Jack Carstairs of the power house

by Sydney Sandys

CHAPTER XIII

For a month things went on quite smoothly. The police, although spurred to strenuous efforts by the glib tongue of Pat Donovan, J.P., absolutely failed to discover any trace of Darwen's assailant. Something seemed to be on the mind of Mr Donovan too, but Darwen still smiled. "I'm taking that man into my service when he's able to get about again, he's going to take on the job of gardener, etc."

"What will Mr Donovan say?"

"He won't know. That's what's worrying him now, he can't make out what has become of his man. Mr Donovan will move again shortly. The Irishman can never wait."

They were carrying out extensions at the works, adding a wing to the engine room, and one day, a few weeks later, Carstairs and Darwen were standing in the new part, just underneath some scaffolding where some men were working under the roof; they were discussing an important point, but Carstairs noticed that Darwen seemed a trifle absent-minded. He kept looking away, up at the men working. Suddenly, without any warning, he pulled Carstairs aside, next moment a heavy iron bar crashed down on the concrete at their feet, just as a man's voice sang out, "Look out below."

"By George, that would have corpsed us," Carstairs said.

"Our friend above there was a little late in warning us," Darwen observed. There was a sort of pleased light in his eye, he seemed strangely buoyant. "He's drunk," he continued, "I've been watching him, he's a new man, on to-day. I'll go up and tell the foreman to send him home." He walked over to the ladder, then he stopped, and picking up the iron bar stood it carefully upright in a bolt hole. "You might go into my office and get those papers, will you? I'll be with you in a minute," he said over his shoulder as he mounted the ladder.

Carstairs went away, leaving the engine room empty.

There were three or four men on the scaffold, all working with their faces to the wall, only one man was out further than the rest. Darwen walked along the planking, balancing easily and gracefully; the men bustled ahead with their work as they saw him coming. He stopped at the man who was furthest out, the man who had dropped the bar.

"My friend," Darwen asked, quietly, "have you anything to say?"

The man looked up with a piteous appeal. He was a sickly white and as sober as a judge, he trembled in every limb.

Darwen watched him in silence for some minutes as his quivering lips moved inarticulately. He was a tough-looking citizen with a low, unintelligent forehead, and strong, brutal jaw; his imagination was so dull that cruelty had to be brought very near home before his sluggish mind began to move. A sort of instinct, apparently, seemed to warn him that he was in danger; he seemed fascinated by Darwen's eyes, he gazed hopelessly and fixedly into them. He made a movement to edge away.

Darwen was gripping a tie rod over his head and standing very close to the man, who was sitting on the plank. He glanced round, no one was looking. "Fortune favours the bold," he said. Next minute his foot shot out, and the man was off the plank.

"Oh, Christ!" he screamed, as he fell through the air.

Darwen shouted for help and clung to his tie rod with both hands. "That man's killed," he said. "He was drunk. He'd got no business to be on a scaffolding in that condition. Where's the foreman?"

They went below. A little crowd gathered and looked at the man; he was quite still, his head had struck the iron bar and his brains were scattered over the new concrete engine bed.

Carstairs stood by in solemn silence, looking at the thing which had been a man. "That's the chap that dropped the bar, isn't it?" he asked, at length.

"Yes!" Darwen answered. "He was helplessly drunk. Where's the foreman?" he looked round.

"Here, sir."

"Why did you allow that man to go up there when you saw he was drunk?" Darwen was very stern, his eyes seemed to look through the man.

"I didn't notice that he was drunk, sir."

"Didn't notice! What do you mean? That's your job, isn't it?"

"Well, sir——"

"That'll do! How long has he been with you?"

"Only this morning, sir. He came down with a note from Councillor Donovan asking to give him a start."

"Ah! well, I suppose you can't be responsible for every strapper that you have to put on."

"No, sir."

Two of his mates reverently covered the remains with an engine cloth, and Darwen and Carstairs went away together. Carstairs was very thoughtful.

"Did you hear what he said?" Darwen asked, when they reached his office.

"Yes, Councillor Donovan."

"Exactly. He seems unfortunate in the choice of his tools."

"You were up by him when he fell, weren't you?"

"Quite close, but, of course, I hadn't a chance to save him."

"No, of course. It's a very awkward job."

"Very. I say old chap, come on home and spend the evening with me, will you? The girl's away, and I know the mater will be pleased to see you."

