The Unclassed
by George Gissing · English · Gutenberg #4305 · 708,374 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Unclassed
Author: George Gissing
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4305]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4305
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNCLASSED ***
Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Unclassed
by
George Gissing
CONTENTS
I SCHOOL
II MOTHER AND CHILD
III ANTECEDENTS
IV CHRISTMAS IN TWO HOMES
V POSSIBILITIES
VI AN ADVERTISEMENT
VII BETWEEN OLD AND NEW
VIII ACADEMICAL
IX THE COUSINS
X THE WAY OUT
XI BY THE WAYSIDE
XII RENT DAY
XIII A MAN-TRAP
XIV NEAR AND FAR
XV UP THE RIVER
XVI EXAMPLE WITHOUT PRECEPT
XVII THE MISSING YEARS
XVIII THE ENDERBYS
XIX IN THE MEANTIME
XX A SUGGESTION
XXI DIPLOMACY
XXII UNDER-CURRENTS
XXIII THE OPPORTUNITY
XXIV JUSTICE
XXV ART AND MISERY
XXVI STRAYING
XXVII THE WILL TO LIVE
XXVIII SLIMY'S DAY
XXIX FREEDOM
XXX ELM COURT
XXXI NEW PROSPECTS
XXXII A VISION OF SIN
XXXIII A GARDEN-PARTY
XXXIV A LATE REVENGE
XXXV HOUSE-WARMING
XXXVI NO WAY BUT THIS
XXXVII FORBIDDEN
XXXVIII ORDERS OF RELEASE
CHAPTER I
SCHOOL
There was strange disorder in Miss Rutherford's schoolroom, wont to be
the abode of decorum. True, it was the gathering-time after the
dinner-hour, and Miss Rutherford herself was as yet out of sight; but
things seemed to be going forward of a somewhat more serious kind than
a game of romps among the children. There were screams and sobbings,
hysterical cries for help; some of the little girls were crowding round
an object in one corner of the room, others appeared to be getting as
far away from it as possible, hiding their pale faces in their hands,
or looking at one another with terrified eyes. At length one more
thoughtful than the rest sped away out of the room, and stood at the
bottom of the stairs, calling out her teacher's name as loud as she
could. A moment, and Miss Rutherford came hastening down, with alarmed
aspect, begging to be told what was the matter. But the summoner had
turned and fled at the first sight of the lady's garments. Miss
Rutherford darted into the schoolroom, and at once there was quietness,
save for half-choked sobs here and there, and a more ominous kind of
moaning from the crowded corner.
"Gracious goodness, children, what is it? Who's that lying on the
floor? Harriet Smales! What _ever_ has happened?"
The cluster of children had fallen aside, exposing a strange picture.
On the ground lay a girl of twelve, her face deadly pale, save in the
places where it was dabbled with fresh blood, which still streamed from
a gash on the right side of her forehead. Her eyes were half opened;
she was just recovering consciousness; a moan came from her at
intervals. She had for support the lap and arms of a little girl,
perhaps two years younger than herself. Heedless of the flowing blood,
this child was pressing her pale cheek against that of the wounded one,
whose name she kept murmuring in pitiful accents, mixed with endearing
epithets. So unconscious was she of all around, that the falling back
of the other children did not cause her to raise her eyes; neither was
she aware of Miss Rutherford's first exclamations, nor yet of the
question which was next addressed to her by the horrified
schoolmistress.
"How did it happen? Some of you run at once for a doctor--Dr. Williams
in Grove Road--Oh, quick!--Ida Starr, how _did_ it happen?"
Ida did not move, but seemed to tighten her embrace. The other pupils
all looked fearfully hither and thither, but none ventured to speak.
"Ida!" repeated Miss Rutherford, dropping on her knees by the two, and
beginning to wipe away some of the blood with her handkerchief. "Speak,
child! Has some one gone for the doctor? How was it done?"
The face at length turned upon the questioner was almost as ghastly and
red-stained as that it had been pressed against. But it had become
self-controlled; the dark eyes looked straight forward with an
expression marvellously full of meaning in one so young; the lips did
not tremble as they spoke.
"I did it, Miss Rutherford. I have killed Harriet. I, and nobody else."
"You? How, child?"
"I killed her with the slate, Miss Rutherford; this slate, look."
She pointed to a slate without a frame which lay on the floor. There
were sums worked on the uppermost side, and the pencil-marks were half
obliterated. For a moment the schoolmistress's amazement held her
motionless, but fresh and louder moans recalled her to the immediate
necessities of the case. She pushed Ida Starr aside, and, with the help
of a servant-girl who had by this time appeared in the room, raised the
sufferer into a chair, and began to apply what remedies suggested
themselves. The surgeon, whom several of the children had hastened to
seek, only lived a few yards away, and his assistant was speedily
present. Harriet Smales had quite recovered consciousness, and was very
soon able to give her own account of the incident. After listening to
her, Miss Rutherford turned to the schoolchildren, who were now seated
in the usual order on benches, and spoke to them with some degree of
calm.
"I am going to take Harriet home. Lucy Wood, you will please to see
that order is preserved in my absence; I shall only be away twenty
minutes, at the most. Ida Starr, you will go up into my sitting-room,
and remain there till I come to you. All take out your copy-books; I
shall examine the lines written whilst I am away."
The servant, who had been despatched for a cab, appeared at the door.
Harriet Smales was led out. Before leaving the house, Miss Rutherford
whispered to the servant an order to occupy herself in the
sitting-room, so as to keep Ida Starr in sight.
Miss Rutherford, strict disciplinarian when her nerves were not
unstrung, was as good as her promise with regard to the copy-books. She
had returned within the twenty minutes, and the first thing she did was
to walk along all the benches, making a comment here, a correction
there, in another place giving a word of praise. Then she took her
place at the raised desk whence she was wont to survey the little room.
There were present thirteen pupils, the oldest of them turned fifteen,
the youngest scarcely six. They appeared to be the daughters of
respectable people, probably of tradesmen in the neighbourhood. This
school was in Lisson Grove, in the north-west of London; a spot not to
be pictured from its name by those ignorant of the locality; in point
of fact a dingy street, with a mixture of shops and private houses. On
the front door was a plate displaying Miss Rutherford's name,--nothing
more. That lady herself was middle-aged, grave at all times, kindly,
and, be it added, fairly competent as things go in the world of school.
The room was rather bare, but the good fire necessitated by the winter
season was not wanting, and the plain boarding of the floor showed
itself no stranger to scrubbings. A clock hanging on the wall ticked
very loudly in the perfect stillness as the schoolmistress took her
seat.
She appeared to examine a book for a few moments, then raised her head,
looked at the faces before her with a troubled expression, and began to
speak.
"I wish to know who can give me any account of the way in which Harriet
Smales received her hurt. Stop! Hands only, please. And only those
raise their hands who actually saw the blow struck, and overheard _all_
that led to it. You understand, now? One, two, three--seven altogether,
that is quite enough. Those seven will wait in the room at four o'clock
till the others have all gone. Now I will give the first class their
sums."
The afternoon passed Very slowly to teacher and pupils alike. When the
clock struck four, work was put away with more than the usual noise and
hurry. Miss Rutherford seemed for a time to be on the point of making
some new address to the school before the children departed, but
eventually she decided to keep silence, and the dismissal was got over
as quickly as possible. The seven witnesses remained, solemnly seated
at their desks, all anxious-looking.
"Lucy Wood," Miss Rutherford began, when the door was closed and quiet,
"you are the eldest. Please tell me all you can of this sad affair."
There was one of the seven faces far more discomposed than the rest, a
sweet and spiritual little countenance; it was tear-stained, red-eyed;
the eager look, the trembling lips spoke some intimate cause of
sympathy. Before the girl addressed had time to begin her answer, this
other, one would have said in spite of herself, intervened with an
almost agonised question.
"Oh, Miss Rutherford, is Harriet really dead?"
"Hush, hush!" said the lady, with a shocked look. "No, my dear, she is
only badly hurt."
"And she really won't die?" pleaded the child, with an instant
brightening of look.
"Certainly not, certainly not. Now be quiet, Maud, and let Lucy begin."
Lucy, a sensible and matter-of-fact girl, made a straightforward
narration, the facts of which were concurred in by her companions.
Harriet Smales, it seemed, had been exercising upon Ida for some days
her utmost powers of irritation, teasing her, as Lucy put it, "beyond
all bearing." The cause of this was not unknown in the school, and Miss
Rutherford remembered the incident from which the malice dated. Harriet
had copied a sum in class from Ida's slate--she was always copying from
somebody--and the teacher, who had somehow detected her, asked Ida
plainly whether such was not the case. Ida made no reply, would not
speak, which of course was taken as confirmatory evidence, and the
culprit had accordingly received an imposition. Her spleen, thus
aroused, Harriet vented upon the other girl, who, she maintained, ought
to have stoutly denied the possibility of the alleged deceit, and so
have saved her. She gave poor Ida no rest, and her persecution had
culminated this afternoon; she began to "call Ida's mother names," the
result of which was that the assailed one suddenly snatched up her
slate, and, in an uncontrollable fit of passion, struck her tormentor a
blow with it upon the forehead.
"What did she call Ida's mother?" inquired Miss Rutherford, all at once
changing her look curiously.
"She called her a bad woman."
"Was that all?"
"No, please, Miss Rutherford," put in Maud eagerly. "She said she got
her living in the streets. And it isn't true. Ida's mother's a lady,
and doesn't sell things in the streets!"
The teacher looked down and was silent.
"I don't think I need ask any more questions," she said presently. "Run
away home all of you. What is it, my dear?"
Maud, she was about eleven, and small for her age, had remained behind,
and was looking anxiously up into Miss Rutherford's face.
"May I wait for Ida, please," she asked, "and--and walk home with her?
We go the same way."
"Not to-night, dear; no, not to-night. Ida Starr is in disgrace. She
will not go home just yet. Run away, now, there's a good girl."
Sadly, sadly was the command obeyed, and very slowly did Maud Enderby
walk along the streets homeward, ever turning back to see whether
perchance Ida might not be behind her.
Miss Rutherford ascended to her sitting-room. The culprit was standing
in a corner with her face to the wall.
"Why do you stand so?" asked the teacher gravely, but not very severely.
"I thought you'd want me to, Miss Rutherford."
"Come here to me, child."
Ida had clearly been crying for a long time, and there was still blood
on her face. She seemed to have made up her mind that the punishment
awaiting her must be dreadful, and she resolved to bear it humbly. She
came up, still holding her hands behind her, and stood with downcast
eyes. The hair which hung down over her shoulders was dark brown, her
eye-brows strongly marked, the eyes themselves rather deep-set. She
wore a pretty plum-coloured dress, with a dainty little apron in front;
her whole appearance bespeaking a certain taste and love of elegance in
the person who had the care of her.
"You will be glad to hear," said Miss Rutherford, "that Harriet's hurt
is not as serious as we feared at first. But she will have to stay at
home for some days."
There was no motion, or reply.
"Do you know that I am quite afraid of you, Ida? I had no idea that you
were so passionate. Had you no thought what harm you might do when you
struck that terrible blow?"
But Ida could not converse; no word was to be got from her.
"You must go home now," went on the schoolmistress after a pause, "and
not come back till I send for you. Tell your mother just what you have
done, and say that I will write to her about you. You understand what I
say, my child?"
The punishment had come upon her. Nothing worse than this had Ida
imagined; nay, nothing so bad. She drew in her breath, her fingers
wreathed themselves violently together behind her back. She half raised
her face, but could not resolve to meet her teacher's eyes. On the
permission to go being repeated, she left the room in silence,
descended the stairs with the slow steps of an old person, dressed
herself mechanically, and went out into the street. Miss Rutherford
stood for some time in profound and troubled thought, then sighed as
she returned to her usual engagements.
The following day was Saturday, and therefore a half-holiday. After
dinner, Miss Rutherford prepared herself for walking, and left home. A
quarter of an hour brought her to a little out-of-the-way thoroughfare
called Boston Street, close to the west side of Regent's Park, and here
she entered a chemist's shop, over which stood the name Smales. A
middle-aged man of very haggard and feeble appearance stood behind the
counter, and his manner to the lady as she addressed him was painfully
subservient. He spoke very little above a whisper, and as though
suffering from a severe sore throat, but it was his natural voice.
"She's better, I thank you, madam; much better, I hope and believe;
yes, much better."
He repeated his words nervously, rubbing his hands together feverishly
the while, and making his eye-brows go up and down in a curious way.
"Might I see her for a few moments?"
"She would be happy, madam, very happy: oh yes, I am sure, very happy
if--if you would have the kindness to come round, yes, round here,
madam, and--and to excuse our poor sitting-room. Thank you, thank you.
Harriet, my dear, Miss Rutherford has had the great, the very great,
goodness to visit you--to visit you personally--yes. I will leave you,
if--if you please--h'm, yes."
He shuffled away in the same distressingly nervous manner, and closed
the door behind him. The schoolmistress found herself in a dark little
parlour, which smelt even more of drugs than the shop itself. The
window looked out into a dirty back-yard, and was almost concealed with
heavy red curtains. As the eyes got accustomed to the dimness, one
observed that the floor was covered with very old oil-cloth, and that
the articles of furniture were few, only the most indispensable, and
all very shabby. Everything seemed to be dusty and musty. The only
approach to an ornament was a framed diploma hanging over the
mantelpiece, certifying that John Alfred Smales was a duly qualified
pharmaceutical chemist. A low fire burned in the grate, and before it,
in a chair which would probably have claimed the title of easy, sat the
girl Harriet Smales, her head in bandages.
She received Miss Rutherford rather sulkily, and as she moved, groaned
in a way which did not seem the genuine utterance of pain. After a few
sympathetic remarks, the teacher began to touch upon the real object of
her visit.
"I have no intention of blaming you, Harriet; I should not speak of
this at all, if it were not necessary. But I must ask you plainly what
reason you had for speaking of Ida Starr's mother as they say you did.
Why did you say she was a bad woman?"
"It's only what she is," returned Harriet sullenly, and with much
inward venom.
"What do you mean by that? Who has told you anything about her?"
Only after some little questioning the fact was elicited that Harriet
owed her ideas on the subject to a servant girl in the house, whose
name was Sarah.
"What does Sarah say, then?" asked Miss Rutherford.
"She says she isn't respectable, and that she goes about with men, and
she's only a common street-woman," answered the girl, speaking
evidently with a very clear understanding of what these accusations
meant. The schoolmistress looked away with a rather shocked expression,
and thought a little before speaking again.
"Well, that's all I wanted to ask you, Harriet," she said. "I won't
blame you, but I trust you will do as I wish, and never say such things
about any one again, whoever may tell you. It is our duty never to
speak ill of others, you know; least of all when we know that to do so
will be the cause of much pain and trouble. I hope you will very soon
be able to come back again to us. And now I will say good-bye."
In the shop Miss Rutherford renewed to the chemist her sincere regret
for what had taken place.
"Of course I cannot risk the recurrence of such a thing," she said.
"The child who did it will not return to me, Mr. Smales."
Mr. Smales uttered incoherent excuses, apologies, and thanks, and
shufflingly escorted the lady to his shop-door.
Miss Rutherford went home in trouble. She did not doubt the truth of
what Harriet Smales had told her, for she herself had already
entertained uneasy suspicions, dating indeed from the one interview she
had had with Mrs. Starr, when Ida was first brought to the school, and
deriving confirmation from a chance meeting in the street only a few
days ago. It was only too plain what she must do, and the necessity
grieved her. Ida had not shown any especial brilliancy at her books,
but the child's character was a remarkable one, and displayed a
strength which might eventually operate either for good or for evil.
With careful training, it seemed at present very probable that the good
would predominate. But the task was not such as the schoolmistress felt
able to undertake, bearing in mind the necessity of an irreproachable
character for her school if it were to be kept together at all. The
disagreeable secret had begun to spread; all the children would relate
the events of yesterday in their own homes; to pass the thing over was
impossible. She sincerely regretted the step she must take, and to
which she would not have felt herself driven by any ill-placed prudery
of her own. On Monday morning it must be stated to the girls that Ida
Starr had left.
In the meantime, it only remained to write to Mrs. Starr, and make
known this determination. Miss Rutherford thought for a little while of
going to see Ida's mother, but felt that this would be both painful and
useless. It was difficult even to write, desirous as she was of somehow
mitigating the harshness of this sentence of expulsion. After
half-an-hour spent in efforts to pen a suitable note, she gave up the
attempt to write as she would have wished, and announced the necessity
she was under in the fewest possible words.
CHAPTER II
MOTHER AND CHILD
Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly homewards. She
was unusually late, and her mother would be anxious. Still, when she
came within sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting. How
should she tell of her disgrace? It was not fear that made her shrink
from repeating Miss Rutherford's message; nor yet shame, though she
would gladly have hidden herself away somewhere in the dark from every
eye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she knew she was going
to cause one who had always cherished her with faultless
tenderness,--tenderness which it had become her nature to repay with a
child's unreflecting devotion.
Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door was a brass-plate
which bore the inscription: "Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;" in the window
of the ground-floor was a large card announcing that "Apartments" were
vacant. The only light was one which appeared in the top storey, and
there Ida knew that her mother was waiting for her, with tea ready on
the table as usual. Mrs. Starr was seldom at home during the child's
dinner-hour, and Ida had not seen her at all to-day. For it was only
occasionally that she shared her mother's bedroom; it was the rule for
her to sleep with Mrs. Ledward, the landlady, who was a widow and
without children. The arrangement had held ever since Ida could
remember; when she had become old enough to ask for an explanation of
this, among other singularities in their mode of life, she was told
that her mother slept badly, and must have the bed to herself.
But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtless
increased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door, stood
on tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two distinct raps.
Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a large woman, with
pressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly; attired, however,
neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who was at once landlady
and dressmaker could be expected to look.
"How 's 't you're so late?" she asked, without looking at the child;
her eyes, as far as one could guess, fixed upon the houses opposite,
her hands in the little pocket on each side of her apron. "Your
mother's poorly."
"Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?" exclaimed Ida, forgetting
her trouble for the moment in this happy foresight.
"Dessay," returned Mrs. Ledward laconically.
Ida left her still standing in the doorway, and ran stairs. The chamber
she went into--after knocking and receiving permission to enter,
according to the rule which had been impressed upon her--was a
tolerably-furnished bedroom, which, with its bright fire, tasteful
little lamp, white coverlets and general air of fresh orderliness, made
a comfortable appearance. The air was scented, too, with some pleasant
odour of a not too pungent kind. But the table lacked one customary
feature; no tea was laid as it was wont to be at this hour. The child
gazed round in surprise. Her mother was in bed, lying back on raised
pillows, and with a restless, half-pettish look on her face.
"Where have you been?" she asked querulously, her voice husky and
feeble, as if from a severe cold. "Why are you so late?"
Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offered
the accustomed kiss. Her mother waved her off.
"No, no; don't kiss me. Can't you see what a sore throat I've got? You
might catch it. And I haven't got you any tea," she went on, her face
growing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't I a
naughty mother? But it serves you half right for being late. Come and
kiss me; I don't think it's catching. No, perhaps you'd better not."
But Ida started forward at the granted leave, and kissed her warmly.
"There now," went on the hoarse voice complainingly, "I shouldn't
wonder if you catch it, and we shall both be laid up at once. Oh, Ida,
I do feel that poorly, I do! It's the draught under the door; what else
can it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!"
She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had to
tell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under her
mother's neck, and pressed cheek to cheek tenderly.
"Oh, how hot you are, mother! Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear?
Wouldn't it make your throat better?"
"Perhaps it would; I don't know. Don't go away, not just yet. You'll
have to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go to
sleep, if you held me like that."
She closed her eyes, but only for a moment, then started up anxiously.
"What am I thinking about! Of course you want your tea."
"No, no; indeed I don't, mother."
"Nonsense; of course you do. See, the kettle is on the hob, and I think
it's full. Go away; you make me hotter. Let me see you get your tea,
and then perhaps it'll make me feel I could drink a cup. There, you've
put your hair all out of order; let me smooth it. Don't trouble to lay
the cloth; just use the tray; it's in the cupboard."
