THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 PRESENTED BY THE 
 WILLIAM A. WHITAKER 
 FOUNDATION 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2018 with funding from 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
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All rights reserved 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK 
 
 BRISTOL 
 
 j. W. Arrowsmith, Quay Street 
 LONDON 
 
 Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent and Company Limited 
 
Brrowsmttb's Bristol XibravE 
 
 Vol. LXI. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION 
 A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER . . 
 
 TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD . 
 WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK . 
 
 THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL . 
 
 SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S 
 
 r' 
 
 A 
 
 
 987214 
 
 Page 
 
 5 
 
 25 
 
 49 * 
 
 61 
 
 7 i 
 
 85 
 
 109 
 
 129 
 
 139 
 
 151 
 
 161 
 
 183 
 
NOTE. 
 
 With two exceptions, the stories in this volume have 
 previously appeared in Cornhill, Household Words, All 
 the Year Round, Old and Young , Weekly Budget, and 
 Weekly Times and Echo, and are now republished from 
 those journals by kind permission of their Proprietors, 
 to whom the Author’s thanks are due. 
 
An aln finish el) Ehirtnrtionr. 
 
 vy 0 v - '-o 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 f OR more years than I can now be sure of, I 
 always used to go to sleep in the tall, un¬ 
 comfortable old family pew in the little 
 square Baptist Chapel at Oakthorpe re¬ 
 ligiously every Sunday evening during the sermon ; 
 and why one of those evenings, in particular, 
 should stand out in my recollection more clearly 
 than any other I cannot undertake to explain, 
 unless the fact that it happened to have been my 
 twelfth birthday, and as the natural consequence 
 of an unrestrained allowance of cake at tea my 
 slumbers were disturbed by unaccustomed and 
 horrifying dreams, may be considered to suffi¬ 
 ciently account for it. 
 
 Anyhow, I woke up that evening at last, as was 
 usual with me, when the soothing murmur of the 
 minister’s voice ceased at the end of his discourse, 
 and starting into an upright and attentive attitude, 
 I became dimly and confusedly conscious of the 
 familiar glare of yellow gaslight, of my Aunt Bost 
 seated stolidly beside me, of the rustle and move¬ 
 ment of people rousing themselves in the other 
 pews, of the minister sitting back on his small 
 platform placidly contemplating the heads of his 
 congregation through the front railings, and of 
 Uncle Bost rising up behind his desk just below 
 the pulpit, fixing his spectacles across his nose, 
 and deliberately reading out the number of the 
 closing hymn : 
 
6 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 “ We will now join in singin’ to the praise an’ 
 glowry o’ God hymn one hund’erd and ninety- 
 fower. Tune—‘ Miles’s Lane.’ ” 
 
 He read the hymn right through from beginning 
 to end, rolling his head from side to side to 
 keep time with his sing-song style of elocution, 
 then smote the desk hard with a tuning-fork—for 
 we had no organ,—held the fork to his ear for a 
 moment, got his voice round to the right pitch for 
 the opening note, and plunged boldly into the 
 melody at once, and all the rest of us caught on at 
 the first bar we could and went in after him. 
 
 When the service was over, my aunt and I 
 passed out with the crowd, and waited at the gate 
 for Uncle Bost. 
 
 He was generally about the last person to come 
 out, for he was rather an important member of 
 the community. I believe he was a deacon ; at 
 any rate, he and another old gentleman used to 
 take it in turns to sit behind the desk and give the 
 hymns out, and when he was not up there, he 
 would carry a box round and take collections. I 
 can distinctly remember hearing him on several 
 occasions counting the money in the vestry, 
 immediately at the back of the pulpit ; the 
 cautious chink, chink, becoming weirdly audible in 
 the pauses of the last hymn, and moving me to 
 irreligious speculations as to how much he had 
 got. 
 
 The congregation streamed out past us while 
 we waited, many of them lingering to shake hands 
 with my aunt and gossip for a minute or two ; but 
 the last one had left us and gone on when we were 
 joined by Uncle Bost and the minister, who came 
 out together deep in conversation, and moved off, 
 arguing, a few paces ahead of us, through the 
 narrow, moonlit streets of the little old-world 
 country town. 
 
 The minister left us at the door of my uncle’s 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 7 
 
 shop, and we groped our way in through the 
 darkness to the small back-parlour, stirred up the 
 dying fire, lighted the lamp, and soon had supper 
 ready. 
 
 After supper, Uncle Bost gravely put the kettle 
 on, as was his wont, and brought two tumblers 
 from the cupboard and two bottles. It was a 
 proceeding that the “unco’ guid ” might have 
 condemned as out of keeping with his professions, 
 but it never appealed to me in that light; indeed, 
 I had come, in course of time, to associate it so 
 intimately with the subsequent observances in 
 which I was allowed to participate that, to my 
 untutored thinking, it had acquired, as it were, 
 an odour of sanctity, and presented itself as the 
 mere preliminary feature of a solemn religious 
 ceremony. 
 
 Probably, at that date, I could not have said 
 exactly what the bottles contained; but a more 
 extensive secular education has led me to conclude 
 that in the bottle from which my uncle half-filled 
 his own glass there was whisky, and in the bottle 
 from which he half-filled my aunt’s glass there 
 was gin. 
 
 When he returned the bottles to the cupboard, 
 he methodically brought out four lumps of sugar, 
 dropped two into each glass, and filled up from 
 the kettle as soon as the water boiled. 
 
 Then he settled down cosily in his arm-chair by 
 the fireside, and smoked his long clay pipe, 
 refreshing himself at intervals; and my aunt sat 
 as cosily by the table, with a large business card 
 laid across the top of her glass to keep the flies 
 out, when she was not sipping at it herself. 
 
 “ What was Mr. Weevle sayin’ on the way hum, 
 Willum?” she inquired presently. “Somethin’ 
 about temperance was it?” 
 
 “ Ye-es,” replied Uncle Bost thoughtfully. 
 “Seems there’s goin’ to be a big teetotal revival 
 
8 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 in the town—Blew Ribbin’ Army a-comin’. Not 
 that I say a word agin it. Not me! Some needs 
 it, an’ some don’t. Let them as needs it have it, 
 says I ; but let them as don’t need it go without. 
 ‘ If a man’s got a bad leg,’ says I to minister, ‘ let 
 him cut it off an’ have a wooden 'un ; but if 
 there’s nothin’ the matter with it, an’ he cuts it off 
 only so’s to show how it’s done, why,’ says I, 
 ‘he’s mad, an’ his friends ought to interfere.’ 
 Here’s you an’ me now, missis; where’s the 
 wickedness o’ you an’ me soberly enjoyin’ the 
 blessin’s o’ Providence, an’ a-bein’ thankful for 
 ’em, as we arc ? ” He indicated his own glass 
 on the mantelpiece and my aunt’s on the table 
 with the stem of his pipe, and concluded : “ I can¬ 
 not and do not see no sin in it. An’ I told 
 minister so.” 
 
 But he don’t say anything about us, do he ? ” 
 my aunt asked incredulously. 
 
 “ He do," returned Uncle Bost, with an air of 
 resentment. “ He says he’s thought it over very 
 prayerful, an’ thinks it’s his duty to sign the pledge 
 hisself as a good example to others; an’ he thinks 
 you an’ me—me ’specially, as bein’ an officer o’ 
 the church—ought to sign with him. ‘ No,’ says 
 I, ‘ I don’t feel no call to sign. Yer might just as 
 well ask everyone to sign a pledge agin matrimony, 
 ’cos some folks go to extremes an’ become 
 bigamists. Besides,’ says I, ‘we’ve been used to 
 our little noggin at bed-time all our lives, you may 
 say, an’ we’d never get a wink o’ sleep if we gave 
 it up now.’ ” 
 
 They discussed the subject warmly and at some 
 length, and were still debating upon it when the 
 tall old-fashioned clock chuckled wheezily in its 
 corner behind the door, and began to strike ten. 
 
 Before the last stroke had fallen, for we kept 
 early hours at both ends of the day with the 
 strictest regularity, Uncle Bost stood his pipe down 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 9 
 
 in the fireplace, and began feeling in his pocket 
 for his spectacles, whilst I carried the ponderous, 
 brass-elapsed family Bible from its wool mat on 
 the sideboard and placed it near him on the table. 
 
 For a minute or two the solemn hush was 
 broken only by the flap of the large leaves turning 
 one after the other till he had found the place he 
 wanted. Then in low and reverent tones that 
 became resonant, at intervals, with a deep and 
 genuine fervour, he read out the chapter for the 
 night. Later, the book closed, we knelt by our 
 chairs and the old man offered up a long extem¬ 
 pore prayer, that was yet too honestly simple and 
 sincere for even his natural peculiarities of phrase 
 and wearying reiteration to render it other than 
 vaguely touching and pathetic. 
 
 I have repeated these details because this was 
 a type of each evening throughout the week in 
 that unpretentious household ; and there lives yet 
 in my remembrance a grateful feeling of the 
 perfect sense of quiet that seemed to fold about 
 that last hour of ever)/ day. I can close my eyes 
 now and hear again the monotonous rolling of the 
 solemn old voice, with the frivolous ticking of the 
 clock sounding a persistent and regular accom¬ 
 paniment ; I can see again the two homely figures 
 kneeling, the two grey heads bowed in the withered 
 hands, and somehow I can never think that the 
 one sin of their later years, if it was a sin, has 
 gone unforgiven. 
 
IO 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 the end of the following week all the town 
 was in a state of rampant and excited 
 JjJ anticipation. Immense posters had made 
 their appearance on every available wall 
 and hoarding, announcing in large type that 
 the Blue Ribbon Army was coming on a teetotal 
 crusade, under the command of Mr. Thomas 
 T. Maney, the converted comedian, who would 
 deliver an address nightly, and relate the 
 thrilling story of how he was “ snatched like a 
 brand from the burning,” after which he would 
 personally decorate with the Army’s badge of 
 blue any of the audience who were willing to sign 
 the pledge. 
 
 The Town Hall had been engaged for the occa¬ 
 sion. We were not there on the opening night— 
 Uncle Bost made his shop an excuse for staying 
 away—but we heard that the place was full to 
 overflowing, and everybody was driven temporarily 
 mad with enthusiasm and indefinite repentance; 
 for, of course, the real sinners who had something 
 definite to repent of were hardly likely to be there 
 in any numbers. 
 
 Our minister called at the shop next day with 
 half-an-inch of blue ribbon pinned on his coat. 
 He was still warm from the night before, and soon 
 had Uncle Boss involved in a loud and heated 
 argument across the counter; but my uncle was 
 obstinate, and refused point blank to be converted. 
 
 “What cures one kills another ! ” he cried. “I'm 
 a temperate man myself. Alwers hev bin. Tem¬ 
 perance has bin the makin' of me, but teetotalism 
 ’ud be the death o’ me. It would, Mr. Weevle, 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 1 I 
 
 sir. Intemperance either in the matter o’ spirits ov 
 water is no good neither to the body nor the soul.” 
 
 “ But for the sake of setting a good example to 
 weaker vessels, Mr. Bost—” urged the minister. 
 
 “ If the weaker vessels won’t foller your example 
 over what they puts into therselves, they won’t 
 toiler mine,” declared Uncle Bost emphatically. 
 “ It’s as easy to toiler one example as two. 
 Easier.” 
 
 “ But two have more weight than one,” argued 
 the minister, persuasively. 
 
 “ On the scale, I grant yer they hev," retorted 
 my uncle. “ But the moral weight of two ’s no 
 more'than one; sometimes not so much.” 
 
 Mr. Weevle shook his head despairingly. 
 
 “Well, I’m afraid I can’t stop to discuss the 
 subject further now, Mr. Bost,” he said; “but I 
 shall try to call again in a day or two, and I hope 
 in the meantime you will think about it, and be 
 brought to see it in a more Christian light.” 
 
 Which goodly aspiration my uncle doggedly 
 protested against, insisting that he saw it in that 
 light already. 
 
 “Seems to me,” he grumbled, walking after the 
 minister to the door, so as to have the last word, 
 “ it ain’t Christian-like to reject the blessin’s o’ 
 Providence simply becos the ungodly don’t know 
 how to be worthy on ’em. Them as can’t use ’em 
 properly, let ’em leave them alone; but them as 
 can, let ’em use ’em, as they was meant to be used, 
 to the praise an’ the glowry, an’ be thankful. 
 That’s my view, Mr. Weevle, an’ I’m too old 
 now, sir, ever to hev any other.” 
 
 In the course of the next three days, total 
 abstinence, in its most acute form, raged all over 
 the town like a blue fever ; young and old took it 
 as if they couldn’t help themselves, and the 
 outward symptoms of it were pinned conspicuously 
 on to their wearing apparel. 
 
12 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 On the fourth day, whilst we were sitting at tea, 
 Mr. Weevle called again. Uncle Bost went out 
 into the shop to him, and from the parlour we 
 could hear them talking together very seriously; 
 and presently my uncle returned to us with a 
 troubled look upon his face, and the minister with 
 him. 
 
 “Sarah,” he said drearily, “ Mr. Weevle’s called 
 agen about the teetotal question.” 
 
 “ Yes,” observed the minister, with great gravity; 
 “a very heavy responsibility has been placed upon 
 our dear friend Mr. Bost, and I am sure, Mrs. 
 Bost, you will do everything in your power to 
 assist him.” 
 
 My uncle shook his head, and groaned audibly. 
 
 “ I always knew that man was an onprincipled 
 vagabon’ !” he ejaculated. 
 
 “ I have been working hard for our noble 
 Temperance cause,” continued Mr. WTevle, “ and 
 though my efforts have been richly rewarded, 
 there is one man —one most deplorable case—that 
 still baffles me. Need I say 1 refer to Thomas 
 Sadler?” 
 
 Uncle Bost groaned again, and stamped his 
 foot, I thought, a little viciousl}/. 
 
 Thomas Sadler was our drunkard. I don’t 
 mean to say we had any direct proprietary interest 
 in him, but he was the most persevering and 
 systematic drunkard in the town, and enjoyed, 
 generally speaking, a more disgraceful reputation 
 than any other man for miles round. 
 
 “ Argument — persuasion — entreaty,” pursued 
 Mr. W eevle, “ they were all wasted on him. Last 
 night he asked me why I couldn’t let him alone 
 and try to reclaim Mr. Bost, one of the head men 
 in our chapel, and one who, as everbody knew, 
 had refused to sign. You see, my dear friend, how 
 you become a weapon in the hands of such men. 
 What could I say ? I pointed out that Mr. Bost 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 13 
 
 was a moderate drinker; but he said that was 
 only a shuffling excuse—his own words,—and 
 finally, to silence me, he solemnly and emphatically 
 promised that if Mr. Bost would sign he would 
 sign, and not otherwise. Think of it, my friend !” 
 urged the minister, dropping unconsciously into 
 his pulpit tones and manner. “ The regeneration 
 of this man—his complete reformation—probably 
 rests with you. Think of his unhappy wife and 
 children. If, sooner than break off an unworthy 
 habit of self-indulgence, you will allow this man 
 to be lost, you will have to answer for it—depend 
 upon that. My dear friend, can you hesitate ? ” 
 
 “He only said it becos he felt sartin I wouldn’t 
 sign,” remonstrated Uncle Bost, with a worried, 
 hunted air. “ Suppose I was to sign, an’ then he 
 said he wouldn’t ?” 
 
 “ You would have done your part. But he will 
 sign. I will bring him to the meeting to-night, 
 and if you sign I am sure he will.” 
 
 “An’ break it a week arter,” began my uncle. 
 
 “ Willum,” Aunt Bost interrupted, “it’s no 
 good makin’ all these bones about it. It’s hard 
 lines, but you see what yer dooty is, an’ yer know 
 as well as I do that yer’ll do it. An’ I won’t be 
 throwin’ temptation, like, in yer path; I’ll sign 
 too! It’s got to be done, man.” 
 
 “ She’s right,” Uncle Bost reluctantly admitted. 
 “ When yer put it on them grounds, Mr.Weevle, 
 sir, I’m done. I give in.” 
 
 “ God bless you, my friends! I knew you 
 would not fail,’’ cried the minister fervently, 
 shaking hands with them both. “ It will comfort 
 you all your lives to feel that by this little sacrifice 
 you have done such great service to a good cause. 
 And, after all, think in how many insignificant 
 ways we all have to suffer such martyrdoms for 
 our opinions-” 
 
 Uncle Bost interposed to point out that on this 
 

 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 occasion he was going to be a martyr to the 
 opinions of other people, but the minister patted 
 him laughingly on the shoulder and would not 
 listen to him. 
 
 “ Be at the meeting in good time,” he said, 
 “ and rely upon me to have Thomas Sadler there. 
 I will keep him to his word. Do your part 
 nobly, my friend, and rest assured you will never 
 regret it.” 
 
 The shop was closed early that evening, and we 
 all three went to the meeting. 
 
 It was as much as we could do to force our way 
 in, for the Town Hall was crowded to suffocation. 
 I have no distinct remembrance of the converted 
 comedian, or of the personal experiences he 
 related, but there is no doubt they were of a most 
 thrilling and terrific character : the speaker’s 
 natural rough eloquence and power of pathetic 
 appeal gradually grew upon his hearers, and gained 
 such a wonderful and irresistible influence over 
 them that when, with excited and passionate 
 exhortations, he called upon them to come forward 
 and sign the pledge lying on the table before 
 him, almost everybody there who had not signed 
 already rose up eagerly, as if they had lost all 
 control over themselves, and crowded towards the 
 platform, some of them shedding hysterical tears, 
 each elbowing to be first. 
 
 I was surprised to see that Aunt and Uncle 
 Bost appeared to be quite as much carried away 
 by the emotional enthusiasm of the moment as any 
 of the others. They pushed forward as if drawn 
 by some powerful magnetic attraction, and signed 
 with, tremendous gusto, and I am convinced would 
 have done so just as frantically if there had been 
 no Thomas Sadler in the question at all. 
 
 But Thomas Sadler was in the question, though 
 they had temporarily forgotten him. Mr. Weevle 
 had him there in his best clothes, and he also was 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 15 
 
 very much moved and subdued by what he had 
 heard. He signed his name on the roll immediately 
 under mine, almost before he was asked to do so ; 
 and when we had been decorated with our 
 infinitesimal snips of blue ribbon, Mr. Weevle 
 tearfully shook hands all round and made some 
 remarks appropriate to the occasion, thanking 
 Uncle and Aunt Bost for their heroic self- 
 abnegation. Then Thomas Sadler awkwardly 
 shook hands with them and owned he had been 
 a “ bad lot,” but hoped he should do his best; 
 and Mrs. Sadler—a thin, white-faced woman in 
 a shabby dress—she came forward and shook 
 hands with them too, and said she did not 
 know how to thank them enough, on her own 
 account as well as for her children, two of whom 
 were with her, as wan and neglected-looking as 
 herself. 
 
 But the martyr may bear up easily enough and 
 put a good face on it whilst he is still on the way 
 to his doom, walking with a dignified air of calm 
 fortitude, followed by the admiring glances of his 
 friends; it is not till he is out of sight in the 
 privacy of the torture-chamber, with his foot in 
 the iron boot, that the pinch comes. 
 
 At home, after the meeting, we were all more 
 or less depressed, and burdened with a dreary 
 sense of loss. 
 
 Supper cleared away, Uncle Bost lit his pipe 
 and made a determined attempt to smoke, but 
 could find no comfort even in tobacco. 
 
 “ Can’t tackle water,” he remarked abruptly, 
 after a long silence. 
 
 “ Ginger-beer,’’ he added, a few minutes later, 
 “ ’ud simply gi’ me colic.” 
 
 Presently, as my aunt still preserved a thought¬ 
 ful and uncommunicative demeanour, he put his 
 pipe down on the hob and threw himself irritably 
 back in his chair. 
 
l6 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 “ Can’t smoke wi’ nothing to keep my mouth 
 moist,” he cried, “ so there ’s an end on it.” 
 
 Aunt Bost diffidently proposed a cup of tea, but 
 he dismissed the suggestion with scorn. 
 
 “ Well,” she acknowledged resignedly, “ I feel 
 the want o’ somethin’ myself, Willum. I’ve been 
 thinkin’ I ’ll have a little drop o’ pepp’mint. I 
 don’t know what else to have.” 
 
 She lit a candle and went into the shop, and my 
 uncle discontentedly followed her. He was a 
 grocer by trade and licensed to sell spirits, and 
 the sight of the genial bottles all in a row on their 
 shelf must have been an additional grief to him 
 now, under the circumstances; but when my aunt 
 came back with her bottle of peppermint, he 
 came grumbling in behind her with a bottle of 
 ginger cordial for his own consolation. 
 
 But neither of them pretended to enjoy the 
 change. Uncle Bost found fault with his ginger, 
 and my aunt had not a good word to say for her 
 peppermint. The more they drank of it the more 
 quarrelsome and unsociable it appeared to make 
 them, until by-and-by I found they were wrangling 
 about some trivial grievance that had happened 
 and been forgotten three or four years before. 
 
 Altogether, it was a very strange and unsatis¬ 
 factory sort of evening; there was a cold, flat 
 emptiness about the Bible reading and the prayer, 
 the words seemed as dull and unmeaning as the 
 ticking of the old clock itself; and, for the first 
 time in my recollection, that night I heard the 
 voices of Aunt and Uncle Bost boom-booming 
 through the wall in ill-tempered argument for a 
 good hour after they had gone to bed. 
 
 The truth was, they had been foolishly and 
 unfairly over-persuaded into taking upon them¬ 
 selves a duty they were not—and had felt they 
 were not—well fitted to discharge. They had 
 abandoned, under pressure, the harmless habit 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 1 7 
 
 of a lifetime, and were trying to form new habits 
 at an age when new habits cannot be formed. 
 They were unwillingly suffering martyrdom for a 
 cause with which they were not wholly in 
 sympathy; and such martyrs and such martyrdom 
 never profited any man or cause yet, and never 
 will. 
 
 The minister called in frequently to congratulate 
 them, but Uncle Bost made no secret of the fact 
 that not only were his old opinions unaltered, but, 
 if anything, they were much stronger than ever. 
 
 “ The inner man, sir,” he cried emphatically, 
 “ is the same still, an’ would be if you was to 
 hang me round with all the blue ribbon as was 
 ever made. Teetotaler ! If yer ain’t a teetotaler 
 in spirit, what’s the good o’ bein’ one in name ?” 
 
 “ Except on Thomas Sadler’s account,” hinted 
 Mr. Weevle. 
 
 It ought to have been—perhaps it was—some 
 satisfaction to Uncle Bost to be assured that he 
 was not suffering in vain. Thomas Sadler was 
 standing by his pledge as firm as a rock; he was 
 even making a kind of competition of the trans¬ 
 action, boasting that he could keep from the 
 drink as long as he liked, and backing himself to 
 hold out longer than Uncle Bost. This may have 
 been slightly irritating, but it was compensated by 
 the knowledge that the man’s wife and children 
 were substantially benefiting by his improved 
 manner of life—were better fed and clothed, 
 happier in every way, and grateful to Uncle Bost 
 as the good angel of the family. 
 
 But when, in view of the lofty moral pinnacle 
 upon which my uncle had been placed by the 
 townspeople in general, Mr. Weevle suggested 
 that he should give up his licence and abandon 
 the sale of spirits, the old gentleman put a firm 
 foot down at once. 
 
 “Why,” he remonstrated, “I’d hev another 
 
 2 
 
l8 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 grocer openin’ opposite next month with a spirit 
 licence, an’ where’d my business go to then ?” 
 
 “Ah, yes, yes!” said the minister gently. “But 
 the Lord, you know, Mr. Bost, looks after His 
 own.” 
 
 “Not,” Uncle Bost sardonically retorted—“not 
 if His own ’s such—aher !—if they don’t use the 
 sense He’s gin ’em to look arter therselves. No, 
 sir, the licence is not a burden on my conscience. 
 I done one ungodly thing in signin’ that pledge 
 agin my convictions. It was doin’ evil that good 
 might come on it, and no good ’ll ever come on it 
 to me. Sarve me right, too. I oughter known 
 better at my age.” 
 
 “ Do you grudge the good that has come to 
 somebody else ? ” asked Mr. Weevle reproachfully. 
 
 Uncle Bost grunted indefinitely, and took a turn 
 at the coffee-mill on the end of the counter to 
 relieve his feelings. 
 
 “ Thomas Sadler is a new man,” proceeded the 
 minister. “ He was lost and is found. Surely you 
 take a nobler joy in doing good to him and his 
 family than in pandering to what I must call a 
 sordid appetite of your own ? ” 
 
 And Uncle Bost felt he was beaten. He col¬ 
 lapsed miserably all along the line till they had 
 argued their way back to the starting-point, and 
 there he made a dogged stand and no reasoning 
 could move him ; rightly or wrongly, he steadfastly 
 refused to give up his spirit licence. 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 I 9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OT far outside the town, Uncle Bost had 
 a good-sized plot of market-garden, and 
 every Saturday afternoon, leaving my aunt 
 to mind the shop, he and I went off with a 
 spade, a garden-fork, and a wheelbarrow, to see 
 how things were growing there, and to dig up 
 such potatoes and onions and turnips and green¬ 
 stuff's as were wanted for next week’s dinners. 
 It was a sunny, sleepy, bee-haunted plot oa a 
 hill-side, bordered by a thick tangle of scarlet- 
 runners that wove their intricate network from 
 one to another of a series of slim poles. 
 
 Every inch of the ground was rich with herbs 
 and vegetables, except here and there where it was 
 intersected by very narrow pathways for conveni¬ 
 ence of access to the different beds ; and many a 
 golden afternoon had Uncle Bost and I weeded, 
 and dug, and planted there together : both of us 
 in our shirt-sleeves—he, with the perspiration 
 trickling down his face, joyously trolling out some 
 easy, see-saw old hymn-tune with a free, rolling 
 chorus in which I could help his rough bass with 
 my shrill treble while we worked. 
 
 But the unhappy effects of his perfunctory 
 martyrdom made themselves apparent even here. 
 He no longer sung over his work, but toiled, glum 
 and brooding, muttering now and then under 
 his breath, and dashing the blade of the spade 
 savagely into the earth as if he were digging a 
 grave for somebody he would be glad to bury. He 
 began to take an unhealthy pleasure, too, in 
 watching for chances to find fault with me, and 
 frequently bullied me and said I was treading on 
 the rhubarb or the lettuces, when I wasn’t. 
 
 2 
 
20 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 It was my privilege to wheel the empty barrow 
 out ; and Uncle Bost wheeled it home, still in his 
 shirt-sleeves, with his coat flung carelessly in on top 
 of the vegetables. He had been used to nod and 
 grin cheerfully to everybody he met, for everybody 
 knew him ; occasionally he would put the barrow 
 down and indulge in a little neighbourly gossip 
 with one or another of them ; but now he seemed 
 to feel that it was sufficient if he favoured them 
 with a wooden jerk of the head and a short “ How 
 do, John ?” or “ Arternoon, neighbour,'’ and rarely 
 lingered to exchange more words with any of 
 them. 
 
 It was something of a trial to him, I fancy, that 
 we had to pass Tom Sadler’s cottage as we came 
 and went ; and it happened occasionally that Mrs. 
 Sadler would be standing at her door, and, seeing 
 his approach, would come out into the road and 
 insist on shaking hands with him, and telling him 
 how wonderfully well Tom was “ going on,” and 
 how much happier and healthier she and the 
 children were, thanking him every time and reiter¬ 
 ating that they owed all their increasing pros¬ 
 perity to the influence of his good example. 
 
 Uncle Bost w r as always uneasy under these 
 demonstrations, and tried to cut them as short as 
 possible; and, when he had made his escape, 
 went jogging along, growling and muttering as he 
 went, and breaking into spasmodic snarlings that 
 were alarming in a man of his peaceable disposi¬ 
 tion. 
 
 He grew at length to resent this gratitude so 
 strongly that whenever from a distance he saw 
 Mrs. Sadler in her doorway he would stand the 
 barrow down and affect to be resting himself, until 
 she went in ; then he would instantly seize the 
 handles and hurry on at a great pace right past 
 the cottage, not venturing to slacken speed at all 
 till we were out of sight round a bend in the road. 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 21 
 
 He avoided her with a certain guilty air, and 
 listened to her when she stopped him with a 
 shamefaced irritability that puzzled me consider¬ 
 ably, it was so unlike what his behaviour would 
 have been if he had still remained his kindly, 
 genial old self. 
 
 What troubled me perhaps more than all was 
 that he became boorishly unsociable at home. He 
 found no pleasure now in spending his evenings in 
 the back parlour ; he had supper with us, and then 
 excused himself on the ground that he had got all 
 behind with his books and accounts, and retired 
 into the darkened shop with a candle, and could 
 be heard there banging the cash-book and ledger 
 about, and audibly adding up figures. 
 
 He got irritated and annoyed if anyone went in 
 to interrupt him, so that we were glad to leave him 
 there undisturbed ; and he was so fully engrossed 
 with his work that he would not even come in to 
 mix my aunt’s glass of peppermint for her, and 
 she had to do it herself. He even transferred his 
 bottle of ginger cordial from the cupboard and 
 kept it, for convenience, somewhere in the shop, 
 and merely ran into the parlour for the kettle when 
 he heard the water boiling over, and mixed his 
 nightly refreshment on the counter and drank it 
 there in gloomy solitude over his books. 
 
 This unhappy estrangement continued for nearly 
 a month, and came to a strange and startling con¬ 
 clusion one evening in early autumn. 
 
 My aunt had been ailing all day, and Uncle 
 Bost was rather uneasy about her. In the 
 evening, whilst she was gone into the kitchen with 
 the last of the supper-things, he rose to retire as 
 usual into the shop, but paused with his hand on 
 the door. 
 
 “ I dunno,” he said musingly. “ Nothing much 
 to do on the books to-night. Believe my—my 
 ginger's about out, too. I ’ll stop an’ hev a drop 
 
22 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 o’ pep’mint wi’ the old lady. She’s low, an’ it’ll 
 be company for her.” 
 
 He closed the door, returning into the parlour, 
 and stirred the fire up under the kettle, and fetched 
 two tumblers out of the cupboard, quite in his 
 old-time manner. Then he brought from the 
 other cupboard — the one under the sideboard, 
 which my aunt had found more handy since 
 she had been left to attend upon herself—a large 
 black bottle labelled “ Peppermint.” 
 
 He had poured out one half-glassful, when I 
 noticed a sudden startled expression flash across 
 his face ; he raised the uncorked bottle to his nose, 
 and was sniffing at it incredulously when a stifled 
 scream at the door interrupted him, and in an 
 instant my aunt had rushed round to him, snatched 
 the bottle from his hand, and hustled it back into 
 the cupboard. 
 
 She turned with an agitated gesture, and seeing 
 the half-filled glass on the table, and the confused, 
 wonder-stricken countenance of Uncle Bost, sunk 
 despairingly into a chair, hid her face in her hands, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 I was too astounded to realise all at once what 
 was happening. There was something unspeak¬ 
 ably touching in the sight of that bowed grey head, 
 that humiliated figure; and I could do nothing 
 but glance in wondering silence from her to my 
 uncle, who stood before her sheepishly scratching 
 his head, and looking down at her in undisguised 
 embarrassment. 
 
 “ Oh, Willum ! ” she sobbed, presently, without 
 raising her head, “ I don’t know what you think o’ 
 me ! ” 
 
 “ I—I thought of hevin' a drop o' pep’mint with 
 you, old lady,” he stammered dazedly. 
 
 “ You’ve found me out, William,” she faltered 
 dismally. “I wouldn’t ha’ deceived you; but I 
 knew what a trial it was to you, an’ I was afiaid, 
 
AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 23 
 
 if I told you, yer might lose heart an’ be tempted 
 to break down as well. I hn a wicked woman. I 
 kept from it as long as I could; but I got that 
 nervous, an’ low, an’ nasty-tempered, I felt as if I 
 must give up. I helped myself from the shop 
 unbeknown to you, an’—an’ that’s why I smelt o’ 
 cloves so often—to hide the other smell. You’ll 
 never be able to trust me no more-” 
 
 “ Don’t say that, old lady,” Uncle Bost pleaded 
 huskily. “ I will-” 
 
 “ But yer can’t,” she reiterated sadly. “ I 
 couldn’t ha’ believed I’d got such deceit in 
 me-” 
 
 “Well, neither could I,” Uncle Bost recklessly 
 interrupted, “ if I hadn’t got more in myself. 
 There ! Now you know, an’ I don’t care if every¬ 
 body knows.” 
 
 She caught his meaning more from the tone of 
 his voice than from his words, and sat suddenly 
 bolt upright, as if petrified with incredulous 
 amazement. And yet it seemed to me that there 
 was a vague glimmer of relief, almost of thankful¬ 
 ness, dawning in her troubled eyes. 
 
 “I held out’s long as I could,” Uncle Bost 
 brazenly continued. “ If I ’d held out longer it 
 would ha’ killed me, all through my own obstinac}/, 
 which is no better ’un suicide, put it how you 
 like.” 
 
 “ It was beyond our strength-” began my 
 
 aunt. 
 
 “ We was a pair o : old fools ever to try it. Habit 
 gets to be natur’ in time, an’ you can’t put yer 
 natur’ on an’ off like yer clothes,” argued Uncle 
 Bost. “ We’ve been punished for our presumption, 
 an’ sarve us right. We’ll ha’ no more of it.” 
 
 “But there’s Tom Sadler,” my aunt ruefully 
 reminded him. 
 
 “ There is,” he acknowledged. “ If there 
 wasn’t, we wouldn’t ha’ come to this.” 
 
24 
 
 AN UNFINISHED MARTYRDOM. 
 
 “ But if he hears—about us—it ’ll be dretful— 
 it ’ll be the ruin o’ him an’ his family—an’ we ’ll 
 ha’ to answer for it.” 
 
 “That’s what worrits me” said Uncle Bost. 
 “ I’m thinkin’ whether it’s more sinful for us, in 
 the pride o’ virtue, as you may say, to speak 
 out an’ hev no deception, an’ let Tom Sadler an’ 
 his family take their chance, or to be humbly 
 repentant, an’ say nowt to nobody about what 
 don’t rightly consarn anyone but you an’ me, 
 an’ so, in a manner, continyer to encourage Tom 
 Sadler, an’ set him an example as ’ll keep him 
 straight.” 
 
 It was a knotty point that might have puzzled 
 much more sophistical theologians than they were. 
 
 “ It ’ud be downright wicked, anyway,” hesitated 
 my aunt, “ to drive Tom Sadler to the bad agen.” 
 
 “ It would.” 
 
 “ Seems to me, as we ’ve got, it’s sinful either 
 way now,” she pursued, with a sigh ; “ but we ’re 
 more like to get near the right side if we continyer 
 to encourage Tom Sadler.” 
 
 Uncle Bost said nothing at the moment; but he 
 smote the table with his fist, and nodded his head 
 with an emphasis that was not to be mistaken. 
 
 “ I think,” he remarked a little later, when we 
 had settled down more comfortably, and the kettle 
 was beginning to sing again, “ I may as well fetch 
 my—my bottle in out o’ the shop. There’s nothing 
 more to do on them books! ” 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 HEY have been talking about pulling down 
 Little Snawley Street for such a long time 
 that unless they are pretty quick about it 
 now, Little Snawley Street won’t be able to 
 wait for them ; it will fall down. It has been very 
 much inclined to fall down for these last three or 
 four years; it would have done it, too, before now, 
 if it had not been propped up with a sort of 
 gigantic crutches, and huge beams that stretch 
 from one side of the street to the other. 
 
 Little Snawley Street is in Southwark. As you 
 go down the High Street you look up.an archway 
 on your left and see a narrow thoroughfare inter¬ 
 sected by great lengths of timber slanting up from 
 left to right and right to left, one or two running 
 straight across, and a few sloping down from each 
 side to the ground, as if some mammoth spider 
 had spun his web there on the chance of catching 
 unimaginable flies; or as if the houses on either 
 side of the way had been playing at “ cats’-cradle ” 
 and gone to sleep over it. 
 
