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THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

GEORGE GISSING

1906






    TO WHICH IS PREFIXED
    THE WORK OF GEORGE GISSING
    AN INTRODUCTORY SURVEY
    BY THOMAS SECCOMBE





      CONTENTS

THE WORK OF GEORGE GISSING

A CHRONOLOGICAL RECORD

THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS

A CAPITALIST

CHRISTOPHERSON

HUMPLEBEE

THE SCRUPULOUS FATHER

A POOR GENTLEMAN

MISS RODNEY'S LEISURE

A CHARMING FAMILY

A DAUGHTER OF THE LODGE

THE RIDING-WHIP

FATE AND THE APOTHECARY

TOPHAM'S CHANCE

A LODGER IN MAZE POND

THE SALT OF THE EARTH

THE PIG AND WHISTLE




THE WORK OF GEORGE GISSING

AN INTRODUCTORY SURVEY


    'Les gens tout à fait heureux, forts et bien portants, sont-ils
    préparés comme il faut pour comprendre, pénétrer, exprimer la vie,
    notre vie si tourmentée et si courte?'

        MAUPASSANT.

In England during the sixties and seventies of last century the world of
books was dominated by one Gargantuan type of fiction. The terms book and
novel became almost synonymous in houses which were not Puritan, yet where
books and reading, in the era of few and unfree libraries, were strictly
circumscribed. George Gissing was no exception to this rule. The English
novel was at the summit of its reputation during his boyish days. As a lad
of eight or nine he remembered the parts of _Our Mutual Friend_ coming to
the house, and could recall the smile of welcome with which they were
infallibly received. In the dining-room at home was a handsomely framed
picture which he regarded with an almost idolatrous veneration. It was an
engraved portrait of Charles Dickens. Some of the best work of George
Eliot, Reade, and Trollope was yet to make its appearance; Meredith and
Hardy were still the treasured possession of the few; the reigning models
during the period of Gissing's adolescence were probably Dickens and
Trollope, and the numerous satellites of these great stars, prominent among
them Wilkie Collins, William Black, and Besant and Rice.

Of the cluster of novelists who emerged from this school of ideas, the two
who will attract most attention in the future were clouded and obscured for
the greater period of their working lives. Unobserved, they received, and
made their own preparations for utilising, the legacy of the mid-Victorian
novel--moral thesis, plot, underplot, set characters, descriptive
machinery, landscape colouring, copious phraseology, Herculean proportions,
and the rest of the cumbrous and grandiose paraphernalia of _Chuzzlewit,
Pendennis_, and _Middlemarch_. But they received the legacy in a totally
different spirit. Mark Rutherford, after a very brief experiment, put all
these elaborate properties and conventions reverently aside. Cleverer and
more docile, George Gissing for the most part accepted them; he put his
slender frame into the ponderous collar of the author of the _Mill on the
Floss_, and nearly collapsed in wind and limb in the heart-breaking attempt
to adjust himself to such an heroic type of harness.

The distinctive qualities of Gissing at the time of his setting forth were
a scholarly style, rather fastidious and academic in its restraint, and the
personal discontent, slightly morbid, of a self-conscious student who finds
himself in the position of a sensitive woman in a crowd. His attitude
through life was that of a man who, having set out on his career with the
understanding that a second-class ticket is to be provided, allows himself
to be unceremoniously hustled into the rough and tumble of a noisy third.
Circumstances made him revolt against an anonymous start in life for a
refined and educated man under such conditions. They also made him
prolific. He shrank from the restraints and humiliations to which the poor
and shabbily dressed private tutor is exposed--revealed to us with a
persuasive terseness in the pages of _The Unclassed, New Grub Street,
Ryecroft_, and the story of _Topham's Chance._ Writing fiction in a garret
for a sum sufficient to keep body and soul together for the six months
following payment was at any rate better than this. The result was a long
series of highly finished novels, written in a style and from a point of
view which will always render them dear to the studious and the
book-centred. Upon the larger external rings of the book-reading multitude
it is not probable that Gissing will ever succeed in impressing himself.
There is an absence of transcendental quality about his work, a failure in
humour, a remoteness from actual life, a deficiency in awe and mystery, a
shortcoming in emotional power, finally, a lack of the dramatic faculty,
not indeed indispensable to a novelist, but almost indispensable as an
ingredient in great novels of this particular genre.[1] In temperament and
vitality he is palpably inferior to the masters (Dickens, Thackeray, Hugo,
Balzac) whom he reverenced with such a cordial admiration and envy. A 'low
vitality' may account for what has been referred to as the 'nervous
exhaustion' of his style. It were useless to pretend that Gissing belongs
of right to the 'first series' of English Men of Letters. But if debarred
by his limitations from a resounding or popular success, he will remain
exceptionally dear to the heart of the recluse, who thinks that the scholar
does well to cherish a grievance against the vulgar world beyond the
cloister; and dearer still, perhaps, to a certain number of enthusiasts who
began reading George Gissing as a college night-course; who closed _Thyrza_
and _Demos_ as dawn was breaking through the elms in some Oxford
quadrangle, and who have pursued his work patiently ever since in a
somewhat toilsome and broken ascent, secure always of suave writing and
conscientious workmanship, of an individual prose cadence and a genuine
vein of Penseroso:--

    'Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career...
    Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
    And the night-raven sings.'

[Footnote 1: The same kind of limitations would have to be postulated in
estimating the brothers De Goncourt, who, falling short of the first
magnitude, have yet a fully recognised position upon the stellar atlas.]

Yet by the larger, or, at any rate, the intermediate public, it is a fact
that Gissing has never been quite fairly estimated. He loses immensely if
you estimate him either by a single book, as is commonly done, or by his
work as a whole, in the perspective of which, owing to the lack of critical
instruction, one or two books of rather inferior quality have obtruded
themselves unduly. This brief survey of the Gissing country is designed to
enable the reader to judge the novelist by eight or nine of his best books.
If we can select these aright, we feel sure that he will end by placing the
work of George Gissing upon a considerably higher level than he has
hitherto done.

The time has not yet come to write the history of his career--fuliginous in
not a few of its earlier phases, gathering serenity towards its
close,--finding a soul of goodness in things evil. This only pretends to be
a chronological and, quite incidentally, a critical survey of George
Gissing's chief works. And comparatively short as his working life proved
to be--hampered for ten years by the sternest poverty, and for nearly ten
more by the sad, illusive optimism of the poitrinaire--the task of the mere
surveyor is no light or perfunctory one. Artistic as his temperament
undoubtedly was, and conscientious as his writing appears down to its
minutest detail, Gissing yet managed to turn out rather more than a novel
per annum. The desire to excel acted as a spur which conquered his
congenital inclination to dreamy historical reverie. The reward which he
propounded to himself remained steadfast from boyhood; it was a kind of
_Childe Harold_ pilgrimage to the lands of antique story--

    'Whither Albano's scarce divided waves
    Shine from a sister valley;--and afar
    The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves
    The Latian coast where sprang the Epic War.'

Twenty-six years have elapsed since the appearance of his first book in
1880, and in that time just twenty-six books have been issued bearing his
signature. His industry was worthy of an Anthony Trollope, and cost his
employers barely a tithe of the amount claimed by the writer of _The Last
Chronicle of Barset_. He was not much over twenty-two when his first novel
appeared.[2] It was entitled _Workers in the Dawn_, and is distinguished by
the fact that the author writes himself George Robert Gissing; afterwards
he saw fit to follow the example of George Robert Borrow, and in all
subsequent productions assumes the style of 'George Gissing.' The book
begins in this fashion: 'Walk with me, reader, into Whitecross Street. It
is Saturday night'; and it is what it here seems, a decidedly crude and
immature performance. Gissing was encumbered at every step by the giant's
robe of mid-Victorian fiction. Intellectual giants, Dickens and Thackeray,
were equally gigantic spendthrifts. They worked in a state of fervid heat
above a glowing furnace, into which they flung lavish masses of unshaped
metal, caring little for immediate effect or minute dexterity of stroke,
but knowing full well that the emotional energy of their temperaments was
capable of fusing the most intractable material, and that in the end they
would produce their great, downright effect. Their spirits rose and fell,
but the case was desperate, copy had to be despatched for the current
serial. Good and bad had to make up the tale against time, and revelling in
the very exuberance and excess of their humour, the novelists invariably
triumphed.

[Footnote 2: Three vols. 8vo, 1880 (Remington). It was noticed at some
length in the _Athenoeum_ of June 12th, in which the author's philosophic
outlook is condemned as a dangerous compound of Schopenhauer, Comte, and
Shelley. It is somewhat doubtful if he ever made more for a book than the
£250 he got for _New Grub Street_. £200, we believe, was advanced on _The
Nether World,_ but this proved anything but a prosperous speculation from
the publisher's point of view, and £150 was refused for _Born in Exile_.]

To the Ercles vein of these Titans of fiction, Gissing was a complete
stranger. To the pale and fastidious recluse and anchorite, their tone of
genial remonstrance with the world and its ways was totally alien. He knew
nothing of the world to start with beyond the den of the student. His
second book, as he himself described it in the preface to a second edition,
was the work of a very young man who dealt in a romantic spirit with the
gloomier facts of life. Its title, _The Unclassed,_[3] excited a little
curiosity, but the author was careful to explain that he had not in view
the _déclassés_ but rather those persons who live in a limbo external to
society, and refuse the statistic badge. The central figure Osmond Waymark
is of course Gissing himself. Like his creator, raving at intervals under
the vile restraints of Philistine surroundings and with no money for
dissipation, Osmond gives up teaching to pursue the literary vocation. A
girl named Ida Starr idealises him, and is helped thereby to a purer life.
In the four years' interval between this somewhat hurried work and his
still earlier attempt the young author seems to have gone through a
bewildering change of employments. We hear of a clerkship in Liverpool, a
searing experience in America (described with but little deviation in _New
Grub Street_), a gas-fitting episode in Boston, private tutorships, and
cramming engagements in 'the poisonous air of working London.' Internal
evidence alone is quite sufficient to indicate that the man out of whose
brain such bitter experiences of the educated poor were wrung had learnt in
suffering what he taught--in his novels. His start in literature was made
under conditions that might have appalled the bravest, and for years his
steps were dogged by hunger and many-shaped hardships. He lived in cellars
and garrets. 'Many a time,' he writes, 'seated in just such a garret (as
that in the frontispiece to _Little Dorrit_) I saw the sunshine flood the
table in front of me, and the thought of that book rose up before me.' He
ate his meals in places that would have offered a way-wearied tramp
occasion for criticism. 'His breakfast consisted often of a slice of bread
and a drink of water. Four and sixpence a week paid for his lodging. A meal
that cost more than sixpence was a feast.' Once he tells us with a thrill
of reminiscent ecstasy how he found sixpence in the street! The ordinary
comforts of modern life were unattainable luxuries. Once when a newly
posted notice in the lavatory at the British Museum warned readers that the
basins were to be used (in official phrase) 'for casual ablutions only,' he
was abashed at the thought of his own complete dependence upon the
facilities of the place. Justly might the author call this a tragi-comical
incident. Often in happier times he had brooding memories of the familiar
old horrors--the foggy and gas-lit labyrinth of Soho--shop windows
containing puddings and pies kept hot by steam rising through perforated
metal--a young novelist of 'two-and-twenty or thereabouts' standing before
the display, raging with hunger, unable to purchase even one pennyworth of
food. And this is no fancy picture,[4] but a true story of what Gissing had
sufficient elasticity of humour to call 'a pretty stern apprenticeship.'
The sense of it enables us to understand to the full that semi-ironical and
bitter, yet not wholly unamused passage, in _Ryecroft_:--

    'Is there at this moment any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but
    without means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain
    and steadfast courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret and
    writes for dear life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have
    read and heard of late years about young writers, shows them in a very
    different aspect. No garretteers, these novelists and journalists
    awaiting their promotion. They eat--and entertain their critics--at
    fashionable restaurants, they are seen in expensive seats at the
    theatre; they inhabit handsome flats--photographed for an illustrated
    paper on the first excuse. At the worst, they belong to a reputable
    club, and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or
    an evening "at home" without attracting unpleasant notice. Many
    biographical sketches have I read during the last decade, making
    personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss That, whose book
    was--as the sweet language of the day will have it--"booming"; but
    never one in which there was a hint of stern struggles, of the pinched
    stomach and frozen fingers.'

[Footnote 3: Three vols., 1884, dedicated to M.C.R. In one volume
'revised,' 1895 (preface dated October 1895).]

[Footnote 4: Who but Gissing could describe a heroine as exhibiting in her
countenance 'habitual nourishment on good and plenteous food'?]

In his later years it was customary for him to inquire of a new author 'Has
he starved'? He need have been under no apprehension. There is still a
God's plenty of attics in Grub Street, tenanted by genuine artists,
idealists and poets, amply sufficient to justify the lamentable conclusion
of old Anthony à Wood in his life of George Peele. 'For so it is and always
hath been, that most poets die poor, and consequently obscurely, and a hard
matter it is to trace them to their graves.' Amid all these miseries,
Gissing upheld his ideal. During 1886-7 he began really to _write_ and the
first great advance is shown in _Isabel Clarendon_.[5] No book, perhaps,
that he ever wrote is so rich as this in autobiographical indices. In the
melancholy Kingcote we get more than a passing phase or a momentary glimpse
at one side of the young author. A long succession of Kingcote's traits are
obvious self-revelations. At the beginning he symbolically prefers the old
road with the crumbling sign-post, to the new. Kingcote is a literary
sensitive. The most ordinary transaction with uneducated ('that is
uncivilised') people made him uncomfortable. Mean and hateful people by
their suggestions made life hideous. He lacks the courage of the ordinary
man. Though under thirty he is abashed by youth. He is sentimental and
hungry for feminine sympathy, yet he realises that the woman who may with
safety be taken in marriage by a poor man, given to intellectual pursuits,
is extremely difficult of discovery. Consequently he lives in solitude; he
is tyrannised by moods, dominated by temperament. His intellect is in
abeyance. He shuns the present--the historical past seems alone to concern
him. Yet he abjures his own past. The ghost of his former self affected him
with horror. Identity even he denies. 'How can one be responsible for the
thoughts and acts of the being who bore his name years ago?' He has no
consciousness of his youth--no sympathy with children. In him is to be
discerned 'his father's intellectual and emotional qualities, together with
a certain stiffness of moral attitude derived from his mother.' He reveals
already a wonderful palate for pure literary flavour. His prejudices are
intense, their character being determined by the refinement and idealism of
his nature. All this is profoundly significant, knowing as we do that this
was produced when Gissing's worldly prosperity was at its nadir. He was
living at the time, like his own Harold Biffen, in absolute solitude, a
frequenter of pawnbroker's shops and a stern connoisseur of pure dripping,
pease pudding ('magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of a
very rich quality indeed'), faggots and saveloys. The stamp of affluence in
those days was the possession of a basin. The rich man thus secured the
gravy which the poor man, who relied on a paper wrapper for his pease
pudding, had to give away. The image recurred to his mind when, in later
days, he discussed champagne vintages with his publisher, or was consulted
as to the management of butlers by the wife of a popular prelate. With what
a sincere recollection of this time he enjoins his readers (after Dr.
Johnson) to abstain from Poverty. 'Poverty is the great secluder.' 'London
is a wilderness abounding in anchorites.' Gissing was sustained amid all
these miseries by two passionate idealisms, one of the intellect, the other
of the emotions. The first was ancient Greece and Rome--and he incarnated
this passion in the picturesque figure of Julian Casti (in _The
Unclassed_), toiling hard to purchase a Gibbon, savouring its grand epic
roll, converting its driest detail into poetry by means of his enthusiasm,
and selecting Stilicho as a hero of drama or romance (a premonition here of
_Veranilda_). The second or heart's idol was Charles Dickens--Dickens as
writer, Dickens as the hero of a past England, Dickens as humorist, Dickens
as leader of men, above all, Dickens as friend of the poor, the outcast,
the pale little sempstress and the downtrodden Smike.

[Footnote 5: _Isabel Clarendon_. By George Gissing. In two volumes, 1886
(Chapman and Hall). In reviewing this work the _Academy_ expressed
astonishment at the mature style of the writer--of whom it admitted it had
not yet come across the name.]

In the summer of 1870, Gissing remembered with a pious fidelity of detail
the famous drawing of the 'Empty Chair' being framed and hung up 'in the
school-room, at home'[6] (Wakefield).

[Footnote 6: Of Gissing's early impressions, the best connected account, I
think, is to be gleaned from the concluding chapters of _The Whirlpool_;
but this may be reinforced (and to some extent corrected, or, here and
there cancelled) by passages in _Burn in Exile_ (vol. i.) and in
_Ryecroft_. The material there supplied is confirmatory in the best sense
of the detail contributed by Mr. Wells to the cancelled preface of
_Veranilda_, touching the 'schoolboy, obsessed by a consuming passion for
learning, at the Quaker's boarding-school at Alderley. He had come thither
from Wakefield at the age of thirteen--after the death of his father, who
was, in a double sense, the cardinal formative influence in his life. The
tones of his father's voice, his father's gestures, never departed from
him; when he read aloud, particularly if it was poetry he read, his father
returned in him. He could draw in those days with great skill and
vigour--it will seem significant to many that he was particularly
fascinated by Hogarth's work, and that he copied and imitated it; and his
father's well-stocked library, and his father's encouragement, had
quickened his imagination and given it its enduring bias for literary
activity.' Like Defoe, Smollett, Sterne, Borrow, Dickens, Eliot, 'G.C.' is,
half involuntarily, almost unconsciously autobiographic.]

    'Not without awe did I see the picture of the room which was now
    tenantless: I remember too, a curiosity which led me to look closely
    at the writing-table and the objects upon it, at the comfortable
    round-backed chair, at the book-shelves behind. I began to ask myself
    how books were written and how the men lived who wrote them. It is my
    last glimpse of childhood. Six months later there was an empty chair
    in my own home, and the tenor of my life was broken.

    'Seven years after this I found myself amid the streets of London and
    had to find the means of keeping myself alive. What I chiefly thought
    of was that now at length I could go hither or thither in London's
    immensity seeking for the places which had been made known to me by
    Dickens.

    'One day in the city I found myself at the entrance to Bevis Marks! I
    had just been making an application in reply to some advertisement--of
    course, fruitlessly; but what was that disappointment compared with
    the discovery of Bevis Marks! Here dwelt Mr. Brass and Sally and the
    Marchioness. Up and down the little street, this side and that, I went
    gazing and dreaming. No press of busy folk disturbed me; the place was
    quiet; it looked no doubt much the same as when Dickens knew it. I am
    not sure that I had any dinner that day; but, if not, I daresay I did
    not mind it very much.'

The broad flood under Thames bridges spoke to him in the very tones of 'the
master.' He breathed Guppy's London particular, the wind was the black
easter that pierced the diaphragm of Scrooge's clerk.

    'We bookish people have our connotations for the life we do not live.
    In time I came to see London with my own eyes, but how much better
    when I saw it with those of Dickens!'

Tired and discouraged, badly nourished, badly housed--working under
conditions little favourable to play of the fancy or intentness of the
mind--then was the time, Gissing found, to take down Forster and read--read
about Charles Dickens.

    'Merely as the narrative of a wonderfully active, zealous, and
    successful life, this book scarce has its equal; almost any reader
    must find it exhilarating; but to me it yielded such special
    sustenance as in those days I could not have found elsewhere, and
    lacking which I should, perhaps, have failed by the way. I am not
    referring to Dickens's swift triumph, to his resounding fame and high
    prosperity; these things are cheery to read about, especially when
    shown in a light so human, with the accompaniment of so much geniality
    and mirth. No; the pages which invigorated me are those where we see
    Dickens at work, alone at his writing-table, absorbed in the task of
    the story-teller. Constantly he makes known to Forster how his story
    is getting on, speaks in detail of difficulties, rejoices over spells
    of happy labour; and what splendid sincerity in it all! If this work
    of his was not worth doing, why, nothing was. A troublesome letter has
    arrived by the morning's post and threatens to spoil the day; but he
    takes a few turns up and down the room, shakes off the worry, and sits
    down to write for hours and hours. He is at the sea-side, his desk at
    a sunny bay window overlooking the shore, and there all the morning he
    writes with gusto, ever and again bursting into laughter at his own
    thoughts.'[7]

[Footnote 7: See a deeply interesting paper on Dickens by 'G.G.' in the New
York _Critic_, Jan. 1902. Much of this is avowed autobiography.]

The influence of Dickens clearly predominated when Gissing wrote his next
novel and first really notable and artistic book, _Thyrza_.[8] The figure
which irradiates this story is evidently designed in the school of Dickens:
it might almost be a pastel after some more highly finished work by Daudet.
But Daudet is a more relentless observer than Gissing, and to find a
parallel to this particular effect I think we must go back a little farther
to the heroic age of the _grisette_ and the tearful _Manchon de Francine_
of Henri Murger. _Thyrza_, at any rate, is a most exquisite picture in
half-tones of grey and purple of a little Madonna of the slums; she is in
reality the _belle fleur d'un fumier_ of which he speaks in the epigraph of
the _Nether World_. The _fumier_ in question is Lambeth Walk, of which we
have a Saturday night scene, worthy of the author of _L'Assommoir_ and _Le
Ventre de Paris_ in his most perceptive mood. In this inferno, amongst the
pungent odours, musty smells and 'acrid exhalations from the shops where
fried fish and potatoes hissed in boiling grease,' blossomed a pure white
lily, as radiant amid mean surroundings as Gemma in the poor Frankfort
confectioner's shop of Turgenev's _Eaux Printanières._ The pale and rather
languid charm of her face and figure are sufficiently portrayed without any
set description. What could be more delicate than the intimation of the
foregone 'good-night' between the sisters, or the scene of Lyddy plaiting
Thyrza's hair? The delineation of the upper middle class culture by which
this exquisite flower of maidenhood is first caressed and transplanted,
then slighted and left to wither, is not so satisfactory. Of the upper
middle class, indeed, at that time, Gissing had very few means of
observation. But this defect, common to all his early novels, is more than
compensated by the intensely pathetic figure of Gilbert Grail, the
tender-souled, book-worshipping factory hand raised for a moment to the
prospect of intellectual life and then hurled down by the caprice of
circumstance to the unrelenting round of manual toil at the soap and candle
factory. Dickens would have given a touch of the grotesque to Grail's
gentle but ungainly character; but at the end he would infallibly have
rewarded him as Tom Pinch and Dominie Sampson were rewarded. Not so George
Gissing. His sympathy is fully as real as that of Dickens. But his fidelity
to fact is greater. Of the Christmas charity prescribed by Dickens, and of
the untainted pathos to which he too rarely attained, there is an abundance
in _Thyrza_. But what amazes the chronological student of Gissing's work is
the magnificent quality of some of the writing, a quality of which he had
as yet given no very definite promise. Take the following passage, for
example:--

[Footnote 8: _Thyrza: A Novel_ (3 vols., 1887). In later life we are told
that Gissing affected to despise this book as 'a piece of boyish idealism.'
But he was always greatly pleased by any praise of this 'study of two
sisters, where poverty for once is rainbow-tinted by love.' My impression
is that it was written before _Demos_, but was longer in finding a
publisher; it had to wait until the way was prepared by its coarser and
more vigorous workfellow. A friend writes: 'I well remember the appearance
of the MS. Gissing wrote then on thin foreign paper in a small, thin
handwriting, without correction. It was before the days of typewriting, and
the MS. of a three-volume novel was so compressed that one could literally
put it in one's pocket without the slightest inconvenience.' The name is
from Byron's _Elegy on Thyrza_.]

    'A street organ began to play in front of a public-house close by.
    Grail drew near; there were children forming a dance, and he stood to
    watch them.

    Do you know that music of the obscure ways, to which children dance?
    Not if you have only heard it ground to your ears' affliction beneath
    your windows in the square. To hear it aright you must stand in the
    darkness of such a by-street as this, and for the moment be at one
    with those who dwell around, in the blear-eyed houses, in the dim
    burrows of poverty, in the unmapped haunts of the semi-human. Then you
    will know the significance of that vulgar clanging of melody; a pathos
    of which you did not dream will touch you, and therein the secret of
    hidden London will be half revealed. The life of men who toil without
    hope, yet with the hunger of an unshaped desire; of women in whom the
    sweetness of their sex is perishing under labour and misery; the
    laugh, the song of the girl who strives to enjoy her year or two of
    youthful vigour, knowing the darkness of the years to come; the
    careless defiance of the youth who feels his blood and revolts against
    the lot which would tame it; all that is purely human in these
    darkened multitudes speaks to you as you listen. It is the
    half-conscious striving of a nature which knows not what it would
    attain, which deforms a true thought by gross expression, which
    clutches at the beautiful and soils it with foul hands.

    The children were dirty and ragged, several of them barefooted, nearly
    all bare-headed, but they danced with noisy merriment. One there was,
    a little girl, on crutches; incapable of taking a partner, she stumped
    round and round, circling upon the pavement, till giddiness came upon
    her and she had to fall back and lean against the wall, laughing aloud
    at her weakness. Gilbert stepped up to her, and put a penny into her
    hand; then, before she had recovered from her surprise, passed
    onwards.'--(p. 111.)

This superb piece of imaginative prose, of which Shorthouse himself might
have been proud,[9] is recalled by an answering note in _Ryecroft_, in
which he says, 'I owe many a page to the street-organs.'

And, where the pathos has to be distilled from dialogue, I doubt if the
author of _Jack_ himself could have written anything more restrainedly
touching or in a finer taste than this:--

[Footnote 9: I am thinking, in particular, of the old vielle-player's
conversation in chap. xxiii. of _John Inglesant_; of the exquisite passage
on old dance music--its inexpressible pathos--in chap. xxv.]

    'Laughing with kindly mirth, the old man drew on his woollen gloves
    and took up his hat and the violin-bag. Then he offered to say
    good-bye.

    "But you're forgetting your top-coat, grandad," said Lydia.

    "I didn't come in it, my dear."

    "What's that, then? I'm sure _we_ don't wear such things."

    She pointed to a chair, on which Thyrza had just artfully spread the
    gift. Mr. Boddy looked in a puzzled way; had he really come in his
    coat and forgotten it? He drew nearer.

    "That's no coat o' mine, Lyddy," he said.

    Thyrza broke into a laugh.

    "Why, whose is it, then?" she exclaimed. "Don't play tricks, grandad;
    put it on at once!"

    "Now come, come; you're keeping Mary waiting," said Lydia, catching up
    the coat and holding it ready.

    Then Mr. Boddy understood. He looked from Lydia to Thyrza with dimmed
    eyes.

    "I've a good mind never to speak to either of you again," he said in a
    tremulous voice. "As if you hadn't need enough of your money! Lyddy,
    Lyddy! And you're as had, Thyrza, a grownup woman like you; you ought
    to teach your sister better. Why, there; it's no good; I don't know
    what to say to you. Now what do you think of this, Mary?"

    Lydia still held up the coat, and at length persuaded the old man to
    don it. The effect upon his appearance was remarkable; conscious of
    it, he held himself more upright and stumped to the little square of
    looking-glass to try and regard himself. Here he furtively brushed a
    hand over his eyes.

    "I'm ready, Mary, my dear; I'm ready! It's no good saying anything to
    girls like these. Good-bye, Lyddy; good-bye, Thyrza. May you have a
    happy Christmas, children! This isn't the first as you've made a happy
    one for me."'--(p. 117.)

The anonymously published _Demos_ (1886) can hardly be described as a
typical product of George Gissing's mind and art. In it he subdued himself
rather to the level of such popular producers as Besant and Rice, and went
out of his way to procure melodramatic suspense, an ingredient far from
congenial to his normal artistic temper. But the end justified the means.
The novel found favour in the eyes of the author of _The Lost Sir
Massingberd_, and Gissing for the first time in his life found himself the
possessor of a full purse, with fifty 'jingling, tingling, golden, minted
quid' in it. Its possession brought with it the realisation of a paramount
desire, the desire for Greece and Italy which had become for him, as it had
once been with Goethe, a scarce endurable suffering. The sickness of
longing had wellnigh given way to despair, when 'there came into my hands a
sum of money (such a poor little sum) for a book I had written. It was
early autumn. I chanced to hear some one speak of Naples--and only death
would have held me back.'[10]

[Footnote 10: See _Emancipated_, chaps. iv.-xii.; _New Grub Street_, chap,
xxvii.; _Ryecroft_, Autumn xix.; the short, not superior, novel called
_Sleeping Fires_, 1895, chap. i. 'An encounter on the Kerameikos'; _The
Albany_, Christmas 1904, p. 27; and _Monthly Review_, vol. xvi. 'He went
straight by sea to the land of his dreams--Italy. It was still happily
before the enterprise of touring agencies had fobbed the idea of Italian
travel of its last vestiges of magic. He spent as much time as he could
afford about the Bay of Naples, and then came on with a rejoicing heart to
Rome--Rome, whose topography had been with him since boyhood, beside whose
stately history the confused tumult of the contemporary newspapers seemed
to him no more than a noisy, unmeaning persecution of the mind. Afterwards
he went to Athens.']

The main plot of _Demos_ is concerned with Richard Mutimer, a young
socialist whose vital force, both mental and physical, is well above the
average, corrupted by accession to a fortune, marrying a refined wife,
losing his money in consequence of the discovery of an unsuspected will,
and dragging his wife down with him,--down to _la misère_ in its most
brutal and humiliating shape. Happy endings and the Gissing of this period
are so ill-assorted, that the 'reconciliations' at the close of both this
novel and the next are to be regarded with considerable suspicion. The
'gentlefolk' in the book are the merest marionettes, but there are
descriptive passages of first-rate vigour, and the voice of wisdom is heard
from the lips of an early Greek choregus in the figure of an old parson
called Mr. Wyvern. As the mouthpiece of his creator's pet hobbies parson
Wyvern rolls out long homilies conceived in the spirit of Emerson's
'compensation,' and denounces the cruelty of educating the poor and making
no after-provision for their intellectual needs with a sombre enthusiasm
and a periodicity of style almost worthy of Dr. Johnson.[11]

[Footnote 11: An impressive specimen of his eloquence was cited by me in an
article in the _Daily Mail Year Book_ (1906, p. 2). A riper study of a
somewhat similar character is given in old Mr. Lashmar in _Our Friend the
Charlatan_. (See his sermon on the blasphemy which would have us pretend
that our civilisation obeys the spirit of Christianity, in chap, xviii.).
For a criticism of _Demos_ and _Thyrza_ in juxtaposition with Besant's
_Children of Gibeon_, see Miss Sichel on 'Philanthropic Novelists'
(_Murray's Magazine_, iii. 506-518). Gissing saw deeper than to 'cease his
music on a merry chord.']

After _Demos_, Gissing returned in 1888 to the more sentimental and
idealistic palette which he had employed for _Thyrza_. Renewed
recollections of Tibullus and of Theocritus may have served to give his
work a more idyllic tinge. But there were much nearer sources of
inspiration for _A Life's Morning_. There must be many novels inspired by a
youthful enthusiasm for _Richard Feverel_, and this I should take to be one
of them. Apart from the idyllic purity of its tone, and its sincere
idolatry of youthful love, the caressing grace of the language which
describes the spiritualised beauty of Emily Hood and the exquisite charm of
her slender hands, and the silvery radiance imparted to the whole scene of
the proposal in the summer-house (in chapter iii., 'Lyrical'), give to this
most unequal and imperfect book a certain crepuscular fascination of its
own. Passages in it, certainly, are not undeserving that fine description
of a style _si tendre qu'il pousse le bonheur à pleurer_. Emily's father,
Mr. Hood, is an essentially pathetic figure, almost grotesquely true to
life. 'I should like to see London before I die,' he says to his daughter.
'Somehow I have never managed to get so far.... There's one thing that I
wish especially to see, and that is Holborn Viaduct. It must be a wonderful
piece of engineering; I remember thinking it out at the time it was
constructed. Of course you have seen it?' The vulgar but not wholly inhuman
Cartwright interior, where the parlour is resolved into a perpetual
matrimonial committee, would seem to be the outcome of genuine observation.
Dagworthy is obviously padded with the author's substitute for melodrama,
while the rich and cultivated Mr. Athel is palpably imitated from Meredith.
The following tirade (spoken by the young man to his mistress) is Gissing
pure. 'Think of the sunny spaces in the world's history, in each of which
one could linger for ever. Athens at her fairest, Rome at her grandest, the
glorious savagery of Merovingian Courts, the kingdom of Frederick II., the
Moors in Spain, the magic of Renaissance Italy--to become a citizen of any
one age means a lifetime of endeavour. It is easy to fill one's head with
names and years, but that only sharpens my hunger.' In one form or another
it recurs in practically every novel.[12] Certain of the later portions of
this book, especially the chapter entitled 'Her Path in Shadow' are
delineated through a kind of mystical haze, suggestive of some of the work
of Puvis de Chavannes. The concluding chapters, taken as a whole, indicate
with tolerable accuracy Gissing's affinities as a writer, and the pedigree
of the type of novel by which he is best known. It derives from Xavier de
Maistre and St. Pierre to _La Nouvelle Héloïse,_--nay, might one not almost
say from the _pays du tendre_ of _La Princesse de Clèves_ itself.
Semi-sentimental theories as to the relations of the sexes, the dangers of
indiscriminate education, the corruptions of wretchedness and poverty in
large towns, the neglect of literature and classical learning, and the
grievances of scholarly refinement in a world in which Greek iambic and
Latin hexameter count for nothing,--such form the staple of his theses and
tirades! His approximation at times to the confines of French realistic art
is of the most accidental or incidental kind. For Gissing is at heart, in
his bones as the vulgar say, a thorough moralist and sentimentalist, an
honest, true-born, downright ineradicable Englishman. Intellectually his
own life was, and continued to the last to be, romantic to an extent that
few lives are. Pessimistic he may at times appear, but this is almost
entirely on the surface. For he was never in the least blasé or ennuyé. He
had the pathetic treasure of the humble and downcast and unkindly
entreated--unquenchable hope. He has no objectivity. His point of view is
almost entirely personal. It is not the _lacrimae rerum_, but the _lacrimae
dierum suorum_, that makes his pages often so forlorn. His laments are all
uttered by the waters of Babylon in a strange land. His nostalgia in the
land of exile, estranged from every refinement, was greatly enhanced by the
fact that he could not get on with ordinary men, but exhibited almost to
the last a practical incapacity, a curious inability to do the sane and
secure thing. As Mr. Wells puts it:--

[Footnote 12: Sometimes, however, as in _The Whirlpool_ (1897) with a very
significant change of intonation:--'And that History which he loved to
read--what was it but the lurid record of woes unutterable! How could he
find pleasure in keeping his eyes fixed on century after century of
ever-repeated torment--war, pestilence, tyranny; the stake, the dungeon;
tortures of infinite device, cruelties inconceivable?'--(p. 326.)]

    'It is not that he was a careless man, he was a most careful one; it
    is not that he was a morally lax man, he was almost morbidly the
    reverse. Neither was he morose or eccentric in his motives or bearing;
    he was genial, conversational, and well-meaning. But he had some sort
    of blindness towards his fellow-men, so that he never entirely grasped
    the spirit of everyday life, so that he, who was so copiously
    intelligent in the things of the study, misunderstood, blundered, was
    nervously diffident, and wilful and spasmodic in common affairs, in
    employment and buying and selling, and the normal conflicts of
    intercourse. He did not know what would offend, and he did not know
    what would please. He irritated others and thwarted himself. He had no
    social nerve.'

Does not Gissing himself sum it up admirably, upon the lips of Mr.
Widdowson in _The Odd Women_: 'Life has always been full of worrying
problems for me. I can't take things in the simple way that comes natural
to other men.' 'Not as other men are': more intellectual than most, fully
as responsive to kind and genial instincts, yet bound at every turn to
pinch and screw--an involuntary ascetic. Such is the essential burden of
Gissing's long-drawn lament. Only accidentally can it be described as his
mission to preach 'the desolation of modern life,' or in the gracious
phrase of De Goncourt, _fouiller les entrailles de la vie_. Of the
confident, self-supporting realism of _Esther Waters_, for instance, how
little is there in any of his work, even in that most gloomily photographic
portion of it which we are now to describe?

During the next four years, 1889-1892, Gissing produced four novels, and
three of these perhaps are his best efforts in prose fiction. _The Nether
World_ of 1889 is certainly in some respects his strongest work, _la letra
con sangre_, in which the ruddy drops of anguish remembered in a state of
comparative tranquillity are most powerfully expressed. _The Emancipated_,
of 1890, is with equal certainty, a _réchauffé_ and the least successful of
various attempts to give utterance to his enthusiasm for the _valor
antica_--'the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome.' _New
Grub Street_, (1891) is the most constructive and perhaps the most
successful of all his works; while _Born in Exile_ (1892) is a key-book as
regards the development of the author's character, a _clavis_ of primary
value to his future biographer, whoever he may be. The _Nether World_
contains Gissing's most convincing indictment of Poverty; and it also
expresses his sense of revolt against the ugliness and cruelty which is
propagated like a foul weed by the barbarous life of our reeking slums.
Hunger and Want show Religion and Virtue the door with scant politeness in
this terrible book. The material had been in his possession for some time,
and in part it had been used before in earlier work. It was now utilised
with a masterly hand, and the result goes some way, perhaps, to justify the
well-meant but erratic comparisons that have been made between Gissing and
such writers as Zola, Maupassant and the projector of the _Comédie
Humaine_. The savage luck which dogs Kirkwood and Jane, and the worse than
savage--the inhuman--cruelty of Clem Peckover, who has been compared to the
Madame Cibot of Balzac's _Le Cousin Pons_, render the book an intensely
gloomy one; it ends on a note of poignant misery, which gives a certain
colour for once to the oft-repeated charge of morbidity and pessimism.
Gissing understood the theory of compensation, but was unable to exhibit it
in action. He elevates the cult of refinement to such a pitch that the
consolations of temperament, of habit, and of humdrum ideals which are
common to the coarsest of mankind, appear to elude his observation. He does
not represent men as worse than they are; but he represents them less
brave. No social stratum is probably quite so dull as he colours it. There
is usually a streak of illusion or a flash of hope somewhere on the
horizon. Hence a somewhat one-sided view of life, perfectly true as
representing the grievance of the poet Cinna in the hands of the mob, but
too severely monochrome for a serious indictment of a huge stratum of our
common humanity. As in _Thyrza_, the sombreness of the ground generates
some magnificent pieces of descriptive writing.

    'Hours yet before the fireworks begin. Never mind; here by good
    luck we find seats where we can watch the throng passing and
    repassing. It is a great review of the people. On the whole, how
    respectable they are, how sober, how deadly dull! See how worn-out the
    poor girls are becoming, how they gape, what listless eyes most of
    them have! The stoop in the shoulders so universal among them merely
    means over-toil in the workroom. Not one in a thousand shows the
    elements of taste in dress; vulgarity and worse glares in all but
    every costume. Observe the middle-aged women; it would be small
    surprise that their good looks had vanished, but whence comes it they
    are animal, repulsive, absolutely vicious in ugliness? Mark the men in
    their turn; four in every six have visages so deformed by ill-health
    that they excite disgust; their hair is cut down to within half an
    inch of the scalp; their legs are twisted out of shape by evil
    conditions of life from birth upwards. Whenever a youth and a girl
    come along arm-in-arm, how flagrantly shows the man's coarseness! They
    are pretty, so many of these girls, delicate of feature, graceful did
    but their slavery allow them natural development; and the heart sinks
    as one sees them side by side with the men who are to be their
    husbands....

    On the terraces dancing has commenced; the players of violins,
    concertinas, and penny whistles do a brisk trade among the groups
    eager for a rough-and-tumble valse; so do the pickpockets. Vigorous
    and varied is the jollity that occupies the external galleries,
    filling now in expectation of the fireworks; indescribable the mingled
    tumult that roars heavenwards. Girls linked by the half-dozen
    arm-in-arm leap along with shrieks like grotesque maenads; a rougher
    horseplay finds favour among the youths, occasionally leading to
    fisticuffs. Thick voices bellow in fragmentary chorus; from every side
    comes the yell, the cat-call, the ear-rending whistle; and as the
    bass, the never-ceasing accompaniment, sounds the myriad-footed tramp,
    tramp along the wooden flooring. A fight, a scene of bestial
    drunkenness, a tender whispering between two lovers, proceed
    concurrently in a space of five square yards. Above them glimmers the
    dawn of starlight.'--(pp. 109-11.)

From the delineation of this profoundly depressing milieu, by the aid of
which, if the fate of London and Liverpool were to-morrow as that of
Herculaneum and Pompeii, we should be able to reconstruct the gutters of
our Imperial cities (little changed in essentials since the days of
Domitian), Gissing turned his sketch-book to the scenery of rural England.
He makes no attempt at the rich colouring of Kingsley or Blackmore, but, as
page after page of _Ryecroft_ testifies twelve years later, he is a perfect
master of the _aquarelle_.

    'The distance is about five miles, and, until Danbury Hill is reached,
    the countryside has no point of interest to distinguish it from any
    other representative bit of rural Essex. It is merely one of those
    quiet corners of flat, homely England, where man and beast seem on
    good terms with each other, where all green things grow in abundance,
    where from of old tilth and pasture-land are humbly observant of
    seasons and alternations, where the brown roads are familiar only with
    the tread of the labourer, with the light wheel of the farmer's gig,
    or the rumbling of the solid wain. By the roadside you pass
    occasionally a mantled pool, where perchance ducks or geese are
    enjoying themselves; and at times there is a pleasant glimpse of
    farmyard, with stacks and barns and stables. All things as simple as
    could be, but beautiful on this summer afternoon, and priceless when
    one has come forth from the streets of Clerkenwell.

       *       *       *       *       *

    'Danbury Hill, rising thick-wooded to the village church, which is
    visible for miles around, with stretches of heath about its lower
    slopes, with its far prospects over the sunny country, was the
    pleasant end of a pleasant drive.'--(_The Nether World_, pp.
    164-165.)

The first part of this description is quite masterly--worthy, I am inclined
to say, of Flaubert. But unless you are familiar with the quiet,
undemonstrative nature of the scenery described, you can hardly estimate
the perfect justice of the sentiment and phrasing with which Gissing
succeeds in enveloping it.

Gissing now turned to the submerged tenth of literature, and in describing
it he managed to combine a problem or thesis with just the amount of
characterisation and plotting sanctioned by the novel convention of the
day. The convention may have been better than we think, for _New Grub
Street_ is certainly its author's most effective work. The characters are
numerous, actual, and alive. The plot is moderately good, and lingers in
the memory with some obstinacy. The problem is more open to criticism, and
it has indeed been criticised from more points of view than one.

    'In _New Grub Street_,' says one of his critics,[13] 'Mr. Gissing
    has endeavoured to depict the shady side of literary life in an age
    dominated by the commercial spirit. On the whole, it is in its realism
    perhaps the least convincing of his novels, whilst being undeniably
    the most depressing. It is not that Gissing's picture of poverty in
    the literary profession is wanting in the elements of truth, although
    even in that profession there is even more eccentricity than the
    author leads us to suppose in the social position and evil plight of
    such men as Edwin Reardon and Harold Biffen. But the contrast between
    Edwin Reardon, the conscientious artist loving his art and working for
    its sake, and Jasper Milvain, the man of letters, who prospers simply
    because he is also a man of business, which is the main feature of the
    book and the principal support of its theme, strikes one throughout as
    strained to the point of unreality. In the first place, it seems
    almost impossible that a man of Milvain's mind and instincts should
    have deliberately chosen literature as the occupation of his life;
    with money and success as his only aim he would surely have become a
    stockbroker or a moneylender. In the second place, Edwin Reardon's
    dire failure, with his rapid descent into extreme poverty, is clearly
    traceable not so much to a truly artistic temperament in conflict with
    the commercial spirit, as to mental and moral weakness, which could
    not but have a baneful influence upon his work.'

[Footnote 13: F. Dolman in _National Review_, vol. xxx.; cf. _ibid_., vol.
xliv.]

This criticism does not seem to me a just one at all, and I dissent from it
completely. In the first place, the book is not nearly so depressing as
_The Nether World_, and is much farther removed from the strain of French
and Russian pessimism which had begun to engage the author's study when he
was writing _Thyrza_. There are dozens of examples to prove that Milvain's
success is a perfectly normal process, and the reason for his selecting the
journalistic career is the obvious one that he has no money to begin
stock-broking, still less money-lending. In the third place, the mental and
moral shortcomings of Reardon are by no means dissembled by the author. He
is, as the careful student of the novels will perceive, a greatly
strengthened and improved rifacimento of Kingcote, while Amy Reardon is a
better observed Isabel, regarded from a slightly different point of view.
Jasper Milvain is, to my thinking, a perfectly fair portrait of an
ambitious publicist or journalist of the day--destined by determination,
skill, energy, and social ambition to become an editor of a successful
journal or review, and to lead the life of central London. Possessing a
keen and active mind, expression on paper is his handle; he has no love of
letters as letters at all. But his outlook upon the situation is just
enough. Reardon has barely any outlook at all. He is a man with a delicate
but shallow vein of literary capacity, who never did more than tremble upon
the verge of success, and hardly, if at all, went beyond promise. He was
unlucky in marrying Amy, a rather heartless woman, whose ambition was far
in excess of her insight, for economic position Reardon had none. He writes
books to please a small group. The books fail to please. Jasper in the main
is right--there is only a precarious place for any creative litterateur
between the genius and the swarm of ephemera or journalists. A man writes
either to please the hour or to produce something to last, relatively a
long time, several generations--what we call 'permanent.' The intermediate
position is necessarily insecure. It is not really wanted. What is lost by
society when one of these mediocre masterpieces is overlooked? A sensation,
a single ray in a sunset, missed by a small literary coterie! The circle is
perhaps eclectic. It may seem hard that good work is overwhelmed in the
cataract of production, while relatively bad, garish work is rewarded. But
so it must be. 'The growing flood of literature swamps every thing but
works of primary genius.' Good taste is valuable, especially when it takes
the form of good criticism. The best critics of contemporary books (and
these are by no means identical with the best critics of the past and its
work) are those who settle intuitively upon the writing that is going to
appeal more largely to a future generation, when the attraction of novelty
and topicality has subsided. The same work is done by great men. They
anticipate lines of action; philosophers generally follow (Machiavelli's
theories the practice of Louis XI., Nietzsche's that of Napoleon I.). The
critic recognises the tentative steps of genius in letters. The work of
fine delicacy and reserve, the work that follows, lacking the real
originality, is liable to neglect, and _may_ become the victim of ill-luck,
unfair influence, or other extraneous factors. Yet on the whole, so
numerous are the publics of to-day, there never, perhaps, was a time when
supreme genius or even supreme talent was so sure of recognition. Those who
rail against these conditions, as Gissing seems here to have done, are
actuated consciously or unconsciously by a personal or sectional
disappointment. It is akin to the crocodile lament of the publisher that
good modern literature is neglected by the public, or the impressionist's
lament about the great unpaid greatness of the great unknown--the
exclusively literary view of literary rewards. Literature must be governed
by over-mastering impulse or directed at profit.

But _New Grub Street_ is rich in memorable characters and situations to an
extent unusual in Gissing; Biffen in his garret--a piece of genre almost
worthy of Dickens; Reardon the sterile plotter, listening in despair to the
neighbouring workhouse clock of St. Mary-le-bone; the matutinal interview
between Alfred Yule and the threadbare surgeon, a vignette worthy of
Smollett. Alfred Yule, the worn-out veteran, whose literary ideals are
those of the eighteenth century, is a most extraordinary study of an
_arriéré_--certainly one of the most crusted and individual personalities
Gissing ever portrayed. He never wrote with such a virile pen: phrase after
phrase bites and snaps with a singular crispness and energy; material used
before is now brought to a finer literary issue. It is by far the most
tenacious of Gissing's novels. It shows that on the more conventional lines
of fictitious intrigue, acting as cement, and in the interplay of
emphasised characters, Gissing could, if he liked, excel. (It recalls
Anatole France's _Le Lys Rouge_, showing that he, too, the scholar and
intellectual _par excellence_, could an he would produce patterns in plain
and fancy adultery with the best.) Whelpdale's adventures in Troy, U.S.A.,
where he lived for five days on pea-nuts, are evidently
semi-autobiographical. It is in his narrative that we first made the
acquaintance of the American phrase now so familiar about literary
productions going off like hot cakes. The reminiscences of Athens are
typical of a lifelong obsession--to find an outlet later on in _Veranilda_.
On literary _réclame_, he says much that is true--if not the whole truth,
in the apophthegm for instance, 'You have to become famous before you can
secure the attention which would give fame.' Biffen, it is true, is a
somewhat fantastic figure of an idealist, but Gissing cherished this
grotesque exfoliation from a headline by Dickens--and later in his career
we shall find him reproducing one of Biffen's ideals with a singular
fidelity.

    'Picture a woman of middle age, wrapped at all times in dirty rags
    (not to be called clothing), obese, grimy, with dishevelled black
    hair, and hands so scarred, so deformed by labour and neglect, as to
    be scarcely human. She had the darkest and fiercest eyes I ever saw.
    Between her and her mistress went on an unceasing quarrel; they
    quarrelled in my room, in the corridor, and, as I knew by their shrill
    voices, in places remote; yet I am sure they did not dislike each
    other, and probably neither of them ever thought of parting.
    Unexpectedly, one evening, this woman entered, stood by the bedside,
    and began to talk with such fierce energy, with such flashing of her
    black eyes, and such distortion of her features, that I could only
    suppose that she was attacking me for the trouble I caused her. A
    minute or two passed before I could even hit the drift of her furious
    speech; she was always the most difficult of the natives to
    understand, and in rage she became quite unintelligible. Little by
    little, by dint of questioning, I got at what she meant. There had
    been _guai_, worse than usual; the mistress had reviled her
    unendurably for some fault or other, and was it not hard that she
    should be used like this after having _tanto, tanto lavorato_! In
    fact, she was appealing for my sympathy, not abusing me at all. When
    she went on to say that she was alone in the world, that all her kith
    and kin were _freddi morti_ (stone dead), a pathos in her aspect
    and her words took hold upon me; it was much as if some heavy-laden
    beast of burden had suddenly found tongue and protested in the rude
    beginnings of articulate utterance against its hard lot. If only we
    could have learnt in intimate detail the life of this domestic
    serf[14]! How interesting and how sordidly picturesque against the
    background of romantic landscape, of scenic history! I looked long
    into her sallow, wrinkled face, trying to imagine the thoughts that
    ruled its expression. In some measure my efforts at kindly speech
    succeeded, and her "Ah, Cristo!" as she turned to go away, was not
    without a touch of solace.'

[Footnote 14: Here is a more fully prepared expression of the very essence
of Biffen's artistic ideal.--_By the Ionian Sea_, chap. x.]

In 1892 Gissing was already beginning to try and discard his down look, his
lugubrious self-pity, his lamentable cadence. He found some alleviation
from self-torment in _David Copperfield_, and he determined to borrow a
feather from 'the master's' pinion--in other words, to place an
autobiographical novel to his credit. The result was _Born in Exile_
(1892), one of the last of the three-volume novels,--by no means one of the
worst. A Hedonist of academic type, repelled by a vulgar intonation,
Gissing himself is manifestly the man in exile. Travel, fair women and
college life, the Savile club, and Great Malvern or the Cornish coast,
music in Paris or Vienna--this of course was the natural milieu for such a
man. Instead of which our poor scholar (with Homer and Shakespeare and
Pausanias piled upon his one small deal table) had to encounter the life of
the shabby recluse in London lodgings--synonymous for him, as passage after
passage in his books recounts, with incompetence and vulgarity in every
form, at best 'an ailing lachrymose slut incapable of effort,' more often
sheer foulness and dishonesty, 'by lying, slandering, quarrelling, by
drunkenness, by brutal vice, by all abominations that distinguish the
lodging-letter of the metropolis.' No book exhibits more naïvely the
extravagant value which Gissing put upon the mere externals of refinement.
The following scathing vignette of his unrefined younger brother by the
hero, Godfrey Peak, shows the ferocity with which this feeling could
manifest itself against a human being who lacked the elements of scholastic
learning (the brother in question had failed to give the date of the Norman
Conquest):--

    'He saw much company and all of low intellectual order; he had
    purchased a bicycle and regarded it as a source of distinction, or
    means of displaying himself before shopkeepers' daughters; he believed
    himself a moderate tenor and sang verses of sentimental imbecility; he
    took in several weekly papers of unpromising title for the chief
    purpose of deciphering cryptograms, in which pursuit he had singular
    success. Add to these characteristics a penchant for cheap jewellery,
    and Oliver Peak stands confessed.'

The story of the book is revealed in Peak's laconic ambition, 'A plebeian,
I aim at marrying a lady.' It is a little curious, some may think, that
this motive so skilfully used by so many novelists to whose work Gissing's
has affinity, from Rousseau and Stendhal (_Rouge et Noire_) to Cherbuliez
(_Secret du Précepteur_) and Bourget (_Le Disciple_), had not already
attracted him, but the explanation is perhaps in part indicated in a finely
written story towards the close of this present volume.[15] The white,
maidenish and silk-haired fairness of Sidwell, and Peak's irresistible
passion for the type of beauty suggested, is revealed to us with all
Gissing's wonderful skill in shadowing forth feminine types of lovelihood.
Suggestive too of his oncoming passion for Devonshire and Western England
are strains of exquisite landscape music scattered at random through these
pages. More significant still, however, is the developing faculty for
personal satire, pointing to a vastly riper human experience. Peak was
uncertain, says the author, with that faint ironical touch which became
almost habitual to him, 'as to the limits of modern latitudinarianism until
he met Chilvers,' the sleek, clerical advocate of 'Less St. Paul and more
Darwin, less of Luther and more of Herbert Spencer':--

    'The discovery of such fantastic liberality in a man whom he could not
    but dislike and contemn gave him no pleasure, but at least it disposed
    him to amusement rather than antagonism. Chilvers's pronunciation and
    phraseology were distinguished by such original affectation that it
    was impossible not to find entertainment in listening to him. Though
    his voice was naturally shrill and piping, he managed to speak in head
    notes which had a ring of robust utterance. The sound of his words was
    intended to correspond with their virile warmth of meaning. In the
    same way he had cultivated a habit of the muscles which conveyed an
    impression that he was devoted to athletic sports. His arms
    occasionally swung as if brandishing dumb-bells, his chest now and
    then spread itself to the uttermost, and his head was often thrown
    back in an attitude suggesting self-defence.'

[Footnote 15: See page 260.]

Of Gissing's first year or so at Owens, after leaving Lindow Grove School
at Alderley,[16] we get a few hints in these pages. Like his 'lonely
cerebrate' hero, Gissing himself, at school and college, 'worked insanely.'
Walked much alone, shunned companionship rather than sought it, worked as
he walked, and was marked down as a 'pot-hunter.' He 'worked while he ate,
he cut down his sleep, and for him the penalty came, not in a palpable,
definable illness, but in an abrupt, incongruous reaction and collapse.'
With rage he looked back on these insensate years of study which had
weakened him just when he should have been carefully fortifying his
constitution.

[Footnote 16: With an exhibition gained when he was not yet fifteen.]

The year of this autobiographical record[17] marked the commencement of
Gissing's reclamation from that worst form of literary slavery--the
chain-gang. For he had been virtually chained to the desk, perpetually
working, imprisoned in a London lodging, owing to the literal lack of the
means of locomotion.[18] His most strenuous work, wrung from him in dismal
darkness and wrestling of spirit, was now achieved. Yet it seems to me both
ungrateful and unfair to say, as has frequently been done, that his
subsequent work was consistently inferior. In his earlier years, like
Reardon, he had destroyed whole books--books he had to sit down to when his
imagination was tired and his fancy suffering from deadly fatigue. His
corrections in the days of _New Grub Street_ provoked not infrequent,
though anxiously deprecated, remonstrance from his publisher's reader. Now
he wrote with more assurance and less exhaustive care, but also with a
perfected experience. A portion of his material, it is true, had been
fairly used up, and he had henceforth to turn to analyse the sufferings of
well-to-do lower middle-class families, people who had 'neither inherited
refinement nor acquired it, neither proletarian nor gentlefolk, consumed
with a disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated with the miasma of
democracy.' Of these classes it is possible that he knew less, and
consequently lacked the sureness of touch and the fresh draughtsmanship
which comes from ample knowledge, and that he had, consequently, to have
increasing resort to books and to invention, to hypothesis and theory.[19]
On the other hand, his power of satirical writing was continually expanding
and developing, and some of his very best prose is contained in four of
these later books: _In the Year of Jubilee_ (1894), _Charles Dickens_
(1898), _By the Ionian Sea_ (1901), and _The Private Papers of Henry
Ryecroft_ (1903); not far below any of which must be rated four others,
_The Odd Women_ (1893), _Eve's Ransom_ (1895), _The Whirlpool_ (1897), and
_Will Warburton_ (1905), to which may be added the two collections of short
stories.

