FIREWORKS.
YEARS ago there lived in a small house—one of a row of similar
tenements, dignified by the name of terrace—in the suburbs of Oxford,
known as Jericho, a young married couple who had but few acquaintances
in the city, and who probably had no desire to make them. They were
poor; their home was scantily furnished, and the only inmate of their
dwelling, besides themselves, was an elderly, slatternly woman, who was
understood to be the mother of the young wife. They had been married
more than a year at the time when we take up their story, and a little
weakly blossom of mortality had a short while before struggled into
existence, to the unbounded astonishment of those most immediately
concerned in its advent. But as it had soon afterwards made its escape
from a world which certainly did not look over-inviting, nothing more
need be said on this particular topic.
The husband was a quiet, gentlemanly sort of man, who obtained a
scanty enough subsistence, but paid his way notwithstanding, as a
teacher of mathematics and classics at one or two boarding schools
in the neighbourhood of Oxford, where his rather shabby costume, his
ill-got-up linen, his oddity of manner, and his frequent absences of
mind, gave abundant scope for merriment among his pupils. They liked
him notwithstanding, for he was "a good sort of fellow," they said,
"and never got a chap into trouble" with the principal.
It was known by the neighbours around—the dwellers in Jericho, I
mean—that Mr. Tincroft (for that was the gentleman's name) had been
formerly a gownsman of the university; but that, in consequence of his
marrying beneath him, he had been obliged to relinquish his prospects,
and to take to teaching, which, in their opinion, evidently was
something near akin to scavengering; and if he hadn't had "something
to fall back upon," they did not see how he could manage to rub along
at all. What this something was nobody knew, and, as it was no matter
of theirs, they didn't want to know. It being no matter of ours
either, we may as well share in their blissful ignorance, only adding
that although "under a cloud," it was sagely believed that, some day
or other, the object of their contemplation would emerge from his
obscurity.
"He will be a rich man when he wins his lawsuit," was whispered.
I am rather inclined to think that this whisper about a mysterious
lawsuit was intentionally set afloat by a good-natured gownsman
(Tincroft's almost only university acquaintance), Tom Grigson by name,
who persisted in taking his supper with the Tincrofts at least once a
week, and in dragging out the male Tincroft for a constitutional, as he
termed it, at all times, seasonable or unseasonable, whenever he was to
be found at home.
"You shan't vegetate while I am here, John," said Tom, on one such
occasion; "when I am gone you must do as you like, I suppose."
Let me do Tom the justice, moreover, of saying that, like a preux
chevalier—or, rather, like a true gentleman—he paid all due courtesies
to the young wife of his friend. There are different ways of showing
such courtesies. Tom chose the right way—he treated poor Sarah as
though she were in every particular his equal. He made no condescending
efforts to seem at his ease in her society. He placed himself on a
right footing by the respect he paid to her.
One summer evening, more than a year, as I have said, after the
marriage of John and Sarah, Tom made his appearance at their cottage.
John was at home.
"You'll go and see the fireworks, John?" said Tom.
"Fireworks? What—where?"
"In Christchurch meadow, by the water-side. Haven't you heard about
them?"
"No," John knew nothing about the fireworks.
"Oh! Then I am the first to tell you of them. There's to be a grand
display to-night in honour of somebody, or something or other—I don't
know what."
"Oh!" said Tincroft.
"And you must go and see them, Mrs. Tincroft, too."
"Really," said John, "I don't know. I don't care much for sights, you
know; and I daresay Sarah would rather be at home."
"Nonsense. One would think you were too wise to be pleased with
anything. I know better—don't you, Mrs. Tincroft?"
"John is always pleased when he sees you, Mr. Grigson," said Sarah.
"I am glad of it. You must persuade him then to go with us to see the
sight, for you and I are not too clever to be amused, are we? Come,
John, there's a good fellow—"
"'Doff your doublet, your best coat put on;
Make haste, or we shall find the sport begun!'"
John did as he was bid, and half an hour later the three were on their
way to the meadow. Presently, as the darkness increased, the fireworks
began to fizz and explode. The display was good, and John was contented
with being a spectator. Sarah was delighted, like a child, as in some
respects she was.
"It was very kind of you to make him come out," said she, turning to
Tom, who was by their side.
