Demos

CHAPTER XXX

We must concern ourselves for a little with the affairs of our old acquaintance, Daniel Dabbs.

Daniel’s disillusionment with regard to Richard Mutimer did not affect his regularity of attendance at the Socialist lectures, in most things a typical English mechanic, he was especially so in his relation to the extreme politics of which he declared himself a supporter. He became a Socialist because his friend Dick was one; when that was no longer a reason, he numbered himself among the followers of Comrade Roodhouse—first as a sort of angry protest, against Mutimer’s private treachery, then again because he had got into the habit of listening to inflammatory discourses every Sunday night, and on the whole found it a pleasant way of passing the evening. He enjoyed the oratory of Messrs. Cowes and Cullen; he liked to shout ‘Hear, hear!’ and to stamp when there was general applause; it affected him with an agreeable sensation, much like that which follows upon a good meal, to hear himself pitied as a hard-working, ill-used fellow, and the frequent allusion to his noble qualities sweetly flattered him. When he went, home to the public-house after a lively debate, and described the proceedings to his brother Nicholas, he always ended by declaring that it was ‘as good as a play.’

He read the ‘Tocsin,’ that is to say, he glanced his eye up and down the columns and paused wherever he caught words such as ‘villains,’ ‘titled scoundrels,’ ‘vampires,’ and so on. The expositions of doctrine he passed over; anything in the nature of reasoning muddled him. From hearing them incessantly repeated he knew the root theories of Socialism, and could himself hold forth on such texts as ‘the community of the means of production’ with considerable fluency and vehemence; but in very fact he concerned himself as little with economic reforms as with the principles of high art, and had as little genuine belief in the promised revolution as in the immortality of his own soul. Had he been called upon to suffer in any way for the ‘cause of the people,’ it would speedily have been demonstrated of what metal his enthusiasm was made.

But there came a different kind of test. In the winter which followed upon Mutimer’s downfall, Nicholas Dabbs fell ill and died. He was married but had no children, and his wife had been separated from him for several years. His brother Daniel found himself in flourishing circumstances, with a public-house which brought in profits of forty pounds a week It goes without saying that Daniel forthwith abandoned his daily labour and installed himself behind the bar. The position suited him admirably; with a barmaid and a potman at his orders (he paid them no penny more than the market rate), he stood about in his shirt sleeves and gossiped from morn to midnight with such of his friends as had leisure (and money) to spend in the temple of Bacchus. From the day that saw him a licensed victualler he ceased to attend the Socialist meetings; it was, of course, a sufficient explanation to point to the fact that he could not be in two places at the same time, for Sunday evening is a season of brisk business in the liquor trade. At first he was reticent on the subject of his old convictions, but by degrees he found it possible to achieve the true innkeeper’s art, and speak freely in a way which could offend none of his customers. And he believed himself every bit as downright and sincere as he had ever been.

Comfortably established on a capitalist basis, his future assured because it depended upon the signal vice of his class, it one day occurred to Daniel that he ought to take to himself a helpmeet, a partner of his joys and sorrows. He had thought of it from time to time during the past year, but only in a vague way; he had even directed his eyes to the woman who might perchance be the one most suitable, though with anything but assurance of his success if he seriously endeavoured to obtain her. Long ago he had ceased to trouble himself about his first love; with characteristic acceptance of the accomplished fact, he never really imagined that Alice Mutimer, after she became an heiress, could listen to his wooing, and, to do him justice, he appreciated the delicacy of his position, if he should continue to press his suit. It cost him not a little suffering altogether to abandon his hopes, for the Princess had captivated him, and if he could have made her his wife he would—for at least twelve months—have been a proud and exultant man. But all that was over; Daniel was heart-free, when he again began to occupy himself with womankind; it was a very different person towards whom he found himself attracted. This was Emma Vine.