"Thanks. I—er——"

"Come on, old chap, you've got nothing to do, I know."

"Well, I have really got a lot to do, but still—it will keep."

As they went out together, a girl passed them.

"That's rather a nice-looking girl," Darwen remarked.

"Ye-es; I didn't notice her very particularly."

"Dash it, Carstairs, it's time you did. Why don't you get engaged, give you something to do in your evenings."

"My dear chap——"

"Yes, I know, there's that girl over at your place. She struck me as being a particularly nice girl."

"You mean Bessie Bevengton. She is jolly decent—but——"

"There is some one else?"

"Exactly."

"But you can't marry her."

"I don't know."

"What! Don't be an ass!" Darwen turned and gazed at him in amazement.

"You see she appeals to me in so many ways."

"How? She's handsome, that's all!"

"That's only the beginning, she's so very fit, and so full of pluck. You see, if I have any kids I want 'em to be sportsmen, to play rugger and that sort of thing."

Darwen laughed aloud. "How old are you, Carstairs?"

"Twenty-three."

"I thought you were fifty."

"Alright, but you've got a lot to thank your mater for."

"By Jove, you're right!" Darwen was very thoughtful for some minutes. "Yes," he said at length. "I keep myself fit because the mater brought me up that way, and fitness means so much."

"To a station man it usually means all the difference between success and failure; you remember how that shock I got upset me, for some time Thompson thought I was no good." Carstairs was thinking that if it had not been for that shock their positions at that moment might have been reversed.

"That is so, particularly if he's got a crowd like Donovan and Co. to deal with. Do you know, honestly I never in all my life experienced such a thrill of exquisite pleasure as when I exchanged pistol shots with that poor devil on the stairs that night; that's fitness, you know, simply fitness. I'm in the pink of condition." His eyes sparkled like living jewels.

Carstairs looked at him with open admiration. "You are fit," he said.

They were passing St James' gymnasium, a sudden idea seemed to seize Darwen.

"Come on in," he said, "and let's have a turn with the gloves. I've never had a turn with you."

"Alright," Carstairs answered.

So they went inside. The place was empty, so they had it to themselves; they changed and donned boxing gloves. They looked a superb pair of men as they stood up facing each other, in long flannel trousers and singlets; Carstairs was a trifle shorter and a trifle heavier; neither of them was an inch under six feet. For half an hour they boxed, hitting fast and furious, and although Carstairs was as quick as a panther, Darwen was quicker, and had distinctly the best of the bout.

"By Jove, old chap! You do put 'em in," he observed, as Carstairs landed a heavy right hander.

"Yours are fairly hefty, too," Carstairs answered, as Darwen knocked him against the wall.

Then they had a cold shower, dressed, and went back to Darwen's home, feeling at peace with all the world, forgetting Councillor Donovan and the dead man in the engine-room and all other troubles.

Darwen let himself in and took Carstairs into the drawing-room. "Sit down in that big chair, old chap, and I'll play you a tune. The mater'll soon come in when she hears the music."

Carstairs threw himself back in the deep padded chair with a sigh of content. "I envy not in any mood," he started and stopped. "Where's that from, Darwen?"

"Tennyson's 'In Memoriam.'" Darwen was turning over some music folios.

"Yes, that's it. I remember. I picked it up one day in the digs and that caught my eye. It goes on to say something else about noble rage and linnets, or something, but what I 'envy not' is the man who's never been tired."

"I agree with you. Being tired, with the pleasant contemplation of work well done and sitting in a comfortable chair, is heaven."

"Precisely. And you never get tired, really, pleasantly tired, unless you're fit. The man who's not fit, doesn't appreciate comfort or discomfort, he's only half alive."

"That is so. I think this is your favourite." Darwen commenced to play, lightly and slowly.

"That's that nocturne business, isn't it?"

"One of them. There's a book full."

"Well, they're jolly good." He lay far back in the chair and spread his legs wide in front of him, his thoughts wandered pleasantly under the slow stimulation of the music. Darwen himself seemed to revel in it too, they were silent for some time; when the door opened and Mrs Darwen came in. Carstairs, sitting motionless in the chair, turned his head at the sound, and then suddenly sprang up.

"Ah! why did you do that? I wouldn't have disturbed you for worlds." She held out her hand. "How are you?"

"First class, thanks."

