Part 8

For the successful illustration of burlesque, one of the most essential elements is a chorus of shapely young women, who have no objection to as liberal a display of their personal charms as a manager may deem advisable. And among the chorus ladies engaged to Mr. Landor was Miss Carry Adair. This fascinating damsel was the daughter of a lodging-house keeper in Islington, named O’Flaherty, and in assisting her mother—whose education had been somewhat neglected—to cook the accounts of the young city gentlemen who lodged with them, acquired those habits of caution and economy, which have characterised her throughout her career. At the age of eighteen she left her mother’s care, and was employed by a court dressmaker in Bond Street in the capacity of a live model, to display to their best advantage the goods of her employer. While acting in this useful, if humble capacity, she was seen by Sir Mornington Cresswell, who had come to inspect a court dress ordered by Lady Cresswell. Sir Mornington is a well-known philanthropist, and took an immediate interest in the young woman, urging her to take suitable apartments in the region abutting on Regent’s Park, and finally obtaining for her an engagement at the Lugubreum. Sir Mornington being one of those reserved and unassuming Christians, who do not let the left hand know what the right is doing, kept the latest instance of his kindly and discriminating philanthropy a secret from his wife.

Carry Adair was a great success in her new vocation. She was tall, of liberal contour, had big expressionless eyes, and masses of magnificent brown hair. It was her mission in life to be “a doosid fine woman.” The callow connoisseurs of the stalls proclaimed her to be a “doosid fine woman.” And so her reputation was made, although as far as histrionic capability is concerned, she was absolutely devoid of it. She was withal, an excessively discreet young person, and was never known to indulge in the unseemly jests, which, in the dressing-rooms, formed the current coin of conversation; and, indeed, had been known on many occasions to rebuke her companions when a _double entendre_ offended her keen susceptibilities. It was this trait in her character which won the sympathies of John Philp. He was sensible, no doubt, of her merely physical attributes. But he regarded her as an innocent and artless girl, thrown into the society of those who were by no means particular. He longed to shield her from the evil which is in the world, and as a preliminary to this missionary enterprise he fell hopelessly in love with her. He had given himself, body and soul, to the thrall of a woman who had no more capacity for an honest affection than the table upon which I am writing.

And she—what did she do? She led him on. She permitted him to hold her heavy sealskin as she enveloped herself in it. She permitted him to kiss the diamonds that covered her fingers. And then in the very dressing-room where she would not permit the use of an indelicate expression, she mimicked the comic agony of her lover, for the edification of the Lotties and the Totties who shrieked with laughter at her irresistible sallies. For Carry was not without a certain flow of vulgar humour, which she had acquired probably while waiting on her young city gentlemen in the Islingtonian lodging-house. On the evening when poor John Philp brought himself to ask the awful question, she was particularly amusing. She showed how he blushed and stammered as he described his little place in Camberwell; how he spoke of his mother’s devotion; and the happy effects of living on a gravel soil. Then she narrated with some spirit how she squeezed his hand, and begged for time to consider the proposal. Carry being the possessor of some means, was in the habit of treating her friends of the dressing room; so her jokes all took immensely, and the Lotties and Totties agreed that poor John Philp was an “old stoopid.”

* * * * *

About a fortnight after John Philp’s proposal, Landor was coming down the steps of Evans’s Hotel in Covent Garden at twelve o’clock one night. He was passed on the steps by Miss Adair, enveloped in a white satin opera cloak, and apparently in full evening dress. She was on the arm of a young gentleman with a little yellow moustache—an _avant courrier_ of that Crutch and Toothpick Brigade which has since become famous. The manager saw her enter a brougham which was waiting in front. She was followed by the young gentleman, and was driven rapidly off. The vehicle was followed on foot by a man with pale face and livid lips, and without any hat on. In the face of that pursuing figure, Mr. Landor recognised John Philp, the master carpenter. And being a man of the world he shrugged his shoulders, lit another cigarette, and went on to the Garrick Club, of which institution he is one of the most agreeable ornaments.