"Oh see! How lovely bright!" she exclaimed, as a brilliant blue light
suddenly lighted up the river-side, and the whole of the ground on
which the spectators were standing, till all around for a few moments
was as clear as in daylight.
At this moment a faint shriek from Sarah roused the attention of her
husband. At the same moment Grigson disappeared from their side.
"What is it, Sarah?" John asked, tenderly.
"Oh! Nothing, nothing;" but she clung closer to John's arm, and asked
him to remove a little farther from the fireworks, which somehow
dazzled her, which he did.
Meanwhile Tom Grigson had darted into the thick of the crowd, and laid
his hand on the arm of a stranger, a tall, pale young man who had been
standing not many yards off and watching, not the fireworks, but Tom's
friends and companions.
"Walter Wilson!"
"Mr. Grigson."
"What brings you here?" asked Tom, sternly.
"I am going abroad," answered Walter, submissively; "I can't stop in
England, and I am going to Australia. But I didn't think it any harm
to have a last look at Sarah before going. I didn't mean any harm," he
added.
"I daresay not, Wilson; but after all that has passed, I think you are
very unwise."
"I have been a fool from beginning to end," said Walter, impetuously.
"I was a fool to listen to what they said at home about Sarah. I was a
fool not to listen to what Tincroft would have told me; but I wouldn't
hear him. And I am a fool now, I daresay, for coming all this way to
ask Sarah's pardon, as I mean to do, for having mistrusted her ever,
before going out of the country. But this is what I am come here for."
"Come this way, Wilson, and tell me all about it," said Tom Grigson,
more mildly, as he drew the young man from the thickest of the crowd
into the more secluded parts of the river-side walk.
Walter's story was soon told. By some means or other, which we need not
stay to explain, he had been convinced of the wrong he had done to his
cousin by his unworthy suspicion. Torn with remorse for his unkindness,
and indignant with the mischief-mongers who had stepped in between
himself and his long-hoped-for happiness, he was seized with serious
illness, which for a time threatened first his life and then his
reason. From this danger, however, he was rescued mainly by the care
and sympathy of his friends the Burgesses; and eventually recovering,
humbled also by the severe discipline he had undergone, he endeavoured
to settle down again to business. But the attempt was unsuccessful.
The object of life, so far as his future happiness was concerned, was
lost; and alienated from his own family, he suddenly resolved to banish
himself for ever from the scene of his bitter disappointment. It was
at a time when wonderful stories were told of the opening for industry
and enterprise in the Australian colonies; and what could he do better
than put half the circumference of the world between himself and his
lost hopes? He had earned the means for the voyage, and something more,
during his business connection with his friend Ralph; and, better than
this, he had obtained a practical knowledge of the profession which,
above all others, was at that time in request in the strange land of
which so much began to be told.
But he must see his cousin before bidding farewell to home—must ask her
forgiveness for his cruelty—must be reconciled to his successful rival,
and then—
"You must do nothing of the sort, Wilson," said Tom, who had listened
to him patiently thus far, and who had witnessed the effect of Walter's
unexpected appearance. "But you have not yet explained by what evil
chance you came upon us just now."
It was easily explained, Walter said. He knew of his cousin's being in
Oxford, and he had journeyed thither from London, where he had already
taken his passage, and whence he was to sail on the following week. It
was by the merest accident that on this, the very day of his arrival,
he had, while wandering through the streets, caught a glimpse of his
cousin, her husband, and their friend when on their way to the meadow.
Concealing himself from them as he best could, he had followed them,
and kept near to them in the increasing dusk of evening, waiting only a
favourable opportunity of making himself known.
"Which you have no right to do," said Tom, quietly. "Look here, Walter;
you, with your bad temper and your ridiculous jealousy, and all that
sort of thing, have done mischief enough already, and you are not going
to do more, if I can help it. You have seen your cousin—that's enough
for you; and if it is any pleasure for you to know it, she has a good
husband, who knows, at any rate, how to behave kindly to her. Now I
don't leave you till I see you safe off again to London. So come."
It may be that Tom Grigson used other arguments; but whether he did or
not, I am sure of one thing—that a night coach conveyed Walter Wilson
back again whence he came before three hours were over, and Oxford saw
him no more.
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