[Footnote 17: Followed in 1897 by _The Whirlpool_ (see p. xvi), and in 1899
and 1903 by two books containing a like infusion of autobiographical
experience, _The Crown of Life_, technically admirable in chosen passages,
but sadly lacking in the freshness of first-hand, and _The Private Papers
of Henry Ryecroft_, one of the rightest and ripest of all his productions.]

[Footnote 18: 'I hardly knew what it was to travel by omnibus. I have
walked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together without even a
thought of saving my legs or my time, by paying for waftage. Being poor as
poor can be, there were certain things I had to renounce, and this was one
of them.'--_Ryecroft_. For earlier scenes see _Monthly Review_, xvi., and
_Owens College Union Mag_., Jan. 1904, pp. 80-81.]

[Footnote 19: 'He knew the narrowly religious, the mental barrenness of the
poor dissenters, the people of the slums that he observed so carefully, and
many of those on the borders of the Bohemia of which he at least was an
initiate, and he was soaked and stained, as he might himself have said,
with the dull drabs of the lower middle class that he hated. But of those
above he knew little.... He did not know the upper middle classes, which
are as difficult every whit as those beneath them, and take as much time
and labour and experience and observation to learn.'--'The Exile of George
Gissing,' _Albany_, Christmas 1904. In later life he lost sympathy with the
'nether world.' Asked to write a magazine article on a typical 'workman's
budget,' he wrote that he no longer took an interest in the 'condition of
the poor question.']

Few, if any, of Gissing's books exhibit more mental vigour than _In the
Year of Jubilee_. This is shown less, it may be, in his attempted solution
of the marriage problem (is marriage a failure?) by means of the suggestion
that middle class married people should imitate the rich and see as little
of each other as possible, than in the terse and amusing characterisations
and the powerfully thought-out descriptions. The precision which his pen
had acquired is well illustrated by the following description, not unworthy
of Thomas Hardy, of a new neighbourhood.

    'Great elms, the pride of generations passed away, fell before the
    speculative axe, or were left standing in mournful isolation to please
    a speculative architect; bits of wayside hedge still shivered in fog
    and wind, amid hoardings variegated with placards and scaffoldings
    black against the sky. The very earth had lost its wholesome odour;
    trampled into mire, fouled with builders' refuse and the noisome drift
    from adjacent streets, it sent forth, under the sooty rain, a smell of
    corruption, of all the town's uncleanliness. On this rising locality
    had been bestowed the title of "Park." Mrs. Morgan was decided in her
    choice of a dwelling here by the euphonious address, Merton Avenue,
    Something-or-other Park.'

Zola's wonderful skill in the animation of crowds has often been commented
upon, but it is more than doubtful if he ever achieved anything superior to
Gissing's marvellous incarnation of the jubilee night mob in chapter seven.
More formidable, as illustrating the venom which the author's whole nature
had secreted against a perfectly recognisable type of modern woman, is the
acrid description of Ada, Beatrice, and Fanny French.

    'They spoke a peculiar tongue, the product of sham education and a
    mock refinement grafted upon a stock of robust vulgarity. One and all
    would have been moved to indignant surprise if accused of ignorance or
    defective breeding. Ada had frequented an "establishment for young
    ladies" up to the close of her seventeenth year: the other two had
    pursued culture at a still more pretentious institute until they were
    eighteen. All could "play the piano"; all declared--and believed--that
    they "knew French." Beatrice had "done" Political Economy; Fanny had
    "been through" Inorganic Chemistry and Botany. The truth was, of
    course, that their minds, characters, propensities, had remained
    absolutely proof against such educational influence as had been
    brought to bear upon them. That they used a finer accent than their
    servants, signified only that they had grown up amid falsities, and
    were enabled, by the help of money, to dwell above-stairs, instead of
    with their spiritual kindred below.'

The evils of indiscriminate education and the follies of our grotesque
examination system were one of Gissing's favourite topics of denunciation
in later years, as evidenced in this characteristic passage in his later
manner in this same book:--

    'She talked only of the "exam," of her chances in this or that
    "paper," of the likelihood that this or that question would be "set."
    Her brain was becoming a mere receptacle for dates and definitions,
    vocabularies and rules syntactic, for thrice-boiled essence of
    history, ragged scraps of science, quotations at fifth hand, and all
    the heterogeneous rubbish of a "crammer's" shop. When away from her
    books, she carried scraps of paper, with jottings to be committed to
    memory. Beside her plate at meals lay formulae and tabulations. She
    went to bed with a manual, and got up with a compendium.'

The conclusion of this book and its predecessor, _The Odd Women_,[20] marks
the conclusion of these elaborated problem studies. The inferno of London
poverty, social analysis and autobiographical reminiscence, had now alike
been pretty extensively drawn upon by Gissing. With different degrees of
success he had succeeded in providing every one of his theses with
something in the nature of a jack-in-the-box plot which the public loved
and he despised. There remained to him three alternatives: to experiment
beyond the limits of the novel; to essay a lighter vein of fiction; or
thirdly, to repeat himself and refashion old material within its limits.
Necessity left him very little option. He adopted all three alternatives.
His best success in the third department was achieved in _Eve's Ransom_
(1895). Burrowing back into a projection of himself in relation with a not
impossible she, Gissing here creates a false, fair, and fleeting beauty of
a very palpable charm. A growing sense of her power to fascinate steadily
raises Eve's standard of the minimum of luxury to which she is entitled.
And in the course of this evolution, in the vain attempt to win beauty by
gratitude and humility, the timid Hilliard, who seeks to propitiate his
charmer by ransoming her from a base liaison and supporting her in luxury
for a season in Paris, is thrown off like an old glove when a richer
_parti_ declares himself. The subtlety of the portraiture and the economy
of the author's sympathy for his hero impart a subacid flavour of peculiar
delicacy to the book, which would occupy a high place in the repertoire of
any lesser artist. It well exhibits the conflict between an exaggerated
contempt for, and an extreme susceptibility to, the charm of women which
has cried havoc and let loose the dogs of strife upon so many able men. In
_The Whirlpool_ of 1897, in which he shows us a number of human floats
spinning round the vortex of social London,[21] Gissing brings a
melodramatic plot of a kind disused since the days of _Demos_ to bear upon
the exhausting lives and illusive pleasures of the rich and cultured middle
class. There is some admirable writing in the book, and symptoms of a
change of tone (the old inclination to whine, for instance, is scarcely
perceptible) suggestive of a new era in the work of the
novelist--relatively mature in many respects as he now manifestly was.
Further progress in one of two directions seemed indicated: the first
leading towards the career of a successful society novelist 'of circulating
fame, spirally crescent,' the second towards the frame of mind that created
_Ryecroft_. The second fortunately prevailed. In the meantime, in
accordance with a supreme law of his being, his spirit craved that
refreshment which Gissing found in revisiting Italy. 'I want,' he cried,
'to see the ruins of Rome: I want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus, the
Aufidus, the Alban Hills, Lake Trasimenus! It is strange how these old
times have taken hold of me. The mere names in Roman history make my blood
warm.' Of him the saying of Michelet was perpetually true: 'J'ai passé à
côté du monde, et j'ai pris l'histoire pour la vie.' His guide-books in
Italy, through which he journeyed in 1897 (_en prince_ as compared with his
former visit, now that his revenue had risen steadily to between three and
four hundred a year), were Gibbon, his _semper eadem_, Lenormant (_la
Grande-Grèce_), and Cassiodorus, of whose epistles, the foundation of the
material of _Veranilda_, he now began to make a special study. The dirt,
the poverty, the rancid oil, and the inequable climate of Calabria must
have been a trial and something of a disappointment to him. But physical
discomfort and even sickness was whelmed by the old and overmastering
enthusiasm, which combined with his hatred of modernity and consumed
Gissing as by fire. The sensuous and the emotional sides of his experience
are blended with the most subtle artistry in his _By the Ionian Sea_, a
short volume of impressions, unsurpassable in its kind, from which we
cannot refrain two characteristic extracts:--

[Footnote 20: _The Odd Women_ (1893, new edition, 1894) is a rather sordid
and depressing survey of the life-histories of certain orphaned daughters
of a typical Gissing doctor--grave, benign, amiably diffident, terribly
afraid of life. 'From the contact of coarse actualities his nature shrank.'
After his death one daughter, a fancy-goods shop assistant (no wages), is
carried off by consumption; a second drowns herself in a bath at a
charitable institution; another takes to drink; and the portraits of the
survivors, their petty, incurable maladies, their utter uselessness, their
round shoulders and 'very short legs,' pimples, and scraggy necks--are as
implacable and unsparing as a Maupassant could wish. From the deplorable
insight with which he describes the nerveless, underfed, compulsory
optimism of these poor in spirit and poor in hope Gissing might almost have
been an 'odd woman' himself. In this book and _The Paying Guest_ (1895) he
seemed to take a savage delight in depicting the small, stiff, isolated,
costly, unsatisfied pretentiousness and plentiful lack of imagination which
cripples suburbia so cruelly.--See _Saturday Review_, 13 Apr. 1896; and see
also _ib_., 19 Jan. 1895.]

[Footnote 21: The whirlpool in which people just nod or shout to each other
as they spin round and round. The heroine tries to escape, but is drawn
back again and again, and nearly submerges her whole environment by her
wild clutches. Satire is lavished upon misdirected education (28), the
sluttishness of London landladies, self-adoring Art on a pedestal (256),
the delegation of children to underlings, sham religiosity (229), the
pampered conscience of a diffident student, and the _mensonge_ of modern
woman (300), typified by the ruddled cast-off of Redgrave, who plays first,
in her shrivelled paint, as procuress, and then, in her naked hideousness,
as blackmailer.]

    'At Cotrone the tone of the dining-room was decidedly morose. One
    man--he seemed to be a sort of clerk--came only to quarrel. I am
    convinced that he ordered things which he knew that the people could
    not cook, just for the sake of reviling their handiwork when it was
    presented. Therewith he spent incredibly small sums; after growling
    and remonstrating and eating for more than an hour, his bill would
    amount to seventy or eighty centesimi, wine included. Every day he
    threatened to withdraw his custom; every day he sent for the landlady,
    pointed out to her how vilely he was treated, and asked how she could
    expect him to recommend the Concordia to his acquaintances. On one
    occasion I saw him push away a plate of something, plant his elbows on
    the table, and hide his face in his hands; thus he sat for ten
    minutes, an image of indignant misery, and when at length his
    countenance was again visible, it showed traces of tears.'--(pp.
    102-3.)

The unconscious paganism that lingered in tradition, the half-obscured
names of the sites celebrated in classic story, and the spectacle of the
white oxen drawing the rustic carts of Virgil's time--these things roused
in him such an echo as _Chevy Chase_ roused in the noble Sidney, and made
him shout with joy. A pensive vein of contemporary reflection enriches the
book with passages such as this:--

    'All the faults of the Italian people are whelmed in forgiveness as
    soon as their music sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all
    they have suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute
    races have flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and
    glorious land; conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the
    people's lot. Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with
    blood. An immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of
    Italian gaiety. It is a country, wearied and regretful, looking ever
    backward to the things of old.'--(p. 130.)

The _Ionian Sea_ did not make its appearance until 1901, but while he was
actually in Italy, at Siena, he wrote the greater part of one of his very
finest performances; the study of _Charles Dickens_, of which he corrected
the proofs 'at a little town in Calabria.' It is an insufficient tribute to
Gissing to say that his study of Dickens is by far the best extant. I have
even heard it maintained that it is better in its way than any single
volume in the 'Man of Letters'; and Mr. Chesterton, who speaks from ample
knowledge on this point, speaks of the best of all Dickens's critics, 'a
man of genius, Mr. George Gissing.' While fully and frankly recognising the
master's defects in view of the artistic conscience of a later generation,
the writer recognises to the full those transcendent qualities which place
him next to Sir Walter Scott as the second greatest figure in a century of
great fiction. In defiance of the terrible, and to some critics damning,
fact that Dickens entirely changed the plan of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ in
deference to the popular criticism expressed by the sudden fall in the
circulation of that serial, he shows in what a fundamental sense the author
was 'a literary artist if ever there was one,' and he triumphantly refutes
the rash daub of unapplied criticism represented by the parrot cry of
'caricature' as levelled against Dickens's humorous portraits. Among the
many notable features of this veritable _chef-d'oeuvre_ of under 250 pages
is the sense it conveys of the superb gusto of Dickens's actual living and
breathing and being, the vindication achieved of two ordinarily rather
maligned novels, _The Old Curiosity Shop_ and _Little Dorrit_, and the
insight shown into Dickens's portraiture of women, more particularly those
of the shrill-voiced and nagging or whining variety, the 'better halves' of
Weller, Varden, Snagsby and Joe Gargery, not to speak of the Miggs, the
Gummidge, and the M'Stinger. Like Mr. Swinburne and other true men, he
regards Mrs. Gamp as representing the quintessence of literary art wielded
by genius. Try (he urges with a fine curiosity) 'to imagine Sarah Gamp as a
young girl'! But it is unfair to separate a phrase from a context in which
every syllable is precious, reasonable, thrice distilled and sweet to the
palate as Hybla honey.[22]

[Footnote 22: A revised edition (the date of Dickens's birth is wrongly
given in the first) was issued in 1902, with topographical illustrations by
F.G. Kitton. Gissing's introduction to _Nickleby_ for the Rochester edition
appeared in 1900, and his abridgement of Forster's _Life_ (an excellent
piece of work) in 1903 [1902]. The first collection of short stories,
twenty-nine in number, entitled _Human Odds and Ends_, was published in
1898. It is justly described by the writer of the most interesting
'Recollections of George Gissing' in the _Gentleman's Magazine,_ February
1906, as 'that very remarkable collection.']

Henceforth Gissing spent an increasing portion of his time abroad, and it
was from St. Honorè en Morvan, for instance, that he dated the preface of
_Our Friend the Charlatan_ in 1901. As with _Denzil Quarrier_ (1892) and
_The Town Traveller_ (1898) this was one of the books which Gissing
sometimes went the length of asking the admirers of his earlier romances
'not to read.' With its prefatory note, indeed, its cheap illustrations,
and its rather mechanical intrigue, it seems as far removed from such a
book as _A Life's Morning_ as it is possible for a novel by the same author
to be. It was in the South of France, in the neighbourhood of Biarritz,
amid scenes such as that described in the thirty-seventh chapter of _Will
Warburton_, or still further south, that he wrote the greater part of his
last three books, the novel just mentioned, which is probably his best
essay in the lighter ironical vein to which his later years inclined,[23]
_Veranilda_, a romance of the time of Theodoric the Goth, written in solemn
fulfilment of a vow of his youth, and _The Private Papers of Henry
Ryecroft_, which to my mind remains a legacy for Time to take account of as
the faithful tribute of one of the truest artists of the generation he
served.

[Footnote 23: It also contains one of the most beautiful descriptions ever
penned of the visit of a tired town-dweller to a modest rural home, with
all its suggestion of trim gardening, fresh country scents, indigenous
food, and homely simplicity.--_Will Warburton_, chap. ix.]

In _Veranilda_ (1904) are combined conscientious workmanship, a pure style
of finest quality, and archaeology, for all I know to the contrary, worthy
of Becker or Boni. Sir Walter himself could never in reason have dared to
aspire to such a fortunate conjuncture of talent, grace, and historic
accuracy. He possessed only that profound knowledge of human nature, that
moulding humour and quick sense of dialogue, that live, human, and local
interest in matters antiquarian, that statesmanlike insight into the pith
and marrow of the historic past, which makes one of Scott's historical
novels what it is--the envy of artists, the delight of young and old, the
despair of formal historians. _Veranilda_ is without a doubt a splendid
piece of work; Gissing wrote it with every bit of the care that his old
friend Biffen expended upon _Mr. Bailey, grocer_. He worked slowly,
patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good as he
could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaning
skilfully set; and he believed in it with the illusion so indispensable to
an artist's wellbeing and continuance in good work. It represented for him
what _Salammbô_ did to Flaubert. But he could not allow himself six years
to write a book as Flaubert did. _Salammbô_, after all, was a magnificent
failure, and _Veranilda_,--well, it must be confessed, sadly but surely,
that _Veranilda_ was a failure too. Far otherwise was it with _Ryecroft_,
which represents, as it were, the _summa_ of Gissing's habitual meditation,
aesthetic feeling and sombre emotional experience. Not that it is a
pessimistic work,--quite the contrary, it represents the mellowing
influences, the increase of faith in simple, unsophisticated English
girlhood and womanhood, in domestic pursuits, in innocent children, in
rural homeliness and honest Wessex landscape, which began to operate about
1896, and is seen so unmistakably in the closing scenes of _The Whirlpool_.
Three chief strains are subtly interblended in the composition. First that
of a nature book, full of air, foliage and landscape--that English
landscape art of Linnell and De Wint and Foster, for which he repeatedly
expresses such a passionate tendre,[24] refreshed by 'blasts from the
channel, with raining scud and spume of mist breaking upon the hills' in
which he seems to crystallise the very essence of a Western winter.
Secondly, a paean half of praise and half of regret for the vanishing
England, passing so rapidly even as he writes into 'a new England which
tries so hard to be unlike the old.' A deeper and richer note of
thankfulness, mixed as it must be with anxiety, for the good old ways of
English life (as lamented by Mr. Poorgrass and Mark Clark[25]), old English
simplicity, and old English fare--the fine prodigality of the English
platter, has never been raised. God grant that the leaven may work! And
thirdly there is a deeply brooding strain of saddening yet softened
autobiographical reminiscence, over which is thrown a light veil of
literary appreciation and topical comment. Here is a typical _cadenza_,
rising to a swell at one point (suggestive for the moment of Raleigh's
famous apostrophe), and then most gently falling, in a manner not wholly
unworthy, I venture to think, of Webster and Sir Thomas Browne, of both of
which authors there is internal evidence that Gissing made some study.

[Footnote 24: 'I love and honour even the least of English landscape
painters.'--_Ryecroft_.]

[Footnote 25: 'But what with the parsons and clerks and school-people and
serious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to the
dogs--upon my carcass, they have!'--_Far from the Madding Crowd_.]

    'I always turn out of my way to walk through a country churchyard;
    these rural resting-places are as attractive to me as a town cemetery
    is repugnant. I read the names upon the stones and find a deep solace
    in thinking that for all these the fret and the fear of life are over.
    There comes to me no touch of sadness; whether it be a little child or
    an aged man, I have the same sense of happy accomplishment; the end
    having come, and with it the eternal peace, what matter if it came
    late or soon? There is no such gratulation as _Hic jacet_. There
    is no such dignity as that of death. In the path trodden by the
    noblest of mankind these have followed; that which of all who live is
    the utmost thing demanded, these have achieved. I cannot sorrow for
    them, but the thought of their vanished life moves me to a brotherly
    tenderness. The dead amid this leafy silence seem to whisper
    encouragement to him whose fate yet lingers: As we are, so shalt thou
    be; and behold our quiet!'--(p. 183.)

And in this deeply moving and beautiful passage we get a foretaste, it may
be, of the euthanasia, following a brief summer of St. Martin, for which
the scarred and troublous portions of Gissing's earlier life had served as
a preparation. Some there are, no doubt, to whom it will seem no
extravagance in closing these private pages to use the author's own words,
of a more potent Enchanter: 'As I close the book, love and reverence
possess me.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Whatever the critics may determine as to the merit of the stories in the
present volume, there can be no question as to the interest they derive
from their connection with what had gone before. Thus _Topham's Chance_ is
manifestly the outcome of material pondered as early as 1884. _The Lodger
in Maze Pond_ develops in a most suggestive fashion certain problems
discussed in 1894. Miss Rodney is a re-incarnation of Rhoda Nunn and
Constance Bride. _Christopherson_ is a delicious expansion of a mood
indicated in _Ryecroft_ (Spring xii.), and _A Capitalist_ indicates the
growing interest in the business side of practical life, the dawn of which
is seen in _The Town Traveller_ and in the discussion of Dickens's
potentialities as a capitalist. The very artichokes in _The House of
Cobwebs_ (which, like the kindly hand that raised them, alas! fell a victim
to the first frost of the season) are suggestive of a charming passage
detailing the retired author's experience as a gardener. What Dr. Furnivall
might call the 'backward reach' of every one of these stories will render
their perusal delightful to those cultivated readers of Gissing, of whom
there are by no means a few, to whom every fragment of his suave and
delicate workmanship 'repressed yet full of power, vivid though sombre in
colouring,' has a technical interest and charm. Nor will they search in
vain for Gissing's incorrigible mannerisms, his haunting insistence upon
the note of 'Dort wo du nicht bist ist das Glück,' his tricks of the brush
in portraiture, his characteristic epithets, the _dusking_ twilight, the
_decently ignoble_ penury, the _not ignoble_ ambition, the _not wholly
base_ riot of the senses in early manhood. In my own opinion we have here
in _The Scrupulous Father_, and to a less degree, perhaps, in the first and
last of these stories, and in _A Poor Gentleman_ and _Christopherson_,
perfectly characteristic and quite admirable specimens of Gissing's own
genre, and later, unstudied, but always finished prose style.

       *       *       *       *       *

But a few words remain to be said, and these, in part at any rate, in
recapitulation. In the old race, of which Dickens and Thackeray were
representative, a successful determination to rise upon the broad back of
popularity coincided with a growing conviction that the evil in the world
was steadily diminishing. Like healthy schoolboys who have worked their way
up to the sixth form, they imagined that the bullying of which they had had
to complain was become pretty much a thing of the past. In Gissing the
misery inherent in the sharp contrasts of modern life was a far more deeply
ingrained conviction. He cared little for the remedial aspect of the
question. His idea was to analyse this misery as an artist and to express
it to the world.

One of the most impressive elements in the resulting novels is the witness
they bear to prolonged and intense suffering, the suffering of a proud,
reserved, and over-sensitive mind brought into constant contact with the
coarse and brutal facts of life. The creator of Mr. Biffen suffers all the
torture of the fastidious, the delicately honourable, the scrupulously
high-minded in daily contact with persons of blunt feelings, low ideals,
and base instincts. 'Human cattle, the herd that feed and breed, with them
it was well; but the few born to a desire for ever unattainable, the gentle
spirits who from their prisoning circumstance looked up and afar, how the
heart ached to think of them!' The natural bent of Gissing's talent was
towards poetry and classical antiquity. His mind had considerable natural
affinity with that of Tennyson.[26] He was passionately fond of old
literature, of the study of metre and of historical reverie. The subtle
curiosities of Anatole France are just of the kind that would have appealed
irresistibly to him. His delight in psychological complexity and feats of
style are not seldom reminiscent of Paul Bourget. His life would have
gained immeasurably by a transference to less pinched and pitiful
surroundings: but it is more than doubtful whether his work would have done
so.

[Footnote 26: In a young lady's album I unexpectedly came across the line
from _Maud_, 'Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways,'
with the signature, following the quotation marks, 'George Gissing.' The
borrowed aspiration was transparently sincere. 'Tennyson he worshipped'
(see _Odd Women_, chap. i.). The contemporary novelist he liked most was
Alphonse Daudet.]

The compulsion of the twin monsters Bread and Cheese forced him to write
novels the scene of which was laid in the one milieu he had thoroughly
observed, that of either utterly hideous or shabby genteel squalor in
London. He gradually obtained a rare mastery in the delineation of his
unlovely _mise en scène_. He gradually created a small public who read
eagerly everything that came from his pen, despite his economy of material
(even of ideas), and despite the repetition to which a natural tendency was
increased by compulsory over-production. In all his best books we have
evidence of the savage and ironical delight with which he depicted to the
shadow of a hair the sordid and vulgar elements by which he had been so
cruelly depressed. The aesthetic observer who wanted material for a picture
of the blank desolation and ugliness of modern city life could find no
better substratum than in the works of George Gissing. Many of his
descriptions of typical London scenes in Lambeth Walk, Clerkenwell, or Judd
Street, for instance, are the work of a detached, remorseless, photographic
artist realising that ugly sordidness of daily life to which the ordinary
observer becomes in the course of time as completely habituated as he does
to the smoke-laden air. To a cognate sentiment of revolt I attribute that
excessive deference to scholarship and refinement which leads him in so
many novels to treat these desirable attributes as if they were ends and
objects of life in themselves. It has also misled him but too often into
depicting a world of suicides, ignoring or overlooking a secret hobby, or
passion, or chimaera which is the one thing that renders existence
endurable to so many of the waifs and strays of life. He takes existence
sadly--too sadly, it may well be; but his drabs and greys provide an
atmosphere that is almost inseparable to some of us from our gaunt London
streets. In Farringdon Road, for example, I look up instinctively to the
expressionless upper windows where Mr. Luckworth Crewe spreads his baits
for intending advertisers. A tram ride through Clerkenwell and its leagues
of dreary, inhospitable brickwork will take you through the heart of a
region where Clem Peckover, Pennyloaf Candy, and Totty Nancarrow are
multiplied rather than varied since they were first depicted by George
Gissing. As for the British Museum, it is peopled to this day by characters
from _New Grub Street_.

There may be a perceptible lack of virility, a fluctuating vagueness of
outline about the characterisation of some of his men. In his treatment of
crowds, in his description of a mob, personified as 'some huge beast
purring to itself in stupid contentment,' he can have few rivals. In
tracing the influence of women over his heroes he evinces no common
subtlety; it is here probably that he is at his best. The _odor di
femmina_, to use a phrase of Don Giovanni's, is a marked characteristic of
his books. Of the kisses--

      'by hopeless fancy feigned
    On lips that are for others'--

there are indeed many to be discovered hidden away between these pages. And
the beautiful verse has a fine parallel in the prose of one of Gissing's
later novels. 'Some girl, of delicate instinct, of purpose sweet and pure,
wasting her unloved life in toil and want and indignity; some man, whose
youth and courage strove against a mean environment, whose eyes grew
haggard in the vain search for a companion promised in his dreams; they
lived, these two, parted perchance only by the wall of neighbour houses,
yet all huge London was between them, and their hands would never touch.'
The dream of fair women which occupies the mood of Piers Otway in the
opening passage of the same novel, was evidently no remotely conceived
fancy. Its realisation, in ideal love, represents the author's _Crown of
Life_. The wise man who said that Beautiful Woman[27] was a heaven to the
eye, a hell to the soul, and a purgatory to the purse of man, could hardly
find a more copious field of illustration than in the fiction of George
Gissing.

[Footnote 27: With unconscious recollection, it may be, of Pope's notable
phrase in regard to Shakespeare, he speaks in his last novel of woman
appearing at times as 'a force of Nature rather than an individual being'
(_Will Warburton_, p. 275).]

Gissing was a sedulous artist; some of his books, it is true, are very
hurried productions, finished in haste for the market with no great amount
either of inspiration or artistic confidence about them. But little
slovenly work will be found bearing his name, for he was a thoroughly
trained writer; a suave and seductive workmanship had become a second
nature to him, and there was always a flavour of scholarly, subacid and
quasi-ironical modernity about his style. There is little doubt that his
quality as a stylist was better adapted to the studies of modern London
life, on its seamier side, which he had observed at first hand, than to
stories of the conventional dramatic structure which he too often felt
himself bound to adopt. In these his failure to grapple with a big
objective, or to rise to some prosperous situation, is often painfully
marked. A master of explanation and description rather than of animated
narrative or sparkling dialogue, he lacked the wit and humour, the
brilliance and energy of a consummate style which might have enabled him to
compete with the great scenic masters in fiction, or with craftsmen such as
Hardy or Stevenson, or with incomparable wits and conversationalists such
as Meredith. It is true, again, that his London-street novels lack certain
artistic elements of beauty (though here and there occur glints of rainy or
sunset townscape in a half-tone, consummately handled and eminently
impressive); and his intense sincerity cannot wholly atone for this loss.
Where, however, a quiet refinement and delicacy of style is needed as in
those sane and suggestive, atmospheric, critical or introspective studies,
such as _By the Ionian Sea_, the unrivalled presentment of _Charles
Dickens_, and that gentle masterpiece of softened autobiography, _The
Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_ (its resignation and autumnal calm, its
finer note of wistfulness and wide human compassion, fully deserve
comparison with the priceless work of Silvio Pellico) in which he indulged
himself during the last and increasingly prosperous years of his life, then
Gissing's style is discovered to be a charmed instrument. That he will _sup
late_, our Gissing, we are quite content to believe. But that a place is
reserved for him, of that at any rate we are reasonably confident. The
three books just named, in conjunction with his short stories and his _New
Grub Street_ (not to mention _Thyrza_ or _The Nether World_), will suffice
to ensure him a devout and admiring group of followers for a very long time
to come; they accentuate profoundly the feeling of vivid regret and almost
personal loss which not a few of his more assiduous readers experienced
upon the sad news of his premature death at St. Jean de Luz on the 28th
December 1903, at the early age of forty-six.

ACTON,

_February_ 1906.




_A CHRONOLOGICAL RECORD_


1880. Workers in the Dawn.
1884. The Unclassed.
1886. Isabel Clarendon.
1886. Demos.
1887. Thyrza.
1888. A Life's Morning.
1889. The Nether World.
1890. The Emancipated.
1891. New Grub Street.
1892. Born in Exile.
1892. Denzil Quarrier.
1893. The Odd Women.
1894. In the Year of Jubilee.
1895. The Paying Guest.
1895. Sleeping Fires.
1895. Eve's Ransom.
1897. The Whirlpool.
1898. Human Odds and Ends: Stories and Sketches.
1898. The Town Traveller.
1898. Charles Dickens: a Critical Study.
1899. The Crown of Life.
1901. Our Friend the Charlatan.
1901. By the Ionian Sea. Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy.
1903. Forster's Life of Dickens--Abridgement.
1903. The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft.
1904. Veranilda: a Romance.
1905. Will Warburton: a Romance of Real Life.
1906. The House of Cobwebs, and other Stories.

[Of notices and reviews of George Gissing other than those mentioned in the
foregoing notes the following is a selection:--_Times_, 29 Dec. 1903;
_Guardian_, 6 Jan. 1904; _Outlook_, 2 Jan. 1904; _Sphere_, 9 Jan. 1904;
_Athenaeum_, 2 and 16 Jan. 1904; _Academy_, 9 Jan. 1904 (pp. 40 and 46);
New York _Nation_, 11 June 1903 (an adverse but interesting paper on the
anti-social side of Gissing); _The Bookman_ (New York), vol. xviii.;
_Independent Review_, Feb. 1904; _Fortnightly Review_, Feb. 1904;
_Contemporary Review_, Aug. 1897; C.F.G. Masterman's _In Peril of Change_,
1905, pp. 68-73; _Atlantic Monthly_, xciii. 280; _Upton Letters_, 1905, p.
206.]




THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS


It was five o'clock on a June morning. The dirty-buff blind of the
lodging-house bedroom shone like cloth of gold as the sun's unclouded rays
poured through it, transforming all they illumined, so that things poor and
mean seemed to share in the triumphant glory of new-born day. In the bed
lay a young man who had already been awake for an hour. He kept stirring
uneasily, but with no intention of trying to sleep again. His eyes followed
the slow movement of the sunshine on the wall-paper, and noted, as they
never had done before, the details of the flower pattern, which represented
no flower wherewith botanists are acquainted, yet, in this summer light,
turned the thoughts to garden and field and hedgerow. The young man had a
troubled mind, and his thoughts ran thus:--

'I must have three months at least, and how am I to live?... Fifteen
shillings a week--not quite that, if I spread my money out. Can one live on
fifteen shillings a week--rent, food, washing?... I shall have to leave
these lodgings at once. They're not luxurious, but I can't live here under
twenty-five, that's clear.... Three months to finish my book. It's good;
I'm hanged if it isn't! This time I shall find a publisher. All I have to
do is to stick at my work and keep my mind easy.... Lucky that it's summer;
I don't need fires. Any corner would do for me where I can be quiet and see
the sun.... Wonder whether some cottager in Surrey would house and feed me
for fifteen shillings a week?... No use lying here. Better get up and see
how things look after an hour's walk.'

So the young man arose and clad himself, and went out into the shining
street. His name was Goldthorpe. His years were not yet three-and-twenty.
Since the age of legal independence he had been living alone in London,
solitary and poor, very proud of a wholehearted devotion to the career of
authorship. As soon as he slipped out of the stuffy house, the live air,
perfumed with freshness from meadows and hills afar, made his blood pulse
joyously. He was at the age of hope, and something within him, which did
not represent mere youthful illusion, supported his courage in the face of
calculations such as would have damped sober experience. With boyish step,
so light and springy that it seemed anxious to run and leap, he took his
way through a suburb south of Thames, and pushed on towards the first
rising of the Surrey hills. And as he walked resolve strengthened itself in
his heart. Somehow or other he would live independently through the next
three months. If the worst came to the worst, he could earn bread as clerk
or labourer, but as long as his money lasted he would pursue his purpose,
and that alone. He sang to himself in this gallant determination, happy as
if some one had left him a fortune.

In an ascending road, quiet and tree-shadowed, where the dwellings on
either side were for the most part old and small, though here and there a
brand-new edifice on a larger scale showed that the neighbourhood was
undergoing change such as in our time destroys the picturesque in all
London suburbs, the cheery dreamer chanced to turn his eyes upon a spot of
desolation which aroused his curiosity and set his fancy at work. Before
him stood three deserted houses, a little row once tenanted by middle-class
folk, but now for some time unoccupied and unrepaired. They were of brick,
but the fronts had a stucco facing cut into imitation of ashlar, and
weathered to the sombrest grey. The windows of the ground floor and of that
above, and the fanlights above the doors, were boarded up, a guard against
unlicensed intrusion; the top story had not been thought to stand in need
of this protection, and a few panes were broken. On these dead frontages
could be traced the marks of climbing plants, which once hung their leaves
about each doorway; dry fragments of the old stem still adhered to the
stucco. What had been the narrow strip of fore-garden, railed from the
pavement, was now a little wilderness of coarse grass, docks, nettles, and
degenerate shrubs. The paint on the doors had lost all colour, and much of
it was blistered off; the three knockers had disappeared, leaving
indications of rough removal, as if--which was probably the case--they had
fallen a prey to marauders. Standing full in the brilliant sunshine, this
spectacle of abandonment seemed sadder, yet less ugly, than it would have
looked under a gloomy sky. Goldthorpe began to weave stories about its
musty squalor. He crossed the road to make a nearer inspection; and as he
stood gazing at the dishonoured thresholds, at the stained and cracked
boarding of the blind windows, at the rusty paling and the broken gates,
there sounded from somewhere near a thin, shaky strain of music, the notes
of a concertina played with uncertain hand. The sound seemed to come from
within the houses, yet how could that be? Assuredly no one lived under
these crazy roofs. The musician was playing 'Home, Sweet Home,' and as
Goldthorpe listened it seemed to him that the sound was not stationary.
Indeed, it moved; it became more distant, then again the notes sounded more
distinctly, and now as if the player were in the open air. Perhaps he was
at the back of the houses?

On either side ran a narrow passage, which parted the spot of desolation
from inhabited dwellings. Exploring one of these, Goldthorpe found that
there lay in the rear a tract of gardens. Each of the three lifeless houses
had its garden of about twenty yards long. The bordering wall along the
passage allowed a man of average height to peer over it, and Goldthorpe
searched with curious eye the piece of ground which was nearest to him.
Many a year must have gone by since any gardening was done here. Once upon
a time the useful and ornamental had both been represented in this modest
space; now, flowers and vegetables, such of them as survived in the
struggle for existence, mingled together, and all alike were threatened by
a wild, rank growth of grasses and weeds, which had obliterated the beds,
hidden the paths, and made of the whole garden plot a green jungle. But
Goldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest was
engrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall of
the house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow,
melancholy strain, 'Home, Sweet Home' began to wheeze forth. The player was
a middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his head
shaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet--one
of which swung as he sat with legs crossed--a pair of still more ancient
slippers, also too large. With head aside, and eyes looking upward, he
seemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument. He had a
round face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows,
pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringing
the chinless lower jaw. Having observed this unimposing person for a minute
or two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building,
anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; but
nothing spoke of tenancy. The windows on this side were not boarded, and
only a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with the
desolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up to
the eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures which
seemed to deny all possibility of life within. And yet, on looking
steadily, did he not discern something at one of the windows on the top
story--something like a curtain or a blind? And had not that same window
the appearance of having been more recently cleaned than the others? He
could not be sure; perhaps he only fancied these things. With neck aching
from the strained position in which he had made his survey over the wall,
the young man turned away. In the same moment 'Home, Sweet Home' came to an
end, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence was
undisturbed.

Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wondering
what it all meant. On his way back he made a point of again passing the
deserted houses, and again he peered over the wall of the passage. The man
was still there, but no longer seated with the concertina; wearing a round
felt hat instead of the straw, he stood almost knee-deep in vegetation, and
appeared to be examining the various growths about him. Presently he moved
forward, and, with head still bent, approached the lower end of the garden,
where, in a wall higher than that over which Goldthorpe made his espial,
there was a wooden door. This the man opened with a key, and, having passed
out, could be heard to turn a lock behind him. A minute more, and this
short, respectable figure came into sight at the end of the passage.
Goldthorpe could not resist the opportunity thus offered. Affecting to turn
a look of interest towards the nearest roof, he waited until the stranger
was about to pass him, then, with civil greeting, ventured upon a question.

'Can you tell me how these houses come to be in this neglected state?'

The stranger smiled; a soft, modest, deferential smile such as became his
countenance, and spoke in a corresponding voice, which had a vaguely
provincial accent.

'No wonder it surprises you, sir. I should be surprised myself. It comes of
quarrels and lawsuits.'

'So I supposed. Do you know who the property belongs to?'

'Well, yes, sir. The fact is--it belongs to me.'

The avowal was made apologetically, and yet with a certain timid pride.
Goldthorpe exhibited all the interest he felt. An idea had suddenly sprung
up in his mind; he met the stranger's look, and spoke with the easy
good-humour natural to him.

'It seems a great pity that houses should be standing empty like that. Are
they quite uninhabitable? Couldn't one camp here during this fine summer
weather? To tell you the truth, I'm looking for a room--as cheap a room as
I can get. Could you let me one for the next three months?'

The stranger was astonished. He regarded the young man with an uneasy
smile.

'You are joking, sir.'

'Not a bit of it. Is the thing quite impossible? Are all the rooms in too
bad a state?'

'I won't say _that_,' replied the other cautiously, still eyeing his
interlocutor with surprised glances. 'The upper rooms are really not so
bad--that is to say, from a humble point of view. I--I have been looking at
them just now. You really mean, sir--?'

'I'm quite in earnest, I assure you,' cried Goldthorpe cheerily. 'You see
I'm tolerably well dressed still, but I've precious little money, and I
want to eke out the little I've got for about three months. I'm writing a
book. I think I shall manage to sell it when it's done, but it'll take me
about three months yet. I don't care what sort of place I live in, so long
as it's quiet. Couldn't we come to terms?'

The listener's visage seemed to grow rounder in progressive astonishment;
his eyes declared an emotion akin to awe; his little mouth shaped itself as
if about to whistle.

'A book, sir? You are writing a book? You are a literary man?'

'Well, a beginner. I have poverty on my side, you see.'

'Why, it's like Dr. Johnson!' cried the other, his face glowing with
interest. 'It's like Chatterton!--though I'm sure I hope you won't end like
him, sir. It's like Goldsmith!--indeed it is!'

'I've got half Oliver's name, at all events,' laughed the young man. 'Mine
is Goldthorpe.'

'You don't say so, sir! What a strange coincidence! Mine, sir, is Spicer.
I--I don't know whether you'd care to come into my garden? We might talk
there--'

In a minute or two they were standing amid the green jungle, which
Goldthorpe viewed with delight. He declared it the most picturesque garden
he had ever seen.

'Why, there are potatoes growing there. And what are those things?
Jerusalem artichokes? And look at that magnificent thistle; I never saw a
finer thistle in my life! And poppies--and marigolds--and broad-beans--and
isn't that lettuce?'

Mr. Spicer was red with gratification.

'I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir,' he said. 'The
fact is, sir, I've only lately come into this property, and I'm sorry to
say it'll only be mine for a little more than a year--a year from next
midsummer day, sir. There's the explanation of what you see. It's leasehold
property, and the lease is just coming to its end. Five years ago, sir, an
uncle of mine inherited the property from his brother. The houses were then
in a very bad state, and only one of them let, and there had been lawsuits
going on for a long time between the leaseholder and the ground-landlord--I
can't quite understand these matters, they're not at all in my line, sir;
but at all events there were quarrels and lawsuits, and I'm told one of the
tenants was somehow mixed up in it. The fact is, my uncle wasn't a very
well-to-do man, and perhaps he didn't feel able to repair the houses,
especially as the lease was drawing to its end. Would you like to go in and
have a look round?'

They entered by the back door, which admitted them to a little wash-house.
The window was over-spun with cobwebs, thick, hoary; each corner of the
ceiling was cobweb-packed; long, dusty filaments depended along the walls.
Notwithstanding, Goldthorpe noticed that the house had a water-supply; the
sink was wet, the tap above it looked new. This confirmed a suspicion in
his mind, but he made no remark. They passed into the kitchen. Here again
the work of the spider showed thick on every hand. The window, however,
though uncleaned for years, had recently been opened; one knew that by the
torn and ragged condition of the webs where the sashes joined. And lo! on
the window-sill stood a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, a
spoon--all of them manifestly new-washed. Goldthorpe affected not to see
these objects; he averted his face to hide an involuntary smile.

'I must light a candle,' said Mr. Spicer. 'The staircase is quite dark.'

A candle stood ready, with a box of matches, on the rusty cooking-stove. No
fire had burned in the grate for many a long day; of that the visitor
assured himself. Save the objects on the window-sill, no evidence of human
occupation was discoverable. Having struck a light, Mr. Spicer advanced. In
the front passage, on the stairs, on the landing, every angle and every
projection had its drapery of cobwebs. The stuffy, musty air smelt of
cobwebs; so, at all events, did Goldthorpe explain to himself a peculiar
odour which he seemed never to have smelt. It was the same in the two rooms
on the first floor. Through the boarded windows of that in front penetrated
a few thin rays from the golden sky; they gleamed upon dust and web, on
faded, torn wall-paper and a fireplace in ruins.

'I shouldn't recommend you to take either of _these_ rooms,' said Mr.
Spicer, looking nervously at his companion. 'They really can't be called
attractive.'

'Those on the top are healthier, no doubt,' was the young man's reply. 'I
noticed that some of the window-glass is broken. That must have been good
for airing.'

Mr. Spicer grew more and more nervous. He opened his little round mouth,
very much like a fish gasping, but seemed unable to speak. Silently he led
the way to the top story, still amid cobwebs; the atmosphere was certainly
purer up here, and when they entered the first room they found themselves
all at once in such a flood of glorious sunshine that Goldthorpe shouted
with delight.

'Ah, I could live here! Would it cost much to have panes put in? An old
woman with a broom would do the rest.' He added in a moment, 'But the back
windows are not broken, I think?'

'No--I think not--I--no--'

Mr. Spicer gasped and stammered. He stood holding the candle (its light
invisible) so that the grease dripped steadily on his trousers.

'Let's have a look at the other,' cried Goldthorpe. 'It gets the afternoon
sun, no doubt. And one would have a view of the garden.'

'Stop, sir!' broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring. 'There's
something I should like to tell you before you go into that room.
I--it--the fact is, sir, that--temporarily--I am occupying it myself.'

'Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Spicer!'

'Not at all, sir! Don't mention it, sir. I have a reason--it seemed to
me--I've merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that's all--a temporary
arrangement.'

'Yes, yes; I quite understand. What could be more sensible? If the house
were mine, I should do the same. What's the good of owning a house, and
making no use of it?'

Great was Mr. Spicer's satisfaction.

'See what it is, sir,' he exclaimed, 'to have to do with a literary man!
You are large-minded, sir; you see things from an intellectual point of
view. I can't tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made your
acquaintance. Let us go into the back room.'

With nervous boldness he threw the door open. Goldthorpe, advancing
respectfully, saw that Mr. Spicer had not exaggerated the simplicity of his
arrangements. In a certain measure the room had been cleaned, but along the
angle of walls and ceiling there still clung a good many cobwebs, and the
state of the paper was deplorable. A blind hung at the window, but the
floor had no carpet. In one corner stood a little camp bed, neatly made for
the day; a table and a chair, of the cheapest species, occupied the middle
of the floor, and on the hearth was an oil cooking-stove.

'It's wonderful how little one really wants,' remarked Mr. Spicer, 'at all
events in weather such as this. I find that I get along here very well
indeed. The only expense I had was for the water-supply. And really, sir,
when one comes to think of it, the situation is pleasant. If one doesn't
mind loneliness--and it happens that I don't. I have my books, sir--'

He opened the door of a cupboard containing several shelves. The first
thing Goldthorpe's eye fell upon was the concertina; he saw also sundry
articles of clothing, neatly disposed, a little crockery, and, ranged on
the two top shelves, some thirty volumes, all of venerable aspect.

'Literature, sir,' pursued Mr. Spicer modestly, 'has always been my
comfort. I haven't had very much time for reading, but my motto, sir, has
been _nulla dies sine linea_.'

It appeared from his pronunciation that Mr. Spicer was no classical
scholar, but he uttered the Latin words with infinite gusto, and timidly
watched their effect upon the listener.

'This is delightful,' cried Mr. Goldthorpe. 'Will you let me have the front
room? I could work here splendidly--splendidly! What rent do you ask, Mr.
Spicer?'

'Why really, sir, to tell you the truth I don't know what to say. Of course
the windows must be seen to. The fact is, sir, if you felt disposed to do
that at your own expense, and--and to have the room cleaned, and--and, let
us say, to bear half the water-rate whilst you are here, why, really, I
hardly feel justified in asking anything more.'

It was Goldthorpe's turn to be embarrassed, for, little as he was prepared
to pay, he did not like to accept a stranger's generosity. They discussed
the matter in detail, with the result that for the arrangement which Mr.
Spicer had proposed there was substituted a weekly rent of two shillings,
the lease extending over a period of three months. Goldthorpe was to live
quite independently, asking nothing in the way of domestic service;
moreover, he was requested to introduce no other person to the house, even
as casual visitor. These conditions Mr. Spicer set forth, in a commercial
hand, on a sheet of notepaper, and the agreement was solemnly signed by
both contracting parties.

On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that he
had taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his room
with the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, be
as economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was to
support him for three months. Indeed, when all had been done, and he found
himself, four days later, dwelling on the top story of the house of
cobwebs, a simple computation informed him that his total expenditure,
after payment of rent, must not exceed fifteenpence a day. What matter? He
was in the highest spirits, full of energy and hope. His landlord had been
kind and helpful in all sorts of ways, helping him to clean the room, to
remove his property from the old lodgings, to make purchases at the lowest
possible rate, to establish himself as comfortably as circumstances
permitted. And when, on the first morning of his tenancy, he was awakened
by a brilliant sun, the young man had a sensation of comfort and
satisfaction quite new in his experience; for he was really at home; the
bed he slept on, the table he ate at and wrote upon, were his own
possessions; he thought with pity of his lodging-house life, and felt a
joyous assurance that here he would do better work than ever before.

In less than a week Mr. Spicer and he were so friendly that they began to
eat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal. Now and then they
walked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco)
in the wild garden. Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of his
history. He had begun life, in a midland town, as a chemist's errand-boy,
and by steady perseverance, with a little pecuniary help from relatives,
had at length risen to the position of chemist's assistant. For
five-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no one
but himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passing
his old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of his
uncle, which was to have important consequences for him. Mr. Spicer told
the story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors by
rain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rusty
and empty fireplace.

'All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I've thought what a delightful thing it must
be to have a house of one's own. I mean, really of one's own; not only a
rented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no one
had a right to turn you out. Often and often I've dreamt of it, and tried
to imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house--oh
dear, no! I didn't care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller the
better for a man of my sort. Well, then, you can imagine how it came upon
me when I heard--But let me tell you first that I hadn't seen my uncle for
fifteen years or more. I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and I
knew he wasn't married, but the truth is, it never came into my head that
he might leave me something. Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe--you have
imagination, sir--standing behind the counter and thinking about nothing
but business, when in comes a young gentleman--I see him now--and asks for
Mr. Spicer. "Spicer is my name, sir," I said. "And you are the nephew,"
were his next words, "of the late Mr. Isaac Spicer, of Clapham, London?"
That shook me, sir, I assure you it did, but I hope I behaved decently. The
young gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and that
I was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all his
property, the principal part of which was three houses in London. Now try
and think, Mr. Goldthorpe, what sort of state I was in after hearing that.
You're an intellectual man, and you can enter into another's mind. Three
houses! Well, sir, you know what houses those were. I came up to London at
once (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle's lawyer, and he told me all
about the property, and I saw it for myself. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe! If ever a
man suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!'

He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much of
his story, and sat for a moment with head bowed.

'Fate played you a nasty trick there,' said Goldthorpe. 'A knavish trick.'

'One felt almost justified in using strong language, sir--though I always
avoid it on principle. However, I must tell you that the houses weren't
all. Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my own
savings, sir, I found it would yield me an income. When I say an income, I
mean, of course, for a man in my position. Even when I have to go into
lodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord--to my
mind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don't set myself up
against the law of the land--I shall just be able to live. And that's no
small blessing, sir, as I think you'll agree.'

'Rather! It's the height of human felicity, Mr. Spicer. I envy you vastly.'

'Well, sir, I'm rather disposed to look at it in that light myself. My
nature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe. But, sir, if you could have
seen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses! I was absolutely
ignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn't
understand. The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir. And when I came down
here and saw the houses themselves! I'm afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I'm really
afraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear.'

They were sitting by the light of a very small lamp, which did not tend to
cheerfulness.

'Come,' cried Goldthorpe, 'after all, the houses are yours for a
twelvemonth. Why shouldn't we both live on here all the time? It'll be a
little breezy in winter, but we could have the fireplaces knocked into
shape, and keep up good fires. When I've sold my book I'll pay a higher
rent, Mr. Spicer. I like the old house, upon my word I do! Come, let us
have a tune before we go to bed.'

Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, and
after the usual apology for what he called his 'imperfect mastery of the
instrument,' sat down to play 'Home, Sweet Home.' He had played it for
years, and evidently would never improve in his execution. After 'Home,
Sweet Home' came 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' after that 'Annie Laurie';
and Mr. Spicer's repertory was at an end. He talked of learning new pieces,
but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.

Mr. Spicer's mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago,
when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist's
assistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a true
lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his
own lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a little
collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer's
cupboard. The authors represented in this library were either English
classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.
Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a
quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet was
Cowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron like
some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship's genius, felt an
abhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point of
view, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had read
very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents.
Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance
with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as
if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual
characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the
attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in
response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader
of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware
that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed
his energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand
and enjoy his landlord's conversation, and the simple goodness of the man
inspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along together
remarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the
presence under his roof of one who--as he was wont to say--wielded the pen.
The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of all
authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite
eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animating
his zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the house
with soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant's room he had a
reverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal table
caused him to subdue his voice.

The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe's novel steadily progressed. In London he
had only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lest
necessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he could
not spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to a
post-office--impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting him
to deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door had
not been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal of
sunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under the
roof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with a
little gardening. He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, with
one prong broken and the others rusting away. This implement served him in
his slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed to
offer least resistance. He would work for a quarter of an hour, then,
resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which he
had succeeded in tearing up.

'Our aim should be,' he said gravely, when Goldthorpe came to observe his
progress, 'to clear the soil round about those vegetables and flowers which
seem worth preserving. These broad-beans, for instance--they seem to be a
very fine sort. And the Jerusalem artichokes. I've been making inquiry
about the artichokes, and I'm told they are not ready to eat till the
autumn. The first frost is said to improve them. They're fine plants--very
fine plants.'

Already the garden had supplied them with occasional food, but they had to
confess that, for the most part, these wild vegetables lacked savour. The
artichokes, now shooting up into a leafy grove, were the great hope of the
future. It would be deplorable to quit the house before this tuber came to
maturity.

'The worst of it is,' remarked Mr. Spicer one day, when he was perspiring
freely, 'that I can't help thinking of how different it would be if this
garden was really my own. The fact is, Mr. Goldthorpe, I can't put much
heart into the work; no, I can't. The more I reflect, the more indignant I
become. Really now, Mr. Goldthorpe, speaking as an intellectual man, as a
man of imagination, could anything be more cruelly unjust than this
leasehold system? I assure you, it keeps me awake at night; it really
does.'

The tenor of his conversation proved that Mr. Spicer had no intention of
leaving the house until he was legally obliged to do so. More than once he
had an interview with his late uncle's solicitor, and each time he came
back with melancholy brow. All the details of the story were now familiar
to him; he knew all about the lawsuits which had ruined the property.
Whenever he spoke of the ground-landlord, known to him only by name, it was
with a severity such as he never permitted himself on any other subject.
The ground-landlord was, to his mind, an embodiment of social injustice.

'Never in my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, did I grudge any payment of money as I
grudge the ground-rent of these houses. I feel it as robbery, sir, as sheer
robbery, though the sum is so small. When, in my ignorance, the matter was
first explained to me, I wondered why my uncle had continued to pay this
rent, the houses being of no profit to him. But now I understand, Mr.
Goldthorpe; the sense of possession is very sweet. Property's property,
even when it's leasehold and in ruins. I grudge the ground-rent bitterly,
but I feel, sir, that I couldn't bear to lose my houses until the fatal
moment, when lose them I must.'

In August the thermometer began to mark high degrees. Goldthorpe found it
necessary to dispense with coat and waistcoat when he was working, and at
times a treacherous languor whispered to him of the delights of idleness.
After one particularly hot day, he and his landlord smoked together in the
dusking garden, both unusually silent. Mr. Spicer's eye dwelt upon the
great heap of weeds which was resulting from his labour; an odour somewhat
too poignant arose from it upon the close air. Goldthorpe, who had been
rather headachy all day, was trying to think into perfect clearness the
last chapters of his book, and found it difficult.

'You know,' he said all at once, with an impatient movement, 'we ought to
be at the seaside.'

'The seaside?' echoed his companion, in surprise. 'Ah, it's a long time
since I saw the sea, Mr. Goldthorpe. Why, it must be--yes, it is at least
twenty years.'

'Really? I've been there every year of my life till this. One gets into the
way of thinking of luxuries as necessities. I tell you what it is. If I
sell my book as soon as it's done, we'll have a few days somewhere on the
south coast together.'

Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness.

'I should like it much,' he murmured, 'but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, I
greatly fear I can't afford it.'

'Oh, but I mean that you shall go with me as my guest! But for you, Mr.
Spicer, I might never have got my book written at all.'

'I feel it an honour, sir, I assure you, to have a literary man in my
house,' was the genial reply. 'And you think the _work_ will soon be
finished, sir?'

Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant's novel as 'the work'--which on his
lips had a very large and respectful sound.

'About a fortnight more,' answered Goldthorpe with grave intensity.

The heat continued. As he lay awake before getting up, eager to finish his
book, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brain
sluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energetic
spiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; now
and then he heard the long buzzing of a fly entangled in one of these webs.
The same thing was happening in Mr. Spicer's chamber. It did not seem worth
while to brush the new webs away.

'When you come to think of it, sir,' said the landlord, 'it's the spiders
who are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they'll be pulled
down; they're not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really at
home here, and the fact is, sir, I don't feel I have the right to disturb
them. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you'll understand my
thoughts!'

Only with a great effort was the novel finished. Goldthorpe had lost his
appetite (not, perhaps, altogether a disadvantage), and he could not sleep;
a slight fever seemed to be constantly upon him. But this work was a
question of life and death to him, and he brought it to an end only a few
days after the term he had set himself. The complete manuscript was
exhibited to Mr. Spicer, who expressed his profound sense of the privilege.
Then, without delay, Goldthorpe took it to the publishing house in which he
had most hope.

The young author could now do nothing but wait, and, under the
circumstances, waiting meant torture. His money was all but exhausted; if
he could not speedily sell the book, his position would be that of a mere
pauper. Supported thus long by the artist's enthusiasm, he fell into
despondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widow
in narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday 'at
home,' but he dreaded the thought of going penniless to his mother's house,
and there, perchance, receiving bad news about his book. An ugly feature of
the situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, he
felt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleep
had almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysterious
noises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house;
sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; even
hushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Since
crumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if in
revelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls.
Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under any
circumstances it would be impossible for him to dwell here much longer.

