Demos

CHAPTER XVI

Alice reached home again on Christmas Eve. It was snowing; she came in chilled and looking miserable. Mrs. Mutimer met her in the hall, passed her, and looked out at the open door, then turned with a few white flecks on her gown.

‘Where’s Dick?

‘He couldn’t come,’ replied the girl briefly, and ran up to her room.

‘Arry was spending the evening with friends. Since tea-time the old woman had never ceased moving from room to room, up and down stairs. She had got out an old pair of Richard’s slippers, and had put them before the dining-room fire to warm. She had made a bed for Richard, and had a fire burning in the chamber. She had made arrangements for her eldest son’s supper. No word had come from Wanley, but she held to the conviction that this night would see Richard in London.

Alice came down and declared that she was very hungry. Her mother went to the kitchen to order a meal, which in the end she prepared with her own hands. She seemed to have a difficulty in addressing any one. Whilst Alice ate in silence, Mrs. Mutimer kept going in and out of the room; when the girl rose from the table, she stood before her and asked:

‘Why couldn’t he come?’

Alice went to the fireplace, knelt down, and spread her hands to the blaze. Her mother approached her again.

‘Won’t you give me no answer, Alice?’

‘He couldn’t come, mother. Something important is keeping him.’

‘Something important? And why did he want you there?’

Alice rose to her feet, made one false beginning, then spoke to the point.

‘Dick’s married, mother.’

The old woman’s eyes seemed to grow small in her wrinkled face, as if directing themselves with effort upon something minute. They looked straight into the eyes of her daughter, but had a more distant focus. The fixed gaze continued for nearly a minute.

‘What are you talking about, girl?’ she said at length, in a strange, rattling voice. ‘Why, I’ve seen Emma this very morning. Do you think she wouldn’t ‘a told me if she’d been a wife?’

Alice was frightened by the look and the voice.

‘Mother, it isn’t Emma at all. It’s someone at Wanley. We can’t help it, mother. It’s no use taking on. Now sit down and make yourself quiet. It isn’t our fault.’

Mrs. Mutimer smiled in a grim way, then laughed—a most unmusical laugh.

‘Now what’s the good o’ joking in that kind o’ way? That’s like your father, that is; he’d often come ‘ome an’ tell me sich things as never was, an’ expect me to believe ‘em. An’ I used to purtend I did, jist to please him. But I’m too old for that kind o’ jokin’.—Alice, where’s Dick? How long’ll it be before he’s here? Where did he leave you?’

‘Now do just sit down, mother; here, in this chair. Just sit quiet for a little, do.’

Mrs. Mutimer pushed aside the girl’s hand; her face had become grave again.

‘Let me be, child. And I tell you I have seen Emma to-day. Do you think she wouldn’t ‘a told me if things o’ that kind was goin’ on?’

‘Emma knows nothing about it, mother. He hasn’t told any one. He got me to come because he couldn’t tell it himself. It was as much a surprise to me as to you, and I think it’s very cruel of him. But it’s over, and we can’t help it. I shall have to tell Emma, I suppose, and a nice thing too!’

The old woman had begun to quiver; her hands shook by her sides, her very features trembled with gathering indignation.

‘Dick has gone an’ done this?’ she stammered. ‘He’s gone an’ broke his given word? He’s deceived that girl as trusted to him an’ couldn’t help herself?’

‘Now, mother, don’t take on so! You’re going to make yourself ill. It can’t be helped. He says he shall send Emma money just the same.’

‘Money! There you’ve hit the word; it’s money as ‘as ruined him, and as ‘ll be the ruin of us all. Send her money! What does the man think she’s made of? Is all his feelings got as hard as money? and does he think the same of every one else? If I know Emma, she’ll throw his money in his face. I knew what ‘ud come of it, don’t tell me I didn’t. That very night as he come ‘ome an’ told me what had ‘appened, there was a cold shiver run over me. I told him as it was the worst news ever come into our ‘ouse, and now see if I wasn’t right! He was angry with me ‘cause I said it, an’ who’s a right to be angry now? It’s my belief as money’s the curse o’ this world; I never knew a trouble yet as didn’t somehow come of it, either ‘cause there was too little or else too much. And Dick’s gone an’ done this? And him with all his preachin’ about rights and wrongs an’ what not! Him as was always a-cryin’ down the rich folks ‘cause they hadn’t no feelin’ for the poor! What feeling’s he had, I’d like to know? It’s him as is rich now, an’ where’s the difference ‘tween him and them as he called names? No feelin’ for the poor! An’ what’s Emma Vine? Poor enough by now. There’s Jane as can’t have not a week more to live, an’ she a-nursin’ her night an’ day. He’ll give her money!—has he got the face to say it? Nay, don’t talk to me, girl; I’ll say what I think if it’s the last I speak in this world. Don’t let him come to me! Never a word again shall he have from me as long as I live. He’s disgraced himself, an’ me his mother, an’ his father in the grave. A poor girl as couldn’t help herself, as trusted him an’ wouldn’t hear not a word against him, for all he kep’ away from her in her trouble. I’d a fear o’ this, but I wouldn’t believe it of Dick; I wouldn’t believe it of a son o’ mine. An’ ‘Arry ‘ll go the same way. It’s all the money, an a curse go with all the money as ever was made! An’ you too, Alice, wi’ your fine dresses, an’ your piannerin’, an’ your faldedals. But I warn you, my girl. There ‘ll no good come of it. I warn you, Alice! You’re ashamed o’ your own mother—oh, I’ve seen it! But it’s a mercy if you’re not a disgrace to her. I’m thankful as I was always poor; I might ‘a been tempted i’ the same way.’

