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Gentleman Chimley's Affair of the Heart

HE door-bell rang once, twice, thrice, and my heart sank within me. Mrs. Gowans, my landlady, put her head in at the door, and caught me in the act of turning down the gas.

"Yer ower late, sir," she said mournfully; "it's ane o' them. I ken their ring."

I knew it was one of them too, and I was not unacquainted with their ring. But, for all that, I lowered the gas. In the first place I feared that Mrs. Gowans's body might follow her head into the room, in which case the semi-darkness might prevent her seeing the bones on the table; and in the second place, if the caller was a Bejeant—the name given at our Scotch Universities to a first year s man, or green-horn, from bec jaune, yellow nib—the darkened window might deceive him. If those "human remains" were observed, I would receive notice to quit "this decent hoose" at once: if Jennie, or Chimley, or Stamford was at the door-bell, pulling it out and in like a concertina, I was lost. Familiarity with my contrivances for pretending I was out when I did not wish to be disturbed, had bred contempt in them. They would ring blandly for an hour, and on the door being at last opened, would walk in as if nothing unusual had happened.

"It's unco hard lines," continued my landlady's head, "that a hard-working student canna be left alane wi' his books by these idle loons. I'se warrant they'll a' be plucked when the examination day comes roond.

I groaned acquiescence. It was not that I feared their being plucked—that was a thing they were used to—but that I dreaded such a calamity for myself. I was "grinding" for my "final," and, though I dared not say so to Mrs. Gowans, was at present studying the subject of stomachs. I was strong in stomachs, but weak in knee-joints.

"You have no idea which of them it is?" I asked despairingly, as the clatter of the bell began again.

"I'm thinking it is just Mr. Chimley then," replied the head, "for it's his ring. You see he stops every five minutes or so, to see if he be na' dirtyin' his gloves, or creasin' his collar, while the majority o' them ca' away withoot intermeession till the door opens."

"Yon mean Chimley the elder, of course," I asked; "not his brother?"

"Ay, ay, Gentleman. Bless ye, sir, if it had been Rags he would ha' been in lang syne. He kicks at the door till some ane opens, and says 'thankee,' and comes in. But Gentleman would never kick a door; it would soil his shoes."

"Supposing now, Mrs. Gowans," I suggested, catching at my last straw, "that you were to tell him I was not, a—well—not at home?"

"Tell a lee, sir! Lor' preserve us a'! I cudna' do that." Then seeing my look of despair—"But mebbe, now, if ye were slippin' doon into the back yard, I cud tell him wi' a clear conscience that ye war na' i' the hoose."

I hesitated. The temptation was considerable, but it was raining heavily, and the back yard had no roof. Besides, the chances were that the visitor would offer to come in and wait.

"Give him another five minutes," I said, "and if he is still there, let him in."

The head retired: I turned up the gas, tied a wet towel round my head, to look as studious as possible, and awaited events.

"How do you do, Smithson?" said Gentleman Chimley, opening my door a few minutes afterwards, and taking me languidly by the hand. "Hope you are well; haven't seen you for some time; I say, old man, what a beastly stench!"

Gentleman looked hurt, as if I had invited him to my rooms, and then served up human bones for his edification. But his remark cheered me rather than otherwise. I remembered that Chimley considered himself sensitive to smells.

"My bones," I remarked pleasantly, "are in rather an advanced state of decomposition."

"Couldn't you chuck them out at the window?" suggested Gentleman, carefully dusting a chair with a handkerchief, and trying its strength before sitting down.

"Fling away my bones!" I exclaimed haughtily. "Let me tell you this, Chimley, that there are at present other bones in this room with a little flesh on them, that I would much rather dispose of in the way you suggest. Fling my bones out at the window, indeed!"

"Fudge!" replied Chimley, making a cushion for his head out of half-a-dozen antimacassars. "I say, Smithson, have you any beer in the house, or claret?"

"No; I don't keep claret, and Jennie and Stamford were up last night, and finished the beer. You will find some whisky in the cupboard, though."

"Hum; thanks. But you should never let yourself run short of claret. Coarse drink, whisky. However, as you say, it is superior to water. Is this your bell? I think that rang. Ah! Mrs. Gowans, some hot water, please, and sugar, and toddy-ladles."

"I hope you'll make yourself at home, Chimley," I said sarcastically, "because I must read for another six hours or so, myself."

"Thanks, I shall; don't mind me."

After that there was silence for a period, only broken at rare intervals by the rustling of the pages of my book, or by the clink of Chimley's toddy-ladle against his glass.

Gentleman was not enjoying his toddy, and I had lost all further appetite for my stomach. The fact was, that I saw something was wrong, and longed for Chimley to enter into explanations. Never before, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had he paid a visit in such dirty gloves, and I was pained, as well as alarmed, to notice a crease in his trousers. Magnificent Chimley—who was currently reported to boil himself down into a liquid every morning, before he could be poured into his tight-fitting garments, and then to sit at an open window until he solidified—with a crease in his trousers! Chimley the exquisite, in whom there was so much less than met the eye, abroad in dirty gloves! Apprehensively I glanced at his collar, but that was spotless. His hair, too, was beautifully pomaded, and there certainly were no wrinkles in his waistcoat. I began to breathe again.

Every few minutes, Gentleman would turn round, as if to address me on some subject of importance, would then apparently think better of it, and retire into his toddy-glass behind the shelter of a platitude. It was not every night that this lordly gentleman, who was well known at the University to be descended, on the father's side, from Adonis, paid me the honour of a visit, and I could only account for his presence in one of three ways. Either he had been plucked again, and wanted sympathy, which I was prepared to give, or he was screwing his courage up on my whisky to the point of asking the loan of some money, which would have been a more serious matter, or it was girls. With Gentleman it was generally girls; but if that was to be his subject to-night, why was he so unusually shy in beginning? This stupid silence was becoming intolerable, so I threw out a feeler.

"Seen that pretty tobacconist girl of late?" I asked carelessly.

