Sawn Off: A Tale of a Family Tree
The little door in the roof was slammed down, there was a flick of the long whip, and for about half a minute the horse broke into a short canter, one which subsided into a trot a few minutes later.
A loud rattling at the top of the cab spurred the driver to fresh exertions, and once more the wretched horse cantered, but dropped again into a trot, and there was an end of it. Tom had to sit and fume, as at every turn he seemed to be hemmed in by other vehicles; and, no matter how the driver tried, there was always a huge, heavily-laden van in front, blocking up the way.
“I think I’ll take a short cut round, sir,” said the cabman. “The streets is werry full to-night.”
“Anything to get there quickly.” So the driver turned out of the main thoroughfare, and began to dodge in and out of wretched streets, all of which seemed ill lighted, and so strongly resembled the one the other, that Tom soon grew bewildered, and sat back thinking, and trying to arrange his thoughts.
His brain was in such a tumult that he could do nothing, however – nothing but upbraid himself for his folly and madness, “What have I done? – what have I done?” he moaned, as he thought of the anguish that he must have inflicted upon the poor girl, who had slowly pined away, and was now dying – dying through his wretched blindness and want of faith.
He tried to excuse himself – pleaded his term of bitter suffering, but could get no absolution from his own stern judgment. He had doubted one who was all that was purity and truth, and here was his punishment – a bitter one indeed!
He prayed mentally that she might be spared, that he might ask her forgiveness – forgiveness that he knew he should receive – and then covered his face with his hands, as a feeling of hope came upon him that he might still be able to save her. He might, he thought, bring joy to her heart even yet.
A sudden stoppage nearly threw him out of the cab; and, looking up hastily, it was to find that a barrier was across the street, from which hung a red lantern.
The street was narrow, and he could see beyond, while the driver was sulkily backing and turning his horse, that the paving-stones were all up, and the inevitable long fosse and hill of earth lay by the side.
He sank back shuddering, for it looked as if a grave were yawning in the path; and, with a low moan of despair, he covered his face once more, and tried to reason with himself that this was merely a superstitious fancy.
But all in vain. There was the long, dark cutting fixed upon the retina of his eye; and he could see nothing else as the cab slowly went back over much of the ground already traversed. What was more, his distempered fancy magnified and added to it, so that he could see trains of mourners, the clergyman, hear the solemn words of the burial service; and these the revolving wheels and the rattling cab kept repeating, till at last it settled itself down into a constant reiteration of the words, “In the midst of life we are in death,” – “In the midst of life we are in death,” till he grew almost frantic, and stopped his ears in vain against the weird, funereal sound.
At last, after wearying himself by trying to bring reason to bear, the cab reached the comparative freedom of London Bridge; and then he began to think of the hour, and wondered whether there would be a train.
“Perhaps I shall be in time,” he thought, as he sprang out of the cab, and, paying the fare, ran up to the doors, where a porter was standing.
“You should have gone to the other gate, sir,” said the man sharply.
“No, no,” he replied hastily. “Main line. I want Hastings.”
“Last train for there was at 8:45, sir.”
“What time is it now?” he gasped.
“Ten fifty-five, sir.”
“But – but is there nothing more to-night – say, to take me part of the way?” he exclaimed, for he was mad with the desire to be moving.
“No main line train to-night, sir. Nothing till six in the morning.”
“How long would it take to get a special ready?”
“Oh, not very long, sir. I dessay they’d get you off in half an hour. Costs a deal, sir – ’bout a pound a mile.”
“Where is the superintendent?”
“This way, sir,” said the man; and, following him, he was taken to the official’s house, just in time to catch him before he retired for the night.
“I want a special train – engine and carriage – down to Hastings immediately,” said Tom, hardly able to speak for agitation.
The superintendent looked at him curiously, as if he doubted his sanity.
“It’s only excitement – trouble. It is a case of life and death. A dear young friend.”
“All right, sir,” the superintendent said quickly. “I see,” and there was a look of sympathy in his eyes. “But I am only a servant of the company. The charge for a special train is high.”
“If it is a thousand pounds, man,” cried Tom, “I must have it.”
“It won’t be that, sir,” was the reply; “nor yet a hundred.” Then naming a sum, it was hastily placed in his hand, and the superintendent left.
He was back directly, and Tom accompanied him then to the telegraph office, where he gave certain instructions, and the clerk began clicking the instruments in his cabinet very forcibly.
“Sending word on for a clear line,” said the superintendent. “Warning for the special.”
“How long will they be?” asked Tom.
“What, with the special? Oh, not long. There was an engine with steam nearly up. But you had better take some refreshment before you go. The place is closed, but come to my room.”
“I could not touch anything.”
