Sketcher.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1175, 14 October 1882, Page 4 (Supplement)

Sketcher.

A SPECULATIVE SPIRIT. Now, to understand the solemnity of this story you must believe that Hopkins was a man entirely without imagination—Frank Blair and I decided that when we first made his acquaintance, years ago; and have never changed our opinion. We were then two young geniuses who hoped to soar to fame on the wings of art, the most imaginative art of all, figure painting: and we knew and were glad to hail imagination wherever we saw it. Besides, as Blair truly remarked, Hopkins was a man whose vocation it was to make money, somehow, on the Stock Exchange ; so one might as well look for imagination in a model engaged at a shilling an hour. Then again, the man’s face was sufficient to assure you that he was not blessed with any such quality. It a large face, rather flabby and sprinkled with freckles ; the nose is short and thick, and lip, chin, and cheeks, quite destitute of hair. Hopkin’s body, too, is slmost inclined to corpulence; he dresses in a commonplace manner, his fingers are short and thick; so I think we may safely settle, to start with, that Hopkins is a very ordinary man, and has no imagination.

I scarcely remember how we first foregathered with Hopkins. He was hardly the man we should have chosen for an intimate friend; yet, at one time, we saw a good deal of him. In those jolly old days Frank and I lodged in modest rooms together and shared a studio. I think Mr. Levi Solomon, the picture-dealer, to whom, when hardly pressed, we would sell a picture or two, brought him to us as a gentleman who desired a personal interview. It was, of course, against Solomon’s secret wishes that the introduction took place, as the worthy Israelite did not approve of direct transactions between artist and collector ; but Hopkins was doubtless a good customer and stood firm, so one day Solomon conducted him to our studio. We must have been in funds at that moment, for I remember we treated poor Solomon rather cavalierly ; and as for Hopkins, we looked upon him as a being from a lower sphere; a Philistine ; a creature whose presence in the world could only be tolerated from the stern necessity that an artist must sell his pictures so someone, in order to live. Our ideas of the grandeur and importance of the true mission of art were very lofty in those days, especially if we happened to have a few pounds in our pockets. Hopkins, to us, was one of a class of men who buy young artists’ pictures, solely with a view of realising hundreds per cent, on the investments when fame comes to the painter.

However, whether from mercenary inclinations, or for the many good qualities that adorned us, Hopkins took a great fancy to us and sought our society from that day. Of course he had the usual commercial faults, and not a few defects of education; but he had a great and proper reverence for genius, and delighted to do it homage—at least so we understood the meaning of those little dinners he gave us, at his own chambers and various other places. As artists, after all, are but mortal, and, when young and struggling, not too highly fed, we accepted Hopkins’s attentions in the spirit we fancied they were meant, and, after a bit, tolerated him; indeed, even began to think he was a desirable acquaintance—so, moved by a feeling of gratitude for his civilities, only doubled the market-price of the pictures we could at times induce him to buy. We enjoyed the dinners he gave us very much, but I am sure Hopkins enjoyed himself more when we were kind enough to condescend to invite him. to spend an evening at our lodgings. He gave us Lafitte and choice cigars; we only placed pipes and whisky upon the table ; but then, as he said, our rooms, if humble, were the abode of art, which he honored. Altogether Hopkins was not a bad sort, and those were merry old times. If Hopkins did not himself take a leading part in the conversation during these evening entertainments, he was at least, a capital listener; and, somehow, when Frank Blair and I, as was our wont, got into lively discussions on things in general, and art in particular, we had contracted the habit of addressing our remarks to our guest, much in the same way that honorable members address their words to the Speaker. Hopkins would sit in the crazy armchair and listen with a sort of stolid impartiality, but rarely ventured to make a remark on his own account. Occasionally I fancied his face during our talk would wear an expression of content, but should not like to be rash enough to assert even that much. He would sit smoking his pipe or cigar, but the nearest' approach he made to entering into the discussion was by giving an occasional grunt, which might be either of approbation or condemnation, as those who heard chose to construe it. Sometimes, for want of better amusement, Frank and I would join our forces together, and chaff our friend unmercifully. He bore our sallies of wit very well, and seemed to like us none the worse that we made fun at his expense. Yet there was little fun in it, after all; and we decided that, except to keep our hands in, it was scarcely worth while to waste our fine passes on a man who was so unresisting, and knew so little of fence. But one unlucky evening he brought upon himself a regular onslaught. We had been dilating upon the charms of an artist’s life, and asserting its moral superiority to that of any trade, when our friend sighed deeply and said : “ Sometimes, do you know, I think had I learnt to draw when a boy, I might have done something in your line. But now I am afraid it is too late.”