When his last coin was spent, and he had no choice but to pawn or sell
something for a few days' subsistence, the manuscript came back upon his
hands. It had been judged--declined.

That morning he felt seriously unwell. After making known the catastrophe
to Mr. Spicer--who was stricken voiceless--he stood silent for a minute or
two, then said with quiet resolve:

'It's all up. I've no money, and I feel as if I were going to have an
illness. I must say good-bye to you, old friend.'

'Mr. Goldthorpe!' exclaimed the other solemnly; 'I entreat you, sir, to do
nothing rash! Take heart, sir! Think of Samuel Johnson, think of
Goldsmith--'

'The extent of my rashness, Mr. Spicer, will be to raise enough money on my
watch to get down into Derbyshire. I must go home. If I don't, you'll have
the pleasant job of taking me to a hospital.'

Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or two
later they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe had
found harbourage under his mother's roof. There he lay ill for more than a
month, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he must
have been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferred
to explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude to
throw blame on Mr. Spicer's house, where he had been so contented and
worked so well until the hot days of latter August. Mr. Spicer himself
wrote kind and odd little letters, giving an account of the garden, and
earnestly hoping that his literary friend would be back in London to taste
the Jerusalem artichokes. But Christmas came and went, and Goldthorpe was
still at his mother's house.

Meanwhile the manuscript had gone from publisher to publisher, and at
length, on a day in January--date ever memorable in Goldthorpe's
life--there arrived a short letter in which a certain firm dryly intimated
their approval of the story offered them, and their willingness to purchase
the copyright for a sum of fifty pounds. The next morning the triumphant
author travelled to London. For two or three days a violent gale had been
blowing, with much damage throughout the country; on his journey Goldthorpe
saw many great trees lying prostrate, beaten, as though scornfully, by the
cold rain which now descended in torrents. Arrived in town, he went to the
house where he had lodged in the time of comparative prosperity, and there
was lucky enough to find his old rooms vacant. On the morrow he called upon
the gracious publishers, and after that, under a sky now become more
gentle, he took his way towards the abode of Mr. Spicer.

Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing his
simple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. There
were the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam of
winter sunshine. There were his old windows. But--what had happened to the
roof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the room
where he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, as
if something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was the
case; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in the
recent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer's account, he ran round to
the back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. He
strained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing that
threw light on his friend's fate; he noticed, however, a great grove of
dead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at the
back windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer's name; it was useless. Then, in
serious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of the
passage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herself
whether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stack
had just fallen. News was at once forthcoming; the event had obviously
caused no small local excitement. It was two days since the falling of the
chimney, which happened towards evening, when the gale blew its hardest.
Mr. Spicer was at that moment sitting before the fire, and only by a
miracle had he escaped destruction, for an immense weight of material came
down through the rotten roof, and even broke a good deal of the flooring.
Had the occupant been anywhere but close by the fireplace, he must have
been crushed to a mummy; as it was, only a few bricks struck him,
inflicting severe bruises on back and arms. But the shock had been serious.
When his shouts from the window at length attracted attention and brought
help, the poor man had to be carried downstairs, and in a thoroughly
helpless state was removed to the nearest hospital.

'Which room was he in?' inquired Goldthorpe. 'Back or front?'

'In the front room. The back wasn't touched.'

Musing on Mr. Spicer's bad luck--for it seemed as if he had changed from
the back to the front room just in order that the chimney might fall on
him--Goldthorpe hastened away to the hospital. He could not be admitted
to-day, but heard that his friend was doing very well; on the morrow he
would be allowed to see him.

So at the visitors' hour Goldthorpe returned. Entering the long accident
ward, he searched anxiously for the familiar face, and caught sight of it
just as it began to beam recognition. Mr. Spicer was sitting up in bed; he
looked pale and meagre, but not seriously ill; his voice quivered with
delight as he greeted the young man.

'I heard of your inquiring for me yesterday, Mr. Goldthorpe, and I've
hardly been able to live for impatience to see you. How are you, sir? How
are you? And what news about the _work_, sir?'

'We'll talk about that presently, Mr. Spicer. Tell me all about your
accident. How came you to be in the front room?'

'Ah, sir,' replied the patient, with a little shake of the head, 'that
indeed was singular. Only a few days before, I had made a removal from my
room into yours. I call it yours, sir, for I always thought of it as yours;
but thank heaven you were not there. Only a few days before. I took that
step, Mr. Goldthorpe, for two reasons: first, because water was coming
through the roof at the back in rather unpleasant quantities, and secondly,
because I hoped to get a little morning sun in the front. The fact is, sir,
my room had been just a little depressing. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe, if you knew
how I have missed you, sir! But the _work_--what news of the _work_?'

Smiling as though carelessly, the author made known his good fortune. For a
quarter of an hour Mr. Spicer could talk of nothing else.

'This has completed my cure!' he kept repeating. 'The work was composed
under my roof, my own roof, sir! Did I not tell you to take heart?'

'And where are you going to live?' asked Goldthorpe presently. 'You can't
go back to the old house.'

'Alas! no, sir. All my life I have dreamt of the joy of owning a house. You
know how the dream was realised, Mr. Goldthorpe, and you see what has come
of it at last. Probably it is a chastisement for overweening desires, sir.
I should have remembered my position, and kept my wishes within bounds.
But, Mr. Goldthorpe, I shall continue to cultivate the garden, sir. I shall
put in spring lettuces, and radishes, and mustard and cress. The property
is mine till midsummer day. You shall eat a lettuce of my growing, Mr.
Goldthorpe; I am bent on that. And how I grieve that you were not with me
at the time of the artichokes--just at the moment when they were touched by
the first frost!'

'Ah! They were really good, Mr. Spicer?'

'Sir, they seemed good to _me_, very good. Just at the moment of the first
frost!'




A CAPITALIST


Among the men whom I saw occasionally at the little club in Mortimer
Street,--and nowhere else,--was one who drew my attention before I had
learnt his name or knew anything about him. Of middle age, in the fullness
of health and vigour, but slenderly built; his face rather shrewd than
intellectual, interesting rather than pleasing; always dressed as the
season's mode dictated, but without dandyism; assuredly he belonged to the
money-spending, and probably to the money-getting, world. At first sight of
him I remember resenting his cap-à-pie perfection; it struck me as bad
form--here in Mortimer Street, among fellows of the pen and the palette.

'Oh,' said Harvey Munden, 'he's afraid of being taken for one of us. He
buys pictures. Not a bad sort, I believe, if it weren't for his
snobbishness.'

'His name?'

'Ireton. Has a house in Fitzjohn Avenue, and a high-trotting wife.'

Six months later I recalled this description of Mrs. Ireton. She was the
talk of the town, the heroine of the newest divorce case. By that time I
had got to know her husband; perhaps once a fortnight we chatted at the
club, and I found him an agreeable acquaintance. Before the Divorce Court
flashed a light of scandal upon his home, I felt that there was more in him
than could be discovered in casual gossip; I wished to know him better.
Something of shyness marked his manner, and like all shy men he sometimes
appeared arrogant. He had a habit of twisting his moustache nervously and
of throwing quick glances in every direction as he talked; if he found some
one's eye upon him, he pulled himself together and sat for a moment as if
before a photographer. One easily perceived that he was not a man of
liberal education; he had rather too much of the 'society' accent; his
pronunciation of foreign names told a tale. But I thought him good-hearted,
and when the penny-a-liners began to busy themselves with his affairs, I
felt sorry for him.

Nothing to his dishonour came out in the trial. He and his interesting
spouse had evidently lived a cat-and-dog life throughout the three years of
their marriage, but the countercharges brought against him broke down
completely. It was abundantly proved that he had _not_ kept a harem
somewhere near Leicester Square; that he had _not_ thrown a decanter at
Mrs. Ireton. She, on the other hand, left the court with tattered
reputation. Ireton got his release, and the weekly papers applauded.

But in Mortimer Street we saw him no more. Some one said that he had gone
to live in Paris; some one else reported that he had purchased an estate in
Bucks. Presently he was forgotten.

Some three years went by, and I was spending the autumn at a village by the
New Forest. One day I came upon a man kneeling under a hedge, examining
some object on the ground,--fern or flower, or perhaps insect. His costume
showed that he was no native of the locality; I took him for a stray
townsman, probably a naturalist. He wore a straw hat and a rough summer
suit; a wallet hung from his shoulder. The sound of my steps on crackling
wood caused him to turn and look at me. After a moment's hesitation I
recognised Ireton.

And he knew me; he smiled, as I had often seen him smile, with a sort of
embarrassment. We greeted each other.

'Look here,' he said at once, when the handshaking was over, 'can you tell
me what this little flower is?'

I stooped, but was unable to give him the information he desired.

'You don't go in for that kind of thing?'

'Well, no.'

'I'm having a turn at it. I want to know the flowers and ferns. I have a
book at my lodgings, and I look the things up when I get home.'

His wallet contained a number of specimens; he plucked up the little plant
by the root, and stowed it away. I watched him with curiosity. Perhaps I
had seen only his public side; perhaps even then he was capable of dressing
roughly, and of rambling for his pleasure among fields and wood. But such a
possibility had never occurred to me. I wondered whether his brilliant wife
had given him a disgust for the ways of town. If so, he was a more
interesting man than I had supposed.

'Where are you staying?' he asked, after a glance this way and that.

I named the village, two miles away.

'Working?'

'Idling merely.'

In a few minutes he overcame his reserve and began to talk of the things
which he knew interested me. We discussed the books of the past season, the
exhibitions, the new men in letters and art. Ireton said that he had been
living at a wayside inn for about a week; he thought of moving on, and, as
I had nothing to do, suppose he came over for a few days to the village
where I was camped? I welcomed the proposal.

'There's an inn, I dare say? I like the little inns in this part of the
country. Dirty, of course, and the cooking hideous; but it's pleasant for a
change. I like to be awoke by the cock crowing, and to see the grubby
little window when I open my eyes.'

I began to suspect that he had come down in the world. Could his prosperity
have been due to Mrs. Treton? Had she carried off the money? He might
affect a liking for simple things when grandeur was no longer in his reach.
Yet I remembered that he had undoubtedly been botanising before he knew of
my approach, and such a form of pastime seemed to prove him sincere.

By chance I witnessed his arrival the next morning. He drove up in a
farmer's trap, his luggage a couple of large Gladstone-bags. That day and
the next we spent many hours together. His vanity, though not outgrown, was
in abeyance; he talked with easy frankness, yet never of what I much
desired to know, his own history and present position. It was his intellect
that he revealed to me. I gathered that he had given much time to study
during the past three years, and incidentally it came out that he had been
living abroad; his improved pronunciation of the names of French artists
was very noticeable. At his age--not less than forty-five--this advance
argued no common mental resources. Whether he had suffered much, I could
not determine; at present he seemed light-hearted enough.

Certainly there was no affectation in his pursuit of botany; again and
again I saw him glow with genuine delight when he had identified a plant.
After all, this might be in keeping with his character, for even in the old
days he had never exhibited--at all events to me--a taste for the ignobler
luxuries, and he had seemed to me a very clean-minded man. I never knew any
one who refrained so absolutely from allusion, good or bad, to his friends
or acquaintances. He might have stood utterly alone in the world, a simple
spectator of civilisation.

At length I ventured upon a question.

'You never see any of the Mortimer Street men?'

'No,' he answered carelessly, 'I haven't come in their way lately,
somehow.'

That evening our ramble led us into an enclosure where game was preserved.
We had lost our way, and Ireton, scornful of objections, struck across
country, making for a small plantation which he thought he remembered.
Here, among the trees, we were suddenly face to face with an old gentleman
of distinguished bearing, who regarded us sternly.

'Is it necessary,' he said, 'to tell you that you are trespassing?'

The tone was severe, but not offensive. I saw my companion draw himself to
his full height.

'Not at all necessary,' he answered, in a voice that surprised me, it was
so nearly insolent. 'We are making our way to the road as quickly as
possible.'

'Then be so good as to take the turning to the right when you reach the
field,' said our admonisher coldly. And he turned his back upon us.

I looked at Ireton. To my astonishment he was pallid, the lines of his
countenance indicating fiercest wrath. He marched on in silence till we had
reached the field.

'The fellow took us for cheap-trippers, I suppose,' then burst from his
lips.

'Not very likely.'

'Then why the devil did he speak like that?'

The grave reproof had exasperated him; he was flushed and his hands
trembled. I observed him with the utmost interest, and it became clear from
the angry words he poured forth that he could not endure to be supposed
anything but a gentleman at large. Here was the old characteristic; it had
merely been dormant. I tried to laugh him out of his irritation, but soon
saw that the attempt was dangerous. On the way home he talked very little;
the encounter in the wood had thoroughly upset him.

Next morning he came into my room with a laugh that I did not like; he
seated himself stiffly, looked at me from beneath his knitted brows, and
said in an aggressive tone:

'I have got to know all about that impudent old fellow.'

'Indeed? Who is he?'

'A poverty-stricken squire, with an old house and a few acres--the remnants
of a large estate gambled away by his father. I know him by name, and I'm
quite sure that he knows me. If I had offered him my card, as I thought of
doing, I dare say his tone would have changed.'

This pettishness amused me so much that I pretended to be a little sore
myself.

'His poverty, I suppose, has spoilt his temper.'

'No doubt,--I can understand that,' he added, with a smile. 'But I don't
allow people to treat me like a tramp. I shall go up and see him this
afternoon.'

'And insist on an apology?'

'Oh, there'll be no need of insisting. The fellow has several unmarried
daughters.'

It seemed to me that my companion was bent on showing his worst side. I
returned to my old thoughts of him; he was snobbish, insolent, generally
detestable; but a man to be studied, and I let him talk as he would.

The reduced squire was Mr. Humphrey Armitage, of Brackley Hall. For my own
part, the demeanour of this gentleman had seemed perfectly adapted to the
occasion; we were strangers plunging through his preserves, and his tone to
us had nothing improper; it was we who owed an apology. In point of
breeding, I felt sure that Ireton could not compare with Mr. Armitage for a
moment, and it seemed to me vastly improbable that the invader of Brackley
Hall would meet with the kind of reception he anticipated.

I saw Ireton when he set out to pay his call. His Gladstone-bags had
provided him with the costume of Piccadilly; from shining hat to
patent-leather shoes, he was immaculate. Seeing that he had to walk more
than a mile, that the month was September, and that he could not pretend to
have come straight from town, this apparel struck me as not a little
inappropriate; I could only suppose that the man had no social tact.

At seven in the evening he again sought me. His urban glories were
exchanged for the ordinary attire, but I at once read in his face that he
had suffered no humiliation.

'Come and dine with me at the inn,' he exclaimed cordially; 'if one may use
such a word as _dine_ under the circumstances.'

'With pleasure.'

'To-morrow I dine with the Armitages.'

He regarded me with an air of infinite satisfaction. Surprised, I held my
peace. 'It was as I foresaw. The old fellow welcomed me with open arms. His
daughters gave me tea. I had really a very pleasant time.'

I mused and wondered.

'You didn't expect it; I can see that.'

'You told me that Mr. Armitage would recognise your name,' I answered
evasively.

'Precisely. Not long ago I gave him, through an agent, a very handsome
price for some pictures he had to sell.'

Again he looked at me, watching the effect of his words.

'Of course,' he continued, 'there were ample apologies for his treatment of
us yesterday. By the bye, I take it for granted you don't carry a
dress-suit in your bag?'

'Heaven forbid!'

'To be sure--pray don't misunderstand me. I meant that you had expressly
told me of your avoidance of all such formalities. Therefore you will be
glad that I excused you from dining at the Hall.'

For a moment I felt uncomfortable, but after all I _was_ glad not to have
the trouble of refusing on my own account.

'Thanks,' I said, 'you did the right thing.'

We walked over to the inn, and sat down at a rude but not unsatisfying
table. After dinner, Ireton proposed that we should smoke in the garden.
'It's quiet, and we can talk.' The sun had just set; the sky was
magnificent with afterglow. Ireton's hint about privacy led me to hope that
he was going to talk more confidentially than hitherto, and I soon found
that I was not mistaken.

'Do you know,' he began, calling me by my name, 'I fancy you have been
criticising me--yes, I know you have. You think I made an ass of myself
about that affair in the wood. Well, I have no doubt I did. Now that it has
turned out pleasantly, I can see and admit that there was nothing to make a
fuss about.'

I smiled.

'Very well. Now, you're a writer. You like to get at the souls of men.
Suppose I show you a bit of mine.'

He had drunk freely of the potent ale, and was now sipping a strong tumbler
of hot whisky. Possibly this accounted in some measure for his
communicativeness.

'Up to the age of five-and-twenty I was clerk in a drug warehouse. To this
day even the faintest smell of drugs makes my heart sink. If I can help it,
I never go into a chemist's shop. I was getting a pound a week, and I not
only lived on it, but kept up a decent appearance. I always had a good suit
of clothes for Sundays and holidays--made at a tailor's in Holborn. Since
he disappeared I've never been able to find any one who fitted me so well.
I paid six-and-six a week for a top bedroom in a street near Gray's Inn
Road. Did you suppose I had gone through the mill?'

I made no answer, and, after looking at me for a moment, Ireton resumed:

'Those were damned days! It wasn't the want of good food and good lodgings
that troubled me most,--but the feeling that I was everybody's inferior.
There's no need to tell you how I was brought up; I was led to expect
better things, that's enough. I never got used to being ordered about. When
I was told to do this or that, I answered with a silent curse,--and I
wonder it didn't come out sometimes. That's my nature. If I had been born
the son of a duke, I couldn't have resented a subordinate position more
fiercely than I did. And I used to rack my brain with schemes for getting
out of it. Many a night I have lain awake for hours, trying to hit on some
way of earning my living independently. I planned elaborate forgeries. I
read criminal cases in the newspapers to get a hint that I might work upon.
Well, that only means that I had exhausted all the honest attempts, and
found them all no good. I was in despair, that's all.'

He finished his whisky and shouted to the landlord, who presently brought
him another glass.

'What's that bird making the strange noise?'

'A night-jar, I think.'

'Nice to be sitting here, isn't it? I had rather be here than in the
swellest London club. Well, I was going to tell you how I got out of that
beastly life. You know, I'm really a very quiet fellow. I like simple
things; but all my life, till just lately, I never had a chance of enjoying
them; of living as I chose. The one thing I can't stand is to feel that I
am looked down upon. That makes a madman of me.'

He drank, and struck a match to relight his pipe.

'One Saturday afternoon I went to an exhibition in Coventry Street. The
pictures were for sale, and admission was free. I have always been fond of
water-colours; at that time it was one of my ambitions to possess a really
good bit of landscape in water-colour but, of course, I knew that the
prices were beyond me. Well, I walked through the gallery, and there was
one thing that caught my fancy; I kept going back to it again and again. It
was a bit of sea-coast by Ewart Merry,--do you know him? He died years ago;
his pictures fetch a fairly good price now. As I was looking at it, the
fellow who managed the show came up with a man and woman to talk about
another picture near me; he tried his hardest to persuade them to buy, but
they wouldn't, and I dare say it disturbed his temper. Seeing him stand
there alone, I stepped up to him, and asked the price of the water-colour.
He just gave a look at me, and said, "Too much money for you."

'Now, you must remember that I was in my best clothes, and I certainly
didn't look like a penniless clerk. If the fellow had struck a blow at me,
I couldn't have been more astonished than I was by that answer.
Astonishment was the first feeling, and it lasted about a second; then my
heart gave a great leap, and began to beat violently, and for a moment I
couldn't see anything, and I felt hot and cold by turns. I can remember
this as well as if it happened yesterday; I must have gone through it in
memory many thousands of times.'

I observed his face, and saw that even now he suffered from the
recollection.

'When he had spoken, the blackguard turned away. I couldn't move, and the
wonder is that I didn't swallow his insult, and sneak out of the place,--I
was so accustomed, you see, to repress myself. But of a sudden something
took hold of me, and pushed me forward,--it really didn't seem to be my own
will. I said, "Wait a minute"; and the man turned round. Then I stood
looking him in the eyes. "Are you here," I said, "to sell pictures, or to
insult people who come to buy?" I must have spoken in a voice he didn't
expect; he couldn't answer, and stared at me. "I asked you the price of
that water-colour, and you will be good enough to answer me civilly." Those
were my very words. They came without thinking, and afterwards I felt
satisfied with myself when I remembered them. It wouldn't have been
unnatural if I had sworn at him, but this was the turning-point of my life,
and I behaved in a way that surprised myself. At last he replied, "The
price is forty guineas," and he was going off again, but I stopped him. "I
will buy it. Take my name and address." "When will it be paid for?" he
asked. "On Monday."

'I followed him to the table, and he entered my name and address in a book.
Then I looked straight at him again. "Now, you understand," I said, "that
that picture is mine, and I shall either come or send for it about one
o'clock on Monday. If I hadn't wanted it specially, you would have lost a
sale by your impertinence." And I marched out of the room.

'But I was in a fearful state. I didn't know where I was going,--I walked
straight on, street after street, and just missed being run over half a
dozen times. Perspiration dripped from me. The only thing I knew was that I
had triumphed over a damned brute who had insulted me. I had stopped his
mouth; he believed he had made a stupid mistake; he could never have
imagined that a fellow without a sovereign in the world was speaking to him
like that. If I had knocked him down the satisfaction would have been very
slight in comparison.'

The gloom of nightfall had come upon us, and I could no longer see his face
distinctly, but his voice told me that he still savoured that triumph. He
spoke with exultant passion. I was beginning to understand Ireton.

'Isn't the story interesting?' he asked, after a pause.

'Very. Pray go on.'

'Well, you mustn't suppose that it was a mere bit of crazy bravado. I knew
how I was going to get the money--the forty guineas. And as soon as I could
command myself, I went to do the business.

'A fellow-clerk in the drug warehouse had been badly in want of money not
long before that, and I knew he had borrowed twenty pounds from a loan
office, paying it back week by week, with heavy interest, out of his screw,
poor devil. I could do the same. I went straight off to the lender. It was
a fellow called Crowther; he lived in Dean Street, Soho; in a window on the
ground floor there was a card with "Sums from One pound to a Hundred lent
at short notice." I was lucky enough to find him at home; we did our
business in a little back room, where there was a desk and a couple of
chairs, and nothing else but dirt. I expected to find an oldish man, but he
seemed about my own age, and on the whole I didn't dislike the look of
him,--a rather handsome young fellow, fairly well dressed, with a taking
sort of smile. I began by telling him where I was employed, and mentioned
my fellow-clerk, whom he knew. That made him quite cheerful; he offered me
a drink, and we got on very well. But he thought forty guineas a big sum;
would I tell him what I wanted it for? No, I wouldn't do that. Well, how
long would it take me to pay it back? Could I pay a pound a week? No, I
couldn't. He began to shake his head and to look at me thoughtfully. Then
he asked no end of questions, to find out who I was and what people I had
belonging to me, and what my chances were. Then he made me have another
drink, and at last I was persuaded into telling him the whole story. First
of all he stared, and then he laughed; I never saw a man laugh more
heartily. At last he said, "Why didn't you tell me you had value in hand?
See here, I'll look at that picture on Monday morning, and I shouldn't
wonder if we can do business." This alarmed me,--I was afraid he might get
talking to the picture-dealer. But he promised not to say a word about me.

'On Sunday I sent a note to the warehouse, saying that I should not be able
to come to business till Monday afternoon. It was the first time I had ever
done such a thing, and I knew I could invent some story to excuse myself.
Most of that day I spent in bed; I didn't feel myself, yet it was still a
great satisfaction to me that I had got the better of that brute. On Monday
at twelve I kept the appointment in Dean Street. Crowther hadn't come in,
and I sat for a few minutes quaking. When he turned up, he was quite
cheerful. "Look here!" he said, "will you sell me that picture for thirty
pounds?" "What then?" I asked. "Why, then you can pay me another thirty
pounds, and I'll give you twelve months to do it in. You shall have your
forty guineas at once." I tried to reflect, but I was too agitated.
However, I saw that to pay thirty pounds in a year meant that I must live
on about eight shillings a week. "I don't know how I'm to do it," I said.
He looked at me. "Well, I won't be hard on you. Look here, you shall pay me
six bob a week till the thirty quid's made up. Now, you can do _that_?" Yes
I could do that, and I agreed. In another ten minutes our business was
settled,--my signature was so shaky that I might safely have disowned it
afterwards. Then we had a drink at a neighbouring pub, and we walked
together towards Coventry Street. Crowther was to wait for me near the
picture-dealer's.

'I entered with a bold step, promising myself pleasure in a new triumph
over the brute. But he wasn't there. I saw only an under-strapper. I had no
time to lose, for I must be at business by two o'clock. I paid the
money--notes and gold--and took away the picture under my arm. Of course,
it had been removed from the frame in which I first saw it, and the
assistant wrapped it up for me in brown paper. At the street corner I
surrendered it to Crowther. "Come and see me after business to-morrow," he
said, "I should like to have a bit more talk with you."

'So I had come out of it gloriously. I cared nothing about losing the
picture, and I didn't grieve over the six shillings a week that I should
have to pay for the next two years. If I went into that gallery again, I
should be treated respectfully--that was sufficient.'

He laughed, and for a minute or two we sat silent. From the inn sounded
rustic voices; the village worthies were gathered for their evening
conversation.

'That's the best part of my story,' said Ireton at length. 'What followed
is commonplace. Still, you might like to hear how I bridged the gulf, from
fourteen shillings a week to the position I now hold. Well, I got very
intimate with Crowther, and found him really a very decent fellow. He had a
good many irons in the fire. Besides his loan office, which paid much
better than you would imagine, he had a turf commission agency, which
brought him in a good deal of money, and shortly after I met him he became
part proprietor of a club in Soho. He very soon talked to me in the
frankest way of all his doings; I think he was glad to be on friendly terms
with me simply because I was better educated and could behave decently. I
don't think he ever did anything illegal, and he had plenty of good
feeling,--but that didn't prevent him from squeezing eighty per cent, or so
out of many a poor devil who had borrowed to save himself or his family
from starvation. That was all business; he drew the sharpest distinctions
between business and private relations, and was very ignorant. I never knew
a man so superstitious. Every day he consulted signs and omens. For
instance, to decide whether the day was to be lucky for him--in betting and
so on--he would stand at a street corner and count the number of white
horses that passed in five minutes; if he had made up his mind on an even
number, and an even number passed, then he felt safe in following his
impulses for the day; if the number were odd, he would do little or no
speculation. When he was going to play cards for money, he would find a
beggar and give him something, even if he had to walk a great distance to
do it. He often used to visit an Italian who kept fortune-telling canaries,
and he always followed the advice he got. It put him out desperately if he
saw the new moon through glass, or over his left shoulder. There was no end
to his superstitions, and, whether by reason of them or in spite of them,
he certainly prospered. When he died, ten or twelve years ago, he left
fifteen thousand pounds.

'I have to thank him for my own good luck. "Look here," he said to me,
"it's only duffers that go on quill-driving at a quid a week. A fellow like
you ought to be doing better." "Show me the way," I said. And I was ready
to do whatever he told me. I had a furious hunger for money; the adventure
in Coventry Street had thoroughly unsettled me, and I would have turned
burglar rather than go on much longer as a wretched slave, looked down upon
by everybody, and exposed to insult at every corner. I dreamed of
money-making, and woke up feverish with determination. At last Crowther
gave me a few jobs to do for him in my off-time. They weren't very nice
jobs, and I shouldn't like to explain them to you; but they brought me in
half a sovereign now and then. I began to get an insight into the baser
modes of filling one's pocket. Then something happened; my mother died, and
I became the owner of a house at Notting Hill of fifty pounds rental. I
talked over my situation with Crowther, and he advised me, as it turned
out, thoroughly well. I was to raise money on this house,--not to sell
it,--and take shares in a new music-hall which Crowther was connected with.
There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you; it was the Marlborough. I did
take shares, and at the end of the second twelve months I was drawing a
dividend of sixty per cent. I have never drawn less than thirty, and the
year before last we touched seventy-five. At present I am a shareholder in
three other halls,--and they don't do badly.

'I suppose it isn't only good luck; no doubt I have a sort of talent for
money-making, but I never knew it before I met Crowther. By just opening my
eyes to the fact that money could be earned in other ways than at the
regular kinds of employment, he gave me a start, and I went ahead. There
isn't a man in the world has suffered more than I have for want of money,
and no one ever worked with a fiercer resolve to get out of the hell of
contemptible poverty. It would fill a book, the history of my money-making.
The first big sum I ever was possessed of came to me at the age of
two-and-thirty, when I sold a proprietary club (the one Crowther had a
share in and which I had ultimately got into my own hands) for nine
thousand pounds; but I owed about half of this. I went on and on, and I got
into society; _that_ came through the Marlborough,--a good story, but I
mustn't tell it. At last I married--a rich woman.'

He paused, and I thought, but was not quite sure, that I heard him sigh.

'We won't talk about that either. I shall not marry a rich woman again,
that's all. In fact, I don't care for such people; my best friends, real
friends, are all more or less strugglers, and perhaps there's no harm in
saying that it gives me pleasure to help them when I've a chance. I like to
buy a picture of a poor devil artist. I like to smoke my pipe with good
fellows who never go out of their way for money's sake. All the same, it's
a good thing to be well off. But for that, now, I couldn't make the
acquaintance of such people as these at Brackley Hall. I more than half
like them. Old Armitage is a gentleman, and looks back upon generations of
gentlemen, his ancestors. Ah! you can't buy that! And his daughters are
devilish nice girls, with sweet soft voices. I'm glad the old fellow met us
yesterday.'

It was now dark; I looked up and saw the stars brightening. We sat for
another quarter of an hour, each busy with his own thoughts, then rose and
parted for the night.

A week later, when I returned to London, Ireton was still living at the
little inn, and a letter I received from him at the beginning of October
told me he had just left. 'The country was exquisite that last week,' he
wrote;--and it struck me that 'exquisite' was a word he must have caught
from some one else's lips.

I heard from him again in the following January. He wrote from the Isle of
Wight, and informed me that in the spring he was to be married to Miss
Ethel Armitage, second daughter of Humphrey Armitage, Esq., of Brackley
Hall.




CHRISTOPHERSON


It was twenty years ago, and on an evening in May. All day long there had
been sunshine. Owing, doubtless, to the incident I am about to relate, the
light and warmth of that long-vanished day live with me still; I can see
the great white clouds that moved across the strip of sky before my window,
and feel again the spring languor which troubled my solitary work in the
heart of London.

Only at sunset did I leave the house. There was an unwonted sweetness in
the air; the long vistas of newly lit lamps made a golden glow under the
dusking flush of the sky. With no purpose but to rest and breathe, I
wandered for half an hour, and found myself at length where Great Portland
Street opens into Marylebone Road. Over the way, in the shadow of Trinity
Church, was an old bookshop, well known to me: the gas-jet shining upon the
stall with its rows of volumes drew me across. I began turning over pages,
and--invariable consequence--fingering what money I had in my pocket. A
certain book overcame me; I stepped into the little shop to pay for it.

While standing at the stall, I had been vaguely aware of some one beside
me, a man who also was looking over the books; as I came out again with my
purchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with a half-smile of peculiar
interest. He seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the man
moved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quick
movement to my side, and spoke.

'Pray excuse me, sir--don't misunderstand me--I only wished to ask whether
you have noticed the name written on the flyleaf of the book you have just
bought?'

The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at first
that the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. I
judged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair and
straggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from
his bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as a
fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class he
originally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so much
intelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a pathetic
diffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I had
not seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by the
light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R.
Christopherson, 1849.'

'It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.

'Indeed? The book used to belong to you?'

'It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous little crow of a laugh,
at the same time stroking his head, as if to deprecate disbelief. 'You
never heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you were
too young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name in
them on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before you
came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether you
would buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don't
you think--?'

The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quite
understood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.

'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.

'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no house
of his own.'

He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:

'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'

I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, I
asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.

'If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid reply, 'I will show you
my house. I mean'--again the little crowing laugh--'the house which _was_
mine.'

Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short distance up the road
skirting Regent's Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposing
terrace.

'There,' he whispered, 'I used to live. The window to the right of the
door--that was my library. Ah!'

And he heaved a deep sigh.

'A misfortune befell you,' I said, also in a subdued voice.

'The result of my own folly. I had enough for my needs, but thought I
needed more. I let myself be drawn into business--I, who knew nothing of
such things--and there came the black day--the black day.'

We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, with heads bent, came
in silence again to the church.

'I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?' asked
Christopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if for
leave-taking.

I replied that I did not remember to have come across his name before;
then, on an impulse, asked whether he would care to have the book I carried
in my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner were the
words spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer. He hesitated,
murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushed
with joy as he took the volume.

'I still have a few books,' he said, under his breath, as if he spoke of
something he was ashamed to make known. 'But it is very rarely indeed that
I can add to them. I feel I have not thanked you half enough.'

We shook hands and parted.

My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. One afternoon, perhaps a
fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I
stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; I
looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old
friends.

'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, who
looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I--I didn't like to
speak. I live not far from here.'

'Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do you
live alone?'

'Alone? oh no. With my wife.'

There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and
his head moved uneasily.

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together
continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a
very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of
erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked
whether he wrote. No, he had never written anything--never; he was only a
bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.

It was not long before we again met by chance. We came face to face at a
street corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. He
looked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand he
gave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faint
expression.

'I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring look. 'I am leaving
London.'

'For good?'

'I fear so, and yet'--he made an obvious effort--'I am glad of it. My
wife's health has not been very good lately. She has need of country air.
Yes, I am glad we have decided to go away--very glad--very glad indeed!'

He spoke with an automatic sort of emphasis, his eyes wandering, and his
hands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of the
country he had chosen for his retreat, when he abruptly added:

'I live just over there. Will you let me show you my books?'

Of course I gladly accepted the invitation, and a couple of minutes' walk
brought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floor
windows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, my
companion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me.

'I'm really afraid it isn't worth your while,' he said timidly. 'The fact
is, I haven't space to show my books properly.'

I put aside the objection, and we entered. With anxious courtesy
Christopherson led me up the narrow staircase to the second-floor landing,
and threw open a door. On the threshold I stood astonished. The room was a
small one, and would in any case have only just sufficed for homely
comfort, used as it evidently was for all daytime purposes; but certainly a
third of the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, volumes
stacked several rows deep against two of the walls and almost up to the
ceiling. A round table and two or three chairs were the only
furniture--there was no room, indeed, for more. The window being shut, and
the sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable stuffiness oppressed the air.
Never had I been made so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper and
bindings.

'But,' I exclaimed, 'you said you had only a _few_ books! There must be
five times as many here as I have.'

'I forget the exact number,' murmured Christopherson, in great agitation.
'You see, I can't arrange them properly. I have a few more in--in the other
room.'

He led me across the landing, opened another door, and showed me a little
bedroom. Here the encumberment was less remarkable, but one wall had
completely disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of the air made
it a disgusting thought that two persons occupied this chamber every night.

We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out books
from the solid mass to show me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now and
then a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on his
history. I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eight
years; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, a
daughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; and
lastly--this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasant
smile--that his second wife had been his daughter's governess. I listened
with keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances of
this singular household.

'In the country,' I remarked, 'you will no doubt have shelf room?'

At once his countenance fell; he turned upon me a woebegone eye. Just as I
was about to speak again sounds from within the house caught my attention;
there was a heavy foot on the stairs, and a loud voice, which seemed
familiar to me.

'Ah!' exclaimed Christopherson with a start, 'here comes some one who is
going to help me in the removal of the books. Come in, Mr. Pomfret, come
in!'

The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair,
light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picture
suggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood. No
wonder I had seemed to recognise his voice. Though we only saw each other
by chance at long intervals, Pomfret and I were old acquaintances.

'Hallo!' he roared out, 'I didn't know you knew Mr. Christopherson.'

'I'm just as much surprised to find that _you_ know him!' was my reply.

The old book-lover gazed at us in nervous astonishment, then shook hands
with the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spoke
with a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanour
which marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everything
had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson's
library; it remained only to decide the day.

'There's no hurry,' exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hurry. I'm
greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking.
We'll settle the date in a day or two--a day or two.'

With a good-humoured nod Pomfret moved to take his leave. Our eyes met; we
left the house together. Out in the street again I took a deep breath of
the summer air, which seemed sweet as in a meadow after that stifling room.
My companion evidently had a like sensation, for he looked up to the sky
and broadened out his shoulders.

'Eh, but it's a grand day! I'd give something for a walk on Ilkley Moors.'

As the best substitute within our reach we agreed to walk across Regent's
Park together. Pomfret's business took him in that direction, and I was
glad of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old book-lover's
landlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christopherson's story of affluence and ruin
was quite true. Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been obliged
to earn his living as a clerk or something of the kind. About five years
later came his second marriage.

'You know Mrs. Christopherson?' asked Pomfret.

'No! I wish I did. Why?'

'Because she's the sort of woman it does you good to know, that's all.
She's a lady--_my_ idea of a lady. Christopherson's a gentleman too,
there's no denying it; if he wasn't, I think I should have punched his head
before now. Oh, I know 'em well! why, I lived in the house there with 'em
for several years. She's a lady to the end of her little finger, and how
her husband can 'a borne to see her living the life she has, it's more than
I can understand. By--! I'd have turned burglar, if I could 'a found no
other way of keeping her in comfort.'

'She works for her living, then?'

'Ay, and for his too. No, not teaching; she's in a shop in Tottenham Court
Road; has what they call a good place, and earns thirty shillings a week.
It's all they have, but Christopherson buys books out of it.'

'But has he never done anything since their marriage?'

'He did for the first few years, I believe, but he had an illness, and that
was the end of it. Since then he's only loafed. He goes to all the
book-sales, and spends the rest of his time sniffing about the second-hand
shops. She? Oh, she'd never say a word! Wait till you've seen her.'

'Well, but,' I asked, 'what has happened. How is it they're leaving
London?'

'Ay, I'll tell you; I was coming to that. Mrs. Christopherson has relatives
well off--a fat and selfish lot, as far as I can make out--never lifted a
finger to help her until now. One of them's a Mrs. Keeting, the widow of
some City porpoise, I'm told. Well, this woman has a home down in Norfolk.
She never lives there, but a son of hers goes there to fish and shoot now
and then. Well, this is what Mrs. Christopherson tells my aunt, Mrs.
Keeting has offered to let her and her husband live down yonder, rent free,
and their food provided. She's to be housekeeper, in fact, and keep the
place ready for any one who goes down.'

'Christopherson, _I_ can see, would rather stay where he is.'

'Why, of course, he doesn't know how he'll live without the bookshops. But
he's glad for all that, on his wife's account. And it's none too soon, I
can tell you. The poor woman couldn't go on much longer; my aunt says she's
just about ready to drop, and sometimes, I know, she looks terribly bad. Of
course, she won't own it, not she; she isn't one of the complaining sort.
But she talks now and then about the country--the places where she used to
live. I've heard her, and it gives me a notion of what she's gone through
all these years. I saw her a week ago, just when she had Mrs. Keeting's
offer, and I tell you I scarcely knew who it was! You never saw such a
change in any one in your life! Her face was like that of a girl of
seventeen. And her laugh--you should have heard her laugh!'

'Is she much younger than her husband?' I asked.

'Twenty years at least. She's about forty, I think.' I mused for a few
moments.

'After all, it isn't an unhappy marriage?'

'Unhappy?' cried Pomfret. 'Why, there's never been a disagreeable word
between them, that I'll warrant. Once Christopherson gets over the change,
they'll have nothing more in the world to ask for. He'll potter over his
books--'

'You mean to tell me,' I interrupted, 'that those books have all been
bought out of his wife's thirty shillings a week?'

'No, no. To begin with, he kept a few out of his old library. Then, when he
was earning his own living, he bought a great many. He told me once that
he's often lived on sixpence a day to have money for books. A rum old owl;
but for all that he's a gentleman, and you can't help liking him. I shall
be sorry when he's out of reach.'

For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson's
departure. The story I had heard made me uncomfortable. It was good to
think of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and in
these days of midsummer free to enjoy the country she loved. A touch of
envy mingled, I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who henceforth
had not a care in the world, and without reproach might delight in his
hoarded volumes. One could not imagine that he would suffer seriously by
the removal of his old haunts. I promised myself to call on him in a day or
two. By choosing Sunday, I might perhaps be lucky enough to see his wife.

And on Sunday afternoon I was on the point of setting forth to pay this
visit, when in came Pomfret. He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsily
against the furniture as he crossed the room. His appearance was a
surprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the least
expect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose,
characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of such
intimacy.

'Did you ever hear the like of _that_!' he shouted, half angrily. 'It's all
over. They're not going! And all because of those blamed books!'

And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at his
aunt's home. On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had been
surprised by a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, Mrs.
Keeting. Never before had that lady called upon them; she came, no doubt
(this could only be conjectured), to speak with them of their approaching
removal. The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard by
the landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs.
'Impossible! Quite impossible! I couldn't think of it! How could you dream
for a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books? Most
unhealthy! I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!' And
so she went out to her carriage, and was driven away. And the landlady,
presently having occasion to go upstairs, was aware of a dead silence in
the room where the Christophersons were sitting. She knocked--prepared with
some excuse--and found the couple side by side, smiling sadly. At once they
told her the truth. Mrs. Keeting had come because of a letter in which Mrs.
Christopherson had mentioned the fact that her husband had a good many
books, and hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the house in
Norfolk. She came to see the library--with the result already heard. They
had the choice between sacrificing the books and losing what their relative
offered.

'Christopherson refused?' I let fall.

'I suppose his wife saw that it was too much for him. At all events, they'd
agreed to keep the books and lose the house. And there's an end of it. I
haven't been so riled about anything for a long time!'

Meantime I had been reflecting. It was easy for me to understand
Christopherson's state of mind, and without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I saw
that she must be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal of a
burden. After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so very unhappy? Was she not the
kind of woman who lived by sacrifice--one who had far rather lead a life
disagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of discomfort to her
husband? This view of the matter irritated Pomfret, and he broke into
objurgations, directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly against
Christopherson. It was an 'infernal shame,' that was all he could say. And
after all, I rather inclined to his opinion.

When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew me towards the
Christophersons' dwelling. Walking along the opposite side of the street, I
looked up at their window, and there was the face of the old bibliophile.
Evidently he was standing at the window in idleness, perhaps in trouble. At
once he beckoned to me; but before I could knock at the house-door he had
descended, and came out.

'May I walk a little way with you?' he asked.

There was worry on his features. For some moments we went on in silence.

'So you have changed your mind about leaving London?' I said, as if
carelessly.

'You have heard from Mr. Pomfret? Well--yes, yes--I think we shall stay
where we are--for the present.'

Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed. He walked with head
bent, shoulders stooping; and shuffled, indeed, rather than walked. Even so
might a man bear himself who felt guilty of some peculiar meanness.

Presently words broke from him.

'To tell you the truth, there's a difficulty about the books.' He glanced
furtively at me, and I saw he was trembling in all his nerves. 'As you see,
my circumstances are not brilliant.' He half-choked himself with a crow.
'The fact is we were offered a house in the country, on certain conditions,
by a relative of Mrs. Christopherson; and, unfortunately, it turned out
that my library is regarded as an objection--a fatal objection. We have
quite reconciled ourselves to staying where we are.'

I could not help asking, without emphasis, whether Mrs. Christopherson
would have cared for life in the country. But no sooner were the words out
of my mouth than I regretted them, so evidently did they hit my companion
in a tender place.

'I think she would have liked it,' he answered, with a strangely pathetic
look at me, as if he entreated my forbearance.

'But,' I suggested, 'couldn't you make some arrangements about the books?
Couldn't you take a room for them in another house, for instance?'

Christopherson's face was sufficient answer; it reminded me of his
pennilessness. 'We think no more about it,' he said. 'The matter is
settled--quite settled.'

There was no pursuing the subject. At the next parting of the ways we took
leave of each other.

I think it was not more than a week later when I received a postcard from
Pomfret. He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That was
all.

Mrs. C. could, of course, only mean Mrs. Christopherson. I mused over the
message--it took hold of my imagination, wrought upon my feelings; and that
afternoon I again walked along the interesting street.

There was no face at the window. After a little hesitation I decided to
call at the house and speak with Pomfret's aunt. It was she who opened the
door to me.

We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned my name and said I was
anxious to have news of Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into a
sitting-room, and began to talk confidentially.

She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common London
landlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. It
began with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless night; the
doctor was sent for; and he had her removed out of the stuffy,
book-cumbered bedroom into another chamber, which luckily happened to be
vacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but voiceless, able only
to smile at her husband, who never moved from the bedside day or night. He,
too,' said the landlady, 'would soon break down: he looked like a ghost,
and seemed "half-crazed."'

'What,' I asked, 'could be the cause of this illness?'

The good woman gave me an odd look, shook her head, and murmured that the
reason was not far to seek.

'Did she think,' I asked, 'that disappointment might have something to do
with it?'

Why, of course she did. For a long time the poor lady had been all but at
the end of her strength, and _this_ came as a blow beneath which she sank.

'Your nephew and I have talked about it,' I said. 'He thinks that Mr.
Christopherson didn't understand what a sacrifice he asked his wife to
make.'

'I think so too,' was the reply. 'But he begins to see it now, I can tell
you. He says nothing but.'

There was a tap at the door, and a hurried tremulous voice begged the
landlady to go upstairs.

'What is it, sir?' she asked.

'I'm afraid she's worse,' said Christopherson, turning his haggard face to
me with startled recognition. 'Do come up at once, please.'

Without a word to me he disappeared with the landlady. I could not go away;
for some ten minutes I fidgeted about the little room, listening to every
sound in the house. Then came a footfall on the stairs, and the landlady
rejoined me.

'It's nothing,' she said. 'I almost think she might drop off to sleep, if
she's left quiet. He worries her, poor man, sitting there and asking her
every two minutes how she feels. I've persuaded him to go to his room, and
I think it might do him good if you went and had a bit o' talk with him.'

I mounted at once to the second-floor sitting-room, and found
Christopherson sunk upon a chair, his head falling forwards, the image of
despairing misery. As I approached he staggered to his feet. He took my
hand in a shrinking, shamefaced way, and could not raise his eyes. I
uttered a few words of encouragement, but they had the opposite effect to
that designed.

'Don't tell me that,' he moaned, half resentfully. 'She's dying--she's
dying--say what they will, I know it.'

'Have you a good doctor?'

'I think so--but it's too late--it's too late.'

As he dropped to his chair again I sat down by him. The silence of a minute
or two was broken by a thunderous rat-tat at the house-door. Christopherson
leapt to his feet, rushed from the room; I, half fearing that he had gone
mad, followed to the head of the stairs.

In a moment he came up again, limp and wretched as before.

'It was the postman,' he muttered. 'I am expecting a letter.'

Conversation seeming impossible, I shaped a phrase preliminary to
withdrawal; but Christopherson would not let me go.

'I should like to tell you,' he began, looking at me like a dog under
punishment, 'that I have done all I could. As soon as my wife fell ill, and
when I saw--I had only begun to think of it in that way--how she felt the
disappointment, I went at once to Mrs. Keeting's house to tell her that I
would sell the books. But she was out of town. I wrote to her--I said I
regretted my folly--I entreated her to forgive me and to renew her kind
offer. There has been plenty of time for a reply, but she doesn't answer.'

He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's catalogue, just delivered
by the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced over
the first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thing
violently away.

'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along the
little strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course she
said she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knew
would please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruel
enough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his arms
frantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her face
how her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knew
what she was suffering; I _knew_ it, I tell you! And, like a selfish
coward, I let her suffer--I let her drop down and die--die!'

'Any hour,' I said, 'may bring you the reply from Mrs. Keeting. Of course
it will be favourable, and the good news--'

'Too late, I have killed her! That woman won't write. She's one of the
vulgar rich, and we offended her pride; and such as she never forgive.'

He sat down for a moment, but started up again in an agony of mental
suffering.

'She is dying--and there, there, that's what has killed her!' He
gesticulated wildly towards the books. 'I have sold her life for those.
Oh!--oh!'

With this cry he seized half a dozen volumes, and, before I could
understand what he was about, he had flung up the window-sash, and cast the
books into the street. Another batch followed; I heard the thud upon the
pavement. Then I caught him by the arm, held him fast, begged him to
control himself.

'They shall all go!' he cried. 'I loathe the sight of them. They have
killed my dear wife!'

He said it sobbing, and at the last words tears streamed from his eyes. I
had no difficulty now in restraining him. He met my look with a gaze of
infinite pathos, and talked on while he wept.

'If you knew what she has been to me! When she married me I was a ruined
man twenty years older. I have given her nothing but toil and care. You
shall know everything--for years and years I have lived on the earnings of
her labour. Worse than that, I have starved and stinted her to buy books.
Oh, the shame of it! The wickedness of it! It was my vice--the vice that
enslaved me just as if it had been drinking or gambling. I couldn't resist
the temptation--though every day I cried shame upon myself and swore to
overcome it. She never blamed me; never a word--nay, not a look--of a
reproach. I lived in idleness. I never tried to save her that daily toil at
the shop. Do you know that she worked in a shop?--She, with her knowledge
and her refinement leading such a life as that! Think that I have passed
the shop a thousand times, coming home with a book in my hands! I had the
heart to pass, and to think of her there! Oh! Oh!'

Some one was knocking at the door. I went to open, and saw the landlady,
her face set in astonishment, and her arms full of books.

'It's all right,' I whispered. 'Put them down on the floor there; don't
bring them in. An accident.'

Christopherson stood behind me; his look asked what he durst not speak. I
said it was nothing, and by degrees brought him into a calmer state.
Luckily, the doctor came before I went away, and he was able to report a
slight improvement. The patient had slept a little and seemed likely to
sleep again. Christopherson asked me to come again before long--there was
no one else, he said, who cared anything about him--and I promised to call
the next day.

I did so, early in the afternoon. Christopherson must have watched for my
coming: before I could raise the knocker the door flew open, and his face
gleamed such a greeting as astonished me. He grasped my hand in both his.

'The letter has come! We are to have the house.'

'And how is Mrs. Christopherson?'

'Better, much better, Heaven be thanked! She slept almost from the time
when you left yesterday afternoon till early this morning. The letter came
by the first post, and I told her--not the whole truth,' he added, under
his breath. 'She thinks I am to be allowed to take the books with me; and
if you could have seen her smile of contentment. But they will all be sold
and carried away before she knows about it; and when she sees that I don't
care a snap of the fingers!'

He had turned into the sitting-room on the ground floor. Walking about
excitedly, Christopherson gloried in the sacrifice he had made. Already a
letter was despatched to a bookseller, who would buy the whole library as
it stood. But would he not keep a few volumes? I asked. Surely there could
be no objection to a few shelves of books; and how would he live without
them? At first he declared vehemently that not a volume should be kept--he
never wished to see a book again as long as he lived. But Mrs.
Christopherson? I urged. Would she not be glad of something to read now and
then? At this he grew pensive. We discussed the matter, and it was arranged
that a box should be packed with select volumes and taken down into Norfolk
together with the rest of their luggage. Not even Mrs. Keeting could object
to this, and I strongly advised him to take her permission for granted.

And so it was done. By discreet management the piled volumes were stowed in
bags, carried downstairs, emptied into a cart, and conveyed away, so
quietly that the sick woman was aware of nothing. In telling me about it,
Christopherson crowed as I had never heard him; but methought his eye
avoided that part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and in the
course of our conversation he now and then became absent, with head bowed.
Of the joy he felt in his wife's recovery there could, however, be no
doubt. The crisis through which he had passed had made him, in appearance,
a yet older man; when he declared his happiness tears came into his eyes,
and his head shook with a senile tremor.

Before they left London, I saw Mrs. Christopherson--a pale, thin, slightly
made woman, who had never been what is called good-looking, but her face,
if ever face did so, declared a brave and loyal spirit. She was not joyous,
she was not sad; but in her eyes, as I looked at them again and again, I
read the profound thankfulness of one to whom fate has granted her soul's
desire.




HUMPLEBEE


The school was assembled for evening prayers, some threescore boys
representing for the most part the well-to-do middle class of a
manufacturing county. At either end of the room glowed a pleasant fire, for
it was February and the weather had turned to frost.

Silence reigned, but on all the young faces turned to where the headmaster
sat at his desk appeared an unwonted expression, an eager expectancy, as
though something out of the familiar routine were about to happen. When the
master's voice at length sounded, he did not read from the book before him;
gravely, slowly, he began to speak of an event which had that day stirred
the little community with profound emotion.

'Two of our number are this evening absent. Happily, most happily, absent
but for a short time; in our prayers we shall render thanks to the good
Providence which has saved us from a terrible calamity. I do not desire to
dwell upon the circumstance that one of these boys, Chadwick, had committed
worse than an imprudence in venturing upon the Long Pond; it was in
disregard of my injunction; I had distinctly made it known that the ice was
still unsafe. We will speak no more of that. All we can think of at present
is the fact that Chadwick was on the point of losing his life; that in all
human probability he would have been drowned, but for the help heroically
afforded him by one of his schoolfellows. I say heroically, and I am sure I
do not exaggerate; in the absence of Humplebee I may declare that he nobly
perilled his own life to save that of another. It was a splendid bit of
courage, a fine example of pluck and promptitude and vigour. We have all
cause this night to be proud of Humplebee.'

The solemn voice paused. There was an instant's profound silence. Then,
from somewhere amid the rows of listeners, sounded a clear, boyish note.

'Sir, may we give three cheers for Humplebee?'

'You may.'

The threescore leapt to their feet, and volleys of cheering made the
schoolroom echo. Then the master raised his hand, the tumult subsided, and
after a few moments of agitated silence, prayers began.

Next morning there appeared as usual at his desk a short, thin, red-headed
boy of sixteen, whose plain, freckled face denoted good-humour and a
certain intelligence, but would never have drawn attention amongst the
livelier and comelier physiognomies grouped about him. This was Humplebee.
Hitherto he had been an insignificant member of the school, one of those
boys who excel neither at games nor at lessons, of whom nothing is
expected, and rarely, if ever, get into trouble, and who are liked in a
rather contemptuous way. Of a sudden he shone glorious; all tongues were
busy with him, all eyes regarded him, every one wished for the honour of
his friendship. Humplebee looked uncomfortable. He had the sniffy
beginnings of a cold, the result of yesterday's struggle in icy water, and
his usual diffident and monosyllabic inclination were intensified by the
position in which he found himself. Clappings on the shoulder from bigger
boys who had been wont to joke about his name made him flush nervously; to
be addressed as 'Humpy,' or 'Beetle,' or 'Buz,' even though in a new tone,
seemed to gratify him as little as before. It was plain that Humplebee
would much have liked to be left alone. He stuck as closely as possible to
his desk, and out of school-time tried to steal apart from the throng.

But an ordeal awaited him. Early in the afternoon there arrived, from a
great town not far away, a well-dressed and high-complexioned man, whose
every look and accent declared commercial importance. This was Mr.
Chadwick, father of the boy who had all but been drowned. He and the
headmaster held private talk, and presently they sent for Humplebee. Merely
to enter the 'study' was at any time Humplebee's dread; to do so under the
present circumstances cost him anguish of spirit.

'Ha! here he is!' exclaimed Mr. Chadwick, in the voice of bluff geniality
which seemed to him appropriate. 'Humplebee, let me shake hands with you!
Humplebee, I am proud to make your acquaintance; prouder still to thank
you, to thank you, my boy!'

The lad was painfully overcome; his hands quivered, he stood like one
convicted of disgraceful behaviour.

'I think you have heard of me, Humplebee. Leonard has no doubt spoken to
you of his father. Perhaps my name has reached you in other ways?'

'Yes, sir,' faltered the boy.

'You mean that you know me as a public man?' urged Mr. Chadwick, whose eyes
glimmered a hungry vanity.

'Yes, sir,' whispered Humplebee.

'Ha! I see you already take an intelligent interest in things beyond
school. They tell me you are sixteen, Humplebee. Come, now; what are your
ideas about the future? I don't mean'--Mr. Chadwick rolled a laugh--'about
the future of mankind, or even the future of the English race; you and I
may perhaps discuss such questions a few years hence. In the meantime, what
are your personal ambitions? In brief, what would you like to be,
Humplebee?'

Under the eye of his master and of the commercial potentate, Humplebee
stood voiceless; he gasped once or twice like an expiring fish.

