The Unclassed

by

George Gissing

CONTENTS

 I SCHOOL II MOTHER AND CHILD III ANTECEDENTS IV CHRISTMAS IN TWO HOMES V POSSIBILITIES VI AN ADVERTISEMENT VII BETWEEN OLD AND NEW VIII ACADEMICAL IX THE COUSINS X THE WAY OUT XI BY THE WAYSIDE XII RENT DAY XIII A MAN-TRAP XIV NEAR AND FAR XV UP THE RIVER XVI EXAMPLE WITHOUT PRECEPT XVII THE MISSING YEARS XVIII THE ENDERBYS XIX IN THE MEANTIME XX A SUGGESTION XXI DIPLOMACY XXII UNDER-CURRENTS XXIII THE OPPORTUNITY XXIV JUSTICE XXV ART AND MISERY XXVI STRAYING XXVII THE WILL TO LIVE XXVIII SLIMY'S DAY XXIX FREEDOM XXX ELM COURT XXXI NEW PROSPECTS XXXII A VISION OF SIN XXXIII A GARDEN-PARTY XXXIV A LATE REVENGE XXXV HOUSE-WARMING XXXVI NO WAY BUT THIS XXXVII FORBIDDEN XXXVIII ORDERS OF RELEASE

CHAPTER I

SCHOOL

There was strange disorder in Miss Rutherford's schoolroom, wont to bethe abode of decorum. True, it was the gathering-time after thedinner-hour, and Miss Rutherford herself was as yet out of sight; butthings seemed to be going forward of a somewhat more serious kind thana game of romps among the children. There were screams and sobbings, hysterical cries for help; some of the little girls were crowding roundan object in one corner of the room, others appeared to be getting asfar away from it as possible, hiding their pale faces in their hands, or looking at one another with terrified eyes. At length one morethoughtful than the rest sped away out of the room, and stood at thebottom of the stairs, calling out her teacher's name as loud as shecould. A moment, and Miss Rutherford came hastening down, with alarmedaspect, begging to be told what was the matter. But the summoner hadturned and fled at the first sight of the lady's garments. MissRutherford darted into the schoolroom, and at once there was quietness, save for half-choked sobs here and there, and a more ominous kind ofmoaning from the crowded corner. 

"Gracious goodness, children, what is it? Who's that lying on thefloor? 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 theplaces where it was dabbled with fresh blood, which still streamed froma gash on the right side of her forehead. Her eyes were half opened;she was just recovering consciousness; a moan came from her atintervals. 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 endearingepithets. So unconscious was she of all around, that the falling backof the other children did not cause her to raise her eyes; neither wasshe aware of Miss Rutherford's first exclamations, nor yet of thequestion which was next addressed to her by the horrifiedschoolmistress. 

"How did it happen? Some of you run at once for a doctor--Dr. Williamsin Grove Road--Oh, quick!--Ida Starr, how _did_ it happen?"

Ida did not move, but seemed to tighten her embrace. The other pupilsall looked fearfully hither and thither, but none ventured to speak. 

"Ida!" repeated Miss Rutherford, dropping on her knees by the two, andbeginning 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 andred-stained as that it had been pressed against. But it had becomeself-controlled; the dark eyes looked straight forward with anexpression marvellously full of meaning in one so young; the lips didnot 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. Therewere sums worked on the uppermost side, and the pencil-marks were halfobliterated. For a moment the schoolmistress's amazement held hermotionless, but fresh and louder moans recalled her to the immediatenecessities of the case. She pushed Ida Starr aside, and, with the helpof a servant-girl who had by this time appeared in the room, raised thesufferer into a chair, and began to apply what remedies suggestedthemselves. The surgeon, whom several of the children had hastened toseek, only lived a few yards away, and his assistant was speedilypresent. Harriet Smales had quite recovered consciousness, and was verysoon able to give her own account of the incident. After listening toher, Miss Rutherford turned to the schoolchildren, who were now seatedin the usual order on benches, and spoke to them with some degree ofcalm. 

"I am going to take Harriet home. Lucy Wood, you will please to seethat order is preserved in my absence; I shall only be away twentyminutes, 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; Ishall 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 Rutherfordwhispered to the servant an order to occupy herself in thesitting-room, so as to keep Ida Starr in sight. 

Miss Rutherford, strict disciplinarian when her nerves were notunstrung, was as good as her promise with regard to the copy-books. Shehad returned within the twenty minutes, and the first thing she did wasto walk along all the benches, making a comment here, a correctionthere, in another place giving a word of praise. Then she took herplace 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 ofrespectable people, probably of tradesmen in the neighbourhood. Thisschool was in Lisson Grove, in the north-west of London; a spot not tobe pictured from its name by those ignorant of the locality; in pointof fact a dingy street, with a mixture of shops and private houses. Onthe front door was a plate displaying Miss Rutherford's name, --nothingmore. 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 winterseason was not wanting, and the plain boarding of the floor showeditself no stranger to scrubbings. A clock hanging on the wall tickedvery loudly in the perfect stillness as the schoolmistress took herseat. 

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 tospeak. 

"I wish to know who can give me any account of the way in which HarrietSmales received her hurt. Stop! Hands only, please. And only thoseraise 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'clocktill the others have all gone. Now I will give the first class theirsums. "

The afternoon passed Very slowly to teacher and pupils alike. When theclock struck four, work was put away with more than the usual noise andhurry. Miss Rutherford seemed for a time to be on the point of makingsome new address to the school before the children departed, buteventually she decided to keep silence, and the dismissal was got overas quickly as possible. The seven witnesses remained, solemnly seatedat 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, asweet and spiritual little countenance; it was tear-stained, red-eyed;the eager look, the trembling lips spoke some intimate cause ofsympathy. Before the girl addressed had time to begin her answer, thisother, one would have said in spite of herself, intervened with analmost agonised question. 

"Oh, Miss Rutherford, is Harriet really dead?"

"Hush, hush!" said the lady, with a shocked look. "No, my dear, she isonly badly hurt. "

"And she really won't die?" pleaded the child, with an instantbrightening of look. 

"Certainly not, certainly not. Now be quiet, Maud, and let Lucy begin. "

Lucy, a sensible and matter-of-fact girl, made a straightforwardnarration, the facts of which were concurred in by her companions. Harriet Smales, it seemed, had been exercising upon Ida for some daysher utmost powers of irritation, teasing her, as Lucy put it, "beyondall bearing. " The cause of this was not unknown in the school, and MissRutherford remembered the incident from which the malice dated. Harriethad copied a sum in class from Ida's slate--she was always copying fromsomebody--and the teacher, who had somehow detected her, asked Idaplainly whether such was not the case. Ida made no reply, would notspeak, which of course was taken as confirmatory evidence, and theculprit had accordingly received an imposition. Her spleen, thusaroused, Harriet vented upon the other girl, who, she maintained, oughtto have stoutly denied the possibility of the alleged deceit, and sohave saved her. She gave poor Ida no rest, and her persecution hadculminated this afternoon; she began to "call Ida's mother names, " theresult of which was that the assailed one suddenly snatched up herslate, and, in an uncontrollable fit of passion, struck her tormentor ablow with it upon the forehead. 

"What did she call Ida's mother?" inquired Miss Rutherford, all at oncechanging her look curiously. 

"She called her a bad woman. "

"Was that all?"

"No, please, Miss Rutherford, " put in Maud eagerly. "She said she gother 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. "Runaway 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. Shewill not go home just yet. Run away, now, there's a good girl. "

Sadly, sadly was the command obeyed, and very slowly did Maud Enderbywalk along the streets homeward, ever turning back to see whetherperchance Ida might not be behind her. 

Miss Rutherford ascended to her sitting-room. The culprit was standingin 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 bloodon her face. She seemed to have made up her mind that the punishmentawaiting her must be dreadful, and she resolved to bear it humbly. Shecame up, still holding her hands behind her, and stood with downcasteyes. The hair which hung down over her shoulders was dark brown, hereye-brows strongly marked, the eyes themselves rather deep-set. Shewore a pretty plum-coloured dress, with a dainty little apron in front;her whole appearance bespeaking a certain taste and love of elegance inthe person who had the care of her. 

"You will be glad to hear, " said Miss Rutherford, "that Harriet's hurtis not as serious as we feared at first. But she will have to stay athome 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 youwere so passionate. Had you no thought what harm you might do when youstruck 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, "andnot come back till I send for you. Tell your mother just what you havedone, and say that I will write to her about you. You understand what Isay, my child?"

The punishment had come upon her. Nothing worse than this had Idaimagined; nay, nothing so bad. She drew in her breath, her fingerswreathed themselves violently together behind her back. She half raisedher face, but could not resolve to meet her teacher's eyes. On thepermission to go being repeated, she left the room in silence, descended the stairs with the slow steps of an old person, dressedherself mechanically, and went out into the street. Miss Rutherfordstood for some time in profound and troubled thought, then sighed asshe returned to her usual engagements. 

The following day was Saturday, and therefore a half-holiday. Afterdinner, Miss Rutherford prepared herself for walking, and left home. Aquarter of an hour brought her to a little out-of-the-way thoroughfarecalled Boston Street, close to the west side of Regent's Park, and hereshe entered a chemist's shop, over which stood the name Smales. Amiddle-aged man of very haggard and feeble appearance stood behind thecounter, and his manner to the lady as she addressed him was painfullysubservient. He spoke very little above a whisper, and as thoughsuffering 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 feverishlythe 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 happyIf--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 closedthe door behind him. The schoolmistress found herself in a dark littleparlour, which smelt even more of drugs than the shop itself. Thewindow looked out into a dirty back-yard, and was almost concealed withheavy red curtains. As the eyes got accustomed to the dimness, oneobserved that the floor was covered with very old oil-cloth, and thatthe articles of furniture were few, only the most indispensable, andall very shabby. Everything seemed to be dusty and musty. The onlyapproach to an ornament was a framed diploma hanging over themantelpiece, certifying that John Alfred Smales was a duly qualifiedpharmaceutical chemist. A low fire burned in the grate, and before it, in a chair which would probably have claimed the title of easy, sat thegirl Harriet Smales, her head in bandages. 

She received Miss Rutherford rather sulkily, and as she moved, groanedin a way which did not seem the genuine utterance of pain. After a fewsympathetic remarks, the teacher began to touch upon the real object ofher visit. 

"I have no intention of blaming you, Harriet; I should not speak ofthis at all, if it were not necessary. But I must ask you plainly whatreason 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 muchinward venom. 

"What do you mean by that? Who has told you anything about her?"

Only after some little questioning the fact was elicited that Harrietowed her ideas on the subject to a servant girl in the house, whosename was Sarah. 

"What does Sarah say, then?" asked Miss Rutherford. 

"She says she isn't respectable, and that she goes about with men, andshe's only a common street-woman, " answered the girl, speakingevidently with a very clear understanding of what these accusationsmeant. 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'tblame you, but I trust you will do as I wish, and never say such thingsabout any one again, whoever may tell you. It is our duty never tospeak ill of others, you know; least of all when we know that to do sowill be the cause of much pain and trouble. I hope you will very soonbe 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 regretfor 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, andshufflingly escorted the lady to his shop-door. 

Miss Rutherford went home in trouble. She did not doubt the truth ofwhat Harriet Smales had told her, for she herself had alreadyentertained uneasy suspicions, dating indeed from the one interview shehad had with Mrs. Starr, when Ida was first brought to the school, andderiving confirmation from a chance meeting in the street only a fewdays ago. It was only too plain what she must do, and the necessitygrieved her. Ida had not shown any especial brilliancy at her books, but the child's character was a remarkable one, and displayed astrength which might eventually operate either for good or for evil. With careful training, it seemed at present very probable that the goodwould predominate. But the task was not such as the schoolmistress feltable to undertake, bearing in mind the necessity of an irreproachablecharacter for her school if it were to be kept together at all. Thedisagreeable secret had begun to spread; all the children would relatethe events of yesterday in their own homes; to pass the thing over wasimpossible. She sincerely regretted the step she must take, and towhich she would not have felt herself driven by any ill-placed pruderyof her own. On Monday morning it must be stated to the girls that IdaStarr had left. 

In the meantime, it only remained to write to Mrs. Starr, and makeknown this determination. Miss Rutherford thought for a little while ofgoing to see Ida's mother, but felt that this would be both painful anduseless. It was difficult even to write, desirous as she was of somehowmitigating the harshness of this sentence of expulsion. Afterhalf-an-hour spent in efforts to pen a suitable note, she gave up theattempt to write as she would have wished, and announced the necessityshe was under in the fewest possible words. 

CHAPTER II

MOTHER AND CHILD

Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly homewards. Shewas unusually late, and her mother would be anxious. Still, when shecame within sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting. Howshould she tell of her disgrace? It was not fear that made her shrinkfrom repeating Miss Rutherford's message; nor yet shame, though shewould gladly have hidden herself away somewhere in the dark from everyeye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she knew she was goingto cause one who had always cherished her with faultlesstenderness, --tenderness which it had become her nature to repay with achild's unreflecting devotion. 

Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door was a brass-platewhich bore the inscription: "Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;" in the windowof the ground-floor was a large card announcing that "Apartments" werevacant. The only light was one which appeared in the top storey, andthere Ida knew that her mother was waiting for her, with tea ready onthe table as usual. Mrs. Starr was seldom at home during the child'sdinner-hour, and Ida had not seen her at all to-day. For it was onlyoccasionally that she shared her mother's bedroom; it was the rule forher to sleep with Mrs. Ledward, the landlady, who was a widow andwithout children. The arrangement had held ever since Ida couldremember; when she had become old enough to ask for an explanation ofthis, among other singularities in their mode of life, she was toldthat her mother slept badly, and must have the bed to herself. 

But the night had come on, and every moment of delay doubtlessincreased the anxiety she was causing. Ida went up to the door, stoodon tiptoe to reach the knocker, and gave her usual two distinct raps. Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a large woman, withpressed lips and eyes that squinted very badly; attired, however, neatly, and looking as good-natured as a woman who was at once landladyand 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. "Yourmother's poorly. "

"Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?" exclaimed Ida, forgettingher 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 chambershe went into--after knocking and receiving permission to enter, according to the rule which had been impressed upon her--was atolerably-furnished bedroom, which, with its bright fire, tastefullittle lamp, white coverlets and general air of fresh orderliness, madea comfortable appearance. The air was scented, too, with some pleasantodour of a not too pungent kind. But the table lacked one customaryfeature; no tea was laid as it was wont to be at this hour. The childgazed round in surprise. Her mother was in bed, lying back on raisedpillows, and with a restless, half-pettish look on her face. 

"Where have you been?" she asked querulously, her voice husky andfeeble, as if from a severe cold. "Why are you so late?"

Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offeredthe accustomed kiss. Her mother waved her off. 

"No, no; don't kiss me. Can't you see what a sore throat I've got? Youmight catch it. And I haven't got you any tea, " she went on, her facegrowing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't I anaughty mother? But it serves you half right for being late. Come andkiss 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'twonder 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 elsecan it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!"

She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had totell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under hermother'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'llhave to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go tosleep, 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 thinkit'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'veput your hair all out of order; let me smooth it. Don't trouble to laythe cloth; just use the tray; it's in the cupboard. "

Ida obeyed, and set about the preparations. Compare her face with thatwhich rested sideways upon the pillows, and the resemblance was asstrong as could exist between two people of such different ages: thesame rich-brown hair, the same strongly-pencilled eye-brows; thedeep-set and very dark eyes, the fine lips, the somewhat prominentjaw-bones, alike in both. The mother was twenty-eight, the daughterten, yet the face on the pillow was the more childish at present. Inthe 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 onlymade the child close hers the firmer. In the one case a pallor notmerely of present illness, but that wasting whiteness which is onlyseen on faces accustomed to borrow artificial hues; in the other, ahealthy pearl-tint, the gleamings and gradations of a perfectcomplexion. The one a child long lost on weary, woful ways, knowing, yet untaught by, the misery of desolation; the other a child stillstanding upon the misty threshold of unknown lands, looking around forguidance, yet already half feeling that the sole guide and comforterwas 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 hermuch better than any more matronly appellation), would not remainsilent, in spite of the efforts it cost her to speak, and herconversation ran on the most trivial topics. Except at occasionalmoments, she spoke to Ida as to one of her own age, with curiousneglect of the relationship between them; at times she gave herself upto the luxury of feeling like an infant dependent on another's care;and cried just for the pleasure of being petted and consoled. Ida hadmade up her mind to leave her disclosure till the next morning;impossible to grieve her mother with such shocking news when she was sopoorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a cheerfulcountenance; as often as a moment's silence left her to her ownreflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which madespeaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her crimeand its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different alike inquality 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 hermother's side. 

"Do you like me to be with you, mother?" she asked, when a timidquestion had at length elicited assurance of this joy. "Does it makeyou feel better?"

"Yes, yes. But it's my throat, and you can't make that better; I onlywish you could. But you are a comfort to me, for all that; I don't knowwhat I should do without you. Oh, I sha'n't be able to speak a wordsoon, I sha'n't!"

"Don't, don't talk, dear. I'll talk instead, and you listen. Don't youthink, mother dear, I could--could always sleep with you? I wouldn'tdisturb 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 lieso 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 herface in the pillow. Ida was terrified, and exerted every effort toconsole this strange grief. The outburst only endured a minute or two, however; then a mood of vexed impatience grew out of the anguish anddespair, 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. Tellme, what do you think about when you lay awake? Don't you think you'dgive anything to get off to sleep again? I know I do; I can't bear tothink; it makes my head ache so. "

"Oh, I like it. Sometimes I think over what I've been reading, in theanimal book, and the geography-book; and--and then I begin mywishing-thoughts. And oh, I've such lots of wishing-thoughts, youcouldn't believe!"

"And what are the wishing-thoughts about?" inquired the mother, in amatter-of-fact way. 

"I often wish I was grown up. I feel tired of being a child; I want tobe a woman. Then I should know so much more, and I should be able tounderstand all the things you tell me I can't now. I don't care forplaying at games and going to school. "

"You'll be a woman soon enough, Ida, " said Lotty, with a quiet sadnessunusual in her. "But go on; what else?"

"And then I often wish I was a boy. It must be so much nicer to be aboy. They're stronger than girls, and they know more. Don't you wish Iwas 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 oldenough to leave school--"

She interrupted herself, for the moment she had actually forgotten themisfortune which had come upon her. But her mother did not observe thefalling of her countenance, nor yet the incomplete sentence. 

"Ida, have I been a bad mother to you?" Lotty sobbed out presently. "IfI was to die, would you be sorry?"

"Mother!"

"I've done my best, indeed I've done my best for yon! How many motherslike me would have brought you up as I've done? How many, I'd like toknow? And some day you'll hate me; oh yes, you will! Some day you'llwish to forget all about me, and you'll never come to see where I'mburied, 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 lowspirits, but had never heard such sad words as these before. The poorchild could say nothing in reply; the terrible thought that she herselfwas bringing new woes to be endured almost broke her heart She clungabout her mother's neck and wept passionately. 

Lotty shortly after took a draught from a bottle which the childreached out of a drawer for her, and lay pretty still till drowsinesscame on. Ida undressed and crept to her side. They had a troublednight, and, when the daylight came again, Lotty was no better. Ida rosein anguish of spirit, torturing herself to find a way of telling whatmust be told. Yet she had another respite; her mother said that, as itwas Saturday, she might as well stay away from school and be a littlenurse. And the dull day wore through; the confession being stillpostponed. 

But by the last post at night came Miss Rutherford's letter. Ida wasstill sitting up, and Lotty had fallen into a doze, when the landladybrought the letter upstairs. The child took it in, answered an inquiryabout her mother in a whisper, and returned to the bedside. She knewthe handwriting on the envelope. The dreaded moment had come. 

She must have stood more than a quarter of an hour, motionless, gazingon her mother's face, conscious of nothing but an agonised expectationof seeing the sleeper's eyes open. They did open at length, and quicklysaw the letter. 

"It's from Miss Rutherford, mother, " said Ida, her own voice soundingvery strange to herself. 

"Oh, is it?" said Lotty, in the hoarse whisper which was all she couldcommand "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 throughouther life. 

"DEAR MRS. STARR, --I am very sorry to have to say that Ida must notreturn to school. I had better leave the explanation to herself; she istruthful, and will tell you what has compelled me to take this step. Igrieve 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 inclass; 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 itanything--about _me_. "

"I hit Harriet Smales with a slate, and covered her all over withblood, and I thought I'd killed her. "

She could not meet her mother's eyes; stood with head hung down, andher 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. Lottyshrank before her, clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes, then halfraised herself and dashed her head with fearful violence against thewall by which the bed stood. She fell back, half stunned, and lay onthe pillows, whilst the child, with outstretched hands, gazedhorror-struck. But in a moment Ida had her arms around the distraughtwoman, pressing the dazed head against her breast. Lotty began to utterincoherent self-reproaches, unintelligible to her little comforter; hervoice had become the merest whisper; she seemed to have quite exhaustedherself. Just now there came a knock at the door, and Ida was relievedto see Mrs. Ledward, whose help she begged. In a few minutes Lotty hadcome to herself again, and whispered that she wished to speak to thelandlady alone. The latter persuaded Ida to go downstairs for a while, and the child, whose tears had begun to flow, left the room, sobbing inanguish. 

"Ain't you better then?" asked the woman, with an apparent effort tospeak 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 gruelpresently, and put some rum in it. You don't take care of yourself: Itold 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 adespairing look, "and Ida's got sent away. "

"She has? Well, never mind, you can find another, I suppose. I can'tsee myself what she wants with so much schoolin', but I suppose youknow 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 sobad as I do now. "

"Pooh!" exclaimed the woman. "Wait a bit till you get rid of your sorethroat, 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 supposeI'll turn you out in the streets? Write to Fred on Monday, and he'llsend you something. "

They talked till Lotty exhausted herself again, then Ida was allowed tore-enter the room. Mrs. Ledward kept coming and going till her ownbed-time, giving what help and comfort she could in her hard, half-indifferent way. Another night passed, and in the morning Lottyseemed a little better. Her throat was not so painful, but she breathedwith difficulty, and had a cough. Ida sat holding her mother's hand. Itwas a sunny morning, and the bells of neighbouring churches began toring out clearly on the frosty air. 

"Ida, " said the sick woman, raising herself suddenly, "get me somenote-paper and an envelope out of the box; and go and borrow pen andink, there's a good child. "

The materials were procured, and, with a great effort, Lotty managed toarrange herself so as to be able to write. She covered four pages witha sad scrawl, closed the envelope, and was about to direct it, butpaused. 

"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, saythis 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 intothe Mary'bone road; you ask for a 'bus to the Angel. When you get tothe Angel, you ask your way to Number--, St. John Street Road; it isn'tfar off. Knock at the door, and ask if Mr. Abra'm Woodstock is in. Ifhe is, say you want to see him, and then give him this letter, --intohis 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 backagain on the pillow, and turned her face away. A cough shook her for afew 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 wentaway. 

She reached Islington without difficulty, and among the bustling andloitering crowd which obstructs the corner at the Angel, found some oneto direct her to the street she sought. She had to walk some distancedown St. John Street Road, in the direction of the City, beforediscovering the house she desired to find. When she reached it, itproved to be a very dingy tenement, the ground-floor apparently used asoffices; a much-worn plate on the door exhibited the name of thegentleman to whom her visit was, with his professional descriptionadded. 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 voicescould be heard from the other side of it. One of these voices veryshortly raised itself in a harsh and angry tone, and Ida could catchwhat was said. 

"Well, Mr. What's-your-name, I suppose I know my own business ratherbetter than you can teach me. It's pretty clear you've been doing yourbest for some time to set the people against me, and I'm damned if I'llhave it! You go to the place on religious pretences, and what your realobject may be I don't know; but I do know one thing, and that is, Iwon'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'tbe my fault. Now I don't want any more talk with you. This is mostfolks' praying-time; I wonder you're not at it. It's _my_ time forwriting letters, and I'd rather have your room than your company. I'm aplain-spoken man, you see, a man of business, and I don't mincematters. To come and dictate to me about the state of my houses and ofmy tenants ain't a business-like proceeding, and you'll excuse me if Idon'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 outquickly, 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 ofhis face changed from sour annoyance to annoyed surprise. 

"Eh? Well?" he exclaimed, looking closely at Ida, his eye-browscontracting. 

"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 theresult of the interview that had just closed, but also pretty clearlyan indication of his general manner to strangers. He let the child passhim, and followed her into the room with the letter in his hand. He didnot seem able to remove his eyes from her face. Ida, on her side, didnot dare to look up at him. He was a massively built, grey-headed manof something more than sixty. Everything about him expressed strengthand determination, power alike of body and mind. His features werelarge and heavy, but the forehead would have become a man of strongintellect; the eyes were full of astonishing vital force, and the chinwas a physiognomical study, so strikingly did its moulding expressenergy of character. He was clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam orwrinkle anywhere broke the hard, smooth surface of his visage, itscomplexion clear and rosy as that of a child. 

Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of thewriting 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 uncomfortableoffice, 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 faceremained unmoved, but he looked away occasionally, as if to reflect. 

"What's your name?" he asked, when he had finished, beginning, at thesame time, to tear the letter into very small pieces, which he threwinto a waste-paper basket. 

"Ida, sir, --Ida Starr. "

"Starr, eh?" He looked at her very keenly, and, still looking, andstill 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 ofearning your living. " The child looked up in fear and astonishment. "You can carry a message? You'll say to your mother that I'll undertaketo do what I can for you, on one condition, and that is that she putsyou 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 somethinglike a sneer, tapping the desk with the fingers of his right hand. "Iasked 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 tosay. Run away. "

He rose and stood with his hands behind him, watching her. Ida madewhat 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 keenintellect and cold heart so singular as that displayed in the characterof Abraham Woodstock. The man s life had been strongly consistent fromthe beginning; from boyhood a powerful will had borne him triumphantlyover every difficulty, and in each decisive instance his will had beendirected by a shrewd intelligence which knew at once the strength ofits own resources and the multiplied weaknesses of the vast majority ofmen. In the pursuit of his ends he would tolerate no obstacle which hisstrength would suffice to remove. In boyhood and early manhood theexuberance of his physical power was wont to manifest itself in brutalself-assertion. At school he was the worst kind of bully, hisferociousness tempered by no cowardice. Later on, he learned that a toodemonstrative bearing would on many occasions interfere with hissuccess in life; he toned down his love of muscular victory, and onlyallowed himself an outbreak every now and then, when he felt he couldafford the indulgence. Put early into an accountant's office, andlosing his father about the same time (the parent, who had a diseasedheart, was killed by an outburst of fury to which Abraham gave way onsome trivial occasion), he had henceforth to fight his own battle, andshowed himself very capable of winning it. In many strange ways heaccumulated a little capital, and the development of commercial geniusput him at a comparatively early age on the road to fortune. He kept tothe business of an accountant, and by degrees added several otherdistinct callings. He became a lender of money in several shapes, keeping both a loan-office and a pawnbroker's shop. In middle age hefrequented the race-course, but, for sufficient reasons, dropped thatpursuit entirely before he had turned his fiftieth year. As a youth hehad made a good thing of games of skill, but did not pursue them as ameans 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, beingthe daughter of a retired publican with whom Woodstock had had businessrelations. 

Two years after his marriage was born his first and only child, a girlwhom they called Lotty. Lotty, as she grew up, gradually developed anunfortunate combination of her parents' qualities; she had her mother'sweakness of mind, without her mother's moral sense, and from her fathershe derived an ingrained stubbornness, which had nothing in common withstrength of character. Doubly unhappy was it that she lost her motherso early; the loss deprived her of gentle guidance during her youth, and left her without resource against her father's coldness orharshness. The result was that the softer elements of her characterunavoidably degenerated and found expression in qualities not at alladmirable, whilst her obstinacy grew the ally of the weakness fromwhich she had most to fear. 

Lotty was sent to a day-school till the age of thirteen, then had tobecome her father's housekeeper. Her friends were very few, none ofthem likely to be of use to her. Left very much to her own control, shemade an acquaintance which led to secret intimacy and open disaster. Rather than face her father with such a disclosure, she left home, andthrew herself upon the mercy of the man who had assisted her to goastray. He was generous enough to support her for about a year, duringwhich time her child was born. Then his help ceased. 

The familiar choice lay before her--home again, the streets, orstarvation. Hardship she could not bear; the second alternative sheshrank 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; onlydesperation could drive her back. She came one Sunday evening, foundMr. Woodstock at home, and, without letting the servant say who wascome, went up and entered his presence, the child in her arms. Abrahamrose 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 hisauthority--so he viewed the matter--and consequently quite beyond therange of his sympathies. He listened to all she had to say, beheldunmoved her miserable tears, and, when she became silent, coollydelivered his ultimatum. For her he would procure a situation, wherebyshe could earn her living, and therewith his relations to her wouldend; the child he would put into other hands and have it cared for, butLotty would lose sight of it for ever. The girl hesitated, but thematernal 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'snothing else left for me. "

"You can go where you please, " returned Abraham. 

She tried to obtain work, of course fruitlessly. She got into debt withher landlady, and only took the fatal step when at length absolutelyturned adrift. 

That was not quite ten years gone by; she was then but eighteen. Lether have lost her child, and she would speedily have fallen into thelast stages of degradation. But the little one lived. She had called itIda, a name chosen from some tale in the penny weeklies, which were thesolace of her misery. She herself took the name of Starr, also from apage of fiction. 

Balancing the good and evil of this life in her dark little mind, Lottydetermined that one thing there was for which it was worth while tomake sacrifices, one end which she felt strong enough to keeppersistently in view. Ida should be brought up "respectably"--it washer own word; she should be kept absolutely free from the contaminationof her mother's way of living; nay, should, when the time came, go toschool, and have good chances. And at the end of all this was a far-offhope, a dim vision of possibilities, a vague trust that her daughtermight 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 oftenas 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 couldnot do without her little one, and eventually brought it back to herown home. It is not an infrequent thing to find little children livingin disorderly houses. In the profession Lotty had chosen there are, asin all professions, grades and differences. She was by no means avicious girl, she had no love of riot for its own sake; she wouldgreatly have preferred a decent mode of life, had it seemedpracticable. Hence she did not associate herself with the rank and fileof abandoned women; her resorts were not the crowded centres; her abodewas not in the quarters consecrated to her business. In all parts ofLondon there are quiet by-streets of houses given up tolodging-letting, wherein are to be found many landladies, who, goodeasy souls, trouble little about the private morals of their lodgers, so long as no positive disorder comes about and no public scandal isoccasioned. A girl who says that she is occupied in a workroom is neverpresumed to be able to afford the luxury of strict virtue, and if sucha one, on taking a room, says that "she supposes she may have friendscome to see her?" the landlady will understand quite well what ismeant, and will either accept or refuse her for a lodger as she seesgood. To such houses as these Lotty confined herself. After some threeor four years of various experiences, she hit upon the abode in MiltonStreet, 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 orderlypeople, and she herself was quite successful in arranging her affairsso as to create no disturbance. She had her regular _clientele_; shefrequented the roads about Regent's Park and Primrose Hill; and shesupported herself and her child. 

Ida Starr's bringing up was in no respect inferior to that she wouldhave received in the home of the average London artisan or smalltradesman. At five years old she had begun to go to school; Mrs. Ledward's daughter, a girl of seventeen, took her backwards andforwards 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 MissRutherford, a better teacher. When at home, she either amused herselfin Lotty's room, or, when that was engaged, made herself comfortablewith Mrs. Ledward's family, with one or other of whom she generallypassed the night. She heard no bad language, saw nothing improper, listened to no worse conversation than any of the other children atMiss Rutherford's. Even at her present age of ten it never occurred toher to inquire how her mother supported herself. The charges brought byHarriet Smales conveyed to her mind no conception of their truemeaning; 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 rewardherein, that she was loved as purely and intensely as any most virtuousparent 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 hermother'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 Idaimplicitly believed all this. Her mind contained pictures of abeautiful little house just outside London in which her mother had oncelived, and her imagination busied itself with the time when they wouldboth live in just that same way. She was going to be a teacher, so ithad been decided in confidential chats, and would one day have a schoolof her own. In such a future Lotty herself really believed. The childseemed to her extraordinarily clover, and in four more years she wouldbe as old as a girl who had assisted with the little ones in the firstschool she went to. Lotty was ambitious. Offers of Mrs. Ledward toteach Ida dressmaking, she had put aside; it was not good enough. 

Yet Ida was not in reality remarkable either for industry or quicknessin learning. At both schools she had frequently to be dealt withsomewhat severely. Ability she showed from time to time, but inapplication she was sadly lacking. Books were distasteful to her, moreeven than to most children; she learned sometimes by listening to theteacher, but seldom the lessons given her to prepare. At home therewere 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 forsuch occupation, even had she deemed it needful. And yet Ida alwaysseemed to have abundance to think about; she would sit by herself forhours, without any childlike employment, and still not seem weary. Whenasked what her thoughts ran upon, she could not give very satisfactoryanswers; she was always rather slow in expressing herself, and neverchattered, even to her mother. One queer and most unchildlike habit shehad, which, as if thinking it wrong, she only indulged when quitealone; she loved to sit before a looking-glass and gaze into her ownface. At such times her little countenance became very sad without anyunderstood reason. 

The past summer had been to her a time of happiness, for there had comecomparatively little bad weather, and sunshine was like wine to Ida. The proximity of the park was a great advantage. During the weeks ofsummer holiday, she spent whole days wandering about the large, grassytracts by herself, rejoicing in the sensation of freedom fromtask-work. If she were especially in luck, a dog would come and playabout her, deserting for a minute its lawful master or mistress, andthe child would roll upon the grass in delighted sport. Or she wouldfind out a warm, shady nook quite near to the borders of the ZoologicalGardens, and would lie there with ear eager to catch the occasionalsounds from the animals within. The roar of the lion thrilled her withan 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 broughtback marvellous memories of the ocean flashing in the sun, of the musicof breakers, of the fresh smell of the brine. 

Now there had come upon her the first great grief. She had caused hermother bitter suffering, and her own heart was filled with acommensurate pain. Had she been a little older she would already havebeen troubled by another anxiety; for the last two years her mother'shealth had been falling away; every now and then had come a fit ofillness, and at other times Lotty suffered from a depression of spiritswhich left her no energy to move about. Ida knew that her mother wasoften unhappy, but naturally could not dwell long on this as soon aseach successive occasion had passed away. Indeed, in her heart, shealmost welcomed such times, since she was then allowed to sleepupstairs, one of her greatest joys. Lotty was only too well aware ofthe physical weakness which was gaining upon her. She was mentallytroubled, moreover. Ida was growing up; there would come a time, andthat 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 neverfrom the first quite lost sight of her intention to seek for an honestmeans of support; and of late years the consciousness of her hopelessposition had grown to an ever-recurring trouble. She knew the proposedstep was in reality impossible to her, yet she persistently thought andtalked of it. To Mrs. Ledward she confided at least once a week, generally when she paid her rent, her settled intention to go and findwork of some kind in the course of the next two or three days; till atlength this had become a standing joke with the landlady, who laughedmerrily as often as the subject was mentioned. Lotty had of late lether thoughts turn to her father, whom she had never seen since theirparting. Not with any affection did she think of him, but, in herdespairing moments, it seemed to her impossible that he should stillrefuse aid if she appealed to him for it. Several times of late she hadbeen on the point of putting her conviction to the test. She had passedhis 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 adread, which she would not confess to herself, lest he should indeedprove obdurate, and so put an end to her last hope. For what wouldbecome of her and of Ida if her health absolutely failed? The poorcreature shrank from the thought in horror. The hope connected with herfather grew more and more strong. But it needed some very decidedcrisis to bring her to the point of overcoming all the apprehensionswhich lay in the way of an appeal to the stern old man This crisis hadarrived. The illness which was now upon her she felt to be more seriousthan any she had yet suffered. Suppose she were to die, and Ida to beleft alone in the world Even before she heard of the child's dismissalfrom 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 aletter of pitiful entreaty. Would he help her to some means of earninga 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 childwould be too cruel. She would do anything, would go into service, perform the hardest and coarsest toil. She told him how Ida had beenbrought up, and implored his pity for the child, who at all events wasinnocent. 

When Ida reached home from her visit to the City, she saw her motherrisen and sitting by the fire. Lotty had found the suspenseinsupportable as she lay still, and, though the pains in her chest grewworse and the feeling of lassitude was gaining upon her, she hadhalf-dressed, and even tried to move about. Just before the child'sappearance, she seemed to have sunk into something of a doze on herchair, for, as the door opened, she started and looked about her indoubt. 

"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, youknow. "

"Yes, mother, " began the child, with pale face, "and he--he said I wasto 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 fromyou!"

Lotty felt she knew what this meant. Fear and trouble wrought with herphysical weakness to drive her almost distracted. She sprang up, caughtthe child by the shoulders, and shook her as if in anger. 

"Tell me, can't you?" she cried, straining her weak voice. "What did hesay? Don't be a little fool! Can't the child speak?"

She fell back again, seized with a cough which choked her. Ida stayedher sobbing, and looked on in terror. Her mother motioned constantly toher to proceed. 

"The gentleman said, " Ida continued, with calm which was the result ofextreme self-control, "that he would take me; but that you were neverto 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 motherseemed to forget what she was saying, and sat still, staring into thefire. 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 atLotty's condition. Her attempts to arouse the sick woman toconsciousness were only partly successful. She went downstairs again, and returned with another woman, a lodger in the house. These twotalked together in low tones. The result of their colloquy was thatMrs. Ledward dressed Lotty as well as she could, whilst the other leftthe house and returned with a cab. 

"We're going to take your mother to the hospital, " said Mrs. Ledward tothe 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 tothe vacations. The day which followed her mother's removal to thehospital was Christmas Eve. For two hours on the afternoon of ChristmasDay, Ida sat in silence by the bedside in the ward, holding hermother's hand. The patient was not allowed to speak, seemed indeedunable to do so. The child might not even kiss her. The Sister and thenurse looked pityingly at Ida when they passed by, and, when thevisitors' time was at an end, and she had to rise and go, the Sisterput an orange into her hand, and spoke a few hopeful words. 

Night was setting in as she walked homewards; it was cold, and the skythreatened snow. She had only gone a few yards, when there came by alittle girl of her own age, walking with some one who looked like anurse-maid. They were passing; but all at once the child sprang toIda'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; Iwanted so to see you. Miss Rutherford told us you'd left school, andyou weren't coming back again. Aren't you really? And sha'n't I seeyou?"

"I don't know, I think not, " said Ida. In her premature trouble sheseemed so much older than her friend. 

"I told Miss Rutherford you weren't to blame, " went on Maud eagerly. "Itold her it was Harriet's own fault, and how shockingly she'd behavedto 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'realways going to be friends, aren't we? Who shall I tell all my dreamsto, if I lose you?"

Dreams, in the literal sense of the word. Seldom a week went by, butMaud had some weird vision of the night to recount to her friend, themeaning of which they would together try to puzzle out; for it was anarticle 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, thoughthe shutters were up. But at nightfall it was closed, and the familydrew around the tea-table in the parlour which smelt so of drugs. Itwas their only sitting-room, for as much of the house as could be waslet to another family. Besides Mr. Smales and his daughter Harriet, there sat at the table a lad of about thirteen, with a dark, handsomeface, which had something of a foreign cast His eyes gleamed at alltimes with the light of a frank joyousness; he laughed with theunrestraint of a perfectly happy nature. His countenance was capable, too, of a thoughtfulness beyond his years, a gravity which seemed tocome of high thoughts or rich imagination. He bore no trace ofresemblance to either the chemist or his daughter, yet was theirrelative. Mr. Smales had had a sister, who at an early age became apublic singer, and so far prospered as to gain some little distinctionin two or three opera seasons. Whilst thus engaged, she made theacquaintance of an Italian, Casti by name, fell in love with him, andsubsequently followed him to Italy. Her courage was rewarded, for thereshe became the singer's wife. They travelled for two years, duringwhich time a son was born to them. The mother's health failed; she wasunable henceforth to travel with her husband, and, after living in Romefor nearly four years, she died there. The boy was shortly brought backto England by his father, and placed in the care of Mr. Smales, on theunderstanding that a sum of money should be paid yearly for his supportand education. From that day to the present nothing more had been heardof Signor Casti, and all the care of his sister's child had fallen uponpoor Smales, who was not too well provided with means to support hisown 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'sexpense. It was by this time understood that, on leaving school, heshould come into the shop, and there qualify himself for the businessof a chemist. 

Had it not been for Julian, the back parlour would have seen but littlecheerfulness to-night. Mr. Smales himself was always depressed in mindand ailing in body. Life had proved too much for him; the burden of therecurring daylight was beyond his strength. There was plainly no lackof kindliness in his disposition, and this never failed to comestrongly into his countenance as often as he looked at Harriet. She washis only child. Her mother had died of consumption early in theirmarried life, and it was his perpetual dread lest he should discover inHarriet a disposition to the same malady. 

His fears had but too much stimulus to keep them alive. Harriet hadpassed through a sickly childhood, and was growing up with a feebleconstitution. Body and mind were alike unhealthy. Of all the people whocame in contact with her, her father alone was blind to her distortedsense of right, her baseless resentments, her malicious pleasures, herdepraved intellect. His affection she repaid with indifference. Atpresent, the only person she appeared to really like was the servantSarah, a girl of vicious character. 

Harriet had suffered more from Ida's blow than had at first appearedlikely. The wound would not heal well, and she had had several feverishnights. For her convenience, the couch had been drawn up between thefire and the table; and, reclining here, she every now and then threwout a petulant word in reply to her father's or Julian's well-meantcheerfulness. But for the boy, the gloomy silence would seldom havebeen broken. He, however, was full to-night of a favourite subject, andkept up a steady flow of bright narrative. At school he was muchengaged just now with the history of Rome, and it was his greatestdelight to tell the listeners at home the glorious stories which werehis latest acquisitions. All to-day he had been reading Plutarch. Theenthusiasm with which he spoke of these old heroes and their deeds wentbeyond mere boyish admiration of valour and delight in bloodshed; heseemed to be strongly sensible of the real features of greatness inthese men's lives, and invested his stories with a glow of poeticalcolour 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 injest, but for all that there was a genuine warmth on his cheek, andlustre in his fine eyes. 

"Some day I will go to Rome again, " he said, "and both of you shall gowith me. We shall see the Forum and the Capitol! Sha'n't you shout whenyou see the Capitol, uncle?"

Poor Smales only smiled sadly and shook his head. It was a long wayfrom Marylebone to Rome; greater still the distance between the boy'smind and that of his uncle. 

Sarah took Harriet to bed early. Julian had got hold of his Plutarchagain, and read snatches of it aloud every now and then. His uncle paidno heed, was sunk in dull reverie. When they had sat thus for more thanan 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 asnear an approach to heartiness as he was capable of. "It's Christmastime, and Christmas only comes once a year. "

He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of hishandkerchief. 

"Well, Julian, " he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, "a yearmore 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 oughtto be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'llfind to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes, might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'mafraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil, --and the patentmedicines. 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 nervouslythan ever. 

"Yes, uncle?"

"I wonder what 'ud become of her if I--if I died now? You're growingup, 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 havenothing to leave either her or you, Julian, --nothing, --nothing! She'llhave to get her living somehow. I must think of some easy business forher, 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 hisuncle, with quavering voice. "Suppose, after I'm dead and gone, Harrietshould want help. She won't make many friends, I fear, and she'll havebad 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 seeif 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 standingin gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt, Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were smalland dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; therewere no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a fewpictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. Onentering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, dampatmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were notcarpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, howeverlight, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was nosign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eyepenetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation. 

Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered thefront parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faintdaylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the mantelpiecehung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were theAgony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters. Thecentre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the solearticles of furniture. The table was spread with a white cloth; upon itwere a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and twoglasses. 

Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quitedark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the dooropened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stoodupon the table. She was tall, very slender, and with a face which apainter might have used to personify the spiritual life. Its outlineswere of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subduedby, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strengthwhich could convert suffering into triumph. Her garment was black, ofthe simplest possible design. In looking at Maud, as the child rosefrom the chair, it was scarcely affection that her eyes expressed, rather a grave compassion. Maud took a seat at the table withoutspeaking; her aunt sat down over against her. In perfect silence theypartook of the milk and the bread. Miss Bygrave then cleared the tablewith her own hands, and took the things out of the room. Maud stillkept her place. The child's manner was not at all constrained; she wasevidently behaving in her wonted way. Her eyes wandered about the roomwith rather a dreamy gaze, and, as often as they fell upon her aunt'sface, became very serious, though in no degree expressive of fear oreven awe. 

Miss Bygrave returned, and seated herself near the little girl; thenremained thoughtful for some minutes. The breath from their lips wasplainly visible on the air. Maud almost shivered now and then, butforced herself to suppress the impulse. Her aunt presently broke thesilence, speaking in a low voice, which had nothing of tenderness, butwas most impressive in its earnest calm. 

"I wish to speak to you before you go upstairs, Maud; to speak ofthings which you cannot understand fully as yet, but which you are oldenough to begin to think about. "

Maud was surprised. It was the first time that her aunt had everaddressed her in this serious way. She was used to being all butignored, though never in a manner which made her feel that she wastreated unkindly. There was nothing like confidence between them; onlyin care for her bodily wants did Miss Bygrave fill the place of themother whose affection the child had never known. Maud crossed herhands on her lap, and looked up with respectful attention upon her palesweet little face. 

"Do you wonder at all, " Miss Bygrave went on, "why we never spendChristmas like your friends do in their homes, with eating and drinkingand all sorts of merriment?"

"Yes, aunt, I do. "

It was evidently the truth, and given with the simple directness whichcharacterised 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 religiousteaching; all she knew of these matters was gathered from her regularattendance at church. She replied in a phrase which had rested in hermind, 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, doyou think, to see us showing our joy by indulging in those very sinsfrom 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 tolike such things is no sin, as long as you are still too young to haveit explained to you why you should overcome that liking. As I said, youare now old enough to begin to think of more than a child'sfoolishness, to ask yourself what is the meaning of the life which hasbeen given you, what duties you must set before yourself as you grow upto be a woman. When once these duties have become clear to you, whenyou understand what the end of life is, and how you should seek to gainit, then many things become sinful which were not so before, and manyduties must be performed which previously you were not ready for. "

Miss Bygrave spoke with effort, as if she found it difficult to expressherself in sufficiently simple phraseology. Speaking, she did not lookat the child; and, when the pause came, her eyes were still fixedabsently on the picture above the mantelpiece. 

"Keep in mind what I shall tell you, " she proceeded with growingsolemnity, "and some day you will better understand its meaning thanyou can now. The sin which Christ came to free us from was--fondnessfor the world, enjoyment of what we call pleasure, desire for happinesson earth. He Himself came to set us the example of one to whom theworld was nothing, who could put aside every joy, and make His life alife of sorrows. Even that was not enough. When the time had come, andHe had finished His teaching of the disciples whom He chose, Hewillingly underwent the most cruel of all deaths, to prove that Histeaching had been the truth, and to show us that we must face any mostdreadful suffering rather than desert what we believe to be right. "

She pointed to the crucified figure, and Maud followed the direction ofher hand with awed gaze. 

"And this, " said Miss Bygrave, "is why I think it wrong to makeChristmas a time of merriment. In the true Christian, every enjoymentwhich comes from the body is a sin. If you feel you _like_ this orthat, it is a sign that you must renounce it, give it up. If you feelfond of life, you must force yourself to hate it; for life is sin. Lifeis given to us that we may conquer ourselves. We are placed in themidst of sin that we may struggle against its temptations. There istemptation in the very breath you draw, since you feel a dread if it ischecked. You must live so as to be ready at any moment to give up yourlife with gladness, as a burden which it has been appointed you to bearfor a time. There is temptation in the love you feel for those aroundyou; it makes you cling to life; you are tempted to grieve if you losethem, whereas death is the greatest blessing in the gift of God. Andjust because it is so, we must not snatch at it before our time; itwould be a sin to kill ourselves, since that would be to escape fromthe tasks set us. Many pleasures would seem to be innocent, but eventhese it is better to renounce, since for that purpose does everypleasure exist. I speak of the pleasures of the world. One joy there iswhich we may and must pursue, the joy of sacrifice. The more the bodysuffers, the greater should be the delight of the soul; and the onlymoment of perfect happiness should be that when the world grows darkaround 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, onemorning, as Mr. Woodstock was glancing up and down the pages of aledger, a telegram was delivered to him. It was from a hospital in thenorth-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 frequentlydelirious, and the substance of her talk at such times led theattendant Sister to ask her, when reason returned, whether she did notwish any relative to be sent for. Lotty was frightened, but, as long asshe was told that there was still hope of recovery, declined to mentionany name. The stubborn independence which had supported her throughthese long years asserted itself again, as a reaction after herfruitless appeal; at moments she felt that she could die with her lipsclosed, and let what might happen to her child. But when she at lengthread upon the faces of those about her that her fate hung in thebalance, and when she saw the face of little Ida, come there she knewnot how, looking upon her from the bedside, then her purpose yielded, and in a whisper she told her father's address, and begged that hemight be apprised of her state. 

Abraham Woodstock arrived at the hospital, but to no purpose. Lotty hadlost her consciousness. He waited for some hours; there was no returnof sensibility. When it had been long dark, and he had withdrawn fromthe ward for a little, he was all at once hastily summoned back. Hestood by the bedside, his hands behind his back, his face set in a hardgaze upon the pale features on the pillow. Opposite to him stood themedical man, and a screen placed around the bed shut them off from therest of the ward. All at once Lotty's eyes opened. It seemed as thoughshe recognised her father, for a look of surprise came to hercountenance. Then there was a gasping for breath, a struggle, and theeyes saw no more, for all their staring. 

Mr. Woodstock left the hospital. At the first public-house he reachedhe entered and drank a glass of whisky. The barman had forgotten thepiece of lemon, and was rewarded with an oath considerably strongerthan the occasion seemed to warrant. Arrived at certain cross-ways, Mr. Woodstock paused. His eyes were turned downwards; he did not seemdubious of his way, so much as in hesitation as to a choice ofdirections. He took a few steps hither, then back; began to wendthither, and again turned. When he at length decided, his road broughthim to Milton Street, and up to the door on which stood the name ofMrs. 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'msorry 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 shesummoned 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. Therewere both fear and dislike in her face, fear perhaps predominating. 

"You remember coming to see me, " said Mr. Woodstock, looking down uponthe 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 ofthe last word. Perhaps the sound was more to his ear than the thoughthad been to his mind. Perhaps, also, he felt when it was too late thathe ought to have made this announcement with something more ofpreparation. Ida's eyes were fixed upon his face, and seemed expandingas 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 greattears dropped upon her cheeks, and her mouth began to quiver. She puther 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 ornamenton the mantelpiece. He heard the sobs forcibly checked, and, when therewas 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'dbetter 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 takeme away from her and never let her see me again?"

"Well, you've nothing to do with that, " said Abraham roughly. "Go andput 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 wererepeating itself, and he was once more at issue with his daughter'schildish 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. "Youhave the choice, and you're old enough to see what it means. You caneither come with me and be well cared for, or stay here and shift asbest 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, andthence out into the streets. 

It was not his intention really to go at once. Irritation had made itimpossible for him to speak longer with the child; he would walk thelength of the street and return to give her one more chance. Distractedin purpose as he had never been in his life before, he reachedMarylebone Road; rain was just beginning to fall, and he had noumbrella with him. He stood and looked back. Ida once out of his sight, that impatient tenderness which her face inspired failed before therecollection of her stubbornness. She had matched her will with his, asbad 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 inrenewing the old conflicts and upsetting the position of freedom he hadattained? Doubtless she inherited a fatal disposition. In his mindlurked the foreknowledge that he might come to be fond of this littleoutcast, but Woodstock was incapable as yet of understanding that lovemust and will be its own reward. The rain fell heavier, and at thismoment an omnibus came up. He hailed it, saying to himself that hewould think the matter over and come back on the morrow. The first partof his purpose he fulfilled; but to Milton Street he never returned. 

As soon as he had left the house, Mrs. Ledward bounced into the roomwhere Ida stood. 

"You little idjot!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by refusing aoffer like that!--Why, the gentleman's your own father. "

"My father!" repeated Ida, in scornful astonishment. "My father diedwhen I was a baby. Mother's told me so often. "

"If you believe all your mother told you, --Well, well, you have been alittle wooden-head. What made you behave like that to him?--Where doeshe live, eh?"

"I don't know. "

"You do know. Why, I heard him say you'd been to see him. And what areyou going to do, I'd like to know? You don't expect me to keep you, Is'pose. Tell me at once where the gentleman lives, and let me take youthere. The idea of your turning against your own father!"

"He's _not_ my father!" cried Ida passionately. "My father is dead; andnow 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 asingular advertisement. 

"WANTED, human companionship. A young man of four-and-twenty wishes tofind a congenial associate of about his own age. He is a student ofancient and modern literatures, a free-thinker in religion, a lover ofart in all its forms, a hater of conventionalism. Would like tocorrespond in the first instance. Address O. W. , City News Rooms, W. C. "

An advertisement which, naturally, might mean much or little, might bethe 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 butone. 

Behind the counter of a chemist's shop in Oxford Street there served, day after day, a young assistant much observed of female customers. Theyoung man was handsome, and not with that vulgar handsomeness which isfairly common among the better kind of shop-walkers andcounter-keepers. He had rather long black hair, which arranged itselfin silky ripples about a face of perfectly clear, though rather dark, complexion. When he smiled, as he frequently did, the effect was verypleasant. He spoke, too, with that musical intonation which is alwaysmore or less suggestive of musical thought. He did not seem by anymeans ideally adapted to the place he occupied here, yet filled itwithout suspicion of constraint or uneasiness: there was nothing in himto make one suppose that he had ever been accustomed to a better sphereof life. 

He lived in the house above the shop, and had done so for about twoyears; previously he had held a like position in a more modestestablishment. His bed-room, which had to serve him as sitting-roomalso during his free hours, gave indications of a taste not ordinarilyfound in chemists' assistants. On the walls were several engravings ofviews in Rome, ancient and modern; and there were two bookcases filledwith literature which had evidently known the second-hand stall, --mostof the Latin poets, a few Italian books, and some English classics. Nota trace anywhere of the habits and predilections not unfairlyassociated with the youth of the shop, not even a pipe or acigar-holder. It was while sitting alone here one evening, half musing, half engaged in glancing over the advertisements in a paper two daysold, that the assistant had been attracted by the insertion justquoted. He read and re-read it, became more thoughtful, sighedslightly. Then he moved to the table and took some note-paper out of awriting-case. Still he seemed to be in doubt, hesitated in pressing apen against his thumb-nail, was on the point of putting the note-paperaway again. Ultimately, however, he sat down to write. He covered fourpages with a letter, which he then proceeded deliberately to correctand alter, till he had cut it down by about half. Then came anotherperiod of doubt before he decided to make a fair copy. But it wasfinally 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 ownepistle. The writer was clearly keeping himself in a tentativeattitude. Still, he wrote something about his own position and hisneeds. He was a teacher in a school in South London, living inlodgings, 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 likelyto be acquainted: say, Keats's poems? In conclusion, the "O. W. " of theadvertisement signed himself Osmond Waymark. 

The result was that, a week after, Casti received an invitation to callon Waymark, at the latter's lodgings in Walcot Square, Kennington. Hearrived on a Saturday evening, just after eight o'clock. The house hesought proved to be one of very modest appearance; small, apparentlynot too clean, generally uninviting. But a decent-looking woman openedthe door, and said that Mr. Waymark would be found in response to aknock 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 toenter. 

From a seat by a table which was placed as near as possible to a verylarge fire rose a young man whose age might have been eithertwenty-three or twenty-six. Most people would have inclined to give himthe latter figure. He was rather above the average stature, and showedwell-hung limbs, with a habit of holding himself which suggestedconsiderable toughness of sinews; he moved gracefully, and with headwell held up. His attire spoke sedentary habits; would have beendecidedly shabby, but for its evident adaptation to easy-chair andfireside. The pure linen and general tone of cleanliness werereassuring; the hand, too, which he extended, was soft, delicate, andfinely formed. The head was striking, strongly individual, set solidlyon a rather long and shapely neck; a fine forehead, irregular nose, rather prominent jaw-bones, lips just a little sensual, but speakinggood-humour and intellectual character. A heavy moustache; no beard. Eyes dark, keen, very capable of tenderness, but perhaps more oftenshrewdly discerning or cynically speculative. One felt that the presentexpression of genial friendliness was unfamiliar to the face, though itby no means failed in pleasantness. The lips had the look of beingfrequently gnawed in intense thought or strong feeling. In the cheeksno healthy colour, but an extreme sallowness on all the features. Smiling, he showed imperfect teeth. Altogether, a young man upon whomone felt it difficult to pronounce in the earlier stages ofacquaintance; whose intimacy but few men would exert themselves toseek; who in all likelihood was chary of exhibiting his true self savewhen secure of being understood. 

Julian Casti was timid with strangers; his eyes fell before the other'slook, and he shook hands without speaking. The contrast in mereappearance between the two was very pronounced; both seemed in somedegree to be aware of it. Waymark seemed more rugged than in ordinarycompanionship; the slightly effeminate beauty of Casti, and hisdiffident, shyly graceful manners, were more noticeable than usual. Waymark inspected his visitor closely and directly; the latter onlyventured upon one or two quick side glances. Yet the results were, onthe whole, mutually satisfactory. 

Julian's eyes glistened at the sight of two goodly bookcases, reachingfrom floor to ceiling. There were, too, pictures of other than thelodging-house type; engraved heads of the great in art and science, anda few reproductions in pencil or chalk of known subjects, perchancetheir possessor's own work. On the table lay traces of literaryoccupation, sheets of manuscript, open books, and the like. On anothertable stood a tray, with cups and saucers. A kettle was boiling on thefire. 

Waymark helped the conversation by offering a cup of coffee, which hehimself made. 

"You smoke, I hope?" he asked, reaching some cigars from themantelpiece. 

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 lowcane-bottom chair, which had stood folded-up against the wall. Talkbegan to range over very various topics, Waymark leading the way, hisvisitor only gradually venturing to take the initiative. Theatres werementioned, but Julian knew little of them; recent books, but with thesehe had small acquaintance; politics, but in these he had clearly nointerest. 

"That's a point of contact, at all events, " exclaimed Waymark. "Idetest the very name of Parliament, and could as soon read Todhunter onConic Sections as the reports of a debate. Perhaps you're amathematician?" This with a smile. 

"By no means, " was the reply. "In fact, " Casti went on, "I'm afraid youbegin to think my interests are very narrow indeed. My opportunitieshave been small. I left a very ordinary school at fourteen, and whatknowledge I have since got has come from my own efforts. I am sure theprofit from our intercourse would be entirely on my side. I have thewish to go in for many things, however, --"

"Oh, " broke in the other, "don't suppose that I am a scholar in anysense of the word, or a man of more than average culture. My ownregular education came to an end pretty much at the same age, and onlya certain stubbornness has forced me into an intellectual life, if youcan 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 themiddle-class commercial 'academy;' the headmaster a nincompoop andcharlatan, my fellow-assistants poor creatures, who must live, Isuppose, --though one doesn't well understand why. I had always a likingfor Greek and Latin and can make shift to read both in a waysatisfactory to myself, though I dare say it wouldn't go for much withcollege examiners. Then, as for my scribbling, well, it has scarcelyyet passed the amateur stage. It will some day; simply because I'vemade up my mind that it shall; but as yet I haven't got beyond a coupleof weak articles in weak magazines, and I don't exactly feel sure of myway. I rather think we shall approach most nearly in our taste forpoetry. I liked much what you had to say about Keats. It decided methat 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 ownactually 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, andhave always done so. Fortunately I am of a very cheerful disposition, or I might have suffered much. The young fellows I see every dayhaven't much intellect, it must be confessed. I used to try to get themunder the influence of my own enthusiasms, but they didn't seem tounderstand me. They care only for things which either repel me, or areutterly without interest. "

"Ha! you understand what that means!" Waymark had risen from his lowchair, 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 hiscountenance. "You know what it is to have to do exclusively with foolsand brutes, to rave under the vile restraints of Philistinesurroundings? Then you can form some notion of the state I was in whenI 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 fromthe school only to pace up and down the room in an indescribablecondition. I get often like that, but this time things seemed reachinga head. Why, I positively cried with misery, absurd as it may sound. Myblood seemed too hot, seemed to be swelling out the veins beyondendurance. As a rule I get over these moods by furious walking aboutthe streets half through the night, but I couldn't even do that. I hadno money to go in for dissipation: that often helps me. Every book wasloathsome to me. My landlady must have overheard something, for shecame in and began a conversation about God knows what; I fear Imortally offended her; I could have pitched the poor old woman out ofthe 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. "Therecame an editor's note, accepting a thing that had been going frommagazine to magazine for three months. This snatched me up into furiousspirits. 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. Goodluck never comes singly. "

Julian had watched the strange workings of Waymark's face with closeinterest. When the latter suddenly turned his eyes, as if to see theeffect 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 ofan animal, for all my spiritual longings?"

"Certainly not, I can well understand you, I believe. "

The conversation passed to quieter things. Julian seemed afraid ofsaying too much about his own experiences, but found opportunities ofshowing his acquaintance with English poetry, which was quite asextensive as that of his new friend, excepting in the case of a fewwriters of the day, whom he had not been able to procure. He had taughthimself Italian, too, and had read considerably in that language. Heexplained that his father was an Italian, but had died when he himselfwas 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 andmelancholy; his fine eyes gleamed as was their wont eight years ago, inthe back-parlour in Boston Street, when he was telling tales fromPlutarch. 

"Not, " he said, in a low voice charged with feeling, "since I was threeyears old. --You will think it strange, but I don't so much long for themodern Italy, for the beautiful scenery and climate, not even for theItaly of Raphael, or of Dante. I think most of classical Italy. I am noscholar, 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; Iwant to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus, the Aufidus, the Alban Hills, Lake Trasimenus, --a thousand places! It is strange how those old timeshave taken hold upon me. The mere names in Roman history make my bloodwarm. --And there is so little chance that I shall ever be able to gothere; so little chance. "

Waymark had watched the glowing face with some surprise. 

"Why, this is famous!" he exclaimed. "We shall suit each othersplendidly. Who knows? We may see Italy together, and look back uponthese times of miserable struggle. By the by, have you ever writtenverses?"

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? AndI will read you some of my own. But mine are in the savage vein, a mererailing against the universe, altogether too furious to be anythinglike poetry; I know that well enough. I have long since made up my mindto stick to prose; it is the true medium for a polemical egotist. Iwant to find some new form of satire; I feel capabilities that waywhich shall by no means rust unused. It has pleased Heaven to give me asplenetic disposition, and some day or other I shall find the tongue. "

It was midnight before Julian rose to leave, and he was surprised whenhe discovered how time had flown. Waymark insisted on his guest'shaving some supper before setting out on his walk home; he brought outof a cupboard a tin of Australian mutton, which, with bread andpickles, afforded a very tolerable meal after four hours' talk. Theythen left the house together, and Waymark accompanied his friend as faras Westminster Bridge. 

"It's too bad to have brought you so far at this hour, " said Julian, asthey parted. 

"Oh, it is my hour for walking, " was the reply. "London streets atnight 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 himthat he lived no longer; his business had continued to dwindle, and thelast months of the poor man's life were embittered by the prospect ofinevitable bankruptcy. He died of an overdose of some opiate, which theanguish of sleeplessness brought him into the habit of taking. Suicideit might have been, yet that was scarcely probable; he was too anxiouson his daughter's account to abandon her in this way, for certainly hisdeath could be nothing to her profit. Julian was then already eighteen, and quickly succeeded in getting a situation. Harriet Smales leftLondon, and went to live with her sole relative, except Julian, an auntwho kept a stationer's shop in Colchester. She was taught the business, and assisted her aunt for more than two years, when, growing tired ofthe life of a country town, she returned to London, and succeeded ingetting a place at a stationer's in Gray's Inn Road. This was sixmonths ago. Having thus established herself, she wrote to Julian, andtold him where she was. 

Julian never forgot the promise he had made to his uncle that Christmasnight, eight years ago, when he was a lad of thirteen. Harriet he hadalways regarded as his sister, and never yet had he failed in brotherlyduty to her. When the girl left Colchester, she was on rather bad termswith her aunt, and the latter wrote to Julian, saying that she knewnothing of Harriet's object in going to London, but that it wascertainly advisable that some friend should be at hand, if possible, togive her advice; though advice (she went on to say) was seldomacceptable to Harriet. This letter alarmed Julian, as it was the firsthe had heard of his cousin's new step; the letter from herself at theend of a week's time greatly relieved him, and he went off as soon aspossible to see her. He found her living in the house where she wasengaged, apparently with decent people, and moderately contented; morethan this could never be said of the girl. Since then, he had seen herat least once every week. Sometimes he visited her at the shop; whenthe weather was fine, they spent the Sunday afternoon in walkingtogether. Harriet's health seemed to have improved since her return totown. Previously, as in her childhood, she had always been more or lessailing. From both father and mother she had inherited an unhealthybody; there was a scrofulous tendency in her constitution, and theslightest casual ill-health, a cold or any trifling accident, alwaysthreatened her with serious results. She was of mind corresponding toher body; restless, self-willed, discontented, sour-tempered, querulous. She certainly used no special pains to hide these faultsfrom Julian, perhaps was not herself sufficiently conscious of them, but the young man did not seem to be repelled by her imperfections; heinvariably 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 seconda few days after, when it was agreed that they should spend each Sundayevening together in Kennington; Julian had no room in which he couldwell receive visitors. The next Sunday proved fine; Julian planned totake Harriet for a walk in the afternoon, then, after accompanying herhome, to proceed to Walcot Square. As was usual on these occasions, hewas to meet his cousin at the Holborn end of Gray's Inn Road, and, asalso was the rule, Harriet came some twenty minutes late. Julian wasscrupulously punctual, and waiting irritated him not a little, but henever allowed himself to show his annoyance. There was always the samekind smile on his handsome face, and the pressure of his hand was warm. 

Harriet Smales was about a year younger than her cousin. Her dressshowed moderately good taste, with the usual fault of a desire toimitate an elegance which she could not in reality afford. She wore ablack jacket, fur-trimmed, over a light grey dress; her black straw hathad a few flowers in front. Her figure was good and her movementsgraceful; she was nearly as tall as Julian. Her face, however, couldnot be called attractive; it was hollow and of a sickly hue, even thelips scarcely red. Grey eyes, beneath which were dark circles, lookedabout with a quick, suspicious glance; the eye-brows made almost astraight line. The nose was of a coarse type, the lips heavy andindicative of ill-temper. The disagreeable effect of these lineamentswas heightened by a long scar over her right temple; she evidently didher best to conceal it by letting her hair come forward very much oneach side, an arrangement in itself unsuited to her countenance. 

"I think I'm going to leave my place, " was her first remark to-day, asthey turned to walk westward. She spoke in a dogged way with whichJulian 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 hashappened?"

"Oh, I don't know; it's always the same; people treat you as if you wasso much dirt. I haven't been accustomed to it, and I don't see why Ishould 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 justthe same, day after day, whether you're feeling well or not. "

This indirect and querulous mode of making known her grievances wascharacteristic 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'tlikely 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 ofhorses. "

Julian was silent for a little. 

"Why didn't you write to me in the week?" she asked presently. "I'msure it would be a relief to hear from somebody sometimes. It's like ayear from one Sunday to another. "

"Did I promise to write? I really didn't remember having done so; I'mvery sorry. I might have told you about a new friend I've got. "

Harriet looked sharply into his face. Julian had made no mention ofWaymark on the preceding Sunday; it had been a rainy day, and they hadonly spent a few minutes together in the parlour which Mrs. Ogle, thekeeper 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 hisacquaintance by chance. "

Julian avoided reference to the real circumstances. He knew well thedifficulty 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 leftyou. "

"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'regoing to read together, and so on. I wish you could find some pleasantcompanion 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'svery few people I do suit, or else people don't suit me, one or theother. 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 withpenetrating observation upon his face. He mentioned the number, and sheevidently 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 thefirst friend I've ever had. I've often felt the need of some suchcompanionship. "

"I'm nobody?" she said, with a laugh, the first today. 

