And there was an end of the matter.
The distance between Bradland Hall and Belchester is nearly thirty miles, and when John Osbaldiston had replied to the Secretary of the Belchester Institute, graciously according to the request of the Committee, he personally saw to the selection and packing of the pictures, in a van also selected with great care. He made arrangement for a change of horses on the road, and he consigned the precious cargo to two men, in whose steadiness, and sobriety, and general possession of character, he could place the utmost confidence. These selected characters quite justified the confidence reposed in them, and drove so steadily and so slowly, that the roadside population might have supposed the van to contain a corpse.
Two miles from Belchester there is a level crossing; and over this crossing the van containing Osbaldiston’s masterpieces had to be taken. Just as the hoofs of the off horse left the up line his knees seemed to give way, he fell, and seemed unable to get up again. Every effort was made to raise him; but in vain. Then attempts were made to move the van which stood right across the rails. But too late. It all seemed to occur in a moment. The express came rushing up. The van was knocked into matchwood, and the masterpieces from Bradland Hall were master pieces indeed—mere fragments of frame and canvas, some strewed by the side of the line, and some adhering to the engine and carriages of the express, which lay on its side a short distance further on.
A telegram brought John Osbaldiston to the spot in process of time. And he spent many days in Belchester mad with himself, with the Institute, with the railway, and with the world in general. When he returned home his anger was increased. He found a letter from Bella:—
“Dear Pa.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be married. He is a man very highly connected, but has been unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western. He is so handsome, and we are so happy. Do forgive us.
“Bella.”
“Never!” cried the crushed nail-maker. And he never did.
XX.
THE DEVIL’S PLAYTHINGS.
On the first day of April in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five the following advertisement appeared in the Times newspaper.
“Housemaid and Companion.—Wanted immediately a smart active young woman, who thoroughly understands her business: a small house, and only one in family: washing given out: must have first-class references; good wages given; send copies of discharges to Mrs. G., Lambird Cottage, Thornton Heath.”
The “Mrs. G.” who advertised in these terms was a widow lady, named Gillison, and among those who applied for the situation was Susan Copeland, of the village of Stockbury in the county of Kent. How a copy of the Times happened to arrive in Stockbury, does not appear upon the evidence. But in all probability it had been sent to the Vicar, and the wife of that worthy clergyman, who had an insatiable thirst for the knowledge that is to be obtained from advertisements, came upon this “Want” of Mrs. Gillison, and brought it before the notice of Susan Copeland. Susan was the model villager, the prize-girl of Stockbury, and having served brilliantly as an under nurse to the Vicar’s family, she was now anxious, as the saying goes, “to better herself.” Susan was a tall brown-eyed girl. She affected great simplicity in her dress, wore her hair brushed flat down on her forehead, and in a general way looked more like a Puritan maiden than is customary with the daughters of Kentish farmers. Susan was eighteen years of age, and was engaged to Thomas Ash. As Susan Copeland was the model girl of Stockbury, it was only right that she should become engaged to the model young man. And that young man was Tom. He had secured all the prizes in the Boys’ department, while she had been sedulously engaged in acquiring all the honours from the Girls’. Indeed, these two swooped down upon the prize list, and by reason of their superior attainments and conspicuous virtue swept off all before them.