The dogma of a rude nature full of secret forces found utterance at length under the scourge of a resentment of very mingled quality. Let half be put to the various forms of disinterested feeling, at least half was due to personal exasperation. The whole change that her life had perforce undergone was an outrage upon the stubbornness of uninstructed habit; the old woman could see nothing but evil omens in a revolution which cost her bodily discomfort and the misery of a mind perplexed amid alien conditions. She was prepared for evil; for months she had brooded over every sign which seemed to foretell its approach; the egoism of the unconscious had made it plain to her that the world must suffer in a state of things which so grievously affected herself. Maternal solicitude kept her restlessly swaying between apprehension for her children and injury in the thought of their estrangement from her. And now at length a bitter shame added itself to her torments. She was shamed in her pride as a mother, shamed before the girl for whom she nourished a deep affection. Emma’s injuries she felt charged upon herself; she would never dare to stand before her again. Her moral code, as much a part of her as the sap of the plant and as little the result of conscious absorption, declared itself on the side of all these rushing impulses; she was borne blindly on an exhaustless flux of words. After vain attempts to make herself heard, Alice turned away and sat sullenly waiting for the outburst to spend itself. Herself comparatively unaffected by the feelings strongest in her mother, this ear-afflicting clamour altogether checked her sympathy, and in a great measure overcame those personal reasons which had made her annoyed with Richard. She found herself taking his side, even knew something of his impatience with Emma and her sorrows. When it came to rebukes and charges against herself her impatience grew active. She stood up again and endeavoured to make herself heard.

‘What’s the good of going on like this, mother? Just because you’re angry, that’s no reason you should call us all the names you can turn your tongue to. It’s over and done with, and there’s an end of it. I don’t know what you mean about disgracing you; I think you might wait till the time comes. I don’t see what I’ve done as you can complain of.’

‘No, of course you don’t,’ pursued her mother bitterly. ‘It’s the money as prevents you from seeing it. Them as was good enough for you before you haven’t a word to say to now; a man as works honestly for his living you make no account of. Well, well, you must go your own way—’

‘What is it you want, mother? You don’t expect me to look no higher than when I hadn’t a penny but what I worked for? I’ve no patience with you. You ought to be glad—’

‘You haven’t no patience, of course you haven’t. And I’m to be glad when a son of mine does things as he deserves to be sent to prison for! I don’t understand that kind o’ gladness. But mind what I say; do what you like with your money, I’ll have no more part in it. If I had as much as ten shillings a week of my own, I’d go and live by myself, and leave you to take your own way. But I tell you what I can do, and what I will. I’ll have no more servants a-waitin’ on me; I wasn’t never used to it, and I’m too old to begin. I go to my own bedroom upstairs, and there I live, and there ‘ll be nobody go into that room but myself. I’ll get my bits o’ meals from the kitchen. ‘Tain’t much as I want, thank goodness, an’ it won’t be missed. I’ll have no more doin’s with servants, understand that; an’ if I can’t be left alone i’ my own room, I’ll go an’ find a room where I can, an’ I’ll find some way of earnin’ what little I want. It’s your own house, and you’ll do what you like in it. There’s the keys, I’ve done with ‘em; an’ here’s the money too, I’m glad to be rid of it. An’ you’ll just tell Dick. I ain’t one as says what I don’t mean, nor never was, as that you know. You take your way, an’ I’ll take mine. An’ now may be I’ll get a night’s sleep, the first I’ve had under this roof.’

As she spoke she took from her pockets the house keys, and from her purse the money she used for current expenses, and threw all together on to the table. Alice had turned to the fireplace, and she stood so for a long time after her mother had left the room. Then she took the keys and the money, consulted her watch, and in a few minutes was walking from the house to a neighbouring cab-stand.

She drove to Wilton Square. Inspecting the front of the house before knocking at the door, she saw a light in the kitchen and a dimmer gleam at an upper window. It was Mrs. Clay who opened to her.

‘Is Emma in?’ Alice inquired as she shook hands rather coldly.

‘She’s sitting with Jane. I’ll tell her. There’s no fire except in the kitchen,’ Kate added, in a tone which implied that doubtless her visitor was above taking a seat downstairs.

‘I’ll go down,’ Alice replied, with just a touch of condescension. ‘I want to speak a word or two with Emma, that’s all.’