The idea was so presumptuous that we felt it demanded instant and severe punishment, so Frank said gently: “My dear fellow, you draw some things very nicely now, even without an artist’s education—cheques for instance.”

I followed more severely: “ Mr.. Hopkins, allow me to warn you against falling into the error of that general public which you so well represent, in thinking that the execution alone makes the artist. An artist, as I understand the word, must have many qualities besides manual dexterity. He must have, in addition, many of the gifts of the poet, and amongst them, that greatest gift of all, imagination. Now, you, my dear sir, I am afraid are not very great at that.” Poor Hopkins said nothing, evidently convinced, by Frank’s sarcasm, and my ponderous arguments, that his case was a hopeless one.

“ Do you ever dream?” asked Frank. “Not very often,” replied Hopkins, “ only after curried lobster or crab, or something of that sort. lam a very sound sleeper.” “ Then you see, if you can’t dream without the assistance of indigestible food, you can’t imagine, and I, with every wish to encourage incipient talent, should advise you not to adopt the professon of an artist.” “ Well, well,” said Hopkins, *‘ Let us say no more about it,” and he sighed again. But we were not inclined to let him off so easily, and went on in the same vein, till we were weary, and tossed him and his aspirations about between us like a ball. We treated him very badly, and he must have been the best tempered, or the thickest skinned of men, to have stood it without showing anger. Tired at last of baiting our imperturbable friend we turned to other topics.

“ Seen Jones’s new picture ?” asked Frank. “ Yes. Don’t care much for it,” I replied; “men shouldn’t try to paint old subjects unless they can treat them in a new manner.” “ Well, it must be hard to strike out a new line with Hamlet and the ghost. I never tried to paint a ghost, so I don’t know what I should make of it.”

“ I shall wait ’till I see one, and then offer it handsome terms for a few sittings. I think there is something to be done with ghosts, but they must be of an original kind—not conventional, like Jones’s.” “ Hang it; no. They are always the same —thinly painted, with something placed conveniently behind them, to show their transparency. I wouldn’t care to.paint a ghost of that sort; people only laugh at them : but I should like to put that creepy sensation on canvas—that feeling that something uncanny is about.”

“ Well, when someone does see a ghost, we may get the correct thing ; not till then.” “ Ghosts ain’t vis ; ble,” said Hopkins, solemnly; “ but, for all that, there are ghosts.” A remark like this from Hopkins was an event not likely to be passed by, so we cried in a breath : “ What do you know about ghosts ? Ever troubled with them?” He took his pipe from his lips, and said quietly: “If you young fellows won’t laugh too much, I don’t mind telling you.” We promised the gravity of Solon, and Frank winked at me in so barefaced a manner, that anybody but our unobservant friend would have seen it, and at once declined speakflig. However, no mischief was done, for in deep accents he began : “You remember ”

“ Stop a bit,” I said ; “ I can tell from the way the story opens it is going to be something awful. Let us fill the glasses first.” We did so. “ Now fire away, old fellow, and don’t, please, embellish your truthful tale with too many flowers of fancy.” Hopkins paused a little. *• Look here,” he said, “ you won’t mention this to anybody, as I should not like the people on the Stock Exchange to hear of it. They chaff so.” We vowed tbat wild horses should not rend the terrible revelation from our bosoms. Hopkins began again : “ You remember my late partner, poor old Bobbett?” “Never even heard of him,” interrupted Blair. “ Ah, to be sure. Before your time. Well, our firm was—indeed, is now—Bobbett, Hopkins and Company.” “ What business ?” I asked with an air of a cross-examining counsel. “ Stock-jobbers. Office, Capel Court,” said Hopkins, with a return to his usual brevity. “ Excuse ray interrupting your interesting tale,” said Frank, *• but what is a stockjobber ? Something eminently respectable, honest, and lucrative, I have no doubt. But what is it?” Hopkins summed up his profession briefly, thus; “ You want to sell stock—another man wants to buy stock—you go to a broker —he goes to a broker—both brokers go to a jobber, or dealer, which sounds nicer—your broker sells him the stock, his broker buys it of him. That’s a stock-jobber’s business in a nutshell.”

