In the small back sitting-room, underneath its two lighted gas-burners, stood Mrs. Frank Raynor, her heart beating faster than usual, her breath laboured. She felt partly frightened, partly confused by what she saw—by the aspect of the place she was brought to, as her new home. Frank had in a degree prepared her for it as they came along in the cab which brought them, Daisy's boxes piled upon it: but either he had done it insufficiently, or she had failed to realize his description of what he called the "humble den," for it came upon her with a shock. Both as Margaret St. Clare and as Margaret Raynor her personal experiences of dwelling-places had been pleasant and sunny.
The clock was striking ten when the cab had drawn up in Mark Street. She looked out to see why it stopped. She saw a narrow street, an inferior locality, small shops on either side. The one before which they had halted appeared to be a shop too: the door stood open, a gas-burner was alight within.
"Why are we stopping here, Frank?"
Frank, hastening to jump out, did not hear the question. He turned to help her.
"This is not the place?" she cried in doubt.
"Yes, this is it, Daisy."
He took her in, piloted her between the counters into the lighted side-room, and turned back to see to the luggage; leaving her utterly aghast, bewildered, and standing as still as a statue.
The door at the end of the room opened, and a curious old figure, attired in a chintz gown of antique shape, with a huge bow of green ribbon on her muslin cap, appeared at it. Eve curtsied to her new mistress: the new mistress stared at the servant.
"You are welcome, ma'am. We are glad to see you. And, please, would you like the supper-tray brought in?"
"Is—is this Mr. Raynor's?" questioned Daisy, in tones that seemed to say she dreaded the answer.
"Sure enough it is, ma'am, for the present. He is here during the master's absence."
Daisy said no more. She only stood still in her grievous astonishment, striving to comprehend it all, and to hush her dismayed heart. The luggage was being brought in, and Eve went to help with it. Frank found his wife seated on the horsehair sofa, when he came in; and caught the blank look on her pale face.
"You are tired, Daisy. You would like to take your things off. Come upstairs, and I will show you your bedroom."
Lighting a candle, he led the way, Daisy following mechanically up the steep, confined staircase, to which she herself seemed to present a contrast, with her fashionable attire of costly black gauze, relieved by frillings of soft white net.
"The room's not very large, Daisy," he said, entering one on the first floor, the window looking out on some back leads. "There's a larger one in front on the upper landing, but I thought you would prefer this, and it is better furnished. It was Brown's room. He said I had better take to it, for if I went up higher I might not hear the night-bell.
"Yes," replied Daisy, faintly, undoing the strings of her bonnet. "Was it a—a shop we came through?"
"That was the surgery. It used to be a shop, and Brown never took the trouble to alter its arrangement."
"Have you always to come through it on entering the house?"
"Yes. There is no other entrance. The houses in these crowded places are confined in space, you see, Daisy. I will help Sam to bring up the boxes," added Frank, disappearing.
When finally left to herself, Margaret sat down and burst into a passionate flood of tears. It seemed to her that, in coming to dwell here, she must lose caste for ever. Frank called to her presently, to know whether she was not coming down.
Drying her eyes as she best could, she took up the candle to descend. On the opposite side of the small landing, a door stood open to a sitting-room, and she looked in. A fair-sized room this, for it was over both the surgery and the parlour, and a very nice room too, its carpet of a rich dark hue, with chairs and window-hangings to match, and furniture that was good and handsome. She put the candle on a console, crossed to one of the windows, and gazed down at the street.
Late though it was, people were surging to and fro; not at all the sort of people Daisy had been accustomed to. Over the way was a small fish-shop: a ragged man and boy, standing before it, were eating mussels. To pass one's days in such a street as this must be frightfully depressing, and Mrs. Raynor burst into tears again.
"Why, my darling, what is the matter?"
Frank, coming up in search of her, found her sobbing wildly, her head buried on the arm of one of the chairs. She lifted it, and let it rest upon his shoulder.
"You are disappointed, Daisy. I see it."
"It—it is such a wretched street, Frank; and—and such a house!"
Frank flushed painfully. He felt the complaint to his heart's core.
"It is only for a time, Daisy. Until I can get into something better. If that may ever be!" he added to himself, as Blase Pellet's image rose before his mind.
Daisy sobbed more quietly. He was holding her to him.
"I know, my poor girl, how inferior it is; altogether different from anything you have been accustomed to; but this home is better than none at all. We can at least be together and be happy here."
"Yes, we can," replied Daisy, rallying her spirits and her sweet nature, as she lifted her face to look into his. "I married you for worse, as well as for better, Frank, my best love. Wewillbe happy in it."
"As happy as a king and queen in a fairy-tale," rejoined Frank, a whole world of hope in his tones.
And that was Daisy's instalment in her London home.
Misfortunes seldom come singly. Many of us, unhappily, have had good cause only too often to learn the truth of the saying; but few, it is to be hoped, have experienced it in an equal degree with the Raynors. For another calamity was in store for them: one that, taking the difference between their present and past circumstances into consideration, was at least as distressing as the ejection from Eagles' Nest.
But it did not happen quite immediately. The weeks were calmly passing, and Mrs. Raynor felt in spirits; for two more day-scholars had entered at the half-quarter, and another boarder was promised at Michaelmas. So that matters might be said to be progressing satisfactorily though monotonously. Monotony, however, does not suit young people, especially if they have been suddenly plunged into it. It did not suit Charles and Alice Raynor. Ever contrasting, as they were, the present enforced quiet and obscurity with the past life at Eagles' Nest, its show, society, and luxuries, no wonder that they felt well-nigh weary unto death. At first it was almost unbearable. But they could not help themselves: it had to be endured. Charles was worse off than Alice; she had her school duties to occupy her during the day; he had nothing. Colonel Cockburn had not yet returned to London, and Charles told himself and his mother that he must wait for him. As the weeks went on, some relief suggested itself from this dreariness—perhaps was the result of it.
