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<h2>XIX. PICTURES ON THE LINE.</h2> All through his own part of the country John Osbaldiston was familiarly known as “Nails.”  And this expressive locution was adopted in the first place to indicate the business out of which the millionaire had amassed his fortune; and in the second place to give some necessarily inadequate notion of the hardness of his nature.  As John Osbaldiston was a millionaire it may be taken for granted that his nick-name was never mentioned before his face.  Besides being the possessor of enormous wealth the retired nail-maker was a Justice of the Peace, a Deputy-Lieutenant, and lived in confident expectation that when the Radicals came in—if they ever did come in—he should be rewarded for his unswerving devotion by a baronetcy.  The beauty of this hope was somewhat marred when Osbaldiston reflected that his wife was dead, and that he had no son to inherit the title.  He was a hard, pompous man, full of prejudices, and the happiest moments of his life were those which he spent upon the bench sentencing the peccant rustics.  Fortunately for the country side, John Osbaldiston never sat on the bench alone, and his own view as to the depravity of human nature could not take effect in sentences unless a majority of the bench was with him.  And the majority never was with him. John Osbaldiston’s father had founded the business in the town of Belchester and had purchased the estate upon which John now lived, and to which he had greatly added; absorbing the estates of the smaller country gentlemen as in other days he had absorbed the business of the smaller nail-makers.  The house on the estate was a large, solid building, without any pretensions to architectural beauty, but capable of holding in its vast apartments half the élite of the county, if half the élite of the county should ever feel inclined to visit it together.  John Osbaldiston was a great picture buyer, and his galleries were the envy of his neighbours, and even of patrons of the Fine Arts living at a distance.  Indeed, the fame of the Osbaldiston collection had travelled almost as far as his nails.  He was not much of a critic.  Some people said that he was not much of a judge, but bought pictures as farmers buy sheep—by the brand.  Whatever truth there may be in these reflections, one thing is certain, that many of the best examples of the most esteemed painters had found their way into the galleries of Bradland Hall—as the Osbaldiston house was called.  Whether the contemplation of these accumulated works of art gave the millionaire any artistic pleasure it is impossible to say; but he was very proud of their possession, and it gave him an exquisite sense of satisfaction when at any sale in London his agent outbid the agent of his blue-blooded neighbour, the Duke of Sandown, for the possession of an example which both were anxious to acquire.  But, notwithstanding this pride of possession, the nail-maker of Belchester was not ostentatious.  His nature was a puzzle.  He was as inscrutable as he was hard. The Master of Bradland Hall had one possession which gave him more anxiety than all his other treasures put together; and that possession was his daughter Bella, a thoughtless, light-hearted, high-spirited girl of seventeen, who had been a source of untold trouble to a succession of nursery-governesses, governesses, masters, mistresses, and professors.  Her nature was as soft as the paternal nature was hard.  She was easily led, though difficult to drive, and worst of all, was not awed to any appreciable extent by the frowns of her father, when he did frown at her, which, comparatively speaking, was seldom.  What little affection he had to bestow was given to his only child—the child of his old age; and it must be admitted at once, that if Bella reciprocated the affection, she had a most undemonstrative way of doing it.  The daughter had a way of putting her father down, which amounted almost to snubbing.  Done in private, the old gentleman bore such unfilial ebullitions in silence; though when performed before the menials he resented it with great bitterness.  I have already said that John Osbaldiston was full of prejudices.  For the purposes of this narrative it is necessary to mention but one of them.  He had a rooted antipathy to railways and everything connected with them.  This was no doubt strange in a man who had made his money in connection with iron, and whose commercial course was entirely connected with the manufacturing town of Belchester.  But his rooted antipathy may be accounted for by the fact that, on two occasions he came into collision with a railway company—not on the lines, but in the law courts—and that on each occasion he was beaten by the defendant company.  The first occasion was a mere affair connected with alleged negligence resulting in the loss of a consignment of nails.  