Orlando Figgins, and other stories

Front matter

ORLANDO FIGGINS AND OTHER STORIES. ORLANDO FIGGINS AND OTHER STORIES. BY Mrs. ALFRED MARKS. LONDON : WARD & DOWNEY, 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1891. [All Rights Reserved.'] PRINTED BT KKI.LY AND CO., GATE STKEET, LINCOLN'S INK FIELDS, AND KINOSTON-ON-THAMES. CONTENTS. I. — Orlando Figgins .... 1 IL— Slum ..... 136 III. — Singular Adventure op Augustus Randolph .... 153 IV. — Ground Up in His Own Mill . 185 V. — The Ghost in the Albany . . 238 VI.— A Violin Story . . .260 ♦ Of these Stories the last only is a reprint. It is desirable to state that Orlando FioaiNa was written in 1888, and Slmpi in 1887. AND OTHER STORIES. I. The secrets of Nature bave occupied men ever since tbe time of King Solomon — at least. We have spent painful nights and days in trying to discover bow the elements behave in combination with one another, bow circumstance affects the animal and tbe vegetable world, and what are the relations of the parts to tbe whole, in that scheme of things of which man is himself a part.

Surely, to study man himself cannot be less worthy of man than to study a moss, or a diatom ! To try to discover how the deficiency or tbe preponderance of one faculty affects all tbe rest — to try to get at the real motives of men's actions — to try to explain tbe mon strous inconsistencies of human nature — to reconcile its incredible folly, its astounding contradictions, witb its extraordinary achievements — to try, in a word, to discover bow it is possible for a reasoning creature to be so foolish, and for an irrational creature to be so amazingly clever — all this is surely worth thinking about ; and it must be at least as praiseworthy a curiosity, one would think, to compare one man witb another as Iridina exotica with I. elongata. We often speak as though these later ages were less full of strange and dark stories than former times.

Yet no one can take up a newspaper without coming across something which will puzzle him — a mysterious disappearance, or an odd ad vertisement, behind which we dimly perceive odd people and an odd story. Man is at least as mysterious as Nature, as subject to tbe slow underminings of time and the sudden catastrophes following on these underminings. Man too has his storms and earthquakes, his droughts and famines ; in him as in Nature, there are bidden forces which break out sometimes, and destroy himself and all around him, just as tbe fiery rain of Vesuvius destroys tbe fertile vines. And in tbe one case as in tbe other, perhaps these terrible eruptions are a sign of life. When the fires of Etna and Vesuvius are quenched, it will be, they tell us, because by the equalisation of heat there will be no longer any transformation of energy — tbe world will be dead.

Chapter I

Theke was never a less imaginative man than Augustus Randolph. He was indeed — he is dead now — a very uninteresting and commonplace man, and he had had a very commonplace Indian career, of which the only incident worth noting was his marriage with a very pretty and high-spirited woman — tbe last woman in the world, one would have thought, to marry so eminently commonplace a man as Gus Randolph. There were a few middle-aged men of his acquaintance, who had been at Bristol College with him, and called bim " Gus," but the younger men, called him — behind bis back, of course — " Moderation Randolph," to avoid confusing him with a wild young second cousin of his, who had distinguished himself more at steeple chasing than " Moderation Randolph" ever did at anything. Not that Randolph was an inferior man — far from it.

He was a capital average at everything, from his official duties downwards. If he was not handsome, he was by no means bad-looking — a darkish man of middle-height, and medium breadth. of shoulder. He rode very well, on a good horse, and hunted a little in the season. He betted a little, and played sixpenny, or occasionally shilling points at his club — a respectable club, where high play was not considered the thing. He dressed irreproachably, wore his hair short, and carried a very plain stick. No one could ever remember what colour bis ties were ; in short, there was absolutely nothing about his outward man for criticism, adverse or otherwise, to lay hold of. The inner man was perhaps somewhat more open to reproach, though even here, Randolph might have defied human inspection — or, at least, very nearly so.

He had now retired — somewhat before his time. His pretty, high-spirited wife had not lived many years after he married her. There was a story, of which no one knew the rights, that sbe had been in love with Charlie Dalrymple — poor Charlie Dalrymple, of the 20th. N. I., but quarrelled with him, and married Gus Randolph. Poor Charlie, who was rather a wild fellow, though beloved by every one, aud with no harm in bim, sold out and left India rather suddenly, just before the marriage of his old flame. She, poor thing, fell into ill health, and died in two or three years, leaving a boy, who was being brought up somewhere in the West of England. Randolph did not marry again. It must bave been about ten years after his wife's death, that, taking advantage of some changes which were to be made in bis department, he retired, as has been said, somewhat before his period of service had expired.