"I could see that from the way you were sitting, men only sit quite still like that when they've had a good day at something. When Charlie used to come home—why, what have you been doing?" she looked closely at one of his eyes.

Carstairs rubbed it thoughtfully. "I don't think it'll get black," he said.

"He's knocked my mouth all side ways, too, mater!" Darwen said over his shoulder.

Mrs Darwen laughed. "What would the councillors think if they saw you two knocking each other about like that?"

"The councillors, dear mater, are beneath contempt. Let's talk about something pleasant. I've been urging Carstairs to get married."

"Who to?"

"Oh, anybody."

"Is he in love?"

"That's just it, he thinks he is."

"Well, you marry the girl you're in love with, Mr Carstairs, and don't take any notice of anybody."

"But she's impossible, mater."

"What do you mean by impossible? I don't believe in impossibility. If you're in love with the girl and she's in love with you, marry her, Mr Carstairs, and snap your fingers at everybody. It's better for you and for the girl and for everybody concerned. I hate those busy bodies who talk about 'impossible marriages.'" She seemed strangely excited.

Carstairs looked steadily into her excited, inflamed eyes. "I agree with you entirely, Mrs Darwen. The girl I'm in love with is a gipsy. She's a servant in a big house near my home."

"A servant?" Mrs Darwen seemed in doubt for a moment. Then the look of resolution again hardened in her eyes. "It doesn't matter what she is. Are you really in love?"

"I was."

"Ah! I see you're not. Once in love, always in love. Very few people really fall in love. They haven't got it in them. It's a matter of pluck. You've got it in you. When you're in love, you'll know it, and so will the girl, or I'm very much mistaken." She looked at Carstairs' steady eyes and firm mouth with a sort of motherly admiration.

"I was nineteen then, and I met her quite by accident."

"One always does," she interposed.

"I have not seen her since, except once, through the window, and—well, it was very bad indeed for some time after that."

She laughed. "That's it. That's it." she said. "How long ago was that?"

"About two years."

"And you still think of her?"

"Well—occasionally."

"Ah, Mr Carstairs, you're badly hit." She leaned towards him in an affectionate, motherly manner. "You're badly hit," she grew pensive all of a sudden. "It may be good, or it may be bad. 'Tis a Providence, I suppose. You know you're very selfish, Mr Carstairs."

"Me? Mrs Darwen!" Carstairs was amazed.

"You needn't be so surprised, it's a universal masculine attribute. Charlie can explain it, he understands it."

"Result of heredity, relic of the chimpanzee," Darwen remarked casually.

"What is she like? Handsome?" Mrs Darwen asked.

"Very; and full of pluck."

"Full of pluck! Ah!" she gave a deep sigh. "They feel it most, always." She seemed very sad all of a sudden. "What's that bit of poetry, Charlie, about the strongest and the wisest, you know."

"Is it true, O Christ in Heaven, that the wisest suffer most,
That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are lost."

"That's it. You're very strong, Mr Carstairs. Brutal almost, and wise."

"I should like to be, but I'm afraid I'm rather weak and silly at times."

She gazed at him steadily with a puzzled air. "You're different," she said, "you're not like the men of my generation. Are you a horseman?"

"No, I'm an engineer."

"That's the difference, I expect. It's a new type to me."

Darwen swung round on his music stool. "It's a new type to the world, mater; a sort of thinking machine, getting the human emotions thoroughly under control; the horseman was a sort of embryo engineer, he utilised the forces of nature according to his lights, but he was essentially a passionate man, he opposed his will to the brute's will. The engineer has to do with inanimate lumps of metal, and it's no use hitting them. Have you ever observed, Carstairs, the old type of fitter let go with his hammer at a job that's baffling him, the younger generation is much less so, he thinks. Nowadays every one is becoming more or less of an engineer, and it's good, it makes necessary a higher standard of intelligence, of self-reliance, and self-control. The nation of the future is the nation with the best engineers."

"It seems to me," Mrs Darwen remarked, "that you are substituting a coldly brutal type for a passionately brutal type. Men are very much nearer animals than women."

"The engineer has also to deal with men as well as engines, which has a humanizing effect on him, Mrs Darwen," Carstairs said.

"Yes! Fortunately Providence has provided a safety valve for his pent up emotions; you can't possibly imagine the intense mental relief of growling at a stoker because the steam's low, when it's not really the man's fault at all."