John Philp never again entered the stage-door of the Lugubreum. He threw up his situation, alleging illness as an excuse. He wanted change of air. Landor regretted his determination, and looked out for somebody to take his place. Three months after he received a letter from his old _employé_, asking him “for God’s sake” to come and see him. Landor went; Artesian Cottage had evidently been somewhat neglected. The creepers were trailing about in slovenly branches, and the little garden path was covered with grass. Mrs. Philp looked worn and weary, and accompanied with sobs the answers which she gave the manager. She led the way into her son’s bedroom. He was a shadow of his former self, but a smile overspread his countenance as he recognised his old master. He stretched his poor transparent hand across the counterpane, and grasping the manager’s hand, said feebly,—

“It _is_ kind of you, sir.”

Then he motioned his mother to leave the room.

“I’m breaking up fast, sir,” he said, “but afore I go I wished to give you something—as—as a keepsake. You’ve been a good friend to me, sir, but I’m afraid I seemed ungrateful.”

The manager answered him that he had always valued and respected him.

Then John put his hand under the pillow, and drew out a ring with a small diamond set in it. This he handed to Landor.

“I bought it for her,” he stuttered; “I wanted to show her that a working man could buy jewels as well as the swells. I pinched myself to get it, an’ the very night I ’ad it in my pocket to give her, I followed her ’ome to—to—I can’t say it, sir—it chokes me.”

Landor took the ring. The master carpenter fell back on his pillow. An expression of satisfied calm was upon his face. The great change was coming. Landor summoned his mother. Hearing her voice John Philp opened his eyes and stared round the room. Then he raised himself, and with a last dying effort shrieked,—

“It’s the di’monds as does it; damn ’em.”

He fell back, and Landor closed his eyes and drew the sheet over his face.

XIX. _PICTURES ON THE LINE_.

ALL through his own part of the country John Osbaldiston was familiarly known as “Nails.” And this expressive locution was adopted in the first place to indicate the business out of which the millionaire had amassed his fortune; and in the second place to give some necessarily inadequate notion of the hardness of his nature. As John Osbaldiston was a millionaire it may be taken for granted that his nick-name was never mentioned before his face. Besides being the possessor of enormous wealth the retired nail-maker was a Justice of the Peace, a Deputy-Lieutenant, and lived in confident expectation that when the Radicals came in—if they ever _did_ come in—he should be rewarded for his unswerving devotion by a baronetcy. The beauty of this hope was somewhat marred when Osbaldiston reflected that his wife was dead, and that he had no son to inherit the title. He was a hard, pompous man, full of prejudices, and the happiest moments of his life were those which he spent upon the bench sentencing the peccant rustics. Fortunately for the country side, John Osbaldiston never sat on the bench alone, and his own view as to the depravity of human nature could not take effect in sentences unless a majority of the bench was with him. And the majority never was with him.

John Osbaldiston’s father had founded the business in the town of Belchester and had purchased the estate upon which John now lived, and to which he had greatly added; absorbing the estates of the smaller country gentlemen as in other days he had absorbed the business of the smaller nail-makers. The house on the estate was a large, solid building, without any pretensions to architectural beauty, but capable of holding in its vast apartments half the _élite_ of the county, if half the _élite_ of the county should ever feel inclined to visit it together. John Osbaldiston was a great picture buyer, and his galleries were the envy of his neighbours, and even of patrons of the Fine Arts living at a distance. Indeed, the fame of the Osbaldiston collection had travelled almost as far as his nails. He was not much of a critic. Some people said that he was not much of a judge, but bought pictures as farmers buy sheep—by the brand. Whatever truth there may be in these reflections, one thing is certain, that many of the best examples of the most esteemed painters had found their way into the galleries of Bradland Hall—as the Osbaldiston house was called. Whether the contemplation of these accumulated works of art gave the millionaire any artistic pleasure it is impossible to say; but he was very proud of their possession, and it gave him an exquisite sense of satisfaction when at any sale in London his agent outbid the agent of his blue-blooded neighbour, the Duke of Sandown, for the possession of an example which both were anxious to acquire. But, notwithstanding this pride of possession, the nail-maker of Belchester was not ostentatious. His nature was a puzzle. He was as inscrutable as he was hard.

