LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGKLE9
 
 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 A TALE OF PAST YEARS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE WODEN 
 
 " Seest thou a man diligent in bis business ? He 
 shall stand before Kings; he shall not stand before 
 mean wen." Proverbs xxn. 29. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919 
 By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Printed in the U. S. A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FIRST PART 
 
 CHAPTBB PAQB 
 
 I. PRIZES . i 
 
 II. HOME 18 
 
 III. BlNNSES 30 
 
 SECOND PART 
 
 I. THE PIE FAIR 59 
 
 II. THE FAT LADY 80 
 
 III. THE GLEE SINGERS 94 
 
 IV. CAROLS 108 
 
 V. CHRISTMAS DAY 123 
 
 VI. SPRINGTIME 143 
 
 THIRD PART 
 
 I. THE CURATE 157 
 
 II. " SELVALLEY RHYMES " 173 
 
 III. FRIENDS 184 
 
 IV. THE STRIKE 197 
 
 V. STRESS 208 
 
 VI. WINTER 221 
 
 VII. NEWS 232 
 
 VIII. THE HILL 246 
 
 IX. THE EVE 255 
 
 X. SUNDAY 266 
 
 v.
 
 LITTLE HOUSES
 
 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 FIRST PART 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PRIZES 
 
 THE year was 1882. In the public-houses 
 the Phoenix Park Murders and the eternal 
 Irish Question had been quarrelled over 
 until those affairs had less importance than the 
 progress of the local crops. There had been a 
 fine patriotic glow, with awesome pride in the ter- 
 rors of new warfare, at the news of the bombard- 
 ment of Alexandria: warships riding from four to 
 eight miles out, and pounding the shore batteries to 
 rubble wonderful! Spelling-bee winners had 
 shored up tottering reputations with props of topical 
 facts culled ruthlessly from the children's geography 
 books and atlases; and certain reluctant admis- 
 sions were heard in agreement with the authorities 
 who forced children to school now, instead of 
 allowing them to be driven to work. Selbridge, 
 newly made a borough, had appeared with an 
 anvil and tools upon its municipal coat of arms, 
 and the motto "Strength by Labour," in English, 
 capable of being read by comrron folk, shocking 
 the scholars who talked of dignity, and delighting 
 all who derided Latin scholarship because they 
 hadn't any. Selbridge, indeed, was a stirring, 
 progressive place, proud of the growing importance 
 
 i
 
 2 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of its manufactures, and confident of the future. 
 Pedley Hill, its southern neighbour, was smugly 
 satisfied with its uneventful municipal history ; 
 the present was comfortable enough; the future 
 would bring changes, no doubt, changes for the 
 worse, probably; the town had survived changes 
 in the past, and would survive those of the future. 
 Selbridge had sprung up round the pits in the early 
 part of the Queen's reign, a place without history 
 and without beauty, making money rapidly and 
 spending it. Already its suburbs were spreading 
 out like giant tentacles to clutch the surrounding 
 hamlets. Only the hill shut out its offensive 
 presence from its neighbour's .eyes. Pedley Hill 
 was not marked in the school atlases now, though 
 Selbridge was. No matter anyone could put 
 a dot there to mark it for himself but nobody 
 could put Selbridge alongside Pedley Hill in the 
 Anglo-Saxon chronicle. In the sixth century, 
 date remote beyond imagination, Caewlin, King 
 of Wessex, after his great victory at Deorham, 
 came with his Saxon troops up the Severn Valley 
 to the conquest of the West Midlands. Pedley 
 Hill had been held by him, commanding the valley 
 of the little river Sele. 
 
 To-day the town was enjoying its customary 
 Sabbath doze, after the hot joints and vegetables, 
 the pies and puddings, which marked the day. 
 The July sun had glared upon the stones of the 
 Bullen since five o'clock in the morning, and the 
 air quivered in the radiant heat. Pigeons strutted 
 lazily, pecking a grain here and there dropped in 
 Saturday's market. The doors and windows of 
 the "Bull" were wide open, letting out the smell 
 of ale and the occasional clink of glasses. A dog 
 slept at the yard door. Over by the Town Hall, 
 in the cool shade of the arch, a tramp had taken 
 off his boots and lay dozing. The clock in the
 
 PRIZES 3 
 
 tower chimed the half -hour solemnly, waking other 
 clocks to their duty. Gilded chanticleer of the vane 
 was sound asleep. 
 
 The "Bull" closed its doors for the afternoon 
 and the last customers drifted away. Presently 
 came footsteps across the place, from Lesur Lane, 
 George Street, High Street, Orchard Street, chil- 
 dren in their best clothes, all making to climb the 
 steep slope of Castle Street to the parish church. 
 The prizes were being distributed at the Sunday 
 school to-day. Parents had foregone their 
 afternoon nap, had washed up the dishes quickly, 
 and dressed in hot haste, in order to see their 
 children receive their annual honours, bright- 
 coloured books, with red and gold labels, for regular 
 attendance on Sunday afternoons, safe out of 
 mother's way. The little girls were prim and sedate, 
 proudly conscious of their summer finery; the 
 boys moved as though they were heartily ashamed 
 of themselves, and deserved their uncomfortable 
 punishment. The dog awoke it was no longer 
 safe to sleep. The tramp put on his boots, and 
 shuffled across to Lesur Lane, for the Bristol Road 
 and north to Selbridge. 
 
 The school bell tolled, calling the stragglers. A 
 carriage and pair drove across from High street, 
 and ascended the hill at a walk. The children 
 gathered round as escort, for it bore Mrs. Kings- 
 norton, who was going to give the prizes. The 
 two girls with the sunshades were her daughters. 
 The elder, indeed, had now entered womanhood. 
 The vicar came across from the vicarage to the 
 school gate just in time for their arrival, much 
 to the satisfaction of the children, who looked upon 
 his courtesy as an amusing spectacle acted for their 
 delectation. He remained bareheaded, holding 
 his Master of Arts' cap in his hand, and little 
 boys wondered how he could be comfortable with
 
 4 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 such a thing when they detested theirs so self- 
 consciously. 
 
 The bell ceased its ringing, and the last of the 
 children began to scuttle into school. John Allday 
 moved to follow the others. 
 
 "Aren't you coming, Sam?" he called out. 
 
 "There's plenty of time. You're frightened." 
 
 "I aren't!" 
 
 He was a sturdy brown-haired boy, neat in his 
 Sunday suit, an ordinary healthy boy to view, with 
 nothing to cause the glance to return to him with 
 sudden interest. Sam Bloom, his companion, a tall 
 boy with a mass of untidy yellow hair, caught the 
 attention at the first glance. His clothes were old, 
 but he wore them with a swagger, almost truculent, 
 as though they were finery. His face was rather 
 heavy in its expression, and the blue eyes seemed 
 to sleep. The unobservant only saw the yellow hair, 
 and the fine manner. 
 
 A girl came running down the hill, her face 
 flushed by her anxious haste. 
 
 "Hurry up, Maggie, the vicar's been asking for 
 you. They're all waiting," said Sam. 
 
 "You're a story !" she retorted. "I couldn't help 
 it. Mother hadn't got my things ready." 
 
 Sam ran to the gate to prevent her entering, and 
 there was a lively scufHe. 
 
 "I shall tell the vicar ... No, don't! . . . 
 Please! . . . Here's your grandfather!" 
 
 Sam turned to look, and she darted past him. 
 John Allday followed her. 
 
 An old man with a white top hat was coming 
 slowly up the hill. Sam looked a second time at the 
 bent figure, and then strode quietly across into 
 school. 
 
 From time to time the old man stopped, and 
 turned, as though he had paused to admire the 
 view, while his breathing made wheezy noises in
 
 PRIZES 5 
 
 his chest. He had a small, shrivelled face, with 
 long side-whiskers drooping. His gnarled fist 
 rested on the silver knob of an umbrella. His 
 whole costume was in keeping with himself, old, 
 long out of date, and precisely neat. The school 
 caretaker, who had come to the gate to take the 
 air, greeted him in a tone which mingled familiarity 
 and respect. 
 
 "Grand weather, Mr. Peacock." 
 
 "Ah!" was all the old man could spare, but 
 his voice was deep and impressive, belying his 
 years. 
 
 "Come to see the lad get his prize?" said the 
 caretaker. 
 
 "Yes," said the old man proudly. "I promised 
 his mother I'd look after him." 
 
 "Clever lad, Mr. Peacock," said the caretaker. 
 
 The grandfather's pride glowed. 
 
 "I've taught him myself." 
 
 He did not hear the other's comment: "And 
 a bit o' help from Old Nick." His hearing was 
 a trifle dulled, and he was making for the school 
 door. 
 
 The caretaker looked up and down to see that 
 he was unobserved by authority, and then he lit 
 his pipe. He remembered the scandal of Mr* 
 Peacock's daughter running away from home, 
 and her return before the boy was born. She 
 was married, it was said. He didn't believe that. 
 She was no better than than well, no better 
 than many another, was his invidious comment, and 
 her father was a proud old fool. The boy was a 
 clever young imp, like his father. The caretaker 
 had never seen the boy's father, but that didn't 
 matter. With gruff condescension he admitted 
 that the old man's son, the one who had been killed 
 on the railway, had been a fine young fellow. That 
 was all there was to be said about the family.
 
 6 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Many more interesting scandals had happened 
 since theirs; they had neither grown rich nor 
 sought parish relief; old Peacock himself would 
 never be noticed if he didn' t wear that stupid 
 white hat. 
 
 A soft gilded haze filled the valley. The southern 
 hills, with the wooded clump of Selvalley Beacon, 
 were only just visible. There was little movement 
 in the town. Here and there a thin blue reek rose 
 from a chimney, the last from the fire that had 
 cooked the dinner. All the shop fires at Binnses 
 were asleep. Beyond the town, over by Nickling, 
 where the parish church had a mission, there was a 
 tuft above the colliery stack, the only pit in this 
 part of the valley, and an eyesore to the best 
 Pedley Hill folk. The view north from the 
 top of the hill was different Selbridge factories, 
 and workmen's houses, and pits beyond that, giant 
 swellings of some earth disease. Cadby's old 
 foundry had become a new works, "Cadby, Stoke 
 and Company, Limited, Engineers and Iron-found- 
 ers," only just beyond the boundary. Fortunately 
 the hill hid these things, and the prevailing winds 
 came from the west and south, across the hills and 
 the rich meadows, unpolluted. 
 
 The Parish Church School was an old worn 
 building, out of date these many years, condemned 
 by the authorities, and patched up continually to 
 make it last until a new one should be built. No- 
 body had thought of its being inadequate until the 
 growth of the new schools born of the Education 
 Act. Nobody thought of new church schools, 
 either, except as an incentive to raise money for re- 
 pairing the old. Where father had learnt his ABC, 
 there should his children learn, sitting at the same 
 scarred, ink-stained desks, looking at the same 
 veined maps, and droning the same worn tunes of 
 knowledge in drowsy chorus.
 
 PRIZES 7 
 
 To-day the vicar and his Sabbath staff sat with 
 Mrs. Kingsnorton on the platform at the end of the 
 main room. Three classes studied together there 
 during the week, shouting against each other. Now 
 the stuffy school odour was streaked with scents 
 of soap and best dresses kept with lavender. The 
 prizes made a gallant show on the table where Mrs. 
 Kingsnorton sat with her daughters in state, at 
 the vicar's right hand. Decorous murmurs ap- 
 proved the vicar's oratory, while the bolder chil- 
 dren shuffled, and munched sweets, and made faces 
 at one another. 
 
 The superintendent of the Sunday school read 
 the names of the prize-winners; his chief assistant 
 handed each book to the vicar; the vicar handed 
 it to Mrs. Kingsnorton ; and Mrs. Kingsnorton held 
 it out to be snatched timidly by the winner. 
 
 "Written examination in Religious Knowledge 
 first prize: Samuel Bloom." 
 
 Sam walked boldly to the platform, and saluted 
 Mrs. Kingsnorton, while his heel gave a flourish 
 to make his friends giggle. The vicar explained 
 pleasantly that everybody couldn't get the examina- 
 tion prizes, but everybody who tried could win a 
 prize for regular attendance. Name after name 
 was called, faster and faster. John Allday came 
 awkwardly to the table, his face very red, his legs 
 weak, and his thoughts, so embarrassed that he 
 forgot to salute. Sam Bloom had no prize for regu- 
 lar attendance he laughed at the others. Neither 
 had Maggie Wheatley; she sat alone at the end of 
 a seat, and a little sniff from time to time would 
 have told how near tears she was, but nobody heeded 
 her. Old Mr. Peacock sat leaning forward, with 
 his hand to his ear to catch every word, and his 
 face wrinkled more than ever. 
 
 It was over at last, speeches, votes of thanks, the 
 long hymn and the prayer. Out ran the children
 
 8 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 into the sunshine. The carriage was waiting, and 
 they stood about to see Mrs. Kingsnorton and her 
 daughters, and the vicar, all part of the afternoon 
 show. Down in the town the young folk were 
 out to parade their finery before tea, in the High 
 Street and the new Sele Park. 
 
 Sam Bloom and his friend lingered with the 
 groups near the carriage, not to see the great lady 
 drive away, but for Sam to tease Maggie Wheatley 
 at not having a prize. 
 
 "I don't care! I don't want one!" she reiterated. 
 
 She had run up the hill towards home before the 
 tears came. Sam couldn't follow her. His grand- 
 father wanted to look at the prize, a Bible; and 
 Sam had to stand while the old man held it out at 
 arm's length, trying to read the boy's name, written 
 with a flourish, on the fly-leaf. 
 
 "And what's yours, my lad?" 
 
 John Allday held his book shyly for inspection. 
 
 "Noble Lives," read the old man, and he tapped 
 the Bible he still held. "This is the Book of Noble 
 Lives." 
 
 "Will you hold it for us, grandfather?" said 
 Sam. 
 
 He didn't wait for a reply, but ran off down the 
 hill. John took his book, and followed. The old 
 man did not seem to notice that they had gone so 
 quickly. He stood for a moment without moving, 
 his thoughts repeating the words "Noble Lives." 
 His mind was slow in action, though clear enough 
 and capable. Repetition for him had no monotony, 
 for he lived in softened memories of the past. He 
 was old. Those pressing eagerly forward to the 
 future had no time and little sympathy to under- 
 stand his slow recurrent moods. 
 
 "Let's have a look at your book," said Sam, 
 as they came down to the Bullen. 
 
 They paused to glance at some of the pictures
 
 PRIZES 9 
 
 together: Columbus, Palissy the Potter, Sir Hum- 
 phrey Gilbert, Robert Clive, George Stephenson, 
 Maker of Railways. . . . 
 
 " 'See how these men got on.' That's what 
 they're always telling you," said Sam scornfully. 
 "When folks are grown up they're always putting 
 you off with sayings. When I asked my grand- 
 father to let me go to the Grammar School, he told 
 me the Apostles never went to a grammar school 
 as if that was any argument! 'Willie Benlow's 
 going. Why shouldn't I ?' I told him. 'What do 
 you want to do there?' he said; and I said, 'Learn 
 Latin and French and poetry/ and you know you 
 can't explain when anybody's angry like that and 
 won't listen. 'What good will poetry do you?' 
 he said. I told him, 'It's the language they speak 
 in Heaven/ You remember Mr. Brownlee told us." 
 
 "What did your grandfather say?" asked 
 John. 
 
 "I came out," said Sam. "He told me the next 
 day I'd better get the idea out of my head; we 
 were too poor. 'Why?' I said. 'It isn't any fault 
 of mine. It's a shame/ But he wouldn't listen. 
 He told me I was too young to understand, and 
 he told me verses out of the Bible. They always 
 put you off with something. He made me read 
 one night about you getting anything you ask for 
 if you pray hard enough. It says you can move 
 mountains, you know." 
 
 "Yes," said John, although he didn't know. 
 
 "And I went to bed and prayed to go to the sea- 
 side with Binnses trip, that time your mother had 
 offered to take me with you. My legs went cold, 
 and my back itched all over you know how you 
 go. That was the night before my grandfather fell 
 at the bottom of the stairs. He was in bed a fort- 
 night, you remember, and I had to stay at home 
 and run errands."
 
 I0 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "I remember," said John. He was inclined to 
 be shocked at Sam's story. 
 
 "Wouldn't you want to go to the Grammar 
 School if you were me?" said Sam, eager for 
 sympathy. 
 
 "I don't know," said John, his thoughts only 
 slowly stirring. "Father says I might go to work at 
 Binnses when I leave at Christmas." 
 
 "I don't want to go to work. Mr. Brownlee 
 says, 'Stay at school and learn to play, learn to 
 enjoy books and understand things.' When I 
 was at the vicarage on Friday, getting a character, 
 I had to wait in a room full of books hundreds 
 of 'em, all with leather bindings lovely! If I 
 went to the Grammar School I could read books 
 like that." 
 
 "Father says I can go to the night classes," said 
 John. 
 
 "Let 'em keep their night classes," exclaimed Sam. 
 "I don't want 'em." 
 
 They crossed the Bullen and walked down the 
 High Street towards the river. Sam had no more 
 to say. His companion was occupied with his new 
 growing thoughts. 
 
 The little river Sele, flowing east, divided the town 
 into two unequal parts, and then swung to the 
 south towards the funnel of the converging hills. 
 Jack had lived royally in its waters, herons had 
 loved its banks years ago, before the Selbridge fac- 
 tories had boiled it for mechanical power. Now it 
 was a brown, muddy stream, effluvial when running 
 low; and in place of the otters commemorated in 
 the lane where Sam lived, off the High Street, the 
 river only harboured rats. The bridge was a con- 
 venient place for loungers, who leaned daily over 
 the parapet and spat in the water. 
 
 "I'm coming on a bit. The old un's got the key," 
 said Sam.
 
 PRIZES ii 
 
 They crossed the bridge together. 
 
 Further on, near the Toll, a cat darted across the 
 way, with a terrier puppy after it, barking shrilly. 
 The cat turned, in a gullet between the houses, and 
 the dog stopped, and sprang back, startled. The 
 cat's tail went up, its spine arched, and in a low 
 noise, like a kettle simmering, made obligate to the 
 dog's snappy bark. 
 
 "Goon! Good dog! Cats! Cats!" cried Sam 
 Bloom, and the dog barked louder than ever. Then 
 the cat sprang, the dog rolled over in fright, and 
 the sport was over. 
 
 The boys laughed, and Sam picked up the terrier 
 to pat it. 
 
 "I've got some string," said Sam. "Get a can 
 there's an ashpit round the corner." 
 
 John ran for the can, and they tied it with the 
 string to the dog's tail. 
 
 "Hoosh! Go on! Cats! Cats!" 
 
 The dog refused to run. It had suffered in this 
 sport before, perhaps. It turned slowly, put its paw 
 on the can, and then lay down. When Sam pushed 
 it with his foot it lay down again. 
 
 "It's frightened," suggested John. 
 
 Sam's mood changed. He patted the dog, called 
 it "Poor doggie," and unfastened the string from 
 its tail. When they went away it followed them. 
 John tried to drive it away, but Sam patted it, and 
 it licked his hand. 
 
 They parted at the Toll, and Sam walked slowly 
 back along the High Street, and crossed the river 
 again, the dog trotting at his heels. He seemed 
 to have forgotten it, for he didn't turn to look, 
 and at last, after mute glances of inquiry at the 
 back of his head, the terrier hesitated, and finally 
 sauntered away. 
 
 Sam had set the table for tea before he went 
 for his prize. Mrs. Thomas, the housekeeper,
 
 12 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 went out on Sundays after dinner, and did not 
 return until Monday morning. His grandfather 
 was in when he returned, and the fire was crackling 
 tinder the kettle. He had to cut the bread and 
 butter, and remembered his grandfather's repeated 
 injunction not to spread the butter too thick. Then 
 after the quiet meal he was not off duty until he 
 had washed up the dishes, shaken the cloth outside 
 for the sparrows, and put the cheese on for supper, 
 the white mug for his own milk and the blue one 
 for his grandfather's ale. The old man sat in his 
 high-backed armchair, and smoked his pipe, the long 
 churchwarden to-day. 
 
 "That's all, grandfather," said Sam at last. 
 
 "All right, my lad. See as you don't get into 
 mischief." 
 
 The old man took a kitchen chair out to the 
 little garden, and returned for his spectacles and 
 the Bible with the big print. The gardens were 
 marked off with low palings, and a ragged thorn 
 hedge shut them off from the tiny slope of meadow 
 which here made the river bank. The water swirled 
 gently about the stones and debris which had 
 gathered to make cascades; a pied wagtail sported 
 to and fro. Beyond, across the stream, was the 
 trim greenery of the new park. 
 
 Mr. Peacock was not a member of the Estab- 
 lished Faith. He had been stolen from the flock by 
 the teaching of a new apostle; but the nearest 
 branch of the Catholic Apostolic Church was at 
 Selbridge, and he didn't like Selbridge. He didn't 
 like the minister, either. So gradually he had 
 reformed his beliefs in solitude with his Bible. 
 Years ago he had fervently believed that Christ's 
 promise ^ was about to be fulfilled; "I will see 
 you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your 
 joy no man taketh from you." Daily he had 
 prayed that the morrow might dawn upon the
 
 PRIZES 13 
 
 Master's coming, for he was ready with the elect. 
 His daughter's folly, his son's death, his poverty 
 he had met these with fortitude, seeking strength 
 in the Master's words: "In the world ye shall 
 have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have 
 overcome the world." Now, with the weight of 
 full fourscore years, he found his faith was beset 
 with misgivings, and he loved best to read of the 
 miracles which only faith might deserve. "Daughter, 
 be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee 
 whole." He read the verse slowly, and then looked 
 into the face of heaven and repeated it, keeping 
 his finger on the place. The miracles of the little 
 garden, the bees humming over the marigolds, the 
 white butterfly hovering, the thin drone of the 
 midges these he did not heed, but kept his glance 
 fixed through his spectacles on the big print of the 
 page, and then upwards into space, his thoughts fad- 
 ing to a nebulous beatitude. 
 
 Sam had until nine o'clock. At the bridge he 
 met two other boys who had been waiting for him, 
 and the three set off past the Toll, and along the 
 Bristol Road to the south. A brook ran under the 
 road here, and across the meadows to join the 
 Sele. There was a little works, with a pool, and a 
 disused water wheel. The flow of the brook was 
 regulated for the pool by a hatch, and the hatch was 
 tended by a man who lived in a cottage near by. 
 His garden bordered the stream. Boys came out of 
 the town with little nets, and pickle jars to hold 
 the sticklebacks they caught; and when tired 
 of the sport they were tempted by the water-hens 
 on the pool, and the fruit in the garden. Sam 
 and his companions were in their best clothes, and 
 they knew they ought not to be playing near the 
 muddy water; mischief was therefore all the more 
 delightful. They threw stones where they would 
 splash most, dared one another to jump from
 
 I 4 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 bank to bank, and at last, after much elaborate 
 spying and false alarm, they stole through a gap in 
 the garden hedge and feasted on the ripe yellow 
 gooseberries. 
 
 There was a wild scamper when the owner came 
 on them unexpectedly, on his way from church. 
 Sam, by calling directions for the others' safety, 
 drew attention to himself, and was kicked, dragged 
 to his feet after he had fallen, and knocked down 
 again. His companions never turned to look. He 
 refused to give their names and addresses, or his 
 own, and only the presence of ladies on the field 
 path saved him from a thrashing. His aggressor 
 was hot and flushed, and had to save his dignity. 
 So Sam suffered a rough dragging to the cottage 
 gate, and loud denunciation of his wickedness, 
 before the lady who had given him his prize in the 
 afternoon. Mrs. Kingsnorton recognized him with 
 shocked astonishment, and would have lectured him 
 had he stayed. 
 
 He came back after she had gone, and the cot- 
 tage tenant had disappeared indoors. He carried a 
 big round stone, and he whispered repeatedly words 
 which brought a vague fear upon his anger. 
 Stealthily he moved beside the hedge, and swung 
 the stone; he did not know what he was going 
 to do. Already he dreaded to hurl it at the low 
 window, as he had planned. There was a row of 
 currant bushes in the garden and three hives; 
 these caught his attention, and he calculated 
 where he might best stand to throw. If he aimed 
 at the middle one, there was a better chance of 
 hitting one. A bee came past his ear, making for 
 the hive, and he hesitated a moment to watch 
 its flight. Others had gone past him before he 
 recollected with a start that he had not thrown 
 his stone. But now his anger was gone. He hurled 
 the stone as far as he could into the pool. It
 
 PRIZES 15 
 
 made a brave splash. Then he thrust his hands in 
 his pockets, and walked quietly away. After a few 
 yards he began to whistle a subdued, tuneless little 
 song. 
 
 At the Toll he met John Allday, and he recounted 
 the adventure of the luscious gooseberries, without 
 a word of the garden's owner, or of being caught. 
 Even to himself, his humiliation was almost as 
 though it had never been. 
 
 "I was talking to mother and father about 
 going to the Grammar School," said John. 
 
 "You?" Sam asked. "What did they say?" 
 
 "I don't know yet," said John. 
 
 "I'm going in early. Grandfather will think I'm 
 ill," said Sam. 
 
 His indifference was a great disappointment to 
 his friend. 
 
 Dusk had fallen when he entered Otter Lane. 
 A soft pink and primrose glow hung in the western 
 sky; bats darted in erratic flight above the water, 
 and little moths hovered. Indoors, Mr. Peacock 
 had lit the lamp, and sat with his arm-chair 
 drawn up, and his mug of ale, at the table in the 
 sitting-room. Sam's Bible prize lay by his 
 plate. 
 
 "Good lad!" said his grandfather. "A chapter 
 out of your own to-night." 
 
 Sam finished his supper slowly, and sipped his 
 milk. 
 
 The reading of a chapter on Sunday evenings 
 after supper was as regular as the supper itself. 
 Sam read, and the old man's lips moved as he 
 followed the words in his own Bible. 
 
 "Then said He also to him that bade Him, 
 When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not 
 thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, 
 nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee 
 again, and a recompense be made thee.
 
 16 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, 
 the maimed, the lame, the blind: 
 
 "And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot 
 recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at 
 the resurrection of the just." 
 
 Sam paused. 
 
 "Grandfather," he asked, interested suddenly in 
 his reading, "why don't people do this? We're 
 poor. We don't get asked." 
 
 His grandfather took off his spectacles. 
 
 "Some people have to be rich, and some poor, 
 my lad," he began, searching for a reply. 
 
 "But they don't do this, do they?" Sam insisted. 
 
 " 'Ye have the poor always with you ; but Me ye 
 have not always," quoted his grandfather. 
 
 "But why should it be us?" 
 
 "It's God's will." 
 
 "It wasn't God's will that my father was a 
 villain." 
 
 The old man was startled. 
 
 "A what ? What's that you say ?" 
 
 "I've heard you say he was," said Sam, cowed by 
 his own temerity. 
 
 "Finish your chapter," commanded his grand- 
 father huskily; "and then ask in your prayers for 
 the Lord to make you a better man than your 
 father was." 
 
 Sam obeyed, and read quietly the parable of the 
 great supper. His grandfather's finger ceased to 
 travel to and fro on the page, and he looked up with 
 a start when the chapter was ended. 
 
 Together they washed tfle few supper things, and 
 after a while the old man pointed to the clock by 
 the stairs door. 
 
 "Up early in the morning, lad!" 
 
 Sam understood. He wished his grandfather 
 "good night," and went up to his room. The day 
 still lingered faintly in the sky; voices murmured
 
 PRIZES 17 
 
 across the gardens; then a door slammed, and 
 silence came, with the soft whispering of the water 
 under the white ribbon of mist. Sam undressed 
 lazily, and said his prayers, his thoughts straying 
 to the man of the gooseberry garden, to impossible 
 plans of revenge, back sharply to his prayers, and 
 away again, restless as moths fluttering. 
 
 He was asleep when the clock wheezed and 
 struck eleven, and the stairs creaked. The old 
 man mounted very slowly. His joints cracked 
 in the stillness. The yellow candle-light seemed 
 to deepen his wrinkles, and glinted in his moist 
 eyes. He had been thinking of his son and daughter. 
 But his head was erect. Each night he reminded 
 himself solemnly that before sunrise he might 
 stand in the Lord's presence.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HOME 
 
 JOHN ALLDAY lived in a little house by the 
 Toll, where five ways met the end of the 
 High Street, two lanes branching, and the 
 Bristol Road, going through on its way south. 
 Three houses stood together in a terrace, with a 
 strip of garden in front, and green palings. At the 
 back the gardens reached the foot of the railway 
 embankment, the Great Western line from Sel- 
 bridge. There was danger of sparks on washing 
 days, and smuts from the locomotives, and the great 
 expresses made the crockery tinkle indoors. New- 
 comers, affrighted, felt their beds tremble o' nights, 
 but they soon grew used to it, and presently declared 
 they slept all the better. The first miniature 
 foothills rose here from the valley, so that south- 
 bound trains passed over one lane and under the 
 next. Thomas Allday had helped to lay the broad 
 gauge track under the great Brunei, and naturally 
 enjoyed an interest almost proprietory in the 
 line. 
 
 The front window was open this afternoon. It 
 had been shut when John went to Sunday-school, 
 and the change roused him to a pleasant anticipa- 
 tion. The sound of voices came out to him across 
 the gay lupins and hollyhocks his father's cough, 
 and talk, and then Mr. Merry. John smiled. 
 
 18
 
 HOME 19 
 
 The visitor's presence meant fine talk to listen to, 
 and good things to eat. 
 
 He went quickly round the back of the houses, 
 and entered by the kitchen door. Tea was set in 
 the sitting-room, with the best china out, and a 
 glass vase of flowers. There was salad for tea he 
 knew he had helped his mother to wash the lettuces 
 and the young onions out of the garden, and he had 
 been looking forward. Now he saw a small sauce- 
 pan on the fire to boil for eggs. He looked round 
 anxiously: one, two, three, four yes, there was one 
 for him. 
 
 Mrs. Allday came in from the kitchen. 
 
 "Mr. Merry's here, isn't he?" said John. 
 
 "Yes in the front with your father. Is that 
 your prize?" 
 
 John held up the book proudly. 
 
 "Run in and show them," said his mother. 
 "Tell 'em tea's nearly ready. I'll see it after." 
 
 She wanted him out of her way. She would 
 not trust him near the table she had been at such 
 pains to prepare. 
 
 As she was near-sighted, and short and plump, 
 and often looking up at others taller, she had a 
 way of lifting her chin, and screwing up her eyes 
 behind her spectacles, so that she had an air of 
 whimsical good humour. She was approaching 
 fifty years of age now. Her hair was dark, with 
 no trace of grey in it, drawn straight back from 
 her forehead; she hadn't much hair. To-day she 
 was dressed ceremoniously, and was stiff in her 
 movements; her best gold earrings dangled, 
 tickling her face, but she was growing used to them. 
 John was fond of his mother in an undemonstrative 
 way; she had a happy knack of putting toffees in 
 his pocket, and having dainties for his tea, to sur- 
 prise him. The great things she had done for him 
 he had not noticed, or had not understood; some
 
 20 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of them he had accepted as inevitable, like the sun- 
 rise or the rain. He was seldom disobedient beyond 
 the ordinary disobedience of mischief. When she 
 had threatened three or four times to tell his father 
 he obeyed- He never dared to disobey his father, 
 and never tried to coax him. 
 
 Mr. Allday was short, like his wife. He was 
 past fifty now, and his light-brown hair was turning 
 grey at the sides of his poll; it had disappeared 
 from the top. He wore a velvet smoking-cap in 
 the house. A sandy moustache, very bushy, 
 came in a curve down to his jaws. To-day he had. 
 his best smoking-cap on, rakishly aslant, the one 
 Mrs. Allday had embroidered for him before they 
 were married, and he had smoked, in honour of 
 his old friend's coming; but it had made him cough 
 too much. His cough had been very severe the 
 last two winters, and summer failed to banish iL 
 He had been compelled to leave the heavy work 
 of the rolling-mill at the Selbridge Iron and Steel 
 Company's works, and take a smaller job in the 
 warehouse. 
 
 He was coughing when John entered the parlour. 
 Mr. Merry greeted the boy. 
 
 "Hallo, young un!" 
 
 John grinned. He knew he must not say 
 "Hallo/' because his mother had lectured him 
 severely once for having said it; yet he was too 
 self-conscious to venture upon the "Good afternoon" 
 of ceremony. 
 
 Tom Merry was a tall lanky bachelor of ripe 
 middle age, wearing the square-cut clothes of the 
 seafaring man ashore. He was a ship's engineer. 
 He had known Mrs, Allday since childhood, had 
 taken her to school, and had been best man at her 
 wedding. He never came to see his sisters at Sel- 
 bridge without coming over to Pedley HilL 
 
 "How's young John?" he asked pleasantly.
 
 HOME 21 
 
 "All right, thank you," said John. "I've brought 
 my prize." 
 
 This brought him naturally into the conversation. 
 He liked Mr. Merry; he had sailed the seas, been 
 in foreign lands, like the heroes of "Tom Cringle's 
 Log," and Captain Marryat He seldom said any- 
 thing of his travels, but John was sure they were 
 none the less wonderful for that. Sometimes, when 
 his father and Mr. Merry were chatting, and he 
 came in unobserved, or when he was not supposed 
 to be listening, he heard fragments which, by the 
 secrecy, must surely have belonged to marvellous 
 adventures. 
 
 Mrs. Allday summoned them to tea. John ate 
 diligently in silence. "Little boys should be seen 
 and not heard," so he had been told. He would 
 have liked to combat the value of the adage, but its 
 reiteration quelled him. At the end of the meal, 
 however, he was invited to talk. 
 
 "I came home with Sam Bloom. He wants to go 
 to the Grammar School, and his grandfather won't 
 let him." 
 
 "Why?" said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "Can't afford, I suppose," suggested her husband. 
 
 "Willie Benlow's going, and Sam says he ought 
 to go. He doesn't want to go to work." 
 
 "A lot o* boys want to go all right, but they don't 
 want to work," said Mr. Allday, and chuckled until 
 his cough stopped him. 
 
 "Would you like to go to the Grammar School?" 
 said Mr. Merry. 
 
 "I don't know," said John. "I think I should." 
 
 "They get better chances than we ever did, Tom." 
 said Mr. Allday. "I was only eleven when I left 
 school. I can remember the dav as well " 
 
 They understood the pause which followed. They 
 knew the story, one of his favourites; it was one 
 of John's favourites too. Mrs. Allday always
 
 22 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 humoured him ; she had her own worn stories, and 
 by a pleasant little convention they were always 
 enjoyed as new. Mr. Allday explained sometimes 
 to friends, "My father never told more than three 
 stories in his life, to my knowledge, and two of 
 'em were his father's; but I often think of 'em, 
 and enjoy 'em, because he told 'em. A good story 
 is like a top hat: it may go out of fashion, but it'll 
 stand a lot of decent wear." In practice he followed 
 his own maxim, and brought out his team of stories 
 only on feast days. Then always the enjoyment 
 of the day gave zest to the story. 
 
 "He was a clever man, I believe, a very clever 
 man." 
 
 There was no need for elaborate exordium. 
 John understood that his father meant his old 
 schoolmaster. The hearers' pleasure was in greet- 
 ing the prompt arrival of the expected. 
 
 "Very well liked, he was, by the farmers and 
 the gentry round about he was such splendid com- 
 pany. Many a night he'd be invited out, and drop 
 by the side of the hedge on the way home, and 
 somebody get him along. The drink that man could 
 carry was something astonishing, I believe. We 
 lads always knew when he'd had one of his special 
 nights, he was so crabby the next day. Less than 
 a word would set him off " 
 
 The story was safely on its way. John never 
 asked himself why he enjoyed this one so much. 
 It was too great a task for his imagination unaided 
 to understand his father's having been a boy like 
 himself. But the story he understood; he saw his 
 own self acting in it. 
 
 "I never did like geography. We had to come 
 out to the floor, and point to places on the map 
 Europe it was. Many a time I knew, only I couldn't 
 get the place fast enough, and down I went. I 
 went down that time, I tell you, flat, with the
 
 HOME 23 
 
 wooden pointer whacked across my head. He 
 never intended to do it, only for his temper, and 
 the drink hanging on him. I dare say he was as 
 much frightened as I was hurt. It was the blood 
 that frightened me. He sent me out with another 
 boy to wash my head at the pump, 'and then I'll 
 put some plaster on,' he said. But I wouldn't go 
 in again. 'You get my books at playtime,' I said. 
 'If ever I go in there again, I'll murder him.' And 
 I tell you I meant it. I never hated anybody as I 
 hated that old devil." 
 
 John grinned. His mother frowned at him. 
 
 "Off home I went with my books. 'What's the 
 matter ?' said mother. 'I've left,' I said, and I threw 
 my books down and showed her my head. She was 
 for going off at once, only there was father's dinner 
 to get ready. Oh! he was in a fine temper when 
 he came. 'I'll take you back, and make him apolo- 
 gize,' he said. But I wouldn't go back. I meant 
 it. A coach and four couldn't ha' dragged me. 
 Before my father was back from his work at night 
 I'd been up to Jenkins's farm three miles off, and 
 got a job minding cows a pound for six months, 
 and all found. 'You'll get back to school, mind, 
 in the winter months,' my father said. But I knew 
 well I shouldn't. 
 
 "They were putting the line down that year. I 
 used to go and watch the gangs. As soon as my 
 six months was up, and I'd taken my sovereign home 
 to mother safe in my boot, I went off and found 
 the gaffer. 'Do you want a sharp lad, mister?' I 
 said. I'd practised that over and over a hundred 
 times or more. I was that anxious I told a lie about 
 my age. He took me on as a nipper, handing spikes 
 and cushions to the platelayers, and going to the 
 blacksmith's with tools. 
 
 "I never harboured evil against anybody but the 
 one man. 'When I get your size,' I vowed many
 
 2 4 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 a time, as though I'd got him already, 'I'll lay you 
 out over the head just as you did me.' 
 
 "Poor fellow, he was got lying in a ditch half 
 full o' water some tinkers found him. And a 
 clever man, mind you, only for the drink." 
 
 John was enjoying himself, and not content 
 that the story should end here. He wanted full 
 measure now. 
 
 "But you did go to school, father, didn't you?" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "I did, my lad," said his father, delighted at the 
 effect of his story, "in a barn, fifteen of us at the 
 start, a penny a night, and find our own candles, 
 and paper, and ink, and books, and everything. 
 Three winters I had. Mr. Horden let us have the 
 barn and benches for nothing, and old Thomson, 
 the Scotch gardener on Parland's estate, taught us; 
 he'd been a schoolmaster in his younger day, so 
 they said. He was a scholar. He taught us up to 
 long division of money, and counting weights. We 
 used to get the Times to read after the people in 
 the big house had done with it. I bought that 'His- 
 tory of England' through him, so much a week. 
 I know I was a good while paying it off." 
 
 John thought proudly of the row of black leather 
 covered volumes in the parlour bookcase. He 
 looked at the engravings sometimes on wet Sunday 
 afternoons. He knew some of the names from his 
 school lessons. He knew decimals, more than his 
 father had ever learnt; yet there was something 
 splendid in the story of his father's simple educa- 
 tion which roused his pride. 
 
 "Ah, the young folks don't value education 
 nowadays. .They get it too cheap," said Mr. 
 Merry. 
 
 "Is it cheap at the Grammar School?" asked 
 John, with boyish irrelevance. 
 
 Tom Merry laughed.
 
 HOME 25 
 
 "He's got it on his mind, you see." 
 
 "The point is," said Mr. Allday, "if we were to 
 scrape a bit and send him, would he value it?" 
 
 "I should, father!" said John enthusiastically. 
 
 "It's for gentlemen's sons," said his prudent 
 mother. 
 
 "I'm a gentleman," said Mr. Allday. "I pay 
 twenty shillings in the pound." 
 
 He pushed back his chair, and the others rose 
 with him. John glanced at each in turn, but did not 
 venture to say anything. When his father and Mr. 
 Merry had gone to the parlour, he lingered, hoping 
 that he might coax his mother into his own enthu- 
 siasm. She refused to listen, and sent him after 
 the others while she washed up the tea things. 
 
 Mr. Allday did not attempt to smoke again. 
 John listened intently at first, in the hope of hearing 
 another story, but the talk was politics, and then 
 engineering technicalities, and he lost interest. He 
 looked at his prize, turning the pages at haphazard, 
 and reading here and there where a paragraph 
 caught his attention. He was for a moment inter- 
 ested to learn that the great Doctor Livingstone 
 had gone to work in a cotton factory when he was 
 ten years old, and had taught himself Latin in his 
 spare time, and studied natural history. Then he 
 was attracted by the story of Thomas Edward, the 
 naturalist. Into his memory came the picnics and 
 holidays he had enjoyed with his father and mother. 
 At first he had accepted as quite natural that his 
 father should be able to name nearly all the flowers 
 and birds, and find the nests so easily. It had sur- 
 prised him later to find that others didn't know, and 
 in the zest of this esoteric knowledge he had striven 
 for reputation among his playmates. 
 
 The last paragraph stirred him to wonder. 
 
 "He did not make his love for natural history an 
 excuse for neglecting his work. As a shoemaker
 
 26 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 he was both skilful and diligent. His is indeed a 
 noble life, which every boy should read and imitate 
 as far as he can. Few men in any station have done 
 better than Thomas Edward; and in the course of 
 time people came to understand his high character 
 and great ability." 
 
 John did not understand why Thomas Edward 
 was alongside men like Livingstone and Columbus. 
 He suspected the moralizing, and thought of Sam's 
 words: "They always put you off with sayings." 
 
 His thoughts drifted. A few days ago he had 
 believed that after Christmas he would go to w r ork 
 at Binnses. His mother had known the second Mrs. 
 Binns from her cradle, and Old Gentleman Binns 
 always stopped to speak. Now, however, all his 
 ambition was for going to the Grammar School. 
 Vaguely he felt that it might be the threshold of a 
 great career ; its vagueness enhanced it mightily, for 
 near at hand his quiet nature would have shrunk 
 from the sudden thought of change. 
 
 They had supper early. John was allowed to have 
 two slices of cold mutton, and a pickled walnut, 
 on a plate of his own. Truly he was growing up. 
 Afterwards he went out for a while, and met Sam 
 going home. He told all his new aspirations in a 
 burst of confidence, so sure he was of sympathy. 
 Sam's indifference hurt him acutely, and his enthu- 
 siasm waned. Fortunately his pride was roused 
 again by the honour of being invited to go with his 
 father to see Mr. Merry off by the bus to Selbridge. 
 The three of them went into the "Bull" for a fare- 
 well glass; John had shandygaff, and the barmaid 
 chaffed him about the fine head she put on it for 
 him. He blushed. It was good to be growing up 
 to dignity. 
 
 Ten o'clock had struck when they returned. 
 John went straight to bed. He said his prayers 
 without hurrying, but his thoughts slipped away
 
 HOME 27 
 
 from the words. He recollected what Sam had said, 
 doubting prayer, in the afternoon, and he felt that 
 he ought not to think of that. When it refused 
 to be pushed away he fought it with a memory 
 of his own childhood: he had once prayed for an 
 engine as a Christmas present, and sure enough he 
 received one. He did not think how he had prayed 
 at his mother's knee. The recollection pleased him ; 
 it proved well the efficacy of prayer. All this time 
 his lips had shaped the words of his own 
 prayer, and he was at the end. There he hesitated 
 an instant, and then added resolutely: "And, 
 please, I should like to go to the Grammar School. 
 Amen." 
 
 Five minutes afterwards he was sound asleep, 
 without having given another thought to his 
 request. 
 
 Downstairs in the sitting-room his parents 
 stayed to talk over Tom Merry's visit before they 
 went to bed, and their promised few minutes grew 
 towards the hour. 
 
 Mrs. Allday was a cottager's daughter, brought 
 up in the country on the slopes under Selvalley 
 Beacon. Her father had been well off for a labourer, 
 and a lucky chance had brought him to favour 
 with his employer, Mr. Horden. He had carried 
 Miss Horden nearly a mile across the fields when 
 she had been thrown from her pony and had hurt 
 her leg. She was Mrs. Kingsnorton now, married 
 to a prosperous iron merchant, living in a big house 
 on a knoll above the Bristol Road. She called 
 regularly on Mrs. Allday in her parish visits: 
 "Very nice and pleasant quite the lady." Some- 
 times she brought her daughters, and on those 
 days Mrs. Allday was roused to greater admira- 
 tion and garrulity afterwards. "It's nice to see 
 anybody so nice," she explained to friends 
 impressively.
 
 28 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Thomas Allday had met his wife Susan while he 
 was a railway worker. Acquaintance had been 
 very slow in ripening to quiet courtship he was 
 no ladies' man, and she was without guile. Then 
 he had gone to the Selbridge Iron and Steel Com- 
 pany's works, tempted by the high wages to be had. 
 It was heavy work in the rolling mill, working 
 stripped at the furnace, wielding the great tongs, 
 snatching the bars, a-sparkle along the iron floor, 
 to the clanging rolls, and away again, sweating 
 with the labour, and racked by piercing winter 
 draughts. But the money was good. Every week 
 he went to the bank as regularly as he took his 
 pay at the office window. The puddlers made the 
 most money. Many a story was told of their ad- 
 ventures in the great days when the railway first 
 came. "Where's the next train go to? I'll go 
 there." They took their hats to hold their money 
 on pay-day, so went report. The most famous 
 of them was still alive in the Selbridge workhouse. 
 Thomas Allday had sworn by Brunei's broad gauge 
 and his disc and crossbar signals, and was yet con- 
 vinced of his innate superiority. To-night he had 
 to talk of all these things in turn as recollections 
 rose. 
 
 "No," said he, at his wife's suggestion that John 
 might go on the railway. "We might get him 
 into Binnses if he don't go to the Grammar 
 School." 
 
 "We could afford it, couldn't we? There's 
 scholarships," said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "If my boy goes he shall pay," said Mr. Allday 
 proudly. "We'll have no charity." 
 
 "He will go then?" 
 
 "It might do him good." 
 
 "It would be nice to think of him not having to 
 go to work at six o'clock of a morning." 
 
 "Ah. I think we'll let him," said Mr. Allday,
 
 HOME 29 
 
 quietly. "I don't suppose we shall ever regret 
 it." 
 
 He rose to go to bed. His wife went to see that 
 the back door was safe for the night; she always 
 did this now, since his first winter illness. 
 
 When she went upstairs with her candle she 
 paused at John's door. If he were awake she 
 might tell him the good news. Very cautiously she 
 turned the knob, and the candle flame threw a shaft 
 of light across the patchwork quilt, her own work 
 thirty years ago. Her son's breathing rose and fell 
 steadily in the quiet darkness. "Bless the lad, he's 
 asleep," she thought, and smiled as she shut the 
 door again. Her mind saw him still a tiny baby, 
 as he had lain, sleeping innocently in his cot. Her 
 first boy had died before John was born. Fidelity 
 was her husband's claim. Her son now bore all 
 her hopes.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BINNSES 
 
 JOHN always found Saturday to be the most 
 interesting day of the week; it had so 
 much variety. His mother always insisted on 
 his getting up early, so that she might get on 
 with her work; but that was on Friday night, and 
 he generally managed to steal an extra half -hour 
 on the following morning. On rare occasions, 
 if he had a cold, he had breakfast in bed those 
 were memorable days. Dinner was a makeshift, 
 but the day was pay-day, and there would always 
 be something good for tea. In summer they had 
 occasional picnics and fishing excursions. His 
 father was an indifferent angler, but the flowers 
 and birds never failed, nor did mother's store of 
 dainties. Father always made the same joke, 
 wherever they went for tea: he felt faint, and had 
 to have brandy or rum, only a "thimbleful," in his 
 second cup. They came home together in the 
 warm dusk, tired and happy, and slept soundly into 
 Sunday morning. In winter, father sometimes 
 took his old muzzle-loader and had a half-day's 
 shooting, especially when a crisp frost followed 
 snow. John was not often allowed to go, and was 
 all the more eager when opportunity came. He 
 never forgot the first time he was allowed to shoot, 
 creeping with his father behind a hedge, to where 
 
 30
 
 BINNSES 31 
 
 rabbits were sitting out. He had assured his 
 father he knew exactly how to do it; he had had 
 ha'penny shots down the tube galleries at the Pie 
 Fair. But now in his excitement he forgot all his 
 proud knowledge, and all the advice. The gun 
 kicked his triggerhand against his nose, bringing 
 tears and imaginary blood, and a bruise on his 
 shoulder which he exhibited proudly at night to 
 his image in the looking-glass, for the rabbit was 
 killed, its body in the brown stew jar, and its 
 skin hanging on a nail waiting for the rag and bone 
 man. 
 
 His father had lost much of his gaiety since his 
 illness, and Saturday's procedure became more 
 fixed. Dinner was easily prepared, then the biggest 
 saucepan was put on the fire to heat water for 
 father's bath, and clean underclothes decked a 
 chair-back before the fire. Out came the same joke 
 every Saturday: "I see you've got my slippers to 
 warm; it's a sign it's pay-day." He handed all his 
 money to his wife John often wondered how 
 much it was and then received his week's pocket 
 money, "for being a good boy." After dinner he 
 sat by the fire with his jacket off, and smoked, even 
 now a whiff or two, or strolled to and fro in the 
 garden. Then the saucepan was emptied steaming 
 into the bath on the hearthrug, and John was sent 
 out to play. At half-past four his mother had the 
 tea ready, and he was sent upstairs to call his 
 father. When they were first married she would go 
 and wake him with a kiss. She always sent John 
 now. 
 
 The dreadful necessity of being in early from 
 play, the bath on the hearthrug, a clean nightshirt, 
 sausages for Sunday morning breakfast: all these 
 in John's memory were inseparable from thoughts 
 of the week-end. 
 
 This autumn there was a big crop of haws in the
 
 32 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 lanes. "I hope it won't be a hard winter, tor my 
 husband's sake," said Mrs. Allday. The long 
 summer had not taken his cough entirely. 
 
 It was Saturday, the fourth of November. Guy 
 Fawkes celebrations were being held a day early. 
 Mrs. Allday had no thought for these. There had 
 been a damp fog for several days, and she was 
 anxious about her husband's chest. "It's a good 
 job it's Saturday. It will give him the week-end," 
 she declared. There had been a light hoar frost 
 at dawn, and a white mist. By breakfast-time the 
 frost was gone, leaving water drops among the cab- 
 bages, and on the Michaelmas daisies, and hanging 
 from the black twigs of the hedge and the wooden 
 railings. Starlings clucked and whistled quietly in 
 the ash at the end of the gardens, looking like round 
 tree growths, and magnified by the mist. The last 
 nasturtiums were bedraggled, the soil black and 
 sodden. At midday the red face of the sun looked 
 down for a while. 
 
 John was out all the morning at work. Old 
 Gentleman Binns had stopped to speak to Mrs. 
 Allday one Sunday morning after church. John 
 was with her. 
 
 "He's getting a big lad," commented the old 
 gentleman. "You'll have a job to keep him out of 
 mischief, I know. Still at school, isn't he? We 
 could do with a handy lad o' Saturdays. You might 
 send him around, missus. ..." 
 
 So John went to work every Saturday at Binnses. 
 His mother would not even think of opposing the 
 old gentleman's suggestion. His wish was law, not 
 only to her but to the best part of the town. She 
 explained to friends that she was doing it to oblige 
 Mr. Binns. When John went to the Grammar 
 School he would be at school on Saturday morn- 
 ings. He had had an offer of Saturday work from 
 Mr. Peckle, the grocer, but his mother wouldn't
 
 BINNSES 33 
 
 hear of her boy's working like that, at a grocer's. For 
 Old Gentleman Binns it was different, of course. 
 
 When Mr. Binns was young he had received the 
 courtesy title of Gentleman Binns. He was seventy- 
 four years old now, and had become Old Gentle- 
 man Binns, the town's leading citizen, an alderman, 
 twice mayor, and the model of honest gentility. He 
 was not a native ; he had come as a young engineer 
 and had married the daughter of the owner of the 
 Orchard Works, now "Binnses": All descriptions 
 of Wrought Iron Fittings for Gas, Steam and 
 Water. Galvanized Tubes and Fittings. Brass 
 Fittings, Stocks and Dies, etc. Unpretentious and 
 old-fashioned, it was a model works. The old 
 gentleman knew every man on the premises ; all were 
 bound to him by a personal loyalty, and he was 
 always ready to receive the least of them, to listen 
 to any grievance or any suggestion concerning the 
 trade. They made fun of his eccentricities, but 
 they respected him. Many were devoted to him. 
 In the works, and on the magistrates' bench he 
 was a terror to idlers and vagabonds. He had a 
 wonderful memory for faces ; it was his boast that 
 he never forgot one he had once known. 
 He had one son, a general favourite. His wife 
 died soon after the boy was born. When the son 
 grew up and married, he stayed in the big house 
 with his father. He was killed in the hunting- 
 field, and all Pedley Hill was out at his funeral. 
 His widow died, and the old gentleman was left 
 with his grandson alone. At sixty-three years old 
 he married again, choosing a cottager's daughter, 
 and sending her abroad to a convent school for a 
 year before the wedding. She was only twenty- 
 three. It might have been scandalous in another, 
 but Pedley Hill accepted Old Gentleman Binns's 
 choice, and great public festivities marked the 
 wedding. Now he was a widower again. His
 
 34 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 grandson was in London, estranged from the old 
 gentleman, it was believed, and seldom heard of. 
 
 Everybody knew him. In local politics he was 
 a privileged leader, despotic, yet kindly. At 
 seventy-four he still showed all his six feet of 
 height, with no sign of drooping. It was obvious 
 even now that he had been a dandy years ago. His 
 top hat shone; his coat was closely buttoned to 
 his figure; he always wore gloves out of doors, and 
 carried a gold-headed cane. He had a good- 
 humoured, ruddy face, a prominent nose, and white 
 side whiskers; and when he spoke it was in a 
 loud, clear voice, unnecessarily loud, one of his 
 deliberately exaggerated eccentricities. He was 
 still a member of a good club in London. 
 Congratulations and presents poured in for his 
 birthday, and the works celebrated it with a dinner 
 and smoking concert. The town worthies shook 
 their heads and prophesied a poor future for Binnses 
 when he should be gone. 
 