Carstairs laughed. "I rather like stokers myself, they're a rough and ready crowd, they'd knock you down for the price of a drink. And the language—Shakespeare isn't in it."

"They do swear, but if you think a minute you'll admit that the average stoker isn't in it with the average engineer; it's the same as everything else, it takes brains and feelings to swear well."

"I wonder if women will ever be engineers."

"My dear mater! Women are the finest engineers in the world now, they engineer us poor men, first to the altar, then to the graveyard or to the work-house. Men run engines, business, etc., women run men. The world is run by women, not by men. I remember talking to a stoker once about matrimony. 'It's alright for a change,' he said, 'but it ain't no use permanent.' I suggested that a little kindness might improve matters. ''Taint no use,' he said. I then ventured the opinion that to go home drunk and break up the furniture, sometimes has a conciliatory effect. ''Taint no use,' he repeated again. 'Stop supplies for a bit,' I suggested. ''Taint no use,' he repeated. 'Well, clear out.' ''Taint no use,' he answered. 'I've stayed home and helped 'em in the house, I've give 'em all my pay. I've come home drunk and broke things, I've chucked boiling water over 'em, and beat 'em with the poker, but ''tain't no use,' he shook his head with infinite sadness, 'you always gets had,' he said. He was a thoughtful, intelligent sort of man, and he'd had three wives, so he ought to know."

Mrs Darwen laughed. "He was a thorough sort of man, anyway, and women like a thorough man."

"So do men, Mrs Darwen. Personally my daily prayer is to be preserved from the wishy-washy fool who does what he's told in unquestioning obedience."

"Listen to the Saxon expounding his creed, mater. 'Oh God, give me some one to have a row with.'"

Carstairs smiled. "If you'd lived in Scotland you'd know that the first thing the Scotch working man does is to flatly contradict you to your face; then he argues the point, if you let him. The Scotchman is naturally mathematical, he is not willing to accept your word that you're the boss, he wants proof. I like the Scotch."

"They offer unlimited possibilities of a row."

"I don't like rows; I like to appeal to a man's reason."

Darwen drove one fist with a bang into the palm of his other hand. "The logic of the Englishman," he said.

"It seems to me that's the bed rock of all logic. I think that it was you who told me that Herbert Spencer and Ruskin both arrived at the same conclusion."

"Perhaps I did; I forget. But anyway, all of you people make the mistake of dividing people into types, classes and creeds. 'Nature recognizes neither kingdoms nor classes, no orders, no genera, no sub-genera, nature recognizes nothing but individuals.' That's Lamarck."

"Is it? Well, I hope he won't do it again, because he upsets all your elaborate theories about Saxons, Celts, and so on."

"Not at all; he doesn't say that they don't run in types, that large classes and races of men are not as like as two peas in almost all respects, he simply says that nature makes no effort to preserve them as they are, or, because of their numbers, to save them from annihilation. A whole class, a whole creed, or a whole race may exist simply for the benefit, and to assist in the development of, one individual, and when he ceases to have need of them, puff! they are wiped out."

"A creed formerly known as Kingcraft, I think."

"Exactly. 'The King can do no wrong' simply means that if he does wrong, he ceases to be a king, and the only proof that he has done wrong is the fact that he has failed to keep his crown. That is the teaching of old Nick, and personally I expand the theorem to embrace all humanity, every man should be a little king unto himself. That is to say, he must use his brains and control his passions."

Mrs Darwen sighed. "The inward passions are sometimes the voice of God, and sometimes the voice of the Devil," she said.

"There you are! and how are you to distinguish? Tennyson tells us that 'doubt is devil-born,' and certainly constant doubt and hesitation play the devil with a man's mind and body. My theory is 'never analyse an impulse. Act on it with the best conjunction of your reason.' Here's old Carstairs, analysing, theorizing, vacillating, hesitating as to whether he's in love or not."

Mrs Darwen stood up. "It's hard to say which is best," she said. "You're like, and yet very unlike, your father, Charlie." She went over to a small table and picked up a large album. "Have you ever seen Charlie's father, Mr Carstairs?"

"No, I don't think I have." He took the volume on his knees, and she leaned over his shoulder as he turned the pages.

Darwen swung round again on his stool and played low, soft music on the piano.

"There! That's me when I was a girl," she said, arresting Carstairs' hand.

