The Iron Horse

“You’re tired, Sam,” said his little wife anxiously.

“Well, I am a bit. It’s no wonder, for it’s a pretty hard job to work them levers for twelve hours at a stretch without an interval, even for meals, but I’m gittin’ used to it—like the eels to bein’ skinned.”

“It’s a great shame of the Company,” cried Mrs Natly with indignation.

“Come, come,” cried Sam, “no treason! It ain’t such a shame as it looks. You see the Company have just bin introducin’ a noo system of signallin’, an’ they ha’n’t got enough of men who understand the thing to work it, d’ye see; so of course we’ve got to work double tides, as the Jack-tars say. If they continue to keep us at it like that I’ll say it’s a shame too, but we must give ’em time to git things into workin’ order. Besides, they’re hard-up just now. There’s a deal o’ money throw’d away by companies fightin’ an’ opposin’ one another—cuttin’ their own throats, I calls it—and they’re awful hard used by the public in the way o’ compensation too. It’s nothin’ short o’ plunder and robbery. If the public would claim moderately, and juries would judge fairly, an’ directors would fight less, shareholders would git higher dividends, the public would be better served, and railway servants would be less worked and better paid.”

“I don’t care two straws, Sam,” said little Mrs Natly with great firmness, “not two straws for their fightin’s, an’ joories, and davydens—all I know is that they’ve no right whatever to kill my ’usband, and it’s a great shame!”

With this noble sentiment the earnest little woman concluded the evening’s conversation, and allowed her wearied partner to retire to rest.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Soirée Wildly Interrupted, and Followed up by Surprising Revelations

One afternoon Captain Lee and Emma called on Mrs Tipps, and found her engaged in earnest conversation with Netta. The captain, who was always in a boiling-over condition, and never felt quite happy except when in the act of planning or carrying out some scheme for the increase of general happiness, soon discovered that Netta was discussing the details of a little treat which she meant to give to the boys and girls of a Sunday-school which she and her mother superintended. With all his penetration he did not, however, find out that the matter which called most for consideration was the financial part of the scheme—in other words, how to accomplish the end desired with extremely limited means. He solved the question for them, however, by asserting that he intended to give all the scholars of all the Sunday-schools in the neighbourhood a treat, and of course meant to include Netta’s school among the rest—unless, of course, she possessed so much exclusive pride as to refuse to join him.

There was no resisting Captain Lee. As well might a red-skin attempt to stop Niagara. When once he had made up his mind to “go in” for something, no mortal power could stop him. He might indeed be turned. Another object of interest, worthy of pursuit and judiciously put before him, might perhaps induce him to abandon a previous scheme; but once his steam was up, as John Marrot used to say, you could not get him to blow it off into the air. He was unlike the iron horse in that respect, although somewhat like him in the rigour of his action. Accordingly the thing was fixed. Invitations were sent out to all the schools and to all who took an interest in them, and the place fixed on was a field at the back of Mrs Tipps’s villa.

The day came, and with it the children in their best array. The weather was all that could be wished—a bright sun and a clear sky,—so that the huge tent provided in case of rain, was found to be only required to shade the provisions from the sun. Besides the children there were the teachers—many of them little more than children as to years, but with a happy earnestness of countenance and manner which told of another element in their breasts that evidently deepened and intensified their joy. There were several visitors and friends of Captain Lee and Mrs Tipps. Emma was there, of course, the busiest of the busy in making arrangements for the feast which consisted chiefly of fruit, buns, and milk. Netta and she managed that department together. Of course little Gertie was there and her sister Loo, from which we may conclude that Will Garvie was there in spirit, not only because that would have been natural, but because he had expressly told Loo the day before that he meant to be present in that attenuated condition. Bodily, poor fellow, he was on the foot-plate of the Lightning, which is as much as to say that he was everywhere by turns, and nowhere long. Mrs Marrot was there too, and baby, with Nanny Stocks as his guardian. Miss Stocks’s chief employment during the evening appeared to be to forget herself in the excess of her delight, and run baby’s head against all sorts of things and persons. Perhaps it was as well she did so, because it tended to repress his energy. She acted the part of regulator and safety-valve to that small human engine, by controlling his actions and permitting him good-naturedly to let off much of his superfluous steam on herself. Indeed she was a species of strong buffer in this respect, receiving and neutralising many a severe blow from his irrepressible feet and fists. Bob Marrot was also there with his bosom friend Tomtit Dorkin, whose sole occupation in life up to that time had been to put screws on nuts; this must have been “nuts” to him, as the Yankees have it, because, being a diligent little fellow, he managed to screw himself through life at the Clatterby Works to the tune of twelve shillings a week. Joseph Tipps, having got leave of absence for an evening, was also there,—modest amiable, active and self-abnegating. So was Mrs Natly, who, in consideration of her delicate health, was taken great care of, and very much made of, by Mrs Tipps and her family—conspicuously by Mrs Durby, who had become very fond of her since the night she nursed her. Indeed there is little doubt that Mrs Durby and the bottle of wine were the turning-point of Mrs Natly’s illness, and that but for them, poor Sam would have been a widower by that time. Mr Able, the director, was also there, bland and beaming, with a brother director who was anything but bland or beaming, being possessed of a grave, massive, strongly marked and stern countenance; but nevertheless, owning a similar spirit and a heart which beat high with philanthropic desires and designs—though few who came in contact with him, except his intimate friends, would believe it. There were also present an elderly clergyman and a young curate—both good, earnest men, but each very different in many respects from the other. The elder clergyman had a genial, hearty countenance and manner, and he dressed very much like other gentlemen. The young curate might have breakfasted on his poker, to judge from the stiffness of his back, and appeared to be afraid of suffering from cold in the knees and chest, to judge from the length of his surtout and the height of his plain buttonless vest.

