BROKEN DOWN.
Talking over their little adventure, Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott
crossed from the Serpentine to Albert Gate. The evening had set in with
a cold raw fog, which was momentarily getting thicker.
“One ought to be very careful at the crossings such a night as this,
Prescott. It is just foggy enough to prevent the drivers seeing twenty
yards ahead of them, and yet not sufficiently thick to make them go
slowly. The road is very slippery, too.”
As they spoke a man who was standing at the edge of the pavement near
them, after peering cautiously into the fog, started to cross. Frank and
his friend followed slowly, for it really required considerable caution;
as, from the constant roar and rumble of the traffic it was difficult to
judge how far off an approaching vehicle might be.
They had not gone half-way across the road when there was a shout, and a
rapid trampling of horses, and an omnibus came out of the fog not
fifteen yards distant. It was driving fast, and the friends stopped
simultaneously to allow it to pass in front of them.
The man who was crossing before them was, however, exactly in the line
of the omnibus as it came out of the fog. He stopped, hesitated, and,
although three steps would have placed him out of danger, he turned to
go back. As he did so in his haste and confusion his foot slipped on the
frozen road, and he fell. In another instant the horses would have been
upon him, when Frank Maynard, who had at once perceived the danger when
he stopped, sprang forward, snatched him up in his strong arms, as if he
had been a child, and threw himself forward. He was barely in time. The
shoulder of the off horse struck him, and sent him staggering with his
burden to the ground, but fortunately beyond the reach of the wheels.
Frank was on his feet in an instant, raised the man, who appeared to be
confused and hardly conscious of what was occurring, to his feet, and
assisted him to the footpath. All this was the work of half a minute,
and they were at once joined by Prescott.
“Are you hurt, Frank?” he asked, anxiously.
“No, nothing to speak of, old man; bruised myself a bit, and barked my
arm, at least I should say so by the feel of it; but I think that is
about all the damage.”
“I thought you were under the horses, Frank; you have made me feel quite
sick and faint. My dear fellow, this is the last walk I shall take with
you, if this is your way of going on.”
Frank laughed.
“It is all right, Prescott, there are no bones broken. How are you, sir?
not hurt, I hope,” he asked the man he had picked up, who was standing
looking round in a sort of confused bewildered way, as if he hardly yet
understood what had happened.
Frank repeated his question.
“Eh? I beg your pardon,” the man said; “were you speaking to me? No—no,
I don’t think I am hurt; indeed, I hardly know what is the matter. Let
me see——;” and he passed his hand helplessly over his forehead. “Oh yes,
I remember now. I was crossing, and I saw a ‘bus coming, and somehow I
slipped down. I shut my eyes so as not to see it come over me, and then
I felt myself caught up, and then another great shake. Yes, yes, I see
it all now; and it was you, sir, who picked me up, and saved my life?
Dear me—dear me—I do hope you are not hurt, sir. I know I owe my life to
you, for I must have been killed, and then what would have happened to
Carry? I do hope you are not hurt.”
Frank assured him that he was not.
“Now, really, sir” (the man went on in a rambling nervous sort of way),
“really I can’t thank you as I ought to do, but if you would but kindly
come in to see me, my Carry will thank you for both of us. I am a poor
nervous creature at the best, and the whole place seems in a whirl with
me, but here is my card,” and he produced a packet of cards from his
pocket. “It is a poor place, sir, but we should be very glad if you will
come in to see me; and will you please tell me what your name is?”
“My name is Maynard, and I live in the Temple,” Frank answered. “Pray do
not trouble yourself about thanking me. I am quite content to know that
you have got off without more harm than a few bruises. I will be sure to
look you up one of these days—yes, you can rely upon it. Good evening,
mind how you go home; you are rather shaky still. Good night.” And,
shaking him by the hand, Frank moved away with his friend.
The man stood looking after them as they disappeared in the fog, and
then turned and walked westward. Pausing sometimes, taking off his hat
and passing his hand across his forehead and over his hair in a confused
puzzled sort of way, as if even now he were not quite clear what had
really happened.
At the corner of Sloane Street he stopped, too nervous to attempt to
cross; others went over quietly enough, but he could not summon up
resolution to follow their example. At last he went up to a policeman
who was standing at the corner, and meekly requested him to be kind
enough to cross with him.