Kate left her to descend the stairs, and went to inform her sister. Emma was not long in appearing; the hue of her face was troubled, for she had deceived herself with the belief that it was Richard who knocked at the door. What more natural than for him to have come on Christmas Eve? She approached Alice with a wistful look, not venturing to utter any question, only hoping that some good news might have been brought her. Long watching in the sick room had given her own complexion the tint of ill-health; her eyelids were swollen and heavy; the brown hair upon her temples seemed to droop in languor. You would have noticed that her tread was very soft, as if she still were moving in the room above.

‘How’s Jane?’ Alice began by asking. She could not quite look the other in the face, and did not know how to begin her disclosure.

‘No better,’ Emma gave answer, shaking her head. Her voice, too, was suppressed; it was weeks since she had spoken otherwise.

‘I am so sorry, Emma. Are you in a hurry to go up again?’

‘No. Kate will sit there a little.’

‘You look very poorly yourself. It must be very trying for you.’

‘I don’t feel it,’ Emma said, with a pale smile. ‘She gives no trouble. It’s only her weakness now; the pain has almost gone.’

‘But then she must be getting better.’

Emma shook her head, looking aside. As Alice kept silence, she continued:

‘I was glad to hear you’d gone to see Richard. He wouldn’t—I was afraid he mightn’t have time to get here for Christmas.’

There was a question in the words, a timorously expectant question. Emma had learnt the sad lesson of hope deferred, always to meet discouragement halfway. It is thus one seeks to propitiate the evil powers, to turn the edge of their blows by meekness.

‘No, he couldn’t come,’ said Alice.

She had a muff on her left hand, and was turning it round and round with the other. Emma had not asked her to sit down, merely because of the inward agitation which absorbed her.

‘He’s quite well?’

‘Oh yes, quite well.’

Again Alice paused. Emma’s heart was beating painfully. She knew now that Richard’s sister had not come on an ordinary visit; she felt that the call to Wanley had had some special significance. Alice did not ordinarily behave in this hesitating way.

‘Did—did he send me a message?’

‘Yes.’

But even now Alice could not speak. She found a way of leading up to the catastrophe.

‘Oh, mother has been going on so, Emma! What do you think? She won’t have anything to do with the house any longer. She’s given me the keys and all the money she had, and she’s going to live just in her bedroom. She says she’ll get her food from the kitchen herself, and she won’t have a thing done for her by any one. I’m sure she means it; I never saw her in such a state. She says if she’d ever so little money of her own, she’d leave the house altogether. She’s been telling me I’ve no feeling, and that I’m going to the bad, that I shall live to disgrace her, and I can’t tell you what. Everything is so miserable! She says it’s all the money, and that she knew from the first how it would be. And I’m afraid some of what she says is true, I am indeed, Emma. But things happen in a way you could never think. I half wish myself the money had never come. It’s making us all miserable.’

Emma listened, expecting from phrase to phrase some word which would be to her a terrible enlightenment But Alice had ceased, and the word still unspoken.

‘You say he sent me a message?’

She did not ask directly the cause of Mrs. Mutimer’s anger. Instinct told her that to hear the message would explain all else.

‘Emma, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll blame me, like mother did.’

‘I shan’t blame you, Alice. Will you please tell me the message?’

Emma’s lips seemed to speak without her volition. The rest o her face was fixed and cold.

‘He’s married, Emma.’

‘He asked you to tell me?’

Alice was surprised at the self-restraint proved by so quiet an interrogation.

‘Yes, he did. Emma, I’m so, so sorry! If only you’ll believe I’m sorry, Emma! He made me come and tell you. He said if I didn’t you’d have to find out by chance, because he couldn’t for shame tell you himself. And he couldn’t tell mother neither. I’ve had it all to do. If you knew what I’ve gone through with mother! It’s very hard that other people should suffer so much just on his account. I am really sorry for you, Emma.’

‘Who is it he’s married?’ Emma asked. Probably all the last speech had been but a vague murmur to her ears.

‘Some one at Wanley.’

‘A lady?’

‘Yes, I suppose she’s a lady.’

‘You didn’t see her, then?’

‘Yes, I saw her. I don’t like her.’

Poor Alice meant this to be soothing. Emma knew it, and smiled.

‘I don’t think she cares much after all,’ Alice said to herself.

‘But was that the message?’

‘Only to tell you of it, Emma. There was something else,’ she added immediately; ‘not exactly a message, but he told me, and I dare say he thought I should let you know. He said that of course you were to have the money still as usual.’

Over the listener’s face came a cloud, a deep, turbid red. It was not anger, but shame which rose from the depths of her being. Her head sank; she turned and walked aside.

‘You’re not angry with me, Emma?’

‘Not angry at all, Alice,’ was the reply in a monotone.

‘I must say good-bye now. I hope you won t take on much. And I hope Jane ‘ll soon be better.’

