Title: Chambers's Journal of popular literature, science, and art, fifth series, no. 133, vol. III, July 17, 1886
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 133.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, JULY 17, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]



MODERN SLAVERY.

A WORD FOR OUR SHOP-ASSISTANTS.


That we, as a nation, are not lovers of change for the sake of change,
can hardly be disputed; indeed, our conservatism in minor matters may
justify the reflection cast upon us by our neighbours. But although
we may be willing to continue patronising forms and institutions that
may justly be considered antiquated and effete, yet it is nevertheless
a fact that once get the public ear, and the cry of the oppressed
will never be raised in vain, even though redress involves uprooting
of old-established customs. Opposition to sudden and violent changes
there may be; but the familiar instance of our factory laws shows that
there is help for the poorest and weakest, let the need for help once
be made known. But, unhappily, those who most need assistance are just
those least able to plead their own cause, either from ignorance or
from fear of the consequences of complaint. Such was the case with the
children, who needed an outsider’s voice to raise their ‘cry;’ and
with those women-labourers, the story of whose underground toils and
miseries needed but to be heard, to awake indignant protest against the
whole system which could produce such results. In the latter case, so
sweeping was the reform, that the recurrence of the evil is impossible;
and though the working of the Factory and Workshop Act may not be
altogether perfect, it affords a considerable measure of protection to
the helpless, and stands as a wholesome check between oppressor and
oppressed.

By the Factory Act, not only are factories proper placed under
government inspection, but all proprietors of workshops or workrooms
are liable to the salutary visit of the inspector, whose duty it is
to see that the terms of the Act are complied with; that is, that
the ‘hands’ work only a certain specified number of hours; and that
due regard is paid to ventilation and sanitary precautions. But the
inspector’s boundary is the workshop or workroom, and beyond this he
is powerless to interfere; although on his way to his department he
frequently passes by large numbers of those who need supervision and
protection fully as much as those on whose behalf his visit is paid,
yet who, as the law now stands, are utterly and hopelessly in the power
of employers, who are free if they will to work their victims to death
with impunity.

Not, of course, that all employers are deaf to the claims of humanity
and think only of their own gain; on the contrary, many large
establishments are remarkable for the attention given to the comfort
of employees, who work only a fair number of hours, are well housed,
and treated generally with consideration. But even in such cases, the
restrictions and regulations are purely voluntary, and it is quite
conceivable that a change of proprietorship might involve a complete
reversion of the order of things; and as a fact, the vastly larger part
of retail business is carried on in a manner that makes the position
of the shop-assistant practically one of cruel slavery. Not that the
work is in itself laborious; though, as it involves of necessity an
unusual amount of standing, it is not suited to the naturally feeble
or delicate. The assistant’s chief hardships centre round the abnormal
length of his working-day, a day so protracted that none but the
strongest can bear the strain. The standing itself becomes very much a
matter of habit to the robust, provided the hours are reasonable, and
that sufficient time is allowed for meals to enable the worker to get
a real rest at least twice during a day of twelve hours, in addition
to a regular weekly half-holiday. The assistant’s working hours should
number about sixty per week, certainly not a low percentage; but, as
matters now stand, it is no exaggeration to say that a very large
majority of shop-assistants work from eighty to ninety hours a week,
out of which, in many cases, no regular meal-times are allowed, food
being hastily eaten, and work resumed as soon as the too hasty meal is
finished. Nominally, indeed, there are stated times for meals in most
establishments, in the better classes of which the assistants enjoy the
meal in comfort; but in too many cases the unfortunate assistant has to
accommodate his appetite to suit the tide of customers.

Thirteen or fourteen hours daily, with scarcely a break, would be
considered hard work, were it carried on under the invigorating
influence of fresh air, or were the work of a varied or partly
sedentary nature; but when, in addition to the length of hours, there
is the weary monotony of standing, the pain of which increases with
every hour of violence to nature, and the fact that, in the large
majority of cases, the air breathed is vitiated and impure, it needs
but a little foresight to predict that a few years of such slavery will
put an end to the working-power of its victims.

Let any impartial observer take note of the ages of
shop-assistants—especially in poor, crowded neighbourhoods—and he can
hardly fail to be struck by the fact that the very large majority are
young, and that the apprentice-age predominates. Indeed, it is not the
least sad part of the picture that the crushing influence of habitual
overwork is brought to bear most heavily upon the young man or woman,
hardly more than boy or girl, who begins the new career full of the
illusions of youth, and finds, long before the years of apprenticeship
are over, that the capital of health and strength is either entirely
gone or fast declining. Cases have come within our own experience in
which the rosy cheeks and exuberant spirits of fifteen or sixteen
have at nineteen or twenty given way to the pale face and languid,
artificial smile habitual to the overworked, who, in spite of pain and
weariness, are forced to keep up the semblance of cheerfulness. In one
instance, the gradual lowering of tone caused such a susceptibility to
disease, that an ordinary cold was sufficient to extinguish the feeble
flame of life; and in other cases, tendencies to special ailments have
arisen, distinctly traceable to the overtaxing of immature strength.

This personal experience is fully corroborated by many who have taken
sufficient interest in the question to study the causes and effects
of a system involving such a large amount of avoidable suffering to
an important section of society. To take but one instance. The Rev.
J. S. Webber, chaplain of University College Hospital, writing to the
President of the Shop Hours’ Labour League, says: ‘I have noticed the
result of long hours amongst the assistants employed at the smaller
houses of business—have met with many a young girl, broken down in
health, with the brain weakened. Instead of getting a walk after
business, or enjoying some other healthy recreation, they have resorted
to stimulants in the shape of intoxicating drinks, to keep up, as they
fancy, the poor fragile frame. We find in our Sunday schools that the
poor teachers who are assistants in shops cannot get to school on
Sunday morning. This also applies to church. The shop-assistant is
at a terrible disadvantage compared with the mechanic. Many of the
former cannot leave business until nine or ten every evening, and
twelve o’clock on Saturday, with body and mind so exhausted, whatever
educational advantages might offer, they are too exhausted to do
anything but rest.’ This testimony from a man of large experience
touches upon two or three of the incidental but by no means slight
effects of overwork. Sunday, to the aching body and weary brain of
the shop-assistant, whose Saturday, instead of being a half-holiday,
is the crowning point to a week of toil, may bring with it something
of physical refreshment; it certainly has little chance of affording
that quiet time for reflection and spiritual exercise essential to the
development of noble life.

Again, as to innocent recreation—the health-giving walk, stimulating
game, and harmless musical entertainment, are as entirely beyond the
reach of the shop-assistant as are the educational advantages offered
by public lecture, picture-gallery, or library. His, or her, life is,
in fact, an example of the ‘all work and no play’ which in the nature
of things produces ‘a dull boy’—or girl. And with whatever ability or
education the shop career is begun, it is a pretty sure thing that the
mind will become so stupefied with the burden of physical weariness,
that the inclination towards self-culture will quickly vanish, and the
overworked assistant sinks into a state of apathy, which, especially
in the case of the male assistant, reduces him to the dead-level of
hopeless existence; and not only is his present life a burden, but the
ordinary castle-building of the young man has very limited play in his
case; for every dream of future bliss is checked by the reflection
that should he dare to face poverty and found for himself a home, his
services will very probably be at a discount, the married assistant
standing a worse chance of employment than the single.

Who shall wonder if, under such circumstances, the young man or woman
is not always proof against the temptations of those more than doubtful
pleasures which present the only substitute for natural and rational
enjoyments?

What is the medical voice on this question of overwork, need hardly be
said. Whenever a doctor writes or speaks on the subject, he is sure
to give unequivocal testimony as to the premature failure of health
amongst shop-assistants in general, and especially amongst growing
boys and girls, whose immature frames cannot, without injury, be made
to habitually violate every physiological law. And yet, in face of all
this, the market is so overstocked with volunteers for slavery, that
the master has matters completely in his own hands, and is perfectly
safe in defying rebellion, sure that were the whole of his assistants
to leave to-day, their places could with ease be filled to-morrow.

Much of this over-supply is due to ignorance on the part of parents and
guardians, who, finding a ‘genteel’ employment for the boy or girl,
do not stop to inquire what goes on behind the curtain of gentility.
And by the time his apprenticeship is over, the assistant is not at
an age to mark out for himself a new career, and is bound to make the
best of a bad bargain. Not only so, but one of the special drawbacks
to shop-labour is the fact that if the employee offends his employer
in any way, even to such matters as attending a meeting or taking in
a paper that is disapproved of, he is liable to dismissal without a
reason and without a character; so that virtually the shop-assistant
gives into his employer’s hands the absolute control of his time, his
health, and his character; and whatever may be the results of that
surrender, escape or redress is equally unattainable.

Again, we repeat that many employers refrain from taking advantage of
their power; but nevertheless the fact remains, that a master who,
through thoughtlessness or greed, overworks, under-pays, badly houses
and badly feeds his employees, or dismisses them without a character,
is at perfect liberty to do so, and is in no danger of being called to
account for his actions!

The Early Closing Association has done something towards procuring at
least an amelioration of the shop-assistant’s condition, by seeking to
establish a universal half-holiday. It works on the persuasive line,
and in some parts of London and in many provincial towns has succeeded
in securing this boon of half a day’s rest; but persuasion alone will
never be able to treat with an evil so widespread; for, as long as the
early closing is purely voluntary, so long it will be in the power of
any one man to compel a whole neighbourhood to refuse or abolish the
half-holiday. If his shop is open when others are closed, he will to
a certainty obtain customers; and this is an advantage his neighbours
dare not allow him; therefore, they must follow suit and keep open at
his pleasure.

In this one-man power lies the secret of the present abnormal length of
hours; for it is a matter of experience that as long as shops are open,
so long customers will continue to come; and hence competition has
suggested lengthening of hours with a view to checkmating neighbours.
Yet no method of doing business ever brought with it more disadvantage,
for less gain. The public is certainly no better off than if shopping
had to be got through in reasonable time; and beyond dispute, the
shopkeeping class is not only no better, but very much worse off for
this tyranny of custom, which compels even the unwilling employer to
keep his assistants at work far beyond the ordinary limits of labour.
And so deep-seated and established has the slavery become, that there
remains nothing for it but an appeal to the State to interfere with an
extension of the Factory and Workshop Act; and although we are by no
means of those who believe in ‘grandmotherly legislation,’ this is a
case, if ever there was one, in which the strong hand of the law alone
can lift a whole section of society out of the misery in which it now
lies, and from which, unaided, it can never escape. An extension of the
Factory Act, although it would of necessity leave the shop-assistant’s
hours longer than those of most workers, would at least protect him
from unlimited labour, and would insure his work being carried on under
fairly healthy conditions.