The Master of Bradland Hall had one possession which gave him more anxiety than all his other treasures put together; and that possession was his daughter Bella, a thoughtless, light-hearted, high-spirited girl of seventeen, who had been a source of untold trouble to a succession of nursery-governesses, governesses, masters, mistresses, and professors. Her nature was as soft as the paternal nature was hard. She was easily led, though difficult to drive, and worst of all, was not awed to any appreciable extent by the frowns of her father, when he did frown at her, which, comparatively speaking, was seldom. What little affection he had to bestow was given to his only child—the child of his old age; and it must be admitted at once, that if Bella reciprocated the affection, she had a most undemonstrative way of doing it. The daughter had a way of putting her father down, which amounted almost to snubbing. Done in private, the old gentleman bore such unfilial ebullitions in silence; though when performed before the menials he resented it with great bitterness. I have already said that John Osbaldiston was full of prejudices. For the purposes of this narrative it is necessary to mention but one of them. He had a rooted antipathy to railways and everything connected with them. This was no doubt strange in a man who had made his money in connection with iron, and whose commercial course was entirely connected with the manufacturing town of Belchester. But his rooted antipathy may be accounted for by the fact that, on two occasions he came into collision with a railway company—not on the lines, but in the law courts—and that on each occasion he was beaten by the defendant company. The first occasion was a mere affair connected with alleged negligence resulting in the loss of a consignment of nails. But the second occasion was when the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company proposed to have a branch line from Belchester to Balt—a little village situated on the Bradland estate. Osbaldiston spent thousands and thousands in opposing the Bill, and when finally it was passed, went to law on the question of compensation; though, on a fine night, with the wind blowing towards him, the shriek of the engine could barely be heard at the Hall. It was then that John Osbaldiston declared his eternal hatred of all railways whatsoever, and swore a great oath that he would never travel by that means of transit, so long as there was any other mode of conveyance available.

In the early spring of 1879, John Osbaldiston was sitting in his library delivering himself of portentous platitudes on the subject of frivolity, for the edification of Miss Bella, when the afternoon post arrived, and brought a letter bearing the Belchester postmark. Having perused it, John Osbaldiston settled his neck in his collar, and handed the communication to his daughter, who read it out with many interjections of disapproval. The following is a copy of the letter.

“BELCHESTER INSTITUTE, BELCHESTER —, 1879.

“DEAR SIR,—A Committee having been appointed to consider the long-mooted question of opening a Loan Exhibition of Works of Art, in connection with the Institute, it has been resolved to hold the proposed Exhibition in the summer of the present year. Regarding your own long and honourable connection with the town, it has been resolved to consult you generally on the subject, and to request you to lend us a few examples from your magnificent collection. When it is known that you have contributed to the walls of our Exhibition, the example upon the minds of other collectors will be prodigious, and the success of our efforts be secured.

“Your obedient servant, AMOS BLACK, _Hon. Sec._

“JOHN OSBALDISTON, ESQ., J.P., D.L.”

“Well, I never,” exclaimed Bella. “Such impudence!”

“I see nothing impudent about it,” replied the father, sternly. “I owe everything to Belchester. Belchester shall not find me ungrateful.”

“Of course not, dear papa. But supposing Belchester rewards your gratitude by poking its umbrellas through your Titians or by cutting little bits out of your Turners!”

“Belchester has trusted _me_. _I_ will trust Belchester,” replied her parent, pompously.

“But you _can’t_ send to Belchester,” she said, trying another tack.

“And why, pray?”

