Human Odds and Ends 
 
 
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 GEORGE GISSING 

 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSiT f CALIFORNIA 
 
 RtVLRSIDE
 
 HUMAN ODDS AND ENDS
 
 By tin same Author 
 
 THE WHIRLPOOL 
 
 THE UN-CLASSED 
 
 THE EMANCIPATED 
 
 DENZIL QUAKRIER 
 
 THE ODD WOMEN 
 
 IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE 
 
 EVE'S RANSOM
 
 HUMAN ODDS AND ENDS 
 
 STORIES AND SKETCHES 
 
 ,b* 
 
 rt 
 
 GEORGE r GISSING 
 
 itf 
 
 LONDON 
 LAWRENCE AND BULLEN, Ltd. 
 
 16 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN 
 1898 

 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 • • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Comrades in Arms i 
 
 The Justice and the Vagabond 20 
 
 The Firebrand 38 
 
 An Inspiration 56 
 
 The Poet's Portmanteau 74 
 
 The Day of Silence 92 
 
 In Honour Bound in 
 
 The Prize Lodger 133 
 
 Our Mr. Jupp 155 
 
 The Medicine Man 176 
 
 Raw Material 183 
 
 Two Collectors 191 
 
 An Old Maid's Triumph 197 
 
 The Invincible Curate 203 
 
 The Tout of Yarmouth Bridge 210 
 
 A Well-meaning Man 218 
 
 A Song of Sixpence 225
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 A PROl II U'l E W 1 ' !-M 23 l 
 
 111! 238 
 
 will' 244 
 
 A Pa] l 1 i. lings 251 
 
 M 11 1 1> 257 
 
 Tui Littli Woman from Lancashire . . . 263 
 
 In No-M/ wd 270 
 
 Ai High Pri ssure 277 
 
 ION 284 
 
 a Free Woman 290 
 
 "i 1111. Sou 296 
 
 OUl I '1 IHK FASH!) 'N 303
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 LUNCHEON hour was past, and the tide of guests had 
 begun to ebb. From his cushioned corner, his 
 familiar scat in the restaurant, Wilfrid Langley kept 
 an observant eye upon chatting groups and silent 
 solitaries who still lingered at the tables near him. 
 In this quiet half-hour, whilst smoking a cigarette and 
 enjoying his modest claret, he caught the flitting sug- 
 gestion of many a story, sketch, gossipy, paper. A 
 woman's laugh, a man's surly visage, couples oddly 
 assorted, scraps of dialogue heard amid the confused 
 noises — everywhere the elements of drama, to be 
 fused and minted in his brain. Success had multi- 
 plied his powers a hundredfold ; success and the 
 comforts that came with it — savoury meats, wine, 
 companionship. No one was dependent upon him ; 
 no one restrained his liberty ; he lived where he 
 chose, and how he chose. And for all that — his age 
 fell short of thirty — something seemed to him amiss 
 in the bounty of the gods. 
 
 A figure was moving in his direction ; he looked 
 up from a moment's reverie, to see a woman seat 
 
 B
 
 I I IMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 herself at the opposite side of his table. A laugh of 
 rnition ; a clasp of hands. 
 •Thought 1 might find you here,' said Miss 
 Childerstone, She turned to the waiter. ' Roast 
 mutt< >n — p< >tat< >cs— bread. And— soda-water.' 
 
 • Si da ! ' Langley exclaimed in surprise. ' That's 
 where you women make a mistake. You need a 
 .stimulant." 
 
 ' Thanks, old man ; I am better acquainted 
 with my needs than you are. Here's something for 
 
 you.' 
 
 She threw an evening paper at him saying, ' Page 
 seven.' Langley opened it, and his eyes sparkled 
 with pleasure. A notice of his new book ; three- 
 quarters of a column ; high laudation, as he saw 
 immediately. 
 
 • Yours ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Take it without questions, and be thankful 
 u're not slated.' 
 
 ' It is yours. Don't I know the fine Roman 
 hand ? Irony in the first sentence.' He read in 
 silence for a few minutes, then gave his companion a 
 
 k of warm gratitude. ' You're a good sort' 
 
 Miss Childerstone was drinking deep of her soda- 
 water. Neither plain nor pretty, she had noticeable 
 features, a keen good-humoured eye, an air of self- 
 possession and alertness. She dressed well, with a 
 view to the fitness of things. Her years were in the 
 
 ath decade.
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 3 
 
 She began to eat, but, it seemed, with little appe- 
 tite. 
 
 ' I've had a headache since yesterday. I should 
 like to go to bed and lie there for a week. But 
 there's my stuff for Tomlinson. Don't feel like it, I 
 tell you.' 
 
 ' I see now that you look out of sorts. Yes, you 
 look bad. I tell you what — couldn't I scrawl some- 
 thing that would do for Tomlinson ? ' 
 
 She looked at him, and smiled. 
 
 ' I dare say you could. Any rubbish you want to 
 shoot somewhere. The truth is, I don't think I'm 
 equal to it. — No, I can't cat. Thump ! thump ! on 
 the back of the head.' 
 
 They discussed the literary business in question, 
 and Langley undertook to supply the article due 
 from his friend to a weekly paper. It must be posted 
 to-night. Miss Childerstone, abandoning the scarcely 
 touched food, rested her head upon her hands for a 
 few moments. 
 
 ' I've done something I'm proud of,' she said at 
 length, ' and I may as well have the satisfaction of 
 telling you. My sister has just gone off to Natal, to 
 be married there. I provided her outfit, paid her 
 passage, and gave her fifty pounds. All off my own 
 bat, old boy ! Not bad, is it ? ' 
 
 'Your sister? Why, you never told me she was 
 
 going to be married.' 
 
 ' No. It wasn't quite certain — all along. Two 
 
 b 2
 
 4 I < >MRADES IN ARMS 
 
 she engaged herself to a man who was 
 going out yonder— a man of no means, and not quite 
 Up to her mark, I thought. (I must eat something ; 
 I'll try the potatoes.) A very decent sort of fellow — 
 handsome, honest. Well, she's been in doubt, off and 
 on. (Are these potatoes bad? Or is it my taste 
 that's out of order ?) She stuck to her teaching, poor 
 girl, and had a pretty dull time of it. In the end, I 
 made up my mind that she'd better go and get 
 married. There couldn't be any doubt about the 
 man's making her a good husband ; I read his 
 letters, and liked them. Good, plodding, soft-hearted 
 sort of creature ; not at all a bad husband for Cissy. 
 i than the beastly teaching, anyway. So she's 
 
 iL'.' 
 
 1 That's a disappointment to me,' said Langley. 
 ' I hoped to meet her some day. And you promised 
 1 should.' 
 
 ' Yes —but I altered my mind.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? You didn't wish me to 
 
 I her ? ' 
 
 ' The probability was you'd have unsettled her. 
 She never knew a man of your sort. She might have 
 fallen in ovc with you.' 
 
 Mi-- Childerstone spoke in a matter-of-fact voice ; 
 her smile could not have been less ambiguous. 
 ,. gazing at her with surprise, exclaimed at 
 th : 
 
 'Well ? And why not ?
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 5 
 
 1 Why not ? Oh, my dear boy, I would do a good 
 deal for you, but I couldn't indulge your vanity in 
 that direction. I'm fond of my little sister.' 
 
 ' Of course you are. And why shouldn't / have 
 been ? Describe her to me.' 
 
 ' Fair - - pretty - five-and-twenty. An old- 
 fashioned girl, with all sorts of beliefs that would 
 exasperate you. The gentlest creature ! Vastly too 
 patient, too good. Will make an ideal housewife and 
 mother.' 
 
 Langlcy smote the table with his fist. 
 
 ' But you're describing the very girl I want to 
 find, and can't ! How absurdly you have behaved ! 
 And she's gone to the end of the earth to 
 marry a man she doesn't care about — this is too 
 ridiculous ! Why, I want to marry, and the difficulty 
 is to find such a girl as this. I shall never forgive 
 you.' 
 
 His companion looked searchingly at him, with 
 mocking lips. 
 
 ' Bosh ! ' she replied. 
 
 ' It isn't ! I'm desperately serious.' 
 
 1 In any case, I wouldn't have let her marry you. 
 You've been too frank with me. I know you too 
 well. Of course, I like you, because you're likeable 
 — as a comrade-in-arms. We've fought the battle 
 together, and done each other a good turn now and 
 then. But you're very young, you know. You have 
 money in your pocket for the first time, and — by-the-
 
 6 MRADES IN ARMS 
 
 bye, I heard about that supper at Romano's. How 
 
 much did it cost you ?' 
 
 'Oh, ten or fifteen pounds— I've forgotten.' 
 He said it with a touch of bravado, his smile 
 lying pleasure that the exploit had become 
 .vn. 
 
 • Precisely. And your Dulcinca of the footlights 
 — Totty, Lotty — what's her name ? — was there. My 
 
 boy, you mustn't marry for another ten years. 
 It would spoil you. You're only just beginning to 
 look round the world. Go ahead; enjoy yourself; 
 see things ; but don't think of marrying.' 
 
 ' I think of it perpetually.' 
 
 The other moved an impatient hand. 
 
 ' I can't talk. My head is terrible. I must go 
 home.' 
 
 ' You've been working yourself to death to provide 
 for your sister. And very likely made her miserable, 
 after all.' 
 
 'Mind your own business. Where's the waiter ? 
 Call him, will you? I'm turning blind and deaf, and 
 I don't know what.' 
 
 • I -hall take you home,' said Langley, rising. 
 ■ You can put me into a cab, if you like.' 
 
 She looked very ill, and Langley kept glancing at 
 
 her with uneasiness as they went together from the 
 
 lurant His resolve to see her safely home was 
 
 opposed. In the hansom they exchanged few 
 
 but I. anglcy repeated his promise to do the
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 7 
 
 bit of literary work for her editor. ' To-morrow 
 morning,' he added, ' I shall come and ask how you 
 are. Send for a doctor if you're no better by night.' 
 
 His own rooms were in the same district, that of 
 Regent's Park, and after leaving Miss Childerstone 
 he went off to perform the task he had undertaken — 
 no difficult matter. Though it was holiday time with 
 him just now, he spent the whole evening in soli- 
 tude, more discontented than usual. The post 
 brought him news that the first edition of his book 
 was sold out. Satisfactory, but it gave him no 
 particular delight. He had grown used to think of 
 himself as one of the young men whom the public run 
 after, and his rooted contempt for the public made 
 him suspicious of his own merits. Was he not be- 
 coming vulgarised, even personally ? That supper 
 the other night, in honour of the third-rate actress, 
 when every one got more or less drunk — pah ! These 
 dreary lodgings, which no expenditure could make 
 homelike. A home — that was what he wanted. 
 Confound Miss Childerstone ! That sister of hers, 
 now steaming away to Natal 
 
 At twelve o'clock next day he called on his friend, 
 and was asked to wait in her sitting-room. He had 
 been here only once or twice ; to-day the room 
 seemed more uncomfortable than on former occasions, 
 and Langley wondered how a woman could live 
 amid such surroundings. But was Miss Childerstone 
 to be judged as a woman ? For seven or eight years
 
 8 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 she had battled in the world of journalism, and with 
 a kind of success which seemed to argue manlike 
 qualities. Since he had known her, these last three 
 years, she seemed to have been growing less feminine. 
 At first he had thought of her with the special 
 interest which arises from difference of sex ; now he 
 rarely, if ever, did so. I Ic liked her, admired her, and 
 could imagine her, in more natural circumstances, a 
 charming woman. If, as was probable, her sister 
 resembled her in all the good points 
 
 She came in, and her appearance startled him. 
 She wore a dressing-gown ; her hair was tossed into 
 some sort of order ; illness unmistakable blanched 
 her face. Without offering to shake hands, she 
 tumbled on to the nearest chair. 
 
 'Why on earth did you get up?' Langlcy ex- 
 claimed. ' Have you seen a doctor? ' 
 
 ' No ; but I think you shall go and fetch some one,' 
 she answered, hoarsely and faintly. ' Did you send 
 the stuff to Tomlinson ? ' 
 
 4 Oh yes, and forged your signature. Go back to 
 bed ; I'll ' 
 
 ' Wait a minute. I want to ask you— I haven't 
 an)' money ' 
 
 The change from her wonted vigour of speech 
 and bearing was very painful to the young man. 
 
 »ney? Why, his purse was hers. In his pocket 
 he had only a few sovereigns, but he would go to the 
 bank straightway.
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 9 
 
 ' Three or four pounds will do,' she replied. ' I 
 don't know any one else I care to ask. Borrowing 
 isn't in my line, you know. I could sell or pawn 
 some things — but I haven't the strength to get 
 about' 
 
 Langlcy stepped towards her and put coins into 
 her hand. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' he asked, gravely. ' A fever of 
 some kind ? ' 
 
 ' I'm not feverish — at least I don't think so. 
 Fearful head. Look chalk}/, don't I ? ' 
 
 ' You do. Go back to bed at once, and leave 
 things to me.' 
 
 ' You're a good fellow, Wilfrid.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' 
 
 ' I feel so wretchedly weak — and I hate to feel 
 weak — I ' 
 
 She suddenly turned her head away ; and Langley 
 was horrified to hear her sob. He moved for a 
 moment about the room, as if in search of some- 
 thing ; but it only served to hide his embarrassment. 
 Then Miss Childerstone stood up, and went quickly 
 away. 
 
 In half an hour's time the necessary assistance 
 had been procured. Nervous collapse, said the man 
 of medicine ; overwork, and so on. Langley, finding 
 that no one in the house could act as bedside 
 attendant, obtained the services of a nurse. He did 
 not see his friend again, but had a message from her
 
 10 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 that she was ' all right ; ' he might call the next day, 
 if he liked. 
 
 He paid the call as early as ten o'clock, and had 
 a talk with the nurse, who could give but an in- 
 different report. 
 
 ' If I write a few lines for her, can she read 
 them ? ' he asked. 
 
 Yes, she could read a letter. So Langley sat 
 down at the table, and tried to find something to say. 
 To his surprise, he wrote with the utmost difficulty ; 
 words would not come. 'Dear Miss Childerstone, — 
 
 I feel sure that a little rest and nursing will soon .' 
 
 Oh, that was insufferably childish. He bit his pen, 
 and stared at the books before him : novels and plays, 
 heaped newspapers, a volume or two of an encyclo- 
 paedia, annuals, and dictionaries. She had no instinct 
 of order ; she lived from day to day, from hand to 
 mouth. Her education must be very defective. On 
 the moral side, no doubt, she was sound enough, but 
 a woman should have domestic virtues. 
 
 What was he doing ? Abusing his friend just 
 when she lay helpless, and this defeat of her splendid 
 strength the result of toil on a sister's behalf! He 
 tore the sheet of paper and began anew. ' Dear 
 Bertha '— why not ? she now and then called him 
 1 Wilfrid '—'don't trouble your head about anything. 
 I have nothing to do, and to look after you will give 
 me pleasure. Is there anyone you would like to 
 i ommunicate with ? Consider me absolutely at your
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS u 
 
 service — time, money, anything. I will call morning 
 and evening. Cheer up, dear old chum ! You must 
 go away as soon as possible ; I'll get lodgings for 
 you.' 
 
 And so on, over another page, in the hearty 
 comrade tone which they always used to each other. 
 The nurse, summoned by a light tap, handed this 
 note to her patient, and in a few minutes she brought 
 back a scrap of paper, on which was feebly scrawled 
 in pencil, ' Good old boy. All right.' 
 
 It was the last he saw of Bertha Childerstone's 
 handwriting for more than a month. Daily he called 
 twice. What the nurse, doctor, and landlady thought 
 of his relations with the invalid he would not trouble 
 to conjecture. He met all current expenses, which 
 amounted to not very much. And the result of it 
 was that the sick woman became an almost exclusive 
 subject of his thoughts ; his longing to speak again 
 with her grew intense. 
 
 One day in July, as he stepped as usual into the 
 parlour, thinking to wait there for the nurse, his eye 
 fell upon a figure sitting in the sunlight. A pale, 
 thin face, which he scarcely recognised, greeted him 
 with a smile, and a meagre hand was held out to 
 him. 
 
 ' Up ? Oh, that's brave ! ' 
 
 He hurried forward and clasped her hand tightly. 
 They gazed at each other. Langley felt a thrill in 
 his blood, a dimness about his eyes, and before he
 
 [2 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 knew what he was doing he had given and received 
 a kiss. 
 
 'No harm,' said Miss Childcrstone, laughing 
 with a look of confusion. ' Horn soit qui mal y 
 pense ! ' 
 
 Hut the young man could not recover himself. 
 He was kneeling by the chair in which she reclined, 
 and still kept her hand, whilst he quivered as if with 
 fever. 
 
 ' I'm so glad — I wanted so to see you — Bertha ' 
 
 ' Hush ! Don't be sentimental, old man. It's all 
 right.' 
 
 He pressed her hand to his lips. She abandoned 
 it for a moment, then firmly drew it back. 
 
 ' Tell me all the news.' 
 
 ' I know of nothing, except that I ' 
 
 He had lost his head. Bertha seemed to him 
 now not only a woman, but beautiful and sweet and 
 an object of passionate desire. He touched her hair, 
 and stammered incohercncics. 
 
 ' Wilfrid ' — she spoke in the old blunt way — 
 ' don't make a fool of yourself. Go a yard or two 
 away, there's a good boy. If not, I hobble back into 
 the other room. Remember that I can't stand 
 excitement.' 
 
 Eyes averted, he moved away from her. 
 
 ' I had a letter from Cissy this morning ' 
 
 ' 1 don't want to hear of it,' he interrupted 
 pettishly. ' She was the cause of your illness.'
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 13 
 
 Miss Childerstone pursued in the same tone. 
 
 ' Posted at Cape Town. Very cheerful. She 
 
 was enjoying the voyage, and looking forward to its 
 end in a reasonable and happy way. We did the 
 right thing. There's a letter, too, from the expectant 
 lover ; a good letter ; you may see it if you like.' 
 
 Common-sense came at length to Wilfrid's sup- 
 port. He sat down, crossed his legs, and talked, but 
 without looking at his companion. 
 
 ' I owe you a lot of money,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' Rubbish ! When can you go away ? And what 
 place would you prefer ? ' 
 
 ' I shall go next week to the seaside. Anywhere 
 near. Some place where there are lots of people. 
 I was dead, and am alive again ; I want to feel the 
 world buzzing round.' 
 
 ' Very well. Choose a place, and I'll go after 
 rooms for you.' 
 
 ' No, no. I can do all that by letter. By-the- 
 bye, I've been hearing from Tomlinson. He's a 
 better sort of fellow than I supposed. What do you 
 think? He sent me a cheque for five-and-twenty 
 pounds — on account, he says.' 
 
 Langley kept his head down, and muttered some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' I suppose somebody or other has been pitching 
 him a doleful story about me. It took a long time 
 before people missed me ; now they're beginning 
 to write and call.'
 
 i 4 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 • Yes —you have a great many friends ' 
 
 ' Heaps of them ! Now, goosey, don't hang your 
 head. The fact of the matter is, we oughtn't to have 
 met just yet. There's an artificial atmosphere about 
 an invalid. You're not to come again till I send for 
 you — you hear that? ' 
 
 ' As you please,' answered Langley, shamefaced, 
 but no longer petulant. And he stayed only a few 
 minutes after this. At parting, their eyes did not 
 meet. 
 
 That night he wrote a letter, the inevitable letter, 
 page upon page, strictly according to precedent. 
 When two days had brought no answer, he wrote 
 again, and this time elicited a short scrawl. 
 
 ' Goosey, goosey gander ! I don't like the style of 
 these compositions ; it isn't up to your later mark. 
 Go and see Totty — Lotty — what's her name ? I 
 mean it ; you want the tonic of such society. And 
 pray, what work are you doing ? Come to-morrow at 
 three and tell me.' 
 
 He would have liked to refuse the invitation, but 
 had fallen into so limp a state that there was no 
 choice save to go and be tortured. Miss Childerstone 
 looked better. 
 
 ' I pick up very quickly,' she said. ' In the early 
 days, before I knew you, I had a worse floorer than 
 this, and astonished everyone by the way I came 
 round. Well, what are you doing?' 
 
 ' Nothing much,' the young man replied carelessly.
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 15 
 
 She pondered a little, then laughed. 
 
 ' Now isn't it an odd thing, how far we were from 
 knowing each other ? I misunderstood you ; I did 
 indeed ; as it goes without saying that you quite mis- 
 understood me. I didn't think you could have written 
 those letters.' 
 
 1 I'm not ashamed of them.' 
 
 A certain quiet manliness in the words had its 
 effect upon Miss Childerstone. She smiled, and 
 regarded him kindly. 
 
 ' Nor need you be, my dear boy. For my part, 
 I'm considerably proud of them ; I shall store them 
 up and read them in years to come when they have 
 a value as autographs. But I suppose you had 
 purposely misled me, with your random talk. If I 
 had known — yes, if I had known — I don't think I 
 should have let Cissy go to Natal.' 
 
 ' Stop that nonsense,' said Langley, ' and answer 
 me a plain question. Is it hopeless? — or can't you 
 make up your mind yet ? ' 
 
 ' I have made up my mind — since receiving your 
 letters.' 
 
 ' Before, you were in doubt ? ' 
 
 ' Just a wee bit. Partly, I suppose, because of my 
 weakness. I like you so much, and I have such 
 hopes of your future — it was tempting. But — No ! ' 
 
 Langley looked at her with eyes of thwarted 
 passion.
 
 16 COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 ' What do you mean ? Just because I have really 
 and honestly fallen in love with you ' 
 
 ' Just so,' she interrupted, 'and shown yourself as 
 I didn't know you. I like you as much as ever — 
 more, perhaps. I more than half wish I could bring 
 Cissy back again. You would have suited each other 
 very well. And yet, it would have been an unkind- 
 ness to you y however kind to her. It meant, for 
 you, a sinking into the comfortable commonplace. 
 You are too young for marriage. I had rather see 
 you in any kind of entanglement. That longing for 
 domesticity gave me a shudder. It's admirable, but 
 it's the part of you that must be outgrown. Oh, you 
 are so much more respectable than I thought.' 
 
 She broke off, laughing. 
 
 1 And you mean to say,' exclaimed Wilfrid, ' that 
 if I could have given proof of blackguardism you 
 might have been inclined to marry me ? ' 
 
 Miss Childerstone laughed uncontrollably. 
 
 ' Oh, how young you are ! No, I shouldn't have 
 married you in any case. I might have promised to 
 think about it. I might have promised to do it ; but 
 when the time came — via ! Dear boy, I don't want 
 to marry. Look at this room, dirty and disorderly. 
 This is all the home I care for. Conceivably, I 
 might marry a man with a big income, just for the 
 sake of a large life. But it's only just conceivable. In 
 poverty — and anything you or I can count upon 
 would be poverty — I prefer the freedom of loneliness.'
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 17 
 
 ' You imagine I should lay any restraint upon 
 you ? ' 
 
 Again she broke into laughter. 
 
 ' I have a pretty good theoretical knowledge of 
 what marriage means. Unfortunately, one can't experi- 
 ment.' 
 
 Langley turned from her, and stared gloomily. 
 
 ' Look here,' said his companion. ' In a few days 
 I think I shall be strong enough to go away, and I 
 shall not tell you where I'm going. Let us say good- 
 bye, and see each other again when we're both 
 recovered. In the meantime, live and work. Give 
 fifteen-pound suppers, if you like. Anything to keep 
 your thoughts off domesticity. Cultivate black- 
 guardism ' — her voice rang mirthfully. ' Then we 
 shall get back to the old footing.' 
 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 1 Well, that's as you please. I should like it, 
 though.' 
 
 He left her, and determined neither to write nor 
 to call again. In a day or two the former resolve was 
 broken ; he wrote at greater length than ever. When 
 the silence that followed became unendurable, he went 
 to the house, but only to learn that Miss Childerstone 
 had left that morning. 
 
 For the mere sake of talking about her, he spen 
 the evening with people who had known his friend 
 for a long time. They, it appeared, were ignorant 
 of her movements. 
 
 C
 
 is COMRADES IN ARMS 
 
 ' Gone as war correspondent, I shouldn't wonder,' 
 said a young man ; and the laughter of the company 
 appreciated his joke. 
 
 'Oh, she really is too mannish,' remarked a young 
 matron. ' I suppose you stud}- her as a curiosity, 
 Mr. Langley ?' 
 
 ' We're great chums,' Wilfrid answered with a 
 laugh. 
 
 ' Well, at all events we needn't bid yon beware,' 
 jested the lady. 
 
 On reaching home, late, he found in his sitting- 
 room an object which greatly puzzled him ; it was a 
 large and handsome travelling-bag, new from some 
 shop. By what mistake had it got here? He 
 examined it, and found a ticket bearing his name 
 and address. Then, turning to the table, he saw a 
 letter, the address in a well-known hand. 
 
 ' Dear Old Man, — I shall not offer to pay 
 back the money you have spent upon me, but I'm 
 sending a present, one of the useful order. 
 
 ' Yours in camaraderie, 
 
 ( b. c: 
 
 After a day or two of brooding he saw the use 
 of Bertha's gift, and for a month the travelling-bag 
 did him good service. 
 
 1 1c and she had long been back in town, and 
 were again tugging hard at the collar, before they 
 met. It was a miserable day of November, and
 
 COMRADES IN ARMS 19 
 
 amid sleet, fog, slush, they came face to face on the 
 pavement of the roaring Strand. Their umbrellas 
 had collided, and as they shook hands the hurrying 
 pedestrians bumped them this way and that. 
 
 • All right again ? ' asked Bertha merrily. 
 
 ' Quite,' was the stalwart reply. ' Come some- 
 where and talk.' 
 
 ' Can't. Appointment in ten minutes.' 
 
 ' Move on, please ! ' shouted a policeman. 
 ' Mustn't stop the way.' 
 
 ' Lunch at the old place to-morrow ? ' said Wilfrid, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 ' Yes. Two o'clock.' 
 
 Each plodded on, and Langley had no cardiac 
 tremor as he thought of Miss Childerstone. For all 
 that — for all that — he could not forget that he had 
 kissed her lips. 
 
 c 2
 
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 Mr. Rutland did not feci well this morning. As he 
 dressed, a sense of faintness troubled him, the result, 
 perhaps, of very hot weather in these days of spring. 
 After breakfast he reclined languidly in the study, 
 trying to read. There was no absolute necessity for 
 his going forth ; but at eleven he drove into the town 
 to sit with his brother magistrates, preferring the 
 tedium of the court to lonely idleness at home. 
 
 His age was about five-and-forty, and to a casual 
 eye he seemed in good health ; but certain lines upon 
 his countenance denoted a habit of melancholy musing, 
 and his voice suggested the same. The townspeople, 
 regarding his wealth and social influence, his apparent 
 domestic peace and life of leisure, judged him an 
 enviable man. Mr. Rutland saw himself in a very 
 different light, and to-day he suffered especially from 
 the despondence which had weighed upon him for 
 many years. 
 
 Born to easy circumstances, he had married at 
 thrce-and-twenty ; six children had been born to him, 
 all daughters, but only three of them survived, the 
 youngest a girl of fifteen. His wife was a woman of
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 21 
 
 narrow mind and strong will ; she ruled him in every 
 detail of his life — unobtrusively, suavely, without sus- 
 pecting for a moment that the yoke galled him, or 
 anticipating the possibility of conflict between his 
 purpose and hers. Mrs. Rutland belonged to a 
 county family, and valued above all things her local 
 prestige : when she went to London it was only to 
 associate with those of her country friends whom 
 fashion had directed townwards ; if she took a holiday 
 abroad it was merely for the sake of its retrospective 
 advantages on her return home. She regarded every- 
 thing from a rigidly provincial point of view. Her 
 daughters were admirably brought up — that is to say, 
 with a conscientiousness which never lost sight of their 
 destiny as county ladies. The father had as little 
 voice in their education as in the daily management 
 of his household. Of him Mrs. Rutland expected 
 only that he should exert himself to support the 
 dignity of his name in county circles. To please her, 
 he had twice contested a Parliamentary election, but 
 on both occasions was defeated. Twice he had been 
 mayor of the town in which he owned much property, 
 and near to which he lived. Mrs. Rutland viewed 
 this as rather a condescension, but it kept the good 
 man occupied. For the same reason she liked him to 
 discharge his functions as justice of the peace. At 
 her bidding he took part in various local activities : 
 opened flower-shows, presided at important lectures, 
 encouraged movements for the (moderate) benefit of
 
 22 THE JUSTICK AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 working folk, and soon — all which duties Mr. Rutland 
 thoroughly disliked. But still more did he dislike the 
 shadow of domestic discord, and he knew very well 
 that his independence could only be asserted at the 
 cost of his tranquillity. 
 
 All his acquaintances spoke well of him. One or 
 two old friends regretted the lack of energy which 
 frustrated his natural abilities, and wondered that a 
 man so well read, so interesting in private talk, should 
 be content to lead such a humdrum existence. But 
 as to the amiability and generosity of his character 
 opinions never differed. As a magistrate, he enjoyed 
 a reputation for leniency, and the town scamps whom 
 he could not but commit to jail counted on Mr. 
 Rutland's compassion when they came out again. 
 
 This morning, when he entered the court, a case 
 of assault was being heard. Evidently a paltry matter. 
 The prisoner, a stranger in the town, had obtained 
 work at house-painting, and while thus occupied, an 
 hour or two ago, had got into a quarrel with a loafing 
 fellow, who accused him of some trade irregularity. 
 Losing patience under insult, he knocked the man 
 down, and was forthwith given into the charge of a 
 constable who stood by. Mr. Rutland observed the 
 prisoner, and at once felt a peculiar interest in him ; 
 e and bearing spoke strongly on the man's behalf; 
 he looked superior to his position, and, though un- 
 comfortable in the present circumstances, was neither 
 shamefaced nor impudent. Aged forty or more, he
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 23 
 
 had a clear brown skin, a bright intelligent eye, and a 
 strong upright figure. 
 
 ' What's his name ? ' inquired Mr. Rutland, in an 
 undertone, of his neighbour on the bench. 
 
 ' Henry Goodeve.' 
 
 ' Goodeve — Goodeve ' 
 
 Mr. Rutland reflected with a puzzled countenance, 
 and again scrutinised the prisoner. At that moment 
 Goodeve's voice was heard in answer to a question. 
 Mr. Rutland listened intently, and his features betrayed 
 some strange thought. 
 
 A trivial fine was imposed, whereupon the prisoner 
 declared that he had neither money nor money's 
 worth — unless it were the clothing he stood in. He 
 had arrived in the town only yesterday, all but penni- 
 less, and this morning had found work. The state- 
 ment was made with a half-amused air. Moreover, the 
 man's speech made proof that he was no ordinary 
 artisan ; his tongue, though not particularly refined, 
 smacked of gentle breeding. 
 
 ' I shall pay for him,' said Mr. Rutland privately. 
 ' And I must have a word with him out of court' 
 
 The prisoner's case was allowed to stand over 
 for half an hour. Led, at Mr. Rutland's direction, 
 into a private room, Goodeve saw, to his surprise, 
 that one of the magistrates wished to speak with 
 him. 
 
 ' May I ask,' began the kindly looking gentleman, 
 ' whether you were at school at Brockhurst ? '
 
 24 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 ' I was,' answered Goodeve with a smile, gazing 
 steadily into the questioner's face. ' I left in '62.' 
 
 ' The year before I did. I lave you no recollection 
 of me ? ' 
 
 ' I'm afraid I haven't. And yet ' 
 
 1 My name is Rutland — Dick Rutland.' 
 
 The other slapped his thigh, and broke into words 
 of delighted recognition. Thirty years ago these men 
 were chums inseparable at a boarding-school of good 
 repute. They came from different counties, and did not 
 know each other's kinsfolk ; Harry Goodeve was the 
 son of a struggling shopkeeper, and had little to hope 
 for save from his own efforts ; while Dick Rutland 
 saw the path of life smooth and pleasant before him. 
 At fifteen Goodeve was put into an office, where he 
 idled and played pranks ; at sixteen he went to sea, 
 and from that day to this he had been a cheery 
 vagabond on the face of the earth. 
 
 ' You must come to my house,' said Mr. Rutland 
 after a few minutes' talk. ' It happens that I am 
 quite alone for a few days ; my wife and daughters 
 are in London. Half-an-hour's walk from here ; 
 anyone will show you the way. I shall be home at 
 half-past one.' 
 
 ■ What about my fine ? ' 
 
 ' Pooh ! We'll soon settle that.' 
 
 When his Worship reached home he found the 
 vagabond stretched at full length on a shady part of
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 25 
 
 the lawn ; a gardener, in doubt as to his assertions, 
 had kept an eye upon the man. 
 
 1 Is there a pond or stream anywhere about here,' 
 Goodeve asked, ' where a fellow could have a 
 plunge? ' 
 
 'Well, no. But if you don't despise an ordinary 
 bath ' 
 
 ' Not at all, when I can do no better.' 
 
 They sat down together to luncheon ; a strange 
 contrast as to their clothing, but in other respects no 
 unsuitable companions. Goodeve betrayed not the 
 least embarrassment amid these luxurious surround- 
 ings : he ate and drank with hearty appetite, and 
 talked merrily of old days. His host, seeming to 
 throw off a burden of care, astonished the domestic 
 in attendance no less by his boyish gaiety than by 
 his intimacy with so strange a guest. As yet, nothing 
 was said of intervening years : they lived again in their 
 schooltime, discussed the masters, roared over ancient 
 jokes, revived the great days of cricket and football. 
 Goodeve began to ask what had become of this, that, 
 and the other fellow ; they were now alone, and could 
 speak more freely. 
 
 ' Gubbins disappeared,' said Mr. Rutland. ' His 
 father was mixed up in a disagreeable affair, and I'm 
 afraid the poor chap ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried the other, ' I met him in New 
 Zealand ten or twelve years ago. He was at the bar 
 — serving liquor.'
 
 26 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 ' I leave n.s !' 
 
 ' And Potts — Toad)- l'otts, not Sammy. I came 
 across him in Sumatra. He was clerking for a Dutch 
 pepper-grower; had intermittent fever, and must be 
 dead long ago.' 
 
 ' How have you travelled so much?' asked Mr. 
 Rutland. ' As a sailor ? ' 
 
 ' Generally working my passage, but not always. 
 On land I've been a bit of everything. I'm a good 
 carpenter — you remember, I had the knack at school — 
 and I reckon myself no bad hand at plumbing. I've 
 done a little tailoring now and then. I've gained 
 glory as a scene-painter, and made shift to live by 
 taking photographs. It's only in England that I've 
 sometimes found it hard to get a meal. Oh, yes ! I 
 often comeback to the Old Country, though I have no 
 relatives left. I get home-sick, and make plans for 
 settling down, but I suppose I never shall. I landed 
 at Southampton five weeks ago from Bahia — an old 
 friend of mine is in the tobacco business there, and I 
 went just to see him, from Jamaica. Well, I landed 
 with a dollar or two, found the weather pleasant, and 
 just tramped, with nothing particular in prospect. At 
 home here I generally fall back on house-painting, 
 though it isn't always easy to get work. I don't take 
 kindly to the rougher sorts of work. Last time, five 
 years ago, I had to do a bit of navvying, down in 
 Kent It didn't suit me, and I soon shipped again.'
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 27 
 
 ' What a life ! ' murmured the listener, staring 
 before him. 
 
 1 Oh, not so bad " 
 
 1 You misunderstand me. I mean, what a glorious 
 life ! I envy you, Goodeve ; with heart and soul I 
 envy you ! ' 
 
 'You do? Well, I can't quite understand that 
 either. A man who has a house like this ; free to 
 come and go as the humour takes him ' 
 
 ' Free ! ' cried the host. ' Don't judge by appear- 
 ances. You ought to know the world better. There's 
 no man living who is more a slave than I am.' 
 
 His voice quivered into silence, and he seemed to 
 reprove himself for indiscretion. 
 
 ' Come out into the garden, old fellow. Light 
 another cigar, and put some in your pocket.' 
 
 This afternoon there was a garden-party at a 
 house in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Rutland had 
 promised to attend it. By failing to do so he would 
 excite surprise, and cause no little disappointment to 
 the people who counted his presence an honour. But 
 time stole on ; he felt ever more reluctant to leave his 
 entertaining companion for the wearisome society of 
 his neighbours ; at length he said to himself deliber- 
 ately that go he would not. Let Mrs. Rutland express 
 her astonishment when she heard of the neglect. 
 
 ' But, my dear Richard, surely it was rather ' He 
 
 shut his ears against the voice, and listened only to 
 Goodeve.
 
 28 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 1 — The next day we sighted the Horn. 1 forgot 
 all my hardships. Do you remember how we used to 
 talk of it at school — going round the Horn ? I thought 
 of you then ; I did indeed.' 
 
 At seven o'clock, when the sun was setting and 
 the air had grown cool, Mr. Rutland rose and 
 stretched himself. 
 
 ' There's the first dinner-bell. Hours have gone 
 like minutes.' 
 
 1 All the same, I'm pretty hungry,' laughed Good- 
 eve. 
 
 ' Why, so am I ; the first time I've had an appetite 
 for years. It's the sea air. What a life ! What a 
 life ! Of course, you'll stay here over-night. Your 
 coming was a godsend. I feel young again. I begin 
 to see things " 
 
 He broke off and walked with his head down, 
 
 musing. 
 
 After dinner — a meal of scandalous informality — 
 they went into the library, and Goodeve began to run 
 his eye along the shelves. 
 
 1 Why, you seem to have nothing here but books 
 of travel. I can't make you out, Rutland. If you've 
 always thought as much of travelling as you did at 
 school, why the deuce have you led such a stay-at- 
 home life ? Wife and family ! But you've always 
 been a rich man. What was to prevent you going 
 trips about the world as other men do ? ' 
 
 What, indeed ? In the days of love-making Rut-
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 29 
 
 land delighted himself with the thought that he and 
 his beloved would journey far and wide, beholding all 
 the glories and the wonders of earth. Their honey- 
 moon was to include a visit to Egypt ; but Mrs. Rutland 
 soon discovered that she had little taste for foreign 
 countries, and on the hither side of the Alps they 
 turned homeward. The births of his children, which 
 came in rapid succession, loaded year by year the 
 fetters of domestic bondage ; until the poor rich man 
 stifled in silence his last hope. At the suggestion of 
 distant travel Mrs. Rutland would have smiled 
 indulgently — that terrible smile which her husband 
 knew so well, a smile as of implacable fate. ' Richard 
 is so fanciful,' he once overheard her say to a lady, 
 and the word had a dread weight of meaning. 
 
 They opened a great atlas, and Mr. Rutland 
 followed his friend's voyaging from land to land. 
 Their heads together, and talking with the completest 
 familiarity, they were as boys again. Thus had they 
 sat many a time on the school benches, the map 
 before them, and schemed expeditions of discovery. 
 In those days Dick Rutland was the more sanguine, 
 the more energetic, conscious of possessing where- 
 withal to travel : Harry Goodeve merely dreamed and 
 desired. Now, with thirty years of subsequent life 
 behind them, Mr. Rutland, the prosperous man, the 
 local magnate, felt his heart burn within him as he 
 heard Goodeve tell of joys and perils which put a 
 circle round the globe.
 
 30 THE JUSTICE AM) THE VAGABOND 
 
 'Ah, you have lived!' he exclaimed at length, 
 starting up and moving excitedly about the room. 
 'It is you who have been the rich man ; I, a 
 miserable pauper ! The Arabs have a proverb, 
 " Travel is conquest." You have conquered the 
 world, whilst I have been crouched in my petty 
 corner, playing at life. I go down yonder, and sit in 
 a big chair, and look as wise as an owl, and send 
 poor devils to prison : this is the utmost I have 
 attained to. You have been living among men, 
 working, suffering, enjoying like a man, and every 
 day learning something new. Good God ! it mad- 
 dens me to look back on these thirty years, and 
 contrast my vegetable existence with such a life as 
 yours. Can you imagine the sort of people I have 
 to do with ? Men and women who wear a certain 
 kind of costume in the morning, and a different kind 
 at night, and who know nothing more important 
 than the change from one to the other. We attend 
 meetings about local option, and you- — you are fight- 
 ing a hurricane in mid ocean, or landing in some 
 new port, with a new world before you.' 
 
 ' Hang it, man ! ' shouted the other with a great 
 laugh, ' it's not too late. You're no older than I 
 am.' 
 
 Mr. Rutland stared at him with fascinated 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Yes — yes,' he said slowly and under his breath. 
 ' I might see something of the world yet.'
 
 the justice and THE VAGABOND 3 [ 
 
 He moved again to the atlas, and turned to the 
 map of South America. 
 
 'That's one of the things I most wish to sec — the 
 river Amazon.' 
 
 ' Little more than a fortnight's voyage,' replied 
 Goodeve mirthfully. 
 
 'A fortnight! Yes. A fortnight.' 
 
 Mr. Rutland spoke as one in a dream. His 
 finger trembled as it marked the course of the great 
 river. 
 
 ' Go to Bahia,' said Goodeve, ' and see my friend 
 the tobacco-merchant. A fine fellow. He can tell 
 you more in an hour than I could in a week. I wish 
 I could go with you.' 
 
 Again Mr. Rutland stood and stared at his 
 guest. 
 
 ' Why not ? You mean the expense of going as 
 a passenger? What's that to me? Say you will 
 go, and ' 
 
 He paused, his hand in the air, and seemed to be 
 fronting a vast enterprise. However ludicrous the 
 obstacles in another's sight, to Mr. Rutland they 
 meant nothing less than the crushing habits of a 
 lifetime. 
 
 ' I'll go fast enough,' said Goodeve, seeming to 
 sniff the Atlantic. 
 
 ' We might do more than just go to Brazil and 
 back,' pursued his host, whose face had grown very 
 red. * If I once left England, I shouldn't be content
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 .1 
 
 to see only one country. I should like to travel for 
 a year or more — perhaps for two or three years.' 
 
 His voice quivered and his eyes flashed. Good- 
 eve watched him with a smile of sympathy. 
 
 ' Will you travel with me, Harry, as far and as 
 long as I like? ' 
 
 ' Of course I will ! When can you be ready to 
 start ? ' 
 
 Mr. Rutland fell into a reverie. He was silent 
 for more than five minutes, then drew a deep breath, 
 and said gravely — 
 
 ' To-day is Wednesday. I will be ready to leave 
 home on Saturday morning.' 
 
 ' We must look up the steam-boats.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but whether there is a ship or not, I 
 shall leave home on Saturday morning, and join you 
 where you like. Stay with me one more da)'. I 
 shall be busy, but I want to have you near. On 
 Friday you shall go, and on Saturday we meet again 
 at Liverpool, or Southampton, or wherever you 
 appoint.' 
 
 They sat talking till late in the night, and, among 
 other things, it was arranged that Goodevc should 
 next day change his rude clothing for a garb more 
 suitable to Mr. Rutland's guest. He was in no way 
 troubled by a sense of obligation. Thirty years of 
 adventurous life had taught him to regard things 
 with simplicity and directness : if a wealthy man 
 chose to relieve his friend of all worldly cares,
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 33 
 
 why should the friend make any difficulty ? Good- 
 eve was a bluff, plain-spoken, honest fellow, quite 
 incapable of scheming for his own advantage. The 
 fine points of his character appealed to Mr. Rutland 
 as strongly as in the days gone by. Rough living, 
 labour, and the companionship of his inferiors had 
 not debased him ; what he lacked in refinement of 
 manner was abundantly compensated by his sincerity, 
 good-nature, and freshness of mind. Mr. Rutland's 
 circumstances appeared to him in a humorous light ; 
 he suspected that the poor fellow lived under female 
 tyranny, and to Goodeve such a state of things was in- 
 explicable. He enjoyed the thought of releasing his 
 old comrade from this sorry fix, and the joke was 
 all the better if, as he suspected, Rutland meant to 
 escape from bondage during his wife's absence. 
 
 That, indeed, was his Worship's project. Know- 
 ing the uselessness of an attempt to sleep, Mr. 
 Rutland sat up all night, busy with multifarious 
 concerns : arranging papers, writing letters, review- 
 ing his personal, domestic, and public affairs. The 
 suddenness with which he had taken his resolve, the 
 firmness with which he held to it, seemed to him a 
 manifestation of destiny ; for, like all contemplative 
 and irresolute men, he had a vein of philosophic 
 superstition. He knew that his purpose must be put 
 into effect at once ; Goodeve's arrival in the absence 
 of Mrs. Rutland was a coincidence which, the more 
 he thought of it made him the more eager to depart. 
 
 D
 
 34 THE JUSTICE AM) THE VAGABOND 
 
 His wife and daughters were to return on Saturday 
 evening. He would leave a mere note, saying that 
 he had just left home with a friend, and might be 
 away for a day or two. Later, but before she had 
 had time to grow uneasy, Mrs. Rutland should receive 
 the full explanation. 
 
 There was no serious obstacle whatever in the 
 way of his proposed flight. He could easily commit 
 to his solicitors the care of all such matters as Mrs. 
 Rutland would be unable to deal with. His depar- 
 ture need not make the smallest change in the life of 
 his family. The mother and daughters would pursue 
 their course as methodically, as respectably, as ever. 
 In pecuniary affairs Mrs. Rutland had always held 
 an independent position ; she was better fitted to 
 manage everything of the kind than her husband. 
 It would cost him no severe pang to be long away 
 from his children, for they belonged to their mother 
 rather than to him ; the one who had loved him best 
 was dead. Yes ; by Saturday morning he might so 
 have ordered everything in his control as to feel 
 entirely free. A boyish rapture in the thought of 
 what was before him made him regardless of the 
 wonder, the censure, the gossip he was leaving 
 behind. 
 
 About the hour of sunrise he was overcome with 
 exhaustion — not a feeling of wholesome weariness, 
 not a desire for sleep ; but an oppressive faintness, 
 like that which troubled him yesterday morning.
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 35 
 
 He explained it, naturally enough, as the result of 
 unwonted excitement. A drop of brandy seemed 
 to do him good, and he lay down ; but no sleep came 
 to him. 
 
 Through the day he pursued his business, though 
 languidly ; the weather was again very warm, and it 
 seemed to overpower him. 
 
 ' I shall soon pick up on the sea,' he remarked to 
 Goodeve at luncheon, after confessing that he hadn't 
 been 'quite the thing' lately. ' It's just what I need. 
 I have lived sluggishly — foregone all custom of 
 exercise, as Hamlet says. If I went on like this, 
 I should smoulder out at fifty or so." 
 
 ' As likely as not,' assented the other genially. 
 
 Again they passed a long evening together, with 
 the big atlas open ; and again Mr. Rutland worked 
 himself into a fever of anticipation. When he went 
 to bed his eyes looked very large and prominent, and 
 his cheeks were burning. For an hour or two he tossed 
 in misery of sleeplessness, then fell into fearful 
 dreams of storm and wreck, which harassed him until 
 day. 
 
 On the Friday morning Goodeve departed. He 
 had learnt that a steamer would leave Southampton 
 on Monday for Rio de Janeiro, which place they 
 agreed to make the starting-point of their travels. 
 The new clothing irked him a little, but, on the whole, 
 he was rather pleased with his appearance ; he went 
 off in high spirits, well provided with money to make 
 
 - 3
 
 $6 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 
 
 necessary purchases at Southampton. He had 
 already telegraphed for berths to the shipping agents, 
 and had received a satisfactory reply. 
 
 It rained a little to-day, and Mr. Rutland enjoyed 
 the coolness. He thought with some apprehension of 
 the climate for which he was setting forth, but re- 
 assured himself with the certainty that a fortnight on 
 shipboard would quite re-establish him in health and 
 vigour. There was nothing really the matter with 
 him ; of course not. His mind had affected his body ; 
 that was all. Then, if Brazil proved uncomfortable, 
 he and his friend would simply travel north or south. 
 The world lay open before him, like the atlas over 
 which he had so often pored. He set no limit to the 
 extent of his wanderings, and had quite resolved that 
 nothing save ill-news from home should bring him 
 back before the end of a year or two. 
 
 When he did return he would no longer be the 
 same man. His wife would know by then that her 
 reign was over. 
 
 He had now transacted all his business, and the 
 hours dragged. There was a letter from Mrs. Rutland 
 speaking of her return to-morrow, and requiring his 
 attention to a score of vexatious trivialities ; he 
 laughed, and threw it aside. In the afternoon, feeling 
 incapable of the least exertion, he lay on the couch 
 in his study ; his heart was beating rapidly, and he 
 tried to calm the mental agitation which disturbed it, 
 but every hour seemed to intensify his excitement.
 
 THE JUSTICE AND THE VAGABOND 37 
 
 He dreaded the long evening and night, and wished 
 himself already at Southampton. 
 
 At dinner he ate only a little soup. There was 
 no disguising from himself that he felt seriously un- 
 well, and the dread of being unable to start in the 
 morning kept him miserably agitated. From table he 
 went again into the study, and sat down in an arm- 
 chair with a newspaper. As his body lay back he 
 drew a deep sigh. 
 