 To-day John came home in high enthusiasm for 
 dinner. 
 
 "The bonfire's laid, with bricks all round, ever so 
 big," he explained, with suitable gestures, to his 
 mother. "I've seen the guy in the time-office, 
 and the fireworks boxes of 'em. Mr. Evans says 
 I can go." 
 
 "You'll have to come straight home," said his 
 mother. 
 
 He didn't like to be reminded of his bath. 
 
 The annual bonfire had been inaugurated by Mr. 
 Binns as a treat for his son and the boy's friends. 
 Later it had been for his grandson. It was held 
 still as a treat for the young folk of all the better 
 famiHes in the district. 
 
 John's father was late in coming for dinner. 
 When at last he arrived he had to stand by the 
 door and fight for breath, gurgling and wheezing
 
 BINNSES 33 
 
 in his windpipe, while his neck and face changed 
 colour to a dark crimson. John was afraid. 
 
 "You'll go straight to bed after your bath," said 
 Mrs. Allday. 
 
 In a moment he recovered, and sat down. 
 
 "I'm all right," he said. "I'm going out." 
 
 She was startled. 
 
 "You won't have your bath, then?" she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Yes, I shall," said he. 
 
 "Not and go out after?" 
 
 "I shall see." 
 
 "Are you mad ?" she exclaimed, horrified. 
 
 "I shall see, I tell you." 
 
 She understood that argument was useless 
 against his obstinacy. Nevertheless, she tried it; 
 she couldn't sit silent. When he rose and took 
 down his gun to examine it, she attacked him 
 passionately: 
 
 "Going shooting with a low, wicked lot o' fellows 
 on a day like this, above all and that cough on 
 you it's suicide. Don't come to me. I shall say, 
 'You deserve all you've got' ..." 
 
 John guessed where his father was going. He 
 was afraid to ask. There was to be a big pigeon- 
 shooting match at the "Heron" to-day, and a sweep- 
 stake, and this evening a big pigeon-pie supper. It 
 was one of the sporting events of the year. 
 
 All the way back to work he thought of the 
 shooting match, and the sport he might have if he 
 were only a little more grown-up. 
 
 Dinnses was the only works of importance in 
 Pedley Hill, and was accepted as an integral part 
 of the town, although it was comparatively of 
 modern growth. The name, Orchard Works, and 
 Orchard Street, told of an orchard which was still 
 within the memory of old men. The present 
 landlord of the "Bull" had married the daughter
 
 36 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of the last tenant of Orchard Farm, before the land 
 had been sold at the breaking-tip of the estate. 
 Fifty years ago the town had not extended on this 
 eastern side. In the private parlour at the "Bull" 
 a lease was still preserved of the Orchard Farm, 
 dated 1804. It was difficult now to believe that 
 it was less than eighty years old, with its guarded 
 privileges of feudalism, its rights of venery and 
 hunting for the landowner, "his followers and 
 retinue, with horses and dogs, at all times of the 
 year, there to hunt, hawk, fish and fowl, at his free 
 will and pleasure, without restraint." 
 
 These things had no interest for John their 
 phraseology repelled him. Binnses as he knew it 
 was a whole country of adventure. His duty 
 was to run errands and make himself useful for the 
 household, to help the donkey-boy, sometimes to 
 drive the donkey and little cart himself. Several 
 times he had been in the big house, and he was 
 able to wander in the gardens, the paddock, and 
 the stables, to steal potatoes from the pigs' store 
 and roast them at the harness-room fire; and on 
 Saturday afternoons he had wonderful adventures 
 alone in the empty works. Before midday all 
 was busy, the boilers hissing quietly, the great 
 flywheel spinning against the whitewashed wall of 
 the fitting-shop. The engine-house was full of the 
 hot smell of grease; John loved to watch the slid- 
 ing rods, and the fussy governors spinning. In the 
 smithy the men sang at their work; the tongs 
 hissed in the water, the breeze fires glowed in the 
 draughts of the bellows; up and down swung 
 the sledges, as though they had no weight at all, 
 and tap, tap, went the fitting-makers' hammers, 
 busily. But in the afternoon the quiet was awe- 
 some, unnatural. Water trickled eerily in the 
 troughs; crickets chirped on the warm hearths 
 The air bore odours from the breeze-loads, from
 
 BINNSES 37 
 
 the rusty iron, the milky galvanizing water, the 
 grease, with an added ^indefinable odour of busy 
 humanity. A' wonderful place in the stillness of 
 Saturday afternoon. 
 
 The regular donkey-boy was ill, and John had to 
 take the donkey and cart alone. Some things had 
 to be delivered at a warehouse in the Bristol Road. 
 John was looking forward to the trip, which was 
 soon magnified to an adventure, with the respon- 
 sibility adding zest to the fine independence of it. 
 When he was summoned to the big house and told 
 by one of the maids that he had to go to Sele 
 House and bring a parcel back, he was exultant in 
 rejoicing, for Sele House was on the other side 
 of the railway line, not far from the "Heron." By 
 fetching a wide curve on his return he might have 
 a few minutes among the pigeon shooters. Better 
 still, he might see them first; dusk would fall very 
 early to-day, and the sport might be over if he 
 waited too long. The rain was falling now in a 
 thin, shifting drizzle of mist, very uncomfortable to 
 those who had no grand sport like pigeon-shooting 
 to see. 
 
 He took the boxes to the warehouse, and soured 
 the watchman's temper with his loud impatience. 
 Then he set off for the "Heron," calling encourage- 
 ment to the donkey, louder and louder as he passed 
 under the railway bridge and came near. The 
 adventure was like a merry sort of truancy. He 
 tickled the donkey into a jerky gallop with the butt 
 of the whip experiments had taught him the 
 futility of whacking. 
 
 The "Heron" was a famous old inn near the 
 river. The railway cut it off from the town, and 
 its custom still depended on its sporting fame won 
 in the cock-fighting days. The walls of the low 
 rooms were decked with pictures of famous pugil- 
 ists, cock-fighters, rabbit coursers, pedestrians,
 
 38 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 ratting dogs, racehorses, jockeys, and personages 
 with similar claims to immortality. All the sporting 
 gentry of the district, prosperous and ragged, made 
 it their resort. Its kitchen still maintained Pedley 
 Hill's high reputation for meat-pies. There was a 
 great pie supper on Pie Fair Saturday, and another 
 on Boxing Day. To-day's sport and supper rivalled 
 those of the other great days. 
 
 John saw the crowd long before he was near 
 enough to see the sport. He heard the shots, but 
 saw no pigeons, and his eagerness grew and grew. 
 A group of loungers laughed at the donkey's gallop, 
 and John grinned merrily at them in return. 
 
 The crowd was assembled in a field beside the 
 river, at the rear of the public-house. It was im- 
 possible to approach near enough with the donkey; 
 nothing was to be seen even by standing on the 
 seat of the cart. John drove beyond the public- 
 house and pulled up in the lane. There was no 
 danger of the donkey's running away; he had left 
 him many a time before; besides, there was nobody 
 about, they were all at the shooting. He stroked 
 the donkey, and told him very emphatically, 
 "Whoa!" Then he gave an unnecessarily 
 stealthy look round, slipped through the thin 
 hedge, and trotted across the field. If anyone 
 asked his business he would say he had come for 
 his father. 
 
 The "Heron" held sparrow shooting matches and 
 sweepstakes every Saturday throughout the season, 
 and often on Saint Monday afternoons, when the 
 workmen generally took a half -holiday. Sparrows 
 were cheap a penny each. A pigeon cost six- 
 pence. The shooters couldn't afford to let a pigeon 
 escape, and fly back home when they had paid 
 sixpence for it. That wouldn't be right. Besides, 
 what about the pigeons for the famous pie supper? 
 Were they to be bought twice over? Certainly
 
 BINNSES 39 
 
 not! The sportsman therefore stood at his mark, 
 just in front of the puller, and on both sides of him 
 in the rear was arranged in an arc the huge con- 
 gregation of his brother sportsmen. "Ready?" 
 . . . "Ah!" . . . "Pull!" Over went the trap, 
 up went the pigeon with a clatter, and the gunner 
 had both barrels at it. If the bird didn't come 
 down with a thud or topple, badly hit, then it 
 was every sportsman's duty to see that it didn't 
 escape. Bang! bang! went the guns, like the fusi- 
 lade of a company of volunteers at rifle practice. 
 Sometimes the bird wouldn't rise when the trap 
 came over. It would stare about, bewildered; if 
 it pecked at the ground there were roars of 
 laughter at its cheek. Stones and lumps of turf 
 were thrown to startle it into flight. Then the 
 gunner had the right to refuse it as a sitter, and 
 demand another bird. All the congregation there- 
 upon advanced to the charge, and blew it to pieces 
 as it rose. Nobody had a helping of pigeon pie 
 without a few pellets included. It was a proud boast 
 that last year there had been seven dozen birds, 
 and only two got away. One of those was fetched 
 down with a broken wing by a man waiting on the 
 other side of the river, and caught after a chase 
 by some boys, who ran away with it. Thus were 
 combined sport and economy with general satisfac- 
 tion, except that of the man who had sold the 
 pigeons and had counted on half a dozen escaping, 
 at least. 
 
 John managed to wriggle into a good position 
 in time to see his father miss his bird in the sweep- 
 stake. A great howl rose from the crowd, and a 
 furious discharge roared from the other guns. 
 The wretched bird turned a somersault, struggled 
 to its balance again, and collapsed hit again. 
 A dog started out to retrieve it. The men took 
 it in turn with their dogs. Only one pigeon had
 
 40 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 got clear away one had been retrieved from the 
 river; to-day was going to see a new record. 
 John enjoyed himself lustily there was so much 
 noise. 
 
 He had no idea of the time. There was always 
 just one more bird to see. When at length an inter- 
 val came, he had a hazy dread that he had stayed 
 longer than he had intended, longer than he ought 
 to have stayed. He trotted back across the 
 field and crawled through the hedge again. The 
 donkey was gone! He had a nasty empty feeling 
 inside, and for an instant he looked round, dazed, 
 asking himself if this were actually the place where 
 he had left the donkey. Then he ran, but stopped 
 after a few yards. Perhaps it wasn't this way the 
 donkey had gone ; so he turned and ran back. Per- 
 haps it wasn't that way. He stopped again, and 
 his nose tingled with starting tears. "Have you 
 seen a donkey, mister?" he asked the first man. But 
 the man had been with his week's pay in the 
 "Heron." 
 
 "Ah, lad, hundreds of 'em in my day. Have you 
 ever seen a dead un?" 
 
 John anxiously explained that he was looking for 
 a live one. 
 
 "Any fool can see a live un! It's the dead uns 
 you never see." 
 
 The last words were bawled at him as he ran 
 away. Several men stood joking before the inn, 
 and they all had seen the donkey go. "Yes down 
 there!" . . . "Run, my lad!" . . . "No, not 
 that way, down there." . . . "Ah!" . . . "No!" 
 . . . John saw they were making a fool of him 
 and he was ready to cry with vexation. If the 
 donkey were lost he would get the sack; he 
 dared not go back without it. If the donkey had 
 run off home alone, he would get the sack too, for 
 certain.
 
 BINNSES 41 
 
 A girl with a blue pinafore was walking quietly 
 along the road. At a second glance John saw she 
 was Maggie Wheatley, and his hopes danced. 
 
 "Yes, I saw some boys driving it up there. I 
 think they turned into the little lane." 
 
 John ran without waiting to thank her. He 
 hesitated for a second at the turning, and then put 
 out all his speed. Beyond a bend, a quarter of a 
 mile away, he came on the donkey, grazing quietly 
 at the hedge-bank. The boys had disappeared. 
 John was near tears again with his relief. He 
 jumped up into the cart, and called to the donkey: 
 "Gee up, laddie!" But the donkey was fractious, 
 from bad treatment, and John had to get down 
 again, and stroke and coax him. More time was 
 wasted. 
 
 Maggie had come up the lane to see. 
 
 "I've found him," cried John triumphantly. 
 "Thanks ! I was in a terrible way." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I thought it looked like Binnses' donkey!" 
 
 She turned with him as he led the donkey 
 back. 
 
 "I've been out nearly all morning with another 
 girl after blackberries," she explained. "I know 
 they're all over, very near. She saw her father 
 and went off. I was talking to Sam Bloom; he 
 went into the 'Heron.' He thinks he's a man 
 now." 
 
 "I'm going to Sele House. Would you like a 
 ride?" said John. 
 
 She jumped up. He sat beside her, and coaxed 
 the donkey into a trot. 
 
 "Like the seaside, isn't it?" said Maggie, enjoy- 
 ing herself. 
 
 "Rhyl," suggested John. 
 
 "I've never seen the seaside," said Maggie, 
 wistfully.
 
 42 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 The maid at Sele House told John that the parcel 
 had been sent; he was too late. 
 
 "I shall tell 'em the donkey was obstinate got 
 frightened, eh?" said John to Maggie. "I'm going 
 back for the bonfire after tea. It's a whopper." 
 
 "Is it near tea-time now?" said Maggie. "I'm 
 hungry. I haven't been home since after break- 
 fast." 
 
 John stopped at the first huckster's shop, told 
 Maggie to wait a minute, and came out with a 
 ha'porth of biscuits wrapped in newspaper. They 
 were his favourite biscuits, the shapes of all the 
 capital letters of the alphabet. E could be eaten 
 into F, and O into C, and there were other games. 
 Maggie accepted them shyly at first, but her hunger 
 was ravenous, and presently John began to regret 
 his generosity. Nevertheless, he forced away his 
 mean thought, and atoned, when Maggie was 
 going. 
 
 "Would you like to come to Binnses' bonfire to- 
 night? If you're there about seven o'clock, outside, 
 I can get you in. You can slip in easy in the dark. 
 It'll be grand." 
 
 "I should like to," said Maggie. "Perhaps mother 
 won't let me out, though. 
 
 "I shan't wait after seven," said John, with 
 dignity. 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 She ran away up the hill, and after a while turned 
 to wave her hand. In that gesture were all her 
 unsaid thanks, all her shy gratitude. John smiled. 
 He had made somebody grateful to him to-day; 
 it was only Maggie Wheatley, but there was a fine 
 satisfaction in his heart. 
 
 His father had not returned when John arrived 
 for tea, and his mother was worried. He said 
 nothing; it would not be wise to say he had 
 been near the "Heron"; his mother would be
 
 BINNSES 43 
 
 vexed, if not angry, he knew, and he dared not 
 risk anything which might lead to his being for- 
 bidden to go to the bonfire. It was ablaze now. 
 He had been present at the lighting ceremony. 
 Old Mr. Evans the coachman and Spence the 
 gardener had taken the guy from the time office, 
 and lifted it solemnly into its place on the fire, while 
 the maids giggled approbation. Then the match had 
 been applied, and the first flames rose crack- 
 ling. To John the ceremony was of the nature of 
 a sacerdotal rite. There was no other bonfire in 
 the district to compare with Binnses'. Thin col- 
 umns of smoke had been rising here and there from 
 backyards since midday, and premature squibs and 
 crackers had been let off by youngsters who 
 couldn't wait. Bands of urchins had paraded the 
 streets in fancy costume, with real guys, and shrill 
 chanting: 
 
 Remember, remember the fifth of November, 
 
 Gunpowder, treason and plot. 
 I know no reason why gunpowder treason 
 
 Should ever be forgot. . . . 
 A penny roll to feed the Pope, 
 A pennorth o' cheese to choke him, 
 A pint o' beer to drink his health, 
 And a faggot o' wood to burn him. . . . 
 
 John had sung the whole twenty lines over and 
 over, last year, in procession, and had fought in a 
 pitched battle with a rival band, to their utter dis- 
 comfiture and the loss of their guy's race. Bat 
 those days were past. He wasn't among the com- 
 mon street-boys now ; he was going to Binnses' bon- 
 fire, among the gentry. 
 
 His mother kept him a long time after tea, 
 and he grew impatient. He had plenty of time, 
 he knew, but his eagerness was beyond control. In 
 thought he called his mother stupid, and accused
 
 44 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 her of keeping him on purpose to annoy him. He 
 could not have understood that she was seeking in 
 his companionship the means to quell her anxiety. 
 When he managed to slip away he ran until he was 
 out of breath. The afternoon's wet mist was rain 
 now. That didn't matter. No rain could put 
 out the great fire at Binnses'. There were tar 
 barrels on it. And in the time-office roman 
 candles and squibs, and baccarappas, and big 
 crackers, and little crackers, lay in rows on the 
 floor and on the table, all ready. One in each hand 
 whoo! whoo! there'd be some fun before nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 The big gates were open. Now and again the 
 flames spurted with a flare, and the whole buildings 
 sprang out yellow from the darkness. Guests were 
 arriving quickly now. John suffered a little dis- 
 appointment ; there was nobody to talk to. He had 
 forgotten that he wouldn't know these boys and 
 girls they were not in his circle of acquaintances. 
 He saw Willie Benlow and his sister; but Willie 
 Benlow scarcely knew him in the street since he 
 went to the Grammar School. The Kingsnorton 
 girls were there, who had been with their mother 
 at the prize-giving in the summer ; they didn't know 
 him. One was a lady quite grown up, of another 
 world than his. He went out to look for Maggie 
 Wheatley, and waited about until he heard that the 
 fireworks were going to start. Then he blamed 
 Maggie for all his disappointment. "Here, young 
 un, you might slip up to the time-office and help," 
 Mr. Evans told him, and he ran away into the dark- 
 ness towards the smithy, obstinately determined not 
 to help. He dared not go further alone; it was so 
 dark and mysterious. The boilers hissed gently 
 near at hand, and bogey noises came out of the 
 night. 
 
 The shriek of the first rocket startled him. It
 
 BINNSES 45 
 
 was as though a fiery sword had torn the darkness, 
 leaving a trail of scintillating shreds. Then the 
 rocket burst with a terrific detonation, scattering 
 a shower of golden sparks. An interval followed; 
 then one after another a shrill company of rockets 
 mounted the heavens, and exploded softly in foun- 
 tains of green stars. The whole world was filled 
 with pallid light. Another series followed, and 
 objects showed in lurid silhouettes as the crimson 
 stars trailed down to earth, and died, leaving the 
 night inky black. 
 
 "What do you think you're doing here?" 
 
 The gruff question gave John a horrid start. 
 When he turned he saw Sam Bloom and Maggie. 
 
 "I thought that would frighten you inside out," 
 said Sam. "You're a nice gentleman, to promise 
 to meet a young lady and take her out for the even- 
 ing, and then run away." 
 
 Maggie giggled. 
 
 "I didn't run away," protested John. "She 
 wasn't there." 
 
 "Well, the least you can do is to get her a few 
 squibs to dry her tears up." 
 
 Sam was greatly changed since the summer. 
 He worked at a drilling machine at Cadby's new 
 foundry, and had now a jocular, off-hand manner, 
 carefully modelled upon that of the best workshop 
 hands. He could smoke, and swear, and talk horse- 
 racing, and calculate odds. John felt instinctively 
 that there was something awry in this sprouting 
 manhood, something missing perhaps he did not 
 know. He had always liked Sam, and he did not 
 attempt to find fault with him. Indeed, he had 
 little opportunity; they saw each other very sel- 
 dom. John's friends were still at school. With 
 Sam it was a point of etiquette not to be seen with 
 a schoolboy. 
 
 John fetched a handful of squibs and three
 
 46 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 roman candles, and for the first time in the evening 
 he began to enjoy himself thoroughly. Maggie kept 
 close to him, and lit her squibs from his. Sam 
 walked up boldly to the fire and lit his at the blaze, 
 despite the fierce heat beating on him. "It's nothing 
 to our smallest furnace," he explained. 
 
 Cheers, and merry laughter, and shrieks of ex- 
 citement filled the air, accompanying the din of the 
 fireworks. Folk at the market in the "Bullen," and 
 in all the district round, even over beyond Nick- 
 ling, glanced at the flare in the sky, and said, "That's 
 Binnses'." Old Gentleman Binns himself was in- 
 doors, watching the fireworks occasionally from a 
 window, and holding a reception of a few of his 
 old friends. 
 
 The fun was nearly at an end, and John was 
 alone. Sam and Maggie had disappeared. The 
 crackers in the guy had exploded and his carcase 
 was hanging in glowing shreds. Two girls were 
 walking slowly to and fro, their glances fixed on 
 the ground, searching for something. 
 
 "It was here somewhere, I'm sure." 
 
 John's curiosity was roused. He looked about 
 near where they were searching, but dared not 
 question them; they were the Kingsnorton girls, 
 beings of another social world. He would have 
 been too self-conscious to talk intelligently, even 
 had they deigned to speak to him. It would be 
 almost impossible to find anything among the dead 
 fireworks scattered, he decided, and presently he 
 wandered away. The fun hadn't lasted long; no 
 fun ever lasted long enough, and somehow he felt 
 it hadn't been so grand as he had hoped. 
 
 Then he saw Sam and Maggie again. 
 
 "Bit o' luck," said Sam. "I've found a silver 
 brooch. 
 
 "I found it," said Maggie. 
 
 "Who picked it up?" demanded Sam.
 
 BINNSES 47 
 
 "That's because you pushed me away." 
 
 "There's a girl lost it," said John. "They're 
 looking for it over there." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "The Miss Kingsnortons." 
 
 "How do you know they've lost this? Did they 
 tell you?" 
 
 "No, but I saw " 
 
 "Very well, then. Find it keeps." 
 
 "But it's theirs, I tell you." 
 
 "It's ours now." 
 
 John was still arguing when Mr. Evans called 
 him: 
 
 "Just have a look round and see if you can find 
 a silver brooch lying about anywhere. Ask if any- 
 body's seen it." 
 
 John was worried. He couldn't tell about Sam 
 and Maggie. He couldn't persuade them they had 
 gone. It was a difficult problem to solve. 
 
 He was pretending to search near the fire when 
 Maggie ran to him. 
 
 "Here it is quick! I snatched it off him," she 
 exclaimed, and ran away. 
 
 John walked to the time-office, and explained to 
 Mr. Evans that he had found the brooch by the 
 fire. 
 
 "I knew it couldn't ha' got far," said Mr. Evans, 
 who was always in the right. 
 
 He wouldn't let John escape, and the boy had to 
 suffer the thanks of both girls and of their parents. 
 The younger, whom her mother called Barbara, 
 said to him, "Thank you very much indeed," and 
 smiled with so much pleasure and dignity that he 
 was acutely impressed, and blushed crimson. Mr. 
 Kingsnorton turned as he was about to go and gave 
 him a shilling, "For your money-box, my lad." 
 Mr. Evans crowned the episode from his store of 
 wisdom: "That's the style, young man. Keep
 
 48 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 honest, mind your p's and q's, and watch your man- 
 ners you're sure to get on." Yet all his wisdom, 
 and even the shilling itself, had not the lasting effect 
 of the little girl's smile and dignity. 
 
 The guy had collapsed and lay a mass of grey 
 ash on the top of the waning fire. Most of the 
 people had gone. John clasped the shilling in his 
 fist, and put his fist in his pocket, and prepared to 
 run home to his mother. 
 
 Sam and Maggie were in the road outside. 
 
 "Have you given the brooch back?" said Sam 
 . . . "Good boy ! Did you think I wanted to steal 
 the blessed thing?" 
 
 "Mr. Kingsnorton gave me a shilling," said John, 
 avoiding the question. 
 
 "Fourpence apiece, Maggie," said Sam gleefully. 
 
 John was startled. 
 
 "Don't take any notice of Sam's nonsense," said 
 Maggie. 
 
 "I will share it, if you like," said John, unwilling, 
 but fearful of appearing mean. 
 
 Maggie pushed Sam back. 
 
 "No, you keep it. It's yours." 
 
 "I don't want your bits o' shillings," declared 
 Sam loftily. "I earn plenty. You won't come to 
 the 'Bull' for a drink, I s'pose, now you've come 
 into a fortune." 
 
 He stalked away. 
 
 "He's jealous," said Maggie, seeing John's hu- 
 miliation. "He thinks he's a man." 
 
 "I don't care!" exclaimed John. It was a hard 
 struggle to disdain. "We've got the shilling, haven't 
 we, and he hasn't." He was hurt by Sam's 
 humour, and suffered the schoolboy's envy of his 
 elder's incipient manhood. The thought of the 
 shilling, however, and the glint of it as he held it to 
 show Maggie brought him triumph, and generosity 
 followed.
 
 BINNSES 49 
 
 "It's yours, really. You found the brooch, I 
 didn't." 
 
 He put the shilling into her hand, and her ringers 
 closed on it before she realized what he was at. 
 Then she tried to give it back, and a merry scuffle 
 followed. He told her, "It's yours," when it 
 dropped to the ground, but she ran after him with 
 it. At last he accepted it again; she gave him no 
 peace. 
 
 They had moved away from the works into 
 Orchard Street, the wrong direction for John. 
 
 "You're going straight home, aren't you?" 
 said he. 
 
 Maggie laughed at him. 
 
 "You are. I know you've got to hurry. It's 
 your bath night." 
 
 "I needn't be in early unless I like," said John, 
 stung in his pride. 
 
 "I'll dare you to come up the hill with me." 
 
 "It's raining," he protested. 
 
 "I told you you were frightened." 
 
 "I aren't!" 
 
 He thought of his mother, waiting for him now, 
 and watching the clock, and he was intensely 
 worried, but not an atom of his trouble must he 
 show before a girl. 
 
 "I'm going round Mount Street," said Maggie. 
 
 He walked with her doggedly. Very soon she 
 had forgotten how she had teased him, and in her 
 own volubility she did not perceive that he had no 
 talk. 
 
 "This time next year I shall be in service," 
 she told him, growing more and more confidential. 
 "Mother says she's going to send me away, 
 get me into a big house somewhere London, 
 perhaps." 
 
 "I shall be at the Grammar School," said John, 
 roused.
 
 5 o LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "You'll be a boy at school. I shall be ever so 
 grown up," she declared enthusiastically. "Mother's 
 got a book in the house the Countess of Some- 
 where I forget her name she was only a poor 
 girl in the country, and went to London. All kinds 
 of rich gentlemen wanted to marry her." 
 
 In her ardour she forgot for the moment that 
 she was talking to a boy. 
 
 "I'm reading 'The Pirates of the Prairie,' 
 Gustave Aimard. That's the kind of book to read," 
 said he. 
 
 "This is a true tale, though," explained Maggie. 
 "It's written by the lady herself. There's one gen- 
 tleman she was very fond of he comes to the 
 cottage when she's a poor girl, and gives her a 
 shilling for a glass of water. He promises to 
 marry her, and they break the shilling in two, and 
 wear it round their necks. When he dies she puts 
 her half on his grave and covers it up, and puts 
 flowers on." 
 
 "She couldn't ha' spent it anyhow. It was 
 wasted," said John. 
 
 Maggie resented his practical view. 
 
 "I shan't tell you any more. You're only making 
 fun." 
 
 "It was wasted," persisted John. "Would you 
 break a good shilling in two?" 
 
 She had to say "No!" 
 
 He put the shilling down the back of her neck, 
 and laughed at her while she tried to shake it 
 down. 
 
 "I'm going home now," she declared at length, 
 and she came close to him. "Do you know what 
 she gave him for his shilling?" 
 
 "No what?" 
 
 To his utter astonishment she put her face up 
 to his. He drew back, startled, and her kiss was 
 placed on the end of his nose. Before he recovered
 
 BINNSES 51 
 
 she was running away up the hill. For a moment 
 he hesitated. Then it was too late to give chase. 
 
 "Good night!" she called out. 
 
 "Goodnight!" said he. 
 
 She laughed merrily, and called "good night" 
 again and again. 
 
 He was at the bottom of the hill when he dis- 
 covered the shilling in his coat pocket. He smiled 
 in all the satisfaction of both generosity and pos- 
 session. There was a queer, uncomfortable sensa- 
 tion at the tip of his nose, and a lightness in him, 
 a joy . . . 
 
 It was a full minute, or more, before he recol- 
 lected that it was his bath night. Then he ran. 
 
 "I thought it was your father at first," said his 
 mother, when he entered the house. 
 
 She had been sitting alone with her anxiety, and 
 the boy's coming relieved her for a while. She 
 forgave his lateness. John perceived nothing of his 
 mother's thoughts. He rejoiced in his having 
 escaped censure, and wondered how much longer he 
 might have stayed out if he had known. 
 
 "It's raining hard now," he told her. 
 
 He was puzzled by her silence. A basin of bread 
 and milk stood on the hob, and a jug of herbs for 
 his father horehound and honey and liquorice, and 
 certain secret herbs bought from an old woman at 
 Nickling, who was supposed to concoct the mixture 
 at the full of the moon, as her grandmother had 
 taught her a famous brew. John's mother put the 
 basin on the table. 
 
 "Get your supper now," she commanded. 
 "You'll have your bath another time. I haven't 
 got the saucepan on." 
 
 John was pleased, but his perplexity marred his 
 pleasure somewhat. Saturday night and no bath, 
 and his mother at home, in good health it was 
 unprecedented. He began to talk about the glories
 
 52 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of the fireworks, but failed in his descriptions his 
 mother was not listening. He was glad to escape 
 upstairs. 
 
 He was in bed before he remembered that he 
 hadn't told his mother about the shilling. All the 
 way home he had rehearsed this story to begin as 
 soon as he entered the house, and catch his mother's 
 interest before she could complain of his being 
 late. 
 
 Presently he heard a sound of coughing in the 
 road, and footsteps passing very slowly by the 
 houses. He thought he recognized his father's 
 cough, though he was not sure, for this was much 
 worse. Then he heard the back door open, and 
 the coughing again in the sitting room. There 
 seemed to be no end of it. Frightened at length, 
 he crept out of bed, and on to the landing at the 
 top of the stairs. His mother was talking. 
 
 "Thomas! Thomas!" he heard her say. It was 
 years since he had heard her call his father 
 "Thomas." When the coughing ceased a while he 
 heard his father's breathing, although the door was 
 shut at the bottom of the stairs. It was cold up 
 here, with bare feet on the oilcloth; John trembled, 
 and in bed again he couldn't get comfortable. 
 Presently his mother and father came up the stairs 
 together. Then his mother went down, and up 
 again, and down; a crackling noise told him there 
 was a fire lit in the bedroom. Except for his 
 father's two short illnesses, there had only been one 
 fire in that grate since they came into the house 
 one winter day when his mother was ill. When his 
 father ceased coughing he lay tormented by the 
 anticipation of his recommencing. Formless terrors 
 stalked in the darkness. 
 
 His father was coughing when he awoke, and he 
 wondered if the coughing had continued all night. 
 His mother came to get him up.
 
 BINNSES 53 
 
 "You'll have to go for the doctor after breakfast," 
 she told him quietly. 
 
 When he was ready to go downstairs he saw that 
 the other door was ajar, and he went on tiptoe 
 across the landing to peep into his father's room. 
 The blind was still down, and the air stuffy. There 
 seemed to be a mountain of clothes on the bed. 
 Then he saw that it was his father, lying face 
 downwards, with his knees doubled under him, and 
 gasping horribly for breath. He always wore a 
 white nightcap since his first serious attack of bron- 
 chitis; now it was awry, and its whiteness made 
 the dark crimson of his neck seem gruesomely un- 
 natural. The air made bubbling and wheezing noises 
 in his chest, and he had to fight for every breath. 
 John felt his throat choking, and a mist of tears 
 blurred his vision as he stole away and waited a 
 while, listening, on the landing before he went down- 
 stairs. 
 
 "Shall I go for the doctor now?" he said. 
 
 "No. You had better have your breakfast first," 
 said his mother. 
 
 He didn't enjoy his sausages. While his mother 
 went upstairs he squeezed his nose with his fingers, 
 and shut his mouth tight, till he couldn't hold his 
 breath another second. Then he tried it again, 
 allowing only a tiny passage for the air, and 
 he wondered how his father could keep alive, 
 fighting for breath, hour after hour. He was 
 frightened. 
 
 Rain had fallen heavily all night. Now the pave- 
 ments were drying, and the warm sunlight glinted 
 on the puddles. The air was still, and filled with 
 all the peace of Sunday morning. A thrush sang 
 a few loud notes, over and over, from the ash. The 
 river bridge looked so clean, it might have been 
 scrubbed in the night. 
 
 Doctor Rubery lived in a bie house near Binnses.
 
 54 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 As John approached, he recollected the bonfire 
 and the shilling. He hadn't told his mother yet. 
 Breakfast was late at the doctor's. The maid's 
 mouth was greasy, and there was a luscious smell 
 of ham frying. John felt vaguely that things had 
 no right to be as usual, when his father was so 
 ill. At home again he helped his mother in the 
 house, both of them working mechanically. The 
 joint of beef had to be cooked before the fire in 
 the kitchen ; it was John's duty to watch that it was 
 kept turning. They had no jack ; a twisted rope of 
 worsted performed the same office, with a skewer 
 through it to wind it up every few moments. 
 The joint must not be allowed to spin too fast, and 
 it had to be basted with the same iron spoon mother 
 used for burning the sugar in the fire to brown 
 the gravy. John loved to stay at home and 
 watch the joint, but to-day it was a monotonous 
 task. 
 
 The doctor came at midday. John listened at the 
 kitchen door while his mother talked, after they had 
 been upstairs. 
 
 "I thought he'd ha' died in the night." 
 
 "Oh, I'll have many a bill out of him yet, never 
 fear." 
 
 The doctor laughed heartily and John re- 
 joiced. 
 
 He was allowed to go upstairs. His father sat 
 propped up, with clean clothes on the bed, and his 
 nightcap on straight. He asked John about the bon- 
 fire, and the joint downstairs, and the boy's gaiety 
 returned. 
 
 He had dinner with his mother in the kitchen, 
 to save trouble, and he told her of the shilling Mr. 
 Kingsnorton had given him. 
 
 "Maggie Wheatley found the brooch really," 
 he explained. 
 
 "You might give her sixpence of it; and you
 
 BINNSES 55 
 
 can put your sixpence in your money-box," advised 
 his mother. 
 
 He was disappointed. It was fair enough to give 
 Maggie half, but putting his own sixpence in a 
 money-box was like throwing it away. 
 
 As soon as dinner was over, and the water hot 
 for washing up the dishes, his mother put the big 
 saucepan on the fire: "For your bath in about an 
 hour's time," she explained. 
 
 "Aren't I going to Sunday school?" objected 
 John. 
 
 "Cleanliness is next to godliness." 
 
 It was the only time she smiled all day. John 
 didn't smile at all. It was a miserable Sunday. 
 Even the big volumes of the History of Eng- 
 land failed to interest him. 
 
 Monday morning was no better. 
 
 "Your father had a very bad night. He's 
 dropped asleep now," said his mother. 
 
 He was glad to escape to school. Maggie Wheat- 
 ley was late, and he had no chance of speaking to 
 her. "If I don't see her, I can't give her anything," 
 he thought, and resolved to keep the whole shilling. 
 The resolve lived until the afternoon, and then he 
 repented after school. Maggie was going away up 
 the hill alone. He couldn't go to her before the 
 other boys, they would torment him for weeks, but 
 he could follow her. 
 
 She had disappeared round the back of the house 
 when he arrived, and he told himself, "I shan't 
 come up again." 
 
 She must have seen him, he understood, for she 
 reappeared lower down the hill. She had run down 
 past the backs of the houses and so come into the 
 street again. 
 
 "Hallo!" she said, calmly. 
 
 He was disconcerted. 
 
 "I thought you'd gone in the house."
 
 56 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "Didn't you want me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm here." 
 
 His embarrassment grew. She wasn't like other 
 girls, shy and giggling, always waiting for the boy 
 to make the talk. He went into a little shop and 
 got two sixpences for his shilling, and she ran to 
 spend hers at once. He had hoped faintly that she 
 would refuse. She shared her nuts and brandy balls 
 with him, a pen'orth of each, and he wasn't even 
 tempted to spend his sixpence. He told her it was 
 for his money-box. 
 
 It was nearly half past five when they parted. 
 
 "I'm going to spend the rest to-night. Shall I?" 
 said Maggie. 
 
 "I don't know," said John. 
 
 "Won't you come out?" 
 
 She tempted a promise from him. 
 
 He was in such good humour that his mother's 
 censure took him unawares. 
 
 "I couldn't help being late," he explained. "I 
 was giving Maggie Wheatley her sixpence." 
 
 "I've got enough without you worrying me. Get 
 your tea. I want to clear away." 
 
 He had no means of understanding that her 
 mood was the result of her own mental disquietude. 
 He thought she was stupidly angry. When tea was 
 over, and the things put away, he was afraid to ask 
 to go out, and he was afraid to go out without 
 asking. His father coughed intermittently upstairs ; 
 and then fell into a doze. His mother darned 
 stockings. He thought of Maggie waiting impa- 
 tiently for him, and eating the sweets herself, and 
 she would be angry, too scorn him, perhaps. His 
 thoughts slid down into a dark gulf of misery. 
 When he asked to go to bed before his usual time 
 his mother thought he was unwell, and threatened 
 him with medicine.
 
 BINNSES 57' 
 
 Maggie Wheatley wouldn't look at him the next 
 day, nor the day after that. He told himself re- 
 sentfully he didn't care, and avoided her. 
 
 At the end of the week the doctor had a long 
 chat with Mrs. Allday. Her husband was out of 
 danger for the present. The future for the patient 
 depended on his taking great care of himself, and 
 staying indoors during the severe weather. 
 "There's many years of life in him, with 
 reasonable care. He won't be able to do any 
 regular work, I'm afraid not this winter, any- 
 how." 
 
 Mrs. Allday explained to John: "I don't suppose 
 we shall starve, even if he never works again. We've 
 got a nice bit put away, thank God; but we shall 
 have to scrape." 
 
 Friends were allowed upstairs to see Mr. All- 
 day, and John found he could play football after 
 school, and come in late for his tea, without his 
 mother's growing irritable. Only one thought 
 troubled him at all, "If father never goes to work 
 again, we shall be ever so poor, and I can't go to 
 the Grammar School." 
 
 His great resolve came on the Sunday after his 
 father came downstairs for the first time. He kept 
 it timidly till after supper, when he said "good 
 night" before going to bed: 
 
 "Please, I don't want to go to the Grammar 
 School. I'd like to go to work and earn some money 
 instead. I could go to Binnses." 
 
 He didn't wait for a reply. His ears tingled as 
 he undressed, and he smiled in a fine glow of pleas- 
 ure which he made no effort to understand. It 
 would be splendid, being grown-up, and working at 
 Binnses. He understood that he was making some 
 sort of sacrifice, but he had no idea of its magnitude ; 
 he only felt the joy of it. 
 
 His father said, "God bless the lad!" and there
 
 58 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 were tears in his eyes. His mother lay awake 
 long after her partner had begun to choke and 
 gurgle in sleep. She didn't wish to sleep yet 
 she wanted to enjoy her happiness in full 
 measure.
 
 SECOND PART 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 THE PIE FAIR 
 
 THE year 1893 was a very good year for The 
 Trade. Every true Briton knows that there 
 is only one trade in the United Kingdom 
 that of the gentry who never refuse a welcome to 
 a stranger with money to spend on ales, beer, 
 wines, and spirits. From New Year's Day onward 
 there was never a public-house without its orator, 
 and never an orator without his argumentative 
 audience, all busily occupied with what is more 
 important than work, and more stimulating than 
 play politics, in which persistence will triumph 
 over mere reason, and thirst over both. Mr. Glad- 
 stone had brought in the great Home Rule Bill. 
 Everybody was for it, or against it, to the death. 
 Some people even understood it, but they gained 
 nothing by that; indeed, they invariably lost their 
 tempers because they couldn't make other people 
 understand it. Various profiles, encased in Mr. 
 Gladstone's famous collars, appeared on school- 
 children's slates, sharing popularity with the im- 
 mortal bogeyman. Sundry horse-races and local 
 affairs demanded attention during the year ; Chicago 
 celebrated its World's Fair; Nansen set out in the 
 "Fram" on his famous attempt to drift across the 
 
 59
 
 60 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Pole, according to Professor Mohn's theory. But 
 these things were no more than mere parochial 
 affairs. The Home Rule Bill was the thing. When 
 September came, and the Lords threw it out, every 
 newspaper struggling for huge circulation said that 
 public feeling was at fever heat. Nothing could 
 have happened more opportune for the success of 
 the Pie Fair. 
 
 For twenty miles round the countryside folk 
 flocked to Pedley Hill for the annual fair. Sel- 
 bridge was a greater town, and threatened soon 
 to swallow Pedley Hill and still feel hungry; yet, 
 despite its greatness, it was not able to boast of a 
 fair anything like so good as its neighbour's. 
 Nobody asked why. It was perfectly natural that 
 it should be so, because it had always been. No 
 reasonable person has any right to inquire the why 
 and wherefore of established custom until it is 
 extinct. 
 
 Nobody else could make pies like those baked 
 in Pedley Hill. The famous steak and kidney pies 
 might be equalled here and there, perhaps, on 
 fortuitous occasions; the pigeon pies might 
 occasionally be equalled; but the pork pies 
 never. No recipe for them had ever been trusted 
 to paper. Even though it might be written, and 
 you might pay pounds and pounds to the thief 
 for only by theft could such a treasure be obtained 
 it wouldn't do you any good. You had to be 
 born in Pedley Hill to make the real pies, and you 
 had to have the pie genius. There was history to 
 prove it. There is history to prove anything, of 
 course, except that better pies have ever been made 
 in Selbridge. King Charles had praised the pies 
 he ate in Pedley Hill. He must have done, for he 
 was a gentleman, and therefore more appreciative 
 of the high art of pie making than any close- 
 cropped Roundhead could be. His actual words
 
 THE PIE FAIR 61 
 
 had not been preserved, unfortunately, but it is 
 well known that he slept in Pecllcy Hill during the 
 opening days of the Great War. Queen Eliza- 
 beth slept once in the town, too. It's a poor 
 town indeed which never bedded one or the other of 
 them. 
 
 Most houses had a long garden, and the garden 
 nearly always had a pigsty at the end. The air 
 was rilled with the most luscious squeals at feeding- 
 time. Pig-killing was a trade in itself, hereditary. 
 Home-cured bacon, lard, brawn, chitterlings, 
 scratchings, sausages, black puddings, pies a good 
 housewife had to be expert in the preparation of all 
 these dainties. Every pig was cut up, each part 
 allotted to its new owner, and gloated over, before 
 it was coaxed gently to the spot where it might sing 
 "good-bye" to its assembled friends. 
 
 The marvellous excellence of the pies was not in 
 the pastry alone, nor in the meat, nor the jelly 
 it was everywhere. You couldn't tell exactly 
 where it was or what it was, and you could no more 
 copy it than you could fit a pair of trousers on a 
 will-o'-the-wisp. The pastry had to be made with 
 boiling water, milk, and lard, in delicately 
 adjusted proportions with the flour, all by instinct; 
 no mechanical weighing would do it. When the 
 meat was packed in layers of fat and lean your 
 troubles were only just beginning; the crust 
 had to be raised. If the temperature went down 
 all the bad language at a Selbridge football match 
 wouldn't help you the pie was ruined. You 
 had to have the dexterity of a juggler, and all the 
 skill of a Pedley Hill cook, and even a little more 
 was needed. Perhaps you had to say a prayer to 
 some benevolent saint perhaps Saint Giles, who 
 brings in the pork season. Nobody knew exactly 
 at least nobody told exactly. 
 
 The Church calendar and the moon fixed the
 
 62 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 old feasts, and the old folk still reckon the Pie Fair 
 in the proper way. As an actual fair it is gone now. 
 The pies aren't so good nowadays. Any of the old 
 people will tell you so. 
 
 The origin of the Pie Fair is lost in the mists of 
 antiquity, as the historians explain, when they 
 are fairly stuck in their investigations. The Fair 
 was originally a great market, and the sideshows 
 which came to be its real attraction came originally 
 because there were the buyers and sellers with 
 money to spend after marketing. Business shrunk 
 to haggling of no importance; the hiring of farm 
 servants ceased; yet the country folk flocked in 
 just as before. Custom dies hard with country 
 people. Every local antiquary has shut himself 
 in his room to wonder over these things, when he 
 might have had more fun on the wooden horses at 
 a penny a round. One indeed, at Pedley Hill 
 though he was a Selbridge man wrote long, 
 unpaid articles in newspapers explaining how it 
 hadn't been a Pie Fair at all, but a Faille Fair, a 
 sort of general harvest grain, and perhaps stock 
 market. He was so proud of himself that he spent 
 the rest of his life in weaving history for the place, 
 and cutting it up into readymade suits. Selbridge 
 accepted his theory, and quoted it in the directory 
 every year. Pedley Hill retorted, "You can't make 
 pies with straw well, perhaps you can," and went 
 on enjoying the Fair the same as ever, until it went 
 out of fashion, killed by modern restlessness, or 
 education, or travel, or something according to your 
 own pet theory. 
 
 It was Pie Monday, and Pedley Hill was on 
 holiday all day. In the great days the Fair had been 
 held in the Bullen and on the waste grounds along 
 Orchard Street. Gingerbread and pie sellers had 
 stalls to-day in the Bullen, but the Fair Ground 
 was on the other side of the railway, adjoining
 
 THE PIE FAIR 63 
 
 the "Heron." The better classes of the district 
 often went away to the seaside at the Fair holiday 
 now, and the workers were following them in 
 increasing numbers every year. The Fair might 
 be a relic of the town's brave forefathers, but it 
 was scarcely a respectable relic. Some blamed other 
 people's forefathers, and some blamed other people 
 direct. The young folk went to the Fair and en- 
 joyed it. 
 
 Maggie Wheatley had come home on Saturday 
 evening, from Gloucestershire, where she was in 
 service. A telegram had announced her mother's 
 illness, and summoned her. Maggie had not been 
 home for five years, and then only for a short 
 stay. During that time she had seen her mother 
 three times, once at her sister's in Yorkshire, and 
 twice at the seaside when she had paid for her 
 mother's holidays. She was doing well now as 
 housemaid, in a very comfortable place, with a 
 chance of going to the Mediterranean in the new 
 year, and as she journeyed home she felt resentfully 
 that her mother had fallen ill at the wrong time. It 
 couldn't be helped, of course, but it was unfortunate 
 and annoying. 
 
 She was what many a man would have called 
 "a fine-looking young woman," of medium height, 
 round of face and of figure, plump now in full rich 
 curves, but threatening to be fat some day. A first 
 glance at her face gave the impression of sleepy 
 good humour, with a hint of inner laughter. Most 
 of the expression was in the eyes grey, with heavy 
 lids and long lashes; their corners seemed to be 
 sunken slightly and filled with lurking shadows. At 
 times, when they opened wide, there was a gleam 
 of something alert below their sleepy calm. Her 
 hair was of dark brown, and inclined to be curly, 
 low over her forehead. Her nose had only just 
 been saved from being a mere knob. It was the
 
 64 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 nose which helped to give the expression its good 
 humour, as well as the dimples at the corners of 
 the lips, which were of a vivid red against the matt 
 complexion. In profile the face was not so attrac- 
 tive; the chin fell away slightly, and the nose 
 struggled to turn up. Maggie was not at all 
 beautiful, but she was in robust health, and graceful. 
 The men always looked at her a second time. 
 
 Her married sister Alice let her in at the front 
 door. Maggie scorned Alice in her inner self, 
 because she was common, and Alice accused her 
 sister of being selfish. Only their mother's illness 
 brought them a common bond of sympathy. 
 Mrs. Wheatley had had a stroke a week ago. Mrs. 
 Onions next door had sent for the elder daughter 
 immediately. Mrs. Wheatley had lost the power 
 of speech, and Mrs. Onions couldn't find Maggie's 
 address. Alice was angry when she came to find 
 that Maggie wrote home so seldom her address 
 couldn't be found. She herself had left a husband 
 and three children in Leeds there would be another 
 baby next year and her life was filled with con- 
 tinual household worries. Maggie had no sympathy 
 for these things, because she never forced herself 
 to understand. Alice should not have got married ; 
 she knew what she could expect. Maggie had 
 avoided everything serious in life up to the 
 present, so that now at home she was uncomfort- 
 able. She was acutely disturbed by her mother's 
 illness; she was sorry for her, though she resented 
 being stirred out of her usual placidity. 
 
 Mrs. Wheatley had always been a dilatory, 
 easygoing woman. Her husband had left her a 
 little money, and she had added sufficiently to 
 her income by occasional dressmaking; she went 
 out to sew at certain big houses in the district. 
 She had been a sewing-maid when she was young, 
 and she had a nice manner, so that she was well
 
 THE PIE FAIR 65 
 
 treated. At times she could be persuaded to lend 
 a hand at house-cleaning and washing, but not 
 often the work was too hard. Her own home 
 was clean, though generally untidy, and Maggie was 
 often late for school. She was like her mother. 
 Alice loved to tidy up when her mother was out, 
 and had no patience with what she called Maggie's 
 laziness. Fate had been unkind to her; she 
 deserved a better lot. She didn't complain. Often 
 she consoled herself with the hope that maybe 
 one of her children would reward her for all her 
 devotion. 
 
 Alice was going back to Leeds to-day. The 
 sisters had tea early before going to the station. 
 They had little to say now, and made conversation 
 with formal remarks on the coming journey. 
 Maggie was glad her sister was going, although she 
 felt that she ought to strive against her thought. 
 Alice's mind was divided between the pleasure of 
 seeing the children again and her fears for her 
 mother. 
 
 "Let me know every day how she is, especially 
 if there's any change," she said. "Doctor Rubery 
 won't say what he thinks. That's why I'm so 
 anxious." 
 
 "Perhaps he doesn't know," suggested Maggie. 
 "Some of these doctors " 
 
 "You'll let me know?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 At length tea was over, and they went upstairs 
 together. The furniture of the room was old 
 and worn, and the wall-paper was faded, but it 
 had memories which always called the girls to 
 reverence. 
 
 "I'm going now, mother," Alice called out. 
 , Mrs. Wheatley's eyes gleamed, and she made 
 a husky sound in her throat, all that she had of 
 speech. She was a pale, faded woman; her youth
 
 66 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 had been her only beauty, and that was gone long 
 ago. 
 
 "You'll be all right. Maggie will look after you. 
 I shall perhaps come over at Christmas if I can 
 manage. 
 
 Her mother's eyes filled with tears. Maggie's 
 emotion seemed to rise into her throat, and she 
 slipped out of the room. 
 
 Alice's eyes were red when she came downstairs. 
 She had nothing to say, and the sisters set out in 
 silence for the station. 
 
 Maggie was glad when she had waved her hand 
 for the last time, and the train was growing to a 
 tiny black square along the line. For several years 
 no serious anxiety had disturbed her, and she was 
 resentful under this sudden agitation. Everybody 
 came to die some day, and mother was like all other 
 folk. She had been ailing for a long time, Maggie 
 knew by her letters. She felt that she ought 
 to have been prepared for this; she ought to have 
 written home oftener. Her mother had been ill 
 and lonely the suffering always turns instinctively 
 to solitude and a letter each week would have 
 given her so much pleasure. Maggie suffered now 
 in contrition. She had been her mother's favourite, 
 yet Alice had shown more love. Maggie was angry 
 with herself now, and unconsciously she turned 
 her anger upon the others also. 
 
 As she mounted the station bridge to cross the 
 line she saw the Fair Ground. The whole district 
 resounded with the din; the ground was filled 
 with people, like a swarm of great ants, quivering 
 in movement. Maggie wondered how many of 
 her old friends were there. She had seen none 
 since she arrived. Yesterday she had been at 
 her mother's bedside nearly all day. The figure 
 of John Allday came before her mind; she hadn't 
 seen him for many years, since they were children.
 
 THE PIE FAIR 67 
 
 She might not recognize him, she thought, and then 
 she assured herself eagerly that she would, for sure. 
 She hadn't seen Sam Bloom for a long time either. 
 He might not be in Pedley Hill now. There were 
 more boys than girls in her gallery of memories. 
 She had found them better companions she was 
 no flirt. For a long time now she had had no 
 companions at all, and had no central interest in 
 life. It was this being abruptly brought face 
 to face with life itself which caused her present 
 humour. 
 
 When she returned, her mother was lying just 
 as they had left her. She shook her pillow, shut 
 the window for her, and gave her a drink, and then 
 sat a while talking of Alice. The shadows deepened 
 in the corners of the room, and came out stealthily. 
 Outside in the deep cutting, a London and North 
 Western train snorted, louder and louder, and then 
 faded softly on the ear. There was no other 
 sound, until the next train came. 
 
 Maggie rose at last. 
 
 "I'm going to the doctor's, mother," she an- 
 nounced. "You'll be all right, won't you? You 
 won't want anything? I shan't hurry. Mrs. 
 Onions is coming in, isn't she?" 
 
 She went down Mount Street. A boy and girl 
 were coming up the hill together, eating ginger- 
 bread out of a paper bag. The boy reminded her 
 of John Allday, and she turned to look at him again, 
 and smiled at her own memories. 
 
 The doctor's surgery had two entrances, one for 
 patients who paid their bills six months or so 
 after their illness, the other for club patients, whom 
 the doctor took, ill and well, at a fixed price, whole- 
 sale. The gentry, that is to say, those who paid 
 their bills, or owed them, were allowed to sit on 
 horse-hair covered chairs in the waiting-room, 
 and look at old copies of magazines. The club
 
 68 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 patients had to perch on wooden benches against 
 a bare wall, bring their own bottles, and take them 
 away with no paper around them. Mrs. Wheatley 
 was a club patient, but Maggie did not go along 
 with the common people. The dispenser intended 
 to tell her that she had come in the wrong way, 
 but he was a young man, and her manner was so 
 impressive that his courage failed him. 
 