Chimley actually dropped his toddy-ladle, as an excuse for getting below the table for a moment. When he appeared with the ladle, his hand trembled so that he had to place both it and his tumbler, on the mantelpiece.

"What pretty tobacconist girl?" he asked defiantly. "You fellows spend so much time at bars and in tobacconists' shops, that you seem to think every one is as familiar with the presiding divinities aa yourselves."

I whistled gently, and leaving my books and bones, came round to look Chimley senior in the face. The miserable humbug blushed like a school-girl, and hung his head.

"What does this mean, Chimley?" I asked sternly. "You know which of our set is most frequently to be met with in bar-rooms, and as for the presiding divinities, as you call them, I wonder what they would say, if they heard Gentleman Chimley talking in this strain? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I don't deny," retorted Chimley, "that I had at one time a—a slight acquaintance with one or two of them; but Smithson, old man, I've—I've given up all that sort of thing. What are you laughing at?"

"At you—you sweet youth! And when did you turn over this new leaf, and how long is it to be before yon turn back again?"

"I've just begun, Smithson, but there is to be no turning back. The fact is, that I consider trifling with barmaids and the like unworthy of a gentleman, and that in future I mean to 'live laborious days,' and pass my 'final' with honours, and all that sort of thing."

"Bravo, my noble Gentleman! let nothing you dismay. But is this remarkable and much-longed-for change in your behaviour, to be traced to the behaviour of the fair Rebecca? I always thought she had a stronger grip of you than the others."

"Rebecca? Others? Sir, what do you mean?" demanded Chimley, trying to brazen it out. But he did not look very defiant.

"Then," I continued remorselessly, "it must be Lucy Rowans, or that cousin of McAinsh's, for I know you have given up Miss Murdoch."

"Smithson," said Gentleman in a low, faltering voice, "those were mere—mere extra little things, but this is a different matter altogether. If you only knew Dimples"

"Dimples!" I exclaimed, "so it is a new one."

"A new one? New what? I tell you. Smithson, she's the loveliest little girl in the world, and I never cared two straws for a woman, until I met her."

"Remember what you said about Lucy not a month ago."

"Lucy, bah!"

"And Miss Mullins." "Bah!"

"And McAinsh's cousin, and the girl in the tobacconist's shop in Frederick Street, and Polly Williams, and—"

"Bah, man, I say, bah."

"Certainly, bah as much as you like, but you can't get out of it in that way. And who is the new comer? I don't suppose she was christened Dimples."

"Oh! no. That is only my pet name for her."

"Oh! ah! I see. Poor fellow, I feel sorry for you, Chimley. And so she is a little girl this time. The others were biggish as a rule, were they not? Well, well, there's nothing like variety."

"I tell you I never cared twopence for any of the others, man, but Dimples, oh, Smithson!"

I lit my pipe, and listened tranquilly while he raved.

No girl ever had such hair as Dimples. It was brown, the colour of tobacco, so far as I could gather, and Dimples had cut it short, like a boy, and Gentleman had scolded her, and she was letting it grow again.

The eyes of Dimples were as saucers, and when Gentleman looked into them he had a view of another and better world. In colour they were blue, and without pretending to be a poet, Chimley compared them to two inland seas, surrounded by beautiful woods. When I asked him where he got the forests, he explained that he was talking of her eyelashes and her eyebrows.

The nose of Dimples was unique. It was Greek, with just sufficient Roman to give it character, and one of the wonderful things about it was that it was always cold. I said that I had noticed the same peculiarity in dogs, but Chimley did not seem to like it

But though the ears of Dimples were suggestive of the tiniest shells that are to be picked up on the sea-shore, and her lips were too exquisite to be spoken of, her smile was, upon the whole, the most wonderful thing about Dimples. It was so divine, that it brought tears into Chimley's eyes, and put the very sunshine to shame.

As for the figure of Dimples, Chimley could not describe it to me, because there was nothing in the world that could be compared to it. Gentleman even knew the exact size of her foot, having got it I suppose, from her bootmaker.

When he had ultimately run down, I found a pipe for Chimley, and we sat by the fire and smoked long after the family of Gowans had retired to rest. There was no speaking however, for I was lost in thought, and Chimley was, no doubt, meditating over Dimples's chin. I had almost forgotten to say that she had the most bewitching little chin that had ever come within the range of Chimley's observation.

Forgetting for the moment that the subject of my thoughts was at my elbow, I at last exclaimed aloud—

"Poor fellow! poor fellow!"

"Eh! what is that you are saying?" asked Chimley starting to his feet and laying down his pipe.

"No offence, Chimley, I—ah—I—hem, of course, I wasn't thinking of you."

"I should think not, indeed. Why, Smithson, I'm the happiest man alive."

"Yes, I know of course you are for the present, but— hang it, there you are misunderstanding me again, Gentleman. What I meant to say, if you wouldn't snap me up in that offensive way, is that I should like to know Dimples." I said this, meaning to flatter the fellow, but what does he do but get up in a rage at me for daring to talk of the young lady so familiarly.

"You will be so good as to call her Miss Ventnor in my presence at all events," he directed me, and did not even offer to apologize when I reminded him that I had not until now, known what her name was.

We had another pipe, and then Chimley volunteered more news.

"Man," he began sententiously and holding his head very high, "man was not meant to live alone."

"No," I answered, with my pipe in my mouth and determined to agree to whatever poor Chimley said, "he always shows better in company." Gentleman scrutinised me narrowly, as if doubtful whether I were not "chafing" him. Then he resumed.

"Don't be surprised Smithson, but the fact is, we are engaged!"

I was not at all surprised, and Chimley must have seen it.

"Really engaged, you know," he explained, "not like the other engagements. We are to be married in a week or two."

This looked more serious.

"May I ask," I said, "how long you have known Dimp—I mean, Miss Ventnor?"

"I met her at Mrs. Green's dance last Thursday," answered Chimley defiantly, "and I've seen her every day since."