 Shortly after ten o'clock the butler wished to 
 speak with Mr. Rutland ; he knocked at the study 
 door, and entered. But on drawing near he saw that 
 his master had fallen asleep. 
 
 An hour later he again entered the room. Mr. 
 Rutland had not moved, and the servant, regarding 
 him more closely, became aware of something strange 
 in his appearance. He bent to listen. Mr. Rutland 
 was not breathing. 
 
 And next day, at Southampton, Henry Goodeve 
 sought vainly among the passengers who arrived by 
 a certain train. ' Hanged if I wasn't afraid of it ! ' he 
 muttered in vexation. ' His wife has come back and 
 caught him.'
 
 38 
 
 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 At the age of eighteen Andrew Mowbray Catterick 
 vanished from among his kith and kin. They soon 
 learnt that he was gone to London, and as this move- 
 ment had been foreseen for a long time, the North 
 Country folk made no fuss about it ; if London proved 
 too much for him, he had only to come back. Mrs. 
 Catterick enjoyed a comfortable four hundred per 
 annum, which at her death would be divided between 
 Andrew and his sister. That the lad took his resolve 
 and acted quietly upon it, without taxing anyone or 
 calling for applause, seemed a point in his favour. If 
 hitherto he had earned no high esteem, he had done 
 nothing to be ashamed of. Rather an idle dog- 
 said his impartial acquaintances — and a trifle given to 
 self-praise ; but no one denied his cleverness. At 
 Mapplebeck, a grey and sooty little town ringed about 
 with collieries, he was not likely to do much good ; and 
 his ' gift of the gab,' as people called it, would sooner 
 or later involve him in difficulties. A young fellow 
 in a public office should not meddle with politics, and 
 can gain nothing by displays of oratory at pot-houses 
 frequented by pitmen. Let him shift for himself in a
 
 THE FIREBRAND 39 
 
 larger world. Five pounds or so was the fortune he 
 carried with him ; capable men have gone forth and 
 conquered with much less. 
 
 From eighteen to three-and-twenty Andrew 
 doubtless had a hard time of it. He wrote very 
 seldom, and disregarded invitations to visit the old 
 home. Such reports as he made were of dubious 
 complexion ; that he lived was clear, but no one at 
 Mapplebeck knew exactly how. Writing, however, 
 on his twenty-third birthday, the young man 
 announced that he had secured regular employment 
 as a journalist in connection with two London papers ; 
 and presently he began to send specimens of his 
 work. Mrs. Catterick, the widow of a town-clerk 
 and herself much respected in the Conservative 
 society of Mapplebeck, thought it a sad pity that her 
 son persevered in revolutionary opinion : she did not 
 care to circulate the newspapers he posted to her. 
 Miss Bertha, now engaged to a solicitor of a neigh- 
 bouring town, felt proud that Andrew had made such 
 progress, and declared her indifference to his views if 
 only he achieved a good position. Before long the 
 journalist sent down a series of articles which, he 
 said, were attracting attention — descriptions of obscure 
 industries in London and elsewhere. He spoke, too, of 
 allowing himself a holiday, and of coming home. 
 
 A couple of months elapsed without more news. 
 Then, on an evening of September, Andrew pre- 
 sented himself at his mother's door.
 
 4 o THE FIREBRAND 
 
 It was difficult to recognise him. Not only had 
 time converted the lanky stripling into a tall, wiry 
 specimen of bearded manhood, but he looked so 
 deplorably ill that Mrs. Catterick's first exclamation 
 was one of alarm. As if the journey had overtaxed 
 him, he dropped upon the nearest chair, and wiped 
 moisture from his clay-coloured face. Yes, he was 
 seedy. He had been overdoing it. He must have 
 a good long rest. Mother and sister straightway 
 devoted themselves to nursing him. The old doctor, 
 friend of his childhood, was called into council. 
 Andrew talked to him with a quiet air of condescen- 
 sion, yet as if grateful for the kindness with which he 
 was surrounded. 
 
 ' Sleep ? Oh, my dear doctor ! I haven't slept for 
 a year or so. Sleep is such an expensive luxury ; a 
 journalist making his way has to do without it. 
 Meals ? Oh, I really forget. I eat now and then, I 
 believe. Why, yes ; not long ago I dined at the National 
 Liberal Club with the editor of the Morning Star ; 
 so on that occasion, at all events, I ate. But, do you 
 know, I find a bit of anchovy toast and a glass of 
 cognac about the best thing, on most days. I 
 suppose I ruined my stomach with vadie enragt f e.' 
 
 ' What in the world is that ? ' asked the good 
 doctor. 
 
 ' Merely a pedantry for starvation, my dear sir. 
 For three or four years I had simply nothing to eat. 
 We all go through it, you know. A friend of mine,
 
 THE FIREBRAND 41 
 
 a novelist, says he thinks nothing of the man who 
 hasn't starved to begin with. At the same time I 
 drank rather too much. What would you have ? 
 Nervous force must be kept up somehow.' 
 
 The doctor began to entertain a suspicion that this 
 habit of drinking was not yet outgrown ; he privately 
 doubted whether Andrew's state of collapse had any- 
 thing to do with excessive toil. In a day or two, 
 however, he felt sure that his misgivings were un- 
 justifiable. Catterick's case allowed of but one 
 diagnosis : the young man had lived preposterously, 
 but not as a debauchee. He had worked himself like 
 a machine, disregarding every admonition of rebel- 
 lious nature. 
 
 ' And do you imagine, Andrew, that this kind of 
 thing will lead to anything except the grave ? ' 
 
 ' I can't keep it up ; that 1 have discovered. But 
 so far it has paid. The editors know me. Nowa- 
 days, doctor, a man who aims at success in any pro- 
 fession must be content to take his chance between 
 that and death. If I don't get out of the ruck, I may 
 as well die.' 
 
 Talk in this vein amused the old practitioner, who 
 regarded his patient as a boy, and studied in him the 
 latest forms of puerile conceit. But not everyone could 
 listen so urbanely. Robert Holdsworth, who came 
 over to make the acquaintance of his future brother-in- 
 law, had much ado to disguise contemptuous irrita- 
 tion ; he resented the easy patronage of Andrew's
 
 42 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 behaviour, and half believed him a disreputable 
 impostor. Talking privately with Bertha, he asked 
 why her brother had allowed so many years to pass 
 without visiting his relatives. 
 
 1 Oh,' replied the girl, with a laugh, ' he made a 
 confession about that only yesterday. His pride 
 wouldn't let him come till he had done something 
 that people could talk about.' 
 
 ' Andrew's pride seems to be the great feature of 
 his character,' Holdsworth remarked drily. ' And 
 what has he done ? A little anonymous journalism. 
 I don't think that justifies his airs.' 
 
 ' He does put it on rather. But, you know, he 
 has worked frightfully ! ' 
 
 ' So have a good many people.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but it's a great thing to write for London 
 newspapers — don't you think ? And he has made 
 friends with such a lot of important men.' 
 
 Andrew took care that his arrival at Mapplebeck 
 should be made known by the local paper. A short 
 biography appeared in its columns, and the writer 
 expressed his deep regret that Mr. Catterick had 
 been ordered to abstain for the present from all 
 literary work. He added : 
 
 ' This is the penalty paid by too many of our 
 rising journalists. The conditions of modern journal- 
 ism are terribly trying, and a young man of Mr. 
 Catterick's distinguished ability is tempted to efforts 
 beyond the endurance of human nature.'
 
 THE FIREBRAND 43 
 
 With old acquaintances, most of whom were very 
 sober and practical folk, Andrew made ostentatious 
 display of his advanced opinions. He gave the good 
 people to understand that Mapplcbeck was a very 
 sleepy little place, a century or so behind the civilisa- 
 tion which he himself represented. Occasionally he 
 met with blunt answers, but they moved him only to 
 a smile. People might say of him what they liked, 
 if only they recognised his enormous advance in 
 the interval since he disappeared from Mapplebeck. 
 Superior to ordinary conversation, he discoursed in 
 lively monologues, generally standing. His inquiries 
 about local affairs were made in an indulgent tone. 
 He deigned to show interest in the histories of young 
 men, his contemporaries, who still remained in the 
 town. 
 
 ' Ah ! poor old Robertson ! I must have a talk 
 with him. And Tom Gerard has three children ? 
 Amazing ! It passes my comprehension how a fellow 
 of any brains — and Tom had brains — can handicap 
 himself in that way. Men don't marry nowadays - 
 not till they have arrived! 
 
 But about this time the local mind began to be 
 occupied with a question which ultimately proved of 
 national concern. Throughout the mining districts 
 there was talk of an impending coal strike. Catte- 
 rick, whose recuperative powers had soon overcome 
 the grave symptoms of his disorder, amused himself 
 with walking about the neighbourhood and holding
 
 44 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 converse with pitmen ; whence it naturally came to 
 pass that he one day found himself haranguing a 
 coaly group, to whom he expounded the principles of 
 modern industrial liberty. He came home in an 
 excited state of mind, and from the hearthrug 
 repeated to his mother and sister the oration he had 
 publicly delivered. 
 
 1 I think it very wrong to go talking in that way,' 
 declared Mrs. Catterick. ' You may make a deal of 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' Andrew replied, with modest allusion 
 to his powers as an agitator. 
 
 ' You have no business to encourage these men 
 to strike,' exclaimed his sister. ' And what will our 
 friends say if they hear of it ? ' 
 
 The suggestion confirmed Andrew in a resolve. 
 A strike there undoubtedly would be, sooner or later, 
 and how could he more profitably occupy his leisure 
 than in helping to bring it about ? The public eye 
 would at once be fixed on him ; with care and skill 
 he might achieve more than local distinction, and the 
 journalistic matter thus supplied to him would be all 
 in the way of business. 
 
 A mile or so beyond Mapplebeck was a colliers' 
 hamlet known as Pit Row ; it consisted literally of a 
 row of cottages set on the black soil hard by a coal- 
 pit — grimy little boxes, all built precisely alike, with 
 a plot of sorry garden in front of each, and behind 
 them the walled back-yards, where shirts and
 
 THE FIREBRAND 45 
 
 petticoats flapped in sooty air. Andrew decided to 
 open his campaign at Pit Row. Thither he went on 
 a Sunday morning, and inquired for Sam Dollop, a 
 collier whose acquaintance he had made in casual 
 talk on the road. Sam was a local firebrand, and it 
 flattered him to be associated with a gentleman from 
 London who had exactly his views as to the rights of 
 the miner. Easily enough they collected the inhabit- 
 ants of Pit Row ; speeches were made, and Andrew 
 scored an important point when he uttered a sentence 
 or two in the dialect of his hearers. Mapplebeck, he 
 went on to assure them, was his native place. He 
 stood here as no interloper. From childhood's days 
 he had regarded with compassion the hard lot of men 
 who toiled underground ; and now that fortune had 
 favoured him, now that he had won by sheer hard 
 work a somewhat prominent place in Metropolitan 
 journalism, he felt it to be only his duty to come 
 down and take part with his old friends in their 
 struggle against the avarice of capitalists. 
 
 He had not long to wait for the public effect of 
 these proceedings. Respectable Mapplebeck talked 
 indignantly of his reckless and wicked meddling with 
 troubles in which he had no concern. Mrs. Catterick's 
 friends came to condole with her, knowing how 
 strongly she disapproved of her son's politics. 
 Andrew himself was stopped in the street by an old 
 gentleman, who asked him severely what his good 
 father would have thought of such doings, and
 
 46 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 advised him, if he must needs be working mischief, 
 to go and speechify elsewhere. The town's one 
 newspaper, which called itself ' independent,' and 
 tried to please everyone, came out with an article 
 vaguely deprecating the interference of outsiders in 
 industrial disputes. Andrew replied in a long letter, 
 printed the following week, wherein he justified him- 
 self on high grounds, economical and moral : it was 
 the duty, he maintained, of all enlightened men to 
 use these opportunities for a protest against the 
 grinding tyranny of the present social system. He 
 had deliberately taken off his coat, and was going to 
 work with a full sense of the responsibilities he 
 incurred. He might mention that he had carefully 
 inquired into the state of the mining population in 
 this district, and the results of his inquiries would 
 shortly be made public in one of the leading organs 
 of advanced opinion. 
 
 His ' facile pen,' as the local paper would have 
 called it, knocked off a couple of sensational reports, 
 which presently appeared in a London evening 
 journal. Copies were in demand at Mapplebeck, and 
 the county press made its comments, sympathetic or 
 denunciatory. Andrew congratulated himself on the 
 circumstances which had brought him hither just at 
 this time. Mapplebeck would come to regard him as 
 a terrible fellow. He looked impatiently for the actual 
 outbreak of the strike, when, with a little effort, he 
 might play a part of more than local distinction.
 
 THE FIREBRAND 47 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Robert Holdsworth viewed with 
 keen annoyance the pranks of his future relative. 
 This prudent young man by no means relished 
 the thought of celebrating his marriage with Miss 
 Catterick at a moment when Andrew was incurring 
 the odium of all well-to-do people in the district. 
 He came over to talk plainly of the matter ; and 
 Bertha, distressed by his grave representations, was 
 driven to propose that their wedding should be put 
 off till the next year. 
 
 ' It's no use saying anything to Andrew ; he is 
 really very selfish. I think mother ought to tell him 
 that we can't have him here any longer.' 
 
 1 So do I,' replied Holdsworth emphatically. 
 ' His behaviour is simply monstrous. Your mother 
 will feel the effects of it for long enough.' 
 
 Andrew was away, carrying the fiery cross. 
 When he returned, late at night, mother and sister 
 united in a very strong appeal to him. Couldn't he 
 see the inconvenience, to say the least, that he was 
 causing them ? If he was well enough to go 
 about making speeches, had he not better return to 
 London ? 
 
 ' I am obliged to stay here,' answered the 
 journalist, with forbearance. ' Not only my interest, 
 but my duty, forbids me to turn back from the work 
 I have undertaken. But, of course, I need not 
 remain in this house. I admit all you urge, and to- 
 morrow I will look about for a lodging.'
 
 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 To thi~ Mrs. Catterick could not assent, and the 
 discussion was prolonged to an unheard-of hour. 
 Andrew, when he understood the difficult position in 
 which his sister was placed, held firm to his self- 
 denying ordinance ; he would forego the comforts of 
 home, and lodge somewhere in the neighbourhood. 
 This step would declare to all and sundry that the 
 ladies dissociated themselves from his obnoxious 
 principles. 
 
 And on the morrow the change was made. 
 Andrew felt a glow of conscious virtue : no one could 
 say that he had not behaved with scrupulous honour. 
 He wrote a touching letter to Holdsworth, explaining 
 his sacrifice, and enlarging upon its meritorious 
 features. The solicitor replied in a line or two of 
 formal civility. 
 
 Catterick had aptitude for the work of an agitator. 
 His harangues were not merely fluent and spirited, 
 they testified to a sincerity of feeling with which the 
 casual observer would not have credited Andrew. 
 Himself acquainted with hardships, he did, in fact, 
 mpathise with the employed as against the 
 capitalist. His whole bent of mind engaged him to 
 the democratic standpoint ; his interests were all in 
 combative modernism. Robert Holdsworth. deeming 
 him a noisy charlatan, did justice neither to his 
 abilities nor to the motives of his conduct ; yet there 
 was a weak point in Andrew which the lawyer acci- 
 dentally discovered, and which he resolved to attack
 
 THE FIREBRAND 49 
 
 by an ingenious stratagem. Talking confidentially 
 of her brother. Bertha had mentioned that in boyhood 
 he was anything but remarkable for courage. 
 
 ' If there's any rioting,' she said, ' I'm quite sure 
 he'll get out of the way. It's a pity he can't have a 
 good fright. He would soon find that business called 
 him to London.' 
 
 Holdsworth said little, but he reflected and 
 schemed. 
 
 A few days after this Andrew received a letter 
 addressed in a rude, sprawling hand, the writing of 
 someone who barely knew how to hold a pen. The 
 contents were with difficulty decipherable, but seemed 
 to run thus : 
 
 ' Mr. Caterikk, us three chaps as made up our 
 moind to-night to wright to yo we work at a pit and 
 weeve gotten wives and childer and we downt want 
 to see them go hungery weer badly of as it is and we 
 dont bileve a strike will mak it better so us chaps 
 as mad up oor mind to give yo fare worning if the 
 lads about here cum out on strike yol hear from us 
 were not thretning yor life but well give yo the best 
 threshin yo iver had sens yo was born thers three 
 sticks redy and ef we go to jale for it thell be more 
 bread fort wives and childer so look out.' 
 
 This same morning Andrew learnt that in a 
 neighbouring county the strike had already begun. 
 In a day or two great numbers of colliers would have 
 left their work, and all but certainly those round 
 
 E
 
 50 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 about Mapplcbcck would join in the movement. 
 They were a particularly rough lot of men, and, as 
 he well knew, eager to try their strength with the 
 masters. He knew equally well that individuals 
 among them, looking forward to short commons and 
 fireless hearths, secretly cursed the agencies which 
 threw them out of employment ; and this letter from 
 the nameless trio seemed to him an undoubtedly 
 genuine threat. Its very moderation (he had only to 
 fear bruises and indignity) was an alarming feature 
 of the menace. For a long time he sat with the letter 
 in his hand thinking anxiously. 
 
 The post-mark was Mapplebeck. Impossible to 
 determine to what pit these three men belonged. 
 His mind's eye surveyed whole crowds of grimy faces, 
 and everywhere saw hostility in the white upturned 
 orbs. 
 
 First came the natural impulse to make public his 
 danger. It would be a proud moment. ' Behold this 
 infamous production ! Do you imagine that a base 
 threat such as this can for a moment shake my pur- 
 pose ? See, I tear it into fragments, and scatter it to 
 the winds ! ' Acquaintances in Mapplebeck would 
 admire his scornful indifference, or, at all events, talk 
 the more about him. ' He receives threatening 
 letters. Hired ruffians have vowed to beat him 
 w'thin an inch of his life.' But was he actually in- 
 different ? When all the pitmen of the locality were 
 idle, would he care to walk about by-ways, or go
 
 THE FIREBRAND 51 
 
 home to his lodgings on a dark night ? He hoped to 
 make a figure during the strike, and to send 
 journalistic correspondence to London ; he must move 
 freely hither and thither at all hours, affording his 
 enemies abundant opportunity to waylay him. Well, 
 was it not what a public man had to expect ? Who 
 that takes part in industrial warfare can feel secure 
 from outrage ? If the fellows thrashed him, they were 
 not likely to escape, and here again would be a splen- 
 did advertisement. 
 
 Yes ; but the thrashing itself. Three sturdy 
 colliers, armed with three big sticks, and only inclined 
 to stop short of murder. His bones would ache for 
 some time, be sure of it. He had never undergone a 
 thrashing, not even as a boy. He had never fought ; 
 for, as his sister truly affirmed, physical courage was 
 not his strong point. As he thought and thought, 
 the drops came out upon his forehead. 
 
 For the present he would keep this letter in his 
 pocket, and speak of it to no one. 
 
 He went into the town, and kept an appointment 
 with a fellow-worker in the bar-room of the principal 
 hotel. ' Grand news ! ' exclaimed his friend, a pro- 
 vincial journalist without employment. At Baker's 
 Pits that morning a notice was posted which would 
 be sure to bring matters to a head : before even- 
 ing the men would all be out. They must go at 
 once 
 
 Andrew felt a chill run down his back. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE FIREBRAND 
 
 ' It's a confounded nuisance ! ' he began bluster- 
 ingly. ' I have a letter from my editor. He wants 
 me to go at once to the Clegg Valley district. I've 
 half a mind to wire back that I must see it out 
 here.' 
 
 But the friend thought this imprudent. His own 
 ambitions clashed somewhat with Catterick's, and he 
 would not be sorry to see the fiery orator depart for 
 the Clegg Valley or elsewhere. 
 
 ' It's a beastly nuisance ! ' repeated Andrew, won- 
 dering how soon after the declaration of a strike 
 at Baker's Pits his bludgeon-armed foes would start 
 on the war-path. Perhaps this very evening would 
 see them lying in wait for him. ' I think I shall 
 stay.' 
 
 He drank a glass of whisky, but it had no effect 
 whatever upon his state of mind. Ah ! — he said to 
 himself — this was manifestly the result of nervous 
 breakdown. He had not recovered from his illness ; 
 he had been over-exciting himself when what he 
 needed was repose. Why, his limbs trembled under 
 him ! No, no ; he was not such a poltroon as all 
 that ! In reasonable health he could have faced the 
 peril, which, after all, might be imaginary. Those 
 fellows would not dare to attack him — why, it would 
 be as much as their lives were worth ! But a dark 
 night — the lonely road near his lodgings— faces 
 masked — they might, perhaps, do it with impunity. 
 Cold sweat again started on his forehead.
 
 THE FIREBRAND 53 
 
 And all the time his friend was counselling him 
 not to neglect the editor's instructions. 
 
 ' My people at home yonder,' said Andrew with a 
 smile, ' would be glad enough if I took myself off. 
 Perhaps I owe it to them to make the sacrifice. I 
 must think it over quietly for a few minutes. You go 
 over to Pit Row. If I don't come presently you shall 
 hear from me.' 
 
 He sat in the hotel for nearly an hour, and only 
 strangers entered. At length appeared a shopkeeper 
 with whom he was slightly acquainted. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Catterick, I suppose this is a great 
 day for you ? I hear that Baker's men have come 
 out.' 
 
 Andrew smiled, but could not at once reply. 
 
 • Sure of it ? ' fell from his lips, when he had mois- 
 tened them. 
 
 ' It's the talk in the town, at all events And I 
 dare say you know more about it than most people.' 
 
 Andrew rose, nodded, and left the hotel. 
 
 He walked quickly to his mother's house, and 
 cast many glances about him in the quiet suburban 
 road which led thither. It began to rain, but he did 
 not put up his umbrella. Mrs. Catterick and Bertha 
 were sitting by the fireside, talking about the price of 
 coals ; his abrupt entrance — for he walked in without 
 ringing the bell — made them start up in apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 ' What has happened ? Why do you look so ? '
 
 54 TUK FIREBRAND 
 
 ' Nothing. I've done my work, that's all, and I'm 
 off.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank goodness ! ' cried Bertha. 
 
 ' You know that the colliers are on strike every- 
 where ? Sorry for what it'll cost you in coals ' — he 
 laughed noisily — 'but you mustn't mind that. I have 
 to rush off to the Clegg Valley — seat of war — telegram 
 from London. Done all that I can here. Bertha, 
 will you do me a kindness ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' Take a cab to my lodgings, pack up all my 
 things, leave them at the station cloak-room and keep 
 the receipt till I send for it. It's all I shall do to 
 catch my train. I thought of staying here to see the 
 fun out, but I should rile an important man if I de- 
 clined to go. And as you two rejoice, it's just as 
 well. Explain to Holdsworth, will you ? Sorry I 
 couldn't say good-bye to him. But I hope to come 
 down for your wedding, Bertha. Rather I didn't ? 
 Well, well, I quite understand ; no harm done. 
 You'll have broader views some day. Good-bye ! 
 Not one minute to lose.' 
 
 And away he sped. 
 
 In a kw days Holdsworth was at Mapplebeck. 
 He listened with a grave smile to the repetition of 
 what Bertha had already told him in a letter. 
 ' And he went off in a tremendous hurry ? ' 
 ' Hardly time to say a dozen words. This
 
 THE FIREBRAND 55 
 
 morning he writes from London, and I have to send 
 on his luggage.' 
 
 ' From London ? I'm surprised he could do his 
 work for the newspaper so soon ! ' 
 
 ' He says it was too exciting for him — he was 
 falling ill again.' 
 
 Holdsworth could not feel absolutely sure that 
 his stratagem had got rid of the firebrand. Andrew's 
 explanations might be all true ; yet he disappeared 
 on the very day when that threatening letter must 
 have reached him ; and, what was more, on the day 
 when the strike began at Baker's Pits. In any case 
 an odd and amusing coincidence.
 
 56 
 
 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 ABOUT six o'clock, just as Harvey Munden came to 
 the end of his day's work, and grew aware that he 
 was hungry, someone knocked at the outer door — a 
 timid knock, signalling a person of no importance. 
 He went to open, and saw a man whose face he 
 remembered. 
 
 'What is it this time?' he asked good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I should like, if you will allow me, to 
 draw your attention to an ingenious little contrivance 
 — an absolute cure for smoky chimneys.' 
 
 The speaker seemed to be about forty ; he was 
 dressed with painful neatness, every article of his 
 clothing, from hat to boots, exhibiting some trace of 
 repair. He stood with his meagre form respectfully 
 bent, on his drawn features a respectful smile, and 
 prepared to open a small hand-bag —so strikingly 
 new that it put its bearer to shame. Harvey Munden 
 observed him, listened to his exposition, and said at 
 length : 
 
 ' When do you knock off work ? 
 
 ' Well, sir, this is probably my last call to-day.'
 
 AN INSPIRATION 57 
 
 ' Come in for a minute, then. I should like to 
 have a talk with you.' 
 
 Respectfully acquiescent, the man stepped forward 
 into the comfortable sitting-room, which he surveyed 
 with timid interest. His host gave him a chair by 
 the fireside, and induced him to talk of his efforts to 
 make a living. Brightened by the cheeriness of the 
 surroundings, and solaced by an unwonted sympathy, 
 the hapless struggler gave a very simple and very 
 lamentable account of himself. For years he had 
 lived on the petty commission of petty sales, sometimes 
 earning two or three shillings a day, but more often 
 reckoning the total in pence. 
 
 ' I'm one of those men, sir, that weren't made to 
 get on in the world. As a lad, I couldn't stick to 
 anything — couldn't seem to put my heart into any 
 sort of work, and that was the ruin of me — for I had 
 chances to begin with. I've never done anything to 
 be ashamed of — unless it's idleness.' 
 
 ' You are not married ? ' 
 
 His eyes fell, and his smile faded ; he shook his 
 head. The other watched him for a moment. 
 
 'Will you tell me your name? Mine is Munden.' 
 
 ' Nangle, sir — Laurence Nangle.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Nangle, will you come and dine with 
 me?' 
 
 Abashed and doubtful, the man drew his legs 
 further beneath the chair and twisted his hat. There 
 needed some pressure before he could bring himself
 
 58 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 to accept the invitation ; improbable as it seemed, he 
 was genuinely shy ; his stammered phrases and a 
 slight flush on his cheeks gave proof of it. 
 
 They descended together to the street, and 
 M unden called a hansom ; ten minutes' drive brought 
 them to the restaurant, where the host made choice 
 of a retired corner, and quietly gave his directions. 
 Nangle's embarrassment being still very observable, 
 Alunden tried to put him at ease by talking as to 
 any ordinary acquaintance, of the day's news, of the 
 commonest topics. It was not possible to explain 
 himself to his guest, to avow the thought which had 
 prompted this eccentric behaviour ; Nangle could not 
 but regard him with a certain uneasiness and sus- 
 picion ; but by dint of persistence in cheerful gossip 
 he gradually fixed the smile upon the face of his 
 shabby companion, and prepared him to do justice to 
 the repast. 
 
 Failure in that respect would not have been due 
 to lack of appetite. When soup was set before him 
 Nangle's lips betrayed their watery eagerness ; his 
 eyes rolled in the joy of anticipation. Obviously re- 
 straining himself, and anxious not to discredit his 
 host by any show of ill-breeding, he ate with slow 
 decorum — though his handling of the spoon obeyed 
 nature rather than the higher law. Having paused 
 for a moment to answer some remark of Munden's, he 
 was dismayed by the whisking away of his plate. 
 
 1 Rut— I— I hadn't finished "
 
 AN INSPIRATION 59 
 
 The waiter could not be called back, and Munden, 
 by treating the incident jocosely, made it contribute 
 to his guest's equanimity. When wine was poured 
 out for him Nangle showed a joyous suffusion over 
 all his changing countenance ; he drew a deep breath, 
 quivered at the lips, and straightened himself. 
 
 ' Mr. Munden ' — this when he had drunk a glass 
 — ' it is years since I tasted wine. And ah ! how it 
 does one good ! What medicine is like it ? ' 
 
 ' None that I know of,' jested Harvey, ' though I've 
 had wine uncommonly like medicine.' 
 
 Nangle laughed for the first time — a most strange 
 laugh, suggesting that he had lost the habit, and 
 could not hit a natural note. Feeling the first attempt 
 to be a failure, he tried again, and his louder voice 
 frightened him into silence. 
 
 ' What is your opinion ? ' asked Munden, smiling 
 at this bit of character. ' Is it possible for a shy man 
 to overcome the failing, with plenty of practice ? ' 
 
 ' Do you ask that because of anything you have 
 noticed in me ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes. It rather surprises me, after all your 
 experience, that you are still unhardened. How do 
 you manage to call at people's houses and face all 
 sorts of ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you may well ask ! Mr. Munden, it's a 
 daily death to me ; I assure you it is. I often stand 
 at a door shaking and trembling, and can scarcely 
 speak when it opens. I'm the last man to succeed in
 
 60 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 this kind of thing ; I do it because I can't do anything 
 else. But it's awful, Mr. Munden, awful ; and I get 
 no better. I know men who never feel it ; they'd 
 laugh in my face if I spoke of such a thing. But all 
 my life I've suffered from want of self-confidence. If 
 it hadn't been for that ' 
 
 He broke off to help himself from a dish offered 
 at his shoulder. The waiter's proximity startled him, 
 and for a few moments he ate in silence — ate with 
 manifest hunger, which he did not try to disguise ; for 
 the influences of the fortunate hour had warmed his 
 heart and were giving him courage. Munden set a 
 fair example, himself no despicable trencherman. 
 After an entree of peculiar savour, Nangle found it 
 impossible to restrain his feelings. 
 
 ' I never in all my life ate anything so good,' he 
 murmured across the table. 
 
 Munden observed the growth of a new man, born 
 of succulent food and generous wine. The character- 
 istics of the individual thus called into being promised 
 amusement ; it was clear that they would be amiable 
 and not unrefined. Semi-starvation and a hated 
 employment had not corrupted the original qualities 
 of Laurence Nangle ; rather, these qualities had been 
 frozen over, and so preserved. They were now 
 rapidly thawing, and the process, painful to him at 
 first, grew so enjoyable that delight beamed from his 
 eyes. 
 
 At dessert he talked without self-consciousness,
 
 AN INSPIRATION 61 
 
 and was led into reminiscence. Munden had chanced 
 to mention that he was a Yorkshireman. 
 
 'And so am I ! ' exclaimed Nangle ; ' so am I. 
 But I came away when I was a little lad, and I've 
 never been there since. Do you know Colchester? 
 That's where I grew up and was educated. I hadn't 
 a bad education ; most men would have made more 
 use of it. But something happened when I was a 
 young man — it seemed to floor me, and I've never 
 quite got over it.' 
 
 ' A love affair, I dare say ? ' 
 
 Nangle looked away and slowly nodded several 
 times. Then he drank with deliberation, and smacked 
 his lips. A glow was deepening on his hollow 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' Yes, you are right. I could tell you a strange 
 thing that happened to me only a few days ago. But, 
 first of all, I should like to know — why did you ask 
 me to dine with you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, an inspiration.' 
 
 ' You thought I looked hungry. Yes, so I was ; 
 and the dinner has done me good. I feel better than 
 I have done for years — for years. I could tell you a 
 strange thing ' 
 
 He paused, a shade of troublous agitation passing 
 over the gleam of his countenance. After waiting for 
 a moment Munden asked whether he smoked. 
 
 ' When I can afford it, which isn't very often.' 
 
 They rose and went to the smoking-room.
 
 62 AX INSPIRATION 
 
 Nanglc's step had the lightness, the spring of re- 
 covered youth. He selected a cigar with fastidious 
 appreciation : buoyantly he declared for cognac with 
 the coffee. And presently the stream of his talk 
 flowed on. 
 
 ' Yes, I had a very good education at a private 
 school — a commercial school. You don't know 
 Colchester ? I went into the office of a wool-stapler 
 Cliffe was his name ; our best friend, and always 
 very kind to me. I didn't get on very well — never 
 was such a fellow for making mistakes and forgetting 
 addresses, and so on. I was an idle young dog, but I 
 meant well — I assure you I meant well. And Mr. 
 Cliffe seemed to like me, and asked me to his house 
 the same as before. I wish he hadn't ; I should have 
 done better if he'd been a little hard with me. He 
 
 had a daughter Ah, well ; you begin to see. 
 
 When I was one-and-twenty, she was nineteen, and 
 we fell in love with each other. We used to meet 
 in a quiet place just outside the town — you don't 
 know Colchester, or I could tell you the spot. I 
 happened to be down there a year or two ago, 
 and I went and sat in the old place for a whole 
 day. Ah, well ! — Lucy Cliffe ; I've only to say the 
 
 name, and I go back — back It makes me 
 
 young again.' 
 
 His eyes grew fixed ; the hand in which he held 
 his cigar fell. A deep sigh, and he continued : 
 
 ' I believe her father would have helped us, one
 
 AN INSPIRATION 63 
 
 way or another ; but Mrs. Clifife spoilt all. When it 
 came out, there was a fearful to-do. Lucy was what 
 you may call rich ; at all events, she'd be left comfort- 
 ably off some day. As for me — what prospects had 
 I ? Mr. Cliffe talked kindly to me, but he had to send 
 me away. He got me a place in London. Lucy 
 wrote me a letter before I went, and said she must 
 obey her parents. We were like each other in that : 
 soft, both of us ; hadn't much will of our own. And 
 so we never saw each other again — not till a few days 
 ago.' 
 
 1 She married someone else, no doubt ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she did. And I knew all about it, worse 
 luck ; I'd rather have lost sight of her altogether. 
 She married the brother of a friend of mine ; well, not 
 a friend, but an acquaintance, who was in London 
 when I came, twenty years ago. She married three 
 years after our parting, and I've heard of her from 
 James Dunning (that's her brother-in-law's name) off 
 and on ever since. I used to have a good opinion of 
 Dunning, but I know better now. He's a rough, 
 selfish brute ! ' 
 
 The last words were uttered with startling vehe- 
 mence. Nangle clenched his fist, and sat stiffly, 
 quivering with excitement. Munden subdued a 
 smile. 
 
 ' A long time back, nearly four years, this fellow 
 Dunning told me that his brother had just died. 
 Lucy was left with her daughter, the only child she'd
 
 6 4 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 had ; and they lived at Ipswich. Since then, I've met 
 Dunning only once or twice, and when I asked him 
 about Lucy, he just said she was going on as usual, or 
 supposed she was. He told a lie. and I half guess the 
 reason of it The other day— do you know Prince of 
 Wales Road, Kentish Town ? You've heard of it. 
 Well, I was going along Prince of Wales Road, in the 
 usual business way, and I knocked at the door of a 
 largish, respectable-looking house. The minute I'd 
 knocked the door opened ; it was a lady just coming 
 ou t — dressed in black. She looked at me, and I 
 looked at her. I had a queer feeling, and there 
 seemed to be something of the same on her side. I 
 was just going to say something, when she asked me 
 who it was I wished to see. I had only to hear her 
 voice, and I knew I wasn't mistaken. But I didn't 
 dare to speak ; I stood staring at her, and she stood 
 just as still. At last I somehow got out a word—" I 
 think you are Mrs. Dunning ? " — " And you," she said, 
 all of a tremble, "you are Laurence Nangle." Then 
 she turned round to the door, and asked me to come 
 in. And we sat down in a dining-room, and began 
 to talk. You can't imagine how I felt. It was like 
 talking in a dream ; I didn't know what I said. Lucy 
 hadn't altered very much — nothing like as much as I 
 shouid have expected in twenty years. She seemed 
 so young I could hardly believe it. Of course she's 
 only about thirty-eight, and has lived all her life in 
 comfort. But it's wonderful she should have known
 
 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 after all I've gone through. I must seem more 
 like sixty than forty ' 
 
 • Not at present,' remarked the listener. And 
 truly, for the warm, animated face before him was 
 that of a comparatively young man. 
 
 •Well, I felt bitterly ashamed of myself, dressed 
 as I was, and peddling from house to house. She 
 kept staring at me, as if she could: t get over her 
 astonishment. Had she never heard of me ? I us 
 '■. r es, she had, even- now and then. James Dun- 
 ning had told her I was a commercial traveller, or 
 something of that kind. Then I asked if she was 
 living here, in Kentish Town. . as 
 
 James Dunning and his wife. " And your daughter 
 
 ill ? " I asked. Then she began to cry, and told 
 me her daughter had been dead for nearly two years, 
 and she was quite alone, but for the Dunnings, who 
 were very kind to her. She had come to live with 
 them after her daughter's death. And she told me 
 her husband had left her very well off, but what was 
 the use of it when all her family was gone : — And just 
 then we were disturbed by some one coming into the 
 room ; a flashy sort of young woman, I guessed her 
 to be Dunning's wife, and I was right Lucy — I 
 
 t help calling her Lucy — stood up, and looked 
 nervous ; and of course I stood up too. " I didn't 
 know any one was here.' - said her- . - - 
 very hard at me. " It's some one I used to know, 
 said Lucy. "Oh, then I won't intrude." — L 
 
 F
 
 66 AX INSPIRATION 
 
 couldn't say any more. She was ashamed of me, 
 after all. But I felt a good deal more ashamed of 
 myself, and I choked something about being in a 
 hurry, and got out of the room. Neither of them 
 tried to stop me. When I'd let myself out at the 
 front door, I walked off like a madman, running into 
 people because I didn't see them, and talking to 
 myself, and going on straight ahead, till I came to my 
 senses somewhere out Hampstead way.' 
 
 ' I hope that isn't the end of the story,' said 
 Munden, as he cut the tip of a second cigar. 
 
 ' I only wish it was,' returned his guest, frowning 
 and straightening himself as before. ' Now, you 
 know something about me, Mr. Munden — I mean, you 
 can form some notion of the man I am from what I 
 have told you. And do you think that I could do 
 such a mean thing as go to that lady — her I call 
 Lucy, for old-time sake — in the hope of getting 
 money from her ? Do you believe it of me ? ' 
 
 ' Assuredly not.' 
 
 ' I thank you for your saying so. It came about 
 like this. I did a foolish thing. Two days after that 
 meeting I had to be in Kentish Town again, and late 
 in the evening I passed near Prince of Wales Road. 
 Well, I was tempted. I couldn't resist the wish to go 
 by that house where she lives. And when I got near 
 it, in the dark, I stood still ; some one was playing a 
 piano inside, and I thought it might be Lucy. I stood 
 for a minute or two — and all at once a man came up
 
 AN INSPIRATION 67 
 
 from behind mc and stared in my face. James 
 Dunning it was. " Halloa ! " he said. " Then it is you, 
 Nangle. I just thought it might be. And what are 
 you doing here ? " I couldn't understand his way of 
 speaking, and I hadn't any words ready. " Now, look 
 here, Nangle," he went on, drawing mc away by the 
 arm ; " you've found out that my sister-in-law is living 
 with us. I didn't want you to know, because I 
 couldn't trust you, and after what happened the day 
 before yesterday I see I was right. Of course they 
 told me. Now I want you to understand that my 
 sister-in-law can't be troubled in this way. I suppose 
 you're spying here on the chance that she may come 
 out ; I'm glad I happened to find you at it. If you're 
 in low water I don't mind lending you half-a-crown, 
 but you'll keep out of Prince of Wales Road, or I 
 shall know how to deal with you." There, that's what 
 he said to me. I wasn't man enough to strike him as 
 I ought to have done ; I've always been poor-spirited. 
 I just told him in a few hot words what I thought of 
 his behaviour, and went off, feeling devilish miserable 
 I can assure you.' 
 
 Munden reflected. There was silence for a little. 
 
 ' Do you suppose,' asked the host at length, ' that 
 Mrs. Dunning— the widowed lady — regarded you with 
 any such suspicion ? ' 
 
 ' Not for one moment,' cried Nangle. 
 
 ' No ? and isn't it possible that you misunder- 
 stood her when you thought she was ashamed of 
 
 f 2
 
 68 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 you ? From what you have told me of her charac- 
 ter ' 
 
 ' Yes,' interrupted the other eagerly, ' no doubt I 
 was wrong in that. She felt like I did — a sort of 
 shame, a sort of awkwardness ; but if I had stayed 
 she'd have got over it. I'm sure she would. I was a 
 fool to bolt like that. It gave James Dunning's wife 
 a chance of thinking of me as her husband does. It's 
 all my fault' 
 
 1 And another thing. You take it for granted that 
 James Dunning accused you of wanting to beg or 
 borrow from his sister-in-law. Doesn't it occur to you 
 that he might be afraid of something else — something 
 more serious from his point of view ? ' 
 
 ' I don't quite understand.' 
 
 ' Why, suppose that when the widowed lady talked 
 to him about you she showed a good deal more 
 interest in you than James Dunning approved ? 
 Suppose she even asked for your address, or some- 
 thing of that kind ?' 
 
 Nangle fixed a gaze on the speaker. His eyes 
 widened to express an agitating thought. 
 
 ' You think —that— is possible ? ' 
 
 ' Well, not impossible.' 
 
 ' And that fellow— is afraid — Lucy might ' 
 
 ' Precisely. In all likelihood that would be very 
 disagreeable to Mr. and Mrs. James Dunning. She 
 is a widow in easy circumstances, without children, 
 without near relatives '
 
 AN INSPIRATION 69 
 
 ' You arc right ! ' murmured Nangle slowly. ' I 
 see it now. That's why he has been afraid of me. 
 And he must have had some reason. Perhaps she 
 has spoken of me. It seems impossible — after all 
 these years ' 
 
 He sank back, and stared into vacancy with 
 glowing eyes. 
 
 ' In your position,' said Munden, ' I should take 
 an early opportunity of revisiting Prince of Wales 
 Road.' 
 
 ' How can I ? Think of my poverty ! How can 
 you advise such a thing ? ' 
 
 ' It behoves you,' continued the other, with much 
 gravity, ' to clear your character in the eyes of that 
 lady. In justice to yourself ' 
 
 ' Again you are right ! I will go to-morrow.' 
 
 ' It seems to me that this is a case for striking 
 while the iron is hot. It's now only eight o'clock, and 
 give me leave to say that you will never be so able to 
 justify yourself as this evening. A hansom will take 
 you to Kentish Town in half-an-hour.' 
 
 Nangle started up— the picture of radiant resolve. 
 
 ' I have just half-a-crown in my pocket, and that's 
 how I'll use it ! Thank you ! You have made me see 
 things in a new light. I feel another man ! And if 
 I find that what you hinted at is really the case, 
 shall I hesitate out of false shame ? Which is better 
 for Lucy : to live with those people, always feeling 
 sad and lonesome, or to find a real home with the
 
 ;o AN INSPIRATION 
 
 man she loved when she was a girl— the man who 
 has loved her all his life ?' 
 
 ' Bravo ! This is the right — the heroic vein.' 
 
 In five minutes they had quitted the restaurant. 
 They found a hansom, and, as he leapt into it, Nangle 
 shouted gallantly to the driver : ' Prince of Wales 
 Road, Kentish Town ! ' Impossible to recognise the 
 voice which but two hours since had murmured 
 respectfully at Harvey Munden's door. ' Come and 
 see me to-morrow,' Munden called to him, and a hand 
 waved from the starting cab. 
 
 Munden was entertained, and something more. 
 Partly out of kindness, in part from curiosity, he had 
 given a good dinner to a poor devil oppressed with ills ; 
 he desired to warm the man's chill)- blood and to 
 improve its quality ; he wished to study the effects of 
 such stirring influence in this particular case. And it 
 seemed probable that he had achieved a good deal 
 more than the end in view. It might come to pass 
 that a good-humoured jest would change incalculably 
 the course of two lives. 
 
 It happened that on the morrow he was obliged 
 to go out of town. On returning late at night he 
 found in his letter-box a hand-delivered note, with 
 the signature, ' Laurence Nangle.' Only a couple of 
 lines to say that Nangle had called twice, and that he 
 would come again in a day or two. ' Yours grate- 
 fully,' he wrote himself, which possibly signified the 
 news Munden hoped for.
 
 AN INSPIRATION 71 
 
 Nearly a week went by, and again at six o'clock 
 Munden was summoned to the door by a knock he 
 recognised. There stood Mr. Nangle— quantum 
 mutatusl In his hand no commercial bag, but a 
 most respectable umbrella ; on his head an irre- 
 proachable silk hat ; the rest of his equipment in 
 harmony therewith. The disappearance of an un- 
 comely beard had struck a decade from his apparent 
 age; he held himself with a certain modest dignity, 
 and did not shrink from the scrutiny of astonished 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Come in ! Delighted to see you.' 
 
 He entered, and for a moment seated himself, but 
 his feelings would not allow him to keep a restful 
 position. Starting up again, he exclaimed : 
 
 ' Mr. Munden, what can a man say when he's in 
 debt for all that makes life worth living? ' 
 
 ' It depends whether the creditor is man or woman.' 
 
 ' In my case, it's both. But if it hadn't been for 
 
 you 
 
 His voice failed him. 
 
 ' I was right, was I ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, you were right. I'll tell you about it. I 
 got out of the cab at the end of Prince of Wales 
 Road, and walked to the house. I knocked at the 
 door. A servant came, and I told her I wished to 
 see Mrs. Dunning — the widow lady. I'd hardly 
 spoken when James Dunning came out of a room ; 
 he had heard my voice. " What's the meaning of
 
 72 AN INSPIRATION 
 
 this ? " he said in his brutal way, pushing up against 
 me. "Didn't you understand me?" "Yes I did, and 
 better than you think. I have come to see a lady 
 
 who happens to live in your house " And just 
 
 then I saw Lucy herself at the back of the hall. I 
 brushed past Dunning, and went right up to her. 
 " Mrs. Dunning, I wish to speak to you. Will you 
 let me ? Or do you want me to be turned out of the 
 house like a beggar ? " " No, no ! " She was white as 
 a sheet, and held out her hand to me, as if she 
 wanted protection. " It's all a mistake. You must 
 stay — I want you to stay ! " James's wife had come 
 forward, and she was staring at me savagely. 
 "Where can we talk in private?" I asked; and I 
 didn't let go Lucy's hand. Then, all of a sudden, 
 Dunning turned about ; you never saw such a change 
 in a man. " Why, Lucy, what's the matter ? I thought 
 you didn't wish to see Mr. Nangle. You've altogether 
 misled us." I looked at Lucy, and she was going red 
 — and then I saw tears in her eyes. " Go into the 
 drawing-room, Nangle," said Dunning. " It's all a 
 misunderstanding. We must talk it over afterwards." 
 So I went into the room, and Lucy came after me, 
 and I shut the door ' 
 
 He stopped with a choke of emotion. 
 
 ' Excellent, i'faith,' said Munden, beaming. 
 
 ' Do you suppose,' continued the other, gravely, 
 ' that I could ever have done that if it hadn't been for 
 your dinner? Never! Never! I should have crept
 
 AN INSPIRATION 73 
 
 on through my miserable life, and died at last in the 
 workhouse ; when all the time there was a woman 
 whose own happiness depended on a bit of courage 
 in me. She'd never have dared to show a will of her 
 own ; James Dunning and his wife were too strong 
 for her. Cowards, both of us— but I was the worst. 
 And you put a man's heart into me. Your dinner — 
 your wine— your talk ! If I hadn't gone that night, 
 I should never have gone at all — never ! ' 
 
 • I knew that.' 
 
 1 But what I can't understand is — why did you 
 ask me to dine with you ? Why ? It's like what 
 they call the finger of Providence.' 
 
 ' Yes. As I told you — it was an inspiration.'
 
 74 
 
 THE POETS PORTMANTEAU 
 
 I 
 
 THE poet had been nourishing his soul down in 
 Devon. A petty windfall, a minim legacy, which 
 plucked him from scholastic bondage in a London 
 suburb, was now all but consumed. He turned his 
 face once more to the mart of men, strong in the 
 sanguine courage of two-and-twenty. His luggage 
 (the sum total of his personal property, except 
 twenty pounds sterling) consisted of a trunk and a 
 portmanteau. The latter he kept beside him in the 
 railway carriage — a small and very shabby port- 
 manteau, but it guarded the result of ten months' 
 work, the manuscript volume (entitled The Hermit 
 of the Tor; and Other Poems) whereon rested all his 
 hopes. A few articles of clothing and of daily 
 necessity were packed in the same receptacle. On 
 reaching London he would deposit his trunk at the 
 station, and carry the small portmanteau whilst he 
 searched for a temporary lodging. 
 
 Green vales and bosky slopes of Devon ; the 
 rolling uplands of Wiltshire ; the streams and heaths 
 and wooded hills of Surrey. It was late autumn, and
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 75 
 
 the day drew to its close. Through mists of evening 
 a red orb hung huge above the horizon ; it crim- 
 soned and grew lurid, athwart the first driftings of 
 London smoke ; it disappeared amid towers and 
 chimneys and squalor multiform. The poet grasped 
 his portmanteau, and leapt out on to the platform of 
 Waterloo Station. 
 
 One cheap room was all he wanted, and as he 
 could not carry his burden very far he turned south- 
 ward, guided by memory of the gray, small streets 
 off Kennington Road. Twenty minutes' walk brought 
 him into a by-way where every other window offered 
 its card of invitation to wanderers such as he. At 
 this hour of gloom there was little to choose between 
 one house and another. A few paces ahead of him 
 sounded the knock of a telegraph messenger. Where 
 telegrams were delivered there must be, he thought, 
 some measure of civilisation ; so he lingered till the 
 boy had gone away, then directed his steps to that door. 
 His rat-tat was answered by a young woman, 
 whose personal appearance surprised him. Her 
 features were handsome and intelligent, though 
 scarcely amiable ; her clothing indicated poverty, 
 but was not such as would be worn by a girl of the 
 working class ; her language and manner completed 
 the proof that she was no native of this region. 
 ' Yes,' she said, speaking distantly and nervously, 
 ' a single room was to let, a room up at the top.' 
 The poet, as became a poet, observed with emotional
 
 76 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 interest this unexpected figure. Only a wretched 
 little oil-lamp hung in the passage, and he could not 
 see the girl's face very distinctly ; perhaps the first 
 impression of sullenness was a mistake ; it might be 
 only the shrinking self-respect of one whom circum- 
 stances had forced into a false position. He noticed 
 that in her hand she held a telegram. 
 
 ' Would you let me see the room ? ' 
 
 ' Please wait a moment.' 
 
 She went upstairs, and soon reappeared with a 
 lighted candle. Leaving his portmanteau, he fol- 
 lowed her through the usual stuffy atmosphere to a 
 chamber of the usual dreariness. His attendant 
 placed her candle within the room, then drew back 
 and waited outside on the landing. 
 
 ' I think this would do. What is the rent ? ' 
 
 There was hesitation. The poet stepped forward, 
 and endeavoured to discern a face amid the shadows. 
 
 1 Eight shillings — I think,' he was at length 
 answered. 
 
 Ah, then she was not the landlady. Perhaps the 
 daughter of people who had come to grief. He 
 began to speak of details ; she answered shortly, but 
 to his satisfaction. 
 
 ' I shall be glad to take the room for a week or 
 two. I'll go and bring up my portmanteau.' 
 
 ' It is usual ' — he still could not see the speaker — 
 ' to pay a week's rent in advance.' 
 
 ' Oh, to be sure.'
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 77 
 
 Determined to see her face in full light he took 
 up the candle, and stepped with it on to the landing. 
 As if aware of his motive, the girl stood in a retiring 
 attitude ; but she met his gaze, and they looked, for 
 an instant, steadily at each other. She was hand- 
 some, but her lips had a hard, defiant expression, and 
 in her eyes he read either the suffering of a womanly 
 nature or the recklessness of one indifferent to all 
 good. Her speech favoured the pleasanter inter- 
 pretation ; yet, after all, the countenance disturbed 
 rather than attracted him. 
 
 An old box stood by the head of the stairs ; on 
 this he placed the candle, and then drew from his 
 pocket the sum he had to pay. The girl thanked 
 him coldly. He ran downstairs, fetched his port- 
 manteau, and put it in a corner of the dark room. 
 Then they again faced each other. 
 
 • By-the-bye,' he said, wishing he could draw her 
 into conversation, ' what's the address ? I have come 
 here by mere chance.' 
 
 She gave the information as briefly as possible. 
 
 ' Thank you. Now I must go out and get some- 
 thing to eat.' 
 
 The girl would not speak. There was nothing 
 for it but to turn and descend the stairs. She fol- 
 lowed, and half-way down her voice stopped him. 
 
 ' When shall you be back to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Not later than eleven, I think.' 
 
 And so they parted, the poet taking a last look 
 at her as he opened the front door.
 
 78 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 She had strongly affected his imagination. As 
 he walked towards Westminster, new rhymes and 
 rhythms sang within him to the roaring music of 
 the street. The Devon hermitage was a far, faint 
 memory. London had welcomed him with so 
 sudden a glimpse of her infinite romance that he half 
 repented his long seclusion. 
 
 At about the hour he had mentioned he returned 
 to seek a night's rest. Would the same face appear 
 when the door opened ? He waited anxiously, and 
 suffered a sad disappointment, for his knock was 
 answered by just the kind of person that might 
 have been expected — the typical landlady of cheap 
 lodgings, a puffy, slatternly woman chewing a mouth- 
 ful of the supper from which she had risen. 
 
 ' Good evening,' said the poet, as cheerfully as he 
 could. ' I am your new lodger.' 
 
 The woman stared, as if failing to understand him. 
 
 ' 1 took a room at the top, early this evening.' 
 
 ' You've made a mistake. It's the wrong 'ouse.' 
 
 1 But isn't this ? ' he named the address which 
 
 the girl had given him. 
 
 ' Yes, that's 'ere.' 
 
 ' I thought so. I remember the house perfectly. 
 You were out, I suppose. I saw a — a young woman. 
 I paid a week's rent in advance.' 
 
 This circumstantial story increased the listener's 
 astonishment. She glared with protuberant eyes, 
 breathed quickly, and gave a snort.
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 79 
 
 ' Well, that's a queer thing. Wait a minute.' 
 
 She went upstairs, and could be heard to tap at a 
 door ; but there followed no sound of voices. Then 
 she came down again, and asked for a description of 
 the young woman who had acted as her representative. 
 The poet answered rather vaguely. 
 
 ' We have somebody of that sort lodgin' 'ere, but 
 she's out. You say you paid eight shillin's ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. And left my portmanteau ; you'll find it 
 upstairs.' 
 
 Again the landlady disappeared. When she re- 
 turned her face exhibited a contemptuous satisfaction. 
 
 1 There's no portmanty nowheres in this 'ouse. I 
 told you you'd made a mistake. Try next door ! ' 
 
 The poet was staggered. Mistaken he could not 
 be ; the little oil-lamp, a dirty engraving on the wall 
 of the passage, remained so clearly in his mind. A 
 shapeless fear took hold upon him. 
 
 ' Pray let me go up with you to the top room. I 
 know this was the house. Let me see the room.' 
 
 The woman was impatient and suspicious. At 
 this moment there sounded from the back of the 
 passage a male voice, asking, ' What's up ? ' A man 
 came forward ; the difficulty was explained. For a 
 second time the baffled poet essayed a description of 
 the girl he remembered so well. 
 
 ' He means Miss Rowe,' said the husband. ' She 
 ain't in ? Then you just take a light, and 'ave a good 
 look in her room.'
 
 8o THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 They went up together to the first floor, and the 
 poet, unable to keep still, followed them at a distance. 
 He was seriously alarmed. If his portmanteau were 
 to be lost — heavens ! His poems — his only copy ! 
 Some of the shorter ones he could rewrite from 
 memory, but the backbone of his volume, The 
 Hermit of the Tor, could not be reproduced. And 
 how could the portmanteau have vanished ? That 
 girl Surely, surely, impossible ! Much rather sus- 
 pect these vulgar people, or someone else of whom he 
 knew nothing. 
 
 Man and wife were searching within the room. He 
 heard feminine exclamations and a masculine oath. 
 Unable to control himself he pushed open the door. 
 
 1 She's took her 'ook,' said the man, looking at him 
 with a grin. ' See — 'ere's her tin box — empty ! 
 nothing as belongs to her in the room.' 
 
 ' And owin' a week's rent ! ' cried his wife. ' I 
 might 'a' known better than to trust her. There 
 wasn't no good in her face. She's sloped with your 
 eight bob and your portmanty, I'll take my hoath !' 
 
 The poet seized the candle, and strode up the 
 higher flight of stairs. Yes, there was the old box on 
 the landing ; yes, this was the room he had paid for. 
 Phen ! plieu ! 
 
 ' Sal ! ' roared the man's voice, ' 'ev a look and see 
 if she's laid 'ands on anything of ours ! ' 
 
 The woman yelled at the suggestion, and began a 
 fierce rummage, high and low.
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 81 
 
 1 I can't miss nothin',' she kept shouting. And at 
 length, ' Go and fetch a p'liceman. D' year, Matt ? 
 Go and fetch a p'liceman. This 'ere young gent '11 
 be chargin' us with robbin' him.' 
 
 ' Where's your receipt for the eight bob ? ' asked 
 her husband, turning angrily upon the poet. 
 
 ' I took no receipt.' 
 
 1 That doesn't sound very likely.' 
 
 ' Likely or not, it's true,' cried the other, ex- 
 asperated by this insult added to his misfortune. 
 ' Fetch a policeman, or else I shall. We'll have this 
 investigated.' 
 
 ' I'll jolly soon do that,' was the man's retort. 
 ' Think you're dealin' with thieves, do you ? Begin 
 
 that kind o' talk, and I'll 'Ere, Sal, keep a heye 
 
 on him whilst I go for the copper.' 
 
 What ensued calls for no detailed narrative. 
 Suffice it that by midnight all had been done that 
 could be done in the way of charges, defences, and 
 official interrogation. Later, the poet sat talking 
 with his rough acquaintances in their own parlour. 
 After all, the people had lost nothing but a week's 
 rent, and they were at length brought to some show 
 of sympathy with the stranger so shamefully treated 
 under their roof. He, for his part, decided still to 
 occupy the bedroom, which would be let to him, 
 magnanimously, for seven-and-sixpence : whilst the 
 police were trying to track his plunderer he might as 
 well remain on the spot. At one o'clock he went 
 
 G
 
 82 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 gloomily to bed, and in his troubled sleep dreamt 
 that he was chasing that mysterious girl up hill and 
 down dale amid the Devon moorland ; she, always 
 far in advance, held his fated manuscript above her 
 head, and laughed maliciously. 
 
 II 
 
 On the eighth anniversary of that memorable day 
 the poet could look back upon his loss with an 
 amused indifference. He was a poet still, but no 
 longer uttered himself in verse. The success of an 
 essay in romantic fiction had shown him how to live 
 by his pen, and a second book made his name 
 familiar ' at all the libraries.' For a man of simple 
 tastes he was in clover. He dwelt among the Surrey 
 hills, and on his occasional visits to London did not seek 
 a lodging in the neighbourhood of Kennington Road. 
 As for The Hermit of the Tor, though often 
 enough he wondered as to its fate, on the whole he 
 was glad it had never been published. To be sure, 
 no publisher would have risked money on it. In his 
 vague recollection, the thing seemed horribly crude ; 
 he remembered a line or two that made him shut his 
 eyes and mutter inarticulately. The lyrics might 
 be passable ; a couple of them, preserved in his mind, 
 had got printed in a magazine some five years ago. 
 One of his ambitions at present was to write a 
 poetical drama, but he merely mused over the 
 selected theme.
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 83 
 
 He was thus occupied one winter afternoon as he 
 strolled from the outlying cottage, which he had made 
 his home, to the nearest village. A footstep on 
 the hard road caused him to look up, and he saw 
 the postman drawing near. This encounter saved the 
 humble official a half-mile walk ; he delivered a letter 
 into the poet's hands. 
 
 A letter redirected by his publishers ; probably 
 the tribute of an admiring reader, such as he had not 
 seldom received of late. With a smile he opened it, 
 and the contents proved to be of more interest than 
 he had anticipated. 
 
 ' SIR, — I have in my possession a manuscript 
 which bears your name, as that of its author, and 
 dates from some years back. It consists of poetical 
 compositions, the longest of them entitled The 
 Hermit of the Tor. I cannot at present explain to 
 you how these papers came into my hands, but I 
 should like to return them to their true owner, and 
 for this purpose I should be glad if you would allow 
 me to meet you, at your own place and time. But 
 for a residence abroad, I should probably have 
 addressed you on the subject long before this, as I 
 find that your name is well known to English readers. 
 Please direct your reply to Penwell's Library, West- 
 bourne Grove, W., and believe me, 
 
 ' Faithfully yours, 
 
 ' Eustace Grey.' 
 
 At the head of the letter there was no address. 
 
 g 2
 
 84 :THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 'Eustace Grey' sounded uncommonly like a pseu- 
 donym. Altogether a very surprising sequel to the 
 adventure of eight years ago. Was the writer man 
 or woman ? Impossible to decide from the penman- 
 ship, which was bold, careless, indicative of character 
 and of education. As a man, at all events, the 
 mysterious person must be answered, and curiosity 
 permitted no delay. Where should the meeting take 
 place ? He had no inclination to breathe the air of 
 London just now, and a journey of twenty miles 
 might fairly be exacted from a correspondent who 
 chose to write in the strain of melodrama. Let 
 1 Eustace Grey ' come hither. 
 
 With all brevity the poet invited him to take a 
 certain train from Waterloo, which would enable him 
 to reach the cottage at about four in the afternoon, 
 on a specified day. 
 
 The appointed hour was just upon nightfall. 
 With blind drawn, lamp lit, and a log blazing in the 
 old fireplace, the poet awaited his visitor, who might 
 or might not come, for no second communication had 
 been received from him. If he came, he would 
 doubtless take a conveyance from the railway station, 
 a mile and a half away ; a rumble of wheels would 
 announce him. At a quarter past four no such 
 signal was yet audible, but five minutes later it struck 
 upon the listener's ear. He stood up, and waited in 
 nervous expectancy. 
 
 The vehicle stopped by the door ; a knock
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 85 
 
 sounded. A tap at the door of the sitting-room, and 
 there appeared, led by the servant, a tall lad)-. She- 
 was warmly and expensively clad ; wraps and furs 
 disguised the outline of her figure, and allowed but 
 an imperfect view of her features. In a moment, 
 however, she threw some of the superfluities aside, 
 and stood gazing at the poet, who saw now that she 
 was a woman of not more than thirty, with a strong, 
 handsome face, and a form that pleased his eye. She 
 offered a hand. 
 
 ' If I had known ' he began, breaking the 
 
 silence with voice apologetic. But she interrupted him. 
 
 ' You wouldn't have brought me all this way. 
 Never mind. It's better. I shall be glad to have 
 made a pilgrimage to the home of the celebrated 
 author.' 
 
 Her language and utterance certainly did not 
 lack refinement, but she spoke with more familiarity 
 than the poet was prepared for. He judged her a 
 type of the woman that lives in so-called smart 
 society. His pulses had a slight flutter ; in observing 
 and admiring her he all but forgot the strange 
 history in which she was concerned. 
 
 ' The cab will wait for me,' she continued, ' so I 
 mustn't be long.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that,' replied the poet, so far 
 imitating her as to talk like an old acquaintance. 
 ' You shall have a cup of tea at once.' He rang a 
 hand-bell. ' You've had a cold journey.'
 
 36 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 Whilst he spoke he saw her lay upon the table 
 a rolled packet, which was doubtless his manuscript. 
 Then she seated herself in an easy chair by the 
 fireside, glanced round the room, smiled at her 
 own thoughts, and met his look with a steady gaze. 
 
 ' Are you Eustace Grey ? ' he inquired, taking a 
 seat over against her. 
 
 ' I chose the name at random. My own doesn't 
 matter. I am only an — an intermediary, as you 
 would say in a book.' 
 
 He searched her countenance closely, persistently, 
 without regard to good manners. It was no common 
 face. Had he ever seen it before? It did not charm 
 him, but decidedly it affected his imagination. This 
 could not be an ordinary woman of fashion. He 
 knew little of the wealthy world, but his experience 
 of life assured him that ' Eustace Grey' was not now 
 for the first time engaged in transactions which had a 
 savour of romance. 
 
 ' Those are my verses ? ' He pointed towards the 
 table. 
 
 ' Exactly as they left your hands,' she answered 
 calmly. 
 
 ' Or my portmanteau, rather.' 
 
 1 Yes, your portmanteau.' She accepted the cor- 
 rection with a smile. 
 
 Surely he had not seen her face before ? Surely 
 he had never heard her voice ? At this moment the 
 servant entered with a tea-tray. The poet stood up and
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 87 
 
 waited upon his visitor. As soon as the door had 
 closed she said : 
 
 1 You are not married ? ' 
 
 ' No — unhappily.' 
 
 ' Please don't add the word in compliment to me. 
 I'm delighted to know that you keep your inde- 
 pendence. Don't marry for a long time. And you 
 live here always ? ' 
 
 ' Most of the year.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are not like ordinary men.' 
 
 1 Nor you — I was thinking — like ordinary 
 women.' 
 
 ' Well, no ; I suppose not' She looked at him 
 with a peculiar frankness, with a softer expression than 
 her face had yet shown, and, whilst speaking, she 
 drew off her left-hand glove. A peculiarity in the 
 movement excited her companion's attention ; he 
 saw that she wore two rings, one of them of plain 
 gold. 
 
 ' I like your books,' was her next remark. 
 
 'I'm glad of it' 
 
 ' Have you good health ? You look rather pale 
 — for one who lives in the country.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am very well.' 
 
 ' To be sure you have brains, and use them. It's 
 pleasant to know that there are such men.' She 
 sipped her tea. ' But time is going, and the driver 
 and horse will freeze.' 
 
 ' I have no stable,' said the poet, ' but the man
 
 88 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 can sit by the kitchen fire and have some ale. Any- 
 thing to make your visit longer.' 
 
 1 Complimentary ; but I am here on business.' 
 She had grown more distant. ' Of course, you want 
 to know how those papers came into my hands. I'll 
 tell you, and make a short story of it. I had them a 
 year or two ago from a friend of mine — a girl, who 
 died. She had stolen them.' 
 
 The listener gave a start, and looked at the face 
 before him more intently than ever. He detected no 
 shrinking, but a certain suggestion of defiance. 
 
 ' She was a girl who did what is supposed to be 
 the privilege of men — sowed wild oats. She came to 
 an end of her money, and found herself in a poor 
 lodging — somewhere in the south of London ' 
 
 ' Off Kennington Road,' murmured the poet. 
 
 ' Very likely. I forget. She had got rid of all 
 the clothing she could spare. She was a week behind 
 with her rent. Another day or two, and she would 
 starve. No way of earning money, it seemed. Poor 
 thing, she thought herself something of an artist, and 
 went about offering drawings to the papers and the 
 publishers ; but I'm afraid the work was poor to begin 
 with, and got poorer as she did. The desperate state 
 of things made her fierce and ready for anything. 
 
 1 However, she had a girl friend who wrote to her 
 now and then, addressing to the name she had 
 assumed. This friend lived far away in the north, and 
 earned her own living. One afternoon, just when
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 89 
 
 things were at the blackest, there arrived a telegram : 
 " If you come at once, I can promise you employment. 
 Start immediately." All very well, but how was she 
 to raise fifteen shillings or so for her journey ? Now 
 it happened that at this moment she was the only 
 person in the house. The landlady, she knew, would 
 be away for two or three hours ; the husband wouldn't 
 be home till eight (it was now five), and another 
 lodger had just gone out. I mention this — you know 
 why. Whilst she was still standing with the telegram 
 in her hand, some one knocked. She opened the door. 
 A young man, carrying a portmanteau — a very nice- 
 looking young man, who spoke softly and pleasantly 
 — had come for a lodging ; he wanted one room. She 
 let him in, and took him upstairs.' 
 
 ' She did,' murmured the poet, his eyes straying 
 about the room. 
 
 ' And you remembered what followed ? ' 
 
 ' Remarkably well. I can see — well, I'm not quite 
 sure ; but I think I can see her face.' 
 
 ' Can you ? Well, until you had left the house 
 her intention was perfectly honest. She thought 
 that, in return for her service in letting the room 
 the landlady might perhaps lend her money for the 
 journey north, and trust for repayment. But as 
 soon as you had gone the devil began whispering. 
 Your money lay in her hand. Your portmanteau 
 contained things that would sell or pawn. The 
 chance of a loan from the landlady was dreadfully
 
 90 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 
 
 slight. You see? A man of imagination ought to 
 understand.' 
 
 ' I do — perfectly.' 
 
 ' She tried her keys on the portmanteau. No use. 
 Rut it was old and shaky. She prised open the lock. 
 What she found disappointed her ; it wouldn't fetch 
 man} 7 shillings. Rut she had taken the fatal step. 
 No staying in the house now. She put on her hat 
 and jacket, stuffed into her pockets the few things 
 still left to her, caught up the portmanteau — and 
 away ! ' 
 
 The poet could not help a laugh, and his com- 
 panion joined in it. Rut she was agitated, and her 
 mirth had not a genuine ring. 
 
 ' And how much were my poor old rags worth ? ' 
 
 ' Five shillings.' 
 
 ' Ry Jove ! You don't say so ! ' 
 
 ' She pawned them in a street somewhere north of 
 the Strand. Rut this gave her only thirteen shillings. 
 Then she sold the portmanteau ; that brought 
 eightcen-pence. Fourteen shillings and sixpence. 
 Next she sold or pawned her jacket ; it brought three 
 shillings.' 
 
 ' Poor girl ! With such a journey before her on a 
 cold night ! Rut the poems ? ' 
 
 ' She looked at them, and was on the point ot 
 throwing them away, but she didn't. She read some 
 of them in the train that night. And oh — oh — oh ! 
 how ashamed of herself she was then and for many a
 
 THE POET'S PORTMANTEAU 91 
 
 long day ! So much ashamed that she couldn't even 
 feel afraid.' 
 
 ' And she got the employment promised ? ' 
 
 'Yes. And sowed no more wild oats. It was a 
 poor living, but she struggled on — until by chance she 
 met a very rich man, who took a fancy to her. She 
 didn't care for him. In her life she had only seen one 
 man who really attracted her, but — well, she made up 
 her mind to marry the rich man ; and then — she died. 
 I knew her story already, and at her death she left 
 your poems in my care, to be restored if possible. 
 There they are.' 
 
 With a careless gesture she rose. 
 
 ' You are not going yet,' exclaimed the poet. 
 
 ' I am ; this moment. I have a train to catch.' 
 
 ' Hang the train ! There's one at about nine 
 o'clock. I shall send away your cab.' 
 
 She looked at him very coldly. 
 
 ' I am going at once, and you will be good enough 
 to stay where you are.' 
 
 ' You won't even tell me your name ? ' 
 
 ' Not even that. Good-bye, poet ! ' 
 
 She gave him her hand. Holding it, he gazed at 
 her with bright eyes. 
 
 ' I do remember your friend's face. And how I 
 wish she could have spoken to me that night ! ' 
 
 ' The ideal is never met in life,' she answered softly. 
 1 Put it into your books — which I shall always read.' 
 
 The door closed, and he heard the cab rumble away.
 
 92 
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 FOR a week the mid-day thermometer had marked 
 eighty or more in the shade. Golden weather for 
 those who could lie and watch the lazy breakers on a 
 rocky shore, or tread the turf of deep woodland, 
 or drink from the cold stream on some mountain 
 side. But the by-ways of Southwark languished for 
 a cloud upon the sun, for a cooling shower, or a breath 
 from its old enemy, the east. The cry of fretful 
 children sounded ceaselessly. Every window was 
 wide open ; women who had nothing to do lounged 
 in the dusk of doorways and in arched passages, their 
 money all gone in visits to the public-house. Ice- 
 cream men found business at a standstill ; it was 
 Friday, and the youngsters' ha'pence had long ago 
 come to an end. Labourers who depended upon 
 casual employment chose to sleep through the thirsty 
 hours rather than go in search of jobs ; a crust of 
 bread served them for a meal. They lay about in the 
 shadowed spots, shirt and trousers their only costume, 
 their shaggy heads in every conceivable attitude of 
 repose. 
 
 Where the sun fell the pavement burned like an
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 93 
 
 oven floor. An evil smell hung about the butchers' 
 and the fish shops. A public-house poisoned a whole 
 street with alcoholic fumes ; from sewer-grates rose a 
 miasma that caught the breath. People who bought 
 butter from the little dealers had to carry it away in 
 a saucer, covered with a piece of paper, which in a few 
 moments turned oily dark. Rotting fruit, flung out 
 by costermongers, offered a dire regale to little 
 ragamuffins prowling like the cats and dogs. Babies' 
 bottles were choked with thick-curdling milk, and 
 sweets melted in grimy little hands. 
 
 Among the children playing in a court deep down 
 by Southwark Bridge was one boy, of about seven 
 years old, who looked healthier and sweeter than most 
 of his companions. The shirt he wore had been 
 washed a week ago, and rents in it had obeyed the 
 needle. His mother-made braces supported a pair of 
 trousers cut short between the knee and ankle, 
 evidently shaped out of a man's garment. Stockings 
 he dispensed with ; but his boots were new and 
 strong. Though he amused himself vigorously, he 
 seemed to keep cool ; his curly hair was not 
 matted with perspiration, like that of the other 
 youngsters ; the open shirt — in this time of holiday 
 coat and waistcoat were put away to be in good con- 
 dition when school began again — showed a body not 
 ill-nourished, and his legs were of sturdy growth. A 
 shouting, laughing, altogether noisy little chap. When 
 his shrill voice rang out, it gave his playmates the
 
 94 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 word of command ; he was ready, too, with his fists 
 when occasion offered. You should have seen him 
 standing with arms akimbo, legs apart, his round 
 little head thrown back and the brown eyes glistening 
 in merriment. Billy Burden, they called him. He 
 had neither brother nor sister — a fortunate thing, as 
 it enabled his parents to give him more of their love 
 and their attention than would have been possible if 
 other mouths had clamoured for sustenance. Mrs. 
 Burden was very proud of him, and all the more 
 decent women in the court regarded Billy with 
 affectionate admiration. True, he had to be kept in 
 order now and then, when he lost his temper and 
 began to punch the heads of boys several years older 
 than himself ; but his frank, winsome face soon over- 
 came the anger of grown-up people. 
 
 His father, Solomon Burden by name, worked 
 pretty regularly at a wharf on the Middlesex side, 
 and sometimes earned as much as a pound a week. 
 Having no baby to look after, his mother got a turn 
 of work as often as possible, chiefly at warehouse- 
 cleaning and the like. She could trust little Billy to 
 go to school and come home at the right time ; but 
 holidays, when he had to spend the whole day out-of- 
 doors, caused her some anxiety, for the child liked to 
 be off and away on long explorations of unknown 
 country — into Lambeth, or across the river to the 
 great London streets, no distance tiring him. Her 
 one fear was lest he should be run over. To-day he
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 95 
 
 had promised to keep well within reach of home, 
 and did so. At Mrs. Burden's return from a job in 
 Waterloo Road he was found fast asleep on the 
 landing. She bent over him, and muttered words of 
 tenderness as she wiped his dirty face with her apron. 
 Of course, they had only one room — an attic just 
 large enough to hold a bed, a table, and Billy's little 
 mattress down on the floor in a corner. Their 
 housekeeping was of the simplest : a shelf of crockery, 
 two saucepans, and a frying-pan supplied Mrs. Burden 
 with all she needed for the preparation of meals. 
 Apparel was kept in a box under the bed, where also 
 was the washing-basin. Up to a year ago they had 
 had a chest of drawers ; but the hard winter had 
 obliged them to part with this. 
 
 When Mrs. Burden unlocked and opened the door, 
 the air within was so oppressive that she stood for a 
 moment and drew a deep breath. The sound of the 
 key wakened Billy, who sprang up joyfully. 
 
 ' Ain't it been 'ot again, mummy ! ' the boy ex- 
 claimed. ' There was a 'bus-horse fell dead. Ben 
 Wilkins seen it ! ' 
 
 ' I a'most feel as if I could drop myself,' she 
 answered, sinking upon the bed. ' There ain't no 
 hair to breathe : I wish we wasn't under the roof.' 
 
 She stood up again and felt the ceiling — it was 
 some six inches above her head. 
 
 ' My gracious alive ! It's fair bakin'.' 
 
 ' Let me feel - let me feel ! '
 
 96 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 She lifted him in her arms, and Billy proved for 
 himself that the plaster of the ceiling was decidedly 
 warm. Nevertheless, sticks had to be lighted to boil 
 the kettle. Father might come home any moment, 
 and he liked his cup of tea. 
 
 As she worked about, the woman now and then 
 pressed a hand to her left side, and seemed to breathe 
 with difficulty. Sweat-drops hung thick upon her 
 face, which was the colour of dough. On going 
 downstairs to draw water for the kettle she took a 
 quart jug, and after filling this she drank almost the 
 whole of it in one long draught. It made her 
 perspire still more freely ; moisture streamed from 
 her forehead as she returned to the upper story, and 
 on arriving she was obliged to seat herself. 
 
 ' Do you feel bad, mummy ? ' asked the child, who 
 was accustomed to these failings of strength when 
 his mother came home from a day's work. 
 
 ' I do, Billy, hawful bad ; but it'll go in a minute. 
 Put the kittle on — there's a good boy.' 
 
 She was a woman of active habits, in her way a 
 good housewife, loving moderate cleanliness and a 
 home in order. Naturally, her clothing was coarse 
 and begrimed ; she did the coarsest and grimiest of 
 work. Her sandy hair had thinned of late ; it began 
 to show the scajp in places. There was always a 
 look of pain on her features, and her eyes were either 
 very glassy or very dull. For thirty years — that is, 
 since she was ten years old — struggle with poverty
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 97 
 
 had been the law of her life, and she remained 
 victorious ; there was always a loaf in the house, 
 always an ounce of tea ; her child had never asked 
 in vain for the food demanded by his hearty appetite. 
 She did not drink ; she kept a guard upon her tongue 
 in the matter of base language ; esteemed comely 
 by her equals, she had no irregularity of behaviour 
 wherewith to reproach herself. Often enough at 
 variance with her husband, she yet loved him ; and 
 Billy she loved more. 
 
 About seven o'clock the father came home ; he 
 clumped heavily up the stairs, bent his head to pass 
 the doorway, and uttered a good-natured growl as he 
 saw the table ready for him. 
 
 1 Well, Bill, bwoy, can you keep warm ? ' 
 
 ' Sh' think so,' the child answered. ' Mummy's bad 
 again with the 'eat. There ain't no air in thisbloomin' 
 'ouse.' 
 
 ' Kick a 'ole in the roof, old chap ! ' 
 
 ■ Wish I could ! ' 
 
 Solomon flung off his coat, and turned up the 
 sleeves of his shirt. The basin, full of water, awaited 
 him ; he thrust his great head into it and made a 
 slop over the floor. Thereat Mrs. Burden first looked, 
 then spoke wrathfully. As his habit was, her husband 
 retorted, and for a few minutes they wrangled. But 
 it was without bitterness, without vile abuse. 
 Domestic calm as understood by the people who 
 have a whole house to themselves is impossible 
 
 II
 
 9 8 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 in a Southwark garret ; Burden and his wife were 
 regarded by the neighbours, and rightly, as an 
 exemplary pair ; they never came to blows, never to 
 curses, and neither of them had ever been known to 
 make a scene in public. 
 
 Burden had a loud, deep voice ; whether he spoke 
 angrily or gently, he could be heard all over the 
 house and out in the court. Impossible for the family 
 to discuss anything in private. But, like all their 
 neighbours, they accepted such a state of things as a 
 matter of course. Everybody knew all about every- 
 body else ; the wonder was when nothing disgraceful 
 came to listening ears. 
 
 1 Say, Bill,' remarked the man, when he had at 
 length sat quietly down to his tea, ' how would you 
 like to go in a boat to-morrow afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' Shouldn't I just ! ' 
 
 ' Old Four-arf is goin' to have a swim,' Burden 
 explained to his wife ; ' wants me to go with him ; 
 and I feel it 'ud do me good, weather like this. 
 Bunker's promised him a boat at Blackfriars Bridge. 
 Shall I take the kid ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Burden looked uneasy, and answered sharply. 
 
 ' What's the good o' asking when you've spoke of 
 it before the boy ? ' 
 
 ' Well, why shouldn't I take him ? You might 
 come along, too : only we're a-goin' to strip up beyond 
 Chelsea.' 
 
 This was kindness, and it pacified the wife.
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 99 
 
 ' I couldn't go before six,' she said. 
 
 ' What's the job ? ' 
 
 ' Orficcs near St. Bride's — Mrs. Robins wants 'clp ; 
 she sent her Sally over to me this mornin'. It'll be 
 an all-day job ; eightecn-pence for me.' 
 
 ' Bloomin' little, too. You ain't fit for it this 
 weather.' 
 
 ' I'm all right ! ' 
 
 ' No, you ain't. Billy just said as you'd been took 
 bad, an' I can see it in yer eyes. Have a day at 'ome, 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Don't you go fidgetin' about me. Take Billy, if 
 you like ; but just be careful. No puttin'of him into 
 the water.' 
 
 "Tain't likely.' 
 
 'Cawn't I bathe, dad ? ' asked Billy. 
 
 ' Course you cawn't. We're goin' to swim in the 
 middle of the river, Jem Pollock an' me — where it's 
 hawful deep, deep enough to drownd you fifty times 
 over.' 
 
 ' The other boys go bathin',' Billy remonstrated. 
 
 ' Dessay they do,' cried his mother ; ' but you 
 won't — so you know ! If you want for to bathe, arst 
 Mrs. Crowther to lend you her washin'-tub, and fill it 
 with water. That won't do you no 'arm, and I don't 
 mind if you make a bit of a splash, s'longasyou don't 
 wet the bed through.' 
 
 After all it was a home, a nesting place of human 
 affections — this attic in which the occupants had 
 
 11 2
 
 ioo THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 scarcely room to take half-a-dozen steps. Father, 
 mother, and child, despite the severing tendency of 
 circumstances, clung together about this poor hearth, 
 the centre of their world. In the strength of ignorance, 
 they were proof against envy ; their imaginations 
 had never played about the fact of social superiority, 
 which, indeed, they but dimly understood. Burden 
 and his wife would have been glad, now and then, of 
 some addition to the weekly income ; beyond that 
 they never aspired. Billy, when he had passed the 
 prescribed grades of school, would begin to earn 
 money : it did not much matter how : only let the 
 means be honest. To that the parents looked forward 
 with anticipation of pride. Billy's first wages ! It 
 would warm their hearts to see the coins clutched in 
 his solid little fist. For this was he born, to develop 
 thews and earn wages. 
 
 It did not enter into their conception of domestic 
 happiness to spend the evening at home, sitting and 
 talking together. They had very little to say : their 
 attachment was not vocal. Besides, the stifling heat 
 of the garret made it impossible to rest here until the 
 sun had long set. So, when tea was finished, Billy 
 ran down again into the street to mingle with his 
 shouting comrades ; Mrs. Burden found a seat on the 
 doorstep, where she dozed awhile, and then chatted 
 with bare-armed women ; and Solomon sauntered 
 forth for his wonted stroll 'round the 'ouses.' At ten 
 o'clock the mother took a jug to the neighbouring
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 101 
 
 beerhouse and returned with a ' pot ' — that is to say, a 
 quart — of ' four ale,' which she and Solomon drank 
 for supper. The lad was lying sound asleep on his 
 mattress, naked but for the thin shirt which he wore 
 day and night ; the weather made bed-clothes a super- 
 fluity. 
 
 Saturday morning showed a change of sky. There 
 were clouds about, and a wind blew as if for rain. 
 At half-past six Solomon was ready to start for work. 
 Billy still slept, and the parents subdued their voices 
 lest they should wake him. 
 
 ' If it's wet,' said Mrs. Burden, ' you won't go on 
 the river — will you ? ' 
 
 ' Not if it's thorough wet. Leave the key with 
 Billy, and if we go you'll find it on the top of the 
 door.' 
 
 He set forth as usual : as he had done any day 
 these eight years, since their marriage. Word of 
 parting seemed unnecessary. He just glanced round 
 the room, and with bent head passed on to the 
 landing. His wife did not look after him ; she was 
 cutting bread and butter for Billy. Solomon thought 
 only of the pleasant fact that his labour that day 
 ended at one o'clock, and that in the afternoon he 
 would perhaps have a swim. Mrs. Burden, who had 
 suffered a broken night, looked forward with dreary 
 doggedness to ten hours or more of scrubbing and 
 cleaning, which would bring in eighteen-pence. And 
 little Billy slept the sleep of healthy childhood.
 
 102 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 By mid -clay the clouds had passed, but the heat 
 of the sun was tempered ; broad light and soft 
 western breeze made the perfection of English sum- 
 mer. This Saturday was one of the golden days of 
 a year to be long remembered. 
 
 When he came home from work, Solomon found 
 Billy awaiting him, all eagerness. They went up to 
 the attic, and ate some dinner which Burden had 
 brought in his pocket — two-pennyworth of fried fish 
 and potatoes, followed by bread and cheese. A 
 visit to the public-house, where Billy drank from his 
 father's pewter, and they were ready to start for 
 Blackfriars Bridge, where Solomon's friend, Jem 
 Pollock — affectionately known by the name of his 
 favourite liquor, ' Four-half — had the use of a boat 
 belonging to one Thomas Bunker, a lighterman. It 
 was not one of the nimble skiffs in which persons of 
 a higher class take their pleasure upon the Thames, 
 but an ungainly old tub, propelled by heavy oars. 
 Solomon and his friend, of course, knew that the tide 
 would help them upwards ; it wanted about an hour 
 to flood. He was a jovial fellow, this Jem Pollock, 
 unmarried, and less orderly in his ways of life than 
 Sol Burden ; his nickname did him no injustice, for 
 whenever he had money he drank. A kindly temper 
 saved him from the worst results of this bibulous 
 habit ; after a few quarts of ale he was at his best 
 and if he took more it merely sent him to sleep. 
 When Solomon and Billy found him on the stairs at
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 103 
 
 the south side of the bridge he had just taken his 
 third pint since dinner, and his red, pimply face 
 beamed with contentment. 
 
 ' Come along there ! ' he roared from below. 
 ' Brought that bloomin' big son of yours for ballast, 
 Sol?' 
 
 ' He can steer, can Bill.' 
 
 ' He won't 'ave a chawnce. There ain't no 
 bloomin' rudder on this old ship.' 
 
 Billy stepped into the boat, and his father followed ; 
 but their friend was not yet ready to depart. The 
 cause of his delay appeared when a lad came running 
 down the stairs with a big jar and a tin mug. 
 
 ' You don't s'ppose I'm a-goin' without a drop o' 
 refreshment,' Pollock remarked. ' It's water, this is ; 
 the best supplied by the Lambeth Water Company. 
 I've took the pledge.' 
 
 This primitive facetiousness helped them merrily 
 off. Billy sat in the stern ; the men each took an 
 oar ; they were soon making good way towards 
 Westminster. 
 
 Their progress was noisy : without noise they 
 could not have enjoyed themselves. The men's 
 shouts and Billy's shrill pipe were audible on either 
 bank. Opposite the Houses of Parliament they 
 exchanged abusive pleasantries with two fellows on a 
 barge ; bellowing was kept up until the whole dis- 
 tance between Lambeth Bridge and that of West- 
 minster taxed their lungs. At Vauxhall Jem
 
 104 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 Pollock uncorked his jar and poured out a mugful 
 of tawny ale, vastly to the boy's delight, for Billy 
 had persisted in declining to believe that the vessel 
 contained mere water. All drank. Solomon refused 
 to let Billy have more than half a mug, to the scorn 
 of Jem Pollock, who maintained that four-ale never 
 did anything but good to man, woman, or babe. 
 
 At Chelsea the jar was again opened. This time 
 Pollock drank an indefinite number of mugs, and 
 Solomon all but quarrelled with him for continuing 
 to tempt Billy. The child had swallowed at least a 
 pint, and began to show the effect of it : he lay back 
 in the stern, laughing to himself, his eyes fixed on 
 the blue sky. 
 
 A sky such as London rarely knows : of exquisite 
 purity — a limpid sapphire, streaked about the horizon 
 with creamy cloudlets. All the smoke of the city 
 was borne eastward ; the zenith shone translucent as 
 over woodland solitudes. The torrid beams of the 
 past week were forgotten ; a mild and soothing 
 splendour summoned mortals to come forth into the 
 ways of summer and be glad. 
 
 With the last impulse of the flowing tide they 
 reached the broad water beyond Battersea Bridge, 
 where Solomon began to prepare himself for a 
 delicious plunge. The boat could not be left to 
 Billy alone ; Pollock was content to wait until 
 Burden had had the first swim. Quickly stripped, 
 the big-limbed fellow stood where his boy had been
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 105 
 
 sitting, and of a sudden leapt headlong. Billy yelled 
 with delight at the great splash, and yelled again 
 triumphantly when his father's head rose to the 
 surface. Solomon was a fair swimmer, but did not 
 pretend to great achievements ; he struck out in the 
 upward direction and swam for about a quarter of a 
 mile, the boat keeping along with him ; then he was 
 glad to catch hold of the stern. Pollock began to 
 fling off his clothes. 
 
 ' My turn, old pal ! ' he shouted. ' Tumble in, an' 
 let's have a feel of the coolness.' 
 
 Solomon got into the boat, and sat naked at one 
 of the oars, Billy managing the other. Five minutes 
 saw Jem back again : he had wallowed rather alarm- 
 ingly, a result of the gallon or two of ale which 
 freighted him. Then Burden took another plunge. 
 When he had swum to a little distance, Pollock 
 whispered to the boy : 
 
 ' Like to have a dip, Bill ? ' 
 ' Shouldn't I just ! But I can't swim.' 
 ' What's the odds ? Go over the side, an' I'll 'old 
 you by the 'ands. Orff with yer things sharp, afore 
 yer fawther sees what we're up to.' 
 
 Billy needed no second invitation. In a minute 
 he had his clothes off. Pollock seized him by both 
 arms and let him down over the side of the boat. 
 Solomon swam ahead, and, as the tide had ceased to 
 drift the boat onwards, he was presently at some 
 distance. With firm grip, Pollock bobbed the child
 
 106 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 up and clown, the breadth of the tub allowing him to 
 lean cautiously without risk. 
 
 Then the father turned to look, and saw what 
 was going on. He gave a terrific shout. 
 
 ' Damn your eyes, Jem ! Pull him in, or I'll ' 
 
 ' 'Old yer jaw,' roared the other, laughing. 'He's 
 all right. Let the kid enjoy hisself — cawn't yer ? ' 
 
 Solomon struck out for the boat. 
 
 ' He's a-comin' ! ' said Pollock, all but helpless 
 with half-drunken laughter. 
 
 ' Pull me in ! ' said the child, fearful of his father's 
 wrath. ' Pull me up ! ' 
 
 And at the same moment he made an effort to 
 jump upon the gunwale. But Jem Pollock also had 
 bent forward, and the result of the two movements 
 was that the man overbalanced himself. He fell 
 plump into the water and sank, Billy with him. 
 From Burden sounded a hoarse cry of agony. Al- 
 ready tired with swimming, the terrified man impeded 
 himself instead of coming on more quickly ; he 
 splashed and struggled, and again his voice sounded 
 in a wild shout for help. 
 
 There was a boat in sight, but far off. On the 
 Battersea side a few people could be seen ; but they 
 had not yet become aware of what had happened. 
 From the other bank no aid could be expected. 
 
 Pollock came to the surface and alone. He 
 thought only of making for the boat, as the one way 
 of saving Billy, for he had no skill in supporting
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 107 
 
 another person whilst he himself swam. But the 
 stress of the moment was too much for him : like 
 Burden, he lost his head, and by clutching at the boat 
 pulled it over, so that it began to fill. A cry, a 
 heartrending scream, from the helpless child, who 
 had just risen, utterly distracted him ; as the boat 
 swamped, he clung madly to it ; it capsized, and he 
 hung by the keel. 
 
 Billy was being wafted down the river. Once or 
 twice his little head appeared above the water, and 
 his arms were flung up. The desperate father came 
 onwards, but slowly ; fear seemed to have unstrung 
 his sinews, and he struggled like one who is himself 
 in need of assistance. Once more his voice made 
 itself heard ; but Pollock, who was drifting with the 
 boat, did not answer. And from the drowning child 
 there came no sound. 
 
 A steamer was just putting in at Battersea pier— 
 too far off to be of use. But by this time some one 
 on the bank of the old church had seen the boat 
 bottom upwards. An alarm was given. 
 
 Too late, save for the rescue of Jem Pollock. 
 Burden had passed the boat, and was not far from 
 the place where his child had gone down for the last 
 time ; with ordinary command of his strength and 
 skill he might easily have kept afloat until help 
 neared him ; but he sank. Only his lifeless body was 
 recovered. 
 
 And Billy— poor little chap — disappeared alto-
 
 io8 THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 gethcr. The seaward-rushing Thames bore him 
 along in its muddy depths, hiding him until the third 
 day ; then his body was seen and picked up not far 
 from the place whence he had started on his merry 
 excursion. 
 
 This disaster happened about four of the clock. 
 Two hours later, Mrs. Burden, having done her day's 
 work and received her pay, moved homeward. 
 
 Since noon she had been suffering greatly ; whilst 
 on her knees, scrubbing floors and staircases, she had 
 several times felt herself in danger of fainting ; the 
 stooping posture intensified a pain from which she 
 was seldom quite free ; and the heat in this small- 
 windowed warehouse, crowded among larger build- 
 ings in an alley off Fleet Street, was insufferably 
 oppressive ; once or twice she lay flat upon the 
 boards, panting for breath. It was over now : she 
 had earned the Sunday's dinner, and could return 
 with the feeling of one who has done her duty. 
 
 On Monday she would go to Guy's Hospital and 
 get something for that pain. Six months had passed 
 since her last visit to the doctor, whose warnings she 
 had heeded but little. It won't do to think too much 
 of one's ailments. But they must give her a good 
 large bottle of medicine this time, and she would be 
 careful to take it at the right hours. 
 
 She came out into St. Bride's Churchyard, and 
 was passing on towards Fleet Street when again the 
 anguishing spasm seized upon her. She turned and
 
 THE DAY OF SILENCE 109 
 
 looked at the seats under the wall of the church, 
 where two or three people were resting in the 
 shadowed quiet. It would be better to sit here for a 
 moment. Her weak and weary limbs bore her with 
 difficulty to the nearest bench, and she sank upon it 
 with a sigh. 
 
 The pain lasted only a minute or two, and in the 
 relief that followed she was glad to breathe the air of 
 this little open space, where she could look up at the 
 blue sky and enjoy the sense of repose. The places of 
 business round about were still and vacant, closed till 
 Monday morning. Only a dull sound of traffic came 
 from the great thoroughfare, near at hand as it was. 
 And the wonderful sky made her think of little Billy 
 who was enjoying himself up the river. She had felt 
 a slight uneasiness about him, now and then, for Jem 
 Pollock was a reckless fellow at all times, and in 
 weather like this he was sure to have been drinking 
 freely ; but Solomon would look after the boy. 
 
 They would get back about eight o'clock, most 
 likely. Billy would be hungry ; he must have a bit 
 of something for supper — fried liver, or perhaps some 
 stewed steak. It was time for her to be moving on. 
 
 She stood up, but the movement brought on 
 another attack. Her body sank together, her head 
 fell forwards. 
 
 Presently the man who was sitting on the next 
 bench began to look at her ; he smiled — another 
 victim of the thirsty weather !
 
 no THE DAY OF SILENCE 
 
 And half-an-hour passed before it was discovered 
 that the woman sitting there in the shadow of St. 
 Bride's Church was dead. 
 
 That night Jem Pollock went to the house in 
 South wark where Solomon Burden and his wife and 
 his child had lived. He could hear nothing of Mrs. 
 Burden. The key of the attic lay on the ledge above 
 the door ; no one had been seen, said the neighbours, 
 since father and son went away together early that 
 afternoon. 
 
 In the little home there was silence.
 
 I I I 
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 At the top of a dim-windowed house near Gray's 
 Inn Road, in two rooms of his own furnishing, 
 lived a silent, solitary man. He was not old (six-and- 
 thirty at most), and the gentle melancholy of his 
 countenance suggested no quarrel with the world, but 
 rather a placid absorption in congenial studies. His 
 name was Filmer ; he had occupied this lodging for 
 seven or eight years ; only at long intervals did a 
 letter reach him, and the sole person who visited 
 his retreat was Mrs. Mayhew, the charwoman. Mrs. 
 Mayhew came at ten o'clock in the morning, and 
 busied herself about the rooms for an hour or so. 
 Sometimes the lodger remained at home, sitting at 
 his big table heaped with books, and exchanging a 
 friendly word with his attendant ; sometimes he had 
 gone out before her arrival, and in that case he would 
 have been found at the British Museum. Filmer 
 abjured the society of men for that of words ; he was 
 a philological explorer, tracking slowly and patiently 
 the capricious river of human speech. He published 
 nothing, but saw the approaching possibility of a 
 great work, which should do honour to his name.
 
 ii2 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 Proud amid poverty, and shrinking with a nervous 
 sensitiveness from the commerce of mankind, he often 
 passed weeks at a time without addressing a familiar 
 word to any mortal save Mrs. Mayhew. He had made 
 friends with his charwoman, though not till the 
 experience of years taught him to regard her with 
 entire confidence and no little respect. To her he even 
 spoke of his studies, half soliloquising, indeed, but 
 feeling it not impossible that she might gather some 
 general conception of what he meant. In turn, Mrs. 
 Mayhew confided to him some details of her own 
 history, which threw light upon the fact that she 
 neither looked nor spoke like an ordinary charwoman. 
 She was a meagre but trim-bodied little person of 
 about the same age as her employer, clean, neat, and 
 brisk, her face sharply outlined, with large good- 
 humoured eyes, and a round mouth. A widow, she 
 said, for ten years and more ; childless ; pretty much 
 alone in the world, though she had relatives not badly 
 off. Shamefaced hints made known to Filmer that 
 she blamed only herself for her poor condition, and 
 one day she confessed to him that her weakness had 
 been drink. When first he engaged her services she 
 was struggling painfully out of the mire, battling with 
 old temptations, facing toil and hunger. ' And now, 
 sir,' she said, with her modest, childish laugh, ' I feel 
 almost a respectable woman ; I do, indeed ! ' Whereat 
 Filmer smiled pensively and nodded. 
 
 No life could be less eventful than his. He enjoyed
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 113 
 
 an income of seventy pounds, and looked not for in- 
 crease. Of his costume he took no thought, his diet 
 was the simplest conceivable. He wanted no holidays. 
 Leisure to work in his own way, blessed independence 
 — this sufficed him. 
 
 On a morning of December (the year was 1869) 
 Mrs. Mayhew came to the house as usual, went upstairs 
 and tapped at Filmcr's door. On entering she was 
 surprised to see a fireless grate, and on the table no 
 trace of breakfast. Filmer stood by the window ; she 
 bade him good-morning, and looked about the room 
 in surprise. 
 
 ' I'm going out,' said the student, in a voice unlike 
 his own. ' I didn't trouble to light the fire.' 
 
 She observed his face. 
 
 ' But won't you have breakfast, sir? I'll get some 
 in a minute.' 
 
 ' No, thank you. I shall get some — some- 
 where ' 
 
 He went into the bedroom, was absent a few 
 minutes, and returned with his overcoat. 
 
 ' I wanted to speak to you, sir,' said Mrs. Mayhew, 
 diffidently. ' But if you are in a hurry ' 
 
 ' No, no. Certainly not. I have plenty of time.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry to tell you, sir, that, after next 
 week, I sha'n't be able to come. But,' she hastened 
 to add, ' I can recommend some one who'll do the work 
 just as well.' 
 
 Filmer listened without appearance of concern ; 
 
 I
 
 ii4 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 he seemed to have a difficulty in fixing his thoughts 
 on the matter. 
 
 ' I am going to take a little shop,' pursued the 
 other, ' a little general shop. It's part of the house 
 where I've been living. The woman that's had it 
 hasn't done well : but it was her own fault ; she 
 didn't attend to business, and she — but there's no 
 need to trouble you with such things, sir. Some one 
 advised me to sec what I could do in that way, and I 
 thought it over. The landlord will let me have the 
 shop, and a room behind it, and another room up- 
 stairs, for twenty-eight pounds a year, if I pay a 
 quarter in advance. That's seven pounds, you see, 
 sir ; and I ought to have about twenty pounds 
 altogether to start with. I've got a little more than 
 ten, and I know some one who'll lend me another 
 ten, I think.' She spoke quickly, a glow of excite- 
 ment in her checks. ' And I feel sure I can make 
 the business pay. I've seen a good deal of it, from 
 living in the house. There's lots of people round 
 about who would deal with me, and of course I could 
 begin with a small stock, and ' 
 
 Her breath failed ; she broke off with a pant and 
 a laugh. Filmer, after standing for a moment as if in 
 uncertainty, said that he was very glad to hear all this, 
 and that he would talk with her about it on the morrow. 
 At present he must go out — on business— special and 
 disagreeable business. But he would talk to-morrow. 
 And so, without further remark, he went his way.
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 115 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Mayhew saw that her 
 employer was still in a most unusual frame of mind. 
 He had a fire, but was sitting by it in gloomy idleness. 
 To her 'Good-morning' he merely nodded, and only 
 when she had finished putting the bedroom to rights 
 did he show a disposition to speak. 
 
 ' Well, Mrs. Mayhew,' he said at length, ' I also 
 have news to tell. I have lost all my money, and 
 have nothing to live upon.' 
 
 Her large eyes gazed at him with astonishment 
 and compassion. 
 
 1 Oh, Mr. Filmer ! What a dreadful thing ! ' 
 
 ' Bad ; there's no disguising it.' He struggled to 
 speak without dolefulness ; his limbs moved nervously, 
 and he stared away from his companion. ' No hope, 
 now, of writing my book. All over with me. I must 
 earn my living — I don't know how. It's twelve years 
 since I ever thought of such a thing ; I felt safe for 
 my whole life. All gone at a blow ; you can read 
 about it in the newspaper.' 
 
 ' But — but you can't surely have lost everything, 
 sir?' 
 
 ' I have a few pounds. About thirty pounds, I 
 think. What's the use of that ? I don't want very 
 much, but ' — he tried to jest — ' I can't live on ten 
 shillings a year.' 
 
 1 But with all your learning, Mr. Filmer ' 
 
 ' Yes, I must find something. Go and teach in a 
 
 1 2
 
 n6 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 school, or something of the kind. But I'm afraid you 
 can't understand what it means to me.' 
 
 He became silent. Mrs. Mayhew looked up and 
 down, moved uneasily, played with the corners of her 
 apron, and at last found resolution to speak. 
 
 1 Mr. Filmer ' — her eyes were very bright and 
 eager — 'you couldn't live in one room, I'm afraid, 
 sir?' 
 
 ' One room ? ' He glanced vacantly at her. ' Why 
 not ? Of course I could. I spend nearly all my time 
 at the Museum. But ' 
 
 ' I hardly like to say it, sir, but there's something 
 — if you thought— I told you I was going to have a 
 room behind the shop, and one upstairs. I meant to 
 let the one upstairs.' 
 
 He interrupted, rather coldly. 
 
 1 Oh, I would take it at once if I had the least 
 prospect of being able to live. But what is the use 
 of settling down anywhere with thirty pounds ? To 
 write my book I need at least two years, and a quiet 
 mind ' 
 
 ' But I was going to say something else, sir, if 
 you'll excuse the liberty. I told you I shall have to 
 borrow some money, and — and I'm not quite sure 
 after all that I can get it. Will yon lend it me, sir? ' 
 This came out with a jerk, on an impulse of great 
 daring. 'If you would lend me ten pounds, I could 
 afford to let you have the room, and — and to supply 
 you with meals, and in that way pay it back. I'm
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 117 
 
 quite sure I could.' She grew excited again. ' If I 
 miss getting the shop, somebody else will step in. and 
 make money out of it. I know I could very soon 
 make two or three pounds a week out of that business ! ' 
 
 She stopped suddenly, awed by the listener's face. 
 Filmer, for the first time since her knowledge of him, 
 looked coldly distant, even offended. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir. I oughtn't to have said 
 such a thing.' 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 'It was a kind thought, Mrs. Mayhew ; but — I 
 
 really don't know ' His face was changing. ' I 
 
 should very much like to let you have the money. 
 A (cw days ago I would gladly have done so. 
 But ' 
 
 His tongue faltered. He looked at the woman, 
 and saw how her countenance had fallen. 
 
 ' Ten pounds,' he said abruptly, ' couldn't last 
 — for my support — more than a few weeks.' 
 
 ' Not by itself, sir,' replied the other, eagerly ; 
 ' but money grows so when it's put into trade. I do 
 believe it would bring in a pound a week. Or, at all 
 events, I'm quite sure it would bring enough ' 
 
 She glanced, involuntarily, at the breakfast table, 
 which seldom showed anything but bread and 
 butter. 
 
 1 In that case,' said Filmer, laughing. ' I should be 
 a partner in the business.' 
 
 Mrs. Mayhew smiled, and made no answer.
 
 nS IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 That day they could not arrive at a decision ; but 
 after nightfall Filmer walked along the street in which 
 he knew Mrs. Mayhew lived, and looked for the shop. 
 That which answered to her description was a 
 miserable little hole, where seemingly business was 
 still being carried on ; the glimmer of one gas-jet 
 rather suggested than revealed objects in the window 
 — a loaf, some candles, a bundle of firewood, and so 
 on. He hurried past, and got into another street as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 Later, he was prowling in the same locality, and 
 again he went past the shop. This time he observed 
 it more deliberately. After all, the place itself was 
 not so squalid as it had seemed ; by daylight it might 
 look tolerable. And the street could not be called a 
 slum. Other considerations apart he could contem- 
 plate having his abode here ; for he knew nobody, 
 and never had to fear a visit. Besides the little 
 chandler's there were only two shops ; no public- 
 house, and hardly any traffic of a noisy kind. 
 
 In his great need, his horror of going forth among 
 strangers (for of course his lodgings were now too 
 expensive to be kept a day longer than he could 
 help), Filmer compromised with himself. By lending 
 Mrs. Mayhew ten pounds he might justly accept from 
 her a lodging and the plainest sustenance for, say, ten 
 weeks, and in that time he would of necessity have 
 taken some steps towards earning a livelihood. 
 Some of his books and furniture he must sell, thus
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 119 
 
 adding to the petty reserve which stood between him 
 and starvation. If it would really be helping the 
 good woman, as well as benefiting himself, common 
 sense bade him disregard the fastidiousness which at 
 first had been shocked by such a proposal. ' Beggars 
 cannot be choosers,' said the old adage ; he must 
 swallow his pride. 
 
 Waking at the dead hour of night, and facing 
 once more the whole terrible significance of what 
 had befallen him, not easily grasped in daytime, he 
 resolved to meet the charwoman next morning in a 
 humble and grateful spirit. His immediate trouble 
 thus overcome, he could again sleep. 
 
 And so it came about that, in some few days, 
 Filmer found himself a tenant of the front room above 
 the chandler's shop. As he still had the familiar 
 furniture about him, he suffered less uneasiness — his 
 removal once over — than might have been anticipated. 
 True, he moaned the loss of beloved volumes ; but, 
 on the other hand, his purse had gained by it. As 
 soon as possible he repaired to the Museum, and 
 there, in the seat he had occupied for years, and with 
 books open before him, he tried to think calmly. 
 
 Mrs. Mayhew, meanwhile, had entered exultantly 
 into possession of her business premises ; the little 
 shop was stocked much better than for a long time, 
 and customers followed each other throughout the 
 day. In his utter ignorance of such transactions, the 
 philologist accepted what she had at first told him
 
 120 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 as a sufficient explanation of the worthy woman's 
 establishment in shop-keeping. To a practical eye, 
 it would have seemed not a little mysterious that 
 some twenty pounds had sufficed for all the prepara- 
 tions ; but Filmer merely glanced with satisfaction at 
 the shop front as he came and went, and listened 
 trustfully when Mrs. Mayhew informed him that the 
 first week's profits enabled her to purchase some new 
 fittings, as well as provide for all current expendi- 
 ture. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it was not wonderful 
 that the student experienced a diminution of personal 
 anxiety. Saying to himself every day that he must 
 take some step, he yet took none save that literal 
 step which brought him daily to the Museum. A 
 fortnight, and he had actually resumed work ; three 
 weeks, and he was busy with the initial chapter of 
 his great book ; a month, and he scarcely troubled 
 himself to remember that his income had vanished. 
 For Mrs. Mayhew did not let a day pass without 
 assuring him that his ten pounds — his share in the 
 partnership — produced more than enough to repre- 
 sent the cost of his board and lodging. He lived 
 better than in the old days, had an excellent supper 
 on coming home from the Museum, a warm break- 
 fast before setting out. And these things caused 
 him no astonishment. The literary recluse sees no 
 limit to the potentialities of ' trade.' 
 
 At length he remembered that ten weeks had
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 121 
 
 gone by, and on a Sunday morning he summoned 
 his partner to a conference. The quondam char- 
 woman looked a very presentable person as she 
 entered in her Sunday gown. Though she still did 
 a good deal of rough work, her hands were becoming 
 softer and more shapely. In shop and house she had 
 the assistance of a young girl, the daughter of the 
 people who occupied the upper rooms, and it was 
 this girl — Amanda Wilkes by name, and known to 
 her friends as 'Manda — who generally waited upon 
 Filmer. 
 
 ' Mrs. Mayhew,' he began gravely, ' I begin to feel 
 that I have no right to continue living in this way. 
 You have long since paid me back the small sum I 
 
 lent you ' 
 
 ' Oh, but I have explained to you, sir,' broke in 
 the other, who bated nothing of her accustomed 
 respect, ' that money is always making more — indeed 
 it is. It makes enough for you to live upon, as long 
 — oh, as long as you like.' 
 
 The philologist drew a silent breath, and stared 
 at the floor. 
 
 ' Now don't trouble yourself, sir ! ' begged Mrs. 
 Mayhew, ' please don't ! If you can be content to 
 
 live here — until ' 
 
 ' I am more than content so far as personal com- 
 fort goes. But- well, let me explain to you. At 
 last, I have really made a beginning with my book. 
 If my misfortune hadn't happened I might have
 
 122 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 put it off for years ; so, in one way, perhaps that 
 loss was a good thing. I am working very hard ' 
 
 ' Oh, I know you are, Mr. Filmer. I can't think 
 how you do with so little sleep, sir. I'm sure I 
 wonder your health doesn't break down.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I do well enough : I'm used to it. But 
 the point is that I may be a year or two on this book 
 — a year or two, and how can I possibly go on 
 presuming upon your great kindness to me ' 
 
 Mrs. Mayhew laughed, and for the hundredth 
 time put before him the commercial view of the 
 matter. Once again he suffered himself to be re- 
 assured, though with much nervous twitching of head 
 and limbs ; and after this he seldom recurred to his 
 scruple. 
 
 Two years went by, and in the early months of 
 the third Filmer's treatise lay finished. As he sat 
 one evening by his fireside, smoking a delicious pipe, 
 he flattered himself that he had made a solid con- 
 tribution to the science of Comparative Philology. 
 He was thirty-eight years old ; young enough still to 
 enjoy any honour or reward the learned world might 
 choose to offer him. What he now had to do was to 
 discover a publisher who would think this book 
 worth the expense of printing. Long ago he had 
 made up his mind that, if profit there were, Mrs. 
 Mayhew must share in it. Though his ten pounds 
 had kept him alive all this time, yet clearly it would 
 not have done so but for Mrs. Mayhew's skill and
 
 IN HONOUR ROUND 123 
 
 labour ; he felt himself vastly indebted to her, and 
 earnestly hoped that he might be able to show his 
 gratitude in some substantial form. 
 
 Fortune favoured him. His manuscript came 
 into the hands of a generous scholar, a man after his 
 own heart, who not only recommended it to the 
 publisher in terms of enthusiasm, but expressed an 
 earnest desire to make the acquaintance of the 
 author. Filmcr, no longer ashamed before his 
 fellows, went forth from the hermitage above the 
 chandler's shop, and was seen of men. He still had 
 money enough to provide himself with decent 
 clothing, and on a certain day his appearance so 
 astonished Mrs. Mayhew that she exclaimed 
 tremulously : 
 
 'Are you going, Mr. Filmer? Are you going 
 to leave us ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say,' was his nervous answer. ' I don't 
 know yet whether I shall make any money by my 
 book.' 
 
 He told her how things were tending. 
 ' Oh,' she answered, 'then I'm sure you will soon 
 get back to your proper position. After all, sir, you 
 know, you oughtn't to be living in this poor way. 
 You are a learned gentleman.' 
 
 Her voice was agitated, and her thoughts seemed 
 to wander. The philologist examined her for a 
 moment, but she turned away with a hurried excuse 
 that she was wanted down stairs.
 
 124 IN HONOUR ROUND 
 
 That day Filmcr brooded. 
 
 In another month it was known that his book 
 would be published ; whether he profited thereby 
 must depend upon its success. In the meantime, 
 one or two fragments of the work were to appear 
 in the Journal of Comparative Pliilology ; moreover, 
 the author himself was to read a paper before an 
 erudite society. Overcoming false delicacy, he had 
 made known his position (without detail) to the 
 philological friend who took so much interest in him, 
 and before long a practical suggestion was made, 
 which, if it could be carried out, would assure him at 
 all events a modest livelihood. 
 
 Amid all this promise of prosperity, Filmcr was 
 beset by graver trouble than he had known since 
 that disastrous day, now two years and a half ago. 
 He could no longer doubt that the prospect of his 
 departure affected Mrs. Mayhew very painfully. 
 She kept out of his way, and when meeting was 
 inevitable spoke the fewest possible words. More, 
 he had once, on entering his room unexpectedly, 
 surprised her there in a tearful condition ; yes, 
 unmistakably weeping ; and she hurried out of his 
 sight. 
 
 What could it mean ? Her business throve ; all 
 appeared well with her. Could the mere thought of 
 losing his companionship cause her such acute dis- 
 tress ? If so 
 
 He took long walks, musing anxiously over the
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 125 
 
 situation. At home he shrank into himself, moved 
 without sound, tried, if such a thing were possible, to 
 dwell in the house and yet not be there. He stayed 
 out late at night, fearing to meet Mrs. Mayhew as he 
 entered. Ludicrous as it sounded to a man who had 
 long since forgotten the softer dreams of youth, 
 Mrs. Mayhew might perchance have conceived an 
 attachment for him. They had now known each 
 other for many years, and long ago the simple- 
 minded woman used to talk with him in a way that 
 betrayed kindly feeling. She, it must be remem- 
 bered, did not strictly belong to the class in which 
 he found her ; she was the daughter of a man of 
 business, had gone to school, had been married to a 
 solicitor's clerk. Probably her life contained a 
 darker incident than anything she had disclosed ; 
 perhaps she had left her husband, or been repudiated 
 by him. But a strong character ultimately saved 
 her ; she was now beyond reproach. And if he were 
 about to inflict a great sorrow upon her, his own 
 suffering would be scarcely less severe. 
 
 As he crept softly into the house one night, he 
 came face to face with a tall man whom he remem- 
 bered to have seen here on several former occa- 
 sions ; decently dressed, like a clerk or shopman, 
 forty years old or so, and not ill-looking. Filmer, 
 with a glance at him, gave good-evening, and, to his 
 surprise, the stranger made no reply ; nay, it seemed 
 to him that he was regarded with a distinctly un-
 
 126 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 amiable stare. This troubled him for the moment, 
 sensitive as he was, but he concluded that the ill- 
 conditioned fellow was a friend of the family upstairs, 
 and soon forgot the occurrence. 
 
 A day or two later, as the girl 'Manda served 
 his breakfast, she looked at him oddly, and seemed 
 desirous of saying something. This young person 
 was now about seventeen, and rather given to friski- 
 ness, though Mrs. Mayhew called her an excellent 
 girl, and treated her like a sister. 
 
 ' If you please, Mr. Filmer,' she began, in an un- 
 usually diffident tone. 
 
 ' Yes ? ' 
 
 ' Is it true that you're going to leave us, sir ? ' 
 
 She smirked a little, and altogether behaved 
 strangely. 
 
 ' Who told you I was going to ? ' asked Filmer. 
 
 ' Oh ! — Mrs. Mayhew said as it was likely, sir.' 
 
 Again she dropped her eyes, and fidgeted. The 
 philologist, much disturbed, spoke on an impulse. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' I am going — very soon. I may 
 have to leave any day.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' was the reply, and to his ears it sounded 
 like an expression of relief. But why 'Manda 
 should be glad of his departure he could not 
 imagine. 
 
 However, his resolve was taken. He had no 
 right to remain here. Prospects or no prospects, he 
 would engage a room in quite a different part of the
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 127 
 
 town, and make his few pounds last as long as 
 possible. 
 
 And on this resolve he had the strength to aet. 
 1 >readful to him in anticipation, the parting with 
 Mrs. May hew came about in the simplest and easiest 
 way. When he had made known his purpose — with 
 nervous solemnity which tried to mask as genial 
 friendliness — the listener kept a brief silence. Then 
 she asked, in a low voice, whether he was quite sure 
 that he had means enough to live upon. Oh yes ; 
 he felt no uneasiness, things were shaping themselves 
 satisfactorily. 
 
 ' Of course, Mrs. Mayhew, we are not saying 
 good-bye.' He laughed, as if in mockery of the idea. 
 ' We shall see each other — from time to time — often ! 
 Such old friends ' 
 
 Her dubious look and incomplete phrase of assent 
 — her eyes cast down — troubled him profoundly. 
 But the dreaded interview was over. In a few days 
 he removed his furniture. Happily the leave-taking 
 was not in private ; 'Manda and her mother both 
 shared in it ; yet poor Mrs. Mayhew's eyes had a 
 sorrowful dimness, and her attempted gaiety weighed 
 upon his spirits. 
 
 He lived now in the South-west of London, and 
 refrained even from visits to the British Museum. 
 The breaking-up of his life-long habits, the idleness 
 into which he had fallen, encouraged a morbid activity 
 of conscience ; under gray autumnal skies he walked
 
 123 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 about the roads and the parks, by the riverside, and 
 sometimes beyond the limits of town, but there was 
 no escape from a remorseful memory. When two or 
 three weeks had passed, his unrest began to be com- 
 plicated with fears of destitution. But, of a sudden, 
 the half promise that had been made to him was 
 fulfilled : the erudite society offered him a post 
 which, in his modest computation, represented all 
 that a man could desire of worldly prosperity. He 
 could now establish himself beneath some reputable 
 roof, repurchase his books, look forward to a life 
 of congenial duty and intellectual devotion. 
 But 
 
 His wandering steps brought him to the Chelsea 
 Embankment, where he leaned upon the parapet, and 
 gazed at the sullen river. 
 
 To whom — to whom did he owe all this ? Who 
 was it that had saved him at that black time when 
 he thought of death as his only friend ? Who had 
 toiled for him, cared for him, whilst he wrote his 
 book ? Now at length he was able to evince grati- 
 tude otherwise than in mere words, and like a dastard 
 he slunk away. He had deserted the woman who 
 loved him. 
 
 And why ? She was not his equal ; yet certainly 
 not so far his inferior that, even in the sight of the 
 world, he need be ashamed of her. The merest 
 cowardice, the plainest selfishness, withheld him from
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 129 
 
 returning to Mrs. Mayhew and making her that offer 
 which he was in honour bound to make. 
 
 Yes, in honour bound. Thus far had his delicate 
 sensibilities, his philosophical magnanimity, impelled 
 the lonely scholar. Love of woman he knew not, 
 but a generous warmth of heart enabled him to 
 contemplate the wooing and wedding of his bene- 
 factress without repugnance. In a sense it would be 
 loss of liberty ; but might he not find compensation 
 in domestic comfort, in the tender care that would 
 be lavished upon him ? But the higher view — a 
 duty discharged, a heart solaced 
 
 The next day was Sunday. In the morning 
 there fell heavy rain : after noon the clouds swept 
 eastward, and rays of sunlight glistened on the wet 
 streets. Filmer had sat totally unoccupied. He 
 made a pretence of eating the dinner that was brought 
 to him, and then, having attired himself as though 
 he had not a minute to lose, left home. Travelling 
 by omnibus, he reached the neighbourhood hitherto 
 so carefully shunned ; he walked rapidly to the 
 familiar street, and, with heart throbbing painfully, 
 he stood before the little chandler's shop, which of 
 course was closed. 
 
 A knock at the house-door. It was answered by 
 'Manda, who stared and smiled, and seemed neither 
 glad nor sorry to see him, but somehow in perturba- 
 tion. 
 
 K
 
 130 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 'Is Mrs. Mayhew in?' whispered, rather than 
 spoke, the philologist. 
 
 ' No, sir. She went out not long ago — with Mr. 
 Marshall. And she won't be back just yet — p'r'aps 
 not till supper.' 
 
 ' With— with Mr. Marshall ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' 'Manda grinned. ' They're going to be 
 married next Saturday, sir.' 
 
 Filmer straightened himself and stood like a 
 soldier at attention. 
 
 ' To be married ? — Mrs. Mayhew ? ' 
 
 The girl laughed, nodded, seemed greatly 
 amused. 
 
 1 I should like to come in, and — and speak to you 
 for a moment.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, sir,' she smirked. ' There's nobody in. 
 Would you mind coming into the shop ? ' 
 
 He followed. The well-remembered odour of 
 Mrs. Mayhew's merchandise enveloped him about, 
 and helped still further to confuse his thoughts in a 
 medley of past and present. Over the shop window 
 hung a dirty yellow blind, through which the sun- 
 shine struggled dimly. Filmer hesitated for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' Who is Mr. Marshall, 'Manda ? ' he was able to 
 ask at length. 
 
 ' Don't you know, sir ? ' She stood before him 
 in a perky attitude, her fingers interlaced. ' You've 
 seen him. A tall man — dark-looking '
 
 IN HONOUR BOUND 131 
 
 ' Ah ! Yes, I remember. I have seen him. How 
 long has Mrs. Mayhevv known him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, a long, long time. He lent her a lot of 
 money when she started the shop. They'd have been 
 married before, only Mr. Marshall's wife was alive— 
 in a 'sylum.' 
 
 ' In an asylum ? ' 
 
 1 Brought on by drink, they say. There's all sorts 
 of tales about her.' 
 
 The philologist eased himself by moving a few 
 paces. He looked from the pile of firewood bundles 
 before the counter to a row of canisters on the topmost 
 shelf. 
 
 ' I'm glad to hear this,' at length fell from his 
 lips. 'Just say I called ; and that I — I'll call again 
 some day.' 
 
 'Manda's odd expression arrested his eyes. He 
 turned away, however, and stepped out into the pas- 
 sage, where little if any daylight penetrated. Behind 
 him, 'Manda spoke. 
 
 ' I don't think I'd come again, sir.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 He tried to see her face, but she kept in shadow. 
 
 ' Mr. Marshall mightn't like it, sir. Nor Mrs. 
 Mayhew— Mrs. Marshall as ivill be.' 
 
 'Not like it? 
 
 ' You won't say anything, if I tell you ? ' said the 
 girl, in a low and hurried yet laughing tone. ' It 
 made a little trouble— because you was here. Mr. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 IN HONOUR BOUND 
 
 Marshall thought— ' a giggle filled the lacuna. ' And 
 Mrs. Mayhew didn't like to say anything to you. 
 
 She's that kind to everybody ' 
 
 Filmer stretched his hand to the door, fumbled at 
 the latch, and at length got out. It took some hours 
 before his shamefaced misery yielded to the blissful 
 sense of relief and of freedom.
 
 133 
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 The ordinary West-End Londoner — who is a citizen 
 of no city at all, but dwells amid a mere con- 
 glomerate of houses at a certain distance from 
 Charing Cross — has known a fleeting surprise when, 
 by rare chance, his eye fell upon the name of 
 some such newspaper as the Battersca Times, the 
 Camberwell Mercury, or the Islington Gazette. To 
 him, these and the like districts are nothing more 
 than compass points of the huge metropolis. He 
 may be in practice acquainted with them ; if his- 
 torically inclined, he may think of them as old-time 
 villages swallowed up by insatiable London ; but he 
 has never grasped the fact that in Battersea, Cam- 
 berwell, Islington, there are people living who name 
 these places as their home ; who are born, subsist, 
 and die there as though in a distinct town, and 
 practically without consciousness of its obliteration 
 in the map of a world capital. 
 
 The stable element of this population consists 
 of more or less old-fashioned people. Round about 
 them is the ceaseless coming and going of nomads
 
 134 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 who keep abreast with the time, who take their 
 lodgings by the week, their houses by the month ; 
 who camp indifferently in regions old and new, 
 learning their geography in train and tram-car. 
 Abiding parishioners are wont to be either very poor 
 or established in a moderate prosperity ; they lack 
 enterprise, either for good or ill : if comfortably off, 
 they owe it, as a rule, to some predecessor's exertion. 
 And for the most part, though little enough endowed 
 with the civic spirit, they abundantly pride themselves 
 on their local permanence. 
 
 Representative of this class was Mr. Archibald 
 Jordan, a native of Islington, and, at the age 
 of five-and-forty, still faithful to the streets which 
 he had trodden as a child. His father started 
 a small grocery business in Upper Street ; Archi- 
 bald succeeded to the shop, advanced soberly, and 
 at length admitted a partner, by whose capital and 
 energy the business was much increased. After 
 his thirtieth year Mr. Jordan ceased to stand behind 
 the counter. Of no very active disposition, and 
 but moderately set on gain, he found it pleasant 
 to spend a few hours daily over the books and the 
 correspondence, and for the rest of his time to enjoy 
 a gossipy leisure, straying among the acquaintances 
 of a lifetime, or making new in the decorous bar- 
 parlours, billiard-rooms, and other such retreats which 
 allured his bachelor liberty. His dress and bearing 
 were unpretentious, but impressively respectable ; he
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 135 
 
 never allowed his garments (made by an Islington 
 tailor, an old schoolfellow) to exhibit the least sign of 
 wear, but fashion affected their style as little as possible. 
 Of middle height, and tending to portliness, he walked 
 at an unvarying pace, as a man who had never known 
 undignified hurry ; in his familiar thoroughfares he 
 glanced about him with a good-humoured air of 
 proprietorship, or with a look of thoughtful criticism 
 for any changes that might be going forward. No 
 one had ever spoken flatteringly of his visage ; he 
 knew himself a very homely-featured man, and 
 accepted the fact, as something that had neither 
 favoured nor hindered him in life. But it was his 
 conviction that no man's eye had a greater power of 
 solemn and overwhelming rebuke, and this gift he took 
 a pleasure in exercising, however trivial the occasion. 
 For five-and-twenty years he had lived in lodg- 
 ings ; always within the narrow range of Islington 
 respectability, yet never for more than a twelvemonth 
 under the same roof. This peculiar feature of Mr 
 Jordan's life had made him a subject of continual 
 interest to local landladies, among whom were several 
 lifelong residents, on friendly terms of old time with 
 the Jordan family. To them it seemed an astonish- 
 ing thing that a man in such circumstances had not 
 yet married ; granting this eccentricity, they could 
 not imagine what made him change his abode so 
 often. Not a landlady in Islington but would 
 welcome Mr. Jordan in her rooms, and, having got
 
 136 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 him, do her utmost to prolong the connection. He 
 had been known to quit a house on the paltriest ex- 
 cuse, removing to another in which he could not 
 expect equally good treatment. There was no ac- 
 counting for it : it must be taken as an ultimate 
 mystery of life, and made the most of as a perennial 
 topic of neighbourly conversation. 
 
 As to the desirability of having Mr. Jordan for a 
 lodger there could be no difference of opinion among 
 rational womankind. Mrs. Wiggins, indeed, had 
 taken his sudden departure from her house so ill that 
 she always spoke of him abusively ; but who heeded 
 Mrs. Wiggins ? Even in the sadness of hope deferred, 
 those ladies who had entertained him once, and 
 speculated on his possible return, declared Mr. Jordan 
 a ' thorough gentleman.' Lodgers, as a class, do not 
 recommend themselves in Islington ; Mr. Jordan shone 
 against the dusky background with almost dazzling 
 splendour. To speak of lodgers as of cattle, he was a 
 prize creature. A certain degree of comfort he firmly 
 exacted ; he might be a trifle fastidious about cook- 
 ing ; he stood upon his dignity ; but no one could 
 say that he grudged reward for service rendered. It 
 was his practice to pay more than the landlady asked. 
 ' Twenty-five shillings a week, you say ? I shall 
 
 give you twenty-eight. But ' and with raised 
 
 forefinger he went through the catalogue of his 
 demands. Everything must be done precisely as he 
 directed ; even in the laying of his table he insisted
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 137 
 
 upon certain minute peculiarities, and to forget one of 
 them was to earn that gaze of awful reprimand which 
 Mr. Jordan found (or thought) more efficacious than 
 any spoken word. Against this precision might be 
 set his strange indulgence in the matter of bills ; he 
 merely regarded the total, was never known to dispute 
 an item. Only twice in his long experience had he 
 quitted a lodging because of exorbitant charges, and 
 on these occasions he sternly refused to discuss the 
 matter. ' Mrs. Hawker, I am paying your account 
 with the addition of one week's rent. Your rooms will 
 be vacant at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.' And 
 until the hour of departure no entreaty, no prostration, 
 could induce him to utter a syllable. 
 
 It was on the 1st of June, 1889, his forty-fifth 
 birthday, that Mr. Jordan removed from quarters he 
 had occupied for ten months, and became a lodger in 
 the house of Mrs. Elderfield. 
 
 Mrs. Elderfield, a widow, aged thrce-and-thirty, 
 with one little girl, was but a casual resident in 
 Islington ; she knew nothing of Mr. Jordan, and made 
 no inquiries about him. Strongly impressed, as every 
 woman must needs be, by his air and tone of mild 
 authority, she congratulated herself on the arrival of 
 such an inmate ; but no subservience appeared in her 
 demeanour ; she behaved with studious civility, 
 nothing more. Her words were few and well chosen. 
 Always neatly dressed, yet always busy, she moved 
 about the house with quick, silent step, and cleanliness
 
 138 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 marked her path. The meals were well cooked, well 
 served. Mr. Jordan being her only lodger, she could 
 devote to him an undivided attention. At the end 
 of his first week the critical gentleman felt greater 
 satisfaction than he had ever known. 
 
 The bill lay upon his table at breakfast-time. He 
 perused the items, and, much against his habit, 
 reflected upon them. Having breakfasted, he rang the 
 bell. 
 
 'Mrs. Elderfield ' 
 
 He paused, and looked gravely at the widow. 
 She had a plain, honest, healthy face, with resolute 
 lips, and an eye that brightened when she spoke ; 
 her well-knit figure, motionless in its respectful atti- 
 tude, declared a thoroughly sound condition of the 
 nerves. 
 
 ' Mrs. Elderfield, your bill is so very moderate 
 that I think you must have forgotten something.' 
 
 ' Have you looked it over, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I never trouble about the details. Please exa- 
 mine it.' 
 
 ' There is no need, sir. I never make a mis- 
 take.' 
 
 ' I said, Mrs. Elderfield, please examine it.' 
 
 She seemed to hesitate, but obeyed. 
 
 ' The bill is quite correct, sir.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 He paid it at once and said no more. 
 
 The weeks went on. To Mr. Jordan's surprise,
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 139 
 
 his landlady's zeal and efficiency showed no diminu- 
 tion, a thing unprecedented in his long and varied 
 experience. After the first day or two he had found 
 nothing to correct ; every smallest instruction was 
 faithfully carried out. Moreover, he knew for the 
 first time in his life the comfort of absolutely clean 
 rooms. The best of his landladies hitherto had not 
 risen above that conception of cleanliness which is 
 relative to London soot and fog. His palate, too, 
 was receiving an education. Probably he had never 
 eaten of a joint rightly cooked, or tasted a potato 
 boiled as it should be ; more often than not, the food 
 set before him had undergone a process which left it 
 masticable indeed, but void of savour and nourish- 
 ment. Many little attentions of which he had never 
 dreamed kept him in a wondering cheerfulness. 
 And at length he said to himself: ' Here I shall 
 stay.' 
 
 Not that his constant removals had been solely 
 due to discomfort and a hope of better things. The 
 secret — perhaps not entirely revealed even to himself 
 — lay in Mr. Jordan's sense of his own importance, and 
 his uneasiness whenever he felt that, in the eyes of a 
 landlady, he was becoming a mere everyday person — 
 an ordinary lodger. No sooner did he detect a sign 
 of this than he made up his mind to move. It gave 
 him the keenest pleasure of which he was capable 
 when, on abruptly announcing his immediate departure, 
 he perceived the landlady's profound mortification. To
 
 i 4 o THE I'RI/h LODGER 
 
 make the blow heavier he had even resorted to artifice, 
 seeming to express a most lively contentment during 
 the very days when he had decided to leave and was 
 asking himself where he should next abide. One of 
 his delights was to return to a house which he had 
 quitted years ago, to behold the excitement and 
 bustle occasioned by his appearance, and play the 
 - >d-natured autocrat over grovelling dependents. In 
 every case, save the two already mentioned, he had 
 parted with his landlady on terms of friendliness, 
 never vouchsafing a reason for his going away, genially 
 eluding every attempt to obtain an explanation, 
 and at the last abounding in graceful recognition of 
 all that had been done for him. Mr. Jordan shrank 
 from dispute, hated every sort of contention ; this 
 characteristic gave a certain refinement to his other- 
 wise commonplace existence. Vulgar vanity would 
 have displayed itself in precisely the acts and words 
 from which his self-esteem nervously shrank. And 
 of late he had been thinking over the list of his land- 
 ladies, with a half-formed desire to settle down, to 
 make himself a permanent home. Doubtless as a 
 result of this state of mind, he betook himself to a 
 strange house, where, as from neutral ground, he 
 might reflect upon the lodgings he knew, and judge 
 between their merits. He could not foresee what 
 awaited him under Mrs. Eldcrfield's roof ; the event 
 impressed him as providential ; he felt, with singular 
 emotion, that choice was taken out of his hands.
 
 THE PRIZE LOOKER i.,i 
 
 Lodgings could not be more than perfect, and suchhe 
 had found. 
 
 It was not his habit to chat with landladies. At 
 times he held forth to them on some topic of interest, 
 suavely, instructively ; if he gave in to their ordinary 
 talk, it was with a half-absent smile oi~ condescension. 
 Mrs. Elderfield seeming as little disposed to gossip as 
 himself, a month elapsed before he knew anything 
 of her history ; but one evening the reserve on both 
 sides was broken. His landlady modestly inquired 
 whether she was giving satisfaction, and Mr. Jordan 
 replied with altogether unwonted fervour. In the 
 dialogue that ensued, they exchanged personal con- 
 fidences. The widow had lost her husband four years 
 ago; she came from the Midlands, but had long- 
 dwelt in London. Then fell from her lips a casual 
 remark which made the hearer uneasy. 
 
 ' I don't think I shall always stay here. The neigh- 
 bourhood is too crowded. I should like to have a 
 house somewhere further out." 
 
 Mr. Jordan did not comment on this, but it kept a 
 place in his daily thoughts, and became at length so 
 much of an anxiety that he invited a renewal of the 
 subject. 
 
 ' You have no intention of moving just yet, Mrs. 
 Elderfield ? ' 
 
 ' I was going to tell you, sir,' replied the landlady, 
 with her respectful calm, ' that I have decided to make 
 a change next spring. Some friends of mine have
 
 142 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 gone to live at Wood Green, and I shall look for a 
 house in the same neighbourhood.' 
 
 Mr. Jordan was, in private, gravely disturbed. He 
 who had flitted from house to house for many years, 
 distressing the souls of landladies, now lamented the 
 prospect of a forced removal. It was open to him to 
 accompany Mrs. Elderfield, but he shrank from the 
 thought of living in so remote a district. Wood Green ! 
 The very name appalled him, for he had never been 
 able to endure the country. He betook himself one 
 dreary autumn afternoon to that northern suburb, and 
 what he saw did not at all reassure him. On his way 
 back he began once more to review the list of old 
 lodgings. 
 
 But from that day his conversations with Mrs. 
 Elderfield grew more frequent, more intimate. In the 
 evening he occasionally made an excuse for knocking 
 at her parlour door, and lingered for a talk which 
 ended only at supper time. He spoke of his own 
 affairs, and grew more ready to do so as his hearer 
 manifested a genuine interest, without impertinent 
 curiosity. Little by little he imparted to Mrs. Elder- 
 field a complete knowledge of his commercial history, 
 of his pecuniary standing — matters of which he had 
 never before spoken to a mere acquaintance. A 
 change was coming over him ; the foundations of 
 habit crumbled beneath his feet ; he lost his look of 
 complacence, his self-confident and superior tone. 
 Bar-parlours and billiard-rooms saw him but rarelyand
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 143 
 
 flittingly. He seemed to have lost his pleasure in the 
 streets of Islington, and spent all his spare time by 
 the fireside, perpetually musing. 
 
 On a day in March one of his old landladies, 
 Mrs. Higdon, sped to the house of another, Mrs. 
 Evans, panting under a burden of strange news. 
 Could it be believed ! Mr. Jordan was going to 
 marry — to marry that woman in whose house he was 
 living ! Mrs. Higdon had it on the very best 
 authority— that of Mr. Jordan's partner, who spoke 
 of the affair without reserve. A new house had 
 already been taken — at Wood Green. Well ! After 
 all these years, after so many excellent opportunities, 
 to marry a mere stranger and forsake Islington ! In 
 a moment Mr. Jordan's character was gone ; had he 
 figured in the police-court under some disgraceful 
 charge, these landladies could hardly have felt more 
 shocked and professed themselves more disgusted. 
 The intelligence spread. Women went out of their way 
 to have a sight of Mrs. Elderfield's house ; they hung 
 about for a glimpse of that sinister person herself. She 
 had robbed them, every one, of a possible share in Is- 
 lington's prize lodger. Had it been one of themselves 
 they could have borne the chagrin ; but a woman 
 whom not one of them knew, an alien ! What base 
 arts had she practised ? Ah, it was better not to 
 inquire too closely into the secrets of that lodging- 
 house ! 
 
 Though every effort was made to learn the time
 
 144 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 and place of the ceremony, Mr. Jordan's landladies 
 had the mortification to hear of his wedding 
 only when it was over. Of course, this showed 
 that he felt the disgracefulness of his behaviour ; 
 he was not utterly lost to shame. It could or 
 be hoped that he would not know the bitterness of 
 repentance. 
 
 Not till he found himself actually living in the 
 house at Wood Green did Mr. Jordan realise how 
 little his own will had had to do with the recent 
 course of events. Certainly, he had made love to 
 the widow, and had asked her to marry him ; but 
 from that point onward he seemed to have put 
 himself entirely in Mrs. Elderfield's hands, granting 
 every request, meeting half-way every suggestion 
 she offered, becoming, in short, quite a different kind 
 of man from his former self. He had not been 
 sensible of a moment's reluctance ; he enjoyed the 
 novel sense of yielding himself to affectionate 
 guidance. His wits had gone wool-gathering ; they 
 returned to him only after the short honeymoon at 
 Brighton, when he stood upon his own hearth-rug, 
 and looked round at the new furniture and ornaments 
 which symbolised a new beginning of life. 
 
 The admirable landlady had shown herself ener- 
 getic, clear-headed, and full of resource ; it was she 
 who chose the house, and transacted all the business 
 in connection with it ; Mr. Jordan had merely run 
 about in her company from place to place, smiling
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 145 
 
 approval and signing cheques. No one could have 
 gone to work more prudently, or obtained what she 
 wanted at smaller outlay ; for all that, Mr. Jordan, 
 having recovered something like his normal frame of 
 mind, viewed the results with consternation. Left 
 to himself, he would have taken a very small house, 
 and furnished it much in the style of Islington 
 lodgings ; as it was, he occupied a ten-roomed ' villa,' 
 with appointments which seemed to him luxurious, 
 aristocratic. True, the expenditure was of no mo- 
 ment to a man in his position, and there was no fear 
 that Mrs. Jordan would involve him in dangerous ex- 
 travagance ; but he had always lived with such 
 excessive economy that the sudden change to a life 
 correspondent with his income could not but make 
 him uncomfortable. 
 
 Mrs. Jordan had, of course, seen to it that her 
 personal appearance harmonised with the new sur- 
 roundings. She dressed herself and her young 
 daughter with careful appropriateness. There was 
 no display, no purchase of gewgaws — merely gar- 
 ments of good quality, such as became people in 
 easy circumstances. She impressed upon her 
 husband that this was nothing more than a return 
 to the habits of her earlier life. Her first marriage 
 had been a sad mistake ; it had brought her down 
 in the world. Now she felt restored to her natural 
 position. 
 
 L
 
 146 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 After a week of restlessness, Mr. Jordan resumed 
 his daily visits to the shop in Upper Street, where 
 he sat as usual among the books and the correspond- 
 ence, and tried to assure himself that all would 
 henceforth be well with him. No more changing 
 from house to house ; a really comfortable home in 
 which to spend the rest of his days ; a kind and 
 most capable wife to look after all his needs, to 
 humour all his little habits. He could not have 
 taken a wiser step. 
 
 For all that, he had lost something, though he 
 did not yet understand what it was. The first 
 perception of a change not for the better flashed 
 upon him one evening in the second week, when he 
 came home an hour later than his wont. Mrs. 
 Jordan, who always stood waiting for him at the 
 window, had no smile as he entered. 
 
 ' Why are you late ? ' she asked, in her clear, 
 restrained voice. 
 
 Oh — something or other kept me.' 
 This would not do. Mrs. Jordan quietly insisted 
 on a full explanation of the delay, and it seemed to 
 her unsatisfactory. 
 
 ' I hope you won't be irregular in your habits, 
 Archibald,' said his wife, with gentle admonition. 
 ' What I always liked in you was your methodical 
 way of living. I shall be very uncomfortable if I 
 never know when to expect you.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, but— business, you see '
 
 THE PRIZE LODGKR 147 
 
 ' But you have explained that you could have been 
 back at the usual time.' 
 
 ' Yes— that's true— but ' 
 
 ' Well, well, you won't let it happen again. Oh 
 really, Archibald ! ' she suddenly exclaimed. ' The 
 idea of you coming into the room with muddy 
 boots ! Why, look ! There's a patch of mud on the 
 carpet ' 
 
 ' It was my hurry to spoak to you,' murmured 
 Mr. Jordan, in confusion. 
 
 1 Please go at once and take your boots off. 
 And you left your slippers in the bedroom this 
 morning. You must always bring them down, 
 and put them in the dining-room cupboard ; then 
 they're ready for you when you come into the 
 house.' 
 
 Mr. Jordan had but a moderate appetite for his 
 dinner, and he did not talk so pleasantly as usual. 
 This was but the beginning of troubles such as he 
 had not for a moment foreseen. His wife, having 
 since their engagement taken the upper hand, began 
 to show her determination to keep it, and day by day 
 her rule grew more galling to the ex-bachelor. He 
 himself, in the old days, had plagued his landladies 
 by insisting upon method and routine, by his faddish 
 attention to domestic minutiae ; he now learnt what 
 it was to be subjected to the same kind of despotism, 
 exercised with much more exasperating persistence. 
 Whereas Mrs. Elderfield had scrupulously obeyed 
 
 1 2
 
 148 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 every direction given by her lodger, Mrs. Jordan was 
 evidently resolved that her husband should live, 
 move, and have his being in the strictest accordance 
 with her own ideal. Not in any spirit of nagging, 
 or ill-tempered unreasonableness ; it was merely 
 that she had her favourite way of doing every con- 
 ceivable thing, and felt so sure it was the best of all 
 possible ways that she could not endure any other. 
 The first serious disagreement between them had 
 reference to conduct at the breakfast-table. After 
 a broken night, feeling headachy and worried, 
 Mr. Jordan tooking up his newspaper, folded it 
 conveniently, and set it against the bread so 
 that he could read while eating. Without a word, 
 his wife gently removed it, and laid it aside on a 
 chair. 
 
 ' What are you doing ? ' he asked gruffly. 
 
 'You musn't read at meals, Archibald. It's bad 
 manners, and bad for your digestion.' 
 
 ' I've read the news at breakfast all my life, and I 
 shall do so still,' exclaimed the husband, starting up 
 and recovering his paper. 
 
 1 Then you will have breakfast by yourself. Nelly, 
 we must go into the other room till papa has 
 finished.' 
 
 Mr. Jordan ate mechanically, and stared at the 
 newspaper with just as little consciousness. 
 Prompted by the underlying weakness of his 
 character to yield for the sake of peace, wrath made
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 149 
 
 him dogged, and the more steadily he regarded his 
 position, the more was he appalled by the outlook. 
 Why, this meant downright slavery ! He had 
 married a woman so horribly like himself in several 
 points that his only hope lay in overcoming her by 
 sheer violence. A thoroughly good and well-meaning 
 woman, an excellent housekeeper, the kind of wife 
 to do him credit and improve his social position ; but 
 self-willed, pertinacious, and probably thinking her- 
 self his superior in every respect. He had nothing 
 to fear but subjection — the one thing he had 
 never anticipated, the one thing he could never 
 endure. 
 
 He went off to business without seeing his wife 
 again, and passed a lamentable day. At his ordinary 
 hour of return, instead of setting off homeward, he 
 strayed about the by-streets of Islington and Penton- 
 ville. Not till this moment had he felt how dear they 
 were to him, the familiar streets ; their very odours 
 fell sweet upon his nostrils. Never again could he go 
 hither and thither, among the old friends, the old 
 places, to his heart's content. What had possessed 
 him to abandon this precious liberty ! The thought 
 of Wood Green revolted him ; live there as long as 
 he might, he would never be at home. He thought 
 of his wife (now waiting for him) with fear, and then 
 with a reaction of rage. Let her wait ! He — 
 Archibald Jordan — before whom women had bowed 
 and trembled for five-and-twenty years — was he to
 
 150 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 come and go at a wife's bidding ? And at length the 
 thought seemed so utterly preposterous that he sped 
 northward as fast as possible, determined to right 
 himself this very evening. 
 
 Mrs. Jordan sat alone. He marched into the 
 room with muddy boots, flung his hat and overcoat 
 into a chair, and poked the fire violently. His wife - 
 eye was fixed on him, and she first spoke — in the 
 quiet voice that he dreaded. 
 
 ' What do you mean by carrying on like this. 
 Archibald ? 
 
 • I shall earn- on as I like in my own house — hear 
 that ? ' 
 
 1 1 do hear it, and I'm very sorry to. It \ me 
 
 a very bad opinion of you. You will not do as you 
 like in your own house. Rage as you please. You 
 will not do as you like in your own hou 
 
 There was a contemptuous anger in her eye which 
 the man could not face. He lost all control of him- 
 self, uttered coarse oaths, and stood quivering. Then 
 the woman began to lecture him ; she talked steadily, 
 acrimoniously, for more than an hour, regardless of 
 his interruptions. Nervously exhausted, he fled at 
 length from the room. A couple of hours later they 
 met again in the nuptial chamber, and again Mrs. 
 Jordan began to talk. Her point, as before, was that 
 he had begun married life about as badly as possible. 
 Why had he married her at all ? What fault had she 
 committed to incur such outrageous usage ? But.
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 151 
 
 thank goodness, she had a will of her own, and a 
 proper self-respect ; behave as he might, she would 
 still persevere in the path of womanly duty. If he 
 thought to make her life unbearable he would find 
 his mistake ; she simply should not heed him ; per- 
 haps he would return to his senses before long — and 
 in this vein Mrs. Jordan continued until night was 
 at odds with morning, only becoming silent when 
 her partner had sunk into the oblivion of uttermost 
 fatigue. 
 
 The next day Mr. Jordan's demeanour showed 
 him, for the moment at all events, defeated. He 
 made no attempt to read at breakfast ; he moved 
 about very quietly. And in the afternoon he came 
 home at the regulation hour. 
 
 Mrs. Jordan had friends in the neighbourhood, 
 but she saw little of them. She was not a woman of 
 ordinary tastes. Everything proved that, to her 
 mind, the possession of a nice house, with the pros- 
 pects of a comfortable life, was an end in itself ; she 
 had no desire to exhibit her well-furnished rooms, or 
 to gad about talking of her advantages. Even- 
 moment of her day was taken up in the superintend- 
 ence of servants, the discharge of an infinitude of 
 housewifely tasks. She had no assistance from her 
 daughter ; the girl went to school, and was en- 
 couraged to study with the utmost application. The 
 husband's presence in the house seemed a mere 
 accident — save in the still nocturnal season, when
 
 152 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 Mrs. Jordan bestowed upon him her counsel and her 
 admonitions. 
 
 After the lapse of a few days Mr. Jordan again 
 offered combat, and threw himself into it with a 
 frenzy. 
 
 ' Look here ! ' he shouted at length, ' either you or 
 I are going to leave this house. I can't live with you 
 —understand ? I hate the sight of you ! ' 
 
 ' Go on ! ' retorted the other, with mild bitterness. 
 ' Abuse me as much as you like, I can bear it. I 
 shall continue to do my duty, and unless you have 
 recourse to personal violence, here I remain. If you 
 go too far, of course the law must defend me ! ' 
 
 This was precisely what Mr. Jordan knew and 
 dreaded ; the law was on his wife's side, and by 
 applying at a police-court for protection she could 
 overwhelm him with shame and ridicule, which would 
 make life intolerable. Impossible to argue with this 
 woman. Say what he might, the fault always seemed 
 his. His wife was simply doing her duty — in a spirit 
 of admirable thoroughness ; he, in the eyes of a third 
 person, would appear an unreasonable and violent 
 curmudgeon. Had it not all sprung out of his 
 obstinacy with regard to reading at breakfast ? How 
 explain to anyone what he suffered in his nerves, 
 in his pride, in the outraged habitudes of a life- 
 time ? 
 
 That evening he did not return to Wood Green. 
 Afraid of questions if he showed himself in the old
 
 THE PRIZE LODGER 153 
 
 resorts, he spent .some hours in a billiard-room near 
 King's Cross, and towards midnight took a bedroom 
 under the same roof. On going to business next day, 
 he awaited with tremors either a telegram or a visit 
 from his wife ; but the whole day passed, and he 
 heard nothing. After dark he walked once more 
 about the beloved streets, pausing now and then to 
 look up at the windows of this or that well- re- 
 membered house. Ah, if he durst but enter and 
 engage a lodging ! Impossible — for ever impossible ! 
 He slept in the same place as on the night before. 
 And again a day passed without any sort of inquiry 
 from Wood Green. When evening came he went 
 home. 
 
 Mrs. Jordan behaved as though he had returned 
 from business in the usual way. ' Is it raining? ' she 
 asked, with a half-smile. And her husband replied, 
 in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could command, 
 ' No, it isn't.' There was no mention between them 
 of his absence. That night Mrs. Jordan talked for 
 an hour or two of his bad habit of stepping on the 
 paint when he went up and down stairs, then fell 
 calmly asleep. 
 
 But Mr. Jordan did not sleep for a long time. 
 What ! was he, after all, to be allowed his liberty out 
 of doors, provided he relinquished it within ? Was 
 it really the case that his wife, satisfied with her 
 house and furniture and income, did not care a jot 
 whether he stayed away or came home ? There,
 
 154 THE PRIZE LODGER 
 
 indeed, gleamed a hope. When Mr. Jordan slept, he 
 dreamed that he was back again in lodgings at 
 Islington, tasting an extraordinary bliss. Day dissi- 
 pated the vision, but still Mrs. Jordan spoke not a 
 word of his absence, and with trembling still he 
 hoped. 

 
 155 
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 You knew the man at once by his likeness to a 
 thousand others. His clothes were always in good 
 condition ; the gloss of his linen declared a daily 
 renewal ; he was scrupulously shaven, and blew his 
 nose with a silk handkerchief. Yet the impression he 
 made was sordid. The very flower in his buttonhole 
 took a taint of vulgarity, and became suggestive of 
 cheap promenade concerts, or of the public dancing- 
 saloon. He had a fresh colour, proof of time spent 
 chiefly out of doors ; his features were blunt, trivial, 
 not to be remembered ; in his yellowish eyes lurked a 
 speculative cunning, a cold self-conceit which tuned 
 with the frequent simper upon his loose lips. 
 
 At his present age of nine-and- twenty Mr. Jupp 
 represented a South London firm of wholesale haber- 
 dashers, a house struggling hard against early 
 difficulties — he was their town traveller, and they 
 thought a good deal of him. He had the use of a 
 pony-trap and attendant boy ; to observe him as he 
 drove about the highways and byways was to enter 
 into the spirit of commercial democracy. Proud of 
 his personal appearance and of his turn-out, proud of
 
 156 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 his skill in cutting the corners, he rattled from shop to 
 shop with zealous absorption in the business of the 
 day, with an eye for nothing but what concerned his 
 immediate interests. Out of business hours Jupp 
 became a gentleman of untroubled leisure, visited the 
 theatre or music-hall several times in the week, looked 
 in at the Criterion bar about eleven, was home at 
 Kennington not later than half-past twelve. 
 
 He lived with his mother and sister, in a very 
 small house, in a squalid little street. His address 
 mattered nothing to him, for he would never have 
 dreamt of asking any one to come and see him at 
 home. For board and lodging he paid Mrs. Jupp 
 ten-and-sixpence a week, out of which sum he 
 expected her to provide him with succulent break- 
 fasts, with savoury suppers when he chose to return 
 early, with a substantial dinner on Sundays, and 
 with bitter ale to his heart's content. The mother 
 grumbled privately, but stinted nothing. Miss Jupp, 
 on the other hand, made frequent protest, and 
 quarrelled with her brother every Sunday. She, a 
 girl of twenty-two, worked very hard at the making 
 of baby linen ; of necessity nearly all her earnings 
 went to the support of the house, and every year her 
 temper grew more acrid. 
 
 One other person there was who had a decided 
 opinion as to John Jupp's domestic behaviour. 
 Martha Pimm knew the family through having 
 lodged in the same house with them some years ago ;
 
 OUR MR. JUIT 157 
 
 she kept up an acquaintance with Ada Jupp, and 
 learnt from her all about the brother's gross selfishness. 
 ' I wish / was his sister, that's all ! ' she often 
 remarked, and her eyes twinkled with scorn. The 
 truth was that, in days gone by, Jupp had allowed 
 Miss Pimm to suspect that he regarded her with a 
 certain interest ; she gave him neither encouragement 
 nor the reverse, and presently, as his position 
 improved, John began to spend his leisure elsewhere ; 
 nowadays they very seldom saw each other. 
 
 His income fluctuated, but for the last three years 
 he had averaged an annual three hundred pounds, and 
 of this he spent every penny upon himself. What- 
 ever the difficulties and hardships at home, it never 
 occurred to him to supplement his weekly ten-and- 
 sixpence. In all sincerity he believed that he had 
 barely sufficient for his wants. He groaned over the 
 laundry bill, and thought it a hard thing that his 
 mother would not discharge this out of what he gave 
 her. If the cooking were not to his taste he piped 
 querulously, and threatened to take rooms in a lodging- 
 house, where his modest wants could be decently 
 attended to. He wrangled with his sister about half- 
 pence charged by her for the mending of his socks. 
 With the cares of the house he would have nothing 
 whatever to do ; on one occasion he gently refused a 
 loan to make up the rent, and Mrs. Jupp had to visit 
 the pawnbroker. 
 
 He did not care to encounter Martha Pimm, for
 
 153 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 she always looked and spoke in a way that made him 
 feel uneasy. After such meeting he continued to 
 think of her in spite of himself. She was rather a 
 comely girl, and very sprightly ; had a good-natured 
 ' cheekiness ' of tone that sat well on her ; altogether, 
 the kind of young woman that a fellow might get 
 to think too much of. Jupp had not the slightest 
 intention of marrying until he could find a wife with 
 money ; he wanted capital to start a business for 
 himself. But he was by no means insensible to female 
 charm, and he thought it just as well to keep out of 
 Martha's way. 
 
 But one evening, when he had come home early to 
 have a cheap supper, he found Miss Pimm in the dingy 
 little sitting-room. She was high-coloured and in a 
 state of joyous animation. 
 
 ' Hallo ! ' he exclaimed at the door. ' That you ? ' 
 
 ' Used to be,' Martha replied, perkily. 
 
 ' What's up ? Come in for a fortune ? ' 
 
 Martha gave a ringing laugh, which was moderately 
 joined in by Mrs. Jupp and her daughter. 
 
 ' There's many a true word said in joke,' she 
 observed, with a little toss of the head. 
 
 It came out that Miss Pimm had actually in- 
 herited possessions. Her stepfather, a rag merchant 
 in Bermondsey, a snuffy, grimy, miserly old fellow, 
 had died at Guy's Hospital after a long illness. 
 Martha had been to visit him now and then, though 
 she hardly counted him a relative ; she pitied the
 
 OUR MR. JUIT 159 
 
 poor old curmudgeon, and made him a promise that 
 he should not be buried by the parish. To her, by 
 formal testament, the dying man bequeathed all he 
 had, which, on inquiry in a certain indicated quarter, 
 proved to be a matter of two or three thousand pounds, 
 shrewdly invested. 
 
 John Jupp listened with wide eyes. 
 
 ' And what arc you going to do with it ? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Spend it all on myself, of course — like other 
 people that has lots o' money.' 
 
 Jupp laughed — the allusion was not dark to him ; 
 but it left his withers unwrung. Long ago he had 
 learnt to despise such rebukes. 
 
 But that night he lay awake for an unusual time. 
 Two thousand pounds was a sum of money ; he 
 could see his way to making use of it. And it was 
 wonderful how Martha Pimm had improved since 
 he last met her. Had the money brought that fine 
 colour to her cheeks ? She was rather off-hand with 
 him, but that meant pique at his neglect. If he 
 chose to alter his tone, to approach the girl 
 flatteringly — why, a man of his advantages, personal 
 and other, was not likely to condescend in vain. 
 
 He took the resolve ; he began to seek Martha's 
 society. 
 
 She lived with a widowed aunt of hers, who kept 
 a small tobacco-shop in a street off Kennington Road. 
 The girl performed a multiplicity of services : waiting
 
 160 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 upon a female lodger, helping in the general domestic 
 work (her aunt had four young children), and 
 frequently attending to customers. This life was not 
 altogether to her taste, and she could have earned 
 more money by resuming her former occupation of 
 dressmaking ; but it would have been difficult for 
 Mrs. Pimm to find any one else able and willing 
 to give such thorough assistance : Martha's goodness 
 of heart found compensation for the things she 
 relinquished. 
 
 When the children were abed Mrs. Pimm and her 
 niece took turns at sitting behind the counter, evening 
 by evening. And presently Mr. Jupp began to 
 patronise the little place for his cigars, tobacco, and 
 other trifles : he would pass along the street about 
 nine o'clock, and peep in just to see whether Martha 
 was there. If so he took a chair, and talked genially, 
 sometimes for an hour or more. 
 
 ' Don't you want a commission ? ' Martha 
 asked one evening, when he at length bought a box 
 of vestas and prepared to depart, 
 
 ' Commission ? ' 
 
 ' You're a sort of advertisement for the shop, you 
 know. It brings custom when people see a swell 
 like you sitting here.' 
 
 Jupp laughed ; he was flattered. 
 
 ' I must think about it. Suppose we have a 
 walk together one of these evenings, and talk it 
 over ? '
 
 OUR MR. JUPP i r, i 
 
 There was a sly smile on Martha's lips. She 
 behaved as though the young man's advances were 
 not at all disagreeable. It seemed to John that she 
 had no suspicion of the motive which truly actuated 
 him. All the same, he would be prudent ; there 
 must be no direct love-making yet awhile. Enough 
 that he ingratiated himself by frequent exhibition of 
 his spotless hats, his diverse neckties, the flower in 
 his buttonhole. He studied a manner of suave 
 politeness — and Jupp believed that, like Samuel 
 Johnson, he was well-bred to a degree of needless 
 scrupulosity. 
 
 Martha consented to take a walk with him. 
 Not to shame his gentility, she donned her best 
 attire, and in the summer evening they sauntered 
 as far as Westminster. In the fulness of his 
 heart John proposed that they should enter a con- 
 fectioner's. Martha gaily assented, and merrily 
 made choice of the most expensive delicacies ; she 
 ate with such a hearty appetite that her companion, 
 who had calculated on an expenditure of sixpence, 
 found that he had two or three shillings to pay. It 
 made him tremble with wrath ; but he commanded his 
 countenance, and thought on the ragman's legacy. 
 
 Before they parted he asked if he might take her 
 to the theatre next Saturday. There was a good 
 piece at the Adelphi. 
 
 ' I should like it awfully ! ' exclaimed the girl. 
 ' But you must take your sister as well.' 
 
 M
 
 1 62 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! It'll spoil all the fun.' 
 
 Martha insisted. She would not go unless Ada 
 Jupp were of the company. 
 
 ' I shall come and see her to-morrow, and tell her 
 you're going to take us,' she said with childlike 
 exultation. ' You're very nice, you know ; much 
 nicer than I thought.' 
 
 Jupp grinned in torment. Never mind ; if this 
 was the way to win her, all right. A rapid com- 
 putation, and he had decided that he would risk the 
 bait. 
 
 He reached home the next evening about eight 
 o'clock, and had not been in the house many minutes 
 —just time enough to exhibit unusual surliness — 
 when Martha came. 
 
 ' What do you think, Ada ! ' she cried, on enter- 
 ing the kitchen, where Mrs. Jupp and her daughter 
 were ironing linen, ' your brother's going to take us 
 to the Adelphi on Saturday, you and me — to the 
 upper circle ! ' 
 
 The listeners stood amazed. John, in the back- 
 ground, grinned horribly. He had intended seats in 
 the pit. 
 
 ' How can / go ? ' said Ada, pettishly. ' I haven't 
 a decent thing to put on.' 
 
 ' Then you'll have to get 'em. Your brother will 
 pay for 'em, I'm sure.' 
 
 ' Hollo ! Who said so ? ' cried a choking voice. 
 
 But it was overwhelmed by Martha's laughing
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 163 
 
 protest. What ! he wouldn't buy a hat and jacket 
 for his own sister— a man rolling in money as he 
 was ! Of course that was only his fun. And in five 
 minutes the whole thing was arranged. Martha 
 suggested the shop where Ada's new trappings 
 should be purchased. She herself would go with the 
 girl, and assist her choice. 
 
 ' I can't stay any longer, now. I only just looked 
 in for a minute. I suppose you ain't walking my 
 way, Mr. Jupp ? ' 
 
 John was led off, gnashing his teeth, and secretly 
 vowing a future vengeance, but supported by the 
 reflection that already Martha could not keep away 
 from him. 
 
 ' You don't mean to go on working for your aunt, 
 do you ? ' he asked, as they walked away, venturing 
 for the first time upon delicate ground. 
 
 ' It wouldn't be kind to leave her all at oncet, you 
 know.' 
 
 I And where are you going when you do leave 
 here ? ' 
 
 Martha seemed embarrassed. 
 
 I I don't know. I haven't thought about it. Time 
 enough when I get my money. I'm going to see 
 the lawyer again next week.' 
 
 Me made inquiries, in a jesting tone, and the girl 
 informed him of all he desired to know. The money 
 was absolutely for her own use ; she had learnt the 
 nature of the investments, and what they produced. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 John expressed an anxious hope that her lawyer was 
 an honest man ; he offered his services as a man of 
 business. But Martha had an air of complete con- 
 fidence ; she smiled her sweetest, and John felt an 
 unwonted flutter in his breast. 
 
 That evening at the theatre was the beginning of 
 a round of delights. When Jupp proposed another 
 entertainment, Martha insisted that he should take 
 his mother this time ; she knew it was so long since 
 poor Mrs. Jupp had been anywhere at all. But the 
 widow was even worse provided in the matter of 
 costume than her daughter, and Martha, having 
 purposely led the conversation to this point, one 
 evening at the Jupps', took upon herself to promise 
 that John, like the excellent son he was, would buy 
 his mother a whole new outfit. And she gained 
 her point. By this time, John, whether conqueror or 
 not, was undoubtedly himself subdued ; he could not 
 let an evening pass without seeing Martha. He 
 offered her presents, but, to his surprise and relief, 
 Martha would have none of them ; he might pay for 
 entertainments, and for little feasts as much as he 
 liked, but of gifts from hand to hand she would not 
 hear. Never had Mrs. Jupp and Ada known such a 
 season of gaiety. Wherever Martha went with her 
 cavalier, one or other of them, and sometimes both, 
 went also. Theatres, music-halls, Kensington Ex- 
 hibitions, shows at Westminster, the Crystal Palace, 
 Rosherville Gardens — all were visited in turn, and
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 165 
 
 invariably with a maximum of expense to Mr Jupp. 
 He groaned after each expedition like a man with 
 colic ; in the privacy of his home he had fits of 
 frenzied wrath ; but still the expenditure ceased not, 
 for Martha ruled him with her laughing eye and her 
 1 cheeky ' words, and he always reminded himself 
 that the ragman's legacy would make abundant 
 reparation. Miss Pimm spent a great deal of time 
 at the Jupps' house, and never went away without 
 suggesting — that is to say, commanding- some 
 outlay or trouble for the comfort of Mrs. Jupp and 
 Ada. Their rooms were in a disgraceful state ; 
 John had to call in the services of paper-hanger and 
 upholsterer. The roof leaked ; John had to badger 
 the landlord until it was seen to. All sorts of things 
 were wanted for the kitchen ; John had to buy them. 
 Finally, one evening of autumn, as he and Martha 
 walked idly in Kennington Road, the girl said to him : 
 
 ' I tell you what it is : you don't pay half enough 
 for your board and lodging, you know.' 
 
 He checked his steps. 
 
 ' What ! after all I've done for them ! Why, I've 
 spent pounds, pounds ! ' 
 
 ' \\ ell ; it's no more than you ought to have done. 
 Fancy, only ten-and-sixpence a week. Make it a 
 pound.' 
 
 ' A pound ! Do you suppose I'm made of 
 money ? ' 
 
 The discussion brought him to a point already
 
 1 66 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 several times approached. When was Martha going 
 to marry him ? Come, now, he had waited a long 
 time. She knew that he was nothing but a downright 
 slave to her. If he could only say all he felt 
 
 ' When did it begin ? ' asked Martha, slyly. 
 
 ' Begin ? Why, years ago. I've been fond of 
 you ever since I first saw you ' 
 
 The girl laughed noisily. She would not allow 
 him to be sentimental, would not discuss the ques- 
 tion of marriage. As on each previous occasion, she 
 put him off with the vaguest references to a future 
 time. And John had to go home thus unsatisfied. 
 He had a bad taste in his mouth ; he felt bilious. 
 What if Martha had only played with him ? And 
 the money he had spent in pursuit of her, of the 
 legacy ! That night he raged at his mother and 
 his sister. They were in a plot to rob him. He 
 would sell all the new furniture he had bought them, 
 and go off to lodgings in another house. Mrs. Jupp, 
 seriously concerned, talked of Martha, and tried to 
 assure him that the girl was ready to be his wife, 
 only he must let her take her own time. Ada 
 answered wrath with wrath, and said it served him 
 right, whatever happened ; he was a sneak and a 
 skinflint ; he had only made up to Martha when she 
 came in for money, and did he suppose a girl couldn't 
 see that ? 
 
 There was a terrific uproar in the house. After 
 the women, worn out with disputation, had gone to
 
 OUR MR. JU1T 167 
 
 bed, John sat up for an hour drinking bitter ale, 
 accompaniment to bitter thoughts. 
 
 The next day he had an unpleasant interview 
 with the partners of his firm. ' Our Mr. Jupp ' no 
 longer stood in such high favour with these gentlemen 
 as a year ago, partly because of a falling-off in their 
 business, partly as a result of John's personal de- 
 meanour lately. It had always been John's weakness 
 to pose as indispensable ; as long as they thought 
 him so, his employers gladly bore with this trait, but 
 when it appeared to them that he was no longer so 
 skilful as of old in the hunt for orders, they grew 
 disposed to resent his loftiness as mere impudence, 
 The business, they remarked, stood in need of a 
 decided impulse, and Mr. Jupp, it seemed to them, 
 had begun to exhibit laxity. One of them suspected 
 underhand dealing ; somebody had been whispering 
 that Jupp had in view an enterprise of his own, and 
 that he might already be estranging the connections 
 of the house in his own interests. Briefly, there was 
 what is called a ' rumpus,' and when it ended in 
 Jupp's announcing that their engagement might 
 terminate whenever his employers chose, that con- 
 firmed them in their suspicion. John had notice to 
 take himself elsewhere at an early date. 
 
 Very well. It was now his business to arrive 
 at an understanding with Martha Pimm. This very 
 night he would have it out with her, and he doubted 
 not of success.
 
 1 68 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 The little shop put up its shutters at ten. Just 
 as the boy employed for this purpose had finished 
 his work, Jupp pushed open the door. Martha was 
 behind the counter, putting things in order for the 
 night. She looked up and smiled, but not at all in 
 her wonted way ; rather as she might have greeted 
 any strange customer. 
 
 ' What can I do for you, Mr. Jupp? ' 
 ' Hollo ! What's the matter ? ' 
 1 Matter ? Nothing that I know of.' 
 She was friendly, but distant. After a few 
 minutes' idle talk, she again asked him what he had 
 come for. 
 
 ' Aunt has gone to bed, and I want to get the 
 place locked up.' 
 
 Speaking, she turned off one jet of gas, and 
 lowered another, so that they stood in a dim light. 
 Jupp leaned to her across the counter, and began 
 to plead. It was singular love-making ; the man's 
 voice, and even his words, strongly suggested the 
 insistence of a commercial traveller who is repre- 
 senting the merits of some new ' line.' Martha 
 interrupted him. 
 
 ' Are you going to give your mother a pound a 
 week ? ' she asked, in a tone of good-humoured 
 interest. 
 
 ' I will ! I promise you, Martha. Only let's settle 
 the time of our marriage, there's a dear girl.' 
 ! Oh, there's plenty of time to think of that.'
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 169 
 
 He interrupted her with a thump on the counter, 
 and began to speak in a thick, angry voice. He 
 wouldn't be played with ; she had as good as promised 
 to marry him long ago ; did she think he was to be 
 fooled in this way ? From Martha came a sharp 
 reply : she had never hinted in word or look that she 
 meant to marry him ; who was he to talk to her like 
 this ? Let him go and behave decently to his mother 
 and sister, and show that he wasn't such a selfish cur 
 as he used to be, and then it would be time enough 
 to ask a girl to marry him. As he listened, Jupp's 
 face became livid. 
 
 ' Look 'ere ! ' he exclaimed, again thumping the 
 counter. ' You've gone too far to draw back. You've 
 got to marry me ! ' 
 
 ' Who ? Me?' cried Martha. ' Marry you ? 
 A man as comes making up to me just when 
 he hears I've had money left, and before that 
 thought too much of himself to look at me ! Not 
 me indeed ! ' 
 
 Thwarted passion and baffled interest made such 
 a whirl in the man's brain that he lost all control of 
 himself. When Martha had ceased speaking, he 
 stood for a moment staring her in the face with round, 
 idiotic eyes ; then he raised his right hand and dealt 
 her a ringing box on the ear. Martha tottered aside, 
 and gave a cry, but of astonishment rather than of 
 pain or fright. It brought Jupp to his senses ; 
 terrified at what he had done, he turned on his heels
 
 170 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 and bolted into the street. The door stood wide 
 open behind him. 
 
 On the morrow he carried out his oft-repeated 
 threat, and took lodgings in another part of London. 
 From that day Mrs. Jupp and Ada saw nothing of 
 him for many months, and of course received no 
 more of his bounty. After waiting in vain for a visit 
 from Martha Pimm, Ada went to see the girl. Martha 
 was quite herself, but professed that she knew nothing 
 whatever of Mr. Jupp. She came no more to her 
 friend's house, and before very long her aunt removed 
 from the little shop to one much larger in Brixton 
 Road, where Martha took the tobacconist business 
 seriously in hand, and to all appearances it throve. 
 
 When something like a year had passed Martha 
 Pimm and Ada Jupp met by chance on a Bank 
 holiday at the Crystal Palace. Martha was ac- 
 companied by two of her little cousins, and had a 
 look of frank enjoyment ; Ada was walking about 
 alone, looked rather cheerless, and wore the dress 
 which her brother had so reluctantly purchased for 
 her more than twelve months ago. They approached 
 each other, and talked. Martha was just going to 
 get seats for the afternoon concert ; she made the 
 lonely girl join her. Subsequently she took her and 
 the children to have tea, not a ' ninepenny,' but 
 a really festive meal at the exclusive tables. And 
 here, bending forward, she asked with a smile what 
 had become of John.
 
 OUR MR. JU1T i;i 
 
 ' He's been married about three months,' Ada 
 replied. 
 
 ' Who to ? ' the other inquired, with a merry 
 twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 ' A publican's widow. She had money — of course. 
 And he's gone into the public line with her. The 
 'ouse is at 'Ammersmith.' 
 
 Martha relieved her feelings in a laugh of the 
 most undeniable mirthfulness. 
 
 ' Is he 'appy ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. We never see nothing of him.' 
 
 But in due time Martha had an answer to her 
 inquiry ; she came upon it in a newspaper, of date 
 some half a year subsequent to that Bank holiday. 
 Here she read of one John Jupp, publican, who had 
 answered a summons to the police-court, where he 
 was charged with certain irregularities in the conduct 
 of this business, chiefly the permission of gambling 
 on the premises. The case was amusing ; it gave 
 scope to the reporter's humour. Mr. Jupp appeared 
 before the magistrates with a very black black-eye, 
 interrogated as to which, he made known that it was 
 bestowed upon him by his wife, with whom he lived 
 in anything but ideal felicity. Mrs. Jupp, he asserted, 
 was no better than a ' she demon ; ' to her he at- 
 tributed all the ill report which had gathered about 
 his house. Whereupon from another part of the 
 court there sounded a fierce shout, or rather yell ; 
 it came from the lady in question ; she shrieked
 
 1 72 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 menaces at her husband, and quietness could only be 
 restored by her forcible removal. In the end, Mr. 
 John Jupp found himself mulcted in a heavy fine, and 
 retired disconsolate. 
 
 Having read this bit of drama, Martha Pimm 
 laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. 
 
 Two months later, on a dreary November morn- 
 ing, she received at her shop in Brixton a letter of 
 which the signature greatly surprised her. John Jupp 
 wrote to ask if she would grant him an interview. He 
 wished particularly to see her and as soon as possible, 
 and he remained hers very faithfully. The address 
 he appended was other than that of the house at 
 Hammersmith. Martha at once wrote a reply, invit- 
 ingdiim to come that very evening. 
 
 And he came about eight o'clock. Martha 
 received him in a sitting-room above the shop. 
 Seedily habited, and with a face which made sug- 
 gestion of fresh assaults from his vigorous spouse, 
 John moved humbly forward. 
 
 ' Miss Pimm,' he began, stopping at a few paces 
 from her, ' I am leaving London, and I wish before I 
 go to ask your pardon for — for something I did a long 
 time ago.' 
 
 ' Oh, you do, Mr. Jupp, do you ? ' Martha replied, 
 checking herself from laughter. 
 
 ' Yes. In earnest I do. I ought to have come 
 long ago, but I was ashamed, and that's the truth.
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 173 
 
 I'm leaving London — I've got a little place in the 
 Midlands, in fact, though I don't care to mention 
 where it is, not even to you. And I want to hear as 
 you've forgiven me.' 
 
 ' And what good'll it do you, Mr. Jupp ? ' 
 
 Standing, he entered upon a narrative of his 
 matrimonial experiences. It lasted a quarter of an 
 hour, and the listener enjoyed herself as at a play ; 
 but she did not laugh. When he was silent she said 
 that he hadn't behaved to her exactly like a gentle- 
 man, but that she too had something with which to 
 reproach herself; she pardoned him freely, and 
 wished him better luck. 
 
 But John still kept his position. 
 
 ' Anything else you want to say, Mr. Jupp ? ' 
 
 ' Only this, Miss Pimm. At my age of one- 
 and-thirty I am a broken and a penniless man. I'm 
 going away to 'ide my 'ead. You've been doing 
 well, and I'm glad to see it. What I want to ask 
 is — could you find it in your 'art to offer me a little 
 help ? ' 
 
 Martha looked at him for full a minute, during 
 which he kept his eyes down. Then she felt in her 
 pocket and produced a purse. 
 
 ' How much did you think of asking ? ' she 
 inquired gravely, but with a curious hint of mirth 
 about her twitching mouth. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' his note was joyful. ' I leave that to you,
 
 i 7 4 OUR MR. JUPP 
 
 Miss Pimm. I never thought I should come to 
 this ' 
 
 ' Would ten pounds be any use ? ' 
 
 ' T — ten ? ' He had not hoped for so much, and 
 consequently felt aggrieved that it was not more. 
 ' Oh, thank you ! I think ten pounds would give me 
 a nice little start. You see, Miss Pimm, I haven't a 
 penny of my own. The house is my wife's — all the 
 money is hers. I've had to save myself from her 
 with just what I stand up in ' 
 
 ' All right. Wait a minute while I go down- 
 stairs.' 
 
 Martha had been examining the contents of her 
 purse ; she now hurriedly put back the coins, and in 
 doing so allowed half a sovereign to fall to the floor. 
 It fell noiselessly upon the carpet, but not unobserved 
 by Mr. Jupp's eye. His head was perked forward ; 
 he seemed about to draw attention to the accident ; 
 but as Martha walked away in seeming unconscious- 
 ness of what had happened, he stood still and spoke 
 not a word. 
 
 She was absent five minutes, then reappeared 
 with a ten-pound note in her hand. Advancing to 
 her former place she looked on the ground, but not 
 in a way to excite Jupp's attention. Pic, meanwhile, 
 stood just where she had left him. 
 
 1 Well, here's ten pounds,' she said, eyeing him 
 strangely, severely.
 
 OUR MR. JUPP 175 
 
 ' I thank you with all my 'art, dear Miss 
 Pimm ! ' 
 
 ' With that,' she continued, her voice hardening 
 ' and the ten s» hillings you've just stolen, you ought to 
 make a nice start, don't you think ? ' 
 
 He staggered and turned deadly pale. 
 
 ' Stolen — ten shillings — what d'you mean ? ' 
 
 Martha pointed to the floor. 
 
 ' I saw it drop, and I thought I'd try you. I 
 wanted to see what sort of a man you really were — 
 understand ? I shall give you the ten pounds all the 
 same. I wouldn't have given a penny, only I've felt 
 that I made rather a fool of you once — you re- 
 member ? I never felt sorry for you, and now I see I 
 was right. Just take yourself off, Mr. Jupp, before 
 I pay you back something you once gave me, though 
 I hadn't asked for it ! ' 
 
 And he turned and slunk away, in his fingers 
 the squeezed banknote, in his pocket the half- 
 sovereign.
 
 1 7 6 
 
 THE MEDICINE MAN 
 
 One could not say that Dr. Bobbctt had lost caste, 
 for his birth was of the humblest, and education had 
 done little towards polishing his manners. His 
 social decline seemed very much in the nature of 
 things ; cursing his folly, he none the less adjusted 
 himself to circumstances, and without any great effort. 
 For a moment he had emerged ; thanks to his father, 
 the shoemaker, he found himself a qualified medical 
 man, and became the assistant of a respectable prac- 
 titioner in a London suburb ; then his father died, 
 and, with the help of a small sum of money that fell 
 to him, Bobbett ruined himself. It was all very well 
 to start an independent practice, but less advisable to 
 marry a woman of no character and inclined to drink. 
 At thirty or so Bobbett was adrift. After some 
 years of grimy experience, he managed to open his 
 ' dispensary,' and a year or two more brought him 
 the only kind of professional success he could now 
 hope for. To work as a healer, amid the press of 
 obscure and often miserable mortality, would appear 
 to some men no ignoble lot ; but Dr. Bobbett was 
 incapable of illusions concerning the people with
 
 THE MEDICINE MAN 177 
 
 whom he lived, and had no temptation to mask his 
 own motives. He had got rid of his fatal wife, but, 
 at the same time, had lost all ambition. Like the wise 
 man of old, though in a somewhat different sense, he 
 knew that he knew nothing. His scientific acquire- 
 ments, never more than the barely sufficient, were 
 blurred in a squalid past, and rule-of-thumb answered 
 well enough for his day and night practice among 
 folk infinitely more ignorant than himself. 
 
 He was strongly built and coarse-featured, with a 
 distrustful, defiant eye, a flatfish nose, a broad mouth 
 showing teeth the worse for tobacco. When attending 
 patients in his dispensary (which stood between a 
 pawnbroker's shop and a small eating-house), he 
 wore no coat, and often no collar ; the wrist-bands of 
 his shirt were frayed and dirty, and his hands never 
 fastidiously clean ; from his waistcoat pocket pro- 
 truded a pair of scissors ; under his arm-pit was 
 thrust a handkerchief. At intervals he came forth 
 from his consulting-chamber, and surveyed, with a 
 genial grin, the coughing, hawking, chattering group 
 that sat in the bare, ill-smelling ante-room. 
 
 ' You there again ? ' he would perchance remark 
 to some haggard scarecrow. ' Got the money ? ' 
 
 The reply, as likely as not, would begin with 
 semi-articulate irrelcvancies, which the doctor speedily 
 cut short. 
 
 ' Off with you ! Go to the hospital. Now then, 
 next patient.' 
 
 N
 
 178 THE MEDICINE MAN 
 
 There was no hospital less than a mile away — a 
 fact not disregarded by Dr. Bobbett when he chose 
 the locality of his practice. For an ordinary con- 
 sultation, with medicine, he charged one shilling, 
 occasionally smaller sums, and it was no unusual 
 thing for him to see thirty patients in the course 
 of an evening. When summoned to a house, which 
 generally happened after midnight, his charge was 
 regulated by circumstances. In every such case he 
 thrust his head out of the window, and, after hearing 
 what was the matter, asked, ' Have you got the 
 money ? ' Unless payment were made in advance, he 
 firmly refused to set forth. In Dr. Bobbett's part of 
 London this behaviour was strictly professional ; it 
 could only be taxed with inhumanity by one com- 
 pletely a stranger to Dr. Bobbett's experience. 
 
 In course of time he found it necessary to engage 
 an assistant. The applicants for such a post would 
 be numerous enough, but Dr. Bobbett was saved the 
 trouble of choice by a happy accident. Late one 
 night, in the West-End, where he had sought an 
 hour's relaxation in casual society, he encountered 
 an old acquaintance, a fellow ' medical ' of his earliest 
 student days. This man, Dent by name, having even 
 less aptitude for the profession than Bobbett himself, 
 had never reached a diploma : by ways of vulgar 
 dissipation he fell to shifts for bare life, and now, 
 after years of vagabondage, was hungering as clerk 
 in the office of a money-lender. Mr. Dent suffered
 
 THE MEDICINE MAN 179 
 
 from the common complaint of indolence : in con- 
 versation with Bobbctt he called it rheumatic gout. 
 They recognised each other at a drinking-bar, where 
 Bobbett's peculiar voice, raised in facetious colloquy 
 with a female companion, struck on the car of his 
 quondam friend. Dent, much given to the melting 
 mood when his pocket allowed him to frequent places 
 such as this, shed tears of joy. He was a weak, 
 aimless, soft-hearted fellow, incapable of rascality as 
 of reasonable effort, wont to chide the fates that had 
 dealt so hardly with him, and abounding in foolish 
 gratitude to any one who gave him even contemptuous 
 notice. Walking eastward, arm-in-arm with Bobbett, 
 who was nearly twice his size, he poured forth a very 
 honest account of himself. The Doctor listened and 
 reflected. 
 
 1 I tell you what,' said Bobbctt bluntly ; ' I want a 
 dispenser. Ten bob a-week and your grub. What 
 do you say ? ' 
 
 ' How can I dispense? I've forgotten ' 
 
 The Doctor interrupted with an unsavoury ex- 
 pletive. Half-an-hour's instruction would be all that 
 was needed. In short, he would take no refusal ; 
 and the very next day Mr. Dent compounded drugs 
 at the dispensary. Truly, it was no difficult matter 
 to make up Dr. Bobbett's prescriptions. What the 
 patients chiefly regarded was quantity. Having to 
 bring their own receptacles, most of them came with 
 wine bottles, and Bobbett rarely sent them away with 
 
 N 2
 
 i So THE MEDICINE MAN 
 
 less than full measure. The assistant, who retained 
 something of a fair education, viewed with astonish- 
 ment many of his employer's proceedings, but he 
 allowed himself no comments, and only after a week 
 or two of shrewd observation did Bobbett disclose 
 the purpose which had been in his mind from the 
 first. 
 
 1 Look here, Jack, my work's getting a bit too 
 heavy for me. I want you to give a hand ; take an 
 evening or two with the patients, and go out at night 
 now and then. What do you say ? ' 
 
 Dent was startled, but less seriously than he 
 would have been a few days ago. He made a timid 
 objection, met by the Doctor with good-natured 
 ribaldry. As they sat over their drinks in the con- 
 sulting-room Dr. Bobbett grew communicative and 
 philosophical. 
 
 ' We've got to live, my son, and there's many a 
 
 less honest way. The fact of the matter is that 
 
 you and I are just as good doctors for people of this 
 
 sort as if we'd both got our M.D. Yes, and a 
 
 damned sight better ! As you see, it's mostly women, 
 and I defy any man living to put low-class women 
 through a course of treatment unless he's got them 
 in a hospital. Do you suppose they do what I tell 
 them ? Do you suppose they take the right doses 
 or at the right times, or do any single thing as they 
 
 are told to do it? They can't I If their lives 
 
 depend upon it, they can't ! They come to a doctor
 
 THE MEDICINE MAN i8r 
 
 just to case their minds with talking, and get a quart 
 or two of stuff to swallow whenever they think of it. 
 I'm telling you the plain God's truth. They're so 
 blasted ignorant that they don't understand what 
 medical treatment means. It's a superstition ; a 
 bottle of coloured stuff, for internal or external use, 
 is a charms and nothing else. Know what I mean 
 by that? Yes, of course you do. You remember 
 the "medicine man" in Indian stories; that's what 
 
 are. If I gave them a bit of wood to hang round 
 their necks, they'd do it, and be as pleased as Punch, 
 and come telling me it had done them no end of 
 good. .And what's the use of science for people of 
 that sort ? Of course, I'm speaking of ordinary 
 complaints. There's midwifery and surgery — I 
 shouldn't put you on to those jobs — at all events, not 
 just yet. But the bulk of a practice such as this is 
 just fooling, and you're as competent as I am, or any 
 other man. We have to treat pretty much as we 
 should have done if we'd lived in the Middle Aces. 
 If they get well so much the better. If they don't, 
 why, there was no help for it — out of a hospital. 
 You shall begin to-morrow. You may have a bit of 
 trouble at first : they'll be wanting to sec me ; but 
 you've got a soft way of speaking, and I shouldn't 
 wonder if a lot of them come to prefer Dr. Dent to 
 
 Dr. Bobbctt. He's a rough-tongued sort of , is 
 
 Dr. Bobbett ! ' 
 
 So. on specified terms, the arrangement came
 
 182 THE MEDICINE MAN 
 
 about, and with issue satisfactory to all concerned 
 save, perhaps, to those patients whom neither of the 
 practitioners could save from gloom)' Avernus. For 
 Dr. Bobbett, though in unpolished phrase, had uttered 
 a truth which should be laid to heart by all excessively 
 anxious about the ignorant poor. The day arrived 
 when Dr. Dent, long since instructed out of scruple, 
 did not shrink even from furnishing a death certificate. 
 To be sure, he signed it with the name of his qualified 
 partner, but that was a mere formality.
 
 i83 
 
 RAW MATERIAL 
 
 ' From the registry, mum ! They informed me that 
 you was in want of a domestic 'elp.' 
 
 And she stood with head aside, amiably ogling 
 from beneath drooped eyelids. A perfume hung 
 about her ; she was dressed with cheap elaboration 
 and spoke as one conscious of refinement. 
 
 Mrs. Pool since her marriage a few months ago 
 had suffered from two general servants. The state 
 of her health made it absolutely necessary that she 
 should find a trustworthy person to help in the little 
 house, but she was nervous, diffident, and without 
 the practical instinct. This young woman from the 
 registry-office rather overawed her, but, after the 
 late experiences, she was tempted by a show of 
 personal cleanliness — a suggestion of sympathetic 
 good-nature. There ensued a conversation in the 
 eight-foot square drawing-room. The applicant 
 talked freely of herself, with a gentle, languid air of 
 long endurance. She had been a lady's maid ; she 
 had received very high wages ; but, oh ! the un- 
 kindness, the humiliations she had had to put up
 
 1 84 RAW MATERIAL 
 
 with ; What she wanted was a 'ome. She would 
 work her ringers to the bone for a kind, considerate 
 mistress — such a one as Mrs. Pool seemed to be. 
 Her health ? She had never had a day's illness. 
 She might not look it, but she was very strong ; and, 
 as for early rising, she couldn't understand how 
 any one lay in bed after six o'clock. Wages were a 
 matter of total indifference to her, if only she could 
 find a real 'ome ; and in the matter of evenings out, 
 she respected herself far too much to run about the 
 streets of London after dark. She had the highest 
 references, but nothing would persuade her to appeal 
 for a character to her last mistress. After the heart- 
 less treatment she had received ! But if the 
 
 clergyman of St. Peter's hadn't unfortunately died 
 two months ago 
 
 With a sigh of timid hopefulness, the young wife 
 engaged her, and at nine o'clock in the evening 
 (having promised to come at six) Minnie arrived. 
 She was so sorry to be late ; it was all the fault of 
 the greengrocer's boy, who had promised to come 
 punctually for her box, and kept her waiting. Oh, 
 what a nice little bedroom ! Here she could be 
 'appy for the rest of her life ! And she must begin 
 work this very night ; indeed, she could not sleep 
 until she had done something, if it were only cleaning 
 knives or boots. 
 
 Her box was a very small one, and on the next 
 day she pathetically made known to Mrs. Pool that
 
 RAW MATKRTA1. 185 
 
 all but the last of her garments had gone to pay 
 the expenses of an illness brought on by overwork 
 and harsh treatment at her last place. Delicacy 
 prevented the mistress from showing surprise, and, 
 on her promising an advance of wages, Minnie was 
 touched almost to tears. All clay long Minnie moved 
 about the house with a duster in her hand, save when 
 she was encouraging Mrs. Pool's efforts to show her 
 how to prepare food and to lay the table ; her eyes 
 beamed with mild contentment ; she hummed to 
 herself the latest melody of the streets. Incessant 
 was her flow of gently patronising talk. ' And to 
 think you should have had such dirty creatures ! 
 What a sliimc ! I'm sure / don't know what servants 
 is coming to. Why, if you ask me, I should think a 
 girl ought to think herself lucky when she gets such 
 a place as this ! And you'd like me to buy caps, 
 wouldn't you, mum ? I had such nice ones at my 
 last place, but they worn out in the washing. Per- 
 haps it would be convenient to let me run round 
 to a shop this evening ? I shouldn't be more than 
 a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes at the 
 outside.' 
 
 Mrs. Pool's husband was a junior clerk in a 
 Government office, a young man whose energies had 
 been somewhat over-tried by a series of competitive 
 examinations. The new servant did not impress 
 him altogether favourably, but he kept back his mis- 
 givings, and lent willing ear to a hopeful story of
 
 1 86 RAW MATERIAL 
 
 Minnie's commencement. When the girl chanced to 
 approach him, she let her eyes slide across his 
 countenance, then dropped them, with a half-smile of 
 excessive modesty. He observed uneasily the per- 
 fume she carried about with her, and at length re- 
 marked on this matter to his wife. It was on the 
 third day, and already a look of worry had begun to 
 reappear on Mrs. Pool's countenance. 
 
 ' I'm afraid there are several little things I shall 
 have to speak about,' said the young wife ; ' she 
 doesn't seem quite to understand cooking, and — and 
 she hasn't touched the scrubbing-brush yet. But we 
 must give her time.' 
 
 1 Of course — of course,' rejoined Pool cheerily. 
 ' Just look upon her as raw material, and exert your- 
 self to make a good servant out of her. No doubt 
 you can — no doubt whatever.' 
 
 A difficulty had arisen with respect to diet. 
 Minnie seemed to eat nothing whatever, and, when 
 her mistress made timid inquiries, she confessed a 
 chronic lack of appetite. 
 
 ' I seem to have such a delicate stomach, mum. 
 It isn't the food — oh dear, no! I'm sure the food 
 couldn't be better. I'm afraid my stomach was spoilt 
 at the last place, where she made me live on such 
 food as you'd never believe. Perhaps, if I could have 
 a little potted meat, it might tempt me at breakfast.' 
 
 ' But don't you eat a great many sweets ? ' asked
 
 RAW MATERIAL 187 
 
 Mrs. Fool, who had noticed that the girl seemed 
 to have something of the kind in her mouth per- 
 petually. 
 
 1 Sweets ? Oh, no ! I never touch such things, 
 they're so bad for the teeth. Oh, I remember ! I 
 did suck a little bit of peppermint yesterday. I've 
 been told it's good for a weakly stomach.' 
 
 It began to be borne in upon Mrs. Pool that 
 Minnie sometimes varied from the truth. A few 
 days more, and she seriously doubted whether the 
 girl ever uttered a veracious word. In her ceaseless 
 gossip Minnie had contradicted herself times in- 
 numerable. More than that, she seemed to be 
 yielding to a physical languor which made her 
 useless in the house ; once, on returning from 
 shopping, Mrs. Pool found her asleep, with her head 
 on the kitchen table, and beside it a penny novelette. 
 She rose late of a morning, and at night had a dis- 
 inclination to go to bed. Such work as she pretended 
 to do her mistress had to do over again. At the first 
 grave remonstrance she raised her eyebrows in a look 
 half distressful, half insolent, and declared an un- 
 bounded surprise that she was not ' giving satisfac- 
 tion.' 
 
 However loth to trouble her husband, Mrs. Pool 
 was at length obliged to seek his counsel. 
 
 ' The truth is, dear, she has had no experience 
 whatever in housework. Of course, it was very foolish
 
 1 88 RAW MATERIAL 
 
 not to insist on a character. I really can't imagine 
 what she has been.' 
 
 ' Well, well ! I dare say she'll improve. We must 
 regard her as raw material.' 
 
 Every other evening, Minnie, with profuse 
 apologies, requested leave to go out for half an hour, 
 and she never returned till after ten o'clock. Resolved 
 upon firmness, Mrs. Pool at length refused permis- 
 sion ; she herself wished to spend the evening at a 
 friend's house. Pool remained at home, and sat 
 reading. Not long after his wife's departure a 
 timorous knock sounded at the sitting-room door, 
 and Minnie entered, bringing with her a waft of 
 perfume. 
 
 ' I'm so sorry, sir, that I don't seem to be giving 
 satisfaction ' 
 
 A tear trembled on her eyelids, and she stood 
 with bent head, hands clasped before her. The young 
 man regarded her uneasily. She had decked herself 
 more elaborately than usual, and looked rather 
 pretty. Half closing the door, she came a step or 
 two nearer. 
 
 ' If you'd be so kind as to tell me, sir, how I can 
 please mistress ' 
 
 ' Why, the fact is, Minnie, you seem to do nothing 
 at all. And this perpetual going out at night, you 
 know ' 
 
 ' If you only knew how hard I've tried, sir!' she
 
 RAW MATERIAL 189 
 
 sobbed. ' I've had no mother since I was eight years 
 old, and brought up with strangers, and had to work 
 for my own living these years and years ' 
 
 ' But, my good girl, you don't work.' 
 
 Minnie came still nearer, and fixed upon him a 
 look of tearful languishmcnt. Pool felt more un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 ' 1 suffer from such a lonely feeling like, sir. If 
 I thought there was any one as cared for me — 
 if you'd give me a kind word of encouragement, 
 sir ' 
 
 The man pulled himself together, and spoke 
 energetically, though not harshly : thereupon bade 
 her go back to the kitchen. Minnie moved away 
 very slowly, and, from the doorway, cast one 
 languishing look behind. 
 
 Another fortnight, and Mrs. Pool's patience was 
 exhausted. When Minnie stayed out one night till 
 twelve o'clock, and came back with flushed cheeks, 
 incoherent talk, that was the end. The girl left next 
 morning, shedding floods of tears, and all but pre- 
 vailing with her soft-hearted mistress to be allowed a 
 new trial. But Pool would suffer no such weakness. 
 The girl must take her mendacious incompetence 
 elsewhere ; it was not incumbent upon them to save 
 her from herself. 
 
 About half a year later, Pool w r as passing one 
 night down Villiers Street to the Railway station.
 
 190 RAW MATERIAL 
 
 Near the music-hall a girl put herself in his way ; 
 looking into her face, he recognised Minnie. At 
 once she turned from him, and he walked quickly 
 on. 
 
 Minnie— no longer raw material, but a finished 
 article of commerce.
 
 ipi 
 
 TWO COLLECTORS 
 
 The delight of his youth had become the burden of 
 his old age. Forty years ago Wormald desired 
 nothing better than to spend a whole day in book- 
 hunting. Regardless of fatigue and of shoe-leather, 
 he tramped the London pavement, rifling fourpenny- 
 boxes, and handling enviously the volumes he could 
 not afford. To-day, he still collected, but not for 
 himself; he was 'collector' in the trade sense of the 
 word, at a large bookseller's. Every morning he set 
 forth with his list of works to be procured from the 
 publisher or sought at second-hand shops. The pave- 
 ment was harder now than of old. About noon his 
 legs grew shaky, and often enough he breathed a 
 malison on the heavy volumes that strained his stoop- 
 ing back. 
 
 Could he but creep into some quiet corner, and 
 there lie unmolested, with never a book in sight ! 
 
 Forty years ago he pictured for himself quite 
 another close of life. He bore a brain ; the world 
 must yield before him ; poverty could not repress his 
 noble rage. Nor was specific hope denied. There
 
 192 TWO COLLECTORS 
 
 came the moneyed friend, who read and admired his 
 poems — yea, who bore the expense of printing them. 
 A glorious day ! His little blue volume was the 
 latest birth of time ; for this had the great world 
 toiled and travailed through ages numberless ; with 
 this began a new era ! Reviewers gave it but a chilly 
 welcome, the little blue volume. The public sought 
 it not. No matter ! What was the reception of 
 1 Endymion ' ? What of ' The Revolt of Islam ' ? 
 
 In those days he had a fine head of hair, a beam- 
 ing eye, ripe lips that smiled seductively or with 
 disdain. If hunger pinched him, he did not much 
 care. It was natural to him to walk with gallant 
 mien — erectos ad sidera tollere vultus. Now, the poor 
 old hat served to disguise his baldness ; his eyes were 
 rheumy, dim ; he plodded looking on the ground. 
 The world had been too strong for him. No second 
 volume had ever come forth with his name on the 
 title-page, and of the little blue book not even he 
 possessed a copy. All he once owned had gone to 
 wreck — scattered like the memories of his life in waste 
 places, in remote deeps. 
 
 One morning as he stood in the shop making up 
 his collecting-book, writing to dictation, an incredible 
 thing happened. 
 
 '"Songs of Youth." By Alfred Wormald. 
 Robinson, 1852.' 
 
 His hand paused ; he looked up at the dictator. 
 
 ' What ? I didn't quite hear '
 
 TWO COLLECTORS 193 
 
 ' Some bygone namesake of yours, Mr. Wormald. 
 ongs of Youth" ' 
 
 The details were repeated, and Wormald 
 hanically jotted them down. There followed a 
 dozen other books, and the list was finished; then 
 the collector again spoke. 
 
 'Can you tell me whose order that is, sir? ' His 
 
 voice shook a little. ' The " Songs of Youth " 
 
 • Why — you don't mean to say ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, I wrote it ; I published it ' 
 
 ' Ah ! Odd thing ! Let me see ; it's Mr. Fresh- 
 water, of Chiswick. You probably have a copy to 
 dispose of ? ' 
 
 Wormald shook his head, muttered a few in- 
 distinct remarks, and set out for the day's work. 
 But not in his wonted frame of mind. Instead of 
 making doggedly towards the first point indicated 
 by his list, he began to stray about the street, ab- 
 sti acted, heedless of duty. Gradually he was grasp- 
 ing the fact that some mortal desired to obtain his 
 little blue volume. Such a thing had never happened 
 in his eight years' collcctorship ; nay, such a thing had 
 never occurred to him as possible. What could it 
 mean ? Who was Mr. Freshwater, of Chiswick ? 
 
 At length, having wandered quite out of his way, 
 
 he checked himself, and stood staring at the nearest 
 
 >p. ' Can't you understand ? It is the very truth. 
 
 Mr. Freshwater, of Chiswick, wants your book, has 
 
 given a special order for it, is eager to obtain it. A 
 
 o
 
 i, 4 TWO COLLECTORS 
 
 student of literature, no doubt ; perhaps himself a 
 poet. Some one has spoken to him of " Songs of 
 Youth." Some one has read passages to him. He 
 was moved with enthusiasm, with wonder that he 
 had never heard the name of Alfred Wormald. He 
 wrote at once to his bookseller ' 
 
 The old man straightened himself, seemed to 
 shake off a score of years. Having a few coppers 
 in his pocket, he made for a public-house, and drank 
 a glass of spirits. Now he was ready ! 
 
 That day he sought in vain. Robinson, a 
 publisher extant in 1852, had long since vanished 
 into space — forgotten as the booksellers of old 
 Rome. ' Songs of Youth ' could not be heard of. 
 On the morrow Wormald pursued his task, struggling 
 against a profound discouragement. On the third 
 day it was decided to advertise in the Publislicrs' 
 Circular, but not until the advertisement had been 
 repeated did it elicit a response. Then came a post- 
 card from a bookseller of Birmingham, who could 
 supply one copy of ' Songs of Youth,' minus fly-leaf, 
 and in poor condition generally, price one shilling. 
 Wormald was told of this, and his heart leapt. The 
 time of suspense, the long tramps to every shop and 
 stall of which he knew, had visibly enfeebled him ; 
 he suffered now from a ceaseless trembling of one 
 hand, and from strange sensations in the leg on the 
 other side. 
 
 The volume, as he ascertained (it was become
 
 TWO COLLECTORS 195 
 
 something of a joke in the shop), had been despatched 
 to Mr. Freshwater on Friday. On Saturday after- 
 noon, having made himself as presentable as he 
 could, the old man journeyed to Chiswick. The 
 director}' had informed him of Mr. Frcshwater's 
 address ; of course, he would not allow his em- 
 ployers to suspect the purpose in his mind. 
 
 A large house ; a fine old garden, just now in 
 summer loveliness. Wormald shook in every limb 
 as he approached the front door. Mr. Freshwater 
 might not be at home : in that case it would be best 
 to go away without leaving a name, and to write a 
 letter. Would not the letter have been a wiser 
 course, to begin with ? Well, he was here now, and 
 would take his chance. Yes, Mr. Freshwater was 
 within. What name ? With dry, half-paralysed 
 tongue, he gasped ' Alfred Wormald,' then hurriedly 
 repeated it, with the prefix ' Mister.' 
 
 And he was led through the hall into the library 
 — a beautiful, luxurious room, the kind of room 
 which, forty years ago, would have given his pulses 
 a divine thrill. Mr. Freshwater stood there by his 
 writing-table ; he was a smooth-shaven, shrewd- 
 faced man of middle-age, tending to corpulency, 
 and he regarded the visitor with a polite surprise. 
 
 ' Sir— I am Alfred Wormald.' 
 
 ' Oh ! — ah ! — I'm afraid I don't recall your name.' 
 
 The old man tottered slightly ; his eyes wan- 
 dered. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 TWO COLLECTORS 
 
 ' You have received from your booksellers, sir, a 
 copy of " Songs of Youth " ' 
 
 His tongue failed ; he had so strange a look that 
 Mr. Freshwater began to feel uneasy. 
 
 ' " Songs of Youth " - have I ? I suppose my 
 librarian ordered it. A volume of poems, I sup- 
 pose ? How — what do you wish to see me about ? ' 
 
 The other, commanding himself, fixed upon 
 Mr. Freshwater a look not without dignity. 
 
 ' You collect poetical works, sir ? ' 
 
 1 Why, yes, I do. But I must refer you to my 
 librarian about that. Not all poetical works. I am 
 at present getting together those published in the 
 Victorian time by houses which have ceased to exist. 
 Presumably, you are in the trade ? Have you a 
 catalogue ? By all means send it. I shall next be 
 turning my attention to early Victorian periodicals. 
 But by all means send in your catalogue. You had 
 no other business with me ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir, that was all.' 
 
 And Wormald withdrew. 
 
 ' Queer old chap,' Mr. Freshwater murmured to 
 himself. ' Broken-down bookseller, evidently. There 
 ough'; to be a home for them.' 
 
 He resumed his seat and the examination 01 the 
 latest volume of ' Book Prices Current.'
 
 197 
 
 AN OLD MAID'S TRIUMPH 
 
 To this day's event Miss Hurst had looked anxiously 
 forward for no less than thirty years. It was just 
 thirty years since time and fate had made her de- 
 pendent for a living upon her own exertions, without 
 the least hope of aid from love or duty. Till then — 
 that is, up to her twenty-eighth year — she had 
 supported herself, but with frequent hospitality of 
 kinsfolk to make the efforts lighter. Now, at eight- 
 and-fifty, she had received from her pupils' parents, 
 with all possible kindness of wording, the anticipated 
 notice that after next quarter her services would be 
 no more in request. So it had come at last, and 
 fervently she thanked Heaven for the courage which 
 enabled her to face it with so much composure. That 
 there was no possibility of another engagement she 
 took for granted ; perhaps it was only out of delicate 
 consideration that these good friends had kept her so 
 long. She did not feel very old ; was not conscious 
 of mental decay ; but probably others had observed 
 some sign of it. At such an age as this who could 
 expect to be retained as governess to young people ? 
 Doubtless it would be an injustice to her pupils.
 
 [98 AN OLD MAIDS TRIUMPH 
 
 Moreover, she was ready for the change ; again, 
 Heaven be thanked ! 
 
 ' What will the poor old thing do?' asked Mrs. 
 Fletcher of her husband. ' Impossible, I fear, that she 
 can have saved anything.' 
 
 ' Don't see how the deuce she can have done,' 
 Mr. Fletcher replied. ' There are — institutions, I 
 believe. I wish we could do something ; but you 
 know the state of things. Of course, a rather larger 
 cheque— say double the quarter's salary ; but I'm 
 afraid that's all I can pretend to do.' 
 
 However, Miss Hurst had found it possible to 
 save, though what the fact signified was known only 
 to herself. To-night she made up her account with 
 life, and it stood thus. At eight-and-twenty she had 
 owned a sum of nearly thirty pounds, which ever 
 since had remained intact. For the thirty years that 
 followed her average earnings had been twenty-nine 
 pounds per annum, and out of this she had put aside 
 what amounted to fifteen pounds a year — sometimes 
 more, sometimes less. Very seldom, indeed, had she 
 suffered from ill-health ; only once had she spent six 
 months unemployed. Accumulation of petty interest 
 the Bank and Government security were all she had 
 ever dared to confide in by this time made a sensible 
 increment. With tremulous calculation she grasped 
 the joyous certainty that a life of independence was 
 assured to her. It must be by purchase of an annuity. 
 She had never consulted any one on her financial
 
 AN OLD MAIDS TRIUMPH 199 
 
 affairs : common sense, and a strictly reticent habit, 
 had guided her safely thus far. For the last and all- 
 important pecuniar}- transaction she felt thoroughly 
 prepared, so long had she reflected upon it, and with 
 such sedulous exactitude. 
 
 Beauty was never hers, nor much natural grace : 
 nowadays she looked a very homely, but a very 
 nice old lady, with something of austerity in her 
 countenance which imposed respect. She spoke 
 with a gentle firmness, smiling only when there v, 
 occasion for it. In education she knew herself much 
 behind the teachers of to-day ; her mental powers 
 were not more than ordinary ; but Nature had given 
 her that spirit of refinement which is not otherwise 
 to be acquired. Generally able to win the regard of 
 well-conditioned children, she had always been looked 
 upon as an excellent disciplinarian, which accounted 
 in large measure for her professional success. 
 
 Her success ! Never had she received the waces 
 of a middling cook ; yet the importance of her trust 
 through life was such as cannot be exaggerated, and 
 the duties laid upon her had been discharged with 
 a competence, a conscientiousness, which no money 
 could repay. Her success ! At the age of fifty- 
 eight she tremblingly calculated her hope of being 
 able to live out the rest of her life with not less than 
 twenty shillings a week. 
 
 And the life history which explained this great 
 achievement. Miss Hurst could not have written if
 
 200 AN OLD MAID'S TRIUMPH 
 
 she possessed neither the faculty nor the self-esteem 
 needful for such a work ; but assuredly it deserved to 
 be written. Reflect upon the simple assertion that, 
 from her twenty-eighth to her fifty-eighth year this 
 woman had never unavoidably spent one shilling- 
 piece. She, with the instincts and desires of the 
 educated class, had never allowed herself one single 
 indulgence which cost more than a copper or so. 
 Ah ! the story of those holiday times which she was 
 obliged to spend at her own cost, of the brief seasons 
 when she was out of employment ! Being a woman, 
 she, of course, found it easier to practise this excessive 
 parsimony than any man would have done ; yet she 
 was not, like so many women, naturally penurious. 
 She longed for the delight of travel, she often 
 hungered for books which a very slight outlay would 
 have procured her, she reproached herself for limiting 
 her charity to a mite at church collections. Mean 
 lodgings were horrible to her, yet again and again 
 she had occupied all but the meanest. And all this 
 out of sheer dread of some day finding herself 
 destitute, helpless, at the mercy of a world which 
 never spares its brutality to those who perforce 
 require its compassion. What a life ! Yet it had not 
 embittered her ; her gentle courage, sustained by old- 
 fa -hioned piety, had never failed. And now she 
 saw herself justified of her faith in Providence. 
 
 Having regard to her sound constitution, she 
 might live another twenty years. Her capital, merely
 
 AN OLD MAID'S TRIUMPH 201 
 
 put out to interest, would not afford sustenance. But 
 the purchase of an annuity might assure at once her 
 bodily comfort and her self-respect. Carefully had 
 she studied the tables, the comparative advantages 
 offered by many companies. The fact that a hundred 
 pounds will yield a woman less than a man had often 
 troubled her ; she understood the reason, but could 
 not quite reconcile herself to the result. As a man, 
 she would have saved vastly more ; as a woman, the 
 longer-lived, she must be content to receive less for 
 her smaller opportunities. 
 
 Throughout this last quarter her behaviour differed 
 in no outward respect from that of years past ; she 
 worked with the same admirable honesty of purpose, 
 and kept the same countenance of sober cheerfulness. 
 In her heart she was ever so little troubled. At the 
 end of her engagement there would be due to her a 
 payment of seven pounds ten, and the total of her 
 possessions would then fall slightly short of a sum 
 needed to purchase the annuity on which she had 
 fixed her hopes. She desired a clear fifty-two pounds 
 per annum, twenty shillings a week : surely no ex- 
 cessive demand. Yet it seemed as if she must content 
 herself with a smaller income. It might, however, 
 prove possible to earn the extra sum — a mere trifle. 
 Yes, it might be possible ; she would hope. 
 
 On the last day, when her pupils weie preparing 
 to leave home for the seaside, Mrs. Fletcher called 
 her apart, and spoke with confidential sweetness.
 
 202 AN OLD MAID'S TRIUMPH 
 
 ' Miss Hurst, need I say how very sorry we all 
 are to part with you ? I do so wish that circumstances 
 allowed of my asking you to come back again after 
 the holidays. But — really there is no harm in my 
 telling you that we are obliged to — to make certain 
 changes in our establishment.' 
 
 The governess listened with grave sympathy. 
 
 ' Have you heard of any other engagement ? ' 
 pursued the lady, with doubtful voice and eyes 
 drooping. 
 
 ' Not yet, Mrs. Fletcher,' was the cheerful reply ; 
 ' I should like to find one, if it were only for a short 
 time.' 
 
 ' I will do my utmost in the way of making 
 inquiries. And — let me give you the cheque, Miss 
 Hurst. My husband begs you will accept from us, 
 as a mark of our great — our very great — esteem, 
 something more than the sum strictly due. I am sure 
 we shall never be out of our debt to you.' 
 
 In her own room Miss Hurst eagerly inspected 
 the little slip of paper — it was a cheque for twice her 
 quarter's salary. There was a great leap of her heart, 
 a rush of tears to her eyes. She held the security of 
 independent life. The long fight was over, and she 
 had triumphed.
 
 2Q- 
 
 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 
 
 That was the time of penny readings, and very soon 
 after his arrival at Donniston the Rev. Mr. Benshaw 
 appeared on the platform of the Mechanics' Institute. 
 His figure alone would have commanded attention 
 — tall, muscular, thrilling with vigour ; his voice, 
 impressive to begin with, ended by startling his 
 audience and moving the more frivolous to mirth. 
 He recited ' Horatius,' and never had such a recitation 
 been heard in Donniston. At passages of culmi- 
 nating ardour the windows rattled as though after a 
 thunder-clap. When Mr. Benshaw ceased, the sudden 
 silence seemed of religious intensity ; the applause 
 that followed, though sufficiently hearty, had a very 
 feeble effect. 
 
 He was only the curate of a minor parish, but 
 his energies soon overflowed the whole town. In a 
 month he was acquainted with all Church people, 
 and stood on friendly terms with many Dissenting 
 families, a thing hitherto unheard of at Donniston. 
 Ladies took a great interest in him, and marvelled 
 that such a man could remain so long in a sub- 
 ordinate position— how unaccountable that such an
 
 204 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 
 
 embodiment of clerical force had never yet been 
 presented with a living ! In comparison with Mr. 
 Benshaw, the beneficed clergy of the town and district 
 became insignificant figures. The injustice must be 
 rectified ; the Bishop must be appealed to ; patrons 
 of livings must be awakened. Never had a curate 
 thrown himself into his duties with such burning 
 enthusiasm, such exhaustless physical powers. His 
 talk was never of ' High' or of 'Low,' but of the 
 plain mission of Christianity to the world at large. 
 In his sermons (the mild vicar of St. Peter's cared 
 not how often his curate relieved him in the pulpit) 
 Mr. Benshaw dealt with vast topics, glowing and 
 roaring in prophetic vehemence ; one seemed to 
 hear the preacher of a new Crusade, a late-born 
 Apostle. 
 
 Unfortunately, he was married. Donniston saw 
 very little of Mrs. Benshaw, and after the first 
 satisfaction of curiosity, scarcely spoke of her. Ladies 
 recognised the trying position of the poor woman ; 
 she lived in a tiny house, had three young children 
 (soon to be four), and kept no servant ; a cruel state 
 of things. As far as one could judge, she was the 
 very antithesis of her husband : limp, colourless, of 
 poor health, but moderately intelligent. No one 
 ever met her out of doors ; perhaps she stole out 
 after dark, to do her shopping in the poor district 
 where she lived. Her house was said to be most 
 scantily furnished, and by no means a model of
 
 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 205 
 
 cleanliness ; the children (two went to a day-school) 
 had a neglected air, pretty but half-starved faces, and 
 their clothing was evidently home-made. One did 
 not like to think on how small an income the family 
 subsisted ; it was a shame, a scandal. 
 
 Mr. Benshaw had previously lived in a remote 
 part of England ; no one at Donniston had any 
 connection with that far-off town. But in half a 
 year's time rumours were somewhat set afloat con- 
 cerning the reverend gentleman's earlier history ; it 
 began to be whispered that Mr. Benshaw had come 
 away heavily in debt to tradesfolk. Moreover, his 
 eldest child, a girl of thirteen, whom the curate had 
 casually spoken of as living with a relative, was said, 
 on some vague authority, to be in the care of a 
 charitable person who had taken compassion on the 
 family when they left their former home. These, 
 and other such stories, had an effect on public feeling, 
 the more so when it became known that Donniston 
 shopkeepers were already complaining that Mrs. 
 Benshaw never paid any bills. But just at this time 
 there chanced to break out an epidemic in the lower 
 quarters of the town, and the gossip of censure 
 speedily gave place to new admiration, inspired by 
 Mr. Benshaw's heroic efforts. For several weeks the 
 curate's muscular form was splendidly prominent. 
 He defied contagion, he knew not weariness ; by 
 sick-beds he gave proof of womanly tenderness, and 
 his leonine voice subdued itself to softness, soothingest
 
 206 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 
 
 murmurs. Impossible not to forget, for the moment, 
 at all events, those unpaid shopkeepers in the remote 
 town, and kindred grumblers at Donniston. 
 
 When the sickness came to an end, certain ladies 
 got up a little testimonial for the curate of St. Peter's. 
 It took the form of a silver tea-service, and those 
 who gave it did so in the hope that Mrs. Benshaw, 
 having evidently no use for such a luxury, would 
 speedily dispose of it for coin of the realm. Ere a 
 month had elapsed this actually came to pass. The 
 curate took a journey to a large town, and returned 
 at night with a more considerable sum of money 
 than he had for many years possessed. When he 
 arrived he found his wife sitting in the miserable 
 little parlour, by a stinted fire, sewing at a child's 
 garment ; he bent over her, kissed her forehead, and 
 stroked her hair kindly with his great fingers. Then 
 he laid out the money before her, and they rejoiced 
 together. 
 
 ' I have been thinking very gravely ' — this in 
 his deep voice — ' that some portion of this — some 
 portion — should go towards a liquidation of the 
 debts.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid so,' replied Mrs. Benshaw, sighing. 
 
 ' Nicholson's very insolent letter makes it im- 
 possible to pay him. He would suppose I did it out 
 of fear, and I fear no man. It shall be Dawson. 
 Dawson has behaved very properly. I always liked 
 the man. He shall have twenty shillings on
 
 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 207 
 
 account. No, he shall have thirty. More we cannot 
 possibly afford.' 
 
 Mrs. Benshaw began a doleful recounting of all 
 their immediate necessities. Her husband listened 
 gravely, but in the end, as always, gave a cheery turn 
 to the talk. 
 
 ' Let us remember, dear, how much reason we 
 have for thankfulness. Who could have imagined that 
 Mrs. Riley — excellent woman ! — would take entire 
 charge of Harriet? I assure you, I never dreamt ot 
 it ; I thought it would be for a few months at most ; 
 of course, I never hinted in the most distant manner 
 any other desire or expectation. And now the dear 
 child is provided for ! Pray do not forget to write to 
 Mrs. Riley at least once a month.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mrs. Benshaw presently, ' I almost for- 
 got to tell you. Mrs. Batt called this afternoon, and 
 was very kind. She recommends a nurse in West 
 Street ; you must make inquiries.' 
 
 ' To be sure. Excellent woman ! I have a high 
 opinion of Mrs. Batt. Did she see the children ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. She says Amy is very like her own 
 that died. The likeness grows upon her, she says. 
 And she asked the date of her birthday.' 
 
 ' Ah !- -well now, I must go round and see poor 
 old Simkin ; he may go off any day. Cheer up, dear ! 
 There are better days to come.' 
 
 Not long after this the baby was born, and Mrs. 
 Benshaw had a perilous time. Female sympathy
 
 208 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 
 
 was not wanting, nor yet substantial assistance. The 
 good lady, Mrs. Batt, a comfortable widow, with a 
 grown-up son, remained staunch in her admiration of 
 the curate, and lavished kindness upon his wife. But 
 in the background was that little group of Donniston 
 tradesfolk, who continued to supply goods rarely paid 
 for, and grumbled incessantly. In truth, the rent of 
 his house, and sundry inevitable expenses, consumed 
 all Mr. Benshaw's petty stipend. He owed so much 
 in many parts of Great Britain that solvency had 
 come to seem a hopeless ideal. Sufficient unto the 
 day was the evil thereof. Mr. Benshaw discharged 
 with unfailing energy what he regarded as his im- 
 mediate duty, and committed the rest to Providence. 
 
 But the end was foreseen — at all events, by the 
 vicar of St. Peter's. At the close of a twelvemonth 
 this gentleman spoke to his curate with mild but firm 
 remonstrance. A long conversation resulted in Mr. 
 Benshaw's grave announcement — that it certainly 
 would be better if he could obtain some rustic curacy 
 where living was cheaper and tongues fewer. The 
 incumbent promised his aid to this end. Oddly 
 enough, nothing whatever had been done in Donniston 
 towards providing Mr. Benshaw with a benefice. He 
 was the same as ever, but his admirers had grown 
 languid. 
 
 The new curacy was found ; the Benshaws 
 prepared for another migration. Then on a day Mrs. 
 Batt came to Mrs. Benshaw with a singular proposal :
 
 THE INVINCIBLE CURATE 209 
 
 would the parents allow little Amy to remain with 
 Mrs. Batt, to be cared for with all motherly kindness ? 
 Of course, she might at any time return, but for the 
 present —until things looked brighter ? 
 
 ' Excellent woman ! ' remarked the curate that 
 evening. ' Who could have looked for such generous 
 thoughtfulness? I am sure dear Amy will be quite as 
 happy as dear Harriet.' 
 
 There was some little unpleasantness in Donniston 
 before the Benshaws' departure : one or two ill- 
 conditioned shopkeepers said and did nasty things. 
 But Mr. Benshaw received another testimonial — this 
 time a silver coffee-pot. It helped to pay for the 
 removal.
 
 210 
 
 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 
 
 TECHNICALLY speaking, Mrs. Bloggs was full ; that 
 is to say, she had packed her house with twice as 
 many lodgers as a regard for health or comfort 
 would have permitted her to receive. For a holiday 
 refuge, it had no striking advantages ; from the 
 windows nothing was visible but a street precisely 
 resembling those of poorer Kennington, and the 
 beach was half a mile away. Mrs. Bloggs owed 
 something of this prosperity to her niece, a girl only 
 twelve years old, but rich in the peculiar gifts which 
 go to make a perfect landlady. When a vacancy 
 occurred, Serena — that was the girl's happy name — 
 strolled down to Yarmouth Bridge, and met the 
 swarm of people constantly pouring forth from the 
 railway station. She had washed her face, and put 
 on an attractive little pinafore, so that homely people 
 in quest of lodgings readily gave ear to Serena's 
 invitation. At other times Serena assisted her aunt 
 in keeping the house dirty, in pilfering the lodgers' 
 groceries, and spoiling food given to be cooked. 
 Her infancy had been passed in Camden Town,
 
 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 211 
 
 which was also Mrs. Bloggs's original abode. 
 Achieving independence at the age of nine, she 
 consulted health, pleasure, and profit by taking a 
 London engagement (as ' general ') for the gloomy 
 months, and, in the season of light and joy, transfer- 
 ring herself to her relative's at Yarmouth. But Serena 
 was not wholly satisfied with the terms granted her 
 by Mrs. Bloggs ; she desired a larger commission for 
 her work as tout, and an increased stipend in her 
 quality of domestic help. Overtures from a certain 
 Mrs. Kipper, in the next street, had much unsettled 
 her mind. This morning, while frying bacon in the 
 pan which had just been used for bloaters, she mused 
 wistfully. Of a sudden, Mrs. Bloggs rushed into the 
 kitchen, and began to talk in a voice of suppressed 
 excitement. 
 
 1 There ! That child's got scarlet fever ! They 
 wouldn't believe me at first, but I know it is. Take 
 their breakfast up ; they're going by the eleven o'clock. 
 I've let them off with half the week if they'd go at 
 once and not have no doctor here. I knew that child 
 was going to have something soon as I set eyes on 
 it. The idea of coming into people's 'ouses ! They'd 
 ought to be ashamed of themselves ! You just 
 hold your tongue, and take up their breakfast.' 
 
 The people in question, Londoners, with two 
 babies, occupied a couple of rooms at the top of the 
 house ; it was only the third day since their arrival. 
 The sick child had cried more or less all night. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 
 
 With the utmost despatch and secrecy, Mrs. Bloggs 
 got rid of these dangerous inmates, who travelled 
 back to London in a crowded third-class carriage. 
 As soon as they were out of the house, Serena made 
 ready to go down to the Bridge. It was high- 
 season ; rooms priced at twenty-five shillings a week 
 must not stand vacant. 
 
 As usual, the girl had good luck. After only one 
 or two futile attempts she accosted a decent-looking 
 couple with a little boy, and found them willing to 
 accompany her. 
 
 ' You won't get better rooms in all Yarmouth, 
 mum. Clean ? The people as had them left early 
 yesterday, and I've given them a thorough scrub out 
 with my own hands. They was that sorry to leave 
 us — and after three weeks, too ! My aunt can't do 
 too much to make her lodgers comfortable. From 
 Colchester, mum ? Why, I've got a sister there in 
 service, and she says she don't think she'll ever leave 
 — she likes the place so much ! ' 
 
 The man, who carried a small portmanteau, 
 seemed to be some species of clerk ; he had a blood- 
 less face and a tired, anxious expression. His wife, 
 laden with bags and parcels, talked incessantly, and 
 with a half-hysterical laugh, as if the prospect of 
 holiday were too much for her nerves. The little 
 boy jumped about and shouted his joy at the novel 
 scene. It took them some twenty minutes to reach 
 Mrs. Bloggs's, and they were so tired after the walk
 
 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 213 
 
 that even a worse lodging would have been a welcome 
 place of rest. Save the unavoidable change of water 
 and linen, and a sprinkling under the beds of what 
 she called ' disinfectin',' Mrs. Bloggs had left the 
 top rooms just as they were when the Londoners 
 departed an hour or two ago. She received the new- 
 comers with effusive welcome, delighted that they 
 had not arrived ten minutes sooner, when she was 
 concluding a violent dispute with her lodgers on the 
 first floor. What did they think of these rooms ? 
 Didn't they smell sweet and fresh ? The lady must 
 excuse her if she asked where they came from ; she 
 did like to know something of people, as she tried to 
 keep her house thoroughly respectable. And the 
 very least she could take was twenty-seven shillings 
 - which included first-rate cooking. Twenty-five? 
 Oh, dear me ! Did they think this was one of the 
 ordinary lodging-houses ? And so on for a long 
 time, until the man wearily consented to pay twenty- 
 six shillings — an extravagance of which his wife 
 continued to talk petulantly until she closed her eyes 
 at eleven o'clock that night. 
 
 Serena, meanwhile, had come to a momentous 
 resolve. She was afraid of scarlet fever ; this very 
 day she would quit her aunt's house and go over to 
 Mrs. Kipper's. But, first of all, she must secure the 
 money due to her. When Mrs. Bloggs came down 
 from settling her new lodgers, Serena, arms akimbo in 
 the kitchen, put a plain question :
 
 2i 4 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 
 
 ' And what are you going to give me for holding 
 my tongue ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Bloggs was startled. Well, she would give 
 eighteenpence instead of the usual shilling com- 
 mission. 
 
 ' Oh, you wiil ! Then you may as well pay my 
 wages at the same time, and make it a 'arf-a-sovercign. 
 See!' 
 
 The girl grinned, and planted her foot firmly. 
 The week's wages just due to her amounted to three- 
 and-sixpence — monstrous for a child of twelve, her 
 aunt was always saying ; but Serena knew her own 
 value, and the present opportunity was not to be 
 neglected. She would have half-a-sovereign down, 
 or tell the new lodgers what had happened this 
 morning. Mrs. Bloggs cursed her niece, but durst 
 not defy her. As soon as she had received the 
 money, Serena, on pretence of putting it away, went 
 into the wash-house (where she slept), made a 
 bundle of her very few belongings, and straightway 
 fled. 
 
 It was a disaster such as Mrs. Bloggs had not 
 suffered for a long time. When she grasped the 
 situation — in an hour or two she knew from a neigh- 
 bour that Serena had gone to Mrs. Kipper's — her 
 wrath overcame all prudence. Leaving house and 
 lodgers to look after themselves, she rushed round 
 into the next street, burst upon Mrs. Kipper's like a 
 storm, and assailed that shrewd woman, as well as
 
 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 215 
 
 Serena, who stood by, with virulent abuse. Fury 
 had made her forgetful of the weapon in her niece's 
 hand, and Serena, amused at the conflict between 
 the two women, took good care not to retaliate on 
 Mrs. Bloggs by a disclosure of that morning's sinister 
 event ; for all she knew, Mrs. Kipper, at the very 
 name of scarlet fever, might turn her out of doors. 
 But when her aunt began to make charges of theft, 
 to damage her character in her new mistress's eyes, 
 the girl had much ado to restrain herself; secretly 
 she resolved to be ' even ' with Mrs. Bloggs by a 
 stratagem that would not imperil her own position. 
 
 The next day, after a morning on the dry sands 
 (trampled and befouled for a month past by an 
 innumerable multitude), amid the yells of ruffian 
 peddlers, the roaring of blackguard vocalists, the 
 boisterous mirth of an East-End mob transported 
 to the sea-shore, Mrs. Bloggs's new lodgers were re- 
 turning to dinner, when, in a bye-street, the wife and 
 mother felt her arm touched ; she looked round, and 
 recognised Serena, who begged her to step aside for 
 a moment's conversation. 
 
 ' I think it only right to tell you, mum,' said the 
 girl, ' that the lodgers as was before you in your 
 rooms had the scarlet fever. I didn't know it till 
 after, or I'd never have took you there. They was 
 got away on the quiet. It was a child as had it, and 
 if I was you ' 
 
 The woman uttered a scream, which checked her
 
 216 THE TOUT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 
 
 husband, and in the confusion Serena ran away. 
 There was a rapid, high-voiced colloquy, which ended 
 in the man's hastening forward. Already he felt 
 discontented with Mrs. Bloggs's lodgings, and fear 
 for his child roused him to active indignation. The 
 scene that followed Mrs. Bloggs would not soon 
 forget. Met with a fiat and furious denial of what 
 he had heard, the man made such a disturbance 
 that all the other lodgers, just home to dinner, came 
 out of their rooms, and to them he addressed 
 questions. 
 
 Yes — replied a voice — it was quite true that a 
 family had left after staying only a day or two, and 
 that they had a sickly, crying child. When did they 
 leave ? Why an hour or so before their successors' 
 arrival. 
 
 ' Then there's a damned lie brought home to you 
 at once ! ' shouted the man. ' Look here, all you 
 people, there's been scarlet fever in the house. Take 
 my advice, and do what we're going to do— clear 
 out, and don't pay a farthing. If she tries to stop 
 you, get a p'liceman ! ' 
 
 The shrill tones of his wife supplied detail to 
 all who asked it ; confusion grew worse confounded ; 
 though a burly woman (who, ere now, had retained 
 lodgers by force), Mrs. Bloggs retreated downstairs 
 into her kitchen, and there listened to the storm of 
 vilification which laid bare all her misdoings and the 
 discomforts of the house. Panic, aided by the spirit 

 
 THE TO IT OF YARMOUTH BRIDGE 2 17 
 
 of dishonesty, emptied her lodgings in about half an 
 hour. She did not dare to make her wrongs public, 
 being already unfavourably known to the police, but 
 against Serena she registered a deep and fearful 
 vow. 
 
 That promising damsel, however, finding, on brief 
 trial, that Mrs. Kipper exacted too much work, had 
 already quitted Yarmouth for Lowestoft. Like all 
 persons of genius, she abhorred monotony.
 
 218 
 
 A WELL-MEANING MAN 
 
 The advertisement evoked only three replies ; per- 
 haps it was less carefully worded than in former 
 instances. However, one of the letters had a very 
 encouraging sound. Youth of nineteen ; till of late, 
 clerk to his father ; father just dead ; small sum at 
 disposal ; willing to pay reasonable premium, but 
 salary looked for. ' Yours obediently, Robert H. 
 Winter.' The others read more doubtfully ; it would 
 be as well to see Robert Winter before replying to 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Parrington (that was his name for the pre- 
 sent) sat in the small office which he had taken, 
 furnished, a month or two ago. Sales and purchases 
 of every kind of property, valuation, surveying, 
 recover} of debts — all such undertakings fell within 
 his scope ; to him, nothing human was alien for 
 which a commission could be charged. A thoroughly 
 well-meaning man ; no one more resolute to live 
 honestly, if only the world would let him. But, for 
 some ten years, the world had seemed intent on 
 making him a rogue. Innumerable his fresh starts, 
 his new leaves turned over with a virtuous thrill. He
 
 A WELL-MEANING MAX 219 
 
 had been driven, by sheer force of circumstance, out 
 of every large town in England ; he had tried rural 
 districts, with no better result, and the marvel was, 
 that once only had the law laid a finger on him. A 
 mere touch, as good as forgotten, yet it had helped 
 to embitter Mr. Parrington. Why, think merely of 
 his prodigious exertions in the borrowing of small 
 sums ! And now, at last, every effort of that kind 
 had failed ; what could he do but advertise again — 
 for such a young man as Robert Winter ? 
 
 The young man came at the appointed time, with 
 absolute punctuality. At the sight of the office he 
 seemed a trifle disappointed, but Mr. Parrington was 
 prepared for this, and combated the unfavourable 
 impression with his blandest smile, his most cordial 
 tone. He liked the look of young Winter ; the pallid, 
 amiable countenance, air of nervous conscientious- 
 ness ; the mourning-band on his coat -sleeve and silk 
 hat. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Winter, let us talk it over. This, by- 
 the-bye, is a temporary office. Just now I do a good 
 deal of my work at home. Well, and what exactly 
 has your experience been ? I see, I see. All very 
 useful, but — liardly — never mind ! Suppose I put a 
 practical test. Here is a catalogue of the last sale at 
 Brooks and Roper's, marked with prices obtained. 
 Suppose you sit down and work out for me — first, the 
 average oi items on the first page ; then, a commission 
 at y\ on the three highest figures.'
 
 220 A WELL-MEANING MAN 
 
 With a tremulousness he could not conceal, the 
 young man applied himself to the task ; Mr. Par- 
 rington, the while, turned to the writing of letters in 
 which he had been interrupted. 
 
 'Done already? Very good time, indeed, Mr. 
 Winter — and perfectly correct. Come, I think we 
 can make something of you.' 
 
 Mr. Winter flushed with satisfaction. Ten 
 minutes more talk settled the whole affair. In con- 
 sideration of a premium of five-and-twenty pounds 
 Mr. Parrington would instruct his young friend in the 
 art and mystery of commission-agency, and, more- 
 over, would give him a salary of fifteen shillings a 
 week, to be increased to twenty in six months' time. 
 Payment of premium to-morrow morning, when 
 duties would begin. And Mr. Winter took a friendly 
 leave, without its ever having occurred to him to 
 request any proof of Mr. Parrington's respectability. 
 At half-past nine next morning the premium was 
 paid. In exchange for it, Mr. Winter received a very 
 solemnly worded and skilfully engrossed document, 
 which he put into his pocket. 
 
 ' And now to business, Mr. Winter. Here is a 
 catalogue of a sale at Snape's, Rose Alley, London 
 Wall ; you'll easily find it. You will attend the sale 
 (10.30 for 11), and mark all the prices with great 
 care. It'll probably be over by one o'clock. Then 
 you will lunch — let me beg of you not to take 
 alcoholic liquor — and be here at a quarter to two
 
 A WELL-MEANING MAN 22 r 
 
 sharp. By-the-byc, as you pass Lukin Brothers' — 
 ah ! you must study the Directory in your spare 
 time — just look in, with my compliments, and get 
 their latest prices-current. You understand ? Their 
 latest! 
 
 A week passed. Mr. Winter had been 1 retty 
 fully occupied, almost always away from the office ; 
 it seemed to him that he was learning a good deal 
 about public auctions, and his knowledge of the City 
 of London had decidedly improved. On the morn- 
 ing of the day when his first week's salary fell due, 
 he received at his lodgings a post-card from Mr. 
 Parrington — 'Meet me 10.15, booking-office King's 
 Cross main station.' He kept the appointment, only 
 to find Mr. Parrington in such a hurry that hardly a 
 dozen words could be exchanged. 
 
 ' Back to-morrow morning. Here's a list of 
 matters you'll look after. Oh, by-the-bye, I'm in 
 your debt. Hang it ! No change. Settle to-mor- 
 row. Office, usual time.' 
 
 Robert Winter did not feel well this morning. 
 Not long ago he had had an attack of influenza, and 
 his present symptoms disagreeably suggested a return 
 of the complaint. After struggling painfully through 
 the work Mr. Parrington had set him (it was a cold, 
 drizzly day), he went home, and to bed. Yes, the 
 fever was upon him again. In his poor lodgings he 
 passed a miserable night. 
 
 Till of late his home had been at Rochester. After
 
 222 A WELL-MEAN IXG MAN 
 
 his father's death, armed with a capital of thirty 
 pounds, all he could hope for, he came up to London, 
 and was lucky enough to see Mr. Parrington's ad- 
 vertisement. Of course, he must struggle against 
 this slight illness. But in the morning he could not 
 stand, much less prepare to go to the office. With 
 difficulty he found a messenger to take a letter for 
 him. 
 
 Now, as it happened, Mr. Parrington's sudden 
 departure was on no make-believe business. When 
 writing to his clerk he had purposed a mere trick to 
 postpone payment of salary ; as yet he was not quite 
 ready to ' turn over a new leaf.' But that evening his 
 eyes fell on a newspaper advertisement which startled 
 him. It was headed with his name, his true name, 
 and stated that, on applying to such and such persons 
 in a Midland town he would ' hear of something to 
 his advantage.' Of a possible something he had long 
 been aware, and his heart leapt at the prospect of 
 what he hardly durst hope. So it came to pass 
 that, when his clerk met him at King's Cross, Mr. 
 Parrington was actually speeding away on an affair 
 of moment. It proved to be the event of his tremu- 
 lous anticipation, and when, twenty-four hours later, 
 he returned to London, it was as the jubilant pos- 
 sessor of a considerable sum of money ; no fortune 
 but quite enough either to support him for a few 
 years in cosy idleness, or — as he fervently resolved —
 
 A WELL-MEANING MAX 223 
 
 to give him the genuine ' start in life ' which he had 
 so long sighed for. 
 
 In the letter-box at the office he found Robert 
 Winter's excuse for absence : he read it thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Poor devil ! He looked run-down from the 
 first. A good lad, too. I'll go and see him, and 
 yes, by God ! he shall have his money back. He 
 shall ! I can afford the luxury of being honest, and 
 I will' 
 
 Mr. Parrington, to fortify himself for this great 
 undertaking, repaired to a restaurant in Chcapside 
 and lunched copiously. Over his subsequent cigar 
 he mused : 
 
 ' After all, why should I go and see the poor 
 chap ? Ten to one I should only make him ashamed : 
 no doubt, he's lodging in some damned poor hole. 
 I'll write and send him his week's salary, and tell 
 him to meet me somewhere or other when he's on 
 his legs again. Yes, that's better.' 
 
 In the glow of his bottle of wine, Mr. Parrington 
 did write, and, what was more, enclosed a postal 
 order for fifteen shillings. ' As soon as you are all 
 right, send me a card to the General Post Office, and 
 I'll tell you where to meet me. Certain circum- 
 stances have made it necessary for me to alter 
 arrangements, but yozt will be treated honourably* 
 
 Robert Winter's post-card lay at the General 
 Post Office for a long time. Meanwhile Mr. Par- 
 rington — no longer so named- had quitted London.
 
 224 A WELL-MEANING MAN 
 
 After all (such was the upshot of his musing), the 
 foolish lad, if he got his twenty-five pounds back again 
 would only lose it to some designing rascal ; far better 
 that he should exert himself and get a clerkship in 
 the ordinary way, and earn honest wages — far better. 
 Mr. Parrington, as always, meant well, and, in days 
 to come, he remembered with vast self-approval that 
 he had sent the week's salary to the poor devil laid 
 up with illness.
 
 225 
 
 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 
 
 TJIE window of a little stationer's shop, far away in 
 North-East London, exhibited not long ago the 
 following advertisement, written in an old-fashioned 
 female hand, on half a sheet of note-paper : 
 
 Lessons on the Pianoforte, also in Singing, given by a 
 Professional Lady. Sixpence an hour. Apply within. 
 
 It befel, from time to time, that persons did make 
 application, with the result that they were requested 
 to walk into the parlour behind the shop, where the 
 ' professional lady ' gave them audience. Her name 
 was Miss Withers, her age not more than forty, and 
 she had lost one of her legs. Though in such very 
 humble circumstances, and constrained by poverty 
 to welcome every one who would engage and pay her 
 to ' teach music,' Miss Withers had anything but a 
 meek countenance or a naturally subservient manner. 
 Twenty years ago she must have been rather a 
 handsome young woman. Her profile was still good, 
 but premature wrinkles and the wasting of flesh, 
 together with a something which expressed itself in 
 close-shut lips and brows bent over bright though 
 myopic eyes, gave her an aspect not generally found 
 
 Q
 
 226 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 
 
 attractive. In speech she was brief, not seldom curt ; 
 and her accent, if not that of an educated person, 
 betrayed superiority to those among whom she lived. 
 When the parent of a new pupil sought her out, she 
 would eye him, or her, with keen inspection, and 
 regulate her remarks accordingly. As may be 
 presumed, it rarely happened that she had to deal 
 with people of any intelligence, but stupidity and 
 ignorance have their degrees. Occasionally Miss 
 Withers made a mistake. Perchance she had under- 
 taken to teach a little girl whose parents seemed to 
 her endowed with some measure of reason. She 
 would begin with notes and scales, and so on. At 
 the third lesson, the mother (who had been listening 
 outside the door) would come in with dissatisfied 
 look. 
 
 ' 'Arriet don't seem to be gettin' on very much. 
 When are you goin' to teach her a toon, Miss 
 Withers ? Her father says that kind o' plyin' mikes 
 his 'ead ache.' 
 
 ' She shall begin tunes at once,' was the teacher's 
 short reply. And forthwith, dropping all methodic 
 instruction, she trained the child (as though some 
 docile animal) to hammer out a familiar melody. 
 The parents applauded, and were willing to recom- 
 mend Miss Withers to their friends. 
 
 Of course, it was not merely by stress of mis- 
 fortune that Miss Withers had fallen so low. 
 Character is fate, but of necessity we attribute to
 
 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 227 
 
 mortals a share in the shaping of their own ends. 
 This woman had enjoyed some advantages in early 
 life ; her mother was a professional singer, her father 
 the proprietor of a panorama ; up to the age of ten, 
 she had fairly good schooling and something more 
 than ordinary instruction in music, this seeming to 
 be her strong point. But at that time her mother 
 died, and for the next ten years her father's history 
 was a process of degradation, mainly due to drink. 
 The only child, she did what in her lay to answer 
 her father's hopes ; no harshness embittered her 
 young life, and only when she found herself alone in 
 the world did she become entirely dependent on her 
 own exertions. 
 
 It need not have been difficult for her to earn a 
 living, whether as singer, instrumentalist, or teacher ; 
 but Miss Withers suffered from an overweening sense 
 of her powers and importance ; she fretted in a state 
 of subordination, and came to grief by taking what 
 seemed a short cut to independence. Scorning the 
 lower walks of the vocalist's profession, she had 
 attached herself to a provincial concert company, 
 and was living in moderate comfort, when the wealthy 
 son of a wealthier father (commercial folk) made 
 her acquaintance, and offered her marriage. The 
 splendid prospect proved too much for her. and 
 certain indiscretions — nothing worse — led first to the 
 postponement, then to the final defeat of her hopes. 
 Unhappily for the girl, her quondam lover offered
 
 228 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 
 
 pecuniary compensation, thus suggesting a step she 
 would probably not have taken if left to her mere 
 chagrin. She consulted a speculative solicitor, and 
 brought an action for breach of promise, in which she 
 was awarded five hundred pounds. 
 
 A fatal success. To begin with, the publicity of 
 the case had nourished all the worst elements of her 
 character : vulgar flattery debased her ambitions, and 
 the week's notoriety ruined her self-respect. As often 
 happens at such a juncture, she received offers of 
 marriage by the score. Feeling that the future was 
 in any case assured, she lived for some months in 
 luxury and waste, and was surrounded by precisely 
 the people it would have been well for her to avoid. 
 When her means ran low, she surveyed the list of 
 possible husbands — now diminished. The proprietor 
 of a hotel ultimately won and wedded her. He, as it 
 happened, was on the point of bankruptcy, and in a 
 year's time the ambitious woman had no choice but 
 to work as manageress in a much smaller establish- 
 ment, to which with difficulty they had got ap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Followed gloom, decline, and squalor. Her 
 husband drank ; she did likewise. In a quarrel one 
 night, she was thrown down the stairs, and so badly 
 injured that one of her legs had to be amputated. 
 The allowance she extorted from her husband was 
 poor consolation, and in wretched solitude, unable to 
 appear as a musician, knowing that her voice had 
 
 I:
 
 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 229 
 
 failed, she naturally betook herself to the bottle. At 
 ninc-and-twenty, when widowhood brought a new 
 event into the life of sordid monotony, she had neither 
 health nor prospects. Her childless condition might, 
 or might not, have aided the downfall which she 
 herself was accustomed to contemplate with a bitter 
 defiance. 
 
 Strange to say, the fear of destitution did her 
 good. She was not so far degraded as to let herself 
 sink into the slough of mendicancy, and she shrank in 
 horror from the workhouse. Still possessed of some 
 self-control, she changed her locality, changed her 
 name, and began a struggle for existence as a music- 
 teacher. Help from old acquaintances was out of the 
 question ; she must subsist, if at all, on the patronage 
 of the lowest class that paid for music-lessons, people 
 who made no inquiries, and were satisfied or not on 
 their own judgment of results. Years had gone by, 
 and Miss Withers — it was not even her own maiden 
 name — kept body and soul together. Of her petty 
 earnings, she spent more in liquid than in solid sus- 
 tenance, but, by whatever grace, could not be called a 
 drunkard ; most people with whom she came in con- 
 tact suspected her of nothing worse than semi- 
 starvation. 
 
 After many changes of abode, she was fortunately 
 settled with a family in some slight degree civilised ; 
 people who gave her a garret, the use of the parlour 
 with its piano, and occasional food, in return for five
 
 230 A SONG OF SIXPENCE 
 
 shillings a week and music-lessons to three girls. 
 These pupils were almost the only ones whom Miss 
 Withers had permission to teach properly. Her six- 
 penny hours brought her in daily contact with 
 strange forms of vanity and doltishness. Sometimes 
 the pupil had no piano at home, and must be taught 
 in the parlour behind the shop ; but, as a rule, the 
 desire for lessons came as the result of possessing an 
 instrument, which had been procured merely for ex- 
 hibition. The newly-wedded wife would dispense 
 with anything rather than with a piano. Miss 
 Withers gave her lessons in singular places : in 
 garrets above, and cellars below ; bed-sitting-rooms, 
 kitchen-sitting-rooms, bed-kitchen-sitting-rooms, over 
 stables, at the rear of rag-and-bottle shops, amid filth, 
 stench, every shape of brutal unclcanliness. And, by 
 very scorn of the people whose imbecility supported 
 her, she was saved from some of her own vices. 
 
 ' Oh, the fools ! Oh, the mean, dirty fools ! 
 Thus did she mutter to herself, day after day, in 
 going from lesson to lesson. 
 
 ' A tunc ? ' she once exclaimed to a fat woman 
 clad in silk, who grumbled that her all but idiot child 
 could 'ply' nothing after the second hour; 'what 
 tunc shall I teach her? Will "Sing a Song of Six- 
 pence " do ? ' 
 
 The fat woman had no sense of irony, and said 
 that would be better than nothing.
 
 231 
 
 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 
 
 Only to the few and the very fortunate of men is it 
 granted to earn a livelihood by the exertion of their 
 best powers. Men in general owe sustenance to 
 the meaner of their faculties, often enough to the 
 basest possibility that is in them ; and, even so, find 
 the effort no light one. As a singular instance of 
 something between the two, of a man who found his 
 profit in the cultivation of a mere amiable weakness, 
 without fatigue, and without sense of degradation, 
 take Lambert Wellaway. 
 
 At the age of five-and-twenty he was a master in a 
 boarding-school, and loathed his calling. Possibly, 
 under very favourable circumstances, he might have 
 made a good teacher ; he had a vein of studious 
 inclination, a faculty for the lucid exposition of his 
 knowledge, a pleasant manner, an alluring sportiveness 
 of intellect ; but, in the school, these gifts were wasted. 
 The large, noisy classes made his head ache ; average 
 brainless boyhood was a horror to him ; he had not 
 the least power of discipline, and was wont to declare 
 in bitterness that his post demanded the qualities, not 
 of a teacher, but of a drill-sergeant. Yet, how other-
 
 232 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 
 
 wise support himself? Of course, he had thought of 
 literature— who has not ? But Lambert Wellaway 
 did not overrate his endowment ; he was wise enough 
 to judge of his chances as an author by the inertia 
 that opposed him whenever he sat down to write. 
 Indolence had a great part in his temperament ; a 
 book, a sunny corner, and entire tranquillity, formed 
 his ideal of supportable existence. When the in- 
 evitable came to pass, and his headmaster suggested 
 to him that their engagement was for the advantage 
 of neither, Wellaway could feel nothing but relief. 
 He went away to his people in the country, and 
 mused on things in general as he idled about the 
 fields. 
 
 His walk one day led him by a stream-side path, 
 along a leafy little valley, and here he came upon a 
 middle-aged man, who was painting a picture — a 
 serious picture in oils, a large canvas, the artist very 
 business-like in his costume and attitude. Much 
 interested, but afraid to linger, Wellaway threw a 
 glance at the work, and passed on. He noticed, how- 
 ever, that the artist gave him a very friendly look, and 
 so, on his return in half-an-hour's time, he slackened 
 pace as he drew near again, viewing the canvas more 
 boldly than before. A civil greeting rose to the lips 
 of both men : Wellaway halted. 
 
 ' How very beautiful ! Pray allow me to watch 
 your work for a moment.' 
 
 He spoke with perfect sincerity, honestly admiring
 
 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 233 
 
 the picture, and delighted at the opportunity of con- 
 versing with a genuine painter. It surprised him 
 when he saw the face of the middle-aged man flush 
 with boyish gratification. 
 
 'You like it? Really? I'm very glad. I — I 
 rather thought that I had — had got the effect. Very 
 difficult, this plein air work. The water just there- 
 yes, under the willow — doesn't quite satisfy me.' 
 
 The artist had a very deep yet soft voice, and 
 spoke nervously. His utterance was not altogether 
 that of an educated man, and his lack of self-possession, 
 a certain uncouthness in his bearing, excited 
 Wcllaway's wonder. Young, inexperienced, fastidious, 
 he had imagined that an artist must of necessity 
 be distinguished by every kind of refinement. The 
 longer they talked, the more plainly it appeared that 
 the painter had no very bright intelligence, and that 
 he was very defective in grace of manner. But Well- 
 away 's interest seemed to flatter him profoundly ; he 
 showed an eagerness to detain the young man, to 
 strike up a friendship with him. He mentioned that 
 he was staying, alone, at a little inn not far away, 
 and : 
 
 ' If you're living about here, you might look me 
 up — if you have time in the evening. I should like to 
 show you some little things I have with me — trifles — 
 water-colours. My name is Paddy, but ' — he laughed 
 — ' I'm not an Irishman. Perhaps one of my ancestors 
 was ; I don't know.' 
 
 9
 
 234 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 
 
 Wellaway gladly promised to call that very even- 
 ing, and kept his word. He found Mr. Paddy sitting 
 in the inn's best room, with cigars and strong waters 
 on the table. The artist received him with almost 
 excessive cordiality ; they were soon talking like old 
 acquaintances. When Mr. Paddy opened a portfolio, 
 Wellaway tried to examine the sketches and finished 
 water-colours with a critical eye ; for already he 
 suspected that the painting he had liked so much at 
 the first glance was not, in truth, of great artistic 
 value. All unskilled in the matter, he now felt his 
 doubts irresistibly confirmed ; these small things 
 seemed to him decidedly commonplace. Another 
 might have suffered embarrassment ; not so Wellaway. 
 To speak smoothly, pleasingly, was in his very nature ; 
 not only did he shrink from giving pain, in such a 
 case as this, by silence or scanted applause, but it 
 positively gratified him to be the cause of gratification. 
 
 ' Delightful ! A charming little thing that. How 
 wonderfully you have got the sky ! Yes, that's one 
 of the best ; a really exquisite thing ! ' 
 
 Mr. Paddy drank in the praise as though at every 
 pore ; his eyes danced with joy ; an infantile slobber- 
 ing appeared at the corners of his mouth ; he 
 fidgeted hither and thither, his hands tremulous in 
 sheer delight. All the time, he kept swallowing great 
 draughts of whisky-and-water, and a gentle rubescence 
 tinged the end of his soft unshapely nose. 
 
 They exchanged confidences. Having spoken
 
 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 235 
 
 frankly of his own affairs, Wcllaway learnt that his 
 friend was no artist by profession, but a retired man 
 of business, who from youth upwards had conceived 
 himself born to be a painter. Mr. Paddy had a small 
 estate in a delightful part of Gloucestershire ; was 
 married, but childless. In the summer-time he 
 wandered extensively, with elaborate apparatus ; his 
 aim was to make a gallery of English landscape. 
 
 < I don't exhibit. To tell the truth, I don't think 
 it quite fair to the men who have to sell pictures. I 
 do sell, now and then, privately, but always for some 
 charitable purpose — something of that kind, you 
 know. I tell you what it is, you must come over to 
 my place and spend a day or two — a week or two. 
 Now, will you ? I mean it — do, indeed !' 
 
 Why not ? Wellaway accepted the invitation, 
 and, in a week's time, he arrived as a guest at Mr. 
 Paddy's house. Here another surprise awaited him. 
 Mrs. Paddy was not at all the sort of person he 
 had imagined. At least ten years younger than her 
 husband, handsome, good-naturedly supercilious, this 
 lady seemed to lead a perfectly independent life, 
 and to take no interest whatever in the doings of 
 her spouse. When Wellaway spoke to her of Mr. 
 Paddy's paintings, she smiled, uttered an ' Ah — yes,' 
 and changed the subject. Of actual disagreement 
 between them there was no sign ; they went their 
 several ways with complete decorum, neither seeming 
 to desire anything else.
 
 236 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 
 
 Having come for a week, Lambert Wellaway 
 remained Mr. Paddy's guest for nine years. 
 
 Both would have been astonished had any one hinted 
 to them that the situation was other than honourable. 
 Wellaway called himself a ' secretary,' and saw no 
 reason to doubt that his services merited their 
 reward ; in truth, the one and only service he ren- 
 dered to his patron was that of unwearying flattery. 
 For this Mr. Paddy had languished : in Wellaway he 
 found a priceless stimulant, which soon became a 
 necessity of life. His artistic hobby had yielded him 
 but a doubtful, troublous satisfaction, yet he could not 
 abandon it. Though more than moderately obtuse, 
 he had learnt that his acquaintances considered him 
 a bore of the first magnitude : he was ever seeking 
 for new friends who would admire his pictures, re- 
 ceive them as presents, and, chief point, hang them 
 conspicuously in their houses. In the nature of 
 things it grew more and more difficult to satisfy this 
 craving for admiration, since, however vain, Mr. 
 Paddy stood upon his social dignity, and the praise 
 of boors had little savour for him. Such a man as 
 Wellaway, educated, well-bred, who could practise 
 adulation without a trace of vulgar obsequiousness, 
 appealed to his very heart. And Wellaway himself 
 never found the position burdensome, owing to those 
 happy characteristics of his, the inability to tell a 
 disagreeable truth, and the pleasure he took in 
 pleasing. He deemed himself a favourite of fortune.
 
 A PROFITABLE WEAKNESS 237 
 
 At thought of the past, he shuddered ; forward he 
 never desired to look. He lived in a luxurious home, 
 associated with agreeable persons, travelled amid the 
 pleasantest scenes. It had come about insensibly 
 by repeated prolongation of his visit ; perhaps he 
 could hardly have said at what moment he changed 
 his quality of guest for that of permanent inmate. 
 Really, an ideal state of things. 
 
 Then Mr. Paddy died, and his testament be- 
 queathed to Mr. Wellaway a very comfortable little 
 income. Mrs. Paddy, having a separate estate, took 
 the matter quite reasonably and with much good- 
 nature.
 
 23§ 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 
 
 Mrs. HlNTON, a lady in happy circumstances, with 
 the obedience of her husband and the admiration of 
 many friends, received one morning a letter which 
 greatly shocked her. The tenor of the first line or 
 two prompted her to turn to the signature, which was 
 simply ' Adeline.' Mrs. Hinton had known but one 
 Adeline — a close friend of her girlhood, now lost to 
 sight and inquiry for some ten years ; she it was who 
 wrote, who told of sickness, destitution, despair, and 
 besought the help that could hardly have been re- 
 fused to a stranger. 
 
 The same day they met. As a representative of 
 society, Mrs. Hinton had something to forgive ; as a 
 woman with a heart, she disregarded all but Adeline's 
 necessities. The sufferer was tended, solaced, and, 
 as her strength allowed or occasion offered, she made 
 known the course of her obscure life to this sympa- 
 thetic hearer. The story ended, as it had begun, 
 with the statement that, for more than a twelvemonth, 
 she had acted as nurse in a country infirmary. 
 
 'I remember,' said Mrs. Hinton, 'that you often
 
 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 
 
 spoke of nursing — thought you would like it. Did it 
 prove too much for your strength ? ' 
 
 Adeline shuddered, looked away, seemed unable 
 to talk of this experience. But at length she forced 
 herself to do so. In a low, unsteady voice, she gave 
 answer : 
 
 ' It not only ruined my health— it made me a 
 devil.' 
 
 The lady of delicate sensibilities was startled, and 
 frowned a little. 
 
 ' Ah, you don't understand,' pursued the other ; 
 ' you can't. Before that, I was never bad. Believe 
 it or not, I kept the purity of my heart. You used to 
 think me too sensitive, too compassionate ; I was still 
 the same when I began my work in the infirmary. 
 When I left it, I was base and cruel — everything that 
 my true self had always loathed. I think — I hope — 
 that bodily weakness was the chief cause of it. But 
 I know now how women, not originally bad, grow 
 corrupt in soul. I know what is meant by moral 
 poison.' 
 
 Adeline's age was about five-and-thirty. Her 
 voice had not much changed since Mrs. Hinton knew 
 it in gardens and drawing-rooms ; but her features — 
 the eyes, the mouth — were hard to reconcile with 
 memory. 
 
 \ s, when I undertook that work I thought it 
 was not only a means of support, but a privilege — a 
 way of recovering my self-respect, and more than
 
 240 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 
 
 that. At first I welcomed every hardship all the 
 things — how could I describe them ? — that I had to 
 break myself into enduring. I had no experience of 
 nursing, and no one expected me to have. They 
 doubted whether I was fit for the post, but only 
 because I didn't seem strong enough, and, as I after- 
 wards understood, coarse enough. Paupers can be 
 looked after by any one who will undertake it. No 
 knowledge, no training — at least, it was so in that 
 workhouse. 
 
 ' There were two of us nurses, only two. Often I 
 have had forty patients to look after, and for twelve 
 hours at a time. Ah ! often for longer. I have sunk 
 down and fallen asleep by dying people. 
 
 1 But the toil wasn't the worst of it. That harmed 
 only my body.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' remarked the listener. 
 ' Do you mean that you had such dreadful people to 
 look after ? ' 
 
 ' They were dreadful often ; creatures your mind 
 could never form an idea of; much more like 
 animals than human beings. But I didn't mean that. 
 To begin with, I suffered most from never having any 
 privacy. I had no sleeping-room to myself ; two 
 servants shared it with me when I slept at night, and 
 when I had my rest in the daytime the other nurse 
 kept coming in and out for things that were kept 
 there. Later, she did it just to annoy me, for we 
 hated each other. She was the first I hated — a
 
 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 241 
 
 heartless, vile-minded woman. She got jealous of 
 me for all sorts of reasons, and told horrible lies of 
 me to the matron, and raged because she couldn't get 
 me turned away. At last, whenever I saw her asleep, 
 I used to wish to kill her. It was a sort of madness ; 
 I used to go about saying to myself that it would be 
 a good and right thing to kill her. 
 
 ' She had been there a long time, and suffered 
 from all sorts of ailments—the common ailments of 
 overworked nurses. She was flat-footed, and had 
 dreadful varicose veins, and — oh ! I can't tell you. 
 The one before her died of consumption — worked 
 almost to the day of her death. 
 
 ^jJus«rto\pray for strength against my horrible 
 thoughts and passions. I prayed silently as I walked 
 about. And I exhausted myself with conscientious 
 nursing, because.,1 thought it was Christian work and 
 would keep my heart pure. That other woman took 
 her duties as carelessly as she could. Poor agonising 
 wretches would cry to her by the hour, and she 
 wouldn't heed them — either because she hated them 
 for the trouble they gave, or because it was cold and 
 she wanted to sit by the fire. 
 
 ' The worst was when I found that my own heart 
 was hardening against the patients. At first, I pitied 
 them, shed tears by the bedside ; but that lasted only 
 a short time. For one thing, to nurse them properly 
 was impossible ; no one could have done it. The 
 doctor knew that well enough, and when I spoke of 
 
 R
 
 242 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 
 
 it to him he shrugged his shoulders. He used to sing 
 to himself some lines — I don't know where they come 
 from — " Rattle his bones over the stones, he's only a 
 pauper whom nobody owns." And I got into the way 
 of doing the same, though I loathed myself for it.' 
 
 Mrs. Hinton interposed. 
 
 ' Oh ! but surely this kind of thing doesn't go on in 
 our day ? ' 
 
 ' Not everywhere, of course not ; but in a good 
 many of those out-of-the-way places. I heard stories 
 of some that were worse than ours. I am quite sure 
 the workhouse patients are sometimes killed by 
 nurses — killed by neglect and ill-usage, if not in 
 more violent ways. And I tell you that I can under- 
 stand it.' 
 
 Her voice quivered ; a dreadful light gleamed in 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' You see, I could never enjoy food ; what I 
 swallowed there in the ward, or in some other hateful 
 place, seemed to poison my blood. I saw everything 
 with diseased vision. The whole world seemed to me 
 — you remember that passage of Milton, about the 
 " lazar-house " ? That v/as one of the words that 
 haunted me — lazar-house. It was the true word, you 
 know — the house of Lazarus, the sick beggar. And 
 all the world seemed no better. I really forgot what 
 the outside world was like, and my heart grew full of 
 evil passions. I — I — can you believe it? — I got, at 
 last, so far that I tortured the patients who gave me
 
 THE BEGGAR'S NURSE 243 
 
 most trouble. I purposely neglected their wants, like 
 the other woman. I took away the cup before they 
 had drunk enough, and had a dreadful pleasure in 
 their complaining or their abuse. No, I am not worse 
 than other people. I believe there is not a woman 
 living who wouldn't fall to that in such a position-- 
 not one — not one ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Hinton said musingly : 
 
 ' I know what it is to be impatient with sick 
 people.' 
 
 ' Yes, and one must be more than human, one 
 must be a saint, to nurse professionally and keep 
 one's tender heart. I believe it is so under the best 
 circumstances. In such places as that, it is the school 
 for devils. I will never speak of it again, and pray to 
 lose the memory of it' 
 
 ' Did you leave of your own accord ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, thank heaven ! In a moment when strength 
 was granted me. Rather death by starvation.' 
 
 Mrs. Hinton, after reflecting, said quietly : 
 
 ' I know a girl who is consumed with a sentimental 
 desire for hospital-nursing. I shall speak to her 
 mother.' 
 
 r 2
 
 244 
 
 TRANSPLANTED 
 
 The cab was piled with luggage, and within sat a 
 young matron, her cheeks fresh as the meadows she 
 had quitted but a few hours ago. Long Bill, lurking 
 on the limits of the railway station, caught a signifi- 
 cant nod from the cabdriver, and at once started in 
 pursuit. 
 
 Long Bill was not very tall, but had limbs so 
 excessively slender, and so meagre a trunk, that his 
 acquaintances naturally thought of him in terms of 
 length. When unoccupied, which was generally the 
 case, he let his arms hang straight, and close to nis 
 sides, as though trying to occupy as little room in 
 the world as possible. He walked on his toes, rather 
 quickly, and almost without a bend of the knee ; his 
 back was straight, and the collar of his filthy coat 
 always turned up, to shield the scraggy, collarless 
 neck. Observe him in motion at a distance, and you 
 were reminded of a red Indian on the trail. Catch 
 sight of him suddenly close at hand, and his sliding, 
 furtive carriage made you anxious about your pockets 
 or watch-guard. By his own account, Bill was 
 nineteen years old, but he had the wizened face of
 
 TRANSPLANTED 245 
 
 senility : his hairless cheek:; hollow over tooth-gaps, 
 his nose mere cartilage, his small eyes a-blink, yet 
 eager as those of a hungry animal. 
 
 For more than a mile he ran along by the laden 
 cab, and seemingly without much effort : when it 
 drew up in front of a comfortable house, Bill sprang 
 to the door of the vehicle. 
 
 ' You'll let a pore young feller help with the 
 luggage, lydy ? I've ran all the w'y from Victoria.' 
 
 He panted his mendicant humility, and with a 
 grimy paw shook drops from a scarce visible fore- 
 head. The fair young matron regarded him with 
 pained, compassionate look. 
 
 ' You have run all the way from Victoria ? 
 Certainly you may help ; of course you may ! ' 
 
 She alighted, entered the house, and stood there 
 in the hall watching Long Bill as, with feverish 
 energy, he assisted a servant to transfer trunks and 
 parcels. Relatives pressed about the lady, but she 
 could not give them due attention. 
 
 ' Look at that poor creature. He has followed 
 my cab all the way from Victoria, just to earn a few 
 pence ! Oh, these things are too dreadful ! ' 
 
 The simple heart of this lady was a law unto 
 itself. She had possessions, and spoke with authority. 
 In happy moment, Long Bill had pursued the wheels 
 of her cab. Holding money in readiness, she talked 
 with him. Could he not get work ? What was his 
 story? Where did he live? To every question Bill
 
 246 TRANSPLANTED 
 
 made fluent reply, panting oft, and squeezing the rag 
 which served him for headgear. Work ! Only give 
 him the chawnce .' See what it was to be rigidly 
 honest : not since yesterday at this time had a 
 morsel of bread passed his lips. Work ! He threw 
 up his eyes in appeal to powers supernal. 
 
 1 Come and see me to-morrow at twelve o'clock.' 
 His immediate wants provided for, Bill passed 
 the evening in contemplation. He felt no prompting 
 to impart to any one the wonder that had befallen. 
 Very punctually next day did he present himself at 
 the area-door of the comfortable house, and silently 
 he was led to a room where the lady waited for him. 
 To various searching questions he again answered 
 with a tremulous candour which had its full effect. 
 Then, bidding him listen and perpend, the lady 
 offered her suggestion. Far away from London, in 
 very beautiful country, she had a house, with gardens 
 and fields, and there, if so it pleased him, William 
 could support himself honourably by the labour of 
 his hands — could learn the rural life, could gain 
 health and strength, could forget the horrors of his 
 early years. Was William disposed to consider this ? 
 The head-gardener, an estimable man, would direct 
 and encourage him. He would receive wages, and 
 eat the bread of independence. What said he ? 
 
 William once more threw up his eyes, and, in 
 very truth, knew not hew to respond ; but his face 
 answered for him. Very well ; he should have this
 
 TRANSPLANTED 247 
 
 chance of proving his sincerity. In a day or two the 
 arrangements would be complete. Let him come 
 again, at a time appointed, and be in readiness to 
 quit London. Meanwhile, he must purchase the 
 decent clothes of a labouring man ; herewith, money 
 for that purpose. Let him be faithful, and the sun of 
 happiness would henceforth shine upon him. 
 
 In less than a week, behold Long Bill, answering 
 now to the name of William Higgs, transplanted to 
 quite a new sphere of existence. His lodging was 
 in the cottage of a farm-labourer ; his duties 
 led him to the kitchen-gardens of the manor- 
 house, where Mr. Brown, grave and suspicious, 
 set him primitive tasks with the fewest possible 
 words. William looked as though he had fallen 
 from the moon. He was vastly uncomfortable in 
 his clean, new clothing ; he stared at everything 
 and everybody ; he stood on guard against possible 
 attacks, and kept wondering whether, if he climbed 
 to the top of a hill not far away, he would be able to 
 see London. The fact that he had travelled for 
 three hours by an express train did not affect this 
 speculation. Never in his life had William felt so 
 hopeless, so purposeless. 
 
 By the directions of his benefactress, he was 
 abundantly fed, and such advantage did he take of 
 this novel experience that, on the second day, he 
 began to suffer from an alarming disorder. A severe 
 pain oppressed his breathing, and his heart throbbed
 
 248 TRANSPLANTED 
 
 violently ; at length, utterly overcome, he lay gasping 
 as if for life. A doctor had to be summoned. Soon 
 there followed a second and no less violent attack ; 
 William had secretly eaten two large cucumbers and 
 a pound of cheese ; he paid the penalty. Work, 
 from the first not only distasteful, but difficult, was 
 for some days impossible. 
 
 Presently it appeared that he had caught a very 
 bad cold ; he was threatened with congestion of the 
 lungs. Writing to the lady of the manor, the doctor 
 explained to her that William's constitution had 
 suddenly broken down in consequence of the great 
 and sudden change. There would have to be care ; 
 figuratively and literally, this poor fellow had as good 
 as no legs to stand upon ; he seemed ripe for all 
 manner of diseases. If his diet and habits were 
 not strictly regulated, the result might be lament- 
 able. 
 
 A month went by. William had pretended to 
 work, but always gave up on the plea of weakness ; 
 he looked very miserable, and did not talk much ; 
 his cough was bad. One day, after spitting on the 
 gravel walk, he showed the gardener a red stain. 
 Mr. Brown, though he did not like William, looked 
 troubled. 
 
 ' Ever seen that afore now ? ' 
 
 Ruefully and resentfully, the other declared that 
 he had never known what it was to have anything 
 the matter with him. Then he went apart into a
 
 TRANSPLANTED 249 
 
 quiet spot, and lay on the grass, and was beset with 
 terrors. Moreover, a great wrath awoke in him : he 
 cursed the place and the people, and, above all, the 
 well-meaning lady who had sent him into exile. 
 Far-off London called to him with irresistible lure ; 
 he longed for the streets, the noises, the smells, for 
 his old companions, for the lurking-places of his 
 homeless nights. Money he had none ; as yet his 
 weekly wages only paid for board and lodging. But, 
 with or without money, he would get back to 
 London. His purpose must be secret ; if the 
 enemy got wind of it, he would be forcibly de- 
 tained. 
 
 That evening he contrived to make a stealthy 
 entry into the grape-house, and to cut the roots of 
 all the vines. Early the next morning he did the 
 like damage to a number of rose-trees. A poor 
 revenge, but it soothed him. Suspecting that his 
 malfeasance among the vines must soon be dis- 
 covered, he held himself in readiness for flight at any 
 moment ; and while listening eagerly for every word 
 spoken by the people about him, he sought new 
 forms of mischief. His troublesome cough kept him 
 in mind of the wrong he had suffered ; it urged him 
 to malicious activity. But before he could do 
 anything worse than pinch blossoms off certain 
 valuable plants, the alarm struck upon his ear. 
 
 ' Hoy ! London Bill ! Mr. Brown wants you, 
 and look sharp ! '
 
 250 TRANSPLANTED 
 
 It was one of the under-gardeners shouting from 
 a distance. In sudden terror, in a mad desire for 
 liberty and home, he slunk rapidly out of sight, then 
 took to his heels. 
 
 In the night, at a village some twenty miles away, 
 the constable came upon a tramp who lay helpless 
 by the roadside. ' Severe haemorrhage from the 
 lungs,' said a doctor. And, but a few days later, 
 William Higgs was again transplanted — this time to 
 a yet more quiet locality, where no work would ever 
 be asked of him.
 
 251 
 
 A PARENTS FEELINGS 
 
 MRS. Snickers boasted that she had buried five 
 children, and brought up five more to the age of in- 
 dependence — which, in Boundary Lane, signifies the 
 thirteenth year. Her youngest, a girl of nine, was 
 being prepared for life's responsibilities at a neigh- 
 bouring Board School. Never having spared the rod, 
 Mrs. Snickers kept an easy conscience with regard to 
 those of her offspring who gave trouble in the outer 
 world. In Boundary Lane, the ' rod ' was represented 
 by a broom-handle, an old shoe, a rope-end, a frag- 
 ment of firewood ; in flagrant cases, perchance by the 
 poker. An impertinent doctor, abetted by an officious 
 coroner, had on one occasion caused Mrs. Snickers 
 much pain and inconvenience by remarks upon the 
 death of a child whom she had seen fit to chasten 
 rather severely. It was a ridiculous case, for the 
 mother gave clear evidence that the little girl had 
 been weakly from birth, so how could she be to blame 
 if the child succumbed after a well-merited thrashing ? 
 Sue, the latest born, had again and again endured 
 much sterner correction ; was there not the broken 
 bridge of her nose for evidence ? Mrs. Snickers
 
 252 A PARENT'S FEELINGS 
 
 always did feel sorry about that broken nose, which 
 prejudiced her daughter's chances in life ; but Sue 
 had been 'that aggravatin',' and as Mrs. Snickers 
 
 happened to have a cold flat-iron in her hand 
 
 At nine years old, Sue Snickers began to resent 
 the humiliating discipline of school. She by no 
 means deemed herself a child, and was proudly 
 conscious of having learnt many things in the school 
 of life which no professed teacher would ever have 
 imparted to her. She grew daily more impatient for 
 the time of release. Mrs. Snickers, a widow, and for- 
 saken by her other surviving children, looked to the 
 time when Sue's earnings would help to support them 
 both ; but the girl had views of her own, and was 
 resolved that the last day of school should likewise 
 be her last in the maternal lodging. London lay 
 about her, with its infinite possibilities ; not hers the 
 spirit that could be bounded by Boundary Lane. The 
 long memories of ill-usage rankled in her mind. She 
 hated her mother, and always spoke of her away from 
 home by a very foul name. More than once, of late, 
 she had threatened a suitable revenge for that injury 
 to her face and her fortune. Mrs. Snickers, though 
 still a sturdy woman, did not altogether like the 
 gleam in Sue's eye when she felt it necessary to 'pay' 
 the girl. Sue had discovered a rather effective mode 
 of kicking. Her boots being worn out at the toes, 
 she used the heel, and had even inserted nails in that 
 part to make a more durable impression.
 
 A PARENT'S FEELINGS 253 
 
 One of the school teachers was a young woman 
 named Martin ; by nature kind, earnest, persevering, 
 not exactly fond of her work in this roughest and 
 vilest of London schools, but resolute to do her duty, 
 and rewarded with a certain measure of success in 
 subduing those children who were by any permitted 
 method subduable. It was impossible for Miss Martin 
 to look upon Sue Snickers as a hopeful subject ; she 
 knew the girl to be corrupt, and a source of corruption ; 
 the efforts of gentleness were to Sue a mere occasion 
 of mockery, and stern treatment had just as little 
 effect upon the child's indurated feelings. Knowing 
 Sue to be a creature of hateful circumstances, the 
 teacher made every allowance for her vicious and 
 insubordinate habits. But it came to pass one day 
 that Miss Martin lost patience, and, for discipline's 
 sake, determined to make an example of Sue, who 
 had behaved outrageously. The cane was brought 
 forth, and Sue, not daring to resist, received one smart 
 cut on each hand. 
 
 1 Jist wait, that's all,' muttered Sue, when^she had 
 returned to her place, howling. 'Jist wait and^see, 
 that's all.' And, for the amusement of her neighbours, 
 she exhausted a copious vocabulary in whispered 
 abuse of Miss Martin. 
 
 Released at midday, the girl reached Boundary 
 Lane in a few minutes. 
 
 ' Mother ! Teacher 's been beatin' me fair cruel 
 -sure as I stand 'ere — with the cane ! ' She howled
 
 254 A PARENT'S FEELINGS 
 
 and writhed ' I ain't a-going to be licked by her. 
 Jist look at my 'ands, they're fair blistered.' 
 
 Mrs. Snickers had just come from the public- 
 house, where a misunderstanding with one of her 
 neighbours in the Lane had occupied her for two or 
 three hours. She was flushed, and in a state of 
 nervous tension. 
 
 ' Eh ! What ? Bcatin' my child ? You come 
 along wi' me. I'll show the .' 
 
 Hastening away, with volleys of furious and 
 filthy invective, she encountered Mrs. Dubbin, the 
 neighbour with whom she had been quarrelling. At 
 once unkindness was forgotten. 
 
 1 'Ear what my Sue says ? The teacher 's been 
 thrashin' her that cruel she can't hardly stand. I'll 
 show the .' 
 
 In Mrs. Dubbin's eyes there straightway gleamed 
 a sympathetic wrath. 
 
 Well ! Did you ever ! It's time this kind o' 
 thing was put a stop to. I'll come along, an' back 
 you up — s'elp me, I will. We'll show 'em ! Think 
 they're going' to wallop our children ? Why, if the 
 
 lays a 'and on one o' mine, I'll cut her 
 
 liver out ! ' 
 
 With a triumphant yell, Sue ran behind the two 
 women. Other children, scenting sport, turned eagerly 
 back towards the school. As Mrs. Snickers and 
 Mrs. Dubbin ran through the playground, they were 
 accompanied and guided by an uproarious throng.
 
 A PARENT'S FEELINGS 255 
 
 ' Where is she ? Let me get at her ! Where's 
 the as thrashed my child, my Sue ? ' 
 
 Miss Martin was easily discovered ; she stood in 
 one of the school-rooms, talking with another teacher. 
 ' That's her, mother ! ' shrieked Sue. ' Her with the 
 dirty red 'ead ! ' Before the teachers could under- 
 stand what was happening, Mrs. Snickers had rushed 
 forward, had seized Miss Martin by the hair, and 
 was avenging Sue with interest. ' I'll pay you, you 
 
 red-'eaded ! I'll pay you! I'll teach you to 
 
 lay your dirty 'and on a child o' mine, as has been 
 brought up better than ever you was ! ' The children, 
 led by Sue, shrieked their amusement and approval. 
 
 The second teacher had sped for help. She soon 
 returned with the headmaster of the school, a stalwart 
 man, not unused to scenes of this description. He, 
 when he had gripped the yelling fury by the arms, 
 found himself savagely attacked from the rear, his 
 assailant Mrs. Dubbin. In a minute or two the 
 blood was streaming down his cheeks ; he had no 
 choice but to fight the two women in earnest, fUncing- 
 one to the ground, and making the second reel away 
 with a back-hander on the face. When another male 
 teacher came to his assistance, they succeeded, though 
 with no little difficulty, in driving the women off the 
 premises. Poor Miss Martin had been sadly mauled ; 
 she sat on the floor, sobbing hysterically. A handful 
 of her hair lay not far off. 
 
 A day or two after, Mrs Snickers and Mrs
 
 256 A PARENT'S FEELINGS 
 
 Dubbin appeared at the police-court, where, after a 
 vigorous defence by counsel, who dwelt much upon 
 the sacredness of parental feeling, each was fined the 
 sum of five shillings and costs. In anticipation of 
 this judgment, the money had already been subscribed 
 by sympathetic parents in and about Boundary Lane. 
 And that evening, when she came home very late 
 from the public-house, Mrs. Snickers, merely to give 
 vent to her emotions, dragged Sue out of bed and 
 thrashed her unmercifully. 
 
 ' I'll pay you, my lady ! I'll teach you to get your 
 mother summonsed ! I'll '
 
 257 
 
 LORD DUN FIELD 
 
 FOR the first time in his life Lord Dunfield was 
 suffering a bitter disappointment. Things had 
 always gone very smoothly with him. As a boy— 
 when his father was merely a wealthy commoner, 
 absorbed in business and politics — he had known 
 very little restraint ; at Oxford, well supplied with 
 money, he lived pretty much as nature bade him ; 
 and in his four-and-twentieth year came the complete 
 independence which he had desired, but hardly 
 ventured to hope for. His father's death was in the 
 order of things ; that of his elder brother, following 
 in less than a twelvemonth, seemed to declare him 
 fortune's favourite. The title, the vast possessions, 
 were his ; and in the same moment his eye fell upon 
 a woman who, above all women he had ever known, 
 answered to his ideal of a wife. Miss Filkins 
 belonged to the wealthy middle-class ; she was not 
 over-educated, liked horses and dogs, and had no 
 nonsense about her ; her beauty, which was of the bar- 
 maid or burlesque-actress type, laid a spell upon the 
 young nobleman. For a month or two he imagined 
 that he had only to ask and to receive. When 
 
 s
 
 258 LORD DUNFIELD 
 
 he did ask, and the frank refusal made it clear that 
 he had no hope, Lord Dunficld suddenly saw the 
 world in a new light. His crude gaiety gave place to 
 a bilious pessimism ; his coarse good-nature corrupted 
 into brutal harshness ; the varnish of gentle breeding 
 was rubbed away, and showed the cheap, rough fibre 
 beneath. In a word, this young man became pre- 
 cisely what he would have been had he grown up in 
 low station and amid unkindly circumstances. 
 
 It was most interesting to observe the revelation 
 of natural blackguardism in one who had hitherto 
 been raised above himself by the force of social 
 example. That Lord Dunficld was born a black- 
 guard no discerning person could doubt, yet there 
 bad seemed some likelihood of his making a decent 
 show in the world's eye, especially if good luck at- 
 tended him in the matter of marriage. It might well 
 be that Miss Filkins was the woman marked for his 
 suitable helpmate. Herself of all but the coarsest 
 grain, she had thoroughly learnt the lesson of social 
 prosperity, and could be trusted, while the sun still 
 shone, never to deviate from the secure, the becoming 
 path. But her inclination was to another man, whom, 
 it was presently announced, she would marry at the 
 end of the season. Lord Dunficld had but slight 
 acquaintance with his rival, a middle-aged man of 
 fashion, given indeed to gambling, but not otherwise 
 worse than his neighbours. Cankered with jealous 
 malignity, the noble youth cast about for some
 
 LORD DUNFIELD 259 
 
 means, not of preventing the marriage, for that he 
 could not hope to do, but of instilling mutual sus- 
 picion into the minds of bride and bridegroom, so 
 that they might soon come to hate each other with 
 something more than common intensity. This would 
 supply him with a pleasant subject of contemplation, 
 and mitigate his sufferings at the time when they 
 would otherwise be most acute. 
 
 While pondering this project, he was little seen 
 in the society he had always frequented. After a 
 week or so of ferocious retirement — -during which he 
 came near to killing a groom who displeased him, 
 and only escaped legal penalties at a heavy cost 
 -Lord Dunfield sought companionship where he 
 would naturally have found it but for the accidents of 
 his name and wealth ; in a world where he was quite 
 unknown, among clerks and counter-jumpers, shop- 
 girls and music-hall women, he awakened to a new 
 sense of possible enjoyment. He had never been 
 devoted to sport ; the loss of a good deal of money 
 had already disgusted him with betting circles ; but 
 here, in the thick of obscure London, a wonderfully 
 congenial life offered him the resource he needed. 
 He was himself surprised at the facility with which 
 he made acquaintances, at the gusto with which he 
 returned each evening to quarters of the town pre- 
 viously scarce known to him by name. Rowdyism 
 in the purest form gave him keener pleasure than he 
 had ever derived from its imitation at the West End. 
 
 S 2
 
 260 LORD DUNFIELD 
 
 He liked the atmosphere of disorderly public-houses ; 
 it relieved him, as though from the burden of a life- 
 time, to yell and scuffle in back streets ; with great 
 success he threw off the phrases and accents de- 
 manded by civilisation, and used the language of his 
 associates like a native tongue. To fling coin about 
 and excite envious admiration affected him with a 
 more delightful sense of flattery than he had ever 
 known. Lord Dunfield was in his element, and 
 shone as never before. 
 
 Then came the day of Miss Filkins's marriage. 
 Having been twitted on this subject by many of his 
 old friends — to whom he had spoken of the lady with 
 premature confidence — he resolved to be present at 
 the ceremony. And not for this reason only. He 
 wished to observe the countenance of the bridegroom 
 
 —if possible, of the bride. With feminine assistance, 
 Lord Dunfield had concocted and manufactured 
 two anonymous letters : one addressed to Miss 
 Filkins, containing information with regard to her 
 future husband ; the other, for that gentleman's own 
 perusal, professing to throw light on certain points 
 of Miss Filkins's history and character. Each 
 was a masterpiece of calumny, most ingeniously 
 devised, and sure to cause temporary, if not per- 
 manent, trouble and discord. These letters were 
 posted on the eve of the wedding-day, so as to 
 exercise their effect in the morning hours preceding 
 the ceremony.
 
 LORD DUNFIELD 261 
 
 The marriage was at a small but fashionable 
 church in the Western district. Lord Dunficld, 
 naturally not having received an invitation, sought 
 one of his friends who had, and arranged to meet 
 him at the door in time to get a good seat. People 
 arrived in large numbers ; those who held cards all 
 but sufficed to fill the church. In an unsubdued 
 voice of sprightlincss, Lord Dunfield gossiped with 
 his friend. Nor was he singular in this ; a like 
 animation, the same unrestrained freedom of talk, 
 prevailed throughout the assembly. All who were 
 present by invitation represented a certain order of 
 plutocratic society. Their names were frequent in 
 the lists of fashion ; they set the tone in manners to 
 a considerable section of the less privileged public. 
 The majority being women, a high note of talk and 
 laughter resounded through the building. As time 
 went on, and when it seemed that the opening of 
 the entertainment was somewhat strangely delayed, 
 curiosity increased the polite uproar. People stood 
 up and looked about ; several men unfolded news- 
 papers ; Lord Dunfield caused great amusement by 
 offering his cigarette-case to those near him. At 
 length, nearly half an hour behind time, confused 
 noises near the entrance told that the indispensable 
 persons had arrived. Then occurred a singular 
 incident. All were seated, and only an occasional 
 laugh broke the silence, when a deep, clear voice 
 sounded from the upper end of the church.
 
 262 LORD DUNFIELD 
 
 ' I must remind the congregation that they are in 
 a place of worship, not in a theatre.' 
 
 Some one giggled ; two or three people coughed ; 
 then all were mute. Eyes exchanged glances of 
 amazement. Had clergyman ever before dared to 
 reprove the manners of such a congregation as this ? 
 
 Lord Dunficld had much ado to contain his 
 merriment. With every minute of the unexplained 
 delay his spirits had risen ; he was now jubilant, for 
 the visage of the bridegroom convinced him that his 
 plot had not failed ; any one had but to look at the 
 man to see that he was in no wedding-day mood. 
 The bride's veil undoubtedly concealed a similar 
 perturbation. Moreover, one or two of her relatives 
 wore very dark looks. Lord Dunfield forgot his 
 savage jealousy in delight at his success. 
 
 The clerical admonition secured a semblance of 
 decent behaviour throughout the ceremony. When 
 the organ struck up its notes of dismissal, there was a 
 rush for the exit. Lord Dunfield, unfavourably placed 
 for escape, after futile efforts to crush out into the 
 gangway, cried to his companion, ' Come along, Bob, 
 let's take the fences.' 
 
 And together they vaulted from seat to seat, an 
 exhibition of activity which was facetiously noticed 
 in the society journals next week.
 
 263 
 
 THE LITTLE WOMAN FROM 
 LANCASHIRE 
 
 EVERY ONE laughed at Mrs. Jephson, but only the 
 ill-conditioned laughed unkindly. For all her vanity, 
 it was impossible to dislike her : for all her astonish- 
 ing naivete, one could not help thinking of her as a 
 clever woman. She did a great many foolish things— 
 perhaps her life in London was one supreme folly ; 
 yet who could deny her social gifts, or fail to under- 
 stand the temptation which brought her into such 
 strange prominence ? She was no adventuress ; 
 any one who took the trouble could ascertain all 
 about her large income, and how she had inherited 
 it. Plainly, her one desire was to enjoy life, and to 
 see other people sharing in her pleasures. Of 
 scandal, not a word, not a breath. Her husband 
 seldom showed himself, but his absences were 
 most satisfactorily explained ; and people who had 
 seen the two together agreed that there could 
 be no shadow of doubt as to the harmony of their 
 life. 
 
 Of course, even Mrs. Jephson did not tell every- 
 thing. Probably her husband had begun life at the
 
 I LITTLE WOMAN FROM LANCASHIRE 
 
 very bottom of the ladder ; in appearance and talk 
 he still resembled the average Lancashire mill-hand. 
 Of herself, she gossiped freely ; joked about her 
 barefoot childhood in the little moorland town, and 
 min n'ckcd her early modes of speech. No one 
 needed to ask whence she came ; however skilfully 
 she had picked up the language of education, her 
 tongue at once bewrayed her. But she was never 
 heard to make fun of Mr. Jephson. His name was 
 often on her lips, and always with a phrase of affec- 
 tion, admiration, eulogy. ' My husband ' — as soon 
 as the words were uttered, one knew what would 
 come. For her, Mr. Jephson's opinion was the final 
 authority ; his wish was law. One could only sup- 
 pose that the man himself, conscious of deficiencies, 
 chose to keep in the background, satisfied so long as 
 his brilliant wife had all she wanted. It did not 
 seem at all wonderful that he should look on at her 
 social triumphs with the calmness of perfect trust. 
 Mrs. Jephson was childless, by no means ill-favoured, 
 and not yet thirty-five ; but if ever a wife could take 
 care of herself, and if ever one was resolute to walk 
 straight, it was she. 
 
 She did not flash of a sudden upon the world 
 that amuses itself. In her first London season she 
 knew very few people, and lived quietly at a first- 
 rate boarding-house. At the close of that year, after 
 foreign travel, she took a large house, and began to 
 entertain. But only the third year of her prosperity
 
 LITTLE WOMAN I- ROM LANCASHIRE 265 
 
 established her as a recognised leader in certain 
 circles of wealth and fashion ; then it was that one 
 began to read so much about her, and to hear her 
 name both above and below the sphere in which she 
 shone. Mrs. Jephson frankly declared that she had 
 now attained the summit of her wishes. She could 
 not aspire to a place among the aristocracy ; enough 
 to be received among ' nice and jolly people ' — that 
 was her phrase — and to feel that she was getting 
 ' really good value for her money.' The hearty 
 candour of her egoism forbade one to remember that 
 she had no intellectual aim, and that she seemed not 
 so much indifferent to as utterly oblivious of social 
 problems and miseries. Intensely conservative in 
 her instincts, she lived as though it were her duty 
 to support and enjoy the existing order of things. 
 Reminiscences of her own poverty appeared to in- 
 spire her with no sympathy for that of others. One 
 gathered now and then that she felt gratitude to 
 Providence for the care it had taken of her ; but, at 
 the same time, she evidently saw in her promotion 
 a striking example of the fitness of things. 
 
 Early in August, Mrs. Jephson left town. It was 
 understood that she had a great round of visits to 
 make. For a month or two, the Society journals 
 chronicled her movements ; then she disappeared, 
 and no one heard anything of her till after Christmas. 
 One day, in a London drawing-room, a lady startled 
 her friends by declaring that Mr. Jephson had filed a
 
 266 LITTLE WOMAN FROM LANCASHIRE 
 
 petition of divorce. She had it on the very best 
 authority. 
 
 'Impossible!' exclaimed another lady present. 
 ' I called yesterday. A lot of people were there. She 
 was just the same as ever.' 
 
 Incredulity was general. No less than three of 
 the company went straight to call upon Mrs. Jcphson, 
 whom they found in excellent health and spirits. 
 About a dozen persons were in the drawing-room, and 
 presently they began to form little groups, at a 
 distance from the hostess, talking earnestly in a low 
 voice. Mrs. Jephson, observant, but unconcerned, 
 beckoned a certain young matron to her side. 
 
 ' What is it ? What were you talking about ? ' 
 
 ' I ? Oh — trifles — really I forget' 
 
 ' Oh, no, you don't. What made you turn red ? 
 Tell me at once.' 
 
 There was no resisting this Northern bluntness. 
 The lady whispered, ' Some malicious person has 
 been saying that you -that Mr. Jcphson ' 
 
 Having heard the rumour, Mrs. Jephson reflected 
 for a moment. Then, glancing round, she saw that 
 many eyes were fixed upon her. Suddenly, she let a 
 teacup fall ; it shattered on the floor. 
 
 ' A way of getting your attention,' she exclaimed 
 with a laugh, as the guests turned to look. ' You're 
 all talking about the same thing, but you're all wrong. 
 I may as well let you know the truth. It's / who 
 am the petitioner in a certain case, not my husband.
 
 LITTLE WOMAN FROM LANCASHIRE 267 
 
 There, now we won't talk any more about it ; you'll 
 all know whatever there Is to be known before long.' 
 
 And not another word was said. Nor, until the 
 public were Invited to the feast of scandal, did any one 
 of Mrs. Jcphson's fashionable acquaintances learn a 
 single detail of the affair. An acute observer, much 
 interested in the little Lancashire woman, would have 
 it that she had made up her mind not to spoil the 
 effect of Divorce Court revelations ; an artist in her 
 way, she understood the advantage of stimulating- 
 curiosity by reticence. This, to be sure, was rather a 
 new reading of Mrs. Jephson's character ; but, judging 
 by subsequent events, there seems to have been some- 
 thing in it. Most likely she enjoyed the universal 
 astonishment. Seeing people as usual (except the 
 few more scrupulous who preferred to hold aloof), 
 she was unlike herself only in the one respect, that 
 she never mentioned her husband. 
 
 The case came on ; the story was told. In its 
 main features, so simple a story, that ordinary people 
 were disappointed. Last autumn, while staying at a 
 country house, Mrs. Jephson learnt that her husband 
 was unfaithful to her : he had a working-class mis- 
 tress somewhere in the North. At once she went to 
 see him ; they quarrelled violently, and Jephson re- 
 fused to make any change, save on the condition that 
 his wife should relinquish her fashionable career, and 
 live with him away from London. He brought no 
 charge against her ; merely said that her way of
 
 268 LITTLE WOMAN FROM LANCASHIRE 
 
 living was distasteful to him — an oft-repeated protest 
 on his part. In the end Mrs. Jephson yielded, and 
 for two or three weeks they dwelt together in retire- 
 ment. But it was not a success. Discord soon broke 
 out again, and rose to such a point that one night 
 Jephson beat his wife savagely. He then kept her a 
 prisoner in the little country house for several days, 
 until, alarmed by her condition, he was obliged to 
 call in a doctor. This medical man now testified 
 that Mrs. Jephson had suffered gravely ; indeed, it 
 was a wonder she had not been lamed for life. A 
 reconciliation being impossible, the husband abruptly 
 took himself off, and rejoined his mistress, with 
 whom he was still living. He did not defend the 
 case. 
 
 Well, that was all, and people felt disappointed. 
 Not so the acute observer. ' Think what a wonderful 
 little woman ! ' he remarked. ' For years she has 
 evidently subdued to her will a man of violent 
 passions, of tremendous character. Plainly she was 
 fond of him. But there came the inevitable moment ; 
 she had to choose between him and social success. 
 A year ago she would have yielded in the contest, 
 had it become acute ; in the end, ambition carried it. 
 Say, if you like, that the little woman has been 
 spoilt ; perhaps so. At all events, the thrashing was 
 too much. She welcomed the opportunity of making 
 a new start in life. Not an ungenerous little woman, 
 you can't say that she took advantage of her position ;
 
 LITTLE WOMAN FROM LANCASHIRE 269 
 
 all along, it was fair subjugation of will by will. She 
 would never have spoken disloyally of the man, or 
 have tried to get rid of him. But after the thrashing, 
 she would naturally feel " Now we are quits." 
 Probably, she won't be quite what she was ; we shall 
 see.' 
 
 Six months later, the Times contained this adver- 
 tisement : 
 
 MRS. JEPHSON begs sincerely to thank her friends for 
 sympathy, written and verbal, pending proceedings for 
 c issolution of marriage, in which she, the petitioner, obtained 
 the final decree on the 14th inst. 
 
 The acute observer laughed.
 
 270 
 
 IN NO-MANS LAND 
 
 It was in the smoking-room of a second-rate 
 commercial hotel. A rakish fellow, newly back from 
 the Colonies, began to abuse England ; he hated a 
 country where there was no free space, where every 
 inch of ground belonged to some landlord or other, 
 where you couldn't live without paying rent 
 
 ' Hold on ! ' cried Cogswell, who had done well at 
 the races, and was in merry mood ; ' there's people 
 living in England who pay no rent. Yes, living in 
 houses they don't own, and without any landlord ; 
 houses as haven't belonged to anybody for no one 
 knows how long.' 
 
 ' Go along ! ' 
 
 ' I tell you it's true. You'd like to know where, 
 wouldn't you ? Well, the place is in London. I'll 
 tell you so much, and charge nothing for the in- 
 formation.' 
 
 There was a laugh, and Cogswell, who had to 
 catch a train, went off, without saying any more. 
 During the journey to London, he was unusually 
 meditative. An odd thing, he said to himself, that 
 for all these years he had never thought of Peter's
 
 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 271 
 
 Passage. The old state of things, perhaps, no longer 
 existed ; yet possibly it did, and, in that case, wasn't 
 it worth thinking about ? How long ago ? Why, he 
 left Peter's Passage, as a lad of ten or so, in '55, and it 
 was now '75. Many changes happen in twenty 
 years. All the same, he would go down East, and 
 have a look. 
 
 Since boyhood, his rambling, haphazard life 
 had never led him to that murky corner of East 
 London. Peter's Passage lay in the mid-squalor of a 
 region of small manufactories, and was unknown even 
 to the rent-collector. Seven houses there were, 
 wretched hovels, each containing four rooms. Cogs- 
 well remembered that his father, after occupying one 
 of them for a long time, and wishing to remove, sold 
 the key of the house for two pounds to another man. 
 He well recollected his father's talk about the 
 business : how, in Peter's Passage, all the occupiers 
 lived rent-free, no one ever having heard of a land- 
 lord. Miserable enough, the life of these quasi-free- 
 holders. Old Cogswell occasionally worked at some 
 sort of factory ; now and then he was a costermongcr. 
 His children, hungry and in rags, practically supported 
 themselves from the time when they were able to 
 talk ; begging, stealing, doing jobs for neighbours, 
 selling things in the streets. To-day, only one of the 
 family survived, and he, not without reason, regarded 
 himself as a very lucky man, for he had notably risen 
 in the world, often had a pocketful of money, and not
 
 272 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 
 
 often felt shy of the police. For this Cogswell thanked 
 his own wits, and, to a certain extent, his own honest 
 effort. Had he not laboriously learnt to read and to 
 write? Had he not, long before he was twenty,, 
 known a greater variety of occupations, some of them 
 terribly hard, than most men know in a lifetime? 
 Nowadays, he could dress well and eat well, and 
 flattered himself that he looked a gentleman. At all 
 events, he had dealings with many a so-called 
 gentleman who would only be too glad to change 
 places with him. 
 
 He sought out Peter's Passage, and saw at a glance 
 that, externally, nothing had been altered. To his 
 changed eyes, it seemed a hideous hole ; though not 
 given to sentiment, he stood for a moment pitying 
 the days of his childhood. Assuming a grave im- 
 portant air, he walked the length of the passage — 
 there were houses only on one side, the blank wall of 
 a timber yard-on the other — and viewed the buildings. 
 Women in doorways regarded him curiously ; he 
 gave them a keen business-like glance. Then, taking 
 out a note-book, he made certain jottings, while a 
 group of children came together to observe him. 
 Finally, he stepped up to the door of the first house ; it 
 was open, and a woman confronted him. 
 
 ' Who is the occupier of this house ? ' 
 
 ' What's that to you ? ' 
 
 Cogswell desired to make himself agreeable, and 
 had no difficulty in doing so. Presently he was talk-
 
 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 273 
 
 ing with a cluster of people, suavely, facetiously ; 
 though no one would reply in plain terms to a plain 
 question, he learnt that, beyond doubt, Peter's Passage 
 was still occupied by mere squatters, some of whom, 
 apparently, had held their houses for a good many 
 years. All the time, he assiduously made notes in his 
 pocket-book. 
 
 'How long '-—he looked round at the dirty, 
 haggard faces — ' how long is it since you had any 
 repairs done ? ' 
 
 Repairs ? The word seemed to be unknown. 
 There was a laugh, and someone spat, as if in disgust, 
 but no voice made answer. 
 
 ' Can't you understand ? When was the houses 
 done up— paint and plaster ?' 
 
 A palsied old man uttered a squeaking laugh, 
 which the children echoed mockingly. As Cogswell 
 knew without asking, several voices informed him 
 that new paint and plaster were unheard of in 
 Peter's Passage. 
 
 ' Very well. I shall send my workmen in on 
 Monday morning, and you'll all be put straight. I 
 am the landlord. I shall either come myself or send 
 my agent one day next week, and the occupier of 
 each house will be entered on my books.' 
 
 He had played his part very skilfully, and the 
 matter-of-fact tone of these last remarks, authoritative, 
 yet not such as to give offence, made an obvious im- 
 pression. When he turned away, with a civil ' Good 
 
 T
 
 274 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 
 
 morning,' no insult was shouted. The group of 
 tatterdemalions stared after him, silent, wonder- 
 stricken. Just as he disappeared round the corner, a 
 faint ray of the April sun gleamed on his silk hat, 
 and this last glimpse of dignity helped to prolong the 
 effect produced by his speech. 
 
 Chuckling over that happy idea of the repairs, 
 and all but assured of success if he kept the game up 
 with sufficient audacity, Cogswell lost no time in 
 looking for a small builder who would serve his 
 purpose. He discovered the suitable man — in a 
 district neither too near nor too remote — and held a 
 consultation with him, merely explaining that the 
 property had just come into his hands. In due time 
 he received an estimate of costs, which, when he had 
 cut it down by half, he agreed to accept. And 
 forthwith the job was undertaken. Peter's Passage 
 underwent a tolerable cleaning and patching, of 
 course without disturbance of the tenants, who simply 
 held their tongues. When the work was nearly done, 
 Cogswell came over to inspect , and, on the same 
 occasion, he tried to obtain a list of the occupiers' 
 names ; but only in three out of the seven houses 
 was he successful. Never mind, he said to himself, 
 all in good time. It was plain that no one felt able 
 to accuse him of imposture. The rents would soon 
 recoup him for his small outlay ; then, for the future, 
 he could count upon a pleasant little sum as weekly
 
 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 275 
 
 addition to his income. It was a capital idea, and 
 well worth the trouble. 
 
 To give the thing a more formal appearance, he 
 arranged with the builder — by name, Smethurst — to 
 act as his agent in collecting rents. Smethurst, as 
 soon as the repairs were finished, delivered at each 
 house a printed notice, making demand of a certain 
 weekly rent, due immediately. As usual in this 
 locality, rents would be collected on Monday, and 
 on Monday afternoon Cogswell, full of hope, kept an 
 appointment with his agent at the latter's place of 
 business. 
 
 ' Well, Smethurst ? No trouble, had you ? ' 
 1 Trouble ? ' answered the other with a grin. 
 'No, not much trouble. But I got no money, 
 either.' 
 
 ' Eh ? They won't pay their rents ? ' 
 ' Not a blessed farden ! They say they never 
 have done, and they ain't a-goin' to begin.' 
 
 Coeswell, dark of countenance, made his way to 
 the Passage. He had much ado to refrain from evil 
 language : but, keeping up the show of matter-of- 
 fact procedure, he proclaimed at each house that 
 either rent must be paid or the premises vacated. 
 All he got in return was mocking and defiance. 
 The people did not contest his authority ; they 
 merely refused to pay, and bade him do what he 
 would. One man declared that he had occupied 
 the house and paid rates for fifteen years ; another 
 
 T 2
 
 276 IN NO-MAN'S LAND 
 
 asserted the like status for very nearly as long. Let 
 him try to turn them out ; maybe he wouldn't find it 
 so easy. 
 
 The struggle continued for some weeks — if struggle 
 it could be called, where the one side could only em- 
 ploy impotent threats, and the other remained con- 
 temptuously passive. Cogswell found he had over- 
 reached himself; there was Smethurst's bill to pay, 
 and no prospect of a penny from the ungrateful 
 tenants whose dwellings he had so generously re- 
 stored. Had it been possible, he would, of course, 
 have left the builder in the lurch ; but, in his gay 
 confidence, he had allowed Smcthurst to get too 
 sure a hold upon him ; if the man sued for his 
 money, the affair might have unpleasant conse- 
 quences. Cogswell paid, and cursed the home of his 
 childhood.
 
 277 
 
 AT HIGH PRESSURE 
 
 ' REALLY, Linda, I do think you might find time to 
 take your meals properly. The idea of wi iting letters 
 while you're eating ! ' 
 
 ' I must catch the very first post. There ! that 
 comes of fidgeting me.' 
 
 Linda had let a great ink-drop fall upon the 
 tablecloth. Mrs. Vassie cried remonstrance in a 
 louder key ; the two younger girls were indignant ; 
 and their father, scampering over the columns of his 
 newspaper in the few minutes left before he must 
 rush for the train, growled at the noise and confusion. 
 As in the great majority of families raised by paternal 
 effort and the education of children above the lower 
 middle-class degree in which they began, mild 
 domestic discord was natural to the Vassics, 
 especially at breakfast-time. Mr. Vassie declared 
 that it was the cause of his dyspepsia. They did 
 not quarrel with vulgar violence ; mother and girls 
 alike had learned to pick their phrases, and to 
 abstain from excessive forms of irritation ; but polite 
 wrangling when the family were alone, seldom
 
 278 AT HIGH PRESSURE 
 
 ceased, and, as often as not, Linda gave occasion 
 for it 
 
 This young wcman led a surprising life. Without 
 the least pretence of preparing herself for any re- 
 cognised calling — there was no need for her to do so 
 — she exhibited an activity which would have taxed 
 the constitution even of a strong man. From 
 morning to night — often, indeed, till past midnight — 
 Linda was engaged, at high pressure, in a great 
 variety of pursuits. Her correspondence alone 
 represented a day's work for an ordinary person. 
 She wrote to numberless people, public and private, 
 on all manner of subjects. Scarcely a book, maga- 
 zine, or newspaper came into her hands which did 
 not suggest a letter of inquiry, criticism, or sym- 
 pathy ; her collection of autographs was very large, 
 and she rejoiced loudly over every important ad- 
 dition to it. She attended all sorts of meetings, in 
 town and country, at an expense in railway fares 
 which often excited her father's protest. Her purely 
 social engagements were numerous, and she threw 
 herself into all the common forms of recreation with 
 no less energy than into what she called her ' work.' 
 Full of intellectual and moral self-esteem, she lacked 
 the common form of personal vanity ; dress con- 
 cerned her little, and, since a very early age, she had 
 never been known to betray sensibility to sexual 
 impressions. 
 
 Not that Miss Vassie belonged to the advanced
 
 AT HIGH PRESSURE 279 
 
 guard of emancipated women : in weighty matters of 
 opinion she was orthodox ; her views of life savoured 
 of provincialism. But for this, it would have been 
 impossible for her to remain a member of the house- 
 hold at Wcstbourne Park. The forms of religion 
 (ritualistic) she discharged as punctually and con- 
 scientiously as any other of her innumerable under- 
 takings ; they had their hours in the methodical 
 scheme which she drew up every Saturday for the 
 ensuing week ; prayers night and morning were 
 ' fitted in ' — to use her own constant phrase — with 
 admirable precision ; and a drawing-room meeting 
 on some matter which concerned the spiritual life 
 often appeared in her { time-table,' exactly wedged 
 between mundane appointments. The cause of 
 ' womanhood ' greatly concerned her, but in no 
 revolutionary sense. Herself the least domestic of 
 persons, she maintained the time-honoured theory of 
 female duties. Personally, she seemed to demand 
 nothing but liberty to keep up a state of nervous 
 tension, to speed about in cabs and trains, to read all 
 the periodicals of the day, to make endless new 
 acquaintances, and to receive a score of letters by 
 every post. 
 
 Her age was seven-and-twenty ; if anything, she 
 looked younger. After a rather sickly childhood, she 
 had grown into a thoroughly sound state of health, 
 which seemed to demand, and to profit by, astonishing 
 physical activity. Whether she exerted her mind in
 
 2S0 AT HIGH PRESSURE 
 
 a corresponding degree, or at all in proportion to the 
 show she made of mental alertness and application, 
 might reasonably be doubted. The members of her 
 family, though frank in condemnation of her self-will, 
 restlessness, and disputatious temper, never presumed 
 to question Linda's authority on all high matters ; 
 they marvelled at her learning, her mental powers. 
 She talked with fluency on most subjects current in 
 the journalism of the day. She professed, and 
 believed, herself a sound critic of every art, with 
 something of special attainment in the sphere of 
 music. She managed to ' fit in ' a good many half- 
 hours of solitary study, the subjects varying at very 
 short intervals ; one week her zeal would be for the 
 historical aspect of the Eastern Question ; the next, 
 she had resolved to learn ' everything ' about Egypt- 
 ology. As she never accused herself of desultoriness, 
 it was to be presumed that she felt satisfied with the 
 brief but vigorous efforts of her acute intelligence. 
 At all times, in whatever company, she spoke at a 
 speed which would have baffled any stenographer, and, 
 when affecting to listen, she was evidently thinking 
 of what she would say next. 
 
 Miss Vassie's delight was to make herself the 
 instructress, the spiritual guide, of young girls. 
 Whenever she could gather two or three ingenuous, 
 docile maidens, and speed about London with them 
 on a perspiring intellectual pilgrimage, her satisfaction 
 knew no bounds. It once happened that two country
 
 AT HIGH PRESSURE 281 
 
 cousins, good-humoured girls, eager to learn and to 
 enjoy, came to stay with the family at Wcstbourne 
 Park. From the first day Linda took possession of 
 them, and did not flag in her zeal for their enlighten- 
 ment until both were so seriously affected in health 
 by the life she led them that Mrs. Vassie had to 
 interfere. At the British Museum, at the National 
 Gallery, she poured forth an inexhaustible stream of 
 commonplaces and inaccuracies ; when her hapless 
 companions were all but fainting, the terrible cicerone 
 pushed on from room to room. Linda always lost 
 her disciples by mere excess of energy. Girls grew 
 afraid of her, and at length fled before the sound of 
 her voice. 
 
 She belonged to a great many societies, received 
 dozens of reports, proceedings, prospectuses, and the 
 like. Her talk at home was often unintelligible to 
 her hearers owing to her habit of mentioning 
 societies by initials instead of the full name. ' My 
 dear girls, how can I go with you when I have a 
 meeting at the S.R.T.M. ?' 'Next week I shall 
 be fearfully busy. There's the A.L.P.O., and the 
 
 S.R.D.B., and Oh! do let me make a note 
 
 of a letter I have to write to the secretary of the 
 L.O.C.E.W. ! ' These alphabetical designations rolled 
 off her tongue with astounding volubility. 
 
 Her desire to form intimacies with people of 
 name sometimes led her into an unpleasant situation. 
 Civil coldness did not discourage her, and to the
 
 282 AT HIGH PRESSURE 
 
 hints which would have rebuffed a sensitive woman 
 she was, happily, obtuse. But on one occasion 
 accident gave her something more than a hint to 
 abstain from assiduities in a certain quarter. A lady 
 with a mission, an advocate of ' womanhood,' after 
 Linda's own heart, had allowed herself to be drawn 
 into correspondence, and at length invited Miss 
 Vassie to call upon her. For some weeks Linda 
 boasted of the acquaintance. Then came a letter 
 addressed in the well-known hand, and Linda opened 
 it with eagerness. To her surprise it began, ' My 
 dear Miss Jones.' Here was a mistake. The lady 
 with a mission, no less busy than Linda herself, had 
 in her haste misdirected the envelope. But it did 
 not occur to Linda to fold the sheet without reading 
 its contents, and her curiosity had its reward. 
 
 ' My dear Miss Jones, — I should have written 
 to you yesterday, but just as I sat down I was 
 worried by a call from a most trying and wearisome 
 person, who talked and talked for more than an hour 
 about her own silly, half-educated ideas. Do beware of 
 her if she writes to you ; it is a Miss Vassie of West- 
 bourne Park — oh, a dreadful person ! She seems 
 to write to everybody. I think it a duty to warn 
 my friends, and somehow I shall have to get rid of 
 her.' 
 
 Then followed matter of no particular interest. 
 Linda, hot and trembling, presently asked herself
 
 AT HIGH PRESSURE 283 
 
 whether this was a mistake. She sent back the 
 letter without a word, and never again heard from 
 that distinguished lady — of whom, when she spoke 
 at all, she spoke with an exceeding bitterness which 
 no one could understand.
 
 284 
 
 A CONVERSION 
 
 NiNETY-ONE was Klimper's calamitous year. For 
 a time he had lived very comfortably in Belgium, 
 making a larger income than ever before, and with 
 much less exertion ; at five-and-forty he began to 
 look forward to a peaceful retirement in one of the 
 genteel English towns, such as Bath or Leamington, 
 which had always attracted him. Then, of a sudden, 
 Belgium cast him forth : he, and others like him, 
 were forbidden to practise their profession on the 
 hitherto hospitable soil. Flurried by this catastrophe, 
 Klimper made a precipitate 'deal' in booming shares, 
 the end of which was again disastrous. And just 
 upon the close of the year, when he felt himself very 
 cruelly hit, came the illness which kept him on his 
 back for months. 
 
 While in hospital, he doubtless meditated not a 
 little on the aspects of life ; probably this time of 
 suffering and forced inactivity must be taken into 
 account when one comes to the events of a year or 
 two later. But Klimper was at no time a thoughtless 
 or vulgar-minded man ; blackguard, gambler, book- 
 maker, he never typified his class. As he drew
 
 A CONVERSION 285 
 
 towards middle age a certain gravity appeared in his 
 speech, countenance, and manners — a placid, almost 
 benevolent decorum, strangely at variance with his 
 ways of making a living. Possibly the traits of some 
 very respectable ancestor slowly worked to the surface, 
 transforming him alike in body and in mind. It is 
 no uncommon thing for a man to develop in this 
 way long after the period of ordinary growth. 
 Klimper at five-and-forty had so notably changed 
 from the Klimper of ten years before that an old 
 acquaintance, suddenly coming across him, would 
 with difficulty have recognised the man. 
 
 However, when he rose from his sick-bed, he 
 evinced no anxiety to begin a reformed life. It was 
 even with a certain gusto that he returned to the turf 
 and the gaming-table. But accident put in his way 
 an opportunity of blending old experience and 
 dexterity with an honourable function not at all 
 distasteful to that side of his character which hitherto 
 had been obscured. Happening to watch a game of 
 cards at a certain proprietary club, he became aware 
 that one of the players was cheating, and doing it so 
 cleverly that no one else even suspected the fraud. 
 The club proprietor being a friend of his, Klimper 
 spoke to him in private of this matter, and was 
 thanked for his pains. More than that, it was 
 suggested to him that he should become, by secret 
 appointment, protector of fair play in his friend's 
 interest. The club had a good name ; its founder
 
 286 A CONVERSION 
 
 was resolved to keep it ' respectable ' ; and who more 
 competent than Klimper to keep an eye on suspicious 
 persons, to play discreet detective in the card-room ? 
 Terms were agreed upon, and Klimper assumed his 
 office. 
 
 He discharged it with wonderful zeal and success. 
 A score of years spent among gamblers of every 
 species, in many parts of the world, had rendered 
 him familiar with all the refinements of blackleg 
 ingenuity ; he had but to watch and to spot his man. 
 At the same time, his dignity of person, his sober 
 speech, his admirable tact in delicate situations, safe- 
 guarded him against unfavourable notice from the 
 members of the club. At this time he allowed his 
 beard to grow, and it assumed a grizzled amplitude 
 sufficient in itself to inspire respect and confidence. 
 It might well be that a sense of judicial authority, of 
 power exercised in defence of truth and honour, 
 subtly affected his whole being. He was still a 
 betting-man, but not as formerly ; his transactions 
 were performed in strict privacy, and he never spoke 
 of them. At the club, though facilities of gain con- 
 stantly appealed to him. he played very little, and 
 never exerted himself to win. Disreputable habits 
 lost their savour for him ; he found it comparatively 
 easy to live on a modest income, and grew indifferent 
 to his aims of only a year or two ago. 
 
 Naturally, he had no sinecure. Respectability and 
 gaming for coin are not very congruous characteristics
 
 A CONVERSION 287 
 
 of a proprietary club. Again and again the bland 
 detective smiled at his prescient skill when some 
 Q-entleman whom no one else would have mistrusted 
 condemned himself under that remorseless scrutiny. 
 And there was never any scandal ; a great part of 
 Klimper's office consisted in the avoidance of such 
 unpleasant necessity. He waited his occasion, perhaps 
 for a few minutes, perhaps for some days. Then the 
 gentleman whose proceedings could not be tolerated 
 found himself, he scarce knew how, in pleasant, frank- 
 colloquy, of the most private nature, with the other 
 gentleman so honourably distinguished by his grizzled 
 beard. Such conversations were never long, and 
 they always had a satisfactory issue. In general, the 
 fraudulent gambler disappeared. If another chance 
 were granted him, he very rarely abused Mr. Klimper's 
 lenience. 
 
 In one member of the club Klimper felt a strong 
 interest. This was a good-looking and gay young 
 fellow, supposed to be very well off and to have 
 excellent prospects. He played a good deal, and 
 with a proficiency which made Klimper uneasy. 
 He drank, too, and club-gossip associated his name 
 with that of a lady whose influence over him could 
 hardly be maternal. Klimper tried now and then to 
 put himself on terms of closer acquaintance with 
 this young man, but unsuccessfully. Feeling, in a 
 strange way, that his experience, his character, might 
 be invaluable as a orotection to one whom he
 
 288 A CONVERSION 
 
 instinctively liked, and who was in obvious need of 
 guidance, the ex-gambler, ex-blackguard, had no 
 choice but to keep aloof and anxiously observe the 
 course of things. Before long he knew that the case 
 professionally concerned him. Yet he did not act ; 
 for the first time he had a difficulty in deciding how 
 he should proceed. Again the young man betrayed 
 himself to the unsuspected observer, and now duty 
 called aloud. After five minutes' troubled reflection, 
 Klimper took his measures. With unusual difficulty 
 he procured a private interview. It was more 
 painful than he had foreseen, and it lasted for an 
 hour. 
 
 The evening papers of next day announced 
 that this young man had committed suicide. He 
 must have done it as soon as possible after leaving 
 the club. Klimper did not allow it to be known that 
 the poor fellow went away, for good reasons, in a 
 mood of shame and desperation ; nor did he like to 
 remember what had passed in that private room. 
 
 A few weeks later, the grave gentleman with the 
 long beard chanced to pass by a public hall where, 
 as was announced by posters at the door, someone 
 or other would that evening address young men on 
 the subject of betting. He stood a while in medita- 
 tion. When the hour came, he had returned ; he 
 sat among the audience (or congregation, for the 
 proceedings had a religious character), and listened 
 very attentively. This occasion marked the turning-
 
 A CONVERSION 289 
 
 point towards which Klimper's life had insensibly 
 been directing itself. He resigned his office at the 
 club : he abandoned for ever his old haunts, his old 
 practices. And nowadays he is well known in a 
 certain part of London (where he supports himself by a 
 monotonous pursuit) as an ardent lay preacher who is 
 never so impressive as when he denounces the vice 
 of gambling.
 
 290 
 
 A FREE WOMAN 
 
 CHARLOTTE GRUBB, little as she owed her parents, 
 learnt from them the lesson of independence. 
 Going out into the world at twelve years old, she 
 carried with her the habit of mind which views as 
 intolerable any kind of domestic restraint. From 
 the quarrelling of every married couple with whom 
 she was acquainted, Charlotte early perceived that 
 wedlock should be shunned ; her natural inclination 
 pointed to the life of celibacy and freedom ; she 
 cared not for the romance of the evening byway, 
 and she hated children. She was one of those happy 
 mortals who see the ideal straight before them, and 
 steadily pursue it. 
 
 At the tender age of seven, a domestic incident 
 made a strong impression upon her. She had an 
 elder sister, a girl of fifteen, who, in consequence of 
 an accident, underwent a long but not dangerous 
 illness. Her parents tried hard to get the invalid 
 into hospital, but without success. It was not a case 
 for hospital treatment ; the father earned sub- 
 stantial wages, and the mother, unburdened by any 
 cares but those of home, might well have tended her
 
 A FREE WOMAN 
 
 291 
 
 sick child. Mrs. Grubb railed and grumbled in- 
 cessantly, and with such effect, that the invalid, a 
 burden to herself and to every one about her, swal- 
 lowed a sufficient dose of vermin-killer. Little 
 Charlotte took the lesson to heart, and, from that 
 moment, the whole duty of woman became clear to 
 her. 
 
 Among her coevals there was a striking harmony 
 of opinion on this point. Some girls inclined to 
 matrimony ; some gave their vote against it no less 
 resolutely than Charlotte herself; but all agreed that 
 the first duty of woman was to have no duty at all. 
 To be sure, ' fellows ' were brutal ; they expected to 
 find their meals cooked and their clothes mended, 
 and all sorts of oppressive things ; but most of them 
 could be talked down, or driven to the public-house, 
 by persistent clamour. Children ? Why, yes : 
 children ivoirid come, worse luck ! But in this part 
 of London babies had a comfortable way of dying 
 pretty young, and one got money from the burial- 
 club ; and if they didn't die, well, they didn't, and all 
 one had to do was to get the eldest baby to mind 
 the younger ones. 
 
 Charlotte smiled, sure that hers was the more 
 excellent way. 
 
 As she grew older, everything she saw and read 
 
 and heard confirmed her in abhorrence of domesticity. 
 
 A sharp young woman, she needed no academic 
 
 training to become aware of the movements of the 
 
 u 2
 
 292 A FREE WOMAN 
 
 time which chiefly concerned her. It must not be 
 supposed that female emancipation, in the larger 
 sense, is discussed only among educated women ; 
 the factory, the work-room, the doss-house, have 
 heard these tidings of great joy. Charlotte Grubb 
 could talk with the best on that glorious claim of 
 woman to take her share in ' the work of the world,' 
 and by ' work ' she, of course, understood every form 
 of exertion save the domestic. Charlotte could cry 
 aloud that women were no longer to be ' put upon.' 
 Words to that effect caught her eye when she read a 
 Sunday newspaper ; the same message was an- 
 nounced at street-corners and in open places when 
 workwomen went on strike. However dark her mind, 
 this one ray of reflected light had touched upon it, 
 and served for guidance. She knew that women of 
 the higher classes were making speeches, and calling 
 for a great many more or less unintelligible things. 
 For her own part, down here at Haggerston, she 
 would not be wanting to the cause, however simple 
 her service. 
 
 When girls ' got into trouble,' she had no language 
 strong enough to utter her contempt. Serve the 
 fools right ! If they didn't know more than that — 
 gah ! They thought the ' fellow ' would look after 
 them, did they ? Where had they come from ? 
 She grew red with scornful laughter. 
 
 Once and again, very rarely, indeed, it happened 
 that some acquaintance of hers ' took a place.'
 
 A FREE WOMAN 293 
 
 Charlotte felt such amazement at this proceeding that 
 she could only turn away, staring blankly. Why, it 
 was worse than getting married ! To live, day and 
 night, at beck and call of another woman ; to have 
 your victuals measured ; to relinquish the freedom of 
 evenings ; to wear a distinctive garb — was there no 
 poison procurable, no River Thames ? 
 
 She could boast with perfect truth that, since raw- 
 girlhood, she had never lifted her hand in domestic 
 labour. She had never prepared a meal, had never 
 washed a plate, had never sewn a stitch. How did 
 she contrive this untrammelled existence? Charlotte, 
 whose eyes were very wide open, saw and marked the 
 existence of common lodging-houses, an admirable 
 institution. It went hard indeed with her if she 
 could not earn enough to pay for the night's shelter 
 and for ready-cooked meals. She had good health ; 
 at her own time, in her own way, she was quite willing 
 to work. In the ordinary course of things, her wages 
 more than sufficed for food and lodging ; there re- 
 mained a margin for the theatre, the music-hall, the 
 public-house, the frippery-shop. Should it happen 
 that times were bad, had not excellent people esta- 
 blished ' shelters ' and ' refuges,' to encourage a spirit 
 of independence among the poor and lowly ? 
 
 Life was not half bad ; London was a fine place. 
 It made her laugh when she heard people com- 
 plaining, so obviously they had no one but them- 
 selves to thank for their miseries. A man whom she
 
 294 A FREE WOMAN 
 
 admired for his boisterous humour and raffish irood 
 looks one day disappeared, deserting a wife and four 
 children ; Charlotte admired him none the less. 
 ' Well, I'm sure / can't blime him. He felt it was 
 time to make a new start.' The wife, a burl)' woman, 
 straightway threw herself and her children on the 
 parish. Charlotte approved, on the whole, yet con- 
 fessed that she would have preferred to let the parish 
 take care of the children, and quietly go off to ' make 
 a new start ' on her own account. 
 
 One winter she had an attack of bronchitis ; 
 medical help became necessary. Near at hand was 
 a ' dispensary,' where advice and physic might be 
 obtained for a few pence ; but, as a matter of 
 principle, Charlotte spent her coppers in getting to 
 the hospital, where she had nothing to pay. The 
 attack — owing, of course, to ignorance, or neglect of 
 the simplest precautions— took a serious form ; she 
 grew frightened. Luckier than her sister long ago, 
 she found a hospital which received her as in- 
 patient, and there spent a very enjoyable Christmas. 
 Kind people sent all manner of seasonable presents 
 for distribution among the sick. Charlotte, just con- 
 valescent, lived on exquisite fruit and other dainties 
 suitable to her condition. She read the Christmas 
 Numbers and a novel or two, and made some de- 
 lightful acquaintances. To enhance her appreciation 
 of all this, a poor, silly relative of hers, who was
 
 A FREE WOMAN 295 
 
 struggling hard to support an illegitimate child, came 
 one visitors' day to sec her. 
 
 ' My golly ! ' cried the simpleton ; ' ain't you com- 
 fortable ! ' 
 
 The child in her arms stretched hungrily towards 
 a piece of orange. 
 
 ' Let him have it,' said Charlotte, with a broad 
 grin of benevolence ; ' lots more where that come 
 from.' 
 
 The mother herself was hungry, but she said 
 nothing about this, and, strange thing, it seemed to 
 give her pleasure when the little one made sounds of 
 satisfaction.
 
 296 
 
 A SON OF THE SOIL 
 
 Having duly scamped his day's work, Jonas Clay 
 left the turnip field and plodded homewards. Plodded, 
 because this was the mode of progression to which he 
 was born and bred ; had his movements answered to 
 his thoughts, he would have walked with some show 
 of briskness. For there was stirring in his mind a 
 new and hopeful idea, a vividly practical suggestion 
 such as seldom relieved the monotony of this young 
 man's discontent. He wanted a little money, a pound 
 or two, and in a happy moment, as he lay digesting 
 his noontide bacon, the way and the means became 
 clear to him. Why should he pay his mother for 
 board and lodging when a steady refusal to do so for 
 the next three or four weeks would put him in 
 possession of the sum he needed ? It was wonderfully 
 simple. His mother, a soft sort of woman, would not 
 turn him out of doors, and somehow would manage 
 to feed him. Why had he not thought of it before ? 
 
 In his pocket Jonas had a letter from his friend 
 Bill Saggers, who last winter left the village to ' better ' 
 himself. Bill was now a Londoner, working in a cab- 
 yard, and thoroughly enjoying his ample leisure. He
 
 A SON OF THE SOIL 297 
 
 wrote, not at great length, nor very legibly, but in a 
 strain which doubtless inspired Jonas with his great 
 idea. Half the letter dealt with details not suitable 
 for publication, and over this portion Jonas lingered 
 with many guffaws. Altogether, it was a stirring 
 summons. It bade the rustic shake the mud off his 
 heels, turn his back for ever on the unprintable- 
 country, and enter into the joys of London. 
 
 This had been Jonas Clay's ambition ever since he 
 left school. At school he had learnt — well, what had 
 he learnt ? In the main, to spell out police news and 
 to scrawl obscene words. His education, in the real 
 sense, he owed to a powerful but unacknowledged in- 
 structor, the Spirit of the Age. Hence his discontent 
 with everything about him, his thorough dishonesty, 
 his blurred, gaslight vision of a remote world. Certain 
 well-meaning persons had given him 'religious teach- 
 ing,' that is to say, had laboriously brought him to 
 the repetition of phrases he did not understand, to 
 which he attached no particular significance whatever. 
 He could not name the flowers by the wayside ; no 
 one had ever thought of teaching him that. He did 
 not know — he did not hear — the bird that sang to 
 him at his work ; no one had ever spoken to him of 
 such trifles. He was aware, by consequences, that 
 the sun rose and set ; but never had he consciously 
 looked at its setting or its rising ; for all that Jonas 
 thought about it, the sky might have lowered in a 
 perpetual leadenness. He had no conception of
 
 298 A SON OF THE SOIL 
 
 geography — save that somewhere vaguely to the cast 
 la)- a huge town called London. Of the men who had 
 lived and wrought before him in this fruitful English 
 county he knew no more than of the Assyrians. 
 Field and farmyard, hedgerow and highway, were 
 hateful in his eyes, to be described only by a foul 
 epithet. Old enough to do a man's work, he had 
 nothing of a man's pride in it ; no sense of a man's 
 duties and lawful claims ; no impulse of manhood 
 save the fleshly. 
 
 Tenacious of his purpose, Jonas, when next he 
 received his wages, hid the money away. He made 
 no declaration of independence ; instead of refusing to 
 pay his mother as usual he merely put her off with 
 absurd excuses. Of course, there was wrangling in 
 the cottage, but Jonas had sound nerves. Presently 
 when his slow wit contrived the subterfuge, he gave 
 out that he had been incurring debts, and that he 
 would get into trouble if he did not pay them off. 
 For a second and a third week he sat stolid under his 
 mother's wrath and menaces. Then he could wait no 
 longer. It seemed to him that he had amassed a 
 fortune. Early one morning he unearthed his savings, 
 stealthily put together a small bundle, and, instead of 
 going to work, made for the nearest railway station. 
 
 In London, he with difficulty gaped his way to 
 the address with which he had been supplied by Bill 
 Saggers. Bill, as it happened, was taking a holiday, 
 and many hours passed before his friend met with
 
 A SON OF THE SOIL 299 
 
 him. After pacing a street and sitting on door- 
 steps, until he suffered more from fatigue than ever 
 in his life, Jonas beheld a young man whose appear- 
 ance confounded him ; his fellow-yokel of old time 
 had changed amazingly in face and in costume — 
 nay, even in language ; Jonas could hardly under- 
 stand many of his phrases, and some of his words 
 not at all. 
 
 It was eleven at night. They went together to a 
 public-house, and while drinking at his friend's 
 expense Bill bestowed upon the new-comer a great 
 deal of advice and instruction. First of all, Jonas 
 must provide himself with the garb of civilization, 
 not, of course, superior garments such as Bill was at 
 present wearing, but something altogether different 
 from rustic attire : at a slop-shop in the neighbour- 
 hood a few shillings would rig him out. And work ? 
 Oh, yes ! no doubt work could be found easily 
 enough by inquiring at the mews and such places. 
 But never mind about work just yet. Bill felt in the 
 mind to take another day off; to-morrow he would 
 show his friend about. 
 
 ' How did you get the coin ? ' he inquired genially. 
 ' No coppers after you ? ' 
 
 When the suggestion was explained to him, Jonas 
 indignantly protested his innocence. Bill felt a doubt, 
 but laughed the matter aside. 
 
 That night the countryman paid fourpence for his 
 bed at a common lodging-house, and as soon as
 
 3 oo A SON OF THE SOIL 
 
 possible next morning he exchanged his earth-soiled 
 garb for a suit which made him feel very proud of 
 himself; it looked almost as good as new. Bill 
 Saggers, true to his word, turned up in festive spirit, 
 and they devoted the day to sight-seeing. Jonas 
 made the acquaintance of so many gorgeous public- 
 houses that he had soon lost count of them, and 
 before dusk the marvels of London seemed to him to 
 be floating and circling on a tide of mixed beverages. 
 Somehow he quarrelled with Bill Saggers, and 
 fought him. Somehow, later, he made love to a 
 joyous being in a hat with an immense blue feather. 
 At bedtime he had no money left, but that did not 
 matter ; the lordly London police took Jonas into 
 their care, and provided him with shelter. On the 
 morrow, though he declared that he was dying, his 
 protectors obliged him to make a public appearance, 
 but only for a few minutes. Then Jonas was again 
 established in a lodging — where he abode very quietly 
 for seven days. 
 
 His courage a trifle damped, but with no thought 
 whatever of leaving the brilliant city, Jonas Clay again 
 sought his friend, and, after a day or two of starvation, 
 he obtained a rough job, which supported him for 
 several weeks. Then came an episode in his story 
 on which it is not good to dwell. Sufficient that he 
 fell into bad health, and, from that, into worse. 
 Now working, now starving, he suffered several 
 months of base torment, which ended, at length, in a
 
 A SON OF THE SOIL 301 
 
 hospital. When he came forth again his constitution 
 was wrecked. But, by this time, he knew London, 
 and had not much difficulty in finding employment. 
 Nothing would have induced him to return to rural 
 life ; the smell of the pavement was very sweet in 
 his nostrils, and he loathed the memory of the fields. 
 Just think — so he often said — of what he had learnt 
 since he came to London ! 
 
 Jonas was not marked for a career of crime. One 
 experience had given him a wholesome dread of the 
 police, and though at all times he would have lived 
 dishonestly had it come easily within his scope, he 
 felt no inclination to consort with criminals or study 
 their profession. Enough that for every penny he 
 could earn London offered an unmatched penny- 
 worth of enjoyment. In course of time, and again, 
 perhaps, as result of experience, his emotions grew 
 susceptible of the calmer, tenderer delights ; Jonas 
 awoke to the charm of London's sweet domestic 
 maidenhood, and from among the shining multitude 
 he chose unto himself a suitable companion. The 
 courtship lasted for three years, and in the meantime 
 he improved his position, until an income of five-and- 
 twenty shillings a-week seemed to him and to his 
 beloved the augury of legitimate happiness. 
 
 Just before his marriage Jonas wrote to the 
 mother he had so long forgotten. The letter began, 
 ' How goes it, old woman ?-' In a few days it was
 
 302 A SON OF THE SOIL 
 
 returned to him, marked by the Post Office, ' Dead.' 
 Jonas was so much surprised that he laughed. 
 
 Five years of marriage made him the father of 
 three children, miserable, puny creatures, burdened 
 with an unutterable curse. But neither on this part 
 of the story is it pleasant to dwell.
 
 503 
 
 OUT OF THE FASHION 
 
 ' How shall I tell her ? ' the man said to himself, on 
 his way homeward. ' How the devil shall I tell her ? ' 
 
 He reached his home at Tufnell Park, entered as 
 usual, and found the customary quietude, the familiar 
 atmosphere of well-being, of security, of order. 
 There would be guests at dinner this evening ; he 
 must keep up his countenance till he and Mary were 
 alone and the house hushed. 
 
 Mary met him at the head of the stairs ; her 
 wonted smile, her silence that was all-sufficient. He 
 asked after the baby, and received a word or two of 
 satisfactory information. Then Mary smiled again, 
 and passed on to dress for dinner. 
 
 It was a pleasant evening, and such as they often 
 enjoyed. Only two friends, people of their own 
 standing, well-to-do, but unpretentious. Mary's music, 
 always a great resource ; her husband's thoroughly 
 good-natured, far from brilliant, talk. No niggardli- 
 ness, no display. Mary knew how to manage these 
 things. Then they were alone, and the night before 
 them. 
 
 ' Mary, there's bad news. I may as well out with
 
 304 OUT OF THE FASHION 
 
 it at once ; but it's the hardest job I ever had in my 
 life.' 
 
 No exclamation. She stood, with nerves strung, 
 and looked steadily at him. Assuredly it was not a 
 pleasant thing to make known. Appointed, a year 
 and a half ago, manager of a department in a great 
 house of business, Claxton had fallen short of the 
 expectations of the firm. The appointment, to 
 begin with, had surprised as much as it delighted 
 him ; he knew that he owed it to personal favour ; 
 the head of the firm, an amiable old gentleman, 
 friendly to him since his childhood, had given him 
 this great chance. And, for a time, not unnaturally, 
 Claxton seemed to rise to the demands upon him. 
 He was an exultant man ; the advancement had 
 enabled him to marry ; great happiness lifted him 
 above himself. But his old patron very soon died, 
 and Claxton became aware that the new order 
 of things was not quite favourable to him. Month 
 after month he had struggled hard, allowing no one 
 to suspect his mortifications and his fears. Now the 
 blow had fallen. He was under notice to resign his 
 position, and— what would become of him ? 
 
 He told it in a few shamefaced words, the mere 
 humiliating truth ; to his wife he could not do other- 
 wise. And Mary drew a sigh of relief. 
 
 ' Oh, I thought, from your face, it was something 
 dreadful ! ' 
 
 ' And don't you think it so?'
 
 OUT OF THE FASHION 305 
 
 ' It's very hard for you, dear.' 
 
 There was silence. Then they talked things over 
 as quietly as usual. And for many days the con- 
 versation was resumed, always cheerfully on Mary's 
 part, until at length a resolve had been taken. 
 
 The Claxtons left London, and began a new life 
 in a Northern town. Mar}- had now a much smaller 
 house, and much more to do in it. Her second child 
 was born Happily, she had not been brought up in 
 the world of limitless leisure ; she was not very 
 highly educated, though native intelligence made her 
 seem superior in that respect to her husband ; when 
 it became necessary to lay aside books and music, 
 and to do much of the work which servants had 
 hitherto done for her, the spirit was willing and the 
 flesh did not fail. Her smile lost nothing of its 
 sweet loyalty ; her words — weighed as women's 
 seldom arc — had all the old, quiet cheerfulness. 
 
 Then Claxton received at the hands of destiny 
 his second chance. He was enabled, and encouraged 
 by Mary, to begin business on his own account. He 
 looked up once more, recovered the note of hopeful- 
 ness. When a third child was born to him, he felt 
 justified in removing to a better house. And Mary's 
 music presently sounded again. 
 
 But in secret he could not trust himself, and, as 
 time went on, he had more and more reason for the 
 heavy countenance, the long, dark broodings, which 
 he carefully concealed from his wife. Upon fear 
 
 x
 
 3 o6 OUT OF THE FASHION 
 
 followed rashness ; then came the second, the more 
 grievous, downfall. 
 
 Again in a strange place, and in poorer circum- 
 stances than she had ever known, Mary shed about 
 her the light of home. She had now to battle for 
 her children's future. The father might do his best 
 to earn their livelihood ; upon the mother lay a more 
 difficult duty. Hers to guard them from the de- 
 grading effects of manifest poverty : to foster, by 
 ceaseless thought and imaginative effort, the self- 
 respect of the little ones : to hold their minds above 
 the slough of base necessity : to supply from the 
 riches of her own heart so much that the world 
 denied. The help of one servant — often enough 
 hindrance rather than help -was all she could now 
 afford. Her strength failed not, but it was more 
 severely tried than her husband ever imagined. No 
 merry holidays ; no social relaxation ; once a year, 
 at most, the brief change of air without which her 
 children could hardly live. Work of the hardest, the 
 most exhausting to mind and body, from early 
 morning till the hour when her husband came home. 
 But evening was sacred. Mary knew that man 
 cannot live by bread alone ; not hers to brutalise the 
 bread-winner by denying him his hour of mental 
 rest. She could not play to him — there was no 
 piano ; but sometimes she sang, keeping her voice 
 very low and soft, that the sleeping children might 
 not be disturbed.
 
 OUT OF THE FASHION 307 
 
 She bore another child, but it only breathed 
 and passed away. Then Mary lay in the valley 
 of the deep shadow, and for many days her hus- 
 band was chill with fear. Once, opening the Bible 
 as he sat by her bedside — but only for his own 
 comfort as Mary could not hear — he came by 
 chance upon the last chapter of Proverbs and saw 
 the words : 
 
 ' She will do him good and not evil all the days 
 of her life.' 
 
 Then the man's strength was broken, and his 
 head fell, and he choked with sobs. 
 
 It passed. Mary again moved about the house, 
 shedding the light of home. Again she taught her 
 children and toiled for them, and did not lack her 
 reward. Slowly Claxton's position was once more 
 improving ; he had no brilliant prospects, but, as the 
 years went by, things needful came to him in larger 
 measure. The children could attend a good school, 
 and the eldest of them, a boy, could presently be put 
 in the way of a not too humble life. The lad knew 
 whom he should thank for advantages far greater 
 than fall to the lot of many rich men's sons. 
 
 ' Now, don't trouble about me any more, mother,' 
 he said, not long after. ' If I ever give you a day's 
 anxiety that I can help -well, just look straight 
 at me, and I shall know what to think of myself 
 
 She sits there, with thin face, with silent-smiling
 
 3o8 OUT OF THE FASHION 
 
 lips, type of a vanishing virtue. Wife, housewife, 
 mother — shaken by the harsh years, but strong and 
 peaceful in her perfect womanhood. An old- 
 fashioned figure, out of harmony with the day that 
 rules, and to our so modern eyes perhaps the oddest 
 of the whole scries of human odds and ends. 
 
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