Collected works of j s f.., p.3
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 3
“Oh now you are going to talk politics!” said Maude. “You can attack papa on that subject, Frank. I know you are a dreadful radical, but you mustn’t expect me to agree with all your views on that question.”
She said this so suavely that Frank was mollified, and chatted agreeably till the carriage pulled up at Mr. Seymour’s mansion. He had experienced this sort of thing at Maude’s hands more than once, and had been compelled to own to himself that his future wife was not quite so broad in her sympathies as himself.
Frank Carisbroke was a gentleman in the very best sense of the word. He could not bear to hurt anybody or anything, and he was absolutely at a loss to understand the spirit which prompted Miss Seymour to say what she did. He was very considerate of people’s feelings himself, and he liked other people to resemble him. His creed was a remarkably short one and not unlike that of the old cobbler:
“Treat every man as a brother
Live honest, and pure, and sweet;
As if you were up in Heaven,
A-walking the golden street.”
A grand creed, Frank Carisbroke, my boy, but one that is little practised, little believed in here. Men, you will find, care little for their brothers and a great deal for themselves. There are very few who will share their last penny with a tramp, and fewer still who do not care more for what a man has than for what he is. It would be a good thing and a pleasant thing if there were more like you, Frank. A good sturdy young Englishman, not overburdened with brain power, but with enough common-sense to last him through life, and to steer him safely past all the quicksands and sunken reefs of life’s ocean, is refreshing to one’s contemplation. Of the white-handed, delicate-voiced, half-girlish species, even we English have enough and to spare, and the grand and not-to-be-sufficiently-admired type of slow-speaking, rapid action-taking Englishman is almost dying out from our midst. What martyrs are we nineteenth-century folk — martyrs to our own comforts and our own conveniences! We have introduced the railway and the telegraph, and the telephone, and heart disease. Our children can all read and write, and work out fearful problems, for the schoolmaster is everywhere, and we have got compulsory education and softening of the brain. I question if on the whole we gain by our advanced civilization. Where are the sweet and primitive manners of our grandfathers? Where is that time when thought was slow and speech was slow, but the words were golden when they came at last? And where is the simplicity which one gets a glimpse of in Herrick’s poems and in even Boswell’s prosy pages? Do men “sir” each other now at every sentence, and give to each the honour due to him? Doubtless we have gained, though I for one would sacrifice my five postal deliveries, and my daily papers, and the railway, and the telegraph, and the telephone, and all the other thousand-and-one improvements of this nineteenth century, if only I could go to some quiet spot, and feel that I lived, and had time to watch the skies turn blue, and the daisies growing, and the earth fulfilling its many tasks. For at present no man, or few men, have time to live, because existence is a race, a scramble, a fight. And methinks that in hurry no man can develop that love of God and love of fellow, which seems a necessary outcome of quiet, and ease, and leisure.
However, this is not going on with my story. The carriage stopped at Mr. Seymour’s hall door, and the footman climbed down from his perch and let down the steps. By this time the lawyer was asleep, and had to be roused from his slumbers.
“Hallo, home already?” he said. “Ain’t you coming in, Carisbroke?”
Frank had assisted the ladies out of the carriage, and seemed about going away. He looked at Maude, and seeing something like encouragement in her face, he assented.
“I’ll just take a turn in the garden and smoke a cigar first, though,” he said, “then I’ll come in, sir.”
He was an inveterate smoker, and Mr. Seymour hated tobacco, and would not tolerate it in his house. Consequently, when Frank wished to smoke, he adjourned to the garden, and solaced himself among the shrubs and flowers. It was very pleasant to stroll about in the garden with a beautiful girl like Maude Seymour, undemonstrative as she was. Frank looked at her for a moment on this occasion, as though he expected her to come with him, but she shook her head and passed into the house. He took a cigar-case from his pocket, and began to pace up and down the walks.