 There was no need for her to go home yet. Mrs. 
 Onions would be going in to see her mother. 
 Nothing more could be done for her ; the doctor had 
 said so. Maggie strolled along to the Bullen, and 
 glanced at the stalls. She hadn't tasted gingerbread 
 since she was a girl. Now and again she saw a face 
 she recognized, and she was pleased. One woman 
 stopped her to ask about her mother, and as she 
 was going she said, "You'll be going to have a 
 peep at the Fair, I suppose?" Maggie had not 
 intended to go, but the words filled her with 
 desire. Everybody was at the Fair; it wasn't far 
 away, the hoot of the roundabout engines was quite 
 loud here; she might easily walk round once 
 and come away again. Already it was vividly 
 present through her memories. She couldn't 
 resist. 
 
 In outer show it was exactly as she had 
 imagined it. There were the penny wooden horses 
 galloping round for ever, and the little ones for the 
 children at a ha'penny, and the very little ones, 
 with an old villainous-looking man pushing them 
 round while the mothers held the children on, 
 and solemnly marched round. The usual cocoanut 
 shies, and Aunt Sallys were there, and shooting 
 galleries with balls on water-jets, and clay pipes and 
 bottles to be smashed, and three-card-trick men still 
 thriving in quiet corners. Before the boxing show 
 a black giant was offering four penn'orth of brandy 
 at the "Heron" to anyone brave enough to don a
 
 THE PIE FAIR 69 
 
 pair of blood-stained gloves against him, and a 
 weedy man who looked as though he hadn't room 
 left inside him for four penn'orth of anything was 
 clamouring to fight for love. Painted clowns and 
 fairies who looked as though they had rheumatics 
 in their spare time, were performing in the plat- 
 form before the London Ghost Show, while the 
 Ghost gave the spectators a full two penn'orth of 
 thrill inside. The crowd laughed and chatted, and 
 ate all manner of stuff without nourishment. The 
 children blew noisy trumpets, and cried ; the organs 
 ground out a cacophony of airs. Bells, gongs, and 
 steam-whistles tore the air with sound, and every- 
 where hung the smells of trampled turf and 
 paraffin, sawdust, vinegar, sausages frying, and hot 
 humanity. 
 
 Maggie was disappointed. It was all as she had 
 seen it when she was a girl, yet it was all so dif- 
 ferent. She did not seek to understand that the 
 change was in herself. She had no means of plung- 
 ing into this whirl of merriment now that she was 
 outside it, and looking on, for the first time. 
 
 She was standing bemused when Sam Bloom 
 spoke to her. 
 
 "I don't believe I should have known you, 
 Maggie, if it hadn't been for John here." 
 
 John Allday asked how her mother was. 
 
 "I don't really know," she explained ; "they only 
 sent for me on Saturday. I was taken by sur- 
 prise " 
 
 "How's Maggie?" interrupted Sam. 
 
 "How do I look?" she said, with a touch of her 
 old gaiety. 
 
 "Lovely!" 
 
 She blushed. She had asked for a compliment, 
 but hadn't been ready for Sam's blunt style. 
 
 "You're coming round with us now, aren't you ?" 
 he said.
 
 70 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "I haven't got long." 
 
 "Oh, you won't get off that easy now we've got 
 you, will she, John?" 
 
 She glanced rapidly at each as they walked 
 together. Sam was the same in manhood as he 
 had been a boy, with the same heaviness of feature 
 in repose, the same quick smile, and swagger in his 
 gait. John Allday had changed. His manner was 
 very quiet, and his dress neat. He had a sandy 
 moustache now, and looked older than Sam, who 
 was clean-shaven and boyish. 
 
 "You've grown up a lot," Maggie told him as his 
 glance caught hers. 
 
 "Yes, Maggie," said Sam. "We're men, and be- 
 tween you and me it's a much overrated business. 
 I used to be proud when anybody called me 'my 
 man.' I like 'em to say 'my boy' now." 
 
 "Are you dissatisfied with life?" she asked. 
 
 "No disillusioned." 
 
 "Sam's fun," said John. 
 
 Maggie laughed. She was beginning to enjoy 
 herself. 
 
 Sam insisted on taking them on the wooden 
 horses, and then into the Ghost Show. Then he had 
 to throw at Aunt Sally, whose skirts flew up when 
 she was knocked over, and the girls screamed. Sam 
 couldn't hit her, and grew red in the face and ex- 
 asperated. Maggie tempted John to try, and over 
 went the old lady, with her bare legs in the air, at 
 his first ball. He protested that it was by a bit of 
 luck when Maggie praised his skill, and he chose a 
 rosette for her to wear instead of accepting the 
 cigar the man offered him. Darkness had fallen, 
 and the lamps were all flaring. The best fun of 
 the evening had begun. 
 
 They stood for a moment watching the crush. 
 Near them was a dilapidated show booth, with a 
 gaudy sign above its paraffin flares: THE FATTEST
 
 THE PIE FAIR 71 
 
 LADY ON EARTH ALIVE. A huge painted canvas 
 was covered with a faithless portrait of the lady, a 
 monstrous being in an outrageously indecorous cos- 
 tume, bare arms and shoulders, and a skirt of 
 schoolgirl length, though its width might have 
 suited an elephant on its hind legs. Several 
 gentlemen, including a doctor and a comic-opera 
 general, stood gazing at her legs with expressions 
 which suggested a sort of mental paralysis, although 
 the artist may have intended it to be admiration. 
 A man with a hooked red nose and greasy curls 
 under a top hat stood at the entrance, and slapped 
 the legs of the lady in the picture with a long cane. 
 Behind him a faded young woman in tawdry 
 finery slaved at the wheel of a hand organ, and then 
 came forward with a bell. The crowd seemed so 
 pleased with the fat lady's portrait that they had 
 no desire to see the lady herself. 
 
 While Sam was joking about the lady's propor- 
 tions, two well-dressed young ladies slipped out of 
 the crush and passed the curtains which hung over 
 the entrance. 
 
 "That the Miss Kingsnortons, isn't it?" said 
 Sam. 
 
 "Yes," said John. "I shouldn't have thought they 
 would go in a place like that." 
 
 "Curiosity, my boy, and mischief, because they 
 know their mother would be horrified. Come along, 
 Maggie." 
 
 Sam took Maggie's arm, and drew her forward. 
 John followed them inside. 
 
 The Fat Lady was not so fat as she was painted, 
 and Sam told her so. She admitted that it was hard 
 to live up to reputation, but she declared that she 
 was quite fat enough, and how would he like it? 
 When he wanted to pinch her leg to see if it was 
 real flesh under her red stocking she threatened to 
 knock him down and sit on him. He feigned terror,
 
 72 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 sheltered behind Maggie, and then ran, dragging 
 Maggie with him. 
 
 "It's a swindle. Most of these shows are, of 
 course," he said, when they were outside. 
 
 "Where's John?" said Maggie. 
 
 "I don't know. Wasn't he in front? " said 
 Sam. 
 
 Maggie turned back to look, and was caught in 
 the stream of people. She had some difficulty in 
 pushing her way back to Sam. There was no 
 sign of John anywhere. Sam insisted that it would 
 be useless to go back into the show. They saw the 
 Kingsnorton girls in the crowd, but John had 
 completely disappeared. Maggie lost Sam again, 
 and then lost several valuable moments in finding 
 him. 
 
 "Don't let me lose you," he said, and took her 
 arm. "We shall never find John in this crush. 
 Goodness knows where he's got to, the rascal." 
 
 She gave in to him at last. 
 
 "It's no fault of ours," he explained. "He's lost 
 the fun we haven't. Two's company, Maggie, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 Maggie assented. She was angry with John. 
 From one of Sam's remarks she suspected that he 
 might have had some reason for slipping away. 
 Perhaps he had seen some girl he knew." 
 
 "He couldn't have waited, or we should have seen 
 him, shouldn't we?" she said. 
 
 "It don't look as if he waited," said Sam. 
 
 It was not the answer she wanted. 
 
 The fun was rowdy now. Sam had to fight his 
 way through the crowd where he found himself 
 against the stream, and Maggie found it hard to 
 cling to him. The smell of trampled turf was 
 stronger than ever. In the main ways the dust hung 
 in a golden mist before the flaring lights. Maggie 
 wanted to go home now, but Sam insisted on trying
 
 THE PIE FAIR 73 
 
 to knock Aunt Sally over, and she had to drag him 
 away. At the next stand, where wooden balls had 
 to be thrown into boxes, he managed to win a tiny 
 china dog. 
 
 "Something to remember the Fair by, anyhow," 
 he said when he gave it to Maggie. 
 
 She carried it in her hand, along with a bag of 
 gingerbreads he bought her. 
 
 He insisted on taking her for a glass of wine 
 before she went home. She was disquieted, but she 
 assured herself that she couldn't have refused. The 
 "Heron" was packed with folk, and all the benches 
 outside were filled. They had to go into a marquee 
 which had been erected in the field, and the waiter 
 kept them impatient a long time before he returned 
 with their drinks. Maggie did not enjoy her wine. 
 The air was close, reeking of tobacco and beer 
 fumes, and the odour of turf. 
 
 "I'll see you on your road home," said Sam. 
 
 She was happy again when they set out. 
 
 "Hurrying won't make three minutes' difference," 
 he assured her, and she was content to go at his 
 pace. The wine had flushed her pleasantly. 
 
 The medley of the steam organ's tunes, the 
 whistles, trumpets, shots in the shooting-galleries, 
 all blended into a softened canorous whole behind 
 them. 
 
 The moon was up, in its first quarter, giving a 
 thin clearness to the night, and there was a pure 
 freshness in the air, delightful after the stenches of 
 the Fair. A faint white mist lay on the fields, soft- 
 ening the blackness of the shadows. The lane 
 was quiet; it was too soon for many folk to 
 be returning, and this was not the main way. 
 Here and there pairs of lovers were blotted against 
 the hedge bank, and standing at every gateway. 
 Sam made jokes about them. Maggie wondered if 
 John Allday had come along the lane in this way,
 
 74 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 or if he were still among the crowd and hoping to 
 find her. She had very little to say she was 
 anxious to get home, and her mood influenced Sam. 
 They agreed that the Fair was not quite so big as 
 usual, and not so fine as it had been years ago, 
 when the shows were all wonderful, and the Fat 
 Lady was the fattest lady on earth, and the boxers 
 all world's champions, and the cocoanuts luxuries. 
 They lost their spontaneity in talk, and gradually 
 fell to silence. 
 
 Maggie felt a little thrill when Sam took her 
 arm and put it in his. She forgot her previous 
 uneasiness at being so long away from her mother. 
 Once she glanced up at Sam as he was glancing at 
 her, and they both smiled. This was better than 
 formal conversation. She was comforted by the 
 pressure of his arm. He was a handsome young 
 man, and had left the Fair specially to bring her 
 home. She was proud of that. 
 
 "I'm tired," she said. 
 
 "You've had a hard week-end, of course," he said 
 sympathetically. "I'm sorry your mother's ill. Still, 
 I'm glad it's brought you back." 
 
 He squeezed her arm, and smiled. 
 
 "It's the same old place, you see," he told her, 
 "some of us grown up, and some of the old folks 
 gone, that's all. You have to live like my grand- 
 father to see the great changes. Aren't you glad 
 to see it again?" 
 
 "Yes, it's nice," she said. 
 
 "I'm a restless sort of creature, in my mind," 
 said Sam. "Often I'm as miserable as can be 
 curse everything and everybody. I've been for 
 going abroad two or three times. Yet somehow 
 I don't go. I don't like to leave the place it's 
 friendly. If I went I should be that homesick I 
 couldn't rest; and there's nothing to hold me here, 
 really, only that something in my blood. It's funny.
 
 THE PIE FAIR 75 
 
 John's like that too. We're different in everything 
 else. A fine fellow, John is." 
 
 Maggie liked him for that. 
 
 They passed under the railway and entered the 
 town. Sam chose the quiet ways, and presently they 
 came into Castle Street 
 
 "I'll run up now," said Maggie. 
 
 He clasped her hand. 
 
 "It's 'good night' then, not 'good-bye.' You 
 won't be going away yet, will you?" said he. 
 
 "I don't expect so." 
 
 "That's the style. I hope your mother goes on 
 all right. I shall come up to ask." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 He smiled, and there was a little silence. 
 
 "Good night, Lady Margaret," he said, and before 
 she was aware he swung off his hat, bowed over 
 her hand, and kissed it gallantly. Then he turned 
 and went striding down the hill. She was utterly 
 astonished. It had been so unexpected, so unreal, 
 yet so like Sam. She could never imagine John 
 doing that. 
 
 When he turned she waved her hand to him, and 
 he raised his hat with a gay flourish. Then 
 she went hurrying up the hill, smiling as she 
 went. 
 
 She was approaching the crest, and another 
 moment would see her in the house, when a woman 
 called to her from a doorway: 
 
 "Is that you, Miss Wheatley?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you want me?" said Maggie, impa- 
 tient at the interruption. 
 
 "I thought I'd better tell you as you come up 
 your poor mother's gone!" 
 
 Maggie shrunk, with a sharp physical hurt. 
 
 "Gone?" she repeated. 
 
 "Yes, poor soul very peaceful, though, I 
 believe. Mrs. Onions' girl Sarah ran for the doctor.
 
 76 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 He's just been an' gone, and I must say he was very 
 quick." 
 
 Maggie ran round to the back of the house. The 
 door was open, and Mrs. Onions was talking with 
 two of her daughters and another neighbour in the 
 sitting-room. They ceased abruptly when Maggie 
 entered, and she crossed the room and mounted the 
 stairs without a word being said. Mrs. Onions rose 
 quietly and followed her. 
 
 She was out of breath when she reached the top* 
 and she had to put her hand on the jamb of the 
 door to steady herself. Then she pushed the door 
 and walked in. Before the bed she stopped, 
 as though her limbs had of a sudden become rigid, 
 incapable of movement. She had no tears, no 
 thought; her distress was all within her corpo- 
 real self. 
 
 Mrs. Onions crossed the room and turned up 
 the gas. Mrs. Wheatley always had a candle, 
 for economy, and it was still burning on the chest 
 of drawers, very low in the candlestick now, and 
 flickering. 
 
 "She hasn't stirred, you see," she said gently; 
 "might ha' just fell asleep." 
 
 "I didn't know ! I didn't know !" said Maggie. 
 
 "You couldn't ha' done anything," explained 
 Mrs. Onions, in sympathy. "She passed away, as 
 you might say, imperceptible. I was talking to her, 
 and I saw she looked like dozing. She went very 
 quiet. I felt her go, more than I could say I saw 
 her like a little fluttering wings, you might say. 
 My little Willie went like that peaceful. Good 
 soul, she's safe at rest." 
 
 Maggie's tears came in a flood. Sobbing, she fell 
 on her knees at the bedside. 
 
 "That's right, my dear," said Mrs. Onions, and 
 patted her gently on the shoulder. Then she 
 went downstairs. "She's having a good cry, poor
 
 THE PIE FAIR 77 
 
 dear," she announced to the others. "I like to 
 see 'em having a good cry it's a good sign. She's 
 young, and you can't be old first. I never knew 
 what my mother was worth till I'd got my own 
 children." 
 
 Mrs. Onions was a woman of much experience. 
 She had buried her father and mother, and her 
 husband's father and mother, and three children, 
 and had more tales to tell of christenings and wed- 
 dings and buryings than any other woman at 
 Saint Peter's Mothers' Meetings. She went upstairs 
 again after a while. Maggie was still kneel- 
 ing at the bedside. When Mrs. Onions touched 
 her she rose and suffered herself to be led down- 
 stairs. The two neighbours left her there while 
 they performed the last rites for the dead. Maggie 
 heard their footsteps to and fro. Mrs. Onions' 
 girls had gone home. Bread and butter and cheese 
 were on the table, and there was a glass of milk 
 poured out. Maggie sipped a little, and then 
 began to eat mechanically, until she found that she 
 was hungry. Her gingerbread had been turned out 
 on a plate; she ate some, and her thoughts went 
 to Sam Bloom. Her mother had been dying while 
 she was at the Fair. She shivered, and looked 
 round furtively as though she were guilty of some 
 awful deed, and some one might be watching 
 her. But as yet her sorrow was like a great 
 heaviness upon her, and her thoughts scarcely moved 
 at all. 
 
 The two neighbours came down again. 
 
 "Been eating a bit, my dear?" said Mrs. Onions, 
 kindly. "That's the way. We've done all we can 
 till morning. She's safe with the Almighty now. 
 Ah! that's the great comfort." 
 
 They stayed half an hour, in their kindness 
 keeping Maggie company, and ate all her ginger- 
 bread. She had no interest in their talk, and
 
 78 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 wondered feebly when they would go, that she migHt 
 weep in solitude. 
 
 When they had gone her thoughts seemed to 
 wake from torpor, and held fearsome revelry. 
 She wished she had accepted Mrs. Onions' offer 
 to let the eldest girl sleep with her. It was too 
 late now. A desire came to her to look at her 
 mother again, and although it filled her with dread, 
 she knew that it would drive her upstairs at 
 last. 
 
 She was trembling when she stopped on the 
 landing outside the door. A horrid feeling told her 
 she was not alone the same kind of feeling which 
 had frightened her in the dark when as a child she 
 went down to the cellar or into any other dark 
 place. 
 
 She opened the door; the gas was burning very 
 low, a mere glimmer, and the room was full of 
 shadows. Then she went hurriedly across and 
 turned it up so high that it sang with the pressure. 
 The light gave her courage again. 
 
 Her mother's face had grown softer, and had lost 
 its tired, listless air she looked younger, Maggie 
 thought. She had been fond of her mother, as most 
 children are no more. Now she began to under- 
 stand how much more she might have done to make 
 her mother happy. It was too late to make amends. 
 Nothing nothing could alter the past, no repent- 
 ance could touch it. This thing only was left, this 
 thing she was afraid of; for it was her mother no 
 longer, only a shape. 
 
 She accused herself bitterly. 
 
 Presently the feeling came again that she was 
 not alone. There was some intangible being watch- 
 ing her in the room. She fancied she heard a faint 
 rustling sound. As she strained to listen, she heard 
 her own heart thudding, louder and louder, till the 
 blows filled the room. Then came the rustling
 
 THE PIE FAIR 79 
 
 again behind her. Her heart gave a great leap of 
 terror. She faced about, and at the same instant 
 she understood; the noise was at the window, a 
 moth perhaps, attracted by the light. She pulled 
 up the blind, and opened the window at the bottom. 
 Her legs were tottering, and she had to sit down. 
 The cool air came in, reviving her, and bringing 
 the soft odours of flowers and grass, and the in- 
 definable freshness of September night. Lights 
 twinkled on the little island platform of the station 
 below, and here and there beyond, up to the low 
 shapes of the hills. Stars, in bright multitudes, filled 
 the sky. 
 
 She left the gas low when she went. She had 
 not the courage to leave herself entirely In the dark, 
 and she had also a vague feeling that it wouldn't 
 be right to leave her mother without any light at all. 
 Downstairs she sat in her mother's arm-chair, and 
 slowly her thoughts strayed through her memories, 
 sad pilgrims, with heavy lingering feet. The fire 
 sank to its last feeble glow, dying in a buff mass of 
 ash. Midnight had struck soon after Mrs. Onions 
 went. One o'clock struck while Maggie was still 
 awake. Her eyelids smarted, and little night shivers 
 caught her from time to time. Her thoughts sank 
 in weariness. Slowly her head dropped, and she 
 roused herself with a jerk, but her head drooped 
 again and again, until at last she fell asleep. 
 
 She awoke in the grey of dawn. Her limbs were 
 stiff and cramped, and she was very cold. Wearily 
 she went upstairs to her room, undressed, and got 
 into bed. At eight o'clock, when Mrs. Onions let 
 herself in with the key, she found her sleeping 
 soundly, and slipped away again quietly downstairs 
 without waking her. 
 
 "See what it is to be young !" she said to herself, 
 as she bustled about in preparation for a busy day.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FAT LADY 
 
 JOHN ALLDAY was more attracted by the 
 two young ladies who had slipped hurriedly 
 into the show before him than by the Fat 
 Lady herself on her dais. One glance at her had 
 been enough. While Sam was chaffing her, John 
 stood at the rear and watched Miss Kingsnorton and 
 her sister. They were enjoying themselves merrily, 
 laughing at Sam, and quite unaware that anyone 
 was watching them. 
 
 When Sam ran out in pretended terror, the Fat 
 Lady turned to the rest of her audience. 
 
 "There now, my dears!" she exclaimed in an 
 aggrieved tone. "How would you like to have to 
 stand that sort of thing, come day, go day, God 
 send Sunday?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Miss Kingsnorton. 
 
 "Of course you don't know. None of you know 
 and you don't try to know!" said the Fat Lady, 
 more aggrieved than ever. "You've got the tears 
 in your eyes with sympathy for a dog on three legs, 
 or a tired horse, but never a ha'porth for a poor 
 creature like me. How'd you like it, sitting 'ere 
 exposing your flesh for money? Eh? An' they 
 come complaining I ain't fat enough! Look at 
 them for legs." She lifted her skirts to show the 
 full grandeur of her red stockings. "Feel 'em 
 solid flesh." The girls shrunk away. The Fat Lady 
 
 80
 
 THE FAT LADY 81 
 
 perceived John, and chuckled. "You've had more 
 than your penn'orth, sir," she told him. "I was 
 just agivin' my feelings a bit o' hairing to the young 
 ladies." 
 
 John was embarrassed. Barbara Kingsnorton 
 had stepped back and was at his side; he heard her 
 gurgles of suppressed laughter. Her glance caught 
 his, and her laughter burst out. 
 
 "Ah, my dear, it ain't a laughing matter for me," 
 said the Fat Lady with a mournful gusto which 
 showed that she was getting some sort of enjoy- 
 ment out of the sound of her own woes. "I've got 
 to do this for a living. There's my daughter to 
 keep, and her two babies and her 'usband an' all, 
 the good-for-nothing, idle vagabond he is, an' I 
 don't care if 'e 'ears me say it 'im smoking his 
 cigar at the door there." 
 
 She raised her voice aggressively. 
 
 "I daresay it's hard," said Marian Kingsnorton. 
 
 "Hard, my dear! It's cruel 'ardl Do you 
 believe me, I was as slim as you are when I got 
 married well, very near. I don't know how I 
 come to blow up like this. We had a nice little 
 business, doin' well, an' I kep' it on a good while 
 after my poor husband died a firewood business 
 an' ladies' wardrobe only for my infirmity I got 
 as I couldn't walk about. An' then my daughter 
 Emily took up with this Jew feller; I never could 
 abear him. 'You mark my words,' I says to her 
 many a time, I says, 'he'll Isaac yer afore you've 
 done.' An' I never said a truer word. As soon as 
 ever they were married he started goin' into 'is 
 tantrums. There was me with Isaac on my back, 
 an' his wife, an' the two babies, one after th' other 
 in no time. It was him got me persuaded into this 
 business. What can you do? If I 'ave 'im up 
 in front of the magistrates they laugh at me, an' 
 they just say to 'im, 'Now, Isaac, my lad, you'll
 
 82 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 have to behave better than this.' The ol* fools! 
 The last time I had him up they fined him ten 
 shillings an' costs, an' I had to pay, for the children's 
 sake. He laughed at me. 'How can one man earn 
 enough to feed 'er?' he told 'em, and they laughed 
 an' all. I see 'em as plain as could be. There's Isaac 
 for you!" 
 
 Barbara Kingsnorton looked at John, and smiled. 
 
 "Can't you take your daughter away?" suggested 
 her sister. 
 
 "That's the worst of it, my dear," said the Fat 
 Lady. "She thinks she's fond of him." 
 
 "Can't you run away?" 
 
 The Fat Lady looked down at her legs and 
 smiled. 
 
 "I should look well running, shouldn't I?" she 
 said dolefully. "This ain't th' only show, my 
 dear. There's the cocoanuts that's mine and th' 
 Aunt Sally. It was my idea to dress her so well 
 so as her clothes fly up when she's knocked over. 
 It makes the young folks laugh. Business, my dear. 
 I want the children nicely settled, out o' the 
 show line altogether. If it wasn't for Isaac's 
 carryings-on " 
 
 She broke off suddenly, and asked the girls very 
 eagerly, "What would you do?" 
 
 John caught Barbara Kingsnorton's whisper, 
 "Diet." 
 
 "I should starve myself too thin for this business, 
 and make him work," he suggested. 
 
 The Fat Lady shook her head. 
 
 "No, sonny, not at my time o' life. I couldn't 
 do it. I've got too fond o' my victuals." 
 
 A party of sightseers came into the tent, Isaac 
 leading them and explaining in his best style: 
 
 "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, twenty stone is the 
 lady's weight, as you can test by lifting her any 
 gentleman who cares to try. None of your human
 
 83 
 
 pincushion, stuffed with bran and sawdust real 
 flesh and blood, like your own, only more of it." 
 
 The Fat Lady stood up, and donned her profes- 
 sional smile. 
 
 "Any gentleman like to take me on his knee a 
 minute?" 
 
 Isaac led the laughter discreetly. Barbara Kings- 
 norton smiled to John, and then went after her sister 
 from the tent. 
 
 There was a curtain at the back covering another 
 exit. John pulled it aside, and slipped out. The 
 girls had disappeared in the crowd, and he pushed 
 his way forward some distance, hoping to catch a 
 glimpse of them. Then he recollected Sam and 
 Maggie, and began to return. He thought he saw 
 Maggie's hat, and he went some distance out of his 
 way in pursuit before he discovered his mistake. 
 Back he came again, hurrying. A friend stopped 
 him for several moments. Then he saw the Kings- 
 norton girls again, and he had to watch them awhile. 
 When at length he was by the Fat Lady show 
 neither Sam nor Maggie was to be seen. John was 
 disappointed, and inclined to be annoyed. He knew 
 he had wasted time, but he said they had not waited 
 long enough. 
 
 He walked slowly away, and after a while he saw 
 Miss Kingsnorton and her sister again. They were 
 standing out of the main stream of people, talking 
 to young Benlow Willie Benlow, whom John had 
 known at school, now become William Benlow the 
 musician. "Five feet in height and fifty feet in 
 importance," Sam Bloom called him. Sam would 
 not forgive him for having gone from the Parish 
 Church Schools to the Grammar School, when he 
 had been forced to go to work. Benlow had been 
 studying in London. The whole town had been 
 discreetly reminded from time to time by para- 
 graphs in the local paper. He had already per-
 
 84 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 formed at several provincial concerts, and there 
 were hints of a grand debut in London. His 
 concert at Pedley Hill had become an annual. 
 John had not known him since his schooldays until 
 this year, when they had been reintroduced at 
 Binnses' works' dinner and smoking concert. John 
 had been one of the singers. Willie Benlow had 
 been at home on holiday, and had played the piano 
 "for the workmen to talk to." That was his own 
 expression to John. Actually he had played for the 
 workmen to talk about. It was all advertisement 
 and there was a good fee too, for a young man on 
 holiday. 
 
 John watched the three talking, and when at 
 length Willie Benlow was alone he went up to speak 
 to him, scarcely knowing what he would say, and 
 not expecting any sort of welcome. Vaguely he felt 
 that as Barbara Kingsnorton had just been chatting 
 with young Benlow he would in some way be ap- 
 proaching nearer to her. 
 
 He made a show of jocularity. 
 
 "You haven't come to get inspiration from the 
 Fair music, I suppose?" 
 
 "Hallo, Allday," said Benlow, with good- 
 humoured condescension. "I should have thought 
 you'd be on the roundabouts with your best girl." 
 
 "I see you didn't take the Miss Kingsnortons on," 
 said John. 
 
 "It isn't quite in our line." 
 
 John laughed at the other's dignity. 
 
 "They've been with me seeing the Fattest 
 Lady on earth, if they haven't been on the wooden 
 horses." 
 
 The story gave an excellent excuse for staying to 
 talk. 
 
 "I know Barbara's full of mischief," said Benlow, 
 growing much more friendly now. "I've met her 
 in town occasionally in London, you know."
 
 THE FAT LADY 85 
 
 "She's very clever, isn't she?" said John. "I 
 heard she could make her fortune on the stage if 
 only her parents let her go." 
 
 "She might," said Benlow, and he tapped John 
 lightly on the chest. "There's a good many people 
 might, but, somehow, they don't." 
 
 "It's hard, I suppose?" 
 
 "My dear fellow, it's the devil !" 
 
 His emphasis seemed to exhaust his stock of con- 
 versation. John began to feel that he ought to 
 invent some excuse for going. While he was still 
 hesitating, a girl's voice close by exclaimed, "Here's 
 Willie !" and he saw Benlow's sister with her father 
 and mother. 
 
 "You said you weren't coming round," she said. 
 
 "Oh, I changed my mind," said Willie. "I'm just 
 looking on." 
 
 "We've come to enjoy it," she told him em- 
 phatically. 
 
 John was embarrassed, and wanted to retreat. 
 He was about to slip away when Mr. Benlow spoke 
 to him. 
 
 "Mr. Allday's son, isn't it?" 
 
 John stammered. Willie Benlow introduced him, 
 and they all shook hands. 
 
 "Didn't I meet you at the Grammar School sports 
 in the summer," said Willie's sister?" 
 
 John felt himself blushing. 
 
 "It wasn't me. I wasn't at the Grammar School," 
 he explained. 
 
 "You were going, though, once, weren't you?" 
 said Willie, catching a recollection. 
 
 "Yes, I was; but father was ill and well, I 
 couldn't." 
 
 Mrs. Benlow soothed his humour. 
 
 "I believe I remember your mother telling me. I 
 never see her now, hardly. I never get out, you 
 know. You went to Binnses, didn't you?"
 
 86 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "I'm still there," said John, struggling to pride. 
 
 "I'll tell you where you've seen Mr. Allday, 
 Elsie," said Mr. Benlow to his daughter "at the 
 little church at Nickling. He sang the solo that day 
 Wilkins was to go and was ill." 
 
 "He knew I happened to know it, and sent for 
 me," explained John, delighted. 
 
 "I wasn't there that Sunday," said Elsie Ben- 
 low. 
 
 John was enjoying himself now. Once he 
 wondered if he ought to go, but decided against 
 it; the others seemed pleased that he should stay. 
 He liked Mr. and Mrs. Benlow. There was some- 
 thing homely and hospitable about them which 
 appealed to him. He admired Elsie's frank man- 
 ner, and accepted it as a special graciousness to 
 himself. 
 
 Mr. Benlow was a short, pompous man, with a 
 protuberance upon his figure as though half a 
 plum pudding had been fitted neatly under his waist- 
 coat. He was a painter and decorator, and lived 
 in an old-fashioned house in the Bullen, the 
 house covering his own showroom and several 
 other shops. The yard was at the back, and reached 
 through a covered entry. His wife was shorter 
 than he, and fatter, and very mrwieldy in her move- 
 ments. John liked her instinctively. He did not 
 seek to understand how his liking had grown out 
 of her speaking of his mother as though they were 
 old friends, and her memory of his going to work 
 after his father's illness. It came as a most de- 
 lectable surprise Mrs. Benlow seemed to have been 
 interested in him for a long time. Others might be 
 interested too. His new feeling of importance 
 brought him confidence, and he chatted more 
 freely. 
 
 "The Fair's a grand place when you're 
 youngsters." said Mr. Benlow. "When you begin
 
 THE FAT LADY 87 
 
 to find it rowdy and common, it's as sure as rheu- 
 matism you're getting old." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm an old man, then," said his 
 son. 
 
 "You're a humbug, Willie. Isn't he, Mr. All- 
 day?" said Elsie. 
 
 "You know best," said John, enjoying himself. 
 
 "Come on!" said Mr. Benlow. "Nobody's eaten 
 any gingerbread, or rock, or cocoanuts yet. It isn't 
 the Fair that's changed, it's the young generation, 
 mother." 
 
 They were standing near a tall wooden erection, 
 with a bell at the top. A group of men stood 
 before it, and one after another took a long-handled 
 heavy mallet, gave it a mighty swing, and brought 
 it down with full force on a wooden anvil. Up 
 shot a pointer, soaring towards the top of the scale, 
 then hesitated, stopped, and slid down again, and 
 a dirty-faced man caught it on a pad. Occa- 
 sionally the pointer struck the bell at the top not 
 often. 
 
 "Remember how I won you the pair of gloves, 
 mother?" said Mr. Benlow. 
 
 He looked up at the bell, and swung his arm. 
 
 "I wouldn't try, Joe, now," said Mrs. Benlow. 
 
 "What am I too old ?" He laughed, and pointed 
 with his thumb to Willie. "I can shame that young 
 gentleman yet." 
 
 He punched Willie in the chest, and told him 
 gaily to come along. Then he went to the dirty- 
 faced man and demanded the mallet. 
 
 "Knock the bell right off the top, Mr. Benlow !" 
 said a man in the crowd. 
 
 Mr. Benlow swung the mallet to and fro to free 
 his arms, and then heaved himself for his great 
 effort. 
 
 The pointer climbed reluctantly about half- 
 way up the scale. Mr. Benlow was surprised,
 
 88 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 and resented the proffered encouragement. He 
 took off his coat for the second try and turned 
 back the cuffs of his white shirt. Willie was 
 disgusted. 
 
 The pointer shot up this time, but lost its mo- 
 mentum a long way from the bell. At a third try 
 it climbed higher at a fourth no more than half 
 way. The crowd cheered. Mr. Benlow forgot his 
 disappointment in Willie's discomfiture when he 
 thrust the mallet handle against his chest and invited 
 him to try. 
 
 "Show him how to do it, Allday," said Mr. 
 Benlow. 
 
 John took the mallet. He had used a sledge 
 hammer at the works for fun, and he knew how to 
 swing the mallet. He knew, too, that he was strong. 
 It was not entirely strength which was needed, 
 however; there was a trick in bringing the mallet 
 down. He was anxious, afraid of failure. Quietly 
 he prepared, striving to hide how he put out all 
 his strength, so that the feat would look easy. Mrs. 
 Benlow and Elsie were watching him. 
 
 The pointer flew up to the bell and hit it with a 
 great clang. 
 
 Mr. Benlow patted John on the shoulder, and the 
 crowd applauded. John felt his ears burn. 
 
 "Every man to his own tool," said Willie Benlow. 
 
 John didn't like the tone, but he was pleased with 
 himself, and said nothing in retort. 
 
 "You don't work with hammers that big, do 
 you?" said Mrs. Benlow. 
 
 "No," said John. "I'm a fitter an engineer, you 
 know." 
 
 "I thought " 
 
 John enjoyed himself splendidly. He used the 
 word "splendidly" to express his satisfaction when 
 he met a friend on his way home, and he 
 repeated it to himself afterwards. He thanked
 
 THE FAT LADY 89 
 
 the Fat Lady for all his pleasure. If he had not 
 been to see her, he reminded himself, he wouldn't 
 have seen the Miss Kingsnortons, and then he 
 wouldn't have stopped to speak to Willie Benlow. 
 The Benlows were very nice people very nice. 
 Willie was full of his own conceit, but he couldn't 
 help that; it came from living in London, no 
 doubt he was a musician, and wore his hair 
 long, and he had to be different from other people. 
 His sister was a nice girl. She knew the Miss 
 Kingsnortons well; she had been to school with 
 Barbara, she had told him to-night. He might 
 be introduced to them some day it wasn't 
 impossible. His fancy soared, and he began an 
 imaginary conversation with Miss Benlow and 
 Barbara Kingsnorton, and then chatted with 
 Barbara alone, reminded her of Binnses' bonfire 
 and her silver brooch. This brought his thoughts 
 to Maggie Wheatley and Sam Bloom, but only for 
 an instant. He reacted fragments of his evening, 
 shaping them anew, decking them with pleasant 
 might-have-beens. There was a fine satisfaction 
 in recollecting how he had sent the pointer rushing 
 up to the bell, and in how the others had com- 
 plimented him. He had knocked over Aunt 
 Sally with his first ball when Maggie Wheatley had 
 persuaded him to try; he had enjoyed that, and 
 had believed it due to his own skill, although he had 
 assured her it was luck. Now he did not even 
 remember it. He wished that Barbara Kingsnorton 
 had seen him. with the mallet. Elsie Benlow 
 might tell her. It was absurd, of course, to think 
 so, utterly absurd, and deliciously absurd. John 
 held his head high, and put his walking stick down 
 each time with a prod like Mr. Kingsnorton when 
 he went to church, he thought, when he noticed 
 what he was doing. He held his broad shoulders 
 square, and made the most of his five and a half
 
 90 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 feet of height. John Allday, for the first time in 
 his life, felt that he was as important as the Mayor, 
 and far more interesting. 
 
 He was one of the best fitters at Binnses now, 
 and trusted. Ambition had grown in him very 
 slowly, and he had been quite satisfied with his 
 progress; his wages were good, and his wants 
 modest. Already he had saved a small sum, and 
 had invested it, some in the brick-making business 
 beyond Selbridge, and some in a small scrap-iron 
 yard. His father advised him, and kept an eye on 
 the affairs. John left all the initiative to his father. 
 The old man was still able to get about in fine 
 weather, and had a keen business perception. Dur- 
 ing the years since he had not worked he had man- 
 aged to increase his small capital by careful invest- 
 ments in local affairs which he understood. 
 
 For years John had been to evening classes in 
 Selbridge, first to the ordinary night school, and 
 then to the engineering course at the Technical 
 Institute. He had begun because his father in- 
 sisted, and later he had continued because there 
 was more amusement in the classes than in public- 
 houses and club-rooms. The classes were not 
 particularly interesting in themselves, but there 
 was some definite aim in going. The train journey 
 was pleasant the waiting on the platform, the 
 coming of a locomotive, the travelling. Sel- 
 bridge was a busy city after Pedley Hill. He 
 didn't care for billiards, and his head couldn't 
 stand much beer. He was not a ladies' man, and 
 had never ventured beyond the ordinary flirtations 
 of youth. From what he had seen of his friends 
 it seemed that a young fellow walked out with a 
 girl for a bit of fun, and walked in with her for a 
 bit of supper, and the door closed behind him like 
 the door of a mousetrap. His father kept a store 
 of advice for the society of young folk: "It does
 
 THE FAT LADY 91 
 
 a man good to get married and have a family. 
 It shows him what a young nuisance he was him- 
 self. ... A woman may be very unhappily mar- 
 ried, but she can always boast she isn't an old maid. 
 . . . It's only married folk can be really happy, be- 
 cause they know what worry is." At the works the 
 married men chaffed the bachelors, and the bachelors 
 chaffed the married men ; nobody could be quite sure 
 how much of the others' joking came from imagina- 
 tion, and how much from experience. 
 
 To-night John's thoughts all bowed down before 
 the image of Barbara Kingsnorton. He admired 
 her as he might admire a lovely picture in a gallery, 
 without covetousness or any thought of possession. 
 Like Willie Benlow, she had been in London for 
 several years. She was studying elocution, or 
 art. She was travelling abroad with Mr. Kings- 
 norton's elder brother and his family. These 
 things were spoken of from time to time, without 
 appearing in the paper, like Willie Benlow's astute 
 paragraphs. The Kingsnortons went to London 
 every year in June for a holiday with their relations. 
 Mrs. Wheatley went there to sew, and always had 
 a store of fashion gossip to give her acquaintances 
 when the Kingsnortons had returned. Thus John 
 heard fragments from his mother, who met Mrs. 
 Wheatley occasionally on market days. 
 
 John decided that he would go on Sunday morn- 
 ings to the little church at Nickling; it would be a 
 nice walk on fine days. Mrs. Kingsnorton was in- 
 terested in the little place, and Marian sometimes 
 played the organ for morning service. Barbara 
 would be there sometimes, for sure. John had sung 
 there in the summer one day that George Wilkins 
 was to sing ; he had sent for John at the last minute 
 to take his place. The Kingsnortons were not there 
 that day, but he might get himself asked again, and 
 they would be there.
 
 9 2 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Singing and cycling were John's recreations. 
 He was not a member of the new town bicycle 
 club, though Sam Bloom was. It did not satisfy 
 his idea of recreation to rush in dusty file along 
 the lanes on Saturday afternoons, in extraordinary 
 costume, with buglers in front and rear, and a 
 football to be blown up and kicked in a field 
 adjoining some public-house. He had learnt on a 
 high ordinary which he had bought second-hand, 
 and he had been very proud, coasting down the 
 hills with his legs cocked up over the handle-bars. 
 Now he pottered about on a safety, stopping when 
 he had a mind to watch the scenery, or to gather 
 nosegays of wild flowers to deck his mother's 
 Sunday table. The birds and flowers were always 
 friendly; they always had something to show him, 
 because he stopped to look; they never had any- 
 thing for those who had to be shouted at to have 
 their attention roused. His bicycle was a heavy one, 
 with cushion tyres, not the new-fashioned wind- 
 filled sausages that were becoming all the rage. Sam 
 Bloom had been one of the first to have pneumatic 
 tyres on his machine. John was suspicious of new- 
 fangled things. He sang at the bicycle club's annual 
 dinners to please Sam. 
 
 He had attended music classes at Selbridge 
 Institute as a recreation from his engineering work. 
 For a long time he kept it secret from his friends, 
 for fear they might laugh at him. At the classes 
 he was very shy at first, for the students were mostly 
 young ladies; he never guessed that they liked him 
 for his shyness. His father had been an enthusi- 
 astic member of a glee club in his young days. His 
 mother had no idea of song whatever, but she liked 
 a hymn o' Sundays, especially if she didn't go to 
 evening service. John sat at the harmonium he had 
 bought, and they all sang together. His mother 
 generally complained that the tune was a bit high,
 
 THE FAT LADY 93 
 
 or a bit low, or her throat was a bit husky, but 
 she always said she enjoyed it, and blushed if they 
 praised her singing. She gave them something 
 special for supper afterwards. 
 
 Sam Bloom came sometimes. He always ex- 
 plained he hadn't come to stay, he had only 
 popped in to see how Mr. Allday was, but he 
 always stayed to supper when they asked him. Mr. 
 Allday brought out all his best stories, and Sam 
 never seemed to be conscious of having heard one 
 of them before. John wondered why Sam showed 
 so much liking and respect for his father and 
 mother. Mrs. Allday explained that it was because 
 he had never known father and mother of his own, 
 and had never known what it was to have a good 
 home. John agreed that it might be the true ex- 
 planation he was not sure. He couldn't under- 
 stand life without home, or mother and father. Cer- 
 tain people existed without them, of course, but he 
 made no serious effort to understand them; he 
 had not yet tried to understand himself. It was 
 very pleasant to be alive there was always some- 
 thing to look forward to. Sometimes his father 
 said to him, "Ah, my lad, you don't know you're 
 born." He thought it was one of his father's 
 feeblest jokes. 
 
 A host of stars decked the southern sky before 
 him "the old man with the watering-pot, the fish 
 with glittering scales." John smiled gently to him- 
 self, and his thoughts jigged to a merry vulgar tune 
 picked up at the Fair.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 
 
 JOHN'S father and mother had finished their 
 frugal supper when he arrived, and were en- 
 joying one of those interminable fireside con- 
 versations, where nothing of importance is ever 
 said, and the pleasure is all in the kindly feeling of 
 companionship. 
 
 "You haven't seen Tom Bevan, have you? He's 
 been here after you," said John's father. 
 
 "No what does he want?" 
 
 "They want you in the glee singers," said Mrs. 
 Allday, eager to tell the good news. "Mr. Wilkins 
 has gone to Yorkshire he's got a better job in 
 Middlesborough it is Middlesborough, isn't it, 
 father? He recommended 'em to ask you.'* 
 
 "They look like having a busy season, accord- 
 ing to what Tom Bevan says," said Mr. Allday. 
 "Miss Kingsnorton's doing something with 'em, he 
 didn't say exactly what it was. He'd been up to 
 see her." 
 
 "She wasn't in," said John. "She was with me 
 seeing the Fattest Lady on Earth." 
 
 He laughed at their astonishment, and told them 
 of his evening's adventures. 
 
 They sat up much later than usual, talking about 
 the glee singers, and pushing John gaily up an 
 imaginary social tree. His mother had to relate 
 all her anecdotes of Mrs, Kingsnorton, "Miss 
 
 94
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 95 
 
 Horden as was," and of Mr. and Mrs. Benlow, too. 
 John was interested in them as he had never been 
 before, and his attention so stirred his mother's 
 memory that she recollected several things which 
 John had not previously heard. Her father had 
 sold eggs to Mrs. Benlow's father, and she remem- 
 bered Mr. Benlow when he used to go courting. It 
 was wonderful how she remembered things; John 
 and his father told her so until she blushed with 
 delight. When she didn't exactly remember, she 
 knew what she had been told by somebody who 
 remembered. The details sprouted in all directions, 
 and grew up like mint stems for lustiness. If 
 they hadn't let the fire out through being so enrapt 
 in her stories, and if the nights hadn't begun to 
 have a chill in them, Mr. Allday assured her she 
 might have talked the sun up. Nevertheless, she 
 was awake as fresh as could be at half past five to 
 call John so that he should not lose a quarter at 
 his work. When she recollected that he had not to 
 go till after breakfast it made her extra rest all the 
 more enjoyable. 
 
 The Selvalley Glee Singers were Pedley Hill's 
 especial pride. Selbridge had music classes at 
 its Institute, and big concerts, the biggest organ 
 for miles round, the best organist, the best brass 
 band. Selbridge had a choral society which sang 
 Handel, and Haydn, and Mendelssohn, and other 
 great foreigners, but Selbridge had no glee singers 
 like those in Pedley Hill to sing the gems of Doctor 
 Cooke, Webbe, Sir Henry Bishop, and the other 
 great English glee writers. Therefore, Selbridge 
 was just a big, sprung-up place, conceited about 
 nothing. Pedley Hill was old and conservative, 
 respectful of traditions, and now in a swiftly 
 moving age was struggling doggedly some said 
 absurdly to press back the invading host of 
 progress, or decadence, or newfangled fashions,
 
 96 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 or whatever the orators liked to call the new wine 
 which was bursting the old bottles. Pedley Hill 
 enthusiasts stated rightly that glee singing was 
 as truly English as the great anthems, and was 
 becoming a lost art, alas! in a country where 
 musical art was w r eak, because the people ran after 
 strange gods; and it was all true, but nobody 
 listened except the enthusiasts, who only listened 
 to one another. Selbridge grew more modern 
 and aggressive every year. Its football team 
 attracted half Pedley Hill on winter Saturday 
 afternoons, it was so good. That, however, did not 
 prove much in Selbridge's favour. None of the 
 players belonged to the place, and the limited com- 
 pany which hired them didn't pay a dividend. The 
 Selvalley Glee Singers were Pedley Hill men, who 
 sang for the love of it, working men, some of them, 
 upon whom a social prestige was conferred by their 
 art. They had sung part-songs in Welsh compe- 
 titions, and would have won prizes if there had not 
 been so many Welsh singers against them. It wasn't 
 of any use trying to beat Welsh singers in Wales ; 
 a man might as well try to look dignified in a 
 donkey-cart. 
 
 Binnses was the last works in the district to keep 
 the old Pie Fair holiday, and even at Binnses it 
 had shrunk from a w T eek to a single day. A few 
 men would come in after breakfast on the Tuesday 
 morning, and most of them would knock off at mid- 
 day. A few would stroll as far as the works' gates 
 to look at them, as a schoolboy delights to see the 
 empty schoolyard in the holidays. All the steady 
 men would be in on Wednesday. 
 
 John woke early, from habit; the daylight was 
 peeping in beside the blind. Then he dozed 
 again, enjoying a drowsy content, his thoughts 
 lingering still in the land where no shape is clear, 
 and reality is not real enough. He was going to
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 97 
 
 be one of the Selvalley Glee Singers he had 
 no fear that he might fail when he came to trial. 
 He would see Tom Bevan to-night, for sure; that 
 meant concerts, social position oh! wonderful 
 things. 
 
 The bacon was frizzling in the Dutch oven when 
 he went downstairs, and the whole place was filled 
 with the rich smell of it. John lit his pipe after 
 breakfast, and strolled out to work, like a gentle- 
 man going for his health after the streets had been 
 well aired. He did not know that his mother went 
 to the front window to watch him pass, because 
 she was so proud of him and happy this morning. 
 At the works the holiday was still in the air no 
 serious work was done. One of the men asked John 
 if he had fallen in love, he was so merry, singing 
 away to himself. 
 
 When he went home for dinner his mother's news 
 caught him like a sharp pain. 
 
 "Have you heard Mrs. Wheatley is dead?" 
 
 "What, Maggie Wheatley's mother?" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes; she died last night. You knew she had 
 had a stroke. It was you told me, wasn't it?" 
 
 "I saw Maggie last night at the Fair. I was talk- 
 ing to her." 
 
 "Last night?" said Mrs. Allday, horrified. 
 "Why, her mother died before nine o'clock. She's 
 a fine sort of daughter, only just home, and out at 
 the Fair while her mother was dying." 
 
 John was roused. 
 
 "No, it won't do to say that about her, mother. 
 She didn't know how ill her mother was; she 
 couldn't have known. Maggie isn't like that." 
 
 "You didn't tell me last night you'd seen her." 
 
 "Didn't I ? I forgot. She was with Sam Bloom 
 well, we met her.' 
 
 John was uneasy. For a moment he was attacked
 
 98 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 by self-reproach. His thoughts had so neglected 
 Maggie that he had not even remembered to tell 
 his mother that he had met her. And then came 
 awe. While he was enjoying himself at the Fair, 
 Maggie had gone home to find her mother dead. 
 He had thought of death; he had heard often of 
 people dying, but these things had kept afar off. 
 Now, of a sudden, death had come very close, 
 almost touching him, rousing something in him 
 which had slept. He was disquieted. All his morn- 
 ing gaiety was gone. 
 
 "Somebody ought to write the poor girl a letter 
 of condolence," said Mrs. Allday, as they were 
 finishing dinner. "I don't feel equal to going up 
 and seeing her. I knew her poor mother so 
 well." 
 
 "Yes, there ought to be one sent," said Mr. All- 
 day. "You might do it, John. You were with 
 Maggie last night, and she'd think more of it, per- 
 haps, coming from you." 
 
 John shrank from the task. 
 
 "Do you think I ought to?" 
 
 "Yes," said his mother. "To-night will do." 
 
 "All right," said John, reluctantly. 
 
 He dreaded the ordeal of writing the letter, and 
 the procrastination gave him no aid. As he went 
 to work he told himself several times that it was 
 his duty to write. Memories troubled him the day 
 when he had lost the donkey, and Maggie had found 
 Barbara Kingsnorton's brooch at the bonfire, the 
 rendezvous he hadn't kept with Maggie, and meet- 
 ings afterwards, when they were growing up. He 
 was sorry for Maggie ; his imagination pictured her 
 last night, sitting alone in the house, in the sitting- 
 room, perhaps, and the dead upstairs, in the silence 
 for ever and ever. His thoughts seemed to be in 
 his throat, and tingling below his blurred eyes. He 
 had to swallow hard,
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 99 
 
 He was glad to be at the works again, busy 
 among the men. Gradually his sadness rose from 
 him, and he sang softly to himself, choosing senti- 
 mental ditties. 
 
 Four o'clock came. The few men left in the 
 fitting-shop were only hanging on till five, so that 
 the sound of the door banging, and the timekeeper's 
 entry, attracted every one's attention. 
 
 "Allday, you're wanted up at th' 'ouse!" 
 
 John was astonished. 
 
 "Old Gentleman Binns has sent down for you. 
 They're awaiting for you in the drorin'-room 
 afternoon tea introjooce you to the ladies. It's 
 right, my lad." 
 
 The men laughed. John felt himself blushing. 
 What could he be wanted for up at the house? It 
 would be at the office if it was about his work. 
 While he was putting on his coat he wondered if 
 the glee singers had anything to do with the sudden 
 order. When he asked again, the timekeeper 
 laughed and suggested an offer of partnership, or an 
 offer of marriage, and the men added rough jokes. 
 John hurried away from them. 
 
 To his increasing astonishment, a maid showed 
 him into the drawing-room. Old Gentleman Binns 
 was there, in his easy chair, with Miss Kingsnorton 
 and her sister on the other side of the hearth. John 
 stood hesitating at the door. 
 
 "Come in, Allday," said the old gentleman. 
 "Miss Kingsnorton has come to see me about 
 you." 
 
 John blushed, and felt utterly miserable, but he 
 did not call it misery afterwards. He understood 
 vaguely that Miss Kingsnorton had seen Mr. 
 Bevan, and that now he was accepted as a valuable 
 member of the glee party. Then his pride stirred. 
 
 "I called and saw your mother this afternoon," 
 she explained. "We were coming along, so I
 
 ioo LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 thought I might see you at once. We're having a 
 rehearsal to-night at home, and we want the full 
 glee party. We're having a town concert in Decem- 
 ber, you know. My sister is going to help. Mr. 
 Benlow has written a kind of toy opera I've 
 written it for his music. We want to give that 
 and well, it'll be something quite new." 
 
 John caught a glimpse of Barbara. She was 
 smiling, he thought, ever such a little smile, and he 
 wondered if she were thinking of the Fat Lady. 
 Surely she recognized him. He was quite cool now, 
 in thought; only a little fluttering remained of all 
 his agitation. 
 
 He told the men w r hen he went back that Old 
 Gentleman Binns wanted him to marry his eldest 
 daughter. The men thought it was an excellent 
 joke. 
 
 His mother had been up to High Street and 
 had bought a pork pie for his tea, she was so 
 elated. 
 
 "They were very nice," she explained about her 
 visitors, "sat themselves down and chatted just 
 like their mother when she was a girl, I told them. 
 A lucky thing it wasn't my wash week! I don't 
 know what I should have done." 
 
 She made John describe twice over the interview 
 in Old Gentleman Binnses' drawing-room. 
 
 "I don't believe she recognized me being in the 
 show with 'em last night," said John. "Her sister 
 did, I think. I fancy her eye twinkled." 
 
 "Yes, Barbara did," his mother assured him. 
 "She recognized your photograph. I told her as 
 you'd seen her, and she laughed. Marion told me, 
 'You know, Mrs. Allday, it was an education to 
 me. I hadn't really thought as these people were 
 human.' Oh, she enjoyed it. That's what I 
 like about her she's so nice nothing sprung-up 
 about her."
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 101 
 
 John was exultantly happy. When his father 
 reminded him that he had to write the letter of 
 condolence to Maggie Wheatley, he was annoyed, 
 and he put it off until after he had washed and 
 changed for going to the rehearsal. The thought 
 of it disturbed his pleasure. 
 