"Rather smart work, isn't it?"

"Ah, Smithson, you don't understand what a rapid worker love is. He achieves his ends in a moment of time. At ten o'clock you are fancy free; at half past, or even at a quarter past, it may be all up with you."

"So I have been led to understand, indeed, if I remember aright, you told me of this at the time you meditated leading Miss Robbins to the altar."

"Oh, I was a boy then. That was years ago."

"Yes, it was last June."

"There's no use talking to you Smithson. You're such a cynical brute."

"Perhaps, but, by the way, seeing the wedding is on the eve of taking place, you have doubtless dropped a line to your dear parents acquainting them with the state of affairs? They might like to know."

"I mean to write to them on the subject—to-morrow," said Chimley, rising and putting on his coat.

"And Miss Dim— I mean Miss Ventnor's parents?"

"She lives with her aunt."

"Ah, then I suppose the aunt is to be told—to-morrow, too?"

"Certainly; is there any thing else you would like to know?"

"Well, seeing you are so obliging, Chimley, I venture to ask whether you mean to continue your studies at the university after the—hum—the wedding has taken place, also whether you have yet taken a nice little villa, also"—

Here Gentleman interposed anxiously.

"That reminds me, Smithson, of the only point on which Dimples and I have disagreed. The house I mean. You see she would like enough garden to grow our own vegetables, while I think a house in a street, with a main door, of course—"

"Heaven help you, Gentleman" I said, putting his hat on his head and leading him gently to the door, "for I see you are too far gone for me!"

I lit a match and gave it to him to guide him downstairs, but he neglected it so completely for Dimples, that it indignantly went out. When he had got half way down, he stopped and called to me.

"Smithson, I don't think I told you about her hands."

"Yes you did. Good night."

"Did I tell you that her chin—"

"Yes, yes; oh, go home to bed!"

I slammed the door, and was putting on the chain, when I heard the unfortunate wretch re-ascending the stair.

"Are you there, Smithson?" he whispered through the keyhole.

"I'm here," I answered, "but I don't mean to open the door again."

"That is all right. I don't want you to, but it has just struck me, that when you meet Dimples you needn't say anything about—about the others, you know. She might take it up wrong you see, and that might lead to trouble."

"So it might, Chimley, but you may depend on me. Good night."

So saying I retired to my room to smoke Dimples's hair and drink her smile, and sometimes I caught myself saying "Poor Dimples!" and at other times "Poor Chimley."

Two weeks passed, during which time my eyes were never allowed the privilege of feasting themselves on Gentleman Chimley's fair exterior. Strictly speaking, he should have been in attendance at the same lectures as myself every day; but in winter the class-rooms were too cold far Chimley senior, and in summer they were too hot. Had it not been for this unfortunate circumstance, and for his fatal habit of falling asleep when he opened a book, it was generally believed that he might have been a diligent and even brilliant student.

As it was, he manfully resigned himself to his fate, and appeased a conscience that was not especially lively, by looking in at a class-room door occasionally, when he chanced to be passing that way.

Gentleman had been plucked oftener than any other man of his year, but as he happened to know that the professors had a spite against him, he bore the misfortune with a Christian fortitude. When pressed on the subject of plucking, he hinted that he rather liked it than otherwise, though it tended to become monotonous.

It soon became known in our "set" that poor Chimley had "gone wrong" again, that being the recognized phrase for love-making, and he was not treated with that consideration which his perilous condition seemed to call for.

When McAinsh was informed that Gentleman was "engaged," he brutally remarked in the poor wretch's hearing that it "served him right;" and Jennie, who, despite his name, was of the masculine gender, requested to be immediately informed when Gentleman was not engaged, but not to be told when he was. That Chimley senior was engaged nine months in the twelve, was accepted as a matter of course; but for all that, it was perhaps rather cruel to talk of the only girl he ever loved, as his pro tem.

"There go Chimley and his lastest temporary engagement," Jennie is reported to have remarked on passing the betailored Gentleman in Princes Street, with the beautiful Dimples on his arm.

"Lost in admiration of each other," added Sandilands.

"No, of Chimley," corrected Jennie.

I was not of the company, however, and thus missed my opportunity of meeting the lady who had at last taken permanent possession of Gentleman's capacious heart.

"So you have seen Gentleman's 'blue-eyed darling?'" I remarked to Jennie one night when he had assailed my fortress in search of tobacco and company. Be it parenthetically observed that Chimley had rashly admitted, under the influence of beer, that Dimples was his "blue-eyed darling."

From that time, when his hard-hearted friends referred to the "blue-eyed darling," they sometimes were speaking of Dimples and sometimes of Dimples's lover. I was above all that sort of thing, but for the moment their evil communications would corrupt my unexceptionable manners.

"Yes," Jennie admitted. "Sandilands and I passed them in Princes Street, but the contemptible cad did not offer to introduce us. As if we wanted to know his precious Dimples!"

"Looked a very loving couple, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; sickeningly so."

"Pretty girl?"

"Ya-as, rather."

"Gentleman says she's the bonniest wee lassie that ever covered her wings with sealskin, and pretended she was not more than human."

Jennie sneered.

"Very likely; but then Gentleman does not know a pretty girl when he sees one."

"Hum" I said, "it's the one subject I give Gentleman credit for being able to pass an examination in."

Jennie removed his legs from the table and rested his feet gracefully, yet with a certain ease, upon the mantelpiece.

"You're rather a duffer, Smithson," he remarked in his engaging way, "but though you're certainly not the kind of man for a girl to fall in love with; I think you have sufficient sense to admit that there are different styles of women."

"Quite so."

"For instance," continued Jennie, warming to the discussion, and perhaps forgetting that I was not a debating society; "there is the fine woman! Now, what do we mean by a fine woman?

Jennie intended answering this question himself, but I was too smart for him.

"Well, every one knows what a fine woman is. A fine woman is a handsome woman, and a handsome woman is, well, a handsome woman is biggish, and carries her head high and thinks a deal of herself

"Oh, they all do that. It is the badge of the sex."

"Then the handsome woman is manly rather, and sometimes carries a walking stick; and her hair and eyes are usually black, and she has a temper. As for her—well, of course—and so on—that, in a word, is what we mean by a fine woman."

"Can't say I admire your definitions, young man, but then, I never did. However, we may for the moment accept that as an imperfect description of the species, fine woman. Let ns now turn our attention to the species, little girl. Broadly making, all physically beautiful women—and there are none I need hardly remark, morally beautiful—fall under one or other of these two heads. The little girl is, or ought to be, a blonde with pretty baby ways—all simulated—the smaller she is, the more dangerous, and she goes through the various stages of the defiant, the humble, the soothing, the sweet and soft, the sour and hard, the fascinating and the maddening quicker than if she were an express train. When you meet her first, she is all sunshine and looks as if she would gladly die if you would let her do it in your arms; but once she feels she has a grip of you, she is as cruel as the grave. 'Ware mad dogs and little girls."

"I am told." I said diffidently, "that all little girls are shallow-brained and deceptive."

"Yes: and that is also a distinguishing feature of the fine woman."

"Well, one satisfactory thing for Chimley is that as Dimples is a little thing, she will be the more easily kept in order."

"You are a simpleton, Smithson. Why the whole strength of a woman lies in her weakness; but what I was going to say is that Gentleman only showed his ignorance of the sex when he called Dimples a wee lassie. She's what I call a very fine woman."

I took my pipe out of my mouth, and looked anxiously at Jennie. There seemed something wrong here.

"Hair the colour of tobacco," I explained, but interrogatively, "eyes large and blue: feet barely visible to the naked eye, hands the size of a child's, figure rounded but petite, general effect, that of an infant in her mothers frock?"

"Fudge, man, that isn't Dimples at all. You must be thinking of some other person. Hair black, eyes also dark, figure tall and commanding, hands and feet in proportion, general effect, that of a young gentleman masquerading in his sisters clothes."

If I had not with singular presence of mind lifted my tumbler to my lips, I am under the impression that I should there and then have fainted.

"Jennie," I said sadly, "it seems to me that there is more in this than meets the eye. It wasn't Dimples that you saw with Chimley."

Perhaps not. Ionly [sic] supposed it was from what you said. How long is it since the deceiver unburdened himself to you?"

"Let me see. It must be nearly three weeks, I should think."

"Three weeks! Bless you, Smithson, Chimley will have forgotten whether it was Dimples or Pimples he called her, by this time. He changes them fortnightly—with his neck-ties."

I groaned, but I could say no more. The suspicion of Gentleman's faithlessness to Dimples, had come upon me with crushing effect.

"You are quite sure she wasn't a little girl," I said to Jennie, when he finally intimated bis intention of departing.

"A little girl," answered the experienced cynic grimly. "Certainly not; she was a very fine woman."

"A lady asking for me, Mrs. Growans? Bless me, that is very extraordinary."

Involuntarily my hand went up to my necktie. The old one, of course. Just my luck!

In her excitement Mrs. Gowans had allowed half of her body to follow her head into the room. That, too, was extraordinary. She now looked at me suspiciously, as who should say I was not acting positively on the square.

But I was. A lady! And the shades of night were beginning to fall. Smithson, Smithson, you dog, who would have thought it of you? It is a miserable confession to have to make, but I swear that I trembled so, that Mrs. Gowans could hardly hear me tell her to show the young lady in. Young lady? Did my landlady say she was young though?

Pull yourself together, Smithson. She comes, she comes. Listen to her foot in the passage. What a contrast to the tread of Mrs. Gowans! The lamb frisking at my door with an elephant. The door was opened by my landlady, who shoved something inside and banged it to. Like all good women, Mrs. Gowans was suspicious of her sisters.

Sisters, did I say? Of course I meant daughters, granddaughters, great granddaughters.

"How do you do?" I said politely, advancing to shake hands with my visitor and stopping half way. "Is there anything I can do for you—I mean won't you chake a tair,—tuts—take a chair?"

I paused here, under the impression that it was now time for her to take a share in the conversation.

She turned her eyes on me, and the effect was as when in a dark room you turn up the gas.

Then she smiled, and with the greatest self-possession I got to the other side of the table. Otherwise, there is no doubt I would have kissed her at once. All that doth become a man I dare do, but one must draw the line somewhere.

"I know," she faltered, "you must think it very rude in me to come here in this unexpected manner but Mr.—Mr. Chimley—"you are his friend, and—and"

Of course it was Dimples; instinct had told me so from the first, or if not instinct, the tobacco-coloured hair and the saucer eyes and the nose that was unique.

Merciful heavens! it was Dimples, and her eyes were full of tears—blessed tears!

I saw it all. That mean, low-minded, fickle, contemptible cad, Gentleman Chimley, had been seen with his "fine woman" by others than Jennie, and this poor little girl was broken-hearted. She had heard Chimley speak of me as his friend (henceforth, Chimley senior, we are strangers), and had come to make me the receptacle of her woes. What could be more natural? Nothing. We would grieve together over the faithlessness of this wretch, who was not fit to be a Raleigh's cloak to the sweet little angel; we would hold each other a hands and sob, or she would sob and I would hold her hand. I would wipe the pretty tears away when they bubbled over the saucers' edge; we would be to each other as brother and sister, and Dimples would sob herself to rest on my sympathetic bosom.

"Surprised to see you, Miss Dim—I mean Miss Ventnor!" I exclaimed in an aggrieved tone. "On the contrary, I am not only very delighted to have the honour of this visit from you, but understand well why you have seen fit to make it, Dlmp—ah—now, Miss Ventnor, I know all, everything, and entirely approve of your procedure. What will you have to drink?"

My luck again! Of course I should never have asked her that, but she was the only representative of her sex who had visited me for months, and it was such a natural question. It was what I always said after I had shaken hands with my male visitors, and they always took it as a matter of course.

I have already said that Dimples was an angel, and here is the proof of it, though if you had seen her, you would never have thought of asking for proof. Well, instead of starting to her little feet, drawing up her little body to its full height—I don't know how many inches high Dimples was—and saying "Sir!"—which is what your fine women would have done—she smiled through her tears, told me I was very kind, and said that as she had run part of the way, she would like a glass of water.

Water! For the moment I could not remember what it was. It had never been asked for in my rooms before, but I knew it was used for other than drinking purposes.

Dimples got her water, which she sipped daintily, as if afraid to intoxicate herself, looking at me the while over the top of her tumbler with a trusting, childish gaze that was either very artful or very simple, or both.

"If you know all, Mr. Smithson," she said eagerly, "you do not require to be told what I came to see you. I was so afraid you would think me dreadful."

I smiled. The idea of any one's thinking Dimples dreadful, was provocative of mirth.

"Yes, I know everything," I answered confidently, and I can assure you that if any words of mine will bring the cowardly, woefully blind, and utterly caddish Chimley to his senses"

Dimples pulled her handkerchief from her pocket.

"Oh, please don't call dear Gentleman names!" she exclaimed, quivering with emotion.

Dear Gentleman! Could it be that I was on the wrong tack?

"Can it be?" I asked her sadly, "that you love him after this (after what, I hadn't the least idea, but one had to say something) as much as ever?"

"Oh," she moaned, "I like him very much as a brother, you know; but he—he loves me madly; and I—I thought I loved him, and now I find that Mr.—Mr. Barbour is the man I really love, and I'm very miserable. I know I'm going to die!"

So after all it was six of the one and half a dozen of the other! Gentleman Chimley was to get a Roland for his Oliver.

If Dimples had not been such a little thing, I would have put her out of the house. As it was, I shook my head at her and tried to think of a suitable Biblical quotation.

"So I am to understand," I said severely, "that you are now desirous that your engagement with my friend, Mr. Chimley, should come to an end? Furthermore, that I am requested to break the news to him?"

"You know that it was all a mistake," faltered Dimples. "I really thought I loved him at the time."

"Hum," I said grimly. "I hardly think that can be looked upon as an extenuating circumstance."

"I know I'm very wicked," Dimples answered, with considerable cheerfulness.

"And have you fully considered," I asked sternly, "what may be the effect of this announcement upon the sensitive nature of my dear and much valued friend, Chimley? Ah, Miss Ventnor, when I think of that proud and loving spirit crushed to the dust by the fell announcement, I admit that I take upon me the duty of disclosing your sentiments to him with a strange repugnance."

For an extempore thing, I thought it rather pretty at the time, and it had a great effect on Dimples.

"It will kill him," she cried wildly, "it will kill him! Oh, how I wish I was in my grave!"

"No," I said calmly, "it will not kill him. But the effect will be terrible and lasting. The Chimley of the present is a bright merry youth of various parts, on whom the sun has so far shone with unwonted brightness. Henceforth that sun will be behind a cloud. The nature of Gentleman is trustful, he has no experience of deceit, he has always looked upon the world as a scene of happiness and honour and virtue. Such was the Chimley of yesterday. The Chimley of to-morrow will be a recluse, a misanthrope; he will hate the sight of his fellow-creatures; he will fly to some distant clime to lead a solitary life and brood over the days that are no more, and the girl that enticed him to his doom. Ah, Dimples, Dimples" (in the hurry and excitement I thought I would risk it, and she never noticed), "a terrible responsibility rests on the shoulders of the girl who wins for herself a good man's love, and then flings it at his feet. Chimley is not a man to give his affection lightly to any woman, but once she has it, it is hers for ever. I, his friend, know that you were the only girl he ever loved."

How I wished I could have put it on like that at the Debating Society. Here was real eloquence. Poor Dimples! no wonder the tears were streaming down her cheeks. I was almost crying myself.

"I know it, I know it!" she exclaimed, in a heart-broken voice, "dear, dear Gentleman, he told me himself that he had never looked at any girl until he met me."

"He did—the miserable liar!" I ejaculated, though Dimples did not catch my words.

A&er that I had no more pity for Chimley; I assured Dimples that I would make it all right; and when I parted with her at her aunt's door, where I had insisted on convoying her, the only person in the world I really loathed was Mr. Barbour.

"The question," said Gentleman Chimley, thoughtfully, after he had given me a piece of his mind for not being able to supply him with cigars, "the question is, can a man be engaged to two girls at once?"

"He can, but he oughtn't," I answered briefly. Evidently, Gentleman was coming rapidly to the point.

It was the day following that on which I had been visited by Dimples, and Chimley had walked into my parlour without being sent for. I had not broached the little matter of the engagement, however, and the last thing in the world that Chimley could have been thinking of was, that the bonny head of Dimples had a few hours before graced the back of the chair in which he now elegantly sprawled.

"1 don't see that at all," he answered, anxiously.

"A man," I said, magisterially, "has no more right to have two sweethearts than to have two wives."

"On the contrary," retorted Chimley, who had evidently been thinking the matter out, "a man has as much right to have two sweethearts, as to have two coats."

The argument was too poor to call for answer, so I smoked on in silence.

"I have an idea," said Gentleman, nervously, "that a few weeks ago I mentioned—in the course of conversation—that I had made the acquaintance of a Miss Ventnor."

"I calculate that is so," I answered, amazed at Chimley's audacity; "and not only that. You also mentioned in the course of conversation that she was the only girl you ever loved, that you were engaged, and that the wedding was only being deferred until you had fixed upon a suitable house."

I spoke in cold measured tones, and Gentleman saw that the game was up. He laid down his pipe, crossed his legs, uncrossed them again, and tried to look the image of r [sic].

"Smithson," he said, "since we came up to college, you and I have been more like brothers than mere friends. That being so, I come to you in my hour of trouble, asking for that sympathy and assistance which I know you are so ready to give."

The hypocrite!

"I don't know what you are talking about," I replied, though I had really a very fair idea.

"Dimples," said Gentleman tragically, "Dimples will be the death of me!"

"How?" I asked innocently, "has she jilted you?"

"Jilted me? No, indeed! The dear little woman is as true as steel; but the fact is, Smithson, that when I saw you last I misunderstood my feeling. I shall always feel like a brother to Dimples; but as for marriage, you see Smithson—well, marriage is a serious matter; and—and I'm not through my exams yet."

Chimley's eloquence failed him here, and I kindly came to the rescue.

"And you were seen in Princes street the other day with another one!"

Chimley blushed.

"That was Katie," he said, "but I only met her by accident; and dash it all, a fellow can't give up speaking to every girl he knows because he is engaged. What are you grinning there for?"

"But what is it you want me to do," I asked.

"Well, seeing that you and I are such old friends, and that it would be rather awkward for me to explain how things are—she is such an impulsive thing, too—I thought you might call and tell her that though I shall never forget her; shall, indeed, always think of her with feelings of affection; yet this is a cruel world, and it seems better on the whole that we should not meet again."

Gentleman Chimley tried to look like a man as he spoke, but with scant success. The opportunity, however, was a glorious one for me. I rose, and stood upon the hearthrug.

"Gentleman, Gentleman," I said solemnly, "and has it come to this? You make use of all your arts to draw an innocent little girl into an attachment for you; you twist yourself round her very heart, the mention of your name makes her blush, your footstep is rapture, her heart beats as she looks upon you approaching her door; in you she lives and moves, and has her being. And then when she is head over ears in love with you, and feels that life is only fair because of your love for her, you fling her over. Gentleman, I'm ashamed of you; I wash my hands of you; get thee hence, away, away!"

Ohimley groaned.

"Go on," he said, don't spare me, I deserve it all. I'm a brute—I know it—a cur, and shall never get over the shock. I'm the only man she cared two straws for, and I have all her girlish affection. She hasn't even a fraction of love to give to any other person. She told me so herself."

"The lying little baggage!" I inwardly exclaimed. But I was not yet done with Chimley. He was now playing mouse to my cat.

"But let us," I reasoned, "put aside the fact that your heartless desertion will probably break Dimples's heart; and there are still other considerations to be taken into account. Has it ever struck you, friend Chimley, that there is such a thing as breach of promise?"

Gentleman moved uneasily in his chair.

"She's not the sort of girl to bring a fellow up," he murmured, but somewhat apprehensively.

"That's all you know, Chimley. I'm sorry to alarm you, bat I was talking over the subject with Jennie lately, and we both came to the conclusion that the smaller the girl the more dangerous."

Chimley groaned.

"And what is more," I continued, "I happen to have a friend, a lawyer, who is fond of gathering statistics, and he tells me that rather more than seventy per cent. of the breach of promise cases are instituted by little women with light brown hair and big eyes. They have a way of getting round juries that is simply incredible, especially if they cry easily. For your sake, Gentleman, I earnestly hope that Dimples isn't the kind of girl whose eyes fill readily with tears. That means another five hundred pounds to the damages."

"Oh, Smithson!" poor Chimley (groaned, "it's all up with me! That is exactly the sort of girl she is."

"I'm afraid it is a bad case, then," I said slowly, "but you mustn't break down in this way, Gentleman. I'll call upon Dimples with pleasure—I mean I shall render you what assistance I can give with pleasure; and if the worst comes to the worst, I daresay your father will tide you through your difficulty. It will hardly be a matter of over a thousand pounds, exclusive of expenses."

Poor, broken-down Chimley! I had to take him home.

I did call on Dimples, and I remained to lunch, but all I told her was that I thought Chimley would forgive her in time. I told Gentleman I had interviewed Dimples, and that though she was terribly upset, there seemed a possibility of her recovering. Thus it was, that nearly a whole month elapsed before the two met at the house of a friend. They were exceedingly polite; but when they parted they looked fixedly into each other's eyes, and there read many things that were unseen by the vulgar.

"Dear Gentleman," murmured Dimples to her looking-glass, "how he loves me! Will he never forget?"

Then she put her ruffles right, and returned to the drawing-room.

"Poor little girl," said Chimley, as he descended the stairs, "I'm afraid she has been hard hit. I must be more careful."

title: Gentleman Chimley's Affair of the Heart


text: Talk:Gentleman Chimley's Affair of the Heart

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/355

104 the day, and was active in all. His children grew up around him, a family of lovely daughters, and talented and upright sons ; and at forty-five no man in his native town perhaps enjoyed such uninterrupted felicity. Sickness and sorrow had fallen lightly on his household ; and the partner of his life seemed still, to his eyes, as beautiful as on the morning when she became his bride.

And what was the fate of Thurston ? A moment we will return to him, ere we dismiss him forever. Grown old and querulous ; deserted by his former friends ; and neglected in sickness by his own servants, he lingered on for months, tortured by disease, and stung by the reflection that his wealth would go to persons who felt for him no affection. He died alone in his bed ; and ere his body was cold his nurse had pilfered his most valuable jewels and disappeared.

THE BROTHERS. BY ISABELLA MACFARLANE.

On! there are scenes on life's broad stage enacting, More strange and sad than aught that Fancy weaves, A passing tribute from some harp exacting, Ev'n though, like song, no lasting sound it leaves.

Then wake my harp ! and let thy sounding numbers, How rude soe'er the touch that bids them swell ; Awhile leave Fancy to her airy slumbers, A tale of stern Reality to tell.

There were two brothers, who in youth had parted, And far diverse their paths in life had been ; On Wealth's uncertain chase they both had started, And each for it had ta'en a different scene.

In the unthinking days of joyous childhood, Like one in heart and life those two had grown ; Together they had ranged by stream and wild wood, Together every joy and care had known.

But still they parted-and long years flew o'er them In which they heard not of each other's fate ; New scenes, new friends, new pleasures spread before them, And dulled their hearts to love of ancient date.

