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 ofbooks was dominated by one Gargantuan type of fiction. The terms book andnovel became almost synonymous in houses which were not Puritan, yet wherebooks and reading, in the era of few and unfree libraries, were strictlycircumscribed. George Gissing was no exception to this rule. The Englishnovel was at the summit of its reputation during his boyish days. As a ladof eight or nine he remembered the parts of _Our Mutual Friend_ coming tothe house, and could recall the smile of welcome with which they wereinfallibly received. In the dining-room at home was a handsomely framedpicture which he regarded with an almost idolatrous veneration. It was anengraved portrait of Charles Dickens. Some of the best work of GeorgeEliot, Reade, and Trollope was yet to make its appearance; Meredith andHardy were still the treasured possession of the few; the reigning modelsduring the period of Gissing's adolescence were probably Dickens andTrollope, and the numerous satellites of these great stars, prominent amongthem Wilkie Collins, William Black, and Besant and Rice. 

Of the cluster of novelists who emerged from this school of ideas, the twowho will attract most attention in the future were clouded and obscured forthe greater period of their working lives. Unobserved, they received, andmade their own preparations for utilising, the legacy of the mid-Victoriannovel--moral thesis, plot, underplot, set characters, descriptivemachinery, 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 totallydifferent spirit. Mark Rutherford, after a very brief experiment, put allthese elaborate properties and conventions reverently aside. Cleverer andmore docile, George Gissing for the most part accepted them; he put hisslender frame into the ponderous collar of the author of the _Mill on theFloss_, and nearly collapsed in wind and limb in the heart-breaking attemptto adjust himself to such an heroic type of harness. 

The distinctive qualities of Gissing at the time of his setting forth werea scholarly style, rather fastidious and academic in its restraint, and thepersonal discontent, slightly morbid, of a self-conscious student who findshimself in the position of a sensitive woman in a crowd. His attitudethrough life was that of a man who, having set out on his career with theunderstanding that a second-class ticket is to be provided, allows himselfto be unceremoniously hustled into the rough and tumble of a noisy third. Circumstances made him revolt against an anonymous start in life for arefined and educated man under such conditions. They also made himprolific. He shrank from the restraints and humiliations to which the poorand shabbily dressed private tutor is exposed--revealed to us with apersuasive terseness in the pages of _The Unclassed, New Grub Street, Ryecroft_, and the story of _Topham's Chance. _ Writing fiction in a garretfor a sum sufficient to keep body and soul together for the six monthsfollowing payment was at any rate better than this. The result was a longseries of highly finished novels, written in a style and from a point ofview which will always render them dear to the studious and thebook-centred. Upon the larger external rings of the book-reading multitudeit is not probable that Gissing will ever succeed in impressing himself. There is an absence of transcendental quality about his work, a failure inhumour, a remoteness from actual life, a deficiency in awe and mystery, ashortcoming in emotional power, finally, a lack of the dramatic faculty, not indeed indispensable to a novelist, but almost indispensable as aningredient in great novels of this particular genre. [1] In temperament andvitality he is palpably inferior to the masters (Dickens, Thackeray, Hugo, Balzac) whom he reverenced with such a cordial admiration and envy. A 'lowvitality' may account for what has been referred to as the 'nervousexhaustion' of his style. It were useless to pretend that Gissing belongsof right to the 'first series' of English Men of Letters. But if debarredby his limitations from a resounding or popular success, he will remainexceptionally dear to the heart of the recluse, who thinks that the scholardoes well to cherish a grievance against the vulgar world beyond thecloister; and dearer still, perhaps, to a certain number of enthusiasts whobegan reading George Gissing as a college night-course; who closed _Thyrza_and _Demos_ as dawn was breaking through the elms in some Oxfordquadrangle, and who have pursued his work patiently ever since in asomewhat toilsome and broken ascent, secure always of suave writing andconscientious workmanship, of an individual prose cadence and a genuinevein 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 inestimating the brothers De Goncourt, who, falling short of the firstmagnitude, have yet a fully recognised position upon the stellar atlas. ]

Yet by the larger, or, at any rate, the intermediate public, it is a factthat Gissing has never been quite fairly estimated. He loses immensely ifyou estimate him either by a single book, as is commonly done, or by hiswork as a whole, in the perspective of which, owing to the lack of criticalinstruction, one or two books of rather inferior quality have obtrudedthemselves unduly. This brief survey of the Gissing country is designed toenable 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 thework of George Gissing upon a considerably higher level than he hashitherto done. 

The time has not yet come to write the history of his career--fuliginous innot a few of its earlier phases, gathering serenity towards itsclose, --finding a soul of goodness in things evil. This only pretends to bea chronological and, quite incidentally, a critical survey of GeorgeGissing's chief works. And comparatively short as his working life provedto be--hampered for ten years by the sternest poverty, and for nearly tenmore by the sad, illusive optimism of the poitrinaire--the task of the meresurveyor is no light or perfunctory one. Artistic as his temperamentundoubtedly was, and conscientious as his writing appears down to itsminutest detail, Gissing yet managed to turn out rather more than a novelper annum. The desire to excel acted as a spur which conquered hiscongenital inclination to dreamy historical reverie. The reward which hepropounded 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 in1880, and in that time just twenty-six books have been issued bearing hissignature. His industry was worthy of an Anthony Trollope, and cost hisemployers barely a tithe of the amount claimed by the writer of _The LastChronicle of Barset_. He was not much over twenty-two when his first novelappeared. [2] It was entitled _Workers in the Dawn_, and is distinguished bythe fact that the author writes himself George Robert Gissing; afterwardshe saw fit to follow the example of George Robert Borrow, and in allsubsequent productions assumes the style of 'George Gissing. ' The bookbegins in this fashion: 'Walk with me, reader, into Whitecross Street. Itis Saturday night'; and it is what it here seems, a decidedly crude andimmature performance. Gissing was encumbered at every step by the giant'srobe of mid-Victorian fiction. Intellectual giants, Dickens and Thackeray, were equally gigantic spendthrifts. They worked in a state of fervid heatabove a glowing furnace, into which they flung lavish masses of unshapedmetal, caring little for immediate effect or minute dexterity of stroke, but knowing full well that the emotional energy of their temperaments wascapable of fusing the most intractable material, and that in the end theywould produce their great, downright effect. Their spirits rose and fell, but the case was desperate, copy had to be despatched for the currentserial. Good and bad had to make up the tale against time, and revelling inthe very exuberance and excess of their humour, the novelists invariablytriumphed. 

[Footnote 2: Three vols. 8vo, 1880 (Remington). It was noticed at somelength in the _Athenoeum_ of June 12th, in which the author's philosophicoutlook is condemned as a dangerous compound of Schopenhauer, Comte, andShelley. 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 _TheNether World, _ but this proved anything but a prosperous speculation fromthe 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 completestranger. To the pale and fastidious recluse and anchorite, their tone ofgenial remonstrance with the world and its ways was totally alien. He knewnothing of the world to start with beyond the den of the student. Hissecond 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 thegloomier facts of life. Its title, _The Unclassed, _[3] excited a littlecuriosity, but the author was careful to explain that he had not in viewthe _déclassés_ but rather those persons who live in a limbo external tosociety, and refuse the statistic badge. The central figure Osmond Waymarkis of course Gissing himself. Like his creator, raving at intervals underthe vile restraints of Philistine surroundings and with no money fordissipation, Osmond gives up teaching to pursue the literary vocation. Agirl named Ida Starr idealises him, and is helped thereby to a purer life. In the four years' interval between this somewhat hurried work and hisstill earlier attempt the young author seems to have gone through abewildering change of employments. We hear of a clerkship in Liverpool, asearing experience in America (described with but little deviation in _NewGrub Street_), a gas-fitting episode in Boston, private tutorships, andcramming engagements in 'the poisonous air of working London. ' Internalevidence alone is quite sufficient to indicate that the man out of whosebrain such bitter experiences of the educated poor were wrung had learnt insuffering what he taught--in his novels. His start in literature was madeunder conditions that might have appalled the bravest, and for years hissteps were dogged by hunger and many-shaped hardships. He lived in cellarsand garrets. 'Many a time, ' he writes, 'seated in just such a garret (asthat in the frontispiece to _Little Dorrit_) I saw the sunshine flood thetable in front of me, and the thought of that book rose up before me. ' Heate his meals in places that would have offered a way-wearied trampoccasion for criticism. 'His breakfast consisted often of a slice of breadand a drink of water. Four and sixpence a week paid for his lodging. A mealthat cost more than sixpence was a feast. ' Once he tells us with a thrillof reminiscent ecstasy how he found sixpence in the street! The ordinarycomforts of modern life were unattainable luxuries. Once when a newlyposted notice in the lavatory at the British Museum warned readers that thebasins were to be used (in official phrase) 'for casual ablutions only, ' hewas abashed at the thought of his own complete dependence upon thefacilities of the place. Justly might the author call this a tragi-comicalincident. Often in happier times he had brooding memories of the familiarold horrors--the foggy and gas-lit labyrinth of Soho--shop windowscontaining puddings and pies kept hot by steam rising through perforatedmetal--a young novelist of 'two-and-twenty or thereabouts' standing beforethe display, raging with hunger, unable to purchase even one pennyworth offood. And this is no fancy picture, [4] but a true story of what Gissing hadsufficient elasticity of humour to call 'a pretty stern apprenticeship. 'The sense of it enables us to understand to the full that semi-ironical andbitter, 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 hercountenance 'habitual nourishment on good and plenteous food'?]

In his later years it was customary for him to inquire of a new author 'Hashe starved'? He need have been under no apprehension. There is still aGod's plenty of attics in Grub Street, tenanted by genuine artists, idealists and poets, amply sufficient to justify the lamentable conclusionof old Anthony à Wood in his life of George Peele. 'For so it is and alwayshath been, that most poets die poor, and consequently obscurely, and a hardmatter 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 thefirst great advance is shown in _Isabel Clarendon_. [5] No book, perhaps, that he ever wrote is so rich as this in autobiographical indices. In themelancholy Kingcote we get more than a passing phase or a momentary glimpseat one side of the young author. A long succession of Kingcote's traits areobvious self-revelations. At the beginning he symbolically prefers the oldroad with the crumbling sign-post, to the new. Kingcote is a literarysensitive. The most ordinary transaction with uneducated ('that isuncivilised') people made him uncomfortable. Mean and hateful people bytheir suggestions made life hideous. He lacks the courage of the ordinaryman. Though under thirty he is abashed by youth. He is sentimental andhungry for feminine sympathy, yet he realises that the woman who may withsafety be taken in marriage by a poor man, given to intellectual pursuits, is extremely difficult of discovery. Consequently he lives in solitude; heis tyrannised by moods, dominated by temperament. His intellect is inabeyance. He shuns the present--the historical past seems alone to concernhim. Yet he abjures his own past. The ghost of his former self affected himwith horror. Identity even he denies. 'How can one be responsible for thethoughts and acts of the being who bore his name years ago?' He has noconsciousness of his youth--no sympathy with children. In him is to bediscerned 'his father's intellectual and emotional qualities, together witha certain stiffness of moral attitude derived from his mother. ' He revealsalready a wonderful palate for pure literary flavour. His prejudices areintense, their character being determined by the refinement and idealism ofhis nature. All this is profoundly significant, knowing as we do that thiswas produced when Gissing's worldly prosperity was at its nadir. He wasliving at the time, like his own Harold Biffen, in absolute solitude, afrequenter of pawnbroker's shops and a stern connoisseur of pure dripping, pease pudding ('magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of avery rich quality indeed'), faggots and saveloys. The stamp of affluence inthose days was the possession of a basin. The rich man thus secured thegravy which the poor man, who relied on a paper wrapper for his peasepudding, had to give away. The image recurred to his mind when, in laterdays, he discussed champagne vintages with his publisher, or was consultedas to the management of butlers by the wife of a popular prelate. With whata sincere recollection of this time he enjoins his readers (after Dr. Johnson) to abstain from Poverty. 'Poverty is the great secluder. ' 'Londonis a wilderness abounding in anchorites. ' Gissing was sustained amid allthese miseries by two passionate idealisms, one of the intellect, the otherof the emotions. The first was ancient Greece and Rome--and he incarnatedthis passion in the picturesque figure of Julian Casti (in _TheUnclassed_), toiling hard to purchase a Gibbon, savouring its grand epicroll, 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 aswriter, Dickens as the hero of a past England, Dickens as humorist, Dickensas 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_ expressedastonishment at the mature style of the writer--of whom it admitted it hadnot yet come across the name. ]

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

[Footnote 6: Of Gissing's early impressions, the best connected account, Ithink, is to be gleaned from the concluding chapters of _The Whirlpool_;but this may be reinforced (and to some extent corrected, or, here andthere cancelled) by passages in _Burn in Exile_ (vol. I. ) and in_Ryecroft_. The material there supplied is confirmatory in the best senseof the detail contributed by Mr. Wells to the cancelled preface of_Veranilda_, touching the 'schoolboy, obsessed by a consuming passion forlearning, at the Quaker's boarding-school at Alderley. He had come thitherfrom Wakefield at the age of thirteen--after the death of his father, whowas, in a double sense, the cardinal formative influence in his life. Thetones of his father's voice, his father's gestures, never departed fromhim; when he read aloud, particularly if it was poetry he read, his fatherreturned in him. He could draw in those days with great skill andvigour--it will seem significant to many that he was particularlyfascinated by Hogarth's work, and that he copied and imitated it; and hisfather's well-stocked library, and his father's encouragement, hadquickened his imagination and given it its enduring bias for literaryactivity. ' 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 'themaster. ' He breathed Guppy's London particular, the wind was the blackeaster 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 underconditions little favourable to play of the fancy or intentness of themind--then was the time, Gissing found, to take down Forster and read--readabout 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 NewYork _Critic_, Jan. 1902. Much of this is avowed autobiography. ]

The influence of Dickens clearly predominated when Gissing wrote his nextnovel and first really notable and artistic book, _Thyrza_. [8] The figurewhich 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 aparallel to this particular effect I think we must go back a little fartherto the heroic age of the _grisette_ and the tearful _Manchon de Francine_of Henri Murger. _Thyrza_, at any rate, is a most exquisite picture inhalf-tones of grey and purple of a little Madonna of the slums; she is inreality the _belle fleur d'un fumier_ of which he speaks in the epigraph ofthe _Nether World_. The _fumier_ in question is Lambeth Walk, of which wehave a Saturday night scene, worthy of the author of _L'Assommoir_ and _LeVentre de Paris_ in his most perceptive mood. In this inferno, amongst thepungent odours, musty smells and 'acrid exhalations from the shops wherefried fish and potatoes hissed in boiling grease, ' blossomed a pure whitelily, as radiant amid mean surroundings as Gemma in the poor Frankfortconfectioner's shop of Turgenev's _Eaux Printanières. _ The pale and ratherlanguid charm of her face and figure are sufficiently portrayed without anyset description. What could be more delicate than the intimation of theforegone 'good-night' between the sisters, or the scene of Lyddy plaitingThyrza's hair? The delineation of the upper middle class culture by whichthis exquisite flower of maidenhood is first caressed and transplanted, then slighted and left to wither, is not so satisfactory. Of the uppermiddle class, indeed, at that time, Gissing had very few means ofobservation. But this defect, common to all his early novels, is more thancompensated by the intensely pathetic figure of Gilbert Grail, thetender-souled, book-worshipping factory hand raised for a moment to theprospect of intellectual life and then hurled down by the caprice ofcircumstance to the unrelenting round of manual toil at the soap and candlefactory. Dickens would have given a touch of the grotesque to Grail'sgentle but ungainly character; but at the end he would infallibly haverewarded him as Tom Pinch and Dominie Sampson were rewarded. Not so GeorgeGissing. His sympathy is fully as real as that of Dickens. But his fidelityto fact is greater. Of the Christmas charity prescribed by Dickens, and ofthe untainted pathos to which he too rarely attained, there is an abundancein _Thyrza_. But what amazes the chronological student of Gissing's work isthe magnificent quality of some of the writing, a quality of which he hadas yet given no very definite promise. Take the following passage, forexample:--

[Footnote 8: _Thyrza: A Novel_ (3 vols. , 1887). In later life we are toldthat 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 twosisters, where poverty for once is rainbow-tinted by love. ' My impressionis that it was written before _Demos_, but was longer in finding apublisher; it had to wait until the way was prepared by its coarser andmore vigorous workfellow. A friend writes: 'I well remember the appearanceof the MS. Gissing wrote then on thin foreign paper in a small, thinhandwriting, without correction. It was before the days of typewriting, andthe MS. Of a three-volume novel was so compressed that one could literallyput it in one's pocket without the slightest inconvenience. ' The name isfrom 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 mighthave been proud, [9] is recalled by an answering note in _Ryecroft_, inwhich he says, 'I owe many a page to the street-organs. '

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

[Footnote 9: I am thinking, in particular, of the old vielle-player'sconversation in chap. Xxiii. Of _John Inglesant_; of the exquisite passageon 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 atypical product of George Gissing's mind and art. In it he subdued himselfrather to the level of such popular producers as Besant and Rice, and wentout of his way to procure melodramatic suspense, an ingredient far fromcongenial to his normal artistic temper. But the end justified the means. The novel found favour in the eyes of the author of _The Lost SirMassingberd_, and Gissing for the first time in his life found himself thepossessor of a full purse, with fifty 'jingling, tingling, golden, mintedquid' in it. Its possession brought with it the realisation of a paramountdesire, the desire for Greece and Italy which had become for him, as it hadonce been with Goethe, a scarce endurable suffering. The sickness oflonging had wellnigh given way to despair, when 'there came into my hands asum of money (such a poor little sum) for a book I had written. It wasearly autumn. I chanced to hear some one speak of Naples--and only deathwould 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'; _TheAlbany_, Christmas 1904, p. 27; and _Monthly Review_, vol. Xvi. 'He wentstraight by sea to the land of his dreams--Italy. It was still happilybefore the enterprise of touring agencies had fobbed the idea of Italiantravel of its last vestiges of magic. He spent as much time as he couldafford about the Bay of Naples, and then came on with a rejoicing heart toRome--Rome, whose topography had been with him since boyhood, beside whosestately history the confused tumult of the contemporary newspapers seemedto him no more than a noisy, unmeaning persecution of the mind. Afterwardshe went to Athens. ']

The main plot of _Demos_ is concerned with Richard Mutimer, a youngsocialist whose vital force, both mental and physical, is well above theaverage, 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 mostbrutal and humiliating shape. Happy endings and the Gissing of this periodare so ill-assorted, that the 'reconciliations' at the close of both thisnovel and the next are to be regarded with considerable suspicion. The'gentlefolk' in the book are the merest marionettes, but there aredescriptive passages of first-rate vigour, and the voice of wisdom is heardfrom the lips of an early Greek choregus in the figure of an old parsoncalled Mr. Wyvern. As the mouthpiece of his creator's pet hobbies parsonWyvern rolls out long homilies conceived in the spirit of Emerson's'compensation, ' and denounces the cruelty of educating the poor and makingno after-provision for their intellectual needs with a sombre enthusiasmand a periodicity of style almost worthy of Dr. Johnson. [11]

[Footnote 11: An impressive specimen of his eloquence was cited by me in anarticle in the _Daily Mail Year Book_ (1906, p. 2). A riper study of asomewhat similar character is given in old Mr. Lashmar in _Our Friend theCharlatan_. (See his sermon on the blasphemy which would have us pretendthat 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 hismusic on a merry chord. ']

After _Demos_, Gissing returned in 1888 to the more sentimental andidealistic palette which he had employed for _Thyrza_. Renewedrecollections of Tibullus and of Theocritus may have served to give hiswork a more idyllic tinge. But there were much nearer sources ofinspiration for _A Life's Morning_. There must be many novels inspired by ayouthful enthusiasm for _Richard Feverel_, and this I should take to be oneof them. Apart from the idyllic purity of its tone, and its sincereidolatry of youthful love, the caressing grace of the language whichdescribes the spiritualised beauty of Emily Hood and the exquisite charm ofher slender hands, and the silvery radiance imparted to the whole scene ofthe proposal in the summer-house (in chapter iii. , 'Lyrical'), give to thismost unequal and imperfect book a certain crepuscular fascination of itsown. Passages in it, certainly, are not undeserving that fine descriptionof a style _si tendre qu'il pousse le bonheur à pleurer_. Emily's father, Mr. Hood, is an essentially pathetic figure, almost grotesquely true tolife. '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 Iwish especially to see, and that is Holborn Viaduct. It must be a wonderfulpiece of engineering; I remember thinking it out at the time it wasconstructed. Of course you have seen it?' The vulgar but not wholly inhumanCartwright interior, where the parlour is resolved into a perpetualmatrimonial 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 Gissingpure. 'Think of the sunny spaces in the world's history, in each of whichone could linger for ever. Athens at her fairest, Rome at her grandest, theglorious savagery of Merovingian Courts, the kingdom of Frederick II. , theMoors in Spain, the magic of Renaissance Italy--to become a citizen of anyone age means a lifetime of endeavour. It is easy to fill one's head withnames and years, but that only sharpens my hunger. ' In one form or anotherit recurs in practically every novel. [12] Certain of the later portions ofthis book, especially the chapter entitled 'Her Path in Shadow' aredelineated through a kind of mystical haze, suggestive of some of the workof Puvis de Chavannes. The concluding chapters, taken as a whole, indicatewith tolerable accuracy Gissing's affinities as a writer, and the pedigreeof the type of novel by which he is best known. It derives from Xavier deMaistre and St. Pierre to _La Nouvelle Héloïse, _--nay, might one not almostsay from the _pays du tendre_ of _La Princesse de Clèves_ itself. Semi-sentimental theories as to the relations of the sexes, the dangers ofindiscriminate education, the corruptions of wretchedness and poverty inlarge towns, the neglect of literature and classical learning, and thegrievances of scholarly refinement in a world in which Greek iambic andLatin hexameter count for nothing, --such form the staple of his theses andtirades! His approximation at times to the confines of French realistic artis of the most accidental or incidental kind. For Gissing is at heart, inhis bones as the vulgar say, a thorough moralist and sentimentalist, anhonest, true-born, downright ineradicable Englishman. Intellectually hisown life was, and continued to the last to be, romantic to an extent thatfew lives are. Pessimistic he may at times appear, but this is almostentirely on the surface. For he was never in the least blasé or ennuyé. Hehad the pathetic treasure of the humble and downcast and unkindlyentreated--unquenchable hope. He has no objectivity. His point of view isalmost entirely personal. It is not the _lacrimae rerum_, but the _lacrimaedierum suorum_, that makes his pages often so forlorn. His laments are alluttered by the waters of Babylon in a strange land. His nostalgia in theland of exile, estranged from every refinement, was greatly enhanced by thefact that he could not get on with ordinary men, but exhibited almost tothe last a practical incapacity, a curious inability to do the sane andsecure thing. As Mr. Wells puts it:--

[Footnote 12: Sometimes, however, as in _The Whirlpool_ (1897) with a verysignificant change of intonation:--'And that History which he loved toread--what was it but the lurid record of woes unutterable! How could hefind pleasure in keeping his eyes fixed on century after century ofever-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 worryingproblems for me. I can't take things in the simple way that comes naturalto other men. ' 'Not as other men are': more intellectual than most, fullyas responsive to kind and genial instincts, yet bound at every turn topinch and screw--an involuntary ascetic. Such is the essential burden ofGissing's long-drawn lament. Only accidentally can it be described as hismission to preach 'the desolation of modern life, ' or in the graciousphrase of De Goncourt, _fouiller les entrailles de la vie_. Of theconfident, self-supporting realism of _Esther Waters_, for instance, howlittle is there in any of his work, even in that most gloomily photographicportion of it which we are now to describe?

During the next four years, 1889-1892, Gissing produced four novels, andthree of these perhaps are his best efforts in prose fiction. _The NetherWorld_ of 1889 is certainly in some respects his strongest work, _la letracon sangre_, in which the ruddy drops of anguish remembered in a state ofcomparative tranquillity are most powerfully expressed. _The Emancipated_, of 1890, is with equal certainty, a _réchauffé_ and the least successful ofvarious attempts to give utterance to his enthusiasm for the _valorantica_--'the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome. ' _NewGrub Street_, (1891) is the most constructive and perhaps the mostsuccessful of all his works; while _Born in Exile_ (1892) is a key-book asregards the development of the author's character, a _clavis_ of primaryvalue to his future biographer, whoever he may be. The _Nether World_contains Gissing's most convincing indictment of Poverty; and it alsoexpresses his sense of revolt against the ugliness and cruelty which ispropagated like a foul weed by the barbarous life of our reeking slums. Hunger and Want show Religion and Virtue the door with scant politeness inthis 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 utilisedwith a masterly hand, and the result goes some way, perhaps, to justify thewell-meant but erratic comparisons that have been made between Gissing andsuch writers as Zola, Maupassant and the projector of the _ComédieHumaine_. The savage luck which dogs Kirkwood and Jane, and the worse thansavage--the inhuman--cruelty of Clem Peckover, who has been compared to theMadame Cibot of Balzac's _Le Cousin Pons_, render the book an intenselygloomy one; it ends on a note of poignant misery, which gives a certaincolour for once to the oft-repeated charge of morbidity and pessimism. Gissing understood the theory of compensation, but was unable to exhibit itin action. He elevates the cult of refinement to such a pitch that theconsolations of temperament, of habit, and of humdrum ideals which arecommon to the coarsest of mankind, appear to elude his observation. He doesnot represent men as worse than they are; but he represents them lessbrave. No social stratum is probably quite so dull as he colours it. Thereis usually a streak of illusion or a flash of hope somewhere on thehorizon. Hence a somewhat one-sided view of life, perfectly true asrepresenting the grievance of the poet Cinna in the hands of the mob, buttoo severely monochrome for a serious indictment of a huge stratum of ourcommon humanity. As in _Thyrza_, the sombreness of the ground generatessome 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 ofwhich, if the fate of London and Liverpool were to-morrow as that ofHerculaneum and Pompeii, we should be able to reconstruct the gutters ofour Imperial cities (little changed in essentials since the days ofDomitian), Gissing turned his sketch-book to the scenery of rural England. He makes no attempt at the rich colouring of Kingsley or Blackmore, but, aspage after page of _Ryecroft_ testifies twelve years later, he is a perfectmaster 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 inclinedto say, of Flaubert. But unless you are familiar with the quiet, undemonstrative nature of the scenery described, you can hardly estimatethe perfect justice of the sentiment and phrasing with which Gissingsucceeds in enveloping it. 

Gissing now turned to the submerged tenth of literature, and in describingit he managed to combine a problem or thesis with just the amount ofcharacterisation and plotting sanctioned by the novel convention of theday. The convention may have been better than we think, for _New GrubStreet_ is certainly its author's most effective work. The characters arenumerous, actual, and alive. The plot is moderately good, and lingers inthe memory with some obstinacy. The problem is more open to criticism, andit 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 itcompletely. In the first place, the book is not nearly so depressing as_The Nether World_, and is much farther removed from the strain of Frenchand Russian pessimism which had begun to engage the author's study when hewas writing _Thyrza_. There are dozens of examples to prove that Milvain'ssuccess is a perfectly normal process, and the reason for his selecting thejournalistic career is the obvious one that he has no money to beginstock-broking, still less money-lending. In the third place, the mental andmoral shortcomings of Reardon are by no means dissembled by the author. Heis, as the careful student of the novels will perceive, a greatlystrengthened and improved rifacimento of Kingcote, while Amy Reardon is abetter observed Isabel, regarded from a slightly different point of view. Jasper Milvain is, to my thinking, a perfectly fair portrait of anambitious publicist or journalist of the day--destined by determination, skill, energy, and social ambition to become an editor of a successfuljournal or review, and to lead the life of central London. Possessing akeen and active mind, expression on paper is his handle; he has no love ofletters as letters at all. But his outlook upon the situation is justenough. Reardon has barely any outlook at all. He is a man with a delicatebut shallow vein of literary capacity, who never did more than tremble uponthe verge of success, and hardly, if at all, went beyond promise. He wasunlucky in marrying Amy, a rather heartless woman, whose ambition was farin excess of her insight, for economic position Reardon had none. He writesbooks to please a small group. The books fail to please. Jasper in the mainis right--there is only a precarious place for any creative litterateurbetween the genius and the swarm of ephemera or journalists. A man writeseither to please the hour or to produce something to last, relatively along time, several generations--what we call 'permanent. ' The intermediateposition is necessarily insecure. It is not really wanted. What is lost bysociety when one of these mediocre masterpieces is overlooked? A sensation, a single ray in a sunset, missed by a small literary coterie! The circle isperhaps eclectic. It may seem hard that good work is overwhelmed in thecataract of production, while relatively bad, garish work is rewarded. Butso it must be. 'The growing flood of literature swamps every thing butworks of primary genius. ' Good taste is valuable, especially when it takesthe form of good criticism. The best critics of contemporary books (andthese are by no means identical with the best critics of the past and itswork) are those who settle intuitively upon the writing that is going toappeal more largely to a future generation, when the attraction of noveltyand topicality has subsided. The same work is done by great men. Theyanticipate lines of action; philosophers generally follow (Machiavelli'stheories the practice of Louis XI. , Nietzsche's that of Napoleon I. ). Thecritic recognises the tentative steps of genius in letters. The work offine delicacy and reserve, the work that follows, lacking the realoriginality, is liable to neglect, and _may_ become the victim of ill-luck, unfair influence, or other extraneous factors. Yet on the whole, sonumerous are the publics of to-day, there never, perhaps, was a time whensupreme genius or even supreme talent was so sure of recognition. Those whorail against these conditions, as Gissing seems here to have done, areactuated consciously or unconsciously by a personal or sectionaldisappointment. It is akin to the crocodile lament of the publisher thatgood modern literature is neglected by the public, or the impressionist'slament about the great unpaid greatness of the great unknown--theexclusively literary view of literary rewards. Literature must be governedby over-mastering impulse or directed at profit. 

But _New Grub Street_ is rich in memorable characters and situations to anextent unusual in Gissing; Biffen in his garret--a piece of genre almostworthy of Dickens; Reardon the sterile plotter, listening in despair to theneighbouring workhouse clock of St. Mary-le-bone; the matutinal interviewbetween Alfred Yule and the threadbare surgeon, a vignette worthy ofSmollett. Alfred Yule, the worn-out veteran, whose literary ideals arethose of the eighteenth century, is a most extraordinary study of an_arriéré_--certainly one of the most crusted and individual personalitiesGissing ever portrayed. He never wrote with such a virile pen: phrase afterphrase bites and snaps with a singular crispness and energy; material usedbefore is now brought to a finer literary issue. It is by far the mosttenacious of Gissing's novels. It shows that on the more conventional linesof fictitious intrigue, acting as cement, and in the interplay ofemphasised characters, Gissing could, if he liked, excel. (It recallsAnatole France's _Le Lys Rouge_, showing that he, too, the scholar andintellectual _par excellence_, could an he would produce patterns in plainand fancy adultery with the best. ) Whelpdale's adventures in Troy, U. S. A. , where he lived for five days on pea-nuts, are evidentlysemi-autobiographical. It is in his narrative that we first made theacquaintance of the American phrase now so familiar about literaryproductions going off like hot cakes. The reminiscences of Athens aretypical 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 cansecure the attention which would give fame. ' Biffen, it is true, is asomewhat fantastic figure of an idealist, but Gissing cherished thisgrotesque exfoliation from a headline by Dickens--and later in his careerwe shall find him reproducing one of Biffen's ideals with a singularfidelity. 

 '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 essenceof Biffen's artistic ideal. --_By the Ionian Sea_, chap. X. ]

In 1892 Gissing was already beginning to try and discard his down look, hislugubrious self-pity, his lamentable cadence. He found some alleviationfrom self-torment in _David Copperfield_, and he determined to borrow afeather from 'the master's' pinion--in other words, to place anautobiographical 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 theworst. A Hedonist of academic type, repelled by a vulgar intonation, Gissing himself is manifestly the man in exile. Travel, fair women andcollege 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 aman. Instead of which our poor scholar (with Homer and Shakespeare andPausanias piled upon his one small deal table) had to encounter the life ofthe shabby recluse in London lodgings--synonymous for him, as passage afterpassage in his books recounts, with incompetence and vulgarity in everyform, at best 'an ailing lachrymose slut incapable of effort, ' more oftensheer foulness and dishonesty, 'by lying, slandering, quarrelling, bydrunkenness, by brutal vice, by all abominations that distinguish thelodging-letter of the metropolis. ' No book exhibits more naïvely theextravagant value which Gissing put upon the mere externals of refinement. The following scathing vignette of his unrefined younger brother by thehero, Godfrey Peak, shows the ferocity with which this feeling couldmanifest itself against a human being who lacked the elements of scholasticlearning (the brother in question had failed to give the date of the NormanConquest):--

 '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, thatthis motive so skilfully used by so many novelists to whose work Gissing'shas affinity, from Rousseau and Stendhal (_Rouge et Noire_) to Cherbuliez(_Secret du Précepteur_) and Bourget (_Le Disciple_), had not alreadyattracted him, but the explanation is perhaps in part indicated in a finelywritten story towards the close of this present volume. [15] The white, maidenish and silk-haired fairness of Sidwell, and Peak's irresistiblepassion for the type of beauty suggested, is revealed to us with allGissing's wonderful skill in shadowing forth feminine types of lovelihood. Suggestive too of his oncoming passion for Devonshire and Western Englandare strains of exquisite landscape music scattered at random through thesepages. More significant still, however, is the developing faculty forpersonal satire, pointing to a vastly riper human experience. Peak wasuncertain, says the author, with that faint ironical touch which becamealmost habitual to him, 'as to the limits of modern latitudinarianism untilhe met Chilvers, ' the sleek, clerical advocate of 'Less St. Paul and moreDarwin, 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 Schoolat Alderley, [16] we get a few hints in these pages. Like his 'lonelycerebrate' hero, Gissing himself, at school and college, 'worked insanely. 'Walked much alone, shunned companionship rather than sought it, worked ashe 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 hadweakened him just when he should have been carefully fortifying hisconstitution. 

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

The year of this autobiographical record[17] marked the commencement ofGissing's reclamation from that worst form of literary slavery--thechain-gang. For he had been virtually chained to the desk, perpetuallyworking, imprisoned in a London lodging, owing to the literal lack of themeans of locomotion. [18] His most strenuous work, wrung from him in dismaldarkness and wrestling of spirit, was now achieved. Yet it seems to me bothungrateful and unfair to say, as has frequently been done, that hissubsequent work was consistently inferior. In his earlier years, likeReardon, he had destroyed whole books--books he had to sit down to when hisimagination was tired and his fancy suffering from deadly fatigue. Hiscorrections in the days of _New Grub Street_ provoked not infrequent, though anxiously deprecated, remonstrance from his publisher's reader. Nowhe wrote with more assurance and less exhaustive care, but also with aperfected experience. A portion of his material, it is true, had beenfairly used up, and he had henceforth to turn to analyse the sufferings ofwell-to-do lower middle-class families, people who had 'neither inheritedrefinement nor acquired it, neither proletarian nor gentlefolk, consumedwith a disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated with the miasma ofdemocracy. ' Of these classes it is possible that he knew less, andconsequently lacked the sureness of touch and the fresh draughtsmanshipwhich comes from ample knowledge, and that he had, consequently, to haveincreasing resort to books and to invention, to hypothesis and theory. [19]On the other hand, his power of satirical writing was continually expandingand developing, and some of his very best prose is contained in four ofthese later books: _In the Year of Jubilee_ (1894), _Charles Dickens_(1898), _By the Ionian Sea_ (1901), and _The Private Papers of HenryRyecroft_ (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 shortstories. 