There are very few people who can help thinking. A brain at perfect rest, unless it is asleep or dead, would be something in the way of a curiosity. As Frank strolled about Mr. Seymour’s garden, he began to think that he did not quite like the tone which Maude had taken in speaking of poor old Gammidge and his company. And why, too, had Mrs. Seymour got up to leave in such a confounded hurry? Frank sighed: he had not enjoyed his evening. He had paid over his guinea to Tottie Gammidge with much pleasure, because he knew that a guinea was a good deal to the Gammidges. But there his pleasure had ended.
He came along one of the paths which led under a lighted window. Above him he heard voices. He was moving on, when Maude’s voice, sharp and clear, reached his ears, and compelled him against his will to stop and listen.
“After making a fool of himself in that way, he deserved it,” said Maude.
“But, my dear, it was anything but wise,” said Maude’s mamma. “You know quite well it was most foolish to show your temper in that way — you, too, who are usually so cool.”
“I suppose I am always to be log-like,” answered Miss Seymour. “But I have my likes and dislikes for all that. I should like to know what there is between Frank Carisbroke and that girl. She seemed to rest in his arms familiarly enough.”
Frank said something under his breath at this, and then set his teeth together.
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Seymour, “do try and conceal your hand till you are married, Maude. Of course after that—”
“After that,” said Miss Maude, with a faint laugh, “I shall rule. You need not be afraid that I shall let Frank slip, mamma. Of course one must marry well, otherwise I must say Frank bores me terribly. I had much rather have married Captain Archdale.”
“Captain Archdale is so poor,” replied Mrs. Seymour. “And you know, Maude, it is absolutely necessary you should marry a rich man. But come, let us go down.”
The two ladies descended slowly to the drawing room. Mr. Seymour was already asleep in an easy-chair, and Frank was not yet visible.
“If you please, marm,” said John Footman, entering, “Mr. Carisbroke asked me to say that he had a very bad headache, and would go home. He would make his excuses to-morrow, marm.”
CHAPTER IV.
MISS TOTTIE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
FRANK CARISBROKE WENT out of the garden after he had given his message to the footman, and walked slowly down the road leading to Ashford. Mr. Seymour’s house was a little way out of the town, and the road along which Frank proceeded was quiet. He was glad of it; he wanted to think. Thinking however is difficult, when a hundred thoughts flash through your brain all at once. Frank’s brain was in a regular whirl. He had heard the girl that he loved, and to whom he was engaged to be married, say that he bored her, that she would rather have married another man — and that man a regular fool in Frank Carisbroke’s opinion, — and that she must marry money. He said it all over to himself again, and then pinched his arm to see if he were not dreaming. “I am wide enough awake,” he said with a bitter laugh. “And I heard her say it — I heard her say it.”
He went more swiftly along the dark road, his hands plunged in his trousers pockets, his head bent over his breast.
“If anybody else had told me that she could say such things,” he said suddenly. “I would have said it was a lie! But I heard her say it myself.”
By the time he reached the outskirts of the town, he had grown a little calmer. He took his hands out of his pockets and buttoned his light overcoat over his chest, after which he found another cigar and began to smoke again. There was nothing like tobacco, he said to himself, for soothing a man when his feelings had been outraged. What fools women are, he thought, to talk by an open window! But then if they had not been foolish in this particular case, he would not have had his eyes and his ears opened. Without doubt, he concluded, it was a good thing that he had had them opened.
“I can never marry her now,” he said. “Marry a woman in whom I had no confidence, who, probably, nay, certainly, only cares for my money, and who is bored by me! No, a thousand times no! Maude Seymour shall never be my wife!”
“I wonder now,” he resumed after a time, “if they will suspect that I heard them? It would perhaps have been better if I had gone in. But to sit there and look at Maude, and remember all she had said — I couldn’t have managed that! Somehow I don’t care if I never go there again.”