After that chance meeting with Mrs. Clay in the omnibus he lost sight of the sisters for a while, but one day Kate came to the public-house and desired to see him. She was in great misery. Emma had fallen ill, gravely ill, and Kate had no money to pay a doctor. The people in the house, where she lodged were urging her to send for the parish doctor, but that was an extremity to be avoided as long as a single hope remained. She had come to borrow a few shillings> in order that she might take Emma in a cab to the hospital; perhaps they would receive her as an in-patient. Daniel put his hand in his pocket. He did more; though on the point of returning from breakfast to his work, he sacrificed the morning to accompany Mrs. Clay and help her to get the sick girl to the hospital. Fortunately it was found possible to give her a bed; Emma remained in the hospital for seven weeks.

Daniel was not hasty in forming attachments. During the seven weeks he called three or four times to inquire of Mrs. Clay what progress her sister was making, but when Emma came home again, and resumed her usual work, he seemed to have no further interest in her. At length Kate came to the public-house one Saturday night and wished to pay back half the loan. Daniel shook his head. ‘All right, Mrs. Clay; don’t you hurt yourself. Let it wait till you’re a bit better off.’ Nicholas was behind the bar, and when Kate had gone he asked his brother if he hadn’t observed something curious in Mrs. Clay’s behaviour. Daniel certainly had; the brothers agreed that she must have been drinking rather more than was good for her.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Daniel, ‘if she started with the whole o’ the money.’

Which, indeed, was a true conjecture.

Time went on, and Daniel had been six months a licensed victualler. It was summer once more, and thirsty weather. Daniel stood behind the bar in his shirt sleeves, collarless for personal ease, with a white waistcoat, and trousers of light tweed. Across his stomach, which already was more portly than in his engineering days, swayed a heavy gold chain; on one of his fingers was a demonstrative ring. His face and neck were very red; his hair, cropped extremely short, gleamed with odorous oils. You could see that he prided himself on the spotlessness of his linen; his cuffs were turned up to avoid alcoholic soilure; their vast links hung loose for better observance by customers. Daniel was a smiling and a happy man.

It was early on Sunday evening; Hoxton had shaken itself from the afternoon slumber, had taken a moderate tea, and was in no two minds about the entirely agreeable way of getting through the hours till bedtime. Daniel beamed on the good thirsty souls who sought refuge under his roof from the still warm rays of the sun. Whilst seeing that no customer lacked due attention, he conversed genially with a group of his special friends. One of these had been present at a meeting held on Clerkenwell Green that morning, a meeting assembled to hear Richard Mutimer. Richard, a year having passed since his temporary eclipse, was once more prominent as a popular leader. He was addressing himself to the East End especially, and had a scheme to propound which, whatever might be its success or the opposite, kept him well before the eyes of men.

‘What’s all this ‘ere about?’ cried one of the group in an impatiently contemptuous tone. ‘I can’t see nothin’ in it myself.’

‘I can see as he wants money,’ observed another, laughing. ‘There’s a good many ways o’ gettin’ money without earnin’ it, particular if you’ve got a tongue as goes like a steam engine.’

‘I don’t think so bad of him as all that,’ said the man who had attended the meeting. ‘’Tain’t for himself as he wants the money. What do you think o’ this ‘ere job, Dan?’

‘I’ll tell you more about that in a year’s time,’ replied Dabbs, thrusting his fingers into his waistcoat pockets. ‘’Cording to Mike, we’re all goin’ to be rich before we know it. Let’s hope it’ll come true.’

He put his tongue in his cheek and let his eye circle round the group.

‘Seems to me,’ said the contemptuous man, ‘he’d better look after his own people first. Charity begins at ‘ome, eh, mates?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ inquired a voice.

‘Why, isn’t his brother—what’s his name? Bill—Jack—’

‘’Arry,’ corrected Daniel.

‘To be sure, ‘Arry; I don’t know him myself, but I ‘eard talk of him. It’s him as is doin’ his three months’ ‘ard labour.’

‘That ain’t no fault o’ Dick Mutimer’s,’ asserted the apologist. ‘He always was a bad ‘un, that ‘Arry. Why, you can say so much, Dan? No, no, I don’t ‘old with a man’s bein’ cried down cause he’s got a brother as disgraces himself. It was Dick as got him his place, an’ a good place it was. It wasn’t Dick as put him up to thievin’, I suppose?’