The man looked sharply and suspiciously at him. Certainly, his
appearance was against him. One side of his face was much cut where he
had fallen the second time, and his hat was all crushed in; altogether,
he did not look a reputable figure.
“You have begun it pretty early, you have!” he said, sternly. “You ought
to be ashamed of yourself, a respectable-looking man to be about the
streets in this state before six o’clock in the evening.”
“I have not been drinking, indeed I have not, policeman; but I have been
knocked down by an omnibus, or at least I was nearly knocked down; at
least—indeed I don’t quite clearly know how it did happen; but I know an
omnibus had something to do with it.”
The policeman’s belief in the man’s state of inebriety was evidently
unshaken; however, he took him by the arm and walked across the road
with him, and then dismissed him, telling him that “he should advise him
to go straight home, or he would find himself in the wrong box before
long.” The man again attempted to expostulate, but the policeman cut him
short by turning to go back to his former station, with a parting
admonition: “There, don’t you talk, it won’t do you any good; you go
home; take my advice, and don’t stop by the way.”
The man, shaking his head in feeble deprecation at the policeman’s
opinion, pursued his way along the crowded pavement, past the bright
shops, and the stalls with their noisy vendors—through which Evan Holl
had passed a short half-hour before. He went along quite unconscious of
the crowd and the bustle, getting frequently jostled and pushed against,
and receiving angry expostulation and considerable abuse, to none of
which he paid the slightest heed. At length he reached the end of the
row where the next street ran across it into the main road. This,
however, he had not to cross, as his way lay up the side street, but not
far, only past three or four houses; then he stopped at the door of a
small shop, opened it, and went in.
It was a small stationer’s shop, illuminated by a solitary tallow candle
standing upon the counter, and whose long wick with its dull red cap
testified plainly that it had not been attended to for some time. Round
the shop were ranges of shelves filled with dingy volumes, with paper
numbers pasted upon their backs. There were piles of penny periodicals
upon the counter, and a glass case with partitions containing cigars.
These, with the small pair of scales beside them, and sundry canisters
upon the shelves, showed that its proprietor combined the tobacco and
literary businesses. The little parlour behind was separated from the
shop by a glass door, with a muslin curtain drawn across it, and through
this the bright flickering light of a fire shone cheerfully. The man
opened the door, and went in. It was a small room, but was very snug and
comfortable. The furniture and curtains were neat and well chosen, and
altogether much superior to what would have been expected from the shop
and locality. The tea-things stood upon the table, and a copper kettle
on the hob was singing merrily. On the hearth-rug a girl was sitting
reading a novel by the light of the fire; a very pretty figure, light
and graceful, as could be seen in the attitude in which she half sat,
half reclined; a girl of some eighteen years old, with a bright happy
face. Her hair was pushed back from her forehead, and fell in thick
clustering curls behind her ears. Her face was very pretty, with an
innocent child-like expression. About her mouth and chin there was some
want of firmness and character, but by no means sufficiently so to mar
the general effect of her face. She had large blue eyes, over which she
had a little trick of drooping her eyelids, and she had a saucy way of
tossing her head. Altogether, Carry was a belle, and was perfectly aware
of it; and indeed, to say truth, her head was a little turned by all the
nonsense and flattery that she was constantly receiving; but she was a
good girl for all that, and devotedly attached to her father, the man
who now entered.
Stephen Walker was perhaps fifty years old, about the middle height, but
stooping a good deal; evidently, by his manner, a nervous, timid man.
His address and way of speaking unmistakably showed that he had seen
better days; but when he slipped down the rounds of the ladder, he had
lost any little faith he might ever have had in himself, and was content
to remain helplessly at its foot, with scarce an effort to try to regain
his lost position. Stephen Walker’s father had been a well-to-do City
tradesman, a very great man in his own eyes; an active bustling member
of the Court of Common Council, respected but not much liked there for
the harsh dictatorial way in which he enunciated his opinions; very
great upon the inexpediency of pampering the poor, a strict reformer of
abuses, and withal a harsh, vulgar, narrow-minded man.
Stephen was a weakly child, and his mother, a quiet timid woman, would
fain have kept him at home, and herself attended to his education until
he should be old enough to be sent to some school down in the country;
but his father would not hear of it, and in his own house his will was
law. Accordingly, at the earliest possible age, he was sent to St.
Paul’s School, a timid, shrinking child, and among the rough spirits
there he fared but badly. Cowed and kept down at home, bullied and
laughed at at school, Stephen Walker grew up a nervous delicate boy.
When he was fifteen his father said that he knew enough now, or if he
did not he ought to, and that so he was to come into the shop. Into the
shop he accordingly came, and when there his life was a burden to him.
His mother, who would have softened things for him as far as she could,
and would at all events have been kind to him, and have commiserated
with and cheered him, had been dead some three years, and his life
became one long blank of misery. He hated the shop, he hated business,
he almost hated his father. Heartily did he envy his associates in the
shop, who at least, when the day’s work was over, could take their
departure and be their own masters until the shutters were taken down in
the morning. His drudgery never ceased, for when the shop was closed,
his father, a great part of whose daytime was occupied by City business,
would sit down with him at his desk and go into the whole accounts of
the day’s sales until half-past nine. Then upstairs, where the servants
would be summoned, and his father take his place at the head of the
table with a large Bible before him, which he would read and expound in
a stern harsh manner, eminently calculated to make the Scriptures
altogether hateful to those who heard him. This with prayer lasted for
an hour. Then to bed; to begin over again in the morning. Such was
Stephen Walker’s life for six years; and then, when he was twenty-one,
his father died suddenly. It was just in time to save his son’s life; in
another year it might have been too late, for his health was breaking
fast; as it was, it was too late for him ever to become other than he
was, a nervous timid man.
It was some time before Stephen Walker could come to understand that he
was now a free agent, and that he could really do as he liked. It was so
unnatural for him to be able to carry into execution any wish of his
own, that, after his father’s funeral was over, he went back as
regularly as ever to his duties in the shop. At the end of a month an
old schoolfellow came in, told him he was not looking well, and asked
him to go into the country with him for the day. Stephen was absolutely
startled, even the possibility of such a thing as his leaving the shop
had never entered his mind. In the six years such an event had never
happened. He looked round frightened and aghast at the proposition. As,
however, he had no reasons to adduce, beyond the fact that he never did
go anywhere, which his friend insisted was the very reason why he should
go now, he was finally persuaded. Never did man enjoy his first holiday
less than Stephen Walker did. He felt like a guilty self-convicted
truant; he had a constant impression upon his mind that he was doing
something very wrong, and on his return entered the shop with a guilty
air, and a conviction that the assistants behind the counter were eyeing
him disapprovingly.
However, the ice was broken. He began, at first at long intervals, but
afterwards, as he learnt really to enjoy the sweets of his newly found
liberty more and more often, to absent himself from the shop, until by
degrees he discovered that he really was his own master. The first time
a friend remarked that he rather wondered he did not sell the business
and retire altogether, it seemed to him almost a profane suggestion.
Still in time it became familiar to his mind, and at length, finding
that no obstacle except that of his own imagination stood in his way, he
determined to carry it out. Accordingly in less than eighteen months
from his father’s death he disposed of the lease and goodwill of the
business, and found that he was master of £30,000. He then, acting upon
the advice of his physician, started for a long tour upon the continent;
not going alone,—he had not sufficient confidence in himself for that,
but taking with him as companion a friend who had been on the continent
before, and who spoke French, paying all his expenses, and a handsome
sum in addition.
There he remained in all three years, and in this time his health became
re-established; but although his manner greatly improved from his
mixture with travelling society, he still remained a nervous timid man.
At the end of this three years he married a very pretty ladylike looking
girl, who was governess in a family wintering in Rome. Her beauty was
her only redeeming point, for she was a silly, vain, indolent woman.
The newly married couple returned after another three months wanderings
to London, near which they shortly after took a pretty villa.
They were unfortunate in their children, having lost all they had when
quite young, with the exception only of their youngest daughter Carry.
Had Stephen Walker continued to live quietly upon his income all might
have gone well; but his wife was an extravagant woman and a miserable
manager, and Stephen, who in money matters was helpless as a child, soon
found that his expenditure was greater than his income.