The alleviation was found in private theatricals. They had made the acquaintance of some neighbours named Earle; had become intimate with them. The circumstances of the two families were much alike, and perhaps this at first drew them together. Captain Earle—a post-captain in the Royal Navy—had left only a slender income to his wife at his death: just enough to enable her to live quietly, and bring up her children inexpensively. They were gentlepeople; and that went a long way with the Raynors. The young Earles—four of them—were all in their teens: the eldest son had a post in Somerset House, the younger one went to a day-school in the neighbourhood, the two daughters had finished their education, and were at home. It chanced that these young people had a passion just now for private theatricals, and the Raynors caught the infection. After witnessing a performance at Mrs. Earle's of a popular comedy, Charles and Alice Raynor got up from it wild to perform one at their own home.
And probably the very eagerness with which they pursued the fancy, arose out of the recent monotony of their lives. Mrs. Raynor looked grave: she did not know whether the parents of her pupils would approve of private theatricals. But her children overruled her objection, and she could only yield to them. She always did so.
They fixed upon Goldsmith's comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer." A thoroughly good play in itself. Charles procured some sixpenny copies of it, and drew his pen through any part that he considered unsuited to present taste, which shortened the play very much. He chose the part of Charles Marlowe; Alice that of Miss Hardcastle; Mrs. Earle, who liked the amusement as much as her children did, would be Mrs. Hardcastle; her eldest daughter Constance Neville: and the young Somerset-House clerk Tony Lumpkin. The other characters were taken by some acquaintances of the Earles.
And now, fairly launched upon this new project, the monotony of the house disappeared: for the time they even forgot to lament after Eagles' Nest. Dresses, gauzes, tinsel, green-baize curtains, and all the rest of it, were to be lent by the Earles; so that no cost was involved in the entertainment. The schoolroom was to be the theatre, and the pupils were to have seats amongst the audience.
Charles entered into it with wonderful energy. He never now had a minute for lying on three chairs, or for stretching his hands above his head to help a mournful yawn. A letter that arrived from Edina, requiring him to transact a little matter of business, was wholly neglected; it would have involved his going to the City, and he said he had no time for it.
Edina had intended to insure the new furniture in the same Cornish office that her father had insured his in for so many years. Perhaps she had more faith in it than in the London offices. However, after some negotiations with the Cornish company upon her return to Trennach, they declined the offer, as the furniture it related to was so far away, and recommended a safe and good insurance company in the City of London. She wrote to Mrs. Raynor, desiring that Charles should at once go to the City to do what was necessary and secure the policy. Charles put it off upon the plea that he was too busy; it could wait.
"Charley, I think you ought to do it, if only to comply with Edina's wish," urged Mrs. Raynor.
"And so I will, mother, as soon as I get a little time."
"It would only take you half-a-day, my dear."
"But I can't spare the half-day. Do you think the house is going to be burnt down?"
"Nonsense, Charley!"
"Then where's the need of hurry?" he persisted. "I have looked after every one else's part so much and the arrangements altogether, that I scarcely know a word yet of my own. I stuck yesterday at the very first sentence Charles Marlowe has to say."
Mrs. Raynor, never able to contend against a stronger will than her own, gave in as usual, saying no more. And Charles was left unmolested.
But in the midst of this arduous labour, for other people as well as for himself, Charles received news from Colonel Cockburn. The colonel wrote to say he was in London for a couple of days, and Charles might call in St. James's Street the following morning.
This mandate Charles would not put off, in spite of the exigencies of the theatricals; and of the first rehearsal, two evenings hence. The grand performance was to take place during the few days' holiday Mrs. Raynor gave at Michaelmas; and Michaelmas would be upon them in a little more than a week.
Charles went to St. James's Street. And there his hopes, in regard to the future, received a very decided check. Colonel Cockburn—who turned out to be a feeble and deaf old gentleman—informed Charles that he could not help him to obtain a commission, and moreover, explained many things to him, and assured him that he had no chance of obtaining one. No one, the colonel said, could get one now, unless he had been specially prepared for it. He would advise Charles, he added, to embrace a civil profession; say the law. It was very easy to go to the Bar, he believed; involving only, so far as he knew, the eating of a certain number of dinners. All this sounded very cruel to Charles Raynor. Otherwise the colonel was kind. He kept him for the day, and took him to dine at his club.
It was late when Charles reached home; thoroughly tired. Disappointment alone inflicts weariness. Mrs. Raynor felt terribly disheartened at the news.
"There have been so many weeks lost, you see, Charley!"
"Yes," returned Charles, gloomily. "I'm sure I don't know what to be at now. Cockburn suggested the Bar. He says one may qualify for almost nothing."
"We will talk about it to-morrow Charley," said Mrs. Raynor. "It is past bedtime, and I am tired. You were not thinking of sitting up later, were you, my dear?" she added, as Charles took up "She Stoops to Conquer" from a side table.
"Oh, well—I suppose not, if you say it is so late," he replied.
"The dresses have come, ready for the rehearsal, Charley," whispered Alice, as they were going upstairs. "I have put them in your room. Charlotte Earle and I have been trying on ours. I mean to wear one of Edina's brown holland aprons while I am supposed to be a barmaid."
"I'll be shot if I know half my part," grumbled Charley. "Itwasa bother, having to go out to-day!"
"You can learn it before Michaelmas."
"Of course I can. But one likes to be perfect at rehearsal. Good-night."
Charles turned into his room, and shut the door. It was a good-sized apartment, one that Mrs. Raynor destined for boarders, when the school should have increased. The first thing he saw, piled up between the bed and the wall, partly on a low chest of drawers, partly on the floor, was a confused heap of gay clothes and other articles: the theatrical paraphernalia that had been brought round from Mrs. Earle's. Upon the top of all, lay a yellow gauze dress edged with tinsel. Charles, all his interest in the coming rehearsal reviving at the sight, touched it gingerly here and there, and wondered whether it might be the state robe for one of the younger ladies, or for Tony Lumpkin's mother.