The grumbling section of the public would doubtless raise many
objections to a shopping day of only twelve hours; but we confidently
prophesy that a year’s probation would show the new order of things to
be no hardship to the purchaser; and as regards employers, although,
doubtless, many will make great capital out of the grievance of
coercion, the more sensible and far-sighted will recognise the fact
that on this question at least the interests of employer and employed
are identical. Once insure that _all_ shops shall be limited to the
same number of hours, and there need be no anxiety as to loss of
business. The consumer’s wants must be met, and if he has only a
limited (and reasonable) number of hours in which to do his shopping,
he will have no choice but to adapt his habits to the new order of
things.

Hardship, of course, it would be if the law were limited to certain
neighbourhoods, or if clashing trades were not all under the same
restriction; but as long as there was one uniform code for all, the
only difference to the shopkeeper would be greater personal leisure
without loss of business. To those heads of large establishments to
whom reference has already been made, this may seem a trifling matter;
but many and many a small shopkeeper will rejoice, fully as much as his
assistants, in freedom from the excessive toil which makes his life as
much a slavery as theirs, and from which he is equally powerless to
escape.

Under the name of the ‘Shop Hours’ Labour League,’ a scheme has been
set on foot having for its object the presentation to parliament of
such a bill as has been suggested; and the interest of every individual
member of society is earnestly invited, in the hope of creating a
public conscience on a question affecting thousands of workers, whose
services are essential to the comfort of the community. The President
of the League, Thomas Sutherst, Esq., barrister-at-law, has compiled a
shilling volume on the subject, which, under the somewhat sensational
title of _Death and Disease behind the Counter_, contains a large
amount of sober fact, and can scarcely fail to awaken strong feeling in
the mind of every reader who takes an interest in the welfare of his
fellows. The League needs help, not in money, but in personal effort
and influence; and Mr Sutherst (3 Dr Johnson’s Buildings, London),
whose work is purely a labour of love, is ready to give information,
or to suggest methods by which help may be rendered to a cause which
thoroughly deserves the heartiest support.



IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XXXV.

At the dinner that evening, Macfarlane, the Scotch doctor, took in
Nora; while Harry Noel had handed over to his care a dowager-planteress
from a neighbouring estate; so Harry had no need to talk any further to
his pretty little hostess during that memorable Tuesday. On Wednesday
morning he had made up his mind he would find some excuse to get away
from this awkward position in Mr Dupuy’s household; for it was clearly
impossible for him to remain there any longer, after he had again asked
Nora and been rejected; but of course he couldn’t go so suddenly before
the dinner to be given in his honour; and he waited on, impatiently and
sullenly.

Tom Dupuy was there too; and even Mr Theodore Dupuy himself, who knew
the whole secret of Harry’s black blood, and therefore regarded him now
as almost beyond the pale of human sympathy, couldn’t help noticing to
himself that his nephew Tom really seemed quite unnecessarily anxious
to drag this unfortunate young man Noel into some sort of open rupture.
‘Very ill advised of Tom,’ Mr Dupuy thought to himself; ‘and very bad
manners too, for a Dupuy of Trinidad. He ought to know well enough that
whatever the young man’s undesirable antecedents may happen to be, as
long as he’s here in the position of a guest, he ought at least to be
treated with common decency and common politeness. To-morrow, we shall
manage to hunt up some excuse, or give him some effectual hint, which
will have the result of clearing him bodily off the premises. Till
then, Tom ought to endeavour to treat him, as far as possible, in every
way like a perfect equal.’

Even during the time while the ladies still remained in the
dining-room, Tom Dupuy couldn’t avoid making several severe hits,
as he considered them, at Harry Noel from the opposite side of the
hospitable table. Harry had happened once to venture on some fairly
sympathetic commonplace remark to his dowager-planteress about the
planters having been quite ruined by emancipation, when Tom Dupuy fell
upon him bodily, and called out with an unconcealed sneer: ‘Ruined by
emancipation!—ruined by emancipation! That just shows how much you know
about the matter, to talk of the planters being ruined by emancipation!
If you knew anything at all of what you’re talking about, you’d know
that it wasn’t emancipation in the least that ruined us, but your
plaguy parliament doing away with the differential duties.’

Harry bit his lip, and glanced across the table at the young planter
with a quiet smile of superiority; but the only word he permitted
himself to utter was the one harmless and neutral word ‘Indeed!’

‘O yes, you may say “Indeed” if you like,’ Tom Dupuy retorted warmly.
‘That’s just the way of all you conceited English people. You think you
know such a precious lot about the whole subject, and you really and
truly know in the end just less than absolutely nothing.’

‘Pardon me,’ Harry answered carelessly, with his wine-glass poised
for a moment half lifted in his hand. ‘I admit most unreservedly that
you know a great deal more than I do about the differential duties,
whatever they may be, for I never so much as heard their very name in
all my life until the present moment.’

Tom Dupuy smiled a satisfied smile of complete triumph. ‘I thought as
much,’ he said exultantly; ‘I knew you hadn’t. That’s just the way of
all English people. They know nothing at all about the most important
and essential matters, and yet they venture to talk about them for all
the world as if they knew as much as we do about the whole subject.’

‘Really,’ Harry answered with a good-humoured smile, ‘I fancied a man
might be fairly well informed about things in general, and yet never
have heard in his pristine innocence of the differential duties. I
haven’t the very faintest idea myself, to tell you the truth, what they
are. Perhaps you will be good enough to lighten my darkness.’

‘What they are!’ Tom Dupuy ejaculated in pious horror. ‘They aren’t
anything. They’re done away with. They’ve ceased to exist long ago.
You and the other plaguy English people took them off, and ruined
the colonies; and now you don’t as much as know what you’ve done, or
whether they’re existing still or done away with!’

‘Tom, my boy,’ Mr Theodore Dupuy interposed blandly, ‘you really
mustn’t hold Mr Noel personally responsible for all the undoubted
shortcomings of the English nation! You must remember that his father
is, like ourselves, a West Indian proprietor, and that the iniquitous
proceedings with reference to the differential duties—which nobody can
for a moment pretend to justify—injured him every bit as much as they
injured ourselves.’

‘But what _are_ the differential duties?’ Harry whispered to his next
neighbour but one, the Scotch doctor. ‘I never heard of them in my
life, I assure you, till this very minute.’

‘Well, you know,’ Dr Macfarlane responded slowly, ‘there was a time
when sugar from the British colonies was admitted into Britain at a
less duty than sugar from Cuba or other foreign possessions; and at
last, the British consumer took the tax off the foreign sugar, and
cheapened them all alike in the British market. Very good, of course,
for the British consumer, but clean ruination and nothing else for the
Trinidad planter.’

For the moment, the conversation changed, but not the smouldering war
between the two belligerents. Whatever subject Harry Noel happened to
start during that unlucky dinner, Tom Dupuy, watching him closely,
pounced down upon him at once like an owl on the hover, and tore him to
pieces with prompt activity. Harry bore it all as good-naturedly as he
could, though his temper was by no means naturally a forbearing one;
but he didn’t wish to come to an open rupture with Tom Dupuy at his
uncle’s table, especially after that morning’s occurrences.

As soon as the ladies had left the room, however, Tom Dupuy drew up his
chair so as exactly to face Harry, and began to pour out for himself in
quick succession glass after glass of his uncle’s fiery sherry, which
he tossed off with noisy hilarity. The more he drank, the louder his
voice became, and the hotter his pursuit of Harry Noel. At last, when
Mr Theodore Dupuy, now really alarmed as to what his nephew was going
to say next, ordered in the coffee prematurely, to prevent an open
outbreak by rejoining the ladies, Tom walked deliberately over to the
sideboard and took out a large square decanter, from which he poured a
good-sized liqueur-glassful of some pale liquid for himself and another
for Harry.

‘There!’ he cried boisterously. ‘Just you try that, Noel, will you.
There’s liquor for you! That’s the real old Pimento Valley rum, the
best in the island, double distilled, and thirty years in bottle. You
don’t taste any _hogo_ about that, Mr Englishman, eh, do you?’

‘Any what?’ Harry inquired politely, lifting up the glass and sipping
a little of the contents out of pure courtesy, for neat rum is not in
itself a very enticing beverage to any other than West Indian palates.

‘Any _hogo_,’ Tom Dupuy repeated loudly and insolently—‘_hogo, hogo_.
I suppose, now, you mean to say you don’t even know what _hogo_ is,
do you?—Never heard of _hogo_? Precious affectation! Don’t understand
plain language! Yah, rubbish!

‘Why, no, certainly,’ Harry assented as calmly as he was able; ‘I
never before did hear of _hogo_, I assure you. I haven’t the slightest
idea what it is, or whether I ought rather to admire or to deplore its
supposed absence in this very excellent old rum of yours.’

‘_Hogo_’s French,’ Tom Dupuy asserted doggedly, ‘_Hogo_’s French, and I
should have thought you ought to have known it. Everybody in Trinidad
knows what _hogo_ is. It’s French, I tell you. Didn’t you ever learn
any French at the school you went to, Noel?’

‘Excuse me,’ Harry said, flushing up a little, for Tom Dupuy had asked
the question very offensively. ‘It is _not_ French. I know enough of
French at least to say that such a word as _hogo_, whatever it may
mean, couldn’t possibly be French for anything.’

‘As my nephew pronounces it,’ Mr Dupuy put in diplomatically, ‘you may
perhaps have some difficulty in recognising its meaning; but it’s our
common West Indian corruption, Mr Noel, of _haut goût_—_haut goût_, you
understand me—precisely so; _haut goût_, or _hogo_, being the strong
and somewhat offensive molasses-like flavour of new rum, before it has
been mellowed, as this of ours has been, by being kept for years in the
wood and in bottle.’