“But you have no wrapper or rug,” said the superintendent.
“No, I came in a great hurry.”
“You must let me lend them to you,” continued the superintendent; “and, excuse me, you have given me all your money. You had better keep the gold; you are sure to want some change.”
He handed him back the cash, and Tom took it mechanically.
“I cannot thank you now,” he said, in a choking voice. “Some day I may.”
“I hope so, sir,” said the superintendent cheerily; “and that the young lady will come and thank me too.”
“Heaven grant she may!” Tom said, with quivering lip; and he turned away to hide his emotion, while the superintendent turned back to his office, leaving Tom walking up and down the platform, where the lamps quivered in the night breeze, and the whole place looked ghostly, dim, and cold.
Away to the side the station was bright and busy, for from there started the local traffic; and trains, with people from the theatres and places of amusement, left from time to time for the various suburban villages of the south-east of London; but where he stood all was shadowy, and in keeping with his terrible journey.
“There, sir – slip that on,” said the superintendent. “Here’s a rug, too, and my flask, with some brandy and biscuits in one of the pockets of the ulster. You’ll find it cold, and you’ll turn faint when you get on your journey. Here she comes.”
There was a sharp whistle, and Tom could see the lights of an engine passing out of a shed, to run a little distance down the line, then back on to another, and come smoothly along to where they stood – hissing, glowing, and bright.
Tom saw at a glance that there was only an engine, tender, one carriage, and the guard’s break; and, turning to the superintendent, “Can I ride on the engine with the driver?” he asked.
“No. In with you.”
The superintendent opened the door of the saloon carriage, and shut him in. Then Tom heard him give a few quick, decisive orders to the guard, there was another sharp whistle, he waved his hand from the window, and the superintendent leaped on to the step:
“Tell them to go as fast as possible,” shouted Tom, as the train was gliding past the platform.
“I have,” the superintendent said quickly. “Hope she’ll be better. Good night.”
As he spoke he leaped off at the end of the platform, and, shrieking and snorting, the little special went rather slowly along, past hissing goods engines and long black-looking trains, such as might be the funeral processions of an army. Lights flashed here and there, and far to right and left shone the glow of great London; while the big illuminated clock of the Parliament Houses loomed out of the darkness like a dull, fog-dimmed moon.
“They are crawling!” Tom exclaimed, as he started up to look out from the window. But, as he did so, the wind was already beginning to whistle more quickly by his ears: they were clear of obstructions, and speed was getting up rapidly. There was the quick, throbbing beat, a crash as they passed under bridge after bridge, and soon after, as the engine gave a weird scream, they seemed to skim through a long station, whose row of pendant lights ran together like closely strung golden beads; and then, as Tom sank back in his seat, he felt the carriage begin to vibrate from side to side, and he knew that the telegraph had flashed its message, that the line was clear, and that, ever increasing in speed, they were off and away through the black darkness of the night – the best doctor in London speeding to the patient dying to hear his words.
Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.
A Ride by Night
With the speed of the special train the excitement seemed to increase; but, for a time, Tom’s attention was taken up by the stations they passed, and he tried hard to recall their names, referring at the same moment that they passed through to his watch, so as to endeavour to calculate the speed at which they ran.
But soon they were going so fast that he ceased to hold his watch up to the thick glass lamp in the roof, and he missed count of the places, unable to tell one from the other, seeing merely a streak of light directly after the warning shriek of the engine had told of their coming. And now, as he threw himself back and began to think once more of his trouble, the roar and beat of the engine resolved itself into the words that had troubled him before; and, with feelings of anguish that he could not express, he sat listening to the reiteration – “In the midst of life we are in death,” – “In the midst of life we are in death!” – and, with a groan of anguish, he bent down and wept like a child.
But for the relief those tears afforded his throbbing brain, he would soon have been suffering from fever. The relief was but short, though, and he rose to gaze out of the window at the thick gloom. Then, removing his hat, he lowered the glass and leaned out, letting the cold night air blow upon his heated face as the train rushed on.
All was black darkness, save the glow shed by the rushing train; and he could make out nothing but that they were dashing on at a frightful pace, seeming to tear up the very earth as they thundered along. Once or twice speed was slackened, with the engine whistle sounding loudly; and, looking out, he could see far ahead a red point of light, which, as they neared it, changed into a green, when, with a triumphant shriek, the special glided on once more, and they swept by a station and a hissing engine attached to some long goods train, whose guard stood by with a lantern in his hand, fresh from the operation of shunting to allow them to pass.
“Faster, faster!” Tom began repeating to himself, as, in spite of his efforts to master the fancy, he kept hearing the words into which the noise of the train resolved itself; though, as he leaned out again, he felt a sensation of joy, for he was being borne nearer and nearer to where his darling lay.