‘Thank you. I must go up to her; she doesn’t like me to be away long.’

Alice went before up the kitchen stairs, the dark, narrow stairs which now seemed to her so poverty-stricken. Emma did not speak, but pressed her hand at the door.

Kate stood above her on the first landing, and, as Emma came up, whispered:

‘Has he come?’

‘Something has hindered him.’ And Emma added, ‘He couldn’t help it.’

‘Well, then, I think he ought to have helped it,’ said the other tartly. ‘When does he mean to come, I’d like to know?’

‘It’s uncertain.’

Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of ill-content, then returned to the kitchen.

Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her face, which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden of Death.

The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a disk of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light and shade, which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but obliterated in a gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the trivet.

The sick girl’s hands lay on the counterpane; one of them moved as Emma came to the bedside, and rested when the warmer fingers clasped it. There was eager inquiry in the sunken eyes; her hand tried to raise itself, but in vain.

‘What did Alice say?’ she asked, in quick feeble tones. ‘Is he coming?’

‘Not for Christmas, I’m afraid, dear. He’s still very busy.’

‘But he sent you a message?’

‘Yes. He would have come if he could.’

‘Did you tell Alice I wanted to see her? Why didn’t she come up? Why did she stay such a short time?’

‘She couldn’t stay to-night, Jane. Are you easy still, love?’

‘Oh, I did so want to see her. Why couldn’t she stop, Emma? It wasn’t kind of her to go without seeing me. I’d have made time if it had been her as was lying in bed. And he doesn’t even answer what I wrote to him. It was such work to write—I couldn’t now; and he might have answered.’

‘He very seldom writes to any one, you know, Jane. He has so little time.’

‘Little time! I have less, Emma, and he must know that. It’s unkind of him. What did Alice tell you? Why did he want her to go there? Tell me everything.’

Emma felt the sunken eyes burning her with their eager look. She hesitated, pretended to think of something that had to be done, and the eyes burned more and more. Jane made repeated efforts to raise herself, as if to get a fuller view of her sister’s face.

‘Shall I move you?’ Emma asked. ‘Would you like another pillow?’

‘No, no,’ was the impatient answer. ‘Don’t go away from me; don’t take your hand away. I want to know all that Alice said. You haven’t any secrets from me, Emmy. Why does he stay away so long? It seems years since he came to see you. It’s wrong of him. There’s no business ought to keep him away all this time. Look at me, and tell me what she said.’

‘Only that he hadn’t time. Dear, you mustn’t excite yourself so. Isn’t it all right, Jane, as long as I don’t mind it?’

‘Why do you look away from me? No, it isn’t all right. Oh, I can’t rest, I can’t lie here! Why haven’t I strength to go and say to him what I want to say? I thought it was him when the knock came. When Kate told me it wasn’t, I felt as if my heart was sinking down; and I don’t seem to have no tears left to cry. It ‘ud ease me a little if I could. And now you’re beginning to have secrets. Emmy!’

It was a cry of anguish. The mention of tears had brought them to Emma’s eyes, for they lurked very near the surface, and Jane had seen the firelight touch on a moist cheek. For an instant she raised herself from the pillows. Emma folded soft arms about her and pressed her cheek against the heat which consumed her sister’s.

‘Emmy, I must know,’ wailed the sick girl. ‘Is it what I’ve been afraid of? No, not that! Is it the worst of all? You must tell me now. You don’t love me if you keep away the truth. I can’t have anything between you and me.’

A dry sob choked her; she gasped for breath. Emma, fearful lest the very life was escaping from her embrace, drew away and looked in anguish. Her involuntary tears had ceased, but she could no longer practise deception. The cost to Jane was greater perhaps than if she knew the truth. At least their souls must be united ere it was too late.

‘The truth, Emmy!’

‘I will tell it you, darling,’ she replied, with quiet sadness. ‘It’s for him that I’m sorry. I never thought anything could tempt him to break his word. Think of it in the same way as I do, dear-sister; don’t be sorry for me, but for him.’

‘He’s never coming? He won’t marry you?’

‘He’s already married, Jane. Alice came to tell me.’

Again she would have raised herself, but this time there was no strength. Not even her arms could she lift from the coverlets. But Emma saw the vain effort, raised the thin arms, put them about her neck, and held her sister to her heart as if for eternity.

‘Darling, darling, it isn’t hard to bear. I care for nothing but your love. Live for my sake, dearest dear; I have forgotten every one and everything but you. It’s so much better. I couldn’t have changed my life so; I was never meant to be rich. It seems unkind of him, but in a little time we shall see it was best. Only you, Janey; you have my whole heart, and I’m so glad to feel it is so. Live, and I’ll give every minute of my life to loving you, poor sufferer.’

Jane could not breathe sound into the words she would have spoken. She lay with her eyes watching the fire-play on the ceiling. Her respiration was quick and feeble.

Mutimer’s name was not mentioned by either again that night, by one of them never again. Such silence was his punishment.