[Footnote 17: Followed in 1897 by _The Whirlpool_ (see p. Xvi), and in 1899and 1903 by two books containing a like infusion of autobiographicalexperience, _The Crown of Life_, technically admirable in chosen passages, but sadly lacking in the freshness of first-hand, and _The Private Papersof 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 havewalked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together without even athought of saving my legs or my time, by paying for waftage. Being poor aspoor can be, there were certain things I had to renounce, and this was oneof 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 thepoor dissenters, the people of the slums that he observed so carefully, andmany of those on the borders of the Bohemia of which he at least was aninitiate, 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 thoseabove he knew little. .. . He did not know the upper middle classes, whichare as difficult every whit as those beneath them, and take as much timeand labour and experience and observation to learn. '--'The Exile of GeorgeGissing, ' _Albany_, Christmas 1904. In later life he lost sympathy with the'nether world. ' Asked to write a magazine article on a typical 'workman'sbudget, ' he wrote that he no longer took an interest in the 'condition ofthe poor question. ']

Few, if any, of Gissing's books exhibit more mental vigour than _In theYear of Jubilee_. This is shown less, it may be, in his attempted solutionof the marriage problem (is marriage a failure?) by means of the suggestionthat middle class married people should imitate the rich and see as littleof each other as possible, than in the terse and amusing characterisationsand the powerfully thought-out descriptions. The precision which his penhad acquired is well illustrated by the following description, not unworthyof 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 commentedupon, but it is more than doubtful if he ever achieved anything superior toGissing's marvellous incarnation of the jubilee night mob in chapter seven. More formidable, as illustrating the venom which the author's whole naturehad secreted against a perfectly recognisable type of modern woman, is theacrid 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 grotesqueexamination system were one of Gissing's favourite topics of denunciationin later years, as evidenced in this characteristic passage in his latermanner 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] marksthe conclusion of these elaborated problem studies. The inferno of Londonpoverty, social analysis and autobiographical reminiscence, had now alikebeen pretty extensively drawn upon by Gissing. With different degrees ofsuccess he had succeeded in providing every one of his theses withsomething in the nature of a jack-in-the-box plot which the public lovedand he despised. There remained to him three alternatives: to experimentbeyond the limits of the novel; to essay a lighter vein of fiction; orthirdly, 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 notimpossible she, Gissing here creates a false, fair, and fleeting beauty ofa very palpable charm. A growing sense of her power to fascinate steadilyraises 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 bygratitude and humility, the timid Hilliard, who seeks to propitiate hischarmer by ransoming her from a base liaison and supporting her in luxuryfor a season in Paris, is thrown off like an old glove when a richer_parti_ declares himself. The subtlety of the portraiture and the economyof the author's sympathy for his hero impart a subacid flavour of peculiardelicacy to the book, which would occupy a high place in the repertoire ofany lesser artist. It well exhibits the conflict between an exaggeratedcontempt for, and an extreme susceptibility to, the charm of women whichhas 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 floatsspinning round the vortex of social London, [21] Gissing brings amelodramatic plot of a kind disused since the days of _Demos_ to bear uponthe exhausting lives and illusive pleasures of the rich and cultured middleclass. There is some admirable writing in the book, and symptoms of achange of tone (the old inclination to whine, for instance, is scarcelyperceptible) suggestive of a new era in the work of thenovelist--relatively mature in many respects as he now manifestly was. Further progress in one of two directions seemed indicated: the firstleading towards the career of a successful society novelist 'of circulatingfame, spirally crescent, ' the second towards the frame of mind that created_Ryecroft_. The second fortunately prevailed. In the meantime, inaccordance with a supreme law of his being, his spirit craved thatrefreshment which Gissing found in revisiting Italy. 'I want, ' he cried, 'to see the ruins of Rome: I want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus, theAufidus, the Alban Hills, Lake Trasimenus! It is strange how these oldtimes have taken hold of me. The mere names in Roman history make my bloodwarm. ' Of him the saying of Michelet was perpetually true: 'J'ai passé àcôté du monde, et j'ai pris l'histoire pour la vie. ' His guide-books inItaly, through which he journeyed in 1897 (_en prince_ as compared with hisformer visit, now that his revenue had risen steadily to between three andfour hundred a year), were Gibbon, his _semper eadem_, Lenormant (_laGrande-Grèce_), and Cassiodorus, of whose epistles, the foundation of thematerial of _Veranilda_, he now began to make a special study. The dirt, the poverty, the rancid oil, and the inequable climate of Calabria musthave been a trial and something of a disappointment to him. But physicaldiscomfort and even sickness was whelmed by the old and overmasteringenthusiasm, which combined with his hatred of modernity and consumedGissing as by fire. The sensuous and the emotional sides of his experienceare blended with the most subtle artistry in his _By the Ionian Sea_, ashort volume of impressions, unsurpassable in its kind, from which wecannot refrain two characteristic extracts:--

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

[Footnote 21: The whirlpool in which people just nod or shout to each otheras they spin round and round. The heroine tries to escape, but is drawnback again and again, and nearly submerges her whole environment by herwild clutches. Satire is lavished upon misdirected education (28), thesluttishness of London landladies, self-adoring Art on a pedestal (256), the delegation of children to underlings, sham religiosity (229), thepampered conscience of a diffident student, and the _mensonge_ of modernwoman (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-obscurednames of the sites celebrated in classic story, and the spectacle of thewhite oxen drawing the rustic carts of Virgil's time--these things rousedin him such an echo as _Chevy Chase_ roused in the noble Sidney, and madehim shout with joy. A pensive vein of contemporary reflection enriches thebook 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 wasactually in Italy, at Siena, he wrote the greater part of one of his veryfinest performances; the study of _Charles Dickens_, of which he correctedthe proofs 'at a little town in Calabria. ' It is an insufficient tribute toGissing to say that his study of Dickens is by far the best extant. I haveeven heard it maintained that it is better in its way than any singlevolume in the 'Man of Letters'; and Mr. Chesterton, who speaks from ampleknowledge on this point, speaks of the best of all Dickens's critics, 'aman of genius, Mr. George Gissing. ' While fully and frankly recognising themaster's defects in view of the artistic conscience of a later generation, the writer recognises to the full those transcendent qualities which placehim next to Sir Walter Scott as the second greatest figure in a century ofgreat fiction. In defiance of the terrible, and to some critics damning, fact that Dickens entirely changed the plan of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ indeference to the popular criticism expressed by the sudden fall in thecirculation of that serial, he shows in what a fundamental sense the authorwas 'a literary artist if ever there was one, ' and he triumphantly refutesthe rash daub of unapplied criticism represented by the parrot cry of'caricature' as levelled against Dickens's humorous portraits. Among themany notable features of this veritable _chef-d'oeuvre_ of under 250 pagesis the sense it conveys of the superb gusto of Dickens's actual living andbreathing and being, the vindication achieved of two ordinarily rathermaligned novels, _The Old Curiosity Shop_ and _Little Dorrit_, and theinsight shown into Dickens's portraiture of women, more particularly thoseof the shrill-voiced and nagging or whining variety, the 'better halves' ofWeller, Varden, Snagsby and Joe Gargery, not to speak of the Miggs, theGummidge, and the M'Stinger. Like Mr. Swinburne and other true men, heregards Mrs. Gamp as representing the quintessence of literary art wieldedby genius. Try (he urges with a fine curiosity) 'to imagine Sarah Gamp as ayoung girl'! But it is unfair to separate a phrase from a context in whichevery syllable is precious, reasonable, thrice distilled and sweet to thepalate as Hybla honey. [22]

[Footnote 22: A revised edition (the date of Dickens's birth is wronglygiven in the first) was issued in 1902, with topographical illustrations byF. G. Kitton. Gissing's introduction to _Nickleby_ for the Rochester editionappeared in 1900, and his abridgement of Forster's _Life_ (an excellentpiece of work) in 1903 [1902]. The first collection of short stories, twenty-nine in number, entitled _Human Odds and Ends_, was published in1898. It is justly described by the writer of the most interesting'Recollections of George Gissing' in the _Gentleman's Magazine, _ February1906, as 'that very remarkable collection. ']

Henceforth Gissing spent an increasing portion of his time abroad, and itwas 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 Gissingsometimes 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 abook as _A Life's Morning_ as it is possible for a novel by the same authorto 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 _WillWarburton_, or still further south, that he wrote the greater part of hislast three books, the novel just mentioned, which is probably his bestessay in the lighter ironical vein to which his later years inclined, [23]_Veranilda_, a romance of the time of Theodoric the Goth, written in solemnfulfilment of a vow of his youth, and _The Private Papers of HenryRyecroft_, which to my mind remains a legacy for Time to take account of asthe faithful tribute of one of the truest artists of the generation heserved. 

[Footnote 23: It also contains one of the most beautiful descriptions everpenned of the visit of a tired town-dweller to a modest rural home, withall its suggestion of trim gardening, fresh country scents, indigenousfood, and homely simplicity. --_Will Warburton_, chap. Ix. ]

In _Veranilda_ (1904) are combined conscientious workmanship, a pure styleof finest quality, and archaeology, for all I know to the contrary, worthyof Becker or Boni. Sir Walter himself could never in reason have dared toaspire to such a fortunate conjuncture of talent, grace, and historicaccuracy. He possessed only that profound knowledge of human nature, thatmoulding humour and quick sense of dialogue, that live, human, and localinterest in matters antiquarian, that statesmanlike insight into the pithand marrow of the historic past, which makes one of Scott's historicalnovels what it is--the envy of artists, the delight of young and old, thedespair of formal historians. _Veranilda_ is without a doubt a splendidpiece of work; Gissing wrote it with every bit of the care that his oldfriend Biffen expended upon _Mr. Bailey, grocer_. He worked slowly, patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good as hecould make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaningskilfully set; and he believed in it with the illusion so indispensable toan artist's wellbeing and continuance in good work. It represented for himwhat _Salammbô_ did to Flaubert. But he could not allow himself six yearsto write a book as Flaubert did. _Salammbô_, after all, was a magnificentfailure, 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 apessimistic work, --quite the contrary, it represents the mellowinginfluences, the increase of faith in simple, unsophisticated Englishgirlhood and womanhood, in domestic pursuits, in innocent children, inrural homeliness and honest Wessex landscape, which began to operate about1896, and is seen so unmistakably in the closing scenes of _The Whirlpool_. Three chief strains are subtly interblended in the composition. First thatof a nature book, full of air, foliage and landscape--that Englishlandscape art of Linnell and De Wint and Foster, for which he repeatedlyexpresses such a passionate tendre, [24] refreshed by 'blasts from thechannel, with raining scud and spume of mist breaking upon the hills' inwhich he seems to crystallise the very essence of a Western winter. Secondly, a paean half of praise and half of regret for the vanishingEngland, passing so rapidly even as he writes into 'a new England whichtries so hard to be unlike the old. ' A deeper and richer note ofthankfulness, mixed as it must be with anxiety, for the good old ways ofEnglish life (as lamented by Mr. Poorgrass and Mark Clark[25]), old Englishsimplicity, and old English fare--the fine prodigality of the Englishplatter, has never been raised. God grant that the leaven may work! Andthirdly there is a deeply brooding strain of saddening yet softenedautobiographical reminiscence, over which is thrown a light veil ofliterary appreciation and topical comment. Here is a typical _cadenza_, rising to a swell at one point (suggestive for the moment of Raleigh'sfamous apostrophe), and then most gently falling, in a manner not whollyunworthy, I venture to think, of Webster and Sir Thomas Browne, of both ofwhich authors there is internal evidence that Gissing made some study. 

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

[Footnote 25: 'But what with the parsons and clerks and school-people andserious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to thedogs--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 maybe, of the euthanasia, following a brief summer of St. Martin, for whichthe scarred and troublous portions of Gissing's earlier life had served asa preparation. Some there are, no doubt, to whom it will seem noextravagance in closing these private pages to use the author's own words, of a more potent Enchanter: 'As I close the book, love and reverencepossess me. '

 * * * * *

Whatever the critics may determine as to the merit of the stories in thepresent volume, there can be no question as to the interest they derivefrom their connection with what had gone before. Thus _Topham's Chance_ ismanifestly the outcome of material pondered as early as 1884. _The Lodgerin Maze Pond_ develops in a most suggestive fashion certain problemsdiscussed in 1894. Miss Rodney is a re-incarnation of Rhoda Nunn andConstance Bride. _Christopherson_ is a delicious expansion of a moodindicated in _Ryecroft_ (Spring xii. ), and _A Capitalist_ indicates thegrowing interest in the business side of practical life, the dawn of whichis seen in _The Town Traveller_ and in the discussion of Dickens'spotentialities as a capitalist. The very artichokes in _The House ofCobwebs_ (which, like the kindly hand that raised them, alas! fell a victimto the first frost of the season) are suggestive of a charming passagedetailing the retired author's experience as a gardener. What Dr. Furnivallmight call the 'backward reach' of every one of these stories will rendertheir perusal delightful to those cultivated readers of Gissing, of whomthere are by no means a few, to whom every fragment of his suave anddelicate workmanship 'repressed yet full of power, vivid though sombre incolouring, ' has a technical interest and charm. Nor will they search invain for Gissing's incorrigible mannerisms, his haunting insistence uponthe note of 'Dort wo du nicht bist ist das Glück, ' his tricks of the brushin portraiture, his characteristic epithets, the _dusking_ twilight, the_decently ignoble_ penury, the _not ignoble_ ambition, the _not whollybase_ riot of the senses in early manhood. In my own opinion we have herein _The Scrupulous Father_, and to a less degree, perhaps, in the first andlast of these stories, and in _A Poor Gentleman_ and _Christopherson_, perfectly characteristic and quite admirable specimens of Gissing's owngenre, and later, unstudied, but always finished prose style. 

 * * * * *

But a few words remain to be said, and these, in part at any rate, inrecapitulation. In the old race, of which Dickens and Thackeray wererepresentative, a successful determination to rise upon the broad back ofpopularity coincided with a growing conviction that the evil in the worldwas steadily diminishing. Like healthy schoolboys who have worked their wayup to the sixth form, they imagined that the bullying of which they had hadto complain was become pretty much a thing of the past. In Gissing themisery inherent in the sharp contrasts of modern life was a far more deeplyingrained conviction. He cared little for the remedial aspect of thequestion. His idea was to analyse this misery as an artist and to expressit to the world. 

One of the most impressive elements in the resulting novels is the witnessthey bear to prolonged and intense suffering, the suffering of a proud, reserved, and over-sensitive mind brought into constant contact with thecoarse and brutal facts of life. The creator of Mr. Biffen suffers all thetorture of the fastidious, the delicately honourable, the scrupulouslyhigh-minded in daily contact with persons of blunt feelings, low ideals, and base instincts. 'Human cattle, the herd that feed and breed, with themit was well; but the few born to a desire for ever unattainable, the gentlespirits who from their prisoning circumstance looked up and afar, how theheart ached to think of them!' The natural bent of Gissing's talent wastowards poetry and classical antiquity. His mind had considerable naturalaffinity with that of Tennyson. [26] He was passionately fond of oldliterature, of the study of metre and of historical reverie. The subtlecuriosities of Anatole France are just of the kind that would have appealedirresistibly to him. His delight in psychological complexity and feats ofstyle are not seldom reminiscent of Paul Bourget. His life would havegained immeasurably by a transference to less pinched and pitifulsurroundings: but it is more than doubtful whether his work would have doneso. 

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

The compulsion of the twin monsters Bread and Cheese forced him to writenovels the scene of which was laid in the one milieu he had thoroughlyobserved, that of either utterly hideous or shabby genteel squalor inLondon. He gradually obtained a rare mastery in the delineation of hisunlovely _mise en scène_. He gradually created a small public who readeagerly everything that came from his pen, despite his economy of material(even of ideas), and despite the repetition to which a natural tendency wasincreased by compulsory over-production. In all his best books we haveevidence of the savage and ironical delight with which he depicted to theshadow of a hair the sordid and vulgar elements by which he had been socruelly depressed. The aesthetic observer who wanted material for a pictureof the blank desolation and ugliness of modern city life could find nobetter substratum than in the works of George Gissing. Many of hisdescriptions of typical London scenes in Lambeth Walk, Clerkenwell, or JuddStreet, for instance, are the work of a detached, remorseless, photographicartist realising that ugly sordidness of daily life to which the ordinaryobserver becomes in the course of time as completely habituated as he doesto the smoke-laden air. To a cognate sentiment of revolt I attribute thatexcessive deference to scholarship and refinement which leads him in somany novels to treat these desirable attributes as if they were ends andobjects of life in themselves. It has also misled him but too often intodepicting a world of suicides, ignoring or overlooking a secret hobby, orpassion, or chimaera which is the one thing that renders existenceendurable to so many of the waifs and strays of life. He takes existencesadly--too sadly, it may well be; but his drabs and greys provide anatmosphere that is almost inseparable to some of us from our gaunt Londonstreets. In Farringdon Road, for example, I look up instinctively to theexpressionless upper windows where Mr. Luckworth Crewe spreads his baitsfor intending advertisers. A tram ride through Clerkenwell and its leaguesof dreary, inhospitable brickwork will take you through the heart of aregion where Clem Peckover, Pennyloaf Candy, and Totty Nancarrow aremultiplied rather than varied since they were first depicted by GeorgeGissing. As for the British Museum, it is peopled to this day by charactersfrom _New Grub Street_. 

There may be a perceptible lack of virility, a fluctuating vagueness ofoutline about the characterisation of some of his men. In his treatment ofcrowds, in his description of a mob, personified as 'some huge beastpurring to itself in stupid contentment, ' he can have few rivals. Intracing the influence of women over his heroes he evinces no commonsubtlety; it is here probably that he is at his best. The _odor difemmina_, to use a phrase of Don Giovanni's, is a marked characteristic ofhis 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. Andthe beautiful verse has a fine parallel in the prose of one of Gissing'slater novels. 'Some girl, of delicate instinct, of purpose sweet and pure, wasting her unloved life in toil and want and indignity; some man, whoseyouth and courage strove against a mean environment, whose eyes grewhaggard in the vain search for a companion promised in his dreams; theylived, 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 theopening passage of the same novel, was evidently no remotely conceivedfancy. Its realisation, in ideal love, represents the author's _Crown ofLife_. The wise man who said that Beautiful Woman[27] was a heaven to theeye, a hell to the soul, and a purgatory to the purse of man, could hardlyfind a more copious field of illustration than in the fiction of GeorgeGissing. 

[Footnote 27: With unconscious recollection, it may be, of Pope's notablephrase in regard to Shakespeare, he speaks in his last novel of womanappearing 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 veryhurried productions, finished in haste for the market with no great amounteither of inspiration or artistic confidence about them. But littleslovenly work will be found bearing his name, for he was a thoroughlytrained writer; a suave and seductive workmanship had become a secondnature to him, and there was always a flavour of scholarly, subacid andquasi-ironical modernity about his style. There is little doubt that hisquality as a stylist was better adapted to the studies of modern Londonlife, on its seamier side, which he had observed at first hand, than tostories of the conventional dramatic structure which he too often felthimself bound to adopt. In these his failure to grapple with a bigobjective, or to rise to some prosperous situation, is often painfullymarked. A master of explanation and description rather than of animatednarrative or sparkling dialogue, he lacked the wit and humour, thebrilliance and energy of a consummate style which might have enabled him tocompete with the great scenic masters in fiction, or with craftsmen such asHardy or Stevenson, or with incomparable wits and conversationalists suchas Meredith. It is true, again, that his London-street novels lack certainartistic elements of beauty (though here and there occur glints of rainy orsunset townscape in a half-tone, consummately handled and eminentlyimpressive); and his intense sincerity cannot wholly atone for this loss. Where, however, a quiet refinement and delicacy of style is needed as inthose sane and suggestive, atmospheric, critical or introspective studies, such as _By the Ionian Sea_, the unrivalled presentment of _CharlesDickens_, and that gentle masterpiece of softened autobiography, _ThePrivate Papers of Henry Ryecroft_ (its resignation and autumnal calm, itsfiner note of wistfulness and wide human compassion, fully deservecomparison with the priceless work of Silvio Pellico) in which he indulgedhimself during the last and increasingly prosperous years of his life, thenGissing's style is discovered to be a charmed instrument. That he will _suplate_, our Gissing, we are quite content to believe. But that a place isreserved for him, of that at any rate we are reasonably confident. Thethree books just named, in conjunction with his short stories and his _NewGrub Street_ (not to mention _Thyrza_ or _The Nether World_), will sufficeto ensure him a devout and admiring group of followers for a very long timeto come; they accentuate profoundly the feeling of vivid regret and almostpersonal loss which not a few of his more assiduous readers experiencedupon the sad news of his premature death at St. Jean de Luz on the 28thDecember 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 theforegoing 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 theanti-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 thelodging-house bedroom shone like cloth of gold as the sun's unclouded rayspoured through it, transforming all they illumined, so that things poor andmean seemed to share in the triumphant glory of new-born day. In the bedlay a young man who had already been awake for an hour. He kept stirringuneasily, but with no intention of trying to sleep again. His eyes followedthe slow movement of the sunshine on the wall-paper, and noted, as theynever had done before, the details of the flower pattern, which representedno flower wherewith botanists are acquainted, yet, in this summer light, turned the thoughts to garden and field and hedgerow. The young man had atroubled mind, and his thoughts ran thus:--

'I must have three months at least, and how am I to live?. .. Fifteenshillings a week--not quite that, if I spread my money out. Can one live onfifteen shillings a week--rent, food, washing?. .. I shall have to leavethese lodgings at once. They're not luxurious, but I can't live here undertwenty-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 todo 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 seethe sun. .. . Wonder whether some cottager in Surrey would house and feed mefor fifteen shillings a week?. .. No use lying here. Better get up and seehow things look after an hour's walk. '

So the young man arose and clad himself, and went out into the shiningstreet. 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 ofauthorship. As soon as he slipped out of the stuffy house, the live air, perfumed with freshness from meadows and hills afar, made his blood pulsejoyously. He was at the age of hope, and something within him, which didnot represent mere youthful illusion, supported his courage in the face ofcalculations such as would have damped sober experience. With boyish step, so light and springy that it seemed anxious to run and leap, he took hisway through a suburb south of Thames, and pushed on towards the firstrising of the Surrey hills. And as he walked resolve strengthened itself inhis heart. Somehow or other he would live independently through the nextthree months. If the worst came to the worst, he could earn bread as clerkor 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 asif some one had left him a fortune. 

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

On either side ran a narrow passage, which parted the spot of desolationfrom inhabited dwellings. Exploring one of these, Goldthorpe found thatthere lay in the rear a tract of gardens. Each of the three lifeless houseshad its garden of about twenty yards long. The bordering wall along thepassage allowed a man of average height to peer over it, and Goldthorpesearched 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 upona time the useful and ornamental had both been represented in this modestspace; now, flowers and vegetables, such of them as survived in thestruggle for existence, mingled together, and all alike were threatened bya 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. ButGoldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest wasengrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall ofthe house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow, melancholy strain, 'Home, Sweet Home' began to wheeze forth. The player wasa middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his headshaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet--oneof which swung as he sat with legs crossed--a pair of still more ancientslippers, also too large. With head aside, and eyes looking upward, heseemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument. He had around face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows, pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringingthe chinless lower jaw. Having observed this unimposing person for a minuteor two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building, anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; butnothing spoke of tenancy. The windows on this side were not boarded, andonly a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with thedesolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up tothe eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures whichseemed to deny all possibility of life within. And yet, on lookingsteadily, did he not discern something at one of the windows on the topstory--something like a curtain or a blind? And had not that same windowthe appearance of having been more recently cleaned than the others? Hecould not be sure; perhaps he only fancied these things. With neck achingfrom 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 anend, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence wasundisturbed. 

Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wonderingwhat it all meant. On his way back he made a point of again passing thedeserted houses, and again he peered over the wall of the passage. The manwas still there, but no longer seated with the concertina; wearing a roundfelt hat instead of the straw, he stood almost knee-deep in vegetation, andappeared to be examining the various growths about him. Presently he movedforward, 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 passedout, could be heard to turn a lock behind him. A minute more, and thisshort, respectable figure came into sight at the end of the passage. Goldthorpe could not resist the opportunity thus offered. Affecting to turna look of interest towards the nearest roof, he waited until the strangerwas 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 hiscountenance, and spoke in a corresponding voice, which had a vaguelyprovincial accent. 

'No wonder it surprises you, sir. I should be surprised myself. It comes ofquarrels 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 sprungup in his mind; he met the stranger's look, and spoke with the easygood-humour natural to him. 

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

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

'You are joking, sir. '

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

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

'I'm quite in earnest, I assure you, ' cried Goldthorpe cheerily. 'You seeI'm tolerably well dressed still, but I've precious little money, and Iwant to eke out the little I've got for about three months. I'm writing abook. I think I shall manage to sell it when it's done, but it'll take meabout three months yet. I don't care what sort of place I live in, so longas 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 asif 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 withinterest. 'It's like Chatterton!--though I'm sure I hope you won't end likehim, sir. It's like Goldsmith!--indeed it is!'

'I've got half Oliver's name, at all events, ' laughed the young man. 'Mineis 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 talkthere--'

In a minute or two they were standing amid the green jungle, whichGoldthorpe viewed with delight. He declared it the most picturesque gardenhe 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 afiner thistle in my life! And poppies--and marigolds--and broad-beans--andisn't that lettuce?'

Mr. Spicer was red with gratification. 

'I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir, ' he said. 'Thefact is, sir, I've only lately come into this property, and I'm sorry tosay it'll only be mine for a little more than a year--a year from nextmidsummer day, sir. There's the explanation of what you see. It's leaseholdproperty, and the lease is just coming to its end. Five years ago, sir, anuncle of mine inherited the property from his brother. The houses were thenin a very bad state, and only one of them let, and there had been lawsuitsgoing on for a long time between the leaseholder and the ground-landlord--Ican'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 thetenants was somehow mixed up in it. The fact is, my uncle wasn't a verywell-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 andhave 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 theceiling was cobweb-packed; long, dusty filaments depended along the walls. Notwithstanding, Goldthorpe noticed that the house had a water-supply; thesink was wet, the tap above it looked new. This confirmed a suspicion inhis mind, but he made no remark. They passed into the kitchen. Here againthe work of the spider showed thick on every hand. The window, however, though uncleaned for years, had recently been opened; one knew that by thetorn and ragged condition of the webs where the sashes joined. And lo! onthe window-sill stood a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, aspoon--all of them manifestly new-washed. Goldthorpe affected not to seethese 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. Nofire had burned in the grate for many a long day; of that the visitorassured himself. Save the objects on the window-sill, no evidence of humanoccupation was discoverable. Having struck a light, Mr. Spicer advanced. Inthe front passage, on the stairs, on the landing, every angle and everyprojection had its drapery of cobwebs. The stuffy, musty air smelt ofcobwebs; so, at all events, did Goldthorpe explain to himself a peculiarodour which he seemed never to have smelt. It was the same in the two roomson the first floor. Through the boarded windows of that in front penetrateda few thin rays from the golden sky; they gleamed upon dust and web, onfaded, 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 calledattractive. '

'Those on the top are healthier, no doubt, ' was the young man's reply. 'Inoticed that some of the window-glass is broken. That must have been goodfor 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 ledthe way to the top story, still amid cobwebs; the atmosphere was certainlypurer up here, and when they entered the first room they found themselvesall at once in such a flood of glorious sunshine that Goldthorpe shoutedwith delight. 

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

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

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

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

'Stop, sir!' broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring. 'There'ssomething 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 tome--I've merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that's all--a temporaryarrangement. '

'Yes, yes; I quite understand. What could be more sensible? If the housewere mine, I should do the same. What's the good of owning a house, andmaking 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 ofview. I can't tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made youracquaintance. Let us go into the back room. '

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

'It's wonderful how little one really wants, ' remarked Mr. Spicer, 'at allevents in weather such as this. I find that I get along here very wellindeed. 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'tmind loneliness--and it happens that I don't. I have my books, sir--'

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

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

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

'This is delightful, ' cried Mr. Goldthorpe. 'Will you let me have the frontroom? 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 coursethe windows must be seen to. The fact is, sir, if you felt disposed to dothat at your own expense, and--and to have the room cleaned, and--and, letus say, to bear half the water-rate whilst you are here, why, really, Ihardly feel justified in asking anything more. '

It was Goldthorpe's turn to be embarrassed, for, little as he was preparedto pay, he did not like to accept a stranger's generosity. They discussedthe 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 livequite independently, asking nothing in the way of domestic service;moreover, he was requested to introduce no other person to the house, evenas casual visitor. These conditions Mr. Spicer set forth, in a commercialhand, on a sheet of notepaper, and the agreement was solemnly signed byboth contracting parties. 

On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that hehad taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his roomwith the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, beas economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was tosupport him for three months. Indeed, when all had been done, and he foundhimself, four days later, dwelling on the top story of the house ofcobwebs, a simple computation informed him that his total expenditure, after payment of rent, must not exceed fifteenpence a day. What matter? Hewas in the highest spirits, full of energy and hope. His landlord had beenkind and helpful in all sorts of ways, helping him to clean the room, toremove his property from the old lodgings, to make purchases at the lowestpossible rate, to establish himself as comfortably as circumstancespermitted. And when, on the first morning of his tenancy, he was awakenedby a brilliant sun, the young man had a sensation of comfort andsatisfaction quite new in his experience; for he was really at home; thebed he slept on, the table he ate at and wrote upon, were his ownpossessions; he thought with pity of his lodging-house life, and felt ajoyous 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 toeat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal. Now and then theywalked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco)in the wild garden. Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of hishistory. 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. Forfive-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no onebut himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passinghis old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of hisuncle, which was to have important consequences for him. Mr. Spicer toldthe story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors byrain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rustyand empty fireplace. 

'All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I've thought what a delightful thing it mustbe to have a house of one's own. I mean, really of one's own; not only arented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no onehad a right to turn you out. Often and often I've dreamt of it, and triedto imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house--ohdear, no! I didn't care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller thebetter for a man of my sort. Well, then, you can imagine how it came uponme when I heard--But let me tell you first that I hadn't seen my uncle forfifteen years or more. I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and Iknew he wasn't married, but the truth is, it never came into my head thathe might leave me something. Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe--you haveimagination, sir--standing behind the counter and thinking about nothingbut business, when in comes a young gentleman--I see him now--and asks forMr. 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. Theyoung gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and thatI was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all hisproperty, the principal part of which was three houses in London. Now tryand 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. Threehouses! Well, sir, you know what houses those were. I came up to London atonce (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle's lawyer, and he told me allabout the property, and I saw it for myself. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe! If ever aman suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!'

He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much ofhis 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 alwaysavoid it on principle. However, I must tell you that the houses weren'tall. Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my ownsavings, sir, I found it would yield me an income. When I say an income, Imean, of course, for a man in my position. Even when I have to go intolodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord--to mymind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don't set myself upagainst the law of the land--I shall just be able to live. And that's nosmall 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. Mynature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe. But, sir, if you could haveseen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses! I was absolutelyignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn'tunderstand. The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir. And when I came downhere and saw the houses themselves! I'm afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I'm reallyafraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear. '

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

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

Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, andafter the usual apology for what he called his 'imperfect mastery of theinstrument, ' sat down to play 'Home, Sweet Home. ' He had played it foryears, 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'sassistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a truelover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during hisown lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a littlecollection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer'scupboard. The authors represented in this library were either Englishclassics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century. Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in aquotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet wasCowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron likesome contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship's genius, felt anabhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point ofview, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had readvery 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 acquaintancewith one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, asif in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectualcharacteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate theattitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled inresponse to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leaderof a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became awarethat he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbedhis energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understandand enjoy his landlord's conversation, and the simple goodness of the maninspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along togetherremarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by thepresence 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 allauthors as struggling with poverty, and continued to citeeighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animatinghis zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the housewith soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant's room he had areverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal tablecaused him to subdue his voice. 

The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe's novel steadily progressed. In London hehad only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lestnecessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he couldnot spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to apost-office--impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting himto deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door hadnot been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal ofsunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under theroof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with alittle gardening. He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, withone prong broken and the others rusting away. This implement served him inhis slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed tooffer least resistance. He would work for a quarter of an hour, then, resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which hehad succeeded in tearing up. 

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

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

'The worst of it is, ' remarked Mr. Spicer one day, when he was perspiringfreely, 'that I can't help thinking of how different it would be if thisgarden was really my own. The fact is, Mr. Goldthorpe, I can't put muchheart into the work; no, I can't. The more I reflect, the more indignant Ibecome. Really now, Mr. Goldthorpe, speaking as an intellectual man, as aman of imagination, could anything be more cruelly unjust than thisleasehold system? I assure you, it keeps me awake at night; it reallydoes. '

The tenor of his conversation proved that Mr. Spicer had no intention ofleaving the house until he was legally obliged to do so. More than once hehad an interview with his late uncle's solicitor, and each time he cameback with melancholy brow. All the details of the story were now familiarto 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 waswith 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 Igrudge the ground-rent of these houses. I feel it as robbery, sir, as sheerrobbery, though the sum is so small. When, in my ignorance, the matter wasfirst explained to me, I wondered why my uncle had continued to pay thisrent, 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 fatalmoment, when lose them I must. '

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

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

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

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

Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness. 

'I should like it much, ' he murmured, 'but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, Igreatly 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 myhouse, ' was the genial reply. 'And you think the _work_ will soon befinished, sir?'

Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant's novel as 'the work'--which on hislips 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 hisbook, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brainsluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energeticspiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; nowand 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 worthwhile to brush the new webs away. 

'When you come to think of it, sir, ' said the landlord, 'it's the spiderswho are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they'll be pulleddown; they're not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really athome here, and the fact is, sir, I don't feel I have the right to disturbthem. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you'll understand mythoughts!'

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

The young author could now do nothing but wait, and, under thecircumstances, waiting meant torture. His money was all but exhausted; ifhe could not speedily sell the book, his position would be that of a merepauper. Supported thus long by the artist's enthusiasm, he fell intodespondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widowin narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday 'athome, ' 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 ofthe situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, hefelt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleephad almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysteriousnoises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house;sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; evenhushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Sincecrumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if inrevelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls. Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under anycircumstances 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 sellsomething for a few days' subsistence, the manuscript came back upon hishands. It had been judged--declined. 

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

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

'Mr. Goldthorpe!' exclaimed the other solemnly; 'I entreat you, sir, to donothing rash! Take heart, sir! Think of Samuel Johnson, think ofGoldsmith--'

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

Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or twolater they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe hadfound harbourage under his mother's roof. There he lay ill for more than amonth, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he musthave been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferredto explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude tothrow blame on Mr. Spicer's house, where he had been so contented andworked so well until the hot days of latter August. Mr. Spicer himselfwrote kind and odd little letters, giving an account of the garden, andearnestly hoping that his literary friend would be back in London to tastethe Jerusalem artichokes. But Christmas came and went, and Goldthorpe wasstill at his mother's house. 

Meanwhile the manuscript had gone from publisher to publisher, and atlength, on a day in January--date ever memorable in Goldthorpe'slife--there arrived a short letter in which a certain firm dryly intimatedtheir approval of the story offered them, and their willingness to purchasethe copyright for a sum of fifty pounds. The next morning the triumphantauthor travelled to London. For two or three days a violent gale had beenblowing, with much damage throughout the country; on his journey Goldthorpesaw many great trees lying prostrate, beaten, as though scornfully, by thecold rain which now descended in torrents. Arrived in town, he went to thehouse where he had lodged in the time of comparative prosperity, and therewas lucky enough to find his old rooms vacant. On the morrow he called uponthe gracious publishers, and after that, under a sky now become moregentle, he took his way towards the abode of Mr. Spicer. 

Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing hissimple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. Therewere the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam ofwinter sunshine. There were his old windows. But--what had happened to theroof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the roomwhere he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, asif something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was thecase; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in therecent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer's account, he ran round tothe back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. Hestrained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing thatthrew light on his friend's fate; he noticed, however, a great grove ofdead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at theback windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer's name; it was useless. Then, inserious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of thepassage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herselfwhether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stackhad just fallen. News was at once forthcoming; the event had obviouslycaused no small local excitement. It was two days since the falling of thechimney, which happened towards evening, when the gale blew its hardest. Mr. Spicer was at that moment sitting before the fire, and only by amiracle had he escaped destruction, for an immense weight of material camedown 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 havebeen 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 broughthelp, the poor man had to be carried downstairs, and in a thoroughlyhelpless 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 fromthe back to the front room just in order that the chimney might fall onhim--Goldthorpe hastened away to the hospital. He could not be admittedto-day, but heard that his friend was doing very well; on the morrow hewould be allowed to see him. 

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

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

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

'Ah, sir, ' replied the patient, with a little shake of the head, 'thatindeed was singular. Only a few days before, I had made a removal from myroom 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 thatstep, Mr. Goldthorpe, for two reasons: first, because water was comingthrough 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 knewhow 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 aquarter of an hour Mr. Spicer could talk of nothing else. 

'This has completed my cure!' he kept repeating. 'The work was composedunder 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'tgo back to the old house. '

'Alas! no, sir. All my life I have dreamt of the joy of owning a house. Youknow how the dream was realised, Mr. Goldthorpe, and you see what has comeof 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 shallput in spring lettuces, and radishes, and mustard and cress. The propertyis 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 meat the time of the artichokes--just at the moment when they were touched bythe first frost!'

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

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

A CAPITALIST

Among the men whom I saw occasionally at the little club in MortimerStreet, --and nowhere else, --was one who drew my attention before I hadlearnt his name or knew anything about him. Of middle age, in the fullnessof health and vigour, but slenderly built; his face rather shrewd thanintellectual, interesting rather than pleasing; always dressed as theseason's mode dictated, but without dandyism; assuredly he belonged to themoney-spending, and probably to the money-getting, world. At first sight ofhim I remember resenting his cap-à-pie perfection; it struck me as badform--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. Hebuys pictures. Not a bad sort, I believe, if it weren't for hissnobbishness. '

'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 thetalk of the town, the heroine of the newest divorce case. By that time Ihad got to know her husband; perhaps once a fortnight we chatted at theclub, and I found him an agreeable acquaintance. Before the Divorce Courtflashed a light of scandal upon his home, I felt that there was more in himthan could be discovered in casual gossip; I wished to know him better. Something of shyness marked his manner, and like all shy men he sometimesappeared arrogant. He had a habit of twisting his moustache nervously andof throwing quick glances in every direction as he talked; if he found someone's eye upon him, he pulled himself together and sat for a moment as ifbefore a photographer. One easily perceived that he was not a man ofliberal education; he had rather too much of the 'society' accent; hispronunciation 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, Ifelt sorry for him. 