‘Oh, ah, that’s all very well! I suppose _you_’re going to turn against
me now, Uncle Theodore,’ Tom Dupuy exclaimed angrily—he was reaching
the incipient stage of quarrelsome drunkenness. ‘I suppose _you_ must
go and make fun of me, too, for my French pronunciation as well as
this fine-spoken Mr Noel here. But I don’t care a pin about it, or
about either of you, either. Who’s Mr Noel, I should like to know, that
he should come here, with his fine new-fangled English ways, setting
himself up to be better than we are, and teaching us to improve our
French pronunciation?—O yes, it’s all very fine; but what does he want
to go stopping in our houses for, with our own ladies, and all that,
and then going and visiting with coloured rubbish that I wouldn’t touch
with a pair of tongs—the woolly-headed niggers!—that’s what I want to
know, Uncle Theodore?’

Mr Dupuy and Harry rose together. ‘Tom, Tom!’ Mr Dupuy cried warningly,
‘you are quite forgetting yourself. Remember that this gentleman is
my guest, and is here to-day by my invitation. How dare you say such
things as that to my own guest, sir, at my own table? You insult me,
sir, you insult me!’

‘I think,’ Harry interrupted, white with anger, ‘I had better withdraw
at once, Mr Dupuy, before things go any further, from a room where I
am evidently, quite without any intention on my own part, a cause of
turmoil and disagreement.’

He moved hastily towards the open window which gave upon the lawn,
where the ladies were strolling, after the fashion of the country, in
the silvery moonlight, among the tropical shrubbery. But Tom Dupuy
jumped up before him and stood in his way, now drunk with wine and rum
and insolence and temper, and blocked his road to the open window.

‘No, no!’ he cried, ‘you shan’t go yet!—I’ll tell you all the reason
why, gentlemen. He shall hear the truth. I’ll take the vanity and
nonsense out of him! He’s a brown man himself, nothing but a brown
man!—Do you know, you fine fellow you, that you’re only, after all, a
confounded woolly-headed brown mulatto? You are, sir! you are, I tell
you! Look at your hands, you nigger, look at your hands, I say, if ever
you doubt it.’

Harry Noel’s proud lip curled contemptuously as he pushed the
half-tipsy planter aside with his elbow, and began to stride angrily
away towards the moonlit shrubbery. ‘I daresay I am,’ he answered
coolly, for he was always truthful, and it flashed across his mind in
the space of a second that Tom Dupuy was very possibly right enough.
‘But if I am, my good fellow, I will no longer inflict my company, I
tell you, upon persons who, I see, are evidently so little desirous of
sharing it any further.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Tom Dupuy exclaimed madly, planting himself once more
like a fool in front of the angry and retreating Englishman, ‘he’s a
brown man, a mulatto, a coloured fellow, gentlemen, own cousin of that
precious nigger scamp, Isaac Pourtalès, whose woolly head I’d like to
knock this minute against his own woolly head, the insolent upstart!
Why, gentlemen, do you know who his mother was? Do you know who this
fine Lady Noel was that he wants to come over us with? She was nothing
better, I swear to you solemnly, than a common brown wench over in
Barbadoes!’

Harry Noel’s face grew livid purple with that foul insult, as he
leapt like a wild beast at the roaring West Indian, and with one
fierce blow sent him reeling backward upon the floor at his feet like
a senseless lump of dead matter. ‘Hound and cur! how dare you?’ he
hissed out hoarsely, planting his foot contemptuously on the fallen
planter’s crumpled shirt-front. ‘How dare you?—how dare you? Say what
you will of me, myself, you miserable blackguard—but my mother! my
mother!’ And then, suddenly recollecting himself, with a profound bow
to the astonished company, he hurried out, hatless and hot, on to the
darkling shrubbery, casting the dust of Orange Grove off his feet half
instinctively behind him as he went.

Next moment a soft voice sounded low beside him, to his intense
astonishment. As he strode alone across the dark lawn, Nora Dupuy, who
had seen the whole incident from the neighbouring shrubbery, glided
out to his side from the shadow of the star-apple tree and whispered a
few words earnestly in his ear. Harry Noel, still white with passion
and trembling in every muscle like a hunted animal, could not but stop
and listen to them eagerly even in that supreme moment of righteous
indignation. ‘Thank you, Mr Noel,’ she said simply—‘thank you, thank
you!’


CHAPTER XXXVI.

The gentlemen in the dining-room stood looking at one another in blank
dismay for a few seconds, and then Dr Macfarlane broke the breathless
silence by saying out loud, with his broad Scotch bluntness: ‘Ye’re a
fool, Tom Dupuy—a very fine fool, ye are; and I’m not sorry the young
Englishman knocked you down and gave you a lesson, for speaking ill
against his own mother.’

‘Where has he gone?’ Dick Castello, the governor’s aide-de-camp, asked
quickly, as Tom picked himself up with a sheepish, awkward, drunken
look. ‘He can’t sleep here to-night now, you know, and he’ll have to
sleep somewhere or other, Macfarlane, won’t he?’

‘Run after him,’ the doctor said, ‘and take him to your own house. Not
one of these precious Trinidad folk’ll stir hand or foot to befriend
him anyhow, now they’ve been told he’s a brown man.’

Castello took up his hat and ran as fast as he could go after Noel. He
caught him up, breathless, half-way down to the gate of the estate;
for Harry, though he had gone off hurriedly without hat or coat, was
walking alone down the main road coolly enough now, trying to look and
feel within himself as though nothing at all unusual in any way had
happened. ‘Where are you going to, Noel?’ Castello asked, in a friendly
voice.—‘By Jove! I’m jolly glad you knocked that fellow down, and tried
to teach him a little manners, though he _is_ old Dupuy’s nephew. But
of course you can’t stop there to-night. What do you mean now to do
with yourself?’

‘I shall go to Hawthorn’s,’ Harry answered quietly.

‘Better not go there,’ Dick Castello urged, taking him gently by the
shoulder. ‘If you do, you know, it’ll look as if you wanted to give a
handle to Tom Dupuy and break openly with the whole lot of them. Tom
Dupuy insulted you abominably, and you couldn’t have done anything else
but knock him down, of course, my dear fellow; and he needed it jolly
well, too, we all know perfectly. But don’t let it seem as if you were
going to quarrel with the whole lot of us. Come home to my house now at
Savannah Garden. I’ll walk straight over there with you and have a room
got ready for you at once; and then I’ll go back to Orange Grove for
Mrs Castello, and bring across as much of your luggage as I can in my
carriage, at least as much as you’ll need for the present.’

‘Very well, Captain Castello,’ answered Noel submissively. ‘It’s very
kind of you to take me in. I’ll go with you; you know best about it.
But hang it all, you know, upon my word I expect the fellow may have
been telling the truth after all, and I daresay I really am what
these fools of Trinidad people call a brown man. Did ever you hear
such absurd nonsense? Calling me a brown man! As if it ever mattered
twopence to any sensible person whether a man was black, brown, white,
or yellow, as long as he’s not such a confounded cad and boor as that
roaring tipsy lout of a young Dupuy fellow!’

So Harry Noel went that Tuesday night to Captain Castello’s at
Savannah Garden, and slept, or rather lay awake, there till Wednesday
morning—the morning of the day set aside by Louis Delgado and Isaac
Pourtalès for their great rising and general massacre.

As for Nora, she went up to her own boudoir as soon as the guests had
gone—they didn’t stay long after this awkward occurrence—and threw
herself down once more on the big sofa, and cried as if her heart
would burst for very anguish and humiliation.

He had knocked down Tom Dupuy. That was a good thing as far as it went!
For that at least, if for nothing else, Nora was duly grateful to him.
But had she gone too far in thanking him? Would he accept it as a proof
that she meant him to reopen the closed question between them? Nora
hoped not, for that—that at anyrate was now finally settled. She could
never, never, never marry a brown man! And yet, how much nicer and
bolder he was than all the other men she saw around her! Nora liked him
even for his faults. That proud, frank, passionate Noel temperament of
his, which many girls would have regarded with some fear and no little
misgiving, exactly suited her West Indian prejudices and her West
Indian ideal. His faults were the faults of a proud aristocracy; and
it was entirely as a member of a proud aristocracy herself that Nora
Dupuy lived and moved and had her being. A man like Edward Hawthorn
she could like and respect; but a man like Harry Noel she could admire
and love—if, ah if, he were only not a brown man! What a terrible
cross-arrangement of fate that the one man who seemed otherwise exactly
to suit her girlish ideal, should happen to belong remotely to the one
race between which and her own there existed in her mind for ever and
ever an absolutely fixed and irremovable barrier!

So Nora, too, lay awake all night; and all night long she thought but
of one thing and one person—the solitary man she could never, never,
never conceivably marry.

And Harry, for his part, thinking to himself, on his tumbled pillow, at
Savannah Garden, said to his own heart over and over and over again:
‘I shall love her for ever; I can never while I live leave off loving
her. But after what occurred yesterday and last night, I mustn’t dream
for worlds of asking her a third time. I know now what it was she meant
when she spoke about the barrier between us. Poor girl! how very wild
of her! How strange that she should think in her own soul a Dupuy of
Trinidad superior in position to one of the ancient Lincolnshire Noels!’

For pride always sees everything from its own point of view alone, and
never for a moment succeeds in admitting to itself the pride of others
as being equally reasonable and natural with its own.



SOME PET LIZARDS.

BY CATHERINE C. HOPLEY.


Those who live near commons and turfy heaths may in the spring-time
espy the lizards peeping cautiously out from among the weeds to court
the sunshine after their winter’s sleep; or, on a warm day, boldly
flitting across the grass, but hiding again on the slightest alarm.
Much may the amateur naturalist find to interest and amuse him in
these tiny lizards; to admire also, for their colours are often very
beautiful, their eyes bright and watchful, their form and actions
anything but ungraceful. Among these native lizards, the Slow-worm
(_Anguis fragilis_) is included—the ‘deaf adder’ or ‘blindworm,’ as it
is commonly but wrongly called. As a pet, _Anguis fragilis_ has many
recommendations. Small, clean, unobtrusive, inoffensive, and easily
fed, are more than can be said of most pets: domestic qualifications
which, indeed, may be extended to its little four-legged cousins, the
British lizards, often found in the same habitat, and all of which
can be caught and transferred to a large glass bowl with ease and
satisfaction. One of the bell-shaped glasses with a perforated knob at
the top answers capitally. Reversed and furnished with moss, turf, and
sand, the hole serves for drainage, because water is indispensable for
the lizards, and the moss and turf should be sprinkled occasionally. A
stand into which the reversed glass fits can be purchased with it, and
a large china plate completes the arrangement, which, with its pretty
occupants, is an ornament for any window or conservatory.