Kate entered the room a little before midnight. She saw one of Jane’s hands raised to impose silence. Emma, still sitting by the bedside, slept; her head rested on the pillows. The sick had become the watcher.

‘She’d better go to bed,’ Kate whispered. ‘I’ll wake her.’

‘No, no You needn’t stay, Kate. I don’t want anything. Let her sleep as she is.’

The elder sister left the room. Then Jane approached her head to that of the sleeper, softly, softly, and her arm stole across Emma’s bosom and rested on her farther shoulder. The fire burned with little whispering tongues of flame; the circles of light and shade quivered above the lamp. Abroad the snow fell and froze upon the ground.

Three days later Alice Mutimer, as she sat at breakfast, was told that a visitor named Mrs. Clay desired to see her. It was nearly ten o’clock; Alice had no passion for early rising, and since her mother’s retirement from the common table she breakfasted alone at any hour which seemed good to her. ‘Arry always—or nearly always—left the house at eight o’clock.

Mrs. Clay was introduced into the dining-room. Alice received her with an anxious face, for she was anticipating trouble from the house in Wilton Square. But the trouble was other than she had in mind.

‘Jane died at four o’clock this morning,’ the visitor began, without agitation, in the quick, unsympathetic voice which she always used when her equanimity was in any way disturbed. ‘Emma hasn’t closed her eyes for two days and nights, and now I shouldn’t wonder if she’s going to be ill herself. I made her lie down, and then came out just to ask you to write to your brother. Surely he’ll come now. I don’t know what to do about the burying; we ought to have some one to help us. I expected your mother would be coming to see us, but she’s kept away all at once. Will you write to Dick?’

Alice was concerned to perceive that Kate was still unenlightened.

‘Did Emma know you were coming?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I suppose she did. But it’s hard to get her to attend to anything. I’ve left her alone, ‘cause there wasn’t any one I could fetch at once. Will you write to-day?’

‘Yes, I’ll see to it,’ said Alice. ‘Have some breakfast, will you?’

‘Well, I don’t mind just a cup o’ coffee. It’s very cold, and I had to walk a long way before I could get a ‘bus.’

Whilst Kate refreshed herself, Alice played nervously with her tea-spoon, trying to make up her mind what must be done. The situation was complicated with many miseries, but Alice had experienced a growth of independence since her return from Wanley. All she had seen and heard whilst with her brother had an effect upon her in the afterthought, and her mother’s abrupt surrender into her hands of the household control gave her, when she had time to realise it, a sense of increased importance not at all disagreeable. Already she had hired a capable servant in addition to the scrubby maid-of-all-work who had sufficed for Mrs. Mutimer, and it was her intention that henceforth domestic arrangements should be established on quite another basis.

‘I’ll telegraph to Dick,’ she said, presently. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll see that everything’s done properly.’

‘But won’t he come himself?’

‘We shall see.’

‘Is your mother in?’

‘She’s not very well; I don’t think I must disturb her with bad news. Tell Emma I’m very sorry, will you? I do hope she isn’t going to be ill. You must see that she gets rest now. Was it sudden?’ she added, showing in her face how little disposed she was to dwell on such gloomy subjects as death and burial.

‘She was wandering all yesterday. I don’t think she knew anything after eight o’clock last night. She went off in a sleep.’

When the visitor had gone, Alice drove to the nearest telegraph office and despatched a message to her brother, giving the news and asking what should be done. By three o’clock in the afternoon no reply had yet arrived; but shortly after Mr. Keene presented himself at the house. Alice had not seen him since her return. He bowed to her with extreme gravity, and spoke in a subdued voice.

‘I grieve that I have lost time, Miss Mutimer. Important business had taken me from home, and on my return I found a telegram from Wanley. Your brother directs me to wait upon you at once, on a very sad subject, I fear. He instructs me to purchase a grave in Manor Park Cemetery. No near relative, I trust?’

‘No, only a friend,’ Alice replied. ‘You’ve heard me speak of a girl called Emma Vine. It’s a sister of hers. She died this morning, and they want help about the funeral.’

‘Precisely, precisely. You know with what zeal I hasten to perform your’—a slight emphasis on this word—‘brother’s pleasure, be the business what it may. I’ll see about it at once. I was to say to you that your brother would be in town this evening.’

‘Oh, very well. But you needn’t look so gloomy, you know, Mr. Keene. I’m very sorry, but then she’s been ill for a very long time, and it’s really almost a relief—to her sisters, I mean.’

‘I trust you enjoyed your visit to Wanley, Miss Mutimer?’ said Keene, still preserving his very respectful tone and bearing.

‘Oh yes, thanks. I dare say I shall go there again before very long. No doubt you’ll be glad to hear that.’

‘I will try to be, Miss Mutimer. I trust that your pleasure is my first consideration in life.’

