Captain Bowood came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, your servant; glad to see
you,’ he said in his hearty sailor-like fashion.
‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the Baronet as he proffered
his hand. ‘How’s the gout this morning?’
‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You here, Miss Saucebox!’ he
added, turning to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, now?’
‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a sunny morning like this!’
Then, clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and looking up
coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might give me a holiday, nunky
dear.’
‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to her, Sir Frederick. The baggage
is always begging for holidays.’
‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ was the answer with a pretty
pout. Then, after another glance at the long-haired stranger, who was
already busy with the piano, she said to herself: ‘It is he; I am sure
of it. And yet if I had not heard his voice, I should not have known
him.’
Captain Bowood at this time had left his sixtieth birthday behind him,
but he carried his years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking,
loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very white hair and
whiskers. A fever, several years previously, had radically impaired
his eyesight, since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed
spectacles. He had a choleric temper; but his bursts of petulance
were like those summer storms which are over almost as soon as they
have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. Throughout the American
Civil War, Captain Bowood had been known as one of the most daring and
successful blockade-runners, and it was during those days of danger and
excitement that he laid the foundation of the fortune on which he had
since retired. No man was more completely ruled by his wife than the
choleric but generous-hearted Captain, and no man suspected the fact
less than he did.
‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘to see you about that
bay mare which I hear you are desirous of getting rid of.’
‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable and have a look at her.
By-the-bye, I was talking to Boyd just now, when your name cropped up.
It seems he met you when you were both in South America. Oscar Boyd,
engineering fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, now?’
‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it is many years since we met.’
Then to himself the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? Oh! Lady
Dimsdale.’
‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. ‘Here on a visit for a
couple of days. A little matter of business between him and me to save
lawyers’ expenses.’
‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the Baronet. ‘His wife must
be dead.’
Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of the room. She was now
sitting in the veranda, making-believe to be intent over her Latin
verbs, but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast should be
clear. She had not long to wait. Presently she heard the Captain say in
his cheery loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; we shall just
have time to look at the mare before luncheon;’ and a minute later, she
heard the shutting of a door.
Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, and crossing on tiptoe
to the open French-window, she peeped into the room. ‘Is that you,
Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was little above a whisper.
‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the young man, looking round from
the piano with a smile.
‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but then you look such a guy!’
‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I have taken to get myself
up like a foreign nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his spectacles
and wig, and stood revealed, as pleasant-looking a young fellow as one
would see in a day’s march.
Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise and delight. ‘Now I
know you for my own!’ she exclaimed; and when he took her in his arms
and kissed her—more than once—she offered not the slightest resistance.
‘But what a dreadful risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she was set
at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good gracious!’
‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; and he has already cut me
off with the proverbial shilling.’
‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon you. We are both down
on our luck, Charley; but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she
propounded this question, she held out her box of bon-bons. Charley
took one, she took another, and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of
charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat a gustatory turn over with
her tongue—‘door and windows close shut—you go to sleep and forget to
wake up. What could be simpler?’
‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite come to that yet. Of course,
that dreadful Vice-chancellor won’t let me marry you for some time to
come; but he can’t help himself when you are one-and-twenty.’
‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered Elsie with a pout.
‘What a long, long time to look forward to!’
‘We have only to be true to each other, which I am sure we shall be,
and it will pass away far more quickly than you imagine. By that time,
I hope to be earning enough money to find you a comfortable home.’
‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’
‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. If I can’t earn enough
to keep my wife, I’ll never marry.’
‘Oh!’
‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting five guineas a week
already; and if I’m not getting three times as much as that by the time
you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’
‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going on the stage.’
‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees that I am making a fair living
by it and really mean to stick to it—having sown all my wild-oats; and
above all, when he finds how well they speak of me in his favourite
newspaper. And that reminds me that it was what the _Telephone_ said
about me that caused old Brooker our manager to raise my screw from
four guineas a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, you
may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, Master Charles produced
his pocket-book; and drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he
proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have had occasion more than
once to commend the acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were certainly
surprised last evening by his very masterly rendering of the part
of Captain Cleveland. His byplay was remarkably clever; and his
impassioned love-making in the third act, where timidity or hesitation
would have been fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and earned
him two well-merited recalls. We certainly consider that there is no
more promising _jeune premier_ than Mr Warden now on the stage.” There,
my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked the young actor as he put
back the slip of paper into his pocket-book.
But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face was turned from him; a tear
fell from her eye. His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My darling
child, what can be the matter?’ he asked.
‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ said Elsie, with a sob in
her voice. ‘I—I wish you were still a tea-broker!’
‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything so absurd?’
‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak of your “impassioned
love-making?” And then people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each
other on the stage.’
‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and with that he suited the
action to the word.
‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed him away, and her eyes
flashed through her tears, and she looked very pretty.
Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why,
what a little goose you are!’ he said.
‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her head. Certainly, it is
not pleasant to be called a goose.
‘You must know, if you come to think of it, that both love-making and
kissing on the stage are only so much make-believe, however real they
may seem to the audience. During the last six months, it has been
my fate to have to make love to about a dozen different ladies; and
during the next six months I shall probably have to do the same thing
to as many more; but to imagine on that account that I really care
for any of them, or that they really care for me, would be as absurd
as to suppose that because in the piece we shall play to-morrow night
I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the villain of the drama—through three
long acts, and kill him in the fourth, he and I must necessarily hate
each other. The fact is that Tom and I are the best of friends, and
generally contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’
Elsie was half convinced that she _had_ made a goose of herself, but of
course was not prepared to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting
in your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London about a year ago; she
is very, very pretty.’
‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’
‘And you make love to her?’
‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’
Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. ‘Then why don’t you marry
her?’ she asked with a ring of bitterness in her voice.
Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. ‘Considering that she is
married already, and the happy mother of two children, I can hardly see
the feasibility of your suggestion.’
‘Then why does she call herself “Miss Wylie?”’
‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She goes by her maiden name.
In reality, she is Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. He
plays “heavy fathers.”’
Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover saw it.
‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this wig and these
spectacles. They are part of the “make-up” of a certain character I
played last week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love with the
beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. In order to be able to make
love to her, and win her for myself, and not for my title and riches,
I go in the guise of a student, and take lodgings in the same house
where she and her father are living. After many mishaps, all ends as
it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall into each other’s arms, and her
father blesses us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played the
Professor’s daughter, and her husband played the father’s part, and
very well he did it too.’
‘Her husband allowed you to make love to his wife?’ said Miss Brandon,
with wide-open eyes.
‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish as to be jealous, like
some people. Why should he be?’
Elsie was fully convinced by this time that she had made a goose of
herself. ‘You may kiss me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness.
‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’
Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused them to start and fly asunder.
There, close to the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, glaring
from one to the other of them. Miss Brandon gave vent to a little
shriek and fled from the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy
in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ he spluttered, although he
had recognised Charley at the first glance.
‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate and obedient nephew,
sir.’
The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate growl. Next moment,
his eye fell on the discarded wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be,
sir?’ he asked as he lifted up the article in question on the end of
his cane.
‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your affectionate and obedient
nephew;’ and with that he took the wig off the end of the cane and
crammed it into his pocket.
‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, that you set my
commands at defiance, and steal into my house after being forbidden
ever to set foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! You
crocodile! It would serve you right to give you in charge to the
police. How do I know that you are not after my spoons and forks? Come
now.’
‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of vituperation are in no
way impaired since I had the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot
wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have had the honour of
twice paying my debts, amounting in the aggregate to the trifling sum
of five hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will find twenty-five
sovereigns, being my first dividend of one shilling in the pound. A
further dividend will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr
Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small sealed
packet and placed the same quietly on the table.
The irate Captain glanced at the packet and then at his imperturbable
nephew. The cane trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two he
could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ he cried at last. ‘The boy
will drive me crazy. What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole?
Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother me, if I can make head or tail
of his foolery!’
‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning were clear enough, as no
doubt you will find when you come to think them over in your calmer
moments.—And now I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning;
and I hope to afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before long.’
Speaking thus, Charles Summers made his uncle a very low bow, took up
his hat, and walked out of the room.
‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst out the Captain as soon as
he found himself alone. ‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only let
me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— I don’t know what I won’t
do!—And now I come to think of it, it looks very much as if he and Miss
Saucebox were making love to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em
both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his eye fell on the packet on
the table. He took it up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, did
he say? As if I was going to take the young idiot’s money! I’ll keep
it for the present, and send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him
a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. False hair and spectacles,
eh? Deceived his old uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should
have delighted in when I was a boy. But Master Charley will be clever
if he catches the old fox asleep a second time.’ He had reached the
French-window on his way out, when he came to a sudden stand, and gave
vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty
taken up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m no spoil-sport.
I’ll not let them know I’ve seen them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid
had got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows ought to be labelled
“Dangerous.”’ Smiling and chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back,
crossed the room, and went out by the opposite door.
THE COLOUR-SENSE.
The phenomenon of Colour is one with which all who are not blind must
of necessity be familiar. So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it
throughout all our lives, that most of us are inclined to take it for
granted, and probably trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true
cause. A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the Colour-sense
may, we trust, prove not uninteresting to our readers.
What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it may be considered in two
ways; we may either discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or the
real external causes to which it is due. Viewed in the first light,
colour is as much a sensation as is that of being struck or burnt.
Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely a property of light;
hence, in order correctly to understand its nature, we must first
briefly examine the nature of this phenomenon.
According to modern scientific men, light is not a material substance,
but consists of a kind of motion or vibration communicated by the
luminous body to the surrounding medium, and travelling throughout
space with an enormous velocity. The medium, however, through which
light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the ordinary forms of matter.
Of its real nature nothing is known, and its very existence is only
assumed in order to account for the observed phenomena. It must be very
subtle and very elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature of
the vibrations in question would seem to preclude the supposition that
it is a fluid, these being rather such as would be met with in the case
of a solid. To this medium, whatever its true nature may be, the name
of _ether_ is given.
The sensation, then, which we know by the name of Light is to be
regarded as the effect on the retina of the eye of certain very rapid
vibrations in the _ether_ of the universe. All these waves travel
with the same swiftness; but they are not all of the same length,
nor of the same frequency; and investigation has shown that it is to
this difference of wave-length that difference of colour is due. In
other words, the impression to which we give the name of a certain
colour is due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a certain
frequency. This conclusion is arrived at by a very simple experiment,
in which advantage is taken of the following principle. So long as a
ray of light is passing through the same medium, it travels in one
straight line; but in passing obliquely from one medium into another of
different density, its path is bent through a certain angle, just as
a column of soldiers has a tendency to change its direction of march
when obliquely entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, this
angle is naturally greatest in the case of the shortest waves, so that
when a ray of light is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called,
‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of which it is composed all
travel in different directions, and may be separately examined. In fact
the ray of light is analysed, or broken up into its component parts.
The most convenient apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism
of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a beam of ordinary
sun-light be allowed to pass through the prism and be then received on
a screen, it is resolved into a band of colours succeeding one another
in the order of those of the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called
a ‘spectrum.’
Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum the red rays are those
which undergo the least refraction, while the violet rays are bent
through the greatest angle, the other colours in their natural order
being intermediate. From what has been said above, it is evident that,
this being the case, the portion of the light consisting of waves of
greatest length and least frequency is that which produces on the eye
the sensation of red, and that each of the other colours is caused
by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are speaking now of
the visible part of the spectrum. As a matter of fact, the waves of
least and greatest frequency make no impression on the eye at all;
but the former have the greatest heating power, while the latter are
those which chiefly produce chemical effects such as are utilised in
photography.