Ida obeyed, and set about the preparations. Compare her face with that
which rested sideways upon the pillows, and the resemblance was as
strong as could exist between two people of such different ages: the
same rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; the
deep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominent
jaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughter
ten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. In
the mother's eyes was a helpless look, a gaze of unintelligent misery,
such as one could not conceive on Ida's countenance; her lips, too,
were weakly parted, and seemed trembling to a sob, whilst sorrow only
made the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a pallor not
merely of present illness, but that wasting whiteness which is only
seen on faces accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in the other, a
healthy pearl-tint, the gleamings and gradations of a perfect
complexion. The one a child long lost on weary, woeful ways, knowing,
yet untaught by, the misery of desolation; the other a child still
standing upon the misty threshold of unknown lands, looking around for
guidance, yet already half feeling that the sole guide and comforter
was within.
It was strange that talk which followed between mother and daughter.
Lotty Starr (that was the name of the elder child, and it became her
much better than any more matronly appellation), would not remain
silent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and her
conversation ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasional
moments, she spoke to Ida as to one of her own age, with curious
neglect of the relationship between them; at times she gave herself up
to the luxury of feeling like an infant dependent on another's care;
and cried just for the pleasure of being petted and consoled. Ida had
made up her mind to leave her disclosure till the next morning;
impossible to grieve her mother with such shocking news when she was so
poorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a cheerful
countenance; as often as a moment's silence left her to her own
reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which made
speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her crime
and its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different alike in
quality and degree from that of which children are ordinarily capable.
One compensation alone helped her; it was still early in the evening,
and she knew there were before her long hours to be spent by her
mother's side.
"Do you like me to be with you, mother?" she asked, when a timid
question had at length elicited assurance of this joy. "Does it make
you feel better?"
"Yes, yes. But it's my throat, and you can't make that better; I only
wish you could. But you are a comfort to me, for all that; I don't know
what I should do without you. Oh, I sha'n't be able to speak a word
soon, I sha'n't!"
"Don't, don't talk, dear. I'll talk instead, and you listen. Don't you
think, mother dear, I could--could always sleep with you? I wouldn't
disturb you; indeed, indeed I wouldn't! You don't know how quiet I lie.
If I'm wakeful ever I seem to have such a lot to think about, and I lie
so still and quiet, you can't think. I never wake Mrs. Led ward,
indeed. Do let me, mother; just try me!"
Lotty broke out into passionate weeping, wrung her hands, and hid her
face in the pillow. Ida was terrified, and exerted every effort to
console this strange grief. The outburst only endured a minute or two,
however; then a mood of vexed impatience grew out of the anguish and
despair, and Lotty pushed away the child fretfully.
"I've often told you, you can't, you mustn't bother me. There, there;
you don't mean any harm, but you put me out, bothering me, Ida. Tell
me, what do you think about when you lay awake? Don't you think you'd
give anything to get off to sleep again? I know I do; I can't bear to
think; it makes my head ache so."
"Oh, I like it. Sometimes I think over what I've been reading, in the
animal book, and the geography-book; and--and then I begin my
wishing-thoughts. And oh, I've such lots of wishing-thoughts, you
couldn't believe!"
"And what are the wishing-thoughts about?" inquired the mother, in a
matter-of-fact way.
"I often wish I was grown up. I feel tired of being a child; I want to
be a woman. Then I should know so much more, and I should be able to
understand all the things you tell me I can't now. I don't care for
playing at games and going to school."
"You'll be a woman soon enough, Ida," said Lotty, with a quiet sadness
unusual in her. "But go on; what else?"
"And then I often wish I was a boy. It must be so much nicer to be a
boy. They're stronger than girls, and they know more. Don't you wish I
was a boy, mother?"
"Yes, I do, I often do!" exclaimed Lotty. "Boys aren't such a trouble,
and they can go out and shift for themselves."
"Oh, but I won't be a trouble to you," exclaimed Ida. "When I'm old
enough to leave school--"
She interrupted herself, for the moment she had actually forgotten the
misfortune which had come upon her. But her mother did not observe the
falling of her countenance, nor yet the incomplete sentence.
"Ida, have I been a bad mother to you?" Lotty sobbed out presently. "If
I was to die, would you be sorry?"
"Mother!"
"I've done my best, indeed I've done my best for yon! How many mothers
like me would have brought you up as I've done? How many, I'd like to
know? And some day you'll hate me; oh yes, you will! Some day you'll
wish to forget all about me, and you'll never come to see where I'm
buried, and you'll get rid of everything that could remind you of me.
How I wish I'd never been born!"
Ida had often to comfort her mother in the latter's fits of low
spirits, but had never heard such sad words as these before. The poor
child could say nothing in reply; the terrible thought that she herself
was bringing new woes to be endured almost broke her heart. She clung
about her mother's neck and wept passionately.
Lotty shortly after took a draught from a bottle which the child
reached out of a drawer for her, and lay pretty still till drowsiness
came on. Ida undressed and crept to her side. They had a troubled
night, and, when the daylight came again, Lotty was no better. Ida rose
in anguish of spirit, torturing herself to find a way of telling what
must be told. Yet she had another respite; her mother said that, as it
was Saturday, she might as well stay away from school and be a little
nurse. And the dull day wore through; the confession being still
postponed.
But by the last post at night came Miss Rutherford's letter. Ida was
still sitting up, and Lotty had fallen into a doze, when the landlady
brought the letter upstairs. The child took it in, answered an inquiry
about her mother in a whisper, and returned to the bedside. She knew
the handwriting on the envelope. The dreaded moment had come.
She must have stood more than a quarter of an hour, motionless, gazing
on her mother's face, conscious of nothing but an agonised expectation
of seeing the sleeper's eyes open. They did open at length, and quickly
saw the letter.
"It's from Miss Rutherford, mother," said Ida, her own voice sounding
very strange to herself.
"Oh, is it?" said Lotty, in the hoarse whisper which was all she could
command "I suppose she wants to know why you didn't go. Read it to me."
Ida read, and, in reading, suffered as she never did again throughout
her life.
"DEAR MRS. STARR,--I am very sorry to have to say that Ida must not
return to school. I had better leave the explanation to herself; she is
truthful, and will tell you what has compelled me to take this step. I
grieve to lose her, but have really no choice.--I am, yours truly,
H. RUTHERFORD."
No tears rose; her voice was as firm as though she had been reading in
class; but she was pale and cold as death.
Lotty rose in bed and stared wildly.
"What have you done, child?--what ever have you done? Is--is it
anything--about _me_."
"I hit Harriet Smales with a slate, and covered her all over with
blood, and I thought I'd killed her."
She could not meet her mother's eyes; stood with head hung down, and
her hands clasped behind her.
"What made you do it?" asked Lotty in amazement.
"I couldn't help it, mother; she--she said you were a bad woman."
Ida had raised her eyes with a look of love and proud confidence. Lotty
shrank before her, clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes, then half
raised herself and dashed her head with fearful violence against the
wall by which the bed stood. She fell back, half stunned, and lay on
the pillows, whilst the child, with outstretched hands, gazed
horror-struck. But in a moment Ida had her arms around the distraught
woman, pressing the dazed head against her breast. Lotty began to utter
incoherent self-reproaches, unintelligible to her little comforter; her
voice had become the merest whisper; she seemed to have quite exhausted
herself. Just now there came a knock at the door, and Ida was relieved
to see Mrs. Ledward, whose help she begged. In a few minutes Lotty had
come to herself again, and whispered that she wished to speak to the
landlady alone. The latter persuaded Ida to go downstairs for a while,
and the child, whose tears had begun to flow, left the room, sobbing in
anguish.
"Ain't you better then?" asked the woman, with an apparent effort to
speak in a sympathetic tone which did not come easily to her.
"I'm very bad," whispered the other, drawing her breath as if in pain.
"Ay, you've got a bad cold, that's what it is. I'll make you some gruel
presently, and put some rum in it. You don't take care of yourself: I
told you how it 'ud be when you came in with those wringin' things on,
on Thursday night."
"They've found out about me at the school," gasped Lotty, with a
despairing look, "and Ida's got sent away."
"She has? Well, never mind, you can find another, I suppose. I can't
see myself what she wants with so much schoolin', but I suppose you
know best about your own affairs."
"Oh, I feel that bad! If I get over this, I'll give it up--God help me,
I will! I'll get my living honest, if there's any way. I never felt so
bad as I do now."
"Pooh!" exclaimed the woman. "Wait a bit till you get rid of your sore
throat, and you'll think different. Poorly people gets all sorts o'
fancies. Keep a bit quiet now, and don't put yourself out so."
"What are we to do? I've only got a few shillings--"
"Well, you'll have money again some time, I suppose. You don't suppose
I'll turn you out in the streets? Write to Fred on Monday, and he'll
send you something."
They talked till Lotty exhausted herself again, then Ida was allowed to
re-enter the room. Mrs. Ledward kept coming and going till her own
bed-time, giving what help and comfort she could in her hard,
half-indifferent way. Another night passed, and in the morning Lotty
seemed a little better. Her throat was not so painful, but she breathed
with difficulty, and had a cough. Ida sat holding her mother's hand. It
was a sunny morning, and the bells of neighbouring churches began to
ring out clearly on the frosty air.
"Ida," said the sick woman, raising herself suddenly, "get me some
note-paper and an envelope out of the box; and go and borrow pen and
ink, there's a good child."
The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed to
arrange herself so as to be able to write. She covered four pages with
a sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, but
paused.
"The bells have stopped," she said, listening. "It's half-past eleven.
Put on your things, Ida."
The child obeyed, wondering.
"Give me my purse out of the drawer. See, there's a shilling. Now, say
this after me: Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, Number--, St. John Street Road."
Ida repeated the address.
"Now, listen, Ida. You put this letter in your pocket; you go down into
the Mary'bone road; you ask for a 'bus to the Angel. When you get to
the Angel, you ask your way to Number--, St. John Street Road; it isn't
far off. Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra'm Woodstock is in. If
he is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter,--into
his own hands, and nobody else's. If he isn't in, ask when he will be,
and, if it won't be long, wait."
Ida promised, and then, after a long gaze, her mother dropped back
again on the pillow, and turned her face away. A cough shook her for a
few moments. Ida waited.
"Well, ain't you gone?" asked Lotty faintly.
"Kiss me, mother."
They held each other in a passionate embrace, and then the child went
away.
She reached Islington without difficulty, and among the bustling and
loitering crowd which obstructs the corner at the Angel, found some one
to direct her to the street she sought. She had to walk some distance
down St. John Street Road, in the direction of the City, before
discovering the house she desired to find. When she reached it, it
proved to be a very dingy tenement, the ground-floor apparently used as
offices; a much-worn plate on the door exhibited the name of the
gentleman to whom her visit was, with his professional description
added. Mr. Woodstock was an accountant.
She rang the bell, and a girl appeared. Yes, Mr. Woodstock was at home.
Ida was told to enter the passage, and wait.
A door at her right hand as she entered was slightly ajar, and voices
could be heard from the other side of it. One of these voices very
shortly raised itself in a harsh and angry tone, and Ida could catch
what was said.
"Well, Mr. What's-your-name, I suppose I know my own business rather
better than you can teach me. It's pretty clear you've been doing your
best for some time to set the people against me, and I'm damned if I'll
have it! You go to the place on religious pretences, and what your real
object may be I don't know; but I do know one thing, and that is, I
won't have you hanging about any longer. I'll meet you there myself,
and if it's a third-floor window you get pitched out of, well, it won't
be my fault. Now I don't want any more talk with you. This is most
folks' praying-time; I wonder you're not at it. It's _my_ time for
writing letters, and I'd rather have your room than your company. I'm a
plain-spoken man, you see, a man of business, and I don't mince
matters. To come and dictate to me about the state of my houses and of
my tenants ain't a business-like proceeding, and you'll excuse me if I
don't take it kindly. There's the door, and good morning to you!"
The door opened, and a young man, looking pale and dismayed, came out
quickly, and at once left the house. Behind him came the last speaker.
At the sight of the waiting child he stood still, and the expression of
his face changed from sour annoyance to annoyed surprise.
"Eh? Well?" he exclaimed, looking closely at Ida, his eye-brows
contracting.
"I have a letter for Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, sir."
"Well, give it here. Who's it from?"
"Mrs. Starr, sir."
"Who's Mrs. Starr? Come in here, will you?"
His short and somewhat angry tone was evidently in some degree the
result of the interview that had just closed, but also pretty clearly
an indication of his general manner to strangers. He let the child pass
him, and followed her into the room with the letter in his hand. He did
not seem able to remove his eyes from her face. Ida, on her side, did
not dare to look up at him. He was a massively built, grey-headed man
of something more than sixty. Everything about him expressed strength
and determination, power alike of body and mind. His features were
large and heavy, but the forehead would have become a man of strong
intellect; the eyes were full of astonishing vital force, and the chin
was a physiognomical study, so strikingly did its moulding express
energy of character. He was clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam or
wrinkle anywhere broke the hard, smooth surface of his visage, its
complexion clear and rosy as that of a child.
Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of the
writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly,
and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.
"Sit down," he said, pointing to a chair. The room was an uncomfortable
office, with no fire. He himself took a seat deliberately at a desk,
whence he could watch Ida, and began to read. As he did so, his face
remained unmoved, but he looked away occasionally, as if to reflect.
"What's your name?" he asked, when he had finished, beginning, at the
same time, to tear the letter into very small pieces, which he threw
into a waste-paper basket.
"Ida, sir,--Ida Starr."
"Starr, eh?" He looked at her very keenly, and, still looking, and
still tearing up the letter, went on in a hard, unmodulated voice.
"Well, Ida Starr, it seems your mother wants to put you in the way of
earning your living." The child looked up in fear and astonishment.
"You can carry a message? You'll say to your mother that I'll undertake
to do what I can for you, on one condition, and that is that she puts
you in my hands and never sees you again."
"Oh, I can't leave mother!" burst from the child's lips involuntarily,
her horror overcoming her fear of the speaker.
"I didn't ask you if you could," remarked Mr. Woodstock, with something
like a sneer, tapping the desk with the fingers of his right hand. "I
asked whether you could carry a message. Can you, or not?"
"Yes, I can," stammered Ida.
"Then take _that_ message, and tell your mother it's all I've got to
say. Run away."
He rose and stood with his hands behind him, watching her. Ida made
what haste she could to the door, and sped out into the street.
CHAPTER III
ANTECEDENTS
It would not have been easy to find another instance of a union of keen
intellect and cold heart so singular as that displayed in the character
of Abraham Woodstock. The man s life had been strongly consistent from
the beginning; from boyhood a powerful will had borne him triumphantly
over every difficulty, and in each decisive instance his will had been
directed by a shrewd intelligence which knew at once the strength of
its own resources and the multiplied weaknesses of the vast majority of
men. In the pursuit of his ends he would tolerate no obstacle which his
strength would suffice to remove. In boyhood and early manhood the
exuberance of his physical power was wont to manifest itself in brutal
self-assertion. At school he was the worst kind of bully, his
ferociousness tempered by no cowardice. Later on, he learned that a too
demonstrative bearing would on many occasions interfere with his
success in life; he toned down his love of muscular victory, and only
allowed himself an outbreak every now and then, when he felt he could
afford the indulgence. Put early into an accountant's office, and
losing his father about the same time (the parent, who had a diseased
heart, was killed by an outburst of fury to which Abraham gave way on
some trivial occasion), he had henceforth to fight his own battle, and
showed himself very capable of winning it. In many strange ways he
accumulated a little capital, and the development of commercial genius
put him at a comparatively early age on the road to fortune. He kept to
the business of an accountant, and by degrees added several other
distinct callings. He became a lender of money in several shapes,
keeping both a loan-office and a pawnbroker's shop. In middle age he
frequented the race-course, but, for sufficient reasons, dropped that
pursuit entirely before he had turned his fiftieth year. As a youth he
had made a good thing of games of skill, but did not pursue them as a
means of profit when he no longer needed the resource.
He married at the age of thirty. This, like every other step he took,
was well planned; his wife brought him several thousand pounds, being
the daughter of a retired publican with whom Woodstock had had business
relations.
Two years after his marriage was born his first and only child, a girl
whom they called Lotty. Lotty, as she grew up, gradually developed an
unfortunate combination of her parents' qualities; she had her mother's
weakness of mind, without her mother's moral sense, and from her father
she derived an ingrained stubbornness, which had nothing in common with
strength of character. Doubly unhappy was it that she lost her mother
so early; the loss deprived her of gentle guidance during her youth,
and left her without resource against her father's coldness or
harshness. The result was that the softer elements of her character
unavoidably degenerated and found expression in qualities not at all
admirable, whilst her obstinacy grew the ally of the weakness from
which she had most to fear.
Lotty was sent to a day-school till the age of thirteen, then had to
become her father's housekeeper. Her friends were very few, none of
them likely to be of use to her. Left very much to her own control, she
made an acquaintance which led to secret intimacy and open disaster.
Rather than face her father with such a disclosure, she left home, and
threw herself upon the mercy of the man who had assisted her to go
astray. He was generous enough to support her for about a year, during
which time her child was born. Then his help ceased.
The familiar choice lay before her--home again, the streets, or
starvation. Hardship she could not bear; the second alternative she
shrank from on account of her child; she determined to face her father.
For him she had no affection, and knew that he did not love her; only
desperation could drive her back. She came one Sunday evening, found
Mr. Woodstock at home, and, without letting the servant say who was
come, went up and entered his presence, the child in her arms. Abraham
rose and looked at her calmly. Her disappearance had not troubled him,
though he had exerted himself to discover why and whither she was gone,
and her return did not visibly affect him. She was a rebel against his
authority--so he viewed the matter--and consequently quite beyond the
range of his sympathies. He listened to all she had to say, beheld
unmoved her miserable tears, and, when she became silent, coolly
delivered his ultimatum. For her he would procure a situation, whereby
she could earn her living, and therewith his relations to her would
end; the child he would put into other hands and have it cared for, but
Lotty would lose sight of it for ever. The girl hesitated, but the
maternal instinct was very strong in her; the little one began to cry,
as if fearing separation from its mother; she decided to refuse.
"Then I shall go on the streets!" she exclaimed passionately. "There's
nothing else left for me."
"You can go where you please," returned Abraham.
She tried to obtain work, of course fruitlessly. She got into debt with
her landlady, and only took the fatal step when at length absolutely
turned adrift.
That was not quite ten years gone by; she was then but eighteen. Let
her have lost her child, and she would speedily have fallen into the
last stages of degradation. But the little one lived. She had called it
Ida, a name chosen from some tale in the penny weeklies, which were the
solace of her misery. She herself took the name of Starr, also from a
page of fiction.
Balancing the good and evil of this life in her dark little mind, Lotty
determined that one thing there was for which it was worth while to
make sacrifices, one end which she felt strong enough to keep
persistently in view. Ida should be brought up "respectably"--it was
her own word; she should be kept absolutely free from the contamination
of her mother's way of living; nay, should, when the time came, go to
school, and have good chances. And at the end of all this was a far-off
hope, a dim vision of possibilities, a vague trust that her daughter
might perchance prove for her a means of returning to that world of
"respectability" from which she was at present so hopelessly shut out.
She would keep making efforts to get into an honest livelihood as often
as an occasion presented itself; and Ida should always live with
"respectable" people, cost what it might.
The last resolution was only adhered to for a few months. Lotty could
not do without her little one, and eventually brought it back to her
own home. It is not an infrequent thing to find little children living
in disorderly houses. In the profession Lotty had chosen there are, as
in all professions, grades and differences. She was by no means a
vicious girl, she had no love of riot for its own sake; she would
greatly have preferred a decent mode of life, had it seemed
practicable. Hence she did not associate herself with the rank and file
of abandoned women; her resorts were not the crowded centres; her abode
was not in the quarters consecrated to her business. In all parts of
London there are quiet by-streets of houses given up to
lodging-letting, wherein are to be found many landladies, who, good
easy souls, trouble little about the private morals of their lodgers,
so long as no positive disorder comes about and no public scandal is
occasioned. A girl who says that she is occupied in a workroom is never
presumed to be able to afford the luxury of strict virtue, and if such
a one, on taking a room, says that "she supposes she may have friends
come to see her?" the landlady will understand quite well what is
meant, and will either accept or refuse her for a lodger as she sees
good. To such houses as these Lotty confined herself. After some three
or four years of various experiences, she hit upon the abode in Milton
Street, and there had dwelt ever since. She got on well with Mrs.
Ledward, and had been able to make comfortable arrangements for Ida.
The other lodgers in the house were generally very quiet and orderly
people, and she herself was quite successful in arranging her affairs
so as to create no disturbance. She had her regular _clientele_; she
frequented the roads about Regent's Park and Primrose Hill; and she
supported herself and her child.
Ida Starr's bringing up was in no respect inferior to that she would
have received in the home of the average London artisan or small
tradesman. At five years old she had begun to go to school; Mrs.