Alice was, to speak vulgarly, practising on Mr. Keene. He was her first visitor since she had entered upon rule, and she had a double satisfaction in subduing him with airs and graces. She did not trouble to reflect that under the circumstances he might think her rather heartless, and indeed hypocrisy was not one of her failings. Her naivete constituted such charm as she possessed; in the absence of any deep qualities it might be deemed a virtue, for it was inconsistent with serious deception.

‘I suppose you mean you’d really much rather I stayed here?’

Keene eyed her with observation. He himself had slight depth for a man doomed to live by his wits, and he was under the disadvantage of really feeling something of what he said. He was not a rascal by predilection; merely driven that way by the forces which in our social state abundantly make for rascality.

‘Miss Mutimer,’ he replied, with a stage sigh, ‘why do you tempt my weakness? I am on my honour; I am endeavouring to earn your good opinion. Spare me!’

‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no harm in you, Mr. Keene. I suppose you’d better go and see after your—your business.’

‘You are right. I go at once, Princess. I may call you Princess?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. Of course only when there’s no one else in the room.’

‘But I shall think it always.’

‘That I can’t prevent, you know.’

‘Ah, I fear you mean nothing, Miss Mutimer.’

‘Nothing at all.’

He took his leave, and Alice enjoyed reflecting upon the dialogue, which certainly had meant nothing for her in any graver sense.

‘Now, that’s what the books call flirtation,’ she said to herself. ‘I think I can do that.’

And on the whole she could, vastly better than might have been expected of her birth and breeding.

At six o’clock a note was delivered for her. Richard wrote from an hotel in the neighbourhood, asking her to come to him. She found him in a private sitting-room, taking a meal.

‘Why didn’t you come to the house?’ she asked. ‘You knew mother never comes down-stairs.’

Richard looked at her with lowered brows.

‘You mean to say she’s doing that in earnest?’

‘That she is She comes down early in the morning and gets all the food she wants for the day. I heard her cooking something in a frying-pan to-day. She hasn’t been out of the house yet.’

‘Does she know about Jane?’

‘No. I know what it would be if I went and told her.’

He ate in silence. Alice waited.

‘You must go and see Emma,’ was his next remark. ‘Tell her there’s a grave in Manor Park Cemetery; her father and mother were buried there, you know. Keene ‘ll look after it all and he’ll come and tell you what to do.’

‘Why did you come up?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t talk about these things in letters. You’ll have to tell mother; she might want to go to the funeral.’

‘I don’t see why I should do all your disagreeable work, Dick!’

‘Very well, don’t do it,’ he replied sullenly, throwing down his knife and fork.

A scene of wrangling followed, without violence, but of the kind which is at once a cause and an effect of demoralisation. The old disagreements between them had been in another tone, at all events on Richard’s side, for they had arisen from his earnest disapproval of frivolities and the like. Richard could no longer speak in that way. To lose the power of honest reproof in consequence of a moral lapse is to any man a wide-reaching calamity; to a man of Mutimer’s calibre it meant disaster of which the end could not be foreseen.

Of course Alice yielded; her affection and Richard’s superior force always made it a foregone result that she should do so.

‘And you won’t come and see mother?’ she asked.

‘No. She’s behaving foolishly.’

‘It’s precious dull at home, I can tell you. I can’t go on much longer without friends of some kind. I’ve a good mind to marry Mr. Keene, just for a change.’

Richard started up, with his fist on the table.

‘Do you mean to say he’s been talking to you in that way?’ he cried angrily.

Alice had spoken with thoughtless petulance. She hastened eagerly to correct her error.

‘As if I meant it! Don’t be stupid, Dick. Of course he hasn’t said a word; I believe he’s engaged to somebody; I thought so from something he said a little while ago. The idea of me marrying a man like that!’

He examined her closely, and Alice was not afraid of telltale cheeks.

‘Well, I can’t think you’d be such a fool. If I thought there was any danger of that, I’d soon stop it.’

‘Would you, indeed! Why, that would be just the way to make me say I’d have him. You’d have known that if only you read novels.’

‘Novels!’ he exclaimed, with profound contempt. ‘Don’t go playing with that kind of thing; it’s dangerous. At least you can wait a week or two longer. I’ve only let him see so much of you because I felt sure you’d got common sense.’

‘Of course I have. But what’s to happen in a week or two?’

‘I should think you might come to Wanley for a little. We shall see. If mother had only ‘Arry in the house, she might come back to her senses.’

‘Shall I tell her you’ve been to London?’

‘You can if you like,’ he replied, with a show of indifference.

Jane Vine was buried on Sunday afternoon, her sisters alone accompanying her to the grave. Alice had with difficulty obtained admission to her mother’s room, and it seemed to her that the news she brought was received with little emotion. The old woman had an air of dogged weariness; she did not look her daughter in the face, and spoke only in monosyllables. Her face was yellow, her cheeks like wrinkled parchment.