By an accident, I soon discovered that a slow-worm—my first and then
only pet reptile—requires water. Knowing that it fed on slugs, I was
hunting in the garden, and at length found some small ones under a
flower-pot saucer, and conveyed them undisturbed to a place in the
cage. The slow-worm soon discovered the addition, but instead of
selecting a slug for supper, began to lick the cold, damp saucer,
putting out its tongue repeatedly, as if refreshed; and forthwith the
saucer was reversed and filled with the beverage, which the little
reptile soon lapped eagerly, continuing to do so for some minutes.
After this discovery, fresh water was supplied daily. That little
creature became quickly tamed, a fact which her history will easily
explain.

‘Do you want a live viper?’ a friend in the Reading Room of the British
Museum asked me, one day.

‘A viper! Here?’

‘Yes, a deaf viper. It was caught in Surrey last week. We had a
field-day.’

My friend was a member of a Natural History Society, as was also the
gentleman who had found the so-called ‘viper.’ His hobby being geology
rather than zoology, he had been breaking and turning over fragments
of rock in a sort of dell, when he had discovered the harmless little
creature, which he—a scholarly man, by the way—would have immediately
put to death, as a dangerous viper, had not my friend—also a learned
man, though not versed in snakes—reserved it for me, and with much
caution transferred it to a tin box. It was subsequently consigned
to a bottle, and tightly corked until I could see it. My friend now
promised me he would not put the ‘deaf viper’ to death, as his lady
relatives were daily entreating him to do; and a few days afterwards,
he shook out of its narrow prison on to my table—not a viper, but a
feeble slow-worm, the poor little thing having had no food during those
eight or ten days of captivity. No wonder, then, that the half-famished
reptile grew easily reconciled to an improved home with fresh grass and
moss and other luxuries, and soon learned to recognise its preserver.
Soon a companion was brought for it, one freshly caught and full of
health and vigour. This one was not so easily reconciled to a glass
house, and only by slow degrees would it allow itself to be taken up
and handled.

Another year, my saurian family increased to nine, including all the
three British species, and all living amicably together in one large
bell-glass. I will not trouble my readers with the nine names by which
the nine lizards were known in the domestic circle. Scientifically,
they were _Anguis fragilis_, _Lacerta agilis_, and _Zootica vivipara_;
the last so called from its giving birth to live young. _Anguis
fragilis_ also produces its young alive; or, as in the case of one
of my own, in a membranous case or ‘shell,’ quite entire, but easily
ruptured. The specific name _agilis_ has been applied to the larger
lacertine; but a more agile, swift, and flashing little creature than
_Zootica vivipara_ can scarcely exist; so that the true names of these
three species of lizard are not, after all, so truly descriptive.
_Zootica_ is much smaller, and must have acquired its astonishing
celerity protectively, the wee animal having no other safeguard than
in flight. And its suppleness equals its activity. Caught and held in
the closed hand so tightly that one almost feared to crush it, it would
nevertheless turn itself round, or rather double itself completely back
and escape the other way, where no outlet seemed possible; or between
the fingers, where you least expected. It is extremely restless and
timid, and less easily tamed than _lacerta_. One of my _zooticas_ had a
peculiar dread of being handled, and was so ever on the alert, watching
my slightest approach, and looking up sideways out of one eye, and
with its head on one side in such a bird-like manner, that it acquired
the name of ‘Birdie.’ Birdie seemed guided by intellect more than any
of the family; and the devices she practised in order to escape me,
when she anticipated my intentions to get hold of her, were truly
intelligent. She vanished somewhere, but presently you caught sight of
one bright eye peeping up from the depths of the moss, as if saying:
‘Ah, I know what you’re up to!’ Perhaps I did try to circumvent Birdie
somewhat heartlessly, just to observe her manœuvres. She would peep at
me and watch me through the glass, when I was sitting far away and had
no intention of going near; but at last she learned to stay in my open
hand, and I sometimes suspected there was as much play as fear in her
hiding.

The lizards were also thirsty little creatures, and eagerly refreshed
their tongues by lapping the wet moss, until they learned to lap out
of a saucer. The male _lacerta_ is of a handsome iridescent green,
pale and delicate on the throat and belly, and a rich dark colour on
the back. _Lacerta_ is easily tamed. It soon learns to settle itself
comfortably in a warm hand, and is quite appreciative of caresses
in the form of a gentle stroking with the finger. In intelligence,
both species certainly rank above _Anguis fragilis_; they more easily
recognise the voice and the owner of the voice, looking up when
addressed in the peculiar tone which was reserved for lizard training.

A large and handsome female _lacerta_ that lived in a smaller glass
by itself, escaped one day, and fell out of the window near which it
was placed. It must have sustained some internal injury, and had, no
doubt, suffered from cold and terror during the two days and nights it
was lost, until found on a neighbour’s balcony. I had reason to suspect
she would soon deposit eggs, but she grew gradually thin and feeble,
refusing food, and was evidently suffering, though showing no outward
appearance of injury. It exhibited a strong desire to climb against the
side of its cage, or whatever upright surface it was near, and remain
in a perpendicular position; or if it could find no such leaning-place,
it threw up its head and thus held it, as if to relieve itself of some
pain. Then, more and more it kept its eyes closed, or opened them only
to seek some object against which it could rest in that perpendicular
position. As winter approached, I allowed the little sufferer to lie
on a table near the fire, and covered it over for warmth; but it never
remained contented on the _level_. Though its eyes were usually closed,
whenever I spoke to it in the peculiar tone with which it was familiar,
it invariably opened them and came towards me. If it could not reach
me, it would even jump from the table to my lap in order to gain its
favourite perpendicular position on my dress, where it remained quiet
until removed. It grew more and more feeble, until one could scarcely
detect life in it, except in the effort to open its eyes and try to
approach when I spoke to it, and this to the very last.

These little lizards are easily procured; and I trust the perusal
of these memoirs may induce some kind and patient individual to try
them as pets, when it will be found that their sense of hearing and
intelligence is in no way exaggerated.

Lizards cast their skins at uncertain intervals during the summer,
being greatly influenced by temperature. One very warm season, when
they were much in the sunshine, mine changed their dress on an average
once in three weeks. Some of the sloughs came off entire, even to the
tips of the tiny, delicate fingers, like a perfect glove. Sometimes
they were shed in fragments. The head shields are not regularly
renewed with the skin, which was always reversed. _Anguis fragilis_
on one occasion cast its skin entire and unreversed, a very unusual
occurrence. All begin at the mouth, as snakes do; and you will see
when the process is about to commence by the little creatures rubbing
their mouths and their heads against whatever they are near, the
loosening cuticle no doubt causing irritation. To watch the process
is exceedingly interesting, especially when the lacertines free their
limbs of the old garment, shaking off and dragging themselves out of it
as you get off a tight sleeve.

A word about the voice of lizards, on which so much has been written.
That these do utter a sound is certain; but it is very feeble; though,
perhaps, in comparison with their size, not more feeble than the
hiss of a snake. And only when much disturbed and annoyed do they
ejaculate even this little sound, which is as if you half pronounced
and whispered the letter _t_ or _th_. Sometimes it resembles _ts_,
only audible when quiet prevails. Both the lizards and the slow-worms
expressed their displeasure by this same little expulsion of breath,
scarcely to be called a hiss. But once when a slow-worm fell from a
high stand to the floor, there was a singular sort of loud chirp or
chuckle, as if the breath were forced suddenly from the lungs by the
fall. It was wholly unlike its regular ‘voice,’ and was so remarkable,
that if it had not been ejaculated simultaneously with the ‘flop’ on
the carpet that announced ‘Lizzie’s’ fall, I might have thought a young
bird or a frog was in the room. The slow-worms often got out of their
cage and fell to the floor, seeming to be none the worse; but only on
this one occasion did I hear the breath escape so audibly.

Recommending them as pets, it is important to say that they all like a
change of diet; and herein lies the chief difficulty of keeping them,
except to those who have gardens or who live in the country. _Anguis
fragilis_ will content itself for a long period on worms, but these
must be fresh; and it enjoys a slug or a small smooth caterpillar for
a change. But the lizards are more fastidious, as is perhaps natural;
for in their wild state they catch such insects as are in season, and
have a choice of these. In the suburbs of London, I found them glad
of such varieties as could be procured from the shrubs in a garden,
or by digging; and small worms, caterpillars, spiders, or insects
were in turn eagerly pounced upon. ‘Birdie’ was particularly quick in
detecting a rarity and in being first to seize it. Flies are liked by
the lizards, but not by the slow-worms, the latter preferring less dry
food. Centipedes were rejected by common consent.

The difficulty of meeting the dietetic requirements of certain pets
reminds me of another pair of lizards that in turn inhabited the
bell-glass. These were brought from Brazil, and introduced to me by
the name of _Taraquira Smith_. An _i_ or two should perhaps terminate
and dignify the latter name, to commemorate the particular Smith who
bestowed it on _Taraquira_; but _Smith_ is simple and practical;
and the Taraquira Smiths was the name of my two little Brazilian
lizards. The smaller one measured about eight inches from the snout
to the tip of his slender tail; the larger one was ten or more
inches in length. They are, however, less agreeable to handle than
the previous pets, their tails being armed with very finely-pointed
sharp scales in whorls. The lizards seem to know how to use this long
tail protectively, having acquired a habit of retrogression, and
when held, of backing out of the hand, as if with the intention of
pricking or inconveniencing you with these sharp spines, which are
thus converted into weapons of defence. When persistently held or
detained, the pricking effect caused by this backward motion is by
no means agreeable. For food, they were provided with a supply of a
peculiar kind of cockroach, which infested the reptile house at the
Zoological Gardens of London, near which I happened to reside; but my
two little foreigners persistently declined them and any other equally
tempting food. Indeed, the poor little _Smiths_ were in such a feeble
condition from exposure to cold during their transfer from the ship
to their glass home, that the smaller one soon died. On the voyage,
they had been kept in a warm temperature; and at the Reptilium they
have been preserved by artificial heat. It was December when mine
arrived, and though in the daytime they could be made comfortable near
the fire, during the night a regular heat could not be maintained;
notwithstanding, at the risk of suffocating them, warm woollen wraps
were folded round and over the glass, to keep the frosty air from them.