 Old Joe Griffen used to say that Little Snawley 
 Street was only fit for fowls to roost in. But Joe 
 was prejudiced ; I am bound to admit that. He 
 was in the orchestra of a neighbouring theatre, 
 and nothing in connection with his engagement 
 gave him so much trouble as the getting his huge 
 bass viol safely through Little Snawley Street’s 
 complication oi beams and crutches, when he took 
 
26 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 it out with him in the evening, except the getting 
 it back through them when he brought it home 
 again after midnight. Every time he went in or 
 out, the upper end of the instrument would catch 
 obstinately against and get hooked over all the 
 lower beams under which he passed, and had to 
 be shuffled this way and that way, and lowered 
 and slanted round before it could be extricated 
 from that difficult thoroughfare; and more than 
 once, in the dark, Joe himself had been tripped up 
 by the foot of one or other of the crutches that 
 slanted out into the middle of the street, and 
 fallen headlong with the bass viol on top of 
 him. 
 
 He might have removed into more habitable 
 quarters, you say ? Yes ; but you don’t know Joe 
 Griffen. He was one of those dogged, stubborn 
 men who will have their own way. He had lived 
 in Little Snawley Street for thirteen years. There 
 were no beams in the street when he first came to 
 live there; they had no right to put beams there; 
 let them take them away again ; he wasn’t going 
 to be driven out of the place by them, not he ! 
 He grumbled about the obstructed state of the 
 street, just as he had grumbled before about the 
 insecure, unsupported condition of the houses ; 
 just as he was always grumbling about the leaky 
 ceiling, loose flooring, and broken windows of his 
 grimy little room on the top floor of number three ; 
 but he never dreamed of yielding to any or all of 
 these inconveniences and giving notice to quit. 
 He wouldn’t have been comfortable if there had 
 been nothing to complain about. 
 
 You may guess what sort of an obstinate old 
 man he was when I tell you that he had only one 
 relative in the whole world, his son Robert, and 
 twenty years ago he had shut his door even upon 
 that son, and sworn that he would never forgive 
 him, and he never had forgiven him either; for it 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 27 
 
 was his chief boast that he always meant what he 
 said ; that he was in all things a man of his word. 
 Of course, he had strong reason to be so deeply 
 offended. The fact was, the boy—for when he so 
 angered his father, Robert was little more than 
 eighteen—had fallen in with a loose lot of com¬ 
 panions of the “ fast ” type, and in the end, to get 
 out of one difficulty, had embezzled his employer’s 
 money, and so got into another, and a worse one, 
 that resulted in a prosecution and six months’ 
 imprisonment. 
 
 Joe Griffen had always especially prided himself 
 upon his respectability, his good name, his spotless 
 reputation. The reflected disgrace of such a crime 
 and such a punishment seemed utterly to over¬ 
 whelm him. It hardened and embittered his 
 whole nature ; for weeks he could think of nothing 
 else, talk of nothing else, dream of nothing else ; 
 he raved of it, wept over it. That his only son, of 
 whom he had hoped so much, should be branded 
 as a thief ! It was terrible ! He had always been 
 an indulgent father to him—perhaps too indulgent, 
 and yet the boy had the heart to bring down this 
 black disgrace upon those who loved him. He 
 was a thief! That was the one thought that 
 haunted Joe Griffen, throwing its dark shadow 
 over all his other thoughts, hardening his natural 
 obstinacy, fanning his irritable temper often into a 
 white heat, until one day when that dark thought 
 was darkest upon hirff he spoke out harsh and 
 bitter things of the lad, and sw T ore that nothing 
 should ever persuade him to forgive him; that 
 henceforth he had no son. When the boy's 
 mother, who had fretted much in secret but 
 patiently, saying nothing of her sorrow, died whilst 
 he was still in prison, old Joe would have it that 
 Robert had broken her heart. 
 
 In those miserable days Joe Griffen kept a small 
 general shop not far from Camberwell Green. He 
 
28 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 had never been a good man of business at the best 
 of times, and the great sorrows that had come 
 upon him seemed to have altogether unnerved him ; 
 he moved about his little shop like a man in a 
 dream, with less heart and interest in his work 
 than ever. Nothing seemed to go right with him, 
 everything seemed to have got itself into hopeless 
 muddle and confusion, and he had neither heart 
 nor energy to try and put it right. 
 
 His one consolation was his old bass viol; that 
 was his hobby, his solitary pleasure, and had been 
 almost ever since he was big enough to carry it. 
 He would put up the shop shutters early, leaving 
 only the door open for customers, and retire into 
 his small back parlour, tune up the old bass viol, 
 and fall to fitting the most mournful music to his 
 dreams. On one of those lonely evenings, as he 
 stood at his old instrument, wrapt in a very mist 
 of wailing melody through which he saw things 
 dimly, dreamily, hardly knowing that he saw 
 them, there arose before him, as if it were some 
 dreamy embodiment of the music, some shadow of 
 a sad thought that the music had awakened in 
 him, the face of his son, pale, grief-stricken, peni¬ 
 tent. It did not pass or fade as did other faces 
 that shaped themselves out of the music and rose 
 up before him. Was it only one of his many 
 fancies, or was it really what it seemed to be ? 
 Its wan sadness touched him strangely, and at the 
 same time roused within him that dogged spirit of 
 obstinacy which was more and more growing upon 
 him, taking possession of him, and driving out 
 what was gentler, kindlier, and more sympathetic 
 in his nature. He went on playing in a kind of 
 desperation, but the melody became harsh and 
 jarring; he pressed the bow too hard upon the 
 strings, and presently, as a higher note grated and 
 screamed under its pressure, there was the sharp 
 snap of a breaking string, then sudden silence. 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 29 
 
 The old man started and looked up, and the face 
 was still there gazing in at him through the glass 
 panel of the parlour door. His brow darkened, 
 his heart hardened, and the ever-present sense of 
 the disgrace, the sorrow that his son had brought 
 upon him, burnt within him like a flame in the 
 wind. 
 
 He thrust the bass viol aside, and, stepping 
 quickly forward, flung the door wide open, and 
 stood staring indignantly upon the shrinking figure 
 before him. 
 
 “ How dare you ?” he cried hoarsely. “ What 
 right have you to come here? Go! go! You 
 have brought shame and miser)/ enough to me 
 already. Your mother is dead. You know that; 
 you know—you know—you killed her. Go away. 
 Leave me to myself. I will not have you here. 
 No, no, never again. Thank Heaven I can keep 
 from striking you there where you stand. But 
 don’t tempt me too much. Go ! ” 
 
 Something the wretched boy began to stammer 
 out, of his sorrow, his regret, some tremulous, 
 scarcely articulate plea for pardon ; but the old 
 man fiercely interrupted him. 
 
 “Forgive you!” he shouted. “No; I have 
 sworn that I never will, and I will not. What you 
 have done you never can undo. When you can 
 bring the dead back to life I will forgive you; 
 never till then. Till then I will live alone as I am. 
 Go away ! The sight of you is hateful to me. 
 Go!” 
 
 He stamped his foot in a frenzy of rage, and 
 pointed to the door ; and with a weak cry of 
 despair his son turned away, and, covering his 
 face with his hands, staggered blindly out into the 
 desolate street. Joe followed him across the shop, 
 slammed the door behind him and bolted it; then, 
 with the hot blood still raging through his veins 
 and with flashing eyes, he went back into his lonely 
 
3 ° 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 parlour. But there was something awful in the 
 great silence of the place, now that the storm had 
 spent its violence. The little room had never 
 seemed more lonely, more desolate. A sudden 
 swift revulsion of feeling swept over him. The 
 tide of his excitement had reached the full and 
 was fast ebbing out, and all his strength seemed to 
 be going with it. He quivered and trembled in 
 every limb, and, sinking down utterly overcome 
 and exhausted, wrung his weak hands and wept, 
 wildly, bitterly, and without hope. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 II^INCE that night Joe Griffen had not seen 
 his son again. He did not even hear from 
 him until seven years later. After he had 
 eT been obliged to abandon the shop near 
 Camberwell Green, after he had tried a dozen 
 different ways of getting a living and failed in 
 each, drifting from place to place as his circum¬ 
 stances grew worse and worse, until at last he got 
 into very low water indeed, and drifted into Little 
 Snawley Street ; then one day there came a letter 
 to him from the son he had disowned. It was 
 directed to his old shop, and had been re-directed 
 from one to another of his subsequent addresses 
 by the Post Office authorities, until it reached him 
 in Little Snawley Street. 
 
 He learned from the letter that Robert had been 
 to sea for three or four years ; was married now 
 and settled down at Manchester, where he had a 
 good situation, and his one desire, he said, was 
 that his father would forgive him and allow him to 
 come to him. 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 3 1 
 
 For a little while Joe sat and thought it over. 
 With his bass viol, which he had kept through all 
 his misfortunes, he had lately been able to obtain 
 somewhat congenial employment in small theatrical 
 orchestras, and to support himself and pay his 
 way ; but he lived at best a very lonely life, with 
 no soul near him to care anything for his comfort, 
 or, indeed, whether he lived or died. He had often 
 in his long loneliness thought of his son, and wished, 
 in spite of himself, that he had him back with him 
 again. Would it not be well to forget the past, 
 and grant him the forgiveness that he asked ? It 
 might be ; but how could he forget ? How could 
 he forgive? No; he had sworn he would not, 
 and, come what might, he never would. 
 
 The unreasoning pride, the dogged obstinacy of 
 his nature made itself heard above all his gentler 
 thoughts, and would not be silenced. He could 
 not, would not forgive ! A sin that was too great 
 to be forgiven seven years ago was too great to be 
 forgiven now. If he did forgive him, it would be 
 said that he had changed his mind, he had given 
 way, and had broken his word because he was in 
 the wrong, and only did now what he felt he ought 
 to have done seven years ago. Some would even 
 say that he did it because he was poor and was 
 glad to benefit by his son’s assistance ; that he was 
 willing to forget the shame his son had brought 
 upon him, and the mother whose heart that son 
 had broken, now when he might profit by doing 
 so, though he had driven him from his door and 
 been unforgiving and severe enough when he had 
 no need of his help. Should he give ground for 
 such base suspicions as these to be breathed 
 against him ? No ! The bare possibility of such 
 things being said of him was but another reason— 
 if there needed another—why he should not unsay 
 what he had said. People might speak as they would 
 of him, he knew that he was justified in doing and 
 
32 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 saying what he had done and said ; he had always 
 been a man of his word, and lie would be so still. 
 When he looked back upon it all again—but no ; 
 even now, at such distance, that was more than he 
 could bear ; he dare not, would not think of it, 
 would not look back on it any more. He crumpled 
 the letter up passionately and, on the hot impulse 
 of the moment, flung it into the fire, as if he were 
 casting the old remembrance from him, and 
 watched the paper smoulder and burn to black 
 ashes which were whirled away amongst the smoke 
 up the chimney; and never answered it. 
 
 Time passed in Little Snawley Street pretty 
 much as it did anywhere else. People died there 
 and were carried away to be buried. People were 
 born in Little Snawley Street, and there was as 
 much rejoicing over the fact as if it were really a 
 capital place to be born in. People were married 
 from Little Snawley Street and went off to live 
 elsewhere amidst as many tears as if Little Snawley 
 Street had been a perfect little Paradise, and they 
 couldn’t hope to find another street to equal it 
 anywhere. 
 
 Amongst all these changes old Joe Griffen grew 
 older and more feeble, more testy, more obstinate; 
 and in due course, nearly six years after he had 
 received the first, a second letter came from his 
 son. It appeared from this that Robert was in 
 London ; his employers had transferred him to 
 their London branch, and he was doing very well 
 in the world, and only still desirous that his father 
 should be reconciled to him and come and live 
 with him. Joe read it through three or four times, 
 scarcely knowing what to do, the temptation was 
 so great ; but, when he began to think, there came 
 suddenly back upon him the same extravagant 
 fears that his motive in yielding might be sus¬ 
 pected, the same burst of unreasoning rage, the 
 same blind and headlong determination as came 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 33 
 
 upon him before; and he thrust this letter also 
 into the fire, and never answered it. 
 
 He had certainly been even more tempted by this 
 letter than by the other, for things had been going 
 very badly with him of late. The theatre at 
 which he had been playing was closed for repairs, 
 and the small company he had been playing for 
 had gone away into the provinces, and left him 
 with nothing to do. He had only a matter of a few 
 shillings in hand, and was a month behind with his 
 rent. 
 
 Now this last was the most serious part of the 
 whole business. Mr. Flange said it was ; and his 
 opinion on the subject was worth something, for 
 he was Joe’s landlord. He was a small shoemaker, 
 who lived with his family in two rooms on the 
 ground-floor of number three Little Snawle)^ 
 Street, the front of which two rooms served him 
 as a shop, work-room, and sitting-room all in one. 
 He had six sets of lodgers in the six rooms above 
 his own ; and as all his lodgers were, as a general 
 thing, always a little harder up than he was him¬ 
 self, it took him nearly all his time to collect his 
 rents. Every day in the week, as regular^ as a 
 City man goes to business, he went off upstairs to 
 worry as much as he could out of his tenants on 
 account of unknown arrears; for, as he could not 
 write and most of his tenants could not read, he 
 never gave them any receipts, so they never knew 
 exactly what they owed him, and he was never 
 able to tell them with any certainty. But, as they 
 had no hope of ever being able to pay him all they 
 owed, and he had no hope of getting it all, this 
 was of very little consequence. When in a sudden 
 fit of sobriety (for his normal condition was not 
 sober) the gravity of the situation struck him, and 
 he made an effort to name the precise amount of 
 arrears owing from any defaulting lodger, the 
 figures were invariably disputed, and it led to 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 unpleasantness; in fact, on one such occasion the 
 gentleman who rented the first-floor back, horrified 
 at the alleged amount of his indebtedness, fought 
 Mr. Flange on the question, and ended in knocking 
 him downstairs, and seemed from that time forth 
 to have acquired such a taste for settling his rent 
 in that way, that it was as much as Mr. Flange 
 dared do to ask him for a trifle on account once a 
 week, just, as he would delicately put it, to keep 
 the arrears under a bit, and make it less to pay 
 later on when he squared up. 
 
 Unlike the other tenants, old Joe had hitherto 
 paid his rent regularly ; but now that he was not 
 able to do so any longer, he was compelled to 
 resort to the practice which had so long been 
 popular with the others, and paid Mr. Flange 
 small and irregular instalments on account ; and 
 when he could pay nothing, promised an instal¬ 
 ment at an early date, which was generally con¬ 
 sidered by Mr. Flange’s tenants as almost 
 equivalent to an actual payment. 
 
 So when Joe went home one evening, after vainly 
 tramping about all day in search of work, and 
 heard Mr. Flange toiling upstairs after him, he 
 guessed at once that he was coming up for “ some¬ 
 thing on account.” He went on into his room, 
 however, shut the door, and at once began tuning 
 up his bass viol. He could hear Mr. Flange out 
 on the landing in the dark, feeling all over the 
 door for the handle, but took no notice ; he lit his 
 lamp, opened his music on his wry-necked old 
 music-stand, and went vigorously to practising the 
 bass part of the “ Men of Harlech.” Presently, 
 Mr- Flange succeeded in discovering the handle, 
 and got the door open; he thrust in his small 
 round head, with its mass of bristly hair, and 
 stared at Joe in silence, winking his watery eyes 
 and smiling vaguely. He stood staring so long 
 that he nearly fell asleep; then suddenly rousing 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 35 
 
 himself, he came cautiously into the room and 
 coughed twice behind his hand. 
 
 “ Mizzer Grivven ! ” he ejaculated. 
 
 Joe pursued the “Men of Harlech” with his 
 eyes shut, and pretended not to hear him. 
 
 Mr. Flange called him again, and then again, 
 coming a little nearer each time he called. He 
 was a small man, with thin bow-legs, and he 
 brought a distinct atmosphere of unwholesome 
 beer into the room with him. His feet were 
 evidently a great trial to him, for he nearly fell 
 over one or the other of them at every step he 
 took; but he succeeded, in spite of them, in 
 steering his way to the music-stand, and stood 
 there balancing himself on tip-toe and peering at 
 Joe over the top of it. 
 
 “ Good evenin’, Mizzer Grivven,” he said, 
 leering affably at the bass viol under the impression 
 that he was looking at Joe, who went on playing 
 with his eyes shut. “ Mizzer Grivven ! ” cried Mr. 
 Flange in a louder tone, cautiously coming round 
 the music-stand and holding his hand out ; “ how 
 d ’yer do, sir ? ” 
 
 Joe attributed this friendly demonstration to his 
 landlord’s condition, and still took no notice of 
 him. Whereupon Mr. Flange retired again behind 
 the music-stand, and holding on to it with both 
 hands, appeared to reflect, and gazed at Joe over 
 the top of it with a puzzled expression on his 
 grimy countenance. 
 
 “ Mizzer Grivven,” he said at last, “ I’ve 
 come up ter break it to yer in a fren’ly way. 
 Make it up. That’s wot I ses to you, sir. 
 
 ‘ Break it to him,’ ses he. ‘ Do it carefully, or 
 he may be put out.’ I ses, ‘ Leave it to me,’ 
 ses I. An’—an’ he did leave it to me. He’s 
 a-waitin’ downstairs now—genelman he is, an’ 
 no mistake. ‘There’s a little balance atween 
 me an’ Mizzer Grivven,’ ses I. ‘How much?’ 
 
 3 * 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 36 
 
 ses he. I names the figger, an’ he outs with his 
 purse like a-” 
 
 “ What are you talking about, Mr. Flange ? ” 
 interrupted Joe sharply. He had stopped playing, 
 and opened his eyes. “ Who is it, sir ? ” 
 
 But the unexpected sharpness of the interruption 
 startled Mr. Flange, whose nerves were never 
 robust, and quite threw him off his balance. He 
 held on more firmly to the music-stand to save 
 himself, staggered back a few steps, and went over 
 heavily on his back, with the stand on top of him. 
 
 “No offence, I ’m sure,” he remarked, rising to 
 his knees and amiably surveying the room, without 
 attempting to get up any further. “ He paid up 
 like a good ’un,” he continued, “ an’ ses he’ll pay 
 the whole of it as soon as I can work it out an’ let 
 him know how much it is. Now you make it up, 
 an’-” 
 
 “What do you mean, sir?” cried Joe angrily. 
 “ What are you talking about ? ” 
 
 “ Why, I told yer,” remonstrated Mr. Flange. 
 “It’s your son, Mizzer Grivven. Wish he was 
 mine. Paid up like a brick. I must work it out 
 an’ let him know the balance. He arst me to 
 come up an’ break it to you, an’ he’s waitin’ down¬ 
 stairs to know if he may come up.” 
 
 “ Go down, sir, and tell him he’s an impostor. 
 I have no son!” shouted Joe. “I will not see 
 him. What right has he to come here ? How 
 dare he ! ” 
 
 “ Impostor ? What’s that matter ? ” stammered 
 Mr. Flange in blank amazement. “ Won’t see 
 him ? He’s got plenty o’ money, y’ know—rollin’ 
 in it. Wish he was my son. I’d see him ! ” 
 
 “ What right has he to pay my debts ? ” 
 blustered the old man indignantly. “ What right 
 have you to take his money ? You will return to 
 him every penny he has paid you, and tell him I 
 will not see him.” 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 37 
 
 “ Give it him back ? ” gasped Mr. Flange. 
 
 “ Every penny of it—yes ! ” cried Joe. “ And 
 tell him what I §ay.” 
 
 “ But look here,” remonstrated Mr. Flange, “ if 
 you don’t want any, that’s no reason why you 
 
 shouldn’t let me have some. That’s-” 
 
 “ Go down and do as I tell you, sir ! ” Joe fiercely 
 thundered. “ Send him away. I won’t see him. 
 I ’ll have nothing to do with him. Do you hear ? ” 
 As Mr. Flange seemed too bewildered at the 
 mere idea of voluntarily returning money which 
 had been paid to him “ on account,” to do any¬ 
 thing but mutter and stare helplessly, Joe sternly 
 assisted him to his feet, led him to the door, and 
 steadily pushed him out of the room, and heard 
 him go stumbling downstairs. Then, with an air 
 of indifference—for he had spoken impulsively, 
 not trusting himself to think, and if he felt any 
 emotion now, any yielding tenderness, he would 
 not own, even to himself, that he did—he picked 
 up his music-stand, rearranged his music, and 
 went on playing. If his hands trembled—he was 
 an old man, and the anger and excitement of the 
 last few minutes had shaken and unnerved him. 
 If all the notes on the open page grew by degrees 
 into one huge blurr before his eyes—his sight was 
 not so good as it used to be, and the oil-lamp gave 
 such a dim, bleared light that it was no wonder. 
 
38 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EXT day, and every day after, Mr. Flange 
 came up as usual and applied for “some¬ 
 thing on account ” as if nothing at all 
 had happened. Joe was too proud to 
 ask questions, and gave him only the vaguest 
 promises of payment, with which, however, he 
 appeared to be more than usually contented. 
 But from certain confidential hints and winks 
 that fell from Mr. Flange now and again in un¬ 
 guarded moments, when he was so prostrated by 
 what he called “nerves” that he could scarcely 
 articulate, Joe gathered that he was in frequent 
 communication with his son, who was making 
 heroic efforts to pay off imaginary arrears to an 
 unknown extent, and that Mr. Flange’s applications 
 to himself were merely a friendly matter of form 
 so that he should not suspect what was going on. 
 Much as it exasperated him, Joe could not very 
 well put a stop to this : even had he known his 
 son’s address, he could not have brought himself 
 to communicate with him and acknowledge his 
 consciousness of the money that had already been 
 paid; his stubborn pride would not let him yield 
 even to that extent. He bullied Mr. Flange 
 about it, and dared him to accept any more 
 money from the same quarter ; but Mr. Flange 
 always seemed to think he would risk it, and said 
 he only wished he had such a son of his own, or 
 even two. 
 
 One morning, when the year had passed into 
 autumn, Mr. Flange came up as usual, and having 
 made his customary application and got nothing, 
 did not even press for a promise of payment. 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 39 
 
 “ I say,” he said, “ I dunno what ’s the matter 
 with your son.” 
 
 Joe started, but immediately assumed an air of 
 careless unconcern. 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ” he asked. “ Is he ill ? ” 
 
 “ He ain’t bin well for some weeks. An’ he 
 ain’t paid me nothing on account since last 
 Friday,” said Mr. Flange. “ I ’m afraid he’s in a 
 bad way.” 
 
 “You don’t know what’s the matter with him ? ” 
 
 “ I know there’s bin a doctor at the house pretty 
 often. He ain’t well enough to see me, or even to 
 send anythin’ out to me,” replied Mr. Flange. 
 “ In fact, I don’t think he’s got much to send. 
 I’m pretty sure of it.” 
 
 “ He’s ill; and you think he is in want of money 
 as well ? ” asked Joe. 
 
 Mr. Flange thought the old man’s voice trem¬ 
 bled ; but as Mr. Flange, owing to the dreadful 
 state of his nerves, which he had recently been 
 trying to steady with brandy-and-water taken 
 medicinally, was himself trembling all over, he 
 might have been mistaken. 
 
 “Well, they tell me he’s ill, an’ he’s lost his 
 sitcherwation,” said Mr. Flange, “ an’ also that he 
 ain’t got no money. I ain’t got none myself either. 
 If you could manage a trifle on account-” 
 
 “ I can’t—I can’t. I wish I could,” cried Joe. 
 “ I want money myself. I must have it. I 
 haven’t a penny in the world. Do you know, Mr. 
 Flange,” he added hesitatingly, “ I’m thinking of 
 selling my bass viol. If I knew anyone who would 
 buy it-” 
 
 “ I know a man. The very man ! ” exclaimed 
 Mr. Flange. “ I ’ll take you straight to him now, 
 if you like. You ’ll get enough for it to pay me 
 something, an’ set yourself up for a couple of 
 months or so.” 
 
 Joe looked at his old instrument and hesitated, 
 
4 o 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 feeling as one feels shaking hands at parting with 
 his oldest friend. But by a strong effort he thrust 
 all weakness from him, and was resolved that the 
 sacrifice must and should be made. He was 
 getting so old and feeble that he did not play so 
 well as he used to; he had given up hope of 
 getting employment again as a musician, and he 
 could not afford to keep the bass viol as a luxury. 
 He said no more, but took the instrument across 
 his shoulder by the stout strap attached to it, went 
 downstairs, and wriggled his way out of Little 
 Snawley Street with it for the last time. 
 
 Mr. Flange, whose spirits seemed to rise at the 
 near prospect of an instalment “on account,” 
 walked beside him, and insisted on carrying the 
 bow. As they went along Joe could not refrain 
 from asking further questions about his son's 
 poverty, and where he was living, and how many 
 children he had. To this Mr. Flange answered 
 so copiously that he had not finished when they 
 came into a long street, rather cleaner than most 
 they had passed through, and paused before the 
 window of a musical instrument shop. 
 
 “You’ll find he’s a hard ’un,” remarked Mr. 
 Flange, referring to the proprietor of the shop ; 
 “ but you know what the article’s worth ; you 
 stick out for your price, an’ I ’ll back you up.” 
 
 They pushed open the door, which set an electric 
 bell ringing, and went in. A bald-headed, stout 
 man, with a double chin as smooth as his head, 
 came down the shop in his shirt-sleeves and 
 enquired what they wanted. 
 
 “ How's them boots, sir ? ” asked Mr. Flange 
 heartily, by way of establishing a friendly feeling 
 between himself and the shopman. 
 
 “ Eh ? I beg your pardon ? ” 
 
 “ Good patch I put on them toes, Mr. Cottle, 
 sir. Hope they don’t pinch ? ” said Mr. Flange, 
 smiling inanely. 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 4 1 
 
 “ Eh ? Oh, you are the shoemaker who mended 
 my boots ! Ah ! ’’ cried Mr. Cottle, “ haven’t you 
 been paid ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ! That’s all right! I just came 
 round to introduce my friend to you,” said Mr. 
 Flange confidentially. “ He ’s got a rippin’ good 
 big fiddle here—this is the bow—which he wants 
 to sell, an’ I thought you ’d like to have first 
 chance.” 
 
 “ Ah ! You want to sell this, do you ? ” said 
 Mr. Cottle, turning to Joe, and curiously looking 
 over the bass viol. “ I don’t know that I can buy 
 it at present, but—what do you want for it ? ” 
 
 “Well,” said Joe dubiously, “it’s a valuable 
 instrument.” 
 
 “ It’s a instrument as can’t be beat,” remarked 
 Mr. Flange, with the air of a man who was inti¬ 
 mately acquainted with it. 
 
 “ It has a splendid tone,” pursued Joe. 
 
 “ Hike a organ,” added Mr, Flange. 
 
 Mr. Cottle shook his head incredulously; he 
 stooped down and peered into the instrument, 
 laid his ear on it and tapped it with his knuckles 
 like a doctor sounding a patient's lungs, ran the 
 bow across it critically^, then sighed, and shook his 
 head again. 
 
 “ How much did you say ? ” he asked. 
 
 Joe hesitated a moment and then suggested 
 twenty pounds. Mr. Flange muttered disapproval 
 of the amount, saying that in his opinion it was 
 throwing the instrument away. 
 
 The shopman laughed constrainedly, as if he 
 thought Joe was jesting, and he couldn’t quite see 
 the joke. 
 
 “No, no!” he cried. “ You mustn’t talk like 
 that—you really must not. Ha, ha ! No. Come, 
 I ’ll be as liberal as I can with you. I 'll give you 
 five pounds for it.” 
 
 Joe’s face fell considerably. 
 
42 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 “ Can’t you make it seven ? ” he asked despe¬ 
 rately. 
 
 “Why, the bow’s worth that,” remonstrated 
 Mr. Flange. “ I tell you, it ’s a rare good ’un to 
 play. You never see such a instrument. I ain’t 
 buyin’ it, an’ I ain’t sellin’ it; but as a person who 
 don’t care a hang either way, I says—make it 
 eight.” 
 
 “ Look here,” said the shopman magnanimously. 
 “ I’m not going to haggle about trifles. I ’ll make 
 it six. Not a penny more.” 
 
 Ultimately, however, he was persuaded to give 
 six pounds ten for it, and Joe went out of the 
 shop, almost heart-broken, with a five-pound note 
 and thirty shillings’ worth of silver in his pocket. 
 Nobody ever knew what a pang it cost him to 
 come away like that and leave the old bass viol 
 behind him, feeling that he would never play it 
 again. It was as if he had buried his only friend, 
 and had no hope of ever hearing his voice any 
 more. He walked on a little way in melancholy 
 silence, but was presently roused by Mr. Flange, 
 who took especial credit to himself for what he 
 called the success of the transaction, and inti¬ 
 mated that he felt that he was now entitled to 
 something substantial “on account.” He also felt 
 that by rights he ought to have a commission for 
 introducing a purchaser. But, grumble as much 
 as he might, Joe would not give him more than 
 five shillings, which Mr. Flange said bitterly was 
 only what he might have expected, and that if 
 this was gratitude he would never do anybody else 
 a good turn as long as he lived. 
 
 But what annoyed and disgusted Mr. Flange 
 even more than this was that, although he made 
 his regular applications during the next three 
 weeks, he only succeeded in getting out of Joe 
 small payments on account amounting in the 
 aggregate to exactly three shillings. 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 43 
 
 “ What’s the good o’ you sayin’ you can’t spare 
 no more? I calls it wicked—yes, wicked!” he 
 cried indignantly at last. “ Ain’t you got that 
 fi’-pun’ note ? ” 
 
 “ That’s my business ! ” cried the old man hotly. 
 “ When I can pay you I will. At present I can’t. 
 Do you see ? You have had more than is due to 
 you already out of my son. You scoundrel, you 
 know you have ! ” 
 
 Mr. Flange had a sudden fear that Joe had 
 caught the infection from the lodger on the first- 
 floor back, and was going to fling him downstairs 
 to settle matters; so he went down at once in a 
 moderate panic, only pausing at a safe distance 
 below to shout up : 
 
 “ All right. If you won’t pay, out you goes. 
 I don’t keep you here no longer gratis rent free. 
 Not me ! ” 
 
 But Joe was sitting in his chair too dejected, 
 too hopeless to reply, or to care what Mr. Flange 
 might say or do. He had now neither food nor 
 money left, and no prospect of employment. He 
 could not bring himself to abandon the struggle 
 and go into the workhouse : and after all that had 
 happened he could not go and seek help of his 
 son ; indeed, as Mr. Flange had told him, his son 
 had no longer the means to help him. 
 
 When he got up next morning he felt too faint, 
 too weak and languid, even to go out and look 
 for work. He sat listlessly by his empty fireplace, 
 staring into vacancy and dreaming, what miser¬ 
 able dreams ! His wretched little garret seemed 
 as full of magic as an enchanter's cell. Dead 
 years and dead friends were there re-born ; his old 
 self—as he was long years ago—came back to him 
 like a ghost and lived his past life over again 
 before his eyes. Then, as at such a time it was 
 sure to, the loss of his old bass viol haunted him 
 with a tenfold sense of desolation. If he could 
 
44 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 but feel it in his hands at that moment, if he could 
 only draw the bow across its strings, how he would 
 awaken the old music so that it should give voice 
 to all his miserable feeling, speak the dumb 
 thoughts that lay so heavily about his heart and 
 have done with them ! Thinking of all this there 
 were tears in his eyes before he knew it, and he 
 brushed them away hurriedly, for he heard Mr. 
 Flange’s step outside, and a moment after, that 
 incorrigible landlord came swaggering into the 
 room with a couple of shabby men at his heels. 
 
 “ What about that balance ? ” he demanded, 
 with a drunken grin, as if he found the state of 
 affairs rather amusing. “Ain’t got it? No, 
 thought not. Out you goes, then. This is the 
 gen’leman, gen’lemen,” he added to his two 
 followers. “You 'll walk him off an’ lock him up 
 till he pays up.” 
 
 “ You dare not,” began Joe; “the law in these 
 days will not allow-” 
 
 “ I’m the law,” replied Mr. Flange loftily, 
 “ and,” indicating his followers, “ these is the law 
 likewise. We ’re all law.” 
 
 He chuckled, and winked at the two men, who 
 stolidly winked back at him without speaking. 
 Joe did not trouble to ask any questions or to dis¬ 
 pute the point with them ; he did not care much 
 what they did with him, though he shrewdly 
 guessed that it was some ruse of Mr. Flange’s to 
 get rid of him. He merely said he was ready to 
 go, rose quietly from his seat and went downstairs 
 with them. One of the men, noticing how weak 
 he was, suggested that they should all refresh 
 themselves before starting. Mr. Flange was so 
 charmed with the suggestion that he took them 
 into his shop, collected from various secret places 
 two glasses, a mug without a handle, and a beer- 
 can, and mixed in these vessels four stiff doses of 
 whisky-and-water. Mr. Flange and his followers 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 45 
 
 tossed off their shares with an ease that came of 
 long practice ; but Joe’s nearly choked him at first, 
 then warmed him all through and seemed by 
 degrees to get into his head, and made him feel 
 so drowsy that after his captors and Mr. Flange 
 had got into a four-wheeled cab with him he fell 
 into a heavy sleep. 
 
 When he awoke—when it seemed to him that he 
 awoke—he found himself lying on a couch in a 
 room that was strangely familiar to him. Suddenly 
 it flashed upon his mind that, changed and yet 
 somehow still the same, this was the little back 
 parlour of his old shop near Camberwell Green. 
 How long had he lain dreaming there, and how 
 much had he dreamt ? Was his wife really dead, 
 had his son sinned, and had he really sworn never 
 to forgive him ? Was Little Snawley Street only 
 a dream, and Mr. Flange nothing but a night¬ 
 mare ? What was dream and what reality? He 
 sat up, dazed, bewildered, and the first thing that 
 met his gaze was his old bass viol standing in its 
 accustomed corner. The very sight of it seemed 
 to put new life into him ; it drove all else from his 
 thoughts for the moment. He rose, half doubting 
 what he saw, but it did not fade away at his 
 approach; it, at least, was no dream. Surely he 
 had but dreamt that he had sold it. He took it in 
 his hand and drew the bow across the strings, 
 and hearing its full, deep tones once again, knew 
 that however long he had been dreaming he was 
 awake at last. The dear familiar sound refreshed 
 him, charmed him, ran tingling through his blood 
 and thrilled him with its old delight. He kept 
 running the bow over the strings almost care¬ 
 lessly at first, then gradually and without inten¬ 
 tion glided into playing the same mournful old 
 tune that he had been playing in that same 
 room so many years ago, on that evening when 
 his son came back out of prison, when he drove 
 
4 C 
 
 A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 him away and swore he would never pardon him; 
 if, indeed, such things had happened elsewhere 
 than in his dreams. His whole heart was in the 
 music, he had no conscious thought of anything 
 else, and, as he played, a very mist of melody, as 
 it were, rose up and wreathed about him, and he 
 saw things through it dimly, dreamily, hardly 
 knowing that he saw them. Had the years rolled 
 back, or had they never yet gone onward ? Was 
 this the evening on which Robert would come 
 home from jail ? What should he say to him 
 when he came ? Should he simply pardon him 
 and say no more of it ? 
 
 Nobody knew how much he loved his son, how 
 much he yearned to shatter down his own obsti¬ 
 nate pride and say so. What face was this 
 growing out of the mist that surrounded him, 
 gazing at him so earnestly and with such mournful 
 eyes ? Robert ?—so thin, so pale, so strangely 
 old as this? Joe fixed his eyes upon it more 
 intently, and the altered features grew more and 
 more familiar as he looked at them. Robert ! It 
 was Robert ! The bow jarred harshly on the 
 strings and fell from his nervous grasp; a sudden 
 night closed in upon him, and he reeled blindly in 
 the darkness ; and when the light came slowly 
 back, he was lying on a couch in the same little 
 back parlour, and a dark figure was leaning over 
 him holding his hand. It was Robert. There 
 was Mr. Flange, too, standing at the foot of the 
 couch, engaged in the uncongenial task of holding 
 a glass of brandy-and-water which was not meant 
 for his own consumption ; and close beside Robert 
 was a comely, pleasant-looking woman with a 
 bright-eyed, wondering little girl clinging to her 
 dress. Robert’s wife and child, of course. 
 