Then he would walk to and fro in the narrow space that formed the saloon carriage, the difficulty of preserving his balance taking up some of his attention, and relieving his mind from its dreadful strain. But it always came back to his throwing himself back on a seat, to listen to those dreadful words; and at such times he was for ever seeing the open grave and the funeral procession, and in a despair that was almost maddening he, told himself that by his folly he had dashed away the cup of happiness from his lips, and that if Jessie died he would be little better than a murderer.
“My poor darling! my poor darling!” he moaned; and then her sweet, pensive eyes seemed to look up in his, and he was once again with her in the days of their early love, “And are those times never to come back again?” he asked aloud; to get back for answer the constant dull repetition, “In the midst of life we are in death,” – “In the midst of life we are in death,” till he groaned in the anguish of his heart.
Onward still, with a rush and a roar, through tunnels, with a quick, sharp crash as if wood and brickwork had come into contact; and then on again. Over bridges, with a strange quivering vibration, and a dull metallic roar, and on again through the black darkness, till the engine began to shriek once more, the speed slackened, grew slower and slower, and ended by the little train pulling up alongside a platform.
The guard was at the door as Tom let down the window, and met his question with —
“Tunbridge, sir. Take in water. Engine’s been detached. Back directly.”
“Don’t lose a moment.”
“No, sir. Like to get out, sir?”
“No.”
Tom threw himself back in his seat, and waited impatiently what seemed an hour, but was really only five minutes; when, just as he was rising to thrust his head out of the window, there was a slight concussion, the rattle of chains, and he knew the engine was once more attached.
“Right away!” A whistle from the guard, an answering shriek from the engine, and they glided along the platform, while the night porter on duty looked curiously at the carriage where the young man sat, after giving the signal to start; and in a few minutes, always gathering speed, away they went once more, faster and faster, into the darkness of the night.
It was refreshing to feel the wind blowing against his cheeks, even though at times he could hardly get his breath; but as he gazed forward it was almost with a feeling of wonder that they had had no accident, so black was all ahead.
From time to time a goods train dashed by them in the opposite direction, while as often they rushed by carriages which stood in sidings until those on their urgent way had passed. At last, after trying all he could to contain himself, and grow calm and fit to see the poor sufferer whom he feared to encounter, he sat in despair listening to the dreadful fancied utterances of the train.
With a prayer on his lips that it might not be too late, he lowered the window on the other side, and gazed out through the darkness in the direction that he believed to be the one where Jessie lay. “We must be near now,” he felt; and he began to look out eagerly for the town, which once reached, his journey would soon be ended.
They seemed to be going at a tremendous speed; and, once more returning to his seat, he was in the act of taking out his watch, when the whistle began to pierce the black night air; and directly after, there was a sharp crash, a stunning blow, the end of the saloon carriage seemed to come suddenly upon him, and he knew no more.
Tom’s next recollection was of feeling drowsy, and being troubled by some one holding a lantern close to his face. There was a buzzing of voices about him, and, close by, the glare of a fire, which flared and crackled loudly. Men were moving about, and they would not leave him alone, so it seemed to him; ending by lifting him up and placing him carefully upon cushions, which cushions they had laid upon a gate; and then he was carried some distance to a well-lighted room, where he seemed to go to sleep.
He must have lain some hours quite insensible, for it was broad daylight when he came thoroughly to himself, and found he was upon a mattress in the waiting-room of a station.
“Where am I?” he said wonderingly, for it seemed that the troubled journey must have been all a dream.
“At Broxton,” was the reply; and a gentleman, whom he immediately set down to be a doctor, came forward.
“But how – what is it? I remember now!” he exclaimed, with a dull, aching pain in his head and arm – “there was an accident to the train.”
“Yes,” was the reply. “A couple of goods trucks that were being shunted ran back down the incline, met the special train you were in, and wrecked it. You had a narrow escape, sir.”
“The driver – stoker – guard?” he said eagerly.
“A bit cut and shaken; but you are the great sufferer.” Tom lay still for a few minutes, trying to collect himself; and then all came clear once more.
“I see,” he cried. “Left arm broken – head contused – cut or two. Much loss of blood, doctor?”
“Not much,” he said. “A fortnight’s quiet. Well, I think – My dear sir, are you mad?”
“I hope not,” said the injured man, sitting up. “There, don’t touch me, doctor. I can judge by my feelings that my case is not serious. When is the next down train?”
“In half an hour, sir,” said a fresh voice, and a man he had not seen came from behind the extemporised couch.
“Here, help me to put on my coat and waistcoat. Doctor, I’m much obliged for what you’ve done; but I was travelling special to a case of emergency. I must go on, if it kills me.”