'Courage, my boy, courage!' cried Mr. Chadwick. 'Your father, I believe,
destines you for commerce. Is that your own wish? Speak freely. Speak as
though I were a friend you have known all your life.'

'I should like to please my father, sir,' jerked from the boy's lips.

'Good! Admirable! That's the spirit I like, Humplebee. Then you have no
marked predilection? That was what I wanted to discover--well, well, we
shall see. Meanwhile, Humplebee, get on with your arithmetic. You are good
at arithmetic, I am sure?'

'Not very, sir.'

'Come, come, that's your modesty. But I like you none the worse for it,
Humplebee. Well, well, get on with your work, my boy, and we shall see, we
shall see.'

Therewith, to his vast relief, Humplebee found himself dismissed. Later in
the day he received a summons to the bedroom where Mr. Chadwick's son was
being carefully nursed. Leonard Chadwick, about the same age as his
rescuer, had never deigned to pay much attention to Humplebee, whom he
regarded as stupid and plebeian; but the boy's character was marked by a
generous impulsiveness, which came out strongly in the present
circumstances.

'Hallo, Humpy!' he cried, raising himself up when the other entered. 'So
you pulled me out of that hole! Shake hands, Buzzy, old fellow! You've had
a talk with my governor, haven't you? What do you think of him?'

Humplebee muttered something incoherent.

'My governor's going to make your fortune, Humpy!' cried Leonard. 'He told
me so, and when he says a thing he means it. He's going to start you in
business when you leave school; most likely you'll go into his own office.
How will you like that, Humpy? My governor thinks no end of you; says
you're a brick, and so you are. I shan't forget that you pulled me out of
that hole, old chap. We shall be friends all our lives, you know. Tell me
what you thought of my governor?'

When he was on his legs again, Leonard continued to treat Humplebee with
grateful, if somewhat condescending, friendliness. In the talks they had
together the great man's son continually expatiated upon his preserver's
brilliant prospects. Beyond possibility of doubt Humplebee would some day
be a rich man; Mr. Chadwick had said so, and whatever he purposed came to
pass. To all this Humplebee listened in a dogged sort of way, now and then
smiling, but seldom making verbal answer. In school he was not quite the
same boy as before his exploit; he seemed duller, less attentive, and at
times even incurred reproaches for work ill done--previously a thing
unknown. When the holidays came, no boy was so glad as Humplebee; his heart
sang within him as he turned his back upon the school and began the journey
homeward.

That home was in the town illuminated by Mr. Chadwick's commercial and
municipal brilliance; over a small draper's shop in one of the outskirt
streets stood the name of Humplebee the draper. About sixty years of age,
he had known plenty of misfortune and sorrows, with scant admixture of
happiness. Nowadays things were somewhat better with him; by dint of severe
economy he had put aside two or three hundred pounds, and he was able,
moreover, to give his son (an only child) what is called a sound education.
In the limited rooms above the shop there might have been a measure of
quiet content and hopefulness, but for Mrs. Humplebee. She, considerably
younger than her husband, fretted against their narrow circumstances, and
grudged the money that was being spent--wasted, she called it--on the boy
Harry.

From his father Harry never heard talk of pecuniary troubles, but the
mother lost no opportunity of letting him know that they were poor,
miserably poor; and adding, that if he did not work hard at school he was
simply a cold-hearted criminal, and robbed his parents of their bread.

But during the last month or two a change had come upon the household. One
day the draper received a visit from the great Mr. Chadwick, who told a
wonderful story of Harry's heroism, and made proposals sounding so nobly
generous that Mr. Humplebee was overcome with gratitude.

Harry, as his father knew, had no vocation for the shop; to get him a place
in a manufacturer's office seemed the best thing that could be aimed at,
and here was Mr. Chadwick talking of easy book-keeping, quick advancement,
and all manner of vaguely splendid possibilities in the future. The
draper's joy proved Mrs. Humplebee's opportunity. She put forward a project
which had of late been constantly on her mind and on her lips, to wit, that
they should transfer their business into larger premises, and give
themselves a chance of prosperity. Humplebee need no longer hesitate. He
had his little capital to meet the first expenses, and if need arose there
need not be the slightest doubt that Mr. Chadwick would assist him. A kind
gentleman Mr. Chadwick! Had he not expressly desired to see Harry's mother,
and had he not assured her in every way possible of his debt and gratitude
he felt towards all who bore the name of Humplebee? The draper, if he
neglected his opportunity, would be an idiot--a mere idiot.

So, when the boy came home for his holidays he found two momentous things
decided; first, that he should forthwith enter Mr. Chadwick's office;
secondly, that the little shop should be abandoned and a new one taken in a
better neighbourhood.

Now Harry Humplebee had in his soul a secret desire and a secret
abhorrence. Ever since he could read his delight had been in books of
natural history; beasts, birds, and fishes possessed his imagination, and
for nothing else in the intellectual world did he really care. With poor
resources he had learned a great deal of his beloved subjects. Whenever he
could get away into the fields he was happy; to lie still for hours
watching some wild thing, noting its features and its ways, seemed to him
perfect enjoyment. His treasure was a collection, locked in a cupboard at
home, of eggs, skeletons, butterflies, beetles, and I know not what. His
father regarded all this as harmless amusement, his mother contemptuously
tolerated it or, in worse humour, condemned it as waste of time. When at
school the boy had frequent opportunities of pursuing his study, for he was
in mid country and could wander as he liked on free afternoons; but neither
the headmaster nor his assistant thought it worth while to pay heed to
Humplebee's predilection. True, it had been noticed more than once that in
writing an 'essay' he showed unusual observation of natural things; this,
however, did not strike his educators as a matter of any importance; it was
not their business to discover what Humplebee could do, and wished to do,
but to make him do things they regarded as desirable. Humplebee was marked
for commerce; he must study compound interest, and be strong at discount.
Yet the boy loathed every such mental effort, and the name of 'business'
made him sick at heart.

How he longed to unbosom himself to his father! And in the first week of
his holiday he had a chance of doing so, a wonderful chance, such as had
never entered his dreams. The town possessed a museum of Natural History,
where, of course, Harry had often spent leisure hours. Half a year ago a
happy chance had brought him into conversation with the curator, who could
not but be struck by the lad's intelligence, and who took an interest in
him. Now they met again; they had one or two long talks, with the result
that, on a Sunday afternoon, the curator of the museum took the trouble to
call upon Mr. Humplebee, to speak with him about his son. At the museum was
wanted a lad with a taste for natural history, to perform at first certain
easy duties, with the prospect of further advancement here or elsewhere. It
seemed to the curator that Harry was the very boy for the place; would Mr.
Humplebee like to consider this suggestion? Now, if it had been made to him
half a year ago, such an offer would have seemed to Mr. Humplebee well
worth consideration, and he knew that Harry would have heard of it with
delight; as it was, he could not entertain the thought for a moment.

Impossible to run the risk of offending Mr. Chadwick; moreover, who could
hesitate between the modest possibilities of the museum and such a career
as waited the lad under the protection of his powerful friend? With nervous
haste the draper explained how matters stood, excused himself, and begged
that not another word on the subject might be spoken in his son's hearing.

Harry Humplebee knew what he had lost; the curator, in talk with him, had
already thrown out his suggestion; at their next meeting he discreetly made
known to the boy that other counsels must prevail. For the first time Harry
felt a vehement impulse, prompting him to speak on his own behalf, to
assert and to plead for his own desires. But courage failed him. He heard
his father loud in praise of Mr. Chadwick, intent upon the gratitude and
respect due to that admirable man. He knew how his mother would exclaim at
the mere hint of disinclination to enter the great man's office. And so he
held his peace, though it cost him bitterness of heart and even secret
tears. A long, long time passed before he could bring himself to enter
again the museum doors.

He sat on a stool in Mr. Chadwick's office, a clerk at a trifling salary.
Everything, his father reminded him, must have a beginning; let him work
well and his progress would be rapid. Two years passed and he was in much
the same position; his salary had increased by one half, but his work
remained the same, mechanical, dreary, hateful to him in its monotony.
Meanwhile his father's venture in the new premises had led to great
embarrassments; business did not thrive; the day came when Mr. Humplebee,
trembling and shamefaced, felt himself drawn to beg help of his son's
so-called benefactor. He came away from the interview with empty hands.
Worse than that, he had heard things about Harry which darkened his mind
with a new anxiety.

'I greatly fear,' said Mr. Chadwick, 'that your son must seek a place in
some other office. It's a painful thing; I wish I could have kept him; but
the fact of the matter is that he shows utter incapacity. I have no fault
to find with him otherwise; a good lad; in a smaller place of business he
might do well enough. But he's altogether below the mark in an office such
as _mine_. Don't distress yourself, Mr. Humplebee, I beg, I shall make it
my care to inquire for suitable openings; you shall hear from me--you shall
hear from me. Pray consider that your son is under notice to leave this day
month. As for the--other matter of which you spoke, I can only repeat that
the truest kindness is only to refuse assistance. I assure you it is. The
circumstances forbid it. Clearly, what you have to do is to call together
your creditors, and arrive at an understanding. It is my principle never to
try to prop up a hopeless concern such as yours evidently is. Good day to
you, Mr. Humplebee; good day.'

A year later several things had happened. Mr. Humplebee was dead; his
penniless widow had gone to live in another town on the charity of poor
relatives, and Harry Humplebee sat in another office, drawing the salary at
which he had begun under Mr. Chadwick, his home a wretched bedroom in the
house of working-folk.

It did not appear to the lad that he had suffered any injustice. He knew
his own inaptitude for the higher kind of office work, and he had expected
his dismissal by Mr. Chadwick long before it came. What he did resent, and
profoundly, was Mr. Chadwick's refusal to aid his father in that last
death-grapple with ruinous circumstance. At the worst moment Harry wrote a
letter to Leonard Chadwick, whom he had never seen since he left school. He
told in simple terms the position of his family, and, without a word of
justifying reminiscence, asked his schoolfellow to help them if he could.
To this letter a reply came from London. Leonard Chadwick wrote briefly and
hurriedly, but in good-natured terms; he was really very sorry indeed that
he could do so little; the fact was, just now he stood on anything but good
terms with his father, who kept him abominably short of cash. He enclosed
five pounds, and, if possible, would soon send more.

'Don't suppose I have forgotten what I owe you. As soon as ever I find
myself in an independent position you shall have substantial proof of my
enduring gratitude. Keep me informed of your address.'

Humplebee made no second application, and Leonard Chadwick did not again
break silence.

The years flowed on. At five-and-twenty Humplebee toiled in the same
office, but he could congratulate himself on a certain progress; by dogged
resolve he had acquired something like efficiency in the duties of a
commercial clerk, and the salary he now earned allowed him to contribute to
the support of his mother. More or less reconciled to the day's labour, he
had resumed in leisure hours his favourite study; a free library supplied
him with useful books, and whenever it was possible he went his way into
the fields, searching, collecting, observing. But his life had another
interest, which threatened rivalry to this intellectual pursuit. Humplebee
had set eyes upon the maiden destined to be his heart's desire; she was the
daughter of a fellow-clerk, a man who had grown grey in service of the
ledger; timidly he sought to win her kindness, as yet scarce daring to
hope, dreaming only of some happy change of position which might encourage
him to speak. The girl was as timid as himself; she had a face of homely
prettiness, a mind uncultured but sympathetic; absorbed in domestic cares,
with few acquaintances, she led the simplest of lives, and would have been
all but content to live on in gentle hope for a score of years. The two
were beginning to understand each other, for their silence was more
eloquent than their speech.

One summer day--the last day of his brief holiday--Humplebee was returning
by train from a visit to his mother. Alone in a third-class carriage,
seeming to read a newspaper, but in truth dreaming of a face he hoped to
see in a few hours, he suddenly found himself jerked out of his seat, flung
violently forward, bumped on the floor, and last of all rolled into a sort
of bundle, he knew not where. Recovering from a daze, he said to himself,
'Why, this is an accident--a collision!' Then he tried to unroll himself,
and in the effort found that one of his arms was useless; more than that,
it pained him horribly. He stood up and tottered on to the seat. Then the
carriage-door opened, and a voice shouted--

'Anybody hurt here?'

'I think my arm is broken,' answered Humplebee.

Two men helped him to alight. The train had stopped just outside a small
station; on a cross line in front of the engine lay a goods truck smashed
to pieces; people were rushing about with cries and gesticulations.

'Yes, the arm is broken,' remarked one of the men who had assisted
Humplebee. 'It looks as if you were the only passenger injured.' That
proved, indeed, to be the case; no one else had suffered more than a jolt
or a bruise. The crowd clustered about this hero of the broken arm,
expressing sympathy and offering suggestions. Among them was a well-dressed
young man, rather good-looking and of lively demeanour, who seemed to enjoy
the excitement; he, after gazing fixedly at the pain-stricken face,
exclaimed in a voice of wonder--

'By jove! it's Humplebee!'

The sufferer turned towards him who spoke; his eyes brightened, for he
recognised the face of Leonard Chadwick. Neither one nor the other had
greatly altered during the past ten years; they presented exactly the same
contrast of personal characteristic as when they were at school together.
With vehement friendliness Chadwick at once took upon himself the care of
the injured clerk. He shouted for a cab, he found out where the nearest
doctor lived; in a quarter of an hour he had his friend under the doctor's
roof. When the fracture had been set and bandaged, they travelled on
together to their native town, only a few miles distant, Humplebee knowing
for the first time in his life the luxury of a first-class compartment. On
their way Chadwick talked exuberantly. He was delighted at this meeting;
why, one of his purposes in coming north had been to search out Humplebee,
whom he had so long scandalously neglected.

'The fact is, I've been going through queer times myself. The governor and
I can't get along together; we quarrelled years ago, there's not much
chance of our making it up. I've no doubt that was the real reason of his
dismissing you from his office--a mean thing! The governor's a fine old
boy, but he has his nasty side. He's very tight about money, and I--well,
I'm a bit too much the other way, no doubt. He's kept me in low water,
confound him! But I'm independent of him now. I'll tell you all about it
to-morrow, you'll feel better able to talk. Expect me at eleven in the
morning.'

Through a night of physical suffering Humplebee was supported by a new
hope. Chadwick the son, warm-hearted and generous, made a strong contrast
with Chadwick the father, pompous and insincere. When the young man spoke
of his abiding gratitude there was no possibility of distrusting him, his
voice rang true, and his handsome features wore a delightful frankness.
Punctual to his appointment, Leonard appeared next morning. He entered the
poor lodging as if it had been a luxurious residence, talked suavely and
gaily with the landlady, who was tending her invalid, and, when alone with
his old schoolfellow, launched into a detailed account of a great
enterprise in which he was concerned. Not long ago he had become acquainted
with one Geldershaw, a man somewhat older than himself, personally most
attractive, and very keen in business. Geldershaw had just been appointed
London representative of a great manufacturing firm in Germany. It was a
most profitable undertaking, and, out of pure friendship, he had offered a
share in the business to Leonard Chadwick.

'Of course, I put money into it. The fact is, I have dropped in for a few
thousands from a good old aunt, who has been awfully kind to me since the
governor and I fell out. I couldn't possibly have found a better
investment, it means eight or nine per cent, my boy, at the very least! And
look here, Humplebee, of course you can keep books?'

'Yes, I can,' answered the listener conscientiously.

'Then, old fellow, a first-rate place is open to you. We want some one we
can thoroughly trust; you're the very man Geldershaw had in his eye. Would
you mind telling me what screw you get at present?'

'Two pounds ten a week.'

'Ha, ha!' laughed Chadwick exultantly. 'With us you shall begin at double
the figure, and I'll see to it that you have a rise after the first year.
What's more, Humplebee, as soon as we get fairly going, I promise you a
share in the business. Don't say a word, old boy! My governor treated you
abominably. I've been in your debt for ten years or so, as you know very
well, and often enough I've felt deucedly ashamed of myself. Five pounds a
week to begin with, and a certainty of a comfortable interest in a thriving
affair! Come, now, is it agreed?'

Humplebee forgot his pain; he felt ready to jump out of bed and travel
straightway to London.

'And you know,' pursued Chadwick, when they had shaken hands warmly, 'that
you have a claim for damages on the railway company. Leave that to me; I'll
put the thing in train at once, through my own solicitor. You shall pocket
a substantial sum, my boy! Well, I'm afraid I must be off; I've got my
hands full of business. Quite a new thing for me to have something serious
to do; I enjoy it! If I can't see you again before I go back to town, you
shall hear from me in a day or two. Here's my London address. Chuck up your
place here at once, so as to be ready for us as soon as your arm's all
right. Geldershaw shall write you a formal engagement.'

Happily his broken arm was the left. Humplebee could use his right hand,
and did so, very soon after Chadwick's departure, to send an account of all
that had befallen him to his friend Mary Bowes. It was the first time he
had written to her. His letter was couched in terms of studious respect,
with many apologies for the liberty he took. Of the accident he made
light--a few days would see him re-established--but he dwelt with some
emphasis upon the meeting with Leonard Chadwick, and what had resulted from
it.

'I did him a good turn once, when we were at school together. He is a good,
warm-hearted fellow, and has sought this opportunity of showing that he
remembered the old time.'

Thus did Humplebee refer to the great event of his boyhood. Having
despatched the letter, he waited feverishly for Miss Bowes' reply; but days
passed, and still he waited in vain. Agitation delayed his recovery; he was
suffering as he had never suffered in his life, when there came a letter
from London, signed with the name of Geldershaw, repeating in formal terms
the offer made to him by Leonard Chadwick, and requesting his immediate
acceptance or refusal. This plucked him out of his despondent state, and
spurred him to action. With the help of his landlady he dressed himself,
and, having concealed his bandaged arm as well as possible, drove in a cab
to Miss Bowes' dwelling. The hour being before noon, he was almost sure to
find Mary at home, and alone. Trembling with bodily weakness and the
conflict of emotions, he rang the door bell. To his consternation there
appeared Mary's father.

'Hallo! Humplebee!' cried Mr. Bowes, surprised but friendly. 'Why, I was
just going to write to you. Mary has had scarlet fever. I've been so busy
these last ten days, I couldn't even inquire after you. Of course, I saw
about your smash in the newspaper; how are you getting on?'

The man with the bandaged arm could not utter a word. Horror-stricken he
stared at Mr. Bowes, who had begun to express a doubt whether it would be
prudent for him to enter the house.

Mary is convalescent; the anxiety's all over, but--'

Humplebee suddenly seized the speaker's hand, and in confused words
expressed vehement joy. They talked for a few minutes, parted with
cordiality, and Humplebee went home again to recover from his excitement.

A note from his employers had replied in terms of decent condolence to the
message by which he explained his enforced absence. To-day he wrote to the
principal, announcing his intention of resigning his post in their office.
The response, delivered within a few hours, was admirably brief and to the
point. Mr. Humplebee's place had, of course, been already taken temporarily
by another clerk; it would have been held open for him, but, in view of his
decision, the firm had merely to request that he would acknowledge the
cheque enclosed in payment of his salary up to date. Not without some
shaking of the hand did Humplebee pen this receipt; for a moment something
seemed to come between him and the daylight, and a heaviness oppressed his
inner man. But already he had despatched to London his formal acceptance of
the post at five pounds a week, and in thinking of it his heart grew
joyous. Two hundred and sixty pounds a year! It was beyond the hope of his
most fantastic day-dreams. He was a made man, secure for ever against fears
and worries. He was a man of substance, and need no longer shrink from
making known the hope which ruled his life.

A second letter was written to Mary Bowes; but not till many copies had
been made was it at length despatched. The writer declared that he looked
for no reply until Mary was quite herself again; he begged only that she
would reflect, meanwhile, upon what he had said, reflect with all her
indulgence, all her native goodness and gentleness. And, indeed, there
elapsed nearly a fortnight before the answer came; and to Humplebee it
seemed an endless succession of tormenting days. Then--

Humplebee behaved like one distracted. His landlady in good earnest thought
he had gone crazy, and was only reassured when he revealed to her what had
happened. Mary Bowes was to be his wife! They must wait for a year and a
half; Mary could not leave her father quite alone, but in a year and a half
Mr. Bowes, who was an oldish man, would be able to retire on the modest
fruit of his economies, and all three could live together in London.
'What,' cried Humplebee, 'was eighteen months? It would allow him to save
enough out of his noble salary to start housekeeping with something more
than comfort. Blessed be the name of Chadwick!'

When his arm was once more sound, and Mary's health quite recovered, they
met. In their long, long talk Humplebee was led to tell the story of that
winter day when he saved Leonard Chadwick's life; he related, too, all that
had ensued upon his acquaintance with the great Mr. Chadwick, memories
which would never lose all their bitterness. Mary was moved to tears, and
her tears were dried by indignation. But they agreed that Leonard, after
all, made some atonement for his father's heartless behaviour. Humplebee
showed a letter that had come from young Chadwick a day or two ago; every
line spoke generosity of spirit. 'When,' he asked, 'might they expect their
new bookkeeper. They were in full swing; business promised magnificently.
As yet, they had only a temporary office, but Geldershaw was in treaty for
fine premises in the city. The sooner Humplebee arrived the better; fortune
awaited him.'

It was decided that he should leave for London in two days.

The next evening he came to spend an hour or two with Mary and her father.
On entering the room he at once observed something strange in the looks
with which he was greeted. Mary had a pale, miserable air, and could hardly
speak. Mr. Bowes, after looking at him fixedly for a moment, exclaimed--

'Have you seen to-day's paper?'

'I've been too busy,' he replied. 'What has happened?'

'Isn't your London man called Geldershaw?'

'Yes,' murmured Humplebee, with a sinking of the heart.

'Well, the police are after him; he has bolted. It's a long-firm swindle
that he's been up to. You know what that means? Obtaining goods on false
credit, and raising money on them. What's more, young Chadwick is arrested;
he came before the magistrates yesterday, charged with being an accomplice.
Here it is; read it for yourself.'

Humplebee dropped into a chair. When his eyes undazzled, he read the full
report which Mr. Bowes had summarised. It was the death-blow of his hopes.

'Leonard Chadwick has been a victim, not a swindler,' sounded from him in a
feeble voice. 'You see, he says that Geldershaw has robbed him of all his
money--that he is ruined.'

'He _says_ so,' remarked Mr. Bowes with angry irony.

'I believe him,' said Humplebee. His eyes sought Mary's. The girl regarded
him steadily, and she spoke in a low firm voice--'I, too, believe him.'

'Whether or no,' said Mr. Bowes, thrusting his hands into his pockets, 'the
upshot of it is, Humplebee, that you've lost a good place through trusting
him. I had my doubts; but you were in a hurry, and didn't ask advice. If
this had happened a week later, the police would have laid hands on you as
well.'

'So there's something to be thankful for, at all events,' said Mary.

Again Humplebee met her eyes. He saw that she would not forsake him.

He had to begin life over again--that was all.




THE SCRUPULOUS FATHER


It was market day in the little town; at one o'clock a rustic company
besieged the table of the Greyhound, lured by savoury odours and the
frothing of amber ale. Apart from three frequenters of the ordinary, in a
small room prepared for overflow, sat two persons of a different stamp--a
middle-aged man, bald, meagre, unimpressive, but wholly respectable in
bearing and apparel, and a girl, evidently his daughter, who had the look
of the latter twenties, her plain dress harmonising with a subdued charm of
feature and a timidity of manner not ungraceful. Whilst waiting for their
meal they conversed in an undertone; their brief remarks and ejaculations
told of a long morning's ramble from the seaside resort some miles away; in
their quiet fashion they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and dinner at
an inn evidently struck them as something of an escapade. Rather awkwardly
the girl arranged a handful of wild flowers which she had gathered, and put
them for refreshment into a tumbler of water; when a woman entered with
viands, silence fell upon the two; after hesitations and mutual glances,
they began to eat with nervous appetite.

Scarcely was their modest confidence restored, when in the doorway sounded
a virile voice, gaily humming, and they became aware of a tall young man,
red-headed, anything but handsome, flushed and perspiring from the sunny
road; his open jacket showed a blue cotton shirt without waistcoat, in his
hand was a shabby straw hat, and thick dust covered his boots. One would
have judged him a tourist of the noisier class, and his rather loud 'Good
morning!' as he entered the room seemed a serious menace to privacy; on the
other hand, the rapid buttoning of his coat, and the quiet choice of a seat
as far as possible from the two guests whom his arrival disturbed,
indicated a certain tact. His greeting had met with the merest murmur of
reply; their eyes on their plates, father and daughter resolutely
disregarded him; yet he ventured to speak again.

'They're busy here to-day. Not a seat to be had in the other room.'

It was apologetic in intention, and not rudely spoken. After a moment's
delay the bald, respectable man made a curt response.

'This room is public, I believe.'

The intruder held his peace. But more than once he glanced at the girl, and
after each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, a
troubled thoughtfulness. His one look at the mute parent was from beneath
contemptuous eyebrows.

Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descended
upon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather. With him
the red-haired pedestrian struck into talk. Their topic was beer.
Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a second
pint. What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale? Shame
on the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor! And
how cool it was--ah! The right sort of cellar! He of the red hair hinted at
a third pewter.

These two were still but midway in their stout attack on meat and drink,
when father and daughter, having exchanged a few whispers, rose to depart.
After leaving the room, the girl remembered that she had left her flowers
behind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father would
dislike to do so, said nothing about the matter.

'A pity!' exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as they
strolled away. 'It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quiet
dinner.'

'I enjoyed it all the same,' replied his companion, whose name was Rose.

'That abominable habit of drinking!' added Mr. Whiston austerely. He
himself had quaffed water, as always. 'Their ale, indeed! See the coarse,
gross creatures it produces!'

He shuddered. Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual. Her eyes
were on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When she
spoke, it was on quite another subject.

They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in the
office of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he had
always practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest private
capital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of social
limits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to be
ashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession,
and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter's behalf
as on his own. Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years;
her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, but
supported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown up
in an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received a
fairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. A
sense of her father's conscientiousness and of his true affection forbade
her to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life;
hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet half
opposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose's character.

Mr. Whiston shrank from society, ceaselessly afraid of receiving less than
his due; privately, meanwhile, he deplored the narrowness of the social
opportunities granted to his daughter, and was for ever forming schemes for
her advantage--schemes which never passed beyond the stage of nervous
speculation. They inhabited a little house in a western suburb, a house
illumined with every domestic virtue; but scarcely a dozen persons crossed
the threshold within a twelvemonth. Rose's two or three friends were, like
herself, mistrustful of the world. One of them had lately married after a
very long engagement, and Rose still trembled from the excitement of that
occasion, still debated fearfully with herself on the bride's chances of
happiness. Her own marriage was an event so inconceivable that merely to
glance at the thought appeared half immodest and wholly irrational.

Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visit
when the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought of
adventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same western
seaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him nor
his daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but they
only thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another long
year of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome,
respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk with
just a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated.
Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not wholly
unlike him.

To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificent
throughout; Rose's cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to the
advantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden,
rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, her
movements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips were
her finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness without
feebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke of
thirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to act
upon her knowledge.

A train would take them back to the seaside. At the railway station Rose
seated herself on a shaded part of the platform, whilst her father, who was
exceedingly short of sight, peered over publications on the bookstall.
Rather tired after her walk, the girl was dreamily tracing a pattern with
the point of her parasol, when some one advanced and stood immediately in
front of her. Startled, she looked up, and recognised the red-haired
stranger of the inn.

'You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I'm not
doing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.'

He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece
of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the
speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew
not what.

'Oh!--thank you! I forgot them. It's very kind.'

Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word
the man turned and strode away.

Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the
flowers with a laugh.

'Wasn't it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn came
looking for me.'

'Very good of them, very,' replied her father graciously. 'A very nice inn,
that. We'll go again--some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it's
rare nowadays.'

He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the same
carriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexed
with herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed to
her that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, to
be incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking of
her father's phrase, 'coarse, gross creatures,' and it vexed her even more
than her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far from
gross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had been
amusing rather than offensive. Was he a 'gentleman'? The question agitated
her; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as to
the reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voice
lacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was very
severe, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavy
agricultural man; oh, he must have been!

Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in her
bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of
discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the
blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward
journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that
awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them.
And then--strange incongruity--she thought of beer!

Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston
was reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, as
unexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence.

'Don't you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking with
strangers?'

'Too much afraid?'

Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at the
dinner-table.

'I mean--what harm is there in having a little conversation when one is
away from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can't help thinking we were
rather--perhaps a little too silent.'

'My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?'

She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.

'Of course not. But, when the first gentleman came in, wouldn't it have
been natural to exchange a few friendly words? I'm sure he wouldn't have
talked of beer to _us_'

'The _gentleman_? I saw no gentleman, my dear. I suppose he was a small
clerk, or something of the sort, and he had no business whatever to address
us.'

'Oh, but he only said good morning, and apologised for sitting at our
table. He needn't have apologised at all.'

'Precisely. That is just what I mean,' said Mr. Whiston with
self-satisfaction. 'My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps have
talked a little, but with you it was impossible. One cannot be too careful.
A man like that will take all sorts of liberties. One has to keep such
people at a distance.

A moment's pause, then Rose spoke with unusual decision--

'I feel quite sure, father, that he would not have taken liberties. It
seems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself.'

Mr. Whiston grew still more puzzled. He closed his book to meditate this
new problem.

'One has to lay down rules,' fell from him at length, sententiously. 'Our
position, Rose, as I have often explained, is a delicate one. A lady in
circumstances such as yours cannot exercise too much caution. Your natural
associates are in the world of wealth; unhappily, I cannot make you
wealthy. We have to guard our self-respect, my dear child. Really, it is
not _safe_ to talk with strangers--least of all at an inn. And you have
only to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!'

Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had delivered
his soul, and resumed the book.

The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places for
the long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed that
they would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, a
bag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, a
red-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.

'I thought I'd missed it!' ejaculated the intruder merrily.

Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance.
Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped his
forehead in silence.

He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of every
look. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fell
into a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger's
eyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it a
coarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar.
The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn't dislike
that shade of colour. He was humming a tune; it seemed to be his habit, and
it argued healthy cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Whiston sat stiffly in his
corner, staring at the landscape, a model of respectable muteness.

At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, a
commercial traveller. At once a dialogue sprang up between him and Rufus.
The traveller complained that all the smoking compartments were full.

'Why,' exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, 'that reminds me that I wanted a
smoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.'

The traveller's 'line' was tobacco; they talked tobacco--Rufus with much
gusto. Presently the conversation took a wider scope.

'I envy you,' cried Rufus, 'always travelling about. I'm in a beastly
office, and get only a fortnight off once a year. I enjoy it, I can tell
you! Time's up today, worse luck! I've a good mind to emigrate. Can you
give me a tip about the colonies?'

He talked of how he had spent his holiday. Rose missed not a word, and her
blood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed. She
did not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; it
evinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whether
gentle or other. At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal a
glimpse of his face. After all, was it really so plain? The features seemed
to her to have a certain refinement which she had not noticed before.

'I'm going to try for a smoker,' said the man of commerce, as the train
slackened into a busy station.

Rufus hesitated. His eye wandered.

'I think I shall stay where I am,' he ended by saying.

In that same moment, for the first time, Rose met his glance. She saw that
his eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression,
a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity. And Rose, even whilst
turning away, smiled in response.

The train stopped. The commercial traveller alighted. Rose, leaning towards
her father, whispered that she was thirsty; would he get her a glass of
milk or of lemonade? Though little disposed to rush on such errands, Mr.
Whiston had no choice but to comply; he sped at once for the
refreshment-room.

And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly. Sitting rigid, her
eyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the moment
was alone with her. She saw him at her side: she heard his voice.

'I can't help it. I want to speak to you. May I?'

Rose faltered a reply.

'It was so kind to bring the flowers. I didn't thank you properly.'

'It's now or never,' pursued the young man in rapid, excited tones. 'Will
you let me tell you my name? Will you tell me yours?'

Rose's silence consented. The daring Rufus rent a page from a pocket-book,
scribbled his name and address, gave it to Rose. He rent out another page,
offered it to Rose with the pencil, and in a moment had secured the
precious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completed
when a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just in
time to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand.

During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. She
did not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that what
had happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing was
that she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a few
feet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Sudden
illumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to be
playing a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of grave
realities. Her father's dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd.
She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant,
irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance of
frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other
occupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her father
in such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her some
commonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, of
character, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Having
justified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, she
judged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriously
attained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old self
seemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and at
the same time an encroaching fear.

The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London looming
on either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushed
within her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscription
seemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. He
smiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knew
his face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manly
beauty. Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain from
turning aside to unfold and read what he had written. The train slackened
speed, stopped. Yes, it was London. She must arise and go. Once more their
eyes met. Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on the
Metropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home.

A severe headache sent her early to bed. Beneath her pillow lay a scrap of
paper with a name and address she was not likely to forget. And through the
night of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom. No more
self-glorification! All her courage gone, all her new vitality! She saw
herself with the old eyes, and was shame-stricken to the very heart.

Whose the fault? Towards dawn she argued it with the bitterness of misery.
What a life was hers in this little world of choking respectabilities!
Forbidden this, forbidden that; permitted--the pride of ladyhood. And she
was not a lady, after all. What lady would have permitted herself to
exchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railway
carriage--furtively, too, escaping her father's observation? If not a lady,
what _was_ she? It meant the utter failure of her breeding and education.
The sole end for which she had lived was frustrate. A common, vulgar young
woman--well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk was
of beer and tobacco!

This arrested her. Stung to the defence of her friend, who, clerk though he
might be, was neither impudent nor vulgar, she found herself driven back
upon self-respect. The battle went on for hours; it exhausted her; it undid
all the good effects of sun and sea, and left her flaccid, pale.

'I'm afraid the journey yesterday was too much for you,' remarked Mr.
Whiston, after observing her as she sat mute the next evening.

'I shall soon recover,' Rose answered coldly.

The father meditated with some uneasiness. He had not forgotten Rose's
singular expression of opinion after their dinner at the inn. His affection
made him sensitive to changes in the girl's demeanour. Next summer they
must really find a more bracing resort. Yes, yes; clearly Rose needed
bracing. But she was always better when the cool days came round.

On the morrow it was his daughter's turn to feel anxious. Mr. Whiston all
at once wore a face of indignant severity. He was absent-minded; he sat at
table with scarce a word; he had little nervous movements, and subdued
mutterings as of wrath. This continued on a second day, and Rose began to
suffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father's
strange behaviour with the secret which tormented her heart.

Had something happened? Had her friend seen Mr. Whiston, or written to him?

She had awaited with tremors every arrival of the post. It was
probable--more than probable--that _he_ would write to her; but as yet no
letter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himself
again; plainly she had mistaken the cause of his perturbation. Ten days,
and no letter came.

It was Saturday afternoon. Mr. Whiston reached home at tea-time. The first
glance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. She
trembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves.

'I find myself obliged to speak to you on a very disagreeable
subject'--thus began Mr. Whiston over the tea-cups--'a very unpleasant
subject indeed. My one consolation is that it will probably settle a little
argument we had down at the seaside.'

As his habit was when expressing grave opinions (and Mr. Whiston seldom
expressed any other), he made a long pause and ran his fingers through his
thin beard. The delay irritated Rose to the last point of endurance.

'The fact is,' he proceeded at length, 'a week ago I received a most
extraordinary letter--the most impudent letter I ever read in my life. It
came from that noisy, beer-drinking man who intruded upon us at the
inn--you remember. He began by explaining who he was, and--if you can
believe it--had the impertinence to say that he wished to make my
acquaintance! An amazing letter! Naturally, I left it unanswered--the only
dignified thing to do. But the fellow wrote again, asking if I had received
his proposal. I now replied, briefly and severely, asking him, first, how
he came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him for
supposing that I desired to meet him again. His answer to this was even
more outrageous than the first offence. He bluntly informed me that in
order to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day from
Paddington Station! As if this was not bad enough, he went on to--really,
Rose, I feel I must apologise to you, but the fact is I seem to have no
choice but to tell you what he said. The fellow tells me, really, that he
wants to know _me_ only that he may come to know _you_! My first idea was
to go with this letter to the police. I am not sure that I shan't do so
even yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again. The man may be
crazy--he may be dangerous. Who knows but he may come lurking about the
house? I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility.'

Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir and
to smile, without consciousness of either performance.

'You make light of it?' exclaimed her father solemnly.

'O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.'

So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl's tone and countenance
that Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gave
birth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled his
daughter's life.

'My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Could
there possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said--that
in self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?'

'Father'

Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.

'You were going to say, Rose?'

She took her courage in both hands.

'Will you allow me to see the letters?'

'Certainly. There can be no objection to that.'

He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter.
With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear
commercial character, and was signed 'Charles James Burroughs.' When she
had read all, the girl said quietly--

'Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?'

Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.

'What doubt can there be of it?'

'They seem to me,' proceeded Rose nervously, 'to be very respectful and
very honest.'

'My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one's acquaintance upon
an unwilling stranger? I really don't understand you. Where is your sense
of propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and
tobacco--a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that he
wants to--to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!'

When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity,
he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kept
her eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of a
wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous
propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.

'Father--'

'Well, my dear?'

'There is only one thing I dislike in these letters--and that is a
falsehood.'

'I don't understand.'

Rose was flushing. Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to a
simple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.

'Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discover
our address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in the
train, and gave me his.'

The father gasped.

'He _asked_--? You _gave_--?'

'It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,' proceeded the girl,
with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact. 'I ought to
tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the
flowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn't see him give them to
me in the station.'

The father stared.

'But, Rose, what does all this mean? You--you overwhelm me! Go on, please.
What next?'

'Nothing, father.'

And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she
hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.

Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning,
he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself.
Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter's quarrel with
propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do
more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that
aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It was
by silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the charge
of immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr.
Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulous
but tender parent.

'I am willing to admit, my dear,' said Mr. Whiston one evening, _à propos_
of nothing at all, 'that the falsehood in that young man's letter gave
proof of a certain delicacy.'

'Thank you, father,' replied Rose, very quietly and simply.

It was next morning that the father posted a formal, proper,
self-respecting note of invitation, which bore results.




A POOR GENTLEMAN


It was in the drawing-room, after dinner. Mrs. Charman, the large and
kindly hostess, sank into a chair beside her little friend Mrs. Loring, and
sighed a question.

'How do you like Mr. Tymperley?'

'Very nice. Just a little peculiar.'

'Oh, he _is_ peculiar! Quite original. I wanted to tell you about him
before we went down, but there wasn't time. Such a very old friend of ours.
My dear husband and he were at school together--Harrovians. The sweetest,
the most affectionate character! Too good for this world, I'm afraid; he
takes everything so seriously. I shall never forget his grief at my poor
husband's death.--I'm telling Mrs. Loring about Mr. Tymperley, Ada.'

She addressed her married daughter, a quiet young woman who reproduced Mrs.
Charman's good-natured countenance, with something more of intelligence,
the reflective serenity of a higher type.

'I'm sorry to see him looking so far from well,' remarked Mrs. Weare, in
reply.

'He never had any colour, you know, and his life... But I must tell you,'
she resumed to Mrs. Loring. 'He's a bachelor, in comfortable circumstances,
and--would you believe it?--he lives quite alone in one of the distressing
parts of London. Where is it, Ada?'

'A poor street in Islington.'

'Yes. There he lives, I'm afraid in shocking lodgings--it must be, _so_
unhealthy--just to become acquainted with the life of poor people, and be
helpful to them. Isn't it heroic? He seems to have given up his whole life
to it. One never meets him anywhere; I think ours is the only house where
he's seen. A noble life! He never talks about it. I'm sure you would never
have suspected such a thing from his conversation at dinner?'

'Not for a moment,' answered Mrs. Loring, astonished. 'He wasn't very
gossipy--I gathered that his chief interests were fretwork and foreign
politics.'

Mrs. Weare laughed. 'The very man! When I was a little girl he used to make
all sorts of pretty things for me with his fret-saw; and when I grew old
enough, he instructed me in the balance of Power. It's possible, mamma,
that he writes leading articles. We should never hear of it.'

'My dear, anything is possible with Mr. Tymperley. And such a change, this,
after his country life. He had a beautiful little house near ours, in
Berkshire. I really can't help thinking that my husband's death caused him
to leave it. He was so attached to Mr. Charman! When my husband died, and
we left Berkshire, we altogether lost sight of him--oh, for a couple of
years. Then I met him by chance in London. Ada thinks there must have been
some sentimental trouble.'

'Dear mamma,' interposed the daughter, 'it was you, not I, who suggested
that.'

'Was it? Well, perhaps it was. One can't help seeing that he has gone
through something. Of course it may be only pity for the poor souls he
gives his life to. A wonderful man!'

When masculine voices sounded at the drawing-room door, Mrs. Loring looked
curiously for the eccentric gentleman. He entered last of all. A man of
more than middle height, but much bowed in the shoulders; thin, ungraceful,
with an irresolute step and a shy demeanour; his pale-grey eyes, very soft
in expression, looked timidly this way and that from beneath brows
nervously bent, and a self-obliterating smile wavered upon his lips. His
hair had begun to thin and to turn grey, but he had a heavy moustache,
which would better have sorted with sterner lineaments. As he walked--or
sidled--into the room, his hands kept shutting and opening, with rather
ludicrous effect. Something which was not exactly shabbiness, but a lack of
lustre, of finish, singled him among the group of men; looking closer, one
saw that his black suit belonged to a fashion some years old. His linen was
irreproachable, but he wore no sort of jewellery, one little black stud
showing on his front, and, at the cuffs, solitaires of the same simple
description.

He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat alone, seemingly at
peace, had not Mrs. Weare presently moved to a seat beside him.

'I hope you won't be staying in town through August, Mr. Tymperley?'

'No!--Oh no!--Oh no, I think not!'

'But you seem uncertain. Do forgive me if I say that I'm sure you need a
change. Really, you know, you are _not_ looking quite the thing. Now, can't
I persuade you to join us at Lucerne? My husband would be so
pleased--delighted to talk with you about the state of Europe. Give us a
fortnight--do!'

'My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself! I am deeply grateful. I can't
easily express my sense of your most friendly thoughtfulness. But, the
truth is, I am half engaged to other friends. Indeed, I think I may almost
say that I have practically...yes, indeed, it amounts to that.'

He spoke in a thinly fluting voice, with a preciseness of enunciation akin
to the more feebly clerical, and with smiles which became almost lachrymose
in their expressiveness as he dropped from phrase to phrase of embarrassed
circumlocution. And his long bony hands writhed together till the knuckles
were white.

'Well, so long as you _are_ going away. I'm so afraid lest your
conscientiousness should go too far. You won't benefit anybody, you know,
by making yourself ill.'

'Obviously not!--Ha, ha!--I assure you that fact is patent to me. Health is
a primary consideration. Nothing more detrimental to one's usefulness than
an impaired... Oh, to be sure, to be sure!'

'There's the strain upon your sympathies. That must affect one's health,
quite apart from an unhealthy atmosphere.'

'But Islington is not unhealthy, my dear Mrs. Weare! Believe me, the air
has often quite a tonic quality. We are so high, you must remember. If only
we could subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of domestic and
industrial chimneys!--Oh, I assure you, Islington has every natural feature
of salubrity.'

Before the close of the evening there was a little music, which Mr.
Tymperley seemed much to enjoy. He let his head fall back, and stared
upwards; remaining rapt in that posture for some moments after the music
ceased, and at length recovering himself with a sigh.

When he left the house, he donned an overcoat considerably too thick for
the season, and bestowed in the pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hat
was a hard felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded umbrella, and
set forth at a brisk walk, as if for the neighbouring station. But the
railway was not his goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial night
he walked and walked, at the steady pace of one accustomed to pedestrian
exercise: from Notting Hill Gate to the Marble Arch; from the Marble Arch
to New Oxford Street; thence by Theobald's Road to Pentonville, and up, and
up, until he attained the heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long after
midnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale moon showed to be
decent, though not inviting. He admitted himself with a latchkey to a
little house which smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in his
pocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back bedroom, its size
eight feet by seven and a half. A few minutes more, and he lay sound
asleep.

Waking at eight o'clock--he knew the time by a bell that clanged in the
neighbourhood--Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On opening
his door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfast
reduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nine
o'clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the front
parlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied by
an oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day's work of plain
bookbinding.

'Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Tymperley, bending his head. 'Good
morning, Miss Suggs. Bright! Sunny! How it cheers one!'

He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morning of sharp frost. The
bookbinder, with a dry nod for greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley a
task, to which that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was learning
the elementary processes of the art. He worked with patience, and some show
of natural aptitude, all through the working hours of the day.

To this pass had things come with Mr. Tymperley, a gentleman of Berkshire,
once living in comfort and modest dignity on the fruit of sound
investments. Schooled at Harrow, a graduate of Cambridge, he had meditated
the choice of a profession until it seemed, on the whole, too late to
profess anything at all; and, as there was no need of such exertion, he
settled himself to a life of innocent idleness, hard by the country-house
of his wealthy and influential friend, Mr. Charman. Softly the years flowed
by. His thoughts turned once or twice to marriage, but a profound
diffidence withheld him from the initial step; in the end, he knew himself
born for bachelorhood, and with that estate was content. Well for him had
he seen as clearly the delusiveness of other temptations! In an evil moment
he listened to Mr. Charman, whose familiar talk was of speculation, of
companies, of shining percentages. Not on his own account was Mr. Tymperley
lured: he had enough and to spare; but he thought of his sister, married to
an unsuccessful provincial barrister, and of her six children, whom it
would be pleasant to help, like the opulent uncle of fiction, at their
entering upon the world. In Mr. Charman he put blind faith, with the result
that one morning he found himself shivering on the edge of ruin; the touch
of confirmatory news, and over he went.

No one was aware of it but Mr. Charman himself and he, a few days later,
lay sick unto death. Mr. Charman's own estate suffered inappreciably from
what to his friend meant sheer disaster. And Mr. Tymperley breathed not a
word to the widow; spoke not a word to any one at all, except the lawyer,
who quietly wound up his affairs, and the sister whose children must needs
go without avuncular aid. During the absence of his friendly neighbours
after Mr. Charman's death, he quietly disappeared.

The poor gentleman was then close upon forty years old. There remained to
him a capital which he durst not expend; invested, it bore him an income
upon which a labourer could scarce have subsisted. The only possible place
of residence--because the only sure place of hiding--was London, and to
London Mr. Tymperley betook himself. Not at once did he learn the art of
combating starvation with minim resources. During his initiatory trials he
was once brought so low, by hunger and humiliation, that he swallowed
something of his pride, and wrote to a certain acquaintance, asking counsel
and indirect help. But only a man in Mr. Tymperley's position learns how
vain is well-meaning advice, and how impotent is social influence. Had he
begged for money, he would have received, no doubt, a cheque, with words of
compassion; but Mr. Tymperley could never bring himself to that.

He tried to make profit of his former amusement, fretwork, and to a certain
extent succeeded, earning in six months half a sovereign. But the prospect
of adding one pound a year to his starveling dividends did not greatly
exhilarate him.

All this time he was of course living in absolute solitude. Poverty is the
great secluder--unless one belongs to the rank which is born to it; a
sensitive man who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his natural
associates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns with some surprise how very
willing people are to forget his existence. London is a wilderness
abounding in anchorites--voluntary or constrained. As he wandered about the
streets and parks, or killed time in museums and galleries (where nothing
had to be paid), Mr. Tymperley often recognised brethren in seclusion; he
understood the furtive glance which met his own, he read the peaked visage,
marked with understanding sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. No
interchange of confidences between these lurking mortals; they would like
to speak, but pride holds them aloof; each goes on his silent and
unfriended way, until, by good luck, he finds himself in hospital or
workhouse, when at length the tongue is loosed, and the sore heart pours
forth its reproach of the world.

Strange knowledge comes to a man in this position. He learns wondrous
economies, and will feel a sort of pride in his ultimate discovery of how
little money is needed to support life. In his old days Mr. Tymperley would
have laid it down as an axiom that 'one' cannot live on less than
such-and-such an income; he found that 'a man' can live on a few coppers a
day. He became aware of the prices of things to eat, and was taught the
relative virtues of nutriment. Perforce a vegetarian, he found that a
vegetable diet was good for his health, and delivered to himself many a
scornful speech on the habits of the carnivorous multitude. He of necessity
abjured alcohols, and straightway longed to utter his testimony on a
teetotal platform. These were his satisfactions. They compensate
astonishingly for the loss of many kinds of self-esteem.

But it happened one day that, as he was in the act of drawing his poor
little quarterly salvage at the Bank of England, a lady saw him and knew
him. It was Mr. Charman's widow.

'Why, Mr. Tymperley, what _has_ become of you all this time? Why have I
never heard from you? Is it true, as some one told me, that you have been
living abroad?'

So utterly was he disconcerted, that in a mechanical way he echoed the
lady's last word: 'Abroad.'

'But why didn't you write to us?' pursued Mrs. Charman, leaving him no time
to say more. 'How very unkind! Why did you go away without a word? My
daughter says that we must have unconsciously offended you in some way. Do
explain! Surely there can't have been anything'

'My dear Mrs. Charman, it is I alone who am to blame. I...the explanation
is difficult; it involves a multiplicity of detail. I beg you to interpret
my unjustifiable behaviour as--as pure idiosyncrasy.'

'Oh, you must come and see me. You know that Ada's married? Yes, nearly a
year ago. How glad she will be to see you again. So often she has spoken of
you. When can you dine? To-morrow?'

'With pleasure--with great pleasure.'

'Delightful!'

She gave her address, and they parted.

Now, a proof that Mr. Tymperley had never lost all hope of restitution to
his native world lay in the fact of his having carefully preserved an
evening-suit, with the appropriate patent-leather shoes. Many a time had he
been sorely tempted to sell these seeming superfluities; more than once,
towards the end of his pinched quarter, the suit had been pledged for a few
shillings; but to part with the supreme symbol of respectability would have
meant despair--a state of mind alien to Mr. Tymperley's passive fortitude.
His jewellery, even watch and chain, had long since gone: such gauds are
not indispensable to a gentleman's outfit. He now congratulated himself on
his prudence, for the meeting with Mrs. Charman had delighted as much as it
embarrassed him, and the prospect of an evening in society made his heart
glow. He hastened home; he examined his garb of ceremony with anxious care,
and found no glaring defect in it. A shirt, a collar, a necktie must needs
be purchased; happily he had the means. But how explain himself? Could he
confess his place of abode, his startling poverty? To do so would be to
make an appeal to the compassion of his old friends, and from that he
shrank in horror. A gentleman will not, if-it can possibly be avoided,
reveal circumstances likely to cause pain. Must he, then, tell or imply a
falsehood. The whole truth involved a reproach of Mrs. Charman's husband--a
thought he could not bear.

The next evening found him still worrying over this dilemma. He reached
Mrs. Charman's house without having come to any decision. In the
drawing-room three persons awaited him: the hostess, with her daughter and
son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Weare. The cordiality of his reception moved him
all but to tears; overcome by many emotions, he lost his head. He talked at
random; and the result was so strange a piece of fiction, that no sooner
had he evolved it than he stood aghast at himself.

It came in reply to the natural question where he was residing.

'At present'--he smiled fatuously--'I inhabit a bed-sitting-room in a
little street up at Islington.'

Dead silence followed. Eyes of wonder were fixed upon him. But for those
eyes, who knows what confession Mr. Tymperley might have made? As it was...

'I said, Mrs. Charman, that I had to confess to an eccentricity. I hope it
won't shock you. To be brief, I have devoted my poor energies to social
work. I live among the poor, and as one of them, to obtain knowledge that
cannot be otherwise procured.'

'Oh, how noble!' exclaimed the hostess.

The poor gentleman's conscience smote him terribly. He could say no more.
To spare his delicacy, his friends turned the conversation. Then or
afterwards, it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of what he had
said. Mrs. Charman had seen him transacting business at the Bank of
England, a place not suggestive of poverty; and he had always passed for a
man somewhat original in his views and ways. Thus was Mr. Tymperley
committed to a singular piece of deception, a fraud which could not easily
be discovered, and which injured only its perpetrator.

Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley had seen his friends
perhaps half a dozen times, his enjoyment of their society pathetically
intense, but troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life. It had
come to be understood that he made it a matter of principle to hide his
light under a bushel, so he seldom had to take a new step in positive
falsehood. Of course he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs.
Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have assisted him to some not
undignified mode of earning his living. As it was, he had hit upon the idea
of making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his taste. For some
months he had lodged in the bookbinder's house; one day courage came to
him, and he entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he was to pay
for instruction by a certain period of unremunerated work after he became
proficient. That stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt much
happier than in the time of brooding idleness. He looked forward to the day
when he would have a little more money in his pocket, and no longer dread
the last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless nights.

Mrs. Weare's invitation to Lucerne cost him pangs. Lucerne! Surely it was
in some former state of existence that he had taken delightful holidays as
a matter of course. He thought of the many lovely places he knew, and so
many dream-landscapes; the London streets made them infinitely remote,
utterly unreal. His three years of gloom and hardship were longer than all
the life of placid contentment that came before. Lucerne! A man of more
vigorous temper would have been maddened at the thought; but Mr. Tymperley
nursed it all day long, his emotions only expressing themselves in a little
sigh or a sadly wistful smile.

Having dined so well yesterday, he felt it his duty to expend less than
usual on to-day's meals. About eight o'clock in the evening, after a
meditative stroll in the air which he had so praised, he entered the shop
where he was wont to make his modest purchases. A fat woman behind the
counter nodded familiarly to him, with a grin at another customer. Mr.
Tymperley bowed, as was his courteous habit.

'Oblige me,' he said, 'with one new-laid egg, and a small, crisp lettuce.'

'Only one to-night, eh?' said the woman.

'Thank you, only one,' he replied, as if speaking in a drawing-room.
'Forgive me if I express a hope that it will be, in the strict sense of the
word, new-laid. The last, I fancy, had got into that box by some
oversight--pardonable in the press of business.'

'They're always the same,' said the fat shopkeeper. 'We don't make no
mistakes of that kind.'

'Ah! Forgive me! Perhaps I imagined--'

Egg and lettuce were carefully deposited in a little handbag he carried,
and he returned home. An hour later, when his meal was finished, and he sat
on a straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap sounded at his
door, and a letter was handed to him. So rarely did a letter arrive for Mr.
Tymperley that his hand shook as he examined the envelope. On opening it,
the first thing he saw was a cheque. This excited him still more; he
unfolded the written sheet with agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, who
wrote thus:--

    'MY DEAR MR. TYMPERLEY,--After our talk last evening, I could not help
    thinking of you and your beautiful life of self-sacrifice. I
    contrasted the lot of these poor people with my own, which, one cannot
    but feel, is so undeservedly blest and so rich in enjoyments. As a
    result of these thoughts, I feel impelled to send you a little
    contribution to your good work--a sort of thank-offering at the moment
    of setting off for a happy holiday. Divide the money, please, among
    two or three of your most deserving pensioners; or, if you see fit,
    give it all to one. I cling to the hope that we may see you at
    Lucerne.--With very kind regards.

The cheque was for five pounds. Mr. Tymperley held it up by the window, and
gazed at it. By his present standards of value five pounds seemed a very
large sum. Think of what one could do with it! His boots--which had been
twice repaired--would not decently serve him much longer. His trousers were
in the last stage of presentability. The hat he wore (how carefully
tended!) was the same in which he had come to London three years ago. He
stood in need, verily, of a new equipment from head to foot; and in
Islington five pounds would more than cover the whole expense. When, pray,
was he likely to have such a sum at his free disposal?

He sighed deeply, and stared about him in the dusk.

The cheque was crossed. For the first time in his life Mr. Tymperley
perceived that the crossing of a cheque may occasion its recipient a great
deal of trouble. How was he to get it changed? He knew his landlord for a
suspicious curmudgeon, and refusal of the favour, with such a look as Mr.
Suggs knew how to give, would be a sore humiliation; besides, it was very
doubtful whether Mr. Suggs could make any use of the cheque himself. To
whom else could he apply? Literally, to no one in London.

'Well, the first thing to do was to answer Mrs. Weare's letter. He lit his
lamp and sat down at the crazy little deal table; but his pen dipped
several times into the ink before he found himself able to write.

    'Dear Mrs. Weare,'--

Then, so long a pause that he seemed to be falling asleep. With a jerk, he
bent again to his task.

    'With sincere gratitude I acknowledge the receipt of your most kind
    and generous donation. The money...'

(Again his hand lay idle for several minutes.)

    'shall be used as you wish, and I will render to you a detailed
    account of the benefits conferred by it.'