 As soon as Joe opened his eyes Mr. Flange 
 offered him the brandy-and-water, and, the offer 
 being declined, he yielded to temptation and 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 47 
 
 drank it himself, after which he withdrew to a 
 distant chair closer to the bottle. 
 
 Then Robert, who had a mild, honest face, 
 and looked as if he were recovering from a 
 severe illness, with very little preamble owned 
 penitently that he had been in secret league with 
 Mr. Flange almost ever since he came to London; 
 that he had latterly taken to pleading poverty 
 as an excuse for not complying with Mr. Flange's 
 too frequent demands for “ something on 
 account”; that he was suffering from the effects 
 of overwork, and had been obliged to give up 
 his situation; and while he was lying ill a five- 
 pound note came to him from an unknown friend 
 who thought he was in want. He knew Mr. 
 Flange would not have sent it, and knew also 
 that it must have come from somebody who had 
 heard through Mr. Flange of his own suppositi¬ 
 ous poverty. Next time he saw Mr. Flange he 
 learned how his father had sold his bass viol, 
 and appeared to have spent the purchase-money 
 without getting anything for it ; then he guessed 
 who that unknown friend was, and felt that the 
 unknown friend would not have done such a thing 
 for one he hated. Again with the assistance of 
 Mr. Flange, he recovered the bass viol and 
 returned it to its corner here. 
 
 For, only a week ago, he had found that the 
 old shop near Camberwell Green was empty, and 
 had taken it and stocked it with the money he had 
 saved. Then he had positively made up his mind 
 that he would have his father back there to live 
 with him; and with the ingenious co-operation of 
 Mr. Flange he had hatched a plot with that object 
 and successfully carried it out. 
 
 Joe could say nothing, could do nothing but 
 clasp his son’s hand more firmly, and dimly try to 
 think what he ought to say and do. He noticed 
 that Robert said nothing about forgiveness, and 
 
A MAN OF HIS WORD. 
 
 felt that he refrained from doing so with a wish to 
 spare him any humiliation there might be in his 
 having to break his word ; and that very thought 
 humiliated him all the more. It so humbled him, 
 it made him feel so ashamed of the hard obstinacy 
 he had mistaken for a righteous strength of will, 
 that when Mr. Flange had gone home, when 
 Robert’s little girl had gone to bed, and Mrs. 
 Robert was out in the shop, and he and his son 
 were alone together, the old man nerved himself 
 to the effort, and with tremulous hesitation said 
 in a slow and quavering voice : 
 
 “Robert, I — I want to tell you something. 
 Once I say a thing I must stand by it. I can’t 
 help it, it’s my nature; I’ve always been a man 
 of my word. I’ve prided myself on it. And— 
 and—I said, you know, I’d never forgive you-” 
 
 “ But don’t think of it now,” pleaded Robert. 
 “ It was years ago, and I deserved it then ; but 
 I have tried my hardest to make up for it. It’s 
 been my greatest trouble : I have deserved all I 
 have had to suffer ; but I thought after all these 
 years, though you did say you’d never forgive 
 me, you-” 
 
 “After all these years! Oh, Robert!” cried 
 the old man, breaking down completely, and 
 speaking in a strained and broken voice : “I’d— 
 forgiven you—even—before I said it ! ” 
 
% Cljimxc Confession. 
 
 • u 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 f N O W ! Snow everywhere ; nothing but 
 snow. It filled the air; it covered all the 
 country nearly a foot deep, and it blocked 
 ^ the line to such an extent that when, after 
 a great deal of hesitation, the train went crawling, 
 at last, into Lichfield, it stopped there altogether. 
 The line ahead was so completely blocked that 
 there was no prospect of our being able to go on 
 again for some hours, at least. 
 
 I was travelling down to spend Christmas with 
 friends at Chester, and it had taken a long, long, 
 terrible time to get even as far as Lichfield, where 
 we were told that the train could not proceed 
 further till the line was cleared. I was stiff and 
 aching, and chilled to the very bone. I took my 
 portmanteau, stepped shivering out on to the 
 platform, and made straight for the refreshment- 
 room ; but it was already so overcrowded that the 
 last man who got in had not been able to shut the 
 door behind him, and yet there were others trying 
 to gain admission. 
 
 I turned away, cold, hungry, and disappointed, 
 and after taking counsel with a porter, I went out 
 through the snow that was down and the snow 
 that was coming down to look for the “ White 
 Crow,” which he recommended as “ a nice little 
 place which kep’ as good stuff as you could wish 
 for, an’ only just round the corner.” 
 
 And just round the corner I found it; a quaint, 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 old-fashioned little hostelry, full of warm, rich 
 light that overflowed through all its lower windows 
 and lay on the snow outside in golden pools and 
 splashes. I pushed open the door and passed 
 through the bar without a word to anyone, straight 
 into the cheery, bright little parlour. A huge fire 
 roared a welcome from the grate ; the landlord 
 bustled in after me with something hot to drink, 
 and I could hear and smell steaks frying close at 
 hand. I stood over the fire until I was warmed 
 through and through, and I had my share of the 
 steaks when they were done. 
 
 Some few other travellers had come in; the fire 
 roared its jolly welcome to each of them, and 
 there were more than enough steaks to go all 
 round ; and by degrees we reached such a stage 
 of comfort and satisfaction as it was impossible 
 to go beyond, and sat in a contented semi-circle 
 about the wide hearth, with our feet stretched out 
 towards the blaze. 
 
 There were six of us : three nondescript, middle- 
 aged gentlemen ; a quiet, somewhat reserved young 
 man, whom I put down as a barrister: a talkative 
 commercial traveller, and myself. Seven, if you 
 count the landlord, who sat amongst us, prattling 
 prosily of old winters that he remembered. 
 
 And we were all as snug and cosy as could be, 
 when the door suddenly opened, and in came a 
 sharp gust of chilly air, and a white-faced, blue¬ 
 nosed young curate, powdered all over with snow. 
 
 “ Hope you won’t think me very wicked,” he 
 laughed dismally, “ coming in here. I don’t know 
 where else to go, and I have been waiting up at 
 the station till I am nearly frozen.” 
 
 For the moment, I think we resented his intru¬ 
 sion—we had just made ourselves comfortable, and 
 he was so cold ; but we repented immediately, and 
 made way for him to the fire. 
 
 “ Not,” he continued, with an apologetic glance 
 
A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 51 
 
 at the landlord, “that I see any harm in coming 
 here myself. What harm is there ? But I 
 suppose, on account of my calling, some good 
 people-” 
 
 We hastened to assure him that we were not 
 good people ; and when he had sufficiently warmed 
 himself, he sat back and ate one of those glorious 
 steaks with such a fine natural appetite and enjoy¬ 
 ment as made some of us feel hungry again 
 ourselves; but he would not take his dose of 
 something hot as the rest of us had done, for it 
 turned out that he was a teetotaller, so the land¬ 
 lord had to make him some coffee. 
 
 “ Well, sir,” laughed the commercial traveller, 
 “it would be rather awkward if anyone who 
 knows you passed that window and saw you in 
 the bar parlour of a public-house enjoying your¬ 
 self. They would say you had broken the pledge, 
 I expect, eh ? ” 
 
 “ Which would be one more proof,” responded 
 the curate, “ of how you may wrong a man if you 
 judge him by appearances.” 
 
 That gave one of the nondescript gentlemen a 
 chance ; and he went on to instance how he himself 
 had once suffered grievously under a misjudgment 
 founded on appearances which had been dead 
 against him, and which he had been unable to 
 explain to the satisfaction of his judges. Then 
 the landlord broke out with a confidential anecdote 
 of how he had misjudged somebody by appear¬ 
 ances, and another of the nondescript gentlemen 
 followed him with a story to the same effect. And 
 the moment he finished the commercial traveller, 
 who had already made two false starts, but the 
 others had got ahead of him, began, with profes¬ 
 sions of regret to the curate, but a secret satisfac¬ 
 tion that revealed itself in spite of him, and told 
 how, finding himself, quite innocently, in circum¬ 
 stances that might have brought him under 
 
 4 * 
 
52 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 suspicion, he had invented a very ingenious fib, 
 and so got out of the difficulty. 
 
 This sharing of confidences was certainly in¬ 
 fectious, and I caught the complaint. I felt a 
 positively insane anxiety to disclose a particular 
 little wickedness of my own that I was privately 
 rather vain of—an uncommonly smart trick I had 
 once had recourse to for the sake of appearances ; 
 but just as I was about to commence the curate 
 struck in and stopped me. 
 
 “ Well,” he began, in a confidential tone, and I 
 knew at once that the infection had spread to him, 
 “ I know what it is to have appearances against 
 you, and what a temptation it may be to do 
 almost anything to avoid the mere appearance 
 of guilt. 
 
 “ I had only recently got my first curacy, in a 
 small parish just outside Liverpool. My vicar 
 was a thoroughly sincere and upright man, but 
 exceedingly strict—perhaps too strict in some 
 things. So many mere harmless pleasures he 
 objected to my indulging in, so many precise 
 formalities he insisted on my rigidly observing— 
 not because they were wrong or right, but all, as 
 he honestly admitted, for the sake of appearances. 
 For most people seem to think that when humanity 
 puts on a clerical coat and collar it should cease 
 to be human, and so much, he used to say, was 
 expected from men of our calling that even the 
 appearance of folly or frivolity was to be most 
 carefully avoided. 
 
 “ Well, one Wednesday evening I had been 
 conducting a service in Liverpool. It was about 
 nine o’clock when I left the church, and as it was 
 a clear, frosty night, I thought I would walk home. 
 Turning the corner of Lord Street I ran into an 
 old college friend of mine—Bob Ingle. I had not 
 seen him for years, and we stood chatting there 
 together for some little time ; and presently he 
 
A CHANCE CONFESSION. 53 
 
 mentioned that my old friend Carfield was in 
 Liverpool. 
 
 “ ‘ He has been living here for the last three 
 months or more,’ he said ; ‘ I see him frequently, 
 and he is always talking about you, and saying 
 how much he would like to see you. If you would 
 care to see him, I know exactly where we can find 
 him. You are only just in time, too, for he has 
 accepted an appointment in Germany, and sails 
 to-morrow.’ 
 
 “ Now, Carfield had been my dearest chum at 
 college. We had been inseparable, had sworn 
 eternal friendship, and were genuinely fond of 
 each other. But—such things will happen—after 
 we left college we drifted somehow out of sight 
 of each other. So I was glad of the chance of 
 seeing him again before he left England, and fell 
 in with Bob’s proposal immediately. 
 
 “ Bob said, as we went along, that he thought it 
 was a good thing for Carfield that he was going 
 abroad, as he had got in with a very bad set at 
 Liverpool, and that we should find him now in a 
 certain old-established gambling den of the worst 
 order, where he was in the habit of spending 
 much of his time and losing a great deal of his 
 money. 
 
 “ I was rather inclined to hold back when I 
 knew where we were going ; but I did not like to 
 say I would not go, as I thought a place that was 
 not too bad for Bob to visit was not too bad for 
 me. I have an exaggerated horror of being 
 thought puritanical or prim or dandified in such 
 matters. Besides, I did really want to see Carfield, 
 and there could be no real wrong in my going into 
 the place merely to see him. 
 
 “ ‘ If you had been one of the milk-and-water 
 sort, I would not have asked you to come down 
 here,’ Bob said, as we went in. I did not care to 
 reveal any leaning I might have towards what he 
 
54 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 considered milk-and-water, so I said nothing. 
 Luckily I had my overcoat on, and with a huge 
 woollen muffler round my neck, my clerical aspect 
 was almost completely hidden. 
 
 “We found Carfield, and he was as delighted to 
 see me as I was to see him. I was sorry to see he 
 was not quite sober. He had been playing high 
 and losing, and was excited and boisterous. His 
 noisy talk attracted attention to us, which was 
 just what I was anxious to avoid; for if I was 
 recognised my presence there would get talked 
 about, my vicar might get to hear of it, and there * 
 was no knowing where it would end. I began to 
 feel more strongly than ever that I had been 
 imprudent in coming there at all, and that the 
 sooner I went the better. But Carfield would not 
 let me get away ; he had so much to ask, so much 
 to tell in his old bright, careless fashion, that I 
 must have been there nearly an hour when a 
 sudden rush and scramble and confusion of shouting 
 startled me, and I turned — to find the place 
 invaded by police-officers, who were seizing every¬ 
 thing on the green table in the middle of the 
 room, and arresting the players who had been 
 seated round it. 
 
 “ I guessed what it all meant, and I was abso¬ 
 lutely terrified. If I were taken and charged with 
 being found in this den when the police made a 
 raid on it, it would ruin me. Think what the 
 papers would make of it ! I might explain why 
 I was there, and $pme would believe me; but 
 many would doubt, and there would be a slur on 
 my name. My vicar, even if he believed me, 
 would condemn me, so strict as he had always 
 been, and wished me to be, in avoiding even the 
 appearance of wrong. I did not know what to 
 do. The doors were guarded, and I was not 
 allowed to pass. I explained to an inspector how 
 I happened to be there, and begged him to let 
 
A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 55 
 
 me go. 1 had kept my overcoat and my muffler 
 on, and was thankful to think he could not detect 
 that I was a curate ; my hat alone was not enough 
 to betray me. He said they should only arrest 
 the men caught in the act of gambling; the 
 names and addresses of the others in the room 
 would be taken, and they would be summoned and 
 dealt with by the magistrates, to whom I must 
 make my excuse. 
 
 “ I was almost distracted. I should be dis¬ 
 graced and ruined merely because appearances 
 were so black against me. Then, in my wretched¬ 
 ness, a way of escape suddenly occurred to me. 
 It was a mean, despicable way, but I was so 
 horror-stricken and desperate that I grasped it, 
 without a second thought, as the only chance I 
 had. The day before I had been introduced to a 
 gentleman—I cannot even remember his name 
 now, I was only with him a few minutes and 
 shouldn’t know him again if I saw him—and he 
 had given me his card, and I had it then in my 
 pocket. I would give that man’s card to the police 
 as my own. That was my idea, and I am ashamed 
 to say that is what I did. 
 
 “ It was not until I was out in the street again 
 and hurrying away that I lully realised what a 
 cowardly, criminal thing I had done. It came 
 upon me with such force—that sense of my mean 
 trickery—that I was almost impelled to go back, 
 recover the card, and give the officer my own. 
 But would he trust me again ? When he learned 
 the trick I had played him he might arrest me 
 then and there, so that I should not cheat him a 
 second time. No; I felt that it was done and 
 could not be undone. I dared not go back. I 
 was a coward—a paltry coward ! 
 
 “ I had been ailing for some few weeks past, and 
 now I broke down entirely. I was so overwhelmed 
 with remorse and dread, so harassed, so worried, 
 
56 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 that I could not sleep ; in the morning I was too 
 ill to get up, and by next day I was in a low 
 fever. As soon as I had pulled round a bit, I went 
 away for a couple of weeks’ rest and change, and 
 when I came back the whole miserable business 
 seemed to have blown over. I saw nothing about 
 it in the papers; somehow I did not like to ask 
 questions, and I have never heard anything more 
 of it to this day. 
 
 “And I have never mentioned it myself until 
 now. I don’t know,” he added, with an uneasy 
 little laugh, “ why I have done so even now : 
 somehow we were getting so confidential—people 
 who have never met before, and never expect to 
 meet again, somehow do seem to get confidential 
 when they are casually thrown together for a few 
 hours as we have been—that I had begun my 
 confession almost before I was aware of it.” 
 
 The commercial traveller said he thought that, 
 under the circumstances, the curate’s conduct was 
 excusable ; he had saved himself from unmerited 
 ruin, and who was the worse for it ? Probably 
 the other man had been put to the temporary 
 inconvenience of having to prove his innocence, 
 that was all. The curate admitted that it might 
 be so; he hoped it was so, but- 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 INHERE was a lull in the conversation, and I 
 felt that now the time had come for me to 
 bring out that cherished little wickedness 
 of my own, when I was again forestalled, 
 this time by the young barrister, who had been 
 deeply interested in the curate’s confession, and 
 spoke now with evident emotion, as if it had 
 awakened some bitter remembrance in him. 
 
A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 57 
 
 “Well, sir,” he said, “I have suffered from 
 appearance more, perhaps, than you would have 
 done if you had not so luckily escaped. For when 
 a man’s previous record has been bad, a very 
 shadowy appearance of guilt is enough to condemn 
 him. And my record has been very bad. I was 
 a wild, dissipated young scoundrel, going to the 
 dogs as fast as I could, when, some three years 
 ago, I met with one of the truest, dearest girls 
 that ever trod this earth. I loved her, and it was 
 my love for her that regenerated me. It made me 
 alive to my own degradation. I was not without 
 some strength of will; I flung my old life resolutely 
 behind me, and went to work at my profession in 
 real earnest, determined to atone for the past, and 
 win her, and be worthy of her. 
 
 “ Her family were opposed to me. They knew 
 something of my reputation; they were strict, 
 religious people, and tried hard to set her against 
 me. Perhaps they were right. But she loved 
 me,” he said, lowering his voice, and shading his 
 eyes with his hand as if the light was too strong 
 for them. “ I owned to her that all she had heard 
 against me was true, but I told her that hence¬ 
 forth her love should make a new man of me. She 
 believed in me, and with much difficulty she brought 
 her parents to have some belief in me too, and they 
 agreed that if I went safely through a year’s pro¬ 
 bation they would withdraw all objection to me. 
 
 “ It was hard work. Meeting old friends and 
 the old temptations it was hard not to give way, 
 in spite of my resolves. And once—only once—I 
 did give way; and somehow they got to hear of 
 it, and were angry and indignant, and said they 
 could believe in me no more. It was uphill work, 
 winning my way back into their confidence. She 
 forgave me, and had faith in me still. She found 
 excuses for me; she won my pardon for me, and 
 they forgave me at last, and gave me another 
 
58 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 chance, on the distinct understanding that if I 
 lapsed again I should not see her or attempt to 
 communicate with her any more. They insisted 
 that we should both agree to those conditions, and 
 we did. They had very little faith in me; they 
 were anxious for her future happiness, and did as 
 they thought right. 
 
 “Well, I stuck close to my work and did not 
 fail again. But one evening, having been cooped 
 up at work indoors all day, I thought I would take 
 a good stiff walk across country. It was a fine, 
 frosty night; I had three or four hours’ walking, 
 and got back just before midnight. 
 
 “ Next morning my landlady came up in a great 
 flurry, and said a constable was at the door and 
 wanted to see me. I went down, wondering what 
 was wrong, and be gave me a summons. He said 
 I was charged with being found in a notorious 
 gambling den which the police had made a raid 
 upon the night before. He knew nothing but 
 that. Of course, I was rather annoyed, and said 
 that the whole charge was an absurd blunder, and 
 explained where I had been last night. Later in 
 the day I went before the magistrate, and, when 
 my turn came, made the same explanation to him. 
 He asked if I could bring witnesses to prove my 
 statement. But how could I ? 1 had met nobody 
 
 who knew me during my walk. My landlady could 
 only have said that I went out soon after eight 
 o’clock and did not return till nearly midnight. 
 The prosecuting lawyer got out of me that I had 
 at one time been in the habit of frequenting that 
 very gambling den ; and a police-officer actually 
 swore that he identified me as one of the men he 
 had found in that den, and produced my card, 
 which he said I had given him.” 
 
 He paused for a moment; and I think most of 
 us glanced furtively at the curate, who was sitting, 
 pale and absorbed, looking straight before him at 
 
A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 59 
 
 the speaker, as if he was unconscious of any other 
 presence than his and could hear nothing but his 
 voice. 
 
 “ I could not account for it. I was dazed, be¬ 
 wildered. I could only persist in my denial,” the 
 barrister continued. “They inflicted a paltry 
 fine, and I paid it and went away. Of course, 
 the whole story was in the evening papers, and 
 my defence was said to be a flimsy falsehood that, 
 in the face of the evidence against me, no sane 
 magistrate could be expected to believe. But it 
 was true, as I tell you, and I was innocent : and 
 I could not rest till I knew whether—whether she 
 believed me. I went to the house, but saw only 
 her father. He was stern and inflexible. If I was 
 innocent, he said, the law would not have found 
 me guilty. He put my explanation aside as a 
 thing contemptible. He called me a hypocrite 
 and a liar who, all the while professing regenera¬ 
 tion, secretly continued in my old courses. His 
 daughter, he said, knew all, and had lost all faith 
 in me ; and, though it was breaking her heart, 
 she had promised to obey him and see me no more. 
 My remembrance of what followed is all confused. 
 I reiterated my innocence, I humiliated myself, 
 and implored, entreated him to believe me. It 
 was useless; and I rushed blindly away from the 
 place so utterly hopeless and desperate that I 
 have sometimes wondered since how it was that 
 night was not my last.” 
 
 He hesitated once more, and then continued 
 hurriedly: 
 
 “ I wrote to her time after time, but she only 
 answered once ; then it was a cold little note—her 
 father must have dictated it—reminding me that 
 we had both promised that, if I lapsed again, we 
 would not see or communicate with each other 
 any more. That was all. I could not blame her. 
 Everything looked so black against me that, 
 
6o 
 
 A CHANCE CONFESSION. 
 
 knowing my past as she did, she could hardly help 
 thinking badly of me. But I could not stay there, 
 so near her. I felt that distance and hard work 
 were my only remedies, and I went to London and 
 made headway in my profession there, and lived 
 as I promised her I would. I couldn’t have done 
 it if I hadn’t hoped against hope all along that 
 things would come right if only I waited long 
 enough. 
 
 “ I heard of her from time to time, and I heard 
 privately from a friend only the other day that 
 she had not—forgotten me. Then I made up my 
 mind to go down this Christmas and make a last 
 effort to see her. I still think, somehow, if I saw 
 her and told her everything myself she would 
 believe me.” 
 
 There was a silence. We could hear the bell 
 beginning to ring, up at the station ; it was time to 
 go. But none of us quite knew what to say, and 
 we didn’t like to make a move without saying 
 anything. I am sure there was a general feeling 
 of relief amongst us when the barrister himself 
 set us the example, and rose hurriedly, merely 
 adding, in conclusion : 
 
 “So I am on my way down there now.” 
 
 “And,” said the curate, stepping at once to his 
 side and taking his arm with a quiet decision of 
 voice and manner that sent a little thrill to the 
 hearts of us all, “ I am going with you. I am the 
 man who has wronged you—you know it; and 
 when I have righted that wrong I shall ask you 
 to forgive me.” 
 
 There was no other word spoken. How could 
 we intrude upon such a sacred companionship 
 with any commonplace talk and sympathy ? We 
 stood back, touched with a strange awe, and 
 hesitated therein silence until they had gone away 
 together over the fallen snow under the brightening 
 heaven and the stars. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 (an 
 
 ♦ 
 
 } T was the luckiest hit old Bannister had 
 ever made. How he did it nobody knew. 
 He didn’t even know himself. 
 
 “ The thing seemed to grow under my 
 hands,” he would say quietly, “ and I had no idea 
 that it was anything better than my usual work 
 until I had finished it and came to look at it as a 
 whole; then-” 
 
 There was no doubt about it; he had never 
 before done anything to equal it. It was a rather 
 large statuette of an ancient warrior, delicately 
 modelled in clay, a slender, sinewy-looking figure, 
 the head thrown gracefully back, one foot slightly 
 advanced, a short sword clasped in the uplifted 
 right hand, and a round shield poised firmly before 
 the breast. There was a subtle ease, a quiet 
 grace in the carriage and attitude, a keen, calm 
 eagerness expressed in the fine features of the 
 figure, that one would have thought none but a 
 man of real genius could have accomplished. And 
 yet old Bob Bannister had no genius. Not a bit. 
 All his friends knew that, and he freely acknow¬ 
 ledged it himself. He was a mere man of talent, 
 who had done some commonly good work in clay 
 and a little in stone, and a great deal on canvas. 
 And that he, at his time of life, should develop an 
 unexpected genius—it was impossible ! It was not 
 genius. It was an accident—nothing but a lucky 
 accident—and, he could not do such a thing again to 
 
62 
 
 A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 save his life. Everybody said so, and Bob laughed 
 good-humouredly and quite agreed with them. 
 
 Bob had been a poor man and an indifferent 
 artist ever since he had been too old to be called 
 a boy. He chose the profession for himself, and 
 started in it with all the hope and high confidence 
 of one who knew nothing of his own powers and 
 very little of the difficulties before him. His chief 
 ambition was to be a great sculptor—to do some 
 great work that should bring him wealth for the 
 present and fame for all time. But, by degrees, 
 he narrowed that ambition down, until, at last, he 
 came to look for nothing from Art but the means 
 of living in reasonable comfort from day to day. 
 In his earlier years he had frequently worked in 
 stone, and once or twice in marble; but as those 
 materials were expensive, and his achievements in 
 them never sold at a profit, he gave them up when 
 he gave up his ambition, and took to working 
 almost exclusively in clay. By this means and by 
 the frequent use of his brush he managed to earn 
 a scanty and precarious livelihood through some 
 five-and-twenty years of toilsome obscurity, and 
 had done much that was good but nothing that 
 was great, until now when he was nearly fifty and 
 his dark hair was sprinkled with grey, much to 
 his own astonishment he created his “ Hero,” and 
 woke up to the fact that he had done something 
 at last that might make a little noise in the world 
 and yield him some few drops of that fame he 
 had hoped to fill his cup with when he set out upon 
 his career. 
 
 Bob’s particular crony and brother in Art, 
 Alfred Malden, was a man some five years older 
 than himself. The two men had met rather more 
 than twenty years before, and had been the closest 
 of friends ever since. They rented a small studio 
 between them on the highest floor of a tall building 
 in the vicinity of Oxford Street. They had even 
 
A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 63 
 
 shared the same apartments together in a respect¬ 
 able boarding-house in Mecklenburgh Square, 
 until Malden was married and became the owner 
 of a small residence at Paddington. 
 
 It was past nine o’clock at night, and the two 
 men sat by the fireside of their little studio, 
 smoking their last pipe before going home. 
 Grouped about them in grotesque confusion were 
 numerous half-finished and finished clay models, 
 busts of all manner of real and ideal men and 
 women, and all the miscellaneous litter of a 
 sculptor’s workroom ; on the walls hung medallions 
 and bas-reliefs of all shapes and sizes, crayon 
 sketches, and a number of pictures in oils and 
 water-colours. But the most conspicuous object 
 of all, standing on an improvised pedestal in the 
 centre of the room, was Bob’s latest work—his 
 masterpiece, his “Hero” in clay. 
 
 “ Certainly,” said Bob, regarding his work com¬ 
 placently, and speaking with a slow, meditative 
 drawl between dreamy whiffs at his pipe, “ it’s the 
 only thing I’ve ever done that I feel tempted to be 
 proud of, and, as you say, goodness only knows how 
 I managed to do it so well. But there it is. I’ve 
 done it, and I really do think I’m entitled to be a 
 little proud of it, eh ?” 
 
 “ Of course,” responded Malden, moodily, 
 “ especially when you consider that a rumour of 
 it has caused a real live marquis to come up and 
 look at it, and to be so taken with it as to say he 
 will even buy it.” 
 
 “Now, Alf, Alf!” cried Bannister, playfully. 
 
 “ Fact! ” said Malden, shortly. “No man gives 
 money for a thing unless he thinks it’s worth his 
 money.” 
 
 “ Well, of course, I’m pleased to have a pur¬ 
 chaser in prospect. Any one would be.” 
 
 “ Undoubtedly,” grumbled Malden, “ but it isn’t 
 any one who is lucky enough to get a purchaser— 
 
64 
 
 A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 especially a purchaser who may be the means of 
 introducing him to an aristocratic connection.” 
 
 Bannister looked thoughtfully into the fire and 
 said nothing. 
 
 “ I never saw such a thing !” Malden went on, 
 a little bitterly. “ You have all the luck. I can’t 
 understand it. People seem to think that my work 
 is better than yours as a general thing, yet you 
 always sell easier than I do, and get higher prices. 
 It’s luck ! Sheer luck !” 
 
 “It’s luck!” repeated Bannister, thoughtfully. 
 “ I know it, my boy, and I can’t understand it 
 either. You are a better workman than I am, 
 
 more industrious, more- Well, it does seem 
 
 hard ! Why, your ‘ Dying Gladiator ’ beat my 
 ‘ Hero ’ into fits, and yet you only sold it for a 
 mere trifle to a dealer, and heard no more of it. 
 And here-” 
 
 “ Here,” continued Malden, seeing that his 
 friend hesitated, “your ‘Hero’ will be exhibited. 
 Oh, it ’ll be accepted right enough ! Directly it’s 
 finished, even, a blessed marquis turns up who is 
 ready and willing to pay you handsomely for it, 
 and will give it a place in his hall, where it will be 
 seen by hundreds of snobs and nobs of high 
 degree ; and if it isn’t the means of bringingyou in 
 shoals of orders, never trust my word again.” 
 
 “ Well, it does seem a little hard on you, Alf, 
 old man-” 
 
 “Oh, well, you needn’t keep on crowing over a 
 fellow,” interrupted Malden, testily. 
 
 “ Why,” said Bob, looking grievously shocked, 
 “ I was never dreaming of doing such a thing. I 
 was only going to say I may be able to find oppor¬ 
 tunities of introducing you to people who will 
 recognise your worth, and-” 
 
 “ Ha, ha ! ” laughed Malden, dismally, “ it’s very 
 good of you to say so now, but Bob Bannister, 
 Esquire, sculptor in ordinary to his High Mightiness 
 
A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 r>5 
 
 the most noble Marquis of Finchington, basking 
 in the patronage of other moneyed and titled gentry, 
 will be much too great a person to remember poor, 
 luckless, threadbare Alf Malden.” 
 
 “Alf,” cried Bannister, earnestly, “ you can’t think 
 I 'm such a mean humbug as that! If I am only 
 to be fortunate at the expense of losing the oldest 
 —the only friend I have—hang it ! I hope I never 
 may be fortunate at all!” 
 
 “ You say so now, old boy. It’s good of you to 
 say so,” said Alf, dejectedly. “ But change of 
 circumstances alters one’s opinions wonderfully. 
 In any case, how do you suppose I, your senior in 
 years, who have been working longer and harder 
 than you, could submit to the humiliation of being 
 patronised by you, even though you are my friend ? 
 It is humiliation enough to be beaten by one whose 
 work is, I know, no better than my own. But I 
 couldn’t-” 
 
 “ Don’t say any more,” cried Bob, imploringly. 
 “ After all the struggling we have had together, to 
 think that any success could carry me beyond your 
 reach ! I’ve been selfish—full of my own good 
 fortune. It never struck me till now, but—but I 
 feel it must be in a manner humiliating to you to 
 see the man who has been working by your side, 
 an inferior and less diligent workman than yourself, 
 suddenly shoot ahead. Yes, I see it now ! It 
 never struck me before. And do you think that I 
 would do anything to humiliateycw ? I can’t bear 
 the thought of it. Why, I’d sooner never have 
 done the * Hero ’ at all. I can’t tell you how it 
 grieves me, old fellow. After all these years, to 
 think that I should do anything to estrange us from 
 each other-” 
 
 There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes and 
 a slight tremor in his voice as he suddenly seized 
 his friend’s hand and left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 “ Well, never mind. Can’t be helped,'’ said 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 Malden, getting up, with an uneasy laugh. “ It’s 
 late. We shall both think differently in the morning, 
 perhaps. Let’s be off home.” 
 
 They went downstairs together in silence, shook 
 hands in the street, and parted, each on his own 
 way home. 
 
 For some time Malden hurried along, deep in 
 dull and despondent reflections. After all was 
 said, it was very hard lines that with his superior 
 abilities, his greater industry, he should be so out¬ 
 stripped by his friend. It was galling to feel that 
 in the eyes of the world he was now the lesser 
 man of the two. So long as they were both 
 regarded as men of equal mediocrity he did not 
 care, although all the while he was conscious of 
 his own superior merit. But that his friend should 
 thus suddenly and undeservedly take rank above 
 him, was very hard to bear. And to think that 
 one single piece of work had made all the differ¬ 
 ence ! All that had been done might in a moment 
 be undone if any enemy of Bob’s—supposing him 
 to have an enemy—could get into the studio and 
 maliciously shatter the “ Hero” with a few blows 
 of a mallet. Why, even he, Malden, might 
 prevent himself from being so unjustly treated if 
 he chose. He might go back, let himself into the 
 studio with his key, and himself shatter the “ Hero,” 
 and it was certain his friend would never have the 
 luck to do such good work again. He blushed in 
 the darkness to think he should have entertained 
 such an idea even for a moment, and quickened his 
 pace and strove to outwalk the evil fancies that 
 had overtaken him. 
 
A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EXT 
 
 morning, 
 sunlight looked 
 
 glanced 
 
 when the faint wintry 
 in at Bannister’s little 
 curtained window, it found him lying 
 awake in bed and yawning drowsily. He 
 at the small clock on his mantelpiece 
 and saw that it was nearly ten, and closed his 
 eyes again with a comfortable sigh. But just as 
 he did so he heard a loud knock at the street-door 
 below, followed a moment later by the murmur of 
 hurried voices, then a sound of quick footsteps 
 on the stairs, and somebody rapped sharply on 
 his door. 
 
 “Yes?” he shouted. 
 
 “Bob! Bob!” 
 
 “ That you, Alf ? Come in.’’ 
 
 The door was pushed open, and Malden came 
 hurrying in, with a white, scared face, and a 
 horrified look in his eyes. 
 
 “Oh, Bob!” he exclaimed, breathlessly, “I 
 have news for you. Bad news ! Terrible news! ” 
 
 “ Eh ? What is it ? ” demanded Bob, sitting up 
 in bed. 
 
 “ Why—why,” stammered Malden, “ when I 
 reached the studio this morning, the very first 
 thine: I saw as I went in was your ‘ Hero ’-” 
 
 “Yes?” 
 
 “—Smashed—smashed into atoms ! ” 
 
 Bob gave a long, low whistle. 
 
 “Well,” he said, speaking slowly and thought¬ 
 fully, “perhaps, after all, it’s the very best thing 
 that could have happened to it.” 
 
 “ What ! ” shouted Malden, “ are you dreaming ? 
 Are you mad ? ” 
 
 “ No. I daresay I’ve been dreaming,” said Bob, 
 quietly. “ What 1 mean is this—this accident puts 
 
 5 
 
68 
 
 A HERO IN CLAY. 
 
 us on our old footing again. The breaking of the 
 ‘ Hero,’ as it were, restores what was broken, or be¬ 
 ginning to break, of our old friendship. I’d rather 
 the ‘ Hero’ broke than our old friendship, Alf.” 
 
 Malden looked at him earnestly for a moment. 
 
 “ Look here, Bob,” he said, hoarsely, “ I know 
 what is in your thoughts. You think I did it, and 
 you are making excuses for me.” 
 
 “ No, no, Alf-” 
 
 “ But you are. You know how jealous and mean 
 I was last night ; what a brute I was—a selfish, 
 unmanly brute. And you think I did it. It is 
 only natural that you should. But, on my word 
 of honour, I did not do it—I did not do it ! ” cried 
 Malden eagerly, and with tears in his eyes. 
 
 “ I know you didn’t doit,” said Bob, positively. 
 