“I will not be answerable for the consequences if you do,” the doctor said tartly. “Fever is almost certain to supervene if you exert yourself, and then I would not give that for your life.”
That was a snap of the fingers, evidently given to get rid of some snuff.
“Make me a sling for this arm,” said Tom; and one being extemporised with a handkerchief, he had to fight hard to master the faintness that kept attacking him; but he persevered – had the bandages on his head replaced by strapping where his hair had been cut away on account of a couple of ghastly cuts; and finally had himself led to the platform, where he sat down waiting.
Twice over the doctor tried to persuade him not to go; but he felt that he must, even at the risk of life; and at last, on the morning train coming up, he stepped in, feeling deathly sick and faint, and leaning back, reached Hastings at last, hardly able to crawl.
It was with a sense of dizziness that he could hardly counteract that he reached Richard Shingle’s house; and then once more he appeared to sink into a dreamy state, in which he was always hearing the words – “In the midst of life we are in death,” and then came a long blank.
Volume Two – Chapter Sixteen.
The Gilded Pill
One morning, when the sun was making the sea shimmer and glisten like so much frosted silver in constant motion, Tom Fraser awoke, calm and placid, after a long, burning time of fever, to find the soft, pleasant face of Mrs Shingle bending over him; and, on seeing him awake, she stole gently away, and, while he lay wondering and trying to make out what it all meant, and whether it was a dream, the door once more opened, and he knew he was awake, for Jessie appeared, to creep to his bedside and clasp him in her arms.
Invalids recover fast under such circumstances. In his character of the best doctor in London, sick and injured as he was, Tom’s coming had instantaneously effected Jessie’s cure; and now, in turn, she nursed him back to health, ready to become his wife when he should ask her to crown his joy.
It was not long first; for at a meeting one day, old Hopper had proposed to Dick that they should put down so much apiece for the young folks, and this was done without their consent, the donors almost quarrelling as to who should give most.
Old Hopper won.
It was some little time after, when Richard Shingle and his wife had returned to town, that the former called upon his old friend in his chambers, where there was a long chat about the young people, and also about Max Shingle.
“Don’t you make yourself uncomfortable about him,” said Hopper gruffly. “He won’t starve as long as there’s any one to swindle. As for his wife, young Tom will see that she don’t want, and so will I, for the sake of the past.”
“Why, hallo!” cried Dick suddenly, after the conversation had turned upon music, and they had arranged for what was called “a good scrape,” – “what have you got here?”
As he spoke he took a small bill from the chimney-piece, and began looking at it with a grim smile of contempt on his face.
“Can’t you read?” said Hopper roughly. “Plain enough, isn’t it? ‘The Gilded Pill for every ill.’”
“Yes, but – ”
”‘Yes, but,’ – I haven’t been well lately. And I’m going to take a few: they say they’re good for nearly everything.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t do that,” said Dick dubiously.
“Hey? not do it? why not? Speak up: this traffic makes such a noise.”
“Oh, take them if you like,” said Dick, smiling. “They won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?” cried Hopper testily. “Everybody says they’re good. Hey? How do you know?”
“That’s my secret,” said Dick, laughing.
“Your what? Look here: what do you mean?”
“I say, take ’em if you like – hundreds of thousands do. Small boxes one and three-halfpence, large boxes two-and-nine, with the Government stamp.”
“Bah! I know all about that,” said Hopper, rattling a box close to his ear, and then opening it, to show a dozen boluses covered with gold foil. “Have one?”
“No, thanks,” said Dick, smiling. “I know ’em by heart – compound rhubarb and a little new bread. That’s my secret, my fortune, old lad.”
“What!” cried Hopper. “Hey? what! You made your fortune with these?”
“Yes,” said Dick; “the murder’s out now. My bright idea was —The Gilded Pill. But I was not at all proud of it, so I kept it dark.”
“Well, I am blessed,” said Hopper.
“Glad of it. So am I, old man. It’s paid me well, but there was always a skeleton in the cupboard.”
“Hey?”
“Skeleton, old man. I’ve paid thousands to Government for stamps, but they wouldn’t have let me off if anything had gone wrong.”
“But these pills couldn’t go wrong, could they?”
“I don’t think so, Hopper; but I never meet a doctor without feeling queer, – the faculty is like a cloud to me, and behind it I always seem to see an inquest coming off through somebody taking too much of my stuff.”
“The idea of your keeping it all to yourself! You might have told me.”
“You never told me you were a wealthy man, and Uncle Rounce in Australia.”
“Humph!”
“I say, Hopper, would you give up the pills now?”
Hopper’s answer was emphatically – “No.”
The End