“ But as I am ignorant of all transactions in stock, I fail to see the pull of it.” “ Well, your broker sells it to me for, say, one hundred and twenty; the other man’s broker buys it for me for, say, one hundred and twenty-one; and that’s the way we make our living.” “ That is a nice business,” said Blair, in tones of admiration; “so easy, just the thing to suit you, I should think.” “ Don’t listen to him,” I cried; “go on with your tale.” Hopkins, not the least discomposed by the interruptions, proceeded : “ Old Bobbett was my partner, and a capital partner he was—sharp as a needle, and bold as a lion, and always fair in his dealings between partner and partner. The only fault I had to find with him was that he was a little too fond of speculating on his own account. I like best to let people speculate through me. It pays best in the long run, and you sleep much sounder when a rising or falling market don’t make a difference of a, thousand or so to you. But Bobbett couldn’t keep out of it. The excitement was everything to him, and I must say he was very clever; seldom making a bad mistake. He gave all his time to it and had the most marvellous way of picking up information before other people. I never knew where he got his tips, but when he strolled into the office of a morning and said, “ Better sell or buy North British, Brighton As,’ or what else it might be, I knew he had heard something, and there would be a move one way or another in the stocks he named. I tell you I used to get very frightened at first, especially when we did make losses ; but at each year’s end I found the balance the right side, so, at last, I came to trust Bobbett implicitly—let him do just as he liked ; and if he had told me consols were going to drop to eighty, I think I should have believed him. Poor old Bobbett I”

Hopkins paused here. It might have been from the emotion caused by the recollection of tender commercial passages between himself and the lamented Bobbett, but, if so, his face said nothing. Frank drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and murmured: “ This is all very interesting—very pathetic, but where’s the promised ghost?” Our stolid friend took no notice, but went on like one commencing a fresh chapter of a novel.

“One day my partner told me he was going to the north of England on some private business. There was very little doing on the Exchange at that time, or, I am sure, no private business would have called him away. ‘ Better not operate until my return,’ he said, ‘ unless you hear from me. If I think anything worth doing, or pick up any news, I will wire.’ ‘ All right,’ I said ; ‘ pleasant journey to you.’ And so he went out of the office, never to return. Poor old Bobbett!’ Hopkins seemed almost in tears, and we, who had never given him credit for such tender feelings, tempered our surprise with sympathy.

“ The next day but one came a telegram—from John Bobbett, Crossleigh-road Station. It contained these simple words, ‘ Sell thirty thousand Marthas.’ I was thunderstruck as I read it.”

“ Wait a minute,” said Blair; “ you are going beyond us again. What did he mean ? Were you slave-jobbers as well as stockjobbers ? ” “We call stocks by nicknames. Caledonian Deferred are ‘ Claras,’ Brighton Deferred are‘Berthas.’ Northern As ’ ‘ Noras,’ so that Manchester and Dundees are ‘Marthas.’ ” “ I see,” said Blair ; “ what ingenuity 1 ” “I was thunderstruck, I say; and as I read the telegram my first thought was, it must be a forgery ; but a secret word known to us alone, put its authenticity beyond a doubt. And yet, in spite of my high opinion of Bobbett’s cleverness, I hesitated for some minutes. I could see no possible reason to expect a fall in the stock named. The traffic return was good, and a large dividend was naturally expected. All rails were high, and all the knowing people said must go higher. There was lots of public money for investment, and the outside public dearly loves to buy on a rising market, and yet, with all these facts before me, I am proud to Say I trusted my old partner, although it was with a heavy heart I followed his instructions. I sold at the best price I could get, and, just as I had placed the last five thousand, became aware of great excitement in the market. You will scarcely credit it, but telegrams came in, running so—‘ Terrible accident on Manchester and Dundee line. Two trains completely wrecked. Fifty persons killed and wounded.’ You must remember the collision. It was an awful smash up, and nearly swamped the dividend on the deferred shares for that halfyear. “ As soon as the first excitement subsided,

I began to think of Bobbett. I knew he was somewhere up that way, and, for the moment, felt anxious about him, and then I laughed at my fears as I remembered the telegram I had received a short time before. He, at least, must be all right, or he could not have sent me that line; but what an artful old rascalfellow, I mean—to manage to forestall everyone in the intelligence 1 He must have sped to the nearest station, despatched his message, and perhaps bribed the telegraphist to keep back the official news until I had time to complete the transaction. However he had managed, it was very clever, and ought to be a lot of money in our pockets, and thankful I was I had trusted him. “ I daresay you two, in your hearts, think this verv wrong, but it is diamond cut diamond on the London Stock Exchange, I can tell you.” Frank and I made polite disclaimers, and as we were growing rather interested in this iniquitous exploit of Bobbett’s, pressed Hopkins to go on without fear of wounding our susceptibilities.