 “ How can you know ? Who should you suspect 
 but me, after all I said last night ? I—who should 
 have been the very first to congratulate you, to 
 be glad with you and proud of you—to meet you 
 with nothing but miserable envy and unfriendly, 
 selfish regrets! Oh, Bob! I lay awake last night 
 thinking about it: I couldn’t sleep, I was so 
 ashamed of myself. Believe me, old fellow, all my 
 envy was only a passing feeling springing out of 
 my own bad luck. I didn’t really in my heart 
 feel what I said. It was only that your good luck, 
 by contrast, made me more fully aware of my own 
 bad luck-” 
 
 “ I knew it ! I felt sure of it! ” cried Bob. 
 
 “And I got up this morning only anxious to 
 apologise for my miserable conduct, and assure 
 you how truly glad I was that you had made a 
 lucky hit at last; and here—when I get to the 
 studio—the first thing I see is the ‘ Hero ’ shattered 
 to fragments!” said Malden. “And yet you don’t 
 seem to feel it half so much as I do.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Bob, “ it is a relief to me to think 
 that there is no longer anything to separate us, to 
 
A HERO IN CLAY. 69 
 
 make me too proud to be your friend, or to 
 humiliate you-” 
 
 “Ah ! you haven’t forgotten my words !” cried 
 Malden. “You think I broke it; but I didn’t. 
 And I shall never rest until I find out the villain 
 who did it, so that I may remove from your mind 
 every shadow of suspicion against me.” 
 
 “ My dear fellow, I know you didn’t do it. And 
 I think I know the villain who did,” said Bob, 
 shrewdly. 
 
 “ You do ? Who was it ? I shall never feel 
 comfortable till I find out!” 
 
 “ Don’t let us say anything more about it. I 
 know perfectly well who did it.” 
 
 “ How do you know ? Who was it? You won’t 
 tell me? No. Because you think I am the man, 
 though you won’t own it ! ” 
 
 “ Nothing of the sort. I tell you I know who 
 did it,’’ cried Bob. “ The fact is, as I walked 
 home last night I felt the justice of what you had 
 been saying, and what a brute I was to take a pride 
 in what so humiliated you. After all these years, 
 our old friendship was breaking up, and all through 
 me, as you may say. Hadn’t you and I been 
 happy together all our lives ? Should I ever be 
 so happy in any circumstances without your friend¬ 
 ship ? With the knowledge, too, that I had 
 humiliated you and estranged you from me ! Well, 
 that’s how I thought it all over as I came home, and 
 I couldn’t stand it. I was paining you, and myself 
 too. Success wasn’t worth such a price. I felt it 
 so strongly that I suddenly made up my mind to— 
 to show )' r ou that I wasn’t such a selfish, cold- 
 hearted, ambitious wretch as I seemed. I turned 
 
 and went straight back to the studio and-” 
 
 “ What ! You don’t mean to say-” 
 
 “Yes, I do,” said Bob, cheerfully. “ I fell upon 
 the ‘ Hero ’ with a couple of hammers and smote 
 him hip and thigh, and smashed him up myself! ” 
 

 * 
 
 
 , y * ' 
 
 
 
♦ 
 
 Ulan tvittb |lo 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 W HEN the new Ebenezer Chapel was 
 founded in a little front parlour in a 
 back street of Market Mumborough, 
 ®T V ® John Wicks was one of the first men 
 to become a member of it. He went into it 
 heart and soul: he was not satisfied to be only 
 one of the congregation ; even going round with a 
 plate and helping to take collections did not satisfy 
 him. He founded a Band of Hope, and devoted 
 a lot of his savings towards giving it an annual 
 excursion. He inaugurated a building fund with 
 the object of erecting a real chapel, and the fund 
 grew and the chapel grew till in due course the 
 little parlour was abandoned in favour of the new 
 and statelier edifice. An organ was out of the 
 question ; you can’t have everything at once : but 
 somebody presented a harmonium ; then John 
 organised a powerful choir, and courageously put 
 himself at the head of it and led it. 
 
 But it did not follow him. It could not. He 
 sung so persistently out of time and tune, that it 
 could do nothing but sing out independently of 
 him and hope for the best. For though, in the 
 ordinary meaning of the word, John had the voices 
 of three men combined in one, in a musical sense 
 he had no voice at all. His only idea on the sub¬ 
 ject appeared to be that, as leader, it was his duty 
 to keep at least one note ahead of the choir. The 
 choir never seemed to understand this point, and 
 
72 
 
 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 would get up speed and hurry on in a determined 
 effort to overtake him ; he would hear it coming, 
 increase his own speed accordingly, and the result 
 was a sort of neck-and-neck race till the choir 
 caught him up and passed him, and left him a 
 word and a half behind at the end of the verse. 
 Then he would try to make up for it in the next 
 verse; he would start first, the others would come 
 hurrying after, and, finding that they could not 
 catch him up, would finish with a rush and skip, 
 so as to come harmoniously in on the last note with 
 him all together. Then they would have to wait 
 for the congregation and the harmonium before 
 they could go on again. 
 
 It was not a high-class style of singing; but as 
 the congregation among themselves used also to 
 sing very much on the “ go-as-you-please ” princi¬ 
 ple, none of them made any serious complaint. 
 The minister himself was not a musical critic, and 
 though it did occur to him now and then that 
 something was the matter with the harmony, he 
 put it down to the fact that he had “ no ear ” and 
 said nothing about it. The only person who really 
 grumbled was the gentleman who played the har¬ 
 monium. And he was said to be jealous because 
 John’s voice was so powerful, and the choir so 
 large and loud, that he not only could not hear 
 himself play, but the congregation could not hear 
 him either. That put him out more than the 
 singing; and he made so many complaints about 
 it, that at last, on the minister’s suggestion, John 
 reduced the choir. 
 
 Then there was not sufficient volume of sound 
 in the reduced choir to tone down the singing of 
 John Wicks. His voice could be heard above all 
 the other voices, and there was nothing left to 
 cope with it on anything like equal terms except 
 the harmonium. And between John’s voice and 
 that instrument there began a great struggle for 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 73 
 
 pre-eminence. Every Sunday, morning and even¬ 
 ing, it was the same. The hymn would be given 
 out, the harmonium would have a prelude all to 
 itself, then John’s voice would rise up and roar 
 out triumphantly. But the harmonium was after 
 it at once, hand over hand, so to speak, caught it, 
 lost it, caught it again, grappled with it, wrestled, 
 writhed, and strove with it desperately; and 
 sometimes the one was temporarily successful, 
 and sometimes the other, but no permanent 
 victory could be achieved by either. 
 
 This state of things could not always continue, 
 but it lasted for some six or seven years. Then 
 Mr. George B. Graff moved into the little town 
 and joined the congregation. He had come from 
 London, and was a smart, energetic man, who 
 boasted that he knew good singing when he heard 
 it, and that he had led the choir of his chapel in 
 London. And when he heard John sing he had 
 no hesitation in saying it was the worst sample of 
 vocal melody that had ever come beneath his 
 notice. 
 
 “ It’s the first time I’ve heard him, Mr. Miffin,” 
 he said to the gentleman who played the har¬ 
 monium, as they walked away after service; 
 “ but, sir, my nerves are so sensitive that they are 
 harrowed and torn by the sound.” 
 
 “ Well, sir,” replied Mr. Miffin, glad to have 
 found a partisan, “ I’ve been trying to stop it for 
 some years past. I have spoken to Mr. Wicks, 
 but he seems to think I am actuated by personal 
 spite against himself. I have spoken to Mr. Nutt, 
 our good pastor, but he—well, you see, Mr. Wicks 
 was almost the first to join the chapel; he has 
 taken a lot of interest in it and done a lot of 
 work for it, and is very popular. He started the 
 choir-” 
 
 “But that’s no reason why he should lead it 
 when lie’s got no voice to lead it with. No voice, 
 
74 the man with no voice. 
 
 sir. None at all,” said Mr. Graff, impatiently. 
 “ I’ve heard all the best singers in the world, male 
 and female ; and such singing as his, sir, kills me— 
 destroys ni£ ! ” 
 
 “ I know what it is, sir. You have a keen ear 
 for music, like myself,” said Mr. Miffim, “and I 
 have suffered as-” 
 
 “ Well, now, look here, we’ll put a stop to it,” 
 interrupted Mr. Graff. “ We must have that 
 choir reformed, sir ; half of it can’t sing. And it 
 must have a new leader who--” 
 
 “ Why not lead it yourself, Mr. Graff, sir ? I’m 
 sure it couldn’t have a better leader than your¬ 
 self.” 
 
 “ Well, I would do it, sir,” replied Mr. Graff, 
 “ if they could not find a better man.” 
 
 “ Better ? Where are they going to find one so 
 good ? ” 
 
 “ Well, anyhow,” cried Mr. Graff as they parted, 
 “ you call for me to-morrow evening, and we’ll go 
 and see Mr. Nutt about it. Good-night. . . 
 Uncommonly intelligent man, that Miffin is,” 
 he added to his wife, after Mr. Miffin had left 
 them ; “ knows vocal talent when he hears it. 
 Keen hearing. He picked out m3' voice right 
 across the building, my dear. My singing struck 
 him, and he looked round to see who it was. Very 
 clever man he seems to be.” 
 
 He went with Mr. Miffin on the following evening 
 to see Mr. Nutt, who received them affabl) 7 in his 
 neat little study. 
 
 “ Sit down, gentlemen,” he said, beaming upon 
 them through his spectacles ; “I hardl)' expected 
 visitors this evening. Sit down.” 
 
 “No, sir,” replied Mr. Graff, solemnly, “ but 
 Mr. Miffin and I thought we’d come and see you 
 about a little matter connected with the choir.” 
 
 “ Yes ? ” said Mr. Nutt inquiringl) 7 . “ Nothing 
 wrong, I hope ? ” 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 75 
 
 He had a horror of anything going wrong. He 
 was an easy-going, quiet, good man, Avhose chief 
 fault was an over-anxiety to please everybody. 
 He was gentle and super-sensitive to such an 
 extent that he would put up with almost anything 
 sooner than hurt anyone’s feelings with unpalat¬ 
 able truths it was not positively his duty to utter. 
 
 “ Well, it is something wrong,” answered Mr. 
 Graff. 
 
 “ Yes ? ” said Mr. Nutt again, inquiringly. 
 
 “ Yes. It’s about Mr. Wicks’s singing, sir,” 
 pursued Mr. Graff, decisively, “ and that’s all 
 wrong.” 
 
 “ Wrong ? ” said Mr. Nutt, uneasily. 
 
 “ Yes. Isn’t a right note in it, sir. What do 
 you say, Mr. Miffin ? ” asked Mr. Graff. 
 
 Mr. Miffin said he was afraid it was very bad. 
 
 “ Bad ! ” ejaculated Mr. Graff, “ I never heard 
 anything worse. Never. It is simply shocking. 
 I don’t like to say it’s impious, but it is very 
 nearly.” 
 
 “ Mr. Wicks is a very good man,” remarked the 
 minister, feebly. 
 
 “ Oh, it isn’t him. If his voice was as good as 
 he is—but it isn’t. He’s got no voice. None at 
 all, sir. He can’t sing, and he ought not to be 
 allowed to lead that choir any longer. It—well, 
 it’s disgraceful.” 
 
 “He’s fond of his work. He does his best, 
 Mr. Graff. And he is really an earnest, good 
 man,” said the minister. 
 
 “ So are we all, I hope, sir !” cried Mr. Graff, 
 rather indignantly. “ But it does not follow that 
 we are all capable of leading choirs. He’s a 
 good man, but has he got a good voice ? ” 
 
 “ There are some things that are better than a 
 good voice,” observed the minister, vaguely. 
 
 “The thing is, does he understand music?” 
 continued Mr. Graff. 
 
76 
 
 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 “ No ! ” ejaculated Mr. Miffin emphatically. 
 
 “No ! ” echoed Mr. Graff, “ he’s got no voice 
 and no ear. He can’t sing himself, and he has 
 got people in the choir who can’t sing either. 
 They shout, sir; they don’t sing. Now, sir, we 
 want to get as near perfection as we can, of course, 
 and we came to suggest that you should see Mr. 
 Wicks and explain to him in your own perfectly 
 friendly manner that he ought to resign. We give 
 him all credit for starting the choir, but he 
 shouldn’t try to do more than he can do.” 
 
 The minister still vaguely and uneasily put 
 forward the argument that Mr. Wicks was doing 
 his best, and was really a very good man, but 
 he felt that he was beaten ; he was weak and 
 anxious to please, and yielded at last to the 
 determined persuasions of his visitors, only asking, 
 resignedly, who would take Mr. Wicks’s place if 
 he resigned. 
 
 “ The best man we can find, sir,” said Mr. Graff, 
 promptly. 
 
 “ Which is Mr. Graff himself, sir,” declared 
 Mr. Miffin ; “ he is a clever vocalist, a capable 
 choirmaster, a-” 
 
 Mr. Graff demurred. He said “No, no;” but 
 he meant “Yes, yes,” and Mr. Miffin knew what he 
 meant, and would not listen to a refusal'; he art¬ 
 fully contrived to draw the minister into the 
 discussion, and, out of mere politeness and a 
 nervous desire to be agreeable, Mr. Nutt hesi¬ 
 tatingly uttered an approval of Mr. Miffin’s 
 suggestion. 
 
 “ That settles it then !” cried Mr. Graff. “ If 
 you wish it, sir, of course I will undertake the post. 
 And you may rely upon it I shall do my best.” 
 
 After they were gone Mr. Nutt reproached 
 himself with his own weakness. He had not 
 desired the alteration, and yet somehow he had 
 not only consented to ask John Wicks to resign, 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 77 
 
 but had been led into authorising Mr. Graff to 
 take John’s place. He lay awake at night 
 worrying over it, but he had not courage to undo 
 what he had done, and for two days he had not 
 even courage to go and explain matters to John ; 
 but on the third day he felt he must put it off no 
 longer, for that evening the choir met for practice. 
 So he called at John’s shop in the afternoon, and 
 found him alone behind the counter, gloomily 
 weighing up moist sugar into pound packets; his 
 usual genial buoyancy seemed to have quite, 
 deserted him, and he shook hands with the 
 minister without saying a word. 
 
 “ Well, John,” said Mr. Nutt, nervously, “you 
 —you don’t seem quite up to the mark, eh ? How 
 —er—how is your mother ?” 
 
 “ I met Mr. Miffin yesterday, sir,” John burst 
 forth impetuously, “ and he said you wanted me to 
 resign and—and ”—he could hardly control his 
 voice, and there were foolish tears coming into his 
 big, round eyes — “ and he said you wanted Mr. 
 Graff to lead the choir. I’ve led it, sir, these 
 seven years. You never told me you didn’t like 
 my style, sir.” 
 
 “ No, John. No, my dear John,” faltered the 
 
 minister. “ You see-” 
 
 “ He said you thought I’d got no voice, sir-” 
 
 “ I never said so, John-” 
 
 “ What’s the matter with my singing, sir ?” 
 
 “ Nothing, John. Very good singing, but I— 
 } r ou see—they-” 
 
 “ I thought you liked my singing, sir ?” 
 
 “ I do, John. I do, indeed. I should miss 
 your voice in the place more than anyone’s. You 
 sing with all your heart, and I hope you’ll go on 
 
 singing still, if not in the choir, why then-” 
 
 “No, I feel as if I couldn’t, sir. I feel, some¬ 
 how, that if my voice is not good enough for one 
 part of the chapel, it isn’t good enough for another. 
 
78 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 I feel it—it’s a sort of disgrace like, sir. I shall 
 still come, but I—I can’t sing.” 
 
 He looked so utterly miserable, with the tears 
 standing in his wide, troubled eyes, and his lips 
 quivering, that the minister took his hand and 
 said what he could to comfort him. He made 
 him fully understand that it was not his wish that 
 he should leave the choir, but the wish of those 
 musical experts, Mr. Graff and Mr. Miffin, whose 
 opinions in such matters could hardly be disputed. 
 At the same time he threw out indefinite hints 
 that the alteration might be only temporary, and 
 that before long John would be back in his old 
 place leading the choir again. Then he tried to 
 turn the conversation on to general topics, but 
 could not do it successfully, and presently invented 
 an excuse to hurry away, and hurried away full of 
 self-reproaches and regret. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 f ND next Sunday the new order of things 
 came into operation. Mr. Graff had 
 a well - trained voice, and certainly led 
 the choir as it never had been led 
 before. John sat amongst the congregation 
 with his mother, but he did not sing. How 
 could he after what had been said of him ? He 
 was ashamed of his own voice, and stood there 
 silent and dejected. The older members of the 
 congregation and many of the younger sympathised 
 with him, and felt that he had been unfairly dealt 
 with, and did not hesitate to say so. Some of 
 them during the next few days waylaid the 
 minister, and spoke to him about it in such re- 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 79 
 
 proachful terms that he was reduced to making 
 rambling excuses for his own share in the transac¬ 
 tion, and vague promises that he would see what 
 could be done. He was a conscientious man, but 
 weak and easily influenced, and he had to suffer 
 on all hands for his weakness. He felt that he 
 had acted wrongly, but did not see how he was to 
 put matters right again now without a lot more 
 unpleasantness. Every Sunday, morning and 
 evening, from his pulpit he could see John there 
 in his pew, looking hurt and downcast, joining in 
 none of the hymns, and taking but a listless 
 interest in the whole service. He missed John’s 
 voice too, genuinely missed it, and felt and said 
 that since he had grown mute the singing had lost 
 all its inspiring heartiness, and the choir had 
 become merely a piece of mechanism. 
 
 For you see, as John did not understand a note 
 of music, he and his choir used to sing only the 
 old tunes that everybody knew, and that all the 
 congregation could join in singing with immense 
 gusto and enjoyment. But Mr. Graff set himself 
 to improve all this. He reorganised the choir, 
 but still he could not get more than two or three 
 people into it who were able to read music. So 
 he had a choir meeting three times a week for 
 practice, at which he would sing and Mr. Miffln 
 would play, and the choir would follow them as 
 best it could, and by slow perseverance master 
 new tunes. But when the new tunes came to be 
 sung on Sundays of course the congregation could 
 not join in singing them, and every now and then 
 even the choir would get the tune into such a 
 hopeless tangle that it broke down, and left Mr. 
 Graff to finish a verse by himself as if he were per¬ 
 forming a solo with harmonium accompaniment. 
 
 John had such a paternal interest in the choir 
 that far from feeling any malicious joy at his suc¬ 
 cessor’s difficulties, the unsatisfactory state of 
 
n 
 
 80 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 affairs was honestly a great trouble to him. But 
 what could he do ? They would not let him do 
 anything. All the congregation knew how it 
 fretted and worried him ; he was not proud enough 
 to cloak his humiliation in offended silence, but 
 gave voice to his feelings on every opportunity, 
 sure always of the sympathy of his hearers. But 
 all his old ardour had been severely checked ; he 
 did not take such hearty pleasure in the Sunday 
 services as he had taken formerly, and by degrees 
 became less regular in his attendance until he left 
 off coming of an evening almost entirely. 
 
 One Sunday evening when he was not there, just 
 as the last hymn was being sung, a man came 
 hurrying along the aisle into the choir, checked 
 Mr. Graff, brought him suddenly down from a top 
 note, and whispered hastily in his ear. The choir 
 went on singing, the harmonium went on playing, 
 but Mr. Graff dropped his hymn-book, and, without 
 waiting for his hat, rushed with a white, terror- 
 stricken face down the aisle, and out of the chapel 
 like a man suddenly gone mad. Mrs. Graff started 
 from her pew and called to him as he passed, but 
 he was gone as if he had not heard her. 
 
 Once in the street, Mr. Graff redoubled his 
 speed, and ran as he never ran in his life before. 
 The messenger could scarcely keep pace with him. 
 
 “ Have — they—got — my—little — girl — out ?” 
 Mr. Graff panted, hoarsely. 
 
 “ Dunno,” responded the messenger. And they 
 ran on without another word. They overtook and 
 passed others running in the same direction ; soon 
 they could hear a confused uproar on ahead of 
 them, and suddenly turning a corner they came 
 full in view of Mr. Graft's house, which was 
 nothing now, so far as they could see, but a black 
 mass of wreathing smoke, with a lurid heart of fire. 
 
 In a moment Mr. Graff was pushing through 
 the crowd that was standing strangely silent, 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 8l 
 
 gazing up earnestly into the smoke. He saw at a 
 glance an hysterical servant-girl standing amongst 
 them, wringing her hands and looking up with the 
 rest, and grasped her arm and shook her roughly. 
 
 “ Effie ? Where is Effie ?” he shouted wildly. 
 
 “Oh, sir!” cried the girl, in helpless terror, 
 “ I’d put her to bed upstairs, and-” 
 
 He was gone ; he had his latch-key out of his 
 pocket, and dashed wildly under that choking 
 canopy of smoke, and up the few steps to the front 
 door. But at the same instant an inarticulate roar 
 burst from the entire crowd, three or four men 
 were after him, and seized him and dragged him 
 back by main force, shouting frantically : “ She’s 
 here ! He’s got her ! Hurrah ! Look ! There 
 he is ! Hurrah ! ” 
 
 The whole crowd was simply crying and sobbing 
 and shouting all together. And looking up, dazed 
 and bewildered, Mr. Graff saw dimly the figure of 
 a man coming down a ladder through that blinding, 
 suffocatiag smoke, with a little child in his arms. 
 Before the man had reached the ground Mr. Graff 
 broke from the men who held him, rushed forward, 
 snatched the child into his own arms, and held it 
 close as if he could not assure himself even yet 
 that it was safe. But the crowd swarmed down 
 upon the rescuer, cheering and making frantic 
 grabs at him. If he had had a hundred hands 
 every man in that crowd would have shaken every 
 one of them twice over. They would not let him 
 get away ; they pressed about him, and would not 
 leave him alone. His face was all blackened with 
 the smoke, he had been singed and scorched by 
 the fire, but they knew him, they knew him in 
 spite of it all, God bless him ! It was John Wicks. 
 And the crowd rolled on before him, as he went 
 away, and beside him and after him, cheering and 
 grasping his hand until at last he escaped into his 
 own house, and shut the door on them. Then 
 
 6 
 
n 
 
 82 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 they ran back to the scene of the fire, and found 
 the fire-engine hard at work and the fire-escape 
 just arriving. 
 
 Early next morning, soon after John had opened 
 his shop, Mr. Graff came quietly in, looking 
 nervous and depressed. His old, blatant self- 
 assurance seemed to have quite failed him ; he 
 shook John’s hand warmly, and as if he wanted 
 to say something, but did not know how to begin. 
 John, just to break the awkward silence, said how 
 sorry he was for the great loss Mr. Graff must 
 have suffered by the fire, when Mr. Graff inter¬ 
 rupted him : 
 
 “ All insured,” he said, with an effort ; “don’t 
 matter a bit. ’Tisn’t that, sir. Mr. Wick,” he 
 continued brokenly, after a momentary pause, 
 “ she—she—is our—only one, sir, and-” 
 
 He gave it up. He dropped his arms on the 
 counter and hid his face in them, and sobbed in 
 a way that was pitiful to hear. John did not know 
 what to do. He ran his fingers through his singed 
 hair, and stammered awkwardly that it was all 
 right and didn’t matter, when suddenly Mr. Graff 
 appeared to conquer himself. He stood upright, 
 cleared his throat vigorously, began to say some¬ 
 thing, stopped, leaned across the counter, and 
 grasping John’s hand again, huskily ejaculated, 
 “ God bless you !” and turned at once and bolted 
 out of the shop. Two days after he came in again ; 
 but this time he had got himself well under con¬ 
 trol. He spoke with his old self-confidence, his 
 old air of imperative decision. And having 
 thanked John in eas)g conventional phrases for 
 saving his little one’s life, he continued : 
 
 “ And now I’m going to ask you to do me a 
 favour, Mr. Wicks. I am too much upset to 
 attend to the choir at present; in fact, between 
 ourselves, I can make nothing of fit. Knew I 
 couldn’t before I started, but —well, they would 
 
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 83 
 
 have me try it ; and I’ve tried it and failed, sir, 
 and I know of no one so capable of leading it as 
 yourself. You led it successfully before—will you, 
 as a personal kindness to me, take it on again ?” 
 
 “ But I thought,” said John innocently, taken 
 pleasantly by surprise, “ you thought I had—I had 
 no voice, sir ?” 
 
 “ Me ? Not me. Oh, no !” cried Mr. Graff, 
 emphatically. “ I believe, now you mention it, Mr. 
 Miffin seemed to have some such impression ; but 
 Mr. Miffin is no judge, sir. He does not under¬ 
 stand the voice. His forte is the harmonium. 
 You mustn’t mind what he says. They wanted 
 you to retire temporarily, and let me try, and I’ve 
 tried and—and made a mess of it, and I’ve done 
 with it. There ! So if you won’t take it up again 
 the chapel will have to do without a choir, that’s 
 all.” 
 
 In this way John’s former belief in his own voice 
 was aroused, and began to reassert itself within 
 him. It was nice to feel that they couldn’t get on 
 without him and wanted him back, and he was 
 the last man in the world to dream of avenging 
 the slight that had been put upon him by refusing 
 to go. And when Mr. Graff had been to the 
 minister, and the minister came and pressed John, 
 with genuine and delighted earnestness, to resume 
 his old duties, John yielded gladly, only feeling 
 somehow just a little sorry that Mr. Graff had 
 failed, until he was assured that Mr. Graff was in 
 no wise sorry for himself. 
 
 He led the choir on the very next Sunday, and 
 the whole congregation heartily and with all its 
 might joined in the old, familiar hymns again, and 
 sang out of time and out of tune with him, and en¬ 
 joyed the singing and the whole service to the 
 utmost. Everybody seemed glad to have him 
 back again —everybody but Mr. Miffin, who com¬ 
 plained about it as he was walking towards home 
 
 6 * 
 
8 4 
 
 THE MAN WITH NO VOICE. 
 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Graff, and was still complaining 
 about it when the minister overtook them. 
 
 “ I was saying, sir, how I enjoyed the singing 
 this morning,” cried Mr. Graff, heartily. 
 
 “Yes,” assented Mr. Nutt, with equal warmth, 
 “ it did me good. It was splendid. How heartily 
 everyone joined in ! That is as it should be.” 
 
 “ Yes,” cried Mr. Graff, generously, “there’s no 
 doubt Mr. Wicks is the man for the place. You 
 made a mistake, sir, in putting him out of it. His 
 singing is infectious. It makes everyone else sing. 
 There’s such a hearty sound in it; it warms you 
 only to hear it. He’s a fine fellow. Powerful 
 voice ! Little untrained, but powerful.” 
 
 Mr. Miffin didn’t know what to make of it. He 
 could not understand why Mr. Graff should desert 
 him in this manner. That his gratitude to John 
 should deafen him to the horrors of John’s voice 
 was unreasonable, scarcely even Christian, and to 
 pretend that the change of opinion was wrought 
 by real conviction and not by gratitude was a 
 barefaced wickedness. Mr. Miffin was put out. 
 
 “ His voice is the same as it always was,” he 
 declared ; “ there’s no tune in it-” 
 
 “ Yes, there is,” interrupted Mr. Graff, un- 
 blushingly. “What if there isn’t ? He’s a good 
 fellow. He’s got a good heart, even if he hasn’t 
 got a good voice.” 
 
 “Aha !” chuckled the minister, glancing at Mr. 
 Graff with a sidelong smile, “ and after all there 
 are some good things that are better than a good 
 voice.” 
 
 “ That’s it. There are,” declared Mr. Graff, 
 “ and he’s got them. He’s got ’em all, sir, and he 
 sings with every one of them, and—that’s what 
 makes his singing good. God bless him !” 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 2>o\vn at Ibeeh 
 
 f OU cannot take any man out of the street 
 and make a beadle of him. Beadles, like 
 poets, are born, not made. You may 
 disguise a man in robes of office and call 
 him a beadle; but unless he is a natural beadle 
 in spirit, he will be nothing but a hollow mockery 
 behind his waistcoat. He might have passed 
 examinations and become a solicitor ; he might 
 have cultivated his hair and become a musician ; 
 he might have taken out his licence and become a 
 cabman, or saved up his money and become a 
 gentleman ; but unless he is a born beadle, all the 
 examinations, cultivation, licences, and money in 
 the world could never make him one. 
 
 Now, in Mr. Daniel Judd you had the real, 
 natural article. He was the beadle of the impor¬ 
 tant commercial town of Baldwinkle, and, as such, 
 the rising generation, with the exception of an 
 opprobrious and renegade minority, regarded him 
 with trembling awe and admiration; the risen 
 generation respected him, particularly when they 
 were in arrears with their poor-rates; the Vestry 
 believed in his integrity, and the paupers feared 
 him so much that they were afraid to show it, lest 
 he should be offended. 
 
 All which homage Mr. Judd received with 
 perfect equanimity as part of his salary. He was 
 
86 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 always stern and uncompromising with the boys ; 
 to the affable tradespeople he was condescending; 
 to the haughty Vestry he was humble; to the 
 humble paupers he was haughty. A born beadle. 
 And yet, like a number of other people who are 
 not born beadles, he didn’t even live up to his 
 clothes. There he was going about with gold lace 
 on his hat, gold lace all round his coat and waist¬ 
 coat, gold lace on his breeches, a gold knob on the 
 end of his stick—in short, with quite enough 
 stock-in-trade about his expansive person to have 
 started business as a company promoter and run 
 gold mines ; many company promoters have done 
 it on less. And, at the same time, the pair of 
 shoes on his feet were the only pair he had in 
 the world ; he rented two rooms on a third floor 
 in an inferior street; he was frequently reduced 
 to the necessity of toasting a red herring for his 
 Sunday’s dinner; and in some circles it was 
 rumoured that he had become a nephew of that 
 affluent uncle whose poor relations are all ashamed 
 to own him. 
 
 All this he kept as private as possible. It was a 
 profound secret. That is, everybody knew it, but 
 nobody was supposed to know it. They were 
 innocent and ignorant before his face ; but they 
 winked to each other and knew more about it 
 than he did himself when his back was turned. 
 
 So when Mr. Judd was seen officiating at a 
 christening with the heels of his shoes in a very 
 one-sided condition, Baldwinkle shook its head on 
 the quiet over its tea-tables and its public-house 
 bars, and wanted to know what he did with his 
 wages that he couldn’t have them mended. Some 
 said he did not live rationally, he put into his head 
 what ought to have gone to his heels, he drank 
 more than was good for him ; many said his wife 
 drank; most said they both drank; and strangely 
 enough everybody was right. 
 
37 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 Mr. Judd was one man in public, and in private 
 he was another man altogether. He took off his 
 dignity with his cocked hat, and put on humility 
 with his carpet slippers. All the respect and 
 obedience that had been paid to him in the course 
 of the day he paid over in full to Mrs. Judd in the 
 evening, and was happy if she condescended to 
 receive it quietly. 
 
 For Mrs. Judd was a fiery woman ; and her 
 nose, and her hair, and her eyes were more or less 
 coloured by her character. She was a dangerous 
 woman ; a kind of allegorical infernal machine, 
 and the least spark that happened to fall upon her 
 caused her instantly to explode and blow up any¬ 
 one who was near her. 
 
 Going home in the evening after his heels had 
 been brought very much to the front, as you may 
 say, at that christening, Mr. Judd himself dropped 
 a spark on her, and had a very narrow escape 
 indeed. 
 
 He came in meekly, as he always did, took off 
 his shoes, put his feet into his slippers, his pipe 
 into his mouth, himself into his arm-chair, and his 
 arm-chair into the chimney corner. Then, whilst 
 he was abstracting a small bottle from his coat-tail 
 pocket with one hand and putting the kettle on the 
 fire with the other, he said with a hesitating and 
 deferential humility : 
 
 “ Ahem! My dear, there is going to be a 
 wedding at the church to-morrow.” 
 
 Mrs. Judd, who was ironing something at the 
 table, went on vigorously with her work and 
 made no answer. 
 
 Mr. Judd coughed again. 
 
 “My dear,” he repeated, “there is to be a 
 wedding at our church to-morrow morning at 
 eleven.” 
 
 Mrs. Judd manufactured a miniature peal of 
 thunder by bringing the flat-iron sharply down on 
 
88 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 the table, and replied to the effect that it did not 
 interest her in any way; she had only been to one 
 wedding in all her life, and had ever since been 
 very sorry she went to that. 
 
 Mr. Judd meditated until his pipe went out; 
 then, taking up the poker and coquetting with the 
 fire until he nearly upset the kettle, he spoke 
 again, with an affectation of calmness he was far 
 from feeling: 
 
 “ What I was going to say-” 
 
 “ Doesn’t matter to me in the least,’’ snapped 
 Mrs. Judd, and put him out, as he might have put 
 his pipe out. 
 
 “ My dear,” he began after a short silence, “ my 
 shoes are very badly down at heel.” 
 
 “ So are mine,” said Mrs. Judd, tartly. 
 
 Mr. Judd became moderately desperate. He 
 stood his pipe on its head in the fender, turned 
 half round in the chair, and, pointing to his 
 decaying shoes, cried, in a voice of remonstrance: 
 
 “ But really, my dear, I cannot possibly attend 
 the wedding to-morrow in those shoes as they 
 are.” 
 
 “ Stay away, then,” answered Mrs. Judd. 
 
 “ I can’t do that,” said Mr. Judd. “ The char¬ 
 women will be there early, get their work done, 
 and go away, and lock the place up. So if I am 
 not there, they will not be able to get in to perform 
 the ceremony.” 
 
 “ Let ’em go away again, then,” responded Mrs. 
 Judd. 
 
 “ Now really, my dear, don't be ridiculous-” 
 
 “What!” Mrs. Judd shouted, looking angrily 
 round for the first time, and slightly elevating the 
 flat-iron. 
 
 As an argument, a flat-iron knocks every other 
 style of reasoning all to pieces, and Mr. Judd made 
 haste to retract. 
 
 “ I didn’t mean that,” he said. 
 
 “ No, not 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 89 
 
 exactly that. What I mean is, there ’s still time to 
 get them mended. Mr. Barley knows me. I 
 know he’d have ’em done for me by nine to¬ 
 morrow morning if I promised to pay him on 
 Saturday.” 
 
 “ Then what are you grumbling at ?” demanded 
 Mrs. Judd. 
 
 “ Hear me out, my dear. Please hear me out,” 
 pleaded Mr. Judd nervously. “ I was going to 
 say—ahem !—perhaps you—you wouldn’t mind 
 running round to him with them.’ 5 ' 
 
 “ P’raps I would /” retorted Mrs. Judd emphati¬ 
 cally. “ Not after the way you’ve been speaking 
 to me. Ridiculous, indeed ! You may take ’em 
 yourself.” 
 
 “ I can’t, my dear,” urged Mr. Judd pathetically. 
 “ What should I come back in ? You wouldn't 
 like me to walk through the town in my carpet 
 slippers.” 
 
 “ Why wouldn’t I ? I don’t care if you go with 
 nothing on your feet at all. I won’t be worrited 
 out of my life like this!” cried Mrs. Judd, in 
 shrill exasperation. “ Take ’em or leave ’em. 
 Pve told you / won’t take ’em, and I won’t. Is 
 that enough, or isn’t it ?” 
 
 Mr. Judd seemed to feel that it was. With such 
 a thunder-cloud coming over his horizon and a 
 flat-iron for the first rain-drop, he thought it was 
 time to get out of the way before the storm 
 commenced. 
 
 He wrapped the shoes up in brown paper, wrote 
 a polite request outside that Mr. Barley would 
 mend them and send them home to-morrow morn¬ 
 ing not later than nine, took them downstairs with 
 him and stood for some minutes looking out at the 
 front door. 
 
 He had no intention of going out himself. A 
 beadle in carpet slippers could no more maintain 
 his majesty than a Lord Mayor could in his night- 
 
90 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 cap. He waited and watched till a small boy 
 whom he knew by sight came sauntering by, and 
 him Mr. Judd bribed with a current coin of incon¬ 
 siderable value to take the shoes straight away to 
 Mr. Barley and call his attention to the note on 
 the wrapper, which important public and private 
 service the boy solemnly pledged himself to fulfil. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 £be pair tbat SHtm’t /ibatcb. 
 
 f OSEPH McPHRENZY, Esq., was put out. 
 
