to
the border-line between comedy and tragedy.
The clock struck eleven.
"Thank you, Mr. Barracombe; I have enjoyed the game," said Mrs. Smith.
"Charley will soon be here."
"Let us go to the door," said Kate. "Perhaps we shall hear him."
"Mr. Barracombe will go with you, Kate; I am a little afraid of the
night air. Wrap yourself up."
The two went to the conservatory door, overlooking the park. The sky
was clear, the air was still; not a sound was to be heard. Every now
and then a broad flash of light fleetingly illuminated the sky; it was
no doubt the searchlight at Spithead.
"I wish he would come," said Kate. "It would be terrible if anything
went wrong at the very last. How far is it across the Atlantic?"
"It's three thousand five hundred miles to Liverpool from New York,
and rather more from Toronto; a ticklish journey, with no chance of
landing till he gets to Ireland."
"It makes me shudder to think of him crossing the sea in that frail
machine."
"People shuddered at the first railway train, speed ten miles an hour;
now we grumble at fifty. In a few years we shall have an aerial
Marathon, with the circumference of the globe for the course."
"Hark! What is that?"
"The rumble of a train," said Barracombe, after a moment's silence.
"Shall we walk down to the sheds? There's a clear view from there,
without trees; we could see the aeroplane a long way off, though
probably we should hear it first."
They went on, remained at the sheds for some minutes, scanning the
sky, then retraced their steps. A quarter-past eleven struck. Kate
grew more and more anxious, and Barracombe found it more and more
difficult to talk unconcernedly. They returned to the house, and
entering through the conservatory, discovered Mrs. Smith asleep in her
chair. Barracombe noiselessly put some coal on the fire, and they
stole out again.
Half-past eleven.
"Don't you think you had better go to bed, Kate?"
"I couldn't sleep if I did, Billy. I couldn't even lie still. Oh, how
helpless one feels! Charley may be drowning, and we don't know it, and
can't do anything to help."
"Pull yourself together, Kate. I am sure he is all right. He probably
started later than he intended. You may be sure he wouldn't start
unless the engine was in thorough good order. Let us go in and play
patience."
"No, no; I must move. Let us walk down the road."
Barracombe was more perturbed than he would admit. It was unlike Smith
to miscalculate. His telegram was probably sent off at the moment of
starting, or even after he had started, from Toronto. If the engine
had worked at all, it would work at full speed, so that the loss of
time on the journey implied either contrary winds, a mistaken course,
or a serious mishap. Kate was so little in the mood for talking that
Barracombe in responsive silence could toss the various probabilities
about in his mind until he felt a nervous excitability that annoyed
him.
They walked up and down the silent road. The church clock struck a
quarter to twelve. The minutes dragged until it was again heard. A
little after twelve they stopped short at the same moment; Kate
grasped Barracombe's arm.
"Listen!" she said.
A faint sound, like the murmur of the wind, but becoming louder with
extraordinary rapidity.
"Oh, Billy!" cried the girl. "Run; he'll be at the sheds first."
She caught his hand and tugged him towards the park gate, a hundred
yards distant.
"My dear Kate!" he protested; "I'm not so young as I was. _Let_ him be
there first, confound him!"
But he ran all the same. The engine was roaring overhead,
_fortissimo_; looking up, the two panting runners saw the flashlight.
A sudden silence, as when the word _tacet_ in an orchestral score
hushes to silence bassoons and horns, drums and cymbals, all the
instruments that but a moment before were convulsing the air with
myriad waves of sound.
"He's gliding!" cried Kate, standing breathless at the door of the
shed. The machine descended silently and rested on the smooth level
sward. Kate darted forward.
"Oh, Charley!" she cried; "you've come!"