The idea of remonstrating with his wife or endeavouring to curtail the
household expenses never entered his mind; the only plan which presented
itself to him was to increase his income. To do this he took to
speculation, and to the most hazardous of all speculations, that in
mining shares; hazardous to anyone, but most of all to a man like
Stephen Walker. As might have been anticipated, his operations were
almost always unsuccessful. Indeed in the way in which he conducted them
it was impossible that it could have been otherwise. He bought shares in
mines when they were most prosperous, and stood at the highest point in
the market, and directly any reverse or depression took place, although
perhaps only of a temporary nature, instead of holding on and waiting
until the mine recovered itself, he would rush into the market and
dispose of his shares for what they would fetch. It may therefore be
readily imagined that Stephen Walker’s fortune melted rapidly away,
under his repeated and heavy losses, and the extravagance of his wife.
The latter although she would peevishly remonstrate with him, not as to
his speculation, but on his losses, had not the least idea of suiting
their expenditure to their decreased means. And so things went on from
bad to worse, until at last the end came. A mine in which he had
invested far more heavily than usual under the influence of the
brilliant prospects held out, and the advice of a friend, collapsed, and
that so suddenly, that Stephen had no opportunity to dispose of his
shares. He was placed on the list of contributories, and called upon for
a heavy sum for the winding-up expenses. Then the crash came, and
Stephen Walker found himself possessed of only a few hundred pounds and
the furniture of the villa. This was sold, and he removed with his wife
and his child, then about seven years old, into small lodgings. Here for
a year his life was embittered by the reproaches and complainings of his
helpless wife; at the end of that time she died, and left a great blank
in his life. He had been blind to her faults, and had accepted her
querulous reproaches as deserved and natural; besides, as long as she
lived, he had had some one to look to for advice, little qualified as
she was to give it. Now, excepting his little daughter, he was quite
alone. For another year, while his little capital dwindled away, he
tried in vain to get something to do. This would have been in any case
an almost hopeless task, and was rendered still more so from his extreme
want of confidence in himself, which altogether prevented his
endeavouring to push himself forward.
At length he took a resolution, one of the few, and certainly by far the
best, he ever had taken. He determined to sink the few hundred pounds he
had remaining in buying a house and opening a shop. After a considerable
search, he found the one in New Street; the former proprietor, who was
also in the tobacco and periodical line, had died, and his widow was
anxious to dispose of the house; the goodwill, such as it was, of the
shop being thrown into the bargain. Stephen Walker purchased it of her,
furnished the lower part, and let off the upper, and never regretted his
bargain.
The profits of the shop were not large, but having no rent to pay, and
receiving a few shillings every week from the tenants, he was able to
live comfortably, and with the company and affection of his little
daughter, found himself really happier and more in his element than he
had ever before been in his life.
Carry grew up in her humble home, a bright happy child, very fond of her
father, and very fond, too, of all the admiration which the frequenters
of the shop bestowed upon her.
“Why, how late you are, father!” she said as he entered. “Tea has been
ready this half-hour at the very least,” and she put down her book and
looked up at him. “Why, father, what has happened?” she exclaimed in a
changed tone, and leaping hastily to her feet. “Your cheek is all
covered with blood, your hat is broken in, and you look quite strange.
Oh! father, what is the matter? are you hurt?”
“No, Carry, I do not think I am, but I am confused and bewildered.”
“Sit down in the chair by the fire, then; now give me your hat and coat;
that’s right, and your comforter, dear old father; now wait and I will
get warm water and a towel, and bathe its dear old face. There, now you
look nice; now tell me all about it.”
The man submitted himself to the girl’s hands in the helpless way
natural to him.
“Well, Carry, I hardly know myself what has happened. I was crossing at
Albert Gate when I saw a ‘bus coming. It was very foggy and slippery,
and I did not see it till it was quite close, and then somehow I fell. I
tried to shut my eyes, but I could not, and then I felt the horses
trampling upon me, and the wheels came crushing down upon my body. Oh,
it was terrible, Carry!”
“But, oh, father,” the girl said faintly, and the bright colour was
quite gone from her cheeks now, “you must be terribly hurt; some of your
ribs must be broken; why did not you say so at once? Please sit quiet
while I put on my bonnet, and run round to fetch a doctor,” and she
turned to do so, but she was trembling so much that she had to sit down
in a chair.
“No, Carry, you do not understand me. I do not mean that the ‘bus
absolutely did run over me.”
“But you just said it did, father; you said that you felt the wheels
crush your body.”
“Did I, Carry? Well, I did not mean it. Oh no, I was not run over after
all.”
“What a dear, silly old father you are, and how you frightened me!” the
girl said, laughing and crying together. “I have a great mind to be very
angry with you in real earnest, and not to speak another word to you all
the evening.”