When the smaller _Taraquira_ died, redoubled care was bestowed on
the survivor, but unfortunately, we could not transfer the Brazilian
climate to a London residence, and my _Taraquira Smith_ only lived long
enough to display that peculiar and yet not vicious instinct of letting
you know that its tail was armed throughout its entire length with
those sharp prickly scales.

One more lizard-pet deserves an obituary notice.

‘I have a horned toad from Texas down at my office,’ said an Ohio
editor to me, when I was visiting in that State. ‘Will you like to call
in and see it, when you pass that way?’

The reader will surmise that a very short time elapsed ere I did ‘pass
that way;’ and my friend the editor bade me welcome by beginning an
immediate search for the ‘horned toad,’ which apparently was allowed
the free run of the office. Has the reader ever been introduced into
the office of a Western newspaper editor? A chaos of ‘exchanges’ is
its principal characteristic. You wonder how one man in a lifetime,
much less a week—this was the office of a weekly paper—could look over
and ‘scissors and clip’ from that astonishing miscellany. However, the
object now was to hunt up the toad, not news. Exchanges in compact
piles and loose piles were moved from shelf to table and table to
shelf; exchanges half-opened and unopened, exchanges already clipped
and thrown under the spacious table; papers filed and papers not
filed; books and magazines in vast piles to be reviewed; ink of all
colours in bottles of all sizes, some full, some empty; penholders and
pencils enough to kindle a fire; paper-knives, scissors, rulers, and
clips anywhere but in their natural places; and as for manuscripts,
advertisements, and advertising books—from the size of a bath-towel
down to the daintiest card—not to mention samples and offerings
presented to the influential man in order to win a good word in his
paper (here is the office-boy with another armful by the mail just in),
and ‘copy’ enough for six months’ use scattered about! All these things
were moved, lifted, separated, swept on one side and swept back again,
turned over again and again; but no toad rewarded that amiable editor’s
search. ‘Toads like damp,’ I suggested, while offering my small aid
in picking up a shower of literature which my friend scattered in his
haste. ‘The poor thing can scarcely feel comfortable among this wealth
of information and so near the stove.’

‘Well, it is an improvement on a boy’s pocket, anyhow,’ returned the
erudite man. ‘I rescued it from a boy who had been carrying it about in
his pocket for a whole fortnight. His uncle, just from Texas, brought
it for him to play with. It _was_ here half an hour ago, for I saw
it,’ continued the editor, rummaging a shelf of exchanges for the
fourth time. ‘It’s half dead anyhow; for horned toads won’t eat when
they’re caught. Do, pray, take a seat.—Why, there he is!’ and down on
the floor, in a dusty corner behind a chair which the editor drew out
for me, was a poor, pretty little saurian, with a pointed tail, and a
cornet of spikes round its head, which gave it a quaint and decorated
appearance.

‘It is not a toad after all!’ I ventured to explain; but belief in
vernaculars is strong.

‘Maybe it’s a frog, then; there are horned frogs, too, in Texas.’

On a first glance, the reptile has somewhat the appearance of a frog
or a toad (with the addition of a tail). Its body was broader for its
length than is usual in lizards, and its head was short and flat,
looking all the more so for the horny spines, which stood out like a
frill. The poor little half-dead thing was too feeble to struggle, and
too thickly coated with dust to display any other than mud colour.
From its long fast, it was merely skin and skeleton, painfully concave
beneath. I gladly accepted it from the editor; and on reaching home
gave it a bath, letting it remain in the water, and douching it
thoroughly, which seemed to invigorate it, as it tried to crawl out
of the basin, and opened a pair of bright black eyes. Gradually,
its markings and true colour appeared, and it turned out to be an
exceedingly pretty iguanian lizard; but, as my friend the editor had
with reason said, it is generally known in Texas as ‘the horned frog’
or ‘the horned toad,’ or scientifically, _Phrynosoma cornutum_.

It now already gave signs of recovery, and when placed on its back,
could right itself, and even crawl, and was a quaint, pretty little
creature, worth preserving. But a tremendous obstacle here arose.
There were young ladies in the house, and had they known I had
surreptitiously brought home a toad to ‘sting them with its poisonous
horns,’ the consequences are too appalling to conjecture! Such a
terrific creature of four and a half inches long, tail inclusive,
to be introduced into the family circle! So Iguana and I kept our
secret; and I slyly smuggled a large, empty flower-pot into my room,
and lined it with fresh grass and a clump of turf from the garden,
and had the pleasure of seeing the poor little stranger nestle in it
with evident satisfaction. I got its mouth open and gave it water,
which it swallowed readily; and by-and-by administered a few flies,
one at a time, which it also swallowed; and at night it crept under
the turf. Next day, it meekly swallowed more food and drink, similarly
administered, and was so greatly strengthened as to try to climb
up the side of the flower-pot, then standing in the sunshine. This
great flower-pot and its inmate caused me continuous alarm. When any
one was expected in my room, it was hidden in all manner of places;
but when there was no danger of interruption, it could stand on the
window-ledge, fortunately hidden from outside view by a veranda
beneath. And in this way Iguana lived for many days, during which it
rapidly improved. It is not surprising that such reptiles do not eat
in captivity. Their habit is to pursue insects, and swiftly too, or to
pounce upon one that takes its fancy; and no half-dead fly or amputated
spider thrown into its cage would excite its natural instincts. But
this queer little animal submitted to be fed in a ludicrous manner.
Without much difficulty I got its mouth open; and after suspiciously
swallowing the first mouthful, it took the second and third as
passively as a baby fed with a spoon. In this way it ate four or six
insects a day, varied by a few drops of water or the soft pulp of a
grape.

When my visit in Ohio was terminated, Iguana was secretly packed
in moss in a little flat box and put in my bag; and the huge empty
flower-pot was left outside the window, to excite the wonder of the
curious. The friends I next visited knew nothing of ‘horned toads’ and
their ‘venomous spines,’ and all alarms were forestalled by my saying:
‘I have such a pretty little animal up-stairs—a tame lizard which was
given me at B.’—‘Oh, do let us see it!’ was the encouraging reply;
and when duly presented in my palm, whatever natural shrinking the
ladies might have felt, was over-ruled by the ‘queer thing’s’ evident
harmlessness and its undeniably pretty coat. And now it was made happy
in a large birdcage with a carpet of turf and moss; and when placed
in the sunshine, was—in unexaggerated language—‘wild with delight.’
My hopes were to feed and strengthen it for another week or two, by
which time it might be safely consigned to a box and to hibernation.
But—and it is sad to end this little history with a ‘but’—there came at
the beginning of November some very warm days, and the sun had so much
power, that when the cage was placed in the window, _Phrynosoma_ must
have imagined itself back in Texas. Only twenty minutes elapsed, and
when I looked again, it was gone! How it could have squeezed itself and
its long spikes between the wires, surpasses comprehension; but gone it
was!

Great was the commotion throughout the house. The square of grass
plot which separated the house from the pavement, and the neighbours’
front gardens, and the flights of steps leading to the street, and all
the gratings, possible and impossible, were hunted over by the united
family, neighbours included. Pavement, road, and cellars were carefully
searched by my good-natured cousins, after, of course, every inch of
the room itself had been well examined. We felt sure that the sunshine
would have enticed it outwards, and we began to think poor little
Iguana must have fallen a victim to some dog or cat, when one of the
family, who had been out walking, came hurrying home exclaiming: ‘Why,
here’s your lizard! I found it on the pavement wa-a-y up the street,
with its mouth all bleeding!’

Strange that, in a public thoroughfare, it had escaped at all. Several
of its horns were broken, and its mouth was wounded internally, giving
evidence of a violent struggle against the wires of the cage. It must
have partly pushed its head between them, and found difficulty in
extricating itself, going sideways, and then falling from the window
on to some iron bars beneath. The jaw and teeth on one side were much
injured; for when, after this, I attempted to feed it, it struggled
violently and swallowed nothing more.

It never regained sufficient energy to attempt another escape, but
always held its head sideways, as if stiff or in pain; and after four
or five days, poor little _Phrynosoma cornutum_ died, and was buried.



WHERE THE TRACKS LED TO.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. III.

I don’t know that I ever thought more closely or continually over
any event in my life than I did over this queer meeting with Sam
Braceby. There was too much of a coincidence about this matter; and my
experience has been that coincidences do not happen unless there is
something to bring them about. I could make nothing of it, however, and
so set seriously to work in watching Mr Godfrey. But in this affair it
seemed as though I was never to keep steadily on in any course, for on
the very evening I was to begin my observations, I received a letter
from Mr Thurles, asking me to call on him.

I found the merchant as harsh as before, and, in addition, a little
inclined to be offensive; at anyrate, his banter on my want of success
was particularly annoying to me. He did not seem able to say anything
pleasantly, and his speech ended in his throwing down a number of
letters and papers, and telling me that the utterer of the forged bills
had been discovered; the man himself had escaped by the merest chance;
but upon his lodgings being searched, there was found among his papers
correspondence which proved that he was a friend of Mr Godfrey, from
whom several letters, all on business matters—that is, relating to the
borrowing of money—were found.

‘It was not to be expected,’ continued the merchant, ‘that these
letters would state in so many words that they meant to forge bills or
break into houses; but there is quite enough to show the footing they
were on, and to convince us, if any more conviction were needed, that
they were both in the forgery.—Look over the papers, and see if you can
get a hint from them.’

I saw the name of the man to whom the letters were addressed, and knew
it as that of a young fellow who had borne a doubtful reputation,
although he had never been in actual ‘trouble.’ He was certainly a
dangerous companion for Godfrey Harleston. I took the papers, and
left Mr Thurles with the belief that the step-son was in an awkward
position. Hitherto, I had by no means been a believer in his guilt; but
I was obliged to own that things were now looking much blacker against
him. Knowing as much as I did, I determined on a different course of
action. I resolved to make some inquiries, and, if necessary, spend
some money among the associates of this newly discovered accomplice,
some of whom I knew pretty well.