Manor Park Cemetery lies in the remote East End, and gives sleeping-places to the inhabitants of a vast district. There Jane’s parents lay, not in a grave to themselves, but buried amidst the nameless dead, in that part of the ground reserved for those who can purchase no more than a portion in the foss which is filled when its occupants reach statutable distance from the surface. The regions around were then being built upon for the first time; the familiar streets of pale, damp brick were stretching here and there, continuing London, much like the spreading of a disease. Epping Forest is near at hand, and nearer the dreary expanse of Wanstead Flats.

Not grief, but chill desolation makes this cemetery its abode. A country churchyard touches the tenderest memories, and softens the heart with longing for the eternal rest. The cemeteries of wealthy London abound in dear and great associations, or at worst preach homilies which connect themselves with human dignity and pride. Here on the waste limits of that dread East, to wander among tombs is to go hand in hand with the stark and eyeless emblem of mortality; the spirit falls beneath the cold burden of ignoble destiny. Here lie those who were born for toll; who, when toil has worn them to the uttermost, have but to yield their useless breath and pass into oblivion. For them is no day, only the brief twilight of a winter sky between the former and the latter night For them no aspiration; for them no hope of memory in the dust; their very children are wearied into forgetfulness. Indistinguishable units in the vast throng that labours but to support life, the name of each, father, mother, child, is as a dumb cry for the warmth and love of which Fate so stinted them. The wind wails above their narrow tenements; the sandy soil, soaking in the rain as soon as it has fallen, is a symbol of the great world which absorbs their toil and straightway blots their being.

It being Sunday afternoon the number of funerals was considerable; even to bury their dead the toilers cannot lose a day of the wage week. Around the chapel was a great collection of black vehicles with sham-tailed mortuary horses; several of the families present must have left themselves bare in order to clothe a coffin in the way they deemed seemly. Emma and her sister had made their own funeral garments, and the former, in consenting for the sake of poor Jane to receive the aid which Mutimer offered, had insisted through Alice that there should be no expenditure beyond the strictly needful. The carriage which conveyed her and Kate alone followed the hearse from Hoxton; it rattled along at a merry pace, for the way was lengthy, and a bitter wind urged men and horses to speed. The occupants of the box kept up a jesting colloquy.

Impossible to read the burial service over each of the dead separately; time would not allow it. Emma and Kate found themselves crowded among a number of sobbing women, just in time to seat themselves before the service began. Neither of them had moist eyes; the elder looked about the chapel with blank gaze, often shivering with cold; Emma’s face was bent downwards, deadly pale, set in unchanging woe. A world had fallen to pieces about her; she did not feel the ground upon which she trod; there seemed no way from amid the ruins. She had no strong religious faith; a wail in the darkness was all the expression her heart could attain to; in the present anguish she could not turn her thoughts to that far vision of a life hereafter. All day she had striven to realise that a box of wood contained all that was left of her sister. The voice of the clergyman struck her ear with meaningless monotony. Not immortality did she ask for, but one more whisper from the lips that could not speak, one throb of the heart she had striven so despairingly to warm against her own.

Kate was plucking at her arm, for the service was over, and unconsciously she was impeding people who wished to pass from the seats. With difficulty she rose and walked; the cold seemed to have checked the flow of her blood; she noticed the breath rising from her mouth, and wondered that she could have so much whilst those dear lips were breathless. Then she was being led over hard snow, towards a place where men stood, where there was new-turned earth, where a coffin lay upon the ground. She suffered the sound of more words which she could not follow, then heard the dull falling of clods upon hollow wood. A hand seemed to clutch her throat, she struggled convulsively and cried aloud. But the tears would not come.

No memory of the return home dwelt afterwards in her mind. The white earth, the headstones sprinkled with snow, the vast grey sky over which darkness was already creeping, the wind and the clergyman’s voice joining in woful chant, these alone remained with her to mark the day. Between it and the days which then commenced lay formless void.

On Tuesday morning Alice Mutimer came to the house. Mrs. Clay chanced to be from home; Emma received the visitor and led her down into the kitchen.

‘I am glad you have come,’ she said; ‘I wanted to see you to-day.’

‘Are you feeling better?’ Alice asked. She tried in vain to speak with the friendliness of past days; that could never be restored. Her advantages of person and dress were no help against the embarrassment caused in her by the simple dignity of the wronged and sorrowing girl.

Emma replied that she was better, then asked:

‘Have you come only to see me; or for something else?’

‘I wanted to know how you were; but I’ve brought you something as well’

She took an envelope from within her muff. Emma shook her head.

‘No, nothing more,’ she said, in a tone removed alike from resentment and from pathos; ‘I want you, please, to say that we can t take anything after this.’

‘But what are you going to do, Emma?’

‘To leave this house and live as we did before.’

‘Oh, but you can’t do that What does Kate say?’

‘I haven’t told her yet; I’m going to do so to-day.’

‘But she’ll feel it very hard with the children.’

The children were sitting together in a corner of the kitchen. Emma glanced at them, and saw that Bertie, the elder, was listening with a surprised look.

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ she replied simply, ‘but we have no choice.’

Alice had an impulse of generosity.