Yet often did they think of one another, Alike in Fortune's frown, and in her smile, And each, to meet with his long-parted brother, Had gladly traveled many a weary mile.

At last they met but oh ! unthinking mortals ! How would your happiest hours embittered be, If dark Futurity should ope her portals, And show the scenes that you in life may see !

How met they ?-stretched upon a bed of sickness, Within a Lazar-house a man did lie ; The blood coursed through his veins with fever's quickness, And death was seated in his hollow eye.

And all around the gloomy house of sorrow, In different stages of the fell disease, Lay wretches, telling o'er each sad to-morrow, Writhing in pangs that knew no moment's case.

And one was brought, who had but just been taken, And placed near by this spent and dying man ; His hopes of life were not yet wholly shaken Hope ever lives as long as live she can!

The dying man looked round the mournful chamber, The stranger at the self-same moment gazed, And their eyes met-ah! well did each remember, Though changed, each pallid face that then was raised!

"And can it be ?-my brother ! oh ! my brother! After our long, long parting meet we thus? Death's hand is on us both !-he comes to smother Our breath when it had been most sweet to us."

" Oh, God ! oh, God ! and have we widely wandered So long, and only met to part for ever! One day- one hour- of all that I have squandered, Give back, oh Time, before my life-strings sever!"

Thus spake the one whose sands of life were numbered, The other groaned in grief too deep for words All the fond feelings that so long had slumbered, Gushed o'er his heart and strained its inmost chords.

He would have risen, but his strength had failed him, And, feeble as an infant, back he fell ; His brother knew the feelings that assailed him— He saw the movement, and he read it well.

And- oh! the wondrous power of strong affection! The man who lay almost in death's embrace, With strength that with the earth had no connexion; Arose, and crossed the intervening space.

And fell upon his brother's neck, and pressed him With straining clasp to his wild-throbbing heart; Kissed his pale lips, and tenderly caressed him With all affection's fond endearing art.

They wound their feeble arms about each other, And sank together on the lowly bed, And there they found them, brother locked to brother, Some moments after, motionless and-dead !

Yes ! they were dead !-the heart's wild agitation Had in the newly-smitten one forestalled Diseases' dark and terrible probation , And without pain his spirit disenthralled.

And they died happy : had they sadly perished Apart, and neither known the other's fate, Would not the hope deferred, yet fondly cherished, Than e'en such death have been a heavier weight?

And was it Chance that thus in death connected The parted brothers ? Oh ! believe it not! God's guiding hand their wandering steps directed, That they might know He watched their changeful lot!*


text: Talk:With the Highland Smugglers

title: Talk:With the Highland Smugglers


text:
With the Highland Smugglers

OOKING around him from a ramshackle, ungainly fishing boat off Shieldaig, in Ross-shire, one cannot avoid the feeling (unless he belongs to the preventive staff) that, so long as there are Loch Torridons, it is fit and proper that there should be smugglers. They are complement and supplement. The loch, as easily roused to violence as a passionate man, lies dark and threatening between ragged shores, the ground around being appropriately wet and boggy. Every facility for distillation, with the exception of the utensils themselves, abounds in the district—from in a wilderness of marsh to streams and springs—and there has never been a lack of smugglers. The ghosts of the fraternity are said to come from all quarters to haunt the gloomy loch.

There was much talk of an expected raid by the Jeantown "gaugers" the day we touched at Deabeag and Torridon; and on the steamer we were unanimous that the smuggler's chief difficulties in so bleak a district would be in getting his malt and barley and disposing of the surplus whisky. It had not struck us that we had the malt and barley with us in the vessel when we entered the loch, and that the whisky would probably be on board when we steamed out of it.

It was a cold, calm night when the search party—consisting of the officers and myself, a ready volunteer-crowed out cautiously, but with vigour, from near Shieldaig, to make a scrutiny of the northern side of the loch. The secrecy with which I had expected the expedition to be conducted was altogether wanting, many of the natives sharing my expectation of a sensational adventure, and a few genially accompanying us to the place of embarkation. Such publicity was apparently unavoidable, owing to the familiarity of the people with the faces of the officers, and the fact that the latter had to borrow or take forcible possession of whatever boats they used. It is a far cry—as the Government will perhaps in time discover—from Loch Torridon to Gairloch and Jeantown, the nearest stations.

A little labour would convert some of the wave-washed jutties of Loch Torridon into very passable piers for small boats; but the men of Ross launch their clumsy cockleshells from the most inconvenient places, and when one is a gauger in the Highlands he finds it advisable to conform to Highland customs. The officers waded through the shallow water to the boat, rather than waste a few minutes in bringing it up to the rocks; and, with a dubious glance at my elegant knickerbockers, I prepared to follow them. Suddenly a strong arm pressed my waist, and the next moment I was flung heavily rather than carried into the boat.

The officers pushed off without a word, but there was a laugh from the shore, where I saw the strong man the centre of an admiring group. I subsequently learned that this slovenly, hulking giant was one of the most notorious poachers in the district (albeit a native of Skye), and consequently presume that he was on this occasion striking at his natural enemies through their friend.

Mooring our boat at a point where the loch takes a sudden and (from the seaman's point view) ugly turn, we struck off from it at right angles, and fought our way briskly up a barn side. No other word would sufficiently suggest the difficulties in our path, for at first the war was barred by jagged rocks—most deceptive of objects on a moonlight night—over which we stumbled and fell; and we only left these behind us to plunge recklessly into a soaking morass. From the first it was a night of disappointments. So long as we believed ourselves on the smugglers' track, a scratched knee or a tumble into a bog was borne cheerily; but the moment the gaugers began to feel that they had fallen into a trap, our wet boots grew heavy as lead, and stuck, clammy and sodden, in the yielding marsh.

The officers had received apparently valuable information to the effect that a bothy was in active work on the opposite shore; but though we had no difficulty in discovering the bothy, which was already known to the gaugers by repute, a cursory examination showed plainly that distillation there was a thing of the remote past. Once again the natives, though reputed honest enough folk themselves, had proved their sympathy with the smugglers by purposely misleading the gauger. My companions grumbled and ground their teeth with vexation.