But again I was destined to be balked in my plans—in fact, it was the
continual drifting about, which seemed to be our luck just now, which
made this undertaking so different from any other on which I had ever
been engaged. This time the interruption came from Long-necked Sam,
who had never been out of my waking thoughts for any one quarter of an
hour since I had seen him in the public-house. I found that Sam was
remanded on a serious charge, which, if proved, would probably secure
him, in his own phrase, ‘a lifer;’ and he wished to see me at once.
It was rather sharp work, as only a few days had elapsed since I saw
him, and now he had been apprehended, had his first hearing, and been
remanded. But I knew that the police were constantly looking after him,
and that he was always doing something which required him to keep out
of their way as much as possible.

He would be a very fresh detective who would slight such a summons,
meaningless as it might appear, for in such a business you can never
tell what is going to turn up. I went, and saw Sam, who looked serious
enough. Just as a matter of form and civility, I began to say that I
was sorry to see him there, and so on.

‘Never mind that, Mr Holdrey,’ said Sam; ‘you may be sure I did not
send for you to cry over spilt milk. I was sure to be “shopped” some
time or another, although I must own I thought I should have had a
little longer run. No; it isn’t that; it’s about that business of old
Thurles.—You are working with the old fellow, are you not?’

This was a staggerer! If I had ever tried to keep a business quiet,
this was the one. If I had been asked to name the job which had been
completely kept from oozing out, I should have named this; and yet
here was a notorious thief, a man who had nothing whatever to do with
Thurles & Company, speaking confidently and correctly as to my share in
the affair!

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what then?’ It was of no use denying it, as it was
plain that Sam _knew_.

‘The old man,’ he continued, ‘is employing you to find out who broke
into his office; but not so much for that as to find out about some
forged bills. Well, I know all about the burglary, and pretty near all
about the bills. The breaking-in was more in my way, as you know; but
I could not do that without learning a good deal about the other.—Mr
Holdrey, I have been badly used; the man who is deepest in the job has
treated me shabbily, and means to act worse, I can see; so I must tell
some one whom I can trust, and who will be honest with me. You know
what my pals are, and that I cannot ask them, though some of them would
be as true as the day; so I sent for you. Besides, you spoke up for me
and helped me when you could get nothing by it. I would trust you for
that good turn alone; and without it I would have trusted you, knowing
your character. But I say again and again, there are not many who would
have acted as you did. There’s a reward out, on the quiet, for this
robbery; you can get it through me.—You know my wife, don’t you?’

I had seen her once or twice, and so I told him.

‘Well, she has been badly used in this affair; so have I; but I meant
the money for her—I did honestly, to take her away where she was not
known, and no one could bring her convict husband up against her, after
he was sent off to Portland. Now, all I ask is, will you see to her
and the young one, and share the reward with them? I don’t ask you to
do anything which may seem in the least wrong, but so far as you can,
consistent with your character as a man, very different from me, help
her—will you do it? And will you share what reward you get?’

I did not see that there could be much harm in promising this, and on
my saying so, Sam was at once satisfied.

‘Then here goes,’ he said. ‘These bills were forged by a friend of
young Harleston—step-son to old Thurles, you know—but I am inclined to
think the young fellow never got any of the money. He does not say so
himself; but I have heard a little from others.’

He went on to tell me, in detail, what I had heard from Mr Thurles; but
all this, he owned, was at second-hand; his own share did not begin
till later. Mr Godfrey had found him out—how, Sam had no idea—and
proposed an easy job to him, which was, of course, to enter the office
and spoil the safe. The young man made no secret of his wish to get the
bills into his possession—all the rest of the property found, Sam might
keep for himself. ‘And there was precious little worth having, I can
tell you,’ said the prisoner—‘only a matter of seven or eight pounds.
I fancied I should have a rare haul, and, if you will believe me, I
took a big bag tied round me, on purpose to hold the money. However, I
gave him the papers he wanted, honourable, and in course expected him
to act likewise in regard of my share. His game was to save himself
in the first case, and then to get money from Mrs Thurles to buy off
the people who, he pretended to her, had got the bills, and were
threatening to give them up to the police.’

‘Mrs Thurles! Why, that is the young fellow’s own mother!’ I exclaimed.
‘You surely don’t mean to say that he was going to play such a fraud on
his mother?’

‘It was not very nice, was it?’ returned Sam. ‘I don’t pretend to any
fine feelings; but when I heard his plan, I had half a mind to knock
him down. But there was my wife and child to be thought of, so I simply
let the matter go. Well, I know for a certainty he has had some money
from her, and expects a good deal more directly. All he ever gave me
was two pounds. Two pounds out of five, he said; when I know from Bill,
the potman at the _Royal Blue_, that he asked the landlord if he could
cash him a cheque for a hundred that very night. The landlord could not
do it, so Bill didn’t learn much more; but he saw the cheque was in a
lady’s writing. But without all that, where could he get a cheque for a
hundred, except from Mrs Thurles? He’s always worrying her. Why, he was
on the business that night you met me at the public-house in the mews.
He had not gone on there above five minutes, when you came in.’

Recollecting on what errand it was I found myself at the public-house
in question, this bit of information seemed queerer than all that had
gone before. It would have been so strange if I could have seen him and
Sam together.

‘He deceived me then,’ continued Sam; ‘and as I am boxed up here and
can’t help myself, he will deceive me again, and do me out of my
lawful rights in respect of that money. So I mean to spoil him. What I
have told you is the truth. I don’t know whether you can do anything
about the bills, as he neither forged them nor passed them; but that
he arranged the cracking of his governor’s crib’—everybody knows the
speaker meant the breaking into the step-father’s office—‘and had the
best of what was got, is a fact, as you can call me as a witness upon.
And I will tell you this, Mr Holdrey: I am a bad one, I own, and nearly
all my ’sociates are bad uns too—they have all been in quod, and will
all go there again; but none of us is worse than that young Harleston,
and, in fact, very few of us are so bad.’

I was disposed to agree with him, and to think the worst of a young man
who could cheat a fond mother so heartlessly. I felt that I would never
believe in faces again; for if ever I saw a man who looked incapable of
such conduct, young Godfrey Harleston was that person.

We had a long conversation after this, in which Sam arranged that his
wife should meet me the next day; I was to write and tell her when and
where—which I did directly after leaving the prison—then we were to go
before a magistrate; the rest would be plain sailing.

Here, then, at last, I should be able to satisfy my employer; he would
be proved to be right, and the business he had given me would be
brought to a successful conclusion. I should make a handsome profit,
and, as is always the case in such things, get credit for an immense
amount of ability I had never shown. Yet I never felt so dissatisfied
with anything in my life, and though all was now as clear as crystal,
there was something in it which, like a wrong figure in a sum, would
not fit.

I don’t know what induced me to do it, but before going home, I went
round by Thurles & Company’s office, where I waited to see Mr Picknell
come out. I thought as he came towards me, alone and thoughtful, under
the shade of a big black wall which was there, I had never seen a more
disagreeable-looking fellow. I was in his way, so that he almost ran
against me. What a start he gave, to be sure! As I could see by the
light of a lamp, he staggered and turned ghastly pale for an instant;
but he rallied quickly, and exclaimed, with something like a laugh:
‘Ah!—David!’—he paused a moment before he uttered the name—‘is that
you? I declare you almost startled me.’

‘Yes,’ I said; ‘you looked as if you had seen a ghost.’

‘Ghost! It would take a good many ghosts to startle me,’ he began; then
at once changing his tone, continued; ‘Well, have you found a fresh
job, David? It is just now a bad time to be out of work.’

I made some answer, and could not help keeping my eyes closely on him.
He noticed this; I was sure enough of that, although he said nothing
about it.

‘Look in next week, David,’ he went on. ‘I will ask among my friends,
and perhaps I may have something for you. Do not forget; this day week.
Good-night.’

In a friendly manner, he went away, nodding and smiling, as much as to
say he would bear me in mind; and I felt as strongly as I had ever felt
anything in my life that he knew I was no messenger—that he knew I was
a detective. From the first moment I had spoken to him, I had never
felt confident as to his motives for being so friendly, and now I was
as certain of them as if he had told me plainly. Well, after all, that
need not interfere with my making use of various hints he had given me,
especially as they fitted in with what I now found to be the real state
of the case. But I did not like him.

The end of my engagement was now, I considered, fairly in sight. In
the morning, I should go with Sam’s wife to the Mansion House; young
Godfrey would be arrested; I should get my two hundred and fifty of the
reward; Sam’s wife would have the same; and there would be an end of it
all. This was a great deal of money for me to clear; but I could not
feel pleased over it. I don’t mean to say that I had any idea of giving
up the job, now I had gone so far with it, or of refusing the reward; I
was too old a bird for that; yet I could not wake up, as we may say, in
the matter.

I was so absorbed in thinking of the change in my life I would make,
and thinking, too, of the pleasure it would give Winny as well as
myself, that I hardly noticed anybody or anything as I went along, and
was so deep in thought, indeed, that I almost ran against two persons,
as I turned into a quiet street which was a short cut towards my home.
These persons were as interested in their conversation as I was in my
reverie, for they seemed as startled as I felt myself to be. I began
an apology with a smile; but the words and the smile at once died on
my lips; and so with them. The girl was my Winny! my daughter, who had
turned ghostly white when she recognised me; but it was her companion
who had, I may say, petrified me. Little as I thought to see my Winny
in company with a stranger, you may guess what I felt when I saw that
stranger was—of all men in the world—Godfrey Harleston!

For the moment I could not believe my eyes; yet, as if by some magical
vision, I recalled the night when I thought I had seen Winny in the
crescent. I now knew I _had_ seen her; and I recognised her companion
as clearly as though I had seen him a hundred times over. Brief as was
the glance I had had on that night of him, I knew him as being the same
man to an absolute certainty.

Winny was the first to recover herself, although, by her colour coming
and going as it did, I could see how unnerved she was. Turning to her
companion, she said: ‘This is my father, Godfrey.—It is very strange we
should have met him at this moment, is it not?—Father, this is’——

‘Silence, Winny!’ I exclaimed. My voice had somehow turned so hoarse
and harsh that it was not like my voice at all. ‘I want no introduction
here. You will come home with me, and I shall then be glad to hear an
explanation of what’—— I could not very well finish the sentence.