"I wish to goodness I was more perfect in my part!" cried he, pulling corners out of the other things to see what they consisted of. "Suppose I give half-an-hour to it, before I get into bed?"
The little book was still in his hand. He lodged the candle on the edge of the drawers amidst the finery, and sat down near, pausing in the act of taking off his coat. Alfred lay on the far side of the bed fast asleep. A night or two ago, for this was by no means the first time he had sat down in his chamber to con the sayings of young Marlowe, Charles took his coat off, dropped asleep, and woke up cold when the night was half over. So he concluded that he would keep his coat on now.
Precisely the same event took place: Charles fell asleep. Tired with his day's journey, he had not studied the book five minutes when it fell from his hands. He was soon in a sound slumber. How long he remained in it he never knew, but he was awakened by a shout and a cry. Fire!
A shout and a cry, and a great glare of light. Fire? Yes, it was fire. Whether Charles had thrown out his arm in his sleep and turned the candle over, or whether a spark had shot out from it, he knew not, never would know; but the pile of inflammable gauzes and other stuffs lying there had caught light. The flames had penetrated to the bed, and finally awakened Alfred. It was Alfred who shouted the alarm. Perhaps Charles owed his life to the fact that he had kept his coat on: its sleeve was scorched.
These scenes have been often described before: it is of no use to detail another here. A household aroused in the depth of the night; terrified women and children crying and running: flames mounting, smoke suffocating. They all escaped with life, taking refuge at the dwelling of a neighbour; but the house and its contents were burnt to the ground.
"My Dear Edina,
"I never began a letter like this in all my life: it will have nothing in it but ill news and misery. Whether I am doing wrong in writing to you, I hardly know. My mother would not write. She feels a delicacy in disclosing our calamities to you, after your generous kindness in providing us with a home; and she must be ashamed to tell you about me. The home is lost, Edina, and I am the cause of it.
"I am too wretched to go into details: and, if I did, you might not have patience to read them; so I will tell the story in as few words as I can. We—I, Alice, and the Earles: you may remember them as living in the low, square house, near the church—were going to act a play, 'She Stoops to Conquer.' I sat up last Wednesday night to study my part, dropped asleep, and somehow the candle set light to some stage dresses that were lying ready in my chamber. When I woke up, the room was in flames. None of us are hurt; but the house is burnt down; and everything that was in it.
"This is not all. I hate to make the next confession to you more than I hated this one. The insurance on the furniture had not been effected. I had put it off and off; though my mother urged me more than once to go and do it.
"You have spoken sometimes, Edina, of the necessity of acting rightly, so that we may enjoy a peaceful conscience. If you only knew what mine is now, and the torment of remorse I endure, even you might feel a passing shade of pity for me. There are moments when the weight seems more than I can bear.
"We have taken a small, cheap lodging near; number five, in the next street; and what the future is to be I cannot tell. It of course falls to my lot now to keep them, as it is through me they have lost their home, andI shall try and do it. Life will be no play-day with me now.
"I thought it my duty to tell you this, Edina. Whilst holding back from the task, I have yet said to myself that you would reproach me if I did not. And you will not mistake the motive, since you are aware that I know you parted with every shilling you had, to provide us with the last home.
"Write a few words of consolation to my mother; no one can do it as you can; anddon't spare me to her.
"Your unhappy cousin,
"Charles."
Frank Raynor once made the remark in our hearing that somehow every one turned to Edina in trouble. Charley had instinctively turned to her. Not because it might lie in his duty to let her know what had come to pass, to confess his own share in it, his imprudent folly; but for the sake of his mother. Though Edina had no more money to give away, and could not help them to another home, he knew that if any one could breathe a word of comfort to her, it was Edina.
One thing lay more heavily upon his conscience than all the rest; and if he had not mentioned this to Edina, it was not that he wished to spare himself, for he was in the mood to confess everything that could tell against him, almost with exaggeration, but that in the hurry of writing he had unintentionally omitted it. On one of the previous nights that he had been studying his part, Mrs. Raynor caught sight of the light under his door. Opening it, she found him sitting on the bed in his shirt-sleeves, reading. There and then she spoke of the danger, and begged him never to sit up at night again. The fact was this: Charles Raynor had nothing on earth to do with his time; an idle young fellow, as he was, needed not the night for work; but his habits had grown so desultory that he could settle to no occupation in the daytime.
The answer from Edina did not come. Charles said nothing about having written to her; but he did fully hope and expect Edina would write to his mother. Morning after morning he posted himself outside the door to watch for the postman; and morning after morning the man passed and gave him nothing.
"Edina is too angry to write," concluded Charles, at last. "This has been too much even for her." And he betook himself to his walk to London.
No repentance could be more thoroughly sincere than was Charles Raynor's. The last dire calamity had taken all his pride and elevated notions out of him. The family were helpless, hopeless; and he had rendered them so. No clothes, no food, no prospects, no home, no money. A few articles of wearing apparel had been thrown out of the burning house, chiefly belonging to Alice, but not many. All the money Mrs. Raynor had in the world—four banknotes of five pounds each—had been consumed. There had chanced to be a little gold in Charles's pockets, given him to pay the insurance, some taxes, and other necessary matters; and that was all they had to go on with. Night after night Charles lay awake, lamenting his folly, and making huge resolves to remedy the evil results of it.
They must have food to eat; though it were but bread-and-cheese; they must have a roof over them, let it be ever so confined. And there was only himself to provide this. Any thought of setting up a school again could not present itself to their minds after the late ignominious failure: they had no means of doing it, and the little pupils had gone from them for ever. No; all lay on Charles. He studied the columns of theTimes, and walked up and down London until he was footsore; footsore and heart-sick; trying to get one of the desirable places advertised as vacant. In vain.
He had been doing this now for four or five days. On this, the sixth day, when he reached home after his weary walk, the landlady of the house stood at the open door, bargaining for one of the pots of musk that a man was carrying about for sale. Charles wished her good-evening as he passed on to the parlour; and there he met with a surprise, for in it sat Edina. She had evidently just arrived. Her travelling-cloak was thrown on the back of a chair, her black mantle was only unfastened, her bonnet was still on. Katie and Robert sat at her feet; the tea-things were on the table, Alice was cutting bread-and-butter, and Mrs. Raynor was sobbing. Charles held out his hand with hesitation, feeling that it was not worthy for Edina to touch, and a red flush dyed his face.
After tea the conversation turned on their present position, on plans and projects. Ah what poor ones they were! Mrs. Raynor acknowledged freely that she had only a few shillings left.
"Have you been paid for the pupils?" asked Edina.
"No," said Mrs. Raynor. "I have not yet sent in the accounts. The children were not with me quite a quarter, you know, and perhaps some of the parents may make that an excuse, combined with the termination, for not paying me at all. Even if I get the money, there are debts to be paid out of it: the tradespeople, the stationer, the maidservant's wages. Not much will be left of it."
"Then, Mary, let us settle to-night what is to be done."
"What can be settled?" returned Mrs. Raynor, hopelessly. "I see nothing at all before us. Except starvation."
"Don't talk of starvation while Heaven spares us the use of our minds to plan, and our hands to work," said Edina, pleasantly; and the bright tone cheered Mrs. Raynor. "For one thing, I have come up to live with you."
"Edina!"
"I cannot provide you with another home: you know why," continued Edina: "but I can share with you all I have left—my income. It is so small a one that perhaps you will hardly thank me for it, saddled with myself; but at least it is something to fall back upon, and we can all share together."
Mrs. Raynor burst into tears again. Never strong in resources, the repeated calamities she had been subjected to of late had tended to render her next-door to helpless both in body and spirit. Charles turned to Edina, brushing his eyelashes.
"I cannot presume to thank you, Edina: you would not care to receive thanks from me.Iam hoping to support them."
"In what manner, Charles?" asked Edina; and her tone was as kind as usual. "I hear you have lost hopes of the commission."
"By getting into some situation and earning a weekly salary at it," spoke Charles, bravely. "The worst is, situations seem to be so unattainable."
"How do you know they are unattainable?"
"I have done nothing the last few days but look for one. Besides the places advertised, I can't tell you how many banks and other establishments I have made bold to go into, asking if they want a clerk. A hundred a-year would be something."
"It would be a great deal," replied Edina, significantly. "Salaries to that amount are certainly hard to find. I question if you would get half of it at first."
A blank look overspread Charley's face. Edina's judgment had always been sound.
"But why do you question it, Edina?"
"Because you are inexperienced: totally unused to business; to work of any kind."
"Yes, that's what some of the people say when they question me."
"There is one person who might help you to such a situation, if he would," observed Edina, slowly. "But I shall offend you if I speak of him, Charles: as I did once before."
"You mean George Atkinson!"
"I do. If he chose to put you into his bank, he might give you any salary he pleased; and he might be willing to do it, whether you earned it or not. I think he would, if I asked him."
There was a pause. Edina's thoughts were carrying her back to the old days when George Atkinson had been all the world to her. It would cost her something to apply to him; but for the sake of this helpless family, she must bring her mind to doing it.
"What do you say, Charles?"
"I say yes, Edina. I have nothing but humble-pie to eat just now: it will be only another slice of it. Banking work seems to consist of everlastingly adding up columns of figures: I should grow expert at it no doubt in time."
"Then I will go to-morrow and see whether he is in town," decided Edina. "If not, I must travel down to Eagles' Nest."
"You might write instead," suggested Mrs. Raynor.
"No, Mary, I will not write. A personal interview gives so much more chance of success in an application of this nature."
"Icould not apply to him personally," sighed Mrs. Raynor.
But Edina never shrank from a duty; and the next morning saw her at the banking-house of Atkinson and Street, the very house where she had spent those few happy days of her early life when she had learned to love. Mr. Street and his wife lived in it now. She went to the private door and asked for him. He had known her in those days; and a smile actually crossed his calm cold face as he shook hands with her: and to her he proved more communicative than he generally showed himself to the world.
"Is Mr. Atkinson in town?" she inquired, when a few courtesies had passed.
"No. He——"
"I feared not," quickly spoke Edina, for she had quite anticipated the answer. "I thought he would be at Eagles' Nest."
"But he is not at Eagles' Nest," interposed the banker. "He is on the high seas, on his way to New Zealand."
"On his way to New Zealand!" echoed Edina, hardly thinking, in her surprise, that she heard correctly.
"He went away again immediately. I do not suppose he was in London a fortnight altogether."
"Then he could not have made much stay at Eagles' Nest?"
"He did not make any stay at it," replied Edwin Street. "I don't think he went down to Eagles' Nest at all. If he did go, he came back the same day, for he never slept one night away from this house throughout his sojourn."
"But what could be his reason?" reiterated Edina, wonderingly. "Why has he gone away so soon again?"
"He put it upon the score of his health, Miss Raynor. England does not agree with him. At least, he fancies it does not."
"And who is living at Eagles' Nest?"
"A Mr. Fairfax. He is a land-agent and steward, a thoroughly efficient man, and he has been appointed steward to the estate. His orders are to take care of it, and to renovate it by all possible means that money and labour can do. Mr. Atkinson was informed on good authority that it had been neglected by Major Raynor."
"That's true," thought Edina.
"The first thing Mr. Atkinson did on his arrival, was to inquire whether the estate had been well cared for and kept up since Mrs. Atkinson's death. I was not able to say that it had been: I was obliged to tell him that the contrary was the fact. He then questioned my brother, and other people who were acquainted with the truth. It vexed him: and, as I tell you, he is now doing all he can to remedy the late neglect."
"I am very much surprised that Mr. Atkinson did not himself go down to see into it!" said Edina.
"Long residence in foreign lands often conduces to indolent habits," remarked the banker.
Edina sighed. Was her mission to be a fruitless one? Taking a moment's counsel with herself, she resolved to disclose its purport to Edwin Street. And she did so: asking him to give Charles Raynor a stool in his counting-house, and a salary with it.
But Mr. Street declined. His very manner seemed to freeze at the request. A young man, brought up as Mr. Charles Raynor had been, could not possibly be of any use in a bank, he observed.
"Suppose Mr. Atkinson were here, and had complied with my request to put him in?—what then?" said Edina.
"In that case he would have come in," was the candid answer. "But Mr. Atkinson is not here; in his absence I exercise my own discretion; and I am bound to tell you that I cannot make room for the young man. Don't seek to put Charles Raynor into a bank: he is not fitted for the post in any way, and might do harm in it instead of good. Take an experienced man's advice for once, Miss Raynor."
"It has spared me the pain of an interview withhim," thought Edina, as she said good-morning to Mr. Street. "But what a strange thing that he should go away again without seeing Eagles' Nest!"
It was a roomy cottage in a small by-road of the environs of Kennington, bordering on South Lambeth. Frost and snow lay on the ground outside, and bitter blasts in the air: within, sitting round the scanty fire in a bare-looking but not very small parlour, were Mrs. Raynor, Edina, and the younger children, the two former busily employed making brown chenile nets for the hair.
When Edina was out one day searching for some abode for them, this dwelling fell under her eye. It was called Laurel Cottage, as the white letters on a slate-coloured wooden gate testified: probably because a dwarf laurel tree flourished between the palings and the window. In the window was a card, setting forth that "lodgings" were to be let: and Edina entered. Could the Raynors have gone into the country, she would have taken a whole cottage to themselves; but then there would have been a difficulty about furniture. It was necessary they should remain in London, as Charles still expected to find employment there, and they must not be too far from the business parts of it, for he would have to walk to and fro night and morning. Laurel Cottage possessed a landlady, one Mrs. Fox, and a young boy, her son. The rooms to let were four in number; parlour, kitchen, and two bedrooms. She asked ten shillings a-week: but that the house was shabby and badly furnished, she might have asked more. Edina freely said she could afford to give only eight shillings a-week; and at length the bargain was struck. Edina's income was just a pound a-week, fifty-two pounds a-year; eight shillings out of it for rent was a formidable sum. It left only twelve shillings for all necessities: and poor, anxious Edina, who had all the care and responsibility on her own shoulders, and felt that she had it, did not see the future very clearly before her; but at present there was nothing to be done but to bow to circumstances. So here they were in Laurel Cottage, with a dreary look-out of waste-ground for a view, and a few stunted trees overshadowing the gate.
Alice had gone into a school as teacher. It was situated near Richmond, in Surrey, and was chiefly for the reception of children whose parents were in India. She would have to stay there during the holidays: but that was so much the better, as there was no place for her at home. Alfred ran on errands, and made a show of saying his lessons to his mother between whiles. Mrs. Raynor taught Kate and little Robert; Edina did the work, for they were not waited upon; Charles spent his time tramping about after a situation. To eke out their narrow income, Edina had tried to get some sewing, or other work, to do; she had found out a City house that dealt largely in ladies' hairnets, and the house agreed to supply her with some to make. All their spare time she and Mrs. Raynor devoted to these nets, Charles carrying the parcels backwards and forwards. But for those nets, they must certainly to a great extent have starved. With the nets, they were not much better off.
In some mysterious way, Edina had managed to provide them all with a change of clothing, to replace some of that which had been lost in the fire. They never knew how she did it. Only Edina herself knew that. A few articles of plate that had been her father's; a few ornaments of her own: these were turned into money.
The light of the wintry afternoon was fading; the icicles outside were growing less visible to the eye. Little Robert, sitting on the floor, said at last that he could not see his picture-book. Mrs. Raynor, looking young still in her widow's cap, let fall the net on her lap for a minute's rest, and looked at the fire through her tears. Over and over again did these tears rise unbidden now. Edina, neat and nice-looking as ever, in her soft black dress, her brown hair smoothly braided on either side her attractive face—attractive in its intelligence and goodness—caught sight of the tears from the low chair where she sat opposite.
"Take courage, Mary," she gently said. "Things will take a turn some time."
Mrs. Raynor caught up her work and suppressed a rising sob. Katie, in a grumbling tone, said she was sure it must be tea-time. Edina rose, brought in a tray from the small kitchen, which was on the same floor as the room they sat in, and began to put out the cups and saucers.
"What a long time Alfred is!" cried the little girl.
Alfred came in almost as he spoke, a can of milk in his hand. By sending to a dairy half-a-mile off, Edina had discovered that she could get pure milk cheaper than any left by the milkman: so Alfred went for it morning and night.
"It is so jolly hard!" exclaimed he, with a glowing face, alluding to the ice in the roads. "The slides are beautiful."
"Don't get sliding when you are carrying the milk," advised Edina. "Take off your cap and comforter, Alfred."
She was cutting slices of bread for him to toast. Unused to hard fare, the children could not eat dry bread with any relish: so, when there was neither butter nor dripping, neither treacle nor honey in the house, Edina had the bread toasted. Alfred knelt down before the fire—the only fire they had—and began to toast. The kettle was singing on the hob. Edina turned the milk into a jug.
They were sitting down to the tea-table when Charles came in. A glance at his weary and dispirited face told Edina that he had met with no more luck to-day than usual. Putting down a brown-paper parcel that he carried, containing a fresh supply of material to be made into nets, he took his place at the table. How hungry he was, no one but himself knew. And how scanty the food was that he could be supplied with!
But for his later experience, Charles could not have believed that it was so difficult for a young man to obtain a situation in London. Edina, less hopeful than he, would not have believed it. Charles Raynor had not been brought up to work of any sort, had never done any; and this seemed to be one of the stumbling-blocks in his way. Perhaps he looked too much of a gentleman; perhaps his refined manners and tones told against him in the eyes of men of business, betraying that he might prove unfit for work: at any rate, he had not found any one to take him. Another impediment was that no sooner did a situation fall vacant, than a large number of applicants made a rush to fill it. Only one of them could be engaged: and it never happened to be Charles. Charles looked through theTimesadvertisements every morning, through the friendliness of a neighbouring newsvendor. He would read of a clerk being wanted in some place or other in the great mart of London, and away he would go, to present himself. But he invariably found other applicants before him, and as invariably he never seemed to have the slightest chance.
The disappointment was beginning to tell upon him. There were times when he felt almost maddened. His conscience had been awake these last many bitter weeks, and the prolonged strain often seemed more than he could bear. Had it been only himself! All, then, as it seemed to Charles Raynor, all would have been easy. He could enlist for a soldier; he could join the labourers' emigration society and go out for a term of years to Australia or Canada; he could turn porter at a railway-station. These wild thoughts (though perhaps they could not be called so very wild in his present circumstances) continually passed through his mind: but he had to put them aside as visionary.
Visionary, because his object was, not to support himself alone, but the family. At least to help to support them. Charles Raynor was sensitive to a degree; and every mouthful he was obliged to eat seemed as though it would choke him, because it lessened the portion of those at home. A man cannot quite starve: but it often seemed to Charles that he really and truly would prefer to starve, and to bear the martyrdom of the process, rather than be a burden upon his mother and Edina. Sometimes he came home by way of Frank's and took tea there—and Frank, suspecting the truth of matters, took care to add some substantial dish to the table. But Charles, in delicacy of feeling, would not do this often: the house, in point of fact, was Mr. Max Brown's, not Frank's.
How utterly subdued in spirit his mother had become, Charles did not like to see and note. She kept about, but there could be no mistaking that she was both ill and suffering. Oh, if he could only lift her out of this poverty to a home of ease and plenty! he would say to himself, a whole world of self-reproach at work within him. If this last year or two could be blotted out of time and memory, and they had their modest home again near Bath!
No; it might not be. The events that time brings forth must endure in the memory for ever; our actions in it must remain in the Book of the Recording Angel as facts of the past. The home at Bath had gone; Eagles' Nest had gone; the transient weeks of the school-life had gone: and here they were, hopeless and without prospect, eating hard fare at Laurel Cottage.
They had left off asking him now in an evening how he succeeded during the day, and what his luck had been. His answer was ever the same; he had had no luck; had done nothing: and it was given with pain so evident, that they refrained in very compassion. On this evening Charles himself spoke of it; spoke to Edina. The children were in bed. Mrs. Raynor had gone, as usual, to hear them say their prayers, and had not yet returned.
"I wonder how much longer this is to go on, Edina?"
Edina looked up from her work. "Do you mean your want of success, Charley?"
"Could I mean anything else!" he rejoined, his tone utterly subdued. "I think of nothing but that, morning, noon, and night."
"It is a long lane that has no turning, Charles. And I don't think patience and perseverance often go unrewarded in the long-run. How did you fare to-day?"
"Just as usual. Never had a single chance at all. Look, Edina—my boots are beginning to wear out."
A rather ominous pause. Charley was stretching out his right foot.
"You have another pair, you know, Charley. These must be mended."
"But I am thinking of the time when neither pair will mend any longer. Edina, I wonder whether life is worth living?"
"Charley, we cannot see into the future," spoke Edina, pausing for a moment in her work to look at him, a newly begun net in her hand. "If we could, we might foresee, even now, how good and necessary this discipline is for us. It may be, Charley, that you needed it; that we all needed it, more or less. Take it as a cross that has come direct from God; bear it as well as you are able; do your best in it and trust to Him. Rely upon it that, in His own good time, He will lighten it for you. And He will take care of you until it passes away."
Charles took up the poker; recollected himself, and put it down again. Fires might not be lavishly stirred now, as they had been at Eagles' Nest. Mrs. Raynor had been obliged to make a rule that no one should touch the fire excepting herself and Edina.
"It is not for myself I am thus impatient to get employment," resumed Charles. "But for the rest of them, I would go off to-morrow and enlist. If I could only earn twenty pounds a-year to begin with, it would be a help; better than nothing."
Only two or three months ago he had said, If I can only get a hundred a-year. Such lessons of humility adversity teaches!
"Twenty pounds a-year would pay the rent," observed Edina. "I never thought it could be so hard to get into something. I supposed that when young men wanted employment they had only to seek it. It does seem wrong does it not, Charley, that an able and willing young fellow should not be able to work when he wishes to do so?"
"Enlisting would relieve you of myself: and the thought is often in my mind," observed Charles. "On the other hand——"
"On the other hand, you had better not think of it," she interposed firmly. "We should not like to see you in the ranks, Charley. A common soldier is——"
"Hush, Edina! here comes the mother."
But luck was dawning for Charley. Only a small slice of luck, it is true; and what, not so very long ago, he would have scorned. Estimating things by his present hopeless condition, it looked fair enough.
One bleak morning, a day or two after the above conversation, Charley was slowly pacing Fleet Street, wondering where he could go next, what do. A situation, advertised in that morning's paper, had brought him up, post haste. As usual, it turned out a failure: to be successful, the applicant must put down fifty pounds in cash. So that chance was gone: and there was Charles, uncertain, and miserable.
"Halloa, Raynor! Is it you?"
A young stripling about his own age had run against him. At the first moment Charles did not know him: but recollection flashed on his mind. It was Peter Hartley: a lad who had been a schoolfellow of his in Somersetshire.
"I am going to get my dinner," said Hartley, after a few sentences had passed. "Will you come and take some with me?"
Too thankful for the offer, Charles followed him into the Rainbow. And over the viands they grew confidential. Hartley was in a large printing and publishing establishment close by: his brother Fred was at a solicitor's, almost out of his articles.
"Fred's ill," observed Peter. "He thinks it must be the fogs of this precious London that affect him: and I think so too. Any way, he coughs frightfully, and has had to give up for a day or two. I went to his office this morning to say he was in bed with a plaster on his chest; and a fine way they were in at hearing it: wanting him to go, whether or not. One of their copying-clerks has left; and they can't hear of another all in a hurry."
"I wonder whether I should suit them?" spoke Charles on the spur of the moment, a flush rising to his face and a light to his eyes.
"You!" cried Peter Hartley.
And then Charles, encouraged perhaps by the good cheer, told a little of his history to Hartley, and why he must find a situation of some sort that would bring in its returns. Hartley, an open-hearted, country-bred lad, became eager to help him, and offered to introduce him to the solicitor's firm there and then.
"It is near the Temple: almost close by," said he: "Prestleigh and Preen. A good firm: one of the best in London. Let us go at once."
Charles accompanied him to the place. Had he been aware that this same legal firm counted Mr. George Atkinson amongst its clients, he might have declined to try to enter it. It had once been Callard and Prestleigh. But old Mr. Callard had died very soon after Frank held the interview with him that has been recorded: and Charles, under the new designation of Prestleigh and Preen, did not recognize the old firm.
Peter Hartley introduced Charles to the managing-clerk, Mr. Stroud. Mr. Stroud, a tall man, wearing silver-rimmed spectacles, with iron-grey hair and a crabbed manner, put some questions to Charles, and then told him to sit down and wait. Mr. Prestleigh was in his private room; but it would not do to trouble him with these matters: Mr. Preen was out. Peter Hartley, in his good-nature, said all he could in favour of Charles, particularly "that he would be sure to do," and then went away.
Charles sat down, and passed an hour gazing at the fire and listening to the pens scratching away at the desks. People were constantly passing in and out: the green-baize door seemed to be ever on the swing. Some brought messages; some were marshalled into Mr. Prestleigh's room. By-and-by, a youngish man—he might be thirty-five, perhaps—came in, in a warm white overcoat; and, from the attention and seriousness suddenly shown by the clerks generally, Charles rightly guessed him to be Mr. Preen. He passed through the room without speaking, and was followed by the head-clerk.
A few minutes more, and Charles was sent for to Mr. Preen's room. That gentleman—who had a great profusion of light curling hair and a pleasant face and manner—was alone, standing with his back to the fire near his table. He asked Charles very much the same questions that Mr. Stroud had asked, and particularly what his recent occupation had been. Charles told the truth: he had not been brought up to any occupation, but an unfortunate reverse of family circumstances was obliging him to seek one.
"You have not been in a solicitor's office, then! Not been accustomed to copying deeds?" cried Mr. Preen.
Charles confessed he had not. But he took courage to say he had no doubt he could do any copying required of him, and to beg that he might be tried.
"Is your handwriting a neat one?"
"Yes, it is," said Charles, eagerly, for he was speaking the truth. "Neat and good, and very plain."
"You think you could copy quickly and correctly?"
"I am sure I could, sir. Ihopeyou will try me," he added, a curious entreaty in his tone, that perhaps he was himself unconscious of; but which was nevertheless apparent to Mr. Preen. "I have been seeking something so long, day after day, week after week, that I have almost lost heart."
Perhaps that last avowal was not the best aid to Charles's success; or would not have been with most men of business. With Mr. Preen, who was very good-natured, it told rather for than against him. The lawyer mused. They wanted a copying-clerk very badly indeed; being two hands short, including Fred Hartley, and extremely busy: but the question was, could this young man accomplish the work? A thought struck him.
"Suppose you were to stay now and copy a few pages this afternoon?" suggested Mr. Preen. "You see, if you cannot do the work, it would be useless your attempting it: but if you can, we will engage you."
"I shall only be too happy to stay, sir."
"Very well," said Mr. Preen, ringing his bell for the managing-clerk. "And you shall then have an answer."
Charles was put to work by Mr. Stroud: who came and looked at him three or four times whilst he was doing the copying. He wrote slowly: the result of his extra care, his intensely earnest wish to succeed: but his writing was good and clear.
"I shall write quickly enough in a day or two, when I am used to it," he said, looking up: and there was hope in his face as well as his tone.
Mr. Preen chanced to be standing by. The writing would do, he decided; and Mr. Stroud was told to engage him. To begin with, his salary was to be fifteen shillings a-week: in a short time—as soon, indeed, as his suiting them was assured—it would be raised to eighteen. He was to enter on the morrow.
"Where do you live?" curtly questioned Mr. Stroud.
"Just beyond Kennington."
"Take care that you are punctual. Nine o'clock is the hour for the copying-clerks. You are expected to be at work by that time, therefore you must get here before the clock strikes."
A very easy condition, as it seemed to Charles Raynor, in his elation. A copying-clerk in a lawyer's office at fifteen or eighteen shillings a-week! Had any one told him a year ago that he would be capable of accepting so degrading a post—as he would then have deemed it—he had surely said the world must first turn itself upside down.Nowhe went home with a joyous step and a light heart, hardly knowing whether he trod on his head or his heels.
And at Laurel Cottage they held quite a jubilee. Fifteen shillings a-week added to the narrow income of twenty, seemed at the moment to look very like riches. Charles had formed all sorts of mental resolutions as he walked home: to manage his clothes carefully lest they should grow shabby; scarcely to tread on his boots that they might not wear out: and to make his daily dinner of bread-and-cheese, carried in his pocket from home. Ah, these resolves are good, and more than good; and generous, wholesome-hearted young fellows are proud to make them in the time of need. But in their inexperience they cannot foresee the long, wearing, depressing struggle that the years must entail, during which the efforts and the privation must be persevered in. And it is well they cannot.
It wanted a quarter to nine in the morning, when Charles entered the office, warm with the speed at which he had walked. He did all that he was put to do, and did it correctly. If Mr. Stroud did not praise, he did not grumble.
When told at one o'clock that he might go to dinner, Charles made his way to the more sheltered parts in the precincts of the Temple, and surreptitiously ate the bread-and-cheese that he had brought from home in his pocket. That was eaten long and long before the time had expired when he would be expected to go in again: but he did not like to appear earlier, lest some discerning clerk should decide he had not been to dinner at all. It was frightfully dull and dreary here, the bitterly cold wind whistling down the passages and round the corners; so he turned into the open streets: they, at least, were lively with busy traversers: and walked about the Strand.
"I must go and see Peter Hartley, to tell him of my success and thank him; for it is to him I owe it," thought Charles, as he left the office in the evening. "Let me see! The address was somewhere near Mecklenburgh Square."
Taking out a small note-case, in which the address was entered, he halted at a street corner whilst he turned its leaves: some one came round the corner hastily, and Charles found himself in contact with William Stane. The gas in the streets and shops made it as light as day: no chance had they to pretend not to see each other. A bow, coldly exchanged, and each passed on his way.
"I won't notice him at all, if we meet again," said Charles to himself. And it might have been that Mr. Stane was saying the same thing. "Now for Doughty Street. I wonder which is the way to it?" deliberated he.
"Does Mr. Hartley live here?" inquired Charles of the young maid-servant, when he had found the house.
"In the parlour," replied the girl, pointing to a room on her left.
Without further ceremony, she went away, leaving him to introduce himself. A voice, that he supposed was Peter's, bade him "come in," in answer to his knock.
But he could not see Peter. A young fellow was stretched on the sofa in front of the fire. Charles rightly judged him to be the brother, Frederick Hartley. Young men are not, as a rule, very observant of one another, but Charles was struck with the appearance of the one before him. He was extremely good-looking; with fair hair, all in disorder, that shone like threads of gold in the firelight, glistening blue eyes, and a hectic flush on his thin cheeks.
"I beg your pardon," said Charley, as the invalid—for such he evidently was—half rose and gazed at him. "I came to see Peter."
"Oh yes; sit down," was the answer, given in cordial but very weak tones. "I expect him in every minute."
"You are Fred," observed Charles. "I dare say he told you about meeting me on Tuesday: Charles Raynor."
"Yes, he did. Do sit down. You don't mind my lying here?"
"Is it a cold you have taken?" asked Charles, bringing a chair to the corner of the hearth.
"I suppose so. A fresh cold. You might have heard me breathing yesterday over the way. The doctor kept me in bed. He wanted to keep me there to-day also; but to have to lie in that back-room is so wretchedly dull. Poke up the fire, will you, please, and make a blaze."
With every word he spoke, his breath seemed laboured. His voice was hollow. Now he had a fit of coughing; and the cough sounded as hollow as the voice had done.
Peter came in, welcomed Charles boisterously, and rang for tea. That, you may be sure, was acceptable to poor Charles. Fred, saying he was glad Charles had obtained the place at Prestleigh's, plunged into a few revelations touching the office politics, as well as his frequent cough and his imperfect breathing allowed, with a view of putting him au courant of affairs in general in his new position.
"I shall make things pleasant for you, after I get back," said he. "We articled fellows hold ourselves somewhat aloof from the working clerks; but I shall let them know who you are, and that it is only a temporary move on your part."
Fred Hartley, warm-hearted as his brother, said this when Charles was bidding him good-evening. That last look, taken when the invalid's face was raised, and the lamp shone full upon it, impressed Charles more than all. Peter went with him to the door.
"What does the doctor say about your brother?" asked Charles, as they stood on the pavement, in the cold.
"Says he must take care of himself."
"Don't you think he looks very ill?"
"I don't know," replied Peter, who had been in the habit of seeing his brother daily; and therefore had not been particularly impressed by his looks. "Does he?"
"Well, it strikes me so. I should say he is ill. Why don't you send for his mother to come up?"
"So I would, if we had a mother to send for," returned Peter. "Our mother died two years ago; and—and my father has married again. We have no longer any place in the old Somersetshire homestead, Raynor. Fred and I stand alone in the world."
"And without means?" cried Charles, quickly; who had lately begun to refer every evil the world contained to the want of money.
"Oh, he allows us something. Just enough to keep us going until we have started on our own account. I get a hundred a-year from the place I'm at. Fred gains nothing yet. He is not out of his articles."
"Well, I'll come and see him again soon," cried Charley, vaulting off. "Good-night, Peter."
Was Fred indeed seriously ill? Was it going to be one of those cases, of which there are too many in London: of a poor young fellow, just entering on the hopeful threshold of life, dying away from friends, and home, and care? Whether caused by Charles's tone or Charles's words, the shadowy thought, that it might be so, entered for the first time into the mind of Peter.
And Charles never had "things made pleasant for him," at the office, in pursuance of the friendly wish just expressed: the opportunity was never afforded. Exactly twenty days from that evening, he was invited to attend the funeral of Frederick Hartley. And could not do so, for want of suitable clothes to wear.