The Unclassed / Gissing, George, 1857-1903

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Title: The Unclassed

Author: George Gissing

Release Date: August, 2003  [Etext #4305]
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[This file was first posted on January 3, 2002]

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Unclassed





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 bob, 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, woful 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 _elientele_; 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 clover, 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 m 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 dont 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 conformable 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 s