But the second occasion was when the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company proposed to have a branch line from Belchester to Balt—a little village situated on the Bradland estate.  Osbaldiston spent thousands and thousands in opposing the Bill, and when finally it was passed, went to law on the question of compensation; though, on a fine night, with the wind blowing towards him, the shriek of the engine could barely be heard at the Hall.  It was then that John Osbaldiston declared his eternal hatred of all railways whatsoever, and swore a great oath that he would never travel by that means of transit, so long as there was any other mode of conveyance available. In the early spring of 1879, John Osbaldiston was sitting in his library delivering himself of portentous platitudes on the subject of frivolity, for the edification of Miss Bella, when the afternoon post arrived, and brought a letter bearing the Belchester postmark.  Having perused it, John Osbaldiston settled his neck in his collar, and handed the communication to his daughter, who read it out with many interjections of disapproval.  The following is a copy of the letter. <blockquote>“Belchester Institute, Belchester —, 1879. “Dear Sir,—A Committee having been appointed to consider the long-mooted question of opening a Loan Exhibition of Works of Art, in connection with the Institute, it has been resolved to hold the proposed Exhibition in the summer of the present year.  Regarding your own long and honourable connection with the town, it has been resolved to consult you generally on the subject, and to request you to lend us a few examples from your magnificent collection.  When it is known that you have contributed to the walls of our Exhibition, the example upon the minds of other collectors will be prodigious, and the success of our efforts be secured. “Your obedient servant, Amos Black, Hon. Sec. “John Osbaldiston, Esq., J.P., D.L.” </blockquote> “Well, I never,” exclaimed Bella.  “Such impudence!” “I see nothing impudent about it,” replied the father, sternly.  “I owe everything to Belchester.  Belchester shall not find me ungrateful.” “Of course not, dear papa.  But supposing Belchester rewards your gratitude by poking its umbrellas through your Titians or by cutting little bits out of your Turners!” “Belchester has trusted me.  I will trust Belchester,” replied her parent, pompously. “But you can’t send to Belchester,” she said, trying another tack. “And why, pray?” “Because there is no way of sending them except by the Great Nor’-West by Western Railway Company’s branch line.” “They shall go by van,” he replied decisively. And there was an end of the matter. The distance between Bradland Hall and Belchester is nearly thirty miles, and when John Osbaldiston had replied to the Secretary of the Belchester Institute, graciously according to the request of the Committee, he personally saw to the selection and packing of the pictures, in a van also selected with great care.  He made arrangement for a change of horses on the road, and he consigned the precious cargo to two men, in whose steadiness, and sobriety, and general possession of character, he could place the utmost confidence.  These selected characters quite justified the confidence reposed in them, and drove so steadily and so slowly, that the roadside population might have supposed the van to contain a corpse. Two miles from Belchester there is a level crossing; and over this crossing the van containing Osbaldiston’s masterpieces had to be taken.  Just as the hoofs of the off horse left the up line his knees seemed to give way, he fell, and seemed unable to get up again.  Every effort was made to raise him; but in vain.  Then attempts were made to move the van which stood right across the rails.  But too late.  It all seemed to occur in a moment.  The express came rushing up.  The van was knocked into matchwood, and the masterpieces from Bradland Hall were master pieces indeed—mere fragments of frame and canvas, some strewed by the side of the line, and some adhering to the engine and carriages of the express, which lay on its side a short distance further on. A telegram brought John Osbaldiston to the spot in process of time.  And he spent many days in Belchester mad with himself, with the Institute, with the railway, and with the world in general.  When he returned home his anger was increased.  He found a letter from Bella:— <blockquote>“Dear Pa.—I knew you would never consent, so I have run away to be married.  He is a man very highly connected, but has been unfortunate, and is at present a guard on the Nor’-West by Western.  He is so handsome, and we are so happy.  Do forgive us. “Bella.” </blockquote> “Never!” cried the crushed nail-maker.  And he never did. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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