He had been very fond and very proud of his sweetheart in bygone days. She was far and away the most beautiful woman about Ashford, and Frank, in his simplicity, had felt honoured and flattered by her preference for him. She had plenty of suitors, and when she accepted Frank, it never occurred to the latter that he was the most eligible of the lot. But the mammas and old maids — and young ones, too — put their heads together, and said that young Carisbroke had been distinctly ‘caught.’ If it had not been for his five thousand a year, they said, he would have stood a poor chance with Maude Seymour. But Frank himself had no thoughts of this sort. He admired Maude very much, thought she would make him a good wife, and look well at the head of his table, and he loved her too. In his own singleness of heart he imagined that she loved him, and had accepted him for himself and for no other reason. Now, however, his dream was shattered. He saw well enough, for she herself had said it, that Maude cared little for him and a good deal for his money. And as he had no desire whatever to buy his wife, he said to himself that it was all up — he would not marry Miss Seymour. The engagement must be broken off — if need were he would not scruple to tell the young lady what he had chanced to overhear.
“They say that listeners seldom hear good of themselves,” he said grimly, as he turned into the High Street. “And the proverb seems to be true in my case.’’
He went along the almost-deserted street to his chambers, which were situated near the Town-Hall, at the extreme end of the thoroughfare. It was a little after ten o’clock, and the worthy shopkeepers had extinguished their lights and retired to bed, or to the enjoyment of a little hot supper in the back parlour. Ashford people were early risers, and consequently they went early to rest. A policeman walked slowly along his beat, trying the shop-doors and shutters, and flashing his lantern into all the dark corners. He bade Frank good night, and wondered what brought the young gentleman home so early. For Frank was a noted exception to the early-closing rule of his native town.
He turned up the steps leading to his chambers, and was preparing to ring the bell for his servant to come down and open the door, when he saw a slight figure turn the corner of the Town-Hall, and come quickly along the quiet pavement. Something in the appearance of the figure seemed familiar to Frank. He let his hand rest on the bell, and waited till the figure came nearer. As it emerged into the light of the nearest gas-lamp, Frank uttered an exclamation, and went down the steps. “Why, Miss Tottie,” he said, “whatever brings you out here at this time of night, when all respectable citizens are asleep?”
Tottie Gammidge had started back when he approached, but at the sound of his voice she came up to him, “Is that you, Mr. Carisbroke?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I am going home,” answered Frank.
“And so am I,” said Tottie, “when I have done my business. So please don’t detain me, Mr. Carisbroke.”
She was dressed in an old-fashioned cloak, which covered her all over from head to toe. The hood was drawn over her head, and Frank thought she looked pretty as she peeped at him from its depths. “Do you feel all right?” he asked. “Not hurt at all, eh?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “There, I had forgotten to thank you. It was very kind of you. I can’t think what possessed Wellington to fall. He never did such a thing before. I might have been hurt, though, if you hadn’t been quick, Mr. Carisbroke.”
“Oh, there would have been somebody else to help,” said Frank.
“The ‘somebody else’ was very slow in turning up then,” she answered. “Good night, Mr. Carisbroke, and thank you again.”
“Where are you going, Miss Tottie?” he asked. “I — I don’t think that it is quite safe for a young lady to be out in Ashford at this time.”
“Safe! in a little quiet town like this! Nonsense, Mr. Carisbroke. Why there is no one in Ashford capable of making it anything but safe!”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Frank. “There are some queer characters down by the church there.”
“That’s just where I’m going,” said Miss Tottie. “And I have been there before.”
“Let me go with you, then,” said Frank. “And then I will take you safe home.”
Miss Tottie hesitated. She had no fear, and she didn’t quite know whether it was according to the proprieties that a young gentleman, should escort her through the streets of Ashford.
“Well,” she said rather undecidedly, “if you like; but you will have your walk for nothing. I am going to see one of our people who is ill.”
“Indeed,” said Frank. “Which of them is it? I didn’t know anything about it.”