Never had he found composition so difficult. He felt that he was expressing
himself wretchedly; a clog was on his brain. It cost him an exertion of
physical strength to conclude the letter. When it was done, he went out,
purchased a stamp at a tobacconist's shop, and dropped the envelope into
the post.

Little slumber had Mr. Tymperley that night. On lying down, he began to
wonder where he should find the poor people worthy of sharing in this
benefaction. Of course he had no acquaintance with the class of persons of
whom Mrs. Weare was thinking. In a sense, all the families round about were
poor, but--he asked himself--had poverty the same meaning for them as for
him? Was there a man or woman in this grimy street who, compared with
himself, had any right to be called poor at all? An educated man forced to
live among the lower classes arrives at many interesting conclusions with
regard to them; one conclusion long since fixed in Mr. Tymperley's mind was
that the 'suffering' of those classes is very much exaggerated by outsiders
using a criterion quite inapplicable. He saw around him a world of coarse
jollity, of contented labour, and of brutal apathy. It seemed to him more
than probable that the only person in this street conscious of poverty, and
suffering under it, was himself.

From nightmarish dozing, he started with a vivid thought, a recollection
which seemed to pierce his brain. To whom did he owe his fall from comfort
and self-respect, and all his long miseries? To Mrs. Weare's father. And,
from this point of view, might the cheque for five pounds be considered as
mere restitution? Might it not strictly be applicable to his own
necessities?

Another little gap of semi-consciousness led to another strange reflection.
What if Mrs. Weare (a sensible woman) suspected, or even had discovered,
the truth about him. What if she secretly _meant_ the money for his own
use?

Earliest daylight made this suggestion look very insubstantial; on the
other hand, it strengthened his memory of Mr. Charman's virtual
indebtedness to him. He jumped out of bed to reach the cheque, and for an
hour lay with it in his hand. Then he rose and dressed mechanically.

After the day's work he rambled in a street of large shops. A bootmaker's
arrested him; he stood before the window for a long time, turning over and
over in his pocket a sovereign--no small fraction of the ready coin which
had to support him until dividend day. Then he crossed the threshold.

Never did man use less discretion in the purchase of a pair of boots. His
business was transacted in a dream; he spoke without hearing what he said;
he stared at objects without perceiving them. The result was that not till
he had got home, with his easy old footgear under his arm, did he become
aware that the new boots pinched him most horribly. They creaked too:
heavens! how they creaked! But doubtless all new boots had these faults; he
had forgotten; it was so long since he had bought a pair. The fact was, he
felt dreadfully tired, utterly worn out. After munching a mouthful of
supper he crept into bed.

All night long he warred with his new boots. Footsore, he limped about the
streets of a spectral city, where at every corner some one seemed to lie in
ambush for him, and each time the lurking enemy proved to be no other than
Mrs. Weare, who gazed at him with scornful eyes and let him totter by. The
creaking of the boots was an articulate voice, which ever and anon screamed
at him a terrible name. He shrank and shivered and groaned; but on he went,
for in his hand he held a crossed cheque, which he was bidden to get
changed, and no one would change it. What a night!

When he woke his brain was heavy as lead; but his meditations were very
lucid. Pray, what did he mean by that insane outlay of money, which he
could not possibly afford, on a new (and detestable) pair of boots? The old
would have lasted, at all events, till winter began. What was in his mind
when he entered the shop? Did he intend...? Merciful powers!

Mr. Tymperley was not much of a psychologist. But all at once he saw with
awful perspicacity the moral crisis through which he had been living. And
it taught him one more truth on the subject of poverty.

Immediately after his breakfast he went downstairs and tapped at the door
of Mr. Suggs' sitting-room.

'What is it?' asked the bookbinder, who was eating his fourth large rasher,
and spoke with his mouth full.

'Sir, I beg leave of absence for an hour or two this morning. Business of
some moment demands my attention.'

Mr. Suggs answered, with the grace natural to his order, 'I s'pose you can
do as you like. I don't pay you nothing.'

The other bowed and withdrew.

Two days later he again penned a letter to Mrs. Weare. It ran thus:--

    'The money which you so kindly sent, and which I have already
    acknowledged, has now been distributed. To ensure a proper use of it,
    I handed the cheque, with clear instructions, to a clergyman in this
    neighbourhood, who has been so good as to jot down, on the sheet
    enclosed, a memorandum of his beneficiaries, which I trust will be
    satisfactory and gratifying to you.

    'But why, you will ask, did I have recourse to a clergyman. Why did I
    not use my own experience, and give myself the pleasure of helping
    poor souls in whom I have a personal interest--I who have devoted my
    life to this mission of mercy?

    'The answer is brief and plain. I have lied to you.

    'I am _not_ living in this place of my free will. I am _not_
    devoting myself to works of charity. I am--no, no, I was--merely a
    poor gentleman, who, on a certain day, found that he had wasted his
    substance in a foolish speculation, and who, ashamed to take his
    friends into his confidence, fled to a life of miserable obscurity.
    You see that I have added disgrace to misfortune. I will not tell you
    how very near I came to something still worse.

    'I have been serving an apprenticeship to a certain handicraft which
    will, I doubt not, enable me so to supplement my own scanty resources
    that I shall be in better circum than hitherto. I entreat you to
    forgive me, if you can, and henceforth to forget
                Yours unworthily,
                'S. V. TYMPERLEY.'




MISS RODNEY'S LEISURE


A young woman of about eight-and-twenty, in tailor-made costume, with
unadorned hat of brown felt, and irreproachable umbrella; a young woman who
walked faster than any one in Wattleborough, yet never looked hurried; who
crossed a muddy street seemingly without a thought for her skirts, yet
somehow was never splashed; who held up her head like one thoroughly at
home in the world, and frequently smiled at her own thoughts. Those who did
not know her asked who she was; those who had already made her acquaintance
talked a good deal of the new mistress at the High School, by name Miss
Rodney. In less than a week after her arrival in the town, her opinions
were cited and discussed by Wattleborough ladies. She brought with her the
air of a University; she knew a great number of important people; she had a
quiet decision of speech and manner which was found very impressive in
Wattleborough drawing-rooms. The headmistress spoke of her in high terms,
and the incumbent of St. Luke's, who knew her family, reported that she had
always been remarkably clever.

A stranger in the town, Miss Rodney was recommended to the lodgings of Mrs.
Ducker, a churchwarden's widow; but there she remained only for a week or
two, and it was understood that she left because the rooms 'lacked
character.' Some persons understood this as an imputation on Mrs. Ducker,
and were astonished; others, who caught a glimpse of Miss Rodney's meaning,
thought she must be 'fanciful.' Her final choice of an abode gave general
surprise, for though the street was one of those which Wattleborough
opinion classed as 'respectable,' the house itself, as Miss Rodney might
have learnt from the incumbent of St. Luke's, in whose parish it was
situated, had objectionable features. Nothing grave could be alleged
against Mrs. Turpin, who regularly attended the Sunday evening service; but
her husband, a carpenter, spent far too much time at 'The Swan With Two
Necks'; and then there was a lodger, young Mr. Rawcliffe, concerning whom
Wattleborough had for some time been too well informed. Of such comments
upon her proceeding Miss Rodney made light; in the aspect of the rooms she
found a certain 'quaintness' which decidedly pleased her. 'And as for Mrs.
Grundy,' she added, '_je m'en fiche_? which certain ladies of culture
declared to be a polite expression of contempt.

Miss Rodney never wasted time, and in matters of business had cultivated a
notable brevity. Her interview with Mrs. Turpin, when she engaged the
rooms, occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour; in that space of time she had
sufficiently surveyed the house, had learnt all that seemed necessary as to
its occupants, and had stated in the clearest possible way her present
requirements.

'As a matter of course,' was her closing remark, 'the rooms will be
thoroughly cleaned before I come in. At present they are filthy.'

The landlady was too much astonished to reply; Miss Rodney's tones and
bearing had so impressed her that she was at a loss for her usual
loquacity, and could only stammer respectfully broken answers to whatever
was asked. Assuredly no one had ever dared to tell her that her lodgings
were 'filthy'--any ordinary person who had ventured upon such an insult
would have been overwhelmed with clamorous retort. But Miss Rodney, with a
pleasant smile and nod, went her way, and Mrs. Turpin stood at the open
door gazing after her, bewildered 'twixt satisfaction and resentment.

She was an easy-going, wool-witted creature, not ill-disposed, but
sometimes mendacious and very indolent. Her life had always been what it
was now--one of slatternly comfort and daylong gossip, for she came of a
small tradesman's family, and had married an artisan who was always in
well-paid work. Her children were two daughters, who, at seventeen and
fifteen, remained in the house with her doing little or nothing, though
they were supposed to 'wait upon the lodgers.' For some months only two of
the four rooms Mrs. Turpin was able to let had been occupied, one by 'young
Mr. Rawcliffe,' always so called, though his age was nearly thirty, but, as
was well known, he belonged to the 'real gentry,' and Mrs. Turpin held him
in reverence on that account. No matter for his little weaknesses--of which
evil tongues, said Mrs. Turpin, of course made the most. He might be
irregular in payment; he might come home 'at all hours,' and make
unnecessary noise in going upstairs; he might at times grumble when his
chop was ill-cooked; and, to tell the truth, he might occasionally be 'a
little too free' with the young ladies--that is to say, with Mabel and Lily
Turpin; but all these things were forgiven him because he was 'a real
gentleman,' and spent just as little time as he liked daily in a
solicitor's office.

Miss Rodney arrived early on Saturday afternoon. Smiling and silent, she
saw her luggage taken up to the bedroom; she paid the cabman; she beckoned
her landlady into the parlour, which was on the ground-floor front.

'You haven't had time yet, Mrs. Turpin, to clean the rooms?'

The landlady stammered a half-indignant surprise. Why, she and her
daughters had given the room a thorough turn out. It was done only
yesterday, and _hours_ had been devoted to it.

'I see,' interrupted Miss Rodney, with quiet decision, 'that our notions of
cleanliness differ considerably. I'm going out now, and I shall not be back
till six o'clock. You will please to _clean_ the bedroom before then. The
sitting-room shall be done on Monday.'

And therewith Miss Rodney left the house.

On her return she found the bedroom relatively clean, and, knowing that too
much must not be expected at once, she made no comment. That night, as she
sat reading at eleven o'clock, a strange sound arose in the back part of
the house; it was a man's voice, hilariously mirthful and breaking into
rude song. After listening for a few minutes, Miss Rodney rang her bell,
and the landlady appeared.

'Whose Voice is that I hear?'

'Voice, miss?'

'Who is shouting and singing?' asked Miss Rodney, in a disinterested tone.

'I'm sorry if it disturbs you, miss. You'll hear no more.'

'Mrs. Turpin, I asked who it was.'

'My 'usband, miss. But--'

'Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Turpin.'

There was quiet for an hour or more. At something after midnight, when Miss
Rodney had just finished writing half a dozen letters, there sounded a
latch-key in the front door, and some one entered. This person, whoever it
was, seemed to stumble about the passage in the dark, and at length banged
against the listener's door. Miss Rodney started up and flung the door
open. By the light of her lamp she saw a moustachioed face, highly flushed,
and grinning.

'Beg pardon,' cried the man, in a voice which harmonised with his look and
bearing. 'Infernally dark here; haven't got a match. You're
Miss--pardon--forgotten the name--new lodger. Oblige me with a light?
Thanks awfully.'

Without a word Miss Rodney took a match-box from her chimney-piece, entered
the passage, entered the second parlour--that occupied by Mr.
Rawcliffe--and lit a candle which stood on the table.

'You'll be so kind,' she said, looking her fellow-lodger in the eyes, 'as
not to set the house on fire.'

'Oh, no fear,' he replied, with a high laugh. 'Quite accustomed. Thanks
awfully, Miss--pardon--forgotten the name.'

But Miss Rodney was back in her sitting-room, and had closed the door.

Her breakfast next morning was served by Mabel Turpin, the elder daughter,
a stupidly good-natured girl, who would fain have entered into
conversation. Miss Rodney replied to a question that she had slept well,
and added that, when she rang her bell, she would like to see Mrs. Turpin.
Twenty minutes later the landlady entered.

'You wanted me, miss?' she began, in what was meant for a voice of dignity
and reserve. 'I don't really wait on lodgers myself.'

'We'll talk about that another time, Mrs. Turpin. I wanted to say, first of
all, that you have spoiled a piece of good bacon and two good eggs. I must
trouble you to cook better than this.'

'I'm very sorry, miss, that nothing seems to suit you'

'Oh, we shall get right in time!' interrupted Miss Rodney cheerfully. 'You
will find that I have patience. Then I wanted to ask you whether your
husband and your lodger come home tipsy _every_ night, or only on
Saturdays?'

The woman opened her eyes as wide as saucers, trying hard to look
indignant.

'Tipsy, miss?'

'Well, perhaps I should have said "drunk"; I beg your pardon.'

'All I can say, miss, is that young Mr. Rawcliffe has never behaved himself
in _this_ house excepting as the gentleman he is. You don't perhaps know
that he belongs to a very high-connected family, miss, or I'm sure you
wouldn't'

'I see,' interposed Miss Rodney. 'That accounts for it. But your husband.
Is _he_ highly connected?'

'I'm sure, miss, nobody could ever say that my 'usband took too much--not
to say _really_ too much. You may have heard him a bit merry, miss, but
where's the harm of a Saturday night?'

'Thank you. Then it is only on Saturday nights that Mr. Turpin becomes
merry. I'm glad to know that. I shall get used to these little things.'

But Mrs. Turpin did not feel sure that she would get used to her lodger.
Sunday was spoilt for her by this beginning. When her husband woke from his
prolonged slumbers, and shouted for breakfast (which on this day of rest he
always took in bed), the good woman went to him with downcast visage, and
spoke querulously of Miss Rodney's behaviour.

'I _won't_ wait upon her, so there! The girls may do it, and if she isn't
satisfied let her give notice. I'm sure I shan't be sorry. She's given me
more trouble in a day than poor Mrs. Brown did all the months she was here.
I _won't_ be at her beck and call, so there!'

Before night came this declaration was repeated times innumerable, and as
it happened that Miss Rodney made no demand for her landlady's attendance,
the good woman enjoyed a sense of triumphant self-assertion. On Monday
morning Mabel took in the breakfast, and reported that Miss Rodney had made
no remark; but, a quarter of an hour later, the bell rang, and Mrs. Turpin
was summoned. Very red in the face, she obeyed. Having civilly greeted her,
Miss Rodney inquired at what hour Mr. Turpin took his breakfast, and was
answered with an air of surprise that he always left the house on week-days
at half-past seven.

'In that case,' said Miss Rodney, 'I will ask permission to come into your
kitchen at a quarter to eight to-morrow morning, to show you how to fry
bacon and boil eggs. You mustn't mind. You know that teaching is my
profession.'

Mrs. Turpin, nevertheless, seemed to mind very much. Her generally
good-tempered face wore a dogged sullenness, and she began to mutter
something about such a thing never having been heard of; but Miss Rodney
paid no heed, renewed the appointment for the next morning, and waved a
cheerful dismissal.

Talking with a friend that day, the High School mistress gave a humorous
description of her lodgings, and when the friend remarked that they must be
very uncomfortable, and that surely she would not stay there, Miss Rodney
replied that she had the firmest intention of staying, and, what was more,
of being comfortable.

'I'm going to take that household in hand,' she added. 'The woman is
foolish, but can be managed, I think, with a little patience. I'm going to
_tackle_ the drunken husband as soon as I see my way. And as for the highly
connected gentleman whose candle I had the honour of lighting, I shall turn
him out.'

'You have your work set!' exclaimed the friend, laughing.

'Oh, a little employment for my leisure! This kind of thing relieves the
monotony of a teacher's life, and prevents one from growing old.'

Very systematically she pursued her purpose of getting Mrs. Turpin 'in
hand.' The two points at which she first aimed were the keeping clean of
her room and the decent preparation of her meals. Never losing temper,
never seeming to notice the landlady's sullen mood, always using a tone of
legitimate authority, touched sometimes with humorous compassion, she
exacted obedience to her directions, but was well aware that at any moment
the burden of a new civilisation might prove too heavy for the Turpin
family and cause revolt. A week went by; it was again Saturday, and Miss
Rodney devoted a part of the morning (there being no school to-day) to
culinary instruction. Mabel and Lily shared the lesson with their mother,
but both young ladies wore an air of condescension, and grimaced at Miss
Rodney behind her back. Mrs. Turpin was obstinately mute. The pride of
ignorance stiffened her backbone and curled her lip.

Miss Rodney's leisure generally had its task; though as a matter of
principle she took daily exercise, her walking or cycling was always an
opportunity for thinking something out, and this afternoon, as she sped on
wheels some ten miles from Wattleborough, her mind was busy with the
problem of Mrs. Turpin's husband. From her clerical friend of St. Luke's
she had learnt that Turpin was at bottom a decent sort of man, rather
intelligent, and that it was only during the last year or two that he had
taken to passing his evenings at the public-house. Causes for this decline
could be suggested. The carpenter had lost his only son, a lad of whom he
was very fond; the boy's death quite broke him down at the time, and
perhaps he had begun to drink as a way for forgetting his trouble. Perhaps,
too, his foolish, slatternly wife bore part of the blame, for his home had
always been comfortless, and such companionship must, in the long-run, tell
on a man. Reflecting upon this, Miss Rodney had an idea, and she took no
time in putting it into practice. When Mabel brought in her tea, she asked
the girl whether her father was at home.

'I think he is, miss,' was the distant reply--for Mabel had been bidden by
her mother to 'show a proper spirit' when Miss Rodney addressed her.

'You think so? Will you please make sure, and, if you are right, ask Mr.
Turpin to be so kind as to let me have a word with him.'

Startled and puzzled, the girl left the room. Miss Rodney waited, but no
one came. When ten minutes had elapsed she rang the bell. A few minutes
more and there sounded a heavy foot in the passage; then a heavy knock at
the door, and Mr. Turpin presented himself. He was a short, sturdy man,
with hair and beard of the hue known as ginger, and a face which told in
his favour. Vicious he could assuredly not be, with those honest grey eyes;
but one easily imagined him weak in character, and his attitude as he stood
just within the room, half respectful, half assertive, betrayed an
embarrassment altogether encouraging to Miss Rodney. In her pleasantest
tone she begged him to be seated.

'Thank you, miss,' he replied, in a deep voice, which sounded huskily, but
had nothing of surliness; 'I suppose you want to complain about something,
and I'd rather get it over standing.'

'I was not going to make any complaint, Mr. Turpin.'

'I'm glad to hear it, miss; for my wife wished me to say she'd done about
all she could, and if things weren't to your liking, she thought it would
be best for all if you suited yourself in somebody else's lodgings.'

It evidently cost the man no little effort to deliver his message; there
was a nervous twitching about his person, and he could not look Miss Rodney
straight in the face. She, observant of this, kept a very steady eye on
him, and spoke with all possible calmness.

'I have not the least desire to change my lodgings, Mr. Turpin. Things are
going on quite well. There is an improvement in the cooking, in the
cleaning, in everything; and, with a little patience, I am sure we shall
all come to understand one another. What I wanted to speak to you about was
a little practical matter in which you may be able to help me. I teach
mathematics at the High School, and I have an idea that I might make
certain points in geometry easier to my younger girls if I could
demonstrate them in a mechanical way. Pray look here. You see the shapes I
have sketched on this piece of paper; do you think you could make them for
me in wood?'

The carpenter was moved to a show of reluctant interest. He took the paper,
balanced himself now on one leg, now on the other, and said at length that
he thought he saw what was wanted. Miss Rodney, coming to his side,
explained in more detail; his interest grew more active.

'That's Euclid, miss?'

'To be sure. Do you remember your Euclid?'

'My own schooling never went as far as that,' he replied, in a muttering
voice; 'but my Harry used to do Euclid at the Grammar School, and I got
into a sort of way of doing it with him.'

Miss Rodney kept a moment's silence; then quietly and kindly she asked one
or two questions about the boy who had died. The father answered in an
awkward, confused way, as if speaking only by constraint.

'Well, I'll see what I can do, miss,' he added abruptly, folding the paper
to take away. 'You'd like them soon?'

'Yes. I was going to ask you, Mr. Turpin, whether you could do them this
evening. Then I should have them for Monday morning.'

Turpin hesitated, shuffled his feet, and seemed to reflect uneasily; but he
said at length that he 'would see about it,' and, with a rough bow, got out
of the room. That night no hilarious sounds came from the kitchen. On
Sunday morning, when Miss Rodney went into her sitting-room, she found on
the table the wooden geometrical forms, excellently made, just as she
wished. Mabel, who came with breakfast, was bidden to thank her father, and
to say that Miss Rodney would like to speak with him again, if his leisure
allowed, after tea-time on Monday. At that hour the carpenter did not fail
to present himself, distrustful still, but less embarrassed. Miss Rodney
praised his work, and desired to pay for it. Oh! that wasn't worth talking
about, said Turpin; but the lady insisted, and money changed hands. This
piece of business transacted, Miss Rodney produced a Euclid, and asked
Turpin to show her how far he had gone in it with his boy Harry. The
subject proved fruitful of conversation. It became evident that the
carpenter had a mathematical bias, and could be readily interested in such
things as geometrical problems. Why should he not take up the subject
again?

'Nay, miss,' replied Turpin, speaking at length quite naturally; 'I
shouldn't have the heart. If my Harry had lived'

But Miss Rodney stuck to the point, and succeeded in making him promise
that he would get out the old Euclid and have a look at it in his leisure
time. As he withdrew, the man had a pleasant smile on his honest face.

On the next Saturday evening the house was again quiet.

Meanwhile, relations between Mrs. Turpin and her lodger were becoming less
strained. For the first time in her life the flabby, foolish woman had to
do with a person of firm will and bright intelligence; not being vicious of
temper, she necessarily felt herself submitting to domination, and darkly
surmised that the rule might in some way be for her good. All the sluggard
and the slattern in her, all the obstinacy of lifelong habits, hung back
from the new things which Miss Rodney was forcing upon her acceptance, but
she was no longer moved by active resentment. To be told that she cooked
badly had long ceased to be an insult, and was becoming merely a worrying
truism. That she lived in dirt there seemed no way of denying, and though
every muscle groaned, she began to look upon the physical exertion of
dusting and scrubbing as part of her lot in life. Why she submitted, Mrs.
Turpin could not have told you. And, as was presently to be seen, there
were regions of her mind still unconquered, instincts of resistance which
yet had to come into play.

For, during all this time, Miss Rodney had had her eye on her
fellow-lodger, Mr. Rawcliffe, and the more she observed this gentleman, the
more resolute she became to turn him out of the house; but it was plain to
her that the undertaking would be no easy one. In the landlady's eyes Mr.
Rawcliffe, though not perhaps a faultless specimen of humanity, conferred
an honour on her house by residing in it; the idea of giving him notice to
quit was inconceivable to her. This came out very clearly in the first
frank conversation which Miss Rodney held with her on the topic. It
happened that Mr. Rawcliffe had passed an evening at home, in the company
of his friends. After supping together, the gentlemen indulged in merriment
which, towards midnight, became uproarious. In the morning Mrs. Turpin
mumbled a shamefaced apology for this disturbance of Miss Rodney's repose.

'Why don't you take this opportunity and get rid of him?' asked the lodger
in her matter-of-fact tone.

'Oh, miss!'

'Yes, it's your plain duty to do so. He gives your house a bad character;
he sets a bad example to your husband; he has a bad influence on your
daughters.'

'Oh! miss, I don't think'

'Just so, Mrs. Turpin; you _don't_ think. If you had, you would long ago
have noticed that his behaviour to those girls is not at all such as it
should be. More than once I have chanced to hear bits of talk, when either
Mabel or Lily was in his sitting-room, and didn't like the tone of it. In
plain English, the man is a blackguard.'

Mrs. Turpin gasped.

'But, miss, you forget what family he belongs to.'

'Don't be a simpleton, Mrs. Turpin. The blackguard is found in every rank
of life. Now, suppose you go to him as soon as he gets up, and quietly give
him notice. You've no idea how much better you would feel after it.'

But Mrs. Turpin trembled at the suggestion. It was evident that no ordinary
argument or persuasion would bring her to such a step. Miss Rodney put the
matter aside for the moment.

She had found no difficulty in getting information about Mr. Rawcliffe. It
was true that he belonged to a family of some esteem in the Wattleborough
neighbourhood, but his father had died in embarrassed circumstances, and
his mother was now the wife of a prosperous merchant in another town. To
his stepfather Rawcliffe owed an expensive education and two or three
starts in life. He was in his second year of articles to a Wattle-borough
solicitor, but there seemed little probability of his ever earning a living
by the law, and reports of his excesses which reached the stepfather's ears
had begun to make the young man's position decidedly precarious. The
incumbent of St. Luke's, whom Rawcliffe had more than once insulted, took
much interest in Miss Rodney's design against this common enemy; he could
not himself take active part in the campaign, but he never met the High
School mistress without inquiring what progress she had made. The conquest
of Turpin, who now for several weeks had kept sober, and spent his evenings
in mathematical study, was a most encouraging circumstance; but Miss Rodney
had no thought of using her influence over her landlady's husband to assail
Rawcliffe's position. She would rely upon herself alone, in this as in all
other undertakings.

Only by constant watchfulness and energy did she maintain her control over
Mrs. Turpin, who was ready at any moment to relapse into her old slatternly
ways. It was not enough to hold the ground that had been gained; there must
be progressive conquest; and to this end Miss Rodney one day broached a
subject which had already been discussed between her and her clerical ally.

'Why do you keep both your girls at home, Mrs. Turpin?' she asked.

'What should I do with them, miss? I don't hold with sending girls into
shops, or else they've an aunt in Birmingham, who's manageress of--'

'That isn't my idea,' interposed Miss Rodney quietly. 'I have been asked if
I knew of a girl who would go into a country-house not far from here as
second housemaid, and it occurred to me that Lily--'

A sound of indignant protest escaped the landlady, which Miss Rodney,
steadily regarding her, purposely misinterpreted.

'No, no, of course, she is not really capable of taking such a position.
But the lady of whom I am speaking would not mind an untrained girl, who
came from a decent house. Isn't it worth thinking of?'

Mrs. Turpin was red with suppressed indignation, but as usual she could not
look her lodger defiantly in the face.

'We're not so poor, miss,' she exclaimed, 'that we need send our daughters
into service,'

'Why, of course not, Mrs. Turpin, and that's one of the reasons why Lily
might suit this lady.'

But here was another rock of resistance which promised to give Miss Rodney
a good deal of trouble. The landlady's pride was outraged, and after the
manner of the inarticulate she could think of no adequate reply save that
which took the form of personal abuse. Restrained from this by more than
one consideration, she stood voiceless, her bosom heaving.

'Well, you shall think it over,' said Miss Rodney, 'and we'll speak of it
again in a day or two.'

Mrs. Turpin, without another word, took herself out of the room.

Save for that singular meeting on Miss Rodney's first night in the house,
Mr. Rawcliffe and the energetic lady had held no intercourse whatever.
Their parlours being opposite each other on the ground floor, they
necessarily came face to face now and then, but the High School mistress
behaved as though she saw no one, and the solicitor's clerk, after one or
two attempts at polite formality, adopted a like demeanour. The man's
proximity caused his neighbour a ceaseless irritation; of all objectionable
types of humanity, this loafing and boozing degenerate was, to Miss Rodney,
perhaps the least endurable; his mere countenance excited her animosity,
for feebleness and conceit, things abhorrent to her, were legible in every
line of the trivial features; and a full moustache, evidently subjected to
training, served only as emphasis of foppish imbecility. 'I could beat
him!' she exclaimed more than once within herself, overcome with
contemptuous wrath, when she passed Mr. Rawcliffe. And, indeed, had it
been possible to settle the matter thus simply, no doubt Mr. Rawcliffe's
rooms would very soon have been vacant.

The crisis upon which Miss Rodney had resolved came about, quite
unexpectedly, one Sunday evening. Mrs. Turpin and her daughters had gone,
as usual, to church, the carpenter had gone to smoke a pipe with a
neighbour, and Mr. Rawcliffe believed himself alone in the house. But Miss
Rodney was not at church this evening; she had a headache, and after tea
lay down in her bedroom for a while. Soon impatient of repose, she got up
and went to her parlour. The door, to her surprise, was partly open;
entering--the tread of her slippered feet was noiseless--she beheld an
astonishing spectacle. Before her writing-table, his back turned to her,
stood Mr. Rawcliffe, engaged in the deliberate perusal of a letter which he
had found there. For a moment she observed him; then she spoke.

'What business have you here?'

Rawcliffe gave such a start that he almost jumped from the ground. His
face, as he put down the letter and turned, was that of a gibbering idiot;
his lips moved, but no sound came from them.

'What are you doing in my room?' demanded Miss Rodney, in her severest
tones.

'I really beg your pardon--I really beg--'

'I suppose this is not the first visit with which you have honoured me?'

'The first--indeed--I assure you--the very first! A foolish curiosity; I
really feel quite ashamed of myself; I throw myself upon your indulgence.'

The man had become voluble; he approached Miss Rodney smiling in a sickly
way, his head bobbing forward.

'It's something,' she replied, 'that you have still the grace to feel
ashamed. Well, there's no need for us to discuss this matter; it can have,
of course, only one result. To-morrow morning you will oblige me by giving
notice to Mrs. Turpin--a week's notice.'

'Leave the house?' exclaimed Rawcliffe.

'On Saturday next--or as much sooner as you like.'

'Oh! but really--'

'As you please,' said Miss Rodney, looking him sternly in the face. 'In
that case I complain to the landlady of your behaviour, and insist on her
getting rid of you. You ought to have been turned out long ago. You are a
nuisance, and worse than a nuisance. Be so good as to leave the room.'

Rawcliffe, his shoulders humped, moved towards the door; but before
reaching it he stopped and said doggedly--

'I _can't_ give notice.'

'Why not?'

'I owe Mrs. Turpin money.'

'Naturally. But you will go, all the same.'

A vicious light flashed into the man's eyes.

'If it comes to that, I shall _not_ go!'

'Indeed?' said Miss Rodney calmly and coldly. 'We will see about it. In the
meantime, leave the room, sir!'

Rawcliffe nodded, grinned, and withdrew.

Late that evening there was a conversation between Miss Rodney and Mrs.
Turpin. The landlady, though declaring herself horrified at what had
happened, did her best to plead for Mr. Rawcliffe's forgiveness, and would
not be brought to the point of promising to give him notice.

'Very well, Mrs. Turpin,' said Miss Rodney at length, 'either he leaves the
house or I do.'

Resolved, as she was, _not_ to quit her lodgings, this was a bold
declaration. A meeker spirit would have trembled at the possibility that
Mrs. Turpin might be only too glad to free herself from a subjection which,
again and again, had all but driven her to extremities. But Miss Rodney had
the soul of a conqueror; she saw only her will, and the straight way to it.

'To tell you the truth, miss,' said the landlady, sore perplexed, 'he's
rather backward with his rent--'

'Very foolish of you to have allowed him to get into your debt. The
probability is that he would never pay his arrears; they will only
increase, the longer he stays. But I have no more time to spare at present.
Please understand that by Saturday next it must be settled which of your
lodgers is to go.'

Mrs. Turpin had never been so worried. The more she thought of the
possibility of Miss Rodney's leaving the house, the less did she like it.
Notwithstanding Mr. Rawcliffe's 'family,' it was growing clear to her that,
as a stamp of respectability and a source of credit, the High School
mistress was worth more than the solicitor's clerk. Then there was the
astonishing change that had come over Turpin, owing, it seemed, to his talk
with Miss Rodney; the man spent all his leisure time in 'making shapes and
figuring'--just as he used to do when poor Harry was at the Grammar School.
If Miss Rodney disappeared, it seemed only too probable that Turpin would
be off again to 'The Swan With Two Necks.' On the other hand, the thought
of 'giving notice' to Mr. Rawcliffe caused her something like dismay; how
could she have the face to turn a real gentleman out of her house? Yes, but
was it not true that she had lost money by him--and stood to lose more? She
had never dared to tell her husband of Mr. Rawcliffe's frequent
shortcomings in the matter of weekly payments. When the easy-going young
man smiled and nodded, and said, 'It'll be all right, you know, Mrs.
Turpin; you can trust _me_, I hope,' she could do nothing but acquiesce.
And Mr. Rawcliffe was more and more disposed to take advantage of this
weakness. If she could find courage to go through with the thing, perhaps
she would be glad when it was over.

Three days went by. Rawcliffe led an unusually quiet and regular life.
There came the day on which his weekly bill was presented. Mrs. Turpin
brought it in person at breakfast, and stood with it in her hand, an image
of vacillation. Her lodger made one of his familiar jokes; she laughed
feebly. No; the words would not come to her lips; she was physically
incapable of giving him notice.

'By the bye, Mrs. Turpin,' said Rawcliffe in an offhand way, as he glanced
at the bill, 'how much exactly do I owe you?'

Pleasantly agitated, his landlady mentioned the sum.

'Ah! I must settle that. I tell you what, Mrs. Turpin. Let it stand over
for another month, and we'll square things up at Christmas. Will that suit
you?'

And, by way of encouragement, he paid his week's account on the spot,
without a penny of deduction. Mrs. Turpin left the room in greater
embarrassment than ever.

Saturday came. At breakfast Miss Rodney sent for the landlady, who made a
timid appearance just within the room.

'Good morning, Mrs. Turpin. What news have you for me? You know what I
mean?'

The landlady took a step forward, and began babbling excuses, explanations,
entreaties. She was coldly and decisively interrupted.

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin, that will do. A week to-day I leave.'

With a sound which was half a sob and half grunt Mrs. Turpin bounced from
the room. It was now inevitable that she should report the state of things
to her husband, and that evening half an hour's circumlocution brought her
to the point. Which of the two lodgers should go? The carpenter paused,
pipe in mouth, before him a geometrical figure over which he had puzzled
for a day or two, and about which, if he could find courage, he wished to
consult the High School mistress. He reflected for five minutes, and
uttered an unhesitating decision. Mr. Rawcliffe must go. Naturally, his
wife broke into indignant clamour, and the debate lasted for an hour or
two; but Turpin could be firm when he liked, and he had solid reasons for
preferring to keep Miss Rodney in the house. At four o'clock Mrs. Turpin
crept softly to the sitting-room where her offended lodger was quietly
reading.

'I wanted just to say, miss, that I'm willing to give Mr. Rawcliffe notice
next Wednesday.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin,' was the cold reply. 'I have already taken other
rooms.'

The landlady gasped, and for a moment could say nothing. Then she besought
Miss Rodney to change her mind. Mr. Rawcliffe should leave, indeed he
should, on Wednesday week. But Miss Rodney had only one reply; she had
found other rooms that suited her, and she requested to be left in peace.

At eleven Mr. Rawcliffe came home. He was unnaturally sober, for Saturday
night, and found his way into the parlour without difficulty. There in a
minute or two he was confronted by his landlady and her husband: they
closed the door behind them, and stood in a resolute attitude.

'Mr. Rawcliffe,' began Turpin, 'you must leave these lodgings, sir, on
Wednesday next.'

'Hullo! what's all this about?' cried the other. 'What do you mean,
Turpin?'

The carpenter made plain his meaning; spoke of Miss Rodney's complaint, of
the irregular payment (for his wife, in her stress, had avowed everything),
and of other subjects of dissatisfaction; the lodger must go, there was an
end of it. Rawcliffe, putting on all his dignity, demanded the legal week's
notice; Turpin demanded the sum in arrear. There was an exchange of high
words, and the interview ended with mutual defiance. A moment after Turpin
and his wife knocked at Miss Rodney's door, for she was still in her
parlour. There followed a brief conversation, with the result that Miss
Rodney graciously consented to remain, on the understanding that Mr.
Rawcliffe left the house not later than Wednesday.

Enraged at the treatment he was receiving, Rawcliffe loudly declared that
he would not budge. Turpin warned him that if he had made no preparations
for departure on Wednesday he would be forcibly ejected, and the door
closed against him.

'You haven't the right to do it,' shouted the lodger. 'I'll sue you for
damages.'

'And I,' retorted the carpenter, 'will sue you for the money you owe me!'

The end could not be doubtful. Rawcliffe, besides being a poor creature,
knew very well that it was dangerous for him to get involved in a scandal;
his stepfather, upon whom he depended, asked but a fair excuse for cutting
him adrift, and more than one grave warning had come from his mother during
the past few months. But he enjoyed a little blustering, and even at
breakfast-time on Wednesday his attitude was that of contemptuous defiance.
In vain had Mrs. Turpin tried to coax him with maternal suavity; in vain
had Mabel and Lily, when serving his meals, whispered abuse of Miss Rodney,
and promised to find some way of getting rid of her, so that Rawcliffe
might return. In a voice loud enough to be heard by his enemy in the
opposite parlour, he declared that no 'cat of a school teacher should get
the better of _him_.' As a matter of fact, however, he arranged on Tuesday
evening to take a couple of cheaper rooms just outside the town, and
ordered a cab to come for him at eleven next morning.

'You know what the understanding is, Mr. Rawcliffe,' said Turpin, putting
his head into the room as the lodger sat at breakfast. 'I'm a man of my
word.'

'Don't come bawling here!' cried the other, with a face of scorn.

And at noon the house knew him no more.

Miss Rodney, on that same day, was able to offer her landlady a new lodger.
She had not spoken of this before, being resolved to triumph by mere force
of will.

'The next thing,' she remarked to a friend, when telling the story, 'is to
pack off one of the girls into service. I shall manage it by Christmas,'
and she added with humorous complacency, 'it does one good to be making a
sort of order in one's own little corner of the world.'




*****

A CHARMING FAMILY


'I must be firm,' said Miss Shepperson to herself, as she poured out her
morning tea with tremulous hand. 'I must really be very firm with them.'

Firmness was not the most legible characteristic of Miss Shepperson's
physiognomy. A plain woman of something more than thirty, she had gentle
eyes, a twitching forehead, and lips ever ready for a sympathetic smile.
Her attire, a little shabby, a little disorderly, well became the occupant
of furnished lodgings, at twelve and sixpence a week, in the unpretentious
suburb of Acton. She was the daughter of a Hammersmith draper, at whose
death, a few years ago, she had become possessed of a small house and an
income of forty pounds a year; her two elder sisters were comfortably
married to London tradesmen, but she did not see very much of them, for
their ways were not hers, and Miss Shepperson had always been one of those
singular persons who shrink into solitude the moment they feel ill at ease.
The house which was her property had, until of late, given her no trouble
at all; it stood in a quiet part of Hammersmith, and had long been occupied
by good tenants, who paid their rent (fifty pounds) with exemplary
punctuality; repairs, of course, would now and then be called for, and to
that end Miss Shepperson carefully put aside a few pounds every year.
Unhappily, the old tenants were at length obliged to change their abode.
The house stood empty for two months; it was then taken on a three years'
lease by a family named Rymer--really nice people, said Miss Shepperson to
herself after her first interview with them. Mr. Rymer was 'in the City';
Mrs. Rymer, who had two little girls, lived only for domestic peace--she
had been in better circumstances, but did not repine, and forgot all
worldly ambition in the happy discharge of her wifely and maternal duties.
'A charming family!' was Miss Shepperson's mental comment when, at their
invitation, she had called one Sunday afternoon soon after they were
settled in the house; and, on the way home to her lodgings, she sighed once
or twice, thinking of Mrs. Rymer's blissful smile and the two pretty
children.

The first quarter's rent was duly paid, but the second quarter-day brought
no cheque; and, after the lapse of a fortnight, Miss Shepperson wrote to
make known her ingenuous fear that Mr. Rymer's letter might have
miscarried. At once there came the politest and friendliest reply. Mr.
Rymer (wrote his wife) was out of town, and had been so overwhelmed with
business that the matter of the rent must have altogether escaped his mind;
he would be back in a day or two, and the cheque should be sent at the
earliest possible moment; a thousand apologies for this unpardonable
neglect. Still the cheque did not come; another quarter-day arrived, and
again no rent was paid. It was now a month after Christmas, and Miss
Shepperson, for the first time in her life, found her accounts in serious
disorder. This morning she had a letter from Mrs. Rymer, the latest of a
dozen or so, all in the same strain--

'I really feel quite ashamed to take up the pen,' wrote the graceful lady,
in her delicate hand. 'What _must_ you think of us! I assure you that
never, never before did I find myself in such a situation. Indeed, I should
not have the courage to write at all, but that the end of our troubles is
already in view. It is _absolutely certain_ that, in a month's time, Mr.
Rymer will be able to send you a cheque in complete discharge of his debt.
Meanwhile, I _beg_ you to believe, dear Miss Shepperson, how very, _very_
grateful I am to you for your most kind forbearance.' Another page of
almost affectionate protests closed with the touching subscription, 'ever
yours, sincerely and gratefully, Adelaide Rymer.'

But Miss Shepperson had fallen into that state of nervous agitation which
impels to a decisive step. She foresaw the horrors of pecuniary
embarrassment. Her faith in the Rymers' promises was exhausted. This very
morning she would go to see Mrs. Rymer, lay before her the plain facts of
the case, and with all firmness--with unmistakable resolve--make known to
her that, if the arrears were not paid within a month, notice to quit would
be given, and the recovery of the debt be sought by legal process. Fear had
made Miss Shepperson indignant; it was wrong and cowardly for people such
as the Rymers to behave in this way to a poor woman who had only just
enough to live upon. She felt sure that they _could_ pay if they liked; but
because she had shown herself soft and patient, they took advantage of her.
She would be firm, very firm.

So, about ten o'clock, Miss Shepperson put on her best things, and set out
for Hammersmith. It was a foggy, drizzly, enervating day. When Miss
Shepperson found herself drawing near to the house, her courage sank, her
heart throbbed painfully, and for a moment she all but stopped and turned,
thinking that it would be much better to put her ultimatum into writing.
Yet there was the house in view, and to turn back would be deplorable
weakness. By word of mouth she could so much better depict the gravity of
her situation. She forced herself onwards. Trembling in every nerve, she
rang the bell, and in a scarce audible gasp she asked for Mrs. Rymer. A
brief delay, and the servant admitted her.

Mrs. Rymer was in the drawing-room, giving her elder child a piano-lesson,
while the younger, sitting in a baby-chair at the table, turned over a
picture-book. The room was comfortably and prettily furnished; the children
were very becomingly dressed; their mother, a tall woman, of fair
complexion and thin, refined face, with wandering eyes and a forehead
rather deeply lined, stepped forward as if in delight at the unexpected
visit, and took Miss Shepperson's ill-gloved hand in both her own, gazing
with tender interest into her eyes.

'How kind of you to have taken this trouble! You guessed that I really
wished to see you. I should have come to you, but just at present I find it
so difficult to get away from home. I am housekeeper, nursemaid, and
governess all in one! Some women would find it rather a strain, but the
dear tots are so good--so good! Cissy, you remember Miss Shepperson? Of
course you do. They look a little pale, I'm afraid; don't you think so?
After the life they were accustomed to--but we won't talk about _that_.
Tots, school-time is over for this morning. You can't go out, my poor
dears; look at the horrid, horrid weather. Go and sit by the nursery-fire,
and sing "Rain, rain, go away!"'

Miss Shepperson followed the children with her look as they silently left
the room. She knew not how to enter upon what she had to say. To talk of
the law and use threats in this atmosphere of serene domesticity seemed
impossibly harsh. But the necessity of broaching the disagreeable subject
was spared her.

'My husband and I were talking about you last night,' began Mrs. Rymer, as
soon as the door had closed, in a tone of the friendliest confidence. 'I
had an idea; it seems to me so good. I wonder whether it will to you? You
told me, did you not, that you live in lodgings, and quite alone?'

'Yes,' replied Miss Shepperson, struggling to command her nerves and
betraying uneasy wonder.

'Is it by choice?' asked the soft-voiced lady, with sympathetic bending of
the head. 'Have you no relations in London? I can't help thinking you must
feel very lonely.'

It was not difficult to lead Miss Shepperson to talk of her
circumstances--a natural introduction to the announcement which she was
still resolved to make with all firmness. She narrated in outline the
history of her family, made known exactly how she stood in pecuniary
matters, and ended by saying--

'You see, Mrs. Rymer, that I have to live as carefully as I can. This house
is really all I have to depend upon, and--and--'

Again she was spared the unpleasant utterance. With an irresistible smile,
and laying her soft hand on the visitor's ill-fitting glove, Mrs. Rymer
began to reveal the happy thought which had occurred to her. In the house
there was a spare room; why should not Miss Shepperson come and live
here--live, that is to say, as a member of the family? Nothing simpler than
to arrange the details of such a plan, which, of course, must be 'strictly
businesslike,' though carried out in a spirit of mutual goodwill. A certain
sum of money was due to her for rent; suppose this were repaid in the form
of board and lodging, which might be reckoned at--should one say, fifteen
shillings a week? At midsummer next an account would be drawn up, 'in a
thoroughly businesslike way,' and whatever then remained due to Miss
Shepperson would be paid at once; after which, if the arrangement proved
agreeable to both sides, it might be continued, cost of board and lodging
being deducted from the rent, and the remainder paid 'with regularity'
every quarter. Miss Shepperson would thus have a home--a real home--with
all family comforts, and Mrs. Rymer, who was too much occupied with house
and children to see much society, would have the advantage of a sympathetic
friend under her own roof. The good lady's voice trembled with joyous
eagerness as she unfolded the project, and her eyes grew large as she
waited for the response.

Miss Shepperson felt such astonishment that she could only reply with
incoherencies. An idea so novel and so strange threw her thoughts into
disorder. She was alarmed by the invitation to live with people who were
socially her superiors. On the other hand, the proposal made appeal to her
natural inclination for domestic life; it offered the possibility of
occupation, of usefulness. Moreover, from the pecuniary point of view, it
would be so very advantageous.

'But,' she stammered at length, when Mrs. Rymer had repeated the suggestion
in words even more gracious and alluring, 'but fifteen shillings is so very
little for board and lodging.'

'Oh, don't let _that_ trouble you, dear Miss Shepperson,' cried the other
gaily. 'In a family, so little difference is made by an extra person. I
assure you it is a perfectly businesslike arrangement; otherwise my
husband, who is prudence itself, would never have sanctioned it. As you
know, we are suffering a temporary embarrassment. I wrote to you yesterday
before my husband's return from business. When he came home, I learnt, to
my dismay, that it might be rather _more_ than a month before he was able
to send you a cheque. I said: "Oh, I must write again to Miss Shepperson. I
can't bear to think of misleading her." Then, as we talked, that idea came
to me. As I think you will believe, Miss Shepperson, I am not a scheming or
a selfish woman; never, never have I wronged any one in my life. This
proposal, I cannot help feeling, is as much for your benefit as for ours.
Doesn't it really seem so to you? Suppose you come up with me and look at
the room. It is not in perfect order, but you will see whether it pleases
you.

Curiosity allying itself with the allurement which had begun to work upon
her feelings, Miss Shepperson timidly rose and followed her smiling guide
upstairs. The little spare room on the second floor was furnished simply
enough, but made such a contrast with the bedchamber in the Acton
lodging-house that the visitor could scarcely repress an exclamation. Mrs.
Rymer was voluble with promise of added comforts. She interested herself in
Miss Shepperson's health, and learnt with the utmost satisfaction that it
seldom gave trouble. She inquired as to Miss Shepperson's likings in the
matter of diet, and strongly approved her preference for a plain, nutritive
regimen. From the spare room the visitor was taken into all the others, and
before they went downstairs again Mrs. Rymer had begun to talk as though
the matter were decided.

'You will stay and have lunch with me,' she said. 'Oh yes, indeed you will;
I can't dream of your going out into this weather till after lunch. Suppose
we have the tots into the drawing-room again? I want them to make friends
with you at once. I _know_ you love children.--Oh, I have known that for a
long time!'

Miss Shepperson stayed to lunch. She stayed to tea. When at length she took
her leave, about six o'clock, the arrangement was complete in every detail.
On this day week she would transfer herself to the Rymers' house, and enter
upon her new life.

She arrived on Saturday afternoon, and was received by the assembled family
like a very dear friend or relative. Mr. Rymer, a well-dressed man, polite,
good-natured, with a frequent falsetto laugh, talked over the teacups in
the pleasantest way imaginable, not only putting Miss Shepperson at ease,
but making her feel as if her position as a member of the household were
the most natural thing in the world. His mere pronunciation of her name
gave it a dignity, an importance quite new to Miss Shepperson's ears. He
had a way of shaping his remarks so as to make it appear that the homely,
timid woman was, if anything, rather the superior in rank and education,
and that their simple ways might now and then cause her amusement. Even the
children seemed to do their best to make the newcomer feel at home. Cissy,
whose age was nine, assiduously handed toast and cake with a most engaging
smile, and little Minnie, not quite six, deposited her kitten in Miss
Shepperson's lap, saying prettily, 'You may stroke it whenever you like.'

Miss Shepperson, to be sure, had personal qualities which could not but
appeal to people of discernment. Her plain features expressed a simplicity
and gentleness which more than compensated for the lack of conventional
grace in her manners; she spoke softly and with obvious frankness, nor was
there much fault to find with her phrasing and accent; dressed a little
more elegantly, she would in no way have jarred with the tone of average
middle-class society. If she had not much education, she was altogether
free from pretence, and the possession of property (which always works very
decidedly for good or for evil) saved her from that excess of deference
which would have accentuated her social shortcomings. Undistinguished as
she might seem at the first glance, Miss Shepperson could not altogether be
slighted by any one who had been in her presence for a few minutes. And
when, in the course of the evening, she found courage to converse more
freely, giving her views, for instance, on the great servant question, and
on other matters of domestic interest, it became clear to Mr. and Mrs.
Rymer that their landlady, though a soft-hearted and simple-minded woman,
was by no means to be regarded as a person of no account.

The servant question was to the front just now, as Mrs. Rymer explained in
detail. She, 'of course,' kept two domestics, but was temporarily making
shift with only one, it being so difficult to replace the cook, who had
left a week ago. Did Miss Shepperson know of a cook, a sensible,
trustworthy woman? For the present Mrs. Rymer--she confessed it with a
pleasant little laugh--had to give an eye to the dinner herself.

'I only hope you won't make yourself ill, dear,' said Mr. Rymer, bending
towards his wife with a look of well-bred solicitude. 'Miss Shepperson, I
beg you to insist that she lies down a little every afternoon. She has
great nervous energy, but isn't really very strong. You can't think what a
relief it will be to me all day to know that some one is with her.'

On Sunday morning all went to church together; for, to Mrs. Rymer's great
satisfaction, Miss Shepperson was a member of the orthodox community, and
particular about observances. Meals were reduced to the simplest terms; a
restful quiet prevailed in the little house; in the afternoon, while Mrs.
Rymer reposed, Miss Shepperson read to the children. She it was who--the
servant being out--prepared tea. After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Rymer, with many
apologies, left the home together for a couple of hours, being absolutely
obliged to pay a call at some distance, and Miss Shepperson again took care
of the children till the domestic returned.

After breakfast the next day--it was a very plain meal, merely a rasher and
dry toast--the lady of the house chatted with her friend more
confidentially than ever. Their servant, she said, a good girl but not very
robust, naturally could not do all the work of the house, and, by way of
helping, Mrs. Rymer was accustomed to 'see to' her own bedroom.

'It's really no hardship,' she said, in her graceful, sweet-tempered way,
'when once you're used to it; in fact, I think the exercise is good for my
health. But, of course, I couldn't think of asking _you_ to do the same. No
doubt you will like to have a breath of air, as the sky seems clearing.'

What could Miss Shepperson do but protest that to put her own room in order
was such a trifling matter that they need not speak of it another moment.
Mrs. Rymer was confused, vexed, and wished she had not said a word; but the
other made a joke of these scruples.

'When do the children go out?' asked Miss Shepperson. 'Do you take them
yourself?'

'Oh, always! almost always! I shall go out with them for an hour at eleven.
And yet'--she checked herself, with a look of worry--'oh, dear me! I must
absolutely go shopping, and I do so dislike to take the tots in that
direction. Never mind; the walk must be put off till the afternoon. It
_may_ rain; but--'

Miss Shepperson straightway offered her services; she would either shop or
go out with the children, whichever Mrs. Rymer preferred. The lady thought
she had better do the shopping--so her friend's morning was pleasantly
arranged. In a day or two things got into a happy routine. Miss Shepperson
practically became nursemaid, with the privilege of keeping her own bedroom
in order and of helping in a good many little ways throughout the domestic
day. A fortnight elapsed, and Mrs. Rymer was still unable to 'suit herself'
with a cook, though she had visited, or professed to visit, many
registry-offices and corresponded with many friends. A week after that the
subject of the cook had somehow fallen into forgetfulness; and, indeed, a
less charitably disposed observer than Miss Shepperson might have doubted
whether Mrs. Rymer had ever seriously meant to engage one at all. The food
served on the family table was of the plainest, and not always
superabundant in quantity; but the table itself was tastefully ordered,
and, indeed, no sort of carelessness appeared in any detail of the
household life. Mrs. Rymer was always busy, and without fuss, without
irritation. She had a large correspondence; but it was not often that
people called. No guest was ever invited to lunch or dinner. All this while
the master of the house kept regular hours, leaving home at nine and
returning at seven; if he went out after dinner, which happened rarely, he
was always back by eleven o'clock. No more respectable man than Mr. Rymer;
none more even-tempered, more easily pleased, more consistently polite and
amiable. That he and his wife were very fond of each other appeared in all
their talk and behaviour; both worshipped the children, and, in spite of
that, trained them with a considerable measure of good sense. In the
evenings Mr. Rymer sometimes read aloud, or he would talk instructively of
the affairs of the day. The more Miss Shepperson saw of her friends the
more she liked them. Never had she been the subject of so much kind
attention, and in no company had she ever felt so happily at ease.

Time went on, and it was near midsummer. Of late Mrs. Rymer had not been
very well, and once or twice Miss Shepperson fancied that her eyes showed
traces of tears; it was but natural that the guest, often preoccupied with
the thought of the promised settlement, should feel a little uneasy. On
June 23 Mrs. Rymer chose a suitable moment, and with her most confidential
air, invited Miss Shepperson to an intimate chat.

'I want to explain to you,' she said, rather cheerfully than otherwise,
'the exact state of our affairs. I'm sure it will interest you. We have
become such good friends--as I knew we should. I shall be much easier in
mind when you know exactly how we stand.'

Thereupon she spoke of a certain kinsman of her husband, an old and infirm
man, whose decease was expected, if not from day to day, at all events from
week to week. The event would have great importance for them, as Mr. Rymer
was entitled to the reversion of several thousands of pounds, held in use
by his lingering relative.

'Now let me ask you a question,' pursued the lady in friendship's
undertone. 'My husband is _quite_ prepared to settle with you to-morrow. He
wishes to do so, for he feels that your patience has been most exemplary.
But, as we spoke of it last night, an idea came to me. I can't help
thinking it was a happy idea, but I wish to know how it strikes you. On
receiving the sum due to you, you will no doubt place it in a bank, or in
some way invest it. Suppose, now, you leave the money in Mr. Rymer's hands,
receiving his acknowledgment, and allowing him to pay it, with four per
cent, interest, when he enters into possession of his capital? Mind, I only
suggest this; not for a moment would I put pressure upon you. If you have
need of the money, it shall be paid _at once._ But it struck me that,
knowing us so well now, you might even be glad of such an investment as
this. The event to which we are looking forward may happen very soon; but
it _may_ be delayed. How would you like to leave this money, and the sums
to which you will be entitled under our arrangements, from quarter to
quarter, to increase at compound interest? Let us make a little
calculation--'

Miss Shepperson listened nervously. She was on the point of saying that, on
the whole, she preferred immediate payment; but while she struggled with
her moral weakness Mrs. Rymer, anxiously reading her face, struck another
note.

'I mustn't disguise from you that the money, though such a small sum, would
be useful to my husband. Poor fellow! he has been fighting against
adversity for the last year or two, and I'm sure no man ever struggled more
bravely. You would never think, would you? that he is often kept awake all
night by his anxieties. As I tell him, he need not really be anxious at
all, for his troubles will so soon come to an end. But there is no more
honourable man living, and he worries at the thought of owing money--you
can't imagine how he worries! Then, to tell you a great secret--'

A change came upon the speaker's face; her voice softened to a whisper as
she communicated a piece of delicate domestic news.