 It was very easy to put Joseph McPhrenzy 
 out; any one could do it any day ; but once 
 he was put out—why, all the king’s horses 
 and all the king’s men couldn’t put Joseph 
 McPhrenzy in again. The only way was to leave 
 him alone till he got tired of stopping out, so to 
 speak, and went in again of his own accord. 
 
 And knowing how easily he was put out, the 
 world seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to 
 constantly annoy him ; his nearest relations, too, 
 were always going over to the enemy. Even Mrs. 
 McPhrenzy died inconveniently, just when he was 
 preparing to stand as a candidate to sit in Parlia¬ 
 ment and represent Baldwinkle in the Conservative 
 interest; and of course it deranged everything, and 
 he came in, or went out, at the bottom of the poll. 
 
 There were not wanting those who averred he 
 possessed such an inconsiderable quantity of 
 heart that it was almost a miracle he managed to 
 keep his blood in circulation. As it was he was 
 cold, selfish, overfed on indigestible ideas of his 
 own greatness, proud of his wealth, his social 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 91 
 
 eminence, his equipage, his aristocratic birth, and 
 all that was his. But most men have some re¬ 
 deeming trait in their characters, and Joseph 
 McPhrenzy was charitable; at least, his name 
 was always down for a small amount on the half- 
 yearly subscription lists issued by the “ Baldwinkle 
 Horse Marines’ Orphan Daughters’ Home,’’ and 
 other local institutions of that description. 
 
 In addition to this natural good quality, Joseph 
 McPhrenzy owned some dozen houses in the town, 
 several shares in a coffee syndicate, a large 
 interest in a brewery, a substantial balance at his 
 bankers, and a daughter. 
 
 He interested himself in this last item about as 
 much as he did in the coffee syndicate, only she 
 was not such a profitable concern. Still, there 
 was no doubt she had a fair market value if he 
 could but come across a suitable purchaser. 
 
 He could not lock her up in his safe with his 
 deeds, his bank book, and his coffee company 
 shares, but he was obliged to look after her pretty 
 sharply: for a year ago she was very nearly giving 
 herself away ; giving , mind you ; and to a rascally, 
 penniless young landscape-painter. 
 
 Joseph McPhrenzy discovered that little affair 
 just in time, and promptly put his foot on it and 
 settled it, as if it had been a kind of moral black- 
 beetle ; or, rather, he thought he had settled it, 
 until, on this very day when we find him so much 
 put out, it was made fairly clear to him that he 
 hadn’t. 
 
 Having disposed of the landscape-painter, a 
 year ago, Joseph McPhrenzy began to cast about 
 for some suitable person who should supply that 
 young man’s place in his daughter’s affections and 
 at the same time bring additional honour of some 
 sort into the family. And who could possibly suit 
 his purpose better than the son of his old school¬ 
 fellow, lately deceased, Sir Waterford Nolly ? He 
 
92 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 had a large estate in Hertfordshire, moved in the 
 very highest circles, and was descended from 
 somebody who came over with William the 
 Conqueror. 
 
 He diplomatically invited young Sir Waterford 
 Nolly to come and enjoy a few weeks’ pheasant 
 shooting, and Sir Waterford came— 
 
 “A padded shape 
 
 With a rabbit mouth that was ever agape,” 
 
 a general deficiency of head, and hardly chin 
 enough to eat with. He was a slow, monotonous, 
 supercilious personage with no common sense in 
 him whatever, and no uncommon sense, either, to 
 fill up the vacancy. But, although the interior 
 was not at all well finished off and almost destitute 
 of furniture, this was, nevertheless, a very desir¬ 
 able and eligible property, and Joseph McPhrenzy 
 regarded it as a safe investment. 
 
 Then, incredible as it may seem, Lilian—that 
 was his daughter’s name—interfered with his 
 arrangements. What could she know about such 
 things ? She was very pretty, and very amiable 
 (which was being pretty twice over), but she had 
 no business capacity at all. It seemed an extra¬ 
 ordinary thing, but she had got some silly, 
 unbusiness-like notions into her head about— 
 bless my soul!—love: had a kind of idea that 
 love had something to do with marriage ; it was a 
 very strange circumstance, for certainly Joseph 
 McPhrenzy had never taught her any such 
 nonsense, and couldn’t for the life of him imagine 
 who had. She had never acquired a habit of 
 arguing, or deciding any question of importance 
 for herself; but being naturally of a gentle, 
 timorous, yielding disposition, and standing very 
 much in awe of her father, she generally accepted 
 his guidance and obeyed his every will unques- 
 tioningly. But when he explained his wishes to 
 
93 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 her in connection with Sir Waterford Nolly, she 
 positively demurred and didn’t seem to under¬ 
 stand him. 
 
 And when, one day during his visit, Sir 
 Waterford Nolly, who had been much struck 
 with her, made her an unreserved offer of all that 
 piece or parcel of land situate in the county of 
 Herts, together with the manor standing thereon, 
 the coach-house and stables thereunto annexed, 
 and all the other appurtenances thereof, including 
 the ancestral knives and forks, and the family 
 spoons—himself amongst them,—she rejected the 
 whole lot without a moment’s hesitation. 
 
 Sir Waterford Nolly bore the tidings of his 
 defeat to Joseph McPhrenzy, and that great 
 speculator privately warned his daughter to be 
 very careful how she aroused his anger and 
 thwarted his wishes; he told her sternly and 
 decisively that he had made up his mind, and she 
 must either do as he told her or he would 
 disinherit her and disown her. 
 
 She was not the heroine to do credit to any 
 author. Instead of defying him, or reproaching 
 him, or announcing her intention to die on the 
 earliest opportunity sooner than yield, she was 
 crying so much all the time that she could not say 
 a word in her own defence. So he assumed she 
 was terrified into submission, and concluded by 
 informing her that he should now convey to Sir 
 Waterford in person her acceptance of his valu¬ 
 able offer, and should himself fix an early day for 
 the completion of the bargain and make all need¬ 
 ful arrangements with Sir Waterford on her 
 behalf; it was for him to command and her to 
 obey, and he would have no more nonsense about 
 it, mind that ! 
 
 He carried matters with a very high hand, and 
 made his arrangements ; even, after some little 
 trouble, got the day fixed for the wedding, and 
 
94 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 here, on the very day before that solemn event— 
 terrified by the near approach of it —Lilian had 
 come down into Joseph McPhrenzy’s study and 
 tried to coax him into undoing all he had done, 
 imploring him, at all events, to postpone the 
 wedding; for she could not, could not consent to 
 give her hand to Sir Waterford to-morrow. And 
 when he asked her in deep amazement what was 
 she thinking about, what did she mean by it, she 
 actually said something about that confounded 
 landscape-painter, that—what was his name ?— 
 Edgar Stanfield! 
 
 Yes. It appeared that although Edgar had 
 gone away when Joseph McPhrenzy put his foot 
 down on his projects, before going he entered into 
 a secret compact with Lilian that he would come 
 back to her as soon as ever he had finished 
 painting a certain picture of the most magnificent 
 description which was to fill his ears with notes of 
 admiration and his pockets with notes of a more 
 negotiable character. Since he had not returned, 
 the assumption was that the picture was not yet 
 finished. She had heard nothing of him during 
 his year of absence, as they had agreed not to 
 correspond, thinking it wiser, seeing that they had 
 most perfect faith in each other, not to run the 
 risk of what might follow if Joseph McPhrenzy 
 discovered them secretly rebelling against his 
 orders. She was confident in her own mind that 
 the picture must be very nearly finished by this 
 time, and any day now Edgar might come back for 
 her, and she could never, never marry any other 
 man—and a great deal more to the same effect. 
 
 As soon as her earnest but half-frightened 
 entreaties had died down into inarticulate sob¬ 
 bings, Joseph McPhrenzy calmly collected himself 
 and told her with a stern, deliberate dignity that 
 he was very much put out, very greatly surprised 
 at her and annoyed with her, and could not and 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 95 
 
 would not tolerate such childish folly any longer; 
 he had made all the arrangements it was necessary 
 to make, and the idea that any of those arrange¬ 
 ments could possibly be altered for the better was 
 preposterous and not to be thought of; she might 
 be ungrateful, but he would not permit her to be 
 undutiful ; he had done all there was to do, and 
 said all there was to be said, and would be more 
 put out than ever if she attempted to say another 
 word upon the subject. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TCI be vc tbe Shoe UMncbeD. 
 
 X^xTLDWINKLE Parish Church stood at the 
 IfeiL western end of the market place, in the 
 JLJy middle of a large churchyard. It was an 
 ^3 old place, a very old place; so old, in fact, 
 that it was literally beginning to crumble away 
 and, occasionally, to fall in small lumps—quite 
 getting into its dotage, so to speak. 
 
 Here it was that the Rev. D. Wadd, M.A., 
 according to a gilt-lettered notice-board on the 
 churchyard railings, officiated every Sunday, and 
 solemnized marriages any day you liked. Here it 
 was that Mr. Judd came in his official capacity 
 every Sunday and sat among the boys, and might 
 have heard the parson preach and felt his heart 
 rejoice if he had not acquired an irreligious habit 
 of dozing all through the service and only waking 
 at irregular intervals to bestow upon the boys a 
 threatening frown of sufficient magnitude to last 
 them till he woke up again. Here it was that the 
 Hon. George Squibs, of this parish, was buried in 
 the middle aisle under marble enough to have 
 
96 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 made a dozen mantelpieces. Here it was—but as 
 this is not intended for a guide-book, there is 
 perhaps no need to say more than that it was a 
 remarkably fine old church, and the only objec¬ 
 tionable feature of the interior—against which, it 
 was rumoured, certain bald-headed members were 
 beginning to agitate—was, that flakes of plaster 
 sometimes dropped down on the heads of the con¬ 
 gregation when the low notes of the organ were 
 played. 
 
 Here it was, just as the church clock was chim¬ 
 ing half-past seven in the morning, three faded old 
 ladies, in bonnets and shawls as faded as them¬ 
 selves, arrived in a body, let themselves in, and 
 producing three brooms from some secret hiding- 
 place, piled their bonnets and shawls on the pulpit 
 stairs and proceeded to earn their salaries by 
 filling all the place w-ith the dust which, until they 
 interfered with it, had been peacefully lying on 
 the floor ; after which they fell to dusting the read¬ 
 ing desk and the pews, and shaking up the cushions 
 and the hassocks, till they had brewed such a fine, 
 thick fog they nearly lost themselves in it; when, 
 feeling that they had conscientiously done all they 
 were paid to do, they groped round for their 
 bonnets and shawls and went home, carefully 
 locking the door and the outer gate as they went, 
 so that none of the sacred dust should get out and 
 none of the town vagabonds get in. 
 
 Here it was, at half-past ten, four bellringers 
 arrived and leaned against the churchyard gate, 
 waiting for Mr. Judd to come and let them in that 
 they might do their utmost to shake the tottering 
 old church to pieces by ringing deafening peals on 
 its huge bells as soon as the wedding was over ; 
 for upon this day was Lilian, only daughter of 
 Joseph McPhrenzy of this town, to be joined in 
 the bonds of holy matrimony to Sir Waterford 
 Nolly, of Nolly Manor, Hertfordshire. 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 97 
 
 It was just on the stroke of eleven, and Mr. 
 Judd had not arrived. The bellringers waited 
 patiently : but time and tide, as usual, waited for 
 nobody ; consequently when the wedding proces¬ 
 sion came rolling up, with Joseph McPhrenzy’s 
 carriage in the van, driven by a splendid coach¬ 
 man with the produce of a moderate cottage 
 garden in his button-hole, and with two respect¬ 
 ably dejected beings in livery clinging on behind 
 —whose sole duty it was to be ornamental,—the 
 gates were locked and they could not get into the 
 church. 
 
 Here was a nice state of things. And here, too, 
 was the Rev. D. Wadd, M.A., peering through the 
 railings in a state of indescribable excitement, and 
 calling apparently upon the dead to tell him where 
 the beadle was. He had already dispatched one 
 of the bellringers in search of him. 
 
 “ Haven’t you a key of your own, sir ? ” raved 
 Joseph McPhrenzy, glaring at the unhappy little 
 minister as if he thought the whole affair was a 
 conspiracy. 
 
 “ I had one, sir,” replied the Rev. D. Wadd, 
 “ but unfortunately I have so seldom had occasion 
 to use it that I do not know where to lay my hand 
 on it.” 
 
 “ This is absurd—disgraceful! ” bellowed Joseph 
 McPhrenzy. “ I was never so scandalized in all 
 my life. You will hear more of this.” 
 
 Everybody looked at everybody else, and felt 
 how utterly helpless they all were. The bride and 
 the bridesmaids, all in a flutter of excitement, 
 hardly seemed to know whether they ought to 
 smile or to frown. But the bridegroom made up 
 his mind on that point without any hesitation ; and 
 he didn’t smile. 
 
 He walked savagely up and down the pavement, 
 and the only thing he was undecided about was 
 whether he should make a beginning by punching 
 
 7 
 
g8 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 the learned head of the Rev. D. Wadd, M.A., or 
 by impartially attacking the three remaining bell¬ 
 ringers, or whether he should wait for Mr. Judd 
 and assault him, or simply dash his hat on the 
 ground and anathematize all of them and do 
 nothing. 
 
 He was still trying to come to a decision 
 when the voice of Joseph McPhrenzy, lifted up in 
 wild fury, recalled his wandering thoughts, and he 
 turned to see what was the matter now. 
 
 For some minutes before, Joseph McPhrenzy 
 had been looking round in all directions for the 
 beadle, when he noticed the small throng of 
 people who had gathered round about grow 
 suddenly agitated, and—who was this frenziedly 
 pushing his way through them ? Was there any¬ 
 thing familiar in the sight of that eager white 
 face, in the sound of that strained, agonised voice 
 
 that- Why, heaven and earth ! the fellow 
 
 was calling to his daughter by her Christian name ! 
 It was that — that rascally young landscape- 
 painter, that what’s-his name, Edgar Stanfield ; 
 and before Joseph McPhrenzy had time to descend 
 from his carriage and interpose, Lilian, in open 
 and horrifying defiance of all decorum, had leaped 
 out into his arms, and was sobbing and smiling 
 on his shoulder, with his arm about her waist. 
 
 If any man had told Joseph McPhrenzy, Esq., 
 yesterday that anyone would dare to so openly 
 defy his displeasure, he wouldn’t have thought it 
 very much out of the way if the earth had opened 
 and swallowed such an Ananias immediately. 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IH IRevv pair. 
 
 EANWHILE the light of Lilian’s 
 wedding - morning had looked in at Mr. 
 Judd’s window as soon as he drew up the 
 blind, and found him waiting for the 
 cobbler to bring his shoes home. 
 
 Eight o’clock struck, and nine o’clock, and he 
 began to work himself into a perspiring frenzy, 
 fretting and fuming about the room more irritably 
 every minute, and vowing Mr. Barley would make 
 him too late for the wedding, and was doing it on 
 purpose. 
 
 “ ‘ And oh ! ’ he said, ‘ the day is dreary, 
 He cometh not,’ he said ; 
 
 ' And oh ! I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead.’ ” 
 
 He even went so far as to wish Mr. Barley was 
 dead too, and worse. 
 
 When ten o’clock was past, he ventured to 
 suggest to his better half (in common justice, 
 perhaps one ought to say three-quarters, but it’s 
 of no consequence to us) that it would save him 
 from getting into trouble if she would run round 
 to Mr. Barley’s shop and hurry him up. Mrs. 
 Judd, however, had got up in an uncommonly bad 
 temper that morning, and curtly proposed that, as 
 Mr. Barley’s premises lay on the way to the church, 
 it would save a double journey if Mr. Judd called 
 in for the shoes as he went by, and put them on 
 there. 
 
 He threw away a little argument upon her, but 
 she was not to be persuaded. He might have 
 
100 THE beadle’s SHOES. 
 
 induced a stray boy to go and fetch them for 
 him, but there was no time to waste, and if the 
 boy succumbed to temptation and lingered on the 
 
 way to play at marbles-! So, in a reckless 
 
 frenzy of despair, he made up his mind to go 
 himself, and chance it. 
 
 Sing then, O Muse, how Mr. Judd went forth in 
 the broad light of day and in the sight of all the 
 earth, dressed in his coat of state, knee-breeches, 
 and his gold-emblazoned hat, and, in short, his 
 carpet-slippers! Say, did he bow his head with 
 guilty shame, and shuffle in the shadows of the 
 walls ? Not a bit of it ! Since the worst had 
 come to the worst, he put a bold face on it, and 
 swaggered along in the middle of the pavement, 
 throwing his feet out fearlessly, as if the dignity of 
 his office glorified his very slippers, and made 
 them worthy of him. 
 
 I won’t deny that he went through the quietest 
 streets he could, and succeeded in gaining Mr. 
 Barley’s door without attracting nearly so much 
 attention as might have been expected. But 
 the heroism of the deed lies in the fact that he did 
 it; the way he did it is a detail of no importance. 
 
 Mr. Barley’s was not a regular shop ; it was 
 really a private house—a very small private house, 
 and a very dull one by reason of the narrowness 
 of the road. Mr. Barley rented only the front 
 parlour on the ground-floor, and his window was 
 decorated with a preposterously large boot, to 
 which was pinned a badly-written label: 
 
 “ BARLEY, 
 
 BOOTS AND SHOES MENDED 
 WITH 
 
 NEATNESS AND DISPATCH. 
 
 KNOCK ONCE. 
 
 Mr. Judd knocked once, and Mr. Barley came 
 to the door in person and inquired, with a coolness 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 IOI 
 
 that might have made a cucumber feel hot all 
 over : 
 
 “ Ha ! What can I do for you, Mr. Judd, sir ? 
 Nice morning, ain’t it. Step inside, sir; step 
 inside.” 
 
 Mr. Judd stepped inside and, following Mr. 
 Barley, entered a small square room filled with a 
 pungent atmosphere of leather, and exhibiting a 
 sorrowful array of decaying boots standing in 
 pairs in a long line against the wall, as if they 
 were the only visible parts of a company of 
 military ghosts that Mr. Barley had just been 
 drilling. There was a round-faced clock on the 
 wall which was always wrong, and a large pewter 
 vessel on the mantelpiece which was always sending 
 Mr. Barley wrong ; a decrepit arm-chair, in which 
 Mr. Barley sat at work, when he wasn’t lying on 
 the truckle-bed in the corner asleep; the ruins of 
 an unframed looking-glass, by the aid of which he 
 never brushed his hair, because he hadn’t got any; 
 and a ragged couch on three legs, with a rusty 
 bread-grater in the place where the fourth used to 
 be, to steady it. 
 
 Everythingconnected with Mr. Barley personally 
 seemed to be of a perverse and contradictory 
 nature. Being a very little man, he had an 
 unnaturally large head, with ears that stood out 
 like open wings. He had a loud, rumbling voice, 
 and a small mouth drawn up as if he were per¬ 
 petually whistling. He had only one real leg, 
 and as that was sturdy and straight, as a matter of 
 course his wooden leg was rather inclined to 
 handiness. 
 
 “ Where are my shoes, sir ? ” demanded Mr. Judd, 
 peremptorily. 
 
 “Your shoes, sir?” demanded Mr. Barley, in¬ 
 quiringly, raising his bushy eyebrows, which, by 
 the way, bore a family likeness to a pair of boot- 
 brushes. 
 
102 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 “ My shoes, sir! ’’ repeated Mr. Judd, indignantly. 
 “ I sent them last night, with a note outside 
 requesting you to let me have them by nine this 
 morning punctually.” 
 
 “Who brought them?” asked Mr. Barley, 
 eagerly. 
 
 “A boy named Watts,” said Mr. Judd. 
 
 “ O yes, to be sure-” 
 
 “And didn’t you see the note ? ” 
 
 “No—that’s just it, I didn’t; but you shall 
 have them this evening without fail.” 
 
 “This evening!” shouted Mr. Judd. “I am 
 going on to attend a wedding now—at once. It’s 
 nearly eleven already. Don’t talk to me about this 
 evening! Where are they ? I must have them, 
 done or undone ! ” 
 
 “There you are again, sir,” said Mr. Barley, 
 uneasily; “you can’t very-” 
 
 “ Can’t! I must, sir; I must! Don’t tell me I 
 can’t! I must! Do you hear me?” roared Mr. 
 Mr. Judd. “Where are they?” 
 
 He threw a swift glance along the line of feet 
 belonging to the ghostly regiment, but they were 
 not there. 
 
 “You see, sir, it was like this,” Mr. Barley 
 explained, uneasily. “That boy Watts he hands 
 them shoes in and goes off without saying nothink 
 at all. So, thinks I, ‘ Well, there’s no hurry about 
 these' When I opened them, ‘ Rummy old cove 
 that old Watts,’ thinks I, ‘ to wear buckled shoes.’ 
 But it warn’t no business o’ mine, and-” 
 
 “ I don’t care about that! ” cried Mr. Judd, in an 
 agonized voice. “ Where are they ? There’s a 
 wedding waiting for me up at the church, I tell 
 you ! ” 
 
 “Well, to come to the point, I’d run right out 
 o’ leather, an’ thinkin’ them shoes was in no 
 hurry, as nobody said they was, I took ’em and— 
 and-” 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 IO 3 
 
 “ What ?” gasped Mr. Judd. 
 
 “ I pawned ’em for a shillin’,’’ said Mr. Barley, 
 covertly eyeing the pewter vessel on the mantel¬ 
 piece. 
 
 Mr. Judd leaned faintly against the wall and 
 fanned himself with his hat. He grew desperately 
 calm. He saw clearly enough what sort of story 
 would soon be circulating over the town about him : 
 people would say he had pawned his own shoes for 
 drink and had nothing to go to the wedding in. 
 
 ‘‘I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed Mr. Barley, 
 suddenly inspired. 
 
 “ What ?” 
 
 “ If you’ll lend me a shillin’, I ’ll run round an’ 
 redeem ’em while you wait.” 
 
 Mr. Judd looked thunder and lightning at him. 
 
 “I’ve come out without any change,” he 
 growled, irritably. “ But you'll have to do some¬ 
 thing and sharp. What are you going to do ? ” 
 
 “Tell you what ! You’d better put on a pair 
 o’ these boots I’ve got to mend here.” 
 
 It was a natural but happy suggestion ; Mr. 
 Judd saw the germs of a rainbow in it. He put 
 his hat on again and closed with the offer at once. 
 He had a choice of some score pairs of boots and 
 one pair of shoes. Boots do not harmonise well 
 with knee-breeches—not with a beadle’s knee- 
 breeches—so he resolutely pulled on the shoes and 
 went out in them, though they pinched him and 
 were much too small, and slightly out at the welts 
 into the bargain. 
 
 The agony he suffered was intense. Baldwinkle 
 was chiefly paved with huge oval stones, like 
 petrified kidney - potatoes. When the paving 
 operations were taken under the care of the 
 Parish one of the vestrymen was a chemist, and 
 it is believed that he proposed that style of pave¬ 
 ment because he had recently bought a bankrupt 
 stock of sticking-plaster. It was the finest sort 
 
104 THE beadle’s shoes. 
 
 of pavement out for tripping 3^011 up, and cutting 
 and bruising )mu well when you were down. 
 
 Mr. Judd had gone half-way along one of the 
 streets paved on this principle, and the church 
 was only just round the corner, when his foot 
 became accidentall) 7 wedged in between two stones 
 that had been broken and were sharp and jagged 
 at the edges. With a smothered exclamation of 
 impatience, he violently jerked himself free ; but 
 at the next step he took he was shocked to find 
 what a price he had paid for his freedom. In his 
 heedless violence he had torn the sole off, and 
 there it lay firmly pinned in between the two 
 stones, while the upper part of the shoe hung 
 loosely round his ankle. 
 
 Luckily it was a quiet by-wa}u He looked to 
 the right, and there were only three old ladies 
 gossiping round the pump. He looked to the left, 
 and, with such joy as thrills the despairing cast¬ 
 away when he perceives a friendly vessel bearing 
 down upon him, Mr. Judd beheld a feeble and 
 ancient pauper slowly approaching on his two old 
 spindle legs and a pair of stout sticks. Thank 
 goodness, though disguised as a pauper and without 
 so much as an anchor even, here was “ Hope ! ” 
 
 Mr. Judd lifted up his voice and waved his 
 hand peremptorily; but “ Hope,” being somewhat 
 deaf and dull, stood perfectly still, tucked his 
 sticks under his arm, and reverentially raised his 
 hat twice. Mr. Judd beckoned him forward. He 
 was such a slow traveller that it was useless 
 to think of sending him to Mr. Barley’s shop for a 
 pair of the boots ; so in his present extremity Mr. 
 Judd promptly decided on a course of action that 
 at any other time would have filled him with 
 horror. 
 
 “Take your boots off, my man,” he said, 
 briskly. “I’ve had an accident—lost the sole of 
 my shoe. I want you to lend me yours and take 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. IO5 
 
 these back to Mr. Barley and wait there for me. 
 I ’ll see that you are rewarded.” 
 
 As soon as “Hope” understood what was required 
 of him, he sat down on the kerb-stone with com¬ 
 parative alacrity, and Mr. Judd sat down beside 
 him, effected the change as speedily as possible, 
 and went stumbling clumsily on again, in boots 
 that hung like lead upon his feet, they were so 
 heavy and so much too large for him. 
 
 He arrived at the church just at that critical 
 moment when Lilian ran into Edgar’s arms; and 
 Joseph McPhrenzy, descending furiously from his 
 carriage, informed that impertinent young painter 
 that if he had one spark of gentlemanly feeling 
 within him he would withdraw, and not prolong 
 this unusual and disgraceful scene. This entreaty 
 failing, he proceeded to reason, first with Edgar, 
 then with Lilian; but as Lilian would listen to no 
 reasons but Edgar’s, and as Edgar would listen to 
 none but his own, words were of no avail. 
 
 Sir Waterford suggested the police ; but Joseph 
 McPhrenzy turned savagely upon him, saying the 
 scandal was great enough already, without adding 
 a police-court episode to it, and working himself 
 up into a white-heat of rage, he passed from 
 persuasions and threats to wild denunciations. He 
 intimated that he washed his hands of everything 
 and everybody ; he disowned and disinherited his 
 daughter, dared her ever to cross his threshold 
 again ; and finally dashed into his carriage in a 
 towering passion and was driven away. Sir 
 Waterford, not knowing what else to do, followed 
 him ; and the bridesmaids and wedding guests did 
 the same, for the same reason. 
 
 During this confusion, Mr. Judd had opened the 
 church, so that when the Rev. D. Wadd, M.A., 
 turned round, he found the beadle waiting in the 
 porch and apparently wondering what made the 
 wedding-party so much behind time. And whilst 
 
io6 
 
 THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 he was allegorically shaking the sword of Damocles 
 over Mr. Judd’s head, Edgar had taken Lilian on 
 into the church and was explaining his opportune 
 arrival. 
 
 It appeared he had a friend in Baldwinkle who 
 had kept him informed of all that had taken place 
 in Joseph McPhrenzy’s household during his 
 absence. He received news of Lilian’s compulsory 
 engagement only three or four days ago—in fact, 
 on the very same day he sold that extraordinary 
 picture for quite a nice little sum ; he went to 
 work at once, procured a special license and came 
 post-haste to Baldwinkle, thinking to arrive the 
 day before that fixed for the wedding and just 
 snatch the prize from his rival. But his friend 
 had misinformed him as to the day, and when he 
 reached the town he heard, by accident, that the 
 wedding was to be solemnised that very morning. 
 He immediately hastened to the church and—well, 
 there he was. 
 
 Yes, and there was the Rev. D. Wadd, still 
 pricking Mr. Judd with the sword of Damocles; 
 and there were the four bellringers—the fourth 
 having returned only a few minutes before from 
 his unsuccessful search,—and there were the 
 bells, too, up in the steeple—what a thousand 
 pities it would be to disappoint them all, wouldn’t 
 it ? And why should they be disappointed? 
 There was no one to object ; so the license was 
 produced, and the Rev. D. Wadd (who was really 
 a very good-natured fellow, and candidly admitted 
 he was not fond of Joseph McPhrenzyand did not 
 like Sir Waterford) read the service as solemnly 
 as if he had been marrying a royal pair and the 
 church had been overcrowded with spectators and 
 newspaper reporters. 
 
 “ Who giveth this woman unto this man ? ” “I, 
 
 Daniel Judd in the pauper’s boots, father on this 
 occasion only, by special arrangement.” And the 
 
THE BEADLE’S SHOES. 
 
 107 
 
 “ Wilt thou” and the “I will” are said in due 
 form, and the register signed and witnessed, and 
 Mr. Judd paid for his share in the ceremony, and 
 the bellringers paid for looking on. 
 
 Then the Rev. D. Wadd, M.A., shook hands 
 with Edgar and Lilian, and made the astounding 
 revelation that he had been young himself once; 
 but he was afraid Edgar was a young rascal who 
 was going to be happier than he deserved. Where¬ 
 upon they laughed joyously together, and shook 
 hands all round again, everybody wishing the bride 
 and bridegroom all imaginable happiness, and Mr. 
 Judd privately assuring them, as he accompanied 
 them to the door, that, now he knew everything, 
 sooner than have been in time for the other wedding, 
 bust his buttons if he wouldn’t have gone and 
 pawned his own boots with his own hands, and 
 himself into the bargain for all he was worth ! 
 

 
 
 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ‘ ^TT SK Mr. Dadley to come in, Jane,” said Miss 
 wA Pettifer. 
 
 /rJL The neat little maid-servant tripped out 
 t/°r into the neat little hall, and ushered the 
 visitor in. Mr. Dadley was a clergyman. Any 
 one could see that by the cut of his long black 
 coat and the little white bow at his throat. He 
 was a large, heavy man ; an ample and a sombre 
 man, with loose, baggy cheeks, and a very bald 
 head. 
 
 “ I received your letter, Miss Pettifer,” he 
 solemnly intoned, advancing and offering her his 
 hand, which she reverently received and shook, 
 “ and I am here to counsel you, to the best of 
 my humble abilities. To—the—best —of—my— 
 humble—abilities.” 
 
 He spoke slowly, reflectively, and had a habit 
 of even more slowly repeating the last few words 
 of his sentences, as if he were carefully poising 
 and weighing them and trying to make them 
 balance. 
 
 “It is very kind of you to come. I am in great 
 trouble.—But won’t you sit down, sir ? ” said Miss 
 Pettifer, with a quaint mingling of reverence and 
 apologetic courtesy, but with no sign of trouble on 
 her hard features, no sound of trouble in her clear, 
 cold voice. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Dadley turned ponderously 
 about, deposited his hat on the table, dropped his 
 
I IO 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 black kid gloves into it, and sank down in the cosy 
 old-fashioned arm-chair with a prolonged sigh. 
 He was such a large man that he made everything 
 in the parlour look smaller than it was. For it 
 was a very small, neat room, and the furni¬ 
 ture harmonised with the smallness of the room, 
 and the size of Miss Pettifer was in harmony with 
 the furniture. But Mr. Dadley was a note of 
 discord among the dainty little chairs, the little 
 round table, the grotesque little ornaments on the 
 mantelpiece, and the elusive, scarcely perceptible 
 fragrance of dried lavender that was over every¬ 
 thing. You could not reasonably associate Mr. 
 Dadley’s solid bulkiness with such a faint and 
 delicate fragrance ; but to the faded little lady with 
 her slight, prim figure, her smooth grey hair, and 
 her snowy little lace cap, it somehow seemed in 
 every way appropriate. She was by no means 
 attractive, however, and did not attempt to make 
 herself attractive. Her dress was black and 
 sombre, and was fastened at the throat with a 
 black jet brooch, which was the only ornament she 
 wore. Her face was stern, and hard, and withered; 
 her lips were thin, and colourless, and tightly 
 drawn. Her eyes had a cold, grey, steely glitter, 
 an unsympathetic hardness that was strange in a 
 woman ; and her voice was as unsympathetic as 
 her eyes. 
 
 “ Duty,” said Mr. Dadley presently, sighing 
 and looking at the ceiling, “ duty, my dear friend, 
 is not always pleasant. It is nearly always un¬ 
 pleasant ; but, being duty, it must be done. Must 
 —be—done.” 
 
 “ I want you to tell me,” said Miss Pettifer 
 calmly, “what my duty is.” 
 
 “ To be sure. To—be—sure,” responded Mr. 
 Dadley. “ Now, I have thought earnestly over it 
 all, and having known and watched your aban¬ 
 doned nephew, George Pascoe, from his boyhood 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 upwards, I trust I am right—I feel I am right in 
 saying: No; you must not do it. Certainly not. 
 No—certainly—not.” 
 
 Miss Pettifer looked at him steadily, without 
 speaking, and he continued, with a studied intona¬ 
 tion, and a grave earnestness that was really 
 impressive : 
 
 “ I know all—I have considered it all. I know 
 how you loved your younger sister, how true you 
 were to her. Who but yourself said a word in her 
 behalf when, forgetful of her duty to her widowed 
 mother, she ran away from home and married a 
 man unworthy of her ? She went her wilful way ; 
 her mother died without forgiving her; and when 
 sorrow and death overtake her, to whom does she 
 turn for help but to you ? And your love is still 
 hers : you go to her, find her in abject poverty, 
 deserted by the scoundrel who married her; and 
 you minister to her dying needs. Her one child, 
 a boy of seven, she leaves to your care. And how 
 have you fulfilled your trust ? You have kept 
 him, clothed him, schooled him, you have stinted 
 him in nothing. Your love for your sister moves 
 you to do all this and more. You do it all for her 
 sake—for love of her. Not for the boy’s sake. 
 Him you never loved.” 
 
 Miss Pettifer made a movement as if to inter¬ 
 rupt him, but checked herself, dropped her head 
 in mute acquiescence, and he went on : 
 
 “ You did your duty, but you could not love him. 
 How could you ? True, he is your sister’s child, 
 but he is also the child of the man who darkened 
 your old home and made your sister’s young life 
 miserable. Her death is at his door. You could 
 not love that man’s child, but you did all else but 
 love him. With the wilfulness of his mother the 
 boy has the utterly bad heart of his father. How 
 has he repaid you ? One may forgive much 
 mischief in a boy, but not such heartless, 
 
112 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 malicious mischief as was brought home to him 
 so often that his name became a by-word in the 
 town. He did not love you, and did not care 
 what sorrow and shame he brought upon you. 
 On my advice, you sent him away to school. 
 There, young as he was—for he was still only 
 eighteen,—he was soon found to be indulging in 
 secret gambling, drinking, and riotous living. He 
 contaminates his school fellows, terrible reports 
 come to you here, and over and over again you 
 pay heavy sums to relieve him from debt and 
 degradation ; but at last he falls into such disgrace 
 that he is expelled. He sneaks back to you—the 
 spiritless hound !—with promises of amendment. 
 Promises—of—amendment. What are they worth ? 
 In the weeks that followed, how many times did he 
 get money from you—wheedling it out of you, or 
 ,even robbing you of it if he could not get it other¬ 
 wise ? How many times did he come to your 
 door after midnight senselessly intoxicated ? 
 How many times did you forgive him, for your 
 sister’s sake ? Ah ! And now-” 
 
 He paused, and spread his hands out expres¬ 
 sively. 
 
 “ Now,” said Miss Pettifer quietly, “it is worse 
 than ever.” 
 
 “Worse—than—ever,” repeated Mr. Dadley. 
 “ And when you persuaded Mr. Grellin, your 
 father’s old friend, to give the graceless scoundrel 
 a chance, thinking if the boy could get free of his 
 old companions here, he might settle down to work 
 in London, under Mr. Grellin’s care, and go right 
 yet—what was your resolve ? You remember what 
 you told the boy here in my presence, on the day 
 he left you ? ” 
 
 “ I told him,” said Miss Pettifer, “ that if he did 
 wrong again he should bear whatever punishment 
 he had earned ; I would not shield him any more, 
 because I felt it only encouraged him in wrong- 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 II 3 
 
 doing. I told him that so long as he lived 
 honourably and well, I would help him in every 
 way I could. But that if he fell into his old bad 
 ways again I would help him no more—I would 
 utterly disown him.” 
 
 “ Utterly—disown—him,” repeated Mr. Dadley ; 
 “ yes. And now he has gone from bad to worse. 
 Betrayed his trust. Got into difficulty through 
 gambling and loose living, and forged his master’s 
 name to a cheque for two hundred pounds. 
 Takes advantage of his master’s absence to do it, 
 and hides his crime by falsifying his accounts. 
 Now he is found out, arrested, and remanded ; and 
 Mr. Grellin rightly communicates with you. And 
 you ask me what you should do. You say that for 
 your sister’s sake you feel that you ought to pay the 
 money and beg that the thief may be pardoned.” 
 
 If it were possible for such hard, unsympathetic 
 features as Miss Pettifer’s to soften ; if it were pos¬ 
 sible for such cold, keen, steely eyes ever to be dim 
 with tears ; if it were possible for such thin, firm 
 lips to become tremulous, her whole look softened, 
 her eyes grew misty, and her lips quivered at that 
 moment, for a moment only; then she spoke with no 
 trace of weakness or emotion, as calmly as one at a 
 judicial examination who merely desired that every 
 fact should be laid impartially before the court. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “ he is my sister’s only child.” 
 
 “ The more reason,” intoned Mr. Dadley, “ why 
 you should be stern towards him when it is for his 
 good. Again and again he has done wrong, and 
 you have saved him from the punishment he 
 merited. He might not have gone so far as he has 
 if he had felt the penalty of his earlier sins. And 
 now, for his sake, for the sake of your dead sister, 
 you must not interfere. You can put your money 
 to better uses. Punishment may do for him what 
 forgiveness has failed to do. God’s hand is upon 
 him. God’s hand—using our earthly law as its 
 
 8 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 II 4 
 
 instrument—shall punish him. Woman ! it is not 
 for you to snatch him from God’s hand and stand 
 betwixt him and justice ! ” 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Dadley sat bolt upright in 
 his chair, both hands on his knees, his eyes 
 flaming, every feature quivering with intense 
 earnestness. His closing sentence throbbed and 
 swelled in the air as if it were cramped in the 
 narrow little parlour, and would burst the very 
 walls to make room for itself. And Miss Pettifer 
 started, and thrilled at the thought of the impious 
 deed she had so nearly been doing. 
 
 “ You are right,” she said firmly, “ I feel you are 
 right.” 
 
 “It may be hard,” he said, “but the things 
 that are right are always the hardest to do. And 
 nothing is harder, sometimes, than to do nothing. 
 Your duty in this case is to do nothing. To—do— 
 nothing.’’ 
 
 He had risen and taken his hat. As he repeated 
 his final words, he shook Miss Pettifer ponder¬ 
 ously by the hand, and she thanked him as 
 unconcernedly as if they had been discussing some 
 question that affected her no more nearly than it 
 affected him. She followed him into the hall, and 
 opened the front door and let him out herself. 
 
 Then she went back to the dull, quiet, neat little 
 parlour, and sat down and went thoughtfully over 
 all he had said. 
 
 One thing he had said haunted her like a 
 reproach, and kept repeating itself in her thoughts 
 and would not be silenced : “ You never loved 
 him. You could not love him.” 
 
 If she had loved him, and he had known she 
 loved him, he might have grown to love her, and 
 that love would have had a restraining and benefi¬ 
 cent influence upon him. As it was, he must 
 have felt all along that nobody loved him, or had 
 any kindly thought of him, or cared much whether 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 “5 
 
 he went right or wrong; and so, having no anchor¬ 
 age for the better feelings that were in him, how 
 was it likely he should be other than reckless and 
 careless of everything ? 
 
 “ You never loved him. You could not love him.” 
 
 But the great bitterness of it all was that she 
 had loved him ; she loved him even yet, with all 
 the still, deep, unselfish affection she had felt for 
 her dead sister. He was the one thing left for her 
 to love, and she loved him; but he had never 
 known it. She had no knowledge of children, and 
 from the first, believing it to be the first thing 
 needful for his good, she had always treated him 
 with strict severity, ordering his life by line and 
 rule, exacting most prompt and absolute obedience, 
 and visiting his natural boyish errors with rigid 
 punishment, till he grew to fear and avoid her, 
 and practised deceits to save himself from getting 
 into trouble. She could not remember ever to 
 have spoken any word or shown any sign of her 
 love to him. It was not in her nature to do so. 
 She had done everything as if she did it from a 
 sense of duty. She was naturally austere and 
 unemotional, having an exaggerated shyness or 
 sense of shame that kept her from revealing in any 
 way any gentler sentiment she might feel. She 
 was in all things conscientious, exact, matter-of- 
 fact, wholly undemonstrative ; and could no more 
 express or reveal the softer side of her nature, than 
 a warm-hearted, impulsive woman, unfettered by 
 long habits of restraint, could conceal any sympa¬ 
 thetic feelings that took possession of her. 
 
 “You never loved him. You could not love him.” 
 
 Others thought so; and the boy thought so 
 himself. Had she done wrong in letting him 
 think so ? If so, even if it was her duty not to pay 
 the money, she might write and ask Mr. Grellin to 
 forgive him. If she paid the money, it would only 
 confirm the boy in his desperate courses; for he 
 
 8 * 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 I 16 
 
 would think that under similar circumstances she 
 would do the same again, to preserve him from 
 disgrace that, in a manner, would reflect upon 
 herself. She had no right to ask Mr. Grellin to 
 forfeit the money; but her father had greatly 
 befriended him, and if he would do it and forgive 
 the boy—who knows, seeing how severer disci¬ 
 pline had failed, what effect such magnanimity 
 might have ? 
 
 But was it her duty to do this ? Mr. Dadley 
 said it was not—it would be standing between the 
 criminal and his just punishment. After all, 
 though, Mr. Dadley might be wrong. But no— 
 she thrust the thought from her as something 
 sinful, and not to be entertained without peril. 
 Mr. Dadley knew best; what he said was wrong 
 could not be right. 
 
 Her duty ! She stifled all the relenting tender¬ 
 ness that was striving to find voice within her, 
 and fixed all her thoughts upon her duty; she 
 must do her duty. And she sank into darker, 
 gloomier reveries, brooding and arguing with her¬ 
 self; till the day had gone.and twilight darkened 
 about her, and still she was thinking, thinking 
 distracted and bewildered thoughts that made her 
 head ache and her heart ache more and more. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GRELLIN sat waiting in his private 
 room. He had been waiting now some 
 little time, and was getting impatient. 
 (sjyr He rose from his chair presently and 
 walked restlessly about, muttering to himself, and 
 every now and then taking a letter from his pocket 
 and re-reading certain passages, as if to impress 
 them upon his mind. 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 117 
 
 At last there was a knock at the door, and two 
 men entered. One, a brisk, middle-aged man, 
 the head clerk of a department in Mr. Grellin’s 
 establishment; the other a sullen, pallid, unpre¬ 
 possessing young fellow, who hesitated awkwardly 
 just inside the room, and looked downcast and ill 
 at ease. 
 
 “ Here is Mr. Pascoe, sir,” cried the head clerk. 
 “ I have just brought him straight from court. 
 He did not want to come, but-” 
 
 “ Certainly. That will do, Ward,” said Mr. 
 Grellin shortly. ‘ Thank you.” 
 
 Whereupon the head clerk withdrew, and closed 
 the door. 
 
 “ Sit down, Pascoe,” Mr. Grellin continued, 
 sitting down himself. 
 
 Pascoe moved sullenly to the nearest chair, and 
 sat down. 
 
 “ I did not come to the court this morning,” 
 pursued Mr. Grellin, “ but you heard what my 
 solicitor said for me ?” 
 
 Pascoe acquiesced by an inclination of his head. 
 
 “ That statement will be repeated in the house 
 here. I shall give it out that there has been a 
 mistake, and you are innocent. Some will have 
 doubts, but you must livePiem down. I shall not 
 mention the subject after to-day; I want it to be 
 forgotten. You shall go back to your old place 
 and start afresh, and I don’t think you will make 
 me regret my decision. I shall give you another 
 trial. You have had your stumble, and I’m going 
 to give you a chance of picking yourself up again. 
 And I believe you’ll do it. Come, let us shake 
 hands on it.” 
 
 Pascoe sat listening with a strange expression 
 of wonderment kindling in every feature of his un¬ 
 attractive face. As Mr. Grellin concluded, and 
 rose and frankly offered him his hand, the poor 
 scamp made an involuntary movement as if he 
 
11 8 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 would have risen, but dropped back again and 
 sank with his elbows on his knees and his face 
 buried in his hands, and burst into tears that per¬ 
 haps were not altogether maudlin or unmanly. 
 
 Next morning he went back to his work in the 
 counting-house, full of gratitude towards the em¬ 
 ployer who had so forgiven him, and a fervent 
 intention to do his utmost to prove that he was 
 grateful. Such generous kindness, when he had 
 least expected it, and from one upon whom he had 
 no claim, touched and aroused into activity all 
 that was best in his neglected nature ; but at the 
 same time it accentuated the exceeding bitterness 
 he felt towards the hard, unrelenting old aunt who 
 had kept her word and put out no hand to save 
 him in his last extremity. What mere human 
 nature and the ties of natural affection should 
 have led her to do she had left undone, and it had 
 now been done for him out of pity by a compara¬ 
 tive stranger. She had no heart ; she had never 
 loved him, had always been severe, exacting, 
 unsympathetic, almost cruel to him, and he hated 
 her now more than ever. He gave no thought to 
 his own unworthiness, or blamed himself for the 
 crime that had brought him into trouble, but 
 brooded angrily, bitterfy, over the severe old 
 lady’s stubborn, systematic coldness and neglect ; 
 and in his own mind fastened all the blame upon 
 her. 
 
 Whether his gratitude to Mr. Grellin would of 
 itself have been sufficient to sustain his resolution 
 to reform is, perhaps, doubtful. Fortunately it 
 was not put to the test. It was strong enough to 
 sustain him for three or four months, and then he 
 found a more powerful incentive and support. 
 
 For the first time in his life he found himself 
 really in love, and with one who was worthy of 
 the love of a better man. It is something in his 
 favour that he felt this, and despaired. It is some- 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 119 
 
 thing even more in his favour that, instead of 
 yielding to despair, he earnestly determined to 
 fling from him his old degraded life, like a worn- 
 out garment, and work and strive with all his soul 
 to make himself as worthy of her as such a man as 
 he might hope to become. He had never before 
 been so humble or so earnest. 
 
 He worked conscientiously, industriously, rising 
 higher and higher in Mr. Grellin’s estimation, and 
 receiving substantial proofs that his efforts were 
 appreciated. But he was most anxious that some 
 one else should appreciate them ; and when, at 
 last, after nearly two years of toiling and waiting, 
 he ventured to tell her of his love, he found he 
 had won all he had hoped for, all he had worked 
 for. 
 
 As soon as he was sure of her love he told her 
 the story of his wretched life. He told it with 
 such an excess of self-pity that there were times 
 when the tears welled up into his eyes and his 
 voice failed him. He found his gentle hearer full 
 of sympathy, and compassion, and excuse for him. 
 He had been the sufferer. His very crimes were 
 only half his own. He had been wronged and 
 neglected. That harsh, heartless, selfish old Aunt 
 Pettifer was to blame for it all ! And yet he must 
 try now to pity her and forgive her, though it was 
 not to be expected that he should ever wish to see 
 her again. Now he had some one who loved him, 
 he had conquered his own weaknesses and risen 
 above them, and would build a splendid future on 
 his ruined past. All this they said to each other 
 over and over so many times till, in the innocent, 
 trusting, loving heart and imagination of his 
 listener, George was exalted into a very hero. 
 
 But, somehow, he never offered to pay back the 
 value of the forged cheque to his employer. It 
 never seemed to occur to him that he ought to do 
 so. That unhappy business presented itself to his 
 
120 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 mind, when he thought of it at all, as something for 
 which he had been partly to hlame, for which he 
 had borne all the shame and suffering, while the 
 one who was really most at fault had borne no 
 shame or suffering at all. 
 
 He kept closely at work, lived economically, 
 saved money, and, at length, told Mr. Grellin 
 one day that he intended to marry in the following 
 month, and asked for a fortnight’s leave of absence. 
 Mr. Grellin, having no children of his own, had 
 taken a sort of liking for him when he found he 
 had reformed in earnest, and was at once interested 
 in the change he was about making in his life. 
 
 “ Have you told your aunt ?” he asked, when 
 they had talked it all over together. 
 
 “No, sir,” replied George. 
 
 “ Don’t you think you should do so ?” 
 
 “No, I do not, sir,” said George. “She took 
 no interest in my affairs when I wanted her to. 
 Now 1 do not want her to do so.” 
 
 “ I think you are too hard on her, Pascoe. You 
 do not know all. I’m sure she would be glad to 
 make friends with you again.” 
 
 “ I have no wish to see her, or to have anything 
 more to do with her. I am sorry her name has 
 been mentioned.” 
 
 “ I am sorry to hear you say that. Some day 
 you may be sorry you said it,” remarked Mr. Grellin, 
 quietly. “ Under the circumstances, I think I 
 shall take it upon myself to write to her.” 
 
 George made no reply, and nothing further was 
 said on the subject, either then or afterwards. 
 
 On the day before the wedding, Mr. Grellin 
 took George into his room and handed him a cheque 
 for a hundred and fifty pounds, as his wedding 
 present; then shook hands with him warmly, 
 wished him all happiness, and hurried him away, 
 seeming quite shamefaced and uneasy at the thanks 
 he received for his generosity. 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 “ There, there ! ” he cried. “ Don’t say anything 
 about it. It’s—it’s all right. When you come 
 back I have an important proposal to make. 
 Good-bye, good-bye!” 
 
 And when George returned, a fortnight later, he 
 took him again to his room, and after a long 
 preamble about age and increasing infirmities, 
 offered him a partnership. George was too 
 astonished for a moment to realise his own good 
 fortune, and Mr. Grellin construed his silence into 
 acceptance of the offer. 
 
 “ My solicitor will arrange all formalities, and 
 prepare the deed,” he said. “All you will have 
 to do is to invest a couple of thousand in the 
 business-” 
 
 “A couple of thousand!” interrupted George, 
 suddenly aghast. 
 
 “ Yes,’’ laughed Mr. Grellin. “ But I won’t half 
 do it. I’ll find the money for you — a mere 
 formality—leave that to me.” 
 
 He would accept no thanks ; he grew curt and 
 irritable when George insisted upon thanking him. 
 And so the whole business was tacitly arranged, 
 and in a very few weeks George was duly installed 
 as junior partner in the firm of Grellin & Pascoe. 
 
 Of course the news travelled down into the 
 country, and one day George had a letter from a 
 near neighbour of his aunt’s, a man who in former 
 days had been a great crony of his, and who wrote 
 to congratulate him. 
 
 “ I don’t suppose,” continued the writer, referring 
 to Miss Pettifer, “ you hear much of the old lady 
 now. She is as bitter as ever : never mentions 
 your name. My wife called to see her the other 
 day, and casually told her of your last good luck, 
 but she took no interest in it, wouldn’t talk about 
 it at all. She evidently hates you like poison, but 
 that won’t matter to you now. She gets meaner 
 as she gets older. Sold her house a few months 
 
122 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 ago—said she could not afford the expense of 
 keeping it up, and lives now in one little 
 furnished room, where they board and lodge her 
 for next to nothing. She must have got a goodish 
 bit put by, though I'll be bound the Reverend Mr. 
 Dadley—you remember him—has had a big share 
 of it, and means having the rest if he can get it. 
 He stands a good chance, too. She isn’t the 
 woman she used to be ; she’s breaking up, and 
 more under his thumb than ever.” 
 
 George showed this letter to his wife, and they 
 magnanimously pitied the lonely, miserable, miserly 
 little old lady, and said it seemed really as if her 
 unnatural harshness to her nephew were coming 
 home to her, and in her old age she was neglected 
 and alone. 
 
 Not many months after this George was surprised 
 to receive a letter from the Reverend Mr. Dadley 
 himself. It told him, with that gentleman’s 
 habitual prolixity, that his aunt was ill and dying, 
 and wanted to see him. 
 
 “ No,” said George stubbornly. “ If she wants 
 to see me at all, it’s only because she feels now 
 how badly she treated me. She doesn’t care for 
 me, and 1 don’t care for her, and I’m not going to 
 go down there to play the hypocrite and pretend 
 I do.” 
 
 There was a lofty high-mindedness about this 
 that made him feel proud of himself. But his 
 wife, gentle and womanlike, was inclined to be 
 more forgiving. 
 
 “ If the poor, unhappy old lady feels now,” she 
 said, “how much she wronged and neglected you, 
 her remorse must be dreadful. I know she must 
 be naturally selfish and cold-hearted, or I don’t 
 see how she could have helped loving you, dear. 
 But try to forgive her now. At least, go and see 
 her and try to forgive her.” 
 
 There was something in all this that soothed and 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 123 
 
 flattered him, and he allowed himself to be so far 
 persuaded that he promised to speak to Mr. Grellin 
 to-morrow and see what he could do about it. 
 
 He mentioned it next morning to Mr. Grellin, 
 and was saying how unwilling he was to go, when 
 his partner interrupted him. 
 
 “ Go,” he said, earnestly. “ Go at once. If you 
 are too late you will never forgive yourself. Every 
 word }'OU say against her now will rise up and 
 haunt you afterwards. You do not know all. My 
 lips are sealed while she lives, unless she gives me 
 leave to speak. Go, I tell you ; go at once.” 
 
 George was startled by his partner’s vehemence, 
 and did not know how to reply. He went away, 
 and hurriedly made some few needful preparations, 
 and had started within an hour; and as the dusk 
 of evening was beginning to fall, he passed along 
 the quaint, quiet, well-remembered streets of the 
 little town, past the prim little house where he had 
 once lived with his aunt, to the humbler house 
 where she was now dying in her one little room. 
 Nay, where she was lying dead. 
 
 “ She died an hour ago,” said the Reverend 
 Mr. Dadley, who met him at the door ; “ I was 
 with her at the last. Her last words were to ask 
 if you had come.” 
 
 He felt a momentary pang of self-reproach. He 
 might have come earlier ; he almost wished he had. 
 And yet underlying his regret was a vague relief 
 that he was ashamed of, for he had lost faith in 
 himself on the way down ; things had occurred to 
 him that he had lost sight of before, and he had 
 begun to doubt whether it was for him to forgive 
 or to ask forgiveness. So strongly did this feeling 
 grow upon him that it snatched aside the mask of 
 self-deceit that had so long hidden his own folly 
 and meanness from himself, and his sense of shame 
 and humiliation had almost held him back from 
 going to her at all. It held him back now, and he 
 
124 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 had not the heart to go into the darkened room 
 and look upon her dead face. 
 
 During the next few days, while he was staying 
 in the town, he somewhat recovered his self- 
 satisfaction. He made a compromise with himself, 
 and owned that there had been faults on both 
 sides; but if his aunt had only treated him differently 
 there would have been no faults at all on his side, 
 or on hers either. He had no cause to love or 
 regret her, and in the course of a couple of days 
 had got over the shock of her death and was able 
 to think of other matters. 
 
 One thing he must arrange before he went back 
 home, and that was as to Aunt Pettifer’s money. 
 He was her only relative, and, unless she had left 
 a will leaving it to someone else, it would all come 
 to him. She might have left it all to Mr. Dadley, 
 probably she had ; he had been scheming for it, 
 and had great control over her. Anyway, he would 
 see about that before he went back. 
 
 It was a bright, sunshiny afternoon when he 
 followed poor Aunt Pettifer to her grave : a lonely 
 grave, standing quite apart, against the low wall 
 of the churchvard. 
 
 j 
 
 As he was going away, after the last sad rites 
 were over, Mr. Dadley came after him and walked 
 with him back towards the town. 
 
 “ I am sorry to speak of business matters at 
 such a time,” he said, “ but I expect you will be 
 returning to London, and no doubt you would like 
 to dispose of an)? questions concerning your aunt’s 
 estate before you go.” 
 
 “ Well, yes,” said George, “ I think it would be 
 better. Did she leave any will ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ In whose favour ? ” 
 
 “ Well,” hesitated Mr. Dadley, “ so far as it 
 goes, I suppose it is in mine.” 
 
 “ I thought as much,” sneered George. 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 125 
 
 Mr. Dadley flushed up hotly, but restrained 
 himself. 
 
 “ If you can call at my house this evening I will 
 show you everything. It will be more satisfactory,” 
 he said, and turned away without waiting for 
 reply. 
 
 George went back to his hotel in no happy frame 
 of mind. He felt he had been tricked ; Mr. 
 Dadley had tricked him. He had taken advantage 
 of Miss Pettifer’s weak, dependent position to 
 defraud her only relative of his rights. The more 
 he thought of it the more ill-used he felt, the more 
 indignant he became; and, at last, when he set 
 out just after dark for Mr. Dadley’s house he had 
 fully made up his mind to let that gentleman under¬ 
 stand what he thought of him. 
 
 He was ushered into the comfortable, well- 
 lighted study, where Mr. Dadley was waiting for 
 him. 
 
 “ Perhaps, sir,” he said, as he seated himself, 
 “ you will tell me, shortly, how my aunt has left 
 her affairs.” 
 
 “There is her will,” said Mr. Dadley; “you 
 will see by that she appoints me sole executor, and 
 leaves everything to me, with a request that I will 
 pay her debts and funeral expenses.” 
 
 George took the document, which was very brief, 
 and read it, and found it was to the effect Mr. 
 Dadley had stated. He flung it back across the 
 table. 
 
 “ Very good, sir !” he cried, angrily. “ I shall 
 contest that document. She would never have 
 signed that except under undue influence. I am 
 her only relative; you know that ?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mr. Dadley, quietly ; “ but when I 
 tell you she has not even left enough to pay her 
 few debts and funeral expenses-” 
 
 “ Then, sir,” Georgehotly interrupted, “ I should 
 like to know where it has gone, and who has got 
 
126 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 it ? I have my suspicions. Yes ! And I will have 
 this matter inquired into and exposed.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said Mr. Dadley sternly, rising to his 
 feet and speaking with grave dignity, “that book 
 will tell you all you want to know. She wished 
 me to look at it and satisfy myself about her affairs, 
 and destroy it. But I think it right you should 
 see it. What she did was done without my know¬ 
 ledge and against my counsel.” 
 
 George took the book from his hand—it was a 
 bank pass-book—and opening the ieaves, he glanced 
 over them at random. 
 
 “You will find,” continued Mr. Dadley, “that 
 book covers a period of ten years or so: her banking 
 transactions were not numerous. She was a careful, 
 methodical woman, and you will find she has 
 entered against each item to whom it was paid, and 
 for what purpose. And—for—what—purpose.” 
 
 But George was scarcely listening. Looking 
 down one side of the pages, he traced the regular 
 entry of the yearly dividends she received from 
 some investments, and the final entry of rather 
 more than two thousand pounds, dated a few 
 months ago, and representing, as a pencil note 
 showed, the purchase-money she had received on 
 the sale of her investments and her little house in 
 the town. How had all that money gone in so 
 so short a time ? He turned back to the beginning 
 of the book, and began to glance down the pages 
 on the other side. 
 
 There were many entries of small sums with the 
 pencil note “ Household ” against them. Amongst 
 the early entries was one rather large amount 
 marked “ For George’s trouble at school,” and 
 close after it the last payment of his school 
 expenses. He turned over, and there was a pay¬ 
 ment of two hundred pounds entered. The date 
 against it was one he had reason to remember, for 
 he was at that time in prison under a charge of 
 
OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 127 
 
 forgery. The pencil note against this was simply : 
 “ For George.” He could not look up, he dared 
 not trust himself to speak, he knew what it meant; 
 it was she who had forgiven him, not Mr. Grellin. 
 He bent his head lower, and turned over the pages 
 till another entry caught his attention ; it was for 
 a payment of a hundred and fifty pounds, and the 
 pencil note against it was : “ My wedding present 
 to George.” There was a mist before his eyes, a 
 great, choking sensation rising in his throat, and 
 his heart was throbbing painfully ; but he could 
 not trust himself to glance up even for a moment 
 at the man who he knew was watching him across 
 the table. 
 
 He turned the next page and glaced down at the 
 last payment entered in the book. It was for two 
 thousand pounds, and he knew instinctively what 
 was the pencil note against it, though he could 
 hardly see to read it: “ For George’s partnership.’’ 
 
 He sat there, utterly broken down, bewildered, 
 stupefied, blinded by the truth that had shone so 
 suddenly in upon him. Through all his baseness 
 and ingratitude, through all his degradation, all the 
 black misery and shame he had brought upon her 
 and upon himself, she had never for a moment 
 deserted him ; she had loved him through it ail 
 and uplifted and supported him, and made him all 
 that he was; and he had never known it or sus¬ 
 pected it—till now. To think how he had hated 
 her, and spoken evil things and thought worse of 
 her, and to think how she had loved him ! Oh, 
 blind, blind ! not to have seen it long ago. Not to 
 have seen through the unconquerable self-restraint, 
 and the curse of undemonstrativeness that nature 
 had laid upon her ! How altered everything 
 might have been ! He had never understood her, 
 never known her until now, when her pained and 
 lonely heart had carried its deep, inarticulate love 
 with it to the grave. 
 
128 
 
 OLD MISS PETTIFER. 
 
 The book had fallen from his hands, the tears 
 were coursing down his cheeks unheeded ; he was 
 utterly broken down and overwhelmed. 
 
 Mr. Dadley sat and watched him without 
 speaking. He saw how deeply he was moved, 
 and knew that his own sorrow and remorse would 
 purify and ennoble him, and waken the truer self 
 within him, more than any words of warning or 
 reproach could possibly do. He sat looking on in 
 silence, and when, at last, the young man rose with 
 a dazed and shamefaced air and turned and made 
 his way out of the room without uttering a word 
 or once looking up at him, he neither spoke nor 
 followed him, feeling that his humiliation and 
 repentance were bitter enough already. He heard 
 the street door close, and gave a sigh of relief, for 
 in one sense the interview had been as painful to 
 himself as it had been to his visitor. 
 
 The striking of the little clock on the mantel¬ 
 piece roused him from his reverie. He glanced at 
 his watch and rose hurriedly, for he had to visit 
 a sick friend who lived some distance outside the 
 town. 
 
 It was a clear, moonlit night, with scarcely a 
 breath of wind stirring. He walked briskly along, 
 and had soon left the town behind, and was out 
 on the broad, white highway. The dust was so 
 thick on the ground that his footsteps scarcely 
 made any sound; he could hear the occasional 
 rustle of a bird in the hedgerows, the quick creak 
 of a bat flitting overhead, and as he passed the 
 low wall of the churchyard he was startled by the 
 faint sound of a stifled sob. 
 
 He half hesitated, and, glancing aside, saw in 
 the moonlight a dim figure kneeling over a solitary 
 grave; and there was something like a sob in his 
 own heart as he bowed his head and passed on in 
 silence. 
 
Cbc temptation of Jofcrn Jpohmix 
 
 ¥ OU—you won’t, then ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t say won’t, John. Can’t sounds 
 prettier.” 
 
 “ But you can if you choose, Gregory.” 
 
 “Say I don’t choose, then. I’m entitled to 
 choose, eh? It’s my own money; you seem to 
 overlook that.” 
 
 “ I will pay you back every farthing.” 
 
 “ So you said when I lent you twenty last year.’’ 
 “ You know why I haven’t paid that. You know 
 what a time I’ve had—my wife ill, poor little Nell 
 dying, and business all gone. Oh, it’s heart¬ 
 breaking ! If I were an idle fellow, or drank-” 
 
 “Like me. That’s what you mean, eh?” 
 snarled Gregory, “ But if I choose to drink at my 
 
 own expense-” 
 
 “ I was not thinking of you.” 
 
 “ It’s no business of yours.” 
 
 “ Now really, Gregory-” 
 
 “ Well, don’t you come preaching at me. As 
 for money, you’ll have my shoes when I’m dead, 
 but I ’m not going to let you keep on trying them 
 on beforehand ; don’t you think it!” 
 
 John was his half-brother. The father had 
 married twice, and his second wife, John’s mother, 
 had brought him a snug little dowry of house 
 property in Shanklin and the neighbouring town 
 of Sandown ; to which property Gregory made 
 reference when he spoke of his shoes. Gregory 
 had been the favourite son, chiefly, perhaps, 
 because he used to co-operate with his father in 
 
 9 
 
I30 THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 getting intoxicated and never reproached him, as 
 John did, by keeping sober. And, in making his 
 will, the old gentleman wanted to reward them 
 accordingly, but was bothered by a notion that, 
 having acquired his wealth from John’s mother, he 
 must, in common justice, let John have a fair share 
 of it. He met the difficulty by leaving the rents 
 of the property to Gregory for life, and the pro¬ 
 perty in its entirety to John and his family on 
 Gregory’s death. At best, it was a clumsy effort 
 to be just, and not only made his brother’s life a 
 barrier between him and riches, but, by a special 
 and needless provision in the will, deprived John 
 of any power to anticipate his fortune by mort¬ 
 gaging or selling it : so that when he was in 
 difficulties he.had to go for help to Gregory, who 
 had grudgingly granted him one loan, declaring, 
 when he did so, that he would not grant him any 
 more; and now it looked as if he meant to keep 
 his word. 
 
 “ But I’m not going to let you keep trying them 
 on beforehand,” he repeated ; “ I told you so 
 afore.” 
 
 He leaned back and chuckled foolishly ; he was 
 just sufficiently intoxicated to be quarrelsome and 
 obstinate, and seeing that all argument, per¬ 
 suasion, and entreaty were wasted, and that it was 
 impossible to do anything with him, John gave up 
 trying at last, and went away. 
 
 Ten minutes’ walk brought him back into the 
 narrow, steep Shanklin High Street, and to the 
 door of his own shop. 
 
 “ Anyone been ?” he asked the shock-headed 
 assistant, who was yawning behind the counter. 
 
 “ On’y Mr. Snazell, sir. Says I was to say, Mr. 
 Howard, sir, if you don’t send it to-morrow he’ll 
 go to his lawyer.” 
 
 John went on into the parlour behind the shop, 
 where his wife sat nursing the youngest child. 
 
THE TEMPTATION OP JOHN HOWARD. I3I 
 
 “Well?” she asked, a little wearily. She had 
 been pretty when John married her; she was 
 pretty still, but her face had grown thin and pale, 
 the laughing light was gone from her eyes and the 
 smile from about her lips. She was older than 
 her years, through the troubles she had had to 
 bear; they were John’s troubles, and there were 
 times when he sadly reproached himself for 
 bringing them upon her. 
 
 “ Gregory will do nothing,” he said, sitting 
 down moodily with his hat on ; “I was afraid he 
 wouldn’t.” 
 
 “ You won’t try Uncle Simpson ?” hesitated the 
 wife. 
 
 “What’s the good? The old hunks !” cried 
 John. Then, after a momentary hesitation, he 
 added : “ Well, it’s a poor chance, but it’s the only 
 one left. I ’ll go and try him.” 
 
 He got up, and kissed his wife and the child 
 that was sleeping in her arms. 
 
 “ Get your tea,” he said. “ I ’ll have mine when 
 I come back.” 
 
 He had a long walk before him ; for Uncle 
 Simpson lived at Sandown, and the railway 
 between the two towns was not yet finished. The 
 hedges were blossoming, flowers were brightening 
 in wayside cottage windows, and on before him 
 the setting sun flamed among gathering clouds ; 
 but he tramped heavily along the dusty road, too 
 full of care to notice anything, until at last, when 
 the twilight was thickening into night, he passed 
 along the main thoroughfare of Sandown, and 
 turning down a narrow, neat side-street that 
 opened out on to the beach, he knocked at the 
 door of one of the end houses. It was a tall, thin, 
 squeezed-up house, with a white front, and prim 
 bow-windows with painted wooden sills. 
 
 It was Uncle Simpson’s residence, and a few 
 minutes later John was sitting in the parlour with 
 
 9 * 
 
132 THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 Uncle Simpson himself, a venerable, seedy-looking 
 old gentleman in thick-rimmed spectacles, a velvet 
 skull-cup, and carpet slippers. 
 
 “ Well, my boy,” he piped, “ you’re not lookin’ 
 up to the mark. Trouble ? Ha ! We all has it. 
 Why, do you know now, my dividends from the 
 Great British Central has been reduced to—Oh ! 
 it’s dreffle. It’s ruin. Ah—h—h ! 
 
 It was a discouraging groan ; but John did not 
 mean to go away without doing what he came to 
 do. He nerved himself to the effort, and, as deli¬ 
 cately as possible, explained the nature of his 
 mission. 
 
 “ Thirty-five pounds!” exclaimed Uncle Simpson, 
 horror-stricken. 
 
 “ I shall be sold up,” began John, “ if-” 
 
 “But I ain’t got it. Nothing like it. An’ my 
 dividends ain’t due till— Oh ! I don’t know when 
 I may get ’em. P’raps never.’’ 
 
 “ And you cannot-” 
 
 “ Ain’t got it, my boy.” 
 
 It was impossible to combat such an answer. 
 John made some sort of final, hopeless, miserable 
 appeal, and then rose to go. 
 
 “ Going?” cried Uncle Simpson. “ Well, don’t 
 let me keep you. Have a glass o’ wine an’ a 
 biscuit-” 
 
 But John was gone before the old man finished 
 speaking. Outside, he turned mechanically, and 
 instead of going back by the road, started to walk 
 home along the beach. He had often been that 
 way before, when the tide was out ; it was nearly 
 half a mile nearer than by the road. The night 
 had closed in darkly, for there was no moon. He 
 could see nothing but the flickering lights of 
 Shanklin on before him in the distance, the grim 
 outline of the cliffs beside him, and the dusky 
 gleam of the sea, which sent up a low, intermittent 
 roaring out of the dark. He knew by the sound 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 1 33 
 
 that the tide was coming in, but he would have 
 time to reach Shanklin easily before it was up. 
 
 He was brooding too much over his own troubles 
 to be disturbed by the eerie noises of the water, or 
 the vast blackness that encompassed him, and had 
 traversed nearly half the return journey, when his 
 foot caught suddenly against something, and he 
 stumbled headlong over it. 
 
 He was up again in an instant, startled and half 
 afraid, and turned to see what it was. It was a 
 dark bulk, like a piece of rock, which, as he looked, 
 resolved itself into the shape of a man, outlined 
 against the sand. He shuddered, for his first 
 thought was that it was a drowned body; but just 
 then the man stirred uneasily, and flung an arm 
 out, muttering in his sleep. 
 
 “ Come,” cried John, stooping and shaking him, 
 “what are you doing here ? Get up ! ” 
 
 The man rolled over impatiently, and growled 
 out an oath. He spoke with a husky, drunken 
 incoherence, but John was startled by something 
 familiar in the sound of his voice. He struck a 
 match, and shading it with his hand from the little 
 wind that was stirring, shone the light on the 
 sleeper’s face, and saw it was his brother Gregory. 
 As he looked at the bloated face, the dropped-open 
 mouth, the coarse, sodden features, there sprang 
 up in his heart a thought so dark and evil, that it 
 seemed to drag the night suddenly down about 
 him again ; the match went out, and his brother 
 lay an indefinite blot on the sand at his feet. 
 
 John stood there motionless, silent, every pulse 
 in him beating and throbbing with a strange ex¬ 
 citement. If he had passed that spot a few yards 
 lower down on the beach, he could have known 
 nothing of the body lying there; the tide would 
 have flowed and ebbed again and made him a rich 
 man, and he would not have been to blame. Why 
 not pass on even now, as if he had seen nothing ? 
 
134 THE temptation of john Howard. 
 
 Was not the life and happiness of his wife and 
 children more to him than the bestial, useless life 
 sleeping there at his feet ? Almost involuntarily 
 he looked back along the sands. Nobody coming ! 
 He saw only the distant lights of Sandown, heard 
 nothing but the roaring of the tide. He turned 
 swiftly, trying to pierce the darkness in the other 
 direction. Nobody coming! Nothing but the 
 far-off lights of Shanklin; no sound except the 
 nearer roaring of the tide. His heart was beating 
 wildly, there was a painful throbbing in his head, 
 the perspiration stood in beads upon his brow. 
 Should he go on? No one would ever know ! 
 Should he go on ? The very sea took up the 
 burden of his thoughts and kept repeating it in 
 insidious whispers. A madness seemed to kindle 
 in his brain and master every better instinct in 
 him ; it goaded and drove him until, almost before 
 he knew it, he was running through the darkness 
 towards Shanklin like a man pursued. Weird 
 nothings lurking under the black gloom of the 
 cliffs made frantic rushes at him as he passed. 
 Misty shadows came up from the sea and plucked 
 at him, and ran with him, wailing and with venge¬ 
 ful faces. They had been watching, they knew 
 him for what he was—a murderer ! He strained 
 and strove blindly to outrun them, stumbling here 
 and there among fallen pieces of the cliff, but 
 recovering himself and fleeing on, on, without 
 once daring to look back, till he passed, at length, 
 up a steep incline, round the sea-wall, and was on 
 the esplanade under the gas-lights, where he could 
 see his shadow on the pavement. 
 
 Then, for the first time, he paused to take breath. 
 The coming into human neighbourhood, the sight 
 of familiar things touched him with a sense of 
 quiet; the mad, reckless feeling that had possessed 
 him lost something of its hold, and there flashed 
 upon him a sane, sharp knowledge of what he had 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 135 
 
 1 
 
 done. He was a murderer ! Now that he was 
 able to think of it, he was awe-stricken at the 
 enormity of his sin. How could he have done such 
 a thing ? The very thought of it was bewildering ; 
 he could not believe he had done it. 
 
 And yet, all the while he knew that he had done 
 it. He had murdered his brother. Murdered him ! 
 But no ; not yet. There was still time to go back, 
 before the tide was up, and save him. He must 
 go back ; he could not leave him there. To think 
 that he could have left him ! A great revulsion of 
 feeling set in; a frenzy of fear seized him lest he 
 should be too late and the tide should be there 
 before him ; and yielding to a sudden, irresistible 
 impulse, he turned and ran swiftly back along the 
 sands the way he had come. The sea was hurrying 
 in faster and faster, roaring hungrily, with a cruel 
 flash of white edging its breaking waves. He 
 heard it, and it spurred him on; he must be there 
 before it ! He found himself thinking, as he ran, 
 of when he and Gregory were boys together at 
 school, remembering little acts of friendliness they 
 had done for each other then, and marvelling more 
 and more how he could have passed him knowingly 
 and left him to die. 
 
 Panting and breathless at last he reached the 
 spot where he had left him, and there he lay 
 snoring in his sleep. But the sea was terribly 
 close, and there was not a moment to spare. 
 
 “ Gregory!” he shouted, shaking him roughly, 
 “ up, for your life, man ! Gregory ! ’’ 
 
 The drunken wretch shook himself testily, 
 spluttered some incoherent ravings, and would 
 have settled to sleep again. It was impossible to 
 arouse him to any sense of danger ; when John 
 succeeded in shaking him half out of his sleep he 
 seemed to be delirious, and raved, and struck out 
 savagely with his fists. He was a small man of 
 no strength, and, knowing how precious every 
 
I36 THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 minute was, John desperately dragged him to his 
 feet, and, lifting him in his own muscular arms, 
 toiled manfully over the narrowing beach with him 
 towards home. But the tide was up so far, and 
 his progress was so slow, that, presently, he felt 
 the water splash over his feet ; then, glancing 
 anxiously ahead, he could see the white foam 
 shattering itself on a rock that jutted farther out 
 than its fellows. He knew he must round that 
 rock if they were to escape alive, and, almost over¬ 
 whelmed with an awful despair, he made haste 
 towards it, reached it, and started to wade round ; 
 but an incoming wave caught him instantly and 
 nearly carried him off his feet. Alone, clinging 
 close to the rock, he might have got round, but 
 with the burden he had in his arms it was im¬ 
 possible ; the next wave would throw him down 
 and drag him out of his depth. 
 
 He struggled back up the beach and for a 
 moment lost heart, but only for a moment; then it 
 struck him that, somewhere just along the cliff 
 there, last winter’s frosts had split and broken 
 away the rocks into a rugged, uneven kind of 
 stairway. He had seen boys climbing them and 
 thought at the time what a refuge they might be 
 for an}mne overtaken by the tide. This new hope 
 renewed his energy. He groped along by the cliffs, 
 and found the place he wanted, and began his 
 task at once. At any other time he would have 
 thought it utterly beyond his strength, but now 
 he never gave it a thought at all: sometimes 
 raising his brother up on to the ragged stair 
 above him, then climbing up himself; sometimes 
 himself climbing up first, and clinging to edges 
 of rock with one hand, while he leaned over 
 and hauled his brother up with the other; 
 by almost superhuman effort he reached the 
 highest accessible stair and sat there, holding 
 on with one hand and passing his disengaged 
 
THE TEMPTATION OK JOHN HOWARD. 1 37 
 
 arm round his brother, and so waited the rising 
 of the tide. 
 
 The night passed like a wild dream. The black 
 sky lowered above him and the blacker waters 
 roared below; he could hear them beating at the 
 cliff under his feet, and now and then a sudden 
 wind caught up the flying spray and dashed it over 
 him. Twice in the night Gregory started up, half 
 awake, raving in delirous fury and fighting to 
 escape. There were moments when they were 
 nearly falling headlong together, and the tempta¬ 
 tion returned and whispered to John more like an 
 angel than a fiend. How could he hold his brother 
 if he struggled so ? He had done his best to save 
 him ; he must think of his wife and children: 
 nobody could blame him now if, sooner than they 
 should both fall, he loosed his hold and let his 
 brother plunge down in his drunken anger and take 
 his chance. But each time he put the thought 
 from him, clenched his teeth, and held on until 
 Gregory became quieter by degrees and sank back, 
 at last, snoring heavily again. 
 
 So passed the night, and the day broke, and the 
 waste of waters, that had looked as if it never could 
 roll back, ebbed out and left the sands bare at the 
 foot of the cliff. 
 
 Then John aroused his brother, and this time 
 Gregory sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked 
 about him in stupid amazement. John told him 
 shortly something of what had happened, and 
 they scrambled down, stiff, and wet, and cold, 
 and stamped to and fro on the strip of bare sand, 
 until the sea was far enough out to let them go 
 home. 
 
 “ I’d been to Sandown about some rents,” 
 Gregory explained, “ and was coming back along 
 the beach. I was very drunk, I don’t deny it. 
 Met a man I knew in Sandown. Don’t remember 
 —I suppose I must have tumbled over, or sat 
 
I38 THE TEMPTATION OF JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 down to rest an' gone to sleep. And you found 
 me, and-” 
 
 He looked shame-faced for a moment, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 “You always was a fool, John,’’ he continued, 
 gruffly. “ If I ’d ha’ been you, I ’d ha’ left me and 
 gone on. I would. You’d ha’ had the money 
 then. But you—you always was a soft sort of a 
 fool, John.” 
 
 John said nothing. His brother had put into 
 words something of what he had thought the night 
 before, and it made him feel as guilty and ashamed 
 as if he were actually accusing him of thinking it. 
 They were terrible thoughts to bring into the day¬ 
 light. He trembled, and had a momentary sense 
 of how different this morning might have been. 
 
 “ We ain’t been such good friends as all that, 
 neither,” said Gregory, evidently pursuing his own 
 thoughts. “ ‘ Why should I help him ? He 
 wouldn’t help me.’ That’s what I should ha’ said. 
 Then you’d have had the money. There! It 
 beats me. I never was soft-hearted my self. Not 
 a bit of it. ‘ Every man for himself,’ says I ; and 
 I’m only your half-brother, too, if you come to 
 that. ‘Every man for himself,’ that’s me, eh? 
 But you ’re too soft for that, you are.” 
 
 But still John was silent, and neither of them 
 spoke again until they were close to the town. 
 Then, after noisily clearing his throat, and chuck¬ 
 ling nervously, Gregory suddenly and with 
 an awkward air, thrust his arm through his 
 brother’s, and enquired with husky but elaborate 
 carelessness : 
 
 “ Oh ! How much did you say you wanted, 
 John ? ” 
 
f ERHAPS you don’t know Bunker’s Lane 
 in Clare Market ? Well, if you enter 
 Clare Market from New Inn, you will 
 walk almost straight into Bunker’s Lane ; 
 and when you are there you will want to do 
 nothing else but walk straight out again. Lor 
 it is a horrible little place, choked up with 
 dirt and decayed vegetation, and all manner of 
 refuse and unsightly rubbish. There are some 
 two dozen of houses in the lane, twelve on either 
 hand, and so close together that each side of the 
 lane keeps the daylight out of the rooms on the 
 other side. Some of the houses have doors, and 
 some have not ; none of them have bells or 
 knockers. Perhaps, when Bunker built his houses, 
 he did not consider they would require such 
 aristocratic luxuries as bells or knockers; or 
 possibly he supplied them, and his tenants, having 
 no use for them—for what doors there were in 
 Bunker’s Lane were always left open, so that 
 visitors might walk in without troubling anybody 
 —wrenched them off from time to time, and sold 
 them as old iron. Lor, I must say, they were not 
 very good people in Bunker’s Lane—at least, not 
 many of them. Human nature at its best is full of 
 weakness, and in Bunker’s Lane it was just about 
 at its worst ; and its great weakness took the form 
 of a love for anything intoxicating. All Bunker’s 
 tenants suffered to some extent from this weak¬ 
 ness—all, except the children. Lor there were 
 children in Bunker’s Lane—poor, ragged, untidy, 
 
140 
 
 WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 
 
 hungry little creatures, with all the sweet simplicity 
 and cloudless gaiety of childhood starved and 
 beaten out of them before they had been many 
 years in the world. The sun did not often manage 
 to find a way down into Bunker’s Lane ; no flowers 
 grew in its thick, unwholesome atmosphere, yet 
 somehow the children would grow up there and 
 were happy enough in their way on summer after¬ 
 noons, playing together in dusty little patches of 
 sunshine, and making believe they had got a great 
 deal to be glad about. 
 
 But there was one little child who never came 
 down to play with the others in the sunshine. 
 That was Little Meg, who lived high up in the 
 leaky, dilapidated garret, at No. 3. She would 
 often stand at her small window and listen to the 
 shrill voices of the children at play in the lane 
 below, and sometimes the tears would come into 
 her eyes because she could never go down and join 
 them. For she was a poor, hump-backed, deformed 
 little creature, with thin and wasted limbs—so weak 
 that she could only crawl about the floor with 
 difficulty, or drag herself up to the window to look 
 at the sky and feel the wdnd on her pinched, wan 
 face. She had never been downstairs since her 
 mother died, two years ago. She remembered her 
 mother’s pale, hollow cheeks and large dark eyes, 
 and her quiet, gentle ways, and how she would 
 often carry her down into the street when the days 
 were fine, or sit sewing by her bedside on sad days 
 when her back pained her and it was agony to 
 move. She had a very vague recollection of her 
 father, who had gone to sea about twelve months 
 before her mother died, and never returned since. 
 
 Mind you, the}^ had not lived in Bunker’s Lane 
 when her father was at home. But after he had 
 returned to sea they became poor and sold nearly 
 all they had, and came to live in Bunker’s Lane 
 with Little Meg’s grandmother, who had always 
 
WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. I41 
 
 been on very bad terms with her son-in-law, Meg’s 
 father, and would never trouble to make any 
 inquiries about him, and did not care whether he 
 was dead or alive. So, when her mother died, 
 Little Meg lived in the wretched garret with her 
 grandmother, who was a wrinkled, bony old lady, 
 generally known as Mother Shipton, because of a 
 certain bend in her nose and chin, and distinct 
 signs of a beard, such as one sees in all true 
 portraits of witches. Mother Shipton’s weakness 
 was for gin, without any water whatever. She was 
 not industrious at all, but contrived to make a living 
 by helping every week to sweep out and wash and 
 dust the inside of a church in the Strand, and by 
 occasional charing. She was not a pleasant old 
 lady. She had sly and ghoulish ways about her 
 that sometimes terrified Little Meg, and when she 
 had been indulging her weakness too freely she 
 would often come in very late, and curse the poor, 
 deformed little creature for being an expense and 
 a nuisance to her, and make random slaps at her, or 
 even thrash her without mercy ; though, on the other 
 hand, there were times when she would be kind, 
 after a fashion, and make much of the child, and 
 bring little delicacies home for her to eat. 
 
 But it was a dull and wearisome life for Meg up 
 there all day in the garret, with nobody to talk to 
 and nothing to do but to sing to herself or to look 
 out of the window at the sky or at the house-tops 
 and chimney-pots opposite. She would have been 
 quite alone up there if it had not been for poor old 
 “ Scratch,” a black cat who had gone blind, and a 
 china image of a Dutchman which stood on the 
 mantelpiece. The cat was a thin and melancholy 
 animal, but the Dutchman was very stout, and 
 broad and jovial, with a laughing red face, a 
 cocked hat, a blue coat with yellow buttons, red 
 knee-breeches, and white stockings, with low shoes 
 and buckles ; and he held in his hands a huge mug 
 
I42 WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 
 
 of foaming beer, upon which he constantly looked 
 with a comfortable satisfaction, as though he, too, 
 were afflicted with the common weakness of all 
 grown persons who lived in Bunker’s Lane. 
 
 Really, the Dutchman was the only ornament in 
 the room ; for beyond two piles of straw covered 
 with sacking and used as beds, one chair that 
 stood by the window, a rickety table supported 
 by three legs and the wall, the Dutchman and 
 “ Scratch,” and Little Meg and, at night, Mother 
 Shipton, nobody and nothing was in the room or 
 ever came there. 
 
 So “Scratch” and the Dutchman were Little 
 Meg’s friends, and very good friends they were, 
 too, for they listened to all she had to say without 
 interruption, and never contradicted her. She 
 loved them ; but she was afraid of Mother Shipton, 
 who looked at her with such bleared and cunning 
 eyes, and struck at her with such hard and skinny 
 hands. And she knew that “Scratch” loved 
 her, for he would purr and lick her hand when she 
 stroked him ; and he could not see, poor fellow, 
 and had no one to care for him and feed him but 
 little Meg. And she felt sure that the Dutchman 
 loved her, in his own way : for when she was very 
 little, before they came to Bunker’s Lane, she had 
 slept many a night with the Dutchman on the 
 pillow beside her, cocked hat and mug of beer and 
 all; and had played with him and made a friend 
 of him almost as far back as she could remember. 
 How it was that he had not been shattered long 
 ago was a miracle. Why Mother Shipton had not 
 sold him, as she sold nearly everything else, was 
 another miracle. Perhaps nobody would buy him, 
 for it was true that he had a piece chipped out 
 of his back, so that one could see there was 
 nothing inside his waistcoat; though he did not 
 seem to think there was anything unusual in that, 
 for he still had a good head on his shoulders, and 
 
WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. I43 
 
 it is not all men who have that. Anyhow, there 
 he was with his endless smile and his everlasting 
 mug of beer; and he and “Scratch” and Little 
 Meg had spent many a happy afternoon together, 
 and found each other very good company, and 
 were the best of friends in the world. And after 
 dark, before Mother Shipton came home, when 
 Little Meg lay in bed, it was comforting to feel 
 that she was not alone, but that “ Scratch ” lay 
 asleep at her feet, and on the mantelpiece the 
 Dutchman stood wide awake, a firm, sturdy man, 
 of a dogged, obstinate attitude. It was comforting 
 to know he was there, too, when Mother Shipton 
 came in after midnight and staggered and tumbled 
 down anywhere on the floor and went to sleep 
 there, and Meg only knew whereabouts she was in 
 the darkness by her snores, which kept her awake 
 and frightened her. 
 
 It was when she lay awake in the dark that she 
 used to think of her mother and of all she had 
 told her about heaven, and long with all her heart 
 to go there ; for her mother was there, and nobody 
 wanted her here, unless it might be “ Scratch ” or 
 the Dutchman ; and so she would cry quietly to 
 herself until, at last, she fell asleep. 
 
 These thoughts and this great longing came upon 
 her very strongly once, just at the end of the year, 
 when she knew that folks were talking of Christmas 
 and buying all manner of beautiful things, and 
 the shop windows were gay and bright. She knew 
 very, very little of all this, for she was only six 
 years old, and was too young before her mother 
 died to understand much about it. But she knew 
 it was a time of happiness to nearly everybody, 
 though it was just the same as any other time to 
 her. And when she thought of this she could not 
 help crying a little and praying that her Christmas 
 might not be only a time of cold and hunger and 
 pain, but that she, too, might be happy; and so she 
 
144 WHY LITTLE meg caMe back. 
 
 began to wish more and more that she might die 
 and go to heaven and be with her mother again. 
 
 And, thinking of all this, she could see the snow 
 lying thick and white on the housetops opposite 
 from her comfortless bed, and presently the moon 
 had risen and shone through the narrow window 
 right across the floor, and looked as if it were a 
 bright pathway that led straight up to heaven. 
 And as she was looking at it and thinking of this, 
 she suddenly saw an angel walking slowly down it, 
 with his bright wings folded at his back, dressed in 
 a long robe that was whiter than the snow on the 
 houses opposite; and he came slowly down and 
 right into the room—and yet she was not afraid of 
 him, for he looked so gentle and kind. 
 
 “ Little Meg ! ” said the angel, standing still and 
 looking at her, with the moonlight falling about 
 him. “Little Meg, come with me.” 
 
 Meg rubbed her eyes and stared very hard at 
 him, being scarcely satisfied that she was awake. 
 
 So the angel called to her again. Then she got 
 up from her bed and walked to him, much wonder¬ 
 ing at the strength which was suddenly come 
 into her wasted limbs; and he took her hand very 
 gently in his and smiled dow r n into her small, thin 
 face, and told her not to be afraid, for if she would 
 go with him he would take her right up to heaven. 
 She hesitated for a moment; she could feel poor, 
 blind old “Scratch” rubbing himself round her 
 feet, and she had no doubt that the Dutchman was 
 looking after her reproachfully, for it would be a 
 selfish and unfriendly thing to go off, just for her 
 own happiness’ sake, and leave them with no one 
 to care for them at all. 
 
 “ I would like to go,” said Little Meg doubt¬ 
 fully, “if ‘ Scratch ’ may go with me, and the 
 Dutchman. May they?” 
 
 The angel smiled and said, yes, they might. 
 
 So Meg called them both to follow her, and the 
 
WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 145 
 
 Dutchman at once jumped nimbly down from the 
 mantelpiece, without spilling any of the beer from 
 his mug, and walked stolidly after her, with old 
 “ Scratch ” close at his heels. Slowly they went 
 up the moonlight, going gradually higher and 
 higher, until the twinkling lights and the roar of 
 the city below them were lost in the distance. And 
 as they came nearer to heaven the stars grew 
 larger and brighter, until Meg could see that each 
 star was an angel like the one that walked beside 
 her, and many of them came flying to meet her 
 and smiled upon her poor, shabby little figure with 
 kindly eyes, and hovered about her on their strong 
 white wings. 
 
 By-and-by they came to the gates of heaven, 
 which were so much brighter even than moonlight 
 or sunlight that Meg could not look upon them, but 
 covered her eyes with her hands. And there the 
 angel who had been her guide told her she would 
 need him no further, and bade her knock at the 
 gate; then he and all the other angels flew away 
 and left her. She looked round, and was a little 
 frightened at being so far up in the air alone with 
 “Scratch” and the Dutchman ; but summoning up 
 courage she knocked at the gate, and the next 
 moment it opened, and a grey-haired, quiet-eyed 
 old man with a long silvery beard stood looking down 
 upon her with a smile on his face ; and he was as 
 bright as any of the angels, but he had no wings. 
 Meg knew, because she had often seen a portrait 
 of him in a book of her mother’s, that he was the 
 good St. Peter, and there were the keys of heaven 
 hanging at his girdle. 
 
 “Well?” he asked kindly, seeing that Little 
 Meg hesitated, and was staring at him, lost in 
 amazement. 
 
 “ If you please, sir,” she said, “ I am Little Meg, 
 The angels brought me here, and I want to come 
 into heaven with ‘ Scratch ’ and the Dutchman,” 
 
 10 
 
I46 WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 
 
 St. Peter smiled and looked at her for a few 
 moments; then glanced at “ Scratch,” who was 
 sitting calmly at her feet washing his face—then at 
 the Dutchman, who stood just behind her. Meg 
 looked down, too, at the Dutchman, and saw that 
 he was standing stolidly, with his feet wide apart, 
 and holding doggedly to his mug of beer, as if he 
 would rather not go into heaven at all than go in 
 without it. And she could not help feeling sorry 
 that he had brought his beer along with him in 
 that way, for it gave him such a wicked aspect, 
 and she was just going to apologise for him when 
 St. Peter spoke : 
 
 “ I am afraid, Little Meg,” he said, “ I cannot 
 let your friends come in with you.” 
 
 “ Oh, but they have been so kind to me, and I 
 love them !” cried Meg, the tears starting into her 
 eyes. “ And Mother Shipton is so cruel to us, and 
 beats me, and I have such pains in my back, and 
 no one loves me in all the world except poor 
 ‘ Scratch ’ and the Dutchman.” 
 
 “ No one ?” asked St. Peter, looking surprised. 
 
 “ No, sir,” Meg replied, “ no one since mother 
 died. Father has gone away, and I don’t know 
 where he is.” 
 
 “ Ah ! Little Meg, you don’t know there is some¬ 
 one to love you on earth if you go back again,” 
 said St. Peter. 
 
 “ But I don’t want to go back,” persisted Meg. 
 “ I want to come into heaven.” 
 
 “ But I could not possibly allow your friends to 
 come in,’’ St. Peter said. 
 
 Meg looked reproachfully at the Dutchman, for 
 she felt that his appearance was sadly against him ; 
 then she looked at “ Scratch,” and could not bring 
 herself to go and leave them. 
 
 “But they have been so good to me, sir, and I 
 love them,” repeated Meg, tearfully; “isn’t there 
 room for them, sir?” 
 
WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 
 
 J 47 
 
 St. Peter shook his head, but said nothing. 
 
 “Oh, but I can’t leave them out here!” cried 
 Meg, in great distress. “ What will they do, sir ? 
 When to-morrow morning comes and the moon¬ 
 light goes in they will have nothing to stand on, 
 and tumble down.” 
 
 “ No,’’ answered St. Peter, “ they will have time 
 to get back home before to-morrow.” 
 
 “ But I can’t let them go back without me,” 
 cried Meg, determinedly. “ They can’t take care 
 of themselves. They would be miserable and 
 lonely, and Mother Shipton would kill poor 
 ‘Scratch.’ I’m sure she would.” 
 
 And so saying, she snatched “ Scratch ’’ up 
 into her arms, and rubbed his soft face against 
 her own. 
 
 “ Then you won’t come without them, Little 
 Meg ?” asked St. Peter, still smiling quietly down 
 at her. 
 
 “No, I won’t!” cried Meg, defiantly. “If 
 they mayn’t come with me, I will go back with 
 them. I’m sure ‘Scratch’ never did anything 
 wicked, and-” 
 
 She was going to say that the Dutchman was a 
 very good person also, but happening to catch 
 sight of him with his mug of beer she felt doubtful, 
 and hesitated. 
 
 “ Well, Little Meg,” said St. Peter, laying his 
 hand very gently on her head, “ you know what 
 love is, and the angels in heaven know no more. 
 Go back, Little Meg, you have something to do 
 in the world yet ; you have someone there to love 
 besides ‘ Scratch ’ and the Dutchman. One day you 
 will come back to us, and heaven will be happier 
 for you then, because you go away now out of love 
 for your friends ; for even the happiness of heaven 
 depends upon the heart you bring into it. Good¬ 
 bye, Little Meg; go back, and be always good and 
 unselfish, and heaven shall go back with you.” 
 
 io ^ 
 
I48 WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 
 
 Then he stooped and kissed her, and she 
 turned away and trudged bravely back down the 
 moonlight, with “Scratch 1 ’ in her arms and the 
 Dutchman following close at her heels. And the 
 angels came hovering round her again and went 
 with her, and when she grew tired—for Bunker’s 
 Lane is such a long, long way from heaven !— 
 one of them took her in his arms and carried her 
 the rest of the way and laid her down upon her 
 bed again. And in a moment they had all gone 
 and she was alone, except that “ Scratch ” lay at 
 her feet, and she felt that, no doubt, the Dutchman 
 was on the mantelpiece ; and when she came to 
 rub her eyes, she saw, too, that a man was 
 standing by her. She could see him quite plainly 
 by the light of the moon. He was a tall, dark- 
 bearded man, and when he saw she was looking 
 up at him, he leaned over her and laid his hand 
 upon her arm. 
 
 “ So it’s you, then, my little lass,” he said, in a 
 low, gruff voice. “ I’ve found you at last. You 
 shan’t stay here any longer. Thank God, I’ve 
 found you! ” 
 
 He took her up in his strong arms and kissed 
 her ; then the young woman who lived on the floor 
 below brought up a shawl, which he wrapped Little 
 Meg up in ; and he carried her downstairs and 
 out into the lane. 
 
 Little Meg was wondering who this could be. 
 She knew his face, but could not think for a 
 moment who he was, until all of a sudden it flashed 
 upon her that this was her father come back to her, 
 and she asked him eagerly if it was not so. 
 
 “ Yes,” said he, “ and I’ve had a trouble to find 
 you, Little Meg ; but I was determined to do it, 
 and I’ve done it. You shan’t suffer any more as 
 you have done. I ’ll take you with me, my lass. 
 You shall never go back. You don’t want to, do 
 you ? ” 
 
WHY LITTLE MEG CAME BACK. 149 
 
 “Oh! no, no,’’ cried Little Meg, gladly; “but 
 let us take poor ‘ Scratch ’ and the Dutchman 
 with us. I can’t leave them.’’ 
 
 So her father took her back again, for they had 
 not yet reached the end of the lane, and they took 
 the Dutchman off the mantelpiece and the cat 
 from the floor, and he carried them all away. As 
 they were going out of Bunker’s Lane, they passed 
 Mother Shipton at the corner; she was staggering 
 along and singing hoarsely to herself, but they said 
 nothing to her, and she took no notice of them. 
 
 Very soon they were out in the broad streets of 
 the city, and Little Meg was so tired that she 
 fell asleep in her father’s arms. 
 
 When she woke up she found that he was still 
 holding her, but they were sitting in a small, 
 comfortable little room, where the gas was alight 
 and a bright fire burning, and a pleasant-faced, 
 middle-aged lady was seated opposite to them, 
 who came to her as soon as she was awake and 
 kissed her, and told her she was her aunt and her 
 father’s sister. 
 
 And everything seemed so comfortable, and they 
 were so kind to her, that Little Meg could not 
 help crying, she felt so happy. 
 
 After they had had supper her aunt carried her 
 upstairs to a clean, neat room, and put her into a 
 soft white bed, and let “ Scratch ” sleep at her feet, 
 and stood the Dutchman on the mantelpiece for her; 
 and for a long time she could not close her eyes. 
 Everything was so strange and pleasant that she 
 could only lie drowsily wondering whether, as she 
 had not been able to go into heaven with 
 “ Scratch ” and the Dutchman, heaven had really 
 come down to them already, as St. Peter had told 
 her it would. 
 
i r was a terribly hot day. There was not a 
 single cloud in the sky for the sun to cool 
 his face in. The pavements were half 
 baked, the paint on shop and house doors 
 was breaking into little blisters, roads were 
 hot and dry and hard, and there was not a 
 breath of wind stirring anywhere. It was a 
 day to sit in cool places and drink cool things. 
 It was certainly not a day to invite stout people 
 to go out and walk long distances, and it was no 
 wonder that Mr. dipper was laboriously making 
 his way home in a very bad temper, for he was an 
 uncommonly stout person and had walked a long 
 way. He carried an empty cloth bag carelessly 
 slung over his shoulder, his hat was pushed on to 
 the back of his head, and the perspiration was 
 trickling down his purple countenance. 
 
 He gave a deep sigh of relief at last as he passed 
 through the open doorway of his own shop into 
 the comparatively cool shade within it. Except 
 for the shade and the coolness, the interior was 
 not inviting. A large assortment of secondhand 
 clothing of every description filled up the window 
 and left very little space for the -daylight to filter 
 through ; from pegs on either side of the doorway 
 bulky collections of decaying coats and overcoats 
 depended, just leaving sufficient space between 
 them for customers to squeeze into the establish¬ 
 ment in single file. All round the walls hung a 
 variety of ladies’ and gentlemen’s wearing apparel 
 in every stage of shabbiness, two little heaps of 
 
152 
 
 THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 ditto lay on the counter, and one in the corner on 
 the floor. At the end of the shop a gap or grove 
 through the bulky bundles of clothing on the wall 
 led into the back parlour. Mr. Glipper went 
 straight through the grove, threw his hat and 
 his bag down on the parlour table, and dropped 
 exhausted into an arm-chair. 
 
 “ That you, Dan’l ? ” shouted a shrill voice from 
 somewhere further in the house, and next moment 
 a gaunt female of a bony and business-like aspect 
 came bustling into the room. 
 
 “ It’s me,” panted Mr. Glipper, surlily, mopping 
 his ample features with a large red-and-white 
 cotton handkerchief with a portrait of the Duke 
 of Wellington in the middle of it. 
 
 “ You ’ve got back, then ? ’’ 
 
 Mr. Glipper took the inquiry as a personal 
 slight. He suspended operations on his face, and 
 looked up with a frown. 
 
 “ Can’t you see me ? ” he asked. 
 
 “You’ve had a bad day, Dan’l,” remarked 
 Mrs. Glipper, shrewdly, “or you wouldn’t have 
 come home like this.” 
 
 “ Like what ? ” 
 
 “ In such a bad temper.” 
 
 “Who’s in a bad temper?” growled Mr. 
 Glipper. “Bad day? I should think so; ain’t 
 bought nothink. People wants more for their old 
 clothes than they gave for ’em when they was noo. 
 Yes. Bah! Any one been ? ” 
 
 “Not to buy anythin’.” 
 
 “Of course not. I’ll shut the shop up if I 
 have much more on it. I’d just as soon give the 
 things away, an’ be ruined right off, as do it by 
 degrees.” 
 
 “ A young man,” continued Mrs. Glipper, 
 “ came in an’ sold me two coats an’ a hat.” 
 
 “ What sort o’ hat ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Glipper went out into the shop, and pre- 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. B. 1 53 
 
 sently returned and placed the two coats and the 
 hat on the table at her husband’s elbow. 
 
 “ There you are! ” she said. 
 
 “ How much for the hat ? ” he asked, picking it 
 up with a critical air. 
 
 “ Eightpence.” 
 
 “ How much ? ” shouted Mr. Glipper. “ No 
 wonder we ’re ruined ! Ain’t I glutted with these 
 hats already, an’ wouldn’t I be real thankful to 
 sell ’em for sixpence apiece all round ? Oh my 
 beans! Don’t you buy no more hats, Mrs. G., till 
 I ’ ve seed ’em myself.” 
 
 He tried the hat on with a dismal air, and it 
 was much too small for him ; but he left it perched 
 on the back of his head, spread the Duke of 
 Wellington out over his knees, and took up the 
 coats. 
 
 “ How much for these ?” he asked. 
 
 “Shilling each I gave him. I thought it was a 
 bargain. He asked five shillin’ the two, at first.” 
 
 Mr. Glipper took one of the coats by the collar 
 and held it up and shook it viciously, as if he were 
 reprimanding the man who used to be inside it. 
 
 “ Did he ? ” he growled. “ If he’d arst me five 
 bob for ’em, I’d ha’ chucked ’em at him. Bargain 
 d’yer call it? Here’s a hole under the arm, an’ 
 look at the elbows ! Oh my beans ! I wouldn’t 
 ha’ had ’em if he’d made me a present of ’em. No, 
 I wouldn’t! ” 
 
 Just at that moment a shabby-genteel-looking 
 man came into the shop, and Mrs. Glipper hurried 
 out to attend to him. He wanted to know the 
 price of a white waistcoat that was in the window, 
 and when he knew the price, it seemed to give him 
 so much satisfaction that he didn’t want the waist¬ 
 coat. He had scarcely got out of the shop, when 
 Mr. Glipper shouted impatiently from the back 
 parlour : 
 
 “Marier! Don’t you hear ? Marier ! ” 
 
154 
 
 THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 She hastened back through the grove to see 
 what he wanted, and found him sitting bolt up¬ 
 right in a great state of excitement, with one of 
 the coats lying across his knee and a sheet of 
 paper open in his hand. 
 
 “ Who brought these coats here ? ” 
 
 “ I dunno,” said Mrs. Glipper. “ It was a young 
 man—looked like a groom or footman. Why ? ” 
 
 “ Becos,” replied Mr. Glipper, with an air of 
 mysterious importance, “ there is something here 
 as will hang somebody.” 
 
 “ What ? ” shrieked Mrs. Glipper. 
 
 “ Hang somebody,” repeated Mr. Glipper, com¬ 
 placently enjoying himself. “This letter was down 
 behind the lining of the coat, an’ there’s a con¬ 
 fession of murder in it ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Glipper was dreadfully shocked, and 
 suggested that they should at once communicate 
 with the police. 
 
 “No,” said Mr. Glipper, sagely. “There’s 
 money in this business. I see my way to it. It 
 means a hundred pounds in my pocket. I know 
 by the address that the man as wrote this letter 
 must be a rare swell. This letter is enough to do 
 for him. You’ve only got to read it, an’ put two 
 and two together, an’ the whole thing’s as 
 clear as daylight. This swell, Philip Glover, an’ 
 another fellow who he calls ‘ dear Jack,’ has a old 
 relatif—call him a uncle. Well, the old man’s got 
 money, an’ he ’s wery ill, but he won’t die. They 
 gets tired o’ waitin’, call him a nuisance among 
 themselves, an’ makes up their minds to ha’ no 
 more of it. What do they do? Why they just 
 p’isens him.” 
 
 Mrs. Glipper gasped with horror. 
 
 “ P’isens him,” repeated Mr. Glipper, with 
 evident relish. “ It’s as plain as could be. I ’ll 
 read you a bit o’ the letter, an’ you ’ll see for your¬ 
 self.”' 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 155 
 
 Mr. Glipper leaned back in the chair so that the 
 light from the window behind him fell full on the 
 letter, and read in a slow, impressive voice, intro¬ 
 ducing his own comments in parentheses as he 
 went along: 
 
 “ ‘ Dear Jack,— Glad to know-’ (That don’t 
 
 matter ; here it is.) ‘ Poor old Mr. B. is dead at 
 last. He had been ill for a long time, but some¬ 
 how seemed to linger on, so at last we had to help 
 him, for he was a nuisance to himself an’ every 
 one else. Last week we gave him a strong dose in 
 his food, and that put an end to him.’ (P’isened 
 him—see ?) ‘ He suffered no pain ; it was all done 
 
 quietly, an’ soon over.’ (He means the funeral. 
 See ?—all done on the quiet. Doctor comes. 
 ‘ Mr. B. dead, eh ? Didn’t think he’d last so long 
 as he did.’ Gives his certificate, an’, as he says, 
 the funeral’s all done quiet, an’ soon over.) ‘ I 
 did the deed myself. I shudder a little with 
 remorse when I think of it. It wasn’t a nice job, 
 an’ there was a reproachful look in his eyes, 
 as if he suspected what I had done. However, 
 it’s over now, and there’s an end of him.’ Then 
 he finishes off, ‘ Yours, Philip Glover.’ What 
 d’yer think of that, eh ? ” 
 
 “ I think you ought to see the police about it at 
 once,” said Mrs. Glipper decisively. 
 