Having now arrived at the nature of colour, we are in a position to
apply these facts to the discussion of coloured substances.
When light falls on a body, a portion of it is turned back or, as it
is called, ‘reflected’ from the surface; another part is taken up or
‘absorbed’ by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent body,
a third portion passes on through it, and is said to be ‘transmitted.’
Most bodies absorb the different parts of the light in different
proportions, and hence their various colours are produced. The colour
of a transparent substance is that of the light which it transmits;
while an opaque body is said to be of the colour of the light which it
reflects, or rather of that part of it which is irregularly scattered.
There are three colours in the solar spectrum which are called
‘primary,’ owing to the fact that they cannot be produced by mixtures.
These are red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received
idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary colours, is by recent
scientific authorities not regarded as tenable; it arose from
observations on mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. For
instance, objects seen through two plates of glass, one of which is
blue and the other yellow, appear green; but this by no means justifies
us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow light is green. For
remembering that the two glasses do not appear coloured by reason of
their adding anything to the light, but rather through their stopping
the passage of certain rays, we shall see that the green light which
is finally transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue at all, but
is rather that portion of the light which both of the glasses allow to
pass. The blue glass will probably stop all rays except blue, violet,
and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, and orange. The
only light, therefore, which can pass through both glasses is green.
The same remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each particle being
really transparent, though the whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy,
however, to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by employing
suitable arrangements, of which one of the simplest consists of a disc
painted with alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. By such
means it is found that a mixture of blue and yellow is not green, but
white or gray, and that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture of
red and green in proper proportions. The late Professor Clerk Maxwell
made an interesting series of experiments on colour mixtures by means
of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s Colour-box, by which any number of
colours could be combined in any required proportions.
It would, however, be beyond the scope of the present paper to discuss
the many important results which followed from his investigations.
Helmholtz believed the three primary colour sensations to be due to
the action of three sets of nerves at the back of the retina, each
of which is excited only by vibrations within a certain range of
frequency; and this theory is now generally held. In the case of some
persons, the sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, and the
spectrum appears to consist of two colours with white or gray between.
The nature of these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to
determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds to our sensation of
blue, while the other is a deep colour, probably dark green. Persons
thus affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but this epithet is
a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic vision’ has been suggested for the
phenomenon instead.
We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively
narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on
the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been
the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the
human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables
it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as
identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions
at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The
Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known,
attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be
distinguished.
It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity
of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of
colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion
that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and
orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue,
and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been
cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours
seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28,
where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round
about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of
rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in
the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1877, as indicating a want of
appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite
clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire
might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important
evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to
discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of
Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived
green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone,
who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the
mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he
shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees
of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions
are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the
southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a
neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually
assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors,
does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any
defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his
contemporaries.
It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet
perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese
often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other
facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet
completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still
further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by
the eye as distinct colours.
‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London
by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying
visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her
happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her
most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our
benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine
own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation
had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was
searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the
quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable
friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to
wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the
hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in
finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took
me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had
seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious
waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep
my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival
of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my
situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather
unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male
voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself
about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the
fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as
she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to
unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed,
regardless of comma or full stop.
‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss?
Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and
know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell
you _w’at_, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to
say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put
myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their
body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her
composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I
hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I _am_ put about; yes—no
use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss!
Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the
telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not
many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father.
I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words:
“_Step-mother is lying a-dying._”—Not put about! I’d just like to
know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after
_that_. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is
a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at
the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or
he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any
other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was
the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as
plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl;
I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with
sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for
partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one
there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and
says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop:
“John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a
telegram for father to say, ‘step-mother is a-dying.’”
‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden
at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news
as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer;
there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve
no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do?
Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and
says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not
many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And
with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train,
puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in,
mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train
quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like
a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their
usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now,
miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, _father_, to be sure! Yes;
there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all
three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I
’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after
all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think
you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and
’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at _they_ are; and I don’t care who
hears me a-saying it.
‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me,
and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether?
W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed
quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here
fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at
all, by this time.”
‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older
men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I
gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us,
into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger
coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to
the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab
once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the
tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool
as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool,
mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good
ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some
people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and
here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential
tone, continued: ‘I tell you _w’at_, miss—I’ve said it before, and
I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession
and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide
it—step-mother is just w’at I say, _can-tankerous_. I’ve said it
before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very
last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and
Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that
I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so
unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very
evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it
is—and w’atever will _she_ think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without
as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to
marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he
comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are
going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk
or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father
is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks
upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well
as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid
out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the
most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad;
but close-fisted I _do_ say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to
say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I
don’t hide the fact from _you_, John, that I certainly should—he’d just
laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been
content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go
on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well
as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly
to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your
duty to your son also; and w’en I wish _my_ mother to look better than
she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the
best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all
the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if
father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with _me_.”
‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both _firm_, very;
and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d
move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress
’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in
the height of the fashion—_I_ can’t say.’
A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying,
drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as
cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in
to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was,
to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the
heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only
on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness,
telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it,
carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of
people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she
possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave
a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead
in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do
you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up
again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one,
nor a satin; but a _hoak_ one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A
_hoak_ coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six
of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds
apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money
out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at _is_. W’en John—that’s
father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me
plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope
you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at,
father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good
money over such ’umbug.”’
Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman
bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a
decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I
was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor.
Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate
destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as
the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity
there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again.
She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she
insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was
wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck.
‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John!
She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss;
ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad
quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I
hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may
be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’
At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it
warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I
don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I
say it again—step-mother is—_can-ta_—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’
Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her
son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage;
while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded
in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was
exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was
lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye,
causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger,
who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding:
‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if
she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the
good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account
of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due
notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in
her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and
hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I
own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave
my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair
Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed
till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer
myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man
and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing
good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted
to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by
his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway
porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly
interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought
for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time
came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s
thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch
guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re
safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the
station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me:
‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be
downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as
weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old
women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s
nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother
who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage
ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations,
leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to
Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and
just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to
be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands,
and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack
above me.
FRENCH DETECTIVES.
‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the
general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other.
It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted;
but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be
helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or
executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost
every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special
line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them
mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many
with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with
those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a
like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers
and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their
special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay
hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot
assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself
in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those
who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment.
Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them
made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address
a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten
minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion
until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course,
the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came
near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the
particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days
he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a
fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the
Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was
staying.
‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’
My little child, with clustering hair,
Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,
Though in the past divinely fair,
More lovely art thou now.
God bade thy gentle soul depart,
On brightly shimmering wings;
Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart
All weakly, fondly clings.
My beauteous child, with lids of snow
Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,
Should it not soothe my grief to know
They shine beyond the skies?
Above thy silent cot I kneel,
With heart all crushed and sore,
While through the gloom these sweet words steal:
‘Not lost, but gone before.’
My darling child, these flowers I lay
On locks too fair, too bright,
For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,
To dim their sunny light.
Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,
Your gold was all mine own!
Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!
That I must dwell alone.
My only child, I hold thee still,
Clasped in my fond embrace!
My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,
This smile upon thy face!
The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,
Yet give thee up I must;
And birds will sing when thy loved form
Lies mouldering in the dust.
My angel child, thy tiny feet
Dance through my broken dreams;
Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,
Their baby pattering seems!
I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;
I see thy red lips part;
But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,
Close to my breaking heart!
Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall
Upon thy coffin lid;
Nor may those tears thy soul recall
To earth—nay, God forbid!
Be happy in His love, for I
Resigned, though wounded sore,
Can hear His angels whispering nigh:
‘Not lost, but gone before.’
FANNY FORRESTER.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.
Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at _is_.”]