Julian's face registered very perfectly the many subtle phases ofthought and emotion which succeeded each other in his mind. This lastremark distressed him for a moment; he could not bear to hurt another'sfeelings. 

"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 glancedsideways at him in a particularly unpleasant manner. She herself meantit to be pleasant. 

"Oh yes, you are, Harriet, " he insisted good-humouredly. "We've beenbrother 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 Ishall see less of you. You'll be making excuses to get out of the rideswhen the summer comes again. "

"Pray don't say or think anything of the kind, Harriet, " urged Julianwith feeling. "I should not think of letting anything put a stop to ourpicnics. 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 myfriend 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 arejoking. "

"I'm sure I'm not. I should make mistakes in talking, and all sorts ofthings. You don't think much of me, as it is, and that would make youlike me worse still. "

She tossed her head nervously, and swung her arms with the awkwardrestlessness which always denoted some strong feeling in her. 

"Come, Harriet, this is too bad, " Julian exclaimed, smiling. "Why, Ishall have to quarrel with you, to prove that we're good friends. "

"I wish you _would_ quarrel with me sometimes, " said the girl, laughingin a forced way. "You take all my bad-temper always just in the samequiet way. I'd far rather you fell out with me. It's treating me toolike a child, as if it didn't matter how I went on, and I wasn'tanything to you. "

Of late, Harriet had been getting much into the habit of this ambiguouskind of remark when in her cousin's company. Julian noticed it, and itmade him a trifle uneasy. He attributed it, however, to the girl'sstrangely irritable disposition, and never failed to meet suchoutbreaks with increased warmth and kindness of tone. To-day, Harriet'svagaries seemed to affect him somewhat unusually. He became silent attimes, and then tried to laugh away the unpleasantness, but thelaughter was not exactly spontaneous. At length he brought back theconversation to the point from which it had started, and asked if shehad any serious intention of leaving Mrs. Ogle. 

"I'm tired of being ordered about by people!" Harriet exclaimed. "Iknow I sha'n't put up with it much longer. I only wish I'd a few poundsto start a shop for myself. "

"I heartily wish I had the money to give you, " was Julian's reply. 

"Don't you save anything at all?" asked his cousin, with affectedindifference. 

"A little; very little. At all events, I think we shall be able to haveour week at the seaside when the time comes. Have you thought whereyou'd like to go to?"

"No; I haven't thought anything about it. What time shall you get backhome to-night?"

"Rather late, I dare say. We sit talking and forget the time. It may beafter twelve o'clock. "

Harriet became silent again. They reached Hyde Park, and joined thecrowds of people going in all directions about the walks. Harriet hadalways a number of ill-natured comments to make on the dress andgeneral appearance of people they passed. Julian smiled, but with nogenuine pleasure. As always, he did his best to lead the girl'sthoughts away from their incessant object, hers, elf. 

They were back again at the end of Gray's Inn Road by half-past four. 

"Well, I won't keep you, " said Harriet, with the sour smile. "I knowyou're in a hurry to be off. Are you going to walk?"

"Yes; I can do it in about an hour. "

The girl turned away without further leave-taking, and Julian walkedsouthwards with a troubled face. 

Waymark expected him to tea. At this, their third meeting, the two werealready on very easy terms. Waymark did the greater share of thetalking, for Julian was naturally of fewer words; from the beginning itwas clear that the elder of the friends would have the initiative inmost things. Waymark unconsciously displayed something of that egoismwhich is inseparable from force of character, and to the other this wasfar from disagreeable; Julian liked the novel sensation of having astrong nature to rely upon. Already he was being led by his naturaltendency to hero-worship into a fervid admiration for his friend. 

"What have you' been doing with yourself this fine day?" Waymark asked, as they sat down to table. 

"I always spend Sunday afternoon with a cousin of mine, " repliedJulian, with the unhesitating frankness which was natural to him. 

"Male or female?"

"Female. " There was a touch of colour on his face as he met the other'seye, and he continued rather quickly. "We lived together always aschildren, and were only separated at my uncle's death, three years ago. She is engaged at a stationer's shop. "

"What is a fellow to do to get money?" Waymark exclaimed, when his pipewas well alight. "I'm growing sick of this hand-to-mouth existence. Nowif one had a bare competency, what glorious possibilities would openout. The vulgar saying has it that 'time is money;' like most vulgarsayings putting the thing just the wrong way about. 'Money is time, ' Iprefer to say; it means leisure, and all that follows. Why don't youwrite a poem on Money, Casti? I almost feel capable of it myself. Whatcan claim precedence, in all this world, over hard cash? It is thefruitful soil wherein is nourished the root of the tree of life; it isthe vivifying principle of human activity. Upon it luxuriate art, letters, science; rob them of its sustenance, and they droop likewithering leaves. Money means virtue; the lack of it is vice. The devilloves no lurking-place like an empty purse. Give me a thousand poundsto-morrow, and I become the most virtuous man in England. I satisfy allmy instincts freely, openly, with no petty makeshifts and vilehypocrisies. To scorn and revile wealth is the mere resource ofsplenetic poverty. What cannot be purchased with coin of the realm?First and foremost, freedom. The moneyed man is the sole king; theherds of the penniless are but as slaves before his footstool. Hebreathes with a sense of proprietorship in the whole globe-envelopingatmosphere; for is it not in his power to inhale it wheresoever hepleases? He puts his hand in his pocket, and bids with security forevery joy of body and mind; even death he faces with the comfortingconsciousness that his defeat will only coincide with that of humanscience. He buys culture, he buys peace of mind, he buys love. --Youthink not! I don't use the word cynically, but in very virtuousearnest. Make me a millionaire, and I will purchase the passionatedevotion of any free-hearted woman the world contains!"

Waymark's pipe had gone out; he re-lit it, with the half-mocking smilewhich always followed upon any more vehement utterance. 

"That I am poor, " he went on presently, "is the result of my ownpigheadedness. My father was a stock-broker, in anything butflourishing circumstances. He went in for some cursed foreign loan orother, --I know nothing of such things, --and ruined himself completely. He had to take a subordinate position, and died in it. I was aboutseventeen then, and found myself alone in the world. A friend of myfather's, also a city man, Woodstock by name, was left my guardian. Hewanted me to begin a business career, and, like a fool, I wouldn't hearof it. Mr. Woodstock and I quarrelled; he showed himself worthy of hisname, and told me plainly that, if I didn't choose to take his advice, I must shift for myself. That I professed myself perfectly ready to do;I was bent on an intellectual life, forsooth; couldn't see that thenatural order of things was to make money first and be intellectualafterwards. So, lad as I was, I got a place as a teacher, and that'sbeen my business ever since. "

Waymark threw himself back and laughed carelessly. He strummed a littlewith his fingers on the arm of the chair, and resumed:

"I interested myself in religion and philosophy; I became an aggressivedisciple of free-thought, as it is called. Radicalism of every kindbroke out in me, like an ailment. I bought cheap free-thoughtliterature; to one or two papers of the kind I even contributed. I keepthese effusions carefully locked up, for salutary self-humiliation atsome future day, when I shall have grown conceited. Nay, I wentfurther. I delivered lectures at working-men's clubs, lectures withviolent titles. One, I remember, was called 'The Gospel ofRationalism. ' And I was enthusiastic in the cause, with an enthusiasmsuch as I shall never experience again. Can I imagine myself writingand speaking such things now-a-days? Scarcely: yet the spirit remains, it is only the manifestations which have changed. I am by naturecombative; I feel the need of attacking the cherished prejudices ofsociety; I have a joy in outraging what are called the proprieties. AndI wait for my opportunity, which has yet to come. "

"How commonplace my life has been, in comparison, " said Julian, afteran interval of thoughtfulness. 

"Your nature, I believe, is very pure, and therefore very happy. _I_ amwhat Browning somewhere calls a 'beast with a speckled hide, ' andhappiness, I take it, I shall never know. "

Julian could begin to see that his friend took something of a pleasurein showing and dwelling upon the worst side of his own character. 

"You will be happy, " he said, "when you once find your true work, andfeel that you are doing it well. "

"But the motives, the motives!--Never mind, I've talked enough ofmyself for one sitting. Don't think I've told you everything. Plentymore confessions to come, when time and place shall serve. Little bylittle you will get to know me, and by then will most likely have hadenough of me. "

"That is not at all likely; rather the opposite. "

When they left the house together, shortly after eleven, Julian's eyefell upon the dark figure of a girl, standing by a gas-lamp on theopposite side of the way. The figure held his gaze. Waymark moved on, and he had to follow, but still looked back. The girl had a veil halfdown upon her face; she was gazing after the two. She moved, and theresemblance to Harriet was so striking that Julian again stopped. As hedid so, the figure turned away, and walked in the opposite direction, till it was lost in the darkness. 

Julian went on, and for a time was very silent. 

CHAPTER VIII

ACADEMICAL

The school in which Osmond Waymark taught was situated in "a pleasantsuburb of southern London" (Brixton, to wit); had its "spaciousplayground and gymnasium" (the former a tolerable back-yard, the lattera disused coach-house); and, as to educational features, offered, atthe choice of parents and guardians, either the solid foundationdesirable for those youths predestined to a commercial career, or themore liberal training adapted to minds of a professional bias. Anythingfurther in the way of information was to be obtained by applying to theheadmaster, Dr. Tootle. 

At present the number of resident pupils was something under forty. Themarvel was how so many could be accommodated in so small a house. Twofair-sized bedrooms, and a garret in which the servants could not bepersuaded to sleep, served as dormitories for the whole school; theyounger children sleeping two together. 

Waymark did not reside on the premises. For a stipulated sum ofthirteen pounds per quarter he taught daily from nine till five, withan interval of an hour and a half at dinner-time, when he walked hometo Walcot Square for such meal as the state of his exchequer wouldallow. Waymark occupied a prominent place in Dr. Tootle's prospectus. As Osmond Waymark, B. A. , --the degree was a _bona fide_ one, of LondonUniversity, --he filled the position of Senior Classical Master;anonymously he figured as a teacher of drawing and lecturer onexperimental chemistry. The other two masters, resident, were Mr. O'Gree and Herr Egger; the former, teacher of mathematics, assistantclassical master, and professor of gymnastics; the latter, teacher offoreign languages, of music, and of dancing. Dr. Tootle took uponhimself the English branches, and, of course, the arduous duty ofgeneral superintendence. He was a very tall, thin, cadaverous, bald-headed man. Somehow or other he had the reputation of having, atan earlier stage in his career, grievously over-exerted his brain inliterary labour; parents were found, on the whole, ready to accept thisfact as an incontestable proof of the doctor's fitness to fill hispresent office, though it resulted in entire weeks of retreat from theschool-room under the excuse of fearful headaches. The only knownproduct of the literary toil which had had such sad results was a verysmall English Grammar, of course used in the school, and alwaysreferred to by the doctor as "my little compendium. "

Now and then, Waymark sought refuge from the loneliness of his room ina visit to his colleagues at the Academy. The masters' sitting-room wasnot remarkable for cosiness, even when a fire burnt in the grate andthe world of school was for the time shut out. The floor wasuncarpeted, the walls illustrated only with a few maps and diagrams. There was a piano, whereon Herr Egger gave his music lessons. Few roomsin existence could have excelled this for draughts; at all times therecame beneath the door a current of wind which pierced the legs like aknife; impossible to leave loose papers anywhere with a chance offinding them in the same place two minutes after. 

When Waymark entered this evening, he found his colleagues seatedtogether in silence. Mr. Philip O'Gree--"fill-up" was his ownpronunciation of the name--would have been worse than insignificant inappearance, but for the expression of good-humour and geniality whichpossessed his irregular features. He was red-headed, and had large redwhiskers. 

Herr Egger was a gentleman of very different exterior. Tall, thick, ungainly, with a very heavy, stupid face, coarse hands, outrageouslower extremities. A mass of coal-black hair seemed to weigh down hishead. His attire was un-English, and, one might suspect, had beenmanufactured in some lonely cottage away in the remote Swiss valleywhich had till lately been the poor fellow's home. Dr. Tootle neverkept his foreign masters long. His plan was to get hold of someforeigner without means, and ignorant of English, who would come andteach French or German in return for mere board and lodging; when theman had learnt a little English, and was in a position to demand asalary, he was dismissed, and a new professor obtained. Egger hadlately, under the influence of some desperate delusion, come to ourhospitable clime in search of his fortune. Of languages he could not besaid to know any; his French and his German were of barbarisms allcompact; English as yet he could use only in a most primitive manner. He must have been the most unhappy man in all London. Finding himselfface to face with large classes of youngsters accustomed to no kind ofdiscipline, in whom every word he uttered merely excited outrageousmirth, he was hourly brought to the very verge of despair. Constitutionally he was lachrymose; tears came from him freely whendistress had reached a climax, and the contrast between his unwieldyform and this weakness of demeanour supplied inexhaustible occasion formirth throughout the school. His hours of freedom were spent in abysmalbrooding. 

Waymark entered in good spirits. At the sight of him, Mr. O'Greestarted from the fireside, snatched up the poker, brandished it wildlyabout his head, and burst into vehement exclamations. 

"Ha! ha! you've come in time, sir; you've come in time to hear myresolution. I can't stand ut any longer; I won't stand ut a day longer!Mr. Waymark, you're a witness of the outrageous way in which I'mtreated in this academy--the way in which I'm treated both by Dr. Tootle and by Mrs. Tootle. You were witness of his insulting behaviourthis very afternoon. He openly takes the side of the boys against me;he ridicules my accent; he treats me as no gentleman can treat another, unless one of them's no gentleman at all! And, Mr. Waymark, I won'tstand ut!"

Mr. O'Gree's accent was very strong indeed, especially in his presentmood. Waymark listened with what gravity he could command. 

"You're quite right, " he said in reply. "Tootle's behaviour wasespecially scandalous to-day. I should certainly take some kind ofnotice of it. "

"Notuss, sir, notuss! I'll take that amount of notuss of it that allthe metropoluss shall hear of my wrongs. I'll assault 'um, sir; I'llassault 'um in the face of the school, --the very next time he dares toprovoke me! I'll rise in my might, and smite his bald crown with hisown ruler! I'm not a tall man, Mr. Waymark, but I can reach his crown, and that he shall be aware of before he knows ut. He sets me at naughtin my own class, sir; he pooh-poohs my mathematical demonstrations, sir; he encourages my pupils in insubordination! And Mrs. Tootle!Bedad, if I don't invent some device for revenging myself on thatsupercilious woman. The very next time she presumes to address medisrespectfully at the dinner-table, sir, I'll rise in my might, sir, --see if I don't!--and I'll say to her, 'Mrs. Tootle, ma'am, youseem to forget that I'm a gentleman, and have a gentleman'ssusceptibilities. When I treat _you_ with disrespect, ma'am, pray tellme of ut, and I'll inform you you speak an untruth!'"

Waymark smiled, with the result that the expression of furious wrathimmediately passed from his colleague's countenance, giving place to abroad grin. 

"Waymark, look here!" exclaimed the Irishman, snatching up a piece ofchalk, and proceeding to draw certain outlines upon a black-board. "Here's Tootle, a veritable Goliath;--here's me, as it were David. Observe; Tootle holds in his hand his 'little compendium, ' raised inhaughty superciliousness. Observe me with the ruler!--I am on tiptoe; Iam taking aim; there is wrath in every sinew of my arrum! My arrumdescends on the very centre of Tootle's bald pate--"

"Mr. O'Gree!"

The tableau was most effective. Unnoticed by either the Irishman orWaymark, the door had opened behind them, and there had appeared alittle red-faced woman, in slatternly dress. It was Mrs. Tootle. Shehad overheard almost the whole of O'Gree's vivid comment upon hisgraphic illustration, in silence, until at length she could hold herpeace no longer, and gave utterance to the teacher's name in a voicewhich trembled with rage and mortification. 

"Mr. O'Gree! Are you aware of my presence, sir?"

The chalk dropped from O'Gree's fingers, but otherwise his attituderemained unaltered; struck motionless with horror, he stood pointing tothe drawing on the board, his face pale, his eyes fascinated by thoseof Mrs. Tootle. The latter went on in a high note. 

"Well, sir, as soon as you have had enough of your insultingbuffoonery, perhaps you will have the goodness to attend to me, and toyour duty! What do you mean by allowing the dormitories to get intothis state of uproar? There's been a pillow-fight going on for the lasthalf-hour, and you pay no sort of attention; the very house is shaking?"

"I protest I had not heard a sound, ma'am, or I should have--"

"Perhaps you hear nothing now, sir, --and the doctor suffering from oneof his very worst headaches, utterly unable to rest even if the housewere perfectly quiet!"

O'Gree darted to the door, past Mrs. Tootle, and was lost to sight. There was indeed a desperate uproar in the higher regions of the house. In a moment the noise increased considerably. O'Gree had rushed upwithout a light, and was battling desperately in the darkness with ascore of pillow-fighters, roaring out threats the while at the top ofhis voice. Mrs. Tootle retired from the masters' room with muchaffectation of dignity, leaving the door open behind her. 

Waymark slammed it to, and turned with a laugh to the poor Swiss. 

"In low spirits to-night, I'm afraid, Mr. Egger?"

Egger let his chair tilt forward, rose slowly, drew a yellowhandkerchief from his mouth and wiped his eyes with it, then exclaimed, in the most pitiful voice--

"Mr. Waymark, I have made my possible!--I can no more!"

It was his regular phrase on these occasions; Waymark had always muchado to refrain from laughter when he heard it repeated, but he did hisbest to be seriously sympathetic, and to attempt consolation in suchGerman as was at his command. Egger's despondency only increased, andhe wept afresh to hear accents which were intelligible to him. Mr. O'Gree re-entered the room, and the Swiss retired to his comer. 

Philip was hot with excitement and bodily exertion; he came in moppinghis forehead, and, without turning to Waymark, stood with eyes fixed onthe chalk caricatures. Very gradually he turned round. Waymark waswatching him, on his face an expression of subdued mirth. Their looksmet, and both exploded in laughter. 

"Bedad, my boy, " exclaimed O'Gree, "I'm devilish sorry! I wouldn't havehad it happen for a quarter's salary, --though I sadly need a new pairof breeches. She's a supercilious cat-o-mountain, and she loses noopportunity of insulting me, but after all she's a woman. "

"By-the-by, Waymark, " he added in a moment, "what a stunner the newgoverness is! You're a lucky dog, to sit in the same room with her. What's her name, I say?"

"Miss Enderby. You've seen her, have you?"

"I caught a glimpse of her as she came downstairs; it was quite enough;she floored me. She's never been out of my thoughts for a minute sinceI saw her. 'I love her, I love her, and who shall dare, to chide me forloving that teacher fair!'"

"Well, yes, " said Waymark, "she has a tolerable face; seems to me along way too good to be teaching those unlicked cubs. The dragon wasn'ttoo civil to her, though it was the first day. "

"Not civil to her? If I were present, and heard that woman breathe theslight eat incivility, I'd--"

He broke off in the midst of his vehemence with a startled look towardsthe door. 

"Mr. Egger, " he exclaimed, "a song; I beg, a song. Come, I'll lead off. 

 'Miss Enderby hath a beaming eye'--

Bah! I'm not in voice to-night. "

Egger was persuaded to sit down to the piano. It was a mournfulinstrument, reduced to discordant wheeziness by five-finger exercises, but the touch of the Swiss could still evoke from it some kind ofharmony. He sang a Volkslied, and in a way which showed that there waspoetry in the man's nature, though his outward appearance gave solittle promise of it. His voice was very fair, and well suited toexpress the tender pathos of these inimitable melodies. Waymark alwaysenjoyed this singing; his eyes brightened, and a fine emotion playedabout his lips. And as he walked along the dark ways to his lodgings, Egger's voice was still in his ears--

"_Der Mensch wenn er fortgeht, der kommt nimmermefr_. "

"Heaven be thanked, no!" the young man said to himself. 

Poverty was his familiar companion, and had been so for years. His rentpaid each week, there often remained a sum quite insufficient for theabsolute necessities of existence; for anything more, he had to look tochance pupils in the evenings, and what little he could earn with hispen. He wrote constantly, but as yet had only succeeded in getting twoarticles printed. Then, it was a necessity of his existence to mix fromtime to time in the life of the town, and a stroll into the Strandafter nightfall inevitably led to the expenditure of whatever cash hispocket contained. He was passionately found of the theatre; the lightsabout the open entrance drew him on irresistibly, and if, as so often, he had to choose between a meal and a seat in the gallery, the meal wassacrificed. Hunger, indeed, was his normal state; semi-starvation, alternating with surfeits of cheap and unwholesome food, brought aboutan unhealthy condition of body. Often he returned to Walcot Square fromhis day-long drudgery, and threw himself upon the bed, too exhausted tolight a fire and make his tea, --for he was his own servant in allthings except the weekly cleaning-out of the room. Those were darkhours, and they had to be struggled through in solitude. 

Weary as he was he seldom went to bed before midnight, sometimes longafter, for he clung to those few hours of freedom with something likesavage obstinacy; during this small portion of each day at least, hewould possess his own soul, be free to think and read. Then came thepenalty of anguish unutterable when the morning had to be faced. Thesedark, foggy February mornings crushed him with a recurring misery whichoften drove him to the verge of mania. His head throbbing with thetorture of insufficient sleep, he lay in dull half-conscious miserytill there was no longer time to prepare breakfast, and he had tohasten off to school after a mouthful of dry bread which choked him. There had been moments when his strength failed, and he found his eyesfilling with tears of wretchedness. To face the hideous drudgery of theday's teaching often cost him more than it had cost many men to facethe scaffold. The hours between nine and one, the hours betweenhalf-past two and five, Waymark cursed them minute by minute, as theirawful length was measured by the crawling hands of the school-clock. Hetried sometimes, in mere self-defence, to force himself into aninterest in his work, that the time might go the quicker; but theeffort was miserably vain. His senses reeled amid the din and rattle ofclasses where discipline was unknown and intelligence almostindiscoverable. Not seldom his temper got the better even of sicklassitude; his face at such times paled with passion, and in ungovernedfury he raved at his tormentors. He awed them, too, but only for themoment, and the waste of misery swallowed him up once more. 

Was this to be his life?--he asked himself. Would this last for ever?

For some reason, the morning after the visit to the masters' room justspoken of found him in rather better spirits than usual. Perhaps it wasthat he had slept fairly well; a gleam of unwonted sunshine haddoubtless something to do with it. Yet there was another reason, thoughhe would scarcely admit it to himself. It was the day on which he gavea drawing-lesson to Dr. Tootle's two eldest children. Thesedrawing-lessons were always given in a room upstairs, which was alsoappropriated to the governess who came every morning to teach threeother young Tootles, two girls and a boy, the latter considered not yetold enough to go into the school. On the previous day, Waymark had beenengaged in the room for half an hour touching up some drawings of boysin the school, which were about to be sent home. He knew that he shouldfind a fresh governess busy with the children, the lady hithertoemployed having gone at a moment's notice after a violent quarrel withMrs. Tootle, an incident which had happened not infrequently before. When he entered the room, he saw a young woman seated with her back tohim, penning a copy, whilst the children jumped and rioted about her intheir usual fashion. The late governess had been a mature person offeatures rather serviceable than handsome; that her successor was of adifferent type appeared sufficiently from the fair round head, thegracefully handed neck, the perfect shoulders, the slight, beautifulform. Waymark took his place and waited with some curiosity till shemoved. When she did so, and, rising, suddenly became aware of hispresence, there was a little start on both sides; Miss Enderby--soWaymark soon heard her called by the pupils--had not been aware, owingto the noise, of a stranger's entrance, and Waymark on his side was sostruck with the face presented to him. He had expected, at the most, apretty girl of the commonplace kind: he saw a countenance in whichrefinement was as conspicuous as beauty. She was probably not more thaneighteen or nineteen. In speaking with the children she rarely if eversmiled, but exhibited a gentle forbearance which had something touchingin it; it was almost as though she appealed for gentleness in return, and feared a harsh word or look. 

"That's Mr. Waymark, " cried out Master Percy Tootle, when his overquickeyes perceived that the two had seen each other. "He's ourdrawing-master. Do you like the look of him?"

Miss Enderby reddened, and laid her hand on the boy's arm, trying todirect his attention to a book. But the youngster shook off her gentletouch, and looked at his brothers and sisters with a much too knowinggrin. Waymark had contented himself with a slight bow, and at once bentagain over his work. 

Very shortly the two eldest children, both girls, came in, and withthem their mother. The latter paid no attention to Waymark, butproceeded to cross-examine the new governess as to her methods ofteaching, her experience, and so on, in the coarse and loud mannerwhich characterised Mrs. Tootle. 

"You'll find my children clever, " said Mrs. Tootle, "at least, that hasbeen the opinion of all their teachers hitherto. If they don't makeprogress, it certainly will not be their own fault. At the same time, they are high-spirited, and require to be discreetly managed. This, asI previously informed you, must be done without the help of punishmentin any shape; I disapprove of those methods altogether. Now let me hearyou give them a lesson in geography. "

Waymark retired at this juncture; he felt that it would be nothing lessthan cruelty to remain. The episode, however, had lightened his daywith an interest of a very unusual kind. And so it was that, on thefollowing morning, not only the gleam of watery sunshine, but also thethought of an hour to be spent in the presence of that timid face, brought him on his way to the school with an unwonted resignation. Unfortunately his drawing lessons were only given on two mornings inthe week. Still, there would be something in future to look forward to, a novel sensation at The Academy. 

CHAPTER IX

THE COUSINS

Harriet Smales had left home in a bad temper that Sunday afternoon, andwhen she came back to tea, after her walk with Julian, her state ofmind did not appear to have undergone any improvement. She took herplace at the tea-table in silence. She and Mrs. Ogle were alone thisevening; the latter's husband--he was a journeyman printer, and leftentirely in his wife's hands the management of the shop in Gray's InnRoad--happened to be away. Mrs. Ogle was a decent, cheerful woman, ofmotherly appearance. She made one or two attempts to engage Harriet inconversation, but, failing, subsided into silence, only looking askanceat the girl from time to time. When she had finished her tea andbread-and-butter, Harriet coughed, and, without facing her companion, spoke in rather a cold way. 

"I may be late back to-night, Mrs. Ogle. You won't lock the door?"

"I sha'n't go to bed till eleven myself, " was the reply. 

"But it may be after twelve when I get back. "

"Where are you going to, Harriet?"

"If you must know always, Mrs. Ogle, I'm going to see my friend inWestminster. "

"Well, it ain't no business of mine, my girl, " returned the woman, notunkindly, "but I think it's only right I should have some idea whereyou spend your nights. As long as you live in my house, I'm responsiblefor you, in a way. "

"I don't want any one to be responsible for me, Mrs. Ogle. "

"Maybe not, my girl. But young people ain't always the best judges ofwhat's good for them, and what isn't. I don't think your cousin 'udapprove of your being out so late. I shall sit up for you, and youmustn't be after twelve. "

It was said very decidedly. Harriet made no reply, but speedily dressedand went out. She took an omnibus eastward, and sought a neighbourhoodwhich most decently dressed people would have been chary of enteringafter nightfall, or indeed at any other time, unless compelled to doso. The girl found the object of her walk in a dirty littlepublic-house at the corner of two foul and narrow by-ways. She enteredby a private door, and passed into a parlour, which was behind the bar. 

A woman was sitting in the room, beguiling her leisure with a Sundaypaper. She was dressed with vulgar showiness, and made a lavish displayof jewellery, more or less valuable. Eight years ago she was a servantin Mr. Smales's house, and her name was Sarah. She had married in themeanwhile, and become Mrs. Sprowl. 

She welcomed her visitor with a friendly nod, but did not rise. 

"I thought it likely you'd look in, as you missed larst week. How'sthings goin' in your part o' the world?"

"Very badly, " returned Harriet, throwing off her hat and cloak, andgoing to warm her hands and feet at the fire. "It won't last muchlonger, that's the truth of it. "

"Eh well, it's all in a life; we all has our little trials an'troubles, as the sayin' is. "

"How's the baby?" asked Harriet looking towards a bundle of wrapperswhich lay on a sofa. 

"I doubt it's too good for this world, " returned the mother, grinningin a way which made her ugly face peculiarly revolting. "Dessay it'lljoin its little brother an' sister before long. Mike put it in the clubyes'day. "

The burial-club, Mrs. Sprowl meant, and Harriet evidently understoodthe allusion. 

"Have you walked?" went on the woman, doubling up her paper, and thenthrowing it aside. "Dessay you could do with somethin' to take the coldorff yer chest. --Liz, " she called out to some one behind the bar, withwhich the parlour communicated by an open door; "two Irish!"

The liquor was brought. Presently some one called to Mrs. Sprowl, whowent out. Leaning on the counter, in one of the compartments, wassomething which a philanthropist might perhaps have had the courage toclaim as a human being; a very tall creature, with bent shoulders, andhead seeming to grow straight out of its chest; thick, grizzled hairhiding almost every vestige of feature, with the exception of onedreadful red eye, its fellow being dead and sightless. He had laid onthe counter, with palms downward as if concealing something, two hugehairy paws. Mrs. Sprowl seemed familiar with the appearance of thismonster; she addressed him rather bad-temperedly, but otherwise much asshe would have spoken to any other customer. 

"No, you don't, Slimy! No, you don't! What you have in this house youpay for in coppers, so you know. Next time I catch you tryin' to ringthe changes, I'll have you run in, and then you'll get a warm bath, which you wouldn't partic'lar care for. "

The creature spoke, in hoarse, jumbled words, not easy to catch unlessyou listened closely. 

"If you've any accusion to make agin me, Mrs. Sprowl, p'r'aps you'llwait till you can prove it. I want change for arf a suvrin: ain't thatstraight, now?"

"Straight or not, you won't get no change over this counter, so thereyou've the straight tip. Now sling yer 'ook, Slimy, an' get itsomewhere else. "

"If you've any accusion to make--"

"Hold yer noise!--What's he ordered, Liz?"

"Pot o' old six, " answered the girl. 

"Got sixpence, Slimy?"

"No, I ain't, Mrs. Sprowl, " muttered the creature. "I've got arf asuvrin. "

"Then go an' get change for it. Now, once more, sling yer 'ook. "

The man moved away, sending back a horrible glare from his one fieryeyeball. 

Mrs. Sprowl re-entered the parlour. 

"I wish you'd take me on as barmaid, Sarah, " Harriet said, when she haddrunk her glass of spirits. 

"Take you on?" exclaimed the other, with surprise. "Why, have youfallen out with your cousin? I thought you was goin' to be marriedsoon. "

"I didn't say for sure that I was; I only said I might be. Any way itwon't be just yet, and I'm tired of my place in the shop. "

"Don't you be a fool, Harriet, " said the other, with genial frankness. "You're well enough off. You stick where you are till you get married. You wouldn't make nothin' at our business; 'tain't all sugar an' lemon, an' sittin' drinkin' twos o' whisky till further orders. You want aquiet, easy business, you do, an' you've got it. If you keep worritin'yerself this way, you won't never make old bones, an' that's the truth. You wait a bit, an' give yer cousin a chance to arst you, --if that'swhat you're troublin' about. "

"I've given him lots o' chances, " said Harriet peevishly. 

"Eh well, give him lots more, an' it'll all come right. We're all born, but we're not buried. --Hev' another Irish?"

Harriet allowed herself to be persuaded to take another glass. 

When the clock pointed to half-past nine, she rose and prepared todepart. She had told Mrs. Sprowl that she would take the 'bus and gostraight home; but something seemed to have led her to alter herpurpose, for she made her way to Westminster Bridge, and crossed theriver. Then she made some inquiries of a policeman, and, inconsequence, got into a Kennington omnibus. Very shortly she was setdown close by Walcot Square. She walked about till, with somedifficulty in the darkness, she had discovered the number at whichJulian had told her his friend lived. The house found, she began topace up and down on the opposite pavement, always keeping her eyesfixed on the same door. She was soon shivering in the cold night air, and quickened her walk. It was rather more than an hour before the doorshe was watching at length opened, and two friends came out together. Harriet followed them as closely as she could, until she saw that sheherself was observed. Thereupon she walked away, and, by a circuit, ultimately came back into the main road, where she took a 'bus goingnorthwards. 

Harriet's cousin, when alone of an evening, sat in his bedroom, theworld shut out, his thoughts in long past times, rebuilding the ruinsof a fallen Empire. 

When he was eighteen, the lad had the good luck to light upon a cheapcopy of Gibbon in a second-hand book-shop. It was the first edition;six noble quarto volumes, clean and firm in the old bindings. Often hehad turned longing eyes upon newer copies of the great book, but theprice had always put them beyond his reach. That very night he solemnlylaid open the first volume at the first page, propping it on a coupleof meaner books, and, after glancing through the short Preface, beganto read with a mind as devoutly disposed as that of any pious believerporing upon his Bible. "In the second century of the Christian AEra, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and themost civilised portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensivemonarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valour. " Withwhat a grand epic roll, with what anticipations of solemn music, didthe noble history begin! Far, far into the night Julian turned overpage after page, thoughtless of sleep and the commonplace duties of themorrow. 

Since then he had mastered his Gibbon, knew him from end to end, andjoyed in him more than ever. Whenever he had a chance of obtaining anyof the writers, ancient or modern, to whom Gibbon refers, he read themand added to his knowledge. About a year ago, he had picked up an oldClaudian, and the reading of the poet had settled him to a task whichhe had before that doubtfully sought. He wanted to write either a poemor a drama on some subject taken from the "Decline and Fall, " and now, with Claudian's help, he fixed upon Stilicho for his hero. The form, hethen decided, should be dramatic. Upon "Stilicho" he had now beenengaged for a year, and to-night he is writing the last words of thelast scene. Shortly after twelve he has finished it, and, throwing downhis pen, he paces about the room with enviable feelings. 

He had not as yet mentioned to Waymark the work he was engaged upon, though he had confessed that he wrote verses at times. He wished tocomplete it, and then read it to his friend. It was now only the middleof the week, and though he had decided previously to wait till hisvisit to Walcot Square next Sunday before saying a word about"Stilicho, " he could not refrain now from hastily penning a note toWaymark, and going out to post it at once. 

When the day came, the weather would not allow the usual walk withHarriet, and Julian could not help feeling glad that it was so. He wastoo pre-occupied to talk in the usual way with the girl, and he knewhow vain it would be to try and make her understand his state of mind. Still, he went to see her as usual, and sat for an hour in Mrs. Ogle'sparlour. At times, throughout the week, he had thought of the curiousresemblance between Harriet and the girl he had noticed on leavingWaymark's house last Sunday, and now he asked her, in a half-jestingway, whether it had really been she. 

"How could it be?" said Harriet carelessly. "I can't be in two placesat once. "

"Did you stay at home that evening?"

"No, --not all the evening. "

"What friends are they you go to, when you are out at night, Harriet?"

"Oh, some relations of the Colchester people. --I suppose you've beenspending most of your time in Kennington since Sunday?"

"I haven't left home. In fact, I've been very busy. I've just finishedsome work that has occupied me for nearly a year. "

After all, he could not refrain from speaking of it, though he had madeup his mind not to do so. 

"Work? What work?" asked Harriet, with the suspicious look which cameinto her grey eyes whenever she heard something she could notunderstand. 

"Some writing. I've written a play. "

"A play? Will it be acted?"

"Oh no, it isn't meant for acting. "

"What's the good of it then?"

"It's written in verse. I shall perhaps try to get it published. "

"Shall you get money for it?"

"That is scarcely likely. In all probability I shall not be able to getit printed at all. "

"Then what's the good of it?" repeated Harriet, still suspicious, and alittle contemptuous. 

"It has given me pleasure, that's all. "

Julian was glad when at length he could take his leave. Waymarkreceived him with a pleased smile, and much questioning. 

"Why did you keep it such a secret? I shall try my hand at a play someday or other, but, as you can guess, the material will scarcely besought in Gibbon. It will be desperately modern, and possibly notaltogether in accordance with the views of the Lord Chamberlain. What'sthe time? Four o'clock. We'll have a cup of coffee and then fall to. I'm eager to hear your 'deep-chested music, ' your 'hollow oes and aes. '"

The reading took some three hours; Waymark smoked a vast number ofpipes the while, and was silent till the close. Then he got up from hiseasy-chair, took a step forward, and held out his hand. His face shonewith the frankest enthusiasm. He could not express himself withsufficient vehemence. Julian sat with the manuscript rolled up in hishands, on his face a glow of delight. 

"It's very kind of you to speak in this way, " he faltered at length. 

"Kind! How the deuce should I speak? But come, we will have this off toa publisher's forth with. Have you any ideas for the next work?"

"Yes; but so daring that they hardly bear putting into words. "

"Try the effect on me. "

"I have thought, " said Julian, with embarrassment, "of a long poem--anEpic. Virgil wrote of the founding of Rome; her dissolution is as granda subject. It would mean years of preparation, and again years in thewriting. The siege and capture of Rome by Alaric--what do you think?"

"A work not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours ofwine. But who knows?"

There was high talk in Walcot Square that evening. All unknown to itsother inhabitants, the poor lodging-house was converted into a templeof the Muses, and harmonies as from Apollo's lyre throbbed in thehearts of the two friends. The future was their inexhaustible subject, the seed-plot of strange hopes and desires. They talked the night intomorning, hardly daunted when perforce they remembered the day's work. 

CHAPTER X

THE WAY OUT

The ruling spirit of the Academy was Mrs. Tootle. Her husband'sconstitutional headache, and yet more constitutional laziness, left toher almost exclusively the congenial task of guiding the household, andeven of disciplining the school. In lesson-time she would even flitabout the classrooms, and not scruple to administer sharp rebukes to ateacher whose pupils were disorderly, the effect of this naturallybeing to make confusion worse confounded. The boys of course hated herwith the hatred of which schoolboys alone are capable, and many apractical joke was played at her expense, not, however, with impunity. Still more pronounced, if possible, was the animus entertained againstMrs. Tootle's offspring, and it was upon the head of Master Felix thatthe full energy of detestation concentrated itself. He was, in truth, as offensive a young imp as the soil of a middle-class boarding-schoolcould well produce. If Mrs. Tootle ruled the Academy, he in turn ruledMrs. Tootle, and on all occasions showed himself a most exemplaryautocrat. His position, however, as in the case of certain otherautocratic rulers, had its disadvantages; he could never venture towander out of earshot of his father or mother, who formed hisbody-guard, and the utmost prudence did not suffice to protect him froman occasional punch on the head, or a nip in a tender part, meantprobably as earnest of more substantial kindnesses to be conferred uponhim at the very earliest opportunity. 

To poor Egger fell the unpleasant duty of instructing these youngTootles in the elements of the French language. For that purpose hewent up every morning to the class-room on the first floor, and for awhile relieved Miss Enderby of her charge. With anguish of spirit hefelt the approach of the moment which summoned him to this dread duty, for, in addition to the lively spite of Master Felix and the otherchildren, he had to face the awful superintendence of Mrs. Tootleherself; who was invariably present at these lessons. Mrs. Tootle hadsomehow conceived the idea that French was a second mother-tongue toher, and her intercourse with Mr. Egger was invariably carried on inthat language. Now this was a refinement of torture, seeing that it wasoften impossible to gather a meaning from her remarks, whilst to showany such difficulty was to incur her most furious wrath. Egger trembledwhen he heard the rustle of her dress outside, the perspiration stoodon his forehead as he rose and bowed before her. 

"Bon jour, Monsieur, " she would come in exclaiming. "Quel un beaumatin! Vous trouverez les jeunes dames et messieurs en bons esprits cematin. "

The spirits of Master Felix had manifested themselves already in hisskilfully standing a book upright on the teacher's chair, so that whenEgger subsided from his obeisance he sat down on a sharp edge and wasthrown into confusion. 

"Monsieur Felix, " cried his mother, "que faites-vous la?--Les jeunesmessieurs anglais sont plus spirituels que les jeunes messieurssuisses, n'est ce pas, Monsieur Egger?"

"En effet, madame, " muttered the teacher, nervously arranging his books. 

"Monsieur Egger, " exclaimed Mrs. Tootle, with a burst of good humour, "est-ce vrai ce qu'on dit que les Suisses sont si excessivement sujetsa etre _chez-malades_?"

The awful moment had come. What on earth did _chez-malades_ mean? Washe to answer yes or no? In his ignorance of her meaning, either replymight prove offensive. He reddened, fidgeted on his chair, looked abouthim with an anguished mute appeal for help. Mrs. Tootle repeated herquestion with emphasis and a change of countenance which he knew toowell. The poor fellow had not the tact to appear to understand, and, ashe might easily have done, mystify her by some idiomatic remark. Hestammered out his apologies and excuses, with the effect of making Mrs. Tootle furious. 

Then followed a terrible hour, at the end of which poor Egger rusheddown to the Masters' Room, covered his head with his hands and wept, regardless of the boy strumming his exercises on the piano. Waymarkshortly came in to summon him to some other class, whereupon he rose, and, with gestures of despair, groaned out--

"Let me, let me!--I have made my possible; I can no more!"

Waymark alone feared neither Mrs. Tootle nor her hopeful son, and, inturn, was held in some little awe by both of them. The lady had atfirst tried the effect of interfering in his classes, as she did inthose of the other masters, but the result was not encouraging. 

"Don't you think, Mr. Waymark, " she had said one day, as she walkedthrough the school-room and paused to listen to our friend'sexplanation of some rule in English grammar; "don't you think it wouldbe better to confine yourself to the terms of the doctor's littlecompendium? The boys are used to it. "

"In this case, " replied Waymark calmly, "I think the terms of thecompendium are rather too technical for the fourth class. "

"Still, it is customary in this school to use the compendium, and ithas never yet been found unsatisfactory. Whilst you are discoursing atsuch length, I observe your class gets very disorderly. "

Waymark looked at her, but kept silence. Mrs. Tootle stood still. 

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Waymark?" she asked sharply. 

"Till your presence has ceased to distract the boys' attention, Mrs. Tootle, " was the straightforward reply. 

The woman was disconcerted, and, as Waymark preserved his calm silence, she had no alternative but to withdraw, after giving him a look noteasily forgotten. 

But there was another person whose sufferings under the tyranny ofmother and children were perhaps keenest of all. Waymark had frequentopportunities of observing Miss Enderby under persecution, and learnedto recognise in her the signs of acutest misery. Many times he left theroom, rather than add to her pain by his presence; very often it was asmuch as he could do to refrain from taking her part, and defending heragainst Mrs. Tootle. He had never been formally introduced to MissEnderby, and during several weeks held no kind of communication withher beyond a "good morning" when he entered the room and found herthere. The first quarter of a year was drawing to a close when thereoccurred the first conversation between them. Waymark had been givingsome of the children their drawing-lesson, whilst the governess taughtthe two youngest. The class-time being over, the youngsters allscampered off. For a wonder, Mrs. Tootle was not present, anti Waymarkseized the opportunity to exchange a word with the young lady. 

"I fear your pupils give you dreadful trouble, " he said, as he stood bythe window pointing a pencil. 

She started at being spoken to. 

"They are full of life, " she replied, in the low sad voice which wasnatural to her. 

"Which would all seem to be directed towards shortening that ofothers, " said Waymark, with a smile. 

"They are intelligent, " the governess ventured to suggest, after asilence. "It would be a pleasure to teach them if they--if they were alittle more orderly. "

"Certainly. If their parents had only common sense--"

He stopped. A flush had risen to the girl's face, and a slightinvoluntary motion of her hand seemed to warn him. The reason was thatMrs. Tootle stood in the doorway, to which he had his back turned. MissEnderby said a quick "good morning" and left him. 

He was taking up some papers, preparatory to leaving the room, when henoticed that the governess had left behind her a little book in whichshe was accustomed to jot down lessons for the children. He took it upand examined it. On the first page was written "Maud Enderby, SouthBank, Regent's Park. " He repeated the name to himself several times. Then he smiled, recalling the way in which the governess had warned himthat Mrs. Tootle could overhear what he said. Somehow, this slightgesture of the girl's had seemed to bring them closer to each other;there was an unpremeditated touch of intimacy in the movement, which itpleased him to think of. This was by no means the first time that hehad stood with thoughts busied about her, but the brief exchange ofwords and what had followed gave something of a new complexion to hisfeelings. Previously he had been interested in her; her strikingfeatures had made him wonder what was the history which theirexpression concealed; but her extreme reticence and the timid coldnessof her look had left his senses unmoved. Now he all at once experiencedthe awakening of quite a new interest; there had been something in hereyes as they met his which seemed to desire sympathy; he was struckwith the possibilities of emotion in the face which this one look hadrevealed to him. Her situation seemed, when he thought of it, to affecthim more strongly than hitherto; he felt that it would be moredifficult henceforth to maintain his calmness when he saw her insultedby Mrs. Tootle or disrespectfully used by the children. 

Nor did the new feelings subside as rapidly as they had arisen. At homethat night he was unable to settle to his usual occupations, and, as avisit to his friends in the Masters' Room would have been equallydistasteful, he rambled about the streets and so tired himself. Hisduties did not take him up to the children's classroom on the followingmorning, but he invented an excuse for going there, and felt rewardedby the very faint smile and the inclination of the head with which MissEnderby returned his "good morning. " Day after day, he schemed toobtain an opportunity of speaking with her again, and he fancied thatshe herself helped to remove any chances that might have occurred. Throughout his lessons, his attention remained fixed upon her; hestudied her face intently, and was constantly discovering in it newmeanings. When she caught his eyes thus busy with her, she evinced, fora moment, trouble and uneasiness; he felt sure that she arranged herseat so as to have her back to him more frequently than she had beenaccustomed to do. Her work appeared to him to be done with lessself-forgetfulness than formerly; the rioting and impertinence of thechildren seemed to trouble her more; she bore Mrs. Tootle'sinterference with something like fear. Once, when Master Felix had gonebeyond his wonted licence, in his mother's absence, Waymark went so faras to call him to order. As soon as he had spoken, the girl looked upat him in a startled way, and seemed silently to beg him to refrain. All this only strengthened the influence she exercised upon Waymark. 

Since the climax of wretchedness which had resulted in hisadvertisement and the forming of Julian Casti's acquaintance, amoderate cheerfulness had possessed him. Now he once more felt theclouds sinking about him, was aware of many a threatening portent, themeaning whereof he too well understood. There had been a week or two ofprevailing bad weather, a state of things which always wroughtharmfully upon him; his thoughts darkened under the dark sky, and thedaily downpour of rain sapped his energies. It was within a few days ofEaster, but the prospect of a holiday had no effect upon him. Nightafter night he lay in fever and unrest. He felt as though some voicewere calling upon him to undertake a vaguely hazardous enterprise whichyet he knew not the nature of. 

On one of these evenings, Mr. O'Gree announced to him that Miss Enderbywas going to give up her position at the end of the quarter. Philip hadgathered this from a conversation heard during the day between Dr. Tootle and his wife. 

"The light of my life will be gone out, " exclaimed O'Gree, "when I amno longer able to catch a glimpse of her as she goes past theschoolroom door. And I've never even had a chance of speaking to her. You know the tale of Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth. Suppose I were torush out and throw my top-coat on the muddy door-step, just as she'sgoing out; d'ye think she'd say thank you?"

"Probably, " muttered Waymark, without knowing what he said. It was Mr. O'Gree's habit to affect this violent devotion to each new governess inturn, but Waymark did not seem to find the joke amusing at present. 

"Bedad, I'll do it then! Or, rather, I would, if I'd two top-coats. Hang it! There's no behaving like a gentleman on twenty-five pounds ayear. "

Waymark walked about the streets the greater part of the night, and thenext morning came to school rather late. Dr. Tootle had to consult withhim about some matter as soon as he arrived. 

"You seem indisposed, Mr. Waymark, " the doctor remarked, when he had invain tried to elicit intelligible replies to his questions. 

"I am a little out of sorts, " the other returned carelessly. "Perhapswe could talk about these things to-morrow. "

"As you please, " said Dr. Tootle, a little surprised at his assistant'sindifference. 

It was a drawing-lesson morning. As he went upstairs, his ears apprisedhim of the state of things he would find in Miss Enderby's room. Theapproach of the Easter holidays was making the youngsters even morethan usually uproarious, and their insubordination had passed beyondall pretence of attending to tasks. When Waymark entered, his firstglance, as always, was towards the governess. She looked harassed andill; was in vain endeavouring to exert some authority with her gentlevoice. Her eyes showed unmistakable gratitude as the teacher appeared, for his approach meant that she would be relieved from the three elderchildren. Waymark called sharply to his pupils to come and take theirplaces, but without any attention on their part. Master Felix openlyurged the rest to assume a defiant attitude, and began to improvisemelodies on a trumpet formed by rolling up a copy-book. 

"Felix, " said Miss Enderby, "give me your copy-book and go to thedrawing-lesson. "

The boy removed the trumpet from his mouth, and, waving it once roundhis head, sent it flying across the room at the speaker; it hit her onthe cheek. In the same minute, Waymark had bent across his knee a largepointer which stood in a corner of the room, and had snapped it intotwo pieces. Holding the lighter of these in one hand, with the otherhand he suddenly caught Master Felix by the coat-collar, and in asecond had him out of the room and on to the landing. Then did theechoes of the Academy wake to such a bellowing as they had probablynever heard before. With a grip impossible even to struggle against, Waymark held the young imp under his arm, and plied the broken pointerwith great vigour; the stripes were almost as loud as the roarings. There was a rush from the rooms below in the direction of thedisturbance; all the boys were in a trice leaping about delightedly onthe stairs, and behind them came O'Gree, Egger, and Dr. Tootle himself. From the room above rushed out all the young Tootles, yelling for help. Last of all, from still higher regions of the house there swept down avision of disordered female attire, dishevelled hair, and glaring eyes;it was Mrs. Tootle, disturbed at her toilet, forgetting allconsiderations of personal appearance at the alarming outcry. Just asshe reached the spot, Waymark's arm dropped in weariness; he flung thehowling young monkey into one corner, the stick into another, anddeliberately pulled his coat-sleeves into position once more. He feltvastly better for the exercise, and there was even a smile on hisheated face. 

"You brutal ruffian!" shrieked Mrs. Tootle. "How dare you touch mychild? You shall answer for this in the police court, sir. "

"Waymark, " cried her husband, who had struggled to the scene throughthe crowd of cheering boys, "what's the meaning of this? You forgetyourself, sir. Who gave you authority to use corporal chastisement?"

"The boy has long deserved a good thrashing, " he said, "and I'm glad Ilost my temper sufficiently to give him a portion of his deserts. Ifyou wish to know the immediate cause, it simply was that he threw abook at his governess's head and hit her. "

"Mr. O'Gree, " called out the doctor, "take your boys back to theirduties, sir! I am quite unable to understand this disgraceful lack ofdiscipline. Every boy who is not at his seat in one minute will havefive hundred verses of the Psalms to write out!--Mr. Waymark, I shallbe obliged to you if you will step into my study. "

Five minutes after, Waymark was closeted with Dr. Tootle. The latterhad all at once put off his appearance of indignation. 

"Really, " he began, "it's a great pity you let yourself be carried awaylike that. I think it very probable indeed that Felix deservedcastigation of some kind, but you would have done much better to reporthim to me, you know, and let me see to it. You have put me in anawkward position. I fear you must make an apology to Mrs. Tootle, andthen perhaps the matter can be allowed to blow over. "

"I think not, " replied Waymark, whose mind was evidently made up. Therewas a look of recklessness on his face which one could at any time havedetected lurking beneath the hard self-control which usually markedhim. "I don't feel disposed to apologise, and I am tired of my positionhere. I must give it up. "

Dr. Tootle was annoyed. It would not be easy to get another teacher ofthe kind at so cheap a rate. 

"Come, you don't mean this, " he said. "You are out of temper for themoment. Perhaps the apology could be dispensed with; I think I maypromise that it can be. The lad will be no worse for his littlecorrection. Possibly we can come to some more satisfactory arrangementsfor the future--"

"No, " interposed Waymark; "I have quite made up my mind. I mean to giveup teaching altogether; it doesn't suit me. Of course I am willing tocome as usual the next two days. "

"You are aware that this notice should have been given me at thebeginning of the quarter?" hinted the principal. 

"Oh yes. Of course you will legally owe me nothing. I am prepared forthat. "

"Well, I shall have to consider it. But I still think that you--"

"As far as I am concerned, the matter is decided. I go at Easter. "

"Very well. I think you are blind to your own interest, but of courseyou do as you please. If Mrs. Tootle should press me to take out asummons against you for assault, of course I--"

"Good morning, Dr. Tootle. "

The summons was not taken out, but Waymark's resolution suffered nochange. There was another interview between him and the principal, fromwhich he issued with the sum of six pounds ten in his pocket, beinghalf the quarter's salary. He had not applied for this, but did notrefuse it when it was offered. Seeing that the total amount of cashpreviously in his possession was something less than five shillings, hedid wisely, perhaps, to compromise with his dignity, and let Dr. Tootlecome out of the situation with a certain show of generosity. 

CHAPTER XI

BY THE WAYSIDE

"So there ends another chapter. How many more to the end of the story?How many more scenes till the farce is played out? There is somethingflattering to one's vanity in this careless playing with fate; it isedifying, moreover, to sot circumstances at defiance in this way, nowand then, to assert one's freedom. Freedom! What a joke the word mustbe to whoever is pulling the wires and making us poor puppets dance athis pleasure. Pity that we have to pay the piper so heavily for ourinvoluntary jigging!"

A passage from the letter Waymark wrote to his friend Casti, on theevening when his school-work came to an end. That night he sought restearly, and slept well. The sensations with which he woke next morningwere such as he had not experienced for a long time. He was atliberty, --with six pounds ten in his pocket. He could do what he likedand go whither he liked, --till lack of a dinner should remind him thata man's hardest master is his own body. He dressed leisurely, and, having dressed, treated himself to an egg for breakfast. Absolutely noneed for hurry; the thought of school-hours dismissed for ever; ahorizon quite free from the vision of hateful toil; in the real skyoverhead a gleam of real sunshine, as if to make credible this suddenchange. His mood was still complete recklessness, a revolt against theidea of responsibility, indifference to all beyond the moment. 

It was Thursday; the morrow would be Good Friday; after that theintervention of two clear days before the commencement of a new week Inthe meantime the sun was really shining, and the fresh spring airinvited to the open ways. Waymark closed the door of his room behindhim, and went downstairs, whistling to himself. But, before reachingthe bottom, he turned and went back again. It seemed warm enough to sitin one of the parks and read. He laid his hand on a book, almost athaphazard, to put in his pocket. Then he walked very leisurely alongKennington Road, and on, and on, till he had crossed the river. 

Wondering in which direction he should next turn, he suddenly foundhimself repeating, with unaccountable transition of thought, the words"South Bank, Regent's Park. " In all likelihood, he said to himselfpresently, they were suggested by some inscription on a passingomnibus, noted unconsciously. The address was that he had read in MissEnderby's note-book. Why not ramble in that direction as well asanother, and amuse himself by guessing which house it was that thegoverness lived in? He had not seen her since the uproar which hadterminated his connection with the young Tootles. Was it true that shehad then already decided to give up her position? If not, his outbreakof temper had doubtless resulted unpleasantly for her, seeing that Mrs. Tootle would almost certainly dismiss her out of mere spite. Severaltimes during the last two days he had thought of conveying to her anote by some means, to express in some way or other this fear, and theregret it caused him; the real motive, he knew well enough, would be ahope of receiving a reply from her. But now she had perhaps left theschool, and he did not know her exact address. He made his way acrossthe Park in the direction of St. John's Wood, and had soon reachedSouth Bank. 

He had walked once the length of the road, and was looking at thenearest houses before he turned, when a lady came round the corner andpaused to avoid him, as he stood in the middle of the pavement. It wasMiss Enderby herself. Her embarrassment was apparently not as great ashis own. She smiled with friendliness; seemed indeed in a happier frameof mind than any in which Waymark had as yet seen her. But she did notoffer her hand, and the other, having raised his hat, was almost on thepoint of passing on, when he overcame his diffidence and spoke. 

"I came here to try and discover where you lived, Miss Enderby. "

There was something grotesque in this abruptness; his tone only savedit from impertinence. The girl looked at him with frank surprise. 

"Pray don't misunderstand me, " he went on hurriedly. "I wished, ifpossible, to--well, to tell you that I feared I acted thoughtlessly theother day; without regard, I mean, to any consequences it might havefor yourself. "

"Rather I ought to thank you for defending me. It made no difference inthe way you mean. It had already been decided that I should leave. Idid not suit Mrs. Tootle. "

It was very pleasant to look down into her earnest face, and watch itas she spoke in this unrestrained way. She seemed so slight and frail, evidently thought so depreciatingly of herself, looked as though herlife had in it so little joy, that Waymark had speedily assumed aconfident attitude, and gazed at her as a man does at one whom he wouldgladly guard and cherish. 

"You were certainly unsuited for the work, in every way, " he said, witha smile. "Your efforts were quite wasted there. Still, I am sorry youhave left. "

"I am going into a family, " were her next words, spoken almostcheerfully. "It is in the country, in Essex. There are only twochildren, quite young. I think I shall succeed better with them; I hopeso. "

"Then I suppose, " Waymark said, moving a little and keeping his eyesfixed on her with an uneasy look, "I shall--I must say good-bye to you, for the last time?"

A scarcely heard "yes" fell from her lips. Her eyes were cast down. 

"I am going to make a bold request, " Waymark exclaimed, with a sort ofrecklessness, though his voice expressed no less respect than hitherto. "Will you tell me where you are going to?"

She told him, without looking up, and with a recurrence to the timidmanner which had marked her in the schoolroom. This gave Waymarkencouragement; his confidence grew as hers diminished. 

"Will you let me write to you--occasionally? Would you let me keep upour acquaintance in this way, --so that, if you return to London, Imight look forward to meeting you again some time?"

The girl answered timidly--

"I shall be glad to keep up our acquaintance. I shall be glad to hearfrom you. "

Then, at once feeling that she had gone too far, her confusion made herpale. Waymark held out his hand, as if to take leave. 

"Thank you very much, " he said warmly. "I am very grateful. "

She gave him a quick "good-bye, " and then passed on. Waymark moved atonce in the opposite direction, turning the corner. Then he wished togo back and notice which house she entered, but would not do so lestshe should observe him. He walked straight forwards. 

How the aspect of the world had changed for him in these few minutes;what an incredible revolution had come to pass in his own desires andpurposes t The intellectual atmosphere he breathed was of his owncreation; the society of cultured people he had never had anopportunity of enjoying. A refined and virtuous woman had hithertoexisted for him merely in the sanctuary of his imagination; he hadknown not one such. If he passed one in the street, the effect of themomentary proximity was only to embitter his thoughts, by reminding himof the hopeless gulf fixed between his world and that in which suchcreatures had their being. In revenge, he tried to soil the purity ofhis ideals; would have persuaded himself that the difference betweenthe two spheres was merely in externals, that he was imposed upon bywealth, education, and superficial refinement of manners. Happily hehad never really succeeded in thus deceiving himself, and the efforthad only served to aggravate his miseries. The habit of mind, however, had shown itself in the earlier stages of his acquaintance with MissEnderby. The first sight of her had moved him somewhat, but scarcelywith any foreshadowing of serious emotion. He felt that she wasdifferent from any woman with whom he had ever stood on an equalfooting; but, at the same time, the very possibility of establishingmore or less intimate relations with her made him distrustful of hisjudgment. In spite of himself, he tried to disparage her qualities. Shewas pretty, he admitted, but then of such a feeble, characterless type;doubtless her understanding corresponded with the weakness of heroutward appearance. None the less, he had continued to observe herkeenly, and had noted with pleasure every circumstance whichcontradicted his wilful depreciation of her. His state of mind afterthe thrashing he gave to young Tootle had been characteristic. What hadbeen the cause of his violence? Certainly not uncontrollable anger, forhe had in reality been perfectly cool throughout the affair; simply, then, the pleasure of avenging Miss Enderby. And for this he hadsacrificed his place, and left himself without resources. He had actedabsurdly; certainly would not have repeated the absurdity had the scenebeen to act over again. This was not the attitude of one in love, andhe knew it. Moreover, though he had thought of writing to her, it wouldin reality have cost him nothing if she had forthwith passed out of hissight and knowledge. Now how all this had been altered, by a merechance meeting. The doubts had left him; she was indeed the being froma higher world that he would have liked to believe her from the first;the mysterious note of true sympathy had been struck in that shortexchange of words and looks, and, though they had taken leave of eachother for who could say how long, mutual knowledge was just beginning, real intercourse about to be established between them. He might writeto her, and of course she would reply. 

He walked without much perception of time or distance, and foundhimself at home just before nightfall. He felt disposed for a quietevening, to be spent in the companionship of his thoughts. But when hehad made his coffee and eaten with appetite after the day's rambling, restlessness again possessed him. After all, it was not retirement thathe needed; these strange new Imaginings would consort best with motionand the liveliness of the streets. So he put out his lamp, and oncemore set forth. The night air freshened his spirits; he sang to himselfas he went along. It was long since he had been to a theatre, and justnow he 'vas so hopelessly poor that he could really afford a littleextravagance. So he was soon sitting before the well-known drop of afavourite play-house, as full of light-hearted expectancy as a boy whois enjoying a holiday. The evening was delightful, and passed all tooquickly. 

The play over, he was in no mood to go straight home. He lit a cigarand drifted with the current westward, out of the Strand and into PallMall. A dispute between a cabdriver and his fare induced him to pausefor a moment under the colonnade, and, when the little cluster ofpeople had moved on, he still stood leaning against one of the pillars, enjoying the mild air and the scent of his cigar. He felt his elbowtouched, and, looking round with indifference, met the kind of greetingfor which he was prepared. He shook his head and did not reply; thenthe sham gaiety of the voice all at once turned to a very real misery, and the girl began to beg instead of trying to entice him in theordinary way. He looked at her again, and was shocked at the ghastlywretchedness of her daubed face. She was ill, she said, and couldscarcely walk about, but must get money somehow; if she didn't, herlandlady wouldn't let her sleep in the house again, and she had nowhereelse to go to. There could be no mistake about the genuineness of herstory, at all events as far as bodily suffering went. Waymarkcontrasted her state with his own, and took out what money he had inhis pocket; it was the change out of a sovereign which he had receivedat the theatre, and he gave her it all. She stared, and did notunderstand. 

"Are you coming with me?" she asked, feeling obliged to make a hideousattempt at professional coaxing in return for such generosity. 

"Good God, no!" Waymark exclaimed. "Go home and take care of yourself. "

She thanked him warmly, and turned away at once. As his eye followedher, he was aware that somebody else had drawn near to him from behind. This also was a girl, but of a different kind. She was well dressed, and of graceful, rounded form; a veil almost hid her face, but enoughcould be seen to prove that she had good looks. 

"That a friend of yours?" she asked abruptly, and her voice wasremarkably full, clear, and sweet. 

Waymark answered with a negative, looking closely at her. 

"Then why did you give her all that money?"

"How do you know what I gave her?"

"I was standing just behind here, and could see. "

"Well?"

"Nothing; only I should think you are one out of a thousand. You savedme a sovereign, too; I've watched her begging of nearly a dozen people, and I couldn't have stood it much longer. "

"You would have given her a sovereign?"

"I meant to, if she'd failed with you. "

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"Never saw her before to-night. "

"Then you must be one out of a thousand. "

The girl laughed merrily. 

"In that case, " she said, "we ought to know each other, shouldn't we?"

"If we began by thinking so well of each other, " returned Waymark, smiling, "we should not improbably suffer a grievous disappointmentbefore long. "

"Well, _you_ might. You have to take my generosity on trust, but I haveproof of yours. "

"You're an original sort of girl, " said Waymark, throwing away the endof his cigar. "Do you talk to everybody in this way?"

"Pooh, of course not. I shouldn't be worth much if I couldn't suit myconversation to the man I want to make a fool of. Would you rather haveme talk in the usual way? Shall I say--"

"I had rather not. "

"Well, I knew that. "

"And how?"

"Well, _you_ don't wear a veil, if I do. "

"You can read faces?"

"A little, I flatter myself. Can you?"

"Give me a chance of trying. "

She raised her veil, and he inspected her for some moments, then lookedaway. 

"Excellently well, if God did all, " he observed, with a smile. 

"That's out of a play, " she replied quickly. "I heard it a little timeago, but I forget the answer. I'd have given anything to be able to capyou! Then you'd have put me down for a clever woman, and I should havelived on the reputation henceforth and for ever. But it's all my own, indeed; I'm not afraid of crying. "

"_Do_ you ever cry? I can't easily imagine it. "

"Oh yes, sometimes, " she answered, sighing, and at the same timelowering her veil again. "But you haven't read my face for me. "

"It's a face I'm sorry to have seen. "

"Why?" she asked, holding her hands clasped before her, the palmsturned outwards. 

"I shall think of it often after tonight, and imagine it with all itsfreshness gone, and marks of suffering and degradation upon it. "

"Suffering, perhaps; degradation, no. Why should I be degraded?"

"You can't help yourself. The life you have chosen brings itsinevitable consequences. "

"Chosen!" she repeated, with an indignant face. "How do you know I hadany choice in the matter? You have no right to speak contemptuously, like that. "

"Perhaps not. Certainly not. I should have said--the life you areevidently leading. "

"Well, I don't know that it makes so much difference. I supposeeverybody has a choice at all events between life and death, and youmean that I ought to have killed myself rather than come to this. That's my own business, however, and--"

A man had just passed behind them, and, catching the sound of thegirl's voice, had turned suddenly to look at her. She, at the samemoment, looked towards him, and stopped all at once in her speech. 

"Are you walking up Regent Street?" she asked Waymark, in quite adifferent voice. "Give me your arm, will you?"

Waymark complied, and they walked together in the direction shesuggested. 

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Why are you trembling?"

"Don't look round. It's that fellow behind us; I know he is following. "

"Somebody you know?"

"Yes, and hate. Worse than that, I'm afraid of him. Will you keep withme till he's gone?"

"Of course I will. What harm can he do you though?"

"None that I know of. It's a strange stupid feeling I have. I can'tbear the sight of him. Don't look round!"

"Has he been a--a friend of yours?"

"No, no; not in that way. But he follows me about. He'll drive me outof London, I know. "

They had reached Piccadilly Circus. 

"Look back now, " she said, "and see if he's following still. "

Waymark turned his head; the man was at a little distance behind. Hestopped when he saw himself observed, and stood on the edge of thepavement, tapping his boot with his cane. He was a tall and ratherburly fellow, well dressed, with a clean-shaven face. 

"Let's make haste round the corner, " the girl said, "and get into therestaurant. You must have some supper with me. "

"I should be very happy, had I a penny in my pocket. "

"See how easily good deeds are forgotten, " returned the other, laughingin the old way. "Now comes my turn to give proof of generosity. Comeand have some supper all the same. "

"No; that's out of the question. "

"Fiddlestick Surely you won't desert me when I ask your protection?Come along, and pay me back another time, if you like. "

They walked round the corner, then the girl started and ran at her fullspeed. Waymark followed in the same way, somewhat oppressed by a senseof ridiculousness. They reached the shelter of the restaurant, and thegirl led the way upstairs, laughing immoderately. 

Supper was served to them, and honoured with due attention by both. Waymark had leisure to observe his companion's face in clearer light. It was beautiful, and, better still, full of character. 

He presently bent forward to her, and spoke in a low voice. 

"Isn't this the man who followed us just coming in now? Look, he hasgone to the table on the right. "

She looked round hastily, and shuddered, for she had met the man's eyes. 

"Why did you tell me?" she exclaimed impatiently. "Now I can't finishmy supper. Wait till he has given his order, and then we will go. "

Waymark examined this mysterious persecutor. In truth, the countenancewas no good one, and a woman might well dislike to have such eyesturned upon her. It was a strong face; coarse originally, and, inaddition to the faults of nature, it now bore the plainest traces ofhard living. As soon as he perceived Waymark and his companion, hefixed them with his eyes, and scarcely looked away as long as theyremained in the room. The girl seemed shrinking under this gaze, thoughshe sat almost with her back to him. She ceased talking, and, as soonas she saw that Waymark had finished, made a sign to him to pay quickly(with a sovereign she pushed across the table) and let them be gone. They rose, accordingly, and left. The man watched them, but remainedseated. 