‘No, no, that’s right enough,’ said Dabbs. ‘Let a man be judged by his own sayin’s and doin’s. There’s queer stories about Dick Mutimer himself, but—was it Scotch or Irish, Mike?’

Mike had planted his glass on the counter in a manner suggesting replenishment.

‘Now that’s what I call a cruel question!’ cried Mike humorously. ‘The man as doesn’t stick to his country, I don’t think much of him.’

The humour was not remarkable, but it caused a roar of laughter to go up.

‘Now what I want to know,’ exclaimed one, returning to the main subject, ‘is where Mutimer gets his money to live on. He does no work, we know that much.’

‘He told us all about that this mornin’,’ replied the authority. ‘He has friends as keeps him goin’, that’s all. As far as I can make out it’s a sort o’ subscription.’

‘Now, there you are!’ put in Daniel with half a sneer. ‘I don’t call that Socialism. Let a man support himself by his own work, then he’s got a right to say what he likes. No, no, we know what Socialism means, eh, Tom?’

The man appealed to answered with a laugh.

‘Well, blest if I do, Dan! There’s so many kinds o’ Socialism nowadays. Which lot does he pretend to belong to? There’s the “Fiery Cross,” and there’s Roodhouse with his “Tocsin,” and now I s’pose Dick’ll be startin’ another paper of his own.’

‘No, no,’ replied Mutimer’s supporter. ‘He holds by the “Fiery Cross” still, so he said this mornin’. I’ve no opinion o’ Roodhouse myself. He makes a deal o’ noise, but I can’t ‘see as he does anything.’

‘You won’t catch Dick Mutimer sidin’ with Roodhouse,’ remarked Daniel with a wink. ‘That’s an old story, eh, Tom?’

Thus the talk went on, and the sale of beverages kept pace with it. About eight o’clock the barmaid informed Daniel that Mrs. Clay wished to see him. Kate had entered the house by the private door, and was sitting in the bar-parlour. Daniel went to her at once.

She was more slovenly in appearance than ever, and showed all the signs of extreme poverty. Her face was not merely harsh and sour, it indicated a process of degradation. The smile with which she greeted Daniel was disagreeable through excessive anxiety to be ingratiating. Her eyes were restless and shrewd. Daniel sat down opposite to her, and rested his elbows on the table.

‘Well, how’s all at ‘ome?’ he began, avoiding her look as he spoke.

‘Nothing much to boast of,’ Kate replied with an unpleasant giggle. ‘We keep alive.’

‘Emma all right?’

‘She’s all right, except for her bad ‘ead-aches. She’s had another of ‘em this week. But I think it’s a bit better to-day.’

‘She’ll have a rest to-morrow.’

The following day was the August bank-holiday.

‘No, she’ll have no rest. She’s going to do some cleaning in Goswell Road.’

Daniel drummed with his fingers on the table.

‘She isn’t fit to do it, that’s quite certain,’ Mrs. Clay continued. ‘I wish I could get her out for an hour or two. She wants fresh air, that’s what it is. I s’pose you’re going somewhere to-morrow?’

It was asked insinuatingly, and at the same time with an air of weary resignation.

‘Well, I did think o’ gettin’ as far as Epping Forest. D’you think you could persuade Emma to come? you and the children as well, you know. I’ll have the mare out if she will.’

‘I can ask her and see. It ‘ud be a rare treat for us. I feel myself as if I couldn’t hold up much longer, it’s that hot!’

She threw a glance towards the bar.

‘Will you have a bottle o’ lemonade?’ Daniel asked.

‘It’s very kind of you. I’ve a sort o’ fainty feeling. If you’d just put ever such a little drop in it, Mr. Dabbs.’

Daniel betrayed a slight annoyance. But he went to the door and gave the order.

‘Still at the same place?’ he asked on resuming his seat.

‘Emma, you mean? Yes, but it’s only been half a week’s work, this last. And I’ve as good as nothing to do. There’s the children runnin’ about with no soles to their feet.’

The lemonade—with a dash in it—was brought to her, and she refreshed herself with a deep draught. Perhaps the dash was not perceptible enough; she did not seem entirely satisfied, though pretending to be so.

‘Suppose I come round to-night and ask her myself?’ Daniel said, as the result of a short reflection.

‘It ‘ud be kind of you if you would, Mr. Dabbs. I’m afraid she’ll tell me she can’t afford to lose the day.’

He consulted his watch, then again reflected, still drumming on the table.

‘All right, we’ll go,’ he said, rising from his chair.

His coat was hanging on a peg behind the door. He drew it on, and went to tell the barmaid that he should be absent exactly twenty minutes. It was Daniel’s policy to lead his underlings to expect that he might return at any moment, though he would probably be away a couple of hours.

The sisters were now living in a street crossing the angle between Goswell Road and the City Road. Daniel was not, as a rule, lavish in his expenditure, but he did not care to walk any distance, and there was no line of omnibuses available. He took a hansom.

It generally fell to Emma’s share to put her sister’s children to bed, for Mrs. Clay was seldom at home in the evening. But for Emma, indeed, the little ones would have been sadly off for motherly care. Kate had now and then a fit of maternal zeal, but it usually ended in impatience and slappings; for the most part she regarded her offspring as encumbrance, and only drew attention to them when she wished to impress people with the hardships of her lot. The natural result was that the boy and girl only knew her as mother by name; they feared her, and would shrink to Emma’s side when Kate began to speak crossly.

All dwelt together in one room, for life was harder than ever. Emma’s illness had been the beginning of a dark and miserable time. Whilst she was in the hospital her sister took the first steps on the path which leads to destruction; with scanty employment, much time to kill, never a sufficiency of food, companions only too like herself in their distaste for home duties and in the misery of their existence, poor Kate got into the habit of straying aimlessly about the streets, and, the inevitable consequence, of seeking warmth and company in the public-house. Her children lived as the children of such mothers do: they played on the stairs or on the pavements, had accidents, were always dirty, cried themselves to sleep in hunger and pain. When Emma returned, still only fit for a convalescent home, she had to walk about day after day in search of work, conciliating the employers whom Mrs. Clay had neglected or disgusted, undertaking jobs to which her strength was inadequate, and, not least, striving her hardest to restore order in the wretched home. It was agreed that Kate should use the machine at home, whilst Emma got regular employment in a workroom.

Emma never heard of that letter which her sister wrote to Mutimer’s wife. Kate had no expectation that help would come of it; she hoped that it had done Mutimer harm, and the hope had to satisfy her. She durst not let Emma suspect that she had done such a thing.

Emma heard, however, of the loan from Daniel Dabbs, and afterwards thanked him for his kindness, but she resolutely set her face against the repetition of such favours, though Daniel would have willingly helped when she came out of the hospital. Kate, of course, was for accepting anything that was offered; she lost her temper, and accused Emma of wishing to starve the children. But she was still greatly under her sister’s influence, and when Emma declared that there must be a parting between them if she discovered that anything was secretly accepted from Mr. Dabbs, Kate sullenly yielded the point.

Daniel was aware of all this, and it made an impression upon him.

To-night Emma was as usual left alone with the children. After tea, when Kate left the house, she sat down to the machine and worked for a couple of hours; for her there was small difference between Sunday and week day. Whilst working she told the children stories; it was a way of beguiling them from their desire to go and play in the street. They were strange stories, half recollected from a childhood which, had promised better things than a maidenhood of garret misery, half Emma’s own invention. They had a grace, a spontaneity, occasionally an imaginative brightness, which would have made them, if they had been taken down from the lips, models of tale-telling for children. Emma had two classes of story: the one concerned itself with rich children, the other with poor; the one highly fanciful, the other full of a touching actuality, the very essence of a life such as that led by the listeners themselves. Unlike the novel which commends itself to the world’s grown children, these narratives had by no means necessarily a happy ending; for one thing Emma saw too deeply into the facts of life, and was herself too sad, to cease her music on a merry chord; and, moreover, it was half a matter of principle with her to make the little ones thoughtful and sympathetic; she believed that they would grow up kinder and more self-reliant if they were in the habit of thinking that we are ever dependent on each other for solace and strengthening under the burden of life. The most elaborate of her stories, one wholly of her own invention, was called ‘Blanche and Janey.’ It was a double biography. Blanche and Janey were born on the same day, they lived ten years, and then died on the same day. But Blanche was, the child of wealthy parents; Janey was born, in a garret. Their lives were recounted in parallel, almost year by year, and, there was sadness in the contrast. Emma had chosen the name of the poor child in memory of her own sister, her ever dear Jane, whose life had been a life of sorrow.