'My poor husband,' she added, 'cannot bear to think that, when it happens,
we may be in really straitened circumstances, and I may suffer for lack of
comforts. To tell you the whole truth, dear Miss Shepperson, I have no
doubt that, if you like my idea, he would at once put aside that money to
be ready for an emergency. So, you see, it is self-interest in me, after
all.' Her smile was very sweet. 'But don't judge me too severely. What I
propose is, as you see, really a very good investment--is it not?'

Miss Shepperson found it impossible to speak as she wished, and before the
conversation came to an end she saw the matter entirely from her friend's
point of view. She had, in truth, no immediate need of money, and the more
she thought of it, the more content she was to do a kindness to the Rymers,
while at the same time benefiting herself. That very evening Mr. Rymer
prepared a legal document, promising to pay on demand the sum which became
due to Miss Shepperson to-morrow, with compound interest at the rate of
four per cent. While signing this, he gravely expressed his conviction that
before Michaelmas the time for payment would have arrived.

'But if it were next week,' he added, with a polite movement towards his
creditor, 'I should be not a bit the less grateful to our most kind
friend.'

'Oh, but it's purely a matter of business,' said Miss Shepperson, who was
always abashed by such expressions.

'To be sure,' murmured Mrs. Rymer. 'Let us look at it in that light. But it
shan't prevent us from calling Miss Shepperson our dearest friend.'

The homely woman blushed and felt happy.

Towards the end of autumn, when the domestic crisis was very near, the
servant declared herself ill, and at twenty-four hours' notice quitted the
house. As a matter of fact, she had received no wages for several months;
the kindness with which she was otherwise treated had kept her at her post
thus long, but she feared the increase of work impending, and preferred to
go off unpaid. Now for the first time did Mrs. Rymer's nerves give way.
Miss Shepperson found her sobbing by the fireside, the two children
lamenting at such an unwonted spectacle. Where was a new servant to be
found? In a day or two the monthly nurse would be here, and must, of
course, be waited upon. And what was to become of the children? Miss
Shepperson, moved by the calamitous situation, entreated her friend to
leave everything to her. She would find a servant somehow, and meanwhile
would keep the house going with her own hands. Mrs. Rymer sobbed that she
was ashamed to allow such a thing; but the other, braced by a crisis,
displayed wonderful activity and resource. For two days Miss Shepperson did
all the domestic labour; then a maid, of the species known as 'general,'
presented herself, and none too soon, for that same night there was born to
the Rymers a third daughter. But troubles were by no means over. While Mrs.
Rymer was ill--very ill indeed--the new handmaid exhibited a character so
eccentric that, after nearly setting fire to the house while in a state of
intoxication, she had to be got rid of as speedily as possible. Miss
Shepperson resolved that, for the present, there should be no repetition of
such disagreeable things. She quietly told Mr. Rymer that she felt quite
able to grapple with the situation herself.

'Impossible!' cried the master of the house, who, after many sleepless
nights and distracted days, had a haggard, unshorn face, scarcely to be
recognised. 'I cannot permit it! I will go myself'

Then, suddenly turning again to Miss Shepperson, he grasped her hand,
called her his dear friend and benefactress, and with breaking voice
whispered to her--

'I will help you. I can do the hard work. It's only for a day or two.'

Late that evening he and Miss Shepperson were in the kitchen together: the
one was washing crockery, the other, who had been filling coal-scuttles,
stood with dirty hands and melancholy visage, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Their looks met; Mr. Rymer took a step forward, smiling with confidential
sadness.

'I feel that I ought to speak frankly,' he said, in a voice as polite and
well-tuned as ever. 'I should like to make known to you the exact state of
my affairs.'

'Oh, but Mrs. Rymer has told me everything,' replied Miss Shepperson, as
she dried a tea-cup.

'No; not quite everything, I'm afraid.' He had a shovel in his hand, and
eyed it curiously. 'She has not told you that I am considerably in debt to
various people, and that, not long ago, I was obliged to raise money on our
furniture.'

Miss Shepperson laid down the tea-cup and gazed anxiously at him, whereupon
he began a detailed story of his misfortunes in business. Mr. Rymer was a
commission-agent--that is to say, he was everything and nothing. Struggle
with pecuniary embarrassment was his normal condition, but only during the
last twelvemonth had he fallen under persistent ill-luck and come to all
but the very end of his resources. It would still be possible for him, he
explained, to raise money on the reversion for which he was waiting, but of
such a step he could not dream.

'It would be dishonesty, Miss Shepperson, and, how unfortunate, I have
never yet lost my honour. People have trusted me, knowing that I am an
honest man. I belong to a good family--as, no doubt, Mrs. Rymer has told
you. A brother of mine holds a respected position in Birmingham, and, if
the worst comes to the worst, he will find me employment. But, as you can
well understand, I shrink from that extremity. For one thing, I am in debt
to my brother, and I am resolved to pay what I owe him before asking for
any more assistance. I do not lose courage. You know the proverb: "Lose
heart, lose all." I am blest with an admirable wife, who stands by me and
supports me under every trial. If my wife were to die, Miss Shepperson--'
He faltered; his eyes glistened in the gas 'But no, I won't encourage
gloomy fears. She is a little better to-day, they tell me. We shall come
out of our troubles, and laugh over them by our cheerful fireside--you with
us--you, our dearest and staunchest friend.'

'Yes, we must hope,' said Miss Shepperson, reassured once more as to her
own interests; for a moment her heart had sunk very low indeed. 'We are all
doing our best.'

'You above all,' said Mr. Rymer, pressing her hand with his coal-blackened
fingers. 'I felt obliged to speak frankly, because you must have thought it
strange that I allowed things to get so disorderly--our domestic
arrangements, I mean. The fact is, Miss Shepperson, I simply don't know how
I am going to meet the expenses of this illness, and I dread the thought of
engaging servants. I cannot--I will not--raise money on my expectations!
When the money comes to me, I must be able to pay all my debts, and have
enough left to recommence life with. Don't you approve this resolution,
Miss Shepperson?'

'Oh yes, indeed I do,' replied the listener heartily.

'And yet, of course,' he pursued, his eyes wandering, 'we _must_ have a
servant--'

Miss Shepperson reflected, she too with an uneasy look on her face. There
was a long silence, broken by a deep sigh from Mr. Rymer, a sigh which was
almost a sob. The other went on drying her plates and dishes, and said at
length that perhaps they might manage with quite a young girl, who would
come for small wages; she herself was willing to help as much as she
could--

'Oh, you shame me, you shame me!' broke in Mr. Rymer, laying a hand on his
forehead, and leaving a black mark there. 'There is no end to your
kindness; but I feel it as a disgrace to us--to me--that you, a
lady of property, should be working here like a servant. It is
monstrous--monstrous!'

At the flattering description of herself Miss Shepperson smiled; her soft
eyes beamed with the light of contentment.

'Don't you give a thought to that, Mr. Rymer,' she exclaimed. 'Why, it's a
pleasure to me, and it gives me something to do--it's good for my health.
Don't you worry. Think about your business, and leave me to look after the
house. It'll be all right.'

A week later Mrs. Rymer was in the way of recovery, and her husband went to
the City as usual. A servant had been engaged--a girl of sixteen, who knew
as much of housework as London girls of sixteen generally do; at all
events, she could carry coals and wash steps. But the mistress of the
house, it was evident, would for a long time be unable to do anything
whatever; the real maid-of-all-work was Miss Shepperson, who rose every
morning at six o'clock, and toiled in one way or another till weary
bedtime. If she left the house, it was to do needful shopping or to take
the children for a walk. Her reward was the admiration and gratitude of the
family; even little Minnie had been taught to say, at frequent intervals:
'I love Miss Shepperson because she is good!' The invalid behaved to her as
to a sister, and kissed her cheek morning and evening. Miss Shepperson's
name being Dora, the baby was to be so called, and, as a matter of course,
the godmother drew a sovereign from her small savings to buy little Miss
Dora a christening present. It would not have been easy to find a house in
London in which there reigned so delightful a spirit of harmony and
kindliness.

'I was so glad,' said Mrs. Rymer one day to her friend, the day on which
she first rose from bed, 'that my husband took you into his confidence
about our affairs. Now you know everything, and it is much better. You know
that we are very unlucky, but that no one can breathe a word against our
honour. This was the thought that held me up through my illness. In a very
short time all our debts will be paid--every farthing, and it will be
delightful to remember how we struggled, and what we endured, to keep an
honest name. Though,' she added tenderly, 'how we should have done without
_you_, I really cannot imagine. We might have sunk--gone down!'

For months Mrs. Rymer led the life of a feeble convalescent. She ought to
have had change of air, but that was out of the question, for Mr. Rymer's
business was as unremunerative as ever, and with difficulty he provided the
household with food. One gleam of light kept up the courage of the family:
the aged relative was known to be so infirm that he could only leave the
house in a bath-chair; every day there might be news even yet more
promising. Meanwhile, the girl of sixteen exercised her incompetence in the
meaner departments of domestic life, and Miss Shepperson did all the work
that required care or common-sense, the duties of nursemaid alone taking a
great deal of her time. On the whole, this employment seemed to suit her;
she had a look of improved health, enjoyed more equable spirits, and in her
manner showed more self-confidence. Once a month she succeeded in getting a
few hours' holiday, and paid a visit to one or the other of her sisters;
but to neither of them did she tell the truth regarding her position in the
house at Hammersmith. Now and then, when every one else under the roof was
asleep, she took from a locked drawer in her bedroom a little account-book,
and busied herself with figures. This she found an enjoyable moment; it was
very pleasant indeed to make the computation of what the Rymers owed to
her, a daily-growing debt of which the payment could not now be long
delayed. She did not feel quite sure with regard to the interest, but the
principal of the debt was very easily reckoned, and it would make a nice
little sum to put by. Certainly Miss Shepperson was not unhappy.

Mrs. Rymer was just able to resume her normal habits, to write many
letters, teach her children, pay visits in distant parts of London--the
care of the baby being still chiefly left to Miss Shepperson--when, on a
pleasant day of spring, a little before lunch-time, Mr. Rymer rushed into
the house, calling in an agitated voice his wife's name. Miss Shepperson
was the only person at home, for Mrs. Rymer had gone out with the children,
the servant accompanying her to wheel baby's perambulator; she ran up from
the kitchen, aproned, with sleeves rolled to the elbow, and met the excited
man as he descended from a vain search in the bedrooms.

'Has it happened?' she cried--for it seemed to her that there could be only
one explanation of Mr. Rymer's behaviour.

'Yes! He died this morning--this morning!'

They clasped hands; then, as an afterthought, their eyes fell, and they
stood limply embarrassed.

'It seems shocking to take the news in this way,' murmured Mr. Rymer; 'but
the relief; oh, the relief! And then, I scarcely knew him; we haven't seen
each other for years. I can't help it! I feel as if I had thrown off a load
of tons! Where is Adelaide? Which way have they gone?'

He rushed out again, to meet his wife. For several minutes Miss Shepperson
stood motionless, in a happy daze, until she suddenly remembered that chops
were at the kitchen fire, and sped downstairs.

Throughout that day, and, indeed, for several days to come, Mrs. Rymer
behaved very properly indeed; her pleasant, refined face wore a becoming
gravity, and when she spoke of the deceased she called him _poor_ Mr.
So-and-so. She did not attend the funeral, for baby happened to be ailing,
but Mr. Rymer, of course, went. He, in spite of conscientious effort to
imitate his wife's decorum, frequently betrayed the joy which was in his
mind; Miss Shepperson heard him singing as he got up in the morning, and
noticed that he ate with unusual appetite. The house brightened. Before the
end of a week smiles and cheerful remarks ruled in the family; sorrows were
forgotten, and everybody looked forward to the great day of settlement.

It did not come quickly. In two months' time Mr. Rymer still waited upon
the pleasure of the executors. But he was not inactive. His brother at
Birmingham had suggested 'an opening' in that city (thus did Mrs. Rymer
phrase it), and the commission-agent had decided to leave London as soon as
his affairs were in order. Towards the end of the third month the family
was suffering from hope deferred. Mr. Rymer had once more a troubled face,
and his wife no longer talked to Miss Shepperson in happy strain of her
projects for the future. At length notice arrived that the executors were
prepared to settle with Mr. Rymer; yet, in announcing the fact, he
manifested only a sober contentment, while Mrs. Rymer was heard to sigh.
Miss Shepperson noted these things, and wondered a little, but Mrs. Rymer's
smiling assurance that now at last all was well revived her cheerful
expectations.

With a certain solemnity she was summoned, a day or two later, to a morning
colloquy in the drawing-room. Mr. Rymer sat in an easy-chair, holding a
bundle of papers; Mrs. Rymer sat on the sofa, the dozing baby on her lap;
over against them their friend took her seat. With a little cough and a
rustle of his papers, the polite man began to speak--

'Miss Shepperson, the day has come when I am able to discharge my debt to
you. You will not misunderstand that expression--I speak of my debt in
money. What I owe to you--what we all owe to you--in another and a higher
sense, can never be repaid. That moral debt must still go on, and be
acknowledged by the unfailing gratitude of a lifetime.'

'Of a lifetime,' repeated Mrs. Rymer, sweetly murmuring, and casting
towards her friend an eloquent glance.

'Here, however,' resumed her husband, 'is the pecuniary account. Will you
do me the kindness, Miss Shepperson, to glance it over and see if you find
it correct?'

Miss Shepperson took the paper, which was covered with a very neat array of
figures. It was the same calculation which she herself had so often made,
but with interest on the money due to her correctly computed. The weekly
sum of fifteen shillings for board and lodging had been deducted,
throughout the whole time, from the rent due to her as landlady. Mr. Rymer
stood her debtor for not quite thirty pounds.

'It's _quite_ correct,' said Miss Shepperson, handing back the paper with a
pleased smile.

Mr. Rymer turned to his wife.

'And what do _you_ say, dear? Do _you_ think it correct?'

Mrs. Rymer shook her head.

'No,' she answered gently, 'indeed I do not.'

Miss Shepperson was startled. She looked from one to the other, and saw on
their faces only the kindliest expression.

'I really thought it came to about that,' fell from her lips. 'I couldn't
quite reckon the interest--'

'Miss Shepperson,' said Mr. Rymer impressively, 'do you really think that
we should allow you to pay us for your board and lodging--you, our valued
friend--you, who have toiled for us, who have saved us from endless trouble
and embarrassment? That indeed would be a little too shameless. This
account is a mere joke--as I hope you really thought it. I insist on giving
you a cheque for the total amount of the rent due to you from the day when
you first entered this house.'

'Oh, Mr. Rymer!' panted the good woman, turning pale with astonishment.

'Why, of course!' exclaimed Mrs. Rymer. 'Do you think it would be
_possible_ for us to behave in any other way? Surely you know us too well,
dear Miss Shepperson!'

'How kind you are!' faltered their friend, unable to decide in herself
whether she should accept this generosity or not--sorely tempted by the
money, yet longing to show no less generous a spirit on her own side. 'I
really don't know--'

Mr. Rymer imposed silence with a wave of the hand, and began talking in a
slow, grave way.

'Miss Shepperson, to-day I may account myself a happy man. Listen to a very
singular story. You know that I was indebted to others besides you. I have
communicated with all those persons; I have drawn up a schedule of
everything I owe; and--extraordinary coincidence!--the sum-total of my
debts is exactly that of the reversion upon which I have entered, _minus_
three pounds fourteen shillings.'

'Strange!' murmured Mrs. Rymer, as if delightedly.

'I did not know, Miss Shepperson, that I owed so much. I had forgotten
items. And suppose, after all, the total had _exceeded_ my resources! That
indeed would have been a blow. As it is, I am a happy man; my wife is
happy. We pay our debts to the last farthing, and we begin the world
again--with three pounds to the good. Our furniture must go; I cannot
redeem it; no matter. I owe nothing; our honour is saved!'

Miss Shepperson was aghast.

'But, Mrs. Rymer,' she began, 'this is dreadful! What are you going to do?'

'Everything is arranged, dear friend,' Mrs. Rymer replied. 'My husband has
a little post in Birmingham, which will bring him in just enough to support
us in the most modest lodgings. We cannot hope to have a house of our own,
for we are determined never again to borrow--and, indeed, I do not know who
would lend to us. We are poor people, and must live as poor people do. Miss
Shepperson, I ask one favour of you. Will you permit us to leave your house
without the customary notice? We should feel very grateful. To-day I pay
Susan, and part with her; to-morrow we must travel to Birmingham. The
furniture will be removed by the people who take possession of it--'

Miss Shepperson was listening with a bewildered look. She saw Mr. Rymer
stand up.

'I will now,' he said, 'pay you the rent from the day--'

'Oh, Mr. Rymer!' cried the agitated woman. 'How _can_ I take it? How can I
leave you penniless? I should feel it a downright robbery, that I should!'

'Miss Shepperson,' exclaimed Mrs. Rymer in soft reproach, 'don't you
understand how much better it is to pay all we owe, even though it does
leave us penniless? Why, even darling baby'--she kissed it--'would say so
if she could speak, poor little mite. Of course you will accept the money;
I insist upon it. You won't forget us. We will send you our address, and
you shall hear of your little godchild--'

Her voice broke; she sobbed, and rebuked herself for weakness, and sobbed
again. Meanwhile Mr. Rymer stood holding out banknotes and gold. The
distracted Miss Shepperson made a wild gesture.

'How _can_ I take it? How _can_ I? I should be ashamed the longest day I
lived!'

'I must insist,' said Mr. Rymer firmly; and his wife, calm again, echoed
the words. In that moment Miss Shepperson clutched at the notes and gold,
and, with a quick step forward, took hold of the baby's hand, making the
little fingers close upon the money.

'There! I give it to little Dora--there!'

Mr. Rymer turned away to hide his emotion. Mrs. Rymer laid baby down on the
sofa, and clasped Miss Shepperson in her arms.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few days later the house at Hammersmith was vacant. The Rymers wrote from
Birmingham that they had found sufficient, though humble, lodgings, and
were looking for a tiny house, which they would furnish very, very simply
with the money given to baby by their ever dear friend. It may be added
that they had told the truth regarding their position--save as to one
detail: Mr. Rymer thought it needless to acquaint Miss Shepperson with the
fact that his brother, a creditor for three hundred pounds, had generously
forgiven the debt.

Miss Shepperson, lodging in a little bedroom, with an approving conscience
to keep her company, hoped that her house would soon be let again.




A DAUGHTER OF THE LODGE


For a score of years the Rocketts had kept the lodge of Brent Hall. In the
beginning Rockett was head gardener; his wife, the daughter of a
shopkeeper, had never known domestic service, and performed her duties at
the Hall gates with a certain modest dignity not displeasing to the stately
persons upon whom she depended. During the lifetime of Sir Henry the best
possible understanding existed between Hall and lodge. Though Rockett's
health broke down, and at length he could work hardly at all, their
pleasant home was assured to the family; and at Sir Henry's death the
nephew who succeeded him left the Rocketts undisturbed. But, under this new
lordship, things were not quite as they had been. Sir Edwin Shale, a
middle-aged man, had in his youth made a foolish marriage; his lady ruled
him, not with the gentlest of tongues, nor always to the kindest purpose,
and their daughter, Hilda, asserted her rights as only child with a force
of character which Sir Edwin would perhaps have more sincerely admired had
it reminded him less of Lady Shale.

While the Hall, in Sir Henry's time, remained childless, the lodge prided
itself on a boy and two girls. Young Rockett, something of a scapegrace,
was by the baronet's advice sent to sea, and thenceforth gave his parents
no trouble. The second daughter, Betsy, grew up to be her mother's help.
But Betsy's elder sister showed from early years that the life of the lodge
would afford no adequate scope for _her_ ambitions. May Rockett had good
looks; what was more, she had an intellect which sharpened itself on
everything with which it came in contact. The village school could never
have been held responsible for May Rockett's acquirements and views at the
age of ten; nor could the High School in the neighbouring town altogether
account for her mental development at seventeen. Not without misgivings had
the health-broken gardener and his wife consented to May's pursuit of the
higher learning; but Sir Henry and the kind old Lady Shale seemed to think
it the safer course, and evidently there was little chance of the girl's
accepting any humble kind of employment: in one way or another she must
depend for a livelihood upon her brains. At the time of Sir Edwin's
succession Miss Rockett had already obtained a place as governess, giving
her parents to understand that this was only, of course, a temporary
expedient--a paving of the way to something vaguely, but superbly,
independent. Nor was promotion long in coming. At two-and-twenty May
accepted a secretaryship to a lady with a mission--concerning the rights of
womanhood. In letters to her father and mother she spoke much of the
importance of her work, but did not confess how very modest was her salary.
A couple of years went by without her visiting the old home; then, of a
sudden, she made known her intention of coming to stay at the lodge 'for a
week or ten days.' She explained that her purpose was rest; intellectual
strain had begun rather to tell upon her, and a few days of absolute
tranquillity, such as she might expect under the elms of Brent Hall, would
do her all the good in the world. 'Of course,' she added, 'it's unnecessary
to say anything about me to the Shale people. They and I have nothing in
common, and it will be better for us to ignore each other's existence.'

These characteristic phrases troubled Mr. and Mrs. Rockett. That the family
at the Hall should, if it seemed good to them, ignore the existence of May
was, in the Rocketts' view, reasonable enough; but for May to ignore Sir
Edwin and Lady Shale, who were just now in residence after six months spent
abroad, struck them as a very grave impropriety. Natural respect demanded
that, at some fitting moment, and in a suitable manner, their daughter
should present herself to her feudal superiors, to whom she was assuredly
indebted, though indirectly, for 'the blessings she enjoyed.' This was Mrs.
Rockett's phrase, and the rheumatic, wheezy old gardener uttered the same
opinion in less conventional language. They had no affection for Sir Edwin
or his lady, and Miss Hilda they decidedly disliked; their treatment at the
hands of these new people contrasted unpleasantly enough with the memory of
old times; but a spirit of loyal subordination ruled their blood, and, to
Sir Edwin at all events, they felt gratitude for their retention at the
lodge. Mrs. Rockett was a healthy and capable woman of not more than fifty,
but no less than her invalid husband would she have dreaded the thought of
turning her back on Brent Hall. Rockett had often consoled himself with the
thought that here he should die, here amid the fine old trees that he
loved, in the ivy-covered house which was his only idea of home. And was it
not a reasonable hope that Betsy, good steady girl, should some day marry
the promising young gardener whom Sir Edwin had recently taken into his
service, and so re-establish the old order of things at the lodge?

'I half wish May wasn't coming,' said Mrs. Rockett after long and anxious
thought. 'Last time she was here she quite upset me with her strange talk.'

'She's a funny girl, and that's the truth,' muttered Rockett from his old
leather chair, full in the sunshine of the kitchen window. They had a nice
little sitting-room; but this, of course, was only used on Sunday, and no
particular idea of comfort attached to it. May, to be sure, had always used
the sitting-room. It was one of the habits which emphasised most strongly
the moral distance between her and her parents.

The subject being full of perplexity, they put it aside, and with very
mixed feelings awaited their elder daughter's arrival. Two days later a cab
deposited at the lodge Miss May, and her dress-basket, and her
travelling-bag, and her holdall, together with certain loose periodicals
and a volume or two bearing the yellow label of Mudie. The young lady was
well dressed in a severely practical way; nothing unduly feminine marked
her appearance, and in the matter of collar and necktie she inclined to the
example of the other sex; for all that, her soft complexion and bright
eyes, her well-turned figure and light, quick movements, had a picturesque
value which Miss May certainly did not ignore. She manifested no excess of
feeling when her mother and sister came forth to welcome her; a nod, a
smile, an offer of her cheek, and the pleasant exclamation, 'Well, good
people!' carried her through this little scene with becoming dignity.

'You will bring these things inside, please,' she said to the driver, in
her agreeable head-voice, with the tone and gesture of one who habitually
gives orders.

Her father, bent with rheumatism, stood awaiting her just within. She
grasped his hand cordially, and cried on a cheery note, 'Well, father, how
are you getting on? No worse than usual, I hope?' Then she added, regarding
him with her head slightly aside, 'We must have a talk about your case.
I've been going in a little for medicine lately. No doubt your country
medico is a duffer. Sit down, sit down, and make yourself comfortable. I
don't want to disturb any one. About teatime, isn't it, mother? Tea very
weak for me, please, and a slice of lemon with it, if you have such a
thing, and just a mouthful of dry toast.'

So unwilling was May to disturb the habits of the family that, half an hour
after her arrival, the homely three had fallen into a state of nervous
agitation, and could neither say nor do anything natural to them. Of a
sudden there sounded a sharp rapping at the window. Mrs. Rockett and Betsy
started up, and Betsy ran to the door. In a moment or two she came back
with glowing cheeks.

'I'm sure I never heard the bell!' she exclaimed with compunction. 'Miss
Shale had to get off her bicycle!'

'Was it she who hammered at the window?' asked May coldly.

'Yes--and she was that annoyed.'

'It will do her good. A little anger now and then is excellent for the
health.' And Miss Rockett sipped her lemon-tinctured tea with a smile of
ineffable contempt.

The others went to bed at ten o'clock, but May, having made herself at ease
in the sitting-room, sat there reading until after twelve. Nevertheless,
she was up very early next morning, and, before going out for a sharp
little walk (in a heavy shower), she gave precise directions about her
breakfast. She wanted only the simplest things, prepared in the simplest
way, but the tone of her instructions vexed and perturbed Mrs. Rockett
sorely. After breakfast the young lady made a searching inquiry into the
state of her father's health, and diagnosed his ailments in such learned
words that the old gardener began to feel worse than he had done for many a
year. May then occupied herself with correspondence, and before midday sent
her sister out to post nine letters.

'But I thought you were going to rest yourself?' said her mother, in an
irritable voice quite unusual with her.

'Why, so I am resting!' May exclaimed. 'If you saw my ordinary morning's
work! I suppose you have a London newspaper? No? How _do_ you live without
it? I must run into the town for one this afternoon.'

The town was three miles away, but could be reached by train from the
village station. On reflection, Miss Rockett announced that she would use
this opportunity for calling on a lady whose acquaintance she desired to
make, one Mrs. Lindley, who in social position stood on an equality with
the family at the Hall, and was often seen there. On her mother's
expressing surprise, May smiled indulgently.

'Why shouldn't I know Mrs. Lindley? I have heard she's interested in a
movement which occupies me a good deal just now. I know she will be
delighted to see me. I can give her a good deal of first-hand information,
for which she will be grateful. You _do_ amuse me, mother, she added in her
blandest tone. 'When will you come to understand what my position is?'

The Rocketts had put aside all thoughts of what they esteemed May's duty
towards the Hall; they earnestly hoped that her stay with them might pass
unobserved by Lady and Miss Shale, whom, they felt sure, it would be
positively dangerous for the girl to meet. Mrs. Rockett had not slept for
anxiety on this score. The father was also a good deal troubled; but his
wonder at May's bearing and talk had, on the whole, an agreeable
preponderance over the uneasy feeling. He and Betsy shared a secret
admiration for the brilliant qualities which were flashed before their
eyes; they privately agreed that May was more of a real lady than either
the baronet's hard-tongued wife or the disdainful Hilda Shale.

So Miss Rockett took the early afternoon train, and found her way to Mrs.
Lindley's, where she sent in her card. At once admitted to the
drawing-room, she gave a rapid account of herself, naming persons whose
acquaintance sufficiently recommended her. Mrs. Lindley was a
good-humoured, chatty woman, who had a lively interest in everything
'progressive'; a new religion or a new cycling-costume stirred her to just
the same kind of happy excitement; she had no prejudices, but a decided
preference for the society of healthy, high-spirited, well-to-do people.
Miss Rockett's talk was exactly what she liked, for it glanced at
innumerable topics of the 'advanced' sort, was much concerned with
personalities, and avoided all tiresome precision of argument.

'Are you making a stay here?' asked the hostess.

'Oh! I am with my people in the country--not far off,' May answered in an
offhand way. 'Only for a day or two.'

Other callers were admitted, but Miss Rockett kept the lead in talk; she
glowed with self-satisfaction, feeling that she was really showing to great
advantage, and that everybody admired her. When the door again opened the
name announced was 'Miss Shale.' Stopping in the middle of a swift
sentence, May looked at the newcomer, and saw that it was indeed Hilda
Shale, of Brent Hall; but this did not disconcert her. Without lowering her
voice she finished what she was saying, and ended in a mirthful key. The
baronet's daughter had come into town on her bicycle, as was declared by
the short skirt, easy jacket, and brown shoes, which well displayed her
athletic person. She was a tall, strongly built girl of six-and-twenty,
with a face of hard comeliness and magnificent tawny hair. All her
movements suggested vigour; she shook hands with a downward jerk, moved
about the room with something of a stride and, in sitting down, crossed her
legs abruptly.

From the first her look had turned with surprise to Miss Rockett. When,
after a minute or two, the hostess presented that young lady to her, Miss
Shale raised her eyebrows a little, smiled in another direction, and gave a
just perceptible nod. May's behaviour was as nearly as possible the same.

'Do you cycle, Miss Rockett?' asked Mrs. Lindley.

'No, I don't. The fact is, I have never found time to learn.'

A lady remarked that nowadays there was a certain distinction in not
cycling; whereupon Miss Shale's abrupt and rather metallic voice sounded
what was meant for gentle irony.

'It's a pity the machines can't be sold cheaper. A great many people who
would like to cycle don't feel able to afford it, you know. One often hears
of such cases out in the country, and it seems awfully hard lines, doesn't
it?'

Miss Rockett felt a warmth ascending to her ears, and made a violent effort
to look unconcerned. She wished to say something, but could not find the
right words, and did not feel altogether sure of her voice. The hostess,
who made no personal application of Miss Shale's remark, began to discuss
the prices of bicycles, and others chimed in. May fretted under this turn
of the conversation. Seeing that it was not likely to revert to subjects in
which she could shine, she rose and offered to take leave.

'Must you really go?' fell with conventional regret from the hostess's
lips.

'I'm afraid I must,' Miss Rockett replied, bracing herself under the
converging eyes and feeling not quite equal to the occasion. 'My time is so
short, and there are so many people I wish to see.'

As she left the house, anger burned in her. It was certain that Hilda Shale
would make known her circumstances. She had fancied this revelation a
matter of indifference; but, after all, the thought stung her intolerably.
The insolence of the creature, with her hint about the prohibitive cost of
bicycles! All the harder to bear because hitting the truth. May would have
long ago bought a bicycle had she been able to afford it. Straying about
the main streets of the town, she looked flushed and wrathful, and could
think of nothing but her humiliation.

To make things worse, she lost count of time, and presently found that she
had missed the only train by which she could return home. A cab would be
too much of an expense; she had no choice but to walk the three or four
miles. The evening was close; walking rapidly, and with the accompaniment
of vexatious thoughts, she reached the gates of the Hall tired perspiring,
irritated. Just as her hand was on the gate a bicycle-bell trilled
vigorously behind her, and, from a distance of twenty yards, a voice cried
imperatively--

'Open the gate, please!'

Miss Rockett looked round, and saw Hilda Shale slowly wheeling forward, in
expectation that way would be made for her. Deliberately May passed through
the side entrance, and let the little gate fall to.

Miss Shale dismounted, admitted herself, and spoke to May (now at the lodge
door) with angry emphasis.

'Didn't you hear me ask you to open?'

'I couldn't imagine you were speaking to _me_,' answered Miss Rockett, with
brisk dignity. 'I supposed some servant of yours was in sight.'

A peculiar smile distorted Miss Shale's full red lips. Without another word
she mounted her machine and rode away up the elm avenue.

Now Mrs. Rockett had seen this encounter, and heard the words exchanged:
she was lost in consternation.

'What _do_ you mean by behaving like that, May? Why, I was running out
myself to open, and then I saw you were there, and, of course, I thought
you'd do it. There's the second time in two days Miss Shale has had to
complain about us. How _could_ you forget yourself, to behave and speak
like that! Why, you must be crazy, my girl!'

'I don't seem to get on very well here, mother,' was May's reply. 'The fact
is, I'm in a false position. I shall go to-morrow morning, and there won't
be any more trouble.'

Thus spoke Miss Rockett, as one who shakes off a petty annoyance--she knew
not that the serious trouble was just beginning. A few minutes later Mrs.
Rockett went up to the Hall, bent on humbly apologising for her daughter's
impertinence. After being kept waiting for a quarter of an hour she was
admitted to the presence of the housekeeper, who had a rather grave
announcement to make.

'Mrs. Rockett, I'm sorry to tell you that you will have to leave the lodge.
My lady allows you two months, though, as your wages have always been paid
monthly, only a month's notice is really called for. I believe some
allowance will be made you, but you will hear about that. The lodge must be
ready for its new occupants on the last day of October.'

The poor woman all but sank. She had no voice for protest or entreaty--a
sob choked her; and blindly she made her way to the door of the room, then
to the exit from the Hall.

'What in the world is the matter?' cried May, hearing from the
sitting-room, whither she had retired, a clamour of distressful tongues.

She came into the kitchen, and learnt what had happened.

'And now I hope you're satisfied!' exclaimed her mother, with tearful
wrath. 'You've got us turned out of our home--you've lost us the best place
a family ever had--and I hope it's a satisfaction to your conceited,
overbearing mind! If you'd _tried_ for it you couldn't have gone to work
better. And much _you_ care! We're below you, we are; we're like dirt under
your feet! And your father'll go and end his life who knows where miserable
as miserable can be; and your sister'll have to go into service; and as for
me--'

'Listen, mother!' shouted the girl, her eyes flashing and every nerve of
her body strung. 'If the Shales are such contemptible wretches as to turn
you out just because they're offended with _me_, I should have thought
you'd have spirit enough to tell them what you think of such behaviour, and
be glad never more to serve such brutes! Father, what do _you_ say? I'll
tell you how it was.'

She narrated the events of the afternoon, amid sobs and ejaculations from
her mother and Betsy. Rockett, who was just now in anguish of lumbago,
tried to straighten himself in his chair before replying, but sank
helplessly together with a groan.

'You can't help yourself, May,' he said at length. 'It's your nature, my
girl. Don't worry. I'll see Sir Edwin, and perhaps he'll listen to me. It's
the women who make all the mischief. I must try to see Sir Edwin--'

A pang across the loins made him end abruptly, groaning, moaning,
muttering. Before the renewed attack of her mother May retreated into the
sitting-room, and there passed an hour wretchedly enough. A knock at the
door without words called her to supper, but she had no appetite, and would
not join the family circle. Presently the door opened, and her father
looked in.

'Don't worry, my girl,' he whispered. 'I'll see Sir Edwin in the morning.'

May uttered no reply. Vaguely repenting what she had done, she at the same
time rejoiced in the recollection of her passage of arms with Miss Shale,
and was inclined to despise her family for their pusillanimous attitude. It
seemed to her very improbable that the expulsion would really be carried
out. Lady Shale and Hilda meant, no doubt, to give the Rocketts a good
fright, and then contemptuously pardon them. She, in any case, would return
to London without delay, and make no more trouble. A pity she had come to
the lodge at all; it was no place for one of her spirit and her
attainments.

In the morning she packed. The train which was to take her back to town
left at half-past ten, and after breakfast she walked into the village to
order a cab. Her mother would scarcely speak to her; Betsy was continually
in reproachful tears. On coming back to the lodge she saw her father
hobbling down the avenue, and walked towards him to ask the result of his
supplication. Rockett had seen Sir Edwin, but only to hear his sentence of
exile confirmed. The baronet said he was sorry, but could not interfere;
the matter lay in Lady Shale's hands, and Lady Shale absolutely refused to
hear any excuses or apologies for the insult which had been offered her
daughter.

'It's all up with us,' said the old gardener, who was pale and trembling
after his great effort. 'We must go. But don't worry, my girl, don't
worry.'

Then fright took hold upon May Rockett. She felt for the first time what
she had done. Her heart fluttered in an anguish of self-reproach, and her
eyes strayed as if seeking help. A minute's hesitation, then, with all the
speed she could make, she set off up the avenue towards the Hall.

Presenting herself at the servants' entrance, she begged to be allowed to
see the housekeeper. Of course her story was known to all the domestics,
half a dozen of whom quickly collected to stare at her, with more or less
malicious smiles. It was a bitter moment for Miss Rockett, but she subdued
herself, and at length obtained the interview she sought. With a cold air
of superiority and of disapproval the housekeeper listened to her quick,
broken sentences. Would it be possible, May asked, for her to see Lady
Shale? She desired to--to apologise for--for rudeness of which she had been
guilty, rudeness in which her family had no part, which they utterly
deplored, but for which they were to suffer severely.

'If you could help me, ma'am, I should be very grateful--indeed I should--'

Her voice all but broke into a sob. That 'ma'am' cost her a terrible
effort; the sound of it seemed to smack her on the ears.

'If you will go in-to the servants' hall and wait,' the housekeeper deigned
to say, after reflecting, 'I'll see what can be done.'

And Miss Rockett submitted. In the servants' hall she sat for a long, long
time, observed, but never addressed. The hour of her train went by. More
than once she was on the point of rising and fleeing; more than once her
smouldering wrath all but broke into flame. But she thought of her father's
pale, pain-stricken face, and sat on.

At something past eleven o'clock a footman approached her, and said curtly,
'You are to go up to my lady; follow me.' May followed, shaking with
weakness and apprehension, burning at the same time with pride all but in
revolt. Conscious of nothing on the way, she found herself in a large room,
where sat the two ladies, who for some moments spoke together about a topic
of the day placidly. Then the elder seemed to become aware of the girl who
stood before her.

'You are Rockett's elder daughter?'

Oh, the metallic voice of Lady Shale! How gratified she would have been
could she have known how it bruised the girl's pride!

'Yes, my lady--'

'And why do you want to see me?'

'I wish to apologise--most sincerely--to your ladyship--for my behaviour
of last evening--'

'Oh, indeed!' the listener interrupted contemptuously. 'I am glad you have
come to your senses. But your apology must be offered to Miss Shale--if my
daughter cares to listen to it.'

May had foreseen this. It was the bitterest moment of her ordeal. Flushing
scarlet, she turned towards the younger woman.

'Miss Shale, I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday--I beg you to
forgive my rudeness--my impertinence--'

Her voice would go no further; there came a choking sound. Miss Shale
allowed her eyes to rest triumphantly for an instant on the troubled face
and figure, then remarked to her mother--

'It's really nothing to me, as I told you. I suppose this person may leave
the room now?'

It was fated that May Rockett should go through with her purpose and gain
her end. But fate alone (which meant in this case the subtlest
preponderance of one impulse over another) checked her on the point of a
burst of passion which would have startled Lady Shale and Miss Hilda out of
their cold-blooded complacency. In the silence May's blood gurgled at her
ears, and she tottered with dizziness.

'You may go,' said Lady Shale.

But May could not move. There flashed across her the terrible thought that
perhaps she had humiliated herself for nothing.

'My lady--I hope--will your ladyship please to forgive my father and
mother? I entreat you not to send them away. We shall all be so grateful to
your ladyship if you will overlook--'

'That will do,' said Lady Shale decisively. 'I will merely say that the
sooner you leave the lodge the better; and that you will do well never
again to pass the gates of the Hall. You may go.'

Miss Rockett withdrew. Outside, the footman was awaiting her. He looked at
her with a grin, and asked in an undertone, 'Any good?' But May, to whom
this was the last blow, rushed past him, lost herself in corridors, ran
wildly hither and thither, tears streaming from her eyes, and was at length
guided by a maidservant into the outer air. Fleeing she cared not whither,
she came at length into a still corner of the park, and there, hidden amid
trees, watched only by birds and rabbits, she wept out the bitterness of
her soul.

By an evening train she returned to London, not having confessed to her
family what she had done, and suffering still from some uncertainty as to
the result. A day or two later Betsy wrote to her the happy news that the
sentence of expulsion was withdrawn, and peace reigned once more in the
ivy-covered lodge. By that time Miss Rockett had all but recovered her
self-respect, and was so busy in her secretaryship that she could only
scribble a line of congratulation. She felt that she had done rather a
meritorious thing, but, for the first time in her life, did not care to
boast of it.




THE RIDING-WHIP


It was not easy for Mr. Daffy to leave his shop for the whole day, but an
urgent affair called him to London, and he breakfasted early in order to
catch the 8.30 train. On account of his asthma he had to allow himself
plenty of time for the walk to the station; and all would have been well,
but that, just as he was polishing his silk hat and giving final directions
to his assistant, in stepped a customer, who came to grumble about the fit
of a new coat. Ten good minutes were thus consumed, and with a painful
glance at his watch the breathless tailor at length started. The walk was
uphill; the sun was already powerful; Mr. Daffy reached the station with
dripping forehead and panting as if his sides would burst. There stood the
train; he had barely time to take his ticket and to rush across the
platform. As a porter slammed the carriage-door behind him, he sank upon
the seat in a lamentable condition, gasping, coughing, writhing; his eyes
all but started from his head, and his respectable top-hat tumbled to the
floor, where unconsciously he gave it a kick. A grotesque and distressing
sight.

Only one person beheld it, and this, as it happened, a friend of Mr.
Daffy's. In the far corner sat a large, ruddy-cheeked man, whose eye rested
upon the sufferer with a look of greeting disturbed by compassion. Mr.
Lott, a timber-merchant of this town, was in every sense of the word a more
flourishing man than the asthmatic tailor; his six-feet-something of sound
flesh and muscle, his ripe sunburnt complexion, his attitude of eupeptic
and broad-chested ease, left the other, by contrast, scarce his proverbial
fraction of manhood. At a year or two short of fifty, Mr. Daffy began to be
old; he was shoulder-bent, knee-shaky, and had a pallid, wrinkled visage,
with watery, pathetic eye. At fifty turned, Mr. Lott showed a vigour and a
toughness such as few men of any age could rival. For a score of years the
measure of Mr. Lott's robust person had been taken by Mr. Daffy's
professional tape, and, without intimacy, there existed kindly relations
between the two men. Neither had ever been in the other's house, but they
had long met, once a week or so, at the Liberal Club, where it was their
habit to play together a game of draughts. Occasionally they conversed; but
it was a rather one-sided dialogue, for whereas the tailor had a sprightly
intelligence and--so far as his breath allowed--a ready flow of words, the
timber-merchant found himself at a disadvantage when mental activity was
called for. The best-natured man in the world, Mr. Lott would sit smiling
and content so long as he had only to listen; asked his opinion (on
anything but timber), he betrayed by a knitting of the brows, a rolling of
the eyes, an inflation of the cheeks, and other signs of discomposure, the
serious effort it cost him to shape a thought and to utter it. At times Mr.
Daffy got on to the subject of social and political reform, and, after
copious exposition, would ask what Mr. Lott thought. He knew the
timber-merchant too well to expect an immediate reply. There came a long
pause, during which Mr. Lott snorted a little, shuffled in his chair, and
stared at vacancy, until at length, with a sudden smile of relief he
exclaimed, 'Do you know _my_ idea!' And the idea, often rather explosively
stated, was generally marked by common-sense of the bull-headed, British
kind.

'Bad this morning,' remarked Mr. Lott, abruptly but sympathetically, as
soon as the writhing tailor could hear him.

'Rather bad--ugh, ugh!--had to run--ugh!--doesn't suit me, Mr. Lott,'
gasped the other, as he took the silk hat which his friend had picked up
and stroked for him.

'Hot weather trying.'

'I vary so,' panted Mr. Daffy, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
'Sometimes one things seems to suit me--ugh, ugh--sometimes another. Going
to town, Mr. Lott?'

'Yes.'

The blunt affirmative was accompanied by a singular grimace, such as might
have been caused by the swallowing of something very unpleasant; and
thereupon followed a silence which allowed Mr. Daffy to recover himself. He
sat with his eyes half closed and head bent, leaning back.

They had a general acquaintance with each other's domestic affairs. Both
were widowers; both lived alone. Mr. Daffy's son was married, and dwelt in
London; the same formula applied to Mr. Lott's daughter. And, as it
happened, the marriages had both been a subject of parental
dissatisfaction. Very rarely had Mr. Lott let fall a word with regard to
his daughter, Mrs. Bowles, but the townsfolk were well aware that he
thought his son-in-law a fool, if not worse; Mrs. Bowles, in the seven
years since her wedding, had only two or three times revisited her father's
house, and her husband never came. A like reticence was maintained by Mr.
Daffy concerning his son Charles Edward, once the hope of his life. At
school the lad had promised well; tailoring could not be thought of for
him; he went into a solicitor's office, and remained there just long enough
to assure himself that he had no turn for the law. From that day he was
nothing but an expense and an anxiety to his father, until--now a couple of
years ago--he announced his establishment in a prosperous business in
London, of which Mr. Daffy knew nothing more than that it was connected
with colonial enterprise. Since that date Charles Edward had made no report
of himself, and his father had ceased to write letters which received no
reply.

Presently, Mr. Lott moved so as to come nearer to his travelling companion,
and said in a muttering, shamefaced way--

'Have you heard any talk about my daughter lately?'

Mr. Daffy showed embarrassment.

'Well, Mr. Lott, I'm sorry to say I _have_ heard something--'

'Who from?'

'Well--it was a friend of mine--perhaps I won't mention the name--who came
and told me something--something that quite upset me. That's what I'm going
to town about, Mr. Lott. I'm--well, the fact is, I was going to call upon
Mr. Bowles.'

'Oh, you were!' exclaimed the timber-merchant, with gruffness, which
referred not to his friend but to his son-in-law. 'I don't particularly
want to see _him_, but I had thought of seeing my daughter. You wouldn't
mind saying whether it was John Roper--?'

'Yes, it was.'

'Then we've both heard the same story, no doubt.'

Mr. Lott leaned back and stared out of the window. He kept thrusting out
his lips and drawing them in again, at the same time wrinkling his forehead
into the frown which signified that he was trying to shape a thought.

'Mr. Lott,' resumed the tailor, with a gravely troubled look, 'may I ask if
John Roper made any mention of my son?'

The timber-merchant glared, and Mr. Daffy, interpreting the look as one of
anger, trembled under it.

'I feel ashamed and miserable!' burst from his lips.

'It's not your fault, Mr. Daffy,' interrupted the other in a good-natured
growl. 'You're not responsible, no more than for any stranger.'

'That's just what I can't feel,' exclaimed the tailor, nervously slapping
his knee. 'Anyway, it would be a disgrace to a man to have a son a
bookmaker--a blackguard bookmaker. That's bad enough. But when it comes to
robbing and ruining the friends of your own family--why, I never heard a
more disgraceful thing in my life. How I'm going to stand in my shop, and
hold up my head before my customers, I--do--not--know. Of course, it'll be
the talk of the town; we know what the Ropers are when they get hold of
anything. It'll drive me off my head, Mr. Lott, I'm sure it will.'

The timber-merchant stretched out a great hand, and laid it gently on the
excited man's shoulder.

'Don't worry; that never did any good yet. We've got to find out, first of
all, how much of Roper's story is true. What did he tell you?'

'He said that Mr. Bowles had been going down the hill for a year or
more--that his business was neglected, that he spent his time at
racecourses and in public-houses--and that the cause of it all was my son.
_My son?_ What had my son to do with it? Why, didn't I know that Charles
was a racing and betting man, and a notorious bookmaker? You can imagine
what sort of a feeling that gave me. Roper couldn't believe it was the
first I had heard of it; he said lots of people in the town knew how
Charles was living. Did _you_ know, Mr. Lott?'

'Not I; I'm not much in the way of gossip.'

'Well, there's what Roper said. It was last night, and what with that and
my cough, I didn't get a wink of sleep after it. About three o'clock this
morning I made up my mind to go to London at once and see Mr. Bowles. If
it's true that he's been robbed and ruined by Charles, I've only one thing
to do--my duty's plain enough. I shall ask him how much money Charles has
had of him, and, if my means are equal to it, I shall pay every penny
back--every penny.'

Mr. Lott's countenance waxed so grim that one would have thought him about
to break into wrath against the speaker. But it was merely his way of
disguising a pleasant emotion.

'I don't think most men would see it in that way,' he remarked gruffly.

'Whether they would or not,' exclaimed Mr. Daffy, panting and wriggling,
'it's as plain as plain could be that there's no other course for a man who
respects himself. I couldn't live a day with such a burden as that on my
mind. A bookmaker! A blackguard bookmaker! To think my son should come to
that! _You_ know very well, Mr. Lott, that there's nothing I hate and
despise more than horse-racing. We've often talked about it, and the harm
it does, and the sin and shame it is that such doings should be
permitted--haven't we?'

'Course we have, course we have,' returned the other, with a nod. But he
was absorbed in his own reflections, and gave only half an ear to the
gasping vehemences which Mr. Daffy poured forth for the next ten minutes.
There followed a short silence, then the strong man shook himself and
opened his lips.

'Do you know _my_ idea?' he blurted out.

'What's that, Mr. Lott?'

'If I were you I wouldn't go to see Bowles. Better for me to do that. We've
only gossip to go upon, and we know what that often amounts to. Leave
Bowles to me, and go and see your son.'

'But I don't even know where he's living.'

'You don't? That's awkward. Well then, come along with me to Bowles's place
of business; as likely as not, if we find him, he'll be able to give you
your son's address. What do you say to my idea, Mr. Daffy?'

The tailor assented to this arrangement, on condition that, if things were
found to be as he had heard, he should be left free to obey his conscience.
The stopping of the train at an intermediate station, where new passengers
entered, put an end to the confidential talk. Mr. Daffy, breathing hard,
struggled with his painful thoughts; the timber-merchant, deeply
meditative, let his eyes wander about the carriage. As they drew near to
the London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend.

'I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew,' he remarked, 'but I can't
for the life of me think what it had better be.'

'Perhaps you'll see something in a shop-window,' suggested Mr. Daffy.

'Maybe I shall.'

They alighted at Liverpool Street. Mr. Lott hailed a hansom, and they were
driven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a building
divided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. This
firm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase with
misgiving.

'No need for you to go up,' said his companion. 'Wait here, and I'll see if
I can get the address.'

Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes. He came down again with his
lips hard set, knocking each step sharply with his walking-stick.

'I've got it,' he said, and named a southern suburb.

'Have you seen Mr. Bowles?'

'No; he's out of town,' was the reply. 'Saw his partner.'

They walked side by side for a short way, then Mr. Lott stopped.

'Do you know _my_ idea? It's a little after eleven. I'm going to see my
daughter, and I dare say I shall catch the 3.49 home from Liverpool Street.
Suppose we take our chance of meeting there?'

Thus it was agreed. Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son's abode;
the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park,
where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles.
The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had
alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on
going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minutes
elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted. The hall struck him as rather bare;
and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for,
excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite
unfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and
her head bent--an attitude indicative of distress or shame.

'Are you moving, Jane?' inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously.

His daughter looked at him. She had a comely face, with no little of the
paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes
bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible.

'Yes, we are moving, father.'

Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her,
his hands resting on his stick.

'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?'

'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.'

'You've had the brokers in the house--isn't that it, eh?'

Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her
shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Jane
would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father
turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked
abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house. Mrs.
Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another
room. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had
vanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present
necessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage
to break the silence.

'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the men
came in the afternoon. He had a promise--a distinct promise--that this
shouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to have
money.'

'Who's the creditor?' inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face.

Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down.

'Is it Charles Daffy?'

Still his daughter kept silence.

'I thought so,' said the timber-merchant, and clumped on the floor with his
stick. 'You'd better tell me all about it, Jane. I know something already.
Better let us talk it over, my girl, and see what can be done.'

He waited a moment. Then his daughter tried to speak, with difficulty
overcame a sob, and at length began her story. She would not blame her
husband. He had been unlucky in speculations, and was driven to a
money-lender--his acquaintance, Charles Daffy. This man, a heartless
rascal, had multiplied charges and interest on a small sum originally
borrowed, until it became a crushing debt. He held a bill of sale on most
of their furniture, and yesterday, as if he knew of Bowles's absence, had
made the seizure; he was within his legal rights, but had led the debtor to
suppose that he would not exercise them. Thus far did Jane relate, in a
hard matter-of-fact voice, but with many nervous movements. Her father
listened in grim silence, and, when she ceased, appeared to reflect.

'That's _your_ story!' he said of a sudden. 'Now, what about the
horse-racing?'

'I know nothing of horse-racing,' was the cold reply.

'Bowles keeps all that to himself, does he? We'd better have our talk out,
Jane, now that we've begun. Better tell me all you know, my girl.'

Again there was a long pause; but Mr. Lott had patience, and his dogged
persistency at length overcame the wife's pride. Yes, it was true that
Bowles had lost money at races; he had been guilty of much selfish folly;
but the ruin it had brought upon him would serve as a lesson. He was a
wretched and a penitent man; a few days ago he had confessed everything to
his wife, and besought her to pardon him; at present he was making
desperate efforts to recover an honest footing. The business might still be
carried on if some one could be induced to put a little capital into it;
with that in view, Bowles had gone to see certain relatives of his in the
north. If his hope failed, she did not know what was before them; they had
nothing left now but their clothing and the furniture of one or two rooms.

'Would you like to come back home for a while?' asked Mr. Lott abruptly.

'No, father,' was the not less abrupt reply. 'I couldn't do that.'

'I'll give no money to Bowles.'

'He has never asked you, and never will.'

Mr. Lott glared and glowered, but, with all that, had something in his face
which hinted softness. The dialogue did not continue much longer; it ended
with a promise from Mrs. Bowles to let her father know whether her husband
succeeded or not in re-establishing himself. Thereupon they shook hands
without a word, and Mr. Lott left the house. He returned to the City, and,
it being now nearly two o'clock, made a hearty meal. When he was in the
street again, he remembered the birthday present he wished to buy for his
nephew, and for half an hour he rambled vaguely, staring into shop-windows.
At length something caught his eye; it was a row of riding-whips, mounted
in silver; just the thing, he said to himself, to please a lad who would
perhaps ride to hounds next winter. He stepped in, chose carefully, and
made the purchase. Then, having nothing left to do, he walked at a
leisurely pace towards the railway station.

Mr. Daffy was there before him; they met at the entrance to the platform
from which their train would start.

'Must you go back by this?' asked the tailor. 'My son wasn't at home, and
won't be till about five o'clock. I should be terribly obliged, Mr. Lott,
if you could stay and go to Clapham with me. Is it asking too much?'

The timber-merchant gave a friendly nod, and said it was all the same to
him. Then, in reply to anxious questions, he made brief report of what he
had learnt at Finsbury Park. Mr. Daffy was beside himself with wrath and
shame. He would pay every farthing, if he had to sell all he possessed!

'I'm so glad and so thankful you will come with me Mr. Lott. He'd care
nothing for what _I_ said; but when he sees _you_, and hears your opinion
of him, it may have some effect. I beg you to tell him your mind plainly!
Let him know what a contemptible wretch, what a dirty blackguard, he is in
the eyes of all decent folk--let him know it, I entreat you! Perhaps even
yet it isn't too late to make him ashamed of himself.'

They stood amid a rush of people; the panting tailor clung to his big
companion's sleeve. Gruffly promising to do what he could, Mr. Lott led the
way into the street again, where they planned the rest of their day. By
five o'clock they were at Clapham. Charles Daffy occupied the kind of house
which is known as eminently respectable; it suggested an income of at least
a couple of thousand a year. As they waited for the door to open, Mr. Lott
smote gently on his leg with the new riding-whip. He had been silent and
meditative all the way hither.

A smart maidservant conducted them to the dining-room, and there, in a
minute or two, they were joined by Mr. Charles. No one could have surmised
from this gentleman's appearance that he was the son of the little
tradesman who stood before him; nature had given the younger Mr. Daffy a
tall and shapely person, and experience of life had refined his manners to
an easy assurance he would never have learnt from paternal example. His
smooth-shaven visage, so long as it remained grave, might have been that of
an acute and energetic lawyer; his smile, however, disturbed this
impression, for it had a twinkling insolence, a raffish facetiousness,
incompatible with any sober quality. He wore the morning dress of a City
man, with collar and necktie of the latest fashion; his watchguard was
rather demonstrative, and he had two very solid rings on his left hand.

'Ah, dad, how do you do!' he exclaimed, on entering, in an affected
head-voice. 'Why, what's the matter?'

Mr. Daffy had drawn back, refusing the offered hand. With an unpleasant
smile Charles turned to his other visitor.

'Mr. Lott, isn't it! You're looking well, Mr. Lott; but I suppose you
didn't come here just to give me the pleasure of seeing you. I'm rather a
busy man; perhaps one or the other of you will be good enough to break this
solemn silence, and let me know what your game is.'

He spoke with careless impertinence, and let himself drop on to a chair.
The others remained standing, and Mr. Daffy broke into vehement speech.