During the greater part of the day they had been engaged in an unsuccessful search over the famous smuggling ground around Shieldaig; and it was gall and wormwood to think that they had now fallen into a trap on the one side of the island while the process of distillation was doubtless in full swing on the other. There was a stampede to the place where we had disembarked, and a roar of mingled rage and anguish when we found that the boat had been removed. Even the Mark Tapley of the party hung his head, and all that I could suggest was that we might yet lay hold of another boat.

"Yes," a gauger growled, sulkily seating himself on a stone, "if you can run across for it to Shieldaig."

No certain lights were visible in the distant hamlets, but the stars were out and the placid loch regarded us with a thousand alluring eyes. All else was black and indistinct, the further side of the loch swallowed up in the rocky coast that loomed in strong shadow straight in front now almost overhanging us till we shrank back in dread, the next moment but a dim cloud joining earth with heaven.

Strange were the tricks imagination played even the practical officers of the preventive staff. In the eerie stillness of the night one of them maintained that the jeering laugh of the smugglers was carried to him across the loch; and the lights of heaven were taken for candles burning in the bothy. But by the footsore and weary gauger, depressed with much tramping, a hard stone tends to become a pillow, and to sleep by the edge of Loch Torridon through a cold night, is more perilous than a brush with smugglers. We rose wearily, and set out for a cluster of houses, supposed to lie on the shore of the loch a few miles further inland. There was just a possibility of our contriving to seize a boat there and recross the loch, otherwise our search was over for the night.

So quiet was the neighbourhood when we left the shore to thread our way along the drier knolls of the boggy ground, that the winding up of my watch caused the ganger in advance to call a stop, and such the nervous state into which the unusual circumstances had flung me, that with the others I stood for a moment on the defensive. A scowl passed from one face to another as the cause of alarm was made known, after which we resumed our journey.

The district is strongly, and my friends, except in the matter of illicit distillation, were imbued with local sympathies. Though all hope of effecting a seizure had gone from us, habit made them drop their voices, when they favoured me with reminiscences of their smartness, to a whisper, and nothing short of the name of Robertson Smith could electrify them into fervent ejaculations and stormy action. But the Robertson Smith heresy case had pursued me since I crossed the border, and firmly but calmly I turned the conversation into a less worn channel.

Smuggling, I learned, was still a favourite pursuit in the north-west highlands, and the night's experience no bad sample of the trials and disappointments with which the ganger had to contend, seizures are not infrequent; but a lonely loch like Torridon, with its marshes, burns, and crevices, all difficult of access, will never be swept clear of smugglers so long as the nearest stations are at Jeantown and Gairloch (as is still the case). A ganger settled at Shieldaig would doubtless be able to crush the trade underfoot; but at present the authorities are satisfied when their knives cut the nettle level with the ground. No attempt has as yet been made to root it up. But although illicit distillation is still carried on briskly, and there are in the district, it is in but a small way. The glory of the trade departed with the opening up of the Highlands; and the impecunious, slovenly smuggler of to-day, running from his squalid shieling with a whisky cask in his band, the ganger at his uncovered heels, resembles as little the armed hordes of powerful Highlanders that used contemptuously to hustle the representatives of the law out of their way, as the whining Scotch tinker recalls the Eddie Ochiltrees of the gaberlunzie period.

Hie stones of still-heads found buried in marshes, and artful passages beneath apparently disused bothies, were well enough; but it was a dismal, fatiguing trudge nevertheless—our earlier experience of the bog ten times intensified. Thinly-shod for such delving, I had been specially glad to leave the rocks and stones; but my boots "cheeped" and clung to the softer soil like a boy's sucker. Part of our route lay through a moss than can be best described as an expanse of shallow black water, dotted with tiny tufts of grass; and it was along the latter that we had to jump rather than stride our way. A more tiresome journey could not be imagined, our feet every other minute slipping into the water, whence they were not always withdrawn without a muttered oath, and firm ground was not reached before I had left my pipe behind me in the bog as a trifling and much regretted souvenir. Before we arrived at the nearest shieling, where we were welcomed with true Highland hospitality, we noted without complacency our boat riding quietly at anchor in the loch, bereft, of course, of its oars. The sight was not a pleasant one for my companions, who were sensitive to ridicule; but they slept, nevertheless, the sound sleep of the weary baffled.

Next day I struck Torridon and departed overland for Auchnasheen, leaving the officers to try their luck on the other side of the loch alone. Curiously enough, I afterwards heard that their only important seizure was made unusually far inland, on the north side after all.

title: With the Highland Smugglers


text:
Page:The Works of H G Wells Volume 9.pdf/427

 tion of a feudal nobility, then a definite great mercantile class, then a large self-respecting middle class of professional men, minor merchants, and so forth, then a new industrial class of employees in the manufacturing and urban districts, and a peasant population rooted to the land. There are, of course, many local modifications of this form: in France the nobility is mostly expropriated; in England, since the days of John Bull, the peasant has lost his common rights and his holding, and become an "agricultural labourer" to a newer class of more extensive farmer. But these are differences in detail; the fact of the organisation, and the still more important fact of the traditional feeling of organisation, remain true of all these older communities.

And in nearly every European country, though it may be somewhat despoiled here and shorn of exclusive predominance there, or represented by a dislocated "reformed" member, is the Church, custodian of a great moral tradition, closely associated with the national universities and the organisation of national thought. The typical European town has its castle or great house, its cathedral or church, its middle-class and lower-class quarters. Five miles off one can see that the American town is on an entirely different plan. In his remarkable "American Scene," Mr. Henry James calls attention to the fact that the Church as one sees it and feels it universally in Europe is altogether absent, and he adds a comment as suggestive as it is vague. Speaking of the appearance of the churches, so far as they do appear amidst American urban scenery, he says: