
    

                             George Robert Gissing

                                The Nether World

                                    A Novel

                                   Chapter I

                              A Thrall of Thralls

In the troubled twilight of a March evening ten years ago, an old man, whose
equipment and bearing suggested that he was fresh from travel, walked slowly
across Clerkenwell Green, and by the graveyard of St. James's Church stood for a
moment looking about him. His age could not be far from seventy, but, despite
the stoop of his shoulders, he gave little sign of failing under the burden of
years; his sober step indicated gravity of character rather than bodily
feebleness, and his grasp of a stout stick was not such as bespeaks need of
support. His attire was neither that of a man of leisure, nor of the kind
usually worn by English mechanics. Instead of coat and waistcoat, he wore a
garment something like a fisherman's guernsey, and over this a coarse short
cloak, picturesque in appearance as it was buffeted by the wind. His trousers
were of moleskin; his boots reached almost to his knees; for head-covering he
had the cheapest kind of undyed felt, its form exactly that of the old petasus.
To say that his aspect was venerable would serve to present him in a measure,
yet would not be wholly accurate, for there was too much of past struggle and
present anxiety in his countenance to permit full expression of the natural
dignity of the features. It was a fine face and might have been distinctly
noble, but circumstances had marred the purpose of Nature; you perceived that
his cares had too often been of the kind which are created by ignoble
necessities, such as leave to most men of his standing a bare humanity of
visage. He had long thin white hair; his beard was short and merely grizzled. In
his left hand he carried a bundle, which probably contained clothing.
    The burial-ground by which he had paused was as little restful to the eye as
are most of those discoverable in the byways of London. The small trees that
grew about it shivered in their leaflessness; the rank grass was wan under the
failing day; most of the stones leaned this way or that, emblems of neglect
(they were very white at the top, and darkened downwards till the damp soil made
them black), and certain cats and dogs were prowling or sporting among the
graves. At this corner the east wind blew with malice such as it never puts
forth save where there are poorly clad people to be pierced; it swept before it
thin clouds of unsavoury dust, mingled with the light refuse of the streets.
Above the shapeless houses night was signalling a murky approach; the sky - if
sky it could be called - gave threatening of sleet, perchance of snow. And on
every side was the rumble of traffic, the voiceful evidence of toil and of
poverty; hawkers were crying their goods; the inevitable organ was clanging
before a public-house hard by; the crumpet-man was hastening along, with
monotonous ringing of his bell and hoarse rhythmic wail.
    The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a
gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings seemed
to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward along the narrow
street which is called St. James's Walk. In a few minutes he had reached the end
of it, and found himself facing a high grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point,
was an arched gateway closed with black doors. He looked at the gateway, then
fixed his gaze on something that stood just above - something which the dusk
half concealed, and by so doing made more impressive. It was the sculptured
counterfeit of a human face, that of a man distraught with agony. The eyes
stared wildly from their sockets, the hair struggled in maniac disorder, the
forehead was wrung with torture, the cheeks sunken, the throat fearsomely
wasted, and from the wide lips there seemed to be issuing a horrible cry. Above
this hideous effigy was carved the legend: MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF DETENTION.
    Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and
pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes had a stern
resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly stopped where a
woman was standing at an open door.
    »I ask your pardon,« he said, addressing her with the courtesy which owes
nothing to refined intercourse, »but do you by chance know anyone of the name of
Snowdon hereabouts?«
    The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the appearance of the
questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked about for someone to share her
amusement.
    »Better inquire at the 'ouse at the corner,« she added, as the man was
moving away. »They've been here a long time, I b'lieve.«
    He accepted her advice. But the people at the public-house could not aid his
search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes down, then again
sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering gloom.
    Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of refreshment a
little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she carried a jug, and at the
bar asked for a pint of old six. The barman, whilst drawing the ale, called out
to a man who had entered immediately after the child:
    »Don't know nobody called Snowdon about 'ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?«
    The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly at odds
with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which, in phonetic rendering
may perhaps be spelt Nay-oo.
    But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other; what had
been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She forgot all about the
beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief but obvious struggle with
timidity, said in an uncertain voice:
    »Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?«
    »Yes, they have,« the barman answered, in surprise. »Why?«
    »My name's Snowdon, sir - Jane Snowdon.«
    She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to the
impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of semi-interest, and
Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery) eyes upon her. Neither would
have admitted an active interest in so pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a
little mortal. Her hair hung loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no
particular colour, and seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the
wind, on her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were of
some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently
of the scantiest description. The freely exposed neck was very thin, but, like
the outline of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body than of the
present pinch of sheer hunger. She did not, indeed, look like one of those
children who are born in disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon the
pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features
that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it the light of
an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the children of the street.
The blush and the way in which she hung her head were likewise tokens of a
nature endowed with ample sensitiveness.
    »Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?« said the barman. »Well, you're just
three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's a fortune a-runnin'
after you. He was a rum old party as inquired. Never mind; it's all in a life.
There's fortunes lost every week by a good deal less than three minutes when
it's 'orses - eh, Mr. Squibbs?«
    Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.
    The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.
    »Hollo!« cried the barman. »Where's the money, Jane? - if you don't mind.«
    She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the counter.
Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a house in Clerkenwell
Close, near at hand.
    »Father live there?«
    She shook her head.
    »Mother?«
    »I haven't got one, sir.«
    »Who is it as you live with, then?«
    »Mrs. Peckover, sir.«
    »Well, as I was saying', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the name of
Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round.«
    And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the girl
listened closely. Then she went thoughtfully - a little sadly - on her way.
    In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances onwards
and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with white hair was
discoverable. Linger she might not. She reached a house of which the front-door
stood open; it looked black and cavernous within; but she advanced with the step
of familiarity, and went downstairs to a front-kitchen. Through the half-open
door came a strong odour and a hissing sound, plainly due to the frying of
sausages. Before Jane could enter she was greeted sharply in a voice which was
young and that of a female, but had no other quality of graciousness.
    »You've taken your time, my lady! All right! just wait till I've 'ad my tea,
that's all! Me an' you'll settle accounts to-night, see if we don't. Mother told
me as she owed you a lickin', and I'll pay it off, with a little on my own
account too. Only wait till I've 'ad my tea, that's all. What are you standin'
there for, like a fool? Bring that beer 'ere, an' let's see 'ow much you've
drank.«
    »I haven't put my lips near it, miss; indeed I haven't,« pleaded the child,
whose face of dread proved both natural timidity and the constant apprehension
of ill-usage.
    »Little liar! that's what you always was, an' always will be. - Take that!«
    The speaker was a girl of sixteen, tall, rather bony, rudely handsome; the
hand with which she struck was large and coarse-fibred, the muscles that
impelled it vigorous. Her dress was that of a work-girl, unsubstantial,
ill-fitting, but of ambitious cut; her hair was very abundant, and rose upon the
back of her head in thick coils, an elegant fringe depending in front. The fire
had made her face scarlet, and in the lamplight her large eyes glistened with
many joys.
    First and foremost, Miss Clementina Peckover rejoiced because she had left
work much earlier than usual, and was about to enjoy what she would have
described as a blow out. Secondly, she rejoiced because her mother, the landlady
of the house, was absent for the night, and consequently she would exercise sole
authority over the domestic slave, Jane Snowdon - that is to say, would indulge
to the uttermost her instincts of cruelty in tormenting a defenceless creature.
Finally - a cause of happiness antecedent to the others, but less vivid in her
mind at this moment - in the next room lay awaiting burial the corpse of Mrs.
Peckover's mother-in-law, whose death six days ago had plunged mother and
daughter into profound delight, partly because they were relieved at length from
making a pretence of humanity to a bed-ridden old woman, partly owing to the
fact that the deceased had left behind her a sum of seventy-five pounds,
exclusive of moneys due from a burial-club.
    »Ah!« exclaimed Miss Peckover (who was affectionately known to her intimates
as Clem), as she watched Jane stagger back from the blow, and hide her face in
silent endurance of pain. »That's just a morsel to stay your appetite, my lady!
You didn't expect me back 'ome at this time, did you? You thought as you was
goin' to have the kitchen to yourself when mother went. Ha ha! ho ho! - These
sausages is done; now you clean that fryin'-pan; and if I can find a speck of
dirt in it as big as 'arlf a farden, I'll take you by the 'air of the 'ed an'
clean it with your face, that's what I'll do! Understand? Oh, I mean what I say,
my lady! Me an' you's a-goin' to spend a evenin' together, there's no two ways
about that. Ho ho! he he!«
    The frankness of Clem's brutality went far towards redeeming her character.
The exquisite satisfaction with which she viewed Jane's present misery, the
broad joviality with which she gloated over the prospect of cruelties shortly to
be inflicted, put her at once on a par with the noble savage running wild in
woods. Civilisation could bring no charge against this young woman; it and she
had no common criterion. Who knows but this lust of hers for sanguinary
domination was the natural enough issue of the brutalising serfdom of her
predecessors in the family line of the Peckovers? A thrall suddenly endowed with
authority will assuredly make bitter work for the luckless creature in the next
degree of thraldom.
    A cloth was already spread across one end of the deal table, with such other
preparations for a meal as Clem deemed adequate. The sausages - five in number -
she had emptied from the frying-pan directly on to her plate, and with them all
the black rich juice that had exuded in the process of cooking - particularly
rich, owing to its having several times caught fire and blazed triumphantly. On
sitting down and squaring her comely frame to work, the first thing Clem did was
to take a long draught out of the beer-jug; refreshed thus, she poured the
remaining liquor into a glass. Ready at hand was mustard, made in a tea-cup;
having taken a certain quantity of this condiment on to her knife, she proceeded
to spread each sausage with it from end to end, patting them in a friendly way
as she finished the operation. Next she sprinkled them with pepper, and after
that she constructed a little pile of salt on the side of the plate, using her
fingers to convey it from the salt-cellar. It remained to cut a thick slice of
bread - she held the loaf pressed to her bosom whilst doing this - and to crush
it down well into the black grease beside the sausages; then Clem was ready to
begin.
    For five minutes she fed heartily, showing really remarkable skill in
conveying pieces of sausage to her mouth by means of the knife alone. Finding it
necessary to breathe at last, she looked round at Jane. The hand-maiden was on
her knees near the fire, scrubbing very hard at the pan with successive pieces
of newspaper. It was a sight to increase the gusto of Clem's meal, but of a
sudden there came into the girl's mind a yet more delightful thought. I have
mentioned that in the back-kitchen lay the body of a dead woman; it was already
encoffined, and waited for interment on the morrow, when Mrs. Peckover would
arrive with a certain female relative from St. Albans. Now the proximity of this
corpse was a ceaseless occasion of dread and misery to Jane Snowdon; the poor
child had each night to make up a bed for herself in this front-room, dragging
together a little heap of rags when mother and daughter were gone up to their
chamber, and since the old woman's death it was much if Jane had enjoyed one
hour of unbroken sleep. She endeavoured to hide these feelings, but Clem, with
her Red Indian scent, divined them accurately enough. She hit upon a good idea.
    »Go into the next room,« she commanded suddenly, »and fetch the matches off
of the mantel-piece. I shall want to go upstairs presently, to see if you've
scrubbed the bed-room well.«
    Jane was blanched; but she rose from her knees at once, and reached a
candlestick from above the fireplace.
    »What's that for?« shouted Clem, with her mouth full. »You've no need of a
light to find the mantel-piece. If you're not off -«
    Jane hastened from the kitchen. Clem yelled to her to close the door, and
she had no choice but to obey. In the dark passage outside there was darkness
that might be felt. The child all but fainted with the sickness of horror as she
turned the handle of the other door and began to grope her way. She knew exactly
where the coffin was; she knew that to avoid touching it in the diminutive room
was all but impossible. And touch it she did. Her anguish uttered itself, not in
a mere sound of terror, but in a broken word or two of a prayer she knew by
heart, including a name which sounded like a charm against evil. She had reached
the mantel-piece; oh, she could not, could not find the matches! Yes, at last
her hand closed on them. A blind rush, and she was out again in the passage. She
re-entered the front-kitchen with limbs that quivered, with the sound of
dreadful voices ringing about her, and blankness before her eyes.
    Clem laughed heartily, then finished her beer in a long, enjoyable pull. Her
appetite was satisfied; the last trace of oleaginous matter had disappeared from
her plate, and now she toyed with little pieces of bread lightly dipped into the
mustard-pot. These bonnes bouches put her into excellent humour; presently she
crossed her arms and leaned back. There was no denying that Clem was handsome;
at sixteen she had all her charms in apparent maturity, and they were of the
coarsely magnificent order. Her forehead was low and of great width; her nose
was well shapen, and had large sensual apertures; her cruel lips may be seen on
certain fine antique busts; the neck that supported her heavy head was
splendidly rounded. In laughing, she became a model for an artist, an embodiment
of fierce life independent of morality. Her health was probably less sound than
it seemed to be; one would have compared her, not to some piece of exuberant
normal vegetation, but rather to a rank, evilly-fostered growth. The putrid soil
of that nether world yields other forms besides the obviously blighted and
sapless.
    »Have you done any work for Mrs. Hewett to-day?« she asked of her victim,
after sufficiently savouring the spectacle of terror.
    »Yes, miss; I did the front-room fireplace, an' fetched fourteen of coals,
an' washed out a few things.«
    »What did she give you?«
    »A penny, miss. I gave it to Mrs. Peckover before she went.«
    »Oh, you did? Well, look 'ere; you'll just remember in future that all you
get from the lodgers belongs to me, an' not to mother. It's a new arrangement,
understand. An' if you dare to give up a 'apenny to mother, I'll lick you till
you're nothing' but a bag o' bones. Understand?«
    Having on the spur of the moment devised this ingenious difficulty for the
child, who was sure to suffer in many ways from such a conflict of authorities,
Clem began to consider how she should spend her evening. After all, Jane was too
poor-spirited a victim to afford long entertainment. Clem would have liked
dealing with some one who showed fight - some one with whom she could try savage
issue in real tooth-and-claw conflict. She had in mind a really exquisite piece
of cruelty, but it was a joy necessarily postponed to a late hour of the night.
In the meantime, it would perhaps be as well to take a stroll, with a view of
meeting a few friends as they came away from the work-rooms. She was pondering
the invention of some long and hard task to be executed by Jane in her absence,
when a knocking at the house-door made itself heard. Clem at once went up to see
who the visitor was.
    A woman in a long cloak and a showy bonnet stood on the step, protecting
herself with an umbrella from the bitter sleet which the wind was now driving
through the darkness. She said that she wished to see Mrs. Hewett.
    »Second-floor front,« replied Clem in the offhand, impertinent tone
wherewith she always signified to strangers her position in the house.
    The visitor regarded her with a look of lofty contempt, and, having
deliberately closed her umbrella, advanced towards the stairs. Clem drew into
the back regions for a few moments, but as soon as she heard the closing of a
door in the upper part of the house, she too ascended, going on tip-toe, with a
noiselessness which indicated another side of her character. Having reached the
room which the visitor had entered, she brought her ear close to the keyhole,
and remained in that attitude for a long time - nearly twenty minutes, in fact.
Her sudden and swift return to the foot of the stairs was followed by the
descent of the woman in the showy bonnet.
    »Miss Peckover!« cried the latter when she had reached the foot of the
stairs.
    »Well, what is it?« asked Clem, seeming to come up from the kitchen.
    »Will you 'ave the goodness to go an' speak to Mrs. Hewett for a hinstant?«
said the woman, with much affectation of refined speech.
    »All right! I will just now, if I've time.«
    The visitor tossed her head and departed, whereupon Clem at once ran
upstairs. In five minutes she was back in the kitchen.
    »See 'ere,« she addressed Jane. »You know where Mr. Kirkwood works in St.
John's Square? You've been before now. Well, you're to go an' wait at the door
till he comes out, and then you're to tell him to come to Mrs. Hewett at wunst.
Understand? - Why ain't these tea-things all cleared away? All right! Wait till
you come back, that's all. Now be off, before I skin you alive!«
    On the floor in a corner of the kitchen lay something that had once been a
girl's hat. This Jane at once snatched up and put on her head. Without other
covering, she ran forth upon her errand.
 

                                   Chapter II

                              A Friend in Request

It was the hour of the unyoking of men. In the highways and byways of
Clerkenwell there was a thronging of released toilers, of young and old, of male
and female. Forth they streamed from factories and workrooms, anxious to make
the most of the few hours during which they might live for themselves. Great
numbers were still bent over their labour, and would be for hours to come, but
the majority had leave to wend stablewards. Along the main thoroughfares the
wheel-track was clangorous; every omnibus that clattered by was heavily laden
with passengers; tarpaulins gleamed over the knees of those who sat outside.
This way and that the lights were blurred into a misty radiance; overhead was
mere blackness, whence descended the lashing rain. There was a ceaseless
scattering of mud; there were blocks in the traffic, attended with rough jest or
angry curse; there was jostling on the crowded pavement. Public-houses began to
brighten up, to bestir themselves for the evening's business. Streets that had
been hives of activity since early morning were being abandoned to silence and
darkness and the sweeping wind.
    At noon to-day there was sunlight on the Surrey hills; the fields and lanes
were fragrant with the first breath of spring, and from the shelter of budding
copses many a primrose looked tremblingly up to the vision of blue sky. But of
these things Clerkenwell takes no count; here it had been a day like any other,
consisting of so many hours, each representing a fraction of the weekly wage. Go
where you may in Clerkenwell, on every hand are multiform evidences of toil,
intolerable as a nightmare. It is not as in those parts of London where the main
thoroughfares consist of shops and warehouses and workrooms, whilst the streets
that are hidden away on either hand are devoted in the main to dwellings. Here
every alley is thronged with small industries; all but every door and window
exhibits the advertisement of a craft that is carried on within. Here you may
see how men have multiplied toil for toil's sake, have wrought to devise work
superfluous, have worn their lives away in imagining new forms of weariness. The
energy, the ingenuity daily put forth in these grimy burrows task the brain's
power of wondering. But that those who sit here through the livelong day,
through every season, through all the years of the life that is granted them,
who strain their eyesight, who overtax their muscles, who nurse disease in their
frames, who put resolutely from them the thought of what existence might be -
that these do it all without prospect or hope of reward save the permission to
eat and sleep and bring into the world other creatures to strive with them for
bread, surely that thought is yet more marvellous.
    Workers in metal, workers in glass and in enamel, workers in wood, workers
in every substance on earth, or from the waters under the earth, that can be
made commercially valuable. In Clerkenwell the demand is not so much for rude
strength as for the cunning fingers and the contriving brain. The inscriptions
on the house-fronts would make you believe that you were in a region of gold and
silver and precious stones. In the recesses of dim byways, where sunshine and
free air are forgotten things, where families herd together in dear-rented
garrets and cellars, craftsmen are for ever handling jewellery, shaping bright
ornaments for the necks and arms of such as are born to the joy of life. Wealth
inestimable is ever flowing through these workshops, and the hands that have
been stained with gold-dust may, as likely as not, some day extend themselves in
petition for a crust. In this house, as the announcement tells you, business is
carried on by a trader in diamonds, and next door is a den full of children who
wait for their day's one meal until their mother has come home with her chance
earnings. A strange enough region wherein to wander and muse. Inextinguishable
laughter were perchance the fittest result of such musing; yet somehow the heart
grows heavy, somehow the blood is troubled in its course, and the pulses begin
to throb hotly.
    Amid the crowds of workpeople, Jane Snowdon made what speed she might. It
was her custom, whenever dispatched on an errand, to run till she could run no
longer, then to hasten along panting until breath and strength were recovered.
When it was either of the Peckovers who sent her, she knew that reprimand was
inevitable on her return, be she ever so speedy; but her nature was incapable
alike of rebellion and of that sullen callousness which would have come to the
aid of most girls in her position. She did not serve her tyrants with
willingness, for their brutality filled her with a sense of injustice; yet the
fact that she was utterly dependent upon them for her livelihood, that but for
their grace - as they were perpetually reminding her - she would have been a
workhouse child, had a mitigating effect upon the bitterness she could not
wholly subdue.
    There was, however, another reason why she sped eagerly on her present
mission. The man to whom she was conveying Mrs. Hewett's message was one of the
very few persons who had ever treated her with human kindness. She had known him
by name and by sight for some years, and since her mother's death (she was
eleven when that happened) he had by degrees grown to represent all that she
understood by the word friend. It was seldom that words were exchanged between
them; the opportunity came scarcely oftener than once a month; but whenever it
did come, it made a bright moment in her existence. Once before she had fetched
him of an evening to see Mrs. Hewett, and as they walked together he had spoken
with what seemed to her wonderful gentleness, with consideration inconceivable
from a tall, bearded man, well-dressed, and well to do in the world. Perhaps he
would speak in the same way to-night; the thought of it made her regardless of
the cold rain that was drenching her miserable garment, of the wind that now and
then, as she turned a corner, took away her breath, and made her cease from
running.
    She reached St. John's Square, and paused at length by a door on which was
the inscription: H. Lewis, Working Jeweller. It was just possible that the men
had already left; she waited for several minutes with anxious mind. No; the door
opened, and two workmen came forth. Jane's eagerness impelled her to address one
of them.
    »Please, sir, Mr. Kirkwood hasn't gone yet, has he?«
    »No, he ain't,« the man answered pleasantly; and turning back, he called to
some one within the doorway; »Hollo, Sidney! here's your sweetheart waiting for
you.«
    Jane shrank aside; but in a moment she saw a familiar figure; she advanced
again, and eagerly delivered her message.
    »All right, Jane! I'll walk on with you,« was the reply. And whilst the
other two men were laughing good-naturedly, Kirkwood strode away by the girl's
side. He seemed to be absent-minded, and for some hundred yards' distance was
silent; then he stopped of a sudden and looked down at his companion.
    »Why, Jane,« he said, »you'll get your death, running about in weather like
this.« He touched her dress. »I thought so; you're wet through.«
    There followed an inarticulate growl, and immediately he stripped off his
short overcoat.
    »Here, put this on, right over your head. Do as I tell you, child!«
    He seemed impatient to-night. Wasn't he going to talk with her as before?
Jane felt her heart sinking. With her hunger for kind and gentle words, she
thought nothing of the character of the night, and that Sidney Kirkwood might
reasonably be anxious to get over the ground as quickly as possible.
    »How is Mrs. Hewett?« Sidney asked, when they were walking on again. »Still
poorly, eh? And the baby?«
    Then he was again mute. Jane had something she wished to say to him - wished
very much indeed, yet she felt it would have been difficult even if he had
encouraged her. As he kept silence and walked so quickly, speech on her part was
utterly forbidden. Kirkwood, however, suddenly remembered that his strides were
disproportionate to the child's steps. She was an odd figure thus disguised in
his over-jacket; he caught a glimpse of her face by a street lamp, and smiled,
bat with a mixture of pain.
    »Feel a bit warmer so?« he asked.
    »Oh yes, sir.«
    »Haven't you got a jacket, Jane?«
    »It's all to pieces, sir. They're goin' to have it mended, I think.«
    They was the word by which alone Jane ventured to indicate her aunt.
    »Going to, eh? I think they'd better be quick about it.«
    Ha! that was the old tone of kindness! How it entered into her blood and
warmed it! She allowed herself one quick glance at him.
    »Do I walk too quick for you?«
    »Oh no, sir. Mr. Kirkwood, please, there's something I -«
    The sentence had, as it were, begun itself, but timidity cut it short.
Sidney stopped and looked at her.
    »What? Something you wanted to tell me, Jane?«
    He encouraged her, and at length she made her disclosure. It was of what had
happened in the public-house. The young man listened with much attention,
walking very slowly. He got her to repeat her second-hand description of the old
man who had been inquiring for people named Snowdon.
    »To think that you should have been just too late!« he exclaimed with
annoyance. »Have you any idea who he was?«
    »I can't think, sir,« Jane replied sadly.
    Sidney took a hopeful tone - thought it very likely that the inquirer would
pursue his search with success, being so near the house where Jane's parents had
lived,
    »I'll keep my eyes open,« he said. »Perhaps I might see him. He'd be easy to
recognise, I should think.«
    »And would you tell him, sir?« Jane asked eagerly.
    »Why, of course I would. You'd like me to, wouldn't you?«
    Jane's reply left small doubt on that score. Her companion looked down at
her again, and said with compassionate gentleness:
    »Keep a good heart, Jane. Things'll be better some day, no doubt.«
    »Do you think so, sir?«
    The significance of the simple words was beyond all that eloquence could
have conveyed. Sidney muttered to himself, as he had done before, like one who
is angry. He laid his hand on the child's shoulder for a moment.
    A few minutes more, and they were passing along by the prison wall, under
the ghastly head, now happily concealed by darkness. Jane stopped a little short
of the house and removed the coat that had so effectually sheltered her.
    »Thank you, sir,« she said, returning it to Sidney.
    He took it without speaking, and threw it over his arm. At the door, now
closed, Jane gave a single knock; they were admitted by Clem, who, in regarding
Kirkwood, wore her haughtiest demeanour. This young man had never paid homage of
any kind to Miss Peckover, and such neglect was by no means what she was used
to. Other men who came to the house took every opportunity of paying her broad
compliments, and some went so far as to offer practical testimony of their
admiration. Sidney merely had a »How do you do, miss?« at her service. Coquetry
had failed to soften him; Clem accordingly behaved as if he had given her mortal
offence on some recent occasion. She took care, moreover, to fling a few fierce
words at Jane before the latter disappeared into the house. Thereupon Sidney
looked at her sternly; he said nothing, knowing that interference would only
result in harsher treatment for the poor little slave.
    »You know your way upstairs, I b'lieve,« said Clem, as if he were all but a
stranger.
    »Thank you, I do,« was Sidney's reply.
    Indeed he had climbed these stairs innumerable times during the last three
years; the musty smells were associated with ever so many bygone thoughts and
states of feeling; the stains on the wall (had it been daylight), the
irregularities of the bare wooden steps, were remembrancers of projects and
hopes and disappointments. For many months now every visit had been with heavier
heart; his tap at the Hewetts' door had a melancholy sound to him.
    A woman's voice bade him enter. He stepped into a room which was not
disorderly or unclean, but presented the chill discomfort of poverty. The
principal, almost the only, articles of furniture were a large bed, a washhand
stand, a kitchen table, and two or three chairs, of which the cane seats were
bulged and torn. A few meaningless pictures hung here and there, and on the
mantel-piece, which sloped forward somewhat, stood some paltry ornaments,
secured in their places by a piece of string stretched in front of them. The
living occupants were four children and their mother. Two little girls, six and
seven years old respectively, were on the floor near the fire; a boy of four was
playing with pieces of firewood at the table. The remaining child was an infant,
born but a fortnight ago, lying at its mother's breast. Mrs. Hewett sat on the
bed, and bent forward in an attitude of physical weakness. Her age was
twenty-seven, but she looked several years older. At nineteen she had married;
her husband, John Hewett, having two children by a previous union. Her face
could never have been very attractive, but it was good-natured, and wore its
pleasantest aspect as she smiled on Sidney's entrance. You would have classed
her at once with those feeble-willed, weak-minded, yet kindly-disposed women,
who are only too ready to meet affliction half-way, and who, if circumstances be
calamitous, are more harmful than an enemy to those they hold dear. She was
rather wrapped up than dressed, and her hair, thin and pale-coloured, was tied
in a ragged knot. She wore slippers, the upper parts of which still adhered to
the soles only by miracle. It looked very much as if the same relation subsisted
between her frame and the life that informed it, for there was no blood in her
cheeks, no lustre in her eye. The baby at her bosom moaned in the act of
sucking; one knew not how the poor woman could supply sustenance to another
being.
    The children were not dirty nor uncared for, but their clothing hung very
loosely upon them; their flesh was unhealthy, their voices had an unnatural
sound.
    Sidney stepped up to the bed and gave his hand.
    »I'm so glad you've come before Clara,« said Mrs. Hewett. »I hoped you
would. But she can't be long, an' I want to speak to you first. It's a bad
night, isn't it? Yes, I feel it in my throat, and it goes right through my chest
- just 'ere, look! And I haven't slep' not a hour a night this last week; it
makes me feel that low. I want to get to the Orspital, if I can, in a day or
two.«
    »But doesn't't the doctor come still?« asked Sidney, drawing a chair near to
her.
    »Well, I didn't think it was right to go on payin' him, an' that's the
truth. I'll go to the Orspital, an' they'll give me something'. I look bad, don't
I, Sidney?«
    »You look as if you'd no business to be out of bed,« returned the young man
in a grumbling voice.
    »Oh, I can't lie still, so it's no use talking'! But see, I want to speak
about Clara. That woman Mrs. Tubbs has been here to see me, talking' an' talking'.
She says she'll give Clara five shillin' a week, as well as board an' lodge her.
I don't know what to do about it, that I don't. Clara, she's that set on goin',
an' her father's that set against it. It seems as if it 'ud be a good thing,
don't it, Sidney? I know you don't want her to go, but what's to be done? What
is to be done?«
    Her wailing voice caused the baby to wail likewise. Kirkwood looked about
the room with face set in anxious discontent.
    »Is it no use, Mrs. Hewett?« he exclaimed suddenly, turning to her. »Does
she mean it? Won't she ever listen to me?«
    The woman shook her head miserably; her eyes filled with tears.
    »I've done all I could,« she replied, half sobbing. »I have; you know I
have, Sidney! She's that 'eadstrong, it seems as if she wouldn't listen to
nobody - at least nobody as we knows anything about.«
    »What do you mean by that?« he inquired abruptly. »Do you think there's any
one else?«
    »How can I tell? I've got no reason for thinking' it, but how can I tell? No,
I believe it's nothing' but her self-will an' the fancies she's got into her
'ead. Both her an' Bob, there's no doing' nothing' with them. Bob, he's that
wasteful with his money; an' now he talks about goin' an' getting' a room in
another 'ouse, when he might just as well make all the saving' he can. But no,
that ain't his idea, nor yet his sister's. I suppose it's their mother as they
take after, though their father he won't own to it, an' I don't blame him for
not speakin' ill of her as is gone. I should be that wretched if I thought my
own was goin' to turn out the same. But there's John, he ain't a wasteful man;
no one can't say it of him. He's got his fancies, but they've never made him
selfish to others, as well you know, Sidney. He's been the best 'husband to me as
ever a poor woman had, an' I'll say it with my last breath.«
    She cried pitifully for a few moments. Sidney, mastering his own
wretchedness, which he could not altogether conceal, made attempts to strengthen
her.
    »When things are at the worst they begin to mend,« he said. »It can't be
much longer before he gets work. And look here, Mrs. Hewett, I won't hear a word
against it; you must and shall let me lend you something to go on with!«
    »I dursn't, I dursn't, Sidney! John won't have it. He's always a-saying:
Once begin that, an' it's all up; you never earn no more of your own. It's one
of his fancies, an' you know it is. You'll only make trouble, Sidney.«
    »Well, all I can say is, he's an unreasonable and selfish man!«
    »No, no; John ain't selfish! Never say that! It's only his fancies, Sidney.«
    »Well, there's one trouble you'd better get rid of, at all events. Let Clara
go to Mrs. Tubbs. You'll never have any peace till she does, I can see that. Why
shouldn't she go, after all? She's seventeen; if she can't respect herself now,
she never will, and there's no help for it. Tell John to let her go.«
    There was bitterness in the tone with which he gave this advice; he threw
out his hands impatiently, and then flung himself back, so that the cranky chair
creaked and tottered.
    »An' if 'arm comes to her, what then?« returned Mrs. Hewett plaintively. »We
know well enough why Mrs. Tubbs wants her; it's only because she's good-looking',
an' she'll bring more people to the bar. John knows that, an' it makes him wild.
Mind what I'm telling' you, Sidney; if any 'arm comes to that girl, her father'll
go out of his 'ead. I know he will! I know be will! He worships the ground as
she walks on, an' if it hadn't been for that, she'd never have given him the
trouble as she is doing'. It 'ud a been better for her if she'd had a father like
mine, as was a hard, careless man. I don't wish to say no 'arm of him as is dead
an' buried, an' my own father too, but he was a hard father to us, an' as long
as he lived we dursn't say not a word as he didn't like. He'd a killed me if I'd
gone on like Clara. It was a good thing as he was gone, before -«
    »Don't, don't speak of that,« interposed Kirkwood, with kindly firmness.
»That's long since over and done with and forgotten.«
    »No, no; not forgotten. Clara knows, an' that's partly why she makes so
little of me; I know it is.«
    »I don't believe it! She's a good-hearted girl -«
    A heavy footstep on the stairs checked him. The door was thrown open, and
there entered a youth of nineteen, clad as an artisan. He was a shapely fellow,
though not quite so stout as perfect health would have made him, and had a face
of singular attractiveness, clear-complexioned, delicate featured, a-gleam with
intelligence. The intelligence was perhaps even too pronounced; seen in profile,
the countenance had an excessive eagerness; there was selfish force about the
lips, moreover, which would have been better away. His noisy entrance indicated
an impulsive character, and the nod with which he greeted Kirkwood was
self-sufficient.
    »Where's that medal I cast last night, mother?« he asked, searching in
various corners of the room and throwing things about.
    »Now, do mind what you're up to, Bob!« remonstrated Mrs. Hewett. »You'll
find it on the mantel in the other room. Don't make such a noise.«
    The young man rushed forth, and in a moment returned. In his hand, which was
very black, and shone as if from the manipulation of metals, he held a small
bright medal. He showed it to Sidney, saying, »What d'you think o' that?«
    The work was delicate and of clever design; it represented a racehorse at
full speed, a jockey rising in the stirrups and beating it with orthodox
brutality.
    »That's Tally-ho at the Epsom Spring Meetin',« he said. »I've got money on
him!«
    And, with another indifferent nod, he flung out of the room.
    Before Mrs. Hewett and Kirkwood could renew their conversation, there was
another step at the door, and the father of the family presented himself.
 

                                  Chapter III

                              A Superfluous Family

Kirkwood's face, as he turned to greet the new-comer, changed suddenly to an
expression of surprise.
    »Why, what have you been doing to your hair?« he asked abruptly.
    A stranger would have seen nothing remarkable in John Hewett's hair, unless
he had reflected that, being so sparse, it had preserved its dark hue and its
gloss somewhat unusually. The short beard and whiskers were also of richer
colour than comported with the rest of the man's appearance. Judging from his
features alone, one would have taken John for sixty at least; his years were in
truth not quite two-and-fifty. He had the look of one worn out with anxiety and
hardship; the lines engraven upon his face were of extraordinary depth and
frequency; there seemed to be little flesh between the dry skin and the bones
which sharply outlined his visage. The lips were, like those of his son,
prominent and nervous, but none of Bob's shrewdness was here discoverable;
feeling rather than intellect appeared to be the father's characteristic. His
eyes expressed self-will, perhaps obstinacy, and he had a peculiarly dogged
manner of holding his head. At the present moment he was suffering from extreme
fatigue; he let himself sink upon a chair, threw his hat on to the floor, and
rested a hand on each knee. His boots were thickly covered with mud; his
corduroy trousers were splashed with the same. Rain had drenched him; it
trickled to the floor from all his garments.
    For answer to Sidney's question, he nodded towards his wife, and said in a
thick voice, »Ask her.«
    »He's dyed it,« Mrs. Hewett explained, with no smile. »He thought one of the
reasons why he couldn't get work was his looking' too old.«
    »An' so it was,« exclaimed Hewett, with an angry vehemence which at once
declared his position and revealed much of his history. »So it was! My hair was
a bit turned, an' nowadays there's no chance for old men. Ask any one you like.
Why, there's Sam Lang couldn't even get a job at gardenin' 'cause his hair was a
bit turned. It was him as told me what to do. Dye your hair, Jack, he says; it's
what I've had to myself, he says. They won't have old men nowadays, at no price.
Why, there's Jarvey the painter; you know him, Sidney. His guvnor sent him on a
job to Jones's place, an' they sent him back. Why, he's an old man, they says.
What good's a man of that age for liftin' ladders about? An' Jarvey's no older
than me.«
    Sidney knitted his brows. He had heard the complaint from too many men to be
able to dispute its justice.
    »When there's twice too many of us for the work that's to be done,« pursued
John, »what else can you expect? The old uns have to give way, of course. Let
'em beg; let 'em starve! What use are they?«
    Mrs. Hewett had put a kettle on the fire, and began to arrange the table for
a meal.
    »Go an' get your wet things off, John,« she said. »You'll be having' your
rheumatics again.«
    »Never mind me, Maggie. What business have you to be up an' about? You need
a good deal more taken' care of than I do. Here, let Amy get the tea.«
    The three children, Amy, Annie, and Tom, had come forward, as only children
do who are wont to be treated affectionately on their father's return. John had
a kiss and a caress for each of them; then he stepped to the bed and looked at
his latest born. The baby was moaning feebly; he spoke no word to it, and on
turning away glanced about the room absently. In the meantime his wife had taken
some clothing from a chest of drawers, and at length he was persuaded to go into
the other room and change. When he returned, the meal was ready. It consisted of
a scrap of cold steak, left over from yesterday, and still upon the original
dish amid congealed fat; a spongy half- loaf, that species of baker's bread of
which a great quantity can be consumed with small effect on the appetite; a
shapeless piece of something purchased under the name of butter, dabbed into a
shallow basin; some pickled cabbage in a tea-cup; and, lastly, a pot of tea,
made by adding a teaspoonful or two to the saturated leaves which had already
served at breakfast and mid-day. This repast was laid on a very dirty cloth. The
cups were unmatched and chipped, the knives were in all stages of decrepitude;
the teapot was of dirty tin, with a damaged spout.
    Sidney began to affect cheerfulness. He took little Annie on one of his
knees, and Tom on the other. The mature Amy presided. Hewett ate the morsel of
meat, evidently without thinking about it; he crumbled a piece of bread, and
munched mouthfuls in silence. Of the vapid liquor called tea he drank cup after
cup.
    »What's the time?« he asked at length. »Where's Clara? «
    »I daresay she's doing' overtime,« replied his wife. »She won't be much
longer.«
    The man was incapable of remaining in one spot for more than a few minutes.
Now he went to look at the baby; now he stirred the fire; now he walked across
the room aimlessly. He was the embodiment of worry. As soon as the meal was
over, Amy, Annie, and Tom were sent off to bed. They occupied the second room,
together with Clara; Bob shared the bed of a fellow-workman upstairs. This was
great extravagance, obviously; other people would have made two rooms sufficient
for all, and many such families would have put up with one. But Hewett had his
ideas of decency, and stuck to them with characteristic wilfulness.
    »Where do you think I've been this afternoon?« John began, when the three
little ones were gone, and Mrs. Hewett had been persuaded to lie down upon the
bed. »Walked to Enfield an' back. I was told of a job out there; but it's no
good; they're full up. They say exercise is good for the 'ealth. I shall be a
'ealthy man before long, it seems to me. What do you think?«
    »Have you been to see Corder again?« asked Sidney, after reflecting
anxiously.
    »No, I haven't!« was the angry reply; »an' what's more, I ain't goin' to!
He's one o' them men I can't get on with. As long as you make yourself small
before him, an' say sir to him with every other word, an' keep telling' him as
he's your Providence on earth, an' as you don't know how ever you'd get on
without him - well, it's all square, an' he'll keep you on the job. That's just
what I can't do - never could, an' never shall. I should have to hear them
children cryin' for food before I could do it. So don't speak to me about Corder
again. It makes me wild!«
    Sidney tapped the floor with his foot. Himself a single man, without
responsibilities, always in fairly good work, he could not invariably sympathise
with Hewett's sore and impracticable pride. His own temper did not err in the
direction of meekness, but as he looked round the room he felt that a home such
as this would drive him to any degree of humiliation. John knew what the young
man's thoughts were; he resumed in a voice of exasperated bitterness.
    »No, I haven't been to Corder - I beg his pardon; Mister Corder - James
Corder, Esquire. But where do you think I went this mornin'? Mrs. Peckover
brought up a paper an' showed me an advertisement. Gorbutt in Goswell Road
wanted a man to clean windows an' sweep up, an' so on; - offered fifteen bob a
week. Well, I went. Didn't I, mother? Didn't I go after that job? I got there at
half-past eight; an' what do you think I found? If there was one man standin' at
Gorbutt's door, there was five hundred! Don't you believe me? You go an' ask
them as lives about there. If there was one, there was five hundred! Why, the
p'lice had to come an' keep the road clear. Fifteen bob! What was the use o' me
standin' there, outside the crowd? What was the use, I say? Such a lot o' poor
starvin' devils you never saw brought together in all your life. There they was,
looking' ready to fight with one another for the fifteen bob a week. Didn't I
come back and tell you about it, mother? An' if they'd all felt like me, they'd
a turned against the shop an' smashed it up - ay, an' every other shop in the
street! What use? Why, no use; but I tell you that's how I felt. If any man had
said as much as a rough word to me, I'd a gone at him like a bulldog. I felt
like a beast. I wanted to fight, I tell you - to fight till the life was kicked
an' throttled out of me!«
    »John, don't, don't go on in that way,« cried his wife, sobbing miserably.
»Don't let him go on like that, Sidney.« Hewett jumped up and walked about.
    »What's the time?« he asked the next moment. And when Sidney told him that
it was half-past nine, he exclaimed, »Then why hasn't Clara come 'ome? What's
gone with her?«
    »Perhaps she's at Mrs. Tubbs's,« replied his wife, in a low voice, looking
at Kirkwood.
    »An' what call has she to be there? Who gave her leave to go there?«
    There was another exchange of looks between Sidney and Mrs. Hewett; then the
latter with hesitation and timidity told of Mrs. Tubbs's visit to her that
evening, and of the proposals the woman had made.
    »I won't hear of it!« cried John. »I won't have my girl go for a barmaid, so
there's an end of it. I tell you she shan't go!«
    »I can understand you, Mr. Hewett,« said Sidney, in a tone of argument
softened by deference; »but don't you think you'd better make a few inquiries,
at all events? You see, it isn't exactly a barmaid's place. I mean to say, Mrs.
Tubbs doesn't't keep a public-house where people stand about drinking all day. It
is only a luncheon-bar, and respectable enough.«
    John turned and regarded him with astonishment.
    »Why, I thought you was as much set against it as me? What's made you come
round like this? I s'pose you've got tired of her, an' that's made you so you
don't care.«
    The young man's eyes flashed angrily, but before he could make a rejoinder
Mrs. Hewett interposed.
    »For shame o' yourself, John! If you can't talk better sense than that,
don't talk at all. He don't mean it, Sidney. He's half drove off his head with
trouble.«
    »If he does think it,« said Kirkwood, speaking sternly but with
self-command, »let him say what he likes. He can't say worse than I should
deserve.«
    There was an instant of silence. Hewett's head hung with more than the usual
doggedness. Then he addressed Sidney, sullenly, but in a tone which admitted his
error.
    »What have you got to say? Never mind me. I'm only the girl's father, an'
there's not much heed paid to fathers nowadays. What have you got to say about
Clara? If you've changed your mind about her goin' there, just tell me why.«
    Sidney could not bring himself to speak at once, but an appealing look from
Mrs. Hewett decided him.
    »Look here, Mr. Hewett,« he began, with blunt earnestness.
    »If any harm came to Clara I should feel it every bit as much as you, and
that you ought to know by this time. All the same, what I've got to say is this:
Let her go to Mrs. Tubbs for a month's trial. If you persist in refusing her,
mark my words, you'll be sorry. I've thought it all over, and I know what I'm
talking about. The girl can't put up with the workroom any longer. It's ruining
her health, for one thing, anybody can see that, and it's making her so
discontented, she'll soon get reckless. I understand your feeling well enough,
but I understand her as well; at all events, I believe I do. She wants a change;
she's getting tired of her very life.«
    »Very well,« cried the father in shrill irritation, »why doesn't't she take
the change that's offered to her? She's no need to go neither to workroom nor to
bar. There's a good home waiting for her, isn't there? What's come to the girl?
She used to go on as if she liked you well enough.«
    »A girl alters a deal between fifteen and seventeen,« Sidney replied,
forcing himself to speak with an air of calmness, of impartiality. »She wasn't't
old enough to know her own mind. I'm tired of plaguing her. I feel ashamed to
say another word to her, and that's the truth. She only gets more and more set
against me. If it's ever to come right, it'll have to be by waiting; we won't
talk about that any more. Think of her quite apart from me, and what I've been
hoping. She's seventeen years old. You can't deal with a girl of that age like
you can with Amy and Annie. You'll have to trust her, Mr. Hewett. You'll have
to, because there's no help for it. We're working people, we are; we're the
lower orders; our girls have to go out and get their livings. We teach them the
best we can, and the devil knows they've got examples enough of misery and ruin
before their eyes to help them to keep straight. Rich people can take care of
their daughters as much as they like; they can treat them like children till
they're married; people of our kind can't do that, and it has to be faced.«
    John sat with dark brow, his eyes staring on vacancy.
    »It's right what Sidney says, father,« put in Mrs. Hewett; »we can't help
it.«
    »You may perhaps have done harm when you meant only to do good,« pursued
Sidney. »Always being so anxious, and showing what account you make of her,
perhaps you've led her to think a little too much of herself. She knows other
fathers don't go on in that way. And now she wants more freedom, she feels it
worse than other girls do when you begin to deny her. Talk to her in a different
way; talk as if you trusted her. Depend upon it, it's the only hold you have
upon her. Don't be so much afraid. Clara has her faults - I see them as well as
any one - but I'll never believe she'd darken your life of her own free will.«
    There was an unevenness, a jerky vehemence, in his voice, which told how
difficult it was for him to take this side in argument. He often hesitated,
obviously seeking phrases which should do least injury to the father's feelings.
The expression of pain on his forehead and about his lips testified to the
sincerity with which he urged his views, at the same time to a lurking fear lest
impulse should be misleading him. Hewett kept silence, in aspect as far as ever
from yielding. Of a sudden he raised his hand, and said, »Husht!« There was a
familiar step on the stairs. Then the door opened and admitted Clara.
    The girl could not but be aware that the conversation she interrupted had
reference to herself. Her father gazed fixedly at her; Sidney glanced towards
her with self-consciousness, and at once averted his eyes; Mrs. Hewett examined
her with apprehension. Having carelessly closed the door with a push, she placed
her umbrella in the corner and began to unbutton her gloves. Her attitude was
one of affected unconcern; she held her head stiffly, and let her eyes wander to
the farther end of the room. The expression of her face was cold, preoccupied;
she bit her lower lip so that the under part of it protruded.
    »Where have you been, Clara?« her father asked.
    She did not answer immediately, but finished drawing off her gloves and
rolled them up by turning one over the other.
    Then she said indifferently:
    »I've been to see Mrs. Tubbs.«
    »And who gave you leave?« asked Hewett with irritation.
    »I don't see that I needed any leave. I knew she was coming here to speak to
you or mother, so I went, after work, to ask what you'd said.«
    She was not above the middle stature of women, but her slimness and
erectness, and the kind of costume she wore, made her seem tall as she stood in
this low-ceiled room. Her features were of very uncommon type, at once sensually
attractive and bearing the stamp of intellectual vigour. The profile was cold,
subtle, original; in full face, her high cheekbones and the heavy, almost
horizontal line of her eyebrows were the points that first drew attention,
conveying an idea of force of character. The eyes themselves were
hazel-coloured, and, whatever her mood, preserved a singular pathos of
expression, a look as of self-pity, of unconscious appeal against some
injustice. In contrast with this her lips were defiant, insolent, unscrupulous;
a shadow of the naïveté of childhood still lingered upon them, but, though you
divined the earlier pout of the spoilt girl, you felt that it must have foretold
this danger-signal in the mature woman. Such cast of countenance could belong
only to one who intensified in her personality an inheritance of revolt; who,
combining the temper of an ambitious woman with the forces of a man's brain, had
early learnt that the world was not her friend nor the world's law.
    Her clothing made but poor protection against the rigours of a London
winter. Its peculiarity (bearing in mind her position) was the lack of any
pretended elegance. A close-fitting, short jacket of plain cloth made evident
the grace of her bust; beneath was a brown dress with one row of kilting. She
wore a hat of brown felt, the crown rising from back to front, the narrow brim
closely turned up all round. The high collar of the jacket alone sheltered her
neck. Her gloves, though worn, were obviously of good kid; her boots - strangest
thing of all in a work-girl's daily attire - were both strong and shapely. This
simplicity seemed a declaration that she could not afford genuine luxuries and
scorned to deck herself with shams.
    The manner of her reply inflamed Hewett with impotent wrath. He smote the
table violently, then sprang up and flung his chair aside.
    »Is that the way you've learnt to speak to your father?« he shouted.
»Haven't I told you you're not to go nowhere without my leave or your mother's?
Do you pay no heed to what I bid you? If so, say it! Say it at once, and have
done with it.«
    Clara was quietly removing her hat. In doing so, she disclosed the one thing
which gave proof of regard for personal appearance. Her hair was elaborately
dressed. Drawn up from the neck, it was disposed in thick plaits upon the top of
her head; in front were a few rows of crisping. She affected to be quite unaware
that words had been spoken to her, and stood smoothing each side of her
forehead.
    John strode forward and laid his hands roughly upon her shoulders.
    »Look at me, will you? Speak, will you?«
    Clara jerked herself from his grasp and regarded him with insolent surprise.
Of fear there was no trace upon her countenance; she seemed to experience only
astonishment at such unwonted behaviour from her father, and resentment on her
own behalf. Sidney Kirkwood had risen, and advanced a step or two, as if in
apprehension of harm to the girl, but his interference was unneeded. Hewett
recovered his self- as soon as Clara repelled him. It was the first time he had
ever laid a hand upon one of his children other than gently; his exasperation
came of over-tried nerves, of the experiences he had gone through in search of
work that day, and the keen suffering occasioned by his argument with Sidney.
The practical confirmation of Sidney's warning that he must no longer hope to
control Clara like a child stung him too poignantly; he obeyed an unreasoning
impulse to recover his authority by force.
    The girl's look entered his heart like a stab; she had never faced him like
this before, saying more plainly than with words that she defied him to control
her. His child's face, the face he loved best of all! yet at this moment he was
searching it vainly for the lineaments that were familiar to him. Something had
changed her, had hardened her against him, in a moment. It seemed impossible
that there should come such severance between them. John revolted against it, as
against all the other natural laws that visited him harshly.
    »What's come to you, my girl?« he said in a thick voice. »What's wrong
between us, Clara? Haven't I always done my best for you? If I was the worst
enemy you had, you couldn't look at me crueller.«
    »I think it's me that should ask what's come to you, father,« she returned
with her former self-possession. »You treat me as if I was a baby. I want to
know what you're going to say about Mrs. Tubbs. I suppose mother's told you what
she offers me?«
    Sidney had not resumed his chair. Before Hewett could reply he said:
    »I think I'll leave you to talk over this alone.«
    »No; stay where you are,« said John gruffly. »Look here, Clara. Sidney's
been talking' to me; he's been saying' that I ought to let you have your own way
in this. Yes, you may well look as if it surprised you.« Clara had just glanced
at the young man, slightly raising her eyebrows, but at once looked away again
with a careless movement of the head. »He says what it's hard an' cruel for me
to believe, though I half begin to see that he's right; he says you won't pay no
more heed to what I wish, an' it's me now must give way to you. I didn't use to
think me an' Clara would come to that; but it looks like it - it looks like it.«
    The girl stood with downcast eyes. Once more her face had suffered a change;
the lips were no longer malignant, her forehead had relaxed from its haughty
frown. The past fortnight had been a period of contest between her father's
stubborn fears and her own determination to change the mode of her life. Her
self-will was only intensified by opposition. John had often enough experienced
this, but hitherto the points at issue had been trifles, matters in which the
father could yield for the sake of pleasing his child. Serious resistance
brought out for the first time all the selfish forces of her nature. She was
prepared to go all lengths rather than submit, now the question of her liberty
had once been broached. Already there was a plan in her mind for quitting home,
regardless of all the misery she would cause, reckless of what future might be
in store for herself. But the first sign of yielding on her father's part
touched the gentler elements of her nature. Thus was she constituted; merciless
in egotism when put to the use of all her weapons, moved to warmest gratitude as
soon as concession was made to her. To be on ill terms with her father had
caused her pain, the only effect of which, however, was to heighten the sullen
impracticability of her temper. At the first glimpse of relief from overstrained
emotions, she desired that all angry feeling should be at an end. Having gained
her point, she could once more be the affectionately wilful girl whose love was
the first necessity of John Hewett's existence.
    »Well,« John pursued, reading her features eagerly, »I'll say no more about
that, and I won't stand in the way of what you've set your mind on. But
understand, Clara, my girl! It's because Sidney persuaded me. Sidney answers for
it, mind you that!«
    His voice trembled, and he looked at the young man with something like anger
in his eyes.
    »I'm willing to do that, Mr. Hewett,« said Kirkwood in a low but firm voice,
his eyes turned away from Clara. »No human being can answer for another in the
real meaning of the word; but I take upon myself to say that Clara will bring
you no sorrow. She hears me say it. They're not the kind of words that a man
speaks without thought of what they mean.«
    Clara had seated herself by the table, and was moving a finger along the
pattern of the dirty white cloth. She bit her under-lip in the manner already
described, seemingly her habit when she wished to avoid any marked expression of
countenance.
    »I can't see what Mr. Kirkwood's got to do with it at all,« she said, with
indifference, which now, however, was rather good-humoured than the reverse.
»I'm sure I don't want anybody to answer for me.« A slight toss of the head.
»You'd have let me go in any case, father; so I don't see you need bring Mr.
Kirkwood's name in.«
    Hewett turned away to the fireplace and hung his head. Sidney, gazing darkly
at the girl, saw her look towards him, and she smiled. The strange effect of
that smile upon her features! It gave gentleness to the mouth, and, by making
more manifest the intelligent light of her eyes, emphasised the singular pathos
inseparable from their regard. It was a smile to which a man would concede
anything, which would vanquish every prepossession, which would inspire pity and
tenderness and devotion in the heart of sternest resentment.
    Sidney knew its power only too well; he averted his face. Then Clara rose
again and said:
    »I shall just walk round and tell Mrs. Tubbs. It isn't late, and she'd like
to know as soon as possible.«
    »Oh, surely it'll do in the mornin'!« exclaimed Mrs. Hewett, who had
followed the conversation in silent anxiety.
    Clara paid no attention, but at once put on her hat again. Then she said, »I
won't be long, father,« and moved towards the door.
    Hewett did not look round.
    »Will you let me walk part of the way with you?« Sidney asked abruptly.
    »Certainly, if you like.«
    He bade the two who remained Good-night, and followed Clara downstairs.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                                 Clara and Jane

Rain no longer fell, but the gusty and bitter wind still swept about the black
streets. Walking side by side without speech, Clara and her companion left the
neighbourhood of the prison, and kept a northward direction till they reached
the junction of highways where stands the Angel. Here was the wonted crowd of
loiterers and the press of people waiting for tramcar or omnibus - east, west,
south, or north; newsboys, eager to get rid of their last batch, were crying as
usual, »Ech-ow! Exteree speciul! Ech-ow! Steendard!« and a brass band was
blaring out its saddest strain of merry dance-music. The lights gleamed dismally
in rain-puddles and on the wet pavement. With the wind came whiffs of tobacco
and odours of the drinking-bar.
    They crossed, and walked the length of Islington High Street, then a short
way along its continuation, Upper Street. Once or twice Clara had barely glanced
at Kirkwood, but his eyes made no reply, and his lips were resolutely closed.
She did not seem offended by this silence; on the contrary, her face was
cheerful, and she smiled to herself now and then. One would have imagined that
she found pleasure in the sombreness of which she was the cause.
    She stopped at length, and said:
    »I suppose you don't want to go in with me?«
    »No.«
    »Then I'll say good-night. Thank you for coming so far out of your way.«
    »I'll wait. I may as well walk back with you, if you don't mind.«
    »Oh, very well. I shan't be many minutes.«
    She passed on and entered the place of refreshment that was kept by Mrs.
Tubbs. Till recently it had been an ordinary eating-house or coffee-shop; but
having succeeded in obtain a license to sell strong liquors, Mrs. Tubbs had
converted the establishment into one of a more pretentious kind. She called it
Imperial Restaurant and Luncheon Bar. The front shone with vermilion paint; the
interior was aflare with many gas-jets; in the window was disposed a tempting
exhibition of snacks of fish, cold roast fowls, ham-sandwiches, and the like;
whilst farther back stood a cooking-stove, whereon frizzled and vapoured a
savoury mess of sausages and onions.
    Sidney turned away a few paces. The inclemency of the night made Upper
Street - the promenade of a great district on account of its spacious pavement -
less frequented than usual; but there were still numbers of people about, some
hastening homewards, some sauntering hither and thither in the familiar way,
some gathered into gossiping groups. Kirkwood was irritated by the conversation
and laughter that fell on his ears, irritated by the distant strains of the
band, irritated above all by the fume of frying that pervaded the air for many
yards about Mrs. Tubbs's precincts. He observed that the customers tending that
way were numerous. They consisted mainly of lads and young men who had come
forth from neighbouring places of entertainment. The locality and its
characteristics had been familiar to him from youth upwards; but his nature was
not subdued to what it worked in, and the present fit of disgust was only an
accentuation of a mood by which he was often possessed. To the Hewetts he had
spoken impartially of Mrs. Tubbs and her bar; probably that was the right view;
but now there came back upon him the repugnance with which he had regarded
Clara's proposal when it was first made.
    It seemed to him that he had waited nearly half an hour when Clara came
forth again. In silence she walked on beside him. Again they crossed by the
Angel and entered St. John Street Road.
    »You've made your arrangements?« Sidney said, now that there were few people
passing.
    »Yes; I shall go on Monday.«
    »You're going to live there altogether?«
    »Yes; it'll be more convenient, and then it'll give them more room at home.
Bob can sleep with the children, and save money.«
    »To be sure!« observed the young man with bitter irony.
    Clara flashed a glance at him. It was a new thing for Sidney to take this
tone with her; not seldom he had expressed unfavourable judgments by silence,
but he had never spoken to her otherwise than with deference and gentleness.
    »You don't seem in a very good temper to-night, Mr. Kirkwood,« she remarked
in a suave tone.
    He disregarded her words, but in a few moments turned upon her and said
scornfully:
    »I hope you'll enjoy the pleasant, ladylike work you've found! I should
think it'll improve your self-respect to wait on the gentlemen of Upper Street!«
    Irony is not a weapon much in use among working people; their wits in
general are too slow. With Sidney, however, it had always been a habit of speech
in indignant criticism, and sympathy made him aware that nothing would sting
Clara more acutely. He saw that he was successful when she turned her head away
and moved it nervously.
    »And do you suppose I go there because the place pleases me?« she asked in a
cold, hostile voice. »You make a great mistake, as you always do when you
pretend to know anything about me. Wait till I've learned a little about the
business; you won't find me in Upper Street then.«
    »I understand.«
    Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing Clerkenwell Close, and
had to pass a corner of the prison in a dark lane, where the wind moaned
drearily. The line of the high blank wall was relieved in colourless gloom
against a sky of sheer night. Opposite, the shapes of poverty-eaten houses and
grimy workshops stood huddling in the obscurity. From near at hand came shrill
voices of children chasing each other about - children playing at midnight
between slum and gaol!
    »We're not likely to see much of each other after to-night,« said Sidney,
stopping.
    »The less the better, I should say, if this is how you're going to talk to
me.«
    »The less the better, perhaps - at all events for a time. But there's one or
two things on my mind, and I'll say them now. I don't know whether you think
anything about it, but you must have seen that things are getting worse and
worse at home. Your mother -«
    »She's no mother of mine!« broke in Clara angrily.
    
    »She's been a mother to you in kindness, that's certain, and you've repaid
her almost as ill as you could have done. Another girl would have made her hard
life a bit easier. No; you've only thought of yourself. Your father walks about
day after day trying to get work, and how do you meet him when he comes home?
You fret him and anger him; you throw him back ill-tempered words when he
happens to think different from you; you almost break his heart, because you
won't give way in things that he only means for your good - he that would give
his life for you! It's as well you should hear the truth for once, and hear it
from me, too. Anyone else might speak from all sorts of motives; as for me, it
makes me suffer more to say such things than it ever could you to hear them.
Laugh if you like! I don't ask you to pay any heed to what I've wished and
hoped; but just give a thought to your father, and the rest of them at home. I
told him to-night he'd only to trust you, that you never could do anything to
make him ashamed of you. I said so, and I believe it. Look, Clara! with all my
heart I believe it. But now you've got your way, think of them a little.«
    »It isn't your fault if I don't know how bad I am,« said the girl with a
half-smile. That she did not resent his lecture more decidedly was no doubt due
to its having afforded new proof of the power she had over him. Sidney was
shaken with emotion; his voice all but failed him at the last.
    »Good-bye,« he said, turning away.
    Clara hesitated, looked at him, but finally also said »Goodbye,« and went on
alone.
    She walked with bent head, and almost passed the house-door in absence of
thought. On the threshold was standing Miss Peckover; she drew aside to let
Clara pass. Between these two was a singular rivalry. Though by date a year
younger than Clara, Clem gave no evidence of being physically less mature. In
the matter of personal charms she regarded herself as by far Miss Hewett's
superior, and resented vigorously the tone of the latter's behaviour to her.
Clara, on the other hand, looked down upon Miss Peckover as a mere vulgar girl;
she despised her brother Bob because he had allowed himself to be inveigled by
Clem; in intellect, in social standing, she considered herself out of all
comparison with the landlady's daughter. Clem had the obvious advantage of being
able to ridicule the Hewetts' poverty, and did so without sparing. Now, for
instance, when Clara was about to pass with a distant Good-night, Clem remarked:
    »It's cold, ain't it? I wonder you don't put on a ulster, a night like
this.«
    »Thank you,« was the reply. »I shan't consult you about how I'm to dress.«
    Clem laughed, knowing she had the best of the joke.
    The other went upstairs, and entered the back-room, where it was quite dark.
    »That you, Clara?« asked Amy's voice. »The candle's on the mantel-shelf.«
    »Why aren't you asleep?« Clara returned sharply. But the irritation induced
by Clem's triumph quickly passed in reflection on Sidney's mode of leave-taking.
That had not at all annoyed her, but it had made her thoughtful. She lit the
candle. Its light disclosed a room much barer than the other one. There was one
bed, in which Amy and Annie lay (Clara had to share it with them), and a
mattress placed on the floor, where reposed little Tom; a low chest of drawers
with a very small looking-glass upon it, a washstand, a few boxes. Handsome
girls, unfortunate enough to have brains to boot, do not cultivate the patient
virtues in chambers of this description.
    There was a knock at the door. Clara found her father standing there.
    »Have you anything to tell me, my girl?« he asked in a subdued voice,
furtively regarding her.
    »I shall go on Monday.«
    He drew back a step, and seemed about to return to the other room.
    »Father, I shall have to give Mrs. Tubbs the five shillings for a few weeks.
She's going to let me have a new dress.«
    »Your earnin's is your own, Clara.«
    »Yes; but I hope very soon to be able to give you something. It's hard for
you, having no work.«
    John brightened wonderfully.
    »Don't you trouble, my dear. That's all right. Things'll come round somehow.
You're a good girl. Good-night, my darlin'!«
    He kissed her, and went consoled to his rest.
 
Miss Peckover kept going up and down between the kitchen and the front-door.
Down below, Jane was cleaning a copper kettle. Clem, who had her sweetest morsel
of cruelty yet in store, had devised this pleasant little job as a way of
keeping the child employed till all was quiet.
    She had just come down to watch the progress of the work, and to give a
smart rap or two on the toiling fingers, when a heavy footstep in the passage
caused her to dart upstairs again. It was Bob Hewett, returned from his evening
recreations.
    »Oh, that's you, is it?« cried Clem. »Come down; I want to speak to you.«
    »Wait till to-morrow,« answered Bob, advancing towards the stairs.
    »Wait! we'll see about that!«
    She sprang forward, and with a prompt exertion of muscle, admirable in its
way, whirled Bob round and dragged him to the head of the kitchen flight. The
young fellow took it in good part, and went down with her.
    »You go up into the passage,« said Clem to her servant, and was immediately
obeyed.
    »Now,« resumed Miss Peckover, when she had closed the door, »who have you
been goin' about with to-night?«
    »What are you talking about?« returned Bob, who had seated himself on the
table, and was regarding Clem jocosely. »I've been with some pals, that's all.«
    »Pals! what sort o' pals? Do you call Pennyloaf Candy one o' your pals?«
    She stood before him in a superb attitude, her head poised fiercely, her
arms quivering at her sides, all the stature and vigour of her young body
emphasised by muscular strain.
    »Pennyloaf Candy!« Bob repeated, as if in scorn of the person so named. »Get
on with you! I'm sick of hearing you talk about her. Why I haven't seen her not
these three weeks.«
    »It's a - lie!« Clem's epithet was too vigorous for reproduction. »Sukey
Jollop saw you with her down by the meat-market, an' Jeck Bartley saw you too.«
    »Jeck did?« He laughed with obstreperous scorn. »Why, Jeck's gone to
Homerton to his mother till Saturday night. Don't be such a bloomin' fool! Just
because Suke Jollop's dead nuts on me, an' I won't have nothing' to say to her,
she goes telling' these bloomin' lies. When I see her next, I'll make her go down
on her marrow-bones an' beg my pardon. See if I don't just!«
    There was an engaging frankness in Bob's way of defending himself which
evidently impressed Miss Peckover, though it did not immediately soothe her
irritation. She put her arms a-kimbo, and examined him with a steady suspicion
which would have disconcerted most young men. Bob, however, only laughed more
heartily. The scene was prolonged. Bob had no recourse to tenderness to dismiss
the girl's jealousy. His self-conceit was supreme, and had always stood him in
such stead with the young ladies who, to use his own expression, were »dead nuts
on him,« that his lovemaking, under whatever circumstances, always took the form
of genial banter de haut en bas. »Don't be a bloomin' fool!« was the phrase he
deemed of most efficacy in softening the female heart; and the result seemed to
justify him, for after some half-hour's wrangling, Clem abandoned her hostile
attitude, and eyed him with a savage kind of admiration.
    »When are you goin' to buy me that locket, Bob, to put a bit of your 'air
in?« she inquired pertinently.
    »You just wait, can't you? There's a event coming off next week. I won't say
nothing, but you just wait.«
    »I'm tired o' waiting'. See here; you ain't goin' to best me out of it?«
    »Me best you? Don't be a bloomin' fool, Clem!«
    He laughed heartily, and in a few minutes allowed himself to be embraced and
sent off to his chamber at the top of the house.
    Clem summoned her servant from the passage. At the same moment there entered
another lodger, the only one whose arrival Clem still awaited. His mode of
ascending the stairs was singular; one would have imagined that he bore some
heavy weight, for he proceeded very slowly, with a great clumping noise,
surmounting one step at a time in the manner of a child. It was Mr. Marple, the
cab-driver, and his way of going up to bed was very simply explained by the fact
that a daily sixteen hours of sitting on the box left his legs in a numb and
practically useless condition.
    The house was now quiet. Clem locked the front-door and returned to the
kitchen, eager with anticipation of the jest she was going to carry out. First
of all she had to pick a quarrel with Jane; this was very easily managed. She
pretended to look about the room for a minute, then asked fiercely:
    »What's gone with that sixpence I left on the dresser?«
    Jane looked up in terror. She was worn almost to the last point of endurance
by her day and night of labour and agitation. Her face was bloodless, her
eyelids were swollen with the need of sleep.
    »Sixpence!« she faltered, »I'm sure I haven't seen no sixpence, miss.«
    »You haven't? Now, I've caught you at last. There's been nobody 'ere but
you. Little thief! We'll see about this in the mornin', an' to-night you shall
sleep in the back-kitchen!«
    The child gasped for breath. The terror of sudden death could not have
exceeded that which rushed upon her heart when she was told that she must pass
her night in the room where lay the coffin.
    »An' you shan't have no candle, neither,« proceeded Clem, delighted with the
effect she was producing. »Come along! I'm off to bed, an' I'll see you safe
locked in first, so as no one can come an' hurt you.«
    »Miss! please! - I can't, I durstn't!«
    Jane pleaded in inarticulate anguish. But Clem had caught her by the arm,
was dragging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that ghastly
death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame was as incapable of
resisting Clem Peckover's muscles as an infant's would have been. The door was
open, but at that moment Jane uttered a shriek which rang and echoed through the
whole house. Startled, Clem relaxed her grasp. Jane tore herself away, fled up
the kitchen stairs, fled upwards still, flung herself at the feet of someone who
had come out on to the landing and held a light.
    »Oh, help me! Don't let her! Help me!«
    
    »What's up with you, Jane?« asked Clara, for it was she who, not being yet
in bed, had come forth at once on hearing the scream.
    Jane could only cling to her garment, pant hysterically, repeat the same
words of entreaty again and again. Another door opened, and John Hewett appeared
half-dressed.
    »What's wrong?« he cried. »The 'ouse o' fire? Who yelled out like that?«
    Clem was coming up; she spoke from the landing below.
    »It's that Jane, just because I gave her a rap as she deserved. Send her
down again.«
    »Oh, no!« cried the poor girl. »Miss Hewett! be a friend to me! She's goin'
to shut me up all night with the coffin. Don't let her, miss! I durstn't! Oh, be
a friend to me!«
    »Little liar!« shouted Clem. »Oh, that bloomin' little liar! when I never
said a word o' such a thing!«
    »I'll believe her a good deal sooner than you,« returned Clara sharply.
»Why, anybody can see she's telling' the truth - can't they, father? She's
half-scared out of her life. Come in here, Jane; you shall stay here till
morning.«
    By this time all the grown-up people in the house were on the staircase; the
clang of tongues was terrific. Clem held her ground stoutly, and in virulence
was more than a match for all her opponents. Even Bob did not venture to take
her part; he grinned down over the banisters, and enjoyed the entertainment
immensely. Dick Snape, whose room Bob shared, took the opportunity of paying off
certain old scores he had standing against Clem. Mr. Marple, the cab-driver, was
very loud and very hoarse in condemnation of such barbarity. Mrs. Hewett,
looking as if she had herself risen from a coffin, cried shame on the general
heartlessness with which Jane was used.
    Clara held to her resolve. She led Jane into the bedroom, then, with a
parting shot at Miss Peckover, herself entered and locked the door.
    »Drink some water, Jane,« she said, doing her best to reassure the child.
»You're safe for to-night, and we'll see what Mrs. Peckover says about this when
she comes back to-morrow.«
    Jane looked at her rescuer with eyes in which eternal gratitude mingled with
fear for the future. She could cry now, poor thing, and so little by little
recover herself. Words to utter her thanks she had none; she could only look
something of what she felt. Clara made her undress and lie down with little Tom
on the mattress. In a quarter of an hour the candle was extinguished, and but
for the wind, which rattled sashes and doors, and made ghostly sounds in the
chimneys, there was silence throughout the house.
    Something awoke Clara before dawn. She sat up, and became aware that Jane
was talking and crying wildly, evidently re-acting in her sleep the scene of a
few hours ago. With difficulty Clara broke her slumber.
    »Don't you feel well, Jane?« she asked, noticing a strangeness in the
child's way of replying to her.
    »Not very, miss. My head's bad, an' I'm so thirsty. May I drink out of the
jug, miss?«
    »Stay where you are. I'll bring it to you.«
    Jane drank a great deal. Presently she fell again into slumber, which was
again broken in the same way. Clara did not go to sleep, and as soon as it was
daylight she summoned her father to come and look at the child. Jane was ill,
and, as everyone could see, rapidly grew worse.
 

                                   Chapter V

                                Jane Is Visited

At ten o'clock next morning Mrs. Peckover reached home. She was a tall,
big-boned woman of fifty, with an arm like a coalheaver's. She had dark hair,
which shone and was odorous with unguents; a sallow, uncomely face, and a
handsome moustache. Her countenance was more difficult to read than Clem's; a
coarse, and most likely brutal, nature was plain enough in its lines, but there
was also a suggestion of self-restraint, of sagacity, at all events of cunning -
qualities which were decidedly not inherited by her daughter. With her came the
relative whose presence had been desired at the funeral to-day. This was Mrs.
Gully, a stout person with a very red nose and bleared eyes. The credit of the
family demanded that as many relatives as possible should follow the hearse, and
Mrs. Peckover's reason for conducting Mrs. Gully hither was a justifiable fear
lest, if she came alone, the latter would arrive in too manifest a state of
insobriety. A certain amount of stimulant had been permitted on the way, just
enough to assist a genteel loquacity, for which Mrs. Gully had a reputation. She
had given her word to abstain from further imbibing until after the funeral.
    The news which greeted her arrival was anything but welcome to Mrs.
Peckover. In the first place, there would be far more work than usual to be
performed in the house to-day, and Jane could be ill spared. Worse than that,
however, Clara Hewett, who was losing half a day's work on Jane's account, made
a very emphatic statement as to the origin of the illness, and said that if
anything happened to Jane, there would be disagreeable facts forthcoming at a
coroner's inquest. Having looked at the sick child, Mrs. Peckover went
downstairs and shut herself up with Clem. There was a stormy interview.
    »So you thought you'd have yer fling, did you, just because I wasn't't 'ere?
You must go making' trouble, just to suit yer own fancies! I'll pay you, my lady!
Gr-r-r!«
    Whereupon followed the smack of a large hand on a fleshy cheek, so vigorous
and unexpected a blow that even the sturdy Clem staggered back.
    »You leave me alone, will you?« she roared out, her smitten cheek in a
flame. »Do that again, an' I'll give you something' for yerself! See if I don't!
You just try it on!«
    The room rang with uproarious abuse, with disgusting language, with the
terrific threats which are such common flowers of rhetoric in that world, and
generally mean nothing whatever. The end of it all was that Clem went to fetch a
doctor, one in whom Mrs. Peckover could repose confidence. The man was, in fact,
a druggist, with a shop in an obscure street over towards St. Luke's; in his
window was exhibited a card which stated that a certain medical man could be
consulted here daily. The said medical man had, in fact, so much more business
than he could attend to - his name appearing in many shops - that the druggist
was deputed to act as his assistant, and was considerately supplied with
death-certificates, already signed, and only needing to be filled in with
details. Summoned by Mrs. Peckover, whose old acquaintance he was, the druggist
left the shop in care of his son, aged fifteen, and sped to Clerkenwell Close.
He made light of Jane's ailment. »A little fever, that was all - soon pull her
round. Any wounds, by-the-by? No? Oh, soon pull her round. Send for medicines.«
    »We'll have her down in the back-kitchen as soon as the corffin's away,«
said Mrs. Peckover to Mrs. Hewett. »Don't you upset yerself about it, my dear;
you've got quite enough to think about. Yer 'husband got anythink yet? Dear,
dear! Don't you put yerself out. I'm sure it was a great kindness of you to let
the troublesome thing lay 'ere all night.«
    Funeral guests were beginning to assemble. On arriving, they were conducted
first of all into the front-room on the ground-floor, the Peckovers' parlour. It
was richly furnished. In the centre stood a round table, which left small space
for moving about, and was at present covered with refreshments. A polished
sideboard supported a row of dessert-plates propped on their edges, and a number
of glass vessels, probably meant for ornament alone, as they could not possibly
have been put to any use. A low cupboard in a recess was surmounted by a frosted
cardboard model of St. Paul's under a glass case, behind which was reared an
oval tray painted with flowers. Over the mantel-piece was the regulation mirror,
its gilt frame enveloped in coarse yellow gauze; the mantel-piece itself bore a
wealth of embellishments in glass and crockery. On each side of it hung a framed
silhouette, portraits of ancestors. Other pictures there were many, the most
impressive being an ancient oil-painting, of which the canvas bulged forth from
the frame; the subject appeared to be a ship, but was just as likely a view of
the Alps. Several German prints conveyed instruction as well as delight; one
represented the trial of Strafford in Westminster Hall; another, the trial of
William Lord Russell, at the Old Bailey. There was also a group of engraved
portraits, the Royal Family of England early in the reign of Queen Victoria; and
finally, »The Destruction of Nineveh,« by John Martin. Along the window-sill
were disposed flower-pots containing artificial plants; one or other was always
being knocked down by the curtains or blinds.
    Each guest having taken a quaff of ale or spirits or what was called wine,
with perhaps a mouthful of more solid sustenance, was then led down into the
back-kitchen to view the coffin and the corpse. I mention the coffin first,
because in everyone's view this was the main point of interest. Could Mrs.
Peckover have buried the old woman in an orange-crate, she would gladly have
done so for the saving of expense; but with relatives and neighbours to
consider, she drew a great deal of virtue out of necessity, and dealt so very
handsomely with the undertaker, that this burial would be the talk of the Close
for some weeks. The coffin was inspected inside and out, was admired and
appraised, Mrs. Peckover being at hand to check the estimates. At the same time
every most revolting detail of the dead woman's last illness was related and
discussed and mused over and exclaimed upon. A lovely corpse, considerin' her
years, was the general opinion. Then all went upstairs again, and once more
refreshed themselves. The house smelt like a bar-room.
    »Everythink most respectable, I'm sure!« remarked the female mourners to
each other, as they crowded together in the parlour.
    »An' so it had ought to be!« exclaimed one, in an indignant tone, such as is
reserved for the expression of offence among educated people, but among the poor
- the London poor, least original and least articulate beings within the
confines of civilisation - has also to do duty for friendly emphasis. »If Mrs.
Peckover can't afford to do things respectable, who can?«
    And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring contradiction. But
only approving murmurs replied. Mrs. Peckover had, in fact, the reputation of
being wealthy; she was always inheriting, always accumulating what her friends
called interess, never expending as other people needs must. The lodgings she
let enabled her to live rent-free and rate-free. Clem's earnings at an
artificial-flower factory more than paid for that young lady's board and
clothing, and all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a deduction from the
income created by her sundry investments. Her husband - ten years deceased - had
been a moulder; he earned on an average between three and four pounds a week,
and was so prudently disposed that, for the last decade of his life, he made it
a rule never to spend a farthing of his wages. Mrs. Peckover at that time kept a
small beer-shop in Rosoman Street - small and unpretending in appearance, but
through it there ran a beery Pactolus. By selling the business shortly after her
husband's death, Mrs. Peckover realised a handsome capital. She retired into
private life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it
necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.
    At half-past eleven Mrs. Peckover was arrayed in her mourning robes - new,
dark-glistening. During her absence Clem had kept guard over Mrs. Gully, whom it
was very difficult indeed to restrain from the bottles and decanters; the elder
lady coming to relieve, Clem could rush away and don her own solemn garments.
The undertaker with his men arrived; the hearse and coaches drove up; the Close
was in a state of excitement. »Now that's what I call a respectable turn-out!«
was the phrase passed from mouth to mouth in the crowd gathering near the door.
Children in great numbers had absented themselves from school for the purpose of
beholding this procession. »I do like to see spirited 'orses at a funeral!«
remarked one of the mourners, who had squeezed his way to the parlour window.
»It puts the finishin' touch, as you may say, don't it?« When the coffin was
borne forth, there was such a press in the street that the men with difficulty
reached the hearse. As the female mourners stepped across the pavement with
handkerchiefs held to their mouths, a sigh of satisfaction was audible
throughout the crowd; the males were less sympathetically received, and some
jocose comments from a costermonger, whose business was temporarily interrupted,
excited indulgent smiles.
    The procession moved slowly away, and the crowd, unwilling to disperse
immediately, looked about for some new source of entertainment. They were
fortunate, for at this moment came round the corner an individual notorious
throughout Clerkenwell as Mad Jack. Mad he presumably was - at all events, an
idiot. A lanky, raw-boned, red-headed man, perhaps forty years old; not clad,
but hung over with the filthiest rags; hatless, shoeless. He supported himself
by singing in the streets, generally psalms, and with eccentric modulations of
the voice which always occasioned mirth in hearers. Sometimes he stood at a
corner and began the delivery of a passage of Scripture in French; how, where,
or when he could have acquired this knowledge was a mystery, and Jack would
throw no light on his own past. At present, having watched the funeral coaches
pass away, he lifted up his voice in a terrific blare, singing, »All ye works of
the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever.« Instantly he
was assailed by the juvenile portion of the throng, was pelted with anything
that came to hand, mocked mercilessly, buffeted from behind. For a while he
persisted in his psalmody, but at length, without warning, he rushed upon his
tormentors, and with angry shrieks endeavoured to take revenge. The uproar
continued till a policeman came and cleared the way. Then Jack went off again,
singing, »All ye works of the Lord.« With his voice blended that of the
costermonger, »Penny a bundill!«
    Up in the Hewetts' back-room lay Jane Snowdon, now seemingly asleep, now
delirious. When she talked, a name was constantly upon her lips; she kept
calling for Mr. Kirkwood. Amy was at school; Annie and Tom frequently went into
the room and gazed curiously at the sick girl. Mrs. Hewett felt so ill to-day
that she could only lie on the bed and try to silence her baby's crying.
    The house-door was left wide open between the departure and return of the
mourners; a superstition of the people demands this. The Peckovers brought back
with them some half a dozen relatives and friends, invited to a late dinner. The
meal had been in preparation at an eating-house close by, and was now speedily
made ready in the parlour. A liberal supply of various ales was furnished by the
agency of a pot-boy (Jane's absence being much felt), and in the course of half
an hour or so the company were sufficiently restored to address themselves anew
to the bottles and decanters. Mrs. Gully was now permitted to obey her
instincts; the natural result could be attributed to overstrung feelings.
    Just when the mourners had grown noisily hilarious, testifying thereby to
the respectability with which things were being conducted to the very end, Mrs.
Peckover became aware of a knocking at the front-door. She bade her daughter go
and see who it was. Clem, speedily returning, beckoned her mother from among the
guests.
    »It's somebody wants to know if there ain't somebody called Snowdon living'
'ere,« she whispered in a tone of alarm. »An old man.«
    Mrs. Peckover never drank more than was consistent with the perfect
clearness of her brain. At present she had very red cheeks, and her cat-like
eyes gleamed noticeably, but any kind of business would have found her as
shrewdly competent as ever.
    »What did you say?« she whispered savagely.
    »Said I'd come an' ask.«
    »You stay 'ere. Don't say nothing.«
    Mrs. Peckover left the room, closed the door behind her, and went along the
passage. On the doorstep stood a man with white hair, wearing an unusual kind of
cloak and a strange hat. He looked at the landlady without speaking.
    »What was you wantin', mister?«
    »I have been told,« replied the man in a clear, grave voice, »that a child
of the name of Snowdon lives in your house, ma'am.«
    »Eh? Who told you that?«
    »The people next door but one. I've been asking at many houses in the
neighbourhood. There used to be relations of mine lived somewhere here; I don't
know the house, nor the street exactly. The name isn't so very common. If you
don't mind, I should like to ask you who the child's parents was.«
    Mrs. Peckover's eyes were searching the speaker with the utmost closeness.
    »I don't mind telling' you,« she said, »that there is a child of that name in
the 'ouse, a young girl, at least. Though I don't rightly know her age, I take
her for fourteen or fifteen.«
    The old man seemed to consult his recollections.
    »If it's anyone I'm thinking of,« he said slowly, »she can't be quite as old
as that.«
    The woman's face changed; she looked away for a moment.
    »Well, as I was saying', I don't rightly know her age. Any way, I'm
responsible for her. I've been a mother to her, an' a good mother - though I say
it myself - these six years or more. I look on her now as a child o' my own. I
don't know who you may be, mister. P'r'aps you've come from abroad?«
    »Yes, I have. There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you that I'm trying to
find any of my kin that are still alive. There was a married son of mine that
once lived somewhere about here. His name was Joseph James Snowdon. When I last
heard of him, he was working at a 'lectroplater's in Clerkenwell. That was
thirteen years ago. I deal openly with you; I shall thank you if you'll do the
like with me.«
    »See, will you just come in? I've got a few friends in the front-room;
there's been a death in the 'ouse, an' there's sickness, an' we're out of order
a bit. I'll ask you to come downstairs.«
    It was late in the afternoon, and though lights were not yet required in the
upper rooms, the kitchen would have been all but dark save for the fire. Mrs.
Peckover lit a lamp and bade her visitor be seated. Then she re-examined his
face, his attire, his hands. Everything about him told of a life spent in
mechanical labour. His speech was that of an untaught man, yet differed greatly
from the tongue prevailing in Clerkenwell; he was probably not a Londoner by
birth, and - a point of more moment - he expressed himself in the tone of one
who is habitually thoughtful, who, if the aid of books has been denied to him,
still has won from life the kind of knowledge which develops character. Mrs.
Peckover had small experience of faces which bear the stamp of simple sincerity.
This man's countenance put her out. As a matter of course, he wished to
overreach her in some way, but he was obviously very deep indeed. And then she
found it so difficult to guess his purposes. How would he proceed if she gave
him details of Jane's history, admitting that she was the child of Joseph James
Snowdon? What, again, had he been told by the people of whom he had made
inquiries? She needed time to review her position.
    »As I was saying',« she resumed, poking the fire, »I've been a mother to her
these six years or more, an' I feel I done the right thing by her. She was left
on my 'ands by them as promised to pay for her keep; an' a few months, I may say
a few weeks, was all as ever I got. Another woman would a sent the child to the
'ouse; but that's always the way with me; I'm always actin' against my own
interesses.«
    »You say that her parents went away and left her?« asked the old man,
knitting his brows.
    »Her father did. Her mother, she died in this very 'ouse, an' she was buried
from it. He gave her a respectable burial, I'll say that much for him. An' I
shouldn't have allowed anything but one as was respectable to leave this 'ouse;
I'd sooner a paid money out o' my own pocket. That's always the way with me. Mr.
Willis, he's my undertaker; you'll find him at Number 17 Green Passage. He
buried my 'husband; though that wasn't't from the Close; but I never knew a job
turned out more respectable. He was 'ere to-day; we've only just buried my
'husband's mother. That's why I ain't quite myself - see?«
    Mrs. Peckover was not wont to be gossippy. She became so at present, partly
in consequence of the stimulants she had taken to support her through a trying
ceremony, partly as a means of obtaining time to reflect. Jane's unlucky illness
made an especial difficulty in her calculations. She felt that the longer she
delayed mention of the fact, the more likely was she to excite suspicion; on the
other hand, she could not devise the suitable terms in which to reveal it. The
steady gaze of the old man was disconcerting. Not that he searched her face with
a cunning scrutiny, such as her own eyes expressed; she would have found that
less troublesome, as being familiar. The anxiety, the troubled anticipation,
which her words had aroused in him, were wholly free from shadow of ignoble
motive; he was pained, and the frequent turning away of his look betrayed that
part of the feeling was caused by observation of the woman herself, but every
movement visible on his features was subdued by patience and mildness. Suffering
was a life's habit with him, and its fruit in this instance that which (spite of
moral commonplace) it least often bears - self-conquest.
    »You haven't told me yet,« he said, with quiet disregard of her
irrelevancies, »whether or not her father's name was Joseph Snowdon.«
    »There's no call to hide it. That was his name. I've got letters of his
writin'. J. J. Snowdon stands at the end, plain enough. And he was your son, was
he?«
    »He was. But have you any reason to think he's dead?«
    »Dead! I never heard as he was. But then I never heard as he was living',
neither. When his wife went, poor thing - an' it was a chill on the liver, they
said; it took her very sudden - he says to me, Mrs. Peckover, he says, I know
you for a motherly woman - just like that - see? - I know you for a motherly
woman, he says, an' the idea I have in my 'ed is as I should like to leave Janey
in your care, 'cause, he says, I've got work in Birmingham, an' I don't see how
I'm to take her with me. Understand me? he says. Oh! I says - not feelin' quite
sure what I'd ought to do - see? Oh! I says. Yes, he says; an' between you an'
me, he says, there won't be no misunderstanding. If you'll keep Janey with you -
an' she was goin' to school at the time, 'cause she went to the same as my own
Clem - that's Clemintiner - understand? - if you'll keep Janey with you, he
says, for a year, or maybe two years, or maybe three years - 'cause that depends
on cirkinstances - understand? - I'm ready, he says, to pay you what it's right
that pay I should, an' I'm sure, he says, as we shouldn't misunderstand one
another. Well, of course I had my own girl to bring up, an' my own son to look
after too. A nice sort o' son; just when he was beginnin' to do well, an' ought
to a paid me back for all the expense I was at in puttin' him to a business,
what must he do but take his 'ook to Australia.«
    Her scrutiny discerned something in the listener's face which led her to
ask:
    »Perhaps you've been in Australia yourself, mister?«
    »I have.«
    The woman paused, speculation at work in her eyes.
    »Do you know in what part of the country your son is?« inquired the old man
absently.
    »He's wrote me two letters, an' the last, as come more than a year ago, was
from a place called Maryborough.«
    The other still preserved an absent expression; his eyes travelled about the
room.
    »I always said,« pursued Mrs. Peckover, »as it was Snowdon as put Australia
into the boy's 'ed. He used to tell us he'd got a brother there, doing' well.
P'r'aps it wasn't't true.«
    »Yes, it was true,« replied the old man coldly. »But you haven't told me
what came to pass about the child.«
    An exact report of all that Mrs. Peckover had to say on this subject would
occupy more space than it merits. The gist of it was that for less than a year
she had received certain stipulated sums irregularly; that at length no money at
all was forthcoming; that in the tenderness of her heart she had still
entertained the child, sent her to school, privately instructed her in the
domestic virtues, trusting that such humanity would not lack even its material
reward, and that either Joseph Snowdon or someone akin to him would ultimately
make good to her the expenses she had not grudged.
    »She's a child as pays you back for all the trouble you take, so much I will
say for her,« observed the matron in conclusion. »Not as it hasn't been a little
'ard to teach her tidiness, hut she's only a young thing still. I shouldn't
wonder but she's felt her position a little now an' then; it's only natural in a
growin' girl, do what you can to prevent it. Still, she's willin'; that nobody
can deny, an' I'm sure I should never wish to. Her cirkinstances has been
peculiar; that you'll understand, I'm sure. But I done my best to take the place
of the mother as is gone to a better world. An' now that she's layin' ill, I'm
sure no mother could feel it more -«
    »Ill? Why didn't you mention that before?«
    »Didn't I say as she was ill? Why, I thought it was the first word I spoke
as soon as you got into the 'ouse. You can't a noticed it, or else it was me as
is so put about. What with having' a burial -«
    »Where is she?« asked the old man anxiously.
    »Where? Why, you don't think as I'd a sent her to be looked after by
strangers? She's layin' in Mrs. Hewett's room - that's one o' the lodgers - all
for the sake o' comfort. A better an' kinder woman than Mrs. Hewett you wouldn't
find, not if you was to -«
    With difficulty the stranger obtained a few details of the origin and course
of the illness - details wholly misleading, but devised to reassure. When he
desired to see Jane, Mrs. Peckover assumed an air of perfect willingness, but
reminded him that she had nothing save his word to prove that he had indeed a
legitimate interest in the girl.
    »I can do no more than tell you that Joseph James Snowdon was my younger
son,« replied the old man simply. »I've come back to spend my last years in
England, and I hoped - I hope still - to find my son. I wish to take his child
into my own care; as he left her to strangers - perhaps he didn't do it
willingly; he may be dead - he could have nothing to say against me giving her
the care of a parent. You've been at expense -«
    Mrs. Peckover waited with eagerness, but the sentence remained incomplete.
Again the old man's eyes strayed about the room. The current of his thoughts
seemed to change, and he said:
    »You could show me those letters you spoke of - of my son's writing?«
    »Of course I could,« was the reply, in the tone of coarse resentment whereby
the scheming vulgar are wont to testify to their dishonesty.
    »Afterwards - afterwards. I should like to see Jane, if you'll be so good.«
    The mild voice, though often diffident, now and then fell upon a note of
quiet authority which suited well with the speaker's grave, pure countenance. As
he spoke thus, Mrs. Peckover rose, and said she would first go upstairs just to
see how things were. She was absent ten minutes, then a little girl - Amy Hewett
- came into the kitchen and asked the stranger to follow her.
    Jane had been rapidly transferred from the mattress to the bedstead, and the
room had been put into such order as was possible. A whisper from Mrs. Peekover
to Mrs. Hewett, promising remission of half a week's rent, had sufficed to
obtain for the former complete freedom in her movements. The child, excited by
this disturbance, had begun to moan and talk inarticulately. Mrs. Peckover
listened for a moment, but heard nothing dangerous. She bade the old man enter
noiselessly, and herself went about on tip-toe, speaking only in a hoarse
whisper.
    The visitor had just reached the bedside, and was gazing with deep,
compassionate interest at the unconscious face, when Jane, as if startled, half
rose and cried painfully, »Mr. Kirkwood! oh, Mr. Kirkwood!« and she stretched
her hand out, appearing to believe that the friend she called upon was near her.
    »Who is that?« inquired the old man, turning to his companion.
    »Only a friend of ours,« answered Mrs. Peckover, herself puzzled and uneasy.
    Again the sick girl called »Mr. Kirkwood!« but without other words. Mrs.
Peckover urged the danger of this excitement, and speedily led the way
downstairs.
 

                                   Chapter VI

                              Glimpses of the Past

Sidney Kirkwood had a lodging in Tysoe Street, Clerkenwell. It is a short
street, which, like so many in London, begins reputably and degenerates in its
latter half. The cleaner end leads into Wilmington Square, which consists of
decently depressing houses, occupied in the main, as the lower windows and
front-doors indicate, by watchmakers, working jewellers, and craftsmen of allied
pursuits. The open space, grateful in this neighbourhood, is laid out as a
garden, with trees, beds, and walks. Near the iron gate, which, for certain
hours in the day, gives admission, is a painted notice informing the public
that, by the grace of the Marquis of Northampton, they may here take their ease
on condition of good behaviour; to children is addressed a distinct warning that
»This is not a playing ground.« From his window Sidney had a good view of the
Square. The house in which he lived was of two storeys; a brass plate on the
door showed the inscription, Hodgson, Dial Painter. The window on the
ground-floor was arched, as in the other dwellings at this end of the street,
and within stood an artistic arrangement of wax fruit under a glass shade,
supported by a heavy volume of Biblical appearance. The upper storey was graced
with a small iron balcony, on which straggled a few flower-pots. However, the
exterior of this abode was, by comparison, promising; the curtains and blinds
were clean, the step was washed and whitened, the brass plate shone, the panes
of glass had at all events acquaintance with a duster. A few yards in the
direction away from the Square, and Tysoe Street falls under the dominion of
dry-rot.
    It was not until he set forth to go to work next morning that Sidney called
to mind his conversation with Jane. That the child should have missed by five
minutes a meeting with someone who perchance had the will and the power to
befriend her, seemed to him, in his present mood, merely an illustration of a
vice inherent in the nature of things. He determined to look in at the
public-house of which she had spoken, and hear for himself what manner of man
had made inquiries for people named Snowdon. The name was not a common one; it
was worth while to spend a hope or two on the chance of doing Jane a kindness.
Her look and voice when he bade her be of good courage had touched him. In his
rejected state, he felt that it was pleasant to earn gratitude even from so
humble a being as the Peckovers' drudge.
    His workshop, it has been mentioned, was in St. John's Square. Of all areas
in London thus defined, this Square of St. John is probably the most irregular
in outline. It is cut in two by Clerkenwell Road, and the buildings which
compose it form such a number of recesses, of abortive streets, of shadowed
alleys, that from no point of the Square can anything like a general view of its
totality be obtained. The exit from it on the south side is by St. John's Lane,
at the entrance to which stands a survival from a buried world - the embattled
and windowed archway which is all that remains above ground of the great Priory
of St. John of Jerusalem. Here dwelt the Knights Hospitallers, in days when
Clerkenwell was a rural parish, distant by a long stretch of green country from
the walls of London. But other and nearer memories are revived by St. John's
Arch. In the rooms above the gateway dwelt, a hundred and fifty years ago, one
Edward Cave, publisher of the Gentleman's Magazine, and there many a time has
sat a journeyman author of his, by name Samuel Johnson, too often impransus.
There it was that the said Samuel once had his dinner handed to him behind a
screen, because of his unpresentable costume, when Cave was entertaining an
aristocratic guest. In the course of the meal, the guest happened to speak with
interest of something he had recently read by an obscure Mr. Johnson; whereat
there was joy behind the screen, and probably increased appreciation of the
unwonted dinner. After a walk amid the squalid and toil-infested ways of
Clerkenwell, it impresses one strangely to come upon this monument of old time.
The archway has a sad, worn, grimy aspect. So closely is it packed in among
buildings which suggest nothing but the sordid struggle for existence, that it
looks depressed, ashamed, tainted by the ignobleness of its surroundings. The
wonder is that it has not been swept away, in obedience to the great law of
traffic and the spirit of the time.
    St. John's Arch had a place in Sidney Kirkwood's earliest memories. From the
window of his present workshop he could see its grey battlements, and they
reminded him of the days when, as a lad just beginning to put questions about
the surprising world in which he found himself, he used to listen to such
stories as his father could tell him of the history of Clerkenwell. Mr. Kirkwood
occupied part of a house in St. John's Lane, not thirty yards from the Arch; he
was a printers' roller maker, and did but an indifferent business. A year after
the birth of Sidney, his only child, he became a widower. An intelligent,
warm-hearted man, the one purpose of his latter years was to realise such
moderate competency as should place his son above the anxieties which degrade.
The boy had a noticeable turn for drawing and colouring; at ten years old, when
(as often happened) his father took him for a Sunday in the country, he carried
a sketch-book and found his delight in using it. Sidney was to be a draughtsman
of some kind; perhaps an artist, if all went well. Unhappily things went the
reverse of well. In his anxiety to improve his business, Mr. Kirkwood invented a
new kind of composition for printers' use; he patented it, risked capital upon
it, made in a short time some serious losses. To add to his troubles, young
Sidney was giving signs of an unstable character; at fifteen he had grown tired
of his drawing, wanted to be this, that, and the other thing, was self-willed,
and showed no consideration for his father's difficulties. It was necessary to
take a decided step, and, though against his will, Sidney was apprenticed to an
uncle, a Mr. Roach, who also lived in Clerkenwell, and was a working jeweller.
Two years later the father died, all but bankrupt. The few pounds realised from
his effects passed into the hands of Mr. Roach, and were soon expended in
payment for Sidney's board and lodging.
    His bereavement possibly saved Sidney from a young-manhood of foolishness
and worse. In the upper world a youth may sow his wild oats and have done with
it; in the nether, to have your fling is almost necessarily to fall among
criminals. The death was sudden; it affected the lad profoundly, and filled him
with a remorse which was to influence the whole of his life. Mr. Roach, a
thick-skinned and rather thick-headed person, did not spare to remind his
apprentice of the most painful things wherewith the latter had to reproach
himself. Sidney bore it, from this day beginning a course of self-discipline of
which not many are capable at any age, and very few indeed at seventeen. Still,
there had never been any sympathy between him and his uncle, and before very
long the young man saw his way to live under another roof and find work with a
new employer.
    It was just after leaving his uncle's house that Sidney came to know John
Hewett; the circumstances which fostered their friendship were such as threw
strong light on the characters of both. Sidney had taken a room in Islington,
and two rooms on the floor beneath him were tenanted by a man who was a widower
and had two children. In those days, our young friend found much satisfaction in
spending his Sunday evenings on Clerkenwell Green, where fervent, if
ungrammatical, oratory was to be heard, and participation in debate was open to
all whom the spirit moved. One whom the spirit did very frequently move was
Sidney's fellow-lodger; he had no gift of expression whatever, but his brief,
stammering protests against this or that social wrong had such an honest, indeed
such a pathetic sound, that Sidney took an opportunity of walking home with him
and converting neighbourship into friendly acquaintance. John Hewett gave the
young man an account of his life. He had begun as a lath-render; later he had
got into cabinet-making, started a business on his own account, and failed. A
brother of his, who was a builder's foreman, then found employment for him in
general carpentry on some new houses; but John quarrelled with his brother, and
after many difficulties fell to the making of packing-cases; that was his work
at present, and with much discontent he pursued it. John was curiously frank in
owning all the faults in himself which had helped to make his career so
unsatisfactory. He confessed that he had an uncertain temper, that he soon
became impatient with work which led to nothing, that he was tempted out of his
prudence by anything which seemed to offer a better start. With all these
admissions, he maintained that he did well to be angry. It was wrong that life
should be so hard; so much should not be required of a man. In body he was not
strong; the weariness of interminable days over-tried him and excited his mind
to vain discontent. His wife was the only one who could ever keep him cheerful
under his lot, and his wedded life had lasted but six years; now there was his
lad Bob and his little girl Clara to think of, and it only made him more
miserable to look forward and see them going through hardships like his own.
Things were wrong somehow, and it seemed to him that »if only we could have
universal suffrage -«
    Sidney was only eighteen, and strong in juvenile Radicalism, but he had a
fund of common sense, and such a conclusion as this of poor John's
half-astonished, half-amused him. However, the man's personality attracted him;
it was honest, warm-hearted, interesting; the logic of his pleadings might be at
fault, but Sidney sympathised with him, for all that. He too felt that things
were wrong somehow, and had a pleasure in joining the side of revolt for
revolt's sake.
    Now in the same house with them dwelt a young woman of about nineteen years
old; she occupied a garret, was seldom seen about, and had every appearance of
being a simple, laborious girl, of the kind familiar enough as the silent
victims of industrialism. One day the house was thrown into consternation by the
news that Miss Barnes - so she was named - had been arrested on a charge of
stealing her employer's goods. It was true, and perhaps the best way of
explaining it will be to reproduce a newspaper report which Sidney Kirkwood
thereafter preserved.
    »On Friday, Margaret Barnes, nineteen, a single woman, was indicted for
stealing six jackets, value 5l., the property of Mary Oaks, her mistress. The
prisoner, who cried bitterly during the proceedings, pleaded guilty. The
prosecutrix is a single woman, and gets her living by mantle-making. She engaged
the prisoner to do what is termed finishing off, that is, making the
button-holes and sewing on the buttons. The prisoner was also employed to fetch
the work from the warehouse, and deliver it when finished. On September 7th her
mistress sent her with the six jackets, and she never returned. Sergeant Smith,
a detective, who apprehended the prisoner, said he had made inquiries in the
case, and found that up to this time the prisoner had borne a good character as
an honest, hard-working girl. She had quitted her former lodgings, which had no
furniture but a small table and a few rags in a corner, and he discovered her in
a room which was perfectly bare. Miss Oaks was examined, and said the prisoner
was employed from nine in the morning to eight at night. The Judge: How much did
you pay her per week? Miss Oaks: Four shillings. The Judge: Did you give her her
food? Miss Oaks: No; I only get one shilling each for the jackets myself when
completed. I have to use two sewing-machines, find my own cotton and needles,
and I can, by working hard, make two in a day. The Judge said it was a sad state
of things. The prisoner, when called upon, said she had had nothing to eat for
three days, and so gave way to temptation, hoping to get better employment. The
Judge, while commiserating with the prisoner, said it could not be allowed that
distress should justify dishonesty, and sentenced the prisoner to six weeks'
imprisonment.«
    The six weeks passed, and about a fortnight after that, John Hewett came
into Sidney's room one evening with a strange look on his face. His eyes were
very bright, the hand which he held out trembled.
    »I've something to tell you,« he said. »I'm going to get married again.«
    »Really? Why, I'm glad to hear it!«
    »And who do you think? Miss Barnes.«
    Sidney was startled for a moment. John had had no acquaintance with the girl
prior to her imprisonment. He had said that he should meet her when she came out
and give her some money, and Sidney had added a contribution. For a man in
Hewett's circumstances this latest step was somewhat astonishing, but his
character explained it.
    »I'm goin' to marry her,« he exclaimed excitedly, »and I'm doing the right
thing! I respect her more than all the women as never went wrong because they
never had occasion to. I'm goin' to put her as a mother over my children, and
I'm goin' to make a happier life for her. She's a good girl, I tell you. I've
seen her nearly every day this fortnight; I know all about her. She wouldn't
have me when I first asked her - that was a week ago. She said no; she'd
disgrace me. If you can't respect her as you would any other woman, never come
into my lodging!«
    Sidney was warm with generous glow. He wrung Hewett's hand and stammered
incoherent words.
    John took new lodgings in an obscure part of Clerkenwell, and seemed to have
become a young man once more. His complaints ceased; the energy with which he
went about his work was remarkable. He said his wife was the salvation of him.
And then befell one of those happy chances which supply mankind with instances
for its pathetic faith that a good deed will not fail of reward. John's brother
died, and bequeathed to him some four hundred pounds. Hereupon, what must the
poor fellow do but open workshops on his own account, engage men, go about
crying that his opportunity had come at last. Here was the bit of rock by means
of which he could save himself from the sea of competition that had so nearly
whelmed him! Little Clara, now eleven years old, could go on steadily at school;
no need to think of how the poor child should earn a wretched living. Bob, now
thirteen, should shortly be apprenticed to some better kind of trade. New rooms
were taken and well furnished. Maggie, the wife, could have good food, such as
she needed in her constant ailing, alas! The baby just born was no longer a
cause of anxious thought, but a joy in the home. And Sidney Kirkwood came to
supper as soon as the new rooms were in order, and his bright, manly face did
everyone good to look at. He still took little Clara upon his knee. Ha! there
would come a day before long when he would not venture to do that, and then
perhaps - perhaps! What a supper that was, and how smoothly went the great
wheels of the world that evening!
    One baby, two babies, three babies; before the birth of the third, John's
brow was again clouded, again he had begun to rail and fume at the unfitness of
things. His business was a failure, partly because he dealt with a too rigid
honesty, partly because of his unstable nature, which left him at the mercy of
whims and obstinacies and airy projects. He did not risk the ordinary kind of
bankruptcy, but came down and down, until at length he was the only workman in
his own shop; then the shop itself had to be abandoned; then he was searching
for someone who would employ him.
    Bob had been put to the die-sinker's craft; Clara was still going to school,
and had no thought of earning a livelihood - ominous state of things. When it
shortly became clear even to John Hewett that he would wrong the girl if he did
not provide her with some means of supporting herself, she was sent to learn
stamping with the same employer for whom her brother worked. The work was light;
it would soon bring in a little money. John declared with fierceness that his
daughter should never be set to the usual needle-slavery, and indeed it seemed
very unlikely that Clara would ever be fit for that employment, as she could not
do the simplest kind of sewing. In the meantime the family kept changing their
abode, till at length they settled in Mrs. Peckover's house. All the best of
their furniture was by this time sold; but for the two eldest children, there
would probably have been no home at all. Bob, aged nineteen, earned at this
present time a pound weekly; his sister, an average of thirteen shillings. Mrs.
Hewett's constant ill-health (the result, doubtless, of semi-starvation through
the years of her girlhood), would have excused defects of housekeeping; but
indeed the poor woman was under any circumstances incapable of domestic
management, and therein represented her class. The money she received was wasted
in comparison with what might have been done with it. I suppose she must not be
blamed for bringing children into the world when those already born to her were
but half-clothed, half-fed; she increased the sum total of the world's misery in
obedience to the laws of the Book of Genesis. And one virtue she had which
compensated for all that was lacking - a virtue merely negative among the
refined, but in that other world the rarest and most precious of moral
distinctions - she resisted the temptations of the public-house.
    This was the story present in Sidney Kirkwood's mind as often as he climbed
the staircase in Clerkenwell Close. By contrast, his own life seemed one of
unbroken ease. Outwardly it was smooth enough. He had no liking for his craft,
and being always employed upon the meaningless work which is demanded by the
rich vulgar, he felt such work to be paltry and ignoble; but there seemed no
hope of obtaining better, and he made no audible complaint. His wages were
considerably more than he needed, and systematically he put money aside each
week.
    But this orderly existence concealed conflicts of heart and mind which
Sidney himself could not have explained, could not lucidly have described. The
moral shock which he experienced at his father's death put an end to the wanton
play of his energies, but it could not ripen him before due time; his nature was
not of the sterile order common in his world, and through passion, through
conflict, through endurance, it had to develop such maturity as fate should
permit. Saved from self-indulgence, he naturally turned into the way of
political enthusiasm; thither did his temper point him. With some help - mostly
negative - from Clerkenwell Green, he reached the stage of confident and
aspiring Radicalism, believing in the perfectibility of man, in human
brotherhood, in - anything you like that is the outcome of a noble heart
sheltered by ignorance. It had its turn, and passed.
    To give place to nothing very satisfactory. It was not a mere coincidence
that Sidney was going through a period of mental and moral confusion just in
those years which brought Clara Hewett from childhood to the state of woman.
Among the acquaintances of Sidney's boyhood there was not one but had a chosen
female companion from the age of fifteen or earlier; he himself had been no
exception to the rule in his class, but at the time of meeting with Hewett he
was companionless, and remained so. The Hewetts became his closest friends; in
their brief prosperity he rejoiced with them, in their hardships he gave them
all the assistance to which John's pride would consent; his name was never
spoken among them but with warmth and gratitude. And of course the day came to
which Hewett had looked forward - the day when Sidney could no longer take Clara
upon his knee and stroke her brown hair and joke with her about her fits of good
and ill humour. Sidney knew well enough what was in his friend's mind, and,
though with no sense of constraint, he felt that this handsome, keen-eyed,
capricious girl was destined to be his wife. He liked Clara; she always
attracted him and interested him; but her faults were too obvious to escape any
eye, and the older she grew, the more was he impressed and troubled by them. The
thought of Clara became a preoccupation, and with the love which at length he
recognised there blended a sense of fate fulfilling itself. His enthusiasms, his
purposes, never defined as education would have defined them, were dissipated
into utter vagueness. He lost his guiding interests, and found himself returning
to those of boyhood. The country once more attracted him; he took out his old
sketch-books, bought a new one, revived the regret that he could not be a
painter of landscape. A visit to one or two picture-galleries, and then again
profound discouragement, recognition of the fact that he was a mechanic and
never could be anything else.
    It was the end of his illusions. For him not even passionate love was to
preserve the power of idealising its object. He loved Clara with all the desire
of his being, but could no longer deceive himself in judging her character. The
same sad clearness of vision affected his judgment of the world about him, of
the activities in which he had once been zealous, of the conditions which
enveloped his life and the lives of those dear to him. The spirit of revolt
often enough stirred within him, but no longer found utterance in the speech
which brings relief; he did his best to dispel the mood, mocking at it as folly.
Consciously he set himself the task of becoming a practical man, of learning to
make the best of life as he found it, of shunning as the fatal error that habit
of mind which kept John Hewett on the rack. Who was he that he should look for
pleasant things in his course through the world? »We are the lower orders; we
are the working classes,« he said bitterly to his friend, and that seemed the
final answer to all his aspirations.
    This was a dark day with him. The gold he handled stung him to hatred and
envy, and every feeling which he had resolved to combat as worse than
profitless. He could not speak to his fellow-workmen. From morning to night it
had rained. St. John's Arch looked more broken-spirited than ever, drenched in
sooty moisture.
    During the dinner-hour he walked over to the public-house of which Jane had
spoken, and obtained from the barman as full a description as possible of the
person he hoped to encounter. Both then and on his return home in the evening he
shunned the house where his friends dwelt.
    It came round to Monday. For the first time for many months he had allowed
Sunday to pass without visiting the Hewetts. He felt that to go there at present
would only be to increase the parents' depression by his own low spirits. Clara
had left them now, however, and if he still stayed away, his behaviour might be
misinterpreted. On returning from work, he washed, took a hurried meal, and was
on the point of going out when someone knocked at his door. He opened, and saw
an old man who was a stranger to him.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                             Mrs. Byass's Lodgings

»You are Mr. Kirkwood?« said his visitor civilly. »My name is Snowdon. I should
be glad to speak a few words with you, if you could spare the time.«
    Sidney's thoughts were instantly led into the right channel; he identified
the old man by his white hair and the cloak. The hat, however, which had been
described to him, was now exchanged for a soft felt of a kind common enough; the
guernsey, too, had been laid aside. With ready goodwill he invited Mr. Snowdon
to enter.
    There was not much in the room to distinguish it from the dwelling of any
orderly mechanic. A small bed occupied one side; a small table stood before the
window; the toilet apparatus was, of course, unconcealed; a half-open cupboard
allowed a glimpse of crockery, sundries, and a few books. The walls, it is true,
were otherwise ornamented than is usual; engravings, chromo-lithographs, and
some sketches of landscape in pencil, were suspended wherever light fell, and
the choice manifested in this collection was nowise akin to that which ruled in
Mrs. Peckover's parlour, and probably in all the parlours of Tysoe Street. To
select for one's chamber a woodcut after Constable or Gainsborough is at all
events to give proof of a capacity for civilisation.
    The visitor made a quick survey of these appearances; then he seated himself
on the chair Sidney offered. He was not entirely at his ease, and looked up at
the young man twice or thrice before he began to speak again.
    »Mr. Kirkwood, were you ever acquainted with my son, by name Joseph
Snowdon?«
    »No; I never knew him,« was the reply. »I have heard his name, and I know
where he once lived - not far from here.«
    »You're wondering what has brought me to you. I have heard of you from
people a grandchild of mine is living with. I dare say it is the house you mean
- in Clerkenwell Close.«
    »So you have found it!« exclaimed Sidney with pleasure. »I've been looking
about for you as I walked along the streets these last two or three days.«
    »Looking for me?« said the other, astonished.
    Sidney supplied the explanation, but without remarking on the circumstances
which made Jane so anxious to discover a possible friend. Snowdon listened
attentively, and at length, with a slight smile; he seemed to find pleasure in
the young man's way of expressing himself. When silence ensued, ho looked about
absently for a moment; then, meeting Sidney's eyes, said in a grave voice:
    »That poor child is very ill.«
    »Ill? I'm sorry to hear it.«
    »The reason I've come to you, Mr. Kirkwood, is because she's called out your
name so often. They don't seem able to tell me how she came into this state, but
she's had a fright of some kind, or she's been living very unhappily. She calls
on your name, as if she wanted you to protect her from harm. I didn't know what
to think about it at first. I'm a stranger to everybody - I may tell you I've
been abroad for several years - and they don't seem very ready to put trust in
me; but I decided at last that I'd come and speak to you. It's my grandchild,
and perhaps the only one of my family left; nobody can give me news of her
father since he went away four or five years ago. She came to herself this
morning for a little, but I'm afraid she couldn't understand what I tried to
tell her; then I mentioned your name, and I could see it did her good at once.
What I wish to ask of you is, would you come to her bedside for a few minutes?
She might know you, and I feel sure it would be a kindness to her.«
    Sidney appeared to hesitate. It was not, of course, that he dreamt of
refusing, but he was busy revolving all he knew of Jane's life with the
Peckovers, and asking himself what it behoved him to tell, what to withhold.
Daily experience guarded him against the habit of gossip, which is one of the
innumerable curses of the uneducated (whether poor or wealthy), and,
notwithstanding the sympathy with which his visitor inspired him, he quickly
decided to maintain reserve until he understood more of the situation.
    »Yes, yes; I'll go with you at once,« he made haste to reply, when he
perceived that his hesitancy was occasioning doubt and trouble. »In fact, I was
just starting to go and see the Hewetts when you knocked at the door. They're
friends of mine - living in Mrs. Peckover's house. That's how I came to know
Jane. I haven't been there for several days, and when I last saw her, as I was
saying, she seemed as well as usual.«
    »I'm afraid that wasn't't much to boast of,« said Snowdon. »She's a poor,
thin-looking child.«
    Sidney was conscious that the old man did not give expression to all he
thought. This mutual exercise of tact seemed, however, to encourage a good
understanding between them rather than the reverse.
    »You remain in the house?« Kirkwood asked as they went downstairs.
    »I stay with her through the night. I didn't feel much confidence in the
doctor that was seeing her, so I made inquiries and found a better man.«
    When they reached the Close, the door was opened to them by Clem Peckover.
She glared haughtily at Sidney, but uttered no word. To Kirkwood's surprise,
they went up to the Hewetts' back-room. The mattress that formerly lay upon the
floor had been removed; the bed was occupied by the sick girl, with whom at
present Mrs. Peckover was sitting. That benevolent person rose on seeing Sidney,
and inclined her head with stateliness.
    »She's just fell asleep,« was her whispered remark. »I shouldn't say myself
as it was good to wake her up, but of course you know best.«
    This was in keeping with the attitude Mrs. Peckover had adopted as soon as
she understood Snowdon's resolve to neglect no precaution on the child's behalf.
Her sour dignity was meant to express that she felt hurt at the intervention of
others where her affections were so nearly concerned. Sidney could not help a
certain fear when he saw this woman installed as sick-nurse. It was of purpose
that he caught her eye and regarded her with a gravity she could scarcely fail
to comprehend.
    Jane awoke from her fitful slumber. She looked with but half-conscious
fearfulness at the figures darkening her view. Sidney moved so that his face was
in the light, and, bending near to her, asked if she recognised him. A smile -
slow-forming, but unmistakable at last - amply justified what her grandfather
had said. She made an effort to move her hand towards him. Sidney responded to
her wish, and again she smiled, self-forgetfully, contentedly.
    Snowdon turned to Mrs. Peckover, and, after a few words with regard to the
treatment that was being pursued, said that he would now relieve her; she
lingered, but shortly left the room. Sidney, sitting by the bed, in a few
minutes saw that Jane once more slept, or appeared to do so. He whispered to
Snowdon that he was going to see his friends in the next room, and would look in
again before leaving.
    His tap at the door was answered by Amy, who at once looked back and said:
    »Can Mr. Kirkwood come in, mother?«
    »Yes; I want to see him,« was the answer.
    Mrs. Hewett was lying in bed; she looked, if possible, more wretchedly ill
than four days ago. On the floor were two mattresses, covered to make beds for
the children. The baby, held in its mother's arms, was crying feebly.
    »Why, I hoped you were getting much better by now,« said Sidney.
    Mrs. Hewett told him that she had been to the hospital on Saturday, and
seemed to have caught cold. A common enough occurrence; hours of waiting in an
out-patients' room frequently do more harm than the doctor's advice can remedy.
She explained that Mrs. Peckover had requested the use of the other room.
    »There's too many of us to be living' an' sleepin' in this little place,« she
said; »but, after all, it's a saving' of rent. It's a good thing Clara isn't
here. An' you've heard as John's got work?«
    He had found a job at length with a cabinet-maker; tonight he would probably
be working till ten or eleven o'clock. Good news so far. Then Mrs. Hewett began
to speak with curiosity of the old man who claimed Jane as his grandchild.
Sidney told her what had just happened.
    »An' what did you say about the girl?« she asked anxiously.
    »I said as little as I could; I thought it wisest. Do you know what made her
ill? «
    »It was that Clem as did it,« Mrs. Hewett replied, subduing her voice. And
she related what had befallen after Sidney's last visit. »Mrs. Peckover, she's
that afraid the truth should get out. Of course I don't want to make no bother,
but I do feel that glad the poor thing's got somebody to look after her at last.
I never told you half the things as used to go on. That Clem's no better than a
wild-beast tiger; but then what can you do? There's never any good comes out of
making' a bother with other people's business, is there? Fancy him comin' to see
you! Mrs. Peckover's afraid of him, I can see that, though she pretends she
isn't goin' to stand him interferin'. What do you think about him, Sidney? He's
sent for a doctor out of Islington; wouldn't have nothing' to say to the other.
He must have plenty of money, don't you think? Mrs. Peckover says he's goin' to
pay the money owin' to her for Jane's keep. As if the poor thing hadn't more
than paid for her bits of meals an' her bed in the kitchen! Do you think that
woman 'ud ever have kept her if it wasn't't she could make her a servant with no
wages? If Jane 'ud been a boy, she'd a gone to the workhouse long ago. She's
been that handy, poor little mite! I've always done what I could for her; you
know that, Sidney. I do hope she'll get over it. If anything happens, mind my
word, there'll be a nice to-do! Clara says she'll go to a magistrate an' let it
all out, if nobody else will. She hates the Peckovers, Clara does.«
    »It won't come to that,« said Sidney. »I can see the old man'll take her
away as soon as possible. He may have a little money; he's just come back from
Australia. I like the look of him myself.«
    He began to talk of other subjects; waxed wrath at the misery of this
housing to which the family had shrunk; urged a removal from the vile den as
soon as ever it could be managed. Sidney always lost control of himself when he
talked with the Hewetts of their difficulties; the people were, from his point
of view, so lacking in resource, so stubbornly rooted in profitless habit. Over
and over again he had implored them to take a rational view of the case, to
borrow a few pounds of him, to make a new beginning on clean soil. It was like
contending with some hostile force of nature; he spent himself in vain.
    As Hewett did not return, he at length took his leave, and went into the
back-room for a moment.
    »She's asleep,« said Snowdon, rising from the chair where he had been
sitting deep in thought. »It's a good sign.«
    Sidney just looked towards the bed, and nodded with satisfaction. The old
man gave him a warm pressure of the hand, and he departed. All the way home, he
thought with singular interest of the bare sick-room, of the white-headed man
watching through the night; the picture impressed him in a way that could not be
explained by its natural pathos merely; it kept suggesting all sorts of fanciful
ideas, due in a measure, possibly, to Mrs. Hewett's speculations. For an hour he
was so lost in musing on the subject that he even rested from the misery of his
ceaseless thought of Clara.
    He allowed three days to pass, then went to inquire about Jane's progress.
It had been satisfactory. Subsequent visits brought him to terms of a certain
intimacy with Snowdon. The latter mentioned at length that he was looking for
two rooms, suitable for himself and Jane. He wished them to be in a decent
house, somewhere in Clerkenwell, and the rent was not to be more than a working
man could afford.
    »You don't know of anything in your street?« he asked diffidently.
    Something in the tone struck Sidney. It half expressed a wish to live in his
neighbourhood if possible. He looked at his companion (they were walking
together), and was met in return with a glance of calm friendliness; it
gratified him, strengthened the feeling of respect and attachment which had
already grown out of this intercourse. In Tysoe Street, however, no
accommodation could be found. Sidney had another project in his thoughts;
pursuing it, he paid a visit the next evening to certain acquaintances of his
named Byass, who had a house in Hanover Street, Islington, and let lodgings.
Hanover Street lies to the north of City Road; it is a quiet byway, of curving
form, and consists of dwellings only. Squalor is here kept at arm's length;
compared with regions close at hand, this and the contiguous streets have
something of a suburban aspect.
    Three or four steps led up to the house-door. Sidney's knock summoned a
young, healthy-faced, comely woman, who evinced hearty pleasure on seeing who
her visitor was. She brought him at once into a parlour on the ground-floor.
    »Well, an' I was only this mornin' telling' Sam to go an' look after you, or
write a note, or something'! Why can't you come round oftener? I've no patience
with you! You just sit at 'ome an' get humped, an' what's the good o' that, I
should like to know? I thought you'd took offence with me, an' so I told Sam. Do
you want to know how baby is? Why don't you ask, then, as you ought to do the
first thing? He's a good deal better than he deserves to be, young rascal - all
the trouble he gives me! He's fast asleep, I'm glad to say, so you can't see
him. Sam'll be back in a few minutes; at least I expect him, but there's no
knowin' nowadays when he can leave the warehouse. What's brought you to-night, I
wonder? You needn't tell me anything about the Upper Street business; I know all
about that!«
    »Oh, do you? From Clara herself?«
    »Yes. Don't talk to me about her! There! I'm sick an' tired of her - an' so
are you, I should think, if you've any sense left. Her an' me can't get along,
an' that's the truth. Why, when I met her on Sunday afternoon, she was that
patronisin' you'd have thought she'd got a place in Windsor Castle. Would she
come an' have a cup of tea? Oh dear, no! Hadn't time! The Princess of Wales, I
suppose, was waiting' round the corner!«
    Having so relieved her mind, Mrs. Byass laughed with a genuine gaiety which
proved how little malice there was in her satire. Sidney could not refuse a
smile, but it was a gloomy one.
    »I'm not sure you've done all you might have to keep her friends with you,«
he said seriously, but with a good-natured look.
    »There you go!« exclaimed Mrs. Byass, throwing back her head. »Of course
everybody must be in fault sooner than her! She's an angel is Miss Hewett! Poor
dear! to think how shameful she's been used! Now I do wonder how you've the face
to say such things, Mr. Kirkwood! Why, there's nobody else living' would have
been as patient with her as I always was. I'm not bad-tempered, I will say that
for myself, an' I've put up with all sorts of things (me, a married woman), when
anyone else would have boxed her ears an' told her she was a conceited minx. I
used to be fond of Clara; you know I did. But she's got beyond all bearin'; and
if you wasn't't just as foolish as men always are, you'd see her in her true
colours. Do shake yourself a bit, do! Oh, you silly, silly man!«
    Again she burst into ringing laughter, throwing herself backwards and
forwards, and at last covering her face with her hands. Sidney looked annoyed,
but the contagion of such spontaneous merriment in the end brought another smile
to his face. He moved his head in sign of giving up the argument, and, as soon
as there was silence, turned to the object of his visit.
    »I see you've still got the card in the window. I shouldn't wonder if I
could find you a lodger for those top-rooms.«
    »And who's that? No children, mind.«
    Sidney told her what he could of the old man. Of Jane he only said that she
had hitherto lived with the Hewetts' landlady, and was now going to be removed
by her grandfather, having just got through an illness. Dire visions of
infection at once assailed Mrs. Byass; impossible to admit under the same roof
with her baby a person who had just been ill. This scruple was, however,
overcome; the two rooms at the top of the house - unfurnished - had been long
vacant, owing to fastidiousness in Mr. and Mrs. Byass, since their last lodger,
after a fortnight of continuous drunkenness, broke the windows, ripped the paper
off the walls, and ended by trying to set fire to the house. Sidney was
entrusted with an outline treaty, to be communicated to Mr. Snowdon.
    This discussion was just concluded when Mr. Samuel Byass presented himself -
a slender, large-headed young man, with very light hair cropped close upon the
scalp, and a foolish face screwed into an expression of facetiousness. He was
employed in some clerkly capacity at a wholesale stationer's in City Road.
Having stepped into the room, he removed a very brown silk hat and laid it on a
chair, winking the while at Sidney with his right eye; then he removed his
overcoat, winking with the left eye. Thus disembarrassed, he strode gravely to
the fireplace, took up the poker, held it in the manner of a weapon upright
against his shoulder, and exclaimed in a severe voice, »Eyes right!« Then,
converting the poker into a sword, he drew near to Sidney and affected to
practise upon him the military cuts, his features distorted into grotesque
ferocity. Finally, assuming the attitude of a juggler, he made an attempt to
balance the poker perpendicularly upon his nose, until it fell with a crash,
just missing the ornaments on the mantel-piece. All this time Mrs. Byass
shrieked with laughter, with difficulty keeping her chair.
    »Oh, Sam,« she panted forth, her handkerchief at her eyes, »what a fool you
are! Do stop, or you'll kill me!«
    Vastly gratified, Samuel advanced with ludicrous gestures towards the
visitor, held out his hand, and said with affected nasality, »How do you do,
sir? It's some time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, sir. I hope you have
been pretty tolerable.«
    »Isn't he a fool, Mr. Kirkwood?« cried the delighted wife. »Do just give him
a smack on the side of the head, to please me! Sam, go an' wash, an' we'll have
supper. What do you mean by being so late to-night?«
    »Where's the infant?« asked Mr. Byass, thrusting his hands into his
waistcoat pockets and peering about the room. »Bring forth the infant! Let a
fond parent look upon his child.«
    »Go an' wash, or I'll throw something at you. Baby's in bed, and mind, you
wake him if you dare!«
    Sidney would have taken his leave, but found it impossible. Mrs. Byass
declared that if he would not stay to supper he should never enter the house
again.
    »Let's make a night of it!« cried Sam, standing in the doorway. »Let's have
three pots of six ale and a bottle of old Tom! Let us be reckless!«
    His wife caught up the pillow from the sofa and hurled it at him. Samuel
escaped just in time. The next moment his head was again thrust forward.
    »Let's send to the High Street for three cold roast fowls and a beef-steak
pie! Let's get custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry! Let's have a
pine-apple and preserved ginger! Who says, Go it for once?«
    Mrs. Byass caught up the poker and sprang after him. From the passage came
sounds of scuffling and screaming, and in the end of something produced by the
lips. Mrs. Byass then showed a very red face at the door, and said:
    »Isn't he a fool? Just wait a minute while I get the table laid.«
    Supper was soon ready in the comfortable kitchen. A cold shoulder of mutton,
a piece of cheese, pickled beetroot, a seedcake, and raspberry jam; such was the
fare to which Bessie Byass invited her husband and her guest. On a side-table
were some open cardboard boxes containing artificial flowers and leaves; for
Bessie had now and then a little mounting to do for a shop in Upper Street, and
in that way aided the income of the family. She was in even better spirits than
usual at the prospect of letting her top-rooms. On hearing that piece of news,
Samuel, who had just come from the nearest public-house with a foaming jug,
executed a wild dance round the room and inadvertently knocked two plates from
the dresser. This accident made his wife wrathful, but only for a moment;
presently she was laughing as unrestrainedly as ever, and bestowing upon the
repentant young man her familiar flattery.
    At eleven o'clock Sidney left them, and mused with smiles on his way home.
This was not exactly his ideal of domestic happiness, yet it was better than the
life led by the Hewetts - better than that of other households with which he was
acquainted - better far, it seemed to him, than the aspirations which were
threatening to lead poor Clara - who knew whither? A temptation beset him to
walk round into Upper Street and pass Mrs. Tubbs's bar. He resisted it, knowing
that the result would only be a night of sleepless anger and misery.
    The next day he again saw Snowdon, and spoke to him of Mrs. Byass's rooms.
The old man seemed at first indisposed to go so far; but when he had seen the
interior of the house and talked with the landlady, his objections disappeared.
Before another week had passed the two rooms were furnished in the simplest
possible way, and Snowdon brought Jane from Clerkenwell Close.
    Kirkwood came by invitation as soon as the two were fairly established in
their home. He found Jane sitting by the fire in her grandfather's room; a very
little exertion still outwearied her, and the strange things that had come to
pass had made her habitually silent. She looked about her wonderingly, seemed
unable to realise her position, was painfully conscious of her new clothes, ever
and again started as if in fear.
    »Well, what did I say that night?« was Sidney's greeting. »Didn't I tell you
it would be all right soon?«
    Jane made no answer in words, but looked at him timidly; and then a smile
came upon her face, an expression of joy that could not trust itself, that
seemed to her too boldly at variance with all she had yet known of life.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                                Pennyloaf Candy

In the social classification of the nether world - a subject which so eminently
adapts itself to the sportive and gracefully picturesque mode of treatment - it
will be convenient to distinguish broadly, and with reference to males alone,
the two great sections of those who do, and those who do not, wear collars. Each
of these orders would, it is obvious, offer much scope to an analyst delighting
in subtle gradation. Taking the collarless, how shrewdly might one discriminate
between the many kinds of neckcloth which our climate renders necessary as a
substitute for the nobler article of attire! The navvy, the scaffolder, the
costermonger, the cab-tout - innumerable would be the varieties of texture, of
fold, of knot, observed in the ranks of unskilled labour. And among those whose
higher station is indicated by the linen or paper symbol, what a gap between the
mechanic with collar attached to a flannel shirt, and just visible along the top
of a black tie, and the shopman whose pride it is to adorn himself with the very
ugliest neck-encloser put in vogue by aristocratic sanction! For such attractive
disquisition I have, unfortunately, no space; it must suffice that I indicate
the two genera. And I was led to do so in thinking of Bob Hewett.
    Bob wore a collar. In the die-sinking establishment which employed him there
were, it is true, two men who belonged to the collarless; but their business was
down in the basement of the building, where they kept up a furnace, worked huge
stamping-machines, and so on. Bob's workshop was upstairs, and the companions
with whom he sat, without exception, had something white and stiff round their
necks; in fact, they were every bit as respectable as Sidney Kirkwood, and such
as he, who bent over a jeweller's table. To John Hewett it was no sliglit
gratification that he had been able to apprentice his son to a craft which
permitted him always to wear a collar. I would not imply that John thought of
the matter in these terms, but his reflections bore this significance. Bob was
raised for ever above the rank of those who depend merely upon their muscles,
even as Clara was saved from the dismal destiny of the women who can do nothing
but sew.
    There was, on the whole, some reason why John Hewett should feel pride in
his eldest son. Like Sidney Kirkwood, Bob had early shown a faculty for
draughtsmanship; when at school, he made decidedly clever caricatures of such
persons as displeased him, and he drew such wonderful horses (on the race-course
or pulling cabs), such laughable donkeys in costers' carts, such perfect dogs,
that on several occasions some friend had purchased with a veritable shilling a
specimen of his work. »Put him to the die-sinking,« said an acquaintance of the
family, himself so employed; »he'll find a use for this kind of thing some day.«
Die-sinking is not the craft it once was; cheap methods, vulgarising here as
everywhere, have diminished the opportunities of capable men; but a fair living
was promised the lad if he stuck to his work, and at the age of nineteen he was
already earning his pound a week. Then he was clever in a good many other ways.
He had an ear for music, played (nothing else was within his reach) the
concertina, sang a lively song with uncommon melodiousness - a gift much
appreciated at the meetings of a certain Mutual Benefit Club, to which his
father had paid a weekly subscription, without fail, through all adversities. In
the regular departments of learning Bob had never shown any particular aptitude;
he wrote and read decently, but his speech, as you have had occasion for
observing, was not marked by refinement, and for books he had no liking. His
father, unfortunately, had spoilt him, just as he had spoilt Clara. Being of the
nobly independent sex, between fifteen and sixteen he practically freed himself
from parental control. The use he made of his liberty was not altogether
pleasing to John, but the time for restraint and training had hopelessly gone
by. The lad was selfish, that there was no denying; he grudged the money
demanded of him for his support; but in other matters he always showed himself
so easy-tempered, so disposed to a genial understanding, that the great fault
had to be blinked. Many failings might have been forgiven him in consideration
of the fact that he had never yet drunk too much, and indeed cared little for
liquor.
    Men of talent, as you are aware, not seldom exhibit low tastes in their
choice of companionship. Bob was a case in point; he did not sufficiently
appreciate social distinctions. He, who wore a collar, seemed to prefer
associating with the collarless. There was Jack - more properly Jeck - Bartley,
for instance, his bosom friend until they began to cool in consequence of a
common interest in Miss Peckover. Jack never wore a collar in his life, not even
on Sundays, and was closely allied with all sorts of blackguards, who somehow
made a living on the outskirts of turf-land. And there was Eli Snape, compared
with whom Jack was a person of refinement and culture. Eli dealt surreptitiously
in dogs and rats, and the mere odour of him was intolerable to ordinary
nostrils; yet he was a species of hero in Bob's regard, such invaluable
information could he supply with regard to events in which young Hewett took a
profound interest. Perhaps a more serious aspect of Bob's disregard for social
standing was revealed in his relations with the other sex. Susceptible from his
tender youth, he showed no ambition in the bestowal of his amorous homage. At
the age of sixteen did he not declare his resolve to wed the daughter of old
Sally Budge, who went about selling watercress? and was there not a desperate
conflict at home before this project could be driven from his head? It was but
the first of many such instances. Had he been left to his own devices, he would
already, like numbers of his coevals, have been supporting (or declining to
support) a wife and two or three children. At present he was engaged to Clem
Peckover; that was an understood thing. His father did not approve it, but this
connection was undeniably better than those he had previously declared or
concealed. Bob, it seemed evident, was fated to make a mésalliance - a pity,
seeing his parts and prospects. He might have aspired to a wife who had scarcely
any difficulty with her h's; whose bringing-up enabled her to look with
compassion on girls who could not play the piano; who counted among her
relatives not one collarless individual.
    Clem, as we have seen, had already found, or imagined, cause for
dissatisfaction with her betrothed. She was well enough acquainted with Bob's
repute, and her temper made it improbable, to say the least, that the course of
wooing would in this case run very smoothly. At present, various little signs
were beginning to convince her that she had a rival, and the hints of her
rejected admirer, Jack Bartley, fixed her suspicions upon an acquaintance whom
she had hitherto regarded merely with contempt. This was Pennyloaf Candy,
formerly, with her parents, a lodger in Mrs. Peckover's house. The family had
been ousted some eighteen months ago on account of failure to pay their rent and
of the frequent intoxication of Mrs. Candy. Pennyloaf's legal name was Penelope,
which, being pronounced as a trisyllable, transformed itself by further
corruption into a sound at all events conveying some meaning. Applied in the
first instance jocosely, the title grew inseparable from her, and was the one
she herself always used. Her employment was the making of shirts for export; she
earned on an average tenpence a day, and frequently worked fifteen hours between
leaving and returning to her home. That Bob Hewett could interest himself, with
whatever motive, in a person of this description, Miss Peckover at first
declined to believe. A hint, however, was quite enough to excite her jealous
temperament; as proof accumulated, cunning and ferocity wrought in her for the
devising of such a declaration of war as should speedily scare Pennyloaf from
the field. Jane Snowdon's removal had caused her no little irritation; the hours
of evening were heavy on her hands, and this new emotion was not unwelcome as a
temporary resource.
    As he came home from work one Monday towards the end of April, Bob
encountered Pennyloaf; she had a bundle in her hands and was walking hurriedly.
    »Hallo! that you?« he exclaimed, catching her by the arm. »Where are you
going?«
    »I can't stop now. I've got some things to put away, an' it's nearly eight.«
    »Come round to the Passage to-night. Be there at ten.«
    »I can't give no promise. There's been such rows at 'ome. You know mother
summonsed father this mornin'?«
    »Yes, I've heard. All right! come if you can; I'll be there.«
    Pennyloaf hastened on. She was a meagre, hollow-eyed, bloodless girl of
seventeen, yet her features had a certain charm - that dolorous kind of
prettiness which is often enough seen in the London needle-slave. Her habitual
look was one of meaningless surprise; whatever she gazed upon seemed a source of
astonishment to her, and when she laughed, which was not very often, her eyes
grew wider than ever. Her attire was miserable, but there were signs that she
tried to keep it in order; the boots upon her feet were sewn and patched into
shapelessness; her limp straw hat had just received a new binding.
    By saying that she had things to put away, she meant that her business was
with the pawnbroker, who could not receive pledges after eight o'clock. It
wanted some ten minutes of the hour when she entered a side-doorway, and, by an
inner door, passed into one of a series of compartments constructed before the
pawnbroker's counter. She deposited her bundle, and looked about for someone to
attend to her. Two young men were in sight, both transacting business; one was
conversing facetiously with a customer on the subject of a pledge. Two or three
gas-jets lighted the interior of the shop, but the boxes were in shadow. There
was a strong musty odour; the gloom, the narrow compartments, the low tones of
conversation, suggested stealth and shame.
    Pennyloaf waited with many signs of impatience, until one of the assistants
approached, a smartly attired youth, with black hair greased into the discipline
he deemed becoming, with an aquiline nose, a coarse mouth, a large horseshoe pin
adorning his necktie, and rings on his fingers. He caught hold of the packet and
threw it open; it consisted of a petticoat and the skirt of an old dress.
    »Well, what is it?« he asked, rubbing his tongue along his upper lip before
and after speaking.
    »Three an' six, please, sir.«
    He rolled the things up again with a practised turn of the hand, and said
indifferently, glancing towards another box, »Eighteenpence.«
    »Oh, sir, we had two shillin's on the skirt not so long ago,« pleaded
Pennyloaf, with a subservient voice. »Make it two shillin's - please do, sir!«
    The young man paid no attention; he was curling his moustache and exchanging
a smile of intelligence with his counter-companion with respect to a piece of
business the latter had in hand. Of a sudden he turned and said sharply:
    »Well, are you goin' to take it or not?«
    Pennyloaf sighed and nodded.
    »Got a 'apenny?« he asked.
    »No.«
    He fetched a cloth, rolled the articles in it very tightly, and pinned them
up; then he made out ticket and duplicate, handling his pen with facile
flourish, and having blotted the little piece of card on a box of sand (a custom
which survives in this conservative profession), he threw it to the customer.
Lastly, he counted out one shilling and fivepence halfpenny. The coins were
sandy, greasy, and of scratched surface.
    Pennyloaf sped homewards. She lived in Shooter's Gardens, a picturesque
locality which demolition and rebuilding have of late transformed. It was a
winding alley, with paving raised a foot above the level of the street whence
was its main approach. To enter from the obscurer end, you descended a flight of
steps, under a low archway, in a court itself not easily discovered. From
without, only a glimpse of the Gardens was obtainable; the houses curved out of
sight after the first few yards, and left surmise to busy itself with the
characteristics of the hidden portion. A stranger bold enough to explore would
have discovered that the Gardens had a blind offshoot, known simply as The
Court. Needless to burden description with further detail; the slum was like any
other slum; filth, rottenness, evil odours, possessed these dens of superfluous
mankind and made them gruesome to the peering imagination. The inhabitants of
course felt nothing of the sort; a room in Shooter's Gardens was the only kind
of home that most of them knew or desired. The majority preferred it, on all
grounds, to that offered them in a block of model lodgings not very far away;
here was independence, that is to say, the liberty to be as vile as they
pleased. How they came to love vileness, well, that is quite another matter, and
shall not for the present concern us.
    Pennyloaf ran into the jaws of this black horror with the indifference of
habit; it had never occurred to her that the Gardens were fearful in the night's
gloom, nor even that better lighting would have been a convenience. Did it
happen that she awoke from her first sleep with the ring of ghastly shrieking in
her ears, that was an incident of too common occurrence to cause her more than a
brief curiosity; she could wait till the morning to hear who had half-killed
whom. Four days ago it was her own mother's turn to be pounded into
insensibility; her father (a journeyman baker, often working nineteen hours out
of the twenty-four, which probably did not improve his temper), maddened by his
wife's persistent drunkenness, was stopped just on the safe side of murder. To
the amazement and indignation of the Gardens, Mrs. Candy prosecuted her
sovereign lord; the case had been heard to-day, and Candy had been cast in a
fine. The money was paid, and the baker went his way, remarking that his family
were to expect him back when they saw him, Mrs, Candy, on her return, was hooted
through all the length of the Gardens, a demonstration of public feeling
probably rather of base than of worthy significance.
    As Pennyloaf drew near to the house, a wild, discordant voice suddenly broke
forth somewhere in the darkness, singing in a high key, »All ye works of the
Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!« It was Mad Jack,
who had his dwelling in the Court, and at all hours was wont to practise the
psalmody which made him notorious throughout Clerkenwell. A burst of laughter
followed from a group of men and boys gathered near the archway. Unheeding, the
girl passed in at an open door and felt her way up a staircase; the air was
noisome, notwithstanding a fierce draught which swept down the stairs. She
entered a room lighted by a small metal lamp hanging on the wall - a precaution
of Pennyloaf's own contrivance. There was no bed, but one mattress lay with a
few rags of bed-clothing spread upon it, and two others were rolled up in a
corner. This chamber accommodated, under ordinary circumstances, four persons:
Mr. and Mrs. Candy, Pennyloaf, and a son named Stephen, whose years were
eighteen. (Stephen pursued the occupation of a pot-man; his hours were from
eight in the morning till midnight on week-days, and on Sunday the time during
which a public-house is permitted to be open; once a month he was allowed
freedom after six o'clock.) Against the window was hung an old shawl pierced
with many rents. By the fire sat Mrs. Candy; she leaned forward, her head, which
was bound in linen swathes, resting upon her hands.
    »What have you got?« she asked, in the thick voice of a drunkard, without
moving.
    »Eighteenpence; it's all they'd give me.«
    The woman cursed in her throat, but exhibited no anger with Pennyloaf.
    »Go an' get some tea an' milk,« she said, after a pause. »There is sugar.
An' bring seven o' coals; there's only a dust.«
    She pointed to a deal box which stood by the hearth. Pennyloaf went out
again.
    Over the fireplace, the stained wall bore certain singular ornaments. These
were five coloured cards, such as are signed by one who takes a pledge of total
abstinence; each presented the signature, Maria Candy, and it was noticeable
that at each progressive date the handwriting had become more unsteady. Yes,
five times had Maria Candy promised, with the help of God, to abstain, etc.
etc.; each time she was in earnest. But it appeared that the help of God availed
little against the views of one Mrs. Green, who kept the beer-shop in Rosoman
Street, once Mrs. Peckover's, and who could on no account afford to lose so good
a customer. For many years that house, licensed for the sale of non-spirituous
liquors, had been working Mrs. Candy's ruin; not a particle of her frame but was
vitiated by the drugs retailed there under the approving smile of civilisation.
Spirits would have been harmless in comparison. The advantage of Mrs. Green's
ale was that the very first half-pint gave conscience its bemuddling sop; for a
penny you forgot all the cares of existence; for threepence you became a yelling
maniac.
    Poor, poor creature! She was sober to-night, sitting over the fire with her
face battered into shapelessness; and now that her fury had had its way, she
bitterly repented invoking the help of the law against her husband. What use?
what use? Perhaps he had now abandoned her for good, and it was certain that the
fear of him was the only thing that ever checked her on the ruinous road she
would so willingly have quitted. But for the harm to himself, the only pity was
he had not taken her life outright. She knew all the hatefulness of her
existence; she knew also that only the grave would rescue her from it. The
struggle was too unequal between Mrs. Candy with her appeal to Providence, and
Mrs. Green with the forces of civilisation at her back.
    Pennyloaf speedily returned with a ha'p'orth of milk, a pennyworth of tea,
and seven pounds (also price one penny) of coals in an apron. It was very seldom
indeed that the Candys had more of anything in their room than would last them
for the current day. There being no kettle, water was put on to boil in a tin
saucepan; the tea was made in a jug. Pennyloaf had always been a good girl to
her mother; she tended her as well as she could to-night; but there was no word
of affection from either. Kindly speech was stifled by the atmosphere of
Shooter's Gardens.
    Having drunk her tea, Mrs. Candy lay down, as she was, on the already
extended mattress, and drew the ragged coverings about her. In half an hour she
slept.
    Pennyloaf then put on her hat and jacket again and left the house. She
walked away from the denser regions of Clerkenwell, came to Sadler's Wells
Theatre (gloomy in its profitless recollection of the last worthy manager that
London knew), and there turned into Myddelton Passage. It is a narrow paved walk
between brick walls seven feet high; on the one hand lies the New River Head, on
the other are small gardens behind Myddelton Square. The branches of a few trees
hang over; there are doors, seemingly never opened, belonging one to each
garden; a couple of gas-lamps shed feeble light. Pennyloaf paced the length of
the Passage several times, meeting no one. Then a policeman came along with
echoing tread, and eyed her suspiciously. She had to wait more than a quarter of
an hour before Bob Hewett made his appearance. Greeting her with a nod and a
laugh, he took up a leaning position against the wall, and began to put
questions concerning the state of things at her home.
    »And what'll your mother do if the old man don't give her nothing to live
on?« he inquired, when he had listened good-naturedly to the recital of domestic
difficulties.
    »Don't know,« replied the girl, shaking her head, the habitual surprise of
her countenance becoming a blank interrogation of destiny.
    Bob kept kicking the wall, first with one heel, then with the other. He
whistled a few bars of the last song he had learnt at the music-hall.
    »Say, Penny,« he remarked at length, with something of shamefacedness,
»there's a namesake of mine here as I shan't miss, if you can do any good with
it.«
    He held a shilling towards her under his hand. Pennyloaf turned away,
casting down her eyes and looking troubled.
    »We can get on for a bit,« she said indistinctly.
    Bob returned the coin to his pocket. He whistled again for a moment, then
asked abruptly:
    »Say! have you seen Clem again?«
    »No,« replied the girl, examining him with sudden acuteness. »What about
her?«
    »Nothing much. She's got her back up a bit, that's all.«
    »About me?« Pennyloaf asked anxiously.
    Bob nodded. As he was making some further remarks on the subject, a man's
figure appeared at a little distance, and almost immediately withdrew again
round a winding of the Passage. A moment after there sounded from that direction
a shrill whistle. Bob and the girl regarded each other.
    »Who was that?« said the former suspiciously. »I half believe it was Jeck
Bartley. If Jeck is up to any of his larks, I'll make him remember it. You wait
here a minute!«
    He walked at a sharp pace towards the suspected quarter. Scarcely had he
gone half a dozen yards, when there came running from the other end of the
Passage a girl whom Pennyloaf at once recognised. It was Clem Peckover; with
some friend's assistance she had evidently tracked the couple and was now
springing out of ambush. She rushed upon Pennyloaf, who for very alarm could not
flee, and attacked her with clenched fists. A scream of terror and pain caused
Bob to turn and run back. Pennyloaf could not even ward off the blows that
descended upon her head; she was pinned against the wall, her hat was torn away,
her hair began to fly in disorder. But Bob effected a speedy rescue. He gripped
Clem's muscular arms, and forced them behind her back as if he meant to
dismember her. Even then it was with no slight effort that he restrained the
girl's fury.
    »You run off 'ome!« he shouted to Pennyloaf. »If she tries this on again,
I'll murder her!«
    Pennyloaf's hysterical cries and the frantic invectives of her assailant
made the Passage ring. Again Bob roared to the former to be off, and was at
length obeyed. When Pennyloaf was out of sight he released Clem. Her twisted
arms caused her such pain that she threw herself against the wall, mingling
maledictions with groans. Bob burst into scornful laughter.
    Clem went home vowing vengeance. In the nether world this trifling
dissension might have been expected to bear its crop of violent language and
straightway pass into oblivion; but Miss Peckover's malevolence was of no common
stamp, and the scene of to-night originated a feud which in the end concerned
many more people than those immediately interested.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                                  Pathological

Through the day and through the evening Clara Hewett had her place behind Mrs.
Tubbs's bar. For daylight wear, the dress which had formerly been her best was
deemed sufficient; it was simple, but not badly made, and became her figure. Her
evening attire was provided by Mrs. Tubbs, who recouped herself by withholding
the promised wages for a certain number of weeks. When Clara had surveyed this
garment in the bar mirror, she turned away contemptuously; the material was
cheap, the mode vulgar. It must be borne with for the present, like other
indignities which she found to be inseparable from her position. As soon as her
employer's claim was satisfied, and the weekly five shillings began to be paid,
Clara remembered the promise she had volunteered to her father. But John was
once more at work; for the present there really seemed no need to give him any
of her money, and she herself, on the other hand, lacked so many things. This
dress plainly would not be suitable for the better kind of engagement she had in
view; it behoved her first of all to have one made in accordance with her own
taste. A mantle, too, a silk umbrella, gloves - It would be unjust to herself to
share her scanty earnings with those at home.
    Yes; but you must try to understand this girl of the people, with her
unfortunate endowment of brains and defect of tenderness. That smile of hers,
which touched and fascinated and made thoughtful, had of course a significance
discoverable by study of her life and character. It was no mere affectation; she
was not conscious, in smiling, of the expression upon her face. Moreover, there
was justice in the sense of wrong discernible upon her features when the very
self looked forth from them. All through his life John Hewett had suffered from
the same impulse of revolt; less sensitively constructed than his daughter,
uncalculating, inarticulate, he fumed and fretted away his energies in a
conflict with forces ludicrously personified. In the matter of his second
marriage he was seen at his best, generously defiant of social cruelties; but
self-knowledge was denied him, and circumstances condemned his life to futility.
Clara inherited his temperament; transferred to her more complex nature, it
gained in subtlety and in power of self-direction, but lost in its nobler
elements. Her mother was a capable and ambitious woman, one in whom active
characteristics were more prominent than the emotional. With such parents, every
probability told against her patient acceptance of a lot which allowed her
faculties no scope. And the circumstances of her childhood were such as added a
peculiar bitterness to the trials waiting upon her maturity.
    Clara, you remember, had reached her eleventh year when her father's brother
died and left the legacy of which came so little profit. That was in 1873. State
education had recently made a show of establishing itself, and in the Hewetts'
world much argument was going on with reference to the new Board schools, and
their advantages or disadvantages when compared with those in which
working-folk's children had hitherto been taught. Clara went to a Church school,
and the expense was greater than the new system rendered necessary. Her father's
principles naturally favoured education on an independent basis, but a prejudice
then (and still) common among workpeople of decent habits made him hesitate
about sending his girl to sit side by side with the children of the street; and
he was confirmed by Clara's own view of the matter. She spoke with much contempt
of Board schools, and gave it to be understood that her religious convictions
would not suffer her to be taught by those who made light of orthodoxy. This
attitude was intelligible enough in a child of sharp wit and abundant
self-esteem. Notwithstanding her father's indifferentism, little Clara perceived
that a regard for religion gave her a certain distinction at home, and elsewhere
placed her apart from common girls. She was subject also to special influences:
on the one hand, from her favourite teacher, Miss Harrop; on the other, from a
school-friend, Grace Rudd.
    Miss Harrop was a good, warm-hearted woman of about thirty, one of those
unhappy persons who are made for domestic life, but condemned by fate to
school-celibacy. Lonely and impulsive, she drew to herself the most interesting
girl in her classes, and, with complete indiscretion, made a familiar, a pet, a
prodigy of one whose especial need was discipline. By her confidences and her
flatteries she set Clara aflame with spiritual pride. Ceaselessly she excited
her to ambition, remarked on her gifts, made dazzling forecast of her future.
Clara was to be a teacher first of all, but only that she might be introduced to
the notice of people who would aid her to better things. And the child came to
regard this as the course inevitably before her. Had she not already received
school-prizes, among them a much-gilded little volume for religious knowledge?
Did she not win universal applause when she recited a piece of verse on
prize-day - Miss Harrop (disastrous kindness!) even saying that the delivery
reminded her of Mrs. -, the celebrated actress!
    Grace Rudd was busy in the same fatal work. Four years older than Clara,
weakly pretty, sentimental, conceited, she had a fancy for patronising the
clever child, to the end that she might receive homage in return. Poor Grace!
She left school, spent a year or two at home with parents as foolish as herself,
and - disappeared. Prior to that, Miss Harrop had also passed out of Clara's
ken, driven by restlessness to try another school, away from London.
    These losses appeared to affect Clara unfavourably. She began to neglect her
books, to be insubordinate, to exhibit arrogance, which brought down upon her
plenty of wholesome reproof. Her father was not without a share in the
responsibility for it all. Entering upon his four hundred pounds, one of the
first things John did was to hire a piano, that his child might be taught to
play. Pity that Sidney Kirkwood could not then cry with effective emphasis, »We
are the working classes! we are the lower orders!« It was exactly what Hewett
would not bring himself to understand. What! His Clara must be robbed of chances
just because her birth was not that of a young lady? Nay, by all the
unintelligible Powers, she should enjoy every help that he could possibly afford
her. Bless her bright face and her clever tongue! Yes, it was now a settled
thing that she should be trained for a school-teacher. An atmosphere of
refinement must be made for her; she must be better dressed, more delicately
fed.
    The bitter injustice of it! In the outcome you are already instructed. Long
before Clara was anything like ready to enter upon a teacher's career, her
father's ill-luck once more darkened over the home. Clara had made no progress
since Miss Harrop's day. The authorities directing her school might have come
forward with aid of some kind, had it appeared to them that the girl would repay
such trouble; but they had their forebodings about her. Whenever she chose, she
could learn in five minutes what another girl could scarcely commit to memory in
twenty; but it was obviously for the sake of display. The teachers disliked her;
among the pupils she had no friends. So at length there came the farewell to
school and the beginning of practical life, which took the shape of learning to
stamp crests and addresses on note-paper. There was hope that before long Clara
might earn thirteen shillings a week.
    The bitter injustice of it! Clara was seventeen now, and understood the
folly of which she had been guilty a few years ago, but at the same time she
felt in her inmost heart the tyranny of a world which takes revenge for errors
that are inevitable, which misleads a helpless child and then condemns it for
being found astray. She could judge herself, yes, better than Sidney Kirkwood
could judge her. She knew her defects, knew her vices, and a feud with fate
caused her to accept them defiantly. Many a time had she sobbed out to herself,
»I wish I could neither read nor write! I wish I had never been told that there
is anything better than to work with one's hands and earn daily bread!« But she
could not renounce the claims that Nature had planted in her, that her guardians
had fostered. The better she understood how difficult was every way of
advancement, the more fiercely resolute was she to conquer satisfactions which
seemed beyond the sphere of her destiny.
    Of late she had thought much of her childish successes in reciting poetry.
It was not often that she visited a theatre (her father had always refused to
let her go with any one save himself or Sidney), but on the rare occasions when
her wish was gratified, she had watched each actress with devouring interest,
with burning envy, and had said to herself, »Couldn't I soon learn to do as well
as that? Can't I see where it might be made more lifelike? Why should it be
impossible for me to go on the stage?« In passing a shop-window where
photographs were exposed, she looked for those of actresses, and gazed at them
with terrible intensity. »I am as good-looking as she is. Why shouldn't my
portrait be seen some day in the windows?« And then her heart throbbed, smitten
with passionate desire. As she walked on there was a turbid gloom about her, and
in her ears the echoing of a dread temptation. Of all this she spoke to nobody.
    For she had no friends. A couple of years ago something like an intimacy had
sprung up between her and Bessie Jones (since married and become Bessie Byass),
seemingly on the principle of contrast in association. Bessie, like most London
workgirls, was fond of the theatre, and her talk helped to nourish the ambition
which was secretly developing in Clara. But the two could not long harmonise.
Bessie, just after her marriage, ventured to speak with friendly reproof of
Clara's behaviour to Sidney Kirkwood. Clara was not disposed to admit freedoms
of that kind; she half gave it to be understood that, though others might be
easily satisfied, she had views of her own on such subjects. Thereafter Mrs.
Byass grew decidedly cool. The other girls with whom Clara had formal
intercourse showed no desire to win her confidence; they were kept aloof by her
reticent civility.
    As for Sidney himself, it was not without reason that he had seen
encouragement in the girl's first reply to his advances. At sixteen, Clara found
it agreeable to have her good graces sought by the one man in whom she
recognised superiority of mind and purpose. Of all the unbetrothed girls she
knew not one but would have felt flattered had Kirkwood thus distinguished her.
Nothing common adhered to his demeanour, to his character; he had the look of
one who will hold his own in life; his word had the ring of truth. Of his
generosity she had innumerable proofs, and it contrasted nobly with the
selfishness of young men as she knew them; she appreciated it all the more
because her own frequent desire to be unselfish was so fruitless. Of awakening
tenderness towards him she knew nothing, but she gave him smiles and words which
might mean little or much, just for the pleasure of completing a conquest. Nor
did she, in truth, then regard it as impossible that, sooner or later, she might
become his wife. If she must marry a workman, assuredly it should be Sidney. He
thought so highly of her, he understood things in her to which the ordinary
artisan would have been dead; he had little delicacies of homage which gave her
keen pleasure. And yet - well, time enough!
    Time went very quickly, and changed both herself and Sidney in ways she
could not foresee. It was true, all he said to her in anger that night by the
prison wall - true and deserved every word of it. Even in acknowledging that,
she hardened herself against him implacably. Since he chose to take this tone
with her, to throw aside all his graceful blindness to her faults, he had only
himself to blame if she considered everything at an end between them. She tried
to believe herself glad this had happened; it relieved her from an
embarrassment, and made her absolutely free to pursue the ambitions which now
gave her no rest. For all that, she could not dismiss Sidney from her mind;
indeed, throughout the week that followed their parting, she thought of him more
persistently than for many months. That he would before long seek pardon for his
rudeness she felt certain, she felt also that such submission would gratify her
in a high degree. But the weeks were passing and no letter came; in vain she
glanced from the window of the bar at the faces which moved by. Even on Sunday,
when she went home for an hour or two, she neither saw nor heard of Kirkwood.
She could not bring herself to ask a question.
    Under any circumstances Clara would ill have borne a suspense that irritated
her pride, and at present she lived amid conditions so repugnant, that her
nerves were ceaselessly strung almost beyond endurance. Before entering upon
this engagement she had formed but an imperfect notion of what would be demanded
of her. To begin with, Mrs. Tubbs belonged to the order of women who are by
nature slave-drivers; though it was her interest to secure Clara for a
permanency, she began by exacting from the girl as much labour as could possibly
be included in their agreement. The hours were insufferably long; by nine
o'clock each evening Clara was so outworn that with difficulty she remained
standing, yet not until midnight was she released. The unchanging odours of the
place sickened her, made her head ache, and robbed her of all appetite. Many of
the duties were menial, and to perform them fevered her with indignation. Then
the mere waiting upon such men as formed the majority of the customers, vulgarly
familiar, when not insolent, in their speech to her, was hateful beyond anything
she had conceived. Had there been no one to face but her father, she would have
returned home and resumed her old occupation at the end of the first fortnight,
so extreme was her suffering in mind and body; but rather than give Sidney
Kirkwood such a triumph, she would work on, and breathe no word of what she
underwent. Even in her anger against him, the knowledge of his forgiving
disposition, of the sincerity of his love, was an unavowed support. She knew he
could not utterly desert her; when some day he sought a reconciliation, the
renewal of conflict between his pride and her own would, she felt, supply her
with new courage.
    Early one Saturday afternoon she was standing by the windows, partly from
heavy idleness of thought, partly on the chance that Kirkwood might go by, when
a young, well-dressed man, who happened to be passing at a slow walk, turned his
head and looked at her. He went on, but in a few moments Clara, who had moved
back into the shop, saw him enter and come forwards. He took a seat at the
counter and ordered a luncheon. Clara waited upon him with her customary cold
reserve, and he made no remark until she returned him change out of the coin he
offered.
    Then he said with an apologetic smile:
    »We are old acquaintances, Miss Hewett, but I'm afraid you've forgotten me.«
    Clara regarded him in astonishment. His age seemed to be something short of
thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled enigmatically, spoke in a
rather slow voice. His silk hat, sober necktie drawn through a gold ring, and
dark morning-coat, made it probable that he was in the City.
    »We used to know each other very well about five years ago,« he pursued,
pocketing his change carelessly. »Don't you remember a Mr. Scawthorne, who used
to be a lodger with some friends of yours called Rudd?«
    On the instant memory revived in Clara. In her schooldays she often spent a
Sunday afternoon with Grace Rudd, and this Mr. Scawthorne was generally at the
tea-table. Mr. and Mrs. Rudd made much of him, said that he held a most
important post in a lawyer's office, doubtless had private designs concerning
him and their daughter. Thus aided, she even recognised his features.
    »And you knew me again after all this time?«
    »Yours isn't an easy face to forget,« replied Mr. Scawthorne, with the
subdued polite smile which naturally accompanied his tone of unemotional
intimacy. »To tell you the whole truth, however, I happened to hear news of you
a few days ago. I met Grace Rudd; she told me you were here. Some old friend had
told her.«
    Grace's name awoke keen interest in Clara. She was startled to hear it, and
did not venture to make the inquiry her mind at once suggested. Mr. Scawthorne
observed her for an instant, then proceeded to satisfy her curiosity. Grace Rudd
was on the stage; she had been acting in provincial theatres under the name of
Miss Danvers, and was now waiting for a promised engagement at a minor London
theatre.
    »Do you often go to the theatre?« he added carelessly. »I have a great many
acquaintances connected with the stage in one way or another. If you would like,
I should be very glad to send you tickets now and then. I always have more given
me than I can well use.«
    Clara thanked him rather coldly, and said that she was very seldom free in
the evening. Thereupon Mr. Scawthorne again smiled, raised his hat, and
departed.
    Possibly he had some consciousness of the effect of his words, but it needed
a subtler insight, a finer imagination than his, to interpret the pale,
beautiful, harassed face which studiously avoided looking towards him as he
paused before stepping out on to the pavement. The rest of the evening, the
hours of night that followed, passed for Clara in hot tumult of heart and brain.
The news of Grace Rudd had flashed upon her as revelation of a clear possibility
where hitherto she had seen only mocking phantoms of futile desire. Grace was an
actress; no matter by what course, to this she had attained. This man,
Scawthorne, spoke of the theatrical life as one to whom all its details were
familiar; acquaintance with him of a sudden bridged over the chasm which had
seemed impassable. Would he come again to see her? Had her involuntary reserve
put an end to any interest he might have felt in her? Of him personally she
thought not at all; she could not have recalled his features; he was a mere
abstraction, the representative of a wild hope which his conversation had
inspired.
    From that day the character of her suffering was altered; it became less
womanly, it defied weakness and grew to a fever of fierce, unscrupulous
rebellion. Whenever she thought of Sidney Kirkwood, the injury he was inflicting
upon her pride rankled into bitter resentment, unsoftened by the despairing
thought of self-subdual which had at times visited her sick weariness. She bore
her degradations with the sullen indifference of one who is supported by the
hope of a future revenge. The disease inherent in her being, that deadly outcome
of social tyranny which perverts the generous elements of youth into mere seeds
of destruction, developed day by day, blighting her heart, corrupting her moral
sense, even setting marks of evil upon the beauty of her countenance. A
passionate desire of self-assertion familiarised her with projects, with ideas,
which formerly she had glanced at only to dismiss as ignoble. In proportion as
her bodily health failed, the worst possibilities of her character came into
prominence. Like a creature that is beset by unrelenting forces, she summoned
and surveyed all the crafty faculties lurking in the dark places of her nature;
theoretically she had now accepted every debasing compact by which a woman can
spite herself on the world's injustice. Self-assertion; to be no longer an
unregarded atom in the mass of those who are born only to labour for others; to
find play for the strength and the passion which, by no choice of her own,
distinguished her from the tame slave. Sometimes in the silence of night she
suffered from a dreadful need of crying aloud, of uttering her anguish in a
scream like that of insanity. She stifled it only by crushing her face into the
pillow until the hysterical fit had passed, and she lay like one dead.
    A fortnight after his first visit Mr. Scawthorne again presented himself,
polite, smiling, perhaps rather more familiar. He stayed talking for nearly an
hour, chiefly of the theatre. Casually he mentioned that Grace Rudd had got her
engagement - only a little part in a farce. Suppose Clara came to see her play
some evening? Might he take her? He could at any time have places in the
dress-circle.
    Clara accepted the invitation. She did so without consulting Mrs. Tubbs, and
when it became necessary to ask for the evening's freedom, difficulties were
made. »Very well,« said Clara, in a tone she had never yet used to her employer,
»then I shall leave you.« She spoke without a moment's reflection; something
independent of her will seemed to direct her in speech and act. Mrs. Tubbs
yielded.
    Clara had not yet been able to obtain the dress she wished for. Her savings,
however, were sufficient for the purchase of a few accessories, which made her,
she considered, not unpresentable. Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her
at a little distance from the luncheon-bar. It was now June, and at the hour of
their meeting still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance that
acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire that Sidney Kirkwood
might pass just at this moment. She noticed no one whom she knew, however; but
just as the cab was turning into Pentonville Road, Scawthorne drew her attention
to a person on the pavement.
    »You see that old fellow,« he said. »Would you believe that he is very
wealthy?«
    Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed as a
mechanic.
    »But I know him,« she replied. »His name's Snowdon.«
    »So it is. How do you come to know him?« Scawthorne inquired with interest.
    She explained.
    »Better not say anything about it,« remarked her companion. »He's an
eccentric chap. I happen to know his affairs in the way of business. I oughtn't
to have told secrets, but I can trust you.«
    A gentle emphasis on the last word, and a smile of more than usual intimacy.
But his manner was, and remained through the evening, respectful almost to
exaggeration. Clara seemed scarcely conscious of his presence, save in the act
of listening to what he said. She never met his look, never smiled. From
entering the theatre to leaving it, she had a high flush on her face. Impossible
to recognise her friend in the actress whom Scawthorne indicated; features and
voice were wholly strange to her. In the intervals, Scawthorne spoke of the
difficulties that beset an actress's career at its beginning.
    »I suppose you never thought of trying it?« he asked. »Yet I fancy you might
do well, if only you could have a few months' training, just to start you. Of
course it all depends on knowing how to go about it. A little money would be
necessary - not much.«
    Clara made no reply. On the way home she was mute. Scawthorne took leave of
her in Upper Street, and promised to look in again before long. ...
    Under the heat of these summer days, in the reeking atmosphere of the bar,
Clara panted fever-stricken. The weeks went on; what strength supported her from
the Monday morning to the Saturday midnight she could not tell. Acting and
refraining, speaking and holding silence, these things were no longer the
consequences of her own volition. She wished to break free from her slavery, but
had not the force to do so; something held her voice as often as she was about
to tell Mrs. Tubbs that this week would be the last. Her body wasted so that all
the garments she wore were loose upon her. The only mental process of which she
was capable was reviewing the misery of days just past and anticipating that of
the days to come. Her only feelings were infinite self-pity and a dull
smouldering hatred of all others in the world. A doctor would have bidden her
take to bed, as one in danger of grave illness. She bore through it without
change in her habits, and in time the strange lethargy passed.
    Scawthorne came to the bar frequently. He remarked often on her look of
suffering, and urged a holiday. At length, near the end of July, he invited her
to go up the river with him on the coming Bank-holiday. Clara consented, though
aware that her presence would be more than ever necessary at the bar on the day
of much drinking. Later in the evening she addressed her demand to Mrs. Tubbs.
It was refused.
    Without a word of anger, Clara went upstairs, prepared herself for walking,
and set forth among the by-ways of Islington. In half an hour she had found a
cheap bedroom, for which she paid a week's rent in advance. She purchased a few
articles of food and carried them to her lodging, then lay down in the darkness.
 

                                   Chapter X

                                The Last Combat

During these summer months Sidney Kirkwood's visits to the house in Clerkenwell
Close were comparatively rare. It was not his own wish to relax in any degree
the close friendship so long subsisting between the Hewetts and himself, but
from the day of Clara's engagement with Mrs. Tubbs John Hewett began to alter in
his treatment of him. At first there was nothing more than found its natural
explanation in regret of what had happened, a tendency to muteness, to troubled
brooding; but before long John made it unmistakable that the young man's
presence was irksome to him. If, on coming home, he found Sidney with Mrs.
Hewett and the children, a cold nod was the only greeting he offered; then
followed signs of ill-humour, such as Sidney could not in the end fail to
interpret as unfavourable to himself. He never heard Clara's name on her
father's lips, and himself never uttered it when John was in hearing.
    »She told him what passed between us that night,« Sidney argued inwardly.
But it was not so. Hewett had merely abandoned himself to an unreasonable
resentment. Notwithstanding his concessions, he blamed Sidney for the girl's
leaving home, and, as his mood grew more irritable, the more hopeless it seemed
that Clara would return, he nursed the suspicion of treacherous behaviour on
Sidney's part. He would not take into account any such thing as pride which
could forbid the young man to urge a rejected suit. Sidney had grown tired of
Clara, that was the truth, and gladly caught at any means of excusing himself.
He had made new friends. Mrs. Peckover reported that he was a constant visitor
at the old man Snowdon's lodgings; she expressed her belief that Snowdon had
come back from Australia with a little store of money, and if Kirkwood had
knowledge of that, would it not explain his interest in Jane Snowdon?
    »For shame to listen to such things!« cried Mrs. Hewett angrily, when her
husband once repeated the landlady's words. »I'd be ashamed of myself, John! If
you don't know him no better than that, you ought to by this time.«
    And John did, in fact, take to himself no little shame, but his unsatisfied
affection turned all the old feelings to bitterness. In spite of himself, he
blundered along the path of perversity. Sidney, too, had his promptings of
obstinate humour. When he distinctly recognised Hewett's feeling it galled him;
he was being treated with gross injustice, and temper suggested reprisals which
could answer no purpose but to torment him with self-condemnation. However, he
must needs consult his own dignity; he could not keep defending himself against
ignoble charges. For the present, there was no choice but to accept John's
hints, and hold apart as much as was possible without absolute breach of
friendly relations. Nor could he bring himself to approach Clara. It was often
in his mind to write to her; had he obeyed the voice of his desire he would have
penned such letters as only the self-abasement of a passionate lover can
dictate. But herein, too, the strain of sternness that marked his character made
its influence felt. He said to himself that the only hope of Clara's respecting
him lay in his preservation of the attitude he had adopted, and as the months
went on he found a bitter satisfaction in adhering so firmly to his purpose. The
self-flattery with which no man can dispense whispered assurance that Clara only
thought the more of him the longer he held aloof. When the end of July came, he
definitely prescribed to his patience a trial of yet one more month. Then he
would write Clara a long letter, telling her what it had cost him to keep
silence, and declaring the constancy he devoted to her.
    This resolve he registered whilst at work one morning. The triumphant
sunshine, refusing to be excluded even from London workshops, gleamed upon his
tools and on the scraps of jewellery before him; he looked up to the blue sky,
and thought with heavy heart of many a lane in Surrey and in Essex where he
might be wandering but for this ceaseless necessity of earning the week's wage.
A fly buzzed loudly against the grimy window, and by one of those associations
which time and change cannot affect, he mused himself back into boyhood. The
glimpse before him of St. John's Arch aided the revival of old impressions; his
hand ceased from its mechanical activity, and he was absorbed in a waking dream,
when a voice called to him and said that he was wanted. He went down to the
entrance, and there found Mrs. Hewett. Her coming at all was enough to signal
some disaster, and the trouble on her face caused Sidney to regard her with
silent interrogation.
    »I couldn't help comin' to you,« she began, gazing at him fixedly. »I know
you can't do anything, but I had to speak to somebody, an' I know nobody better
than you. It's about Clara.«
    »What about her?«
    »She's left Mrs. Tubbs. They had words about Bank-holiday last night, an'
Clara went off at once. Mrs. Tubbs thought she'd come 'ome, but this mornin' her
box was sent for, an' it was to be took to a house in Islington. An' then Mrs.
Tubbs came an' told me. An' there's worse than that, Sidney. She's been goin'
about to the theatre an' such places with a man as she got to know at the bar,
an' Mrs. Tubbs says she believes it's him has tempted her away.«
    She spoke the last sentences in a low voice, painfully watching their
effect.
    »And why hasn't Mrs. Tubbs spoken about this before?« Sidney asked, also in
a subdued voice, but without other show of agitation.
    »That's just what I said to her myself. The girl was in her charge, an' it
was her duty to let us know if things went wrong. But how am I to tell her
father? I dursn't do it, Sidney; for my life, I dursn't! I'd go an' see her
where she's lodging - see, I've got the address wrote down here - but I should
do more harm than good; she'd never pay any heed to me at the best of times, an'
it isn't likely she would now.«
    »Look here! If she's made no attempt to hide away, you may be quite sure
there's no truth in what Mrs. Tubbs says. They've quarrelled, and of course the
woman makes Clara as black as she can. Tell her father everything as soon as he
comes home; you've no choice.«
    Mrs. Hewett averted her face in profound dejection. Sidney learnt at length
what her desire had been in coming to him; she hoped he would see Clara and
persuade her to return home.
    »I dursn't tell her father,« she kept repeating. »But perhaps it isn't true
what Mrs. Tubbs says. Do go an' speak to her before it's too late. Say we won't
ask her to come 'ome, if only she'll let us know what she's goin' to do.«
    In the end he promised to perform this service, and to communicate the
result that evening. It was Saturday; at half-past one he left the workroom,
hastened home to prepare himself for the visit, and, without thinking of dinner,
set out to find the address Mrs. Hewett had given him. His steps were directed
to a dull street on the north of Pentonville Road; the house at which he made
inquiry was occupied by a drum-manufacturer. Miss Hewett, he learnt, was not at
home; she had gone forth two hours ago, and nothing was known of her movements.
Sidney turned away and began to walk up and down the shadowed side of the
street; there was no breath of air stirring, and from the open windows radiated
stuffy odours. A quarter of an hour sufficed to exasperate him with anxiety and
physical malaise. He suffered from his inability to do anything at once, from
conflict with himself as to whether or not it behoved him to speak with John
Hewett; of Clara he thought with anger rather than fear, for her behaviour
seemed to prove that nothing had happened save the inevitable breach with Mrs.
Tubbs. Just as he had said to himself that it was no use waiting about all the
afternoon, he saw Clara approaching. At sight of him she manifested neither
surprise nor annoyance, but came forward with eyes carelessly averted. Not
having seen her for so long, Sidney was startled by the change in her features;
her cheeks had sunk, her eyes were unnaturally dark, there was something worse
than the familiar self-will about her lips.
    »I've been waiting to see you,« he said. »Will you walk along here for a
minute or two?«
    »What do you want to say? I'm tired.«
    »Mrs. Tubbs has told your mother what has happened, and she came to me. Your
father doesn't't know yet.«
    »It's nothing to me whether he knows or not. I've left the place, that's
all, and I'm going to live here till I've got another.«
    »Why not go home?«
    »Because I don't choose to. I don't see that it concerns you, Mr. Kirkwood.«
    Their eyes met, and Sidney felt how little fitted he was to reason with the
girl, even would she consent to hear him. His mood was the wrong one; the torrid
sunshine seemed to kindle an evil fire in him, and with difficulty he kept back
words of angry unreason; he even - strangest of inconsistencies - experienced a
kind of brutal pleasure in her obvious misery. Already she was reaping the fruit
of obstinate folly. Clara read what his eyes expressed; she trembled with
responsive hostility.
    »No, it doesn't't concern me,« Sidney replied, half turning away. »But it's
perhaps as well you should know that Mrs. Tubbs is doing her best to take away
your good name. However little we are to each other, it's my duty to tell you
that, and put you on your guard. I hope your father mayn't hear these stories
before you have spoken to him yourself.«
    Clara listened with a contemptuous smile.
    »What has she been saying?«
    »I shan't repeat it.«
    As he gazed at her, the haggardness of her countenance smote like a
sword-edge through all the black humours about his heart, piercing the very core
of love and pity. He spoke in a voice of passionate appeal.
    »Clara, come home before it is too late! Come with me - now - come at once?
Thank heaven you have got out of that place! Come home, and stay there quietly
till we can find you something better.«
    »I'll die rather than go home!« was her answer, flung at him as if in
hatred. »Tell my father that, and tell him anything else you like. I want no one
to take any thought for me; and I wouldn't do as you wish, not to save my soul!«
    How often, in passing along the streets, one catches a few phrases of
discord such as this! The poor can seldom command privacy; their scenes alike of
tenderness and of anger must for the most part be enacted on the peopled ways.
It is one of their misfortunes, one of the many necessities which blunt feeling,
which balk reconciliation, which enhance the risks of dialogue at best
semi-articulate.
    Clara, having uttered the rancour which had so long poisoned her mind,
straightway crossed the street and entered the house where she was lodging. She
had just returned from making several applications for employment - futile, as
so many were likely to be, if she persevered in her search for a better place
than the last. The wages due to her for the present week she had of course
sacrificed; her purchases of clothing - essential and superfluous - had left
only a small sum out of her earnings. Food, fortunately, would cost her little;
the difficulty, indeed, was to eat anything at all.
    She was exhausted after her long walk, and the scene with Sidney had made
her tremulous. In thrusting open the windows, as soon as she entered, she broke
a pane which was already cracked; the glass cut into her palm, and blood
streamed forth. For a moment she watched the red drops falling to the floor,
then began to sob miserably, almost as a child might have done. The exertion
necessary for binding the wound seemed beyond her strength; sobbing and moaning,
she stood in the same attitude until the blood began to congeal. The tears, too,
she let dry unheeded upon her eyelashes and her cheeks; the mist with which for
a time they obscured her vision was nothing amid that cloud of misery which
blackened about her spirit as she brooded. The access of self-pity was followed,
as always, by a persistent sense of intolerable wrong, and that again by a
fierce desire to plunge herself into ruin, as though by such act she could
satiate her instincts of defiance. It is a phase of exasperated egotism common
enough in original natures frustrated by circumstance - never so pronounced as
in those who suffer from the social disease. Such mood perverts everything to
cause of bitterness. The very force of sincerity, which Clara could not but
recognise in Kirkwood's appeal, inflamed the resentment she nourished against
him; she felt that to yield would be salvation and happiness, yet yield she
might not, and upon him she visited the anger due to the evil impulses in her
own heart. He spoke of her father, and in so doing struck the only nerve in her
which conveyed an emotion of tenderness; instantly the feeling begot
self-reproach, and of self-reproach was born as quickly the harsh
self-justification with which her pride ever answered blame. She had made her
father's life even more unhappy than it need have been, and to be reminded of
that only drove her more resolutely upon the recklessness which would complete
her ingratitude.
    The afternoon wore away, the evening, a great part of the night. She ate a
few mouthfuls of bread, but could not exert herself to make tea. It would be
necessary to light a fire, and already the air of the room was stifling.
    After a night of sleeplessness, she could only lie on her bed through the
Sunday morning, wretched in a sense of abandonment. And then began to assail her
that last and subtlest of temptations, the thought that already she had taken an
irrevocable step, that an endeavour to return would only be trouble spent in
vain, that the easy course was, in truth, the only one now open to her. Mrs.
Tubbs was busy circulating calumnies; that they were nothing more than calumnies
could never be proved; all who heard them would readily enough believe. Why
should she struggle uselessly to justify herself in the eyes of people
predisposed to condemn her? Fate was busy in all that had happened during the
last two days. Why had she quitted her situation at a moment's notice? Why on
this occasion rather than fifty times previously? It was not her own doing;
something impelled her, and the same force - call it chance or destiny - would
direct the issue once more. All she could foresee was the keeping of her
appointment with Scawthorne to-morrow morning; what use to try and look further,
when assuredly a succession of circumstances impossible to calculate would in
the end constrain her? The best would be if she could sleep out the interval.
    At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated the hours
that must somehow be killed. There was sunlight in the sky, but to what purpose
should she go out? She went to the window, and surveyed the portion of street
that was visible. On the opposite pavement, at a little distance, a man was
standing; it was Sidney Kirkwood. The sight of him roused her from apathy; her
blood tingled, rushed into her cheeks and throbbed at her temples. So, for all
she had said, he was daring to act the spy! He suspected her; he was lurking to
surprise visitors, to watch her outgoing and coming in. Very well; at least he
had provided her with occupation.
    Five minutes later she saw that he had gone away. Thereupon - having in the
meantime clad herself - she left the house and walked at a quick step towards a
region of North London with which she had no acquaintance. In an hour's time she
had found another lodging, which she took by the day only. Then back again to
Islington. She told her landlady that a sudden necessity compelled her to leave;
she would have a cab and remove her box at once. There was the hazard that
Sidney might return just as she was leaving; she braved it, and in another ten
minutes was out of reach. ...
    Let his be the blame. She had warned him, and he chose to disregard her
wish. Now she had cut the last bond that fretted her, and the hours rushed on
like a storm-wind driving her whither they would.
    Her mind was relieved from the stress of conflict; despair had given place
to something that made her laugh at all the old scruples. So far from dreading
the judgments that would follow her disappearance, she felt a pride in evil
repute. Let them talk of her! If she dared everything, it would be well
understood that she had not done so without a prospect worthy of herself. If she
broke away from the obligations of a life that could never be other than poor
and commonplace, those who knew her would estimate the compensation she had
found. Sidney Kirkwood was aware of her ambitions; for his own sake he had hoped
to keep her on the low level to which she was born; now let him recognise his
folly! Some day she would present herself before him: - »Very sorry that I could
not oblige you, my dear sir, but you see that my lot was to be rather different
from that you kindly planned for me.« Let them gossip and envy!
    It was a strange night that followed. Between one and two o'clock the
heavens began to be overflashed with summer lightning; there was no thunder, no
rain. The blue gleams kept illuminating the room for more than an hour. Clara
could not lie in bed. The activity of her brain became all but delirium; along
her nerves, through all the courses of her blood, seemed to run fires which
excited her with an indescribable mingling of delight and torment. She walked to
and fro, often speaking aloud, throwing up her arms. She leaned from the open
window and let the lightning play freely upon her face: she fancied it had the
effect of restoring her wasted health. Whatever the cause, she felt stronger and
more free from pain than for many months.
    At dawn she slept. The striking of a church-clock woke her at nine, giving
her just time to dress with care and set forth to keep her appointment.
 

                                   Chapter XI

                                A Disappointment

On ordinary Sundays the Byasses breakfasted at ten o'clock; this morning the
meal was ready at eight, and Bessie's boisterous spirits declared the exception
to be of joyous significance. Finding that Samuel's repeated promises to rise
were the merest evasion, she rushed into the room where he lay fly-fretted,
dragged the pillows from under his tousled head, and so belaboured him in
schoolboy fashion that he had no choice but to leap towards his garments. In
five minutes he roared down the kitchen-stairs for shaving-water, and in five
minutes more was seated in his shirt-sleeves, consuming fried bacon with
prodigious appetite. Bessie had the twofold occupation of waiting upon him and
finishing the toilet of the baby; she talked incessantly and laughed with an
echoing shrillness which would have given a headache for the rest of the day to
any one of average nervous sensibility.
    They were going to visit Samuel's parents, who lived at Greenwich. Bessie
had not yet enjoyed an opportunity of exhibiting her first-born to the worthy
couple; she had, however, written many and long letters on the engrossing
subject, and was just a little fluttered with natural anxiety lest the infant's
appearance or demeanour should disappoint the expectations she had excited.
Samuel found his delight in foretelling the direst calamities.
    »Don't say I didn't advise you to draw it mild,« he remarked whilst
breakfasting, when Bessie had for the tenth time obliged him to look round and
give his opinion on points of costume. »Remember it was only last week you told
them that the imp had never cried since the day of his birth, and I'll bet you
three half-crowns to a bad halfpenny he roars all through tonight.«
    »Hold your tongue, Sam, or I'll throw something at you!«
    Samuel had just appeased his morning hunger, and was declaring that the day
promised to be the hottest of the year, such a day as would bring out every vice
inherent in babies, when a very light tap at the door caused Bessie to abandon
her intention of pulling his ears.
    »That's Jane,« she said. »Come in!«
    The Jane who presented herself was so strangely unlike her namesake who lay
ill at Mrs. Peckover's four months ago, that one who had not seen her in the
interval would with difficulty have recognised her. To begin with, she had grown
a little; only a little, but enough to give her the appearance of her full
thirteen years. Then her hair no longer straggled in neglect, but was brushed
very smoothly back from her forehead, and behind was plaited in a coil of
perfect neatness; one could see now that it was soft, fine, mouse-coloured hair,
such as would tempt the fingers to the lightest caress. No longer were her limbs
huddled over with a few shapeless rags; she wore a full-length dress of quiet
grey, which suited well with her hair and the pale tones of her complexion. As
for her face - oh yes, it was still the good, simple, unremarkable countenance,
with the delicate arched eyebrows, with the diffident lips, with the cheeks of
exquisite smoothness, but so sadly thin. Here too, however, a noteworthy change
was beginning to declare itself. You were no longer distressed by the shrinking
fear which used to be her constant expression; her eyes no longer reminded you
of a poor animal that has been beaten from every place where it sought rest and
no longer expects anything but a kick and a curse. Timid they were, drooping
after each brief glance, the eyes of one who has suffered and cannot but often
brood over wretched memories, who does not venture to look far forward lest some
danger may loom inevitable - meet them for an instant, however, and you saw that
lustre was reviving in their still depths, that a woman's soul had begun to
manifest itself under the shadow of those gently falling lids. A kind word, and
with what purity of silent gratitude the grey pupils responded! A merry word,
and mark if the light does not glisten on them, if the diffident lips do not
form a smile which you would not have more decided lest something of its
sweetness should be sacrificed.
    »Now come and tell me what you think about baby,« cried Bessie. »Will he do?
Don't pay any attention to my husband; he's a vulgar man!«
    Jane stepped forward.
    »I'm sure he looks very nice, Mrs. Byass.«
    »Of course he does, bless him! Sam, get your coat on, and brush your hat,
and let Miss Snowdon teach you how to behave yourself. Well, we're going to
leave the house in your care, Jane. We shall be back some time to-morrow night,
but goodness knows when. Don't you sit up for us.«
    »You know where to wire to if there's a fire breaks out in the back
kitchen,« observed Samuel facetiously. »If you hear footsteps in the passage at
half-past two to-morrow morning don't trouble to come down; wait till daylight
to see whether they've carried off the dresser.«
    Bessie screamed with laughter.
    »What a fool you are, Sam! If you don't mind, you'll be making Jane laugh.
You're sure you'll be home before dark to-morrow, Jane?«
    »Oh, quite sure. Mr. Kirkwood says there's a train gets to Liverpool Street
about seven, and grandfather thought that would suit us.«
    »You'll be here before eight then. Do see that your fire's out before you
leave. And you'll be sure to pull the door to? And see that the area-gate's
fastened.«
    »Can't you find a few more orders?« observed Samuel.
    »Hold your tongue! Jane doesn't't mind; do you, Jane? Now, Sam, are you ready?
Bless the man, if he hasn't got a great piece of bread sticking in his whiskers!
How did it get there? Off you go!«
    Jane followed them, and stood at the front door for a moment, watching them
as they departed.
    Then she went upstairs. On the first floor the doors of the two rooms stood
open, and the rooms were bare. The lodgers who had occupied this part of the
house had recently left; a card was again hanging in the window of Bessie's
parlour. Jane passed up the succeeding flight and entered the chamber which
looked out upon Hanover Street. The truckle-bed on which her grandfather slept
had been arranged for the day some two hours ago; Snowdon rose at six, and
everything was orderly in the room when Jane came to prepare breakfast an hour
later. At present the old man was sitting by the open window, smoking a pipe. He
spoke a few words with reference to the Byasses, then seemed to resume a train
of thought, and for a long time there was unbroken silence. Jane seated herself
at a table, on which were a few books and writing materials. She began to copy
something, using the pen with difficulty, and taking extreme pains. Occasionally
her eyes wandered, and once they rested upon her grandfather's face for several
minutes. But for the cry of a milkman or a paper-boy in the street, no sound
broke the quietness of the summer morning. The blessed sunshine, so rarely shed
from a London sky - sunshine, the source of all solace to mind and body -
reigned gloriously in heaven and on earth.
    When more than an hour had passed, Snowdon came and sat down beside the
girl. Without speaking she showed him what she had written. He nodded
approvingly.
    »Shall I say it to you, grandfather?«
    »Yes.«
    Jane collected her thoughts, then began to repeat the parable of the
Samaritan. From the first words it was evident that she frequently thus
delivered passages committed to memory; evident, too, that instruction and a
natural good sense guarded her against the gabbling method of recitation. When
she had finished Snowdon spoke with her for awhile on the subject of the story.
In all he said there was the earnestness of deep personal feeling. His theme was
the virtue of Compassion; he appeared to rate it above all other forms of moral
goodness, to regard it as the saving principle of human life.
    »If only we had pity on one another, all the worst things we suffer from in
this world would be at an end. It's because men's hearts are hard that life is
so full of misery. If we could only learn to be kind and gentle and forgiving -
never mind anything else. We act as if we were all each other's enemies; we
can't be merciful, because we expect no mercy; we struggle to get as much as we
can for ourselves and care nothing for others. Think about it; never let it go
out of your mind. Perhaps some day it'll help you in your own life.«
    Then there was silence again. Snowdon went back to his seat by the window
and relit his pipe; to muse in the sunshine seemed sufficient occupation for
him. Jane opened another book and read to herself.
    In the afternoon they went out together. The old man had grown more
talkative. He passed cheerfully from subject to subject, now telling a story of
his experiences abroad, now reviving recollections of London as he had known it
sixty years ago. Jane listened with quiet interest. She did not say much
herself, and when she did speak it was with a noticeable effort to overcome her
habit of diffidence. She was happy, but her nature had yet to develop itself
under these strangely novel conditions.
    A little before sunset there came a knocking at the house-door. Jane went
down to open, and found that the visitor was Sidney Kirkwood. The joyful look
with which she recognised him changed almost in the same moment; his face wore
an expression that alarmed her; it was stern, hard-set in trouble, and his smile
could not disguise the truth. Without speaking, he walked upstairs and entered
Snowdon's room. To Sidney there was always something peculiarly impressive in
the first view of this quiet chamber; simple as were its appointments, it
produced a sense of remoteness from the common conditions of life. Invariably he
subdued his voice when conversing here. A few flowers such as can be bought in
the street generally diffused a slight scent through the air, making another
peculiarity which had its effect on Sidney's imagination. When Jane moved about,
it was with a soundless step; if she placed a chair or arranged things on the
table, it was as if with careful avoidance of the least noise. When his thoughts
turned hitherwards, Sidney always pictured the old man sitting in his familiar
mood of reverie, and Jane, in like silence, bending over a book at the table.
Peace, the thing most difficult to find in the world that Sidney knew, had here
made itself a dwelling.
    He shook hands with Snowdon and seated himself. A few friendly words were
spoken, and the old man referred to an excursion they had agreed to make
together on the morrow, the general holiday.
    »I'm very sorry,« replied Kirkwood, »but it'll be impossible for me to go.«
    Jane was standing near him; her countenance fell, expressing uttermost
disappointment.
    »Something has happened,« pursued Sidney, »that won't let me go away, even
for a few hours. I don't mean to say that it would really prevent me, but I
should be so uneasy in my mind all the time that I couldn't enjoy myself, and I
should only spoil your pleasure. Of course you'll go just the game?«
    Snowdon reassured him on this point. Jane had just been about to lay supper;
she continued her task, and Sidney made a show of sharing the meal. Soon after,
as if conscious that Sidney would speak with more freedom of his trouble but for
her presence, Jane bade them good-night and went to her own room. There ensued a
break in the conversation; then Kirkwood said, with the abruptness of one who is
broaching a difficult subject:
    »I should like to tell you what it is that's going wrong with me. I don't
think anyone's advice would be the least good, but it's a miserable affair, and
I shall feel better for speaking about it.«
    Snowdon regarded him with eyes of calm sympathy. There is a look of helpful
attention peculiar to the faces of some who have known much suffering; in this
instance, the grave force of character which at all times made the countenance
impressive heightened the effect of its gentleness. In external matters, the two
men knew little more of each other now than after their first meeting, but the
spiritual alliance between them had strengthened with every conversation. Each
understood the other's outlook upon problems of life, which are not commonly
discussed in the top rooms of lodging-houses; they felt and thought differently
at times, but in essentials they were at one, and it was the first time that
either had found such fruitful companionship.
    »Did you hear anything from the Peckovers of Clara Hewett?« Sidney began by
asking.
    »Not from them. Jane has often spoken of her.«
    Sidney again hesitated, then, from a fragmentary beginning, passed into a
detailed account of his relations with Clara. The girl herself, had she
overheard him, could not have found fault with the way in which the story was
narrated. He represented his love as from the first without response which could
give him serious hope; her faults he dealt with not as characteristics to be
condemned, but as evidences of suffering, the outcome of cruel conditions. Her
engagement at the luncheon-bar he spoke of as a detestable slavery, which had
wasted her health and driven her in the end to an act of desperation. What now
could be done to aid her? John Hewett was still in ignorance of the step she had
taken, and Sidney described himself as distracted by conflict between what he
felt to be his duty, and fear of what might happen if he invoked Hewett's
authority. At intervals through the day he had been going backwards and forwards
in the street where Clara had her lodging. He did not think she would seek to
escape from her friends altogether, but her character and circumstances made it
perilous for her to live thus alone.
    »What does she really wish for?« inquired Snowdon, when there had been a
short silence.
    »She doesn't't know, poor girl! Everything in the life she has been living is
hateful to her - everything since she left school. She can't rest in the
position to which she was born; she aims at an impossible change of
circumstances. It comes from her father; she can't help rebelling against what
seem to her unjust restraints. But what's to come of it? She may perhaps get a
place in a large restaurant - and what does that mean?«
    He broke off, but in a moment resumed even more passionately:
    »What a vile, cursed world this is, where you may see men and women perish
before your eyes, and no more chance of saving them than if they were going down
in mid-ocean! She's only a child - only just seventeen - and already she's gone
through a lifetime of miseries. And I, like a fool, I've often been angry with
her; I was angry yesterday. How can she help her nature? How can we any of us
help what we're driven to in a world like this? Clara isn't made to be one of
those who slave to keep themselves alive. Just a chance of birth! Suppose she'd
been the daughter of a rich man; then everything we now call a fault in her
would either have been of no account or actually a virtue. Just because we
haven't money we may go to perdition, and comfortable people tell us we've only
ourselves to blame. Put them in our place!«
    Snowdon's face had gone through various changes as Sidney flung out his
vehement words. When he spoke, it was in a tone of some severity.
    »Has she no natural affection for her father? Does she care nothing for what
trouble she brings him?«
    Sidney did not reply at once; as he was about to speak, Snowdon bent forward
suddenly and touched his arm.
    »Let me see her. Let me send Jane to her to-morrow morning, and ask her to
come here. I might - I can't say - but I might do some good.«
    To this Sidney gave willing assent, but without sanguine expectation. In
further talk it was agreed between them that, if this step had no result, John
Hewett ought to be immediately informed of the state of things.
    This was at ten o'clock on Sunday evening. So do we play our tragi-comedies
in the eye of fate.
    The mention of Jane led to a brief conversation regarding her before Sidney
took his leave. Since her recovery she had been going regularly to school, to
make up for the time of which she had been defrauded by Mrs. Peckover. Her
grandfather's proposal was, that she should continue thus for another six
months, after which, he said, it would be time for her to learn a business. Mrs.
Byass had suggested the choice of artificial-flower making, to which she herself
had been brought up; possibly that would do as well as anything else.
    »I suppose so,« was Sidney's reluctant acquiescence. »Or as ill as anything
else, would be a better way to put it.«
    Snowdon regarded him with unusual fixedness, and seemed on the point of
making some significant remark; but immediately his face expressed change of
purpose, and he said, without emphasis:
    »Jane must be able to earn her own living.«
    Sidney, before going home, walked round to the street in which he had
already lingered several times to-day, and where yesterday he had spoken with
Clara. The windows of the house he gazed at were dark.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                                »Io Saturnalia!«

So at length came Monday, the first Monday in August, a day gravely set apart
for the repose and recreation of multitudes who neither know how to rest nor how
to refresh themselves with pastime. To-day will the slaves of industrialism don
the pileus. It is high summertide. With joy does the awaking publican look forth
upon the blue-misty heavens, and address his adorations to the Sun-god, inspirer
of thirst. Throw wide the doors of the temple of Alcohol! Behold, we come in our
thousands, jingling the coins that shall purchase us this one day of tragical
mirth. Before us is the dark and dreary autumn; it is a far cry to the foggy
joys of Christmas. Io Saturnalia!
    For certain friends of ours this morning brought an event of importance. At
a church in Clerkenwell were joined together in holy matrimony Robert Hewett and
Penelope (otherwise Pennyloaf) Candy, the former aged nineteen, the latter less
than that by nearly three years. John Hewett would have nothing to do with an
alliance so disreputable; Mrs. Hewett had in vain besought her stepson not to
marry so unworthily. Even as a young man of good birth has been known to enjoy a
subtle self-flattery in the thought that he graciously bestows his name upon a
maiden who, to all intents and purposes, may be said never to have been born at
all, so did Bob Hewett feel when he put a ring upon the scrubby finger of
Pennyloaf. Proudly conscious was Bob that he had married beneath him - conscious
also that Clem Peckover was gnawing her lips in rage.
    Mrs. Candy was still sober at the hour of the ceremony. Her husband, not a
bad fellow in his way, had long since returned to her, and as yet had not done
more than threaten a repetition of his assault. Both were present at church. A
week ago Bob had established himself in a room in Shooter's Gardens, henceforth
to be shared with him by his bride. Probably he might have discovered a more
inviting abode for the early days of married life, but Bob had something of the
artist's temperament and could not trouble about practical details; for the
present this room would do as well as another. It was cheap, and he had need of
all the money he could save from everyday expenses. Pennyloaf would go on with
her shirt-making, of course, and all they wanted was a roof over their heads at
night.
    And in truth he was fond of Pennyloaf. The poor little slave worshipped him
so sincerely; she repaid his affectionate words with such fervent gratitude; and
there was no denying that she had rather a pretty face, which had attracted him
from the first. But above all, this preference accorded to so humble a rival had
set Clem Peckover beside herself. It was all very well for Clem to make pretence
of having transferred her affections to Jack Bartley. Why, Suke Jollop
(ostensibly Clem's bosom friend, but treacherous at times because she had
herself given an eye to Jack) - Suke Jollop reported that Clem would have killed
Pennyloaf had she dared. Pennyloaf had been going about in fear for her life
since that attack upon her in Myddelton Passage. »I dursn't marry you, Bob! I
dursn't!« she kept saying, when the proposal was first made. But Bob laughed
with contemptuous defiance. He carried his point, and now he was going to spend
his wedding-day at the Crystal Palace - choosing that resort because he knew
Clem would be there, and Jack Bartley, and Suke Jollop, and many another
acquaintance, before whom he was resolved to make display of magnanimity.
    Pennyloaf shone in most unwonted apparel. Everything was new except her
boots - it had been decided that these only needed soleing. Her broad-brimmed
hat of yellow straw was graced with the reddest feather purchasable in the City
Road; she had a dolman of most fashionable cut, blue, lustrous; blue likewise
was her dress, hung about with bows and streamers. And the gleaming ring on the
scrubby small finger! On that hand most assuredly Pennyloaf would wear no glove.
How proud she was of her ring! How she turned it round and round when nobody was
looking! Gold, Pennyloaf, real gold! The pawnbroker would lend her
seven-and-sixpence on it, any time.
    At Holborn Viaduct there was a perpetual rush of people for the trains to
the Paliss. As soon as a train was full, off it went, and another long string of
empty carriages drew up in its place. No distinction between classes to-day; get
in where you like, where you can. Positively, Pennyloaf found herself seated in
a first-class carriage; she would have been awe-struck, but that Bob flung
himself back on the cushions with such an easy air, and nodded laughingly at
her. Among their companions was a youth with a concertina; as soon as the train
moved he burst into melody. It was the natural invitation to song, and all
joined in the latest ditties learnt at the music-hall. Away they sped, over the
roofs of South London, about them the universal glare of sunlight, the carriage
dense with tobacco-smoke. Ho for the bottle of muddy ale, passed round in genial
fellowship from mouth to mouth! Pennyloaf would not drink of it; she had a dread
of all such bottles. In her heart she rejoiced that Bob knew no craving for
strong liquor. Towards the end of the journey the young man with the concertina
passed round his hat.
    Clem Peckover had come by the same train; she was one of a large party which
had followed close behind Bob and Pennyloaf to the railway station. Now they
followed along the long corridors into the Paliss, with many a loud expression
of mockery, with hee-hawing laughter, with coarse jokes. Depend upon it, Clem
was gorgeously arrayed; amid her satellites she swept on like a stately ship of
Tarsus, bound for the isles of Javan or Gadire; her face was aflame, her eyes
flashed in enjoyment of the uproar. Jack Bartley wore a high hat - Bob never had
owned one in his life - and about his neck was a tie of crimson; yellow was his
waistcoat, even such a waistcoat as you may see in Pall Mall, and his
walking-stick had a nigger's head for handle. He was the oracle of the maidens
around him; every moment the appeal was to »Jeck! Jeck!« Suke Jollop, who would
in reality have preferred to accompany Bob and his allies, whispered it about
that Jack had two-pound-ten in his pocket, and was going to spend every penny of
it before he left the Paliss - yes, »every bloomin' penny!«
    Thus early in the day, the grounds were of course preferred to the interior
of the glass house. Bob and Pennyloaf bent their steps to the fair. Here already
was gathered much goodly company; above their heads hung a thick white wavering
cloud of dust. Swing-boats and merry-go-rounds are from of old the chief
features of these rural festivities; they soared and dipped and circled to the
joyous music of organs which played the same tune automatically for any number
of hours, whilst raucous voices invited all and sundry to take their turn.
Should this delight pall, behold on every hand such sports as are dearest to the
Briton, those which call for strength of sinew and exactitude of aim. The
philosophic mind would have noted with interest how ingeniously these games were
made to appeal to the patriotism of the throng. Did you choose to shy sticks in
the contest for cocoa-nuts, behold your object was a wooden model of the
treacherous Afghan or the base African. If you took up the mallet to smite upon
a spring and make proof of how far you could send a ball flying upwards, your
blow descended upon the head of some other recent foeman. Try your fist at the
indicator of muscularity, and with zeal you smote full in the stomach of a guy
made to represent a Russian. If you essayed the pop-gun, the mark set you was on
the flank of a wooden donkey, so contrived that it would kick when hit in the
true spot. What a joy to observe the tendency of all these diversions! How
characteristic of a high-spirited people that nowhere could be found any
amusement appealing to the mere mind, or calculated to effeminate by encouraging
a love of beauty.
    Bob had a sovereign to get rid of. He shied for cocoa-nuts, he swung in the
boat with Pennyloaf, he rode with her on the whirligigs. When they were choked,
and whitened from head to foot, with dust, it was natural to seek the nearest
refreshment-booth. Bob had some half-dozen male and female acquaintances
clustered about him by now; of course he must celebrate the occasion by
entertaining all of them. Consumed with thirst, he began to drink without
counting the glasses. Pennyloaf plucked at his eldow, but Bob was beginning to
feel that he must display spirit. Because he was married, that was no reason for
his relinquishing the claims to leadership in gallantry which had always been
recognised. Hollo! Here was Suke Jollop! She had just quarrelled with Clem, and
had been searching for the hostile camp. »Have a drink, Suke!« cried Bob, when
he heard her acrimonious charges against Clem and Jack. A pretty girl, Suke, and
with a hat which made itself proudly manifest a quarter of a mile away. Drink!
of course she would drink; that thirsty she could almost drop! Bob enjoyed this
secession from the enemy. He knew Suke's old fondness for him, and began to play
upon it. Elated with beer and vanity, he no longer paid the least attention to
Pennyloaf's remonstrances; nay, he at length bade her hold her bloomin' row!
Pennyloaf had a tear in her eye; she looked fiercely at Miss Jollop.
    The day wore on. For utter weariness Pennyloaf was constrained to beg that
they might go into the Paliss and find a shadowed seat. Her tone revived
tenderness in Bob; again he became gracious, devoted; he promised that not
another glass of beer should pass his lips, and Suke Jollop, with all her like,
might go to perdition. But heavens! how sweltering it was under this glass
canopy! How the dust rose from the trampled boards! Come, let's have tea. The
programme says there'll be a military band playing presently, and we shall
return refreshed to hear it.
    So they made their way to the Shilling Tea-room. Having paid at the
entrance, they were admitted to feed freely on all that lay before them. With
difficulty could a seat be found in the huge room; the uproar of voices was
deafening. On the tables lay bread, butter, cake in hunches, tea-pots,
milk-jugs, sugar-basins - all things to whomso could secure them in the
conflict. Along the gangways coursed perspiring waiters, heaping up giant
structures of used plates and cups, distributing clean utensils, and
miraculously sharp in securing the gratuity expected from each guest as he rose
satiate. Muscular men in aprons wheeled hither the supplies of steaming fluid in
immense cans on heavy trucks. Here practical joking found the most graceful of
opportunities, whether it were the deft direction of a piece of cake at the nose
of a person sitting opposite, or the emptying of a saucer down your neighbour's
back, or the ingenious jogging of an arm which was in the act of raising a full
tea-cup. Now and then an ill-conditioned fellow, whose beer disagreed with him,
would resent some piece of elegant trifling, and the waiters would find it
needful to request gentlemen not to fight until they had left the room. These
cases, however, were exceptional. On the whole there reigned a spirit of
imbecile joviality. Shrieks of female laughter testified to the success of the
entertainment.
    As Bob and his companion quitted this sphere of delight, ill-luck brought it
to pass that Mr. Jack Bartley and his train were on the point of entering. Jack
uttered a phrase of stinging sarcasm with reference to Pennyloaf's red feather;
whereupon Bob smote him exactly between the eyes. Yells arose; there was a
scuffle, a rush, a tumult. The two were separated before further harm came of
the little misunderstanding, but Jack went to the tea-tables vowing vengeance.
    Poor Pennyloaf shed tears as Bob led her to the place where the band had
begun playing. Only her husband's anger prevented her from yielding to utter
misery. But now they had come to the centre of the building, and by dint of much
struggle in the crowd they obtained a standing whence they could see the vast
amphitheatre, filled with thousands of faces. Here at length was quietness,
intermission of folly and brutality. Bob became another man as he stood and
listened. He looked with kindness into Pennyloaf's pale, weary face, and his arm
stole about her waist to support her. Ha! Pennyloaf was happy! The last trace of
tears vanished. She too was sensible of the influences of music; her heart
throbbed as she let herself lean against her husband.
    Well, as every one must needs have his panacea for the ills of society, let
me inform you of mine. To humanise the multitude two things are necessary - two
things of the simplest kind conceivable. In the first place, you must effect an
entire change of economic conditions: a preliminary step of which every tyro
will recognise the easiness; then you must bring to bear on the new order of
things the constant influence of music. Does not the prescription recommend
itself? It is jesting in earnest. For, work as you will, there is no chance of a
new and better world until the old be utterly destroyed. Destroy, sweep away,
prepare the ground; then shall music the holy, music the civiliser, breathe over
the renewed earth, and with Orphean magic raise in perfected beauty the towers
of the City of Man.
    Hours yet before the fireworks begin. Never mind; here by good luck we find
seats where we can watch the throng passing and repassing. It is a great review
of the People. On the whole how respectable they are, how sober, how deadly
dull! See how worn-out the poor girls are becoming, how they gape, what listless
eyes most of them have! The stoop in the shoulders so universal among them
merely means over-toil in the workroom. Not one in a thousand shows the elements
of taste in dress; vulgarity and worse glares in all but every costume. Observe
the middle-aged women; it would be small surprise that their good looks had
vanished, but whence comes it they are animal, repulsive, absolutely vicious in
ugliness? Mark the men in their turn: four in every six have visages so deformed
by ill-health that they excite disgust; their hair is cut down to within half an
inch of the scalp; their legs are twisted out of shape by evil conditions of
life from birth upwards. Whenever a youth and a girl come along arm-in-arm, how
flagrantly shows the man's coarseness! They are pretty, so many of these girls,
delicate of feature, graceful did but their slavery allow them natural
development; and the heart sinks as one sees them side by side with the men who
are to be their husbands.
    One of the livelier groups is surging hitherwards; here we have frolic, here
we have humour. The young man who leads them has been going about all day with
the lining of his hat turned down over his forehead; for the thousandth time
those girls are screaming with laughter at the sight of him. Ha, ha! He has
slipped and fallen upon the floor, and makes an obstruction; his companions
treat him like a horse that is down in the street. »Look out for his 'eels!«
cries one; and another, »Sit on his 'ed!« If this doesn't't come to an end we
shall die of laughter. Lo! one of the funniest of the party is wearing a
gigantic cardboard nose and flame-coloured whiskers. There, the stumbler is on
his feet again. »'Ere he comes up smilin'!« cries his friend of the cardboard
nose, and we shake our diaphragms with mirth. One of the party is an unusually
tall man. »When are you comin' down to have a look at us?« cries a pert lass as
she skips by him.
    A great review of the People. Since man came into being did the world ever
exhibit a sadder spectacle?
    Evening advances; the great ugly building will presently be lighted with
innumerable lamps. Away to the west yonder the heavens are afire with sunset,
but at that we do not care to look; never in our lives did we regard it. We know
not what is meant by beauty or grandeur. Here under the glass roof stand white
forms of undraped men and women - casts of antique statues - but we care as
little for the glory of art as for that of nature; we have a vague feeling that,
for some reason or other, antiquity excuses the indecent, but further than that
we do not get.
    As the dusk descends there is a general setting of the throng towards the
open air; all the pathways swarm with groups which have a tendency to
disintegrate into couples; universal is the protecting arm. Belief from the
sweltering atmosphere of the hours of sunshine causes a revival of hilarity;
those who have hitherto only bemused themselves with liquor now pass into the
stage of jovial recklessness, and others, determined to prolong a flagging
merriment, begin to depend upon their companions for guidance. On the terraces
dancing has commenced; the players of violins, concertinas, and penny-whistles
do a brisk trade among the groups eager for a rough-and-tumble valse; so do the
pickpockets. Vigorous and varied is the jollity that occupies the external
galleries, filling now in expectation of the fireworks; indescribable the
mingled tumult that roars heavenwards. Girls linked by the half-dozen arm-in-arm
leap along with shrieks like grotesque mænads; a rougher horseplay finds favour
among the youths, occasionally leading to fisticuffs. Thick voices bellow in
fragmentary chorus; from every side comes the yell, the cat-call, the
ear-rending whistle; and as the bass, the never-ceasing accompaniment, sounds
myriad-footed tramp, tramp along the wooden flooring. A fight, a scene of
bestial drunkenness, a tender whispering between two lovers, proceed
concurrently in a space of five square yards. - Above them glimmers the dawn of
starlight.
    For perhaps the first time in his life Bob Hewett has drunk more than he can
well carry. To Pennyloaf's remonstrances he answers more and more impatiently:
»Why does she talk like a bloomin' fool? - one doesn't't get married every day.«
He is on the look-out for Jack Bartley now; only let him meet Jack, and it shall
be seen who is the better man. Pennyloaf rejoices that the hostile party are
nowhere discoverable. She is persuaded to join in a dance, though every moment
it seems to her that she must sink to the ground in uttermost exhaustion.
Naturally she does not dance with sufficient liveliness to please Bob; he seizes
another girl, a stranger, and whirls round the six-foot circle with a laugh of
triumph. Pennyloaf's misery is relieved by the beginning of the fireworks. Up
shoot the rockets, and all the reeking multitude utters a huge Oh of idiot
admiration.
    Now at length must we think of tearing ourselves away from these delights.
Already the more prudent people are hurrying to the railway, knowing by dire
experience what it means to linger until the last cargoes. Pennyloaf has hard
work to get her husband as far as the station; Bob is not quite steady upon his
feet, and the hustling of the crowd perpetually excites him to bellicose
challenges. They reach the platform somehow; they stand wedged amid a throng
which roars persistently as a substitute for the activity of limb now become
impossible. A train is drawing up slowly; the danger is lest people in the front
row should be pushed over the edge of the platform, but porters exert themselves
with success. A rush, a tumble, curses, blows, laughter, screams of pain - and
we are in a carriage. Pennyloaf has to be dragged up from under the seat, and
all her indignation cannot free her from the jovial embrace of a man who insists
that there is plenty of room on his knee. Off we go! It is a long third-class
coach, and already five or six musical instruments have struck up. We smoke and
sing at the same time; we quarrel and make love - the latter in somewhat
primitive fashion; we roll about with the rolling of the train; we nod into
hoggish sleep.
    The platform at Holborn Viaduct; and there, to Pennyloaf's terror, it is
seen that Clem Peckover and her satellites have come by the same train. She does
her best to get Bob quickly away, but Clem keeps close in their neighbourhood.
Just as they issue from the station Pennyloaf feels herself bespattered from
head to foot with some kind of fluid; turning, she is aware that all her enemies
have squirts in their hands, and are preparing for a second discharge of filthy
water. Anguish for the ruin of her dress overcomes all other fear; she calls
upon Bob to defend her.
    But an immediate conflict was not Jack Bartley's intention. He and those
with him made off at a run, Bob pursuing as closely as his unsteadiness would
permit. In this way they all traversed the short distance to Clerkenwell Green,
either party echoing the other's objurgations along the thinly-peopled streets.
At length arrived the suitable moment. Near St. James's Church Jack Bartley made
a stand, and defied his enemy to come on. Bob responded with furious eagerness;
amid a press of delighted spectators, swelled by people just turned out of the
public-houses, the two lads fought like wild animals. Nor were they the only
combatants. Exasperated by the certainty that her hat and dolman were ruined,
Pennyloaf flew with erected nails at Clem Peckover. It was just what the latter
desired. In an instant she had rent half Pennyloaf's garments off her back, and
was tearing her face till the blood streamed. Inconsolable was the grief of the
crowd when a couple of stalwart policemen came hustling forward, thrusting to
left and right, irresistibly clearing the corner. There was no question of
making arrests; it was the night of Bank- and the capacity of police-cells is
limited. Enough that the fight perforce came to an end. Amid frenzied blasphemy
Bob and Jack went their several ways; so did Clem and Pennyloaf.
    Poor Pennyloaf! Arrived at Shooter's Gardens, and having groped her way
blindly up to the black hole which was her wedding-chamber, she just managed to
light a candle, then sank down upon the bare floor and wept. You could not have
recognised her; her pretty face was all blood and dirt. She held in her hand the
fragment of a hat, and her dolman had disappeared. Her husband was not in much
better plight; his waistcoat and shirt were rent open, his coat was
filth-smeared, and it seemed likely that he had lost the sight of one eye.
Sitting there in drunken lassitude, he breathed nothing but threats of future
vengeance.
    An hour later noises of a familiar kind sounded beneath the window. A
woman's voice was raised in the fury of mad drunkenness, and a man answered her
with threats and blows.
    »That's mother,« sobbed Pennyloaf. »I knew she wouldn't get over to-day. She
never did get over a Bank-holiday.«
    Mrs. Candy had taken the pledge when her husband consented to return and
live with her. Unfortunately she did not at the same time transfer herself to a
country where there are no beer-shops and no Bank-holidays. Short of such
decisive change, what hope for her?
    Bob was already asleep, breathing stertorously. As for Pennyloaf, she was so
overwearied that hours passed before oblivion fell upon her aching eyelids. She
was thinking all the time that on the morrow it would be necessary to pawn her
wedding-ring.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

                            The Bringer of Ill News

Knowing the likelihood that Clara Hewett would go from home for Bank-holiday,
Sidney made it his request before he left Hanover Street on Sunday night that
Jane might be despatched on her errand at an early hour next morning. At eight
o'clock, accordingly, Snowdon went forth with his granddaughter, and, having
discovered the street to which Sidney had directed him, he waited at a distance
whilst Jane went to make her inquiries. In a few minutes the girl rejoined him.
    »Miss Hewett has gone away,« she reported.
    »To spend the day, do you mean?« was Snowdon's troubled question.
    »No, she has left the house. She went yesterday, in the afternoon. It was
very sudden, the landlady says, and she doesn't't know where she's gone to.«
    Jane had no understanding of what her information implied; seeing that it
was received as grave news, she stood regarding her grandfather anxiously.
Though Clara had passed out of her world since those first days of illness, Jane
held her in a memory which knew no motive of retention so strong as gratitude.
The thought of harm or sorrow coming upon her protector had a twofold
painfulness. Instantly she divined that Clara was in some way the cause of
Sidney Kirkwood's inability to go into the country to-day. For a long time the
two had been closely linked in her reflections; Mrs. Peckover and Clem used
constantly to exchange remarks which made this inevitable. But not until now had
Jane really felt the significance of the bond. Of a sudden she had a throbbing
at her heart, and a confusion of mind which would not allow her to pursue the
direct train of thought naturally provoked by the visit she had just paid. A
turbid flood of ideas, of vague surmises, of apprehensions, of forecasts, swept
across her consciousness. The blood forsook her cheeks. But that the old man
began to move away, she could have remained thus for many minutes, struggling
with that new, half-understood thing which was taking possession of her life.
    The disappointment of the day was no longer simple, and such as a child
experiences. Nor ever from this hour onwards would Jane regard things as she had
been wont to do, with the simple feelings of childhood.
    Snowdon walked on in silence until the street they had visited was far
behind them. Jane was accustomed to his long fits of musing, but now she with
difficulty refrained from questioning him. He said at length:
    »Jane, I'm afraid we shall have to give up our day in the country.«
    She assented readily, gladly; all the joy had gone out of the proposed
excursion, and she wished now to be by herself in quietness.
    »I think I'll let you go home alone,« Snowdon continued. »I want to see Mr.
Kirkwood, and I dare say I shall find him in, if I walk on at once.«
    They went in different directions, and Snowdon made what speed he could to
Tysoe Street. Sidney had already been out, walking restlessly and aimlessly for
two or three hours. The news he now heard was the half-incredible fulfilment of
a dread that had been torturing him through the night. No calamity is so
difficult to realise when it befalls as one which has haunted us in imagination.
    »That means nothing!« he exclaimed, as if resentfully. »She was dissatisfied
with the lodging, that's all. Perhaps she's already got a place. I dare say
there's a note from her at home this morning.«
    »Shall you go and see if there is?« asked Snowdon, allowing, as usual, a
moment's silence to intervene.
    Sidney hesitated, avoiding the other's look.
    »I shall go to that house first of all, I think. Of course I shall hear no
more than they told Jane; but -«
    He took a deep breath.
    »Yes, go there,« said Snowdon; »but afterwards go to the Hewetts'. If she
hasn't written to them, or let them have news of any kind, her father oughtn't
to be kept in ignorance for another hour.«
    »He ought to have been told before this,« replied Sidney in a thick
under-voice. »He ought to have been told on Saturday. And the blame'll be mine.«
    It is an experience familiar to impulsive and self-confident men that a
moment's crisis may render scarcely intelligible a mode of thought or course of
action which till then one had deemed perfectly rational. Sidney, hopeless in
spite of the pretences he made, stood aghast at the responsibility he had taken
upon himself. It was so obvious to him now that he ought to have communicated to
John Hewett without loss of time the news which Mrs. Hewett brought on Saturday
morning. But could he be sure that John was still in ignorance of Clara's
movements? Was it not all but certain that Mrs. Hewett must have broken the news
before this? If not, there lay before him a terrible duty.
    The two went forth together, and another visit was paid to the
lodging-house. After that Sidney called upon Mrs. Tubbs, and made a simple
inquiry for Clara, with the anticipated result.
    »You won't find her in this part of London, it's my belief,« said the woman
significantly. »She's left the lodgings as she took - so much I know. Never
meant to stay there, not she! You're a friend of her father's, mister?«
    Sidney could not trust himself to make a reply. He rejoined Snowdon at a
little distance, and expressed his intention of going at once to Clerkenwell
Close.
    »Let me see you again to-day,« said the old man sadly.
    Sidney promised, and they took leave of each other. It was now nearing ten
o'clock. In the Close an organ was giving delight to a great crowd of children,
some of them wearing holiday garb, but most clad in the native rags which served
them for all seasons and all days. The volume of clanging melody fell with
torture upon Kirkwood's ear, and when he saw that the instrument was immediately
before Mrs. Peckover's house, he stood aside in gloomy impatience, waiting till
it should move away. This happened in a few minutes. The house door being open,
he walked straight upstairs.
    On the landing he confronted Mrs. Hewett; she started on seeing him, and
whispered a question. The exchange of a few words apprised Sidney that Hewett
did not even know of Clara's having quitted Mrs. Tubbs'.
    »Then I must tell him everything,« he said. To put the task upon the poor
woman would have been simple cowardice. Merely in hearing his news she was
blanched with dread. She could only point to the door of the front room - the
only one rented by the family since Jane Snowdon's occupation of the other had
taught them to be as economical in this respect as their neighbours were.
    Sidney knocked and entered. Two months had passed since his latest visit,
and he observed that in the meantime everything had become more squalid. The
floor, the window, the furniture, were not kept so clean as formerly -
inevitable result of the overcrowding of a room; the air was bad, the children
looked untidy. The large bed had not been set in order since last night; in it
lay the baby, crying as always, ailing as it had done from the day of its birth.
John Hewett was engaged in mending one of the chairs, of which the legs had
become loose. He looked with surprise at the visitor, and at once averted his
face sullenly.
    »Mr. Hewett,« Kirkwood began, without form of greeting, »on Saturday morning
I heard something that I believe I ought to have let you know at once. I felt,
though, that it was hardly my business; and somehow we haven't been quite so
open with each other just lately as we used to be.«
    His voice sank. Hewett had risen from his crouching attitude, and was
looking him full in the face with eyes which grew momentarily darker and more
hostile.
    »Well? Why are you stopping? What have you got to say?«
    The words came from a dry throat; the effort to pronounce them clearly made
the last all but violent.
    »On Friday night,« Sidney resumed, his own utterance uncertain, »Clara left
her place. She took a room not far from Upper Street, and I saw her, spoke to
her. She'd quarrelled with Mrs. Tubbs. I urged her to come home, but she
wouldn't listen to me. This morning I've been to try and see her again, but they
tell me she went away yesterday afternoon. I can't find where she's living now.«
    Hewett took a step forward. His face was so distorted, so fierce, that
Sidney involuntarily raised an arm, as if to defend himself.
    »An' it's you as comes telling' me this!« John exclaimed, a note of anguish
blending with his fury. »You have the face to stand there an' speak like that to
me, when you know it's all your own doing! Who was the cause as the girl went
away from 'ome? Who was it, I say? Haven't been as friendly as we used to be,
haven't we? An' why? Haven't I seen it plainer an' plainer what you was thinking'
when you told me to let her have her own way? I spoke the truth then - 'cause I
felt it; an' I was fool enough, for all that, to try an' believe I was in the
wrong. Now you come an' stand before me - why, I couldn't a' thought there was a
man had so little shame in him!«
    Mrs. Hewett entered the room; the loud angry voice had reached her ears, and
in spite of terror she came to interpose between the two men.
    »Do you know what he's come to tell me?« cried her husband. »Oh, you do!
He's been tryin' to talk you over, has he? You just answer to me, an' tell the
truth. Who was it persuaded me to let Clara go from 'ome? Who was it come here
an' talked an' talked till he got his way? He knew what 'ud be the end of it -
he knew, I tell you, - an' it's just what he wanted. Hasn't he been drawin' away
from us ever since the girl left? I saw it all that night when he came here
persuadin' me, an' I told it him plain. He wanted to 'a done with her, and to a'
done with us. Am I speakin' the truth or not?«
    »Why should he think that way, John?« pleaded the woman faintly. »You know
very well as Clara 'ud never listen to him. What need had he to do such things?«
    »Oh yes, I'm wrong! Of course I'm wrong! You always did go against me when
there was anything to do with Clara. She'd never listen to him? No, of course
she wouldn't, an' he couldn't rest until he saw her come to harm. What do you
care either? She's no child of yours. But I tell you I'd see you an' all your
children beg an' die in the streets rather than a hair of my own girl's head
should be touched!«
    Indulgence of his passion was making a madman of him. Never till now had he
uttered an unfeeling word to his wife, but the look with which he accompanied
this brutal speech was one of fiery hatred.
    »Don't turn on her!« cried Sidney, with bitterness. »Say what you like to
me, and believe the worst you can of me; I shouldn't have come here if I hadn't
been ready to bear everything. It's no good speaking reason to you now, but
maybe you'll understand some day.«
    »Who know's as she's come to harm?« urged Mrs. Hewett. »Nobody can say it of
her for certain, yet.«
    »I'd have told him that, if he'd only listened to me and given me credit for
honesty,« said Kirkwood. »It is as likely as not she's gone away just because I
angered her on Saturday. Perhaps she said to herself she'd have done with me
once for all. It would be just her way.«
    »Speak another word against my girl,« Hewett shouted, misinterpreting the
last phrase, »an' I'll do more than say what I think of you - old man though
they call me! Take yourself out of this room; it was the worst day of my life
that ever you came into it. Never let me an' you come across each other again. I
hate the sight of you, an' I hate the sound of your voice!«
    The animal in Sidney Kirkwood made it a terrible minute for him as he turned
away in silence before this savage injustice. The veins upon his forehead were
swollen; his clenched teeth gave an appearance of ferocity to his spirited
features. With head bent, and shoulders quivering as if in supreme muscular
exertion, he left the room without another word.
    In a few minutes Hewett also quitted the house. He went to the luncheon-bar
in Upper Street, and heard for the first time Mrs. Tubbs's rancorous surmises.
He went to Clara's recent lodgings; a girl of ten was the only person in the
house, and she could say nothing more than that Miss Hewett no longer lived
there. Till midway in the afternoon John walked about the streets of Islington,
Highbury, Hoxton, Clerkenwell, impelled by the unreasoning hope that he might
see Clara, but also because he could not rest in any place. He was
half-conscious now of the madness of his behaviour to Kirkwood, but this only
confirmed him in hostility to the young man; the thought of losing Clara was
anguish intolerable, yet with it mingled a bitter resentment of the girl's
cruelty to him. And all these sources of misery swelled the current of
rebellious feeling which had so often threatened to sweep his life into
wreckage. He was Clara's father, and the same impulse of furious revolt which
had driven the girl to recklessness now inflamed him with the rage of despair.
    On a Bank-holiday only a few insignificant shops remain open even in the
poor districts of London; sweets you can purchase, and tobacco, but not much
else that is sold across an ordinary counter. The more noticeable becomes the
brisk trade of public-houses. At the gin-shop centres the life of each street;
here is a wide door and a noisy welcome, the more attractive by contrast with
the stretch of closed shutters on either hand. At such a door, midway in the
sultry afternoon, John Hewett paused. To look at his stooping shoulders, his
uncertain swaying this way and that, his flushed, perspiring face, you might
have taken him for one who had already been drinking. No; it was only a struggle
between his despairing wretchedness and a lifelong habit of mind. Not difficult
to foresee which would prevail; the public-house always has its doors open in
expectation of such instances. With a gesture which made him yet more like a
drunken man he turned from the pavement and entered. ...
 
About nine o'clock in the evening, just when Mrs. Hewett had put the unwilling
children to bed, and had given her baby a sleeping-dose - it had cried
incessantly for eighteen hours, - the door of the room was pushed open. Her
husband came in. She stood looking at him - unable to credit the evidence of her
eyes.
    »John!«
    She laid her hand upon him and stared into his face. The man shook her off,
without speaking, and moved staggeringly forward. Then he turned round, waved
his arm, and shouted:
    »Let her go to the devil! She cares nothing for her father.«
    He threw himself upon the bed, and soon sank into drunken sleep.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

                                A Welcome Guest

The bells of St. James's, Clerkenwell, ring melodies in intervals of the pealing
for service-time. One morning of spring their music, like the rain that fell
intermittently, was flung westwards by the boisterous wind, away over
Clerkenwell Close, until the notes failed one by one, or were clashed out of
existence by the clamour of a less civilised steeple. Had the wind been under
mortal control it would doubtless have blown thus violently and in this quarter
in order that the inhabitants of the House of Detention might derive no solace
from the melody. Yet I know not; just now the bells were playing »There is a
happy land, far, far away,« and that hymn makes too great a demand upon the
imagination to soothe amid instant miseries.
    In Mrs. Peckover's kitchen the music was audible in bursts. Clem and her
mother, however, it neither summoned to prepare for church, nor lulled into a
mood of restful reverie. The two were sitting very close together before the
fire, and holding intimate converse; their voices kept a low murmur, as if,
though the door was shut, they felt it necessary to use every precaution against
being overheard. Three years have come and gone since we saw these persons. On
the elder time has made little impression; but Clem has developed noticeably.
The girl is now in the very prime of her ferocious beauty. She has grown taller
and somewhat stouter; her shoulders spread like those of a caryatid; the arm
with which she props her head is as strong as a carter's and magnificently
moulded. The head itself looks immense with its pile of glossy hair. Reddened by
the rays of the fire, her features had a splendid savagery which seemed
strangely at discord with the paltry surroundings amid which she sat; her eyes
just now were gleaming with a crafty and cruel speculation which would have
become those of a barbarian in ambush. I wonder how it came about that her
strain, after passing through the basest conditions of modern life, had thus
reverted to a type of ancestral exuberance.
    »If only he doesn't't hear about the old man or the girl from somebody!« said
Mrs. Peckover. »I've been afraid of it ever since he come into the 'ouse.
There's so many people might tell him. You'll have to come round him sharp,
Clem.«
    The mother was dressed as her kind are wont to be on Sunday morning - that
is to say, not dressed at all, but hung about with coarse garments, her hair in
unbeautiful disarray. Clem, on the other hand, seemed to have devoted much
attention to her morning toilet; she wore a dark dress trimmed with velveteen,
and a metal ornament of primitive taste gleamed amid her hair.
    »There ain't no mistake?« she asked, after a pause. »You're jolly sure of
that?«
    »Mistake? What a blessed fool you must be! Didn't they advertise in the
papers for him? Didn't the lawyers themselves say as it was something to his
advantage? Don't you say yourself as Jane says her grandfather's often spoke
about him and wished he could find him? How can it be a mistake? If it was only
Bill's letter we had to go on, you might talk; but - there, don't be a ijiot!«
    »If it turned out as he hadn't nothing,« remarked Clem resolutely, »I'd
leave him, if I was married fifty times.«
    Her mother uttered a contemptuous sound. At the same time she moved her head
as if listening; some one was, in fact, descending the stairs.
    »Here he comes,« she whispered. »Get the eggs ready, an' I'll make the
corffee.«
    A tap at the door, then entered a tallish man of perhaps forty, though he
might be a year or two younger. His face was clean-shaven, harsh-featured,
unwholesome of complexion; its chief peculiarity was the protuberance of the
bone in front of each temple, which gave him a curiously animal aspect. His
lower lip hung and jutted forward; when he smiled, as now in advancing to the
fire, it slightly overlapped the one above. His hair was very sparse; he looked,
indeed, like one who has received the tonsure. The movement of his limbs
betokened excessive indolence; he dragged his feet rather than walked. His
attire was equally suggestive; not only had it fallen into the last degree of
shabbiness (having originally been such as is worn by a man above the mechanic
ranks), but it was patched with dirt of many kinds, and held together by a most
inadequate supply of buttons. At present he wore no collar, and his waistcoat,
half-open, exposed a red shirt.
    »Why, you're all a-blowin' and a-growin' this morning, Miss Peckover,« was
his first observation, as he dropped heavily into a wooden arm-chair. »I shall
begin to think that colour of yours ain't natural. Dare you let me rub it with a
handkerchief?«
    »Course I dare,« replied Clem, tossing her head. »Don't be so forward, Mr.
Snowdon.«
    »Forward? Not I. I'm behind time if anything. I hope I haven't kept you from
church.«
    He chuckled at his double joke. Mother and daughter laughed appreciatively.
    »Will you take your eggs boiled or fried?« inquired Mrs. Peckover.
    »Going to give me eggs, are you? Well, I've no objection, I assure you. And
I think I'll have them fried, Mrs. Peckover. But, I say, you mustn't be running
up too big a bill. The Lord only knows when I shall get anything to do, and it
ain't very likely to be a thousand a year when it does come.«
    »Oh, that's all right,« replied the landlady, as if sordid calculation were
a thing impossible to her. »I can't say as you behaved quite straightforward
years ago, Mr. Snowdon, but I ain't one to make a row about bygones, an' as you
say you'll put it all straight as soon as you can, well, I won't refuse to trust
you once more.«
    Mr. Snowdon lay back in the chair, his hands in his waistcoat pockets, his
legs outstretched upon the fender. He was smiling placidly, now at the preparing
breakfast, now at Clem. The latter he plainly regarded with much admiration, and
cared not to conceal it. When, in a few minutes, it was announced to him that
the meal was ready, he dragged his chair up to the table and reseated himself
with a sigh of satisfaction. A dish of excellent ham, and eggs as nearly fresh
as can be obtained in Clerkenwell, invited him with appetising odour; a large
cup of what is known to the generality of English people as coffee steamed at
his right hand; slices of new bread lay ready cut upon a plate; a slab of the
most expensive substitute for butter caught his eye with yellow promise; vinegar
and mustard appealed to the refinements of his taste.
    »I've got a couple more eggs, if you'd like them doing',« said Mrs. Peckover,
when she had watched the beginning of his attack upon the viands.
    »I think I shall manage pretty well with this supply,« returned Mr. Snowdon.
    As he ate he kept silence, partly because it was his habit, partly in
consequence of the activity of his mind. He was, in fact, musing upon a question
which he found it very difficult to answer in any satisfactory way. »What's the
meaning of all this?« he asked himself, and not for the first time. »What makes
them treat me in this fashion? A week ago I came here to look up Mrs. Peckover,
just because I'd run down to my last penny, and I didn't know where to find a
night's lodging. I'd got an idea, too, that I should like to find out what had
become of my child, whom I left here nine or ten years ago; possibly she was
still alive, and might welcome the duty of supporting her parent. The chance
was, to be sure, that the girl had long since been in her grave, and that Mrs.
Peckover no longer lived in the old quarters; if I discovered the woman, on the
other hand, she was not very likely to give me an affectionate reception, seeing
that I found it inconvenient to keep sending her money for Jane's keep in the
old days. The queer thing is, that everything turned out exactly the opposite of
what I had expected. Mrs. Peckover had rather a sour face at first, but after a
little talk she began to seem quite glad to see me. She put me into a room,
undertook to board me for a while - till I find work, and I wonder when that'll!
be? - and blessed if this strapping daughter of hers doesn't't seem to have fallen
in love with me from the first go off! As for my girl, I'm told she was carried
off by her grandfather, my old dad, three years ago, and where they went nobody
knows. Very puzzling all this. How on earth came it that Mrs. Peckover kept the
child so long, and didn't send her to the workhouse? If I'm to believe her, she
took a motherly kindness for the poor brat. But that won't exactly go down with
J. J. Snowdon; he's seen a bit too much in his knocking about the world. Still,
what if I'm making a mistake about the old woman? There are some people do
things of that sort; upon my soul, I've known people be kind even to me, without
a chance of being paid back! You may think you know a man or a woman, and then
all at once they'll go and do something you'd have taken your davy couldn't
possibly happen. I'd have sworn she was nothing but a skinflint and a lying old
witch. And so she may be; the chances are there's some game going on that I
can't see through. Make inquiries? Why, so I have done, as far as I know how.
I've only been able to hit on one person who knows anything about the matter,
and he tells me it's true enough the girl was taken away about three years ago,
but he's no idea where she went to. Surely the old man must be dead by now,
though he was tough. Well, the fact of the matter is, I've got a good berth, and
I'm a precious sight too lazy to go on the private detective job. Here's this
girl Clem, the finest bit of flesh I've seen for a long time; I've more than
half a mind to see if she won't be fool enough to marry me. I'm not a
bad-looking fellow, that's the truth, and she may have taken a real liking to
me. Seems to me that I should have come in for a comfortable thing in my old
age; if I haven't a daughter to provide for my needs, at all events I shall have
a wife who can be persuaded into doing so. When the old woman gets out of the
way I must have a little quiet talk with Clem.«
    The opportunity he desired was not long in offering itself. Having made an
excellent breakfast, he dragged his chair up to the fender again, and reached a
pipe from the mantel-piece, where he had left it last night. Tobacco he carried
loose in his waistcoat pocket; it came forth in the form of yellowish dust,
intermingled with all sorts of alien scraps. When he had lit his pipe, he poised
the chair on its hind-legs, clasped his hands over his bald crown, and continued
his musing with an air of amiable calm. Smoke curled up from the corner of his
loose lips, and occasionally, removing his pipe for an instant, he spat
skilfully between the bars of the grate. Assured of his comfort, Mrs. Peckover
said she must go and look after certain domestic duties. Her daughter had begun
to clean some vegetables that would be cooked for dinner.
    »How old may you be, Clem?« Mr. Snowdon inquired genially, when they had
been alone together for a few minutes.
    »What's that to you? Guess.«
    »Why, let me see; you was not much more than a baby when I went away. You'll
be eighteen or nineteen, I suppose.«
    »Yes, I'm nineteen - last sixth of February. Pity you come too late to give
me a birthday present, ain't it?«
    »Ah! And who'd have thought you'd have grown up such a beauty! I say, Clem,
how many of the young chaps about here have been wanting to marry you, eh?«
    »A dozen or two, I dessay,« Clem replied, shrugging her shoulders
scornfully.
    Mr. Snowdon laughed, and then spat into the fire.
    »Tell me about some o' them, will you? Who is it you're keeping company with
now?«
    »Who, indeed? Why, there isn't one I'd look at! Several of 'em's took to
drinking 'cause I won't have nothing to do with 'em.«
    This excited Mr. Snowdon's mirth in a high degree; he rolled on his chair,
and almost pitched backwards.
    »I suppose you give one or other a bit of encouragement now and then, just
to make a fool of him, eh?«
    »Course I do. There was Bob Hewett; he used to lodge here, but that was
after your time. I kept' him off an' on till he couldn't bear it no longer; then
he went an' married a common slut of a thing, just because he thought it 'ud
make me mad. Ha, ha! I believe he'd give her poison an' risk it any day, if only
I promised to marry him afterwards. Then there was a feller called Jeck Bartley.
I set him an' Bob fighting' one Bank-holiday - you should a' seen 'em go at it!
Jack went an' got married a year ago to a girl called Suke Jollop; her mother
forced him. How I did laugh! Last Christmas Day they smashed up their 'ome an'
threw the bits out into the street. Jack got one of his eyes knocked out - I
thought I should a' died o' laughin' when I saw him next mornin'.«
    The hearer became uproarious in merriment.
    »Tell you what it is, Clem,« he cried, »you're something like a girl! Darn
me if I don't like you! I say, I wonder what my daughter's grown up? Like her
mother, I suppose. You an' she was sort of sisters, wasn't't you?«
    He observed her closely. Clem laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
    »Queer sort o' sisters. She was a bit too quiet-like for me. There never was
no fun in her.«
    »Aye, like her mother. And where did you say she went to with the old man?«
    »Where she went to?« repeated Clem, regarding him steadily with her big
eyes, »I never said nothing about it, 'cause I didn't know.«
    »Well, I shan't cry about her, and I don't suppose she misses me much,
wherever she is. All the same, Clem, I'm a domesticated sort of man; you can see
that, can't you? I shouldn't wonder if I marry again one of these first days.
Just tell me where to find a girl of the right sort. I dare say you know heaps.«
    »Dessay I do. What sort do you want?«
    »Oh, a littlish girl - yellow hair, you know - one of them that look as if
they didn't weigh half-a-stone.«
    »I'll throw this parsnip at you, Mr. Snowdon!«
    »What's up now. You don't call yourself littlish, do you?«
    Clem snapped the small end off the vegetable she was paring, and aimed it at
his head. He ducked just in time. Then there was an outburst of laughter from
both.
    »Say, Clem, you haven't got a glass of beer in the house?«
    »You'll have to wait till openin' time,« replied the girl sourly, going away
to the far end of the room.
    »Have I offended you, Clem?«
    »Offended, indeed! As if I cared what you say!«
    »Do you care what I think?«
    »Not I!«
    »That means you do. Say, Clem, just come here; I've something to tell you.«
    »You're a nuisance. Let me get on with my work, can't you?«
    »No, I can't. You just come here. You'd better not give me the trouble of
fetching you!«
    The girl obeyed him. Her cheeks were very hot, and the danger-signal was
flashing in her eyes. Ten minutes later she went upstairs, and had a vivacious
dialogue of whispers with Mrs. Peckover.
 

                                   Chapter XV

                           Sunlight in Dreary Places

Among the by-ways of Clerkenwell you might, with some difficulty, have
discovered an establishment known in its neighbourhood as Whitehead's. It was an
artificial-flower factory, and the rooms of which it consisted were only to be
reached by traversing a timber-yard, and then mounting a wooden staircase
outside a saw-mill. Here at busy seasons worked some threescore women and girls,
who, owing to the nature of their occupation, were spoken of by the jocose youth
of the locality as »Whitehead's pastepots.«
    Naturally they varied much in age and aspect. There was the child who had
newly left school, and was now invited to consider the question of how to keep
herself alive; there was the woman of uncertain age, who had spent long years of
long days in the atmosphere of workrooms, and showed the result in her
parchmenty cheek and lack-lustre eye; and between these extremes came all the
various types of the London crafts-girl: she who is young enough to hope that
disappointments may yet be made up for by the future; she who is already tasting
such scanty good as life had in store for her; she who has outlived her
illusions and no longer cares to look beyond the close of the week. If regularly
engaged as time-workers, they made themselves easy in the prospect of wages that
allowed them to sleep under a roof and eat at certain intervals of the day; if
employed on piece-work they might at any moment find themselves wageless, but
this, being a familiar state of things, did not trouble them. With few
exceptions, they were clad neatly; on the whole, they plied their task in
wonderful contentment. The general tone of conversation among them was not high;
moralists unfamiliar with the ways of the nether world would probably have
applied a term other than negative to the laughing discussions which now and
then enlivened this or that group; but it was very seldom indeed that a child
newly arriving heard anything with which she was not already perfectly familiar.
    One afternoon at the end of May there penetrated into the largest of the
workrooms that rarest of visitants, a stray sunbeam. Only if the sun happened to
shine at given moments could any of its light fall directly into the room I
speak of; this afternoon, however, all circumstances were favourable, and behold
the floor chequered with uncertain gleam. The workers were arranged in groups of
three, called parties consisting of a learner, an improver, and a hand. All sat
with sleeves pushed up to their elbows, and had a habit of rocking to and fro as
they plied their mechanical industry. Owing to the movement of a cloud, the
sunlight spread gradually towards one of these groups; it touched the skirt, the
arms, the head of one of the girls, who, as if gladdened by the kindly warmth,
looked round and smiled. A smile you would have been pleased to observe -
unconscious, gently thoughtful, rich in possibilities of happiness. She was
quite a young girl, certainly not seventeen, and wore a smooth grey dress, with
a white linen collar; her brown hair was closely plaited, her head well-shaped,
the bend of her neck very graceful. From her bare arms it could be seen that she
was anything but robustly made, yet her general appearance was not one of
ill-health, and she held herself, even thus late in the day, far more uprightly
than most of her companions. Had you watched her for a while, you would have
noticed that her eyes occasionally strayed beyond the work-table, and, perhaps
unconsciously, fixed themselves for some moments on one or other of the girls
near her; when she remembered herself and looked down again upon her task, there
rose to her face a smile of the subtlest meaning, the outcome of busy
reflection.
    By her side was a little girl just beginning to learn the work, whose
employment it was to paper wires and make centres. This toil always results in
blistered fingers, and frequent was the child's appeal to her neighbour for
sympathy.
    »It'll be easier soon,« said the latter, on one of these occasions, bending
her head to speak in a low voice. »You should have seen what blisters I had when
I began.«
    »It's all very well to say that. I can't do no more, so there! Oh, when'll
it be five o'clock?«
    »It's a quarter to. Try and go on, Annie.«
    Five o'clock did come at length, and with it twenty minutes' rest for tea.
The rule at Whitehead's was, that you could either bring your own tea, sugar,
and eatables, or purchase them here from a forewoman; most of the workers chose
to provide themselves. It was customary for each party to club together,
emptying their several contributions of tea out of little twists of newspaper
into one teapot. Wholesome bustle and confusion succeeded to the former silence.
One of the learners, whose turn it was to run on errands, was overwhelmed with
commissions to a chandler's shop close by; a wry-faced, stupid little girl she
was, and they called her, because of her slowness, the funeral horse. She had
strange habits, which made laughter for those who knew of them; for instance, it
was her custom in the dinner-hour to go apart and eat her poor scraps on a
doorstep close by a cook-shop; she confided to a companion that the odour of
baked joints seemed to give her food a relish. From her present errand she
returned with a strange variety of dainties - for it was early in the week, and
the girls still had coppers in their pockets; for two or three she had purchased
a farthing's-worth of jam, which she carried in paper. A bite of this and a
taste of that rewarded her for her trouble.
    The quiet-mannered girl whom we were observing took her cup of tea from the
pot in which she had a share, and from her bag produced some folded pieces of
bread and butter. She had begun her meal, when there came and sat down by her a
young woman of very different appearance - our friend, Miss Peckover. They were
old acquaintances; but when we first saw them together it would have been
difficult to imagine that they would ever sit and converse as at present,
apparently in all friendliness. Strange to say, it was Clem who, during the past
three years, had been the active one in seeking to obliterate disagreeable
memories. The younger girl had never repelled her, but was long in overcoming
the dread excited by Clem's proximity. Even now she never looked straight into
Miss Peckover's face, as she did when speaking with others; there was reserve in
her manner, reserve unmistakable, though clothed with her pleasant smile and
amiable voice.
    »I've got something to tell you, Jane,« Clem began, in a tone inaudible to
those who were sitting near. »Something as'll surprise you.«
    »What is it, I wonder?«
    »You must swear you won't tell nobody.«
    Jane nodded. Then the other brought her head a little nearer, and whispered:
    »I'm goin' to be married!«
    »Are you really?«
    »In a week. Who do you think it is? Somebody as you know of, but if you
guessed till next Christmas you'd never come right.«
    Nor had Clem any intention of revealing the name, but she laughed
consumedly, as if her reticence covered the most amusing situation conceivable.
    »It'll be the biggest surprise you ever had in your life. You've swore you
won't speak about it. I don't think I shall come to work after this week - but
you'll have to come an' see us. You'll promise to, won't you?«
    Still convulsed with mirth, Clem went off to another part of the room. From
Jane's countenance the look of amusement which she had perforce summoned soon
passed; it was succeeded by a shadow almost of pain, and not till she had been
at work again for nearly an hour was the former placidity restored to her.
    When final release came, Jane was among the first to hasten down the wooden
staircase and get clear of the timber-yard. By the direct way, it took her
twenty minutes to walk from Whitehead's to her home in Hanover Street, but this
evening she had an object in turning aside. The visit she wished to pay took her
into a disagreeable quarter, a street of squalid houses, swarming with yet more
squalid children. On all the doorsteps sat little girls, themselves only just
out of infancy, nursing or neglecting bald, red-eyed, doughy-limbed abortions in
every stage of babyhood, hapless spawn of diseased humanity, born to embitter
and brutalise yet further the lot of those who unwillingly gave them life. With
wide, pitiful eyes Jane looked at each group she passed. Three years ago she
would have seen nothing but the ordinary and the inevitable in such spectacles,
but since then her moral and intellectual being had grown on rare nourishment;
there was indignation as well as heartache in the feeling with which she had
learnt to regard the world of her familiarity. To enter the house at which she
paused it was necessary to squeeze through a conglomerate of dirty little
bodies. At the head of the first flight of stairs she came upon a girl sitting
in a weary attitude on the top step and beating the wood listlessly with the
last remnant of a hearth-brush; on her lap was one more specimen of the
infinitely-multiplied baby, and a child of two years sprawled behind her on the
landing.
    »Waiting for him to come home, Pennyloaf?« said Jane.
    »Oh, is that you, Miss Snowdon!« exclaimed the other, returning to
consciousness and manifesting some shame at being discovered in this position.
Hastily she drew together the front of her dress, which for the baby's sake had
been wide open, and rose to her feet. Pennyloaf was not a bit more womanly in
figure than on the day of her marriage; her voice was still an immature treble;
the same rueful irresponsibility marked her features; but all her poor
prettiness was wasted under the disfigurement of pains and cares. Incongruously
enough, she wore a gown of bright-patterned calico, and about her neck had a
collar of pretentious lace; her hair was dressed as if for a holiday, and a daub
recently made on her cheeks by the baby's fingers lent emphasis to the fact that
she had but a little while ago washed herself with much care.
    »I can't stop,« said Jane, »but I thought I'd just look in and speak a word.
How have you been getting on?«
    »Oh, do come in for just a minute!« pleaded Pennyloaf, moving backwards to
an open door, whither Jane followed. They entered a room - much like other rooms
that we have looked into from time to time. Following the nomadic custom of
their kind, Bob Hewett and his wife had lived in six or seven different lodgings
since their honeymoon in Shooter's Gardens. Mrs. Candy first of all made a
change necessary, as might have been anticipated, and the restlessness of
domestic ill-being subsequently drove them from place to place. »Come in 'ere,
Johnny,« she called to the child lying on the landing. »What's the good o'
washin' you, I'd like to know? Just see, Miss Snowdon, he's made his face all
white with the milk as the boy spilt on the stairs! Take this brush an' play
with it, do! I can't keep 'em clean, Miss Snowdon, so it's no use talking'.«
    »Are you going somewhere to-night?« Jane inquired, with a glance at the
strange costume.
    Pennyloaf looked up and down in a shamefaced way.
    »I only did it just because I thought he might like to see me. He promised
me faithful as he'd come 'ome to-night, and I thought - it's only something as
got into my 'ed to-day, Miss Snowdon.«
    »But hasn't he been coming home since I saw you last?«
    »He did just once, an' then it was all the old ways again. I did what you
told me; I did, as sure as I'm a-standin' 'ere! I made the room so clean you
wouldn't have believed; I scrubbed the floor an' the table, an' I washed the
winders - you can see they ain't dirty yet. An' he'd never a' paid a bit o'
notice if I hadn't told him. He was jolly enough for one night, just like he can
be when he likes. But I knew as it wouldn't last, an' the next night he was off
with a lot o' fellows an' girls, same as ever. I didn't make no row when he came
'ome; I wish I may die if I said a word to set his back up! An' I've gone on
just the same all the week; we haven't had not the least bit of a row; so you
see I kept' my promise. But it's no good; he won't come 'ome; he's always got
fellows an' girls to go round with. He took his hoath as he'd come back
to-night, an' then it come into my 'ed as I'd put my best things on, just to -
you know what I mean, Miss Snowdon. But he won't come before twelve o'clock; I
know he won't. An' I get that low sittin' 'ere, you can't think! I can't go
nowhere, because o' the children. If it wasn't't for them I could go to work
again, an' I'd be that glad; I feel as if my 'ed would drop off sometimes! I ham
so glad you just come in!«
    Jane had tried so many forms of encouragement, of consolation, on previous
occasions that she knew not how to repeat herself. She was ashamed to speak
words which sounded so hollow and profitless. This silence was only too
significant to Pennyloaf, and in a moment she exclaimed with querulous energy:
    »I know what'll be the hend of it! I'll go an' do like mother does - I will!
I will! I'll put my ring away, an' I'll go an' sit all night in the
public-'ouse! It's what all the others does, an' I'll do the same. I often feel
I'm a fool to go on like this. I don't know what I live for. P'r'aps he'll be
sorry when I get run in like mother.«
    »Don't talk like that, Pennyloaf!« cried Jane, stamping her foot. (It was
odd how completely difference of character had reversed their natural relations
to each other; Pennyloaf was the child, Jane the mature woman.) »You know
better, and you've no right to give way to such thoughts. I was going to say I'd
come and be with you all Saturday afternoon, but I don't know whether I shall
now. And I'd been thinking you might like to come and see me on Sunday, but I
can't have people that go to the public-house, so we won't say anything more
about it. I shall have to be off; good-bye!«
    She stepped to the door.
    »Miss Snowdon!«
    Jane turned, and after an instant of mock severity, broke into a laugh which
seemed to fill the wretched den with sunlight. Words, too, she found; words of
soothing influence such as leap from the heart to the tongue in spite of the
heavy thoughts that try to check them. Pennyloaf was learning to depend upon
these words for strength in her desolation. They did not excite her to much
hopefulness, but there was a sustaining power in their sweet sincerity which
made all the difference between despair tending to evil and the sigh of renewed
effort. »I don't care,« Pennyloaf had got into the habit of thinking, after her
friend's departure, »I won't give up as long as she looks in now and then.«
    Out from the swarm of babies Jane hurried homewards. She had a reason for
wishing to be back in good time to-night; it was Wednesday, and on Wednesday
evening there was wont to come a visitor, who sat for a couple of hours in her
grandfather's room and talked, talked - the most interesting talk Jane had ever
heard or could imagine. A latch-key admitted her; she ran up to the second
floor. A voice from the front-room caught her ear; certainly not his voice - it
was too early - but that of some unusual visitor. She was on the point of
entering her own chamber, when the other door opened, and somebody exclaimed,
»Ah, here she is!«
    The speaker was an old gentleman, dressed in black, bald, with small and
rather rugged features; his voice was pleasant. A gold chain and a bunch of
seals shone against his waistcoat, also a pair of eye-glasses. A professional
man, obviously. Jane remembered that she had seen him once before, about a year
ago, when he had talked with her for a few minutes, very kindly.
    »Will you come in here, Jane?« her grandfather's voice called to her.
    Snowdon had changed much. Old age was heavy upon his shoulders, and had even
produced a slight tremulousness in his hands; his voice told the same story of
enfeeblement. Even more noticeable was the ageing of his countenance. Something
more, however, than the progress of time seemed to be here at work. He looked
strangely careworn; his forehead was set in lines of anxiety; his mouth
expressed a nervousness of which formerly there had been no trace. One would
have said that some harassing preoccupation must have seized his mind. His eyes
were no longer merely sad and absent, but restless with fatiguing thought. As
Jane entered the room he fixed his gaze upon her - a gaze that appeared to
reveal worrying apprehension.
    »You remember Mr. Percival, Jane,« he said.
    The old gentleman thus presented held out his hand with something of
fatherly geniality.
    »Miss Snowdon, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again before long,
but just now I am carrying off your grandfather for a couple of hours, and
indeed we mustn't linger that number of minutes. You look well, I think?«
    He stood and examined her intently, then cried:
    »Come, my dear sir, come! we shall be late.«
    Snowdon was already prepared for walking. He spoke a few words to Jane, then
followed Mr. Percival downstairs.
    Flurried by the encounter, Jane stood looking about her. Then came a rush of
disappointment as she reflected, that the visitor of Wednesday evenings would
call in vain. Hearing that her grandfather was absent, doubtless he would take
his leave at once. Or, would he -
    In a minute or two she ran downstairs to exchange a word with Mrs. Byass. On
entering the kitchen she was surprised to see Bessie sitting idly by the fire.
At this hour it was usual for Mr. Byass to have returned, and there was
generally an uproar of laughing talk. This evening, dead silence, and a
noticeable something in the air which told of trouble. The baby - of course a
new baby - lay in a bassinette near its mother, seemingly asleep; the other
child was sitting in a high chair by the table, clattering bricks.
    Bessie did not even look round.
    »Is Mr. Byass late?« inquired Jane, in an apprehensive voice.
    »He's somewhere in the house, I believe,« was the answer, in monotone.
    »Oh dear!« Jane recognised a situation which had already come under her
notice once or twice during the last six months. She drew near, and asked in a
low voice:
    »What's happened, Mrs. Byass?«
    »He's a beast! If he doesn't't mind I shall go and leave him. I mean it!«
    Bessie was in a genuine fit of sullenness. One of her hands was clenched
below her chin; her pretty lips were not pretty at all; her brow was rumpled.
Jane began to seek for the cause of dissension, to put affectionate questions,
to use her voice soothingly.
    »He's a beast!« was Bessie's reiterated observation; but by degrees she
added phrases more explanatory. »How can I help it if he cuts himself when he's
shaving? - Serve him right! - What for? Why, for saying that babies was nothing
but a nuisance, and that my baby was the ugliest and noisiest ever born!«
    »Did she cry in the night?« inquired Jane, with sympathy.
    »Of course she did! Hasn't she a right to?«
    »And then Mr. Byass cut himself with his razor?«
    »Yes. And he said it was because he was woke so often, and it made him
nervous, and his hand shook. And then I told him he'd better cut himself on the
other side, and it wouldn't matter. And then he complained because he had to
wait for breakfast. And he said there'd been no comfort in the house since we'd
had children. And I cared nothing about him, he said, and only about the baby
and Ernest. And he went on like a beast, as he is! I hate him!«
    »Oh no, not a bit of it!« said Jane, seeing the opportunity for a transition
to jest.
    »I do! And you may go upstairs and tell him so.«
    »All right; I will.«
    Jane ran upstairs and knocked at the door of the parlour. A gruff voice bade
her enter, but the room was nearly in darkness.
    »Will you have a light, Mr. Byass?«
    »No - thank you.«
    »Mr. Byass, Mrs. Byass says I'm to say she hates you.«
    »All right. Tell her I've known it a long time. She needn't trouble about
me; I'm going out to enjoy myself.«
    Jane ran back to the kitchen.
    »Mr. Byass says he's known it a long time,« she reported, with much gravity.
»And he's going out to enjoy himself.«
    Bessie remained mute.
    »What message shall I take back, Mrs. Byass?«
    »Tell him if he dares to leave the house, I'll go to mother's the first
thing to-morrow, and let them know how he's treating me.«
    »Tell her,« was Mr. Byass's reply, »that I don't see what it matters to her
whether I'm at home or away. And tell her she's a cruel wife to me.«
    Something like the sound of a snivel came out of the darkness as he
concluded. Jane, in reporting his speech, added that she thought he was shedding
tears. Thereupon Bessie gave a sob, quite in earnest.
    »So am I,« she said chokingly. »Go and tell him, Jane.«
    »Mr. Byass, Mrs. Byass is crying,« whispered Jane at the parlour-door.
»Don't you think you'd better go downstairs?«
    Hearing a movement, she ran to be out of the way. Samuel left the dark room,
and with slow step descended to the kitchen. Then Jane knew that it was all
right, and tripped up to her room humming a song of contentment.
    Had she, then, wholly outgrown the bitter experiences of her childhood? Had
the cruelty which tortured her during the years when the soul is being fashioned
left upon her no brand of slavish vice, nor the baseness of those early
associations affected her with any irremovable taint? As far as human
observation could probe her, Jane Snowdon had no spot of uncleanness in her
being; she had been rescued while it was yet time, and the subsequent period of
fostering had enabled features of her character, which no one could have
discerned in the helpless child, to expand with singular richness. Two effects
of the time of her bondage were, however, clearly to be distinguished. Though
nature had endowed her with a good intelligence, she could only with extreme
labour acquire that elementary book-knowledge which vulgar children get easily
enough; it seemed as if the bodily overstrain at a critical period of life had
affected her memory, and her power of mental application generally. In spite of
ceaseless endeavour, she could not yet spell words of the least difficulty; she
could not do the easiest sums with accuracy; geographical names were her
despair. The second point in which she had suffered harm was of more serious
nature. She was subject to fits of hysteria, preceded and followed by the most
painful collapse of that buoyant courage which was her supreme charm and the
source of her influence. Without warning, an inexplicable terror would fall upon
her; like the weakest child, she craved protection from a dread inspired solely
by her imagination, and solace for an anguish of wretchedness to which she could
give no form in words. Happily this illness afflicted her only at long
intervals, and her steadily improving health gave warrant for hoping that in
time it would altogether pass away.
    Whenever an opportunity had offered for struggling successfully with some
form of evil - were it poor Pennyloaf's dangerous despair, or the very human
difficulties between Bessie and her husband - Jane lived at her highest reach of
spiritual joy. For all that there was a disappointment on her mind, she felt
this joy to-night, and went about her pursuits in happy self-absorption. So it
befell that she did not hear a knock at the house-door. Mrs. Byass answered it,
and not knowing that Mr. Snowdon was from home, bade his usual visitor go
upstairs. The visitor did so, and announced his presence at the door of the
room.
    »Oh, Mr. Kirkwood,« said Jane, »I'm so sorry, but grandfather had to go out
with a gentleman.«
    And she waited, looking at him, a gentle warmth on her face.
 

                                  Chapter XVI

                              Dialogue and Comment

»Will it be late before he comes back?« asked Sidney, his smile of greeting
shadowed with disappointment.
    »Not later than half-past ten, he said.«
    Sidney turned his face to the stairs. The homeward prospect was dreary after
that glimpse of the familiar room through the doorway. The breach of habit
discomposed him, and something more positive strengthened his reluctance to be
gone. It was not his custom to hang in hesitancy and court chance by
indirectness of speech; recognising and admitting his motives, he said simply:
    »I should like to stay a little, if you will let me - if I shan't be in your
way?«
    »Oh no! Please come in. I'm only sewing.«
    There were two round-backed wooden chairs in the room; one stood on each
side of the fireplace, and between them, beside the table, Jane always had her
place on a small chair of the ordinary comfortless kind. She seated herself as
usual, and Sidney took his familiar position, with the vacant chair opposite.
Snowdon and he were accustomed to smoke their pipes whilst conversing, but this
evening Sidney dispensed with tobacco.
    It was very quiet here. On the floor below dwelt at present two sisters who
kept themselves alive (it is quite inaccurate to use any other phrase in such
instances) by doing all manner of skilful needlework; they were middle-aged
women, gentle-natured, and so thoroughly subdued to the hopelessness of their
lot that scarcely ever could even their footfall be heard as they went up and
down stairs; their voices were always sunk to a soft murmur. Just now no infant
wailing came from the Byasses' regions. Kirkwood enjoyed a sense of restfulness,
intenser, perhaps, for the momentary disappointment he had encountered. He had
no desire to talk; enough for a few minutes to sit and watch Jane's hand as it
moved backwards and forwards with the needle.
    »I went to see Pennyloaf as I came back from work,« Jane said at length,
just looking up.
    »Did you? Do things seem to be any better?«
    »Not much, I'm afraid. Mr. Kirkwood, don't you think you might do something?
If you tried again with her husband?«
    »The fact is,« replied Sidney, »I'm so afraid of doing more harm than good.«
    »You think - But then perhaps that's just what I'm doing?«
    Jane let her hand fall on the sewing and regarded him anxiously.
    »No, no! I'm quite sure you can't do harm. Pennyloaf can get nothing but
good from having you as a friend. She likes you; she misses you when you happen
not to have seen her for a few days. I'm sorry to say it's quite a different
thing with Bob and me. We're friendly enough - as friendly as ever - but I
haven't a scrap of influence with him like you have with his wife. It was all
very well to get hold of him once, and try to make him understand, in a
half-joking way, that he wasn't't behaving as well as he might. He didn't take it
amiss - just that once. But you can't think how difficult it is for one man to
begin preaching to another. The natural thought is: Mind your own business. If I
was the parson of the parish -«
    He paused, and in the same instant their eyes met. The suggestion was
irresistible; Jane began to laugh merrily.
    What sweet laughter it was! How unlike the shrill discord whereby the
ordinary workgirl expresses her foolish mirth! For years Sidney Kirkwood had
been unused to utter any sound of merriment; even his smiling was done sadly.
But of late he had grown conscious of the element of joy in Jane's character,
had accustomed himself to look for its manifestations - to observe the
brightening of her eyes which foretold a smile, the moving of her lips which
suggested inward laughter - and he knew that herein, as in many another matter,
a profound sympathy was transforming him. Sorrow such as he had suffered will
leave its mark upon the countenance long after time has done its kindly healing,
and in Sidney's case there was more than the mere personal affliction tending to
confirm his life in sadness. With the ripening of his intellect, he saw only
more and more reason to condemn and execrate those social disorders of which his
own wretched experience was but an illustration. From the first, his friendship
with Snowdon had exercised upon him a subduing influence; the old man was stern
enough in his criticism of society, but he did not belong to the same school as
John Hewett, and the sober authority of his character made appeal to much in
Sidney that had found no satisfaction amid the uproar of Clerkenwell Green. For
all that, Kirkwood could not become other than himself; his vehemence was
moderated, but he never affected to be at one with Snowdon in that grave
enthusiasm of far-off hope which at times made the old man's speech that of an
exhorting prophet. Their natural parts were reversed; the young eyes declared
that they could see nothing but an horizon of blackest cloud, whilst those
enfeebled by years bore ceaseless witness to the raying forth of dawn.
    And so it was with a sensation of surprise that Sidney first became aware of
light-heartedness in the young girl who was a silent hearer of so many
lugubrious discussions. Ridiculous as it may sound - as Sidney felt it to be -
he almost resented this evidence of happiness; to him, only just recovering from
a shock which would leave its mark upon his life to the end, his youth wronged
by bitter necessities, forced into brooding over problems of ill when nature
would have bidden him enjoy, it seemed for the moment a sign of shallowness that
Jane could look and speak cheerfully. This extreme of morbid feeling proved its
own cure; even in reflecting upon it, Sidney was constrained to laugh
contemptuously at himself. And therewith opened for him a new world of thought.
He began to study the girl. Of course he had already occupied himself much with
the peculiarities of her position, but of Jane herself he knew very little; she
was still, in his imagination, the fearful and miserable child over whose
shoulders he had thrown his coat one bitter night; his impulse towards her was
one of compassion merely, justified now by what he heard of her mental slowness,
her bodily sufferings. It would take very long to analyse the process whereby
this mode of feeling was changed, until it became the sense of ever-deepening
sympathy which so possessed him this evening. Little by little Jane's happiness
justified itself to him, and in so doing began subtly to modify his own temper.
With wonder he recognised that the poor little serf of former days had been
meant by nature for one of the most joyous among children. What must that heart
have suffered, so scorned and trampled upon! But now that the days of misery
were over, behold nature having its way after all. If the thousands are never
rescued from oppression, if they perish abortive in their wretchedness, is that
a reason for refusing to rejoice with the one whom fate has blessed? Sidney knew
too much of Jane by this time to judge her shallow-hearted. This instinct of
gladness had a very different significance from the animal vitality which
prompted the constant laughter of Bessie Byass; it was but one manifestation of
a moral force which made itself nobly felt in many another way. In himself
Sidney was experiencing its pure effects, and it was owing to his conviction of
Jane's power for good that he had made her acquainted with Bob Hewett's wife.
Snowdon warmly approved of this; the suggestion led him to speak expressly of
Jane, a thing he very seldom did, and to utter a strong wish that she should
begin to concern herself with the sorrows she might in some measure relieve.
    Sidney joined in the laughter he had excited by picturing himself the parson
of the parish. But the topic under discussion was a serious one, and Jane
speedily recovered her gravity.
    »Yes, I see how hard it is,« she said. »But it's a cruel thing for him to
neglect poor Pennyloaf as he does. She never gave him any cause.«
    »Not knowingly, I quite believe,« replied Kirkwood. »But what a miserable
home it is!«
    »Yes.« Jane shook her head. »She doesn't't seem to know how to keep things in
order. She doesn't't seem even to understand me when I try to show her how it
might be different.«
    »There's the root of the trouble, Jane. What chance had Pennyloaf of ever
learning how to keep a decent home, and bring up her children properly? How was
she brought up? The wonder is that there's so much downright good in her; I feel
the same wonder about people every day. Suppose Pennyloaf behaved as badly as
her mother does, who on earth would have the right to blame her? But we can't
expect miracles; so long as she lives decently, it's the most that can be looked
for. And there you are; that isn't enough to keep a fellow like Bob Hewett in
order. I doubt whether any wife would manage it, but as for poor Pennyloaf -«
    »I shall speak to him myself,« said Jane quietly.
    »Do! There's much more hope in that than in anything I could say. Bob isn't
a bad fellow; the worst thing I know of him is his conceit. He's good-looking,
and he's clever in all sorts of ways, and unfortunately he can't think of
anything but his own merits. Of course he'd no business to marry at all whilst
he was nothing but a boy.«
    Jane plied her needle, musing.
    »Do you know whether he ever goes to see his father?« Sidney inquired
presently.
    »No, I don't,« Jane answered, looking at him, but immediately dropping her
eyes.
    »If he doesn't't I should think worse of him. Nobody ever had a kinder father,
and there's many a reason why he should be careful to pay the debt he owes.«
    Jane waited a moment, then again raised her eyes to him. It seemed as though
she would ask a question, and Sidney's grave attentiveness indicated a surmise
of what she was about to say. But her thought remained unuttered, and there was
a prolongation of silence.
    Of course they were both thinking of Clara. That name had never been spoken
by either of them in the other's presence, but as often as conversation turned
upon the Hewetts, it was impossible for them not to supplement their spoken
words by a silent colloquy of which Clara was the subject. From her grandfather
Jane knew that, to this day, nothing had been heard of Hewett's daughter; what
people said at the time of the girl's disappearance she had learned fully enough
from Clem Peckover, who even yet found it pleasant to revive the scandal, and by
contemptuous comments revenge herself for Clara's haughty usage in old days.
Time had not impaired Jane's vivid recollection of that Bank-holiday morning
when she herself was the first to make it known that Clara had gone away. Many a
time since then she had visited the street whither Snowdon led her - had turned
aside from her wonted paths in the thought that it was not impossible she might
meet Clara, though whether with more hope or fear of such a meeting she could
not have said. When two years had gone by, her grandfather one day led the talk
to that subject; he was then beginning to change in certain respects the tone he
had hitherto used with her, and to address her as one who had outgrown
childhood. He explained to her how it came about that Sidney could no longer be
even on terms of acquaintance with John Hewett. The conversation originated in
Jane's bringing the news that Hewett and his family had at length left Mrs.
Peckover's house. For two years things had gone miserably with them, their only
piece of good fortune being the death of the youngest child. John was confirmed
in a habit of drinking. Not that he had become a brutal sot; sometimes for as
much as a month he would keep sober, and even when he gave way to temptation he
never behaved with violence to his wife and children. Still, the character of
his life had once more suffered a degradation, and he possessed no friends who
could be of the least use to him. Snowdon, for some reason of his own,
maintained a slight intercourse with the Peckovers, and through them he
endeavoured to establish an intimacy with Hewett; but the project utterly
failed. Probably on Kirkwood's account, John met the old man's advances with
something more than coldness. Sternly he had forbidden his wife and the little
ones to exchange a word of any kind with Sidney, or with any friend of his. He
appeared to nourish incessantly the bitter resentment to which he gave
expression when Sidney and he last met.
    There was no topic on which Sidney was more desirous of speaking with Jane
than this which now occupied both their minds. How far she understood Clara's
story, and his part in it, he had no knowledge; for between Snowdon and himself
there had long been absolute silence on that matter. It was not improbable that
Jane had been instructed in the truth; he hoped she had not been left to gather
what she could from Clem Peckover's gossip. Yet the difficulty with which he
found himself beset, now that an obvious opportunity offered for frank speech,
was so great that, after a few struggles, he fell back on the reflection with
which he was wont to soothe himself: Jane was still so young, and the progress
of time, by confirming her knowledge of him, would make it all the simpler to
explain the miserable past. Had he, in fact, any right to relate this story, to
seek her sympathy in that direct way? It was one aspect of a very grave question
which occupied more and more of Sidney's thought.
    With an effort, he turned the dialogue into quite a new direction, and Jane,
though a little absent for some minutes, seemed at length to forget the
abruptness of the change. Sidney had of late been resuming his old interest in
pencil-work; two or three of his drawings hung on these walls, and he spoke of
making new sketches when he next went into the country. Years ago, one of his
favourite excursions - of the longer ones which he now and then allowed himself
- was to Danbury Hill, some five miles to the east of Chelmsford, one of the few
pieces of rising ground in Essex, famous for its view over Maldon and the
estuary of the Blackwater. Thither Snowdon and Jane accompanied him during the
last summer but one, and the former found so much pleasure in the place that he
took lodgings with certain old friends of Sidney's, and gave his granddaughter a
week of healthful holiday. In the summer that followed, the lodgings were again
taken for a week, and this year the same expedition was in view. Sidney had as
good as promised that he would join his friends for the whole time of their
absence, and now he talked with Jane of memories and anticipations. Neither was
sensible how the quarters and the half-hours went by in such chatting. Sidney
abandoned himself to the enjoyment of peace such as he had never known save in
this room, to a delicious restfulness such as was always inspired in him by the
girl's gentle voice, by her laughter, by her occasional quiet movements. The
same influence was affecting his whole life. To Jane he owed the gradual
transition from tumultuous politics and social bitterness to the mood which
could find pleasure as of old in nature and art. This was his truer self,
emancipated from the distorting effect of the evil amid which he perforce lived.
He was recovering somewhat of his spontaneous boyhood; at the same time,
reaching after a new ideal of existence which only ripened manhood could
appreciate.
    Snowdon returned at eleven; it alarmed Sidney to find how late he had
allowed himself to remain, and he began shaping apologies. But the old man had
nothing but the familiar smile and friendly words.
    »Haven't you given Mr. Kirkwood any supper?« he asked of Jane, looking at
the table.
    »I really forgot all about it, grandfather,« was the laughing reply.
    Then Snowdon laughed, and Sidney joined in the merriment; but he would not
be persuaded to stay longer.
 

                                  Chapter XVII

                            Clem Makes a Disclosure

When Miss Peckover suggested to her affianced that their wedding might as well
take place at the registry-office, seeing that there would then be no need to go
to expense in the article of costume, Mr. Snowdon readily assented; at the same
time it gave him new matter for speculation. Clem was not exactly the kind of
girl to relinquish without good reason that public ceremony which is the dearest
of all possible ceremonies to women least capable of reverencing its
significance. Every day made it more obvious that the Peckovers desired to keep
this marriage a secret until it was accomplished. In one way only could Joseph
James account for the mystery running through the whole affair; it must be that
Miss Peckover had indiscretions to conceal, certain points in her history with
which she feared lest her bridegroom should be made acquainted by envious
neighbours. The thought had no effect upon Mr. Snowdon save to excite his mirth;
his attitude with regard to such possibilities was that of a philosopher. The
views with which he was entering upon this alliance were so beautifully simple
that he really did not find it worth while to puzzle further as soon as the
plausible solution of his difficulties had presented itself. Should he hereafter
discover that something unforeseen perturbed the smooth flow of life to which he
looked forward, nothing could be easier than his remedy; the world is wide, and
a cosmopolitan does not attach undue importance to a marriage contracted in one
of its somewhat numerous parishes. In any case he would have found the temporary
harbour of refuge which stress of weather had made necessary. He surrendered
himself to the pleasant tickling of his vanity which was an immediate result of
the adventure. For, whatever Clem might be hiding, it seemed to him beyond doubt
that she was genuinely attracted by his personal qualities. Her demonstrations
were not extravagant, but in one noteworthy respect she seemed to give evidence
of a sensibility so little in keeping with her general character that it was
only to be explained as the result of a strong passion. In conversing with him
she at times displayed a singular timidity, a nervousness, a self-subdual
surprisingly unlike anything that could be expected from her. It was true that
at other moments her lover caught a gleam in her eyes, a movement of her lips,
expressive of anything rather than diffidence, and tending to confirm his view
of her as a cunning as well as fierce animal, but the look and tone of
subjugation came often enough to make their impression predominant. One would
have said that she suffered from jealous fears which for some reason she did not
venture to utter. Now and then he surprised her gazing at him as if in troubled
apprehension, the effect of which upon Mr. Snowdon was perhaps more flattering
than any other look.
    »What's up, Clem?« he inquired, on one of these occasions. »Are you
wondering whether I shall cut and leave you when we've had time to get tired of
each other?«
    Her face was transformed; she looked at him for an instant with fierce
suspicion, then laughed disagreeably.
    »We'll see about that,« was her answer, with a movement of the head and
shoulders strongly reminding one of a lithe beast about to spring.
    The necessary delay passed without accident. As the morning of the marriage
approached there was, however, a perceptible increase of nervous restlessness in
Clem. She had given up her work at Whitehead's, and contrived to keep her future
husband within sight nearly all day long. Joseph James found nothing
particularly irksome in this, for beer and tobacco were supplied him ad libitum,
and a succession of appetising meals made the underground kitchen a place of the
pleasantest associations. A loan from Mrs. Peckover had enabled him to renew his
wardrobe. When the last night arrived, Clem and her mother sat conversing to a
late hour, their voices again cautiously subdued. A point had been for some days
at issue between them, and decision was now imperative.
    »It's you as started the job,« Clem observed with emphasis, »an' it's you
as'll have to finish it.«
    »And who gets most out of it, I'd like to know?« replied her mother. »Don't
be such a fool! Can't you see as it'll come easier from you? A nice thing for
his mother-in-law to tell him! If you don't like to do it the first day, then
leave it to the second, or third. But if you take my advice, you'll get it over
the next morning.«
    »You'll have to do it yourself,« Clem repeated stubbornly, propping her chin
upon her fists.
    »Well, I never thought as you was such a frightened babby! Frightened of a
feller like him! I'd be ashamed o' myself!«
    »Who's frightened? Hold your row!«
    »Why, you are; what else?«
    »I ain't!«
    »You are!«
    »I ain't! You'd better not make me mad, or I'll tell him before, just to
spite you.«
    »Spite me, you cat! What difference 'll it make to me? I'll tell you what:
I've a jolly good mind to tell him myself beforehand, and then we'll see who's
spited.«
    In the end Clem yielded, shrugging her shoulders defiantly.
    »I'll have a kitchen-knife near by when I tell him,« she remarked with
decision. »If he lays a hand on me I'll cut his face open, an' chance it!«
    Mrs. Peckover smiled with tender motherly deprecation of such extreme
measures. But Clem repeated her threat, and there was something in her eyes
which guaranteed the possibility of its fulfilment.
    No personal acquaintance of either the Peckover or the Snowdon family
happened to glance over the list of names which hung in the registrar's office
during these weeks. The only interested person who had foreknowledge of Clem's
wedding was Jane Snowdon, and Jane, though often puzzled in thinking of the
matter, kept her promise to speak of it to no one. It was imprudence in Clem to
have run this risk, but the joke was so rich that she could not deny herself its
enjoyment; she knew, moreover, that Jane was one of those imbecile persons who
scruple about breaking a pledge. On the eve of her wedding-day she met Jane as
the latter came from Whitehead's, and requested her to call in the Close next
Sunday morning at twelve o'clock.
    »I want you to see my 'husband,« she said, grinning. »I'm sure you'll like
him.«
    Jane promised to come. On the next day, Saturday, Clem entered the
registry-office in a plain dress, and after a few simple formalities came forth
as Mrs. Snowdon; her usual high colour was a trifle diminished, and she kept
glancing at her husband from under nervously knitted brows. Still the great
event was unknown to the inhabitants of the Close. There was no feasting, and no
wedding-journey; for the present Mr. and Mrs. Snowdon would take possession of
two rooms on the first floor.
    Twenty-four hours later, when the bells of St. James's were ringing their
melodies before service, Clem requested her husband's attention to something of
importance she had to tell him.
    Mr. Snowdon had just finished breakfast and was on the point of lighting his
pipe; with the match burning down to his fingers, he turned and regarded the
speaker shrewdly. Clem's face put it beyond question that at last she was about
to make a statement definitely bearing on the history of the past month. At this
moment she was almost pale, and her eyes avoided his. She stood close to the
table, and her right hand rested near the bread-knife; her left held a piece of
paper.
    »What is it?« asked Joseph James mildly. »Go ahead, Clem.«
    »You ain't bad-tempered, are you? You said you wasn't't.«
    »Not I! Best-tempered feller you could have come across. Look at me
smiling.«
    His grin was in a measure reassuring, but he had caught sight of the piece
of paper in her hand, and eyed it steadily.
    »You know you played mother a trick a long time ago,« Clem pursued, »when
you went off an' left that child on her 'ands.«
    »Hollo! What about that?«
    »Well, it wouldn't be nothing but fair if someone was to go and play tricks
with you - just to pay you off in a friendly sort o' way - see?«
    Mr. Snowdon still smiled, but dubiously.
    »Out with it!« he muttered. »I'd have bet a trifle there was some game on.
You're welcome, old girl. Out with it!«
    »Did you know as I'd got a brother in 'Stralia - him as you used to know
when you lived here before?«
    »You said you didn't know where he was.«
    »No more we do - not just now. But he wrote mother a letter about this time
last year, an' there's something in it as I'd like you to see. You'd better read
for yourself.«
    Her husband laid down his pipe on the mantel- and began to cast his eye over
the letter, which was much defaced by frequent foldings, and in any case would
have been difficult to decipher, so vilely was it scrawled. But Mr. Snowdon's
interest was strongly excited, and in a few moments he had made out the
following communication:
    »I don't begin with no deering, because it's a plaid out thing, and because
I'm riting to too people at onse, both mother and Clem, and it's so long since
I've had a pen in my hand I've hart forgot how to use it. If you think I'm
making my pile, you think rong, so you've got no need to ask me when I'm going
to send money home, like you did in the last letter. I jest keep myself and
that's about all, because things ain't what they used to be in this busted up
country. And that remminds me what it was as I ment to tell you when I cold get
a bit of time to rite. Not so long ago, I met a chap as used to work for
somebody called Snowdon, and from what I can make out it was Snowdon's brother
at home, him as we use to ere so much about. He'd made his pile, this Snowdon,
you bet, and Ned Williams says he died worth no end of thousands. Not so long
before he died, his old farther from England came out to live with him; then
Snowdon and a son as he had both got drowned going over a river at night. And
Ned says as all the money went to the old bloak and to a brother in England, and
that's what he herd when he was paid off. The old farther made traks very soon,
and they sed he'd gone back to England. So it seams to me as you ouht to find
Snowdon and make him pay up what he ose you. And I don't know as I've anything
more to tell you both, ecsep I'm working at a place as I don't know how to
spell, and it woldn't be no good if I did, because there's no saying were I
shall be before you could rite back. So good luck to you both, from yours truly,
W.P.«
    In reading, Joseph James scratched his bald head thoughtfully. Before he had
reached the end there were signs of emotion in his projecting lower lip. At
length he regarded Clem, no longer smiling, but without any of the wrath she had
anticipated.
    »Ha, ha! This was your game, was it? Well, I don't object, old girl - so
long as you tell me a bit more about it. Now there's no need for any more lies,
perhaps you'll mention where the old fellow is.«
    »He's living' not so far away, an' Jane with him.«
    Put somewhat at her ease, Clem drew her hand from the neighbourhood of the
bread-knife, and detailed all she knew with regard to old Mr. Snowdon and his
affairs. Her mother had from the first suspected that he possessed money, seeing
that he paid, with very little demur, the sum she demanded for Jane's board and
lodging. True, he went to live in poor lodgings, but that was doubtless a
personal eccentricity. An important piece of evidence subsequently forthcoming
was the fact that in sundry newspapers there appeared advertisements addressed
to Joseph James Snowdon, requesting him to communicate with Messrs. Percival
&amp; Peel of Furnival's Inn, whereupon Mrs. Peckover made inquiries of the
legal firm in question (by means of an anonymous letter), and received a simple
assurance that Mr. Snowdon was being sought for his own advantage.
    »You're cool hands, you and your mother,« observed Joseph James, with a
certain involuntary admiration. »This was not quite three years ago, you say;
just when I was in America. Ha - hum! What I can't make out is, how the devil
that brother of mine came to leave anything to me. We never did anything but
curse each other from the time we were children to when we parted for good. And
so the old man went out to Australia, did he? That's a rum affair, too; Mike and
he could never get on together. Well, I suppose there's no mistake about it. I
shouldn't much mind if there was, just to see the face you'd pull, young woman.
On the whole, perhaps it's as well for you that I am fairly good-tempered - eh?«
    Clem stood apart, smiling dubiously, now and then eyeing him askance. His
last words once more put her on her guard; she moved towards the table again.
    »Give me the address,« said her husband. »I'll go and have a talk with my
relations. What sort of a girl's Janey grown up - eh?«
    »If you'll wait a bit, you can see for yourself. She's goin' to call here at
twelve.«
    »Oh, she is? I suppose you've arranged a pleasant little surprise for her?
Well, I must say you're a cool hand, Clem. I shouldn't wonder if she's been in
the house several times since I've been here?«
    »No, she hasn't. It wouldn't have been safe, you see.«
    »Give me the corkscrew, and I'll open this bottle of whisky. It takes it out
of a fellow, this kind of thing. Here's to you, Mrs. Clem! Have a drink? All
right; go downstairs and show your mother you're alive still; and let me know
when Jane comes. I want to think a bit.«
    When he had sat for a quarter of an hour in solitary reflection the door
opened, and Clem led into the room a young girl, whose face expressed timid
curiosity. Joseph James stood up, joined his hands under his coat-tail, and
examined the stranger.
    »Do you know who it is?« asked Clem of her companion.
    »Your husband - but I don't know his name.«
    »You ought to, it seems to me,« said Clem, giggling. »Look at him.«
    Jane tried to regard the man for a moment. Her cheeks flushed with
confusion. Again she looked at him, and the colour rapidly faded. In her eyes
was a strange light of painfully struggling recollection. She turned to Clem,
and read her countenance with distress.
    »Well, I'm quite sure I should never have known you, Janey,« said Snowdon,
advancing. »Don't you remember your father?«
    Yes; as soon as consciousness could reconcile what seemed impossibilities
Jane had remembered him. She was not seven years old when he forsook her, and a
life of anything but orderly progress had told upon his features. Nevertheless
Jane recognised the face she had never had cause to love, recognised yet more
certainly the voice which carried her back to childhood. But what did it all
mean? The shock was making her heart throb as it was wont to do before her fits
of illness. She looked about her with dazed eyes.
    »Sit down, sit down,« said her father, not without a note of genuine
feeling. »It's been a bit too much for you - like something else was for me just
now. Put some water in that glass, Clem; a drop of this will do her good.«
    The smell of what was offered her proved sufficient to restore Jane; she
shook her head and put the glass away. After an uncomfortable silence, during
which Joseph dragged his feet about the floor, Clem remarked:
    »He wants you to take him home to see your grandfather, Jane. There's been
reasons why he couldn't go before. Hadn't you better go at once, Jo?«
    Jane rose and waited whilst her father assumed his hat and drew on a new
pair of gloves. She could not look at either husband or wife. Presently she
found herself in the street, walking without consciousness of things in the
homeward direction.
    »You've grown up a very nice, modest girl, Jane,« was her father's first
observation. »I can see your grandfather has taken good care of you.«
    He tried to speak as if the situation were perfectly simple. Jane could find
no reply.
    »I thought it was better,« he continued, in the same matter-of-fact voice,
»not to see either of you till this marriage of mine was over. I've had a great
deal of trouble in life - I'll tell you all about it some day, my dear - and I
wanted just to settle myself before - I dare say you'll understand what I mean.
I suppose your grandfather has often spoken to you about me?«
    »Not very often, father,« was the murmured answer.
    »Well, well; things'll soon be set right. I feel quite proud of you, Janey;
I do, indeed. And I suppose you just keep house for him, eh?«
    »I go to work as well.«
    »What? You go to work? How's that, I wonder?«
    »Didn't Miss Peckover tell you?«
    Joseph laughed. The girl could not grasp all these astonishing facts at
once, and the presence of her father made her forget who Miss Peckover had
become.
    »You mean my wife, Janey! No, no; she didn't tell me you went to work; - an
accident. But I'm delighted you and Clem are such good friends. Kind-hearted
girl, isn't she?«
    Jane whispered an assent.
    »No doubt your grandfather often tells you about Australia, and your uncle
that died there?«
    »No, he never speaks of Australia. And I never heard of my uncle.«
    »Indeed? Ha - hum!«
    Joseph continued his examination all the way to Hanover Street, often
expressing surprise, but never varying from the tone of affection and geniality.
When they reached the door of the house he said:
    »Just let me go into the room by myself. I think it'll be better. He's
alone, isn't he?«
    »Yes. I'll come up and show you the door.«
    She did so, then turned aside into her own room, where she sat motionless
for a long time.
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

                             The Joke Is Completed

Michael Snowdon - to distinguish the old man by name from the son who thus
unexpectedly returned to him - professed no formal religion. He attended no
Sunday service, nor had ever shown a wish that Jane should do so. We have seen
that he used the Bible as a source of moral instruction; Jane and he still read
passages together on a Sunday morning, but only such were chosen as had a purely
human significance, and the comments to which they gave occasion never had any
but a human bearing. Doubtless Jane reflected on these things; it was her
grandfather's purpose to lead her to such reflection, without himself
dogmatising on questions which from his own point of view were unimportant. That
Jane should possess the religious spirit was a desire he never lost sight of;
the single purpose of his life was involved therein; but formalism was against
the bent of his nature. Born and bred amid the indifference of the London
working classes, he was one of the very numerous thinking men who have never
needed to cast aside a faith of childhood; from the dawn of rationality, they
simply stand apart from all religious dogmas, unable to understand the desire of
such helps to conduct, untouched by spiritual trouble - as that phrase is
commonly interpreted. And it seemed that Jane closely resembled him in this
matter. Sensitive to every prompting of humanity, instinct with moral
earnestness, she betrayed no slightest tendency to the religion of church,
chapel, or street-corner. A promenade of the Salvation Army half-puzzled,
half-amused her; she spoke of it altogether without intolerance, as did her
grandfather, but never dreamt that it was a phenomenon which could gravely
concern her. Prayers she had never said; enough that her last thought before
sleeping was one of kindness to those beings amid whom she lived her life, that
on awaking her mind turned most naturally to projects of duty and helpfulness.
    Excepting the Bible, Snowdon seldom made use of books either for inquiry or
amusement. Very imperfectly educated in his youth, he had never found leisure
for enriching his mind in the ordinary way until it was too late; as an old man
he had so much occupation in his thoughts that the printed page made little
appeal to him. Till quite recently he had been in the habit of walking for
several hours daily, always choosing poor districts; now that his bodily powers
were sensibly failing him, he passed more and more of his time in profound
brooding, so forgetful of external things that Jane, on her return from work,
had more than once been troubled by noticing that he had taken no midday meal.
It was in unconsciousness such as this that he sat when his son Joseph,
receiving no reply to his knock, opened the door and entered; but that his eyes
were open, the posture of his body and the forward drooping of his head would
have made it appear that he slept. Joseph stepped towards him, and at length the
old man looked up. He gazed at his visitor first unintelligently, then with
wonder and growing emotion.
    »Jo? - Jo, at last? You were in my mind only a few minutes ago, but I saw
you as a boy.«
    He rose from the chair and held out both his hands, trembling more than they
were wont to do.
    »I almost wonder you knew me,« said Joseph. »It's seventeen years since we
saw each other. It was all Jane could do to remember me.«
    »Jane? Where have you seen her? At the house in the Close?«
    »Yes. It was me she went to see, but she didn't know it. I've just been
married to Miss Peckover. Sit down again, father, and let's talk over things
quietly.«
    »Married to Miss Peckover?« repeated the old man, as if making an effort to
understand the words. »Then why didn't you come here before?«
    Joseph gave the explanation which he had already devised for the benefit of
his daughter. His manner of speaking was meant to be very respectful, but it
suggested that he looked upon the hearer as suffering from feebleness of mind,
as well as of body. He supplemented his sentences with gestures and smiles,
glancing about the room meantime with looks of much curiosity.
    »So you've been living here a long time, father? It was uncommonly good of
you to take care of my girl. I dare say you've got so used to having her by you,
you wouldn't care for her to go away now?«
    »Do you wish to take Jane away?« Michael inquired gravely.
    »No, no; not I! Why, it's nothing but her duty to keep you company and be
what use she can. She's happy enough, that I can see. Well, well; I've gone
through a good deal since the old days, father, and I'm not what you used to
know me. I'm gladder than I can say to find you so easy in your old age. Neither
Mike nor me did our duty by you, that's only too sure. I wish I could have the
time back again; but what's the good of that? Can you tell me anything about
Mike?«
    »Yes. He died in Australia, about four years ago.«
    »Did he now? Well, I've been in America, but I never got so far as
Australia. So Mike's dead, is he? I hope he had better luck than me.«
    The old man did not cease from examining his son's countenance.
    »What is your position, at present?« he asked, after a pause. »You don't
look unprosperous.«
    »Nothing to boast of, father. I've gone through all kinds of trades. In the
States I both made and lost money. I invented a new method of nickel-plating,
but it did me no good, and then I gave up that line altogether. Since I've been
back in England - two years about - I've mostly gone in for canvassing,
advertising agencies, and that kind of thing. I make an honest living, and
that's about all. But I shouldn't wonder if things go a bit better now; I feel
as if I was settled at last. What with having a home of my own, and you and
Janey near at hand - You won't mind if I come and see you both now and then?«
    »I shall hope to see you often,« replied the other, still keeping his grave
face and tone. »It's been my strong desire that we might come together again,
and I've done the best I could to find you. But, as you said, we've been parted
for a very long time, and it isn't in a day that we can come to understand each
other. These seventeen years have made an old man of me, Jo; I think and speak
and act slowly: - better for us all if I had learned to do so long ago! Your
coming was unexpected; I shall need a little time to get used to the change it
makes.«
    »To be sure; that's true enough. Plenty of time to talk over things. As far
as I'm concerned, father, the less said about bygones the better; it's the
future that I care about now. I want to put things right between us - as they
ought to be between father and son. You understand me, I hope?«
    Michael nodded, keeping his eyes upon the ground. Again there was a silence,
then Joseph said that if Jane would come in and speak a few words - so as to
make things home-like - it would be time for him to take his leave for the
present. At her grandfather's summons Jane entered the room. She was still
oppressed by the strangeness of her position, and with difficulty took part in
the colloquy. Joseph, still touching the note of humility in his talk, eyed his
relatives alternately, and exhibited reluctance to quit them.
    When he returned to the Close, it was with a face expressing
dissatisfaction. Clem's eager inquiries he met at first with an ill-tempered
phrase or two, which informed her of nothing; but when dinner was over he
allowed himself to be drawn into a confidential talk, in which Mrs. Peckover
took part. The old man, he remarked, was devilish close; it looked as if some
game was on. Mrs. Peckover ridiculed this remark; of course there was a game on;
she spoke of Sidney Kirkwood, the influence he had obtained over Snowdon, the
designs he was obviously pursuing. If Joseph thought he would recover his
rights, at this time of day, save by direct measures, it only proved how needful
it was for him to be instructed by shrewd people. The old man was a hard nut to
crack; why he lived in Hanover Street, and sent Jane to work, when it was
certain that he had wealth at command, Mrs. Peckover could not pretend to
explain, but in all probability he found a pleasure in accumulating money, and
was abetted therein by Sidney Kirkwood. Clem could bear witness that Jane always
seemed to have secrets to hide; nevertheless a good deal of information had been
extracted from the girl during the last year or so, and it all went to confirm
the views which Mrs. Peckover now put forth. After long discussion, it was
resolved that Joseph should call upon the lawyers whose names had appeared in
the advertisement addressed to himself. If he was met with any shuffling, or if
they merely referred him to his father, the next step would be plain enough.
    Clem began to exhibit sullenness; her words were few, and it was fortunate
for Joseph that he could oppose a philosophical indifference to the trouble with
which his honeymoon was threatened. As early as possible on Monday morning he
ascended the stairs of a building in Furnival's Inn and discovered the office of
Messrs. Percival and Peel. He was hesitating whether to knock or simply turn the
handle, when a man came up to the same door, with the quick step of one at home
in the place.
    »Business with us?« inquired the newcomer, as Joseph drew back.
    They looked at each other. He who had spoken was comparatively a young man,
dressed with much propriety, gravely polite in manner.
    »Ha! How do you do?« exclaimed Snowdon, with embarrassment, and in an
undertone. »I wasn't't expecting -«
    The recognition was mutual, and whilst Joseph, though disconcerted,
expressed his feelings in a familiar smile, the other cast a quick glance of
uneasiness towards the stairs, his mouth compressed, his eyebrows twitching a
little.
    »Business with Mr. Percival?« he inquired confidentially, but without
Joseph's familiar accentuation.
    »Yes. That is - Is he here?«
    »Won't be for another hour. Anything I could see about for you?«
    Joseph moved in uncertainty, debating with himself. Their eyes met again.
    »Well, we might have a word or two about it,« he said. »Better meet
somewhere else, perhaps?«
    »Could you be at the top of Chancery Lane at six o'clock?«
    With a look of mutual understanding, they parted. Joseph went home, and
explained that, to his surprise, he had found an old acquaintance at the
lawyer's office, a man named Scawthorne, whom he was going to see in private
before having an interview with the lawyer himself. At six o'clock the appointed
meeting took place, and from Chancery Lane the pair walked to a quiet house of
refreshment in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields. On the way they exchanged a
few insignificant remarks, having reference to a former intimacy and a period
during which they had not come across each other. Established in a semi-private
room, with a modest stimulant to aid conversation, they became more at ease; Mr.
Scawthorne allowed himself a discreet smile, and Joseph, fingering his glass,
broached the matter at issue with a cautious question.
    »Do you know anything of a man called Snowdon?«
    »What Snowdon?«
    »Joseph James Snowdon - a friend of mine. Your people advertised for him
about three years ago. Perhaps you haven't been at the office as long as that?«
    »Oh yes. I remember the name. What about him?«
    »Your people wanted to find him - something to his advantage. Do you happen
to know whether it's any use his coming forward now?«
    Mr. Scawthorne was not distinguished by directness of gaze. He had handsome
features, and a not unpleasant cast of countenance, but something, possibly the
habit of professional prudence, made his regard coldly, fitfully, absently
observant. It was markedly so as he turned his face towards Joseph whilst the
latter was speaking. After a moment's silence he remarked, without emphasis:
    »A relative of yours, you said?«
    »No, I said a friend - intimate friend. Polkenhorne knows him too.«
    »Does he? I haven't seen Polkenhorne for a long time.«
    »You don't care to talk about the business? Perhaps you'd better introduce
me to Mr. Percival.«
    »By the name of Camden?«
    »Hang it! I may as well tell you at once. Snowdon is my own name.«
    »Indeed? And how am I to be sure of that?«
    »Come and see me where I'm living, in Clerkenwell Close, and then make
inquiries of my father, in Hanover Street, Islington. There's no reason now for
keeping up the old name - a little affair - all put right. But the fact is, I'd
as soon find out what this business is with your office without my father
knowing. I have reasons; shouldn't mind talking them over with you, if you can
give me the information I want.«
    »I can do that,« replied Scawthorne with a smile. »If you are J. J. Snowdon,
you are requested to communicate with Michael Snowdon - that's all.«
    »Oh! but I have communicated with him, and he's nothing particular to say to
me, as far as I can see.«
    Scawthorne sipped at his glass, gave a stroke to each side of his moustache,
and seemed to reflect.
    »You were coming to ask Mr. Percival privately for information?«
    »That's just it. Of course if you can't give me any, I must see him
to-morrow.«
    »He won't tell you anything more than I have.«
    »And you don't know anything more?«
    »I didn't say that, my dear fellow. Suppose yon begin by telling me a little
more about yourself?«
    It was a matter of time, but at length the dialogue took another character.
The glasses of stimulant were renewed, and as Joseph grew expansive Scawthorne
laid aside something of his professional reserve, without, however, losing the
discretion which led him to subdue his voice and express himself in
uncompromising phrases. Their sitting lasted about an hour, and before taking
leave of each other they arranged for a meeting at a different place in the
course of a few days.
    Joseph walked homewards with deliberation, in absent mood, his countenance
alternating strangely between a look of mischievous jocoseness and irritable
concern; occasionally he muttered to himself. Just before reaching the Close he
turned into a public-house; when he came forth the malicious smile was on his
face, and he walked with the air of a man who has business of moment before him.
He admitted himself to the house.
    »That you, Jo?« cried Clem's voice from upstairs.
    »Me, sure enough,« was the reply, with a chuckle. »Come up sharp, then.«
    Humming a tune, Joseph ascended to the sitting-room on the first floor, and
threw himself on a seat. His wife stood just in front of him, her sturdy arms
a-kimbo; her look was fiercely expectant, answering in some degree to the smile
with which he looked here and there.
    »Well, can't you speak?«
    »No hurry, Mrs. Clem; no hurry, my dear. It's all right. The old man's
rolling in money.«
    »And what about your share?«
    Joseph laughed obstreperously, his wife's brow lowering the while.
    »Just tell me, can't you?« she cried.
    »Of course I will. The best joke you ever heard. You had yours yesterday,
Mrs. Clem; my turn comes to-day. My share is - just nothing at all. Not a penny!
Not a cent! Swallow that, old girl, and tell me how it tastes.«
    »You're a liar!« shouted the other, her face flushing scarlet, her eyes
aflame with rage.
    »Never told a lie in my life,« replied her husband, still laughing noisily.
But for that last glass of cordial on the way home he could scarcely have
enjoyed so thoroughly the dramatic flavour of the situation. Joseph was neither
a bully nor a man of courage; the joke with which he was delighting himself was
certainly a rich one, but it had its element of danger, and only by abandoning
himself to riotous mirth could he overcome the nervousness with which Clem's
fury threatened to affect him. She, coming forward in the attitude of an enraged
fishwife, for a few moments made the room ring with foul abuse, that
vituperative vernacular of the nether world, which has never yet been exhibited
by typography, and presumably never will be.
    »Go it, Clem!« cried her husband, pushing his chair a little back. »Go it,
my angel! When you've eased your mind a little, I'll explain how it happens.«
    She became silent, glaring at him with murderous eyes. But just at that
moment Mrs. Peckover put her head in at the door, inquiring »What's up?«
    »Come in, if you want to know,« cried her daughter. »See what you've let me
in for! Didn't I tell you as it might be all a mistake? Oh yes, you may look!«
    Mrs. Peckover was startled; her small, cunning eyes went rapidly from Clem
to Joseph, and she fixed the latter with a gaze of angry suspicion.
    »Got a bit of news for you, mother,« resumed Joseph, nodding. »You and Clem
were precious artful, weren't you now? It's my turn now. Thought I'd got money -
ha, ha!«
    »And so you have,« replied Mrs. Peckover. »We know all about it, so you
needn't try your little game.«
    »Know all about it, do you? Well, see here. My brother Mike died out in
Australia, and his son died at the same time - they was drowned. Mike left no
will, and his wife was dead before him. What's the law, eh? Pity you didn't make
sure of that. Why, all his money went to the old man, every cent of it. I've no
claim on a penny. That's the law, my pretty dears!«
    »He's a - liar!« roared Clem, who at the best of times would have brought
small understanding to a legal question. »What did my brother say in his
letter?«
    »He was told wrong, that's all, or else he got the idea out of his own
head.«
    »Then why did they advertise for you?« inquired Mrs. Peckover, keeping
perfect command of her temper.
    »The old man thought he'd like to find his son again, that's all. Ha, ha!
Why can't you take it good-humoured, Clem? You had your joke yesterday, and you
can't say I cut up rough about it. I'm a good-natured fellow, I am. There's many
a man would have broke every bone in your body, my angel, you just remember
that!«
    It rather seemed as if the merry proceeding would in this case be reversed;
Joseph had risen, and was prepared to defend himself from an onslaught. But Mrs.
Peckover came between the newly-wedded pair, and by degrees induced Clem to take
a calmer view of the situation, or at all events to postpone her vengeance. It
was absurd, she argued, to act as if the matter were hopeless. Michael Snowdon
would certainly leave Joseph money in his will, if only the right steps were
taken to secure his favour. Instead of quarrelling, they must put their heads
together and scheme. She had her ideas; let them listen to her.
    »Clem, you go and get a pot of old six for supper, and don't be such a -
fool,« was her final remark.
 

                                  Chapter XIX

                                   A Retreat

Visiting his friends as usual on Sunday evening, Sidney Kirkwood felt, before he
had been many minutes in the room, that something unwonted was troubling the
quiet he always found here. Michael Snowdon was unlike himself, nervously
inattentive, moving frequently, indisposed to converse on any subject. Neither
had Jane her accustomed brightness, and the frequent glances she cast at her
grandfather seemed to show that the latter's condition was causing her anxiety.
She withdrew very early, and, as at once appeared, in order that Sidney might
hear in private what had that day happened. The story of Clem Peckover's
marriage naturally occasioned no little astonishment in Sidney.
    »And how will all this affect Jane?« he asked involuntarily.
    »That is what I cannot tell,« replied Michael. »It troubles me. My son is a
stranger; all these years have made him quite a different man from what I
remember; and the worst is, I can no longer trust myself to judge him. Yet I
must know the truth - Sidney, I must know the truth. It's hard to speak ill of
the only son left to me out of the four I once had, but if I think of him as he
was seventeen years ago - no, no, he must have changed as he has grown older.
But you must help me to know him, Sidney.«
    And in a very few days Sidney had his first opportunity of observing Jane's
father. At this meeting Joseph seemed to desire nothing so much as to recommend
himself by an amiable bearing. Impossible to speak with more engaging frankness
than he did whilst strolling away from Hanover Street in Sidney's company.
Thereafter the two saw a great deal of each other. Joseph was soon a familiar
visitor in Tysoe Street; he would come about nine o'clock of an evening, and sit
till after midnight. The staple of his talk was at first the painfully unnatural
relations existing between his father, his daughter, and himself. He had led a
most unsatisfactory life; he owned it, deplored it. That the old man should
distrust him was but natural; but would not Sidney, as a common friend, do his
best to dispel this prejudice? On the subject of his brother Mike he kept
absolute silence. The accident of meeting an intimate acquaintance at the office
of Messrs. Percival and Peel had rendered it possible for him to pursue his
inquiries in that direction without it becoming known to Michael Snowdon that he
had done anything of the kind; and the policy he elaborated for himself demanded
the appearance of absolute disinterestedness in all his dealings with his
father. Aided by the shrewd Mrs. Peckover, he succeeded in reconciling Clem to a
present disappointment, bitter as it was, by pointing out that there was every
chance of his profiting largely upon the old man's death, which could not be a
very remote contingency. At present there was little that could be done save to
curry favour in Hanover Street, and keep an eye on what went forward between
Kirkwood and Jane. This latter was, of course, an issue of supreme importance. A
very little observation convinced Joseph that his daughter had learned to regard
Sidney as more than a friend; whether there existed any mutual understanding
between them he could only discover by direct inquiry, and for the present it
seemed wiser to make no reference to the subject. He preserved the attitude of
one who has forfeited his natural rights, and only seeks with humility the
chance of proving that he is a reformed character. Was, or was not, Kirkwood
aware of the old man's wealth? That too must be left uncertain, though it was
more than probable he had seen the advertisement in the newspapers, and, like
Mrs. Peckover, had based conclusions thereupon. Another possibility was, that
Kirkwood had wormed himself into Michael's complete confidence. From Joseph's
point of view, subtle machinations were naturally attributed to the young man -
whose appearance proved him anything but a commonplace person. The situation was
full of obscurities and dangers. From Scawthorne Joseph received an assurance
that the whole of the Australian property had been capitalised and placed in
English investments; also, that the income was regularly drawn and in some way
disposed of; the manner of such disposal being kept private between old Mr.
Percival and his client.
    In the meantime family discussions in the Close had brought to Joseph's
knowledge a circumstance regarding Kirkwood which interested him in a high
degree. When talking of Sidney's character, it was natural that the Peckovers
should relate the story of his relations with Clara Hewett.
    »Clara?« exclaimed Mr. Snowdon, as if struck by the name. »Disappeared, has
she? What sort of a girl to look at?«
    Clem was ready with a malicious description, whereto her husband attended
very carefully. He mused over it, and proceeded to make inquiries about Clara's
family. The Hewetts were now living in another part of Clerkenwell, but there
was no hostility between them and the Peckovers. Was anything to be gained by
keeping up intimacy with them? Joseph, after further musing, decided that it
would be just as well to do so; suppose Clem called upon them and presented the
husband of whom she was so proud? He would like, if possible, to hear a little
more about their daughter; an idea he had - never mind exactly what. So this
call was paid, and in a few weeks Joseph had established an acquaintance with
John Hewett.
    Sidney, on his part, had a difficulty in coming to definite conclusions
respecting Jane's father. Of course he was prejudiced against the man, and
though himself too little acquainted with the facts of the case to distinguish
Joseph's motives, he felt that the middle-aged prodigal's return was anything
but a fortunate event for Michael and his granddaughter. The secret marriage,
with Clem was not likely, in any case, to have a respectable significance. True,
there were not lacking grounds for hesitation in refusing to accept Joseph's
account of himself. He had a fund of natural amiability; he had a good provision
of intellect; his talk was at times very persuasive and much like that of one
who has been brought to a passable degree of honesty by the slow development of
his better instincts. But his face was against him; the worn, sallow features,
the eyes which so obviously made a struggle to look with frankness, the vicious
lower lip, awoke suspicion and told tales of base experience such as leaves its
stamp upon a man for ever. All the more repugnant was this face to Sidney
because it presented, in certain aspects, an undeniable resemblance to Jane's;
impossible to say which feature put forth this claim of kindred, but the
impression was there, and it made Sidney turn away his eyes in disgust as often
as he perceived it. He strove, however, to behave with friendliness, for it was
Michael's desire that he should do so. That Joseph was using every opportunity
of prying into his thoughts, of learning the details of his history, he soon
became perfectly conscious; but he knew of nothing that he need conceal.
    It was impossible that Sidney should not have reflected many a time on
Michael Snowdon's position, and have been moved to curiosity by hints of the
mysterious when he thought of his friends in Hanover Street. As it happened, he
never saw those newspaper advertisements addressed to Joseph, and his
speculation had nothing whatever to support it save the very few allusions to
the past which Michael had permitted himself in the course of talk. Plainly the
old man had means sufficient for his support, and in all likelihood this
independence was connected with his visit to Australia; but no act or word of
Michael's had ever suggested that he possessed more than a very modest
competency. It was not, indeed, the circumstances, so much as the character and
views, of his friend that set Kirkwood pondering. He did not yet know Michael
Snowdon; of that he was convinced. He had not fathomed his mind, got at the
prime motive of his being. Moreover, he felt that the old man was waiting for
some moment, or some event, to make revelation of himself. Since Joseph's
appearance, it had become more noticeable than ever that Snowdon suffered from
some agitation of the mind; Sidney had met his eyes fixed upon him in a painful
interrogation, and seemed to discern the importunity of a desire that was
refused utterance. His own condition was affected by sympathy with this
restlessness, and he could not overcome the feeling that some decisive change
was at hand for him. Though nothing positive justified the idea, he began to
connect this anticipation of change with the holiday that was approaching, the
week to be spent in Essex at the end of July. It had been his fear that Joseph's
presence might affect these arrangements, but Michael was evidently resolved to
allow nothing of the kind. One evening, a fortnight before the day agreed upon
for leaving town, and when Joseph had made a call in Hanover Street, the old man
took occasion to speak of the matter. Joseph accepted the information with his
usual pliancy.
    »I only wish my wife and me could join you,« he remarked. »But it wouldn't
do to take a holiday so soon after settling to business. Better luck for me next
year, father, let's hope.«
    That he had settled to business was a fact of which Joseph made so much just
now that one would have been tempted to suppose it almost a new experience for
him. His engagement, he declared, was with a firm of advertising agents in the
City; nothing to boast of, unfortunately, and remunerative only in the way of
commission; but he saw his way to better things.
    »Jane, my girl,« he continued, averting his eyes as if in emotion, »I don't
know how you and me are going to show our gratitude for all this kindness, I'm
sure. I hope you haven't got so used to it that you think there's no need to
thank your grandfather?«
    The girl and the old man exchanged a look. Joseph sighed, and began to speak
of another subject in a tone of cheery martyrdom.
    Jane herself had not been quite so joyous as was her wont since the
occurrence that caused her to take a new view of her position in the world. She
understood that her grandfather regarded the change very gravely, and in her own
heart awoke all manner of tremulous apprehensions when she tried to look onward
a little to the uncertainties of the future. Forecasts had not hitherto troubled
her; the present was so rich in satisfactions that she could follow the bent of
her nature and live with no anxiety concerning the unknown. It was a great
relief to her to be assured that the long- plans for the holiday would suffer no
change. The last week was a time of impatience, resolutely suppressed. On the
Saturday afternoon Sidney was to meet them at Liverpool Street. Would anything
happen these last few days - this last day - this last hour? No; all three stood
together on the platform, and their holiday had already begun.
    Over the pest-stricken regions of East London, sweltering in sunshine which
served only to reveal the intimacies of abomination; across miles of a city of
the damned, such as thought never conceived before this age of ours; above
streets swarming with a nameless populace, cruelly exposed by the unwonted light
of heaven; stopping at stations which it crushes the heart to think should be
the destination of any mortal; the train made its way at length beyond the
outmost limits of dread, and entered upon a land of level meadows, of hedges and
trees, of crops and cattle. Michael Snowdon was anxious that Jane should not
regard with the carelessness of familiarity those desolate tracts from which
they were escaping. In Bethnal Green he directed her attention with a whispered
word to the view from each window, and Jane had learnt well to understand him.
But, the lesson over, it was none of his purpose to spoil her natural mood of
holiday. Sidney sat opposite her, and as often as their eyes met a smile of
contentment answered on either's face.
    They alighted at Chelmsford, and were met by the farmer in whose house they
were going to lodge, a stolid, good-natured fellow named Pammenter, with red,
leathery cheeks, and a corkscrew curl of black hair coming forward on each
temple. His trap was waiting, and in a few minutes they started on the drive to
Danbury. The distance is about five miles, and, until Danbury Hill is reached,
the countryside has no point of interest to distinguish it from any other
representative bit of rural Essex. It is merely one of those quiet corners of
flat, homely England, where man and beast seem on good terms with each other,
where all green things grow in abundance, where from of old tilth and
pasture-land are humbly observant of seasons and alternations, where the brown
roads are familiar only with the tread of the labourer, with the light wheel of
the farmer's gig, or the rumbling of the solid wain. By the roadside you pass
occasionally a mantled pool, where perchance ducks or geese are enjoying
themselves; and at times there is a pleasant glimpse of farm-yard, with stacks
and barns and stables. All things as simple as could be, but beautiful on this
summer afternoon, and priceless when one has come forth from the streets of
Clerkenwell.
    Farmer Pammenter was talkative, and his honest chestvoice sounded
pleasantly; but the matter of his discourse might have been more cheerful. Here,
as elsewhere, the evil of the times was pressing upon men and disheartening them
from labour. Farms lying barren, ill-will between proprietor and tenant, between
tenant and hind, departure of the tillers of the soil to rot in towns that have
no need of them - of such things did honest Pammenter speak, with many a sturdy
malediction of landlords and land-laws, whereat Sidney smiled, not
unsympathetic.
    Danbury Hill, rising thick-wooded to the village church, which is visible
for miles around, with stretches of heath about its lower slopes, with its far
prospects over the sunny country, was the pleasant end of a pleasant drive. Mrs.
Pammenter and her children (seven of them, unhappily) gave the party a rough,
warm-hearted welcome. Ha! how good it was to smell the rooms through which the
pure air breathed freely! All the front of the house was draped with purple
clematis; in the garden were sun-flowers and hollyhocks and lowly plants
innumerable; on the red and lichened tiles pigeons were cooing themselves into a
doze; the horse's hoofs rang with a pleasant clearness on the stones as he was
led to his cool stable. Her heart throbbing with excess of delight, Jane pushed
back the diamond-paned casement of her bedroom, the same room she had occupied
last year and the year before, and buried her face in clematis. Then the tea
that Mrs. Pammenter had made ready; - how delicious everything tasted! how white
the cloth was! how fragrant the cut flowers in the brown jug!
    But Michael had found the journey a greater tax upon his strength than he
anticipated. Whilst Sidney and Jane talked merrily over the tea-table the old
man was thinking. »Another year they will come without me,« and he smiled just
to hide his thoughts. In the evening he smoked his pipe on a garden-seat, for
the most part silent, and at sunset he was glad to go up to his chamber.
    Jane was renewing her friendship with the Pammenters' eldest girl, an
apple-cheeked, red-haired, ungraceful, but good-natured lass of sixteen. Their
voices sounded from all parts of the garden and the farm-yard, Jane's
clear-throated laugh contrasting with the rougher utterance of her companion.
After supper, in the falling of the dusk, Sidney strolled away from the
gossiping circle within-doors, and found a corner of the garden whence there was
a view of wooded hillside against the late glow of the heavens. Presently he
heard footsteps, and through the leafage of a tree that shadowed him he saw Jane
looking this way and that, as if she sought some one. Her dress was a light
calico, and she held in her hand a rough garden hat, the property of Miss
Pammenter. Sidney regarded her for some moments, then called her by name. She
could not see him at first, and looked about anxiously. He moved a branch of the
tree and again called her; whereupon she ran forward.
    »I thought perhaps you'd gone up the hill,« she said, resting her arms on
the wall by which he was standing.
    Then they kept silence, enjoying the sweetness of the hour. Differently, it
is true; for Kirkwood's natural sensitiveness had been developed and refined by
studies of which Jane had no conception. Imperfect as his instruction remained,
the sources of spiritual enjoyment were open to him, and with all his feeling
there blended that reflective bitterness which is the sad privilege of such as
he. Jane's delight was as simple as the language in which she was wont to
express herself. She felt infinitely more than Pennyloaf, for instance, would
have done under the circumstances; but her joy consisted, in the main, of a
satisfaction of pure instincts and a deep sense of gratitude to those who made
her life what it was. She could as little have understood Sidney's mind at this
moment as she could have given an analytic account of her own sensations. For
all that, the two were in profound sympathy; how different soever the ways in
which they were affected, the result, as they stood side by side, was identical
in the hearts of both.
    Sidney began to speak of Michael Snowdon, keeping his voice low, as if in
fear of breaking those subtle harmonies wherewith the night descended.
    »We must be careful not to over-tire him. He looked very pale when he went
upstairs. I've thought lately that he must suffer more than he tells us.«
    »Yes, I'm afraid he often does,« Jane assented, as if relieved to speak of
it. »Yet he always says it's nothing to trouble about, nothing but what is
natural at his age. He's altered a great deal since father came,« she added,
regarding him diffidently.
    »I hope it isn't because he thinks your father may be wanting to take you
away?«
    »Oh, it can't be that! Oh, he knows I wouldn't leave him! Mr. Kirkwood, you
don't think my father will give us any trouble?«
    She revealed an anxiety which delicacy of feeling had hitherto prevented her
expressing. Sidney at once spoke reassuringly, though he had in fact no little
suspicion of Joseph Snowdon's tactics.
    »It's my grandfather that I ought to think most of,« pursued Jane earnestly.
»I can't feel to my father as I do to him. What should I have been now if -«
    Something caused her to leave the speech unfinished, and for a few moments
there was silence. From the ground exhaled a sweet fresh odour, soothing to the
senses, and at times a breath of air brought subtler perfume from the alleys of
the garden. In the branches above them rustled a bird's wing. At a distance on
the country road sounded the trotting of a horse.
    »I feel ashamed and angry with myself,« said Sidney, in a tone of emotion,
»when I think now of those times. I might have done something, Jane. I had no
right to know what you were suffering and just go by as if it didn't matter!«
    »Oh, but you didn't!« came eagerly from the girl's lips. »You've forgotten,
but I can't. You were very kind to me - you helped me more than you can think -
you never saw me without speaking kindly. Don't you remember that night when I
came to fetch you from the workshop, and you took off your coat and put it over
me, because it was cold and raining?«
    »Jane, what a long, long time ago that seems!«
    »As long as I live I shall never forget it - never! You were the only friend
I had then.«
    »No; there was some one else who took thought for you,« said Sidney,
regarding her gravely.
    Jane met his look for an instant - they could just read each other's
features in the pale light - then dropped her eyes.
    »I don't think you've forgotten that either,« he added, in the same unusual
voice.
    »No,« said Jane, below her breath.
    »Say who it is I mean.«
    »You mean Miss Hewett,« was the reply, after a troubled moment.
    »I wanted you to say her name. You remember one evening not long ago, when
your grandfather was away? I had the same wish then. Why shouldn't we speak of
her? She was a friend to you when you needed one badly, and it's right that you
should remember her with gratitude. I think of her just like we do of people
that are dead.«
    Jane stood with one hand on the low wall, half-turned to him, but her face
bent downwards. Regarding her for what seemed a long time, Sidney felt as though
the fragrance of the earth and the flowers were mingling with his blood and
confusing him with emotions. At the same his tongue was paralysed. Frequently of
late he had known a timidity in Jane's presence, which prevented him from
meeting her eyes, and now this tremor came upon him with painful intensity. He
knew to what his last words had tended; it was with consciousness of a distinct
purpose that he had led the conversation to Clara; but now he was powerless to
speak the words his heart prompted. Of a sudden he experienced a kind of shame,
the result of comparison between himself and the simple girl who stood before
him; she was so young, and the memory of passions from which he had suffered
years ago affected him with a sense of unworthiness, almost of impurity. Jane
had come to be his ideal of maidenhood, but till this moment he had not
understood the full significance of the feeling with which he regarded her. He
could not transform with a word their relations to each other. The temptation of
the hour had hurried him towards an end which he must approach with more
thought, more preparation of himself.
    It was scarcely for ten heart-beats. Then Jane raised her eyes and said in a
voice that trembled:
    »I've often wished I could see her again, and thank her for her kindness
that night.«
    »That will help me to think with less pain of things that are long since
over and done with,« Sidney replied, forcing himself to speak firmly. »We can't
alter the past, Jane, but we can try to remember only the best part of it. You,
I hope, very seldom look back at all.«
    »Grandfather wishes me never to forget it. He often says that.«
    »Does he? I think I understand.«
    Jane drew down a branch and laid the broad cool leaves against her cheek;
releasing it, she moved in the direction of the house. Her companion followed
with slow step, his head bent. Before they came to the door Jane drew his
attention to a bat that was sweeping duskily above their heads; she began to
speak with her wonted cheerfulness.
    »How I should like Pennyloaf to be here! I wonder what she'd think of it?«
    At the door they bade each other good night. Sidney took yet a few turns in
the garden before entering. But that it would have seemed to the Pammenters a
crazy proceeding, he would have gladly struck away over the fields and walked
for hours.
 

                                   Chapter XX

                            A Vision of Noble Things

He slept but for an hour or two, and even then with such disturbance of fitful
dreams that he could not be said to rest. At the earliest sound of movements in
the house he rose and went out into the morning air. There had fallen a heavy
shower just after sunrise, and the glory of the east was still partly veiled
with uncertain clouds. Heedless of weather-signs, Sidney strode away at a great
pace, urged by his ungovernable thoughts. His state was that miserable one in
which a man repeats for the thousandth time something he has said, and torments
himself with devising possible and impossible interpretations thereof. Through
the night he had done nothing but imagine what significance Jane might have
attached to his words about Clara Hewett. Why had he spoken of Clara at all? One
moment he understood his reasons, and approved them; the next he was at a loss
to account for such needless revival of a miserable story. How had Jane
interpreted him? And was it right or wrong to have paused when on the point of
confessing that he loved her?
    Rain caught him at a distance from home, and he returned to breakfast in
rather a cheerless plight. He found that Michael was not feeling quite himself,
and would not rise till midday. Jane had a look of anxiety, and he fancied she
behaved to him with a constraint hitherto unknown. The fancy was dispelled,
however, when, later in the morning, she persuaded him to bring out his
sketch-book, and suggested points of view for a drawing of the farm that had
been promised to Mr. Pammenter. Himself unable to recover the tone of calm
intimacy which till yesterday had been natural between them, Sidney found
himself studying the girl, seeking to surprise some proof that she too was no
longer the same, and only affected this unconsciousness of change. There was,
perhaps, a little less readiness in her eyes to meet his, but she talked as
naturally as ever, and the spontaneousness of her good-humour was assuredly not
feigned.
    On Monday the farmer had business in Maldon. Occasionally when he drove over
to that town he took one or other of his children with him to visit a relative,
and to-day he proposed that Jane should be of the party. They started after an
early dinner. Michael and Sidney stood together in the road, watching the
vehicle as it rolled away; then they walked in silence to a familiar spot where
they could sit in shadow. Sidney was glad of Jane's departure for the afternoon.
He found it impossible to escape the restlessness into which he had fallen, and
was resolved to seek relief by opening his mind to the old man. There could be
little doubt that Michael already understood his thoughts, and no better
opportunity for such a conversation was likely to present itself. When they had
been seated for a minute or two, neither speaking, Sidney turned to his
companion with a grave look. At the same instant Michael also had raised his
eyes and seemed on the point of saying something of importance. They regarded
each other. The old man's face was set in an expression of profound feeling, and
his lips moved tremulously before words rose to them.
    »What were you going to say, Sidney?« he asked, reading the other's
features.
    »Something which I hope won't be displeasing to you. I was going to speak of
Jane. Since she has been living with you she has grown from a child to a woman.
When I was talking with her in the garden on Saturday night I felt this change
more distinctly than I had ever done before. I understood that it had made a
change in myself. I love her, Mr. Snowdon, and it's my dearest hope that she may
come to feel the same for me.«
    Michael was more agitated than the speaker; he raised a hand to his forehead
and closed his eyes as if the light pained them. But the smile with which he
speedily answered Sidney's look of trouble was full of reassurance.
    »You couldn't have said anything that would give me more pleasure,« he
replied, just above his breath. »Does she know it? Did you speak to her?«
    »We were talking of years ago, and I mentioned Clara Hewett. I said that I
had forgotten all about her except that she'd befriended Jane. But nothing more
than that. I couldn't say what I was feeling just then. Partly I thought that it
was right to speak to you first; and then - it seemed to me almost as if I
should be treating her unfairly. I'm so much older - she knows that it isn't the
first time I - and she's always thought of me just as a friend.«
    »So much older?« repeated Michael, with a grave smile. »Why, you're both
children to my sight. Wait and let me think a bit, Sidney. I too have something
I want to say. I'm glad you've spoken this afternoon, when there's time for us
to talk. Just wait a few minutes, and let me think.«
    Sidney had as good as forgotten that there was anything unusual in his
friend's circumstances; this last day or two he had thought of nothing but Jane
and his love for her. Now he recalled the anticipation - originating he scarcely
knew how - that some kind of disclosure would before long be made to him. The
trouble of his mind was heightened; he waited with all but dread for the next
words.
    »I think I've told you,« Michael resumed at length, steadying his voice,
»that Joseph is my youngest son, and that I had three others. Three others:
Michael, Edward, and Robert - all dead. Edward died when he was a boy of
fifteen; Robert was killed on the railway - he was a porter - at
three-and-twenty. The eldest went out to Australia; he took a wife there, and
had one child; the wife died when they'd been married a year or two, and Michael
and his boy were drowned, both together. I was living with them at the time, as
you know. But what I've never spoken of, Sidney, is that my son had made his
fortune. He left a deal of land, and many thousands of pounds, behind him. There
was no finding any will; a lawyer in the nearest town, a man that had known him
a long time, said he felt sure there'd been no will made. So, as things were,
the law gave everything to his father.«
    He related it with subdued voice, in a solemn and agitated tone. The effect
of the news upon Sidney was a painful constriction of the heart, a rush of
confused thought, an involvement of all his perceptions in a sense of fear. The
pallor of his cheeks and the pained parting of his lips bore witness to how
little he was prepared for such a story.
    »I've begun with what ought by rights to have come last,« pursued Michael,
after drawing a deep sigh. »But it does me good to get it told; it's been
burdening me this long while. Now you must listen, Sidney, whilst I show you why
I've kept this a secret. I've no fear but you'll understand me, though most
people wouldn't. It's a secret from everybody except a lawyer in London, who
does business for me; a right-hearted man he is, in most things, and I'm glad I
met with him, but he doesn't't understand me as you will; he thinks I'm making a
mistake. My son knows nothing about it; at least, it's my hope and belief he
doesn't't. He told me he hadn't heard of his brother's death. I say I hope he
doesn't't know; it isn't selfishness, that; I needn't tell you. I've never for a
minute thought of myself as a rich man, Sidney; I've never thought of the money
as my own, never; and if Joseph proves himself honest, I'm ready to give up to
him the share of his brother's property that it seems to me ought to be rightly
his, though the law for some reason looks at it in a different way. I'm ready,
but I must know that he's an honest man; I must prove him first.«
    The eagerness of his thought impelled him to repetitions and emphasis. His
voice fell upon a note of feebleness, and with an effort he recovered the tone
in which he had begun.
    »As soon as I knew that all this wealth had fallen to me I decided at once
to come back to England. What could I do out there? I decided to come to
England, but I couldn't see further ahead than that. I sold all the land; I had
the business done for me by that lawyer I spoke of, that had known my son, and
he recommended me to a Mr. Percival in London. I came back, and I found little
Jane, and then bit by bit I began to understand what my duty was. It got clear
in my mind; I formed a purpose, a plan, and it's as strong in me now as ever.
Let me think again for a little, Sidney. I want to make it as plain to you as it
is to me. You'll understand me best if I go back and tell you more than I have
done yet about my life before I left England. Let me think a while.«
    He was overcome with a fear that he might not be able to convey with
sufficient force the design which had wholly possessed him. So painful was the
struggle in him between enthusiasm and a consciousness of failing faculties,
that Sidney grasped his hand and begged him to speak simply, without effort.
    »Have no fear about my understanding you. We've talked a great deal
together, and I know very well what your strongest motives are. Trust me to
sympathise with you.«
    »I do! If I hadn't that trust, Sidney, I couldn't have felt the joy I did
when you spoke to me of my Jane. You'll help me to carry out my plan; you and
Jane will; you and Jane! I've got to be such an old man all at once, as it
seems, and I dursn't have waited much longer without telling you what I had in
my mind. See now, I'll go back to when I was a boy, as far back as I can
remember. You know I was born in Clerkenwell, and I've told you a little now and
then of the hard times I went through. My poor father and mother came out of the
country, thinking to better themselves; instead of that, they found nothing but
cold and hunger, and toil and moil. They were both dead by when I was between
thirteen and fourteen. They died in the same winter - a cruel winter. I used to
go about begging bits of firewood from the neighbours. There was a man in our
house who kept dogs, and I remember once catching hold of a bit of dirty meat -
I can't call it meat - that one of them had gnawed and left on the stairs; and I
ate it, as if I'd been a dog myself, I was that driven with hunger. Why, I feel
the cold and the hunger at this minute! It was a cruel winter, that, and it left
me alone. I had to get my own living as best I could.
    No teaching. I was nineteen before I could read the signs over shops, or
write my own name. Between nineteen and twenty I got all the education I ever
was to have, paying a man with what I could save out of my earnings. The
blessing was I had health and strength, and with hard struggling I got into a
regular employment. At five-and-twenty I could earn my pound a week, pretty
certain. When it got to five shillings more, I must needs have a wife to share
it with me. My poor girl came to live with me in a room in Hill Street.
    I've never spoken to you of her, but you shall hear it all now, cost me what
it may in the telling. Of course she was out of a poor home, and she'd known as
well as me what it was to go cold and hungry. I sometimes think, Sidney, I can
see a look of her in Jane's face - but she was prettier than Jane; yes, yes,
prettier than Jane. And to think a man could treat a poor little thing like her
the way I did! - you don't know what sort of a man Michael Snowdon was then; no,
you don't know what I was then. You're not to think I ill-used her in the common
way; I never raised my hand, thank God! and I never spoke a word a man should be
ashamed of. But I was a hard, self-willed, stubborn fool! How she came to like
me and to marry me, I don't know; we were so different in every way. Well, it
was partly my nature and partly what I'd gone through; we hadn't been married
more than a month or two when I began to find fault with her, and from that day
on she could never please me. I earned five-and-twenty shillings a week, and I'd
made up my mind that we must save out of it. I wouldn't let her work; no, what
she had to do was to keep the home on as little as possible, and always have
everything clean and straight when I got back at night. But Jenny hadn't the
same ideas about things as I had. She couldn't pinch and pare, and our plans of
saving came to nothing. It grew worse as the children were born. The more need
there was for carefulness, the more heedless Jenny seemed to get. And it was my
fault, mine from beginning to end. Another man would have been gentle with her
and showed her kindly when she was wrong, and have been thankful for the love
she gave him, whatever her faults. That wasn't't my way. I got angry, and made her
life a burden to her. I must have things done exactly as I wished; if not, there
was no end to my fault-finding. And yet, if you'll believe it, I loved my wife
as truly as man ever did. Jenny couldn't understand that - and how should she?
At last she began to deceive me in all sorts of little things; she got into debt
with shop-people, she showed me false accounts, she pawned things without my
knowing. Last of all, she began to drink. Our fourth child was born just at that
time; Jenny had a bad illness, and I believe it set her mind wrong. I lost all
control of her, and she used to say if it wasn't't for the children she'd go and
leave me. One morning we quarrelled very badly, and I did as I'd threatened to -
I walked about the streets all the night that followed, never coming home. I
went to work next day, but at dinner-time I got frightened and ran home just to
speak a word. Little Mike, the eldest, was playing on the stairs, and he said
his mother was asleep. I went into the room, and saw Jenny lying on the bed
dressed. There was something queer in the way her arms were stretched out. When
I got near I saw she was dead. She'd taken poison.
    And it was I had killed her, just as much as if I'd put the poison to her
lips. All because I thought myself such a wise fellow, because I'd resolved to
live more prudently than other men of my kind did. I wanted to save money for
the future - out of five-and-twenty shillings a week. Many and many a day I
starved myself to try and make up for expenses of the home. Sidney, you remember
that man we once went to hear lecture, the man that talked of nothing but the
thriftlessness of the poor, and how it was their own fault they suffered? I was
very near telling you my story when we came away that night. Why, look; I myself
was just the kind of poor man that would have suited that lecturer. And what
came of it? If I'd let my poor Jenny go her own way from the first, we should
have had hard times now and then, but there'd have been our love to help us, and
we should have been happy enough. They talk about thriftiness, and it just means
that poor people are expected to practise a self-denial that the rich can't even
imagine, much less carry out! You know now why this kind of talk always angers
me.«
    Michael brooded for a few moments, his eyes straying sadly over the
landscape before him.
    »I was punished,« he continued, »and in the fittest way. The two of my boys
who showed most love for me, Edward and Robert, died young. The eldest and
youngest were a constant trouble to me. Michael was quick-tempered and
self-willed, like myself; I took the wrong way with him, just like I had with
his mother, and there was no peace till he left home. Joseph was still harder to
deal with; but he's the only one left alive, and there is no need to bring up
things against him. With him I wasn't't to blame, unless I treated him too kindly
and spoilt him. He was my favourite, was Jo, and he repaid me cruelly. When he
married, I only heard of it from other people; we'd been parted for a long time
already. And just about then I had a letter from Michael, asking me if I was
willing to go out and live with him in Australia. I hadn't heard from him more
than two or three times in twelve years, and when this letter came to me I was
living in Sheffield; I'd been there about five years. He wrote to say he was
doing well, and that he didn't like to think of me being left to spend my old
age alone. It was a kind letter, and it warmed my heart. Lonely I was; as lonely
and sorrowful a man as any in England. I wrote back to say that I'd come to him
gladly if he could promise to put me in the way of earning my own living. He
agreed to that, and I left the old country, little thinking I should ever see it
again. I didn't see Joseph before I went. All I knew of him was, that he lived
in Clerkenwell Close, married; and that was all I had to guide me when I tried
to find him a few years after. I was bitter against him, and went without trying
to say good-bye.
    My son's fortune seems to have been made chiefly out of horse-dealing and
what they call land-grabbing - buying sheep-runs over the heads of squatters, to
be bought out again at a high profit. Well, you know what my opinion is of
trading at the best, and as far as I could understand it, it was trading at
about its worst that had filled Michael's pockets. He'd had a partner for a
time, and very ugly stories were told me about the man. However, Michael gave me
as kind a welcome as his letter promised; prosperity had done him good, and he
seemed only anxious to make up for the years of unkindness that had gone by. Had
I been willing, I might have lived under his roof at my ease; but I held him to
his bargain, and worked like any other man who goes there without money. It's a
comfort to me to think of those few years spent in quiet and goodwill with my
eldest boy. His own lad would have given trouble, I'm afraid, if he'd lived;
Michael used to talk to me uneasily about him, poor fellow! But they both came
to their end before the world had parted them.
    If I'd been a young man, I dare say I should have felt different when they
told me how rich I was; it gave me no pleasure at first, and when I'd had time
to think about it I only grew worried. I even thought once or twice of getting
rid of the burden by giving all the money to a hospital in Sydney or Melbourne.
But then I remembered that the poor in the old country had more claim on me, and
when I'd got used to the idea of being a wealthy man, I found myself recalling
all sorts of fancies and wishes that used to come into my head when I was
working hard for a poor living. It took some time to get all the lawyer's
business finished, and by when it was done I began to see a way before me. First
of all I must find my son in England, and see if he needed help. I hadn't made
any change in my way of living, and I came back from Australia as a steerage
passenger, wearing the same clothes that I'd worked in. The lawyer laughed at
me, but I'm sure I should have laughed at myself if I'd dressed up as a
gentleman and begun to play the fool in my old age. The money wasn't't to be used
in that way. I'd got my ideas, and they grew clearer during the voyage home.
    You know how I found Jane. Not long after, I put an advertisement in the
papers, asking my son, if he saw it, to communicate with Mr. Percival - that's
the lawyer I was recommended to in London. There was no answer; Joseph was in
America at that time. I hadn't much reason to like Mrs. Peckover and her
daughter, but I kept up acquaintance with them because I thought they might hear
of Jo some day. And after a while I sent Jane to learn a business. Do you know
why I did that? Can you think why I brought up the child as if I'd only had just
enough to keep us both, and never gave a sign that I could have made a rich lady
of her?«
    In asking the question, he bent forward and laid his hand on Sidney's
shoulder. His eyes gleamed with that light which betrays the enthusiast, the
idealist. As he approached the explanation to which his story had tended, the
signs of age and weakness disappeared before the intensity of his feeling.
Sidney understood now why he had always been conscious of something in the man's
mind that was not revealed to him, of a life-controlling purpose but vaguely
indicated by the general tenor of Michael's opinions. The latter's fervour
affected him, and he replied with emotion:
    »You wish Jane to think of this money as you do yourself - not to regard it
as wealth, but as the means of bringing help to the miserable.«
    »That is my thought, Sidney. It came to me in that form whilst I was sitting
by her bed, when she was ill at Mrs. Peckover's. I knew nothing of her character
then, and the idea I had might have come to nothing through her turning out
untrustworthy. But I thought to myself: Suppose she grows up to be a good woman
- suppose I can teach her to look at things in the same way as I do myself,
train her to feel that no happiness could be greater than the power to put an
end to ever so little of the want and wretchedness about her - suppose when I
die I could have the certainty that all this money was going to be used for the
good of the poor by a woman who herself belonged to the poor? You understand me?
It would have been easy enough to leave it among charities in the ordinary way;
but my idea went beyond that. I might have had Jane schooled and fashioned into
a lady, and still have hoped that she would use the money well; but my idea went
beyond that. There's plenty of ladies nowadays taking an interest in the
miserable, and spending their means unselfishly. What I hoped was to raise up
for the poor and the untaught a friend out of their own midst, some one who had
gone through all that they suffer, who was accustomed to earn her own living by
the work of her hands as they do, who had never thought herself their better,
who saw the world as they see it and knew all their wants. A lady may do good,
we know that; but she can't be the friend of the poor as I understand it;
there's too great a distance between her world and theirs. Can you picture to
yourself how anxiously I've watched this child from the first day she came to
live with me? I've scarcely had a thought but about her. I saw very soon that
she had good feelings, and I set myself to encourage them. I wanted her to be
able to read and write, but there was no need of any more education than that;
it was the heart I cared about, not the mind. Besides, I had always to keep
saying to myself that perhaps, after all, she wouldn't turn out the kind of
woman I wished, and in that case she mustn't be spoiled for an ordinary life.
Sidney, it's this money that has made me a weak old man when I might still have
been as strong as many at fifty; the care of it has worn me out; I haven't slept
quietly since it came into my hands. But the worst is over. I shan't be
disappointed. Jane will be the woman I've hoped for, and however soon my own
life comes to an end, I shall die knowing that there's a true man by her side to
help her to make my idea a reality.
    I've mentioned Mr. Percival, the lawyer. He's an old man like myself, and
we've had many a long talk together. About a year and a half ago I told him what
I've told you now. Since I came back to England he's been managing the money for
me; he's paid me the little we needed, and the rest of the income has been used
in charity by some people we could trust. Well, Mr. Percival doesn't't go with me
in my plans for Jane. He thinks I'm making a mistake, that I ought to have had
the child educated to fit her to live with rich people. It's no use; I can't get
him to feel what a grand thing it'll be for Jane to go about among her own
people and help them as nobody ever could. He said to me not long ago, And isn't
the girl ever to have a husband? It's my hope that she will, I told him. And do
you suppose, he went on, that whoever marries her will let her live in the way
you talk of? Where are you going to find a working man that'll be content never
to touch this money - to work on for his weekly wages, when he might be living
at his ease? And I told him that it wasn't't as impossible as he thought. What do
you think, Sidney?«
    The communication of a noble idea has the same effect upon the brains of
certain men - of one, let us say, in every hundred thousand - as a wine that
exalts and enraptures. As Sidney listened to the old man telling of his wondrous
vision, he became possessed with ardour such as he had known but once or twice
in his life. Idealism such as Michael Snowdon had developed in these latter
years is a form of genius; given the susceptible hearer, it dazzles, inspires,
raises to heroic contempt of the facts of life. Had this story been related to
him of some unknown person, Sidney would have admired, but as one admires the
nobly impracticable; subject to the electric influence of a man who was great
enough to conceive and direct his life by such a project, who could repose so
supreme a faith in those he loved, all the primitive nobleness of his character
asserted itself, and he could accept with a throbbing heart the superb challenge
addressed to him.
    »If Jane can think me worthy to be her husband,« he replied, »your friend
shall see that he has feared without cause.«
    »I knew it, Sidney; I knew it!« exclaimed the old man. »How much younger I
feel now that I have shared this burden with you!«
    »And shall you now tell Jane?« the other inquired.
    »Not yet; not just yet. She is very young; we must wait a little. But there
can be no reason why you shouldn't speak to her - of yourself.«
    Sidney was descending from the clouds. As the flush of his humanitarian
enthusiasm passed away, and he thought of his personal relations to Jane, a
misgiving, a scruple began to make itself heard within him. Worldly and
commonplace the thought, but - had he a right to ask the girl to pledge herself
to him under circumstances such as these? To be sure, it was not as if Jane were
an heiress in the ordinary way; for all that, would it not be a proceeding of
doubtful justice to woo her when as yet she was wholly ignorant of the most
important item in her situation? His sincerity was unassailable, but - suppose,
in fact, he had to judge the conduct of another man thus placed? Upon the heated
pulsing of his blood succeeded a coolness, almost a chill; he felt as though he
had been on the verge of a precipice, and had been warned to draw back only just
in time. Every second showed him more distinctly what his duty was. He
experienced a sensation of thankfulness that he had not spoken definitely on
Saturday evening. His instinct had guided him aright; Jane was still too young
to be called upon solemnly to decide her whole future.
    »That, too, had better wait, Mr. Snowdon,« he said, after a pause of a
minute. »I should like her to know everything before I speak to her in that way.
In a year it will be time enough.«
    Michael regarded him thoughtfully.
    »Perhaps you are right. I wish you knew Mr. Percival; but there is time,
there is time. He still thinks I shall be persuaded to alter my plans. That
night you came to Hanover Street and found me away, he took me to see a lady who
works among the poor in Clerkenwell; she knew me by name, because Mr. Percival
had given her money from me to use, but we'd never seen each other till then. He
wants me to ask her opinion about Jane.«
 
»Has he spoken of her to the lady, do you think?«
    »Oh no!« replied the other, with perfect confidence. »He has promised me to
keep all that a secret as long as I wish. The lady - her name is Miss Lant -
seemed all that my friend said she was, and perhaps Jane might do well to make
her acquaintance some day; but that mustn't be till Jane knows and approves the
purpose of my life and hers. The one thing that troubles me still, Sidney, is -
her father. It's hard that I can't be sure whether my son will be a help or a
hindrance. I must wait, and try to know him better.«
    The conversation had so wearied Michael, that in returning to the house he
had to lean on his companion's arm. Sidney was silent, and yielded, he scarce
knew why, to a mood of depression. When Jane returned from Maldon in the
evening, and he heard her happy voice as the children ran out to welcome her,
there was a heaviness at his heart. Perhaps it came only of hope deferred.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

                              Death the Reconciler

There is no accounting for tastes. Sidney Kirkwood, spending his Sunday evening
in a garden away there in the chawbacon regions of Essex, where it was so deadly
quiet that you could hear the flutter of a bird's wing or the rustle of a leaf,
not once only congratulated himself on his good fortune; yet at that hour he
might have stood, as so often, listening to the eloquence, the wit, the wisdom,
that give proud distinction to the name of Clerkenwell Green. Towards sundown,
that modern Agora rang with the voices of orators, swarmed with listeners, with
disputants, with mockers, with indifferent loungers. The circle closing about an
agnostic lecturer intersected with one gathered for a prayer-meeting; the roar
of an enthusiastic total-abstainer blended with the shriek of a Radical
politician. Innumerable were the little groups which had broken away from the
larger ones to hold semi-private debate on matters which demanded calm
consideration and the finer intellect. From the doctrine of the Trinity to the
question of cabbage versus beef; from Neo-Malthusianism to the grievance of
compulsory vaccination; not a subject which modernism has thrown out to the
multitude but here received its sufficient mauling. Above the crowd floated
wreaths of rank tobacco smoke.
    Straying from circle to circle might have been seen Mr. Joseph Snowdon, the
baldness of his crown hidden by a most respectable silk hat, on one hand a
glove, in the other his walking-stick, a yellow waistcoat enhancing his
appearance of dignity, a white necktie spotted with blue and a geranium in his
button-hole correcting the suspicion of age suggested by his countenance. As a
listener to harangues of the most various tendency, Mr. Snowdon exhibited an
impartial spirit; he smiled occasionally, but was never moved to any expression
of stronger feeling. His placid front revealed the philosopher.
    Yet at length something stirred him to a more pronounced interest. He was on
the edge of a dense throng which had just been delighted by the rhetoric of a
well-known Clerkenwell Radical; the topic under discussion was Rent, and the
last speaker had, in truth, put before them certain noteworthy views of the
subject as it affected the poor of London. What attracted Mr. Snowdon's
attention was the voice of the speaker who next rose. Pressing a little nearer,
he got a glimpse of a lean, haggard, grey-headed man, shabbily dressed, no bad
example of a sufferer from the hardships he was beginning to denounce. »That's
old Hewett,« remarked somebody close by. »He's the feller to let 'em 'ave it!«
Yes, it was John Hewett, much older, much more broken, yet much fiercer than
when we last saw him. Though it was evident that he spoke often at these
meetings, he had no command of his voice and no coherence of style; after the
first few words he seemed to be overcome by rage that was little short of
frenzy. Inarticulate screams and yells interrupted the torrent of his invective;
he raised both hands above his head and clenched them in a gesture of frantic
passion; his visage was frightfully distorted, and in a few minutes there
actually fell drops of blood from his bitten lip. Rent! - it was a subject on
which the poor fellow could speak to some purpose. What was the root of the
difficulty a London workman found in making both ends meet? Wasn't it that
accursed law by which the owner of property can make him pay a half, and often
more, of his earnings for permission to put his wife and children under a roof?
And what sort of dwellings were they, these in which the men who made the wealth
of the country were born and lived and died? What would happen to the landlords
of Clerkenwell if they got their due? Ay, what shall happen, my boys, and that
before so very long? For fifteen or twenty minutes John expended his fury,
until, in fact, he was speechless. It was terrible to look at him when at length
he made his way out of the crowd; his face was livid, his eyes bloodshot, a red
slaver covered his lips and beard; you might have taken him for a drunken man,
so feebly did his limbs support him, so shattered was he by the fit through
which he had passed.
    Joseph followed him, and presently walked along at his side.
    »That was about as good a speech as I've heard for a long time, Mr. Hewett,«
he began by observing. »I like to hear a man speak as if he meant it.«
    John looked up with a leaden, rheumy eye, but the compliment pleased him,
and in a moment he smiled vacantly.
    »I haven't said my last word yet,« he replied, with difficulty making
himself audible through his hoarseness.
    »It takes it out of you, I'm afraid. Suppose we have a drop of something at
the corner here?«
    »I don't mind, Mr. Snowdon. I thought of looking in at my club for a quarter
of an hour; perhaps you'd come round with me afterwards?«
    They drank at the public-house, then Hewett led the way by back streets to
the quarters of the club of which he had been for many years a member. The
locality was not cheerful, and the house itself stood in much need of repair. As
they entered, John requested, his companion to sign his name in the visitors'
book; Mr. Snowdon did so with a flourish. They ascended to the first floor and
passed into a room where little could be seen but the gas-jets, and those dimly,
owing to the fume of pipes. The rattle of bones, the strumming of a banjo, and a
voice raised at intervals in a kind of whoop announced that a nigger
entertainment was in progress. Recreation of this kind is not uncommon on Sunday
evening at the workmen's clubs; you will find it announced in the remarkable
list of lectures, etc., printed in certain Sunday newspapers. The company which
was exerting itself in the present instance had at all events an appreciative
audience; laughter and applause broke forth very frequently.
    »I'd forgot it was this kind o' thing to-night,« said Hewett, when he could
discover no vacant seat. »Do you care about it? No more don't I; let's go down
into the readin'-room.«
    Downstairs they established themselves at their ease. John ordered two
half-pints of ale - the club supplied refreshment for the body as well as for
the mind - and presently he was more himself.
    »How's your wife?« inquired Joseph. »Better, I hope?«
    »I wish I could say so,« answered the other, shaking his head. »She hasn't
been up since Thursday. She's bad, poor woman! she's bad.«
    Joseph murmured his sympathy between two draughts of ale.
    »Seen young Kirkwood lately?« Hewett asked, averting his eyes and assuming a
tone of half-absent indifference.
    »He's gone away for his holiday; gone into Essex somewhere. When was it he
was speaking of you? Why, one day last week, to be sure.«
    »Speakin' about me, eh?« said John, turning his glass round and round on the
table. And as the other remained silent, he added, »You can tell him, if you
like, that my wife's been very bad for a long time. Him an' me don't have
nothing to say to each other - but you can tell him that, if you like.«
    »So I will,« replied Mr. Snowdon, nodding with a confidential air.
    He had noticed from the beginning of his acquaintance with Hewett that the
latter showed no disinclination to receive news of Kirkwood. As Clem's husband,
Joseph was understood to be perfectly aware of the state of things between the
Hewetts and their former friend, and in a recent conversation with Mrs. Hewett
he had assured himself that she, at all events, would be glad if the
estrangement could come to an end. For reasons of his own, Joseph gave narrow
attention to these signs.
    The talk was turning to other matters, when a man who had just entered the
room and stood looking about him with an uneasy expression caught sight of
Hewett and approached him. He was middle-aged, coarse of feature, clad in the
creased black which a certain type of artisan wears on Sunday.
    »I'd like a word with you, John,« he said, »if your friend'll excuse.«
    Hewett rose from the table, and they walked together to an unoccupied spot.
    »Have you heard any talk about the Burial Club?« inquired the man, in a low
voice of suspicion, knitting his eyebrows.
    »Heard anything? No. What?«
    »Why, Dick Smales says he can't get the money for his boy, as died last
week.«
    »Can't get it? Why not?«
    »That's just what I want to know. Some o' the chaps is talking' about it
upstairs. M'Cosh ain't been seen for four or five days. Somebody had news as he
was ill in bed, and now there's no findin' him. I've got a notion there's
something wrong, my boy.«
    Hewett's eyes grew large and the muscles of his mouth contracted.
    »Where's Jenkins?« he asked abruptly. »I suppose he can explain it?«
    »No, by God, he can't! He won't say nothing, but he's been runnin' about all
yesterday and to-day, looking' precious queer.«
    Without paying any further attention to Snowdon, John left the room with his
companion, and they went upstairs. Most of the men present were members of the
Burial Club in question, an institution of some fifteen years' standing and in
connection with the club which met here for social and political purposes; they
were in the habit, like John Hewett, of depositing their coppers weekly, thus
insuring themselves or their relatives for a sum payable at death. The rumour
that something was wrong, that the secretary M'Cosh could not be found, began to
create a disturbance; presently the nigger entertainment came to an end, and the
Burial Club was the sole topic of conversation.
    On the morrow it was an ascertained fact that one of the catastrophes which
occasionally befall the provident among wage-earners had come to pass.
Investigation showed that for a long time there had been carelessness and
mismanagement of funds, and that fraud had completed the disaster. M'Cosh was
wanted by the police.
    To John Hewett the blow was a terrible one. In spite of his poverty, he had
never fallen behind with those weekly payments. The thing he dreaded supremely
was, that his wife or one of the children should die and he be unable to provide
a decent burial. At the death of the last child born to him the club had of
course paid, and the confidence he felt in it for the future was a sensible
support under the many miseries of his life, a support of which no idea can be
formed by one who has never foreseen the possibility of those dear to him being
carried to a pauper's grave. It was a touching fact that he still kept up the
payment for Clara; who could say but his daughter might yet come back to him to
die? To know that he had lost that one stronghold against fate was a stroke that
left him scarcely strength to go about his daily work.
    And he could not breathe a word of it to his wife. Oh that better curse of
poverty, which puts corrupting poison into the wounds inflicted by nature, which
outrages the spirit's tenderness, which profanes with unutterable defilement the
secret places of the mourning heart! He could not, durst not, speak a word of
this misery to her whose gratitude and love had resisted every trial, who had
shared uncomplainingly all the evil of his lot, and had borne with supreme
patience those added sufferings of which he had no conception. For she lay on
her deathbed. The doctor told him so on the very day when he learnt that it
would be out of his power to discharge the fitting pieties at her grave. So far
from looking to her for sympathy, it behoved him to keep from her as much as a
suspicion of what had happened.
    Their home at this time was a kitchen in King's Cross Road. The eldest
child, Amy, was now between ten and eleven; Annie was nine; Tom seven. These, of
course, went to school every day, and were being taught to appreciate the
woefulness of their inheritance. Amy was, on the whole, a good girl; she could
make purchases as well as her mother, and when in the mood, look carefully after
her little brother and sister; but already she had begun to display restiveness
under the hard discipline to which the domestic poverty subjected her. Once she
had played truant from school, and told falsehoods to the teachers to explain
her absence. It was discovered that she had been tempted by other girls to go
and see the Lord Mayor's show. Annie and Tom threatened to be troublesome when
they got a little older; the boy could not be taught to speak the truth, and his
sister was constantly committing petty thefts of jam, sugar, even coppers; and
during the past year their mother was seldom able to exert herself in correcting
these faults. Only by dint of struggle which cost her agonies could she
discharge the simplest duties of home. She made a brave fight against disease
and penury and incessant dread of the coming day, but month after month her
strength failed. Now at length she tried vainly to leave her bed. The last
reserve of energy was exhausted, and the end near.
    After her death, what then? Through the nights of this week after her doom
had been spoken she lay questioning the future. She knew that but for her
unremitting efforts Hewett would have yielded to the despair of a drunkard; the
crucial moment was when he found himself forsaken by his daughter, and no one
but this poor woman could know what force of loving will, what entreaties, what
tears, had drawn him back a little way from the edge of the gulf. Throughout his
life until that day of Clara's disappearance he had seemed in no danger from the
deadliest enemy of the poor; one taste of the oblivion that could be bought at
any street-corner, and it was as though drinking had been a recognised habit
with him. A year, two years, and he still drank himself into forgetfulness as
often as his mental suffering waxed unendurable. On the morrow of every such
crime - interpret the word rightly - he hated himself for his cruelty to that
pale sufferer whose reproaches were only the utterances of love. The third year
saw an improvement, whether owing to conscious self-control or to the fact that
time was blunting his affliction. Instead of the public-house, he frequented all
places where the woes of the nether world found fierce expression. He became a
constant speaker at the meetings on Clerkenwell Green and at the Radical clubs.
The effect upon him of this excitement was evil enough, yet not so evil as the
malady of drink. Mrs. Hewett was thankful for the alternative. But when she was
no longer at his side - what then?
    His employment was irregular, but for the most part at cabinet-making. The
workshop where he was generally to be found was owned by two brothers, who
invariably spent the first half of each week in steady drinking. Their money
gone, they set to work and made articles of furniture, which on Saturday they
took round to the shops of small dealers and sold for what they could get. When
once they took up their tools, these men worked with incredible persistency, and
they expected the same exertion from those they employed. »I wouldn't give a -
for the chap as can't do his six-and-thirty hours at the bench!« remarked one of
them on the occasion of a workman falling into a fainting-fit, caused by utter
exhaustion. Hewett was anything but strong, and he earned little.
 
Late on Saturday afternoon, Sidney Kirkwood and his friends were back in London.
As he drew near to Tysoe Street, carrying the bag which was all the luggage he
had needed, Sidney by chance encountered Joseph Snowdon, who, after inquiring
about his relatives, said that he had just come from visiting the Hewetts. Mrs.
Hewett was very ill indeed; and it was scarcely to be expected she would live
more than a few days.
    »You mean that?« exclaimed Kirkwood, upon whom, after his week of holiday
and of mental experiences which seemed to have changed the face of the world for
him, this sudden announcement came with a painful shock, reviving all the
miserable past. »She is dying?«
    »There's no doubt of it.«
    And Joseph added his belief that John Hewett would certainly not take it ill
if the other went there before it was too late.
    Sidney had no appetite now for the meal he would have purchased on reaching
home. A profound pity for the poor woman who had given him so many proofs of her
affection made his heart heavy almost to tears. The perplexities of the present
vanished in a revival of old tenderness, of bygone sympathies and sorrows. He
could not doubt but that it was his duty to go to his former friends at a time
such as this. Perhaps, if he had overcome his pride, he might have sooner
brought the estrangement to an end.
    He did not know, and had forgotten to ask of Snowdon, the number of the
house in King's Cross Road where the Hewetts lived. He could find it, however,
by visiting Penny-loaf. Conquering his hesitation, he was on the point of going
forth, when his landlady came up and told him that a young girl wished to see
him. It was Amy Hewett, and her face told him on what errand she had come.
    »Mr. Kirkwood,« she began, looking up with embarrassment, for he was all but
a stranger to her now, »mother wants to know if you'd come and see her. She's
very bad; they're afraid she's -«
    The word was choked. Amy had been crying, and the tears again rose to her
eyes.
    »I was just coming,« Sidney answered, as he took her hand and pressed it
kindly.
    They crossed Wilmington Square and descended by the streets that slope to
Coldbath Fields Prison. The cellar in which John Hewett and his family were
housed was underneath a milk-shop; Amy led the way down stone steps from the
pavement of the street into an area, where more than two people would have had
difficulty in standing together. Sidney saw that the window which looked upon
this space was draped with a sheet. By an open door they entered a passage, then
came to the door of the room. Amy pushed it open, and showed that a lamp gave
light within.
    To poor homes Sidney Kirkwood was no stranger, but a poorer than this now
disclosed to him he had never seen. The first view of it made him draw in his
breath, as though a pang went through him. Hewett was not here. The two younger
children were sitting upon a mattress, eating bread. Amy stepped up to the
bedside and bent to examine her mother's face.
    »I think she's asleep,« she whispered, turning round to Sidney.
    Sleep, or death? It might well be the latter, for anything Sidney could
determine to the contrary. The face he could not recognise, or only when he had
gazed at it for several minutes. Oh, pitiless world, that pursues its business
and its pleasure, that takes its fill of life from the rising to the going down
of the sun, and within sound of its clamour is this hiding-place of anguish and
desolation!
    »Mother, here's Mr. Kirkwood.«
    Repeated several times, the words at length awoke consciousness. The dying
woman could not move her head from the pillow; her eyes wandered, but in the end
rested upon Sidney. He saw an expression of surprise, of anxiety, then a smile
of deep contentment.
    »I knew you'd come. I did so want to see you. Don't go just yet, will you?«
    The lump in his throat hindered Sidney from replying. Hot tears, an agony in
the shedding, began to stream down his cheeks.
    »Where's John?« she continued, trying to look about the room. »Amy, where's
your father? He'll come soon, Sidney. I want you and him to be friends again. He
knows he'd never ought to a' said what he did. Don't take on so, Sidney!
There'll be Amy to look after the others. She'll be a good girl. She's promised
me. It's John I'm afraid for. If only he can keep from drink. Will you try and
help him, Sidney?«
    There was a terrible earnestness of appeal in the look she fixed upon him.
Sidney replied that he would hold nothing more sacred than the charge she gave
him.
    »It'll be easier for them to live,« continued the feeble voice. »I've been
ill so long, and there's been so much expense. Amy'll be earning something
before long.«
    »Don't trouble,« Sidney answered. »They shall never want as long as I live -
never!«
    »Sidney, come a bit nearer. Do you know anything about her?«
    He shook his head.
    »If ever - if ever she comes back, don't turn away from her - will you?«
    »I would welcome her as I would a sister of my own.«
    »There's such hard things in a woman's life. What would a' become of me, if
John hadn't took pity on me! The world's a hard place; I should be glad to leave
it, if it wasn't't for them as has to go on in their trouble. I knew you'd come
when I sent Amy. Oh, I feel that easier in my mind!«
    »Why didn't you send long before? No, it's my fault. Why didn't I come? Why
didn't I come?«
    There was a footstep in the passage, a slow, uncertain step; then the door
moved a little. With blurred vision Sidney saw Hewett enter and come forward.
They grasped each other's hands without speaking, and John, as though his
strength were at an end, dropped upon the chair by the bedside. For the last
four or five nights he had sat there; if he got half an hour's painful slumber
now and then it was the utmost. His face was like that of some prisoner, whom
the long torture of a foul dungeon has brought to the point of madness. He
uttered only a few words during the half-hour that Sidney still remained in the
room. The latter, when Mrs. Hewett's relapse into unconsciousness made it
useless for him to stay, beckoned Amy to follow him out into the area and put
money in her hand, begging her to get whatever was needed without troubling her
father. He would come again in the morning.
    Mrs. Hewett died just before daybreak without a pang, as though death had
compassion on her. When Sidney came, about nine o'clock, he found Amy standing
at the door of the milk-shop; the people who kept it had brought the children up
into their room. Hewett still sat by the bed; seeing Kirkwood, he pointed to the
hidden face.
    »How am I to bury her?« he whispered hoarsely. »Haven't you heard about it?
They've stole the club-money; they've robbed me of it; I haven't as much as'll
pay for her coffin.«
    Sidney fancied at first that the man's mind was wandering, but Hewett took
out of his pocket a scrap of newspaper in which the matter was briefly reported.
    »See, it's there. I've known since last Sunday, and I had to keep it from
her. No need to be afraid of speakin' now. They've robbed me, and I haven't as
much as'll pay for her coffin. It's a nice blasted world, this is, where they
won't let you live, and then make you pay if you don't want to be buried like a
dog! She's had nothing but pain and poverty all her life, and now they'll pitch
her out of the way in a parish box. Do you remember what hopes I used to have
when we were first married? See the end of 'em - look at this underground hole -
look at this bed as she lays on! Is it my fault? By God, I wonder I haven't
killed myself before this! I've been drove mad, I tell you - mad! It's well if I
don't do murder yet; every man as I see go by with a good coat on his back and a
face fat with good feeding, it's all I can do to keep from catchin' his throat
an tearin' the life out of him!«
    »Let's talk about the burial,« interposed Sidney. »Make your mind at ease.
I've got enough to pay for all that, and you must let me lend you what you
want.«
    »Lend me money? You as I haven't spoke to for years?«
    »The more fault mine. I ought to have come back again long since; you
wouldn't have refused an old friend that never meant an unkindness to you.«
    »No, it was me as was to blame,« said the other, with choking voice. »She
always told me so, and she always said what was right. But I can't take it of
you, Sidney; I can't! Lend it? An' where am I goin' to get it from to pay you
back? It won't be so long before I lie like she does there. It's getting too
much for me.«
    The first tears he had shed rose at this generosity of the man he had so
little claim upon. His passionate grief and the spirit of rebellion, which grew
more frenzied as he grew older, were subdued to a sobbing gratitude for the
kindness which visited him in his need. Nerveless, voiceless, he fell back again
upon the chair and let his head lie by that of the dead woman.
 

                                  Chapter XXII

                              Watching from Ambush

Mr. Joseph Snowdon, though presenting a calm countenance to the world and
seeming to enjoy comparative prosperity, was in truth much harassed by the
difficulties of his position. Domestic troubles he had anticipated, but the
unforeseen sequel of his marriage resulted in a martyrdom at the hands of Clem
and her mother such as he had never dreamed of. His faults and weaknesses
distinctly those of the civilised man, he found himself in disastrous alliance
with two savages, whose characters so supplemented each other as to constitute
in unison a formidable engine of tyranny. Clem - suspicious, revengeful, fierce,
watching with cruel eyes every opportunity of taking payment on account for the
ridicule to which she had exposed herself; Mrs. Peckover - ceaselessly occupied
with the basest scheming, keen as an Indian on any trail she happened to strike,
excited by the scent of money as a jackal by that of carrion; for this pair
Joseph was no match. Not only did they compel him to earn his daily bread by
dint of methodical effort such as was torture to his indolent disposition, but,
moreover, in pursuance of Mrs. Peckover's crafty projects, he was constrained to
an assiduous hypocrisy in his relations with Michael and Jane which wearied him
beyond measure. Joseph did not belong to the most desperate class of hungry
mortals; he had neither the large ambitions and the passionate sensual desires
which make life an unending fever, nor was he possessed with that foul itch of
covetousness which is the explanation of the greater part of the world's
activity. He understood quite sufficiently the advantages of wealth, and was
prepared to go considerable lengths for the sake of enjoying them, but his
character lacked persistence. This defect explained the rogueries and calamities
of his life. He had brains in abundance, and a somewhat better education would
have made of him either a successful honest man or a rascal of superior scope -
it is always a toss-up between these two results where a character such as his
is in question. Ever since he abandoned the craft to which his father had had
him trained, he had lived on his wits; there would be matter for a volume in the
history of his experiences at home and abroad, a volume infinitely more valuable
considered as a treatise on modern civilisation than any professed work on that
subject in existence. With one episode only in his past can we here concern
ourselves; the retrospect is needful to make clear his relations with Mr.
Scawthorne.
    On his return from America, Joseph possessed a matter of a hundred pounds;
the money was not quite legally earned (pray let us reserve the word honesty for
a truer use than the common one), and on the whole he preferred to recommence
life in the old country under a pseudonym - that little affair of the desertion
of his child would perhaps, in any case, have made this advisable. A hundred
pounds will not go very far, but Joseph took care to be well dressed, and
allowed it to be surmised by those with whom he came in contact that the
resources at his command were considerable. In early days, as we know, he had
worked at electroplating, and the natural bent of his intellect was towards
mechanical and physical science; by dint of experimenting at his old pursuit, he
persuaded himself, or at all events attained plausibility for the persuading of
others, that he had discovered a new and valuable method of plating with nickel.
He gave it out that he was in search of a partner to join him in putting this
method into practice. Gentlemen thus situated naturally avail themselves of the
advertisement columns of the newspaper, and Joseph by this means had the
happiness to form an acquaintance with one Mr. Polkenhorne, who, like himself,
had sundry schemes for obtaining money without toiling for it in the usual
vulgar way. Polkenhorne was a man of thirty-five, much of a blackguard, but
keen-witted, handsome, and tolerably educated; the son of a Clerkenwell
clockmaker, he had run through an inheritance of a few thousand pounds, and made
no secret of his history - spoke of his experiences, indeed, with a certain
pride. Between these two a close intimacy sprang up, one of those partnerships,
beginning with mutual deception, which are so common in the border-land of
enterprise just skirting the criminal courts. Polkenhorne resided at this time
in Kennington; he was married - or said that he was - to a young lady in the
theatrical profession, known to the public as Miss Grace Danver. To Mrs.
Polkenhorne, or Miss Danver, Joseph soon had the honour of being presented, for
she was just then playing at a London theatre; he found her a pretty but
consumptive-looking girl, not at all likely to achieve great successes, earning
enough, however, to support Mr. Polkenhorne during this time of his misfortunes
- a most pleasant and natural arrangement.
    Polkenhorne's acquaintances were numerous, but, as he informed Joseph, most
of them were played out, that is to say, no further use could be made of them
from Polkenhorne's point of view. One, however, as yet imperfectly known,
promised to be useful, perchance as a victim, more probably as an ally; his name
was Scawthorne, and Polkenhorne had come across him in consequence of a
friendship existing between Grace Danver and Mrs. Scawthorne - at all events, a
young lady thus known - who was preparing herself for the stage. This gentleman
was something in the City; he had rather a close look, but proved genial enough,
and was very ready to discuss things in general with Mr. Polkenhorne and his
capitalist friend Mr. Camden, just from the United States.
    A word or two about Charles Henry Scawthorne, of the circumstances which
made him what you know, or what you conjecture. His father had a small business
as a dyer in Islington, and the boy, leaving school at fourteen, was sent to
become a copying-clerk in a solicitor's office; his tastes were so strongly
intellectual that it seemed a pity to put him to work he hated, and the
clerkship was the best opening that could be procured for him. Two years after,
Mr. Scawthorne died; his wife tried to keep on the business, but soon failed,
and thenceforth her son had to support her as well as himself. From sixteen to
three-and-twenty was the period of young Scawthorne's life which assured his
future advancement - and his moral ruin. A grave, gentle, somewhat effeminate
boy, with a great love of books and a wonderful power of application to study,
he suffered so much during those years of early maturity, that, as in almost all
such cases, his nature was corrupted. Pity that some self-made intellectual man
of our time has not flung in the world's teeth a truthful autobiography.
Scawthorne worked himself up to a position which had at first seemed
unattainable; what he paid for the success was loss of all his pure ideals, of
his sincerity, of his disinterestedness, of the fine perceptions to which he was
born. Probably no one who is half-starved and overworked during those critical
years comes out of the trial with his moral nature uninjured; to certain
characters it is a wrong irreparable. To stab the root of a young tree, to hang
crushing burdens upon it, to rend off its early branches - that is not the
treatment likely to result in growth such as nature purposed. There will come of
it a vicious formation, and the principle applies also to the youth of men.
    Scawthorne was fond of the theatre; as soon as his time of incessant toil
was over, he not only attended performances frequently, but managed to make
personal acquaintance with sundry theatrical people. Opportunity for this was
afforded by his becoming member of a club, consisting chiefly of solicitors'
clerks, which was frequently honoured by visits from former associates who had
taken, to the stage; these happy beings would condescend to recite at times, to
give help in getting up a dramatic entertainment, and soon, in this way,
Scawthorne came to know an old actor named Drake, who supported himself by
instructing novices, male and female, in his own profession; one of Mr. Drake's
old pupils was Miss Grace Danver, in whom, as soon as he met her, Scawthorne
recognised the Grace Rudd of earlier days. And it was not long after this that
he brought to Mr. Drake a young girl of interesting appearance, but very
imperfect education, who fancied she had a turn for acting; he succeeded in
arranging for her instruction, and a year and a half later she obtained her
first engagement at a theatre in Scotland. The name she adopted was Clara Vale.
Joseph Snowdon saw her once or twice before she left London, and from Grace
Danver he heard that Grace and she had been schoolfellows in Clerkenwell. These
facts revived in his memory when he afterwards heard Clem speak of Clara Hewett.
    Nothing came of the alliance between Polkenhorne and Joseph; when the
tatter's money was exhausted, they naturally fell apart. Joseph made a living in
sundry precarious ways, but at length sank into such straits that he risked the
step of going to Clerkenwell Close. Personal interest in his child he had then
none whatever; his short married life seemed an episode in the remote past,
recalled with indifference. But in spite of his profound selfishness, it was not
solely from the speculative point of view that he regarded Jane, when he had had
time to realise that she was his daughter, and in a measure to appreciate her
character. With the merely base motives which led him to seek her affection and
put him at secret hostility with Sidney Kirkwood, there mingled before long a
strain of feeling which was natural and pure; he became a little jealous of his
father and of Sidney on other grounds than those of self-interest. Intolerable
as his home was, no wonder that he found it a pleasant relief to spend an
evening in Hanover Street; he never came away without railing at himself for his
imbecility in having married Clem. For the present he had to plot with his wife
and Mrs. Peckover, but only let the chance for plotting against them offer
itself! The opportunity might come. In the meantime, the great thing was to
postpone the marriage - he had no doubt it was contemplated - between Jane and
Sidney. That would be little less than a fatality.
    The week that Jane spent in Essex was of course a time of desperate anxiety
with Joseph; immediately on her return he hastened to assure himself that things
remained as before. It seemed to him that Jane's greeting had more warmth than
she was wont to display when they met; sundry other little changes in her
demeanour struck him at the same interview, and he was rather surprised that she
had not so much blitheness as before she went away. But his speculation on
minutiæ such as these was suddenly interrupted a day or two later by news which
threw him into a state of excitement; Jane sent word that her grandfather was
very unwell, that he appeared to have caught a chill in the journey home, and
could not at present leave his bed. For a week the old man suffered from
feverish symptoms, and, though he threw off the ailment, it was in a state of
much feebleness that he at length resumed the ordinary tenor of his way. Jane
had of course stayed at home to nurse him; a fortnight, a month passed, and
Michael still kept her from work. Then it happened that, on Joseph's looking in
one evening, the old man said quietly, »I think I'd rather Jane stayed at home
in future. We've had a long talk about it this afternoon.«
    Joseph glanced at his daughter, who met the look very gravely. He had a
feeling that the girl was of a sudden grown older; when she spoke it was in
brief phrases, and with but little of her natural spontaneity; noiseless as
always in her movements, she walked with a staider gait, held herself less
girlishly, and on saying good-night she let her cheek rest for a moment against
her father's, a thing she had never yet done.
    The explanation of it all came a few minutes after Jane's retirement.
Michael, warned by his illness how unstable was the tenure on which he
henceforth held his life, had resolved to have an end of mystery and explain to
his son all that he had already made known to Sidney Kirkwood. With Jane he had
spoken a few hours ago, revealing to her the power that was in his hands, the
solemn significance he attached to it, the responsibility with which her future
was to be invested. To make the same things known to Joseph was a task of more
difficulty. He could not here count on sympathetic intelligence; it was but too
certain that his son would listen with disappointment, if not with bitterness.
In order to mitigate the worst results, he began by making known the fact of his
wealth and asking if Joseph had any practical views which could be furthered by
a moderate sum put at his disposal.
    »At my death,« he added, »you'll find that I haven't dealt unkindly by you.
But you're a man of middle age, and I should like to see you in some fixed way
of life before I go.«
    Having heard all, Joseph promised to think over the proposal which concerned
himself. It was in a strange state of mind that he returned to the Close; one
thing only he was clear upon, that to Clem and her mother he would breathe no
word of what had been told him. After a night passed without a wink of sleep,
struggling with the amazement, the incredulity, the confusion of understanding
caused by his father's words, he betook himself to a familiar public-house, and
there penned a note to Scawthorne, requesting an interview as soon as possible.
The meeting took place that evening at the retreat behind Lincoln's Inn Fields
where the two had held colloquies on several occasions during the last
half-year. Scawthorne received with gravity what his acquaintance had to
communicate. Then he observed:
    »The will was executed ten days ago.«
    »It was? And what's he left me?«
    »Seven thousand pounds - less legacy duty.«
    »And thirty thousand to Jane?«
    »Just so.«
    Joseph drew in his breath; his teeth ground together for a moment; his eyes
grew very wide. With a smile Scawthorne proceeded to explain that Jane's
trustees were Mr. Percival, senior, and his son. Should she die unmarried before
attaining her twenty-first birthday, the money bequeathed to her was to be
distributed among certain charities.
    »It's my belief there's a crank in the old fellow,« exclaimed Joseph. »Is he
really such a fool as to think Jane won't use the money for herself? And what
about Kirkwood? I tell you what it is; he's a deep fellow, is Kirkwood. I wish
you knew him.«
    Scawthorne confessed that he had the same wish, but added that there was no
chance of its being realised; prudence forbade any move in that direction.
    »If he marries her,« questioned Joseph, »will the money be his?«
    »No; it will be settled on her. But it comes to very much the same thing;
there's to be no restraint on her discretion in using it.«
    »She might give her affectionate parent a hundred or so now and then, if she
chose?«
    »If she chose.«
    Scawthorne began a detailed inquiry into the humanitarian projects of which
Joseph had given but a rude and contemptuous explanation. The finer qualities of
his mind enabled him to see the matter in quite a different light from that in
which it presented itself to Jane's father; he had once or twice had an
opportunity of observing Michael Snowdon at the office, and could realise in a
measure the character which directed its energies to such an ideal aim.
Concerning Jane he asked many questions; then the conversation turned once more
to Sidney Kirkwood.
    »I wish he'd married his old sweetheart,« observed Joseph watching the
other's face.
    »Who was that?«
    »A girl called Clara Hewett.«
    Their looks met. Scawthorne, in spite of habitual self-command, betrayed an
extreme surprise.
    »I wonder what's become of her?« continued Joseph, still observing his
companion, and speaking with unmistakable significance.
    »Just tell me something about this,« said Scawthorne peremptorily.
    Joseph complied, and ended his story with a few more hints.
    »I never saw her myself - at least I can't be sure that I did. There was
somebody of the same name - Clara - a friend of Polkenhorne's wife.«
    Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled brow.
    »If only I could put something between Eirkwood and the girl,« remarked
Joseph, as if absently. »I shouldn't wonder if it could be made worth some one's
while to give a bit of help that way. Don't you think so?«
    In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked
suddenly:
    »What use are you going to make of your father's offer?«
    »Well, I'm not quite sure Shouldn't wonder if I go in for filters.«
    »Filters?«
    Joseph explained. In the capacity of commission agent - denomination which
includes and apologises for such a vast variety of casual pursuits - he had of
late been helping to make known to the public a new filter, which promised to be
a commercial success. The owner of the patent lacked capital, and a judicious
investment might secure a share in the business; Joseph thought of broaching the
subject with him next day.
    »You won't make a fool of yourself?« remarked Scawthorne.
    »Trust me; I think I know my way about.«
    For the present these gentlemen had nothing more to say to each other; they
emptied their glasses with deliberation, exchanged a look which might mean
either much or nothing, and so went their several ways.
    The filter project was put into execution. When Joseph had communicated it
in detail to his father, the latter took the professional advice of his friend
Mr. Percival, and in the course of a few weeks Joseph found himself regularly
established in a business which had the - for him - novel characteristic of
serving the purposes of purity. The manufactory was situated in a by-street on
the north of Euston Road: a small concern, but at all events a genuine one. On
the window of the office you read, Lake, Snowdon, &amp; Co. As it was necessary
to account for this achievement to Clem and Mrs. Peckover, Joseph made known to
them a part of the truth; of the will he said nothing, and, for reasons of his
own, he allowed these tender relatives to believe that he was in a fair way to
inherit the greater part of Michael's possessions. There was jubilation in
Clerkenwell Close, but mother and daughter kept stern watch upon Joseph's
proceedings.
    Another acquaintance of ours benefited by this event. Michael made it a
stipulation that some kind of work should be found at the factory for John
Hewett, who, since his wife's death, had been making a wretched struggle to
establish a more decent home for the children. The firm of Lake, Snowdon, &amp;
Co. took Hewett into their employment as a porter, and paid him twenty-five
shillings a week - of which sum, however, the odd five shillings were privately
made up by Michael. On receiving this appointment, John drew the sigh of a man
who finds himself in haven after perilous beating about a lee shore. The kitchen
in King's Cross Road was abandoned, and with Sidney Kirkwood's aid the family
found much more satisfactory quarters. Friends of Sidney's, a man and wife of
middle age without children, happened to be looking for lodgings: it was decided
that they and John Hewett should join in the tenancy of a flat, up on the fifth
storey of the huge block of tenements called Farringdon Road Buildings. By this
arrangement the children would be looked after, and the weekly twenty-five
shillings could be made to go much further than on the ordinary system. As soon
as everything had been settled, and when Mr. and Mrs. Eagles had already housed
themselves in the one room which was all they needed for their private
accommodation, Hewett and the children began to pack together their miserable
sticks and rags for removal. Just then Sidney Kirkwood looked in.
    »Eagles wants to see you for a minute about something,« he said. »Just walk
round with me, will you?«
    John obeyed, in the silent, spiritless way now usual with him. It was but a
short distance to the buildings: they went up the winding stone staircase, and
Sidney gave a hollow-sounding knock at one of the two doors that faced each
other on the fifth storey. Mrs. Eagles opened, a decent, motherly woman, with a
pleasant and rather curious smile on her face. She led the way into one of the
rooms which John had seen empty only a few hours ago. How was this? Oil-cloth on
the floor, a blind at the window, a bedstead, a table, a chest of drawers -
    Mrs. Eagles withdrew, discreetly. Hewett stood with a look of uneasy
wonderment, and at length turned to his companion.
    »Now, look here,« he growled, in an unsteady voice, »what's all this about?«
    »Somebody seems to have got here before you,« replied Sidney, smiling.
    »How the devil am I to keep any self-respect if you go on treatin' me in
this fashion?« blustered John, hanging his head.
    »It isn't my doing, Mr. Hewett.«
    »Whose, then?«
    »A friend's. Don't make a fuss. You shall know the person some day.«
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

                             On the Eve of Triumph

»I have got your letter, but it tells me no more than the last did. Why don't
you say plainly what you mean? I suppose it's something you are ashamed of. You
say that there's a chance for me of earning a large sum of money, and if you are
in earnest, I shall be only too glad to hear how it's to be done. This life is
no better than what I used to lead years ago; I'm no nearer to getting a good
part than I was when I first began acting, and unless I can get money to buy
dresses and all the rest of it, I may go on for ever at this hateful drudgery. I
shall take nothing more from you: I say it, and I mean it; but as you tell me
that this chance has nothing to do with yourself, let me know what it really is.
For a large sum of money there are few things I wouldn't do. Of course it's
something disgraceful, but you needn't be afraid on that account; I haven't lost
all my pride yet, but I know what I'm fighting for, and I won't be beaten. Cost
what it may, I'll make people hear of me and talk of me, and I'll pay myself
back for all I've gone through. So write in plain words, or come and see me.
                                                                           C.V.«
 
She wrote at a round table, shaky on its central support, in the parlour of an
indifferent lodging-house; the October afternoon drew towards dusk; the sky hung
low and murky, or, rather, was itself invisible, veiled by the fume of factory
chimneys; a wailing wind rattled the sash and the door. A newly lighted fire
refused to flame cheerfully, half smothered in its own smoke, which every now
and then was blown downwards and out into the room. The letter finished -
scribbled angrily with a bad pen and in pale ink - she put it into its envelope
- C. H. Scawthorne, Esq.
    Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and unoccupied.
The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of the girl who fought her
dread fight with temptation, and lost it, in the lodging at Islington, who, then
as now, brooded over the wild passions in her heart and defied the world that
was her enemy. Still a beautiful face, its haughty characteristics strengthened,
the lips a little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of
intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in her eyes.
She asked no one's pity, but not many women breathed at that moment who knew
more of suffering.
    For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern
counties. In accordance with the modern custom - so beneficial to actors and the
public - their repertory consisted of one play, the famous melodrama, »A Secret
of the Thames,« recommended to provincial audiences by its run of four hundred
and thirty-seven nights at a London theatre. These, to be sure, were not the
London actors, but advertisements in local newspapers gave it to be understood
that they made an ensemble in no respect inferior to that which was so long the
delight of the metropolis. Starred on the placards was the name of Mr. Samuel
Peel, renowned in the North of England; his was the company, and his the main
glory in the piece. As leading lady he had the distinguished Miss Erminia
Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she had to be half-strangled by ruffians
and flung - most decorously - over the parapet of London Bridge. In the long
list of subordinate performers occurred two names with which we are familiar,
Miss Grace Danver and Miss Clara Vale. The present evening would be the third
and last in a certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable centres of
industry which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are spoken of with
somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when he named his Acropolis.
    Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the smoke that
was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there came in a young woman of
about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking costume, tall, very slender, pretty,
but looking ill. At this moment there was a slight flush on her cheeks and a
brightness in her eyes which obviously came of some excitement. She paused just
after entering and said in an eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness:
    »What do you think? Miss Walcott's taken her hook!«
    Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement. For several
days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the leading lady and the
manager: in other words, they had been quarrelling violently on certain
professional matters, and Miss Walcott had threatened to ruin the tour by
withdrawing her invaluable services. The menace was at last executed, in good
earnest, and the cause of Grace Danver's excitement was that she, as Miss
Walcott's understudy, would to-night, in all probability, be called upon to take
the leading part.
    »I'm glad to hear it,« Clara replied, very soberly.
    »You don't look as if you cared much,« rejoined the other, with a little
irritation.
    »What do you want me to do? An I to scream with joy because the greatest
actress in the world has got her chance at last?«
    There was bitterness in the irony. Whatever their friendship in days gone
by, these two were clearly not on the most amiable terms at present. This was
their first engagement in the same company, and it had needed but a week of
association to put a jealousy and ill-feeling between them which proved fatal to
such mutual kindness as they had previously cherished. Grace, now no less than
in her schooldays, was fond of patronising: as the elder in years and in
experience, she adopted a tone which Clara speedily resented. To heighten the
danger of a conflict between natures essentially incompatible, both were in a
morbid and nervous state, consumed with discontent, sensitive to the most
trifling injury, abandoned to a fierce egoism, which the course of their lives
and the circumstances of their profession kept constantly inflamed. Grace was of
acrid and violent temper; when stung with words such as Clara was only too apt
at using, she speedily lost command of herself and spoke, or even acted,
frantically. Except that she had not Clara's sensibilities, her lot was the
harder of the two; for she knew herself stricken with a malady which would hunt
her unsparingly to the grave. On her story I have no time to dwell; it was full
of wretchedness, which had caused her, about a year ago, to make an attempt at
suicide. A little generosity, and Clara might have helped to soothe the pains of
one so much weaker than herself; but noble feeling was extinct in the girl, or
so nearly extinct that a breath of petty rivalry could make her base, cruel,
remorseless.
    »At all events I have got my chance!« exclaimed Grace, with a harsh laugh.
»When you get yours, ask me to congratulate you.«
    And she swept her skirts out of the room. In a few minutes Clara put a stamp
on her letter and went out to the post. Her presence at the theatre would not be
necessary for another two hours, but as the distance was slight, and nervousness
would not let her remain at home, she walked on to make inquiry concerning
Grace's news. Rain had just begun to fall, and with it descended the smut and
grime that darkened above the houses; the pavement was speedily over-smeared
with sticky mud, and passing vehicles flung splashes in every direction. Odours
of oil and shoddy, and all such things as characterised the town, grew more
pungent under the heavy shower. On reaching the stage-door, Clara found two or
three of her companions just within; the sudden departure of Miss Walcott had
become known to everyone, and at this moment Mr. Peel was holding a council, to
which, as the doorkeeper testified, Miss Danver had been summoned.
    The manager decided to make no public announcement of what had happened
before the hour came for drawing up the curtain. A scrappy rehearsal for the
benefit of Grace Danver and the two or three other ladies who were affected by
the necessary rearrangement went on until the last possible moment, then Mr.
Peel presented himself before the drop and made a little speech. The gallery was
full of mill-hands; in the pit was a sprinkling of people; the circles and boxes
presented half a dozen occupants. »Sudden domestic calamity ... enforced absence
of the lady who played ... efficient substitution ... deep regret, but
confidence in the friendly feeling of audience on this last evening.«
    They growled, but in the end applauded the actor-manager, who had succeeded
in delicately hinting that, after all, the great attraction was still present in
his own person. The play went very much as usual, but those behind the scenes
were not allowed to forget that Mr. Peel was in a furious temper: the ladies
noticed with satisfaction that more than once he glared ominously at Miss
Danver, who naturally could not aid him to make his points as Miss Walcott had
accustomed herself to do. At his final exit, it was observed that he shrugged
his shoulders and muttered a few oaths.
    Clara had her familiar part; it was a poor one from every point of view, and
the imbecility of the words she had to speak affected her to-night with
exceptional irritation. Clara always acted in ill-humour. She despised her
audience for their acceptance of the playwright's claptrap; she felt that she
could do better than any of the actresses entrusted with the more important
characters; her imagination was for ever turning to powerful scenes in plays she
had studied privately, and despair possessed her at the thought that she would
perhaps never have a chance of putting forth her strength. Tonight her mood was
one of sullen carelessness; she did little more than walk through her part,
feeling a pleasure in thus insulting the house. One scrap of dialogue she had
with Grace, and her eyes answered with a flash of hatred to the arrogance of the
other's regard. At another point she all but missed her cue, for her thoughts
were busy with that letter to which she had replied this afternoon. Mr. Peel
looked at her savagely, and she met his silent rebuke with an air of
indifference. After that the manager appeared to pay peculiar attention to her
as often as they were together before the footlights. It was not the first time
that Mr. Peel had allowed her to see that she was an object of interest to him.
    There was an after-piece, but Clara was not engaged in it. When, at the fall
of the curtain on the melodrama, she went to the shabby dressing-room which she
shared with two companions, a message delivered by the call boy bade her repair
as soon as possible to the manager's office. What might this mean? She was
startled on the instant, but speedily recovered her self-control; most likely
she was to receive a rating - let it come! Without unusual hurry, she washed,
changed her dress, and obeyed the summons.
    Mr. Peel was still a young man, of tall and robust stature, sanguine, with
much sham refinement in his manner; he prided himself on the civility with which
he behaved to all who had business relations with him, but every now and then
the veneer gave an awkward crack, and, as in his debate with Miss Walcott, the
man himself was discovered to be of coarse grain. His aspect was singular when,
on Clara's entrance into the private room, he laid down his cigarette and
scrutinised her. There was a fiery hue on his visage, and the scowl of his black
eyebrows had a peculiar ugliness.
    »Miss Vale,« he began, after hesitation, »do you consider that you played
your part this evening with the conscientiousness that may fairly be expected of
you?«
    »Perhaps not,« replied the girl, averting her eyes, and resting her hand on
the table.
    »And may I ask why not?«
    »I didn't feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.«
    »Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you always
play badly?«
    »I mean that the part isn't worth any attention - even if they were able to
judge.«
    There was a perfection of insolence in her tone that in itself spoke
strongly for the abilities she could display if occasion offered.
    »This is rather an offhand way of treating the subject, madam,« cried Mr.
Peel. »If you disparage our audiences, I beg you to observe that it is much the
same thing as telling me that my own successes are worthless!«
    »I intended nothing of the kind.«
    »Perhaps not.« He thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked down at his
boots for an instant. »So you are discontented with your part?«
    »It's only natural that I should be.«
    »I presume you think yourself equal to Juliet, or perhaps Lady Macbeth?«
    »I could play either a good deal better than most women do.«
    The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouradly.
    »I'm sorry I can't bring you out in Shakespeare just at present, Miss Vale;
but - should you think it a condescension to play Laura Denton?«
    This was Miss Walcott's part, now Grace Danver's. Clara looked at him with
mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally.
    »How long would it take you, do you think,« pursued the other, »to get the
words?«
    »An hour or two; I all but know them.«
    The manager took a few paces this way and that.
    »We go on to Bolton to-morrow morning. Could you undertake to be perfect for
the afternoon rehearsal?«
    »Yes.«
    »Then I'll try you. Here's a copy you can take. I make no terms, you
understand; it's an experiment. We'll have another talk to-morrow. Good-night.«
    She left the room. Near the door stood Grace Danver and another actress,
both of whom were bidden to wait upon the manager before leaving. Clara passed
under the fire of their eyes, but scarcely observed them.
    Rain drenched her between the theatre and her lodgings, for she did not
think of putting up an umbrella; she thought indeed of nothing; there was fire
and tumult in her brain. On the round table in her sitting-room supper was made
ready, but she did not heed it. Excitement compelled her to walk incessantly
round and round the scanty space of floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the
chief scenes of Laura Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate loudness
and emphasis; her gestures were those of the stage, as though an audience sat
before her; she seemed to have grown taller. There came a double knock at the
house-door, but it did not attract her attention; a knock at her own room, and
only when some one entered was she recalled to the present. It was Grace again;
her lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit could have but one motive.
    They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed that her lips moved
fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic.
    »I suppose you're going to make a scene,« Clara addressed her. »Please
remember how late it is, and don't let all the house hear you.«
    »You mean to tell me you accepted that offer of Peel's - without saying a
word - without as much as telling him that he ought to speak to me first?«
    »Certainly I did. I've waited long enough; I'm not going to beat about the
bush when my chance comes.«
    »And you called yourself my friend?«
    »I'm nobody's friend but my own in an affair of this kind. If you'd been in
my place you'd have done just the same.«
    »I wouldn't! I couldn't have been such a mean creature! Every man and woman
in the company'll cry shame on you.«
    »Don't deafen me with your nonsense! If you played the part badly, I suppose
some one else must take it. You were only on trial, like I shall be.«
    Grace was livid with fury.
    »Played badly! As if we didn't all know how you've managed it! Much it has
to do with good or bad acting! We know how creatures of your kind get what they
want.«
    Before the last word was uttered she was seized with a violent fit of
coughing; her cheeks flamed, and spots of blood reddened on the handkerchief she
put to her mouth. Half-stifled, she lay back in the angle of the wall by the
door. Clara regarded her with a contemptuous pity, and when the cough had nearly
ceased, said coldly:
    »I'm not going to try and match you in insulting language; I dare say you'd
beat me at that. If you take my advice, you'll go home and take care of
yourself; you look ill enough to be in bed. I don't care what you or anyone else
thinks of me; what you said just now was a lie, but it doesn't't matter. I've got
the part, and I'll take good care that I keep it. You talk about us being
friends; I should have thought you knew by this time that there's no such thing
as friendship or generosity or feeling for women who have to make their way in
the world. You've had your hard times as well as I, and what's the use of
pretending what you don't believe? You wouldn't give up a chance for me; I'm
sure I should never expect you to. We have to fight, to fight for everything,
and the weak get beaten. That's what life has taught me.«
    »You're right,« was the other's reply given with a strangely sudden
calmness. »And we'll see who wins.«
    Clara gave no thought to the words, nor to the look of deadly enmity that
accompanied them. Alone again, she speedily became absorbed in a vision of the
triumph which she never doubted was near at hand. A long, long time it seemed
since she had sold herself to degradation with this one hope. You see that she
had formulated her philosophy of life since then; a child of the nether world
whom fate had endowed with intellect, she gave articulate utterance to what is
seething in the brains of thousands who fight and perish in the obscure depths.
The bitter bargain was issuing to her profit at last; she would yet attain that
end which had shone through all her misery - to be known as a successful actress
by those she had abandoned, whose faces were growing dim to her memory, but of
whom, in truth, she still thought more than of all the multitudinous unknown
public. A great success during the remainder of this tour, and she might hope
for an engagement in London. Her portraits would at length be in the windows;
some would recognise her.
    Yet she was not so pitiless as she boasted. The next morning, when she met
Grace, there came a pain at her heart in seeing the ghastly, bloodless
countenance which refused to turn towards her. Would Grace be able to act at all
at the next town? Yes, one more scene.
    They reached Bolton. In the afternoon the rehearsal took place, but the
first representation was not until to-morrow. Clara saw her name attached to the
leading female character on bills rapidly printed and distributed through the
town. She went about in a dream, rather a delirium. Mr. Peel used his most
affable manner to her; his compliments after the rehearsal were an augury of
great things. And the eventful evening approached.
    To give herself plenty of time to dress (the costumes needed for the part
were fortunately simple, and Mr. Peel had advanced her money to make needful
purchases) she left her lodgings at half-past six. It was a fine evening, but
very dark in the two or three by-streets along which she had to pass to reach
the theatre. She waited a minute on the doorstep to let a troop of female
mill-hands go by; their shoes clanked on the pavement, and they were singing in
chorus, a common habit of their kind in leaving work. Then she started and
walked quickly. ...
    Close by the stage-door, which was in a dark, narrow passage, stood a woman
with veiled face, a shawl muffling the upper part of her body. Since six o'clock
she had been waiting about the spot, occasionally walking to a short distance,
but always keeping her face turned towards the door. One or two persons came up
and entered; she observed them, but held aloof. Another drew near. The woman
advanced, and, as she did so, freed one of her arms from the shawl.
    »That you, Grace?« said Clara, almost kindly, for in her victorious joy she
was ready to be at peace with all the world.
    The answer was something dashed violently in her face - something fluid and
fiery - something that ate into her flesh, that frenzied her with pain, that
drove her shrieking she knew not whither.
 
Late in the same night, a pointsman, walking along the railway a little distance
out of the town, came upon the body of a woman, train-crushed, horrible to view.
She wore the dress of a lady; a shawl was still partly wrapped about her, and
her hands were gloved. Nothing discoverable upon her would have helped strangers
in the task of identification, and as for her face - But a missing woman was
already sought by the police, and when certain persons were taken to view this
body, they had no difficulty in pronouncing it that of Grace Danver.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

                         The Family History Progresses

What could possess John Hewett that, after resting from the day's work, he often
left his comfortable room late in the evening and rambled about the streets of
that part of London which had surely least interest for him, the streets which
are thronged with idlers, with carriages going homeward from the theatres, with
those who can only come forth to ply their business when darkness has fallen?
Did he seek food for his antagonism in observing the characteristics of the
world in which he was a stranger, the world which has its garners full and takes
its ease amid superfluity? It could scarcely be that, for since his wife's death
an indifference seemed to be settling upon him; he no longer cared to visit the
Green or his club on Sunday, and seldom spoke on the subjects which formerly
goaded him to madness. He appeared to be drawn forth against his will, in spite
of weariness, and his look as he walked on was that of a man who is in search of
some one. Yet whom could he expect to meet in these highways of the West End?
    Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly, the Strand, the ways about St.
James's Park; John Hewett was not the only father who has come forth after
nightfall from an obscure home to look darkly at the faces passing on these
broad pavements. At times he would shrink into a shadowed corner, and peer
thence at those who went by under the gaslight. When he moved forward, it was
with the uneasy gait of one who shuns observation; you would have thought,
perchance, that he watched an opportunity of begging and was shamefaced: it
happened now and then that he was regarded suspiciously. A rough-looking man,
with grizzled beard, with eyes generally bloodshot, his shoulders stooping -
naturally the miserable are always suspected where law is conscious of its
injustice.
    Two years ago he was beset for a time with the same restlessness, and took
night-walks in the same directions; the habit wore away, however. Now it
possessed him even more strongly. Between ten and eleven o'clock, when the
children were in bed, he fell into abstraction, and presently, with an
unexpected movement, looked up as if some one had spoken to him - just the look
of one who hears a familiar voice; then he sighed, and took his hat and went
forth. It happened sometimes when he was sitting with his friends Mr. and Mrs.
Eagles; in that case he would make some kind of excuse. The couple suspected
that his business would take him to the public-house, but John never came back
with a sign about him of having drunk; of that failing he had broken himself. He
went cautiously down the stone stairs, averting his face if anyone met him; then
by cross-ways he reached Gray's Inn Road, and so westwards.
    He had a well-ordered home, and his children were about him, but these
things did not compensate him for the greatest loss his life had suffered. The
children, in truth, had no very strong hold upon his affections. Sometimes, when
Amy sat and talked to him, he showed a growing nervousness, an impatience, and
at length turned away from her as if to occupy himself in some manner. The voice
was not that which had ever power to soothe him when it spoke playfully. Memory
brought back the tones which had been so dear to him, and at times something
more than memory; he seemed really to hear them, as if from a distance. And then
it was that he went out to wander in the streets.
    Of Bob in the meantime he saw scarcely anything. That young man presented
himself one Sunday shortly after his father had become settled in the new home,
but practically he was a stranger. John and he had no interests in common; there
even existed a slight antipathy on the father's part of late years. Strangely
enough this feeling expressed itself one day in the form of a rebuke to Bob for
neglecting Pennyloaf - Pennyloaf, whom John had always declined to recognise.
    »I hear no good of your goin's on,« remarked Hewett, on a casual encounter
in the street. »A married man ought to give up the kind of company as you keep.«
    »I do no harm,« replied Bob bluntly. »Has my wife been complaining to you?«
    »I've nothing to do with her; it's what I'm told.«
    »By Kirkwood, I suppose? You'd better not have made up with him again, if
he's only making mischief.«
    »No, I didn't mean Kirkwood.«
    And John went his way. Odd thing, was it not, that this embittered leveller
should himself practise the very intolerance which he reviled in people of the
upper world. For his refusal to recognise Pennyloaf he had absolutely no
grounds, save - I use the words advisedly - an aristocratic prejudice. Bob had
married deplorably beneath him; it was unpardonable, let the character of the
girl be what it might. Of course you recognise the item in John Hewett's
personality which serves to explain this singular attitude. But, viewed
generally, it was one of those bits of human inconsistency over which the
observer smiles, and which should be recommended to good people in search of
arguments for the equality of men.
    After that little dialogue, Bob went home in a disagreeable temper. To begin
with, his mood had been ruffled, for the landlady at his lodgings - the fourth
to which he had removed this year - was nasty about a week or two of unpaid
rent, and a man on whom he had counted this evening for the payment of a debt
was keeping out of his way. He found Pennyloaf sitting on the stairs with her
two children, as usual; poor Pennyloaf had not originality enough to discover
new expressions of misery, and that one bright idea of donning her best dress
was a single instance of ingenuity. In obedience to Jane Snowdon, she kept
herself and the babies and the room tolerably clean, but everything was done in
the most dispirited way.
    »What are you kicking about here for?« asked Bob impatiently. »That's how
that kid gets its cold - of course it is! - Ger out!«
    The last remark was addressed to the elder child, who caught at his legs as
he strode past. Bob was not actively unkind to the little wretches for whose
being he was responsible; he simply occupied the natural position of
unsophisticated man to children of that age, one of indifference, or impatience.
The infants were a nuisance; no one desired their coming, and the older they
grew the more expensive they were.
    It was a cold evening of October; Pennyloaf had allowed the fire to get very
low (she knew not exactly where the next supply of coals was to come from), and
her husband growled as he made a vain endeavour to warm his hands.
    »Why haven't you got tea ready?« he asked.
    »I couldn't be sure as you was comin', Bob; how could I? But I'll soon get
the kettle boilin'.«
    »Couldn't be sure as I was coming? Why, I've been back every night this week
- except two or three.«
    It was Thursday, but Bob meant nothing jocose.
    »Look here!« be continued, fixing a surly eye upon her. »What do you mean by
complaining about me to people? Just mind your own business. When was that girl
Jane Snowdon here last?«
    »Yesterday, Bob.«
    »I thought as much. Did she give you anything?« He made this inquiry in
rather a shamefaced way.
    »No, she didn't.«
    »Well, I tell you what it is. I'm not going to have her coming about the
place, so understand that. When she comes next, you'll just tell her she needn't
come again.«
    Pennyloaf looked at him with dismay. For the delivery of this command Bob
had seated himself on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. But for the
touch of blackguardism in his appearance, Bob would have been a very
good-looking fellow; his face was healthy, by no means commonplace in its mould,
and had the peculiar vividness which indicates ability - so impressive, because
so rarely seen, in men of his level. Unfortunately his hair was cropped all but
to the scalp, in the fashionable manner; it was greased, too, and curled up on
one side of his forehead with a peculiarly offensive perkishness. Poor Pennyloaf
was in a great degree responsible for the ills of her married life; not only did
she believe Bob to be the handsomest man who walked the earth, but in her
weakness she could not refrain from telling him as much. At the present moment
he was intensely self-conscious; with Pennyloaf's eye upon him, he posed for
effect. The idea of forbidding future intercourse with Jane had come to him
quite suddenly; it was by no means his intention to make his order permanent,
for Jane had now and then brought little presents which were useful, but just
now he felt a satisfaction in asserting authority. Jane should understand that
he regarded her censure of him with high displeasure.
    »You don't mean that, Bob?« murmured Pennyloaf.
    »Of course I do. And let me catch you disobeying me! I should think you
might find better friends than a girl as used to be the Peckovers' dirty little
servant.«
    Bob turned up his nose and sniffed the air. And Pennyloaf, in spite of the
keenest distress, actually felt that there was something in the objection, thus
framed! She herself had never been a servant - never; she had never sunk below
working with the needle for sixteen hours a day for a payment of ninepence. The
work-girl regards a domestic slave as very distinctly her inferior.
    »But that's a long while ago,« she ventured to urge, after reflection.
    »That makes no difference. Do as I tell you, and don't argue.«
    It was not often that visitors sought Bob at his home of an evening, but
whilst this dialogue was still going on an acquaintance made his arrival known
by a knock at the door. It was a lank and hungry individual, grimy of face and
hands, his clothing such as in the country would serve well for a scarecrow. Who
could have recognised in him the once spruce and spirited Mr. Jack Bartley,
distinguished by his chimneypot hat at the Crystal Palace on Bob's wedding-day?
At the close of that same day, as you remember, he and Bob engaged in terrific
combat, the outcome of earlier rivalry for the favour of Clem Peckover.
Notwithstanding that memory, the two were now on very friendly terms. You have
heard from Clem's lips that Jack Bartley, failing to win herself, ended by
espousing Miss Susan Jollop; also what was the result of that alliance. Mr.
Bartley was an unhappy man. His wife had a ferocious temper, was reckless with
money, and now drank steadily; the consequence was, that Jack had lost all
regular employment, and only earned occasional pence in the most various ways.
Broken in spirit, he himself first made advances to his companion of former
days, and Bob, flattered by the other's humility, encouraged him as a hanger-on.
- Really, we shall soon be coming to a conclusion that the differences between
the nether and the upper world are purely superficial.
    Whenever Jack came to spend an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Hewett, he was sure
sooner or later to indulge the misery that preyed upon him and give way to sheer
weeping. He did so this evening, almost as soon as he entered.
    »I ain't had a mouthful past my lips since last night, I ain't!« he sobbed.
»It's 'ard on a feller as used to have his meals regular. I'll murder Suke yet,
see if I don't! I'll have her life! She met me last night and gave me this black
eye as you see - she did! It's 'ard on a feller.«
    »You mean to say as she 'it you?« cried Pennyloaf.
    Bob chuckled, thrust his hands into his pockets, spread himself out. His own
superiority was so gloriously manifest.
    »Suppose you try it on with me, Penny!« he cried.
    »You'd give me something as I should remember,« she answered, smirking, the
good little slavey.
    »Shouldn't wonder if I did,« assented Bob.
    Mr. Bartley's pressing hunger was satisfied with some bread and butter and a
cup of tea. Whilst taking a share of the meal, Bob brought a small box on to the
table; it had a sliding lid, and inside were certain specimens of artistic work
with which he was wont to amuse himself when tired of roaming the streets in
jovial company. Do you recollect that, when we first made Bob's acquaintance, he
showed Sidney Kirkwood a medal of his own design and casting? His daily work at
die-sinking had of course supplied him with this suggestion, and he still found
pleasure in work of the same kind. In days before commercialism had divorced art
and the handicrafts, a man with Bob's distinct faculty would have found
encouragement to exercise it for serious ends; as it was, he remained at the
semi-conscious stage with regard to his own aptitudes, and cast leaden medals
just as a way of occupying his hands when a couple of hours hung heavy on them.
Partly with the thought of amusing the dolorous Jack, yet more to win laudation,
he brought forth now a variety of casts and moulds and spread them on the table.
His latest piece of work was a medal in high relief bearing the heads of the
Prince and Princess of Wales surrounded with a wreath. Bob had no political
convictions; with complacency he drew these royal features, the sight of which
would have made his father foam at the mouth. True, he might have found subjects
artistically more satisfying, but he belonged to the people, and the English
people.
    Jack Bartley, having dried his eyes and swallowed his bread and butter,
considered the medal with much attention.
    »I say,« he remarked at length, »will you give me this, Bob?«
    »I don't mind. You can take it if you like.«
    »Thanks!«
    Jack wrapped it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and before long rose
to take leave of his friends.
    »I only wish I'd got a wife like you,« he observed at the door, as he saw
Pennyloaf bending over the two children, recently put to bed.
    Pennyloaf's eyes gleamed at the compliment, and she turned them to her
husband.
    »She's nothing to boast of,« said Bob, judicially and masculinely. »All
women are pretty much alike.«
    And Pennyloaf tried to smile at the snub.
    Having devoted one evening to domestic quietude, Bob naturally felt himself
free to dispose of the next in a manner more to his taste. The pleasures which
sufficed to keep him from home had the same sordid monotony which characterises
life in general for the lower strata of society. If he had money, there was the
music-hall; if he had none, there were the streets. Being in the latter
condition to-night, he joined a company of male and female intimates, and with
them strolled aimlessly from one familiar rendezvous to another. Would that it
were possible to set down a literal report of the conversation which passed
during hours thus spent! Much of it, of course, would be merely revolting, but
for the most part it would consist of such wearying, such incredible
imbecilities as no human patience could endure through five minutes' perusal.
Realise it, however, and you grasp the conditions of what is called the social
problem. As regards Robert Hewett in particular, it would help you to understand
the momentous change in his life which was just coming to pass.
    On his reaching home at eleven o'clock, Pennyloaf met him with the news that
Jack Bartley had looked in twice and seemed very anxious to see him. To-morrow
being Saturday, Jack would call again early in the afternoon. When the time
came, he presented himself, hungry and dirty as ever, but with an unwonted
liveliness in his eye.
    »I've got something to say to you,« be began, in a low voice, nodding
significantly towards Pennyloaf.
    »Go and buy what you want for to-morrow,« said Bob to his wife, giving her
some money out of his wages. »Take the kids.«
    Disappointed in being thus excluded from confidence, but obedient as ever,
Pennyloaf speedily prepared herself and the children, the younger of whom she
still had to carry. When she was gone Mr. Bartley assumed a peculiar attitude
and began to speak in an undertone.
    »You know that medal as you gave me the other night?«
    »What about it?«
    »I sold it for fourpence to a chap I know. It got me a bed at the lodgings
in Pentonville Road.«
    »Oh, you did! Well, what else?«
    Jack was writhing in the most unaccountable way, peering hither and thither
out of the corners of his eyes, seeming to have an obstruction in his throat.
    »It was in a public-house as I sold it - a chap I know. There was another
chap as I didn't know standing just by - see? He kept' looking at the medal, and
he kept' looking at me. When I went out the chap as I didn't know followed behind
me. I didn't see him at first, but he come up with me just at the top of Rosoman
Street - a red-haired chap, looked like a corster. Hollo! says he. Hollo! says
I. Got any more o' them medals? he says, in a quiet way like. What do you want
to know for? I says - 'cos you see he was a bloke as I didn't know nothing
about, and there's no good being over-free with your talk. He got me to walk on
a bit with him, and kept talking. You didn't buy that nowhere, he says, with a
sort of wink. What if I didn't? I says. There's no harm as I know. Well, he kept
on with his sort o' winks, and then he says, Got any queer to put round?«
    At this point Jack lowered his voice to a whisper and looked timorously
towards the door.
    »You know what he meant. Bob?«
    Bob nodded and became reflective.
    »Well, I didn't say nothing,« pursued Bartley, »but the chap stuck to me. A
fair price for a fair article, he says. You'll always find me there of a
Thursday night, if you've got any business going. Give me a look round, he says.
It ain't in my line, I says. So he gave a grin like, and kept' on talking. If you
want a four-half shiner, he says, you know where to come. Reasonable with them
as is reasonable. Thursday night, he says, and then he slung his hook round the
corner.«
    »What's a four-half shiner?« inquired Bob, looking from under his eyebrows.
    »Well, I didn't know myself, just then: but I've found out. It's a
public-house pewter - see?«
    A flash of intelligence shot across Bob's face. ...
    When Pennyloaf returned she found her husband with his box of moulds and
medals on the table. He was turning over its contents, meditatively. On the
table there also lay a half-crown and a florin, as though Bob had been examining
these products of the Royal Mint with a view to improving the artistic quality
of his amateur workmanship. He took up the coins quietly as his wife entered and
put them in his pocket.
    »Mrs. Rendal's been at me again, Bob,« Pennyloaf said, as she set down her
market-basket. »You'll have to give her something to-day.«
    He paid no attention, and Pennyloaf had a difficulty in bringing him to
discuss the subject of the landlady's demands. Ultimately, however, he admitted
with discontent the advisability of letting Mrs. Rendal have something on
account. Though it was Saturday night, he let hour after hour go by and showed
no disposition to leave home; to Pennyloaf's surprise, he sat almost without
moving by the fire, absorbed in thought.
    Genuine respect for law is the result of possessing something which the law
exerts itself to guard. Should it happen that you possess nothing, and that your
education in metaphysics has been grievously neglected, the strong probability
is, that your mind will reduce the principle of society to its naked formula:
Get, by whatever means, so long as with impunity. On that formula Bob Hewett was
brooding; in the hours of this Saturday evening he exerted his mind more
strenuously than ever before in the course of his life. And to a foregone
result. Here is a man with no moral convictions, with no conscious relations to
society save those which are hostile, with no personal affections; at the same
time, vaguely aware of certain faculties in himself for which life affords no
scope and encouraged in various kinds of conceit by the crass stupidity of all
with whom he associates. It is suggested to him all at once that there is a very
easy way of improving his circumstances, and that by exercise of a certain craft
with which he is perfectly familiar; only, the method happens to be criminal.
»Men who do this kind of thing are constantly being caught and severely
punished. Yes; men of a certain kind; not Robert Hewett. Robert Hewett is
altogether an exceptional being; he is head and shoulders above the men with
whom he mixes; he is clever, he is remarkably good-looking. If anyone in this
world, of a truth Robert Hewett may reckon on impunity when he sets his wits
against the law. Why, his arrest and punishment is an altogether inconceivable
thing; he never in his life had a charge brought against him.«
    Again and again it came back to that. Every novice in unimpassioned crime
has that thought, and the more self-conscious the man, the more impressed with a
sense of his own importance, so much the weightier is its effect with him.
    We know in what spirit John Hewett regarded rebels against the law. Do not
imagine that any impulse of that nature actuated his son. Clara alone had
inherited her father's instinct of revolt. Bob's temperament was, in a certain
measure, that of the artist; he felt without reasoning; he let himself go
whither his moods propelled him. Not a man of evil propensities; entertain no
such thought for a moment. Society produces many a monster, but the mass of
those whom, after creating them, it pronounces bad are merely bad from the
conventional point of view; they are guilty of weaknesses, not of crimes. Bob
was not incapable of generosity; his marriage had, in fact, implied more of that
quality than you in the upper world can at all appreciate. He neglected his
wife, of course, for he had never loved her, and the burden of her support was
too great a trial for his selfishness. Weakness, vanity, a sense that he has not
satisfactions proportionate to his desert, a strong temptation - were are the
data which, in ordinary cases, explain a man's deliberate attempt to profit by
criminality.
    In a short time Pennyloaf began to be aware of peculiarities of behaviour in
her husband for which she could not account. Though there appeared no necessity
for the step, he insisted on their once more seeking new lodgings, and, before
the removal, he destroyed all his medals and moulds.
    »What's that for, Bob?« Pennyloaf inquired.
    »I'll tell you, and mind you hold your tongue about it. Somebody's been
saying as these things might get me into trouble. Just you be careful not to
mention to people that I used to make these kind of things.«
    »But why should it get you into trouble?«
    »Mind what I tell you, and don't ask questions. You're always too ready at
talking.«
    His absences of an evening were nothing new, but his manner on returning was
such as Pennyloaf had never seen in him. He appeared to be suffering from some
intense excitement; his hands were unsteady; he showed the strangest nervousness
if there were any unusual sounds in the house. Then he certainly obtained money
of which his wife did not know the source; he bought new articles of clothing,
and in explanation said that he had won bets. Pennyloaf remarked these things
with uneasiness; she had a fear during her lonely evenings for which she could
give no reason. Poor slow-witted mortal though she was, a devoted fidelity
attached her to her husband, and quickened wonderfully her apprehension in
everything that concerned him.
    »Miss Snowdon came to-day, Bob,« she had said, about a week after his order
with regard to Jane.
    »Oh, she did? And did you tell her she'd better keep away?«
    »Yes,« was the dispirited answer.
    »Glad to hear it.«
    As for Jack Bartley, he never showed himself at the new lodgings.
    Bob shortly became less regular in his attendance at the workshop. An
occasional Monday he had, to be sure, been in the habit of allowing himself, but
as the winter wore on he was more than once found straying about the streets in
midweek. One morning towards the end of November, as he strolled along High
Holborn, a hand checked his progress; he gave almost a leap, and turned a face
of terror upon the person who stopped him. It was Clem - Mrs. Snowdon. They had,
of course, met casually since Bob's marriage, and in progress of time the
ferocious glances they were wont to exchange had softened into a grin of
half-friendly recognition; Clem's behaviour at present was an unexpected revival
of familiarity. When he had got over his shock Bob felt surprised, and expressed
the feeling in a - »Well, what have you got to say for yourself?«
    »You jumped as if I'd stuck a pin in you,« replied Clem. »Did you think it
was a copper?«
    Bob looked at her with a surly smile. Though no one could have mistaken the
class she belonged to, Clem was dressed in a way which made her companionship
with Bob in his workman's clothing somewhat incongruous; she wore a heavily
trimmed brown hat, a long velveteen jacket, and carried a little bag of
imitation fur.
    »Why ain't you at work?« she added. »Does Mrs. Pennyloaf Hewett know how you
spend your time?«
    »Hasn't your husband taught you to mind your own business?«
    Clem took the retort good-humouredly, and they walked on conversing. Not
altogether at his ease thus companioned, Bob turned out of the main street, and
presently they came within sight of the British Museum.
    »Ever been in that place?« Clem asked.
    »Of course I have,« he replied, with his air of superiority.
    »I haven't. Is there anything to pay? Let's go in for half an hour.«
    It was an odd freak, but Bob began to have a pleasure in this renewal of
intimacy; he wished he had been wearing his best suit. Years ago his father had
brought him on a public holiday to the Museum, and his interest was chiefly
excited by the collection of the Royal Seals. To that quarter he first led his
companion, and thence directed her towards objects more likely to supply her
with amusement; he talked freely, and was himself surprised at the show of
information his memory allowed him to make - desperately vague and often
ludicrously wide of the mark, but still a something of knowledge, retained from
all sorts of chance encounters by his capable mind. Had the British Museum been
open to visitors in the hours of the evening, or on Sundays, Bob Hewitt would
possibly have been employing his leisure nowadays in more profitable pursuits.
Possibly; one cannot say more than that; for the world to which he belonged is
above all a world of frustration, and only the one man in half a million has
fate for his friend.
    Much Clem cared for antiquities; when she had wearied herself in pretending
interest, a seat in an unvisited corner gave her an opportunity for more
congenial dialogue.
    »How's Mrs. Pennyloaf?« she asked, with a smile of malice.
    »How's Mr. What's-his-name Snowdon?« was the reply.
    »My husband's a gentleman. Good thing for me I had the sense to wait.«
    »And for me too, I dare say.«
    »Why ain't you at work? Got the sack?«
    »I can take a day off if I like, can't I?«
    »And you'll go 'ome and tell your wife as you've been working. I know what
you men are. What 'ud Mrs. Pennyloaf say if she knew you was here with me? You
daren't tell her; you daren't!«
    »I'm not doing any harm as I know of. I shall tell her if I choose, and if I
choose I shan't. I don't ask her what I'm to do.«
    »I dare say. And how does that mother of hers get on? And her brother at the
public? Nice relations for Mr. Bob Hewett. Do they come to tea on a Sunday?«
    Bob glared at her, and Clem laughed, showing all her teeth. From this
exchange of pleasantries the talk passed to various subjects - the affairs of
Jack Bartley and his precious wife, changes in Clerkenwell Close, then to Clem's
own circumstances; she threw out hints of brilliant things in store for her.
    »Do you come here often?« she asked at length.
    »Can't say I do.«
    »Thought p'r'aps you brought Mrs. Pennyloaf. When'll you be here again?«
    »Don't know,« Bob replied, fidgeting and looking to a distance.
    »I shouldn't wonder if I'm here this day next week,« said Clem, after a
pause. »You can bring Pennyloaf if you like.«
    It was dinner-time, and they left the building together. At the end of
Museum Street they exchanged a careless nod and went their several ways.
 

                                  Chapter XXV

                             A Double Consecration

Bessie Byass and her husband had, as you may suppose, devoted many an hour to
intimate gossip on the affairs of their top-floor lodgers. Having no relations
with Clerkenwell Close, they did not even hear the rumours which spread from
Mrs. Peckover's house at the time of Jane's departure thence; their curiosity,
which only grew keener as time went on, found no appeasement save in conjecture.
That Sidney Kirkwood was in the secret from the first they had no doubt; Bessie
made a sly attempt now and then to get a hint from him, but without the least
result. The appearance on the scene of Jane's father revived their speculation,
and just after the old man's illness in the month of August occurred something
which gave them still fresh matter for argument. The rooms on the first floor
having become vacant, Michael proposed certain new arrangements. His own chamber
was too much that of an invalid to serve any longer as sitting-room for Jane; he
desired to take the front room below for that purpose, to make the other on the
same floor Jane's bed-room, and then to share with the Byasses the expense of
keeping a servant, whose lodging would be in the chamber thus set free. Hitherto
Bessie and Jane and an occasional charwoman had done all the work of the house;
it was a day of jubilation for Mrs. Byass when she found herself ruling over a
capped and aproned maid. All these things set it beyond doubt that Michael
Snowdon had means greater than one would have supposed from his way of living
hitherto. Jane's removal from work could, of course, be explained by her
grandfather's growing infirmities, but Bessie saw more than this in the new
order of things; she began to look upon the girl with a certain awe, as one
whose future might reveal marvels.
    For Jane, as we know, the marvels had already begun. She came back from
Danbury not altogether like herself; unsettled a little, as it appeared; and
Michael's illness, befalling so soon, brought her into a nervous state such as
she had not known for a long time. The immediate effect of the disclosure made
to her by Michael whilst he was recovering was to overwhelm her with a sense of
responsibilities, to throw her mind into painful tumult. Slow of thought,
habituated to the simplest views of her own existence, very ignorant of the
world beyond the little circle in which her life had been passed, she could not
at once bring into the control of her reflection this wondrous future to which
her eyes had been opened. The way in which she had been made acquainted with the
facts was unfortunate. Michael Snowdon, in spite of his deep affection for her,
and of the trust he had come to repose in her character, did not understand Jane
well enough to bring about this revelation with the needful prudence. Between
him, a man burdened with the sorrowful memories of a long life, originally of
stern temperament, and now, in the feebleness of his age, possessed by an
enthusiasm which in several respects disturbed his judgment, which made him
desperately eager to secure his end now that he felt life slipping away from him
- between him and such a girl as Jane there was a wider gulf than either of them
could be aware of. Little as he desired it, he could not help using a tone which
seemed severe rather than tenderly trustful. Absorbed in his great idea,
conscious that it had regulated every detail in his treatment of Jane since she
came to live with him, he forgot that the girl herself was by no means
adequately prepared to receive the solemn injunctions which he now delivered to
her. His language was as general as were the ideas of beneficent activity which
he desired to embody in Jane's future; but instead of inspiring her with his own
zeal, he afflicted her with grievous spiritual trouble. For a time she could
only feel that something great and hard and high was suddenly required of her;
the old man's look seemed to keep repeating, »Are you worthy?« The tremor of
bygone days came back upon her as she listened, the anguish of timidity, the
heart-sinking, with which she had been wont to strain her attention when Mrs.
Peckover or Clem imposed a harsh task.
    One thing alone had she grasped as soon as it was uttered; one word of
reassurance she could recall when she sat down in solitude to collect her
thoughts. Her grandfather had mentioned that Sidney Kirkwood already knew this
secret. To Sidney her whole being turned in this hour of distress; he was the
friend who would help her with counsel and teach her to be strong. But hereupon
there revived in her a trouble which for the moment she had forgotten, and it
became so acute that she was driven to speak to Michael in a way which had till
now seemed impossible. When she entered his room - it was the morning after
their grave conversation - Michael welcomed her with a face of joy, which,
however, she still felt to be somewhat stern and searching in its look. When
they had talked for a few moments, Jane said:
    »I may speak about this to Mr. Kirkwood, grandfather?«
    »I hope you will, Jane. Strangers needn't know of it yet, but we can speak
freely to him.«
    After many endeavours to find words that would veil her thought, she
constrained herself to ask:
    »Does he think I can be all you wish?«
    Michael looked at her with a smile.
    »Sidney has no less faith in you than I have, be sure of that.«
    »I've been thinking - that perhaps he distrusted me a little.«
    »Why, my child?«
    »I don't quite know. But there's been a little difference in him, I think,
since we came back.«
    Michael's countenance fell.
    »Difference? How?«
    But Jane could not go further. She wished she had not spoken. Her face began
to grow hot, and she moved away.
    »It's only your fancy,« continued Michael. »But may be that - You think he
isn't quite so easy in his talking to you as he was?«
    »I've fancied it. But it was only -«
    »Well, you may be partly right,« said her grandfather, softening his voice.
»See, Jane, I'll tell you something. I think there's no harm; perhaps I ought
to. You must know that I hadn't meant to speak to Sidney of these things just
when I did. It came about, because he had something to tell me, and something I
was well pleased to hear. It was about you, Jane, and in that way I got talking
- something about you, my child. Afterwards, I asked him whether he wouldn't
speak to you yourself, but he said no - not till you'd heard all that was before
you. I think I understood him, and I dare say you will, if you think it over.«
    Matter enough for thinking over, in these words. Did she understand them
aright? Before leaving the room she had not dared to look her grandfather in the
face, but she knew well that he was regarding her still with the same smile. Did
she understand him aright?
    Try to read her mind. The world had all at once grown very large, a distress
to her imagination; worse still, she had herself become a person of magnified
importance, irrecognisable in her own sight, moving, thinking so unnaturally.
Jane, I assure you, had thought very little of herself hitherto - in both senses
of the phrase. Joyous because she could not help it, full of gratitude,
admiration, generosity, she occupied her thoughts very much with other people,
but knew not self-seeking, knew not self-esteem. The one thing affecting herself
over which she mused frequently was her suffering as a little thrall in
Clerkenwell Close, and the result was to make her very humble. She had been an
ill-used, ragged, work-worn child, and something of that degradation seemed, in
her feeling, still to cling to her. Could she have known Bob Hewett's view of
her position, she would have felt its injustice, but at the same time would have
bowed her head. And in this spirit had she looked up to Sidney Kirkwood,
regarding him as when she was a child, save for that subtle modification which
began on the day when she brought news of Clara Hewett's disappearance. Perfect
in kindness, Sidney had never addressed a word to her which implied more than
friendship - never until that evening at the farm; then for the first time had
he struck a new note. His words seemed spoken with the express purpose of
altering his and her relations to each other. So much Jane had felt, and his
change since then was all the more painful to her, all the more confusing. Now
that of a sudden she had to regard herself in an entirely new way, the dearest
interest of her life necessarily entered upon another phase. Struggling to
understand how her grandfather could think her worthy of such high trust, she
inevitably searched her mind for testimony as to the account in which Sidney
held her. A fearful hope had already flushed her cheeks before Michael spoke the
words which surely could have but one meaning.
    On one point Sidney had left her no doubts; that his love for Clara Hewett
was a thing of the past he had told her distinctly. And why did he wish her to
be assured of that? Oh, had her grandfather been mistaken in those words he
reported? Durst she put faith in them, coming thus to her by another's voice?
    Doubts and dreads and self-reproofs might still visit her from hour to hour,
but the instinct of joy would not allow her to refuse admission to this supreme
hope. As if in spite of herself, the former gladness - nay, a gladness
multiplied beyond conception - reigned once more in her heart. Her grandfather
would not speak lightly in such a matter as this; the meaning of his words was
confessed, to all eternity immutable. Had it, then, come to this? The friend to
whom she looked up with such reverence, with voiceless gratitude, when he
condescended to speak kindly to her, the Peckovers' miserable little servant -
he, after all these changes and chances of life, sought her now that she was a
woman, and had it on his lips to say that he loved her. Hitherto the impossible,
the silly thought to be laughed out of her head, the desire for which she would
have chide herself durst she have faced it seriously - was it become a very
truth? »Keep a good heart, Jane; things'll be better some day.« How many years
since the rainy and windy night when he threw his coat over her and spoke those
words? Yet she could hear them now, and the tears that rushed to her eyes as she
blessed him for his manly goodness were as much those of the desolate child as
of the full-hearted woman.
    And the change that she had observed in him since that evening at Danbury? A
real change, but only of manner. He would not say to her what he had meant to
say until she knew the truth about her own circumstances. In simple words, she
being rich and he having only what he earned by his daily work, Sidney did not
think it right to speak whilst she was still in ignorance. The delicacy of her
instincts, and the sympathies awakened by her affection, made this perfectly
clear to her, strange and difficult to grasp as the situation was at first. When
she understood, how her soul laughed with exulting merriment! Consecration to a
great idea, endowment with the means of wide beneficence - this not only left
her cold, but weighed upon her, afflicted her beyond her strength. What was it,
in truth, that restored her to herself and made her heart beat joyously? Knit
your brows against her; shake your head and raze her name from that catalogue of
saints whereon you have inscribed it in anticipation. Jane rejoiced simply
because she loved a poor man, and had riches that she could lay at his feet.
    Great sums of money, vague and disturbing to her imagination when she was
bidden hold them in trust for unknown people, gleamed and made music now that
she could think of them as a gift of love. By this way of thought she could
escape from the confusion in which Michael's solemn appeal had left her. Exalted
by her great hope, calmed by the assurance of aid that would never fail her, she
began to feel the beauty of the task to which she was summoned; the appalling
responsibility became a high privilege now that it was to be shared with one in
whose wisdom and strength she had measureless confidence. She knew now what
wealth meant; it was a great and glorious power, a source of blessings
incalculable. This power it would be hers to bestow, and no man more worthy than
he who should receive it at her hands.
    It was not without result that Jane had been so long a listener to the
conversations between Michael and Kirkwood. Defective as was her instruction in
the ordinary sense, those evenings spent in the company of the two men had done
much to refine her modes of thought. In spite of the humble powers of her mind
and her narrow experience, she had learned to think on matters which are wholly
strange to girls of her station, to regard the life of the world and the
individual in a light of idealism and with a freedom from ignoble association
rare enough in any class. Her forecast of the future to be spent with Sidney was
pathetic in its simplicity, but had the stamp of nobleness. Thinking of the past
years, she made clear to herself all the significance of her training. In her
general view of things, wealth was naturally allied with education, but she
understood why Michael had had her taught so little. A wealthy woman is called a
lady; yes, but that was exactly what she was not to become. On that account she
had gone to work, when in reality there was no need for her to do so. Never must
she remove herself from the poor and the laborious, her kin, her care; never
must she forget those bitter sufferings of her childhood, precious as enabling
her to comprehend the misery of others for whom had come no rescue. She saw,
moreover, what was meant by Michael's religious teaching, why he chose for her
study such parts of the Bible as taught the beauty of compassion, of service
rendered to those whom the world casts forth and leaves to perish. All this grew
upon her, when once the gladness of her heart was revived. It was of the essence
of her being to exercise all human and self-forgetful virtues, and the
consecration to a life of beneficence moved her profoundly now that it followed
upon consecration to the warmer love. ...
    When Sidney paid his next visit Jane was alone in the new sitting-room; her
grandfather said he did not feel well enough to come down this evening. It was
the first time that Kirkwood had seen the new room. After making his inquiries
about Michael he surveyed the arrangements, which were as simple as they could
be, and spoke a few words regarding the comfort Jane would find in them. He had
his hand on a chair, but did not sit down, nor lay aside his hat. Jane suffered
from a constraint which she had never before felt in his presence.
    »You know what grandfather has been telling me?« she said at length,
regarding him with grave eyes.
    »Yes. He told me of his intention.«
    »I asked him if I might speak to you about it. It was hard to understand at
first.«
    »It would be, I've no doubt.«
    Jane moved a little, took up some sewing, and seated herself. Sidney let his
hat drop on to the chair, but remained standing, his arms resting on the back.
    »It's a very short time since I myself knew of it,« he continued. »Till
then, I as little imagined as you did that -« He paused, then resumed more
quickly, »But it explains many things which I had always understood in a simpler
way.«
    »I feel, too, that I know grandfather much better than I did,« Jane said.
»He's always been thinking about the time when I should be old enough to hear
what plans he'd made for me. I do so hope he really trusts me, Mr. Kirkwood! I
don't know whether I speak about it as he wishes. It isn't easy to say all I
think, but I mean to do my best to be what he -«
    »He knows that very well. Don't be anxious; he feels that all his hopes have
been realised in you.«
    There was silence. Jane made a pretence of using her needle, and Sidney
watched her hands.
    »He spoke to you of a lady called Miss Lant?« were his next words.
    »Yes. He just mentioned her.«
    »Are you going to see her soon?«
    »I don't know. Have you seen her?«
    »No. But I believe she's a woman you could soon be friendly with. I hope
your grandfather will ask her to come here before long.«
    »I'm rather afraid of strangers.«
    »No doubt,« said the other, smiling. »But you'll get over that. I shall do
my best to persuade Mr. Snowdon to make you acquainted with her.«
    Jane drew in her breath uneasily.
    »She won't want me to know other people, I hope?«
    »Oh, if she does, they'll be kind and nice and easy to talk to.«
    Jane raised her eyes and said half-laughingly:
    »I feel as if I was very childish, and that makes me feel it still more. Of
course, if it's necessary, I'll do my best to talk to strangers. But they won't
expect too much of me, at first? I mean, if they find me a little slow, they
won't be impatient?«
    »You mustn't think that hard things are going to be asked of you. You'll
never be required to say or do anything that you haven't already said and done
many a time, quite naturally. Why, it's some time since you began the kind of
work of which your grandfather has been speaking.«
    »I have begun it? How?«
    »Who has been such a good friend to Pennyloaf, and helped her as nobody else
could have done?«
    »Oh, but that's nothing!«
    Sidney was on the point of replying, but suddenly altered his intention. He
raised himself from the leaning attitude, and took his hat.
    »Well, we'll talk about it another time,« he said carelessly. »I can't stop
long to-night, so I'll go up and see your grandfather.«
    Jane rose silently.
    »I'll just look in and say good-night before I go,« Sidney added, as he left
the room.
    He did so, twenty minutes after. When he opened the door Jane was sewing
busily, but it was only on hearing his footsteps that she had so applied
herself. He gave a friendly nod, and departed.
    Still the same change in his manner. A little while ago he would have
chatted freely and forgotten the time.
    Another week, and Jane made the acquaintance of the lady whose name we have
once or twice heard, Miss Lant, the friend of old Mr. Percival. Of middle age
and with very plain features, Miss Lant had devoted herself to philanthropic
work; she had an income of a few hundred pounds, and lived almost as simply as
the Snowdons in order to save money for charitable expenditure. Unfortunately
the earlier years of her life had been joyless, and in the energy which she
brought to this self-denying enterprise there was just a touch of excess, common
enough in those who have been defrauded of their natural satisfactions and find
a resource in altruism. She was no pietist, but there is nowadays coming into
existence a class of persons who substitute for the old religious acerbity a
narrow and oppressive zeal for good works of purely human sanction, and to this
order Miss Lant might be said to belong. However, nothing but what was agreeable
manifested itself in her intercourse with Michael and Jane; the former found her
ardent spirit very congenial, and the latter was soon at ease in her company.
    It was a keen distress to Jane when she heard from Pennyloaf that Bob would
allow no future meetings between them. In vain she sought an explanation;
Pennyloaf professed to know nothing of her husband's motives, but implored her
friend to keep away for a time, as any disregard of Bob's injunction would only
result in worse troubles than she yet had to endure. Jane sought the aid of
Kirkwood, begging him to interfere with young Hewett; the attempt was made, but
proved fruitless. »Sic volo, sic jubeo,« was Bob's standpoint, and he as good as
bade Sidney mind his own affairs.
    Jane suffered, and more than she herself would have anticipated. She had
conceived a liking, almost an affection, for poor, shiftless Pennyloaf,
strengthened, of course, by the devotion with which the latter repaid her. But
something more than this injury to her feelings was involved in her distress on
being excluded from those sorry lodgings. Pennyloaf was comparatively an old
friend; she represented the past, its contented work, its familiar associations,
its abundant happiness. And now, though Jane did not acknowledge to herself that
she regretted the old state of things, still less that she feared the future, it
was undeniable that the past seemed very bright in her memory, and that
something weighed upon her heart, forbidding such gladsomeness as she had known.
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

                               Sidney's Struggle

In the dreary days when autumn is being choked by the first fogs, Sidney
Kirkwood had to bestir himself and to find new lodgings. The cheerless task came
upon him just when he had already more than sufficient trouble, and to tear
himself out of the abode in which he had spent eight years caused him more than
regret; he felt superstitiously about it, and questioned fate as to what sorrows
might be lurking for him behind this corner in life's journey. Move he must; his
landlady was dead, and the house would perhaps be vacant for a long time. After
making search about Islington one rainy evening, he found himself at the end of
Hanover Street, and was drawn to the familiar house; not, however, to visit the
Snowdons, but to redeem a promise recently made to Bessie Byass, who declared
herself vastly indignant at the neglect with which he treated her. So, instead
of going up the steps to the front door, he descended into the area. Bessie
herself opened to him, and after a shrewd glance, made as though she would close
the door again. »Nothing for you! The idea of beggars coming down the
area-steps! Be off!«
    »I'm worse than a beggar,« replied Sidney. »Housebreaking's more in my
line.«
    And he attempted to force an entrance. Bessie struggled, but had to give in,
overcome with laughter. Samuel was enjoying a pipe in the front kitchen; in
spite of the dignity of keeping a servant (to whom the back kitchen was sacred),
Mr. and Mrs. Byass frequently spent their evenings below stairs in the same
manner as of old.
    The talk began with Sidney's immediate difficulties.
    »Now if it had only happened half a year ago,« said Bessie, »I should have
got you into our first-floor rooms.«
    »Shouldn't wonder if we have him there yet, some day,« remarked Sam, winking
at his wife.
    »Not him,« was Bessie's rejoinder, with a meaning smile. »He's a cool hand,
is Mr. Kirkwood. He knows how to wait. When something happens, we shall have him
taking a house out at Highbury, you see if he don't.«
 
Sidney turned upon her with anything but a jesting look.
    »What do you mean by that, Mrs. Byass?« he asked, sharply. »When what
happens? What are you hinting at?«
    »Bless us and save us!« cried Bessie. »Here, Sam, he's going to swallow me.
What harm have I done?«
    »Please tell me what you meant?« Sidney urged, his face expressing strong
annoyance. »Why do you call me a cool hand, and say that I know how to wait?
What did you mean? I'm serious; I want you to explain.«
    Whilst he was speaking there came a knock at the kitchen door. Bessie cried,
»Come in,« and Jane showed herself; she glanced in a startled way at Sidney,
murmured a good-evening to him, and made a request of Bessie for some trifle she
needed. Sidney, after just looking round, kept his seat and paid no further
attention to Jane, who speedily retired.
    Silence followed, and in the midst of it Kirkwood pushed his chair
impatiently.
    »Bess,« cried Samuel, with an affected jocoseness, »you're called upon to
apologise. Don't make a fool of yourself again.«
    »I don't see why he need be so snappish with me,« replied his wife. »I beg
his pardon, if he wants me.«
    But Sidney was laughing now, though not in a very natural way. He put an end
to the incident, and led off into talk of quite a different kind. When
supper-time was at hand he declared that it was impossible for him to stay. The
hour had been anything but a lively one, and when he was gone his friends
discussed at length this novel display of ill-humour on Sidney's part.
    He went home muttering to himself, and passed as bad a night as he had ever
known. Two days later his removal to new lodgings was effected; notwithstanding
his desire to get into a cleaner region, he had taken a room at the top of a
house in Bed Lion Street, in the densest part of Clerkenwell, where his
neighbours under the same roof were craftsmen, carrying on their business at
home.
    »It'll do well enough just for a time,« he said to himself. »Who can say
when I shall be really settled again, or whether I ever shall?«
    Midway in an attempt to put his things in order, to nail his pictures on the
walls and bring forth his books again, he was seized with such utter
discouragement that he let a volume drop from his hand and threw himself into a
seat. A moan escaped his lips - »That cursed money!«
    Ever since the disclosure made to him by Michael Snowdon at Danbury he had
been sensible of a grave uneasiness respecting his relations with Jane. At the
moment he might imagine himself to share the old man's enthusiasm, or dream, or
craze - whichever name were the most appropriate - but not an hour had passed
before he began to lament that such a romance as this should envelop the life
which had so linked itself with his own. Immediately there arose in him a
struggle between the idealist tendency, of which he had his share, and stubborn
everyday sense, supported by his knowledge of the world and of his own being - a
struggle to continue for months, thwarting the natural current of his life,
racking his intellect, embittering his heart's truest emotions. Conscious of
mystery in Snowdon's affairs, he had never dreamed of such a solution as this;
the probability was - so he had thought - that Michael received an annuity under
the will of his son who died in Australia. No word of the old man's had ever
hinted at wealth in his possession; the complaints he frequently made of the ill
use to which wealthy people put their means seemed to imply a regret that he,
with his purer purposes, had no power of doing anything. There was no explaining
the manner of Jane's bringing-up if it were not necessary that she should be
able to support herself; the idea on which Michael acted was not such as would
suggest itself, even to Sidney's mind. Deliberately to withhold education from a
girl who was to inherit any property worth speaking of would be acting with such
boldness of originality that Sidney could not seriously have attributed it to
his friend. In fact, he did not know Michael until the revelation was made; the
depths of the man's character escaped him.
    The struggle went all against idealism. It was a noble vision, that of
Michael's, but too certainly Jane Snowdon was not the person to make it a
reality; the fearful danger was, that all the possibilities of her life might be
sacrificed to a vain conscientiousness. Her character was full of purity and
sweetness and self-forgetful warmth, but it had not the strength necessary for
the carrying out of a purpose beset with difficulties and perils. Michael, it
was true, appeared to be aware of this; it did not, however, gravely disturb
him, and for the simple reason that not to Jane alone did he look for the
completion of his design; destiny had brought him aid such as he could never
have anticipated; Jane's helpmate was at hand, m whom his trust was unbounded.
    What was in his way, that Sidney should not accept the responsibility?
Conscience from the first whispered against his doing so, and the whisper was
grown to so loud a voice that not an adverse argument could get effective
hearing. Temptations lurked for him and sprang out in moments of his weakness,
but as temptations they were at once recognised. »He had gone too far to retire;
he would be guilty of sheer treachery to Jane; he would break the old man's
heart.« All which meant merely that he loved the girl, and that it would be like
death to part from her. But why part? What had conscience got hold of, that it
made all this clamour? Oh, it was simple enough; Sidney not only had no faith in
the practicability of such a life's work as Michael visioned, but he had the
profoundest distrust of his own moral strength if he should allow himself to be
committed to lifelong renunciation. »I am no hero,« he said, »no enthusiast. The
time when my whole being could be stirred by social questions has gone by. I am
a man in love, and in proportion as my love has strengthened, so has my old
artist-self revived in me, until now I can imagine no bliss so perfect as to
marry Jane Snowdon and go off to live with her amid fields and trees, where no
echo of the suffering world should ever reach us.« To confess this was to make
it terribly certain that sooner or later the burden of conscientiousness would
become intolerable. Not from Jane would support come in that event; she, poor
child! would fall into miserable perplexity, in conflict between love and duty,
and her life would be ruined.
    Of course a man might have said, »What matter how things arrange themselves
when Michael is past knowledge of them? I will marry the woman I honestly
desire, and together we will carry out this humanitarian project so long as it
be possible. When it ceases to be so, well -.« But Sidney could not take that
view. It shamed him beyond endurance to think that he must ever avoid Jane's
look, because he had proved himself dishonest, and, what were worse, had tempted
her to become so.
    The conflict between desire and scruple made every day a weariness. Instead
of looking forward eagerly to the evening in the week which he spent with
Michael and Jane, he dreaded its approach. Scarcely had he met Jane's look since
this trouble began; he knew that her voice when she spoke to him expressed
consciousness of something new in their relations, and even whilst continuing to
act his part he suffered ceaselessly. Had Michael ever repeated to his
granddaughter the confession which Sidney would now have given anything to
recall? It was more than possible. Of Jane's feeling Sidney could not entertain
a serious doubt, and he knew that for a long time he had done his best to
encourage it. It was unpardonable to draw aloof from her just because these
circumstances had declared themselves, circumstances which brought perplexity
into her life and doubtless made her long for another kind of support than
Michael could afford her. The old man himself appeared to be waiting anxiously;
he had fallen back into his habit of long silences, and often regarded Sidney in
a way which the latter only too well understood.
    He tried to help himself through the time of indecision by saying that there
was no hurry. Jane was very young, and with the new order of things her life had
in truth only just begun. She must have a space to look about her; all the
better if she could form various acquaintances. On that account he urged so
strongly that she should be brought into relation with Miss Lant, and, if
possible, with certain of Miss Lant's friends. All very well, had not the
reasoning been utterly insincere. It might have applied to another person; in
Jane's case it was mere sophistry. Her nature was homekeeping; to force her into
alliance with conscious philanthropists was to set her in the falsest position
conceivable; striving to mould herself to the desires of those she loved, she
would suffer patiently and in secret mourn for the time when she had been
obscure and happy. These things Sidney knew with a certainty only less than that
wherewith he judged his own sensations; between Jane and himself the sympathy
was perfect. And in despite of scruple he would before long have obeyed the
natural impulse of his heart, had it not been that still graver complications
declared themselves, and by exasperating his over-sensitive pride made him
reckless of the pain he gave to others so long as his own self-torture was made
sufficiently acute.
    With Joseph Snowdon he was doing his best to be on genial terms, but the
task was a hard one. The more he saw of Joseph, the less he liked him. Of late
the filter manufacturer had begun to strike notes in his conversation which
jarred on Sidney's sensibilities, and made him disagreeably suspicious that
something more was meant than Joseph cared to put into plain speech. Since his
establishment in business Joseph had become remarkably attentive to his father;
he appeared to enter with much zeal into all that concerned Jane; he conversed
privately with the old man for a couple of hours at a time, and these dialogues,
for some reason or other, he made a point of reporting to Sidney. According to
these reports - and Sidney did not wholly discredit them - Michael was coming to
have a far better opinion of his son than formerly, was even disposed to speak
with him gravely of his dearest interests.
    »We talked no end about you, Sidney, last night,« said Joseph on one
occasion, with the smile whereby he meant to express the last degree of friendly
intelligence.
    And Sidney, though anxiously desiring to know the gist of the conversation,
in this instance was not gratified. He could not bring himself to put questions,
and went away in a mood of vague annoyance which Joseph had the especial power
of exciting.
    With the Byasses, Joseph was forming an intimacy; of this too Sidney became
aware, and it irritated him. The exact source of this irritation he did not at
first recognise, but it was disclosed at length unmistakably enough, and that on
the occasion of the visit recently described. Bessie's pleasantry, which roused
him in so unwonted a manner, could bear, of course, but one meaning; as soon as
he heard it, Sidney saw as in a flash that one remaining aspect of his position
which had not as yet attracted his concern. The Byasses had learnt, or had been
put in the way of surmising, that Michael Snowdon was wealthy; instantly they
passed to the reflection that in marrying Jane their old acquaintance would be
doing an excellent stroke of business. They were coarse-minded, and Bessie could
even venture to jest with him on this detestable view of his projects. But was
it not very likely that they derived their information from Joseph Snowdon? And
if so, was it not all but certain that Joseph had suggested to them this way of
regarding Sidney himself?
    So when Jane's face appeared at the door he held himself in stubborn
disregard of her. A thing impossible to him, he would have said a few minutes
ago. He revenged himself upon Jane. Good; in this way he was likely to make
noble advances.
    The next evening he was due at the Snowdons', and for the very first time he
voluntarily kept away. He posted a note to say that the business of his removal
had made him irregular; he would come next week, when things were settled once
more.
    Thus it came to pass that he sat wretchedly in his unfamiliar room and
groaned about that accursed money. His only relief was in bursts of anger. Why
had he not the courage to go to Michael and say plainly what he thought? »You
have formed a wild scheme, the project of a fanatic. Its realisation would be a
miracle, and in your heart you must know that Jane's character contains no
miraculous possibilities. You are playing with people's lives, as fanatics
always do. For Heaven's sake, bestow your money on the practical folks who make
a solid business of relieving distress! Jane, I know, will bless you for making
her as poor as ever. Things are going on about you which you do not suspect.
Your son is plotting, plotting; I can see it. This money will be the cause of
endless suffering to those you really love, and will never be of as much benefit
to the unknown as if practical people dealt with it. Jane is a simple girl, of
infinite goodness; what possesses you that you want to make her an impossible
sort of social saint?« Too hard to speak thus frankly. Michael had no longer the
mental pliancy of even six months ago; his idea was everything to him; as he
became weaker, it would gain the dire force of an hallucination. And in the
meantime he, Sidney, must submit to be slandered by that fellow who had his own
ends to gain.
    To marry Jane, and, at the old man's death, resign every farthing of the
money to her trustees, for charitable uses? - But the old pang of conscience;
the life-long wound to Jane's tender heart.
    A day of headache and incapacity, during which it was all he could do to
attend to his mechanical work, and again the miserable loneliness of his attic.
It rained, it rained. He had half a mind to seek refuge at some theatre, but the
energy to walk so far was lacking. And whilst he stood stupidly abstracted there
came a knock at his door.
    »I thought I'd just see if you'd got straight,« said Joseph Snowdon,
entering with his genial smile.
    Sidney made no reply, but turned as if to stir the fire. Hands in pockets,
Joseph sauntered to a seat.
    »Think you'll be comfortable here?« he went on. »Well, well; of course it's
only temporary.«
    »I don't know about that,« returned Sidney. »I may stay here as long as I
was at the last place - eight years.«
    Joseph laughed, with exceeding good-nature.
    »Oh yes; I shouldn't wonder,« he said, entering into tho joke. »Still« -
becoming serious - »I wish you'd found a pleasanter place. With the winter
coming on, you see -«
    Sidney broke in with splenetic perversity.
    »I don't know that I shall pass the winter here. My arrangements are all
temporary - all of them.«
    After glancing at him the other crossed his legs and seemed to dispose
himself for a stay of some duration.
    »You didn't turn up the other night - in Hanover Street.«
    »No.«
    »I was there. We talked about you. My father has a notion you haven't been
quite well lately. I dare say you're worrying a little, eh?«
    Sidney remained standing by the fireplace, turned so that his face was in
shadow.
    »Worry? Oh, I don't know,« he replied, idly.
    »Well, I'm worried a good deal, Sidney, and that's the fact.«
    »What about?«
    »All sorts of things. I've meant to have a long talk with you; but then I
don't quite know how to begin. Well, see, it's chiefly about Jane.«
    Sidney neither moved nor spoke.
    »After all, Sidney,« resumed the other, softening his voice, »I am her
father, you see. A precious bad one I've been, that there's no denying, and dash
it if I don't sometimes feel ashamed of myself. I do when she speaks to me in
that pleasant way she has - you know what I mean. For all that, I am her father,
and I think it's only right I should do my best to make her happy. You agree
with that, I know.«
    »Certainly I do.«
    »You won't take it ill if I ask whether - in fact, whether you've ever asked
her - you know what I mean.«
    »I have not,« Sidney replied, in a clear, unmoved tone, changing his
position at the same time so as to look his interlocutor in the face.
    Joseph seemed relieved.
    »Still,« he continued, »you've given her to understand - eh? I suppose
there's no secret about that?«
    »I've often spoken to her very intimately, but I have used no words such as
you are thinking of. It's quite true that my way of behaving has meant more than
ordinary friendship.«
    »Yes, yes; you're not offended at me bringing this subject up, old man? You
see, I'm her father, after all, and I think we ought to understand each other.«
    »You are quite right.«
    »Well, now, see.« He fidgeted a little. »Has my father ever told you that
his friend the lawyer, Percival, altogether went against that way of bringing up
Jane?«
    »Yes, I know that.«
    »You do?« Joseph paused before proceeding. »To tell you the truth, I don't
much care about Percival. I had a talk with him, you know, when my business was
being settled. No, I don't quite take to him, so to say. Now, you won't be
offended? The fact of the matter is, he asked some rather queer questions about
you - or, at all events, if they weren't exactly questions, they - they came to
the same thing.«
    Sidney was beginning to glare under his brows. Common-sense told him how
very unlikely it was that a respectable solicitor should compromise himself in
talk with a stranger, and that such a man as J. J. Snowdon; yet, whether the
story were true or not, it meant that Joseph was plotting in some vile way, and
thus confirmed his suspicions. He inquired, briefly and indifferently, what Mr.
Percival's insinuations had been.
    »Well, I told you I don't much care for the fellow. He didn't say as much,
mind, but he seemed to be hinting-like that, as Jane's father, I should do well
to - to keep an eye on you - ha, ha! It came to that, I thought - though, of
course, I may have been mistaken. It shows how little he knows about you and
father. I fancy he'd got it into his head that it was you set father on those
plans about Jane - though why I'd like to know.«
    He paused. Sidney kept his eyes down, and said nothing.
    »Well, there's quite enough of that; too much. Still I thought I'd tell you,
you see. It's well to know when we've got enemies behind our backs. But see,
Sidney; to speak seriously, between ourselves.« He leaned forward in the
confidential attitude. »You say you've gone just a bit further than friendship
with our Janey. Well, I don't know a better man, and that's the truth - but
don't you think we might put this off for a year or two? Look now, here's this
lady, Miss Lant, taking up the girl, and it's an advantage to her; you won't
deny that. I sympathise with my good old dad; I do, honestly; but I can't help
thinking that Janey, in her position, ought to see a little of the world.
There's no secrets between us; you know what she'll have as well as I do. I
should be a brute if I grudged it her, after all she's suffered from my neglect.
But don't you think we might leave her free for a year or two?«
    »Yes, I agree with you.«
    »You do? I thought you and I could understand each other, if we only got
really talking. Look here, Sidney; I don't mind just whispering to you. For
anything I know, Percival is saying disagreeable things to the old man; but
don't you worry about that. It don't matter a scrap, you see, so long as you and
I keep friendly, eh? I'm talking very open to you, but it's all for Janey's
sake. If you went and told father I'd been saying anything against Percival -
well, it would make things nasty for me. I've put myself in your hands, but I
know the kind of man you are. It's only right you should hear of what's said.
Don't worry; we'll just wait a little, that's all. I mean it all for the little
girl's sake. It wouldn't be nice if you married her and then she was told - eh?«
    Sidney looked at the speaker steadily, then stirred the fire and moved about
for a few moments. As he kept absolute silence, Joseph, after throwing out a few
vague assurances of goodwill and trust, rose to take his leave. Kirkwood shook
hands with him, but spoke not a word. Late the same night Sidney penned a letter
to Michael Snowdon. In the morning he read it over, and instead of putting it
into an envelope, locked it away in one of his drawers.
    When the evening for his visit to Hanover Street again came round he again
absented himself, this time just calling to leave word with the servant that
business kept him away. The business was that of walking aimlessly about
Clerkenwell, in mud and fog. About ten o'clock he came to Farringdon Road
Buildings, and with a glance up towards the Hewetts' window he was passing by
when a hand clutched at him. Turning, he saw the face of John Hewett, painfully
disturbed, strained in some wild emotion.
    »Sidney! Come this way; I want to speak to you.«
    »Why, what's wrong?«
    »Come over here. Sidney - I've found my girl - I've found Clara!«
 

                                 Chapter XXVII

                                 Clara's Return

Mrs. Eagles, a middle-aged woman of something more than average girth, always
took her time in ascending to that fifth storey where she and her husband shared
a tenement with the Hewett family. This afternoon her pause on each landing was
longer than usual, for a yellow fog, which mocked the pale glimmer of gas-jets
on the staircase, made her gasp asthmatically. She carried, too, a heavy
market-bag, having done her Saturday purchasing earlier than of wont on account
of the intolerable weather. She reached the door at length, and being too much
exhausted to search her pocket for the latchkey, knocked for admission. Amy
Hewett opened to her, and she sank on a chair in the first room, where the other
two Hewett children were bending over home-lessons with a studiousness not
altogether natural. Mrs. Eagles had a shrewd eye; having glanced at Annie and
Tom with a discreet smile, she turned her look towards the elder girl, who was
standing full in the lamplight.
    »Come here, Amy,« she said after a moment's scrutiny. »So you will keep
doing' that foolish thing! Very well, then, I shall have to speak to your father
about it; I'm not goin' to see you make yourself ill and do nothing to prevent
you.«
    Amy, now a girl of eleven, affected much indignation.
    »Why, I haven't touched a drop, Mrs. Eagles!«
    »Now, now, now, now, now! Why, your lips are shrivelled up like a bit of o'
dried orange-peel! You're a silly girl, that's what you are!«
    Of late Amy Hewett had become the victim of a singular propensity; whenever
she could obtain vinegar, she drank it as a toper does spirits. Inadequate
nourishment, and especially an unsatisfied palate, frequently have this result
in female children among the poor; it is an anticipation of what will befall
them as soon as they find their way to the public-house.
    Having administered a scolding, Mrs. Eagles went into the room which she and
her husband occupied. It was so encumbered with furniture that not more than
eight or ten square feet of floor can have been available for movement. On the
bed sat Mr. Eagles, a spare, large-headed, ugly, but very thoughtful-looking
man; he and Sidney Kirkwood had been acquaintances and fellow-workmen for some
years, but no close intimacy had arisen between them, owing to the difference of
their tastes and views. Eagles was absorbed in the study of a certain branch of
political statistics; the enthusiasm of his life was Financial Reform. Every
budget presented to Parliament he criticised with extraordinary thoroughness,
and, in fact, with an acumen which would have made him no inefficient auxiliary
of the Chancellor himself. Of course he took the view that the nation's
resources were iniquitously wasted, and of course had little difficulty in
illustrating a truth so obvious; what distinguished him from the ordinary
malcontent of Clerkenwell Green was his logical faculty and the surprising
extent of the information with which he had furnished himself. Long before there
existed a Financial Reform Almanack, Eagles practically represented that work in
his own person. Disinterested, ardent, with thoughts for but one subject in the
scope of human inquiry, he lived contentedly on his two pounds a week, and was
for ever engaged in the theoretic manipulation of millions. Utopian budgets
multiplied themselves in his brain and his note-books. He devised imposts such
as Minister never dreamt of, yet which, he declared, could not fail of vast
success. »You just look at these figures!« he would exclaim to Sidney, in his
low, intense voice. »There it is in black and white!« But Sidney's faculties
were quite unequal to calculations of this kind, and Eagles could never summon
resolve to explain his schemes before an audience. Indefatigably he worked on,
and the work had to be its own reward.
    He was busy in the usual way this afternoon, as he sat on the bed, coatless,
a trade journal open on his knees. His wife never disturbed him; she was a
placid, ruminative woman, generally finding the details of her own weekly budget
quite a sufficient occupation. When she had taken off her bonnet and was turning
out the contents of her bag, Eagles remarked quietly:
    »They'll have a bad journey.«
    »What a day for her to be travelling all that distance, poor thing! But
perhaps it ain't so bad out o' London.«
    Lowering their voices, they began to talk of John Hewett and the daughter he
was bringing from Lancashire, where she had lain in hospital for some weeks. Of
the girl and her past they knew next to nothing, but Hewett's restricted
confidences suggested disagreeable things. The truth of the situation was, that
John had received by post, from he knew not whom, a newspaper report of the
inquest held on the body of Grace Danver, wherein, of course, was an account of
what had happened to Clara Vale; in the margin was pencilled, »Clara Vale's real
name is Clara Hewett.« An hour after receiving this John encountered Sidney
Kirkwood. They read the report together. Before the coroner it had been made
public that the dead woman was in truth named Rudd; she who was injured refused
to give any details concerning herself, and her history escaped the reporters.
Harbouring no doubt of the information thus mysteriously sent him - the
handwriting seemed to be that of a man, but gave no further hint as to its
origin - Hewett the next day journeyed down into Lancashire, Sidney supplying
him with money. He found Clara in a perilous condition; her face was horribly
burnt with vitriol, and the doctors could not as yet answer for the results of
the shock she had suffered. One consolation alone offered itself in the course
of Hewett's inquiries; Clara, if she recovered, would not have lost her
eyesight. The fluid had been thrown too low to effect the worst injury; the
accident of a trembling hand, of a movement on her part, had kept her eyes
untouched.
    Necessity brought the father back to London almost at once, but the news
sent him at brief intervals continued to be favourable. Now that the girl could
be removed from the infirmary, there was no retreat for her but her father's
home. Mr. Peel, the manager, had made her a present of 20l. - it was all he
could do; the members of the company had subscribed another 5l., generously
enough, seeing that their tour was come perforce to an abrupt close. Clara's
career as an actress had ended. ...
    When the fog's artificial night deepened at the close of the winter evening,
Mrs. Eagles made the Hewetts' two rooms as cheerful as might be, expecting every
moment the arrival of John and his companion. The children were aware that an
all but forgotten sister was returning to them, and that she had been very ill;
they promised quietude. Amy set the tea-table in order, and kept the kettle
ready. ... The knock for which they were waiting! Mrs. Eagles withdrew into her
own room; Amy went to the door.
    A tall figure, so wrapped and veiled that nothing but the womanly outline
could be discerned, entered, supported by John Hewett.
    »Is there a light in the other room, Amy?« John inquired in a thick voice.
    »Yes, father.«
    He led the muffled form into the chamber where Amy and Annie slept. The door
closed, and for several minutes the three children stood regarding each other,
alarmed, mute. Then their father joined them. He looked about in an absent way,
slowly drew off his overcoat, and when Amy offered to take it, bent and kissed
her cheek. The girl was startled to hear him sob and to see tears starting from
his eyes. Turning suddenly away, he stood before the fire and made a pretence of
warming himself; but his sobs overmastered him. He leaned his arms on the
mantel-piece.
    »Shall I pour out the tea, father?« Amy ventured to ask, when there was
again perfect silence.
    »Haven't you had yours?« he replied, half-facing her.
    »Not yet.«
    »Get it, then - all of you. Yes, you can pour me out a cup - and put another
on the little tray. Is this stuff in the saucepan ready?«
    »Mrs. Eagles said it would be in five minutes.«
    »All right. Get on with your eatin', all of you.«
    He went to Mrs. Eagles' room and talked there for a short time. Presently
Mrs. Eagles herself came out and silently removed from the saucepan a mixture of
broth and meat. Having already taken the cup of tea to Clara, Hewett now
returned to her with this food. She was sitting by the fire, her face resting
upon her hands. The lamp was extinguished; she had said that the firelight was
enough. John deposited his burden on the table, then touched her shoulder gently
and spoke in so soft a voice that one would not have recognised it as his.
    »You'll try an' eat a little, my dear? Here's something' as has been made
particular. After travellin' - just a spoonful or two.«
    Clara expressed reluctance.
    »I don't feel hungry, father. Presently, perhaps.«
    »Well, well; it do want to cool a bit. Do you feel able to sit up?«
    »Yes. Don't take so much trouble, father. I'd rather you left me alone.«
    The tone was not exactly impatient; it spoke a weary indifference to
everything and every person.
    »Yes, I'll go away, dear. But you'll eat just a bit? If you don't like this,
you must tell me, and I'll get something you could fancy.«
    »It'll do well enough. I'll eat it presently; I promise you.«
    John hesitated before going.
    »Clara - shall you mind Amy and Annie comin' to sleep here? If you'd rather,
we'll manage it somehow else.«
    »No. What does it matter? They can come when they like, only they mustn't
want me to talk to them.«
    He went softly from the room, and joined the children at their tea. His mood
had grown brighter. Though in talking he kept his tone much softened, there was
a smile upon his face, and he answered freely the questions put to him about his
journey. Overcome at first by the dark aspect of this home-coming, he now began
to taste the joy of having Clara under his roof, rescued alike from those vague
dangers of the past and from the recent peril. Impossible to separate the sorrow
he felt for her blighted life, her broken spirit, and the solace lurking in the
thought that henceforth she could not abandon him. Never a word to reproach her
for the unalterable; it should be as though there were no gap between the old
love and its renewal in the present. For Clara used to love him, and already she
had shown that his tenderness did not appeal to her in vain; during the journey
she had once or twice pressed his hand in gratitude. How well it was that he had
this home in which to receive her! Half a year ago, and what should he have
done? He would not admit to himself that there were any difficulties ahead; if
it came to that, he would manage to get some extra work in the evening and on
Saturday afternoons. He would take Sidney into council. But thereupon his face
darkened again, and he lost himself in troubled musing.
    Midway in the Sunday morning Amy told him that Clara had risen and would
like him to go and sit with her. She would not leave her room; Amy had put it in
order, and the blind was drawn low. Clara sat by the fireside, in her attitude
of last night, hiding her face as far as she was able. The beauty of her form
would have impressed anyone who approached her, the grace of her bent head; but
the countenance was no longer that of Clara Hewett; none must now look at her,
unless to pity. Feeling herself thus utterly changed, she could not speak in her
former natural voice; her utterance was oppressed, unmusical, monotonous.
    When her father had taken a place near her she asked him, »Have you got that
piece of newspaper still?«
    He had, and at her wish produced it. Clara held it in the light of the fire,
and regarded the pencilled words closely. Then she inquired if he wished to keep
it, and on his answering in the negative threw it to be burnt. Hewett took her
hand, and for a while they kept silence.
    »Do you live comfortably here, father?« she said presently.
    »We do, Clara. It's a bit high up, but that don't matter much.«
    »You've got new furniture.«
    »Yes, some new things. The old was all done for, you know.«
    »And where did you live before you came here?«
    »Oh, we had a place in King's Cross Road - it wasn't't much of a place, but I
suppose it might a' been worse.«
    »And that was where -?«
    »Yes - yes - it was there.«
    »And how did you manage to buy this furniture?« Clara asked, after a pause.
    »Well, my dear, to tell you the truth - it was a friend as - an old friend
helped us a bit.«
    »You wouldn't care to say who it was?«
    John was gravely embarrassed. Clara moved her head a little, so as to regard
him, but at once turned away, shrinkingly, when she met his eyes.
    »Why don't you like to tell me, father? Was it Mr. Kirkwood?«
    »Yes, my dear, it was.«
    Neither spoke for a long time. Clara's head sank lower; she drew her hand
away from her father's, and used it to shield her face. When she spoke, it was
as if to herself.
    »I suppose he's altered in some ways?«
    »Not much; I don't see much change, myself, but then of course - No, he's
pretty much the same.«
    »He's married, isn't he?«
    »Married? Why, what made you think that, Clara? No, not he. He had to move
not long ago; his lodgin's is in Red Lion Street now.«
    »And does he ever come here?«
    »He has been - just now an' then.«
    »Have you told him?«
    »Why - yes, dear - I felt I had to.«
    »There's no harm. You couldn't keep it a secret. But he mustn't come whilst
I'm here; you understand that, father?«
    »No, no, he shan't. He shall never come, if you don't wish it.«
    »Only whilst I'm here.«
    »But - Clara - you'll always be here.«
    »Oh no! Do you think I'm going to burden you all the rest of my life? I
shall find some way of earning a living, and then I shall go and get a room for
myself.«
    »Now don't - now don't talk like that!« exclaimed her father, putting his
hand on her. »You shall do what else you like, my girl, but don't talk about
goin' away from me. That's the one thing as I couldn't bear. I ain't so young as
I was, and I've had things as was hard to go through - I mean when the mother
died and - and other things at that time. Let you an' me stay by each other
whilst we may,.my girl. You know it was always you as I thought most of, and I
want to keep you by me - I do, Clara. You won't speak about goin' away?«
    She remained mute. Shadows from the firelight rose and fell upon the walls
of the half-darkened room. It was a cloudy morning; every now and then a gust
flung rain against the window.
    »If you went,« he continued, huskily, »I should be afraid o' myself. I
haven't told you. I didn't behave as I'd ought to have done to the poor mother,
Clara; I got into drinkin' too much; yes, I did. I've broke myself off that; but
if you was to leave me - I've had hard things to go through. Do you know the
Burial Club broke up just before she died? I couldn't get not a ha'penny! A lot
o' the money was stolen. You may think how I felt, Clara, with her lyin' there,
and I hadn't got as much as would pay for a coffin. It was Sidney Kirkwood found
the money - he did! There was never man had as good a friend as he's been to me;
I shall never have a chance of payin' what I owe him. Things is better with me
now, but I'd rather beg my bread in the streets than you should go away. Don't
be afraid, my dearest. I promise you nobody shan't come near. You won't mind
Mrs. Eagles; she's very good to the children. But I must keep you near to me, my
poor girl!«
    Perhaps it was that word of pity - though the man's shaken voice was
throughout deeply moving. For the first time since the exultant hope of her life
was blasted, Clara shed tears.
 

                                 Chapter XXVIII

                                The Soup-Kitchen

With the first breath of winter there passes a voice half-menacing,
half-mournful, through all the barren ways and phantom-haunted refuges of the
nether world. Too quickly has vanished the brief season when the sky is clement,
when a little food suffices, and the chances of earning that little are more
numerous than at other times; this wind that gives utterance to its familiar
warning is the vaunt-courier of cold and hunger and solicitude that knows not
sleep. Will the winter be a hard one? It is the question that concerns this
world before all others, that occupies alike the patient work-folk who have yet
their home unbroken, the strugglers foredoomed to loss of such scant needments
as the summer gifted them withal, the hopeless and the self-abandoned and the
lurking creatures of prey. To all of them the first chill breath from a lowering
sky has its voice of admonition; they set their faces; they sigh, or whisper a
prayer, or fling out a curse, each according to his nature.
    And as though the strife here were not already hard enough, behold from many
corners of the land come needy emigrants, prospectless among their own people,
fearing the dark season which has so often meant for them the end of wages and
of food, tempted hither by thought that in the shadow of palaces work and
charity are both more plentiful. Vagabonds, too, no longer able to lie about the
country roads, creep back to their remembered lairs and join the combat for
crusts flung forth by casual hands. Day after day the stress becomes more grim.
One would think that hosts of the weaker combatants might surely find it
seasonable to let themselves be trodden out of existence, and so make room for
those of more useful sinew; somehow they cling to life; so few in comparison
yield utterly. The thoughtful in the world above look about them with
contentment when carriage-ways are deep with new-fallen snow. »Good; here is
work for the unemployed.« Ah, if the winter did but last a few months longer, if
the wonted bounds of endurance were but, by some freak of nature, sensibly
overpassed, the carriage-ways would find another kind of sweeping! ...
    This winter was the last that Shooter's Gardens were destined to know. The
leases had all but run out; the middlemen were garnering their latest profits;
in the spring there would come a wholesale demolition, and model-lodgings would
thereafter occupy the site. Meanwhile the Gardens looked their surliest; the
walls stood in a perpetual black sweat; a mouldy reek came from the open
doorways; the beings that passed in and out seemed soaked with grimy moisture,
puffed into distortions, hung about with rotting garments. One such was Mrs.
Candy, Pennyloaf's mother. Her clothing consisted of a single gown and a shawl
made out of the fragments of an old counterpane; her clothing - with exception
of the shoes on her feet, those two articles were literally all that covered her
bare body. Rage for drink was with her reaching the final mania. Useless to
bestow anything upon her; straightway it or its value passed over the counter of
the beershop in Rosoman Street. She cared only for beer, the brave, thick,
medicated draught, that was so cheap and frenzied her so speedily.
    Her husband was gone for good. One choking night of November he beat her to
such purpose that she was carried off to the police-station as dead; the man
effected his escape, and was not likely to show himself in the Gardens again.
With her still lived her son Stephen, the potman. His payment was ten shillings
a week (with a daily allowance of three pints), and he saw to it that there was
always a loaf of bread in the room they occupied together. Stephen took things
with much philosophy; his mother would, of course, drink herself to death - what
was there astonishing in that? He himself had heart disease, and surely enough
would drop down dead one of these days; the one doom was no more to be
quarrelled with than the other. Pennyloaf came to see them at very long
intervals; what was the use of making her visits more frequent? She, too, viewed
with a certain equanimity the progress of her mother's fate. Vain every kind of
interposition; worse than imprudence to give the poor creature money or money's
worth. It could only be hoped that the end would come before very long.
    An interesting house, this in which Mrs. Candy resided. It contained in all
seven rooms, and each room was the home of a family; under the roof slept
twenty-five persons, men, women, and children; the lowest rent paid by one of
these domestic groups was four-and-sixpence. You would have enjoyed a peep into
the rear chamber on the ground floor. There dwelt a family named Hope - Mr. and
Mrs. Hope, Sarah Hope, aged fifteen, Dick Hope, aged twelve, Betsy Hope, aged
three. The father was a cripple; he and his wife occupied themselves in the
picking of rags - of course at home - and I can assure you that the atmosphere
of their abode was worthy of its aspect. Mr. Hope drank, but not desperately.
His forte was the use of language so peculiarly violent that even in Shooter's
Gardens it gained him a proud reputation. On the slightest excuse he would
threaten to brain one of his children, to disembowel another, to gouge out the
eyes of the third. He showed much ingenuity in varying the forms of menaced
punishment. Not a child in the Gardens but was constantly threatened by its
parents with a violent death; this was so familiar that it had lost its effect;
where the nurse or mother in the upper world cries, »I shall scold you!« in the
nether the phrase is, »I'll knock yer 'ed orff!« To »I shall be very angry with
you« in the one sphere, corresponds in the other, »I'll murder you!« These are
conventions - matters of no importance. But Mr. Hope was a man of individuality;
he could make his family tremble; he could bring lodgers about the door to
listen and admire his resources.
    In another room abode a mother with four children. This woman drank
moderately, but was very conscientious in despatching her three younger children
to school. True, there was just a little inconvenience in this punctuality of
hers, at all events from the youngsters' point of view, for only on the first
three days of the week had they the slightest chance of a mouthful of breakfast
before they departed. »Never mind, I'll have some dinner for you,« their parent
was wont to say. Common enough in the Board schools, this pursuit of knowledge
on an empty stomach. But then the end is so inestimable!
    Yet another home. It was tenanted by two persons only; they appeared to be
man and wife, but in the legal sense were not so, nor did they for a moment seek
to deceive their neighbours. With the female you are slightly acquainted;
christened Sukey Jollop, she first became Mrs. Jack Bartley, and now, for
courtesy's sake, was styled Mrs. Higgs. Sukey had strayed on to a downward path;
conscious of it, she abandoned herself to her taste for strong drink, and braved
out her degradation. Jealousy of Clem Peckover was the first cause of discord
between her and Jack Bartley; a robust young woman, she finally sent Jack about
his business by literal force of arms, and entered into an alliance with Ned
Higgs, a notorious swashbuckler, the captain of a gang of young ruffians who at
this date were giving much trouble to the Clerkenwell police. Their speciality
was the skilful use, as an offensive weapon, of a stout leathern belt heavily
buckled; Mr. Higgs boasted that with one stroke of his belt he could, if it
seemed good to him, kill his man, but the fitting opportunity for this display
of prowess had not yet offered. ...
    Now it happened that, at the time of her making Jane Snowdon's acquaintance,
Miss Lant was particularly interested in Shooter's Gardens and the immediate
vicinity. She had associated herself with certain ladies who undertook the
control of a soup-kitchen in the neighbourhood, and as the winter advanced she
engaged Jane in this work of charity. It was a good means, as Michael Snowdon
agreed, of enabling the girl to form acquaintances among the very poorest, those
whom she hoped to serve effectively - not with aid of money alone, but by her
personal influence. And I think it will be worth while to dwell a little on the
story of this same soup-kitchen; it is significant, and shall take the place of
abstract comment on Miss Lant's philanthropic enterprises.
    The kitchen had been doing successful work for some years; the society which
established it entrusted its practical conduct to very practical people, a man
and wife who were themselves of the nether world, and knew the ways thereof. The
stock which formed the basis of the soup was wholesome and nutritious; the peas
were of excellent quality; twopence a quart was the price at which this fluid
could be purchased (one penny if a ticket from a member of the committee were
presented), and sometimes as much as five hundred quarts would be sold in a day.
Satisfactory enough this. When the people came with complaints, saying that they
were tired of this particular soup, and would like another kind for a change,
Mr. and Mrs. Batterby, with perfect understanding of the situation, bade their
customers »take it or leave it - an' none o' your cheek here, or you won't get
nothing at all!« The result was much good-humour all round.
    But the present year saw a change in the constitution of the committee: two
or three philanthropic ladies of great conscientiousness began to inquire busily
into the working of the soup-kitchen, and they soon found reason to be
altogether dissatisfied with Mr. and Mrs. Batterby. No, no; these managers were
of too coarse a type; they spoke grossly; what possibility of their exerting a
humanising influence on the people to whom they dispensed soup? Soup and
refinement must be disseminated at one and the same time, over the same counter.
Mr. and Mrs. Batterby were dismissed, and quite a new order of things began. Not
only were the ladies zealous for a high ideal in the matter of
soup-distributing, they also aimed at practical economy in the use of funds.
Having engaged a cook after their own hearts, and acting upon the advice of
competent physiologists, they proceeded to make a stock out of sheep's and
bullocks' heads; moreover, they ordered their peas from the City, thus getting
them at two shillings a sack less than the price formerly paid by the Batterbys
to a dealer in Clerkenwell. But, alas! these things could not be done secretly;
the story leaked out; Shooter's Gardens and vicinity broke into the most excited
feeling. I need not tell you that the nether world will consume - when others
supply it - nothing but the very finest quality of food, that the heads of sheep
and bullocks are peculiarly offensive to its stomach, that a saving effected on
sacks of peas outrages its dearest sensibilities. What was the result? Shooter's
Gardens, convinced of the fraud practised upon them, nobly brought back their
quarts of soup to the kitchen, and with proud independence of language demanded
to have their money returned. On being met with a refusal, they - what think
you? - emptied the soup on to the floor, and went away with heads exalted.
    Vast was the indignation of Miss Lant and the other ladies. »This is their
gratitude!« Now if you or I had been there, what an opportunity for easing our
minds! »Gratitude, mesdames? You have entered upon this work with expectation of
gratitude? - And can you not perceive that these people of Shooter's Gardens are
poor, besotted, disease-struck creatures, of whom - in the mass - scarcely a
human quality is to be expected? Have you still to learn what this nether world
has been made by those who belong to the sphere above it? - Gratitude, quotha? -
Nay, do you be grateful that these hapless, half-starved women do not turn and
rend you. At present they satisfy themselves with insolence. Take it silently,
you who at all events hold some count of their dire state; and endeavour to feed
them without arousing their animosity!«
    Well, the kitchen threatened to be a failure. It turned out that the cheaper
peas were, in fact, of inferior quality, and the ladies hastened to go back to
the dealer in Clerkenwell. This was something, but now came a new trouble; the
complaint with which Mr. and Mrs. Batterby had known so well how to deal revived
in view of the concessions made by the new managers. Shooter's Gardens would
have no more peas; let some other vegetable be used. Again the point was
conceded; a trial was made of barley soup. Shooter's Gardens came, looked,
smelt, and shook their heads. »It don't look nice,« was their comment; they
would none of it.
    For two or three weeks, just at this crisis in the kitchen's fate, Jane
Snowdon attended with Miss Lant to help in the dispensing of the decoction. Jane
was made very nervous by the disturbances that went on, but she was able to
review the matter at issue in a far more fruitful way than Miss Lant and the
other ladies. Her opinion was not asked, however. In the homely grey dress, with
her modest, retiring manner, her gentle, diffident countenance, she was taken by
the customers for a paid servant, and if ever it happened that she could not
supply a can of soup quickly enough sharp words reached her ear. »Now then, you
gyurl there! Are you goin' to keep me all d'y? I've got something else to do but
stand 'ere.« And Jane, by her timid hastening, confirmed the original
impression, with the result that she was treated yet more unceremoniously next
time. Of all forms of insolence there is none more flagrant than that of the
degraded poor receiving charity which they have come to regard as a right.
    Jane did speak at length. Miss Lant had called to see her in Hanover Street;
seated quietly in her own parlour, with Michael Snowdon to approve - with him
she had already discussed the matter - Jane ventured softly to compare the
present state of things and that of former winters, as described to her by
various people.
    »Wasn't it rather a pity,« she suggested, »that the old people were sent
away?«
    »You think so?« returned Miss Lant, with the air of one to whom a novel
thought is presented. »You really think so, Miss Snowdon?«
    »They got on so well with everybody,« Jane continued. »And don't you think
it's better, Miss Lant, for everybody to feel satisfied?«
    »But really, Mr. Batterby used to speak so very harshly. He destroyed their
self-respect.«
    »I don't think they minded it,« said Jane, with simple good faith. »And I'm
always hearing them wish he was back, instead of the new managers.«
    »I think we shall have to consider this,« remarked the lady, thoughtfully.
    Considered it was, and with the result that the Batterbys before long found
themselves in their old position, uproariously welcomed by Shooter's Gardens. In
a few weeks the soup was once more concocted of familiar ingredients, and
customers, as often as they grumbled, had the pleasure of being rebuked in their
native tongue.
    It was with anything but a cheerful heart that Jane went through this
initiation into the philanthropic life. Her brief period of joy and confidence
was followed by a return of anxiety, which no resolve could suppress. It was not
only that the ideals to which she strove to form herself made no genuine appeal
to her nature; the imperative hunger of her heart remained unsatisfied. At
first, when the assurance received from Michael began to lose a little of its
sustaining force, she could say to herself, »Patience, patience; be faithful, be
trustful, and your reward will soon come.« Nor would patience have failed her
had but the current of life flowed on in the old way. It was the introduction of
new and disturbing things that proved so great a test of fortitude. Those two
successive absences of Sidney on the appointed evening were strangely unlike
him, but perhaps could be explained by the unsettlement of his removal; his
manner when at length he did come proved that the change in himself was still
proceeding. Moreover, the change affected Michael, who manifested increase of
mental trouble at the same time that he yielded more and more to physical
infirmity.
    The letter which Sidney wrote after receiving Joseph Snowdon's confidential
communications was despatched two days later. He expressed himself in carefully
chosen words, but the purport of the letter was to make known that he no longer
thought of Jane save as a friend; that the change in her position had compelled
him to take another view of his relations to her than that he had confided to
Michael at Danbury. Most fortunately - he added - no utterance of his feelings
had ever escaped him to Jane herself, and henceforth he should be still more
careful to avoid any suggestion of more than brotherly interest. In very deed
nothing was altered; he was still her steadfast friend, and would always aid her
to his utmost in the work of her life.
    That Sidney could send this letter, after keeping it in reserve for a couple
of days, proved how profoundly his instincts were revolted by the difficulties
and the ambiguity of his position. It had been bad enough when only his own
conscience was in play; the dialogue with Joseph, following upon Bessie Byass's
indiscretion, threw him wholly off his balance, and he could give no weight to
any consideration but the necessity of recovering self-respect. Even the
sophistry of that repeated statement that he had never approached Jane as a
lover did not trouble him in face of the injury to his pride. Every word of
Joseph Snowdon's transparently artful hints was a sting to his sensitiveness;
the sum excited him to loathing. It was as though the corner of a curtain had
been raised, giving him a glimpse of all the vile greed, the base machination,
hovering about this fortune that Jane was to inherit. Of Scawthorne he knew
nothing, but his recollection of the Peckovers was vivid enough to suggest what
part Mrs. Joseph Snowdon was playing in the present intrigues, and he felt
convinced that in the background were other beasts of prey, watching with keen,
envious eyes. The sudden revelation was a shock from which he would not soon
recover; he seemed to himself to be in a degree contaminated; he questioned his
most secret thoughts again and again, recognising with torment the fears which
had already bidden him draw back; he desired to purify himself by some
unmistakable action.
    That which happened he had anticipated. On receipt of the letter Michael
came to see him; he found the old man waiting in front of the house when he
returned to Red Lion Street after his work. The conversation that followed was a
severe test of Sidney's resolve. Had Michael disclosed the fact of his private
understanding with Jane, Sidney would probably have yielded; but the old man
gave no hint of what he had done - partly because he found it difficult to make
the admission, partly in consequence of an indecision in his own mind with
regard to the very point at issue. Though agitated by the consciousness of
suffering in store for Jane, his thoughts disturbed by the derangement of a part
of his plan, he did not feel that Sidney's change of mind gravely affected the
plan itself. Age had cooled his blood; enthusiasm had made personal interests of
comparatively small account to him; he recognised his granddaughter's feeling,
but could not appreciate its intensity, its surpreme significance. When Kirkwood
made a show of explaining himself, saying that he shrank from that form of
responsibility, that such a marriage suggested to him many and insuperable
embarrassments, Michael began to reflect that perchance this was the just view.
With household and family cares, could Jane devote herself to the great work
after the manner of his ideal? Had he not been tempted by his friendship for
Sidney to introduce into his scheme what was really an incompatible element? Was
it not decidedly, infinitely better that Jane should be unmarried?
    Michael had taken the last step in that process of dehumanisation which
threatens idealists of his type. He had reached at length the pass of those
frenzied votaries of a supernatural creed who exact from their disciples the
sacrifice of every human piety. Returning home, he murmured to himself again and
again, »She must not marry. She must overcome this desire of a happiness such as
ordinary women may enjoy. For my sake, and for the sake of her suffering
fellow-creatures, Jane must win this victory over herself.«
    He purposed speaking to her, but put it off from day to day. Sidney paid his
visits as usual, and tried desperately to behave as though he had no trouble.
Could he have divined why it was that Michael had ended by accepting his vague
pretences with apparent calm, indignation, wrath, would have possessed him; he
believed, however, that the old man out of kindness subdued what he really felt.
Sidney's state was pitiable. He knew not whether he more shrank from the thought
of being infected with Joseph Snowdon's baseness or despised himself for his
attitude to Jane. Despicable entirely had been his explanations to Michael, but
how could he make them more sincere? To tell the whole truth, to reveal Joseph's
tactics would be equivalent to taking a part in the dirty contest; Michael would
probably do him justice, but who could say how far Joseph's machinations were
becoming effectual? The slightest tinct of uncertainty in the old man's thought,
and he, Kirkwood, became a plotter, like the others, meeting mine with
countermine.
    »There will be no possibility of perfect faith between men until there is no
such thing as money! H'm, and when is that likely to come to pass?«
    Thus he epigrammatised to himself one evening, savagely enough, as with head
bent forward he plodded to Red Lion Street. Some one addressed him; he looked up
and saw Jane. Seemingly it was a chance meeting, but she put a question at once
almost as though she had been waiting for him. »Have you seen Pennyloaf lately,
Mr. Kirkwood?«
    Pennyloaf? The name suggested Bob Hewett, who again suggested John Hewett,
and so Sidney fell upon thoughts of some one who two days ago had found a refuge
in John's home. To Michael he had said nothing of what he knew concerning Clara;
a fresh occasion of uneasy thought. Bob Hewett - so John said - had no knowledge
of his sister's situation, otherwise Pennyloaf might have come to know about it,
and in that case, perchance, Jane herself. Why not? Into what a wretched muddle
of concealments and inconsistencies and insincerities had he fallen!
    »It's far too long since I saw her,« he replied, in that softened tone which
he found it impossible to avoid when his eyes met Jane's.
    She was on her way home from the soup-kitchen, where certain occupations had
kept her much later than usual; this, however, was far out of her way, and
Sidney remarked on the fact, perversely, when she had offered this explanation
of her meeting him. Jane did not reply. They walked on together, towards
Islington.
    »Are you going to help at that place all the winter?« he inquired.
    »Yes; I think so.«
    If he had spoken his thought, he would have railed against the soup-kitchen
and all that was connected with it. So far had he got in his revolt against
circumstances; Jane's mission was hateful to him; he could not bear to think of
her handing soup over a counter to ragged wretches.
    »You're nothing like as cheerful as you used to be,« he said, suddenly, and
all but roughly. »Why is it?«
    What a question! Jane reddened as she tried to look at him with a smile; no
words would come to her tongue.
    »Do you go anywhere else, besides to - to that place?«
    Not often. She had accompanied Miss Lant on a visit to some people in
Shooter's Gardens.
    Sidney bent his brows. A nice spot, Shooter's Gardens.
    »The houses are going to be pulled down, I'm glad to say,« continued Jane.
»Miss Lant thinks it'll be a good opportunity for helping a few of the families
into better lodgings. We're going to buy furniture for them - so many have as
good as none at all, you know. It'll be a good start for them, won't it?«
    Sidney nodded. He was thinking of another family who already owed their
furniture to Jane's beneficence, though they did not know it.
    »Mind you don't throw away kindness on worthless people,« he said presently.
    »We can only do our best, and hope they'll keep comfortable for their own
sakes.«
    »Yes, yes. Well, I'll say good-night to you here. Go home and rest; you look
tired.«
    He no longer called her by her name. Tearing himself away, with a last look,
he raged inwardly that so sweet and gentle a creature should be condemned to
such a waste of her young life.
    Jane had obtained what she came for. At times the longing to see him grew
insupportable, and this evening she had yielded to it, going out of her way in
the hope of encountering him as he came from work. He spoke very strangely. What
did it all mean, and when would this winter of suspense give sign of vanishing
before sunlight?
 

                                  Chapter XXIX

                                    Phantoms

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were now established in rooms in Burton Crescent,
which is not far from King's Cross. Joseph had urged that Clerkenwell Close was
scarcely a suitable quarter for a man of his standing, and, though with
difficulty, he had achieved thus much deliverance. Of Clem he could not get rid
- just yet; but it was something to escape Mrs. Peckover's superintendence. Clem
herself favoured the removal, naturally for private reasons. Thus far working in
alliance with her shrewd mother, she was now forming independent projects. Mrs.
Peckover's zeal was assuredly not disinterested, and why, Clem mused with
herself, should the fruits of strategy be shared? Her husband's father could
not, she saw every reason to believe, be much longer for this world. How his
property was to be divided she had no means of discovering; Joseph professed to
have no accurate information, but as a matter of course he was deceiving her.
Should he inherit a considerable sum, it was more than probable he would think
of again quitting his native land - and without encumbrances. That movement must
somehow be guarded against; how, it was difficult as yet to determine. In the
next place, Jane was sure to take a large share of the fortune. To that Clem
strongly objected, both on abstract grounds and because she regarded Jane with a
savage hatred - a hatred which had its roots in the time of Jane's childhood,
and which had grown in proportion as the girl reaped happiness from life. The
necessity of cloaking this sentiment had not, you may be sure, tended to
mitigate it. Joseph said that there was no longer any fear of a speedy marriage
between Jane and Kirkwood, but that such a marriage would come off some day, -
if not prevented - Clem held to be a matter of certainty. Sidney Kirkwood was a
wide-awake young man; of course he had his satisfactory reasons for delay. Now
Clem's hatred of Sidney was, from of old, only less than that wherewith she
regarded Jane. To frustrate the hopes of that couple would be a gratification
worth a good deal of risk.
    She heard nothing of what had befallen Clara Hewett until the latter's
return home, and then not from her husband. Joseph and Scawthorne, foiled by
that event in an ingenious scheme which you have doubtless understood (they
little knowing how easily the severance between Jane and Kirkwood might be
effected), agreed that it was well to get Clara restored to her father's
household - for, though it seemed unlikely, it was not impossible that she might
in one way or another aid their schemes - and on that account the anonymous
letter was despatched which informed John Hewett of his daughter's position.
Between John and Snowdon, now that they stood in the relations of master and
servant, there was naturally no longer familiar intercourse, and, in begging
leave of absence for his journey northwards, Hewett only said that a near
relative had met with a bad accident. But it would be easy, Joseph decided, to
win the man's confidence again, and thus be apprised of all that went on. With
Clem he kept silence on the subject; not improbably she would learn sooner or
later what had happened, and indeed, as things now stood, it did not matter
much; but on principle he excluded her as much as possible from his confidence.
He knew she hated him, and he was not backward in returning the sentiment,
though constantly affecting a cheerful friendliness in his manner to her; after
all, their union was but temporary. In Hanover Street he was also silent
regarding the Hewetts, for there his rôle was that of a good, simple-minded
fellow, incapable of intrigue, living for the domestic affections. If Kirkwood
chose to speak to Michael or Jane of the matter, well, one way or another, that
would advance things a stage, and there was nothing for it but to watch the
progress.
    Alone all through the day, and very often in the evening Clem was not at all
disposed to occupy herself in domestic activity. The lodgings were taken
furnished, and a bondmaid of the house did such work as was indispensable. Dirt
and disorder were matters of indifference to the pair, who represented therein
the large class occupying cheap London lodgings; an impure atmosphere,
surroundings more or less squalid, constant bickering with the landlady, coarse
usage of the servant - these things Clem understood as necessaries of
independent life, and it would have cost her much discomfort had she been
required to live in a more civilised manner. Her ambitions were essentially
gross. In the way of social advancement she appreciated nothing but an increased
power of spending money, and consequently of asserting herself over others. She
had no desire whatever to enter a higher class than that in which she was born;
to be of importance in her familiar circle was the most she aimed at. In
visiting the theatre, she did not so much care to occupy a superior place -
indeed, such a position made her ill at ease - as to astonish her neighbours in
the pit by a lavish style of costume, by loud remarks implying a free command of
cash, by purchase between the acts of something expensive to eat or drink.
Needless to say that she never read anything but police news; in the fiction of
her world she found no charm, so sluggishly unimaginative was her nature. Till
of late she had either abandoned herself all day long to a brutal indolence,
eating rather too much, and finding quite sufficient occupation for her slow
brain in the thought of how pleasant it was not to be obliged to work, and
occasionally in reviewing the chances that she might eventually have plenty of
money and no Joseph Snowdon as a restraint upon her; or else, her physical
robustness demanding exercise, she walked considerable distances about the
localities she knew, calling now and then upon an acquaintance.
    Till of late; but a change had come upon her life. It was now seldom that
she kept the house all day; when within-doors she was restless, quarrelsome.
Joseph became aware with surprise that she no longer tried to conceal her enmity
against him; on a slight provocation she broke into a fierceness which reminded
him of the day when he undeceived her as to his position, and her look at such
times was murderous. It might come, he imagined, of her being released from the
prudent control of her mother. However, again a few weeks and things were
somewhat improved; she eyed him like a wild beast, but was less frequent in her
outbreaks. Here, too, it might be that Mrs. Peckover's influence was at work,
for Clara spent at least four evenings of the seven away from home, and always
said she had been at the Close. As indifferent as it was possible to be, Joseph
made no attempt to restrain her independence; indeed he was glad to have her out
of his way.
    We must follow her on one of these evenings os ensibly passed at Mrs.
Peckover's - no, not follow, but discover her at nine o'clock.
    In Old Street, not far from Shoreditch Station, was a shabby little place of
refreshment, kept by an Italian; pastry and sweet-stuff filled the window; at
the back of the shop, through a doorway on each side of which was looped a pink
curtain, a room, furnished with three marble-topped tables, invited those who
wished to eat and drink more at ease than was possible before the counter.
Except on Sunday evening this room was very little used, and there, on the
occasion of which I speak, Clem was sitting with Bob Hewett. They had been
having supper together - French pastry and a cup of cocoa.
    She leaned forward on her elbows, and said imperatively, »Tell Pennyloaf to
make it up with her again.«
    »Why?«
    »Because I want to know what goes on in Hanover Street. You was a fool to
send her away, and you'd ought to have told me about it before now. If they was
such friends, I suppose the girl told her lots o' things. But I expect they see
each other just the same. You don't suppose she does all you tell her?«
    »I'll bet you what you like she does!« cried Bob.
    Clem glared at him.
    »Oh, you an' your Pennyloaf! Likely she tells you the truth. You're so fond
of each other, ain't you! Tells you everything, does she? - and the way you
treat her!«
    »Who's always at me to make me treat her worse still?« Bob retorted half
angrily, half in expostulation.
    »Well, and so I am, 'cause I hate the name of her! I'd like to hear as you
starve her and her brats half to death. How much money did you give her last
week? Now you just tell me the truth. How much was it?«
    »How can I remember? Three or four bob, I s'pose.«
    »Three or four bob!« she repeated, snarling. »Give her one, and make her
live all the week on it. Wear her down! Make her pawn all she has, and go cold!«
    Her cheeks were on fire; her eyes started in the fury of jealousy; she set
her teeth together.
    »I'd better do for her altogether,« said Bob, with an evil grin.
    Clem looked at him, without speaking; kept her gaze on him; then she said in
a thick voice:
    »There's many a true word said in joke.«
    Bob moved uncomfortably. There was a brief silence, then the other, putting
her face nearer his:
    »Not just yet. I want to use her to get all I can about that girl and her
old beast of a grandfather. Mind you do as I tell you. Pennyloaf's to have her
back again, and she's to make her talk, and you're to get all you can from
Pennyloaf - understand?«
    There came noises from the shop. Three work-girls had just entered and were
buying cakes, which they began to eat at the counter. They were loud in gossip
and laughter, and their voices rang like brass against brass. Clem amused
herself in listening to them for a few minutes; then she became absent, moving a
finger round and round on her plate. A disagreeable flush still lingered under
her eyes.
    »Have you told her about Clara?«
    »Told who?«
    »Who? Pennyloaf, of course.«
    »No, I haven't. Why should I?«
    »Oh, you're such a affectionate couple! See, you're only to give her two
shillin's next week. Let her go hungry this nice weather.«
    »She won't do that if Jane Snowdon comes back, so there you're out of it!«
    Clem bit her lip.
    »What's the odds? Make it up with a hit in the mouth now and then.«
    »What do you expect to know from that girl?« inquired Bob.
    »Lots o' things. I want to know what the old bloke's goin' to do with his
money, don't I? And I want to know what my beast of a 'husband's got out of him.
And I want to know what that feller Kirkwood's goin' to do. He'd ought to marry
your sister by rights.«
    »Not much fear of that now.«
    »Trust him! He'll stick where there's money. See, Bob; if that Jane was to
kick the bucket, do you think the old bloke 'ud leave it all to Jo?«
    »How can I tell?«
    »Well, look here. Supposin' he died an' left most to her; an' then supposin'
she was to go off; would Jo have all her tin?«
    »Course he would.«
    Clem mused, eating her lower lip.
    »But supposin' Jo was to go off first, after the old bloke? Should I have
all he left?«
    »I think so, but I'm not sure.«
    »You think so? And then should I have all hers? If she had a accident, you
know.«
    »I suppose you would. But then that's only if they didn't make wills, and
leave it away from you.«
    Clem started. Intent as she had been for a long time on the possibilities
hinted at, the thought of unfavourable disposition by will had never occurred to
her. She shook it away.
    »Why should they make wills? They ain't old enough for that, neither of
them.«
    »And you might as well say they ain't old enough to be likely to take their
hook, either,« suggested Bob, with a certain uneasiness in his tone.
    Clem looked about her, as if her fierce eyes sought something. Her brows
twitched a little. She glanced at Bob, but he did not meet her look. »I don't
care so much about the money,« she said, in a lower and altered voice. »I'd be
content with a bit of it, if only I could get rid of him at the same time.«
    Bob looked gloomy.
    »Well, it's no use talking,« he muttered.
    »It's all your fault.«
    »How do you make that out? It was you quarrelled first.«
    »You're a liar!«
    »Oh, there's no talking to you!«
    He shuffled with his feet, then rose.
    »Where can I see you on Wednesday morning?« asked Clem. »I want to hear
about that girl.«
    »It can't be Wednesday morning. I tell you I shall be getting the sack next
thing; they've promised it. Two days last week I wasn't't at the shop, and one day
this. It can't go on.«
    His companion retorted angrily, and for five minutes they stood in
embittered colloquy. It ended in Bob's turning away and going out into the
street. Clem followed, and they walked westwards in silence. Reaching City Road,
and crossing to the corner where lowers St. Luke's Hospital - grim abode of the
insane, here in the midst of London's squalor and uproar - they halted to take
leave. The last words they exchanged, after making an appointment, were of
brutal violence.
    This was two days after Clara Hewett's arrival in London, and the same fog
still hung about the streets, allowing little to be seen save the blurred
glimmer of gas. Bob sauntered through it, his hands in his pockets, observant of
nothing; now and then a word escaped his lips, generally an oath. Out of Old
Street he turned into Whitecross Street, whence by black and all but deserted
ways - Barbican and Long Lane - he emerged into West Smithfield. An alley in the
shadow of Bartholomew's Hospital brought him to a certain house: just as he was
about to knock at the door it opened, and Jack Bartley appeared on the
threshold. They exchanged a »Hollo!« of surprise, and after a whispered word or
two on the pavement, went in. They mounted the stairs to a bedroom which Jack
occupied. When the door was closed:
    »Bill's got copped!« whispered Bartley.
    »Copped? Any of it on him?«
    »Only the half-crown as he was pitchin', thank God! They let him go again
after he'd been to the station. It was a conductor. I'd never try them blokes
myself; they're too downy.«
    »Let's have a look at 'em,« said Bob, after musing. »I thought myself as
they wasn't't quite the reg'lar.«
    As he spoke he softly turned the key in the door. Jack then put his arm up
the chimney and brought down a small tin box, soot-blackened; he opened it, and
showed about a dozen pieces of money - in appearance half-crowns and florins.
One of the commonest of offences against the law in London, this to which our
young friends were not unsuccessfully directing their attention; one of the
easiest to commit, moreover, for a man with Bob's craft at his finger-ends. A
mere question of a mould and a pewter-pot, if one be content with the simpler
branches of the industry. The snyde or the queer is the technical name by which
such products are known. Distribution is, of course, the main difficulty; it
necessitates mutual trust between various confederates. Bob Hewett still kept to
his daily work, but gradually he was being drawn into alliance with an
increasing number of men who scorned the yoke of a recognised occupation. His
face, his clothing, his speech, all told whither he was tending, had one but the
experience necessary for the noting of such points. Bob did not find his life
particularly pleasant; he was in perpetual fear; many a time he said to himself
that he would turn back. Impossible to do so; for a thousand reasons impossible;
yet he still believed that the choice lay with him.
    His colloquy with Jack only lasted a few minutes, then he walked homewards,
crossing the Metropolitan Meat-market, going up St. John's Lane, beneath St.
John's Arch, thence to Rosoman Street and Merlin Place, where at present he
lived. All the way he pondered Clem's words. Already their import had become
familiar enough to lose that first terribleness. Of course he should never take
up the proposal seriously; no, no, that was going a bit too far; but suppose
Clem's husband were really contriving this plot on his own account? Likely, very
likely; but he'd be a clever fellow if he managed such a thing in a way that did
not immediately subject him to suspicion. How could it be done? No harm in
thinking over an affair of that kind when you have no intention of being drawn
into it yourself. There was that man at Peckham who poisoned his sister not long
ago; he was a fool to get found out in the way he did; he might have -
    The room in which he found Pennyloaf sitting was so full of fog that the
lamp seemed very dim; the fire had all but died out. One of the children lay
asleep; the other Pennyloaf was nursing, for it had a bad cough and looked much
like a wax doll that has gone through a great deal of ill-usage. A few more
weeks and Pennyloaf would be again a mother; she felt very miserable as often as
she thought of it, and Bob had several times spoken with harsh impatience on the
subject.
    At present he was in no mood for conversation; to Pennyloaf's remarks and
questions he gave not the slightest heed, but in a few minutes tumbled himself
into bed.
    »Get that light put out,« he exclaimed, after lying still for a while.
    Pennyloaf said she was uneasy about the child; its cough seemed to be
better, but it moved about restlessly and showed no sign of getting to sleep.
    »Give it some of the mixture, then. Be sharp and put the light out.«
    Pennyloaf obeyed the second injunction, and she too lay down, keeping the
child in her arms; of the mixture she was afraid, for a few days since the child
of a neighbour had died in consequence of an overdose of this same anodyne. For
a long time there was silence in the room. Outside, voices kept sounding with
that peculiar muffled distinctness which they have on a night of dense fog, when
there is little or no wheel-traffic to make the wonted rumbling.
    »Are y'asleep?« Bob asked suddenly.
    »No.«
    »There's something I wanted to tell you. You can have Jane Snowdon here
again, if you like.«
    »I can? Really?«
    »You may as well make use of her. That'll do; shut up and go to sleep.«
    In the morning Pennyloaf was obliged to ask for money; she wished to take
the child to the hospital again, and as the weather was very bad she would have
to pay an omnibus fare. Bob growled at the demand, as was nowadays his custom.
Since he had found a way of keeping his own pocket tolerably well supplied from
time to time, he was becoming so penurious at home that Pennyloaf had to beg for
what she needed copper by copper. Excepting breakfast, he seldom took a meal
with her. The easy good-nature which in the beginning made him an indulgent
husband had turned in other directions since his marriage was grown a weariness
to him. He did not, in truth, spend much upon himself, but in his leisure time
was always surrounded by companions whom he had a pleasure in treating with the
generosity of the public-house. A word of flattery was always sure of payment if
Bob had a coin in his pocket. Ever hungry for admiration, for prominence, he
found new opportunities of gratifying his taste now that he had a resource when
his wages ran out. So far from becoming freer-handed again with his wife and
children, he grudged every coin that he was obliged to expend on them.
Pennyloaf's submissiveness encouraged him in this habit; where other wives would
have made a row, she yielded at once to his grumbling and made shift with the
paltriest allowance. You should have seen the kind of diet on which she
habitually lived. Like all the women of her class, utterly ignorant and helpless
in the matter of preparing food, she abandoned the attempt to cook anything, and
expended her few pence daily on whatever happened to tempt her in a shop, when
meal-time came round. In the present state of her health she often suffered from
a morbid appetite and fed on things of incredible unwholesomeness. Thus, there
was a kind of cake exposed in a window in Rosoman Street, two layers of pastry
with half an inch of something like very coarse mincemeat between; it cost a
halfpenny a square, and not seldom she ate four, or even six, of these squares,
as heavy as lead, making this her dinner. A cookshop within her range exhibited
at midday great dough-puddings, kept hot by jets of steam that came up through
the zinc on which they lay; this food was cheap and satisfying, and Pennyloaf
often regaled both herself and the children on thick slabs of it. Pease-pudding
also attracted her; she fetched it from the pork-butcher's in a little basin,
which enabled her to bring away at the same time a spoonful or two of gravy from
the joints of which she was not rich enough to purchase a cut. Her drink was
tea; she had the pot on the table all day, and kept adding hot water. Treacle
she purchased now and then, but only as a treat when her dinner had cost even
less than usual; she did not venture to buy more than a couple of ounces at a
time, knowing by experience that she could not resist this form of temptation,
and must eat and eat till all was finished.
    Bob flung sixpence on the table. He was ashamed of himself - you will not
understand him if you fail to recognise that - but the shame only served to make
him fret under his bondage. Was he going to be tied to Pennyloaf all his life,
with a family constantly increasing? Practically he had already made a resolve
to be free before very long; the way was not quite clear to him as yet. But he
went to work still brooding over Clem's words of the night before.
    Pennyloaf let the fire go out, locked the elder child into the room for
safety against accidents, and set forth for the hospital. It rained heavily, and
the wind rendered her umbrella useless. She had to stand for a long time at a
street-corner before the omnibus came; the water soaked into her leaky shoes,
but that didn't matter; it was the child on whose account she was anxious.
Having reached her destination, she sat for a long time waiting her turn among
the numerous out-patients. Just as the opportunity for passing into the doctor's
room arrived, a movement in the bundle she held made her look closely at the
child's face; at that instant it had ceased to live.
    The medical man behaved kindly to her, but she gave way to no outburst of
grief; with tearless eyes she stared at the unmoving body in a sort of
astonishment. The questions addressed to her she could not answer with any
intelligence; several times she asked stupidly, »Is she really dead?« There was
nothing to wonder at, however; the doctor glanced at the paper on which he had
written prescriptions twice or thrice during the past few weeks, and found the
event natural enough. ...
    Towards the close of the afternoon Pennyloaf was in Hanover Street. She
wished to see Jane Snowdon, but had a fear of going up to the door and knocking.
Jane might not be at home, and, if she were, Pennyloaf did not know in what
words to explain her coming and say what had happened. She was in a dazed,
heavy, tongue-tied state; indeed she did not clearly remember how she had come
thus far, or what she had done since leaving the hospital at midday. However,
her steps drew nearer to the house, and at last she had raised the knocker -
just raised it and let it fall.
    Mrs. Byass opened; she did not know Pennyloaf by sight. The latter tried to
say something, but only stammered a meaningless sound; thereupon Bessie
concluded she was a beggar, and with a shake of the head shut the door upon her.
    Pennyloaf turned away in confusion and dull misery. She walked to the end of
the street and stood there. On leaving home she had forgotten her umbrella, and
now it was raining heavily again. Of a sudden her need became powerful enough to
overcome all obstacles; she knew that she must see Jane Snowdon, that she could
not go home till she had done so. Jane was the only friend she had; the only
creature who would speak the kind of words to her for which she longed.
    Again the knocker fell, and again Mrs. Byass appeared.
    »What do you want? I've got nothing for you,« she cried impatiently.
    »I want to see Miss Snowdon, please, mum - Miss Snowdon, please -«
    »Miss Snowdon? Then why didn't you say so? Step inside.«
    A few moments and Jane came running downstairs.
    »Pennyloaf!«
    Ah! that was the voice that did good. How it comforted and blessed, after
the hospital, and the miserable room in which the dead child was left lying, and
the rainy street!
 

                                  Chapter XXX

                               On a Barren Shore

About this time Mr. Scawthorne received one morning a letter which, though not
unexpected, caused him some annoyance, and even anxiety. It was signed C.V., and
made brief request for an interview on the evening of the next day at Waterloo
Station.
    The room in which our friend sat at breakfast was of such very modest
appearance that it seemed to argue but poor remuneration for the services
rendered by him in the office of Messrs. Percival &amp; Peel. It was a parlour
on the second floor of a lodging-house in Chelsea; Scawthorne's graceful person
and professional bearing were out of place amid the trivial appointments. He
lived here for the simple reason that in order to enjoy a few of the luxuries of
civilisation he had to spend as little as possible on bare necessaries. His
habits away from home were those of a man to whom a few pounds are no serious
consideration; his pleasant dinner at the restaurant, his occasional stall at a
theatre, his easy acquaintance with easy livers of various kinds, had become
indispensable to him, and as a matter of course his expenditure increased
although his income kept at the same figure. That figure was not contemptible,
regard had to the path by which he had come thus far; Mr. Percival esteemed his
abilities highly, and behaved to him with generosity. Ten years ago Scawthorne
would have lost his senses with joy at the prospect of such a salary; to-day he
found it miserably insufficient to the demands he made upon life. Paltry debts
harassed him; inabilities fretted his temperament and his pride; it irked him to
have no better abode than this musty corner to which he could never invite an
acquaintance. And then, notwithstanding his mental endowments, his keen social
sense, his native tact, in all London not one refined home was open to him, not
one domestic circle of educated people could he approach and find a welcome.
    Scawthorne was passing out of the stage when a man seeks only the
gratification of his propensities; he began to focus his outlook upon the world,
and to feel the significance of maturity. The double existence he was compelled
to lead - that of a laborious and clear-brained man of business in office hours,
that of a hungry rascal in the time which was his own - not only impressed him
with a sense of danger, but made him profoundly dissatisfied with the unreality
of what he called his enjoyments. What, he asked himself, had condemned him to
this kind of career? Simply the weight under which he started, his poor origin,
his miserable youth. However carefully regulated his private life had been, his
position to-day could not have been other than it was; no degree of purity would
have opened to him the door of a civilised house. Suppose he had wished to
marry; where, pray, was he to find his wife? A barmaid? Why, yes, other men of
his standing wedded barmaids and girls from the houses of business, and so on;
but they had neither his tastes nor his brains. Never had it been his lot to
exchange a word with an educated woman - save in the office on rare occasions.
There is such a thing as self-martyrdom in the cause of personal integrity;
another man might have said to himself, »Providence forbids me the gratification
of my higher instincts, and I must be content to live a life of barrenness, that
I may at least be above reproach.« True, but Scawthorne happened not to be so
made. He was of the rebels of the earth. Formerly he revolted because he could
not indulge his senses to their full; at present his ideal was changed, and the
past burdened him.
    Yesterday he had had an interview with old Mr. Percival which, for the first
time in his life, opened to him a prospect of the only kind of advancement
conformable with his higher needs. The firm of Percival &amp; Peel was, in
truth, Percival &amp; Son, Mr. Peel having been dead for many years; and the son
in question lacked a good deal of being the capable lawyer whose exertions could
supplement the failing energy of the senior partner. Mr. Percival having
pondered the matter for some time, now proposed that Scawthorne should qualify
himself for admission as a solicitor (the circumstances required his being under
articles for three years only), and then, if everything were still favourable,
accept a junior partnership in the firm. Such an offer was a testimony of the
high regard in which Scawthorne was held by his employer; it stirred him with
hope he had never dared to entertain since his eyes were opened to the realities
of the world, and in a single day did more for the ripening of his prudence than
years would have effected had his position remained unaltered. Scawthorne
realised more distinctly what a hazardous game he had been playing.
    And here was this brief note, signed C.V. An ugly affair to look back upon,
all that connected itself with those initials. The worst of it was, that it
could not be regarded as done with. Had he anything to fear from C.V. directly?
The meeting must decide that. He felt now what a fortunate thing it was that his
elaborate plot to put an end to the engagement between Kirkwood and Jane Snowdon
had been accidentally frustrated - a plot which might have availed himself
nothing, even had it succeeded. But was he, in his abandonment of rascality in
general, to think no more of the fortune which had so long kept his imagination
uneasy? Had he not, rather, a vastly better chance of getting some of that money
into his own pocket? It really seemed as if Kirkwood - though he might be only
artful - had relinquished his claim on the girl, at all events for the present;
possibly he was an honest man, which would explain his behaviour. Michael
Snowdon could not live much longer; Jane would be the ward of the Percivals, and
certainly would be aided to a position more correspondent with her wealth. Why
should it then be impossible for him to become Jane's husband? Joseph, beyond a
doubt, could be brought to favour that arrangement, by means of a private
understanding more advantageous to him than anything he could reasonably hope
from the girl's merely remaining unmarried. This change in his relations to the
Percivals would so far improve his social claims that many of the difficulties
hitherto besieging such a scheme as this might easily be set aside. Come, come;
the atmosphere was clearing. Joseph himself, now established in a decent
business, would become less a fellow-intriguer than an ordinary friend bound to
him, in the way of the world, by mutual interests. Things must be put in order;
by some device the need of secrecy in his intercourse with Joseph must come to
an end. In fact, there remained but two hazardous points. Could the connection
between Jane and Kirkwood be brought definitely to an end. And was anything to
be feared from poor C.V.?
    Waterloo Station is a convenient rendezvous; its irregular form provides
many corners of retirement, out-of-the-way recesses where talk can be carried on
in something like privacy. To one of these secluded spots Scawthorne drew aside
with the veiled woman who met him at the entrance from Waterloo Road. So closely
was her face shrouded, that he had at first a difficulty in catching the words
she addressed to him. The noise of an engine getting up steam, the rattle of
cabs and porters' barrows, the tread and voices of a multitude of people made
fitting accompaniment to a dialogue which in every word presupposed the
corruptions and miseries of a centre of modern life.
    »Why did you send that letter to my father?« was Clara's first question.
    »Letter? What letter?«
    »Wasn't it you who let him know about me?«
    »Certainly not. How should I have known his address? When I saw the
newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries. When I heard your father
had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him. Otherwise, I should, of
course, have tried to he useful to you in some way. As it was, I supposed you
would scarcely thank me for coming forward.«
    It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to decide.
Possibly the information had come from some one else. She knew him well enough
to be assured by his tone that nothing more could be elicited from him on that
point.
    »You are quite recovered, I hope?« Scawthorne added, surveying her as she
stood in the obscurity. »In your general health?«
    He was courteous, somewhat distant.
    »I suppose I'm as well as I shall ever be,« she answered coldly. »I asked
you to meet me because I wanted to know what it was you spoke of in your last
letters. You got my answer, I suppose.«
    »Yes, I received your answer. But - in fact, it's too late. The time has
gone by; and perhaps I was a little hasty in the hopes I held out. I had partly
deceived myself.«
    »Never mind. I wish to know what it was,« she said impatiently.
    »It can't matter now. Well, there's no harm in mentioning it. Naturally you
went out of your way to suppose it was something dishonourable. Nothing of the
kind; I had an idea that you might come to terms with an Australian who was
looking out for actresses for a theatre in Melbourne - that was all. But he
wasn't't quite the man I took him for. I doubt whether it could have been made as
profitable as I thought at first.«
    »You expect me to believe that story?«
    »Not unless you like. It's some time since you put any faith in my goodwill.
The only reason I didn't speak plainly was because I felt sure that the mention
of a foreign country would excite your suspicions. You have always attributed
evil motives to me rather than good. However, this is not the time to speak of
such things. I sympathise with you - deeply. Will you tell me if I can - can
help you at all?«
    »No, you can't. I wanted to make quite sure that you were what I thought
you, that's all.«
    »I don't think, on the whole, you have any reason to complain of ill-faith
on my part. I secured you the opportunities that are so hard to find.«
    »Yes, you did. We don't owe each other anything - that's one comfort. I'll
just say that you needn't have any fear I shall trouble you in future; I know
that's what you're chiefly thinking about.«
    »You misjudge me; but that can't be helped. I wish very much it were in my
power to be of use to you.«
    »Thank you.«
    On that last note of irony they parted. True enough, in one sense, that
there remained debt on neither side. But Clara, for all the fierce ambition
which had brought her life to this point, could not divest heraelf of a woman's
instincts. That simple fact explained various inconsistencies in her behaviour
to Scawthorne since she had made herself independent of him; it explained also
why this final interview became the bitterest charge her memory preserved
against him.
    Her existence for some three weeks kept so gloomy a monotony that it was
impossible she should endure it much longer. The little room which she shared at
night with Annie and Amy was her cell throughout the day. Of necessity she had
made the acquaintance of Mrs. Eagles, but they scarcely saw more of each other
than if they had lived in different tenements on the same staircase; she had
offered to undertake a share of the housework, but her father knew that
everything of the kind was distasteful to her, and Mrs. Eagles continued to
assist Amy as hitherto. To save trouble, she came into the middle room for her
meals, at these times always keeping as much of her face as possible hidden. The
children could not overcome a repulsion, a fear, excited by her veil and the
muteness she preserved in their presence; several nights passed before little
Annie got to sleep with any comfort. Only with her father did Clara hold
converse; in the evening he always sat alone with her for an hour. She went out
perhaps every third day, after dark, stealing silently down the long staircase,
and walking rapidly until she had escaped the neighbourhood - like John Hewett
when formerly he wandered forth in search of her. Her strength was slight; after
half-an-hour's absence she came back so wearied that the ascent of stairs cost
her much suffering.
    The economy prevailing in to-day's architecture takes good care that no
depressing circumstance shall be absent from the dwellings in which the poor
find shelter. What terrible barracks, those Farringdon Road Buildings! Vast,
sheer walls, unbroken by even an attempt at ornament; row above row of windows
in the mud-coloured surface, upwards, upwards, lifeless eyes, murky openings
that tell of bareness, disorder, comfortlessness within. One is tempted to say
that Shooter's Gardens are a preferable abode. An inner courtyard, asphalted,
swept clean - looking up to the sky as from a prison. Acres of these edifices,
the tinge of grime declaring the relative dates of their erection; millions of
tons of brute brick and mortar, crushing the spirit as you gaze. Barracks, in
truth; housing for the army of industrialism, an army fighting with itself, rank
against rank, man against man, that the survivors may have whereon to feed. Pass
by in the night, and strain imagination to picture the weltering mass of human
weariness, of bestiality, of unmerited dolour, of hopeless hope, of crushed
surrender, tumbled together within those forbidding walls.
    Clara hated the place from her first hour in it. It seemed to her that the
air was poisoned with the odour of an unclean crowd. The yells of children at
play in the courtyard tortured her nerves; the regular sounds on the staircase,
day after day repeated at the same hours, incidents of the life of poverty,
irritated her sick brain and filled her with despair to think that as long as
she lived she could never hope to rise again above this world to which she was
born. Gone for ever, for ever, the promise that always gleamed before her whilst
she had youth and beauty and talent. With the one, she felt as though she had
been robbed of all three blessings; her twenty years were now a meaningless
figure; the energies of her mind could avail no more than an idiot's mummery.
For the author of her calamity she nourished no memory of hatred: her resentment
was against the fate which had cursed her existence from its beginning.
    For this she had dared everything, had made the supreme sacrifice.
Conscience had nothing to say to her, but she felt herself an outcast even among
these wretched toilers whose swarming aroused her disgust. Given the success
which had been all but in her grasp, and triumphant pride would have scored out
every misgiving as to the cost at which the victory had been won. Her pride was
unbroken; under the stress of anguish it became a scorn for goodness and
humility; but in the desolation of her future she read a punishment equal to the
daring wherewith she had aspired. Excepting her poor old father, not a living
soul that held account of her. She might live for years and years. Her father
would die, and then no smallest tribute of love or admiration would be hers for
ever. More than that; perforce she must gain her own living, and in doing so she
must expose herself to all manner of insulting wonder and pity. Was it a life
that could be lived?
    Hour after hour she sat with her face buried in her hands. She did not weep;
tears were trivial before a destiny such as this. But groans and smothered cries
often broke the silence of her solitude - cries of frenzied revolt, wordless
curses. Once she rose up suddenly, passed through the middle room, and out on to
the staircase; there a gap in the wall, guarded by iron railings breast-high,
looked down upon the courtyard. She leaned forward over the bar and measured the
distance that separated her from the ground; a ghastly height! Surely one would
not feel much after such a fall? In any case, the crashing agony of but an
instant. Had not this place tempted other people before now?
    Some one coming upstairs made her shrink back into her room. She had felt
the horrible fascination of that sheer depth, and thought of it for days,
thought of it until she dreaded to quit the tenement, lest a power distinct from
will should seize and hurl her to destruction. She knew that that must not
happen here; for all her self-absorption, she could not visit with such cruelty
the one heart that loved her. And thinking of him, she understood that her
father's tenderness was not wholly the idle thing that it had been to her at
first; her love could never equal his, had never done so in her childhood, but
she grew conscious of a soothing power in the gentle and timid devotion with
which he tended her. His appearance of an evening was something more than a
relief after the waste of hours which made her day. The rough, passionate man
made himself as quiet and sympathetic as a girl when he took his place by her.
Compared with her, his other children were as nothing to him. Impossible that
Clara should not be touched by the sense that he who had everything to forgive,
whom she had despised and abandoned, behaved now as one whose part it is to
beseech forgiveness. She became less impatient when he tried to draw her into
conversation; when he held her thin soft hand in those rude ones of his, she
knew a solace in which there was something of gratitude.
    Yet it was John who revived her misery in its worst form. Pitying her
unoccupied loneliness, he brought home one day a book that he had purchased from
a stall in Farringdon Street; it was a novel
    (with a picture on the cover which seemed designed to repel any person not
wholly without taste), and might perhaps serve the end of averting her thoughts
from their one subject. Clara viewed it contemptuously, but made a show of being
thankful, and on the next day she did glance at its pages. The story was better
than its illustration; it took a hold upon her; she read all day long. But when
she returned to herself, it was to find that she had been exasperating her
heart's malady. The book dealt with people of wealth and refinement, with the
world to which she had all her life been aspiring, and to which she might have
attained. The meanness of her surroundings became in comparison more mean, the
bitterness of her fate more bitter. You must not lose sight of the fact that
since abandoning her work-girl existence Clara had been constantly educating
herself, not only by direct study of books, but through her association with
people, her growth in experience. Where in the old days of rebellion she had
only an instinct, a divination to guide her, there was now just enough of
knowledge to give occupation to her developed intellect and taste. Far keener
was her sense of the loss she had suffered than her former longing for what she
knew only in dream. The activity of her mind received a new impulse when she
broke free from Scawthorne and began her upward struggle in independence.
Whatever books were obtainable she read greedily; she purchased numbers of plays
in the acting-editions, and studied with the utmost earnestness such parts as
she knew by repute; no actress entertained a more superb ambition, none was more
vividly conscious of power. But it was not only at stage-triumph that Clara
aimed; glorious in itself, this was also to serve her as a means of becoming
nationalised among that race of beings whom birth and breeding exalt above the
multitude. A notable illusion; pathetic to dwell upon. As a work-girl, she
nourished envious hatred of those the world taught her to call superiors; they
were then as remote and unknown to her as gods on Olympus. From her place behind
the footlights she surveyed the occupants of boxes and stalls in a changed
spirit; the distance was no longer insuperable; she heard of fortunate players
who mingled on equal terms with men and women of refinement. There, she
imagined, was her ultimate goal. »It is to them that I belong! Be my origin what
it may, I have the intelligence and the desires of one born to freedom. Nothing
in me, nothing, is akin to that gross world from which I have escaped!« So she
thought - with every drop of her heart's blood crying its source from that red
fountain of revolt whereon never yet did the upper daylight gleam! Brain and
pulses such as hers belong not to the mild breed of mortals fostered in
sunshine. But for the stroke of fate, she might have won that reception which
was in her dream, and with what self-mockery when experience had matured itself!
Never yet did true rebel, who has burst the barriers of social limitation, find
aught but ennui in the trim gardens beyond.
    When John asked if the book had given her amusement, she said that reading
made her eyes ache. He noticed that her hand felt feverish, and that the dark
mood had fallen upon her as badly as ever to-night.
    »It's just what I said,« she exclaimed with abruptness, after long refusal
to speak. »I knew your friend would never come as long as I was here.«
    John regarded her anxiously. The phrase your friend had a peculiar sound
that disturbed him. It made him aware that she had been thinking often of Sidney
Kirkwood since his name had been dismissed from their conversation. He, too, had
often turned his mind uneasily in the same direction, wondering whether he ought
to have spoken of Sidney so freely. At the time it seemed best, indeed almost
inevitable; but habit and the force of affection were changing his view of Clara
in several respects. He recognised the impossibility of her continuing to live
as now, yet it was as difficult as ever to conceive a means of aiding her.
Unavoidably he kept glancing towards Kirkwood. He knew that Sidney was no longer
a free man; he knew that, even had it been otherwise, Clara could be nothing to
him. In spite of facts, the father kept brooding on what might have been. His
own love was perdurable; how could it other than intensify when its object was
so unhappy? His hot, illogical mood all but brought about a revival of the old
resentment against Sidney.
    »I haven't seen him for a week or two,« he replied, in an embarrassed way.
    »Did he tell you he shouldn't come?«
    »No. After - we'd talked about it, you know - when you told me you didn't
mind - I just said a word or two; and he nodded, that was all.«
    She became silent. John, racked by doubts as to whether he should say more
of Sidney or still hold his peace, sat rubbing the back of one hand with the
other and looking about the room.
    »Father,« Clara resumed presently, »what became of that child at Mrs.
Peckover's, that her grandfather came and took away? Snowdon; yes, that was her
name; Jane Snowdon.«
    »You remember they went to live with somebody you used to know,« John
replied, with hesitation. »They're still in the same house.«
    »So she's grown up. Did you ever hear about that old man having a lot of
money?«
    »Why, my dear, I never heard nothing but what them Peckovers talked at the
time. But there was a son of his turned up as seemed to have some money. He
married Mrs. Peckover's daughter.«
    Clara expressed surprise.
    »A son of his? Not the girl's father?«
    »Yes; her father. I don't know nothing about his history. It's for him, or
partly for him, as I'm workin' now, Clara. The firm's Lake, Snowdon &amp; Co.«
    »Why didn't you mention it before?«
    »I don't hardly know, my dear.«
    She looked at him, aware that something was being kept back.
    »Tell me about the girl. What does she do?«
    »She goes to work, I believe; but I haven't heard much about her since a
good time. Sidney Kirkwood's a friend of her grandfather. He often goes there, I
believe.«
    »What is she like?« Clara asked, after a pause. »She used to be such a weak,
ailing thing, I never thought she'd grow up. What's she like to look at?«
    »I can't tell you, my dear. I don't know as ever I see her since those
times.«
    Again a silence.
    »Then it's Mr. Kirkwood that has told you what you know of her?«
    »Why, no. It was chiefly Mrs. Peckover told me. She did say, Clara - but
then I can't tell whether it's true or not - she did say something about Sidney
and her.«
    He spoke with difficulty, feeling constrained to make the disclosure, but
anxious as to its result. Clara made no movement, seemed to have heard with
indifference.
    »It's maybe partly 'cause of that,« added John, in a low voice, »that he
doesn't't like to come here.«
    »Yes; I understand.«
    They spoke no more on the subject.
 

                                  Chapter XXXI

                               Woman and Actress

In a tenement on the same staircase, two floors below, lived a family with whom
John Hewett was on friendly terms. Necessity calling these people out of London
for a few days, they had left with John the key of their front door; a letter of
some moment might arrive in their absence, and John undertook to re-post it to
them. The key was hung on a nail in Clara's room.
    »I'll just go down and see if the postman's left anything at Mrs. Holland's
this morning,« said Amy Hewett, coming in between breakfast and the time of
starting for school.
    She reached up to the key, but Clara, who sat by the fire with a cup of tea
on her lap, the only breakfast she ever took, surprised her by saying, »You
needn't trouble, Amy. I shall be going out soon, and I'll look in as I pass.«
    The girl was disappointed, for she liked this private incursion into the
abode of other people, but the expression of a purpose by her sister was so
unusual that, after a moment's hesitating, she said, »Very well,« and left the
room again.
    When silence informed Clara that the children were gone, Mrs. Eagles being
the only person besides herself who remained in the tenement, she put on her
hat, drew down the veil which was always attached to it, and with the key in her
hand descended to the Hollands' rooms. Had a letter been delivered that morning,
it would have been - in default of box - just inside the door; there was none,
but Clara seemed to have another purpose in view. She closed the door and walked
forward into the nearest room; the blind was down, but the dusk thus produced
was familiar to her in consequence of her own habit, and, her veil thrown back,
she examined the chamber thoughtfully. It was a sitting-room, ugly, orderly; the
air felt damp, and even in semi-darkness she was conscious of the layers of
London dust which had softly deposited themselves since the family went away
forty-eight hours ago. A fire was laid ready for lighting, and the smell of
moist soot spread from the grate. Having stood on one spot for nearly ten
minutes, Clara made a quick movement and withdrew; she latched the front door
with as little noise as possible, ran upstairs and shut herself again in her own
room.
    Presently she was standing at her window, the blind partly raised. On a
clear day the view from this room was of wide extent, embracing a great part of
the City; seen under a low, blurred, dripping sky, through the ragged patches of
smoke from chimneys innumerable, it had a gloomy impressiveness well in keeping
with the mind of her who brooded over it. Directly in front, rising
mist-detached from the lower masses of building, stood in black majesty the dome
of St. Paul's; its vastness suffered no diminution from this high outlook,
rather was exaggerated by the flying scraps of mirky vapour which softened its
outline and at times gave it the appearance of floating on a vague troubled sea.
Somewhat nearer, amid many spires and steeples, lay the surly bulk of Newgate,
the lines of its construction shown plan-wise; its little windows multiplied for
points of torment to the vision. Nearer again, the markets of Smithfield,
Bartholomew's Hospital, the tract of modern deformity, cleft by a gulf of
railway, which spreads between Clerkenwell Road and Charterhouse Street. Down in
Farringdon Street the carts, wagons, vans, cabs, omnibuses, crossed and
intermingled in a steaming splash-bath of mud; human beings, reduced to their
due paltriness, seemed to toil in exasperation along the strips of pavement,
bound on errands, which were a mockery, driven automaton-like by forces they
neither understood nor could resist.
    »Can I go out into a world like that - alone?« was the thought which made
Clara's spirit fail as she stood gazing. »Can I face life as it is for women who
grow old in earning bare daily bread among those terrible streets? Year after
year to go in and out from some wretched garret that I call home, with my face
hidden, my heart stabbed with misery till it is cold and bloodless!«
    Then her eye fell upon the spire of St. James's Church, on Clerkenwell
Green, whose bells used to be so familiar to her. The memory was only of
discontent and futile aspiration, but - Oh, if it were possible to be again as
she was then, and yet keep the experience with which life had since endowed her!
With no moral condemnation did she view the records of her rebellion; but how
easy to see now that ignorance had been one of the worst obstacles in her path,
and that, like all unadvised purchasers, she had paid a price that might well
have been spared. A little more craft, a little more patience - it is with these
that the world is conquered. The world was her enemy, and had proved too strong;
woman though she was - only a girl striving to attain the place for which birth
adapted her - pursuing only her irrepressible instincts - fate flung her to the
ground pitilessly, and bade her live out the rest of her time in wretchedness.
    No! There remained one more endeavour that was possible to her, one bare
hope of saving herself from the extremity which only now she estimated at its
full horror. If that failed, why, then, there was a way to cure all ills.
    From her box, that in which were hidden away many heart-breaking mementoes
of her life as an actress, she took out a sheet of notepaper and an envelope.
Without much thought, she wrote nearly three pages, folded the letter, addressed
it with a name only: Mr. Kirkwood. Sidney's address she did not know; her father
had mentioned Red Lion Street, that was all. She did not even know whether he
still worked at the old place, but in that way she must try to find him. She
cloaked herself, took her umbrella, and went out.
    At a corner of St. John's Square she soon found an urchin who would run an
errand for her. He was to take this note to a house that she indicated, and to
ask if Mr. Kirkwood was working there. She scarcely durst hope to see the
messenger returning with empty hands, but he did so. A terrible throbbing at her
heart, she went home again.
    In the evening, when her father returned, she surprised him by saying that
she expected a visitor.
    »Do you want me to go out of the way?« he asked, eager to submit to her in
everything.
    »No. I've asked my friend to come to Mrs. Holland's. I thought there would
be no great harm. I shall go down just before nine o'clock.«
    »Oh no, there's no harm,« conceded her father. »It's only if the neighbours
opposite got talking' to them when they come back.«
    »I can't help it. They won't mind. I can't help it.«
    John noticed her agitated repetition, the impatience with which she flung
aside difficulties.
    »Clara - it ain't anything about work, my dear?«
    »No, father. I wouldn't do anything without telling you; I've promised.«
    »Then I don't care; it's all right.«
    She had begun to speak immediately on his entering the room, and so it
happened that he had not kissed her as he always did at home-coming. When she
had sat down, he came with awkwardness and timidity and bent his face to hers.
    »What a hot cheek it is to-night, my little girl!« he murmured. »I don't
like it; you've got a bit of fever hangin' about you.«
    She wished to be alone; the children must not come into the room until she
had gone downstairs. When her father had left her, she seated herself before the
looking-glass, abhorrent as it was to her to look thus in her own face, and
began dressing her hair with quite unusual attention. This beauty at least
remained to her; arranged as she had learned to do it for the stage, the dark
abundance of her tresses crowned nobly the head which once held itself with such
defiant grace. She did not change her dress, which, though it had suffered from
wear, was well-fitting and of better material than Farringdon Road Buildings
were wont to see; a sober draping which became her tall elegance as she moved.
At a quarter to nine she arranged the veil upon her head so that she could throw
her hat aside without disturbing it; then, taking the lamp in her hand, and the
key of the Hollands' door, she went forth.
    No one met her on the stairs. She was safe in the cold deserted parlour
where she had stood this morning. Cold, doubtless, but she could not be
conscious of it; in her veins there seemed rather to be fire than blood. Her
brain was clear, but in an unnatural way; the throbbing at her temples ought to
have been painful, but only excited her with a strange intensity of thought. And
she felt, amid it all, a dread of what was before her; only the fever, to which
she abandoned herself with a sort of reckless confidence, a faith that it would
continue till this interview was over, overcame an impulse to rush back into her
hiding-place, to bury herself in shame, or desperately whelm her wretchedness in
the final oblivion. ...
    He was very punctual. The heavy bell of St. Paul's had not reached its ninth
stroke when she heard his knock at the door.
    He came in without speaking, and stood as if afraid to look at her. The
lamp, placed on a side-table, barely disclosed all the objects within the four
walls; it illumined Sidney's face, but Clara moved so that she was in shadow.
She began to speak.
    »You understood my note? The people who live here are away, and I have
ventured to borrow their room. They are friends of my father's.«
    At the first word, he was surprised by the change in her voice and
accentuation. Her speech was that of an educated woman; the melody which always
had such a charm for him had gained wonderfully in richness. Yet it was with
difficulty that she commanded utterance, and her agitation touched him in a way
quite other than he was prepared for. In truth, he knew not what experience he
had anticipated, but the reality, now that it came, this unimaginable blending
of memory with the unfamiliar, this refinement of something that he had loved,
this note of pity struck within him by such subtle means, affected his inmost
self. Immediately he laid stern control upon his feelings, but all the words
which he had designed to speak were driven from memory. He could say nothing,
could only glance at her veiled face and await what she had to ask of him.
    »Will you sit down? I shall fell grateful if you can spare me a few minutes.
I have asked you to see me because - indeed, because I am sadly in want of the
kind of help a friend might give me. I don't venture to call you that, but I
thought of you; I hoped you wouldn't refuse to let me speak to you. I am in such
difficulties - such a hard position -«
    »You may be very sure I will do anything I can to be of use to you,« Sidney
replied, his thick voice contrasting so strongly with that which had just failed
into silence that he coughed and lowered his tone after the first few syllables.
He meant to express himself without a hint of emotion, but it was beyond his
power. The words in which she spoke of her calamity seemed so pathetically
simple that they went to his heart. Clara had recovered all her faculties. The
fever and the anguish and the dread were no whit diminished, but they helped
instead of checking her. An actress improvising her part, she regulated every
tone with perfect skill, with inspiration; the very attitude in which she seated
herself was a triumph of the artist's felicity.
    »I just said a word or two in my note,« she resumed, »that you might have
replied if you thought nothing could be gained by my speaking to you. I couldn't
explain fully what I had in mind. I don't know that I've anything very clear to
say even now, but - you know what has happened to me; you know that I have
nothing to look forward to, that I can only hope to keep from being a burden to
my father. I am getting stronger; it's time I tried to find something to do. But
I -«
    Her voice failed again. Sidney gazed at her, and saw the dull lamplight just
glisten on her hair. She was bending forward a little, her hands joined and
resting on her knee.
    »Have you thought what kind of - of work would be best for you?« Sidney
asked. The work stuck in his throat, and he seemed to himself brutal in his way
of uttering it. But he was glad when he had put the question thus directly; one
at least of his resolves was carried out.
    »I know I've no right to choose, when there's necessity,« she answered, in a
very low tone. »Most women would naturally think of needlework; but I know so
little of it; I scarcely ever did any. If I could - I might perhaps do that at
home, and I feel - if I could only avoid - if I could only be spared going among
strangers -«
    Her faltering voice sank lower and lower; she seemed as if she would have
hidden her face even under its veil.
    »I feel sure you will have no difficulty,« Sidney hastened to reply, his own
voice unsteady. »Certainly you can get work at home. Why do you trouble yourself
with the thought of going among strangers? There'll never be the least need for
that; I'm sure there won't. Haven't you spoken about it to your father?«
    »Yes. But he is so kind to me that he won't hear of work at all. It was
partly on that account that I took the step of appealing to you. He doesn't't know
who I am meeting here to-night. Would you - I don't know whether I ought to ask
- but perhaps if you spoke to him in a day or two, and made him understand how
strong my wish is. He dreads lest we should be parted, but I hope I shall never
have to leave him. And then, of course, father is not very well able to advise
me - about work, I mean. You have more experience. I am so helpless. Oh, if you
knew how helpless I feel!«
    »If you really wish it, I will talk with your father -«
    »Indeed, I do wish it. My coming to live here has made everything so
uncomfortable for him and the children. Even his friends can't visit him as they
would; I feel that, though he won't admit that it's made any difference.«
    Sidney looked to the ground. He heard her voice falter as it continued.
    »If I'm to live here still, it mustn't be at the cost of all his comfort. I
keep almost always in the one room. I shouldn't be in the way if anyone came.
I've been afraid, Mr. Kirkwood, that perhaps you feared to come lest, whilst I
was not very well, it might have been an inconvenience to us. Please don't think
that. I shall never - see either friends or strangers unless it is absolutely
needful.«
    There was silence.
    »You do feel much better, I hope?« fell from Sidney's lips.
    »Much stronger. It's only my mind; everything is so dark to me. You know how
little patience I always had. It was enough if any one said, You must do this,
or You must put up with that - at once I resisted. It was my nature; I couldn't
bear the feeling of control. That's what I've had to struggle with since I
recovered from my delirium at the hospital, and hadn't even the hope of dying.
Can you put yourself in my place, and imagine what I have suffered?«
    Sidney was silent. His own life had not been without its passionate
miseries, but the modulations of this voice which had no light of countenance to
aid it raised him above the plane of common experience and made actual to him
the feelings he knew only in romantic story. He could not stir, lest the
slightest sound should jar on her speaking. His breath rose visibly upon the
chill air, but the discomfort of the room was as indifferent to him as to his
companion. Clara rose, as if impelled by mental anguish; she stretched out her
hand to the mantel - piece, and so stood, between him and the light, her
admirable figure designed on a glimmering background.
    »I know why you say nothing,« she continued, abruptly but without
resentment. »You cannot use words of sympathy which would be anything but
formal, and you prefer to let me understand that. It is like you. Oh, you
mustn't think I mean the phrase as a reproach. Anything but that. I mean that
you were always honest, and time hasn't changed you - in that.« A slight, very
slight, tremor on the close. »I'd rather you behaved to me like your old self. A
sham sympathy would drive me mad.«
    »I said nothing,« he replied, »only because words seemed meaningless.«
    »Not only that. You feel for me, I know, because you are not heartless; but
at the same time you obey your reason, which tells you that all I suffer comes
of my own self-will.«
    »I should like you to think better of me than that. I'm not one of those
people, I hope, who use every accident to point a moral, and begin by inventing
the moral to suit their own convictions. I know all the details of your
misfortune.«
    »Oh, wasn't't it cruel that she should take such revenge upon me!« Her voice
rose in unrestrained emotion. »Just because she envied me that poor bit of
advantage over her! How could I be expected to refuse the chance that was
offered? It would have been no use; she couldn't have kept the part. And I was
so near success. I had never had a chance of showing what I could do. It wasn't't
much of a part, really, but it was the lead, at all events, and it would have
made people pay attention to me. You don't know how strongly I was always drawn
to the stage; there I found the work for which I was meant. And I strove so hard
to make my way. I had no friends, no money. I earned only just enough to supply
my needs. I know what people think about actresses. Mr. Kirkwood, do you imagine
I have been living at my ease, congratulating myself that I had escaped from all
hardships?«
    He could not raise his eyes. As she still awaited his answer, he said in
rather a hard voice:
    »As I have told you, I read all the details that were published.«
    »Then you know that I was working hard and honestly - working far, far
harder than when I lived in Clerkenwell Close. But I don't know why I am talking
to you about it. It's all over. I went my own way, and I all but won what I
fought for. You may very well say, what's the use of mourning over one's fate?«
    Sidney had risen.
    »You were strong in your resolve to succeed,« he said gravely, »and you will
find strength to meet even this trial.«
    »A weaker woman would suffer far less. One with a little more strength of
character would kill herself.«
    »No. In that you mistake. You have not yourself only to think of. It would
be an easy thing to put an end to your life. You have a duty to your father.«
    She bent her head.
    »I think of him. He is goodness itself to me. There are fathers who would
have shut the door in my face. I know better now than I could when I was only a
child how hard his life has been; he and I are like each other in so many ways;
he has always been fighting against cruel circumstances. It's right that you,
who have been his true and helpful friend, should remind me of my duty to him.«
    A pause; then Sidney asked:
    »Do you wish me to speak to him very soon about your finding occupation?«
    »If you will. If you could think of anything.«
    He moved, but still delayed his offer to take leave.
    »You said just now,« Clara continued, falteringly, »that you did not try to
express sympathy, because words seemed of no use. How am I to find words of
thanks to you for coming here and listening to what I had to say?«
    »But surely so simple an act of friendship -«
    »Have I so many friends? And what right have I to look to you for an act of
kindness? Did I merit it by my words when I last -«
    There came a marvellous change - a change such as it needed either exquisite
feeling or the genius of simulation to express by means so simple. Unable to
show him by a smile, by a light in her eyes, what mood had come upon her, what
subtle shifting in the direction of her thought had checked her words - by her
mere movement as she stepped lightly towards him, by the carriage of her head,
by her hands half held out and half drawn back again, she prepared him for what
she was about to say. No piece of acting was ever more delicately finished. He
knew that she smiled, though nothing of her face was visible; he knew that her
look was one of diffident, half-blushing pleasure. And then came the sweetness
of her accents, timorous, joyful, scarcely to be recognised as tho voice which
an instant ago had trembled sadly in self-reproach.
    »But that seems to you so long ago, doesn't't it? You can forgive me now.
Father has told me what happiness you have found, and I - I am so glad!«
    Sidney drew back a step, involuntarily; the movement came of the shock with
which he heard her make such confident reference to the supposed relations
between himself and Jane Snowdon. He reddened - stood mute. For a few seconds
his mind was in the most painful whirl and conflict; a hundred impressions,
arguments, apprehensions, crowded upon him, each with its puncturing torment.
And Clara stood there waiting for his reply, in the attitude of consummate
grace.
    »Of course I know what you speak of,« he said at length, with the bluntness
of confusion. »But your father was mistaken. I don't know who can have led him
to believe that - It's a mistake, altogether.«
    Sidney would not have believed that anyone could so completely rob him of
self-possession, least of all Clara Hewett. His face grew still more heated. He
was angry with he knew not whom, he knew not why - perhaps with himself in the
first instance.
    »A mistake?« Clara murmured, under her breath. »Oh, you mean people have
been too hasty in speaking about it. Do pardon me. I ought never to have taken
such a liberty - but I felt -«
    She hesitated.
    »It was no liberty at all. I dare say the mistake is natural enough to those
who know nothing of Miss Snowdon's circumstances. I myself, however, have no
right to talk about her. But what you have been told is absolute error.«
    Clara walked a few paces aside.
    »Again I ask you to forgive me.« Her tones had not the same clearness as
hitherto. »In any case, I had no right to approach such a subject in speaking
with you.«
    »Let us put it aside,« said Sidney, mastering himself. »We were just
agreeing that I should see your father, and make known your wish to him.«
    »Thank you. I shall tell him, when I go upstairs, that you were the friend
whom I had asked to come here. I felt it to be so uncertain whether you would
come.«
    »I hope you couldn't seriously doubt it.«
    »You teach me to tell the truth. No. I knew too well your kindness. I knew
that even to me -«
    Sidney could converse no longer. He felt the need of being alone, to put his
thoughts in order, to resume his experiences during this strange hour. An
extreme weariness was possessing him, as though he had been straining his
intellect in attention to some difficult subject. And all at once the dank, cold
atmosphere of the room struck into his blood; he had a fit of trembling.
    »Let us say good-bye for the present.«
    Clara gave her hand silently. He touched it for the first time, and could
not but notice its delicacy; it was very warm, too, and moist. Without speaking
she went with him to the outer door. His footsteps sounded along the stone
staircase; Clara listened until the last echo was silent.
    She too had begun to feel the chilly air. Hastily putting on her hat, she
took up the lamp, glanced round the room to see that nothing was left in
disorder, and hastened up to the fifth storey.
    In the middle room, through which she had to pass, her father and Mr. Eagles
were talking together. The latter gave her a good-evening, respectful, almost as
to a social superior. Within, Amy and Annie were just going to bed. She sat with
them in her usual silence for a quarter of an hour, then, having ascertained
that Eagles was gone into his own chamber, went out to speak to her father.
    »My friend came,« she said. »Do you suspect who it was?«
    »Why, no, I can't guess, Clara.«
    »Haven't you thought of Mr. Kirkwood?«
    »You don't mean that?«
    »Father, you are quite mistaken about Jane Snowdon - quite.«
    John started up from his seat.
    »Has he told you so, himself?«
    »Yes. But listen; you are not to say a word on that subject to him. You will
be very careful, father?«
    John gazed at her wonderingly. She kissed his forehead, and withdrew to the
other room.
 

                                 Chapter XXXII

                                    A Haven

John Hewett no longer had membership in club or society. The loss of his
insurance-money made him for the future regard all such institutions with angry
suspicion. »Workin' men ain't satisfied with bein' robbed by the upper classes;
they must go and rob one another.« He had said good-bye to Clerkenwell Green;
the lounging crowd no longer found amusement in listening to his frenzied voice
and in watching the contortions of his rugged features. He discussed the old
subjects with Eagles, but the latter's computative mind was out of sympathy with
zeal of the tumid description; though quite capable of working himself into
madness on the details of the Budget, John was easily soothed by his friend's
calmer habits of debate. Kirkwood's influence, moreover, was again exerting
itself upon him - an influence less than ever likely to encourage violence of
thought or speech. In Sidney's company the worn rebel became almost placid; his
rude, fretted face fell into a singular humility and mildness. Having ended by
accepting what he would formerly have called charity, and that from a man whom
he had wronged with obstinate perverseness, John neither committed the error of
obtruding his gratitude, nor yet suffered it to be imagined that obligation sat
upon him too lightly. He put no faith in Sidney's assertion that some unknown
benefactor was to be thanked for the new furniture; one and the same pocket had
supplied that and the money for Mrs. Hewett's burial. Gratitude was all very
well, but he could not have rested without taking some measures towards a
literal repayment of his debt. The weekly coppers which had previously gone for
club subscriptions were now put away in a money-box; they would be long enough
in making an appreciable sum, but yet, if he himself could never discharge the
obligation, his children must take it up after him, and this he frequently
impressed upon Amy, Annie, and Tom.
    Nothing, however, could have detached John's mind so completely from its
habits of tumult, nor have fixed it so firmly upon the interests of home, as his
recovery of his daughter. From the day of Clara's establishment under his roof
he thought of her, and of her only. Whilst working at the filter-factory he
remained in imagination by her side, ceaselessly repeating her words of the
night before, eagerly looking for the hour that would allow him to return to
her. Joy and trouble mingled in an indescribable way to constitute his ordinary
mood; one moment he would laugh at a thought, and before a companion could
glance at him his gladness would be overshadowed as if with the heaviest
anxiety. Men who saw him day after day said at this time that he seemed to be
growing childish; he muttered to himself a good deal, and looked blankly at you
when you addressed him. In the course of a fortnight his state became more
settled, but it was not the cheerful impulse that predominated. Out of the
multitude of thoughts concerning Clara, one had fixed itself as the main
controller of his reflection. Characteristically, John hit upon what seemed an
irremediable misfortune, and brooded over it with all his might. If only Sidney
Kirkwood were in the same mind as four years ago!
    And now was he to believe that what he had been told about Sidney and Jane
Snowdon was misleading? Was the impossible no longer so? He almost leapt from
his chair when he heard that Sidney was the visitor with whom his daughter had
been having her private conversation. How came they to make this appointment?
There was something in Clara's voice that set his nerves a-tremble. That night
he could not sleep, and next morning he went to work with a senile quiver in his
body. For the first time for more than two months he turned into a public-house
on his way, just to give himself a little tone. The natural result of such a
tonic was to heighten the fever of his imagination; goodness knows how far he
had got in a drama of happiness before he threw off his coat and settled to his
day's labour.
    Clara, in the meanwhile, suffered a corresponding agitation, more
penetrative in proportion to the finer substance of her nature. She did not know
until the scene was over how much vital force it had cost her; when she took off
the veil a fire danced before her eyes, and her limbs ached and trembled as she
lay down in the darkness. All night long she was acting her part over and over;
when she woke up, it was always at the point where Sidney replied to her, »But
you are mistaken!«
    Acting her part; yes, but a few hours had turned the make-believe into
something earnest enough. She could not now have met Kirkwood with the
self-possession of last evening. The fever that then sustained her was much the
same as she used to know before she had thoroughly accustomed herself to
appearing in front of an audience; it exalted all her faculties, gifted her with
a remarkable self-consciousness. It was all very well as long as there was need
of it, but why did it afflict her in this torturing form now that she desired to
rest, to think of what she had gained, of what hope she might reasonably
nourish? The purely selfish project which, in her desperation, had seemed the
only resource remaining to her against a life of intolerable desolateness, was
taking hold upon her in a way she could not understand. Had she not already made
a discovery that surpassed all expectation? Sidney Kirkwood was not bound to
another woman; why could she not accept that as so much clear gain, and
deliberate as to her next step? She had been fully prepared for the opposite
state of things, prepared to strive against any odds, to defy all probabilities,
all restraints; why not thank her fortune and plot collectedly now that the
chances were so much improved?
    But from the beginning of her interview with him, Clara knew that something
more entered into her designs on Sidney than a cold self-interest. She had never
loved him; she never loved any one; yet the inclinations of her early girlhood
had been drawn by the force of the love he offered her, and to this day she
thought of him with a respect and liking such as she had for no other man. When
she heard from her father that Sidney had forgotten her, had found some one by
whom his love was prized, her instant emotion was so like a pang of jealousy
that she marvelled at it. Suppose fate had prospered her, and she had heard in
the midst of triumphs that Sidney Kirkwood, the working man in Clerkenwell, was
going to marry a girl he loved, wodd any feeling of this kind have come to her?
Her indifference would have been complete. It was calamity that made her so
sensitive. Self-pity longs for the compassion of others. That Sidney, who was
once her slave, should stand aloof in freedom now that she wanted sympathy so
sorely, this was a wound to her heart. That other woman had robbed her of
something she could not spare.
    Jane Snowdon, too! She found it scarcely conceivable that the wretched
little starveling of Mrs. Peckover's kitchen should have grown into anything
that a man like Sidney could love. To be sure, there was a mystery in her lot.
Clara remembered perfectly how Scawthorne pointed out of the cab at the old man
Snowdon, and said that he was very rich. A miser, or what? More she had never
tried to discover. Now Sidney himself had hinted at something in Jane's
circumstances which, he professed, put it out of the question that he could
contemplate marrying her. Had he told her the truth? Could she in fact consider
him free? Might there not be some reason for his wishing to keep a secret?
    With burning temples, with feverish lips, she moved about her little room
like an animal in a cage, finding the length of the day intolerable. She was
constrained to inaction, when it seemed to her that every moment in which she
did not do something to keep Sidney in mind of her was worse than lost. Could
she not see that girl, Jane Snowdon? But was not Sidney's denial as emphatic as
it could be? She recalled his words, and tried numberless interpretations. Would
anything that he had said bear being interpreted as a sign that something of the
old tenderness still lived in him? And the strange thing was, that she
interrogated herself on these points not at all like a coldly scheming woman,
who aims at something that is to be won, if at all, by the subtlest practising
on another's emotions, whilst she remains unaffected. Rather like a woman who
loves passionately, whose ardour and jealous dread wax moment by moment.
    For what was she scheming? For food, clothing, assured comfort during her
life? Twenty-four hours ago Clara would most likely have believed that she had
indeed fallen to this; but the meeting with Sidney enlightened her. Least of all
women could she live by bread alone; there was the hunger of her brain, the
hunger of her heart. I spoke once, you remember, of her defect of tenderness;
the fault remained, but her heart was no longer so sterile of the tender
emotions as when revolt and ambition absorbed all her energies. She had begun to
feel gently towards her father; it was an intimation of the need which would
presently bring all the forces of her nature into play. She dreaded a life of
drudgery; she dreaded humiliation among her inferiors; but that which she feared
most of all was the barrenness of a lot into which would enter none of the
passionate joys of existence. Speak to Clara of renunciation, of saintly
glories, of the stony way of perfectness, and you addressed her in an unknown
tongue; nothing in her responded to these ideas. Hopelessly defeated in the one
way of aspiration which promised a large life, her being, rebellious against the
martyrdom it had suffered, went forth eagerly towards the only happiness which
was any longer attainable. Her beauty was a dead thing; never by that means
could she command homage. But there is love, ay, and passionate love, which can
be independent of mere charm of face. In one man only could she hope to inspire
it; successful in that, she would taste victory, and even in this fallen estate
could make for herself a dominion.
    In these few hours she so wrought upon her imagination as to believe that
the one love of her life had declared itself. She revived every memory she
possibly could of those years on the far side of the gulf, and convinced herself
that even then she had loved Sidney. Other love of a certainty she had not
known. In standing face to face with him after so long an interval, she
recognised the qualities which used to impress her, and appraised them as
formerly she could not. His features had gained in attractiveness; the
refinement which made them an index to his character was more noticeable at the
first glance, or perhaps she was better able to distinguish it. The slight
bluntness in his manner reminded her of the moral force which she had known only
as something to be resisted; it was now one of the influences that drew her to
him. Had she not always admitted that he stood far above the other men of his
class whom she used to know? Between his mind and hers there was distinct
kinship; the sense that he had both power and right to judge her explained in a
great measure her attitude of defiance towards him when she was determined to
break away from her humble conditions. All along, had not one of her main
incentives to work and strive been the resolve to justify herself in his view,
to prove to him that she possessed talent, to show herself to him as one whom
the world admired? The repugnance with which she thought of meeting him, when
she came home with her father, meant in truth that she dreaded to be assured
that he could only shrink from her.
    All her vital force setting in this wild current, her self-deception
complete, she experienced the humility of supreme egoism - that state wherein
self multiplies its claims to pity in passionate support of its demand for the
object of desire. She felt capable of throwing herself at Sidney's feet, and
imploring him not to withdraw from her the love of which he had given her so
many assurances. She gazed at her scarred face until the image was blurred with
tears; then, as though there were luxury in weeping, sobbed for an hour,
crouching down in a corner of her room. Even though his love were as dead as her
beauty, must he not be struck to the heart with compassion, realising her woeful
lot? She asked nothing more eagerly than to humiliate herself before him, to
confess that her pride was broken. Not a charge he could bring against her but
she would admit its truth. Had she been humble enough last night? When he came
again - and he must soon - she would throw aside every vestige of dignity, lest
he should think that she was strong enough to bear her misery alone. No matter
how poor-spirited she seemed, if only she could move his sympathies.
    Poor rebel heart! Beat for beat, in these moments it matched itself with
that of the purest woman who surrenders to a despairing love. Had one charged
her with insincerity, how vehemently would her conscience have declared against
the outrage! Natures such as hers are as little to be judged by that which is
conventionally the highest standard as by that which is the lowest. The
tendencies which we agree to call good and bad became in her merely directions
of a native force which was at all times in revolt against circumstance.
Characters thus moulded may go far in achievement, but can never pass beyond the
bounds of suffering. Never is the world their friend, nor the world's law. As
often as our conventions give us the opportunity, we crush them out of being;
they are noxious; they threaten the frame of society. Oftenest the crushing is
done in such a way that the hapless creatures seem to have brought about their
own destruction. Let us congratulate ourselves; in one way or other it is
assured that they shall not trouble us long.
    Her father was somewhat later than usual in returning from work. When he
entered her room she looked at him anxiously, and as he seemed to have nothing
particular to say, she asked if he had seen Mr. Kirkwood.
    »No, my dear, I ain't seen him.«
    Their eyes met for an instant. Clara was in anguish at the thought that
another night and day must pass and nothing be altered.
    »When did you see him last? A week or more ago, wasn't't it?«
    »About that.«
    »Couldn't you go round to his lodgings to-night? I know he's got something
he wants to speak to you about.«
    He assented. But on his going into the other room Eagles met him with a
message from Sidney, anticipating his design, and requesting him to step over to
Red Lion Street in the course of the evening. John instantly announced this to
his daughter. She nodded, but said nothing.
    In a few minutes John went on his way. The day's work had tired him
exceptionally, doubtless owing to his nervousness, and again on the way to
Sidney's he had recourse to a dose of the familiar stimulant. With our eyes on a
man of Hewett's station we note these little things; we set them down as a point
scored against him; yet if our business were with a man of leisure, who, owing
to worry, found his glass of wine at luncheon and again at dinner an acceptable
support, we certainly should not think of paying attention to the matter.
Poverty makes a crime of every indulgence. John himself came out of the
public-house in a slinking way, and hoped Kirkwood might not scent the
twopenny-worth of gin.
    Sidney was in anything but a mood to detect this little lapse in his
visitor. He gave John a chair, but could not sit still himself. The garret was a
spacious one, and whilst talking he moved from wall to wall.
    »You know that I saw Clara last night? She told me she should mention it to
you.«
    »Yes, yes. I was afraid she'd never have made up her mind to it. It was the
best way for you to see her alone first, poor girl! You won't mind comin' to us
now, like you used?«
    »Did she tell you what she wished to speak to me about?«
    »Why, no, she hasn't. Was there - anything particular?«
    »She feels the time very heavy on her hands. It seems you don't like the
thought of her looking for employment?«
    John rose from his chair and grasped the back of it.
    »You ain't a-goin' to encourage her to leave us? It ain't that you was
talking' about, Sidney?«
    »Leave you? Why, where should she go?«
    »No, no; it's all right; so long as you wasn't't thinking' of her goin' away
again. See, Sidney, I ain't got nothing to say against it, if she can find some
kind of job for home. I know as the time must hang heavy. There she sit, poor
thing! from mornin' to night, an' can't get her thoughts away from herself. It's
easy enough to understand, ain't it? I took a book home for her the other day,
but she didn't seem to care about it. There she sit, with her poor face on her
hands, thinking' and thinking'. It breaks my heart to soo her. I'd rather she had
some work, but she mustn't go away from home for it.«
    Sidney took a few steps in silence.
    »You don't misunderstand me,« resumed the other, with suddenness. »You don't
think as I won't trust her away from me. If she went, it 'ud be because she
thinks herself a burden - as if I wouldn't gladly live on a crust for my day's
food an' spare her goin' among strangers! You can think yourself what it 'ud be
to her, Sidney. No, no, it mustn't be nothing o' that kind. But I can't bear to
see her living' as she does; it's no life at all. I sit with her when I get back
home at night, an' I'm glad to say she seems to find it a pleasure to have me by
her; but it's the only bit o' pleasure she gets, an' there's all the hours
whilst I'm away. You see she don't take much to Mrs. Eagles; that ain't her sort
of friend. Not as she's got any pride left about her, poor girl! don't think
that. I tell you, Sidney, she's a dear good girl to her old father. If I could
only see her a bit happier, I'd never grumble again as long as I lived, I
wouldn't!«
    Is there such a thing in this world as speech that has but one simple
interpretation, one for him who utters it and for him who hears? Honester words
were never spoken than these in which Hewett strove to represent Clara in a
favourable light, and to show the pitifulness of her situation; yet he himself
was conscious that they implied a second meaning, and Sidney was driven
restlessly about the room by his perception of the same lurking motive in their
pathos. John felt half-ashamed of himself when he ceased; it was a new thing for
him to be practising subtleties with a view to his own ends. But had he said a
word more than the truth?
    I suppose it was the association of contrast that turned Sidney's thoughts
to Joseph Snowdon. At all events it was of him he was thinking in the silence
that followed. Which silence having been broken by a tap at the door, oddly
enough there stood Joseph himself. Hewett, taken by surprise, showed
embarrassment and awkwardness; it was always hard for him to reconcile his
present subordination to Mr. Snowdon with the familiar terms on which they had
been not long ago.
    »Ah, you here, Hewett!« exclaimed Joseph, in a genial tone, designed to put
the other at his ease. »I just wanted a word with our friend. Never mind; some
other time.«
    For all that, he did not seem disposed to withdraw, but stood with a hand on
the door, smiling, Sidney, having nodded to him, walked the length of the room,
his head bent and his hands behind him.
    »Suppose I look in a bit later,« said Hewett. »Or tomorrow night, Sidney?«
    »Very well, to-morrow night.«
    John took his leave, and on the visitor who remained Sidney turned a face
almost of anger. Mr. Snowdon seated himself, supremely indifferent to the
inconvenience he had probably caused. He seemed in excellent humour.
    »Decent fellow, Hewett,« he observed, putting up one leg against the
fireplace. »Very decent fellow. He's getting old, unfortunately. Had a good deal
of trouble, I understand; it breaks a man up.«
    Sidney scowled, and said nothing.
    »I thought I'd stay, as I was here,« continued Joseph, unbuttoning his
respectable overcoat and throwing it open. »There was something rather
particular I had in mind. Won't you sit down?«
    »No, thank you.«
    Joseph glanced at him, and smiled all the more.
    »I've had a little talk with the old man about Jane. By-the-by, I'm sorry to
say he's very shaky; doesn't't look himself at all. I didn't know you had spoken
to him quite so - you know what I mean. It seems to be his idea that
everything's at an end between you.« »Perhaps so.«
    »Well, now, look here. You won't mind me just - Do you think it was wise to
put it in that way to him? I'm afraid you're making him feel just a little
uncertain about you. I'm speaking as a friend, you know. In your own interest,
Kirkwood. Old men get queer ideas into their heads. You know, he might begin to
think that you had some sort of - eh?«
    It was not the second, nor yet the third, time that Joseph had looked in and
begun to speak in this scrappy way, continuing the tone of that dialogue in
which he had assumed a sort of community of interest between Kirkwood and
himself. But the limit of Sidney's endurance was reached.
    »There's no knowing,« he exclaimed, »what anyone may think of me, if people
who have their own ends to serve go spreading calumnies. Let us understand each
other, and have done with it. I told Mr. Snowdon that I could never be anything
but a friend to Jane. I said it, and I meant it. If you've any doubt remaining,
in a few days I hope it'll be removed. What your real wishes may be I don't
know, and I shall never after this have any need to know. I can't help speaking
in this way, and I want to tell you once for all that there shall never again be
a word about Jane between us. Wait a day or two, and you'll know the reason.«
    Joseph affected an air of gravity - of offended dignity.
    »That's rather a queer sort of way to back out of your engagements,
Kirkwood, I won't say anything about myself, but with regard to my daughter -«
    »What do you mean by speaking like that?« cried the young man, sternly. »You
know very well that it's what you wish most of all, to put an end to everything
between your daughter and me! You've succeeded; be satisfied. If you've anything
to say to me on any other subject, say it. If not, please let's have done for
the present. I don't feel in a mood for beating about the bush any longer.«
    »You've misunderstood me altogether, Kirkwood,« said Joseph, unable to
conceal a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes.
    »No; I've understood you perfectly well - too well. I don't want to hear
another word on the subject, and I won't. It's over; understand that.«
    »Well, well; you're a bit out of sorts. I'll say good-bye for the present.«
    He retired, and for a long time Sidney sat in black brooding.
 
John Hewett did not fail to present himself next evening. As he entered the room
he was somewhat surprised at the cheerful aspect with which Sidney met him; the
grasp which his hand received seemed to have a significance. Sidney, after
looking at him steadily, asked if he had not been home.
    »Yes, I've been home. Why do you want to know?«
    »Hadn't Clara anything to tell you?«
    »No. What is it?«
    »Did she know you were coming here?«
    »Why, yes; I mentioned it.«
    Sidney again regarded him fixedly, with a smile.
    »I suppose she preferred that I should tell you. I looked in at the
Buildings this afternoon, and had a talk with Clara.«
    John hung upon his words, with lips slightly parted, with a trembling in the
hairs of his grey beard.
    »You did?«
    »I had something to ask her, so I went when she was likely to be alone. It's
a long while ago since I asked her the question for the first time - but I've
got the right answer at last.«
    John stared at him in pathetic agitation.
    »You mean to tell me you've asked Clara to marry you?«
    »There's nothing very dreadful in that, I should think.«
    »Give us your hand again! Sidney Kirkwood, give us your hand again! If
there's a good-hearted man in this world, if there's a faithful, honest man, as
only lives to do kindness - What am I to say to you? It's too much for me. I
can't find a word as I'd wish to speak. Stand out and let's look at you. You
make me as I can't neither speak nor see - I'm just like a child -«
    He broke down utterly, and shook with the choking struggle of laughter and
sobs. His emotion affected Sidney, who looked pale and troubled in spite of the
smile still clinging feebly about his lips.
    »If it makes you glad to hear it,« said the young man, in an uncertain
voice, »I'm all the more glad myself, on that account.«
    »Makes me glad? That's no word for it, boy; that's no word for it! Give us
your hand again. I feel as if I'd ought to go down on my old knees and crave
your pardon. If only she could have lived to see this, the poor woman as died
when things was at their worst! If I'd only listened to her there'd never have
been them years of unfriendliness between us. You've gone on with one kindness
after another, but this is more than I could ever a' thought possible. Why, I
took it for certain as you was goin' to marry that other young girl; they told
me as it was all settled.«
    »A mistake.«
    »I'd never have dared to hope it, Sidney. The one thing as I wished more
than anything else on earth, and I couldn't think ever to see it. Glad's no word
for what I feel. And to think as my girl kept' it from me! Yes, yes; there was
something on her face; I remember it now. I'm just goin' round to have a word
with Sidney, I says. Are you, father? she says. Don't stay too long. And she had
a sort o' smile I couldn't quite understand. She'll be a good wife to you,
Sidney. Her heart's softened to all as she used to care for. She'll be a good
and faithful wife to you as long as she lives. But I must go back home and speak
to her. There ain't a man living', let him be as rich as he may, that feels such
happiness as you've given me to-night.«
    He went stumbling down the stairs, and walked homewards at a great speed, so
that when he reached the Buildings he had to wipe his face and stand for a
moment before beginning the ascent. The children were at their home lessons; he
astonished them by flinging his hat mirthfully on to the table.
    »Now then, father!« cried young Tom, the eight-year-old, whose pen was
knocked out of his hand.
    With a chuckle John advanced to Clara's room. As he closed the door behind
him she rose. His face was mottled; there were tear-stains about his eyes, and
he had a wild, breathless look.
    »An' you never told me! You let me go without half a word!«
    Clara put her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. »I didn't quite know
whether it was true or not, father.«
    »My darling! My dear girl! Come an' sit on my knee, like you used to when
you was a little 'un. I'm a rough old father for such as you, but nobody'll
never love you better than I do, an' always have done. So he's been faithful to
you, for all they said. There ain't a better man living'! It's a long time since
I first asked the question, he says, but she's give me the right answer at last.
And he looks that glad of it.«
    »He does? You're sure he does?«
    »Sure? Why, you should a' seen him when I went into the room! There's
nothing more as I wish for now. I only hope I may live a while longer, to see
you forget all your troubles, my dear. He'll make you happy, will Sidney; he's
got a deal more education than anyone else I ever knew, and you'll suit each
other. But you won't forget all about your old father? You'll let me come an'
have a talk with you now and then, my dear, just you an' me together, you know?«
    »I shall love you and be grateful to you always, father, You've kept a warm
heart for me all this time.«
    »I couldn't do nothing else, Clara; you've always been what I loved most,
and you always will be.«
    »If I hadn't had you to come back to, what would have become of me?«
    »We'll never think of that. We'll never speak another word of that.«
    »Father - Oh, if I had my face again! If I had my own face!«
    A great anguish shook her; she lay m his arms and sobbed. It was the
farewell, even in her fullness of heart and deep sense of consolation, to all she
had most vehemently desired. Gratitude and self-pity being indivisible in her
emotions, she knew not herself whether the ache of regret or the soothing
restfulness of deliverance made her tears flow. But at least there was no
conscious duplicity, and for the moment no doubt that she had found her haven.
It is a virtuous world, and our frequent condemnations are invariably based, on
justice; will it be greatly harmful if for once we temper our righteous judgment
with ever so little mercy?
 

                                 Chapter XXXIII

                             A Fall from the Ideal

Joseph Snowdon waxed daily in respectability. He was, for one thing, clothing
himself in flesh, and, though still anything but a portly man, bore himself as
becomes one who can indulge a taste for eating and drinking; his step was more
deliberate, he no longer presented the suppleness of limb that so often
accompanies a needy condition in the man of wits, he grew attentive to his
personal equipment, he was always well combed and well shaven, and generally, in
hours of leisure, you perceived a fragrance breathing from his handkerchief. Nor
was this refinement addressed only to the public. To Clem he behaved with a
correctness which kept that lady in a state of acute suspicion; not seldom he
brought her a trifling gift, which he would offer with compliments, and he made
a point of consulting her pleasure or convenience in all matters that affected
them in common. A similar dignity of bearing marked his relations with Hanover
Street. When he entered Jane's parlour it was with a beautiful blending of
familiarity and courtesy; he took his daughter's hand with an air of graceful
affection, retaining for a moment between his own, and regarding her with a
gentle smile which hinted the pride of a parent. In speaking with the old man he
habitually subdued his voice, respectfully bending forward, solicitously
patching the opportunity of a service. Michael had pleasure in his company and
conversation. Without overdoing it, Joseph accustomed himself to speak of
philanthropic interests. He propounded a scheme for supplying the poor with a
certain excellent filter at a price all but nominal; who did not know the
benefit to humble homes of pure water for use as a beverage? The filter was not
made yet, but Lake, Snowdon, &amp; Co., had it under their consideration.
    Michael kept his room a good deal in these wretched days of winter, so that
Joseph had no difficulty in obtaining private interviews with his daughter.
Every such occasion he used assiduously, his great end being to possess himself
of Jane's confidence. He did not succeed quite so well with the girl as with her
grandfather; there was always a reserve in her behaviour which as yet he found
it impossible to overcome. Observation led him to conclude that much of this
arose from the view she took of his relations with Sidney Kirkwood. Jane was in
love with Sidney; on that point he could have no doubt; and in all likelihood
she regarded him as unfriendly to Sidney's suit - women are so shrewd in these
affairs. Accordingly, Joseph made it his business by artful degrees to remove
this prepossession from her mind. In the course of this endeavour he naturally
pressed into his service the gradually discovered fact that Sidney had scruples
of conscience regarding Jane's fortune. Marvellous as it appeared to him, he had
all but come to the conclusion that this was a fact. Now, given Jane's
character, which he believed he had sounded; given her love for Kirkwood, which
was obviously causing her anxiety and unhappiness; Joseph saw his way to an
admirable piece of strategy. What could be easier, if he played his cards well
and patiently enough, than to lead Jane to regard the fortune as her most
threatening enemy? Valuable results might come of that, whether before or after
the death of the old man.
    The conversation in which he first ventured to strike this note
undisguisedly took place on the same evening as that unpleasant scene when
Sidney as good as quarrelled with him - the evening before the day on which
Sidney asked Clara Hewett to be his wife. Having found Jane alone, he began to
talk in his most paternal manner, his chair very near hers, his eyes fixed on
her sewing. And presently, when the ground was prepared:
    »Jane, there's something I've been wanting to say to you for a long time. My
dear, I'm uneasy about you.«
    »Uneasy, father?« and she glanced at him nervously.
    »Yes, I'm uneasy. But whether I ought to tell you why, I'm sure I don't
know. You're my own child, Janey, and you become dearer to me every day; but -
it's hard to say it - there naturally isn't all the confidence between us that
there might have been if - well, well, I won't speak of that.«
    »But won't you tell me what makes you anxious?«
    He laid the tips of his fingers on her head. »Janey, shall you be offended
if I speak about Mr. Kirkwood?«
    »No, father.«
    She tried in vain to continue sewing.
    »My dear - I believe there's no actual engagement between you?«
    »Oh no, father,« she replied, faintly.
    »And yet - don't be angry with me, my child - I think you are something more
than friends?«
    She made no answer.
    »And I can't help thinking, Janey - I think about you very often indeed -
that Mr. Kirkwood has rather exaggerated views about the necessity of - of
altering things between you.«
    Quite recently Joseph had become aware of the understanding between Michael
and Kirkwood. The old man still hesitated to break the news to Jane, saying to
himself that it was better for Sidney to prepare her by the change in his
behaviour.
    »Of altering things?« Jane repeated, under her breath.
    »It seems to me wrong - wrong to both of you,« Joseph pursued, in a pathetic
voice. »I can't help noticing my child's looks. I know she isn't what she used
to be, poor little girl! And I know Kirkwood isn't what he used to be. It's very
hard, and I feel for you - for both of you.«
    Jane sat motionless, not daring to lift her eyes, scarcely daring to
breathe.
    »Janey.«
    »Yes, father.«
    »I wonder whether I'm doing wrong to your grandfather in speaking to you
confidentially like this? I can't believe he notices things as I do; he'd never
wish you to be unhappy.«
    »But I don't quite understand, father. What do you mean about Mr. Kirkwood?
Why should he -«
    The impulse failed her. A fear which she had harboured for many weary days
was being confirmed and she could not ask directly for the word that would kill
hope.
    »Have I a right to tell you? I thought perhaps you understood.«
    »As you have gone so far, I think you must explain. I don't see how you can
be doing wrong.«
    »Poor Kirkwood! You see, he's in such a delicate position, my dear. I think
myself that he's acting rather strangely, after everything; but it's - it's your
money, Jane. He doesn't't think he ought to ask you to marry him, under the
circumstances.«
    She trembled.
    »Now who should stand by you, in a case like this, if not your own father?
Of course he can't say a word to you himself; and of course you can't say a word
to him; and altogether it's a pitiful business.«
    Jane shrank from discussing such a topic with her father. Her next words
were uttered with difficulty.
    »But the money isn't my own - it'll never be my own. He - Mr. Kirkwood knows
that.«
    »He does, to be sure. But it makes no difference. He has told your
grandfather, my love, that - that the responsibility would be too great. He has
told him distinctly that everything's at an end - everything that might have
happened.«
    She just looked at him, then dropped her eyes on her sewing.
    »Now, as your father, Janey, I know it's right that you should be told of
this. I feel you're being very cruelly treated, my child. And I wish to goodness
I could only see any way out of it for you both. Of course I'm powerless either
for acting or speaking: you can understand that. But I want you to think of me
as your truest friend, my love.«
    More still he said, but Jane had no ears for it. When he left her, she bade
him good-bye mechanically, and stood on the same spot by the door, without
thought, stunned by what she had learnt.
    That Sidney would be impelled to such a decision as this she had never
imagined. His reserve whilst yet she was in ignorance of her true position she
could understand: also his delaying for a while even after everything had been
explained to her. But that he should draw away from her altogether seemed
inexplicable, for it implied a change in him which nothing had prepared her to
think possible. Unaltered in his love, he refused to share the task of her life,
to aid in the work which he regarded with such fervent sympathy. Her mind was
not subtle enough to conceive those objections to Michael's idea which had
weighed with Sidney almost from the first, for though she had herself shrunk
from the great undertaking, it was merely in weakness - a reason she never
dreamt of attributing to him. Nor had she caught as much as a glimpse of those
base, scheming interests, contact with which had aroused Sidney's vehement
disgust. Was her father to be trusted? This was the first question that shaped
itself in her mind. He did not like Sidney; that she had felt all along, as well
as the reciprocal coldness on Sidney's part. But did his unfriendliness go so
far as to prompt him to intervene with untruths? »Of course you can't say a word
to him« - that remark would bear an evil interpretation, which her tormented
mind did not fail to suggest. Moreover, he had seemed so anxious that she should
not broach the subject with her grandfather. But what constrained her to
silence? If, indeed, he had nothing but her happiness at heart, he could not
take it ill that she should seek to understand the whole truth, and Michael must
tell her whether Sidney had indeed thus spoken to him.
    Before she had obtained any show of control over her agitation Michael came
into the room. Evening was the old man's best time, and when he had kept his own
chamber through the day he liked to come and sit with Jane as she had her
supper.
    »Didn't I hear your father's voice?« he asked, as he moved slowly to his
accustomed chair.
    »Yes. He couldn't stay.«
    Jane stood in an attitude of indecision. Having seated himself, Michael
glanced at her. His regard had not its old directness; it seemed apprehensive,
as if seeking to probe her thought.
    »Has Miss Lant sent you the book she promised?«
    »Yes, grandfather.«
    This was a recently published volume dealing with charitable enterprise in
some part of London. Michael noticed with surprise the uninterested tone of
Jane's reply. Again he looked at her, and more searchingly.
    »Would you like to read me a little of it?«
    She reached the book from a side-table, drew near, and stood turning the
pages. The confusion of her mind was such that she could not have read a word
with understanding. Then she spoke, involuntarily.
    »Grandfather, has Mr. Kirkwood said anything more - about me?«
    The words made painful discord in her ears, but instead of showing
heightened colour she grew pallid. Holding the book partly open, she felt all
her nerves and muscles strained as if in some physical effort; her feet were
rooted to the spot.
    »Have you heard anything from him?« returned the old man, resting his hands
on the sides of the easy - chair.
    »Father has been speaking about him. He says Mr. Kirkwood has told you
something.«
    »Yes. Come and sit down by me, Jane.«
    She could not move nearer. Though unable to form a distinct conception, she
felt a foreboding of what must come to pass. The dread failure of strength was
more than threatening her; ker heart was sinking, and by no effort of will could
she summon the thoughts that should aid her against herself.
    »What has your father told you?« Michael asked, when he perceived her
distress. He spoke with a revival of energy, clearly, commandingly.
    »He says that Mr. Kirkwood wishes you to forget what he told you, and what
you repeated to me.«
    »Did he give you any reason?«
    »Yes. I don't understand, though.«
    »Come here by me, Jane. Let's talk about it quietly. Sidney doesn't't feel
able to help you as he thought he could. We mustn't blame him for that; he must
judge for himself. He thinks it'll be better if you continue to be only
friends.«
    Jane averted her face, his steady look being more than she could bear. For
an instant a sense of uttermost shame thrilled through her, and without knowing
what she did, she moved a little and laid the book down.
    »Come here, my child,« he repeated, in a gentler voice.
    She approached him.
    »You feel it hard. But when you've thought about it a little you won't
grieve; I'm sure you won't. Remember, your life is not to be like that of
ordinary women. You've higher objects before you, and you'll find a higher
reward. You know that, don't you? There's no need for me to remind you of what
we've talked about so often, is there? If it's a sacrifice, you're strong enough
to face it; yes, yes, strong enough to face more than this, my Jane is! Only fix
your thoughts on the work you're going to do. It'll take up all your life, Jane,
won't it? You'll have no time to give to such things as occupy other women - no
mind for them.«
    His grey eyes searched her countenance with that horrible intensity of
fanaticism which is so like the look of cruelty, of greed, of any passion
originating in the baser self. Unlike too, of course, but it is the pitilessness
common to both extremes that shows most strongly in an old, wrinkled visage. He
had laid his hand upon her. Every word was a stab in the girl's heart, and so
dreadful became her torture, so intolerable the sense of being drawn by a fierce
will away from all she desired, that at length a cry escaped her lips. She fell
on her knees by him, and pleaded in a choking voice.
    »I can't! Grandfather, don't ask it of me! Give it all to some one else - to
some one else! I'm not strong enough to make such a sacrifice. Let me be as I
was before!«
    Michael's face darkened. He drew his hand away and rose from the seat; with
more than surprise, with anger and even bitterness, he looked down at the
crouching girl. She did not sob; her face buried in her arms, she lay against
the chair, quivering, silent.
    »Jane, stand up and speak to me!«
    She did not move.
    »Jane!«
    He laid his hand on her. Jane raised her head, and endeavoured to obey him;
in the act she moaned and fell insensible.
    Michael strode to the door and called twice or thrice for Mrs. Byass; then
he stooped by the lifeless girl and supported her head. Bessie was immediately
at hand, with a cry of consternation, but also with helpful activity.
    »Why, I thought she'd got over this; it's a long time since she was took
last isn't it? Sam's downstairs, Mr. Snowdon; do just shout out to him to go for
some brandy. Tell him to bring my smelling-bottle first, if he knows where it is
- I'm blessed if I do! Poor thing! She ain't been at all well lately, and that's
the truth.«
    The truth, beyond a doubt. Pale face, showing now the thinness which it had
not wholly outgrown, the inheritance from miserable childhood; no face of a
stern heroine, counting as idle all the natural longings of the heart,
consecrated to a lifelong combat with giant wrongs. Nothing better nor worse
than the face of one who can love and must be loved in turn.
    She came to herself, and at the same moment Michael went from the room.
    »There now; there now,« crooned Bessie, with much patting of the hands and
stroking of the cheeks. »Why, what's come to you, Jane? Cry away; don't try to
prevent yourself; it'll do you good to cry a bit. Of course, here comes Sam with
all sorts of things, when there's no need of him. He's always either too soon or
too late, is Sam. Just look at him, Jane; now if he don't make you laugh,
nothing will!«
    Mr. Byass retired, shamefaced. Leaning against Bessie's shoulder, Jane
sobbed for a long time, sobbed in the misery of shame. She saw that her
grandfather had gone away. How should she ever face him after this? It was
precious comfort to feel Bessie's sturdy arms about her, and to hear the foolish
affectionate words, which asked nothing but that she should take them kindly and
have done with her trouble.
    »Did grandfather tell you how it was?« she asked, with a sudden fear lest
Bessie should have learnt her pitiful weakness.
    »Why, no; how did it come?«
    »I don't know. We were talking. I can stand up now, Mrs. Byass, thank you.
I'll go up to my room. I've forgotten the time; is it late?«
    It was only nine o'clock. Bessie would have gone upstairs with her, but Jane
insisted that she was quite herself. On the stairs she trod as lightly as
possible, and she closed her door without a sound. Alone, she again gave way to
tears. Michael's face was angry in her memory; he had never looked at her in
that way before, and now he would never look with the old kindness. What a
change had been wrought in these few minutes!
    And Sidney never anything but her friend - cold, meaningless word! If he
knew how she had fallen, would that be likely to bring him nearer to her? She
had lost both things, that was all.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIV

                                The Debt Repaid

She rose early, in the murky cold of the winter morning. When, at eight o'clock,
she knocked as usual at her grandfather's door his answer made her tremble.
    »I shall be down in a few minutes, Jane; I'll have breakfast with you.«
    It was long since he had risen at this hour. His voice sounded less like
that of an old man, and, in spite of his calling her by her name, she felt the
tone to be severe. When he reached the parlour he did not offer to take her
hand, and she feared to approach him. She saw that his features bore the mark of
sleeplessness. Hers, poor girl! were yet more woeful in their pallor.
    Through the meal he affected to occupy himself with the book Miss Lant had
sent - the sight of which was intolerable to Jane. And not for a full hour did
he speak anything but casual words. Jane had taken her sewing; unexpectedly he
addressed her.
    »Let's have a word or two together, Jane. I think we ought to, oughtn't we?«
    She forced herself to regard him.
    »I think you meant what you said last night?«
    »Grandfather, I will do whatever you bid me. I'll do it faithfully. I was
ungrateful. I feel ashamed to have spoken so.«
    »That's nothing to do with it, Jane. You're not ungrateful; anything but
that. But I've had a night to think over your words. You couldn't speak like
that if you weren't driven to it by the strongest feeling you ever knew or will
know. I hadn't thought of it in that way; I hadn't thought of you in that way.«
    He began gently, but in the last words was a touch of reproof, almost of
scorn. He gazed at her from under his grey eyebrows, perhaps hoping to elicit
some resistance of her spirit, some sign of strength that would help him to
reconstruct his shattered ideal.
    »Grandfather, I'll try with all my strength to be what you wish - I will!«
    »And suppose the strength isn't sufficient, child?«
    Even in her humility she could not but feel that this was unjust. Had she
ever boasted? Had she ever done more than promise tremblingly what he demanded?
But the fear was legitimate. A weak thing, all but heart-broken, could she hope
to tread firmly in any difficult path? She hung her head, making no answer.
    He examined her, seeming to measure the slightness of her frame. Sad,
unutterably sad, was the deep breath he drew as he turned his eyes away again.
    »Do you feel well this morning, Jane?«
    »Yes, grandfather.«
    »Have you slept?«
    »I couldn't. You were grieving about me. I hoped never to have disappointed
you.«
    He fell into reverie. Was he thinking of that poor wife of his, dead long,
long ago, the well-meaning girl of whom he had expected impossible things? A
second time had he thus erred, no longer with the excuse of inexperience and hot
blood. That cry of Jane's had made its way to his heart. An enthusiast, he was
yet capable of seeing by the common light of day, when his affections were
deeply stirred. And in the night he had pondered much over his son's behaviour.
Was he being deceived in that quarter also, and there intentionally? Did Joseph
know this child better than he had done, and calculate upon her weakness? The
shock, instead of disabling him, had caused a revival of his strength. He could
walk more firmly this morning than at any time since his accident. His brain was
clear and active; he knew that it behoved him to reconsider all he had been
doing, and that quickly, ere it was too late. He must even forget that aching of
the heart until he had leisure to indulge it.
    »You shan't disappoint me, my dear,« he said gravely. »It's my own fault if
I don't take your kindness as you mean it. I have to go out, Jane, but I shall
be back to dinner. Perhaps we'll talk again afterwards.«
    Of late, on the rare occasions of his leaving the house, he had always told
her where he was going, and for what purpose; Jane understood that this
confidence was at an end. When he was gone she found occupation for a short
time, but presently could only sit over the fire, nursing her many griefs. She
was no longer deemed worthy of confidence; worse than that, she had no more
faith in herself. If Sidney learnt what had happened he could not even retain
his respect for her. In this way she thought of it, judging Kirkwood by the
ideal standard, which fortunately is so unlike human nature; taking it for
granted - so oppressed was her mind by the habit of dwelling on artificial
motives - that he only liked her because he had believed her strong in purpose,
forgetting altogether that his love had grown before he was aware that anything
unusual was required of her. She did remember, indeed, that it was only the
depth of her love for him which had caused her disgrace; but, even if he came to
understand that, it would not, she feared, weigh in her favour against his
judgment.
    It was the natural result of the influences to which she had been subjected.
Her mind, overwrought by resolute contemplation of ideas beyond its scope, her
gentle nature bent beneath a burden of duty to which it was unequal, and taught
to consider with painful solemnity those impulses of kindness which would
otherwise have been merely the simple joys of life, she had come to distrust
every instinct which did not subserve the supreme purpose. Even of Sidney's
conduct she could not reason in a natural way. Instinct would have bidden her
reproach him, though ever so gently; was it well done to draw away when he must
have known how she looked for his aid? Her artificial self urged, on the other
hand, that he had not acted thus without some gravely considered motive. What it
was she could not pretend to divine; her faith in his nobleness overcame every
perplexity. Of the persons constituting this little group and playing their
several parts, she alone had fallen altogether below what was expected of her.
As humble now as in the days of her serfdom, Jane was incapable of revolting
against the tyranny of circumstances. Life had grown very hard for her again,
but she believed that this was to a great extent her own fault, the outcome of
her own unworthy weakness.
    At Michael's return she did her best to betray no idle despondency. Their
midday meal was almost as silent as breakfast had been; his eyes avoided her,
and frequently he lost himself in thought. As he was rising from the table Jane
observed an unsteadiness in his movement; he shook his head mechanically and
leaned forward on both his hands, as if feeling giddy. She approached him, but
did not venture to speak.
    »I'll go upstairs,« he said, having sighed slightly.
    »May I come and read to you, grandfather?«
    »Not just now, Jane. Go out whilst it's a bit fine.«
    He went from the room, still with an unsteady walk. Reaching his own room,
where there was a cheerful fire, he sat down, and remained for a long time
unoccupied, save with his reflections. This chamber had scarcely changed in a
detail of its arrangement since he first came to inhabit it. There was the chair
which Sidney always used, and that on which Jane had sat since she was the
silent, frail child of thirteen. Here had his vision taken form, growing more
definite with the growth of his granddaughter, seeming to become at length a
splendid reality. What talk had been held here between Kirkwood and himself
whilst Jane listened! All gone into silence; gone, too, the hope it had
encouraged.
    He was weary after the morning's absence from home, and fell into a light
slumber. Dreams troubled him. First he found himself in Australia; he heard
again the sudden news of his son's death; the shock awoke him. Another dozing
fit, and he was a young man with a wife and children to support; haunted with
the fear of coming to want; harsh, unreasonable in his exactions at home.
Something like a large black coffin came into his dream, and in dread of it he
again returned to consciousness.
    All night he had been thinking of the dark story of long ago - his wife's
form motionless on the bed - the bottle which told him what had happened. Why
must that memory revive to trouble his last days? Part of his zeal for the great
project had come of a feeling that he might thus in some degree repair his
former ill-doing; Jane would be a providence to many hapless women whose burden
was as heavy as his own wife's had been. Must he abandon that solace? In any
case he could bestow his money for charitable purposes, but it would not be the
same, it would not effect what he had aimed at.
    Late in the afternoon he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a long
envelope and took thence a folded paper. It was covered with clerkly writing,
which he perused several times. At length he tore the paper slowly across the
middle, again tore the fragments, and threw them on to the fire. ...
 
Jane obeyed her grandfather's word and went out for an hour. She wished for news
of Pennyloaf, who had been ill, and was now very near the time of her
confinement. At the door of the house in Merlin Place she was surprised to
encounter Bob Hewett, who stood in a lounging attitude; he had never appeared to
her so disreputable - not that his clothes were worse than usual, but his face
and hands were dirty, and the former was set in a hang-dog look.
    »Is your wife upstairs, Mr. Hewett?« Jane asked, when he had nodded sullenly
in reply to her greeting.
    »Yes; and somebody else too as could have been dispensed with. There's
another mouth to feed.«
    »No, there ain't,« cried a woman's voice just behind him.
    Jane recognised the speaker, a Mrs. Griffin, who lived in the house and was
neighbourly to Pennyloaf.
    »There ain't?« inquired Bob, gruffly.
    »The child's dead.«
    »Thank goodness for that, any way!«
    Mrs. Griffin explained to Jane that the birth had taken place twelve hours
ago. Pennyloaf was very low, but not in a state to cause anxiety; perhaps it
would be better for Jane to wait until to-morrow before seeing her.
    »She didn't say thank goodness, added the woman, with a scornful glance at
Bob, but I don't think she's over sorry as it's gone, an' small blame to her.
There's some people as doesn't't care much what sort o' times she has - not
meanin' you, Miss, but them as had ought to care.«
    Bob looked more disreputable than ever. His eyes were fixed on Jane, and
with such a singular expression that the latter, meeting their gaze, felt
startled, she did not know why. At the same moment he stepped down from the
threshold and walked away without speaking.
    »I shouldn't care to have him for a 'husband,« pursued Mrs. Griffin. »Of
course he must go an' lose his work, just when his wife's wantin' a few little
extries, as you may say.«
    »Lost his work?«
    »Day 'fore yes'day. I don't like him, an' I don't like his ways; he'll be
getting' into trouble before long, you mind what I say. His family's a queer lot,
'cordin to what they tell. Do you know them, Miss?«
    »I used to, a long time ago.«
    »You knew his sister - her as is come 'ome?«
    »His sister?«
    »Her as was a actress. Mrs. Bannister was telling' me only last night; she
had it from Mrs. Horrocks, as heard from a friend of hers as lives in the
Farrin'don Buildin's, where the Hewetts lives too. They tell me it was in the
Sunday paper, though I don't remember nothing about it at the time. It seems as
how a woman threw vitrol over her an' burnt her face so as there's no knowin'
her, an' she goes about with a veil, an' 'cause she can't get her own living' no
more, of course she's come back 'ome, for all she ran away an' disgraced herself
shameful.«
    Jane gazed fixedly at the speaker, scarcely able to gather the sense of what
was said.
    »Miss Hewett, you mean? Mr. Hewett's eldest daughter?«
    »So I understand.«
    »She has come home? When?«
    »I can't just say; but a few weeks ago, I believe. They say it's nearly two
months since it was in the paper.«
 
»Does Mrs. Hewett know about it?«
    »I can't say. She's never spoke to me as if she did. And, as I tell you, I
only heard yes'day myself. If you're a friend of theirs, p'r'aps I hadn't
oughtn't to a' mentioned it. It just come to my lips in the way o' talking'. Of
course I don't know nothing' about the young woman myself; it's only what you
comes to 'ear in the way o' talking', you know.«
    This apology was doubtless produced by the listener's troubled countenance.
Jane asked no further question, but said she would come to see Pennyloaf on the
morrow, and so took her leave.
    At ten o'clock next morning, just when Jane was preparing for her visit to
Merlin Place, so possessed with anxiety to ascertain if Pennyloaf knew anything
about Clara Hewett that all her troubles were for the moment in the back ground,
Bessie Byass came running upstairs with a strange announcement. Sidney Kirkwood
had called, and wished to see Miss Snowdon in private for a few minutes.
    »Something must have happened,« said Jane, her heart standing still.
    Bessie had a significant smile, but suppressed it when she noticed the
agitation into which her friend was fallen.
    »Shall I ask him up into the front room?«
    Michael was in his own chamber, which he had not left this morning. On going
to the parlour Jane found her visitor standing in expectancy. Yes, something had
happened; it needed but to look at him to be convinced of that. And before a
word was spoken Jane knew that his coming had reference to Clara Hewett, knew it
with the strangest certainty.
    »I didn't go to work this morning,« Sidney began, »because I was very
anxious to see you - alone. I have something to speak about - to tell you.«
    »Let us sit down.«
    Sidney waited till he met her look; she regarded him without
self-consciousness, without any effort to conceal her agitated interest.
    »You see young Hewett and his wife sometimes. Have you heard from either of
them that Clara Hewett is living with her father again?«
    »Not from them. A person in their house spoke about it yesterday. It was the
first I had heard.«
    »Spoke of Miss Hewett? In a gossiping way, do you mean?«
    »Yes.«
    »Then you know what has happened to her?«
    »If the woman told the truth.«
    There was silence.
    »Miss Snowdon -«
    »Oh, I donst like you to speak so. You used to call me Jane.«
    He looked at her in distress. She had spoken impulsively, but not with the
kind of emotion the words seem to imply. It was for his sake, not for hers, that
she broke that formal speech.
    »You called me so when I was a child, Mr. Kirkwood,« she continued, smiling
for all she was so pale. »It sounds as if something had altered. You're my
oldest friend, and won't you always be so? Whatever you're going to tell me,
surely it doesn't't prevent us from being friends, just the same as always?«
    He had not seen her in her weakness, the night before last. As little as he
could imagine that, was he able to estimate the strength with which she now
redeemed her womanly dignity. His face told her what he had to disclose. No
question now of proving herself superior to common feelings; it was Sidney who
made appeal to her, and her heart went forth to grant him all he desired.
    »Jane - dear, good Jane - you remember what I said to you in the garden at
Danbury - that I had forgotten her. I thought it was true. But you know what a
terrible thing has befallen her. I should be less than a man if I could say that
she is nothing to me.«
    »Have you spoken to her?«
    »I have asked her to be my wife. Jane, if I had come to you yesterday,
before going to her, and had told you what I meant to do, and explained all I
felt, how the love of years ago had grown in me again, wouldn't you have given
me a friendly hand?«
    »Just like I do now. Do you think I have forgotten one night when she stood
by me and saved me from cruel treatment, and then nursed me when I fell ill?«
    Neither of them had the habit of making long speeches. They understood each
other - very nearly; sufficiently, at all events, to make the bond of sympathy
between them stronger than ever. Jane was misled a little, for she thought that
here was the explanation of Sidney's withdrawing his word to her grandfather;
doubtless he heard of the calamity when it happened. But on a more essential
point she fell into no misconception. Did Sidney desire that she should?
    He held her hand until she gently drew it away.
    »You will go up and tell grandfather,« she said, gravely; then added, before
he could speak, »But I'll just see him first for a minute. He hasn't been out of
his room this morning yet. Please wait here.«
    She left him, and Sidney fell back on his chair, woebegone, distracted.
    Michael, brooding sorrowfully, at first paid no heed to Jane when she
entered his room. It was not long since he had risen, and his simple breakfast,
scarcely touched, was still on the table.
    »Grandfather, Mr. Kirkwood is here, and wishes to speak to you.«
    He collected himself, and, regarding her, became aware that she was strongly
moved.
    »Wishes to see me, Jane? Then I suppose he came to see you first?«
    Prepared now for anything unexpected, feeling that the links between himself
and these young people were artificial, and that he could but watch, as if from
a distance, the course of their lives, his first supposition was, that Sidney
had again altered his mind. He spoke coldly, and had little inclination for the
interview.
    »Yes,« Jane replied, »he came to see me, but only to tell me that he is
going to be married.«
    His wrinkled face slowly gathered an expression of surprise.
    »He will tell you who it is; he will explain. But I wanted to speak to you
first. Grandfather, I was afraid you might say something about me. Will you -
will you forget my foolishness? Will you think of me as you did before? When he
has spoken to you, you will understand why I am content to put everything out of
my mind, everything you and I talked of. But I couldn't bear for him to know how
I have disappointed you. Will you let me be all I was to you before? Will you
trust me again, grandfather? You haven't spoken to him yet about me, have you?«
    Michael shook his head.
    »Then you will let it be as if nothing had happened? Grandfather -«
    She bent beside him and took his hand. Michael looked at her with a light
once more in his eyes.
    »Tell him to come. He shall hear nothing from me, Jane.«
    »And you will try to forget it?«
    »I wish nothing better. Tell him to come here, my child. When he's gone
we'll talk together again.«
    The interview did not last long, and Sidney left the house without seeing
Jane a second time.
 
She would have promised anything now. Seeing that life had but one path of
happiness for her, the path hopelessly closed, what did it matter by which of
the innumerable other ways she accomplished her sad journey? For an instant,
whilst Sidney was still speaking, she caught a gleam of hope in renunciation
itself, the kind of strength which idealism is fond of attributing to noble
natures. A gleam only, and deceptive; she knew it too well after the day spent
by her grandfather's side, encouraging, at the expense of her heart's blood, all
his revived faith in her. But she would not again give way. The old man should
reap fruit of her gratitude and Sidney should never suspect how nearly she had
proved herself unworthy of his high opinion.
    She had dreamed her dream, and on awaking must be content to take up the
day's duties. Just in the same way, when she was a child at Mrs. Peckover's, did
not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of freedom from bitter tasks, and
had she not to wake in the miserable mornings, trembling lest she had lain too
long? Her condition was greatly better than then, so much better that it seemed
wicked folly to lament because one joy was not granted her. - Why, in the
meantime she had forgotten all about Pennyloaf. That visit must be paid the
first thing this morning.
 

                                  Chapter XXXV

                             The Treasury Unlocked

A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton Crescent, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph
Snowdon were breakfasting. The sound of church bells - most depressing of all
sounds that mingle in the voice of London - intimated that it was nearly eleven
o'clock, but neither of our friends had in view the attendance of public
worship. Blended odours of bacon and kippered herrings filled the room - indeed,
the house, for several breakfasts were in progress under the same roof. For a
wonder, the morning was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered on the worn
carpet, and the grime of the window-panes was visible against an unfamiliar sky.
Joseph, incompletely dressed, had a Sunday paper propped before him, and read
whilst he ate. Clem, also in anything but grande toilette, was using a knife for
the purpose of conveying to her mouth the juice which had exuded from crisp
rashers. As usual, they had very little to say to each other. Clem looked at her
husband now and then, from under her eyebrows, surreptitiously.
    After one of these glances she said, in a tone which was not exactly
hostile, but had a note of suspicion:
    »I'd give something to know why he's going to marry Clara Hewett.«
    »Not the first time you've made that remark,« returned Joseph, without
looking up from his paper.
    »I suppose I can speak?«
    »Oh, yes. But I'd try to do so in a more lady-like way.«
    Clem flashed at him a gleam of hatred. He had become fond lately of drawing
attention to her defects of breeding. Clem certainly did not keep up with his
own progress in the matter of external refinement; his comments had given her a
sense of inferiority, which irritated her solely as meaning that she was not his
equal in craft. She let a minute or two pass, then returned to the subject.
    »There's something at the bottom of it; I know that. Of course you know more
about it than you pretend.«
    Joseph leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a smile of the
loftiest scorn.
    »It never occurs to you to explain it in the simplest way, of course. If
ever you hear of a marriage, the first thing you ask yourself is: What has he or
she to gain by it? Natural enough - in you. Now do you really suppose that all
marriages come about in the way that yours did - on your side, I mean?«
    Clem was far too dull-witted to be capable of quick retort. She merely
replied:
    »I don't know what you're talking about.«
    »Of course not. But let me assure you that people sometimes think of other
things besides making profit when they get married. It's a pity that you always
show yourself so coarse-minded.«
    Joseph was quite serious in administering this rebuke. He really felt
himself justified in holding the tone of moral superiority. The same phenomenon
has often been remarked in persons conscious that their affairs are prospering,
and whose temptations to paltry meanness are on that account less frequent.
    »And what about yourself?« asked his wife, having found her retort at
length. »Why did you want to marry me, I'd like to know?«
 
»Why? You are getting too modest. How could I live in the same house with such a
good-looking and sweet-tempered and well-behaved -«
    »Oh, shut up!« she exclaimed, in a voice such as one hears at the
street-corner. »It was just because you thought we was goin' to be fools enough
to keep you in idleness. Who was the fool, after all?«
    Joseph smiled, and returned to his newspaper. In satisfaction at having
reduced him to silence, Clem laughed aloud and clattered with the knife on her
plate. As she was doing so there came a knock at the door.
    »A gentleman wants to know if you're in, sir,« said the house-thrall,
showing a smeary face. »Mr. Byass is the name.«
    »Mr. Byass? I'll go down and see him.«
    Clem's face became alive with suspicion. In spite of her careless attire she
intercepted Joseph, and bade the servant ask Mr. Byass to come upstairs. »How
can you go down without a collar?« she said to her husband.
    He understood, and was somewhat uneasy, but made no resistance. Mr. Byass
presented himself. He had a very long face, and obviously brought news of grave
import. Joseph shook hands with him.
    »You don't know my wife, I think. Mr. Byass, Clem. Nothing wrong, I hope?«
    Samuel, having made his best City bow, swung back from his toes to his
heels, and stood looking down into his hat. »I'm sorry to say,« he began, with
extreme gravity, »that Mr. Snowdon is rather ill - in fact, very ill. Miss Jane
asked me to come as sharp as I could.«
    »Ill? In what way?«
    »I'm afraid it's a stroke, or something in that line. He fell down without a
word of warning, just before ten o'clock. He's lying insensible.«
    »I'll come at once,« said Joseph. »They've got a doctor, I hope?«
    »Yes; the doctor had been summoned instantly.«
    »I'll go with you,« said Clem, in a tone of decision.
    »No, no; what's the good? You'll only be in the way.«
    »No, I shan't. If he's as bad as all that, I shall come.«
    Both withdrew to prepare themselves. Mr. Byass, who was very nervous and
perspiring freely, began to walk round and round the table, inspecting closely,
in complete absence of mind, the objects that lay on it.
    »We'll have a cab,« cried Joseph, as he came forth equipped. »Poor Jane's in
a sad state, I'm afraid, eh?«
    In a few minutes they were driving up Pentonville Road. Clem scarcely ever
removed her eye from Joseph's face; the latter held his lips close together and
kept his brows wrinkled. Few words passed during the drive.
    At the door of the house appeared Bessie, much agitated. All turned into the
parlour on the ground floor and spoke together for a few minutes. Michael had
been laid on his bed; at present Jane only was with him, but the doctor would
return shortly.
    »Will you tell her I'm here?« said Joseph to Mrs. Byass. »I'll see her in
the sitting-room.«
    He went up and waited. Throughout the house prevailed that unnatural,
nerve-distressing quietude which tells the presence of calamity. The church
bells had ceased ringing, and Sunday's silence in the street enhanced the effect
of blankness and alarming expectancy. Joseph could not keep still; he strained
his ears in attention to any slight sound that might come from the floor above,
and his heart beat painfully when at length the door opened.
    Jane fixed her eyes on him and came silently forward.
    »Does he show any signs of coming round?« her father inquired.
    »No. He hasn't once moved.«
    She spoke only just above a whisper. The shock kept her still trembling and
her face bloodless.
    »Tell me how it happened, Jane.«
    »He'd just got up. I'd taken him his breakfast, and we were talking. All at
once he began to turn round, and then he fell down - before I could reach him.«
    »I'll go upstairs, shall I?«
    Jane could not overcome her fear; at the door of the bedroom she drew back,
involuntarily, that her father might enter before her. When she forced herself
to follow, the first glimpse of the motionless form shook her from head to foot.
The thought of death was dreadful to her, and death seemed to lurk invisibly in
this quiet room. The pale sunlight affected her as a mockery of hope.
    »You won't go away again, father?« she whispered.
    He shook his head.
    In the meantime Bessie and Clem were conversing. On the single previous
occasion of Clem's visit to the house they had not met. They examined each
other's looks with curiosity. Clem wished it were possible to get at the secrets
of which Mrs. Byass was doubtless in possession; Bessie on her side was
reserved, circumspect.
    »Will he get over it?« the former inquired, with native brutality.
    »I'm sure I don't know; I hope he may.«
    The medical man arrived, and when he came downstairs again Joseph
accompanied him. Clem, when she found that nothing definite could be learned,
and that her husband had no intention of leaving, expressed her wish to walk
round to Clerkenwell Close and see her mother. Joseph approved.
    »You'd better have dinner there,« he said to her privately. »We can't both
of us come down on the Byasses.«
    She nodded, and with a parting glance of hostile suspicion set forth. When
she had crossed City Road, Clem's foot was on her native soil; she bore herself
with conscious importance, hoping to meet some acquaintance who would be
impressed by her attire and demeanour. Nothing of the kind happened, however. It
was the dead hour of Sunday morning, midway in service-time, and long before the
opening of public-houses. In the neighbourhood of those places of refreshment
were occasionally found small groups of men and boys, standing with their hands
in their pockets, dispirited, seldom caring even to smoke; they kicked their
heels against the kerbstone and sighed for one o'clock. Clem went by them with a
haughty balance of her head.
    As she entered by the open front door and began to descend the kitchen
steps, familiar sounds were audible. Mrs. Peckover's voice was raised in dispute
with some one; it proved to be a quarrel with a female lodger respecting the sum
of three-pence-farthing, alleged by the landlady to be owing on some account or
other. The two women had already reached the point of calling each other liar
and thief. Clem, having no acquaintance with the lodger, walked into the kitchen
with an air of contemptuous indifference. The quarrel continued for another ten
minutes - if the head of either had been suddenly cut off it would assuredly
have gone on railing for an appreciable time - and Clem waited, sitting before
the fire. At last the lodger had departed, and the last note of her virulence
died away.
    »And what do you want?« asked Mrs. Peckover, turning sharply upon her
daughter.
    »I suppose I can come to see you, can't I?«
    »Come to see me! Likely! When did you come last? You're a ungrateful beast,
that's what you are!«
    »All right. Go a'ead! Anything else you'd like to call me?«
    Mrs. Peckover was hurt by the completeness with which Clem had established
her independence. To do the woman justice, she had been actuated, in her design
of capturing Joseph Snowdon, at least as much by a wish to establish her
daughter satisfactorily as by the ever-wakeful instinct which bade her seize
whenever gain lay near her clutches. Clem was proving disloyal, had grown
secretive. Mrs. Peckover did not look for any direct profit worth speaking of
from the marriage she had brought about, but she did desire the joy of
continuing to plot against Joseph with his wife. Moreover, she knew that Clem
was a bungler, altogether lacking in astuteness, and her soul was pained by the
thought of chances being missed. Her encounter with the lodger had wrought her
up to the point at which she could discuss matters with Clem frankly. The two
abused each other for a while, but Clem really desired to communicate her news,
so that calmer dialogue presently ensued.
    »Old Snowdon's had a stroke, if you'd like to know, and it's my belief he
won't get over it.«
    »Your belief! And what's your belief worth? Had a stroke, has he? Who told
you?«
    »I've just come from the 'ouse. Jo's stoppin' there.«
    They discussed the situation in all its aspects, but Mrs. Peckover gave it
clearly to be understood that, from her point of view, the game was spoilt. As
long as Joseph continued living under her roof she could in a measure direct the
course of events; Clem had chosen to abet him in his desire for removal, and if
ill came of it she had only herself to blame.
    »I can look out for myself,« said Clem.
    »Can you? I'm glad to hear it.«
    And Mrs. Peckover sniffed the air, scornfully. The affectionate pair dined
together, each imbibing a pint and a half of mild and bitter, and Clem returned
to Hanover Street. From Joseph she could derive no information as to the state
of the patient.
    »If you will stay here, where you can do no good,« he said, »sit down and
keep quiet.«
    »Certainly I shall stay,« said his wife, »because I know you want to get rid
of me.«
    Joseph left her in the sitting-room, and went upstairs again to keep his
daughter company. Jane would not leave the bedside. To enter the room, after an
interval elsewhere, wrung her feelings too painfully; better to keep her eyes
fixed on the unmoving form, to overcome the dread by facing it.
    She and her father seldom exchanged a word. The latter was experiencing
human emotion, but at the same time he had no little anxiety regarding his
material interests. It was ten days since he had learnt that there was no longer
the least fear of a marriage between Jane and Sidney, seeing that Kirkwood was
going to marry some one else - a piece of news which greatly astonished him, and
confirmed him in his judgment that he had been on the wrong tack in judging
Kirkwood's character. At the same time he had been privily informed by
Scawthorne of an event which had ever since kept him very uneasy - Michael's
withdrawal of his will from the hands of the solicitors. With what purpose this
had been done Scawthorne could not conjecture; Mr. Percival had made no comment
in his hearing. In all likelihood the will was now in this very room. Joseph
surveyed every object again and again. He wondered whether Jane knew anything of
the matter, but not all his cynicism could persuade him that at the present time
her thoughts were taking the same direction as his own.
    The day waned. Its sombre close was unspeakably mournful in this haunted
chamber. Jane could not bear it; she hid her face and wept.
    When the doctor came again, at six o'clock, he whispered to Joseph that the
end was nearer than he had anticipated. Near, indeed; less than ten minutes
after the warning had been given Michael ceased to breathe.
    Jane knelt by the bed, convulsed with grief, unable to hear the words her
father addressed to her. He sat for five minutes, then again spoke. She rose and
replied.
    »Will you come with us, Jane, or would rather stay with Mrs. Byass?«
    »I will stay, please, father.«
    He hesitated, but the thought that rose was even for him too ignoble to be
entertained.
    »As you please, my dear. Of course no one must enter your rooms but Mrs.
Byass. I must go now, but I shall look in again to-night.«
    »Yes, father.«
    She spoke mechanically. He had to lead her from the room, and, on quitting
the house, left her all but unconscious in Bessie's arms.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVI

                                    The Heir

»And you mean to say,« cried Clem, when she was in the cab with her husband
speeding back to Burton Crescent - »you mean to say as you've left them people
to do what they like?«
    »I suppose I know my own business,« replied Joseph, wishing to convey the
very impression which in fact he did - that he had the will in his pocket.
    On reaching home he sat down at once and penned a letter to Messrs. Percival
&amp; Peel, formally apprising them of what had happened. Clem sat by and
watched him. Having sealed the envelope, he remarked:
    »I'm going out for a couple of hours.«
    »Then I shall go with you.«
    »You'll do nothing of the kind. Why, what do you mean, you great gaping
fool?« The agitation of his nerves made him break into unaccustomed violence.
»Do you suppose you're going to follow me everywhere for the next week? Are you
afraid I shall run away? If I mean to do so, do you think you can stop me?
You'll just wait here till I come hack, which will be before ten o'clock. Do you
hear?«
    She looked at him fiercely, but his energy was too much for her, and
perforce she let him go. As soon as he had left the house, she too sat down and
indited a letter. It ran thus:
        »Dear Mother, - The old feller has gawn of it apened at jest after six
        o'clock if you want to now I shall come and sea you at ten 'clock to-
        morow moning and I beleve hes got the will but hes a beest and theers a
        game up you may take your hothe so I remain C.S.«
This document she took to the nearest pillar-post, then returned and sat
brooding.
    By the first hansom available Joseph was driven right across London to a
certain dull street in Chelsea. Before dismissing the vehicle he knocked at the
door of a lodging-house and made inquiry for Mr. Scawthorne. To his surprise and
satisfaction, Mr. Scawthorne happened to be at home; so the cab man was paid, and
Joseph went up to the second floor.
    In his shabby little room Scawthorne sat smoking and reading. It was a
season of impecuniosity with him, and his mood was anything but cheerful. He did
not rise when his visitor entered.
    »Well now, what do you think brings me here?« exclaimed Joseph, when he had
carefully closed the door.
    »Hanged if I know, but it doesn't't seem to be particularly bad news.«
    Indeed, Joseph had overcome his sensibilities by this time, and his aspect
was one of joyous excitement. Seeing on the table a bottle of sherry, loosely
corked, he pointed to it.
    »If you don't mind, Scaw. I'm a bit upset, a bit flurried. Got another
wine-glass?«
    From the cupboard Scawthorne produced one and bade the visitor help himself.
His face began to express curiosity. Joseph tilted the draught down his throat
and showed satisfaction.
    »That does me good. I've had a troublesome day. It ain't often my feelings
are tried.«
    »Well, what is it?«
    »My boy, we are all mortal. I dare say you've heard that observation before;
can you apply it to any particular case?«
    Scawthorne was startled; he delayed a moment before speaking.
    »You don't mean to say -«
    »Exactly. Died a couple of hours ago, after lying insensible all day, poor
old man! I've just written your people a formal announcement. Now, what do you
think of that? If you don't mind, old fellow.«
    He filled himself another glass, and tilted it off as before. Scawthorne had
dropped his eyes to the ground, and stood in meditation.
    »Now what about the will?« pursued Joseph.
    »You haven't looked foe it?« questioned his friend with an odd look.
    »Thought it more decent to wait a few hours. The girl was about, you see,
and what's more, my wife was. But have you heard anything since I saw you?«
    »Why, yes. A trifle.«
    »Out with it! What are you grinning about? Don't keep me on hot coals.«
    »Well, it's amusing, and that's the fact. Take another glass of sherry;
you'll need support.«
    »Oh, I'm prepared for the worst. He's cut me out altogether, eh? That comes
of me meddling with the girl's affairs - damnation! When there wasn't't the least
need, either.«
    »A bad job. The fact is, Percival had a letter from him at midday yesterday.
The senior had left the office; young Percival opened the letter, and spoke to
me about it. Now, prepare yourself. The letter said that he had destroyed his
former will, and would come to the office on Monday - that's to-morrow - to give
instructions for a new one.«
    Joseph stood and stared.
    »To-morrow? Why, then, there's no will at all?«
    »An admirable deduction. I congratulate you on your logic.«
    Snowdon flung up his arms wildly, then began to leap about the room.
    »Try another glass,« said Scawthorne. »There's still a bottle in the
cupboard; don't be afraid.«
    »And you mean to tell me it's all mine?«
    »The wine? You're very welcome.«
    »Wine be damned! The money, my boy, the money! Scawthorne, I'm not a mean
chap. As sure as you and me stand here, you shall have - you shall have a
hundred pounds! I mean it; dash me, I mean it! You've been devilish useful to
me; and what's more I haven't done with you yet. Do you twig, old boy?«
    »You mean that a confidential agent in England, unsuspected, may be needed?«
    »Shouldn't wonder if I do.«
    »Can't be managed under double the money, my good sir,« observed Scawthorne,
with unmistakable seriousness. »Worth your while, I promise you. Have another
glass. Fair commission. Think it over.«
    »Look here! I shall have to make the girl an allowance.«
    »There's the filter-works. Don't be stingy.«
    Joseph was growing very red in the face. He drank glass after glass; he
flung his arms about; he capered.
    »Damn me if you shall call me that, Scaw! Two hundred it shall be. But what
was the old cove up to? Why did he destroy the other will? What would the new
one have been?«
    »Can't answer either question, but it's probably as well for you that
to-morrow never comes.«
    »Now just see how things turn out!« went on the other, in the joy of his
heart. »All the thought and the trouble that I've gone through this last year,
when I might have taken it easy and waited for chance to make me rich! Look at
Kirkwood's business. There was you and me knocking our heads together and
raising lumps on them, as you may say, to find out a plan of keeping him and
Jane apart, when all the while we'd nothing to do but to look on and wait, if
only we'd known. Now this is what I call the working of Providence, Scawthorne.
Who's going to say after this, that things ain't as they should be? Everything's
for the best, my boy; I see that clearly enough.«
    »Decidedly,« assented Scawthorne, with a smile. »The honest man is always
rewarded in the long run. And that reminds me; I too have had a stroke of luck.«
    He went on to relate that his position in the office of Percival &amp; Peel
was now nominally that of an articled clerk, and that in three years' time, if
all went well, he would be received in the firm as junior partner.
    »There's only one little project I am sorry to give up, in connection with
your affairs, Snowdon. If it had happened that your daughter had inherited the
money, why shouldn't I have had the honour of becoming your son-in-law?«
    Joseph stared, then burst into hearty laughter.
    »I tell you what,« he said, recovering himself, »why should you give up that
idea? She's as good a girl as you'll ever come across, I can tell you that, my
boy. There's better-looking, but you won't find many as modest and good-hearted.
Just make her acquaintance, and tell me if I've deceived you. And look here,
Scawthorne; by George, I'll make a bargain with you! You say you'll be a partner
in three years. Marry Jane when that day comes, and I'll give you a thousand for
a wedding present. I mean it! What's more, I'll make my will on your
marriage-day and leave everything I've got to you and her. There now!«
    »What makes you so benevolent all at once?« inquired Scawthorne, blandly.
    »Do you think I've got no fatherly feeling, man? Why, if it wasn't't for my
wife I'd ask nothing better than to settle down with Jane to keep house for me.
She's a good girl, I tell you, and I wish her happiness.«
    »And do you think I'm exactly the man to make her a model husband?«
    »I don't see why not - now you're going to be a partner in a good business.
Don't you think I'm ten times as honest a man to-day as I was yesterday? Poor
devils can't afford to be what they'd wish, in the way of honesty and decent
living.«
    »True enough for once,« remarked the other, without irony.
    »You think it over, Scaw. I'm a man of my word. You shall have your money as
soon as things are straight; and if you can bring about that affair, I'll do all
I said - so there's my hand on it. Say the word, and I'll make you acquainted
with her before - before I take that little trip you know of, just for my
health.«
    »We'll speak of it again.«
    Thereupon they parted. In the course of the following day Scawthorne's
report received official confirmation. Joseph pondered deeply with himself
whether he should tell his wife the truth or not; there were arguments for both
courses. By Tuesday morning he had decided for the truth; that would give more
piquancy to a pleasant little jest he had in mind. At breakfast he informed her,
as if casually, and it amused him to see that she did not believe him.
    »You'll be anxious to tell your mother. Go and spend the day with her, but
be back by five o'clock; then we'll talk things over. I have business with the
lawyers again.«
    Clem repaired to the Close. Late in the afternoon she and her husband again
met at home, and by this time Joseph's elation had convinced her that he was
telling the truth. Never had he been in such a suave humour; he seemed to wish
to make up for his late severities. Seating himself near her, he began
pleasantly:
    »Well, things might have been worse, eh?«
    »I s'pose they might.«
    »I haven't spoken to Jane yet. Time enough after the funeral. What shall we
do for the poor girl, eh?«
    »How do I know?«
    »You won't grudge her a couple of pounds a week, or so, just to enable her
to live with the Byasses, as she has been doing?«
    »I s'pose the money's your own to do what you like with.«
    »Very kind of you to say so, my dear. But we're well-to-do people now, and
we must be polite to each other. Where shall we take a house, Clem? Would you
like to be a bit out of town? There's very nice places within easy reach of
King's Cross, you know, on the Great Northern. A man I know lives at Potter's
Bar, and finds it very pleasant; good air. Of course I must be within easy reach
of business.«
    She kept drawing her nails over a fold in her dress, making a scratchy
sound.
    »It happened just at the right time,« he continued. »The business wants a
little more capital put into it. I tell you what it is, Clem; in a year or two
we shall be coining money, old girl.«
    »Shall you?«
    »Right enough. There's just one thing I'm a little anxious about; you won't
mind me mentioning it? Do you think your mother'll expect us to do anything for
her?«
    Clem regarded him with cautious scrutiny. He was acting well, and her
profound distrust began to be mingled with irritating uncertainty.
    »What can she expect? If she does, she'll have to be disappointed, that's
all.«
    »I don't want to seem mean, you know. But then she isn't so badly off
herself, is she?«
    »I know nothing about it. You'd better ask her.«
    And Clem grinned. Thereupon Joseph struck a facetious note, and for half an
hour made himself very agreeable. Now for the first time, he said, could he feel
really settled; life was smooth before him. They would have a comfortable home,
the kind of place to which he could invite his friends; one or two excellent
fellows he knew would bring their wives, and so Clem would have more society.
    »Suppose you learn the piano, old girl? It wouldn't be amiss. By-the-by, I
hope they'll turn you out some creditable mourning. You'll have to find a West
End dressmaker.«
    She listened, and from time to time smiled ambiguously. ...
    At noon of the next day Clem was walking on that part of the Thames
Embankment which is between Waterloo Bridge and the Temple Pier. It was a mild
morning, misty, but illuminated now and then with rays of sunlight, which
gleamed dully upon the river and gave a yellowness to remote objects. At the
distance of a dozen paces walked Bob Hewett; the two had had a difference in
their conversation, and for some minutes kept thus apart, looking sullenly at
the ground. Clem turned aside, and leaned her arms on the parapet. Presently her
companion drew near and leaned in the same manner.
    »What is it you want me to do?« he asked huskily. »Just speak plain, can't
you?«
    »If you can't understand - if you won't, that is - it's no good speakin'
plainer.«
    »You said the other night as you didn't care about his money. If you think
he means hookin' it, let him go, and good riddance.«
    »That's a fool's way of talking'. I'm not goin' to lose it all, if I can help
it. There's a way of stoppin' him, and of getting' the money too.«
    They both stared down at the water; it was full tide, and the muddy surface
looked almost solid.
    »You wouldn't get it all,« were Bob's next words. »I've been asking about
that.«
    »You have? Who did you ask?«
    »Oh, a feller you don't know. You'd only have a third part of it, and the
girl 'ud get the rest.«
    »What do you call a third part?«
    So complete was her stupidity, that Bob had to make a laborious explanation
of this mathematical term. She could have understood what was meant by a half or
a quarter, but the unfamiliar third conveyed no distinct meaning.
    »I don't care,« she said at length. »That 'ud be enough.«
    »Clem - you'd better leave this job alone. You'd better, I warn you.«
    »I shan't.«
    Another long silence. A steamboat drew up to the Temple Pier, and a yellow
shaft of sunlight fell softly upon its track in the water.
    »What do you want me to do?« Bob recommenced. »How?«
    Their eyes met, and in the woman's gaze he found a horrible fascination, a
devilish allurement to that which his soul shrank from. She lowered her voice.
    »There's lots of ways. It 'ud be easy to make it seem as somebody did it
just to rob him. He's always out late at night.«
    His face was much the colour of the muddy water yellowed by that shaft of
sunlight. His lips quivered. »I dursn't, Clem. I tell you plain, I dursn't.«
    »Coward!« she snarled at him, savagely. »Coward! All right, Mr. Bob. You go
your way, and I'll go mine.«
    »Listen here, Clem,« he gasped out, laying his hand on her arm. »I'll think
about it. I won't say no. Give me a day to think about it.«
    »Oh, we know what your thinking' means.«
    They talked for some time longer, and before they parted Bob had given a
promise to do more than think.
    The long, slouching strides with which he went up from the Embankment to the
Strand gave him the appearance of a man partly overcome with drink. For hours he
walked about the City, in complete oblivion of everything external. Only when
the lights began to shine from shop-windows did he consciously turn to his own
district. It was raining now. The splashes of cool moisture made him aware how
feverishly hot his face was.
    When he got among the familiar streets he went slinkingly, hurrying round
corners, avoiding glances. Almost at a run he turned into Merlin Place, and he
burst into his room as though he were pursued.
    Pennyloaf had now but one child to look after, a girl of two years, a feeble
thing. Her own state was wretched; professedly recovered from illness, she felt
so weak, so low-spirited, that the greater part of her day was spent in crying.
The least exertion was too much for her; but for frequent visits from Jane
Snowdon she must have perished for very lack of wholesome food. She was crying
when startled by her husband's entrance, and though she did her best to hide the
signs of it, Bob saw.
    »When are you going to stop that?« he shouted.
    She shrank away, looking at him with fear in her red eyes.
    »Stop your snivelling, and get me some tea!«
    It was only of late that Pennyloaf had come to regard him with fear. His old
indifference and occasional brutality of language had made her life a misery,
but she had never looked for his return home with anything but anxious longing.
Now the anticipation was mingled with dread. He not only had no care for her,
not only showed that he felt her a burden upon him; his disposition now was one
of hatred, and the kind of hatred which sooner or later breaks out in ferocity.
Bob would not have come to this pass - at all events not so soon - if he had
been left to the dictates of his own nature; he was infected by the savagery of
the woman who had taken possession of him. Her lust of cruelty crept upon him
like a disease, the progress of which was hastened by all the circumstances of
his disorderly life. The man was conscious of his degradation; he knew how he
had fallen ever since he began criminal practices; he knew the increasing
hopelessness of his resolves to have done with dangers and recover his peace of
mind. The loss of his daily work, in consequence of irregularity, was the last
thing needed to complete his ruin. He did not even try to get new employment,
feeling that such a show of honest purpose was useless. Corruption was eating to
his heart; from every interview with Clem he came away a feebler and a baser
being. And upon the unresisting creature who shared his home he had begun to
expend the fury of his self-condemnation.
    He hated her because Clem bade him do so. He hated her because her suffering
rebuked him, because he must needs be at the cost of keeping her alive, because
he was bound to her.
    As she moved painfully about the room he watched her with cruel, dangerous
eyes. There was a thought tormenting his brain, a terrifying thought he had
pledged himself not to dismiss, and it seemed to exasperate him against
Pennyloaf. He had horrible impulses, twitches along his muscles; every second
the restraint of keeping in one position grew more unendurable, yet he feared to
move.
    Pennyloaf had the ill-luck to drop a saucer, and it broke on the floor. In
the same instant he leapt up and sprang on her, seized her brutally by the
shoulders and flung her with all his force against the nearest wall. At her
scream the child set up a shrill cry, and this increased his rage. With his
clenched fist he dealt blow after blow at the half-prostrate woman, speaking no
word, but uttering a strange sound, such as might come from some infuriate
animal. Pennyloaf still screamed, till at length the door was thrown open and
their neighbour, Mrs. Griffin, showed herself.
    »Well, I never!« she cried, wrathfully, rushing upon Bob. »Now you just stop
that, young man! I thought it 'ud be comin' to this before long. I saw you was
goin' that way.«
    The mildness of her expressions was partly a personal characteristic, partly
due to Mrs. Griffin's very large experience of such scenes as this. Indignant
she might be, but the situation could not move her to any unwonted force of
utterance. Enough that Bob drew back as soon as he was bidden, and seemed from
his silence to be half-ashamed of himself.
    Pennyloaf let herself lie at full length on the floor, her hands clutched
protectingly about her head; she sobbed in a quick, terrified way, and appeared
powerless to stop, even when Mrs. Griffin tried to raise her.
    »What's he been a-usin' you like this for?« the woman kept asking. »There,
there now! He shan't hit you no more, he shan't!«
    Whilst she spoke Bob turned away and went from the room.
    From Merlin Place he struck off into Pentonville and walked towards King's
Cross at his utmost speed. Not that he had any object in hastening, but a frenzy
goaded him along, faster, faster, till the sweat poured from him. From King's
Cross, northwards; out to Holloway, to Hornsey. A light rain was ceaselessly
falling; at one time he took off his hat and walked some distance bareheaded,
because it was a pleasure to feel the rain trickle over him. From Hornsey by a
great circuit he made back for Islington. Here he went into a public-house, to
quench the thirst that had grown unbearable. He had but a shilling in his
pocket, and in bringing it out he was reminded of the necessity of getting more
money. He was to have met Jack Bartley to-night, long before this hour.
    He took the direction for Smithfield, and soon reached the alley near
Bartholomew's Hospital where Bartley dwelt. As he entered the street he saw a
small crowd gathered about a public-house door; he hurried nearer, and found
that the object of interest was a man in the clutch of two others. The latter,
he perceived at a glance, were police-officers in plain clothes; the man
arrested was - Jack Bartley himself.
    Jack was beside himself with terror; he had only that moment been brought
out of the bar, and was pleading shrilly in an agony of cowardice.
    »It ain't me as made 'em! I never made one in my life! I'll tell you who it
is - I'll tell you where to find him - it's Bob Hewett as lives in Merlin Place!
You've took the wrong man. It ain't me as made 'em! I'll tell you the whole
truth, or may I never speak another word! It's Bob Hewett made 'em all - he
lives in Merlin Place, Clerkenwell. I'll tell you -«
    Thus far had Bob heard before he recovered sufficiently from the shock to
move a limb. The officers were urging their prisoner forward, grinning and
nodding to each other, whilst several voices from the crowd shouted abusively at
the poltroon whose first instinct was to betray his associate. Bob turned his
face away and walked on. He did not dare to run, yet the noises behind him kept
his heart leaping with dread. A few paces and he was out of the alley. Even yet
he durst not run. He had turned in the unlucky direction; the crowd was still
following. For five minutes he had to keep advancing, then at last he was able
to move off at right angles. The crowd passed the end of the street.
    Only then did complete panic get possession of him. With a bound forward
like that of a stricken animal he started in blind flight. He came to a
crossing, and rushed upon it regardless of the traffic. Before he could gain the
farther pavement the shaft of a cart struck him on the breast and threw him
down. The vehicle was going at a slow pace, and could be stopped almost
immediately; he was not touched by the wheel. A man helped him to his feet and
inquired if he were hurt.
    »Hurt? No, no; it's all right.«
    To the surprise of those who had witnessed the accident, he walked quickly
on, scarcely feeling any pain. But in a few minutes there came a sense of nausea
and a warm rush in his throat; he staggered against the wall and vomited a
quantity of blood. Again he was surrounded by sympathising people; again he made
himself free of them and hastened on. But by now he suffered acutely; he could
not run, so great was the pain it cost him when he began to breathe quickly. His
mouth was full of blood again.
    Where could he find a hiding-place? The hunters were after him, and, however
great his suffering, he must go through it in secrecy. But in what house could
he take refuge? He had not money enough to pay for a lodging.
    He looked about him; tried to collect his thoughts. By this time the police
would have visited Merlin Place; they would be waiting there to trap him. He was
tempted towards Farringdon Road Buildings; surely his father would not betray
him, and he was in such dire need of kindly help. But it would not be safe; the
police would search there.
    Shooter's Gardens? There was the room where lived Pennyloaf's drunken mother
and her brother. They would not give him up. He could think of no other refuge,
at all events, and must go there if he would not drop in the street.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVII

                                Mad Jack's Dream

It was not much more than a quarter of an hour's walk, but pain and fear made
the distance seem long; he went out of his way, too, for the sake of avoiding
places that were too well lighted. The chief occupation of his thoughts was in
conjecturing what could have led to Bartley's arrest. Had the fellow been such a
fool as to attempt passing a bad coin when he carried others of the same kind in
his pocket? Or had the arrest of some other pal in some way thrown suspicion on
Jack? Be it as it might, the game was up. With the usual wisdom which comes too
late, Bob asked himself how he could ever have put trust in Bartley, whom he
knew to be as mean-spirited a cur as breathed. On the chance of making things
easier for himself, Jack would betray every secret in his possession. What hope
was there of escaping capture, even if a hiding-place could be found for a day
or two? If he had his hand on Jack Bartley's gizzard!
    Afraid to appear afraid, in dread lest his muddy clothing should attract
observation, he kept, as often as possible, the middle of the road, and with
relief saw at length the narrow archway, with its descending steps, which was
one entrance to Shooter's Gardens. As usual, two or three loafers were hanging
about here, exchanging blasphemies and filthy vocables, but, even if they
recognised him, there was not much fear of their giving assistance to the
police. With head bent he slouched past them, unchallenged. At the bottom of the
steps, where he was in all but utter darkness, his foot slipped on garbage of
some kind, and with a groan he fell on his side.
    »Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,« cried a
high-pitched voice from close by.
    Bob knew that the speaker was the man notorious in this locality as Mad
Jack. Raising himself with difficulty, he looked round and saw a shape crouching
in the corner.
    »What is the principal thing?« continued the crazy voice. »Wisdom is the
principal thing.«
    And upon that followed a long speech which to Bob sounded as gibberish, but
which was in truth tolerably good French, a language Mad Jack was fond of using,
though he never made known how he had acquired it.
    Bob stumbled on, and quickly came to the house where he hoped to find a
refuge. The door was, of course, open; he went in and groped his way up the
staircase. A knock at tho door of the room which he believed to be still
tenanted by Mrs. Candy and her son brought no reply. He turned the handle, but
found that the door was locked.
    It was not late, only about ten o'clock. Stephen Candy could not, of course,
be back yet from his work, and the woman was probably drinking somewhere. But he
must make sure that they still lived here. Going down to the floor below, he
knocked at the room occupied by the Hope family, and Mrs. Hope, opening the door
a few inches, asked his business.
    »Does Mrs. Candy still live upstairs?« he inquired in a feigned voice, and
standing back in the darkness.
    »For all I know.«
    And the door closed sharply. He had no choice but to wait and see if either
of his acquaintances returned. For a few minutes he sat on the staircase, but as
at any moment some one might stumble over him, he went down to the backdoor,
which was open, like that in front, and passed out into the stone-paved yard.
Here he seated himself on the ground, leaning against a corner of the wall. He
was suffering much from his injury, but could at all events feel secure from the
hunters.
    The stones were wet, and rain fell upon him. As he looked up at the lighted
windows in the back of the house, he thought of Pennyloaf, who by this time most
likely knew his danger. Would she be glad of it, feeling herself revenged? His
experience of her did not encourage him to believe that. To all his
ill-treatment she had never answered with anything but tears and submission. He
found himself wishing she were near, to be helpful to him in his suffering.
    Clem could not learn immediately what had come to pass. Finding he did not
keep his appointment for the day after to-morrow, she would conclude that he had
drawn back. But perhaps Jack Bartley's case would be in the newspapers on that
day, and his own name might appear in the evidence before the magistrates; if
Clem learnt the truth in that way, she would be not a little surprised. He had
never hinted to her the means by which he had been obtaining money.
    Voices began to sound from the passage within the house; several young
fellows, one or other of whom probably lived here, had entered to be out of the
rain. One voice, very loud and brutal, Bob quickly recognised; it was that of
Ned Higgs, the ruffian with whom Bartley's wife had taken up. The conversation
was very easy to overhear; it contained no reference to the copping of Jack.
    »Fag ends!« this and that voice kept crying.
    Bob understood. One of the noble company had been fortunate enough to pig up
the end of a cigar somewhere, and it was the rule among them that he who called
out »Fag-ends!« established a claim for a few whiffs. In this way the delicacy
was passing from mouth to mouth. That the game should end in quarrel was quite
in order, and sure enough, before very long, Ned Higgs was roaring his defiances
to a companion who had seized the bit of tobacco unjustly.
    »I 'ollered fag-end after Snuffy Bill!«
    »You're a - liar! I did!«
    »You! You're a -! I'll - your - in arf a - second!«
    Then came the sound of a scuffle, the thud of blows, the wild-beast
bellowing of infuriate voices. Above all could be heard the roar of Ned Higgs. A
rush, and it was plain that the combatants had gone out into the alley to have
more room. For a quarter of an hour the yells from their drink-sodden throats
echoed among the buildings. Quietness was probably caused by the interference of
police; knowing that, Bob shrank together in his lurking-place.
    When all had been still for some time he resolved to go upstairs again and
try the door, for his breathing grew more and more painful, and there was a
whirling in his head which made him fear that he might become insensible. To
rise was more difficult than he had imagined; his head overweighted him, all but
caused him to plunge forward; he groped this way and that with his hands,
seeking vainly for something to cling to on the whitewashed wall. In his depth
of utter misery he gave way and sobbed several times. Then once more he had the
warm taste of blood in his mouth. Terror-stricken, he staggered into the house.
    This time a voice answered to his knock. He opened the door.
    The room contained no article of furniture. In one corner lay some rags, and
on the mantel-piece stood a tin teapot, two cups, and a plate. There was no
fire, but a few pieces of wood lay near the hearth, and at the bottom of the
open cupboard remained a very small supply of coals. A candle made fast in the
neck of a bottle was the source of light.
    On the floor was sitting, or lying, an animated object, indescribable; Bob
knew it for Mrs. Candy. Her eyes looked up at him apprehensively.
    »I want to stay the night over, if you'll let me.« he said, when he had
closed the door. »I've got to hide away; nobody mustn't know as I'm here.«
    »You're welcome,« the woman replied, in a voice which was horrible to hear.
    Then she paid no more attention to him, but leaned her head upon her hand
and began a regular moaning, as if she suffered some dull, persistent pain.
    Bob crept up to the wall and let himself sink there. He could not reflect
for more than a minute or two continuously; his brain then became a mere
confused whirl. In one of the intervals of his perfect consciousness he asked
Mrs. Candy if Stephen would come here to-night. She did not heed him till he had
twice repeated the question, and then she started and looked at him in wild
fear.
    »Will Stephen be coming?«
    »Stephen? Yes, yes. I shouldn't wonder.«
    She seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had spoken; her head dropped
heavily on the boards.
    Not long after midnight the potman made his appearance. As always, on
returning from his sixteen-hour day of work, he was all but insensible with
fatigue. Entering the room, he turned his white face with an expression of
stupid wonderment to the corner in which Bob lay. The latter raised himself to a
sitting posture.
    »That you, Bob Hewett?«
    »I want to stop here over the night,« replied the other, speaking with
difficulty. »I can't go home. There's something up.«
    »With Pennyloaf?«
    »No. I've got to hide away. And I'm feeling bad - awful bad. Have you got
anything to drink?«
    Stephen, having listened with a face of a somnambulist, went to the
mantel-piece and looked into the teapot. It was empty.
    »You can go to the tap in the yard,« he said.
    »I couldn't get so far. Oh, I feel bad!«
    »I'll fetch you some water.«
    A good-hearted animal, this poor Stephen; a very tolerable human being, had
he had fair-play. He would not abandon his wretched mother, though to continue
living with her meant hunger and cold and yet worse evils. For himself, his life
was supported chiefly on the three pints of liquor which he was allowed every
day. His arms and legs were those of a living skeleton; his poor idiotic face
was made yet more repulsive by disease. Yet you could have seen that he was the
brother of Pennyloaf; there was Pennyloaf's submissive beast-of-burden look in
his eyes, and his voice had something that reminded one of hers.
    »The coppers after you?« he whispered, stooping down to Bob with the teacup
he had filled with water.
    Bob nodded, then drained the cup eagerly.
    »I got knocked down by a cab or something,« he added. »It hit me just here.
I may feel better when I've rested a bit.« »Haven't you got no furniture left?«
    »They took it last Saturday was a week. Took it for rent. I thought we
didn't owe nothing, but mother told me she'd paid when she hadn't. I got leave
to stop, when I showed 'em as I could pay in future; but they wouldn't trust me
to make up them three weeks. They took the furniture. It's 'ard, I call it. I
asked my guvnor if it was law for them to take mother's bed-things, an' he said
yes it was. When it's for rent they can take everything, even to your beddin'
an' tools.«
    Yes; they can take everything. How foolish of Stephen Candy and his tribe
not to be born of the class of landlords! The inconvenience of having no
foothold on the earth's surface is so manifest.
    »I couldn't say nothing to her,« he continued, nodding towards the prostrate
woman. »She was sorry for it, an' you can't ask no more. It was my fault for
trustin' her with the money to pay, but I get a bit careless now an' then, an'
forgot. You do look bad, Bob, an' there's no mistake. Would you feel better if I
lighted a bit o' fire?«
    »Yes; I feel cold. I was hot just now.«
    »You needn't be afraid o' the coals. Mother goes round the streets after the
coal-carts, an' you wouldn't believe what a lot she picks up some days. You see,
we're neither of us in the 'ouse very often; we don't burn much.«
    He lit a fire, and Bob dragged himself near to it. In the meantime the
quietness of the house was suffering a disturbance familiar to its denizens. Mr.
Hope - you remember Mr. Hope? - had just returned from an evening at the
public-house, and was bent on sustaining his reputation for unmatched vigour of
language. He was quarrelling with his wife and daughters; their high notes of
vituperation mingled in the most effective way with his manly thunder. To hear
Mr. Hope's expressions, a stranger would have imagined him on the very point of
savagely murdering all his family.
    Another voice became audible. It was that of Ned Higgs, who had opened his
door to bellow curses at the disturbers of his rest.
    »They'll be wakin' mother,« said Stephen. »There, I knew they would.«
    Mrs. Candy stirred, and, after a few vain efforts to raise herself, started
up suddenly. She fixed her eyes on the fire, which was just beginning to blaze,
and uttered a dreadful cry, a shriek of mad terror.
    »O God!« groaned her son. »I hope it ain't goin' to be one of her bad
nights. Mother, mother! what's wrong with you? See, come to the fire an' warm
yourself, mother.«
    She repeated the cry two or three times, but with less violence; then, as
though exhausted, she fell face downwards, her arms folded about her head. The
moaning which Bob had heard earlier in the evening recommenced.
    Happily, it was not to be one of her bad nights. Fits of the horrors only
came upon her twice before morning. Towards one o'clock Stephen had sunk into a
sleep which scarcely any conceivable uproar could have broken; he lay with his
head on his right arm, his legs stretched out at full length; his breathing was
light. Bob was much later in getting rest. As often as he slumbered for an
instant, the terrible image of his fear rose manifest before him; he saw himself
in the clutch of his hunters, just like Jack Bartley, and woke to lie quivering.
Must not that be the end of it, sooner or later? Might he not as well give
himself up to-morrow? But the thought of punishment such as his crime receives
was unendurable. It haunted him in nightmare when sheer exhaustion had at length
weighed down his eyelids.
    Long before daybreak he was conscious again, tormented with thirst and his
head aching woefully. Someone had risen in the room above, and was tramping
about in heavy boots. The noise seemed to disturb Mrs. Candy; she cried out in
her sleep. In a few minutes the early riser came forth and began to descend the
stairs; he was going to his work.
    A little while, and in the court below a voice shouted, »Bill! Bill!«
Another worker being called, doubtless.
    At seven o'clock Stephen roused himself. He took a piece of soap from a
shelf of the cupboard, threw a dirty rag over his arm, and went down to wash at
the tap in the yard. Only on returning did he address Bob.
    »Feelin' any better?«
    »I think so. But I'm very bad.«
    »Are you goin' to stay here?«
    »I don't know.«
    »Got any money?«
    »Yes. Ninepence. Could you get me something to drink?«
    Stephen took twopence, went out, and speedily returned with a large mug of
coffee; from his pocket he brought forth a lump of cake, which had cost a
halfpenny. This, he thought, might tempt a sick appetite. His own breakfast he
would take at the coffee-shop.
    »Mother 'll get you anything else you want,« he said. »She knows herself
generally first thing in the morning. Let her take back the mug; I had to leave
threepence on it.«
    So Stephen also went forth to his labour - in this case, it may surely be
said, the curse of curses. ...
 
At this hour Pennyloaf bestirred herself after a night of weeping. Last evening
the police had visited her room, and had searched it thoroughly. The revelation
amazed her; she would not believe the charge that was made against her husband.
She became angry with Mrs. Griffin when that practical woman said she was not at
all surprised. Utterly gone was her resentment of Bob's latest cruelty. His
failure to return home seemed to prove that he had been arrested, and she could
think of nothing but the punishment that awaited him.
    »It's penal servitude,« remarked Mrs. Griffin, frankly. »Five, or p'r'aps
ten years. I've heard of 'em getting' sent for life.«
    Pennyloaf would not believe in the possibility of this befalling her
husband. It was too cruel. There would be some pity, some mercy. She had a
confused notion of witnesses being called to give a man a good character, and
strengthened herself in the thought of what she would say, under such
circumstances on Bob's behalf. »He's been a good 'husband,« she kept repeating to
Mrs. Griffin, and to the other neighbours who crowded to indulge their
curiosity. »There's nobody can say as he ain't been a good 'husband; it's a lie
if they do.«
    By eight o'clock she was at the police-station. With fear she entered the
ugly doorway and approached a policeman who stood in the ante-room. When she had
made her inquiry, the man referred her to the inspector. She was asked many
questions, but to her own received no definite reply; she had better look in
again the next morning.
    »It's my belief they ain't got him,« said Mrs. Griffin. »He's had a warnin'
from his pals.«
    Pennyloaf would dearly have liked to communicate with Jane Snowdon, but
shame prevented her. All day she stood by the house door, looking eagerly now
this way, now that, with an unreasoning hope that Bob might show himself. She
tried to believe that he was only keeping away because of his behaviour to her
the night before; it was the first time he had laid hand upon her, and he felt
ashamed of himself. He would come back, and this charge against him would be
proved false; Pennyloaf could not distinguish between her desire that something
might happen and the probability of its doing so.
    But darkness fell upon the streets, and her watch was kept in rain. She
dreaded the thought of passing another night in uncertainty. Long ago her tears
had dried up; she had a parched throat and trembling, feverish hands. Between
seven and eight o'clock she went to Mrs. Griffin and begged her to take care of
the child for a little while.
    »I'm goin' to see if I can hear anything about him. Somebody may know where
he is.«
    And first of all she directed her steps to Shooter's Gardens. It was very
unlikely that her mother could be of any use, but she would seek there.
Afterwards she must go to Farringdon Road Buildings, though never yet had she
presented herself to Bob's father.
    You remember that the Gardens had an offshoot, which was known simply as The
Court. In this blind alley there stood throughout the day a row of baked-potato
ovens, ten or a dozen of them, chained together, the property of a local
capitalist who let them severally to men engaged in this business. At seven
o'clock of an evening fires were wont to be lighted under each of these
baking-machines, preparatory to their being wheeled away, each to its customary
street-corner. Now the lighting of fires entails the creation of smoke, and
whilst these ten or twelve ovens were getting ready to bake potatoes the Court
was in a condition not easily described. A single lamp existed for the purpose
of giving light to the alley, and at no time did this serve much more than to
make darkness visible; at present the blind man would have fared as well in that
retreat as he who had eyes, and the marvel was how those who lived there escaped
suffocation. In the Gardens themselves volumes of dense smoke every now and then
came driven along by the cold gusts; the air had a stifling smell and a bitter
taste.
    Pennyloaf found nothing remarkable in this phenomenon; it is hard to say
what would have struck her as worthy of indignant comment in her world of little
ease. But near the entrance to the Court, dimly discernible amid sagging fumes,
was a cluster of people, and as everything of that kind just now excited her
apprehensions, she drew near to see what was happening. The gathering was around
Mad Jack; he looked more than usually wild, and with one hand raised above his
head was on the point of relating a vision he had had the night before.
    »Don't laugh! Don't any of you laugh; for as sure as I live it was an angel
stood in the room and spoke to me. There was a light such as none of you ever
saw, and the angel stood in the midst of it. And he said to me: Listen, whilst I
reveal to you the truth, that you may know where you are and what you are; and
this is done for a great purpose. And I fell down on my knees, but never a word
could I have spoken. Then the angel said: You are passing through a state of
punishment. You, and all the poor among whom you live; all those who are in
suffering of body and darkness of mind, were once rich people, with every
blessing the world can bestow, with every opportunity of happiness in yourselves
and of making others happy. Because you made an ill use of your wealth, because
you were selfish and hard-hearted and oppressive and sinful in every kind of
indulgence - therefore after death you received the reward of wickedness. This
life you are now leading is that of the damned; this place to which you are
confined is Hell! There is no escape for you. From poor you shall become poorer;
the older you grow the lower shall you sink in want and misery; at the end there
is waiting for you, one and all, a death in abandonment and despair. This is
Hell - Hell - Hell!«
    His voice had risen in pitch, and the last cry was so terrifying that
Pennyloaf fled to be out of hearing. She reached the house to which her visit
was, and in the dark passage leaned for a moment against the wall, trembling all
over. Then she began to ascend the stairs. At Mrs. Candy's door she knocked
gently. There was at first no answer, but when she had knocked again, a strange
voice that she did not recognise asked »Who's that?« It seemed to come from low
down, as if the speaker were lying on the floor.
    »It's me,« she replied, again trembling, she knew not with what fear. »Mrs.
Hewett - Pennyloaf.«
    »Are you alone?«
    She bent down, listening eagerly.
    »Who's that speakin'?«
    »Are you alone?«
    Strange; the voice was again different, very feeble, a thick whisper.
    »Yes, there's nobody else. Can I come in?«
    There was a shuffling sound, then the key turned in the lock. Pennyloaf
entered, and found herself in darkness. She shrank back.
    »Who's there? Is it you, mother? Is it you, Stephen?«
    Some one touched her, at the same time shutting the door; and the voice
whispered:
    »Penny - it's me - Bob.«
    She uttered a cry, stretching out her hands. A head was leaning against her,
and she bent down to lay hers against it.
    »O Bob! What are you doing' here? Why are you in the dark? What's the matter,
Bob?«
    »I've had an accident, Penny. I feel awful bad. Your mother's gone out to
buy a candle. Have they been coming after me?«
    »Yes, yes. But I didn't know you was here. I came to ask if they knew where
you was. O Bob! what's happened to you? Why are you lyin' there, Bob?«
    She had folded her arms about him, and held his face to hers, sobbing,
kissing him.
    »It's all up,« he gasped. »I've been getting worse all day. You'll have to
fetch the parish doctor. They'll have me, but I can't help it. I feel as if I
was going.«
    »They shan't take you, Bob. Oh no, they shan't. The doctor needn't know who
you are.«
    »It was a cab knocked me down, when I was running. I'm awful bad, Penny.
You'll do something for me, won't you?«
    »Oh, why didn't you send mother for me?«
    The door opened. It was Mrs. Candy who entered. She slammed the door, turned
the key, and exclaimed in a low voice of alarm:
    »Bob, there's the p'lice downstairs! They come just this minute. There's one
gone to the back-door, and there's one talking' to Mrs. Hope at the front.«
    »Then they've followed Pennyloaf,« he replied, in a tone of despair.
»They've followed Pennyloaf.«
    It was the truth. She had been watched all day, and was now tracked to
Shooter's Gardens, to this house. Mrs. Candy struck a match, and for an instant
illuminated the wretched room; she looked at the two, and they at length saw
each other's faces. Then the little flame was extinguished, and a red spot
marked the place where the remnant of the match lay.
    »Shall I light the candle?« the woman asked in a whisper.
    Neither replied, for there was a heavy foot on the stairs. It came nearer. A
hand tried the door, then knocked loudly.
    »Mrs. Candy,« cried a stranger.
    The three crouched together, terror-stricken, holding their breath.
Pennyloaf pressed her husband in an agonised embrace.
    »Mrs. Candy, you're wanted on business. Open the door. If you don't open, we
shall force it.«
    »No-no!« Pennyloaf whispered in her mother's ear. »They shan't come in!
Don't stir.«
    »Are you going to open the door?«
    It was a different speaker - brief, stern. Ten seconds, and there came a
tremendous crash; the crazy door, the whole wall, quivered and cracked and
groaned. The crash was repeated, and effeetually; with a sound of ripping wood
the door flew open and a light streamed into the room.
    Useless, Pennyloaf, useless. That fierce kick, making ruin of your rotten
barrier, is dealt with the whole force of Law, of Society; you might as well
think of resisting death when your hour shall come.
    »There he is,« observed one of the men, calmly. »Hollo! what's up?«
    »You can't take him away!« Pennyloaf cried, falling down again by Bob and
clinging to him. »He's ill. You can't take him like this!«
    »Ill, is he? Then the sooner our doctor sees him the better. Up you get, my
man!«
    But there are some things that even Law and Society cannot command. Bob lay
insensible. Shamming? Well, no; it seemed not. Send for a stretcher, quickly.
    No great delay. Pennyloaf sat in mute anguish, Bob's head on her lap. On the
staircase was a crowd of people, talking, shouting, whistling; presently they
were cleared away by a new arrival of officials. Room for Law and Society!
    The stretcher arrived; the senseless body was carried down and laid upon it
- a policeman at each end, and, close clinging, Pennyloaf.
    Above the noise of the crowd rose a shrill, wild voice, chanting:
    »All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for
ever!«
 

                                Chapter XXXVIII

                         Joseph Transacts Much Business

Amid the anguish of heart and nerve which she had to endure whilst her
grandfather lay dead in the house, Jane found and clung to one thought of
consolation. He had not closed his eyes in the bitterness of disappointment. The
end might have come on that miserable day when her weakness threatened the
defeat of all his hopes, and how could she then have borne it? True or not, it
would have seemed to her that she had killed him; she could not have looked on
his face, and all the rest of her life would have been remorsefully shadowed.
Now the dead features were unreproachful; nay, when she overcame her childish
tremors and gazed calmly, it was easy to imagine that he smiled. Death itself
had come without pain. An old man, weary after his long journeys, after his many
griefs and the noble striving of his thought, surely he rested well.
    During the last days he had been more affectionate with her than was his
habit; she remembered it with gratitude. Words of endearment seldom came to his
lips, but since the reconciliation he had more than once spoken tenderly.
Doubtless he was anxious to assure her that she had again all his confidence.
Strengthening herself in that reflection, she strove to put everything out of
her mind save the duty which must henceforth direct her. Happily, there could be
no more strife with the promptings of her weaker self; circumstances left but
one path open before her; and that, however difficult, the one she desired to
tread. Henceforth memory must dwell on one thing only in the past, her rescue by
Michael Snowdon, her nurture under his care. Though he could no longer speak,
the recollection of his words must be her unfailing impulse. In her his spirit
must survive, his benevolence still be operative.
    At her wish, her father acquainted Sidney Kirkwood with what had happened.
Sidney did not visit her, but he wrote a letter, which, having read it many
times, she put carefully away to be a resource if ever her heart failed. Mr.
Percival came to the house on Monday, in the company of Joseph Snowdon; he was
sympathetic, but made no direct reference to her position either now or in the
future. Whilst he and her father transacted matters of business in the upper
rooms, Jane remained downstairs with Mrs. Byass. Before quitting the house he
asked her if she had had any communication with Miss Lant yet.
    »I ought to write and tell her,« replied Jane.
    »I will do so for you,« said the lawyer, kindly.
    And on taking leave he held her hand for a moment, looking compassionately
into her pale face.
    On Thursday morning there arrived a letter from Miss Lant, who happened to
be out of town and grieved that she could not return in time for the funeral,
which would be that day. There was nothing about the future, excepting a promise
that the writer would come very shortly.
    Michael was buried at Abney Park Cemetery; no ray of sunlight fell upon his
open grave, but the weather was mild, and among the budded trees passed a breath
which was the promise of spring. Joseph Snowdon and the Byasses were Jane's only
companions in the mourning-carriage; but at the cemetery they were joined by
Sidney Kirkwood. Jane saw him and felt the pressure of his hand, but she could
neither speak nor understand anything that was said to her.
    On Friday morning, before she had made a show of eating the breakfast Bessie
Byass prepared for her, a visitor arrived.
    »She says her name's Mrs. Griffin,« said Bessie, »and she has something very
important to tell you. Do you feel you can see her?«
    »Mrs. Griffin? Oh, I remember; she lives in the same house as Pennyloaf.
Yes: let her come in.«
    The woman was introduced to the Byasses' parlour, which Bessie thought more
cheerful for Jane just now then the room upstairs.
    »Have you heard anything of what's been goin on with the Hewetts, Miss?« she
began.
    »No, I haven't been able to go out this week. I've had trouble at home.«
    »I see at once as you was in mournin', Miss, an' I'm sorry for it. You're
looking' nothing like yourself. I don't know whether it's right to upset you with
other people's bothers, but there's that poor Mrs. Hewett in such a state, and I
said as I'd run round, 'cause she seems to think there's nobody else can come to
her help as you can. I always knew as something o' this kind 'ud be 'appenin'.«
    »But what is it? What has happened?«
    Jane felt her energies revive at this appeal for help. It was the best thing
that could have befallen, now that she was wearily despondent after yesterday's
suffering.
    »Her 'husband's dead, Miss.«
    »Dead?«
    »But that ain't the worst of it. He was took by the perlice last night,
which they wanted him for making' bad money. I always have said as it's a cruel
thing that: 'cause how can you tell who gets the bad coin, an' it may be some
pore person as can't afford to lose not a 'apenny. But that's what he's been up
to, an' this long time, as it appears.«
    In her dialect, which requires so many words for the narration of a simple
story, Mrs. Griffin told what she knew concerning Bob Hewett's accident and
capture; his death had taken place early this morning, and Pennyloaf was all but
crazy with grief. To Jane these things sounded so extraordinary that for some
time she could scarcely put a question, but sat in dismay, listening to the
woman's prolix description of all that had come to pass since Wednesday evening.
At length she called for Mrs. Byass, for whose benefit the story was repeated.
    »I'm sure you oughtn't to go there to-day,« was Bessie's opinion. »You've
quite enough trouble of your own, my dear.«
    »And that's just what I was a-saying', mum,« assented Mrs. Griffin, who had
won Bessie's highest opinion by her free use of respectful forms of address. »I
never saw no one look iller, as you may say, than the young lady.«
    »Yes, yes, I will go,« said Jane, rising. »My trouble's nothing to hers. Oh,
I shall go at once.«
    »But remember your father's coming at half-past nine,« urged Bessie, »and he
said he wanted to speak to you particular.«
    »What is the time now? A quarter to nine. I can be back by half-past, I
think, and then I can go again. Father wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes. I
must go at once, Mrs. Byass.«
    She would hear no objection, and speedily left the house in Mrs. Griffin's
company.
    At half-past nine, punctually, Mr. Snowdon's double knock sounded at the
door. Joseph looked more respectable than ever in his black frock-coat and silk
hat with the deep band. His bow to Mrs. Byass was solemn, but gallant; he
pressed her fingers like a clergyman paying a visit of consolation, and in a
subdued voice made affectionate inquiry after his daughter.
    »She has slept, I hope, poor child?«
    Bessie took him into the sitting-room, and explained Jane's absence.
    »A good girl; a good girl,« he remarked, after listening with elevated
brows. »But she must be careful of her health. My visit this morning is on
matters of business; no doubt she will tell you the principal points of our
conversation afterwards. An excellent friend you have been to her, Mrs. Byass -
excellent.«
    »I'm sure I don't see how anyone could help liking her,« said Bessie,
inwardly delighted with the expectation of hearing at length what Jane's
circumstances really were.
    »Indeed, so good a friend,« pursued Joseph, »that I'm afraid it would
distress her if she could no longer live with you. And the fact is« - he bent
forward and smiled sadly - »I'm sure I may speak freely to you, Mrs. Byass - but
the fact is, that I'm very doubtful indeed whether she could be happy if she
lived with Mrs. Snowdon. I suppose there's always more or less difficulty where
step-children are concerned, and in this case-well, I fear the incompatibility
would be too great. To be sure, it places me in a difficult position. Jane's
very young - very young; only just turned seventeen, poor child! Out of the
question for her to live with strangers. I had some hopes - I wonder whether I
ought to speak of it? You know Mr. Kirkwood?«
    »Yes, indeed. I can't tell you how surprised I was, Mr. Snowdon. And there
seems to be such a mystery about it, too.«
    Bessie positively glowed with delight in such confidential talk. It was her
dread that Jane's arrival might put an end to it before everything was revealed.
    »A mystery, you may well say, Mrs. Byass. I think highly of Mr. Kirkwood,
very highly; but really in this affair! It's almost too painful to talk about -
to you.«
    Bessie blushed, as becomes the Englishwoman of mature years when she is
gracefully supposed to be ignorant of all it most behoves her to know.
    »Well, well; he is on the point of marrying a young person with whom I
should certainly not like my daughter to associate - fortunately there is little
chance of that. You were never acquainted with Miss Hewett?«
    »Ye - yes. A long time ago.«
    »Well, well; we must be charitable. You know that she is dreadfully
disfigured?«
    »Disfigured? Jane didn't say a word about that. She only told me that Mr.
Kirkwood was going to marry her, and I didn't like to ask too many questions. I
hadn't even heard as she was at home.«
    Joseph related to her the whole story, whilst Bessie fidgeted with
satisfaction.
    »I thought,« he added, »that you could perhaps throw some light on the
mystery. We can only suppose that Kirkwood has acted from the highest motives,
but I really think - well, well, we won't talk of it any more. I was led to this
subject from speaking of this poor girl's position. I wonder whether it will be
possible for her to continue to live in your friendly care Mrs. Byass?«
    »Oh, I shall be only too glad, Mr. Snowdon!«
    »Now how kind that is of you! Of course she wouldn't want more than two
rooms.«
    »Of course not.«
    Joseph was going further into details, when a latch-key was heard opening
the front door. Jane entered hurriedly. The rapid walk had brought colour to her
cheek; in her simple mourning attire she looked very interesting, very sweet and
girlish. She had been shedding tears, and it was with unsteady voice that she
excused herself for keeping her father waiting.
    »Never mind that, my dear,« replied Joseph, as he kissed her cheek. »You
have been doing good - unselfish as always. Sit down and rest; you must be
careful not to over-exert yourself.«
    Bessie busied herself affectionately in removing Jane's hat and jacket, then
withdrew that father and child might converse in private. Joseph looked at his
daughter. His praise of her was not all mere affectation of sentiment. He had
spoken truly when he said to Scawthorne that, but for Clem, he would ask nothing
better than to settle down with this gentle girl for his companion. Selfishness,
for the most part, but implying appreciation of her qualities. She did not love
him, but he was sincere enough with himself to admit that this was perfectly
natural. Had circumstances permitted, he would have tried hard to win some
affection from her. Poor little girl! How would it affect her when she heard
what he was going to say? He felt angry with Kirkwood; yes, truly indignant -
men are capable of greater inconsistencies than this. She would not have cared
much about the money had Kirkwood married her; of that he felt sure. She had
lost her lover; now he was going to deprive her of her inheritance. Cruel! Yes;
but he really felt so well-disposed to her, so determined to make her a
comfortable provision for the future; and had the money been hers, impossible to
have regarded her thus. Joseph was thankful to the chance which, in making him
wealthy, had also enabled him to nourish such virtuous feeling.
    How should he begin? He had a bright idea, an idea worthy of him. Thrusting
his hand into his pocket he brought out half-a-crown. Then:
    »Your humble friend's in a sad condition, I'm afraid, Jane?«
    »She is, father.«
    »Suppose you give her this! Every little helps, you know.«
    Jane received the coin and murmured thanks for his kindness, but could not
help betraying some surprise. Joseph was on the watch for this. It gave him his
exquisite opportunity.
    »You're surprised at me offering you money, Jane? I believe your poor
grandfather led you to suppose that - that his will was made almost entirely in
your favour?«
    Jane could not reply; she searched his face.
    »Would it disappoint you very much, my child,« he continued,
sympathetically, »if it turned out that he had either altered his mind or by
some accident had neglected to make his will? I speak as your father, Janey, and
I think I have some knowledge of your character. I think I know that you are as
free from avarice as anyone could be.«
    Was it true? he began to ask himself. Why, then, had her countenance fallen?
Why did such a look of deep distress pass over it?
    »The fact is, Janey,« he continued, hardening himself a little as he noted
her expression, »your grandfather left no will. The result - the legal result -
of that is, that all his property becomes - ah - mine. He - in fact he destroyed
his will a very short time, comparatively speaking, before he died, and he
neglected to make another. Unfortunately, you see, under these circumstances we
can't be sure what his wish was.«
    She was deadly pale; there was anguish in the look with which she regarded
her father.
    »I'm very sorry it pains you so, my dear,« Joseph remarked, still more
coldly. »I didn't think you were so taken up with the thought of money. Really,
Jane, a young girl at your time of life -«
    »Father, father, how can you think that? It wasn't't to be for myself; I
thought you knew; indeed you did know!«
    »But you looked so very strange, my dear. Evidently you felt -«
    »Yes - I feel it - I do feel it! But because it means that grandfather
couldn't get back his trust in me. Oh, it is too hard! When did he destroy his
will? When, father?«
    »Ten days before his death.«
    »Yes; that was when it happened. Yon never heard; he promised to tell
nobody. I disappointed him. I showed myself very foolish and weak in - in
something that happened then. I made grandfather think that I was too selfish to
live as he hoped - that I couldn't do what I'd undertaken. That was why he
destroyed his will. And I thought he had forgiven me! I thought he trusted me
again! O grandfather!«
    Snowdon was astonished at the explanation of his own good luck, and yet more
at Jane's display of feeling. So quiet, so reserved as he had always known her,
she seemed to have become another person. For some moments he could only gaze at
her in wonder. Never yet had he heard, never again would he hear, the utterance
of an emotion so profound and so noble.
    »Jane - try and control yourself, my dear. Let's talk it over, Jane.«
    »I feel as if it would break my heart. I thought I had that one thing to
comfort me. It's like losing him again - losing his confidence. To think I
should have disappointed him in just what he hoped more than anything!«
    »But you're mistaken,« Joseph exclaimed, a generous feeling for once getting
the better of prudence. »Listen, my dear, and I'll explain to you. I hadn't
finished when you interrupted me.«
    She clasped her hands upon her lap and gazed at him in eager appeal.
    »Did he say anything to you, father?«
    »No - and you may be quite sure that if he hadn't trusted you, he would have
said something. What's more, on the very day before his death he wrote a letter
to Mr. Percival, to say that he wanted to make his will again. He was going to
do it on the Monday - there now! It was only an accident; he hadn't time to do
what he wished.«
    This was making a concession which he had expressly resolved to guard
against; but Joseph's designs ripened, lost their crudity, as he saw more and
more of his daughter's disposition. He was again grateful to her; she had made
things smoother than he could have hoped.
    »You really think, father, that he would have made the same will as before?«
    »Not a doubt about it, my love; not a doubt of it. In fact - now let me set
your poor little mind at rest - only two days before his death - when was it I
saw him last? Friday? Thursday? - he said to me that he had a higher opinion of
you than ever. There now, Jane!«
    She would have deemed it impossible for anyone to utter less than truth in
such connection as this. Her eyes gleamed with joy.
    »Now you understand just how it was, Jane. What we have to talk about now
is, how we can arrange things so as to carry out your grandfather's wish. I am
your guardian, my dear. Now I'm sure you wouldn't desire to have command of
large sums of money before you are twenty-one? Just so; your grandfather didn't
intend it. Well, first let me ask you this question. Would you rather live with
- with your stepmother, or with your excellent friend Mrs. Byass? I see what
your answer is, and I approve it; I fully approve it. Now suppose we arrange
that you are to have an allowance of two pounds a week? It is just possible -
just possible - that I may have to go abroad on business before long; in that
case the payment would be made to you through an agent. Do you feel it would be
satisfactory?«
    Jane was thinking how much of this sum could be saved to give away.
    »It seems little? But you see -«
    »No, no, father. It is quite enough.«
    »Good. We understand each other. Of course this is a temporary arrangement.
I must have time to think over grandfather's ideas. Why, you are a mere child
yet, Janey. Seventeen! A mere child, my dear!«
    Forgetting the decorum imposed by his costume, Joseph became all but gay, so
delightfully were things arranging themselves. A hundred a year he could very
well afford just to keep his conscience at ease; and for Jane it would be
wealth. Excellent Mrs. Byass was as good a guardian as could anywhere be found,
and Jane's discretion forbade any fear on her account when - business should
take him away.
    »Well now, we've talked quite long enough. Don't think for a moment that you
hadn't your grandfather's confidence, my dear; it would be distressing yourself
wholly without reason - wholly. Be a good girl - why, there you see; I speak to
you as if you were a child. And so you are, poor little girl! - far too young to
have worldly troubles. No, no; I must relieve you of all that, until - Well now,
I'll leave you for to-day. Good-bye, my dear.«
    He kissed her cheek, but Jane, sobbing a little, put her pure lips to his.
Joseph looked about him for an instant as if he had forgotten something, then
departed with what seemed unnecessary haste.
    Jane and Mrs. Byass had a long talk before dinner-time. Mystery was at an
end between them now; they talked much of the past, more of the future.
    At two o'clock Jane received a visit from Miss Lant. This lady was already
apprised by her friend Mr. Percival of all that had come to pass; she was
prepared to exercise much discretion, but Jane soon showed her that this was
needless. The subject of pressing importance to the latter was Pennyloaf's
disastrous circumstances; unable to do all she wished, Jane was much relieved
when her charitable friend proposed to set off to Merlin Place forthwith and
ascertain how help could most effectually be given. Yes; it was good to be
constrained to think of another's sorrows.
    There passed a fortnight, during which Jane spent some hours each day with
Pennyloaf. By the kindness of fate only one of Bob's children survived him, but
it was just this luckless infant whose existence made Pennyloaf's position so
difficult. Alone, she could have gone back to her slop-work, or some less
miserable slavery might have been discovered; but Pennyloaf dreaded leaving her
child each day in the care of strangers, being only too well aware what that
meant. Mrs. Candy was, of course, worse than useless; Stephen the potman had
more than his work set in looking after her. Whilst Miss Lant and Jane were
straining their wits on the hardest of all problems - to find a means of
livelihood for one whom society pronounced utterly superfluous, Pennyloaf most
unexpectedly solved the question by her own effort. Somewhere near the Meat
Market, one night, she encountered an acquaintance, a woman of not much more
than her own age, who had recently become a widow, and was supporting herself
(as well as four little ones) by keeping a stall at which she sold children's
second-hand clothing; her difficulty was to dispose of her children whilst she
was doing business at night. Pennyloaf explained her own position, and with the
result that her acquaintance, by name Mrs. Todd, proposed a partnership. Why
shouldn't they share a room, work together with the needle in patching and
making, and by Pennyloaf's staying at home each evening keep the tribe of
youngsters out of danger? This project was carried out; the two brought their
furniture together into a garret, and it seemed probable that they would succeed
in keeping themselves alive.
    But before this settlement was effected Jane's own prospects had undergone a
change of some importance. For a fortnight nothing was heard of Joseph Snowdon
in Hanover Street; then there came a letter from him; it bore a Liverpool
postmark, but was headed with no address. Joseph wrote that the business to
which he had alluded was already summoning him from England; he regretted that
there had not even been time for him to say farewell to his daughter. However,
he would write to her occasionally during his absence, and hoped to hear from
her. The allowance of two pounds a week would be duly paid by an agent, and on
receiving it each Saturday she was to forward an acknowledgement to Mr. H. Jones,
at certain reading-rooms in the City. Let her in the meantime be a good girl,
remain with her excellent friend Mrs. Byass, and repose absolute confidence in
her affectionate father - J. S.
 
That same morning there came also a letter from Liverpool to Mrs. Joseph
Snowdon, a letter which ran thus:
 
        »Clem, old girl, I regret very much that affairs of pressing importance
        call me away from my happy home. It is especially distressing that this
        occurs just at the time when we were on the point of taking our house,
        in which we hoped to spend the rest of our lives in bliss. Alas, that is
        not to be! Do not repine, and do not break the furniture in the
        lodgings, as your means will henceforth be limited, I fear. You will
        remember that I was in your debt, with reference to a little affair
        which happened in Clerkenwell Close, not such a long time ago; please
        accept this intimation as payment in full. When I am established in the
        country to which business summons me, I shall of course send for you
        immediately, but it may happen that some little time will intervene
        before I am able to take that delightful step. In the meanwhile your
        mother will supply you with all the money you need; she has full
        authority from me to do so. All blessings upon you, and may you be
        happy. - With tears I sign myself,
                                                   YOUR BROKEN-HEARTED HUSBAND.«
 
Joseph's absence through the night had all but prepared Clem for something of
this kind, yet he had managed things so well that up to the time of his
departure she had not been able to remark a single suspicious circumstance,
unless, indeed, it were the joyous affectionateness with which he continued to
behave. She herself had been passing through a time of excitement and even of
suffering. When she learned from the newspaper what fate had befallen Bob
Hewett, it was as though someone had dealt her a half-stunning blow; in her
fierce animal way she was attached to Bob, and for the first time in her life
she knew a genuine grief. The event seemed at first impossible; she sped hither
and thither, making inquiries, and raged in her heart against everyone who
confirmed the newspaper report. Combined with the pain of loss was her
disappointment at the frustration of the scheme Bob had undertaken in concert
with her. Brooding on her deadly purpose, she had come to regard it as a certain
thing that before long her husband would be killed. The details were arranged;
all her cunning had gone to the contrivance of a plot for disguising the facts
of his murder. Savagely she had exulted in the prospect, not only of getting rid
of him, but of being revenged for her old humiliation. A thousand times she
imagined herself in Bob's lurking-place, raising the weapon, striking the
murderous blow, rifling the man's pockets to mislead those who found his body,
and had laughed to herself triumphantly. Joseph out of the way, the next thing
was to remove Pennyloaf. Oh, that would easily have been contrived. Then she and
Bob would have been married.
    Very long since Clem had shed tears, but she did so this day when there was
no longer a possibility of doubting that Bob was dead. She shut herself in her
room and moaned like a wild beast in pain. Joseph could not but observe, when he
came home, that she was suffering in some extraordinary way. When he spoke
jestingly about it, she all but rushed upon him with her fists. And in the same
moment she determined that he should not escape, even if she had to murder him
with her own hands. From that day her constant occupation was searching the
newspapers to get hints about poisons. Doubtless it was as well for Joseph to be
speedy in his preparations for departure.
    She was present in the police-court when Jack Bartley came forward to be
dealt with. Against him she stored up hatred and the resolve of vengeance; if it
were years before she had the opportunity, Jack should in the end pay for what
he had done.
    And now Joseph had played her the trick she anticipated; he had saved
himself out of her clutches, and had carried off all his money with him. She
knew well enough what was meant by his saying that her mother would supply what
she needed; very likely that he had made any such arrangement! You should have
heard the sterling vernacular in which Clem gave utterance to her feelings as
soon as she had deciphered the mocking letter!
    Without a minute's delay she dressed and left the house. Having a few
shillings in her pocket, she took a cab at King's Cross and bade the driver
drive his hardest to Clerkenwell Close. Up Pentonville Hill panted the bony
horse, Clem swearing all the time because it could go no quicker. But the top
was reached; she shouted to the man to whip, whip! By the time they pulled up at
Mrs. Peckover's house Clem herself perspired as profusely as the animal.
    Mrs. Peckover was at breakfast, alone.
    »Read that, will you? Read that!« roared Clem, rushing upon her and dashing
the letter in her face.
    »Why, you mad cat!« cried her mother, starting up in anger. »What's wrong
with you now?«
    »Read that there letter! That's your doing', that is! Read it! Read it!«
    Half-frightened, Mrs. Peckover drew away from the table and managed to
peruse Joseph's writing. Having come to the end, she burst into jeering
laughter.
    »He's done it, has he? He's took his 'ook, has he? What did I tell you?
Don't swear at me, or I'll give you something to swear about - such languidge in
a respectable 'ouse! Ha, ha! What did I tell you? You wouldn't take my way. Oh
no, you must go off and be independent. Serve you right! Ha, ha! Serve you
right! You'll get no pity from me.«
    »You 'old your jaw, mother, or I'll precious soon set my marks on your ugly
old face! What does he say there about you? You're to pay me money. He's made
arrangements with you. Don't try to cheat me, or I'll - soon have a summons out
against you. The letter's proof; it's lawyer's proof. You try to cheat me and
see.«
    Clem had sufficient command of her faculties to devise this line of action.
She half believed, too, that the letter would be of some legal efficacy, as
against her mother.
    »You bloomin' fool!« screamed Mrs. Peckover. »Do you think I was born
yesterday? Not one farden do you get out of me if you starve in the street - not
one farden! It's my turn now. I've had about enough o' your cheek an' your
hinsults. You'll go and work for your living', you great carthorse!«
    »Work! No fear! I'll set the perlice after him.«
    »The perlice! What can they do?«
    »Is it law as he can go off and leave me with nothing to live on?«
    »Course it is! Unless you go to the work'us an' throw yourself on the
parish. Do, do! Oh my! shouldn't I like to see you brought down to the work'us,
like Mrs. Igginbottom, the wife of the cat's-eat man, him as they stuck up
wanted for desertion!«
    »You're a liar!« Clem shouted. »I can make you support me before it comes to
that.«
    The wrangle continued for some time longer; then Clem bethought herself of
another person with whom she must have the satisfaction of speaking her mind. On
the impulse, she rushed away, out of Clerkenwell Close, up St. John Street Road,
across City Road, down to Hanover Street, literally running for most of the
time. Her knock at Mrs. Byass's door was terrific.
    »I want to see Jane Snowdon,« was her address to Bessie.
    »Do you? I think you might have knocked more like civilisation,« replied
Mrs. Byass, proud of expressing herself with superior refinement.
    But Clem pushed her way forward. Jane, alarmed at the noise, showed herself
on the stairs.
    »You just come 'ere!« cried Clem to her. »I've got something to say to you,
Miss!«
    Jane was of a sudden possessed with terror, the old terror with which Clem
had inspired her years ago. She shrank back, but Bessie Byass was by no means
disposed to allow this kind of thing to go on in her house.
    »Mrs. Snowdon,« she exclaimed, »I don't know what your business may be, but
if you can't behave yourself, you'll please to go away a bit quicker than you
came. The idea! Did anyone ever hear!«
    »I shan't go till I choose,« replied Clem, »and that won't be till I've had
my say with that little -! Where's your father, Jane Snowdon? You just tell me
that.«
    »My father,« faltered Jane, in the silence. »I haven't seen him for a
fortnight.«
    »You haven't, eh? Little liar! It's what I used to call you when you
scrubbed our kitchen floor, and it's what I call you now. D'you remember when
you did the 'ouse-work, an' slept under the kitchen table? D'you remember, eh?
Haven't seen him for a fortnight, ain't you? Oh, he's a nice man, is your
father! He ran away an' deserted your mother. But he's done it once too often. I
'll precious soon have the perlice after him! Has he left you to look after
yourself? Has he, eh? You just tell me that!«
    Jane and Mrs. Byass stared at each other in dismay. The letter that had come
this morning enabled them to guess the meaning of Clem's fury. The latter
interpreted their looks as an admission that Jane too was a victim. She laughed
aloud.
    »How does it taste, little liar, eh? A second disappointment! You thought
you was a-goin' to have all the money; now you've got none, and you may go back
to Whitehead's. They'll be glad to see you, will Whitehead's. Oh, he's a nice
man, your father! Would you like to know what's been goin' on ever since he
found out your old grandfather? Would you like to know how he put himself out to
prevent you an' that Kirkwood feller getting' married, just so that the money
mightn't get into other people's 'ands? Would you like to know how my beast of a
mother and him put their 'eds together to see how they could get hold of the
bloomin' money? An' you thought you was sure of it, didn't you? Will you come
with me to the perlice-station, just to help to describe what he looks like? An
affectionate father, ain't he? Almost as good as he is a 'husband. You just
listen to me, Jane Snowdon. If I find out as you're having' money from him, I'll
be revenged on you, mind that! I'll be revenged on you! D'you remember what my
hand feels like? You've had it on the side of your - 'ed often enough. You just
look out for yourself!«
    »And you just turn out of my house,« cried Bessie, scarlet with wrath. »This
minute! Sarah! Sarah! Run out by the arey-steps and fetch a p'liceman, this
minute! The idea!«
    Clem had said her say, however, and with a few more volleys of atrocious
language was content to retire. Having slammed the door upon her, Bessie cried
in a trembling voice:
    »Oh, if only Sam had been here! My, how I should have liked Sam to have been
here! Wouldn't he have given her something for herself! Why, such a creature
oughtn't be left loose. Oh, if Sam had been here!«
    Jane had sat down on the stairs; her face was hidden in her hands. That
brutal voice had carried her back to her wretched childhood; everything about
her in the present was unreal in comparison with the terrors, the hardships, the
humiliations revived by memory. As she sat at this moment, so had she sat many a
time on the cellar-steps at Mrs. Peckover's. So powerfully was her imagination
affected that she had a feeling as if her hands were grimy from toil, as if her
limbs ached. Oh, that dreadful voice! Was she never, never to escape beyond
hearing of it?
    »Jane, my dear, come into the sitting-room,« said Bessie »No wonder it's
upset you. What can it all mean?«
    The meaning was not far to seek; Jane understood everything - yes, even her
father's hypocrisies. She listened for a few minutes to her friend's indignant
exclamations, then looked up, her resolve taken.
    »Mrs. Byass, I shall take no more money. I shall go to work again and earn
my living. How thankful I am that I can!«
    »Why, what nonsense are you talking, child! Just because that - that
creature - Why, I've no patience with you, Jane! As if she durst touch you!
Touch you? I'd like to see her indeed.«
    »It isn't that, Mrs. Byass. I can't take money from father. I haven't felt
easy in my mind ever since he told me about it, and now I can't take the money.
Whether it's true or not, all she said, I should never have a night's rest if I
consented to live in this way.«
    »Oh, you don't really mean it, Jane?«
    Bessie all but sobbed with vexation.
    »I mean it, and I shall never alter my mind. I shall send back the money,
and write to the man that he needn't send any more. However often it comes, I
shall always return it. I couldn't, I couldn't live on that money! Never ask me
to, Mrs. Byass.«
    Practical Bessie had already begun to ask herself what arrangement Jane
proposed to make about lodgings. She was no Mrs. Peckover, but neither did
circumstances allow her to disregard the question of rent. It cut her to the
heart to think of refusing an income of two pounds per week.
    Jane too saw all the requirements of the case.
    »Mrs. Byass, will you let me have one room - my old room upstairs? I have
been very happy there, and I should like to stay if I can. You know what I can
earn; can you afford to let me live there? I'd do my utmost to help you in the
house; I'll be as good as a servant, if you can't keep Sarah. I should so like
to stay with you!«
    »You just let me hear you talk about leaving, that's all! Wait till I've
talked it over with Sam.«
    Jane went upstairs, and for the rest of the day the house was very quiet.
    Not Whitehead's; there were other places where work might be found. And
before many days she had found it. Happily there were no luxuries to be laid
aside; her ordinary dress was not too good for the workroom. She had no habits
of idleness to overcome, and an hour at the table made her as expert with her
fingers as ever.
    Returning from the first day's work, she sat in her room - the little room
which used to be hers - to rest and think for a moment before going down to
Bessie's supper-table. And her thought was:
    »He, too, is just coming home from work. Why should my life be easier than
his?«
 

                                 Chapter XXXIX

                                     Sidney

Look at a map of greater London, a map on which the town proper shows as a dark,
irregularly rounded patch against the whiteness of suburban districts, and just
on the northern limit of the vast network of streets you will distinguish the
name of Crouch End. Another decade, and the dark patch will have spread greatly
further; for the present, Crouch End is still able to remind one that it was in
the country a very short time ago. The streets have a smell of newness, of
dampness; the bricks retain their complexion, the stucco has not rotted more
than one expects in a year or two; poverty tries to hide itself with venetian
blinds, until the time when an advanced guard of houses shall justify the
existence of the slum.
    Characteristic of the locality is a certain row of one-storey cottages -
villas, the advertiser calls them - built of white brick, each with one bay
window on the ground floor, a window pretentiously fashioned and desiring to be
taken for stone, though obviously made of bad plaster. Before each house is a
garden, measuring six feet by three, entered by a little iron gate, which grinds
as you push it, and at no time would latch. The front-door also grinds on the
sill; it can only be opened by force, and quivers in a way that shows how
unsubstantially it is made. As you set foot in the pinched passage, the sound of
your tread proves the whole fabric a thing of lath and sand. The ceilings, the
walls, confess themselves neither water-tight nor air-tight. Whatever you touch
is at once found to be sham.
    In the kitchen of one of these houses, at two o'clock on a Saturday
afternoon in September, three young people were sitting down to the
dinner-table: a girl of nearly fourteen, her sister, a year younger, and their
brother not yet eleven. All were decently dressed, but very poorly; a glance at
them, and you knew that in this house there was little money to spend on
superfluities. The same impression was produced by the appointments of the
kitchen, which was disorderly, too, and spoke neglect of the scrubbing-brush. As
for the table, it was ill laid and worse supplied. The meal was to consist of
the fag-end of a shoulder of mutton, some villainously cooked potatoes (à
l'Anglaise) and bread.
    »Oh, I can't eat this rot again!« cried the boy, making a dig with his fork
at the scarcely clad piece of bone. »I shall have bread and cheese. Lug the
cheese out, Annie!«
    »No, you won't,« replied the elder girl, in a disagreeable voice. »You'll
eat this or go without.«
    She had an unpleasing appearance. Her face was very thin, her lips pinched
sourly together, her eyes furtive, hungry, malevolent. Her movements were
awkward and impatient, and a morbid nervousness kept her constantly starting,
with a stealthy look here or there.
    »I shall have the cheese if I like!« shouted the boy, a very ill-conditioned
youngster, whose face seemed to have been damaged in recent conflict. His
clothes were dusty, and his hair stood up like stubble.
    »Hold your row, Tom,« said the younger girl, who was quiet and had the look
of an invalid. »It's always you begins. Besides, you can't have cheese; there's
only a little bit, and Sidney said he was going to make his dinner of it
to-day.«
    »Of course - selfish beast!«
    »Selfish! Now just listen to that, Amy! when he said it just that we
mightn't be afraid to finish the meat.«
    Amy said nothing, but began to hack fragments off the bone.
    »Put some aside for father first,« continued Annie, holding a plate.
    »Father be blowed!« cried Tom. »You just give me that first cut. Give it
here, Annie, or I'll crack you on the head!«
    As he struggled for the plate, Amy bent forward and hit his arm violently
with the handle of the knife. This was the signal for a general scrimmage, in
the midst of which Tom caught up a hearth-brush and flung it at Amy's head. The
missile went wide of its mark and shivered one of the windowpanes.
    »There now!« exclaimed Annie, who had begun to cry in consequence of a blow
from Tom's fist. »See what father says to that!«
    »If I was him,« said Amy, in a low voice of passion, »I'd tie you to
something and beat you till you lost your senses. Ugly brute!«
    The warfare would not have ended here but that the door opened and he of
whom they spoke made his appearance.
    In the past two years and a half John Hewett had become a shaky old man. Of
his grizzled hair very little remained, and little of his beard; his features
were shrunken, his neck scraggy; he stooped much, and there was a senile
indecision in his movements. He wore rough, patched clothing, had no collar, and
seemed, from the state of his hands, to have been engaged in very dirty work. As
he entered and came upon the riotous group his eyes lit up with anger. In a
strained voice he shouted a command of silence.
    »It's all that Tom, father,« piped Annie. »There's no living with him.«
    John's eye fell on the broken window.
    »Which of you's done that?« he asked sternly, pointing to it.
    No one spoke.
    »Who's goin' to pay for it, I'd like to know? Doesn't it cost enough to keep
you, but you must go making' extra expense? Where's the money to come from, I
want to know, if you go on like this?«
    He turned suddenly upon the elder girl.
    »I've got something to say to you, Miss. Why wasn't't you at work this
morning?«
    Amy avoided his look. Her pale face became mottled with alarm, but only for
an instant; then she hardened herself and moved her head insolently.
    »Why wasn't't you at work? Where's your week's money?«
    »I haven't got any.«
    »You haven't got any? Why not?«
    For a while she was stubbornly silent, but Hewett constrained her to
confession at length. On his way home to-day he had been informed by an
acquaintance that Amy was wandering about the streets at an hour when she ought
to have been at her employment. Unable to put off the evil moment any longer,
the girl admitted that four days ago she was dismissed for bad behaviour, and
that since then she had pretended to go to work as usual. The trifling sum paid
to her on dismissal she had spent.
    John turned to his youngest daughter and asked in a hollow voice:
    »Where's Clara?«
    »She's got one of her headaches, father,« replied the girl, trembling.
    He turned and went from the room.
    It was long since he had lost his place of porter at the filter-works.
Before leaving England, Joseph Snowdon managed to dispose of his interest in the
firm of Lake, Snowdon, &amp; Co., and at the same time Hewett was informed that
his wages would be reduced by five shillings a week - the sum which had been
supplied by Michael Snowdon's benevolence. It was a serious loss. Clara's
marriage removed one grave anxiety, but the three children had still to be
brought up, and with every year John's chance of steady employment would grow
less. Sidney Kirkwood declared himself able and willing to help substantially,
but he might before long have children of his own to think of, and in any case
it was shameful to burden him in this way.
    Shameful or not, it very soon came to pass that Sidney had the whole family
on his hands. A bad attack of rheumatism in the succeeding winter made John
incapable of earning anything at all; for two months he was a cripple. Till then
Sidney and his wife had occupied lodgings in Holloway; when it became evident
that Hewett must not hope to be able to support his children, and when Sidney
had for many weeks paid the rent (as well as supplying the money to live upon)
in Farringdon Road Buildings, the house at Crouch End was taken, and there all
went to live together. Clara's health was very uncertain, and though at first
she spoke frequently of finding work to do at home, the birth of a child put an
end to such projects. Amy Hewett was shortly at the point when the education of
a board-school child is said to be finished; by good luck, employment was found
for her in Kentish Town, with three shillings a week from the first. John could
not resign himself to being a mere burden on the home. Enforced idleness so
fretted him that at times he seemed all but out of his wits. In despair he
caught at the strangest kinds of casual occupation; when earning nothing, he
would barely eat enough to keep himself alive, and if he succeeded in bringing
home a shilling or two, he turned the money about in his hands with a sort of
angry joy that it would have made your heart ache to witness. Just at present he
had a job of cleaning and whitewashing some cellars in Stoke Newington.
    He was absent from the kitchen for five minutes, during which time the three
sat round the table. Amy pretended to eat unconcernedly; Tom made grimaces at
her. As for Annie, she cried. Their father entered the room again.
    »Why didn't you tell us about this at once?« he asked, in a shaking voice,
looking at his daughter with eyes of blank misery.
    »I don't know.«
    »You're a bad, selfish girl!« he broke out, again overcome with anger.
»Haven't you got neither sense nor feelin' nor honesty? Just when you ought to
have begun to earn a bit higher wages - when you ought to have been glad to work
your hardest, to show you wasn't't unthankful to them as has done so much for you!
Who earned money to keep you when you was goin' to school? Who fed and clothed
you, and saw as you didn't want for nothing? Who is it as you owe everything to?
- just tell me that.«
    Amy affected to pay no attention. She kept swallowing morsels, with ugly
movements of her lips and jaws.
    »How often have I to tell you all that if it wasn't't for Sidney Kirkwood
you'd have been workhouse children? As sure as you're living', you'd all of you
have gone to the workhouse! And you go on just as if you didn't owe thanks to
nobody. I tell you it'll be years and years before one of you'll have a penny
you can call your own. If it was Annie or Tom behaved so careless, there'd be
less wonder; but for a girl of your age - I'm ashamed as you belong to me! You
can't even keep your tongue from bein' impudent to Clara, her as you ain't
worthy to be a servant to!«
    »Clara's a sneak,« observed Tom, with much coolness. »She's always telling
lies about us.«
    »I'll half-knock your young head off your shoulders,« cried his father,
furiously, »if you talk to me like that! Not one of you's fit to live in the
same house with her.«
    »Father, I haven't done nothing,« whimpered Annie, hurt by being thus
included in his reprobation.
    »No more you have - not just now, but you're often enough more trouble to
your sister than you need be. But it's you I'm talking' to, Amy. You dare to
leave this house again till there's another place found for you! If you'd any
self-respect, you couldn't bear to look Sidney in the face. Suppose you hadn't
such a brother to work for you, what would you do, eh? Who'd buy your food?
Who'd pay the rent of the house you live in?«
    A noteworthy difference between children of this standing and such as pass
their years of play-time in homes unshadowed by poverty. For these, life had no
illusions. Of every mouthful that they ate, the price was known to them. The
roof over their heads was there by no grace of Providence, but solely because
such-and-such a sum was paid weekly in hard cash, when the collector came; let
the payment fail, and they knew perfectly well what the result would be. The
children of the upper world could not even by chance give a thought to the
sources whence their needs are supplied; speech on such a subject in their
presence would be held indecent. In John Hewett's position, the indecency, the
crime, would have been to keep silence and pretend that the needs of existence
are ministered to as a matter of course.
    His tone and language were pitifully those of feeble age. The emotion proved
too great a strain upon his body, and he had at length to sit down in a
tremulous state, miserable with the consciousness of failing authority. He would
have made but a poor figure now upon Clerkenwell Green. Even as his frame was
shrunken, so had the circle of his interests contracted; he could no longer
speak or think on the subjects which had fired him through the better part of
his life; if he was driven to try and utter himself on the broad questions of
social wrong, of the people's cause, a senile stammering of incoherencies was
the only result. The fight had ever gone against John Hewett; he was one of
those who are born to be defeated. His failing energies spent themselves in
conflict with his own children; the concerns of a miserable home were all his
mind could now cope with.
    »Come and sit down to your dinner, father,« Annie said, when he became
silent.
    »Dinner? I want no dinner. I've no stomach for food when it's stolen. What's
Sidney goin' to have when he comes home?«
    »He said he'd do with bread and cheese to-day. See, we've cut some meat for
you?«
    »You keep that for Sidney, then, and don't one of you dare to say anything
about it. Cut me a bit of bread, Annie.«
    She did so. He ate it, standing by the fireplace, drank a glass of water,
and went into the sitting-room. There he sat unoccupied for nearly an hour, his
head at times dropping forward as if he were nearly asleep; but it was only in
abstraction. The morning's work had wearied him excessively, as such effort
always did, but the mental misery he was suffering made him unconscious of
bodily fatigue.
    The clinking and grinding of the gate drew his attention; he stood up and
saw his son-in-law, returned from Clerkenwell. When he had heard, the house-door
grind and shake and close, he called »Sidney!«
    Sidney looked into the parlour, with a smile.
    »Come in here a minute; I want to speak to you.«
    It was a face that told of many troubles. Sidney might resolutely keep a
bright countenance, but there was no hiding the sallowness of his cheeks and the
lines drawn by ever-wakeful anxiety. The effect of a struggle with mean
necessities is seldom anything but degradation, in look and in character; but
Sidney's temper, and the conditions of his life, preserved him against that
danger. His features, worn into thinness, seem to present more distinctly than
ever their points of refinement. You saw that he was habitually a grave and
silent man; all the more attractive his aspect when, as now, he seemed to rest
from thought and give expression to his natural kindliness. In the matter of
attire he was no longer as careful as he used to be; the clothes he wore had
done more than just service, and hung about him unregarded.
    »Clara upstairs?« he asked, when he had noticed Hewett's look.
    »Yes; she's lying down. May's been troublesome all the morning. But it was
something else I meant.«
    And John began to speak of Amy's ill-doing. He had always in some degree a
sense of shame when he spoke privately with Sidney, always felt painfully the
injustice involved in their relations. At present he could not look Kirkwood in
the face, and his tone was that of a man who abases himself to make confession
of guilt.
    Sidney was gravely concerned. It was his habit to deal with the children's
faults good-naturedly, to urge John not to take a sombre view of their
thoughtlessness; but the present instance could not be made light of. Secretly
he had always expected that the girl would be a source of more serious trouble
the older she grew. He sat in silence, leaning forward, his eyes bent down.
    »It's no good whatever I say,« lamented Hewett. »They don't heed me. Why
must I have children like these? Haven't I always done my best to teach them to
be honest and good-hearted? If I'd spent my life in the worst ways a man can,
they couldn't have turned out more worthless. Haven't I wished always what was
right and good and true? Haven't I always spoke up for justice in the world?
Haven't I done what I could, Sidney, to be helpful to them as fell into
misfortune? And now in my old age I'm only a burden, and the children as come
after me are nothing but a misery to all as have to do with them. If it wasn't't
for Clara I feel I couldn't live my time out. She's the one that pays me back
for the love I've given her. All the others - I can't feel as they're children
of mine at all.«
    It was a strange and touching thing that he seemed nowadays utterly to have
forgotten Clara's past. Invariably he spoke of her as if she had at all times
been his stay and comfort. The name of his son who was dead never passed his
lips, but of Clara he could not speak too long or too tenderly.
    
    »I can't think what to do,« Sidney said. »If I talk to her in a
fault-finding way, she'll only dislike me the more; she feels I've no business
to interfere.«
    »You're too soft with them. You spoil them. Why, there's one of them broken
a pane in the kitchen to-day, and they know you'll take it quiet, like you do
everything else.«
    Sidney wrinkled his brow. These petty expenses, ever repeated, were just
what made the difficulty in his budget; he winced whenever such demands
encroached upon the poor weekly income of which every penny was too little for
the serious needs of the family. Feeling that if he sat and thought much longer
a dark mood would seize upon him, he rose hastily.
    »I shall try kindness with her. Don't say anything more in her hearing.«
    He went to the kitchen-door, and cried cheerfully, »My dinner ready, girls?«
    Annie's voice replied with a timorous affirmative.
    »All right; I'll be down in a minute.«
    Treading as gently as possible, he ascended the stairs and entered his
bedroom. The blind was drawn down, but sunlight shone through it and made a
softened glow in the chamber. In a little cot was sitting his child, May, rather
more than a year old; she had toys about her, and was for the moment contented.
Clara lay on the bed, her face turned so that Sidney could not see it. He spoke
to her, and she just moved her arm, but gave no reply.
    »Do you wish to be left alone?« he asked, in a subdued and troubled voice.
    »Yes.«
    »Shall I take May downstairs?«
    »If you like. Don't speak to me now.«
    He remained standing by the bed for a minute, then turned his eyes on the
child, who smiled at him. He could not smile in return, but went quietly away.
    »It's one of her bad days,« whispered Hewett, who met him at the foot of the
stairs. »She can't help it, poor girl!«
    »No, no.«
    Sidney ate what was put before him without giving a thought to it. When his
eyes wandered round the kitchen the disorder and dirt worried him, but on that
subject he could not speak. His hunger appeased, he looked steadily at Amy, and
said in a kindly tone:
    »Father tells me you've had a stroke of bad luck, Amy. We must have a try at
another place, mustn't we? Hollo, there's a window broken! Has Tom been playing
at cricket in the room, eh?«
    The girls kept silence.
    »Come and let's make out the list for our shopping this afternoon,« he
continued. »I'm afraid there'll have to be something the less for that window,
girls; what do you say?«
    »We'll do without a pudding to-morrow, Sidney,« suggested Annie.
    »Oh come, now! I'm fond of pudding.«
    Thus it was always; if he could not direct by kindness, he would never try
to rule by harsh words. Six years ago it was not so easy for him to be gentle
under provocation, and he would then have made a better disciplinarian in such a
home as this. On Amy and Tom all his rare goodness was thrown away. Never mind;
shall one go over to the side of evil because one despairs of vanquishing it?
    The budget, the budget! Always so many things perforce cut out; always such
cruel pressure of things that could not be cut out. In the early days of his
marriage he had accustomed himself to a liberality of expenditure out of
proportion to his income; the little store of savings allowed him to indulge his
kindness to Clara and her relatives, and he kept putting off to the future that
strict revision of outlay which his position of course demanded. The day when he
had no longer a choice came all too soon; with alarm he discovered that his
savings had melted away; the few sovereigns remaining must be sternly guarded
for the hour of stern necessity. How it ground on his sensibilities when he was
compelled to refuse some request from Clara or the girls! His generous nature
suffered pangs of self-contempt as often as there was talk of economy. To-day,
for instance, whilst he was worrying in thought over Amy's behaviour, and at the
same time trying to cut down the Saturday's purchases in order to pay for the
broken window, up comes Tom with the announcement that he lost his hat this
morning, and had to return bareheaded. Another unforeseen expense! And Sidney
was angry with himself for his impulse of anger against the boy.
    Clara never went out to make purchases, seldom indeed left the house for any
reason, unless Sidney persuaded her to walk a short distance with him after
sundown, when she veiled herself closely. Neither Amy nor Annie could be trusted
to do all the shopping, so that Sidney generally accompanied one or other of
them for that purpose on Saturday afternoon. To-day he asked Amy to go with him,
wishing, if possible, to influence her for good by kind, brotherly talk. Whilst
she was getting ready he took John aside into the parlour, to impart a strange
piece of news he had brought from Clerkenwell.
    »Mrs. Peckover has had a narrow escape of being poisoned. She was found by
one of her lodgers all but dead, and last night the police arrested her daughter
on the charge.«
    »Mrs. Snowdon?«
    »Yes. The mother has accused her. There's a man concerned in the affair. One
of the men showed me a report in to-day's paper; I didn't buy one, because we
shall have it in the Sunday paper to-morrow. Nice business, eh?«
    »That's for the old woman's money, I'll wager!« exclaimed Hewett, in an awed
voice. »I can believe it of Clem; if ever there was a downright bad 'un! Was she
living in the Close?«
    »Mrs. Snowdon wasn't't. Somewhere in Hoxton. No doubt it was for the money -
if the charge is true. We won't speak of it before the children.«
    »Think of that, now! Many's the time I've looked at Clem Peckover and said
to myself, You'll come to no good end, my lady! She was a fierce an' bad 'un.«
    Sidney nodded, and went off for his walk with Amy. ...
 
It was a difficult thing to keep any room in the house orderly, and Sidney, as
part of his struggle against the downward tendency in all about him, against the
forces of chaos, often did the work of housemaid in the parlour; a little laxity
in the rules which made this a sacred corner, and there would have been no spot
where he could rest. With some success, too, he had resisted the habit prevalent
in working-class homes of prolonging Saturday evening's occupations until the
early hours of Sunday morning. At a little after ten o'clock tonight John Hewett
and the children were in bed; he too, weary in mind and body, would gladly have
gone upstairs, but he lingered from one five minutes to the next, his heart
sinking at the certainty that he would find Clara in sleepless misery which he
had no power to allay.
    Round the walls of the parlour were hung his own drawings, which used to
conceal the bareness of his lodging in Tysoe Street. It was three years since he
had touched a pencil; the last time having been when he made holiday with
Michael Snowdon and Jane at the farm-house by Danbury Hill. The impulse would
never come again. It was associated with happiness, with hope; and what had his
life to do with one or the other? Could he have effected the change without the
necessity of explaining it, he would gladly have put those drawings out of
sight. Whenever, as now, he consciously regarded them, they plucked painfully at
his heart-strings, and threatened to make him a coward.
    None of that! He had his work to do, happiness or no happiness, and by all
the virtue of manhood he would not fail in it - as far as success or failure was
a question of his own resolve.
    The few books he owned were placed on hanging shelves; among them those
which he had purchased for Clara since their marriage. But reading was as much a
thing of the past as drawing. Never a moment when his mind was sufficiently at
ease to refresh itself with other men's thoughts or fancies. As with John
Hewett, so with himself; the circle of his interests had shrivelled, until it
included nothing but the cares of his family, the cost of house and food and
firing. As a younger man, he had believed that he knew what was meant by the
struggle for existence in the nether world; it seemed to him now as if such
knowledge had been only theoretical. Oh, it was easy to preach a high ideal of
existence for the poor, as long as one had a considerable margin over the week's
expenses; easy to rebuke the men and women who tried to forget themselves in
beer-shops and gin-houses, as long as one could take up some rational amusement
with a quiet heart. Now, on his return home from labour, it was all he could do
not to sink in exhaustion and defeat of spirit. Shillings and pence; shillings
and pence - never a question of pounds, unfortunately; and always too few of
them. He understood how men have gone mad under pressure of household cares; he
realised the horrible temptation which has made men turn dastardly from the path
leading homeward and leave those there to shift for themselves.
    When on the point of lowering the lamp he heard someone coming downstairs.
The door opened, and, to his surprise, Clara came in. Familiarity could not make
him insensible to that disfigurement of her once beautiful face; his eyes always
fell before her at the first moment of meeting.
    »What are you doing?« she asked. »Why don't you come up?«
    »I was that minute coming.«
    His hand went again to the lamp, but she checked him. In a low, wailing,
heart-breaking voice, and with a passionate gesture, she exclaimed, »Oh, I feel
as if I should go mad! I can't bear it much longer!«
    Sidney was silent at first, then said quietly, »Let's sit here for a little.
No wonder you feel low-spirited, lying in that room all day. I'd gladly have
come and sat with you, but my company only seems to irritate you.«
    »What good can you do me? You only think I'm making you miserable without a
cause. You won't say it, but that's what you always think; and when I feel that,
I can't bear to have you near. If only I could die and come to the end of it!
How can you tell what I suffer? Oh yes, you speak so calmly - as good as telling
me I am unreasonable because I can't do the same. I hate to hear your voice when
it's like that! I'd rather you raged at me or struck me!«
    The beauty of her form had lost nothing since the evening when he visited
her in Farringdon Road Buildings; now, as then, all her movements were full of
grace and natural dignity. Whenever strong feeling was active in her, she could
not but manifest it in motion unlike that of ordinary women. Her hair hung in
disorder, though not at its full length, massing itself upon her shoulders,
shadowing her forehead. Half-consumed by the fire that only death would
extinguish, she looked the taller for her slenderness. Ah, had the face been
untouched!
    »You are unjust to me,« Sidney replied, with emotion, but not resentfully.
»I can enter into all your sufferings. If I speak calmly, it's because I must,
because I daren't give way. One of us must try and be strong, Clara, or else -«
    He turned away.
    »Let us leave this house,« she continued, hardly noticing what he said. »Let
us live in some other place. Never any change - always, always the same walls to
look at day and night - it's driving me mad!«
    »Clara, we can't move. I daren't spend even the little money it would cost.
Do you know what Amy has been doing?«
    »Yes; father told me.«
    »How can we go to the least needless expense, when every day makes living
harder for us?«
    »What have we to do with them? How can you be expected to keep a whole
family? It isn't fair to you or to me. You sacrifice me to them. It's nothing to
you what I endure, so long as they are kept in comfort!«
    He stepped nearer to her.
    »What do you really mean by that? Is it seriously your wish that I should
tell them - your father and your sisters and your brother - to leave the house
and support themselves as best they can? Pray, what would become of them? Kept
in comfort, are they? How much comfort does your poor father enjoy? Do you wish
me to tell him to go out into the street, as I can help him no more?«
    She moaned and made a wild gesture.
    »You know all this to be impossible; you don't wish it; you couldn't bear
it. Then why will you drive me almost to despair by complaining so of what can't
be helped? Surely you foresaw it all. You knew that I was only a working man. It
isn't as if there had been any hope of my making a larger income, and you were
disappointed.«
    »Does it make it easier to bear because there is no hope of relief?« she
cried.
    »For me, yes. If there were hope, I might fret under the misery.«
    »Oh, I had hope once! It might have been so different with me. The thought
burns and burns and burns, till I am frantic. You don't help me to bear it. You
leave me alone when I most need help. How can you know what it means to me to
look back and think of what might have been? You say to yourself I am selfish,
that I ought to be thankful someone took pity on me, poor, wretched creature
that I am. It would have been kinder never to have come near me. I should have
killed myself long ago, and there an end. You thought it was a great thing to
take me, when you might have had a wife who would -«
    »Clara! Clara! When you speak like that, I could almost believe you are
really mad. For Heaven's sake, think what you are saying! Suppose I were to
reproach you with having consented to marry me? I would rather die than let such
a word pass my lips - but suppose you heard me speaking to you like this?«
    She drew a deep sigh, and let her hands fall. Sidney continued in quite
another voice:
    »It's one of the hardest things I have to bear, that I can't make your life
pleasanter. Of course you need change; I know it only too well. You and I ought
to have our holiday at this time of the year, like other people. I fancy I
should like to go into the country myself; Clerkenwell isn't such a beautiful
place that one can be content to go there day after day, year after year,
without variety. But we have no money. Suffer as we may, there's no help for it
- because we have no money. Lives may be wasted - worse, far worse than wasted -
just because there is no money. At this moment a whole world of men and women is
in pain and sorrow - because they have no money. How often have we said that?
The world is made so; everything has to be bought with money.«
    »You find it easier to bear than I do.«
    »Yes; I find it easier. I am stronger-bodied, and at all events I have some
variety, whilst you have none. I know it. If I could take your share of the
burden, how gladly I'd do so! If I could take your suffering upon myself, you
shouldn't be unhappy for another minute. But that is another impossible thing.
People who are fortunate in life may ask each day what they can do; we have
always to remind our selves what we can't.«
    »You take a pleasure in repeating such things; it shows how little you feel
them.«
    »It shows how I have taken to heart the truth of them.«
    She waved her hand impatiently, again sighed, and moved towards the door.
    »Don't go just yet,« said Sidney. »We have more to say to each other.«
    »I have nothing more to say. I am miserable, and you can't help me.«
    »I can, Clara.«
    She looked at him with wondering, estranged eyes. »How? What are you going
to do?«
    »Only speak to you, that's all. I have nothing to give but words. But -«
    She would have left him. Sidney stepped forward and prevented her.
    »No; you must hear what I have got to say. They may be only words, but if I
have no power to move you with my words, then our life has come to utter ruin,
and I don't know what dreadful things lie before us.«
    »I can say the same,« she replied, in a despairing tone.
    »But neither you nor I shall say it! As long as I have strength to speak, I
won't consent to say that! Clara, you must put your hand in mine, and think of
your life and mine as one. If not for my sake, then for your child's. Think; do
you wish May to suffer for the faults of her parents?«
    »I wish she had never been born!«
    »And yet you were the happier for her birth. It's only these last six months
that you have fallen again into misery. You indulge it, and it grows worse,
harder to resist. You may say that life seems to grow worse. Perhaps so. This
affair of Amy's has been a heavy blow, and we shall miss the little money she
brought; goodness knows when another place will be found for her. But all the
more reason why we should help each other to struggle. Perhaps just this year or
two will be our hardest time. If Amy and Annie and Tom were once all earning
something, the worst would be over - wouldn't it? And can't we find strength to
hold out a little longer, just to give the children a start in life, just to
make your father's last years a bit happier? If we manage it, shan't we feel
glad in looking back? Won't it be something worth having lived for?«
    He paused, but Clara had no word for him.
    »There's Amy. She's a hard girl to manage, partly because she has very bad
health. I always think of that - or try to - when she irritates me. This
afternoon I took her out with me, and spoke as kindly as I could; if she isn't
better for it, she surely can't be worse, and in any case I don't know what else
to do. Look, Clara, you and I are going to do what we can for these children;
we're not going to give up the work now we've begun it. Mustn't all of us who
are poor stand together and help one another? We have to fight against the rich
world that's always crushing us down, down - whether it means to or not. Those
people enjoy their lives. Well, I shall find my enjoyment in defying them to
make me despair! But I can't do without your help. I didn't feel very cheerful
as I sat here a while ago, before you came down; I was almost afraid to go
upstairs, lest the sight of what you were suffering should be too much for me.
Am I to ask a kindness of you and be refused, Clara?«
    It was not the first time that she had experienced the constraining power of
his words when he was moved with passionate earnestness. Her desire to escape
was due to a fear of yielding, of suffering her egotism to fail before a
stronger will.
    »Let me go,« she said, whilst he held her arm. »I feel too ill to talk
longer.«
    »Only one word - only one promise - now whilst we are the only ones awake in
the house. We are husband and wife, Clara, and we must be kind to each other. We
are not going to be like the poor creatures who let their misery degrade them.
We are both too proud for that - what? We can think and express our thoughts; we
can speak to each other's minds and hearts. Don't let us be beaten!«
    »What's the good of my promising? I can't keep it. I suffer too much.«
    »Promise, and keep the promise for a few weeks, a few days; then I'll find
strength to help you once more. But now it's your turn to help me. To-morrow
begins a new week; the rich world allows us to rest to-morrow, to be with each
other. Shall we make it a quiet, restful, hopeful day? When they go out in the
morning, you shall read to father and me - read as you know how to, so much
better than I can. What? Was that really a smile?«
    »Let me go, Sidney. Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired!«
    »And the promise?«
    »I'll do my best. It won't last long, but I'll try.«
    »Thank you, dear.«
    »No,« she replied, despondently. »It's I that ought to thank you. But I
never shall - never. I only understand you now and then - just for an hour - and
all the selfishness comes back again. It'll be the same till I'm dead.«
    He put out the lamp and followed her upstairs. His limbs ached; he could
scarcely drag one leg after the other. Never mind; the battle was gained once
more.
 

                                   Chapter XL

                                      Jane

»The poisoning business startled me. I shouldn't at all wonder if I had a
precious narrow squeak of something of the kind myself before I took my
departure; in fact, a sort of fear of the animal made me settle things as sharp
as I could. Let me know the result of the trial. Wonder whether there'll be any
disagreeable remarks about a certain acquaintance of yours, detained abroad on
business? Better send me newspapers - same name and address. ... But I've
something considerably more important to think about. ... A big thing; I
scarcely dare tell you how big. I stand to win $2,000,000! ... Not a soul
outside suspects the ring. When I tell you that R.S.N. is in it, you'll see that
I've struck the right ticket this time. ... Let me hear about Jane. If all goes
well here, and you manage that little business, you shall liave $100,000, just
for house-furnishing, you know. I suppose you'll have your partnership in a few
months?«
 
Extracts from a letter, with an American stamp, which Mr. Scawthorne read as he
waited for his breakfast. It was the end of October, and cool enough to make the
crackling fire grateful. Having mused over the epistle, our friend took up his
morning paper and glanced at the report of criminal trials. Whilst he was so
engaged his landlady entered, carrying a tray of appetising appearance.
    »Good-morning, Mrs. Byass,« he said, with much friendliness. Then, in a
lower voice, »There's a fuller report here than there was in the evening paper.
Perhaps you looked at it?«
    »Well, yes, sir; I thought you wouldn't mind,« replied Bessie, arranging the
table.
    »She'll be taken care of for three years, at all events.«
    »If you'd seen her that day she came here after Miss Snowdon, you'd
understand how glad I feel that she's out of the way. I'm sure I've been uneasy
ever since. If ever there comes a rather loud knock at - there I begin to
tremble; I do indeed. I don't think I shall ever get over it.«
    »I dare say Miss Snowdon will be easier in mind?«
    »I shouldn't wonder. But she won't say anything about it. She feels the
disgrace so much, and I know it's almost more than she can do to go to work,
just because she thinks they talk about her.«
    »Oh, that'll very soon pass over. There's always something new happening,
and people quickly forget a case like this.«
    Bessie withdrew, and her lodger addressed himself to his breakfast.
    He had occupied the rooms on the first floor for about a year and a half.
Joseph Snowdon's proposal to make him acquainted with Jane had not been carried
out, Scawthorne deeming it impracticable; but when a year had gone by, and
Scawthorne, as Joseph's confidential correspondent, had still to report that
Jane maintained herself in independence, he one day presented himself in Hanover
Street, as a total stranger, and made inquiry about the rooms which a card told
him were to let. His improved position allowed him to live somewhat more
reputably than in the Chelsea lodging, and Hanover Street would suit him well
enough until he obtained the promised partnership. Admitted as a friend to Mr.
Percival's house in Highbury, he had by this time made the acquaintance of Miss
Lant, whom, by the exercise of his agreeable qualities, he one day led to speak
of Jane Snowdon. Miss Lant continued to see Jane, at long intervals, and was
fervent in her praise as well as in compassionating the trials through which she
had gone. His position in Mr. Percival's office of course made it natural that
Scawthorne should have a knowledge of the girl's story. When he had established
himself in Mrs. Byass's rooms, he mentioned the fact casually to his friends,
making it appear that, in seeking lodgings, he had come upon these by haphazard.
    He could not but feel something of genuine interest in a girl who, for
whatever reason, declined a sufficient allowance and chose to work for her
living. The grounds upon which Jane took this decision were altogether unknown
to him until an explanation came from her father. Joseph, when news of the
matter reached him, was disposed to entertain suspicions; with every care not to
betray his own whereabouts, he wrote to Jane, and in due time received a reply,
in which Jane told him truly her reasons for refusing the money. These Joseph
communicated to Scawthorne, and the latter's interest was still more strongly
awakened.
    He was now on terms of personal acquaintance, almost of friendship, with
Jane. Miss Lant, he was convinced, did not speak of her too praisingly. Not
exactly a pretty girl, though far from displeasing in countenance; very quiet,
very gentle, with much natural refinement. Her air of sadness - by no means
forced upon the vulgar eye, but unmistakable when you studied her - was
indicative of faithful sensibilities. Scawthorne had altogether lost sight of
Sidney Kirkwood and of the Hewetts; he knew they were all gone to a remote part
of London, and more than this he had no longer any care to discover. On
excellent terms with his landlady, he skilfully elicited from her now and then a
confidential remark with regard to Jane; of late, indeed, he had established
something like a sentimental understanding with the good Bessie, so that,
whenever he mentioned Jane, she fell into a pleasant little flutter, feeling
that she understood what was in progress. ... Why not? - he kept asking himself.
Joseph Snowdon (who addressed his letters to Hanover Street in a feigned hand)
seemed to have an undeniable affection for the girl, and was constant in his
promises of providing a handsome dowry. The latter was not a point of such
importance as a few years ago, but the dollars would be acceptable. And then,
the truth was, Scawthorne felt himself more and more inclined to put a certain
question to Jane, dowry or none. ...
 
Yes, she felt it as a disgrace, poor girl! When she saw the name Snowdon in the
newspaper, in such a shameful and horrible connection, her impulse was to flee,
to hide herself. It was dreadful to go to her work and hear the girls talking of
this attempted murder. The new misery came upon her just as she was regaining
something of her natural spirits, after long sorrow and depression which had
affected her health. But circumstances, now as ever, seemed to plot that at a
critical moment of her own experience she should be called out of herself and
constrained to become the consoler of others.
    For some months the domestic peace of Mr. and Mrs. Byass had been gravely
disturbed. Unlike the household at Crouch End, it was to prosperity that Sam and
his wife owed their troubles. Year after year Sam's position had improved; he
was now in receipt of a salary which made - or ought to have made - things at
home very comfortable. Though his children were now four in number, he could
supply their wants. He could buy Bessie a new gown without very grave
consideration, and could regard his own shiny top-hat, when he donned it in the
place of one that was really respectable enough, without twinges of conscience.
    But Sam was not remarkable for wisdom; indeed, had he been anything more
than a foolish calculating-machine, he would scarcely have thriven as he did in
the City. When he had grown accustomed to rattling loose silver in his pocket,
the next thing, as a matter of course, was that he accustomed himself to pay far
too frequent visits to City bars. On certain days in the week he invariably came
home with a very red face and a titubating walk; when Bessie received him
angrily, he defended himself on the great plea of business necessities. As a
town traveller there was no possibility, he alleged, of declining invitations to
refresh himself; just as incumbent upon him was it to extend casual hospitality
to those with whom he had business.
    »Business! Fiddle!« cried Bessie. »All you City fellows are the same. You
encourage each other in drink, drink, drinking whenever you have a chance, and
then you say it's all a matter of business. I won't have you coming home in that
state, so there! I won't have a husband as drinks! Why, you can't stand
straight.«
    »Can't stand straight!« echoed Sam, with vast scorn. »Look here!«
    And he shouldered the poker, with the result that one of the globes on the
chandelier came in shivers about his head. This was too much. Bessie fumed, and
for a couple of hours the quarrel was unappeasable.
    Worse was to come. Sam occasionally stayed out very late at night, and on
his return alleged a business appointment. Bessie at length refused to accept
these excuses; she couldn't and wouldn't believe them.
    »Then don't!« shouted Sam. »And understand that I shall come home just when
I like. If you make a bother I won't come home at all, so there you have it!«
    »You're a bad husband and a beast!« was Bessie's retort.
    Shortly after that Bessie received information of such grave misconduct on
her husband's part that she all but resolved to forsake the house, and with the
children seek refuge under her parents' roof at Woolwich. Sam had been seen in
indescribable company; no permissible words would characterise the individuals
with whom he had roamed shamelessly on the pavement of Oxford Street. When he
next met her, quite sober and with exasperatingly innocent expression, Bessie
refused to open her lips. Neither that evening nor the next would she utter a
word to him - and the effort it cost her was tremendous. The result was, that on
the third, evening Sam did not appear.
    It was a week after Clem's trial. Jane had been keeping to herself as much
as possible, but, having occasion to go down into the kitchen late at night, she
found Bessie in tears, utterly miserable.
    »Don't bother about me!« was the reply to her sympathetic question. »You've
got your own upsets to think of. You might have come to speak to me before this
- but never mind. It's nothing to you.«
    It needed much coaxing to persuade her to detail Sam's enormities, but she
found much relief when she had done so, and wept more copiously than ever.
    »It's nearly twelve o'clock, and there's no sign of him. Perhaps he won't
come at all. He's in bad company, and if he stays away all night I'll never
speak to him again as long as I live. Oh, he's a beast of a husband, is Sam!«
    Sam came not. All through that night did Jane keep her friend company, for
Sam came not. In the morning a letter, addressed in his well-known commercial
hand. Bessie read it and screamed. Sam wrote to her that he had accepted a
position as country traveller, and perhaps he might be able to look in at his
home on that day month.
    Jane could not go to work. The case had become very serious indeed; Bessie
was in hysterics; the four children made the roof ring with their lamentations.
At this juncture Jane put forth all her beneficent energy. It happened that
Bessie was just now servantless. There was Mr. Scawthorne's breakfast only half
prepared; Jane had to see to it herself, and herself take it upstairs. Then
Bessie must go to bed, or assuredly she would be so ill that unheard-of
calamities would befall the infants. Jane would have an eye to everything; only
let Jane be trusted.
    The miserable day passed; after trying in vain to sleep, Bessie walked about
her sitting-room with tear-swollen face and rumpled gown, always thinking it
possible that Sam had only played a trick, and that he would come. But he came
not, and again it was night.
    At eight o'clock Mr. Scawthorne's bell rang. Impossible for Bessie to
present herself; Jane would go. She ascended to the room which had once - ah,
once! - been her own parlour, knocked and entered.
    »I - I wished to speak to Mrs. Byass,« said Scawthorne, appearing for some
reason or other embarrassed by Jane's presenting herself.
    »Mrs. Byass is not at all well, sir. But I'll let her know -«
    »No, no; on no account.«
    »Can't I get you anything, sir?«
    »Miss Snowdon - might I speak with you for a few moments?«
    Jane feared it might be a complaint. In a perfectly natural way she walked,
forward. Scawthorne came in her direction, and - closed the door.
    The interview lasted ten minutes, then Jane came forth and with a light,
quick step ran up to the floor above. She did not enter the room, however, but
stood with her hand on the door, in the darkness. A minute or two, and with the
same light, hurried step, she descended the stairs, sprang past the lodger's
room, sped down to the kitchen. Under other circumstances Bessie must surely
have noticed a strangeness in her look, in her manner; but to-night Bessie had
thought for nothing but her own calamities.
    Another day, and no further news from Sam. The next morning, instead of
going to work (the loss of wages was most serious, but it couldn't be helped),
Jane privately betook herself to Sam's house of business. Mrs. Byass was ill;
would they let her know Mr. Byass's address, that he might immediately be
communicated with? The information was readily supplied; Mr. Byass was no
farther away, at present, than St. Albans. Forth into the street again, and in
search of a policeman. »Will you please to tell me what station I have to go to
for St. Albans?« Why, Moorgate Street would do; only a few minutes' walk away.
On she hastened. »What is the cost of a return ticket to St. Albans, please?«
Three-and-sevenpence. Back into the street again; she must now look for a
certain sign, indicating a certain place of business. With some little trouble
it is found; she enters a dark passage, and comes before a counter, upon which
she lays - a watch, her grandfather's old watch. »How much?« »Four shillings,
please.« She deposits a halfpenny, and receives four shillings, together with a
ticket. Now for St. Albans.
    Sam! Sam! Ay, well might he turn red and stutter and look generally foolish
when that quiet little girl stood before him in his stock-room at the hotel. Her
words were as quiet as her look. »I'll write her a letter,« he cries. »Stop; you
shall take it back. I can't give up the job at once, but you may tell her I'm up
to no harm. Where's the pen? Where's the cursed ink?« And she takes the letter.
    »Why, you've lost a day's work, Jane! She gave you the money for the
journey, I suppose?«
    »Yes, yes, of course.«
    »Tell her she's not to make a fool of herself in future.«
    »No, I shan't say that, Mr. Byass. But I'm half-tempted to say it to someone
else!«
    It was the old, happy smile, come back for a moment; the voice that had
often made peace so merrily. The return journey seemed short, and with glad
heart-beating she hastened from the City to Hanover Street.
    Well, well; of course it would all begin over again; Jane herself knew it.
But is not all life a struggle onward from compromise to compromise, until the
day of final pacification?
    Through tliat winter she lived with a strange secret in her mind, a secret
which was the source of singularly varied feelings - of astonishment, of pain,
of encouragement, of apprehension, of grief. To no one could she speak of it; no
one could divine its existence - no one save the person to whom she owed this
surprising novelty in her experience. She would have given much to be rid of it;
and yet, again, might she not legitimately accept that pleasure which at times
came of the thought? - the thought that, as a woman, her qualities were of some
account in the world.
    She did her best to keep it out of her consciousness, and in truth had so
many other things to think about that it was seldom she really had trouble with
it. Life was not altogether easy; regular work was not always to be kept; there
was much need of planning and pinching, that her independence might suffer no
wound. Bessie Byass was always in arms against that same independent spirit; she
scoffed at it, assailed it with treacherous blandishment, made direct attacks
upon it.
    »I must live in my own way, Mrs. Byass. I don't want to have to leave you.«
    And if ever life seemed a little too hard, if the image of the past grew too
mournfully persistent, she knew where to go for consolation. Let us follow her,
one Saturday afternoon early in the year.
    In a poor street in Clerkenwell was a certain poor little shop - built out
as an afterthought from an irregular lump of houses; a shop with a room behind
it and a cellar below; no more. Here was sold second-hand clothing, women's and
children's. No name over the front, but neighbours would have told you that it
was kept by one Mrs. Todd, a young widow with several children. Mrs. Todd, not
long ago, used to have only a stall in the street; but a lady named Miss Lant
helped her to start in a more regular way of business.
    »And does she carry it on quite by herself?«
    No; with her lived another young woman, also a widow, who had one child.
Mrs. Hewett, her name. She did sewing in the room behind, or attended to the
shop when Mrs. Todd was away making purchases.
    There Jane Snowdon entered. The clothing that hung in the window made it
very dark inside; she had to peer a little before she could distinguish the
person who sat behind the counter. »Is Pennyloaf in, Mrs. Todd?«
    »Yes, Miss. Will you walk through?«
    The room behind is lighted from the ceiling. It is heaped with the most
miscellaneous clothing. It contains two beds, some shelves with crockery, a
table, some chairs - but it would have taken you a long time to note all these
details, so huddled together was everything. Part of the general huddling were
five children, of various ages; and among them, very busy, sat Pennyloaf.
    »Everything going on well?« was Jane's first question.
    »Yes, Miss.«
    »Then I know it isn't. Whenever you call me Miss, there's something wrong;
I've learnt that.«
    Pennyloaf smiled, sadly but with affection in her eyes. »Well, I have been a
bit low, an' that's the truth. It takes me sometimes, you know. I've been
thinking', when I'd oughtn't.«
    »Same with me, Pennyloaf. We can't help thinking, can we? What a good thing
if we'd nothing more to think about than these children! Where's little Bob?
Why, Bob, I thought you were old clothes; I did, really! You may well laugh!«
    The laughter was merry, and Jane encouraged it, inventing all sorts of
foolish jokes. »Pennyloaf, I wish you'd ask me to stay to tea.«
    »Then that I will, Miss Jane, an' gladly. Would you like it soon?«
    »No; in an hour will do, won't it? Give me something that wants sewing, a
really hard bit, something that'll break needles. Yes, that'll do. Where's Mrs.
Todd's thimble? Now we're all going to be comfortable, and we'll have a good
talk.«
    Pennyloaf found the dark thoughts slip away insensibly. And she talked, she
talked - where was there such a talker as Pennyloaf nowadays, when she once
began?
 
Mr. Byass was not very willing, after all, to give up his country travelling.
That his departure on that business befell at a moment of domestic quarrel was
merely chance; secretly he had made the arrangement with his firm some weeks
before. The penitence which affected him upon Jane's appeal could not be of
abiding result; for, like all married men at a certain point of their lives, he
felt heartily tired of home and wished to see the world a little. Hanover Street
heard endless discussions of the point between Sam and Bessie, between Bessie
and Jane, between Jane and Sam, between all three together. And the upshot was
that Mr. Byass gained his point. For a time he would go on country journeys.
Bessie assented sullenly, but, strange to say, she had never been in better
spirits than on the day after this decision had been arrived at.
    On that day, however - it was early in March - an annoying incident
happened. Mr. Scawthorne, who always dined in town and seldom returned to his
lodgings till late in the evening, rang his bell about eight o'clock and sent a
message by the servant that he wished to see Mrs. Byass. Bessie having come up,
he announced to her with gravity that his tenancy of the rooms would be at an
end in a fortnight. Various considerations necessitated his living in a
different part of London. Bessie frankly lamented; she would never again find
such an estimable lodger. But, to be sure, Mr. Scawthorne had prepared her for
this, three months ago. Well, what must be, must be.
    »Is Miss Snowdon in the house, Mrs. Byass?« Scawthorne went on to inquire.
    »Miss Snowdon? Yes.«
    »This letter from America, which I found on coming in, contains news she
must hear - disagreeable news, I'm sorry to say.«
    »About her father?« Bessie inquired anxiously.
    Scawthorne nodded a grave and confidential affirmative. He had never given
Mrs. Byass reason to suppose that he knew anything of Joseph's whereabouts, but
Bessie's thoughts naturally turned in that direction.
    »The news comes to me by chance,« he continued. »I think I ought to
communicate it to Miss Snowdon privately, and leave her to let you know what it
is, as doubtless she will. Would it be inconvenient to you to let me have the
use of your parlour for five minutes?«
    »I'll go and light the gas at once, and tell Miss Snowdon.«
    »Thank you, Mrs. Byass.«
    He was nervous, a most unusual thing with him. Till Bessie's return he paced
the room irregularly, chewing the ends of his moustache. When it was announced
to him that the parlour was ready he went down, the letter in his hand. At the
half-open door came a soft knock. Jane entered.
    She showed signs of painful agitation.
    »Will you sit down, Miss Snowdon? It happens that I have a correspondent in
the United States, who has lately had - had business relations with Mr. Joseph
Snowdon, your father. On returning this evening I found a letter from my friend,
in which there is news of a distressing kind.«
    He paused. What he was about to say was - for once - the truth. The letter,
however, came from a stranger, a lawyer in Chicago.
    »Your father, I understand, has lately been engaged in - in commercial
speculation on a great scale. His enterprises have proved unfortunate. One of
those financial crashes which are common in America caused his total ruin.«
    Jane drew a deep breath.
    »I am sorry to say that is not all. The excitement of the days when his fate
was hanging in the balance led to illness - fatal illness. He died on the sixth
of February.«
    Jane, with her eyes bent down, was motionless. After a pause, Scawthorne
continued:
    »I will speak of this with Mr. Percival to-morrow, and every inquiry shall
be made - on your behalf.«
    »Thank you, sir.«
    She rose, very pale, but with more self-command than on entering the room.
The latter part of his communication seemed to have affected her as a relief.
    »Miss Snowdon - if you would allow me to say a few more words. You will
remember I mentioned to you that there was a prospect of my becoming a partner
in the firm which I have hitherto served as clerk. A certain examination had to
be passed that I might be admitted a solicitor. That is over; in a few days my
position as a member of the firm will be assured.«
    Jane waited, her eyes still cast down.
    »I feel that it may seem to you an ill-chosen time; but the very fact that I
have just been the bearer of such sad news impels me to speak. I cannot keep the
promise that I would never revive the subject on which I spoke to you no long
ago. Forgive me; I must ask you again if you cannot think of me as I wish? Miss
Snowdon, will you let me devote myself to making your life happy? It has always
seemed to me that if I could attain a position such as I now have, there would
be little else to ask for. I began life poor and half-educated, and you cannot
imagine the difficulties I have overcome. But if I go away from this house, and
leave you so lonely, living such a hard life, there will be very little
satisfaction for me in my success. Let me try to make for you a happiness such
as you merit. It may seem as if we were very slightly acquainted, but I know you
well enough to esteem you more highly than any woman I ever met, and if you
could but think of me -«
    He was sincere. Jane had brought out the best in him. With the death of
Snowdon all his disreputable past seemed swept away, and he had no thought of
anything but a decent rectitude, a cleanly enjoyment of existence, for the
future. But Jane was answering:
    »I can't change what I said before, Mr. Scawthorne. I am very content to
live as I do now. I have friends I am very fond of. Thank you for your kindness
- but I can't change.«
    Without intending it, she ceased upon a word which to her hearer conveyed a
twofold meaning. He understood; offer what he might, it could not tempt her to
forget the love which had been the best part of her life. She was faithful to
the past, and unchanging.
    Mrs. Byass never suspected the second purpose for which her lodger had
desired to speak with Jane this evening. Scawthorne in due time took his
departure, with many expressions of goodwill, many assurances that nothing could
please him better than to be of service to Bessie and her husband.
    »He wished me to say good-bye to you for him,« said Bessie, when Jane came
back from her work.
 
So the romance in her life was over. Michael Snowdon's wealth had melted away;
with it was gone for ever the hope of realising his high projects. All passed
into the world of memory, of dream - all save the spirit which had ennobled him,
the generous purpose bequeathed to those two hearts which had loved him best.
    To his memory all days were sacred; but one, that of his burial, marked
itself for Jane as the point in each year to which her life was directed, the
saddest, yet bringing with it her supreme solace.
    A day in early spring, cloudy, cold. She left the workroom in the
dinner-hour, and did not return. But instead of going to Hanover Street, she
walked past Islington Green, all along Essex Road, northward thence to Stoke
Newington, and so came to Abney Park Cemetery; a long way, but it did not weary
her.
    In the cemetery she turned her steps to a grave with a plain headstone.
Before leaving England, Joseph Snowdon had discharged this duty. The inscription
was simply a name, with dates of birth and death.
    And, as she stood there, other footsteps approached the spot. She looked up,
with no surprise, and gave her hand for a moment. On the first anniversary the
meeting had been unanticipated; the same thought led her and Sidney to the
cemetery at the same hour. This was the third year, and they met as if by
understanding, though neither had spoken of it.
    When they had stood in silence for a while, Jane told of her father's death
and its circumstances. She told him, too, of Pennyloaf's humble security.
    »You have kept well all the year?« he asked.
    »And you too, I hope?«
    Then they bade each other good-bye. ...
 
In each life little for congratulation. He with the ambitions of his youth
frustrated; neither an artist, nor a leader of men in the battle for justice.
She, no saviour of society by the force of a superb example; no daughter of the
people, holding wealth in trust for the people's needs. Yet to both was their
work given. Unmarked, unencouraged save by their love of uprightness and mercy,
they stood by the side of those more hapless, brought some comfort to hearts
less courageous than their own. Where they abode it was not at all dark. Sorrow
certainly awaited them, perchance defeat in even the humble aims that they had
set themselves; but at least their lives would remain a protest against those
brute forces of society which fill with wreck the abysses of the nether world.