“ Of course I was very sorry for the poor people killed, but I could not help feeling as I went back to my office that I had done a very good day’s work. ‘l* won’t close,’ I said ‘ until Bobbett returns. I should think, with this transaction open, he is sure to get back to-morrow.’ Even as I made this resolution, a clerk put a telegram in my hand. It came from some railway official, and informed me that John Bobbett had been killed in the smash, My surprise at the first message was nothing to what I felt now. It was utterly incomprehensible —it was imossible. How could Bobbett be dead when his telegram lay before me ? When he sent that he must have been alive, and what was more, had all his wits about him. It was barely possible he could have got any one else to send off the message, and died after from injuries. I was greatly puzzled and alarmed, so decided that the best thing I could do to elucidate the mystery, was to go myself to the scene of the accident, and ascertain the truth. I started by the night mail, travelled all night, and early in the morning, reached Crossleigh road, a little station of no importance. The accident had happened some miles further down the line, and when I reached the place, I was conducted to a large barn, which stood near the side of the railway ; and there laid out.on the deal boards, I saw, side by side with many a ghastly object, the corpse of poor old Bobbett, mangled and battered almost beyond recognition. After the emotion I felt at seeing my old partner in this state had subsided, a feeling of intense fear replaced it. I saw at one glance, that, by no possibility, could he have moved a foot after the accident, and as I stood wondering, a doctor who was near me, said: “ ‘ He was more fortunate than many, his death was instantaneous.’ “ I obtained further particulars from the people about, and learnt that his body had been extricated from the wreck of the carriages, where it lay with about a ton of wood and iron on top of it. “And yet I had his telegram, sent from Crossleigh Road, a station, as I told you before, at least five miles from the scene of the collision, and I received that telegram nearly an hour before any news came of the accident.” Hopkins knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and was silent. The man’s tale had been told so simply, so circumstantially, the time and places stated so distinctly, and apparently truthfully, that Frank and I for the moment were unable to suggest any explanation. Hopkins replenished his pipe with the air of one who has nothing further to say. At last I asked:

“ But did you not enquire at the telegraph office?”

“Oh yes. But I hardly like to tell you the result of my enquiries, it seems so strange. I interviewed the man who worked the machine. I did not want to get a marvellous tale spread about, so was very cautious in my questions, enquiring what messages he had sent off the day before. At first I could get nothing out of him, but I noticed, when I asked him whether he could remember any strange occurrence just before the accident, he seemed troubled, and hesitated a little; so I pressed him further, and at last got this statement from him. Some time, about* an hour he thinks, before he heard of the accident down the line, he was standing in the office with his back to the fire, engaged in cracking nuts, eating apples, or some other device that clerks with plenty of leisure employ to while away the time, when he felt a breath of cold air as if someone had entered and left the outer door ajar. He turned round to remonstrate with the careless intruder, and, to his surprise, saw the door was shut. As he glanced round the room he heard the familiar click, click, click, and he was quite prepared to swear he saw the handle of the instrument working rapidly on its own account, and evidently sending off a message somewhere. He was so taken aback, and, indeed, frightened, that for some moments he could not move, and when at last he recovered himself sufficiently to spring forward, the movement of the handle had ceased, and the message, whatever it was, speeding to its destination. He was sure, from the short time it took in sending, the message was one of very few words, and I need not say that, as telegraph clerks are unaccustomed to seeing their instruments worked by invisible agency, he was very much puzzled, but decided not to report the occurrence for fear his superiors should think he had been drinking. I gave him a couple of sovereigns, and begged him to say nothing about it. Afterwards I enquired at the other end, and found the message had been forwarded in an ordinary way. So that in spite of my disbelief in anything supernatural, I could only come to one conclusion.” “It is very strange,” said Frank. “So you think— ”

“ I think that poor old Bobbet’s ghost flew at once io the telegraph-office, and managed to send off that important message to his old partner and friend. Bobbett was a very clever man, and no doubt his ghost was cleverer than other people’s ghosts.” “ So that in the general confusion, it managed to evade pursuit for a few moments ?” Hopkins made no reply. “ But,” I asked, “ have you any reason for thinking that ghosts in general, or Bobbett’s ghost in particular, arc endued with a knowledge of the Morse alphabet ?”

“ I have told you before,” said Hopkins, with crushing solemnity, “ that Bobbett was a clever man, and knew most things.” “ Well, what about the what-d’ye-call-ems —the young woman, the Marthas ?” asked Frank.

. “ I waited some days before I closed the account, hoping that Bobbett might send me instructions about them somehow, but, as I heard nothing from him, I bought them back at ten per cent, less.” “ That, I suppose, means a satisfactory conclusion, and you netted something ?” “ Three thousand pounds. It ought to have been more, had I dared to wait; for they fell fifteen before they stopped. Perhaps,” added Hopkins, thoughtfully and regretfully, “ had I waited till then, Bobbett would have sent me a message to close.” . He said this in such serious good faith, that we stared at one another. When we recovered from our astonishment, I asked: “ That profit, of course, went into the partnership account ?” “ Of course it did, sir,” replied Hopkins, almost angrily. “ After deducting my travelling expenses, I passed his share to his credit.”

“ And I hope,” said Frank, with a solemn face, “ you paid the company the shilling.for the telegraphic message, which Mr. Bobbett sent without their permission.” Hopkins rose with a manner almost dignified.

“ Mr. Blair,” he said, “ this is the one subject I never jest upon. I have told you, in the simplest language, a strange, but a true tale, and will now wish you good-night.” So saying, he went. Frank, rather huffed at his last words, only shook hands with our- departing guest, but I conducted him downstairs, and saw him out.

As I closed the door, I heard a tremendous grunt;. indeed, so loud was it, I thought it must he a summons for re-admittance. I opened the door again, and, to my surprise, saw Hopkins leaning against the railings, with every muscle of his broad back in motion. I was quite alarmed, and said hastily: “ Are you ill, old fellow ?” The quivering motion ceased, and Hopkins turned round and looked up at me, and his great face, under the lamplight, was empty of expression as ever. “No ; only the recollection of those things, I told you, always upsets me. Good night. Poor old Bobbett I” . “ Strange tale, Frank,” I said, when, having closed the door on Hopkins’s departing sigh, we settled down once more. “ Very. Had anyone else but Hopkins told it, I shouldn’t have believed a word of it; but he could no more invent it than he could paint my Alexander and Thais.” “ How do you account for it ?” “ Can’t account for it. The only explanation I can see is, that Bobbett, who must have been no end of a rascal, laid some plan for wrecking the trains, and arranged to have the telegram sent off previously. But then he was in the train, and was smashed up himself, so that won’t do.” “ I have seen it asserted,” I said, “ in a book on spiritual influences, that a person dying, and thinking of someone at a distance, has been able to make a sort of resemblance of himself appear to that someone. Bobbett’s thoughts, directly the smash came, may have turned to this one passion—speculating, and acted somdwhat in the same way.” “ Nonsense 1” said Frank ; that won’t hold water. I can’t account for it.” “ Neither can I.”

And we never did. Hopkins declined to talk any more upon the subject, which, he said, was a painful one to him, sc we soon ceased to think about it. And yet there is one thing that puzzles me. Some years afterwards, I spoke about Hopkins and his peculiarities, or, rather, lack of peculiarities, to a mutual friend, when, suddenly remembering his tale, I said: “ By-the-bye, did you know his late partner, Bobbett ?” “Oh yes ; very well—sharp man he was too!” “ Killed in a railway accident, I believe ?” “ No ; he died in his bed like other people, and left a lot of money behind him.” Now, this piece of information, coupled with the recollection of Hopkins, as I saw him, leaning against the railings outside the front door, quivering with strange emotion, caused a feeling of uneasiness in my mind, and sometimes now, in spite of his unmeaning features and commonplace demeanour, I ask myself, in confidence: “ Were wc wrong after all, and did Hopkins possess imagination ?” —(From All the Year Found.)