His wife had brought him a nice little fortune, and witb that and his pension he was able to live very comfortably. He had now been a free man two or three years. He bad a pretty little box near Guildford, and divided his time between it and his lodgings in Phillimore Place. To help pass the time, he was a director of two or three companies, and dabbled a little on the Stock Exchange. If Augustus Randolph bad been asked by a voice, which he must answer, what be had done with his life ? he would not probably — at least, not at first — have found the question much of a poser. He had done his official work, for twenty years, witb regularity. The work of his particular department was routine work, but that was not bis fault, and rail as we may at routine work, it must be done, and no one had ever said he bad done it badly.

Then he married — at this point of bis answer, tbe questioner having authority might have detected the slightest possible change of tone. He had never been unkind to his wife ; on the contrary, he had admired ber beauty and spirit and wit, when he first knew her ; had much regretted the failure of her health, and on her death had been conscious for a long time of a painful blank. Poor Alicia ! A pang shot through him whenever he recollected their first meeting and their last. Then bis child — of course he was very fond of bim — a very fine little fellow, and very much like his poor mother. Randolph had done bis best for bim ; put him with some very nice ladies at first, and afterwards sent him to Cheltenham. What more could he do ? In short, Randolph could have passed this moral examination as satisfactorily as he did his C. S., when he was a Competition Wallah — for, of course, in some things men are all alike, and it is useless to expect perfection ; to demand too much only makes people hypocrites.

Yet Randolph had not lived to the age of six-and-forty — he was no more — without forming a good many opinions. These opinions might be variously described according to the bias of the describer, in terms less or more flattering to Randolph's head. They had so very little to do with the heart, that that organ may be left out of the calculation. Randolph believed that pain was disagreeable ; pleasure agreeable ; and that everybody else — or almost everybody — believed this too, and acted on the belief. It bas been mentioned that he was a Competition Wallah, and representing, as be thus did, tbe new order of things, all bis opinions were intensely modern. Not of course that he bad any modern enthusiasms. Of these he was as devoid as of any ancient ones — so entirely devoid, that he did not believe in their existence.

Sucb opinions argue a profound cynicism, but it would have been a mistake to call Randolph a cynic ; strange as it may sound, he did not believe in bis fellow-creatures enough even to despise them. He was not what is called an intellectual man, nor had he what are called artistic tastes ; but be read all the books of the season, and always bought the correct thing — bis dislike of anything remarkable or conspicuous at least protecting him from bad taste. He even read a little science, and considered tbe modern theories as too incontestably true to be worth discussion ; and — subject of course to the modifications of further discoveries — he accepted them all with less emotion than a lady feels on hearing that flounces are now to supersede kiltings. He saw the new plays, went to the opera two or three times in the season, and heard any new musical performer who seemed to take the Town.

To do less than this is to be behind the world; to do more would have been to enter into a world which Randolph was assured did not exist. He saw all things from without, and had never looked from the inside of anything — not even of his own heart. Next to physical well-being — which he understood in an enlightened manner, and within the strict limits of a prudent moderation — he thought the most desirable thing in life was to avoid making one's self ridiculous, or even remarkable. He would have thought fame itself dearly purchased at the price of a caricature. Perhaps because be bad no brilliant repartee himself, he was always uncomfort able when good stories were being told — " Proximus ardet Cealegon," though, to be sure, Randolph believed that he himself did not osier any salient points for a wit to lay hold of.

From all this it will be seen tbat Randolph was the last man in tbe world to bave anything queer happen to him, or to be run away with by bis imagination, since I have been at such great pains to demonstrate tbat he had no imagination at all. And yet on a certain nasty, sleety, February night, there befel bim a very queer thing indeed — queer enough in itself, but a hundredfold queerer since it befel Gus Randolph. He dined that night at bis club, as he generally did when he was in town, and played a rubber after dinner. He was a respectable whist-player, but perhaps a little below his own average there. At all events, Carrington, a C. E., who belonged to the club, always professed to believe that Randolph was unlucky. Fairfax and Edgar made up the four. That night in the cut for partners, Randolph fell to Carrington.