'I have come here, Charles, to ask what you mean by disgracing yourself and
dishonouring my name. Only yesterday, for the first time, I heard of the
life you are leading. Is this how you repay me for all the trouble I took
to have you well educated, and to make you an honest man? Here I find you
living in luxury and extravagance--and how? On stolen money--money as much
stolen as if you were a pickpocket or a burglar! A pleasant thing for me to
have all my friends talking about Charles Daffy, the bookmaker and the
moneylender! What _right_ have you to dishonour your father in this way? I
ask, what _right_ have you, Charles?'

Here the speaker, who had struggled to gasp his last sentence, was overcome
with a violent fit of coughing. He tottered back and sank on to a sofa.

'Are you here to look after him?' asked Charles of Mr. Lott, crossing his
legs and nodding towards the sufferer. 'If so, I advise you to take him
away before he does himself harm. You're a _lot_ bigger than he is and
perhaps have more sense.'

The timber-merchant stood with legs slightly apart, holding his stick and
the riding-whip horizontally with both hands. His eyes were fixed upon
young Mr. Daffy, and his lips moved in rather an ominous way; but he made
no reply to Charles's smiling remark.

'Mr. Lott,' said the tailor, in a voice still broken by pants and coughs,
'will you speak or me? Will you say what you think of him?'

'You'll have to be quick about it,' interposed Charles, with a glance at
his watch. 'I can give you five minutes; you can say a _lot_ in that time,
if you're sound of wind.'

The timber-merchant's eyes were very wide, and his cheeks unusually red.
Abruptly he turned to Mr. Daffy.

'Do you know _my_ idea?'

But just as he spoke there sounded a knock at the door, and the smart
maidservant cried out that a gentleman wished to see her master.

'Who is it?' asked Charles.

The answer came from the visitor himself, who, pushing the servant aside,
broke into the room. It was a young man of no very distinguished
appearance, thin, red-haired, with a pasty complexion and a scrubby
moustache; his clothes were approaching shabbiness, and he had an unwashed
look, due in part to hasty travel on this hot day. Streaming with sweat,
his features distorted with angry excitement, he shouted as he entered,
'You've got to see me, Daffy; I won't be refused!' In the same moment his
glance discovered the two visitors, and he stopped short. 'Mr. Lott, you
here? I'm glad of it--I'm awfully glad of it. I couldn't have wished
anything better. I don't know who this other gentleman is, but it doesn't
matter. I'm glad to have witnesses--I'm infernally glad! Mr. Lott, you've
been to my house this morning; you know what's happened there. I had to go
out of town yesterday, and this Daffy, this cursed liar and swindler, used
the opportunity to sell up my furniture. He'll tell you he had a legal
right. But he gave me his word not to do anything till the end of the
month. And, in any case, I don't really owe him half the sum he has down
against me. I've paid that black-hearted scoundrel hundreds of
pounds--honourably paid him--debts of honour, and now he has the face to
charge me sixty per cent, on money I was fool enough to borrow from him!
Sixty per cent.--what do you think of that, Mr. Lott? What do _you_ think
of it, sir?'

'I'm sorry to say it doesn't at all surprise me,' answered Mr. Daffy, who
perceived that the speaker was Mr. Lott's son-in-law. 'But I can't
sympathise with you very much. If you have dealings with a book-maker--'

'A blackleg, a blackleg!' shouted Bowles. 'Bookmakers are respectable men
in comparison with him. He's bled me, the brute! He tempted me on and on--
Look here, Mr. Lott, I know as well as you do that I've been an infernal
fool. I've had my eyes opened--now that it's too late. I hear my wife told
you that, and I'm glad she did. I've been a fool, yes; but I fell into the
hands of the greatest scoundrel unhung, and he's ruined me. You heard from
Jane what I was gone about. It's no good. I came back by the first train
this morning without a mouthful of breakfast. It's all up with me; I'm a
cursed beggar--and that thief is the cause of it. And he comes into my
house no better than a burglar--and lays his hands on everything that'll
bring money. Where's the account of that sale, you liar? I'll go to a
magistrate about this.'

Charles Daffy sat in a reposeful attitude. The scene amused him; he
chuckled inwardly from time to time. But of a sudden his aspect changed; he
started up, and spoke with a snarling emphasis.

'I've had just about enough. Look here, clear out, all of you! There's the
door--go!'

Mr. Daffy moved towards him.

'Is that how you speak to your father, Charles?' he exclaimed indignantly.

'Yes, it is. Take your hook with the others; I'm sick of your tommy-rot!'

'Then listen to me before I go,' cried Mr. Daffy, his short and awkward
figure straining in every muscle for the dignity of righteous wrath. 'I
don't know whether you are more a fool or a knave. Perhaps you really think
that there's as much to be said for your way of earning a living as for any
other. I hope you do, for it's a cruel thing to suppose that my son has
turned out a shameless scoundrel. Let me tell you, then, this business of
yours is one that moves every honest and sensible man to anger and disgust.
It matters nothing whether you keep the rules of the blackguard game, or
whether you cheat; the difference between bookmaker and blackleg is so
small that it isn't worth talking about. You live by the plunder of people
who are foolish and vicious enough to fall into your clutches. You're an
enemy of society--that's the plain truth of it; as much an enemy of society
as the forger or the burglar. You live--and live in luxury--by the worst
vice of our time, the vice which is rotting English life, the vice which
will be our national ruin if it goes on much longer. When you were a boy,
you've heard me many a time say all I thought about racing and betting;
you've heard me speak with scorn of the high-placed people who set so vile
an example to the classes below them. If I could have foreseen that _you_
would sink to such disgrace!'

Charles was standing in an attitude of contemptuous patience. He looked at
his watch and interjected a remark.

'I can only allow your eloquence one minute and a half more.'

'That will be enough,' replied his father sternly. 'The only thing I have
to add is, that all the money you have stolen from Mr. Bowles I, as a
simple duty, shall repay. You're no longer a boy. In the eye of the law I
am not responsible for you; but for very shame I must make good the wrong
you have done in this case. I couldn't stand in my shop day by day, and
know that every one was saying, "There's the man whose son ruined Mr.
Lott's son-in-law and sold up his home," unless I had done all I could to
repair the mischief. I shall ask Mr. Bowles for a full account of what he
has lost to you, and if it's in my power, every penny shall be made good.
He, thank goodness, seems to have learnt his lesson.'

'That I have, Mr. Daffy; that I have!' cried Bowles.

'There's not much fear that _he_'ll fall into your clutches again. And I
hope, I most earnestly hope, that before you can do much more harm, you'll
overreach yourself, and the law--stupid as it is--will get hold of you.
Remember the father I was, Charles, and think what it means that the best
wish I can now form for you is that you may come to public disgrace.'

'Does no one applaud?' asked Charles, looking round the room. 'That's
rather unkind, seeing how the speaker has blown himself. Be off, dad, and
don't fool any longer. Bowles, take your hook. Mr. Lott--'

Charles met the eye of the timber-merchant, and was unexpectedly mute.

'Well, sir,' said Mr. Lott, regarding him fixedly, 'and what have you to
say to _me_?'

'Only that my time is too valuable to be wasted,' continued the other, with
an impatient gesture. 'Be good enough to leave my house.'

'Mr. Lott,' said the tailor in an exhausted voice, 'I apologise to you for
my son's rudeness. I gave you the trouble of coming here hoping it might
shame him, but I'm afraid it's been no good. Let us go.'

Mr. Lott regarded him mildly.

'Mr. Daffy,' he said, 'if _you_ don't mind, I should like to have a word in
private with your son. Do you and Mr. Bowles go on to the station, and wait
for me; perhaps I shall catch you up before you get there.'

'I have told you already, Mr. Lott,' shouted Charles, 'that I can waste no
more time on you. I refuse to talk with you at all.'

'And I, Mr. Charles Daffy,' was the resolute answer, 'refuse to leave this
room till I have had a word with you.'

'What do you want to say?' asked Charles brutally.

'Just to let you know an idea of mine,' was the reply, 'an idea that's come
to me whilst I've stood here listening.'

The tailor and Mr. Bowles moved towards the door. Charles glanced at them
fiercely and insolently, then turned his look again upon the man who
remained. The other two passed out; the door closed. Mr. Lott, stick and
riding-whip still held horizontally, seemed to be lost in meditation.

'Now,' blurted Charles, 'what is it?'

Mr. Lott regarded him steadily, and spoke with his wonted deliberation.

'You heard what your father said about paying that money back?'

'Of course I heard. If he's idiot enough--'

'Do you know _my_ idea, young man? You'd better do the honest thing, and
repay it yourself.'

Charles stared for a moment, then sputtered a laugh.

'That's _your_ idea, is it, Mr. Lott? Well, it isn't mine. So, good
morning!'

Again the timber-merchant seemed to meditate; his eyes wandered from
Charles to the dining-room table.

'Just a minute more,' he resumed; 'I have another idea--not a new one; an
idea that came to me long ago, when your father first began to have trouble
about you. I happened to be in the shop one day--it was when you were
living idle at your father's expense, young man--and I heard you speak to
him in what I call a confoundedly impertinent way. Thinking it over
afterwards, I said to myself: If I had a son who spoke to me like that, I'd
give him the soundest thrashing he'd be ever likely to get. That was my
idea, young man; and as I stood listening to you to-day, it came back into
my mind again. Your father can't thrash you; he hasn't the brawn for it.
But as it's nothing less than a public duty, somebody _must_, and so--'

Charles, who had been watching every movement of the speaker's face,
suddenly sprang forward, making for the door. But Mr. Lott had foreseen
this; with astonishing alertness and vigour he intercepted the fugitive
seized him by the scruff of the neck, and, after a moment's struggle,
pinned him face downwards across the end of the table. His stick he had
thrown aside; the riding-whip he held between his teeth. So brief was this
conflict that there sounded only a scuffling of feet on the floor, and a
growl of fury from Charles as he found himself handled like an infant;
then, during some two minutes, one might have thought that a couple of very
strenuous carpet-beaters were at work in the room. For the space of a dozen
switches Charles strove frantically with wild kicks, which wounded only the
air, but all in silence; gripped only the more tightly, he at length
uttered a yell of pain, followed by curses hot and swift. Still the
carpet-beaters seemed to be at work, and more vigorously than ever. Charles
began to roar. As it happened, there were only servants in the house. When
the clamour had lasted long enough to be really alarming, knocks sounded at
the door, which at length was thrown open, and the startled face of a
domestic appeared. At the same moment Mr. Lott, his right arm being weary,
brought the castigatory exercise to an end. Charles rolled to his feet, and
began to strike out furiously with both fists.

'Just as you like, young man,' said the timber-merchant, as he coolly
warded off the blows, 'if you wish to have it this way too. But, I warn
you, it isn't a fair match. Sally, shut the door and go about your
business.'

'Shall I fetch a p'liceman, sir?' shrilled the servant.

Her master, sufficiently restored to his senses to perceive that he had not
the least chance in a pugilistic encounter with Mr. Lott, drew back and
seemed to hesitate.

'Answer the girl,' said Mr. Lott, as he picked up his whip and examined its
condition. 'Shall we have a policeman in?'

'Shut the door!' Charles shouted fiercely.

The men gazed at each other. Daffy was pale and quivering; his hair in
disorder, his waistcoat torn open, collar and necktie twisted into rags, he
made a pitiful figure. The timber-merchant was slightly heated, but his
countenance wore an expression of calm contentment.

'For the present,' remarked Mr. Lott, as he took up his hat and stick, 'I
think our business is at an end. It isn't often that a fellow of your sort
gets his deserts, and I'm rather sorry we didn't have the policeman in; a
report of the case might do good. I bid you good day, young man. If I were
you I'd sit quiet for an hour or two, and just reflect--you've a _lot_ to
think about.'

So, with a pleasant smile, the visitor took his leave.

As he walked away he again examined the riding-whip. 'It isn't often a
thing happens so luckily,' he said to himself. 'First-rate whip; hardly a
bit damaged. Harry'll like it none the worse for my having handselled it.'

At the station he found Mr. Daffy and Bowles, who regarded him with
questioning looks.

'Nothing to be got out of him,' said Mr. Lott. 'Bowles, I want a talk with
you and Jane; it'll be best, perhaps, if I go back home with you. Mr.
Daffy, sorry we can't travel down together. You'll catch the eight
o'clock.'

'I hope you told him plainly what you thought of him,' said Mr. Daffy, in a
voice of indignant shame.

'I did,' answered the timber-merchant, 'and I don't think he's very likely
to forget it.'




FATE AND THE APOTHECARY


'Farmiloe. Chemist by Examination.' So did the good man proclaim himself to
a suburb of a city in the West of England. It was one of those pretty,
clean, fresh-coloured suburbs only to be found in the west; a few dainty
little shops, everything about them bright or glistening, scattered among
pleasant little houses with gardens eternally green and all but perennially
in bloom; every vista ending in foliage, and in one direction a far glimpse
of the Cathedral towers, sending forth their music to fall dreamily upon
these quiet roads. The neighbourhood seemed to breathe a tranquil
prosperity. Red-cheeked emissaries of butcher, baker, and grocer,
order-book in hand, knocked cheerily at kitchen doors, and went smiling
away; the ponies they drove were well fed and frisky, their carts spick and
span. The church of the parish, an imposing edifice, dated only from a few
years ago, and had cost its noble founder a sum of money which any
church-going parishioner would have named to you with proper awe. The
population was largely female, and every shopkeeper who knew his business
had become proficient in bowing, smiling, and suave servility.

Mr. Farmiloe, it is to be feared, had no very profound acquaintance with
his business from any point of view. True, he was 'chemist by examination,'
but it had cost him repeated efforts to reach this unassailable ground and
more than one pharmaceutist with whom he abode as assistant had felt it a
measure of prudence to dispense with his services. Give him time, and he
was generally equal to the demands of suburban customers; hurry or
interrupt him, and he showed himself anything but the man for a crisis.
Face and demeanour were against him. He had exceedingly plain features, and
a persistently sour expression; even his smile suggested sarcasm. He could
not tune his voice to the tradesman note, and on the slightest provocation
he became, quite unintentionally, offensive. Such a man had no chance
whatever in this flowery and bowery little suburb.

Yet he came hither with hopes. One circumstance seemed to him especially
favourable: the shop was also a post-office, and no one could fail to see
(it was put most impressively by the predecessor who sold him the business)
how advantageous was this blending of public service with commercial
interest; especially as there was no telegraphic work to make a skilled
assistant necessary. As a matter of course, people using the post-office
would patronise the chemist; and a provincial chemist can add to his
legitimate business sundry pleasant little tradings which benefit himself
without provoking the jealousy of neighbour shopmen. 'It will be your own
fault, my dear sir, if you do not make a very good thing of it indeed. The
sole and sufficient explanation of--of the decline during this last year or
two is my shocking health. I really have _not_ been able to do justice to
the business.'

Necessarily, Mr. Farmiloe entered into negotiation with the postal
authorities; and it was with some little disappointment that he learnt how
very modest could be his direct remuneration for the responsibilities and
labours he undertook. The Post-Office is a very shrewdly managed department
of the public service; it has brought to perfection the art of obtaining
_maximum_ results with a _minimum_ expenditure. But Mr. Farmiloe remembered
the other aspect of the matter; he would benefit so largely by this
ill-paid undertaking that grumbling was foolish. Moreover, the thing
carried dignity with it; he served his Majesty, he served the nation.
And--ha, ha!--how very odd it would be to post one's letters in one's own
post-office. One might really get a good deal of amusement out of the
thought, after business hours. His age was eight-and-thirty. For some years
he had pondered matrimony, though without fixing his affections on any
particular person. It was plain, indeed, that he ought to marry. Every
tradesman is made more respectable by wedlock, and a chemist who, in some
degree, resembles a medical man, seems especially to stand in need of the
matrimonial guarantee. Had it been feasible, Mr. Farmiloe would have
brought a wife with him from the town where he had lived for the past few
years, but he was in the difficult position of knowing not a single
marriageable female to whom he could address himself with hope or with
self-respect. Natural shyness had always held him aloof from reputable
women; he felt that he could not recommend himself to them--he who had such
an unlucky aptitude for saying the wrong word or keeping silence when
speech was demanded. With the men of his acquaintance he could relieve his
sense of awkwardness and deficiency by becoming aggressive; in fact, he had
a reputation for cantankerousness, for pugnacity, which kept most of his
equals in some awe of him, and to perceive this was one solace amid many
discontents. Nicely dressed and well-spoken and good-looking women above
the class of domestic servants he worshipped from afar, and only in
vivacious moments pictured himself as the wooer of such a superior being.

It seemed as though fate could do nothing with Mr. Farmiloe. At
six-and-thirty he suffered the shock of learning that a relative--an old
woman to whom he had occasionally written as a matter of kindness (Farmiloe
could do such things)--had left him by will the sum of £600. It was
strictly a shock; it upset his health for several days, and not for a week
or two could he realise the legacy as a fact. Just when he was beginning to
look about him with a new air of confidence, the solicitors who were
managing the little affair for him drily acquainted him with the fact that
his relative's will was contested by other kinsfolk whom the old woman had
passed over, on the ground that she was imbecile and incapable of
conducting her affairs. There followed a law-suit, which consumed many
months and cost a good deal of money; so that, though he won his case, Mr.
Farmiloe lost all satisfaction in his improved circumstances, and was only
more embittered against the world at large.

Then, no sooner had he purchased his business, than he learnt from smiling
neighbours that he had paid considerably too much for it. His predecessor,
beyond a doubt, would have taken very much less; had, indeed, been on the
point of doing so just when Mr. Farmiloe appeared. This kind of experience
is a trial to any man. It threw Mr. Farmiloe into a silent rage, with the
result that two or three customers who chanced to enter his shop declared
that they would never have anything more to do with such a surly creature.

And now began his torment--a form of exasperation peculiar to his dual
capacity of shopkeeper and manager of a post-office. All day long he stood
on the watch for customers--literally stood, now behind the counter, now in
front of it, his eager and angry eyes turning to the door whenever the
steps of a passer-by sounded without. If the door opened his nerves began
to tingle, and he straightened himself like a soldier at attention. For a
moment he suffered an agony of doubt. Would the person entering turn to the
counter or to the post-office? And seldom was his hope fulfilled; not one
in four of the people who came in was a genuine customer; the post-office,
always the post-office. A stamp, a card, a newspaper wrapper, a
postal-order, a letter to be registered--anything but an honest purchase
across the counter or the blessed tendering of a prescription to make up.
From vexation he passed to annoyance, to rage, to fury; he cursed the
post-office, and committed to eternal perdition the man who had waxed
eloquent upon its advantages.

Of course, he had hired an errand-boy, and never had errand-boy so little
legitimate occupation. Resolved not to pay him for nothing, Mr. Farmiloe
kept him cleaning windows, washing bottles, and the like, until the lad
fairly broke into rebellion. If this was the sort of work he was engaged
for he must have higher wages; he wasn't over strong and his mother said he
must lead an open-air life--that was why he had taken the place. To be
bearded thus in his own shop was too much for Mr. Farmiloe, he seized the
opportunity of giving his wrath full swing, and burst into a frenzy of
vilification. Just as his passion reached its height (he stood with his
back to the door) there entered a lady who wished to make a large purchase
of disinfectants. Alarmed and scandalised at what was going on, she had no
sooner crossed the threshold than she turned again, and hurried away. Her
friends were not long in learning from her that the new chemist was a most
violent man, a most disagreeable person--the very last man one could think
of doing business with.

The home was but poorly furnished, and Mr. Farmiloe had engaged a very
cheap general servant, who involved him in dirt and discomfort. It was a
matter of talk among the neighbouring tradesmen that the chemist lived in a
beggarly fashion. When the dismissed errand-boy spread the story of how he
had been used, people jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Farmiloe drank.
Before long there was a legend that he had been suffering from an acute
attack of delirium tremens.

The post-office, always the post-office. If he sat down at a meal the
shop-bell clanged, and hope springing eternal, he hurried forth in
readiness to make up a packet or concoct a mixture; but it was an old lady
who held him in talk for ten minutes about rates of postage to South
America. When, by rare luck, he had a prescription to dispense (the hideous
scrawl of that pestilent Dr. Bunker) in came somebody with letters and
parcels which he was requested to weigh; and his hand shook so with rage
that he could not resume his dispensing for the next quarter of an hour.
People asked extraordinary questions, and were surprised, offended, when he
declared he could not answer them. When could a letter be delivered at a
village on the north-west coast of Ireland? Was it true that the
Post-Office contemplated a reduction of rates to Hong-Kong? Would he
explain in detail the new system of express delivery? Invariably he
betrayed impatience, and occasionally he lost his temper; people went away
exclaiming what a _horrid man_ he was!

'Mr. What's-your-name,' said a shopkeeper one day, after receiving a short
answer, 'I shall make it my business to complain of you to the
Postmaster-General. I don't come here to be insulted.'

'Who insulted you?' returned Farmiloe like a sullen schoolboy.

'Why, you did. And you are always doing it.'

'I'm not.'

'You are.'

'If I did'--terror stole upon the chemist's heart--'I didn't mean it, and
I--I'm sure I apologise. It's a way I have.'

'A damned bad way, let me tell you. I advise you to get out of it.'

'I'm sorry--'

'So you should be.'

And the tradesman walked off, only half appeased.

Mr. Farmiloe could have shed tears in his mortification, and for some
minutes he stood looking at a bottle of laudanum, wishing he had the
courage to have done with life. Plainly he could not live very long unless
things improved. His ready money was coming to an end, rents and taxes
loomed before him. An awful thought of bankruptcy haunted him in the early
morning hours.

The most frequent visitor to the post-office was a well-dressed,
middle-aged man, who spoke civilly, and did his business in the fewest
possible words. Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once or
twice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result. One
day, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had in
mind. After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, he
said, in a tone meant to be conciliatory--

'I don't know whether you ever have need of mineral waters, sir?'

'Why, yes, sometimes. My ordinary tradesman supplies them.'

'I thought I'd just mention that I keep them in stock.'

'Ah--thank you--'

'I've noticed,' went on the luckless apothecary, his bosom heaving with a
sense of his wrongs, 'that you're a pretty large customer of the
post-office, and it seems to me'--he meant to speak jocosely--'that it
would be only fair if you gave _me_ a turn now and then. I get next to
nothing out of _this_, you know. I should be much obliged if you--'

The man of few words was looking at him, half in surprise, half in
indignation, and when the chemist blundered into silence he spoke:--

'I really have nothing to do with that. As a matter of fact, I was on the
point of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object to
this kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere.'

He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of all
about him, glared at vacancy.

Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloe
had been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities,
with the result that an official called at the chemist's shop. The
interview was unpleasant. It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the first
time) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always in
demand by the public--halfpenny stamps, for instance. Moreover, his
accounts were not in perfect order. This, he had to hear, was emphatically
unbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do.

'It shall not occur again, sir,' mumbled the unhappy man. 'But, if you
consider my position--'

'Mr. Farmiloe, allow me to tell you that this is a matter for your _own_
consideration, and no one else's.'

'True, sir, quite true. Still, when you come to think of it--I assure
you--'

'The only assurance I want is that the business of the post-office will be
properly attended to, and that assurance I must have. I shall probably call
again before long. Good morning.'

It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clock
strike eight on Saturday evening. His shop remained open till ten, but at
eight came the end of the post-office business. If, as happened, any one
entered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request.
These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man. After
eating his poor supper, he smoked a pipe or two of cheap tobacco, brooding;
or he fingered the pages of his menacing account-books; or, very rarely, he
walked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many a
tragi-comic gesture and ejaculation, why he could not get on like other
men.

One afternoon it seemed that he, at length, had his chance. There entered a
maidservant with a prescription to be made up and sent as soon as possible.
A glance at the name delighted Mr. Farmiloe; it was that of the richest
family in the suburbs. The medicine, to be sure, was only for a governess,
but his existence was recognised, and the patronage of such people would do
him good. But for the never-sufficiently-to-be-condemned handwriting of Dr.
Bunker, the prescription offered no difficulty. Rubbing his palms together,
and smiling as he seldom smiled, he told the domestic that the medicine
should be delivered in less than half an hour.

Scarcely had he begun upon it, when a lady came in, a lady whom he knew
well. Her business was at the post-office side, and she looked a peremptory
demand for his attention. Inwardly furious, he crossed the shop.

'Be so good as to tell me what this will cost by book-post.'

It seemed to be a pamphlet. Giving a glance at one of the open ends, Mr.
Farmiloe saw handwriting within, and his hostility to the woman found vent
in a sharp remark.

'There's a written communication in this. It will be letter rate.'

The lady eyed him with terrible scorn.

'You will oblige me by minding your own business. Your remark is the merest
impertinence. That packet consists of MS., and will, therefore, go at book
rate. Be so good as to weigh it at once.'

Mr. Farmiloe lost all control of himself, and well-nigh screamed.

'No, madam, I will _not_ weigh it. And let me inform you, as you are so
ignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely to
oblige civil persons, and you, madam, are not one of them.'

The lady instantly turned and withdrew.

'Damn the post-office!' yelled Mr. Farmiloe, alone with his errand-boy, and
shaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. I
say--_damn_ the post-office.'

He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in the
customary manner, and despatched the boy to the house.

Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in a
cold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had taken
the bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struck
him, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. In
the irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almost
mechanically. The bottle he ought to have taken down was _that_, but had he
not actually poured from that other? Of poisoning there was no fear, but,
if indeed he had made a slip, the result would be a very extraordinary
mixture; so surprising, in fact, that the patient would be sure to speak to
Dr. Bunker about it. Good heavens! He felt sure he had made the mistake.

Any other man would have taken down the two bottles in question, and have
examined the mouths of them for traces of moisture. Mr. Farmiloe, a victim
of destiny, could do nothing so reasonable. Heedless of the fact that his
shop remained unguarded, he seized his hat and rushed after the errand-boy.
If he could only have a sniff at the mixture it would either confirm his
fear or set his mind at rest. He tore along the road--and was too late. The
boy met him, having just completed his errand.

With a wild curse he sped to the house, he rushed to the tradesman's door.
The medicine just delivered! He must examine it--he feared there was a
mistake--an extraordinary oversight.

The bottle had not yet been upstairs. Mr. Farmiloe tore off the wrapper,
wrenched out the cork, sniffed--and smiled feebly.

'Thank you. I'm glad to find there was _no_ mistake. I'll take it back, and
have it wrapped up again, and send it immediately--immediately. And, by the
bye'--he fumbled in his pocket for half-a-crown, still smiling like a
detected culprit--'I'm sure you won't mention this little affair. A new
assistant of mine--stupid fellow--I am going to get rid of him at once.
Thank you, thank you.'

Notwithstanding that half-crown the incident was, of course, talked of
through the house before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Next day it was
the gossip of the suburbs; and the day after the city itself heard the
story. People were alarmed and scandalised. Why, such a chemist was a
public danger! One lady declared that he ought at once to be 'struck off
the roll!'

And so in a sense he was. Another month and the flowery, bowery little
suburb knew him no more. He hid himself in a great town, living on the
wreck of his fortune whilst he sought a place as an assistant. A leaky pair
of boots and a bad east wind found the vulnerable spot of his constitution.
After all, there was just enough money left to bury him.




TOPHAM'S CHANCE



CHAPTER I


On a summer afternoon two surly men sat together in a London lodging. One
of them occupied an easy-chair, smoked a cigarette, and read the newspaper;
the other was seated at the table, with a mass of papers before him, on
which he laboured as though correcting exercises. They were much of an age,
and that about thirty, but whereas the idler was well dressed, his
companion had a seedy appearance and looked altogether like a man who
neglected himself. For half an hour they had not spoken.

Of a sudden the man in the chair jumped up.

'Well, I have to go into town,' he said gruffly, 'and it's uncertain when I
shall be back. Get that stuff cleared off, and reply to the urgent
letters--mind you write in the proper tone to Dixon--as soapy as you can
make it. Tell Miss Brewer we can't reduce the fees, but that we'll give her
credit for a month. Guarantee the Leicestershire fellow a pass if he begins
at once.'

The other, who listened, bit the end of his wooden penholder to splinters.

'All right,' he replied. 'But, look here, I want a little money.'

'So do I.'

'Yes, but you're not like me, without a coin in your pocket. Look here,
give me half-a-crown. I have absolute need of it. Why, I can't even get my
hair cut. I'm sick of this slavery.'

'Then go and do better,' cried the well-dressed man insolently. 'You were
glad enough of the job when I offered it to you. It's no good your looking
to me for money. I can do no more myself than just live; and as soon as I
see a chance, you may be sure I shall clear out of this rotten business.'

He moved towards the door, but before opening it stood hesitating.

'Want to get your hair cut, do you? Well, there's sixpence, and it's all I
can spare.'

The door closed. And the man at the table, leaning back, stared gloomily at
the sixpenny piece on the table before him.

His name was Topham; he had a university degree and a damaged reputation.
Six months ago, when his choice seemed to be between staying in the streets
and turning sandwich-man, luck had made him acquainted with Mr. Rudolph
Starkey, who wrote himself M.A. of Dublin University and advertised a
system of tuition by correspondence. In return for mere board and lodging
Topham became Mr. Starkey's assistant; that is to say, he did by far the
greater part of Mr. Starkey's work. The tutorial business was but
moderately successful; still, it kept its proprietor in cigarettes, and
enabled him to pass some hours a day at a club, where he was convinced that
before long some better chance in life would offer itself to him. Having
always been a lazy dog, Starkey regarded himself as an example of industry
unrewarded; being as selfish a fellow as one could meet, he reproached
himself with the unworldliness of his nature, which had so hindered him in
a basely material age. One of his ventures was a half-moral, half-practical
little volume entitled _Success in Life_. Had it been either more moral or
more practical, this book would probably have yielded him a modest income,
for such works are dear to the British public; but Rudolph Starkey, M.A.,
was one of those men who do everything by halves and snarl over the
ineffectual results.

Topham's fault was that of a man who had followed his instincts but too
thoroughly. They brought him to an end of everything, and, as Starkey said,
he had been glad enough to take the employment which was offered without
any inconvenient inquiries. The work which he undertook he did competently
and honestly for some time without a grumble. Beginning with a certain
gratitude to his employer, though without any liking, he soon grew to
detest the man, and had much ado to keep up a show of decent civility in
their intercourse. Of better birth and breeding than Starkey, he burned
with resentment at the scant ceremony with which he was treated, and
loathed the meanness which could exact so much toil for such poor
remuneration. When offering his terms Starkey had talked in that bland way
characteristic of him with strangers.

'I'm really ashamed to propose nothing better to a man of your standing.
But--well, I'm making a start, you see, and the fact of the matter is that,
just at present, I could very well manage to do all the work myself. Still,
if you think it worth your while, there's no doubt we shall get on
capitally together, and, of course, I need not say, as soon as our progress
justifies it, we must come to new arrangements. A matter of six or seven
hours a day will be all I shall ask of you at present. For my own part, I
work chiefly at night.'




CHAPTER II


By the end of the first month Topham was working, not six or seven, but ten
or twelve hours a day, and his spells of labour only lengthened as time
went on. Seeing himself victimised, he one day alluded to the promise of
better terms, but Starkey turned sour.

'You surprise me, Topham. Here are we, practically partners, doing our best
to make this thing a success, and all at once you spring upon me an
unreasonable demand. You know how expensive these rooms are--for we must
have a decent address. If you are dissatisfied, say so, and give me time to
look out for some one else.'

Topham was afraid of the street, and that his employer well knew. The
conversation ended in mutual sullenness, which thenceforward became the
note of their colloquies. Starkey felt himself a victim of ingratitude, and
consequently threw even more work upon his helpless assistant. That the
work was so conscientiously done did not at all astonish him. Now and then
he gave himself the satisfaction of finding fault: just to remind Topham
that his bread depended on another's goodwill. Congenial indolence grew
upon him, but he talked only the more of his ceaseless exertions. Sometimes
in the evening he would throw up his arms, yawn wearily, and declare that
so much toil with such paltry results was a heart-breaking thing.

Topham stared sullenly at the sixpence. This was but the latest of many
insults, yet never before had he so tasted the shame of his subjection.
Though he was earning a living, and a right to self-respect, more
strenuously than Starkey ever had, this fellow made him feel like a
mendicant. His nerves quivered, he struck the table fiercely, shouting
within himself, 'Brute! Cad!' Then he pocketed the coin and got on with his
duties.

It was toil of a peculiarly wearisome and enervating kind. Starkey's
advertisements, which were chiefly in the country newspapers, put him in
communication with persons of both sexes, and of any age from seventeen
onwards, the characteristic common to them all being inexperience and
intellectual helplessness. Most of these correspondents desired to pass
some examination; a few aimed--or professed to aim--merely at
self-improvement, or what they called 'culture.' Starkey, of course,
undertook tuition in any subject, to any end, stipulating only that his
fees should be paid in advance. Throughout the day his slave had been
correcting Latin and Greek exercises, papers in mathematical or physical
science, answers to historical questions: all elementary and many
grotesquely bad. On completing each set he wrote the expected comment;
sometimes briefly, sometimes at considerable length. He now turned to a
bundle of so-called essays, and on opening the first could not repress a
groan. No! This was beyond his strength. He would make up the parcels for
post, write the half-dozen letters that must be sent to-day, and go out.
Had he not sixpence in his pocket?

Just as he had taken this resolve some one knocked at the sitting-room
door, and with the inattention of a man who expects nothing, Topham bade
enter.

'A gen'man asking for Mr. Starkey, sir,' said the servant.

'All right. Send him in.'

And then entered a man whose years seemed to be something short of fifty, a
hale, ruddy-cheeked, stoutish man, whose dress and bearing made it probable
that he was no Londoner.

'Mr. Starkey, M.A.?' he inquired, rather nervously, though his smile and
his upright posture did not lack a certain dignity.

'Quite right,' murmured Topham, who was authorised to represent his
principal to any one coming on business. 'Will you take a seat?'

'You will know my name,' began the stranger. 'Wigmore--Abraham Wigmore.'

'Very glad to meet you, Mr. Wigmore. I was on the point of sending your
last batch of papers to the post. You will find, this time, I have been
able to praise them unreservedly.'

The listener fairly blushed with delight; then he grasped his short beard
with his left hand and laughed silently, showing excellent teeth.

'Well, Mr. Starkey,' he replied at length in a moderately subdued voice, 'I
did really think I'd managed better than usual. But there's much thanks due
to you, sir. You've helped me, Mr. Starkey, you really have. And that's one
reason why, happening to come up to London, I wished to have the pleasure
of seeing you; I really did want to thank you, sir.'




CHAPTER III


Topham was closely observing this singular visitor. He had always taken
'Abraham Wigmore' for a youth of nineteen or so, some not over-bright, but
plodding and earnest clerk or counter-man in the little Gloucestershire
town from which the correspondent wrote; it astonished him to see this
mature and most respectable person. They talked on. Mr. Wigmore had a
slight west-country accent, but otherwise his language differed little from
that of the normally educated; in every word he revealed a good and kindly,
if simple, nature. At length a slight embarrassment interfered with the
flow of his talk, which, having been solely of tuitional matters, began to
take a turn more personal. Was he taking too much of Mr. Starkey's time?
Reassured on this point, he begged leave to give some account of himself.

'I dare say, Mr. Starkey, you're surprised to see how old I am. It seems
strange to you, no doubt, that at my age I should be going to school.' He
grasped his beard and laughed. 'Well, it is strange, and I'd like to
explain it to you. To begin with, I'll tell you what my age is; I'm
seven-and-forty. Only that. But I'm the father of two daughters--both
married. Yes, I was married young myself, and my good wife died long ago,
more's the pity.'

He paused, looked round the room, stroked his hard-felt hat, Topham
murmuring a sympathetic sound.

'Now, as to my business, Mr. Starkey. I'm a fruiterer and greengrocer. I
might have said fruiterer alone; it sounds more respectable, but the honest
truth is, I do sell vegetables as well, and I want you to know that, Mr.
Starkey. Does it make you feel ashamed of me?'

'My dear sir! What business could be more honourable? I heartily wish I had
one as good and as lucrative.'

'Well, that's your kindness, sir,' said Wigmore, with a pleased smile. 'The
fact is, I have done pretty well, though I'm not by any means a rich man:
comfortable, that's all. I gave my girls a good schooling, and what with
that and their good looks, they've both made what may be called better
marriages than might have been expected. For down in our country, you know,
sir, a shopkeeper is one thing, and a gentleman's another. Now my girls
have married gentlemen.'

Again he paused, and with emphasis. Again Topham murmured, this time
congratulation.

'One of them is wife to a young solicitor; the other to a young gentleman
farmer. And they've both gone to live in another part of the country. I
dare say you understand that, Mr. Starkey?'

The speaker's eyes had fallen; at the same time a twitching of the brows
and hardening of the mouth changed the expression of his face, marking it
with an unexpected sadness, all but pain.

'Do you mean, Mr. Wigmore,' asked Topham, 'that your daughters desire to
live at a distance from you?'

'Well, I'm sorry to say that's what I do mean, Mr. Starkey. My son-in-law
the solicitor had intended practising in the town where he was born;
instead of that he went to another a long way off. My son-in-law the
gentleman farmer was to have taken a farm close by us; he altered his mind,
and went into another county. You see, sir! It's quite natural: I find no
fault. There's never been an unkind word between any of us. But--'

He was growing more and more embarrassed. Evidently the man had something
he wished to say, something to which he had been leading up by this
disclosure of his domestic affairs; but he could not utter his thoughts.
Topham tried the commonplaces naturally suggested by the situation; they
were received with gratitude, but still Mr. Wigmore hung his head and
talked vaguely, with hesitations, pauses.

'I've always been what one may call serious-minded, Mr. Starkey. As a boy I
liked reading, and I've always had a book at hand for my leisure time--the
kind of book that does one good. Just now I'm reading _The Christian Year_.
And since my daughters married--well, as I tell you, Mr. Starkey, I've done
pretty well in business--there's really no reason why I should keep on in
my shop, if I chose to--to do otherwise.'

'I quite understand,' interrupted Topham, in whom there began to stir a
thought which made his brain warm. 'You would like to retire from business.
And you would like to--well, to pursue your studies more seriously.'

Again Wigmore looked grateful, but even yet the burden was not off his
mind.

'I know,' he resumed presently, turning his hat round and round, 'that it
sounds a strange thing to say, but--well, sir, I've always done my best to
live as a religious man.'

'Of that I have no doubt whatever, Mr. Wigmore.'

'Well, then, sir, what I should like to ask you is this. Do you think, if I
gave up the shop and worked very hard at my studies--with help, of course,
with help,--do you think, Mr. Starkey, that I could hope to get on?'

He was red as a peony; his voice choked.

'You mean,' put in Topham, he, too, becoming excited, 'to become a really
well-educated man?'

'Yes, sir, yes. But more than that. I want, Mr. Starkey, to make
myself--something--so that my daughters and my sons-in-law would never feel
ashamed of me--so that their children won't be afraid to talk of their
grandfather. I know it's a very bold thought, sir, but if I could--'

'Speak, Mr. Wigmore,' cried Topham, quivering with curiosity, 'speak more
plainly. What do you wish to become? With competent help--of course, with
competent help--anything is possible.'

'Really?' exclaimed the other. 'You mean that, Mr. Starkey? Then, sir'--he
leaned forward, blushing, trembling, gasping--'could I get to be--a
curate?'

Topham fell back into his chair. For two or three minutes he was mute with
astonishment; then the very soul of him sang jubilee.

'My dear Mr. Wigmore,' he began, restraining himself to an impressive
gravity. 'I should be the last man to speak lightly of the profession of a
clergyman or to urge any one to enter the Church whom I thought unfitted
for the sacred office. But in your case, my good sir, there can be no such
misgiving. I entertain no doubt whatever of your fitness--your moral
fitness, and I will go so far as to say that with competent aid you might,
in no very long time, be prepared for the necessary examination.'

The listener laughed with delight. He began to talk rapidly, all diffidence
subdued. He told how the idea had first come to him, how he had brooded
upon it, how he had worked at elementary lesson-books, very secretly--then
how the sight of Starkey's advertisement had inspired him with hope.

'Just to get to be a curate--that's all. I should never be worthy of being
a vicar or a rector. I don't look so high as that, Mr. Starkey. But a
curate is a clergyman, and for my daughters to be able to say their father
is in the Church--that would be a good thing, sir, a good thing!'

He slapped his knee, and again laughed with joy. Meanwhile Topham seemed to
have become pensive, his head was on his hand.

'Oh,' he murmured at length, 'if I had time to work seriously with you,
several hours a day.'

Wigmore looked at him, and let his eyes fall: 'You are, of course, very
busy, Mr. Starkey!'

'Very busy.'

Topham waved his hand at the paper-covered table, and appeared to sink into
despondency. Thereupon Wigmore cautiously and delicately approached the
next thought he had in mind, Topham--cunning fellow--at one moment
facilitating, at another retarding what he wished to say. It came out at
last. Would it be quite impossible for Mr. Starkey to devote himself to one
sole pupil.




CHAPTER IV


'Mr. Wigmore, I will be frank with you. If I asked an equivalent for the
value of my business as a business, I could not expect you to agree to such
a proposal. But, to speak honestly, my health has suffered a good deal from
overwork, and I must take into consideration the great probability that in
any case, before long, I shall be obliged to find some position where the
duties were less exhausting.'

'Good gracious!' exclaimed the listener. 'Why, you'll kill yoursel, sir.
And I'm bound to say, you look far from well.'

Topham smiled pathetically, paused a moment as if to reflect, and continued
in the same tone of genial confidence. Let us consider the matter in
detail. Do you propose, Mr. Wigmore, to withdraw from business at once?'

The fruiterer replied that he could do so at very short notice. Questioned
as to his wishes regarding a place of residence, he declared that he was
ready to live in any place where, being unknown, he could make, as it were,
a new beginning.

'You would not feel impatient,' said Topham, 'if, say, two or three years
had to elapse before you could be ordained?'

'Impatient,' said the other cheerily. 'Why, if it took ten years I would go
through with it. When I make up my mind about a thing, I'm not easily
dismayed. If I could have your help, sir--'

The necessity of making a definite proposal turned Topham pale; he was so
afraid of asking too much. Almost in spite of himself, he at length spoke.
'Suppose we say--if I reside with you--that you pay me a salary of, well,
£200 a year?'

The next moment he inwardly raged. Wigmore's countenance expressed such
contentment, that it was plain the good man would have paid twice that sum.

'Ass!' cried Topham, in his mind. 'I always undervalue myself.'

       *       *       *       *       *

It was late that evening when Starkey came home; to his surprise he found
that Topham was later still. In vain he sat writing until past one o'clock.
Topham did not appear, and indeed never came back at all. The overworked
corresponding tutor was taking his ease at the seaside on the strength of a
quarter's salary in advance, which Mr. Wigmore, tremulously anxious to
clinch their bargain, had insisted on paying him. Before leaving London he
had written to Starkey, apologising for his abrupt departure, 'The result
of unforeseen circumstances.' He enclosed six penny stamps in repayment of
a sum lent, and added--

'When I think of my great debt to you I despair of expressing my gratitude.
Be assured, however, that the name of Starkey will always be cherished in
my remembrance.'

Under that name Topham dwelt with the retired shopkeeper, and assiduously
discharged his tutorial duties. A day came when, relying upon the
friendship between them, and his pupil's exultation in the progress
achieved, the tutor unbosomed himself. Having heard the whole story,
Wigmore laughed a great deal, and declared that such a fellow as Starkey
was rightly served.

'But,' he inquired, after reflection, 'how was it the man never wrote to
ask why I sent no more work?'

'That asks for further confession. While at the seaside I wrote, in a
disguised hand, a letter supposed to come from a brother of yours in which
I said you were very ill and must cease your correspondence. Starkey hadn't
the decency to reply, but if he had done so I should have got his letter at
the post-office.'

Mr. Wigmore looked troubled for a moment. However, this too was laughed
away, and the pursuit of gentility went on as rigorously as ever.

But Topham, musing over his good luck, thought with a shiver on how small
an accident it had depended. Had Starkey been at home when the fruiterer
called, he, it was plain, would have had the offer of this engagement.

'With the result that dear old Wigmore would have been bled for who knows
how many years by a mere swindler. Whereas he is really being educated,
and, for all I know, may some day adorn the Church of England.' Such
thoughts are very consoling.




A LODGER IN MAZE POND


Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room,
with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in
August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there
entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by
all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering
newspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and
shuddered.

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution
as his kindly nature permitted.

'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbable
man.

'Dying?'

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about
him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the
morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.

'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do you
think?'

'Very possibly.'

'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale's
the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one
of Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant
talk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort of
fantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is
a great friend of yours?'

'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.'

'Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of the
hospitals--that kind of thing.'

'Yes, he's at Guy's.'

To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to
glance at the _Times_. He read the news concerning the great physician.
Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.

By midday he was at London Bridge. He crossed to the Surrey side, turned
immediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaulted
thoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like the
mouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed into
gloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lamps
gave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most of
them occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed over
indeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays and
waggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and above
thundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed of
infinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases,
packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. A
curve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; till
midway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a sudden
appeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one who
should have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificent
plane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrasts
which are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those who
wander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave of
commerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quaint
tumbling roofs--and byways little frequented.

The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a short
narrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the most
part of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medical
students. At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.

He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.

'Mr. Shergold isn't in, sir,' she said at once, anticipating his question.
'But he _will_ be very soon. Will you step in and wait?'

'I think I will.'

As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room on
the first floor. The girl followed him.

'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things,' she said, speaking
rapidly and with an air. 'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't get
up till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters. Did he know as you was
comin', sir?'

'No; I looked in on the chance of finding him, or learning where he was.'

'I'm sure he'll be in about half-past twelve, 'cause he said to me as he
was only goin' to get a breath of air. He hasn't nothing to do at the
'ospital just now.'

'Has he talked of going away?'

'Going away?' The girl repeated the words sharply, and examined the
speaker's face. 'Oh, he won't be goin' away just yet, I think.'

Munden returned her look with a certain curiosity, and watched her as she
began to clink together the things upon the table. Obviously she esteemed
herself a person of some importance. Her figure was not bad, and her
features had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of the
lower orders,--the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fat
and chronic perspiration. Her complexion already began to show a tendency
to muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth. In
dress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaborate
arrangement; she had dirty hands.

Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden had
no leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, he
drew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual man
who has outlived youthful follies.

He stepped over to the lodger's bookcase. There were about a hundred
volumes, only a handful of them connected with medical study. Seeing a
volume of his own Munden took it down and idly turned the pages; it
surprised him to discover a great many marginal notes in pencil, and an
examination of these showed him that Shergold must have gone carefully
through the book with an eye to the correction of its style; adjectives
were deleted and inserted, words of common usage removed for others which
only a fine literary conscience could supply, and in places even the
punctuation was minutely changed. Whilst he still pondered this singular
manifestation of critical zeal, the door opened, and Shergold came in.

A man of two-and-thirty, short, ungraceful, ill-dressed, with features as
little commonplace as can be imagined. He had somewhat a stern look, and on
his brow were furrows of care. Light-blue eyes tended to modify the all but
harshness of his lower face; when he smiled, as on recognising his friend,
they expressed a wonderful innocence and suavity of nature; overshadowed,
in thoughtful or troubled mood, by his heavy eyebrows, they became deeply
pathetic. His nose was short and flat, yet somehow not ignoble; his full
lips, bare of moustache, tended to suggest a melancholy fretfulness. But
for the high forehead, no casual observer would have cared to look at him a
second time; but that upper story made the whole countenance vivid with
intellect, as though a light beamed upon it from above.

'You hypercritical beggar!' cried Harvey, turning with the volume in his
hand. 'Is this how you treat the glorious works of your contemporaries?'

Shergold reddened and was mute.

'I shall take this away with me,' pursued the other, laughing. 'It'll be
worth a little study.'

'My dear fellow--you won't take it ill of me--I didn't really mean it as a
criticism,' the deep, musical voice stammered in serious embarrassment.

'Why, wasn't it just this kind of thing that caused a quarrel between
George Sand and Musset?'

'Yes, yes; but George Sand was such a peremptory fellow, and Musset such a
vapourish young person. Look! I'll show you what I meant.'

'Thanks,' said Munden, 'I can find that out for myself.' He thrust the book
into his coat-pocket. 'I came to ask you if you are aware of your uncle's
condition.'

'Of course I am.

'When did you see him last?'

'See him?' Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely. 'Oh, to talk with him, about a
month ago.'

'Did you part friendly?'

'On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunately
he didn't know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name,
and in a kind way.'

'Capital! Hadn't you better walk in that direction this afternoon?'

'Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that I
am hovering about him.'

'All the same, go.'

Shergold pointed to a chair. 'Sit down a bit. I have been having a talk
with Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it's far from
certain that I shall go on with medicine.'

'Far from certain!' the other assented, smiling. 'By the bye, I hear that
you have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale's not long
ago.'

'Well--yes--why not?'

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,--Shergold seemed
unable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and kept
glancing nervously towards the door.

'I was delighted to hear it,' said his friend. 'That's a symptom of health.
Go everywhere; see everybody--that's worth seeing. They got you to talk, I
believe?'

'Who has been telling you? I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I had
shivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some one
brought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of which
I wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there's a pleasure in talking
to intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clever
girls, by Jove! And Mrs. Peter Rayne--do you know her?'

'Know of her, that's all.'

'A splendid woman--brains, brains! Upon my soul, I know no such delight as
listening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful. I
shake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course the
world never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lots
of grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What a
wretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads,
however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people my
life has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!'

'My boy,' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effect
on a certain day nine years ago?'

'Don't talk of it,' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. 'We'll
never look back at that.'

'Your room is stuffy,' said Munden, rising. 'Let us go and have lunch
somewhere.'

'Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in the
dissecting-room.'

The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady's
daughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to pass
into the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.

'Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?'

Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl. Shergold did not look at her,
but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question. Then, in
a friendly voice, he said--

'No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening.' And he went on
hurriedly.

'Cheeky little beggar that,' Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.

'Oh, not a bad girl in her way. They've made me very comfortable. All the
same, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes.'

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty he
found himself launched upon the world, with a university education
incomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, a
little less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to go
forward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry was
a Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. He
got a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which was
published and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful day
when he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to be
married. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall,
pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at a
tobacconist's shop, where she served. He was going to marry her on
principle--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youth
who has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew into
a rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to be
shaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him during
conversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and he
would not betray it. She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her.
The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.

With the results which any sane person could have foretold. The marriage
was a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attempted
suicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court. His relative, the
distinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now came
forward with counsel and assistance. Happily the only child of the union
had died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamation
of rights, was so weary of her husband that she consented to a separation.

But in less than a year the two were living together again; Mrs. Shergold
had been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellow
would have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold's
resistance. He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himself
once more abandoned, and reduced to get his living as a solicitor's clerk.
His uncle had bidden him good-bye on a postcard, whereon was illegibly
scribbled something about 'damned fools.'

He bore the burden for three more years, then his wife died. One night,
after screaming herself speechless in fury at Shergold's refusal to go with
her to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling received
fatal injuries.

The man was free, but terribly shattered. Only after a long sojourn abroad,
at his kinsman's expense, did he begin to recover health. He came back and
entered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold's
satisfaction. His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to live
upon--a very small sum. By degrees some old acquaintances began to see him,
but it was only quite of late that he had accepted invitations from people
of social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house. The hints of his
story that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women,
and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began to
give him fair play. All modern things were of interest to him, and his
knowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talk
which had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did not
understand it. Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke with
nerve and confidence. In days of jabber, more or less impolite, this
appearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totally
unaffected, could not but excite curiosity. Lady Teasdale, eager for the
uncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with his
neighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouraged
him with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; she
resolved to make him a feature of her evenings. Fortunately, his kindred
with Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdale
whispered it among matrons that he would inherit from the wealthy doctor,
who had neither wife nor child. He might not be fair to look upon, but
handsome is that handsome has.

And now the doctor lay sick unto death. Society was out of town, but Lady
Teasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did not
forget her _protégé_; she waited with pleasant expectation for the young
man's release from poverty.

It came in a day or two. Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprising
newspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would pass
to Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle's
profession. This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a line
to his friend, to ask if it was true. In reply he received a mere postcard:
'Yes. Will see you before long.' But Harvey wanted to be off to Como, and
as business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought Maze
Pond. Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; she
stood looking keenly in his face, her eyes smiling and yet suspicious.

'Mr. Shergold in?' he asked carelessly.

'No, he isn't.' There was a strange bluntness about this answer. The girl
stood forward, as if to bar the entrance, and kept searching his face.

'When is he likely to be?'

'I don't know. He didn't say when he went out.'

A woman's figure appeared in the background. The girl turned and said
sharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold.'

'I'll go upstairs and write a note,' said Munden, in a rather peremptory
voice.

The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evident
disinclination. As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed. He
went up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with other
requisites for writing, and then he stood for a moment as if in meditation.

'Your name is Emma, isn't it?' he inquired, looking at the girl with a
smile.

'Yes, it is.'

'Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk. Your mother won't
mind, will she?' he added slyly.

The girl tossed her head.

'I don't see what it's got to do with mother.' She closed the door, but did
not latch it. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'You're a very nice girl to look at, Emma, and I've always admired you when
you opened the door to me. I've always liked your nice, respectful way of
speaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day. What has put
you out?'

Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened the
utmost keenness of suspicious observation.

'Nothing's put me out, that I know of.'

'Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully. Perhaps'--he
paused--'perhaps Mr. Shergold is going to leave?'

'P'r'aps he may be.'

'And you're vexed at losing a lodger.'

He saw her lip curl and then she laughed.

'You're wrong there.'

'Then _what_ is it?'

He drew near and made as though he would advance a familiar arm. Emma
started back.

'All right,' she exclaimed, with an insolent nod. 'I'll tell Mr. Shergold.'

'Tell Mr. Shergold? Why? What has it to do with him?'

'A good deal.'

'Indeed? For shame, Emma! I never expected _that_!'

'What do you mean?' she retorted hotly. 'You keep your impudence to
yourself. If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to _marry_ me--so
there!'

The stroke was effectual. Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but he
recovered himself before a word escaped his lips.

'Ah, that alters the case. I beg your pardon. You won't make trouble
between old friends?'

Vanity disarmed the girl's misgiving. She grinned with satisfaction.

'That depends how you behave.'

'Oh, you don't know me. But promise, now; not a word to Shergold.'

She gave a conditional promise, and stood radiant with her triumph.

'Thanks, that's very good of you. Well, I won't trouble to leave a note.
You shall just tell Shergold that I am leaving England to-morrow for a
holiday. I should _like_ to see him, of course, and I may possibly look
round this evening. If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think he
ought to have given me a chance of congratulating him. May I ask when it is
to be?'

Emma resumed an air of prudery, 'Before very long, I dessay.'

'I wish you joy. Well, I mustn't talk longer now, but I'll do my best to
look in this evening, and then we can all chat together.'

He laughed and she laughed back; and thereupon they parted.

A little after nine that evening, when only a grey reflex of daylight
lingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy's
Hospital waiting. He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertained
that his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probably
still from home. In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of the
deceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a message
for delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pond
between nine and ten.

At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of London
Bridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent. Munden moved
forward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly.

'Ha! how glad I am to meet you, Munden! Come; let us walk this way.' He
turned from Maze Pond. 'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago. So
glad I have met you here, old fellow.'

'Well, your day has come,' said Harvey, trying to read his friend's
features in the gloom.

'He has left me about eighty thousand pounds,' Shergold replied, in a low,
shaken voice. 'I'm told there are big legacies to hospitals as well.
Heavens! how rich he was!'

'When is the funeral?'

'Friday.'

'Where shall you live in the meantime?'

'I don't know--I haven't thought about it.'

'I should go to some hotel, if I were you,' said Munden, 'and I have a
proposal to make. If I wait till Saturday, will you come with me to Como?'

Shergold did not at once reply. He was walking hurriedly, and making rather
strange movements with his head and arms. They came into the shadow of the
vaulted way beneath London Bridge Station. At this hour the great tunnel
was quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; one
or two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, and
from the far end came a sound of children at play.

'You won't be wanted here?' Munden added.

'No--no--I think not.' There was agitation in the voice.

'Then you will come?'

'Yes, I will come.' Shergold spoke with unnecessary vehemence and laughed
oddly.

'What's the matter with you?' his friend asked.

'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose. Let's get on. Let us go
somewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show a
decent sobriety; but what was the old fellow to me? I'm grateful to him.'

'There's nothing else on your mind?'

Shergold looked up, startled.

'What do you mean? Why do you ask?'

They stood together in the black shadow of an interval between two lamps.
After reflecting for a moment, Munden decided to speak.