The story ended thus:

‘Yes, they died on the same day, and they were buried, on the same day. But not in the same cemetery, oh no! Blanche’s grave is far away over there’—she pointed to the west—‘among tombstones covered with flowers, and her father and mother go every Sunday to read her name, and think and talk of her. Janey was buried far away over yonder’—she pointed to the east—‘but there is no stone on her grave, and no one knows the exact place where she lies, and no one, no one ever goes to think and talk of her.’

The sweetness of the story lay in the fact that the children were both good, and both deserved to be happy; it never occurred to Emma to teach her hearers to hate little Blanche just because hers was the easier lot.

Whatever might be her secret suffering, with the little ones Emma was invariably patient and tender. However dirty they had made, themselves during the day, however much they cried when hunger made them irritable, they went to their aunt’s side with the assurance of finding gentleness in reproof and sympathy with their troubles. Yet once she was really angry. Bertie told her a deliberate untruth, and she at once discovered it. She stood silent for a few moments, looking as Bertie had never seen her look. Then she said:

‘Do you know, Bertie, that it is wrong to try and deceive?’

Then she tried to, make him understand why falsehood was evil, and as she spoke to the child her voice quivered, her breast heaved. When the little fellow was overcome, and began to sob, Emma checked herself, recollecting that she had lost sight of the offender’s age, and was using expressions which he could not understand. But the lesson was effectual. If ever the brother and sister were tempted to hide anything by a falsehood they remembered ‘Aunt Emma’s’ face, and durst not incur the danger of her severity.

So she told her stories to the humming of the machine, and when it was nearly the children’s bedtime she broke off to ask them if they would like some bread and butter. Among all the results of her poverty the bitterest to Emma was when she found herself hoping that the children would not eat much. If their appetite was poor it made her anxious about their health, yet it happened sometimes that she feared to ask them if they were hungry lest the supply of bread should fail. It was so to-night. The week’s earnings had been three shillings; the rent itself was four. But the children were as ready to eat as if they had had no tea. It went to her heart to give them each but one half-slice and tell them that they could have no more. Gladly she would have robbed herself of breakfast next morning on their account, but that she durst not do, for she had undertaken to scrub out an office in Goswell Road, and she knew that her strength would fail if she went from home fasting.

She put them to bed—they slept together on a small bedstead, which was a chair during the day—and then sat down to do some patching at a dress of Kate’s. Her face when she communed with her own thoughts was profoundly sad, but far from the weakness of self-pity. Indeed she did her best not to think of herself; she knew that to do so cost her struggles with feelings she held to be evil, resentment and woe of passion and despair. She tried to occupy herself solely with her sister and the children, planning how to make Kate more home-loving and how to find the little ones more food.

She had no companions. The girls whom she came to know in the workroom for the most part took life very easily; she could not share in their genuine merriment; she was often revolted by their way of thinking and speaking. They thought her dull; and paid no attention to her. She was glad to be relieved of the necessity of talking.