Ledward's daughter, a girl of seventeen, took her backwards and
forwards every day. At this school she remained three years and a half;
then her mother took her away, and put her under the care of Miss
Rutherford, a better teacher. When at home, she either amused herself
in Lotty's room, or, when that was engaged, made herself comfortable
with Mrs. Ledward's family, with one or other of whom she generally
passed the night. She heard no bad language, saw nothing improper,
listened to no worse conversation than any of the other children at
Miss Rutherford's. Even at her present age of ten it never occurred to
her to inquire how her mother supported herself. The charges brought by
Harriet Smales conveyed to her mind no conception of their true
meaning; they were to her mere general calumnies of vague application.
Her mother "bad," indeed! If so, then what was the meaning of goodness?
For poor Lotty's devotion to the child had received its due reward
herein, that she was loved as purely and intensely as any most virtuous
parent could hope to be; so little regard has nature for social codes,
so utterly is she often opposed to all the precepts of respectability.
This phrase of Harriet's was the very first breathing against her
mother's character that Ida had ever heard. Lotty had invented fables,
for the child's amusement, about her own earlier days. The legend was,
that her husband had died about a year after marriage. Of course Ida
implicitly believed all this. Her mind contained pictures of a
beautiful little house just outside London in which her mother had once
lived, and her imagination busied itself with the time when they would
both live in just that same way. She was going to be a teacher, so it
had been decided in confidential chats, and would one day have a school
of her own. In such a future Lotty herself really believed. The child
seemed to her extraordinarily clever, and in four more years she would
be as old as a girl who had assisted with the little ones in the first
school she went to. Lotty was ambitious. Offers of Mrs. Ledward to
teach Ida dressmaking, she had put aside; it was not good enough.
Yet Ida was not in reality remarkable either for industry or quickness
in learning. At both schools she had frequently to be dealt with
somewhat severely. Ability she showed from time to time, but in
application she was sadly lacking. Books were distasteful to her, more
even than to most children; she learned sometimes by listening to the
teacher, but seldom the lessons given her to prepare. At home there
were no books to tempt her to read for herself; her mother never read,
and would not have known how to set about giving her child a love for
such occupation, even had she deemed it needful. And yet Ida always
seemed to have abundance to think about; she would sit by herself for
hours, without any childlike employment, and still not seem weary. When
asked what her thoughts ran upon, she could not give very satisfactory
answers; she was always rather slow in expressing herself, and never
chattered, even to her mother. One queer and most unchildlike habit she
had, which, as if thinking it wrong, she only indulged when quite
alone; she loved to sit before a looking-glass and gaze into her own
face. At such times her little countenance became very sad without any
understood reason.
The past summer had been to her a time of happiness, for there had come
comparatively little bad weather, and sunshine was like wine to Ida.
The proximity of the park was a great advantage. During the weeks of
summer holiday, she spent whole days wandering about the large, grassy
tracts by herself, rejoicing in the sensation of freedom from
task-work. If she were especially in luck, a dog would come and play
about her, deserting for a minute its lawful master or mistress, and
the child would roll upon the grass in delighted sport. Or she would
find out a warm, shady nook quite near to the borders of the Zoological
Gardens, and would lie there with ear eager to catch the occasional
sounds from the animals within. The roar of the lion thrilled her with
an exquisite trembling; the calls of the birds made her laugh with joy.
Once, three years ago, her mother had taken her to Hastings for a week,
and when she now caught the cry of the captive sea-gulls, it brought
back marvellous memories of the ocean flashing in the sun, of the music
of breakers, of the fresh smell of the brine.
Now there had come upon her the first great grief. She had caused her
mother bitter suffering, and her own heart was filled with a
commensurate pain. Had she been a little older she would already have
been troubled by another anxiety; for the last two years her mother's
health had been falling away; every now and then had come a fit of
illness, and at other times Lotty suffered from a depression of spirits
which left her no energy to move about. Ida knew that her mother was
often unhappy, but naturally could not dwell long on this as soon as
each successive occasion had passed away. Indeed, in her heart, she
almost welcomed such times, since she was then allowed to sleep
upstairs, one of her greatest joys. Lotty was only too well aware of
the physical weakness which was gaining upon her. She was mentally
troubled, moreover. Ida was growing up; there would come a time, and
that very shortly, when it would be necessary either for them to part,
or else for herself to change her mode of life. Indeed, she had never
from the first quite lost sight of her intention to seek for an honest
means of support; and of late years the consciousness of her hopeless
position had grown to an ever-recurring trouble. She knew the proposed
step was in reality impossible to her, yet she persistently thought and
talked of it. To Mrs. Ledward she confided at least once a week,
generally when she paid her rent, her settled intention to go and find
work of some kind in the course of the next two or three days; till at
length this had become a standing joke with the landlady, who laughed
merrily as often as the subject was mentioned. Lotty had of late let
her thoughts turn to her father, whom she had never seen since their
parting. Not with any affection did she think of him, but, in her
despairing moments, it seemed to her impossible that he should still
refuse aid if she appealed to him for it. Several times of late she had
been on the point of putting her conviction to the test. She had passed
his house from time to time, and knew that he still lived there.
Perhaps the real reason of her hesitation was, not fear of him, but a
dread, which she would not confess to herself, lest he should indeed
prove obdurate, and so put an end to her last hope. For what would
become of her and of Ida if her health absolutely failed? The poor
creature shrank from the thought in horror. The hope connected with her
father grew more and more strong. But it needed some very decided
crisis to bring her to the point of overcoming all the apprehensions
which lay in the way of an appeal to the stern old man. This crisis had
arrived. The illness which was now upon her she felt to be more serious
than any she had yet suffered. Suppose she were to die, and Ida to be
left alone in the world. Even before she heard of the child's dismissal
from school she had all but made up her mind to write to her father,
and the shock of that event gave her the last impulse. She wrote a
letter of pitiful entreaty. Would he help her to some means of earning
a living for herself and her child? She could not part from Ida.
Perhaps she had not long to live, and to ask her to give up her child
would be too cruel. She would do anything, would go into service,
perform the hardest and coarsest toil. She told him how Ida had been
brought up, and implored his pity for the child, who at all events was
innocent.
When Ida reached home from her visit to the City, she saw her mother
risen and sitting by the fire. Lotty had found the suspense
insupportable as she lay still, and, though the pains in her chest grew
worse and the feeling of lassitude was gaining upon her, she had
half-dressed, and even tried to move about. Just before the child's
appearance, she seemed to have sunk into something of a doze on her
chair, for, as the door opened, she started and looked about her in
doubt.
"Where have you been so long?" she asked impatiently.
"I got back as quickly as I could, mother," said Ida, in some surprise.
"Got back? Is school over?"
"From the--the place you sent me to, mother."
"What am I thinking of!" exclaimed Lotty, starting to consciousness.
"Come here, and tell me. Did you see--see him, Ida? Mr. Woodstock, you
know."
"Yes, mother," began the child, with pale face, "and he--he said I was
to tell you--"
She burst into tears, and flew to her mother's neck.
"Oh, you won't send me away from you, mother dear? I can't go away from
you!"
Lotty felt she knew what this meant. Fear and trouble wrought with her
physical weakness to drive her almost distracted. She sprang up, caught
the child by the shoulders, and shook her as if in anger.
"Tell me, can't you?" she cried, straining her weak voice. "What did he
say? Don't be a little fool! Can't the child speak?"
She fell back again, seized with a cough which choked her. Ida stayed
her sobbing, and looked on in terror. Her mother motioned constantly to
her to proceed.
"The gentleman said," Ida continued, with calm which was the result of
extreme self-control, "that he would take me; but that you were never
to see me again."
"Did he say anything else about me?" whispered Lotty.
"No, nothing else."
"Go--go and tell him you'll come,--you'll leave me."
Ida stood in anguish, speechless and motionless. All at once her mother
seemed to forget what she was saying, and sat still, staring into the
fire. Several times she shivered. Her hands lay listlessly on her lap;
she breathed with difficulty.
Shortly afterwards, the landlady came into the room. She was alarmed at
Lotty's condition. Her attempts to arouse the sick woman to
consciousness were only partly successful. She went downstairs again,
and returned with another woman, a lodger in the house. These two
talked together in low tones. The result of their colloquy was that
Mrs. Ledward dressed Lotty as well as she could, whilst the other left
the house and returned with a cab.
"We're going to take your mother to the hospital," said Mrs. Ledward to
the child. "You wait here till we come back, there's a good girl. Now,
hold up a bit, Lotty; try and walk downstairs. That's better, my girl."
Ida was left alone.
CHAPTER IV
CHRISTMAS IN TWO HOMES
When Ida Starr was dismissed from school it wanted but a few days to
the vacations. The day which followed her mother's removal to the
hospital was Christmas Eve. For two hours on the afternoon of Christmas
Day, Ida sat in silence by the bedside in the ward, holding her
mother's hand. The patient was not allowed to speak, seemed indeed
unable to do so. The child might not even kiss her. The Sister and the
nurse looked pityingly at Ida when they passed by, and, when the
visitors' time was at an end, and she had to rise and go, the Sister
put an orange into her hand, and spoke a few hopeful words.
Night was setting in as she walked homewards; it was cold, and the sky
threatened snow. She had only gone a few yards, when there came by a
little girl of her own age, walking with some one who looked like a
nurse-maid. They were passing; but all at once the child sprang to
Ida's side with a cry of recognition. It was little Maud Enderby.
"Where have you been, Ida? Where are you going? Oh, I'm so glad; I
wanted so to see you. Miss Rutherford told us you'd left school, and
you weren't coming back again. Aren't you really? And sha'n't I see
you?"
"I don't know, I think not," said Ida. In her premature trouble she
seemed so much older than her friend.
"I told Miss Rutherford you weren't to blame," went on Maud eagerly. "I
told her it was Harriet's own fault, and how shockingly she'd behaved
to you. I expect you'll come back again after the holidays, don't you?"
Ida shook her head, and said nothing.
"But I shall see you again?" pleaded the little maid. "You know we're
always going to be friends, aren't we? Who shall I tell all my dreams
to, if I lose you?"
Dreams, in the literal sense of the word. Seldom a week went by, but
Maud had some weird vision of the night to recount to her friend, the
meaning of which they would together try to puzzle out; for it was an
article of faith with both that there were meanings to be discovered,
and deep ones.
Ida promised that she would not allow herself to be lost to her friend,
and they kissed, and went their several ways.
Throughout the day the door of Mr. Smales's shop had been open, though
the shutters were up. But at nightfall it was closed, and the family
drew around the tea-table in the parlour which smelt so of drugs. It
was their only sitting-room, for as much of the house as could be was
let to another family. Besides Mr. Smales and his daughter Harriet,
there sat at the table a lad of about thirteen, with a dark, handsome
face, which had something of a foreign cast His eyes gleamed at all
times with the light of a frank joyousness; he laughed with the
unrestraint of a perfectly happy nature. His countenance was capable,
too, of a thoughtfulness beyond his years, a gravity which seemed to
come of high thoughts or rich imagination. He bore no trace of
resemblance to either the chemist or his daughter, yet was their
relative. Mr. Smales had had a sister, who at an early age became a
public singer, and so far prospered as to gain some little distinction
in two or three opera seasons. Whilst thus engaged, she made the
acquaintance of an Italian, Casti by name, fell in love with him, and
subsequently followed him to Italy. Her courage was rewarded, for there
she became the singer's wife. They travelled for two years, during
which time a son was born to them. The mother's health failed; she was
unable henceforth to travel with her husband, and, after living in Rome
for nearly four years, she died there. The boy was shortly brought back
to England by his father, and placed in the care of Mr. Smales, on the
understanding that a sum of money should be paid yearly for his support
and education. From that day to the present nothing more had been heard
of Signor Casti, and all the care of his sister's child had fallen upon
poor Smales, who was not too well provided with means to support his
own small household. However, he had not failed in the duty, and Julian
(his name had been Englished) was still going to school at his uncle's
expense. It was by this time understood that, on leaving school, he
should come into the shop, and there qualify himself for the business
of a chemist.
Had it not been for Julian, the back parlour would have seen but little
cheerfulness to-night. Mr. Smales himself was always depressed in mind
and ailing in body. Life had proved too much for him; the burden of the
recurring daylight was beyond his strength. There was plainly no lack
of kindliness in his disposition, and this never failed to come
strongly into his countenance as often as he looked at Harriet. She was
his only child. Her mother had died of consumption early in their
married life, and it was his perpetual dread lest he should discover in
Harriet a disposition to the same malady.
His fears had but too much stimulus to keep them alive. Harriet had
passed through a sickly childhood, and was growing up with a feeble
constitution. Body and mind were alike unhealthy. Of all the people who
came in contact with her, her father alone was blind to her distorted
sense of right, her baseless resentments, her malicious pleasures, her
depraved intellect. His affection she repaid with indifference. At
present, the only person she appeared to really like was the servant
Sarah, a girl of vicious character.
Harriet had suffered more from Ida's blow than had at first appeared
likely. The wound would not heal well, and she had had several feverish
nights. For her convenience, the couch had been drawn up between the
fire and the table; and, reclining here, she every now and then threw
out a petulant word in reply to her father's or Julian's well-meant
cheerfulness. But for the boy, the gloomy silence would seldom have
been broken. He, however, was full to-night of a favourite subject, and
kept up a steady flow of bright narrative. At school he was much
engaged just now with the history of Rome, and it was his greatest
delight to tell the listeners at home the glorious stories which were
his latest acquisitions. All to-day he had been reading Plutarch. The
enthusiasm with which he spoke of these old heroes and their deeds went
beyond mere boyish admiration of valour and delight in bloodshed; he
seemed to be strongly sensible of the real features of greatness in
these men's lives, and invested his stories with a glow of poetical
colour which found little appreciation in either of his hearers.
"And I was born in Rome, wasn't I, uncle?" he exclaimed at last. "_I_
am a Roman; _Romanus sum_!"
Then he laughed with his wonted bright gleefulness. It was half in
jest, but for all that there was a genuine warmth on his cheek, and
lustre in his fine eyes.
"Some day I will go to Rome again," he said, "and both of you shall go
with me. We shall see the Forum and the Capitol! Sha'n't you shout when
you see the Capitol, uncle?"
Poor Smales only smiled sadly and shook his head. It was a long way
from Marylebone to Rome; greater still the distance between the boy's
mind and that of his uncle.
Sarah took Harriet to bed early. Julian had got hold of his Plutarch
again, and read snatches of it aloud every now and then. His uncle paid
no heed, was sunk in dull reverie. When they had sat thus for more than
an hour, Mr. Smales began to exhibit a wish to talk.
"Put the book away, and draw up to the fire, my boy," he said, with as
near an approach to heartiness as he was capable of. "It's Christmas
time, and Christmas only comes once a year."
He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of his
handkerchief.
"Well, Julian," he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, "a year
more school, I suppose, and then--business; what?"
"Yes, uncle."
The boy spoke cheerfully, but yet not in the same natural way as before.
"I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought
to be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'll
find to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes,
might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'm
afraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil,--and the patent
medicines. It's a poor look-out for you, Julian."
There was a silence.
"Harriet isn't quite well yet, is she?" Smales went on, half to himself.
"No, she looked poorly to-night."
"Julian," began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more nervously
than ever.
"Yes, uncle?"
"I wonder what 'ud become of her if I--if I died now? You're growing
up, and you're a clever lad; you'll soon be able to shift for yourself.
But what'll Harriet do? If only she had her health. And I shall have
nothing to leave either her or you, Julian,--nothing,--nothing! She'll
have to get her living somehow. I must think of some easy business for
her, I must. She might be a teacher, but her head isn't strong enough,
I fear. Julian--"
"Yes, uncle?"
"You--you are old enough to understand things, my boy," went on his
uncle, with quavering voice. "Suppose, after I'm dead and gone, Harriet
should want help. She won't make many friends, I fear, and she'll have
bad health. Suppose she was in want of any kind,--you'd stand by her,
Julian, wouldn't you? You'd be a friend to her,--always?"
"Indeed I would, uncle!" exclaimed the boy stoutly.
"You promise me that, Julian, this Christmas night?--you promise it?"
"Yes, I promise, uncle. You've always been kind and good to me, and see
if I'm not the same to Harriet."
His voice trembled with generous emotion.
"No, I sha'n't see it, my boy," said Smales, shaking his head drearily;
"but the promise will be a comfort to me at the end, a comfort to me.
You're a good lad, Julian!"
Silence came upon them again.
In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses standing
in gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt,
Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were small
and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; there
were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few
pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. On
entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp
atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were not
carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however
light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was no
sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye
penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.
Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered the
front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faint
daylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the mantelpiece
hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were the
Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters. The
centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the sole
articles of furniture. The table was spread with a white cloth; upon it
were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and two
glasses.
Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite
dark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door
opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood
upon the table. She was tall, very slender, and with a face which a
painter might have used to personify the spiritual life. Its outlines
were of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subdued
by, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strength
which could convert suffering into triumph. Her garment was black, of
the simplest possible design. In looking at Maud, as the child rose
from the chair, it was scarcely affection that her eyes expressed,
rather a grave compassion. Maud took a seat at the table without
speaking; her aunt sat down over against her. In perfect silence they
partook of the milk and the bread. Miss Bygrave then cleared the table
with her own hands, and took the things out of the room. Maud still
kept her place. The child's manner was not at all constrained; she was
evidently behaving in her wonted way. Her eyes wandered about the room
with rather a dreamy gaze, and, as often as they fell upon her aunt's
face, became very serious, though in no degree expressive of fear or
even awe.
Miss Bygrave returned, and seated herself near the little girl; then
remained thoughtful for some minutes. The breath from their lips was
plainly visible on the air. Maud almost shivered now and then, but
forced herself to suppress the impulse. Her aunt presently broke the
silence, speaking in a low voice, which had nothing of tenderness, but
was most impressive in its earnest calm.
"I wish to speak to you before you go upstairs, Maud; to speak of
things which you cannot understand fully as yet, but which you are old
enough to begin to think about."
Maud was surprised. It was the first time that her aunt had ever
addressed her in this serious way. She was used to being all but
ignored, though never in a manner which made her feel that she was
treated unkindly. There was nothing like confidence between them; only
in care for her bodily wants did Miss Bygrave fill the place of the
mother whose affection the child had never known. Maud crossed her
hands on her lap, and looked up with respectful attention upon her pale
sweet little face.
"Do you wonder at all," Miss Bygrave went on, "why we never spend
Christmas like your friends do in their homes, with eating and drinking
and all sorts of merriment?"
"Yes, aunt, I do."
It was evidently the truth, and given with the simple directness which
characterised the child.
"You know what Christmas Day means, Maud?"
"It is the day on which Christ was born."
"And for what purpose did Christ come as a child on earth?"
Maud thought for a moment. She had never had any direct religious
teaching; all she knew of these matters was gathered from her regular
attendance at church. She replied in a phrase which had rested in her
mind, though probably conveying little if any meaning to her.
"He came to make us free from sin."
"And so we should rejoice at His coming. But would it please Him, do
you think, to see us showing our joy by indulging in those very sins
from which He came to free us?"
Maud looked with puzzled countenance.
"Is it a sin to like cake and sweet things, aunt?"
The gravity of the question brought a smile to Miss Bygrave's close,
strong lips.
"Listen, Maud," she said, "and I will tell you what I mean. For you to
like such things is no sin, as long as you are still too young to have
it explained to you why you should overcome that liking. As I said, you
are now old enough to begin to think of more than a child's
foolishness, to ask yourself what is the meaning of the life which has
been given you, what duties you must set before yourself as you grow up
to be a woman. When once these duties have become clear to you, when
you understand what the end of life is, and how you should seek to gain
it, then many things become sinful which were not so before, and many
duties must be performed which previously you were not ready for."
Miss Bygrave spoke with effort, as if she found it difficult to express
herself in sufficiently simple phraseology. Speaking, she did not look
at the child; and, when the pause came, her eyes were still fixed
absently on the picture above the mantelpiece.
"Keep in mind what I shall tell you," she proceeded with growing
solemnity, "and some day you will better understand its meaning than
you can now. The sin which Christ came to free us from was--fondness
for the world, enjoyment of what we call pleasure, desire for happiness
on earth. He Himself came to set us the example of one to whom the
world was nothing, who could put aside every joy, and make His life a
life of sorrows. Even that was not enough. When the time had come, and
He had finished His teaching of the disciples whom He chose, He
willingly underwent the most cruel of all deaths, to prove that His
teaching had been the truth, and to show us that we must face any most
dreadful suffering rather than desert what we believe to be right."
She pointed to the crucified figure, and Maud followed the direction of
her hand with awed gaze.
"And this," said Miss Bygrave, "is why I think it wrong to make
Christmas a time of merriment. In the true Christian, every enjoyment
which comes from the body is a sin. If you feel you _like_ this or
that, it is a sign that you must renounce it, give it up. If you feel
fond of life, you must force yourself to hate it; for life is sin. Life
is given to us that we may conquer ourselves. We are placed in the
midst of sin that we may struggle against its temptations. There is
temptation in the very breath you draw, since you feel a dread if it is
checked. You must live so as to be ready at any moment to give up your
life with gladness, as a burden which it has been appointed you to bear
for a time. There is temptation in the love you feel for those around
you; it makes you cling to life; you are tempted to grieve if you lose
them, whereas death is the greatest blessing in the gift of God. And
just because it is so, we must not snatch at it before our time; it
would be a sin to kill ourselves, since that would be to escape from
the tasks set us. Many pleasures would seem to be innocent, but even
these it is better to renounce, since for that purpose does every
pleasure exist. I speak of the pleasures of the world. One joy there is
which we may and must pursue, the joy of sacrifice. The more the body
suffers, the greater should be the delight of the soul; and the only
moment of perfect happiness should be that when the world grows dark
around us, and we feel the hand of death upon our hearts."
She was silent, and both sat in the cold room without word or motion.
CHAPTER V
POSSIBILITIES
Christmas passed, and the beginning of the New Year drew nigh. And, one
morning, as Mr. Woodstock was glancing up and down the pages of a
ledger, a telegram was delivered to him. It was from a hospital in the
north-west of London. "Your daughter is dying, and wishes to see you.
Please come at once."
Lotty's ailment had declared itself as pneumonia. She was frequently
delirious, and the substance of her talk at such times led the
attendant Sister to ask her, when reason returned, whether she did not
wish any relative to be sent for. Lotty was frightened, but, as long as
she was told that there was still hope of recovery, declined to mention
any name. The stubborn independence which had supported her through
these long years asserted itself again, as a reaction after her
fruitless appeal; at moments she felt that she could die with her lips
closed, and let what might happen to her child. But when she at length
read upon the faces of those about her that her fate hung in the
balance, and when she saw the face of little Ida, come there she knew
not how, looking upon her from the bedside, then her purpose yielded,
and in a whisper she told her father's address, and begged that he
might be apprised of her state.
Abraham Woodstock arrived at the hospital, but to no purpose. Lotty had
lost her consciousness. He waited for some hours; there was no return
of sensibility. When it had been long dark, and he had withdrawn from
the ward for a little, he was all at once hastily summoned back. He
stood by the bedside, his hands behind his back, his face set in a hard
gaze upon the pale features on the pillow. Opposite to him stood the
medical man, and a screen placed around the bed shut them off from the
rest of the ward. All at once Lotty's eyes opened. It seemed as though
she recognised her father, for a look of surprise came to her
countenance. Then there was a gasping for breath, a struggle, and the
eyes saw no more, for all their staring.
Mr. Woodstock left the hospital. At the first public-house he reached
he entered and drank a glass of whisky. The barman had forgotten the
piece of lemon, and was rewarded with an oath considerably stronger
than the occasion seemed to warrant. Arrived at certain cross-ways, Mr.
Woodstock paused. His eyes were turned downwards; he did not seem
dubious of his way, so much as in hesitation as to a choice of
directions. He took a few steps hither, then back; began to wend
thither, and again turned. When he at length decided, his road brought
him to Milton Street, and up to the door on which stood the name of
Mrs. Ledward.
He knocked loudly, and the landlady herself opened.
"A Mrs. Starr lived here, I believe?" he asked.
"She does live here, sir, but she's in the orspital at present, I'm
sorry to say."
"Is her child at home?"
"She is, sir."
"Let me see her, will you? In some room, if you please."
Mrs. Ledward's squinting eyes took shrewd stock of this gentleman, and,
with much politeness, she showed him into her own parlour. Then she
summoned Ida from upstairs, and, the door being closed upon the two,
she held her ear as closely as possible to the keyhole.
Ida recognised her visitor with a start, and drew back a little. There
were both fear and dislike in her face, fear perhaps predominating.
"You remember coming to see me," said Mr. Woodstock, looking down upon
the child, and a trifle askance.
"Yes, sir," was Ida's reply.
"I have just been at the hospital. Your mother is dead."
His voice gave way a little between the first and the last letter of
the last word. Perhaps the sound was more to his ear than the thought
had been to his mind. Perhaps, also, he felt when it was too late that
he ought to have made this announcement with something more of
preparation. Ida's eyes were fixed upon his face, and seemed expanding
as they gazed; her lips had parted; she was the image of sudden dread.
He tried to look away from her, but somehow could not. Then two great
tears dropped upon her cheeks, and her mouth began to quiver. She put
her hands up to her face, and sobbed as a grown woman might have done.
Mr. Woodstock turned away for a minute, and fingered a china ornament
on the mantelpiece. He heard the sobs forcibly checked, and, when there
was silence, again faced his grandchild.
"You'll be left all alone now, you see," he said, his voice less hard.
"I was a friend of your mother's, and I'll do what I can for you. You'd
better come with me to my house."
Ida looked at him in surprise, tempered with indignation.
"If you were a friend of mother's," she said, "why did you want to take
me away from her and never let her see me again?"
"Well, you've nothing to do with that," said Abraham roughly. "Go and
put your things on, and come with me."
"No," replied Ida firmly. "I don't want to go with you."
"What you want has nothing to do with it. You will do as I tell you."
Abraham felt strangely in this interview. It was as though time were
repeating itself, and he was once more at issue with his daughter's
childish wilfulness.
Ida did not move.
"Why won't you come?" asked Mr. Woodstock sharply.
"I don't want to," was Ida's answer.
"Look here, then," said the other, after a brief consideration. "You
have the choice, and you're old enough to see what it means. You can
either come with me and be well cared for, or stay here and shift as
best you can; now, be sharp and make up your mind."
"I don't wish to go with you, I'll stay here and do my best."
"Very well."
Mr. Woodstock whistled a bar of an air, stepped from the room, and
thence out into the streets.
It was not his intention really to go at once. Irritation had made it
impossible for him to speak longer with the child; he would walk the
length of the street and return to give her one more chance. Distracted
in purpose as he had never been in his life before, he reached
Marylebone Road; rain was just beginning to fall, and he had no
umbrella with him. He stood and looked back. Ida once out of his sight,
that impatient tenderness which her face inspired failed before the
recollection of her stubbornness. She had matched her will with his, as
bad an omen as well could be. What was the child to him, or he to her?
He did not feel capable of trying to make her like him; what good in
renewing the old conflicts and upsetting the position of freedom he had
attained? Doubtless she inherited a fatal disposition. In his mind
lurked the foreknowledge that he might come to be fond of this little
outcast, but Woodstock was incapable as yet of understanding that love
must and will be its own reward. The rain fell heavier, and at this
moment an omnibus came up. He hailed it, saying to himself that he
would think the matter over and come back on the morrow. The first part
of his purpose he fulfilled; but to Milton Street he never returned.
As soon as he had left the house, Mrs. Ledward bounced into the room
where Ida stood.
"You little idjot!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by refusing a
offer like that!--Why, the gentleman's your own father."
"My father!" repeated Ida, in scornful astonishment. "My father died
when I was a baby. Mother's told me so often."
"If you believe all your mother told you,--Well, well, you have been a
little wooden-head. What made you behave like that to him?--Where does
he live, eh?"
"I don't know."
"You do know. Why, I heard him say you'd been to see him. And what are
you going to do, I'd like to know? You don't expect me to keep you, I
s'pose. Tell me at once where the gentleman lives, and let me take you
there. The idea of your turning against your own father!"
"He's _not_ my father!" cried Ida passionately. "My father is dead; and
now mother's dead, and I'm alone." She turned and went from the room,
weeping bitterly.
CHAPTER VI
AN ADVERTISEMENT
In a morning newspaper of March 187--, that is to chapter, appeared a
singular advertisement.
"WANTED, human companionship. A young man of four-and-twenty wishes to
find a congenial associate of about his own age. He is a student of
ancient and modern literatures, a free-thinker in religion, a lover of
art in all its forms, a hater of conventionalism. Would like to
correspond in the first instance. Address O. W., City News Rooms, W.C."
An advertisement which, naturally, might mean much or little, might be
the outcome of an idle whim, or the despairing cry of a hungry heart.
It could not be expected to elicit many replies; and brought indeed but
one.
Behind the counter of a chemist's shop in Oxford Street there served,
day after day, a young assistant much observed of female customers. The
young man was handsome, and not with that vulgar handsomeness which is
fairly common among the better kind of shop-walkers and
counter-keepers. He had rather long black hair, which arranged itself
in silky ripples about a face of perfectly clear, though rather dark,
complexion. When he smiled, as he frequently did, the effect was very
pleasant. He spoke, too, with that musical intonation which is always
more or less suggestive of musical thought. He did not seem by any
means ideally adapted to the place he occupied here, yet filled it
without suspicion of constraint or uneasiness: there was nothing in him
to make one suppose that he had ever been accustomed to a better sphere
of life.
He lived in the house above the shop, and had done so for about two
years; previously he had held a like position in a more modest
establishment. His bed-room, which had to serve him as sitting-room
also during his free hours, gave indications of a taste not ordinarily
found in chemists' assistants. On the walls were several engravings of
views in Rome, ancient and modern; and there were two bookcases filled
with literature which had evidently known the second-hand stall,--most
of the Latin poets, a few Italian books, and some English classics. Not
a trace anywhere of the habits and predilections not unfairly
associated with the youth of the shop, not even a pipe or a
cigar-holder. It was while sitting alone here one evening, half musing,
half engaged in glancing over the advertisements in a paper two days
old, that the assistant had been attracted by the insertion just
quoted. He read and re-read it, became more thoughtful, sighed
slightly. Then he moved to the table and took some note-paper out of a
writing-case. Still he seemed to be in doubt, hesitated in pressing a
pen against his thumb-nail, was on the point of putting the note-paper
away again. Ultimately, however, he sat down to write. He covered four
pages with a letter, which he then proceeded deliberately to correct
and alter, till he had cut it down by about half. Then came another
period of doubt before he decided to make a fair copy. But it was
finally made, and the signature at the foot was: Julian Casti.
He went out at once to the post.
Two days later he received a reply, somewhat longer than his own
epistle. The writer was clearly keeping himself in a tentative
attitude. Still, he wrote something about his own position and his
needs. He was a teacher in a school in South London, living in
lodgings, with his evenings mostly unoccupied. His habits, he declared,
were Bohemian. Suppose, by way of testing each other's dispositions,
they were to interchange views on some book with which both were likely
to be acquainted: say, Keats's poems? In conclusion, the "O. W." of the
advertisement signed himself Osmond Waymark.
The result was that, a week after, Casti received an invitation to call
on Waymark, at the latter's lodgings in Walcot Square, Kennington. He
arrived on a Saturday evening, just after eight o'clock. The house he
sought proved to be one of very modest appearance; small, apparently
not too clean, generally uninviting. But a decent-looking woman opened
the door, and said that Mr. Waymark would be found in response to a
knock at the first-floor front. The visitor made his way up the dark,
narrow stair-case, and knocked as bidden. A firm voice summoned him to
enter.
From a seat by a table which was placed as near as possible to a very
large fire rose a young man whose age might have been either
twenty-three or twenty-six. Most people would have inclined to give him
the latter figure. He was rather above the average stature, and showed
well-hung limbs, with a habit of holding himself which suggested
considerable toughness of sinews; he moved gracefully, and with head
well held up. His attire spoke sedentary habits; would have been
decidedly shabby, but for its evident adaptation to easy-chair and
fireside. The pure linen and general tone of cleanliness were
reassuring; the hand, too, which he extended, was soft, delicate, and
finely formed. The head was striking, strongly individual, set solidly
on a rather long and shapely neck; a fine forehead, irregular nose,
rather prominent jaw-bones, lips just a little sensual, but speaking
good-humour and intellectual character. A heavy moustache; no beard.
Eyes dark, keen, very capable of tenderness, but perhaps more often
shrewdly discerning or cynically speculative. One felt that the present
expression of genial friendliness was unfamiliar to the face, though it
by no means failed in pleasantness. The lips had the look of being
frequently gnawed in intense thought or strong feeling. In the cheeks
no healthy colour, but an extreme sallowness on all the features.
Smiling, he showed imperfect teeth. Altogether, a young man upon whom
one felt it difficult to pronounce in the earlier stages of
acquaintance; whose intimacy but few men would exert themselves to
seek; who in all likelihood was chary of exhibiting his true self save
when secure of being understood.
Julian Casti was timid with strangers; his eyes fell before the other's
look, and he shook hands without speaking. The contrast in mere
appearance between the two was very pronounced; both seemed in some
degree to be aware of it. Waymark seemed more rugged than in ordinary
companionship; the slightly effeminate beauty of Casti, and his
diffident, shyly graceful manners, were more noticeable than usual.
Waymark inspected his visitor closely and directly; the latter only
ventured upon one or two quick side glances. Yet the results were, on
the whole, mutually satisfactory.
Julian's eyes glistened at the sight of two goodly bookcases, reaching
from floor to ceiling. There were, too, pictures of other than the
lodging-house type; engraved heads of the great in art and science, and
a few reproductions in pencil or chalk of known subjects, perchance
their possessor's own work. On the table lay traces of literary
occupation, sheets of manuscript, open books, and the like. On another
table stood a tray, with cups and saucers. A kettle was boiling on the
fire.
Waymark helped the conversation by offering a cup of coffee, which he
himself made.
"You smoke, I hope?" he asked, reaching some cigars from the
mantelpiece.
Julian shook his head, with a smile.
"No? How on earth do you support existence?--At all events, you don't,
as the railway-carriage phrase has it, object to smoking?"
"Not at all. I like the scent, but was never tempted to go further."
Waymark filled his pipe, and made himself comfortable in a low
cane-bottom chair, which had stood folded-up against the wall. Talk
began to range over very various topics, Waymark leading the way, his
visitor only gradually venturing to take the initiative. Theatres were
mentioned, but Julian knew little of them; recent books, but with these
he had small acquaintance; politics, but in these he had clearly no
interest.
"That's a point of contact, at all events," exclaimed Waymark. "I
detest the very name of Parliament, and could as soon read Todhunter on
Conic Sections as the reports of a debate. Perhaps you're a
mathematician?" This with a smile.
"By no means," was the reply. "In fact," Casti went on, "I'm afraid you
begin to think my interests are very narrow indeed. My opportunities
have been small. I left a very ordinary school at fourteen, and what
knowledge I have since got has come from my own efforts. I am sure the
profit from our intercourse would be entirely on my side. I have the
wish to go in for many things, however,--"
"Oh," broke in the other, "don't suppose that I am a scholar in any
sense of the word, or a man of more than average culture. My own
regular education came to an end pretty much at the same age, and only
a certain stubbornness has forced me into an intellectual life, if you
can call it so. Not much intellect required in my every-day business,
at all events. The school in which I teach is a fair type of the
middle-class commercial 'academy;' the headmaster a nincompoop and
charlatan, my fellow-assistants poor creatures, who must live, I
suppose,--though one doesn't well understand why. I had always a liking
for Greek and Latin and can make shift to read both in a way
satisfactory to myself, though I dare say it wouldn't go for much with
college examiners. Then, as for my scribbling, well, it has scarcely
yet passed the amateur stage. It will some day; simply because I've
made up my mind that it shall; but as yet I haven't got beyond a couple
of weak articles in weak magazines, and I don't exactly feel sure of my
way. I rather think we shall approach most nearly in our taste for
poetry. I liked much what you had to say about Keats. It decided me
that we ought to go on."
Julian looked up with a bright smile.
"What did you think at first of my advertisement, eh?" cried Waymark,
with a sudden burst of loud laughter. "Queer idea, wasn't it?"
"It came upon me curiously. It was so like a frequent thought of my own
actually carried out."
"It was? You have felt that same desperate need of congenial society?"
"I have felt it very strongly indeed. I live so very much alone, and
have always done so. Fortunately I am of a very cheerful disposition,
or I might have suffered much. The young fellows I see every day
haven't much intellect, it must be confessed. I used to try to get them
under the influence of my own enthusiasms, but they didn't seem to
understand me. They care only for things which either repel me, or are
utterly without interest."
"Ha! you understand what that means!" Waymark had risen from his low
chair, and stood with his back to the fire. His eyes had a new life,
and he spoke in a strong, emphatic way which suited well with his
countenance. "You know what it is to have to do exclusively with fools
and brutes, to rave under the vile restraints of Philistine
surroundings? Then you can form some notion of the state I was in when
I took the step of writing that advertisement; I was, I firmly believe,
on the verge of lunacy! For two or three days I had come back home from
the school only to pace up and down the room in an indescribable
condition. I get often like that, but this time things seemed reaching
a head. Why, I positively cried with misery, absurd as it may sound. My
blood seemed too hot, seemed to be swelling out the veins beyond
endurance. As a rule I get over these moods by furious walking about
the streets half through the night, but I couldn't even do that. I had
no money to go in for dissipation: that often helps me. Every book was
loathsome to me. My landlady must have overheard something, for she
came in and began a conversation about God knows what; I fear I
mortally offended her; I could have pitched the poor old woman out of
the window! Heavens, how did I get through those nights?"
"And the fit has passed?" inquired Julian when the other ceased.
"The Lord be praised; yes!" Waymark laughed half-scornfully. "There
came an editor's note, accepting a thing that had been going from
magazine to magazine for three months. This snatched me up into furious
spirits. I rushed out to a theatre, drank more than was good for me,
made a fool of myself in general,--and then received your letter. Good
luck never comes singly."
Julian had watched the strange workings of Waymark's face with close
interest. When the latter suddenly turned his eyes, as if to see the
effect of all his frankness, Casti coloured slightly and looked away,
but with a look of friendly sympathy.
"Do I shock you?" asked the other. "Do you think me rather too much of
an animal, for all my spiritual longings?"
"Certainly not, I can well understand you, I believe."
The conversation passed to quieter things. Julian seemed afraid of
saying too much about his own experiences, but found opportunities of
showing his acquaintance with English poetry, which was quite as
extensive as that of his new friend, excepting in the case of a few
writers of the day, whom he had not been able to procure. He had taught
himself Italian, too, and had read considerably in that language. He
explained that his father was an Italian, but had died when he himself
was still an infant.
"You have been in Italy?" asked Waymark, with interest.
A strange look came over Julian's features, a look at once bright and
melancholy; his fine eyes gleamed as was their wont eight years ago, in
the back-parlour in Boston Street, when he was telling tales from
Plutarch.
"Not," he said, in a low voice charged with feeling, "since I was three
years old.--You will think it strange, but I don't so much long for the
modern Italy, for the beautiful scenery and climate, not even for the
Italy of Raphael, or of Dante. I think most of classical Italy. I am no
scholar, but I love the Latin writers, and can forget myself for hours,
working through Livy or Tacitus. I want to see the ruins of Rome; I
want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus, the Aufidus, the Alban Hills,
Lake Trasimenus,--a thousand places! It is strange how those old times
have taken hold upon me. The mere names in Roman history make my blood
warm.--And there is so little chance that I shall ever be able to go
there; so little chance."
Waymark had watched the glowing face with some surprise.
"Why, this is famous!" he exclaimed. "We shall suit each other
splendidly. Who knows? We may see Italy together, and look back upon
these times of miserable struggle. By the by, have you ever written
verses?"
Julian reddened, like a girl.
"I have tried to," he said.
"And do still?"
"Sometimes."
"I thought as much. Some day you shall let me hear them; won't you? And
I will read you some of my own. But mine are in the savage vein, a mere
railing against the universe, altogether too furious to be anything
like poetry; I know that well enough. I have long since made up my mind
to stick to prose; it is the true medium for a polemical egotist. I
want to find some new form of satire; I feel capabilities that way
which shall by no means rust unused. It has pleased Heaven to give me a
splenetic disposition, and some day or other I shall find the tongue."
It was midnight before Julian rose to leave, and he was surprised when
he discovered how time had flown. Waymark insisted on his guest's
having some supper before setting out on his walk home; he brought out
of a cupboard a tin of Australian mutton, which, with bread and
pickles, afforded a very tolerable meal after four hours' talk. They
then left the house together, and Waymark accompanied his friend as far
as Westminster Bridge.
"It's too bad to have brought you so far at this hour," said Julian, as
they parted.
"Oh, it is my hour for walking," was the reply. "London streets at
night are my element. Depend upon it, Rome was poor in comparison!"
He went off laughing and waving his hand.
CHAPTER VII
BETWEEN OLD AND NEW
Julian Casti's uncle had been three years dead. It was well for him
that he lived no longer; his business had continued to dwindle, and the
last months of the poor man's life were embittered by the prospect of
inevitable bankruptcy. He died of an overdose of some opiate, which the
anguish of sleeplessness brought him into the habit of taking. Suicide
it might have been, yet that was scarcely probable; he was too anxious
on his daughter's account to abandon her in this way, for certainly his
death could be nothing to her profit. Julian was then already eighteen,
and quickly succeeded in getting a situation. Harriet Smales left
London, and went to live with her sole relative, except Julian, an aunt
who kept a stationer's shop in Colchester. She was taught the business,
and assisted her aunt for more than two years, when, growing tired of
the life of a country town, she returned to London, and succeeded in
getting a place at a stationer's in Gray's Inn Road. This was six
months ago. Having thus established herself, she wrote to Julian, and
told him where she was.
Julian never forgot the promise he had made to his uncle that Christmas
night, eight years ago, when he was a lad of thirteen. Harriet he had
always regarded as his sister, and never yet had he failed in brotherly
duty to her. When the girl left Colchester, she was on rather bad terms
with her aunt, and the latter wrote to Julian, saying that she knew
nothing of Harriet's object in going to London, but that it was
certainly advisable that some friend should be at hand, if possible, to
give her advice; though advice (she went on to say) was seldom
acceptable to Harriet. This letter alarmed Julian, as it was the first
he had heard of his cousin's new step; the letter from herself at the
end of a week's time greatly relieved him, and he went off as soon as
possible to see her. He found her living in the house where she was
engaged, apparently with decent people, and moderately contented; more
than this could never be said of the girl. Since then, he had seen her
at least once every week. Sometimes he visited her at the shop; when
the weather was fine, they spent the Sunday afternoon in walking
together. Harriet's health seemed to have improved since her return to
town. Previously, as in her childhood, she had always been more or less
ailing. From both father and mother she had inherited an unhealthy
body; there was a scrofulous tendency in her constitution, and the
slightest casual ill-health, a cold or any trifling accident, always
threatened her with serious results. She was of mind corresponding to
her body; restless, self-willed, discontented, sour-tempered,
querulous. She certainly used no special pains to hide these faults
from Julian, perhaps was not herself sufficiently conscious of them,
but the young man did not seem to be repelled by her imperfections; he
invariably treated her with gentle forbearance, pitied her sufferings,
did many a graceful little kindness in hope of pleasing her.
The first interview between Julian and Waymark was followed by a second
a few days after, when it was agreed that they should spend each Sunday
evening together in Kennington; Julian had no room in which he could
well receive visitors. The next Sunday proved fine; Julian planned to
take Harriet for a walk in the afternoon, then, after accompanying her
home, to proceed to Walcot Square. As was usual on these occasions, he
was to meet his cousin at the Holborn end of Gray's Inn Road, and, as
also was the rule, Harriet came some twenty minutes late. Julian was
scrupulously punctual, and waiting irritated him not a little, but he
never allowed himself to show his annoyance. There was always the same
kind smile on his handsome face, and the pressure of his hand was warm.
Harriet Smales was about a year younger than her cousin. Her dress
showed moderately good taste, with the usual fault of a desire to
imitate an elegance which she could not in reality afford. She wore a
black jacket, fur-trimmed, over a light grey dress; her black straw hat
had a few flowers in front. Her figure was good and her movements
graceful; she was nearly as tall as Julian. Her face, however, could
not be called attractive; it was hollow and of a sickly hue, even the
lips scarcely red. Grey eyes, beneath which were dark circles, looked
about with a quick, suspicious glance; the eye-brows made almost a
straight line. The nose was of a coarse type, the lips heavy and
indicative of ill-temper. The disagreeable effect of these lineaments
was heightened by a long scar over her right temple; she evidently did
her best to conceal it by letting her hair come forward very much on
each side, an arrangement in itself unsuited to her countenance.
"I think I'm going to leave my place," was her first remark to-day, as
they turned to walk westward. She spoke in a dogged way with which
Julian was familiar enough, holding her eyes down, and, as she walked,
swinging her arms impatiently.
"I hope not," said her cousin, looking at her anxiously. "What has
happened?"
"Oh, I don't know; it's always the same; people treat you as if you was
so much dirt. I haven't been accustomed to it, and I don't see why I
should begin now. I can soon enough get a new shop."
"Has Mrs. Ogle been unkind to you?"
"Oh, I don't know, and I don't much care. You're expected to slave just
the same, day after day, whether you're feeling well or not."
This indirect and querulous mode of making known her grievances was
characteristic of the girl. Julian bore with it very patiently.
"Haven't you been feeling well?" he asked, with the same kindness.
"Well, no, I haven't. My head fairly splits now, and this sun isn't
likely to make it any better."
"Let us cross to the shady side."
"'Twon't make any difference; I can't run to get out of the way of
horses."
Julian was silent for a little.
"Why didn't you write to me in the week?" she asked presently. "I'm
sure it would be a relief to hear from somebody sometimes. It's like a
year from one Sunday to another."
"Did I promise to write? I really didn't remember having done so; I'm
very sorry. I might have told you about a new friend I've got."
Harriet looked sharply into his face. Julian had made no mention of
Waymark on the preceding Sunday; it had been a rainy day, and they had
only spent a few minutes together in the parlour which Mrs. Ogle, the
keeper of the shop, allowed them to use on these occasions.
"What sort of a friend?" the girl inquired rather sourly.
"A very pleasant fellow, rather older than myself; I made his
acquaintance by chance."
Julian avoided reference to the real circumstances. He knew well the
difficulty of making Harriet understand them.
"We are going to see each other every Sunday," he went on.
"Then I suppose you'll give up coming for me?"
"Oh no, not at all. I shall see him at night always, after I have left
you."
"Where does he live?"
"Rather far off; in Kennington."
"What is he?"
"A teacher in a school. I hope to get good from being with him; we're
going to read together, and so on. I wish you could find some pleasant
companion of the same kind, Harriet; you wouldn't feel so lonely."
"I dare say I'm better off without anybody. I shouldn't suit them. It's
very few people I do suit, or else people don't suit me, one or the
other. What's his name, your new friend's?"
"Waymark."
"And he lives in Kennington? Whereabouts?"
"In Walcot Square. I don't think you know that part, do you?"
"What number?"
Julian looked at her with some surprise. He found her eyes fixed with
penetrating observation upon his face. He mentioned the number, and she
evidently made a mental note of it. She was silent for some minutes.
"I suppose you'll go out at nights with him?" was her next remark.
"It is scarcely likely. Where should we go to?"
"Oh, I don't know, and I don't suppose it matters much, to me."
"You seem vexed at this, Harriet. I'm very sorry. Really, it's the
first friend I've ever had. I've often felt the need of some such
companionship."
"I'm nobody?" she said, with a laugh, the first today.
Julian's face registered very perfectly the many subtle phases of
thought and emotion which succeeded each other in his mind. This last
remark distressed him for a moment; he could not bear to hurt another's
feelings.
"Of course I meant male friend," he said quickly. "You are my sister."
"No, I'm not," was the reply; and, as she spoke, Harriet glanced
sideways at him in a particularly unpleasant manner. She herself meant
it to be pleasant.
"Oh yes, you are, Harriet," he insisted good-humouredly. "We've been
brother and sister ever since we can remember, haven't we?"
"But we aren't really, for all that," said the girl, looking away.
"Well, now you've got somebody else to take you up, I know very well I
shall see less of you. You'll be making excuses to get out of the rides
when the summer comes again."
"Pray don't say or think anything of the kind, Harriet," urged Julian
with feeling. "I should not think of letting anything put a stop to our
picnics. It will soon be getting warm enough to think of the river,
won't it? And then, if you would like it, there is no reason why my
friend shouldn't come with us, sometimes."
"Oh, nonsense! Why, you'd be ashamed to let him know me."
"Ashamed! How can you possibly think so? But you don't mean it; you are
joking."
"I'm sure I'm not. I should make mistakes in talking, and all sorts of
things. You don't think much of me, as it is, and that would make you
like me worse still."
She tossed her head nervously, and swung her arms with the awkward
restlessness which always denoted some strong feeling in her.
"Come, Harriet, this is too bad," Julian exclaimed, smiling. "Why, I
shall have to quarrel with you, to prove that we're good friends."
"I wish you _would_ quarrel with me sometimes," said the girl, laughing
in a forced way. "You take all my bad-temper always just in the same
quiet way. I'd far rather you fell out with me. It's treating me too
like a child, as if it didn't matter how I went on, and I wasn't
anything to you."
Of late, Harriet had been getting much into the habit of this ambiguous
kind of remark when in her cousin's company. Julian noticed it, and it
made him a trifle uneasy. He attributed it, however, to the girl's
strangely irritable disposition, and never failed to meet such
outbreaks with increased warmth and kindness of tone. To-day, Harriet's
vagaries seemed to affect him somewhat unusually. He became silent at
times, and then tried to laugh away the unpleasantness, but the
laughter was not exactly spontaneous. At length he brought back the
conversation to the point from which it had started, and asked if she
had any serious intention of leaving Mrs. Ogle.
"I'm tired of being ordered about by people!" Harriet exclaimed. "I
know I sha'n't put up with it much longer. I only wish I'd a few pounds
to start a shop for myself."
"I heartily wish I had the money to give you," was Julian's reply.
"Don't you save anything at all?" asked his cousin, with affected
indifference.
"A little; very little. At all events, I think we shall be able to have
our week at the seaside when the time comes. Have you thought where
you'd like to go to?"
"No; I haven't thought anything about it. What time shall you get back
home to-night?"
"Rather late, I dare say. We sit talking and forget the time. It may be
after twelve o'clock."
Harriet became silent again. They reached Hyde Park, and joined the
crowds of people going in all directions about the walks. Harriet had
always a number of ill-natured comments to make on the dress and
general appearance of people they passed. Julian smiled, but with no
genuine pleasure. As always, he did his best to lead the girl's
thoughts away from their incessant object, herself.
They were back again at the end of Gray's Inn Road by half-past four.
"Well, I won't keep you," said Harriet, with the sour smile. "I know
you're in a hurry to be off. Are you going to walk?"
"Yes; I can do it in about an hour."
The girl turned away without further leave-taking, and Julian walked
southwards with a troubled face.
Waymark expected him to tea. At this, their third meeting, the two were
already on very easy terms. Waymark did the greater share of the
talking, for Julian was naturally of fewer words; from the beginning it
was clear that the elder of the friends would have the initiative in
most things. Waymark unconsciously displayed something of that egoism
which is inseparable from force of character, and to the other this was
far from disagreeable; Julian liked the novel sensation of having a
strong nature to rely upon. Already he was being led by his natural
tendency to hero-worship into a fervid admiration for his friend.
"What have you' been doing with yourself this fine day?" Waymark asked,
as they sat down to table.
"I always spend Sunday afternoon with a cousin of mine," replied
Julian, with the unhesitating frankness which was natural to him.
"Male or female?"
"Female." There was a touch of colour on his face as he met the other's
eye, and he continued rather quickly. "We lived together always as
children, and were only separated at my uncle's death, three years ago.
She is engaged at a stationer's shop."
"What is a fellow to do to get money?" Waymark exclaimed, when his pipe
was well alight. "I'm growing sick of this hand-to-mouth existence. Now
if one had a bare competency, what glorious possibilities would open
out. The vulgar saying has it that 'time is money;' like most vulgar
sayings putting the thing just the wrong way about. 'Money is time,' I
prefer to say; it means leisure, and all that follows. Why don't you
write a poem on Money, Casti? I almost feel capable of it myself. What
can claim precedence, in all this world, over hard cash? It is the
fruitful soil wherein is nourished the root of the tree of life; it is
the vivifying principle of human activity. Upon it luxuriate art,
letters, science; rob them of its sustenance, and they droop like
withering leaves. Money means virtue; the lack of it is vice. The devil
loves no lurking-place like an empty purse. Give me a thousand pounds
to-morrow, and I become the most virtuous man in England. I satisfy all
my instincts freely, openly, with no petty makeshifts and vile
hypocrisies. To scorn and revile wealth is the mere resource of
splenetic poverty. What cannot be purchased with coin of the realm?
First and foremost, freedom. The moneyed man is the sole king; the
herds of the penniless are but as slaves before his footstool. He
breathes with a sense of proprietorship in the whole globe-enveloping
atmosphere; for is it not in his power to inhale it wheresoever he
pleases? He puts his hand in his pocket, and bids with security for
every joy of body and mind; even death he faces with the comforting
consciousness that his defeat will only coincide with that of human
science. He buys culture, he buys peace of mind, he buys love.--You
think not! I don't use the word cynically, but in very virtuous
earnest. Make me a millionaire, and I will purchase the passionate
devotion of any free-hearted woman the world contains!"
Waymark's pipe had gone out; he re-lit it, with the half-mocking smile
which always followed upon any more vehement utterance.
"That I am poor," he went on presently, "is the result of my own
pigheadedness. My father was a stock-broker, in anything but
flourishing circumstances. He went in for some cursed foreign loan or
other,--I know nothing of such things,--and ruined himself completely.
He had to take a subordinate position, and died in it. I was about
seventeen then, and found myself alone in the world. A friend of my
father's, also a city man, Woodstock by name, was left my guardian. He
wanted me to begin a business career, and, like a fool, I wouldn't hear
of it. Mr. Woodstock and I quarrelled; he showed himself worthy of his
name, and told me plainly that, if I didn't choose to take his advice,
I must shift for myself. That I professed myself perfectly ready to do;
I was bent on an intellectual life, forsooth; couldn't see that the
natural order of things was to make money first and be intellectual
afterwards. So, lad as I was, I got a place as a teacher, and that's
been my business ever since."
Waymark threw himself back and laughed carelessly. He strummed a little
with his fingers on the arm of the chair, and resumed:
"I interested myself in religion and philosophy; I became an aggressive
disciple of free-thought, as it is called. Radicalism of every kind
broke out in me, like an ailment. I bought cheap free-thought
literature; to one or two papers of the kind I even contributed. I keep
these effusions carefully locked up, for salutary self-humiliation at
some future day, when I shall have grown conceited. Nay, I went
further. I delivered lectures at working-men's clubs, lectures with
violent titles. One, I remember, was called 'The Gospel of
Rationalism.' And I was enthusiastic in the cause, with an enthusiasm
such as I shall never experience again. Can I imagine myself writing
and speaking such things now-a-days? Scarcely: yet the spirit remains,
it is only the manifestations which have changed. I am by nature
combative; I feel the need of attacking the cherished prejudices of
society; I have a joy in outraging what are called the proprieties. And
I wait for my opportunity, which has yet to come."
"How commonplace my life has been, in comparison," said Julian, after
an interval of thoughtfulness.
"Your nature, I believe, is very pure, and therefore very happy. _I_ am
what Browning somewhere calls a 'beast with a speckled hide,' and
happiness, I take it, I shall never know."
Julian could begin to see that his friend took something of a pleasure
in showing and dwelling upon the worst side of his own character.
"You will be happy," he said, "when you once find your true work, and
feel that you are doing it well."
"But the motives, the motives!--Never mind, I've talked enough of
myself for one sitting. Don't think I've told you everything. Plenty
more confessions to come, when time and place shall serve. Little by
little you will get to know me, and by then will most likely have had
enough of me."
"That is not at all likely; rather the opposite."
When they left the house together, shortly after eleven, Julian's eye
fell upon the dark figure of a girl, standing by a gas-lamp on the
opposite side of the way. The figure held his gaze. Waymark moved on,
and he had to follow, but still looked back. The girl had a veil half
down upon her face; she was gazing after the two. She moved, and the
resemblance to Harriet was so striking that Julian again stopped. As he
did so, the figure turned away, and walked in the opposite direction,
till it was lost in the darkness.
Julian went on, and for a time was very silent.
CHAPTER VIII
ACADEMICAL
The school in which Osmond Waymark taught was situated in "a pleasant
suburb of southern London" (Brixton, to wit); had its "spacious
playground and gymnasium" (the former a tolerable back-yard, the latter
a disused coach-house); and, as to educational features, offered, at
the choice of parents and guardians, either the solid foundation
desirable for those youths predestined to a commercial career, or the
more liberal training adapted to minds of a professional bias. Anything
further in the way of information was to be obtained by applying to the
headmaster, Dr. Tootle.
At present the number of resident pupils was something under forty. The
marvel was how so many could be accommodated in so small a house. Two
fair-sized bedrooms, and a garret in which the servants could not be
persuaded to sleep, served as dormitories for the whole school; the
younger children sleeping two together.
Waymark did not reside on the premises. For a stipulated sum of
thirteen pounds per quarter he taught daily from nine till five, with
an interval of an hour and a half at dinner-time, when he walked home
to Walcot Square for such meal as the state of his exchequer would
allow. Waymark occupied a prominent place in Dr. Tootle's prospectus.
As Osmond Waymark, B.A.,--the degree was a _bona fide_ one, of London
University,--he filled the position of Senior Classical Master;
anonymously he figured as a teacher of drawing and lecturer on
experimental chemistry. The other two masters, resident, were Mr.
O'Gree and Herr Egger; the former, teacher of mathematics, assistant
classical master, and professor of gymnastics; the latter, teacher of
foreign languages, of music, and of dancing. Dr. Tootle took upon
himself the English branches, and, of course, the arduous duty of
general superintendence. He was a very tall, thin, cadaverous,
bald-headed man. Somehow or other he had the reputation of having, at
an earlier stage in his career, grievously over-exerted his brain in
literary labour; parents were found, on the whole, ready to accept this
fact as an incontestable proof of the doctor's fitness to fill his
present office, though it resulted in entire weeks of retreat from the
school-room under the excuse of fearful headaches. The only known
product of the literary toil which had had such sad results was a very
small English Grammar, of course used in the school, and always
referred to by the doctor as "my little compendium."
Now and then, Waymark sought refuge from the loneliness of his room in
a visit to his colleagues at the Academy. The masters' sitting-room was
not remarkable for cosiness, even when a fire burnt in the grate and
the world of school was for the time shut out. The floor was
uncarpeted, the walls illustrated only with a few maps and diagrams.
There was a piano, whereon Herr Egger gave his music lessons. Few rooms
in existence could have excelled this for draughts; at all times there
came beneath the door a current of wind which pierced the legs like a
knife; impossible to leave loose papers anywhere with a chance of
finding them in the same place two minutes after.
When Waymark entered this evening, he found his colleagues seated
together in silence. Mr. Philip O'Gree--"fill-up" was his own
pronunciation of the name--would have been worse than insignificant in
appearance, but for the expression of good-humour and geniality which
possessed his irregular features. He was red-headed, and had large red
whiskers.
Herr Egger was a gentleman of very different exterior. Tall, thick,
ungainly, with a very heavy, stupid face, coarse hands, outrageous
lower extremities. A mass of coal-black hair seemed to weigh down his
head. His attire was un-English, and, one might suspect, had been
manufactured in some lonely cottage away in the remote Swiss valley
which had till lately been the poor fellow's home. Dr. Tootle never
kept his foreign masters long. His plan was to get hold of some
foreigner without means, and ignorant of English, who would come and
teach French or German in return for mere board and lodging; when the
man had learnt a little English, and was in a position to demand a
salary, he was dismissed, and a new professor obtained. Egger had
lately, under the influence of some desperate delusion, come to our
hospitable clime in search of his fortune. Of languages he could not be
said to know any; his French and his German were of barbarisms all
compact; English as yet he could use only in a most primitive manner.
He must have been the most unhappy man in all London. Finding himself
face to face with large classes of youngsters accustomed to no kind of
discipline, in whom every word he uttered merely excited outrageous
mirth, he was hourly brought to the very verge of despair.
Constitutionally he was lachrymose; tears came from him freely when
distress had reached a climax, and the contrast between his unwieldy
form and this weakness of demeanour supplied inexhaustible occasion for
mirth throughout the school. His hours of freedom were spent in abysmal
brooding.
Waymark entered in good spirits. At the sight of him, Mr. O'Gree
started from the fireside, snatched up the poker, brandished it wildly
about his head, and burst into vehement exclamations.
"Ha! ha! you've come in time, sir; you've come in time to hear my
resolution. I can't stand ut any longer; I won't stand ut a day longer!
Mr. Waymark, you're a witness of the outrageous way in which I'm
treated in this academy--the way in which I'm treated both by Dr.
Tootle and by Mrs. Tootle. You were witness of his insulting behaviour
this very afternoon. He openly takes the side of the boys against me;
he ridicules my accent; he treats me as no gentleman can treat another,
unless one of them's no gentleman at all! And, Mr. Waymark, I won't
stand ut!"
Mr. O'Gree's accent was very strong indeed, especially in his present
mood. Waymark listened with what gravity he could command.
"You're quite right," he said in reply. "Tootle's behaviour was
especially scandalous to-day. I should certainly take some kind of
notice of it."
"Notuss, sir, notuss! I'll take that amount of notuss of it that all
the metropoluss shall hear of my wrongs. I'll assault 'um, sir; I'll
assault 'um in the face of the school,--the very next time he dares to
provoke me! I'll rise in my might, and smite his bald crown with his
own ruler! I'm not a tall man, Mr. Waymark, but I can reach his crown,
and that he shall be aware of before he knows ut. He sets me at naught
in my own class, sir; he pooh-poohs my mathematical demonstrations,
sir; he encourages my pupils in insubordination! And Mrs. Tootle!
Bedad, if I don't invent some device for revenging myself on that
supercilious woman. The very next time she presumes to address me
disrespectfully at the dinner-table, sir, I'll rise in my might,
sir,--see if I don't!--and I'll say to her, 'Mrs. Tootle, ma'am, you
seem to forget that I'm a gentleman, and have a gentleman's
susceptibilities. When I treat _you_ with disrespect, ma'am, pray tell
me of ut, and I'll inform you you speak an untruth!'"
Waymark smiled, with the result that the expression of furious wrath
immediately passed from his colleague's countenance, giving place to a
broad grin.
"Waymark, look here!" exclaimed the Irishman, snatching up a piece of
chalk, and proceeding to draw certain outlines upon a black-board.
"Here's Tootle, a veritable Goliath;--here's me, as it were David.
Observe; Tootle holds in his hand his 'little compendium,' raised in
haughty superciliousness. Observe me with the ruler!--I am on tiptoe; I
am taking aim; there is wrath in every sinew of my arrum! My arrum
descends on the very centre of Tootle's bald pate--"
"Mr. O'Gree!"
The tableau was most effective. Unnoticed by either the Irishman or
Waymark, the door had opened behind them, and there had appeared a
little red-faced woman, in slatternly dress. It was Mrs. Tootle. She
had overheard almost the whole of O'Gree's vivid comment upon his
graphic illustration, in silence, until at length she could hold her
peace no longer, and gave utterance to the teacher's name in a voice
which trembled with rage and mortification.
"Mr. O'Gree! Are you aware of my presence, sir?"
The chalk dropped from O'Gree's fingers, but otherwise his attitude
remained unaltered; struck motionless with horror, he stood pointing to
the drawing on the board, his face pale, his eyes fascinated by those
of Mrs. Tootle. The latter went on in a high note.
"Well, sir, as soon as you have had enough of your insulting
buffoonery, perhaps you will have the goodness to attend to me, and to
your duty! What do you mean by allowing the dormitories to get into
this state of uproar? There's been a pillow-fight going on for the last
half-hour, and you pay no sort of attention; the very house is shaking?"
"I protest I had not heard a sound, ma'am, or I should have--"
"Perhaps you hear nothing now, sir,--and the doctor suffering from one
of his very worst headaches, utterly unable to rest even if the house
were perfectly quiet!"
O'Gree darted to the door, past Mrs. Tootle, and was lost to sight.
There was indeed a desperate uproar in the higher regions of the house.
In a moment the noise increased considerably. O'Gree had rushed up
without a light, and was battling desperately in the darkness with a
score of pillow-fighters, roaring out threats the while at the top of
his voice. Mrs. Tootle retired from the masters' room with much
affectation of dignity, leaving the door open behind her.
Waymark slammed it to, and turned with a laugh to the poor Swiss.
"In low spirits to-night, I'm afraid, Mr. Egger?"
Egger let his chair tilt forward, rose slowly, drew a yellow
handkerchief from his mouth and wiped his eyes with it, then exclaimed,
in the most pitiful voice--
"Mr. Waymark, I have made my possible!--I can no more!"
It was his regular phrase on these occasions; Waymark had always much
ado to refrain from laughter when he heard it repeated, but he did his
best to be seriously sympathetic, and to attempt consolation in such
German as was at his command. Egger's despondency only increased, and
he wept afresh to hear accents which were intelligible to him. Mr.
O'Gree re-entered the room, and the Swiss retired to his corner.
Philip was hot with excitement and bodily exertion; he came in mopping
his forehead, and, without turning to Waymark, stood with eyes fixed on
the chalk caricatures. Very gradually he turned round. Waymark was
watching him, on his face an expression of subdued mirth. Their looks
met, and both exploded in laughter.
"Bedad, my boy," exclaimed O'Gree, "I'm devilish sorry! I wouldn't have
had it happen for a quarter's salary,--though I sadly need a new pair
of breeches. She's a supercilious cat-o-mountain, and she loses no
opportunity of insulting me, but after all she's a woman."
"By-the-by, Waymark," he added in a moment, "what a stunner the new
governess is! You're a lucky dog, to sit in the same room with her.
What's her name, I say?"
"Miss Enderby. You've seen her, have you?"
"I caught a glimpse of her as she came downstairs; it was quite enough;
she floored me. She's never been out of my thoughts for a minute since
I saw her. 'I love her, I love her, and who shall dare, to chide me for
loving that teacher fair!'"
"Well, yes," said Waymark, "she has a tolerable face; seems to me a
long way too good to be teaching those unlicked cubs. The dragon wasn't
too civil to her, though it was the first day."
"Not civil to her? If I were present, and heard that woman breathe the
slightest incivility, I'd--"
He broke off in the midst of his vehemence with a startled look towards
the door.
"Mr. Egger," he exclaimed, "a song; I beg, a song. Come, I'll lead off.
'Miss Enderby hath a beaming eye'--
Bah! I'm not in voice to-night."
Egger was persuaded to sit down to the piano. It was a mournful
instrument, reduced to discordant wheeziness by five-finger exercises,
but the touch of the Swiss could still evoke from it some kind of
harmony. He sang a Volkslied, and in a way which showed that there was
poetry in the man's nature, though his outward appearance gave so
little promise of it. His voice was very fair, and well suited to
express the tender pathos of these inimitable melodies. Waymark always
enjoyed this singing; his eyes brightened, and a fine emotion played
about his lips. And as he walked along the dark ways to his lodgings,
Egger's voice was still in his ears--
"_Der Mensch wenn er fortgeht, der kommt nimmermefr_."
"Heaven be thanked, no!" the young man said to himself.
Poverty was his familiar companion, and had been so for years. His rent
paid each week, there often remained a sum quite insufficient for the
absolute necessities of existence; for anything more, he had to look to
chance pupils in the evenings, and what little he could earn with his
pen. He wrote constantly, but as yet had only succeeded in getting two
articles printed. Then, it was a necessity of his existence to mix from
time to time in the life of the town, and a stroll into the Strand
after nightfall inevitably led to the expenditure of whatever cash his
pocket contained. He was passionately found of the theatre; the lights
about the open entrance drew him on irresistibly, and if, as so often,
he had to choose between a meal and a seat in the gallery, the meal was
sacrificed. Hunger, indeed, was his normal state; semi-starvation,
alternating with surfeits of cheap and unwholesome food, brought about
an unhealthy condition of body. Often he returned to Walcot Square from
his day-long drudgery, and threw himself upon the bed, too exhausted to
light a fire and make his tea,--for he was his own servant in all
things except the weekly cleaning-out of the room. Those were dark
hours, and they had to be struggled through in solitude.
Weary as he was he seldom went to bed before midnight, sometimes long
after, for he clung to those few hours of freedom with something like
savage obstinacy; during this small portion of each day at least, he
would possess his own soul, be free to think and read. Then came the
penalty of anguish unutterable when the morning had to be faced. These
dark, foggy February mornings crushed him with a recurring misery which
often drove him to the verge of mania. His head throbbing with the
torture of insufficient sleep, he lay in dull half-conscious misery
till there was no longer time to prepare breakfast, and he had to
hasten off to school after a mouthful of dry bread which choked him.
There had been moments when his strength failed, and he found his eyes
filling with tears of wretchedness. To face the hideous drudgery of the
day's teaching often cost him more than it had cost many men to face
the scaffold. The hours between nine and one, the hours between
half-past two and five, Waymark cursed them minute by minute, as their
awful length was measured by the crawling hands of the school-clock. He
tried sometimes, in mere self-defence, to force himself into an
interest in his work, that the time might go the quicker; but the
effort was miserably vain. His senses reeled amid the din and rattle of
classes where discipline was unknown and intelligence almost
indiscoverable. Not seldom his temper got the better even of sick
lassitude; his face at such times paled with passion, and in ungoverned
fury he raved at his tormentors. He awed them, too, but only for the
moment, and the waste of misery swallowed him up once more.
Was this to be his life?--he asked himself. Would this last for ever?
For some reason, the morning after the visit to the masters' room just
spoken of found him in rather better spirits than usual. Perhaps it was
that he had slept fairly well; a gleam of unwonted sunshine had
doubtless something to do with it. Yet there was another reason, though
he would scarcely admit it to himself. It was the day on which he gave
a drawing-lesson to Dr. Tootle's two eldest children. These
drawing-lessons were always given in a room upstairs, which was also
appropriated to the governess who came every morning to teach three
other young Tootles, two girls and a boy, the latter considered not yet
old enough to go into the school. On the previous day, Waymark had been
engaged in the room for half an hour touching up some drawings of boys
in the school, which were about to be sent home. He knew that he should
find a fresh governess busy with the children, the lady hitherto
employed having gone at a moment's notice after a violent quarrel with
Mrs. Tootle, an incident which had happened not infrequently before.
When he entered the room, he saw a young woman seated with her back to
him, penning a copy, whilst the children jumped and rioted about her in
their usual fashion. The late governess had been a mature person of
features rather serviceable than handsome; that her successor was of a
different type appeared sufficiently from the fair round head, the
gracefully bended neck, the perfect shoulders, the slight, beautiful
form. Waymark took his place and waited with some curiosity till she
moved. When she did so, and, rising, suddenly became aware of his
presence, there was a little start on both sides; Miss Enderby--so
Waymark soon heard her called by the pupils--had not been aware, owing
to the noise, of a stranger's entrance, and Waymark on his side was so
struck with the face presented to him. He had expected, at the most, a
pretty girl of the commonplace kind: he saw a countenance in which
refinement was as conspicuous as beauty. She was probably not more than
eighteen or nineteen. In speaking with the children she rarely if ever
smiled, but exhibited a gentle forbearance which had something touching
in it; it was almost as though she appealed for gentleness in return,
and feared a harsh word or look.
"That's Mr. Waymark," cried out Master Percy Tootle, when his overquick
eyes perceived that the two had seen each other. "He's our
drawing-master. Do you like the look of him?"
Miss Enderby reddened, and laid her hand on the boy's arm, trying to
direct his attention to a book. But the youngster shook off her gentle
touch, and looked at his brothers and sisters with a much too knowing
grin. Waymark had contented himself with a slight bow, and at once bent
again over his work.
Very shortly the two eldest children, both girls, came in, and with
them their mother. The latter paid no attention to Waymark, but
proceeded to cross-examine the new governess as to her methods of
teaching, her experience, and so on, in the coarse and loud manner
which characterised Mrs. Tootle.
"You'll find my children clever," said Mrs. Tootle, "at least, that has
been the opinion of all their teachers hitherto. If they don't make
progress, it certainly will not be their own fault. At the same time,
they are high-spirited, and require to be discreetly managed. This, as
I previously informed you, must be done without the help of punishment
in any shape; I disapprove of those methods altogether. Now let me hear
you give them a lesson in geography."
Waymark retired at this juncture; he felt that it would be nothing less
than cruelty to remain. The episode, however, had lightened his day
with an interest of a very unusual kind. And so it was that, on the
following morning, not only the gleam of watery sunshine, but also the
thought of an hour to be spent in the presence of that timid face,
brought him on his way to the school with an unwonted resignation.
Unfortunately his drawing lessons were only given on two mornings in
the week. Still, there would be something in future to look forward to,
a novel sensation at The Academy.
CHAPTER IX
THE COUSINS
Harriet Smales had left home in a bad temper that Sunday afternoon, and
when she came back to tea, after her walk with Julian, her state of
mind did not appear to have undergone any improvement. She took her
place at the tea-table in silence. She and Mrs. Ogle were alone this
evening; the latter's husband--he was a journeyman printer, and left
entirely in his wife's hands the management of the shop in Gray's Inn
Road--happened to be away. Mrs. Ogle was a decent, cheerful woman, of
motherly appearance. She made one or two attempts to engage Harriet in
conversation, but, failing, subsided into silence, only looking askance
at the girl from time to time. When she had finished her tea and
bread-and-butter, Harriet coughed, and, without facing her companion,
spoke in rather a cold way.
"I may be late back to-night, Mrs. Ogle. You won't lock the door?"
"I sha'n't go to bed till eleven myself," was the reply.
"But it may be after twelve when I get back."
"Where are you going to, Harriet?"
"If you must know always, Mrs. Ogle, I'm going to see my friend in
Westminster."
"Well, it ain't no business of mine, my girl," returned the woman, not
unkindly, "but I think it's only right I should have some idea where
you spend your nights. As long as you live in my house, I'm responsible
for you, in a way."
"I don't want any one to be responsible for me, Mrs. Ogle."
"Maybe not, my girl. But young people ain't always the best judges of
what's good for them, and what isn't. I don't think your cousin 'ud
approve of your being out so late. I shall sit up for you, and you
mustn't be after twelve."
It was said very decidedly. Harriet made no reply, but speedily dressed
and went out. She took an omnibus eastward, and sought a neighbourhood
which most decently dressed people would have been chary of entering
after nightfall, or indeed at any other time, unless compelled to do
so. The girl found the object of her walk in a dirty little
public-house at the corner of two foul and narrow by-ways. She entered
by a private door, and passed into a parlour, which was behind the bar.
A woman was sitting in the room, beguiling her leisure with a Sunday
paper. She was dressed with vulgar showiness, and made a lavish display
of jewellery, more or less valuable. Eight years ago she was a servant
in Mr. Smales's house, and her name was Sarah. She had married in the
meanwhile, and become Mrs. Sprowl.
She welcomed her visitor with a friendly nod, but did not rise.
"I thought it likely you'd look in, as you missed larst week. How's
things goin' in your part o' the world?"
"Very badly," returned Harriet, throwing off her hat and cloak, and
going to warm her hands and feet at the fire. "It won't last much
longer, that's the truth of it."
"Eh well, it's all in a life; we all has our little trials an'
troubles, as the sayin' is."
"How's the baby?" asked Harriet looking towards a bundle of wrappers
which lay on a sofa.
"I doubt it's too good for this world," returned the mother, grinning
in a way which made her ugly face peculiarly revolting. "Dessay it'll
join its little brother an' sister before long. Mike put it in the club
yes'day."
The burial-club, Mrs. Sprowl meant, and Harriet evidently understood
the allusion.
"Have you walked?" went on the woman, doubling up her paper, and then
throwing it aside. "Dessay you could do with somethin' to take the cold
orff yer chest.--Liz," she called out to some one behind the bar, with
which the parlour communicated by an open door; "two Irish!"
The liquor was brought. Presently some one called to Mrs. Sprowl, who
went out. Leaning on the counter, in one of the compartments, was
something which a philanthropist might perhaps have had the courage to
claim as a human being; a very tall creature, with bent shoulders, and
head seeming to grow straight out of its chest; thick, grizzled hair
hiding almost every vestige of feature, with the exception of one
dreadful red eye, its fellow being dead and sightless. He had laid on
the counter, with palms downward as if concealing something, two huge
hairy paws. Mrs. Sprowl seemed familiar with the appearance of this
monster; she addressed him rather bad-temperedly, but otherwise much as
she would have spoken to any other customer.
"No, you don't, Slimy! No, you don't! What you have in this house you
pay for in coppers, so you know. Next time I catch you tryin' to ring
the changes, I'll have you run in, and then you'll get a warm bath,
which you wouldn't partic'lar care for."
The creature spoke, in hoarse, jumbled words, not easy to catch unless
you listened closely.
"If you've any accusion to make agin me, Mrs. Sprowl, p'r'aps you'll
wait till you can prove it. I want change for arf a suvrin: ain't that
straight, now?"
"Straight or not, you won't get no change over this counter, so there
you've the straight tip. Now sling yer 'ook, Slimy, an' get it
somewhere else."
"If you've any accusion to make--"
"Hold yer noise!--What's he ordered, Liz?"
"Pot o' old six," answered the girl.
"Got sixpence, Slimy?"
"No, I ain't, Mrs. Sprowl," muttered the creature. "I've got arf a
suvrin."
"Then go an' get change for it. Now, once more, sling yer 'ook."
The man moved away, sending back a horrible glare from his one fiery
eyeball.
Mrs. Sprowl re-entered the parlour.
"I wish you'd take me on as barmaid, Sarah," Harriet said, when she had
drunk her glass of spirits.
"Take you on?" exclaimed the other, with surprise. "Why, have you
fallen out with your cousin? I thought you was goin' to be married
soon."
"I didn't say for sure that I was; I only said I might be. Any way it
won't be just yet, and I'm tired of my place in the shop."
"Don't you be a fool, Harriet," said the other, with genial frankness.
"You're well enough off. You stick where you are till you get married.
You wouldn't make nothin' at our business; 'tain't all sugar an' lemon,
an' sittin' drinkin' twos o' whisky till further orders. You want a
quiet, easy business, you do, an' you've got it. If you keep worritin'
yerself this way, you won't never make old bones, an' that's the truth.
You wait a bit, an' give yer cousin a chance to arst you,--if that's
what you're troublin' about."
"I've given him lots o' chances," said Harriet peevishly.
"Eh well, give him lots more, an' it'll all come right. We're all born,
but we're not buried.--Hev' another Irish?"
Harriet allowed herself to be persuaded to take another glass.
When the clock pointed to half-past nine, she rose and prepared to
depart. She had told Mrs. Sprowl that she would take the 'bus and go
straight home; but something seemed to have led her to alter her
purpose, for she made her way to Westminster Bridge, and crossed the
river. Then she made some inquiries of a policeman, and, in
consequence, got into a Kennington omnibus. Very shortly she was set
down close by Walcot Square. She walked about till, with some
difficulty in the darkness, she had discovered the number at which
Julian had told her his friend lived. The house found, she began to
pace up and down on the opposite pavement, always keeping her eyes
fixed on the same door. She was soon shivering in the cold night air,
and quickened her walk. It was rather more than an hour before the door
she was watching at length opened, and two friends came out together.
Harriet followed them as closely as she could, until she saw that she
herself was observed. Thereupon she walked away, and, by a circuit,
ultimately came back into the main road, where she took a 'bus going
northwards.
Harriet's cousin, when alone of an evening, sat in his bedroom, the
world shut out, his thoughts in long past times, rebuilding the ruins
of a fallen Empire.
When he was eighteen, the lad had the good luck to light upon a cheap
copy of Gibbon in a second-hand book-shop. It was the first edition;
six noble quarto volumes, clean and firm in the old bindings. Often he
had turned longing eyes upon newer copies of the great book, but the
price had always put them beyond his reach. That very night he solemnly
laid open the first volume at the first page, propping it on a couple
of meaner books, and, after glancing through the short Preface, began
to read with a mind as devoutly disposed as that of any pious believer
poring upon his Bible. "In the second century of the Christian AEra,
the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the
most civilised portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive
monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valour." With
what a grand epic roll, with what anticipations of solemn music, did
the noble history begin! Far, far into the night Julian turned over
page after page, thoughtless of sleep and the commonplace duties of the
morrow.
Since then he had mastered his Gibbon, knew him from end to end, and
joyed in him more than ever. Whenever he had a chance of obtaining any
of the writers, ancient or modern, to whom Gibbon refers, he read them
and added to his knowledge. About a year ago, he had picked up an old
Claudian, and the reading of the poet had settled him to a task which
he had before that doubtfully sought. He wanted to write either a poem
or a drama on some subject taken from the "Decline and Fall," and now,
with Claudian's help, he fixed upon Stilicho for his hero. The form, he
then decided, should be dramatic. Upon "Stilicho" he had now been
engaged for a year, and to-night he is writing the last words of the
last scene. Shortly after twelve he has finished it, and, throwing down
his pen, he paces about the room with enviable feelings.
He had not as yet mentioned to Waymark the work he was engaged upon,
though he had confessed that he wrote verses at times. He wished to
complete it, and then read it to his friend. It was now only the middle
of the week, and though he had decided previously to wait till his
visit to Walcot Square next Sunday before saying a word about
"Stilicho," he could not refrain now from hastily penning a note to
Waymark, and going out to post it at once.
When the day came, the weather would not allow the usual walk with
Harriet, and Julian could not help feeling glad that it was so. He was
too pre-occupied to talk in the usual way with the girl, and he knew
how vain it would be to try and make her understand his state of mind.
Still, he went to see her as usual, and sat for an hour in Mrs. Ogle's
parlour. At times, throughout the week, he had thought of the curious
resemblance between Harriet and the girl he had noticed on leaving
Waymark's house last Sunday, and now he asked her, in a half-jesting
way, whether it had really been she.
"How could it be?" said Harriet carelessly. "I can't be in two places
at once."
"Did you stay at home that evening?"
"No,--not all the evening."
"What friends are they you go to, when you are out at night, Harriet?"
"Oh, some relations of the Colchester people.--I suppose you've been
spending most of your time in Kennington since Sunday?"
"I haven't left home. In fact, I've been very busy. I've just finished
some work that has occupied me for nearly a year."
After all, he could not refrain from speaking of it, though he had made
up his mind not to do so.
"Work? What work?" asked Harriet, with the suspicious look which came
into her grey eyes whenever she heard something she could not
understand.
"Some writing. I've written a play."
"A play? Will it be acted?"
"Oh no, it isn't meant for acting."
"What's the good of it then?"
"It's written in verse. I shall perhaps try to get it published."
"Shall you get money for it?"
"That is scarcely likely. In all probability I shall not be able to get
it printed at all."
"Then what's the good of it?" repeated Harriet, still suspicious, and a
little contemptuous.
"It has given me pleasure, that's all."
Julian was glad when at length he could take his leave. Waymark
received him with a pleased smile, and much questioning.
"Why did you keep it such a secret? I shall try my hand at a play some
day or other, but, as you can guess, the material will scarcely be
sought in Gibbon. It will be desperately modern, and possibly not
altogether in accordance with the views of the Lord Chamberlain. What's
the time? Four o'clock. We'll have a cup of coffee and then fall to.
I'm eager to hear your 'deep-chested music,' your 'hollow oes and aes.'"
The reading took some three hours; Waymark smoked a vast number of
pipes the while, and was silent till the close. Then he got up from his
easy-chair, took a step forward, and held out his hand. His face shone
with the frankest enthusiasm. He could not express himself with
sufficient vehemence. Julian sat with the manuscript rolled up in his
hands, on his face a glow of delight.
"It's very kind of you to speak in this way," he faltered at length.
"Kind! How the deuce should I speak? But come, we will have this off to
a publisher's forthwith. Have you any ideas for the next work?"
"Yes; but so daring that they hardly bear putting into words."
"Try the effect on me."
"I have thought," said Julian, with embarrassment, "of a long poem--an
Epic. Virgil wrote of the founding of Rome; her dissolution is as grand
a subject. It would mean years of preparation, and again years in the
writing. The siege and capture of Rome by Alaric--what do you think?"
"A work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of
wine. But who knows?"
There was high talk in Walcot Square that evening. All unknown to its
other inhabitants, the poor lodging-house was converted into a temple
of the Muses, and harmonies as from Apollo's lyre throbbed in the
hearts of the two friends. The future was their inexhaustible subject,
the seed-plot of strange hopes and desires. They talked the night into
morning, hardly daunted when perforce they remembered the day's work.
CHAPTER X
THE WAY OUT
The ruling spirit of the Academy was Mrs. Tootle. Her husband's
constitutional headache, and yet more constitutional laziness, left to
her almost exclusively the congenial task of guiding the household, and
even of disciplining the school. In lesson-time she would even flit
about the classrooms, and not scruple to administer sharp rebukes to a
teacher whose pupils were disorderly, the effect of this naturally
being to make confusion worse confounded. The boys of course hated her
with the hatred of which schoolboys alone are capable, and many a
practical joke was played at her expense, not, however, with impunity.
Still more pronounced, if possible, was the animus entertained against
Mrs. Tootle's offspring, and it was upon the head of Master Felix that
the full energy of detestation concentrated itself. He was, in truth,
as offensive a young imp as the soil of a middle-class boarding-school
could well produce. If Mrs. Tootle ruled the Academy, he in turn ruled
Mrs. Tootle, and on all occasions showed himself a most exemplary
autocrat. His position, however, as in the case of certain other
autocratic rulers, had its disadvantages; he could never venture to
wander out of earshot of his father or mother, who formed his
body-guard, and the utmost prudence did not suffice to protect him from
an occasional punch on the head, or a nip in a tender part, meant
probably as earnest of more substantial kindnesses to be conferred upon
him at the very earliest opportunity.
To poor Egger fell the unpleasant duty of instructing these young
Tootles in the elements of the French language. For that purpose he
went up every morning to the class-room on the first floor, and for a
while relieved Miss Enderby of her charge. With anguish of spirit he
felt the approach of the moment which summoned him to this dread duty,
for, in addition to the lively spite of Master Felix and the other
children, he had to face the awful superintendence of Mrs. Tootle
herself; who was invariably present at these lessons. Mrs. Tootle had
somehow conceived the idea that French was a second mother-tongue to
her, and her intercourse with Mr. Egger was invariably carried on in
that language. Now this was a refinement of torture, seeing that it was
often impossible to gather a meaning from her remarks, whilst to show
any such difficulty was to incur her most furious wrath. Egger trembled
when he heard the rustle of her dress outside, the perspiration stood
on his forehead as he rose and bowed before her.
"Bon jour, Monsieur," she would come in exclaiming. "Quel un beau
matin! Vous trouverez les jeunes dames et messieurs en bons esprits ce
matin."
The spirits of Master Felix had manifested themselves already in his
skilfully standing a book upright on the teacher's chair, so that when
Egger subsided from his obeisance he sat down on a sharp edge and was
thrown into confusion.
"Monsieur Felix," cried his mother, "que faites-vous la?--Les jeunes
messieurs anglais sont plus spirituels que les jeunes messieurs
suisses, n'est ce pas, Monsieur Egger?"
"En effet, madame," muttered the teacher, nervously arranging his books.
"Monsieur Egger," exclaimed Mrs. Tootle, with a burst of good humour,
"est-ce vrai ce qu'on dit que les Suisses sont si excessivement sujets
a etre _chez-malades_?"
The awful moment had come. What on earth did _chez-malades_ mean? Was
he to answer yes or no? In his ignorance of her meaning, either reply
might prove offensive. He reddened, fidgeted on his chair, looked about
him with an anguished mute appeal for help. Mrs. Tootle repeated her
question with emphasis and a change of countenance which he knew too
well. The poor fellow had not the tact to appear to understand, and, as
he might easily have done, mystify her by some idiomatic remark. He
stammered out his apologies and excuses, with the effect of making Mrs.
Tootle furious.
Then followed a terrible hour, at the end of which poor Egger rushed
down to the Masters' Room, covered his head with his hands and wept,
regardless of the boy strumming his exercises on the piano. Waymark
shortly came in to summon him to some other class, whereupon he rose,
and, with gestures of despair, groaned out--
"Let me, let me!--I have made my possible; I can no more!"
Waymark alone feared neither Mrs. Tootle nor her hopeful son, and, in
turn, was held in some little awe by both of them. The lady had at
first tried the effect of interfering in his classes, as she did in
those of the other masters, but the result was not encouraging.
"Don't you think, Mr. Waymark," she had said one day, as she walked
through the school-room and paused to listen to our friend's
explanation of some rule in English grammar; "don't you think it would
be better to confine yourself to the terms of the doctor's little
compendium? The boys are used to it."
"In this case," replied Waymark calmly, "I think the terms of the
compendium are rather too technical for the fourth class."
"Still, it is customary in this school to use the compendium, and it
has never yet been found unsatisfactory. Whilst you are discoursing at
such length, I observe your class gets very disorderly."
Waymark looked at her, but kept silence. Mrs. Tootle stood still.
"What are you waiting for, Mr. Waymark?" she asked sharply.
"Till your presence has ceased to distract the boys' attention, Mrs.
Tootle," was the straightforward reply.
The woman was disconcerted, and, as Waymark preserved his calm silence,
she had no alternative but to withdraw, after giving him a look not
easily forgotten.
But there was another person whose sufferings under the tyranny of
mother and children were perhaps keenest of all. Waymark had frequent
opportunities of observing Miss Enderby under persecution, and learned
to recognise in her the signs of acutest misery. Many times he left the
room, rather than add to her pain by his presence; very often it was as
much as he could do to refrain from taking her part, and defending her
against Mrs. Tootle. He had never been formally introduced to Miss
Enderby, and during several weeks held no kind of communication with
her beyond a "good morning" when he entered the room and found her
there. The first quarter of a year was drawing to a close when there
occurred the first conversation between them. Waymark had been giving
some of the children their drawing-lesson, whilst the governess taught
the two youngest. The class-time being over, the youngsters all
scampered off. For a wonder, Mrs. Tootle was not present, and Waymark
seized the opportunity to exchange a word with the young lady.
"I fear your pupils give you dreadful trouble," he said, as he stood by
the window pointing a pencil.
She started at being spoken to.
"They are full of life," she replied, in the low sad voice which was
natural to her.
"Which would all seem to be directed towards shortening that of
others," said Waymark, with a smile.
"They are intelligent," the governess ventured to suggest, after a
silence. "It would be a pleasure to teach them if they--if they were a
little more orderly."
"Certainly. If their parents had only common sense--"
He stopped. A flush had risen to the girl's face, and a slight
involuntary motion of her hand seemed to warn him. The reason was that
Mrs. Tootle stood in the doorway, to which he had his back turned. Miss
Enderby said a quick "good morning" and left him.
He was taking up some papers, preparatory to leaving the room, when he
noticed that the governess had left behind her a little book in which
she was accustomed to jot down lessons for the children. He took it up
and examined it. On the first page was written "Maud Enderby, South
Bank, Regent's Park." He repeated the name to himself several times.
Then he smiled, recalling the way in which the governess had warned him
that Mrs. Tootle could overhear what he said. Somehow, this slight
gesture of the girl's had seemed to bring them closer to each other;
there was an unpremeditated touch of intimacy in the movement, which it
pleased him to think of. This was by no means the first time that he
had stood with thoughts busied about her, but the brief exchange of
words and what had followed gave something of a new complexion to his
feelings. Previously he had been interested in her; her striking
features had made him wonder what was the history which their
expression concealed; but her extreme reticence and the timid coldness
of her look had left his senses unmoved. Now he all at once experienced
the awakening of quite a new interest; there had been something in her
eyes as they met his which seemed to desire sympathy; he was struck
with the possibilities of emotion in the face which this one look had
revealed to him. Her situation seemed, when he thought of it, to affect
him more strongly than hitherto; he felt that it would be more
difficult henceforth to maintain his calmness when he saw her insulted
by Mrs. Tootle or disrespectfully used by the children.
Nor did the new feelings subside as rapidly as they had arisen. At home
that night he was unable to settle to his usual occupations, and, as a
visit to his friends in the Masters' Room would have been equally
distasteful, he rambled about the streets and so tired himself. His
duties did not take him up to the children's classroom on the following
morning, but he invented an excuse for going there, and felt rewarded
by the very faint smile and the inclination of the head with which Miss
Enderby returned his "good morning." Day after day, he schemed to
obtain an opportunity of speaking with her again, and he fancied that
she herself helped to remove any chances that might have occurred.
Throughout his lessons, his attention remained fixed upon her; he
studied her face intently, and was constantly discovering in it new
meanings. When she caught his eyes thus busy with her, she evinced, for
a moment, trouble and uneasiness; he felt sure that she arranged her
seat so as to have her back to him more frequently than she had been
accustomed to do. Her work appeared to him to be done with less
self-forgetfulness than formerly; the rioting and impertinence of the
children seemed to trouble her more; she bore Mrs. Tootle's
interference with something like fear. Once, when Master Felix had gone
beyond his wonted licence, in his mother's absence, Waymark went so far
as to call him to order. As soon as he had spoken, the girl looked up
at him in a startled way, and seemed silently to beg him to refrain.
All this only strengthened the influence she exercised upon Waymark.
Since the climax of wretchedness which had resulted in his
advertisement and the forming of Julian Casti's acquaintance, a
moderate cheerfulness had possessed him. Now he once more felt the
clouds sinking about him, was aware of many a threatening portent, the
meaning whereof he too well understood. There had been a week or two of
prevailing bad weather, a state of things which always wrought
harmfully upon him; his thoughts darkened under the dark sky, and the
daily downpour of rain sapped his energies. It was within a few days of
Easter, but the prospect of a holiday had no effect upon him. Night
after night he lay in fever and unrest. He felt as though some voice
were calling upon him to undertake a vaguely hazardous enterprise which
yet he knew not the nature of.
On one of these evenings, Mr. O'Gree announced to him that Miss Enderby
was going to give up her position at the end of the quarter. Philip had
gathered this from a conversation heard during the day between Dr.
Tootle and his wife.
"The light of my life will be gone out," exclaimed O'Gree, "when I am
no longer able to catch a glimpse of her as she goes past the
schoolroom door. And I've never even had a chance of speaking to her.
You know the tale of Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth. Suppose I were to
rush out and throw my top-coat on the muddy door-step, just as she's
going out; d'ye think she'd say thank you?"
"Probably," muttered Waymark, without knowing what he said. It was Mr.
O'Gree's habit to affect this violent devotion to each new governess in
turn, but Waymark did not seem to find the joke amusing at present.
"Bedad, I'll do it then! Or, rather, I would, if I'd two top-coats.
Hang it! There's no behaving like a gentleman on twenty-five pounds a
year."
Waymark walked about the streets the greater part of the night, and the
next morning came to school rather late. Dr. Tootle had to consult with
him about some matter as soon as he arrived.
"You seem indisposed, Mr. Waymark," the doctor remarked, when he had in
vain tried to elicit intelligible replies to his questions.
"I am a little out of sorts," the other returned carelessly. "Perhaps
we could talk about these things to-morrow."
"As you please," said Dr. Tootle, a little surprised at his assistant's
indifference.
It was a drawing-lesson morning. As he went upstairs, his ears apprised
him of the state of things he would find in Miss Enderby's room. The
approach of the Easter holidays was making the youngsters even more
than usually uproarious, and their insubordination had passed beyond
all pretence of attending to tasks. When Waymark entered, his first
glance, as always, was towards the governess. She looked harassed and
ill; was in vain endeavouring to exert some authority with her gentle
voice. Her eyes showed unmistakable gratitude as the teacher appeared,
for his approach meant that she would be relieved from the three elder
children. Waymark called sharply to his pupils to come and take their
places, but without any attention on their part. Master Felix openly
urged the rest to assume a defiant attitude, and began to improvise
melodies on a trumpet formed by rolling up a copy-book.
"Felix," said Miss Enderby, "give me your copy-book and go to the
drawing-lesson."
The boy removed the trumpet from his mouth, and, waving it once round
his head, sent it flying across the room at the speaker; it hit her on
the cheek. In the same minute, Waymark had bent across his knee a large
pointer which stood in a corner of the room, and had snapped it into
two pieces. Holding the lighter of these in one hand, with the other
hand he suddenly caught Master Felix by the coat-collar, and in a
second had him out of the room and on to the landing. Then did the
echoes of the Academy wake to such a bellowing as they had probably
never heard before. With a grip impossible even to struggle against,
Waymark held the young imp under his arm, and plied the broken pointer
with great vigour; the stripes were almost as loud as the roarings.
There was a rush from the rooms below in the direction of the
disturbance; all the boys were in a trice leaping about delightedly on
the stairs, and behind them came O'Gree, Egger, and Dr. Tootle himself.
From the room above rushed out all the young Tootles, yelling for help.
Last of all, from still higher regions of the house there swept down a
vision of disordered female attire, dishevelled hair, and glaring eyes;
it was Mrs. Tootle, disturbed at her toilet, forgetting all
considerations of personal appearance at the alarming outcry. Just as
she reached the spot, Waymark's arm dropped in weariness; he flung the
howling young monkey into one corner, the stick into another, and
deliberately pulled his coat-sleeves into position once more. He felt
vastly better for the exercise, and there was even a smile on his
heated face.
"You brutal ruffian!" shrieked Mrs. Tootle. "How dare you touch my
child? You shall answer for this in the police court, sir."
"Waymark," cried her husband, who had struggled to the scene through
the crowd of cheering boys, "what's the meaning of this? You forget
yourself, sir. Who gave you authority to use corporal chastisement?"
"The boy has long deserved a good thrashing," he said, "and I'm glad I
lost my temper sufficiently to give him a portion of his deserts. If
you wish to know the immediate cause, it simply was that he threw a
book at his governess's head and hit her."
"Mr. O'Gree," called out the doctor, "take your boys back to their
duties, sir! I am quite unable to understand this disgraceful lack of
discipline. Every boy who is not at his seat in one minute will have
five hundred verses of the Psalms to write out!--Mr. Waymark, I shall
be obliged to you if you will step into my study."
Five minutes after, Waymark was closeted with Dr. Tootle. The latter
had all at once put off his appearance of indignation.
"Really," he began, "it's a great pity you let yourself be carried away
like that. I think it very probable indeed that Felix deserved
castigation of some kind, but you would have done much better to report
him to me, you know, and let me see to it. You have put me in an
awkward position. I fear you must make an apology to Mrs. Tootle, and
then perhaps the matter can be allowed to blow over."
"I think not," replied Waymark, whose mind was evidently made up. There
was a look of recklessness on his face which one could at any time have
detected lurking beneath the hard self-control which usually marked
him. "I don't feel disposed to apologise, and I am tired of my position
here. I must give it up."
Dr. Tootle was annoyed. It would not be easy to get another teacher of
the kind at so cheap a rate.
"Come, you don't mean this," he said. "You are out of temper for the
moment. Perhaps the apology could be dispensed with; I think I may
promise that it can be. The lad will be no worse for his little
correction. Possibly we can come to some more satisfactory arrangements
for the future--"
"No," interposed Waymark; "I have quite made up my mind. I mean to give
up teaching altogether; it doesn't suit me. Of course I am willing to
come as usual the next two days."
"You are aware that this notice should have been given me at the
beginning of the quarter?" hinted the principal.
"Oh yes. Of course you will legally owe me nothing. I am prepared for
that."
"Well, I shall have to consider it. But I still think that you--"
"As far as I am concerned, the matter is decided. I go at Easter."
"Very well. I think you are blind to your own interest, but of course
you do as you please. If Mrs. Tootle should press me to take out a
summons against you for assault, of course I--"
"Good morning, Dr. Tootle."
The summons was not taken out, but Waymark's resolution suffered no
change. There was another interview between him and the principal, from
which he issued with the sum of six pounds ten in his pocket, being
half the quarter's salary. He had not applied for this, but did not
refuse it when it was offered. Seeing that the total amount of cash
previously in his possession was something less than five shillings, he
did wisely, perhaps, to compromise with his dignity, and let Dr. Tootle
come out of the situation with a certain show of generosity.
CHAPTER XI
BY THE WAYSIDE
"So there ends another chapter. How many more to the end of the story?
How many more scenes till the farce is played out? There is something
flattering to one's vanity in this careless playing with fate; it is
edifying, moreover, to set circumstances at defiance in this way, now
and then, to assert one's freedom. Freedom! What a joke the word must
be to whoever is pulling the wires and making us poor puppets dance at
his pleasure. Pity that we have to pay the piper so heavily for our
involuntary jigging!"
A passage from the letter Waymark wrote to his friend Casti, on the
evening when his school-work came to an end. That night he sought rest
early, and slept well. The sensations with which he woke next morning
were such as he had not experienced for a long time. He was at
liberty,--with six pounds ten in his pocket. He could do what he liked
and go whither he liked,--till lack of a dinner should remind him that
a man's hardest master is his own body. He dressed leisurely, and,
having dressed, treated himself to an egg for breakfast. Absolutely no
need for hurry; the thought of school-hours dismissed for ever; a
horizon quite free from the vision of hateful toil; in the real sky
overhead a gleam of real sunshine, as if to make credible this sudden
change. His mood was still complete recklessness, a revolt against the
idea of responsibility, indifference to all beyond the moment.
It was Thursday; the morrow would be Good Friday; after that the
intervention of two clear days before the commencement of a new week In
the meantime the sun was really shining, and the fresh spring air
invited to the open ways. Waymark closed the door of his room behind
him, and went downstairs, whistling to himself. But, before reaching
the bottom, he turned and went back again. It seemed warm enough to sit
in one of the parks and read. He laid his hand on a book, almost at
haphazard, to put in his pocket. Then he walked very leisurely along
Kennington Road, and on, and on, till he had crossed the river.
Wondering in which direction he should next turn, he suddenly found
himself repeating, with unaccountable transition of thought, the words
"South Bank, Regent's Park." In all likelihood, he said to himself
presently, they were suggested by some inscription on a passing
omnibus, noted unconsciously. The address was that he had read in Miss
Enderby's note-book. Why not ramble in that direction as well as
another, and amuse himself by guessing which house it was that the
governess lived in? He had not seen her since the uproar which had
terminated his connection with the young Tootles. Was it true that she
had then already decided to give up her position? If not, his outbreak
of temper had doubtless resulted unpleasantly for her, seeing that Mrs.
Tootle would almost certainly dismiss her out of mere spite. Several
times during the last two days he had thought of conveying to her a
note by some means, to express in some way or other this fear, and the
regret it caused him; the real motive, he knew well enough, would be a
hope of receiving a reply from her. But now she had perhaps left the
school, and he did not know her exact address. He made his way across
the Park in the direction of St. John's Wood, and had soon reached
South Bank.
He had walked once the length of the road, and was looking at the
nearest houses before he turned, when a lady came round the corner and
paused to avoid him, as he stood in the middle of the pavement. It was
Miss Enderby herself. Her embarrassment was apparently not as great as
his own. She smiled with friendliness; seemed indeed in a happier frame
of mind than any in which Waymark had as yet seen her. But she did not
offer her hand, and the other, having raised his hat, was almost on the
point of passing on, when he overcame his diffidence and spoke.
"I came here to try and discover where you lived, Miss Enderby."
There was something grotesque in this abruptness; his tone only saved
it from impertinence. The girl looked at him with frank surprise.
"Pray don't misunderstand me," he went on hurriedly. "I wished, if
possible, to--well, to tell you that I feared I acted thoughtlessly the
other day; without regard, I mean, to any consequences it might have
for yourself."
"Rather I ought to thank you for defending me. It made no difference in
the way you mean. It had already been decided that I should leave. I
did not suit Mrs. Tootle."
It was very pleasant to look down into her earnest face, and watch it
as she spoke in this unrestrained way. She seemed so slight and frail,
evidently thought so depreciatingly of herself, looked as though her
life had in it so little joy, that Waymark had speedily assumed a
confident attitude, and gazed at her as a man does at one whom he would
gladly guard and cherish.
"You were certainly unsuited for the work, in every way," he said, with
a smile. "Your efforts were quite wasted there. Still, I am sorry you
have left."
"I am going into a family," were her next words, spoken almost
cheerfully. "It is in the country, in Essex. There are only two
children, quite young. I think I shall succeed better with them; I hope
so."
"Then I suppose," Waymark said, moving a little and keeping his eyes
fixed on her with an uneasy look, "I shall--I must say good-bye to you,
for the last time?"
A scarcely heard "yes" fell from her lips. Her eyes were cast down.
"I am going to make a bold request," Waymark exclaimed, with a sort of
recklessness, though his voice expressed no less respect than hitherto.
"Will you tell me where you are going to?"
She told him, without looking up, and with a recurrence to the timid
manner which had marked her in the schoolroom. This gave Waymark
encouragement; his confidence grew as hers diminished.
"Will you let me write to you--occasionally? Would you let me keep up
our acquaintance in this way,--so that, if you return to London, I
might look forward to meeting you again some time?"
The girl answered timidly--
"I shall be glad to keep up our acquaintance. I shall be glad to hear
from you."
Then, at once feeling that she had gone too far, her confusion made her
pale. Waymark held out his hand, as if to take leave.
"Thank you very much," he said warmly. "I am very grateful."
She gave him a quick "good-bye," and then passed on. Waymark moved at
once in the opposite direction, turning the corner. Then he wished to
go back and notice which house she entered, but would not do so lest
she should observe him. He walked straight forwards.
How the aspect of the world had changed for him in these few minutes;
what an incredible revolution had come to pass in his own desires and
purposes! The intellectual atmosphere he breathed was of his own
creation; the society of cultured people he had never had an
opportunity of enjoying. A refined and virtuous woman had hitherto
existed for him merely in the sanctuary of his imagination; he had
known not one such. If he passed one in the street, the effect of the
momentary proximity was only to embitter his thoughts, by reminding him
of the hopeless gulf fixed between his world and that in which such
creatures had their being. In revenge, he tried to soil the purity of
his ideals; would have persuaded himself that the difference between
the two spheres was merely in externals, that he was imposed upon by
wealth, education, and superficial refinement of manners. Happily he
had never really succeeded in thus deceiving himself, and the effort
had only served to aggravate his miseries. The habit of mind, however,
had shown itself in the earlier stages of his acquaintance with Miss
Enderby. The first sight of her had moved him somewhat, but scarcely
with any foreshadowing of serious emotion. He felt that she was
different from any woman with whom he had ever stood on an equal
footing; but, at the same time, the very possibility of establishing
more or less intimate relations with her made him distrustful of his
judgment. In spite of himself, he tried to disparage her qualities. She
was pretty, he admitted, but then of such a feeble, characterless type;
doubtless her understanding corresponded with the weakness of her
outward appearance. None the less, he had continued to observe her
keenly, and had noted with pleasure every circumstance which
contradicted his wilful depreciation of her. His state of mind after
the thrashing he gave to young Tootle had been characteristic. What had
been the cause of his violence? Certainly not uncontrollable anger, for
he had in reality been perfectly cool throughout the affair; simply,
then, the pleasure of avenging Miss Enderby. And for this he had
sacrificed his place, and left himself without resources. He had acted
absurdly; certainly would not have repeated the absurdity had the scene
been to act over again. This was not the attitude of one in love, and
he knew it. Moreover, though he had thought of writing to her, it would
in reality have cost him nothing if she had forthwith passed out of his
sight and knowledge. Now how all this had been altered, by a mere
chance meeting. The doubts had left him; she was indeed the being from
a higher world that he would have liked to believe her from the first;
the mysterious note of true sympathy had been struck in that short
exchange of words and looks, and, though they had taken leave of each
other for who could say how long, mutual knowledge was just beginning,
real intercourse about to be established between them. He might write
to her, and of course she would reply.
He walked without much perception of time or distance, and found
himself at home just before nightfall. He felt disposed for a quiet
evening, to be spent in the companionship of his thoughts. But when he
had made his coffee and eaten with appetite after the day's rambling,
restlessness again possessed him. After all, it was not retirement that
he needed; these strange new imaginings would consort best with motion
and the liveliness of the streets. So he put out his lamp, and once
more set forth. The night air freshened his spirits; he sang to himself
as he went along. It was long since he had been to a theatre, and just
now he was so hopelessly poor that he could really afford a little
extravagance. So he was soon sitting before the well-known drop of a
favourite play-house, as full of light-hearted expectancy as a boy who
is enjoying a holiday. The evening was delightful, and passed all too
quickly.
The play over, he was in no mood to go straight home. He lit a cigar
and drifted with the current westward, out of the Strand and into Pall
Mall. A dispute between a cabdriver and his fare induced him to pause
for a moment under the colonnade, and, when the little cluster of
people had moved on, he still stood leaning against one of the pillars,
enjoying the mild air and the scent of his cigar. He felt his elbow
touched, and, looking round with indifference, met the kind of greeting
for which he was prepared. He shook his head and did not reply; then
the sham gaiety of the voice all at once turned to a very real misery,
and the girl began to beg instead of trying to entice him in the
ordinary way. He looked at her again, and was shocked at the ghastly
wretchedness of her daubed face. She was ill, she said, and could
scarcely walk about, but must get money somehow; if she didn't, her
landlady wouldn't let her sleep in the house again, and she had nowhere
else to go to. There could be no mistake about the genuineness of her
story, at all events as far as bodily suffering went. Waymark
contrasted her state with his own, and took out what money he had in
his pocket; it was the change out of a sovereign which he had received
at the theatre, and he gave her it all. She stared, and did not
understand.
"Are you coming with me?" she asked, feeling obliged to make a hideous
attempt at professional coaxing in return for such generosity.
"Good God, no!" Waymark exclaimed. "Go home and take care of yourself."
She thanked him warmly, and turned away at once. As his eye followed
her, he was aware that somebody else had drawn near to him from behind.
This also was a girl, but of a different kind. She was well dressed,
and of graceful, rounded form; a veil almost hid her face, but enough
could be seen to prove that she had good looks.
"That a friend of yours?" she asked abruptly, and her voice was
remarkably full, clear, and sweet.
Waymark answered with a negative, looking closely at her.
"Then why did you give her all that money?"
"How do you know what I gave her?"
"I was standing just behind here, and could see."
"Well?"
"Nothing; only I should think you are one out of a thousand. You saved
me a sovereign, too; I've watched her begging of nearly a dozen people,
and I couldn't have stood it much longer."
"You would have given her a sovereign?"
"I meant to, if she'd failed with you."
"Is she a friend of yours?"
"Never saw her before to-night."
"Then you must be one out of a thousand."
The girl laughed merrily.
"In that case," she said, "we ought to know each other, shouldn't we?"
"If we began by thinking so well of each other," returned Waymark,
smiling, "we should not improbably suffer a grievous disappointment
before long."
"Well, _you_ might. You have to take my generosity on trust, but I have
proof of yours."
"You're an original sort of girl," said Waymark, throwing away the end
of his cigar. "Do you talk to everybody in this way?"
"Pooh, of course not. I shouldn't be worth much if I couldn't suit my
conversation to the man I want to make a fool of. Would you rather have
me talk in the usual way? Shall I say--"
"I had rather not."
"Well, I knew that."
"And how?"
"Well, _you_ don't wear a veil, if I do."
"You can read faces?"
"A little, I flatter myself. Can you?"
"Give me a chance of trying."
She raised her veil, and he inspected her for some moments, then looked
away.
"Excellently well, if God did all," he observed, with a smile.
"That's out of a play," she replied quickly. "I heard it a little time
ago, but I forget the answer. I'd have given anything to be able to cap
you! Then you'd have put me down for a clever woman, and I should have
lived on the reputation henceforth and for ever. But it's all my own,
indeed; I'm not afraid of crying."
"_Do_ you ever cry? I can't easily imagine it."
"Oh yes, sometimes," she answered, sighing, and at the same time
lowering her veil again. "But you haven't read my face for me."
"It's a face I'm sorry to have seen."
"Why?" she asked, holding her hands clasped before her, the palms
turned outwards.
"I shall think of it often after tonight, and imagine it with all its
freshness gone, and marks of suffering and degradation upon it."
"Suffering, perhaps; degradation, no. Why should I be degraded?"
"You can't help yourself. The life you have chosen brings its
inevitable consequences."
"Chosen!" she repeated, with an indignant face. "How do you know I had
any choice in the matter? You have no right to speak contemptuously,
like that."
"Perhaps not. Certainly not. I should have said--the life you are
evidently leading."
"Well, I don't know that it makes so much difference. I suppose
everybody has a choice at all events between life and death, and you
mean that I ought to have killed myself rather than come to this.
That's my own business, however, and--"
A man had just passed behind them, and, catching the sound of the
girl's voice, had turned suddenly to look at her. She, at the same
moment, looked towards him, and stopped all at once in her speech.
"Are you walking up Regent Street?" she asked Waymark, in quite a
different voice. "Give me your arm, will you?"
Waymark complied, and they walked together in the direction she
suggested.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Why are you trembling?"
"Don't look round. It's that fellow behind us; I know he is following."
"Somebody you know?"
"Yes, and hate. Worse than that, I'm afraid of him. Will you keep with
me till he's gone?"
"Of course I will. What harm can he do you though?"
"None that I know of. It's a strange stupid feeling I have. I can't
bear the sight of him. Don't look round!"
"Has he been a--a friend of yours?"
"No, no; not in that way. But he follows me about. He'll drive me out
of London, I know."
They had reached Piccadilly Circus.
"Look back now," she said, "and see if he's following still."
Waymark turned his head; the man was at a little distance behind. He
stopped when he saw himself observed, and stood on the edge of the
pavement, tapping his boot with his cane. He was a tall and rather
burly fellow, well dressed, with a clean-shaven face.
"Let's make haste round the corner," the girl said, "and get into the
restaurant. You must have some supper with me."
"I should be very happy, had I a penny in my pocket."
"See how easily good deeds are forgotten," returned the other, laughing
in the old way. "Now comes my turn to give proof of generosity. Come
and have some supper all the same."
"No; that's out of the question."
"Fiddlestick! Surely you won't desert me when I ask your protection?
Come along, and pay me back another time, if you like."
They walked round the corner, then the girl started and ran at her full
speed. Waymark followed in the same way, somewhat oppressed by a sense
of ridiculousness. They reached the shelter of the restaurant, and the
girl led the way upstairs, laughing immoderately.
Supper was served to them, and honoured with due attention by both.
Waymark had leisure to observe his companion's face in clearer light.
It was beautiful, and, better still, full of character.
He presently bent forward to her, and spoke in a low voice.
"Isn't this the man who followed us just coming in now? Look, he has
gone to the table on the right."
She looked round hastily, and shuddered, for she had met the man's eyes.
"Why did you tell me?" she exclaimed impatiently. "Now I can't finish
my supper. Wait till he has given his order, and then we will go."
Waymark examined this mysterious persecutor. In truth, the countenance
was no good one, and a woman might well dislike to have such eyes
turned upon her. It was a strong face; coarse originally, and, in
addition to the faults of nature, it now bore the plainest traces of
hard living. As soon as he perceived Waymark and his companion, he
fixed them with his eyes, and scarcely looked away as long as they
remained in the room. The girl seemed shrinking under this gaze, though
she sat almost with her back to him. She ceased talking, and, as soon
as she saw that Waymark had finished, made a sign to him to pay quickly
(with a sovereign she pushed across the table) and let them be gone.
They rose, accordingly, and left. The man watched them, but remained
seated.
"Are you in a hurry to get home?" the girl asked, when they were in the
street again.
"No; time is of no consequence to me."
"Do you live far off?"
"In Kennington. And you?"
"If you like, I'll show you. Let us walk quickly. I feel rather cold."
She led the way into the Strand. At no great distance from Temple Bar
she turned off into a small court.
"This is a queer place to live in," observed Waymark, as he looked up
at the dark houses.
"Don't be afraid," was the good-humoured reply, as she opened the door
with a latch-key. They went up two flights of stairs, then entered a
room where a bright fire was burning. Waymark's conductor held a piece
of paper to the flame, and lit a lamp. It was a small, pleasantly
furnished sitting-room.
"Do you play?" Waymark asked, seeing an open piano, with music upon it.
"I only wish I could. My landlady's daughter is giving me lessons. But
I think I'm getting on. Listen to me do this exercise."
She sat down, and, with much conscientious effort, went over some
simple bars. Then she looked up at her companion and caught him smiling.
"Well," she exclaimed, in a pet, "you must begin at the beginning in
everything, mustn't you? Come and let me hear what you can do."
"Not even so much."
"Then don't laugh at a poor girl doing her best. You have such a queer
smile too; it seems both ill-natured and good-natured at the same time.
Now wait a minute till I come back."
She went into an inner room, and closed the door behind her. In five
minutes it opened again. She appeared in a dressing gown and with her
feet in slippers. Her fine hair fell heavily about her shoulders; in
her arms she held a beautiful black cat, with white throat and paws.
"This is my child. Don't you admire him? Shake hands, Grim."
"Why Grim?"
"It's short for Grimalkin. The name of a cat in a book of fairy tales I
used to be fond of reading. Don't you think he's got a beautiful face,
and a good deal more intelligent than some people we could mention? I
picked him up on our door-step, two months ago. Oh, you never saw such
a wretched little object, dripping with rain, and with such a poor
starved little face, and bones almost coming through the skin. He
looked up at me, and begged me as plain as plain could be to have pity
on him and help him; didn't you, Grimmy? And so I brought him upstairs,
and made him comfortable, and now we shall never part.--Do you like
animals?"
"Yes."
The door of the room suddenly opened, and there sprang in a
fresh-coloured young girl in hat and jacket, short, plump, pretty, and
looking about seventeen. She started back on seeing that the room was
occupied.
"What is it, Sally?" asked Grim's mistress, with a good-natured laugh.
"Why, Mrs. Walter told me you wasn't in yet; I'm awful sorry, I beg
your pardon."
She spoke with a strong south-west-country accent.
"Do you want me?"
"It's only for Grim," returned Sally, showing something which she held
wrapped up in paper. "I'd brought un home a bit o' fish, a nice bit
without bone; it'll just suit he."
"Then come and give it he," said the other, with a merry glance at
Waymark. "But he mustn't make a mess on the hearthrug."
"Oh, trust un for that," cried Sally. "He won't pull it off the paper."
Grim was accordingly provided with his supper, and Sally ran away with
a "good-night."
"Who's that?" Waymark asked. "Where on earth does she come from?"
"She's from Weymouth. They talk queerly there, don't they? She lives in
the house, and goes to business. Sally and I are great friends."
"Do you come from the country?" Waymark inquired, as she sat down in an
easy-chair and watched the cat eating.
"No, I'm a London girl. I've never been out of the town since I was a
little child."
"And how old are you now?"
"Guess."
"Not twenty."
"Eighteen a month ago. All my life before me, isn't it?"
Waymark kept silence for a moment.
"How do you like my room?" she asked suddenly, looking round.
"It's very comfortable. I always thought there were nothing but
business places all about here. I should rather like to live in the
very middle of the town, like this."
"Should you? That's just what I like. Oh, how I enjoy the noise and the
crowds! I should be ill if I had to live in one of those long, dismal
streets, where the houses are all the same shape, and costermongers go
bawling about all day long. I suppose you live in a place like that?"
"Very much the same."
In taking his handkerchief out, Waymark just happened to feel a book in
his overcoat-pocket. He drew it forth to see what it was, having
forgotten entirely that he had been carrying the volume about with him
since morning.
"What's that?" asked the girl. "Will you let me look? Is it a tale?
Lend it me; will you?"
"Do you read books?"
"Oh yes; why not? Let me keep this till you come again. Is this your
name written here--Osmond Waymark?"
"Yes. And what is your name?"
"Ida Starr."
"Ida? That's a beautiful name. I was almost afraid to ask you, for fear
it should be something common."
"And why shouldn't I have a common name?"
"Because you are by no means a common girl."
"You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. But may I keep the book
till I see you again?"
"I had better give it you, for it isn't very likely you will see me
again."
"Why not?"
"My acquaintance would be anything but profitable to you. I often
haven't enough money to live on, and--"
Ida stooped down and played for a few moments with Grim, who turned
over lazily on to his back, and stroked his mistress's hands delicately
with his soft white paws.
"But you are a gentleman," she said, rising again, and rustling over
the pages of the book she still held. "Are you in the city?"
"The Lord deliver me!"
"What then?"
"I am nothing."
"Then you must be rich."
"It by no means follows. Yesterday I was a teacher in a school. To-day
I am what is called out of work."
"A teacher. But I suppose you'll get another place."
"No. I've given it up because I couldn't endure it any longer."
"And how are you going to live?"
"I have no idea."
"Then you must have been very foolish to give away your money like that
to-night."
"I don't pretend to much wisdom. If I had had another sovereign in my
pocket, no doubt I should have given it you before this, and you
wouldn't have refused it."
"How do you know?" she asked sharply. "Why should you think me selfish?"
"Certainly I have no reason to. And by the by, I already owe you money
for the supper. I will send it you to-morrow."
"Why not bring it?"
"Better not. I have a good deal of an unpleasant quality which people
call pride, and I don't care to make myself uncomfortable
unnecessarily."
"You can't have more pride than I have. Look." She held out her hands.
"Will you be my friend, really my friend? You understand me?"
"I think I understand, but I doubt whether it is possible."
"Everything is possible. Will you shake hands with me, and, when you
come to see me again, let us meet as if I were a modest girl, and you
had got to know me in a respectable house, and not in the street a
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