 "I don't like this job. You never know what to 
 say," he complained. 
 
 He spoilt the first sheet of paper, and his mother 
 warned him that she hadn't much more. So he had 
 to straighten out the spoilt sheet, which he had 
 crushed into a ball, and make a rough draft to copy 
 from. 
 
 "I should say you wished to express your sym- 
 pathies," said his father "our sympathies would be 
 better in her affliction, and we trust, sincerely will 
 do, that she will be strengthened to bear this dark 
 and mysterious dispensation of Providence. It's a 
 nice way of putting it. I always put that." 
 
 "Yes, yes I'd forgotten that," said John, 
 eagerly. 
 
 His father and mother read it when it was com- 
 pleted, and decided that it would do very nicely. 
 When the letter was sealed and stamped, John felt 
 that an unpleasant load had been taken off his 
 mind. 
 
 He posted the letter at the Toll, and fifty yards 
 beyond the pillar he had forgotten it. 
 
 The Kingsnortons' house, Ridgeway, stood 
 against the slope of a knoll overlooking the Bristol 
 Road where the road swung away to Nickling and 
 the funnel of the Sele valley. It was very imposing 
 for its size, which was not great. An avenue of 
 tall hollies led to it, curving to make a long ap- 
 proach over a short patch of ground. The house 
 itself was planned on a sort of terrace before the 
 slope curled up to the summit of the hill. There 
 were flower and kitchen gardens, and a strip of
 
 102 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 meadow for the two horses, and for the Hens to 
 stray down. Mr. Kingsnorton had driven tandem 
 when he was younger, and had ridden to hounds. 
 He had once been second in a point-to-point steeple- 
 chase "two runners, of course," was the local way 
 of ending the statement. He was a bluff, hearty, 
 whiskered man, who smoked cigars after breakfast 
 and drank brandy before going to bed. "A gen- 
 tleman of the old school," said those who liked him. 
 "A bombastic, obstinate old tory," said those who 
 didn't. 
 
 Mrs. Kingsnorton was a little woman with a 
 pleasing, ugly face, dominated by a large aquiline 
 nose, the only possession of all the inheritance 
 which her great-grandfather had not been able 
 to sell for ready money. She was a lady, a born 
 lady, so she didn't need to tell anybody her 
 eccentricities were accomplishments. She gave 
 generously to charities "not to feed secretaries," 
 she explained to friends to her own charities, 
 where administration cost nothing. The poor suf- 
 fered her to browbeat them with the greatest gusto. 
 The hens were her own pets, and she sold their 
 eggs at the highest rates in the district for cash, 
 and boasted of how she made them pay. She was 
 interested in the little mission church at Nick- 
 ling, though she didn't often go. She told the vicar 
 publicly that she liked to keep her church-going 
 among her pleasures, and not let it become a mere 
 habit. 
 
 Barbara resembled her mother. She had the 
 famous nose, which now had become more delicate, 
 though still pronounced, and giving the features an 
 expression of pride, almost of disdain. The eyes 
 were grey, with long lashes; and sometimes when 
 she was seated she seemed to have her eyes nearly 
 closed, as though she were musing, and in this 
 mood her mouth drooped slightly at the corners,
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 103 
 
 adding a greater coldness to her pride. When 
 she was roused her eyes opened wide, and her lips 
 parted. Her laughter was merry, mischievous even. 
 Her hair was very abundant, brown and shining. 
 John Allday always thought her tall, although his 
 impression was gained rather from the slim 
 gracefulness of her figure than from her actual 
 height. Her mother would sometimes explain to 
 confidential friends that Barbara had always been 
 delicate, and had been spoilt. She was eight years 
 younger than her sister Marian. "The more you 
 get, and the more easily you get it, in this world, 
 the more difficult you are to satisfy, I think," was 
 always her mother's explanation in her defence. 
 Barbara was her mother's favourite. Perhaps her 
 mother, in excusing Barbara, was only excusing her 
 inner self. Perhaps it was all due to Barbara's 
 having inherited the famous nose. To John she was 
 the perfect embodiment of that sensitive aristocracy 
 upon which no Englishman can gaze without re- 
 spect, or without that scorn which is respect per- 
 verted. John, of course, had no experience to make 
 him critical. He did not guess that her high dis- 
 dain went with shyness, as it often does. Few 
 guessed that. But he knew and rejoiced that she 
 could laugh as merrily as he. To his new fervid 
 imagination the knowledge was like a secret shared 
 between them. 
 
 When he arrived he was shown into a room which 
 Miss Kingsnorton called "our den," a room wonder- 
 fully crowded with books, pictures, papers, writing 
 things, far more than John had time to notice. She 
 told him she had forgotten she had asked him to 
 come half an hour before the time arranged for the 
 arrival of the glee party. "It doesn't matter, you 
 know. You can help us, perhaps," she said, and 
 her charm banished John's embarrassment. 
 
 Marian was said to resemble her father, because
 
 104 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 she hadn't her mother's nose. At a little distance, 
 in certain lights her features had a harmonious 
 balance which attained to beauty; a close examina- 
 tion showed them to be rather coarse. She was 
 very good-natured, and much more popular than 
 Barbara. Her mother's poor liked her to visit 
 them, because she listened so well to their inter- 
 minable woes. There, indeed, was the secret of her 
 popularity her sympathy seemed to be inex- 
 haustible. She was always spoken of as "a very 
 clever young lady." She had had poems printed 
 in magazines, she sketched, sang a little, played 
 the organ sometimes at the little church, and was 
 famous in the district as an organizer of enter- 
 tainments. 
 
 She took John into the drawing-room. Barbara 
 and her mother and father were there, and Willie 
 Benlow with his sister Elsie. John had not to 
 strain at making talk; all seemed ready to help 
 him. 
 
 "You're audience with me now, Mr. Allday," said 
 Elsie Benlow. "That's always my part. Oh, I'm 
 a good audience. I can keep awake through any- 
 thing." 
 
 To John, Barbara was beautiful Elsie Benlow 
 was nice. He liked Elsie and enjoyed talking to 
 her, even permitting himself the flattery that she 
 seemed to enjoy his talking. She had light brown 
 hair, rather wavy. Her eyes were blue, and John 
 found that she had a way of opening them wide 
 and smiling, which pleased him immensely. She 
 was short, like her mother, and plump; she would 
 probably grow very stout. When she spoke she 
 had to look up to John. He liked that, for it had 
 been one of his secret worries in earliest manhood 
 that he couldn't pass five and a half feet. He did 
 not seek to understand Elsie's charm ; she seemed to 
 have a way of placing him at his ease, and making
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 105 
 
 him feel some of his own importance a manner 
 not so fine as Barbara Kingsnorton's gracious dig- 
 nity, but exceedingly pleasant. He would have laid 
 all his treasures devoutly at Barbara's feet; to Elsie 
 he would have shown them so that she might admire 
 them with him. 
 
 He was sorry when the glee singers arrived and 
 the serious business of the evening began. 
 
 Refreshments were served before they left. 
 John had wine. He could have ale in any tavern, 
 or at the works, where they sent the boys out for 
 it in stone jars, especially in the hot weather. Mr. 
 Kingsnorton gave him a cigar, and he lit it at once, 
 as Mr. Kingsnorton did his, although it was a for- 
 midable torpedo of a cigar, which threatened to 
 grow stronger and stronger as it shortened. The 
 other men put theirs in their waistcoat pockets to 
 keep for Sunday, except Tom Bevan. They would 
 probably smoke half, and cut the rest up for their 
 pipes, as the foremen did with the cigars Old Gentle- 
 man Binns gave them. 
 
 The men rose to go at last. Tom Bevan stayed 
 behind for several moments, talking to Miss 
 Kingsnorton, and John stayed with him, for Miss 
 Kingsnorton had asked his advice. When they were 
 outside together the others were standing in a 
 little group in the shadows of the drive. John had 
 descended the steps after Tom Bevan when Elsie 
 Benlow called after him: 
 
 "Is Willie there, Mr. Allday?" 
 
 John turned. 
 
 "I don't know. I don't think so." 
 
 "What a nuisance! I've hurried ever so." 
 
 John hesitated. He did not know whether to stay 
 with her or join the other men. 
 
 "He may be in front," he suggested, and moved 
 towards the drive. "Shall I see?" 
 
 "No!" said Elsie, emphatically. "He knows
 
 106 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 his way home. We'll walk slowly. He may be 
 indoors yet." 
 
 She came down the steps, and walked at John's 
 side. 
 
 "You know, Mr. Allday, I'm a dreadful person," 
 she said gaily. "I feel well, I could enjoy a 
 merry-go-round at the Fair after all this. My feet 
 have both been asleep, one after the other." 
 
 They stopped by the gate. The men saw that 
 John was with Miss Benlow, and went on. Willie 
 Benlow came down the drive, and the three of 
 them walked down to the Bristol Road. John began 
 to feel awkward, but Elsie kept the conversation 
 from lapsing, and saved him from confusion. When 
 he had said "good night" at the Toll, he repeated 
 to himself several times that she was very nice. All 
 his worship was at another shrine. 
 
 His father had gone to bed, and his mother was 
 sitting close up to the dying fire. 
 
 "I thought you wouldn't be very late," she said. 
 "How did you get on?" 
 
 "Splendid! Splendid! They were as nice with 
 me, I might have been one of themselves, almost 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kingsnorton, all of 'em. Yes, mother, 
 I'm one of the Selvalley Glee Singers your son, 
 John Allday." 
 
 He made her a bow, as before a concert audience, 
 and then danced a shuffle on the oilcloth. His 
 mother's eyes were moist as she smiled proudly at 
 his gaiety. 
 
 He talked all the time he ate the supper she had 
 kept for him. The fire was nearly out when at last 
 he went to see that all was safe for the night. 
 
 "Your father went to bed early," she told him. 
 "Before you came in I was sitting thinking about 
 poor Maggie Wheatley her mother gone, poor 
 soul, and her in the house alone. It isn't so bad in 
 the daytime, there's something to do all the
 
 THE GLEE SINGERS 107 
 
 while, but at night I know when my poor mother 
 
 died " 
 
 She shook her head. John felt something start 
 in his interior. When he kissed his mother "good 
 night," a ceremony only observed on great occasions, 
 he suffered a keen emotion. Upstairs in the quiet 
 of his little bedroom it became an impression like 
 that of fear, and he hurried to undress, as a boy in 
 the dark will hurry to seek the shelter of the bed- 
 clothes. And then his disquietude softened to pity. 
 For a while his thoughts went out to share Maggie's 
 sorrow; but as he grew drowsy they drifted back 
 to his own evening, to Elsie Benlow and Barbara 
 Kingsnorton, and catching fragments of music to 
 make him happy again, till they sank quietly to 
 sleep.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 CAROLS 
 
 SEVEN six five weeks to Christmas and 
 December in and the days galloping. The 
 Christmas numbers were stale already. Gay 
 paper garlands and greenery began to appear in the 
 shops, even in the little shops where corned beef, 
 spools of cotton, toy pistols, and Christmas cards 
 with their prices on them in hard pencil, all jostled 
 one another on the end of the counter. Little boys 
 and girls called up the chimney to Santa Claus, while 
 big brothers and sisters smiled in the superiority of 
 great wisdom, but wanted presents from Santa 
 Claus all the same. 
 
 Pedley Hill had observed the great feasts of the 
 Church Calendar with due solemnity, years ago; 
 there were books gathering dust in the Free Library 
 which told of its ancient glories. Progressive coun- 
 cillors never forgot to speak proudly of the beauties 
 of the old town when they proposed to modernize 
 them out of recognition. Old customs were going 
 fast. There were no mummers now at Christmas 
 to play Saint George and the Dragon in the inn 
 parlours and in the kitchens of the great houses. 
 Sam Bloom's grandfather had been a notable Saint 
 George in his youth, and there were much younger 
 men who remembered the playing. The brass band 
 had taken the mummers' place. It was called a prize 
 band because it deserved prizes, although it had 
 
 108
 
 CAROLS 109 
 
 not actually won any. Everybody smiled at the 
 joke, because everybody made it, and so had a 
 parental interest in it. Twice a week, in the even- 
 ings, the band practised in the club-room of a tavern 
 near Binnses. On Monday the groups of critical 
 listeners would assemble in the tavern; on Thurs- 
 days the money was scarce, and they stood outside 
 if the weather was fine. They were much more 
 critical on Thursday evenings. 
 
 Steelyards were carried up back entries; men in 
 blue striped aprons came; squealings and snortings 
 tore the air; neighbours gathered in little groups 
 to talk about spare rib, and loin, and other tasty 
 parts to be enjoyed by the elect. Huge pigs hung 
 in the butchers' shops, bearing prize cards won at 
 the local shows. Everybody paused a while, with 
 mouth watering, before the mountainous pork pies 
 and festoons of sausages. At home there was 
 mincemeat to be chopped, puddings to boil, floors 
 to scrub, clean curtains to go up; and the thud, 
 thud, of the dollies in the washtubs resounded 
 across all the back gardens. On Monday mornings 
 the rent man had to dodge under the clothes hung 
 across the yard and seek mother in the steam of 
 the "brew-house," which wai only the wash-house 
 now, for nobody had brewed in it these many years. 
 Ladies brought the Church Almanack, nearly a 
 square yard of it, to the front door, and refused 
 to go away without the penny. Folk grumbled at 
 the ruinous cost of Christmas boxes, and wondered 
 what they might count on getting, and everybody 
 was genial and full of good wishes, but not per- 
 fectly satisfied. 
 
 Nobody missed the market in the Bullen on 
 Christmas Eve. It had to be held a day early 
 this year, because Christmas Day fell on a Monday, 
 the most awkward day of the week for housewives, 
 and the best for shopkeepers. The market was at
 
 no LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 its busiest in the afternoon, although in the evening 
 the crowd was greater, when people came to meet 
 acquaintances and gossip, and the poorest and mean- 
 est came to haggle over the bargains left. The 
 Bullen became a town in itself for the day, like a 
 sort of canvas gipsy town, with narrow lanes and 
 alleys, filled with noise, the cries of the stall-keepers^ 
 the clucking of fowls in baskets, screeches, barks, 
 the blare of children's penny trumpets, the clatter 
 of crockery, and the murmur of the talk running 
 through it all, never-ending, like the babbling of a 
 brook in a stony channel. 
 
 John Allday and his father always helped in the 
 housework for Christmas it was to bring good- 
 luck. Holly had to be put over the pictures when 
 all the rest was done, and mistletoe in a bunch where 
 Mr. Allway could catch his wife underneath and 
 kiss her, with laughter and blushing, and the 
 solemnest of gaiety. John had once thought it was 
 rather foolish to keep up such a ceremony his 
 mother and father were so old for that. He knew 
 better now. This year he enjoyed it thoroughly, 
 and his mother was doubly happy. When his 
 glance rested on the bunch of mistletoe, and there 
 was no one by to see his smile, it wasn't his mother 
 he caught underneath. 
 
 They had only one anxiety this year. Old Mr. 
 Peckle, their grocer ever since John could remem- 
 ber, had retired, and his son, a weedy, mean sort 
 of man, had not sent the usual Christmas box. They 
 counted on a fruit cake or a bottle of wine. Mrs. 
 Allday had to go to the shop and ask right out 
 for it Fortunately, Old Peckle was there himself, 
 and the Christmas box was better port than ever. 
 "But it isn't the same when you have got to go and 
 ask for it," said Mrs. Allday. Mr. Peckle had been 
 a model grocer. Every Thursday afternoon he 
 had driven round, and sat down like an old friend.
 
 CAROLS in 
 
 his top-hat on the floor with a red silk handker- 
 chief in it, his head as bald as a ham, and his 
 sandy beard sticking out all bristly. When he re- 
 ceipted the bill he licked it solemnly, and his pencil 
 made rich, purple marks. "One of the real 
 old school they're all going, one by one," said 
 John's father, sadly. John could not share his 
 father's regrets; his own thoughts were pressing 
 eagerly to the future ; but in the present they under- 
 stood each other well. Mrs. Allday was proud 
 to see them on summer holidays, walking out like 
 friends together. "It's nice in these days," she 
 told them both; and she thought of other fathers 
 and other sons, bitterly misunderstanding one 
 another. 
 
 Men had been thinning the plantations above 
 Nickling, and John had got a young spruce for a 
 Christmas tree at the Church Sunday School. He 
 knew the men well; he was often out there alone. 
 His name would be duly announced in the parish 
 magazine as the giver of the Christmas tree. The 
 idea was his mother's ; she gave some greenery, and 
 was invited to help in decorating, along with Mrs. 
 Kingsnorton and her daughters. "It's a fine thing 
 to have a son you're proud of," said Mrs. Kings- 
 norton, and Mrs. Allday put the saying among her 
 treasured memories. The concert had been a great 
 success; the glee party's season was at its busiest. 
 John knew many more people, the best people, 
 when he strolled in the town, and he had had to 
 spend more money on clothes to deck his new 
 importance. 
 
 "You'll let me touch my hat to you when you're 
 Lord Mayor, won't you?" Sam Bloom had said. 
 
 John accepted it as a joke. Mr. Allday said 
 nothing when he heard ; he waited till he was alone 
 with Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Sam Bloom's jealous of John
 
 H2 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 he's getting on, you see. Sam's got no need to be 
 jealous; he ought to have a greater character 
 he /KW a greater character, only somehow he don't 
 seem to use it right. He might have been 
 something out of th' ordinary he might. I'm 
 very sorry." 
 
 "He doesn't come here so much as he did, any- 
 where near," said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "No. I'm very sorry. I like Sam." 
 
 The Saturday before Christmas was a bright, 
 mild day. John came home at dinner-time, and in 
 the afternoon he went with his father for a stroll 
 as far as the market. Mr. Allday had been fortu- 
 nate he was not yet laid up for the winter. That 
 would come probably with the first wild days of the 
 New Year, and then it would be April before he 
 was out of doors again. 
 
 They met a man who had been in the rolling mill 
 at Selbridge with Mr. Allday when they were young 
 men, and the three went into the "George and 
 Dragon" together. John did not often go in the 
 "George." It had been a famous hostelry, half a 
 century and more ago, but it was sadly decayed now. 
 A great singing and stamping of feet came through 
 to the smoke-room. 
 
 "It's young Mr. Bloom," explained the barmaid, 
 smiling. "He's always up to some fun. They've 
 got a sing-song in the back." 
 
 The noise grew to an uproar. 
 
 "There's a fine lad throwing himself away abso- 
 lutely throwing himself away," said Mr. Allday to 
 his old friend. 
 
 The other remembered a similar young man, and 
 they fell to reminiscences. 
 
 As they were going home they met Sam's grand- 
 father in the High Street. 
 
 "You haven't seen Sam, I suppose, have you?"
 
 CAROLS 113 
 
 he asked. "He hasn't been back from work 
 yet." 
 
 "We haven't exactly seen him. We've heard 
 him," said Mr. Allday. 
 
 "Drunk?" 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Peacock. He 
 was enjoying himself in the 'George.' We're only 
 young once, you know." 
 
 "Ah, that's true. We're old a good while, though, 
 some of us." 
 
 The old man shook his head mournfully. 
 
 "He's a fine lad, Mr. Peacock. Don't make any 
 mistake Got his faults, I dare say " 
 
 "I've got mine, he says," interrupted the old man. 
 "When you get old they tell you you can't under- 
 stand. They're sorry for you because you can't 
 understand. And then, when you're gone, it's too 
 late then, it's their turn to be told." 
 
 "Never you mind, Mr. Peacock," said Mr. All- 
 day, cheerfully, tapping him on the chest. "Here's 
 another Christmas in, and we'll wish you a happy 
 one." 
 
 "A happy one to yourselves, Mr. Allday." 
 
 He shook his head again as he turned away, and 
 they heard him say, "I'm thinking it's too many 
 Christmases I've seen." 
 
 "Poor old fellow!" said John's father. "He was 
 a wild, harum-scarum young chap at one time, I 
 believe." 
 
 "I should never imagine it," said John. 
 
 His father chuckled quietly. John wondered 
 what he might be thinking of, but he didn't ask; his 
 thoughts were busily speeding on a happy mission 
 of their own. 
 
 Sunday was a slow, quiet day. "It's Christmas, 
 and it isn't," said Mrs. Allday. "It bothers you so 
 to provide, with the shops shut three days." John 
 and his father declared at once that she managed
 
 ii4 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 always wonderfully. Then she said, "I do my best," 
 and looked modest. That was her role. They acted 
 this kind of tiny interlude over and over at every 
 holiday, and it was so enjoyable it never grew 
 stale. 
 
 They had a log on the sitting-room fire on Christ- 
 mas Eve it was the custom. This year it was put 
 on early, when they sat down to tea; John had to 
 go out this evening. After tea they sat round 
 the hearth and talked about the Christmases years 
 ago, when John was a baby, when he was first walk- 
 ing and talking baby-talk. They never had any 
 difficulty in finding their own quiet happiness at 
 times like these. John enjoyed listening, but after 
 a while he began to fidget, stirred by an inner 
 eagerness. 
 
 The glee party met at the "Toll Inn" at nine 
 o'clock. John was there first. They set out together 
 to Ridgeway, up the drive, and on the lawn before 
 the lighted window ; then they sang the carol, "Good 
 King Wenceslas." Mr. Kingsnorton himself came 
 to invite them indoors. There they sang again, and 
 enjoyed hot punch, and mince pies, and cigars. 
 John heard Tom Bevan say to Barbara, "It was Mr. 
 Allday's idea to surprise you. He said you would 
 like it better." After Barbara had shaken hands 
 with him, and he \vas on his way towards the town, 
 he still seemed to hear her voice wishing him a 
 merry Christmas. 
 
 They went to Benlows' next, and had a noble wel- 
 come, with more hot punch and mince pies, and 
 more cigars. Then they went to sing for Old Gen- 
 tleman Binns. Their calls were few, and very 
 select, and they accepted no money John had in- 
 sisted on that, and won over strong opposition. 
 They would not be out to-morrow. The glee party 
 was much too big to compete with common carol 
 singers.
 
 CAROLS 115 
 
 The parish church bellringers had stopped, and 
 it was Christmas Day when John made his way 
 home. The streets were empty, hollow to his foot- 
 steps. His head buzzed, and his legs gaily swung 
 of their own accord, independent of him. He sang 
 to himself, unsteadily. 
 
 "A merry Christmas, mother!" he called 
 upstairs. 
 
 He had heard her moving. In a moment she 
 came down, with a flowered Paisley shawl about her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I hope you haven't had too much to drink," 
 she said, when he had kissed her. 
 
 "No, no oh, no!" he assured her, and he 
 frowned to show her how serious he could be. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Plenty, all the same, I can see." 
 
 He lit his candle, and went upstairs to see his 
 father. The old man was sitting in bed blinking, his 
 nightcap pushed back, and his knees drawn up. 
 
 "Ah, lad! It's well to be young!" he said. 
 "Hold your candle straight. It's dripping on the 
 carpet." 
 
 John laughed merrily. His father joined him, 
 for he had been young, and his memory was good. 
 They both shouted together when Mrs. Allday 
 came up: 
 
 "Merry Christmas, mother!" 
 
 John awoke early in th morning. His head 
 ached, and his mouth was parched, but he had not 
 drunk enough to put him into a bad humour. He 
 had stayed late in bed on Sunday morning, and now 
 he was not sleepy. So he rose and dressed, cut a 
 piece off the pork pie at the cellar head, put it in a 
 paper bag, with a chunk of bread, took a long drink 
 at the tap, and went out.
 
 n6 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 It was a bright morning, and very quiet. A milk 
 cart was driving in from the country. From along 
 the High Street came the thin sound of boys carol- 
 singing early. The sky was pale grey, with little 
 bands of clouds, tinted rosy as the sun came up. A 
 chill wind rustled the laurels. John strode lustily, 
 walking along the ridge which looked across the 
 valley. It was a dull winter countryside, with no 
 other bright relief than the white dots of distant 
 farms. The summer's green lingered, no more than 
 a suggestion now, among the brown withered 
 grasses, the buffs and reds of the distant hills under 
 the first pale sunlight, with the black woods in their 
 folds. John saw the beauties of the fresh dawn, 
 for he saw them through his own cheerfulness. 
 
 The pork pie was gone, and the bag blown up and 
 burst, when he met Sam Bloom and another man 
 with guns. 
 
 "You're up too early for an honest man," said 
 Sam. 
 
 John laughed, and they exchanged seasonable 
 wishes. When they had parted, Sam shouted after 
 him: 
 
 "Are you coming to the 'George' concert 
 to-night?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so," said John. 
 
 "It'll be special. You ought to come." 
 
 "I'll see." 
 
 He smiled complacently to himself. At home he 
 told his mother, "Poor old Sam must have thought 
 me hard up for a bit of amusement." 
 
 "I'm sorry for Sam, and for anybody with no 
 proper home to enjoy Christmas in," she said. 
 
 John wasn't sorry for anybody. 
 
 He went to morning service at Nickling "to see 
 our decorations," he told his mother. There he met 
 Barbara Kingsnorton and her sister in the church- 
 yard, and they wished him "A merry Christmas"
 
 CAROLS 117 
 
 over again. He sat behind them in church, where 
 he could see Barbara. In the hymns he listened for 
 her voice. 
 
 Mr. Benlow and Elsie, driving in the dogcart, 
 overtook him as he was walking home. Elsie called 
 out, "A merry Christmas, Mr. Allday!" and her 
 father invited him to jump up. 
 
 "Yes, I drove home in.state," he told his mother 
 and father, with exaggerated dignity. "And that 
 isn't all either. I'm invited out for this evening." 
 
 "To Mr. Benlow's?" exclaimed his mother. 
 "My word! You are doing your Christmas 
 proper !" 
 
 It was the best Christmas dinner they had ever 
 had, they were all agreed. Mrs. Allday went to bed 
 in the afternoon to "drop off for half an hour." 
 Mr. Allday dozed in the easy chair before the fire. 
 John had a library book, but he had no wish to 
 read; he sat looking at the coals, and his thoughts 
 straggled capriciously, like starlings on a sunny 
 lawn. When his mother came downstairs at last, 
 thirsty for a cup of tea, she found both of them 
 asleep, and the fire sunk low with only a tiny inter- 
 mittent tongue of flame. 
 
 "You're a nice pair of old fogeys, snoozing your 
 Christmas away !" she told them. 
 
 They made a great joke of it while they helped 
 to set the tea. 
 
 "I expect there's plenty o' folk would be glad to 
 sleep their Christmas away folk with no homes to 
 enjoy it in," she said. 
 
 "Plenty," said Mr. Allday. "It's Christmas 
 makes the old bachelors wonder if they've done the 
 right thing. An old bachelor on Christmas Day is 
 like a tough old goose a disappointment all round. 
 You can't make everybody happy." 
 
 "That don't say you shouldn't try a bit," she 
 told him.
 
 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Her sympathies were moved. 
 
 "John!" she said suddenly. "Did you send 
 Maggie Wheatley the Christmas card you were 
 going to?" 
 
 She saw at once that he had not sent it. 
 
 "No I forgot," he said reluctantly. 
 
 "You said you'd get one on Saturday afternoon, 
 when you were out, and post it." 
 
 "I forgot," said John. He had no mind to seek 
 excuses. 
 
 "It can't be helped," said his father, coming to 
 help him. 
 
 "It's a pity," said his mother, thinking only 
 of Maggie. "She'll be so lonely. It's just the 
 thought of the thing. I know how I should 
 feel." 
 
 "I don't know what made me forget. I meant 
 to I I forgot." 
 
 John struggled to finish his explanation with a 
 gesture. 
 
 "I should have called myself, if I'd known you 
 were going to forget," said his mother. 
 
 "It can't be helped, mother send one at the New 
 Year," said Mr. Allday. 
 
 He saw that John was already suffering, and he 
 talked rapidly to leave the incident behind. Mrs. 
 Allday soon forgot it, but John had very little to 
 say throughout the meal. They did not know 
 how much he had to reproach himself. A few 
 days ago he had met Maggie in Selbridge, and he 
 had said to her, "I shall be coming to wish you a 
 merry Christmas." He had not been to see her. 
 "That doesn't matter," he had told himself on Sat- 
 urday. "A card will do. It's the good wishes." 
 He would explain later, if necessary, that he had 
 been very busy it was true, he had been very 
 busy; it needed the repetition to convince him. 
 Now he had forgotten even the Christmas card
 
 CAROLS 119 
 
 he had no excuse for that. He accused him^if 
 bitterly, explaining that he liked Maggie, and that 
 he had wanted to send the card. All his explana- 
 tion failed. She would be expecting a card at least. 
 He was lacking even in common courtesy. For a 
 while he detested himself, and atoned in some 
 measure by resolving to go straight to Maggie's 
 before he went to Benlow's for the evening. It 
 was the least he could do. 
 
 His mother unconsciously added to his suffering 
 while they sat at tea. 
 
 "I can't understand why Maggie Wheatley 
 should have stayed, keeping her mother's house 
 on. She was doing so well in service, by all 
 accounts." 
 
 "She's doing well in Selbridge a good situation, 
 in that what-do-they-call-it Emporium it's a big 
 place," said Mr. Allday. 
 
 "I dare say. All the same " 
 
 She left her sentence unfinished, as though some 
 new thought had interrupted her. 
 
 "Some attraction hereabouts?" suggested her 
 husband. 
 
 "Is there?" she said absently. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He looked at John, and she looked, but John 
 said nothing; he was relighting his pipe. * He had 
 gone out when they returned to the matter. 
 
 "Oh, I reckon John knows something about it," 
 said Mr. Allday. "There's a something. I wouldn't 
 say, I'm sure." 
 
 "I did think " began Mrs. Allday, and 
 
 ceased. 
 
 Her husband shook his head sagely, and she 
 sighed, a though she were contented. Neither ex- 
 plained, and they sat silent a long while. When 
 they spoke again it was upon another topic. 
 
 They had their supper early; the cloth only
 
 120 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 half way across the table. They did not sit long 
 afterwards. 
 
 "It's quiet without John," said his mother. 
 
 "It's very comforting, though, to think of him 
 getting on," said his father. 
 
 They said it several times, and then they went 
 to bed. John had a latchkey. 
 
 "It's been a nice Christmas, Susan," said Mr. 
 Allday gently, when she had come to bed and blown 
 the candle out. 
 
 "Yes, Thomas very nice." 
 
 He kissed her solemnly. 
 
 In a few minutes their breathing rose and fell in 
 sleep, the one wheezing and broken, the other sigh- 
 ing rhythmically. 
 
 John left the house early, hurried along the High 
 Street, across the Bullen, and up the hill. "I 
 shall just have time, without stopping a minute," 
 he explained to himself. He had started from home 
 with a feeling of shame at having neglected a duty, 
 and with high resolution to atone for it; but his 
 hurrying made him uncomfortable, and there was 
 a light rain falling. Before he reached the parish 
 church he was angry that he had had to come, 
 especially against his own carelessness in forgetting 
 to send the card it would have been so much 
 easier than having to tramp all up here. 
 
 There was no light in the front window at 
 Maggie's. He had not expected any in the front 
 room. He knocked. Nothing stirred within. He 
 knocked again, and listened, and looked in at the 
 front window, and knocked again. The house was 
 dark Maggie was not in. John swore. It was 
 a nuisance. He wondered for an instant if he 
 should go round to the back, and decided that she
 
 CAROLS 121 
 
 would surely have heard if she were in. He might 
 perhaps push a card under the door, or a slip of 
 paper to tell her he had called. When he began 
 to feel in his pockets he. recollected that he was 
 wearing his best clothes, and he had no card, no 
 pencil, no scrap of paper, even. "Waste o' time!" 
 he whispered savagely. There was a bright light 
 next door they were having a party, perhaps. It 
 was of no use disturbing them with a message for 
 Maggie. 
 
 He turned away, and walked slowly down the 
 hill. His mood was softened; he was sorry that 
 Maggie was not in, since he had come up specially ; 
 he would have to call again and tell her. It would 
 be nice to show her that he had not actually broken 
 his word. The clock of the parish church chimed 
 half past seven, and he began to hurry, pushed by 
 a new eagerness of his thoughts. Benlows were 
 expecting him. As he crossed the Bullen he saw 
 the bright lights of the "Bull," and of the "George 
 and Dragon," and he recollected Sam Bloom's invi- 
 tation to the concert. Poor old Sam had nothing 
 better to go to. John smiled. He turned in at the 
 covered entry which led to Mr. Benlow's, and stood, 
 with a little fluttering in his interior, as he made 
 the bell jangle on the floor above, 
 
 On Boxing Day morning his mother had to wake 
 him. 
 
 "Breakfast-time?" she exclaimed, in answer to 
 his sleepy question. "It'll be dinner-time if you 
 aren't quick. You haven't half had something to 
 make you sleep." 
 
 She wanted to know all about his evening when 
 he came downstairs. 
 
 "There's a Mr. Hurst staying there from London,
 
 122 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 a friend of Willie's," explained John; "a big nob, 
 I suppose he is, in his way a gentleman, right 
 enough, and clever enough " 
 
 "But you didn't like him," divined his mother. 
 
 "Well, I can't say as I did." 
 
 "Wasn't there anybody else? You've only been 
 talking about what you had to eat and drink." 
 
 "Only those I've told you. Barbara Kingsnorton 
 came, and stayed about an hour. Willie and this 
 Mr. Hurst went to see her home took a good while 
 about it, too. This Mr. Hurst knew her in London, 
 so Elsie told me." 
 
 "Was her sister with her?" said Mrs. Allday. 
 "I'm inclined to think Mr. Benlow would like 
 his son to have Barbara Kingsnorton. I've 
 heard " 
 
 "He never will!" said John emphatically. "She 
 doesn't like him well enough." 
 
 "Oh ! She only came for an hour, you say. What 
 was it then " 
 
 Mr. Allday interrupted her. 
 
 "Woman! Woman! Curiosity!" 
 
 He shook his head, and then laughed at her when 
 she blushed.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 MAGGIE WHEATLEY was tired long before 
 evening came. She had been on her feet 
 since before nine o'clock in the morning, 
 and had been busy all the time, serving the Christ- 
 mas Eve shoppers. The Saturday was more like 
 Christmas Eve than the Sunday would be. The 
 intervals for dinner and tea had been curtailed 
 to-day, business was so heavy. She was in charge 
 of the tobacco and fancy goods department in the 
 Royal Emporium, the biggest and most popular 
 linen drapery and general store in Selbridge. 
 The air was hot and stuffy, the ventilation was 
 always bad, and the store had been filled all day 
 with shoppers. Children swarmed everywhere, 
 dragging at their mothers' skirts and getting 
 in everybody's way. It was one of their 
 annual treats to be taken to the Magic Cave, in 
 the Royal Emporium cellars, where Father 
 Christmas reigned in state, with dolls as courtiers, 
 and toys of every sort as riches, to be exchanged 
 for cash. It was wonderful for the children, 
 and excellent for the shareholders in the Royal 
 Emporium, Limited, but for the shop girls, their 
 feet sore and swollen, Christmas had brought no 
 fun yet. 
 
 Maggie was very busy. Most of her customers 
 were of her own sex, buying presents for their 
 
 123
 
 124 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 menfolk, and they were very difficult to satisfy. 
 She was an expert saleswoman, however, and the 
 foreman smiled approvingly on her from time 
 to time. He told her it was splendid how she kept 
 so fresh. "It's Christmas in the air," she explained. 
 At every few moments she glanced under the 
 counter at a little box of cigars tied with red silk 
 ribbon. Other boxes, similar to this, stood on a 
 shelf at the back, but with no ribbon in them. 
 Occasionally she glanced eagerly along the slow- 
 moving stream of shoppers, and her glance became 
 more eager and agitated as the night drew on. 
 
 John Allday had stood at her counter here, a few 
 days ago, and he had told her, "I shall be coming 
 to wish you a merry Christmas." She remembered 
 the words exactly, and the tone of his voice. 
 He would be coming to-day, she knew, very soon, 
 or it would be too late, and he had said he 
 was coming. The little box of cigars was her Christ- 
 mas card. She wanted to wrap it up quickly when 
 he came, and slip it in his hand with his own 
 parcel, in his pocket, perhaps, and watch his sur- 
 prise and his pleasure he would blush, maybe he 
 did sometimes. She would, she was sure. She had 
 rehearsed the little scene a score of times, and now 
 her eagerness was growing fast, tightening about 
 her thoughts. 
 
 The crowd became more dense, pushing anxiously 
 as the time came near for closing. Maggie's smile 
 vanished; weariness crushed her at last, and she 
 worked mechanically. She looked about yet from 
 time to time, though not with hope he had for- 
 gotten. An accident might have prevented him 
 it was possible. Hope gave a tiny flutter. No he 
 had forgotten. 
 
 "Very tired?" asked the foreman kindly, as the 
 Crowd began to drift out. 
 
 "Knocked up!" said Maggie.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 125 
 
 When she was ready to go she hesitated for an 
 instant. The cigars were of no use to her. Should 
 she leave them? Then while she stood, a sudden 
 joy sent the blood surging up to her face. It might 
 be to see her at home that he was coming. It 
 wasn't Christmas Eve till to-morrow, and Christ- 
 mas the next day. She wrapped up the cigars 
 quickly, and hurried out to catch one of the open 
 wagonettes that plied between Selbridge and Pedley 
 Hill on Saturday nights. There was no train con- 
 venient at this hour. The cold air was bracing after 
 the stuffy shop, and she was happy. Of course John 
 Allday would be calling to-morrow, or on Christ- 
 mas morning. "I should have been stupid to leave 
 the cigars behind," she told herself. She went right 
 into the Bullen in the wagonette, for she did not 
 feel tired now, only hungry. The bustle in the 
 market amused her, and she lingered over her shop- 
 ing a few luxuries for the week-end, and a spray 
 of mistletoe, because it was Christmas. She car- 
 ried the spray carefully so that the berries should 
 not drop, and she smiled to herself all the way up 
 the hill as she went home. 
 
 Mrs. Onions had a fire made for her in the sitting- 
 room, and the kettle boiling on the hob. Maggie 
 made tea, and ate a piece of pork pie off the paper 
 to save washing up. John would not come to-night, 
 of course. It might not even be to-morrow, 
 Christmas Day would be the nicest, in the morning, 
 though it was a long time away. She put the 
 cigars on the mantelpiece ready to her hand. The 
 mistletoe was best on the gas, in the middle of the 
 room; close against the table, she could stand 
 under it. 
 
 She hummed a carol as she undressed for bed. 
 
 The next morning she lay and had a second 
 sleep. Then after a quick breakfast, she put on 
 her best clothes and went to morning service at
 
 126 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 the old parish church. John Allday was not there. 
 She was disappointed, and stayed indoors the re- 
 mainder of the day, irritable and restless, settling 
 to nothing, yet with no inclination to go out. She 
 was glad when the darkness came. 
 
 She went to bed early, but Christmas Day was 
 in before she fell asleep. 
 
 The carol singers woke her, long after daylight, 
 and her first startled thought was that John Allday 
 was knocking at the door. She knew at once that 
 it was not he; there were children's voices. Still, 
 he might come early, she reasoned, and she must 
 be ready for him. She told herself while she dressed 
 that it was ridiculous to excite herself in this way. 
 John might not come at all he might not be able 
 to come. Yet she was happy. 
 
 She put on her dressing-gown. She looked nice 
 in her dressing-gown, she knew ; it was a good one, 
 perpetually rousing Mrs. Onions' admiration, for 
 that good lady had always intended to have one, 
 she explained it was a luxury for the rich, but 
 all the same she meant having one, only one thing 
 and another: and a long recital of misfortune fol- 
 lowed, half an hour of it in the telling. 
 
 Twice as much firewood as usual went to light 
 the fire in the sitting-room, and the charred bits 
 shot out of the grate into the Dutch oven, threaten- 
 ing to ruin her kidneys and bacon. She had to 
 take them away until her fire burned up better. If 
 John came she would be having breakfast; he might 
 sit down and chat with her; she might give him 
 another breakfast a cup of tea, at least. It 
 would not be proper, and was no more than a ridicu- 
 lous fancy, probably oh, for sure, it was ridicu- 
 lous. Nevertheless, her whole mind went out in 
 hope. 
 
 She had finished breakfast, and was sitting 
 in reverie, when a sharp tap, tap, on the front
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 127 
 
 door set her inner self all fluttering. She did not 
 stay to question who the visitor might be she 
 knew it was he who filled her thoughts. She 
 jumped up, and turned to the high mantelpiece 
 where she had put the box of cigars. In her haste 
 she caught the edge of the box against the little 
 china dog which Sam Bloom had given her at the 
 Pie Fair, and it fell on the fender; the head rolled 
 into the middle of the hearthrug. She was startled. 
 Then she saw that it was only the china dog which 
 had fallen, and she uttered an exclamation of im- 
 patience it couldn't be helped, and it didn't matter. 
 She hurried to the front room, her face flushed, and 
 looking at her best. Inwardly she was in a ferment 
 of anticipation. 
 
 Her disappointment starved her like a nipping 
 frost. 
 
 "Please, mother's sent me round to wish you a 
 merry Christmas." 
 
 It was Jacky Onions, in his best clothes, his face 
 shining, and his voice full of the importance of his 
 errand. 
 
 "Why didn't you come to the back?" said 
 Maggie bitterly. 
 
 "Please, mother said I was to be sure and come 
 to the front door. I've got a train Santa Claus 
 put it on the floor by the chimley, a big one, an' 
 I've got orange, an' suckanobs, an' 'an we've all 
 got, ever such a lot !" 
 
 Maggie strove to interest herself in the child's 
 babbling. She took him inside, and found a bright 
 penny in her purse for him. He saw the dog's 
 head as soon as he entered the sitting-room. "It's 
 broke!" he exclaimed. "Did you break it?" She 
 had to talk to him. Mrs. Onions had invited her 
 to dinner to-day, and she would have to be nice to 
 the children. 
 
 When Jacky had gone home in glee, with his
 
 128 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 bright penny, she sat down, tired and very lonely. 
 John had not come. He might come yet there 
 was time, she knew; but her disappointment was 
 so great that she turned away from this feeble 
 hope. She told herself it was not there. The 
 china dog's head was lying on the table, and, 
 presently, when she noticed it, her slow thoughts 
 turned to Sam Bloom. Would he have broken a 
 promise like this? Her thoughts cried em- 
 phatically "No!" Yesterday she would have 
 laughed at such a promise from Sam. He said 
 things in fun, and forgot them immediately, or 
 remembered them only for fun. Capricious, wilful, 
 gallant, splendid company, taking nothing on 
 earth seriously that was his reputation. Maggie 
 had heard it often, and knew it was true, though 
 only half true; for she had been with him when 
 he was serious even to melancholy, and she had 
 been astonished. The next time he had atoned 
 with a wild gaiety. He seemed to live to contra- 
 dict reputation, she had thought. He was said to 
 be incorrigibly lazy, she had heard him called an 
 idle good-for-nothing, yet she knew that he often 
 had a book in his pocket, Sam Bloom, who only 
 read sporting papers and frequented public- 
 houses not a library book, either, but one of his 
 own, one he had bought, a book of poetry, above 
 all. She understood that a man should like merry 
 company, horse-racing, public-houses so many 
 men loved these things; she understood the charm 
 of what she called a good book, a novel by Mrs. 
 Worboise, for instance, and the sentimental serials 
 in the weekly papers; it was natural that scholars 
 should learn poetry at school she did not ask why ; 
 but to read poetry for pleasure, not even to boast 
 of it; that was incomprehensible. He had not 
 offered to show her the volume she had felt it 
 in his pocket and taken it out for fun. His sporting
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 129 
 
 friends did not know him at all; she had told him 
 so. "Of course they don't know me. I don't know 
 myself," he said. 
 
 Maggie picked up the china dog's body and fitted 
 the head to it. There were no other fragments, and 
 she might stick them together, she thought. She 
 was very sorry it was broken she must mend it. 
 She put the cigars into the cupboard drawer out of 
 sight. She didn't want to see them. 
 
 The bells rang gaily for church. While she was 
 washing up the breakfast things she heard the band 
 playing in the town. The children next door were 
 shouting merrily in the yard. Everybody was 
 happy it was Christmas Day. She was angry 
 with herself because tears blurred her eyes. The 
 postman came laden up the hill, very late; she saw 
 him coming as she crossed the bedroom before the 
 window. He was very slow he had so many 
 letters to deliver. She heard him tapping next door ; 
 then he went on up the hill. She told herself she 
 didn't care. She had had a letter and a card from 
 her sister yesterday five cards in all. But to-day 
 was Christmas Day, and nothing had come. Her 
 disappointment became like a solid thing in her 
 throat. 
 
 A glance at the clock reminded her that Mrs. 
 Onions had invited her to dinner, and she had some 
 presents to take for the children. She dressed 
 quickly. She would make herself happy with them, 
 help with the dinner, and the washing up after. It 
 didn't matter where John Allday was, or what he 
 was doing she would forget him she had for- 
 gotten him already. If he came, and he might 
 even yet come, it would be too late. She hoped he 
 would come and find the house empty. So she re- 
 solved, though when she went next door she said 
 to Jacky, "You'll tell me if you see anybody come 
 to my door, won't you?"
 
 I 3 o LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 There was goose, with sage and onions, for din- 
 ner. Mr. Onions presided in his shirt sleeves, and 
 took appropriate jokes from his worn store. 
 
 "Isn't it grand, Missis Wheatley?" said Jacky, 
 in his enthusiasm. 
 
 "I'll give you Missis Wheatley, you comic young 
 rascal," said his mother. "You call her Auntie 
 Maggie. You've got real aunties never done half 
 so much for you." 
 
 "I'm a 'omely man, that's me 'omely," ex- 
 plained Mr. Onions, "an* if you was the queen on 
 her throne you couldn't make a dook of me not 
 if it was ever so." 
 
 Maggie resolutely enjoyed herself. 
 
 They all went a walk together in the afternoon. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Onions paraded in solemn state, Mr. 
 Onions in front with a twopenny cigar which he 
 had to lick to make it burn evenly, and his wife 
 slightly in the rear. He waited every now and 
 again for her to come up, but she always fell behind. 
 She wore her best bonnet, and nursed an umbrella 
 in her arms. Maggie walked with her. The chil- 
 dren ran about everywhere and had to be mar- 
 shalled at intervals, and the stragglers called in. 
 Other families were parading in the same way, out- 
 wardly solemn, and inwardly 'contented. As far as 
 the park that was the correct distance. The chil- 
 dren sulked when they were ordered off the wet 
 grass, and Mrs. Onions declared, exasperated, that 
 they were aggravating little monkeys. A few 
 moments later she forgave them, and assured a 
 friend they were growing up nicely and a great 
 comfort to her. They grinned, sure of their privi- 
 lege to-day. Maggie assured Mr. and Mrs. Onions 
 that she was having a very enjoyable time. 
 
 "I didn't like to think of you being lonely. I 
 says to my 'usband, 'Now, there's that poor girl/ 
 I S ays "
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 131 
 
 Mrs. Onions, good soul, loved to deck her simple 
 thoughts with superabundant detail. 
 
 The band was playing in Orchard Street when 
 they returned, and the children ran along to listen. 
 The others had to follow. 
 
 While they were standing, Maggie was startled 
 by a tap on the shoulder. Sam Bloom was behind 
 her. 
 
 "A merry Christmas, Maggie! What are you 
 doing here?" 
 
 "We've been for a walk," said Maggie. 
 "Who's we this crowd?" 
 
 "Yes Mr. and Mrs. Onions, next door. They 
 invited me there to dinner." 
 Sam made a grimace. 
 "Good dinner?" 
 
 "Yes, very nice. They're very hospitable." 
 "You aren't feeling lonely, then," said Sam. "I'm 
 sick of Christmas. Are you going to stay with 'em 
 all the evening?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Maggie. 
 "Come to the concert at the 'George,' will you? 
 It'll be rather good it's something to do, anyhow. 
 I asked John Allday, but he won't come, I expect. 
 I wish you would, Maggie. I know you're 
 lonely, like me you aren't really enjoying yourself 
 with these folks. Yes, yes, I know they're kind, 
 but you aren't one of 'em. What can you do? 
 It isn't nature to be alone you've got to find 
 some sort o' company. If you meant 'A merry 
 Christmas' instead of just saying it, you wouldn't 
 refuse." 
 
 "All right," said Maggie, at length. Her sym- 
 pathies were moved, for he was lonely and yearning 
 for companionship, as she was. 
 
 "Eight o'clock, in the Bullen, under the Town 
 Hall clock," he arranged. 
 
 Mrs. Onions was hungry for gossip.
 
 132 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "We were at school together it's Mr. Bloom, 
 you know," said Maggie. 
 
 "Old Mr. Peacock's grandson. Oh, yes, I re- 
 member him, my dear, a very pleasant young fellow, 
 
 I should say, by all appearance " 
 
 "What him?" said Mr. Onions. "He's a wild 
 young rip, a proper un." 
 
 "We've all got to have our fling a bit," said Mrs. 
 Onions, benevolently. "You've had your day, 
 and many a heartbreaking hour you've give me 
 over it." 
 
 She began a long anecdote of one of his pecca- 
 dilloes, and they argued over unimportant details. 
 Mrs. Onions never by any chance lost her bearings 
 among the tangled forests of her irrelevancies, and 
 when the story was exhausted she came back to 
 Maggie, embarrassing her. 
 
 "Is the young gentleman coming up to see you?" 
 "He's invited me to go to a concert with him 
 to-night." 
 
 "At the 'George'?" said Mr. Onions. "I was 
 thinking of going." 
 
 "No!" said his wife emphatically. "Home's your 
 place. With Maggie here it's different she's got 
 her young gentleman." 
 
 Maggie blushed. Mr. Onions joked about the 
 miseries of married life until Mrs. Onions reproved 
 him before the children. At tea he was inclined 
 to be morose, and had to be reproved again. The 
 children were getting tired and cross; jacky had 
 to be smacked in the back kitchen. 
 
 Half past seven was striking in the neighbouring 
 steeple when Maggie took the back door key from 
 its nail behind the ivy on the wall. It was cold in 
 the sitting-room, melancholy. When she was ready 
 to go out, she saw the cigars she had put them out 
 ready to take for Sam. Now she was not sure 
 she ought to take them perhaps it would be better
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 133 
 
 not to. She ought to have given them to Mr. 
 Onions for his hospitality. That would be the thing 
 to do, of course, to-morrow or the next day, as 
 though she had got them specially. 
 
 She left them on the table. 
 
 As she walked down the hill she recollected that 
 the 'George/ where she was going, was a public- 
 house; the concert might be a sort of music-hall 
 entertainment. Would there be many ladies there? 
 None, probably. What sort of women? There 
 would be women, surely. Did Sam know exactly 
 what it was going to be? She was worried. She 
 did not want to be seen in a low music-hall. 
 Then she remembered that the "George" let the 
 hall for dances and socials this might be quite 
 respectable. 
 
 Sam met her before she reached the Town Hall. 
 
 "I thought you weren't coming," he said. 
 
 "I don't break a promise," she assured him, and 
 the thought brought into her mind the image of 
 John Allday. He wouldn't come, Sam had said. 
 Did he think it was beneath him ? 
 
 "What sort of thing is it? Will there be many 
 ladies?" she asked. 
 
 She saw she had surprised him. 
 
 "I don't know. I never thought of that." He 
 laughed. "It's a a well, it ain't exactly "The 
 Messiah" but it's all right 'pon my honour, 
 Maggie." 
 
 He took her arm, and laughed away her scruples. 
 All the time they were walking towards the 
 "George." 
 
 Maggie had never been in a public-house in her 
 life, save when she was away on holiday and entered 
 for a meal. She was ashamed now. The smells 
 of beer and tobacco were nauseating, the talk 
 coarse. Already the concert had begun. She 
 saw that most of the audience were men, and a fog
 
 I 3 4 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of acrid smoke hung in the air above their heads. 
 The women were slatternly, or gay with bright 
 colours; some of them had brought infants whom 
 they could not leave at home ; Maggie was sorry for 
 the little things, wailing feebly as their mothers tried 
 to hush them to sleep. Everybody seemed to know 
 Sam, and Maggie was horrified to find herself con- 
 spicuous. She was angry with herself for coming, 
 and miserable. 
 
 ''Do you really like this sort of thing?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Good God, no!" said Sam in a fierce whisper. 
 Then he added lightly, "I've sunk to it, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 "And. now I've sunk," said Maggie. 
 
 He caught her hand in his, hurting her. 
 
 "We'll go. You shan't stay." 
 
 "No, no! I will stay!" she protested. "I've 
 come of my own accord." 
 
 A waiter brought Sam whisky, and set a glass of 
 port before her. She drank it off at once. 
 
 She had never been in a music-hall. She had 
 heard of the Tivoli, a wonderful new place opened 
 in London a year or two ago, and she had heard 
 her mother talk of going to London once and seeing 
 the crowd going into the Alhambra. Mr. Onions 
 had been telling her to-day of his only visit to 
 London, the greatest travelling adventure of his 
 life. He had seen Lord Dundreary. She had been 
 to pantomimes, and to the Selbridge Theatre; 
 and where she had been a housemaid she had 
 seen plays acted by fit-up crowds who had per- 
 formed in the local market hall, and had gone the 
 next day, leaving their posters to soak off the 
 walls with the rain. The concert to-night was 
 crude and vulgar, little better than a show at the 
 Pie Fair; but after a while, when the wine set 
 her tingling, she became interested, and at length
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 135 
 
 she admitted to Sam that it helped to pass the time 
 nicely. 
 
 A piano, two violins, and a cornet made the 
 orchestra, and the people in the front rows treated 
 the players to drinks. A huge contralto, with an 
 immense display of powdered arms and bosom, 
 sang sentimental songs which brought tears to 
 some of the women's eyes; then she strode off and 
 reappeared in tights. A red-nosed man shouted 
 about his mother-in-law until the audience roared 
 with merriment, and he made great play with a 
 kipper on a string. A nigger minstrel argued with 
 the orchestra. Then came a troupe of handbell 
 ringers the "Bluebells of Scotland," and "Home, 
 Sweet Home"; then a conjuror, a foreign-looking 
 man, obviously French, to anybody but a French- 
 man. Maggie's head ached, and her eyes smarted 
 from the smoke. She wondered what sort of people 
 these performers were at home. This fat contralto, 
 for instance did she like doing this? In fancy 
 Maggie shaped a private life for each: for the fat 
 woman a broken romance Maggie had caught the 
 sentimentality of her songs. 
 
 Sam took her away before the end. He regretted 
 having invited her, and was irritable. 
 
 She was giddy when they were outside, and had 
 to catch his arm. She understood what had hap- 
 pened, and she knew she ought to be ashamed, and 
 she would be ashamed ; but now she was filled with 
 a careless, bubbling gaiety. 
 
 "Sam, you've made me drunk," she told him. 
 
 "No, no," he assured her. "It's the fresh air, 
 after the stuffy place inside. You're all right, my 
 dear." 
 
 She laughed she did not know why and she 
 wanted to go on laughing. 
 
 "You'll have to see me home," she said. 
 
 It was a raw, cold night, with a fine rain falling.
 
 136 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 The streets were deserted. Here and there in 
 Castle Street the front windows were lit up, and 
 sounds of music and laughter came out. At one 
 place the shadow of an old man's toothless face 
 was cast in profile on the blind; he was talking, 
 and the shadow jaws opened and shut like those 
 of a ventriloquist's doll. Maggie laughed till he 
 eyes filled with tears. When the shadow moved off, 
 and they had gone up the hill, she still had fits of 
 chuckling. 
 
 "It was so comic, wasn't it?" she repeated. 
 
 Sam moved his arm and put it round her waist. 
 They walked very slowly, pressed against each other. 
 
 "It's 'good night,' just as we're beginning to enjoy 
 ourselves," said Sam, when they arrived. 
 
 "Yes," said Maggie, reluctantly. "That's the way 
 with everything." 
 
 They were silent a while. 
 
 "I'll come in and say 'good night/ shall I?" said 
 he suddenly. "It isn't late." 
 
 He held her tight Her heart leaped, and she 
 struggled feebly to escape. 
 
 "Somebody might see you. I've got to go round 
 the back. They'd hear you next door." 
 
 "I'll stay here, then. You can go round and let 
 me in at the front. Don't be long." 
 
 He took his arm from her waist, and walked 
 sharply away towards the top of the hill. She was 
 bemused; he had not given her time to think. 
 For a moment she stood watching him he did 
 not turn. Then very slowly, with her breath catch- 
 ing in her throat and her heart thumping, she went 
 to the entry and round to the back door. Her 
 hand shook as she fumbled to put the key in the 
 lock. She was afraid of the darkness indoors. 
 When she had lit the gas she perceived the box of 
 cigars lying on the table. Her first instinct was to 
 hide them, but a noise startled her: somebody was
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 137 
 
 in the yard outside at the back door. She was 
 terrified. 
 
 Sam came in quietly. She had not once thought 
 he might follow her. 
 
 "Didn't you know it was me?" he whispered. 
 
 Without understanding what she was about, she 
 picked up the cigars. 
 
 "What have you got there?" he said. 
 
 She looked at the box in her hand. A smarting 
 misery overwhelmed her, forcing tears into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "For me?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she exclaimed, and she went up to 
 him, and pressed the box into his hand. He kissed 
 her softly, and thanked her over and over again. 
 
 Then he turned from her, leaving her standing 
 by the table. She heard him turn the key in the 
 back door. When he returned he held it out and 
 put it on the table. Then he took her, all trembling, 
 in his arms, and kissed her passionately. 
 
 The sticks crackled in the sitting-room grate. 
 A thin, blue reek twisted slowly above the coals, 
 and then shot under the draw-tin, caught by the 
 draught. Maggie took the bellows, and went on 
 her knees to use them, until the flames roared. Then 
 she hung the bellows on their nail, and turned 
 to the table, moving all the while in a stealthy, 
 unnatural way, as though she had no right to be 
 doing these things, and might be caught in her crime 
 at any minute. The blind was down still, a dull 
 yellow rectangle, letting the grey daylight in at the 
 sides; several times she glanced at it swiftly as 
 though she expected to find somebody peeping at 
 her. From the kitchen came the sounds of the tap 
 running into a tin bowl, and then a splashing. She
 
 138 LITTLE HOUSES' 
 
 was startled in a moment by a low whistle, 
 beginning the air of a song she had heard last night. 
 She darted to the doorway. 
 
 "You'll have 'em hear you !" she whispered. 
 
 Sam was by the sink, rubbing his neck vigorously 
 with a towel. 
 
 "I forgot." 
 
 He grinned, and Maggie returned to the table and 
 the cupboard. She had no laughter. 
 
 Presently he came in, put on his collar and tie, 
 and finished dressing. Neither spoke. 
 
 "Dim, religious light," he said, when at last they 
 sat down. 
 
 Without a word Maggie went to the blind and 
 jerked it to the top. 
 
 "No, no, my dear girl. I was joking. I didn't 
 mean you to take it like that," he said kindly. 
 
 He pulled the blind down again, and kissed her. 
 She made no response. When he spoke to her again 
 she burst into tears. He had to coax her to eat as 
 he would a sick child. 
 
 As soon as they had finished breakfast he put on 
 his coat and hat, and took one of his cigars to smoke 
 when he was outside. 
 
 "This afternoon three o'clock, by the Town 
 Hall," said he. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He grew irritable. 
 
 "All right up here, then. I'll come round the 
 back and knock loud. You can be ready." 
 
 "I'll come," she said. 
 
 "Good! I'm off." 
 
 He feigned not to see her humour. They went 
 together through the front room and kissed before 
 she opened the door to let him go. He stepped out 
 quickly, and she shut the door without glancing 
 after him. Then she walked slowly into the 
 sitting-room and sat down in her place, her eye
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 139 
 
 red and smarting with tears unshed. She was 
 utterly wretched. 
 
 Presently the sound of movement in the back 
 yards galvanized her to a swift activity: the 
 breakfast things had to be washed up before Mrs. 
 Onions might come in. Her energy only lasted for 
 the task. When it was done and the blind was up, 
 she sat down again, craving to be alone, to hide 
 herself from everybody. She dreaded Mrs. Onions' 
 busy chatter. She shrank from her own image in 
 the glass. For a long while upstairs she sat 
 on the edge of the bed and gazed vacantly into 
 the wall without a thought of stirring, until the 
 cold benumbed her, and the clock struck to tell her 
 how she was losing time, when she had so much 
 to do, so much to think. Once she looked out and 
 prayed for rain to fall, and the next instant 
 she recollected that it would bring Sam up here, 
 and then she wanted fine weather. At a moment 
 she was reckless, then gay, then despondent, then 
 ashamed. When Mrs. Onions came in, Maggie ex- 
 plained that she was out of sorts, and Mrs. Onions 
 exasperated her with sympathy. 
 
 "It's your nerves, my dear. I know I was often 
 like that before I was married." 
 
 Maggie laughed wildly, and Mrs. Onions was 
 alarmed. She advised a certain patent medicine 
 which "had done wonders for her husband's brother 
 William's daughter, Agnes, who had gone to a mere 
 nothink, and only took enough food to keep a 
 sparrer, let alone a Christian, and that without a 
 word of a lie." 
 
 Sam Bloom walked rapidly from the house up 
 Cowards the crest of the hill. He stopped to light 
 his cigar in the shelter of the bridge parapet, above
 
 i 4 o LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 the deep railway cutting, and he stood there a 
 moment, enjoying the freshness of the morning, 
 and looking back at the house he had left. Then 
 he walked sharply over the hill, and made for the 
 country. He wanted to be alone. 
 
 He was not at ease. He felt that he ought to be 
 gay, for he had just come from a glorious escapade, 
 to be remembered many a day among the best of 
 his adventures, to be called up at will, not to hang 
 upon his thoughts, oppressing them. It wasn't 
 a thing to brood over it was past. He resented 
 the heaviness of it, a grand adventure a while ago, 
 and become already a burden which he knew he 
 must carry. He had promised to meet Maggie 
 this afternoon he had asked her, implored her. 
 That was foolish. It were better forgotten, at least 
 for a time; and he couldn't forget; he would never 
 be able to forget. "I've done it this time !" he com- 
 plained, and his thoughts sank in gloom. But the 
 air was fresh, the solitude pleasant to his mood. A 
 robin flitted before him along a hedge and looked 
 at him with bright, beady eyes. He smiled a mo- 
 ment his burden was not all sadness. 
 
 He came home by a muddy path along the river. 
 His grandfather was sitting in his easy chair by 
 the fire. 
 
 "A fine lad you are no consideration for a soul 
 on earth!" 
 
 That was his greeting. 
 
 "I couldn't tell you I didn't know," began Sam 
 humbly. "I was out with friends, and it got so 
 late they pressed me to stay all night. I went over 
 to Selbridge." 
 
 He invented a story of his evening, adding the 
 concert at the "George" for half an hour of it, for 
 fear that his grandfather might come to learn he 
 had been there. The old man stretched out his 
 .withered hands to the fire, and said nothing at all.
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 141 
 
 Sam grew angry. He was bitterly ashamed of his 
 lying, and his grandfather's silence roused him to 
 exasperation. 
 
 "You needn't believe me unless you like," he said, 
 savage in his own torment. "I'll tell you something 
 you will believe, though where I was in the after- 
 noon, and where I shall be this afternoon, too. I'm 
 engaged." 
 
 His grandfather swung round on his chair. 
 
 "You're what?" 
 
 "I'm engaged," said Sam sullenly. His own voice 
 had startled him ; it seemed to have spoken without 
 his permission; and now the words were said 
 nothing could take them back. 
 
 "Who's the young woman?" said his grand- 
 father slowly. 
 
 "Miss Wheatley Maggie Wheatley that's the 
 lady," said Sam, striving to dignity. 
 
 "Up in Castle Street her as her mother died!" 
 
 Sam nodded. 
 
 The old man rose very solemnly from his chair. 
 
 "I don't know much about the daughter," he 
 said gently; "but she's a good girl, my lad, I don't 
 doubt. Her mother was a God-fearing woman, 
 and very unfortunate. If you think you're fond 
 of her as you should be and I dare say you've 
 thought it over very careful, the two of you it 
 means money, you know, going without things, and 
 sufferings together as well as happiness in sick- 
 ness and in health and children to bring up in the 
 fear of the Lord you've thought all these things 
 well, it's only for me to say, 'God bless you 
 both.' " 
 
 Sam was bitterly distressed. 
 
 "You'll bring her to see me this afternoon?" said 
 his grandfather. 
 
 "I haven't arranged," began Sam, in dread. 
 
 "Yes, yes; of course you will. I didn't know
 
 I 4 2 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 or we could ha' got in something special. We must 
 see Mrs. Thomas. We'll manage, I dare say. 
 There's the ham, and we can get a pork pie, and 
 some cakes and things. There's somebody will be 
 open." 
 
 He went to the cupboard, tottering in his haste. 
 "God bless my life, here's me getting excited like 
 a young lad !" he exclaimed. He went to see what 
 was at the. cellar head, and then to the cupboard 
 again. 
 
 Sam went out. His distress was going, and he 
 suffered a queer feeling of clarion. He would have 
 to go up early to tell Maggie. She must put on all 
 her best. He heard his grandfather bustling to and 
 fro, talking to himself in his old, quavering voice. 
 Sam felt something rising in his throat.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SPRINGTIME 
 
 THE New Year brought with it an offering of 
 calm, sunny weather, cheating the primroses 
 and auriculas in the gardens where they were 
 too anxious for the spring. Then the west wind 
 gathered the storm clouds and swept the earth 
 with rain; and when at last he was gone in a rage, 
 the east wind gathered all the clouds in his icy 
 hands, squeezed the snow out of them, and scattered 
 it everywhere. Mr. Allday went to bed; the 
 bronchitis kettle came out of the cupboard and sat 
 steaming on the trivet at the bedroom fire. Men 
 in their loud thousands had to stand in icy slush 
 to see Selbridge play their opening match for the 
 English Cup, and caught colds, and coughs, and 
 rheumatism, all for the love and honour of Sel- 
 bridge sport, nobly upheld by eleven strangers 
 who worked three hours a week, and even more, 
 for cash. While the enthusiasts shouted hoarse 
 advice and censure every Saturday afternoon, 
 and argued and surmised and criticized to speed 
 away the empty hours till Saturday came again, 
 other and more serious enthusiasts were studying 
 form and pedigree, weights and acceptances and 
 odds, ready for the spring which always came to 
 Lincoln first. The ladies enjoyed the spring 
 after another manner carpets up, and beaten on 
 the back grass plot, clean curtains ready, painters 
 
 J43
 
 144 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 and paper-hangers whistling in the parlour, meals 
 anywhere and anyhow, and all the while the new 
 fashions in the shops to be considered. The 
 children nobody told them what to do or think 
 about they knew, as surely as the birds learnt to 
 mate: spring had to be worshipped with marbles, 
 tops, and skipping ropes. 
 
 All the time the fields and woods, the hedge- 
 banks and the gardens, were getting ready. The 
 football followers and their wives, and those sports- 
 men who loved to see thoroughbred horses' names 
 arranged with figures in the newspapers even they 
 had to notice the crocuses coming out. "Yes, 
 it's spring again," they said, as they paraded 
 solemnly after Sunday's heavy dinner, and they 
 were satisfied. Nature was doing her duty, not 
 perfectly, of course, and there was much to grumble 
 at, but she was obviously striving to perform the 
 task commanded by the calendar and by other 
 season-making things, such as the spring handicaps. 
 It was nice to see the crocuses coming up so regular 
 every year very nice. That was enough time 
 spent over the crocuses, and the promenaders 
 went sedately back to tea, and then supper at nine, 
 cold meat and pies, and cheese, and beer, and those 
 beatific feelings of repletion which are accepted as 
 righteousness. 
 
 Here and there one heard the dryads whispering 
 together only here and there, for common folk 
 expected them to shout, and, hearing nothing, 
 declared there were no dryads. Sam Bloom and 
 Maggie heard them while they stood together by 
 gates, and under walls sheltered from the night 
 winds. John Allday heard them, when he was 
 out alone; he was often alone now, suffering 
 from a melancholy for which he had neither cure 
 nor explanation. His mother was anxious. His 
 father assured her that he would get over it all
 
 SPRINGTIME 145 
 
 right, and then he startled her: "You haven't 
 heard of him being out with a young woman at all, 
 have you? I don't say it is, and you needn't 
 go frightening yourself. I have seen 'em take it 
 that way." John had no suspicions that he was 
 being closely watched. The Kingsnortons were 
 away in London, the glee party's season was nearly 
 over, Sam was always with Maggie John was 
 lonely. His greatest pleasures now, evenings with 
 the Benlows, left him discontented afterwards. 
 He did not seek to understand what he craved; 
 there was more vague yearning and restlessness 
 than misery in his loneliness. 
 
 Day after day there was something new for those 
 who sought eagerly, in the sunsets, the night 
 showers, the morning pavements drying, the sky 
 reflected in the roadway's water puddles, white 
 and brilliant blue, washed clear as it is only in 
 early spring. The throstle called boldly over the 
 gardens. In the park the beds were tidied up, 
 neatly ready for the green shafts peeping up from 
 the soil. Another week no change, or very little 
 the green spears higher, maybe; the high winds 
 and the hail had kept things back, explained the Sun- 
 day promenaders. Nevertheless, the great event had 
 happened : spring had really come, in secret, and 
 not a dozen knew. The chaffinch called "pink, 
 pink" from a thorn; another, hidden, repeated 
 his cheery little madrigal; thrush and blackbird 
 hopped over the lawn; starlings were busy 
 these things had happened last week too. To-day 
 there was added another voice, "chiff-chaff, chiff- 
 chaff" the first summer visitor here, telling 
 everybody with all his little might, and nobody 
 understanding. Despite the clouds mounting the 
 sky, the cold wind, and the rush of bitter rain 
 "chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff" the message long awaited, 
 sighed for, and uncomprehended.
 
 146 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Maggie Wheatley had an engagement ring, set 
 with two tiny pearls and a ruby, and every spare 
 moment was taken for her sewing; she had to 
 steal hours out of the night so that she might 
 be ready for Easter. She wanted to look nice, to 
 win the praise of the few who would be interested 
 in her wedding-day. As she sat in the quiet 
 sitting-room sewing diligently, she amused herself 
 often with plans of a future in which Sam would 
 rise in business and in social life, and they would 
 live in a bigger, more comfortable, house, with a 
 good plot of garden at the back. There were some 
 nice villas going up in Selbridge, long rows of them, 
 all alike, save for the names on the gates, grandiosely 
 eloquent of the higher respectability. Why 
 shouldn't they get on? They were both young, 
 with health and energy. She was refined, and knew 
 she could play the fine lady if she were given the 
 means. Sam was clever he would get on if she 
 kept him in the right path, and she could do that, 
 surely. He was cleverer than John Allday, for 
 instance much cleverer. Everybody admitted that 
 Sam was clever ; he had been at the top of the class 
 at school whenever he had wanted, though it was 
 not often. John Allday was getting on fast. 
 Several times Maggie heard of his progress. It 
 was due to his perseverance, not to real cleverness. 
 Sam could beat him he must. Maggie felt herself 
 challenged to bring Sam forward, and to support 
 him continually with her devotion; she vowed 
 solemnly that he should not fail. 
 
 Mrs. Onions was delighted at the news of the 
 engagement. When Maggie was at home, she was 
 often in to help, doing heavy house-work for her 
 so that the sewing might go on. "I've just popped 
 in a minute to see how you're a getting on, my dear," 
 was her usual explanation, and while she chatted 
 she worked hard, despite Maggie's protests. She
 
 SPRINGTIME 147 
 
 insisted on entertaining Sam and Maggie to supper 
 several evenings. Mr. Onions borrowed shillings 
 from Sam, and repaid them in racing tips for tired 
 horses. Sam promised Maggie to give up horse- 
 racing; indirectly she heard of changes in him, 
 and she was proud. At the Royal Emporium 
 the shopgirls took a new interest in her: she was 
 leaving to get married, and so she grew daily in 
 importance. Marriage to them was life's consum- 
 mation, ardently to be longed for, exaggerated in 
 all its joys by visionary contrast with their present 
 monotony of existence. It was easy to get a 
 young man to walk them out, but one to propose 
 marriage seriously that was another matter. Only 
 the foreman was pessimistic: "I hope you are 
 doing the right thing, Miss Wheatley. If he's 
 got the right character, and a good home to give 
 you, then I'll wish you every happiness." He 
 was a middle-aged bachelor, and the girls smiled; 
 they said he was fond of Maggie. She smiled too, 
 but his words left a bitterness behind them. Sam 
 had not got a good home to give her. He had 
 not a home at all. He had no money. He had 
 never saved a penny before, and now the time was 
 so short. She was providing the home. It was 
 perfectly natural she had the home, and she was 
 alone. Why wait? They wanted each other 
 now. They would save after they were married; 
 she felt that it would be surer, for she would 
 have him to herself then. Sometimes when she 
 was alone sewing her mind would suffer torments 
 of disquietude only when she was alone. Her 
 evenings with Sam always brought her a passionate 
 felicity. 
 
 She walked to Selbridge on fine mornings when 
 she rose early enough. Sometimes she took the 
 bus. When she was very late she ran down the 
 Steep bank to the station. She generally returned
 
 I 4 g LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 in the bus. Now Sam walked over to fetch her 
 at nine o'clock several nights a week, and brought 
 her back by train, first class, in a compartment 
 to themselves, splendid, though extravagant luxury; 
 and what was a little money saved, such a very 
 little, compared with these delicious moments? 
 They reasoned this way often, always with the same 
 result, holding out their hands for the joys falling 
 like tinted blossoms from the tree of life. There 
 was the thrilling of anticipation all the day through, 
 the quick walk to the station, the excitement, 
 while the train was standing, lest anyone should 
 intrude, and the devices for keeping out the folk 
 who never came, the slow gliding from the plat- 
 form, faster and faster safe. Sam put his arm 
 about her, and they sat pressed together, very still, 
 very happy, such a little while, tilting on the curve, 
 roaring into the cutting, nearly home, and the 
 brakes grinding as the station lights peeped at 
 them, and heads moved past the window. The 
 old porter at the gate touched his cap, and wished 
 them "good night." 
 
 On early closing days, when the weather was pro- 
 pitious, they walked into the country, beyond the 
 Toll. On fine nights the sky was filled with stars 
 for them. One week there would be the new moon, 
 thin sickle-blade of fortune, which they must not 
 see first through glass. At the next early-closing 
 clay there was the first quarter swung in the sky, 
 and then the full-round, climbing up through the 
 rack of clouds, then the darkness, and the solemn 
 stars, and the peewits calling. They counted 
 the full moons till Easter; it seemed to them more 
 romantic than counting by the figured calendar; 
 they looked in the prayer-book, and made the 
 mystic calculation from the golden number. 
 
 Sam startled her one Sunday afternoon soon after 
 their engagement had begun.
 
 SPRINGTIME 149 
 
 "Guess where I'm going to take you after tea. 
 To Alldays. We were school chums, you remember. 
 I've asked him to be best man. I promised I would 
 take you to-night." 
 
 When she went, all their hospitality could not 
 quell entirely her agitation. Mr. Allday liked her 
 for what he called her quiet modesty. "Very 
 lady-like and nice," he said afterwards to Mrs. 
 Allday. "Sam's lucky." Mrs. Allday agreed, and 
 added, "It is to be hoped Sam will always think 
 so. He needs somebody very firm." 
 
 She went to see Maggie in the afternoon of the 
 next early closing day. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you, my dear, what arrange- 
 ments you think of making about your wedding. 
 We've been talking it over. We should like you 
 to be married from our house. Knowing your poor 
 mother so many years, and you from a baby and 
 Sam as well. There's John best man, you see." 
 
 Maggie accepted gladly. 
 
 It became a regular custom for her to take her 
 sewing on early closing days, and sit with Mrs. 
 Allday in the afternoon. Mr. Allday slept till 
 nearly tea-time, and then came down and made 
 solemn jokes. After tea there was more sewing, 
 and then John came. Sometimes Maggie and 
 he were for a few moments alone. She was em- 
 barrassed, and she dared to think that he was 
 affected in some way like herself. He said very 
 little, simple commonplaces handed to and fro, 
 but to Maggie there seemed to be another con- 
 versation, flowing wordlessly between them, un- 
 defined; she could not stay her fancy's endowing 
 his image with secret thoughts to mate with hers. 
 Occasionally she strove to check them, called 
 herself wicked, she had no right to fancy thus; 
 still, it did not harm, she said, nobody knew. 
 
 When Sam came they were merry. Presently
 
 150 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 he would take Maggie for their walk, and they 
 would return for supper. It was the best evening 
 of the week. 
 
 Sam had many bitter hours with his inner self, 
 suffering hesitation, doubts, and fears, hopes rising 
 to ecstasy, hours of wild recklessness and fierce 
 repentance. Maggie saw none of these moods. 
 To her he was courteous and devoted as nobody 
 else had ever been, as she had believed nobody 
 could be, out of books. At times it seemed hardly 
 possible that they were live ordinary folk in the 
 fast-rushing days of the great fin de siecle which 
 everybody boasted of; rather were they re- 
 hearsing for some romantic pageant, in olden 
 style. Maggie felt that she understood these 
 happy conceits were Sam's though she could not 
 explain; her gladness was outside all common 
 life she had ever known. She asked no more than 
 the continuance of this delight for ever; she did 
 not think she was asking much. To Sam their 
 moments together were all his wealth; he looked 
 forward ardently, and begrudged every precious 
 second lost. When he had kissed Maggie the last 
 "good night" he was lightsome as a schoolboy on 
 his way down the hill, a merry tune jigging in 
 his thoughts, and his feet keeping time. There 
 was no beer at home now bread and cheese and 
 a cup of milk were his supper. His grandfather 
 would be in bed long ago. Afterwards he would 
 sit with his pipe until the fire was no more than a 
 dull gleam among the ash, and the room was chilly. 
 Wonderful dreams came to him there in the arm- 
 chair. Only hours beyond, sometimes in the long, 
 dragging hours before the morning, he would wake 
 and lie tossing in utter wretchedness, his reason 
 unable to explain his mood, and his thoughts as 
 unnaturally distorted as in dream visions. 
 
 To his surprise his more serious friends assured
 
 SPRINGTIME 151 
 
 him that he was doing wisely, and they seemed to 
 be pleased. He had become an active member of 
 the Amalgamated Society of Engineers, and he 
 fancied now that he was heard more attentively. 
 He was a lively speaker, and his influence was 
 growing among the other men. Secretly he 
 hoped that he might become an official of the 
 society some day "an easy job, with good money." 
 At the works he was asked if he would like a marble 
 clock. He was greatly flattered at the thought of 
 his being worthy of a presentation. 
 
 He had never known the home-life which had 
 always been commonplace to John Allday, and the 
 enjoyment of his own home was one of his keenest 
 anticipations. Mrs. Allday laughed at his eager 
 questions about her kitchen and her household, 
 but she and Mr. Allday understood, and liked him 
 the more. When he bought a small oak table for 
 his new home, the first piece of furniture he had 
 ever truly called his own, he had to look at it often 
 to gratify his new pride, until Maggie laughed at 
 him. He liked to see her sewing. She had Jacky 
 Onions or his mother with her sometimes when 
 he called on a Sunday afternoon, and unless Mrs. 
 Onions chatted, he would sit long in silence watching 
 Maggie's deft fingers, and marvelling that he could 
 in so little find so great content. Maggie would 
 look up at him and smile, and ask anxiously, 
 "You don't think it's wicked of me, do you, sewing 
 this on Sunday? I don't get any time, do I?" 
 
 His grandfather made him feel the sanctity of 
 his coming marriage. 
 
 "I often say to myself, sitting here, Thank 
 God he's marrying a good girl!' Be good to her, 
 my lad, and the Lord bless you both! I've seen 
 you grown up and settled it's a great blessing. 
 I'm an old broken servant now, going to the 
 Master."
 
 152 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 He spoke in a thin, piping voice, with no tone 
 gradation, as quietly as he would speak of the 
 weather or any other banal matter. His voice 
 was almost expressionless. He was entering his 
 ninetieth year, in possession of all his faculties, 
 walking out a short way on fine days, and suffering 
 no malady but that of age, but he was becoming 
 very frail. His body seemed to have shrivelled, his 
 head drooped forward, quivering like a November 
 leaf, his feet dragged. He breathed in little gasps, 
 occasionally putting his hand to his breast, as though 
 his thoughts had to be given solely to the vital 
 task lest he might forget, and die. He did not 
 read his Bible often now; his sight was dim, and his 
 memory preserved well his favourite passages. 
 Hour after hour he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, 
 staring at slow visions, and stretching out his 
 withered hands to the warmth. He was only 
 fully roused when Maggie came with Sam. Then 
 he would talk, drawing from the stock of his long 
 recollections. Sam was awed by these memories, 
 told after being stored away from fifty to eighty 
 years. It seemed impossible that his grandfather 
 had actually seen these things, so extraordinarily 
 different from those to-day. Tales of the coaching 
 days, of Waterloo, of the Reform Bill, and the 
 Bristol Riots, and the cholera, were for the history 
 books, not to be told from actual memory now. 
 There was something unnatural in them, and in 
 their narrator, sitting quietly in his arm-chair, 
 when all his own world was gone. 
 
 Mothering Sunday came. The old folk who had 
 children and grandchildren had to bake cakes 
 for the family reunions. The days slipped away 
 rapidly. On Palm Sunday, Maggie Wheatley went 
 to church to early communion at eight o'clock, and 
 took a bunch of daffodils to deck her mother's 
 grave. "This week!" She said it to herself
 
 SPRINGTIME 153 
 
 often she had waited so long, yet at another 
 moment she said it only seemed a little while. She 
 had left the Royal Emporium so that she might 
 have the last week to herself. The girls had given 
 her silver teaspoons and sugar tongs; the foreman 
 had made the presentation ceremoniously after 
 the shop was closed, and they had had tea. One of 
 the girls was to be bridesmaid. It had been a hard 
 life and monotonous, on her feet so many hours 
 a day, yet with their present they had given Maggie 
 a pride and a recollection of happiness which, though 
 purely visionary, was as real as any past reality. 
 
 The time was very near, and so much had to be 
 done. Mrs. Onions was for ever in and out to help, 
 especially with advice, and endless explanations 
 of what she would do if only she were to marry 
 again. "Not as I wish the least bit o' harm in 
 the world to my old man except a bit more common 
 sense now and again, and may he live to be a 
 hundred-an'-one if he thinks he'd be any use so 
 long, as I tell him many a time." 
 
 Good Friday came, a wet, squally day. Maggie 
 looked anxiously at the sky. The milkman said he 
 feared the weather was broken for the holidays; 
 he was having no holiday. Mr. Onions said that 
 he couldn't say what it would be to-morrow, and 
 he explained minutely all the reasons which his 
 experience had taught him on a day like this to 
 say he couldn't say. The rag and bone man assured 
 them it was certain to be wet, but Mrs. Onions 
 retorted that his prophecy was more a sign of bad 
 trade than of bad weather. 
 
 "Don't you believe it, my love," she told Maggie. 
 "It'll be a bit showery, perhaps, like married life 
 itself, but the sun will shine bright you call me 
 a double Dutchman else. You don't think I've had 
 my twinges of rheumatics all these years for noth- 
 ing do you?"
 
 154 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Maggie was comforted. 
 
 Sam came after tea to take her to Allday's. He 
 stayed to supper there, and left soon afterwards. 
 Maggie took him to the front door to let him out 
 and to see what the weather was like it took a long 
 time to see that. When she returned, and Mrs. 
 Allday asked her if it was fine, she said, "Yes no, 
 no, there's a drop of rain -not much." And they 
 laughed at her confusion. 
 
 She declared she could not sleep if she went to 
 bed, so Mr. Allday went, and left them to talk. 
 
 It happened that she was alone with John for a 
 few moments before they said "good night." 
 
 "How many hours now, Maggie?" said John. 
 "It's only like the other day I heard you were 
 engaged. Christmas comes round quicker every 
 year, I think. You know I came to wish you a 
 merry Christmas I'll confess I very nearly forgot, 
 and I was angry with myself for it, properly " 
 
 "When did you come?" interrupted Maggie. 
 
 "Christmas Day. You were out getting en- 
 gaged, I suppose," said he, smiling. "It would be 
 in the evening, about half-past seven." 
 
 "Half-past seven?" said Maggie, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, I remember the time, because I heard the 
 old church clock strike as I went away. I meant 
 to tell you, only your engagement put it out of 
 my head I forgot." 
 
 There was a moment's silence before Maggie 
 said, very quietly, "Yes, I was out." 
 
 Upstairs in her bedroom afterwards she stood 
 for a long time before the looking-glass, staring 
 listlessly at her own image. When at length she 
 realized what she was doing she began quickly to 
 undress, only to find herself after a while as inactive 
 as before, her thoughts pacing heavily to and fro, 
 like prisoners in a narrow yard. One vision re- 
 curred vividly the backyard at home, and herself
 
 SPRINGTIME 155 
 
 groping for the key on its nail behind the ivy, while 
 through the houses, out of ordinary sight, she saw 
 a figure going down the hill, and she heard the 
 half -hour chimed solemnly by the old church clock. 
 Presently she was angry with John for having told 
 her; then she was angry with him for not having 
 told her long ago. She was angry with herself, 
 and shameful of her rebellious thoughts. She did 
 not sleep. 
 
 When morning came, and she heard the lark 
 singing for her wedding-day, her thoughts were 
 wearied to exhaustion. She rose, and said her 
 prayers very slowly, striving to be earnest in every 
 word on this day. Then she began to dress. Mrs. 
 Allday caught her, and ordered her into bed again, 
 and brought her a cup of tea. When Mrs. Allday 
 returned to ask her if she would like more, she 
 found her asprawl under the clothes, fallen asleep, 
 like a tired child.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE CURATE 
 
 THE Reverend Laurence Pettigo, B.A., Dublin, 
 newly appointed curate at the parish 
 church, walked briskly along the road 
 from Nickling towards Pedley Hill. He was a tall, 
 sturdy young man, plump, and expecting to grow 
 fat, but not worried at the prospect. His face was 
 ruddy, and his expression that of a man who 
 looked upon the world and found it good. He 
 was occasionally told that he would look well in 
 farmer's clothes, and among his recollections for 
 anecdote was the confession of an old parishioner 
 that he ought to wear the cassock of a Roman 
 Catholic priest, for he looked so well-fed and con- 
 tented. "Health before doctrine" was his motto; 
 he had never tried asceticism, and scorned it. 
 To-day he carried a stout ash stick and swung it 
 as he walked. He was well pleased with himself. 
 He had come from a poor parish in Liverpool, 
 and to come here was a pleasant change. He saw 
 no squalid poverty, and the poor were for the most 
 part without any of that meanness which makes 
 for misery and crime. This was an easy parish, 
 offering great opportunities. He liked the little 
 mission church at Nickling; he was enthusiastic; 
 he had been well received ; and he was sure already
 
 158 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 of his progress. His elder brother was a vicar 
 in the North of England, well married; his lady 
 had brought him a respectable fortune and an 
 incumbency. Laurence Pettigo saw no reason why 
 Fortune should not favour him equally. He was 
 not in the Church merely to benefit from a good 
 position won, or to find a wife with riches oh, 
 no, he was satisfied in his own self that his motives 
 were not of that sort. He had read "The Northern 
 Farmer," and hoped to be saved from the folly 
 of both father and son. He had entered the Church 
 because his brother had entered the Church, 
 because his uncle had entered, and to please his 
 mother too his father was dead. Being in, he 
 discovered a pleasure and enthusiasm in his work, 
 motives of good enough growth. The theories of 
 Darwin and of the advanced materialists had not 
 touched him vitally; he had laughed at the efforts 
 of up-to-date clerics to reconcile science and the 
 Bible. "I'm a parson, not a polemic" that was 
 his description of himself. His parents had been 
 churchgoers he had been trained to be a church- 
 goer, and he saw other families in their thousands 
 like his own. The Church had filled, and still 
 filled a part of both private and national life, and 
 it had become so because it supplied a need. It 
 was not necessary now to consider whether it had 
 created the need which it supplied. To continue 
 in its vital work it must still supply a need, not 
 necessarily the same in detail. Even the irreligious 
 spent a part of their time in denying religion, 
 so religion occupied their thoughts. The Reverend 
 Laurence Pettigo believed that religion might well 
 occupy one's thoughts, but essentially it should 
 occupy the body, providing an incessant activity 
 in social life, and pleasures especially; that was 
 the essence of his belief in his mission. And as 
 he was a healthy, active man, without subtlety,
 
 THE CURATE 159 
 
 fond of sport and company, fond of a good joke, a 
 pipe, and a glass of beer, he had already gained 
 enough success to justify his attitude. His vicar 
 in Liverpool had been a man like himself, busily 
 comforting the poor of his parish, and working that 
 they might enjoy a little of life's sunshine, and 
 not harassing them with doctrines. 
 
 The vicar of Pedley Hill was not loved. 
 "Curates come, and curates go, but I go on for 
 ever." The joke was old now, and everybody 
 knew it; still its flavour was as rich as ever. The 
 vicar was a gentleman no one denied that, and he 
 allowed no doubts to exist. He was also an auto- 
 crat. His duty was to command others in theirs, 
 so sure was he of his own fulfilling of the strict 
 law. Thus he was revered by the unflinching 
 devout, and heartily disliked by everybody else. 
 Those easygoing creatures who would go to church 
 occasionally as the whim came over them, never 
 went to the parish church. The headmaster 
 of the parish church schools did not go; they 
 had quarrelled, and it was one of the vicar's 
 bitterest grievances that he had failed to get him 
 dismissed, as it was the schoolmaster's grievance 
 that no amount of public feeling whatever had the 
 slightest chance of getting the vicar dismissed. 
 The vicar had no hypocrisy; he was hard on 
 others he was hard on himself his God was 
 jealous, hard on the world. He did not, however, 
 preach those doctrines of eternal torment so be- 
 loved of the extreme Puritans; his plea was for 
 devotion the devotion of a slave to a just master. 
 His church re-echoed feebly with the thin voice 
 of a congregation dwindling. The old doctrines 
 were going out of people's hearts; he knew these 
 things, and read in them portents of a bitter future. 
 Suffering in his age, he feared that Fin de Sidclc 
 might presage Fin dn Monde. He had never
 
 160 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 failed in duty, and he was exasperated that he had 
 not the power to compel the recalcitrants to come 
 again into the fold. Centuries before he would 
 have demanded a charter of pillory, and gallows, 
 and would have used them ruthlessly to save 
 his people's souls. He was a good man, perfect in 
 integrity, chivalrous to ladies, a staunch friend 
 and a hard enemy, though without malice, and his 
 wife had been devoted and submissive all her 
 married life. There were always fresh flowers on 
 her grave. One only of the great virtues he had 
 not sympathy. He had never doubted himself, 
 He had never learnt th. \he path to the hills of 
 greatness is over the plain^ of kindness, and doubts, 
 and self-examination. 
 
 The new curate as yet only knew the vicar as 
 a fine, rather dogmatic old gentleman of the old 
 school. Himself, he saw the Church of to-day 
 growing to a great active Church of to-morrow; 
 he did not know that the vicar saw it already full 
 grown, an edifice o.'ttt not on shifting human 
 hearts, but on the inanimate rocks, defying wind 
 and tide. 
 
 As he walked, the curate hummed a rapturous 
 little air, an impromptu of Schubert, which he 
 played with variations on the piano. He had 
 some knowledge of the arts. He also played the 
 banjo and sang with his face blacked. He was a 
 poor performer on the banjo, though much prouder 
 of it than of his prowess at the pianoforte, because 
 it gave more pleasure to other folk. 
 
 It was a frosty December afternoon, in the year 
 1896. By the roadside, here at hand, the bare 
 trees were stiff and ragged. On the distant slopes 
 they were grouped in vague masses in the haze. 
 There had been heavy rains, and the low meadows 
 by the road lay under flood water, dull grey, to 
 be frozen soon for skating if the frost held. A
 
 THE CURATE 161 
 
 few starlings straggled overhead; the main flocks 
 had already gone in clouds like dark puffs of smoke. 
 A goods train on the embankment against the hill 
 slope was like a toy, fleecy tufts shooting up from 
 the locomotive and dissolving very slowly in the 
 air. 
 
 The curate stood a while to look, and a vague 
 emotion stirred gently in him. The afternoon 
 was beautiful, because he was singularly content. 
 The sun was down below the dim western haze, 
 and, radiating, there were grey clouds drawn in 
 bands, touched with pale red and pink, dull gold, 
 and primrose. An elm rising from the hedge 
 stood against the sky in black patternless lace, 
 with twigs innumerable. Not a leaf whispered 
 in the dried beech the frost held all silent; only 
 in a garden past the low wall a blackbird lurked 
 among the laurels, and rustled the leaves. Far 
 away, at a great height, a flock of peewits was 
 making for the south. A chill blue mist was bring- 
 ing the early darkness. 
 
 Nobody was near to see the curate smiling; no- 
 body saw his keen glance of anticipated joy when 
 he turned away from the valley and glanced up 
 at the Kingsnortons' house, Ridgeway, his present 
 destination. Miss Kingsnorton and her parents 
 had been among his first acquaintances here. When 
 he had called he had met her sister Barbara. Sur- 
 prise and admiration had been his first emotions. 
 In a few moments it seemed to him that she was 
 more than gracious soon she was merry too and 
 at length he had gone away sure of her favour, 
 and proud that he should have won so much and 
 so easily. He wanted fervidly to succeed here. 
 Time after time he found her image dominating 
 his fancy, its presence not to be accounted for, and 
 insistent, though not alarming. She was witty 
 and talented; he had heard that she was an
 
 162 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 elocutionist, and might have become a clever 
 actress ; she had known musicians, poets, stage folk, 
 in London. If he could enlist her services in his 
 parish work, then his success would be a triumph, 
 and he counted already on her help. 
 
 She had been engaged to a Mr. Hurst, whom she 
 had known in London. The engagement was 
 broken off now, he knew, and he might have heard 
 many rumours, had he cared to listen. Her fiance 
 had an aunt in the district here, an eccentric old 
 lady, some ten miles or more away, in a big, lonely 
 house. Pettigo would not listen to gossip. It 
 was sufficient for him to know that the engage- 
 ment was ended he was pleased; he did not con- 
 sider the source of his pleasure. 
 
 He was shown on his arrival into the drawing- 
 room, and Barbara rose to greet him. He was 
 unaccountably self-conscious, and explained badly 
 that he had called to see her sister about the music 
 at the mission church. 
 
 When he reacted the scene in fancy afterwards, 
 he only remembered a fragment of all they talked 
 about. 
 
 "I hope I shan't make myself a nuisance by 
 asking for help I'll ask a lot," he had said. "It's 
 the talented people of a parish, you know, when 
 they have the right zeal, who make all the difference 
 in church life." 
 
 "Marian certainly is interested in the little 
 church." 
 
 "And are you?" 
 
 "Well not uninterested." 
 
 "That's giving me hope." 
 
 Then her mother had come in, and they had 
 given him tea. 
 
 "Have you been showing Mr. Pettigo Marian's 
 book?" said Mrs. Kingsnorton. 
 
 "No, I haven't."
 
 THE CURATE 163 
 
 The book was new, just published thick, creamy 
 paper, with wide margins, and the title in gilt on 
 a rough blue cover: 
 
 SELVALLEY RHYMES 
 
 BY 
 
 MARIAN HORDEN 
 
 "Horden is my maiden name, you know, Mr. 
 Pettigo," said Mrs. Kingsnorton proudly. "The 
 Hordens have been in the county for centuries." 
 
 The authoress had come just as he was leaving, 
 and had blushed at his compliments. 
 
 When he walked towards the town, on his way to 
 the vicarage, the least observant could see that he 
 was a happy man. 
 
 "A very pleasant young gentleman," Mrs. 
 Kingsnorton said when he was gone. "What a 
 pity he won't stay." 
 
 "He may be the last straw which breaks the old 
 camel's back," suggested Marian. 
 
 "My money's on the young parson," said 
 Barbara. 
 
 Mrs. Kingsnorton was comfortably shocked. 
 
 The curate stopped in High Street at the book- 
 seller's. The windows were decked with boxes 
 of notepaper and envelopes, dish-papers, jars and 
 penny bottles of ink, sealing wax, a dictionary, 
 children's picture-books, a novel by Guy Boothby, 
 several of Dickens' works in cheap edition, the 
 "Strand Magazine," and tin boxes of water colours. 
 The best bookseller in Pedley Hill could not make 
 a living out of books alone wisely he did not 
 try. 
 
 He had a copy of "Selvalley Rhymes." 
 
 "I took a big risk in stocking it," he explained.
 
 i<54 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "I've been quite astonished, the number of folks 
 coming in and buying it. It's Miss Kingsnorton 
 being so well known." 
 
 "Not the value of the book?" suggested the 
 curate. 
 
 "Well, sir, I don't know I haven't read it. It's 
 poetry, I see." 
 
 The curate laughed. He would not have the 
 book wrapped up, and as soon as he was in the 
 street he opened it to read. He had read very 
 little poetry quite modern, and now he was charmed. 
 This might not be great poetry it probably was 
 not more than mediocre verse, he told himself, 
 yet it pleased him in a way he could not define, 
 the real way, he said. There seemed to him to 
 be a humanity and primitive simplicity in its 
 inspiration, like a child's happiness in the world's 
 new things, like a fresh breeze from the hills. 
 Barbara Kingsnorton's sister had written this 
 Barbara herself had helped, maybe. He would 
 rather have believed it to be her work. 
 
 Near the Bullen he had to cease reading. He 
 had had two collisions, and the traffic was busy. 
 
 He stood a while to watch the market, for he 
 loved a crowd of people. By the "Bull" he helped 
 a poor old woman into the Selbridge bus, handed 
 her heavy basket after her, and laughed at her 
 stammered blessing. A fat man, merry after 
 pints of ale, called in approbation, "Now, that is 
 a parson!" The curate could not avoid hearing. 
 He had not helped the old woman for that sort of 
 flattery nevertheless it was very pleasing. 
 
 A little crowd was gathering at the corner of 
 Castle Street. The curate pushed his way forward 
 with the curious, and saw a tiny scared child, with 
 eyes red from weeping, and mouth open aghast, 
 before so many staring faces. 
 
 "He can't talk. Where's the pleece?"
 
 THE CURATE 165 
 
 One after another spoke, arguing and pushing 
 until the child's mouth drooped, and he sobbed 
 again. 
 
 "It's Bloom's little lad up Castle Street, up the 
 top, past the church." 
 
 Nobody was going up Castle Street to-day 
 everybody was too busy. It was scandalous to go 
 and lose a child like this. What was the pleece 
 thinking about? The infant wept almost unnoticed 
 in the middle of the crush, and many were disap- 
 pointed because it wasn't a fight or somebody 
 drunk to make them laugh. 
 
 The curate pushed to the front 
 
 'Til take him. Come along, little man!" 
 
 He picked up the child, and strode off, the 
 crowd parting to let him pass. He was a bachelor, 
 but he had carried children for tired mothers on 
 church outings, and he was fond of children. In 
 fifty yards the child had ceased to cry in a 
 hundred he was beginning to enjoy himself. ^ 
 pennyworth of sweets brought him happiness, 
 and his little hand was outstretched eagerly, 
 pointing out the dogs and horses for his new friend 
 to notice. 
 
 Reward was not delayed. The curate had the 
 good fortune to address himself to Mrs. Onions, 
 who was on her way up the hill after a busy day 
 spent in the market to fill a small basket with food 
 and a huge curiosity with information. 
 
 "Bless my life, I should think I do know I 
 ought to. You don't mean to say as you're acarryin' 
 of that child home? Lost, was he? You little 
 tinker; what yer been up to, getting lost? He 
 was left with my grandchild my daughter Lizzie's 
 baby, and she'd meet somebody, I know. You 
 never see such a tongue as that girl's got. I'm 
 acoming up. Mrs. Bloom's my next-door neigh- 
 bour, an' a yery respectable and nice neighbour
 
 i66 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 she is, an' it's me says it. I have had neighbours 
 in my time." 
 
 She explained to Maggie afterwards: "We were 
 talking away as free I took to him in a twink, 
 and so did your little John. Oh, my dear, he's a 
 nice feller." 
 
 She did not add that she had watched the house, 
 herself from the kitchen window to watch the 
 back door, and her daughter in the parlour to keep 
 her eye on the front, so that she might go round 
 and hear all the news from Maggie as soon as he 
 was gone. 
 
 "He was very nice," said Maggie. "I should 
 have liked to offer him a cup of tea, only the place 
 is all in such a mess, me being ill two days. Wasn't 
 it good of him to bring the child home! It w 
 wonderful how John took to him, he's so shy 
 with strangers held his little hands out, he didn't 
 want him to go." 
 
 She turned to the boy. 
 
 "Yes, you you young mischief !" she said. 
 
 The child laughed merrily, and ran into the 
 corner behind the sofa. When he peeped out he 
 was disappointed that his mother was not playing 
 with him. 
 
 Maggie was nursing the baby, who was very 
 cross, cutting her first tooth. 
 
 "I was ashamed of the place," said Maggie. "I 
 never dreamed of seeing anybody like that come 
 in. Sam quarrelled with the last curate, you know, 
 and he stopped coming. I was very sorry but he 
 wasn't a nice man." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and then darted across the 
 room to the child. 
 
 "Come out of it, you young Turk! Good 
 heavens! Look what he's done all the black- 
 lead things!" 
 
 He had opened the cupboard, and had a dirty
 
 THE CURATE 167 
 
 brush in one hand, and a black rag in the other. 
 When he saw his mother's anger, he sat down and 
 howled. 
 
 Maggie shut the cupboard, and strove to hush the 
 wailing baby in her arms. 
 
 "Now behave yourself!" she commanded him. 
 "I never saw the like of that child for mischief." 
 
 "It's health, nature, my dear," said Mrs. Onions. 
 "You've been just the same, I've heard your mother 
 say many a time." 
 
 "I dare say," said Maggie. "All the same, 
 it's too much for a woman to look after children 
 and dress 'em, keep the home nice, and herself 
 and be a good partner to her husband, with a mere 
 nothing of wages coming in. It can't be done. It 
 isn't fair." 
 
 "When you've had six " 
 
 "I'll die first! It's hard enough now." 
 
 "Ah, my dear, I used to feel like that," said 
 Mrs. Onions kindly. "Many an hour's crying I've 
 had, and many a time I've said I'd drown myself. 
 And I just went on." 
 
 "Only another few shillings a week," said 
 Maggie bitterly; "money to afford some help, 
 a bit of rest, a chance to go out with my hus- 
 band " 
 
 "I know, I know I've said all that. You've got 
 to submit, first or last." 
 
 Maggie sat down and sobbed. Mrs. Onions 
 patted her shoulder. 
 
 "We've had to go through it, thousands of us. . . ." 
 
 "Is that your book?" she said, interrupting 
 herself. 
 
 Maggie was roused. 
 
 "No it must be the curate's. He had a book 
 like that. He's left it." 
 
 Mrs. Onions looked at it, and exclaimed, 
 "Poetry!" Then she put it down as though
 
 i68 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 It were hot. Mr. Onions was shouting "Missis!" 
 in the yard, so she had to go. 
 
 Maggie prepared to wash up the tea things. 
 She wanted to have the place neat before the 
 curate could come back for his book. The baby 
 was sleepy, and lay quiet when her mother had put 
 her in the cradle. The boy played with a box of 
 bricks on the kitchen hearthrug; he was safe for 
 five minutes, or even more, if Fortune were 
 kind. 
 
 The washing up was finished, and Maggie was 
 swilling the dishcloth in the tin bowl under the 
 tap when John Allday came to the back door. At 
 the sound of footsteps Maggie thought it was the 
 curate. The blind was not down, and she saw 
 John pass the window. She was trembling when 
 she opened the door. 
 
 "I've brought the book back Sam lent me," said 
 John. 
 
 She invited him in. 
 
 "Didn't he say you could keep it?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, but it's no good to me. It's true enough 
 what's in it, mind you, so far as it goes. A lot of 
 us do have hard lives, through no fault of our own. 
 I can't exactly say as I have you do, I know. 
 There's something far wrong with our social sys- 
 tem, government, church, and all. But it ain't this'll 
 put it right." 
 
 "That's what I say," said Maggie. 
 
 She was thinking that John had come to return 
 a book which he need not have brought. Sam was 
 gone to see the football match at Selbridge. John 
 had known surely that Sam had gone; he must 
 have guessed he would be out. Then his pleasure 
 in coming must be all in seeing her. 
 
 "It's all very well a man having ideals for him- 
 self," said John. "He's bound to have, of course, 
 and the better they are the better he is, but he
 
 THE CURATE 169 
 
 can't make ideals for other folks, and then make 
 them change their own for 'em." 
 
 "That's how you should talk to Sam," said 
 Maggie. 
 
 "I do, but you know " 
 
 He shook his head and smiled. Maggie smiled, 
 though only at her own happy excitation. 
 
 "It isn't ideals he's after to-day it's football," 
 said she. 
 
 The little boy had risen from play, and was pull- 
 ing at the knees of John's trousers, trying to attract 
 his attention. John patted his head. 
 
 "Come away, John, don't be a worry !" said Mag- 
 gie. "It's your bedtime in a minute or two." 
 
 The child clung to Jol\ '" knees, and he picked 
 him up. 
 
 "Ah, your Uncle John spoils you!" 
 
 Maggie smiled, and the boy laughed with delight. 
 
 "It's no good standing here in the cold. Come 
 in the sitting-room. The water's on to bath the 
 children." 
 
 Maggie turned out the gas. Mrs. Onions went 
 away from the bedroom window next door there 
 was no more to see. 
 
 The baby woke and began to whimper. Maggie 
 took her out of the cradle, and put on a big apr6n 
 to nurse her. 
 
 "You've got your hands full, Maggie," said 
 John. 
 
 "God knows!" she exclaimed. "I could cry 
 many a time, the way I have to keep on day and 
 night, the house to keep clean, meals to cook, and 
 wash up, and these two to look after. I daren't 
 take my eyes off that young mischief and baby 
 has me up twice every night, and all day on no 
 peace. I can't wear my best boots, my feet are 
 swollen so. You can't imagine." 
 
 "I can," said John, in sympathy. "You've
 
 1 70 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 taught me. I'll admit I had no idea before, al- 
 though I've heard mother say many a time." 
 
 "Nobody has any idea what torments they were 
 as children till they have some of their own. 
 Oh, it's cruel! And they're such helpless little 
 creatures, you can't help loving 'em. If I could 
 only have a nurse-girl, a girl just left school, to 
 relieve me an hour or so a day it wouldn't cost 
 much but we're so poor." 
 
 "That's the worst of it, Maggie. You mustn't be 
 poor in this world it's worse than being wicked." 
 
 "That's what Sam says. We're going to change 
 all that, he says, the future's going to be wonderful 
 marvellous things in the twentieth century 
 oh, yes! But it's now, I tell him, I want a bit of 
 help and money and he doesn't try to make an 
 extra shilling. He's doing greater things, he's 
 always telling me. Humanity be hanged, if I'm 
 not humanity!" 
 
 "Sam's an idealist, a dreamer. He wants to do 
 good " 
 
 "Except at home," said Maggie bitterly. 
 
 "No, no!" protested John. "Don't be too hard 
 on him, Maggie." 
 
 "I didn't mean that," she said, rebuked; "only 
 it is hard." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 The boy grew restive. He wanted to be played 
 with. Presently he began to whimper, and Maggie 
 threatened him with immediate bed. John pleaded 
 for him, and went down on hands and knees to 
 play with him on the hearthrug. 
 
 Maggie interrupted them. 
 
 "Do you know the new curate?" 
 
 "Not to speak to yet," said John. "I've seen 
 him." 
 
 Maggie explained, and told the story of his bring- 
 ing the boy home.
 
 THE CURATE 171 
 
 "This is the book. I put it on the mantelpiece 
 out of that gentleman's road." 
 
 John stood up and took the book. 
 
 "Why, it's Miss Kingsnorton's new book of 
 poems!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I've heard 
 a lot about it I was going to buy one." 
 
 The child was annoyed at his play being stopped. 
 John pushed him away gently. 
 
 "It's all about the place here Selvalley, you 
 see. Listen: Tie Fair,' 'The Bullen,' The 
 Bristol Road' Oh, I must get this. Ha! Here's 
 another The Fat Lady/ Why that's the very 
 one we saw at the Fair you remember. Sam, 
 and you, and me you know the Miss Kings- 
 nortons were in the tent." 
 
 "I remember," said Maggie quietly. 
 
 "Is the curate coming back for it, do you think? 
 I'll take it, shall I? He's in lodgings in Nickling. 
 I can soon find him, I know." 
 
 Maggie smiled at his excitement. 
 
 "I've been waiting to tell you," she said. "He 
 wants to start a social club, and all sorts of things. 
 I think he's the very man for it. He was asking 
 me, and I told him to come to you." 
 
 "Me?" said John, surprised. 
 
 "Yes. You are the one to help him. I should 
 think he'll call and see you about it." 
 
 "You liavc let me in for something," said John, 
 smiling. "Was there anything else you were 
 telling him?" 
 
 "Only about you," said Maggie, and John 
 saw that she was blushing. "You had better take 
 the book." 
 
 She let him out of the house by the front door. 
 They stood talking a while; she told him more 
 about the curate's visit, and he asked eager questions. 
 The baby whimpered. The boy struggled to 
 get into the street, and cried when he was held
 
 172 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 back he became so naughty that she smacked him, 
 and he stood sobbing quietly to himself. John for- 
 got him until he was going; then he took out a 
 penny for him. 
 
 "No, you shouldn't!" said Maggie. 
 
 John laughed. The child was happy again, 
 and stood with his mother. Maggie held his hand, 
 and they both waved to "Uncle John" going away. 
 When he was gone Maggie hurried to prepare the 
 baths. They had to wear clean clothes to-morrow 
 her husband's supper had to be cooked there was 
 no end to her work. She sang nursery rhymes 
 to amuse the children she was happy, and she was 
 not often happy; she said she hadn't time.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "SELVALLEY RHYMES" 
 
 JOHN forgot Maggie and her troubles as soon 
 as the front door had shut. His thoughts 
 were for the book under his arm, and for Miss 
 Kingsnorton and her sister. He grew impatient 
 to read more, and at length he stopped by a bright 
 shop window and opened the book. 
 
 Too old not fat enough I know 
 
 I'm twenty stone, if I'm a bit. 
 Shiv'ring in the cold draught but no, 
 Not worth a penny, and you'll go 
 
 And grumble, while I smile and sit, 
 And sit and smile in hideous din, 
 And smells of turf and paraffin, 
 
 And look to be enjoying it. 
 
 The first stanza delighted him. He saw it all 
 again so well the tent, the smoky lights, the Fat 
 Lady on her dais, Barbara smiling mischievously. 
 When he came to the first market stalls at the 
 bottom of the hill the smell from a paraffin lamp 
 increased the vividness of his memory's vision. 
 The poem was the best in the book, for sure. 
 It was splendid he had been there in the tent 
 he remembered. He had not read any of the 
 other poems through no doubt they were good, 
 but this was the best, unless there were a poem 
 with Barbara in it. He understood why people 
 
 173
 
 174 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 were talking so much about the book: it was about 
 places they knew, and people they knew of course 
 it was good. He made a great resolution to buy 
 the book and read every poem. He had never 
 bought a book of poems in his life nobody did, 
 except for birthday presents to young ladies, or 
 to be given away as Sunday school prizes. Yet 
 he loved the woods and the fields, the year's ever- 
 changing beauties, and music stirred him deeply. 
 It had never occurred to him that every one is 
 in some measure a poet in feeling, though not in 
 expression, and that poetry, like music, is the voice 
 of those great emotions which make glad the heart. 
 He had always admired it, from a distance, as a 
 sort of clever verbal jugglery. He did not know 
 if this were fine poetry; he remembered that he 
 knew little, and declared that it was good enough 
 for him he would never demand better. 
 
 John had changed greatly in his inner self during 
 the last eighteen months. After his jump forward 
 from obscurity he had expected to make other 
 jumps, and his progress had become so slow that 
 he seemed not to be moving. Disappointment came, 
 and impatience, and intermittent melancholy. His 
 position at Binnses was improved, and he had more 
 money still, he was not satisfied; he could not 
 become foreman unless the foreman died, fifteen 
 years hence, or more, probably an eternity. The 
 glee singers had no season this winter: glee were 
 going out of fashion. One of the party had 
 left the place, and another had been tempted into 
 Selbridge Choral Society. John had lost heart in 
 his singing. He refused to sing at smoking concerts, 
 and he could not compete with the boomed pro- 
 fessionals brought to Selbridge. His investment 
 in the brick works was more and more successful 
 each year, and took up much of his time, for his 
 father was not so active now. He might some
 
 "SELV ALLEY RHYMES" 175 
 
 day leave Binnses, and live by that and by the 
 scrap-iron business, which was improving too. 
 For a while he had had high hopes and aspirations. 
 His father and mother spent hours in surmising 
 what had caused his subsequent despondency. His 
 mother's favourite theory was no nearer truth than 
 the choosing of an effect when seeking cause. 
 
 His father confessed he did not know what to 
 think. During the last weeks, however, his mother 
 declared he was more like his old cheerful self, and 
 they were comforted. 
 
 Not even the most fantastic gossip associated 
 John Allday in any way with Barbara Kings- 
 norton's engagement to Mr. Hurst. Instinctively 
 John disliked the man from the moment he first 
 saw him at Benlows' on Christmas Day, three 
 years before. He was too fine a gentleman, too 
 supercilious. John felt rebelliously that he was 
 too aggressive in his superiority. He knew very 
 little of him. He lived in London, travelled, never 
 seemed to work, and often came to stay with his 
 aunt and drove over to Pedley Hill, to the "Bull" 
 at first, and then to the Kingsnortons'. John 
 refused to believe that Barbara had chosen this 
 man, from among all the fine men she must know, 
 because she loved him with that great passion 
 which John felt in his own heart; for at the first 
 news of her engagement John knew surely that he 
 loved her, worshipped her with a devotion akin 
 to reverence. He did not know that he loved 
 only his own idealized vision of her. This great 
 emotion stirring had never been love until his whole 
 self cried out in anguish when he knew that she 
 was given to one utterly unworthy and he was 
 as sure of the man's unworthiness as he was of his 
 own love. He tried to reason. He knew nothing 
 against this man, a gentleman, received at Ridge- 
 way, accepted as an honourable suitor. It was of no
 
 i ;6 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 avail. Dislike became scorn, with pity for Barbara 
 following fierce, unreasoning passions which 
 dominated all his being, and as immovable as the 
 hills. At times, long awake at night, and all the 
 world asleep, he felt that tears might come to him 
 in his loneliness, only his manhood rebelled proudly. 
 He could not believe that she was happy. 
 
 Barbara Kingsnorton's engagement greatly dis- 
 appointed Mr. Benlow, who had striven to give 
 her and his son every chance to fall in love sensibly 
 with each other. Willie was permanently at 
 home now, helping his father in the business. 
 He was not the prodigy he had been prophesied. 
 London had made him discontented as well as 
 disillusioned. He had failed in the great trial. 
 His father had paid his debts, and he was able 
 to swagger well at home, with a few pupils at high 
 fees, and occasional performances in public; but 
 everybody knew he had failed. Unfortunate 
 words of his own were quoted against him: 
 "London is the burning fiery furnace, refining 
 gold, and using mediocrity as fuel." Barbara 
 Kingsnorton too was permanently at home. Elsie 
 Benlow said to John one day, "I think she has found 
 London out, like Willie or it found her out." 
 John decided that she had grown weary of her 
 ideals; life was not decked for her happiness had 
 he not learnt the same thing, these many days? 
 and in her loneliness, her gloom, she had given her- 
 self to this man not worthy to tie the latchet of her 
 shoe. He suggested his idea to Elsie Benlow later, 
 and she disappointed him cruelly. 
 
 "Oh, I think she likes him well enough. He's 
 supposed to be worth a lot of money, and he's 
 lively thinks himself a great aristocrat just the 
 man she would like, don't you think?" 
 
 John blamed Elsie for his disappointment 
 
 Sam Bloom was still his friend, though the
 
 "SELVALLEY RHYMES" 177 
 
 close comradeship had become strained. Sam was 
 an active member of the Amalgamated Society 
 of Engineers. John was not; he thought he had 
 no need to be, and Sam accused him hotly of 
 selfishness. There were not a dozen trades- 
 union men at Binnses; it was too old-fashioned 
 in its methods, and too smoothly working ever to 
 have need of union intervention. Sam was an 
 extremist, a dreamer, hot in enthusiasm, and 
 erratic. He neglected his work for propaganda 
 he neglected it for sport too. "A man must have 
 some recreation," he said. He grew didactic in 
 speech and John accused him of intolerance. John 
 was not by nature argumentative; he was weak in 
 repartee, and incensed when Sam defeated him, for 
 he felt that he had been in the right, only Sam 
 had a clever trick of speech. Then he tried silence, 
 and Sam taunted him. Maggie sympathized, and 
 John, in his first grief on hearing of Barbara Kings- 
 norton's engagement, went to Maggie for the ready 
 sympathy he dared not ask. Maggie gave 
 gladly, never asking why. With her he first 
 understood the great gulf between the merry 
 poverty of the poor and the misery of impecunious 
 respectability. He was sorry for Maggie. He liked 
 her little boy, his namesake and godchild, and liked 
 to hear him say "Uncle John," in his baby way. 
 Sam was often out when he called; there was no 
 harm in that Sam was so often out. John was 
 conscious of his choosing times when Maggie 
 would be alone, and explained to his own satis- 
 faction that he did not care to argue with Sam 
 before Maggie. Sam had trounced him several 
 times thus, and his knowing secretly that Maggie 
 was always on his side only added to his morti- 
 fication. 
 
 He had heard it said often that children came 
 as a blessing, to cement parents' love. It was a
 
 178 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 revelation to learn from Maggie how children 
 bring incessant work and expense, worry and 
 exasperation, to poor homes. The knowledge hurt 
 him, for it destroyed a treasured romance; and 
 with it was revealed how nagging tempers and the 
 unhappiness of mean streets were not due to base 
 character, to the unchangeable ignorance of the 
 dwellers, but to the grind of monotonous poverty 
 and to never-ending hopeless work. For a while 
 he saw none of the merriment and the revelry which 
 only the poor enjoy. 
 
 "Thank goodness I'm a bachelor!" he told 
 himself. Yet he was lonely as he had never been 
 before, and yearned for more than companionship, 
 and suffered as his passion beat its wings against 
 its cage of hopelessness. When by slow degrees 
 he realized that others must have suffered thus, 
 and greater than he, his soul was rilled with wonder, 
 and presently his suffering became beautiful and 
 precious to him. 
 
 The engagement was broken, and he rejoiced. 
 Hope was no higher for his own cause he did not 
 permit himself the foolishness of hope, he said 
 yet he was happy. Of many rumours, he chose 
 that which pleased him best: she had broken the 
 engagement off. He was sure she had not been 
 happy. 
 
 One Monday afternoon, in autumn, a slack day 
 at the works, the men in the fitting-shop had gone 
 home at three o'clock. John changed his clothes, 
 had tea quickly, and went out on his bicycle. He 
 was returning early, through the woods on the first 
 hill-slopes beyond Nickling. The road was lonely 
 and rather narrow enthusiastic cyclists, arched 
 like angry cats on wheels, chose always the lower 
 road. John was riding gently, humming a little 
 tune, and thinking of nothing at all; and then, 
 rounding a curve, he saw Barbara Kingsnorton
 
 "SELVALLEY RHYMES" 179 
 
 cycling in front of him. His first desire was to 
 overtake her at once, but he was overwhelmed with 
 shyness, and he chose to ride behind, unseen, in 
 adoration. The leaves came twirling round at 
 every little wind, and rustled under the wheels; 
 gold and brown and green of every hue slid past, 
 and cool grey shadows filled the woods land of 
 enchantment, these few minutes since. 
 
 Suddenly she swerved. John gasped in pain, for 
 she rode into the hedgebank, and fell, and lay there, 
 very still. He put out all his strength and dashed 
 forward. 
 
 She lay unconscious on her face. He pulled the 
 machine off her, and turned her over very gently. 
 Her face was white, her forehead bleeding a little 
 from a cut among her hair. The red blood 
 frightened him. Trembling in haste, he soaked his 
 handkerchief in the water of the narrow ditch, and 
 bathed her forehead. She sighed. He had never 
 seen a beauty so wonderful. Then she opened her 
 eyes, stared at him, frowned, struggling to under- 
 stand, and at last she strove to smile. He refused 
 to let her try to stand. 
 
 "What happened?" she said. "There was noth- 
 ing in the way, was there? I must have lost my 
 senses. I can't think what made me do it. I can't 
 remember." She puckered her forehead. "My 
 brain must have given way." 
 
 She laughed, and John was afraid he had never 
 heard her laugh so. 
 
 He put the handle-bar of her machine right, and 
 helped to dust her clothes; then they walked 
 on for a while. Presently she talked as though 
 trying to forget her accident, telling John merry 
 tales of her schooldays, holiday escapades, of Lon- 
 don, and asking many questions about himself. 
 When afterwards he reacted the scene, enjoying 
 himself even more gloriously in fancy, he perceived
 
 i8o LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 that she had talked only of the past. The present, 
 then, did not hold her happiness, he said. She was 
 not happy. Over and over he said it, and chafed at 
 his own impotence to aid her. 
 
 He did not see her out cycling again, or walking 
 either, except to church with her sister, although 
 he haunted the roads, and hoped continually, 
 until the rains came shrilly from the west. 
 
 To-night, with the book of poems under his 
 arm, he felt that he was approaching her again. 
 He looked for her in the market, searching eagerly, 
 though not disappointed any time. 
 
 A crowd was gathered in the High Street, all 
 across the road. John made for it as soon as he 
 perceived the commotion. He was not particularly 
 interested to learn what might be happening, and 
 he did not run like many folk flocking out of the 
 Bullen. Nevertheless, when he arrived, he pushed 
 about and craned his neck, and then searched for 
 somebody to be angry with for making him so 
 eager about nothing. 
 
 He was going away, irritable in humour, when 
 he saw Barbara Kingsnorton. 
 
 "What is it, Mr. Allday, do you know?" she 
 said. 
 
 "I don't unless it's nothing at all." 
 
 "It usually is," said she. "Isn't it stupid how 
 people rush into a crowd like this!" 
 
 John was not sure what to say. 
 
 "That's the proper thing to say, isn't it, Mr. 
 Allday?" 
 
 "Yes," said John, finding his courage "other 
 people, you mean." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 She was going home, the same way as he, and he 
 was embarrassed. The book saved him ; he was able 
 to walk with her while he explained that he was
 
 "SELVALLEY RHYMES" 181 
 
 taking it to Nickling, and then she was interested; 
 she would not wish to drive him away. 
 
 "I think it's splendid," he told her. "There's 
 one especially, 'The Fat Lady' it must have been 
 that night at the Fair. I was in the tent when 
 you were there, with your sister " 
 
 "I remember," said Barbara. "There's another 
 one you'll know too: your father told us, Marian 
 and me, one day in the park he was telling us 
 about the old days. It's called 'The Three 
 R's': 
 
 " 'Our schoolin' was o' winter nights, 
 W\ readin', 'ritin', 'rithmetic.' 
 
 "I haven't read that one yet," said John. 
 
 He told her Maggie's story of the curate's taking 
 little John home, and she asked him many questions. 
 It was such a little way home to-night. 
 
 "We're soon here," she said, exalting him. 
 
 "I'm going to get this," he said of the book. "I 
 didn't know it was published this week." 
 
 She turned back after they had said "good 
 night." 
 
 "Mr. Allday, you needn't buy a copy unless you 
 want to give one away. I've got a spare copy I'll 
 give you, if you like." 
 
 He was awkward in his thanks, but called after 
 her as she went, "I'll give mine away and keep 
 yours may I?" 
 
 He listened to the crunch of her footsteps on 
 the gravel until she had gone round the curve. 
 Nor rain nor snow could spoil this night's loveliness. 
 He sang aloud, and laughed merrily at the thought 
 of folk believing his joy to have been bought by 
 the glass and swallowed in public-houses. 
 
 Every one in Nickling knew where the curate 
 lodged. John received a fine welcome. He liked 
 his host from the first moment, instinctively. He
 
 182 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 had come, sure that he would like him, for Maggie 
 liked him, and Barbara Kingsnorton seemed to 
 have shared John's pleasure in the story of Maggie's 
 little boy. John rose to a keen enthusiasm. The 
 Church Social Club was organized, splendid in 
 success, and with it a glee club, musical evenings, 
 chamber concerts, nigger minstrels, rambling 
 parties, cycling and picnics for Saturday afternoons. 
 The room was rilled with a haze of tobacco smoke ; 
 the curtains would be odorous till the washtub 
 received them. John's tongue was parched beyond 
 the powers of thin cocoa to assuage. Neither 
 perceived how much they talked of Barbara Kings- 
 norton. 
 
 "My dear boy, I've been delighted to see you," 
 said the curate when John was going, and John 
 repeated it after the door was shut. Mr. Pettigo 
 was a gentleman, and had treated him as a friend. 
 
 John went into the tiny public-house at the end 
 of the village, and had a pint of ale in the parlour 
 he had never tasted better ale. 
 
 His father had gone to bed when he arrived. 
 His mother had expected him early, and was in- 
 clined to grumble. 
 
 "I went to Bloom's," he began. 
 
 "Was Sam in?" asked his mother. 
 
 "No I saw Maggie." 
 
 "You haven't been there all this time, have 
 you?" 
 
 "Good gracious, no ! I've been with Miss Barbara 
 Kingsnorton, and had supper with the Reverend 
 Something Pettigo, B.A." 
 
 He had never been prouder. 
 
 "Was it with him you had the beer?" said his 
 mother. 
 
 He laughed aloud, until she had to smile. 
 
 "There's a parcel for you from Kingsnortons'. 
 I've been itching to open it."
 
 "SELVALLEY RHYMES" 183 
 
 He opened the book and read his father's tale, 
 "The Three R's." Stirred by his ardour, his mother 
 recollected episodes of her girlhood, when Mrs. 
 Kingsnorton used to call at her father's house. 
 John knew her stories well, and enjoyed them again 
 by keeping in front of her. She had been worried 
 at the thought of his going so often to see Maggie 
 Bloom; it was not the proper thing to do, she had 
 decided. Now she forgot all she had resolved to 
 say. Full of the good news of John's progress, she 
 woke her husband when she went to bed, and was 
 vexed because he grumbled. 
 
 She had told John, "There'll be no need for you 
 to buy a book. It's a waste of money." 
 
 "I suppose it would be," John agreed. 
 
 He had been tempted. Then, afterwards, when 
 his resolution came, he knew he would not dare to 
 tell her. It was a promise to Barbara, he reasoned, 
 and so he must keep it. He must buy a copy of 
 the poems they should be Maggie's Christmas 
 present she would treasure them. 
 
 He was so happy, and so full of thoughts, he 
 forgot to say his jrayers.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FRIENDS 
 
 BARBARA KINGSNORTON said of the 
 curate's progress, 'It's positively alarm- 
 ing even the worst dressed people are 
 coming to church." John Allday, to whom she 
 said it one Sunday morning after service, told it 
 everywhere, even after he had been rebuked for 
 repeating himself too frequently. The vicar, on 
 a Sunday early in the New Year, introduced into 
 his sermon irrelevant and emphatic homilies on the 
 treachery of popular success. At once the town 
 learnt that he was jealous of his new curate. "And 
 if it isn't that, what is it then? Of course it is," 
 said the gossips. 
 
 The Christmas Social had been the curate's 
 triumph : he had recited a poem about a fat man in 
 church, in crinoline days, who put his top hat in the 
 aisle by the pew, and he had been the fat man, his 
 wife, the verger, a young lady, her grandma, the 
 parson, and the hat, one after another, so quick that 
 the audience choked and gurgled and shrieked, and 
 the vicar had momentarily forgotten that he was 
 the vicar. On the following Sunday the parish 
 church had been nearly full in the morning because 
 Mr. Pettigo was there to preach. He did not make 
 them laugh now, but thrilled them unexpectedly 
 gave them funny feelings inside, like the trem- 
 
 184
 
 FRIENDS 185 
 
 blings in the best melodramas, only more so, ex- 
 plained Barbara at home. At evening service the 
 vicar read a sermon twenty minutes to a congrega- 
 tion dozing. It was a fine evening, and the crowd 
 was at the mission. 
 
 The Social Club was founded. John was invited 
 to the first meeting, and he took other men from 
 Binnses. Old Gentleman Binns promised one 
 hundred pounds. He was very old now, still 
 about in fine weather, and so erect that malicious 
 folk talked of stays; but his face was thinner, like 
 parchment, and his lusty vitality was gone. 
 
 One afternoon John came home early. It was 
 a cold, raw day; he was thinking of hot toast for 
 his tea, and he whistled merrily as he walked. 
 
 Barbara and Marian Kingsnorton were sitting 
 at the fireside. They had been having tea; the 
 best china was out. John, dirty from the works, 
 was grievously embarrassed. 
 
 Marian explained. Amateur theatricals had been 
 suggested to raise some money for the new Social 
 Club; they had talked it over with Mr. Pettigo, 
 and he had declared the idea was excellent; they 
 might have local interest, and continue. The name 
 had been suggested, "The Selvalley Players." 
 
 "There used to be famous mumming here, years 
 ago, at Christmas-time," said she, "I've heard 
 mother say. I'm writing something after the old 
 style 'Saint George' and we came this afternoon 
 to ask your father he remembers " 
 
 "Not so well as I'd like," said John's father, 
 greatly flattered. 
 
 John interrupted him. 
 
 "It's old Mr. Peacock you should see. He's 
 played 'Saint George,' years ago." 
 
 Marian was eager to go at once. Barbara in- 
 sisted on John's first having some tea. 
 
 They were fortunate. Old Mr. Peacoclc was
 
 186 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 bright and ready to talk. His housekeeper assured 
 them he was better than he had been for years. 
 "He worries about young Mr. Bloom, his grand- 
 son," she explained. "He sits there sometimes all 
 day brooding never a word. I'm frightened to 
 go in, for fear he should be gone." 
 
 John accompanied the ladies to the Toll, and 
 then went back a little way,, to a grocer's where they 
 had a licence. He was invited to the first meeting 
 of the new Selvalley Players. Marian and Barbara 
 Kingsnorton had shaken hands with him, and 
 Barbara had added her invitation to her sister's; 
 this day was to be celebrated, not to be let pass 
 like other days. He demanded a bottle of the best 
 port in the shop, and went home in triumph, banged 
 the wine on the table, sang a snatch of song, broke 
 the cork crumbling in the neck of the bottle, patted 
 his mother's back when she drank, and made her 
 choke with merriment. 
 
 The first rehearsal was fixed for a Friday evening 
 in February, and the performance for a week after 
 Easter. John was now a member of the committee 
 of the newly-founded Social Club, and was given 
 a small part in Marian Horden's play, "Saint 
 George." A farce was to be played, too. Barbara 
 had said at the first meeting, "It must be farce 
 it's like giving children pills, and then jam after." 
 
 John was excited all the week. 
 
 On the Friday morning he lost a quarter. He 
 had not felt well for several days. This morning 
 he might have been in time if he had hurried after 
 waking, but he didn't want to hurry. He was a 
 good timekeeper at the works a quarter lost to-day 
 was nothing. 
 
 His mother called him as he dozed again.
 
 FRIENDS 187 
 
 "I didn't know it was late. Aren't you up yet, 
 John?" 
 
 "No," he said irritably. "Don't worry, mother. 
 I'm going after breakfast." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me last night?" she said, 
 aggrieved. 
 
 He did not feel any more inclined to rise at 
 breakfast-time, and he startled his mother when he 
 came late downstairs. 
 
 "I'm going to have the day off. I'll take the 
 gun and see if the fresh air will do me good. I don't 
 feel very grand. Sam Bloom was telling me there 
 was a lot of golden plover over above Nickling last 
 Sunday. I know there's some been shot." 
 
 "I don't like to see you missing your work," said 
 his mother. 
 
 She made him feel like a guilty schoolboy caught 
 playing truant. He was very seldom absent from 
 work, and so seldom did he go out with the old 
 gun that she declared the ten shillings wasted on 
 the licence. 
 
 Thursday had been a pleasant day, promising 
 early spring. To-day was gloomy, the sky leaden, 
 and the air cold and raw, with no wind stirring to 
 dispel the mist. The mud was sticky, on the roads 
 everywhere, and John was soon tired walking 
 His stiffness did not wear off; his head ached. 
 The road grew worse as it came to the fringe of 
 the woods; hoofs and wheels churned the mud, 
 and rainwater lay in every hollow. Many pines 
 had been felled, and the air was filled with odours 
 of wood and rotting needles. Larks buzzed over 
 the misty fields. 
 
 In one place the wood mounted a bank, and 
 rabbits had made burrows innumerable. John was 
 tempted. He put his gun on the top of the low 
 wall and sprang over, alighted on a round stone 
 and slipped. He fell on knees and hands in the
 
 i88 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 water of a shallow ditch, and swore as he scrambled 
 out. His legs were soaked, and his arms nearly 
 to the elbow. In his exasperation he refused to 
 listen to the voice which demanded his returning 
 home. Half a mile further would see him on the 
 open hillslopes ; he would come to no harm so long 
 as he kept moving. 
 
 He saw no plover the flocks had probably gone 
 south and he had very little sport. A wood 
 pigeon was safe in his pocket. His only other 
 shot had killed a rabbit, but, hit too far behind, 
 the wretched thing had scrambled into a burrow 
 to die. 
 
 In the distance he saw three men come out from 
 the woods, and then two more. Presently he 
 recognized Sam Bloom. They had had no sport. 
 He was glad to join them, to forget his own 
 feelings. 
 
 In a little hamlet public-house they had ale and 
 hot punch, onions and bread and cheese. John 
 was light-headed, and jolly with the others; but 
 when they returned he thought they never would 
 come to the end he was cold and dizzy, tired out, 
 and melancholy. A thin rain fell in silence all the 
 way. 
 
 "I've caught cold," he said. 
 
 "Get to bed, with a hot brick wrapped in flannel," 
 advised Sam. 
 
 John thought of the rehearsal, and summoned 
 his failing resolution. 
 
 When he entered the house he nearly collapsed. 
 
 "Where's the golden plover?" asked his 
 mother. 
 
 "I should have been better at work," he said, 
 'dispirited. 
 
 "I could have told you that." 
 
 She was irritable, and John resented her tone. 
 He refused to. change his clothes until he had
 
 FRIENDS 1189 
 
 eaten the dinner which had gone dry waiting for 
 him on the hob. 
 
 "I know I'm stupid!" he said angrily. 
 
 He refused to take an umbrella when he set out 
 for the rehearsal. He hated umbrellas. As a con- 
 cession to his mother he went to the back door 
 and assured her the rain had nearly ceased. When 
 he had gone she went out and held up her face 
 anxiously he did not know that. 
 
 A wet mist hung in the air. The water gurgled 
 in the ditches. The trees dripped miserably. John 
 was wet again when he arrived at the church school- 
 room, in Nickling, for the rehearsal. It was stupid 
 to have come all this way, he said now. 
 
 The rehearsal disappointed him. The players 
 read their parts and tried to laugh at their own 
 awkwardness; the play seemed to be utterly 
 lifeless. 
 
 Those living in the town returned by train. John 
 was standing by Elsie Benlow when the party was 
 about to set out. 
 
 "You won't be in the wet so much if you go by 
 train, will you?" she said. 
 
 "It's scarcely worth it," said he. 
 
 A moment afterwards he was angry with himself. 
 He fancied she was disappointed he was sure of 
 it when she had gone away. All his thoughts 
 were for Barbara Kingsnorton, and the walk back 
 with her and Marian. When he saw the halos 
 of the carriage lamps he called himself a fool; 
 he had forgotten the carriage. He' was too proud 
 to wait that they might invite him to accompany 
 them. Quickly he walked through the village, and 
 along the muddy road. The carriage spattered him 
 as it passed. 
 
 He was exhausted when he arrived home. His 
 mother had gone to bed; he had hoped she would 
 be waiting for him, with a hot drink ready. Then
 
 190 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 he perceived a basin of gruel on the hob and a 
 saucer over it. She had thought of him before 
 she went. And when he went upstairs she called 
 out to him, "Have you had your gruel?" 
 
 "Yes, mother, thank you," he said, striving all 
 he knew to show her how he understood her love. 
 
 But in a moment his emotion was dead; he 
 was so weary, so full of dull pain, he had no 
 thought. 
 
 He slept heavily. When he awoke, gradually 
 becoming conscious that his mother was calling 
 him, he saw it was bright daylight. He was glad 
 she had let him sleep. Then, when he rose and 
 began to dress, he was disappointed that his heavi- 
 ness was not gone from him, and he grew irritable. 
 Before his mother he grumbled at having lost an- 
 other quarter. 
 
 At the works the men's talk of the cup-tie at 
 Selbridge reminded him that he had promised to 
 go with Sam. He called himself stupid for having 
 given the promise; he didn't like to break it. His 
 mother was annoyed when he told her at dinner- 
 time. She had expected him to have a hot bath 
 and go to bed. "You've got a severe cold on you. 
 Why don't you have a bit of sense?" she said, 
 and a while later she told him he was just like 
 what his father used to be. She might have won 
 him to stay if she had not said that. 
 
 Crowds of men went from Pedley Hill to the 
 match. Sam had many friends, noisy sporting men 
 who liked beer, and John had to have rounds of 
 drinks with them. Then he stood all the match 
 through in a thin, misty rain, his head dizzy, and 
 his feet chilled and damp. Afterwards they had 
 more drinks. Sam took him home to tea, and 
 Maggie put rum in his cup each time, and made 
 him wear Sam's slippers. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when he went home.
 
 FRIENDS 191 
 
 "I'm all right bit of a cold, that's all," he as- 
 sured his mother. 
 
 On Sunday morning he was so stiff he could 
 scarcely put on his clothes. The stiffness wore 
 off after a while, and he passed the morning in- 
 doors. Mr. Pettigo's Bible-class was held in the 
 afternoon; every member of the Social Club was 
 supposed to be a member of the Bible-class too. 
 To-day Mrs. Allday came downstairs from her 
 nap after dinner, and saw that John had taken an 
 umbrella. 
 
 "I'm frightened of him being ill," she told her 
 husband. 
 
 Monday came. John was no better. On Tues- 
 day he complained at the works that he felt eighty 
 years old when he got up in a morning, and the 
 others laughed at him. On Wednesday he was 
 worse. He was caught in a heavy shower when 
 he went back to work after dinner; all the after- 
 noon he was continually looking at his watch, 
 praying for the hour when he might get home to 
 bed, craving with the whole force of his slow 
 thoughts. On Thursday morning he lay too stiff 
 to move when his mother called him. When he 
 rose for breakfast he had to struggle to get into 
 his clothes; his mother helped him with his vest 
 and jacket. She wanted him to stay at home. 
 
 "I'll go to the doctor's to-morrow or Saturday, 
 if I'm no better," he promised her. 
 
 "You ought to go to-day," she told him. 
 
 She was anxious. When she had watched him 
 go she thought of him constantly; she could not 
 settle to her housework. 
 
 At dinner-time she did not recognize his foot- 
 steps on the blue bricks of the yard. 
 
 "I'm going to bed," he announced. 
 
 "I'll get the doctor to come at once," she said. 
 
 He refused to have the doctor. "To-morrow,
 
 192 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 if I'rh no better," he repeated. He dreaded that 
 the doctor would keep him in bed, or at least 
 indoors, throughout the week-end, and to-morrow 
 was the rehearsal he must be better for that. 
 
 "I don't know how I feel," he said, when his 
 mother brought his tea, at dusk. Then, in the 
 quiet of the evening, he fell asleep. She came up 
 at nine o'clock with a basin of gruel Mr. Allday 
 had just had his in bed but when she saw he was 
 sleeping, she slipped quietly away. She told her 
 husband John would be better in the morning; so 
 they both had a good night, for their minds were 
 content. Each had been worrying and striving to 
 keep it hidden from the other. 
 
 She called John for breakfast. He was a long 
 time coming, she thought. At last, disquieted, she 
 went to listen at the bottom of the stairs, and then 
 she ran up in answer to his call. 
 
 "I can't get up," he said. "I'm ill, I think. I've 
 been all of ashiver in the night, and now I'm sweat- 
 ing something awful. I don't like it." 
 
 She put on her old cloak and bonnet, and hurried 
 for the doctor. But the doctor didn't hurry it 
 seemed that he would never come. She went into 
 the front room and looked up the road, and moved 
 to and fro about the house, unable to sit a moment 
 anywhere. Mr. Allday came downstairs, and sat 
 by the fire, and watched the clock. He couldn't 
 conceal his disquietude. "He ought to be here," 
 he said, over and over again. 
 
 "Rheumatic fever," said the doctor. 
 
 He came again in the evening, and then every 
 day. 
 
 "You aren't to worry," he explained. "As long 
 as the stiffness keeps on the move we're safe if 
 we can keep it away from the heart" 
 
 John lay in agony. 
 
 Maggie was the first caller to inquire. Sam had
 
 FRIENDS 193 
 
 heard of John's going home ill from the works, and 
 had told her. She came at once. Sam followed 
 her in the evening, and stayed to cheer Mr. and 
 Mrs. Allday. The curate came on Sunday evening. 
 On Monday the maid from Ridgeway came to ask 
 how Mr. John Allday was. John brightened when 
 his mother told him who had called. Towards 
 the end of the week Marian and Barbara Kings- 
 norton called at the front door, and stood a few 
 moments to chat. Then Elsie Benlow and her 
 mother called. Men came from the works, and 
 members of the new Social Club. The neighbours 
 asked every morning. 
 
 "It's nice to see him so well respected," said 
 Mrs. Allday. 
 
 Mr. Allday agreed. He was as proud as she 
 and as anxious. He put the hassock for her feet 
 when she sat at table, and praised her tidiness about 
 the house, and her care. She shook his cushion 
 for him on the arm-chair, and put the herbs ready 
 at his hand, to burn on the little platter so that 
 he could inhale the smoke, although she couldn't 
 bear the stench of it. 
 
 "You're a dear old lass!" he told her. 
 
 His smile lingered after she was gone from the 
 room, and she would come back, moments after- 
 wards, smiling too. 
 
 One incident had to be repeated often in recol- 
 lection, so great a pleasure had it brought. A 
 wheezy, bent old woman called one morning at 
 the back door, and Mrs. Allday prepared the usual 
 "Not to-day, thank you," which she kept for 
 hawkers and old clothes women. 
 
 "It ain't selling, I am," said the old woman, 
 forestalling her. "I've brought these for the young 
 gentleman, with my respects, an' I hope he's get- 
 ting better nicely." 
 
 She stepped inside and put a cardboard box down
 
 194 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 on the edge of the kitchen sink. Mrs. Allday was 
 too astonished to think of keeping her out. 
 
 "He was very good to me at Christmas-time, 
 me lying destroyed I was with the bronchitis," she 
 explained. "I've known him years, me gathering 
 watercress and that I often used to be seeing him 
 about the roads, and pass the time o' day. It was 
 him got my grandson in at Binnses, and me being 
 in my bed he sent me a bottle of wine only a 
 little it was, but it done me a power of good. There 
 ain't many to be kind to a lone old body like me, 
 since my man died on me. Good morning to you, 
 ma'am. God save you kindly." 
 
 The box held half a dozen eggs. 
 
 "She stole 'em, I'll lay a penny," said Mr. 
 Allday. "And as for the tongue on her, you'll 
 be buying all manner of rubbish off her now, 
 every times she comes." 
 
 "Would you have me turn her away?" said Mrs. 
 Allday seriously. 
 
 And then they laughed together. Both were 
 secretly more proud of their son than they would 
 say; they told the story to every visitor. 
 
 Days passed into weeks. John grew better 
 very slowly. One day he managed to get up and 
 put on some clothes, but the effort was too great, 
 and he fell on the landing at the top of the stairs. 
 His mother and father had to put him back to 
 bed. He came downstairs at last. A chicken 
 came from Ridgeway for him. Maggie brought 
 some calves' feet jelly; of all the visitors she had 
 been the most assiduous. 
 
 One afternoon the curate came, and Barbara 
 Kingsnorton came with him. John's father and 
 mother were enjoying their after-dinner nap up- 
 stairs, beyond their time, and John was alone by 
 the sitting-room fire. 
 
 "I've brought a lady, you see," said the curate
 
 FRIENDS 195 
 
 gaily. "We're going to call her Mrs. Pettigo 
 some day." 
 
 John suffered acutely for a while. Then the ach- 
 ing passed, and he rejoiced; she would be nearer 
 to him still, for Pettigo was his loyal friend. 
 
 Old Gentleman Binns came in his carriage one 
 sunny morning, and John was able to go out by 
 the front door and stand for a moment. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you," said the old gentleman. 
 "Look after yourself not back till you're better, 
 mind." 
 
 He looked after all his good workmen in this 
 way. A boy had come from the works every 
 Saturday with half John's usual wages. To John, 
 as to each man, this visit seemed a special favour 
 for himself alone, and it delighted him. Sam and 
 Maggie came that day after tea, and John sat up 
 till nine o'clock; they were very merry. 
 
 Then Barbara and Mr. Pettigo called for him, 
 and took him for a drive in the Kingsnortons' car- 
 riage. It was his crowning happiness. Afterwards 
 in thought he had the same drive with them, many 
 times, until fancy decked anew for him the woods 
 and fields, in such a spring as never was in poor 
 unimaginative reality. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Benlow and Elsie came one day 
 after dinner, and drove him out for the afternoon. 
 He sat with Elsie at the back of the dogcart, their 
 knees together tinder the warm rug, the hedgerows 
 shutting slowly behind them, and the roadway, a 
 striped dun ribbon, rushing away underneath. 
 Mr. Benlow liked him, he knew. Mrs. Benlow 
 always called him "Allday," as men called him 
 at the works there was a quaint welcome for him 
 in her bluntness. Once, as he sat with Elsie, the 
 rug slipped, and they both caught it so that their 
 heads came very close together. John felt 
 a sudden tightening across his body; he was
 
 ig6 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 embarrassed, and sat a long while silent. When he 
 glanced at Elsie, he fancied she was self-conscious 
 too. Afterwards, with memory stirring, he told 
 himself he was in danger of letting pride make 
 him foolish. 
 
 One souvenir of the drive troubled him inter- 
 mittently for several days. They had tea at a 
 country inn, and while he stood with Mr. Benlow 
 in the yard afterwards he saw a cyclist pass trie 
 man Hurst, who had been Barbara Kingsnorton's 
 fiance. John was startled. What was the fellow 
 doing here? He had an aunt in the neighbour- 
 hood, and might be staying with her. Everybody 
 had a bicycle cycling was a craze. John was not 
 satisfied with any explanation. On the way back 
 he scanned every by-road and every distant figure, 
 fearful that he might perceive Barbara Kingsnorton. 
 He saw her next day on her bicycle go past the 
 house, on her way into the country, and he was 
 afraid, against all his reason. 
 
 Mr. Benlow had talked business before tea; he 
 was buying bricks from the works in which John 
 had a share, and he explained how he had started 
 years ago. John's ambition was fired.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE STRIKE 
 
 IN July the great engineers' strike began. 
 Pedley Hill was taken by surprise. It had 
 been too loyally busy, celebrating the Queen's 
 Diamond Jubilee, to have time to think of labour 
 troubles. Such things had been like Arctic ex- 
 peditions: they provided something to talk about, 
 without affecting the quiet rhythm of life. The 
 London Dock strike of 1889 had not been so 
 interesting or so important as Mrs. Maybrick's 
 trial. In 1893 the coal miners' strike had had no 
 chance of being talked about against the fierce 
 arguments on Home Rule and the wonders of the 
 World's Fair at Chicago; and, more important 
 than those things, a Pedley Hill councillor had run 
 away with an alderman's servant, and had been 
 brought back by his own wife, like a naughty 
 schoolboy, to be officially forgiven. The engineers' 
 strike came as a home affair, for the men at the big 
 Selbridge works came out, and many of them lived 
 in Pedley Hill. At Binnses the work went on 
 quietly as it had done these many years; the men 
 saw that a strike was no affair of theirs. John 
 Allday's apprehensions were for Sam Bloom and 
 Maggie the men were out at Cadby, Stoke & 
 Company, the big foundry. John was sorry for 
 Maggie. He had no other interest in the strike, 
 and went steadily about his own affairs. He had 
 
 197
 
 198 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 quite recovered from his illness. At the Diamond 
 Jubilee holiday he had taken his father and mother 
 to Llandudno for the week-end. The weather 
 had been grand. A ship had been set on fire in 
 the bay at night a novel sort of bonfire. They 
 had never enjoyed themselves better, his father and 
 mother declared. 
 
 The first news of the trouble came from London: 
 engineers were demanding an eight-hour day. 
 Old-fashioned people heard it with horror; 
 employers cried out that it would be the ruin of 
 the country yet the men insisted on it. Some 
 prophesied it would soon be over a stupid affair 
 but they saw presently that it was to be a fight 
 between the powerful trades union and the 
 employers, federated to break its tyranny, or 
 federated because they were tyrants in fear at 
 last. Argumentative folk relied on the heavy 
 cudgel of reiteration, and convinced themselves 
 again and again. Nobody outside the union ex- 
 pected the men to win. 
 
 Reports came in rapidly from different parts of 
 the country the men were coming out every- 
 where. There was no rioting; the men settled 
 down with quiet determination to win so did 
 the masters. In a short while Pedley Hill was 
 about its business as usual. More groups of men 
 stood idling in the Bullen during the day ; that was 
 all the difference to be seen, except in the strikers' 
 own homes. 
 
 Sam Bloom called at Alldays* in the evening 
 after the Selbridge District Committee had ordered 
 the men to hand in their notices. Sam was reck- 
 lessly enthusiastic. "Now we shall see !" he said 
 in triumph. "To a finish this time!" He banged 
 the table with his fist, and set the supper crockery 
 rattling. 
 
 "That's what I'm most afraid of a fight to a
 
 THE STRIKE 199 
 
 finish. I'm sorry to see it," said Mr. Allday 
 quietly. 
 
 Sam indignantly rejected his sympathy. 
 
 "We're in for it we know we're in for it! It 
 isn't sympathy we want, or charity it's justice, 
 a fair chance for happiness." 
 
 "It's Maggie I'm sorry for, and the children. 
 Why should they suffer? You can't gain by it, 
 Sam." 
 
 "Better suffer once than suffer everlastingly!" 
 exclaimed Sam. "Isn't it better to lose in a just 
 cause than win in a selfish one? It isn't the man 
 who wins for himself who moves the world it's 
 the one who suffers. Where's your Christianity?" 
 
 Mr. Allday shook his head. 
 
 "Ah, Sam, you won't let me help you. I'm 
 an old man now, with my infirmity on me, and I 
 know. You're a man seeing visions you ask 
 for what's right and just in the world. What's 
 the French say? 'Equality, brotherhood' 
 something of that, isn't it? But you'll never see 
 it, nor your son, nor your son's son. All your 
 life you'll strive, and win two or three souls, maybe, 
 and disappointments beyond counting, and then 
 what? Why, my lad, you'll die, and there'll be 
 a mere nothing done, and your own flesh and blood 
 left to slave." 
 
 "But something will be done you admit that!" 
 said Sam excitedly. "Then somebody else will 
 carry it on." 
 
 Mr. Allday shook his head again. When Sam 
 had gone, he sat up talking with John until Mrs. 
 Allday had to remind them it was long past time 
 for bed. 
 
 "If he wasn't so honest, and so simple in his 
 way of looking at the world, as though everybody 
 was as honest as himself, why, you could lose your 
 patience with him easy, and then it wouldn't
 
 200 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 bother your head. Only when I think what a fine 
 man he'd have made, how he could be getting 
 on, into a nice house, with a bit of garden to it, 
 and a little servant lass to mind the children, 
 always saving a bit and creeping higher oh, it 
 worries me." 
 
 "There's got to be all sorts, I suppose," said Mrs. 
 Allday. She was tired. 
 
 "Mr. Allday smiled. 
 
 "Well, mother, that's as may be," said he. "It's 
 very kind of the rogues and vagabonds to keep 
 us from having to take their places very kind of 
 'em." 
 
 John laughed, and his mother turned out the gas 
 to hurry them. 
 
 Most of the men at Binnses had friends or rela- 
 tives among the strikers. A few of the reckless 
 younger men talked of striking here, but they had 
 no following. There was no union to support them. 
 Fifteen shillings a week strike pay was not much; 
 still, it was better than nothing, thought the mar- 
 ried men who had families to keep. There was no 
 fun in a strike for them. Even if they managed 
 to win they would have lost in victory; it 
 would take years to make up the total wages 
 forfeited. 
 
 They were startled one morning by the sudden 
 roar of the steam bull. Men dropped their tools, 
 and went out of the shops to see what was the 
 matter. Then the news came. Old Gentleman 
 Binns wanted to see the men. He was waiting 
 at the top of the steps by the engine-house door, 
 the manager on one side of him, and the grimy 
 engineman standing behind. His coat was tightly 
 buttoned, as usual, his top hat glittered in the sun, 
 and his thin, gloved hands rested on the gold knob 
 of his cane. He was in his ninetieth year, very 
 frail now, and stooping, the ruddiness gone from
 
 THE STRIKE 201 
 
 his face, and his eyes sunken, though sparkling 
 yet. 
 
 "Let me see my men. All who have been here 
 since they were boys!" he called out. His voice 
 was not so loud as of old, though very clear. He 
 smiled at the great show of hands. He knew the 
 men by their names, and their histories too, and 
 as he told the history of the works he called to 
 them for confirmation. "I'm too old to change 
 now many of us are," he told them. "I want my 
 men round me to the last all these years we've 
 been together " 
 
 He finished amid a tumult of cheering. A com- 
 mittee was formed at his suggestion to come to 
 him and talk over what improved conditions 
 they might adopt throughout the works. John 
 Allday was elected to represent the young men 
 among the fitters. 
 
 Discontent and jealousy existed, as everywhere, 
 but there was no danger of a strike. Even the 
 firebrands ceased to talk of it, until several weeks 
 later, when the old gentleman was taken ill. When 
 he was gone, the works would belong to his grand- 
 son, who never came down from London. He 
 would probably sell the place, or turn it into a 
 limited company; it would be no better than any- 
 where else then worse, perhaps. The men dreaded 
 that. Some talked of striking at once, but the older 
 men quelled them; they would be loyal to the old 
 gentleman while he lived. Every morning one of 
 the foreman, elected specially, went up to the house 
 to ask how the master was. His report was the 
 greatest topic of the day. 
 
 John's mother called to see Maggie occasionally. 
 
 "It's my duty to cheer her up a bit," she said. 
 "There's the poor thing got two children to look 
 after and feed, and herself and her husband and 
 only strike pay coming in. It's a shame!"
 
 202 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 She had no sympathy for the strikers. "They've 
 brought it on themselves," she said to Sam, and 
 overcame him by sheer volubility. When she went 
 to see Maggie she put away her hard words, and 
 always took a basket of good things, a cake specially 
 baked, or other dainties. 
 
 She bought a pig's head one day, and made 
 brawn two moulds, one of them to take to Maggie. 
 The same day she slipped on the wet stones of 
 the yard, and John had to go on the morrow to 
 take the present. 
 
 Maggie could scarcely thank him. 
 
 "You're too good," she repeated several times. 
 "If it wasn't for the children's sakes, I should be 
 ashamed to accept so much." 
 
 They sat talking a while. John took the little 
 boy on his knee and played with him. 
 
 Presently Sam came in, nodded to John curtly, 
 and sat down heavily on the sofa. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Maggie. 
 
 "Nothing, of course starvation to face that's 
 nothing T 
 
 John was alarmed, and uncomfortable. He put 
 the boy down, and took his hat off the table, ready 
 to go. Sam picked up something from the rug. 
 
 "Who's throwing sixpences about the place?" he 
 said. 
 
 The little boy went across to him, and held up 
 his hand for the coin. 
 
 "I gave it him to play with," said John, and he 
 felt his ears burning. He did not wish them to 
 notice the sixpence till he had gone. 
 
 Sam held it out 
 
 "Give him a ha'penny for fun, if you like. We 
 don't want charity." 
 
 John refused to take it. Sam pressed forward, 
 holding out the coin, and in a moment Maggie 
 plucked it from his fingers.
 
 THE STRIKE 203 
 
 "Don't be silly, Sam it's the child's!" she told 
 him. 
 
 He was silent for an instant. 
 
 "So I'm silly!" he said quietly. And then of a 
 sudden his anger burst out. John was startled, 
 then angry, and in a moment he and Sam were 
 shouting at each other. The children were terrified. 
 
 Then John perceived Maggie's face, framed as 
 though in a halo of mist, and he was startled by 
 the intensity of its suffering. He retreated, and 
 made a great effort to choke the anger in his 
 throat. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean any harm," he 
 said huskily. And he rushed from the house. 
 
 He heard Sam's voice calling after him as he 
 went, but he did not distinguish the words. He 
 dared not return; he could not trust himself, 
 even with the recollection of Maggie's face implor- 
 ing him. 
 
 He said nothing at home, and went out on his 
 bicycle, striving to forget in the cool air of dusk. 
 
 When he returned he found Sam and Maggie 
 sitting at supper with his mother and father. Sam 
 rose and came across to him. 
 
 "John, old boy, I'm a villain. Forgive me !" 
 
 They shook hands, and Mr. Allday began to 
 tell one of his old stories so that they might 
 forget. Mrs. Onions' daughter was looking after 
 the children, so Maggie was able to stay a while. 
 
 Week after week the strike went on. People 
 not directly interested began to look upon it as 
 a monotonous incident which had lost its novelty; 
 many were disappointed because it had not pro- 
 vided some wild sensation, as they had secretly 
 hoped it would. The strikers themselves lost 
 heart; courage is most difficult to keep in mere 
 passivity. At first the district committee had 
 good news at every weekly meeting. Reports
 
 204 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 came in of firms conceding the men's demands 
 very few of these reports were true. One real 
 victory in Sunderland gladdened the men's hearts, 
 but it was one only, and there were so many hopes 
 which came to naught. Worst of all, the works 
 were not empty non-union and apprentice labour 
 kept the machinery from rusting. The master 
 did not feel the pinch their daily menu was the 
 same while the men saw their children crying for 
 the dainties which were now beyond price. Bitter- 
 ness and discontent grew daily. The women 
 talked of committee-men growing fat, with twelve 
 shillings a day, and a mere nothing to do, except 
 to encourage the men to live with their families 
 on fifteen shillings a week, and go on hoping. The 
 story was false, yet it passed for truth often, with 
 many distortions. The men began to turn on one 
 another, seeking one to blame. At home they were 
 gloomy and irritable. The old happy Saturday 
 nights, the marketing, the Sunday happiness, the 
 joint for dinner all that was gone. 
 
 Sam Bloom came one day when only Mrs. Allday 
 was in. He broke down when she chided him. 
 
 "Oh, what a shame!" she told her husband. 
 " 'We daren't give in,' he says. I could ha' cried. 
 I did." 
 
 And so the fight went on, week after week. 
 
 John Allday's luck came in the early autumn. 
 He left it to his mother to tell Sam and Maggie; 
 he was ashamed to go rejoicing to them when they 
 could not rejoice. His father had to seek a new 
 investment for some of his capital, and after much 
 talking, and thinking by the fireside, he invested 
 it in the scrap-iron business in which they already 
 had a share. 
 
 "I've known Joskins since he was a lad," he ex- 
 plained at the family council. "He's all right, but 
 he's got no capital and no push. There's a good
 
 THE STRIKE 205 
 
 thing in it. You can stay on at Binnses till the 
 strike's over, and things settle down till the winter, 
 anyway. And then we'll see how we go." 
 
 John went to the yard one dinner-time when the 
 gates were being repainted, and he was so proud, 
 and so anxious to see the sign completed, to observe 
 its effect, he stayed all afternoon. 
 
 It made a grand show : 
 
 * .".' v 
 
 JOSKINS & ALLDAY, 
 MACHINERY MERCHANTS. 
 All kinds of new and second-hand Machinery. 
 
 Steam Engines, Stamps, Presses, Shears, and 
 Metal Working Tools. 
 Scrap Iron and Steel. 
 
 As he was admiring it for the last time before 
 going home, he saw Sam Bloom on the other side 
 of the road. 
 
 "You are the big man now," said Sam, when 
 he came across. "Do you want to take any hands 
 on?" 
 
 John was embarrassed. 
 
 "Do you want to come in?" he ventured. 
 
 Sam patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 "Don't patronize me, John!" he said. "We've 
 been good friends a long while, but I should hate 
 you if you tried that on. That's your way" 
 he pointed to the painted gates "mine's in the 
 gutter here. I'm a striker, a rebel, and I've got 
 to see it through. By God nobody seems to 
 notice !" 
 
 John was too bemused to reply at once. He 
 called to Sam as he went away, but Sam strode 
 on, with his hands in his pockets, and never turned. 
 John was troubled; for a while the pleasure of
 
 206 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 his afternoon was gone; then came pity, bringing 
 its own happiness. 
 
 He was so busy at the yard in his spare time, he 
 was not often at the Social Club. The vicar 
 and his curate were open enemies now; every 
 afternoon tea table had some story of their differ- 
 ences, and the ladies collected these tales with much 
 more zest than ever they had in the collection of 
 old china. The vicar had no sympathy with 
 the strikers the curate had much, not because he 
 upheld their cause, or their employers' ; they 
 were fellow mortals in distress, and he worked 
 to give them comfort; he opened the Social 
 Club during the day, and visited constantly. 
 Rumour had it that Mr. Kingsnorton was inclined 
 to take the vicar's view; he was a big shareholder 
 in the Selbridge Iron and Steel Company, and he 
 believed that the curate was encouraging the strikers 
 to hold out. John heard the story first from Mr. 
 Benlow, one evening he was there to supper. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Kingsnorton's sympathies can 
 only go in the way of his own interests," said Mr. 
 Benlow. "It's perfectly natural for us to imagine 
 from that he can't be pleased with Pettigo. And 
 Pettigo wants to help those who need most help 
 he doesn't ask who deserves it. I heard him say 
 once, 'I'm not a judge I try to be charitable in- 
 stead it's better.' And so it is, but it's harder. 
 He's finding that out, I'll be bound." 
 
 "He'll never get Barbara Kingsnorton to see it," 
 said Mrs. Benlow. 
 
 John was startled. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Mr. Benlow. 
 
 "No fear!" exclaimed Willie. "She told me, 
 not so very long ago, she believed you could do 
 a lot too much for the proletariat. It's true, you 
 can they're a thankless lot. He's a nice fellow, 
 Pettigo not half bad but I'm afraid he's finding
 
 THE STRIKE 207 
 
 himself on the rocks. That reminds me. Guess 
 whom I saw the other day? I forgot to tell you. 
 Frank Hurst Barbara Kingsnorton's old in- 
 amorata. He passed me on a bicycle. I'm sure 
 it was Hurst. I shouted after him, but he took no 
 notice and he must have known it was me he 
 didn't want to see me, I reckon. I saw Barbara 
 Kingsnorton, too, the same afternoon not the two 
 together, mind you; all the same, you know, it 
 made me think." 
 
 John was wretched all the evening. 
 
 It was several days later, at sundown, he saw 
 Barbara Kingsnorton pass the house on her bicycle. 
 Impulsively he prepared to set out after her. A 
 tire had to be blown up, and he had to get his lamp, 
 so that he lost time, and it was long before he came 
 in sight of her. Then he was ashamed. He told 
 himself he had no right to spy, and he was afraid 
 it were better not to know. When he had turned 
 back, and it was too late to follow, he was tor- 
 mented miserably. 
 
 He had set up Barbara's image as his idol, in a 
 shrine of his own delights. Now he dared not 
 enter. Fear stood at the door, with doubt on the 
 other side. The lamp was dim, and flickering 
 shadows filled the place.
 
 CHAPTER Y 
 
 STRESS 
 
 THE Virginia creeper, of which Mrs. Onions 
 was so proud, turned from the summer 
 green to rich crimson against the garden 
 wall, and the robins flitted across the gardens on 
 shortened misty afternoons. The first snow came, 
 white herald of winter only a little fall, a fore- 
 taste for the season. It came after a red lowering 
 dawn, with mottled clouds gathering, swept into 
 a dull leaden mass by the east wind, bitterly cold. 
 Then of a sudden the snow was gently driven across 
 the air, faster and faster, and whirling in the eddies. 
 The hens all made for the pen, except one, a white 
 one, and then it dashed to and fro before the wire 
 netting in desperation to get in, and too excited 
 to remember that the opening was farther on. The 
 last chrysanthemums nodded with their load of 
 wet. The holly bushes became real Christmas 
 bushes, white powdered, with berries glinting red. 
 The storm was over in an hour, all the snow melted, 
 and the soil black and sodden; the hens were out 
 again, pecking across the ragged gardens. But the 
 first snow had fallen winter was in. 
 
 The strikers were out still, doggedly resolved to 
 starve rather than give in. Very few had any hope 
 of victory now; they had lost so much, they 
 would never make up the wages lost; many had 
 lost courage, and energy too; only the strength 
 
 208
 
 STRESS 209 
 
 of passivity remained. One of the members of 
 the Social Club, a striker, explained to Mr. Pettigo 
 that he was learning to be a very good player at 
 draughts, and that was all the good the strike was 
 likely to do him. From despair the men were pass- 
 ing to indifference. 
 
 Maggie Bloom's pride was grievously hurt in 
 accepting so much charity, especially from Mrs. 
 Allday and John. She would have starved rather 
 than accept it for herself, but she could not let 
 the children suffer. And she knew there were 
 many worse than she. Every week, when Sam 
 went to the district meeting, the day the strike 
 pay was distributed, there was a collection for 
 those who had large families, young children to 
 feed, and doctors' bills to pay. Sam gave willingly, 
 although he could not afford to give, and Maggie 
 never complained. John Allday had no knowledge 
 of the depth of her pride's suffering. She had 
 nothing to give in return, save her own devotion, 
 and that was so easily given, and so willingly, it 
 seemed to her as nothing. 
 
 It was more and more difficult to make ends 
 meet, and she would not let herself get into debt 
 she would have had no mental peace. Sam laughed 
 at her punctiliousness, though secretly he was proud 
 of her; but his moods were as uncertain as a bat's 
 flight at dusk. Maggie grew afraid when he was 
 gloomy. Once he talked of suicide, and terrified 
 her. She did her best to cheer him, but her worries 
 made her irritable at times, and sharp words slipped 
 out so glibly and so thoughtlessly, and were so 
 difficult to recall. 
 
 In his worst moods Sam railed against the whole 
 fabric of society, and startled Maggie with his 
 violence. Occasionally he came home drunk and 
 then would follow a fierce repentance. He would 
 hand all his strike pay to Maggie, and receive
 
 210 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 only a shilling from her for himself and out of 
 that he would save coppers for the children's 
 money-box on the mantelpiece. 
 
 His grandfather had no patience with his views. 
 The old man was not able to climb the hill now, 
 he had not breath enough. Sam did not often go 
 to see him. Since the beginning of the strike 
 the visits had ended in high words. Sam had been 
 worried afterwards, and in repentance, taking 
 Maggie's advice, he had returned to crave the old 
 man's pardon, only to come back to Maggie more 
 angry than before. "He's too old I can't explain 
 anything to him he won't listen to anything," he 
 said. Maggie always went to Otter Lane when 
 she was in the town, and had time to call. The 
 old man was always pleased to see her. He liked 
 Maggie, and was very kind to the children, although 
 they were afraid of him. Maggie never failed to 
 plead for Sam, and came back worried after every 
 visit, her only gladness being in the thought of 
 duty done. The image of the old man haunted 
 her for hours after she had left he was so bent 
 and withered, his flesh colourless, his voice quaver- 
 ing, thin, and reedy, and his breathing like the 
 sighing of a night wind in a ruined house he no 
 longer seemed to be human, like herself. He often 
 talked of God, in a queer familiar way, as though 
 he knew Him well "As though He lived next 
 door," said Sam. . . . "I'm so near the Master 
 now," he explained. "Every day I listen for the 
 call it won't be long." Maggie felt a choking in 
 her throat, and then tears starting. 
 
 Every night she prayed for the strike to end, 
 and for Sam to succeed, for the children's sakes. 
 She prayed earnestly, and as humbly as though 
 she had dared to ask for half the world to be given 
 into her keeping. Sam never prayed now, and 
 sometimes she said her prayers secretly in bed,
 
 STRESS 211 
 
 because he scoffed, and she couldn't bear to hear 
 it. By and by she began to doubt she had prayed 
 hard, and God didn't seem to listen. 
 
 She said to Mrs. Onions one day : "I'm sure I've 
 prayed often enough for the strike to end." 
 
 "Ah, my dear prayers don't seem to work now- 
 adays," said Mrs. Onions. "Perhaps they never 
 did. Perhaps it's because when you're praying for 
 one thing, somebody else is sure to be praying 
 for th' opposite, and your prayers just knock one 
 another's heads off. I know Mrs. Banks now 
 she prayed night and day for a boy when she was 
 going to have her first, and she was a good un at 
 it practised at the Wesleyan prayer meetings 
 and it was a girl. It was more she had three 
 girls in succession. 'I ain't going to pray again,' 
 she told me, 'and I ain't going to have any more 
 either.' And she hasn't. . . . All the same, I must 
 say as it does relieve you, now and again, to say 
 your prayers." 
 
 "Like swearing, to let the steam off," suggested 
 Mr. Onions, who had been listening. 
 
 Maggie laughed. She would have been shocked, 
 a while before. 
 
 She ceased to pray. Then she felt guilty, and 
 recommenced; but the intensity was gone; she did 
 it as a duty, without hope. 
 
 At the end of November the baby was taken ill 
 bronchitis was threatened. Maggie was unwell, 
 and found it hard to keep up. Her nights were 
 broken ; she woke with horrid starts, and lay dis- 
 tressed by the baby's coughing; and time after time 
 she had to jump out of bed to put the child 
 straight in her cradle, and cover her up warm. 
 Food had to be prepared. Downstairs the morning 
 fire had to be lit, in the cold, a thin draught blowing 
 under the door, her legs shivering, for she hurried 
 about half dressed. She began to cough too.
 
 212 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 And this was only the beginning of the winter, she 
 told herself in despair. 
 
 December came in. The weather had been very 
 stormy for a week, the winds driving the wateV 
 streaming from the overflowing gutters on the 
 roofs. Then the skies cleared; the moon was up 
 early, and there was frost. To-day was fine, with 
 a little wind stirring, bitter cold. The hoar frost 
 melted on twigs and palings, and the drops fell to 
 make patterns on the rime below, until it was gone, 
 and the earth seemed to exude water everywhere. 
 The last pansies and chrysanthemums lay be- 
 draggled in sheltered corners in the gardens; red 
 daisies and auriculas had rashly ventured out, and 
 here was the frost coming. The sun had a red face, 
 and there were no distant hills. 
 
 Maggie wept as she moved to and fro about the 
 house and strove to work to keep herself from 
 thought. Her reflection in the overmantel glass 
 startled her; she had smeared her face with black 
 marks, in brushing away her tears. Sam had been 
 in a bad humour when he came downstairs. Maggie 
 had a headache and was irritable; she suffered 
 constantly from headaches now. The quarrel 
 had been very short, though bitter enough, and she 
 wept at the recollection of her sudden flash of 
 temper. She had been exasperated, she declared, 
 before her own accusing self. And now she accused 
 Sam of indifference and of selfishness. "You 
 needn't expect me in to dinner," he had told her 
 as he went moodily out of the house. She hoped 
 fervently he would repent. The thought of dinner 
 worried her; she did not know what to prepare. 
 As the time drew near, and her fears told her he 
 would keep his word, she resolved to have a cup 
 of tea and some toast. When Sam came she would 
 cook dinner it might help him to forget. 
 
 He did not come. She gave the children their
 
 STRESS 213 
 
 dinner, and put them to bed for their midday sleep, 
 the little boy with a white fluffy dog in his arms to 
 comfort him, a present from Uncle John, his sister 
 with a rag doll. They cried a long while to-day 
 before sleep came. Then at last Maggie made her 
 pot of tea; she was too listless to make toast 
 the fire was not suitable she had forgotten it in 
 attending to the children. She didn't want to eat, 
 she was too wretched, too lonely. 
 
 She sat a while after her tea ; she had no energy 
 to work. Presently her thoughts stirred. This was 
 the same room in which she had lived as a girl: 
 she remembered how the cupboard door had swung 
 out above her head, and then against her face 
 how many long years ago? And now her babies 
 played here; these toys, scattered about the floor, 
 were their's. Would she be here all her days, and 
 never rise? Hope was dying. Her mother used 
 to sit here, in this same chair, resting after dinner, 
 while she ran off to school, after doing reluctant 
 housework. She never heard from her sister now. 
 She had married badly, and Maggie had despised 
 her for it. How bitterly Fate had punished her, 
 thought Maggie ; and slowly in souvenirs of misfor- 
 tune her thoughts came to John Allday. What a 
 long, raging disappointment had been her's when 
 she had waited for him, after Binnses' bonfire, when 
 she had kept her sixpence to spend with him. He 
 had not been able to come he hadn't tried as she 
 would have tried. She recollected how she had 
 startled him with her kiss she recollected so 
 vividly and then of a sudden she felt herself go 
 hot with shame. Yet she could not stay the fierce 
 ardour of her thoughts ; she had no strength to try. 
 But in a little while her sorrow came again. One 
 night, under frosty stars, so many years ago, it 
 seemed, Sam had told her, "I'm a wild creature, 
 Maggie, but I'll do my best," and he had held her
 
 214 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 in his arms tight, and carried her over the ice- 
 barred water of a sunken lane. He had loved her 
 then ; his heart had startled her, thumping against her 
 breast. Perhaps he had done his best, she thought 
 wistfully, and her sympathy went out to seek him. 
 Perhaps she had brought him misfortune. She 
 would have brought John misfortune, maybe, and 
 John was destined for success. . . . 
 
 The children cried. She had to go to them 
 and get them up there was no more time for 
 thought. 
 
 She had not been out to-day, so she walked up 
 and down in the garden to give the children the 
 fresh air. She did not like to go away from the 
 house, lest Sam should return soon. His delay in- 
 creased her anxiety. The smoke from the chim- 
 neys rose straight in the air, and then drifted gently 
 over to the south-west; the tinv breeze seemed to 
 bite like a great rushing wind. The sun went down 
 in a lurid haze, and the sky's western hue faded 
 rapidly to the cold blue of night. The moon was 
 up, a pale silver fragment in the heavens. The baby 
 cried, and Maggie had to take her indoors she 
 couldn't keep warm. 
 
 She had no appetite, though she was faint from 
 want of food. Her tea revived her. She was sit- 
 ting after it, tormented by her anxiety for Sam, 
 when John Allday came. 
 
 "I've brought you a chicken," he announced. "I 
 thought it would be nice, especially for you and 
 the children nice and light, you knowdo you 
 good. Mother told me you weren't very well she 
 hoped you would be better." 
 
 Maggie protested that he was too good to them. 
 
 "Bless your life, it's nothing!" he assured her. 
 "I just thought I would bring it. I've taken one 
 home. You know, Maggie, I'm doing very well 
 this new place of ours is going like one o'clock.
 
 STRESS 215 
 
 I don't think I shall see the New Year at Binnses. 
 I'm so busy and there's a difference in profit, I 
 can tell you, working for your own self." 
 
 Maggie suffered a throe of bitterness. It was 
 gone in an instant. She knew that John would 
 never boast to cause her humiliation. 
 
 He stayed only a few moments. The children 
 were disappointed, especially the boy; he always 
 expected Uncle John to play with him. Maggie 
 played to comfort them, and for a while forgot 
 everything but their pleasure. It was the first time 
 to-day she had joined in their fun with zest. She 
 kept them up long after their usual bedtime. 
 
 "Father will be here in a minute or two," she 
 told them. 
 
 He came at last. She was very tired, and faint 
 with anxiety. "Thank God!" she exclaimed, when 
 she heard his footsteps outside. But when he came 
 in, she was afraid he was not sober. 
 
 He saw her fear, and bullied to hide his shame: 
 
 "Well? You've seen me before, I hope." 
 
 "Yes!" she said bitterly "like you are now. I 
 have God forgive me!" 
 
 "That's nice for a welcome, that is ! God forgive 
 you for what?" 
 
 "For despising you !" 
 
 She heard her own words, and was horrified, 
 even in the swift, incalculable instant before they 
 were uttered. They seemed to be spoken by another 
 self than her's. She knew instantly how useless 
 it would be to try to change them, and she was 
 afraid of her own anger and her tears. The 
 children's bath was on the hearth, and she busied 
 herself with their preparations for bed. 
 
 Sam astonished her with silence. When, after a 
 while, he spoke, he startled her. 
 
 "What's that thing that? Who's brought 
 it?"
 
 216 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 She looked in the direction of his finger's 
 pointing. 
 
 "You needn't call it that thing," she said, stung 
 by his tone. "You can see it's a chicken. John 
 Allday brought it." 
 
 "What him?" exclaimed Sam furiously. 
 "I'll throw the damned thing away! I won't 
 have his damned charity his damned charity! 
 D'y'ear?" 
 
 He rose unsteadily. Maggie had the baby in the 
 bath, and could not move. 
 
 "Sit down, and behave yourself!" she com- 
 manded. 
 
 To her surprise he obeyed, and he said not an- 
 other word. She was afraid of him then ; his silence 
 was more ominous than rage. 
 
 Sam's inner self was torn in conflict of black 
 anger and shame. He had spent precious money 
 in public-houses. His quarrel with Maggie in the 
 morning had tormented him all day, in fits of anger 
 against her, and remorse, and wild wretchedness; 
 and drink after drink had only deepened his misery 
 and his formless raging. 
 
 He had met the district secretary of the union 
 in the morning, and had had drinks with him. The 
 fatal words seemed to be eaten into his memory: 
 
 "Our executive council knew from the first that 
 the thing would be an inevitable failure; but tfie 
 extremists, the London men, got the upper hand 
 of the society, and determined to fight the em- 
 ployers at once, and get an eight-hour day, or at 
 least to show 'em their determination to get it later, 
 if not now." 
 
 Sam had promised secrecy before he was told the 
 news. The men did not know. 
 
 "We daren't tell it yet," the secretary had said, 
 "and we daren't give in yet We must try to make 
 some terms."
 
 STRESS 217 
 
 In his disillusion and his anger Sam had been 
 near to tears. As he thought now of the words, 
 his fists clenched, and he heard himself growl he 
 knew the sound to be that of a man who had been 
 drinking, and had lost control of his faculties. He 
 watched his own drunken self, without force to 
 check it. 
 
 When Maggie was gone with the children he 
 rose and went softly to listen to them upstairs. He 
 had not kissed them "good night"; they had been 
 afraid, and had not called him. In his blind 
 disappointment he said that Maggie was teaching 
 them to hate him. As he turned from the door he 
 perceived the chicken on a dish on the table, and 
 he trembled with a hot burst of jealousy. John 
 Allday, flaunting his new prosperity, had been 
 here with his charity, patronizing him, scorning 
 him. "Afraid to come when I'm in!" he cried in 
 silent anguish, and shouted down in thought 
 the protest of his inner self. A wild desire came 
 to throw away the chicken, to destroy it he would 
 not have the fellow's charity. He crossed to the 
 table; but he had not the insane courage for the 
 deed he was afraid. 
 
 His glance moved guiltily about the room. There 
 was a little pile of coppers on the mantelpiece. 
 Without a thought he obeyed the fierce impulse 
 which urged him to take them. He listened. Only 
 his heart-beats sounded in the quiet house. Then 
 he opened the cupboard, took a jug, and went out 
 softly at the back door. 
 
 He was back again, with the jug half filled with 
 beer on the table before him, when Maggie came 
 downstairs. Kind words would have brought him 
 to passionate remorse, for of all his black mood 
 there remained only the truculent brutality of 
 shame. 
 
 Maggie was startled by the sight of the jug.
 
 218 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "You haven't been out getting beer?" she 
 exclaimed, distressed by the thought of the money 
 wasted. 
 
 "D'you think it's milk?" he said, blustering. 
 
 "But where did you get the money from?" 
 
 "Off the shelf. It's my money." 
 
 He took up the jug, and drank. 
 
 "What?" she cried. "Oh! Not that? Not that? 
 It's to pay the bread bill!" 
 
 "Don't pay !" he said roughly. 
 
 Maggie sank into the easy chair, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "God help us!" she cried. 
 
 He was afraid of her sobbing, and had to sum- 
 mon all his brutality to save him from remorse. 
 
 "As if God'll hear you if you make that row, 
 or any other row!" he told her. Fear lashed him 
 to rage. "You should be rejoicing because you're 
 poor that's what the Church tells you, don't it? 
 Christ was poor, so that He could feel for us, 
 understand our sufferings quite so and what has 
 His Church done for us? Told us to bear our 
 poverty, because it's a holy thing, because Christ 
 was poor. Is that any consolation? As soon as 
 the poor come to understand Christianity dies. 
 The Devil's advice is better." 
 
 He stood up and shouted to prevent her speech": 
 
 "Who's your true churchman? The rich, of 
 course. Here's money for the Church. Go and 
 preach consolation to the poor, and keep 'em poor 
 don't let 'em get dissatisfied. Promise 'em 
 Heaven, as much as you like, but no Earth. Give 
 'em charity never refuse charity but wrap it up 
 in humiliation. Look at John Allday, coming here 
 with his damned charity!" 
 
 Maggie shouted him down: 
 
 "He's better than you this minute! I wish to 
 God you were like him!"
 
 STRESS 219 
 
 The unexpected retaliation startled him, and 
 added to his rage; his whole self trembled in its 
 horrid passion. 
 
 "I dare say I dare say you do!" he cried, all 
 his bitterness going into the repetition. "He's 
 here a damned sight too often for an honest 
 man." 
 
 Maggie's face flushed a dark crimson. 
 
 "Can't I read it in your own face?" he cried. 
 And as a new jealousy surged in him, torturing 
 him, he raised his clenched fists and advanced upon 
 her. 
 
 "You you " 
 
 A mist came before his eyes. His tongue 
 stuttered. Horrible words rose in his thoughts, 
 but some force seemed yet to hold them back. 
 Maggie stood by the table, very close to him now, 
 her face suddenly gone white and haggard. 
 
 "You you " 
 
 "Coward!" she said quietly. 
 
 The word struck him like a great pain. He 
 shouted incoherently, and swung his fist. It fell 
 with a soft thud on her neck, and the chair went 
 clattering on the fender as she dropped. 
 
 For an instant he stood shut in a wild agony of 
 horror. Then he was beside her, lifting her ten- 
 derly in his arms. 
 
 "Maggie ! Maggie ! Darling !" he called, sobbing. 
 His tears fell on her face as he kissed her, pas- 
 sionately calling her to life. . . . 
 
 Upstairs the children wailed, startled out of their 
 first sleep. . . . 
 
 He loved her, she knew, in his own wild fashion, 
 and he was her's, as she was his, indissolubly. 
 When they went to bed, early lest they might be- 
 come too hungry after their scanty meal, he slept 
 almost at once, lying nestled against her like a chifd. 
 Her arm grew benumbed about his neck, but she
 
 220 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 bore the discomfort, lest in moving she might rouse 
 him and she was long awake. The night was cold. 
 Along the railway bank the telegraph wires hummed 
 in eerie monotone. The roofs glittered like bur- 
 nished steel under the low moon.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WINTER 
 
 SAM awoke, in Maggie's arms. The night was 
 very dark, darker than when they had come 
 to bed the moon was gone down long ago. 
 A cock crowed hoarsely to announce the coming 
 dawn. Maggie was asleep, breathing very gently; 
 once she gave a little moan. Sam feared to move; 
 he wanted her to sleep, to take all the rest she could. 
 Presently the baby stirred, and said "Mam mam" 
 quietly, and whimpered a little, the sound falling to 
 silence like a tiny voice heard far away. Sam felt 
 a thrill of happiness. Then gradually his thoughts 
 faded, and he fell asleep again. 
 
 At breakfast they talked quietly of the new start 
 they would make. Sam was determined to leave 
 the union. "I might start on my own, before 
 very long, like John Allday," said he. "There's 
 the bicycle trade, for instance. . . ." His quick 
 fancy was full of schemes, and Maggie was as eager 
 to listen as he to talk. They were happy this morrf- 
 ing, courteous to each other as they had not been 
 for months it was like a holiday morning, they 
 said. 
 
 There was to be a meeting of the district com- 
 mittee and the men to-night at Selbridge. 
 
 "I don't intend to go behind their backs," 
 Sam explained emphatically. "I'm going to tell 
 'em straight what the secretary told me I know 
 
 22J
 
 222 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 I promised him I wouldn't, but it's the men's turn 
 to be considered first and then I'm going to tell 
 'em what I think o' the whole thing. To-morrow 
 I shall be back at work. If they won't start me, 
 I'll go on the railway, or I'll go to Binnses; I can 
 get on there, I know. . . ." 
 
 "I'll tell you what, old lady," he said, after 
 breakfast. "I'll take the gun and go out for a 
 long walk, and think things out a bit, get my ideas 
 all shipshape, ready for action. I might have a bit 
 of luck, bag a couple of rabbits or something." 
 
 "What about the chicken?" said Maggie. 
 
 "Well, I might not be back early, and we don't 
 want it to spoil, waiting, do we? I'll take some- 
 thing to eat in my pocket, and we'll have the chicken 
 to-night dine at quality hours. What do you 
 think?" 
 
 "If you like." , 
 
 She cut some cheese sandwiches for him, and 
 made a packet of them for his coat. He had only 
 three-pennyworth of powder in the old flask. 
 
 "I must be like the Frenchman not shoot at the 
 running birds wait till they stop," said he. 
 
 He had made the worn old joke many a time. 
 This morning it was like a new one. 
 
 He was nearly ready to go when Mrs. Onions 
 came in, excited with her news: 
 
 "Poor Old Gentleman Binns is gone at last!" 
 
 "What not dead?" said Maggie. 
 
 "This very minute." 
 
 "What do you mean this minute?" said Sam. 
 
 Mrs. Onions was disconcerted. She hated ex- 
 actitude in narrative. 
 
 "Well, he was dying this morning, first thing, 
 not expected to last the day. That's as true as I 
 stand here. The milkman not our milkman him 
 as comes to Smith's he's told Mrs. Smith, and he 
 come past Binnses this morning. 'Any minute he'll
 
 WINTER 223 
 
 be gone,' he says. So you may be sure he's just 
 about gone and done it." 
 
 "Poor old gentleman!" said Maggie. 
 
 "Rich old gentleman, you mean!" said Mrs. 
 Onions, with a snort. "I should like a couple of 
 handfuls o' what he's left and they wouldn't Se 
 missed." 
 
 "What about the works now?" said Sam. 
 "That's off, Maggie. It'll never be the same 
 again." 
 
 "Just what Mr. Onions was saying last night," 
 agreed Mrs. Onions. " 'There'll never be another 
 place like that,' he says." 
 
 "Never," said Sam. "There may be as goocT, 
 better even, some day, mind you, in the future, 
 but not on the same basis. There'll have to be 
 a mutual loyalty created; there's none now it's 
 dead; it was due to ignorance, perhaps. All the 
 same, I aren't sure if it wasn't better than the 
 distrust and jealousy of short-sighted intelligence " 
 
 Mrs. Onions didn't understand. 
 
 "Ah true enough! You're talking now," she* 
 said impressively. "Sure, it's all th' old uns gone 
 now, except your grandfather, and him th' oldest 
 o' the lot. He'll feel it when he hears, I know." 
 
 "I might call and break it to him. It isn't tne 
 news to throw at a man his age." 
 
 "Yes you go, Sam; I should like you to," 
 said Maggie. "He'll be pleased to see you, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 Mrs. Onions sat down on the sofa and prepared 
 to give up the whole morning to the memory of 
 Old Gentleman Binns. Sam kissed the children, 
 and then Maggie, and laughed at Mrs. Onions' 
 surprise. Then he left the house, and walked 
 rapidly down the hill. 
 
 His grandfather was still in bed when he arrived. 
 
 "I went up a minute ago, and he was asleep,"
 
 224 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 said the housekeeper. "I'll wake him if you wan! 
 to see him special." 
 
 "No, it doesn't matter. You can tell him I called. 
 I wanted to tell him about Old Gentleman Binns 
 he's very near gone, I hear. I don't want my 
 grandfather to get a shock." 
 
 "Bless your life, Mister Sam, there's no shock 
 he'll get. I was telling him the very latest news 
 o' the old gentleman when I took him his cup o' 
 tea this morning. I had a big argument wi' Mrs. 
 Brewer next door yesterday as th' old gentleman 
 wouldn't last the day out, an' she wanted to crow 
 over me because he's done it, as if an hour or two 
 over makes any difference. . . ." 
 
 She was aggressively loquacious. 
 
 "My grandfather is asleep, you say?" said Sam. 
 
 "Yes he sleeps best part of his time, dozing 
 and dozing. He's lived so long, you see, there 
 ain't anything new to keep the life in him. Life's 
 the same thing, over and over, work and worry, 
 and disappointment, with a bit o' pleasure now and 
 again to keep you at it ain't it, Mister Sam ? He's 
 tired out, poor soul and so he sleeps, hour after 
 hour, dozing away in his chair, scarcely ever a word 
 to say. I'm afraid he ain't for long now, Mister 
 Sam. It don't seem natural to see him all th' old 
 uns took in turn, and him forgot an' scarcely a 
 breath o' life in him, only now and again. He 
 talks to himself sometimes it sounds just as 
 though there was something in there with him, a 
 something we couldn't see, unnatural." 
 
 Sam was conscious of the odour of whisky. 
 
 He looked round the room, so untidy now, so 
 dear to him in the recollections which Time had 
 gilded. He had not been happy here as a boy 
 not often, nor as a young man; yet it had been all 
 he knew of home. His grandfather's long church- 
 warden pipe was on the mantelpiece, and his carved
 
 WINTER 225 
 
 snuffbox, unused these many years. His spectacles 
 were in their case on the heavy Bible. Sam had 
 never seen the Bible dusty as it was now. His 
 emotion was tinged with the bitter-sweet of faded 
 memories. . . . 
 
 The frost was still on the ground. The sun was 
 pale in a mottled sky of grey, and Sam felt the cold 
 air nip his ears as he walked sharply out beyond 
 the Toll. He was happy this morning; yesterday 
 he had said in his heart he had forgotten what 
 happiness was. Yesterday he would have seen 
 only his own despair mirrored in the bare winter 
 countryside; now he saw its quiet loveliness 
 the greens of stained mossy trunks, of glossy ivy, 
 of cabbages standing bravely on the white ridges 
 across the ice-barred flood water the laced birch 
 twigs against the sky the pale mist on the woods 
 the hedge, at hand, unheeded in its sober splen- 
 dour of russet beech leaves, and haws in glinting 
 clusters, and mossy stones, and dead grasses, with 
 red bramble coils, and the wan green stems of the 
 wild rose trailing. The furze bushes crouching 
 on the hill slope seemed as much alive as the grey 
 sheep there. On the hill crest to the south a row of 
 pines stood boldly,/ like trees in a Japanese painted 
 landscape. A hedge sparrow, perched on a bush, 
 called "peek-peek," and shuffled its wings rest- 
 lessly, and then, when Sam came too near, it flitted 
 along the hedge before him. A dead mouse lay 
 at the roadside, its white belly to the sky, and its 
 feet curled up pitifully. "Poor little thing!" 
 said Sam, and he pushed it gently with his foot 
 among the grasses, safe out of the way of crushing 
 wheels. 
 
 The road entered the fringe of the woods, and 
 then mounted by a clearing. A rabbit darted 
 across the way. Sam dared not fire here ; a keeper's 
 cottage was at hand, and the scrape of a spade
 
 226 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 told of somebody at work. A little stream gurgled 
 beyond the hedge, and titmice acrobats performed 
 merrily in the trees. A cock crowed. A few yards 
 farther on Sam saw him perched boldly on the gate- 
 post. A pheasant called in the spruce plantation 
 behind the house. 
 
 Sam walked rapidly, making upwards. At the 
 crest he halted for a moment. Behind him the 
 hedgerow was all picked out with pale vermilion 
 points where the haws caught the sun. Before him 
 was the rolling country of the hills, mile after 
 mile, scattered copses of stunted trees, stretches 
 of tussocky grass and sedges, and narrow pools, 
 the hedges crouching low beside the roads for the 
 winds to leap them easily. 
 
 A black copse stood in a fold in the hills, and 
 against it was a grey house, of stone, with ivy on 
 its walls, a trim lawn before it, and clipped box 
 hedges. A tumbling brook rushed past its garden 
 foot. Sam stopped to admire the contrast of the 
 wild torrent and the air of ease, of well-being, 
 of wealth and order in the great house, with its 
 chimneys reeking gently, and good food cooking 
 in its kitchens at this hour. A while ago he would 
 have railed at the Fates which had divided out the 
 world with such hideous injustice. 
 
 A black moving dot on the long winding lane in 
 front became an old woman, bent under the weignt 
 of a sack she was carrying. A sunken road crossed 
 diagonally, its track marked by a row of telephone 
 poles dwindling over the edge of the hills. Above 
 the hedge a tiny group of three figures slid rapidly 
 along, and grew three people in a dogcart, two 
 in front and one behind, Sam noticed; he was 
 astonished at their speed. The old woman crossed 
 as they came on; her head was bowed, and she 
 never looked aside until the driver's shout startled 
 her. The wheel grazed her sack, and flung it to
 
 WINTER 227 
 
 the roadside; the dogcart swept on rapidly. 
 The groom at the back laughed. The old woman 
 shook her fist, and swore horribly. Then she made 
 a sudden dash for the sack, and stuffed back into 
 it a pheasant and some withered bracken which had 
 come out. She looked at Sam, her eyes sparkling, 
 and then fell to swearing again. The figures in 
 the dogcart blended into a black spot, gliding swiftly 
 along the top of the hedge. 
 
 "Did you see that now, the blackguard?" said 
 the old woman to Sam, and she paused to shake her 
 fist again. 
 
 Sam smiled. He knew her well. It was she 
 to whom John Allday had sent a bottle of wine 
 last winter when she was ill. Sam had assured him 
 she was an old villain, and did not deserve any 
 charity. And John had said, "Poor old soul 
 how do we know she doesn't deserve it? If she 
 was drowning we should help her first shouldn't 
 we? not ask her if she deserved it." A long 
 argument had followed, and John had won Sam to 
 his opinion, for the first time in his life. 
 
 "I'll set the place afire this time what I've seen 
 these days sure as death I will, Mister Bloom," 
 said the old woman excitedly. "Haven't they 
 turned me away from the back door many a time 
 with their Kingsnorton pride? And now I'll see 
 her turned away from the front door. And the 
 parson body God forgive him ! with the sadness 
 filling his heart from this day, and herself away 
 driving the roads and the world with that black- 
 guard for ever, if he'll not run away from her, as 
 he's done before to many a one, I'll be bound." 
 
 Sam understood. He had recognized the woman 
 in the dogcart he knew her face, but at first he 
 had not been able to recollect exactly the face was 
 muffled, partly hidden by a veil and the high collar 
 of a fur coat. It was Barbara Kingsnorton. He
 
 228 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 had not noticed her companion. The old woman 
 explained he was the man to whom she had once 
 been engaged Hurst. The old woman's rage 
 against him was horrible in its expression. Sam 
 was more amused than interested. 
 
 "It isn't my business," he said. 
 
 "It's mine now, Mister Bloom!" 
 
 The old woman shouldered her sack, and stag- 
 gered as she strove to heave it into a comfortable 
 position on her back. 
 
 "Tell 'em what the wheel knocked out of your 
 sack," called Sam after her. 
 
 She made a hoarse, cackling noise of laughter, 
 and went away, talking to herself along the road. 
 
 "I must tell John," Sam resolved. 
 
 He had had no sport. He had not yet begun 
 to think, as he had determined; and he had come 
 this long way to think things out. What would 
 Maggie say if he returned with the confession that 
 he hadn't thought at all? But there was plenty 
 of time. What indeed was there to think about? 
 He was happy now, enjoying this fine winter day 
 it was not his winter, thank God; life was beginning 
 anew. He was free to-day; he had been chained 
 to his own misfortunes, but he was free at last. 
 Misfortune was not all his, as he had thought 
 in the dark days, nor was it found only in his house 
 or in other little houses. Happiness might be 
 thrown away, but it could not be sold, or bought. 
 There was as much room for sorrow in the great 
 house as in his, and more and for happiness no, 
 happiness was for great hearts, not for nouses. He 
 repeated it several times, proud of the saying; he 
 would tell it to Maggie when he returned. He 
 would have some news to tell. How much happi- 
 ness would there be to-night, or to-morrow, at 
 Kingsnortons' ? He was sorry for Pettigo, the 
 curate he was a nice fellow. John Allday would
 
 WINTER 229 
 
 be sorry. Why couldn't a woman, or a man, go 
 to the devil alone, without dragging others into the 
 depths? Why should the innocent always suffer 
 too? Surely there was justice somewhere. . . . 
 
 A side lane dipped towards the valley, and a long 
 plantation covered the slope. Several pheasants 
 were feeding in the meadow which fringed the 
 wood. Sam looked round quickly. This was his 
 chance. He could get one home unobserved easily 
 enough; he thought of the bird in the old woman's 
 sack she had half a dozen, perhaps. At home 
 the chicken would last to-day and to-morrow, and 
 then pheasant of course, or kept hanging a bit 
 longer, and served with bread sauce they might 
 put sausages round it and make it go further. In 
 fancy already he smelled the fine smell of the 
 cooking. 
 
 One of the pheasants, a cock, was in advance 
 of the others, feeding quietly in the open. There 
 were sheep in the next meadow. Sam hoped to 
 drive them gently towards the hedge, and creep up 
 behind them. The pheasants would take no notice 
 of the sheep's approach and then it would be a safe 
 shot from the hedge, twenty or twenty-five yards, 
 no more, a sure kill, smashing the head and keeping 
 the body clean for table then away with the bird 
 before anyone might be aware of what the shoot- 
 ing was. 
 
 He entered the meadow by the gate, and began 
 to cross very slowly, keeping the sheep moving 
 before him without their growing alarmed. In a 
 little while, however, he saw that his eagerness 
 was pushing him too fast; the sheep wandered 
 away restlessly, afraid of being driven; two 
 pheasants flew into the wood. He lay down for 
 a moment and then moved on hands and knees 
 towards the hedge. He lost sight of the pheasant 
 he was stalking. For an instant he believed despair-
 
 230 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 ingly that it had run and then taken flight. Another 
 glance showed him the bird it had moved further 
 out from the wood, and was feeding quietly, appar- 
 ently undisturbed; but it had passed this meadow, 
 and was now an impossible shot from here. Sam 
 looked about. A hedge came down at right angles 
 to this one, dividing the meadow from another. 
 He would have to crawl through that, and then the 
 pheasant would be his. 
 
 For safety he made his way back a little distance, 
 and then crawled rapidly to the other hedge. It 
 was a thorn hedge, undipped and ragged, and, 
 though very bushy above, it had a space here and 
 there near the ground which might be widened for 
 a man to slip through, if he forced down the wire 
 netting which had been put there for the rabbits. 
 
 It was harder than he had expected. He 
 struggled nearly through then he reached back to 
 clutch the barrel of his gun. 
 
 His body was torn with pain. A roaring rilled 
 the world, and black darkness. . . . 
 
 Presently he saw the hedge above his head, and 
 the sky. He was very weak. The thought of death 
 snatched at him convulsively, like a cold hand. 
 But he had not the strength to rebel; he had not 
 the strength to fight his pain; and he knew surely 
 he would die. A swift succession of images flashed 
 on his mind, clouded, and jostling one another in- 
 congruously. For Maggie he had an agony of grief. 
 Once he recollected that he ought to pray, and his 
 thoughts began mechanically the first words of the 
 Lord's Prayer; then he stopped it was too late 
 now, he realized he had lived his life the Lord 
 knew He would understand. "God, I've tried I" 
 he called, striving with all his feeble strength in 
 vain to sound with his lips what his thoughts cried 
 louder than ever could have been the spoken words.
 
 WINTER 231 
 
 All his last strength he put into this silent call 
 that should ring in Heaven to plead for him. Then 
 he lay inert a little while, and Maggie came to 
 him, the children with her, his own self as a little 
 boy time had no place in his new world of vision. 
 And then the darkness. . . . 
 
 A bright-eyed robin flitted along the hedge, and 
 stopped, perched on a bramble spray to look curi- 
 ously at this new thing lying in the fields. Then 
 in a moment, as the robin was without fear, and 
 the day was sunny, and the place here sheltered 
 from the wind, he sang a while, humble unfinished 
 genius, throwing his notes carelessly into the air, 
 hesitating, stammering, and then, inspired, breaking 
 into a rapid crowded little melody.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 NEWS 
 
 AS the men went into Binnses at six o'clock 
 they heard the news in the time-office: 
 the old gentleman was very near the end. 
 The doctor had been summoned in the early hours 
 of the morning, and was coming again at breakfast- 
 time. It was the only topic of conversation. 
 Some of the men had arrived with the premature 
 knowledge that the old gentleman had "passed 
 away very peaceful" at ten minutes to three, 
 or ten minutes after three, or at some other exact 
 moment there was no lack of circumstantial 
 evidence in proof; nor would the revealed falsity 
 of it prevent the believers from accepting in future 
 similar evidence about any other visionary happen- 
 ing. The old gentleman died again in the town 
 during the breakfast interval; shopkeepers talked 
 of a half-holiday, and argued whether perhaps it 
 would be best left till the day of the funeral. In 
 the works there was very little done. Every hour 
 the news came authentically from the big house: 
 unconscious, and still the same. 
 
 The older men recounted lusty anecdotes of 
 Gentleman Binnses' career, especially of his gallan- 
 tries. He had been a famous ladies' man; there 
 were none like him now ; what had been his courte- 
 ous freedom was only cheek nowadays the very 
 
 232
 
 NEWS 233 
 
 word for it was vulgar it had lost its grand air, 
 somehow. Indeed, the charm was very difficult to 
 define, and the old men grew blunt and emphatic 
 because the young ones could not be convinced. 
 Great ladies of the district, dead, many of them, 
 others with grandchildren, were paraded in nar- 
 rative like the best cattle at a fair. 
 
 Nobody had been so opportunely deaf as Old 
 Gentleman Binns. "It's convenient to be deaf 
 sometimes." That was one of his best known witti- 
 cisms; and everybody knew at least one story of 
 his deafness. There was the tale of his captivating 
 young Mrs. Stoke, until her husband, the rich iron- 
 founder of Cadby, Stoke & Co., was as jealous as 
 a boy who can't wag his ears when all his friends 
 can. When her husband died, it was Gentleman 
 Binns who had persuaded her to give the park to 
 the town. And it was done so easily, in the begin- 
 ning, in his inimitable way: 
 
 "Who is this young lady next to me? She's 
 very pretty," in his terrific whisper to a friend be- 
 side him at a fete. How could any woman have 
 resisted that flattery? 
 
 Each of the old workmen had his favourite tale. 
 
 "I saw him one Saturday night knock a man down 
 in the Market, flat, among a lot o' cabbages and 
 stuff. It was old Simley you've heard of old 
 Simley. . . . His wife had fetched him out o' the 
 'George' and was trying to get him home. He 
 wouldn't go, not he and when he got savage he 
 let out and caught her on the jaw. Gentleman 
 Binns happened to see it. Up he come in a twink, 
 and down went old Simley atop o' the cabbages, 
 his legs flapping as if they didn't rightly belong to 
 him. That was only the beginning. Mr. Binns 
 ordered him up, and made him take his wife's arm, 
 and then he stood and lectured him, told him he'd 
 married his wife because he admired her, she was
 
 234 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 a fine woman, and he ought to go down on his knees 
 to her and beg her pardon, and be proud he'd got 
 a wife like her. He did let him have it. Why, 
 good Lord ! in about three minutes there was old 
 Simley off as proud as he could be, arm in arm with 
 his wife she was very near dying o' shame, and 
 us dying o' laughing at 'em. . . ." 
 
 There was no end to the tales of Gentleman 
 Binns and the good old days. In anecdote it was 
 the old men's triumph this morning. The young 
 ones might be sceptical, but they had to listen. 
 
 John Allday met Maggie and the children as he 
 was going home to dinner. She was radiant with 
 the good news of Sam's resolve to break with the 
 union and go back to work. 
 
 "That's right, Maggie," agreed John "you 
 persuade him to start for himself, at the first 
 possible moment. It's hard long hours, and per- 
 severance, you know but it's the sure way to 
 progress. You see how I'm getting on. It's only 
 the start, the capital " 
 
 "Yes. I've been to see his grandfather I've just 
 come away. I went to tell him about Sam well, 
 not to tell him exactly, because Sam called. I'm 
 glad I went. He didn't know he was in bed when 
 Sam went. He was delighted he's promised to 
 give Sam a start, if he likes the bicycle trade, we 
 thought. Sam doesn't know I want him to b'e 
 quick home to tell him " 
 
 "I'm very glad," said John. "You deserve it 
 Maggie. I'll come up, and we'll have a chat about 
 it. Perhaps I can help " 
 
 "Yes do to-morrow perhaps we'll have a 
 bit of supper for you. . . ." 
 
 It was the first news he told when he got home. 
 His mother and father were interested, but not so 
 enthusiastic as he; they were more anxious to 
 discuss the latest news of Old Gentleman Binns.
 
 NEWS 235 
 
 The men went quietly into the works at two 
 o'clock. They had scarcely settled down for 
 the afternoon when the news passed magically 
 through the shops: Old Gentleman Binns was dead. 
 There was no more work to-day. The heats were 
 left in the fires, the bellows stopped, and the breeze 
 ceased to glow; strikers washed their grimy hands 
 in the water troughs, and put on their coats. In 
 little groups and in file the men passed out, through 
 the big gates, silently, their voices lowered as they 
 talked. The blinds were down in the big house. 
 The men stood about, hesitating before going away, 
 talking, talking, the same things said again and 
 again, each one awed by the near presence of death, 
 the all powerful. Old men wiped away their tears 
 with the backs of their gnarled hands, unashamed. 
 They had known the master so long; they had 
 worked for him when they were young and he was 
 the reckless dandy they had all admired; and now 
 he was dead, and they were old, like him ; it would 
 be their turn soon. The place would never be the 
 same again. It was hard for old men who had been 
 used to the place all their lives to start again in a 
 strange place for it would be a strange place, with 
 the old gentleman gone. The young men already 
 talked of the advantages of a strike. 
 
 John's mother surprised him when he entered the 
 house : 
 
 "I knew just after you'd gone. I thought you 
 would be back sooner than this." 
 
 "He wasn't dead when you heard," said John. 
 
 They had tea early, and John prepared to go out 
 to Nickling to see Mr. Pettigo. A committee 
 meeting at the Social Club was to be held on the 
 morrow, and several important matters were to be 
 discussed; there would now be added the send- 
 ing of a wreath for Alderman Binnses' funeral 
 he had been a very generous patron of the club.
 
 236 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 The funeral would certainly be a public affair; 
 the shops would close for several hours. The town 
 council, the workmen, the Social Club, all would 
 be represented. 
 
 "You'll be invited, John, for sure," said his 
 mother. 
 
 "He's been the greatest man the town ever had, 
 I should say," declared Mr. Allday. "He wasn't 
 born here, but he loved the place, and he did his 
 utmost for good all round. Look at the Queen's 
 Jubilee he might have been at Court, and got 
 knighted, perhaps it's more than likely and he 
 preferred to stay here and help the town where he 
 made his money. You never see that nowadays. 
 Splendid, I call it." 
 
 "They say a woman did that Mrs. Whatsher- 
 name?" said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "They say! Who are they? Everybody and 
 nobody, mother," said Mr. Allday emphatically. 
 "As sure as ever a man rises, and the higher he 
 rises, there's a jostling lot o' jealous gossips, evil- 
 minded creatures, try to pull his character down, 
 because they can't reach the real man high above 
 them. Never listen " 
 
 "I only said as they say that," said Mrs. 
 Allday. 
 
 "Exactly! And they only said and there you 
 are. 'I know Mrs. Allday is an honest, straight- 
 forward woman, and she told me, so it's bound to 
 be true.' How do you like that?" 
 
 Mrs. Allday protested, and her husband laughed 
 at her. 
 
 John left the house, and walked out rapidly 
 to Nickling. There he was disappointed: Mr. 
 Pettigo was out. His landlady did not know when 
 he might return; perhaps it would be very late 
 she didn't know. 
 
 John moved slowly away, annoyed that he had
 
 NEWS 237 
 
 come so far for nothing. He recollected that he 
 had seen a light in the window upstairs as he 
 approached the house; that could not be Mr. 
 Pettigo's room, of course, though he had fancied 
 so, at first. He turned. The light was gone. 
 Suddenly the gas was lit in the front room below 
 Mr. Pettigo's room. A shadow was thrown sharply 
 on the blind, a face in profile. John was startled, 
 for he was sure it was the curate's shadow. It was 
 gone in an instant, and he strove to believe that he 
 had been mistaken in vain; it was the curate's 
 shadow; he could not leave it at home when he 
 went out. John started impulsively towards the 
 house, but after a few steps he hesitated. The 
 landlady had said emphatically that Mr. Pettigo 
 was out; she would not have lied without orders, 
 and so she would lie again ; he could not force him- 
 self past her. He was acutely perturbed, and 
 annoyed. He had not believed the curate capable 
 of a lie of that sort; it was often done, he knew, 
 but not by Pettigo. What was the reason? It 
 must be a grave one. . . . 
 
 The lights of Selbridge threw a lurid glow on 
 the low clouds. A storm was rising, moaning and 
 crying in the bare trees. John was uneasy and 
 depressed. 
 
 His mother and father had greater news than 
 his: 
 
 "Have you heard Sam Bloom has shot 
 himself?" 
 
 John was aghast. 
 
 "Mr. Hastilow heard it at the Toll, so Mrs. 
 Hastilow has been in to tell us," said his mother. 
 "It was over at Wren fold. I forget the name she 
 said a farmer there, he was the first to bring the 
 news." 
 
 "It isn't true!" said John. "It's impossible! 
 Didn't I tell you I saw Maggie this morning, as
 
 238 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 happy as could be because Sam was going to make 
 a fresh start?" 
 
 "But you said she told you he was out with his 
 gun," said Mr. Allday. "Perhaps he's had an 
 accident you never know." 
 
 The image in his thoughts, of Maggie, radiant 
 with her happy news, as he had seen her this morn- 
 ing, brought John near to sudden tears. 
 
 "I'll go and find out," he said impulsively. 
 
 "Everybody's talking about it. I should like to 
 know it isn't true," said his mother. 
 
 John put on his hat and coat again. Swiftly 
 he recollected how Maggie had consoled him when 
 he had been sick at heart. If this horrible thing 
 were true, then it would be his duty to go to her. 
 She had not many friends; now was the time for 
 the true ones to show their worth. At least it 
 should never be said of him, as of so many he knew, 
 that he had more sympathy in words than in 
 actions. 
 
 He met two of Binnses' men in the High Street, 
 and stayed a moment to glean the news. 
 
 "They said as he's done it. I don't know for 
 certain. I dare say it's right enough. He was an 
 erratic, impulsive sort o' fellow, wasn't He?" 
 
 In the Bullen, John came upon a little group of 
 the Social Club members. 
 
 "Hallo, John ! Have you heard the latest ?" they 
 greeted him. 
 
 "About Sam Bloom ? Yes," said John. "I want 
 to know the truth. I don't believe he's shot him- 
 self. I tell you, I know for a fact " 
 
 "Oh that! No it was an accident, I believe." 
 
 "But that isn't it. Haven't you heard about 
 curate Pettigo?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 John felt his body shrink. 
 
 "His ladylove's bolted with another man that
 
 NEWS 239 
 
 man Hurst she was engaged to before, you re- 
 member " 
 
 "Poor old Pettigo! He'll feel it " 
 
 "She wasn't good enough for him, anywhere 
 near " 
 
 "That's a fact! A proud, flighty piece o' 
 goods " 
 
 They noticed neither John's silence nor his 
 suffering. 
 
 "How do you know it?" he demanded, startling 
 them with his emphasis. 
 
 They laughed. 
 
 "There isn't any 'how' about it. Why, there's 
 fifty tales already to choose from, all different. 
 Heaven only knows which one's true. But it's 
 right this far she's done a bunk, skedaddled. . . ." 
 
 They were capping one another's jokes when 
 John left them. He couldn't stay and listen, and he 
 couldn't trust himself to talk. His legs were weak, 
 as though he had walked to exhaustion; his grief 
 was like a sickness, filling his whole being. He 
 did not notice that he had crossed the Bullen until 
 he saw the slope of Castle Street rising above him. 
 Then he recollected Maggie. He was going to her ; 
 he had said it was his duty to offer her his sympathy 
 and his help. Now as he mounted the hill he knew 
 that it was her sympathy he would need. There 
 would be none other offered him, none he could 
 ask ; nobody would know his suffering, and he could 
 not tell. These members of the Social Club 
 what would they say if he told them how he had 
 worshipped Barbara Kingsnorton his goddess, 
 "a flighty piece of goods!" Bitterly he under- 
 stood the unreality of the glorious vision he had 
 loved secretly without hope. The goddess had 
 been in his own heart he understood now it was 
 the reality which was the image. What vulgar 
 innuendo would be heard if he let gossip know!
 
 240 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 None would understand perhaps one here and 
 there, but who ? Maggie would divine his need for 
 sympathy; she seemed to enter his inner self, to 
 know him as even he did not know. He must go 
 to her, for she was in need also. . . . 
 
 He paused by the lamp before he should pass 
 round to the back of the last block of houses. What 
 would he say? Had they brought Sam home? The 
 horror which had been only in his thoughts seemed 
 to fill his body. 
 
 A voice roused him: 
 
 "Here's Mr. Allday." 
 
 He recognized Mrs. Onions standing with 
 a neighbour. 
 
 "I was saying only five minutes ago as you'd be 
 up," she called out. "I've said it many a time, I 
 have; it isn't till there's trouble in the house you 
 know who your real friends are. What a terrible 
 day, Mr. Allday, to be sure! It never rains but 
 there's a downpour. Sure, who'd have thought this 
 affliction was hanging right over, so sudden? And 
 whose turn it is next, it makes a body go all of a 
 dither. . . . She's gone they fetched her this 
 afternoon to see him quite dead, I believe. Poor 
 soul! I was down the town, else I'd ha' gone 
 with her she ought to ha' had somebody with 'er. 
 The children are with Mrs. Walker here they 
 don't know, poor little mites! It's ard, isn't it, for 
 'em. . . ." 
 
 After a short while John walked slowly down the 
 hill. In suffering he saw Maggie setting out alone, 
 with none to comfort her, to find Sam in a shed, 
 or the club-room of some public-house, perhaps. 
 Suddenly he remembered Sam's grandfather, and 
 he turned back. 
 
 "Mrs. Onions, do you know if anybody has told 
 his grandfather, old Mr. Peacock?" he asked. 
 
 "Not as I know of, Mr. Allday. I thought
 
 NEWS 241 
 
 as somebody ought to go it'll about kill the old 
 man." 
 
 "I'll go," said John. 
 
 He found relief in action. The swift movement 
 and the thought of his mission drove his own grief 
 from the possession of his mind. 
 
 To his surprise he found the house in darkness. 
 The blinds were down, and no one came in answer 
 to his knocking. His knuckles seemed to make only 
 a feeble sound on the door panels. He took out 
 his penknife and tapped sharply with the handle. 
 Old Mr. Peacock might be in bed, but Mrs. 
 Crooks, his housekeeper, would hear that, if she 
 were in. 
 
 He was about to go away, disappointed, when 
 the door opened of the house next door, and a yel- 
 low shaft of light shot across the street. 
 
 "Who is it? Do you want something? Mrs. 
 Crooks isn't in." 
 
 John stepped forward into the light. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Mr. Allday!" exclaimed the 
 woman who had spoken. Then she lowered her 
 voice almost to a whisper: "The old man's gone 
 died in his sleep this afternoon. We'd just heard 
 in the street 'ere about his grandson, and Mrs. 
 Crooks was going in to tell 'im. She came running 
 back we'd been 'aving a cup o' tea early. I 
 could see as something had 'appened. 'He was 
 there in his chair,' she says, 'just as you've seen 
 him many a time, dozing/ she says, 'and I went up 
 to wake him and when I touched him/ she says, 
 'I only just touched 'im, an' 'e went flop, all of a 
 lump.' She was that frightened she daresent go 
 back without me, an' then she wouldn't touch him 
 we had to go " 
 
 "Where is she now?" said John. 
 
 "She'll be in one of the neighbours', perhaps. 
 She was here. To tell you the truth, Mr. Allday,
 
 242 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 she's been drinking 'eavy. She ain't been like Mrs. 
 Thomas for looking after him." 
 
 "I'll come back to-morrow," said John sharply. 
 "I can see there's nothing to be done to-night; but 
 somebody will have to look after things." 
 
 "I'm sure I'll do anything I can, Mr. Allday." 
 
 John thanked her, and said "good night." Then 
 he walked swiftly back to the High Street and across 
 the river. 
 
 "Poor Maggie!" said his mother, when he told 
 the news. "She'll need all her friends." 
 
 "How many's all?" said Mr. Allday. 
 
 John said nothing of what he had heard of 
 Barbara Kingsnorton. When presently his father 
 told him a neighbour had been in with the news, 
 and asked if he had heard,- he had to force his voice 
 to hide the distress he dared not explain. 
 
 "I suppose it's right. I heard it in the town." 
 
 "Everything's happened all together to-day," said 
 his mother. 
 
 "Everything?" said Mr. Allday. "That's a 
 lot, mother. Old Gentleman Binns is dead; and 
 another old man, poor old Mr. Peacock, a nobody, 
 except to a few who knew him, he's dead on the 
 same day and Sam Bloom's died, very sudden. It 
 isn't everything. The world will go on, mother, just 
 the same. When a great man's dead, he isn't a 
 great man he was." 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean." 
 
 "Yes, I know. It's Sam's death we feel the 
 most. A young man, just going to make a real 
 start, it's hard, mother. That's what makes you 
 feel what we all feel. Poor Sam ! He might have 
 made such a fine man. But it's Life it's always 
 the same. What's it say in the Bible? 'There 
 shall be two something one shall be taken, and 
 the other left.' Sam's been taken, before he had 
 his proper chance, while there's other men get a
 
 NEWS 243 
 
 hundred chances. But, mark you, I believe as Sam 
 will be judged by what he would have been 
 at least, by what he tried to be. You won't 
 perhaps hear your vicar tell you that I don't care, 
 all the same it's justice. We don't know enough 
 in this world to be just, perhaps. I know a man's 
 condemned many a time, when he hasn't had 
 enough chance. The old way of things is gone, 
 with Old Gentleman Binns. Sam might ha' made 
 one o' the new men it's men like him are going 
 to count " 
 
 Mrs. Allday had lost understanding, so she 
 interrupted : 
 
 "Poor Maggie with the children so young!" 
 
 "There's a lot o' trouble in the world, sure 
 enough," said Mr. Allday. "Everybody's turn 
 comes, sooner or later. You don't understand life 
 without it. Where do you turn to for sympathy? 
 Why, to them who have known what trouble is 
 they're more human, somehow. Pettigo won't 
 sleep much to-night, I'll be bound, if it's true. He 
 must have been worried, some time he must have 
 felt something o' the sort coming. A fine open 
 fellow ! There won't be much pity for him, though. 
 Folks will laugh they always do at that sort of 
 thing they can't help it. Look at it one way, it's 
 comic " 
 
 "I don't think so. It's horrible!" exclaimed 
 John. 
 
 His father was surprised at his vehemence. 
 
 "It depends. He's safe enough to get over it, 
 if he can keep from brooding. It isn't the weight 
 of sorrow that breaks a man it's the loneliness. 
 You've read about men suffering, and women, in 
 olden times, terrible sufferings; yet they bore them 
 bore them cheerfully sometimes, because they 
 were all together, comrades, all suffering alike. 
 It makes all the difference. The worst suffering
 
 244 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 is what you can't tell anybody what you daren't 
 tell anybody. It gnaws away inside you like a 
 cancer. There's death in that." 
 
 "You aren't half going it to-night. You'll have 
 your throat bad," said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 In a few moments the call of a newsboy sounded 
 from the street. 
 
 "That'll be a special, with the old gentleman's 
 death in," said Mr. Allday. "Run out and get one, 
 John." 
 
 GENTLEMAN BINNS 
 DEATH OF A 1 GRAND OLD MAN 
 
 The headlines were in heavy type, and the sheet 
 was rilled with the story of his illness, with a long 
 history of his life, of the works, and of his influence 
 in the district, with many anecdotes. John had to 
 read them all aloud. 
 
 "There's nothing else in, important, is there?" 
 said Mrs. Allday at last. 
 
 John turned over the paper, and searched the 
 columns. 
 
 "What's this?" he exclaimed suddenly. "Wait 
 a minute ! Here's Sam's death there's a paragraph 
 in." 
 
 He read it out: 
 
 POACHER'S DEATH 
 
 Two labourers at Wrenfold discovered a man lying shot 
 in a ditch at midday to-day. They carried him to the 
 nearest cottage, where he expired before medical assistance 
 could be summoned. Death is supposed to have been caused 
 by the accidental discharge of his gun while deceased was 
 trespassing in pursuit of game. The body has been identified 
 as that of Samuel Bloom, a workman, residing in Pedley 
 Hill.
 
 NEWS 245 
 
 "It's wonderful how quick they get the news," 
 said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 "Poor Sam!" said Mr. Allday, after a moment's 
 silence. "We know what a fine young fellow he 
 was; and here it is: a workman, a poacher that's 
 all! There's a lesson for you what a man lives 
 for, if he doesn't climb like Alderman Binns dead 
 and buried, and forgotten, and not even understood 
 at all. Poor Sam!" 
 
 "It's Maggie I'm thinking of," said Mrs. Allday. 
 
 John was silent. His thoughts were for Barbara 
 Kingsnorton, for the vision he had worshipped, 
 more real than her own self, and now lost utterly. 
 
 His father's voice roused him: 
 
 "Old Mr. Peacock's death isn't in, is it, John?" 
 
 He searched the columns again. 
 
 "It won't be," said his father. "It wouldn't be 
 in time. I don't suppose it would have been in, 
 even if it had been earlier not more than a word 
 or two, at the most. You have to pay to tell 
 people you're dead common folks. We're all 
 nobodies, mother, very near all of us nobodies, 
 in little houses except in our own eyes, and in the 
 Lord's." 
 
 They were silent a long while. 
 
 John was glad to go upstairs to bed. There was 
 companionship for him in the darkness and the 
 silence.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE HILL 
 
 THE corncrake called in every meadow, a 
 voice here at hand, then there among the 
 grass, a ventriloquist's voice. None had 
 seen the bird come; none would see him go; he 
 might have been a voice only, not a bird skulking 
 invisible to common eyes. Those who had never 
 seen him, however, followed the example of the 
 king's subjects in the fairy tale, who couldn't see 
 the invisible cloak. There was a stuffed corncrake 
 in a glass case in the bar at the "Bull"; it was a 
 poor amateur naturalist indeed who could not put 
 life into a description of that. 
 
 It was Friday. John Allday had had a quiet 
 morning at the yard. In the afternoon he went 
 into Selbridge. As soon as his business there was 
 completed, he went to the Royal Emporium, and 
 made his way to the toy department. He thought 
 of Maggie as he went; she had been Maggie 
 Wheatley then, at the tobacco and fancy goods 
 counter how many years ago? 
 
 "I want a doll, please, only a little one, but a 
 nice one." 
 
 He didn't blush as he would have done years 
 ago. He had more assurance now, come with his 
 steadily growing prosperity. He made jokes with 
 the girl who served. 
 
 The doll was all he wanted. He would go back 
 246
 
 THE HILL 247 
 
 to Pedley Hill by train. He was going to tea with 
 Maggie; it was baby's birthday she was two 
 years old to-day. The doll was tied in its cardboard 
 box, and paid for, when he recollected the baby's 
 brother, his godson, John. It would not do to take 
 nothing for him he was such a fine little man. 
 So John turned back to the counter and bought 
 a whip with a whistle at the end of the handle. 
 Then he was ready. 
 
 "I look quite a family man," he told himself 
 merrily. Many a time he had seen men carrying 
 toys, especially on Saturdays fathers going home 
 and he had never realized how happy they must 
 have been. To him they had seemed rather absurd. 
 He was beginning to understand now. In the days 
 of grief, and again when time was healing him, 
 and he had posed, theatrically before his own self, 
 and had called life a mockery, and romance an illu- 
 sion, when he had had to call on reiteration to help 
 him to the despair which had grown precious, he 
 had found a new growth springing within him, a 
 sympathy and a comprehension for tiny things 
 which he had often seen but had never understood. 
 
 The children were eagerly awaiting him. 
 
 "I've had the greatest work with 'em," said 
 Maggie. "It's been 'Uncle John! Uncle John!' 
 all afternoon. As for getting them to sleep for 
 their usual nap not a bit of it. 'Uncle John's 
 coming!' ' 
 
 "Of course !" said John happily. 
 
 He had to show the boy how to blow the whistle, 
 and had to crack the whip for him; then he had 
 to hold the doll and talk to it. Maggie sat and 
 laughed at them, until she was forced to play. 
 Dolly's mother wouldn't have her tea without her. 
 
 "You are having a birthday isn't she, Uncle 
 John?" said Maggie. 
 
 After tea they went into the garden. The
 
 248 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 children played, and Maggie and John walked to 
 and fro and talked. It had been a day of sun 
 and showers, and a cool, rich smell was rising from 
 the earth, from the new foliage of the hedge, and 
 from the grass beyond. Mrs. Onions appeared at 
 the back door, and came along, announcing her 
 intention to do a bit o' weeding. 
 
 "It's only a bit of green, but it's nice," said 
 Maggie. 
 
 "Yes, it is," John agreed. "You know, it isn't 
 out of the quantity of good things that happi- 
 ness comes it's out of our own appreciation of 
 them." 
 
 "That's right, Mr. Allday," said Mrs. Onions. 
 "It's what I've said many a time. You're the one 
 to put things sensible." 
 
 John whispered to Maggie: "It isn't mine ifs 
 one of father's sayings." 
 
 "Some folks don't know they're born," said Mrs. 
 Onions, and she proceeded to anecdote without 
 delay. 
 
 Maggie was happy now she did not need to 
 talk. She wanted to keep John a while longer 
 the time had gone so quickly; so to prolong her 
 pleasure she invited Mrs. Onions to come indoors 
 and see the children bathed and put to bed. 
 
 John sat and smoked his pipe. This was a time 
 he enjoyed; he did not know why; he had never 
 paused to ask himself the cause of his keen pleasure. 
 Both children liked to escape from their mother, 
 if they could, while they were being undressed, and 
 then they would run to him, laughing noisily and 
 feigning fear. Maggie had to chase them all about 
 the room. It was grand fun for the children. 
 And they always splashed too much in the zinc 
 bath, and threw their toys out the ball, and the 
 floating swan, and the tiny rowing boat Uncle John 
 had brought from Blackpool.
 
 THE HILL 249 
 
 "You're a spoilt little girlie and it's all your 
 Uncle John!" said Mrs. Onions, in glee. 
 
 When they had said their prayers, and he had 
 kissed them "good night," he stayed to chat with 
 Mrs. Onions while Maggie put them to bed. He 
 had enjoyed himself; he didn't want to go yet 
 
 "I shall have to be giving a look round at home," 
 said Mrs. Onions. "My old man's working over, 
 and I've got a bit o' supper special for him. I 
 shall be back in a minute or two, perhaps." 
 
 John sat in the arm-chair, and looked round the 
 quiet sitting-room. It was a comfortable little 
 room, he thought. He had always felt contented 
 here. Maggie kept it very neat; it was splendid, 
 the way she kept the place. A nosegay of lady- 
 smocks stood in a slender glass vase in the centre 
 of the table. They were only wild flowers Maggie 
 could not afford the rich blooms that filled ttte 
 florists' shops but how pretty they were, how 
 delicate in hue ! Wild flowers for baby's birthday, 
 and because Uncle John was coming! It was very 
 nice of Maggie such a little thing, but of those 
 little things which are so much. Maggie was al- 
 ways like that. 
 
 Presently she came downstairs, and shut the door 
 quietly. 
 
 "They're crying a bit," said she. "They didn't 
 want to go you being here but they'll drop off 
 soon. They're tired out. Has Mrs. Onions 
 gone ?" 
 
 "Yes. She said she would be back in a minute 
 or two." 
 
 "Oh her minutes!" 
 
 Maggie smiled, and John smiled too. He did not 
 want Mrs. Onions to come back. 
 
 Gradually their talk became serious. Maggie 
 spoke of her future plans: 
 
 "The grandfather's money was a godsend. I
 
 250 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 don't know what I should have done without it. 
 But it isn't much, and I don't want to spend it 
 all, and then be left. I can afford to wait till the 
 children grow up a bit more John's three now 
 they won't be so much trouble then, and I can use 
 the money to start properly in business. I'm sure 
 I can make it pay. It's the best investment I 
 could have; don't you think so? It will keep me 
 occupied, as well. I do some sewing now not 
 much, but it dresses the children. I'm getting ever 
 so quick, and I could make much more profit selling 
 in my own shop ever so much more. It's your 
 advice, really." 
 
 "It's the best way, Maggie," said John. "If 
 anybody had told me twelve months ago I should 
 be doing so well now, I should have treated it as 
 a joke. . . ." 
 
 The shadows came out of the corners of the room. 
 
 "How quickly the time has gone!" 
 
 They were surprised. It had seemed such a little 
 while. John rose to go, and Maggie took him to 
 the front door. 
 
 "Good-night, Maggie. It has been a happy birth- 
 day, hasn't it, for her!" 
 
 "Yes thanks to you." 
 
 "Not to me." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 "Well not entirely. I like to see the children 
 enjoy themselves." 
 
 "You spoil them, you know. I shall have ever 
 such a game with 'em to-morrow. They are good, 
 really, I know. You can't expect " 
 
 "Of course not! Good night!" 
 
 "Goodnight, John!" 
 
 He held her hand in his the whole time. After 
 he had gone he still felt the warm pressure of it. 
 
 He hesitated for an instant on the pavement. 
 Then he mounted slowly towards the crest of the
 
 THE HILL 251 
 
 hill, and stood a while on the railway bridge. He 
 did not want to go home yet, he told himself. It 
 was not late, and it was a lovely evening. He 
 wanted to enjoy the last hours again in recollection, 
 and he must be alone for that; it was no pleasure 
 to be shared; its joys were too delicate to bear 
 narration to another. He did not know that 
 Maggie had stood in reverie after the front door 
 was shut, and saw him pass the window. She had 
 gone outside, by the back door, and stood now in 
 the shadows, watching his dim figure above the 
 parapet of the bridge. He did not know how she 
 watched him go, and how she went quietly indoors 
 again, with an emptiness in her inner self as though 
 he had taken with him all that had lain there. 
 
 Lovers were in the lanes, here and there, in the 
 scented dusk, seated close together on the grassy 
 hedgebanks, heedless of the damp, blotted against 
 walls in shadow, by gates, everywhere. John 
 smiled. Why shouldn't they be happy? he said, 
 and his thoughts went back to Maggie, recollecting 
 her "good night," and the pressure of her hand 
 in his. She was fond of him, he knew and of 
 late he had gone to her for sympathy, many days, 
 when he had been sick at heart and lonely, just as 
 he had gone to his mother, years ago, to shelter 
 from nameless fears. She never refused. Into 
 his thoughts came her image, as she had stood at 
 the door, wishing him "good night," very plain in 
 her black dress, her face pale against the shadows 
 of the room, but with a happy light shining in her 
 eyes. Sorrow had made her quieter, more thought- 
 ful; it had taken the quick, mischievous smile and 
 the laughter, but it had given her a new loveliness. 
 Indeed, many a man would be proud of her. 
 John was startled by the thought. She was young 
 younger than he. Many a man there was the 
 thought again, struggling against his efforts fo
 
 252 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 banish it. He had been tormented thus before 
 it was an old enemy. Was it an enemy? It had 
 been but was it now? He was filled with vague 
 disquietude. Once the sound of a kiss, and then 
 soft laughter and whispering, caught him unawares, 
 and left him troubled by its recollection: he had 
 been walking quietly on the grass beside the road, 
 and had come on a pair of lovers unobserved. And 
 the incident sent his memory back into the past, 
 to when he had been a boy at school, and Maggie 
 had kissed him, taking him by surprise. For an 
 instant the vision was exceedingly vivid, and then, 
 when it faded, he called it back again. Maggie came 
 to him in a new image, passionately alive, inflaming 
 him. He thought again of the days when he had 
 said all his happiness was broken. She had never 
 turned him away. In the midst of her grief she 
 had always found some happiness for him. Then 
 came the vision of Barbara Kingsnorton. She 
 had never lived this Barbara of his. The real 
 Barbara was an unhappy woman, living in London 
 now, married to a man who neglected her already, 
 so John had learnt. He understood in some 
 measure what her suffering must be, how her idols 
 had fallen broken in the dust, and he was sorry 
 for her, for the Barbara who had never really 
 lived. But Maggie had been no vision. The real 
 Maggie he knew, boundless in sympathy, for him, 
 at least, devoted in friendship, perfect in mother- 
 hood. 
 
 He stopped at a turning. Why should he go on 
 further? Why had he come out here, walking 
 alone ? He might have stayed with Maggie longer ; 
 there was no need to have come away so early. 
 And with that thought he turned to go back, then 
 hesitated a while. What would Maggie say if he 
 returned to her? What would she think? What 
 would he say in explanation?
 
 THE HILL: 253 
 
 Slowly at first he began to walk towards the hill, 
 which rose in silhouette against the last wan light 
 of day, lingering star-bejewelled in the west. 
 
 He had no clear thoughts now; they were all 
 in a medley, out of focus, while an unquiet yearning 
 drove him to greater speed. The air in the lanes 
 was warm still, here and there; the earth seemed 
 to have held the day's heat, and now was letting 
 it rise among the shadows, clinging and odorous, 
 troubling his senses as he inhaled it in deep breaths, 
 intoxicating him, filling him with desire. 
 
 His hesitation had gone when he arrived, and he 
 knocked at the front door. He had been hurrying, 
 and his heart thumped loudly as he listened for 
 Maggie's footsteps to cross the room. 
 
 "John!" she exclaimed, astonished, when she 
 opened the door. "I couldn't think who it was." 
 
 She paused, and what seemed to him a long 
 silence followed. He could not speak. 
 
 "Come in," she said. 
 
 He stepped inside. The front room was in dark- 
 ness. A yellow patch of light from the sitting- 
 room covered the wall in the passage, and broke 
 the shadows with its soft reflections. Maggie shut 
 the door, and then turned, and they stood face to 
 face. 
 
 "I've come back, you see," said John, trembling 
 and distraught. "I always come back." 
 
 He tried to smile, to fight down the agitation 
 which pained him. Maggie said nothing; she did 
 not understand. 
 
 "I went away too soon," he said, struggling to 
 pluck his thoughts from their tangle. "There was 
 no need I wanted to stay. I've been thinking, 
 thinking a lot I want to help you, Maggie more 
 than that. Why should you be lonely? I'm 
 lonely too, you know. Many a time I've come here 
 I've been lonely, utterly miserable, and you've al-
 
 254 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 ways cheered me. I I Fve come again I 
 want to I want to stay to help you. There isn't 
 much happiness in the world, Maggie. I want to 
 will you let me try to give you what happineSs 
 I can Maggie?" 
 
 Her little exclamation told him nothing. He fol- 
 lowed her as she moved away from him towards 
 the sitting-room, and there in the light he saw the 
 tears glistening in her eyes. 
 
 "Maggie!" he said, pleading. 
 
 She sat down at the table, and covered her face 
 with her hands. 
 
 "Maggie, dear." 
 
 He put his hand on her shoulder, and called her 
 again very softly. Then he bent down and kissed 
 her hair. 
 
 "No, no, John you shouldn't!" she whispered. 
 
 She looked up, and he kissed her on the lips. 
 Then slowly she put her arms up to hold him.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE EVE 
 
 JOHN was so quiet at supper that his mother 
 asked him if he had been worried at the yard. 
 "No I've had a very good day," he told 
 her, and then he strove to talk, so that she might 
 not question him further. He was glad to escape 
 to bed. 
 
 Sleep would be impossible for hours, he knew. 
 He had no wish for sleep. At first he said he would 
 think carefully of his future plans, for there was 
 so much to be decided; but soon he abandoned 
 his resolve it was impossible his emotions were 
 too ebullient to be marshalled calmly in thought. 
 Maggie was with him still, a transcendent vision, 
 calling his soul a while to the high hills, above the 
 petty details of common life. "There's time yet," 
 he said, when at last he saw how hopeless was 
 quiet thought to-night. There was time, indeed, 
 for nothing had been decided nothing. Maggie 
 was not yet six months a widow. The recollection 
 startled him, and he pushed it away behind those 
 which crowded forward to offer him delights. 
 
 "You mustn't ask me. We must think both 
 of us. ... John, dear please don't make me say 
 anything now. I never guessed give me time to 
 think what I ought to do." 
 
 The words remained, sharply graven upon his 
 inner thoughts. All the rest had lost its first shape, 
 
 255
 
 256 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 and had been retouched by his own passionate 
 fancy. How had she found the strength to resist 
 his pleading? He asked himself in vain. She 
 loved him she had always loved him. He knew 
 that now, for she had told him so the secret she 
 had kept so long, told in the faintest whisper; and 
 in his triumph he had held her until she looked 
 into his face and told him again, boldly and proudly 
 at last. Why then did she plead for time to think, 
 while happiness lay here and they might take it 
 in both hands? Time was needed yes but for 
 action, not for thought. No engagement could 
 be announced till near the year's end at least. It 
 was a long time, but not to be spent in loneliness 
 that was past. Their garden of happiness would 
 bloom all the lovelier, hidden from others' eyes, 
 a garden of sweet odours and singing birds. In 
 his enchantment he had no thought for common 
 things. 
 
 When he awoke in the brightness of the early 
 morning he lay inert a while in drowsy content. 
 Then slowly his thoughts stirred, piecing together 
 the happenings which had kept sleep so long away. 
 What would his mother and father say? inquired 
 a perverse spirit, newly aroused within him. He 
 had not once thought of that last night. He had 
 seen it coming, afar off, and it had not been able 
 to get to him, for the press of passionate delights. 
 Now it seemed to have been waiting through the 
 night, and gaining strength, and others had come 
 with it, an importunate company. His father and 
 mother were fond of him, and they were proud of 
 him too, as he was of them; his mother especially 
 dreamed of his doing well, he knew. "There's no 
 reason why you shouldn't rise steadily, as you 
 are doing, till you're invited to be mayor, some 
 day," she had said a few weeks ago. John had 
 laughed. Secretly he had been flattered, and his
 
 THE EVE 257 
 
 ambition had glowed. Many a man had started 
 less than he, and had become mayor of his native 
 town. It was not impossible, for what others had 
 done, so he might also. In a few years, at least 
 less, perhaps he would be a candidate for the 
 Town Council. Mr. Benlow had suggested it, 
 and had promised his support; and Mr. Benlow 
 was a councillor, a man of influence. There was 
 the Social Club, too, with the Church behind it. 
 Already he had valuable friends, especially since 
 he had left Binnses, and had become a merchant 
 with his own yard. The painted sign on the gate, 
 and his printed advertisements, had served him 
 socially better than any visiting cards. Mr. Ben- 
 low was a loyal friend. Mrs. Benlow was always 
 the same, hospitable and kindly. Willie called 
 him "old man" now, since the painting of his name 
 on the yard gate. Elsie was splendid company, 
 very jolly, very nice. She would remain his friend 
 Mr. Benlow would remain his friend, of course 
 his marrying would not alter that. How could 
 it? And Elsie? More than once he had dared to 
 hope but that was past now. Mr. Benlow migrit 
 think him unwise, perhaps. No doubt, many people 
 would say so. His mother might be disappointed, 
 though she liked Maggie he knew she was fond 
 of Maggie. It was impossible to satisfy everybody 
 in this world; only fools tried to do that, and did 
 not even satisfy themselves. He was free to choose 
 his own life. He had chosen. 
 
 Many thoughts distressed him, but his resolve 
 stood unshaken. All the cold reason of morning 
 could not move it. 
 
 At breakfast his mother perceived his disquietude. 
 
 "There's something on his mind, worrying him," 
 she told his father emphatically, after he had gone 
 to work. 
 . Mr. Allday listened proudly to John's going in
 
 258 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 a morning. He had reached one of the summits 
 of his ambition for his son. John was no ordinary 
 workman now, going to work at six o'clock, as his 
 father had always had to do. Mr. Allday had 
 laughed with John when Mrs. Allday prophesied the 
 mayoralty; but afterwards he confessed that she 
 had voiced his secret hopes. 
 
 "Even if it happens, we shan't see it, Susan 
 I shan't, I know," he said. "All the same, I be- 
 lieve the lad is going to get on in the town. I 
 hope so." 
 
 "And I do please God!" said Mrs. Allday 
 fervently. 
 
 They built castles for their hopes. 
 
 It was not a busy morning at the yard, and John 
 was able to leave before his usual time. He would 
 be too early for dinner at home, so he strolled 
 across into the Bullen on his way. The sun was 
 warm ; a keen fresh wind rolled the cloud tufts along 
 the sky ; it was good to be alive. 
 
 He met Mr. Pettigo in the Bullen, and stayed 
 for a while to chat. The old vicar had died early 
 in the New Year, and at first the town had declared 
 joyously that Mr. Pettigo would be installed in 
 the vicarage. The gossips had made jokes upon 
 his unfortunate love affair, though for the most 
 part the barbs of their wit were not directed at 
 him, and his momentary notoriety served to make 
 him more popular, since it took many to church 
 in curiosity who returned afterwards because they 
 liked the man. The local paper, in its article 
 upon the vicar's death, said of his curate, "The 
 bishop could not make a choice more pleasing." 
 But the bishop was not the one to bother himself 
 about such unimportant people as mere parishioners, 
 said the nameless popular voice; the bishop could 
 be trusted to put the right relation in the right 
 place. The new vicar, not yet arrived, happened
 
 THE EVE 259 
 
 to be the brother of the man who had married the 
 bishop's niece. He might be a good man, a suitable 
 man, deserving the higher call no doubt he was. 
 "Quite so !" said the gossips. It was a coincidence 
 that he happened to be the man who had married 
 the bishop's niece quite so! And from the Social 
 Club, where it was taken up as a password, the 
 exclamation "Quite so!" re-echoed through the 
 town, like a pantomime gag. Perhaps the bishop 
 heard a whisper of the outcry against him ; perhaps 
 another bishop did there was no lack of rumour. 
 Mr. Pettigo was offered an incumbency in a small 
 country town in Gloucestershire. Great prepara- 
 tions were going forward to give him a farewell, 
 so that he would never forget Pedley Hill. A 
 special committee was elected at the Social Club, 
 with John Allday as its chairman. 
 
 Elsie Benlow came up while they were talking, 
 and when at length the curate went to mount Castle 
 Street to the old church, Elsie and John stayed 
 chatting in the Bullen. John liked Elsie; she was 
 always good company, and with her he never had 
 any difficulty in making conversation. She looked 
 very pretty this morning in a light spring frock. 
 She had a big bunch of narcissi which she was 
 taking home, and John noticed particularly her 
 hands, in white kid gloves, fitting perfectly on a 
 Saturday morning, not kept for Sundays only, for 
 churchgoing. 
 
 "Has Mr. Pettigo been telling you?" she asked. 
 
 "What?" said John. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "I can see he hasn't, or you wouldn't say 
 that." 
 
 She would not tell, and she teased him when he 
 pleaded. John was stirred to greater effort; he 
 was sure he could get the secret out of her, and 
 he tried all he knew.
 
 2<5o LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "No, no I shan't I can't!" she said. "I'll give 
 you a flower instead, shall I?" 
 
 She had put it in his coat when he perceived 
 Maggie crossing the place. Little John was walking 
 at her side, holding her skirt, and she had the baby 
 in her arms, and her marketing basket too. John 
 was disconcerted. She must have passed quite close 
 to him, and he had not seen her; she would know 
 he had not seen her surely she would know. He 
 could not run away from Elsie Benlow now, and 
 follow Maggie to explain. 
 
 "Are you getting angry with me?" said Elsie 
 merrily. 
 
 "Yes savage," said John, catching at her words 
 to hide his agitation. 
 
 She laughed, and he had to laugh with her. 
 
 In a short while after he left her he had forgotten 
 his curiosity. His thoughts were for Maggie. An 
 inner voice reminded him that he had let her go 
 away alone, with her heavy basket, and the baby 
 on her arm, and the tiny boy dragging at her skirt. 
 He had not been able to go she would under- 
 stand, he reasoned; but the voice would not be 
 stilled. 
 
 He stayed indoors after dinner and mended the 
 door under the kitchen boiler, as he had promised 
 his mother; then, seeking to kill time, he did other 
 odd jobs about the house. They had tea early. 
 Afterwards he had to sit and talk to his father. 
 He had no spirit for conversation. 
 
 "You're right, mother," said his father, when he 
 had gone. "He's got something on his mind." 
 
 "I told you!" said Mrs. Allday, disquieted. 
 
 Their surmises made their evening conversation 
 until supper time. 
 
 John walked towards the Bullen. It was too 
 early for many members of the Social Club to have 
 arrived, but he would find somebody to talk to,
 
 THE EVE 261 
 
 something to do, he told himself. When he came 
 near, however, he felt disinclined for company. 
 He could not make up his mind what to do; and 
 while he suffered this hesitancy, some other force 
 than his seemed to take up his will and force him 
 to cross the place and mount the slope of Castle 
 Street beyond. 
 
 "I'll come to-morrow." 
 
 Last night he had said that to Maggie only last 
 night. What a long while ago! 
 
 "No, no you mustn't! I want time to think. 
 Promise me you won't!" 
 
 He had promised at last, reluctantly; and now 
 his promise stood before him to bar the way. 
 "I'm not obliged to call," he assured himself. "I 
 can go up and straight past I haven't promised 
 not to go past." And with the words came the 
 hope that Maggie might be outside, or little John 
 might be playing in the street ; it would be a chance 
 meeting then, and his promise would have been 
 kept; she would not be angry. If only he might 
 see her, all his uneasiness would go, all his doubt. 
 He knew he must decide soon what to do, and he 
 strove to summon his thoughts, but his resolve 
 flitted away before him like a little bird along a 
 hedgerow. 
 
 Several figures were moving in the Vicarage 
 garden. John saw the gleam of light frocks and 
 heard the laughter beyond the hedge. Higher on 
 the slope he met Mrs. Onions with her marketing 
 basket. 
 
 "Here again, Mr. Allday!" she said cheerfully. 
 
 John was disconcerted. He felt that she meant 
 well, no doubt, but her manner was too prying, and 
 she was too near guessing his secret. 
 
 "Yes," he told her, "I'm just going a stroll over 
 the hill and round. The view from the top's grand 
 a day like this."
 
 262 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 "You want your bicycle to get away out," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Onions. 
 
 He was annoyed at what he suspected was a hint 
 that she saw through his excuse. 
 
 "It's being repaired," he said. 
 
 He was angry with himself then, for he had told 
 an unnecessary lie. By reiteration he tried to 
 persuade himself that it was not a lie, that if the 
 machine was not actually being repaired it needed 
 it: the front wheel wobbled, and the spokes would 
 have to be tightened he had intended to do it him- 
 self to-day. 
 
 Once he looked round and saw that Mrs. Onions 
 had stopped to talk to a friend, and he inferred 
 that she had stopped in order to watch him. In 
 thought he called her an interfering busybody, 
 but the knowledge that her glance was following 
 drove him past Maggie's house and to the parapet 
 of the railway bridge before he halted. He recol- 
 lected his promise to Maggie, and indecision 
 troubled him. "I can call later, when the children 
 are in bed," he said, and he walked over the crest, 
 and down towards the open country to the east. 
 He might return home by another way, suggested 
 a new idea. He had promised Maggie that he would 
 not call to-day; perhaps it would be best to keep 
 that small promise there was a larger one to keep, 
 a much larger one. 
 
 He had not looked round, so he had not seen 
 Maggie and the children in the garden. Little 
 John saw him first, and told his mother excitedly 
 to look. He wanted to shout and to run after his 
 uncle; there was always such fine play when Uncle 
 John came; but his mother held his hand and kept 
 him at her side. She stood there long after John 
 had gone over the hill. The child lost interest; 
 Uncle John was not coming, and so might be for- 
 gotten for to-night. Maggie was about to go in-
 
 THE EVE 
 
 doors when she saw Elsie Benlow walk across the 
 bridge, pushing her bicycle, and then mount, and 
 glide below the summit. She took the children into 
 the house, and made ready for their going to bed. 
 They were awed by her silence, and didn't cry at all. 
 
 John chose the smaller lanes he wanted to be 
 alone; the irregular procession of cyclists disturbed 
 him on the high roads. At last he came to a spot 
 where he had often paused. The lane dipped 
 between high walls, and at the bottom there was a 
 gap, with a view upon a knoll, striped in black and 
 brown strongly against the low sun, and round the 
 knoll a long coppice swung in a curve of luscious 
 green beside a brook which came trickling under 
 the road. It was a sheltered little spot, and warm ; 
 no wind blew. The cloud tufts glided silently from 
 behind the knoll and over the trees. A throstle sang 
 at the edge of the wood; a tiny bird, a warbler, 
 probably, skulked quietly in the whitethorns by the 
 road. John felt an emotion which brought him 
 near to tears an emotion which he did not seek 
 to understand. The solitude seemed to hold his 
 thoughts, caressing them. This was happiness, 
 he declared. But a noisy picnic party in a 
 wagonette drove him on, and he knew that happi- 
 ness was not truly here. The world, busy this 
 Saturday evening in the market places, was only 
 unseen for a moment and that was not even the 
 real world; he could not escape by running away 
 from that. The real world was in his own heart. 
 And the plant of happiness was no rare plant, to 
 be sought earnestly and long in places where men 
 never trod; it grew, like the shepherd's purse, a 
 common, humble little flower, in every lane and 
 roadside, and thousands saw it every day and never 
 knew it was the plant of happiness. 
 
 While he was striving to shape the vague thoughts 
 which brought to him what were discoveries
 
 264 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 startlingly novel, he was roused by the tinkling of 
 a cycle bell. He turned, and saw Elsie Benlow. 
 
 "I was sure it was you," she said in triumph. 
 "I was at the Vicarage, and I saw you off on your 
 royal loneliness. I took the wrong turning twice, 
 and then my front tire went down only the valve 
 though, luckily. Then I guessed you would be 
 down some by-lane I remembered you telling me 
 about this. It is pretty, isn't it?" 
 
 She stopped abruptly. John saw that she was 
 blushing; then he wondered if she were only flushed 
 from her hurrying. 
 
 They walked on together. Elsie explained some 
 of the arrangements for the garden-party, Mr. 
 Pettigo's farewell, to be held at Ridgeway. "I 
 had to find you at once, you see, before the Club 
 finish their arrangements," she said. John agreed, 
 and then their talk drifted away pleasantly, leav- 
 ing all the garden-party plans stranded in the 
 shallows. 
 
 A turning brought them to a disused quarry. 
 The sun's low rays swept over the summit, so that 
 the stone face was in shadow, dark and scarred. 
 One side had slipped away, and the red sand to- 
 wards the base was held by grassroots and bind- 
 weed, and a bush of gorse, decked with gay yellow 
 points. Against the stone face at the bottom lay 
 a pool of black water, with sedges growing at the 
 brink. The machinery was gone long ago; only a 
 wire hawser had been left trailing, a toy for mis- 
 chievous boys. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely!" exclaimed Elsie. "When I 
 was a girl I used to think it wonderfully mysterious. 
 There used to be an old watchman he told us it 
 was haunted, to frighten us, I expect. I nearly 
 killed myself once, getting hips there you see the 
 bushes." 
 
 She walked through the gap in the broken wall,
 
 THE EVE 265 
 
 and mounted the path towards the summit of the 
 quarry. John left her bicycle, and followed her. 
 
 "It was just here," she explained, turning round 
 to wait for him. "I had a marvellous escape. Oh, 
 wasn't I frightened!" 
 
 She leaned forward, and looked over the edge. 
 John ran forward and clutched her hand to hold 
 her; and while she laughed, and they stood hand 
 in hand, a lark sprang up from the field, up and up, 
 singing, and then hovered, and sprang again, the 
 air throbbing with his melody. Down he came 
 again, singing ever, then suddenly dropped among 
 the grass to silence. John had not been conscious 
 of Elsie's hand in his; but when she drew it away 
 he felt that the warmth of her touch had inflamed 
 his inner self. 
 
 It was dusk when they reached the town and 
 came into the Bullen. There in the traffic they 
 found talk again after the long silences which had 
 told so much. John had to raise his hat several 
 times to people whom they knew once, awkwardly, 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Onions. 
 
 "Hasn't it been lovely?" said Elsie. 
 
 "Yes, I've enjoyed it immensely," said John. 
 
 "I'm so glad. Won't you come in?" 
 
 "Well mother and father are expecting me 
 early. I ought to call at the Social Club, really. 
 The committee, you know " 
 
 He felt a hand heavy on his shoulder, and he 
 perceived Mr. Benlow. 
 
 "You can spare half an hour," said Mr. Benlow. 
 "A bite o' supper come along, , . ."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 SUNDAY 
 
 "TT isn't out of the quantity of good things 
 that happiness rises it's out of our own ap- 
 preciation of them." 
 
 John recollected his having said that to Mrs. 
 Onions, when he had been walking in the garden 
 at Maggie's. Now, on Sunday morning, he re- 
 peated it many times.. That only was clear in the 
 medley of his thoughts that, and the resolve to 
 go to Maggie to-day. He tried to reason that he 
 should be perfectly happy, that both his happiness 
 and his duty lay before him together; he had only 
 to take Maggie by the hand. Many similes occurred 
 to his fancy. Hand in hand they would go, like 
 happy children, into a future which should be like 
 a wide sunlit avenue before them. He was sure 
 he had found his real self at last, he was so calmly 
 master of his thoughts. But why did Maggie 
 refuse? At least, why did she delay? She loved 
 him he saw that she had loved him always, and 
 he thrilled again at the memory of her confession, 
 so gently said, with whispering and tears of joy. 
 Yet she was not his not yet. Why was she afraid ? 
 Was she afraid of herself? No, surely! Did she 
 not love him? She could not doubt that. Of 
 him? Then in pain his thoughts fell away in a 
 vague tumult of apprehension. He was afraid 
 
 266
 
 SUNDAY 267 
 
 before the questions which came clamouring to be 
 answered; while out of his disquietude the resolve 
 pushed its way again he must go to Maggie. 
 There would be nothing to fear while he was 
 at her side; that was his place now. His inner 
 tumult would be stilled. She could not doubt 
 him then. 
 
 After breakfast he went into the garden, and 
 walked to and fro. It was going to be a warm day. 
 The sky was intensely blue, with tiny puffs of cloud 
 vapour rolling, very high. The grass was long on 
 the railway bank, decked with countless dandelions 
 and the first heads of the cow-parsnip flowering. 
 Green shoots stood in rows in the garden beds, and 
 at every waft of breeze the paper bunches danced 
 on their strings to frighten the timid sparrows, if 
 by chance there were any timid ones. 
 
 Gradually John found his stroll growing to a 
 sharp march, like a sailor's promenade. The little 
 garden was too small ; he wanted more air and more 
 space; so he walked round to the front of the 
 houses. The postman was approaching; he was 
 late on Sunday mornings. As he approached, 
 John was attacked by the curiosity which comes 
 to every one at the sight of the postman on 
 delivery. 
 
 "Mr. John Allday," said the postman jovially, 
 holding out a letter. "A lady's writing, Mr. All- 
 day." He was an old man, postman many years, 
 and privileged. 
 
 John saw Maggie's handwriting on the envelope, 
 and his body suffered in the grip of his emotion. 
 He put the letter slowly in his pocket, fighting 
 against the impulse to hurry, to run to some place 
 where he might read in secret. Hatless, he strolled 
 away from the houses and under the railway bridge. 
 Then he looked round furtively, to make sure he 
 was unobserved.
 
 268 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 DEAR JOHN : 
 
 I shall have gone away when you get this to- 
 morrow morning for the week-end or a few days 
 longer, perhaps the little change will do the children 
 good. John dear, why should I spoil your future. 
 I can't dear, all your future is so bright and I want 
 you to rise high I am sure you will. I should be a 
 drag on you. Besides you have your mother to 
 think of she must see you succeed. You must not 
 disappoint her you will not disappoint me, I know. 
 My life was chosen five years ago, and now I have 
 only got the children to live for and your success. 
 Please don't try to make me change don't make 
 it hard for me. 
 
 I saw you yesterday with Elsie Benlow. She is 
 very fond of you, John, I know. I have known it 
 a long time. 
 
 What can I write more, you know all I would 
 say. I shall start in business I think at once. I 
 am going to see about it the next few days. 
 
 Forgive me please I want you to be happy. God 
 bless you, dear, good-bye. 
 
 MAGGIE. 
 
 The writing was irregular and broken, penned 
 evidently under the stress of great emotion, labour- 
 ing for expression in an unaccustomed medium. 
 John suffered first astonishment, then dread: in- 
 dignation came, and fierce desire, and lastly trie 
 emptiness of grief; his inner self collapsed, and he 
 was weak in body, as though after an illness. A 
 thrush called boldly in an apple tree beyond the 
 hedge; the path was dappled with the fallen 
 blossom. John heard only Maggie's voice, echoed 
 within himself; his eyes were blurred with tears. 
 
 A milk-float rattled towards the town, rousing 
 him. When it had passed he read the letter again,
 
 SUNDAY 269 
 
 then put it in his pocket and walked slowly back 
 under the bridge. Where had Maggie gone ? There 
 was only one early train on Sunday mornings, 
 one in each direction; but there were two stations 
 that made four trains. They had gone now; 
 it was too late to see her at the station. One 
 train had passed while he stood at the back door 
 after breakfast. Perhaps she had been in that, 
 and had seen him as she passed. Sam had a cousin 
 married at Clenver, a favourite spot for trippers 
 from Selbridge, especially on early-closing days and 
 Saturdays. It was on the ridge of the hills 
 a popular cycling rendezvous. Maggie used to go 
 there sometimes with Sam, whose cousin kept a 
 small boarding-house and restaurant, and did 
 prosperously through the summer with teas in 
 the garden, and picnic parties. There were not 
 many places where Maggie could go to-day. She 
 had not half a dozen friends, and she could not go 
 to them without warning. She could not be far 
 away. It was to Clenver she had gone, surely. He 
 might go over on his bicycle; there would be time 
 even after dinner. But she might not be there 
 and she would not let him see her alone. "If I was 
 only sure!" he said an an agony of indecision. 
 Perhaps Maggie intended to start in business 
 similar to Sam's cousin at Clenver. She had 
 thought of it, he knew. Once he started quickly 
 towards the house; then after a few paces his 
 speed fell away, and he stood hesitating. What 
 would his mother say at his sudden rushing off 
 on his bicycle? He would have to overhaul it first, 
 and she would ask interminable questions. He 
 dared not confess the truth at once. She believed 
 that he was going to church this morning; he had 
 told her so, and he had promised the Benlows. 
 That would not matter, he declared, if Maggie was 
 at Clenver, if he might be sure of seeing her. And
 
 270 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 then he discovered the reluctance in his heart, and 
 he was shamed. Maggie had Seen deeper there 
 than he had. She had thought of his mother and 
 of her hopes, and of all the promise of his future. 
 Would his pleading change her, or add only to her 
 grief? At the thought of her suffering, and of 
 her loneliness, he was awed, and for a moment his 
 thoughts were hushed. 
 
 He stopped by the terrace to talk to a neighbour 
 before he faced his mother indoors. 
 
 "I couldn't think where you had gone," she said. 
 "You'll have to be quick if you're going to the 
 mission. You are going, aren't you? Didn't you 
 say you promised Mr. Benlow." 
 
 "Yes," he told her. "I'll get ready now." 
 
 He strove to recollect the words, to justify him- 
 self in his having said he had promised to go. 
 
 "We shall see you at Nickling to-morrow morn- 
 ing, I suppose? It'll be Pettigo's last sermon 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Benlow's words. 
 
 "Oh, you must!" said Elsie and then he had 
 consented. The words were forgotten, but he was 
 sure he had promised, and they would expect him 
 to be there. 
 
 He set out as soon as he was ready ; it was better 
 to be in the open air, in movement, than brooding 
 indoors. When his mother had spoken of church 
 he had not looked at the time, and he had hurried 
 unnecessarily. Now he saw that he would arrive 
 too soon unless he walked very slowly, and he felt 
 that his agitation would not permit him to walk 
 slowly; so he mounted the road along the ridge 
 a lane branching beyond the coppices would bring 
 him down to Nickling. 
 
 When he had crossed above the railway he stood 
 a moment to glance down at the Bristol Road. A 
 black figure moved in the drive before the Kings-
 
 SUNDAY 271 
 
 norton's house, Ridgeway. In a moment it reap- 
 peared below, and came out on the road, not a 
 single figure, but two, close together. Two others 
 followed Mr. and Mrs. Kingsnorton, guessed 
 John. He fancied he recognized Marian Kings- 
 norton. Her companion was the curate he was 
 sure of that. They were walking arm in arm. It 
 could not be Marian. Then who was it? Barbara? 
 In sudden pain he told himself that it could not be 
 Barbara. The suggestion was absurd and impos- 
 sible. It must be Marian; he recognized her per- 
 fectly yet he was not sure, despite his asseveration. 
 Was this why the farewell garden party was 
 to be held at the Kingsnortons' ? John grew 
 hot and uncomfortable as he hurried. He wished 
 he had not come this way, and it was too late to 
 turn back. 
 
 As he came do> n by the lane to Nickling he saw 
 the Benlows on the high road, and he walked more 
 slowly, gauging his speed so that he would meet 
 them. Mrs. Benlow had not come she never 
 walked this far now. Mr. Benlow was with Elsie, 
 and behind them walked Willie, and his fiancee, 
 who was staying with them for the week-end. 
 
 "You're an energetic young man," said Mr. Ben- 
 low, when they met. "It was all I could do to 
 get these folks out." 
 
 "Oh, father !" exclaimed Elsie. "It was as much 
 as we could do to get you out." 
 
 John smiled. Their company seemed to bring 
 him the anodyne he craved. 
 
 "I'm disappointed, Mr. Allday," said Elsie, 
 when they had walked a little way. "You haven't 
 asked me anything just when I was waiting to 
 tell you. Have you heard, or have you lost all your 
 curiosity?" 
 
 John was puzzled. 
 
 "Oh," he said, with sudden recollection "Mr.
 
 272 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 Pettigo's secret isn't it? I saw him this morning 
 with the Kingsnortons. It isn't er " 
 
 "That isn't fair," said Elsie, while he was 
 struggling. "You should have waited to be told. 
 Yes he's engaged to Marian, and I'll tell you a 
 real secret: she was in love with him all the time, 
 right from the first." 
 
 She did not perceive how he was affected. 
 
 "Are you sure?" said he. 
 
 "Of course! I've got eyes, haven't I?" 
 
 "But she hasn't told you the moral," interrupted 
 her brother: "never boast when you think you've 
 caught a woman's eye say your prayers instead." 
 
 "Willie !" exclaimed his fiancee. 
 
 "They say already, some of 'em, that Pettigo 
 couldn't have the one, so he's taking the other," 
 said Mr. Benlow. "That's a nasty insinuation 
 trust your gossips to find that sort. Marian will 
 make him a far better wife than ever her sister 
 could have done; she's got more sympathy, more 
 talent, and she's genuinely fond of him. She's 
 older well, you can't have everything in this 
 world you can't turn your dreams into realities, 
 although so many of us try. By the time you come 
 to my age, you young folks, you'll see that life is 
 one long compromise between the ideals you order 
 and the realities that Fate offers you over the 
 counter." 
 
 "That's it, father !" said Willie. "Glorious youth, 
 ready to battle for a smile. In age it takes a pickled 
 onion to do it." 
 
 John enjoyed the talk it drove away his 
 thoughts. 
 
 There was a big congregation this morning to 
 hear Mr. Pettigo for the last time at the mission. 
 John sat with the Benlows, and they walked back 
 together after the service. 
 
 "No mistake, it's a lovely day," said Mr. Benlow.
 
 SUNDAY 273 
 
 He stopped, took off his hat, and mopped his brow. 
 "It's a day for a good dinner and a cigar, and then 
 forty winks in a comfortable chair, with your feet 
 up, outside in the shade and that's what I'm going 
 to have." 
 
 "But, father, you said you were going to take 
 us out a drive," said Elsie. 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 "We'll go without him," said Willie. 
 
 "Ask John here," suggested his father. "He 
 wouldn't see me robbed of honest sleep would you, 
 John?" 
 
 "That's right, John, my boy," said Willie affably. 
 "We'll leave the old folks to their indigestion and 
 their cup of strong tea at four o'clock." 
 
 John accepted the invitation gladly. Fate, he be- 
 lieved, was keeping him from the loneliness he 
 dreaded. To-day at least he would not be left 
 alone with thought; here was fortune holding out 
 her hands, full of active joys. When he thought 
 of Maggie, it was to wonder why she had written 
 of Elsie Benlow. Perhaps it was true that Elsie 
 liked him she did like him yes. Was there 
 more than friendship in her thoughts? Did 
 Maggie see deeper than he in this thing also? 
 He had always been fond of Elsie; she was so 
 unaffected, so good-natured. Mr. Benlow, pros- 
 perous now, had started as low as he, and 
 had risen no more rapidly. He had never wor- 
 shipped Elsie, as he had worshipped the Barbara 
 Kingsnorton who had never really lived. Elsie 
 was too jolly, too splendid a companion, to be 
 worshipped she was a splendid comrade and 
 what, after all, did a man crave a comrade, and 
 more than a comrade, but essentially a comrade. 
 He was startled by the new swiftness of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Near the Toll they met John's father out for his
 
 274 LITTLE HOUSES 
 
 morning promenade, and they stayed for a while 
 to talk* before parting. 
 
 Mr. Allday entered the house in front of John. 
 
 "Your son, Mrs. Allday he's got something on 
 his mind," he announced solemnly. 
 
 "I know he has," said Mrs. Allday. "I don't 
 like it." 
 
 John was startled by her tone. 
 
 "He's going out a drive, breaking the Sabbath, 
 Mrs. Allday, with a young woman named Benlow, 
 and " 
 
 "Go on with you, giving me such a start!" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Allday. "I hope he never does any- 
 thing worse." 
 
 "He won't hurt if he never does anything better." 
 
 They were merry over dinner. Afterwards they 
 waited to see the dogcart arrive before they pre- 
 pared for their usual nap. 
 
 Elsie was driving. Willie and his fiancee sat at 
 the back. 
 
 "Jump up, Mr. Allday!" she called out merrily. 
 "Willie says I'm the worst lady whip within fifty 
 miles, so I can promise you excitement, if not enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 "Just what I want," said John. 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "Both." 
 
 His father and mother stood at the front window 
 till the dogcart had gone out of sight. 
 
 "There goes your son, Mrs. Allday," said John's 
 father. "You won't see him back again as he's 
 gone." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said, alarmed. 
 
 "He'll come back engaged, or as near it as makes 
 no matter you see if he don't." 
 
 "Why can't you say what you mean straight out, 
 and not go startling anybody?" 
 
 Mr. Allday slipped his arm in her's.
 
 SUNDAY 275 
 
 "Come along, Susan, old girl," he said gently. 
 "Half an hour's doze. Your lad's in good hands. 
 Why, in three or four years' time you won't get 
 the chance to sleep on a Sunday afternoon: it'll 
 be 'Grandma can I play with this? Grand- 
 ma!" 
 
 "Go along, you wretch !" she exclaimed laughing. 
 
 "You're blushing ! You are I You are !" he cried 
 triumphantly. "Why, old girl, you're good- 
 looking still! If you don't go off upstairs at once 
 I shan't sleep in my chair for thinking how nice 
 you are." 
 
 He led her gaily into the sitting-room. 
 
 "It is nice to think of him doing well, isn't it?" 
 
 "It is, Susan." 
 
 He kissed her gently before she went upstairs. 
 Then he put the cushion right in his arm-chair, 
 arrange the hassock for his feet, folded his arms, 
 and settled down for his wheezy sleep till tea-time. 
 
 THE END
 
 V FACILITY 
 
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