‘Then take it from me,’ she said. ‘You won’t mind that. You know I have plenty of my own. Live here and let one or two of the rooms, and I’ll lend you what you need till the business is doing well. Now you can’t have anything to say against that?’

Emma still shook her head.

‘The business will never help us. We must go back to the old work; we can always live on that. I can’t take anything from you, Alice.’

‘Well, I think it’s very unkind, Emma.’

‘Perhaps so, but I can’t help it: It’s kind of you to offer, I feel that; but I’d rather work my fingers to the bone than touch one halfpenny now that I haven’t earned.’

Alice bridled slightly and urged no more. She left before Kate returned.

In the course of the morning Emma strung herself to the effort of letting her sister know the true state of affairs. It was only what Kate had for a long time suspected, and she freely said as much, expressing her sentiments with fluent indignation.

‘Of course I know you won’t hear of it,’ she said, ‘but if I was in your place I’d make him smart. I’d have him up and make him pay, see if I wouldn’t. Trust him, he knows you’re too soft-hearted, and he takes advantage of you. It’s girls like you as encourages men to think they can do as they like. You’ve no right, you haven’t, to let him off. I’d have him in the newspapers and show him up, see if I wouldn’t. And he shan’t have it quite so easy as he thinks neither; I’ll go about and tell everybody as I know. Only let him come a-lecturin’ hereabouts, that’s all!’

‘Kate,’ broke in the other, ‘if you do anything of the kind, I don’t know how I shall speak to you again. Its not you he’s harmed; you’ve no right to spread talk about me It’s my affair, and I must do as I think fit. It’s all over and there’s no occasion for neither you nor me to speak of him again I’m going out this afternoon to find a room for us, and we shall be no worse off than we was before. We’ve got to work, that’s all, and to earn our living like other women do.’

Her sister stared incredulously.

‘You mean to say he’s stopped sending money?’

‘I have refused to take it.’

‘You’ve done what? Well, of all the—!’ Comparisons failed her. ‘And I’ve got to take these children back again into a hole like the last? Not me! You do as you like; I suppose you know your own business. But if he doesn’t send the money as usual, I’ll find some way to make him, see if I don’t! You’re off your head, I think.’

Emma had anticipated this, and was prepared to bear the brunt of her sister’s anger. Kate was not originally blessed with much sweetness of disposition, and an unhappy marriage had made her into a sour, nagging woman. But, in spite of her wretched temper and the low moral tone induced during her years of matrimony, she was not evil-natured, and her chief safeguard was affection for her sister Emma. This seldom declared itself, for she was of those unhappily constituted people who find nothing so hard as to betray the tenderness of which they are capable, and, as often as not, are driven by a miserable perversity to words and actions which seem quite inconsistent with such feeling. For Jane she had cared far less than for Emma, yet her grief at Jane’s death was more than could be gathered from her demeanour. It had, in fact, resulted in a state of nervous irritableness; an outbreak of anger came to her as a relief, such as Emma had recently found in the shedding of tears. On her own account she felt strongly, but yet more on Emma’s; coarse methods of revenge naturally suggested themselves to her, and to be thwarted drove her to exasperation. When Emma persisted in steady opposition, exerting all the force of her character to subdue her sister’s ignoble purposes, Kate worked herself to frenzy. For more than an hour her voice was audible in the street, as she poured forth torrents of furious reproach and menace; all the time Emma stood patient and undaunted, her own anger often making terrible struggle for mastery, but ever finding itself subdued. For she, too, was of a passionate nature, but the treasures of sensibility which her heart enclosed consecrated all her being to noble ends. One invaluable aid she had in a contest such as this—her inability to grow sullen. Righteous anger might gleam in her eyes and quiver upon her lips, but the fire always burnt clear; it is smoulder that poisons the air.

She knew her sister, pitied her, always made for her the gentlest allowances. It would have been easy to stand aside, to disclaim responsibility, and let Kate do as she chose, but the easy course was never the one she chose when endurance promised better results. To resist to the uttermost, even to claim and exert the authority she derived from her suffering, was, she knew, the truest kindness to her sister. And in the end she prevailed. Kate tore her passion to tatters, then succumbed to exhaustion. But she did not fling out of the room, and this Emma knew to be a hopeful sign. The opportunity of strong, placid speech at length presented itself, and Emma used it well. She did not succeed in eliciting a promise, but when she declared her confidence in her sister’s better self, Kate made no retort, only sat in stubborn muteness.

In the afternoon Emma went forth to fulfil her intention of finding lodgings. She avoided the neighbourhood in which she had formerly lived, and after long search discovered what she wanted in a woful byway near Old Street. It was one room only, but larger than she had hoped to come upon; fortunately her own furniture had been preserved, and would now suffice.

Kate remained sullen, but proved by her actions that she had surrendered; she began to pack her possessions. Emma wrote to Alice, announcing that the house was tenantless; she took the note to Highbury herself, and left it at the door, together with the house key. The removal was effected after nightfall.