" Hope you'll hold better cards than you generally do, Randy," said Carrington, as he took up his own hand ; " you ought to be precious lucky in love, you're always so doocid unlucky at cards." It provoked Randolph to be told he was unlucky — be never liked to appear a fool. " My bands are much like other people's," he said, sorting his cards, " good, bad and indifferent. Whist is a very even game." Young Edgar winked at his partner, who was the very man that bad given Randolph his nick-name of " Moderation." Randolph had gone into the sub ject of whist; knew some curious anecdotes ancl statistics, and was prepared to prove that in the long run — say in the course of a year — a good player had very little advantage over a bad one. He returned to this during the next deal. " There was a parson down in the country where I was staying for the shooting," he said, "who was great on the wickedness of playing for money — ' thin end of the wedge ' — 'just the same in principle,' and all that sort of thing. ' But it's not the same in principle,' I said ; ' if a man risks more than he can afford to lose, he's a great fool, and deserves to be ruined.

But you wouldn't blame me for giving a guinea for a ticket for a concert. That is, a guinea for an evening's amusement. Now if I choose sometimes to spend my guinea in another way, and lose it at cards, where's the differ ence in principle ? I once kept an account for a year,' says I, 'and I found I'd lost five pounds playing pretty nearly every night. Five pounds spent in tbe course of a year doesn't seem so very dreadful — it's about threepence-halfpenny a night.' Of course if you play unlimited loo, you can clean yourself out to any extent. Some fellows never know when to stop." " I'm very sorry," said Edgar to his partner. " I've made a misdeal," and be threw down the cards. " Your deal, Randolph." " Turn your chair, Randy," said Carrington. " Invoke Fortune. They've had it all their own way.

If you go on in this way, your whistle will cost you more than five pounds this year." " I'm not the first by a great many who bas said tbe same," said Randolph, dealing. " You can't lose much at whist if you play regularly — that's all I say. Of course, if you only play now and then, and for ponies, you can drop a lot — just as you can at anything else. It's like betting. Now I never make large bets — small bets are all right." " Two to one you don't turn up a court card ! " cried Edgar. He was tbe wag of tbe party — the second son of a baronet — had just got bis captaincy. He was not a member of the club, but came there as tbe guest of Carrington, who was some con nection of his. " Done in half-crowns," said Randolph, who was at bis last round, and, a moment after, he turned up the ace of spades.

Edgar threw him two half crowns. " Don't you wish you'd made it sovs., Randy ? " said Carrington, taking up his cards. " No ; big bets are a great mistake," said Randolph. " If you don't hedge, you run too much risk, and if you do, it comes to the same thing as if you'd had a lot of little ones, and didn't. I never put more than a pony on anything, ancl seldom that." " The world would stand still if we hadn't more go in us than that, Randy," said Carrington ; " safe, but precious dull." And then, somehow or other — Randolph could not afterwards remember bow, Charlie Dalrymple's name came up. " Poor Charlie," said Fairfax, " what a good fellow he was ! Even his faults, as somebody said of somebody, leaned to virtue's side ! I never could understand how it was be went all to pieces like that !

I wonder if he really committed suicide ! There was a body found, you know, supposed to be his — fished out of the Thames, somewhere — but it was not quite certain. I was in India at tbe time. It was a mysterious affair — there was a woman in it " Fairfax suddenly pulled up, dropped a card, and declared he had lost a trick through talking. Carrington had kicked him under tbe table, and he had just remembered tbat Randolph had been somehow or other mixed up with the affair, and had married the woman. Randolph, however, went on playing as unconcernedly as though Charlie Dalrymple had been a captain in the army of Cyrus the Great. He won the odd trick. " Come, that's better," said Carrington, marking the trick. " Your deal, Randy. Fire away, old man— let's see if our luck bas turned." Carrington was right ; the luck had turned.

For tbe rest of tbe evening he and Randolph won everything ; Randolph especially holding extraordinary bands. "I say, Randy, something's going to happen to you," said Carrington, when Randolph, a little before twelve, excused himself on the plea of a journey to-morrow. " Lucky in cards, unlucky in love — three aces and seven trumps last band, and five trumps, two aces and two kings, this* — don't you shake in your shoes ? If there's a lady at tbe end of your journey to-morrow, beware ! " " 'Pon my word, Carrington," said Randolph — he felt he was foolishly nettled, " I don't think I'm sucb an unlucky dog at cards as you seem to think. I've had good cards before to-night, and you, I think, have sometimes had bad ones." " Don't be crusty, old man," said Carrington, who had possibly taken a tea-spoonful more whiskey than was good for bim, and was a trifle more jocular in consequence.

So at least Randolph, who bad drunk nothing after bis dinner, accounted for the singular irritation which Carrington's chaff caused him. He could absolutely have flown into a rage, but be mastered himself, and clapping his hand on his trouser-pocket, said, with an affectation of jollity he did not feel, " Crusty, my dear boy ! I've won thirty bob, and am in the best of humours ! " He felt so irritated, and so anxious in consequence to get away from Carrington, that he would not wait while tbe porter called a cab — there happened to be none waiting — but walked down into Piccadilly, hoping every moment to find one. It was sleeting a little, and there was a keen wind blowing; Randolph wished he bad waited. As he turned into Piccadilly, be found the whole road almost blocked by a string of carriages taking people to a ball in Great Stanhope Street.

" Con found it," be thought, " I shan't get a cab to-night, and if I get my feet wet I shall have my rheumatism back." Just then he noticed a hansom which seemed to form part of tbe line of carriages. He saw that it was a new cab, with a very good horse — not one of those dreadful screws that are brought out at night when cockney fares cannot see bow lame they go, and the Society for tbe Prevention of Cruelty to Animals is safe in bed, but a very good horse, so good tbat Randolph hastily concluded the cab was a private one. The driver had on a large cloak, which might or might not be a cabman's. Just as Randolph's eye fell on this vehicle, the line moved on a little, but not before he had, as he thought, caught a glimpse of a lady and gentleman sitting inside. It was but a passing glimpse, and Randolph knew that an empty cab would not be allowed in the line.

He was therefore very much surprised when, a moment afterwards, the line being halted again, he once more came up with the cab and saw that it was empty. He did not waste any time, however, but seized the happy chance, glad to escape from the inclement night. " Are you engaged ? " he called up to the cabman — he had in the moment of the line moving on seen that tbe hansom bore a number, and so was not a private one. The cabman much muffled in bis cloak made some kind of sign, and Randolph jumped in, pulled to the doors, and opened the trap with bis umbrella handle. " 59, Lower Phillimore Place, when you can get out of this," be said. And then, expecting tbat tbe cabman would manage this at the first side street, be drew tbe cape of his ulster well round his neck, and leaned back in the cab with a sense of relief at being in comparative shelter ; thinking how odd it was he should have thought there were two people in the cab, and how odd it was that an empty cab should have been in the line.

" But of course," he thought, " they got out, tired of waiting. They must bave left their ghosts behind them though, for they couldn't have got out without my seeing them. Of course it was some reflection on the glass that got mixed up with the curtains." That silly notion of their leaving their ghosts behind them seemed to have been suggested to Randolph by a malicious spirit, for it set, him off on a train of thought that be particularly wished to avoid. It was years since he had heard Charlie Dairy mpl e's name mentioned. What on earth made Fairfax bring it up ? What on earth made people rake up old stories ? And why did Fairfax stop short in that way ? " Confound him," thought Randolph, settling himself more comfortably in one corner. " What does he think I had to do with it ? All's fair in love and war.

I won the woman ; we all cut one another out if we can." " But we do not all do it by deceit and lying," said a voice Randolph knew — the voice of his wife long silent in the grave. " We do not all mis represent innocent actions, excite a woman's jealous doubts, and take advantage of a moment of jealous anger. 'Twas you that made me wrong him. His worst faults are virtues compared with your virtues ! " " Pshaw ! " said Randolph, " am I going to let a 1* few angry words said by an unreasonable woman, fifteen years ago — yes, fifteen at least, if not more — keep me awake all night ? I really shouldn't bave supposed I remembered them. Odd that Fairfax said that to-night. Confound bim. What was Dalrymple to him ? " Randolph tried to dismiss all these thoughts. The cab was just turning up a side street and the horse started off at a brisk trot.

Randolph closed his eyes and amused himself by listening to the horse's hoofs. He fell into an agreeable half-waking doze — aware of turning corners, of lamps which flashed in on him now and then — and thinking — to the exclusion of less agreeable thoughts, now retired into the background — how immeasurably superior is a hansom to a growler — indeed quite a pleasure to ride in Randolph did not think he had been actually asleep above a minute, when he suddenly started up broad awake, with the consciousness that the streets through which he was going were much too dark, and that the cab-wheels did not sound as they should. In one moment more he knew that he was not in streets at all, but going at a smartish pace along a country road. He caught glimpses of trees and hedges. Was he dreaming ? No, he had fallen asleep, but he was now wide awake.

At that moment the driver cracked his whip, and the horse quickened his pace to a fast canter. Randolph began to be seriously alarmed. He drove his umbrella against the trap in the roof, but could not stir it. The cabman must be holding it down — must be mad, or mad drunk. Randolph realised tbat he was in a very unpleasant predicament. Carrington's stupid joke about ill-luck came into bis mind. He tried getting out on the foot-board, but probably the cabman saw him, for he began to lash witb his whip in a way tbat made tbe horse fairly bolt, and drove Randolph inside again witb a nasty stinging cut on bis cheek, where the whip bad caught him. But he was not altogether daunted. " Hi ? Where are you going ? What are you doing ? " he shouted at the trap. " You'll smash your cab ! You'll break your horse's wind !

Stop ! Stop, I say ! I want to get out ! I'll give you in charge to-morrow if you don't stop this minute ! " Randolph felt the last words to be weak under the circumstances. To-morrow was too far off to be of much use. He thought of jumping out, but every time he ventured on the foot-board the driver lashed his horse with fresh fury, and the horse — Randolph by this time wished be had been a worse horse — tore faster along the road. Randolph remembered that it is nearly always better not to jump out when you are run away with — he had read somewhere that tbe Duke of Orleans was killed through jumping out, and many other such stories crowded into his mind. Nor, to tell the truth, did the prospect of a leap for life from a hansom, going at a breakneck pace, on a dark night — even supposing one could jump out, which is easier said than done — seem very tempting.

One might fall on a heap of stones, or be caught by the cab-wheel. And — though this was become a very minor con sideration — it is not desirable to find one's self on a sleety night on a country road, the devil knows where, or how far from town. Randolph reflected that the horse must soon be tired ; he would stop — and indeed at this moment be slackened bis pace a little. They seemed to be going up hill. Randolph made another attempt on the trap in the roof, and this time it opened, and he saw the dim figure of the driver, at first sitting immovable. Randolph thrust up his umbrella, and held the trap open, while he called out : " Where are we ? What the devil " At that instant the driver seemed to become aware of Randolph ; he leaned forward as if to speak — a dark shapeless mass, chiefly perceptible to tbe senses by reason of his shutting out the cold air.

" Where are we ? What do you mean by this ? " shouted Randolph. " What " But the words died away in his throat, for a bright light came from somewhere, and by it he saw the driver's face — dark, haggard, piercing - eyed, wild — Charlie Dalrymple's face — Charlie Dalrymple, possessed by a devil, glaring down at him. Randolph's senses very nearly forsook him. He fell in a heap on the seat, overcome by the most unreasoning, abject terror. He knew that the cab was going at a more furious pace than ever rocking and swaying as if it would overturn ; but it was not this that terrified bim. For a few awful moments of unspeakable terror the appalling belief sprang upon bim, and held him in its grasp as a giant might hold an infant, that it was all true — all that he had thought unworthy of serious argument — it was all true, and he was left to face it alone !

He bad ruined Charlie Dalrymple — and Charlie Dalrymple, or the devil in Charlie's shape, had got bim ! The unutterable terror be endured in this first moment of surprise was so paralysing that his reason ceased to act. He was almost dead with fright. As he cowered down, possessed by this thought, tbat Charlie Dalrymple and the devil had got hold of bim, he felt a cold wind, and knew that the driver was looking in on him. Strange to say, this slightly abated his terrors. Tbe power of thought began to return to bim, and with it the old habitual frame of mind — that mental strait waistcoat which every man secretes from his mind, as tbe snail secretes his shell from his body. So Randolph promptly recovered from the extremity of bis terror; told himself that a policeman's bull's-eye and a chance resemblance, assisted by the chance mention of Dalrymple's name, had played him a trick.

Meanwhile the stern facts were bad enough. If tbe devil were not driving, a madman was un doubtedly driving to tbe devil. They were sweeping down what Randolph felt to be a long and gradual descent — still through open country — then up a gentle rise. Randolph again thought of jumping out, and again decided that his best chance was sitting still. After a very few minutes of this he became aware, rather than saw, that he was passing houses — a street — the pace slackened for an instant, and Randolph held himself ready — through the little window of the cab be saw a high swinging lamp on his right, and a sign-board below, and thought be recognised it as the famous " Boot " at Edgware. He knew it from riding out there sometimes, and be knew that a mile further on the road divided. He knew it was Edgware now ; he had made out something white on the left of the road, which must be the great stone gateway he had often seen, and nearly opposite to it, on tbe right, a dim whiteness was no doubt a queer little round lodge, built like a temple.