'I called at your lodgings early to-day, and somehow I got into talk with
the girl. She was cheeky, and her behaviour puzzled me. Finally she made an
incredible announcement--that you had asked her to marry you. Of course
it's a lie?'

'To marry her?' exclaimed the listener hoarsely, with an attempt at
laughter. 'Do you think that likely--after all I have gone through?'

'No, I certainly don't. It staggered me. But what I want to know is, can
she cause trouble?'

'How do I know?--a girl will lie so boldly. She might make a scandal, I
suppose; or threaten it, in hope of getting money out of me.'

'But is there any ground for a scandal?' demanded Harvey.

'Not the slightest, as you mean it.'

'I'm glad to hear that. But she may give you trouble. I see the thing
doesn't astonish you very much; no doubt you were aware of her character.'

'Yes, yes; I know it pretty well. Come, let us get out of this squalid
inferno; how I hate it! Have you had dinner? I don't want any. Let us go to
your rooms, shall we? There'll be a hansom passing the bridge.'

They walked on in silence, and when they had found a cab they drove
westward, talking only of Dr. Shergold's affairs. Munden lived in the
region of the Squares, hard by the British Museum; he took his friend into
a comfortably furnished room, the walls hidden with books and prints, and
there they sat down to smoke, a bottle of whisky within easy reach of both.
It was plain to Harvey that some mystery lay in his friend's reserve on the
subject of the girl Emma; he was still anxious, but would not lead the talk
to unpleasant things. Shergold drank like a thirsty man, and the whisky
seemed to make him silent. Presently he fell into absolute muteness, and
lay wearily back in his chair.

'The excitement has been too much for you,' Munden remarked.

Shergold looked at him, with a painful embarrassment in his features; then
suddenly he bent forward.

'Munden, it's I who have lied. I _did_ ask that girl to marry me.'

'When?'

'Last night.'

'Why?'

'Because for a moment I was insane.' They stared at each other.

'Has she any hold upon you?' Munden asked slowly.

'None whatever, except this frantic offer of mine.'

'Into which she inveigled you?'

'I can't honestly say she did; it was entirely my own fault. She has never
behaved loosely, or even like a schemer. I doubt whether she knew anything
about my uncle, until I told her last night.'

He spoke rapidly, in a thick voice, moving his arms in helpless
protestation. His look was one of unutterable misery.

'Well,' observed Munden, 'the frenzy has at all events passed. You have the
common-sense to treat it as if it had never been; and really I am tempted
to believe that it was literal lunacy. Last night were you drunk?'

'I had drunk nothing. Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I am a fool
about women. I don't know what it is--certainly not a sensual or passionate
nature; mine is nothing of the sort. It's sheer sentimentality, I suppose.
I can't be friendly with a woman without drifting into mawkish
tenderness--there's the simple truth. If I had married happily, I don't
think I should have been tempted to go about philandering. The society of a
wife I loved and respected would be sufficient. But there's that need in
me--the incessant hunger for a woman's sympathy and affection. Such a
hideous mistake as mine when I married would have made a cynic of most men;
upon me the lesson has been utterly thrown away. I mean that, though I can
talk of women rationally enough with a friend, I am at their mercy when
alone with them--at the mercy of the silliest, vulgarest creature. After
all, isn't it very much the same with men in general? The average man--how
does he come to marry? Do you think he deliberately selects? Does he fall
in love, in the strict sense of the phrase, with that one particular girl?
No; it comes about by chance--by the drifting force of circumstances. Not
one man in ten thousand, when he thinks of marriage, waits for the ideal
wife--for the woman who makes capture of his soul or even of his senses.
Men marry without passion. Most of us have a very small circle for choice;
the hazard of everyday life throws us into contact with this girl or that,
and presently we begin to feel either that we have compromised ourselves,
or that we might as well save trouble and settle down as soon as possible,
and the girl at hand will do as well as another. More often than not it is
the girl who decides for us. In more than half the marriages it's the woman
who has practically proposed. She puts herself in a man's way. With her it
rests almost entirely whether a man shall think of her as a possible wife
or not. She has endless ways of putting herself forward without seeming to
do so. As often as not, it's mere passivity that effects the end. She has
only to remain seated instead of moving away; to listen with a smile
instead of looking bored; to be at home instead of being out,--and she is
making love to a man. In a Palace of Truth how many husbands would have to
confess that it decidedly surprised them when they found themselves engaged
to be married? The will comes into play only for a moment or two now and
then. Of course it is made to seem responsible, and in a sense it _is_
responsible, but, in the vast majority of cases, purely as an animal
instinct, confirming the suggestion of circumstances.'

'There's something in all this,' granted the listener, 'but it doesn't
explain the behaviour of a man who, after frightful experience in
marriage--after recovering his freedom--after finding himself welcomed by
congenial society--after inheriting a fortune to use as he likes--goes and
offers himself to an artful hussy in a lodging-house.'

'That's the special case. Look how it came to pass. Months ago I knew I was
drifting into dangerous relations with that girl. Unfortunately I am not a
rascal: I can't think of girls as playthings; a fatal conscientiousness in
an unmarried man of no means. Day after day we grew more familiar. She used
to come up and ask me if I wanted anything; and of course I knew that she
began to come more often than necessary. When she laid a meal for me, we
talked--half an hour at a time. The mother, doubtless, looked on with
approval; Emma had to find a husband, and why not me as well as another?
They knew I was a soft creature--that I never made a row about
anything--was grateful for anything that looked like kindness--and so on.
Just the kind of man to be captured. But no--I don't want to make out that
I am their victim; that's a feeble excuse, and a worthless one. The average
man would either have treated the girl as a servant, and so kept her at her
distance, or else he would have alarmed her by behaviour which suggested
anything you like but marriage. As for me, I hadn't the common-sense to
take either of these courses. I made a friend of the girl; talked to her
more and more confidentially; and at last--fatal moment--told her my
history. Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of my
life. Can you conceive such folly?

'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in the
house one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. I
knew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I was
lonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one who
would give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning a
conversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were still
talking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I cared
for Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me.
But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyed
that evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that I
stand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk with
them; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes to
thinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years of
squalid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to life
on a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offering
marriage--making love--to a girl such as those I meet in the big houses.'

'You will outgrow that,' said Munden.

'Yes, yes,--I hope and believe so. And wouldn't it be criminal to deny
myself even the chance, now that I have money? All to-day I have been
tortured like a soul that beholds its salvation lost by a moment's weakness
of the flesh. You can imagine what my suffering has been; it drove me into
sheer lying. I had resolved to deny utterly that I had asked Emma to marry
me--to deny it with a savage boldness, and take the consequences.'

'A most rational resolve, my dear fellow. Pray stick to it. But you haven't
told me yet how the dizzy culmination of your madness was reached. You say
that you proposed _last night_?'

'Yes--and simply for the pleasure of telling Emma, when she had accepted
me, that I had eighty thousand pounds! You can't understand that? I suppose
the change of fortune has made me a little light-headed; I have been going
about with a sense of exaltation which has prompted me to endless follies.
I have felt a desire to be kind to people--to bestow happiness--to share my
joy with others. If I had some of the doctor's money in my pocket, I should
have given away five-pound notes.'

'You contented yourself,' said Munden, laughing, 'with giving a
promissory-note for the whole legacy.'

'Yes; but try to understand. Emma came up to my room at supper-time, and as
usual we talked. I didn't say anything about my uncle's death--yet I felt
the necessity of telling her creep fatally upon me. There was a conflict in
my mind, between common-sense and that awful sentimentality which is my
curse. When Emma came up again after supper, she mentioned that her mother
was gone with a friend to a theatre. "Why don't you go?" I said. "Oh, I
don't go anywhere." "But after all," I urged consolingly, "August isn't
exactly the time for enjoying the theatre." She admitted it wasn't; but
there was the Exhibition at Earl's Court, she had heard so much of it, and
wanted to go. "Then suppose we go together one of these evenings?"

'You see? Idiot!--and I couldn't help it. My tongue spoke these imbecile
words in spite of my brain. All very well, if I had meant what another man
would; but I didn't, and the girl knew I didn't. And she looked at me--and
then--why, mere brute instinct did the rest--no, not mere instinct, for it
was complicated with that idiot desire to see how the girl would look, hear
what she would say, when she knew that I had given her eighty thousand
pounds. You can't understand?'

'As a bit of morbid psychology--yes.'

'And the frantic proceeding made me happy! For an hour or two I behaved as
if I loved the girl with all my soul. And afterwards I was still happy. I
walked up and down my bedroom, making plans for the future--for her
education, and so on. I saw all sorts of admirable womanly qualities in
her. I _was_ in love with her, and there's an end of it!'

Munden mused for a while, then laid down his pipe.

'Remarkably suggestive, Shergold, the name of the street in which you have
been living. Well, you don't go back there?'

'No. I have come to my senses. I shall go to an hotel for to-night, and
send presently for all my things.'

'To be sure, and on Saturday--or on Friday evening, if you like, we leave
England.'

It was evident that Shergold rejoiced with trembling.

'But I can't stick to the lie.' he said. 'I shall compensate the girl. You
see, by running away I make confession that there's something wrong. I
shall see a solicitor and put the matter into his hands.'

'As you please. But let the solicitor exercise his own discretion as to
damages.'

'Damages!' Shergold pondered the word. 'I suppose she won't drag me into
court--make a public ridicule of me? If so, there's an end of my hopes. I
couldn't go among people after that.'

'I don't see why not. But your solicitor will probably manage the affair.
They have their methods,' Munden added drily.

Early the next morning Shergold despatched a telegram to Maze Pond,
addressed to his landlady. It said that he would be kept away by business
for a day or two. On Friday he attended his uncle's funeral, and that
evening he left Charing Cross with Harvey Munden, _en route_ for Como.

There, a fortnight later, Shergold received from his solicitor a
communication which put an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness.
That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubled
conscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all his
doing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of his
weakness.

'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and is
going to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much as
five thousand pounds,--it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidently
encouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have the
satisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. My
hopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--_il fumo in aere ed in aqua
la schiuma_!'

Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemed
to disdain reply.

'Your advice?'

'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- do
her worst!'

Shergold winced.

'We mustn't forget that it's all my fault.'

'Yes, just as it's your own fault you didn't die on the day of your birth!'

'I must raise the offer--'

'By all means; offer ten thousand. I suppose a jury would give her two
hundred and fifty.'

'But the scandal--the ridicule--'

'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom and
save your life.'

'That's one way of looking at it. I half believe it might be effectual.'

He kept alone for most of the day. In the evening, from nine to ten, he
went upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunk
in a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short,
nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And when
the next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, a
waiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started for
London,' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean to
do is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ is
too much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a few
days.'

The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter from
Shergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that the
writer was 'about to be married,' and that in less than a week he would
have started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did not
reply; indeed, the letter contained no address.

One day in November he was accosted at the club by his familiar bore.

'So your friend Shergold is dead?'

'Dead? I know nothing of it.'

'Really? They talked of it last night at Lady Teasdale's. He died a few
days ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wife
cabled to some one or other.'




THE SALT OF THE EARTH


Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept the
morning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeams
flitted from shore to shore. The dome, the spires, the river frontages
slowly unveiled and brightened: there was hope of a fair day.

Not that it much concerned this throng of men and women hastening to their
labour. From near and far, by the league-long highways of South London,
hither they converged each morning, and joined the procession across the
bridge; their task was the same to-day as yesterday, regardless of gleam or
gloom. Many had walked such a distance that they plodded wearily, looking
neither to right nor left. The more vigorous strode briskly on, elbowing
their way, or nimbly skipping into the road to gain advance; yet these also
had a fixed gaze, preoccupied or vacant, seldom cheerful. Here and there a
couple of friends conversed; girls, with bag or parcel and a book for the
dinner hour, chattered and laughed; but for the most part lips were mute
amid the clang and roar of heavy-laden wheels.

It was the march of those who combat hunger with delicate hands: at the
pen's point, or from behind the breastwork of a counter, or trusting to
bare wits pressed daily on the grindstone. Their chief advantage over the
sinewy class beneath them lay in the privilege of spending more than they
could afford on house and clothing; with rare exceptions they had no hope,
no chance, of reaching independence; enough if they upheld the threadbare
standard of respectability, and bequeathed it to their children as a
solitary heirloom. The oldest looked the poorest, and naturally so; amid
the tramp of multiplying feet, their steps had begun to lag when speed was
more than ever necessary; they saw newcomers outstrip them, and trudged
under an increasing load.

No eye surveying this procession would have paused for a moment on Thomas
Bird. In costume there was nothing to distinguish him from hundreds of
rather shabby clerks who passed along with their out-of-fashion chimney-pot
and badly rolled umbrella; his gait was that of a man who takes no exercise
beyond the daily walk to and from his desk; the casual glance could see
nothing in his features but patient dullness tending to good humour. He
might be thirty, he might be forty--impossible to decide. Yet when a ray of
sunshine fell upon him, and he lifted his eyes to the eastward promise,
there shone in his countenance something one might vainly have sought
through the streaming concourse of which Thomas Bird was an unregarded
atom. For him, it appeared, the struggling sunlight had a message of hope.
Trouble cleared from his face; he smiled unconsciously and quickened his
steps.

For fifteen years he had walked to and fro over Blackfriars Bridge, leaving
his home in Camberwell at eight o'clock and reaching it again at seven.
Fate made him a commercial clerk as his father before him; he earned more
than enough for his necessities, but seemed to have reached the limit of
promotion, for he had no influential friends, and he lacked the capacity to
rise by his own efforts. There may have been some calling for which Thomas
was exactly suited, but he did not know of it; in the office he proved
himself a trustworthy machine, with no opportunity of becoming anything
else. His parents were dead, his kindred scattered, he lived, as for
several years past, in lodgings. But it never occurred to him to think of
his lot as mournful. A man of sociable instincts, he had many
acquaintances, some of whom he cherished. An extreme simplicity marked his
tastes, and the same characteristic appeared in his conversation; an easy
man to deceive, easy to make fun of, yet impossible to dislike, or
despise--unless by the despicable. He delighted in stories of adventure, of
bravery by flood or field, and might have posed--had he ever posed at
all--as something of an authority on North Pole expeditions and the
geography of Polynesia.

He received his salary once a month, and to-day was pay-day: the
consciousness of having earned a certain number of sovereigns always set
his thoughts on possible purchases, and at present he was revolving the
subject of his wardrobe. Certainly it needed renewal, but Thomas could not
decide at which end to begin, head or feet. His position in a leading house
demanded a good hat, the bad weather called for new boots. Living
economically as he did, it should have been a simple matter to resolve the
doubt by purchasing both articles, but, for one reason and another, Thomas
seldom had a surplus over the expenses of his lodgings; in practice he
found it very difficult to save a sovereign for other needs.

When evening released him he walked away in a cheerful frame of mind,
grasping the money in his trousers' pocket, and all but decided to make
some acquisition on the way home. Near Ludgate Circus some one addressed
him over his shoulder.

'Good evening, Tom; pleasant for the time of year.'

The speaker was a man of fifty, stout and florid--the latter peculiarity
especially marked in his nose; he looked like a substantial merchant, and
spoke with rather pompous geniality. Thrusting his arm through the clerk's,
he walked with him over Blackfriars Bridge, talking in the friendliest
strain of things impersonal. Beyond the bridge--

'Do you tram it?' he asked, glancing upwards.

'I think so, Mr. Warbeck,' answered the other, whose tone to his
acquaintance was very respectful.

'Ah! I'm afraid it would make me late.--Oh, by the bye, Tom, I'm really
ashamed--most awkward that this kind of thing happens so often, but--could
you, do you think?--No, no; one sovereign only. Let me make a note of it by
the light of this shop-window. Really, the total is getting quite
considerable. Tut, tut! You shall have a cheque in a day or two. Oh, it
can't run on any longer; I'm completely ashamed of myself. Entirely
temporary--as I explained. A cheque on Wednesday at latest. Good-bye, Tom.'

They shook hands cordially, and Mr. Warbeck went off in a hansom. Thomas
Bird, changing his mind about the tram, walked all the way home, and with
bent head. One would have thought that he had just done something
discreditable.

He was wondering, not for the first time, whether Mrs. Warbeck knew or
suspected that her husband was in debt to him. Miss Warbeck--Alma
Warbeck--assuredly had never dreamed of such a thing. The system of casual
loans dated from nearly twelve months ago, and the total was now not much
less than thirty pounds. Mr. Warbeck never failed to declare that he was
ashamed of himself, but probably the creditor experienced more discomfort
of that kind. At the first playful demand Thomas felt a shock. He had known
the Warbecks since he was a lad, had always respected them as somewhat his
social superiors, and, as time went on, had recognised that the difference
of position grew wider: he remaining stationary, while his friends
progressed to a larger way of living. But they were, he thought, no less
kind to him; Mrs. Warbeck invited him to the house about once a month, and
Alma--Alma talked with him in such a pleasant, homely way. Did their
expenditure outrun their means? He would never have supposed it, but for
the City man's singular behaviour. About the cheque so often promised he
cared little, but with all his heart he hoped Mrs. Warbeck did not know.

Somewhere near Camberwell Green, just as he had resumed the debate about
his purchases, a middle-aged woman met him with friendly greeting. Her
appearance was that of a decent shopkeeper's wife.

'I'm so glad I've met you, Mr. Bird. I know you'll be anxious to hear how
our poor friend is getting on.'

She spoke of the daughter of a decayed tradesman, a weak and overworked
girl, who had lain for some weeks in St. Thomas's Hospital. Mrs. Pritchard,
a gadabout infected with philanthropy, was fond of discovering such cases,
and in everyday conversation made the most of her charitable efforts.

'They'll allow her out in another week,' she pursued. 'But, of course, she
can't expect to be fit for anything for a time. And I very much doubt
whether she'll ever get the right use of her limbs again. But what we have
to think of now is to get her some decent clothing. The poor thing has
positively nothing. I'm going to speak to Mrs. Doubleday, and a few other
people. Really, Mr. Bird, if it weren't that I've presumed on your good
nature so often lately--'

She paused and smiled unctuously at him.

'I'm afraid I can't do much,' faltered Thomas, reddening at the vision of a
new 'chimney-pot.'

'No, no; of course not. I'm sure I should never expect--it's only that
every little--_however_ little--_does_ help, you know.'

Thomas thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a florin, which Mrs.
Pritchard pursed with effusive thanks.

Certain of this good woman's critics doubted her competence as a trustee,
but Thomas Bird had no such misgiving. He talked with kindly interest of
the unfortunate girl, and wished her well in a voice that carried
conviction.

His lodgings were a pair of very small, mouldy, and ill-furnished rooms; he
took them unwillingly, overcome by the landlady's doleful story of their
long lodgerless condition, and, in the exercise of a heavenly forbearance,
remained year after year. The woman did not cheat him, and Thomas knew
enough of life to respect her for this remarkable honesty; she was simply
an ailing, lachrymose slut, incapable of effort. Her son, a lad who had
failed in several employments from sheer feebleness of mind and body,
practically owed his subsistence to Thomas Bird, whose good offices had at
length established the poor fellow at a hairdresser's. To sit frequently
for an hour at a time, as Thomas did, listening with attention to Mrs.
Batty's talk of her own and her son's ailments, was in itself a marvel of
charity. This evening she met him as he entered, and lighted him into his
room.

'There's a letter come for you, Mr. Bird. I put it down somewheres--why,
now, where _did_ I--? Oh, 'ere it is. You'll be glad to 'ear as Sam did his
first shave to-day, an' his 'and didn't tremble much neither.'

Burning with desire to open the letter, which he saw was from Mrs. Warbeck,
Thomas stood patiently until the flow of words began to gurgle away amid
groans and pantings.

'Well,' he cried gaily, 'didn't I promise Sam a shilling when he'd done his
first shave? If I didn't I ought to have done, and here it is for him.'

Then he hurried into the bedroom, and read his letter by candle-light. It
was a short scrawl on thin, scented, pink-hued notepaper. Would he do Mrs.
Warbeck the 'favour' of looking in before ten to-night? No explanation of
this unusually worded request; and Thomas fell at once into a tremor of
anxiety. With a hurried glance at his watch, he began to make ready for the
visit, struggling with drawers which would neither open nor shut, and
driven to despair by the damp condition of his clean linen.

In this room, locked away from all eyes but his own, lay certain relics
which Thomas worshipped. One was a photograph of a girl of fifteen. At that
age Alma Warbeck promised little charm, and the photograph allowed her
less; but it was then that Thomas Bird became her bondman, as he had ever
since remained. There was also a letter, the only one that he had ever
received from her--'Dear Mr. Bird,--Mamma says will you buy her some more
of those _jewjewbs_ at the shop in the city, and bring them on
Sunday.--Yours sincerely, Alma Warbeck'--written when she was sixteen,
seven years ago. Moreover, there was a playbill, used by Alma on the single
occasion when he accompanied the family to a theatre.

Never had he dared to breathe a syllable of what he thought--'hoped' would
misrepresent him, for Thomas in this matter had always stifled hope.
Indeed, hope would have been irrational. In the course of her teens Alma
grew tall and well proportioned; not beautiful of feature, but pleasing;
not brilliant in personality, but good-natured; fairly intelligent and
moderately ambitious. She was the only daughter of a dubiously active
commission-agent, and must deem it good fortune if she married a man with
three or four hundred a year; but Thomas Bird had no more than his twelve
pounds a month, and did not venture to call himself a gentleman. In Alma he
found the essentials of true ladyhood--perhaps with reason; he had never
heard her say an ill-natured thing, nor seen upon her face a look which
pained his acute sensibilities; she was unpretentious, of equal temper,
nothing of a gossip, kindly disposed. Never for a moment had he flattered
himself that Alma perceived his devotion or cared for him otherwise than as
for an old friend. But thought is free, and so is love. The modest clerk
had made this girl the light of his life, and whether far or near the rays
of that ideal would guide him on his unworldly path.

New shaven and freshly clad, he set out for the Warbecks' house, which was
in a near part of Brixton. Not an imposing house by any means, but an
object of reverence to Thomas Bird. A servant whom he did not
recognise--servants came and went at the Warbecks'--admitted him to the
drawing-room, which was vacant; there, his eyes wandering about the
gimcrack furniture, which he never found in the same arrangement at two
successive visits, he waited till his hostess came in.

Mrs. Warbeck was very stout, very plain, and rather untidy, yet her
countenance made an impression not on the whole disagreeable; with her wide
eyes, slightly parted lips, her homely smile, and unadorned speech, she
counteracted in some measure the effect, upon a critical observer, of the
pretentious ugliness with which she was surrounded. Thomas thought her a
straightforward woman, and perhaps was not misled by his partiality.
Certainly the tone in which she now began, and the tenor of her remarks,
repelled suspicion of duplicity.

'Well, now, Mr. Thomas, I wish to have a talk.' She had thus styled him
since he grew too old to be called Tom; that is to say, since he was
seventeen. He was now thirty-one. 'And I'm going to talk to you just like
the old friends we are. You see? No nonsense; no beating about the bush.
You'd rather have it so, wouldn't you?' Scarce able to articulate, the
visitor showed a cheery assent. 'Yes, I was sure of that. Now--better come
to the point at once--my daughter is--well, no, she isn't yet, but the fact
is I feel sure she'll very soon be engaged.'

The blow was softened by Thomas's relief at discovering that money would
not be the subject of their talk, yet it fell upon him, and he winced.

'You've expected it,' pursued the lady, with bluff good-humour. 'Yes, of
course you have.' She said ''ave,' a weakness happily unshared by her
daughter. 'We don't want it talked about, but I know you can hold your
tongue. Well, it's young Mr. Fisher, of Nokes, Fisher and Co. We haven't
known him long, but he took from the first to Alma, and I have my reasons
for believing that the feeling is _mutial_, though I wouldn't for the world
let Alma hear me say so.'

Young Mr. Fisher. Thomas knew of him; a capable business man, and son of a
worthy father. He kept his teeth close, his eyes down.

'And now,' pursued Mrs. Warbeck, becoming still more genial, 'I'm getting
round to the unpleasant side of the talk, though I don't see that it _need_
be unpleasant. We're old friends, and where's the use of being friendly if
you can't speak your mind, when speak you must? It comes to this: I just
want to ask you quite straightforward, not to be offended or take it ill if
we don't ask you to come here till this business is over and settled. You
see? The fact is, we've told Mr. Fisher he can look in whenever he likes,
and it might happen, you know, that he'd meet you here, and, speaking like
old friends--I think it better not.'

A fire burned in the listener's cheeks, a noise buzzed in his ears. He
understood the motive of this frank request; humble as ever--never humbler
than when beneath this roof--he was ready to avow himself Mr. Fisher's
inferior; but with all his heart he wished that Mrs. Warbeck had found some
other way of holding him aloof from her prospective son-in-law.

'Of course,' continued the woman stolidly, 'Alma doesn't know I'm saying
this. It's just between our two selves. I haven't even spoken of it to Mr.
Warbeck. I'm quite sure that you'll understand that we're obliged to make a
few changes in the way we've lived. It's all very well for you and me to be
comfortable together, and laugh and talk about all sorts of things, but
with one like Alma in the 'ouse, and the friends she's making and the
company that's likely to come here--now you _do_ see what I mean, _don't_
you, now? And you won't take it the wrong way? No, I was sure you wouldn't.
There, now, we'll shake 'ands over it, and be as good friends as ever.' The
handshaking was metaphorical merely. Thomas smiled, and was endeavouring to
shape a sentence, when he heard voices out in the hall.

'There's Alma and her father back,' said Mrs. Warbeck. 'I didn't think
they'd come back so soon; they've been with some new friends of ours.'
Thomas jumped up.

'I can't--I'd rather not see them, please, Mrs. Warbeck. Can you prevent
it?' His voice startled her somewhat, and she hesitated. A gesture of
entreaty sent her from the room. As the door opened Alma was heard laughing
merrily; then came silence. In a minute or two the hostess returned and the
visitor, faltering, 'Thank you. I quite understand,' quietly left the
house.

For three weeks he crossed and recrossed Blackfriars Bridge without meeting
Mr. Warbeck. His look was perhaps graver, his movements less alert, but he
had not noticeably changed; his life kept its wonted tenor. The
florid-nosed gentleman at length came face to face with him on Ludgate Hill
in the dinner-hour--an embarrassment to both. Speedily recovering
self-possession Mr. Warbeck pressed the clerk's hand with fervour and drew
him aside.

'I've been wanting to see you, Tom. So you keep away from us, do you? I
understand. The old lady has given me a quiet hint. Well, well, you're
quite right, and I honour you for it, Tom. Nothing selfish about _you_; you
keep it all to yourself; I honour you for it, my dear boy. And perhaps I
had better tell you, Alma is to be married in January. After that, same as
before, won't it be?--Have a glass of wine with me? No time? We must have a
quiet dinner together some evening; one of the old chop houses.--There was
something else I wanted to speak about, but I see you're in a hurry. All
right, it'll do next time.'

He waved his hand and was gone. When next they encountered Mr. Warbeck made
bold to borrow ten shillings, without the most distant allusion to his
outstanding debt.

Thomas Bird found comfort in the assurance that Mrs. Warbeck had kept _her_
secret as the borrower kept _his_.

Alma's father was not utterly dishonoured in his sight.

One day in January, Thomas, pleading indisposition, left work at twelve. He
had a cold and a headache, and felt more miserable than at any time since
his school-days. As he rode home in an omnibus Mr. and Mrs. Warbeck were
entertaining friends at the wedding-breakfast, and Thomas knew it. For an
hour or two in the afternoon he sat patiently under his landlady's talk,
but a fit of nervous exasperation at length drove him forth, and he did not
return till supper-time. Just as he sat down to a basin of gruel, Mrs.
Batty admitted a boy who brought him a message. 'Mother sent me round, Mr.
Bird,' said the messenger, 'and she wants to know if you could just come
and see her; it's something about father. He had some work to do, but he
hasn't come home to do it.'

Without speaking Thomas equipped himself and walked a quarter of a mile to
the lodgings of a married friend of his--a clerk chronically out of work,
and too often in liquor. The wife received him with tears. After eight
weeks without earning a penny, her husband had obtained the job of
addressing five hundred envelopes, to be done at home and speedily. Tempted
forth by an acquaintance 'for half a minute' as he sat down to the task, he
had been absent for three hours, and would certainly return unfit for work.

'It isn't only the money,' sobbed his wife, 'but it might have got him more
work, and now, of course, he's lost the chance, and we haven't nothing more
than a crust of bread left. And--'

Thomas slipped half-a-crown into her hand and whispered, 'Send Jack before
the shops close.' Then, to escape thanks, he shouted out, 'Where's these
blessed envelopes, and where's the addresses? All right, just leave me this
corner of the table and don't speak to me as long as I sit here.'

Between half-past nine and half-past twelve, at the rate of eighty an hour,
he addressed all but half the five hundred envelopes. Then his friend
appeared, dolefully drunk. Thomas would not look at him.

'He'll finish the rest by dinner to-morrow,' said the miserable wife, 'and
that's in time.'

So Thomas Bird went home. He felt better at heart, and blamed himself for
his weakness during the day. He blamed himself often enough for this or
that, knowing not that such as he are the salt of the earth.




THE PIG AND WHISTLE


'I possess a capital of thirty thousand pounds. One-third of this is
invested in railway shares, which bear interest at three and a half per
cent.; another third is in Government stock, and produces two and
three-quarters per cent.; the rest is lent on mortgages, at three per cent.
Calculate my income for the present year.'

This kind of problem was constantly being given out by Mr. Ruddiman,
assistant master at Longmeadows School. Mr. Ruddiman, who had reached the
age of five-and-forty, and who never in his life had possessed
five-and-forty pounds, used his arithmetic lesson as an opportunity for
flight of imagination. When dictating a sum in which he attributed to
himself enormous wealth, his eyes twinkled, his slender body struck a
dignified attitude, and he smiled over the class with a certain genial
condescension. When the calculation proposed did not refer to personal
income it generally illustrated the wealth of the nation, in which Mr.
Ruddiman had a proud delight. He would bid his youngsters compute the
proceeds of some familiar tax, and the vast sum it represented rolled from
his lips on a note of extraordinary satisfaction, as if he gloried in this
evidence of national prosperity. His salary at Longmeadows just sufficed to
keep him decently clad and to support him during the holidays. He had been
a master here for seven years, and earnestly hoped that his services might
be retained for at least seven more; there was very little chance of his
ever obtaining a better position, and the thought of being cast adrift, of
having to betake himself to the school agencies and enter upon new
engagements, gave Mr. Ruddiman a very unpleasant sensation. In his time he
had gone through hardships such as naturally befall a teacher without
diplomas and possessed of no remarkable gifts; that he had never broken
down in health was the result of an admirable constitution and of much
native cheerfulness. Only at such an establishment as Longmeadows--an
old-fashioned commercial 'academy,' recommended to parents by the
healthiness of its rural situation--could he have hoped to hold his ground
against modern educational tendencies, which aim at obliterating Mr.
Ruddiman and all his kind. Every one liked him; impossible not to like a
man so abounding in kindliness and good humour; but his knowledge was
anything but extensive, and his methods in instruction had a fine flavour
of antiquity. Now and then Mr. Ruddiman asked himself what was to become of
him when sickness or old age forbade his earning even the modest income
upon which he could at present count, but his happy temper dismissed the
troublesome reflection. One thing, however, he had decided; in future he
would find some more economical way of spending his holidays. Hitherto he
had been guilty of the extravagance of taking long journeys to see members
of his scattered family, or of going to the seaside, or of amusing himself
(oh, how innocently!) in London. This kind of thing must really stop. In
the coming summer vacation he had determined to save at least five
sovereigns, and he fancied he had discovered a simple way of doing it.

On pleasant afternoons, when he was 'off duty,' Mr. Ruddiman liked to have
a long ramble by himself about the fields and lanes. In solitude he was
never dull; had you met him during one of these afternoon walks, more
likely than not you would have seen a gentle smile on his visage as he
walked with head bent. Not that his thoughts were definitely of agreeable
things; consciously he thought perhaps of nothing at all; but he liked the
sunshine and country quiet, and the sense of momentary independence. Every
one would have known him for what he was. His dress, his gait, his
countenance, declared the under-master. Mr. Ruddiman never carried a
walking-stick; that would have seemed to him to be arrogating a social
position to which he had no claim. Generally he held his hands together
behind him; if not so, one of them would dip its fingers into a waistcoat
pocket and the other grasp the lapel of his coat. If anything he looked
rather less than his age, a result, perhaps, of having always lived with
the young. His features were agreeably insignificant; his body, though
slight of build, had something of athletic outline, due to long practice at
cricket, football, and hockey.

If he had rather more time than usual at his disposal he walked as far as
the Pig and Whistle, a picturesque little wayside inn, which stood alone,
at more than a mile from the nearest village. To reach the Pig and Whistle
one climbed a long, slow ascent, and in warm weather few pedestrians, or,
for the matter of that, folks driving or riding, could resist the
suggestion of the ivy-shadowed porch which admitted to the quaint parlour.
So long was it since the swinging sign had been painted that neither of Pig
nor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one read
clearly enough the landlord's name: William Fouracres. Only three years ago
had Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered his
predecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modest
bottle of ginger beer. The present landlord was a very different sort of
man, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer. Customers
were generally served by the landlord's daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddiman
had come to be on very pleasant terms.

But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be added
that Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, of
at least two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year
before anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the second
twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging
reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of
the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the
fashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; so
intimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke
of his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a
history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the
landlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the
subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far
from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by
taking the same view of the matter.

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the
under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of
refreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the ivied
porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar
sewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress
from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and
coolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no
disagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her
habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the
discreetest of modest welcomes.

'Good day, Miss Fouracres,' said the under-master, after his usual little
cough.

'Good day, sir,' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar
note of honesty. Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance's
name.

'Splendid weather for the crops. I'll take a ginger-beer, if you please.'

'Indeed, that it is, sir. Ginger-beer; yes, sir.'

Then followed two or three minutes of silence. Miss Fouracres had resumed
her sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more
gravely than usual.

'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length.

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking about
the Prince.'

'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had
distressing significance. 'That's a great pity.'

'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say,' went on Miss Fouracres, in the same
confidential tone, 'that the Prince is coming here. I don't mean _here_,
sir, to the Pig and Whistle, but to Woodbury Manor. Father saw it in the
newspaper, and since then he's had no rest, day or night. He's sitting out
in the garden. I don't know whether you'd like to go and speak to him,
sir?'

'I will. Yes, I certainly will. But there's something I should like to ask
you about first, Miss Fouracres. I'm thinking of staying in this part of
the country through the holidays'--long ago he had made known his
position--'and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here. Could you
let me have a room? Just a bedroom would be enough.'

'Why, yes, sir,' replied the landlord's daughter. 'We have two bedrooms,
you know, and I've no doubt my father would be willing to arrange with
you.'

'Ah, then I'll mention it to him. Is he in very low spirits?'

'He's unusual low to-day, sir. I shouldn't wonder if it did him good to see
you, and talk a bit.'

Having finished his ginger-beer, Mr. Ruddiman walked through the house and
passed out into the garden, where he at once became aware of Mr. Fouracres.
The landlord, a man of sixty, with grizzled hair and large, heavy
countenance, sat in a rustic chair under an apple-tree; beside him was a
little table, on which stood a bottle of whisky and a glass. Approaching,
Mr. Ruddiman saw reason to suspect that the landlord had partaken too
freely of the refreshment ready to his hand. Mr. Fouracres' person was in a
limp state; his cheeks were very highly coloured, and his head kept nodding
as he muttered to himself. At the visitor's greeting he looked up with a
sudden surprise, as though he resented an intrusion on his privacy.

'It's very hot, Mr. Fouracres,' the under-master went on to remark with
cordiality.

'Hot? I dare say it is,' replied the landlord severely. 'And what else do
you expect at this time of the year, sir?'

'Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!' said the other, as good-humouredly as
possible. 'You don't find it unpleasant?'

'Why should I, sir? It was a good deal hotter day than this when His Royal
Highness called upon me; a good deal hotter. The Prince didn't complain;
not he. He said to me--I'm speaking of His Royal Highness, you understand;
I hope you understand that, sir?'

'Oh, perfectly!'

'His words were--"Very seasonable weather, Mr. Fouracres." I'm not likely
to forget what he said; so it's no use you or any one else trying to make
out that he didn't say that. I tell you he _did_! "Very season weather, Mr.
Fouracres"--calling me by name, just like that. And it's no good you nor
anybody else--'

The effort of repeating the Prince's utterance with what was meant to be a
princely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank together
in his chair and lost all power of coherent speech. In a moment he seemed
to be sleeping. Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke his
name, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went back
into the inn.

'I'm afraid I shall have to put it off to another day, was his remark to
the landlord's daughter. 'Mr. Four-acres is--rather drowsy.'

'Ah, sir!' sighed the young woman. 'I'm sorry to say he's often been like
that lately.'

Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Mr. Ruddiman looked and felt
uncomfortable.

'I'll come again very soon, Miss Fouracres,' he said. 'You might just speak
to your father about the room.'

'Thank you, sir. I will, sir.'

And, with another uneasy glance, which was not returned, the under-master
went his way. Descending towards Longmeadows, he thought over the
innkeeper's story, which may be briefly related. Some ten years before this
Mr. Fouracres occupied a very comfortable position; he was landlord of a
flourishing inn--called an hotel--in a little town of some importance as an
agricultural centre, and seemed perfectly content with the life and the
society natural to a man so circumstanced. His manners were marked by a
certain touch of pompousness, and he liked to dwell upon the excellence of
the entertainment which his house afforded, but these were innocent
characteristics which did not interfere with his reputation as a sensible
and sound man of business. It happened one day that two gentlemen on
horseback, evidently riding for their pleasure, stopped at the inn door,
and, after a few inquiries, announced that they would alight and have
lunch. Mr. Fouracres--who himself received these gentlemen--regarded one of
them with much curiosity, and presently came to the startling conclusion
that he was about to entertain no less a person than the Heir Apparent. He
knew that the Prince was then staying at a great house some ten miles away,
and there could be no doubt that one of his guests had a strong resemblance
to the familiar portraits of His Royal Highness. In his excitement at the
supposed discovery, Mr. Fouracres at once communicated it to those about
him, and in a very few minutes half the town had heard the news. Of course
the host would allow no one but himself to wait at the royal table--which
was spread in the inn's best room, guarded against all intrusion. In vain,
however, did he listen for a word from either of the gentlemen which might
confirm his belief; in their conversation no name or title was used, and no
mention made of anything significant. They remained for an hour. When their
horses were brought round for them a considerable crowd had gathered before
the hotel, and the visitors departed amid a demonstration of exuberant
loyalty. On the following day, one or two persons who had been present at
this scene declared that the two gentlemen showed surprise, and that,
though both raised their hats in acknowledgment of the attention they
received, they rode away laughing.

For the morrow brought doubts. People began to say that the Prince had
never been near the town at all, and that evidence could be produced of his
having passed the whole day at the house where he was a visitor. Mr.
Fouracres smiled disdainfully; no assertion or argument availed to shake
his proud assurance that he had entertained the Heir to the Throne. From
that day he knew no peace. Fired with an extraordinary arrogance, he viewed
as his enemy every one who refused to believe in the Prince's visit; he
quarrelled violently with many of his best friends; he brought insulting
accusations against all manner of persons. Before long the man was honestly
convinced that there existed a conspiracy to rob him of a distinction that
was his due. Political animus had, perhaps, something to do with it, for
the Liberal newspaper (Mr. Fouracres was a stout Conservative) made more
than one malicious joke on the subject. A few townsmen stood by the
landlord's side and used their ingenuity in discovering plausible reasons
why the Prince did not care to have it publicly proclaimed that he had
visited the town and lunched at the hotel. These partisans scorned the
suggestion that Mr. Fouracres had made a mistake, but they were unable to
deny that a letter, addressed to the Prince himself, with a view to putting
an end to the debate, had elicited (in a secretarial hand) a brief denial
of the landlord's story. Evidently something very mysterious underlay the
whole affair, and there was much shaking of heads for a long time.

To Mr. Fouracres the result of the honour he so strenuously vindicated was
serious indeed. By way of defiance to all mockers he wished to change the
time-honoured sign of the inn, and to substitute for it the Prince of
Wales's Feathers. On this point he came into conflict with the owner of the
property, and, having behaved very violently, received notice that his
lease, just expiring, would not be renewed. Whereupon what should Mr.
Fouracres do but purchase land and begin to build for himself an hotel
twice as large as that he must shortly quit. On this venture he used all,
and more than all, his means, and, as every one had prophesied, he was soon
a ruined man. In less than three years from the fatal day he turned his
back upon the town where he had known respect and prosperity, and went
forth to earn his living as best he could. After troublous wanderings, on
which he was accompanied by his daughter, faithful and devoted, though she
had her doubts on a certain subject, the decayed publican at length found a
place of rest. A small legacy from a relative had put it in his power to
make a new, though humble, beginning in business; he established himself at
the Pig and Whistle.

The condition in which he had to-day been discovered by Mr. Ruddiman was
not habitual with him. Once a month, perhaps, his melancholy thoughts drove
him to the bottle; for the most part he led a sullen, brooding life,
indifferent to the state of his affairs, and only animated when he found a
new and appreciative listener to the story of his wrongs. That he had been
grievously wronged was Mr. Fouracres' immutable conviction. Not by His
Royal Highness; the Prince knew nothing of the strange conspiracy which had
resulted in Fouracres' ruin; letters addressed to His Royal Highness were
evidently intercepted by underlings, and never came before the royal eyes.
Again and again had Mr. Fouracres written long statements of his case, and
petitioned for an audience. He was now resolved to adopt other methods; he
would use the first opportunity of approaching the Prince's person, and
lifting up his voice where he could not but be heard. He sought no vulgar
gain; his only desire was to have this fact recognised, that he had,
indeed, entertained the Prince, and so put to shame all his scornful
enemies. And now the desired occasion offered itself. In the month of
September His Royal Highness would be a guest at Woodbury Manor, distant
only some couple of miles from the Pig and Whistle. It was the excitement
of such a prospect which had led Mr. Fouracres to undue indulgence under
the apple-tree this afternoon.

A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listening
patiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to an
arrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for the
holidays. The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulated
himself on this prudent step. He felt sure that a couple of months at the
Pig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable. The situation was high
and healthy; the surroundings were picturesque. And for society, well,
there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible and
pleasant person.

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master's
intention. On the day of 'breaking up' he sent his luggage, as usual, to
the nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed by
carrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, he
passed his first night.

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. In
the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and
there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the
golden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host's interest in
questions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman's favourite
amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own
financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament.
All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and
his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be
added to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed
trivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes
giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone
glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.

Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and his
host's daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of the
nation, but of the Pig and Whistle. Miss Fouracres was a woman of much
domestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of small
resources. But for her the inn would have been a wretched little place--as,
indeed, it was before her time. Miss Fouracres worked hard and prudently.
She had no help; the garden, the poultry, all the cares of house and inn
were looked after by her alone--except, indeed, a few tasks beyond her
physical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. A
pony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his life
of sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven to
the market town, his daughter and her guest were in the garden together,
gathering broad beans and gossiping with much contentment.

'I wish I could always live here!' exclaimed Mr. Ruddiman, after standing
for a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which he
had just picked.

Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping her
chin.

'Ah, you'd soon get tired of it, sir.'

'I shouldn't! No, I'm sure I shouldn't. I like this life. It suits me. I
like it a thousand times better than teaching in a school.'

'That's your fancy, sir.'

As Miss Fouracres spoke a sound from the house drew her attention; some one
had entered the inn.

'A customer?' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'Let me go and serve him--do let me!'

'But you wouldn't know how, sir.'

'If it's beer, and that's most likely, I know well enough. I've watched you
so often. I'll go and see.'

With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent about
ten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughing
gleefully.

'A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half! I served him as if I'd done nothing else
all my life.'

Miss Fouracres looked at him with wonder and admiration. She did not laugh;
demonstrative mirth was not one of her characteristics; but for a long time
there dwelt upon her good, plain countenance a half-smile of placid
contentment. When they went in together, Mr. Ruddiman begged her to teach
him all the mysteries of the bar, and his request was willingly granted. In
this way they amused themselves until the return of the landlord, who, as
soon as he had stabled his pony, called Mr. Ruddiman aside, and said in a
hoarse whisper--

'The Prince comes to-morrow!'

'Ha! does he?' was the answer, in a tone of feigned interest.

'I shall see him. It's all settled. I've made friends with one of the
gardeners at Woodbury Manor, and he's promised to put me in the way of
meeting His Royal Highness. I shall have to go over there for a day or two,
and stay in Woodbury, to be on the spot when the chance offers.'

Mr. Fouracres had evidently been making his compact with the aid of strong
liquor; he walked unsteadily, and in other ways betrayed imperfect command
of himself. Presently, at the tea-table, he revealed to his daughter the
great opportunity which lay before him, and spoke of the absence from home
it would necessitate.

'Of course you'll do as you like, father,' replied Miss Fouracres, with her
usual deliberation, and quite good-humouredly, 'but I think you're going on
a fool's errand, and that I tell you plain. If you'd just forget all about
the Prince, and settle down quiet at the Pig and Whistle, it 'ud be a good
deal better for you.'

The landlord regarded her with surprise and scorn. It was the first time
that his daughter had ventured to express herself so unmistakably.

'The Pig and Whistle!' he exclaimed. 'A pothouse! I who have kept an hotel
and entertained His Royal Highness. You speak like an ignorant woman. Hold
your tongue, and don't dare to let me hear your voice again until to-morrow
morning!'

Miss Fouracres obeyed him. She was absolutely mute for the rest of the
evening, save when obliged to exchange a word or two with rustic company or
in the taproom. Her features expressed uneasiness rather than
mortification.

The next day, after an early breakfast, Mr. Fouracres set forth to the town
of Woodbury. He had the face of a man with a fixed idea, and looked more
obstinate, more unintelligent than ever. To his daughter he had spoken only
a few cold words, and his last bidding to her was 'Take care of the
pothouse!' This treatment gave Miss Fouracres much pain, for she was a
softhearted woman, and had never been anything but loyal and affectionate
to her father all through his disastrous years. Moreover, she liked the Pig
and Whistle, and could not bear to hear it spoken of disdainfully. Before
the sound of the cart had died away she had to wipe moisture from her eyes,
and at the moment when she was doing so Mr. Ruddiman came into the parlour.

'Has Mr. Fouracres gone?' asked the guest, with embarrassment.

'Just gone, sir,' replied the young woman, half turned away, and nervously
fingering her chin.

'I shouldn't trouble about it if I were you, Miss Fouracres,' said Mr.
Ruddiman in a tone of friendly encouragement. 'He'll soon be back, he'll
soon be back, and you may depend upon it there'll be no harm done.'

'I hope so, sir, but I've an uneasy sort of feeling; I have indeed.'

'Don't you worry, Miss Fouracres. When the Prince has gone away he'll be
better.'

Miss Fouracres stood for a moment with eyes cast down, then, looking
gravely at Mr. Ruddiman, said in a sorrowful voice--

'He calls the Pig and Whistle a pothouse.'

'Ah, that was wrong of him!' protested the other, no less earnestly. 'A
pothouse, indeed! Why, it's one of the nicest little inns you could find
anywhere. I'm getting fond of the Pig and Whistle. A pothouse, indeed! No,
I call that shameful.'

The listener's eyes shone with gratification.

'Of course we've got to remember,' she said more softly, 'that father has
known very different things.'

'I don't care what he has known!' cried Mr. Ruddiman. 'I hope I may never
have a worse home than the Pig and Whistle. And I only wish I could live
here all the rest of my life, instead of going back to that beastly
school!'

'Don't you like the school, Mr. Ruddiman?'

'Oh, I can't say I _dis_like it. But since I've been living here--well,
it's no use thinking of impossibilities.'

Towards midday the pony and trap came back, driven by a lad from Woodbury,
who had business in this direction. Miss Fouracres asked him to unharness
and stable the pony, and whilst this was being done Mr. Ruddiman stood by,
studiously observant. He had pleasure in every detail of the inn life.
To-day he several times waited upon passing guests, and laughed exultantly
at the perfection he was attaining. Miss Fouracres seemed hardly less
pleased, but when alone she still wore an anxious look, and occasionally
heaved a sigh of trouble.

Mr. Ruddiman, as usual, took an early supper, and soon after went up to his
room. By ten o'clock the house was closed, and all through the night no
sound disturbed the peace of the Pig and Whistle.

The morrow passed without news of Mr. Fouracres. On the morning after, just
as Mr. Ruddiman was finishing his breakfast, alone in the parlour, he heard
a loud cry of distress from the front part of the inn. Rushing out to see
what was the matter, he found Miss Fouracres in agitated talk with a man on
horseback.

'Ah, what did I say!' she cried at sight of the guest. 'Didn't I _know_
something was going to happen? I must go at once--I must put in the pony--'

'I'll do that for you,' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'But what has happened?'

The horseman, a messenger from Woodbury, told a strange tale. Very early
this morning, a gardener walking through the grounds at Woodbury Manor, and
passing by a little lake or fishpond, saw the body of a man lying in the
water, which at this point was not three feet in depth. He drew the corpse
to the bank, and, in so doing, recognised his acquaintance, Mr. Fouracres,
with whom he had spent an hour or two at a public-house in Woodbury on the
evening before. How the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had come to this
tragic end neither the gardener nor any one else in the neighbourhood could
conjecture.

Mr. Ruddiman set to work at once on harnessing the pony, while Miss
Fouracres, now quietly weeping, went to prepare herself for the journey. In
a very few minutes the vehicle was ready at the door. The messenger had
already ridden away.

'Can you drive yourself, Miss Fouracres?' asked Ruddiman, looking and
speaking with genuine sympathy.

'Oh yes, sir. But I don't know what to do about the house. I may be away
all day. And what about you, sir?'

'Leave me to look after myself, Miss Fouracres. And trust me to look after
the house too, will you? You know I can do it. Will you trust me?'

'It's only that I'm ashamed, sir--'

'Not a bit of it. I'm very glad, indeed, to be useful; I assure you I am.'

'But your dinner, sir?'

'Why, there's cold meat. Don't you worry, Miss Fouracres. I'll look after
myself, and the house too; see if I don't. Go at once, and keep your mind
at ease on my account, pray do!'

'It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure it is. Oh, I _knew_ something was
going to happen! Didn't I _say_ so?'

Mr. Ruddiman helped her into the trap; they shook hands silently, and Miss
Fouracres drove away. Before the turn of the road she looked back. Ruddiman
was still watching her; he waved his hand, and the young woman waved to him
in reply.

Left alone, the under-master took off his coat and put on an apron, then
addressed himself to the task of washing up his breakfast things.
Afterwards he put his bedroom in order. About ten o'clock the first
customer came in, and, as luck had it, the day proved a busier one than
usual. No less than four cyclists stopped to make a meal. Mr. Ruddiman was
able to supply them with cold beef and ham; moreover, he cooked eggs, he
made tea--and all this with a skill and expedition which could hardly have
been expected of him. None the less did he think constantly of Miss
Fouracres. About five in the afternoon wheels sounded; aproned and in his
shirt-sleeves, he ran to the door--as he had already done several times at
the sound of a vehicle--and with great satisfaction saw the face of his
hostess. She, too, though her eyes showed she had been weeping long, smiled
with gladness; the next moment she exclaimed distressfully.

'Oh, sir! To think you've been here alone all day! And in an apron!'

'Don't think about me, Miss Fouracres. You look worn out, and no wonder.
I'll get you some tea at once. Let the pony stand here a little; he's not
so tired as you are. Come in and have some tea, Miss Fouracres.'

Mr. Ruddiman would not be denied; he waited upon his hostess, got her a
very comfortable tea, and sat near her whilst she was enjoying it. Miss
Fouracres' story of the day's events still left her father's death most
mysterious. All that could be certainly known was that the landlord of the
Pig and Whistle had drunk rather freely with his friend the gardener at an
inn at Woodbury, and towards nine o'clock in the evening had gone out, as
he said, for a stroll before bedtime. Why he entered the grounds of
Woodbury Manor, and how he got into the pond there, no one could say.
People talked of suicide, but Miss Fouracres would not entertain that
suggestion. Of course there was to be an inquest, and one could only await
the result of such evidence as might be forthcoming. During the day Miss
Fouracres had telegraphed to the only relatives of whom she knew anything,
two sisters of her father, who kept a shop in London. Possibly one of them
might come to the funeral.

'Well,' said Mr. Ruddiman, in a comforting tone, 'all you have to do is to
keep quiet. Don't trouble about anything. I'll look after the business.'

Miss Fouracres smiled at him through her tears.

'It's very good of you, sir, but you make me feel ashamed. What sort of a
day have you had?'

'Splendid! Look here!'

He exhibited the day's receipts, a handful of cash, and, with delight
decently subdued, gave an account of all that had happened.

'I like this business!' he exclaimed. 'Don't you trouble about anything.
Leave it all to me, Miss Fouracres.'

One of the London aunts came down, and passed several days at the Pig and
Whistle. She was a dry, keen, elderly woman, chiefly interested in the
question of her deceased brother's property, which proved to be
insignificant enough. Meanwhile the inquest was held, and all the
countryside talked of Mr. Fouracres, whose story, of course, was published
in full detail by the newspapers. Once more opinions were divided as to
whether the hapless landlord really had or had not entertained His Royal
Highness. Plainly, Mr. Fouracres' presence in the grounds of Woodbury Manor
was due to the fact that the Prince happened to be staying there. In a
state of irresponsibility, partly to be explained by intoxication, partly
by the impulse of his fixed idea, he must have gone rambling in the dark
round the Manor, and there, by accident, have fallen into the water. No
clearer hypothesis resulted from the legal inquiry, and with this all
concerned had perforce to be satisfied. Mr. Fouracres was buried, and, on
the day after the funeral, his sister returned to London. She showed no
interest whatever in her niece, who, equally independent, asked neither
counsel nor help.

Mr. Ruddiman and his hostess were alone together at the Pig and Whistle.
The situation had a certain awkwardness. Familiars of the inn--country-folk
of the immediate neighbourhood--of course began to comment on the state of
things, joking among themselves about Mr. Ruddiman's activity behind the
bar. The under-master himself was in an uneasy frame of mind. When Miss
Fouracres' aunt had gone, he paced for an hour or two about the garden; the
hostess was serving cyclists. At length the familiar voice called to him.

'Will you have your dinner, Mr. Ruddiman?'

He went in, and, before entering the parlour, stood looking at a cask of
ale which had been tilted forward.

'We must tap the new cask,' he remarked.

'Yes, sir, I suppose we must,' replied his hostess, half absently.

'I'll do it at once. Some more cyclists might come.'

For the rest of the day they saw very little of each other. Mr. Ruddiman
rambled musing. When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests were
occupying the hostess. Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in the
garden, and lingered there--it being a fine, warm night--till after ten
o'clock. Miss Fouracres' voice aroused him from a fit of abstraction.

'I've just locked up, sir.'

'Ah! Yes. It's late.'

They stood a few paces apart. Mr. Ruddiman had one hand in his waistcoat
pocket, the other behind his back; Miss Fouracres was fingering her chin.

'I've been wondering,' said the under-master in a diffident voice, 'how
you'll manage all alone, Miss Fouracres.'

'Well, sir,' was the equally diffident reply, 'I've been wondering too.'

'It won't be easy to manage the Pig and Whistle all alone.'

'I'm afraid not, sir.'

'Besides, you couldn't live here in absolute solitude. It wouldn't be
safe.'

'I shouldn't quite like it, sir.'

'But I'm sure you wouldn't like to leave the Pig and Whistle, Miss
Fouracres?'

'I'd much rather stay, sir, if I could any way manage it.'

Mr. Ruddiman drew a step nearer.

'Do you know, Miss Fouracres, I've been thinking just the same. The fact
is, I don't like the thought of leaving the Pig and Whistle; I don't like
it at all. This life suits me. Could you'--he gave a little laugh--'engage
me as your assistant, Miss Fouracres?'

'Oh, sir!'

'You couldn't?'

'How can you think of such a thing, sir.'

'Well, then, there's only one way out of the difficulty that I can see. Do
you think--'

Had it not been dark Mr. Ruddiman would hardly have ventured to make the
suggestion which fell from him in a whisper. Had it not been dark Miss
Fouracres would assuredly have hesitated much longer before giving her
definite reply. As it was, five minutes of conversation solved what had
seemed a harder problem than any the under-master set to his class at
Longmeadows, and when these two turned to enter the Pig and Whistle, they
went hand in hand.