“It’s Smith — one of the clowns,” she answered, as they walked on.
“Ah, I remember now,” said Frank. “I missed him to-night. What is the matter with him, Miss Tottie?”
“Poverty, I think,” she said, with a dreary little laugh. “He has a wife and two or three young children, and you know, Mr. Carisbroke, pa’ can’t afford to give him very much in the way of wages. Now that he is ill we do what we can for him — but he is very poor.”
“Poor fellow!” said Frank. “So he laughs before the public and groans in private? I’ve no doubt that’s the case with a lot of your people, Miss Tottie, eh?”
“It is, indeed. The folks, especially the young ones, think what a grand thing it is to be a clown, always funny, always making jokes, but they don’t know. I wish some of them could see poor Smith with his paint off.”
They walked quickly along in the direction of the sick clown’s lodgings. The district which they had entered was the poorest in Ashford. The streets were narrow and squalid, and evil smelling. The population were chiefly colliers, who worked in the great coal mine a mile outside the town. As Tottie Gammidge and her escort passed along, groups of men and boys were trooping forth to the night-shift at the colliery. The clatter of their heavy boots, the clinking of their tin cans and lamps, and the loud tones in which they talked to each other, made the neighbourhood anything but a quiet one.
“Not very nice for a sick man,” said Frank, referring to the noise. “I wonder Smith should take up his abode down here!”
“Beggars mustn’t be choosers,” said Miss Tottie, oracularly. “He came here because it was cheap, I expect.”
“I suppose so,” said Frank. He knew very little about the struggles of poor folks, but he dimly-recognised that there were people about him who were not so well off in this world’s goods as himself.
“It is down here,” said Tottie, turning into a badly-lighted side street, which ran alongside the old church. “I confess I don’t like going down here by myself. There are always a lot of fellows coming out of that wretched little public-house there.”
“It’s not fit for you to come down here alone,” said Frank. “These collier-fellows are not very particular.”
A group of men were just then emerging from the door of the inn which Tottie indicated. They came up the street shouting and singing, and evidently the worse for drink.
“Let them go by,” said Frank, fearing lest some of them should exhibit their boorishness. “Let them have the pavement to themselves. Now then, my friend, where are you coming to?”
One of the men, evidently very drunk, reeled in front of Tottie Gammidge, and stretched out his long arms with a hoarse laugh. “It’s th’ little circus-rider,” he said stammeringly. “Hey, but I’m boun’ to hev a kiss from th’ little wench! Come here, lass, and gie’s a kiss.”
Tottie stepped aside, and the big collier made a dart at her. The next instant something like a small thunderbolt descended on his stone-like forehead, and he found himself measuring his length on the roadside.
“Oh!” said Miss Tottie in dismay, “don’t hurt him; he’s drunk.”
“It will do him good,” said Frank, looking at the fallen man, “and teach him better manners. Come along.”
He gave her his arm and led her away, while the collier picked himself up and submitted with bad grace to the jeers and taunts of his mates.
“Now, you see I was of some use,” said Frank.
“Yes,” she said. “But I could have run away, you know. There are lots of ways of getting out of a scrape without knocking people down.”
“What a nice way of thanking one!” said Frank, laughing.
“Oh, I am much obliged,” she said. “But here we are. Will you come in, or wait outside?”
“I should like to go in,” said Frank. “That is, if you think they won’t mind.”
“Oh, they won’t mind,” she answered. “At any rate, I don’t see why they should.”
She led the way up a dark passage, which terminated in an equally dark staircase. The whole place smelt terribly musty, and there was an odour of fried fish about it which made Frank Carisbroke turn up his nose. Tottie seemed not to notice it; she went on and up the stairs, and knocked gently at a door, from which came a faint streak of light. A woman opened it a little way, and peeped out.
“It’s me, Mrs. Smith,” said Tottie ungrammatically.
