Read Ebook: Die Eiks von Eichen: Roman aus einer Kleinstadt by Rose Felicitas

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1495 lines and 60421 words, and 30 pages

THE SIMPKINS PLOT

G. A. Birmingham

T. Nelson & Sons London and Edinburgh Paris: 189, rue Saint-Jacques Leipzig: 35-37 K?ningstrasse

R. H.

IN MEMORY OF MANY SUMMER EVENINGS WHEN WE DRIFTED HOME, UNTROUBLED BY THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF SIMPKINS.

THE SIMPKINS PLOT.

The platform at Euston was crowded, and the porters' barrows piled high with luggage. During the last week in July the Irish mail carries a heavy load of passengers, and for the twenty minutes before its departure people are busy endeavouring to secure their own comfort and the safety of their belongings. There are schoolboys, with portmanteaux, play-boxes, and hand-bags, escaping home for the summer holidays. There are sportsmen, eager members of the Stock Exchange or keen lawyers, on their way to Donegal or Clare for fishing. There are tourists, the holders of tickets which promise them a round of visits to famous beauty spots. There are members of the House of Lords, who have accomplished their labours as legislators--and their wives, peeresses, who have done their duty by the London season--on their way back to stately mansions in the land from which they draw their incomes. Great people these in drawing-rooms or clubs; greater still in the remote Irish villages which their names still dominate; but not particularly great on the Euston platform, for there is little respect of persons there as the time of the train's departure draws near. A porter pushed his barrow, heavy with trunks and crowned with gun-cases, against the legs of an earl, who swore. A burly man, red faced and broad shouldered, elbowed a marchioness who, not knowing how to swear effectively, tried to wither him with a glance. She failed. The man who had jostled her had small reverence for rank or title. He was, besides, in a hurry, and had no time to spend in apologising to great ladies.

Sir Gilbert Hawkesby was one of his Majesty's judges. He had won his position by sheer hard work and commanding ability. He had not stopped in his career to soothe the outraged dignity of those whom he pushed aside; and he had no intention now of delaying his progress along the railway platform to explain to a marchioness why he had jostled her. It was only by a vigorous use of his elbows that he could make his way; and it ought to have been evident, even to a peeress, that he meant to go from one end of the train to the other. His eyes glanced sharply right and left as he pushed on. He peered through the windows of the carriages. He scanned each figure in the crowd. At last he caught sight of a lady standing beside the bookstall. She wore a long grey cloak and a dark travelling-hat. She stooped over the books and papers on the stall before her; and her face, in profile as Sir Gilbert saw it, was lit by the flaring gas above her head. Having caught sight of her, the judge pushed on even more vigorously than before.

"Here I am, Milly," he said. "I said I'd be in time to see you off, and I am; but owing to--"

The lady at the bookstall turned and looked at him. She flushed suddenly, and then as suddenly grew pale. She raised her hand hurriedly and pulled her veil over her face. Sir Gilbert stared at her in amazement. Then his face, too, changed colour.

"I--I beg your pardon," he said; "I mistook you for my niece. It's quite inconceivable to me how I--a most remarkable likeness. I'm astonished that I didn't notice it before. The fact is--under the circumstances--"

Sir Gilbert was acutely uncomfortable. Never in the course of a long career at the bar had he felt so hopelessly embarrassed. On no occasion in his life, so far as he could remember, had he been reduced to stammering incoherences. It had not occurred to him to apologise to the jostled marchioness a few minutes before. He was now anxious to abase himself before the lady at the bookstall.

"I sincerely beg your pardon," he said. "I should not have dreamed for a moment of intruding myself on you if I had known. I ought to have recognised you. I can't understand--"

The lady laid down the book she held in her hand, and turned her back on Sir Gilbert. She crossed the platform, and entered a carriage without looking back. Sir Gilbert stood stiff and awkward beside the bookstall.

"It's a most extraordinary likeness," he muttered. "I can't understand why I didn't notice it before. I can't have ever really looked at her."

Then, avoiding the carriage which the lady had entered, he walked further along the platform. He was much less self-assertive in his progress. He threaded his way instead of elbowing it through the crowd. The most fragile peeress might have jostled him, and he would not have resented it.

"Uncle Gilbert! Is that you? I was afraid you were going to be late."

The judge turned quickly. A lady, another lady, leaned out of the window of a first-class compartment and greeted him. He stared at her. The likeness was less striking now when he looked at his niece's full face; but it was there, quite unmistakable; a sufficient excuse for the blunder he had made.

"Which one? I'm just correcting a set of proofs, and I'm deep in the plot of another. That's what's taking me over to Ireland. I thought I'd told you."

"Yes, yes; local colour you said in your letter. Studying the wild Hibernian on his native soil; but really, Milly, when you've heard my story you won't want to go to Ireland for wild improbabilities. But I can't tell you now. There isn't time. We'll meet in Bally-what-do-you-call-it next week."

"And you'll stay with me, Uncle Gilbert, won't you? The house I've taken appears to be a perfect barrack. According to the agent, there are any amount of spare bedrooms."

"No," said the judge; "I've taken rooms at the hotel. The fact is, Milly, when I'm fishing I like to rough it a bit. Besides, I should only be in your way. You'll be working tremendously hard."

Neither excuse expressed Sir Gilbert's real reason for refusing his niece's invitation. He did not like roughing it, and he did not think it the least likely that his presence in the house would interfere with her work. On the contrary, her work was likely to interfere with his comfort. He was fond of his niece, but he disliked her habit of reading passages from her MSS. aloud in the evenings. She was very much absorbed in her novel-writing, and took her work with a seriousness which struck the judge as ridiculous.

"I took the house and the fishing," she said. "The agent man wouldn't let one without the other; but you have to pay most of the rent. The salmon are the really valuable part of the property, it appears."

"All right," said Sir Gilbert; "so long as the fishing is good I won't quarrel with you over my share of the rent. The house would only have been a nuisance to me. I should have had to bring over servants, and that would have worried your aunt. Ah! Your time's up, I see. Good-bye, Milly, good-bye. Take care of yourself, and don't get mixed up with shady people in your search for originality. I'll start this day week as soon as ever I get your aunt settled down at Bournemouth."

These are a few things better managed in Ireland than in England, and one of them is the starting of important railway trains. The departure, for instance, of the morning mail from the Dublin terminus of the Midland and Great Western Railway is carried through, day after day, with dignity. The hour is an early one, 7 a.m.; but all the chief officiate of the company are present, tastefully dressed. There is no fuss. Passengers know that it is their duty to be at the station not later than a quarter to seven. If they have any luggage they arrive still earlier, for the porters must not be hustled. At ten minutes to seven the proper officials conduct the passengers to their carriages and pen them in. Lest any one of independent and rebellious spirit should escape, and insist on loitering about the platform, the doors of the compartments are all locked. No Irishman resents this treatment. Members of a conquered race, they are meek, and have long ago given up the hope of being able to resist the mandates of official people.

Strangers, Englishmen on tour, are easily recognised by their self-assertive demeanour and ill-bred offences against the solemn etiquette of the railway company. Since it is impossible to teach these people manners or meekness, the guards and porters treat them, as far as possible, with patient forbearance. They must, of course, be got into the train, but the doors of their compartments are not locked. It has been found by experience that English travellers object to being imprisoned without trial, and quote regulations of the Board of Trade forbidding the locking of both doors of a railway carriage. There is nothing to be gained by a public wrangle with an angry Englishman. He cannot be got to understand that laws, those of the Board of Trade or any other, are not binding on Irish officials. There is only one way of treating him without loss of dignity, and that is to give in to him at once, with a shrug of the shoulders.

Thus, Miss King, entering upon the final stage of her journey to Ballymoy, reaped the benefit of belonging to a conquering and imperial race. She was, indeed, put into her compartment, a first-class one, ten minutes before the train started; but her door, alone of all the doors, was left unlocked. The last solemn minutes before the departure of the train passed slowly. Grave men in uniform paraded the platform, glancing occasionally at their watches. The engine-driver watched from his cabin for the waving of the green flag which would authorise him to push over his levers and start the train. The great moment had almost arrived. The guard held his whistle to his lips, and had the green flag ready to be unfurled, in his left hand. Then a totally unexpected, almost Fenster samt den Spionen in Schwarzhausen besetzt, und junge und alte Leute dr?ckten sich die Nasen platt, -- Franziska Malcroix brachte ihren Sohn zur Schule. Und vor dem Schulhause nahm sie das sch?ne K?pfchen in beide H?nde und k?sste ihn auf die Augen. Dann ging sie heim.

>>Na, nun werden wir doch endlich was zu wissen kriegen.<<

>>Wundern kann's einen doch, dass der reiche Eik von Eichen dem Enkel keinen Hauslehrer h?lt.<<

>>Wenigstens bis zum richtigen Gymnasium.<<

>>Man kann gespannt sein, was es f?r ein Fr?chtchen ist.<<

>>Nun, auf den Kopf gefallen sind ja die Eik's nicht.<<

>>Die Franziska schon mal gar nicht.<<

>>Und der Lump, der Malcroix, auch nicht, sonst w?re er nicht mit der reichsten Schwarzhausener durchgegangen.<<

>>Du lieber Gott, man freut sich ja wahrhaftig, wenn die Vaterstadt sich durch Zuwachs vergr?ssert, ob aber der Buckolorum uns Ehre unters Dach tr?gt -- der Enkel von so einem -- und der Sohn von so einem -- -- --<<

Nun, jedenfalls sch?rfte man den Kindern der Schule ein, heute t?chtig aufzupassen und gleich, aber auch gleich nach Schulschluss heimzuspringen, ohne erst vorher Stinnerte zu spielen. -- -- --

Bertold Malcroix stand mit sehr unbehaglichen Gef?hlen in der Schulstube und wartete mit zwanzig andern Kindern, Knaben und M?dchen, auf den Herrn Rektor.

Es war eine Vorschule, die er bis zum zehnten oder elften Jahre besuchen sollte, je nachdem er f?r reif erkl?rt wurde, ins Gymnasium nach E. zu kommen. Auch M?dchen waren in der Klasse, die entweder beim Herrn Rektor bis zu ihrem vierzehnten Jahre >>weitergingen<< und dann in einen Dienst traten, oder -- eine Gouvernante bekamen. Die Rektorschule erfreute sich eines grossen Zuspruches und ungeteilter Beliebtheit nicht nur im Orte, sondern auch in der Umgegend.

Denn, was der Herr Rektor lehrte, das sass fest.

Ja selbst die ganz Vernagelten profitierten noch etwas von ihm, ehe sie abgingen; den dummen Buben gab er den ehrlichen Rat, nie zu heiraten, damit diese Rasse ausst?rbe, und den >>t?richten Jungfrauen<< schenkte er wenigstens >>Kochrezepte<<.

Zu jedem einzelnen dieser Unbegabten aber meinte er g?tig:

>>Du Br?t! Sag's nur kei' Menschen, wie dei Lehrer geheissen hat.<< -- --

Rektor Dillen war eigentlich kein Rektor, er hatte nur das zweite Examen bestanden, aber zu seinem 50. Geburtstage beschloss man in Schwarzhausen, ihn zu ehren, indem man ihn von diesem Tage an >>Rektor<< nannte. Ihm selbst bekam die Standeserh?hung verh?ltnism?ssig gut, aber seine zarte, kleine, bescheidene Frau, die sogar vor der K?chin des Herrn B?rgermeisters einen tiefen Knicks hinsetzte, war dem nicht mehr gewachsen, und sie fl?chtete sich aus dieser Welt der Titulaturen.

Das war nun f?nf Jahre her, und seitdem f?hrte >>Fr?ulein Rektor<<, seine alte Schwester, ihm die Wirtschaft.

Sie pflegte zu sagen: >>Ich habe bei Pr?sidents und bei Rats und bei Maj?ren gedient, -- nu werd' ich wohl genug Benehmigung for'n Rektor Dillen, meinen Herrn Bruder, haben.<<

Doch auch der Name des Rektors war falsch, er hiess eigentlich >>T?llen<<. Aber mit so unerh?rten sprachlichen Anstrengungen befasst sich der echte >>Dhiringer<< nicht, und der Mann selbst stellte sich vor: >>Mei Name is Dillen.<<

Und als diesen Biederen einmal ein junger Kreisschulinspektor anschrie: >>Herr, wenn Sie T?llen heissen, warum nennen Sie sich nicht so?<<, da antwortete er: >>Es glingt so ibermit'ch, -- -- wenn ich ?mol Gultusminister bin, -- dann!<<

Und zu ihm kam Bertold Malcroix, d. h. vorl?ufig noch nicht, denn es war erst acht Uhr und Rektor Dillen hatte die Angewohnheit, das akademische Viertel innezuhalten, das einzige Zugest?ndnis, das er einer glorreichen Vergangenheit machte, -- er hatte einst Theologie studieren sollen. -- An seinem f?nfzehnten Geburtstage war ihm diese schwindelnde Aussicht er?ffnet worden, die sich dann auch als Schwindel erwies. Denn er bekam nach und nach vierzehn Geschwister, und die frassen ihm mit ihren hungrigen M?ulern die Zukunftshoffnungen auf, wenigstens knabberten sie so lange an der >>Kanzel<< herum, bis nur ein schlichtes >>Katheder<< ?brig blieb. --

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet