The cab was turning the corner of the little street in Soho in which Lily lived, and Lily was about to ring the door-bell, when Mr. Sheldrake laid his hand on her wrist, and said:
"Let me have a few minutes' conversation with you to-night. I beg it as a favour."
Not daring for Alfred's sake to refuse, Lily tremblingly suggested that they should go indoors and talk; but Mr. Sheldrake said, in a tone that was half decided and half imploring:
"I cannot speak to you in the house."
She raised her eyes to his face for an explanation, and he answered the look.
"Your grandfather is not my friend."
"But that is not grandfather's fault," she said loyally.
"I do not say it is; it is my misfortune, perhaps. He is not so much a friend of Alfred's as he should be."
"How can you say that?" asked Lily, with a beating heart. "You are wrong--very wrong; grandfather loves Alfred."
"I only judge from what Alfred has told me. So far as regards myself, of course, I can see that your grandfather is not over cordial to me. He has no right to be otherwise; I have been a good friend to his grandson, and I deserve some better return."
"I know, I know, Mr. Sheldrake," said Lily earnestly. "Alfred has told me of your kindness to him. I am very grateful to you for it, believe me."
"Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sheldrake briskly, "you can scarcely refuse me the small favour of a few minutes' quiet conversation with you--although I accept it as a great favour. It is a fine night, and after the heat of the theatre, the air will do you no harm."
She had no power to refuse, and they turned slowly from the door. Near to the house was an arched avenue which led to one of the larger thoroughfares. Not many persons were stirring in this quiet courtway, and thither Mr. Sheldrake led Lily.
"If we walk up and down slowly," he said, "our talking together at this time of night will not attract attention. Pray take my arm."
She laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and waited anxiously for his next words.
"I hope," he said, looking into her face with an expression of tender solicitude, "that the effects of your faintness have quite passed away."
"Yes, thank you. It was very stupid of me to give way so."
"You must not say that. You could not help it. And you are the last person, I am sure, to give pain to your friends."
She raised her eyes to his.
"It pained me exceedingly to see you overcome, and I could not help reproaching myself for being the innocent cause of your suffering."
"You were not to know that I was so weak; you did not know what kind of a play it was we were going to see."
"Thank you, Miss Lily," he said eagerly, "thank you. You do me greater justice than your friend Lizzie did. I think she must be ungrateful."
"No, indeed," said Lily warmly. "She is the very reverse of that. You must not speak ill of Lizzie, Mr. Sheldrake."
"Your wish is law," he replied gallantly; "but if she is not ungrateful, I am the most unfortunate of men, for I have by some unaccountable means incurred the displeasure of two persons whom you love--your grandfather and Lizzie."
He paused here, anticipating, and wishing, that Lily would have replied to this, but she was silent.
"And the mystery is, that both have good reason to behave differently towards me, to think better of me, for they must know that I have stood a good friend to Alfred. You know that."
"Yes."
"We entered into a compact, if you remember--you and I--to work together for Alfred's good. Youdoremember it, do you not?"
"Yes."
"That was at Bushey Park. It is one of the pleasantest days in my remembrance. Well, now, I've tried to perform my part in the contract. I've stood Alfred's friend through thick and thin--very few men would have stuck to him as I have done. However, I can take no credit to myself for doing so; he has you to thank for it--only you. Why, here am I repeating the very few words I said to you on the day we entered into partnership!"
His treacherous hand closed upon hers with a tender pressure which made her shiver. Not so much in the words he had spoken, but in the manner of their utterance, he made her understand that he held Alfred's safety--perhaps his life--in his hand, and she felt that if she repulsed him Alfred would be made to suffer. He released her presently, and encouraged by her submission his treacherous arms would have stolen round her waist. But instinctively she evaded the embrace, and stood apart from him. Had her life depended upon it, she could not have acted otherwise. At this moment a man passed through the archway. Mr. Sheldrake's back was towards the man, who, with a keen observance of Lily's attitude, walked slowly onwards in the direction of Lily's home. Mr. Sheldrake waited until the man was out of hearing before he spoke again.
"I hope I have not frightened you by telling you that very few men would have stood by Alfred as I have done, Miss Lily?" How strong the armour of modesty is, was never better shown than in the fact that the man of the world had not yet found courage to address her simply by her Christian name. "But it is a fact, I assure you. I daresay Alfred has confided in you, and has told you some of his troubles?"
"I don't know the exact nature of them; I only know that he is very much harassed."
"Perhaps it is better," said Mr. Sheldrake significantly, "that your knowledge should go no farther. I am afraid that he has been very injudicious--it is a mild phrase, but I would not distress you by using a harsher term. Let us say that he has been injudicious, indiscreet. Well, what then? So long as you and I remain true to our compact, he is safe."
"Mr. Sheldrake," said Lily, in an agony of alarm, "is Alfred in danger?"
"Not while we stand by him. Do not needlessly distress yourself. We'll see him through it, you and I. Many a young fellow has been wrecked through want of a friend--but Alfred has two. Shall I tell you what makes me so earnest in his cause?"
"No," she replied hurriedly, and looking round as if for help; "not to-night. It is late, and grandfather will be anxious about me. Some other time."
"What if some other time should be too late?" he questioned pitilessly. "You ask me whether he is in danger, and almost in the same breath you show unkindness to the only friend who has it in his power to pull him through his difficulties. I make no boast of being his friend--it is the simple truth. And what should there be to displease you in the knowledge that I am your brother's friend because of the feeling I entertain for you? A girl should be thankful--I will not speak of gratitude--to be in this way the guardian and protector of her brother."
"I am grateful, Mr. Sheldrake, indeed, indeed I am!"
"You have a strange way of showing it, Miss Lily. Pardon me, if I seem to speak harshly, but I am deeply wounded by your conduct, and by the conduct of others who should show a better regard for Alfred's position. Your grandfather is cold to me--Alfred's sweetheart misjudges me; but I could forgive these, if you were kind. It is due to my self-respect--which I cannot forfeit, even to win your good opinion--to ask you again whether I may tell you what makes me so earnest in your brother's cause?"
Thus miserably constrained, Lily whispered, "Yes," in a faint tone, knowing what was coming, and dreading it. Mr. Sheldrake dropped his voice to the requisite pitch of tenderness, and prepared to make his avowal.
"I saw you first by accident, Miss Lily. I was passing the Royal White Rose Music-hall one evening--it was in June of last year, a night I shall never forget--and having a spare half hour I dropped in. Almost as I entered, you came upon the stage, and from that moment it seemed to me that my fate was fixed. Such an impression did your sweet face make upon me that I drove to the hall on the following evening, and being acquainted with Storks the manager, we spoke together about you. You remember on that night I threw you a bouquet--I bought it especially for the pretty girl who had made such an impression upon me--and after the performance I came to the back of the stage, and had the pleasure of being introduced to you. I saw that you were too good for such a place--that you were in every way different from the usual run of music-hall performers--and you must take the blame on yourself for having attracted me in such a manner. It is not many girls who have done so--nay, no other has ever produced a similar impression upon me. From that moment I began to love you."
He did not appear to be aware that the very words he employed in declaring his love showed of what base material it was composed. His speech flowed smoothly, and he mentally congratulated himself upon his skill in delivering it. There was no tremor in his voice, for the situation was not new to him. He had delivered himself of artificial love-phrases to a score of girls in his time, and he had become practised in the art; but he was compelled to acknowledge to himself that never had he found conquest so difficult as this--which gave it without doubt a keener zest, and made him as artificially earnest as it was in his false nature to be.
Lily listened tremblingly. It was the first avowal of love that had ever been spoken to her, and it met with no response in her heart. But thought of Alfred's peril compelled her attention. Encouraged by her silence, Mr. Sheldrake proceeded.
"I saw you home that night, and after lingering about the street long after you entered the house--see what an impression you made upon me!--it was my good fortune to make the acquaintance of your brother. He has told you of the circumstance probably?"
He paused for her reply, and she gave it.
"Yes." Faintly whispered, as if it were wrung from her.
"He was in some difficulty, and I was enabled to get him out of it. I was attracted to him by his voice and by his resemblance to you. An acquaintanceship sprang up between us, and it has been in my power to assist him on many occasions. I have done so, as you know, for your sake, and because I love you. There is no need for me to say more. There is one reward I have looked forward to for befriending your brother, and whom I shall continue to befriend if I can hope to find some place in your affection—"
He placed his arm around her, and so overpowered was she by her inward conflict of feeling, that she had no power to resist. But at this critical moment a quick step was heard coming into the archway. Lily turned with a gasp of relief, and seeing who it was that was approaching them, involuntarily cried in a joyful tone,
"Felix!"
And made a movement towards him.
Felix raised his hat, and said:
"Your grandfather is anxious about you, Miss Lily."
"Have you seen him to-night?" asked Lily.
"Yes; I have been to seeThe Bells, and he told me that you had gone to the same theatre. He expected you would have been home before this time."
"Miss Lily was in perfectly safe keeping, sir," said Mr. Sheldrake, biting his lip with vexation at the interruption, and with jealousy at Lily's more cordial manner towards Felix.
"I make no question of it," replied Felix politely. "Her grandfather must be satisfied of that, but I think he expected Alfred would bring his sister home."
"I will come at once," said Lily. "Alfred has gone to see Lizzie home."
Felix offered his arm, and Lily was about to accept it, when Mr. Sheldrake interposed.
"I would like you to assure this person, Miss Lily, that there was no cause for alarm."
In a very lofty manner indeed did Mr. Sheldrake make this request.
"Indeed, no assurance is necessary," said Felix, with the intention of sparing Lily.
But Mr. Sheldrake would not be denied.
"I asked the lady, sir."
"There was no cause for alarm, Felix."
"One word before you go," said Mr. Sheldrake.
Obedient to her look, Felix fell back a pace or two.
"I will not intrude farther upon you to-night, for I see that you are fatigued and anxious. Of course you will keep what has passed between us an entire secret. For Alfred's sake. Out of consideration for you, I have not told you how serious his position is; I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. But you and I, working together, will be able to set him straight."
He pressed her hand tenderly as he wished her good-night; and as she took Felix's arm, he shaped with his lips the warning words, "For Alfred's sake," and turned away without a word to Felix. Before Lily and her protector arrived at the house, Lily said:
"I have not done anything wrong in stopping to speak to Mr. Sheldrake."
"I know that, Lily; but don't say anything more about it."
"I must. I cannot bear that you should think ill of me; and it has so strange an appearance that any one less generous than you would require an explanation, and that I cannot give."
"If I say I am satisfied, and that I hold you in too perfect esteem to think ill of you in any way--that I know you have troubles which you are compelled to keep to your own breast, because they affect others more than yourself--will that content you?"
She answered yes, and he gave her the assurance in other words.
"I have a confession to make before we go in, Lily."
"You, Felix!"
"Yes; I have told an untruth, but one which, I think, may be pardoned. I have not been to your house since eight o'clock. I saw your grandfather then, and he told me you had gone to seeThe Bells, and appeared anxious about you. I was anxious, also, for I did not care that you should see such a piece."
Lily shuddered. "It was dreadful, Felix! Did you know that I fainted?"
"No; I noticed that you were very pale."
"You were watching me, Felix?"
"Yes, Lily; I was at the back of the pit, and could just see your box."
Lily experienced an exquisite delight at this confession. He had come to the theatre expressly to watch over her. Involuntarily she held out her hand to him, and allowed it to remain in his grasp.
"I knew when you came out of the theatre, Lily," he continued, "and when I came towards you just now, and you asked me if I had been at home with your grandfather, I saw no other way of avoiding an unpleasant explanation with Mr. Sheldrake than to say what was not exactly true. If you can say sincerely that you forgive me for the subterfuge, you will relieve my mind and make me feel less culpable."
"No forgiveness can be necessary, Felix, when the only feeling I have is one of gratitude that you came when you did."
"Thank you; I am more than sufficiently rewarded. Now I am going to say something to you, which may need forgiveness; but I depend upon your generous nature not to misjudge me. My words are prompted by sincerity and pure esteem, Lily. Shall I go on?"
"Yes," she answered, looking him earnestly in the face. There was so much truthfulness in her gaze that he could have taken her to his arms there and then, believing that she would have found comfort in that shelter, knowing that it would be to him the greatest happiness earth could afford. But he mastered the impulse with manly resolve, and with a tender and chivalrous regard for her weakness. There was no fear, no doubt, in her face; she knew she could trust him; all the bright dreams of her youth were embodied in him, and would ever be, though the dear realisation of them might never, never come. He was her knight, in the truest sense of the word.
"You are but a child, Lily," he said, "inexperienced in the world's hard ways, and bringing only to your aid, in any difficulty you may be labouring under, a simple heart, unused to the artifice and cunning which surround us. I have learnt something of the world in my struggle; and although I have not learned to condemn it--for there is much that is beautiful in it, Lily--I have learned that it is often necessary to arm yourself with weapons that you despise, if you would save yourself from hurt. In battling with the world, a man must not wear his heart upon his sleeve--there are too many vultures about--he must not oppose a bare breast to foes whose breasts are mailed. I am expressing myself in this way, so as to make you understand that I--who, I would have you believe, despise meanness and unworthiness as heartily as it is in the power of man to do--feel the necessity of using weapons in life's battle which I would fain throw aside. There is nothing more noble than simplicity of heart--I worship it wherever I see it--but it is a weak weapon, as the world goes, and in most cases, where it is relied on solely, it becomes woefully bruised. Say that you are in any trouble, that any cloud hangs over your life, that you are threatened by storms which you see approaching to you nearer and nearer--how canyoumeet them, Lily? What weapons have you at your command to save yourself from the peril? Simplicity, innocence, self-sacrifice! Relying only on these and on yourself, the storm breaks, and then—"
He paused, and Lily did not speak. How precious his words were to her! How skilfully and delicately he had contrived to tell her that her happiness was dear to him! His voice was like music to her heart.
"Then, Lily," he resumed, "think what occurs. It may be that I am wrong in my fears. How happy it would make me to know that it is so! But if I am right, think what may occur. You may bring misery not only to yourself but to others. You are moved by this thought, I see. Has it never occurred to you before? You have at home two whom you love--your brother and your grandfather. There is no need for me to say how dearly your grandfather loves you, and what anguish you may bring upon him if you allow suffering to come on yourself unprepared. In both your brother and your grandfather you should confide, and from your grandfather's larger experience of the world, and from his whole-hearted love for his dear child, good counsel would surely come, if counsel be needed. I should say, if I were asked, that were I in your place and needed counsel, I should deem it a matter of duty, as it is equally a matter of affection, to seek for it in one whose riper years qualify him for giving it, and whose life of love for his child is a sufficient warrant for his sincerity. I should say more than this, Lily, if you would allow me, and if you are not displeased with me—"
"Go on, Felix. I honour you for what you are saying."
"I should say, were I in your place and in such a position as I have hinted at, that I should fail in my duty and my love if I neglected to take him into my confidence, and that, in that case, doubts might well arise in his mind—"
"Of my love for him, Felix?" interrupted Lily, with all the earnestness of her nature. "No, no; do not say that!"
"I might have been harsh enough to use these very words, if I did not know that good old man's heart. Cling to him and to his love, dear Lily; do not throw him aside in your trouble. It is the dearest privilege of affection to share the troubles of those we love. If I were married"--his voice trembled slightly here--"the first consoling thought that would arise to my mind should misfortune overtake me would be, 'Thank God, I have one at home who will sympathise with me and, by her sympathy, console me!'"
Had Felix been the most cunning of men, and had he carefully studied every word he wished to say, he could not have made a more successful appeal. Such strength is there in sincerity and honesty of purpose! If anything had been wanting to make him inexpressibly dear to the girl he loved so loyally, to make her cherish him (as she did) in her heart of hearts, he had supplied it. But he had no thought of that; he had spoken out of perfect singleness of motive.
"So, now," he said, in a lighter tone, "my lecture being over, and knowing, as I know, that you are not hurt or offended with me for speaking as I have done, we will go in to your grandfather. I look upon myself as a very conspirator--pretending to be anxious that you should be at home, and keeping you in the night air for my own selfish purpose!"
He raised his hand to the bell, and Lily caught it and kissed it. She felt no shame in the action, no more than a little child might have done; but the soft touch of her lips thrilled through Felix, and so powerful a happiness filled his heart, as he thought of what might be in the future for him and for her, that a mist floated before his eyes, The next moment he raised her hand to his lips, and returned the homage with the respect and devotion of a true and faithful knight.
Eventful as this night had been to Lily, and destined as it was to live for ever in her memory, it was pregnant with yet deeper meaning for her future, and an event was to occur which was to draw closer together the links of the chain of pure and unworthy love which bound her. On this night she saw clearly what before had been but dimly presentable to her. She saw that Felix loved her; and also that Mr. Sheldrake had a passion for her. She was instinctively conscious that there was nothing in common in the sentiments of these two men. Their feelings for her were as wide apart as were their characters; and she had already estimated these correctly, although she did not realize the depth of baseness from which Mr. Sheldrake's passion sprung. She was too pure and innocent for that.
When the party left for the theatre, Old Wheels found the time pass slowly enough, and for the purpose of whiling away a few minutes, he went up to Gribble junior's room, and found that worthy man and his wife working cheerfully as usual. Gribble junior's father, the victim of co-operative stores, was sitting in a corner nursing the baby, and had as usual been descanting upon the evils of co-operation, when Old Wheels entered. Mr. and Mrs. Gribble junior were laughing heartily at something their father had just uttered.
"What do you think we're laughing at, Mr. Wheels?" asked Gribble junior, as the old man sat down.
Old Wheels expressed a desire to be enlightened.
"Father just said, that he supposed they would be trying next to bring babies into the world by co-operation."
At which, of course, the laughter recommenced.
"Why not?" grumbled Gribble senior. "You can buy pap at the stores, and you can buy coffins. Mind, John, when I'm dead, get my coffin made by an honest tradesman. If you was to buy one at a co-operative stores, I shouldn't rest in my grave."
"Time enough for that, father," replied Gribble junior, in a business-like tone, and yet with affection; "you're good for twenty years yet, I hope and trust."
"I should be, John, if trade was allowed to go on in a proper way. But co-operation'll be the death of me long before my proper time."
"My girl's gone to the theatre," observed Old Wheels, to change the subject.
"It'll do her good," paid Mrs. Gribble; "she's been looking pale of late."
"I'm going to take father to the Music Hall to-night," said Gribble junior. "He's never been to one. You see, Mr. Wheels, what I complain of in father is, that he won't keep moving."
"It's too late, John; it's too late. My joints are stiff."
"Perhaps so, but there's no occasion to make 'em stiffer. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Go in for everything, I say--go in for work, and go in for play; and keep moving. How do you think baby's looking, Mr. Wheels?"
Old Wheels pinched the baby's cheek, and said gaily that the co-operative store couldn't turn out a baby like that.
"Do you hear that, father?" cried Mrs. Gribble junior, with a merry laugh. "Do you hear that?"
"Mr. Wheels is quite right," replied Gribble senior, faithful to his theories; "it ain't likely that anything good and wholesome can come out of co-operation."
"How's trade, Mr. Gribble?"
"Well, it's no use grumbling, but it ain't as good as it should be. I had an idea yesterday, though. It was raining, you know, and I had no jobs on hand. The hospital ain't as full as it ought to be. I went out in the rain yesterday with three new umbrellas under my arms, and one over my head. What for, now? you'll ask. To sell 'em? no; people never buy umbrellas in rainy weather of their own accord; they always wait for a fine day. No; I had an idea, and I carried it out in this way. I saw a respectable man, with an umbrella over his head that wanted mending. I followed him home, and just as he knocked at his door, I went up to him, and said I was an umbrella-maker, and would like the job of mending his umbrella. 'But I've only got this one,' he said, 'and I want to go out again.' 'I'm prepared for that, sir,' I said; 'here's my card; and here's a new umbrella as good as yours. I'll leave this with you to use till I bring back your own, properly mended.' He was tickled at the idea, and was more tickled when I told him that, trade being slack, I had come out on purpose to look for umbrellas that wanted mending. 'You're an industrious fellow,' he said, with a laugh. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'if work won't come to you, you must go to work. Keep moving, that's my motto. If you can't get work, make it.' Well, he gave me his second-hand umbrella, and took my new one. In this way, in less than three hours, I got rid of my four new umbrellas, and got four jobs. I took them back this afternoon, and--would you believe it, Mr. Wheels?--not only did I get paid well for the jobs, but two of the gentlemen bought two of my new umbrellas, and said I deserved to be encouraged. And I think I do," added Gribble junior complacently. "I made a good job of that idea, and I daresay it'll bring me in some money. You see, an umbrella is such an awkward thing to get mended, when it's out of order. Not one person out of twenty knows where to take it to. Well, go to them. I hope it'll rain to-morrow."
When Old Wheels was in his room again, it was natural that his thoughts should dwell much on the conversation that had taken place between himself and Lily. It brought the past before him, and he was painfully startled by the resemblance which the present crisis in the life of his darling bore to that other event in the life of her mother which had wrecked the happiness of that unhappy woman, He opened the cupboard, and saw the little iron box. Very sad were the thoughts it suggested as he brought it to the table and opened it. There was a little money in it, sufficient for a few weeks' expenses of their humble home; two or three mementoes of Lily, such as a piece of ribbon and a flower she had worn in her hair; and some old letters and papers worn and faded. He took them from the box, and sadly read one and another. Among them were letters from Lily's father to her mother during their days of courtship; and certain terms of expression in them brought to him the remembrance of sentiments almost similarly expressed by Alfred. The same vague declarations of being able to make large sums of money by unexplained means; the same selfishness, the same boastfulness, were there embodied. But not the same remorse which Alfred had already experienced; that was to come afterwards, and the despair which ever accompanies it. "We were happy then, my daughter and I," the old man murmured; "happy before he came. My daughter's life might not have ended as it did, in misery; might not have been passed, as it was, in miserable repinings. He brought a blight upon us." And then came the thought, "Like father, like son." He paced the room with disturbed steps. "Alfred's father," he thought, "wrecked the happiness of the woman who loved him, who trusted implicitly in him--wrecked the happiness of my daughter, who was once as bright as my darling Lily. And how she changed under the consequence of his vice and his folly! How she drooped, and drooped, until life became torture! As she trusted him and believed in him, and sacrificed herself for him, so Lily trusts and believes and is ready to sacrifice herself for Alfred. Shall I allow her to do this blindly? The end would not be the same, for Lily could not live through it. How can I save my darling? Would it not be better to inflict a sharp pain upon her now, than to see her walk blindly, confidingly, lovingly, to a desolate future?" At this point of his musings he heard the street-door open and shut, and heard a stumbling step in the passage below. Looking over the papers in the iron box, he came upon two which he opened and read. They were the last two documents connected with the career of Lily's father. One was a full quittance for a sum of money which the unhappy man had embezzled; the wording of the other was as follows:
"In consideration of my father-in-law paying the money due to Mr. James Creamwell, which I have wrongfully used, I solemnly promise not to trouble my wife with my presence as long as I live, and not to make myself known to my children in the future, should we meet by any chance. For the wrong that I have done, I humbly ask their forgiveness.
"Richard Manning."
"He has kept his word," mused Old Wheels; "from that time I have never seen him, never heard of him. No one but I has ever read this paper, unless Alfred, when he took the money from this box— But no; he could have had no thought for anything but his unhappy purpose."
Old Wheels was interrupted in his musings by the whining of a dog at the door. "That's Snap's voice," he said, and going to the door, he saw the faithful dog waiting for him. Snap, directly he saw the old man, looked in his face appealingly, and walked towards the stairs. Old Wheels, taking the candle, followed the dog down-stairs, and found Jim Podmore asleep at the bottom. Snap, having fulfilled his mission, waited patiently for the old man to act.
"Come, Mr. Podmore," said Old Wheels, gently shaking the sleeping man; "you mustn't sleep here. Come up-stairs, and get to bed."
The tired man murmured "All right," and settled himself comfortably to continue his nap. But Old Wheels shook him more roughly, and he rose to his feet wearily, and leaning against the wall, seemed disposed to fall asleep again in that position.
"Come, pull yourself together," urged Old Wheels, taking Jim Podmore's arm; "you'll be more comfortable in your own room than here."
Thus advised, and being well shaken, Jim "pulled himself together," and with many incoherent apologies, accompanied Old Wheels up-stairs. When he arrived at the first landing, he appeared to think he had gone far enough, and quite naturally he stumbled into the old man's room, and fell into a chair.
"I'm not going to allow you to fall asleep again," persisted Old Wheels. "Bed's the proper place for you."
"I should like," murmured Jim, "to go to bed--and sleep--for a month."
Old Wheels laughed slightly at this.
"You wouldn't expect to wake up at the end of the time," he said, continuing to shake Jim Podmore.
"I don't know--I don't care--I'd like to go to bed--and sleep--for a year. All right, Mr. Wheels--don't shake me--any more!--I'm awake--that is, as awake--as I shall be--till to-morrow morning. I beg you--a thousand pardons--for troubling you. I suppose--you found me asleep--somewhere. Where?"
"On the stairs."
"Ah--yes. I thought--I should ha' fell down in the streets--as I walked along. I was so--dead-beat. I'm glad--youwoke me up--for I wanted--to ask you something."
Old Wheels thought it best not to interrupt the current of Jim's thoughts, and therefore did not speak. Jim shook himself much as a dog does when he comes out of the water, and having, it is to be presumed, by that action, aroused his mental faculties, proceeded.
"We've had a talk--to-day--me and some mates--and I made up my mind--that I'd speak--to some one--as might know--better than us. I meant you."
"Yes--what were you speaking about?"
"Well, you see--it come in this way. I never told you--about Dick Hart--did I?"
"No--not that I remember," replied Old Wheels.
"He was a man o' our'n--Dick Hart was. As good a fellow--as ever drawed--God's breath. He was working--on our line--a many months ago. He ain't working there now--not him--ain't working anywhere--can't get it. Willing enough--Dick Hart is--and a-breaking his heart--because he can't get it. He's a doomed man--Mr. Wheels--a doomed man!--and might as well--be dead--as alive. Better--a dooced sight better--if it warn't for his wife--and kids."
Jim Podmore was evidently warming up. His theme was powerful enough to master his fatigue. Old Wheels listened attentively.
"It might have happened--to me--itmighthappen--to me--any night--when I'm dead-beat. What then?" he asked excitedly, to the no small surprise of Snap, to whom this episode was so strange that he stood aside, gazing gravely at his master. "What then?" Jim repeated. "Why, I should be--what Dick Hart is--a-wandering about--in rags--a-starving almost. I should be worse than him--for when I think--of the old woman up-stairs--asleep--and my little Polly--that is my star--my star, Polly is!--and think of them--with nothing to eat--like Dick Hart's old woman and kids--I shouldn't be able--to keep my hands--to myself. And I shouldn't try to--I'm damned if I should!"
Old Wheels laid his hand with a soothing motion on the excited man's shoulder.
"Be cool, Mr. Podmore," he said. "Tell me calmly what you want. You are wandering from the subject."
"No, I ain't," responded Jim Podmore doggedly. "I'm sticking to it. And it ain't likely--begging your pardon--for being so rough--that Icanbe calm--when I've got what I have got--in my mind."
"What's that?"
Jim Podmore looked with apprehension at Old Wheels, and then turned away his eyes uneasily.
"Never mind that--it'smytrouble--and mustn't be spoken of. Let's talk of Dick Hart."
"You were about," said Old Wheels gently, "to tell me some story connected with him."
"He was as good a fellow--as ever drawed breath--and had been in the Company's service--ever so many years. There was nothing agin him. He did his work--and drawed his screw. Little enough! He got overworked--often--as a good many of us gets--a-many times too often--once too often for poor Dick--as I'm going to tell you, short. It must ha' been--eight months ago--full--when Dick Hart--worked off his legs--with long hours--and little rest--had a accident. He took a oath afterwards--that he was that dead-beat--before the accident--that he felt fit to drop down dead with fatigue. He couldn't keep--his eyes open--as I can't sometimes--and when the accident--takes place--he goes almost mad. But that doesn't alter it. The accident's done--and Dick Hart's made accountable. He's took up--and tried--and gets six months. If what he did--had ha' been his fault--he ought to have been--hung--but they didn't seem--quite to know--whether he was to blame--or whether--he wasn't--so they give him six months--to make things even, I suppose. While Dick's in prison--his wife's confined--with her second--and how they lived--while he's away from 'em--God knows! Some of us gives a little--now and then. I give twice--but what Dick's wife got--in that way was--next to nothing--as much as we--could afford. Dick Hart--comes out of prison--a little while ago--and tries to get work--and can't. He gets a odd job--now and then--by telling lies about himself--and his old woman--gets a little charing--but they've not been able--to keep the wolf--from the door. It's got right in--and they are--pretty-nigh starving--him and the old woman--and the kids."
Jim Podmore's drowsiness coming upon him powerfully here, he had as much as he could do to keep himself awake. He indulged himself with a few drowsy nods, and then proceeded as though there had been no interval of silence.
"Well, we had a talk about him--to-day, me and my mates. We made up--a little money--about six shillings--and sent it to his old woman. But we can't go on--doing this--and one of the men said--that if it comes to the officers' ears--or the directors'--that we'd been making up money--for a man as has been discharged--and's been in prison--and's cost the Company a lot o' money in damages--(for they had to pay two men--who was able--to afford a lawyer; there was others--as was poor--who couldn't afford a lawyer, consequently--they got nothing)--that if it come--to the directors' ears--we should likely--get into trouble ourselves."
Having come to the end of Dick Hart's story, Jim Podmore dozed off again, and would have fallen into deep sleep but for Old Wheels nudging him briskly.
"Well?" asked the old man.
"Ah, yes," said Jim; "I was almost forgetting. What I want to know is--is Dick Hart responsible--for what he's done? Is it right--that a respectable man--a hardworking man--a honest man--should be compelled--to work until he's lost--all control over himself--till he's ready to drop--as I've told you before--and as I've been ready to myself--and that then--when a accident happens--which wouldn't have happened--if he'd been fresh--or if a fresh man had been--in his place is it right, I want to know," and Jim Podmore raised his arm slowly and lowered it, and raised it again and lowered it again, as if it were a piston, "that that man--should be put--in prison--should be disgraced--should lose his honest name--shouldn't be able to get work--for his old woman--and the young uns--and that they should be almost starving--as Dick Hart's people's doing now?"
Fortunately for Old Wheels, who would have found these questions very difficult to answer, Jim Podmore was too tired and too sleepy to wait for a reply.
"If I don't go upstairs--immediate," he said, rising slowly to his feet, "you'll have--to carry me. So I'll wish you--good-night, Mr. Wheels, and thank you."
He paused at the door for the purpose of asking one other question.
"Did you ever feel--that something was going to happen--without exactly knowing what it was?"
"Yes," replied Old Wheels good-humouredly, "but it never did happen."
"Ah," pondered the puzzled man, "but this will, though."
"What will?"
"Didn't I tell you--I didn't know what? But it'll happen--as sure as my name's--Jim Podmore. It's buzzing about my head now,--and I can't make it out."
"Nervousness," suggested Old Wheels, "brought on by overwork."
"Mayhap, but there it is. What would you call it, now? Give it a name."
"It is a presentiment, I should say."
"That's it. I've got--a presentiment. Thank you. Good-night, Mr. Wheels. I've got--a presentiment--and it'll come true--as sure as my name's--Jim."
With that Jim Podmore staggered upstairs, with faithful Snap at his heels, and within an hour Old Wheels heard the street-door bell ring, and hurried downstairs.
Felix intended to leave Lily after he had seen her safely within doors, but the old man begged him to come in. A look from Lily decided him, and the three faithful souls ascended the stairs to the old man's room. Old Wheels entering first, gave Lily an opportunity to say hurriedly to Felix,
"Don't tell grandfather of my fainting, Felix. It might distress him."
He promised her.
"Nor about Mr. Sheldrake."
"Very well, Lily."
She spoke in a whisper; she was so thrilling with exquisite sensitiveness that any harsher sound would have been a disturbance to her happy state.
"I will think of what you have said to-night, Felix; you are right, I know--youmustbe right." (The unspoken words came to her: "My heart tells me so.") "Thank you for it, Felix, with all my heart."
Their hands met in a tender clasp. They entered the room the next moment, and Old Wheels looked towards them with a pleased expression in his face, brought there by the circumstance of Lily and Felix lingering for a few moments in the passage. It betokened a confidence between them.
It was one o'clock before Felix took his departure. The conversation between him and Old Wheels had turned principally upon the mental disturbance of Mr. Podmore, and upon his presentiment. This made a great impression upon Felix, and, although he was almost ashamed to confess it to himself, took fast hold of his mind. He was predisposed for some such influence, from the thought of the crisis that seemed to be imminent in the life of the woman he loved. That it must come, and soon, he was convinced, and he thought to himself it would be almost a wise act to hasten it, if possible. He had quietly made it his business to acquaint himself with the nature of Mr. Sheldrake's transactions; and, notwithstanding that that gentleman was close and crafty, Felix had learned much concerning him. The knowledge sprang naturally, as it were, out of Felix's profession. He was correspondent for two country newspapers, and had managed to insert the thin end of his wedge into the wall of London journalism. He was working his way, steadily and unobtrusively, and he was sanguine and confident of the future. Very many people suppose that cunning is one of the principal specialties of wisdom, but it is not always so. A rare strength, which shows itself almost invariably with great and good results, lies in the man who is wise and not cunning--who is wise from honesty of purpose. Felix was this. He was sincere in all he did--honest in all he did. It is a pleasure to be able to indicate, even by such mere outlines as these, a character which too many persons do not believe in.
Beginning to earn his living by his pen, and being enabled to act in a certain measure independently, and to take his own view of things, it was natural that he should exercise his small power in the cause of right. It was not his ambition to be the Don Quixote of literature, but he could no more resist the inclination to strike hard blows at public shams and injustice than, being naturally truthful, he could resist the inclination to tell the truth. Of course he could effect but little good, The great shield behind which imposture and knavery found shelter, and which protected dishonesty and hypocrisy, suffered but little from his attacks; but here and there he made a dent, and that was a great satisfaction to him. He was a faithful soldier, and fought with courage.
He knew that in some way Lily's brother was in Mr. Sheldrake's power, and accident revealed to him the nature of the bond between them. In his crusade against knavery, he became acquainted with the unmitigated roguery that was practised under the protection of the institution which, with a grim and ghastly humour, has been denominated the great national sport. His friend Charley, who introduced him to the columns of thePenny Whistle, was the first who opened his eyes to the knavery. It seems to be a recognised necessity that all young men who have the means and the leisure should go through the formula known as "seeing life"--a process which to some is a sad tragedy, and which to nearly all is a bitter experience. Very few come out of that fire unscathed. Charley had gone through this formula--fortunately for him, in a superficial way. Charley's parents were good people enough, and had tacitly agreed that their son must "see life" before he settled; everybody's sons saw life before settling, and Charley must not be an exception. So the young fellow went into the world, and in the natural course of things became mixed up in matters, the mere mention of which would have brought a blush to his mother's cheek. But Charley was doing the proper thing: there was no doubt of that. However, the young fellow's inclinations were not inherently vicious, and he escaped the pitfalls in which so many weak and unfortunate ones are ingulfed. He and Felix had met some few times since Felix's installation as London correspondent to thePenny Whistle, and they had opened their hearts to each other. Thus it came out that Charley told Felix of his introduction to the racing world, and of his adventures therein.
"You see, Felix," he said, "I had outrun my allowance, and I thought I might be able to set things straight, and pay my few small debts, without coming on my father's purse. So, led away by the flaming accounts in the newspapers, I went into betting; was introduced by a friend to club where I could bet, and for three months went regularly to races. It didn't turn out well, and after dropping nearly two hundred pounds, I went to my father, and made a clean breast of it. He paid my debts, and made me promise to give up the infatuation, as he called it. I promised willingly enough, for I had made up my mind before, and I am sure I shall never be drawn into the net again. The fact is, Felix, it didn't suit me: the men I met on the race-courses were such cads and blackguards that I soon became disgusted with myself for mixing with them. I tell you what it is, old fellow. I think being with you a great deal has done me good, and I have learnt from you to hate things that are mean. You've been to races, of course?"
"I've been to Goodwood, and Ascot, and to the Derby. The Derby is a wonderful sight. I should like to go with you to one or two of the small meetings."
They went in company, and Felix, having a deeper purpose in his mind than idle amusement, saw much to astonish him. As they were making their way through a crowd of sharks and gulls, Charley pulled his sleeve, and said,
"There! There's a man who had over a hundred pounds of my money."
Turning, Felix saw Mr. David Sheldrake, evidently very much at home. Felix, not wishing to be seen by Mr. Sheldrake, walked away, and watched him from a distance.
"Is he a betting-man?" asked Felix.
"O, yes; and as sharp as a needle."
"Does he attend these meetings regularly?"
"You seem to be interested in him, Felix."
"Yes, I know him."
"And don't like him, evidently," observed Charley, judging from his friend's tone.
"That is true; I don't like him. But you haven't answered my question."
"I have met him on nearly every race-course I have been to; he is always to be seen in the 'ring,' I should say."
Felix did not pursue the subject, but later in the day said,
"Have you any documents, Charley, connected with your betting experiences, or have you destroyed them?"
"I have them all. By-the-bye, they might be useful to you; there are some strange things among them--well, perhaps not strange in themselves, but strange that such things should be allowed. It would be a good subject for you to take up."
"Any letters from that man?"
"O, yes; suppose I send you the packet?"
"I should like to see them."
They were received in due course by Felix, and they so interested him that he began from that time to subscribe to the sporting papers, and to make a regular study of the usually unprofitable theme. Any person who did not know Felix's character might reasonably have supposed that he had been bitten by the mania, and that he was beginning to entertain the idea that he might make a fortune by betting with sharps. They would have had ample grounds for so supposing, if they had known that Felix actually sent small sums in stamps to the prophets and tipsters and the layers of odds who advertised in the sporting papers, for the purpose of obtaining the information necessary for the rapid and certain realisation of "fabulous sums"--a phrase which many of the advertisers used in the traps they set, unconscious of the ironical truth it contained. But what Felix was doing was a means to another end, and he lost his money cheerfully. He began to frequent race-courses also, and on one occasion, early in his experience, he saw Lily's brother, as he expected to see him, running hither and thither in a state of blind excitement. With a set determination, Felix watched the young man during the whole of the day, saw the fatal infatuation which urged him onwards, and saw him pass through the various stages of hope, suspense, and agony. Felix saw more with the eyes of his mind; he saw ruin waiting at Alfred's heels. Felix had met with an old legend which stated how every human being was attended by two angels, one bad, one good, and how they strove for mastery over the soul they attended. As the recollection of this legend came to him, Felix looked up and saw Alfred's bad angel, Mr. David Sheldrake, talking to Alfred, and Alfred eagerly listening. It saddened Felix to see this, although he fully expected it, and was prepared for it. "Alfred's good angel," he thought, "is love. But love has no sword to strike this false friend dead." But Felix went home that evening with a clue in his hand.
On this night, as Felix walked away from Lily's house, he thought of these things, and was too disturbed to go home. He walked about the quiet streets, and at the end of an hour found himself on the Thames Embankment. As he stood there, musing, gazing into the solemn river, he became conscious of a sudden tremor in the air. He looked around with a feeling of vague alarm upon him, but he saw nothing, heard nothing. "Pshaw!" he muttered. "Mr. Podmore's presentiment is frightening me with shadows. I'll stroll past Lily's house, and then go home to bed."
Jim Podmore, staggering into the one room which formed his Englishman's castle, found his wife and Pollypod fast asleep in bed. Before he went out to his work in the morning, he had told his wife not to sit up for him that night. "You've had precious hard work of it, old woman," he had said, "this last week; so go to bed early and have a long night's rest. I'll find my way up-stairs all right." The precious hard work which Jim Podmore referred to was one of those tasks which poor people--especially women--take upon themselves when occasion requires, with a readiness and cheerfulness which it is beautiful to see. A neighbour's child had been ill, and required constant watching. The mother, worn out with her labour of love, had fallen ill herself. And Mrs. Podmore flew to her aid, and attended to her household duties, and nursed her and the child through their sickness. The cheerfulness with which Mrs. Podmore undertook this task and performed it, as if it were a duty incumbent upon her, cannot be described. The best reward she could receive was hers: the mother and child recovered their health, and were strong enough to attend to themselves. Late in the previous night the doctor had released Mrs. Podmore, and told her--with smiles and good words and with a hand-shake which gratified the simple woman mightily--that now she had best go home and take care of herself; "for we can get about ourselves now," he said, "and sha'n't want you any more." This accounted for Jim Podmore having to find his way up-stairs by himself, for Mrs. Podmore seldom went to bed before he returned home. He knew, on this night, that his wife was asleep, and in the midst of his drowsiness he took off his boots in the passage, so that he should not disturb her.
Entering the room in his stockinged feet, he stepped softly to the bedside, and rested his hand lightly and tenderly on Pollypod's neck. The bed being against the wall, and Pollypod sleeping inside, he could not kiss her without disturbing his wife. The child slept peacefully, and Jim Podmore gazed lovingly at the pretty picture, and leaned forward to feel the sweet breath, pure as an angel's whisper, that came from her parted lips. His supper was laid for him on the table, and he sat down to it, Snap standing at his feet in patient eagerness waiting for such scraps and morsels as he thought fit to give. Jim did not forget his dog; Snap fared well, and when supper was finished the dog stretched himself on the ground, and with half-closed eyes watched his master's face. Snap blinked and blinked, but although occasionally his eyes were so nearly closed that only the thinnest line of light could be seen, the dog never relaxed his watchful gaze. Jim sat in his chair, pipe in mouth, and smoked and dozed, and thought of Dick Hart and his wife and children, and of his own wife and Pollypod, till they all became mixed up together in the strangest way, and in the phantasmagoria of his fancy changed places and merged one into the other in utter defiance of all probability. Thus, as he leaned forward to catch the sweet breath that came from Pollypod's lips, the child's face became blurred and indistinct, and in her place Dick Hart appeared, crouching upon the rail way platform in an agony of despair. The platform itself appeared, with its throng of anxious faces, with its sound of hurried feet and cries of pain, with a light in the air that belonged to neither night nor day, sensitive with a tremor which was felt, but could not be seen or described, and which spoke of hopes for ever crushed out, and of lives of fair promise blighted by the act that lay in one fatal moment's neglect or helplessness. "If I don't go to bed," murmured Jim with a start, whereat all these things vanished into nothingness, "I shall fall asleep." And still he sat, and murmured, "Poor Dick!"
It was really but the work of a moment. Jim Podmore being on duty, suddenly felt a shock--then heard a crash, followed by screams and shouts, and what seemed to be the muffled sound of a myriad of voices. He knew that an accident had occurred, and he ran forward, and saw carriages overturned on the line, and huge splinters of wood lying about. "Who did it?" he cried. "Dick Hart!" a voice replied; and then he heard Dick's voice crying, "O, my God!" The busy hands were at work clearing the wreck, and the few passengers--happily there were but few--were assisted out. Most of them had escaped with a bruise or a scratch, but one man, they said, looked in a bad state, and at his own entreaty they allowed him to lie still upon the platform until doctors, who had been promptly sent for, had arrived; and one little child was taken into a room, and lay like dead. Jim Podmore was in the room, and he saw Dick Hart brought in between two men. Dick, when his eyes lighted on the piteous sight of the little girl lying like that, trembled as if ague had seized him, and began to sob and cry. "Idid it!Idid it!" he gasped. "Why don't some one strike me down dead?" As he uttered these words, and as he stood there, with a face whiter than the face of the child who lay before him, a woman rushed in and cried in a wild tone, "Where's the man that killed my child?" Upon this, with a cry wilder than that to which the poor woman had given vent, Dick Hart wrested himself free from the men, whose hands (in their grief at what had occurred) were only lightly laid upon him, and rushed out of the room like a madman. The men followed him, but he was too quick for them, and before they could lay hands on him again, he had jumped from the platform on to the line, dashing aside the persons who tried to stop him. His mad idea was to run forward on the line until he saw a train coming, and then to throw himself before it and be crushed to pieces. But he was saved from the execution of this piteous design; the men reached him and seized him, and carried him back by main force. When he was in the room again, his passion being spent, he fell upon his knees, and looked round with a scared white face, waiting for what was to come. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore. And then the men whispered to each other how Dick Hart had been worked off his legs lately; how the accident was nothing more than was to be expected; and how Dick's wife was near her confinement with her second. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore again, for the thought of Dick Hart's one little girl at home, and the other child that was soon expected, brought Pollypod to his mind.
It was too true; Dick Hart's wife was very near her confinement, and on this very night, unconscious of the dreadful event that had taken place, she was busy getting together the little things she had made for her first-born, and recalling the feelings she had experienced before she became a mother--feelings in which joy and pride were so commingled as to be inseparable. The time was night, in the wane of summer, and many a smile came upon the woman's lips, and many a tender thought dwelt in her mind, as she laid out the little garments and examined them to see where they wanted a stitch. Mrs. Hart had been married five years; and while she was employed in the manner just described, her first child, four years of age, was sitting in a low chair, playing with a doll, which not only had softening of the brain, but softening of every portion of its anatomy--for it was a rag doll.
But the doll, treasure as it was, notwithstanding its flat face (for rags do not admit of the formation of features of particular shape and beauty), was not the only object of the child's attention. She had that day been invested with a pair of new red socks, and Little Vanity was now holding out her little legs as straight as she could, and calling her mother's attention for the hundredth time to her flaming red treasures. Mrs. Hart knelt before the child, and admired the socks with the most outrageously-exaggerated turns of speech, and pulled them up tight, to her child's infinite delight and contentment. Then the mother began to prattle upon the subject nearest to her heart, and began to speak also, for the hundredth time, about the little brother--for Mrs. Hart had settled that "her second," as Jim Podmore had expressed it, was to be a boy--whom Rosy presently would have to play with.
"And you'll love him very much, Rosy, won't you?" asked the mother.
"Yes, very, very much."
Indeed, Rosy used a great many more "verys" than two, and quite ingenuously, be it stated. But Rosy had a strong desire to be enlightened upon a certain point, and she seized the present favourable opportunity. She had heard a great deal about this little brother whom she was to love and play with, but she was puzzled to know where the little stranger was to come from. Now was the time to obtain the information.
"Mother," asked the inquisitive little girl, "when will Bunny come?"
"Bunny," it must be explained, was the fanciful title by which Rosy had already christened the expected stranger.
"Next week, Rosy," answered the happy mother; "almost sure next week. Ain't you glad?"
"Yes, I'm very, very glad." (Again a redundancy of "verys" which must be left to the imagination.) "But, mother, who'll bring Bunny here?"
"Who'll bring him, Rosy? Why the doctor, to be sure."
Rosy nodded her head wisely, and employed a full minute in the silent enjoyment of her new red socks. Mrs. Hart was silent also, worshipping her little girl. If children only knew how their mothers worship them! Down went Rosy's legs again.
"Where will the doctor bring Bunny from, mother?"
"From the parsley-bed," replied the mother, laughing.
"Is Bunny there now, mother?"
"Yes, dear."
"DidIcome out of a parsley-bed mother?"
"Yes, my dear," and Mrs. Hart smothered Rosy's face and neck with kisses. She was so occupied with her happiness that she did not hear the door, and did not know that any one was in the room until she heard a voice calling her name. The voice belonged to a neighbour, Mrs. Thomson, and Mrs. Hart rose to her feet, and was beginning to tell merrily of the conversation which she had just had with Rosy, when something in Mrs. Thomson's face stopped her tongue.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Thomson? What is it? Tell me, quick!"
"Now, bear up, Mrs. Hart," said the neighbour; "remember how near your time is, and bear up, there's a good soul!"
"What's the matter?" cried Mrs. Hart, thoroughly frightened.
"Tell me, quick, for God's sake! Is it anything about Dick? Has he had an accident? Is he hurt! O, why don't you speak!"
"Dick's not hurt."
"Thank God! But on and off, all this week, I've been frightened about him. It's a shame and a sin to work a man as he's been worked. Who's outside?"
She flew to the door, and pulled into the room a man employed by the same Company as her husband.
"There's something the matter," she gasped, and caught Rosy up, and pressed the child close to her breast. The man judged wisely that it would be the best to come to the point at once.
"Dick sent me to you, Mrs. Hart," he said; "he's had an accident, and one or two people have been hurt; he's all right himself, and he sent me to tell you so."
"Why didn't he come himself?" asked the wife, trembling and crying.
"Well, you see—" began the man; but Mrs. Hart did not allow him to proceed.
"They've put him in prison," she said, with a quick short breath; "my Dick, the best husband and the best father in the world! And they're going to punish him for what's not his fault Do you know how many hours' sleep he's had this week?"
"Don't excite yourself, there's a good soul!" remonstrated Mrs. Thomson. "He'll come out of it all right. Think of your baby."
"He's not in prison, Mrs. Hart," said the man; "but he's going to remain at the station until after the inquiry."
"Mrs. Thomson, will you take care of Rosy till I come back?"
"Why, surely, my dear, you're not going out in your condition!"
"I'm going to my husband," said Mrs. Hart, "and I'm going to see them managers and directors, and ask them what they're going to do to Dick."
With that the distracted woman, putting on her hat and shawl, left Rosy in her neighbour's charge, and hurried downstairs, followed by the man, who said it was best to let her have her own way, and that it was what he would like his wife to do if anything happened to him.
Jim Podmore was with her during all this time, and witnessed the interview between husband and wife.
"I can't tell how it occurred," said Dick Hart, who, although dreadfully distressed, was now more calm, and inexpressibly comforted by the presence of his wife. "Everything seemed to take place in a flash of light, like. I suppose it was because I was tired out with too much work. I don't care for myself. I'm thinking of the future, and what's going to become of you and Rosy--and--and the baby."
Dick broke down a dozen times during the interview, and sobbed and cried like a child.
"It'll always be on my mind. I'm glad I didn't kill myself, for your sake. Perhaps it'd ha' been better for you if I'd been killed, though. I don't know; I don't know what to think. You'd better take what money I've got about me. It ain't much; but I daresay they'll pay you for my work up to to-night."
Dick was fairly bewildered in this serious crisis, and completely helpless. If he had had money, he might have sent for a lawyer; but between eleven and twelve shillings was all his wealth.
An inquiry and inquest were held, at both of which Jim Podmore was present. Indeed, he was never absent from Dick Hart and his wife during all this time, although he took no active part in the history of their lives. And this is what he saw.
Dick Hart on his trial for manslaughter, with an array of lawyers against him sufficient to frighten a poor man out of his senses. The lawyers for the prosecution were against him, and strove, by all the ingenuity of long study and sharp experience, to prove him the guiltiest man that ever stood in a felon's dock. The lawyers of the Company were against him, and their aim was to prove the perfect innocence of the powerful directors they represented, and therefore the utter and inexcusable guilt of Dick Hart. Strong odds these against a poor man with an empty purse. A strange road to justice was this on which Dick Hart found himself, unarmed and with bare breast--and with something of a guilty conscience also, for he really did not know how far he was to blame--opposed to the keen intellects of those who were grandly paid to find him guilty. He quivered with helpless rage, he was racked with despair, as he listened to the manner in which the case was stated by his enemies: they were nothing less; they were there to destroy him. But there was a grain of salt for him in the midst of all this great trouble. A young lawyer, not overburdened with briefs, undertook his defence for the love of the thing, and pleaded so ably that he very nearly succeeded in proving Dick Hart innocent--as undoubtedly he was. Unfortunately, he could not prove that Dick Hart was not immediately responsible for the accident; but he did prove that the man, by excessive overwork, was so prostrate from fatigue, that it would have been almost next to a miracle had an accident not occurred. "Perhaps," said this daring champion, to the admiration of Jim Podmore, who nodded his head in confirmation and approbation at every thrust the lawyer made--"perhaps you will say that the prisoner was wrong in allowing himself to be so overtasked; but he has a wife and child dependent on him for support, and his wife is now at home, expecting every hour to saddle him with another responsibility. The prisoner is a hardworking man, and a poor man, and had he refused to perform the duties required of him, never mind at what sacrifice to himself, never mind at what peril to the public--as has been too often unhappily proved in other cases--he would have stood a fair chance of being dismissed from the service of the Company. If this case serves in any way to direct public attention to the manner in which too many servants of the railway companies are overworked, it will be fortunate that it is tried; but the prisoner must not be made the victim of a bad and abominable system. Not many days ago the coroner of Middlesex, at an inquest held upon the body of an engine-fitter, who was crushed to death between two engines, stated that no fewer than thirty railway servants are killed in his district every year; and he very pertinently wished to know whether such wholesale slaughter was altogether necessary. This is not the question for you to answer now, but it may lead you to a merciful view of the prisoner's case; for the perils of the service are sufficiently great in themselves, and should not be made greater by unfairly tasking the powers of the men. There are in the full week of seven days one hundred and sixty-eight hours; and there are hundreds of railway servants who can show a time-bill of one hundred and twelve hours. Add to these hours the time employed in going and coming from work, and you will have some idea of the manner in which these men are overworked. I read lately in a leading article upon this subject in a paper whose facts may be relied upon, that some men have worked thirty, some forty hours right off, without any sleep but that which nature has exacted at the post of duty, at the peril of those intrusted to their charge. It is the public who suffer; and when an accident occurs in consequence of a man being unfairly worked, he--being a man, and not a machine--cannot in justice be held responsible. At a meeting lately held in Brighton, one railway servant stated that he sometimes worked thirty-seven hours at a stretch." The lawyer cited many such facts as these, and even had the hardihood to assert that a director or a manager should be standing in the dock in Dick Hart's place. However, it seemed to be understood that it was impossible to let Dick Hart off scot-free, and being found guilty and strongly recommended to mercy, he was sentenced to six months' imprisonment, a sentence which was virtually a parody upon justice; for if Dick Hart were guilty he should have been hanged, and if he were innocent he should have been compensated for the torture he had been made to suffer. An hour after the trial Jim Podmore was telling Dick Hart that his wife was confined.
It was a mystery to Jim how Dick's wife and children managed to live during that time, but manage they did, somehow. Neighbours were as kind to them as their own narrow means would allow: Rosy had many a good meal in one house and another; when Mrs. Hart grew strong, she went out charing; sometimes when she could not get work she begged--and dodged the policeman. It is amazing to what shifts some honest unfortunate folk are compelled to resort in the necessity that nature lays upon them to eat or die: which last is not an easy thing to do. Dick came out of prison and tried to get work, and failed. He was compelled also to resort to such dishonest shifts as adopting a name that did not belong to him, as denying this and that unworthy thing, as putting a cheerful face upon an empty stomach. He obtained work on another line of railway, and was turned away at the end of the fourth day, having beenfound out, a crime which is invariably severely punished, and which the world never forgives. Dick Hart really found existence a very difficult thing; and yet he had muscles, and was willing to exercise them.
The struggle was too hard for him, and he fell sick, and could not go out of his room for weeks. His wife nursed him and worked for him, after a fashion. When she could not get charing to do, she went a-begging. Rosy was sent to a school where the children occasionally enjoyed the blessing of penny dinners. On those occasions Rosy was always duly armed with a penny by her mother. One day a policeman arrested Mrs. Hart for begging, and she was brought before the magistrate. Money was found upon her--one shilling and sevenpence--and eight boxes of fusees. The policeman, in his evidence, fairly stated that he had made inquiry at the address Mrs. Hart gave, and found that she lived in a respectable house, that Dick Hart was sick and unable to move out of his room, that he had never been known to be drunk, and that neighbours sincerely pitied him and spoke well of him; also that the mistress of the school to which Rosy went gave the child and her mother an excellent character. Asked what she had to say for herself, Mrs. Hart told the truth: she went out to get bread for her husband and children; she asserted that she was compelled to beg. The magistrate said she should have gone to the parish. Then she told a piteous story. Shehadgone to the parish, and the relieving-officer (a mock title, surely!) refused to give her any out-door relief, but said she and her family might go into the workhouse, if she chose. She declined to do this, as in that case her husband would not be able to get work, and she did not wish to be a burden to the parish. She begged for a loaf of dry bread for her children; and "dressed in his little brief authority," the relieving-officer refused. "We have not broken our fast," she pleaded; and asked what they were to do. "The best you can," was the merciful reply. She did the best she could: she went into the streets hungry, and begged; and hurried home with the first penny she received, and sent Rosy to school, armed for dinner. Then she continued her begging--with her next proceeds bought a dozen boxes of fusees--and when she was in a flourishing condition, with one shilling and sevenpence in her pocket, was arrested for her monstrous crime.