Nothing to his dishonour came out in the trial. He and his interestingspouse had evidently lived a cat-and-dog life throughout the three years oftheir marriage, but the countercharges brought against him broke downcompletely. It was abundantly proved that he had _not_ kept a haremsomewhere near Leicester Square; that he had _not_ thrown a decanter atMrs. Ireton. She, on the other hand, left the court with tatteredreputation. Ireton got his release, and the weekly papers applauded. 

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

Some three years went by, and I was spending the autumn at a village by theNew Forest. One day I came upon a man kneeling under a hedge, examiningsome object on the ground, --fern or flower, or perhaps insect. His costumeshowed that he was no native of the locality; I took him for a straytownsman, probably a naturalist. He wore a straw hat and a rough summersuit; a wallet hung from his shoulder. The sound of my steps on cracklingwood caused him to turn and look at me. After a moment's hesitation Irecognised Ireton. 

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

'Look here, ' he said at once, when the handshaking was over, 'can you tellme 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 abook 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 plantby the root, and stowed it away. I watched him with curiosity. Perhaps Ihad seen only his public side; perhaps even then he was capable of dressingroughly, and of rambling for his pleasure among fields and wood. But such apossibility had never occurred to me. I wondered whether his brilliant wifehad given him a disgust for the ways of town. If so, he was a moreinteresting 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 thingswhich he knew interested me. We discussed the books of the past season, theexhibitions, the new men in letters and art. Ireton said that he had beenliving at a wayside inn for about a week; he thought of moving on, and, asI had nothing to do, suppose he came over for a few days to the villagewhere I was camped? I welcomed the proposal. 

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

I began to suspect that he had come down in the world. Could his prosperityhave been due to Mrs. Treton? Had she carried off the money? He mightaffect 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 ofmy 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 afarmer's trap, his luggage a couple of large Gladstone-bags. That day andthe next we spent many hours together. His vanity, though not outgrown, wasin abeyance; he talked with easy frankness, yet never of what I muchdesired to know, his own history and present position. It was his intellectthat he revealed to me. I gathered that he had given much time to studyduring the past three years, and incidentally it came out that he had beenliving abroad; his improved pronunciation of the names of French artistswas very noticeable. At his age--not less than forty-five--this advanceargued no common mental resources. Whether he had suffered much, I couldnot determine; at present he seemed light-hearted enough. 

Certainly there was no affectation in his pursuit of botany; again andagain 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 olddays he had never exhibited--at all events to me--a taste for the ignoblerluxuries, and he had seemed to me a very clean-minded man. I never knew anyone who refrained so absolutely from allusion, good or bad, to his friendsor acquaintances. He might have stood utterly alone in the world, a simplespectator 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 acrosscountry, making for a small plantation which he thought he remembered. Here, among the trees, we were suddenly face to face with an old gentlemanof 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 tohis full height. 

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

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

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

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

'Not very likely. '

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

The grave reproof had exasperated him; he was flushed and his handstrembled. I observed him with the utmost interest, and it became clear fromthe angry words he poured forth that he could not endure to be supposedanything but a gentleman at large. Here was the old characteristic; it hadmerely been dormant. I tried to laugh him out of his irritation, but soonsaw 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; heseated himself stiffly, looked at me from beneath his knitted brows, andsaid 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 remnantsof a large estate gambled away by his father. I know him by name, and I'mquite sure that he knows me. If I had offered him my card, as I thought ofdoing, I dare say his tone would have changed. '

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

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

'No doubt, --I can understand that, ' he added, with a smile. 'But I don'tallow people to treat me like a tramp. I shall go up and see him thisafternoon. '

'And insist on an apology?'

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

It seemed to me that my companion was bent on showing his worst side. Ireturned to my old thoughts of him; he was snobbish, insolent, generallydetestable; 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 ownpart, the demeanour of this gentleman had seemed perfectly adapted to theoccasion; we were strangers plunging through his preserves, and his tone tous had nothing improper; it was we who owed an apology. In point ofbreeding, I felt sure that Ireton could not compare with Mr. Armitage for amoment, and it seemed to me vastly improbable that the invader of BrackleyHall would meet with the kind of reception he anticipated. 

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

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

'Come and dine with me at the inn, ' he exclaimed cordially; 'if one may usesuch 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 mypeace. 'It was as I foresaw. The old fellow welcomed me with open arms. Hisdaughters 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 answeredevasively. 

'Precisely. Not long ago I gave him, through an agent, a very handsomeprice 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 ofus yesterday. By the bye, I take it for granted you don't carry adress-suit in your bag?'

'Heaven forbid!'

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

For a moment I felt uncomfortable, but after all I _was_ glad not to havethe 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 unsatisfyingtable. 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 wasmagnificent with afterglow. Ireton's hint about privacy led me to hope thathe was going to talk more confidentially than hitherto, and I soon foundthat I was not mistaken. 

'Do you know, ' he began, calling me by my name, 'I fancy you have beencriticising me--yes, I know you have. You think I made an ass of myselfabout that affair in the wood. Well, I have no doubt I did. Now that it hasturned out pleasantly, I can see and admit that there was nothing to make afuss 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 tumblerof hot whisky. Possibly this accounted in some measure for hiscommunicativeness. 

'Up to the age of five-and-twenty I was clerk in a drug warehouse. To thisday 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 notonly lived on it, but kept up a decent appearance. I always had a good suitof clothes for Sundays and holidays--made at a tailor's in Holborn. Sincehe 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 InnRoad. 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 lodgingsthat 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 expectbetter things, that's enough. I never got used to being ordered about. WhenI was told to do this or that, I answered with a silent curse, --and Iwonder it didn't come out sometimes. That's my nature. If I had been bornthe son of a duke, I couldn't have resented a subordinate position morefiercely than I did. And I used to rack my brain with schemes for gettingout of it. Many a night I have lain awake for hours, trying to hit on someway of earning my living independently. I planned elaborate forgeries. Iread 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, andfound them all no good. I was in despair, that's all. '

He finished his whisky and shouted to the landlord, who presently broughthim 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 theswellest London club. Well, I was going to tell you how I got out of thatbeastly life. You know, I'm really a very quiet fellow. I like simplethings; but all my life, till just lately, I never had a chance of enjoyingthem; of living as I chose. The one thing I can't stand is to feel that Iam 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. Thepictures were for sale, and admission was free. I have always been fond ofwater-colours; at that time it was one of my ambitions to possess a reallygood bit of landscape in water-colour but, of course, I knew that theprices were beyond me. Well, I walked through the gallery, and there wasone thing that caught my fancy; I kept going back to it again and again. Itwas 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, thefellow who managed the show came up with a man and woman to talk aboutanother picture near me; he tried his hardest to persuade them to buy, butthey wouldn't, and I dare say it disturbed his temper. Seeing him standthere 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 certainlydidn'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 myheart gave a great leap, and began to beat violently, and for a moment Icouldn't see anything, and I felt hot and cold by turns. I can rememberthis as well as if it happened yesterday; I must have gone through it inmemory many thousands of times. '

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

'When he had spoken, the blackguard turned away. I couldn't move, and thewonder is that I didn't swallow his insult, and sneak out of the place, --Iwas so accustomed, you see, to repress myself. But of a sudden somethingtook hold of me, and pushed me forward, --it really didn't seem to be my ownwill. I said, "Wait a minute"; and the man turned round. Then I stoodlooking him in the eyes. "Are you here, " I said, "to sell pictures, or toinsult people who come to buy?" I must have spoken in a voice he didn'texpect; he couldn't answer, and stared at me. "I asked you the price ofthat water-colour, and you will be good enough to answer me civilly. " Thosewere my very words. They came without thinking, and afterwards I feltsatisfied with myself when I remembered them. It wouldn't have beenunnatural 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, "Theprice is forty guineas, " and he was going off again, but I stopped him. "Iwill buy it. Take my name and address. " "When will it be paid for?" heasked. "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, "thatthat picture is mine, and I shall either come or send for it about oneo'clock on Monday. If I hadn't wanted it specially, you would have lost asale 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 walkedstraight on, street after street, and just missed being run over half adozen times. Perspiration dripped from me. The only thing I knew was that Ihad triumphed over a damned brute who had insulted me. I had stopped hismouth; he believed he had made a stupid mistake; he could never haveimagined that a fellow without a sovereign in the world was speaking to himlike that. If I had knocked him down the satisfaction would have been veryslight in comparison. '

The gloom of nightfall had come upon us, and I could no longer see his facedistinctly, but his voice told me that he still savoured that triumph. Hespoke 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 knewhow I was going to get the money--the forty guineas. And as soon as I couldcommand myself, I went to do the business. 

'A fellow-clerk in the drug warehouse had been badly in want of money notlong before that, and I knew he had borrowed twenty pounds from a loanoffice, 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 wasa fellow called Crowther; he lived in Dean Street, Soho; in a window on theground floor there was a card with "Sums from One pound to a Hundred lentat short notice. " I was lucky enough to find him at home; we did ourbusiness in a little back room, where there was a desk and a couple ofchairs, and nothing else but dirt. I expected to find an oldish man, but heseemed about my own age, and on the whole I didn't dislike the look ofhim, --a rather handsome young fellow, fairly well dressed, with a takingsort of smile. I began by telling him where I was employed, and mentionedmy fellow-clerk, whom he knew. That made him quite cheerful; he offered mea 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, howlong would it take me to pay it back? Could I pay a pound a week? No, Icouldn't. He began to shake his head and to look at me thoughtfully. Thenhe asked no end of questions, to find out who I was and what people I hadbelonging to me, and what my chances were. Then he made me have anotherdrink, and at last I was persuaded into telling him the whole story. Firstof all he stared, and then he laughed; I never saw a man laugh moreheartily. 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'twonder if we can do business. " This alarmed me, --I was afraid he might gettalking 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 ableto come to business till Monday afternoon. It was the first time I had everdone 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 agreat satisfaction to me that I had got the better of that brute. On Mondayat 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 quitecheerful. "Look here!" he said, "will you sell me that picture for thirtypounds?" "What then?" I asked. "Why, then you can pay me another thirtypounds, and I'll give you twelve months to do it in. You shall have yourforty 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 liveon 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 mesix bob a week till the thirty quid's made up. Now, you can do _that_?" YesI could do that, and I agreed. In another ten minutes our business wassettled, --my signature was so shaky that I might safely have disowned itafterwards. Then we had a drink at a neighbouring pub, and we walkedtogether towards Coventry Street. Crowther was to wait for me near thepicture-dealer's. 

'I entered with a bold step, promising myself pleasure in a new triumphover the brute. But he wasn't there. I saw only an under-strapper. I had notime to lose, for I must be at business by two o'clock. I paid themoney--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 theassistant wrapped it up for me in brown paper. At the street corner Isurrendered it to Crowther. "Come and see me after business to-morrow, " hesaid, "I should like to have a bit more talk with you. "

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

He laughed, and for a minute or two we sat silent. From the inn soundedrustic voices; the village worthies were gathered for their eveningconversation. 

'That's the best part of my story, ' said Ireton at length. 'What followedis commonplace. Still, you might like to hear how I bridged the gulf, fromfourteen shillings a week to the position I now hold. Well, I got veryintimate with Crowther, and found him really a very decent fellow. He had agood many irons in the fire. Besides his loan office, which paid muchbetter than you would imagine, he had a turf commission agency, whichbrought him in a good deal of money, and shortly after I met him he becamepart proprietor of a club in Soho. He very soon talked to me in thefrankest way of all his doings; I think he was glad to be on friendly termswith me simply because I was better educated and could behave decently. Idon't think he ever did anything illegal, and he had plenty of goodfeeling, --but that didn't prevent him from squeezing eighty per cent, or soout of many a poor devil who had borrowed to save himself or his familyfrom starvation. That was all business; he drew the sharpest distinctionsbetween business and private relations, and was very ignorant. I never knewa man so superstitious. Every day he consulted signs and omens. Forinstance, to decide whether the day was to be lucky for him--in betting andso on--he would stand at a street corner and count the number of whitehorses that passed in five minutes; if he had made up his mind on an evennumber, and an even number passed, then he felt safe in following hisimpulses for the day; if the number were odd, he would do little or nospeculation. When he was going to play cards for money, he would find abeggar and give him something, even if he had to walk a great distance todo 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 hesaw the new moon through glass, or over his left shoulder. There was no endto 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 leftfifteen 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 likeyou ought to be doing better. " "Show me the way, " I said. And I was readyto do whatever he told me. I had a furious hunger for money; the adventurein Coventry Street had thoroughly unsettled me, and I would have turnedburglar rather than go on much longer as a wretched slave, looked down uponby everybody, and exposed to insult at every corner. I dreamed ofmoney-making, and woke up feverish with determination. At last Crowthergave me a few jobs to do for him in my off-time. They weren't very nicejobs, and I shouldn't like to explain them to you; but they brought me inhalf a sovereign now and then. I began to get an insight into the basermodes of filling one's pocket. Then something happened; my mother died, andI became the owner of a house at Notting Hill of fifty pounds rental. Italked over my situation with Crowther, and he advised me, as it turnedout, thoroughly well. I was to raise money on this house, --not to sellit, --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 didtake shares, and at the end of the second twelve months I was drawing adividend of sixty per cent. I have never drawn less than thirty, and theyear before last we touched seventy-five. At present I am a shareholder inthree other halls, --and they don't do badly. 

'I suppose it isn't only good luck; no doubt I have a sort of talent formoney-making, but I never knew it before I met Crowther. By just opening myeyes to the fact that money could be earned in other ways than at theregular kinds of employment, he gave me a start, and I went ahead. Thereisn'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 ofcontemptible 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 oftwo-and-thirty, when I sold a proprietary club (the one Crowther had ashare in and which I had ultimately got into my own hands) for ninethousand pounds; but I owed about half of this. I went on and on, and I gotinto society; _that_ came through the Marlborough, --a good story, but Imustn'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, realfriends, are all more or less strugglers, and perhaps there's no harm insaying that it gives me pleasure to help them when I've a chance. I like tobuy a picture of a poor devil artist. I like to smoke my pipe with goodfellows who never go out of their way for money's sake. All the same, it'sa good thing to be well off. But for that, now, I couldn't make theacquaintance of such people as these at Brackley Hall. I more than halflike them. Old Armitage is a gentleman, and looks back upon generations ofgentlemen, his ancestors. Ah! you can't buy that! And his daughters aredevilish nice girls, with sweet soft voices. I'm glad the old fellow met usyesterday. '

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

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

I heard from him again in the following January. He wrote from the Isle ofWight, and informed me that in the spring he was to be married to MissEthel Armitage, second daughter of Humphrey Armitage, Esq. , of BrackleyHall. 

CHRISTOPHERSON

It was twenty years ago, and on an evening in May. All day long there hadbeen sunshine. Owing, doubtless, to the incident I am about to relate, thelight and warmth of that long-vanished day live with me still; I can seethe 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 theheart of London. 

Only at sunset did I leave the house. There was an unwonted sweetness inthe air; the long vistas of newly lit lamps made a golden glow under thedusking flush of the sky. With no purpose but to rest and breathe, Iwandered for half an hour, and found myself at length where Great PortlandStreet opens into Marylebone Road. Over the way, in the shadow of TrinityChurch, was an old bookshop, well known to me: the gas-jet shining upon thestall with its rows of volumes drew me across. I began turning over pages, and--invariable consequence--fingering what money I had in my pocket. Acertain 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 besideme, a man who also was looking over the books; as I came out again with mypurchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with a half-smile of peculiarinterest. He seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the manmoved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quickmovement to my side, and spoke. 

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

The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at firstthat the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. Ijudged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair andstraggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out fromhis bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as afallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class heoriginally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so muchintelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a patheticdiffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I hadnot seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by thelight 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. 'Younever heard of the sale of the Christopherson library? To be sure, you weretoo young; it was in 1860. I have often come across books with my name inthem on the stalls--often. I had happened to notice this just before youcame up, and when I saw you look at it, I was curious to see whether youwould buy it. Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don'tyou think--?'

The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quiteunderstood 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 houseof 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, Iasked 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 youmy 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 roadskirting Regent's Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposingterrace. 

'There, ' he whispered, 'I used to live. The window to the right of thedoor--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 Ineeded more. I let myself be drawn into business--I, who knew nothing ofsuch things--and there came the black day--the black day. '

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

'I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?' askedChristopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if forleave-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 carriedin my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner were thewords spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer. He hesitated, murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushedwith joy as he took the volume. 

'I still have a few books, ' he said, under his breath, as if he spoke ofsomething he was ashamed to make known. 'But it is very rarely indeed thatI 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 afortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back Istopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; Ilooked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of oldfriends. 

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

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

'Alone? oh no. With my wife. '

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

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away togethercontinued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but avery intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof oferudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I askedwhether he wrote. No, he had never written anything--never; he was only abookworm, 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 astreet corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. Helooked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand hegave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faintexpression. 

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

'For good?'

'I fear so, and yet'--he made an obvious effort--'I am glad of it. Mywife'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 hishands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of thecountry 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' walkbrought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floorwindows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, mycompanion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me. 

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

I put aside the objection, and we entered. With anxious courtesyChristopherson 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 asmall one, and would in any case have only just sufficed for homelycomfort, used as it evidently was for all daytime purposes; but certainly athird of the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, volumesstacked several rows deep against two of the walls and almost up to theceiling. A round table and two or three chairs were the onlyfurniture--there was no room, indeed, for more. The window being shut, andthe sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable stuffiness oppressed the air. Never had I been made so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper andbindings. 

'But, ' I exclaimed, 'you said you had only a _few_ books! There must befive 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 otherroom. '

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

We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out booksfrom the solid mass to show me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now andthen a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on hishistory. I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eightyears; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, adaughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; andlastly--this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasantsmile--that his second wife had been his daughter's governess. I listenedwith keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances ofthis 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 Iwas 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 seemedfamiliar to me. 

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

The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair, light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picturesuggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood. Nowonder I had seemed to recognise his voice. Though we only saw each otherby 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 handswith the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spokewith a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanourwhich marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everythinghad been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson'slibrary; it remained only to decide the day. 

'There's no hurry, ' exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hurry. I'mgreatly 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; weleft the house together. Out in the street again I took a deep breath ofthe 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 skyand 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'sPark together. Pomfret's business took him in that direction, and I wasglad of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old book-lover'slandlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christopherson's story of affluence and ruinwas quite true. Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been obligedto earn his living as a clerk or something of the kind. About five yearslater 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 headbefore now. Oh, I know 'em well! why, I lived in the house there with 'emfor several years. She's a lady to the end of her little finger, and howher husband can 'a borne to see her living the life she has, it's more thanI can understand. By--! I'd have turned burglar, if I could 'a found noother 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 CourtRoad; 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 thatwas the end of it. Since then he's only loafed. He goes to all thebook-sales, and spends the rest of his time sniffing about the second-handshops. 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 leavingLondon?'

'Ay, I'll tell you; I was coming to that. Mrs. Christopherson has relativeswell off--a fat and selfish lot, as far as I can make out--never lifted afinger to help her until now. One of them's a Mrs. Keeting, the widow ofsome 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 nowand 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 theplace 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. Buthe's glad for all that, on his wife's account. And it's none too soon, Ican tell you. The poor woman couldn't go on much longer; my aunt says she'sjust about ready to drop, and sometimes, I know, she looks terribly bad. Ofcourse, 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 tolive. I've heard her, and it gives me a notion of what she's gone throughall these years. I saw her a week ago, just when she had Mrs. Keeting'soffer, and I tell you I scarcely knew who it was! You never saw such achange in any one in your life! Her face was like that of a girl ofseventeen. 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 fewmoments. 

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

'Unhappy?' cried Pomfret. 'Why, there's never been a disagreeable wordbetween 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 hisbooks--'

'You mean to tell me, ' I interrupted, 'that those books have all beenbought 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 hewas earning his own living, he bought a great many. He told me once thathe'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 shallbe sorry when he's out of reach. '

For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson'sdeparture. The story I had heard made me uncomfortable. It was good tothink of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and inthese days of midsummer free to enjoy the country she loved. A touch ofenvy mingled, I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who henceforthhad not a care in the world, and without reproach might delight in hishoarded volumes. One could not imagine that he would suffer seriously bythe removal of his old haunts. I promised myself to call on him in a day ortwo. 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 thisvisit, when in came Pomfret. He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsilyagainst the furniture as he crossed the room. His appearance was asurprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the leastexpect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose, characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of suchintimacy. 

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

And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at hisaunt's home. On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had beensurprised 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 approachingremoval. The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard bythe landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs. 'Impossible! Quite impossible! I couldn't think of it! How could you dreamfor a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books? Mostunhealthy! I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!' Andso 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 inthe room where the Christophersons were sitting. She knocked--prepared withsome excuse--and found the couple side by side, smiling sadly. At once theytold 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 manybooks, and hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the house inNorfolk. She came to see the library--with the result already heard. Theyhad the choice between sacrificing the books and losing what their relativeoffered. 

'Christopherson refused?' I let fall. 

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

Meantime I had been reflecting. It was easy for me to understandChristopherson's state of mind, and without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I sawthat she must be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal of aburden. After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so very unhappy? Was she not thekind of woman who lived by sacrifice--one who had far rather lead a lifedisagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of discomfort to herhusband? This view of the matter irritated Pomfret, and he broke intoobjurgations, directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly againstChristopherson. It was an 'infernal shame, ' that was all he could say. Andafter all, I rather inclined to his opinion. 

When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew me towards theChristophersons' dwelling. Walking along the opposite side of the street, Ilooked 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. Atonce he beckoned to me; but before I could knock at the house-door he haddescended, 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 ifcarelessly. 

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

Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed. He walked with headbent, shoulders stooping; and shuffled, indeed, rather than walked. Even somight 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 glancedfurtively 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 outthat my library is regarded as an objection--a fatal objection. We havequite reconciled ourselves to staying where we are. '

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

'I think she would have liked it, ' he answered, with a strangely patheticlook 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 hispennilessness. 'We think no more about it, ' he said. 'The matter issettled--quite settled. '

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

I think it was not more than a week later when I received a postcard fromPomfret. He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. Seriously ill. ' That wasall. 

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

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

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

She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common Londonlandlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. Itbegan with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless night; thedoctor was sent for; and he had her removed out of the stuffy, book-cumbered bedroom into another chamber, which luckily happened to bevacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but voiceless, able onlyto 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 thereason was not far to seek. 

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

Why, of course she did. For a long time the poor lady had been all but atthe 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 tomake. '

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

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

'What is it, sir?' she asked. 

'I'm afraid she's worse, ' said Christopherson, turning his haggard face tome 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 everysound in the house. Then came a footfall on the stairs, and the landladyrejoined me. 

'It's nothing, ' she said. 'I almost think she might drop off to sleep, ifshe's left quiet. He worries her, poor man, sitting there and asking herevery two minutes how she feels. I've persuaded him to go to his room, andI 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 foundChristopherson sunk upon a chair, his head falling forwards, the image ofdespairing misery. As I approached he staggered to his feet. He took myhand in a shrinking, shamefaced way, and could not raise his eyes. Iuttered a few words of encouragement, but they had the opposite effect tothat designed. 

'Don't tell me that, ' he moaned, half resentfully. 'She's dying--she'sdying--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 minuteor two was broken by a thunderous rat-tat at the house-door. Christophersonleapt to his feet, rushed from the room; I, half fearing that he had gonemad, 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 towithdrawal; but Christopherson would not let me go. 

'I should like to tell you, ' he began, looking at me like a dog underpunishment, 'that I have done all I could. As soon as my wife fell ill, andwhen I saw--I had only begun to think of it in that way--how she felt thedisappointment, I went at once to Mrs. Keeting's house to tell her that Iwould sell the books. But she was out of town. I wrote to her--I said Iregretted my folly--I entreated her to forgive me and to renew her kindoffer. 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 deliveredby the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced overthe first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thingviolently away. 

'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along thelittle strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course shesaid she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knewwould please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruelenough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his armsfrantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her facehow her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knewwhat she was suffering; I _knew_ it, I tell you! And, like a selfishcoward, 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 courseit will be favourable, and the good news--'

'Too late, I have killed her! That woman won't write. She's one of thevulgar 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 mentalsuffering. 

'She is dying--and there, there, that's what has killed her!' Hegesticulated 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 couldunderstand what he was about, he had flung up the window-sash, and cast thebooks into the street. Another batch followed; I heard the thud upon thepavement. Then I caught him by the arm, held him fast, begged him tocontrol himself. 

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

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

'If you knew what she has been to me! When she married me I was a ruinedman twenty years older. I have given her nothing but toil and care. Youshall know everything--for years and years I have lived on the earnings ofher 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 thatenslaved me just as if it had been drinking or gambling. I couldn't resistthe temptation--though every day I cried shame upon myself and swore toovercome it. She never blamed me; never a word--nay, not a look--of areproach. I lived in idleness. I never tried to save her that daily toil atthe shop. Do you know that she worked in a shop?--She, with her knowledgeand her refinement leading such a life as that! Think that I have passedthe shop a thousand times, coming home with a book in my hands! I had theheart 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'tbring them in. An accident. '

Christopherson stood behind me; his look asked what he durst not speak. Isaid 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 aslight improvement. The patient had slept a little and seemed likely tosleep again. Christopherson asked me to come again before long--there wasno one else, he said, who cared anything about him--and I promised to callthe next day. 

I did so, early in the afternoon. Christopherson must have watched for mycoming: before I could raise the knocker the door flew open, and his facegleamed 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 timewhen you left yesterday afternoon till early this morning. The letter cameby the first post, and I told her--not the whole truth, ' he added, underhis breath. 'She thinks I am to be allowed to take the books with me; andif you could have seen her smile of contentment. But they will all be soldand carried away before she knows about it; and when she sees that I don'tcare a snap of the fingers!'

He had turned into the sitting-room on the ground floor. Walking aboutexcitedly, Christopherson gloried in the sacrifice he had made. Already aletter was despatched to a bookseller, who would buy the whole library asit stood. But would he not keep a few volumes? I asked. Surely there couldbe no objection to a few shelves of books; and how would he live withoutthem? At first he declared vehemently that not a volume should be kept--henever 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 andthen? At this he grew pensive. We discussed the matter, and it was arrangedthat a box should be packed with select volumes and taken down into Norfolktogether with the rest of their luggage. Not even Mrs. Keeting could objectto 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 inbags, carried downstairs, emptied into a cart, and conveyed away, soquietly that the sick woman was aware of nothing. In telling me about it, Christopherson crowed as I had never heard him; but methought his eyeavoided that part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and in thecourse 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 nodoubt. 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, slightlymade 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, Iread the profound thankfulness of one to whom fate has granted her soul'sdesire. 

HUMPLEBEE

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

Silence reigned, but on all the young faces turned to where the headmastersat at his desk appeared an unwonted expression, an eager expectancy, asthough something out of the familiar routine were about to happen. When themaster'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 stirredthe little community with profound emotion. 

'Two of our number are this evening absent. Happily, most happily, absentbut for a short time; in our prayers we shall render thanks to the goodProvidence which has saved us from a terrible calamity. I do not desire todwell upon the circumstance that one of these boys, Chadwick, had committedworse than an imprudence in venturing upon the Long Pond; it was indisregard of my injunction; I had distinctly made it known that the ice wasstill unsafe. We will speak no more of that. All we can think of at presentis the fact that Chadwick was on the point of losing his life; that in allhuman probability he would have been drowned, but for the help heroicallyafforded him by one of his schoolfellows. I say heroically, and I am sure Ido not exaggerate; in the absence of Humplebee I may declare that he noblyperilled his own life to save that of another. It was a splendid bit ofcourage, a fine example of pluck and promptitude and vigour. We have allcause 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 theschoolroom echo. Then the master raised his hand, the tumult subsided, andafter a few moments of agitated silence, prayers began. 

Next morning there appeared as usual at his desk a short, thin, red-headedboy of sixteen, whose plain, freckled face denoted good-humour and acertain intelligence, but would never have drawn attention amongst thelivelier and comelier physiognomies grouped about him. This was Humplebee. Hitherto he had been an insignificant member of the school, one of thoseboys who excel neither at games nor at lessons, of whom nothing isexpected, and rarely, if ever, get into trouble, and who are liked in arather contemptuous way. Of a sudden he shone glorious; all tongues werebusy with him, all eyes regarded him, every one wished for the honour ofhis friendship. Humplebee looked uncomfortable. He had the sniffybeginnings of a cold, the result of yesterday's struggle in icy water, andhis usual diffident and monosyllabic inclination were intensified by theposition in which he found himself. Clappings on the shoulder from biggerboys who had been wont to joke about his name made him flush nervously; tobe 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 Humplebeewould much have liked to be left alone. He stuck as closely as possible tohis 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 agreat town not far away, a well-dressed and high-complexioned man, whoseevery look and accent declared commercial importance. This was Mr. Chadwick, father of the boy who had all but been drowned. He and theheadmaster held private talk, and presently they sent for Humplebee. Merelyto enter the 'study' was at any time Humplebee's dread; to do so under thepresent circumstances cost him anguish of spirit. 

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

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

'I think you have heard of me, Humplebee. Leonard has no doubt spoken toyou 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 eyesglimmered a hungry vanity. 

'Yes, sir, ' whispered Humplebee. 

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

Under the eye of his master and of the commercial potentate, Humplebeestood 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 asthough 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 nomarked predilection? That was what I wanted to discover--well, well, weshall see. Meanwhile, Humplebee, get on with your arithmetic. You are goodat 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, weshall see. '

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

'Hallo, Humpy!' he cried, raising himself up when the other entered. 'Soyou pulled me out of that hole! Shake hands, Buzzy, old fellow! You've hada 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 toldme so, and when he says a thing he means it. He's going to start you inbusiness 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; saysyou're a brick, and so you are. I shan't forget that you pulled me out ofthat hole, old chap. We shall be friends all our lives, you know. Tell mewhat you thought of my governor?'

When he was on his legs again, Leonard continued to treat Humplebee withgrateful, if somewhat condescending, friendliness. In the talks they hadtogether the great man's son continually expatiated upon his preserver'sbrilliant prospects. Beyond possibility of doubt Humplebee would some daybe a rich man; Mr. Chadwick had said so, and whatever he purposed came topass. To all this Humplebee listened in a dogged sort of way, now and thensmiling, but seldom making verbal answer. In school he was not quite thesame boy as before his exploit; he seemed duller, less attentive, and attimes even incurred reproaches for work ill done--previously a thingunknown. When the holidays came, no boy was so glad as Humplebee; his heartsang within him as he turned his back upon the school and began the journeyhomeward. 

That home was in the town illuminated by Mr. Chadwick's commercial andmunicipal brilliance; over a small draper's shop in one of the outskirtstreets stood the name of Humplebee the draper. About sixty years of age, he had known plenty of misfortune and sorrows, with scant admixture ofhappiness. Nowadays things were somewhat better with him; by dint of severeeconomy 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 ofquiet content and hopefulness, but for Mrs. Humplebee. She, considerablyyounger than her husband, fretted against their narrow circumstances, andgrudged the money that was being spent--wasted, she called it--on the boyHarry. 

From his father Harry never heard talk of pecuniary troubles, but themother 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 wassimply 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. Oneday the draper received a visit from the great Mr. Chadwick, who told awonderful story of Harry's heroism, and made proposals sounding so noblygenerous that Mr. Humplebee was overcome with gratitude. 

Harry, as his father knew, had no vocation for the shop; to get him a placein 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. Thedraper's joy proved Mrs. Humplebee's opportunity. She put forward a projectwhich had of late been constantly on her mind and on her lips, to wit, thatthey should transfer their business into larger premises, and givethemselves a chance of prosperity. Humplebee need no longer hesitate. Hehad his little capital to meet the first expenses, and if need arose thereneed not be the slightest doubt that Mr. Chadwick would assist him. A kindgentleman 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 gratitudehe felt towards all who bore the name of Humplebee? The draper, if heneglected his opportunity, would be an idiot--a mere idiot. 

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

Now Harry Humplebee had in his soul a secret desire and a secretabhorrence. Ever since he could read his delight had been in books ofnatural history; beasts, birds, and fishes possessed his imagination, andfor nothing else in the intellectual world did he really care. With poorresources he had learned a great deal of his beloved subjects. Whenever hecould get away into the fields he was happy; to lie still for hourswatching some wild thing, noting its features and its ways, seemed to himperfect enjoyment. His treasure was a collection, locked in a cupboard athome, of eggs, skeletons, butterflies, beetles, and I know not what. Hisfather regarded all this as harmless amusement, his mother contemptuouslytolerated it or, in worse humour, condemned it as waste of time. When atschool the boy had frequent opportunities of pursuing his study, for he wasin mid country and could wander as he liked on free afternoons; but neitherthe headmaster nor his assistant thought it worth while to pay heed toHumplebee's predilection. True, it had been noticed more than once that inwriting an 'essay' he showed unusual observation of natural things; this, however, did not strike his educators as a matter of any importance; it wasnot their business to discover what Humplebee could do, and wished to do, but to make him do things they regarded as desirable. Humplebee was markedfor 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 ofhis holiday he had a chance of doing so, a wonderful chance, such as hadnever entered his dreams. The town possessed a museum of Natural History, where, of course, Harry had often spent leisure hours. Half a year ago ahappy chance had brought him into conversation with the curator, who couldnot but be struck by the lad's intelligence, and who took an interest inhim. Now they met again; they had one or two long talks, with the resultthat, on a Sunday afternoon, the curator of the museum took the trouble tocall upon Mr. Humplebee, to speak with him about his son. At the museum waswanted a lad with a taste for natural history, to perform at first certaineasy duties, with the prospect of further advancement here or elsewhere. Itseemed 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 himhalf a year ago, such an offer would have seemed to Mr. Humplebee wellworth consideration, and he knew that Harry would have heard of it withdelight; as it was, he could not entertain the thought for a moment. 

Impossible to run the risk of offending Mr. Chadwick; moreover, who couldhesitate between the modest possibilities of the museum and such a careeras waited the lad under the protection of his powerful friend? With nervoushaste the draper explained how matters stood, excused himself, and beggedthat 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, hadalready thrown out his suggestion; at their next meeting he discreetly madeknown to the boy that other counsels must prevail. For the first time Harryfelt a vehement impulse, prompting him to speak on his own behalf, toassert and to plead for his own desires. But courage failed him. He heardhis father loud in praise of Mr. Chadwick, intent upon the gratitude andrespect due to that admirable man. He knew how his mother would exclaim atthe mere hint of disinclination to enter the great man's office. And so heheld his peace, though it cost him bitterness of heart and even secrettears. A long, long time passed before he could bring himself to enteragain 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 workwell and his progress would be rapid. Two years passed and he was in muchthe same position; his salary had increased by one half, but his workremained the same, mechanical, dreary, hateful to him in its monotony. Meanwhile his father's venture in the new premises had led to greatembarrassments; business did not thrive; the day came when Mr. Humplebee, trembling and shamefaced, felt himself drawn to beg help of his son'sso-called benefactor. He came away from the interview with empty hands. Worse than that, he had heard things about Harry which darkened his mindwith a new anxiety. 

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

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

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

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

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

The years flowed on. At five-and-twenty Humplebee toiled in the sameoffice, but he could congratulate himself on a certain progress; by doggedresolve he had acquired something like efficiency in the duties of acommercial clerk, and the salary he now earned allowed him to contribute tothe support of his mother. More or less reconciled to the day's labour, hehad resumed in leisure hours his favourite study; a free library suppliedhim with useful books, and whenever it was possible he went his way intothe fields, searching, collecting, observing. But his life had anotherinterest, which threatened rivalry to this intellectual pursuit. Humplebeehad set eyes upon the maiden destined to be his heart's desire; she was thedaughter of a fellow-clerk, a man who had grown grey in service of theledger; timidly he sought to win her kindness, as yet scarce daring tohope, dreaming only of some happy change of position which might encouragehim to speak. The girl was as timid as himself; she had a face of homelyprettiness, a mind uncultured but sympathetic; absorbed in domestic cares, with few acquaintances, she led the simplest of lives, and would have beenall but content to live on in gentle hope for a score of years. The twowere beginning to understand each other, for their silence was moreeloquent than their speech. 

One summer day--the last day of his brief holiday--Humplebee was returningby 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 tosee in a few hours, he suddenly found himself jerked out of his seat, flungviolently forward, bumped on the floor, and last of all rolled into a sortof 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 thecarriage-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 smallstation; on a cross line in front of the engine lay a goods truck smashedto pieces; people were rushing about with cries and gesticulations. 