Her sister thought her hard. Kate believed that she was for ever brooding over her injury. This was not true, but a certain hardness in her character there certainly was. For her life, both of soul and body, was ascetic; she taught herself to expect, to hope for, nothing. When she was hungry she had a sort of pleasure in enduring; when weary she worked on as if by effort she could overcome the feeling. But Kate’s chief complaint against her was her determination to receive no help save in the way of opportunity to earn money. This was something more than, ordinary pride. Emma suffered intensely in the recollection that she had lived at Mutimer’s expense during the very months when he was seeking the love of another woman, and casting about for means of abandoning herself. When she thought of Alice coming with the proposal that she and her sister should still occupy the house in Wilton Square, and still receive money, the heat of shame and anger never failed to rise to her cheeks. She could never accept from anyone again a penny which she had not earned. She believed that Daniel Dabbs had been repaid, otherwise she could not have rested a moment.

It was her terrible misfortune to have feelings too refined for the position in which fate had placed her. Had she only been like those other girls in the workroom! But we are interesting in proportion to our capacity for suffering, and dignity comes of misery nobly borne.

As she sat working on Kate’s dress, she was surprised to hear a heavy step approaching. There came a knock at the door; she answered, admitting Daniel.

He looked about the room, partly from curiosity, partly through embarrassment. Dusk was falling.

‘Young ‘uns in bed?’ he said, lowering his voice.

‘Yes, they are asleep,’ Emma replied.

‘You don’t mind me coming up?’

‘Oh no!’

He went to the window and looked at the houses opposite, then at the flushed sky.

‘Bank holiday to-morrow. I thought I’d like to ask you whether you and Mrs. Clay and the children ‘ud come with me to Epping Forest. If it’s a day like this, it’ll be a nice drive—do you good. You look as if you wanted a breath of fresh air, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Mr. Dabbs,’ Emma replied. ‘I am very sorry I can’t come myself, but my sister and the children perhaps—’

She could not refuse for them likewise, yet she was troubled to accept so far.

‘But why can’t you come?’ he asked good-naturedly, slapping his hat against his leg.

‘I have some work that’ll take me nearly all day.’

‘But you’ve no business to work on a bank holiday. I’m not sure as it ain’t breakin’ the law.’

He laughed, and Emma did her best to show a smile. But she said nothing.

‘But you will come, now? You can lose just the one day? It’ll do you a power o’ good. You’ll work all the better on Tuesday, now see if you don’t. Why, it ain’t worth livin’, never to get a holiday.’

‘I’m very sorry. It was very kind indeed of you to think of it, Mr. Dabbs. I really can’t come.’

He went again to the window, and thence to the children’s bedside. He bent a little and watched them breathing.

‘Bertie’s growin’ a fine little lad.’

‘Yes, indeed, he is.’

‘He’ll have to go to school soon, I s’pose—I’m afraid he gives you a good deal of trouble, that is, I mean—you know how I mean it.’

‘Oh, he is very good,’ Emma said, looking at the sleeping face affectionately.

‘Yes, yes.’

Daniel had meant something different; he saw that Emma would not understand him.

‘We see changes in life,’ he resumed, musingly. ‘Now who’d a’ thought I should end up with having more money than I. know how to use? The ‘ouse has done well for eight years now, an’ it’s likely to do well for a good many years yet, as far as I can see.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ Emma replied constrainedly.

‘Miss Vine, I wanted you to come to Epping Forest to-morrow because I thought I should have a chance of a little talk. I don’t mean that was the only reason; it’s too bad you never get a holiday, and I should like it to a’ done you good. But I thought I might a’ found a chance o’ sayin’ something, something I’ve thought of a long time, and that’s the honest truth. I want to help you and your sister and the young ‘uns, but you most of all. I don’t like to see you livin’ such a hard life, ‘cause you deserve something better, if ever anyone did. Now will you let me help you? There’s only one way, and it’s the way I’d like best of any. The long an’ the short of it is, I want to ask you if you’ll come an’ live at the ‘ouse, come and bring Mrs. Clay an’ the children?’

Emma looked at him in surprise and felt uncertain of his meaning, though his speech had painfully prepared her with an answer.