“Because there is no way of sending them except by the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company’s branch line.”

“They shall go by van,” he replied decisively.

And there was an end of the matter.

The distance between Bradland Hall and Belchester is nearly thirty miles, and when John Osbaldiston had replied to the Secretary of the Belchester Institute, graciously according to the request of the Committee, he personally saw to the selection and packing of the pictures, in a van also selected with great care. He made arrangement for a change of horses on the road, and he consigned the precious cargo to two men, in whose steadiness, and sobriety, and general possession of character, he could place the utmost confidence. These selected characters quite justified the confidence reposed in them, and drove so steadily and so slowly, that the roadside population might have supposed the van to contain a corpse.

Two miles from Belchester there is a level crossing; and over this crossing the van containing Osbaldiston’s masterpieces had to be taken. Just as the hoofs of the off horse left the up line his knees seemed to give way, he fell, and seemed unable to get up again. Every effort was made to raise him; but in vain. Then attempts were made to move the van which stood right across the rails. But too late. It all seemed to occur in a moment. The express came rushing up. The van was knocked into matchwood, and the masterpieces from Bradland Hall were master _pieces_ indeed—mere fragments of frame and canvas, some strewed by the side of the line, and some adhering to the engine and carriages of the express, which lay on its side a short distance further on.

A telegram brought John Osbaldiston to the spot in process of time. And he spent many days in Belchester mad with himself, with the Institute, with the railway, and with the world in general. When he returned home his anger was increased. He found a letter from Bella:—

“DEAR PA.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be married. He is a man very highly connected, but has been unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western. He is so handsome, and we are so happy. Do forgive us.

“BELLA.”

“Never!” cried the crushed nail-maker. And he never did.

XX. _THE DEVIL’S PLAYTHINGS_.

ON the first day of April in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five the following advertisement appeared in the _Times_ newspaper.

“HOUSEMAID AND COMPANION.—Wanted immediately a smart active young woman, who thoroughly understands her business: a small house, and only one in family: washing given out: must have first-class references; good wages given; send copies of discharges to Mrs. G., Lambird Cottage, Thornton Heath.”

The “Mrs. G.” who advertised in these terms was a widow lady, named Gillison, and among those who applied for the situation was Susan Copeland, of the village of Stockbury in the county of Kent. How a copy of the _Times_ happened to arrive in Stockbury, does not appear upon the evidence. But in all probability it had been sent to the Vicar, and the wife of that worthy clergyman, who had an insatiable thirst for the knowledge that is to be obtained from advertisements, came upon this “Want” of Mrs. Gillison, and brought it before the notice of Susan Copeland. Susan was the model villager, the prize-girl of Stockbury, and having served brilliantly as an under nurse to the Vicar’s family, she was now anxious, as the saying goes, “to better herself.” Susan was a tall brown-eyed girl. She affected great simplicity in her dress, wore her hair brushed flat down on her forehead, and in a general way looked more like a Puritan maiden than is customary with the daughters of Kentish farmers. Susan was eighteen years of age, and was engaged to Thomas Ash. As Susan Copeland was the model girl of Stockbury, it was only right that she should become engaged to the model young man. And that young man was Tom. He had secured all the prizes in the Boys’ department, while she had been sedulously engaged in acquiring all the honours from the Girls’. Indeed, these two swooped down upon the prize list, and by reason of their superior attainments and conspicuous virtue swept off all before them.

Satisfied with the Vicar’s report, Mrs. Gillison of Thornton Heath engaged Susan in the real and somewhat unusual capacity of “Housemaid and Companion” at a yearly salary of £20, which to a Stockbury girl appeared a tolerable fortune. And it was arranged that Thomas Ash should take his betrothed to London, and deliver her safely at the house of Mrs. Gillison. There was much sorrow in the village of Stockbury, when Susan took her departure for the great metropolis, and her boxes contained many tokens of the affectionate esteem in which she was held by her contemporaries. All thoughts of rivalry were now lost in a universal sentiment of sorrow. It was felt that in losing Miss Copeland, Stockbury was robbed of much of its moral lustre. It is not necessary to enumerate the presents which her friends forced upon her. Most of them had taken the shape of literature, and ranged from the “Dairyman’s Daughter” to the hymnal of the inimitable Watts; from “Baxter’s Saints’ Rest” presented by the Vicar to a highly coloured history of Jack and the Beanstalk, the gift of a small brother. So beloved, respected, and lamented, Susan left her native village proudly escorted by the man who hereafter was to lead her to the altar.

Mrs. Gillison, when she had duly inspected, cross-examined, and examined-in-chief her new “housemaid and companion,” professed herself entirely satisfied; and Susan, who had a fine literary taste of her own, was delighted to find that her duties would be very light and that she would have the coveted leisure in which to improve her mind. Mrs. Gillison was an active, smart little woman, who did her own cooking. There was, moreover, a boy kept on the premises to carry coal, clean boots, and perform other menial offices. Indeed, Susan’s duties were, in the first place, to keep clean the few rooms, of which Lambird Cottage consisted, and to afford to Mrs. Gillison that companionship which is found desirable by widow ladies of a certain age. Mrs. Gillison was not a lady of much education—her husband had been a pork butcher in the Walworth Road—and it was part of Susan’s duty to read to her in the evening the entertaining fictions which she purchased when she took her walks abroad. The old lady was omniverous, but chiefly relished the stirring fictions compiled by the Penny Dreadful authors, and at times had appetite for such boy’s literature as dealt with pirates or robbers, or the wild Indians of the West. Dickens she rated “a low feller,” but she revelled in Ouida, and was particularly partial to the earlier fictions of Bulwer Lytton. Susan Copeland’s excursions into the field of fiction had hitherto gone no further than “Ministering Children,” and other books with a religious purpose. Her mind, therefore, became greatly expanded while reading for her mistress, and she became possessed of many views of life, which were to her at once strange and stimulating.

When Susan had been three months with the widow of the pork butcher her mistress handed her five golden sovereigns, that being the amount of wages then due, and Susan went out to the contiguous village of Croydon to purchase a new bonnet. She had never before purchased a head-dress so fashionable. Her tastes, however, had improved since she left the little village of Stockbury, and she wanted a bonnet which would suit the new style of doing her hair; for, with the consent of her mistress, she no longer wore her hair brushed flat down on the forehead like a Puritan, but adopted the fashionable “fringe” just then, to the eternal shame of English womanhood, coming into vogue. A “housemaid and companion” is a more privileged person than a housemaid, or a companion, and when Susan returned from Croydon with her purchase she walked into Mrs. Gillison’s sitting-room without knocking at the door. Mrs. Gillison was sitting at the table and started when her servant entered—started, then grew pale, then grew red, and then looked down with a shamefaced expression, more like that of a peccant school-girl than that of a grown woman. On the table before her lay a pack of cards with their faces exposed. Mrs. Gillison had, in fact, been discovered in the act of playing “Patience.” It would be ridiculous to assert that the mere act of engaging in this very monotonous and even foolish pursuit is wicked in itself, and should occasion a blush on the cheek of matured innocence. But Susan Copeland had been brought up to consider cards the devil’s plaything, and Mrs. Gillison had often heard her express her opinions on the subject, when she happened upon an allusion to the card-table in any of the novels which she read. Indeed, so great was the confusion of the widow at being discovered in the midst of an occupation which that model Sunday scholar regarded with honest and hearty aversion that not only did she blush, she added to her sin by uttering a deliberate falsehood.

“I—I—was only tellin’ my fortune,” she said in an apologetic tone.

But in the countenance of her maid she saw pictured neither aversion nor reproach, but only awakened interest and active curiosity. She took up a King and an Ace, regarded them carefully, and then said slowly,—

“And so these are real cards?”