When all were assembled on the green and the viands spread, the elder clergyman gave out a hymn; and the curate, who had a capital voice, led off, but he was speedily drowned by the gush of song that rose from the children’s lips. It was a lively hymn, and they evidently rejoiced to sing it. Then the elder clergyman made the children a short speech. It was amazingly brief, insomuch that it quite took the little ones by surprise—so short was it, indeed and so much to the point, that we will venture to set it down here.

“Dear children,” he said, in a loud voice that silenced every chattering tongue, “we have met here to enjoy ourselves. There is but one of your Sunday lessons which I will remind you of to-day. It is this,—‘Whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.’ Before beginning, then, let us ask God’s blessing.”

Thereupon he asked a blessing, which was also so brief, that, but for the all-prevailing name of Jesus, with which he closed it, some of those who heard him would scarce have deemed it a prayer at all. Yet this elderly clergyman was not always brief.

He was not brief, for instance, in his private prayers for himself, his friends, and his flock. Brevity did not mark his proceedings when engaged in preparing for the Sabbath services. He was not brief when, in his study, he pleaded with some awakened but unbelieving soul to cast itself unreservedly on the finished work of our Saviour. He was a man who carried his tact and common-sense into his religious duties; who hated formalism, regarding it as one of the great stumbling-blocks in the progress of Christianity, and who endeavoured at all times to suit his words and actions to the circumstances of the occasion.

The children regarded him with a degree of affection that was all but irrepressible, and which induced them, at his earnest request, to sit still for a considerable time while his young brother gave them “a short address.” He was almost emphatic on the word short, but the young curate did not appear to take the hint, or to understand the meaning of that word either in regard to discourses or surtouts. He asserted himself in his surtouts and vests, without of course having a shadow of reason for so doing, save that some other young curates asserted themselves in the same way; and he asserted himself then and there in a tone of voice called “sermonising,” to which foolish young men are sometimes addicted, and which, by the way, being a false, and therefore irreligious tone, is another great stumbling-block in the way of Christianity. And, curiously enough, this young curate was really an earnest, though mistaken and intensely bigoted young man. We call him bigoted, not because he held his own opinions, but because he held by his little formalities with as much apparent fervour as he held by the grand doctrines of his religion, although for the latter he had the authority of the Word, while for the former he had merely the authority of man. His discourse was a good one, and if delivered in a natural voice and at a suitable time, might have made a good impression. As it was, it produced pity and regret in his elder brother, exasperation in Captain Lee, profound melancholy in Joseph Tipps, great admiration in Miss Stocks and the baby, and unutterable ennui in the children. Fortunately for the success of the day, in the middle of it, he took occasion to make some reference, with allegorical intentions, to the lower animals, and pointed to a pig which lay basking in the sunshine at no great distance, an unconcerned spectator of the scene. A rather obtuse, fat-faced boy, was suddenly smitten with the belief that this was intended as a joke, and dutifully clapped his hands. The effect was electrical—an irresistible cheer and clapping of hands ensued. It was of no use to attempt to check it. The more this was tried the more did the children seem to think they were invited to a continuance of their ovation to the young curate, who finally retired amid the hearty though unexpressed congratulations of the company.

By good fortune, the arrival of several more friends diverted attention from this incident; and, immediately after, Captain Lee set the children to engage in various games, among which the favourite was blindman’s-buff.

One of the new arrivals was Edwin Gurwood, who had come, he said, to introduce a gentleman—Dr Noble—to Mrs Tipps.

“Oh, the hypocrite!” thought Mrs Tipps; “he has come to see Emma Lee, and he knows it.”

Of course he knew it, and he knew that Mrs Tipps knew it, and he knew that Mrs Tipps knew that he knew it, yet neither he nor Mrs Tipps showed the slightest symptom of all that knowledge. The latter bowed to Dr Noble, and was expressing her happiness in making his acquaintance, when a rush of laughing children almost overturned her, and hurled Dr Noble aside. They were immediately separated in the crowd, and, strange to say, Edwin at once found himself standing beside Emma Lee, who, by some curious coincidence, had just parted from Netta, so that they found themselves comparatively alone. What they said to each other in these circumstances it does not become us to divulge.

While all parties were enjoying themselves to the full, including the young curate, whose discomfiture was softened by the kind attentions of Mrs Tipps and her daughter, an incident occurred which filled them with surprise and consternation. Dr Noble was standing at the time near the large tent looking at the games, and Nanny Stocks was not far from him choking the baby with alternate sweetmeats and kisses, to the horror of Joseph Tipps, who fully expected to witness a case of croup or some such infantine disease in a few minutes, when suddenly a tall man with torn clothes, dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes, sprang forward and confronted Dr Noble.

“Ha!” he exclaimed with a wild laugh, “have I found you at last, mine enemy?”

Dr Noble looked at him with much surprise, but did not reply. He appeared to be paralysed.

“I have sought you,” continued the man, trembling with ill-suppressed passion, “over land and sea, and now I’ve found you. You’ve got the casket—you know you have; you took it from my wife the night she died; you shall give it up now, or you die!”

He spluttered rather than spoke the last words between his teeth, as he made a spring at the doctor.

Edwin Gurwood had seen the man approach, and at once to his amazement recognising the features of Thomson, his old opponent in the train, he ran towards him, but was not near enough to prevent his first wild attack. Fortunately for Dr Noble this was thwarted by no less a personage than Joseph Tipps, who, seeing what was intended, sprang promptly forward, and, seizing the man by the legs adroitly threw him down. With a yell that sent a chill of horror to all the young hearts round, the madman, for such he plainly was, leaped up, but before he could renew his attack he was in the powerful grasp of his old enemy, Edwin Gurwood. A terrific struggle ensued, for both men, as we have said before, were unusually powerful; but on this occasion madness more than counterbalanced Edwin’s superior strength. For some time they wrestled so fiercely that none of the other gentlemen could interfere with effect. They dashed down the large tent and went crashing through the débris of the feast until at length Thomson made a sudden twist freed himself from Edwin’s grasp, leaving a shred of his coat in his hands, and, flying across the field, leaped at a single bound the wall that encompassed it. He was closely followed by Edwin and by a constable of the district, who happened to arrive upon the scene, but the fugitive left them far behind, and was soon out of sight.

This incident put an end to the evening’s enjoyment but as the greater part of it had already passed delightfully before Thomson came on the ground to mar the sport, the children returned home much pleased with themselves and everybody else, despite the concluding scene.

Meanwhile Mrs Tipps invited her friends who had assembled there to take tea in Eden Villa, and here Dr Noble was eagerly questioned as to his knowledge of his late assailant, but he either could not or would not throw light on the subject. Some of the guests left early and some late, but to Mrs Tipps’s surprise the doctor remained till the last of them had said good-night, after which, to her still greater surprise, he drew his chair close to the table, and, looking at her and Netta with much earnestness, said—

“Probably you are surprised, ladies, that I, a stranger, have remained so long to-night. The truth is, I had come here to have some conversation on private and very important matters, but finding you so lively, and, I must add, so pleasantly engaged, I deemed it expedient to defer my conversation until you should be more at leisure.”

He paused as if to collect his thoughts, and the ladies glanced at each other uneasily, and in some surprise, but made no reply. In truth, remembering the scene they had just witnessed, they began to suspect that another style of madman had thought fit to pay them a visit.

He resumed, however, with every appearance of sanity—

“How the madman who assaulted me this evening found me out I know not. I was not aware until this day that he had been tracking me, but, judging from what he said, and from what I know about him, I now see that he must have been doing so for some years. Here is the explanation, and, let me add, it intimately concerns yourselves.”

Mrs Tipps and Netta became more interested as Dr Noble proceeded.

“You must know,” he said, “that when in India some years ago I made several coasting voyages with a certain sea-captain as surgeon of his ship, at periods when my health required recruiting. I received from that gentleman every attention and kindness that the heart of a good man could suggest. On one of these voyages we had a native prince on board. He was voyaging, like myself, for the benefit of his health, but his case was a bad one. He grew rapidly worse, and before the end of the voyage he died. During his illness the captain nursed him as if he had been his own child; all the more tenderly that he thought him to be one of those unfortunate princes who, owing to political changes, had been ruined, and had lost all his wealth along with his station. It was quite touching, I assure you, madam, to listen to the earnest tones of that captain’s voice as he read passages from the Word of God to the dying prince, and sought to convince him that Jesus Christ, who became poor for our sakes, could bestow spiritual wealth that neither the world, nor life, nor death could take away. The prince spoke very little, but he listened most intently. Just before he died he sent a sailor lad who attended on him, for the captain, and, taking a small box from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, saying briefly,—‘Here, take it, you have been my best friend, I shall need it no more.’

“After he was dead the box was opened, and found to contain a most superb set of diamonds—a necklace, brooch, ear-rings, bracelets, and a ring, besides a quantity of gold pieces, the whole being worth several thousands of pounds.

“As the prince had often said that all his kindred were dead, the captain had no conscientious scruples in retaining the gift. He locked it away in his cabin. When the voyage was finished—at Calcutta—the men were paid off. The captain then be-thought him of placing his treasure in some place of security in the city. He went to his chest and took out the box—it was light—he opened it hastily—the contents were gone! Nothing was left to him of that splendid gift save the ring, which he had placed on his finger soon after receiving it, and had worn ever since.

“From some circumstances that recurred to our memories, we both suspected the young man who had been in attendance on the prince, but, although we caused the most diligent search to be made, we failed to find him. My friend and I parted soon after. I was sent up to the hills, and never saw or heard of him again.

“Several years after that I happened to be residing in Calcutta, and was called one night to see the wife of an Englishman who was thought to be dying. I found her very ill—near her end. She seemed to be anxious to communicate something to me, but appeared to be afraid of her husband. I thought, on looking at him attentively, that I had seen him before, and said so. He seemed to be annoyed, and denied ever having met with me. I treated the matter lightly, but took occasion to send him out for some physic, and, while he was away, encouraged the woman to unburden her mind. She was not slow to do so. ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘I want to communicate a secret, but dared not while my husband was by. Long ago, before I knew him, my husband stole a box of diamonds from a Captain Tipps—’”

“My husband!” exclaimed the widow.

“You shall hear,” said Dr Noble. “‘I often heard him tell the story, and boast of it,’ continued the sick woman, quietly, ‘and I resolved to obtain possession of the box, and have it returned, if possible, to the rightful owner. So I carried out my purpose—no matter how—and led him to suppose that the treasure had been stolen; but I have often fancied he did not believe me. This Captain Tipps was a friend of yours, sir. I know it, because my husband has told me. He remembers you, although you don’t remember him. I wish you to return the box to Captain Tipps, sir, if he is yet alive. It lies—’ here she drew me close to her, and whispered in my ear the exact spot, under a tree, where the jewels were hid.

“‘You’ll be sure to remember the place?’ she asked, anxiously.

“‘Remember what place?’ demanded her husband, sternly, as he returned with the medicine.

“No answer was given. The woman fell back on hearing his voice, but, although she lived for nearly an hour, never spoke again.

“The man turned on me, and asked again what place she had been speaking of. I said that it was idle to repeat what might prove to be only the ravings of a dying woman. He seized a bludgeon, and, raising it in a threatening manner, said, ‘I know you, Dr Noble; you shall tell me what I want to know, else you shall not quit this room alive.’

“‘I know you, too, Thomson,’ said I, drawing a small sword from a stick which I always carried. ‘If you proceed to violence, it remains to be seen who shall quit this room alive.’

“I opened the door and walked quietly out, leaving him glaring like a tiger after me.

“Going to the place described, I found the diamonds; and from that day to this I have not ceased to try to discover my old friend, but have not yet succeeded. Knowing that he might be dead, I have made inquiry of every one possessing your name, Mrs Tipps, in the hope of discovering his widow or children; and, although your name is an uncommon one, madam, you would be surprised if you knew how many I have ferreted out in the course of years. Unfortunately, my friend never mentioned his family, or the place of his residence in England, so I have had no clue to guide me save one. I have even found two widows of the name of Tipps besides yourself, and one of these said that her husband was a sailor captain, but her description of him was not that of my friend. The other said her husband had been a lawyer, so of course he could not be the man of whom I was in search.”

“But, sir,” said Mrs Tipps, in some perplexity, “if you are to depend on description, I fear that you will never attain your end, for every one knows that descriptions given of the same person by different people never quite agree.”

“That is true, madam; and the description given to me this evening of your late husband is a case in point; for, although it agrees in many things—in most things—there is some discrepancy. Did your husband never give you the slightest hint about a set of diamonds that he had once lost?”

“Never; but I can account for that by the fact, that he never alluded to anything that had at any time given him pain or displeasure, if he could avoid it.”