‘I’d do my right down best to make you a good ‘usband, that I would, Emma!’ Daniel hurried on, getting flustered. ‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit too sudden? Suppose we leave it till you’ve had time to think over? It’s no good talking to you about money an’ that kind o’ thing; you’d marry a poor man as soon as a rich, if only you cared in the right way for him. I won’t sing my own praises, but I don’t think you’d find much to complain of in me. I’d never ask you to go into the bar, ‘cause I know you ain’t suited for that, and, what’s more, I’d rather you didn’t. Will you give it a thought?’

It was modest enough, and from her knowledge of the man Emma felt that he was to be trusted for more than his word. But he asked an impossible thing. She could not imagine herself consenting to marry any man, but the reasons why she could not marry Daniel Dabbs were manifold. She felt them all, but it was only needful to think of one.

Yet it was a temptation, and the hour of it might have been chosen. With a scarcity of food for the morrow, with dark fears for her sister, suffering incessantly on the children’s account, Emma might have been pardoned if she had taken the helping hand. But the temptation, though it unsteadied her brain for a moment, could never have overcome her. She would have deemed it far less a crime to go out and steal a loaf from the baker’s shop than to marry Daniel because he offered rescue from destitution.

She refused him, as gently as she could, but with firmness which left him no room for misunderstanding her. Daniel was awed by her quiet sincerity.

‘But I can wait,’ he stammered; ‘if you’d take time to think it over?’

Useless; the answer could at no time be other.

‘Well, I’ve no call to grumble,’ he said. ‘You say straight out what you mean. No woman can do fairer than that.’

His thought recurred for a moment to Alice, whose fault had been that she was ever ambiguous.

‘It’s hard to bear. I don’t think I shall ever care to marry any other woman. But you’re doin’ the right thing and the honest thing; I wish all women was like you.’

At the door he turned.

‘There’d be no harm if I take Mrs. Clay and the children, would there?’

‘I am sure they will thank you, Mr. Dabbs.’

It did not matter now that there was a clear understanding.

At a little distance from the house door Daniel found Mrs. Clay waiting.

‘No good,’ he said cheerlessly.

‘She won’t go?’

‘No. But I’ll take you and the children, if you’ll come.’

Kate did not immediately reply. A grave disappointment showed itself in her face.

‘Can’t be helped,’ Daniel replied to her look. ‘I did my best’

Kate accepted his invitation, and they arranged the hour of meeting. As she approached the house to enter, flow looking ill-tempered, a woman of her acquaintance met her. After a few minutes’ conversation they walked away together.

Emma sat up till twelve o’clock. The thought on which she was brooding was not one to make the time go lightly; it was—how much and how various evil can be wrought by a single act of treachery. And the instance in her mind was more fruitful than her knowledge allowed her to perceive.

Kate appeared shortly after midnight. She had very red cheeks and very bright eyes, and her mood was quarrelsome. She sat down on the bed and began to talk of Daniel Dabbs, as she had often done already, in a maundering way. Emma kept silence; she was beginning to undress.

‘There’s a man with money,’ said Kate, her voice getting louder; ‘money, I tell you, and you’ve only to say a word. And you won’t even be civil to him. You’ve got no feeling; you don’t care for nobody but yourself. I’ll take the children and leave you to go your own way, that’s what I’ll do!’

It was hard to make no reply, but Emma succeeded in commanding herself. The maundering talk went on for more than an hour. Then came the wretched silence of night.

Emma did not sleep. She was too wobegone to find a tear. Life stood before her in the darkness like a hideous spectre.

In the morning she told her sister that Daniel had asked her to marry him and that she had refused. It was best to have that understood. Kate heard with black brows. But even yet she knew something of shame when she remembered her return home the night before; it kept her from giving utterance to her anger.

There followed a scene such as had occurred two or three times during the past six months. Emma threw aside all her coldness, and with passionate entreaty besought her sister to draw back from the gulf’s edge whilst there was yet time. For her own sake, for the sake of Bertie and the little girl, by the memory of that dear dead one who lay in the waste cemetery!

‘Pity me, too! Think a little of me, Kate dear! You are driving me to despair.’

Kate was moved, she had not else been human. The children were looking up with frightened, wondering eyes. She hid her face and muttered promises of amendment.

Emma kissed her, and strove hard to hope.