Winny turned pale; she had never been spoken to by me in such a manner
in all her life.

‘I trust, Mr Holdrey,’ said the young man—and his tone was very
pleasant—‘you are not in any way displeased with—with your daughter;
indeed, we were just agreeing to wait on you to-morrow morning’——

‘Do not come, then!’ I interrupted. I could not help glancing at
Winny, who looked as much astonished as frightened at hearing me speak
like this, for I am not a rude man in general.

‘I am sorry to hear you say so,’ continued Mr Harleston. ‘It is my
fault, not Winny’s, that we have not called on you long before. I have
only waited to see some serious business settled which has troubled me
a great deal. Yet now I think I was wrong. Let me walk home with you
now.’

‘No!’ I said sternly—‘no, sir! I shall take my daughter home; and as
I wish to have no further argument in the street, I shall bid you
good-night.’

The tears, which had been standing in Winny’s eyes, had now overflowed,
and were trickling down her cheeks. My heart ached as I saw this;
but I grew angry, too, at seeing her, instead of at once joining me,
turn her pale face to him with an inquiring look, as though asking
permission—asking permission of _him_ to obey her father!

‘Yes, Winny dear,’ he said gently, ‘you had better go. Your father
does not understand all, and is naturally hurt; but I will see him
to-morrow. Keep up a good heart, dearest!’ And with that he bent his
head and kissed her, she lifting her face without the least shyness or
shame.

I took her arm, and without another word, led her away. I hailed an
omnibus, and we got in. I did this on purpose that there might be no
opportunity for argument or pleading until we reached home. When we
did so, I quickly lit the gas, drew down the blinds, and so forth;
while Winny, having taken off her bonnet and pelisse, stood as pale and
motionless as a statue, leaning on the table in the middle of the room.

I never felt a greater difficulty in speaking than I did then; not only
was my voice hoarse, but my throat seemed blocked; however, it had to
be done. ‘Winifred,’ I said, ‘I could not have believed it possible
that you would have had an acquaintance unknown to me—and such an
acquaintance! A man who’—— I could not help hesitating here—what I had
to say was so dreadfully unpleasant.

‘Father!’ cried Winny—her voice was low but distinct; it was firmer
than mine—‘Mr Godfrey Harleston is at least a friend of whom I need not
be ashamed. I am not ashamed of him!’

‘Poor silly girl!’ I exclaimed; ‘you will be only too soon’——

‘Never!’ she interrupted, in the same low firm tone.

‘You little know what is before you,’ I continued; ‘and I only wish I
had been aware of this intimacy earlier, to have saved you, perhaps,
from some suffering. That young man is a suspected forger, and
certainly an accomplice of burglars!—Hear me out, Winny! It will be
best. I have been on his track for weeks, and at last all is brought
home. I fear it will shock you to learn it, but he is a lost man; and
in the morning I am under an engagement to apply at the Mansion House
for a warrant for his arrest! There is no hope or chance for him; he
will sleep in prison to-morrow night!’

I saw that Winny repressed a shriek by a great effort. For a moment a
spasm convulsed her features, which quite frightened me, and then, in
a strange gasping voice, which had nothing in it like my Winifred’s
gentle tones, she cried, again clasping her hands tightly upon her
breast: ‘He a criminal! He to be thrown in prison by you—by _you_,
father! Never! You know not what you are saying. Father, you are
talking of my husband!’



A TALE OF NASEBY FIELD.


About four miles from Market-Harborough lies a little village, which
we will call Bullenham. It is one of the most peaceful spots in all
the peaceful Midlands. The houses are scattered here and there,
divided from each other by orchards and farm-closes; one or two quiet
shops supply the modest wants of the people; and several large farms
provide the rude fathers of the village with labour. The old church,
square-towered and gray, stands amidst the cottages. The curfew bell
is still rung every night, and many another quaint custom survives
the displacement of old-world life made all over England by modern
manufactures and railways. The only disturbance to which the village
is now liable is the invasion of its wide street and spacious green
by foxhounds and scarlet-coated hunters, who, during the season,
often meet there. But two centuries ago the village was invaded by
the Cavalier army on its way from Harborough to Naseby, there to
meet defeat at the hands of Fairfax and Cromwell and their undaunted
Roundheads. The military events of that time, and the momentous
national changes they effected, are familiar to every one; and as they
form no part of our story, we shall not dwell on them; for on the edge
of the splendid blazonry of history there are often homely incidents
which the historian and philosopher reject, and it is such an event,
full of domestic and human interest, that we propose to narrate.

A few days before the battle, a troop of Rupert’s horse was holding the
village of Bullenham, and, with wild riot and plunder, terrifying the
hearts of the farmers and their wives. The post was of some importance,
for it lay just half-way between Harborough, where King Charles was
staying, and that wide moorland on which the Parliamentary army was
manœuvring. Nearly the whole of the Royalist soldiers passed through
Bullenham, so that the villagers saw enough and to spare of the pomp
and circumstance of war. The young officer who commanded the cavalry
troop quartered in the village was named Henry Melford, and he had
established himself in a small farmhouse. The household consisted of
the farmer and his wife and one daughter, their only child. Captain
Melford was not a rough soldier, but a refined man, accustomed to good
society. At the same time, he had a delightfully frank manner, quick
sympathies, and a homely naturalness and power of adaptation which
went far to reconcile Dame Dimbell to the invasion of her household
privacies and the subversion of all her established hours and methods.
Her husband’s talk was of oxen, and he took little interest in the
questions that were then riving society to its centre. A stolid,
characterless man, he rose with the dawn to go through his placid
routine of occupations, and smoked his pipe in the chimney in the
evening. The outdoor work of his small farm he managed almost entirely
himself, while his wife and neat-handed daughter reigned inside the
threshold. Barbara was a bright, plump, merry creature, who sang old
ballads from morning till night, save when a snatch of some favourite
church anthem broke in graver notes from her lips. She had lived in
unwonted excitement since the soldiers had entered the village, and
what mischief might have come about had she been allowed to yield to
her own coquettish impulses it is hard to say. But Captain Melford had
none of the licentiousness which characterised many of the Royalist
soldiers: he had indeed something of the chivalrous purity of an olden
knight, and he had not only warned Barbara against possible danger, but
had made it well understood that the maiden was not to be approached by
the soldiers. Consequently, the pretty damsel was comparatively safe;
and honest John Sprayby, who for a year or two had been hovering about
her, was not likely to be discarded for some bolder and lighter wooer.

One evening, after Captain Melford had received the reports of his
sergeant, and had given orders for the various watches to be kept
during the night, he began to take his ease in the spacious farm
kitchen. The table was spread for supper, and he sat down to do hearty
justice to the homely old English fare.

‘Come, dame,’ he cried, ‘give me a draught of your home-brewed. ’Tis
the best drink I have tasted since Prince Rupert gave me a stirrup-cup
a week ago.—And what’s this? By all that’s good, a stuffed chine! Ah!
this is better than all your court kickshaws, and will stay my stomach
well if there should be any fighting to-morrow;’ and so saying, he laid
at once a pound or so upon his plate and applied himself vigorously to
its consumption. ‘And where is your pretty daughter, Mistress Dimbell?’
he asked after a time. ‘Is she with her sweetheart? Ah, if you’ll only
wait until we’ve beaten these confounded Roundheads, I’ll see that they
get married. There’s a certain fair lady breaking her heart over me
now, and so I can feel for pretty Barbara in these wild times.’

‘I’m sure your honour’s very good,’ said the farmer’s dame; ‘and I wish
you were safe out of all this fighting, for I should be sorry to see
you come by any hurt.’

Just then a loud knock shook the door, and going to it, Mrs Dimbell saw
a trooper leading his horse. Both man and beast were covered with dust
and sweat from hard riding. ‘Is Captain Melford in?’ he asked in a loud
tone. Melford could not avoid hearing the question, for the kitchen
opened directly on the road, and so he jumped up and hurried to the
door.

‘These for you, sir,’ said the trooper respectfully on seeing the
captain, and handed him a large packet of papers. ‘There are stirring
times at hand, and we’re going to have at Old Noll.’

‘Ah!’ said the captain, ‘is that so? Well, come in, Radbourne, and eat
something while I read these letters. You can tie your horse up to
yonder tree; there is a sentinel will have an eye on him.’

‘Thank your honour,’ said the soldier: ‘I shall be none the worse for a
comfortable meal. We’ve been on the march since sunrise this morning,
and I’ve tasted nothing but a pot of small beer since noonday.’ Having
fastened his horse’s bridle to the tree, he soon seated himself at the
table, where he made a mighty attack on the stuffed chine, and emptied
almost at a draught the brown jug of ale.

While he was thus engaged, the captain was busy reading his despatches
and writing a reply to one of them. When he was ready, he called the
soldier, and said: ‘Here, Radbourne; you must hurry back with all
speed. Give this letter to the Prince, and say that all shall be done
as he orders. You had better take your horse to the stable and rub him
down and feed him, for it won’t do to break down to-night. But don’t
delay starting, and keep your pistols loose.’

‘All right, captain,’ said Radbourne, as he prepared to carry out these
directions, at the same time casting a fond look at the empty ale-jug.

The captain saw his glance, and said laughingly: ‘Come, good Mistress
Dimbell, get this thirsty soul another draught, and he shall drink it
to your health when he’s ready to start.’

When the trooper was gone, Captain Melford went to the door and
whistled loudly, whereupon the sergeant of his troop came from a
neighbouring cottage, and to him the captain gave certain orders, and
then turned back to his interrupted supper. On entering the kitchen
again, he found pretty Barbara Dimbell there, and seated in a corner
was a rustic youth, who evidently, even in those exciting times, found
in Barbara’s smiles an attraction of the most potent kind. Melford
greeted him with a friendly smile, for he had found considerable
amusement in watching the unsophisticated courtship of these two
blushing lovers.

Mrs Dimbell said to him: ‘Come, sir, it’s a shame you can’t have a meal
in peace; now, do sit down and finish.’

He looked graver than usual as he resumed his place at the table, and
after a while said, almost as if he were speaking to himself: ‘This may
be my last meal; who knows? I and my men are to set off by cockcrow,
and I fear we shan’t all come back. Perhaps it’s my turn this time.’

‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘every bullet has its billet, as
the saying is; but don’t be cast down. I hope we shall see you come
riding back all right. But, God help us! these are bad times, when
a man can’t be sure of his own life, let alone the beasts as he has
brought up and the crops he has reaped. There’s our corn-stack has been
carried half away this very week as ever was; and if it hadn’t been for
your honour speaking up, we should not have had a cow left; and as for
Barbara and John coming together, why, it’s my opinion as they’ll have
to wait years before we can turn ourselves again.’

The lovers looked up at this new view of things, and stared with
undisguised dismay at each other.

But Captain Melford burst into a hearty laugh, and cried out: ‘Nay,
things are not so bad as that.—Cheer up, my little apple-blossom, and
see if you don’t get married before the year is out; and if I can’t
come and dance at your wedding, I’ll send you something to remember me
by.—But where is your husband, mistress, for I want to see him before I
go to bed?’

The farmer, being called by his wife, made his appearance from one of
the outhouses, where he had been attending to the wants of his cattle.
He saluted the captain respectfully, and waited to hear what he had to
say.

Beckoning them both into another room, the captain said: ‘Dimbell, I’ve
got orders to march early in the morning, as a big fight is expected
to-morrow. Now, I want you and your good wife to take care of this
money for me. There’s nearly four hundred pounds in this bag, and it’s
too much to carry about, especially when a man may get an ugly knock
that will settle him entirely. So do you put it in some safe corner;
and if I come out of the fight all right, you shall give it me again,
and I’ll pay you well for what I’ve had here. But if I should be
killed, you may keep the money for yourselves, and buy a bigger farm
with it.’

‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘I’m sure I’ll do my best to keep it
safe, and I hope as how you’ll come back to claim it; for your honour
has been a civil gentleman to us, and has kept us from being eaten up
by them soldiers, and I’m sure we all wish you might come back safe.’

‘Thanks, my good friends,’ was the reply. ‘And now I’ll go to bed and
get a few hours’ sleep.’

The next morning he was up and away almost before the proverbial
cockcrow. After his departure, Dimbell and his wife spent some time
in searching for a secure hiding-place for the money intrusted to
their care. That day, little work was done in the village, for the
wild sounds of war came fitfully on the air as the incidents of the
epoch-making battle of Naseby succeeded one another through the day.
Some adventurous youths, who had followed the Royalist troops on their
march, brought back fragmentary tidings of fierce strife and strange
confusions, and of how they had seen the king’s carriage, and the king
himself sitting in it. As the afternoon wore away, tumultuous bands
of men came hurrying through the village and made with all speed for
Market-Harborough. Their numbers increased, until it became evident
that the Royalist army was in full retreat. At last, when the main
bodies of both horse and foot had passed, and only wounded stragglers
were to be seen, there came riding into the village a compact body of
stern horsemen, who speedily occupied every point of vantage and took
prisoners all the Royalist soldiers they found. The post was now in the
hands of the Parliamentary army, and it was not long before trembling
and terrified Mistress Dimbell was bidden to prepare accommodation for
two officers in her house. The next day, fresh dispositions were made,
and the village was left in comparative quiet, only a dozen soldiers
remaining to prevent communications with the Royalist army.

The third day after, as John Sprayby was returning home from some
rustic occupation in the dusk of the evening, he saw a strange figure
crawling along under the shadow of the hedge. At first, it seemed like
some beast; but as he drew nearer, he heard human groans proceeding
from it. Evidently some wounded soldier was dragging himself painfully
along, and John went towards him to see if he could render any help. He
then saw that the poor man was crawling on his hands and one foot, the
other foot being broken and crushed. Approaching still closer, he felt
a shock of surprise and grief as he recognised Captain Melford.

‘Why, Master Melford,’ said he, ‘is that you, sir? Oh! what a pity!
Here, lean on me, sir;’ and the good-hearted John blubbered lustily as
he knelt down and strove to ease the poor man’s pain.

The captain was so exhausted that he could hardly speak, but he held
John’s hand tightly as he said feebly: ‘How far is it to Mistress
Dimbell’s? Are there any soldiers in the village?’

‘Well, sir,’ replied John, ‘there’s a few of ’em left; but there’s none
at Dimbell’s now; so, if you would stop here a bit, I’ll go and fetch
somebody, and we’ll make shift to get you there. Perhaps, if we take
you the back way over the fields, none o’ the soldiers’ll see us.’

‘Do, John,’ said the wounded man; ‘and I’ll lie down here and stop
quiet. But, for God’s sake, don’t be long, for I’m almost done.’

Upon this away went John, and soon returned with help enough to carry
the wounded man to his old quarters in the farmhouse. The good dame and
her daughter, who had prepared a bed immediately upon John’s report,
hastened to wash and roughly dress the wound, and to feed the famished
and half-dead man. All night they watched and tended him, but in the
morning he was evidently worse, and seemed sinking down to death. There
was no surgical aid near, and they dare not let his presence be known,
for fear of the soldiery. All day he lay in a kind of stupor, hardly
noticing the presence of any one; but in the evening he revived a
little, and could speak. He called the farmer to him, and said brokenly
to him and his wife: ‘My good friends, you’ve been very kind to me. I
know I’m dying; you must be my heirs. Keep that money—the money I left
with you. Let pretty Barbara get married. Tell John I thank him for
bringing me here. I hope you’ll prosper. I shall be gone soon. May God
have mercy on my king, and on my country! I die willingly for them.’

After this, he conversed no more, but lay breathing heavily, with his
eyes fixed, and acknowledging only by a touch the kind offices that
were done him. About ten o’clock at night, the farmhouse door was flung
rudely open, and a loud voice called for the master of the house.
Hurrying forward, Dimbell found himself confronted by a Parliamentary
officer, and saw that the house was surrounded by soldiers. The officer
said: ‘Whom have you got up-stairs? I shall require you to answer for
harbouring traitors. Come, show me the way.’

The farmer, with a sinking heart, showed the officer the room, and he
entered noisily, crying: ‘Come, come, who are you?’

The dying man, somewhat aroused, turned his glazing eyes towards the
sound, but took no further notice.

‘O sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, weeping and wringing her hands, ‘I’m
afeared as he’s dying. Look at him, and you’ll see as he can’t be
moved. O dear, O dear! Good gentleman, don’t you touch him.’

The officer, like most men of his class, though stern and
uncompromising in duty, was far from unkindly, and was a deeply
religious man. In the presence of death, all differences were dwarfed,
and common humanity asserted itself. He turned to the dying man with a
subdued manner and grave inquiries. ‘Ah! brother,’ said he, ‘this is
an hour to prove the vanity of earthly things. I would fain ask if you
have made your peace on high, and laid down your weapons of rebellion
against the Divine Majesty? Bethink you that He is a God pardoning
iniquity, transgression, and sin, and showing mercy unto all truly
penitent souls. Look to the risen and glorified Mediator; for I am not
one of those who would bid men fix their thoughts on Calvary, as if
what was done there were still in course of being accomplished. But
rest ye on a completed Atonement whereby thy peace is purchased for
ever. Then thou shalt have no fear even in the gloomy valley.’

The dying man had recognised the officer as an opponent, and at first
there had been a faint thrill of resistance to his words. But the
tone was so sincerely kind, and there was such evident human interest
and religious earnestness, that he accepted with a grateful look the
exhortation addressed to him. No word passed his lips, but his eyes
glanced upwards as if in silent prayer. The officer knelt down, and
poured out with Puritan quaintness and fervour strong intercessions
for the sufferer, praying that he might not fail of eternal glory. The
awed farmer and his wife listened as to a strange tongue, and when the
voice ceased Captain Melford was heard to say ‘Amen.’ They then saw one
convulsive shudder pass through his frame, and all was over—Death had
claimed his own.

What remains can be narrated briefly. The officer gave orders that the
funeral should be conducted reverently; and on learning the name and
rank of Captain Melford, undertook to communicate with his friends.
After a time, the soldiers withdrew from the village, and its quiet
life once more flowed into its former channels. John Sprayby and
Barbara Dimbell were then married; and the old folks cautiously brought
forward Captain Melford’s legacy, and set up the young ones on a farm.
It was the beginning of assured prosperity to them; and to this day
their descendants, still bearing the name of Sprayby, are found on
the same farm. The little village of Bullenham bears no trace of the
rough edge of war which once descended upon it, nor do many even of the
neighbours know how from the red soil of battle sprang the large and
peaceful prosperity of the Sprayby family.



THE GORSE.


    As I lingered at the window,
      Weary of the summer heat,
    Looking out upon the shadows
      Of the now deserted street,
    Came with gleam of yellow blossoms
      Scattered memories faintly glad,
    Wakened by the gorse and heather
      In the cap of country lad.

    Ah! the moor, horizon-bounded,
      With its wealth of blossom-gold;
    Ah! the reach of swelling upland,
      Boulder-dotted, bare and cold;
    Ah! the sweep across the bracken
      Of the breezes, wild and free,
    Bringing from the land of sunrise
      Distant murmurs of the sea.

    In the grayness of the dawning,
      Ere the sun had tinged the deep
    With the glory of his coming,
      And the hills were yet asleep,
    Merrily we pressed the heather
      As we went towards the sea,
    For the world was all before us,
      And the day was yet to be.

    There we planned a noble future;
      As the heralds of the light
    Bearing messages of succour
      To the children of the night.
    We would face the world together,
      Fight the evil hand in hand,
    As the knights in ancient legend
      Slew the tyrants of the land.

    Thus we dreamed, and thus we purposed
      With the eager hearts of youth,
    And we gathered yellow blossoms
      As the emblems of our truth;
    For the ridicule and scoffing
      Would be thorns upon our way,
    But the gold of love would sweeten
      All the labours of the day.

    But our dreaming never deepened
      Into deeds of hero might;
    For the Shadow Angel beckoned
      At the coming of the night.
    One obeyed the spirit-summons,
      And the waking comrade wept,
    While the darkening mists of sorrow
      O’er the plains of morning crept.

    Through the summer and the winter,
      Through the sunshine and the cold,
    Evermore the gorse is blooming,
      Crowning all the heath with gold;
    And a toiler in the city
      Dreams of moments grave and glad
    As he sees the sprig of heather
      In the cap of country lad.

            C. A. DAWSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Chambers's Journal of popular literature, science, and art, fifth series, no. 133, vol. III, July 17, 1886" ***

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