'Yes, the arm is broken, ' remarked one of the men who had assistedHumplebee. 'It looks as if you were the only passenger injured. ' Thatproved, indeed, to be the case; no one else had suffered more than a joltor a bruise. The crowd clustered about this hero of the broken arm, expressing sympathy and offering suggestions. Among them was a well-dressedyoung man, rather good-looking and of lively demeanour, who seemed to enjoythe 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 herecognised the face of Leonard Chadwick. Neither one nor the other hadgreatly altered during the past ten years; they presented exactly the samecontrast of personal characteristic as when they were at school together. With vehement friendliness Chadwick at once took upon himself the care ofthe injured clerk. He shouted for a cab, he found out where the nearestdoctor lived; in a quarter of an hour he had his friend under the doctor'sroof. When the fracture had been set and bandaged, they travelled ontogether to their native town, only a few miles distant, Humplebee knowingfor the first time in his life the luxury of a first-class compartment. Ontheir 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 andI can't get along together; we quarrelled years ago, there's not muchchance of our making it up. I've no doubt that was the real reason of hisdismissing you from his office--a mean thing! The governor's a fine oldboy, 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 itto-morrow, you'll feel better able to talk. Expect me at eleven in themorning. '

Through a night of physical suffering Humplebee was supported by a newhope. Chadwick the son, warm-hearted and generous, made a strong contrastwith Chadwick the father, pompous and insincere. When the young man spokeof his abiding gratitude there was no possibility of distrusting him, hisvoice rang true, and his handsome features wore a delightful frankness. Punctual to his appointment, Leonard appeared next morning. He entered thepoor lodging as if it had been a luxurious residence, talked suavely andgaily with the landlady, who was tending her invalid, and, when alone withhis old schoolfellow, launched into a detailed account of a greatenterprise in which he was concerned. Not long ago he had become acquaintedwith one Geldershaw, a man somewhat older than himself, personally mostattractive, and very keen in business. Geldershaw had just been appointedLondon representative of a great manufacturing firm in Germany. It was amost profitable undertaking, and, out of pure friendship, he had offered ashare in the business to Leonard Chadwick. 

'Of course, I put money into it. The fact is, I have dropped in for a fewthousands from a good old aunt, who has been awfully kind to me since thegovernor and I fell out. I couldn't possibly have found a betterinvestment, it means eight or nine per cent, my boy, at the very least! Andlook 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 wecan thoroughly trust; you're the very man Geldershaw had in his eye. Wouldyou 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 doublethe 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 ashare in the business. Don't say a word, old boy! My governor treated youabominably. I've been in your debt for ten years or so, as you know verywell, and often enough I've felt deucedly ashamed of myself. Five pounds aweek to begin with, and a certainty of a comfortable interest in a thrivingaffair! Come, now, is it agreed?'

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

'And you know, ' pursued Chadwick, when they had shaken hands warmly, 'thatyou have a claim for damages on the railway company. Leave that to me; I'llput the thing in train at once, through my own solicitor. You shall pocketa substantial sum, my boy! Well, I'm afraid I must be off; I've got myhands full of business. Quite a new thing for me to have something seriousto do; I enjoy it! If I can't see you again before I go back to town, youshall hear from me in a day or two. Here's my London address. Chuck up yourplace here at once, so as to be ready for us as soon as your arm's allright. 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 allthat had befallen him to his friend Mary Bowes. It was the first time hehad written to her. His letter was couched in terms of studious respect, with many apologies for the liberty he took. Of the accident he madelight--a few days would see him re-established--but he dwelt with someemphasis upon the meeting with Leonard Chadwick, and what had resulted fromit. 

'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 heremembered the old time. '

Thus did Humplebee refer to the great event of his boyhood. Havingdespatched the letter, he waited feverishly for Miss Bowes' reply; but dayspassed, and still he waited in vain. Agitation delayed his recovery; he wassuffering as he had never suffered in his life, when there came a letterfrom London, signed with the name of Geldershaw, repeating in formal termsthe offer made to him by Leonard Chadwick, and requesting his immediateacceptance or refusal. This plucked him out of his despondent state, andspurred 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 cabto Miss Bowes' dwelling. The hour being before noon, he was almost sure tofind Mary at home, and alone. Trembling with bodily weakness and theconflict of emotions, he rang the door bell. To his consternation thereappeared Mary's father. 

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

The man with the bandaged arm could not utter a word. Horror-stricken hestared at Mr. Bowes, who had begun to express a doubt whether it would beprudent 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 wordsexpressed vehement joy. They talked for a few minutes, parted withcordiality, and Humplebee went home again to recover from his excitement. 

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

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

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

When his arm was once more sound, and Mary's health quite recovered, theymet. In their long, long talk Humplebee was led to tell the story of thatwinter day when he saved Leonard Chadwick's life; he related, too, all thathad ensued upon his acquaintance with the great Mr. Chadwick, memorieswhich would never lose all their bitterness. Mary was moved to tears, andher tears were dried by indignation. But they agreed that Leonard, afterall, made some atonement for his father's heartless behaviour. Humplebeeshowed a letter that had come from young Chadwick a day or two ago; everyline spoke generosity of spirit. 'When, ' he asked, 'might they expect theirnew bookkeeper. They were in full swing; business promised magnificently. As yet, they had only a temporary office, but Geldershaw was in treaty forfine premises in the city. The sooner Humplebee arrived the better; fortuneawaited 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 lookswith which he was greeted. Mary had a pale, miserable air, and could hardlyspeak. 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 swindlethat he's been up to. You know what that means? Obtaining goods on falsecredit, 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 fullreport 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 afeeble voice. 'You see, he says that Geldershaw has robbed him of all hismoney--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 regardedhim 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, 'theupshot of it is, Humplebee, that you've lost a good place through trustinghim. I had my doubts; but you were in a hurry, and didn't ask advice. Ifthis had happened a week later, the police would have laid hands on you aswell. '

'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 companybesieged the table of the Greyhound, lured by savoury odours and thefrothing of amber ale. Apart from three frequenters of the ordinary, in asmall room prepared for overflow, sat two persons of a different stamp--amiddle-aged man, bald, meagre, unimpressive, but wholly respectable inbearing and apparel, and a girl, evidently his daughter, who had the lookof the latter twenties, her plain dress harmonising with a subdued charm offeature and a timidity of manner not ungraceful. Whilst waiting for theirmeal they conversed in an undertone; their brief remarks and ejaculationstold of a long morning's ramble from the seaside resort some miles away; intheir quiet fashion they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and dinner atan inn evidently struck them as something of an escapade. Rather awkwardlythe girl arranged a handful of wild flowers which she had gathered, and putthem for refreshment into a tumbler of water; when a woman entered withviands, 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 soundeda virile voice, gaily humming, and they became aware of a tall young man, red-headed, anything but handsome, flushed and perspiring from the sunnyroad; his open jacket showed a blue cotton shirt without waistcoat, in hishand was a shabby straw hat, and thick dust covered his boots. One wouldhave judged him a tourist of the noisier class, and his rather loud 'Goodmorning!' as he entered the room seemed a serious menace to privacy; on theother hand, the rapid buttoning of his coat, and the quiet choice of a seatas far as possible from the two guests whom his arrival disturbed, indicated a certain tact. His greeting had met with the merest murmur ofreply; their eyes on their plates, father and daughter resolutelydisregarded 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'sdelay 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, andafter each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, atroubled thoughtfulness. His one look at the mute parent was from beneathcontemptuous eyebrows. 

Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descendedupon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather. With himthe red-haired pedestrian struck into talk. Their topic was beer. Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a secondpint. What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale? Shameon the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor! Andhow cool it was--ah! The right sort of cellar! He of the red hair hinted ata 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 flowersbehind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father woulddislike to do so, said nothing about the matter. 

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

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

'That abominable habit of drinking!' added Mr. Whiston austerely. Hehimself 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 eyeswere on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When shespoke, it was on quite another subject. 

They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in theoffice of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he hadalways practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest privatecapital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of sociallimits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to beashamed 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 behalfas 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, butsupported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown upin an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received afairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. Asense of her father's conscientiousness and of his true affection forbadeher to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life;hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet halfopposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose's character. 

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

Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visitwhen the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought ofadventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same westernseaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him norhis daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but theyonly thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another longyear of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome, respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk withjust a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated. Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not whollyunlike him. 

To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificentthroughout; Rose's cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to theadvantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden, rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, hermovements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips wereher finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness withoutfeebleness of character. Such a girl is at her best towards the stroke ofthirty. Rose had begun to know herself; she needed only opportunity to actupon her knowledge. 

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

'You left these flowers in a glass of water on the table. I hope I'm notdoing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident. '

He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a pieceof paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at thespeaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knewnot what. 

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

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

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

'Wasn't it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn camelooking 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'srare nowadays. '

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

Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in herbedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense ofdiscouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt theblue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townwardjourney to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony thatawaited 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. Whistonwas reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, asunexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence. 

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

'Too much afraid?'

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

'I mean--what harm is there in having a little conversation when one isaway from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can't help thinking we wererather--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 havebeen natural to exchange a few friendly words? I'm sure he wouldn't havetalked of beer to _us_'

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

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

'Precisely. That is just what I mean, ' said Mr. Whiston withself-satisfaction. 'My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps havetalked 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 suchpeople 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. Itseems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself. '

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

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

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

The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places forthe long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed thatthey would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, abag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, ared-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 hisforehead in silence. 

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

At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, acommercial 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 asmoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry. '

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

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

He talked of how he had spent his holiday. Rose missed not a word, and herblood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed. Shedid not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; itevinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whethergentle or other. At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal aglimpse of his face. After all, was it really so plain? The features seemedto 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 trainslackened 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 thathis eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression, a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity. And Rose, even whilstturning away, smiled in response. 

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

And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly. Sitting rigid, hereyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the momentwas 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. 'Willyou 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 theprecious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completedwhen a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just intime to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand. 

During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. Shedid not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that whathad happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing wasthat she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a fewfeet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Suddenillumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to beplaying a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of graverealities. 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 offrigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the otheroccupants of the compartment. It amazed her. Never had she seen her fatherin such an alien light. He bent forward and addressed to her somecommonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply. Her views of conduct, ofcharacter, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change. Havingjustified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, shejudged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriouslyattained. She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday. Her old selfseemed an object of compassion. She felt an unspeakable happiness, and atthe same time an encroaching fear. 

The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London loomingon either hand it became a torment, an anguish. Small-folded, crushedwithin her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscriptionseemed to burn her. Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend. Hesmiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement. She knewhis face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manlybeauty. Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain fromturning aside to unfold and read what he had written. The train slackenedspeed, stopped. Yes, it was London. She must arise and go. Once more theireyes met. Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on theMetropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home. 

A severe headache sent her early to bed. Beneath her pillow lay a scrap ofpaper with a name and address she was not likely to forget. And through thenight of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom. No moreself-glorification! All her courage gone, all her new vitality! She sawherself 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 shewas not a lady, after all. What lady would have permitted herself toexchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railwaycarriage--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 youngwoman--well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk wasof beer and tobacco!

This arrested her. Stung to the defence of her friend, who, clerk though hemight be, was neither impudent nor vulgar, she found herself driven backupon self-respect. The battle went on for hours; it exhausted her; it undidall 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'ssingular expression of opinion after their dinner at the inn. His affectionmade him sensitive to changes in the girl's demeanour. Next summer theymust really find a more bracing resort. Yes, yes; clearly Rose neededbracing. 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 allat once wore a face of indignant severity. He was absent-minded; he sat attable with scarce a word; he had little nervous movements, and subduedmutterings as of wrath. This continued on a second day, and Rose began tosuffer an intolerable agitation. She could not help connecting her father'sstrange 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 wasprobable--more than probable--that _he_ would write to her; but as yet noletter came. A week passed, and no letter came. Her father was himselfagain; 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 firstglance showed his daughter that trouble and anger once more beset him. Shetrembled, and all but wept, for suspense had overwrought her nerves. 

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

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

'The fact is, ' he proceeded at length, 'a week ago I received a mostextraordinary letter--the most impudent letter I ever read in my life. Itcame from that noisy, beer-drinking man who intruded upon us at theinn--you remember. He began by explaining who he was, and--if you canbelieve it--had the impertinence to say that he wished to make myacquaintance! An amazing letter! Naturally, I left it unanswered--the onlydignified thing to do. But the fellow wrote again, asking if I had receivedhis proposal. I now replied, briefly and severely, asking him, first, howhe came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him forsupposing that I desired to meet him again. His answer to this was evenmore outrageous than the first offence. He bluntly informed me that inorder to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day fromPaddington 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 nochoice but to tell you what he said. The fellow tells me, really, that hewants to know _me_ only that he may come to know _you_! My first idea wasto go with this letter to the police. I am not sure that I shan't do soeven yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again. The man may becrazy--he may be dangerous. Who knows but he may come lurking about thehouse? I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility. '

Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir andto 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 countenancethat Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gavebirth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled hisdaughter's life. 

'My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Couldthere possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said--thatin 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 clearcommercial character, and was signed 'Charles James Burroughs. ' When shehad 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 andvery honest. '

'My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one's acquaintance uponan unwilling stranger? I really don't understand you. Where is your senseof propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer andtobacco--a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that hewants 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 kepther eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of awholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannouspropriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped. 

'Father--'

'Well, my dear?'

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

'I don't understand. '

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

'Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discoverour address. That is not true. He asked me for my name and address in thetrain, 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 totell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me theflowers from the inn, when I forgot them. You didn't see him give them tome 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 shehurriedly 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 withpropriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to domore than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit thataggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing. It wasby silence that Rose prevailed. Having defended herself against the chargeof immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr. Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulousbut 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 gaveproof 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 andkindly hostess, sank into a chair beside her little friend Mrs. Loring, andsighed 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 himbefore 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; hetakes everything so seriously. I shall never forget his grief at my poorhusband'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, inreply. 

'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 distressingparts 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 behelpful to them. Isn't it heroic? He seems to have given up his whole lifeto it. One never meets him anywhere; I think ours is the only house wherehe's seen. A noble life! He never talks about it. I'm sure you would neverhave suspected such a thing from his conversation at dinner?'

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

Mrs. Weare laughed. 'The very man! When I was a little girl he used to makeall sorts of pretty things for me with his fret-saw; and when I grew oldenough, 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, inBerkshire. I really can't help thinking that my husband's death caused himto leave it. He was so attached to Mr. Charman! When my husband died, andwe left Berkshire, we altogether lost sight of him--oh, for a couple ofyears. Then I met him by chance in London. Ada thinks there must have beensome sentimental trouble. '

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

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

When masculine voices sounded at the drawing-room door, Mrs. Loring lookedcuriously for the eccentric gentleman. He entered last of all. A man ofmore than middle height, but much bowed in the shoulders; thin, ungraceful, with an irresolute step and a shy demeanour; his pale-grey eyes, very softin expression, looked timidly this way and that from beneath browsnervously bent, and a self-obliterating smile wavered upon his lips. Hishair 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--orsidled--into the room, his hands kept shutting and opening, with ratherludicrous effect. Something which was not exactly shabbiness, but a lack oflustre, of finish, singled him among the group of men; looking closer, onesaw that his black suit belonged to a fashion some years old. His linen wasirreproachable, but he wore no sort of jewellery, one little black studshowing on his front, and, at the cuffs, solitaires of the same simpledescription. 

He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat alone, seemingly atpeace, 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 achange. Really, you know, you are _not_ looking quite the thing. Now, can'tI persuade you to join us at Lucerne? My husband would be sopleased--delighted to talk with you about the state of Europe. Give us afortnight--do!'

'My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself! I am deeply grateful. I can'teasily express my sense of your most friendly thoughtfulness. But, thetruth is, I am half engaged to other friends. Indeed, I think I may almostsay that I have practically. .. Yes, indeed, it amounts to that. '

He spoke in a thinly fluting voice, with a preciseness of enunciation akinto the more feebly clerical, and with smiles which became almost lachrymosein their expressiveness as he dropped from phrase to phrase of embarrassedcircumlocution. And his long bony hands writhed together till the knuckleswere white. 

'Well, so long as you _are_ going away. I'm so afraid lest yourconscientiousness 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 isa primary consideration. Nothing more detrimental to one's usefulness thanan 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 airhas often quite a tonic quality. We are so high, you must remember. If onlywe could subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of domestic andindustrial chimneys!--Oh, I assure you, Islington has every natural featureof 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 staredupwards; remaining rapt in that posture for some moments after the musicceased, and at length recovering himself with a sigh. 

When he left the house, he donned an overcoat considerably too thick forthe season, and bestowed in the pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hatwas a hard felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded umbrella, andset forth at a brisk walk, as if for the neighbouring station. But therailway was not his goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial nighthe walked and walked, at the steady pace of one accustomed to pedestrianexercise: from Notting Hill Gate to the Marble Arch; from the Marble Archto New Oxford Street; thence by Theobald's Road to Pentonville, and up, andup, until he attained the heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long aftermidnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale moon showed to bedecent, though not inviting. He admitted himself with a latchkey to alittle house which smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in hispocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back bedroom, its sizeeight feet by seven and a half. A few minutes more, and he lay soundasleep. 

Waking at eight o'clock--he knew the time by a bell that clanged in theneighbourhood--Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On openinghis door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfastreduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nineo'clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the frontparlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied byan oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day's work of plainbookbinding. 

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

He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morning of sharp frost. Thebookbinder, with a dry nod for greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley atask, to which that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was learningthe elementary processes of the art. He worked with patience, and some showof 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 soundinvestments. Schooled at Harrow, a graduate of Cambridge, he had meditatedthe choice of a profession until it seemed, on the whole, too late toprofess anything at all; and, as there was no need of such exertion, hesettled himself to a life of innocent idleness, hard by the country-houseof his wealthy and influential friend, Mr. Charman. Softly the years flowedby. His thoughts turned once or twice to marriage, but a profounddiffidence withheld him from the initial step; in the end, he knew himselfborn for bachelorhood, and with that estate was content. Well for him hadhe seen as clearly the delusiveness of other temptations! In an evil momenthe listened to Mr. Charman, whose familiar talk was of speculation, ofcompanies, of shining percentages. Not on his own account was Mr. Tymperleylured: he had enough and to spare; but he thought of his sister, married toan unsuccessful provincial barrister, and of her six children, whom itwould be pleasant to help, like the opulent uncle of fiction, at theirentering upon the world. In Mr. Charman he put blind faith, with the resultthat one morning he found himself shivering on the edge of ruin; the touchof 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 fromwhat to his friend meant sheer disaster. And Mr. Tymperley breathed not aword 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 needsgo without avuncular aid. During the absence of his friendly neighboursafter Mr. Charman's death, he quietly disappeared. 

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

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

All this time he was of course living in absolute solitude. Poverty is thegreat secluder--unless one belongs to the rank which is born to it; asensitive man who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his naturalassociates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns with some surprise how verywilling people are to forget his existence. London is a wildernessabounding in anchorites--voluntary or constrained. As he wandered about thestreets and parks, or killed time in museums and galleries (where nothinghad to be paid), Mr. Tymperley often recognised brethren in seclusion; heunderstood the furtive glance which met his own, he read the peaked visage, marked with understanding sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. Nointerchange of confidences between these lurking mortals; they would liketo speak, but pride holds them aloof; each goes on his silent andunfriended way, until, by good luck, he finds himself in hospital orworkhouse, when at length the tongue is loosed, and the sore heart poursforth its reproach of the world. 

Strange knowledge comes to a man in this position. He learns wondrouseconomies, and will feel a sort of pride in his ultimate discovery of howlittle money is needed to support life. In his old days Mr. Tymperley wouldhave laid it down as an axiom that 'one' cannot live on less thansuch-and-such an income; he found that 'a man' can live on a few coppers aday. He became aware of the prices of things to eat, and was taught therelative virtues of nutriment. Perforce a vegetarian, he found that avegetable diet was good for his health, and delivered to himself many ascornful speech on the habits of the carnivorous multitude. He of necessityabjured alcohols, and straightway longed to utter his testimony on ateetotal platform. These were his satisfactions. They compensateastonishingly for the loss of many kinds of self-esteem. 

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

'Why, Mr. Tymperley, what _has_ become of you all this time? Why have Inever heard from you? Is it true, as some one told me, that you have beenliving abroad?'

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

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

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

'Oh, you must come and see me. You know that Ada's married? Yes, nearly ayear ago. How glad she will be to see you again. So often she has spoken ofyou. 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 tohis native world lay in the fact of his having carefully preserved anevening-suit, with the appropriate patent-leather shoes. Many a time had hebeen sorely tempted to sell these seeming superfluities; more than once, towards the end of his pinched quarter, the suit had been pledged for a fewshillings; but to part with the supreme symbol of respectability would havemeant despair--a state of mind alien to Mr. Tymperley's passive fortitude. His jewellery, even watch and chain, had long since gone: such gauds arenot indispensable to a gentleman's outfit. He now congratulated himself onhis prudence, for the meeting with Mrs. Charman had delighted as much as itembarrassed him, and the prospect of an evening in society made his heartglow. 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 needsbe purchased; happily he had the means. But how explain himself? Could heconfess his place of abode, his startling poverty? To do so would be tomake an appeal to the compassion of his old friends, and from that heshrank in horror. A gentleman will not, if-it can possibly be avoided, reveal circumstances likely to cause pain. Must he, then, tell or imply afalsehood. The whole truth involved a reproach of Mrs. Charman's husband--athought he could not bear. 

The next evening found him still worrying over this dilemma. He reachedMrs. Charman's house without having come to any decision. In thedrawing-room three persons awaited him: the hostess, with her daughter andson-in-law, Mr. And Mrs. Weare. The cordiality of his reception moved himall but to tears; overcome by many emotions, he lost his head. He talked atrandom; and the result was so strange a piece of fiction, that no soonerhad 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 alittle street up at Islington. '

Dead silence followed. Eyes of wonder were fixed upon him. But for thoseeyes, 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 itwon't shock you. To be brief, I have devoted my poor energies to socialwork. I live among the poor, and as one of them, to obtain knowledge thatcannot 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 orafterwards, it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of what he hadsaid. Mrs. Charman had seen him transacting business at the Bank ofEngland, a place not suggestive of poverty; and he had always passed for aman somewhat original in his views and ways. Thus was Mr. Tymperleycommitted to a singular piece of deception, a fraud which could not easilybe discovered, and which injured only its perpetrator. 

Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley had seen his friendsperhaps half a dozen times, his enjoyment of their society patheticallyintense, but troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life. It hadcome to be understood that he made it a matter of principle to hide hislight under a bushel, so he seldom had to take a new step in positivefalsehood. Of course he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs. Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have assisted him to some notundignified mode of earning his living. As it was, he had hit upon the ideaof making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his taste. For somemonths he had lodged in the bookbinder's house; one day courage came tohim, and he entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he was to payfor instruction by a certain period of unremunerated work after he becameproficient. That stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt muchhappier than in the time of brooding idleness. He looked forward to the daywhen he would have a little more money in his pocket, and no longer dreadthe last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless nights. 

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

Having dined so well yesterday, he felt it his duty to expend less thanusual on to-day's meals. About eight o'clock in the evening, after ameditative stroll in the air which he had so praised, he entered the shopwhere he was wont to make his modest purchases. A fat woman behind thecounter 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 theword, new-laid. The last, I fancy, had got into that box by someoversight--pardonable in the press of business. '

'They're always the same, ' said the fat shopkeeper. 'We don't make nomistakes 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 saton a straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap sounded at hisdoor, 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; heunfolded the written sheet with agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, whowrote 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, andgazed at it. By his present standards of value five pounds seemed a verylarge sum. Think of what one could do with it! His boots--which had beentwice repaired--would not decently serve him much longer. His trousers werein the last stage of presentability. The hat he wore (how carefullytended!) was the same in which he had come to London three years ago. Hestood in need, verily, of a new equipment from head to foot; and inIslington 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. Tymperleyperceived that the crossing of a cheque may occasion its recipient a greatdeal of trouble. How was he to get it changed? He knew his landlord for asuspicious 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 verydoubtful whether Mr. Suggs could make any use of the cheque himself. Towhom 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 hislamp and sat down at the crazy little deal table; but his pen dippedseveral 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, hebent 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 expressinghimself wretchedly; a clog was on his brain. It cost him an exertion ofphysical strength to conclude the letter. When it was done, he went out, purchased a stamp at a tobacconist's shop, and dropped the envelope intothe post. 

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

From nightmarish dozing, he started with a vivid thought, a recollectionwhich seemed to pierce his brain. To whom did he owe his fall from comfortand 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 asmere restitution? Might it not strictly be applicable to his ownnecessities?

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 ownuse?

Earliest daylight made this suggestion look very insubstantial; on theother hand, it strengthened his memory of Mr. Charman's virtualindebtedness to him. He jumped out of bed to reach the cheque, and for anhour 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'sarrested him; he stood before the window for a long time, turning over andover in his pocket a sovereign--no small fraction of the ready coin whichhad 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. Hisbusiness was transacted in a dream; he spoke without hearing what he said;he stared at objects without perceiving them. The result was that not tillhe had got home, with his easy old footgear under his arm, did he becomeaware that the new boots pinched him most horribly. They creaked too:heavens! how they creaked! But doubtless all new boots had these faults; hehad forgotten; it was so long since he had bought a pair. The fact was, hefelt dreadfully tired, utterly worn out. After munching a mouthful ofsupper he crept into bed. 

All night long he warred with his new boots. Footsore, he limped about thestreets of a spectral city, where at every corner some one seemed to lie inambush for him, and each time the lurking enemy proved to be no other thanMrs. Weare, who gazed at him with scornful eyes and let him totter by. Thecreaking of the boots was an articulate voice, which ever and anon screamedat 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 getchanged, and no one would change it. What a night!

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

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

Immediately after his breakfast he went downstairs and tapped at the doorof 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 ofsome moment demands my attention. '

Mr. Suggs answered, with the grace natural to his order, 'I s'pose you cando 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, withunadorned hat of brown felt, and irreproachable umbrella; a young woman whowalked faster than any one in Wattleborough, yet never looked hurried; whocrossed a muddy street seemingly without a thought for her skirts, yetsomehow was never splashed; who held up her head like one thoroughly athome in the world, and frequently smiled at her own thoughts. Those who didnot know her asked who she was; those who had already made her acquaintancetalked a good deal of the new mistress at the High School, by name MissRodney. In less than a week after her arrival in the town, her opinionswere cited and discussed by Wattleborough ladies. She brought with her theair of a University; she knew a great number of important people; she had aquiet decision of speech and manner which was found very impressive inWattleborough drawing-rooms. The headmistress spoke of her in high terms, and the incumbent of St. Luke's, who knew her family, reported that she hadalways 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 ortwo, and it was understood that she left because the rooms 'lackedcharacter. ' 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 generalsurprise, for though the street was one of those which Wattleboroughopinion classed as 'respectable, ' the house itself, as Miss Rodney mighthave learnt from the incumbent of St. Luke's, in whose parish it wassituated, had objectionable features. Nothing grave could be allegedagainst Mrs. Turpin, who regularly attended the Sunday evening service; buther husband, a carpenter, spent far too much time at 'The Swan With TwoNecks'; and then there was a lodger, young Mr. Rawcliffe, concerning whomWattleborough had for some time been too well informed. Of such commentsupon her proceeding Miss Rodney made light; in the aspect of the rooms shefound a certain 'quaintness' which decidedly pleased her. 'And as for Mrs. Grundy, ' she added, '_je m'en fiche_? which certain ladies of culturedeclared to be a polite expression of contempt. 

Miss Rodney never wasted time, and in matters of business had cultivated anotable brevity. Her interview with Mrs. Turpin, when she engaged therooms, occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour; in that space of time she hadsufficiently surveyed the house, had learnt all that seemed necessary as toits occupants, and had stated in the clearest possible way her presentrequirements. 

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

The landlady was too much astonished to reply; Miss Rodney's tones andbearing had so impressed her that she was at a loss for her usualloquacity, and could only stammer respectfully broken answers to whateverwas asked. Assuredly no one had ever dared to tell her that her lodgingswere 'filthy'--any ordinary person who had ventured upon such an insultwould have been overwhelmed with clamorous retort. But Miss Rodney, with apleasant smile and nod, went her way, and Mrs. Turpin stood at the opendoor gazing after her, bewildered 'twixt satisfaction and resentment. 

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

Miss Rodney arrived early on Saturday afternoon. Smiling and silent, shesaw her luggage taken up to the bedroom; she paid the cabman; she beckonedher 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 herdaughters had given the room a thorough turn out. It was done onlyyesterday, and _hours_ had been devoted to it. 

'I see, ' interrupted Miss Rodney, with quiet decision, 'that our notions ofcleanliness differ considerably. I'm going out now, and I shall not be backtill six o'clock. You will please to _clean_ the bedroom before then. Thesitting-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 toomuch must not be expected at once, she made no comment. That night, as shesat reading at eleven o'clock, a strange sound arose in the back part ofthe house; it was a man's voice, hilariously mirthful and breaking intorude 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 MissRodney had just finished writing half a dozen letters, there sounded alatch-key in the front door, and some one entered. This person, whoever itwas, seemed to stumble about the passage in the dark, and at length bangedagainst the listener's door. Miss Rodney started up and flung the dooropen. 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 andbearing. 'Infernally dark here; haven't got a match. You'reMiss--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, enteredthe 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, 'asnot to set the house on fire. '

'Oh, no fear, ' he replied, with a high laugh. 'Quite accustomed. Thanksawfully, 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 intoconversation. 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 dignityand reserve. 'I don't really wait on lodgers myself. '

'We'll talk about that another time, Mrs. Turpin. I wanted to say, first ofall, that you have spoiled a piece of good bacon and two good eggs. I musttrouble 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. 'Youwill find that I have patience. Then I wanted to ask you whether yourhusband and your lodger come home tipsy _every_ night, or only onSaturdays?'

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

'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 himselfin _this_ house excepting as the gentleman he is. You don't perhaps knowthat he belongs to a very high-connected family, miss, or I'm sure youwouldn'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--notto say _really_ too much. You may have heard him a bit merry, miss, butwhere's the harm of a Saturday night?'

'Thank you. Then it is only on Saturday nights that Mr. Turpin becomesmerry. 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 hisprolonged slumbers, and shouted for breakfast (which on this day of rest healways took in bed), the good woman went to him with downcast visage, andspoke querulously of Miss Rodney's behaviour. 

'I _won't_ wait upon her, so there! The girls may do it, and if she isn'tsatisfied let her give notice. I'm sure I shan't be sorry. She's given memore 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 asit happened that Miss Rodney made no demand for her landlady's attendance, the good woman enjoyed a sense of triumphant self-assertion. On Mondaymorning Mabel took in the breakfast, and reported that Miss Rodney had madeno remark; but, a quarter of an hour later, the bell rang, and Mrs. Turpinwas summoned. Very red in the face, she obeyed. Having civilly greeted her, Miss Rodney inquired at what hour Mr. Turpin took his breakfast, and wasanswered with an air of surprise that he always left the house on week-daysat half-past seven. 

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

Mrs. Turpin, nevertheless, seemed to mind very much. Her generallygood-tempered face wore a dogged sullenness, and she began to muttersomething about such a thing never having been heard of; but Miss Rodneypaid no heed, renewed the appointment for the next morning, and waved acheerful dismissal. 

Talking with a friend that day, the High School mistress gave a humorousdescription of her lodgings, and when the friend remarked that they must bevery uncomfortable, and that surely she would not stay there, Miss Rodneyreplied 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 isfoolish, 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 highlyconnected gentleman whose candle I had the honour of lighting, I shall turnhim out. '

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

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

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

Miss Rodney's leisure generally had its task; though as a matter ofprinciple she took daily exercise, her walking or cycling was always anopportunity for thinking something out, and this afternoon, as she sped onwheels some ten miles from Wattleborough, her mind was busy with theproblem of Mrs. Turpin's husband. From her clerical friend of St. Luke'sshe had learnt that Turpin was at bottom a decent sort of man, ratherintelligent, and that it was only during the last year or two that he hadtaken to passing his evenings at the public-house. Causes for this declinecould be suggested. The carpenter had lost his only son, a lad of whom hewas very fond; the boy's death quite broke him down at the time, andperhaps 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 hadalways been comfortless, and such companionship must, in the long-run, tellon a man. Reflecting upon this, Miss Rodney had an idea, and she took notime in putting it into practice. When Mabel brought in her tea, she askedthe girl whether her father was at home. 

'I think he is, miss, ' was the distant reply--for Mabel had been bidden byher 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 noone came. When ten minutes had elapsed she rang the bell. A few minutesmore and there sounded a heavy foot in the passage; then a heavy knock atthe 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 inhis 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 stoodjust within the room, half respectful, half assertive, betrayed anembarrassment altogether encouraging to Miss Rodney. In her pleasantesttone she begged him to be seated. 

'Thank you, miss, ' he replied, in a deep voice, which sounded huskily, buthad 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 aboutall she could, and if things weren't to your liking, she thought it wouldbe best for all if you suited yourself in somebody else's lodgings. '

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

'I have not the least desire to change my lodgings, Mr. Turpin. Things aregoing on quite well. There is an improvement in the cooking, in thecleaning, in everything; and, with a little patience, I am sure we shallall come to understand one another. What I wanted to speak to you about wasa little practical matter in which you may be able to help me. I teachmathematics at the High School, and I have an idea that I might makecertain points in geometry easier to my younger girls if I coulddemonstrate them in a mechanical way. Pray look here. You see the shapes Ihave sketched on this piece of paper; do you think you could make them forme 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 thathe 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 mutteringvoice; 'but my Harry used to do Euclid at the Grammar School, and I gotinto a sort of way of doing it with him. '

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

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

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

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

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

But Miss Rodney stuck to the point, and succeeded in making him promisethat he would get out the old Euclid and have a look at it in his leisuretime. 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 lessstrained. For the first time in her life the flabby, foolish woman had todo with a person of firm will and bright intelligence; not being vicious oftemper, she necessarily felt herself submitting to domination, and darklysurmised that the rule might in some way be for her good. All the sluggardand the slattern in her, all the obstinacy of lifelong habits, hung backfrom the new things which Miss Rodney was forcing upon her acceptance, butshe was no longer moved by active resentment. To be told that she cookedbadly had long ceased to be an insult, and was becoming merely a worryingtruism. That she lived in dirt there seemed no way of denying, and thoughevery muscle groaned, she began to look upon the physical exertion ofdusting 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, therewere regions of her mind still unconquered, instincts of resistance whichyet had to come into play. 

For, during all this time, Miss Rodney had had her eye on herfellow-lodger, Mr. Rawcliffe, and the more she observed this gentleman, themore resolute she became to turn him out of the house; but it was plain toher that the undertaking would be no easy one. In the landlady's eyes Mr. Rawcliffe, though not perhaps a faultless specimen of humanity, conferredan honour on her house by residing in it; the idea of giving him notice toquit was inconceivable to her. This came out very clearly in the firstfrank conversation which Miss Rodney held with her on the topic. Ithappened that Mr. Rawcliffe had passed an evening at home, in the companyof his friends. After supping together, the gentlemen indulged in merrimentwhich, towards midnight, became uproarious. In the morning Mrs. Turpinmumbled 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 lodgerin 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 yourdaughters. '

'Oh! miss, I don't think'

'Just so, Mrs. Turpin; you _don't_ think. If you had, you would long agohave noticed that his behaviour to those girls is not at all such as itshould be. More than once I have chanced to hear bits of talk, when eitherMabel or Lily was in his sitting-room, and didn't like the tone of it. Inplain 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 rankof life. Now, suppose you go to him as soon as he gets up, and quietly givehim 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 ordinaryargument or persuasion would bring her to such a step. Miss Rodney put thematter aside for the moment. 

She had found no difficulty in getting information about Mr. Rawcliffe. Itwas true that he belonged to a family of some esteem in the Wattleboroughneighbourhood, but his father had died in embarrassed circumstances, andhis mother was now the wife of a prosperous merchant in another town. Tohis stepfather Rawcliffe owed an expensive education and two or threestarts in life. He was in his second year of articles to a Wattle-boroughsolicitor, but there seemed little probability of his ever earning a livingby the law, and reports of his excesses which reached the stepfather's earshad begun to make the young man's position decidedly precarious. Theincumbent of St. Luke's, whom Rawcliffe had more than once insulted, tookmuch interest in Miss Rodney's design against this common enemy; he couldnot himself take active part in the campaign, but he never met the HighSchool mistress without inquiring what progress she had made. The conquestof Turpin, who now for several weeks had kept sober, and spent his eveningsin mathematical study, was a most encouraging circumstance; but Miss Rodneyhad no thought of using her influence over her landlady's husband to assailRawcliffe's position. She would rely upon herself alone, in this as in allother undertakings. 

Only by constant watchfulness and energy did she maintain her control overMrs. Turpin, who was ready at any moment to relapse into her old slatternlyways. It was not enough to hold the ground that had been gained; there mustbe progressive conquest; and to this end Miss Rodney one day broached asubject 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 intoshops, 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 ifI knew of a girl who would go into a country-house not far from here assecond 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, whocame from a decent house. Isn't it worth thinking of?'

Mrs. Turpin was red with suppressed indignation, but as usual she could notlook her lodger defiantly in the face. 

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

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

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

'Well, you shall think it over, ' said Miss Rodney, 'and we'll speak of itagain 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, theynecessarily came face to face now and then, but the High School mistressbehaved as though she saw no one, and the solicitor's clerk, after one ortwo attempts at polite formality, adopted a like demeanour. The man'sproximity caused his neighbour a ceaseless irritation; of all objectionabletypes 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 everyline of the trivial features; and a full moustache, evidently subjected totraining, served only as emphasis of foppish imbecility. 'I could beathim!' she exclaimed more than once within herself, overcome withcontemptuous wrath, when she passed Mr. Rawcliffe. And, indeed, had itbeen possible to settle the matter thus simply, no doubt Mr. Rawcliffe'srooms would very soon have been vacant. 

The crisis upon which Miss Rodney had resolved came about, quiteunexpectedly, one Sunday evening. Mrs. Turpin and her daughters had gone, as usual, to church, the carpenter had gone to smoke a pipe with aneighbour, and Mr. Rawcliffe believed himself alone in the house. But MissRodney was not at church this evening; she had a headache, and after tealay down in her bedroom for a while. Soon impatient of repose, she got upand went to her parlour. The door, to her surprise, was partly open;entering--the tread of her slippered feet was noiseless--she beheld anastonishing spectacle. Before her writing-table, his back turned to her, stood Mr. Rawcliffe, engaged in the deliberate perusal of a letter which hehad 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. Hisface, 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 severesttones. 

'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; Ireally feel quite ashamed of myself; I throw myself upon your indulgence. '

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

'It's something, ' she replied, 'that you have still the grace to feelashamed. 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 givingnotice 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. 'Inthat case I complain to the landlady of your behaviour, and insist on hergetting rid of you. You ought to have been turned out long ago. You are anuisance, and worse than a nuisance. Be so good as to leave the room. '

Rawcliffe, his shoulders humped, moved towards the door; but beforereaching 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 themeantime, 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 hadhappened, did her best to plead for Mr. Rawcliffe's forgiveness, and wouldnot be brought to the point of promising to give him notice. 

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

Resolved, as she was, _not_ to quit her lodgings, this was a bolddeclaration. A meeker spirit would have trembled at the possibility thatMrs. 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 hadthe 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'srather backward with his rent--'

'Very foolish of you to have allowed him to get into your debt. Theprobability is that he would never pay his arrears; they will onlyincrease, 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 yourlodgers is to go. '

Mrs. Turpin had never been so worried. The more she thought of thepossibility 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 Schoolmistress was worth more than the solicitor's clerk. Then there was theastonishing change that had come over Turpin, owing, it seemed, to his talkwith Miss Rodney; the man spent all his leisure time in 'making shapes andfiguring'--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 wouldbe off again to 'The Swan With Two Necks. ' On the other hand, the thoughtof 'giving notice' to Mr. Rawcliffe caused her something like dismay; howcould she have the face to turn a real gentleman out of her house? Yes, butwas it not true that she had lost money by him--and stood to lose more? Shehad never dared to tell her husband of Mr. Rawcliffe's frequentshortcomings in the matter of weekly payments. When the easy-going youngman 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 thisweakness. If she could find courage to go through with the thing, perhapsshe 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. Turpinbrought it in person at breakfast, and stood with it in her hand, an imageof vacillation. Her lodger made one of his familiar jokes; she laughedfeebly. No; the words would not come to her lips; she was physicallyincapable of giving him notice. 

'By the bye, Mrs. Turpin, ' said Rawcliffe in an offhand way, as he glancedat 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 overfor another month, and we'll square things up at Christmas. Will that suityou?'

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 greaterembarrassment than ever. 

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

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

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 fromthe room. It was now inevitable that she should report the state of thingsto her husband, and that evening half an hour's circumlocution brought herto the point. Which of the two lodgers should go? The carpenter paused, pipe in mouth, before him a geometrical figure over which he had puzzledfor a day or two, and about which, if he could find courage, he wished toconsult the High School mistress. He reflected for five minutes, anduttered an unhesitating decision. Mr. Rawcliffe must go. Naturally, hiswife broke into indignant clamour, and the debate lasted for an hour ortwo; but Turpin could be firm when he liked, and he had solid reasons forpreferring to keep Miss Rodney in the house. At four o'clock Mrs. Turpincrept softly to the sitting-room where her offended lodger was quietlyreading. 

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

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

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

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

'Mr. Rawcliffe, ' began Turpin, 'you must leave these lodgings, sir, onWednesday 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, ofthe irregular payment (for his wife, in her stress, had avowed everything), and of other subjects of dissatisfaction; the lodger must go, there was anend of it. Rawcliffe, putting on all his dignity, demanded the legal week'snotice; Turpin demanded the sum in arrear. There was an exchange of highwords, and the interview ended with mutual defiance. A moment after Turpinand his wife knocked at Miss Rodney's door, for she was still in herparlour. There followed a brief conversation, with the result that MissRodney 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 thathe would not budge. Turpin warned him that if he had made no preparationsfor departure on Wednesday he would be forcibly ejected, and the doorclosed against him. 

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

'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 cuttinghim adrift, and more than one grave warning had come from his mother duringthe past few months. But he enjoyed a little blustering, and even atbreakfast-time on Wednesday his attitude was that of contemptuous defiance. In vain had Mrs. Turpin tried to coax him with maternal suavity; in vainhad 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 Rawcliffemight return. In a voice loud enough to be heard by his enemy in theopposite parlour, he declared that no 'cat of a school teacher should getthe better of _him_. ' As a matter of fact, however, he arranged on Tuesdayevening to take a couple of cheaper rooms just outside the town, andordered a cab to come for him at eleven next morning. 

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

'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 forceof will. 

'The next thing, ' she remarked to a friend, when telling the story, 'is topack 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 asort 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 hermorning tea with tremulous hand. 'I must really be very firm with them. '

Firmness was not the most legible characteristic of Miss Shepperson'sphysiognomy. A plain woman of something more than thirty, she had gentleeyes, a twitching forehead, and lips ever ready for a sympathetic smile. Her attire, a little shabby, a little disorderly, well became the occupantof furnished lodgings, at twelve and sixpence a week, in the unpretentioussuburb of Acton. She was the daughter of a Hammersmith draper, at whosedeath, a few years ago, she had become possessed of a small house and anincome of forty pounds a year; her two elder sisters were comfortablymarried to London tradesmen, but she did not see very much of them, fortheir ways were not hers, and Miss Shepperson had always been one of thosesingular 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 troubleat all; it stood in a quiet part of Hammersmith, and had long been occupiedby good tenants, who paid their rent (fifty pounds) with exemplarypunctuality; repairs, of course, would now and then be called for, and tothat 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 toherself after her first interview with them. Mr. Rymer was 'in the City';Mrs. Rymer, who had two little girls, lived only for domestic peace--shehad been in better circumstances, but did not repine, and forgot allworldly ambition in the happy discharge of her wifely and maternal duties. 'A charming family!' was Miss Shepperson's mental comment when, at theirinvitation, she had called one Sunday afternoon soon after they weresettled in the house; and, on the way home to her lodgings, she sighed onceor twice, thinking of Mrs. Rymer's blissful smile and the two prettychildren. 

The first quarter's rent was duly paid, but the second quarter-day broughtno cheque; and, after the lapse of a fortnight, Miss Shepperson wrote tomake known her ingenuous fear that Mr. Rymer's letter might havemiscarried. At once there came the politest and friendliest reply. Mr. Rymer (wrote his wife) was out of town, and had been so overwhelmed withbusiness 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 theearliest possible moment; a thousand apologies for this unpardonableneglect. Still the cheque did not come; another quarter-day arrived, andagain no rent was paid. It was now a month after Christmas, and MissShepperson, for the first time in her life, found her accounts in seriousdisorder. This morning she had a letter from Mrs. Rymer, the latest of adozen 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 thatnever, never before did I find myself in such a situation. Indeed, I shouldnot have the courage to write at all, but that the end of our troubles isalready 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 ofalmost affectionate protests closed with the touching subscription, 'everyours, sincerely and gratefully, Adelaide Rymer. '

But Miss Shepperson had fallen into that state of nervous agitation whichimpels to a decisive step. She foresaw the horrors of pecuniaryembarrassment. Her faith in the Rymers' promises was exhausted. This verymorning she would go to see Mrs. Rymer, lay before her the plain facts ofthe case, and with all firmness--with unmistakable resolve--make known toher that, if the arrears were not paid within a month, notice to quit wouldbe given, and the recovery of the debt be sought by legal process. Fear hadmade Miss Shepperson indignant; it was wrong and cowardly for people suchas the Rymers to behave in this way to a poor woman who had only justenough to live upon. She felt sure that they _could_ pay if they liked; butbecause 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 outfor Hammersmith. It was a foggy, drizzly, enervating day. When MissShepperson found herself drawing near to the house, her courage sank, herheart 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 deplorableweakness. By word of mouth she could so much better depict the gravity ofher situation. She forced herself onwards. Trembling in every nerve, sherang the bell, and in a scarce audible gasp she asked for Mrs. Rymer. Abrief 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 apicture-book. The room was comfortably and prettily furnished; the childrenwere very becomingly dressed; their mother, a tall woman, of faircomplexion and thin, refined face, with wandering eyes and a foreheadrather deeply lined, stepped forward as if in delight at the unexpectedvisit, and took Miss Shepperson's ill-gloved hand in both her own, gazingwith tender interest into her eyes. 

'How kind of you to have taken this trouble! You guessed that I reallywished to see you. I should have come to you, but just at present I find itso difficult to get away from home. I am housekeeper, nursemaid, andgoverness all in one! Some women would find it rather a strain, but thedear tots are so good--so good! Cissy, you remember Miss Shepperson? Ofcourse 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 poordears; 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 leftthe room. She knew not how to enter upon what she had to say. To talk ofthe law and use threats in this atmosphere of serene domesticity seemedimpossibly harsh. But the necessity of broaching the disagreeable subjectwas spared her. 

'My husband and I were talking about you last night, ' began Mrs. Rymer, assoon as the door had closed, in a tone of the friendliest confidence. 'Ihad an idea; it seems to me so good. I wonder whether it will to you? Youtold me, did you not, that you live in lodgings, and quite alone?'

'Yes, ' replied Miss Shepperson, struggling to command her nerves andbetraying uneasy wonder. 

'Is it by choice?' asked the soft-voiced lady, with sympathetic bending ofthe head. 'Have you no relations in London? I can't help thinking you mustfeel very lonely. '

It was not difficult to lead Miss Shepperson to talk of hercircumstances--a natural introduction to the announcement which she wasstill resolved to make with all firmness. She narrated in outline thehistory of her family, made known exactly how she stood in pecuniarymatters, and ended by saying--

'You see, Mrs. Rymer, that I have to live as carefully as I can. This houseis 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. Rymerbegan to reveal the happy thought which had occurred to her. In the housethere was a spare room; why should not Miss Shepperson come and livehere--live, that is to say, as a member of the family? Nothing simpler thanto arrange the details of such a plan, which, of course, must be 'strictlybusinesslike, ' though carried out in a spirit of mutual goodwill. A certainsum of money was due to her for rent; suppose this were repaid in the formof board and lodging, which might be reckoned at--should one say, fifteenshillings a week? At midsummer next an account would be drawn up, 'in athoroughly businesslike way, ' and whatever then remained due to MissShepperson would be paid at once; after which, if the arrangement provedagreeable to both sides, it might be continued, cost of board and lodgingbeing deducted from the rent, and the remainder paid 'with regularity'every quarter. Miss Shepperson would thus have a home--a real home--withall family comforts, and Mrs. Rymer, who was too much occupied with houseand children to see much society, would have the advantage of a sympatheticfriend under her own roof. The good lady's voice trembled with joyouseagerness as she unfolded the project, and her eyes grew large as shewaited for the response. 

Miss Shepperson felt such astonishment that she could only reply withincoherencies. An idea so novel and so strange threw her thoughts intodisorder. She was alarmed by the invitation to live with people who weresocially her superiors. On the other hand, the proposal made appeal to hernatural inclination for domestic life; it offered the possibility ofoccupation, of usefulness. Moreover, from the pecuniary point of view, itwould be so very advantageous. 

'But, ' she stammered at length, when Mrs. Rymer had repeated the suggestionin words even more gracious and alluring, 'but fifteen shillings is so verylittle for board and lodging. '

'Oh, don't let _that_ trouble you, dear Miss Shepperson, ' cried the othergaily. 'In a family, so little difference is made by an extra person. Iassure you it is a perfectly businesslike arrangement; otherwise myhusband, who is prudence itself, would never have sanctioned it. As youknow, we are suffering a temporary embarrassment. I wrote to you yesterdaybefore my husband's return from business. When he came home, I learnt, tomy dismay, that it might be rather _more_ than a month before he was ableto send you a cheque. I said: "Oh, I must write again to Miss Shepperson. Ican't bear to think of misleading her. " Then, as we talked, that idea cameto me. As I think you will believe, Miss Shepperson, I am not a scheming ora selfish woman; never, never have I wronged any one in my life. Thisproposal, 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 atthe room. It is not in perfect order, but you will see whether it pleasesyou. 

Curiosity allying itself with the allurement which had begun to work uponher feelings, Miss Shepperson timidly rose and followed her smiling guideupstairs. The little spare room on the second floor was furnished simplyenough, but made such a contrast with the bedchamber in the Actonlodging-house that the visitor could scarcely repress an exclamation. Mrs. Rymer was voluble with promise of added comforts. She interested herself inMiss Shepperson's health, and learnt with the utmost satisfaction that itseldom gave trouble. She inquired as to Miss Shepperson's likings in thematter of diet, and strongly approved her preference for a plain, nutritiveregimen. From the spare room the visitor was taken into all the others, andbefore they went downstairs again Mrs. Rymer had begun to talk as thoughthe 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. Supposewe have the tots into the drawing-room again? I want them to make friendswith you at once. I _know_ you love children. --Oh, I have known that for along time!'

Miss Shepperson stayed to lunch. She stayed to tea. When at length she tookher 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 enterupon her new life. 

She arrived on Saturday afternoon, and was received by the assembled familylike a very dear friend or relative. Mr. Rymer, a well-dressed man, polite, good-natured, with a frequent falsetto laugh, talked over the teacups inthe pleasantest way imaginable, not only putting Miss Shepperson at ease, but making her feel as if her position as a member of the household werethe most natural thing in the world. His mere pronunciation of her namegave it a dignity, an importance quite new to Miss Shepperson's ears. Hehad 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 thechildren 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 engagingsmile, and little Minnie, not quite six, deposited her kitten in MissShepperson's lap, saying prettily, 'You may stroke it whenever you like. '

Miss Shepperson, to be sure, had personal qualities which could not butappeal to people of discernment. Her plain features expressed a simplicityand gentleness which more than compensated for the lack of conventionalgrace in her manners; she spoke softly and with obvious frankness, nor wasthere much fault to find with her phrasing and accent; dressed a littlemore elegantly, she would in no way have jarred with the tone of averagemiddle-class society. If she had not much education, she was altogetherfree from pretence, and the possession of property (which always works verydecidedly for good or for evil) saved her from that excess of deferencewhich would have accentuated her social shortcomings. Undistinguished asshe might seem at the first glance, Miss Shepperson could not altogether beslighted by any one who had been in her presence for a few minutes. Andwhen, in the course of the evening, she found courage to converse morefreely, giving her views, for instance, on the great servant question, andon 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 indetail. She, 'of course, ' kept two domestics, but was temporarily makingshift with only one, it being so difficult to replace the cook, who hadleft a week ago. Did Miss Shepperson know of a cook, a sensible, trustworthy woman? For the present Mrs. Rymer--she confessed it with apleasant little laugh--had to give an eye to the dinner herself. 

'I only hope you won't make yourself ill, dear, ' said Mr. Rymer, bendingtowards his wife with a look of well-bred solicitude. 'Miss Shepperson, Ibeg you to insist that she lies down a little every afternoon. She hasgreat nervous energy, but isn't really very strong. You can't think what arelief 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 greatsatisfaction, Miss Shepperson was a member of the orthodox community, andparticular about observances. Meals were reduced to the simplest terms; arestful quiet prevailed in the little house; in the afternoon, while Mrs. Rymer reposed, Miss Shepperson read to the children. She it was who--theservant being out--prepared tea. After tea, Mr. And Mrs. Rymer, with manyapologies, left the home together for a couple of hours, being absolutelyobliged to pay a call at some distance, and Miss Shepperson again took careof the children till the domestic returned. 

After breakfast the next day--it was a very plain meal, merely a rasher anddry toast--the lady of the house chatted with her friend moreconfidentially than ever. Their servant, she said, a good girl but not veryrobust, naturally could not do all the work of the house, and, by way ofhelping, 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 myhealth. But, of course, I couldn't think of asking _you_ to do the same. Nodoubt 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 orderwas 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 theother made a joke of these scruples. 

'When do the children go out?' asked Miss Shepperson. 'Do you take themyourself?'

'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 mustabsolutely go shopping, and I do so dislike to take the tots in thatdirection. 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 orgo out with the children, whichever Mrs. Rymer preferred. The lady thoughtshe had better do the shopping--so her friend's morning was pleasantlyarranged. In a day or two things got into a happy routine. Miss Sheppersonpractically became nursemaid, with the privilege of keeping her own bedroomin order and of helping in a good many little ways throughout the domesticday. A fortnight elapsed, and Mrs. Rymer was still unable to 'suit herself'with a cook, though she had visited, or professed to visit, manyregistry-offices and corresponded with many friends. A week after that thesubject of the cook had somehow fallen into forgetfulness; and, indeed, aless charitably disposed observer than Miss Shepperson might have doubtedwhether Mrs. Rymer had ever seriously meant to engage one at all. The foodserved on the family table was of the plainest, and not alwayssuperabundant in quantity; but the table itself was tastefully ordered, and, indeed, no sort of carelessness appeared in any detail of thehousehold life. Mrs. Rymer was always busy, and without fuss, withoutirritation. She had a large correspondence; but it was not often thatpeople called. No guest was ever invited to lunch or dinner. All this whilethe master of the house kept regular hours, leaving home at nine andreturning at seven; if he went out after dinner, which happened rarely, hewas always back by eleven o'clock. No more respectable man than Mr. Rymer;none more even-tempered, more easily pleased, more consistently polite andamiable. That he and his wife were very fond of each other appeared in alltheir talk and behaviour; both worshipped the children, and, in spite ofthat, trained them with a considerable measure of good sense. In theevenings Mr. Rymer sometimes read aloud, or he would talk instructively ofthe affairs of the day. The more Miss Shepperson saw of her friends themore she liked them. Never had she been the subject of so much kindattention, 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 beenvery well, and once or twice Miss Shepperson fancied that her eyes showedtraces of tears; it was but natural that the guest, often preoccupied withthe thought of the promised settlement, should feel a little uneasy. OnJune 23 Mrs. Rymer chose a suitable moment, and with her most confidentialair, 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 havebecome such good friends--as I knew we should. I shall be much easier inmind when you know exactly how we stand. '

Thereupon she spoke of a certain kinsman of her husband, an old and infirmman, whose decease was expected, if not from day to day, at all events fromweek to week. The event would have great importance for them, as Mr. Rymerwas entitled to the reversion of several thousands of pounds, held in useby his lingering relative. 

'Now let me ask you a question, ' pursued the lady in friendship'sundertone. 'My husband is _quite_ prepared to settle with you to-morrow. Hewishes 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 helpthinking it was a happy idea, but I wish to know how it strikes you. Onreceiving the sum due to you, you will no doubt place it in a bank, or insome 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 percent, interest, when he enters into possession of his capital? Mind, I onlysuggest this; not for a moment would I put pressure upon you. If you haveneed 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 asthis. The event to which we are looking forward may happen very soon; butit _may_ be delayed. How would you like to leave this money, and the sumsto which you will be entitled under our arrangements, from quarter toquarter, to increase at compound interest? Let us make a littlecalculation--'

Miss Shepperson listened nervously. She was on the point of saying that, onthe whole, she preferred immediate payment; but while she struggled withher moral weakness Mrs. Rymer, anxiously reading her face, struck anothernote. 

'I mustn't disguise from you that the money, though such a small sum, wouldbe useful to my husband. Poor fellow! he has been fighting againstadversity for the last year or two, and I'm sure no man ever struggled morebravely. You would never think, would you? that he is often kept awake allnight by his anxieties. As I tell him, he need not really be anxious atall, for his troubles will so soon come to an end. But there is no morehonourable man living, and he worries at the thought of owing money--youcan'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 asshe 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 ofcomforts. To tell you the whole truth, dear Miss Shepperson, I have nodoubt that, if you like my idea, he would at once put aside that money tobe ready for an emergency. So, you see, it is self-interest in me, afterall. ' Her smile was very sweet. 'But don't judge me too severely. What Ipropose is, as you see, really a very good investment--is it not?'

Miss Shepperson found it impossible to speak as she wished, and before theconversation came to an end she saw the matter entirely from her friend'spoint of view. She had, in truth, no immediate need of money, and the moreshe 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. Rymerprepared a legal document, promising to pay on demand the sum which becamedue to Miss Shepperson to-morrow, with compound interest at the rate offour per cent. While signing this, he gravely expressed his conviction thatbefore Michaelmas the time for payment would have arrived. 

'But if it were next week, ' he added, with a polite movement towards hiscreditor, 'I should be not a bit the less grateful to our most kindfriend. '

'Oh, but it's purely a matter of business, ' said Miss Shepperson, who wasalways abashed by such expressions. 

'To be sure, ' murmured Mrs. Rymer. 'Let us look at it in that light. But itshan'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, theservant declared herself ill, and at twenty-four hours' notice quitted thehouse. 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 postthus long, but she feared the increase of work impending, and preferred togo off unpaid. Now for the first time did Mrs. Rymer's nerves give way. Miss Shepperson found her sobbing by the fireside, the two childrenlamenting at such an unwonted spectacle. Where was a new servant to befound? In a day or two the monthly nurse would be here, and must, ofcourse, be waited upon. And what was to become of the children? MissShepperson, moved by the calamitous situation, entreated her friend toleave everything to her. She would find a servant somehow, and meanwhilewould keep the house going with her own hands. Mrs. Rymer sobbed that shewas ashamed to allow such a thing; but the other, braced by a crisis, displayed wonderful activity and resource. For two days Miss Shepperson didall 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 tothe 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 soeccentric that, after nearly setting fire to the house while in a state ofintoxication, she had to be got rid of as speedily as possible. MissShepperson resolved that, for the present, there should be no repetition ofsuch disagreeable things. She quietly told Mr. Rymer that she felt quiteable to grapple with the situation herself. 

'Impossible!' cried the master of the house, who, after many sleeplessnights and distracted days, had a haggard, unshorn face, scarcely to berecognised. '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 voicewhispered 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: theone 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 confidentialsadness. 

'I feel that I ought to speak frankly, ' he said, in a voice as polite andwell-tuned as ever. 'I should like to make known to you the exact state ofmy affairs. '

'Oh, but Mrs. Rymer has told me everything, ' replied Miss Shepperson, asshe dried a tea-cup. 

'No; not quite everything, I'm afraid. ' He had a shovel in his hand, andeyed it curiously. 'She has not told you that I am considerably in debt tovarious people, and that, not long ago, I was obliged to raise money on ourfurniture. '

Miss Shepperson laid down the tea-cup and gazed anxiously at him, whereuponhe began a detailed story of his misfortunes in business. Mr. Rymer was acommission-agent--that is to say, he was everything and nothing. Strugglewith pecuniary embarrassment was his normal condition, but only during thelast twelvemonth had he fallen under persistent ill-luck and come to allbut the very end of his resources. It would still be possible for him, heexplained, to raise money on the reversion for which he was waiting, but ofsuch a step he could not dream. 

'It would be dishonesty, Miss Shepperson, and, how unfortunate, I havenever yet lost my honour. People have trusted me, knowing that I am anhonest man. I belong to a good family--as, no doubt, Mrs. Rymer has toldyou. A brother of mine holds a respected position in Birmingham, and, ifthe worst comes to the worst, he will find me employment. But, as you canwell understand, I shrink from that extremity. For one thing, I am in debtto my brother, and I am resolved to pay what I owe him before asking forany more assistance. I do not lose courage. You know the proverb: "Loseheart, lose all. " I am blest with an admirable wife, who stands by me andsupports 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 encouragegloomy fears. She is a little better to-day, they tell me. We shall comeout of our troubles, and laugh over them by our cheerful fireside--you withus--you, our dearest and staunchest friend. '

'Yes, we must hope, ' said Miss Shepperson, reassured once more as to herown interests; for a moment her heart had sunk very low indeed. 'We are alldoing our best. '

'You above all, ' said Mr. Rymer, pressing her hand with his coal-blackenedfingers. 'I felt obliged to speak frankly, because you must have thought itstrange that I allowed things to get so disorderly--our domesticarrangements, I mean. The fact is, Miss Shepperson, I simply don't know howI am going to meet the expenses of this illness, and I dread the thought ofengaging 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 haveenough 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 aservant--'

Miss Shepperson reflected, she too with an uneasy look on her face. Therewas a long silence, broken by a deep sigh from Mr. Rymer, a sigh which wasalmost a sob. The other went on drying her plates and dishes, and said atlength that perhaps they might manage with quite a young girl, who wouldcome for small wages; she herself was willing to help as much as shecould--

'Oh, you shame me, you shame me!' broke in Mr. Rymer, laying a hand on hisforehead, and leaving a black mark there. 'There is no end to yourkindness; but I feel it as a disgrace to us--to me--that you, alady of property, should be working here like a servant. It ismonstrous--monstrous!'

At the flattering description of herself Miss Shepperson smiled; her softeyes beamed with the light of contentment. 

'Don't you give a thought to that, Mr. Rymer, ' she exclaimed. 'Why, it's apleasure 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 thehouse. It'll be all right. '

A week later Mrs. Rymer was in the way of recovery, and her husband went tothe City as usual. A servant had been engaged--a girl of sixteen, who knewas much of housework as London girls of sixteen generally do; at allevents, she could carry coals and wash steps. But the mistress of thehouse, it was evident, would for a long time be unable to do anythingwhatever; the real maid-of-all-work was Miss Shepperson, who rose everymorning at six o'clock, and toiled in one way or another till wearybedtime. If she left the house, it was to do needful shopping or to takethe children for a walk. Her reward was the admiration and gratitude of thefamily; even little Minnie had been taught to say, at frequent intervals:'I love Miss Shepperson because she is good!' The invalid behaved to her asto a sister, and kissed her cheek morning and evening. Miss Shepperson'sname 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 MissDora a christening present. It would not have been easy to find a house inLondon in which there reigned so delightful a spirit of harmony andkindliness. 

'I was so glad, ' said Mrs. Rymer one day to her friend, the day on whichshe first rose from bed, 'that my husband took you into his confidenceabout our affairs. Now you know everything, and it is much better. You knowthat we are very unlucky, but that no one can breathe a word against ourhonour. This was the thought that held me up through my illness. In a veryshort time all our debts will be paid--every farthing, and it will bedelightful to remember how we struggled, and what we endured, to keep anhonest 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 tohave had change of air, but that was out of the question, for Mr. Rymer'sbusiness was as unremunerative as ever, and with difficulty he provided thehousehold 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 thehouse in a bath-chair; every day there might be news even yet morepromising. Meanwhile, the girl of sixteen exercised her incompetence in themeaner departments of domestic life, and Miss Shepperson did all the workthat required care or common-sense, the duties of nursemaid alone taking agreat 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 hermanner showed more self-confidence. Once a month she succeeded in getting afew 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 thehouse at Hammersmith. Now and then, when every one else under the roof wasasleep, 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 wasvery pleasant indeed to make the computation of what the Rymers owed toher, a daily-growing debt of which the payment could not now be longdelayed. She did not feel quite sure with regard to the interest, but theprincipal of the debt was very easily reckoned, and it would make a nicelittle sum to put by. Certainly Miss Shepperson was not unhappy. 

Mrs. Rymer was just able to resume her normal habits, to write manyletters, teach her children, pay visits in distant parts of London--thecare of the baby being still chiefly left to Miss Shepperson--when, on apleasant day of spring, a little before lunch-time, Mr. Rymer rushed intothe house, calling in an agitated voice his wife's name. Miss Sheppersonwas 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 fromthe kitchen, aproned, with sleeves rolled to the elbow, and met the excitedman as he descended from a vain search in the bedrooms. 

'Has it happened?' she cried--for it seemed to her that there could be onlyone explanation of Mr. Rymer's behaviour. 

'Yes! He died this morning--this morning!'

They clasped hands; then, as an afterthought, their eyes fell, and theystood limply embarrassed. 

'It seems shocking to take the news in this way, ' murmured Mr. Rymer; 'butthe relief; oh, the relief! And then, I scarcely knew him; we haven't seeneach other for years. I can't help it! I feel as if I had thrown off a loadof tons! Where is Adelaide? Which way have they gone?'

He rushed out again, to meet his wife. For several minutes Miss Sheppersonstood motionless, in a happy daze, until she suddenly remembered that chopswere at the kitchen fire, and sped downstairs. 

Throughout that day, and, indeed, for several days to come, Mrs. Rymerbehaved very properly indeed; her pleasant, refined face wore a becominggravity, 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 toimitate his wife's decorum, frequently betrayed the joy which was in hismind; Miss Shepperson heard him singing as he got up in the morning, andnoticed that he ate with unusual appetite. The house brightened. Before theend of a week smiles and cheerful remarks ruled in the family; sorrows wereforgotten, and everybody looked forward to the great day of settlement. 

It did not come quickly. In two months' time Mr. Rymer still waited uponthe pleasure of the executors. But he was not inactive. His brother atBirmingham had suggested 'an opening' in that city (thus did Mrs. Rymerphrase it), and the commission-agent had decided to leave London as soon ashis affairs were in order. Towards the end of the third month the familywas 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 herprojects for the future. At length notice arrived that the executors wereprepared to settle with Mr. Rymer; yet, in announcing the fact, hemanifested only a sober contentment, while Mrs. Rymer was heard to sigh. Miss Shepperson noted these things, and wondered a little, but Mrs. Rymer'ssmiling assurance that now at last all was well revived her cheerfulexpectations. 

With a certain solemnity she was summoned, a day or two later, to a morningcolloquy in the drawing-room. Mr. Rymer sat in an easy-chair, holding abundle 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 arustle of his papers, the polite man began to speak--

'Miss Shepperson, the day has come when I am able to discharge my debt toyou. You will not misunderstand that expression--I speak of my debt inmoney. What I owe to you--what we all owe to you--in another and a highersense, can never be repaid. That moral debt must still go on, and beacknowledged by the unfailing gratitude of a lifetime. '

'Of a lifetime, ' repeated Mrs. Rymer, sweetly murmuring, and castingtowards her friend an eloquent glance. 

'Here, however, ' resumed her husband, 'is the pecuniary account. Will youdo me the kindness, Miss Shepperson, to glance it over and see if you findit correct?'

Miss Shepperson took the paper, which was covered with a very neat array offigures. It was the same calculation which she herself had so often made, but with interest on the money due to her correctly computed. The weeklysum of fifteen shillings for board and lodging had been deducted, throughout the whole time, from the rent due to her as landlady. Mr. Rymerstood her debtor for not quite thirty pounds. 

'It's _quite_ correct, ' said Miss Shepperson, handing back the paper with apleased 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 ontheir faces only the kindliest expression. 

'I really thought it came to about that, ' fell from her lips. 'I couldn'tquite reckon the interest--'

'Miss Shepperson, ' said Mr. Rymer impressively, 'do you really think thatwe should allow you to pay us for your board and lodging--you, our valuedfriend--you, who have toiled for us, who have saved us from endless troubleand embarrassment? That indeed would be a little too shameless. Thisaccount is a mere joke--as I hope you really thought it. I insist on givingyou a cheque for the total amount of the rent due to you from the day whenyou 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 herselfwhether she should accept this generosity or not--sorely tempted by themoney, yet longing to show no less generous a spirit on her own side. 'Ireally don't know--'

Mr. Rymer imposed silence with a wave of the hand, and began talking in aslow, grave way. 

'Miss Shepperson, to-day I may account myself a happy man. Listen to a verysingular story. You know that I was indebted to others besides you. I havecommunicated with all those persons; I have drawn up a schedule ofeverything I owe; and--extraordinary coincidence!--the sum-total of mydebts 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 forgottenitems. And suppose, after all, the total had _exceeded_ my resources! Thatindeed would have been a blow. As it is, I am a happy man; my wife ishappy. We pay our debts to the last farthing, and we begin the worldagain--with three pounds to the good. Our furniture must go; I cannotredeem 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 hasa little post in Birmingham, which will bring him in just enough to supportus 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 whowould lend to us. We are poor people, and must live as poor people do. MissShepperson, I ask one favour of you. Will you permit us to leave your housewithout the customary notice? We should feel very grateful. To-day I paySusan, and part with her; to-morrow we must travel to Birmingham. Thefurniture will be removed by the people who take possession of it--'

Miss Shepperson was listening with a bewildered look. She saw Mr. Rymerstand 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 Ileave you penniless? I should feel it a downright robbery, that I should!'

'Miss Shepperson, ' exclaimed Mrs. Rymer in soft reproach, 'don't youunderstand how much better it is to pay all we owe, even though it doesleave us penniless? Why, even darling baby'--she kissed it--'would say soif 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, andyou shall hear of your little godchild--'

Her voice broke; she sobbed, and rebuked herself for weakness, and sobbedagain. Meanwhile Mr. Rymer stood holding out banknotes and gold. Thedistracted Miss Shepperson made a wild gesture. 

'How _can_ I take it? How _can_ I? I should be ashamed the longest day Ilived!'

'I must insist, ' said Mr. Rymer firmly; and his wife, calm again, echoedthe 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 thelittle 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 thesofa, and clasped Miss Shepperson in her arms. 

 * * * * *

A few days later the house at Hammersmith was vacant. The Rymers wrote fromBirmingham that they had found sufficient, though humble, lodgings, andwere looking for a tiny house, which they would furnish very, very simplywith the money given to baby by their ever dear friend. It may be addedthat they had told the truth regarding their position--save as to onedetail: Mr. Rymer thought it needless to acquaint Miss Shepperson with thefact that his brother, a creditor for three hundred pounds, had generouslyforgiven the debt. 

Miss Shepperson, lodging in a little bedroom, with an approving conscienceto 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 thebeginning Rockett was head gardener; his wife, the daughter of ashopkeeper, had never known domestic service, and performed her duties atthe Hall gates with a certain modest dignity not displeasing to the statelypersons upon whom she depended. During the lifetime of Sir Henry the bestpossible understanding existed between Hall and lodge. Though Rockett'shealth broke down, and at length he could work hardly at all, theirpleasant home was assured to the family; and at Sir Henry's death thenephew who succeeded him left the Rocketts undisturbed. But, under this newlordship, things were not quite as they had been. Sir Edwin Shale, amiddle-aged man, had in his youth made a foolish marriage; his lady ruledhim, not with the gentlest of tongues, nor always to the kindest purpose, and their daughter, Hilda, asserted her rights as only child with a forceof character which Sir Edwin would perhaps have more sincerely admired hadit reminded him less of Lady Shale. 

While the Hall, in Sir Henry's time, remained childless, the lodge prideditself 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 parentsno 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 lodgewould afford no adequate scope for _her_ ambitions. May Rockett had goodlooks; what was more, she had an intellect which sharpened itself oneverything with which it came in contact. The village school could neverhave been held responsible for May Rockett's acquirements and views at theage of ten; nor could the High School in the neighbouring town altogetheraccount for her mental development at seventeen. Not without misgivings hadthe health-broken gardener and his wife consented to May's pursuit of thehigher learning; but Sir Henry and the kind old Lady Shale seemed to thinkit the safer course, and evidently there was little chance of the girl'saccepting any humble kind of employment: in one way or another she mustdepend for a livelihood upon her brains. At the time of Sir Edwin'ssuccession Miss Rockett had already obtained a place as governess, givingher parents to understand that this was only, of course, a temporaryexpedient--a paving of the way to something vaguely, but superbly, independent. Nor was promotion long in coming. At two-and-twenty Mayaccepted a secretaryship to a lady with a mission--concerning the rights ofwomanhood. In letters to her father and mother she spoke much of theimportance 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 asudden, she made known her intention of coming to stay at the lodge 'for aweek or ten days. ' She explained that her purpose was rest; intellectualstrain had begun rather to tell upon her, and a few days of absolutetranquillity, such as she might expect under the elms of Brent Hall, woulddo her all the good in the world. 'Of course, ' she added, 'it's unnecessaryto say anything about me to the Shale people. They and I have nothing incommon, and it will be better for us to ignore each other's existence. '

These characteristic phrases troubled Mr. And Mrs. Rockett. That the familyat the Hall should, if it seemed good to them, ignore the existence of Maywas, in the Rocketts' view, reasonable enough; but for May to ignore SirEdwin and Lady Shale, who were just now in residence after six months spentabroad, struck them as a very grave impropriety. Natural respect demandedthat, at some fitting moment, and in a suitable manner, their daughtershould present herself to her feudal superiors, to whom she was assuredlyindebted, though indirectly, for 'the blessings she enjoyed. ' This was Mrs. Rockett's phrase, and the rheumatic, wheezy old gardener uttered the sameopinion in less conventional language. They had no affection for Sir Edwinor his lady, and Miss Hilda they decidedly disliked; their treatment at thehands of these new people contrasted unpleasantly enough with the memory ofold times; but a spirit of loyal subordination ruled their blood, and, toSir Edwin at all events, they felt gratitude for their retention at thelodge. 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 ofturning her back on Brent Hall. Rockett had often consoled himself with thethought that here he should die, here amid the fine old trees that heloved, in the ivy-covered house which was his only idea of home. And was itnot a reasonable hope that Betsy, good steady girl, should some day marrythe promising young gardener whom Sir Edwin had recently taken into hisservice, 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 anxiousthought. '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 oldleather chair, full in the sunshine of the kitchen window. They had a nicelittle sitting-room; but this, of course, was only used on Sunday, and noparticular idea of comfort attached to it. May, to be sure, had always usedthe sitting-room. It was one of the habits which emphasised most stronglythe moral distance between her and her parents. 

The subject being full of perplexity, they put it aside, and with verymixed feelings awaited their elder daughter's arrival. Two days later a cabdeposited at the lodge Miss May, and her dress-basket, and hertravelling-bag, and her holdall, together with certain loose periodicalsand a volume or two bearing the yellow label of Mudie. The young lady waswell dressed in a severely practical way; nothing unduly feminine markedher appearance, and in the matter of collar and necktie she inclined to theexample of the other sex; for all that, her soft complexion and brighteyes, her well-turned figure and light, quick movements, had a picturesquevalue which Miss May certainly did not ignore. She manifested no excess offeeling when her mother and sister came forth to welcome her; a nod, asmile, an offer of her cheek, and the pleasant exclamation, 'Well, goodpeople!' carried her through this little scene with becoming dignity. 

'You will bring these things inside, please, ' she said to the driver, inher agreeable head-voice, with the tone and gesture of one who habituallygives orders. 

Her father, bent with rheumatism, stood awaiting her just within. Shegrasped his hand cordially, and cried on a cheery note, 'Well, father, howare you getting on? No worse than usual, I hope?' Then she added, regardinghim 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 countrymedico is a duffer. Sit down, sit down, and make yourself comfortable. Idon't want to disturb any one. About teatime, isn't it, mother? Tea veryweak for me, please, and a slice of lemon with it, if you have such athing, and just a mouthful of dry toast. '

So unwilling was May to disturb the habits of the family that, half an hourafter her arrival, the homely three had fallen into a state of nervousagitation, and could neither say nor do anything natural to them. Of asudden there sounded a sharp rapping at the window. Mrs. Rockett and Betsystarted up, and Betsy ran to the door. In a moment or two she came backwith glowing cheeks. 

'I'm sure I never heard the bell!' she exclaimed with compunction. 'MissShale 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 thehealth. ' And Miss Rockett sipped her lemon-tinctured tea with a smile ofineffable contempt. 

The others went to bed at ten o'clock, but May, having made herself at easein the sitting-room, sat there reading until after twelve. Nevertheless, she was up very early next morning, and, before going out for a sharplittle walk (in a heavy shower), she gave precise directions about herbreakfast. She wanted only the simplest things, prepared in the simplestway, but the tone of her instructions vexed and perturbed Mrs. Rockettsorely. After breakfast the young lady made a searching inquiry into thestate of her father's health, and diagnosed his ailments in such learnedwords that the old gardener began to feel worse than he had done for many ayear. May then occupied herself with correspondence, and before midday senther sister out to post nine letters. 

'But I thought you were going to rest yourself?' said her mother, in anirritable voice quite unusual with her. 

'Why, so I am resting!' May exclaimed. 'If you saw my ordinary morning'swork! I suppose you have a London newspaper? No? How _do_ you live withoutit? I must run into the town for one this afternoon. '

The town was three miles away, but could be reached by train from thevillage station. On reflection, Miss Rockett announced that she would usethis opportunity for calling on a lady whose acquaintance she desired tomake, one Mrs. Lindley, who in social position stood on an equality withthe family at the Hall, and was often seen there. On her mother'sexpressing surprise, May smiled indulgently. 

'Why shouldn't I know Mrs. Lindley? I have heard she's interested in amovement which occupies me a good deal just now. I know she will bedelighted 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 herblandest tone. 'When will you come to understand what my position is?'

The Rocketts had put aside all thoughts of what they esteemed May's dutytowards the Hall; they earnestly hoped that her stay with them might passunobserved by Lady and Miss Shale, whom, they felt sure, it would bepositively dangerous for the girl to meet. Mrs. Rockett had not slept foranxiety on this score. The father was also a good deal troubled; but hiswonder at May's bearing and talk had, on the whole, an agreeablepreponderance over the uneasy feeling. He and Betsy shared a secretadmiration for the brilliant qualities which were flashed before theireyes; they privately agreed that May was more of a real lady than eitherthe 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 thedrawing-room, she gave a rapid account of herself, naming persons whoseacquaintance sufficiently recommended her. Mrs. Lindley was agood-humoured, chatty woman, who had a lively interest in everything'progressive'; a new religion or a new cycling-costume stirred her to justthe same kind of happy excitement; she had no prejudices, but a decidedpreference for the society of healthy, high-spirited, well-to-do people. Miss Rockett's talk was exactly what she liked, for it glanced atinnumerable topics of the 'advanced' sort, was much concerned withpersonalities, 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 anoffhand way. 'Only for a day or two. '

Other callers were admitted, but Miss Rockett kept the lead in talk; sheglowed with self-satisfaction, feeling that she was really showing to greatadvantage, and that everybody admired her. When the door again opened thename announced was 'Miss Shale. ' Stopping in the middle of a swiftsentence, May looked at the newcomer, and saw that it was indeed HildaShale, of Brent Hall; but this did not disconcert her. Without lowering hervoice she finished what she was saying, and ended in a mirthful key. Thebaronet's daughter had come into town on her bicycle, as was declared bythe short skirt, easy jacket, and brown shoes, which well displayed herathletic person. She was a tall, strongly built girl of six-and-twenty, with a face of hard comeliness and magnificent tawny hair. All hermovements suggested vigour; she shook hands with a downward jerk, movedabout the room with something of a stride and, in sitting down, crossed herlegs 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, MissShale raised her eyebrows a little, smiled in another direction, and gave ajust 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 notcycling; whereupon Miss Shale's abrupt and rather metallic voice soundedwhat was meant for gentle irony. 

'It's a pity the machines can't be sold cheaper. A great many people whowould like to cycle don't feel able to afford it, you know. One often hearsof such cases out in the country, and it seems awfully hard lines, doesn'tit?'

Miss Rockett felt a warmth ascending to her ears, and made a violent effortto look unconcerned. She wished to say something, but could not find theright words, and did not feel altogether sure of her voice. The hostess, who made no personal application of Miss Shale's remark, began to discussthe prices of bicycles, and others chimed in. May fretted under this turnof the conversation. Seeing that it was not likely to revert to subjects inwhich she could shine, she rose and offered to take leave. 

'Must you really go?' fell with conventional regret from the hostess'slips. 

'I'm afraid I must, ' Miss Rockett replied, bracing herself under theconverging eyes and feeling not quite equal to the occasion. 'My time is soshort, and there are so many people I wish to see. '

As she left the house, anger burned in her. It was certain that Hilda Shalewould make known her circumstances. She had fancied this revelation amatter of indifference; but, after all, the thought stung her intolerably. The insolence of the creature, with her hint about the prohibitive cost ofbicycles! All the harder to bear because hitting the truth. May would havelong ago bought a bicycle had she been able to afford it. Straying aboutthe main streets of the town, she looked flushed and wrathful, and couldthink of nothing but her humiliation. 

To make things worse, she lost count of time, and presently found that shehad missed the only train by which she could return home. A cab would betoo much of an expense; she had no choice but to walk the three or fourmiles. The evening was close; walking rapidly, and with the accompanimentof vexatious thoughts, she reached the gates of the Hall tired perspiring, irritated. Just as her hand was on the gate a bicycle-bell trilledvigorously behind her, and, from a distance of twenty yards, a voice criedimperatively--

'Open the gate, please!'

Miss Rockett looked round, and saw Hilda Shale slowly wheeling forward, inexpectation that way would be made for her. Deliberately May passed throughthe side entrance, and let the little gate fall to. 

Miss Shale dismounted, admitted herself, and spoke to May (now at the lodgedoor) with angry emphasis. 

'Didn't you hear me ask you to open?'

'I couldn't imagine you were speaking to _me_, ' answered Miss Rockett, withbrisk dignity. 'I supposed some servant of yours was in sight. '

A peculiar smile distorted Miss Shale's full red lips. Without another wordshe 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 outmyself to open, and then I saw you were there, and, of course, I thoughtyou'd do it. There's the second time in two days Miss Shale has had tocomplain about us. How _could_ you forget yourself, to behave and speaklike that! Why, you must be crazy, my girl!'

'I don't seem to get on very well here, mother, ' was May's reply. 'The factis, I'm in a false position. I shall go to-morrow morning, and there won'tbe any more trouble. '

Thus spoke Miss Rockett, as one who shakes off a petty annoyance--she knewnot 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'simpertinence. After being kept waiting for a quarter of an hour she wasadmitted to the presence of the housekeeper, who had a rather graveannouncement 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 paidmonthly, only a month's notice is really called for. I believe someallowance will be made you, but you will hear about that. The lodge must beready for its new occupants on the last day of October. '

The poor woman all but sank. She had no voice for protest or entreaty--asob choked her; and blindly she made her way to the door of the room, thento the exit from the Hall. 

'What in the world is the matter?' cried May, hearing from thesitting-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 tearfulwrath. 'You've got us turned out of our home--you've lost us the best placea 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 workbetter. And much _you_ care! We're below you, we are; we're like dirt underyour feet! And your father'll go and end his life who knows where miserableas miserable can be; and your sister'll have to go into service; and as forme--'

'Listen, mother!' shouted the girl, her eyes flashing and every nerve ofher body strung. 'If the Shales are such contemptible wretches as to turnyou out just because they're offended with _me_, I should have thoughtyou'd have spirit enough to tell them what you think of such behaviour, andbe glad never more to serve such brutes! Father, what do _you_ say? I'lltell you how it was. '

She narrated the events of the afternoon, amid sobs and ejaculations fromher mother and Betsy. Rockett, who was just now in anguish of lumbago, tried to straighten himself in his chair before replying, but sankhelplessly together with a groan. 

'You can't help yourself, May, ' he said at length. 'It's your nature, mygirl. Don't worry. I'll see Sir Edwin, and perhaps he'll listen to me. It'sthe 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 thesitting-room, and there passed an hour wretchedly enough. A knock at thedoor without words called her to supper, but she had no appetite, and wouldnot join the family circle. Presently the door opened, and her fatherlooked 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 sametime rejoiced in the recollection of her passage of arms with Miss Shale, and was inclined to despise her family for their pusillanimous attitude. Itseemed to her very improbable that the expulsion would really be carriedout. Lady Shale and Hilda meant, no doubt, to give the Rocketts a goodfright, and then contemptuously pardon them. She, in any case, would returnto London without delay, and make no more trouble. A pity she had come tothe lodge at all; it was no place for one of her spirit and herattainments. 

In the morning she packed. The train which was to take her back to townleft at half-past ten, and after breakfast she walked into the village toorder a cab. Her mother would scarcely speak to her; Betsy was continuallyin reproachful tears. On coming back to the lodge she saw her fatherhobbling down the avenue, and walked towards him to ask the result of hissupplication. Rockett had seen Sir Edwin, but only to hear his sentence ofexile confirmed. The baronet said he was sorry, but could not interfere;the matter lay in Lady Shale's hands, and Lady Shale absolutely refused tohear any excuses or apologies for the insult which had been offered herdaughter. 

'It's all up with us, ' said the old gardener, who was pale and tremblingafter his great effort. 'We must go. But don't worry, my girl, don'tworry. '

Then fright took hold upon May Rockett. She felt for the first time whatshe had done. Her heart fluttered in an anguish of self-reproach, and hereyes strayed as if seeking help. A minute's hesitation, then, with all thespeed she could make, she set off up the avenue towards the Hall. 

Presenting herself at the servants' entrance, she begged to be allowed tosee 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 lessmalicious smiles. It was a bitter moment for Miss Rockett, but she subduedherself, and at length obtained the interview she sought. With a cold airof superiority and of disapproval the housekeeper listened to her quick, broken sentences. Would it be possible, May asked, for her to see LadyShale? She desired to--to apologise for--for rudeness of which she had beenguilty, rudeness in which her family had no part, which they utterlydeplored, 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 terribleeffort; the sound of it seemed to smack her on the ears. 

'If you will go in-to the servants' hall and wait, ' the housekeeper deignedto say, after reflecting, 'I'll see what can be done. '

And Miss Rockett submitted. In the servants' hall she sat for a long, longtime, observed, but never addressed. The hour of her train went by. Morethan once she was on the point of rising and fleeing; more than once hersmouldering wrath all but broke into flame. But she thought of her father'spale, 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 withweakness and apprehension, burning at the same time with pride all but inrevolt. 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 topicof the day placidly. Then the elder seemed to become aware of the girl whostood before her. 

'You are Rockett's elder daughter?'

Oh, the metallic voice of Lady Shale! How gratified she would have beencould 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 behaviourof last evening--'

'Oh, indeed!' the listener interrupted contemptuously. 'I am glad you havecome to your senses. But your apology must be offered to Miss Shale--if mydaughter cares to listen to it. '

May had foreseen this. It was the bitterest moment of her ordeal. Flushingscarlet, she turned towards the younger woman. 

'Miss Shale, I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday--I beg you toforgive my rudeness--my impertinence--'

Her voice would go no further; there came a choking sound. Miss Shaleallowed her eyes to rest triumphantly for an instant on the troubled faceand figure, then remarked to her mother--

'It's really nothing to me, as I told you. I suppose this person may leavethe room now?'

It was fated that May Rockett should go through with her purpose and gainher end. But fate alone (which meant in this case the subtlestpreponderance of one impulse over another) checked her on the point of aburst of passion which would have startled Lady Shale and Miss Hilda out oftheir cold-blooded complacency. In the silence May's blood gurgled at herears, and she tottered with dizziness. 

'You may go, ' said Lady Shale. 

But May could not move. There flashed across her the terrible thought thatperhaps she had humiliated herself for nothing. 

'My lady--I hope--will your ladyship please to forgive my father andmother? I entreat you not to send them away. We shall all be so grateful toyour ladyship if you will overlook--'

'That will do, ' said Lady Shale decisively. 'I will merely say that thesooner you leave the lodge the better; and that you will do well neveragain to pass the gates of the Hall. You may go. '

Miss Rockett withdrew. Outside, the footman was awaiting her. He looked ather with a grin, and asked in an undertone, 'Any good?' But May, to whomthis was the last blow, rushed past him, lost herself in corridors, ranwildly hither and thither, tears streaming from her eyes, and was at lengthguided 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 amidtrees, watched only by birds and rabbits, she wept out the bitterness ofher soul. 

By an evening train she returned to London, not having confessed to herfamily what she had done, and suffering still from some uncertainty as tothe result. A day or two later Betsy wrote to her the happy news that thesentence of expulsion was withdrawn, and peace reigned once more in theivy-covered lodge. By that time Miss Rockett had all but recovered herself-respect, and was so busy in her secretaryship that she could onlyscribble a line of congratulation. She felt that she had done rather ameritorious thing, but, for the first time in her life, did not care toboast of it. 

THE RIDING-WHIP

It was not easy for Mr. Daffy to leave his shop for the whole day, but anurgent affair called him to London, and he breakfasted early in order tocatch the 8. 30 train. On account of his asthma he had to allow himselfplenty 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 directionsto his assistant, in stepped a customer, who came to grumble about the fitof a new coat. Ten good minutes were thus consumed, and with a painfulglance at his watch the breathless tailor at length started. The walk wasuphill; the sun was already powerful; Mr. Daffy reached the station withdripping forehead and panting as if his sides would burst. There stood thetrain; he had barely time to take his ticket and to rush across theplatform. As a porter slammed the carriage-door behind him, he sank uponthe seat in a lamentable condition, gasping, coughing, writhing; his eyesall but started from his head, and his respectable top-hat tumbled to thefloor, where unconsciously he gave it a kick. A grotesque and distressingsight. 

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 restedupon 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 moreflourishing man than the asthmatic tailor; his six-feet-something of soundflesh and muscle, his ripe sunburnt complexion, his attitude of eupepticand broad-chested ease, left the other, by contrast, scarce his proverbialfraction of manhood. At a year or two short of fifty, Mr. Daffy began to beold; 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 atoughness such as few men of any age could rival. For a score of years themeasure of Mr. Lott's robust person had been taken by Mr. Daffy'sprofessional tape, and, without intimacy, there existed kindly relationsbetween the two men. Neither had ever been in the other's house, but theyhad long met, once a week or so, at the Liberal Club, where it was theirhabit to play together a game of draughts. Occasionally they conversed; butit was a rather one-sided dialogue, for whereas the tailor had a sprightlyintelligence and--so far as his breath allowed--a ready flow of words, thetimber-merchant found himself at a disadvantage when mental activity wascalled for. The best-natured man in the world, Mr. Lott would sit smilingand content so long as he had only to listen; asked his opinion (onanything but timber), he betrayed by a knitting of the brows, a rolling ofthe eyes, an inflation of the cheeks, and other signs of discomposure, theserious 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, aftercopious exposition, would ask what Mr. Lott thought. He knew thetimber-merchant too well to expect an immediate reply. There came a longpause, during which Mr. Lott snorted a little, shuffled in his chair, andstared at vacancy, until at length, with a sudden smile of relief heexclaimed, 'Do you know _my_ idea!' And the idea, often rather explosivelystated, was generally marked by common-sense of the bull-headed, Britishkind. 

'Bad this morning, ' remarked Mr. Lott, abruptly but sympathetically, assoon 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 upand 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. Goingto town, Mr. Lott?'

'Yes. '

The blunt affirmative was accompanied by a singular grimace, such as mighthave been caused by the swallowing of something very unpleasant; andthereupon followed a silence which allowed Mr. Daffy to recover himself. Hesat with his eyes half closed and head bent, leaning back. 

They had a general acquaintance with each other's domestic affairs. Bothwere widowers; both lived alone. Mr. Daffy's son was married, and dwelt inLondon; the same formula applied to Mr. Lott's daughter. And, as ithappened, the marriages had both been a subject of parentaldissatisfaction. Very rarely had Mr. Lott let fall a word with regard tohis daughter, Mrs. Bowles, but the townsfolk were well aware that hethought his son-in-law a fool, if not worse; Mrs. Bowles, in the sevenyears since her wedding, had only two or three times revisited her father'shouse, and her husband never came. A like reticence was maintained by Mr. Daffy concerning his son Charles Edward, once the hope of his life. Atschool the lad had promised well; tailoring could not be thought of forhim; he went into a solicitor's office, and remained there just long enoughto assure himself that he had no turn for the law. From that day he wasnothing but an expense and an anxiety to his father, until--now a couple ofyears ago--he announced his establishment in a prosperous business inLondon, of which Mr. Daffy knew nothing more than that it was connectedwith colonial enterprise. Since that date Charles Edward had made no reportof himself, and his father had ceased to write letters which received noreply. 

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 cameand told me something--something that quite upset me. That's what I'm goingto town about, Mr. Lott. I'm--well, the fact is, I was going to call uponMr. Bowles. '

'Oh, you were!' exclaimed the timber-merchant, with gruffness, whichreferred not to his friend but to his son-in-law. 'I don't particularlywant to see _him_, but I had thought of seeing my daughter. You wouldn'tmind 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 outhis lips and drawing them in again, at the same time wrinkling his foreheadinto 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 ifJohn Roper made any mention of my son?'

The timber-merchant glared, and Mr. Daffy, interpreting the look as one ofanger, 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-naturedgrowl. 'You're not responsible, no more than for any stranger. '

'That's just what I can't feel, ' exclaimed the tailor, nervously slappinghis knee. 'Anyway, it would be a disgrace to a man to have a son abookmaker--a blackguard bookmaker. That's bad enough. But when it comes torobbing and ruining the friends of your own family--why, I never heard amore disgraceful thing in my life. How I'm going to stand in my shop, andhold up my head before my customers, I--do--not--know. Of course, it'll bethe talk of the town; we know what the Ropers are when they get hold ofanything. 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 theexcited man's shoulder. 

'Don't worry; that never did any good yet. We've got to find out, first ofall, 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 ormore--that his business was neglected, that he spent his time atracecourses 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 Charleswas a racing and betting man, and a notorious bookmaker? You can imaginewhat sort of a feeling that gave me. Roper couldn't believe it was thefirst I had heard of it; he said lots of people in the town knew howCharles 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 andmy cough, I didn't get a wink of sleep after it. About three o'clock thismorning I made up my mind to go to London at once and see Mr. Bowles. Ifit's true that he's been robbed and ruined by Charles, I've only one thingto do--my duty's plain enough. I shall ask him how much money Charles hashad of him, and, if my means are equal to it, I shall pay every pennyback--every penny. '

Mr. Lott's countenance waxed so grim that one would have thought him aboutto break into wrath against the speaker. But it was merely his way ofdisguising 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 whorespects himself. I couldn't live a day with such a burden as that on mymind. A bookmaker! A blackguard bookmaker! To think my son should come tothat! _You_ know very well, Mr. Lott, that there's nothing I hate anddespise more than horse-racing. We've often talked about it, and the harmit does, and the sin and shame it is that such doings should bepermitted--haven't we?'

'Course we have, course we have, ' returned the other, with a nod. But hewas absorbed in his own reflections, and gave only half an ear to thegasping vehemences which Mr. Daffy poured forth for the next ten minutes. There followed a short silence, then the strong man shook himself andopened 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'veonly gossip to go upon, and we know what that often amounts to. LeaveBowles 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 placeof business; as likely as not, if we find him, he'll be able to give youyour son's address. What do you say to my idea, Mr. Daffy?'

The tailor assented to this arrangement, on condition that, if things werefound 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 passengersentered, put an end to the confidential talk. Mr. Daffy, breathing hard, struggled with his painful thoughts; the timber-merchant, deeplymeditative, let his eyes wander about the carriage. As they drew near tothe London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend. 

'I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew, ' he remarked, 'but I can'tfor 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 weredriven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a buildingdivided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. Thisfirm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase withmisgiving. 

'No need for you to go up, ' said his companion. 'Wait here, and I'll see ifI can get the address. '

Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes. He came down again with hislips 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 mydaughter, 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 hadalarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, ongoing to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minuteselapsed 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 quiteunfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, andher 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 thepaternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyesbespoke 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 hershoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Janewould tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the fatherturned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he askedabruptly 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 anotherroom. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture hadvanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for presentnecessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courageto break the silence. 

'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the mencame in the afternoon. He had a promise--a distinct promise--that thisshouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to havemoney. '

'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 hisstick. '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 difficultyovercame a sob, and at length began her story. She would not blame herhusband. He had been unlucky in speculations, and was driven to amoney-lender--his acquaintance, Charles Daffy. This man, a heartlessrascal, had multiplied charges and interest on a small sum originallyborrowed, until it became a crushing debt. He held a bill of sale on mostof their furniture, and yesterday, as if he knew of Bowles's absence, hadmade the seizure; he was within his legal rights, but had led the debtor tosuppose that he would not exercise them. Thus far did Jane relate, in ahard matter-of-fact voice, but with many nervous movements. Her fatherlistened in grim silence, and, when she ceased, appeared to reflect. 

'That's _your_ story!' he said of a sudden. 'Now, what about thehorse-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 doggedpersistency at length overcame the wife's pride. Yes, it was true thatBowles 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 awretched and a penitent man; a few days ago he had confessed everything tohis wife, and besought her to pardon him; at present he was makingdesperate efforts to recover an honest footing. The business might still becarried 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 thenorth. If his hope failed, she did not know what was before them; they hadnothing 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 facewhich hinted softness. The dialogue did not continue much longer; it endedwith a promise from Mrs. Bowles to let her father know whether her husbandsucceeded or not in re-establishing himself. Thereupon they shook handswithout 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 thestreet again, he remembered the birthday present he wished to buy for hisnephew, 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, mountedin silver; just the thing, he said to himself, to please a lad who wouldperhaps ride to hounds next winter. He stepped in, chose carefully, andmade the purchase. Then, having nothing left to do, he walked at aleisurely pace towards the railway station. 

Mr. Daffy was there before him; they met at the entrance to the platformfrom which their train would start. 

'Must you go back by this?' asked the tailor. 'My son wasn't at home, andwon'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 tohim. Then, in reply to anxious questions, he made brief report of what hehad learnt at Finsbury Park. Mr. Daffy was beside himself with wrath andshame. 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 carenothing for what _I_ said; but when he sees _you_, and hears your opinionof 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 inthe eyes of all decent folk--let him know it, I entreat you! Perhaps evenyet it isn't too late to make him ashamed of himself. '

They stood amid a rush of people; the panting tailor clung to his bigcompanion's sleeve. Gruffly promising to do what he could, Mr. Lott led theway into the street again, where they planned the rest of their day. Byfive o'clock they were at Clapham. Charles Daffy occupied the kind of housewhich is known as eminently respectable; it suggested an income of at leasta couple of thousand a year. As they waited for the door to open, Mr. Lottsmote gently on his leg with the new riding-whip. He had been silent andmeditative all the way hither. 

A smart maidservant conducted them to the dining-room, and there, in aminute or two, they were joined by Mr. Charles. No one could have surmisedfrom this gentleman's appearance that he was the son of the littletradesman who stood before him; nature had given the younger Mr. Daffy atall and shapely person, and experience of life had refined his manners toan easy assurance he would never have learnt from paternal example. Hissmooth-shaven visage, so long as it remained grave, might have been that ofan acute and energetic lawyer; his smile, however, disturbed thisimpression, for it had a twinkling insolence, a raffish facetiousness, incompatible with any sober quality. He wore the morning dress of a Cityman, with collar and necktie of the latest fashion; his watchguard wasrather demonstrative, and he had two very solid rings on his left hand. 

'Ah, dad, how do you do!' he exclaimed, on entering, in an affectedhead-voice. 'Why, what's the matter?'

Mr. Daffy had drawn back, refusing the offered hand. With an unpleasantsmile Charles turned to his other visitor. 

'Mr. Lott, isn't it! You're looking well, Mr. Lott; but I suppose youdidn't come here just to give me the pleasure of seeing you. I'm rather abusy man; perhaps one or the other of you will be good enough to break thissolemn 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 anddishonouring my name. Only yesterday, for the first time, I heard of thelife you are leading. Is this how you repay me for all the trouble I tookto have you well educated, and to make you an honest man? Here I find youliving in luxury and extravagance--and how? On stolen money--money as muchstolen as if you were a pickpocket or a burglar! A pleasant thing for me tohave all my friends talking about Charles Daffy, the bookmaker and themoneylender! What _right_ have you to dishonour your father in this way? Iask, what _right_ have you, Charles?'

Here the speaker, who had struggled to gasp his last sentence, was overcomewith 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 hislegs and nodding towards the sufferer. 'If so, I advise you to take himaway before he does himself harm. You're a _lot_ bigger than he is andperhaps have more sense. '

The timber-merchant stood with legs slightly apart, holding his stick andthe riding-whip horizontally with both hands. His eyes were fixed uponyoung Mr. Daffy, and his lips moved in rather an ominous way; but he madeno 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 athis 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 smartmaidservant 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 distinguishedappearance, thin, red-haired, with a pasty complexion and a scrubbymoustache; his clothes were approaching shabbiness, and he had an unwashedlook, 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 hisglance discovered the two visitors, and he stopped short. 'Mr. Lott, youhere? I'm glad of it--I'm awfully glad of it. I couldn't have wishedanything better. I don't know who this other gentleman is, but it doesn'tmatter. I'm glad to have witnesses--I'm infernally glad! Mr. Lott, you'vebeen to my house this morning; you know what's happened there. I had to goout of town yesterday, and this Daffy, this cursed liar and swindler, usedthe opportunity to sell up my furniture. He'll tell you he had a legalright. But he gave me his word not to do anything till the end of themonth. And, in any case, I don't really owe him half the sum he has downagainst me. I've paid that black-hearted scoundrel hundreds ofpounds--honourably paid him--debts of honour, and now he has the face tocharge 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_ thinkof it, sir?'

'I'm sorry to say it doesn't at all surprise me, ' answered Mr. Daffy, whoperceived that the speaker was Mr. Lott's son-in-law. 'But I can'tsympathise with you very much. If you have dealings with a book-maker--'

'A blackleg, a blackleg!' shouted Bowles. 'Bookmakers are respectable menin 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 infernalfool. I've had my eyes opened--now that it's too late. I hear my wife toldyou that, and I'm glad she did. I've been a fool, yes; but I fell into thehands of the greatest scoundrel unhung, and he's ruined me. You heard fromJane what I was gone about. It's no good. I came back by the first trainthis morning without a mouthful of breakfast. It's all up with me; I'm acursed beggar--and that thief is the cause of it. And he comes into myhouse no better than a burglar--and lays his hands on everything that'llbring money. Where's the account of that sale, you liar? I'll go to amagistrate about this. '

Charles Daffy sat in a reposeful attitude. The scene amused him; hechuckled inwardly from time to time. But of a sudden his aspect changed; hestarted up, and spoke with a snarling emphasis. 

'I've had just about enough. Look here, clear out, all of you! There's thedoor--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 awkwardfigure straining in every muscle for the dignity of righteous wrath. 'Idon't know whether you are more a fool or a knave. Perhaps you really thinkthat there's as much to be said for your way of earning a living as for anyother. I hope you do, for it's a cruel thing to suppose that my son hasturned out a shameless scoundrel. Let me tell you, then, this business ofyours 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, orwhether you cheat; the difference between bookmaker and blackleg is sosmall that it isn't worth talking about. You live by the plunder of peoplewho are foolish and vicious enough to fall into your clutches. You're anenemy of society--that's the plain truth of it; as much an enemy of societyas the forger or the burglar. You live--and live in luxury--by the worstvice of our time, the vice which is rotting English life, the vice whichwill 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 vilean 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 athis 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 haveto add is, that all the money you have stolen from Mr. Bowles I, as asimple duty, shall repay. You're no longer a boy. In the eye of the law Iam not responsible for you; but for very shame I must make good the wrongyou have done in this case. I couldn't stand in my shop day by day, andknow 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 torepair the mischief. I shall ask Mr. Bowles for a full account of what hehas 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 Ihope, I most earnestly hope, that before you can do much more harm, you'lloverreach 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 bestwish 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'srather unkind, seeing how the speaker has blown himself. Be off, dad, anddon'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 tosay to _me_?'

'Only that my time is too valuable to be wasted, ' continued the other, withan impatient gesture. 'Be good enough to leave my house. '

'Mr. Lott, ' said the tailor in an exhausted voice, 'I apologise to you formy son's rudeness. I gave you the trouble of coming here hoping it mightshame 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 inprivate with your son. Do you and Mr. Bowles go on to the station, and waitfor me; perhaps I shall catch you up before you get there. '

'I have told you already, Mr. Lott, ' shouted Charles, 'that I can waste nomore time on you. I refuse to talk with you at all. '

'And I, Mr. Charles Daffy, ' was the resolute answer, 'refuse to leave thisroom 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 cometo me whilst I've stood here listening. '

The tailor and Mr. Bowles moved towards the door. Charles glanced at themfiercely and insolently, then turned his look again upon the man whoremained. The other two passed out; the door closed. Mr. Lott, stick andriding-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, andrepay 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, goodmorning!'

Again the timber-merchant seemed to meditate; his eyes wandered fromCharles to the dining-room table. 

'Just a minute more, ' he resumed; 'I have another idea--not a new one; anidea that came to me long ago, when your father first began to have troubleabout you. I happened to be in the shop one day--it was when you wereliving idle at your father's expense, young man--and I heard you speak tohim in what I call a confoundedly impertinent way. Thinking it overafterwards, I said to myself: If I had a son who spoke to me like that, I'dgive him the soundest thrashing he'd be ever likely to get. That was myidea, young man; and as I stood listening to you to-day, it came back intomy 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 foreseenthis; with astonishing alertness and vigour he intercepted the fugitiveseized 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 hadthrown aside; the riding-whip he held between his teeth. So brief was thisconflict that there sounded only a scuffling of feet on the floor, and agrowl 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 verystrenuous carpet-beaters were at work in the room. For the space of a dozenswitches Charles strove frantically with wild kicks, which wounded only theair, but all in silence; gripped only the more tightly, he at lengthuttered a yell of pain, followed by curses hot and swift. Still thecarpet-beaters seemed to be at work, and more vigorously than ever. Charlesbegan to roar. As it happened, there were only servants in the house. Whenthe clamour had lasted long enough to be really alarming, knocks sounded atthe door, which at length was thrown open, and the startled face of adomestic appeared. At the same moment Mr. Lott, his right arm being weary, brought the castigatory exercise to an end. Charles rolled to his feet, andbegan to strike out furiously with both fists. 

'Just as you like, young man, ' said the timber-merchant, as he coollywarded off the blows, 'if you wish to have it this way too. But, I warnyou, it isn't a fair match. Sally, shut the door and go about yourbusiness. '

'Shall I fetch a p'liceman, sir?' shrilled the servant. 

Her master, sufficiently restored to his senses to perceive that he had notthe least chance in a pugilistic encounter with Mr. Lott, drew back andseemed to hesitate. 

'Answer the girl, ' said Mr. Lott, as he picked up his whip and examined itscondition. '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 indisorder, his waistcoat torn open, collar and necktie twisted into rags, hemade a pitiful figure. The timber-merchant was slightly heated, but hiscountenance wore an expression of calm contentment. 

'For the present, ' remarked Mr. Lott, as he took up his hat and stick, 'Ithink our business is at an end. It isn't often that a fellow of your sortgets his deserts, and I'm rather sorry we didn't have the policeman in; areport of the case might do good. I bid you good day, young man. If I wereyou I'd sit quiet for an hour or two, and just reflect--you've a _lot_ tothink 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 athing happens so luckily, ' he said to himself. 'First-rate whip; hardly abit 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 withquestioning looks. 

'Nothing to be got out of him, ' said Mr. Lott. 'Bowles, I want a talk withyou 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 eighto'clock. '

'I hope you told him plainly what you thought of him, ' said Mr. Daffy, in avoice of indignant shame. 

'I did, ' answered the timber-merchant, 'and I don't think he's very likelyto forget it. '

FATE AND THE APOTHECARY

'Farmiloe. Chemist by Examination. ' So did the good man proclaim himself toa 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 daintylittle shops, everything about them bright or glistening, scattered amongpleasant little houses with gardens eternally green and all but perenniallyin bloom; every vista ending in foliage, and in one direction a far glimpseof the Cathedral towers, sending forth their music to fall dreamily uponthese quiet roads. The neighbourhood seemed to breathe a tranquilprosperity. Red-cheeked emissaries of butcher, baker, and grocer, order-book in hand, knocked cheerily at kitchen doors, and went smilingaway; the ponies they drove were well fed and frisky, their carts spick andspan. The church of the parish, an imposing edifice, dated only from a fewyears ago, and had cost its noble founder a sum of money which anychurch-going parishioner would have named to you with proper awe. Thepopulation was largely female, and every shopkeeper who knew his businesshad become proficient in bowing, smiling, and suave servility. 

Mr. Farmiloe, it is to be feared, had no very profound acquaintance withhis business from any point of view. True, he was 'chemist by examination, 'but it had cost him repeated efforts to reach this unassailable ground andmore than one pharmaceutist with whom he abode as assistant had felt it ameasure of prudence to dispense with his services. Give him time, and hewas generally equal to the demands of suburban customers; hurry orinterrupt him, and he showed himself anything but the man for a crisis. Face and demeanour were against him. He had exceedingly plain features, anda persistently sour expression; even his smile suggested sarcasm. He couldnot tune his voice to the tradesman note, and on the slightest provocationhe became, quite unintentionally, offensive. Such a man had no chancewhatever in this flowery and bowery little suburb. 

Yet he came hither with hopes. One circumstance seemed to him especiallyfavourable: 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 commercialinterest; especially as there was no telegraphic work to make a skilledassistant necessary. As a matter of course, people using the post-officewould patronise the chemist; and a provincial chemist can add to hislegitimate business sundry pleasant little tradings which benefit himselfwithout provoking the jealousy of neighbour shopmen. 'It will be your ownfault, my dear sir, if you do not make a very good thing of it indeed. Thesole and sufficient explanation of--of the decline during this last year ortwo is my shocking health. I really have _not_ been able to do justice tothe business. '

Necessarily, Mr. Farmiloe entered into negotiation with the postalauthorities; and it was with some little disappointment that he learnt howvery modest could be his direct remuneration for the responsibilities andlabours he undertook. The Post-Office is a very shrewdly managed departmentof the public service; it has brought to perfection the art of obtaining_maximum_ results with a _minimum_ expenditure. But Mr. Farmiloe rememberedthe other aspect of the matter; he would benefit so largely by thisill-paid undertaking that grumbling was foolish. Moreover, the thingcarried 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 ownpost-office. One might really get a good deal of amusement out of thethought, after business hours. His age was eight-and-thirty. For some yearshe had pondered matrimony, though without fixing his affections on anyparticular person. It was plain, indeed, that he ought to marry. Everytradesman is made more respectable by wedlock, and a chemist who, in somedegree, resembles a medical man, seems especially to stand in need of thematrimonial guarantee. Had it been feasible, Mr. Farmiloe would havebrought a wife with him from the town where he had lived for the past fewyears, but he was in the difficult position of knowing not a singlemarriageable female to whom he could address himself with hope or withself-respect. Natural shyness had always held him aloof from reputablewomen; he felt that he could not recommend himself to them--he who had suchan unlucky aptitude for saying the wrong word or keeping silence whenspeech was demanded. With the men of his acquaintance he could relieve hissense of awkwardness and deficiency by becoming aggressive; in fact, he hada reputation for cantankerousness, for pugnacity, which kept most of hisequals in some awe of him, and to perceive this was one solace amid manydiscontents. Nicely dressed and well-spoken and good-looking women abovethe class of domestic servants he worshipped from afar, and only invivacious moments pictured himself as the wooer of such a superior being. 

It seemed as though fate could do nothing with Mr. Farmiloe. Atsix-and-thirty he suffered the shock of learning that a relative--an oldwoman to whom he had occasionally written as a matter of kindness (Farmiloecould do such things)--had left him by will the sum of £600. It wasstrictly a shock; it upset his health for several days, and not for a weekor two could he realise the legacy as a fact. Just when he was beginning tolook about him with a new air of confidence, the solicitors who weremanaging the little affair for him drily acquainted him with the fact thathis relative's will was contested by other kinsfolk whom the old woman hadpassed over, on the ground that she was imbecile and incapable ofconducting her affairs. There followed a law-suit, which consumed manymonths 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 onlymore embittered against the world at large. 

Then, no sooner had he purchased his business, than he learnt from smilingneighbours that he had paid considerably too much for it. His predecessor, beyond a doubt, would have taken very much less; had, indeed, been on thepoint of doing so just when Mr. Farmiloe appeared. This kind of experienceis a trial to any man. It threw Mr. Farmiloe into a silent rage, with theresult that two or three customers who chanced to enter his shop declaredthat 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 dualcapacity of shopkeeper and manager of a post-office. All day long he stoodon the watch for customers--literally stood, now behind the counter, now infront of it, his eager and angry eyes turning to the door whenever thesteps of a passer-by sounded without. If the door opened his nerves beganto tingle, and he straightened himself like a soldier at attention. For amoment he suffered an agony of doubt. Would the person entering turn to thecounter or to the post-office? And seldom was his hope fulfilled; not onein 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, apostal-order, a letter to be registered--anything but an honest purchaseacross the counter or the blessed tendering of a prescription to make up. From vexation he passed to annoyance, to rage, to fury; he cursed thepost-office, and committed to eternal perdition the man who had waxedeloquent upon its advantages. 

Of course, he had hired an errand-boy, and never had errand-boy so littlelegitimate occupation. Resolved not to pay him for nothing, Mr. Farmiloekept him cleaning windows, washing bottles, and the like, until the ladfairly broke into rebellion. If this was the sort of work he was engagedfor he must have higher wages; he wasn't over strong and his mother said hemust lead an open-air life--that was why he had taken the place. To bebearded thus in his own shop was too much for Mr. Farmiloe, he seized theopportunity of giving his wrath full swing, and burst into a frenzy ofvilification. Just as his passion reached its height (he stood with hisback to the door) there entered a lady who wished to make a large purchaseof disinfectants. Alarmed and scandalised at what was going on, she had nosooner crossed the threshold than she turned again, and hurried away. Herfriends were not long in learning from her that the new chemist was a mostviolent man, a most disagreeable person--the very last man one could thinkof doing business with. 

The home was but poorly furnished, and Mr. Farmiloe had engaged a verycheap general servant, who involved him in dirt and discomfort. It was amatter of talk among the neighbouring tradesmen that the chemist lived in abeggarly fashion. When the dismissed errand-boy spread the story of how hehad been used, people jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Farmiloe drank. Before long there was a legend that he had been suffering from an acuteattack of delirium tremens. 

The post-office, always the post-office. If he sat down at a meal theshop-bell clanged, and hope springing eternal, he hurried forth inreadiness to make up a packet or concoct a mixture; but it was an old ladywho held him in talk for ten minutes about rates of postage to SouthAmerica. When, by rare luck, he had a prescription to dispense (the hideousscrawl of that pestilent Dr. Bunker) in came somebody with letters andparcels which he was requested to weigh; and his hand shook so with ragethat he could not resume his dispensing for the next quarter of an hour. People asked extraordinary questions, and were surprised, offended, when hedeclared he could not answer them. When could a letter be delivered at avillage on the north-west coast of Ireland? Was it true that thePost-Office contemplated a reduction of rates to Hong-Kong? Would heexplain in detail the new system of express delivery? Invariably hebetrayed impatience, and occasionally he lost his temper; people went awayexclaiming what a _horrid man_ he was!

'Mr. What's-your-name, ' said a shopkeeper one day, after receiving a shortanswer, 'I shall make it my business to complain of you to thePostmaster-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, andI--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 someminutes he stood looking at a bottle of laudanum, wishing he had thecourage to have done with life. Plainly he could not live very long unlessthings improved. His ready money was coming to an end, rents and taxesloomed before him. An awful thought of bankruptcy haunted him in the earlymorning 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 fewestpossible words. Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once ortwice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result. Oneday, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had inmind. After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, hesaid, 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 asense of his wrongs, 'that you're a pretty large customer of thepost-office, and it seems to me'--he meant to speak jocosely--'that itwould be only fair if you gave _me_ a turn now and then. I get next tonothing 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 inindignation, 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 thepoint of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object tothis kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere. '

He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of allabout him, glared at vacancy. 

Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloehad been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities, with the result that an official called at the chemist's shop. Theinterview was unpleasant. It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the firsttime) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always indemand by the public--halfpenny stamps, for instance. Moreover, hisaccounts were not in perfect order. This, he had to hear, was emphaticallyunbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do. 

'It shall not occur again, sir, ' mumbled the unhappy man. 'But, if youconsider 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 assureyou--'

'The only assurance I want is that the business of the post-office will beproperly attended to, and that assurance I must have. I shall probably callagain before long. Good morning. '

It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clockstrike eight on Saturday evening. His shop remained open till ten, but ateight came the end of the post-office business. If, as happened, any oneentered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request. These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man. Aftereating 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, hewalked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many atragi-comic gesture and ejaculation, why he could not get on like othermen. 

One afternoon it seemed that he, at length, had his chance. There entered amaidservant 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 richestfamily 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 dohim 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 medicineshould be delivered in less than half an hour. 

Scarcely had he begun upon it, when a lady came in, a lady whom he knewwell. Her business was at the post-office side, and she looked a peremptorydemand 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 ventin 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 merestimpertinence. That packet consists of MS. , and will, therefore, go at bookrate. 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 soignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely tooblige 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, andshaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. Isay--_damn_ the post-office. '

He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in thecustomary manner, and despatched the boy to the house. 

Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in acold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had takenthe bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struckhim, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. Inthe irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almostmechanically. The bottle he ought to have taken down was _that_, but had henot 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 extraordinarymixture; so surprising, in fact, that the patient would be sure to speak toDr. 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 haveexamined the mouths of them for traces of moisture. Mr. Farmiloe, a victimof destiny, could do nothing so reasonable. Heedless of the fact that hisshop 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 hisfear or set his mind at rest. He tore along the road--and was too late. Theboy 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 amistake--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, andhave it wrapped up again, and send it immediately--immediately. And, by thebye'--he fumbled in his pocket for half-a-crown, still smiling like adetected culprit--'I'm sure you won't mention this little affair. A newassistant 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 ofthrough the house before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Next day it wasthe gossip of the suburbs; and the day after the city itself heard thestory. People were alarmed and scandalised. Why, such a chemist was apublic danger! One lady declared that he ought at once to be 'struck offthe roll!'

And so in a sense he was. Another month and the flowery, bowery littlesuburb knew him no more. He hid himself in a great town, living on thewreck of his fortune whilst he sought a place as an assistant. A leaky pairof 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. Oneof 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, onwhich he laboured as though correcting exercises. They were much of an age, and that about thirty, but whereas the idler was well dressed, hiscompanion had a seedy appearance and looked altogether like a man whoneglected 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 Ishall be back. Get that stuff cleared off, and reply to the urgentletters--mind you write in the proper tone to Dixon--as soapy as you canmake it. Tell Miss Brewer we can't reduce the fees, but that we'll give hercredit for a month. Guarantee the Leicestershire fellow a pass if he beginsat 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 myhair cut. I'm sick of this slavery. '

'Then go and do better, ' cried the well-dressed man insolently. 'You wereglad enough of the job when I offered it to you. It's no good your lookingto me for money. I can do no more myself than just live; and as soon as Isee 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 Ican spare. '

The door closed. And the man at the table, leaning back, stared gloomily atthe 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 streetsand turning sandwich-man, luck had made him acquainted with Mr. RudolphStarkey, who wrote himself M. A. Of Dublin University and advertised asystem of tuition by correspondence. In return for mere board and lodgingTopham became Mr. Starkey's assistant; that is to say, he did by far thegreater part of Mr. Starkey's work. The tutorial business was butmoderately successful; still, it kept its proprietor in cigarettes, andenabled him to pass some hours a day at a club, where he was convinced thatbefore long some better chance in life would offer itself to him. Havingalways been a lazy dog, Starkey regarded himself as an example of industryunrewarded; being as selfish a fellow as one could meet, he reproachedhimself with the unworldliness of his nature, which had so hindered him ina basely material age. One of his ventures was a half-moral, half-practicallittle volume entitled _Success in Life_. Had it been either more moral ormore 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 theineffectual results. 

Topham's fault was that of a man who had followed his instincts but toothoroughly. They brought him to an end of everything, and, as Starkey said, he had been glad enough to take the employment which was offered withoutany inconvenient inquiries. The work which he undertook he did competentlyand honestly for some time without a grumble. Beginning with a certaingratitude to his employer, though without any liking, he soon grew todetest the man, and had much ado to keep up a show of decent civility intheir intercourse. Of better birth and breeding than Starkey, he burnedwith resentment at the scant ceremony with which he was treated, andloathed the meanness which could exact so much toil for such poorremuneration. When offering his terms Starkey had talked in that bland waycharacteristic 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 oncapitally together, and, of course, I need not say, as soon as our progressjustifies it, we must come to new arrangements. A matter of six or sevenhours a day will be all I shall ask of you at present. For my own part, Iwork chiefly at night. '

CHAPTER II

By the end of the first month Topham was working, not six or seven, but tenor twelve hours a day, and his spells of labour only lengthened as timewent on. Seeing himself victimised, he one day alluded to the promise ofbetter terms, but Starkey turned sour. 

'You surprise me, Topham. Here are we, practically partners, doing our bestto make this thing a success, and all at once you spring upon me anunreasonable demand. You know how expensive these rooms are--for we musthave a decent address. If you are dissatisfied, say so, and give me time tolook out for some one else. '

Topham was afraid of the street, and that his employer well knew. Theconversation ended in mutual sullenness, which thenceforward became thenote of their colloquies. Starkey felt himself a victim of ingratitude, andconsequently threw even more work upon his helpless assistant. That thework was so conscientiously done did not at all astonish him. Now and thenhe gave himself the satisfaction of finding fault: just to remind Tophamthat his bread depended on another's goodwill. Congenial indolence grewupon him, but he talked only the more of his ceaseless exertions. Sometimesin the evening he would throw up his arms, yawn wearily, and declare thatso much toil with such paltry results was a heart-breaking thing. 

Topham stared sullenly at the sixpence. This was but the latest of manyinsults, yet never before had he so tasted the shame of his subjection. Though he was earning a living, and a right to self-respect, morestrenuously than Starkey ever had, this fellow made him feel like amendicant. His nerves quivered, he struck the table fiercely, shoutingwithin himself, 'Brute! Cad!' Then he pocketed the coin and got on with hisduties. 

It was toil of a peculiarly wearisome and enervating kind. Starkey'sadvertisements, which were chiefly in the country newspapers, put him incommunication with persons of both sexes, and of any age from seventeenonwards, the characteristic common to them all being inexperience andintellectual helplessness. Most of these correspondents desired to passsome examination; a few aimed--or professed to aim--merely atself-improvement, or what they called 'culture. ' Starkey, of course, undertook tuition in any subject, to any end, stipulating only that hisfees should be paid in advance. Throughout the day his slave had beencorrecting Latin and Greek exercises, papers in mathematical or physicalscience, answers to historical questions: all elementary and manygrotesquely bad. On completing each set he wrote the expected comment;sometimes briefly, sometimes at considerable length. He now turned to abundle of so-called essays, and on opening the first could not repress agroan. No! This was beyond his strength. He would make up the parcels forpost, 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-roomdoor, and with the inattention of a man who expects nothing, Topham badeenter. 

'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, ahale, ruddy-cheeked, stoutish man, whose dress and bearing made it probablethat he was no Londoner. 

'Mr. Starkey, M. A. ?' he inquired, rather nervously, though his smile andhis upright posture did not lack a certain dignity. 

'Quite right, ' murmured Topham, who was authorised to represent hisprincipal 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 yourlast batch of papers to the post. You will find, this time, I have beenable to praise them unreservedly. '

The listener fairly blushed with delight; then he grasped his short beardwith his left hand and laughed silently, showing excellent teeth. 

'Well, Mr. Starkey, ' he replied at length in a moderately subdued voice, 'Idid really think I'd managed better than usual. But there's much thanks dueto you, sir. You've helped me, Mr. Starkey, you really have. And that's onereason why, happening to come up to London, I wished to have the pleasureof 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, butplodding and earnest clerk or counter-man in the little Gloucestershiretown from which the correspondent wrote; it astonished him to see thismature and most respectable person. They talked on. Mr. Wigmore had aslight west-country accent, but otherwise his language differed little fromthat of the normally educated; in every word he revealed a good and kindly, if simple, nature. At length a slight embarrassment interfered with theflow of his talk, which, having been solely of tuitional matters, began totake 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 seemsstrange to you, no doubt, that at my age I should be going to school. ' Hegrasped his beard and laughed. 'Well, it is strange, and I'd like toexplain it to you. To begin with, I'll tell you what my age is; I'mseven-and-forty. Only that. But I'm the father of two daughters--bothmarried. 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, Tophammurmuring a sympathetic sound. 

'Now, as to my business, Mr. Starkey. I'm a fruiterer and greengrocer. Imight have said fruiterer alone; it sounds more respectable, but the honesttruth 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 hadone as good and as lucrative. '

'Well, that's your kindness, sir, ' said Wigmore, with a pleased smile. 'Thefact 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 withthat and their good looks, they've both made what may be called bettermarriages 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 girlshave married gentlemen. '

Again he paused, and with emphasis. Again Topham murmured, this timecongratulation. 

'One of them is wife to a young solicitor; the other to a young gentlemanfarmer. And they've both gone to live in another part of the country. Idare say you understand that, Mr. Starkey?'

The speaker's eyes had fallen; at the same time a twitching of the browsand hardening of the mouth changed the expression of his face, marking itwith an unexpected sadness, all but pain. 

'Do you mean, Mr. Wigmore, ' asked Topham, 'that your daughters desire tolive at a distance from you?'

'Well, I'm sorry to say that's what I do mean, Mr. Starkey. My son-in-lawthe 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 thegentleman 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 nofault. There's never been an unkind word between any of us. But--'

He was growing more and more embarrassed. Evidently the man had somethinghe wished to say, something to which he had been leading up by thisdisclosure of his domestic affairs; but he could not utter his thoughts. Topham tried the commonplaces naturally suggested by the situation; theywere received with gratitude, but still Mr. Wigmore hung his head andtalked vaguely, with hesitations, pauses. 

'I've always been what one may call serious-minded, Mr. Starkey. As a boy Iliked reading, and I've always had a book at hand for my leisure time--thekind 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 donepretty well in business--there's really no reason why I should keep on inmy shop, if I chose to--to do otherwise. '

'I quite understand, ' interrupted Topham, in whom there began to stir athought 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 hismind. 

'I know, ' he resumed presently, turning his hat round and round, 'that itsounds a strange thing to say, but--well, sir, I've always done my best tolive 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 Igave 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 reallywell-educated man?'

'Yes, sir, yes. But more than that. I want, Mr. Starkey, to makemyself--something--so that my daughters and my sons-in-law would never feelashamed of me--so that their children won't be afraid to talk of theirgrandfather. I know it's a very bold thought, sir, but if I could--'

'Speak, Mr. Wigmore, ' cried Topham, quivering with curiosity, 'speak moreplainly. What do you wish to become? With competent help--of course, withcompetent help--anything is possible. '

'Really?' exclaimed the other. 'You mean that, Mr. Starkey? Then, sir'--heleaned forward, blushing, trembling, gasping--'could I get to be--acurate?'

Topham fell back into his chair. For two or three minutes he was mute withastonishment; then the very soul of him sang jubilee. 

'My dear Mr. Wigmore, ' he began, restraining himself to an impressivegravity. 'I should be the last man to speak lightly of the profession of aclergyman or to urge any one to enter the Church whom I thought unfittedfor the sacred office. But in your case, my good sir, there can be no suchmisgiving. I entertain no doubt whatever of your fitness--your moralfitness, 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 diffidencesubdued. He told how the idea had first come to him, how he had broodedupon it, how he had worked at elementary lesson-books, very secretly--thenhow 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 beinga vicar or a rector. I don't look so high as that, Mr. Starkey. But acurate is a clergyman, and for my daughters to be able to say their fatheris 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 tohave 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, verybusy, Mr. Starkey!'

'Very busy. '

Topham waved his hand at the paper-covered table, and appeared to sink intodespondency. Thereupon Wigmore cautiously and delicately approached thenext thought he had in mind, Topham--cunning fellow--at one momentfacilitating, at another retarding what he wished to say. It came out atlast. Would it be quite impossible for Mr. Starkey to devote himself to onesole pupil. 

CHAPTER IV

'Mr. Wigmore, I will be frank with you. If I asked an equivalent for thevalue of my business as a business, I could not expect you to agree to sucha proposal. But, to speak honestly, my health has suffered a good deal fromoverwork, and I must take into consideration the great probability that inany case, before long, I shall be obliged to find some position where theduties 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 continuedin the same tone of genial confidence. Let us consider the matter indetail. Do you propose, Mr. Wigmore, to withdraw from business at once?'

The fruiterer replied that he could do so at very short notice. Questionedas to his wishes regarding a place of residence, he declared that he wasready 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 yearshad to elapse before you could be ordained?'

'Impatient, ' said the other cheerily. 'Why, if it took ten years I would gothrough with it. When I make up my mind about a thing, I'm not easilydismayed. If I could have your help, sir--'

The necessity of making a definite proposal turned Topham pale; he was soafraid 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 suchcontentment, 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 foundthat 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 overworkedcorresponding tutor was taking his ease at the seaside on the strength of aquarter's salary in advance, which Mr. Wigmore, tremulously anxious toclinch their bargain, had insisted on paying him. Before leaving London hehad written to Starkey, apologising for his abrupt departure, 'The resultof unforeseen circumstances. ' He enclosed six penny stamps in repayment ofa 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 inmy remembrance. '

Under that name Topham dwelt with the retired shopkeeper, and assiduouslydischarged his tutorial duties. A day came when, relying upon thefriendship between them, and his pupil's exultation in the progressachieved, the tutor unbosomed himself. Having heard the whole story, Wigmore laughed a great deal, and declared that such a fellow as Starkeywas rightly served. 

'But, ' he inquired, after reflection, 'how was it the man never wrote toask why I sent no more work?'

'That asks for further confession. While at the seaside I wrote, in adisguised hand, a letter supposed to come from a brother of yours in whichI said you were very ill and must cease your correspondence. Starkey hadn'tthe decency to reply, but if he had done so I should have got his letter atthe post-office. '

Mr. Wigmore looked troubled for a moment. However, this too was laughedaway, and the pursuit of gentility went on as rigorously as ever. 

But Topham, musing over his good luck, thought with a shiver on how smallan accident it had depended. Had Starkey been at home when the fruiterercalled, 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 knowshow 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. ' Suchthoughts 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 inAugust he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, thereentered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded byall the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingeringnewspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, andshuddered. 

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolutionas his kindly nature permitted. 

'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbableman. 

'Dying?'

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept abouthim. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in themorning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn. 

'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do youthink?'

'Very possibly. '

'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale'sthe other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded oneof Coleridge, or Macaulay, --that kind of thing. Certainly most brillianttalk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort offantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he isa 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 thehospitals--that kind of thing. '

'Yes, he's at Guy's. '

To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went toglance 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, turnedimmediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaultedthoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like themouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed intogloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lampsgave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most ofthem occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed overindeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays andwaggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and abovethundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed ofinfinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases, packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. Acurve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; tillmidway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a suddenappeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one whoshould have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificentplane-trees, golden in the August sunshine--one of the abrupt contrastswhich are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those whowander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave ofcommerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses--some with quainttumbling roofs--and byways little frequented. 

The planes grow at the back of Guy's Hospital, and close by is a shortnarrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the mostpart of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medicalstudents. 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 onthe first floor. The girl followed him. 

'I haven't had time to clear away the breakfast things, ' she said, speakingrapidly and with an air. 'Mr. Shergold was late this mornin'; he didn't getup till nearly ten, an' then he sat writin' letters. Did he know as you wascomin', 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 hewas 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 thespeaker'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 shebegan to clink together the things upon the table. Obviously she esteemedherself a person of some importance. Her figure was not bad, and herfeatures had the trivial prettiness so commonly seen in London girls of thelower orders, --the kind of prettiness which ultimately loses itself in fatand chronic perspiration. Her complexion already began to show a tendencyto muddiness, and when her lips parted, they showed decay of teeth. Indress she was untidy; her hair exhibited a futile attempt at elaboratearrangement; she had dirty hands. 

Disposed to talk, she lingered as long as possible, but Harvey Munden hadno leanings to this kind of colloquy; when the girl took herself off, hedrew a breath of satisfaction, and smiled the smile of an intellectual manwho has outlived youthful follies. 

He stepped over to the lodger's bookcase. There were about a hundredvolumes, only a handful of them connected with medical study. Seeing avolume of his own Munden took it down and idly turned the pages; itsurprised him to discover a great many marginal notes in pencil, and anexamination of these showed him that Shergold must have gone carefullythrough the book with an eye to the correction of its style; adjectiveswere deleted and inserted, words of common usage removed for others whichonly a fine literary conscience could supply, and in places even thepunctuation was minutely changed. Whilst he still pondered this singularmanifestation of critical zeal, the door opened, and Shergold came in. 

A man of two-and-thirty, short, ungraceful, ill-dressed, with features aslittle commonplace as can be imagined. He had somewhat a stern look, and onhis brow were furrows of care. Light-blue eyes tended to modify the all butharshness 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 deeplypathetic. His nose was short and flat, yet somehow not ignoble; his fulllips, bare of moustache, tended to suggest a melancholy fretfulness. Butfor the high forehead, no casual observer would have cared to look at him asecond time; but that upper story made the whole countenance vivid withintellect, as though a light beamed upon it from above. 

'You hypercritical beggar!' cried Harvey, turning with the volume in hishand. '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 beworth a little study. '

'My dear fellow--you won't take it ill of me--I didn't really mean it as acriticism, ' the deep, musical voice stammered in serious embarrassment. 

'Why, wasn't it just this kind of thing that caused a quarrel betweenGeorge Sand and Musset?'

'Yes, yes; but George Sand was such a peremptory fellow, and Musset such avapourish young person. Look! I'll show you what I meant. '

'Thanks, ' said Munden, 'I can find that out for myself. ' He thrust the bookinto his coat-pocket. 'I came to ask you if you are aware of your uncle'scondition. '

'Of course I am. 

'When did you see him last?'

'See him?' Shergold's eyes wandered vaguely. 'Oh, to talk with him, about amonth ago. '

'Did you part friendly?'

'On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunatelyhe 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 Iam hovering about him. '

'All the same, go. '

Shergold pointed to a chair. 'Sit down a bit. I have been having a talkwith Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it's far fromcertain that I shall go on with medicine. '

'Far from certain!' the other assented, smiling. 'By the bye, I hear thatyou have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale's not longago. '

'Well--yes--why not?'

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident, --Shergold seemedunable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and keptglancing 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, Ibelieve?'

'Who has been telling you? I'm afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I hadshivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some onebrought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of whichI wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there's a pleasure in talkingto intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clevergirls, 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 aslistening to a really intellectual woman, when she's also beautiful. Ishake with delight--and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course theworld never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia--but there are lotsof grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What awretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads, however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people mylife has been trebled--oh, centupled--in value!'

'My boy, ' remarked Munden quietly, 'didn't I say something to this effecton a certain day nine years ago?'

'Don't talk of it, ' the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. 'We'llnever look back at that. '

'Your room is stuffy, ' said Munden, rising. 'Let us go and have lunchsomewhere. '

'Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands--I've been in thedissecting-room. '

The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady'sdaughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to passinto 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, ina friendly voice, he said--

'No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening. ' And he went onhurriedly. 

'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 thesame, I shan't grieve when the day of departure comes. '

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty hefound himself launched upon the world, with a university educationincomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, alittle less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to goforward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry wasa Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. Hegot a place in an office, and he began to write poetry--some of which waspublished and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful daywhen he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to bemarried. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor--a tall, pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at atobacconist's shop, where she served. He was going to marry her onprinciple--principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youthwho has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew intoa rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to beshaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him duringconversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and hewould 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 marriagewas a hideous disaster; in three years it brought Shergold to an attemptedsuicide, for which he had to appear at the police-court. His relative, thedistinguished doctor, who had hitherto done nothing for him, now cameforward with counsel and assistance. Happily the only child of the unionhad died at a few weeks old, and the wife, though making noisy proclamationof 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. Shergoldhad been led by her relatives to believe that some day the poor fellowwould have his uncle's money, and her wiles ultimately overcame Shergold'sresistance. He, now studying law at the doctor's expense, found himselfonce 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 illegiblyscribbled 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 withher to a music-hall, she had a fit on the stairs, and in falling receivedfatal 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 andentered himself as a student at Guy's, greatly to Dr. Shergold'ssatisfaction. His fees were paid and a small sum was allowed him to liveupon--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 peopleof social standing, whom he met at the doctor's house. The hints of hisstory that got about made him an interesting figure, especially to women, and his remarkable gifts were recognised as soon as circumstances began togive him fair play. All modern things were of interest to him, and hisknowledge, acquired with astonishing facility, formed the fund of talkwhich had singular charm alike for those who did and those who did notunderstand it. Undeniably shy, he yet, when warmed to a subject, spoke withnerve and confidence. In days of jabber, more or less impolite, thisappearance of an articulate mortal, with soft manners and totallyunaffected, could not but excite curiosity. Lady Teasdale, eager for theuncommon, chanced to observe him one evening as he conversed with hisneighbour at the dinner-table; later, in the drawing-room, she encouragedhim with flattery of rapt attention to a display of his powers; sheresolved to make him a feature of her evenings. Fortunately, his kindredwith Dr. Shergold made a respectable introduction, and Lady Teasdalewhispered 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, buthandsome is that handsome has. 

And now the doctor lay sick unto death. Society was out of town, but LadyTeasdale, with a house full of friends about her down in Hampshire, did notforget her _protégé_; she waited with pleasant expectation for the youngman's release from poverty. 

It came in a day or two. Dr. Shergold was dead, and an enterprisingnewspaper announced simultaneously that the bulk of his estate would passto Mr. Henry Shergold, a gentleman at present studying for his uncle'sprofession. This paragraph caught the eye of Harvey Munden, who sent a lineto 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, andas business took him into the city, he crossed the river and sought MazePond. Again the door was opened to him by the landlady's daughter; shestood 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 girlstood 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 saidsharply, 'All right, mother, it's only somebody for Mr. Shergold. '

'I'll go upstairs and write a note, ' said Munden, in a rather peremptoryvoice. 

The other drew back and allowed him to pass, but with evidentdisinclination. As he entered the room, he saw that she had followed. Hewent up to a side-table, on which lay a blotting-book, with otherrequisites 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 asmile. 

'Yes, it is. '

'Well then, Emma, shut the door, and let's have a talk. Your mother won'tmind, 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 didnot 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 whenyou opened the door to me. I've always liked your nice, respectful way ofspeaking, but somehow you don't speak quite so nicely to-day. What has putyou out?'

Her eyes did not quit his face for a moment; her attitude betokened theutmost keenness of suspicious observation. 

'Nothing's put me out, that I know of. '

'Yet you don't speak very nicely--not very respectfully. Perhaps'--hepaused--'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. Emmastarted 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 toyourself. If you want to know, Mr. Shergold is going to _marry_ me--sothere!'

The stroke was effectual. Harvey Munden stood as if transfixed, but herecovered himself before a word escaped his lips. 

'Ah, that alters the case. I beg your pardon. You won't make troublebetween 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 aholiday. I should _like_ to see him, of course, and I may possibly lookround this evening. If I can't manage it, just tell him that I think heought to have given me a chance of congratulating him. May I ask when it isto 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 tolook 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 daylightlingered upon a cloudy sky, Munden stood beneath the plane-trees by Guy'sHospital waiting. He had walked the length of Maze Pond and had ascertainedthat his friend's window as yet showed no light; Shergold was probablystill from home. In the afternoon he had made inquiry at the house of thedeceased doctor, but of Henry nothing was known there; he left a messagefor delivery if possible, to the effect that he would call in at Maze Pondbetween nine and ten. 

At a quarter past the hour there appeared from the direction of LondonBridge a well-known figure, walking slowly, head bent. Munden movedforward, and, on seeing him, Shergold grasped his hand feverishly. 

'Ha! how glad I am to meet you, Munden! Come; let us walk this way. ' Heturned from Maze Pond. 'I got your message up yonder an hour or two ago. Soglad I have met you here, old fellow. '

'Well, your day has come, ' said Harvey, trying to read his friend'sfeatures 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 aproposal 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 ratherstrange movements with his head and arms. They came into the shadow of thevaulted way beneath London Bridge Station. At this hour the great tunnelwas quiet, save when a train roared above; the warehouses were closed; oneor two idlers, of forbidding aspect, hung about in the murky gaslight, andfrom 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 laughedoddly. 

'What's the matter with you?' his friend asked. 

'Nothing--the change of circumstances, I suppose. Let's get on. Let us gosomewhere--I can't help reproaching myself; I ought to feel or show adecent 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 withthe girl. She was cheeky, and her behaviour puzzled me. Finally she made anincredible announcement--that you had asked her to marry you. Of courseit's a lie?'

'To marry her?' exclaimed the listener hoarsely, with an attempt atlaughter. '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, canshe cause trouble?'

'How do I know?--a girl will lie so boldly. She might make a scandal, Isuppose; 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 thingdoesn'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 squalidinferno; how I hate it! Have you had dinner? I don't want any. Let us go toyour rooms, shall we? There'll be a hansom passing the bridge. '

They walked on in silence, and when they had found a cab they drovewestward, talking only of Dr. Shergold's affairs. Munden lived in theregion of the Squares, hard by the British Museum; he took his friend intoa comfortably furnished room, the walls hidden with books and prints, andthere 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 thesubject of the girl Emma; he was still anxious, but would not lead the talkto unpleasant things. Shergold drank like a thirsty man, and the whiskyseemed to make him silent. Presently he fell into absolute muteness, andlay 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; thensuddenly 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 neverbehaved loosely, or even like a schemer. I doubt whether she knew anythingabout my uncle, until I told her last night. '

He spoke rapidly, in a thick voice, moving his arms in helplessprotestation. His look was one of unutterable misery. 

'Well, ' observed Munden, 'the frenzy has at all events passed. You have thecommon-sense to treat it as if it had never been; and really I am temptedto 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 foolabout women. I don't know what it is--certainly not a sensual or passionatenature; mine is nothing of the sort. It's sheer sentimentality, I suppose. I can't be friendly with a woman without drifting into mawkishtenderness--there's the simple truth. If I had married happily, I don'tthink I should have been tempted to go about philandering. The society of awife I loved and respected would be sufficient. But there's that need inme--the incessant hunger for a woman's sympathy and affection. Such ahideous 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 cantalk of women rationally enough with a friend, I am at their mercy whenalone with them--at the mercy of the silliest, vulgarest creature. Afterall, isn't it very much the same with men in general? The average man--howdoes he come to marry? Do you think he deliberately selects? Does he fallin 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. Notone man in ten thousand, when he thinks of marriage, waits for the idealwife--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 isthe girl who decides for us. In more than half the marriages it's the womanwho has practically proposed. She puts herself in a man's way. With her itrests almost entirely whether a man shall think of her as a possible wifeor not. She has endless ways of putting herself forward without seeming todo so. As often as not, it's mere passivity that effects the end. She hasonly to remain seated instead of moving away; to listen with a smileinstead of looking bored; to be at home instead of being out, --and she ismaking love to a man. In a Palace of Truth how many husbands would have toconfess that it decidedly surprised them when they found themselves engagedto be married? The will comes into play only for a moment or two now andthen. 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 animalinstinct, confirming the suggestion of circumstances. '

'There's something in all this, ' granted the listener, 'but it doesn'texplain the behaviour of a man who, after frightful experience inmarriage--after recovering his freedom--after finding himself welcomed bycongenial society--after inheriting a fortune to use as he likes--goes andoffers 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 wasdrifting into dangerous relations with that girl. Unfortunately I am not arascal: I can't think of girls as playthings; a fatal conscientiousness inan unmarried man of no means. Day after day we grew more familiar. She usedto come up and ask me if I wanted anything; and of course I knew that shebegan to come more often than necessary. When she laid a meal for me, wetalked--half an hour at a time. The mother, doubtless, looked on withapproval; 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 aboutanything--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 thatI am their victim; that's a feeble excuse, and a worthless one. The averageman would either have treated the girl as a servant, and so kept her at herdistance, or else he would have alarmed her by behaviour which suggestedanything you like but marriage. As for me, I hadn't the common-sense totake either of these courses. I made a friend of the girl; talked to hermore and more confidentially; and at last--fatal moment--told her myhistory. Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of mylife. Can you conceive such folly?

'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in thehouse one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. Iknew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I waslonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one whowould give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning aconversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were stilltalking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I caredfor Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me. But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyedthat evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that Istand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk withthem; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes tothinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years ofsqualid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to lifeon a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offeringmarriage--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 denymyself even the chance, now that I have money? All to-day I have beentortured like a soul that beholds its salvation lost by a moment's weaknessof the flesh. You can imagine what my suffering has been; it drove me intosheer lying. I had resolved to deny utterly that I had asked Emma to marryme--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'ttold me yet how the dizzy culmination of your madness was reached. You saythat you proposed _last night_?'

'Yes--and simply for the pleasure of telling Emma, when she had acceptedme, that I had eighty thousand pounds! You can't understand that? I supposethe change of fortune has made me a little light-headed; I have been goingabout 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 myjoy with others. If I had some of the doctor's money in my pocket, I shouldhave given away five-pound notes. '

'You contented yourself, ' said Munden, laughing, 'with giving apromissory-note for the whole legacy. '

'Yes; but try to understand. Emma came up to my room at supper-time, and asusual we talked. I didn't say anything about my uncle's death--yet I feltthe necessity of telling her creep fatally upon me. There was a conflict inmy mind, between common-sense and that awful sentimentality which is mycurse. When Emma came up again after supper, she mentioned that her motherwas gone with a friend to a theatre. "Why don't you go?" I said. "Oh, Idon't go anywhere. " "But after all, " I urged consolingly, "August isn'texactly the time for enjoying the theatre. " She admitted it wasn't; butthere was the Exhibition at Earl's Court, she had heard so much of it, andwanted to go. "Then suppose we go together one of these evenings?"

'You see? Idiot!--and I couldn't help it. My tongue spoke these imbecilewords in spite of my brain. All very well, if I had meant what another manwould; but I didn't, and the girl knew I didn't. And she looked at me--andthen--why, mere brute instinct did the rest--no, not mere instinct, for itwas complicated with that idiot desire to see how the girl would look, hearwhat she would say, when she knew that I had given her eighty thousandpounds. 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 asif I loved the girl with all my soul. And afterwards I was still happy. Iwalked up and down my bedroom, making plans for the future--for hereducation, and so on. I saw all sorts of admirable womanly qualities inher. 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 havebeen living. Well, you don't go back there?'

'No. I have come to my senses. I shall go to an hotel for to-night, andsend presently for all my things. '

'To be sure, and on Saturday--or on Friday evening, if you like, we leaveEngland. '

It was evident that Shergold rejoiced with trembling. 

'But I can't stick to the lie. ' he said. 'I shall compensate the girl. Yousee, by running away I make confession that there's something wrong. Ishall see a solicitor and put the matter into his hands. '

'As you please. But let the solicitor exercise his own discretion as todamages. '

'Damages!' Shergold pondered the word. 'I suppose she won't drag me intocourt--make a public ridicule of me? If so, there's an end of my hopes. Icouldn'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 businessfor a day or two. On Friday he attended his uncle's funeral, and thatevening he left Charing Cross with Harvey Munden, _en route_ for Como. 

There, a fortnight later, Shergold received from his solicitor acommunication which put an end to his feigning of repose and hopefulness. That he did but feign, Harvey Munden felt assured; signs of a troubledconscience, or at all events of restless nerves, were evident in all hisdoing and conversing; now he once more made frank revelation of hisweakness. 

'There's the devil to pay. She won't take money. She's got a lawyer, and isgoing to bring me into court. I've authorised Reckitt to offer as much asfive thousand pounds, --it's no good. He says her lawyer has evidentlyencouraged her to hope for enormous damages, and then she'll have thesatisfaction of making me the town-talk. It's all up with me, Munden. Myhopes are vanished like--what is it in Dante?--_il fumo in aere ed in aquala schiuma_!'

Smoking a Cavour, Munden lay back in the shadow of the pergola, and seemedto disdain reply. 

'Your advice?'

'What's the good of advising a man born to be fooled? Why, let the ---- doher 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 twohundred and fifty. '

'But the scandal--the ridicule--'

'Face it. Very likely it's the only thing that would teach you wisdom andsave 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, hewent upon the lake with Harvey, but could not talk; his blue eyes were sunkin a restless melancholy, his brows were furrowed, he kept making short, nervous movements, as though in silent remonstrance with himself. And whenthe next morning came, and Harvey Munden rang the bell for his coffee, awaiter brought him a note addressed in Shergold's hand. 'I have started forLondon, ' ran the hurriedly written lines. 'Don't be uneasy; all I mean todo is to stop the danger of a degrading publicity; the fear of _that_ istoo much for me. I have an idea, and you shall hear how I get on in a fewdays. '

The nature of that promising idea Munden never learnt. His next letter fromShergold came in about ten days; it informed him very briefly that thewriter was 'about to be married, ' and that in less than a week he wouldhave started with his wife on a voyage round the world. Harvey did notreply; 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 fewdays ago, at Calcutta. Dysentery, or something of that kind. His wifecabled to some one or other. '

THE SALT OF THE EARTH

Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept themorning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeamsflitted from shore to shore. The dome, the spires, the river frontagesslowly unveiled and brightened: there was hope of a fair day. 

Not that it much concerned this throng of men and women hastening to theirlabour. From near and far, by the league-long highways of South London, hither they converged each morning, and joined the procession across thebridge; their task was the same to-day as yesterday, regardless of gleam orgloom. Many had walked such a distance that they plodded wearily, lookingneither to right nor left. The more vigorous strode briskly on, elbowingtheir way, or nimbly skipping into the road to gain advance; yet these alsohad a fixed gaze, preoccupied or vacant, seldom cheerful. Here and there acouple of friends conversed; girls, with bag or parcel and a book for thedinner hour, chattered and laughed; but for the most part lips were muteamid the clang and roar of heavy-laden wheels. 

It was the march of those who combat hunger with delicate hands: at thepen's point, or from behind the breastwork of a counter, or trusting tobare wits pressed daily on the grindstone. Their chief advantage over thesinewy class beneath them lay in the privilege of spending more than theycould afford on house and clothing; with rare exceptions they had no hope, no chance, of reaching independence; enough if they upheld the threadbarestandard of respectability, and bequeathed it to their children as asolitary heirloom. The oldest looked the poorest, and naturally so; amidthe tramp of multiplying feet, their steps had begun to lag when speed wasmore than ever necessary; they saw newcomers outstrip them, and trudgedunder an increasing load. 

No eye surveying this procession would have paused for a moment on ThomasBird. In costume there was nothing to distinguish him from hundreds ofrather shabby clerks who passed along with their out-of-fashion chimney-potand badly rolled umbrella; his gait was that of a man who takes no exercisebeyond the daily walk to and from his desk; the casual glance could seenothing in his features but patient dullness tending to good humour. Hemight be thirty, he might be forty--impossible to decide. Yet when a ray ofsunshine fell upon him, and he lifted his eyes to the eastward promise, there shone in his countenance something one might vainly have soughtthrough the streaming concourse of which Thomas Bird was an unregardedatom. For him, it appeared, the struggling sunlight had a message of hope. Trouble cleared from his face; he smiled unconsciously and quickened hissteps. 

For fifteen years he had walked to and fro over Blackfriars Bridge, leavinghis 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 morethan enough for his necessities, but seemed to have reached the limit ofpromotion, for he had no influential friends, and he lacked the capacity torise by his own efforts. There may have been some calling for which Thomaswas exactly suited, but he did not know of it; in the office he provedhimself a trustworthy machine, with no opportunity of becoming anythingelse. His parents were dead, his kindred scattered, he lived, as forseveral years past, in lodgings. But it never occurred to him to think ofhis lot as mournful. A man of sociable instincts, he had manyacquaintances, some of whom he cherished. An extreme simplicity marked histastes, and the same characteristic appeared in his conversation; an easyman to deceive, easy to make fun of, yet impossible to dislike, ordespise--unless by the despicable. He delighted in stories of adventure, ofbravery by flood or field, and might have posed--had he ever posed atall--as something of an authority on North Pole expeditions and thegeography of Polynesia. 

He received his salary once a month, and to-day was pay-day: theconsciousness of having earned a certain number of sovereigns always sethis thoughts on possible purchases, and at present he was revolving thesubject of his wardrobe. Certainly it needed renewal, but Thomas could notdecide at which end to begin, head or feet. His position in a leading housedemanded a good hat, the bad weather called for new boots. Livingeconomically as he did, it should have been a simple matter to resolve thedoubt by purchasing both articles, but, for one reason and another, Thomasseldom had a surplus over the expenses of his lodgings; in practice hefound 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 makesome acquisition on the way home. Near Ludgate Circus some one addressedhim over his shoulder. 

'Good evening, Tom; pleasant for the time of year. '

The speaker was a man of fifty, stout and florid--the latter peculiarityespecially marked in his nose; he looked like a substantial merchant, andspoke with rather pompous geniality. Thrusting his arm through the clerk's, he walked with him over Blackfriars Bridge, talking in the friendlieststrain 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 hisacquaintance was very respectful. 

'Ah! I'm afraid it would make me late. --Oh, by the bye, Tom, I'm reallyashamed--most awkward that this kind of thing happens so often, but--couldyou, do you think?--No, no; one sovereign only. Let me make a note of it bythe light of this shop-window. Really, the total is getting quiteconsiderable. Tut, tut! You shall have a cheque in a day or two. Oh, itcan't run on any longer; I'm completely ashamed of myself. Entirelytemporary--as I explained. A cheque on Wednesday at latest. Good-bye, Tom. '

They shook hands cordially, and Mr. Warbeck went off in a hansom. ThomasBird, changing his mind about the tram, walked all the way home, and withbent head. One would have thought that he had just done somethingdiscreditable. 

He was wondering, not for the first time, whether Mrs. Warbeck knew orsuspected that her husband was in debt to him. Miss Warbeck--AlmaWarbeck--assuredly had never dreamed of such a thing. The system of casualloans dated from nearly twelve months ago, and the total was now not muchless than thirty pounds. Mr. Warbeck never failed to declare that he wasashamed of himself, but probably the creditor experienced more discomfortof that kind. At the first playful demand Thomas felt a shock. He had knownthe Warbecks since he was a lad, had always respected them as somewhat hissocial superiors, and, as time went on, had recognised that the differenceof position grew wider: he remaining stationary, while his friendsprogressed to a larger way of living. But they were, he thought, no lesskind to him; Mrs. Warbeck invited him to the house about once a month, andAlma--Alma talked with him in such a pleasant, homely way. Did theirexpenditure outrun their means? He would never have supposed it, but forthe City man's singular behaviour. About the cheque so often promised hecared little, but with all his heart he hoped Mrs. Warbeck did not know. 

Somewhere near Camberwell Green, just as he had resumed the debate abouthis purchases, a middle-aged woman met him with friendly greeting. Herappearance 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 howour poor friend is getting on. '

She spoke of the daughter of a decayed tradesman, a weak and overworkedgirl, 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, shecan't expect to be fit for anything for a time. And I very much doubtwhether she'll ever get the right use of her limbs again. But what we haveto think of now is to get her some decent clothing. The poor thing haspositively nothing. I'm going to speak to Mrs. Doubleday, and a few otherpeople. Really, Mr. Bird, if it weren't that I've presumed on your goodnature 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 anew 'chimney-pot. '

'No, no; of course not. I'm sure I should never expect--it's only thatevery 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 ofthe unfortunate girl, and wished her well in a voice that carriedconviction. 

His lodgings were a pair of very small, mouldy, and ill-furnished rooms; hetook them unwillingly, overcome by the landlady's doleful story of theirlong lodgerless condition, and, in the exercise of a heavenly forbearance, remained year after year. The woman did not cheat him, and Thomas knewenough of life to respect her for this remarkable honesty; she was simplyan ailing, lachrymose slut, incapable of effort. Her son, a lad who hadfailed in several employments from sheer feebleness of mind and body, practically owed his subsistence to Thomas Bird, whose good offices had atlength established the poor fellow at a hairdresser's. To sit frequentlyfor 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 ofcharity. This evening she met him as he entered, and lighted him into hisroom. 

'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 hisfirst 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 amidgroans and pantings. 

'Well, ' he cried gaily, 'didn't I promise Sam a shilling when he'd done hisfirst 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. Itwas 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 ofthis unusually worded request; and Thomas fell at once into a tremor ofanxiety. With a hurried glance at his watch, he began to make ready for thevisit, struggling with drawers which would neither open nor shut, anddriven to despair by the damp condition of his clean linen. 

In this room, locked away from all eyes but his own, lay certain relicswhich Thomas worshipped. One was a photograph of a girl of fifteen. At thatage Alma Warbeck promised little charm, and the photograph allowed herless; but it was then that Thomas Bird became her bondman, as he had eversince remained. There was also a letter, the only one that he had everreceived from her--'Dear Mr. Bird, --Mamma says will you buy her some moreof those _jewjewbs_ at the shop in the city, and bring them onSunday. --Yours sincerely, Alma Warbeck'--written when she was sixteen, seven years ago. Moreover, there was a playbill, used by Alma on the singleoccasion when he accompanied the family to a theatre. 

Never had he dared to breathe a syllable of what he thought--'hoped' wouldmisrepresent him, for Thomas in this matter had always stifled hope. Indeed, hope would have been irrational. In the course of her teens Almagrew tall and well proportioned; not beautiful of feature, but pleasing;not brilliant in personality, but good-natured; fairly intelligent andmoderately ambitious. She was the only daughter of a dubiously activecommission-agent, and must deem it good fortune if she married a man withthree or four hundred a year; but Thomas Bird had no more than his twelvepounds a month, and did not venture to call himself a gentleman. In Alma hefound the essentials of true ladyhood--perhaps with reason; he had neverheard her say an ill-natured thing, nor seen upon her face a look whichpained his acute sensibilities; she was unpretentious, of equal temper, nothing of a gossip, kindly disposed. Never for a moment had he flatteredhimself that Alma perceived his devotion or cared for him otherwise than asfor an old friend. But thought is free, and so is love. The modest clerkhad made this girl the light of his life, and whether far or near the raysof that ideal would guide him on his unworldly path. 

New shaven and freshly clad, he set out for the Warbecks' house, which wasin a near part of Brixton. Not an imposing house by any means, but anobject of reverence to Thomas Bird. A servant whom he did notrecognise--servants came and went at the Warbecks'--admitted him to thedrawing-room, which was vacant; there, his eyes wandering about thegimcrack furniture, which he never found in the same arrangement at twosuccessive visits, he waited till his hostess came in. 

Mrs. Warbeck was very stout, very plain, and rather untidy, yet hercountenance made an impression not on the whole disagreeable; with her wideeyes, slightly parted lips, her homely smile, and unadorned speech, shecounteracted in some measure the effect, upon a critical observer, of thepretentious ugliness with which she was surrounded. Thomas thought her astraightforward 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 himsince he grew too old to be called Tom; that is to say, since he wasseventeen. He was now thirty-one. 'And I'm going to talk to you just likethe 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, thevisitor showed a cheery assent. 'Yes, I was sure of that. Now--better cometo the point at once--my daughter is--well, no, she isn't yet, but the factis I feel sure she'll very soon be engaged. '

The blow was softened by Thomas's relief at discovering that money wouldnot 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, ofcourse you have. ' She said ''ave, ' a weakness happily unshared by herdaughter. 'We don't want it talked about, but I know you can hold yourtongue. Well, it's young Mr. Fisher, of Nokes, Fisher and Co. We haven'tknown him long, but he took from the first to Alma, and I have my reasonsfor believing that the feeling is _mutial_, though I wouldn't for the worldlet Alma hear me say so. '

Young Mr. Fisher. Thomas knew of him; a capable business man, and son of aworthy father. He kept his teeth close, his eyes down. 

'And now, ' pursued Mrs. Warbeck, becoming still more genial, 'I'm gettinground 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 ifyou can't speak your mind, when speak you must? It comes to this: I justwant to ask you quite straightforward, not to be offended or take it ill ifwe don't ask you to come here till this business is over and settled. Yousee? 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 likeold friends--I think it better not. '

A fire burned in the listener's cheeks, a noise buzzed in his ears. Heunderstood the motive of this frank request; humble as ever--never humblerthan when beneath this roof--he was ready to avow himself Mr. Fisher'sinferior; but with all his heart he wished that Mrs. Warbeck had found someother way of holding him aloof from her prospective son-in-law. 

'Of course, ' continued the woman stolidly, 'Alma doesn't know I'm sayingthis. 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 afew changes in the way we've lived. It's all very well for you and me to becomfortable together, and laugh and talk about all sorts of things, butwith one like Alma in the 'ouse, and the friends she's making and thecompany 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. ' Thehandshaking was metaphorical merely. Thomas smiled, and was endeavouring toshape a sentence, when he heard voices out in the hall. 

'There's Alma and her father back, ' said Mrs. Warbeck. 'I didn't thinkthey'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 preventit?' His voice startled her somewhat, and she hesitated. A gesture ofentreaty sent her from the room. As the door opened Alma was heard laughingmerrily; then came silence. In a minute or two the hostess returned and thevisitor, faltering, 'Thank you. I quite understand, ' quietly left thehouse. 

For three weeks he crossed and recrossed Blackfriars Bridge without meetingMr. Warbeck. His look was perhaps graver, his movements less alert, but hehad not noticeably changed; his life kept its wonted tenor. Theflorid-nosed gentleman at length came face to face with him on Ludgate Hillin the dinner-hour--an embarrassment to both. Speedily recoveringself-possession Mr. Warbeck pressed the clerk's hand with fervour and drewhim aside. 

'I've been wanting to see you, Tom. So you keep away from us, do you? Iunderstand. The old lady has given me a quiet hint. Well, well, you'requite right, and I honour you for it, Tom. Nothing selfish about _you_; youkeep it all to yourself; I honour you for it, my dear boy. And perhaps Ihad better tell you, Alma is to be married in January. After that, same asbefore, won't it be?--Have a glass of wine with me? No time? We must have aquiet dinner together some evening; one of the old chop houses. --There wassomething else I wanted to speak about, but I see you're in a hurry. Allright, it'll do next time. '

He waved his hand and was gone. When next they encountered Mr. Warbeck madebold to borrow ten shillings, without the most distant allusion to hisoutstanding 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. Hehad a cold and a headache, and felt more miserable than at any time sincehis school-days. As he rode home in an omnibus Mr. And Mrs. Warbeck wereentertaining friends at the wedding-breakfast, and Thomas knew it. For anhour 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 notreturn 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 comeand see her; it's something about father. He had some work to do, but hehasn't come home to do it. '

Without speaking Thomas equipped himself and walked a quarter of a mile tothe 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 eightweeks without earning a penny, her husband had obtained the job ofaddressing five hundred envelopes, to be done at home and speedily. Temptedforth by an acquaintance 'for half a minute' as he sat down to the task, hehad 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 morework, and now, of course, he's lost the chance, and we haven't nothing morethan a crust of bread left. And--'

Thomas slipped half-a-crown into her hand and whispered, 'Send Jack beforethe shops close. ' Then, to escape thanks, he shouted out, 'Where's theseblessed envelopes, and where's the addresses? All right, just leave me thiscorner 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 friendappeared, dolefully drunk. Thomas would not look at him. 

'He'll finish the rest by dinner to-morrow, ' said the miserable wife, 'andthat's in time. '

So Thomas Bird went home. He felt better at heart, and blamed himself forhis weakness during the day. He blamed himself often enough for this orthat, 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 isinvested in railway shares, which bear interest at three and a half percent. ; another third is in Government stock, and produces two andthree-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 theage of five-and-forty, and who never in his life had possessedfive-and-forty pounds, used his arithmetic lesson as an opportunity forflight of imagination. When dictating a sum in which he attributed tohimself enormous wealth, his eyes twinkled, his slender body struck adignified attitude, and he smiled over the class with a certain genialcondescension. When the calculation proposed did not refer to personalincome it generally illustrated the wealth of the nation, in which Mr. Ruddiman had a proud delight. He would bid his youngsters compute theproceeds of some familiar tax, and the vast sum it represented rolled fromhis lips on a note of extraordinary satisfaction, as if he gloried in thisevidence of national prosperity. His salary at Longmeadows just sufficed tokeep him decently clad and to support him during the holidays. He had beena master here for seven years, and earnestly hoped that his services mightbe retained for at least seven more; there was very little chance of hisever obtaining a better position, and the thought of being cast adrift, ofhaving to betake himself to the school agencies and enter upon newengagements, gave Mr. Ruddiman a very unpleasant sensation. In his time hehad gone through hardships such as naturally befall a teacher withoutdiplomas and possessed of no remarkable gifts; that he had never brokendown in health was the result of an admirable constitution and of muchnative cheerfulness. Only at such an establishment as Longmeadows--anold-fashioned commercial 'academy, ' recommended to parents by thehealthiness of its rural situation--could he have hoped to hold his groundagainst modern educational tendencies, which aim at obliterating Mr. Ruddiman and all his kind. Every one liked him; impossible not to like aman so abounding in kindliness and good humour; but his knowledge wasanything but extensive, and his methods in instruction had a fine flavourof antiquity. Now and then Mr. Ruddiman asked himself what was to become ofhim when sickness or old age forbade his earning even the modest incomeupon which he could at present count, but his happy temper dismissed thetroublesome reflection. One thing, however, he had decided; in future hewould find some more economical way of spending his holidays. Hitherto hehad been guilty of the extravagance of taking long journeys to see membersof 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. Inthe coming summer vacation he had determined to save at least fivesovereigns, and he fancied he had discovered a simple way of doing it. 

On pleasant afternoons, when he was 'off duty, ' Mr. Ruddiman liked to havea long ramble by himself about the fields and lanes. In solitude he wasnever dull; had you met him during one of these afternoon walks, morelikely than not you would have seen a gentle smile on his visage as hewalked with head bent. Not that his thoughts were definitely of agreeablethings; consciously he thought perhaps of nothing at all; but he liked thesunshine and country quiet, and the sense of momentary independence. Everyone would have known him for what he was. His dress, his gait, hiscountenance, declared the under-master. Mr. Ruddiman never carried awalking-stick; that would have seemed to him to be arrogating a socialposition to which he had no claim. Generally he held his hands togetherbehind him; if not so, one of them would dip its fingers into a waistcoatpocket and the other grasp the lapel of his coat. If anything he lookedrather less than his age, a result, perhaps, of having always lived withthe young. His features were agreeably insignificant; his body, thoughslight of build, had something of athletic outline, due to long practice atcricket, football, and hockey. 

If he had rather more time than usual at his disposal he walked as far asthe 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 Whistleone climbed a long, slow ascent, and in warm weather few pedestrians, or, for the matter of that, folks driving or riding, could resist thesuggestion 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 Pignor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one readclearly enough the landlord's name: William Fouracres. Only three years agohad Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered hispredecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modestbottle of ginger beer. The present landlord was a very different sort ofman, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer. Customerswere generally served by the landlord's daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddimanhad come to be on very pleasant terms. 

But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be addedthat Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, ofat least two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a yearbefore anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the secondtwelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchangingreminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects ofthe county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of thefashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; sointimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spokeof his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had ahistory worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from thelandlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon thesubject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was farfrom agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem bytaking the same view of the matter. 

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, theunder-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that ofrefreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the iviedporch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the barsewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dressfrom neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness andcoolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made nodisagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as herhabit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled thediscreetest of modest welcomes. 

'Good day, Miss Fouracres, ' said the under-master, after his usual littlecough. 

'Good day, sir, ' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiarnote of honesty. Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance'sname. 

'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 resumedher sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage moregravely than usual. 

'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length. 

'I'm sorry to say, sir, ' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking aboutthe Prince. '

'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer haddistressing significance. 'That's a great pity. '

'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say, ' went on Miss Fouracres, in the sameconfidential 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 thenewspaper, and since then he's had no rest, day or night. He's sitting outin 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 askyou about first, Miss Fouracres. I'm thinking of staying in this part ofthe country through the holidays'--long ago he had made known hisposition--'and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here. Could youlet 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 withyou. '

'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 seeyou, and talk a bit. '

Having finished his ginger-beer, Mr. Ruddiman walked through the house andpassed out into the garden, where he at once became aware of Mr. Fouracres. The landlord, a man of sixty, with grizzled hair and large, heavycountenance, sat in a rustic chair under an apple-tree; beside him was alittle table, on which stood a bottle of whisky and a glass. Approaching, Mr. Ruddiman saw reason to suspect that the landlord had partaken toofreely of the refreshment ready to his hand. Mr. Fouracres' person was in alimp state; his cheeks were very highly coloured, and his head kept noddingas he muttered to himself. At the visitor's greeting he looked up with asudden surprise, as though he resented an intrusion on his privacy. 

'It's very hot, Mr. Fouracres, ' the under-master went on to remark withcordiality. 

'Hot? I dare say it is, ' replied the landlord severely. 'And what else doyou expect at this time of the year, sir?'

'Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!' said the other, as good-humouredly aspossible. 'You don't find it unpleasant?'

'Why should I, sir? It was a good deal hotter day than this when His RoyalHighness 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 likelyto forget what he said; so it's no use you or any one else trying to makeout 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 noranybody else--'

The effort of repeating the Prince's utterance with what was meant to be aprincely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank togetherin his chair and lost all power of coherent speech. In a moment he seemedto be sleeping. Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke hisname, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went backinto the inn. 

'I'm afraid I shall have to put it off to another day, was his remark tothe landlord's daughter. 'Mr. Four-acres is--rather drowsy. '

'Ah, sir!' sighed the young woman. 'I'm sorry to say he's often been likethat lately. '

Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Mr. Ruddiman looked and feltuncomfortable. 

'I'll come again very soon, Miss Fouracres, ' he said. 'You might just speakto your father about the room. '

'Thank you, sir. I will, sir. '

And, with another uneasy glance, which was not returned, the under-masterwent his way. Descending towards Longmeadows, he thought over theinnkeeper's story, which may be briefly related. Some ten years before thisMr. Fouracres occupied a very comfortable position; he was landlord of aflourishing inn--called an hotel--in a little town of some importance as anagricultural centre, and seemed perfectly content with the life and thesociety natural to a man so circumstanced. His manners were marked by acertain touch of pompousness, and he liked to dwell upon the excellence ofthe entertainment which his house afforded, but these were innocentcharacteristics which did not interfere with his reputation as a sensibleand sound man of business. It happened one day that two gentlemen onhorseback, evidently riding for their pleasure, stopped at the inn door, and, after a few inquiries, announced that they would alight and havelunch. Mr. Fouracres--who himself received these gentlemen--regarded one ofthem with much curiosity, and presently came to the startling conclusionthat he was about to entertain no less a person than the Heir Apparent. Heknew 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 resemblanceto the familiar portraits of His Royal Highness. In his excitement at thesupposed discovery, Mr. Fouracres at once communicated it to those abouthim, and in a very few minutes half the town had heard the news. Of coursethe host would allow no one but himself to wait at the royal table--whichwas 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 mightconfirm his belief; in their conversation no name or title was used, and nomention made of anything significant. They remained for an hour. When theirhorses were brought round for them a considerable crowd had gathered beforethe hotel, and the visitors departed amid a demonstration of exuberantloyalty. On the following day, one or two persons who had been present atthis scene declared that the two gentlemen showed surprise, and that, though both raised their hats in acknowledgment of the attention theyreceived, they rode away laughing. 

For the morrow brought doubts. People began to say that the Prince hadnever been near the town at all, and that evidence could be produced of hishaving passed the whole day at the house where he was a visitor. Mr. Fouracres smiled disdainfully; no assertion or argument availed to shakehis proud assurance that he had entertained the Heir to the Throne. Fromthat day he knew no peace. Fired with an extraordinary arrogance, he viewedas his enemy every one who refused to believe in the Prince's visit; hequarrelled violently with many of his best friends; he brought insultingaccusations against all manner of persons. Before long the man was honestlyconvinced that there existed a conspiracy to rob him of a distinction thatwas his due. Political animus had, perhaps, something to do with it, forthe Liberal newspaper (Mr. Fouracres was a stout Conservative) made morethan one malicious joke on the subject. A few townsmen stood by thelandlord's side and used their ingenuity in discovering plausible reasonswhy the Prince did not care to have it publicly proclaimed that he hadvisited the town and lunched at the hotel. These partisans scorned thesuggestion that Mr. Fouracres had made a mistake, but they were unable todeny that a letter, addressed to the Prince himself, with a view to puttingan end to the debate, had elicited (in a secretarial hand) a brief denialof the landlord's story. Evidently something very mysterious underlay thewhole affair, and there was much shaking of heads for a long time. 

To Mr. Fouracres the result of the honour he so strenuously vindicated wasserious indeed. By way of defiance to all mockers he wished to change thetime-honoured sign of the inn, and to substitute for it the Prince ofWales's Feathers. On this point he came into conflict with the owner of theproperty, and, having behaved very violently, received notice that hislease, just expiring, would not be renewed. Whereupon what should Mr. Fouracres do but purchase land and begin to build for himself an hoteltwice 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 soona ruined man. In less than three years from the fatal day he turned hisback upon the town where he had known respect and prosperity, and wentforth to earn his living as best he could. After troublous wanderings, onwhich he was accompanied by his daughter, faithful and devoted, though shehad her doubts on a certain subject, the decayed publican at length found aplace of rest. A small legacy from a relative had put it in his power tomake a new, though humble, beginning in business; he established himself atthe Pig and Whistle. 

The condition in which he had to-day been discovered by Mr. Ruddiman wasnot habitual with him. Once a month, perhaps, his melancholy thoughts drovehim 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 anew and appreciative listener to the story of his wrongs. That he had beengrievously wronged was Mr. Fouracres' immutable conviction. Not by HisRoyal Highness; the Prince knew nothing of the strange conspiracy which hadresulted in Fouracres' ruin; letters addressed to His Royal Highness wereevidently intercepted by underlings, and never came before the royal eyes. Again and again had Mr. Fouracres written long statements of his case, andpetitioned for an audience. He was now resolved to adopt other methods; hewould use the first opportunity of approaching the Prince's person, andlifting up his voice where he could not but be heard. He sought no vulgargain; his only desire was to have this fact recognised, that he had, indeed, entertained the Prince, and so put to shame all his scornfulenemies. And now the desired occasion offered itself. In the month ofSeptember His Royal Highness would be a guest at Woodbury Manor, distantonly some couple of miles from the Pig and Whistle. It was the excitementof such a prospect which had led Mr. Fouracres to undue indulgence underthe apple-tree this afternoon. 

A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listeningpatiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to anarrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for theholidays. The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulatedhimself on this prudent step. He felt sure that a couple of months at thePig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable. The situation was highand healthy; the surroundings were picturesque. And for society, well, there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible andpleasant person. 

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master'sintention. On the day of 'breaking up' he sent his luggage, as usual, tothe nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed bycarrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, hepassed his first night. 

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. Inthe garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, andthere, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in thegolden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host's interest inquestions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman's favouriteamusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by theChancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his ownfinancial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament. All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, andhis mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus beadded to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemedtrivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimesgiving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygoneglories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge. 

Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and hishost's daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of thenation, but of the Pig and Whistle. Miss Fouracres was a woman of muchdomestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of smallresources. 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 innwere looked after by her alone--except, indeed, a few tasks beyond herphysical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. Apony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his lifeof sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven tothe 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 standingfor a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which hehad just picked. 

Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping herchin. 

'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. Ilike 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 onehad 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 youso often. I'll go and see. '

With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent aboutten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughinggleefully. 

'A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half! I served him as if I'd done nothing elseall 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 timethere dwelt upon her good, plain countenance a half-smile of placidcontentment. When they went in together, Mr. Ruddiman begged her to teachhim all the mysteries of the bar, and his request was willingly granted. Inthis way they amused themselves until the return of the landlord, who, assoon as he had stabled his pony, called Mr. Ruddiman aside, and said in ahoarse 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 thegardeners at Woodbury Manor, and he's promised to put me in the way ofmeeting 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 strongliquor; he walked unsteadily, and in other ways betrayed imperfect commandof himself. Presently, at the tea-table, he revealed to his daughter thegreat opportunity which lay before him, and spoke of the absence from homeit would necessitate. 

'Of course you'll do as you like, father, ' replied Miss Fouracres, with herusual deliberation, and quite good-humouredly, 'but I think you're going ona fool's errand, and that I tell you plain. If you'd just forget all aboutthe Prince, and settle down quiet at the Pig and Whistle, it 'ud be a gooddeal better for you. '

The landlord regarded her with surprise and scorn. It was the first timethat his daughter had ventured to express herself so unmistakably. 

'The Pig and Whistle!' he exclaimed. 'A pothouse! I who have kept an hoteland entertained His Royal Highness. You speak like an ignorant woman. Holdyour tongue, and don't dare to let me hear your voice again until to-morrowmorning!'

Miss Fouracres obeyed him. She was absolutely mute for the rest of theevening, save when obliged to exchange a word or two with rustic company orin the taproom. Her features expressed uneasiness rather thanmortification. 

The next day, after an early breakfast, Mr. Fouracres set forth to the townof Woodbury. He had the face of a man with a fixed idea, and looked moreobstinate, more unintelligent than ever. To his daughter he had spoken onlya few cold words, and his last bidding to her was 'Take care of thepothouse!' This treatment gave Miss Fouracres much pain, for she was asofthearted woman, and had never been anything but loyal and affectionateto her father all through his disastrous years. Moreover, she liked the Pigand Whistle, and could not bear to hear it spoken of disdainfully. Beforethe 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 nervouslyfingering 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'llsoon 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 bebetter. '

Miss Fouracres stood for a moment with eyes cast down, then, lookinggravely 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. 'Apothouse, indeed! Why, it's one of the nicest little inns you could findanywhere. 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 hasknown very different things. '

'I don't care what he has known!' cried Mr. Ruddiman. 'I hope I may neverhave a worse home than the Pig and Whistle. And I only wish I could livehere all the rest of my life, instead of going back to that beastlyschool!'

'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 unharnessand 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 exultantlyat the perfection he was attaining. Miss Fouracres seemed hardly lesspleased, but when alone she still wore an anxious look, and occasionallyheaved a sigh of trouble. 

Mr. Ruddiman, as usual, took an early supper, and soon after went up to hisroom. By ten o'clock the house was closed, and all through the night nosound disturbed the peace of the Pig and Whistle. 

The morrow passed without news of Mr. Fouracres. On the morning after, justas Mr. Ruddiman was finishing his breakfast, alone in the parlour, he hearda loud cry of distress from the front part of the inn. Rushing out to seewhat was the matter, he found Miss Fouracres in agitated talk with a man onhorseback. 

'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 earlythis morning, a gardener walking through the grounds at Woodbury Manor, andpassing by a little lake or fishpond, saw the body of a man lying in thewater, which at this point was not three feet in depth. He drew the corpseto 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 theevening before. How the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had come to thistragic end neither the gardener nor any one else in the neighbourhood couldconjecture. 

Mr. Ruddiman set to work at once on harnessing the pony, while MissFouracres, now quietly weeping, went to prepare herself for the journey. Ina very few minutes the vehicle was ready at the door. The messenger hadalready ridden away. 

'Can you drive yourself, Miss Fouracres?' asked Ruddiman, looking andspeaking with genuine sympathy. 

'Oh yes, sir. But I don't know what to do about the house. I may be awayall day. And what about you, sir?'

'Leave me to look after myself, Miss Fouracres. And trust me to look afterthe 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 aftermyself, and the house too; see if I don't. Go at once, and keep your mindat ease on my account, pray do!'

'It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure it is. Oh, I _knew_ something wasgoing to happen! Didn't I _say_ so?'

Mr. Ruddiman helped her into the trap; they shook hands silently, and MissFouracres drove away. Before the turn of the road she looked back. Ruddimanwas still watching her; he waved his hand, and the young woman waved to himin reply. 

Left alone, the under-master took off his coat and put on an apron, thenaddressed himself to the task of washing up his breakfast things. Afterwards he put his bedroom in order. About ten o'clock the firstcustomer came in, and, as luck had it, the day proved a busier one thanusual. No less than four cyclists stopped to make a meal. Mr. Ruddiman wasable to supply them with cold beef and ham; moreover, he cooked eggs, hemade tea--and all this with a skill and expedition which could hardly havebeen expected of him. None the less did he think constantly of MissFouracres. About five in the afternoon wheels sounded; aproned and in hisshirt-sleeves, he ran to the door--as he had already done several times atthe sound of a vehicle--and with great satisfaction saw the face of hishostess. She, too, though her eyes showed she had been weeping long, smiledwith 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 notso 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 avery comfortable tea, and sat near her whilst she was enjoying it. MissFouracres' story of the day's events still left her father's death mostmysterious. All that could be certainly known was that the landlord of thePig and Whistle had drunk rather freely with his friend the gardener at aninn at Woodbury, and towards nine o'clock in the evening had gone out, ashe said, for a stroll before bedtime. Why he entered the grounds ofWoodbury Manor, and how he got into the pond there, no one could say. People talked of suicide, but Miss Fouracres would not entertain thatsuggestion. Of course there was to be an inquest, and one could only awaitthe result of such evidence as might be forthcoming. During the day MissFouracres 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 themmight come to the funeral. 

'Well, ' said Mr. Ruddiman, in a comforting tone, 'all you have to do is tokeep 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 aday have you had?'

'Splendid! Look here!'

He exhibited the day's receipts, a handful of cash, and, with delightdecently 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 andWhistle. She was a dry, keen, elderly woman, chiefly interested in thequestion of her deceased brother's property, which proved to beinsignificant enough. Meanwhile the inquest was held, and all thecountryside talked of Mr. Fouracres, whose story, of course, was publishedin full detail by the newspapers. Once more opinions were divided as towhether the hapless landlord really had or had not entertained His RoyalHighness. Plainly, Mr. Fouracres' presence in the grounds of Woodbury Manorwas due to the fact that the Prince happened to be staying there. In astate of irresponsibility, partly to be explained by intoxication, partlyby the impulse of his fixed idea, he must have gone rambling in the darkround the Manor, and there, by accident, have fallen into the water. Noclearer hypothesis resulted from the legal inquiry, and with this allconcerned had perforce to be satisfied. Mr. Fouracres was buried, and, onthe day after the funeral, his sister returned to London. She showed nointerest whatever in her niece, who, equally independent, asked neithercounsel 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-folkof the immediate neighbourhood--of course began to comment on the state ofthings, joking among themselves about Mr. Ruddiman's activity behind thebar. The under-master himself was in an uneasy frame of mind. When MissFouracres' aunt had gone, he paced for an hour or two about the garden; thehostess 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 ofale 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. Ruddimanrambled musing. When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests wereoccupying the hostess. Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in thegarden, and lingered there--it being a fine, warm night--till after teno'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 waistcoatpocket, the other behind his back; Miss Fouracres was fingering her chin. 

'I've been wondering, ' said the under-master in a diffident voice, 'howyou'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 besafe. '

'I shouldn't quite like it, sir. '

'But I'm sure you wouldn't like to leave the Pig and Whistle, MissFouracres?'

'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 factis, I don't like the thought of leaving the Pig and Whistle; I don't likeit at all. This life suits me. Could you'--he gave a little laugh--'engageme 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. Doyou think--'

Had it not been dark Mr. Ruddiman would hardly have ventured to make thesuggestion which fell from him in a whisper. Had it not been dark MissFouracres would assuredly have hesitated much longer before giving herdefinite reply. As it was, five minutes of conversation solved what hadseemed a harder problem than any the under-master set to his class atLongmeadows, and when these two turned to enter the Pig and Whistle, theywent hand in hand.