"Are you in a hurry to get home?" the girl asked, when they were in thestreet again. 

"No; time is of no consequence to me. "

"Do you live far off?"

"In Kennington. And you?"

"If you like, I'll show you. Let us walk quickly. I feel rather cold. "

She led the way into the Strand. At no great distance from Temple Barshe turned off into a small court. 

"This is a queer place to live in, " observed Waymark, as he looked upat the dark houses. 

"Don't be afraid, " was the good-humoured reply, as she opened the doorwith a latch-key. They went up two flights of stairs, then entered aroom where a bright fire was burning. Waymark's conductor held a pieceof paper to the flame, and lit a lamp. It was a small, pleasantlyfurnished sitting-room. 

"Do you play?" Waymark asked, seeing an open piano, with music upon it. 

"I only wish I could. My landlady's daughter is giving me lessons. ButI think I'm getting on. Listen to me do this exercise. "

She sat down, and, with much conscientious effort, went over somesimple bars. Then she looked up at her companion and caught him smiling. 

"Well, " she exclaimed, in a pet, "you must begin at the beginning ineverything, mustn't you? Come and let me hear what you can do. "

"Not even so much. "

"Then don't laugh at a poor girl doing her best. You have such a queersmile too; it seems both ill-natured and good-natured at the same time. Now wait a minute till I come back. "

She went into an inner room, and closed the door behind her. In fiveminutes it opened again. She appeared in a dressing gown and with herfeet in slippers. Her fine hair fell heavily about her shoulders; inher arms she held a beautiful black cat, with white throat and paws. 

"This is my child. Don't you admire him? Shake hands, Grim. "

"Why Grim?"

"It's short for Grimalkin. The name of a cat in a hook of fairy tales Iused to be fond of reading. Don't you think he's got a beautiful face, and a good deal more intelligent than some people we could mention? Ipicked him up on our door-step, two months ago. Oh, you never saw sucha wretched little object, dripping with rain, and with such a poorstarved little face, and bones almost coming through the skin. Helooked up at me, and begged me as plain as plain could be to have pityon him and help him; didn't you, Grimmy? And so I brought him upstairs, and made him comfortable, and now we shall never part. --Do you likeanimals?"

"Yes. "

The door of the room suddenly opened, and there sprang in afresh-coloured young girl in hat and jacket, short, plump, pretty, andlooking about seventeen. She started back on seeing that the room wasoccupied. 

"What is it, Sally?" asked Grim's mistress, with a good-natured laugh. 

"Why, Mrs. Walter told me you wasn't in yet; I'm awful sorry, I begyour pardon. "

She spoke with a strong south-west-country accent. 

"Do you want me?"

"It's only for Grim, " returned Sally, showing something which she heldwrapped up in paper. "I'd brought un home a bit o' fish, a nice bitwithout bone; it'll just suit he. "

"Then come and give it he, " said the other, with a merry glance atWaymark. "But he mustn't make a mess on the hearthrug. "

"Oh, trust un for that, " cried Sally. "He won't pull it off the paper. "

Grim was accordingly provided with his supper, and Sally ran away witha "good-night. "

"Who's that?" Waymark asked. "Where on earth does she come from?"

"She's from Weymouth. They talk queerly there, don't they? She lives inthe house, and goes to business. Sally and I are great friends. "

"Do you come from the country?" Waymark inquired, as she sat down in aneasy-chair and watched the cat eating. 

"No, I'm a London girl. I've never been out of the town since I was alittle child. "

"And how old are you now?"

"Guess. "

"Not twenty. "

"Eighteen a month ago. All my life before me, isn't it?"

Waymark kept silence for a moment. 

"How do you like my room?" she asked suddenly, looking round. 

"It's very comfortable. I always thought there were nothing butbusiness places all about here. I should rather like to live in thevery middle of the town, like this. "

"Should you? That's just what I like. Oh, how I enjoy the noise and thecrowds! I should be ill if I had to live in one of those long, dismalstreets, where the houses are all the same shape, and costermongers gobawling about all day long. I suppose you live in a place like that?"

"Very much the same. "

In taking his handkerchief out, Waymark just happened to feel a book inhis overcoat-pocket. He drew it forth to see what it was, havingforgotten entirely that he had been carrying the volume about with himsince morning. 

"What's that?" asked the girl. "Will you let me look? Is it a tale?Lend it me; will you?"

"Do you read books?"

"Oh yes; why not? Let me keep this till you come again. Is this yourname written here--Osmond Waymark?"

"Yes. And what is your name?"

"Ida Starr. "

"Ida? That's a beautiful name. I was almost afraid to ask you, for fearit should be something common. "

"And why shouldn't I have a common name?"

"Because you are by no means a common girl. "

"You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. But may I keep the booktill I see you again?"

"I had better give it you, for it isn't very likely you will see meagain. "

"Why not?"

"My acquaintance would be anything but profitable to you. I oftenhaven't enough money to live on, and--"

Ida stooped down and played for a few moments with Grim, who turnedover lazily on to his back, and stroked his mistress's hands delicatelywith his soft white paws. 

"But you are a gentleman, " she said, rising again, and rustling overthe pages of the book she still held. "Are you in the city?"

"The Lord deliver me!"

"What then?"

"I am nothing. "

"Then you must be rich. "

"It by no means follows. Yesterday I was a teacher in a school. To-dayI am what is called out of work. "

"A teacher. But I suppose you'll get another place. "

"No. I've given it up because I couldn't endure it any longer. "

"And how are you going to live?"

"I have no idea. "

"Then you must have been very foolish to give away your money like thatto-night. "

"I don't pretend to much wisdom. If I had had another sovereign in mypocket, no doubt I should have given it you before this, and youwouldn't have refused it. "

"How do you know?" she asked sharply. "Why should you think me selfish?"

"Certainly I have no reason to. And by the by, I already owe you moneyfor the supper. I will send it you to-morrow. "

"Why not bring it?"

"Better not. I have a good deal of an unpleasant quality which peoplecall pride, and I don't care to make myself uncomfortableunnecessarily. "

"You can't have more pride than I have. Look. " She held out her hands. "Will you be my friend, really my friend? You understand me?"

"I think I understand, but I doubt whether it is possible. "

"Everything is possible. Will you shake hands with me, and, when youcome to see me again, let us meet as if I were a modest girl, and youhad got to know me in a respectable house, and not in the street atmidnight?"

"You really wish it? You are not joking?"

"I am in sober earnest, and I wish it. You won't refuse?"

"If I did I should refuse a great happiness. "

He took her hand and again released it. 

"And now look at the time, " said she, pointing to a clock on themantelpiece. "Half-past one. How will you get home?"

"Walk. It won't take me more than an hour. May I light my pipe before Istart?"

"Of course you may. When shall I see you again?"

"Shall we say this night next week?"

"Very well. Come here any time you like in the evening. I will be athome after six. And then I can give you your book back. "

Waymark lit his pipe, stooped to give Grim a stroke, and buttoned uphis coat. Ida led the way downstairs. They shook hands again, andparted. 

CHAPTER XII

RENT DAY

It was much after his usual hour when Waymark awoke on Good Fridaymorning. He had been troubled throughout the night with a strangelyvivid dream, which seemed to have repeated itself several times; whenhe at length started into consciousness the anguish of the vision wasstill upon him. 

He rose at once, and dressed quickly, doing his best to shake off theclinging misery of sleep. In a little while it had passed, and he triedto go over in his mind the events of the preceding day. Were they, too, only fragments of a long dream? Surely so many and strange events couldnot have crowded themselves into one period of twelve hours; and forhim, whose days passed with such dreary monotony. The interview withMaud Enderby seemed so unnaturally long ago; that with Ida Starr, soimpossibly fresh and recent. Yet both had undoubtedly taken place. He, who but yesterday morning had felt so bitterly his loneliness in theworld, and, above all, the impossibility of what he most longedfor--woman's companionship--found himself all at once on terms of atleast friendly intimacy with two women, both young, both beautiful, yetso wholly different. Each answered to an ideal which he cherished, andthe two ideals were so diverse, so mutually exclusive. The experiencehad left him in a curious frame of mind. For the present, he felt cool, almost indifferent, to both his new acquaintances. He had asked andobtained leave to write to Maud Enderby; what on earth could he writeabout? How could he address her? He had promised to go and see IdaStarr, on a most impracticable footing. Was it not almost certain that, before the day came round, her caprice would have vanished, and hisreception would prove anything but a flattering one? The feelings whichboth girls had at the time excited in him seemed artificial; in hispresent mood he in vain tried to resuscitate his interest either in theone or the other. It was as though he had over-exerted his emotionalpowers, and they lay exhausted. Weariness was the only reality of whichhe was conscious. He must turn his mind to other things. Havingbreakfasted, he remembered what day it was, and presently took down avolume of his Goethe, opening at the Easter morning scene in Faust, favourite reading with him. This inspired him with a desire to go intothe open air; it was a bright day, and there would be life in thestreets. Just as he began to prepare himself for walking, there came aknock at his door, and Julian Casti entered. 

"Halloa!" Waymark cried. "I thought you told me you were engaged withyour cousin to-day. "

"I was, but I sent her a note yesterday to say I was unable to meether. "

"Then why didn't you write at the same time and tell me you werecoming? I might have gone out for the day. "

"I had no intention of coming then. "

"What's the matter? You look out of sorts. "

"I don't feel in very good spirits. By the by, I heard from thepublishers yesterday. Here's the note. "

It simply stated that Messrs. So-and-so had given their best attentionto the play of "Stilicho, " which Mr. Casti had been so good as tosubmit to them, and regretted their inability to make any proposal forits publication, seeing that its subject was hardly likely to excitepopular interest. They thanked the author for offering it to them, andbegged to return the MS. 

"Well, it's a disappointment, " said Waymark, "but we must try again. Imyself am so hardened to this kind of thing that I fear you will thinkme unsympathetic. It's like having a tooth out. You never quite getused to it, but you learn after two or three experiments to gauge themoment's torture at its true value. Re-direct your parcel, and freshhope beats out the old discouragement. "

"It wasn't altogether that which was making me feel restless anddepressed, " Casti said, when they had left the house and were walkingalong. "I suppose I'm not quite right in health just at present. I seemto have lost my natural good spirits of late; the worst of it is, Ican't settle to my day's work as I used to. In fact, I have just beenapplying for a new place, that of dispenser at the All Saints'Hospital. If I get it, it would make my life a good deal moreindependent. I should live in lodgings of my own, and have much moretime to myself. "

Waymark encouraged the idea strongly. But his companion could not beroused to the wonted cheerfulness. After a long silence, he all at onceput a strange question, and in an abashed way. 

"Waymark, have you ever been in love?"

Osmond laughed, and looked at his friend curiously. 

"Many thousand times, " was his reply. 

"No, but seriously, " urged Julian. 

"With desperate seriousness for two or three days at a time. Neverlonger. "

"Well now, answer me in all earnestness. Do you believe it possible tolove a woman whom in almost every respect you regard as your inferior, who you know can't understand your thoughts and aspirations, who has nointerest in anything above daily needs?"

"Impossible to say. Is she good-looking?"

"Suppose she is not; yet not altogether plain. "

"Then does she love you?"

Julian reddened at the direct application. 

"Suppose she seems to. "

"Seems to, eh?--On the whole, I should say that I couldn't declare itpossible or the contrary till I had seen the girl. I myself should bevery capable of falling desperately in love with a girl who hadn't anidea in her head, and didn't know her letters. All I should ask wouldbe passion in return, and--well, yes, a pliant and docile character. "

"You are right; the character would go for much. Never mind, we won'tspeak any more of the subject. It was an absurd question to ask you. "

"Nevertheless, you have made me very curious. "

"I will tell you more some other time; not now. Tell me about your ownplans. What decision have you come to?"

Waymark professed to have formed no plan whatever. This was notstrictly true. For some months now, ever and again, as often indeed ashe had felt the burden of his schoolwork more than usually intolerable, his thoughts had turned to the one person who could be of anyassistance to him, and upon whom he had any kind of claim; that wasAbraham Woodstock, his father's old friend. He had held nocommunication with Mr. Woodstock for four years; did not even knowwhether he was living. But of him he still thought, now that absoluteneed was close at hand, and, as soon as Julian Casti had left himto-day, he examined a directory to ascertain whether the accountantstill occupied the house in St. John Street Road. Apparently he did. And the same evening Waymark made up his mind to visit Mr. Woodstock onthe following day. 

The old gentleman was sitting alone when the servant announced avisitor. In personal appearance he was scarcely changed since the visitof his little grand-daughter. Perhaps the eye was not quite so vivid, the skin on forehead and cheeks a trifle less smooth, but his face hadthe same healthy colour; there was the same repose of force in the hugelimbs, and his voice had lost nothing of its resonant firmness. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, as Waymark entered. "You! I've been wondering whereyou were to be found. "

The visitor held out his hand, and Abraham, though he did not rise, smiled not unpleasantly as he gave his own. 

"You wanted to see me?" Waymark asked. 

"Well, yes. I suppose you've come about the mines. "

"Mines? What mines?"

"Oh, then you haven't come about them. You didn't know the Llwg Valleypeople have begun to pay a dividend?"

Waymark remembered that one of his father's unfortunate speculationshad been the purchase of certain shares in some Welsh mines. The moneythus invested had remained, for the last nine years, whollyunproductive. Mr. Woodstock explained that things were looking up withthe company in question, who had just declared a dividend of 4 percent. On all their paid-up shares. 

"In other words, " exclaimed Waymark eagerly, "they owe me some money?"

"Which you can do with, eh?" said Abraham, with a twinkle ofgood-humoured commiseration in his eye. 

"Perfectly. What are the details?"

"There are fifty ten-pound shares. Dividend accordingly twenty pounds. "

"By Jingo! How is it to be got at?"

"Do you feel disposed to sell the shares?" asked the old man, lookingup sideways, and still smiling. 

"No; on the whole I think not. "

"Ho, ho, Osmond, where have you learnt prudence, eh?--Why don't you sitdown?--If you didn't come about the mines, why did you come, eh?"

"Not to mince matters, " said Waymark, taking a chair, and speaking inan off-hand way which cost him much effort, "I came to ask you to helpme to some way of getting a living. "

"Hollo!" exclaimed the old man, chuckling. "Why, I should have thoughtyou'd made your fortune by this time. Poetry doesn't pay, it seems?"

"It doesn't. One has to buy experience. It's no good saying that Iought to have been guided by you five years ago. Of course I wish I hadbeen, but it wasn't possible. The question is, do you care to help menow?"

"What's your idea?" asked Abraham, playing with his watch-guard, asmile as of inward triumph flitting about his lips. 

"I have none. I only know that I've been half-starved for years in thecursed business of teaching, and that I can't stand it any longer. Iwant some kind of occupation that will allow me to have three goodmeals every day, and leave me my evenings free. That isn't asking much, I imagine; most men manage to find it. I don't care what the work is, not a bit. If it's of a kind which gives a prospect of getting on, allthe better; if that's out of the question, well, three good meals and aroof shall suffice. "

"You're turning out a devilish sensible lad, Osmond, " said Mr. Woodstock, still smiling. "Better late than never, as they say. But Idon't see what you can do. You literary chaps get into the way ofthinking that any fool can make a man of business, and that it's only amatter of condescending to turn your hands to desk work and the waysclear before you. It's a mistake, and you're not the first that'll findit out. "

"This much I know, " replied Waymark, with decision. "Set me to anythingthat can be learnt, and I'll be perfect in it in a quarter the time itwould take the average man. "

"You want your evenings free?" asked the other, after a shortreflection. "What will you do with them?"

"I shall give them to literary work. "

"I thought as much. And you think you can be a man of business and apoet at the same time? No go, my boy. If you take up business, you droppoetising. Those two horses never yet pulled at the same shaft, andnever will. "

Mr. Woodstock pondered for a few moments. He thrust out his great legswith feet crossed on the fender, and with his hands jingled coin in histrouser-pockets. 

"I tell you what, " he suddenly began. "There's only one thing I know ofat present that you're likely to be able to do. Suppose I gave you thejob of collecting my rents down east. "

"Weekly rents?"

"Weekly. It's a rough quarter, and they're a shady lot of customers. You wouldn't find the job over-pleasant, but you might try, eh?"

"What would it bring me in, --to go at once to the point?"

"The rents average twenty-five pounds. Your commission would be sevenper cent. You might reckon, I dare say, on five-and-thirty shillings aweek. "

"What is the day for collecting?"

"Mondays; but there's lots of 'em you'd have to look up several timesin a week. If you like I'll go round myself on Tuesday--Easter Monday'sno good--and you can come with me. "

"I will go, by all means, " exclaimed Waymark

Talk continued for some half-hour. When Waymark rose at length, heexpressed his gratitude for the assistance promised. 

"Well, well, " said the other, "wait till we see how things work. Ishouldn't wonder if you throw it up after a week or two. However, behere on Tuesday at ten. And prompt, mind: I don't wait for any man. "

Waymark was punctual enough on the following Tuesday, and the two drovein a hansom eastward. It was rather a foggy morning, and things lookedtheir worst. After alighting they had a short walk. Mr. Woodstockstopped at the end of an alley. 

"You see, " he said, "that's Litany Lane. There are sixteen houses init, and they're all mine. Half way down, on the left, runs off ElmCourt, where there are fourteen houses, and those are all mine, too. "

Waymark looked. Litany Lane was a narrow passage, with houses only onone side; opposite to them ran a long high wall, apparently the limitof some manufactory. Two posts set up at the entrance to the Laneshowed that it was no thoroughfare for vehicles. The houses were ofthree storeys. There were two or three dirty little shops, but the restwere ordinary lodging-houses, the front-doors standing wide open as amatter of course, exhibiting a dusky passage, filthy stairs, withgenerally a glimpse right through into the yard in the rear. In ElmCourt the houses were smaller, and had their fronts whitewashed. Underthe archway which led into the Court were fastened up several writtennotices of rooms to be let at this or that number. The paving was inevil repair, forming here and there considerable pools of water, thestench and the colour whereof led to the supposition that theinhabitants facilitated domestic operations by emptying casual vesselsout of the windows. The dirty little casements on the ground floorexhibited without exception a rag of red or white curtain on the oneside, prevailing fashion evidently requiring no corresponding draperyon the other. The Court was a _cul de sac_, and at the far end stood areceptacle for ashes, the odour from which was intolerable. Strangelyenough, almost all the window-sills displayed flower-pots, and, despitethe wretched weather, several little bird-cages hung out from the upperstoreys. In one of them a lark was singing briskly. 

They began their progress through the tenements, commencing at the topof Litany Lane. Many of the rooms were locked, the occupiers being awayat their work, but in such case the rent had generally been left withsome other person in the house, and was forthcoming. But now and thenneither rent nor tenant was to be got at, and dire were the threatswhich Abraham bade the neighbours convey to the defaulters on theirreturn. His way with one and all was curt and vigorous; to Waymark itseemed needlessly brutal. A woman pleading inability to make up hertotal sum would be cut short with a thunderous oath, and the assurancethat, if she did not pay up in a day or two, every stick would becarried off. Pitiful pleading for time had absolutely no effect uponAbraham. Here and there e tenant would complain of high rent, and pointout a cracked ceiling, a rotten piece of stairs, or something elseimperatively calling for renovation. "If you don't like the room, clearout, " was the landlord's sole reply to all such speeches. 

In one place they came across an old Irish woman engaged in washing. The room was hung with reeking clothes from wall to wall. For a time itwas difficult to distinguish objects through the steam, and Waymark, making his way in, stumbled and almost fell over an open box. From thebox at once proceeded a miserable little wail, broken by as terrible acough as a child could be afflicted with; and Waymark then perceivedthat the box was being used as a cradle, in which lay a baby gasping inthe agonies of some throat disease, whilst drops from the wet clothingtrickled on to its face. 

On leaving this house, they entered Elm Court. Here, sitting on thedoorstep of the first house, was a child of apparently nine or ten, andseemingly a girl, though the nondescript attire might have concealedeither sex, and the face was absolutely sexless in its savagery. Herhair was cut short, and round her neck was a bit of steel chain, fastened with string. On seeing the two approach, she sprang up, anddisappeared with a bound into the house. 

"That's the most infernal little devil in all London, I do believe, "said Mr. Woodstock, as they began to ascend the stairs. "Her motherowes two weeks, and if she don't pay something to-day, I'll have herout. She'll be shamming illness, you'll see. The child ran up toprepare her. "

The room in question was at the top of the house. It proved to be quitebare of furniture. On a bundle of straw in one corner was lying awoman, to all appearances _in extremis_. She lay looking up to theceiling, her face distorted into the most ghastly anguish, her lipsfoaming; her whole frame shivered incessantly. 

"Ha, I thought so, " exclaimed Abraham as he entered. "Are you going topay anything this week?"

The woman seemed to be unconscious. 

"Have you got the rent?" asked Mr. Woodstock, turning to the child, whohad crouched down in another corner. 

"No, we ain't, " was the reply, with a terribly fierce glare from eyeswhich rather seemed to have looked on ninety years than nine. 

"Then out you go! Come, you, get up now; d' you hear? Very well; comealong, Waymark; you take hold of that foot, and I'll take this. Now, drag her out on to the landing. "

They dragged her about half-way to the door, when suddenly Waymark feltthe foot he had hold of withdrawn from his grasp, and at once the womansprang upright. Then she fell on him, tooth and nail, screaming likesome evil beast. Had not Abraham forthwith come to the rescue, he wouldhave been seriously torn about the face, but just in time the woman'sarms were seized in a giant grip, and she was flung bodily out of theroom, falling with a crash upon the landing. Then from her and thechild arose a most terrific uproar of commination; both together yelledsuch foulness and blasphemy as can only be conceived by those who havemade a special study of this vocabulary, and the vituperation of thechild was, if anything, richer in quality than the mother's. Theformer, moreover, did not confine herself to words, but all at oncesent her clenched fist through every pain of glass in the window, heedless of the fearful cuts she inflicted upon herself, and uttering awild yell of triumph at each fracture. Mr. Woodstock was too late tosave his property, but he caught up the creature like a doll, and flungher out also on to the landing, then coolly locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and, letting Waymark pass on first, descended the stairs. The yelling and screeching behind them continuedas long as they were in the Court, but it drew no attention from theneighbours, who were far too accustomed to this kind of thing to heedit. 

In the last house they had to enter they came upon a man asleep on abare bedstead. It was difficult to wake him. When at length he wasaroused, he glared at them for a moment with one blood-shot eye (theother was sightless), looking much like a wild beast which doubtswhether to spring or to shrink back. 

"Rent, Slimy, " said Mr. Woodstock with more of good humour than usual. 

The man pointed to the mantelpiece, where the pieces of money werefound to be lying. Waymark looked round the room. Besides the bedstead, a table was the only article of furniture, and on it stood a dirty jugand a glass. Lying about was a strange collection of miscellaneousarticles, heaps of rags and dirty paper, bottles, boots, bones. Therewere one or two chairs in process of being new-caned; there was awooden frame for holding glass, such as is carried about by itinerantglaziers, and, finally, there was a knife-grinding instrument, adaptedfor wheeling about the streets. The walls were all scribbled over withobscene words and drawings. On the inside of the door had been fittedtwo enormous bolts, one above and one below. 

"How's trade, Slimy?" inquired Mr. Woodstock. 

"Which trade, Mr. Woodstock?" asked the man in return, in a very huskyvoice. 

"Oh, trade in general. "

"There never was sich times since old Scratch died, " replied Slimy, shaking his head. "No chance for a honest man. "

"Then you're in luck. This is the new collector, d'you see. "

"I've been a-looking at him, " said Slimy, whose one eye, for all that, had seemed busy all the time in quite a different direction. "I seenhim somewheres, but I can't just make out where. "

"Not many people you haven't seen, I think, " said Abraham, nodding, ashe went out of the room. Waymark followed, and was glad to get into theopen streets again. 

CHAPTER XIII

A MAN-TRAP

Julian Casti was successful in his application for the post ofdispenser at the All Saints' Hospital, and shortly after Easter he leftthe shop in Oxford Street, taking lodgings in Beaufort Street, Chelsea. His first evening there was spent in Waymark's company, and there wasmuch talk of the progress his writing would make, now that his hours ofliberty were so considerably extended. For the first time in his lifehe was enjoying the sense of independence. Waymark talked of movingfrom Walcot Square, in order to be nearer to his friend. He, too, waspossessed of more freedom than had been the case for a long time, andhis head was full of various fancies. They would encourage each otherin their work, afford by mutual appreciation that stimulus which is soessential to the young artist. 

But in this world, though man may propose, it is woman who disposes. And at this moment, Julian's future was being disposed of in a mannerhe could not well have foreseen. 

Harriet Smales had heard with unconcealed pleasure of his leaving theshop and taking lodgings of his own. She had been anxious to come andsee the rooms, and, though the following Sunday was appointed for hervisit, she could not wait so long, but, to her cousin's surprise, presented herself at the house one evening, and was announced by thelandlady, who looked suspicious. Julian, with some nervousness, hastened to explain that the visitor was a relative, which did not inthe least alter his landlady's preconceived ideas. Harriet sat down andlooked about her with a sigh of satisfaction. If she could but havesuch a home! Girls had no chance of getting on as men did. If only herfather could have lived, things would have been different. Now she wasthrown on the world, and had to depend upon her own hard work. Then shegave way to an hysterical sob, and Julian--who felt sure that thelandlady was listening at the door--could only beg her nervously not tobe so down-hearted. 

"Whatever success I have, " he said to her, "you will share it. "

"If I thought so!" she sighed, looking down at the floor, and movingthe point of her umbrella up and down. Harriet had saturated her mindwith the fiction of penny weeklies, and owed to this training allmanner of awkward affectations which she took to be the most becomingmanifestations of a susceptible heart. At times she would expressherself in phrases of the most absurdly high-flown kind, and lately shehad got into the habit of heaving profound sighs between her sentences. Julian was not blind to the meaning of all this. His active employmentsduring the past week had kept his thoughts from brooding on the matter, and he had all but dismissed the trouble it had given him. But thisvisit, and Harriet's demeanour throughout it, revived all hisanxieties. He came back from accompanying his cousin part of her wayhome in a very uneasy frame of mind. What could he do to disabuse thepoor girl of the unhappy hopes she entertained? The thought of givingpain to any most humble creature was itself a pain unendurable toJulian. His was one of those natures to which self-sacrifice isinfinitely easier than the idea of sacrificing another to his owndesires or even necessities, a vice of weakness often more deeply andwidely destructive than the vices of strength. 

The visit having been paid, it was arranged that on the followingSunday Julian should meet his cousin at the end of Gray's Inn Road asusual. On that day the weather was fine, but Harriet came out in nomood for a walk. She had been ailing for a day or two, she said, andfelt incapable of exertion; Mrs. Ogle was away from home for the day, too, and it would be better they should spend the afternoon together inthe house. Julian of course assented, as always, and they establishedthemselves in the parlour behind the shop. In the course of talk, thegirl made mention of an engraving Julian had given her a week or twobefore, and said that she had had it framed and hung it in her bed-room. 

"Do come up and look at it, " she exclaimed; "there's no one in thehouse. I want to ask you if you can find a better place for it. Itdoesn't show so well where it is. "

Julian hesitated for a moment, but she was already leading the way, andhe could not refuse to follow. They went up to the top of the house, and entered a little chamber which might have been more tidy, but wasdecently furnished. The bed was made in a slovenly way, the mantelpiecewas dusty, and the pictures on the walls hung askew. Harriet closed thedoor behind them, and proceeded to point out the new picture, anddiscuss the various positions which had occurred to her. Julian wouldhave decided the question as speedily as possible, and once or twicemoved to return downstairs, but each time the girl found something newto detain him. Opening a drawer, she took out several paltry littleornaments, which she wished him to admire, and, in showing them, stoodvery close by his side. All at once the door of the room was pushedopen, and a woman ran in. On seeing the stranger present, she dartedback with an exclamation of surprise. 

"Oh, Miss Smales, I didn't know as you wasn't alone! I heard you movingabout, and come just to arst you to lend me--but never mind, I'm sosorry; why didn't you lock the door?"

And she bustled out again, apparently in much confusion. 

Harriet had dropped the thing she held in her hand, and stood lookingat her cousin as if dismayed. 

"I never thought any one was in, " she said nervously. "It's Miss Mould, the lodger. She went out before I did, and I never heard her come back. Whatever will she think!"

"But of course, " he stammered, "you will explain everything to her. Sheknows who I am, doesn't she?"

"I don't think so, and, even if she did--"

She stopped, and stood with eyes on the ground, doing her best todisplay maiden confusion. Then she began to cry. 

"But surely, surely there is no need to trouble yourself, " exclaimedJulian, almost distracted, beginning to be dimly conscious of allmanner of threatening possibilities. "I will speak to the woman myself, and clear you of every--. Oh, but this is all nonsense. Let us go downat once, Harriet. What a pity you asked me to come up here!"

It was the nearest to a reproach that he had ever yet addressed to her. His face showed clearly how distressed he was, and that on his ownaccount more than hers, for he could not conceive any blame save onhimself for being so regardless of appearances. 

"Go as quietly as ever you can, " Harriet whispered. "The stairs creakso. Step very softly. "

This was terrible to the poor fellow. To steal down in this guilty waywas as bad as a confession of evil intentions, and he so entirelyinnocent of a shadow of evil even in his thought. Yet he could not butdo as she bade him. Even on the stairs she urged him in a very loudwhisper to be yet more cautious. He was out of himself withmortification; and felt angry with her for bringing him into suchignominy. In the back parlour once more, he took up his hat at once. 

"You mustn't go yet, " whispered Harriet. "I'm sure that woman'slistening on the stairs. You must talk a little. Let's talk so she canhear us. Suppose she should tell Mrs. Ogle. "

"I can't see that it matters, " said Julian, with annoyance. "I willmyself see Mrs. Ogle. "

"No, no! The idea! I should have to leave at once. Whatever shall I doif she turns me away, and won't give me a reference or anything!"

Even in a calmer mood, Julian's excessive delicacy would have presentedan affair of this kind in a grave light to him; at present he waswholly incapable of distinguishing between true and false, or ofgauging these fears at their true value. The mere fact of the girlmaking so great a matter out of what should have been so easy toexplain and have done with, caused an exaggeration of the difficulty inhis own mind. He felt that he ought of course to justify himself beforeMrs. Ogle, and would have been capable of doing so had only Harriettaken the same sensible view; but her apparent distress seemed--even tohim--so much more like conscious guilt than troubled innocence, thatsuch a task would cost him the acutest suffering. For nearly an hour heargued with her, trying to convince her how impossible it was that thewoman who had surprised them should harbour any injurious suspicions. 

"But she knows--" began Harriet, and then stopped, her eyes falling. 

"What does she know?" demanded her cousin in surprise; but could get noreply to his question. However, his arguments seemed at length to havea calming effect, and, as he took leave, he even affected to laugh atthe whole affair. For all that, he had never suffered such mentaltrouble in his life as during this visit and throughout the eveningwhich followed. The mere thought of having been obliged to discuss suchthings with his cousin filled him with inexpressible shame and misery. Waymark came to spend the evening with him, but found poorentertainment. Several times Julian was on the point of relating whathad happened, and asking for advice, but he found it impossible tobroach the subject. There was an ever-recurring anger against Harrietin his mind, too, for which at the same time he reproached himself. Hedreaded the next meeting between them. 

Harriet, though herself quite innocent of fine feeling and nicecomplexities of conscience, was well aware of the existence of suchproperties in her cousin. She neither admired nor despised him forpossessing them; they were of unknown value, indifferent to her, indeed, until she became aware of the practical use that might be madeof them. Like most narrow-minded girls, she became a shrewd reader ofcharacter, when her affections and interests were concerned, and couldcalculate Julian's motives, and the course wherein they would lead him, with much precision. She knew too well that he did not care for her inthe way she desired, but at the same time she knew that he was capableof making almost any sacrifice to spare her humiliation and trouble, especially if he felt that her unhappiness was in any way caused byhimself. 

Thus it came about that, on the Tuesday evening of the ensuing week, Julian was startled by his landlady's announcing another visit fromMiss Smales. Harriet came into the room with a veil over her face, andsank on a chair, sobbing. What she had feared had come to pass. Thelodger had told Mrs. Ogle of what had taken place in her absence on theSunday afternoon, and Harriet had received notice that she must findanother place at once. Mrs. Ogle was a woman of severe virtue, andwould not endure the suspicion of wrong-doing under her roof. To whomcould she come for advice and help, but to Julian?

Julian was overwhelmed. His perfectly sincere nature was incapable ofsuspecting a far more palpable fraud. He started up with the intentionof going forthwith to Gray's Inn Road, but Harriet clung to him andheld him back. The idea was vain. The lodger, Miss Mould, had longentertained a spite against her, Harriet said, and had so exaggeratedthis story in relating it to Mrs. Ogle, that the latter, and herhusband, had declared that Casti should not as much as put foot intheir shop again. 

"If you only knew what they've been told!" sobbed the girl, stillclinging to Julian. "They wouldn't listen to a word you said. As if Icould have thought of such a thing happening, and that woman to say allthe bad things of us she can turn her tongue to! I sha'n't never getanother place; I'm thrown out on the wide world!"

It was a phrase she had got out of her penny fiction; and veryremarkable indeed was the mixture of acting and real sentiment whichmarked her utterances throughout. 

Julian's shame and anger began to turn to compassion. A woman in tearswas a sight which always caused him the keenest distress. 

"But, " he cried, with tears in his own eyes, "it is impossible that youshould suffer all this through me, and I not even make an attempt toclear you of such vile charges!"

"It was my own fault. I was thoughtless. I ought to have known thatpeople's always ready to think harm. But I think of nothing when I'mwith you, Julian!"

He had disengaged himself from her hands, and was holding one of themin his own. But, as she made this last confession, she threw her armsabout his neck and drooped her head against his bosom. 

"Oh, if you only felt to me like I do to you!" she sobbed. 

No man can hear without some return of emotion a confession from awoman's lips that she loves him. Harriet was the only girl whom Julianhad ever approached in familiar intercourse; she had no rival to fearamongst living women; the one rival to be dreaded was altogether out ofthe sphere of her conceptions, --the ideal love of a poet's heart andbrain. But the ideal is often least present to us when most needed. Here was love; offer but love to a poet, and does he pause to gauge itsquality? The sudden whirl of conflicting emotions left Julian at themercy of the instant's impulse. She was weak; she was suffering throughhim; she loved him. 

"Be my wife, then, " he whispered, returning her embrace, "and let meguard you from all who would do you harm. "

She uttered a cry of delight, and the cry was a true one. 

CHAPTER XIV

NEAR AND FAR

Osmond Waymark was light-hearted; and with him such a state meantsomething not at all to be understood by those with whom lightness ofheart is a chronic affection. The man who dwells for long periods faceto face with the bitter truths of life learns so to distrust a fleetingmoment of joy, gives habitually so cold a reception to the tardymessenger of delight, that, when the bright guest outdares hischurlishness and perforce tarries with him, there ensues a passionaterevulsion unknown to hearts which open readily to every flutteringillusive bliss. Illusion it of course remains; is ever recognised asthat; but illusion so sweet and powerful that he thanks the god thatblinds him, and counts off with sighs of joy the hours thus brightlywinged. 

He awaited with extreme impatience the evening on which he would againsee Ida. Distrustful always, he could not entirely dismiss the fearthat his first impressions might prove mistaken in the secondinterview; yet he tried his best to do so, and amused himself withimagining for Ida a romantic past, for her and himself together a yetmore romantic future. In spite of the strange nature of theirrelations, he did not delude himself with the notion that the girl hadfallen in love with him at first sight, and that she stood before himto take or reject as he chose. He had a certain awe of her. He divinedin her a strength of character which made her his equal; it might wellbe, his superior. Take, for instance, the question of the life she wasat present leading. In the case of an ordinary pretty and good-naturedgirl falling in his way as Ida Starr had done, he would have exertedwhatever influence he might acquire over her to persuade her intobetter paths. Any such direct guidance was, he felt, out of thequestion here. The girl had independence of judgment; she would resentanything said by him on the assumption of her moral inferiority, and, for aught he knew, with justice. The chances were at least as greatthat he might prove unworthy of her, as that she should prove unworthyof him. 

When he presented himself at the house in the little court by TempleBar, it was the girl Sally who opened the door to him. She beckoned himto follow, and ran before him upstairs. The sitting-room presented thesame comfortable appearance, and Grim, rising lazily from thehearthrug, came forward purring a welcome, but Ida was not there. 

"She was obliged to go out, " said Sally, in answer to his look ofinquiry. "She won't be long, and she said you was to make yourselfcomfortable till she came back. "

On a little side-table stood cups and saucers, and a box of cigars. Thelatter Sally brought forward. 

"I was to ask you to smoke, and whether you'd like a cup of coffee withit?" she asked, with the curious _naivete_ which marked her mode ofspeech. 

"The kettle's boiling on the side, " she added, seeing that Waymarkhesitated. "I can make it in a minute. "

"In that case, I will. "

"You don't mind me having one as well?"

"Of course not. "

"Shall I talk, or shall I keep quiet? I'm not a servant here, youknow, " she added, with an amusing desire to make her position clear. "Ida and me's friends, and she'd do just as much for I. "

"Talk by all means, " said Waymark, smiling, as he lit his cigar. Theresult was that, in a quarter of an hour Sally had related her wholehistory. As Ida had said, she came from Weymouth, where her father wasa fisherman, and owner of bum-boats. Her mother kept a laundry, and thefamily had all lived together in easy circumstances. She herself hadcome to London--well, just for a change. And what was she doing? Oh, getting her living as best she could. In the day-time she worked in acity workroom. 

"And how much do you think I earn a week?" she asked. 

"Fifteen shillings or so, I suppose?"

"Ah, that's all you know about it! Now, last week was the best I've hadyet, and I made seven shillings. "

"What do you do?"

"Machine work; makin' ulsters. How much do you think we get, now, formakin' a ulster--one like this?" pointing to one which hung behind thedoor. 

"Have no idea. "

"Well, --_fourpence_: there now!"

"And how many can you make in a day?"

"I can't make no more than two. Some make three, but it's blessed hardwork. But I get a little job now and then to do at home. "

"But you can't live on seven shillings a week?"

"I sh'd think not, indeed. We have to make up the rest as best we can, s'nough. "

"But your employers must know that?"

"In course. What's the odds? All us girls are the same; we have to keepon the two jobs at the same time. But I'll give up the day-work beforelong, s'nough. I come home at night that tired out I ain't fit fornothing. I feel all eyes, as the sayin' is. And it's hard to have to goout into the Strand, when you're like that. "

"But do they know about all this at home?"

"No fear! If our father knew, he'd be down here precious soon, and thehouse wouldn't hold him. But I shall go back some day, when I've got agood fit-out. "

The door opened quietly, and Ida came in. 

"Well, young people, so you are making yourselves at home. "

The sweet face, the eyes and lips with their contained mirth, thelight, perfect form, the graceful carriage, --Waymark felt his pulsesthrob at the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand. 

"You didn't mind waiting a little for me? I really couldn't help it. And then, after all, I thought you mightn't come. "

"But I promised to. "

"Promises, promises, oh dear!" laughed Ida. "Sally, here's an orangefor you. "

"You _are_ a duck!" was the girl's reply, as she caught it, and, with anod to Waymark, left the room. 

"And so you've really come, " Ida went on, sitting down and beginning todraw off her gloves. 

"You find it surprising? To begin with, I have come to pay my debts. "

"Is there another cup of coffee?" she asked, seeming not to have heard. "I'm too tired to get up and see. "

Waymark felt a keen delight in waiting upon her, in judging to a nicetythe true amount of sugar and cream, in drawing the little table justwithin her reach. 

"Mr. Waymark, " she exclaimed, all at once, "if you had had supper witha friend, and your friend had paid the bill, should you take out yourpurse and pay him back at your next meeting?"

"It would depend entirely on circumstances. "

"Just so. Then the present circumstances don't permit anything of thekind, and there's an end of _that_ matter. Light another cigar, willyou?"

"You don't dislike the smoke?"

"If I did, I should say so. "

Having removed her outer garments one by one, she rose and took theminto the inner room. On reappearing, she went to the sitting-room doorand turned the key in the lock. 

"Could you let me have some more books to read?" she asked. 

"I have brought one, thinking you might be ready for it. "

It was "Jane Eyre. " She glanced over the pages eagerly. 

"I don't know how it is, " she said, "I have grown so hungry for readingof late. Till just now I never cared for it. When I was a child andwent to school, I didn't like my lessons. Still I learned a good deal, for a little girl, and it has stayed by me. And oh, it seems so longago! Never mind, perhaps I will tell you all about that some day. "

They were together for an hour or so. Waymark, uneasily watching hiscompanion's every movement, rose as soon as she gave sign of weariness, and Ida did not seek to detain him. 

"I shall think much of you, " he said. 

"The less the better, " was Ida's reply. 

For his comfort, yes, --Waymark thought, as he walked homewards. Ida hadalready a dangerous hold upon him; she possessed his senses, and sethim on fire with passionate imaginings. Here, as on every hand, hiscursed poverty closed against him the possibilities of happiness. Thatshe should ever come to love him, seemed very unlikely; the alliancebetween them could only be a mere caprice on her part, such as girls ofher kind are very subject to; he might perhaps fill up her intervals oftedium, but would have no share in her real life. And the thought ofthat life fevered him with jealousy. She might say what she liked aboutnever having known love, but it was of course impossible that sheshould not have a preference among her lovers. And to think of thechances before such a girl, so blessed with rare beauty and endlesscharms. In the natural order of events she would become the mistress ofsome rich man; might even, as at times happens, be rescued by marriage;in either case, their acquaintance must cease. And, indeed, what righthad he to endeavour to gain her love having nothing but mere beggarlydevotion to offer her in return? He had not even the excuse of one whocould offer her married life in easy circumstances, --supposing that tobe an improvement on her present position. Would it not be better atonce to break off these impossible relations? How often he had promisedhimself, in moments of clear thought, never again to enter on a coursewhich would obviously involve him in futile suffering. Why had he notnow the strength to obey his reason, and continue to possess his soulin the calm of which he had enjoyed a brief taste?

The novel circumstances of the past week had almost driven from hismind all thought of Maud Enderby. He regretted having asked andobtained permission to write to her. She seemed so remote from him, their meeting so long past. What could there be in common betweenhimself and that dim, quiet little girl, who had excited his sympathymerely because her pretty face was made sad by the same torments whichhad afflicted him? He needed some strong, vehement, original nature, such as Ida Starr's; how would Maud's timid conventionality--doubtlessshe was absolutely conventional--suit with the heresies of which he wasall compact? Still, he could not well ignore what had taken placebetween them, and, after all, there would be a certain pleasantcuriosity in awaiting her reply. In any case, he would write just sucha letter as came naturally from him. If she were horrified, well, therewas an end of the matter. 

Accordingly, he sat down on the morning after his visit to Ida, and, after a little difficulty in beginning, wrote a long letter. It wasmainly occupied with a description of his experiences in Litany Laneand Elm Court. He made no apology for detailing such unpleasantmatters, and explained that he would henceforth be kept in pretty closeconnection with this unknown world. Even this, he asserted, waspreferable to the world of Dr. Tootle's Academy. Then he dwelt a littleon the contrast between this life of his and that which Maud wasdoubtless leading in her home on the Essex coast; and finally he hopedshe would write to him when she found leisure, and be able to let himknow that she was no longer so unhappy as formerly. 

This he posted on Friday. On the following Monday morning, the postbrought two letters for him, both addressed in female hand, one bearinga city, the other a country, post-mark. Waymark smiled as he comparedthe two envelopes, on one of which his name stood in firm, uprightcharacters, on the other in slender, sloping, delicate writing. Theformer he pressed to his lips, then tore open eagerly; it was thepromised intimation that Ida would be at home after eight o'clock onWednesday and Friday evenings, nothing more. The second letter heallowed to lie by till he had breakfasted. He could see that itcontained more than one sheet. When at length he opened it, he readthis:--

"DEAR MR. WAYMARK, --I have an hour of freedom this Sunday afternoon, and I will spend it in replying as well as I can to your veryinteresting letter. My life is, as you say, very quiet and commonplacecompared with that you find yourself suddenly entering upon. I have nosuch strange and moving things to write about, but I will tell you inthe first place how I live and what I do, then put down some of thethoughts your letter has excited in me. 

"The family I am with consists of very worthy but commonplace people. They treat me with more consideration than I imagine governessesusually get, and I am grateful to them for this, but theirconversation, especially that of Mrs. Epping, I find rather wearisome. It deals with very trivial concerns of everyday life, in which I vainlyendeavour to interest myself. 

"Then there is the religious formalism of the Eppings and theirfriends. They are High Church. They discuss with astonishing vigour andat dreadful length what seems to me the most immaterial points in theChurch service, and just at present an impulse is given to their zealby the fact of their favourite clergyman being threatened with aprosecution for ritualistic practices. Of course I have to feign abecoming interest in all this, and to take part in all their religiousforms and ceremonies. And indeed it is all so new to me that I havescarcely yet got over the first feelings of wonder and curiosity. 

"Have I not, then, you will ask, the courage of my opinions? But indeedmy religious opinions are so strangely different from those whichprevail here, that I fear it would be impossible to make my thoughtsclear to these good people. They would scarcely esteem me a Christian;and yet I cannot but think that it is they who are widely astray fromChristian belief and practice. The other evening the clergyman dinedwith us, and throughout the meal discussions of the rubric alternatedwith talk about delicacies of the table! That the rubric should be sointeresting amazes me, but that an earnest Christian should think itcompatible with his religion to show the slightest concern in what heshall eat or drink is unspeakably strange to me. Surely, ifChristianity means anything it means asceticism. My experience of theworld is so slight. I believe this is the first clergyman I ever met inprivate life. Surely they cannot all be thus?

"I knew well how far the world at large had passed from trueChristianity; that has been impressed upon me from my childhood. Buthow strange it seems to me to hear proposed as a remedy the formalismto which my friends here pin their faith! How often have I burned tospeak up among them, and ask--'What think ye, then, of Christ? Is He, or is He not, our exemplar? Was not His life meant to exhibit to us theideal of the completest severance from the world which is consistentwith human existence? To follow Him, should we not, at least in thespirit, cast off everything which may tempt us to consider life, aslife, precious?' We cannot worship both God and the world, and yetnowadays Christians seem to make a merit of doing so. When I conceive areligious revival, my thought does not in the least concern itself withforms and ceremonies. I imagine another John the Baptist inciting thepeople, with irresistible fervour, to turn from their sins--that is, from the world and all its concerns--and to purify themselves byRenunciation. What they call 'Progress, ' I take to be the veritableKingdom of Antichrist. The world is evil, life is evil; only byrenunciation of the very desire for life can we fulfil the Christianidea. What then of the civilisation which endeavours to make the worldmore and more pleasant as a dwelling-place, life more and moredesirable for its own sake?

"And so I come to the contents of your own letter. You say you marvelthat these wretched people you visited do not, in a wild burst ofinsurrection, overthrow all social order, and seize for themselves afair share of the world's goods. I marvel also;--all the more thattheir very teachers in religion seem to lay such stress on the joys oflife. And yet what profit would a real Christian preacher draw for themfrom this very misery of their existence! He would teach them thatherein lay their supreme blessing, not their curse; that in theirpoverty and nakedness lay means of grace and salvation such as the richcan scarcely by any means attain to; that they should proudly, devoutly, accept their heritage of woe, and daily thank God fordepriving them of all that can make life dear. Only awaken the spiritin these poor creatures, and how near might they be to the true Kingdomof Heaven! And surely such a preacher will yet arise, and there will bea Reformation very different from the movement we now call by thatname. But I weary you, perhaps. It may be you have no interest in allthis. Yet I think you would wish me to write from what I am. 

"It would interest me to hear your further experiences in the new work. Believe me to be your sincere friend, "MAUD ENDERBY. "

Waymark read, and thought, and wondered. 

Then it was time to go and collect his rents. 

CHAPTER XV

UP THE RIVER

Here is an extract from a letter written by Julian Casti to Waymark inthe month of May. By this time they were living near to each other, butsomething was about to happen which Julian preferred to communicate inwriting. 

"This will be the beginning of a new life for me. Already I have felt agrowth in my power of poetical production. Verse runs together in mythoughts without effort; I feel ready for some really great attempt. Have you not noticed something of this in me these last few days? Comeand see me to-night, if you can, and rejoice with me. "

This meant that Julian was about to be married. Honeymoon journey wasout of the question for him. He and his wife established themselves inthe lodgings which he was already occupying. And the new life began. 

Waymark had made Harriet's acquaintance a couple of weeks before;Julian had brought her with him one Sunday to his friend's room. Shewas then living alone, having quitted Mrs. Ogle the day after thatdecisive call upon Julian. There was really no need for her to havedone so, Mrs. Ogle's part in the comedy being an imaginary one ofHarriet's devising. But Julian was led entirely by his cousin, and, asshe knew quite well, there was not the least danger of his going on hisown account to the shop in Gray's Inn Road; he dreaded the thought ofsuch an interview. 

Waymark was not charmed with Miss Smales; the more he thought of thismarriage, the more it amazed him; for, of course, he deemed it whollyof his friend's bringing about. 

The marriage affected their intercourse. Harriet did not like to beleft alone in the evening, so Julian could not go to Waymark's, as hehad been accustomed to, and conversation in Mrs. Casti's presence was, of course, under restraint. Waymark bore this with impatience, and evendid his best to alter it. One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks afterthe marriage, he called and carried Julian off to his room across thestreet. Harriet's face sufficiently indicated her opinion of thisproceeding, and Julian had difficulty in appearing at his case. Waymarkunderstood what was going on, and tried to discuss the matter freely, but the other shrank from it. 

"I am grievously impatient of domestic arrangements, " Waymark said. "Ifancy it would never do for me to marry, unless I had limitless cash, and my wife were as great a Bohemian as myself. By the by, I haveanother letter from Maud. Her pessimism is magnificent. This intensereligiousness is no doubt a mere phase; it will pass, of course; Iwonder how things would arrange themselves if she came back to London. Why shouldn't she come here to sit and chat, like you do?"

"That would naturally lead to something definite, " said Casti, smiling. 

"Oh, I don't know. Why should it? I'm a believer in friendship betweenmen and women. Of course there is in it the spice of the difference ofsex, and why not accept that as a pleasant thing? How much better if, when we met a woman we liked, we could say frankly, 'Now let us amuseeach other without any _arriere pensee_. If I married you to-day, eventhough I feel quite ready to, I should ten to one see some one nextweek who would make me regret having bound myself. So would you, mydear. Very well, let us tantalise each other agreeably, and be at easein the sense that we are on the right side of the illusion. ' You laughat the idea?"

Julian laughed, but not heartily. They passed to other things. 

"I'm making an article out of Elm Court, " said Waymark. "Semi-descriptive, semi-reflective, wholly cynical Maybe it will payfor my summer holiday. And, apropos of the same subject, I've got greatideas. This introduction to such phases of life will prove endlesslyadvantageous to me, artistically speaking. Let me get a little moreexperience, and I will write a novel such as no one has yet ventured towrite, at all events in England. I begin to see my way to magnificenteffects; ye gods, such light and shade! The fact is, the novel ofevery-day life is getting worn out. We must dig deeper, get tountouched social strata. Dickens felt this, but he had not the courageto face his subjects; his monthly numbers had to lie on the familytea-table. Not _virginibus puerisque_ will be my book, I assure you, but for men and women who like to look beneath the surface, and whounderstand that only as artistic material has human life anysignificance. Yes, that is the conclusion I am working round to. Theartist is the only sane man. Life for its own sake?--no; I would drinka pint of laudanum to-night. But life as the source of splendidpictures, inexhaustible material for effects--_that_ can reconcile meto existence, and that only. It is a delight followed by no bitterafter-taste, and the only such delight I know. "

Harriet was very quiet when Julian returned. She went about getting thetea with a sort of indifference; she let a cup fall and break, but madeno remark, and left her husband to pick up the pieces. 

"Waymark thinks I'm neglecting him, " said Julian, with a laugh, as theysat down together. 

"It's better to neglect him than to neglect me, I should think, " wasHarriet's reply, in a quiet ill-natured tone which she was mistress of. 

"But couldn't we find out some way of doing neither, dear?" went onJulian, playing with his spoon. "Now suppose I give him a couple ofhours one evening every week? You could spare that, couldn't you? Say, from eight to ten on Wednesdays?"

"I suppose you'll go if you want to. " said Harriet, rising from thetea-table, and taking a seat sulkily by the window. 

"Come, come, we won't say any more about it, if it's so disagreeable toyou, " said Julian, going up to her, and coaxing her back to her place. "You don't feel well to-day, do you? I oughtn't to have left you thisafternoon, but it was difficult to refuse, wasn't it?"

"He had no business to ask you to go. He could see I didn't like it. "

Waymark grew so accustomed to receiving Ida's note each Monday morning, that when for the first time it failed to conic he was troubledseriously. It happened, too, that he was able to attach a particularsignificance to the omission. When they had last parted, instead ofjust pressing her hand as usual, he had raised it to his lips. Shefrowned and turned quickly away, saying no word. He had offended her bythis infringement of the conditions of their friendship; for oncebefore, when he had uttered a word which implied more than she waswilling to allow, Ida had engaged him in the distinct agreement that heshould never do or say anything that approached love-making. As, moreover, it was distinctly understood that he should never visit hersave at times previously appointed, he could not see her till she choseto write. After waiting in the vain expectation of some later postbringing news, he himself wrote, simply asking the cause of hersilence. The reply came speedily. 

"I have no spare time in the week. I thought you would understand this. 

I. S. "

It was her custom to write without any formal beginning or ending; yetWaymark felt that this note was briefer than it would have been, hadall been as usual between them. The jealousy which now often torturedhim awoke with intolerable vehemence. He spent a week of misery. 

But late on Saturday evening came a letter addressed in the well-knownhand. It said--

"Sally and I are going up the river to-morrow, if it is fine. Do youcare to meet us on the boat which reaches Chelsea Pier at 10. 30?

I. S. "

It seemed he did care; at all events he was half an hour too soon atthe pier. As the boat approached his eye soon singled out two veryquietly-dressed girls, who sat with their backs to him, and neitherturned nor made any sign of expecting any addition to their party. Withlike undemonstrativeness he took a seat at Ida's side, and returnedSally's nod and smile. Ida merely said "Good morning;" there wasnothing of displeasure on her face, however, and when he began to speakof indifferent things she replied with the usual easy friendliness. 

It was the first time he had seen her by daylight. He had beenuncertain whether she used any artificial colour on her cheeks;seemingly she did, for now she looked much paler than usual. But theperfect clearness of her complexion, the lustre of her eyes, appearedto indicate complete health. She breathed the fresh sun-lit air withfrank enjoyment, and smiled to herself at objects on either side of theriver. 

"By the by, " Waymark said, when no words had been exchanged for someminutes, "you didn't tell me where you were going; so I took no ticket, and left matters to fate. "

"Are you a good walker?" Ida asked. 

"Fairly good, I flatter myself. "

"Then this is what I propose. It's a plan I carried out two or threetimes by myself last summer, and enjoyed. We get off at Putney, walkthrough Roehampton, then over the park into Richmond. By that time weshall be ready for dinner, and I know a place where we can have it incomfort. "

There was little thought of weariness throughout the delightful walk. All three gave themselves up for the time to simple enjoyment; theirintercourse became that of children; the troubles of passion, themiseries of self-consciousness, the strain of mutual observation fellfrom them as the city dropped behind; they were once more creatures forwhom the external world alone had reality. There was a glorious Junesky; there were country roads scented with flower and tree; thewide-gleaming common with its furze and bramble; then the great park, with felled trunks to rest upon, and prospects of endlessly-variedgreen to soothe the eye. The girls exhibited their pleasure each in herown way. Sally threw off restraint, and sprang about in free happiness, like one of the young roes, the sight of which made her utter crieslike a delighted child. She remembered scenes of home, and chattered inher dialect of people and places strange enough to both her companions. She was in constant expectation of catching a glimpse of the sea; inspite of all warnings it was a great surprise and disappointment to herthat Richmond Hill did not end in cliffs and breakers. Ida talked less, but every now and then laughed in her deep enjoyment. She had noreminiscence of country life it was enough that all about her was newand fresh and pure; nothing to remind her of Regent Street and theStrand. Waymark talked of he knew not what, cheerful things that cameby chance to his tongue, trifling stories, descriptions of places, ideal plans for spending of ideal holidays; but nothing of London, nothing of what at other times his thoughts most ran upon. He came backto himself now and then, and smiled as he looked at the girls, but thishappened seldom. 

The appetites of all three were beyond denying when they had passed the"Star and Garter" and began to walk down into the town. Waymarkwondered whither their guide would lead them, but asked no questions. To his surprise, Ida stopped at a small inn half way down the hill. 

"You are to go straight in, " she said, with a smile, to Waymark, "andare to tell the first person you meet that three people want dinner. There's no choice--roast beef and vegetables, and some pudding or otherafterwards. Then you are to walk straight upstairs, as if you knew yourway, and we will follow. "

These directions were obeyed, with the result that all reached an upperchamber, wherein a table was cleanly and comfortably laid, as ifexpecting them. French windows led out on to a quaint little verandahat the back of the house, and the view thence was perfect. The riverbelow, winding between wooded banks, and everywhere the same splendourof varied green which had delighted their eyes all the morning. Justbelow the verandah was the tiled roof of an outhouse, whereon lay afine black and white cat, basking in the hot sun. Ida clapped her hands. 

"He's like poor old Grim, " she cried. Then, turning to Waymark: "If youare good, you may bring out a chair and smoke a cigar here afterdinner. "

They had just began to eat, when footsteps were heard coining up thestairs. 

"Oh bother!" exclaimed Sally. "There's some one else a-comin', s'nough. "

There was. The door opened, and two gentlemen walked in. Waymark lookedup, and to his astonishment recognised his old friends O'Gree andEgger. Mr. O'Gree was mopping his face with a handkerchief, and lookedred and hungry; Mr. Egger was resplendent in a very broad-brimmed strawhat, the glistening newness of which contrasted with the rest of hisattire, which had known no variation since his first arrival at Dr. Tootle's. He, too, was perspiring profusely, and, as he entered, wasjust in the act of taking out the great yellow handkerchief whichWaymark had seen him chewing so often in the bitterness of his spirit. 

"Hollo, Waymark, is it you?" cried Mr. O'Gree, forgetting the presenceof the strangers in his astonishment. "Sure, and they told us we'd finda _gentleman_ here. "

"And I was the last person you would have thought of as answering thatdescription?"

"Well, no, I didn't mean that. I meant there was no mention of theladies. "

Waymark flashed a question at Ida with his eyes, and understood herassent in the smile and slight motion of the head. 

"Then let me introduce you to the ladies. "

The new-comers accordingly made the acquaintance of Miss Starr and MissFisher (that was Sally's name), and took seats at the table, to awaitthe arrival of their dinners. Both were on their good behaviour. Mr. O'Gree managed to place himself at Sally's left hand, and led theconversation with the natural ease of an Irishman, especially delightedif Sally herself seemed to appreciate his efforts to be entertaining. 

"Now, who'd have thought of the like of this. " he exclaimed. "And wecame in here by the merest chance; sure, there's a fatality in thesethings. We've walked all the way from Hammersmith. "

"And we from Putney, " said Waymark. 

"You don't mean it? It's been a warm undertaking. "

"How did you find the walk, Mr. Egger?"

"Bedad, " replied that gentleman, who had got hold of his friend'sexclamation, and used it with killing effect; "I made my possible, but, bedad, I could not much more. "

"You both look warm, " Waymark observed, smiling. "I fear you hurried. You should have been leisurely, as we were. "

"Now that's cruel, Waymark. You needn't have reflected upon oursolitariness. If we'd been blessed with society such as you had, we'dhave come slow enough. As it was, we thought a good deal of ourdinners. "

No fresh guests appeared to disturb the party. When all had appeasedtheir hunger, Waymark took a chair out on to the verandah for Ida. Hewas spared the trouble of providing in the same way for Sally by Mr. O'Gree's ready offices. Poor Egger, finding himself deserted, opened apiano there was in the room, and began to run his finger over the keys. 

"Let us have one of your German songs, my boy, " cried O'Gree. 

"But it is the Sunday, and we arc still in England, " said the Swiss, hesitating. 

"Pooh, never mind, " said Waymark. "We'll shut the door. Sing myfavourite, Mr. Egger, --'_Wenn's Mailufterl_. '"

When they left the inn, Waymark walked first with Ida, and Mr. O'Greefollowed with Sally. Egger brought up the rear; he had relapsed into adreamy mood, and his mind seemed occupied with unearthly things. 

With no little amusement Waymark had noted Sally's demeanour under Mr. O'Gree's attentions. The girl had evidently made up her mind to beabsolutely proper. The Irishman's respectful delicacy was something sonew to her and so pleasant, and the question with her was how she couldsufficiently show her appreciation without at the same time forfeitinghis good opinion for becoming modesty. All so new to her, accustomed tomake an art of forwardness, and to school herself in the endurance ofbrutality. She was constantly blushing in the most unfeigned way at hisneatly-turned little compliments, and, when she spoke, did so with apretty air of self-distrust which sat quite charmingly on her. Fain, fain would O'Gree have proposed to journey back to London by the sametrain, but good taste and good sense prevailed with him. At theticket-barrier there was a parting. 

"How delightful it would be, Miss Fisher, " said Mr. O'Gree, insomething like a whisper, "if this lucky chance happened again. If Ionly knew when you were coming again, there's no telling but it might. "

Sally gave her hand, smiled, evidently wished to say something, butended by turning away and running after her companions. 

CHAPTER XVI

EXAMPLE WITHOUT PRECEPT

Waymark was grateful for the help Mr. Woodstock had given him. Indeed, the two soon began to get on very well together. In a great measure, ofcourse, this was due to the change in Waymark's philosophy; whereas hisearly idealism had been revolted by what he then deemed Mr. Woodstock'scrass materialism and vulgarity, the tolerance which had come withwidened experience now made him regard these characteristics with farless certainty of condemnation. He was often merely amused at what hadformerly enraged and disgusted him. At the same time, there werechanges in Abraham himself, no doubt--at all events in his manner tothe young man. He, on his side, was also far more tolerant than in thedays when he had growled at Osmond for a conceited young puppy. 

One Sunday morning in early July, Waymark was sitting alone in hisroom, when he noticed that a cab stopped before the house. A minuteafter, there was a knock at his door, and, to his great surprise, Mr. Woodstock entered, bearing a huge volume in his arms. Abraham depositedit on a chair, wiped his forehead, and looked round the room. 

"You smoke poor tobacco, " was his first remark, as he sniffed the air. 

"Good tobacco happens to be expensive, " was the reply. "Will you sitdown?"

"Yes, I will. " The chair creaked under him. "And so here you hang out, eh? Only one room?"

"As you see. "

"Devilish unhealthy, I should think. "

"But economical. "

"Ugh!"

The grunt meant nothing in particular. Waymark was eyeing the mightyvolume on the chair, and had recognised it Some fortnight previously, he had come upon Abraham, in the latter's study, turning over acollection of Hogarth's plates, and greatly amusing himself with therealism which so distinctly appealed to his taste in art. The book hadbeen pledged in the shop, and by lapse of time was become Abraham'sproperty. It was the first time that Waymark had had an opportunity ofexamining Hogarth; the pictures harmonised with his mood; they gave hima fresh impulse in the direction his literary projects were taking. Hespent a couple of hours in turning the leaves, and Mr. Woodstock hadobserved his enjoyment. What meant the arrival of the volume here inBeaufort Street?

Abraham lit a cigar, still looking about the room. 

"You live alone?" he asked, in a matter-of-fact way. 

"At present. "

"Ha! Didn't know but you might have found it lonely; I used to, at yourage. "

Then, after a short silence--

"By-the-by, it's your birthday. "

"How do you know?"

"Well, I shouldn't have done, but for an old letter I turned up bychance the other day. How old are you?"

"Five-and-twenty. "

"H'm. I am sixty-nine. You'll be a wiser man when you get to myage. --Well, if you can find room anywhere for that book there, perhapsyou'd like to keep it!"

Waymark looked up in astonishment. 

"A birthday present!" he exclaimed. "It's ten years since I had one. Upon my word, I don't well know how to thank you!"

"Do you know what the thing was published at?" asked Abraham in anoff-hand way. 

"No. "

"Fifty pounds. "

"I don't care about the value. It's the kindness. You couldn't havegiven me anything, either, that would have delighted me so much. "

"All right; keep it, and there's an end of the matter. And what do youdo with yourself all day, eh? I didn't think it very likely I shouldfind you in. "

"I'm writing a novel. "

"H'm. Shall you get anything for it?"

"Can't say. I hope so. "

"Look here. Why don't you go in for politics?"

"Neither know nor care anything about them. "

"Would you like to go into Parliament?"

"Wouldn't go if every borough in England called upon me to-morrow?"

"Why not?"

"Plainly, I think myself too good for such occupation. If you oncesucceed in getting _outside_ the world, you have little desire to goback and join in its most foolish pranks. "

"That's all damned nonsense! How can any one be too good to be inParliament? The better men you have there, the better the country willbe governed, won't it?"

"Certainly. But the best man, in this case, is the man who sees theshortest distance before his nose. If you think the world worth all thetrouble it takes to govern it, go in for politics neck and crop, by allmeans, and the world will no doubt thank you in its own way. "

Abraham looked puzzled, and half disposed to be angry. 

"Then you think novel-writing better than governing the country?" heasked. 

"On its own merits, vastly so. "

"And suppose there was no government What about your novels then?"

"I'd make a magnificent one out of the spectacle of chaos. "

"But you know very well you're talking bosh, " exclaimed Abraham, somewhat discomfited. "There must be government, and there must beorder, say what you like. Its nature that the strong should rule overthe weak, and show them what's for their own good. What else are wehere for? if you're going to be a parson, well and good; then cry downthe world as much as you please, and think only about heaven and hell. But as far as I can make out, there's government there too. The devilrebelled and was kicked out. Serve him right If he wasn't strong enoughto hold his own, he'd ought to have kept quiet. "

"You're a Conservative, of course, " said Waymark, smiling. "You believeonly in keeping the balance. You don't are about reform. "

"Don't be so sure of that Let me have the chance and he power, and I'dreform hard enough, many a thing. "

"Well, one might begin on a small scale. Suppose one took in handLitany Lane and Elm Court? Suppose we exert our right as the stronger, and, to begin with, do a little whitewashing? Then sundry stairs andceilings might be looked to. No doubt there'd be resistance, but on thewhole it would be for the people's own good. A little fresh drainingmightn't be amiss, or--"

"What the devil's all this to do with politics?" cried Abraham, whoseface had grown dark. 

"I should imagine, a good deal, " returned Waymark, knocking out hispipe. "If you're for government, yen mustn't be above consideringdetails. "

"And so you think you have a hit at me, eh? Nothing of the kind. Theseare affairs of private contract, and no concern of government at all. In private contract a man has only a right to what he's strong enoughto exact If a tenant tells me my houses ain't fit to live in, I tellhim to go where he'll be better off' and I don't hinder him; I knowwell enough in a day or two there'll come somebody else. Ten to one hecan't go, and he don't. Then why should I be at unnecessary expense inmaking the places better? As Boon as I can get no tenants I'll do so;not till then. "

"You don't believe in works of mere humanity?"

"What the devil's humanity got to do with business?" cried Abraham. 

"True, " was Waymark's rejoinder. 

"See, we won't talk of these kind of things, " said Mr. Woodstock. "That's just what we always used to quarrel about, and I'm getting tooold for quarrelling. Got any engagement this afternoon?"

"I thought of looking in to see a friend here in the street"

"Male or female?"

"Both; man and wife. "

"Oh, then you have got some friends? So had I when I was your age. Theygo somehow when you get old. Your father was the last of them, I think. But you're not much like him, except a little in face. True, he was aRadical, but you, --well, I don't know what you are. If you'd been a sonof mine, I'd have had you ill Parliament by now, somehow or other. "

"I think you never had a son?" said Way mark, observing the note ofmelancholy which every now and then came up in the old man's talk. 

"No. "

"But you had some children, I think?"

"Yes, yes, --they're dead. "

He had walked to the window, and suddenly turned round with a kind ofimpatience. 

"Never mind the friend to-day; come and have some dinner with me. Iseem to want a bit of company. "

This was the first invitation of the kind Waymark had received. Heaccepted it, and they went out together. 

"It's a pleasant part this, " Mr. Woodstock said, as they walked by theriver. "One might build himself a decent house somewhere about here, eh?"

"Do you think of doing so?"

"I think of doing so! What's the good of a house, and nobody to live init?"

Waymark studied these various traits of the old man's humour, andconstantly felt more of kindness towards him. 

On the following day, just as he had collected his rents, and was onhis way out of Litany Lane, Waymark was surprised at coming face toface with Mrs. Casti; yet more surprised when he perceived that she hadcome out from a public-house. She looked embarrassed, and for a momentseemed about to pass without recognising him; but he had raised hishat, and she could not but move her head in reply. She so obviouslywished to avoid speaking, that he walked quickly on in anotherdirection. He wondered what he could be doing in such a place as this. It could hardly be that she had acquaintances or connections here. Julian had not given him any particulars of Harriet's former life, andhis friend's marriage was still a great puzzle to him. He knew wellthat the girl had no liking for himself; it was not improbable thatthis casual meeting would make their intercourse yet more strained. Hethought for a moment of questioning Julian, but decided that the matterwas no business of his. 

It was so rare for him to meet an acquaintance in the streets, that asecond chance of the same kind, only a few minutes later, surprised himgreatly. This time the meeting as a pleasant one; somebody ran acrossto him from over the way, and he saw that it was Sally Fisher. Shelooked pleased. The girl had preserved a good deal of her sea-sidecomplexion through the year and a half of town life, and, when happy, glowed all over her cheeks with the healthiest hue. She held out herhand in the usual frank, impulsive way. 

"Oh, I thought it was you! You won't see I no more at the old place. "

"No? How's that?"

"I'm leavin' un to-morrow. I've got a place in a shop, just by here, --achandler's shop, and I'm going to live in. "

"Indeed? Well, I'm glad to hear it. I dare say you'll be better off. "

"Oh, I say, --you know your friend?"

"The Irishman?"

"Yes. "

"What about him?" asked the other, smiling as he looked into the girl'spretty face. 

"Well, " said Sally, "I don't mind you telling un where I live now, --ifyou like. --Look, there's the address on that paper; you can take it. "

"Oh, I see. In point of fact, you _wish_ me to tell him?"

"Oh, I don't care. I dessay he don't want to know anything about I. Butyou can if you like. "

"I will be sure to, and no doubt he will be delighted. He's beengrowing thin since I told him you declined to renew his acquaintance. "

"Oh, don't talk! And now I must be off. Good-bye. I dessay I shall seeyou sometimes?"

"Without doubt. We'll have another Sunday at Richmond soon. Good-bye. "

It was about four in the afternoon when Sally reached home, and she ranup at once to Ida's room, and burst in, crying out, "I've got it! I'vegot it!" with much dancing about and joyous singing. Ida rose with afaint smile of welcome. She had been sitting at the window, reading abook lent her by Waymark. 

"They said they liked my appearance, " Sally went on, "and 'ud give me atry. I go in to-morrow. It won't be a over easy place, neither. I've todo all the cleaning in the house, and there's a baby to look after whenI'm not in the shop. "

"And what will they give you?"

"Ten shillings a month for the first half-year; then a rise. "

"And you're satisfied?"

"Oh, it'll do till something better turns up. Oh, I say, I met yourfriend just after I'd come away. "

"Did you?" said Ida quietly. 

"Yes; and I told him he could tell his friend where I was, if he liked. "

"His friend?"

"The Irishman, you know, " explained Sally, moving about the room. "Itold you he'd been asking after me. "

Ida seemed all at once to awake from a dream. She uttered a long "Ah!"under her breath, and for a moment looked at the girl like one who isstruck with an unexpected explanation. Then she turned away to thewindow, and again gazed up at the blue sky, standing so for nearly aminute. 

"Are you engaged to-night?" Sally asked presently. 

"No; will you sit with me?"

"You're not feeling very well to-day, are you?"

"I think not, " replied Ida, passing her hand over her forehead. "I'vebeen thinking of going out of London for a few days, perhaps to theseaside. "

"Go to Weymouth!" cried Sally, delighted at the thought. "Go and see mypeople, and tell un how I'm getting on. They'll make you hide with unall the time you're there, s'nough. It isn't a big house, but it'scomfortable, and see if our mother wouldn't look after you! It's threeweeks since I wrote; if I don't mind there'll be our father up herelooking after I. Now, do go!"

"No, it's too far. Besides, if I go, I shall want to be quite alone. "

On the following evening Waymark was expected. At his last visit he hadnoticed that Ida was not in her usual spirits. To-night he saw thatsomething was clearly wrong, and when Ida spoke of going to theseaside, he strongly urged her to do so. 

"Where should you go to?" he asked. 

"I think to Hastings. I went there once, when I was a child, with mymother--I believe I told you. I had rather go there than anywhere else. "

"I feel the need of a change myself, " he said, a moment after, andwithout looking at her. "Suppose I were to go to Hastings, too--at thesame time that you're there--would you dislike it?"

She merely shook her head, almost indifferently. She did not care totalk much to-night, and frequently nodded instead of replying withwords. 

"But--you would rather I didn't?" he urged. 

"No, indeed, " still in the same indifferent way. "I should havecompany, if I found it dull. "

"Then let us go down by the same train--will you, Ida?"

As far as she remembered, it was the first time that he had everaddressed her thus by her name. She looked up and smiled slightly. 

"If you like, " was her answer. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE MISSING YEARS

"Why shouldn't life be always like this?" said Waymark, lying on theupper beach and throwing pebbles into the breakers, which each momentdrew a little further hack and needed a little extra exertion of thearm to reach them. There was small disturbance by people passing, heresome two miles up the shore eastward from Hastings. A large shawlspread between two walking-sticks stuck upright gave, at this afternoonhour, all the shade needful for two persons lying side by side, and, even in the blaze of unclouded summer, there were pleasant airsflitting about the edge of the laughing sea. "Why shouldn't life bealways like this? It might be--sunshine or fireside--if men were wise. Leisure is the one thing that all desire, but they strive for it soblindly that they frustrate one another's hope. And so at length theyhave come to lose the end in the means; are mad enough to set the meansbefore them as in itself an end. "

"We must work to forget our troubles, " said his companion simply. 

"Why, yes, and those very troubles are the fit reward of our folly. Wehave not been content to live in the simple happiness of our senses. Wemust be learned and wise, forsooth. We were not content to enjoy thebeauty of the greater and the lesser light. We must understand whencethey come and whither they go--after that, what they are made of andhow much they weigh. We thought for such a long time that our toilwould end in something; that we might become as gods, knowing good andevil. Now we are at the end of our tether, we see clearly enough thatit has all been worse than vain; how good if we could unlearn it all, scatter the building of phantasmal knowledge in which we dwell souncomfortably! It is too late. The gods never take back their gifts; wewearied them with our prayers into granting us this one, and now theysit in the clouds and mock us. "

Ida looked, and kept silent; perhaps scarcely understood. 

"People kill themselves in despair, " Waymark went on, "that is, whenthey have drunk to the very dregs the cup of life's bitterness. If theywere wise, they would die at that moment--if it ever comes--when joyseems supreme and stable. Life can give nothing further, and it has nomore hellish misery than disillusion following upon delight. "

"Did you ever seriously think of killing yourself?" Ida asked, gazingat him closely. 

"Yes. I have reached at times the point when I would not have moved amuscle to escape death, and from that it is not far to suicide. But myjoy had never come, and it is hard to go away without that onedraught. --And you!"

"I went so far once as to buy poison. But neither had I tasted anyhappiness, and I could not help hoping. "

"And you still wait--still hope?"

Ida made no direct answer. She gazed far off at the indistinguishableborder-land of sea and sky, and when she spoke it was in a softenedtone. 

"When I was here last, I was seven years old. Now I am not quitenineteen. How long I have lived since then--how long! Yet my life didnot really begin till I was about eleven. Till then I was a happychild, understanding nothing. Between then and now, if I havediscovered little good either in myself or in others, I have learned byheart everything that is bad in the world. Nothing in meanness orvileness or wretchedness is a secret to me. Compare me with other girlsof nineteen--perhaps still at school. What sort of a companion should Ibe for one of those, I wonder! What strange thoughts I should have, ifever I talked with such a girl; how old I should feel myself besideher!"

"Your knowledge is better in my eyes than their ignorance. My idealwoman is the one who, knowing every darkest secret of life, keeps yet apure mind--as you do, Ida. "

She was silent so long that Waymark spoke again. 

"Your mother died when you were eleven!"

"Yes, and that was when my life began. My mother was very poor, but shemanaged to send me to a pretty good school. But for that, my life wouldhave been very different; I should not have understood myself as wellas I always have done. Poor mother, --good, good mother! Oh, if I couldbut have her now, and thank her for all her love, and give her but oneyear of quiet happiness. To think that I can see her as if she werestanding before me, and yet that she is gone, is nowhere, never to bebrought back to me if I break my heart with longing!"

Tears stood in her eyes. They meant more than she could ever say toanother, however close and dear to her. The secret of her mother's lifelay in the grave and in her own mind; the one would render it up assoon as the other. For never would Ida tell in words of that momentwhen there had come to her maturing intelligence clear insight into hermother's history, when the fables of childhood had no longer availed toblind her, and every recalled circumstance pointed but to one miserabletruth. 

"She's happier than we are, " Waymark said solemnly. "Think how long shehas been resting. "

Ida became silent, and presently spoke with a firmer voice. 

"They took her to a hospital in her last illness, and she died there. Idon't know where her grave is. "

"And what became of you? Had you friends to go to?"

"No one; I was quite alone. --We had been living in lodgings. Thelandlady told me that of course I couldn't stay on there; she couldn'tafford to keep me; I must go and find a home somewhere. Try and thinkwhat that meant to me. I was so young and ignorant that such an idea asthat I might one day have to earn my own living had never entered mymind. I was fed and clothed like every one else, --a good deal better, indeed, than some of the children at school, --and I didn't know why itshouldn't always be so. Besides, I was a vain child; I thought myselfclever; I had even begun to look at myself in the glass and think I washandsome. It seemed quite natural that every one should be kind andindulgent to me. I shall never forget the feeling I had when thelandlady spoke to me in that hard, sharp way. My whole idea of theworld was overset all at once; I seemed to be in a miserable dream. Isat in my mother's bedroom hour after hour, and, every step I heard onthe stairs, I thought it must be my mother coming back home to me;--itwas impossible to believe that I was left alone, and could look to noone for help and comfort. "

"Next morning the landlady came up to me again, and said, if I liked, she could tell me of a way of earning my living. It was by going as aservant to an eating-house in a street close by, where they wanted someone to wash up dishes and do different kinds of work not too hard for achild like me. I could only do as I was advised; I went at once, andwas engaged. They took off the dress I was wearing, which was far toogood for me then, and gave me a dirty, ragged one; then I was set towork at once to clean some knives. Nothing was said about wages oranything of that kind; only I understood that I should live in thehouse, and have all given me that I needed. Of course I was veryawkward. I tried my very hardest to do everything that was set me, butonly got scolding for my pains; and it soon came to boxes on the ear, and even kicks. The place was kept by a man and wife; they had adaughter older than I, and they treated her just like a hired servant. I used to sleep with the girl in a wretched kitchen underground, andthe poor thing kept me awake every night with crying and complaining ofher hard life. It was no harder than mine, and I can't think she feltit more; but I had even then a kind of stubborn pride which kept mefrom showing what I suffered. I couldn't have borne to let them seewhat a terrible change it was for me, all this drudgery and unkindness;I felt it would have been like taking them into my confidence, openingmy heart to them, and I despised them too much for that. I even triedto talk in a rough rude way, as if I had never been used to anythingbetter--"

"That was fine, that was heroic!" broke in Waymark admiringly. 

"I only know it was miserable enough. And things got worse instead ofbetter. The master was a coarse drunken brute, and he and his wife usedto quarrel fearfully. I have seen them throw knives at each other, anddo worse things than that, too. The woman seemed somehow to have aspite against me from the first, and the way her husband behaved to memade her hate me still more. Child as I was, he did and said thingswhich made her jealous. Often when she had gone out of an evening, Ihad to defend myself against him, and call the daughter to protect me. And so it went on, till, what with fear of him, and fear of her, andmisery and weariness, I resolved to go away, become of me what might. One night, instead of undressing for bed as usual, I told Jane--thatwas the daughter--that I couldn't bear it any longer, and was goingaway, as soon as I thought the house was quiet. She looked at me inastonishment, and asked me if I had anywhere to go to. Will you believethat I said yes, I had? I suppose I spoke in a way which didn'tencourage her to ask questions; she only lay down on the bed and criedas usual. "Jane, " I said, in a little, "if I were you, I'd run away aswell. " "I will, " she cried out, starting up, "I will this very night!We'll go out together. " It was my turn to ask her if _she_ had anywhereto go to. She said she knew a girl who lived in a good home atTottenham, and who'd do something for her, she thought. At any rateshe'd rather go to the workhouse than stay where she was. So, about oneo'clock, we both crept out by a back way, and ran into Edgware Road. There we said good-bye, and she went one way, and I another. 

"All that night I walked about, for fear of being noticed loitering bya policeman. When it was morning, I had come round to Hyde Park, and, though it was terribly cold--just in March--I went to sleep on a seat. I woke about ten o'clock, and walked off into the town, seeking a poorpart, where I thought it more likely I might find something to do. Ofcourse I asked first of all at eating-houses, but no one wanted me. Itwas nearly dark, and I hadn't tasted anything. Then I begged of one ortwo people--I forgot everything but my hunger--and they gave me a fewcoppers. I bought some bread, and still wandered about. There are somestreets into which I can never bear to go now; the thought of walkingabout them eight years ago is too terrible to me. Well, I walked tillmidnight, and then could stand up no longer. I found myself in a dirtylittle street where the house doors stood open all night; I went intoone, and walked up as far as the first landing, and there fell down ina corner and slept all night. "

"Poor child!" said Waymark, looking into her face, which had becomevery animated as the details of the story succeeded each other in hermind. 

"I must have looked a terrible little savage on that next morning, " Idawent on, smiling sadly. "Oh, how hungry I was! I was awoke by a womanwho came out of one of the rooms, and I asked her if she'd give mesomething to eat. She said she would, if I'd light her fire for her, and clean up the grate. I did this, gladly enough. Then she pretended Ihad done it badly, and gave me one miserable little dry crust, and toldme to be off. Well, that day I found another woman who said she'd giveme one meal and twopence a day for helping her to chop wood and washvegetables; she had a son who was a costermonger, and the stuff he soldhad to be cleaned each day. I took the work gladly. She never asked mewhere I spent the night; the truth was I chose a different house eachnight, where I found the door open, and went up and slept on thestairs. I often found several people doing the same thing, and no onedisturbed us. 

"I lived so for a fortnight, then I was lucky enough to get intoanother eating-house. I lived there nearly two months, and had to leavefor the very same reason as at the first place. I only half understoodthe meaning of what I had to resist, but my resistance led to otherunbearable cruelties, and again I ran away. I went about eight o'clockin the evening. The thought of going back to my old sleeping places onthe stairs was horrible. Besides, for some days a strange idea had beenin my head. I had not forgotten my friend Jane, and I wondered whether, if I went to Tottenham, it would be possible to find her. Perhaps shemight be well off there, and could help me. I had made inquiries aboutthe way to Tottenham, and the distance, and when I left theeating-house I had made up my mind to walk straight there. I startedfrom Hoxton, and went on and on, till I had left the big streetsbehind. I kept asking my way, but often went long distances in thewrong direction. I knew that Tottenham was quite in the country, and myidea was to find a sleeping-place in some field, then to begin mysearch on the next day. It was summer, but still I began to feel cold, and this drew me away out of my straight road to a fire which I sawburning a little way off. I thought it would be nice to sit down by itand rest. I found that the road was being mended, and by the fire lay awatchman in a big tub. Just as I came up he was eating his supper. Hewas a great, rough man, but I looked in his face and thought it seemedgood, so I asked him if he'd let me rest a little. Of course he wassurprised at seeing me there, for it must have been midnight, and whenhe asked me about myself I told him the truth, because he spoke in akind way. Then he stopped eating and gave me what was left; it was abit of fat bacon and some cold potatoes; but how good it was, and howgood _he_ was! To this moment I can see that man's face. He got out ofhis tub and made me take his place, and he wrapped me up in somethinghe had there. Then he sat by the fire, and kept looking at me, Ithought, in a sad sort of way; and he said, over and over again, 'Ay, it's bad to be born a little girl; it's bad to be born a little girl;pity you wasn't a boy. ' Oh, how well I can hear his voice this moment!And as he kept saying this, I went off to sleep. "

She stopped, and played with the pebbles. 

"And in the morning?" asked Waymark. 

"Well, when I woke up, it was light, and there were a lot of other menabout, beginning their work on the road. I crept out of the tub, andwhen they saw me, they laughed in a kind sort of way, and gave me somebreakfast. I suppose I thanked them, I hope I did; the watchman wasgone, but no doubt he had told the others my story, for they showed methe way to Tottenham, and wished me luck. "

"And you found your friend Jane!"

"No, no; how was it likely I should? I wandered about till I couldstand no longer, and then I went up to the door of a house which stoodin a garden, and begged for something to eat. The servant who openedwas sending me away, when her mistress heard, and came to the door. Shestood looking at me for some time, and then told me to come in. I wentinto the kitchen, and she asked me all about myself. I told her thetruth; I was too miserable now to do anything else. Well, the resultwas--she kept me there. "

"For good?"

"Indeed, for good. In that very house I lived for six years. Oh; shewas the queerest and kindest little body! At first I helped her servantin the kitchen, --she lived quite by herself, with one servant, --butlittle by little she made me a sort of lady's maid, and I did no morerough work. You wouldn't believe the ridiculous fancies of that dearold woman! She thought herself a great beauty, and often told me sovery plainly, and she used to talk to me about her chances of beingmarried to this and the other person in the neighbourhood. And theresult of all this was that she had to spend I don't know how longevery day in dressing herself, and then looking at herself in theglass. And I had to learn how to do her hair, and put paint and powderon her face, and all sorts of wonderful things. She was as good to meas she could be, and I never wanted for anything. And so six yearspassed, and one morning she was found dead in her bed. 

"Well, that was the end of the happiest time of my life. In a day ortwo some relatives came to look after things, and I had to go. Theywere kind to me, however; they gave me money, and told me I might referto them if I needed to. I came to London, and took a room, and wonderedwhat I should do. 

"I advertised, and answered advertisements, but nothing came. My moneywas going, and I should soon be as badly off as ever. I began to dowhat I had always thought of as the very last thing, look forneedlework, either for home or in a workroom. I don't know how it isthat I have always hated sewing. For one thing, I really can't sew. Iwas never taught as a child, and few girls are as clumsy with a needleas I am. I've always looked upon a work-girl's life as the mosthorrible drudgery; I'd far rather scrub floors. I suppose I've arebellious disposition, and just because sewing is looked upon as awoman's natural slavery, I rebelled against it. 

"By this time I was actually starving. I had one day to tell mylandlady I couldn't pay my rent. She was a very decent woman, and shetalked to me in a kind way. What was better, she gave me help. She hada sister who kept a laundry, and she thought I might perhaps getsomething to do there; at all events she would go and see. The resultwas I got work. I was in the laundry nearly six months, and becamequite clever in getting up linen. Now this was a kind of work I liked. You can't think what a pleasure it was to me to see shirts and collarsturning out so spotless and sweet--"

Waymark laughed. 

"Oh, but you don't understand. I do so like cleanliness! I have a sortof feeling when I'm washing anything, that I'm really doing good in theworld, and the dazzling white of linen after I'd ironed it seemed tothank me for my work. "

"Yes, yes, I understand well enough, " said Waymark earnestly. 

"For all that I couldn't stay. I was restless. I had a foolish notionthat I should like to be with a better kind of people again--I meanpeople in a higher position. I still kept answering advertisements fora lady's maid's place, and at last I got what I wanted. Oh yes, I gotit. "

She broke off' laughing bitterly, and remained silent. Waymark wouldnot urge her to continue. For a minute it seemed as if she would tellno more; she looked at her watch, and half arose. 

"Oh, I may as well tell you all, now I've begun, " she said, fallingback again in a careless way. "You know what the end's going to be;never mind, at all events I'll try and make you understand how it came. 

"The family I got into was a lady and her two grown-up daughters, and ason of about five-and-twenty. They lived in a small house at Shepherd'sBush. My wages were very small, and I soon found out that they were akind of people who keep up a great deal of show on very little means. Of course I had to be let into all the secrets of their miserableshifts for dressing well on next to nothing at all, and they expectedme--mother and daughters--to do the most wonderful and impossiblethings. I had to turn old rags into smart new costumes, to trimworn-out hats into all manner of gaudy shapes, even to patch up bootsin a way you couldn't imagine. And they used to send me with money tobuy things they were ashamed to go and buy themselves; then, if Ihadn't laid out their few pence with marvellous result, they all butaccused me of having used some of the money for myself. I hadfortunately learnt a great deal with the old lady in Tottenham, or Icouldn't have satisfied them for a day. I'm sure I did what few peoplecould have done, and for all that they treated me from almost the firstvery badly. I had to be housemaid as well as lady's maid; the slaveryleft me every night worn out with exhaustion. And I hadn't even enoughto eat. As time went on, they treated me worse and worse. They spoke tome often in a way that made my heart boil, as if they were so manyqueens, and I was some poor mean wretch who was honoured by beingallowed to toil for them. Then they quarrelled among themselvesunceasingly, and of course I had to bear all the bad temper. I neversaw people hate one another like those three did; the sisters evenscratched each other's faces in their fits of jealousy, and sometimesthey both stormed at their mother till she went into hysterics, justbecause she couldn't give them more money. The only one in the housewho ever spoke decently to me was the son--Alfred Bolter, his name was. I suppose I felt grateful to him. Once or twice, when he met me on thestairs, he kissed me. I was too miserable even to resent it. 

"I went about, day after day, in a dazed state, trying to make up mymind to leave the people, but I couldn't. I don't know how it was, Ihad never felt so afraid of being thrown out into the world again. Isuppose it was bodily weakness, want of proper food, and overwork. Ibegan to feel that the whole world was wronging me. Was there never tobe anything for me but slaving? Was I never to have any enjoyment oflife, like other people? I felt a need of pleasure, I didn't care howor what. I was always in a fever; everything was exaggerated to me. What was going to be my future?--I kept asking myself. Was it only tobe hard work, miserably paid, till I died? And I should die at lastwithout having known what it was to enjoy my life. When I was allowedto go out--it was very seldom--I walked aimlessly about the streets, watching all the girls I passed, and fancying they all looked so happy, all enjoying their life so. I was growing thin and pale. I coughed, andbegan to think I was consumptive. A little more of it and I believe Ishould have become so really. 

"It came to an end, suddenly and unexpectedly. All three, mother anddaughters, had been worrying me through a whole morning, and at lastone of them called me a downright fool, and said I wasn't worth thebread I ate. I turned on them. I can't remember a word I said, butspeak I did, and in a way that astonished them; they shrank back fromme, looking pale and frightened. I felt in that moment that I was athousand times their superior; I believe I told them so. Then I rushedup to my room, packed my box, and went out into the street. 

"I had just turned a corner, when some one came up to me, and it wasMr. Bolter. He had followed me from the house. He laughed, said I haddone quite right, and asked me if I had any money. I shook my head. Hewalked on by me, and talked. The end was, that he found me rooms, andprovided for me. 

"I had not the least affection for him, but he had pleasant, gentlemanly ways, and it scarcely even occurred to me to refuse hisoffers. I was reckless; what happened to me mattered little, as long asI had not to face hard work. I needed rest. For one in my positionthere was, I saw well enough, only one way of getting it. I took thatway. "

Ida had told this in a straightforward, unhesitating manner, notmeeting her companion's gaze, yet not turning away. One would have saidthat judgments upon her story were indifferent to her; she simplyrelated past events. In a moment, she resumed. 

"Do you remember, on the night when you first met me, a man followingus in the street?"

Waymark nodded. 

"He was a friend of Alfred Bolter's, and sometimes we met him when wewent to the theatre, and such places. That is the only person I everhated from the first sight, --hated and dreaded in a way I could notpossibly explain. "

"But why do you mention him?" asked Waymark. "What is his name?"

"His name is Edwards, " returned Ida, pronouncing it as if the soundexcited loathing in her. "I had been living in this way for nearlyhalf-a-year, when one day this man called and came up to mysitting-room. He said he had an appointment with Mr. Bolter, who wouldcome presently. I sat scarcely speaking, but he talked on. Presently, Mr. Bolter came. He seemed surprised to find the other man with me, andalmost at once turned round and went out again. Edwards followed him, saying to me that he wondered what it all meant. The meaning was madeclear to me a few hours after. There came a short note from Mr. Bolter, saying that he had suspected that something was wrong, and that underthe circumstances he could of course only say good-bye. 

I can't say that I was sorry; I can't say that I was glad. I despisedhim for his meanness, not even troubling myself to try and make sure ofwhat had happened. The same night Edwards came to see me again, madeexcuses, blamed his friend, shuffled here and there, and gave meclearly to understand what he wanted. I scarcely spoke, only told himto go away, and that he need never speak to me anywhere or at any time;it would be useless. Well, I changed my lodgings for those I now have, and simply began the life I now--the life I have been leading. Work wasmore impossible for me than ever, and I had to feed and clothe myself. "

"How long ago was that?" asked Waymark, without looking up. 

"Four months. "

Ida rose from the beach. The tide had gone down some distance; therewere stretches of smooth sand, already dry in the sunshine. 

"Let us walk back on the sands, " she said, pointing. 

"You are going home?"

"Yes, I want to rest a little. I will meet you again about eighto'clock, if you like. "

Waymark accompanied her as far as the door, then strolled on to his ownlodgings, which were near at hand. It was only the second day that theyhad been in Hastings, yet it seemed to him as if he had been walkingabout on the seashore with Ida for weeks. For all that, he felt that hewas not as near to her now as he had been on certain evenings inLondon, when his arrival was to her a manifest pleasure, and their talkunflagging from hour to hour. She did not show the spirit of holiday, seemed weary from time to time, was too often preoccupied andindisposed to talk. True, she had at length fulfilled her promise oftelling him the whole of her story, but even this increase ofconfidence Waymark's uneasy mind strangely converted into fresh sourceof discomfort to himself. She had made this revelation--he halfbelieved--on purpose to keep up the distance between them, to warn himhow slight occasion had led her from what is called the path of virtue, that he might not delude himself into exaggerated estimates of hercharacter. Such a thought could of course only be due to the fact thatIda's story had indeed produced something of this impression upon herhearer. Waymark had often busied himself with inventing all manner ofexcuses for her, had exerted his imagination to the utmost to hit uponsome most irresistible climax of dolorous circumstances to account forher downfall. He had yet to realise that circumstances are as relativein their importance as everything else in this world, and that ofttimesthe greatest tragedies revolve on apparently the most insignificantoutward events--personality being all. 

He spent the hours of her absence in moving from place to place, fretting in mind. At one moment, he half determined to bring things tosome issue, by disregarding all considerations and urging his love uponher. Yet this he felt he could not do. Surely--he asked himself angrilyhe was not still so much in the thraldom of conventionality as to beaffected by his fresh reminder of her position and antecedents? Perhapsnot quite so much prejudice as experience which disturbed him. He waswell acquainted with the characteristics of girls of this class; heknew how all but impossible it is for them to tell the truth, the wholetruth, and nothing but the truth. And there was one thing particularlyin Ida's story that he found hard to credit; was it indeed likely thatshe had not felt more than she would confess for this man whosemistress she became so easily? If she had _not_, if what she said weretrue, was not this something like a proof of her lack of that refinedsentiment which is, the capacity for love, in its real sense? Torturingdoubts and reasonings of this kind once set going in a brain alreadyconfused with passion, there is no limit to the range of speculationopened; Waymark found himself--in spite of everything--entertaining allhis old scepticism. In any case, had he the slightest ground for thehope that she might ever feel to him as warmly as he did to her? Hecould not recall one instance of Ida's having betrayed a trace offondness in her intercourse with him. The mere fact of theirintercourse he altogether lost sight of. Whereas an outsider would, under the circumstances, have been justified in laying the utmoststress on this, Waymark had grown to accept it as a matter of course, and only occupied himself with Ida's absolute self-control, her perfectcalmness in all situations, the ease with which she met his glance, thelooseness of her hand in his, the indifference with which she heard himwhen he had spoken of his loneliness and frequent misery. Where was thekey of her character? She did not care for admiration; it was quitecertain that she was not leading him about just to gratify her ownvanity. Was it not purely an intellectual matter? She was a girl ofsuperior intellect, and, having found in him some one with whom shecould satisfy her desire for rational converse, did she not on thisaccount keep up their relations? For the rest--well, she liked ease andluxury; above all, ease. Of that she would certainly make no sacrifice. How well he could imagine the half-annoyed, half-contemptuous smilewhich would rise to her beautiful face, if he were so foolish as tobecome sentimental with her! That, he felt, would be a look not easy tobear. Humiliation he dreaded. 

When eight o'clock came, he was leaning over the end of the pier, atthe appointed spot, still busy in thought. There came a touch on hisarm. 

"Well, are you thinking how you can make a book out of my story?"

The touch, the voice, the smile, --how all his sophistry was swept awayin a rush of tenderness and delight!

"I must wait for the end of it, " he returned, holding out his hand, which she did not take. 

"The end?--Oh, you must invent one. Ends in real life are socommonplace and uninteresting. "

"Commonplace or not, " said Waymark, with some lack of firmness in hisvoice, "the end of your story should not be an unhappy one, if I hadthe disposing of it. And I might have--but for one thing. "

"What's that?" she asked, with sudden interest. 

"My miserable poverty. If I only had money--money"--

"Money!" she exclaimed, turning away almost angrily. Then she added, with the coldness which she did not often use, but which, when she did, chilled and checked him--"I don't understand you. "

He pointed with a bitter smile down to the sands. 

"Look at that gold of the sunset in the pools the tide has left. It isthe most glorious colour in nature, but it makes me miserable byreminding me of the metal it takes its name from. "

She looked at him with eyes which had in them a strange wonder, sad atfirst, then full of scorn, of indignation. And then she laughed, drawing herself away from him. The laugh irritated him. He experienceda terrible revulsion of feeling, from the warmth and passion which hadpossessed him, to that humiliation, which he could not bear. 

And just now a number of people came and took their stands close by, ina gossiping group. Ida had half turned away, and was looking at thegolden pools. He tried to say something, but his tongue was dry, andthe word would not come. Presently, she faced him again, and said, invery much her ordinary tone--

"I was going to tell you that I have just had news from London, whichmakes it necessary for me to go back to-morrow. I shall have to take anearly train. "

"This is because I have offended you, " Waymark said, moving nearer toher. "You had no thought of going before that. "

"I am not surprised that you refuse to believe me, " returned Ida, smiling very faintly. "Still, it is the truth. And now I must go inagain;--I am very tired. "

"No, " he exclaimed as she moved away, "you must not go in till--tillyou have forgotten me. At least come away to a quiet place, where I canspeak freely to you; these people--"

"To-morrow morning, " she said, waving her hand wearily. "I can't talknow--and indeed there is no need to speak of this at all. I haveforgotten it. "

"No, you have not; how could you?--And you will not go to-morrow; youshall not. "

"Yes, I must, " she returned firmly. 

"Then I shall go with you. "

"As you like. I shall leave by the express at five minutes past nine. "

"Then I shall be at the station. But at least I may walk home with you?"

"No, please. If you wish me to think you are sincere, --if you wish usstill to be friends--stay till I have left the pier. --Good night. "

He muttered a return, and stood watching her as she walked quietly away. 

When it was nearly midnight, Ida lay on her bed, dressed, as she hadlain since her return home. For more than an hour she had cried andsobbed in blank misery, cried as never since the bitter days long ago, just after her mother's death. Then, the fit over, something like areaction of calm followed, and as she lay perfectly still in thedarkness, her regular breathing would have led one to believe herasleep. But she was only thinking, and in deed very far from sleep Thelong day in the open air had so affected her eyes that, as she lookedup at the ceiling, it seemed to her to be a blue space, with lightclouds constantly flitting across it. Presently this impression becamepainful, and a growing restlessness made her rise. The heat of the roomwas stifling, for just above was the roof, upon which all day the sunhad poured its rays. She threw open the window, and drank in the air. The night was magnificent, flooded with warm moonlight, and fragrantwith sea breathings. Ida felt an irresistible desire to leave the houseand go down to the shore, which she could not see from her window; thetide, she remembered, would just now be full, and to walk by it in thesolitude of midnight would bring her that peace and strength of soulshe so much needed. She put on her hat and cloak, and went downstairs. The front door was only latched, and, as she had her key, no doubt shewould be able to let herself in at any hour. 

The streets were all but deserted, and, when she came to the beach, nosoul was anywhere visible. She walked towards the place where she hadspent the afternoon with Waymark, then onwards still further to theeast, till there was but a narrow space between the water and thecliffs. Breakers there were none, not more ripple at the cleartide-edge than on the border of a little lake. So intense was thesilence that every now and then could be distinctly heard a call on oneof the fishing-boats lying some distance from shore. The town was nolonger in sight. 

It was close even here; what little breeze there was brushed the facelike the warm wing of a passing bird. Ida dipped her hands in the waterand sprinkled it upon her forehead. Then she took off her boots andstockings, and walked with her feet in the ripples. A moment after shestopped, and looked all around, as if hesitating at some thought, andwishing to see that her solitude was secure. Just then the sound of aclock came very faintly across the still air, striking the hour of one. She stepped from the water a few paces, and began hastily to put offher clothing; in a moment her feet were again in the ripples, and shewas walking out from the beach, till her gleaming body was hidden. Thenshe bathed, breasting the full flow with delight, making the sunderedand broken water flash myriad reflections of the moon and stars. 

 * * * * *

Waymark was at the station next morning half an hour before train-time. He waited for Ida's arrival before taking his ticket. She did not come. He walked about in feverish impatience, plaguing himself with allmanner of doubt and apprehension. The train came into the station, andyet she had not arrived. It started, and no sign of her. 

He waited yet five minutes, then walked hastily into the town, and toIda's lodgings. Miss Starr, he was told, had left very early thatmorning; if he was Mr. Waymark, there was a note to be delivered to him. 

"I thought it better that I should go to London by an earlier train, for we should not have been quite at our ease with each other. I begyou will not think my leaving you is due to anything butnecessity--indeed it is not. I shall not be living at the old place, but any letter you send there I shall get. I cannot promise to reply atonce, but hope you will let me do so when I feel able to. 

I. S. "

Waymark took the next train to town. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ENDERBYS

Some twenty years before the date we have reached, the Rev. PaulEnderby, a handsome young man, endowed with moral and intellectualqualities considerably above the average, lived and worked in a certainsmall town of Yorkshire. 

He had been here for two years, an unmarried man; now it was made knownthat this state of things was to come to an end; moreover, to thedisappointment of not a few households, it was understood that thefuture Mrs. Enderby had been chosen from among his own people, inLondon. The lady came, and there was a field-day of criticism. Mrs. Enderby looked very young, and was undeniably pretty; she hadaccomplishments, and evidently liked to exhibit them before her homelyvisitors. She exaggerated the refinement of her utterance that it mightall the more strike off against the local accent. It soon became clearthat she would be anything but an assistance to her husband in hisparochial work; one or two attempts were made, apparently with goodwill, at intercourse with the poor parishioners, but the enterprise wasdistinctly a failure; it had to be definitively given up. Presently achild was born in the parsonage, and for a little while the youngmother's attention was satisfactorily engaged at home. The child was agirl and received the name of Maud. 

Paul Enderby struggled to bate no jot of his former activity, but achange was obvious to all. No less obvious the reason of it. Mrs. Enderby's reckless extravagance had soon involved her husband in greatdifficulties. He was growing haggard; his health was failing; hisactivity shrank within the narrowest possible limits; he shunned men'sgaze. 

Yet all at once there happened something which revived much of his oldzeal, and, in spite of everything, brought him once more prominentlyforward. A calamity had visited the town. By a great explosion in aneighbouring colliery, numbers of homes had been rendered destitute, and aid of every kind was imperatively called for on all sides. Informer times, Paul Enderby would have been just the man for thisoccasion, and even now he was not wanting. Extensive subscriptions wereraised, and he, as chief man in the committee which had been formed, had chief control of the funds. People said afterwards that they hadoften remarked something singular in his manner as he went about inthese duties. Whether that was true or not, something more thansingular happened when, some two months later, accounts were beinginvestigated and cleared up. Late one evening, Mr. Enderby lefthome, --and never returned to it. It was very soon known that he musthave appropriated to his own use considerable sums which had reachedhis hands for charitable purposes, and the scandal was terrific. Mrs. Enderby and her child disappeared in a day or two. It was said thatladies from London had come and fetched her away, and she was no moreheard of in that little town. 

Miss Bygrave, an elder sister of Mrs. Enderby, had received a letterfrom Paul summoning her to the wife's aid: and this letter, dated fromLiverpool, after disclosing in a few words the whole situation, went onto say that the writer, though he would never more be seen by those whoknew him, would not fail to send his wife what money he could as oftenas he could. And, after half a year, sums had begun to be remitted, inenvelopes bearing a Californian postmark. They were not much use, however, to Mrs. Enderby. A few days after her arrival at her home inLondon, she had been discovered hanging, with a rope round her neck, from a nail behind her bedroom door. Cut down in time, her life wassaved, but reason had forsaken her. She was taken away to an asylum, and remained there for five years. 

By that time, she seemed to have quite recovered. Her home was now tobe with her sister, Theresa Bygrave. Her child, Maud Enderby, wasnearly seven years old. Mrs. Enderby returned to the world not quitethe same woman as when she left it. She had never lacked character, andthis now showed itself in one immutable resolution. Having found thatthe child had learnt nothing of its parents, she determined that thisignorance should continue; or rather that it should be exchanged forthe belief that those parents were both long dead. She dwelt apart, supported by her sister. Finally, after ten years' absence, PaulEnderby returned to England, and lived again with his wife. But Maud, their daughter, still believed herself alone in the world, save for heraunt, Miss Bygrave. 

At the time when Waymark and Ida were together at Hastings, Mrs. Enderby called one evening at Miss Bygrave's house--the house of Maud'schildhood, still distinguished by the same coldness, bareness andgloom, the same silence echoing to a strange footfall. Theresa Bygravehad not greatly altered; tall, upright, clad in the plainest blackgarment, she walked into the room with silent dignity, and listened toa suggestion made by her brother-in-law. 

"We have talked it over again, " said Paul, "and we have decided to takethis step. "

He paused and watched the listener's face eagerly, glancing quicklyaway as soon as she looked up. 

"And you still wish me to break it to Maud, and in the way you said?"

"If you will. --But I do so wish you would let me know your own thoughtsabout this. You have so much claim to be considered. Maud is in realityyours far more than she is ours. Will it--do you think now it willreally be for our own happiness? Will the explanation you are able togive be satisfactory to her? What will be her attitude towards us? Youknow her character--you understand her. "

"If the future could be all as calm as the past year has been, " saidMiss Bygrave, "I should have nothing to urge against your wishes. "

"And this will contribute to it, " exclaimed Enderby. "This would giveEmily the very support she needs. "

Miss Bygrave looked into his face, which had a pleading earnestness, and a deep pity lay in her eyes. 

"Let it be so, " she said with decision. "I myself have much hope fromMaud's influence. I will write and tell her not to renew herengagement, and she will be with us at the end of September. "

"But you will not tell her anything till she comes?"

"No. "

Miss Bygrave lived in all but complete severance from the world. WhenMaud Enderby was at school, she felt strongly and painfully thecontrast between her own home life and that of her companions. The girlwithdrew into solitary reading and thinking; grew ever more afraid ofthe world; and by degrees sought more of her aunt's confidence, feelingthat here was a soul that had long since attained to the peace whichshe was vainly seeking. 

But it was with effort that Miss Bygrave brought herself to speak toanother of her form of faith. After that Christmas night when sheaddressed Maud for the first time on matters of religion, she had saidno second word; she waited the effect of her teaching, and the girl'sspontaneous recurrence to the subject. There was something in the veryair of the still, chill house favourable to ascetic gravity. A younggirl, living under such circumstances, must either pine away, eatingher own heart, or become a mystic, and find her daily food in religiousmeditation. 

Only when her niece was seventeen years old did Miss Bygrave speak toher of worldly affairs. Her own income, she explained, was but justsufficient for their needs, and would terminate upon her death; hadMaud thought at all of what course she would choose when the time fordecision came? Naturally, only one thing could suggest itself to thegirl's mind, and that was to become a teacher. To begin with, she tooksubordinate work in the school where she had been a pupil; later, sheobtained the engagement at Dr. Tootle's. 

An education of this kind, working upon Maud Enderby's naturaltemperament, resulted in an abnormal character, the chief trait ofwhich was remarkable as being in contradiction to the spirit of hertime. She was oppressed with the consciousness of sin. Every mostnatural impulse of her own heart she regarded as a temptation to beresisted with all her strength. Her ideal was the same as MissBygrave's, but she could not pursue it with the latter's assured calm;at every moment the voice of her youth spoke within her, and became toher the voice of the enemy. Her faith was scarcely capable offormulation in creeds; her sins were not of omission or commission inthe literal sense; it was an attitude of soul which she sought toattain, though ever falling away. What little she saw of the world inLondon, and afterwards at her home by the sea-side, only served toincrease the trouble of her conscience, by making her more aware of herown weakness. For instance, the matter of her correspondence withWaymark. In very truth, the chief reason why she had given him thepermission he asked of her was, that before so sudden and unexpected ademand she found herself confused and helpless; had she been able toreflect, the temptation would probably have been resisted, for thepleasantness of the thought made her regard it as a grave temptation. Casuistry and sophistical reasoning with her own heart ensued, to theincrease of her morbid sensitiveness; she persuaded herself thatgreater insight into the world's evil would be of aid in her struggle, and so the contents of Waymark's first letter led her to a continuanceof the correspondence. A power of strong and gloomy description whichshe showed in her letters, and which impressed Waymark, afforded thekey to her sufferings; her soul in reality was that of an artist, and, whereas the artist should be free from everything like moralprepossession, Maud's aesthetic sensibilities were in perpetualconflict with her moral convictions. She could not understand herself, seeing that her opportunities had never allowed her to obtain an ideaof the artistic character. This irrepressible delight and interest inthe active life of the world, what could it be but the tendency toevil, most strongly developed? These heart-burnings whenever shewitnessed men and women rejoicing in the exercise of their naturalaffections, what could that be but the proneness to evil in itsgrossest form?

It was naturally a great surprise to Maud when she received the letterfrom her aunt, which asked her not to continue her engagement into thenew quarter, giving as a reason merely that the writer wished for herat home. It was even with something of dread and shrinking that shelooked forward to a renewal of the old life. Still, it was enough thather aunt had need of her. On her return to London, she was met withstrange revelations. Miss Bygrave's story had been agreed upon betweenherself and Paul. It had been deemed best to make Mrs. Enderby'sinsanity the explanation of Maud's removal from her parents, and thegirl, stricken as she was with painful emotions, seemed to accept thisundoubtingly. 

The five years or so since Paul Enderby's reappearance in Englandseemed to have been not unprosperous. The house to which Maud waswelcomed by her father and mother was not a large one, and not in avery fashionable locality, but it was furnished with elegance. Mrs. Enderby frequently had her hired brougham, and made use of it to moveabout a good deal where people see and are seen. Mr. Enderby's businesswas "in the City. " How he had surmounted his difficulties was not veryclear; his wife learned that he had brought with him from America ascheme for the utilisation of waste product in some obscure branch ofmanufacture, which had been so far successful as to supply him with asmall capital. He seemed to work hard, leaving home at nine eachmorning, getting back to dinner at half-past six, and, as often as not, spending the evening away from home, and not returning till the smallhours. He had the feverish eye of a man whose subsistence depends uponspeculative acuteness and restless calculation. No doubt he was stillso far the old Paul, that, whatever he undertook, he threw himself intoit with surpassing vigour. 

Mrs. Enderby was in her thirty-eighth year, and still handsome. Mostmen, at all events, would have called her so, for most men areattracted by a face which is long, delicate, characterless, andpreserves late the self-conscious expression of a rather frivolous girlof seventeen. She had ideals of her own, which she pursued regardlessof the course in which they led her; and these ideals were far fromignoble. To beauty of all kinds she was passionately sensitive. As agirl she had played the piano well, and, though the power had gone fromlong disuse, music was still her chief passion. Graceful ease, delicacyin her surroundings, freedom from domestic cares, the bloom of flowers, sweet scents--such things made up her existence. She loved her husband, and had once worshipped him; she loved her recovered daughter; but bothaffections were in her, so to speak, of aesthetic rather than of moralquality. 

Intercourse between Maud and her parents, now that they lived together, was, as might have been expected, not altogether natural or easy. Shecame to them with boundless longings, ready to expend in a moment thelove of a lifetime; they, on their side, were scarcely less full ofwarm anticipation; yet something prevented the complete expression ofthis mutual yearning. The fault was not in the father and mother ifthey hung back somewhat; in very truth, Maud's pure, noble countenanceabashed them. This, their child, was so much the superior of them both;they felt it from the first moment, and could never master theconsciousness. Maud mistook this for coldness; it checked and saddenedher. Yet time brought about better things, though the ideal would neverbe attained. In her father, the girl found much to love; her mother shecould not love as she had hoped, but she regarded her with a vasttenderness, often with deep compassion. Much of sympathy, moreover, there was between these two. Maud's artistic temperament was inheritedfrom her mother, but she possessed it in a stronger degree, of purerquality, and under greater restraint. This restraint, however, did notlong continue to be exercised as hitherto. Life for the first time wasopen before her, and the music which began to fill her ears, thesplendour which shone into her eyes, gradually availed to still thatinner voice which had so long spoken to her in dark admonishings. Shecould not resign herself absolutely to the new delight; it was still aconflict; but from the conflict itself she derived a kind of joy, bornof the strength of her imagination. 

Yes, there was one portion of the past which dwelt with her, and bydegrees busied her thoughts more and more. The correspondence withWaymark had ceased, and by her own negligence. In those days of mentaldisturbance which preceded her return to London, his last letter hadreached her, and this she had not replied to. It had been her turn towrite, but she had not felt able to do so; it had seemed to her, indeed, that, with her return home, the correspondence would naturallycome to an end; with a strange ignorance of herself, such as now andthen darkens us, she had suddenly come to attach little value to theconnection. Not improbably, Waymark's last two letters had been forcedand lacking in interest. He had never said anything which could beconstrued into more than an expression of friendly interest, orintellectual sympathy. It may be that Maud's condition, dimly propheticof the coming change, required more than this, and she conceived acertain dissatisfaction. Then came the great event, and for some weeksshe scarcely thought of her correspondent. One day, however, shechanced upon the little packet of his letters, and read them throughagain. It was with new eyes. Thoughts spoke to her which had not beenthere on the first reading. Waymark had touched at times on art andkindred subjects, and only now could she understand his meaning. Shefelt that, in breaking off her connection with him, she had lost theone person who could give her entire sympathy; to whom she might havespoken with certainty of being understood, of all the novel ideas whichpossessed her; who, indeed, would have been invaluable as a guide inthe unknown land she was treading. It was now almost the end of theyear; more than three months had gone by since she received that lastletter from him. Could she write now, and let him know that she was inLondon? She could not but give expression to her altered self; andwould he be able to understand her? Yet, --she needed him; and there wassomething of her mother in the fretting to which she was now and thendriven by the balked desire. At length she was on the point of writinga letter, with whatever result, when chance spared her the trouble. 

One morning in December, she went with her mother to an exhibition ofpictures in Bond Street. Such visits had been common of late; Mrs. Enderby could rarely occupy herself at home, and pictures, aseverything beautiful, always attracted her. They had been in thegallery a few minutes only, when Maud recognised Waymark close at hand. He was looking closely at a canvas, and seemed quite unaware of herproximity. She laid her hand on her mother's arm, and spoke in anervous whisper. 

"Mother, I know that gentleman. "

"This one?" asked Mrs. Enderby, indicating Waymark, with a smile. Sheshowed no surprise, any more than she would have done had Maud beenonly her friend. 

"Yes. If he should notice me, may I introduce him to you? He was at theschool where I taught a year ago. "

"Why, certainly, my love, " replied her mother, with cheerful assent. "It is quite natural that you should have acquaintances I should liketo know. Shall I ask him to come and see us?"

There was no opportunity of answering. Waymark, in moving on, hadglanced round at the groups of people, and his eye had fallen on Maud. He seemed uncertain; looked quickly away; glanced again, and, meetingher eyes, raised his hat, though still without conviction in his face. Maud came naturally forward a step or two, and they shook hands; thenat once she introduced him to her mother. No one ever experiencedawkward pauses in Mrs. Enderby's presence; conversation linked itselfwith perfect ease, and in a minute they were examining the picturestogether. Mrs. Enderby had made up her mind with regard to her newacquaintance in one or two gleams of her quick eyes, and then talked onin an eager, intelligent way, full of contagious enthusiasm, which soonbrought out Waymark's best powers. Maud said very little. Whenever itwas possible unobserved, she gazed at Waymark's face. She found herselfthinking that, in external appearance, he had improved since she lastsaw him. He had no longer that hungry, discontented look to which shehad grown accustomed in the upper schoolroom at Dr. Tootle's; his eyeseemed at once quieter and keener; his complexion was brighter; thehabitual frown had somewhat smoothed away. Then, he was more careful inthe matter of dress. On the whole, it seemed probable that hiscircumstances had changed for the better. 

Waymark, on his side, whilst he talked, was not less full ofspeculation about Maud. For the change in her appearance was certainlymuch more noticeable than it could be in his own. Not only that she hadput aside her sad-coloured and poor raiment for a costume of tastefuland attractive simplicity--this, of course, her mother's doing--but thelook of shrinking, almost of fear, which he had been wont to see on herface, was entirely gone. Her eyes seemed for ever intelligent of newmeanings; she was pale, but with the pallor of eager, joy-bringingthought. There was something pathetic in this new-born face; the lipsseemed still to speak of past sorrows, or, it might be, to holdunspoken a sad fate half-foreseen. 

If this renewal of acquaintanceship came just at the right time forMaud, it was no less welcome to Waymark. When he wrote his last letterto her, it had proceeded more from a sense of obligation than anynatural impulse. For he was then only just recovering from a period ofsomething like despair. His pursuit of Ida Starr to London had beenfruitless. It was true that she had left her former abode, and thelandlady professed to be ignorant of her new one, though she admittedthat she had seen Ida scarcely two hours before Waymark's arrival. Hewrote, but had no reply. His only comfort was an ever-rising suspicionof the truth (as he would learn it later), but fears were, on thewhole, strongest within him. Confidence in her he had not. All thereflections of that last evening on Hastings pier lived and re-lived inhis mind; outcome of the cynicism which was a marked feature in hisdevelopment, and at the same time tending to confirm it. She had beensummoned back suddenly by a letter; who but a simpleton could doubtwhat that meant? He thought of Sally, of course, and the step she hadtaken; but could he draw conclusions about Ida from Sally, and did evertwo such instances come within a man's experience? To Sally herself hehad naturally had recourse, but in vain. She said that she knew nothingof the lost girl. So Waymark fought it out, to the result of weariness;then plunged into his work again, and had regained very much hisordinary state of mind when Maud Enderby unexpectedly came before him. 

He called upon the Enderbys, and was soon invited to dine, whichnecessitated the purchase of a dress suit. On the appointed evening, hefound Maud and her mother in a little drawing-room, which had apleasant air of ease and refinement. It was a new sensation for Waymarkas he sank into a soft chair, and, in speaking, lowered his voice, tosuit the quietness of the room. The soft lamp-light spreading throughthe coloured shade, the just perceptible odour of scent when Mrs. Enderby stirred, the crackling of the welcome fire, filled him with asense of luxury to which he was not accustomed. He looked at Maud. Shewas beautiful in her evening dress; and, marking the grave, sweetthoughtfulness of her face, the grace of her movements, the air ofpurity which clung about her, his mind turned to Ida Starr, andexperienced a shock at the comparison. Where was Ida at this moment?The mere possibilities which such a question brought before his mindmade him uneasy, almost as if he had forgotten himself and utteredaloud some word all unfit for ladies' ears. The feeling was a novelone, and, in afterwards recalling it, he could smile rathercontemptuously, If we are enraptured with one particular flower, shallwe necessarily despise another, whose beauty and perfume happen to beof quite a different kind?

Mr. Enderby appeared, followed by another gentleman. Waymark noticed anunpleasant heat in the hand held out to him; there was a flush inPaul's cheeks, too, and his eyes were very bright. He greeted thevisitor with somewhat excessive warmth, then turned and introduced hiscompanion, by the name of Mr. Rudge. 

Waymark observed that this gentleman and his hostess were on terms oflively intimacy. They talked much throughout the evening. 

During the three months that followed, Waymark's intercourse with theEnderbys was pretty frequent. Mrs. Enderby asked few questions abouthim, and Maud was silent after she had explained Waymark's position, sofar as she was acquainted with it, and how she had come to know him. Toboth parents, the fact of Maud's friendship was a quite sufficientguarantee, so possessed were they with a conviction of thetrustworthiness of her judgment, and the moral value of her impulses. In Waymark's character there was something which women found veryattractive; strength and individuality are perhaps the words that bestexpress what it was, though these qualities would not in themselveshave sufficed to give him his influence, without a certain gracefulnessof inward homage which manifested itself when he talked with women, asuggestion, too, of underlying passion which works subtly on a woman'simagination. There was nothing commonplace in his appearance andmanner; one divined in him a past out of the ordinary range ofexperiences, and felt the promise of a future which would, in one wayor another, be remarkable. 

The more Waymark saw of Maud Enderby the more completely did he yieldto the fascination of her character. In her presence he enjoyed astrange calm of spirit. For the first time he knew a woman who by noword or look or motion could stir in him a cynical thought. Here wassomething higher than himself, a nature which he had to confesstranscended the limits of his judgment, a soul with insight possiblyfor ever denied to himself. He was often pained by the deference withwhich she sought his opinion or counsel; the words in which he repliedto her sounded so hollow; he became so often and so keenly sensible ofhis insincerity, --a quality which, with others, he could consciouslyrely upon as a resource, but which, before Maud, stung him. He wasdriven to balance judgments, to hesitate in replies, to search his ownheart, as perhaps never before. 

Artificial good humour, affected interest, mock sympathy, were as farfrom her as was the least taint of indelicacy; every word she utteredrang true, and her very phrases had that musical fall which onlyassociates itself with beautiful and honest thought. She neverexhibited gaiety, or a spirit of fun, but could raise a smile by anexquisite shade of humour--humour which, as the best is, was more thanhalf sadness. Nor was she fond of mixing with people whom she did notknow well; when there was company at dinner, she generally begged to beallowed to dine alone. Though always anxious to give pleasure to herparents, she was most happy when nothing drew her from her own room;there she would read and dream through hours There were times when theold dreaded feelings took revenge; night-wakings, when she lay in coldanguish, yearning for the dawn. She was not yet strong enough to facepast and future, secured in attained conviction. As yet, she could notstir beyond the present, and in the enjoyment of the present was herstrength. 

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE MEANTIME

It was one Wednesday evening in early April, that Waymark found aletter awaiting him, addressed in a hand he at once recognised. 

"Will you come and see me? I am at home after eight o'clock till theend of the week, and all day on Sunday. 

I. S. "

No distinct pleasure was aroused in Waymark as he read this. As wasalways the case for hours after he had left Maud's presence, her faceand voice lived with him to the exclusion of every other thought. Therewas even something of repulsion in the feeling excited by his thushaving the memory of Ida brought suddenly before him; her face came asan unwelcome intruder upon the calm, grave mood which always possessedhim on these evenings. In returning home each Wednesday night, Waymarkalways sought the speediest and quietest route, unwilling to be broughtin contact with that life of the streets which at other times delightedhim. Ida's note seemed a summons from that world which, for the moment, he held at a distance. But the call was not to be silenced at his will. He began to wonder about her life during the past half-year. Why hadshe written just now, after so long a silence? Where, and under whatcircumstances, should he meet her? Did she think to find him the sameas when they last talked together?

Through the night he woke constantly, and always with thoughts busyabout Ida. In the morning his first impulse was to re-read her message;received so carelessly, it had in the meantime become of more account, and Waymark laughed in his wonted way as he saw himself thus swayedbetween forces he could not control. The ordinary day's task wasneglected, and he impatiently waited for the hour when he could be sureof finding Ida at home. The address was at Fulham, and, on reaching it, he found a large new block of the kind known as model lodging-houses. Ida's number was up at the very top. When he knocked, the door openedimmediately, and she stood there, holding out her hand to him. 

She wore the same dress that she had worn at Hastings, but the goldbrooch and watch-chain were missing, and her hair was arranged in asimpler way. She was a trifle pale, perhaps, but that might be due tothe excitement of the moment; her voice shook a little as she spoke. 

Waymark looked about him as he went in. There appeared to be two rooms, one of them a very small bedroom, the other fitted with a cooking-grateand oven; the kind of tenement suitable to very poor working-people. The floors were bare, and there was nothing in the way of furniturebeyond the most indispensable articles: a table, two chairs, and a fewcups, saucers, and plates on a shelf; through the half-open door, hesaw that the bed-room was equally plain. A fire was burning, and akettle on it; and in front, on a little square piece of carpet, layIda's inseparable friend, Grim. Grim had lifted his head at Waymark'sentrance, and, with gathering curiosity in his eyes, slowly stood up;then stretched himself, and, looking first at one, then at the other, waited in doubt. 

Ida stooped and took him up in her arms. 

"And who's this?" she asked, talking to him as one talks to a child, whilst she pressed his warm black cheek against her own. "Does Grimremember who this is? We still keep together, " she added, looking atWaymark. "All day long, whilst I'm away, he keeps house; I'm oftenafraid he suffers dreadfully from loneliness, but, you see, I'm obligedto lock him in. And he knows exactly the time when I come home. Ialways find him sitting on that chair by the door, waiting, waiting, ohso patiently! And I often bring him back something nice, don't I, Grimmy? You should see how delighted he is as soon as I enter the door. "

Ida was changed, and in many ways. She seemed to have grown younger; inher voice and manner there was a girlishness which was quite new toWaymark. Her motions were lighter and nimbler; there was no longer thatslow grace of step and carriage which had expressed absolute leisure, and with it had gone, perhaps, something of dignity, which used to sitso well upon her. She laughed from time to time in a free, carelessway; formerly she seldom did more than smile. In the old days, therewas nothing about her suggestive of what are called the domesticvirtues; now she seemed perfectly at home amid these simplesurroundings, and, almost as soon as her visitor had sat down, shebusied herself in laying the table in a quick, ready way, which came ofthe habit of waiting upon herself. 

"You'll have a cup of tea with me?" she said, looking at Waymark withthe curiosity which seemed to show that she also found somethingchanged in him. "I only get home about eight o'clock, and this is thequietest and pleasantest meal in the day for me. "

"What do you do all day, then?" Waymark asked, softening the bluntnessof his question with a smile. 

She stepped near to him, and held out her hands for him to look at;then, as he met her eyes again, laughed merrily. 

"Do you guess?" she asked. 

"I believe I can. You have gone back to the laundry again?"

"Yes. "

"And how long is it since you did so?"

"How long is it since we last saw each other?"

"Did you begin at once when you returned to London?"

"Yes. "

Waymark kept silence, whilst Ida poured out a cup of tea for him, andthen took her seat at the table. 

"Don't you think I'm comfortable here?" Ida said. "It's like having ahouse of my own. I see nothing of the other people in the building, andfeel independent. "

"Did you buy the furniture yourself?"

"Yes; just the things I couldn't do without. I pay onlythree-and-sixpence a week, and so long as I can earn that, I'm sure atall events of a home, where I can be happy or miserable, as I please. "

Waymark wondered. There was no mistaking the genuineness of her tone. What, then, had been the reason for this astonishing change, a changeextending, it would seem, almost to temperament? What intermediatephases had led up to this result? He wished to ask her for anexplanation, but to do so would be to refer to the condition she hadleft, and that he did not wish to do. All would no doubt explain itselfas they talked; in the meantime she told him how her days were ordered, and the details of her life. 

"Have you brought your pipe?" she asked, when they had drank their tea. 

"May I smoke?"

"Of course, --just as you used to. "

"But it is not the same, " Waymark said, half to himself. 

"Are you sorry for the change?" Ida asked, as she handed him a box ofmatches. 

"What induced you to make it?"

"Oh, I have strange fancies. The idea came, just like others do. Areyou sorry?"

"The opposite. Did the idea come whilst we were at Hastings?"

"Before that. Do you remember my telling you that I had a lettercalling me back to London?"

Waymark nodded. 

"It was from the laundry, to say I could go to work as soon as I liked. "

"And why didn't you tell me that?"

Ida seemed about to reply, but altered her intention, and, after beingsilent for a moment, asked another question. 

"Did you think you would ever hear from me?"

"I had given up hope. "

"And did you wonder what had become of me?"

"Often. Why didn't you write before?"

"I wasn't ready. "

"What does that mean?" Waymark asked, looking closely at her. 

"Perhaps I shall be able to explain some day. If not, well, it won'tmatter. "

"And will you let me see you often?" said Waymark, after thinking alittle. "Are we to be friends again, as we used to be?"

"If you would care for it. "

Waymark turned away as their eyes met. 

"Certainly I should care for it, " he said, feeling all at once adifficulty in speaking naturally. Then he looked at Ida again; she wasbending down and stroking Grim's ears. There was rather a long silence, which Waymark at length forced himself to break. 

"Shall I bring you books again?" he said. 

"I have very little time for reading, " was Ida's reply. "It's better, perhaps, that it is so. "

"But why?"

"Perhaps it would make me discontented with my work, and want all sortsof things I couldn't have. "

"You have your Sundays free?" Waymark said, after another rather longsilence. 

"Yes. "

"Then we must have some expeditions again, now that the fine days havecome. By the by, do you ever see Sally?"

Ida looked up with a smile and said, "Yes; do you?"

"No; but I hear of her. "

"From your friend?"

"Yes, from O'Gree. "

"Do your other friends still live near you?" Ida asked, speakingquickly, as if to interrupt what Waymark was about to say. 

"The Castis? Oh yes. "

"What is Mrs. Casti like?" she said, in a tone which attractedWaymark's attention. 

"Well, " he replied, "it's difficult to describe her. There's nothingvery good about her, and I suppose nothing very bad. I see little ofher now; she's almost always ill. "

"What's the matter with her?"

"Can't say; general weakness and ill health, I think?"

"But she's so young, isn't she? Has she friends to go and see her?"

"Very few, I think. "

"It must be dreadful to be like that, " said Ida. "I'm thankful that Ihave my health, at all events. Loneliness isn't so hard to bear, as itmust be in illness. "

"Do you feel lonely?"

"A little, sometimes, " said Ida. "But it's ungrateful to poor old Grimto say so. "

"Have you no acquaintances except the people you work with?"

She shook her head. 

"And you don't read? Wouldn't you like to go on reading as you used to?You have a better head than most women, and it's a pity not to make useof it. That's all nonsense about in making you discontented. You won'talways be living like this, I suppose. "

"Why not?" Ida asked simply. 

"Well, " said Waymark, without meeting her look, "even if you do, itwill be gain to you to cultivate your mind?"

"Do you wish me to cultivate my mind?"

"You know I do. "

Waymark seemed uneasy. He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece. 

"I will do whatever you bid me, " Ida said. "I can get an hour or soeach night, and I have all Sunday. "

Waymark felt only too well the effect of the tone he was adopting. Thesituation was by this time clear enough to him, and his owndifficulties no less clear. He avoided looking at Ida as much as hecould. A change had again come over her manner; the girlishness wasmodified, the old sadder tone was audible at moments. 

"If it's fine on Sunday, " he said, "will you go with me to Richmond, and let us have dinner at the old place?"

"No, " was Ida's reply, with a smile, "I can't afford it. "

"But I invite you. Of course I didn't mean that it should be anyexpense. "

She still shook her head. 

"No, I must take my own share, wherever we go. "

"Then I shall certainly refuse your cup of tea next time I come, " saidWaymark jestingly. 

"That's quite different, " said Ida. "But if you like, we can go in theafternoon, and walk about Roehampton; that I can afford. "

"As you please. When shall I call for you?"

"Half-past one. "

She opened the door for him, and held out her hand. Their eyes did notmeet as they said good-bye. The door closed, and Waymark went so slowlydown the stone steps that he seemed at every moment on the point ofstopping and turning back. 

CHAPTER XX

A SUGGESTION

Waymark and Julian Casti were sitting together in the former's room. Itwas Saturday evening--two days after Waymark's visit to Ida. Julian hadfallen into a sad reverie. 

"How is your wife?" asked his friend, after watching the melancholyface for a while. 

"She said her headache was worse to-night. "

"Curiously, " observed Waymark, with a little acidity, "it always iswhen you have to leave home. "

Julian looked up, and seemed to reach a crisis in his thoughts. 

"Waymark, " he began, reddening as he still always did when greatlymoved, "I fear I have been behaving very foolishly. Many a time I havewished to speak out to you plainly, but a sort of delicacy--a wrongkind of delicacy, I think--prevented me. I can't keep this attitude anylonger. I must tell you how things are going on, and you must give mewhat help you can. And perhaps I shall be telling you what you alreadyknow?"

"I have suspected. "

"Where is the blame?" Julian broke out, with sudden vehemence. "Icannot think that ever husband was more patient and more indulgent thanI have been. I have refused her nothing that my means could possiblyobtain. I have given up all the old quiet habits of my life that shemightn't think I slighted her; I scarcely ever open a book at home, knowing that it irritates her to see me reading; I do my best to amuseher at all times. How does she reward me? For ever she grumbles that Ican't perform impossibilities, --take her to theatres, buy her newdresses, procure for her friends and acquaintances. My wishes, expressed or understood, weigh with her less than the least of her owncaprices. She wantonly does things which she knows will cause meendless misery. Her companions are gross and depraved people, whoconstantly drag her lower and lower, to their own level. The landladyhas told me that, in my absence, women have called to see her whocertainly ought not to enter any decent house. When I entreat her togive up such associates, her only answer is to accuse me ofselfishness, since I have friends myself, and yet won't permit her tohave any. And things have gone from bad to worse. Several nights oflate, when I have got home, she has been away, and has not returnedtill much after midnight. Hour after hour I have sat there in theextremest misery, waiting, waiting, feeling as though my brain wouldburst with its strain! I have no idea where she goes to. If I ask, sheonly retorts by asking me where I spend the nights when I am with you, and laughs contemptuously when I tell her the truth. Her suspicions andjealousy are incessant, and torture me past endurance. Once or twice, Iconfess, I have lost patience, and have spoken angrily, too angrily;then she has accused me of brutal disregard of her sufferings. It wouldhurt me less if she pierced me with a knife. Only this morning therewas a terrible scene; she maddened me past endurance by her wretchedcalumnies--accusing me of I know not what disgraceful secrets--and whenwords burst from me involuntarily, she fell into hysterics, andshrieked till all the people in the house ran up in alarm. Can youunderstand what this means to one of my temperament? To have my privateaffairs forced upon strangers in this way tortures me with the pains ofhell. I am naturally reticent and retiring--too much so, I daresay--and no misery could have been devised for me more dreadful thanthis. Her accusations are atrocious, such as could only come from agrossly impure mind, or at the suggestion of vile creatures. You shehates with a rabid hatred--God only knows why. She would hate any onewho was my friend, and whose society relieved me for a moment from myghastly torments!"

He ceased for very exhaustion, so terribly did the things he describedwork upon him. 

"What am I to do, Waymark? Can you give me advice?"

Waymark had listened with his eyes cast down, and he was silent forsome time after Julian ceased. 

"You couldn't well ask for advice in a more difficult case, " he said atlength. "There's nothing for it but to strengthen yourself and endure. Force yourself into work. Try to forget her when she is out of sight. "

"But, " broke in Julian, "this amounts to a sentence of death! What ofthe life before me, of the years I shall have to spend with her? Work, forget myself, forget her, --that is just what I _cannot_ do! My nervesare getting weaker every day; I am beginning to have fits of tremblingand horrible palpitation; my dreams are hideous with vagueapprehensions, only to be realised when I wake. Work! Half my misery iscaused by the thought that my work is at an end for ever. It is allforsaking me, the delight of imagining great things, what power I hadof putting my fancies into words, the music that used to go with methrough the day's work. It is long since I wrote a line of verse. Quietness, peace, a calm life of thought, these things are what I_must_ have; I thought I should have them in a higher degree than ever, and I find they are irretrievably lost. I feel my own weakness, as Inever could before. When you bid me strengthen myself, you tell me toalter my character. The resolution needed to preserve the better partof my nature through such a life as this, will never be within myreach. It is fearful to think of what I shall become as time goes on. Idread myself! There have been revealed to me depths of passion andmisery in my own heart which I had not suspected. I shall lose allself-control, and become as selfish and heedless as she is. "

"No, you will not, " said Waymark encouragingly. "This crisis will passover, and strength will be developed. We have a wonderful faculty foraccommodating ourselves to wretchedness; how else would the world haveheld together so long? When you begin to find your voice again, maybeyou won't sing of the dead world any longer, but of the living andsuffering. Your thoughts were fine; they showed you to be a poet; but Ihave never hidden from you how I wished that you had been on my side. Art, nowadays, must be the mouthpiece of misery, for misery is thekey-note of modern life. "

They talked on, and Julian, so easily moulded by a strong will, becamehalf courageous. 

"One of her reproaches, " he said, "is just; I can't meet it. If Iobject to her present companions it is my duty to find her moresuitable ones. She lives too much alone. No doubt it is every husband'sduty to provide his wife with society. But how am I to find it? I am soisolated, and always have been. I know not a soul who could be a friendto her. "

Waymark grew thoughtful, and kept silent. 

"One person I know, " he said presently, and in a cautious way, "whomight perhaps help you. "

"You do?" cried Julian eagerly. 

"You know that I make all sorts of queer acquaintances in mywanderings. Well, I happen to know a girl of about your wife's age, who, if she were willing, would be just the person you want. She isquite alone, parentless, and almost without friends. She lives byherself, and supports herself by working in a laundry. For all this, she is by no means the ordinary London work-girl; you can't call hereducated, but she speaks purely, and has a remarkably goodintelligence. I met her by chance, and kept up her acquaintance. Therehas been nothing wrong--bah! how conventional one is, in spite ofoneself!--I mean to say there has been nothing more than a pleasantfriendship between us; absolutely nothing. We see each other from timeto time, and have a walk, perhaps a meal, together, and I lend herbooks. Now, do you think there would be any way of getting your wife toaccept her society, say of an evening now and then? Don't do anythingrash; it is of course clear that _you_ must have no hand in this. Imust manage it if it is to be done. Naturally, I can't answer at oncefor the girl's readiness; but I believe she would do what I asked herto. Do you think it is worth entertaining, this idea?"

"I do, indeed; it would be salvation, I really believe. "

"Don't be too sanguine, Casti; that's another of your faults. Still, Iknow very well that this girl could cure your wife of her illpropensities if any living creature could. She is strong in character, admirably clear-headed, mild, gentle, womanly; in fact, there isperhaps no one I respect so much, on the whole. "

"Respect, only?" asked Julian, smiling. 

"Ye-es; yes, I believe I am perfectly honest in saying so, though Icouldn't have been so sure about it some little time ago. Ourrelations, no doubt, are peculiar; on her side there is no more warmththan on mine"--Waymark tried so to believe--"and indeed her clear sighthas no doubt gauged me fairly well at my true value. "

"What is her name?"

"Ida Starr. "

"What!" cried Julian startled. "That is a strange thing! You havenoticed the scar on Harriet's forehead?"

"Well?"

"Why, it was a wound given her at school by a girl of that very name! Iremember the name as well as possible. It was a blow with a slate dealtin passion--some quarrel or other. They were both children then, andIda Starr left the school in consequence. "

"Is it possible that it is the same person?" asked Waymark, wonderingand reflecting. 

"If so, that puts a new difficulty in our way. "

"Removes one, I should have thought"

"Harriet is not of a very forgiving nature, " said Julian gravely. 

"I shouldn't have supposed she was; but a long time has gone by sincethen, and, after all, one is generally glad to see an oldschool-fellow. "

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the announcement that a gentleman named O'Gree wished tosee Mr. Waymark. Waymark smiled at Julian. 

"Don't run away, " he said. "You ought to know O'Gree in the flesh. "

The teacher came into the room with a rush, and was much taken aback atthe sight of a stranger present. Perspiration was streaming profuselyfrom his face, which was aglow with some great intelligence. Afterbeing introduced to Casti, he plunged down on a chair, and moppedhimself with his handkerchief, uttering incoherencies about the stateof the weather. Waymark made an effort to bring about a generalconversation, but failed; O'Gree was so preoccupied that any remarkaddressed to him had to be repeated before he understood it, and Julianwas in no mood for making new acquaintances. So, in a few minutes, thelatter took his hat and left, Waymark going with him to the door tospeak a few words of encouragement. 

"The battle's won!" cried O'Gree, with much gesticulation, as soon asWaymark returned. "The campaign's at an end!--I'm sorry if I've drivenyour friend away, but I was bound to tell you. "

"All right. Let me have a description of the manoeuvres. "

"Look here, my boy, " said O'Gree, with sudden solemnity, "you've neverbeen very willing to talk to me about her. Now, before I tell youanything, I want to know this. _Why_ wouldn't you tell me how you firstgot to know her, and so on?"

"Before I answer, I want to know this: have you found out why Iwouldn't?"

"Yes, I have--that is, I suppose I have--and from her own lips, too!You knew her when she lived near the Strand there, eh?"

"I did. "

"Well now, understand, my boy. I don't want to hear anythingdisagreeable; in fact, I won't listen to anything disagreeable;--all Iwant to know is, whether I may safely tell you what she has told me. Ifyou don't know it already, there's no need to talk of it. "

"I understand, and I don't think you can tell me anything I'm not wellaware of. "

"Sure, then, I will tell you, and if there's another girl as brave andhonest as Sally in all this worruld, I'll be obliged if you'll make meacquainted with her! Well, you know she has a Saturday afternoon offevery month. It hasn't been a very cheerful day, but it couldn't bemissed; and, as it was too rainy to walk about, I couldn't think of anybetter place to go to than the British Museum. Of course I wanted tofind a quiet corner, but there were people about everywhere, and thebest we could manage was in the mummy-room. We looked at all themummies, and I told her all I knew about them, and I kept thinking tomyself: Now, how can I work round to it? I've tried so often, you know, and she's always escaped me, somehow, and I couldn't help thinking itwas because I hadn't gone about it in the proper way. Well, we'd beenstaring at a mummy for about a quarter of an hour, and neither of ussaid anything, when all at once a rare idea came into my head. 'Sally, 'I said, glancing round to see that there was no one by, 'that mummy wasvery likely a pretty girl like you, once. ' 'Do you think so?' she said, with that look of hers which makes me feel like a galvanic battery. 'Ido, ' I said, 'and what's more, there may once have been another mummy, a man-mummy, standing by her just as I am standing by you, and wantingvery much to ask her something, and shaking in his shoes for fear heshouldn't get the right answer. ' 'Did the mummies wear shoes when theywere alive?' she asked, all at once. 'Wear shoes!' I cried out. 'Ican't tell you, Sally; but one thing I feel very sure of, and that isthat they had hearts. Now, suppose, ' I said, 'we're those twomummies--' 'I'm sure it's bad luck!' interrupted Sally. 'Oh no, itisn't, ' said I, seeing something in her face which made me think it wasthe opposite. 'Let me go on. Now, suppose the one mummy said to theother, "Sally--"' '_Were_ the girl-mummies called Sally?' sheinterrupted again. 'Sure I can't say, ' said I, 'but we'll suppose so. Well, suppose he said, "Sally if I can hit on some means of making acomfortable home here by the Nile, --that's to say, the Thames, youknow, --will you come and keep it in order for me, and live with me forall the rest of our lives?' Now what do you think the girl-mummy wouldhave answered:'"

Waymark laughed, but O'Gree had become solemn. 

"She didn't answer at once, and there was something very queer in herface. All at once she said, 'What has Mr. Waymark told you about me?''Why, just nothing at all, ' I said, rather puzzled. 'And do you know, 'she asked then, without looking at me, 'what sort of a girl I am?'Well, all at once there came something into my head that I'd neverthought of before, and I was staggered for a moment; I couldn't sayanything. But I got over it. 'I don't want to know anything, ' I said. 'All I know is, that I like you better than I ever shall any one else, and I want you to promise to be my wife, some day. ' 'Then you must letme tell you all my story first, ' she said. 'I won't answer till youknow everything. ' And so she told me what it seems you know. Well, if Ithought much of her before, I thought a thousand times as much afterthat! And do you know what? I believe it was on my account that shewant and took that place in the shop. "

"Precisely, " said Waymark. 

"You think so?" cried the other, delighted. 

"I guessed as much when she met me that day and said I might let youknow where she was. "

"Ha!" exclaimed O'Gree, with a long breath. 

"And so the matter is settled?"

"All but the most important part of it. There's no chance of my beingable to marry for long enough to come. Now, can you give me any advice?I've quite made up my mind to leave Tootle. The position isn't worthyof a gentleman; I'm losing my self-respect. The she-Tootle gets worseand worse. If I don't electrify her, one of these days, with anoutburst of ferocious indignation, she will only have my patience tothank. Let her beware how she drives the lion to bay!"

"Couldn't you get a non-resident mastership?"

"I must try, but the pay is so devilish small. "

"We must talk the matter over. "

CHAPTER XXI

DIPLOMACY

Waymark had a good deal of frank talk with himself before meeting Idaagain on the Sunday. Such conversation was, as we know, habitual. Underthe circumstances, however, he felt that it behoved him to becomeespecially clear on one or two points; never mind what course he mightultimately pursue, it was always needful to him to dissect his ownmotives, that he might at least be acting with full consciousness. 

One thing was clear enough. The fiction of a mere friendship betweenhimself and Ida was impossible to support. It had been impossible underthe very different circumstances of a year ago, and was not likely tolast a week, now that Ida could so little conceal how her own feelingshad changed. What, then, was to be their future? Could he accept herlove, and join their lives without legal bond, thinking only of presenthappiness, and content to let things arrange themselves as they wouldin the years to come?

His heart strongly opposed such a step. Clearly Ida had changed herlife for his sake, and was undergoing hardships in the hope of winninghis respect as well as his love. Would she have done all this withoutsomething of a hope that she might regain her place in the every-dayworld, and be held by Waymark worthy to become his wife? He could notcertainly know, but there was little doubt that this hope had led heron. Could he believe her capable of yet nobler ideas; could he thinkthat only in reverence of the sanctity of love, and without regard toother things, she had acted in this way; then, regarding her as indeedhis equal, he would open his heart to her and speak somewhat in thisway. "Yes, I do love you; but at the same time I know too well theuncertainty of love to go through the pretence of binding myself to youfor ever. Will you accept my love in its present sincerity, neitherhoping nor fearing, knowing that whatever happens is beyond our owncontrol, feeling with me that only an ignoble nature can descend to theaffectation of union when the real links are broken?" Could Waymark buthave felt sure of her answer to such an appeal, it would have gone farto make his love for Ida all-engrossing. She would then be his idealwoman, and his devotion to her would have no bounds. 

But he felt too strongly that in thus speaking he would sadden her bythe destruction of her great hope. On the other hand, to offer to makeher his legal wife would be to do her a yet greater injustice, even hadhe been willing to so sacrifice himself. The necessity for legalmarriage would be a confession of her inferiority, and the sense ofbeing thus bound would, he well knew, be the surest means of weakeninghis affection. This affection he could not trust. How far was it merepassion of the senses, which gratification would speedily kill?

In the case of his feeling towards Maud Enderby there was no suchdoubt. Never was his blood so calm as in her presence. She was to him aspirit, and in the spirit he loved her. With Maud he might look forwardto union at some distant day, a union outwardly of the conventionalkind. It would be so, not on account of any inferiority to his ideal inMaud, for he felt that there was no height of his own thought whithershe would not in time follow him; but simply because no point ofprinciple would demand a refusal of the yoke of respectability, withits attendant social advantages. And the thought of thus bindinghimself to Maud had nothing repulsive, for the links between them werenot of the kind which easily yield, and loyalty to a higher and noblernature may well be deemed a duty. 

So far logical arguing. But the fact remained that he had not the leastintention of breaking off his intercourse with Ida, despite thecertainty that passion would grow upon him with each of their meetings, rendering their mutual relations more and more dangerous. Of only onething could he be sure: marriage was not to be thought of. It remained, then, that he was in danger of being led into conduct which would bethe source of grievous unrest to himself, and for Ida would lay thefoundation of much suffering. Waymark was honest enough in hisself-communing to admit that he could not trust himself. Grossdeception he was incapable of, but he would not answer for it that, thetemptation pressing him too hard, he might not be guilty of allowingIda to think his love of more worth than it really was. She knew hiscontempt of conventional ties, and her faith in him would keep her frompressing him to any step he disliked; she would trust him without that. And such trust would be unmerited. 

It was significant that he did not take into account loyalty to Maud asa help in resisting this temptation. He was too sure of himself asregarded that purer love; let what might happen, his loyalty to Maudwould be unshaken. It was independent of passion, and passion could notshake it. 

Then came the subject of the proposed acquaintance between Ida and Mrs. Casti. An impulse of friendship had led to his conceiving the idea;together, perhaps, with the recollection of what Ida had said about herloneliness, and the questions she had asked about Mrs. Casti. Waymarkhad little doubt that those questions indicated a desire to becomeacquainted with his friends; the desire was natural, under thecircumstances. Still, he regretted what he had done. To introduce Idato his friends would be almost equivalent to avowing some conventionalrelations between her and himself. And, in the next place, it would bean obstacle in the way of those relations becoming anything butconventional. Well, and was not this exactly the kind of aid he neededin pursuing the course which he felt to be right? Truly; yet--

At this point Waymark broke into that half contemptuous, half indulgentlaugh which so frequently interrupted his self-communings, and, itbeing nearly one o'clock, set out to call for Ida. The day was fine, and, when they left the steamer at Putney, they walked on to the heathin good spirits and with cheerful talk. To be with Ida under thesecircumstances, in the sunlight and the fresh breeze, was very differentfrom sitting with her yonder in the little room, with the lamp burningon the table, and the quietness of night around. The calm pleasure ofpassionless intercourse was realised and sufficing. Ida, too, seemedcontent to enjoy the moment; there was not that wistfulness in her eyeswhich had been so new to him and so strong in its influence. It waseasy to find indifferent subjects of conversation, and to avoid theseriousness which would have been fatal. 

When they had found a pleasant spot to rest awhile before turning back, Waymark made up his mind to fulfil his promise to Julian. 

"It's rather strange, " he said, "that you should have been asking mequestions about Mrs. Casti. Since then I've discovered that youprobably know her, or once did. "

Ida looked surprised. 

"Do you remember once having a schoolfellow called Harriet Smales?"

"Is that _her_ name?"

"It was, before her marriage. "

Ida became grave, and thought for some moments before speaking again. 

"Yes, I remember her, " she said, "and not pleasantly. "

"You wouldn't care to renew her acquaintance then?" said Waymark, halfglad, in spite of himself, that she spoke in this way. 

Ida asked, with earnestness, how he had made this discovery. Waymarkhesitated, but at length told the truth. He explained that Mrs. Castisuffered from the want of companionship, and that he had mentionedIda's name to Julian; whence the discovery. 

"Has _she_ been told about me?" asked Ida. 

"Nothing was to be said till I had spoken to you. "

Waymark paused, but presently continued in a more serious tone. Inrecurring to that conversation with Julian, his friend's trouble spokestrongly to him once more, and overcame selfish thoughts. 

"I said that I had come to know you by chance, and that--strange as itmight sound--we were simply friends. " He glanced for an instant at Ida;her eyes were turned to the ground. "You will believe me, " he went onquickly, "when I tell you that I really said nothing more?"

"I never doubt a word of yours, " was Ida's quiet reply. 

"Casti was overjoyed at the thought of finding such a friend for hiswife. Of course I told him that he must not certainly count either onyour consent or on his wife's. Hers I thought to be perhaps moredoubtful than yours. "

"Could I really be of any use to her, " asked Ida, after a silence, "with so little free time as I have?"

"Supposing she would welcome you, I really believe you could be ofgreat use. She is a strange creature, miserably weak in body and mind. If you could get to regard this as a sort of good work you were calledupon to undertake, you would very likely be little less than an angelof mercy to both of them. Casti is falling into grievousunhappiness--why, you will understand sufficiently if you come to knowthem. "

"Do you think she bears malice against me?"

"Of that I know nothing. Casti said she had never spoken of you in thatway. By-the-by, she still has a scar on her forehead, I often wonderedhow it came there. "

Ida winced. 

"What a little termagant you must have been!" exclaimed Waymark, laughing. "How hard it is to fancy you at that age, Ida. --What was thequarrel all about?"

"I can't speak of it, " she replied, in a low, sad voice. "It is so longago; and I want to forget it. "

Waymark kept silence. 

"Do you wish me to be her friend?" Ida asked, suddenly looking up. 

"Certainly not if you dislike the thought. "

"No, no. But you think it would be doing good? you would like me tohelp your friend if I can?"

"Yes, I should, " was Waymark's reply. 

"Then I hope she will be willing to let me go and see her. I will do myvery best. Let us lose no time in trying. It is such a strange thingthat we should meet again in this way; perhaps it is something morethan chance. "

Waymark smiled. 

"You think I am superstitious?" she asked quickly. "I often feel so. Ihave all sorts of hopes and faiths that you would laugh at. "

Ida's thoughts were busy that night with the past and the future. Thefirst mention of Harriet's name had given her a shock; it brought backwith vividness the saddest moments of her life; it awoke a bitterresentment which mere memory had no longer kept the power to revive. That was only for a moment, however. The more she accustomed herself tothe thought, the easier it seemed to be to bury the past inforgiveness. Harriet must have changed so much since those days. Possibly there would never be a mention between them of the oldtrouble; practically they would be new acquaintances, and would be verylittle helped to an understanding of each other by the recollections ofchildhood. And then Ida felt there was so much to be glad of in the newprospects. She longed for a world more substantial than that of her ownimaginations, and here, as she thought, it would be opened to her. Above all, by introducing her to his friends, Waymark had strengthenedthe relations between her and himself. He was giving her, too, a chanceof showing herself to him in a new light. For the first time he wouldsee her under the ordinary conditions of a woman's life in a homecircle Ida had passed from one extreme to the other. At present therewas nothing she desired so much as the simple, conventional, every-dayexistence of the woman who has never swerved from the beaten track. Shenever saw a family group anywhere without envying the happiness whichto her seemed involved in the mere fact of a home and relations. Herisolation weighed heavily upon her. If there were but some one whocould claim her services, as of right, and in return render her thesimple hum-drum affection which goes for so much in easing the burdenof life. She was weary of her solitary heroism, though she neverregarded it as heroism, but merely as the path in which she wasnaturally led by her feelings. Waymark could not but still think of hervery much in the old light, and she wished to prove to him howcompletely she was changed. The simple act of making tea for him whenhe came to see her had been a pleasure; it was domestic and womanly, and she had often glanced at his face to see whether he noticed it atall. Then the fact of Harriet's being an invalid would give her manyopportunities for showing that she could be gentle and patient andserviceable. Casti would observe these things, and doubtless wouldspeak of them to Waymark. Thinking in this way, Ida became alleagerness for the new friendship. There was of course the possibilitythat Harriet would refuse to accept her offered kindness, but it seemedvery unlikely, and the disappointment would be so great that she couldnot bear to dwell on the thought. Waymark had promised to come as soonas he had any news. The time would go very slowly till she saw him. 

Waymark had met Harriet very seldom of late. Julian spent regularly oneevening a week with him, but it was only occasionally that Waymark paida visit in turn. He knew that he was anything but welcome to Mrs. Casti, who of course had neither interest nor understanding for theconversation between himself and Julian. Formerly he had now and thentried his best to find some common subject for talk with her, but theeffort had been vain; she was hopelessly stupid, and more often thannot in a surly mood, which made her mere presence difficult to beendured. Of late, whenever he came, she made her illness an excuse forremaining in her bed-room. And hence arose another trouble. The tworooms were only divided by folding doors, and when Harriet gotimpatient with what she conceived to be the visitor's undue stay, shewould rap on the doors, to summon Julian to her. This rapping wouldtake place sometimes six or seven times in half an hour, till Waymarkhastened away in annoyance. And indeed there was little possibility ofconversing in Julian's own room. Julian sat for ever in a state ofnervous apprehension, dreading the summons which was sure to comebefore long. When he left the room for a moment, in obedience to it, Waymark could hear Harriet's voice speaking in a peevish orill-tempered tone, and Julian would return pale with agitation, unableto utter consecutive words. It was a little better when the meeting wasat Waymark's, but even then Julian was anything but at his ease. Hewould often sit for a long time in gloomy silence, and seldom couldeven affect his old cheerfulness. The change which a year had made inhim was painful. His face was growing haggard with ceaseless anxiety. The slightest unexpected noise made him start nervously. His oldenthusiasms were dying away. His daily work was a burden which grewmore and more oppressive. He always seemed weary, alike in body andmind. 

Harriet's ailments were not of that unreal kind which hysterical womenoften affect, for the mere sake of demanding sympathy, though it wascertain she made the most of them. The scrofulous taint in herconstitution was declaring itself in many ways. The most serioussymptoms took the form of convulsive fits. On Julian's return home oneevening, he had found her stretched upon the floor, unconscious, foaming at the mouth, and struggling horribly. Since then, he had comeback every night in agonies of miserable anticipation. Her illness, andhis own miseries, were of course much intensified by her self-willedhabits. When she remained away from home till after midnight, Julianwas always in fear lest some accident had happened to her, and once ortwice of late she had declared (whether truly or not it was impossibleto say) that she had had fits in the open street. Weather made nodifference to her; she would leave home on the pretence of makingnecessary purchases, and would come back drenched with rain. Protestavailed nothing, save to irritate her. At times her conduct was soutterly unreasonable that Julian looked at her as if to see whether shehad lost her senses. And all this he bore with a patience which fewcould have rivalled. Moments there were when she softened, and, in aburst of hysterical weeping, begged him to forgive her for some unusualviolence, pleading her illness as the cause; and so sensible was he tocompassion, that he always vowed in his mind to bear anything ratherthan deal harshly with her. Love for her, in the true sense, he hadnever felt, but his pity often led him to effusions of tenderness whichlove could scarcely have exceeded. He was giving up everything for her. Through whole evenings he would sit by her, as she lay in pain, holdingher hands, and talking in a way which he thought would amuse orinterest her. 

"You're sorry you married me, " she would often say at such times. "It'sno good saying no; I'm sure you are. "

That always made Julian think of her father, and of his own promisealways to be a friend to the poor, weak, ailing creature; and hestrengthened himself in his resolution to bear everything. 

Waymark decided that he would venture on the step of going to seeHarriet during the daytime, whilst Julian was away, in order to speakof Ida. This he did on the Monday, and was lucky enough to find her athome. She was evidently surprised at his visit, and perhaps still moreso at the kind and friendly way in which he began to speak to her. In afew minutes he had worked round to his subject. He had, he said, afriend, a young lady who was very lonely, and for whom he wanted tofind an agreeable companion. It had occurred to him that perhaps hemight ask to be allowed to introduce her. Waymark had concluded thatthis would probably be the best way of putting it; Harriet wouldperhaps be flattered by being asked to confer the favour of heracquaintance. And indeed she seemed so; there was even something like amomentary touch of colour in her pale cheek. 

"Does Julian know her?" she asked, fixing her eyes on his with theclosest scrutiny. 

"No, he does not. "

He would leave her to what conclusion she liked about his relations toIda; in reality that mattered little. 

"She is some one, " he went on, "for whom I have a great regard. As Isay, she has really no friends, and she earns her own living. I feelsure you would find her company pleasant; she is sensible and cheerful, and would be very grateful for any kindness you showed her. Her name, by-the-by, is Ida Starr. "

"Ida Starr?"

"Is the name familiar to you?"

"I used to know some one called that. "

"Indeed? How strange it would be if you knew her already. I have spokento her of you, but she didn't tell me she knew your name. "

"Oh no, she wouldn't. It was years and years ago. We used to go toschool together--if it's the same. "

The way in which this was spoken was not very promising, but Waymarkwould not be discouraged, having once brought himself to the point ofcarrying the scheme through. Harriet went on to ask many questions, allof which he answered as satisfactorily as he could, and in the end sheexpressed herself quite willing to renew Ida's acquaintance. Waymarkhad watched her face as closely as she did his, and he was able to readpretty accurately what was passing in her mind. Curiosity, it wasclear, was her main incentive. Good will there was none; its growth, ifat all possible, would depend upon Ida herself. There was evensomething very like a gleam of hate in her dark eyes when Ida's namewas first spoken. 

"When may I bring her!" Waymark asked. "Perhaps you would like to talkit over with Julian first? By-the-by, perhaps he remembers her as yourschoolfellow?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, " she said, with a pretence of indifference. "Idon't see what he can have to say against it. Bring her as soon as youlike. "

"She is not free till seven at night. Perhaps we had better leave ittill next Sunday?"

"Why? Why couldn't she come to-morrow night?"

"It is very good of you. I have no doubt she would be glad. "

With this understanding Waymark took his departure. 

"Do you remember Ida Starr?" was Harriet's first question to herhusband when he returned that evening. 

"Certainly I do, " replied Julian, with complete self-control. "Why?"

"When did you see her last?" followed quickly, whilst she examined himas keenly as she had done Waymark. 

"See her?" repeated Julian, laughing. "Do you mean the girl you went toschool with?"

"Of course I do. "

"I don't know that I ever saw her in my life. "

"Well, she's coming here to-morrow night. "

An explanation followed. 

"Hasn't he ever spoken to you about her?" Harriet asked. 

"No, " said Julian, smiling. "I suppose he thought it was a privateaffair, in which no one else had any interest. "

"I hope you will like her, " he said presently. "It will be very nice tohave a friend of that kind, won't it?"

"Yes, --if she doesn't throw one of my own plates at me. "

CHAPTER XXII

UNDER-CURRENTS

"Well, how do you like her?" Julian asked, when their visitors had leftthem. 

"Oh, I dare say she's all right, " was the reply. "She's got a good dealto say for herself. "

Julian turned away, and walked about the room. 

"What does she work at?" said Harriet, after glancing at him furtivelyonce or twice. 

"I have no idea. "

"It's my belief she doesn't work at all. "

"Why should Waymark have said so, then?" asked Julian, standing stilland looking at her. He spoke very quietly, but his face betrayed someannoyance. 

Harriet merely laughed, her most ill-natured and maliciously suggestivelaugh, and rose from her seat. Julian came up and faced her. 

"Harriet, " he said, with perfect gentleness, though his lips trembled, "why do you always prefer to think the worst of people? I always lookfor the good rather than the evil in people I meet. "

"We're different in a good many things, you see, " said Harriet, with asneer. Her countenance had darkened. Julian had learnt the significanceof her looks and tones only too well. Under the circumstances it wouldhave been better to keep silence, but something compelled him to speak. 

"I am sure of this, " he said. "If you will only meet her in her ownspirit, you will find her a valuable friend--just such a friend as youneed. But of course if you begin with all manner of prejudices andsuspicions, it will be very hard for her to make you believe in hersincerity. Certainly her kindness, her sympathy, her whole manner, wasperfect to-night. "

"You seemed to notice her a good deal. "

"Naturally I did, being so anxious that you should find a friend andcompanion. "

"And who is she, I should like to know?" said Harriet, with perfectionof subdued acrimony. "How can I tell that she's a proper person to be afriend to me? I know what her mother was, at all events. "

"Her mother? What do you know of her mother?"

Julian had never known the whole story of that scar on his wife'sforehead. 

"Never mind, " said Harriet, nodding significantly. 

"I have no idea what you mean, " Julian returned. "At all events I cantrust Waymark, and I know very well he would not have brought her here, if she hadn't been a proper person for you to know. But come, " he addedquickly, making an effort to dismiss the disagreeable tone betweenthem, "there's surely no need for us to talk like this, Harriet. I amsure you will like her, when you know her better. Promise me that youwill try, dear. You are so lonely, and it would rejoice me so to feelthat you had a friend to help you and to be a comfort to you. At allevents you will judge her on her own merits, won't you, and put asideall kind of prejudice?"

"I haven't said I shouldn't; but I suppose I must get to know herfirst?"

Ominous as such a commencement would have been under any othercircumstances, Julian was so prepared for more decided hostility, thathe was even hopeful. When he met Waymark next, the change in his mannerwas obvious; he was almost cheerful once more. And the improvement heldits ground as the next two or three weeks went by. Ida came to BeaufortStreet often, and Julian was able to use the freedom he thus obtainedto spend more time in Waymark's society. The latter noticed the changein him with surprise. 

"Things go well still?" he would ask, when Julian came in of an evening. 

"Very well indeed. Harriet hasn't been out one night this week. "

"And you think it will last?"

"I have good hope. "

They did not speak much of Ida, however. It was only when three weekshad gone by that Julian asked one night, with some hesitation inputting the question, whether Waymark saw her often. 

"Pretty often, " was the reply. "I am her tutor, in a sort of way. Weread together, and that kind of thing. "

"At her lodgings?"

"Yes. Does it seem a queer arrangement?"

"She seems very intelligent, " said Julian, letting the question passby, and speaking with some constraint. "Isn't it a pity that she can'tfind some employment better suited to her?"

"I don't see what is open. Could you suggest anything?"

Julian was silent. 

"In any case, it won't last very long, I suppose?" he said, looking upwith a smile which was rather a trembling of the lip. 

"Why?"

They gazed at each other for a moment. 

"No, " said Waymark, shaking his head and smiling. "It isn't as youthink. It is perfectly understood between us that we are to beagreeable company to each other, and absolutely nothing beyond that. Ihave no motive for leading you astray in the matter. However thingswere, I would tell you frankly. "

There was another silence. 

"Do you think there is anything like confidence between your wife andher?" Waymark asked. 

"That I hardly know. When I am present, of course they only talk aboutordinary women's interests, household affairs, and so on. "

"Then you have no means of--well, of knowing whether she has spokenabout me to your wife in any particular way?"

"Nothing of the kind has ever been hinted to me"

"Waymark, " Julian continued, after a pause, "you are a strange fellow. "

"In what respect. "

"Do you mean to tell me honestly that--that you--"

"Well?--you mean to say, that I am not in love with the girl?"

"No, I wasn't going to say that, " said Julian, with his usualbashfulness, heightened in this case by some feeling which made himpale. "I meant, do you really believe that _she_ has no kind of regardfor you beyond mere friendship?"

"Why? Have you formed any conclusions of your own on the point?"

"How could I help doing so?"

"And you look on me, " said Waymark, after thinking for a moment, "as aninsensible dog, with a treasure thrown at his feet which he is quiteincapable of appreciating or making use of?"

"No. I only feel that your position must be a very difficult one. Butperhaps you had rather not speak of these things?"

"On the contrary. You are perfectly right, and the position is asdifficult as it well could be. "

"You had made your choice, I suppose, before you knew Ida at all?"

"So far from that, I haven't even made it yet. I am not at all surethat my chance of ever marrying Maud Enderby is not so utterly remote, that t ought to put aside all thought of it. In that case--"

"But this is a strange state of mind, " said Julian, with a forcedlaugh. "Is it possible to balance feelings in this way?"

"You, in my position, would have no doubt?"

"I don't know Miss Enderby, " said Julian, reddening. 

Waymark walked up and down the room, with his hands behind his back, his brows bent. He had never told his friend anything of Ida's earlierhistory; but now he felt half-tempted to let him know everything. To doso, might possibly give him that additional motive to a clear andspeedy decision in the difficulties which grew ever more pressing. Yetwas it just to Ida to speak of these things even to one who wouldcertainly not repeat a word? Once or twice he all but began, yet in theend a variety of motives kept him silent. 

"Well, " he exclaimed shortly, "we'll talk about this another time. Perhaps I shall have more to tell you. Don't be gloomy. Look, here I amjust upon the end of my novel. If all goes smoothly I shall finish itin a fortnight, and then I will read it to you. "

"I hope you may have better luck with it than I had, " said Julian. 

"Oh, your time is yet to come. And it's very likely I shall be nobetter off. There are things in the book which will scarcely recommendit to the British parent. But it shall be published, if it is at my ownexpense. If it comes to the worst, I shall sell my mining shares toWoodstock. "

"After all, " said Julian, smiling, "you are a capitalist. "

"Yes, and much good it does me. "

Since that first evening Julian had refrained from speaking to his wifeabout Ida, beyond casual remarks and questions which could carry nosignificance. Harriet likewise had been silent. As far as could beobserved, however, she seemed to take a pleasure in Ida's society, and, as Julian said, with apparently good result to herself. She was more athome than formerly, and her health even seemed to profit by the change. Still, there was something not altogether natural in all this, andJulian could scarcely bring himself to believe in the happy turn thingsseemed to be taking. In Harriet herself there was no correspondinggrowth of cheerfulness or good-nature. She was quiet, but with aquietness not altogether pleasant; it was as though her thoughts wereconstantly occupied, as never hitherto; and her own moral condition washardly likely to be the subject of these meditations. Julian, when hesat reading, sometimes became desperately aware of her eyes being fixedon him for many minutes at a time. Once, on this happening, he lookedup with a smile. 

"What is it, dear?" he asked, turning round to her. "You are veryquiet. Shall I put away the book and talk?"

"No; I'm all right. "

"You've been much better lately, haven't you?" he said, taking her handplayfully. "Let me feel your pulse; you know I'm half a doctor. "

She drew it away peevishly. But Julian, whom a peaceful hour had madefull of kindness, went on in the same gentle way. 

"You don't know how happy it makes me to see you and Ida such goodfriends. I was sure it would be so. Don't you feel there is somethingsoothing in her society? She speaks so gently, and always brings a sortof sunshine with her. "

Harriet's lips curled, very slightly, but she said nothing. 

"When are you going to see her again? It's hardly fair to let thevisiting be always on her side, is it?"

"I shall go when I feel able. Perhaps to-morrow. "

Julian presently went back to his book again. If he could have seen thelook Harriet turned upon him when his face was averted, he would nothave read so calmly. 

That same evening Harriet herself was the subject of a shortconversation between Ida and Waymark, as they sat together in the usualway. 

"I fear there will never be anything like confidence between us, " Idawas saying. "Do you know that I am sometimes almost afraid of her;sometimes she looks and speaks as if she hated me. "

"She is a poor, ill-conditioned creature, " Waymark re plied, rathercontemptuously. 

"Can you explain, " asked Ida, "how it was that Mr. Casti married her?"

"For my life, I can't! I half believe it was out of mere pity; Ishouldn't wonder if the proposal came from her side. Casti might oncehave done something; but I'm afraid he never will now. "

"And he is so very good to her. I pity him from my heart whenever I seethem together. Often I have been so discouraged by her cold suspiciousways, that I half-thought I should have to give it up, but I felt itwould be cruel to desert him so. I met him in the street the othernight just as I was going to her, and he thanked me for what I wasdoing in a way that almost made me cry. "

"By-the-by, " said Waymark, "you know her too well to venture uponanything like direct criticism of her behaviour, when you talktogether!"

"Indeed, I scarcely venture to speak of herself at all. It would behard to say what we talk about. "

"Of course, " Waymark said, after a short silence, "there are limits toself-devotion. So long as it seems to you that there is any chance ofdoing some good, well, persevere. But you mustn't be sacrificed to sucha situation. The time you give her is so much absolute loss toyourself. "

"Oh, but I work hard to make up for it. You are not dissatisfied withme?"

"And what if I were? Would it matter much?"

This was one of the things that Waymark was ever and again saying, inspite of himself. He could not resist the temptation of proving hispower in this way; it is so sweet to be assured of love, even thoughevery voice within cries out against the temptation to enjoy it, andcondemns every word or act that could encourage it to hope. Idagenerally met such remarks with silence; but in this instance shelooked up steadily, and said--

"Yes, it _would_ matter much. " Waymark drew in his breath, half turnedaway--and spoke of some quite different matter. 

Harriet carried out her intention of visiting Ida on the following day. In these three weeks she had only been to Ida's lodgings once. Thepresent visit was unexpected. She waited about the pavement for Ida'sreturn from work, and shortly saw her approaching. 

"This is kind of you, " Ida said. "We'll have some tea, and then, ifyou're not too tired, we might go into the park. It will be cool then. "

She dreaded the thought of sitting alone with Harriet. But the lattersaid she must get home early, and would only have time to sit for halfan hour. When Ida had lit her fire, and put the kettle on, she foundthat the milk which she had kept since the morning for Grim and herselfhad gone sour; so she had to run out to a dairy to fetch some. 

"You won't mind being left alone for a minute?" she said. 

"Oh, no; I'll amuse myself with Grim. "

As soon as she was alone, Harriet went into the bed-room, and began toexamine everything. Grim had followed her, and came up to rubaffectionately against her feet, but she kicked him, muttering, "Getoff; you black beast!" Having scrutinised the articles which lay about, she quickly searched the pockets of a dress which hung on the door, butfound nothing except a handkerchief. All the time she listened for anyfootfall on the stone steps without. Next she went to the chest ofdrawers, and was pleased to find that they were unlocked. In the firstshe drew out there were some books and papers. These she rummagedthrough very quickly, and at length, underneath them, came upon alittle bundle of pawn-tickets. On finding these, she laughed toherself, and carefully inspected every one of them. "Gold chain, " shemuttered; "bracelet; seal-skin;--what was she doing with all thosethings, I wonder? Ho, ho, Miss Starr?"

She started; there was a step on the stairs. In a second everything wasreplaced, and she was back in the sitting-room, stooping over Grim, whotook her endearments with passive indignation. 

"Have I been long?" panted Ida, as she came in. "The kettle won't be aminute. You'll take your things off?"

Harriet removed her hat only. As Ida went about, preparing the tea, Harriet watched her with eyes in which there was a new light. Shespoke, too, in almost a cheerful way, and even showed a better appetitethan usual when they sat down together. 

"You are better to-day?" Ida said to her. 

"Perhaps so; but it doesn't last long. "

"Oh, you must be more hopeful. Try not to look so much on the dark sideof things. How would you be, " she added, with a good-humoured laugh, "if you had to work all day, like me? I'm sure you've a great deal tomake you feel happy and thankful. "

"I don't know what, " returned Harriet coldly. 

"But your husband, your home, your long, free days?"

The other laughed peevishly. Ida turned her head away for a moment; shewas irritated by this wretched humour, and, as had often been the caseof late, found it difficult to restrain some rather trenchant remark. 

"It may sound strange, " she said, with a smile, "but I think I shouldbe very willing to endure bad health for a position something likeyours. "

Harriet laughed again, and still more unpleasantly. 

Later in the evening Harriet went to call upon her friend Mrs. Sprowl. Something of an amusing kind seemed to be going forward in front of thehouse. On drawing near and pressing into the crowd of loitering people, she beheld a spectacle familiar to her, and one which brought a smileto her face. A man of wretched appearance, in vile semblance ofclothing which barely clung together about him, was standing on hishead upon the pavement, and, in that attitude, drawling out what wasmeant for a song, while those around made merry and indulged inpractical jokes at his expense. One such put a sudden end to theexhibition. A young ragamuffin drew near with a handful of rich mud, and carefully cast it right into the singer's inverted mouth. The manwas on his feet in an instant, and pursuing the assailant, who, however, succeeded in escaping down an alley hard by. Returning, theman went from one to another in the crowd, holding out his hand. Harriet passed on into the bar. 

"Slimy's up to his larks to-night, " exclaimed Mrs. Sprowl, with alaugh, as she welcomed her visitor in the bar-parlour. "He'll be losin'his sweet temper just now, see if he don't, an' then one o' them chaps'll get a bash i' the eye. "

"I always like to see him singing on his head, " said Harriet, whoseemed at once thoroughly at her ease in the atmosphere of beer andpipes. 

"It's funny, ain't it? And 'ow's the world been a-usin' you, Harriet?Seen anything more o' that affectionate friend o' yourn?"

This was said with a grin, and a significant wink. 

"Have you found out anything about her?" asked Harriet eagerly. 

"Why yes, I have; somethin' as 'll amuse you. It's just as I thought. "

"How do you mean?"

"Why, Bella, was in 'ere th' other night, so I says to her, 'Bella, ' Isays, 'didn't you never hear of a girl called Ida Starr?' I says. 'Course I did, ' she says. 'One o' the 'igh an' 'aughty lot, an' shelived by herself somewhere in the Strand. ' So it's just as I told you. "

"But what is she doing now?"

"You say she's turned modest. "

"I can't make her out quite, " said Harriet, reflecting, with her headon one side. "I've been at her lodgings tonight, and, whilst she wasout of the room, I happened to get sight of a lot of pawn-tickets, forgold chains and sealskins, and I don't know what. "

"Spouted 'em all when she threw up the job, I s'pose, " suggested Mrs. Sprowl. "You're sure she does go to work?"

"Yes, I've had somebody to follow her and watch her. There's Waymarkgoes to see her often, and I shouldn't wonder if she half keeps him;he's just that kind of fellow. "

"You haven't caught no one else going there?" asked Mrs. Sprowl, withanother of her intense winks. 

"No, I haven't, not yet, " replied Harriet, with sudden vehemence, "butI believe he does go there, or else sees her somewhere else. "

"Well, " said the landlady, with an air of generous wisdom, "I told youfrom the first as I 'adn't much opinion of men as is so anxious to havetheir wives friendly with other women. There's always something at thebottom of it, you may bet. It's my belief he's one too many for you, Harriet; you're too simple-minded to catch him. "

"I'll have a good try, though, " cried the girl, deadly pale withpassion. "Perhaps I'm not so simple as you think. I'm pretty quick intumbling to things--no fear. If they think I don't notice what goes on, they must take me for a damned silly fool, that's all! Why, I've seenthem wink at each other, when they thought I wasn't looking. "

"You're not such a fool as to leave them alone together?" said thewoman, who seemed to have a pleasure in working upon Harriet's jealousy. 

"No fear! But they understand each other; I can see that well enough. And he writes to her; I'm dead sure he writes to her. Let me get holdof a letter just once, that's all!"

"And he's orful good-natured to her, ain't he? Looks after her when shehas tea with you, and so on?"

"I should think he did. It's all--'Won't Miss Starr have this?' and'Won't Miss Starr have that?' He scarcely takes his eyes off of her, all the time. "

"I know, I know; it's allus the same! You keep your eyes open, Harriet, and you'll 'ave your reward, as the Scriptures says. "

When she reached home, Julian was in the uneasy condition alwaysbrought about by these late absences. To a remark he made about thetime, she vouchsafed no answer. 

"Have you been with Ida all the evening?" he asked. 

"No, I haven't, " was her reply. 

She went into the bed-room, and was absent for a few minutes, thenreappeared. 

"Do you know where my silver spoon is?" she asked, looking closely athim. 

"Your silver spoon?" he returned, in surprise. "Have you lost it?"

The article in question, together with a fork, hod been awedding-present from Mrs. Sprowl, whose character had in it a sort ofvulgar generosity, displayed at times in gifts to Harriet. 

"I can't find it, " Harriet said. "I was showing it to Ida Starr whenshe was here on Sunday, and now I come to look for it, it's gone. "

"Oh, it can't be very far off, " said Julian. "You'll find it if youlook. "

"But I tell you I've looked everywhere. It's gone, that's all I know. "

"Well, but--what do you mean? How can it have gone?"

"I don't know. I only know I was showing it her on Sunday. "

"And what connection is there between the two things?" asked Julian, almost sternly. "You don't wish me to understand that Ida Starr knowsanything about the spoon?"

"How can I tell? It's gone. "

"Come, " exclaimed Julian, with a laugh, "this is too absurd, Harriet!You must have taken leave of your senses. If it's gone, then some onein the house has taken it. "

"And why not Ida Starr?"

Julian stared at her with mingled anger and alarm. 

"Why not? Simply because she is incapable of such a thing. "

"Perhaps _you_ think so, no doubt. You think a good deal of her, itseems to me. Perhaps you don't know quite as much about her as I do. "

"I fancy I know much more, " exclaimed Julian indignantly. 

"Oh, do you?"

"If you think her capable of stealing your spoon, you show completeignorance of her character. What do you know of her that you shouldhave such suspicions?"

"Never mind, " said Harriet, nodding her head obstinately. 

There was again a long silence. Julian reflected. 

"We will talk about this again to-morrow, " he said, "when you have hadtime to think. You are under some strange delusion. After all, I expectyou will find the spoon, and then you'll be sorry for having been sohasty. "

Harriet became obstinately silent. She cut a piece of bread and butter, and took it into the other room. Julian paced up and down. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE OPPORTUNITY

One or two days after this, Ida Starr came home from work with a heavyheart. Quite without notice, and without explanation, her employer hadpaid her a week's wages and dismissed her. Her first astonishedquestions having been met with silence by the honest but hard-grainedwoman who kept the laundry, Ida had not condescended to any furtherappeal. The fact was that the laundress had received a visit from acertain Mrs. Sprowl, who, under pretence of making inquiries for theprotection of a young female friend, revealed the damaging points ofIda's story, and gained the end plotted with Harriet Casti. 

Several circumstances united to make this event disastrous to Ida. Herwages were very little more than she needed for her week to weekexistence, yet she had managed to save a shilling or two now and then. The greater part of these small savings she had just laid out in somenew clothing, the reason for the expense being not so much necessity, as a desire to be rather better dressed when she accompanied Waymark onthose little country excursions which had reestablished themselves oflate. By no means the smallest part of Ida's heroism was that involvedin this matter of external appearance. A beautiful woman can never beindifferent to the way in which her beauty is arrayed. That Waymark wasnot indifferent to such things she knew well, and often she sufferedfrom the thought that one strong means of attraction was lost to her. If at one moment Ida was conscious of her claim to inspire a nobleenthusiasm, at another she fell into the saddest self-distrust, and, inher hunger for love, would gladly have sought every humblest aid ofgrace and adornment. So she had yielded to the needs of her heart, andonly this morning was gladdened by the charm of some new clothing whichbecame her well, and which Waymark would see in a day or two. It laythere before her now that she returned home, and, in the first onset oftrouble, she sat down and cried over it. 

She suffered the more, too, that there had been something of a fallingoff of late in the good health she generally enjoyed. The day's workseemed long and hard; she felt an unwonted need of rest. And thesethings caused trouble of the mind. With scarcely an hour of depressionshe had worked on through those months of solitude, supported by thesense that every day brought an accession of the strength of purity, that the dark time was left one more stage behind, and that trust inherself was growing assured. 

But it was harder than she had foreseen, to maintain reserve andreticence when her heart was throbbing with passion; the effect uponher of Waymark's comparative coldness was so much harder to bear thanshe had imagined. Her mind tortured itself incessantly with the fearthat some new love had taken possession of him. And now there hadbefallen her this new misfortune, which, it might be, would once morebring about a crisis in her life. 

Of course she must forthwith set about finding new work. It would bedifficult, seeing that she had now no reference to give. Reflection hadconvinced her that it must have been some discovery of her former lifewhich had led to her sudden dismissal, and this increased herdespondency. Yet she would not give way to it. On the following morningshe began her search for employment, and day after day faced withoutresult the hateful ordeal. Hope failed as she saw herpainfully-eked-out coins become fewer and fewer. In a day or two shewould have nothing, and what would happen then?

When she returned to London to begin a new life, now nearly a year ago, she had sold some and pawned the rest of such possessions as would infuture be useful to her. Part of the money thus obtained had bought thefurniture of her rooms; what remained had gone for a few months tosupplement her weekly wages, thus making the winter less a time ofhardship than it must otherwise have been. One or two articles yetremained capable of being turned into small sums, and these she nowdisposed of at a neighbouring pawnbroker's--the same she had previouslyvisited on the occasion of pawning one or two of the things, thetickets for which Harriet Casti had so carefully inspected. She spoketo no one of her position. Yet now the time was quickly coming when shemust either have help from some quarter or else give up her lodgings. In food she was already stinting herself to the verge of starvation. And through all this she had to meet her friends as hitherto, ifpossible without allowing any trace of her suffering to become visible. Harriet, strange to say, had been of late a rather frequent visitor, and was more pressing than formerly in her invitations. Ida dreaded hercoming, as it involved the unwarrantable expense of obtaining luxuriesnow unknown in her cupboard, such as tea and butter. And, on the otherhand, it was almost impossible to affect cheerfulness in the company ofthe Castis. At times she caught Julian's eyes fixed upon her, and feltthat he noticed some change in her appearance. She had a sense of guiltin their presence, as if she were there on false pretences. For, together with her daily work, much of her confidence had gone; aninexplicable shame constantly troubled her. She longed to hide herselfaway, and be alone with her wretchedness. 

If it came to asking for help, of whom could she ask it but of Waymark?Yet for some time she felt she could not bring herself to that. In theconsciousness of her own attitude towards him, it seemed to her thatWaymark might well doubt the genuineness of her need, might think it amere feint to draw him into nearer relations. She could not doubt thathe knew her love for him; she did not desire to hide it, even had shebeen able. But him she could not understand. A struggle often seemedgoing on within him in her presence; he appeared to repress hisimpulses; he was afraid of her. At times passion urged her to breakthrough this barrier between them, to bring about a situation whichwould end in clear mutual understanding, cost her what it might. Atother times she was driven to despair by the thought that she had madeherself too cheap in his eyes. Could she put off the last vestige ofher independence, and, in so many words, ask him to give her money?

This evening she expected Waymark, but the usual time of his comingwent by. She sat in the twilight, listening with painful intentness toevery step on the stairs; again and again her heart leaped at somefootfall far below, only to be deceived. She had not even now made upher mind how to speak to him, or whether to speak to him at all; butshe longed passionately to see him. The alternations of hope anddisappointment made her feverish. Illusions began to possess her. Onceshe heard distinctly the familiar knock. It seemed to rouse her fromslumber: she sprang to the door and opened it, but no one was there. She ran half way down the stairs, but saw no one. It was now nearlymidnight. The movement had dispelled for a little the lethargy whichwas growing upon her, and she suddenly came to a resolution. Taking asheet of note-paper, she wrote this:--

"I have been without work for a fortnight. All my money is done, and Iam in want. Can you send me some, for present help, till I get morework? _Do not bring it yourself, and do not speak a word of this whenyou see me, I beg you earnestly_. If I shall fail to get work, I willspeak to you of my own accord. 

I. S. "

She went out and posted this, though she had no stamp to put on theenvelope; then, returning, she threw herself as she was on to the bed, and before long passed into unconsciousness. 

Waymark's absence that evening had been voluntary. His work had come toa standstill; his waking hours were passed in a restless misery whichthreatened to make him ill. And to-night he had not dared to go to Ida;in his present state the visit could have but one result, and even yethe hoped that such a result might not come about. He left home andwandered about the streets till early morning. All manner of projectsoccupied him. He all but made up his mind to write a long letter to Idaand explain his position without reserve. But he feared lest the resultof that might be to make Ida hide away from him once more, and to thisloss he could not reconcile himself. Yet he was further than ever fromthe thought of giving himself wholly to her, for the intenser hisfeeling grew, the more clearly he recognised its character. This wasnot love he suffered from, but mere desire. To let it have its waywould be to degrade Ida. Love might or might not follow, and how couldhe place her at the mercy of such a chance as that? Her faith and trustin him were absolute; could he take advantage of it for his own ends?And, for all these fine arguments, Waymark saw with perfect clearnesshow the matter would end. Self would triumph, and Ida, if the fates sowilled it, would be sacrificed. It was detestable, but a fact; as goodalready as an accomplished fact. 

And on the following morning Ida's note reached him. It was final. Herentreaty that he would merely send money had no weight with him for amoment; he felt that there was a contradiction between her words andher wishes. This note explained the strangeness he had noticed in heron their last evening together. He pitied her, and, as is so often thecase, pity was but fuel to passion. He swept from his mind allobstinate debatings. Passion should be a law unto itself. Let thefuture bring things about as it would. 

He had risen late, and by the time he had finished a hasty breakfast itwas eleven o'clock. Half an hour after he went up the stairs of thelodging-house and knocked at the familiar door. 

But his knock met with no answer. Ida herself had left home an hourbefore. Upon waking, and recalling what she had done, she foresaw thatWaymark would himself come, in spite of her request. She could not facehim. For all that her exhaustion was so great that walking was slow andweary, she went out and strayed at first with no aim; but presently shetook the direction of Chelsea, and so came to Beaufort Street. Shewould go in and see Harriet, who would give her something to eat. Shecared little now for letting it be known that she had left heremployment; with the step which she had at last taken, her position wasquite changed; she had only kept silence lest Waymark should come toknow. Harriet was at first surprised to see her then seemed glad. 

"I've only a minute ago sent a note, asking you to be sure to comeround to-night. I wanted you to help me with this new hat; you havesuch good taste in trimming. "

Ida would have been astonished at another time; for Harriet to bepaying compliments was indeed something novel. There was a flush on thelatter's usually sallow face; she did not sit down, and kept movingaimlessly about. 

"Give me your hat and jacket, " she said, "and let me take them into theother room. "

She took them away, and returned. Ida was not looking at her; otherwiseshe must surely have noticed that weird pallor which had all at oncesucceeded to the unhealthy flush, and the unwonted gleaming of hereyes. Of what passed during those next two hours Ida had afterwards norecollection. They ate together, and they talked, Ida as if in a dream, Harriet preoccupied in a way quite out of her habit. Ida explained thatshe was out of employment, news which could scarcely be news to thelistener, who would in that case have heard it with far less composure. There were long silences, generally brought to an end by some outburstof forced merriment from Harriet. Ida was without consciousness oftime, but her restless imagination at length compelled her to go forthagain. Harriet did not urge her to stay, but rose and watched her asshe went into the other room to put her things on. In a few momentsthey had parted. 

The instant Harriet, from the head of the stairs, heard the front-doorclose, she ran back into her bed-room, put on her hat, and darted down. Opening the door, she saw Ida moving away at a short distance. Turningher eyes in the opposite direction, she perceived a policeman comingslowly down the street. She ran towards him. 

"I've caught her at last, " she exclaimed, as she met him, pointingeagerly after Ida. "She's taken a brooch of mine. I put it in aparticular place in my bed-room, and it's gone. "

"Was she alone in the room?" inquired the constable, looking keenly atHarriet, then down the street. 

"Yes, she went in alone to put her things on. Be quick, or she'll beoff!"

"I understand you give her in charge?"

"Of course I do. "

A brisk walk of two or three minutes, and they had caught up Ida, whoturned at the sound of the quick footsteps, and stood in surprise. 

"This lady charges you with stealing some articles of hers, " said theconstable, looking from face to face. "You must come with me to thestation. "

Ida blanched. When the policeman had spoken, she turned to Harriet, andgazed at her fixedly. She could neither speak nor move. The constabletouched her arm impatiently. Her eyes turned to him, and she began towalk along by his side. 

Harriet followed in silence. There were not many people on the way tothe police-station in King's Road, and they reached it speedily. Theycame before the inspector, and the constable made his report. 

"Have you got this brooch?" asked the inspector, looking at Ida. 

Ida put her hand into one of her jacket-pockets, then into the other, and from the second brought out the object in question. It was of gold, and had been given by Julian to his wife just after their marriage. Asshe laid it before her on the desk, she seemed about to speak, but herbreath failed, and she clutched with her hands at the nearest support. 

"Look out, " exclaimed the inspector. "Don't let her fall. "

Five or six times, throughout the day and evening, Waymark had knockedat Ida's door. About seven o'clock he had called at the Castis', butfound neither of them at home. Returning thence to Fulham, he hadwalked for hours up and down, in vain expectation of Ida's coming. There was no light at her window. 

Just before midnight he reached home, having on his way posted a letterwith money in it. As he reached his door, Julian stood there, about toknock. 

"Anything amiss?" Waymark asked, examining his friend by the light ofthe street-lamp. 

Julian only made a sign to him to open the door. They went upstairstogether, and Waymark speedily obtained a light. Julian had seatedhimself on the couch. His face was ghastly. 

"What's the matter?" Waymark asked anxiously. "Do you know anythingabout Ida?"

"She's locked up in the police cells, " was the reply. "My wife hasaccused her of stealing things from our rooms. "

Waymark stared at him. 

"Cacti, what's the matter with you?" he exclaimed, overcome with fear, in spite of his strong self-command. "Are you ill? Do you know whatyou're saying?"

Julian rose and made an effort to control himself. 

"I know what I'm saying, Waymark I've only just heard it. She has comeback home from somewhere--only just now--she seems to have beendrinking. It happened in the middle of the day, whilst I was at thehospital. She gave her in charge to a policeman in the street, and abrooch was found on her. "

"A brooch found on her? Your wife's?"

"Yes. When she came in, she railed at me like a fury, and charged mewith the most monstrous things. I can't and won't go back thereto-night! I shall go mad if I hear her voice. I will walk about thestreets till morning. "

"And you tell me that Ida Starr is in custody?"

"She is. My wife accuses her of stealing several things. "

"And you believe this?" asked Waymark, under his voice, whilst histhoughts pictured Ida's poverty, of which he had known nothing, and ledhim through a long train of miserable sequences. 

"I don't know. I can't say. She says that Ida confessed, and, gave thebrooch up at once. But her devilish malice is equal to anything. I seeinto her character as I never did before. Good God, if you could haveseen her face as she told me! And Ida, Ida! I am afraid of myself, Waymark. If I had stayed to listen another moment, I should have struckher. It seemed as if every vein was bursting. How am I ever to livewith her again? I dare not! I should kill her in some moment ofmadness! What will happen to Ida?"

He flung himself upon the couch, and burst into tears. Sobs convulsedhim; he writhed in an anguish of conflicting passions. Waymark seemedscarcely to observe him, standing absorbed in speculation and thedevising of a course to be pursued. 

"I must go to the police-station, " he said at length, when the violenceof the paroxysm had passed and left Julian in the still exhaustion ofdespair. "You, I think, had better stay here. Is there any danger ofher coming to seek you?"

Julian made a motion with his hand, otherwise lay still, his pale faceturned upwards. 

"I shall be back very quickly, " Waymark added, taking his hat. Then, turning back for a moment, "You mustn't give way like this, old fellow;this is horrible weakness. Dare I leave you alone?"

Julian stretched out his hand, and Waymark pressed it. 

CHAPTER XXIV

JUSTICE

Waymark received from the police a confirmation of all that Julian hadsaid, and returned home. Julian still lay on the couch, calmer, butlike one in despair. He begged Waymark to let him remain where he wasthrough the night, declaring that in any case sleep was impossible forhim, and that perhaps he might try to pass the hours in reading. Theytalked together for a time; then Waymark lay down on the bed andshortly slept. 

He was to be at the police court in the morning. Julian would go to thehospital as usual. 

"Shall you call at home on your way?" Waymark asked him. 

"No. "

"But what do you mean to do?"

"I must think during the day. I shall come to-night, and you will tellme what has happened. "

So they parted, and Waymark somehow or other whiled away the time tillit was the hour for going to the court. He found it difficult torealise the situation; so startling and brought about so suddenly. Julian had been the first to put into words the suspicion of them both, that it was all a deliberate plot of Harriet's; but he had not beenable to speak of his own position freely enough to let Waymarkunderstand the train of circumstances which could lead Harriet to suchresoluteness of infamy. Waymark doubted. But for the unfortunate factof Ida's secret necessities, he could perhaps scarcely have entertainedthe thought of her guilt. What was the explanation of her being withoutemployment? Why had she hesitated to tell him, as soon as she lost herwork? Was there not some mystery at the bottom of this, arguing a lackof complete frankness on Ida's part from the first?

The actual pain caused by Ida's danger was, strange to say, a far lessimportant item in his state of mind than the interest which thesituation inspired. Through the night he had thought more of Julianthan of Ida. What he had for some time suspected had now foundconfirmation; Julian was in love with Ida, in love for the first time, and under circumstances which, as Julian himself had said, might wellsuffice to change his whole nature. Waymark had never beheld suchterrible suffering as that depicted on his friend's face during thosehours of talk in the night. Something of jealousy had been aroused inhim by the spectacle; not jealousy of the ordinary gross kind, butrather a sense of humiliation in the thought that he himself had neverexperienced, was perhaps incapable of, such passion as racked Julian inevery nerve. This was the passion which Ida was worthy of inspiring, and Waymark contrasted it with his own feelings on the previous day, and now since the calamity had fallen. He had to confess that there waseven an element of relief in the sensations the event had caused inhim. He had been saved from himself; a position of affairs which hadbecome intolerable was got rid of without his own exertion. Whatevermight now happen, the old state of things would never be restored. There was relief and pleasure in the thought of such a change, were itonly for the sake of the opening up of new vistas of observation andexperience. Such thoughts as these indicated very strongly the coursewhich Waymark's development was taking, and he profited by them toobtain a clearer understanding of himself. 

The proceedings in the court that morning were brief. Waymark, from hisseat on the public benches, saw Ida brought forward, and heard herremanded for a week. She did not see him; seemed, indeed, to seenothing. The aspect of her standing there in the dock, her head bowedunder intolerable shame, made a tumult within him. Blind anger andscorn against all who surrounded her were his first emotions; there wassomething of martyrdom in her position; she, essentially so good andnoble, to be dragged here before these narrow-natured slaves of anignoble social order, in all probability to be condemned to miserabletorment by men who had no shadow of understanding of her character andher circumstances. 

Waymark was able, whilst in court, to make up his mind as to how heshould act. When he left he took his way northwards, having in view St. John Street Road, and Mr. Woodstock's house. 

When he had waited about half an hour, the old man appeared. He gavehis hand in silence. Something seemed to be preoccupying him; he wentto his chair in a mechanical way. 

"I have come on rather serious business, " Waymark began. "I want to askyour advice in a very disagreeable matter--a criminal case, in fact. "

Abraham did not at once pay attention, but the last words presently hadtheir effect, and he looked up with some surprise. 

"What have you been up to?" he asked, with rather a grim smile, leaningback and thrusting his hands in his pockets in the usual way. 

"It only concerns myself indirectly. It's all about a girl, who ischarged with a theft she is perhaps quite innocent of. If so, she isbeing made the victim of a conspiracy, or something of the kind. Shewas remanded to-day at Westminster for a week. "

"A girl, eh? And what's your interest in the business?"

"Well, if you don't mind I shall have to go a little into detail. Youare at liberty?"

"Go on. "

"She is a friend of mine. No, I mean what I say; there is absolutelynothing else between us, and never has been. I should like to knowwhether you are satisfied to believe that; much depends on it. "

"Age and appearance?"

"About twenty--not quite so much--and strikingly handsome. "

"H'm. Position in life?"

"A year ago was on the streets, to put it plainly; since then has beengetting her living at laundry-work. "

"H'm. Name?"

"Ida Starr. "

Mr. Woodstock had been gazing at the toes of his boots, still the samesmile on his face. When he heard the name he ceased to smile, but didnot move at all. Nor did he look up as he asked the next question. 

"Is that her real name?"

"I believe so. "

The old man drew up his feet, threw one leg over the other, and beganto tap upon his knee with the fingers of one hand. He was silent for aminute at least. 

"What do you know about her?" he then inquired, looking steadily atWaymark, with a gravity which surprised the latter. "I mean, of herearlier life. Do you know who she is at all?"

"She has told me her whole story--a rather uncommon one, full of goodsituations. "

"What do you mean?"

The words were uttered with such harsh impatience that Waymark started. 

"What annoys you?" he asked, with surprise. 

"Tell me something of the story, " said the other, regaining hiscomposure, and apparently wishing to affect indifference. "I have atwinge of that damned rheumatism every now and then, and it makes merather crusty. Do you think her story is to be depended upon?"

"Yes, I believe it is. "

And Waymark linked briefly the chief points of Ida's history, as heknew it, the old man continually interrupting him with questions. 

"Now go on, " said Abraham, when he had heard all that Waymark knew, "and explain the scrape she's got into. "

Waymark did so. 

"And you mean to tell me, " Abraham said, before the story was quitefinished, "that there's been nothing more between you than that?"

"Absolutely nothing. "

"I don't believe you. "

It was said angrily, and with a blow of the clenched fist on the table. The old man could no longer conceal the emotion that possessed him. Waymark looked at him in astonishment, unable to comprehend hisbehaviour. 

"Well if you don't believe me, of course I can offer no proof; and Iknow well enough that every presumption is against me. Still, I tellyou the plain fact; and what reason have I for hiding the truth? If Ihad been living with the girl, I should have said so, as an extrareason for asking your help in the matter. "

"What help can I give?" asked Woodstock, again cooling down, though hiseyes had in them a most unwonted light. He spoke as if simply askingfor information. 

"I thought you might suggest something as to modes of defence, and thelike. The expenses I would somehow or other meet myself. It appearsthat she will plead not guilty. "

"And what's your belief?"

"I can't make up my mind. "

"In that case, it seems to me, you ought to give her the benefit of thedoubt; especially as you seem to have made up your mind pretty clearlyabout this Mrs. What's-her-name. "

Waymark was silent, looking at Mr. Woodstock, and reflecting. 

"What are your intentions with regard to the girl?" Abraham asked, witha change in his voice, the usual friendliness coming back. He looked atthe young man in a curious way; one would almost have said, withapprehensive expectation. 

"I have no intentions. "

"You would have had, but for this affair?"

"No; you are mistaken. I know the position is difficult to realise. "

"Have you intentions, then, in any other quarter?"

"Well, perhaps yes. "

"I've never heard anything of this. "

"I could scarcely talk of a matter so uncertain. "

There was silence. A sort of agitation came upon the old man ever andagain, in talking. He now grew absorbed in thought, and remained thusfor several minutes, Waymark looking at him the while. When at lengthAbraham raised his eyes, and they met Waymark's, he turned them away atonce, and rose from the chair. 

"I'll look into the business, " he said, taking out a bunch of keys, andputting one into the lock of a drawer in his desk. "Yes, I'll go andmake inquiries. " He half pulled out the drawer and rustled among somepapers. 

"Look here, " he said, on the point of taking something out; but, evenin speaking, he altered his mind. "No; it don't matter. I'll go andmake inquiries. You can go now, if you like;--I mean to say, I supposeyou've told me all that's necessary. --Yes, you'd better go, and look inagain tomorrow morning. "

Waymark went straight to Fulham. Reaching the block of tenements whichhad been Ida's home, he sought out the porter. When the door opened athis knock, the first face that greeted him was that of Grim, who hadpushed between the man's legs and was peering up, as if in search ofsome familiar aspect. 

From the porter he learned that the police had made that afternoon aninspection of Ida's rooms, though with what result was not known. Thecouple had clearly formed their own opinion as to Waymark's interest inthe accused girl, but took the position in a very matter-of-fact way, and were eager to hear more than they succeeded in getting out of thepolice. 

"My main object in coming, " Waymark explained, "was to look after hercat. I see you have been good enough to anticipate me. "

"The poor thing takes on sadly, " said the woman. "Of course I shouldn'thave known nothing if the hofficers hadn't come, and it 'ud just havestarved to death. It seems to know you, sir?"

"Yes, yes, I dare say. Do you think you could make it convenient tokeep the cat for the present, if I paid you for its food?"

"Well, I don't see why not, sir; we ain't got none of our own. "

"And you would promise me to be kind to it? I don't mind the expense;keep it well, and let me know what you spend. And of course I shouldconsider your trouble. "

So that matter was satisfactorily arranged, and Waymark went home. 

Julian spent his day at the hospital as usual, finding relief in fixinghis attention upon outward things. It was only when he left his work inthe evening that he became aware how exhausted he was in mind and body. And the dread which he had hitherto kept off came back upon him, thedread of seeing his wife's face and hearing her voice. When he partedwith Waymark in the morning, he had thought that he would be able tocome to some resolution during the day as to his behaviour with regardto her. But no such decision had been formed, and his overtaxed mindcould do no more than dwell with dull persistency on a long prospect ofwretchedness. Fear and hatred moved him in turns, and the fear was asmuch of himself as of the object of his hate. 

As he approached the door, a man came out whom he did not know, butwhose business he suspected. He had little doubt that it was a policeofficer in plain clothes. He had to stand a moment and rest, before hecould use his latchkey to admit himself. When he entered thesitting-room, he found the table spread as usual. Harriet was sittingwith sewing upon her lap. She did not look at him. 

He sat down, and closed his eyes. There seemed to be a ringing of greatbells about him, overpowering every other sound; all his muscles hadbecome relaxed and powerless; he half forgot where and under whatcircumstances he was, in a kind of deadly drowsiness. Presently thispassed, and he grew aware that Harriet was preparing tea. When it wasready, he went to the table, and drank two or three cups, for he wasparched with thirst. He could not look at Harriet, but he understoodthe mood she was in, and knew she would not be the first to speak. Herose, walked about for a few minutes, then stood still before her. 

"What proof have you to offer, " he said, speaking in a slow butindistinct tone, "that she is guilty of this, and that it isn't a plotyou have laid against her?"

"You can believe what you like, " she replied sullenly. "Of course Iknow you'll do your worst against me. "

"I wish you to answer my question. If I choose to suspect that youyourself put this brooch in her pocket--and if other people choose tosuspect the same, knowing your enmity against her, what proof can yougive that she is guilty?"

"It isn't the first thing she's stolen. "

"What proof have you that she took those other things?"

"Quite enough, I think. At all events, they've found a pawn-ticket forthe spoon at her lodgings, among a whole lot of other tickets forthings she can't have come by honestly. "

Julian became silent, and, as Harriet looked up at him with eyes fullof triumphant spite, he turned pale. He could have crushed the hatefulface beneath his feet. 

"You're a good husband, you are, " Harriet went on, with a sudden changeto anger; "taking part against your own wife, and trying to make herout all that's bad. But I think you've had things your own way longenough. You thought I was a fool, did you, and couldn't see what wasgoing on? You and your Ida Starr, indeed! Oh, she would be such a goodfriend to me, wouldn't she? She would do me so much good; you thoughtso highly of her; she was just the very girl to be my companion; howlucky we found her! I'm much obliged to you, but I think I might havebetter friends than thieves and street-walkers. "

"What do you mean?" asked Julian, starting at the last word, andturning a ghastly countenance on her. 

"I mean what I say. As if you didn't know, indeed!"

"Explain what you mean, " Julian repeated, almost with violence. "Whohas said anything of that kind against her?"

"Who has? Why I can bring half a dozen people who knew her when she wason the streets, before Waymark kept her. And you knew it, wellenough--no fear!"

"It's a lie, a cursed lie! No one can say a word against her purity. Only a foul mind could imagine such things. "

"Purity! Oh yes, she's very pure--you know that, don't you? No doubtyou'll be a witness, and give evidence for her, and against me;--leteverybody know how perfect she is, and what a beast and a liar I am!You and your Ida Starr!"

Julian rushed out of the room. 

Waymark could not but observe peculiarities in Mr. Woodstock'sbehaviour during the conversation about Ida. At first it had occurredto him--knowing a good deal of Abraham's mode of life--that there mustbe some disagreeable secret at the bottom, and for a moment theever-recurring distrust of Ida rose again. But he had soon observedthat the listener was especially interested in the girl's earliestyears, and this pointed to possibilities of a different kind. What wasit that was being taken from the drawer to show him, when the old mansuddenly altered his mind? Mr. Woodstock had perhaps known Ida'sparents. Waymark waited with some curiosity for the interview on themorrow. 

Accordingly, he was surprised when, on presenting himself, Mr. Woodstock did not at first appear to remember what he had called about. 

"Oh, ay, the girl!" Abraham exclaimed, on being reminded. "What did yousay her name was? Ida something--"

Waymark was puzzled and suspicious, and showed both feelings in hislooks, but Mr. Woodstock preserved a stolid indifference which it wasvery difficult to believe feigned. 

"I've been busy, " said the latter. "Never mind; there's time. She wasremanded for a week, you said? I'll go and see Helter about her. May aswell come along with me, and put the case in 'artistic' form. "

It was a word frequently on Waymark's lips, and he recognised theunwonted touch of satire with a smile, but was yet more puzzled. Theyset out together to the office of the solicitor who did Abraham's legalbusiness, and held with him a long colloquy. Waymark stated all he knewor could surmise with perfect frankness. He had heard from Julian thenight before of the discovery which it was said the police had made atIda's lodgings, and this had strengthened his fear that Harriet'saccusation was genuine. 

"How did this girl lose her place at the laundry?" asked Mr. Helter. 

Waymark could not say; for all he knew it was through her own fault. 

"And that's all you can tell us, Waymark?" observed Mr. Woodstock, whohad listened with a show of indifference. "Well, I have no more time atpresent. Look the thing up, Helter. "

On reaching home, Waymark wrote a few lines to Ida, merely to say thatGrim was provided for, and assure her that she was not forgotten. In aday or two he received a reply. The official envelope almost startledhim at first. Inside was written this:

"You have been kind. I thank you for everything. Try to think kindly ofme, whatever happens; I shall be conscious of it, and it will give mestrength. 

I. S. "

The week went by, and Ida again appeared in court. Mr. Woodstock wentwith Waymark, out of curiosity, he said. The statement of the caseagainst the prisoner sounded very grave. What Harriet had said aboutthe discovery of the pawn-ticket for her silver spoon was true. Ida'sface was calm, but paler yet and thinner. When she caught sight ofHarriet Casti, she turned her eyes away quickly, and with a look oftrouble. She desired to ask no question, simply gave her low anddistinct "Not guilty. " She was committed for trial. 

Waymark watched Mr. Woodstock, who was examining Ida all the time; hefelt sure that he heard something like a catching of the breath whenthe girl's face first became visible. 

"And what's your opinion?" asked Waymark. 

"I couldn't see the girl very well, " said the old man coldly. 

"She hasn't quite a fortnight to wait. "

"No. "

"You're sure Helter will do all that can be done?"

"Yes. "

Mr. Woodstock nodded his head, and walked off by himself. 

Julian Casti was ill. With difficulty he had dragged himself to thecourt, and his sufferings as he sat there were horribly evident on hiswhite face. Waymark met him just as Mr. Woodstock walked off; and thetwo went home together by omnibus, not speaking on the way. 

"She will be convicted, " was Julian's first utterance, when he had satfor a few minutes in Waymark's room, whilst Waymark himself paced upand down. The latter turned, and saw that tears were on his friend'shollow cheeks. 

"Did you sleep better last night?" he asked. 

"Good God, no! I never closed my eyes. That's the third night withoutrest. Waymark, get me an opiate of some kind, or I shall kill myself;and let me sleep here. "

"What will your wife say?"

"What do I care what she says!" cried Julian, with sudden excitement, his muscles quivering, and his cheeks flaming all at once. "Don't usethat word 'wife, ' it is profanation; I can't bear it! If I see herto-night, I can't answer for what I may do. Curse her to all eternity!"

He sank beck in exhaustion. 

"Julian, " said Waymark, using his friend's first name by exception, "ifthis goes on, you will be ill. What the deuce shall we do then?"

"No, I shall not be ill. It will be all right if I can get sleep. "

He was silent for a little, then spoke, with his eyes on the ground. 

"Waymark, is this true they say about her--about the former time?"

"Yes; it is true. "

Waymark in turn was silent. 

"I suppose, " he continued presently, "I owe you an apology. "

"None. It was right of you to act as you did. "

He was going to say something else, but checked himself. Waymarknoticed this, watched his face for a moment, and spoke with someearnestness. 

"But it was in that only I misled you. Do you believe me when I repeatthat she and I were never anything but friends!"

Julian looked up with a gleam of gratitude in his eyes. 

"Yes, I believe you!"

"And be sure of this, " Waymark went on, "whether or not this accusationis true, it does not in the least affect the nobility of her character. You and I are sufficiently honest, in the true sense of the word, tounderstand this. "

Waymark only saw Mr. Woodstock once or twice in the next fortnight, andvery slight mention was made between them of the coming trial. Hehimself was not to be involved in the case in any way; as a witness onIda's side he could do no good, and probably would prejudice her yetmore in the eyes of the jury. It troubled him a little to find withwhat complete calmness he could await the result; often he said tohimself that he must be sadly lacking in human sympathy. Julian Casti, on the other hand, had passed into a state of miserable deadness;Waymark in vain tried to excite hope in him. He came to his friend'severy evening, and sat there for hours in dark reverie. 

"What will become of her!" Julian asked once. "In either case--whatwill become of her!"

"Woodstock shall help us in that, " Waymark replied. "She must get aplace of some kind. "

"How dreadfully she is suffering, and how dark life will be before her!"

And so the day of the trial came. The pawnbroker's evidence wasdamaging. The silver spoon had been pledged, he asserted, at the sametime with another article for which Ida possessed the duplicate. Theinscriptions on the duplicates supported him in this, and he professedto have not the least doubt as to the prisoner's identity. Pressed incross-examination, he certainly threw some suspicion on thetrustworthiness of his assertions. "You positively swear that these twoarticles were pledged by the prisoner, and at the same time!" asked thecross-examiner. "Well, " was the impatient reply, "there's the same dateand name, and both in my writing. " But even thus much of doubt hespeedily retracted, and his evidence could not be practicallyundermined. 

Harriet's examination was long and searching, but she bore it withoutthe slightest damage to her credit. Plain, straightforward, andstubborn were all her replies and assertions; she did not contradictherself once. Waymark marvelled at her appearance and manner. The venomof malice had acted upon her as a tonic, strengthening her intellect, and bracing her nerves. Once she looked directly into Ida's face andsmiled. 

Mrs. Sprowl had been summoned, and appeared in all the magnificence ofaccumulated rings, bracelets, necklaces, and watch-chains. Helter hopedto make good use of her. 

"Did you on a certain occasion go to the person in whose employ theprisoner was, and, by means of certain representations with regard tothe prisoner's antecedents, become the cause of her dismissal?"

"I did. I told all I knew about her, and I consider I'd a right to doso. "

Mrs. Sprowl was not to be robbed of her self-assurance by any array ofjudicial dignity. 

"What led you to do this?"

"A good enough one, I think. She'd been imposed on Mr. Casti and hiswife as a respectable character, and she was causing trouble betweenthem. She had to be got rid of somehow, and this was one step to it. "

"Was Mrs. Casti aware of your intention to take this step?"

"No, she wasn't. "

"But you told her when you had done it?"

"Yes, I did. "

The frankness of all this had its effect, of course. The case wasattracting much interest in court, and the public seats were quitefull. Mrs. Sprowl looked round in evident enjoyment of her position. There was a slight pause, and then the examination continued. 

"Of what nature was the trouble you speak of, caused by the prisonerbetween this lady and her husband?"

"Mr. Casti began to pay a good deal too much attention to her. "

There was a sound of whispers and a murmuring. 

"Did Mrs. Casti impart to you her suspicions of the prisoner as soon asshe missed the first of these articles alleged to be stolen?"

"Yes, she did. "

"And did you give any advice as to how she should proceed?"

"I told her to be on the look-out. "

"No doubt you laid stress on the advantage, from a domestic point ofview, of securing this prisoner's detection?"

"Certainly I did, and I hoped and prayed as she might caught!"

Mrs. Sprowl was very shortly allowed to retire. For the defence therewas but one witness, and that was the laundress who had employed Ida. Personal fault with Ida she had one at all to find; the sole cause ofher dismissal was the information given by Mrs. Sprowl. Perhaps she hadacted hastily and unkindly, but she had young girls working in thelaundry, and it behoved her to be careful of them. 

Julian's part in the trial had been limited to an examination as to hisknowledge of Ida's alleged thefts. He declared that he knew nothingsave from his wife's statements to him. He had observed nothing in theleast suspicious. 

A verdict was returned of "Guilty. "

Had the prisoner anything to say? Nothing whatever. There was a pause, a longer pause than seemed necessary. Then, without remark, she wassentenced to be imprisoned for six months with hard labour. 

Waymark had been drawn to the court in spite of himself. Strangelyquiet hitherto, a fear fell upon him the night be fore the trial. Froman early hour in the morning he walked about the streets, circling evernearer to the hateful place. All at once he found himself facing Mr. Woodstock. The old man's face was darkly anxious, and he could notchange its expression quickly enough. 

"Are you going in?" he said sharply. 

"Are you?"

"Yes. "

"Then I shall not, " said Waymark. "I'll go to your place, and waitthere. "

But when Abraham, whose eyes had not moved from the prisoner throughoutthe proceedings, rose at length to leave, a step or two brought him toa man who was leaning against the wall, powerless from conflictingexcitement, and deadly pale. It was Waymark. Mr. Woodstock took him bythe arm and led him out. 

"Why couldn't you keep away?" the old man exclaimed hoarsely, and withmore of age in his voice than any one had ever yet heard in it. 

Waymark shook himself free, and laughed as one laughs under torment. 

CHAPTER XXV

ART AND MISERY

One Monday afternoon at the end of October--three months had gone bysince the trial--Waymark carried his rents to St. John Street Road asusual. 

"I'm going to Tottenham, " said Mr. Woodstock. "You may as well comewith me. "

"By the by, I finished my novel the other day, " Waymark said, as theydrove northward. 

"That's right. No doubt you're on your way to glory, as the hymn says. "

Abraham was in good spirits. One would have said that he had grownyounger of late. That heaviness and tendency to absent brooding whichnot long ago seemed to indicate the tightening grip of age, wasdisappearing; he was once more active and loud and full of his oldinterests. 

"How's Casti?" Mr. Woodstock went on to ask. 

"A good deal better, I think, but shaky. Of course things will be asbad as ever when his wife comes out of the hospital. "

"Pity she can't come out heels first, " muttered Abraham. 

Waymark found that the purpose of their journey was to inspect a largevacant house, with a good garden and some fine trees about it. The oldman wished for his opinion, and, by degrees, let it be known that hethought of buying the property. 

"I suppose you think me an old fool to want a house like this at mytime of life, eh?"

There was a twinkle in his eye, and a moment after he fairly burst intoa laugh of pleasure. Waymark asked no questions, and received no moreinformation; but a thought rose in his mind which occupied him for therest of the day. 

In the evening Julian came. He looked like one who had recovered from along illness, very pale and thin, and his voice had tremblings anduncertainties of key. In fact, a feverish disorder had been upon himfor some weeks, never severe enough to prevent his getting about, butweakening him to a serious degree. It would doubtless have developedinto some more pronounced illness, but for the period of comparativerest and quietness which had begun shortly after the miseries of thetrial. Harriet's ailments had all at once taken such a decided turn forthe worse--her fits becoming incessant, and other disorders traceableto the same source suddenly taking hold upon her--that Julian hadobtained her admission to the hospital, where she still remained. Hewent to see her in the ward two or three times a week, though hedreaded the necessity. From little incidents which occurred at suchtimes, he was convinced that all her fellow-patients, as well as the"sister" and nurses of the wards, had been prejudiced against him byher reports and accusations. To meet their looks occasioned him themost acute suffering. Sometimes he sat by the bedside for half an hourwithout speaking, then rose and hastened away to hide himself and bealone with his misery. 

He was earnest and eager to-night in his praise of Waymark's book, which he had just read in manuscript. 

"It is horrible, " he exclaimed; "often hideous and revolting to me; butI feel its absolute truth. Such a book will do more good than half adozen religious societies. "

"If only people can be got to read it. Yet I care nothing for thataspect of the thing. Is it artistically strong? Is it good as apicture? There was a time when I might have written in this way with adeclared social object. That is all gone by. I have no longer a sparkof social enthusiasm. Art is all I now care for, and as art I wish mywork to be judged. "

"One would have thought, " said Julian, "that increased knowledge ofthese fearful things would have had just the opposite effect. "

"Yes, " exclaimed the other, with the smile which always prefaced somepiece of self-dissection, "and so it would in the case of a man born tobe a radical. I often amuse myself with taking to pieces my formerself. I was not a conscious hypocrite in those days of violentradicalism, working-man's-club lecturing, and the like; the fault wasthat I understood myself as yet so imperfectly. That zeal on behalf ofthe suffering masses was nothing more nor less than disguised zeal onbehalf of my own starved passions. I was poor and desperate, life hadno pleasures, the future seemed hopeless, yet I was overflowing withvehement desires, every nerve in me was a hunger which cried to beappeased. I identified myself with the poor and ignorant; I did notmake their cause my own, but my own cause theirs. I raved for freedombecause I was myself in the bondage of unsatisfiable longing. "

"Well, " he went on, after regarding his listener with still the samesmile, "I have come out of all that, in proportion as my artisticself-consciousness has developed. For one thing, I am not so miserableas I was then, personally; then again, I have found my vocation. Youknow pretty well the phases I have passed through. Upon rantingradicalism followed a period of philosophical study. My philosophy, Ihave come to see, was worth nothing; what philosophy is worth anything?It had its use for myself, however; it made me by degreesself-conscious, and brought me to see that in art alone I could findfull satisfaction. "

"Yet, " urged Julian, "the old direction still shows itself in yourchoice of subjects. Granting that this is pure art, it is a kind of artonly possible to an age in which the social question is predominant. "

"True, very likely. Every strong individuality is more or less theexpression of its age. This direction may be imposed upon me; for allthat, I understand why I pursue it. "

After reflecting, Julian spoke in another tone. "Imagine yourself in myposition. Could you appreciate the artistic effect of your owncircumstances?"

"Probably not. And it is because I recognise that, that I grow more andmore careful to hold aloof from situations that would threaten my peaceof mind. My artistic egotism bids fair to ally itself with vulgarselfishness. That tendency I must resist. For the artist _ought_ to beable to make material of his own sufferings, even while the sufferingis at its height. To what other end does he suffer? In very deed, he isthe only man whose misery finds justification in apparent result. "

"I am not an artist, " sighed Julian. 

"On the contrary, I firmly believe that you are. And it makes me angryto see the impulse dying in you. "

"What am I to do?" Julian cried, almost with a voice of anguish. "I amso helpless, so hopelessly fettered! Release is impossible. No wordscould express the desperate struggles I go through when I recognise howmy life is being wasted and my powers, whatever they may be, numbed andcrushed. Something I might do, if I were free; I feel that! But thereis no hope of freedom. I shall fall into darker and darker depths ofweakness and ruin, always conscious of what I am losing. What will bethe end?"

"What the end will be, under the present circumstances, is only tooclear to me. But it might easily be averted?"

"How? Give me some practical advice, Waymark! Let us talk of the matterfreely. Tell me what you would do!"

Waymark thought for a moment. 

"Does there seem any chance of her health being permanently improved?"he asked. 

"I can't say. She says she is better. It's no use my asking thedoctors; they despise me, and would not think of treating me with anyconsideration. "

"Why don't you do this?" began Waymark, after another pause. "Use allmeans to find some convalescent home where she can be received when sheleaves the hospital. Then, if her fits and the rest of it stillcontinue, find some permanent place for her. You can afford it. Nevermind if it reduces you for a time to a garret and a crust. "

"She would refuse to go to such places, " said Julian despondently. 

"Then refuse to take her back! Sell your furniture; take one room foryourself; and tell her she must live where she likes on a sufficientallowance from you. "

"I dare not. It is impossible. She would never leave me in peace. "

"You will have to do this ultimately, if you are to continue to live. Of that there is no doubt. So why not now?"

"I must think; it is impossible to make up my mind to such a thing atonce. I know you advise what is best; I have thought of it myself. ButI shall never have the courage! I am so miserably weak. If only I couldget my health back! Good God, how I suffer!"

Waymark did his best to familiarise Julian with the thought, and tofoster in him something of resoluteness, but he had small hope ofsucceeding. The poor fellow was so incapable of anything which at allresembled selfishness, and so dreaded the results of any such severityon his part as that proposed. There were moments when indignationalmost nerved him to independence, but there returned so soon the souseof pity, and, oftener still, the thought of that promise made toHarriet's father, long ago, in the dark little parlour which smelt ofdrugs. The poor chemist, whose own life was full of misery, had beeneverything to him; but for Mr. Smales, he might now have been anignorant, coarse-handed working man, if not worse. Was Harriet past allrescue? Was there not even yet a chance of saving her from herself andthose hateful friends of hers?

This was the natural reaction after listening to Waymark's remorselesscounsel. Going home, Julian fought once more the battle with himself, till the usual troubled sleep severed his thoughts into fragments ofhorrible dreams. The next day he felt differently; Waymark's adviceseemed more practical. In the afternoon he should have visited Harrietin the ward, but an insuperable repulsion kept him away, and for thefirst time. It was a bleak, cheerless day; the air was cold with thebreath of the nearing winter; At night he found it impossible to sit inhis own room, and dreaded to talk with any one. His thoughts were fixedupon one place; a great longing drew him forth, into the darkness andthe rain of the streets, onwards in a fixed direction. It brought himto Westminster, and to the gate of Tothill Fields Prison. The fettersupon the great doors were hideous in the light of the lamps above them;the mean houses around the gaol seemed to be rotting in its accursedshadow. A deadly stillness possessed the air; there was blight in thedropping of the rain. 

He leaned against the great, gloomy wall, and thought of Ida. At thishour she was most likely asleep, unless sorrow kept her waking. Whatunimagined horrors did she suffer day after day in that accursedprison-house? How did she bear her torments? Was she well or ill? Whatbrutality might she not be subjected to? He pictured her face wastedwith secret tears, those eyes which were the light of his soul fixed onthe walls of the cell, hour after hour, in changeless despair, the fireof passionate resentment feeding at her life's core. 

The night became calmer. The rained ceased, and a sudden gleam made himlook up, to behold the moon breaking her way through billows ofdarkness. 

CHAPTER XXVI

STRAYING

The Enderbys were at Brighton during the autumn. Mr. Enderby onlyremained with them two or three days at a time, business requiring hisfrequent presence in town. Maud would have been glad to spend herholidays at some far quieter place, but her mother enjoyed Brighton, and threw herself into its amusements of the place with spirits whichseemed to grow younger. They occupied handsome rooms, and altogetherlived in a more expensive way than when at home. 

Maud was glad to see her mother happy, but could not be at ease herselfin this kind of life. It was soon arranged that she should live in herown way, withholding from the social riot which she dreaded, andseeking rest in out-of-the-way parts of the shore, where more of naturewas to be found and less of fashion. Maud feared lest her mother shouldfeel this as an unkind desertion, but Mrs. Enderby was far from anysuch trouble; it relieved her from the occasional disadvantage ofhaving by her side a grown-up daughter, whose beauty so stronglycontrasted with her own. So Maud spent her days very frequently inexploring the Downs, or in seeking out retired nooks beneath thecliffs, where there was no sound in her ears but that of the waves. Shewould sit for hours with no companion save her thoughts, which wereunconsciously led from phase to phase by the moving lights and shadowsupon the sea, and the soft beauty of unstable clouds. 

Even before leaving London, she had begun to experience a frequentsadness of mood, tending at times to weariness and depression, whichforeshadowed new changes in her inner life. The fresh delight in natureand art had worn off in some degree; she read less, and her thoughtstook the habit of musing upon the people and circumstances about her, also upon the secrets of the years to come. She grew more conscious ofthe mystery in her own earlier life, and in the conditions which nowsurrounded her. A sense which at times besets all imaginative mindscame upon her now and then with painful force; a fantastic unrealitywould suddenly possess all she saw and heard; it seemed as if she hadbeen of a sudden transported out of the old existence into this new andunrealised position; if any person spoke to her, it was difficult tofeel that she was really addressed and must reply; was it not all amere vision she was beholding, out of which she would presently awake!Such moments were followed by dark melancholy. This life she wasleading could not last, but would pass away in some fearful shock ofsoul. Once she half believed herself endowed with the curse of ahideous second-sight. Sitting with her father and mother, silence allat once fell upon the room, and everything was transfigured in aghostly light. Distinctly she saw her mother throw her head back andraise to her throat what seemed to be a sharp, glistening piece ofsteel; then came a cry, and all was darkened before her eyes in a rushof crimson mist. The cry she had herself uttered, much to her parents'alarm; what her mother held was in reality only a paper-knife, withwhich she had been tapping her lips in thought. A slight attack ofillness followed on this disturbance, and it was some days before sherecovered from the shock; she kept to herself, however, the horriblepicture which her imagination had conjured up. 

She began to pay more frequent visits to her aunt Theresa, whom atfirst she had seen very seldom. There was not the old confidencebetween them. Maud shrank from any direct reference to the change inherself, and Miss Bygrave spoke no word which could suggest acomparison between past and present. Maud tried once more to draw nearto the pale, austere woman, whose life ever remained the same. She wasnot repelled, but neither did any movement respond to her yearning. Shealways came away with a sad heart. 

One evening in the week she looked forward to with eagerness; it wasthat on which Waymark was generally expected. In Waymark's presence shecould forget those dark spirits that hovered about her; she couldforget herself, and be at rest in the contemplation of strength andconfidence. There was a ring in his voice which inspired faith;whatever might be his own doubts and difficulties--and his facetestified to his knowledge of both--it was so certain that he had powerto overcome them. This characteristic grew stronger in him to herobservation; he was a far other man now than when she first knew him;the darkness had passed from his eyes, which seemed always to lookstraight forward, and with perception of an end he was nearing. Whycould she not make opportunities of speaking freely with him, alonewith him? They were less near to each other, it seemed, after a year ofconstant meeting, than in the times when, personally all but strangers, they had corresponded so frankly and unconventionally. Of course hecame to the house for her sake; it could not but be so; yet at times heseemed to pay so little attention to her. Her mother often monopolisedhim through a whole evening, and not apparently to his annoyance. Andall the time he had in his heart the message for which she longed;support and comfort were waiting for her there, she felt sure, could hebut speak unrestrainedly. In herself was no salvation; but he hadalready overcome, and why could she not ask him for the secret of hisconfidence? Often, as the evening drew to an end, and he was preparingto leave, an impatience scarcely to be repressed took hold upon her;her face grew hot, her hands trembled, she would have followed him fromthe room and begged for one word to herself had it been possible. Andwhen he was gone, there came the weakest moments her life had yetknown; a childish petulance, a tearful fretting, an irritable misery ofwhich she was ashamed. She went to her room to suffer in silence, andoften to read through that packet of his letters, till the night wasfar spent. 

It had cost her much to leave London. She feared lest, during herabsence, something should occur to break off the wonted course ofthings, and that Waymark might not resume his visits on their return. After the feverish interval of those first weeks, she tried sometimesto distract her thoughts by reading, and got from a library a bookwhich Waymark had recommended to her at their last meeting--Rossetti'spoems. These gave her much help in restoring her mind to quietness. Their perfect beauty entranced her, and the rapturous purity of idealpassion, the mystic delicacies of emotion, which made every verse gleamlike a star, held her for the time high above that gloomy cloudland ofher being, rife with weird shapes and muffled voices. That Beauty issolace of life, and Love the end of being, --this faith she would clingto in spite of all; she grasped it with the desperate force of one whodreaded lest it should fade and fail from her. Beauty alone would notsuffice; too often it was perceived as a mere mask, veiling horrors;but in the passion and the worship of love was surely a never-failingfountain of growth and power; this the draught that would leave nobitter aftertaste, its enjoyment the final and all-sufficient answer tothe riddle of life. Rossetti put into utterance for her so much thatshe had not dared to entrust even to the voice of thought. Her spiritand flesh became one and indivisible; the old antagonism seemed at anend for ever. 

Such dreamings as these naturally heightened Maud's dislike for thekind of life her mother led, and she longed unspeakably for the time ofher return to London. They had been at Brighton already nearly a month, when a new circumstance was added to her discomfort. As she walked withher mother one day, they met their acquaintance, Mr. Budge. Thisgentleman dined with them that evening at Mrs. Enderby's invitation, and persuaded the latter to join a party he had made up for anexcursion on the following day. Maud excused herself. She did not likeMr. Budge, and his demeanour during the evening only strengthened herprejudice. He was unduly excited and fervent, and allowed himself acertain freedom in his conversation with Mrs. Enderby which Maudresented strongly. 

When they were once more in London, Maud did not win back the formerquiet of mind. Waymark came again as usual, but if anything thedistance between him and herself seemed more hopeless. He appearedpreoccupied; his talk, when he spoke with her, was of a more generalkind than formerly; she was conscious that her presence did not affecthim as it had done. She sank again into despondency; books wereinsipid, and society irritated her. She began the habit of taking longwalks, an aimless wandering about the streets and parks within herreach. One evening, wending wearily homewards, she was attracted by thelights in a church in Marylebone Road, and, partly for a few minutes'rest, partly out of a sudden attraction to a religious service, sheentered. It was the church of Our Lady of the Rosary. She had notnoticed that it was a Roman Catholic place of worship, but thediscovery gave her an unexpected pleasure. She was soothed and filledwith a sense of repose. Sinking into the attitude of prayer, she lether thoughts carry her whither they would; they showed her nothing butimages of beauty and peace. It was with reluctance that she arose andwent back into the dark street, where the world met her with a chillblast, sleet-laden. 

Our Lady of the Rosary received her frequently after this. But therewere days when the thought of repose was far from her. At one suchtime, on an evening in November, a sudden desire possessed her mind;she would go out into the streets of the town and see something of thatlife which she knew only in imagination, the traffic of highway andbyway after dark, the masque of pleasure and misery of sin of which ayoung girl can know nothing, save from hints here and there in herreading, or from the occasional whispers and head-shakings of society'sgossip. Her freedom was complete; her absence, if noticed, would entailno questions; her mother doubtless would conclude that she was at heraunt Theresa's. So she clad herself in walking attire of a kind notlikely to attract observation, and set forth. The tumult which had beenin her blood all day received fresh impulse from the excitement of theadventure. She had veiled her face, but the veil hindered herobservation, and she threw it back. First into Edgware Road, then downOxford Street. Her thoughts pointed to an eastern district, though shefeared the distance would be too great; she had frequently talked withWaymark of his work in Litany Lane and Elm Court, and a great curiositypossessed her to see these places. She entered an omnibus, and soreached the remote neighbourhood. Here, by inquiry of likely people, she found her way to Litany Lane, and would have penetrated itsdarkness, but was arrested by a sudden event characteristic of thelocality. 

Forth from the alley, just before her, rushed a woman of hideousaspect, pursued by another, younger, but, if possible, yet more foul, who shrieked curses and threats. In the way of the fugitive was acostermonger's stall; unable to check herself, the woman rushed againstthis, overturning it, and herself falling among the ruin. The one inpursuit, with a yell of triumph, sprang upon her prostrate enemy, andattacked her with fearful violence, leaping on her body, dashing herhead against the pavement, seemingly bent on murder. In a moment therewas a thick crowd rushing round, amid which Maud was crushed and swayedwithout possibility of disengaging herself. The screams of the onewoman, and the terrific objurgations of the other, echoed through thestreet. From the words of those about her, Maud understood that the twowomen were mother and daughter, and that it was no rare occurrence forthe younger woman to fall just short of killing her parent. But onlyfor a moment or two could Maud understand anything; horror and physicaloppression overcame her senses. Her fainting caused a diversion in thecrowd, and she was dragged without much delay to the nearest doorstep. 

She was not long unconscious, and presently so far recovered as to knowthat she was being helped to enter a cab. The cab began to drive off. Then she saw that some one was sitting opposite her. "Who is it?" sheasked, trying to command herself, and to see clearly by the light ofthe street lamps. At the sound of the voice which answered, shestarted, and, looking again, at length recognised Waymark. 

"Do you feel better?" he asked. "Are you able to go on homewards?"

"Quite able, " she answered, leaning back again, and speaking withstrange calmness. 

"What on earth is the meaning of this?" was Waymark's next inquiry. "How came you here at this time?"

"Curiosity brought me, " Maud answered, with the same unnaturalcomposure. 

"Had you been there long?"

"No; I had asked my way to Litany Lane, and all at once found myself inthe crowd. "

"Thank goodness I happened to be by! I had just been looking up adefaulting tenant. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you lying inthat doorway. Why didn't you ask me to come with you, and show youthese places?"

"It would have been better, " she said, with her eyes closed. Waymarkleaned back. Conversation was difficult in the noise of the vehicle, and for a long time neither spoke. 

"I told the man to drive to Edgware Road, " Waymark said then. "Shall hego on to the house?"

"No; I had rather walk the last part. "

They talked brokenly of the Lane and its inhabitants. When at lengthMaud alighted Waymark offered his arm, and she just laid her hand uponit. 

"I have seen dreadful things to-night, " she said, in a voice that stilltrembled; "seen and heard things that will haunt me. "

"You give too much weight to the impressions of the moment. That worldis farther removed from yours than the farthest star; you must forgetthis glimpse of it. "

"Oh, I fear you do not know me; I do not know myself. "

He made no reply, and, on their coming near to the house, Maud paused. 

"Mother's sending you a note this evening, " she said, as she held outher hand, "to ask you to come on Thursday instead of to-morrow. Shewill be from home to-morrow night. "

"Shall you also be from home?"

"I? No. "

"Then may I not come and see you?--Not if it would be troublesome. "

"It would not, at all. "

"It is good of you. I will come. "

CHAPTER XXVII

THE WILL TO LIVE

Waymark made his way to Paddington at the usual time on the followingevening, and found Maud alone. There was agitation in her manner as shewelcomed him, and she resumed her seat as if the attitude of rest wasneedful to her. In reply to his inquiries about her health, she assuredhim she was well, and that she felt no painful results from theprevious evening. Waymark also showed an unusual embarrassment. Hestood for some moments by the table, turning over the leaves of a book. 

"I didn't know you had Rossetti, " he said, without looking up. "Younever mentioned him. "

"I seem to have had no opportunity. "

"No. I too have many things that I have wanted to speak to you about, but opportunity was wanting. I have sometimes been on the point ofasking you to let me write to you again. "

He glanced inquiringly at her. Her eyes fell, and she tried to speak, but failed. Waymark went to a seat at a little distance from her. 

"You do not look as well as when I met you in the summer, " he said. "Ihave feared you might be studying too hard. I hope you threw away yourbooks whilst you were at the sea-side. "

"I did, but it was because I found little pleasure in them. It was notrest that took the place of reading. "

"Are your difficulties of a kind you could speak of to me?" he asked, with some hesitation. 

She kept her eyes lowered, and her fingers writhed nervously on the armof the chair. 

"My only fear would be lest you should think my troubles unreal. Indeedit is so hard to make them appear anything more than morbid fancies. They are traceable, no doubt, to my earliest years. To explain themfully, I should have to tell you circumstances of my life which couldhave little interest for you. "

"Tell me--do, " Waymark replied earnestly. 

"Will you let me?" she said, with a timid pleasure in her voice. "Ibelieve you could understand me. I have a feeling that you must haveexperienced something of these troubles yourself, and have overcomethem. Perhaps you could help me to understand myself. "

"If I thought I could, it would give me great happiness. "

She was silent a little, then, with diffidence which lessened as shewent on, she related the history, as far as she knew it, of herchildhood, and described the growth of her mind up to the time when shehad left home to begin life as a governess. It was all very simply, butvery vividly, told; that natural command of impressive language whichhad so struck Waymark in her letters displayed itself as soon as shehad gained confidence. Glimpses of her experience Waymark had alreadyhad, but now for the first time he understood the full significance ofher early years. Whilst she spoke, he did not move his eyes from herface. He was putting himself in her position, and imagining himself tobe telling his own story in the same way. His relation, he knew, wouldhave been a piece of more or less clever acting, howsoever true; hewould have been considering, all the time, the effect of what he said, and, indeed, could not, on this account, have allowed himself to bequite truthful. How far was this the case with Maud Enderby? Could hehave surprised the faintest touch of insincerity in look or accent, itwould have made a world's difference in his position towards _her_. Hisinstinct was unfailing in the detection of the note of affectedfeeling; so much the stronger the impression produced upon him by asoul unveiling itself in the _naivete_ of genuine emotion. That all wassincere he could have no doubt. Gradually he lost his criticalattitude, and at moments surprised himself under the influence of asympathetic instinct. Then he would lose consciousness of her words foran interval, during which he pondered her face, and was wrought upon byits strange beauty. The pure and touching spirituality of Maud'scountenance had never been so present to him as now; she was pale withvery earnestness, her eyes seemed larger than their wont, there wasmore than womanly sweetness in the voice which so unconsciouslymodulated itself to the perfect expression of all she uttered. Towardsthe end, he could but yield himself completely to the spell, and, whenshe ceased, he, like Adam at the end of the angel's speech, did not atonce perceive that her voice was silent. 

"It was long, " she said, after telling the outward circumstances of herlife with her aunt, "before I came to understand how differently I hadbeen brought up from other children. Partly I began to see it at theschool where we first met; but it only grew quite clear to me when Ishared in the home life of my pupils in the country. I found I had anentirely different view of the world from what was usual. That whichwas my evil, I discovered to be often others' good; and my good, theirabhorrence. My aunt's system was held to be utterly unchristian. Littlethings which I sometimes said, in perfect innocence, excited gravedisapproval. All this frightened me, and made me even more reservedthan I should have been naturally. 

"In my letters to you I began to venture for the first time to speak ofthings which were making my life restless. I did little more than hintmy opinions; I wonder, in looking back, that I had the courage to doeven that. But I already knew that your mind was broader and richerthan mine, and I suppose I caught with a certain desperation at thechance of being understood. It was the first opportunity I had ever hadof discussing intellectual things. With my aunt I had never ventured todiscuss anything; I reverenced her too much for that; she spoke, and Ireceived all she said. I thought that from you I should obtainconfirmation where I needed it, but your influence was of the oppositekind. Your letters so abounded with suggestion that was quite new tome, referred so familiarly to beliefs and interests of which I wasquite ignorant, showed such a boldness in judging all things, that Idrifted further and further from certainty. The result of it all wasthat I fell ill. 

"You see now what it is that has burdened me from the day when I firstbegan to ask myself about my beliefs. I was taught to believe that theworld was sin, and that the soul only freed itself from sin inproportion as it learned to live apart from and independently of theworld. Everything was dark because of sin; only in the still, secretplaces of the soul was the light of purity and salvation. 

"I thought I had passed out of this. When I returned to London, andbegan this new life, the burden seemed all at once lifted from me. Icould look here and there with freedom; the sky was bright above me;human existence was cheerful and noble and justified in itself. I beganto learn a thousand things. Above all, my mind fixed on Art; in that Ithought I had found a support that would never fail me. 

"Oh, why could it not last? The clouds began to darken over me again. Iheard voices once which I had hoped were for ever silenced. That senseof sin and horror came upon me last night in the streets. I suffereddreadfully. "

She was silent, and, meeting Waymark's eyes so fixed on her own, becameconscious of the eagerness and fervour with which she had spoken. 

"Have you any experience of such things?" she asked nervously. "Did youever suffer in the same way?"

"It is all very strange, " he said, without answering her question. "This overpowering consciousness of sin is an anachronism in our time. But, from the way in which you express yourself, I should have thoughtyou had been studying Schopenhauer. I suppose you know nothing of him?"

"Nothing. "

"Some of your phrases were precisely his. Your doctrine is simplyPessimism, with an element of dogmatic faith added. With Schopenhauer, the will to live is the root of sin; mortify this, deny the firstinstincts of your being, and you approach righteousness. Buddhism hasthe same system. And, in deducing all this from the plain teachings ofChristianity, I am disposed to think you are right and consistent. Christianity _is_ pessimism, so far as this world is concerned; we seethat in such things as the thanksgiving for a' person's death in theburial service, and the prayer that the end of the world may soon come. "

He paused, and thought for a moment. 

"But all this, " he resumed, rising from his seat, and going to standwith one arm upon the mantelpiece, "is of course, with me, mere matterof speculation. There are two allegories, which define Pessimism andOptimism. First that of Adam and Christ. Adam falls through eating ofthe tree of knowledge; in other words, sin only comes withself-consciousness, sin _is_ the conscious enjoyment of life. And, according to this creed, it can only be overcome by abnegation, by thedenial of the will to live. Accordingly, Christ enters the world, and, representing Humanity, as Adam had done, saves the world by denial, ofHimself, even to death. The other allegory is that of Prometheus. Healso represents mankind, and his stealing of the fire means man'sacquirement of a conscious soul, whereby he makes himself capable ofsin. The gods put him in bondage and torment, representing thesubjection to the flesh. But Prometheus is saved in a different wayfrom Adam; not by renunciation, but by the prowess of Hercules, that isto say, the triumphant aspiration of Humanity. Man triumphs byasserting his right to do so. Self-consciousness he claims as a goodthing, and embraces the world as his birthright. Here, you see, thereis no room for the crushing sense of sin. Sin, if anything, isweakness. Let us rejoice in our strength, whilst we have it. The end ofcourse will come, but it is a wise man's part not to heed theinevitable. Let us live whilst it is called to-day; we shall go tosleep with all the better conscience for having used the hours ofdaylight. "

Maud listened with head bent. 

"My own temperament, " Waymark went on, "is, I suppose, exceptional, atall events among men who have an inner life. I never knew what goes bythe name of religious feeling; impulses of devotion, in the commonsense of the phrase, have always been strange to me. I have known fearat the prospect of death; religious consolation, never. Sin, above all, has been a word without significance to me. As a boy, it was so; it isso still, now that I am self-conscious. I have never been a deepstudent of philosophy, but the doctrine of philosophical necessity, theidea of Fate, is with me an instinct. I know that I could not haveacted otherwise than I did in any juncture of my life; I know that thefuture is beyond my control. I shall do this, and avoid that, simplyowing to a preponderance of motives, which I can gauge, but notcontrol. Certain things I hate and shrink from; but I try to avoid, even in thought, such words as vice and crime; the murderer could nothelp himself, and the saint has no merit in his sanctity. Does all thisseem horrible to you?"

Maud raised her eyes, and looked steadily at him, but did not speak. Itwas the gaze of one who tries humbly to understand, and longs tosympathise. But there was a shadow of something like fear upon her face. 

Waymark spoke with more earnestness. 

"You will not think me incapable of what we call noble thought andfeeling? I have in me the elements of an enthusiast; they might haveled me to strange developments, but for that cold, critical spiritwhich makes me so intensely self-conscious. This restless scepticismhas often been to me a torment in something the same way as that burdenof which you speak. Often, often, I would so gladly surrender myself tomy instincts of passion and delight. I may change; I may perhaps someday attain rest in an absolute ideal. If I do, it will be through thehelp of one who shall become to me that ideal personified, who shallembody all the purer elements of my nature, and speak to me as with thevoice of my own soul. "

She hung upon his words, and an involuntary sigh, born of the intensityof the moment, trembled on her lips. 

"I have spoken to you, " he said, after what seemed a long silence, "with a sincerity which was the due return for your own. I could haveshown myself in a more pleasing light. You see how little able I am tohelp you; the centre-thought of your being is wholly strange to me. Andfor all that--may I speak my thought?--we are nearer to each other thanbefore. "

"Yes, nearer, " she repeated, under her breath. 

"You think that? You feel that? I have not repelled you?"

"You have not"

"And if I stood before you, now, as you know me--egotistic, sceptical, calm--and told you that you are the only being in whom I have ever feltcomplete confidence, whose word and thought I felt to be one; that youexercise more power over me than any other ever did or shall; that lifein your companionship might gain the unity I long for; that in yourpresence I feel myself face to face with a higher and nobler naturethan my own, one capable of sustaining me in effort and leading me togreat results--"

He became silent, for her face had turned deadly pale. But this passed, and in her eyes, as they met his, trouble grew to a calm joy. Withoutspeaking, she held her hand to him. 

"You are not afraid, " Waymark said, "to link your fate with mine? Mylife is made up of uncertainties. I have no position; it may be a longtime before I can see even the promise of success in my work. I havechosen that work, however, and by it I stand or fall. Have yousufficient faith in me to wait with confidence?"

"I have absolute faith in you. I ask no greater happiness than to havea share in your aims. It will give me the strength I need, and make mylife full of hope. "

It had come then, and just as he had foreseen it would. It was noresult of deliberate decision, he had given up the effort to discoverhis true path, knowing sufficiently that neither reason nor truepreponderance of inclination was likely to turn the balance. Thegathering emotion of the hour had united with opportunity to decide hisfuture. The decision was a relief; as he walked homewards, he waslighthearted. 

On the way, he thought over everything once more, reviewing formerdoubts from his present position. On the whole, he felt that fate hadworked for his happiness. 

And yet there was discontent. He had never known, felt that perhaps hemight never know, that sustained energy of imaginative and sensuallonging which ideal passion demands. The respectable make-believe whichtakes the form of domestic sentiment, that everyday love, which, becomethe servant of habit, suffices to cement the ordinary household, is notthe state in which such men as Waymark seek or find repose; the verypossibility of falling into it unawares is a dread to them. If he couldbut feel at all times as he had felt at moments in Maud's presence. Itmight be that the growth of intimacy, of mutual knowledge, would makehis love for her a more real motive in his life. He would endeavourthat it should be so. Yet there remained that fatal conviction of theunreality of every self-persuasion save in relation to the influencesof the moment. To love was easy, inevitable; to concentrate lovefinally on one object might well prove, in his case, an impossibility. Clear enough to him already was the likelihood of a strong revulsion offeeling when Ida once more came back, and the old life--if it couldbe--was resumed. Compassion would speak so loudly for her; her face, pale and illuminated with sorrow, would throw a stronger spell thanever upon his senses. Well, there was no help. Whatever would be, wouldbe. It availed nothing to foresee and scheme and resolve. 

And, in the same hour, Maud was upon her knees, in the silence of herown chamber, shedding tears which were at once both sweet and bitter, in her heart a tumult of emotion, joy and thanksgiving at strife withthose dark powers which shadowed her existence. _She_ had do doubts ofthe completeness and persistency of her love. But was not this love asin, and its very strength the testimony of her soul's loss?

CHAPTER XXVIII

SLIMY'S DAY

Waymark had written to Ida just after her imprisonment began, a fewwords of such comfort as he could send. No answer came; perhaps theprison rules prevented it. When the term was drawing to a close, hewrote again, to let her know that he would meet her on the morning ofher release. 

It would be on a Tuesday morning. As the time drew near, Waymark didhis best to think of the matter quietly. The girl had no one else tohelp her; it would have been brutality to withdraw and leave her to herfate, merely because he just a little feared the effect upon himself ofsuch a meeting. And the feeling on her side? Well, that he could notpretend to be ignorant of, and, in spite of everything, there was stillthe same half-acknowledged pleasure in the thought. He tried topersuade himself that he should have the moral courage to let her assoon as possible understand his new position; he also tried to believethat this would not involve any serious shock to Ida. For all that, heknew only too well that man is "_ein erbarmlicher Schuft_, " and therewas always the possibility that he might say nothing of what hadhappened, and let things take their course. 

On the Monday he was already looking forward to the meeting withrestlessness. Could he have foreseen that anything would occur toprevent his keeping his promise, it would have caused him extremeanxiety. But such a possibility never entered his thoughts, and, shortly before mid-day, he went down to collect his rents as usual. 

The effect of a hard winter was seen in the decrease of the collector'sweekly receipts. The misery of cold and starvation was growing familiarto Waymark's eyes, and scarcely excited the same feelings as formerly;yet there were some cases in which he had not the heart to press forthe payment of rent, and his representations to Mr. Woodstock on behalfof the poor creatures were more frequently successful than in formertimes. Still, in the absence of then but eviction, and Waymark morethan once knew what ideal philanthropy, there was nothing for it everynow and it was to be cursed to his face by suffering wretches whomdespair made incapable of discrimination. "Where are we to go?" was theoft-repeated question, and the only reply was a shrug of the shoulders;impossible to express oneself otherwise. They clung desperately tohabitations so vile that brutes would have forsaken them for cleanerand warmer retreats in archway and by roadside. One family of seven, aman and wife (both ill) with five children, could not be got out, evenwhen a man had been sent by Mr. Woodstock to remove the window-framesand take the door away, furniture having already been seized; only byforce at length were they thrown into the street, to find their way toperdition as best they might. Waymark did not relish all this; it costhim a dark hour now and then. But it was rich material; every item wasstored up for future use. 

Among others, the man named Slimy just managed to hold his footing. Times were hard with Slimy, that was clear; still, he somehow contrivedto keep no more than a fortnight behind with his rent. Waymark wasstudying this creature, and found in him the strangest matter forobservation; in Slimy there were depths beyond Caliban, and, at thesame time, curious points of contact with average humanity, unexpectedly occurring. He was not ungrateful for the collector'sfrequent forbearance, and, when able to speak coherently, tried attimes to show this. Waymark had got into the habit of sitting with himin his room for a little time, whenever he found him at home. Of late, Slimy had seemed not quite in his usual health; this exhibited itselfmuch as it would in some repulsive animal, which suffers in captivity, and tries to find a remote corner when pains come on. At times Waymarkexperienced a certain fear in the man's presence; if ever he met thedull glare of that one bleared blood-shot eye, a chill ran through himfor a moment, and he drew back a little. Personal uncleanliness madeSlimy's proximity at all times unpleasant; and occasionally his gaunt, grimed face grew to an expression suggestive of disagreeablepossibilities. 

On the present day, Waymark was told by a woman who lived on theground-floor that Slimy had gone out, but had left word with her, incase the collector called, that he should be back in less thanhalf-an-hour. Doubtless this meant that the rent was not forthcoming. The people who lived on the first floor were out as usual, but had lefttheir rent. Of the two rooms at the top, one was just now vacant. Waymark went on to the two or three houses that remained. On turningback, he met Slimy at the door; the man nodded in his wonted way, grinning like a grisly phantom, and beckoned Waymark to follow himupstairs. The woman below had closed her door again, and in allprobability no one observed the two entering together. 

Waymark sat down amid the collection of nondescript articles whichalways filled the room, and waited for the tenant to produce his rent. Slimy seemed to have other things in mind. After closing the door, hetoo had taken a seat, upon a heap of filthy sacking, and was runninghis fingers through the shock of black hair which made his beard. Waymark examined him. There was no sign of intoxication, but somethingwas evidently working in the man's mind, and his breath came quickly, with a kind of asthmatic pant, from between his thin lips, still partedin the uncanny grin. 

"Mr. Waymark, " he began at length. 

"Well?"

"I ain't got no rent. "

"That's bad. You're two weeks behind, you know. "

"Mr. Waymark. "

The single eye fixed itself on Waymark's face in a way which made thelatter feel uncomfortable. 

"Well?"

"I ain't a-gem' to pay you no more rent, nor yet no one else, maybe. "

"How's that?"

"'Cos I ain't, and 'cos I'm tired o' payin' rent. "

"I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to get on without, though, " saidWaymark, trying to get into the jocular tone he sometimes adopted withSlimy, but scarcely succeeding. 

"Mr. Waymark. "

There was clearly something wrong. Waymark rose to his feet. Slimy rosealso, and at the same time took up a heavy piece of wood, looking likea piece of a cart-shaft, which had lain on the floor beside him. Hisexclamation elicited no answer, and he spoke again, hoarsely as always, but with a calmness which contrasted strangely with the words heuttered. 

"Do you believe in the devil and hell?"

"Why?" returned Waymark, trying hard to command himself, and to facedown the man as a wild beast has been known to be out-gazed. 

"'Cos, by the devil himself, as 'll have me before many weeks is over, and by the fires of hell, as 'll burn me, if you stir a step, or speaka word above your breath, I'll bring you down just like they do thebullocks. Y' understand!"

Waymark saw that the threat was no idle one. He could scarcely havespoken, had he wished. Slimy grinned at the effect he had produced, andcontinued in the same matter-of-fact way. 

"It takes you back a bit, don't it! Never mind; you'll get over it. Idon't mean you no 'arm, Mr. Waymark, but I'll have to put you to alittle ill-convenience, that's all. See now; here's a bit o' stoutrope. With this 'ere, I'm a-goin' jist to tie you up, 'and an' foot, you see. As I said before, if you give me any trouble, well, I'll 'aveto knock the senses out o' you fust, that's all. "

Vain to think of grappling with the man, whose strength Waymark knew tobe extraordinary. For a moment, the shock of alarm had deprived him ofthought and power of movement; but this passed, and he was able toconsider his position. He looked keenly into Slimy's face. Had the mangone mad! His manner was scarcely consistent with that supposition. Asthe alternative before him was of such a kind, Waymark could but choosethe lesser evil. He allowed Slimy to remove from his shoulders thesatchel which contained the sums of money he had just collected. It wasquietly put aside. 

"Now, " said Slimy, with the same deliberation, "I have to arst you justto lay down on the floor, just 'ere, see. It's better to lay down quietthan to be knocked down, you see. "

Waymark mentally agreed that it was. His behaviour might seem cowardly, but--to say nothing of the loathsomeness of a wrestle with Slimy--heknew very well that any struggle, or a shout for help, would mean hisdeath. He hesitated, felt ashamed, but looked at Slimy's red eye, andlay down. In taking the position indicated, he noticed that three verylarge iron hooks had been driven firmly into the floor, in a triangularshape. Just beside the lower one of these his feet had to rest; hishead lay between the other two. Slimy now proceeded to bind hiscaptive's feet together with strong cord, and then attach them firmlyto the hook; then bidding him sit up for a moment, he made his handsfast behind his back; lastly, Waymark being again recumbent, a rope waspassed once round his neck, and each end of it firmly fastened to oneof the remaining hooks. This was not a pleasant moment, but, theoperation completed, Waymark found that, though he could not move hishead an inch, there was no danger of strangulation as long as heremained quiet. In short, he was bound as effectually as a man couldbe, yet without much pain. The only question was, how long he wouldhave to remain thus. 

Slimy examined his work, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he took upthe satchel again, opened it, and for a few moments kept diving hislong black fingers into the coins, whilst his face was transformed toan expression of grim joy. Presently, having satisfied himself with thefeel of the money, he transferred it all to a pocket inside his raggedcoat. 

"Now, Mr. Waymark, " he recommenced, seating himself on the chairWaymark had previously occupied, "I ain't quite done withill-conveniencin' you. I'm sorry to say I'll 'ave jist to put a bit ofa gag on, to prevent you from 'ollerin' out too soon; but before I dothat, I've jist got a word or two to say. Let's spend our last timetogether in a friendly way. "

In spite of his alarm, Waymark observed with astonishment the changewhich had come over the man's mode of speech. In all their previousintercourse, Slimy had shown himself barely articulate; for the mostpart it was difficult to collect meaning from his grunts and snarls. His voice was still dreadfully husky, and indeed seemed unused to thetask of uttering so many words, but for all that he spoke withouthesitation, and with a reserve of force which made his utterances allthe more impressive. Having bespoken his hearer's attention in thisdeliberate way, he became silent, and for a while sat brooding, hisfingers still busy among the coins in his pocket. 

"I don't rightly know how old I may be, " he began at length, "but it'smost like about fifty; we'll say fifty. For fifty years I've lived inthis world, and in all that time I can't remember not one single 'appyday, not one. I never knowed neither father nor mother; I never knowednot a soul as belonged to me. Friends I '_ave_ had; four of 'em; andtheir names was Brandy, Whisky, Rum, an' Gin. But they've cost me agood deal, an' somehow they ain't quite what they used to be. They usedto make me merry for a while, now and then; but they've taken now toburnin' up my inside, an' filling my 'ead with devils; an' I'm gettin'afeard of 'em, an' they'll 'ave to see me through to the end. 

"Fifty year, " he resumed, after another interval of brooding, "an' notone 'appy day. I was a-thinkin' of it over to myself, and, says I, 'What's the reason on it?' The reason is, 'cos I ain't never 'ad money. Money means 'appiness, an' them as never 'as money, 'll never be 'appy, live as long as they may. Well, I went on a-sayin' to myself, 'Ain't Ito 'ave not _one_ 'appy day in all my life?' An' it come to me all atonce, with a flash like, that money was to be 'ad for the trouble o'takin' it--money an' 'appiness. "

The bleared eye rolled with a sort of self-congratulation, and thecoins jingled more loudly. 

"A pound ain't no use; nor yet two pound; nor yet five pound. An' fivepound's what I never 'ad in fifty year. There's a good deal more thanfive pound 'ere now, Mr. Waymark; I've reckoned it up in my 'cad. Whatd' you think I'm a-goin' for to do with it?"

He asked this question after a pause, with his head bent forward, hiscountenance screwed into the most hideous expression of cunning andgratified desire. 

"I'm a-goin', " he said, with the emphasis of a hoarse whisper, "Ia-goin' to drink myself dead! That's what I'm a-goin' to do, Mr. Waymark. My four friends ain't what they used for to be, an' 'cos Iain't got enough of 'em. It's unsatisfaction, that's what it is, asbrings the burnin' i' th' inside, an' the devils in the 'cad. Now I'vegot money, an' for wunst in my life I'll be satisfied an' 'appy. Andthen I'll go where there's _real_ burnin', an' _real_ devils--an' let'em make the most o' Slimy!"

Waymark felt his blood chill with horror. For years after, the face ofSlimy, as it thus glared at him, haunted him in dreamful nights. Dantesaw nothing more fearful in any circle of hell. 

"Well, I've said my say, " Slimy remarked, rising from his seat. "An'now, I'm sorry I'll 'ave to ill-convenience you, Mr. Waymark. You'vebehaved better to me than most has, and I wouldn't pay you inill-convenience, if I could help it. But I must have time enough to getoff clear. I'll 'ave jist to keep you from 'ollerin'--this way, see--but I won't hurt you; the nose is good enough for breathin'. I'llsee as some one comes to let you out before to-morrow mornin'. An' nowI'll say good-bye, Mr. Waymark. You won't see Slimy in this worldagain, an' if I only knowed 'ow to say a prayer, why, I'd pray as youmightn't never see him in the next. "

With one more look, a look at once of wild anticipation and friendlyregret, Slimy disappeared. 

The relief consequent upon the certainty that no worse could happen hadbrought Waymark into a state of mind in which he could regard hisposition with equanimity. The loss of the money seemed now to be themost serious result of the affair. Slimy had promised that releaseshould come before the morning, and would doubtless keep his wordWaymark had a certain confidence in this, which a less interestedperson would perhaps have deemed scarcely warrantable. In the meantime, the discomfort was not extreme to lie gagged and bound on agarret-floor for some few hours was, after all, a situation which aphilosopher might patiently endure, and to an artist it might well besuggestive of hints. Breathing, to be sure, was not easy, but becamemore so by degrees. 

But with the complete recollection of his faculties came back thethought of what was involved in the question of release before thefollowing day. Early in the morning he had to be at the door of TothillFields' Prison. How if his release were delayed, through Slimy'sneglect or that of the agent he might employ? As the first hour passedslowly by, this became the chief anxiety in Waymark's mind. It made himforgetful of the aching in his arms, caused by the bind ing together ofhis hands behind him, and left no room for anticipation of the othersufferings which would result from his being left thus for anindefinite period. What would Ida do, if she came out and found no oneto meet her?

His absence would make no one anxious, at all events not till more thana day had gone by. Hitherto he had always taken his rents at once toMr. Woodstock's office, but the old gentleman was not likely to bedisturbed by his non appearance; it would be accounted for in somesimple way, and his coming expected on the following morning. Then itwas as good as certain that no one would come to Slimy's room. And, bythe by, had not there been a sound of the turning of a key when Slimytook his departure? He could not be quite sure of this; just then hehad noticed all things so imperfectly. Was it impossible to free alimb, or to ungag his mouth? He tried to turn his head, but it wasclear that throttling would be the only result of any such effort; andthe bonds on hands and feet were immoveable. No escape, save by Slimy'said. 

He determined not to face the possibility of Slimy's failing in hisword; otherwise, anxiety would make him desperate. He recognised now, for the first time fully, how much it meant to him, that meeting withIda. The shock he had experienced on hearing her sentence and beholdingher face as she left the court had not, apparently, produced lastingresults; his weakness surprised him when he looked back upon it. In aday or two he had come to regard the event as finally severing him fromIda, and a certain calm ensuing hereupon led to the phase whichultimately brought him to Maud once more. But Waymark's introspectionwas at fault; he understood himself less in proportion as he felt thatthe ground was growing firmer under his feet. Even when he wrote theletter to the prison, promising to meet Ida, he had acted as if out ofmere humanity. It needed a chance such as the present to open his eyes. That she should quit the prison, and, not finding him, wander away inblank misery and hopelessness, most likely embittered by the thoughtthat he had carelessly neglected to meet her, and so driven todespair--such a possibility was intolerable. The fear of it began togoad him in flesh and spirit. With a sudden violent stringing of allhis sinews, he wrenched at the bonds, but only with the effect ofexhausting himself and making the walls and ceiling reel before hiseyes. The attempt to utter cries resulted in nothing but muffledmoaning. Then, mastering himself once more, he resolved to be patient. Slimy would not fail him. 

He tried not to think of Ida in any way, but this was beyond his power. Again and again she came before his mind. When he endeavoured tosupplant her by the image of Maud Enderby, the latter's face onlyirritated him. Till now, it had been just the reverse; the thought ofMaud had always brought quietness; Ida he had recognised as thedisturbing element of his life, and had learned to associate her withhis least noble instincts. Thinking of this now, he began to marvel howit could have been so. Was it true that Maud was his good angel, thatin her he had found his ideal? He had forced himself to believe this, now that he was in honour bound to her; yet she had never made hispulse quicken, as it had often done when he had approached Ida. True, that warmth of feeling had come to represent merely a temptation tohim; but was not that the consequence of his own ambiguous attitude?Suppose he had not known Maud Enderby, how would he then have regardedIda, and his relations to her? Were these in very deed founded onnothing but selfish feeling? Then he reviewed all his acquaintanceshipwith her from the first, and every detail of the story grew to a newaspect. 

Thinking of Ida, he found himself wondering how it was that Mr. Woodstock appeared to take so much interest in her fate. Several timesduring the past six months the old man had referred to her, generallyinquiring whether Waymark had written to or heard from her. And, onlytwo days ago, he had shown that he remembered the exact date of herrelease, in asking whether Waymark meant to do anything. Waymarkreplying that he intended to meet her, and give her what assistance hecould, the old gentleman had signified his strong approval, and hadeven gone on to mention a house in the neighbourhood of the office, where Ida could be lodged at first. A room had accordingly been securedbeforehand, and it was arranged that Waymark should take her directlythither on the Tuesday morning. In reviewing all this, Waymark found itmore significant than he had imagined. Why, he wondered, had Mr. Woodstock grown so philanthrophic all at once? Why had he been soparticular in making sure that Waymark would meet the girl? Indeed, from the very beginning of this affair, he had behaved with regard toit in a manner quite unlike himself. Waymark had leisure now to ponderthese things, but could only conjecture explanations. 

The hours went by; a church clock kept him aware of their progress. Theaching in his arms became severe; he suffered from cold. The floor wasswept by a draught which seemed strong and keen as a blast of eastwind; it made his eyes smart, and he kept them closed, with some slighthope that this might also have the effect of inducing sleep. Sleep, however, held far aloof from him. When he had wearied his brain withother thoughts, his attention began to turn to sounds in the courtbelow. There, just as it grew dusk, some children were playing, and hetried to get amusement from their games. One of them was this. A littlegirl would say to the rest:--"I sent my daughter to the oil-shop, andthe first thing she saw was C;" and the task was to guess for whatarticle this initial stood. "Carrots!" cried one, but was laughed toscorn. "Candles!" cried another, and triumphed. Then there were gameswhich consisted in the saying of strange incantations. The childrenwould go round and round, as was evident from the sound of their feet, chanting the while:--"Sally, Sally Wallflower, Sprinkle in a pan; Rise, Sally Wallflower, And choose your young man. Choose for the fairestone, Choose for the best, Choose for the rarest one, That you lovebest!" Upon this followed words and movements only half understood;then at length broke out a sort of hymeneal chorus:--"Here stands ayoung couple, Just married and settled: Their father and mother theymust obey. They love one another like sister and brother. So pray, young couple, come kiss together!" Lastly, laughter and screams andconfusion. This went on till it was quite dark. 

Pitch dark in Slimy's room; only the faintest reflection on a portionof the ceiling of lamplight from without. Waymark's sufferings becameextreme. The rope about his neck seemed to work itself tighter; therewere moments when he had to struggle for the scant breath which the gagallowed him. He feared lest he should become insensible, and so perhapsbe suffocated. His arms were entirely numbed; he could not feel that hewas lying on them. Surely Slimy's emissary would come before midnight. 

"One, two, three, four--twelve!" How was it that e had lost all countof the hours since eight o'clock? Whether that had been sleep orinsensibility, Waymark could not decide. Intensity of cold must havebrought back consciousness; his whole body seemed to be frozen; hiseyes ached insufferably. Continuous thought had somehow become animpossibility; he knew that Ida was constantly in his mind, and herimage clear at times in the dark before him, but he could not thinkabout her as he wished and tried to do. Who was it that seemed to comebetween her and him?--some one he knew, yet could not identify. Thenthe hours sounded uncertainly; some he appeared to have missed. There, at length, was seven. Why, this was morning; and Slimy had promisedthat he should be set free before this. What was it that tortured hisstruggling brain so? A thought he strove in vain for a time to grasp. The meaning flashed upon him. By a great effort he regained completeconsciousness; mind alone seemed to be left to him, his body was dead. Was he, then, really to be prevented from keeping his promise to Ida?All the suffering of his previous life amassed was nothing to whatWaymark endured during the successive quarters of this hour. His brainburned: his eyes had no power to gather the growing daylight. That onename was his single perception; the sound of it, uttered incessantly inthought, alone seemed to keep him conscious. He could feel somethingslightly warm on his cheeks, but did not know that it was the streamingof tears from his darkened eyes. Then he lost consciousness once more. 

The clock struck eight. 

CHAPTER XXIX

FREEDOM

Mr. Woodstock was not so indifferent with regard to Waymark's failureto bring the rents as the young man supposed. Under ordinarycircumstances he probably would have waited without any anxiety tillthe following day; already on a previous occasion Waymark had collectedon Tuesday instead of Monday, though not without notice of hisintention to do so. But Mr. Woodstock had quite special reasons forwishing to see his agent before the following morning; he desired toassure himself once more that Waymark would not fail to be at theprison punctually. When the afternoon passed without the usual visit, he grew uneasy; he was incapable of attending to matters of business, and walked up and down his office with impatient step. Such a mood wasextraordinary in Mr. Woodstock; he had often waxed restive in this orthat business difficulty; was, indeed, anything but remarkable forequanimity under trial; but his state of mind was quite different atpresent, and exhibited itself in entirely different ways. He neitherswore nor looked black; his was the anxiety of a man who has some graveinterest at stake wherein the better part of his nature is concerned. 

At five o'clock he took a cab, and went off to Waymark's lodgings inChelsea. Here he learned that Waymark had left home at the usual time, and had not yet returned. Just as he was speaking with the landlady atthe door, another gentleman came up on the same errand. Mr. Woodstockremembered Julian Casti, and held out his hand to him. Casti lookedill; his handsome features had wasted, and his fair complexion wasturned to a dull, unhealthy, yellowish hue. It was a comparatively warmday for the season, but his thin frame was closely muffled up, andstill he seemed to be shrinking under the air. 

"Have you any idea where he can be?" Mr. Woodstock asked, as theyturned away together. 

"None whatever. I must see him to-night, though, if possible. "

"Ha! And I too. "

As he spoke Mr. Woodstock looked at the other keenly, and somethingseemed to suggest itself to him. 

"I'm going to see if he's been for the rents as usual. Would you careto come with me?"

Julian looked surprised, but assented. They got into the cab together, and alighted at the end of Litany Lane, having scarcely spoken on theway. Inquiries here showed that the collector had gone his rounds, anddeparted, it was said, in the ordinary way. 

"Have you an hour to spare, Mr. Casti?" asked the old gentleman, turning suddenly after a moment's reflection. 

"Certainly. "

"Then I wish you'd just come on with me to St. John's Street Road. It'spossible you may have it in your power to do me a great service, ifWaymark doesn't turn up. And yet, ten to one, I shall find him waitingfor me. Never mind, come along if you can spare the time; you'll findhim the sooner. "

Mr. Woodstock tried to pooh-pooh his own uneasiness; yet, totallyimprobable as it seemed that Waymark should disappear at such ajuncture, the impatience of the afternoon had worked him into a mostunwonted fit of nervousness. Doubts and suspicions which wouldordinarily never have occurred to him filled his mind. He was againquite silent till his office was reached. 

Waymark had not been. They walked upstairs together, and Mr. Woodstockasked his companion to be seated. He himself stood, and began to pokethe fire. 

"Do you live in Chelsea still?" he suddenly asked. 

"Yes. "

"I have left word at Waymark's lodgings that he is to come straighthere whenever he returns. If he's not here by midnight, should I findyou up if I called--say at half-past twelve or so?"

"I would in any case wait up for you, with pleasure?"

"Really, " said Mr. Woodstock, who could behave with much courtesy whenhe chose, "I must apologise for taking such liberties. Our acquaintanceis so slight. And yet I believe you would willingly serve me in thematter in hand. Perhaps you guess what it is. Never mind; I could speakof that when I came to you, if I have to come. "

Julian's pale cheek had flushed with a sudden warmth. He looked at theother, and faced steadily the gaze that met his own. 

"I am absolutely at your disposal, " he said, in a voice which he triedto make firm, though with small success. 

"I am obliged to you. And now you will come and have something to eatwith me; it is my usual time. "

Julian declined, however, and almost immediately took his leave. Hewalked all the way to Chelsea, regarding nothing that he passed. Whenhe found himself in his lodgings he put a match to the ready-laid fire, and presently made himself some tea. Then he sat idly through theevening, for the most part staring into the glowing coals, occasionallytaking up a book for a few minutes, and throwing it aside again with asigh of weariness. As it got late he shivered so with cold, in spite ofthe fire, that he had to sit in his overcoat. When it was past midnighthe began to pace the room, making impatient gestures, and often restinghis head upon his hands as if it ached. It must have been about aquarter to one when there was the sound of a vehicle pulling up in thestreet below, followed by a knock at the door. Julian went downhimself, and admitted Mr. Woodstock. 

"What can it mean?" he asked anxiously, when they had walked up to theroom together. "What has become of him?"

"Don't know. I stopped at his place on the way here. "

"Don't you fear some mischance? With all that money--"

"Pooh! It's some absurd freak of his, I'll warrant. He doesn't care howmuch anxiety he gives other people. "

Mr. Woodstock was excited and angry. 

"But he will certainly go--go _there_ in the morning, wherever he is, "said Julian. 

"I'm not so sure of that. I believe it's on that very account that he'skeeping out of the way!"

He smote his fist on the palm of the other hand with the emphasis ofconviction. Julian looked at him with an expression of wonder. Therewas a short silence, and then Mr. Woodstock began to speak more calmly. The conversation lasted only about a quarter of an hour. Mr. Woodstockthen returned to his cab, which had waited, and Julian bade him goodnight at the door. 

At six o'clock Julian arose. It was still quite dark when he left thehouse, and the air was piercing. But he did not mind the weather thismorning. His step had a vigour very different from the trailingweariness of the night before, and he looked straight before him as hewalked. There was a heat on his forehead which the raw breath of themorning could not allay. Before he had gone half a mile, he flung openhis overcoat, as if it oppressed him. It was in the direction ofWestminster that he walked. Out of Victoria Street he took the sameturn as on one miserable night, one which he had taken on many a nightsince then. But he was far too early at the prison gate. He strayedabout the little streets of the neighbourhood, his eyes gazing absentlyin this or that direction, his hot breath steaming up in the greylight. When it was drawing near the time, he made some inquiries from apoliceman whom he passed. Then he went to the spot whither he wasdirected, and watched. Two or three people, of poor appearance, werealso standing about, waiting. Julian kept apart from them. First, amiserable old woman, huddling herself in a dirty shawl; looking on allsides with a greedy eye; hastening off no one knew whither. Then twoyoung girls, laughing aloud at their recovered liberty; they repairedat once to the nearest public-house. Then a figure of quite differentappearance, coming quickly forward, hesitating, gazing around; abeautiful face, calm with too great self-control, sad, pale. Towardsher Julian advanced. 

"Mr. Waymark was unavoidably prevented from coming, " he said quickly. "But he has taken rooms for you. You will let me go with you, and showyou the house?"

"Thank you, " was Ida's only reply. 

They walked together into the main street, and Julian stopped the firstempty cab that passed. As he sat opposite to her, his eyes, in spite ofhimself, kept straying to her face. Gazing at her, Casti's eyes grewdim. He forced himself not to look at her again till the cab stopped. 

"They are prepared for you here, " he said, as they stood on thepavement. "Just give your name. And--you will not go away? You willwait till some one calls?"

Ida nodded. 

"No; but your word, " Julian urged anxiously. "Promise me. "

"I promise. "

She went up to the door and knocked. Julian walked quickly away. At theend of the street Mr. Woodstock was waiting. 

"What's the matter?" he asked, examining the young man anxiously. 

"Nothing--nothing!"

"Does she seem well?"

"I think so; yes, " Casti replied, in a stifled voice. Then he askedhurriedly, "Where can Waymark be? What does it all mean?"

Mr. Woodstock shook his head, looking annoyed. 

"I am convinced, " Julian said, "that something is wrong. Surely it'stime to make inquiries. "

"Yes, yes; I will do so. But you look downright ill. Do you feel ableto get home? If I'd thought it would upset you like this--"

Mr. Woodstock was puzzled, and kept scrutinising the other's face. 

"I shall go home and have a little rest, " Julian said. "I didn't getmuch sleep last night, that's all. But I must hear about Waymark. "

"You shall. I'll warrant he turns up in the course of the day. Don't beanxious: I'll get to work as soon as possible to find him; but, dependupon it, the fellow's all right. "

They shook hands, and Julian took his way homewards. Mr. Woodstock wentto the house which Ida had just entered. He knocked lightly, and awoman opened to him and led him into a sitting-room on the ground-floor. 

"I'll just have a cup of coffee, Mrs. Sims, " he said. "Does she seem tocare for her breakfast?"

"I'm afraid not, sir; she looks tired out, and poorly like. "

"Yes, yes; the long journey and her troubles. Make her as comfortableas you can. I'll make myself at home with the paper here for an hour orso. Just see if she cares to lie down for a little; If so I won'tdisturb her. "

Abraham did not devote much attention to the news. He sat before thefire, a cup of coffee within reach on the mantel piece, his legs fullystretched out before him, his favourite attitude when thinking. Inspite of his fresh complexion and active limbs, you would have seen, had you watched him in his present mood, that Mr. Woodstock wasbeginning to age. Outwardly he was well-preserved--few men of his yearsanything like so well. But let the inner man become visible during afit of brooding, and his features made evident the progress of years. His present phase of countenance was a recent development; the relaxedlines brought to light a human kindliness not easily discoverable inthe set expression of wide-awake hours. At present there was eventenderness in his eyes, and something of sad recollection. His strongmouth twitched a little at times, and his brows contracted, as if inself-reproach. When he returned to himself, it was with a sigh. He satfor about an hour; then the woman presented herself again, and told himthat Miss Starr had been persuaded to lie down. It seemed likely shemight sleep. 

"Very well, " said Mr. Woodstock, rising. "I'll go to the office. Sendsome one round when she's stirring, will you?"

Ida, to get rid of her troublesome though well-meaning attendant, hadpromised to lie down, but she had no need of sleep. Alone, she stillkept her chair by the fire, sitting like one worn out with fatigue, herhands upon her lap, her head drooping, her eyes fixed on vacancy. Shewas trying to think, but thoughts refused to come consecutively, and adull annoyance at this inability to reason upon her position frettedher consciousness. Not with impunity can the human mind surrenderitself for half a year to unvaried brooding upon one vast misery; theneglected faculties revenge themselves by rusting, and will not respondwhen at length summoned. For months Ida's thoughts had gone round andround about one centre of anguish, like a wailing bird circling over aravaged nest. The image of her mental state had been presented by anoutward experience with which she became familiar. Waking long beforedaylight, she would lie with her eyes directed to the little barredwindow, and watch till there came the first glimmer of dawn. Even sowas it her sole relief in the deep night of her misery to look forwardfor that narrow gleam of hope--her ultimate release. As the dayapproached, she made it the business of her thoughts to construct apicture of the events it would bring. Even before hearing from Waymark, she had been sure that he would meet her; Waymark and freedom grewidentical images; to be free meant to see him awaiting her and to putherself absolutely in his hands. Now that everything had turned outdifferently from what she had grown to anticipate with certainty, shefound herself powerless to face the unexpected. Why had Waymark failedher?--she could do no more than repeat the question a thousand times, till the faculty of self-communing forsook her. It was as though thesun should fail one morning to rise upon the world, and men shouldstand hopeless of day for ever. 

She wondered vaguely whither she had been brought. At one moment sheseemed to have been waiting an eternity in this unknown room, Julian'sface and voice unspeakably remote; then again she would look round andwonder that she no longer saw the hare walls and barred window of hercell, the present seeming only a dream. All the processes of her mindwere slow, sinewless. She tried to hope for something, to expect thatsomething would happen, but could not summon the energy. Resentment, revolt, bitterness of spirit, of these things she knew just as little. They had been strong enough within her at first, but how long ago thatseemed! She had no thought of time in the present; to sit waiting foran hour meant as little as to wait five minutes; such was the habitthat had become impressed upon her by interminable days and nights. When at length she heard a knock at the door it filled her with fear;she started to her feet and looked with unintelligent eyes at the womanwho again presented herself. 

"Do you feel better, 'm?" the landlady asked. "Have you restedyourself?"

"Yes, thank you. "

The woman went away; then came another knock, and Mr. Woodstock enteredthe room. He closed the door behind him, and drew near. She had againstarted up, and did not move her eyes from his face. 

"Have you any recollection of me?" Abraham asked, much embarrassed inher presence, his voice failing to be as gentle as he wished throughhis difficulty in commanding it. 

Ida had recognised him at once. He had undergone no change since thatday when she saw him last in Milton Street, and at this moment it wasmuch easier for her to concentrate her thoughts upon bygone things thanto realise the present. 

"You are Abraham Woodstock, " she said very coldly, the resentmentassociated with the thought of him being yet stronger than the deadhabit which had but now oppressed her. 

"Yes, I am. And I am a friend of Osmond Waymark. I should like to talka little with you, if you'll let me. "

The old man found it so hard to give expression to the feelings thatpossessed him. Ida concluded at once that he came with some hostilepurpose, and the name of Waymark was an incentive to her numbedfaculties. 

"How can you be a friend of Osmond Waymark?" she asked, with coldsuspicion. 

"Didn't he ever mention my name to you?"

"Never. "

Waymark had in truth always kept silence with Ida about hisoccupations, though he had spoken so freely of them to Maud. He couldnot easily have explained to himself why he had made this difference, though it had a significance. Mr. Woodstock was almost at a loss how toproceed. He coughed, and moved his foot uneasily. 

"I have known him all his life, for all that, " he said. "And it wasthrough him I found you. "

"Found me?"

"It'll seem very strange, what I have to tell you. --You were a littlegirl when I saw you last, and you refused to come with me. Had you anyidea why I asked you?"

"I hadn't then. "

"But you have thought of it since?"

Ida looked at him sternly, and turned her eyes away again. The beliefthat he was her father had always increased the resentment with whichshe recalled his face. 

"I am your grandfather, " Abraham said gravely. "Your mother was mydaughter. "

A change came over her countenance; she gazed at him with wonder. 

"Who did you think I was?" he asked. 

She hesitated for a moment, then, instead of replying, said:

"You behaved cruelly to my poor mother. "

"I won't deny it, " the old man returned, mastering his voice withdifficulty. "I ought to have been more patient with her. But sherefused to obey me, and I can't help my nature. I repented it when itwas too late. "

Ida could not know what it cost him to utter these abrupt sentences. Heseemed harsh, even in confining his harshness. She was as far from himas ever. 

"I can't do anything for _her_, " Mr. Woodstock continued, trying tolook her in the face. "But you are her child, and I want to do now whatI ought to have done long ago. I've come here to ask you if you'll livein my house, and be like a child of my own. "

"I don't feel to you as a child ought, " Ida said, her voice changing tosadness. "You've left it too late. "

"No, it isn't too late!" exclaimed the other, with emotion he could notcontrol. "You mustn't think of yourself, but of me. You have all yourlife before you, but I'm drawing near to the end of mine. There's noone in the world belonging to me but you. I have a _right_ to--"

"No right! no right!" Ida interrupted him almost passionately. 

"Then _you_ have a duty, " said Abraham, with lowered voice. "My mindisn't at ease, and it's in your power to help me. Don't imitate me, andput off doing good till it is too late. I don't ask you to feel kindlyto me; all I want is that you'll let me take you to my home and do allI can for you, both now and after I'm gone. "

There was pathos in the speech, and Ida felt it. 

"Do you know where I came from this morning?" she asked, when both hadbeen silent for some moments. 

"I know all about it. I was at the trial, and I did my best for youthen. "

"Do you believe that I robbed that woman?" Ida asked, leaning forwardwith eager eyes and quickened breath. 

"Believe it! Not I! No one believes it who knows anything about her. Waymark said he wouldn't have believed it if all the courts in Englandfound you guilty. "

"_He_ said that?" she exclaimed. Then, as if suddenly becoming clearerabout her position: "Where is Mr. Waymark? Why didn't he meet me as hepromised?"

Abraham hesitated, but speedily made up his mind that it would be bestto speak the truth. 

"I know as little as you do. He ought to have come to me yesterday, buthe didn't, and I can't discover him. I got Mr. Casti to meet youinstead. "

The keenest trouble manifested itself on Ida's countenance. She askedquestions in rapid succession, and thus elicited an explanation of allthe circumstances hitherto unknown to her. 

"Have you been through the houses?" she inquired, all her native energyrestored by apprehension. "Haven't you thought that he may have beenrobbed and--"

She stopped, overcome by sudden weakness, and sank into the chair. 

"Come, come, it isn't so bad as all that, " said the old man, observingher closely. "He may turn up at any moment; all sorts of unexpectedthings may have happened. But I'll go again to his lodgings, and if Ican't hear anything there, I'll set the police to work. Will youpromise me to wait here quietly?"

"No, that I can't do. I want to move about; I must do something. Let mego with you to look for him. "

"No, no; that'll never do, Ida. "

The power of speaking tenderly seemed to have been given to him all atonce; this and his calling her "Ida, " struck so upon the girl'sagitated feelings that she began to sob. 

"Let me, let me go with you! I will forget everything--I will be yourchild--I will try to love you. --"

She was as weak as water, and would have sunk to the ground if Abrahamhad not given her his support just in time. He could not find words tosoothe her, but passed his hand very tenderly over her head. 

"We are losing time!" she exclaimed, forcing herself into an appearanceof calmness. "Come at once. "

CHAPTER XXX

ELM COURT

In Beaufort Street they only learnt that Waymark had not yet been home. Thence they drove to the east, and stopped at a police-station, whereAbraham saw the inspector. The latter suggested that Mr. Woodstockshould go through all the houses which Waymark would have visited; ifthat search proved fruitless, the police would pursue the matter. Idainsisted on being allowed to accompanying him when the cab stopped atthe end of Litany Lane. She gazed about her like one who had beensuddenly set down in a new country; this squalor and vileness, sofamiliar to her of old, affected her strangely under the presentconditions. The faces of people at whom she looked remained fresh inher memory for years after; the long confinement and the excitementwhich now possessed her resulted in preternatural acuteness ofobservation. Abraham spoke first with several people whom he hadalready questioned about Waymark, but they had heard nothing since. 

"Are you strong enough for this?" he asked Ida. "Hadn't you better goback to the cab and wait for me!"

"Don't ask me to do that!" she entreated earnestly. "I _must_ beactive. I have strength now for anything. "

Just as she spoke, Mr. Woodstock became aware of a disturbance of somekind in a duty little tobacconist's shop close at hand. There was asmall crowd at the door, and the sound of wrangling voices came fromwithin. Such an occurrence was too ordinary to suggest any specialsignificance, but Abraham would not pass without making some inquiry. Begging Ida to stand where he left her, he pushed his way into the shopand listened to what was going on. A lad, well known in these parts as"Lushy Dick, " was, it appeared, charging the tobacconist with cheatinghim; he alleged that he had deposited half a sovereign on the counterin payment for a cigar, and the shopman had given him change as if forsixpence, maintaining stoutly that sixpence had been the coin givenhim, and no half-sovereign at all. When Mr. Woodstock entered, thequarrel had reached a high pitch. 

"Arf a quid!" the tobacconist was exclaiming contemptuously. "I'd liketo know where such as you's likely to git arf a quid from. "

Lushy Dick, stung to recklessness by a succession of such remarks, broke out in vehement self-justification. 

"_Would_ yer like to know, y' old ----! Then yer shall, ---- soon! I'm---- if I don't tell jist the ---- truth, an' take the ----consequences. It was Slimy as give it me, an' if yer want to know whereSlimy got it, yer 'll 'ave to ---- well find out, 'cos I don't knowmyself. "

"And how came Slimy to give you half a sovereign?" Mr. Woodstock atonce interposed, speaking with authority. 

"Is that you, Mr. Woodstock?" exclaimed the boy, turning round suddenlyat the sound of the voice. "Now, look 'ere, I'm a-goin' to make a ----clean breast of it. This 'ere ---- bloke's been a ringin' the changeson me; I'll show him up, an' ---- well chance it. Slimy give me a quidafore he took his ---- hook. "

The lad had clearly been drinking, but had not yet reached theincoherent stage. He spoke in great excitement, repeating constantlyhis determination to be revenged upon the tobacconist at all costs. Itwas with difficulty that Mr. Woodstock kept him to the point. 

"Why Slimy give it me? Well, I'll jist tell yer, Mr. Woodstock. It wasto do a job for him, which I never done it after all. Slimy told me as'ow I was to go to your orffice at ten o'clock last night, 'an tell youfrom him as he'd no more 'casion for his room, so he'd sent yer thekey, an' yer'd better come as soon as possible an' see as he'd lefteverything square behind him, an' 'cos he was afraid he'd locked in afriend o' yourn by mistake an' in his hurry. "

"And why the devil didn't you come?" exclaimed Abraham, looking at himin angry surprise. 

"'Cos why, Mr. Woodstock? Well, I'll tell yer just the bloomin' truth, an' charnce it. I loss the key out o' my pocket, through 'avin' a ----hole in it, so I thought as 'ow I'd best just say nothink about neitherSlimy nor his room, an' there y'ave it!"

Abraham was out of the shop again on the instant. 

"I've found him, " he said to Ida. "A house round there in the court. "

She walked quickly by his side, a cluster of people following them. Fortunately, a policeman was just coming from the opposite end ofLitany Lane, and Mr. Woodstock secured his services to keep the mobfrom entering the house where Slimy had lived. As soon as they gotinside, the old man begged Ida to remain in a room on the ground floorwhilst he went upstairs, and this she consented to do. Reaching thegarret, he tried the handle of the door, without effect. Knocking andcalling produced no response, and within all was perfectly quiet. Hesitating no longer, he drew back as far as the wall would allow him, and ran with his foot against the door. The rotten woodwork cracked, and a second onset forced the lock away. In the middle of the floorWaymark lay, just as Slimy had left him nearly twenty-four hours ago. Abraham scarcely ventured to draw near; there was no motion in thefettered body, and he dreaded to look closely at the face. Before hecould overcome this momentary fear, there was a quick step behind him, and, with a smothered cry, Ida had rushed into the room. She was on herknees beside Waymark, her face close down to his. 

"He is alive!" she cried. "His eyes have opened. A knife! Cut thesecords!"

That was soon accomplished, but Waymark lay motionless; he showed thathe understood what was going on, but he was quite blind, his voice hadall but gone, and a dead man could as soon have risen. Ida still kneltby him, chafing one of his hands; when he tried to speak, she gentlyraised his head and let it rest upon her lap. In a few minutes Abrahamhad procured a glass of spirits, and, after drinking this, Waymark wasable to make himself understood. 

"Who is touching me?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "It is all dark. Whose hand is this?"

"It's Ida, " Abraham said, when she herself remained silent. "She and Ihave had a rare hunt for you. "

"Ida?"

He endeavoured to raise himself, but in vain. All he could do was topress her hand to his heart. In the meantime the policeman had come up, and with his help Waymark was carried downstairs, out into the court, and thence to the end of Litany Lane, where the cab still waited. 

 * * * * *

Four days after this the following paragraph appeared in the morningpapers:--

"The man wanted on a charge of robbery with violence in the East End, and who appears to be known only by the nickname of Slimy, wasyesterday afternoon discovered by the police in a cellar in Limehouse. He seems to have been in hiding there since the perpetration of thecrime, only going out from time to time to purchase liquor atpublic-houses in the neighbourhood. Information given by the landlordof one of these houses led to his arrest. He was found lying on thestone floor, with empty bottles about him, also a quantity of gold andsilver coins, which appeared to have rolled out of his pocket. He wascarried to the police-station in an insensible state, but on beingtaken to the cell, came to himself, and exhibited symptoms of deliriumtremens. Two officers remained with him, but the assistance of a thirdshortly became necessary, owing to the violence of his struggles. Towards midnight his fury lessened, and, after a very brief interval ofunconsciousness, the wretched creature expired. "

CHAPTER XXXI

NEW PROSPECTS

Mr. Woodstock's house at Tottenham was a cheerful abode when the monthsof early summer came round, and there was thick leafage within theshelter of the old brick wall which shut it off from the road. 

For the first time in his life he understood the attractions ofdomesticity. During the early months of the year, slippers and thefireside after dinner; now that the sunset-time was growing warm andfragrant, a musing saunter about the garden walks; these were thethings to which his imagination grew fond of turning. Nor to theseonly; blended with such visions of bodily comfort, perchance lending tothem their chief attraction, was the light of a young face, gravealways, often sad, speaking with its beautiful eyes to those simplerand tenderer instincts of his nature which had hitherto slept. In thepresence of Ida (who was now known, by his wish, as Miss Woodstock)Abraham's hard voice found for itself a more modest and musical key. 

He began--novel sensation--to look upon himself as a respectable oldgentleman; the grey patches on his head were grateful to him from thatpoint of view. If only he had been able to gather round hisgranddaughter and himself a circle of equally respectable friends andacquaintances, he would have enjoyed complete satisfaction. Two orthree at most there were, whom he could venture to bring over with himfrom the old life to the new. For Ida he could as yet provide nocompanionship at all. 

But Ida did not feel the want. Since the day of her coming to the newhouse her life had been very full; so much was passing within, that shedesired to escape, rather than discover, new distractions in the worldaround her. For the week or so during which Waymark had lain ill, hercourage had triumphed over the sufferings to which she was herself aprey; the beginning of his recovery brought about a reaction in herstate, and for some days she fell into a depressed feebleness almost asextreme as on the first morning of her freedom. It distressed her to bespoken to, and her own lips were all but mute. Mr. Woodstock sometimessat by her whilst she slept, or seemed to be sleeping; when she stirredand showed consciousness of his presence, he left her, so great was hisfear of annoying her, and thus losing the ground he had gained. Once, when he was rising to quit the room, Ida held out her hand as if tostay him. She was lying on a sofa, and had enjoyed a very quiet sleep. 

"Grandfather, " she murmured, turning to face him. It was the first timeshe had addressed him thus, and the old man's eyes brightened at thesound. 

"Are you better for the sleep, Ida?" he asked, taking the hand she hadextended. 

"Much; much better. How the sun shines!"

"Yes, it's a fine day. Don't you think you could go out a little?"

"I think I should like to, but I can't walk very far, I'm afraid. "

"You needn't walk at all, my dear. Your carriage shall be here wheneveryou like to order it. "

"My carriage?"

The exclamation was like a child's pleased wonder. She coloured alittle, and seemed ashamed. 

"How is Mr. Waymark?" was her next question. 

"Nothing much amiss now, I think. His eyes are painful, he says, and hemustn't leave the room yet, but it won't last much longer. Shall we gotogether and see him?"

She hesitated, but decided to wait till he could come down. 

"But you'll go out, Ida, if I order the carriage?"

"Thank you, I should like to. "

That first drive had been to Ida a joy unspeakable. To-day for thefirst time she was able to sweep her mind clear of the dread shadow ofbrooding, and give herself up to simple enjoyment of the hour. 

Abraham went and told Waymark of all this as soon as they got back. Inthe exuberance of his spirits he was half angry with the invalid forbeing gloomy. Waymark had by this time shaken off all effects of hisdisagreeable adventure, with the exception of a weakness of the eyes;but convalescence did not work upon him as in Ida's case. He wasmorose, often apparently sunk in hopeless wretchedness. When Abrahamspoke to him of Ida, he could scarcely be got to reply. Above all, heshowed an extreme impatience to recover his health and go back to theordinary life. 

"I shall be able to go for the rents next Monday, " he said to Mr. Woodstock one day. 

"I should have thought you'd had enough of that. I've found another manfor the job. "

"Then what on earth am I to do?" Waymark exclaimed impatiently. "How amI to get my living if you take that work away from me?"

"Never mind; we'll find something, " Abraham returned. "Why are you insuch a hurry to get away, I should like to know?"

"Simply because I can't always live here, and I hate uncertainty. "

There was something in the young man's behaviour which puzzled Mr. Woodstock; but the key to the puzzle was very shortly given him. On theevening of the same day he presented himself once more in Waymark'sroom. The latter could not see him, but the first sound of his voicewas a warning of trouble. 

"Do you feel able to talk?" Abraham asked, rather gruffly. 

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I want to ask you a few questions. I've just had a call fromthat friend of yours, Mr. Enderby, and something came out in talk thatI wasn't exactly prepared for. "

Waymark rose from his chair. 

"Why didn't you tell me, " pursued Mr. Woodstock, "that you were engagedto his daughter?"

"I scarcely thought it necessary. "

"Not when I told you who Ida was?"

This disclosure had been made whilst Waymark was still confined to hisbed; partly because Abraham had a difficulty in keeping the matter tohimself; partly because he thought it might help the other through hisillness. Waymark had said very little at the time, and there had beenno conversation on the matter between them since. 

"I don't see that it made any difference, " Waymark replied gloomily. 

The old man was silent. He had been, it seemed, under a completedelusion, and could not immediately make up his mind whether he hadindeed ground of complaint against Waymark. 

"Why did Mr. Enderby call?" the latter inquired. 

"Very naturally, it seems to me, to know what had become of you. Hedidn't see the report in the paper, and went searching for you. "

"Does Ida know of this?" he asked, after a pause, during which Waymarkhad remained standing with his arms crossed on the back of the chair. 

"I have never told her. Why should I have done? Perhaps now you willbelieve what I insisted upon before the trial, that there had beennothing whatever--"

He spoke irritably, and was interrupted by the other with yet moreirritation. 

"Never mention that again to me as long as you live, Waymark If you do, we shall quarrel, understand!"

"I have no more pleasure in referring to it than you have, " saidWaymark, more calmly; "but I must justify myself when you attack me. "

"How long has this been going on?" asked the other, after a silence. 

"Some three months--perhaps more. "

"Well, I think it would have been better if you'd been straightforwardabout it, that's all. I don't know that I've anything more to say. Weknow what we're about, and there's an end of it. "

So saying, the old man went out of the room. There was a difference inhim henceforth, something which Ida noticed, though she could notexplain it. On the following day he spoke with her on a matter she wassurprised to hear him mention, her education. He had been thinking, hesaid, that she ought to learn to play the piano, and be taught foreignlanguages. Wouldn't she like him to find some lady who could live inthe house and teach her all these things? Ida's thoughts at once ran tothe conclusion that this had been suggested by Waymark, and, when shefound that her grandfather really wished it, gave a ready assent. Aweek or two later the suitable person had been discovered--a lady ofsome thirty years of age, by name Miss Hurst. She was agreeable andrefined, endowed, moreover, with the tact which was desirable in oneundertaking an office such as this. Ida found her companionshippleasant, and Mr. Woodstock con gratulated himself on having taken theright step. 

At the same time that the governess came to the house, Waymark left it. He returned to his old lodgings, and, with an independence which waspartly his own impulse, partly the natural result of the slightcoolness towards him which had shown itself in Mr. Woodstock, set towork to find a means of earning his living. This he was fortunateenough to discover without any great delay; he obtained a place asassistant in a circulating library. The payment was small, but he stillhad his evenings free. 

Ida did not conceal her disappointment when Abraham conveyed this newsto her; she had been hoping for better things. Her intercourse withWaymark between his recovery and his leaving the house had beendifficult, full of evident constraint on both sides. It was the desireof both not to meet alone, and in Mr. Woodstock's presence they talkedof indifferent things, with an artificiality which it was difficult tosupport, yet impossible to abandon. They shunned each other's eyes. Waymark was even less at his ease than Ida, knowing that Mr. Woodstockobserved him closely at all times. With her grandfather Ida tried tospeak freely of their friend, but she too was troubled by theconsciousness that the old man did not seem as friendly to Waymark asformerly. 

"This will of course only be for a time?" she said, when told ofWaymark's new employment. 

"I don't know, " Abraham replied indifferently. "I should think it willsuit him as well as anything else. "

"But he is clever; he writes books. Don't you think he will makehimself known some day?"

"That kind of thing isn't much to be depended on, it seems to me. It'sa doubtful business to look forward to for a living. "

Ida kept silence on the subject after that. She did not seem to broodany longer over sad thoughts, yet it was seldom she behaved or spokelight-heartedly; her face often indicated an absent mind, but it wasthe calm musing of one whose thoughts look to the future and strengthenthemselves with hope. Times there were when she drew away intosolitude, and these were the intervals of doubt and self-questioning. With her grandfather she was reconciled; she had become convinced ofhis kindness to her, and the far-off past was now seldom in her mind. The trouble originated in the deepest workings of her nature. When shefound herself comparing her position now with that of former days, itexcited in her a restive mood to think that chance alone had thusraised her out of misery, that the conscious strength and purity of hersoul would never have availed to help her to the things which were nowwithin her grasp. The old sense of the world's injustice excited angerand revolt in her heart. Chance, chance alone befriended her, and thereflection injured her pride. What of those numberless strugglingcreatures to whom such happy fortune could never come, who, be theiraspirations and capabilities what they might, must struggle vainly, agonise, and in the end despair? She had been lifted out of hell, notrisen therefrom by her own strength. Sometimes it half seemed to herthat it would have been the nobler lot to remain as she was, to sharethe misery of that dread realm of darkness with those poor disinheritedones, to cherish that spirit of noble rebellion, the consciousness ofwhich had been as a pure fire on the altar of her being. What was to beher future? Would she insensibly forget her past self, let her strengthsubside in refinement--it might be, even lose the passion which hadmade her what she was?

But hope predominated. Forget! Could she ever forget those faces in theslums on the day when she bade farewell to poverty and all itsattendant wretchedness? Litany Lane and Elm Court were names whichalready symbolised a purpose. If ever she still looked at hergrandfather with a remnant of distrust, it was because she thought ofhim as drawing money from such a source, enjoying his life of ease indisregard of the responsibilities laid upon him. The day would comewhen she could find courage to speak to him. She waited and preparedherself. 

Prepared herself, for that, and for so much else. Waymark's behaviourwould have cost her the bitterest misery, had she not been able toexplain it to her own satisfaction. There could be but one reason whyhe held aloof from her, and that an all-sufficient one. In her newposition, it was impossible for him to be more than just friendly toher. If that had been his attitude in the old days, how could hisself-respect allow him to show the slightest change? In his anxiety notto do so, he had even fallen short of the former kindness. Noforgiveness was needed, when she felt that she understood him so well. But all the more did it behove her to make herself worthy of him in allthings. She had still so much to learn; she was so far his inferior inculture and understanding. Her studies with Miss Hurst were fruitful. Nor were her domestic duties forgotten. Mr. Woodstock had supplied herwith a good housekeeper, to help her inexperience, but Ida took anadequate burden on her own shoulders. This again was a new and keen joy. 

Waymark dined with them one Sunday in June, and, in the course of theevening, went with Abraham to the smoking-room for some privateconversation. 

"Do you remember, " he began, "once offering to buy those shares ofmine?"

"Yes, I do, " replied Mr. Woodstock, narrowing his eyes. 

"Does the offer still hold good?"

"Yes, yes; if you're anxious to realise. "

"I am. I want money--for two purposes. "

"What are they?" Abraham asked bluntly. 

"One is a private matter, which I don't think I need speak of; but theother I can explain. I have found a courageous publisher who hasoffered to bring my book out if I take a certain risk. This I have madeup my mind to do. I want to get the thing out, if only for the sake ofhearing Mrs. Grundy lift up her voice; and if it can't be otherwise, Imust publish at my own expense. "

"Will it repay you?" Mr. Woodstock asked. 

"Ultimately, I have no doubt; but I don't care so much about that. "

"H'm. I should think that's the chief matter to be considered. And youwon't tell me what the other speculation is?"

"I'm going to lend a friend some money, but I don't wish to go intodetail. "

The old man looked at him shrewdly. 

"Very well, " he said presently. "I'll let you have the cash. Could youmanage to look in at the office to-morrow at mid-day?"

This was arranged, and Waymark rose, but Mr. Woodstock motioned to himto resume his seat. 

"As we're talking, " he began, "I may as well have over something that'son my mind. Why haven't you told Ida yet about that engagement ofyours?"

"Haven't _you_ done so?" Waymark asked, in surprise. 

"Did you think I had?"

"Why, yes, I did. "

"I've done nothing of the kind, " Abraham returned, pretending to besurprised at the supposition, though he knew it was a perfectly naturalone. 

Waymark was silent. 

"Don't you think, " the other pursued, "it's about time something wassaid to her?"

"I can't see that it matters, and--"

"But I _can_ see. As long as that isn't known you're here, to speakplainly, on false pretences. "

"Then I won't come here at all!"

"Very good, " exclaimed the old man irritably, "so long as you explainto her first. "

Waymark turned away, and stood gazing gloomily at the floor. Abrahamregarded him, and a change came over his hard face. 

"Now, look here, " he said, "there's something in all this I can't makeout. Is this engagement a serious one?"

"Serious?" returned the other, with a look of misery. "How can it beotherwise?"

"Very well; in that case you're bound to let Ida know about it, and atonce. Damn it all, don't you know your own mind?"

Waymark collected himself, and spoke gravely. 

"I, of course, understand why you press so for this explanation. Youtake it for granted that Ida regards me as something more than afriend. If so, my manner since she has been here must have clearlyshown her that, on my side, I have not the least thought of offeringmore than friendship. You yourself will grant so much, I believe. Forall that, I don't deny that our relations have always been unusual; andit would cost me very much to tell her of my engagement. I ask you torelieve me of the painful task, on the understanding that I never comehere again. I can't make you understand my position. You say mybehaviour has not been straightforward. In the ordinary sense of theword it has not;--there let it rest. Tell Ida what you will of me, andlet me disappear from her world. "

"The plain English of all which, " cried Abraham angrily, "is, that, asfar as you are concerned, you would be quite willing to let the girllive on false hopes, just to have the pleasure of her society as longas you care for it. "

"Not so, not so at all! I value Ida's friendship as I value that of noother woman, and I am persuaded that, if I were free with her, I couldreconcile her entirely to our connection remaining one of friendship, and nothing more. "

Waymark, in his desperate straits, all but persuaded himself that hetold the truth. Mr. Woodstock gazed at him in doubt. He would give himto the end of July to make up his mind; by that time Waymark musteither present himself as a free man, or allow Ida to be informed ofhis position. In the meanwhile he must come to Tottenham not oftenerthan once a week. To this Waymark agreed, glad of any respite. 

He returned to his lodgings in a state of nervous misery. Fortunately, he was not left to his thoughts; in a few minutes a knock at his doorannounced a visitor in the person of Mr. O'Gree. The Irishman exhibitedhis wonted liveliness, and at once began to relate an incident to thedisadvantage of his archenemy. 

"Faith, " he cried, "I'd have given a trifle if ye could have heard theconversation between Tootle and me, just after breakfast yesterday. Theboys were filing out of the room, when, 'Mr. O'Gree!' criesPendy. --'Sir!' I reply. --'The boys were called late this morning, Ihear. '--'No such thing, sir, ' I assure 'um. 'Half-past six to theminute, by my watch. '--'Oh, _your_ watch, Mr. O'Gree, ' cries the oldreprobate. 'I fear your watch doesn't keep very good time. '--'Sure, you're in the right, sir, ' said I;' it's been losing a little of late;so only last night I stopped it at half-past six, to make sure it wouldshow me the right calling-time this morning. ' And, when I'd said that, I just nod my head, as much as to say, 'There's one for ye, me boy!'and walk off as jaunty as a Limerick bantam. "

Then, after a burst of merriment, O'Gree suddenly fixed his face in avery grave expression. 

"I'm resolved, Waymark, I'm resolved!" he exclaimed. "At midsummer Ibreak my chains, and stand erect in the dignity of a free man. I'vesaid it often, but now I mean it. Sally urges me to do ut, and Sallynever utters a worrud that isn't pure wisdom. "

"Well, I think she's right. I myself should prefer a scavenger'sexistence, on the whole. But have you thought any further of the otherscheme?"

"The commercial undertaking? We were talking it over the other night. Sally says: Borrow the money and risk ut. And I think she's in theright. If you enter the world of commerce, you must be prepared forspeculation. We looked over the advertisements in a newspaper, just toget an idea, and we calculated the concern could be set afloat forseventy-five pounds. Out of that we could pay a quarter's rent, andstock the shop. Sally's been behind the counter a good bit of late, andshe's getting an insight into that kind of thing. Wonderful girl, Sally! Put her in Downing Street for a week, and she'd be competent tosupplant the Premier!"

"You have decided for a chandler's?"

"Yes; we neither of us know much about tobacco, and tobacco perhapsisn't quits the thing for a man of education. But to be a chandler issomething worthy of any man's ambition. You supply at once the solidsand the luxuries of life; you range from boiled ham and pickles tomixed biscuits and preserves. You are the focus of a whole street. Thefather comes to you for his mid-day bread and cheese, the mother forher half-ounce of tea, the child for its farthing's-worth of sweets. For years I've been leading a useless life; once let me get into myshop, and I become a column of the social system. Faith, it's as goodas done!"

"From whom shall you borrow the cash?"

"Sally's going to think about that point. I suppose we shall go to aloan office, and make some kind of arrangement. I'm rather vague onthese things, but Sally will find it out. "

"I understand, " said Waymark, checking his amusement, that you areperfectly serious in this plan?"

"As serious as I was in the moment of my birth! There's no otherchance. "

"Very well, then, suppose I offer to lend you the money. "

"You, Waymark?"

"No less a person. "

And he went on to explain how it was that he was able to make theoffer, adding that any sum up to a hundred pounds was at his friend'sdisposal. 

"Ye mean it, Waymark!" cried O'Gree, leaping round the room in ecstasy. "Bedad, you are a man and a brother, and no mistake! Ye're the firstthat ever offered to lend me a penny; ye're the first that ever hadfaith in me! You shall come with me to see Sally on Saturday, and tellher this yourself, and I shouldn't be surprised if she gives you akiss!"

O'Gree exhausted himself in capering and vociferation, then sat downand began to exercise his luxuriant imagination in picturing unheard-ofprosperity. 

"We'll take a shop in a new neighbourhood, where we shall have themonopoly. The people 'll get to know Sally; she'll be like a magnetbehind the counter. I shall go to the wholesale houses, and impressthem with a sense of my financial stability; I flatter myself I shalllook the prosperous shopkeeper, eh? Who knows what we may come to? Why, in a few years we may transfer our business to Oxford Street orPiccadilly, and call ourselves Italian warehousemen; and bedad, we'llturn out in the end another Crosse and Blackwell, see if we don't!"

At the utmost limit of the time allowed him by the rules of TheAcademy, the future man of business took his leave, in spiritsextravagant even for him. 

"Faith, " he exclaimed, when he was already at the door, "who d'ye thinkI saw last Sunday? As I was free in the afternoon, I took a walk, and, coming back, I went into a little coffee-shop for a cup of tea. A manin an apron came up to serve me, and, by me soul, if it wasn't poor oldEgger! I've heard not a word of him since he left last Christmas. Hewas ashamed of himself, poor devil; but I did my best to make him easy. After all, he's better off than in the scholastic line. "

Waymark laughed at this incident, and stood watching O'Gree's progressdown the street for a minute or two. Then he went to his room again, and sitting down with a sigh, fell into deep brooding. 

CHAPTER XXXII

A VISION OF SIN

Maud Enderby's life at home became ever more solitary. Such dailyintercourse as had been established between her mother and herself grewless and less fruitful of real intimacy, till at length it was felt byboth to be mere form. Maud strove against this, but there was nocorresponding effort on the other side; Mrs. Enderby showed no dislikefor her daughter, yet unmistakably shunned her. If she chanced to enterthe sitting-room whilst Maud was there, she would, if possible, retreatunobserved; or else she would feign to have come in quest of something, and at once go away with it. Maud could not fail to observe this, andits recurrence struck a chill to her heart. She had not the courage tospeak to her mother; a deadweight of trouble, a restless spirit ofapprehension, made her life one of passive endurance; she feared tohave the unnatural conditions of their home openly recognised. Veryoften her thoughts turned to the time when she had found refuge fromherself in the daily occupation of teaching, and, had she dared, shewould gladly have gone away once more as a governess. But she could notbring herself to propose such a step. To do so would necessitateexplanations, and that was what she dreaded most of all. Whole days, with the exception of meal-times, she spent in her own room, and thereno one ever disturbed her. Sometimes she read, but most often sat inprolonged brooding, heedless of the hours. 

Her father was now constantly away from home. He told her that hetravelled on business. It scarcely seemed to be a relief to him to restawhile in his chair; indeed, Paul had grown incapable of resting. Timewas deepening the lines of anxiety on his sallow face. His mind seemedfor ever racked with painful calculation. Mrs. Enderby, too, spent muchtime away from the house, and Maud knew nothing of her engagements. Onething, however, Maud could not help noticing, and that was that hermother was clearly very extravagant in her mode of living. New andcostly dresses were constantly being purchased, as well as articles ofluxury for the house. Mrs. Enderby had of late provided herself with a_femme de chambre_, a young woman who arrayed herself with magnificencein her mistresses castoff dresses, and whose appearance and demeanourhad something the reverse of domestic. Maud almost feared her. Thenthere was a hired brougham constantly in use. Whenever Mrs. Enderbyspent an evening at home, company was sure to be entertained; noisy andshowy people filled the drawing-room, and remained till late hours. Maud did not even see their faces, but the voices of one or two men andwomen became only too familiar to her; even in the retirement of herroom she could not avoid hearing these voices, and they made hershudder. Especially she was conscious of Mr. Rudge's presence; she knewhis very step on the stairs, and waited in feverish apprehension forthe first notes of an accompaniment on the piano, which warned her thathe was going to sing. He had a good voice, and it was often in request. Sometimes the inexplicable dread of his singing was more than she couldbear; she would hurry on her walking-attire, and, stealing like ashadow down the stairs, would seek refuge in pacing about the streetsof the neighbourhood, heedless of weather or the hour. 

Mrs. Enderby never came down to breakfast. One morning, when Paulhappened to be at home, he and Maud had finished that meal in silence, and Maud was rising to leave the room, when her father checked her. Heleaned over the table towards her, and spoke in an anxious undertone. 

"Have you noticed anything a little--a little strange in your motherlately, Maud? Anything in her way of speaking, I mean--her generalmanner?"

The girl met his look, and shook her head. The approach to such aconversation affected her as with a shock; she could not speak. 

"She has very bad nights, you know, " Paul went on, still in a tone justabove a whisper, "and of late she has been taking chloral. It's againstmy wish, but the relief makes it an irresistible temptation. I fear--Iam afraid it is having some deleterious effect upon her; she seemed tobe a little--just a little delirious in the night, I thought. "

There was something horrible in his voice and face as he uttered thesewords; he shuddered slightly, and his tongue seemed to labour forutterance, as though he dreaded the sound of his own speech. 

Maud sat unmoving and silent. 

"I thought, also, " Paul went on, "that she appeared a little strangelast evening, when the people were here. --You weren't in thedrawing-room?"

Maud shook her head again. 

"Do you--do you think, " he asked, "she is having too much excitement? Iknow she needs a life of constant variety; it is essential to her. I'msure you understand that, Maud? You--you don't misjudge her?"

"No, no; it is necessary to her, " said the girl mechanically. 

"But, " her father pursued, with still lower voice, "there is always thedanger lest she should over-exert herself. Last night I--I thought Inoticed--but it was scarcely worth speaking of; I am so easily alarmed, you know. "

Maud tried to say something, but in vain. 

"You--you won't desert her--quite--Maud?" said her father in a tone ofpleading. "I am obliged to be so muck away--God knows I can't help it. And then I--I wonder whether you have noticed? I seem to have littleinfluence with her. "

He stopped, but the next moment forced himself to utter what was in hismind. 

"Can't you help me a little more, Maud? Couldn't you induce her to livea little more--more restfully at times?"

She rose, pushing the chair back behind her. 

"Father, I can't!" she cried; then burst into a passion of tears. 

"God help us!" her father breathed, rising and looking at her in blankmisery. But in a moment she had recovered herself. They faced eachother for an instant, but neither ventured to speak again, and Maudturned and left him. 

Waymark came as usual, but now he seldom saw Mrs. Enderby. Maudreceived him alone. There was little that was lover-like in these hoursspent together. They kissed each other at meeting and parting, but, with this exception, the manner of both was very slightly differentfrom what it had been before their engagement. They sat apart, andtalked of art, literature, religion, seldom of each other. It had cometo this by degrees; at first there had been more warmth, but passionnever. Waymark's self-consciousness often weighed upon his tongue, andmade his conversation but a string of commonplaces; Maud was oftensilent for long intervals. Their eyes never met in a steady gaze. 

Waymark often asked himself whether Maud's was a passionless nature, orwhether it was possible that her reserve had the same origin as hisown. The latter he felt to be unlikely; sometimes there was a pressureof her hands as their lips just touched, the indication, he believed, of feeling held in restraint for uncertain reasons. She welcomed him, too, with a look which he in vain endeavoured to respond to--a look ofsudden relief from weariness, of gentle illumination; it smote him likea reproach. When the summer had set in, he was glad to change the stillroom for the open air; they walked frequently about Regent's Park, andlingered till after sunset. 

One evening, when it was dull and threatened rain, they returned to thehouse sooner than usual. Waymark would have taken his leave at thedoor, as he ordinarily did, but Maud begged him to enter, if only for afew minutes. It was not quite nine o'clock, and Mrs. Enderby was fromhome. 

He seated himself, but Maud remained standing irresolutely. Waymarkglanced at her from under his eyebrows. He did not find it easy tospeak; they had both been silent since they left the park, with theexception of the few words exchanged at the door. 

"Will you let me sit here?" Maud asked suddenly, pushing a footstoolnear to his chair, and kneeling upon it. 

He smiled and nodded. 

"When will they begin the printing?" she asked, referring to his book, which was now in the hands of the publisher who had undertaken it. 

"Not for some months. It can't come out till the winter season. "

"If it should succeed, it will make a great difference in yourposition, won't it?"

"It might, " he replied, looking away. 

She sat with her eyes fixed on the ground. She wished to continue, butsomething stayed her. 

"I don't much count upon it, " Waymark said, when he could no longerendure the silence. "We mustn't base any hopes on that. "

He rose; the need of changing his attitude seemed imperative. 

"Must you go?" Maud asked, looking up at him with eyes which spoke allthat her voice failed to utter. 

He moved his head affirmatively, and held out his hand to raise her. She obeyed his summons, and stood up before him; her eyes had fixedthemselves upon his; he could not avoid their strange gaze. 

"Good-bye, " he said. 

Her free hand rose to his shoulder, upon which it scarcely rested. Hecould not escape her eyes, though to meet them tortured him. Her lipswere moving, but he could distinguish no syllable; they moved again, and he could just gather the sense of her whisper. 

"Do you love me?"

An immense pity thrilled through him. He put his arm about her, heldher closely, and pressed his lips against her cheek. She reddened, andhid her face against him. Waymark touched her hair caressingly, thenfreed his other hand, and went from the room. 

Maud sat in thought till a loud ring at the door-bell made her startand flee upstairs. The room in which she and Waymark sat when they wereby themselves was in no danger of invasion, but she feared thepossibility of meeting her mother to-night. Her father was away fromhome, as usual, but the days of his return were always uncertain, andMrs. Enderby might perchance open the door of the little sitting-roomjust to see whether he was there, as it was here he ordinarily employedhimself when in the house. From her bedroom Maud could hear severalpeople ascend the stairs. It was ten o'clock, but an influx of visitorsat such an hour was nothing remarkable. She could hear her mother'slaugh, and then the voice of a man, a voice she knew but too well--thatof Mr. Budge. 

Her nerves were excited. The night was close, and there were mutteringsof thunder at times; the cloud whence they came seemed to her to spreadits doleful blackness over this one roof. An impulse seized her; shetook paper and sat down at her desk to write. It was a letter toWaymark, a letter such as she had never addressed to him, and which, even in writing it, she was conscious she could not send. Her handtrembled as she filled the pages with burning words. She panted formore than he had given her; this calm, half-brotherly love of his wasjust now like a single drop of water to one dying of thirst; she criedto him for a deeper draught of the joy of life. The words came to herwithout need of thought; tears fell hot from her eyes and blotted whatshe wrote. 

The tears brought her relief; she was able to throw her writing aside, and by degrees to resume that dull, vacant mood of habitual sufferingwhich at all events could be endured. From this, too, there was attimes a retreat possible with the help of a book. She had no mind tosleep, and on looking round, she remembered that the book she had beenreading in the early part of the day was downstairs. It was aftermidnight, and she seemed to have a recollection of hearing the visitorsleave the house a little while ago; it would be safe to venture as faras the sitting-room below. 

She began to descend the stairs quietly. There was still a light in thehall, but the quietness of the house reassured her. On turning an angleof the stairs, however, she saw that the door of the drawing-room wasopen, and that just within stood two figures--her mother and Mr. Rudge. They seemed to be whispering together, and in the same moment theirlips met. Then the man came out and went downstairs. Mrs. Enderbyturned back into the drawing-room. 

Maud stood fixed to the spot. Darkness had closed in around her, andshe clung to the banisters to save herself from the gulf which seemedto yawn before her feet. The ringing of a bell, the drawing-room bellsummoning Mrs. Enderby's maid, brought her back to consciousness, andwith trembling limbs she regained her room. It was as though someghastly vision of the night had shaken her soul. The habit of her mindoverwhelmed her with the conviction that she knew at last the meaningof that mystery of horror which had of late been strengthening its holdupon her imagination. The black cloud which lowered above the house hadindeed its significance; the voices which wailed to her of sin and woewere the true expression of things amid which she had been movingunconsciously. That instinct which made her shrink from her mother'spresence was not without its justification; the dark powers whichcircled her existence had not vainly forced their influence upon her. Her first impulse was to flee from the house; the air breathedpestilence and death, death of the soul. Looking about her in theanguish of conflicting thoughts, her eyes fell upon the pages she hadwritten. These now came before her as a proof of contagion which hadseized upon her own nature; she tore the letter hastily into fragments, and, striking fire with a match, consumed them in the grate. As shewatched the sparks go out, there came a rustling of dresses past herdoor. She flung herself upon her knees and sought refuge in wild, wordless prayer. 

A fortnight after this Maud went late in the evening to the room whereshe knew her father was sitting alone. Paul Enderby looked up from hispapers in surprise; it was some time since Maud had sought privateconversation with him. As he met her pale, resolute face, he knew thatshe had a serious purpose in thus visiting him, and his look changed toone of nervous anticipation. 

"Do I disturb you, father?" Maud asked. "Could you spare me a fewminutes?"

Paul nodded, and she took a seat near him. 

"Father, I am going to leave home, going to be a governess again. "

He drew a sigh of relief; he had expected something worse than this. Yet the relief was only for a moment, and then he looked at her witheyes which made her soul fail for very compassion. 

"You will desert me, Maud?" he asked, trying to convey in his look thatwhich he could not utter in words. 

"Father, I can be of no help, and I feel that I must not remain here. "

"Have you found a place?"

"This afternoon I engaged myself to go to Paris with a French family. They have been in England some time, and want to take back an Englishgoverness for their children. "

Paul was silent. 

"I leave the day after to-morrow, " she added; at first she had fearedto say how soon she was to go. 

"You are right, " her father said, shifting some papers about with atremulous hand. "You are right to leave us. You at least will be safe. "

"Safe?" she asked, under her breath. 

He looked at her in the same despairing way, but said nothing. 

"Father, " she began, her lips quivering in the intensity of her inwardstruggle, "can you not go away from here? Can you not take mother away?"

They gazed at each other, each trying to divine what it was that madethe other so pale. Did her father know?--Maud asked herself. Did Maudknow something more than he himself?--was the doubt in Paul's mind. Butthey were thinking of different things. 

"I can't, I can't!" the wretched man exclaimed, spreading out his armson the desk. "Perhaps in a few months--but I doubt. I can do nothingnow; I am helpless; I am not my own master. O God, if I could but goand leave it all behind me!"

Maud could only guess at the meaning of this. He had already hinted toher of business troubles which were crushing him. But this was a matterof no moment in her sight. There was something more terrible, and shecould not force her tongue to speak of it. 

"You fear for her?" Paul went on. "You have noticed her strangeness?"He lowered his voice. "What can I do, Maud?"

"You are so much away, " she said hurriedly, laying her hand on his arm. "Her visitors--she has so many temptations--"

"Temptations?"

"Father, help her against herself!"

"My help is vain. There is a curse on her life, and on mine. I can onlystand by and wait for the worst. "

She could not speak. It was her duty, clearly her imperative duty, yetshe durst not fulfil it. She had come down from her room with the fixedpurpose, attained after nights of sleepless struggle, of telling himwhat she had seen. She found herself alone again, the task unfulfilled. And she knew that she could not face him again. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

A GARDEN-PARTY

Waymark received with astonishment Maud's letter from Paris. He hadseen her only two days before, and their conversation had been of theordinary kind; Maud had given him no hint of her purpose, not even whenhe spoke to her of the coming holiday season, and the necessity of herhaving a change. She confessed she was not well. Sometimes, when theyhad both sat for some minutes in silence, she would raise her eyes andmeet his gaze steadily, seeming to search for something. Waymark couldnot face this look; it drove him to break the suspense by any kind ofremark on an indifferent subject. He remembered now that she had gazedat him in that way persistently on the last evening that they weretogether. When he was saying good-bye, and as he bent to kiss her, sheheld him back for a moment, and seemed to wish to say something. Doubtless she had been on the point of telling him that she was goingaway; but she let him leave in silence. 

It was not a long letter that she wrote; she merely said that changehad become indispensable to body and soul, and that it had seemed bestto make it suddenly. 

"I hope, " she wrote in conclusion, "that you will see my father asoften as you can; he is very much in need of friendly company, and Ishould like you to be able to send me news of him. Do not fear for me;I feel already better. I am always with you in spirit, and in thespirit I love you; God help me to keep my love pure!"

Waymark put away the letter carelessly; the first sensation of surpriseover, he did not even care to speculate on the reasons which had ledMaud to leave home. It was but seldom now that his thoughts busiedthemselves with Maud; the unreal importance which she had for a timeassumed in his life was only a recollection; her very face wasghostlike in his mind's eye, dim, always vanishing. If the news of herdeparture from England moved him at all, it was with a slight sense ofsatisfaction; it would be so much easier to write letters to her thanto speak face to face. Yet, in the days that followed, the ghostlikecountenance hovered more persistently before him than was its wont;there was a far-off pleading in its look, and sometimes that shadow ofreproach which our uneasy conscience will cast upon the faces of thosewe have wronged. This passed, however, and another image, one which hadever grown in clearness and persistency of presentment in proportion asMaud's faded away, glided before him in the hours of summer sunlight, and shone forth with the beauty of a rising star against the cloudedheaven of his dreams. 

Waymark's mood was bitter, but, in spite of himself, it was no longercynical. He could not indulge himself in that pessimistic scepticismwhich had aided him in bearing his poverty, and the restless craving ofsense and spirit which had accompanied it. His enthusiasm for art wasfalling away; as a faith it had failed him in his hour of need. In itsstead another faith had come to him, a faith which he felt to beall-powerful, and the sole stay of a man's life amid the shiftingshadows of intellectual creeds. And it had been revealed too late. Ledby perverse motives, now no longer intelligible, he had reached a goalof mere frustration; between him and the true end of his being therewas a great gulf fixed. 

To Ida, in the meanwhile, these weeks of early summer were bringinghealth of body and cheerfulness of mind. She spent very much of hertime in the open air. Whenever it was possible she and Miss Hurst tooktheir books out into the garden, and let the shadows of the rose-bushesmark the hours for them. Ida's natural vigour throve on thestrength-giving properties of sun and breeze the last traces ofunwholesome pallor passed from her face, and exercise sent her homeflushed like the dawn. 

One afternoon she went to sit with her grandfather on a bench beneathan apple-tree. The old man had his pipe and a newspaper. Ida was quiet, and glancing at her presently, Abraham found her eyes fixed upon him. 

"Grandfather, " she said, in her gentlest voice, "will you let me give agarden-party some day next week?"

"A party?" Mr. Woodstock raised his brows in astonishment. "Who are yougoing to invite?"

"You'll think it a strange notion. --I wonder whether I can make it seemas delightful to you as it does to me. Suppose we went to those housesof yours, and got together as many poor little girls as we could, andbrought them all here to spend an afternoon in the garden. Think whatan unheard-of thing it would be to them! And then we would give themsome tea, and take them back again before dark. "

The proposal filled Mr. Woodstock with dismay, and the habitualhardness of his face suggested a displeasure he did not in reality feel. 

"As you say, it's a strange notion, " he remarked, smiling veryslightly. "I don't know why you shouldn't have your own way, Ida, but--it'll cost you a good deal of trouble, you know. "

"You are mistaking me, grandfather. You think this a curious whim Ihave got into my head, and your kindness would tempt you to let me do asilly thing just for the sake of having my way. It is no foolish fancy. It's not for my sake, but for the children's. "

Her eyes were aglow with earnestness, and her voice trembled. 

"Do you think they'd care for it?" asked her grandfather, impressed bysomething in her which he had never seen before. 

"Care for it!--Imagine a poor little thing that has been born in awretched, poverty-stricken, disorderly home, a home that is no home, and growing up with no knowledge of anything but those four hatefulwalls and the street outside. No toys, no treats, no change of air;playing in the gutter, never seeing a beautiful thing, never hearing ofthe pleasures which rich people's children would pine and die withoutAnd a child for all that. "

Mr. Woodstock cleared his throat and smoothed the newspaper upon hisknee. 

"How will you get them here, Ida?"

"Oh, leave that to me! Let us choose a day; wouldn't Saturday be best!I will go there myself, and pick out the children, and get theirmothers to promise to have them ready. Then I'll arrange to have one ofthose carts you see at Sunday-school treats. Why, the ride here, thatalone! And you'll let me have tea for them, --just bread and butter anda bun, --it will cost not half as much as my new dress this week, not_half_ as much--"

"Come, come, I can't stand this!" growled out Abraham, getting up fromthe seat. "I'd _give_ them the garden, for good and all, rather thansee you like that. Say Saturday, if it's fine; if not, Monday, or whenyou like. "

On the following morning the details were arranged, and the next dayIda went to Litany Lane. She preferred to go alone, and on this errandMr. Woodstock would have found a difficulty in accompanying her. Idaknew exactly the nature of the task she had taken in hand, and found iteasier than it would have been to the ordinary young lady. She jotteddown the names of some twenty little girls, selecting such as werebetween the ages of eight and twelve, and obtained promises that allshould be ready at a fixed hour next Saturday. She met with doubts andobjections and difficulties enough, but only failed in one or twoinstances. Then followed fresh talks with her grandfather, and all thedetails were arranged. 

There was rain on the Thursday and Friday, but when Ida drew up herblind at six o'clock on Saturday morning, the sky gave promise of goodthings. She was walking in the garden long before breakfast-time, andgladdened to rapture as she watched the sun gain power, till itstreamed gloriously athwart cloudless blue. By one o'clock she was atthe end of Litany Lane, where the cart with long seats was alreadywaiting; its arrival had become known to the little ones, and very fewneeded summoning. Of course there were disappointments now and again. In spite of mothers' promises, half the children had their usual dirtyfaces, and showed no sign of any preparation. Five or six of them hadnothing to put on their heads; two had bare feet. It was too late tosee to these things now; as they were, the children clambered, or werelifted, on to the cart, and Ida took her seat among them. Then a crackof the driver's whip, and amid the shouts of envious brothers andsisters, and before the wondering stare of the rest of the population, off they drove away. 

"Who'd like an apple?" Ida asked, as soon as they were well clear ofthe narrow streets. There was a general scream of delight, and from ahamper by her side she brought out apples and distributed them. Onlyfor a minute or two had there been anything like shyness in Ida'spresence; she knew how to talk and behave to these poor little waifs. Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to their chatter amongthemselves, and recognised so many a fragment of her own past life. Onechild, who sat close by her, had been spending the morning in washingvegetables for the Saturday-night market. Did not that call to mindsomething?--so far off; so far, yet nearer to her than many thingswhich had intervened. How they all laughed, as the big, black housesgave way to brighter streets, and these again began to open uponglimpses of field or garden! Not one of them had the slightestconception of whither they were being taken, or what was to happen tothem at length. But they had confidence in "the lady. " She was asorceress in their eyes; what limit could there be to her powers?Something good and joyous awaited them; that was all they knew orcared; leagues of happiness, stretching away to the remote limits ofthe day's glory; a present rapture beyond knowledge, and a memory forever. 

Mr. Woodstock stood within the gate of the garden, his hands in hispockets, and as the vehicle came in sight he drew just a little back. 

They streamed along the carriage-drive, and in a minute or two were allclustered upon the lawn behind the house. What was expected of them?Had an angel taken them by he hand and led them straight from LitanyLane through the portals of paradise, they could not have been moreawed and bewildered. Trees and rose-bushes, turf and beds of flowers, seats in the shade, skipping-ropes thrown about on the open--and there, hark, a hand-organ, a better one than ever they danced to on thepavement, striking up to make them merry. That was the happiestthought! It was something not too unfamiliar; the one joyful thing ofwhich they had experience meeting them here to smooth over the firstintroduction to a new world. Ida knew it well, the effect of thatorgan; had it not lightened her heart many and many a time in theby-gone darkness? Two of the girls had caught each other by the waistat the first sounds. Might they? Would "the lady" like it?

Miss Hurst had come out as soon as the music began, and Ida ran to talkwith her. There was whispering between them, and pointing to one andanother of the children, and then the governess, with a pleased face, disappeared again. She was away some time, but on her return two of thechildren were called into the house. Bare-footed they went in, but cameforth again with shoes and stockings on, hardly able to comprehend whathad happened to them. Then were summoned those who had nothing on theirheads, and to each of these a straw hat was given, a less wonderfulpossession than the shoes and stockings, but a source of gladness andpride. 

In the meantime, however, marvels had accumulated on the lawn. Whilstyet the organ was playing, there appeared two men, one of them carryinga big drum, the other hidden under a Punch and Judy show. Of a suddenthere sounded a shrill note, high above the organ, a fluting from thebottom to the top of the gamut, the immemorial summons to children, theoverture to the primitive drama. It was drowned in a scream of welcome, which, in its turn, was outdone by thunderous peals upon the drum. 

Mr. Woodstock said little during the whole afternoon. Perhaps hethought the more. 

Tables had been fixed in one part of the garden, and as the drama ofPunch drew to an end, its interest found a serious rival in thespectacle of piled plates of cake. But there was to intervene nearlyhalf-an-hour before the tea-urns were ready to make an appearance. Theskipping-ropes came into requisition outside, but in the house wasproceeding simultaneously a rather more serious pastime, which fell toIda's share to carry out. Choosing the little girl whose face was thedirtiest and hair the untidiest of any she could see, she led hergently away to a place where a good bowl of warm water and plenty ofsoap were at hand, and, with the air of bestowing the greatest kindnessof all, fell to work to such purpose that in a few minutes the childwent back to the garden a resplendent being, positively clean and kemptfor the first time in her life. 

"I know you'll feel uncomfortable for a little, dear, " Ida said, dismissing the astonished maiden with a kiss, "but the strangeness willwear off; and you'll see how much nicer it is. "

One after another, all were dealt with in this way, presently with agood-natured servant-girl's assistance, as time pressed. The result wasthat a transformed company sat down to tea. The feeling wore off, asIda said, but at first cleanliness meant positive discomfort, takingthe form of loss of identity and difficulty of mutual recognition. Theylooked at their hands, and were amazed at the whiteness that had comeupon them; they kept feeling their faces and their ordered hair. Butthe appetite of one and all was improved by the process. 

"How I wish Mr. Waymark was here!" Ida said to her grandfather, as theystood together, watching the feast. "He would enjoy it. We must givehim a full account to-morrow, mustn't we?"

"I forgot, " replied the other. "I had a note from him this morning, saying he thought he shouldn't be able to come. "

The first shadow of disappointment which this day had brought fell uponthe girl's countenance. She made no reply, and presently went to helpone or the youngest children, who had spilt her tea and was in evidentdistress. 

After tea the organ struck up again, and again there was dancing on thelawn. Then a gathering of flowers by Ida and Miss Hurst, and one givento each of the children, with injunctions to put it in water onreaching home, and keep it as long as possible in memory of the day. Already the sun was westering, and Litany Lane must be reached beforedusk. 

"Poor children!" Ida sighed to herself. "If they had but homes to goto!" And added, in her thought, "We shall see, we shall see!"

Every bit as joyous as the ride out was the return to town. Withforesight, Ida made the two youngest sit on each side of her; soon thelittle heads were drooping in her lap, subdued by the very weariness ofbliss. Miss Hurst had offered to accompany Ida, that she might not haveto come back alone, but Ida wanted her friends all to herself, and wasrewarded by the familiarity with which they gossipped to her all theway. 

"Hands up, all those who _haven't_ enjoyed themselves!" she exclaimed, just as they were entering the noisy streets. 

There was a moment's doubt, then a burst of merry laughter. 

"Hands up, all those who would like to come again!"

All held up both arms--except the two children who were asleep. 

"Well, you've all been good, and I'm very pleased with you, and you_shall_ come again!"

It was the culmination of the day's delight. For the first time intheir lives the children of Litany Lane and Elm Court had something tolook forward to. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

A LATE REVENGE

Ida clung to the possibility of Waymark's paying his usual visit on theSunday, but she was disappointed. This absence had no reason beyondWaymark's choice. It was the last Sunday but one of the month; a weekmore, and he must keep his word with Mr. Woodstock. The evil day hadbeen put off, and to what purpose? There had been some scarcelyconfessed hope. Maud's sudden departure from England, and her strangeletter, might perhaps mean a change in her which would bring about hisfreedom; he himself might possibly be driven by his wretchedness to thepoint of writing to her in a way which would hasten her decision, ifindeed she were doubting. 

All was over between Ida and himself, so why undergo the torment ofstill seeing her. In sending his note to Mr. Woodstock, he was on thepoint of surrendering the week that remained, and begging that Idamight be told at once, but his hand refused to write the words. Throughthe week that ensued he had no moment's rest. At night he went toplaces of amusement, to seek distraction; he wished and dreaded thecoming of the Sunday. How would Ida receive the revelation? Should hewrite to her and try to make her understand him? Yet in that he couldscarcely succeed, and failure would bring upon him her contempt. Theonly safety lay in never seeing or communicating with her again. 

Even on Saturday night he had not made up his mind how to act. He wentto the theatre, but left before the play was half over, and walkedslowly homewards. As he drew near to his lodgings, some one hastenedtowards him with both hands held out. It was Maud Enderby. 

"Oh, I have waited so long! I wanted to see you to-night. " She wasexhausted with fatigue and distress, and still held his hands, as ifneeding their support. To Waymark, in his then state of mind, she camelike an apparition. He could only look at her in astonishment. 

"Last night, " she said, "I had a telegram from father. He told me tocome back at once; he had had to leave, and mother was alone. I was tocall for a letter at a place in the city. I was in time to catch thenight boat, and when I got his letter it told me dreadful things. Something has happened which compelled him to leave England at once. Hecould do nothing, make no arrangements. Mother, he said, had a littlemoney; we must sell everything and manage to live somewhere for alittle; he would try to send us what he could. Then I went home. Therewas a police-officer in the house, and mother had gone away, I can'ttell where. Father has done something, and--Oh, what shall I do? Youcan help me, can't you?"

Waymark, whom this news overwhelmed with blank despair, could at firstsay nothing; but the very greatness of the blow gradually produced inhim the strength to bear it. He saw that fate had taken the future outof his hands; there was no longer even the appearance of choice. ToMaud he must now devote himself, aiding her with all his strength inthe present and through the days to come. 

"Shall I go back home with you?" he asked, pressing her hands tocomfort her, and speaking with the calmness of one who had made up hismind. 

"Yes; perhaps mother will have returned. But what shall we do? Whatwill happen to father? Do you know anything of all this?"

"Nothing whatever. Walk with me to the top of the street, and we willtake a cab. "

She hung upon his arm, trembling violently; and during the drive toPaddington, she lay back with her eyes closed, holding Waymark's handsin her own, which burned with fever. On alighting, they found that Mrs. Enderby had indeed returned; the servant told them so, and at the sametime whispered something to Maud. They went up into the drawing-room, and there found Mrs. Enderby lying upon the couch. She could notunderstand when she was spoken to, but nodded her head and looked atthem with large, woebegone, wandering eyes. Every effort to rouse herwas vain. 

It was a dreadful night. 

The early dawn was in the sky when Waymark reached Beaufort Street. With no thought of sleep, he sat down at once and wrote to Mr. Woodstock, relating what had happened. "So, you see, " he concluded, "with the end of July has come the decision of my fate, as we agreed itshould. If I had seen you to-morrow, as I proposed, I know not whatfolly I might have been guilty of. Tell Ida everything at once; I shallnever see her again. But do you, if you can, be my friend still. I needyour help in this horrible situation. Meet me--will you?--at the officeto-morrow night, say at eight o'clock. "

This letter would reach Tottenham on Monday morning. Waymark went tothe office at the hour he had mentioned, and waited till ten o'clock. But Mr. Woodstock had not been in St. John Street Road that day, andthe waiting was in vain. 

The garden-party had not been without its effect upon Mr. Woodstock. Onthe following day, when he was sitting again with Ida in the garden, herecurred to the conversation of a week ago, and seemed desirous ofleading the girl to speak freely on the subjects which had such powerto stir her. Ida had been waiting for this; she rejoiced at the promiseit held out, and unburdened her heart. Would he not do yet more for thepoor people in his houses I could not their homes in some way be mademore fit for human beings? With careful observation of his mood, sheled him on to entertain thoughts he had never dreamt of, and beforethey parted she had all but obtained a promise that he would go overthe whole of his property and really see what could be done. Ida'sinfluence over him had by this time become very great; the old man wasready to do much for the sake of pleasing her. 

On the following Tuesday he went down into Litany Lane in company witha builder, and proceeded to investigate each of the houses. In manyinstances the repairs, to be of any use, would have to be considerable;there would be a difficulty in executing them whilst the tenantsremained in possession. One possibility occurred to him in the courseof examination, and he determined to make use of it; he would createroom by getting rid of the worst tenants, all those, in fact, whosepresence was pollution to the neighbourhood, and whom it was hopelessto think of reforming. In this way he would be able to shift about theremaining lodgers without too great a loss to himself, and avoid thenecessity of turning helpless people into the street. 

Mr. Woodstock had considerably more knowledge of the state of hisproperty, and of the tenants inhabiting it, than is usual withlandlords of his kind; for all that, the present examination brought tolight not a few things which were startling even to him. Since Waymarkhad ceased to act as his collector, the office had been filled by anagent of the ordinary kind, and Mr. Woodstock had, till just now, takenless interest in the property than formerly. Things had got worse onthe whole. Whereas Waymark had here and there been successful insuppressing the grosser forms of uncleanliness by threats of expulsion, and at times by the actual enforcement of his threat, no suchsupervision had of late been exercised. There were very few houses inwhich the air was at all tolerable; in many instances the vilest odourshung about the open door-ways. To pass out of Elm Court into the widerstreets around was like a change to the freshness of woods and fields. And the sources of this miasma were only too obvious. 

The larger houses which made up Litany Lane had underground cellars; inthe court there were fortunately no such retreats. On entering one ofthese former houses, the two were aware of an especially offensiveodour rising from below the stairs. Pursuing, however, their plan ofbeginning at the garrets, they went up together. In the room at the topthey came upon a miserable spectacle. On something which, for want ofanother name, was probably called a bed, there lay a woman eitheralready dead or in a state of coma, and on the floor sat two very youngchildren, amusing themselves with a dead kitten, their only toy. Mr. Woodstock bent over the woman and examined her. He found that she wasbreathing, though in a slow and scarcely perceptible way; her eyes wereopen, but expressed no consciousness. The slightly-parted lips werealmost black, and here and there on her face there seemed to be a kindof rash. Mr. Woodstock's companion, after taking one glance, drewhastily back. 

"Looks like small-pox, " he said, in an alarmed voice. "I wouldn't standso near, sir, if I was you. "

"Isn't there any one to look to her?" said Abraham. Then turning to oneof the children, "Where's your father?" he asked. 

"Dono, " was the little fellow's indifferent reply. 

"Are you alone?"

"Dono. "

They went down to the floor below, and there found a woman standing ather door. 

"What's the matter with her up there?" asked Mr. Woodstock. 

"She's very bad, sir. Her Susan's gone to get a order for the parishdoctor, I b'lieve. I was just a-goin' to look after the children whenyou came up. I've only just come 'ome myself, you see. "

"What's that horrible stench down below?"

"I didn't notice nothink, sir, " said the woman, looking over thebanisters as if the odour might be seen. 

"Any one living in the kitchen?"

"There _was_ some one, I b'lieve, sir, but I don't exac'ly know ifthey's there yet. "

Presently they reached the region below. In absolute darkness theydescended steps which were covered with a sort of slime, and then, bystriking a light, found themselves in front of a closed door. Openingthis, they entered a vile hole where it could scarcely be said to bedaylight, so thickly was the little window patched with filth. Gropingabout in the stifling atmosphere, they discovered in one corner a massof indescribable matter, from which arose, seemingly, the worst of theeffluvia. 

"What is it?" asked Mr. Woodstock, holding a lighted match. 

"Rotten fish, it seems to me, " said the other, holding his nose. 

Abraham turned away; then, as if his eye had suddenly caught something, strode to another corner. There lay the body of a dead child, all butnaked, upon a piece of sacking. 

"We'd better get out of this, sir, " said the builder. "We shall bepoisoned. Wonder they haven't the plague here. "

"Seems to me they have, " returned Mr. Woodstock. 

They went out into the street, and hailed the first policeman in sight. Then, giving up his investigations for that morning, Mr. Woodstockrepaired to the police-station, and after a good deal of trouble, succeeded in getting the attendance of a medical man, with the resultthat the woman they had seen up in the garret was found to be in truthdying of small-pox. If the contagion spread, as probably it had by thistime begun to, there would be a pleasant state of things in Litany Lane. 

In the evening, before going home, Abraham had a bath. He was not anervous man, but the possibilities of the risk he had run were notagreeable to contemplate. Two or three days went by without anyalarming symptoms, but as he learnt that another case of small-pox haddeclared itself in the Lane, he postponed his personal activity therefor the present, and remained a good deal at home. On the Sundaymorning--when Waymark's letter had already been posted--he awoke with aheadache, continued from the night before. It grew worse during theday, and he went to bed early with a dull pain across the forehead, which prevented him from sleeping. On the following morning theheadache still remained; he felt a disinclination to rise, and now, forthe first time, began to be troubled with vague fears, which blendedthemselves with his various pre-occupations in a confusing way. Theletter which arrived from Waymark was taken up to him. It caused himextreme irritation, which was followed by uneasy dozing, the painacross his forehead growing worse the while. A doctor was summoned. 

The same day Ida and Miss Hurst left the house, to occupy lodgings hardby; it was done at Mr. Woodstock's peremptory bidding. Ida at oncewrote to Waymark, begging him to come; he arrived early next morning, and learnt the state of things. 

"The doctor tells me, " said Ida, "there is a case in Litany Lane. It isvery cruel. Grandfather went to make arrangements for having the housesrepaired. "

"There I recognise your hand, " Waymark observed, as she made a pause. 

"Why have you so deserted us?" Ida asked. "Why do we see you so seldom?"

"It is so late every evening before I leave the library, and I am busywith all sorts of things. "

They had little to say to each other, Waymark promised to communicateat once with a friend of Mr. Woodstock's, a man of business, and tocome again as soon as possible, to give any help he could. Whether Idahad been told of his position remained uncertain. 

For Ida they were sad, long days. Troubles which she had previouslymanaged to keep in the background now again beset her. She had attachedherself to her grandfather; gratitude for all that he was doing at herwish strengthened her affection, and she awaited each new day withfear. Waymark seemed colder to her in these days than he had ever beenformerly. The occasion ought, she felt, to have brought them nearertogether; but on his side there appeared to be no such feeling. Thetime hung very heavily on her hands. She tried to go on with herstudies, but it was a mere pretence. 

Soon, she learnt that there was no hope; the sick man had sunk into astate of unconsciousness from which he would probably not awake. Shehaunted the neighbourhood of the house, or, in her lodging, sat likeone who waits, and the waiting was for she knew not what. There wasonce more to be a great change in her life, but of what kind she couldnot foresee. She wished her suffering had been more acute; her onlyrelative was dying, yet no tear would come to her eyes; it washeartless, and to weep would have brought relief to her. She could onlysit and wait. 

When Waymark came, on the evening of the next day, he heard that allwas over. Ida saw him, but only for a few minutes. In going away, hepaused by the gates of the silent house. 

"The slums have avenged themselves, " he said to himself sadly, "thoughlate. "

CHAPTER XXXV

HOUSE-WARMING

On a Sunday afternoon in October, when Abraham Woodstock had lain inhis grave for three months, Waymark met Julian Casti by appointment inSloane Square, and they set forth together on a journey to Peckham. They were going thither by invitation, and, to judge from the laughterwhich accompanied their talk, their visit was likely to afford thementertainment. The merriment on Julian's side was not very natural; helooked indeed too ill to enjoy mirth of any kind. As they stood in theSquare, waiting for an omnibus, he kept glancing uneasily about him, especially in the direction whence they had come. It had the appearanceof a habit, but before they had stood much more than a minute, hestarted and exclaimed in a low voice to his companion--

"I told you so. She is just behind there. She has come round by theback streets, just to see if I'd told her the truth. "

Waymark glanced back and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Pooh! Never mind, " he said. "You're used to it. "

"Used to it! Yes, " Julian returned, his face flushing suddenly a deepred, the effect of extraordinary excitement; "and it is driving me mad. "

Then, after a fit of coughing--

"She found my poem last night, and burnt it. "

"Burnt it?"

"Yes; simply because she could not understand it. She said she thoughtit was waste paper, but I saw, I saw. "

The 'bus they waited for came up, and they went on their way. Onreaching the neighbourhood of Peckham, they struck off through acomplex of small new streets, apparently familiar to Waymark, and cameat length to a little shop, also very new, the windows of whichdisplayed a fresh-looking assortment of miscellaneous goods. There washalf a large cheese, marked by the incisions of the tasting-knife; aboiled ham, garlanded; a cone of brawn; a truncated pyramid of spicedbeef, released from its American tin; also German sausage and otherdainties of the kind. Then there were canisters of tea and coffee, tinsof mustard, a basket of eggs, some onions, boxes of baking-powder andof blacking; all arranged so as to make an impression on thepassers-by; everything clean and bright. Above the window stood inimposing gilt letters the name of the proprietor: O'Gree. 

They entered. The shop was very small and did not contain much stock. The new shelves showed a row of biscuit-tins, but little else, and fromthe ceiling hung balls of string. On the counter lay an inviting roundof boiled beef. Odours of provisions and of fresh paint were strong inthe air. Every thing gleamed from resent scrubbing and polishing; thefloor only emphasised its purity by a little track where a child'sshoes had brought in mud from the street; doubtless it had been washedover since the Sunday morning's custom had subsided. Wherever the wallswould have confessed their bareness the enterprising tradesman had hunggorgeous advertising cards. At the sound of the visitors' footsteps, the door leading out of the shop into the parlour behind openedbriskly, a head having previously appeared over the red curtain, andMr. O'Gree, in the glory of Sunday attire, rushed forward with eagerhands. His welcome was obstreperous. 

"Waymark, you're a brick! Mr. Casti, I'm rejoiced to receive you in myestablishment! You're neither a minute too soon nor a minute too late. Mrs. O'Gree only this moment called out from the kitchen that thekettle was boiling and the crumpets at the point of perfection! I knewyour punctuality of old, Waymark. Mr. Casti, how does it strike you?Roaring trade, Waymark! Done two shillings and threepence threefarthings this Sunday morning. Look here, me boy, --ho, ho!"

He drew out the till behind the counter, and jingled his hand incoppers. Then he rushed about in the wildest fervour from object toobject, opening tins which he had forgotten were empty, making passesat the beef and the ham with a formidable carving-knife, demonstratingthe use of a sugar-chopper and a coffee-grinder, and, lastly, callingattention with infinite glee to a bad halfpenny which he had detectedon the previous afternoon, and had forthwith nailed down to thecounter, _in terrorem_. Then he lifted with much solemnity a hingedportion of the counter, and requested his visitors to pass into theback-parlour. Here there was the same perfect cleanliness, though thefurniture was scant and very simple. The round table was laid for tea, with a spotless cloth, plates of a very demonstrative pattern, andknives and forks which seemed only just to have left the ironmonger'sshop. 

"We pass, you observe, Mr. Casti, " cried the ex-teacher, "from theregion of commerce to that of domestic intimacy. Here Mrs. O'Greereigns supreme, as indeed she does in the other department, as far aspresiding genius goes. She's in all places at once, like a birrud! Mr. Casti, " in a whisper, "I shall have the pleasure of introducing you toone of the most remarkable women it was ever your lot to meet; aphenomenon of--"

The inner door opened, and the lady herself interrupted these eulogies. Sally was charming. Her trim little body attired in the trimmest ofhomely dresses, her sharp little face shining and just a little redwith excitement, her quick movements, her laughing eyes, her restlesshands graced with the new wedding-ring--all made up a picture of whichher husband might well be proud. He stood and gazed at her in frankadmiration; only when she sprang forward to shake hands with Waymarkdid he recover himself sufficiently to go through the ceremony ofintroducing Julian. It was done with all stateliness. 

"An improvement this on the masters' room, eh, Waymark?" cried Mr. O'Gree. Then, suddenly interrupting him self, "And that reminds me!We've got a lodger. "

"Already?"

"And who d'ye think? Who d'ye think? You wouldn't guess if you went ontill Christmas. Ho, ho, ho! I'm hanged if I tell you. Wait and see!"

"Shall I call him down?" asked Sally, who in the meantime had broughtin the tea-pot, and the crumpets, and a dish of slices from the roundof beef on the counter, and boiled eggs, and sundry other dainties. 

O'Gree, unable to speak for mirth, nodded his head, and presently Sallyreturned, followed by--Mr. Egger. Waymark scarcely recognised his oldfriend, so much had the latter changed: instead of the old woe-begonelook, Egger's face wore a joyous smile, and his outer man was so vastlyimproved that he had evidently fallen on a more lucrative profession. Waymark remembered O'Gree's chance meeting with the Swiss, but hadheard nothing of him since; nor indeed had O'Gree till a day or two ago. 

"How do things go?" Waymark inquired heartily. "Found a better school?"

"No, no, my friend, " returned Egger, in his very bad English. "At theschool I made my possible; I did till I could no more. I have made likeMr. O'Gree; it is to say, quite a change in my life. I am waiter at arestaurant. And see me; am I not the better quite? No fear!" Thiscockneyism came in with comical effect. "I have enough to eat and todrink, and money in my pocket. The school may go to ----"

O'Gree coughed violently to cover the last word, and lookedreproachfully at his old colleague. Poor Egger, who had been carriedaway by his joyous fervour, was abashed, and glanced timidly at Sally, who replied by giving him half a dozen thick rounds of German sausage. On his requesting mustard, she fetched some from the shop and mixed it, but, in doing so, had the misfortune to pour too much water. 

"There!" she exclaimed; "I've doubted the miller's eye. "

O'Gree laughed when he saw Waymark looking for an explanation. 

"That's a piece of Weymouth, " he remarked. "Mrs. O'Gree comes from thesouth-west of England, " he added, leaning towards Casti. "She'sconstantly teaching me new and interesting things. Now, if I was tospill the salt here--"

He put his Ii and on the salt-cellar, as if to do so, but Sally rappedhis knuckles with a fork. 

"None of your nonsense, sir! Give Mr. Casti some more meat, instead. "

It was a merry party. The noise of talk grew so loud that it was onlythe keenness of habitual attention on Sally's part which enabled her toobserve that a customer was knocking on the counter. She darted out, but returned with a disappointed look on her face. 

"Pickles?" asked her husband, frowning. 

Sally nodded. 

"Now, look here, Waymark, " cried O'Gree, rising in indignation from hisseat. "Look here, Mr. Casti. The one drop of bitterness in our cupis--pickles; the one thing that threatens to poison our happinessis--pickles. We're always being asked for pickles; just as if thepeople knew about it, and came on purpose!"

"Knew About what?" asked Waymark, in astonishment. 

"Why, that we mayn't sell 'em! A few doors off there's a scoundrel of agrocer. Now, his landlord's the same as ours, and when we took thisshop there was one condition attached. Because the grocer sellspickles, and makes a good thing of them, we had to undertake that, inthat branch of commerce, we wouldn't compete with him. Pickles areforbidden. "

Waymark burst into a most unsympathetic roar of laughter, but withO'Gree the grievance was evidently a serious one, and it was some fewmoments before he recovered his equanimity. Indeed it was not quiterestored till the entrance of another customer, who purchased twoounces of butter. When, in the dead silence which ensued, Sally washeard weighing out the order, O'Gree's face beamed; and when therefollowed the chink of coins in the till, he brought his fist down witha triumphant crash upon the table. 

When tea was over, O'Gree managed to get Waymark apart from the rest, and showed him a small photograph of Sally which had recently beentaken. 

"Sally's great ambition, " he whispered, "is to be taken cabinet-size, and in a snow-storm. You've seen the kind of thing in the shop-windows?We'll manage that before long, but this will do for the present. Youdon't see a face like that every day; eh, Waymark?"

Sally, her housewifery duly accomplished in the invisible regions, cameback and sat by the fireside. She had exchanged her work-a-day costumefor one rather more ornate. Noticeable was a delicate gold chain whichhung about her neck, and Waymark smiled when he presently saw her takeout her watch and seem to compare its time with that of the clock onthe mantelpiece. It was a wedding present from Ida. 

Sally caught the smile, and almost immediately came over to a seat byWaymark; and, whilst the others were engaged in loud talk, spoke withhim privately. 

"Have you seen her lately?" she asked. 

"Not for some weeks, " the other replied, shaking his head. 

"Well, it's the queerest thing I ever knew, s'nough! But, there, " sheadded, with an arch glance, "some men are that stupid--"

Waymark laughed slightly, and again shook his head. 

"All a mistake, " he said. 

"Yes, that's just what it is, you may depend upon it. I more'n halfbelieve you're telling fibs. "

Tumblers of whisky were soon smoking on the table, and all except Castilaughed and talked to their heart's content. Casti was no kill-joy; hesmiled at all that went on, now and then putting in a friendly word;but the vitality of the others was lacking in him, and the weight whichcrushed him night and day could not so easily be thrown aside. O'Greewas abundant in reminiscences of academic days, and it would not havebeen easy to resist altogether the comical vigour of his stories, allwithout one touch of real bitterness or malice. 

"Bedad, " he cried, "I sent old Pendy a business prospectus, with mycompliments written on the bottom of it. I thought he might perhaps bedisposed to give me a contract for victualling the Academy. I wish hehad, for the boys' sake. "

Then, to bring back completely the old times, Mr. Egger was prevailedupon to sing one of his _Volkslieder_, that which had been Waymark'sespecial favourite, and which he had sung--on an occasion memorable toSally and her husband--in the little dining-room at Richmond. 

"_Die Schwalb'n flieg'n fort, doch sie zieh'n wieder her; Der Menschwenn er fortgeht, er kommt nimmermehr!_"

Waymark was silent for a little after that. 

When it was nearly eleven o'clock, Casti looked once or twice meaninglyat Waymark, and the friends at length rose to take their leave, inspite of much protest. O'Gree accompanied them as far as the spot wherethey would meet the omnibus, then, with assurances that to-night hadbeen but the beginning of glorious times, sent them on their way. Julian was silent during the journey home; he looked very wearied. Forlack of a timely conveyance the last mile or so had to be walked. Julian's cough had been bad during the evening, and now the coldnight-air seemed to give him much trouble. Presently, just as theyturned a corner, a severe blast of wind met them full in the face. Julian began coughing violently, and all at once became so weak that hehad to lean against a palisading. Waymark, looking closer in alarm, sawthat the handkerchief which the poor fellow was holding to his mouthwas covered with blood. 

"We must have a cab, " he exclaimed. "It is impossible for you to walkin this state. "

Julian resisted, with assurances that the worst was over for the time. If Waymark would give the support of his arm, he would get on quitewell. There was no overcoming his resolution to proceed. 

"There's no misunderstanding this, old fellow, " he said, with a laugh, when they had walked a few paces. 

Waymark made no reply. 

"You'll laugh at me, " Julian went on, "but isn't there a certainresemblance between my case and that of Keats? He too was adrug-pounder; he liked it as little as I do; and he died young ofconsumption. I suppose a dying man may speak the truth about himself. Itoo might have been a poet, if life had dealt more kindly with me. Ithink you would have liked the thing I was writing; I'd finished somethree hundred lines; but now you'll never see it. Well, I don't knowthat it matters. "

Waymark tried to speak in a tone of hopefulness, but it was hard togive his words the semblance of sincerity. 

"Do you remember, " Casti continued, "when all my talk used to be aboutRome, and how I planned to see it one day--see it again. I should say?Strange to think that I really was born in Rome. I used to call myselfa Roman, you know, and grow hot with pride when I thought of it. Thosewere dreams. Oh, I was to do wonderful things! Poetry was to make merich, and then I would go and live in Italy, and fill my lungs with thebreath of the Forum, and write my great Epic. How good that we can'tforesee our lives!"

"I wish to heaven, " Waymark exclaimed, when they were parting, "thatyou would be a man and shake this monstrous yoke from off your neck! Itis that that is killing you. Give yourself a chance. Defy everythingand make yourself free. "

Julian shook his head sadly. 

"Too late! I haven't the courage. My mind weakens with my body. "

He went to his lodgings, and, as he anticipated, found that Harriet hadnot yet come home. She was almost always out very late, and he hadlearnt too well what t expect on her return. In spite of her illness, of which she made the most when it suited her purpose, she was able twander about at all hours with the acquaintances her husband did noteven know by name, and Julian had no longer the strength even toimplore her to have pity on him. He absence racked him with nervousfears; her presence tortured him to agony. Weakness in him had reacheda criminal degree. Once or twice he had all but made up his mind toflee secretly, and only let her know his determination when he hadgone; but his poverty interposed such obstacles that he ended byaccepting them as excuses for his hesitation. The mere thought offulfilling the duty which he owed to himself, of speaking out withmanly firmness, and telling her that here at length all ended betweenthem--that was a terror to his soul. So he stayed on and allowed her tokill him by slow torment. He was at least carrying out to the letterthe promise he had made to her father, and this thought supplied himwith a flattering unction which, such was his disposition, at timeseven brought him a moment's solace. 

There was no fire in the room; he sank upon a chair and waited. Everysound in the street below sent the blood back upon his heart. At lengththere came the fumbling of a latch-key--he could hear it plainly--andthen the heavy foot ascending the stairs. Her glazed eyes and redcheeks told the familiar tale. She sat down opposite him and was silentfor a minute, half dozing; then she seemed suddenly to become consciousof his presence, and the words began to flow from her tongue, every onecutting him to the quick, poisoning his soul with their venom ofjealousy and vulgar spite. Contention was the breath of her nostrils;the prime impulse of her heart was suspicion. Little by little she cameround to the wonted topic. Had he been to see his friend the thief? Wasshe in prison again yet? Whom had she been stealing from of late? Oh, she was innocence itself, of course; too good for this evil-speakingworld. 

Tonight he could not bear it. He rose from his chair like a drunkenman, and staggered to the door. She sprang after him, but he was justin time to escape her grasp and spring down the stairs; then, out intothe night. Once before, not quite a month ago, he had been driven thusin terror from the sound of her voice, and had slept at a coffeehouse. Now, as soon as he had got out of the street and saw that he was notbeing pursued, he discovered that he had given away his last copper forthe omnibus fare. No matter; the air was pleasant upon his throbbingtemples. It was too late to think of knocking at the house whereWaymark lodged. Nothing remained but to walk about the streets allnight, resting on a stone when he became too weary to go further, sheltering a little here or there when the wind cut him too keenly. Rather this, oh, a thousand times rather, than the hell behind him. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

NO WAY BUT THIS

In the early days of October, Waymark's book appeared. It excited nospecial attention. Here and there a reviewer was found who ventured tohint that there was powerful writing in this new novel, but no onedared to heartily recommend it to public attention. By some it wasclassed with the "unsavoury productions of the so-called naturalistschool;" others passed it by with a few lines of unfavourable comment. Clearly it was destined to bring the author neither fame nor fortune. 

Waymark was surprised at his own indifference. Having given a copy toCasti, and one to Maud, he thought very little more of the production. It had ceased to interest him; he felt that if he were to write againit would be in a very different way and of different people. Even whenhe prided himself most upon his self-knowledge he had been mostignorant of the direction in which his character was developing. Unconsciously, he had struggled to the extremity of weariness, and nowhe cared only to let things take their course, standing aside fromevery shadow of new onset. Above all, he kept away as much as possiblefrom the house at Tottenham, where Ida was still living. To go theremeant only a renewal of torment. This was in fact the commonplaceperiod of his life. He had no energy above that of the ordinary youngman who is making his living in a commonplace way, and his higherfaculties lay dormant. 

In one respect, and that, after all, perhaps the most important, hisposition would soon be changed. Mr. Woodstock's will, when affairs weresettled, would make him richer by one thousand pounds; he might, if hechose, presently give up his employment, and either trust toliterature, or look out for something less precarious. A year ago, thisstate of things would have filed him with exultation. As it was, heonly saw in it an accident compelling him to a certain fateful duty. There was now no reason why his marriage should be long delayed. ForMaud's sake the step was clearly desirable. At present she and hermother were living with Miss Bygrave in the weird old house. Of Paulthere had come no tidings. Their home was of course broken up, and theyhad no income of their own to depend upon. Maud herself, though ofcourse aware of Waymark's prospects, seemed to shrink from speaking ofthe future. She grew more and more uncertain as to her real thoughtsand desires. 

And what of Ida? It was hard for her to realise her position; for atime she was conscious only of an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Theinterval of life with her grandfather was dreamlike as she looked backupon it; yet harder to grasp was the situation in which she now foundherself, surrounded by luxuries which had come to her as if from theclouds, her own mistress, free to form wishes merely for the sake ofsatisfying them. She cared little to realise the minor possibilities ofwealth. The great purpose, the noble end to which her active life hadshaped itself, was sternly present before her; she would not shirk itsdemands. But there was lacking the inspiration of joy. Could she hardenherself to every personal desire, and forget, in devotion to others, the sickness of one great hope deferred? Did her ideal require this ofher?

Would he come, now that she was free to give herself where she would, now that she was so alone? The distance between them had increased eversince the beginning of her new life. She knew well the sort of pride hewas capable of; but was there not something else, something she dreadedto observe too closely, in the manner of his speech? Did he think someanly of her as to deem such precautions necessary against hermisconstruction? Nay, _could_ he have guarded himself in that way if hereally loved her? Would it not have been to degrade her too much in hisown eyes?

He loved her once. Had she in any way grown less noble in his eyes, bythose very things which she regarded as help and strengthening? Did heperchance think she had too readily accepted ease when it was offeredher, sacrificing the independence which he most regarded? If so, allthe more would he shrink from losing for her his own independence. 

She imagined herself wedded to him; at liberty to stand before him andconfess all the thoughts which now consumed her in the silence of vainlonging. "Why did I break free from the fetters of a shameful life?Because I loved, and loved _you_. What gave me the strength to passfrom idle luxury, poisoning the energies of the soul, to that life oflonely toil and misery? My love, and my love for _you_. I kept apartfrom you then; I would not even let you know what I was enduring; onlybecause you had spoken a hasty, thoughtless word to me, which showed mewith terrible distinctness the meaning of all I had escaped, and filledme with a determination to prove to myself that I had not lost all mybetter nature, that there was still enough of purity in my being tosave me finally. What was it that afflicted me with agony beyond allwords when I was made the victim of a cruel and base accusation? Notthe fear of its consequences; only the dread lest _you_ should believeme guilty, and no longer deem me worthy of a thought. It is noarrogance to say that I am become a pure woman; not my own merits, butlove of you has made me so. I love you as a woman loves only once; ifyou asked me to give up my life to prove it, I am capable of doing noless a thing than that. Flesh and spirit I lay before you--all yours;do you still think the offering unworthy?"

And yet she knew that she could never thus speak to him; her humilitywas too great. At moments she might feel this glow of conscious virtue, but for the most part the weight of all the past was so heavy upon her. 

Fortunately, her time did not long remain unoccupied. As hergrandfather's heiress she found herself owner of the East-end property, and, as soon as it was assured that she would incur no danger, she wentover the houses in the company of the builder whom Abraham had chosento carry out his proposed restorations. The improvements were proceededwith at once, greatly to the astonishment of the tenants, to whom suchchanges inevitably suggested increase of rent. These fears Ida did herbest to dispel. Dressed in the simplest possible way, and with thatkind, quiet manner which was natural to her, she went about from roomto room, and did her best to become intimately acquainted with thewoman-kind of the Lane and the Court. It was not an easy end tocompass. She was received at first with extreme suspicion; herappearance aroused that distrust which with the uneducated attaches toeverything novel. In many instances she found it difficult to get itbelieved' that she was really the "landlord. " But when this idea hadbeen gradually mastered, and when, moreover, it was discovered that shebrought no tracts, spoke not at all of religious matters, was notimpertinently curious, and showed indeed that she knew a good deal ofwhat she talked about, something like respect for her began to springup here and there, and she was spoken of as "the right sort. "

Ida was excellently fitted for the work she had undertaken. She knew sowell, from her own early experience, the nature of the people with whomshe was brought in contact, and had that instinctive sympathy withtheir lives without which it is so vain to attempt practical socialreform. She started with no theory, and as yet had no very definite endin view; it simply appeared to her that, as owner of these slums, honesty and regard for her own credit required that she should makethem decent human habitations, and give what other help she could topeople obviously so much in need of it. The best was that sheunderstood how and when such help could be afforded. To nativepracticality and prudence she added a keen recollection of the wantsand difficulties she had struggled through in childhood; there was nodanger of her being foolishly lavish in charity, when she could foreseewith sympathy all the evil results which would ensue. Her onlytemptation to imprudence was when, as so often happened, she saw somelittle girl in a position which reminded her strongly of her own darkdays; all such she would have liked to take home with her and somehowprovide for, saving them from the wretched alternatives which were allthat life had to offer them. So, little by little, she was brought tothink in a broader way of problems puzzling enough to wiser heads thanhers. Social miseries, which she had previously regarded as merematters of fact, having never enjoyed the opportunities of comparisonwhich alone can present them in any other light, began to move her toindignation. Often it was with a keen sense of shame that she took theweekly rent, a sum scraped together Heaven knew how, representing somuch deduction from the food of the family. She knew that it would beimpossible to remit the rent altogether, but at all events there wasthe power of reducing it, and this she did in many cases. 

The children she came to regard as her peculiar care. Her strong commonsense taught her that it was with these that most could be done. Theparents could not be reformed; at best they might be kept from thatdarkest depth of poverty which corrupts soul and body alike. But mightnot the girls be somehow put into the way of earning a decentlivelihood? Ida knew so well the effect upon them of the occupations towhich they mostly turned, occupations degrading to womanhood, blightingevery hope. Even to give them the means of remaining at home would notgreatly help them; there they still breathed a vile atmosphere. Toremove them altogether was the only efficient way, and how could thatbe done?

The months of late summer and autumn saw several more garden-parties. These, Ida knew, were very useful, but more enduring things must bedevised. Miss Hurst was the only person with whom she could consult, and that lady's notions were not very practical. If only she could havespoken freely with Waymark; but that she could no longer on anysubject, least of all on this. As winter set in, he had almost forsakenher. He showed no interest in her life, beyond asking occasionally whatshe was reading, and taking the opportunity to talk of books. Throughout November she neither saw him nor heard from him. Then oneevening he came. 

She was alone when the servant announced him; with her sat her oldcompanion, Grim. As Waymark entered, she looked at him with friendlysmile, and said quietly--

"I thought you would never come again"

"I have not kept away through thoughtlessness, " he replied. "Believethat; it is the truth. And to-night I have only come to say good-bye. Iam going to leave London. "

"You used to say nothing would induce you to leave London, and that youcouldn't live anywhere else. "

"Yes; that was one of my old fancies. I am going right away into thecountry, at all events for a year or two. I suppose I shall writenovels. "

He moved uneasily under her gaze, and affected a cheerfulness whichcould not deceive her. 

"Has your book been a success?" Ida asked. 

"No; it fell dead. "

"Why didn't you give me a copy?"

"I thought too little of it. It's poor stuff. Better you shouldn't readit. "

"But I have read it. "

"Got it from the library, did you?"

"No; I bought it. "

"What a pity to waste so much money!"

"Why do you speak like that? You know how anything of yours wouldinterest me. "

"Oh yes, in a certain way, of course. "

"For its own sake, too. I can't criticise, but I know it held me asnothing else ever did. It was horrible in many parts, but I was thebetter for reading it. "

He could not help showing pleasure, and grew more natural. Ida hadpurposely refrained from speaking of the book when she read it, morethan a month ago, always hoping that he would be the first to saysomething about it. But the news he had brought her to-night put an endto reticence on her side. She must speak out her heart, cost her whatit might. 

"Who should read it, if not I?" she said, as he remained silent. "Whocan possibly understand it half so well as I do?"

"Yes, " he remarked, with wilful misunderstanding, "you have seen theplaces and the people. And I hear you are going on with the work yourgrandfather began?"

"I am trying to do something. If you had been able to give me a littletime now and then, I should have asked you to advise and help me. It ishard to work there single-handed. "

"You are too good for that; I should have liked to think of you as farapart from those vile scenes. "

"Too good for it?" Her voice trembled. "How can any one be too good tohelp the miserable? If you had said that I was not worthy of such aprivilege--Can you, knowing me as no one else does or ever will, thinkthat I could live here in peace, whilst those poor creatures stint andstarve themselves every week to provide me with comforts? Do I seem toyou such a woman?"

He only smiled, his lips tortured to hold their peace. 

"I had hoped you understood me better than that. Is that why you haveleft me to myself? Do you doubt my sincerity? Why do you speak socruelly, saying I am too good, when your real thoughts must be sodifferent? You mean that I am incapable of really doing anything; youhave no faith in me. I seem to you too weak to pursue any high end. Youwould not even speak to me of your book, because you felt I should notappreciate it. And yet you do know me--"

"Yes; I know you well, " Waymark said. 

Ida looked steadily at him. "If you are speaking to me for the lasttime, won't you be sincere, and tell me of my faults? Do you think Icould not bear it? You can say nothing to me--nothing from yourheart--that I won't accept in all humility. Are we no longer evenfriends?"

"You mistake me altogether. "

"And you are still my friend?" she uttered warmly. "But why do youthink me unfit for good work?"

"I had no such thought. You know how my ideals oppose each other. Ispoke on the impulse of the moment; I often find it so hard toreconcile myself to anything in life that is not, still and calm andbeautiful. I am just now bent on forgetting all the things about whichyou are so earnest. "

"Earnest? Yes. But I cannot give my whole self to the work. I am solonely. "

"You will not be so for long, " he answered with more cheerfulness. "Youhave every opportunity of making for yourself a good social position. You will soon have friends, if only you seek them. Your goodness willmake you respected. Indeed I wonder at your remaining so isolated. Itneed not be; I am sure it need not. Your wealth--I have no thought ofspeaking cynically--your wealth must--"

"My wealth! What is it to me? What do I care for all the friends itmight bring? They are nothing to me in my misery. But you . .. I wouldgive all I possess for one kind word from you. "

Flushing over forehead and cheeks, she compelled herself to meet hislook. It was her wealth that stood between her and him. Her positionwas not like that of other women. Conventionalities were meaningless, set against a life. 

"I have tried hard to make myself ever so little worthy of you, " shemurmured, when her voice would again obey her will. "Am I still--stilltoo far beneath you?"

He stood like one detected in a crime, and stammered the words. 

"Ida, I am not free. "

He had risen. Ida sprang up, and moved towards him. 

"_This_ was your secret? Tell me, then. Look--_I_ am strong! Tell meabout it. I might have thought of this. I thought only of myself. Imight have known there was good reason for the distance you put betweenus. Forgive me--oh, forgive the pain I have caused you!

"You asking for forgiveness? How you must despise me. "

"Why should I despise you? You have never said a word to me that anyfriend, any near friend, might not have said, never since I myself, inmy folly, forbade you to. You were not bound to tell me--"

"I had told your grandfather, " Waymark said in a broken voice. "In aletter I wrote the very day he was taken ill, I begged him to let youknow that I had bound myself. "

As he spoke he knew that he was excusing himself with a truth whichimplied a falsehood, and before it was too late his soul revoltedagainst the unworthiness. 

"But it was my own fault that it was left so long. I would not let himtell you when he wished to; I put off the day as long as I could. "

"Since you first knew me?" she asked, in a low voice. 

"No! Since you came to live here. I was free before. "

It was the part of his confession which cost him most to utter, and thehearing of it chilled Ida's heart. Whilst she had been living throughher bitterest shame and misery, he had given his love to another woman, forgetful of her. For the first time, weakness overcame her. 

"I thought you loved me, " she sobbed, bowing her head. 

"I did--and I do. I can't understand myself, and it would be worse thanvain to try to show you how it came about. I have brought a curse uponmy life, and worse than my own despair is your misery. "

"Is she a good woman you are going to marry?" Ida asked simply andkindly. 

"Only less noble than yourself. "

"And she loves you--no, she cannot love as I do--but she loves youworthily and with all her soul?"

"Worthily and with all her soul--the greater my despair. "

"Then I dare not think of her one unkind thought. We must remember her, and be strong for her sake. You will leave London and forget mesoon, --yes, yes, you will _try_ to forget me. You owe it to her; it isyour duty. "

"Duty!" he broke out passionately. "What have I to do with duty? Was itnot my duty to be true to you? Was it not my duty to confess my hatefulweakness, when I had taken the fatal step? Duty has no meaning for me. I have set it aside at every turn. Even now there would be noobligation on me to keep my word, but that I am too great a coward torevoke it. "

She stood near to him. 

"Dear, --I will call you so, it is for the last time, --you think thesethings in the worst moment of our suffering; afterwards you will thankme for having been strong enough, or cold enough, to be yourconscience. There _is_ such a thing as duty; it speaks in your heartand in mine, and tells us that we must part. "

"You speak so lightly of parting. If you felt all that I--"

"My love is no shadow less than yours, " she said, with earnestnesswhich was well nigh severity. "I have never wavered from you since Iknew you first. "

"Ida!"

"I meant no reproach, but it will perhaps help you to think of that. You _did_ love her, if it was only for a day, and that love willreturn. "

She moved from him, and he too rose. 

"You shame me, " he said, under his breath. "I am not worthy to touchyour hand. "

"Yes, " she returned, smiling amid her tears, "very worthy of all thelove I have given you, and of the love with which _she_ will make youhappy. I shall suffer, but the thought of your happiness will help meto bear up and try to live a life you would not call ignoble. You willdo great things, and I shall hear of them, and be glad. Yes; I knowthat is before you. You are one of those who cannot rest till they havewon a high place. I, too, have my work, and--"

Her voice failed. 

"Shall we never see each other again, Ida?"

"Perhaps. In a few years we might meet, and be friends. But I dare notthink of that now. "

They clasped hands, for one dread moment resisted the lure of eyes andlips, and so parted. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

FORBIDDEN

December was half through, and it was the eve of Maud Enderby'smarriage-day. Everything was ready for the morrow. Waymark had beenaway in the South, and the house to which he would take his wife nowawaited their coming. 

It was a foggy night. Maud had been for an hour to Our Lady of theRosary, and found it difficult to make her way back. The street lampswere mere luminous blurs upon the clinging darkness, and the suspensionof the wonted traffic made the air strangely still. It was cold, thatkind of cold which wraps the limbs like a cloth soaked in icy water. When she knocked at the door of her aunt's house, and it was opened toher, wreaths of mist swept in and hung about the lighted hall. Itseemed colder within than without. Footsteps echoed here in the oldway, and voices lost themselves in a muffled resonance along the barewhite walls. The house was more tomb-like than ever on such a night asthin To Maud's eyes the intruding fog shaped itself into ghostlyvisages, which looked upon her with weird and woeful compassion. Sheshuddered, and hastened upstairs to her mother's room. 

After her husband's disappearance, Mrs. Enderby had passed her days ina morbid apathy, contrasting strangely with the restless excitementwhich had so long possessed her. But a change came over her from theday when she was told of Maud's approaching marriage. It was herdelight to have Maud sit by her bed, or her couch, and talk over thedetails of the wedding and the new life that would follow upon it. Herinterest in Waymark, which had fallen off during the past half-year, all at once revived; she conversed with him as she had been used to dowhen she first made his acquaintance, and the publication of his bookafforded her endless matter for gossip. She began to speak of herselfas an old woman, and of spending her last years happily in the country. To all appearances she had dismissed from her mind the calamity whichhad befallen her; her husband might have been long dead for any thoughtshe seemed to give him. She was wholly taken up with childish joy intrivial matters. The dress in which Maud should be married gave herthoughts constant occupation, and she fretted at any opposition to herideas. Still, like a child, she allowed herself to be brought round toothers' views, and was ultimately led to consent that the costumeshould be a very simple one, merely a new dress, in fact, which Maudwould be able to wear subsequently with little change. Even thus, everydetail of it was as important to her as if it had been the mostelaborate piece of bridal attire. In talking with Maud, too, she hadlost that kind of awe which had formerly restrained her; it was asthough she had been an affectionate mother ever since her daughter'sbirth. She called her by pet names, often caressed her, and wished forloving words and acts in return. Of Miss Bygrave's presence in thehouse she appeared scarcely conscious, never referring to her, andsuffering a vague trouble if her sister entered the room where she was, which Theresa did very seldom. 

The new dress had come home finished this evening whilst Maud was away. On the latter's return, her mother insisted on seeing her at once init, and Maud obeyed. A strange bride, rather as one who was about towed herself to Heaven beneath the veil, than preparing to be led to thealtar. 

Having resumed her ordinary dregs, Maud went downstairs to the parlourwhere her aunt was sitting. Miss Bygrave laid down a book as sheentered. 

"We shall not see each other after tonight, " Theresa said, breaking thestillness with her grave but not unkind voice. "Is there anything moreyou would like to say to me, Maud?"

"Only that I shall always think of you, and grieve that we are parted. "

"You are going into the world, " said the other sadly, "my thoughtscannot follow you there. But your purer spirit will often be with me. "

"And your spirit with me. If I had been permitted to share your life, that would have been my greatest joy. I am consciously choosing what mysoul would set aside. For a time I thought I had reconciled myself tothe world; I found delight in it, and came to look on the promptings ofthe spirit as morbid fancies. That has passed. I know the highest, butbetween me and it there is a gulf which it may be I shall never pass. "

"It is only to few, " said Theresa, looking at Maud with her smile ofassured peace, "that it is given to persevere and attain. "

As they sat once more in silence, there suddenly came a light knock atthe house-door. At this moment Maud's thoughts had wandered back to aChristmas of her childhood, when she had sat just as to-night with heraunt, and had for the first time listened to those teachings which hadmoulded her life. The intervening years were swept away, and she wasonce more the thoughtful, wondering child, conscious of the greatdifference between herself and her companions; in spite of herselflearning to regard the world in which they moved as something in whichshe had no part. Of those school companions a few came back to hermind, and, before all, the poor girl named Ida Starr, whom she hadloved and admired. What had become of Ida, after she had been sent awayfrom Miss Rutherford's school? She remembered that last meeting withher in the street, on the evening of Christmas Day, and could see herface. 

The house door was opened, and Maud heard a voice outside which heldher to the spot where she stood. Then Theresa re-entered the room, andafter her came Paul Enderby. 

He seemed to be wearing a disguise; at all events his clothing was thatof a working man, poor and worn, and his face was changed by the growthof a beard. He shivered with cold, and, as Miss Bygrave closed the doorbehind him, stood with eyes sunk to the ground, in an attitude ofmisery and shame. Maud, recovering quickly from the shock his entrancehad caused her, approached him and took his hand. 

"Father, " she said gently. Her voice overcame him; he burst into tearsand stood hiding his face with the rough cap he held. Maud turned toher aunt, who remained at a little distance, unmoving, her eyes castdown. Before any other word was said, the door opened quickly, and Mrs. Enderby ran in with a smothered cry. Throwing her arms about herhusband, she clung to him in a passion of grief and tenderness. In amoment she had been changed from the listless, childish woman of thelast few months to a creature instinct with violent emotion. Hermingled excess of joy and anguish could not have displayed itself morevehemently had she been sorrowing night and day for her husband's loss. Maud was terrified at the scene, and shrunk to Theresa's side. Withoutheeding either, the distracted woman led Paul from the room, andupstairs to her own chamber. Drawing him to a chair, she fell on herknees beside him and wept agonisingly. 

"You will stay with me now?" she cried, when her voice could formwords. "You won't leave me again, Paul? We will hide you here. --No, no;I am for getting. You will go away with us, away from London to a safeplace. Maud is going to be married to-morrow, and we will live with herin her new home. You have suffered dreadfully; you look so changed, soill. You shall rest, and I will nurse you. Oh, I will be a good wife toyou, Paul. Speak to me, do speak to me: speak kindly, dear! How long isit since I lost you?"

"I daren't stay, Emily, " he replied, in a hoarse and broken voice. "Ishould be discovered. I must get away from England, that is my onlychance. I have scarcely left the house where I was hiding all thistime. It wouldn't have been safe to try and escape, even if I had hadany money. I have hungered for days, and I am weaker than a child. "

He sobbed again in the extremity of his wretchedness. 

"It was all for my sake!" she cried, clinging around his neck. "I amyour curse. I have brought you to ruin a second time. I am a bad, wretched woman; if you drove me from you with blows it would be lessthan I deserve! You can never forgive me; but let me be your slave, letme suffer something dreadful for your sake! Why did I ever recover frommy madness, only to bring that upon you!"

He could speak little, but leaned back, holding her to him with one arm. 

"No, it is not your fault, Emily, " he said. "Only my own weakness andfolly. Your love repays me for all I have undergone; that was all Iever wanted. "

When she had exhausted herself in passionate consolation, she left himfor a few moments to get him food, and he ate of it like a famished man. 

"If I can only get money enough to leave the country, I am saved, " hesaid. "If I stay here, I shall be found, and they will imprison me foryears. I had rather kill myself!

"Mr. Waymark will give us the money, " was the reply, "and we will goaway together. "

"That would betray me; it would be folly to face such a risk. If I canescape, then you shall come to me. "

"Oh, you will leave me!" she cried. "I shall lose you, as I did before, but this time for ever! You don't love me, Paul! And how can I expectyou should? But let me go as your servant. Let me dress like a man, andfollow you. Who will notice then?"

He shook his head. 

"I love you, Emily, and shall love you as long as I breathe. To hearyou speak to me like this has almost the power to make me happy. If Ihad known it, I shouldn't have stayed so long away from you; I hadn'tthe courage to come, and I thought the sight of me would only be miseryto you. I have lived a terrible life, among the poorest people, gettingmy bread as they did; oftener starving. Not one of my acquaintances wasto be trusted. I have not seen one face I knew since I first heard ofmy danger and escaped. But I had rather live on like that than fallinto the hands of the police; I should never know freedom again. Thethought maddens me with fear. "

"You are safe here, love, quite safe!" she urged soothingly. "Who couldknow that you are here? Who could know that Maud and I were livinghere?"

There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Enderby started to it, turned thekey, and then asked who was there. 

"Emily, " said Miss Bygrave's voice, "let me come in--or let Paul comeout here and speak to me. "

There was something unusual in the speaker's tone; it was quick andnervous. Paul himself went to the door, and, putting his wife's handaside, opened it. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

She beckoned him to leave the room, then whispered:

"Some one I don't know is at the front door. I opened it with the chainon, and a man said he must see Mr. Enderby. "

"Can't I go out by the back?" Paul asked, all but voiceless withterror. "I daren't hide in the rooms; they will search them all. Howdid they know that I was here? O God, I am lost!"

They could hear the knocking below repeated. Paul hurried down thestairs, followed by his wife, whom Theresa in vain tried to hold backHe knew the way to the door which led into the garden, and openingthis, sprang into the darkness. Scarcely had he taken a step, whenstrong arms seized him. 

"Hold on!" said a voice. "You must come back with me into the house. "

At the same moment there was a shriek close at hand, and, as theyturned to the open door, Paul and his captor saw Emily prostrate on thethreshold, and Miss Bygrave stooping over her. 

"Better open the front door, ma'am, " said the police officer, "and askmy friend there to come through. We've got all we want. "

This was done, and when Emily had been carried into the house, Paul wasled thither also by his captor. As they stood in the hall, the secondofficer drew from his pocket a warrant, and read it out with officialgravity. 

"You'll go quietly with us, I suppose?" he then said. 

Paul nodded, and all three departed by the front door. 

It was midnight and before Mrs. Enderby showed any signs of returningconsciousness. Miss Bygrave and Maud sat by her bed together, and atlength one of them noticed that she had opened her eyes and was lookingabout her, though without moving her head. 

"Mother, " Maud asked, bending over her, "are you better? Do you knowme?"

Emily nodded. There was no touch of natural colour in her face, and itsmuscles seemed paralysed. And she lay thus for hours, consciousapparently, but paying no attention to those in the room. Early in themorning a medical man was summoned, but his assistance made no change. The fog was still heavy, and only towards noon was it possible todispense with lamp-light; then there gleamed for an hour or two a weirdmockery of day, and again it was nightfall. With the darkness came rain. 

Waymark had come to the house about ten o'clock. But this was to be nowedding-day. Maud begged him through her aunt not to see her, and hereturned as he came. Miss Bygrave had told him all that had happened. 

Mrs. Enderby seemed to sleep for some hours, but just after nightfallthe previous condition returned; she lay with her eyes open, and justnodded when spoken to. From eight o'clock to midnight Maud tried torest in her own room, but sleep was far from her, and when she returnedto the sick-chamber to relieve her aunt, she was almost as worn andghastly in countenance as the one they tended. She took her place bythe fire, and sat listening to the sad rain, which fell heavily uponthe soaked garden-ground below. It had a lulling effect. Wearinessovercame her, and before she could suspect the inclination, she hadfallen asleep. 

Suddenly she was awake again, wide awake, it seemed to her, without anyinterval of half-consciousness, and staring horror-struck at the scenebefore her. The shaded lamp stood on the chest of drawers at one sideof the room, and by its light she saw her mother in front of thelooking-glass, her raised hand holding something that glistened. Shecould not move a limb; her tongue was powerless to utter a sound. Therewas a wild laugh, a quick motion of the raised hand--then it seemed toMaud as if the room were filled with a crimson light, followed by theeternal darkness. 

 * * * * *

A fortnight later Miss Bygrave was sitting in the early morning by thebed where Maud lay ill. For some days it had been feared that thegirl's reason would fail, and though this worst possibility seemed atlength averted, her condition was still full of danger. She hadrecognised her aunt the preceding evening, but a relapse had followed. Now she unexpectedly turned to the watcher, and spoke feebly, but withperfect self-control. 

"Aunt, is madness hereditary?"

Miss Bygrave, who had thought her asleep, bent over her and tried toturn her mind to other thoughts. But the sick girl would speak only ofthis subject. 

"I am quite myself, " she said, "and I feel better. Yes, I rememberreading somewhere that it was hereditary. "

She was quiet for a little. 

"Aunt, " she then said, "I shall never be married. It would be wrong tohim. I am afraid of myself. "

She did not recur to the subject till she had risen, two or three weeksafter, and was strong enough to move about the room. Waymark had calledevery day during her illness. As soon as he heard that she was up, hedesired to see her, but Maud begged him, through her aunt, to wait yeta day or two. In the night which followed she wrote to him, and theletter was this:

"If I had seen you when you called yesterday, I should have had to facea task beyond my strength. Yet it would be wrong to keep from you anylonger what I have to say. I must write it, and hope your knowledge ofme will help you to understand what I can only imperfectly express. 

"I ask you to let me break my promise to you. I have not ceased to loveyou; to me you are still all that is best and dearest in the world. Youwould have made my life very happy. But happiness is now what I darenot wish for. I am too weak to make that use of it which, I do notdoubt, is permitted us; it would enslave my soul. With a nature such asmine, there is only one path of safety: I must renounce all. You knowme to be no hypocrite, and to you, in this moment, I need not fear tospeak my whole thought, The sacrifice has cost me much To break myfaith to you, and to put aside for ever all the world's joys--thestrength for this has only come after hours of bitterest striving. Tryto be glad that I have won; it is all behind me, and I stand upon thethreshold of peace. 

"You know how from a child I have suffered. What to others was pure andlawful joy became to me a temptation. But God was not unjust; if He soframed me, He gave me at the same time the power to understand and tochoose. All those warnings which I have, in my blindness, spoken of solightly to you, I now recall with humbler and truer mind. If the shadowof sin darkened my path, it was that I might look well to my steps, and, alas, I have failed so, have gone so grievously astray! God, inHis righteous anger, has terribly visited me. The most fearful form ofdeath has risen before me; I have been cast into abysses of horror, andonly saved from frenzy by the mercy which brought all this upon me formy good. A few months ago I had also a warning. I did not disregard it, but I could not overcome the love which bound me to you. But for thatlove, how much easier it would have been to me to overcome the worldand myself. 

"You will forgive me, for you will understand me. Do not write inreply; spare me, I entreat you, a renewal of that dark hour I havepassed through. With my aunt I am going to leave London. We shallremain together, and she will strengthen me in the new life. May Godbless you here and hereafter. MAUD ENDERBY. "

After an interval of a day Waymark wrote as follows to Miss Bygrave:--

"Doubtless you know that Maud has written desiring me to release her. Icannot but remember that she is scarcely yet recovered from a severeillness, and her letter must not be final. She entreats me not to writeto her or see her. Accordingly I address myself to you, and beg thatyou will not allow Maud to take any irrevocable step till she isperfectly well, and has had time to reflect. I shall still deem herpromise to me binding. If after the lapse of six months from now shestill desires to be released, I must know it, either from herself orfrom you. Write to me at the old address. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

ORDERS OF RELEASE

Waymark and Casti spent their Christmas Eve together. They spoke freelyof each other's affairs, saving that there was no mention of Ida. Waymark had of course said nothing of that parting between Ida andhimself. Of the hope which supported him he could not speak to hisfriend. 

A month had told upon Julian as months do when the end draws so near. In spite of his suffering he still discharged his duties at thehospital, but it was plain that he would not be able to do so muchlonger. And what would happen then?

"Casti, " Waymark exclaimed suddenly, when a hint of this thought hadbrought both of them to a pause, "come away with me. "

Julian looked up in bewilderment. 

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. To some place where the sun shines. "

"What an impossible idea! How am I to get my living? And how is she tolive?"

"Look here, " Waymark said, smiling, "my will is a little stronger thanyours, and in the present case I mean to exercise it. I have said, andthere's an end of it. You say she'll be away from home to-morrow. Good. We go together, pack up your books and things in half an hour or so, bring them here, --and then off! _Sic volo, sic jubeo, sit pro rationevoluntas!_"

And it was done, though not till Waymark had overcome the other'sopposition by the most determined effort. Julian understood perfectlywell the full significance of the scheme, for all Waymark's kindendeavour to put a hopeful and commonplace aspect on his proposal. Heresisted as long as his strength would allow, then put himself in hisfriend's hands. 

It was some time before Julian could set his mind at rest with regardto the desertion of his wife. Though no one capable of judging thesituation could have cast upon him a shadow of blame, the firstexperience of peace mingled itself in his mind with self-reproach. Waymark showed him how utterly baseless any such feeling was. Harriethad proved herself unworthy of a moment's consideration, and it wascertain that, as long as she received her weekly remittance--paidthrough an agent in London, --she would trouble herself very littleabout the rest; or, at all events, any feeling that might possess herwould be wholly undeserving of respect. Gradually Julian accustomedhimself to this thought. 

They were in the Isle of Wight; comfortably housed, with the sea beforetheir eyes, and the boon of sunshine which Casti had so longed for. 

Waymark gave himself wholly to the invalid. He had no impulse to resumeliterary work; anything was welcome which enabled him to fill up theday and reach the morrow. Whilst Julian lay on the couch, which wasdrawn up to the fireside, Waymark read aloud anything that could leadthem to forget themselves. At other times, Julian either read tohimself or wrote verse, which, however, he did not show to his friend. Before springtime came he found it difficult even to maintain a sittingattitude for long. His cough still racked him terribly. Waymark oftenlay awake in the night, listening to that fearful sound in the nextroom. At such times he tried to fancy himself in the dying man'sposition, and then the sweat of horror came upon his brow. Deeply hesympathised with the misery he could do so little to allay. Yet he wasdoing what he might to make the end a quiet one, and the consciousnessof this brought him many a calm moment. 

However it might be in those fearful vigils, Julian's days did not seemunhappy. He was resigning himself to the inevitable, in the strength ofthat quiet which sometimes ensues upon despair. Now and then he couldeven be, to all appearances, light-hearted. 

With the early May he had a revival of inspiration. Strangely losingsight of his desperate condition, he spoke once more of beginning thegreat poem planned long ago. It was living within his mind and heart, he said. Waymark listened to him whilst he unfolded book after book ofglorious vision; listened, and wondered. 

There was a splendid sunset one evening at this time, and the twowatched it together from the room in which they always sat. Seas ofmolten gold, strands and promontories of jasper and amethyst, illimitable mountain-ranges, cities of unimagined splendour, all werethere in that extent of evening sky. They watched it till the visionwasted before the breath of night. 

"What shall I read?" Waymark asked, when the lamp was lit. 

"Read that passage in the Georgics which glorifies Italy, " Julianreplied. "It will suit my mood to-night. "

Waymark took down his Virgil. 

 "Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra, Nec pulcher Ganges atque auro turbibus Hermus Laudibus Italiae certent, non Bactra, neque Indi, Totaque turiferis Panchaia pinguis arenis. "

Julian's eyes glistened as the melody rolled on, and when it ceased, both were quiet for a time. 

"Waymark, " Julian said presently, a gentle tremor in his voice, "why dowe never speak of her?"

"_Can_ we speak of her?" Waymark returned, knowing well who was meant. 

"A short time ago I could not; now I feel the need. It will give me nopain, but great happiness. ', "That is all gone by, " he continued, with a solemn smile. "To me she isno longer anything but a remembrance, an ideal I once knew. The noblestand sweetest woman I have known, or shall know, on earth. "

They talked of her with subdued voices, reverently and tenderly. Waymark described what he knew or divined of the life she was nowleading, her beneficent activity, her perfect adaptation to the newplace she filled. 

"In a little while, " Julian said, when they had fallen into thoughtagain, "you will have your second letter. And then?"

There was no answer. Julian waited a moment, then rose and, claspinghis friend's hand, bade him good night. 

Waymark awoke once or twice before morning, but there was no coughingin the next room. He felt glad, and wondered whether there was indeedany improvement in the invalid's health. But at the usualbreakfast-time Julian did not appear. Waymark knocked at his door, withno result. He turned the handle and entered. 

On this same day, Ida was visiting her houses. Litany lane and ElmCourt now wore a changed appearance. At present it was possible tobreathe even in the inmost recesses of the Court. There the fronts ofthe houses were fresh white-washed; in the Lane they were new-painted. Even the pavement and the road-way exhibited an improvement. If youpenetrated into garrets and cellars you no longer found squalor anddilapidation; poverty in plenty, but at all events an attempt atcleanliness everywhere, as far, that is to say, as a landlord's carecould ensure it. The stair-cases had ceased to be rotten pit-falls; theceilings showed traces of recent care; the walls no longer dripped withmoisture or were foul with patches of filth. Not much change, it istrue, in the appearance of the inhabitants; yet close inquiry wouldhave elicited comforting assurances of progressing reform, results of asupervision which was never offensive, never thoughtlessly exaggerated. Especially in the condition of the children improvement wasdiscernible. Lodgers in the Lane and the Court had come to understandthat not even punctual payment of weekly rent was sufficient toguarantee them stability of tenure. Under this singular lady-landlordsomething more than that was expected and required, and, whilst thosewho were capable of adjusting themselves to the new _regime_ found, onthe whole, that things went vastly better with them, such as could byno means overcome their love of filth, moral and material, troubledthemselves little when the notice to quit came, together with a littlesum of ready money to cover the expenses of removal. 

Among those whom Ida called upon this afternoon was an old woman who, in addition to her own voluminous troubles, was always in a position togive a _compte-rendu_ of the general distress of the neighbourhood. People had discovered that her eloquence could be profitably made useof in their own service, and not infrequently, when speaking with Ida, she was in reality holding a brief from this or that neighbour, marked, not indeed in guineas, but in "twos" of strong beverage, obtainable ather favourite house of call. To-day she held such a brief, and was morethan usually urgent in the representation of a deserving case. 

"Oh, Miss Woodstock, mem, there's a poor young 'oman a-lyin' at theClock 'Ouse, as it really makes one's 'art bleed to tell of her! Forall she's so young, she's a widder, an' pr'aps it's as well she shouldbe, seein' how shockin' her 'usband treated her afore he was took whereno doubt he's bein' done as he did by. It's fair cruel, Miss Woodstock, mem, to see her sufferin's. She has fits, an' falls down everywheres;it's a mercy as she 'asn't been run over in the public street long ago. They're hepiplectic fits, I'm told, an' laws o' me! the way she foamsat the mouth! No doubt as they was brought on by her 'usband'setrocious treatment. I understand as he was a man as called hisself agentleman. He was allus that jealous of the pore innocent thing, mem--castin' in her teeth things as I couldn't bring myself not even to'int at in your presence, Miss Woodstock, mem. Many's the time he'sbeat her black an' blue, when she jist went out to get a bit o'somethink for his tea at night, 'cos he would 'ave it she'd beena-doin' what she 'adn't ought--"

"Where is she?" Ida asked, thinking she had now gathered enough of thefeatures of the case. 

"I said at the Clock 'Ouse, mem. Mrs. Sprowl's took her in' mem, and isbe'avin' to her like a mother. She knew her, did Mrs. Sprowl, in thepore thing's 'appy days, before ever she married. But of course itain't likely as Mrs. Sprowl can keep her as long as her pore lifelasts; not to speak of the expense; its a terrible responsibility, owin' to the hepiplectic ailment, mem, as of course you understand. "

"Can't she get into any hospital!"

"She only just came out, mem, not two weeks ago. They couldn't do nomore for the pore creature, and so she had to go. An' she 'asn't not afriend in the world, 'ceptin' Mrs. Sprowl, as is no less than a motherto her. "

"Do you know her name?"

"Mrs. Casty, mem. It's a Irish name, I b'lieve, an' I can't say as I'mpartial to the Irish, but--"

"Very well, " Ida broke in hastily. "I'll see if I can do anything. "

Paying no attention to the blessings showered upon her by the counselin this case, blessings to which she was accustomed, and of which shewell understood the value, Ida went out into the Lane, and walked awayquickly. She did not pause at the Clock House, but walked as far as aquiet street some little distance off, and then paced the pavement fora while, in thought. Who this "Mrs. Casty" was she could have littledoubt. The calumnies against her husband were just such as HarrietCasti would be likely to circulate. 

For a moment it had seemed possible to go to the public-house and makepersonal inquiries, but reflection showed her that this would be aneedless imprudence, even had she been able to overcome herselfsufficiently for such an interview. She went home instead, and at oncedespatched Miss Hurst to the Clock House to discover whether it wasindeed Harriet Casti who lay there, and, if so, what her real conditionwas. That lady returned with evidence establishing the sick woman'sidentity. Harriet, she reported, was indeed in a sad state, clearlyincapable of supporting herself by any kind of work. Her husband--MissHurst was told--had deserted her, leaving her entirely without means, and now, but for Mrs. Sprowl's charity, she would have been in theworkhouse. This story sounded very strangely to Ida. It might mean thatJulian was dead. She wrote a few lines to Waymark, at the old address, and had a speedy reply. Yes, Julian Casti was dead, but the grave hadnot yet closed over him. Harriet had been in receipt of money, and needhave wanted for nothing; but _now_ she must expect no more. 

The result of it all was that, in the course of a week, Harriet wasinformed by Miss Hurst that a place was open to her in a hospital nearLondon, where she could remain as long as her ailments rendered itnecessary; the expense would be provided for by a lady who had beentold of the case, and wished to give what aid she could. The offer wasrejected, and with insult. When next she visited Litany Lane, Idalearnt that "pore Mrs. Casty, " after a quarrel with her friend Mrs. Sprowl, had fallen downstairs in a fit and broken her neck. 

Waymark lived on in the Isle of Wight, until a day when there came tohim a letter from Miss Bygrave. It told him that Maud's resolve wasimmutable, and added that aunt and niece, having become members of "thetrue Church, " were about to join a sisterhood in a midland town, wheretheir lives would be devoted to work of charity. 

Not many days after this, Ida, in London, received a letter, addressedin a hand she knew well. There was a flush on her face as she began toread; but presently came the pallor of a sudden joy almost too great tobe borne. The letter was a long one, containing the story of severalyears of the writer's life, related with unflinching sincerity, bad andgood impartially set down, and all leading up to words which danced ingolden sunlight before her tear-dimmed eyes. 

For an hour she sat alone, scarce moving. Yet it seemed to her thatonly a few minutes were allowed to pass before she took her pen andwrote.