He looked closely and intently at a full length portrait of a remarkably handsome and well built girl, dressed in a riding habit, sitting on a saddle. The features were clear-cut and regular, nothing harsh and nothing coarse; the mouth was firm, and the eyes bold and defiant. It seemed the portrait of a happy, rollicking tom-boy. The resemblance to the woman at his side seemed rather faint.

"You were beautiful," he said, "that's the type I admire."

"Ah! well, perhaps not a beauty, but I was usually considered good looking."

On the opposite page was a tall man, handsome, big-nosed, but he seemed deficient in chin.

Carstairs looked at him closely for some time. "He's handsome too. Not very much like Charlie, and yet—the face seems familiar. I seem somehow to have met that man, sort of family resemblance to Charlie, I suppose. You cannot say that any individual feature is like, and yet—you know. Was he musical?"

"Oh very. He had a music degree, at Oxford, you know."

"Had he really? A sort of brilliant, all round man, like Charlie."

Suddenly the little gong sounded outside in the hall, and Mrs Darwen stood up. "There's dinner. Let's go in," she moved out, and they followed.

Darwen sat down opposite Carstairs, he caught hold of his chin with both hands. "Old Carstairs gave me such a whack on the jaw that I'm afraid he's jammed the hinges, mater. I hope you've got something nice and not tough. How's the new maid? Hullo!"

Carstairs had half risen from his chair and stood staring like a man transfixed. Following the direction of his gaze, Darwen's eyes rested for the first time on his mother's new maid who was bringing in the dinner. She was tall and beautifully proportioned, every movement showed a lissome supple grace, and the features were equal to anything he had ever seen carved in marble; the jet black hair and deep brown eyes gave him the clue. This was Carstairs' gipsy maid.

Her face was the colour of a boiled beet as she bent down and placed a dish in front of Mrs Darwen.

Carstairs watched her for a minute with a sort of amazed frown. Her colour faded to the normal again, and as she raised her head she looked into his eyes for a second without a vestige of recognition.

Darwen observed them both, his eyes were supernaturally bright.

Carstairs subsided into his chair and bent over his soup.

Mrs Darwen glanced from one to the other and glanced at the maid. Then she smiled.

The conversation went on in spasmodic jerks till the maid left the room.

"Don't you think I've got a nice-looking maid, Mr Carstairs?"

"I do. In fact she's the girl I was telling you about."

"I thought so, the fates arrange these things. She's lovely; I thought when I was engaging her that it was a good job Charlie was shortly going to get married."

"You're mistaken, mater. Charlie is not shortly going to get married."

"Not! What do you mean?"

"It's broken off."

"You haven't jilted her, Charlie?"

"No, dear mater, she's jilted me."

"Nonsense."

"Well, she broke it off. You see—you remember that girl at the diggings, Carstairs, I used to give her a few music lessons and that sort of thing. Well, she got hold of Isabel and told her all about it; of course I couldn't deny it. It seemed to me she took a very narrow-minded view of it. So we broke off the engagement. Anyway, I could never have run smoothly with her, besides, the old Doctor's too much of an autocrat."

"Oh! but you could have pacified her surely, she'll forget that."

"I'm afraid not, mater. The more we talked, the further apart we seemed to get. I said I was sorry and all that, but this has been coming on for some time. We haven't been hitting it at all well for months past."

Mrs Darwen and Carstairs were silent.

"As a matter of fact," Darwen proceeded, "I'm getting sick of this place and all the people in it, I want a change. Your people were good enough to ask me to come and see them whenever I liked. Do you think they could put me up next week-end, Carstairs? I like having a chat with your guv'nor. I must admit I'm rather sick over this business—disappointed, you know. I had built up an idol—you don't understand these things, Carstairs. If I stopped to think now I should feel suicidal."

"Don't talk nonsense, my boy. Can't you and Mr Carstairs go away for the week end?"

"Not together, mater, we mustn't both leave the works. If Carstairs' people could do with me for the week end——"

"I can understand these things better than you think, Darwen. The people will be very pleased to see you, I know." Carstairs was very sober. "The feminine mind is incomprehensible."

Mrs Darwen leaned over towards him. "I'll help you, Mr Carstairs. Come and spend Sunday with me when Charlie's away. Perhaps if I called on Isabel, Charlie—

"You can't restore a shattered idol, mater. It's my fault, I know, but a fellow expects——"

"Everything," Mrs Darwen said sadly, "and some women give it, ah! yes, some women give it."