“I am very sorry, Carry. I did not mean it, my child. I only meant that
I felt it was going to run over me, and I am sure I suffered quite as
much as if it had. No, just as the horses were quite close to
me—certainly within a yard or two, for their heads looked to me almost
over mine—I felt myself caught up by some one, like a baby, carried a
step or two, then there was a great shake, and down we both went with a
terrible shock, then I was picked up again, and found myself safe on the
pavement.”
“Oh, father, what a narrow escape! you might really have been killed,
and it was very very serious after all, so I will forgive you for
frightening me so much. And who was it saved your life?”
“I hardly remember rightly, my dear, my head is quite in a whirl still.
I remember, though, there were two gentlemen waiting to cross just as I
started, for I heard one of them say we ought to be careful, and so I
was, my dear, very careful, else I should not have slipped. I suppose
they were just behind me, and one of them caught me up just as the
horses were going to trample on me. He was not quite in time, for the
horses caught him and knocked us both down, only I suppose it was out of
reach of the wheels, at any rate they did not go over us; and really
that is all I know about it.”
“Oh, father, how brave of him! Who was he?”
“I am sure I don’t know, Carry. He did tell me what his name was; but I
am sure I forget it. Let me see—no, I don’t remember it at all; but I
know he said he lived in the Temple—or, no—let me see, perhaps it was in
Lincoln’s Inn, either that or Gray’s Inn—anyhow I am nearly sure it was
one of the three.”
“Oh, father, I am so sorry you do not recollect his name, I should so
have liked to thank him, and it will seem so ungrateful if you never go
near him to tell him how much obliged you are. If it had not been for
him what would have happened to you? I am very sorry.” And the girl’s
eyes filled with tears again. “Did you tell him where you lived,
father?” she asked presently, as her father sat gazing dejectedly into
the fire.
“I think I did, Carry; yes, I do think I did. By the way I have some
recollection that I gave him my card, and I fancy that he said he would
call upon me.”
“But can’t you remember for certain, father, whether you gave him your
card? surely you must remember such a thing as that,” Carry persisted.
Stephen Walker passed his hand vaguely across his forehead.
“Really, my dear, I can’t help thinking that I did, although I can’t be
sure. Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I have it now. I know I had twelve
cards in my pocket. I know that, because when I went to the printer for
them the fresh lot were not ready, but as I wanted some to go on with,
he struck off a dozen while I was waiting. Look in the breast-pocket of
my great coat, the cards are there. Count them, and if there is one
short I must have given it to him, for I am sure I spoke to no one else
on my way home.”
Carry eagerly took the cards and counted them; to her delight there were
only eleven.
“Did he say he would come, father?”
“It seems to me that I have a distinct remembrance that he did, Carry;
but, there, I may be wrong. I am a poor nervous creature.”
“You are a dear, silly old darling,” Carry said, kissing him, “and I
shan’t be able to trust you out by yourself in future. The idea of
slipping down in the street like a little baby! I have a great mind to
scold you dreadfully. But there you have had fright enough for once; and
now I will make tea for you, and that always does you good.”
While they were at tea Carry asked, “Do you think you should know the
gentleman again if you met him, father?”
“Yes, my dear, I am nearly sure that I should.”
“What was he like, father?” Carry asked, “do try and think what he was
like.”
“He was a young man of four or five and twenty, I should say, and he
seemed tall to me, and he must have been as strong as a giant, for he
picked me up as easily as you would a kitten.”
“Was he good-looking, father?” Carry asked, a little shyly, this time.
“I should say he was, my dear; but my head was in such a swim that I did
not notice much about his face; but I certainly think he was
good-looking. There, my dear, there is some one just come into the
shop.”
After this several customers came in, and Carry was pretty well occupied
for the rest of the evening. She did not renew the subject of her
father’s preserver. Stephen Walker lit a long pipe and smoked
thoughtfully beside the fire. Once or twice he went into the shop, but
he was not of much use to Carry, and received orders to sit quiet and
smoke his pipe, for that he had given her quite anxiety enough for one
day. At ten o’clock the shop was shut, and they went up to bed, Stephen
Walker to sleep fitfully, waking up with great starts, under the idea
that the omnibus wheels were passing over his body. Carry lay awake for
a long time, trying to picture to herself her father’s preserver, and
wondering whether he would ever come to see them.