 “ No. That would be wilfully throwin’ away a 
 hundred an’ fifty pounds at least. No, I ain’t a 
 hard man. I ’ll give him a chance,” said Mr. 
 Glipper, with an air of unimpeachable virtue. '“If 
 he likes to give me a fair price for the letter he 
 shall have it back, an’ I says nothin’ to nobody. 
 If he won’t, then I puts it in the hands of the 
 police.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t tamper with such a serious matter. 
 It may be risky,” said Mrs. Glipper. 
 
 “Well, so it may,” assented Mr. Glipper, 
 thoughtfully—“ so it may. It’s worth two hun- 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 156 
 
 dred pounds to him if it’s worth a penny. It’s 
 rather risky. I won’t take less than two hundred. 
 No—two hundred or nothink.” 
 
 He rose to his feet, and was so engrossed in his 
 calculations that he retained on his head the 
 ridiculously small hat which he had been trying 
 on, evidently under the impression that it was his 
 own. 
 
 “ I ’ll go down to Gordon Square an’ see Mr. 
 Glover at once. The ’bus’ll take me there in 
 twenty minutes,” he said ; and depositing the letter 
 in his pocket and the Duke of Wellington in his 
 hat, he set out forthwith on his journey. 
 
 In less than half-an-hour he entered Gordon 
 Square, and, mounting the steps of Mr. Glover’s 
 house, gave a ponderous thud on the door with the 
 knocker. The door was promptly opened by a 
 smart maidservant in a neat white cap. 
 
 “ Mr. Glover at home, my dear ? ” inquired Mr. 
 Glipper. 
 
 “ He is,” she replied, tossing her head in¬ 
 dignantly at his familiarity. 
 
 “ Give him my card, an’ say I’d like to see him, 
 will yer ? ” said Mr. Glipper. 
 
 He held out a white card some six inches 
 square, on which was depicted a shabby hat, two 
 coats hanging on a large peg, and the exterior of 
 Mr. Glipper’s shop, with his name, the nature of 
 his business, and date of its establishment winding 
 about among the illustrations. At first glance it 
 looked very much like a comic birthday card. 
 The maid received it with evident misgiving, and 
 carried it into the house. 
 
 She returned after a short absence, and said that 
 Mr. Glover had no secondhand clothes to sell, and 
 didn’t want to buy any, and that Mr. Glipper 
 ought to have gone to the area door. 
 
 “ Tell him, my dear,” said Mr. Glipper sternly, 
 “that I haven’t called about my business. I want 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. B. 157 
 
 to see him by himself about a little private busi- 
 of his own. Tell him that, will yer ? ” 
 
 The servant hesitated for a moment, then went 
 in again, and after a somewhat longer absence 
 than before, returned, and invited Mr. Glipper to 
 come in. He went in, and she left him standing 
 in the hall. Presently a tall, middle-aged gentle¬ 
 man of somewhat dignified aspect came out to 
 him. 
 
 “ Well, my man,” said he “what is it you want ? ” 
 
 “ Are you Mr. Philip Glover ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I am.” 
 
 “ Ah, then,” pursued Mr. Glipper, in a husky 
 voice, and with cautious glances round to see that 
 nobody could overhear them, “ I wants to see you 
 about—Mr. B.” 
 
 “ Mr. B. ? ” repeated the other, with a puzzled 
 expression. 
 
 “ Poor old Mr. B.,” said Mr. Glipper, signifi¬ 
 cantly. 
 
 “Do you mean Mr. Bolton? ” asked Mr. Glover, 
 apparently more mystified than ever. 
 
 “ P’r’aps I do,” replied Mr. Glipper, vaguely ; 
 “ p’r’aps I don’t. I mean poor old Mr. B. wot 
 died." 
 
 “ Died ! ” exclaimed Mr. Glover. “ Why, he 
 was here last night. What do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ We ’re often,” observed Mr. Glipper, grimly, 
 “ here to-night an’ gone to-morrer. P’isen does it 
 as well as a wariety of other things.” 
 
 “ I really cannot understand you!” cried Mr. 
 Glover, irritably. “Will you say what you mean 
 and what you want ? ” 
 
 Mr. Glipper drew the Duke of Wellington out 
 of his hat and blew his nose portentously, to give 
 himself an opportunity for reflection. 
 
 “ This place ain’t so private and confidential as 
 it might be,” he remarked, “ but I s'pose nobody 
 can’t hear us ? No. Well, the shortest way will 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. R. 
 
 158 
 
 be to read you a bit out of one of your own 
 letters. Then you ’ll know what I know, and 
 what I might do if I wasn’t—ahem ! persuaded 
 not to do it.” 
 
 “Perhaps you had better come into my study if 
 you are going to be long,” said Mr. Glover. 
 
 Mr. Glipper deposited his hat on the hall chair, 
 and leaving the Duke of Wellington inside it, 
 followed Mr. Glover into his study. 
 
 “ He’s givin’ way. He begins to feel narvous,” 
 he thought to himself. “ If this ain’t good for two 
 hundred an’ fifty, I’m a hass.” 
 
 “ Now, then,” said Mr. Glover, standing with 
 his back to the fireplace and motioning his visitor 
 to a seat, “ be as brief as you can. What does all 
 this mean ? ” 
 
 Mr. Glipper sat down with calm deliberation, 
 drew the all-important letter from his pocket, and 
 read out again the incriminating passages he had 
 already read to his wife. 
 
 “ Is that all ? ” inquired Mr. Glover, with evident 
 amusement. 
 
 “ Well,’’ responded Mr. Glipper, as he carefully 
 folded up the letter and returned it to his pocket, 
 “ ain’t it enough for yer ? ” 
 
 “ Quite enough for me, thank you !” cried Mr. 
 Glover, laughingly. “You seem to have got hold of 
 one of my letters to my cousin; but why you 
 should come here and read it over to me with so 
 much mystery, I can’t imagine.” 
 
 “I’m too old a bird to be talked over, mister,” 
 observed Mr. Glipper. “ We’re men o’ the world. 
 What’s the price to be ? I’m not goin’ to be 
 unreasonable. Name a fair figure an’ the letter ’s 
 yours, an’ I says nothin’ to nobody.” 
 
 “But, my good man, the letter is of no value to 
 me,” said Mr. Glover. “ I don’t want it.” 
 
 “ Oh, you don’t, don’t you ? Then p’r’aps I’d 
 better go an’ hand it over to the police, eh? ” 
 
THE MURDER OF MR. B. 159 
 
 “What, as lost property? I don’t seethe use 
 of doing that. But please yourself, of course.” 
 
 “ Oh, you may come it over me if you can ! ” said 
 Mr. Glipper, savagely. “Who killed Mr. B.— 
 p’isened him ? I know—an’ this letter proves it. 
 Now, do you see what I mean ?” 
 
 “Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Glover, as if a sudden 
 light had broken in upon him. Then he burst 
 into a hearty fit of laughter. 
 
 “Hysterical,” muttered Mr. Glipper. “ Thought 
 that ’ud fetch him. Hope it won’t send him off 
 altogether. Might be dangerous.” 
 
 “ My good fellow ! ” cried Mr. Glover, presently, 
 “ I see now what you are knocking your head 
 against.” 
 
 “Ain’t knockin’ my head agin’ anythin’,” de¬ 
 clared Mr. Glipper indignantly. 
 
 “ You think that you stand in the presence of a 
 murderer ? ” 
 
 “ I know I do! ” 
 
 “ Yes, to be sure ; so you do. I did murder old 
 Mr. B. ; but he had been ill for several months, 
 and there was no chance of his recovery, and more¬ 
 over,” pursued Mr. Glover complacently, “he was 
 a dog.” 
 
 “ A what ? ” 
 
 “A dog. His real name was Rover, but when 
 my old friend, Mr. Bolton, gave him to me, some 
 years back, I had already got one dog of the same 
 name, so, to prevent confusion, we referred to him 
 as Mr. B.’s dog, and then, especially as in certain 
 dignity of movement he resembled Mr. Bolton, we 
 fell into a habit of calling him simply Mr. B. 
 There, you have the whole story. I’m sorry to 
 disappoint you. I see you are disappointed,” said 
 Mr. Glover, chuckling merrily. 
 
 “ That’s all very well-” 
 
 “ Certainly,” acquiesced Mr. Glover; “I knew, 
 as a sensible man, you would say so. You are 
 
l6o THE MURDER OF MR. B. 
 
 welcome to keep the letter, if you like. I am glad 
 to have seen you, but I am very busy just now, and 
 I know you will excuse me if I wish you good day.” 
 
 His exaggerated politeness was simply over¬ 
 whelming. Mr. Glipper got up, and did not know 
 what to say. So he turned and walked out of the 
 room with as much dignity^ as he could assume, 
 put on his hat in the hall, and passed out of the 
 house like a man who was walking in his sleep. 
 It was not until he got out of Gordon Square, and 
 was walking along the Euston Road, that he 
 began to revive. 
 
 “This comes of havin’ too much brain,” he re¬ 
 marked to himself. “ There was no meanin’ in the 
 blarmed letter, an’ I went an’ put too much in it. 
 If I’d only been a born hass I shouldn’t ha’ made 
 a hass of myself to-day ! That’s the wust of 
 havin’ a brain ! ” 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 R. CHACKLES!” 
 
 The old man was in his shirt-sleeves, 
 pottering about the long strip of garden 
 in front of his dingy little cottage; and, 
 sticking his spade upright in the mould, he turned 
 to see who was calling him. It was the postman 
 coming in at the low wooden gate, with his bag 
 over his shoulder and a letter in his hand. 
 
 “ Letter for you, Mr. Chackles ! ’’ he shouted. 
 
 Mr. Chackles began wiping his hands on his 
 trousers, with a hesitating and incredulous air. 
 
 “ Sure it’s for me ? ” he demanded. 
 
 “ ’ Course I am.” 
 
 “ I never have no letters,” argued Mr. Chackles. 
 “ Just speli it out, if it’s all the same to you.” 
 
 The postman held it up and read off the 
 envelope: 
 
 “ ‘ Mr. Philip Chackles, 3 Cricklemill Cottages, 
 Hendon, London, England.’ That’s you, ain’t 
 
 it ?” 
 
 “That’s me,” Mr. Chackles acknowledged, 
 dubiously scratching the extreme top of his head. 
 “ Where’s it from ? ” 
 
 “ Melbourne postmark,” replied the postman, 
 impatiently : “ Austraily. ; 
 
 For two minutes Mr. Chackles turned the 
 envelope about in his hands, gazing reflectively at 
 the stamp without seeing it. 
 
162 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 “Austraily!” he ejaculated. “Blowed if it 
 ain’t from our Phil! ” 
 
 He looked up, but the postman was gone. He 
 stood looking straight before him till the long 
 garden lengthened itself out, drew in again, reeled, 
 and was transformed into one great blur, then 
 suddenly resumed its normal aspect ; and there 
 was nothing left to show that anything had been 
 the matter with it except a wet spot on the 
 envelope. 
 
 Mr. Chackles wiped that spot off with his shirt¬ 
 sleeve, and went briskly towards the door of his 
 cottage; but, altering his mind before he reached 
 it, he walked as briskly back down the garden, out 
 along the street, and in at the gate of the next 
 cottage but one. 
 
 “ Sawyer ! ” he cried, knocking on the door with 
 his knuckes. 
 
 “ Hullo, mate! ” bawled a voice from within. 
 
 “ Thought you’d be home,” remarked Mr. 
 Chackles, stepping into the parlour, which was 
 immediately inside the door. 
 
 “ What’s up ? ” inquired Sawyer, who was 
 visible in a small scullery at the end of a narrow 
 passage, polishing his countenance on a jack- 
 towel. 
 
 “ Can yer spare ten minutes ? ” 
 
 “ Yes. Only goin’ round to the ‘ Windmill.’ ” 
 
 He came through into the parlour as he spoke, 
 putting his coat on. He was a thin, sallow man, 
 with shifty little eyes, which were always so 
 nearly closed they seemed to have no whites, and 
 looked like small black slits on either side of his 
 keen nose. 
 
 “ I ’ve just got a letter from our Phil,” explained 
 Mr. Chackles; “ an’ as I ain’t no hand at reading, 
 an’ similarly more ain’t the missus, I thought I’d 
 get you to spell it over for me.” 
 
 “ Right you are, mate.” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 163 
 
 Mr. Sawyer tore open the envelope, but, with a 
 swift side-glance at his visitor, paused in pulling 
 out the letter, and pushed it in again, saying it was 
 too dark to read. 
 
 “ My missus is out shopping,” he added, “ but 
 I daresay I can find the lamp. Sit down a 
 minute.” 
 
 He retired into the scullery with the letter in his 
 hand, and, after a somewhat protracted delay, 
 returned carrying a lighted lamp which he stood 
 on the table. 
 
 “ Now,’’ he said carelessly, “ let’s see what it’s 
 about.” 
 
 He spread the letter before him on the table and 
 began to read : 
 
 “ ‘ My dear mother and father ’-” 
 
 “ Ah ! Mentions me, does he ? ” ejaculated Mr. 
 Chackles. 
 
 “ ‘-It’s along time since I cameout here, but I 
 
 know you have not been expecting me to write. I 
 have sent you messages in my letters to Nell, and 
 you will have heard that things have not been 
 very bright with me ’-” 
 
 “ I warned him,” commentated Mr. Chackles, 
 “but no; he must go clerking, saves his trifle o’ 
 money, an’ goes off to Austraily to—serves him 
 right ! Go on ! ” 
 
 “ ‘ But now,’ read Sawyer, ‘ I’m going to tell 
 you a secret. Don’t tell Nell. I just want her to 
 keep true to me simply for my own sake, as I knew 
 she will, then I shall come home and surprise her 
 with the news myself’-” 
 
 “ Myself,” prompted Mr. Chackles, seeing his 
 reader hesitate. 
 
 “ ‘ Things are worse with me than I have told 
 her ’-” 
 
 “ Didn’t I warn him ? A pretty secret, eh ? ” 
 
 “ ‘ In fact, they ’re as bad as could be. I’d like 
 to send you a trifle ’-” 
 
164 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 “ Don’t want it,” Mr. Chackles interrupted 
 huskily. “ ‘ If you goes off like a prodigal,’ I says 
 
 to him, ‘ instead of jinin’ me in my business-’ 
 
 Go on ! I don’t want his money.” 
 
 -but things is that bad, I can’t. I hope 
 
 father does not feel so bitterly towards me ’-” 
 
 “ I do. Bitterer ! ” interpolated Mr. Chackles. 
 
 “ ‘ I knew I should do no good at home ’-” 
 
 “ Deal o’ good he ’s done out there, eh ! ” 
 
 “ ‘-an’ one o’ these days, when I comeback, 
 
 he’ll agree that I came away for the best.’ ” 
 
 Then followed a general description of the 
 country and his manner of living, and finally a 
 postscript. 
 
 “ ‘ P.S.—Not a word to Nellie. Let her think 
 I’m coming back as poor as the prodigal son 
 father was always comparing me to; and once 
 home, the butterfly shall break out of his 
 chrysalis! ’ ” 
 
 “ What butterfly ? ” growled Mr. Chackles. 
 “ First he’s said about any butterfly. What’s he 
 mean ? ” 
 
 “Here’s a bit more,” said Mr. Sawyer, 
 hurriedly: “‘I expect you will get Jim Sawyer 
 to read this. How is Jim Sawyer? Ask him to 
 drop me a line for you.’ That’s all.” 
 
 They leaned back and looked at each other, 
 Sawyer refolding the letter and replacing it in the 
 envelope. 
 
 “ Queer thing about that buttflery,” observed 
 Mr. Chackles, thoughtfully. 
 
 “ Sort o’ poetry, I expect,” returned Jim Sawyer. 
 “ Don’t seem to mean anything in particular.” 
 
 “ S’pose he’s afraid,” Mr. Chackles continued, 
 “ Nell ’ud give him up if she knowed. Serve him 
 right if she did, but she wouldn’t. Ain't that sort, 
 you know. I did say that if he went an’ made a 
 mess of it I wouldn’t help him to the extent of one 
 copper.” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. I 65 
 
 “ Ah ! ” rejoined Jim, “ then he knowed what to 
 expect.” 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 “Stone broke!” ejaculated Mr. Chackles, re¬ 
 flectively. “ An’ it’s a sight of a way off, eh ? ” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” 
 
 “ I don’t care. Serves him right,” growled Mr. 
 Chackles. “ But—don’t mention this to my 
 missus. It’s between me an’ you. See ? ” 
 
 Jim Sawyer nodded. 
 
 “ You write to him. I ’ll tell you what to put.” 
 
 Jim got out his writing materials, and Mr. 
 Chackles proceeded to dictate. 
 
 “ ‘Phiiip Chackles,—Mr. Philip Chackles, junior, 
 —Dear Phil.’ Better put that, perhaps. ‘ Dear 
 Phil ’ sounds more usual. ‘ I have read your 
 letter. Jim Sawyer done it for me. I don’t want 
 your money. But you wouldn’t join me in my 
 business, an’ I can’t afford to join you in yours.’ 
 That’s one for him, eh ? Goon. ‘ Hope you’ll do 
 better in future, but don’t ask me to help you. 
 You ’ll wish you took my advice now. Wise son 
 maketh glad father.’ How’ll that do? ‘ Yours 
 etcetra—Father.’ You can stick on ‘ With love ’ 
 if there’s room.” 
 
 There was room, so Jim stuck on “ With love,” 
 and then read the epistle out in its entirety. 
 
 “That’s me ! ” ejaculated Mr. Chackles approv¬ 
 ingly. “ Firm ! No knucklin’ down there, eh ? 
 Now for a postscript. Mind, I wouldn’t do this 
 for him, not me! It’s on account of his mother. 
 She ain’t got no firmness. She—well—-‘ P.S.’ 
 Got that? ‘From Jim Sawyer. Private. The 
 old man is chippy. He won’t give in. Don’t let 
 him know I done it, but I’m sending you ’-” 
 
 Mr. Chackles pulled out his purse, emptied its 
 contents into his hand and counted them. 
 
 “-‘ fourteen an’ six on my own hook. You ’ll 
 
 find it handy. Pity you didn't take your father’s 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 166 
 
 advice, ain’t it ? Yours, Jim Sawyer.’ How’s 
 that ? He ’ll think you sent it. See ? I don’t 
 want him to fancy I’m knucklin’ down. I 
 shouldn’t send any if it wasn’t for his mother. 
 Don’t you tell her, though. See ? You ’ll get the 
 post office order, won’t you ? ‘ Lor ! ’ he ’ll say, 
 
 when he gets it, ‘ ain’t the old man a tough ’un! 
 No giving way about him.’ An’ there ain’t 
 neither, y’ know.” 
 
 “ No,” agreed Jim, leisurely pocketing the 
 money and the letters. “ Well, that’s done. 
 Now, are you cornin’ round to the ‘ Windmill’ to 
 have a glass ? ” 
 
 Mr. Chackles said he didn’t mind if he did, and 
 they adjourned together to that primitive hostelry, 
 which stood in the centre of the row of cottages 
 with a strip of broken pavement in front of it 
 instead of a garden. 
 
 Late that night Mr. Chackles returned in a 
 solemn and preoccupied condition. He was a 
 little indefinite in his walk, too, and when Mrs. 
 Chackles expressed some curiosity to know where 
 he had been all this time with no coat on, he 
 stared straight before him with great severity, as 
 if she had asked him a difficult conundrum and 
 he couldn’t think of the answer. 
 
 Being a sensible woman, Mrs. Chackles got him 
 quietly off to bed without waste of words ; he 
 rarely broke out in this way, and she knew he would 
 be repentant in the morning. 
 
 “ It was all along of a letter,” he explained over 
 breakfast, “from—who do you think ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Chackles was not disposed to let him off 
 easily, and coldly ignored his question. 
 
 “ From that scamp, Phil! ” 
 
 “ From our Phil!” she exclaimed, instantly for¬ 
 getting everything else. 
 
 “Yes. I got Jim Sawyer to spell it over, an’ 
 afterwards-” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 167 
 
 “ Where is it ? ” 
 
 “ You can’t read it, so-” 
 
 “ What does he say? ” 
 
 “Say?” cried Mr. Chackles. “Just what I 
 knowed he ’d say.” 
 
 He proceeded to repeat, with variations and 
 exaggerations of his own, the substance of what 
 Sawyer had read to him the night before. 
 
 “ It’s no good you snivellin’,” he concluded, 
 “ I ’d ha’ made a rippin’ good landskip gardener 
 on him if he’d stopped here. But no ; that 
 wasn’t good enough, so he’s gone an’ got some¬ 
 thin’ worse. He wouldn’t take my advice, an’ I 
 ain’t goin’ to help him now, so don’t ask me. 
 You’ll only aggerevate me, if you do.” 
 
 He took a deep draught of coffee, eyeing Mrs. 
 Chackles sternly round the sides of his cup. 
 
 “ Poor lad ! ” she said, in a voice that had a sus¬ 
 picion of tears in it. “ He was high-spirited and 
 —and wanted to be something better than-” 
 
 “ His father,” snapped Mr. Chackles. “ That’s 
 what his board school eddication done for him.” 
 
 “ Oh, but we—we must help him, Philip, my 
 dear,” she hesitated. “ We can spare a little.” 
 
 “Not a penny !” cried Mr. Chackles, snapping 
 his finger and thumb significantly. “ I don’t care. 
 He can do what he likes.” He pushed his chair 
 back and got up. “ I don’t want to hear no more 
 about it. I’ve got that garden to do at Mrs. 
 Netherby’s, an’ I ’m off. I’ll most likely be back 
 for dinner.” 
 
 He blundered about, getting his tools together ; 
 and presently set out with a basket slung on a 
 garden fork over his shoulder, and a pair of shears 
 protruding from the basket; then, giving him time 
 to get well away, Mrs. Chackles put a shawl over 
 her head and went out to Sawyer’s cottage. 
 
 “’Morning, Mrs. Sawyer,” she cried, looking in 
 at the open door. “ Mr. Sawyer gone ? ’’ 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 I 68 
 
 “Bless us, yes!” responded Mrs. Sawyer, who 
 was ironing in the scullery. “An hour ago.” 
 
 “ Seems there was a letter from our Phil last 
 night,” pursued Mrs. Chackles, “ an’ my man got 
 Mr. Sawyer to read it to him.” 
 
 “Oh!” cried Mrs. Sawyer. “He didn’t tell 
 me about it.” 
 
 So Mrs. Chackles tearfully repeated what she 
 had been told ; and the other—good rough-handed, 
 tender-hearted sympathiser—gave her such cheer¬ 
 ing counsel as she could, until, by degrees, the 
 poor mother recovered her composure. 
 
 “ I wanted to ask your Jim,” she said, “ if he 
 would write a letter for me.” 
 
 “ ’Course he will, my dear,” cried Mrs. Sawyer, 
 heartily. “ He ’ll be home at dinner-time.” 
 
 “ But Mr. Chackles will be home then, an’ he’s 
 so hard on the boy I didn’t want him to know,” 
 said Mrs. Chackles. “Where’s Mr. Sawyer 
 working ? If it isn't far, I might find him and 
 tell him what to say, and he could write it after¬ 
 wards.” 
 
 It was not far. Jim was a platelayer, and 
 happened to be engaged on a part of the railway 
 line not ten minutes’ walk from his own cottage, 
 and there Mrs. Chackles found him. 
 
 He looked up when she called to him across the 
 fence which separated the railroad from the 
 adjacent fields, and, throwing down his pick, 
 approached her with an uneasiness of expression 
 as if he expected to be taken to task for the state 
 in which Mr. Chackles had gone home last night, 
 and was evidently relieved when he heard what 
 she wanted him for. 
 
 “Tell him, Mr. Sawyer,” she continued, trying 
 hard to steady her voice, “ I beg of him to come 
 home and—never mind how poor he comes. And 
 I want you please not to let Mr. Chackles know, 
 he would be so put out ; but I-” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 1 69 
 
 “ Oh, lie shan’t know a word of it, Mrs. 
 Cliackles.” 
 
 “ I should be grateful if you would put this in 
 the letter for me”—she had been carrying a 
 sovereign clenched fast in her hand, and she now 
 thrust it eagerly into his,—“and say it’s with— 
 my love-” 
 
 He nodded without looking at her. His eyes 
 were so turned on the ground that the little black 
 slits on either side of his nose seemed to be quite 
 closed. She hesitated ; she could not speak, her 
 lips were quivering so, and she was striving to keep 
 back her tears. 
 
 “Be sure,” she added suddenly, with a quick 
 effort, “and say—it’s with my love.” 
 
 And she was hurrying away from him across the 
 field before he could look up or answer her. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EXT Sunday afternoon, while Mr. Cliackles 
 was dozing in his arm - chair, and Mrs. 
 Cliackles was awake but dreaming with 
 her hands folded in her lap, there came 
 a beat of light footsteps on the path without, and 
 the sunshine streaming in through the open door¬ 
 way seemed suddenly to take definite shape and 
 come right on into the room. 
 
 “Nellie!” exclaimed Mrs. Cliackles, startled 
 out of her reveries, “my dear — ’Sh ! he’s 
 asleep,” she added, indicating the slumbering 
 master of the house, “ and he’s been that grumpy 
 all day ! Don’t wake him.” 
 
 The girl stooped over Mrs. Cliackles, laughing, 
 and kissed her, calling her “ mother.” She had a 
 
170 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 trim, dainty figure, and a pleasant, cheerful 
 presence which was positively infectious. She 
 brightened up the little room more than the light 
 itself, and whenever she spoke the canary, swaying 
 in the window with a cage full of sunshine, left off 
 singing to listen. Perhaps her voice and her eyes 
 were only the sweeter for the latent touch of sad¬ 
 ness that was in them, and it only added another 
 charm to the roses on her cheeks that one 
 instinctively suspected that they did not often 
 blow on the delicate oval face, flushed now with 
 heat and exercise. 
 
 “ This is our busy season at the shop,” she 
 said, “ and father has been so ill that I could not 
 leave him of a Sunday, or I would have come 
 before. But he is much better to-day.” 
 
 And the discussion of other such ordinary 
 domestic affairs having been disposed of, Mrs. 
 Chackles inquired, with a precautionary glance at 
 the sleeper: 
 
 “ Have you heard from Phil ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Nellie quickly. “ Last week. He 
 writes hopefully, and says he may be coming home 
 before long; but somehow, mother, I feel he is 
 keeping something back-” 
 
 “Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Chackles, tremu¬ 
 lously, “ I’m afraid you are right. He wrote to 
 us the other day-” 
 
 “Where is the letter?” Nellie eagerly inter¬ 
 rupted. “ May I read it to you ?” 
 
 “ I didn’t see it, my dear. Father got Jim 
 Sawyer to read it to him, and they’ve lost it 
 between them. Jim says he copied the address 
 and gave the letter back to father, but he doesn’t 
 remember it and can’t find it.” 
 
 “ What did Phil say, then ?” 
 
 “ Well, my dear, you mustn’t tell him I told you. 
 He told me not to mention it to you. I expect he 
 thought it would worry you- ’Sh ! ” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 171 
 
 Mrs. Chackles stopped abruptly, with a glance 
 towards the sleeper, who suddenly thrust his foot 
 out, and sitting up half-awake, began vigorously 
 slapping his leg, protesting disjointedly that it had 
 gone to sleep, and got “pins and needles.” Then, 
 happening to look round, and catching sight of 
 Nellie, he smote himself harder than ever, andallhis 
 face wrinkled and beamed with smiles of welcome. 
 
 “You?” he roared, delightedly. “Where ha’ 
 you bin all this while ? Why, I never heard you 
 come in. How long ha’ you bin here ?” 
 
 Then Nellie had to repeat all her own domestic 
 news for his benefit, and afterwards, by degrees, 
 the conversation drifted round to Phil again, until 
 the old man bristled up, and said such atrocious 
 things about him that she deftly passed on to 
 another topic. 
 
 Any subject was a good one when Nell took it 
 in hand. There was such a clear, silvery ring in 
 her laughter, such a bright, unaffected vivacity in 
 her manner, that while she was speaking it was 
 enough for any man, or woman either, to sit and 
 listen and let her talk about anything or nothing, 
 and change the topic as often as she liked. 
 
 But if she was enchanting sitting still and 
 chatting, she was distractingly so when she was 
 moving briskly, daintily about the little cottage 
 getting tea ready. No man—no young man, at 
 all events—could have looked on without longing 
 to fetch something, carry something, hold some¬ 
 thing, do something—anything to help her, no 
 matter what it was. Even Mr. Chackles was not 
 wholly proof against some sentiment of that sort, 
 and when she unfolded the snowy cloth and threw 
 it neatly over the table, he leaned forward, zealous 
 to assist, grasped it by the two nearest corners, 
 shook it as if it were a carpet, and smoothed it 
 down with his hand. 
 
 How she got the tray and the cups and saucers, 
 
172 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 plates, spoons, knives, and all manner of tea- 
 things set out on that cloth in less than three 
 minutes without magic, is a thing nobody will 
 ever know. Then to have seen her make the tea 
 itself! She had got a huge coarse apron from 
 somewhere, and tied herself up in it, and if it 
 didn’t make her look prettier than ever, it was 
 because that was impossible. She measured the 
 divine herb into the little brown teapot, coaxed 
 the kettle into boiling—and is it likely that it 
 wouldn’t boil when she coaxed it ?—watered the 
 leaves, and left the teapot in the fender to draw, 
 all as if she was a real housekeeper and had been 
 learning all her life how to do it. 
 
 When they sat down at the table she did the 
 honours of the tray, and delighted Mr. Chackles 
 by treating him as if he were a guest in his own 
 house. 
 
 After tea, when the sunlight had gone from the 
 floor and travelled up the wall and was lingering 
 near the ceiling, and it was cool enough to have 
 the door shut, they asked her to sing, and Mr. 
 Chackles brought out the wheezy old accordion 
 that used to be Phil’s own, and announced his 
 intention of accompanying her. So she sang to 
 them some two or three old, homely tunes, and 
 Mr. Chackles did his best with as manv notes of 
 
 m/ 
 
 the accordion as had got any noise left in them, 
 and Mrs. Chackles sat and listened, crying quietly 
 to herself, because the accordion, with all its 
 faults, reminded her of Phil. 
 
 Then, as it was growing late and Nellie had 
 someway to go, Mrs. Chackles put on her bonnet, 
 Mr. Chackles decorated himself with his best hat, 
 and they walked with her to the station and saw 
 her into the train—and they might have seen the 
 day into the train at the same time, for it was 
 gone with her. 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 *73 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HE summer months slid slowly into autumn, 
 and meanwhile there had been another 
 letter from Phil, which the faithful Jim 
 Sawyer had read to Mr. Chackles, the 
 news it conveyed being as vague and as bad 
 as before. The reading of it on the evening 
 of its arrival resulted in another visit to the 
 “ Windmill ” and the return home of Mr. Chackles 
 again at a late hour and in a condition which will 
 not bear inquiry. Next morning, he recited to Mrs. 
 Chackles the contents of the letter, but, curiously 
 enough, the letter itself was lost, like the first 
 one. Jim was not to blame. He said he gave it 
 to Mr. Chackles as they were leaving the “ Wind¬ 
 mill ; ” and how and where Mr. Chackles had 
 contrived to lose it was more than he could 
 imagine. 
 
 Soon after that second letter came and was lost, 
 a remarkable change began to manifest itself in 
 the daily life of Jim Sawyer. He became unsociable 
 and depressed ; unostentatiously withdrawing his 
 patronage from the “Windmill” without trans- 
 ferringit to any other similarestablishment. He met 
 all direct inquiry with vague and unsatisfactory 
 declarations that he was all right and there was 
 nothing the matter with him, and his own personal 
 acquaintance could not even comfort themselves 
 with a theory of any sort, until a rumour got about 
 that he had been seen in suspicious proximity to 
 a Mission Hall. Then, when Mr. Chackles 
 challenged him on the subject, he uneasily acknow¬ 
 ledged that he had not only been in its vicinity, 
 but that he had been right into the Mission Hall 
 
*74 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 itself regularly every Sunday for the last three 
 weeks, and had some idea of continuing to do 
 so. 
 
 “ Well, that ain’t no reason why you should go 
 an’ be as glum as if you ’d got the mumps, an’ 
 keep out of everybody’s way as if you was afraid 
 they might take ’em from you, is it ? ” Mr. Chackles 
 indignantly demanded. 
 
 Jim glanced up quickly, and then down at his 
 feet again. 
 
 “ I don’t want to keep out o’ nobody’s way, 
 mate,” he stammered : “ I’ve bin a bad ’un ; that’s 
 where it is. I’ve got to—there’s something I’ve 
 got to put right afore I can feel any different. I’ll 
 —you’ll know all about it some day.” 
 
 He turned away abruptly and went indoors. 
 
 “ I give it up,” remarked Mr. Chackles, looking 
 thoughtfully after him. “Blest if I know what he 
 means ! ” 
 
 But Jim Sawyer was evidently in earnest, and 
 if not a happier, was certainly in many respects a 
 better man than he had been ; nobody could deny 
 that. Mrs. Sawyer encouraged and co-operated with 
 him heartily in his altered manner of life, but was 
 much more enthusiastic about it. Her enthusiasm 
 rose to such a pitch, in fact, that one Sunday 
 evening she walked into Mr. Chackles’ cottage with 
 the dismal Jim following in her wake, and carrying 
 a ponderous Bible under his arm. There was a 
 sheepish, uncertain expression on his face ; he was 
 flushed and perspiring, and looked altogether as if 
 he wished he had not come. 
 
 “ Well, how areyer both ?” cried Mrs. Sawyer, 
 cheerily. “ I got Jim to come in, thinkin’ you 
 might like to hear him read a chapter. We allers 
 do it ourselves, and I says to Jim, if we do it here, 
 there’ll be four of us to listen instead of two.” 
 
 It was impossible to deny such a proposition. 
 Mr. Chackles did not attempt to dispute it, but 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 175 
 
 intimated that he had no objection to the arrange¬ 
 ment, and invited them to sit down. 
 
 “ Turn the lamp up a bit, Jim,” he cried, “ an’ 
 speak it out loud. My hearin’ ain’t what it used 
 to be.” 
 
 Jim put the huge volume on the table, opened 
 it almost at random and began to read. He read 
 in a slow, loud voice, wrestling indifferently with 
 long words, overcoming them anyhow, and going 
 on undaunted ; and although his sing-song manner 
 of elocution was, on the whole, a little monotonous, 
 there were times when it was not altogther un¬ 
 impressive. 
 
 When he had finished he quietly made prepara¬ 
 tions to depart, shutting and clasping the book, 
 tucking it under his arm, and putting his hat on. 
 
 “You’ve heard no more o’ your poor dear 
 prodigal, Mrs. Chackles ?” inquired Mrs. Sawyer. 
 
 “ Nellie had-” 
 
 “Prodigal!” cried Mr. Chackles, with an ex¬ 
 aggerated air of ignorance. “ What prodigal ?” 
 
 “ Nellie had another letter from him last week,” 
 contined Mrs. Chackles ; “ she was here again this 
 afternoon. He seems to be getting on about the 
 same, and thinks it won’t be long before he comes 
 home now ? ” 
 
 “Comes home?” said Jim Sawyer faintly. 
 “When is he coming?” 
 
 “ He’s not sure. He might have to start before 
 he had time to write again, and get here quite 
 unexpected like.” 
 
 “ Don’t want him here,” blustered Mr. Chackles. 
 “ I can do without him.” 
 
 “ Philip ! Philip ! ” murmured Mrs. Chackles 
 appealingly. 
 
 The old man gave himself a petulant shake, and 
 sat growling in an undertone until the visitors had 
 said “ Good-night ” again, and departed. 
 
 Every Sunday evening after that, Mrs. Sawyer 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 176 
 
 came in, bringing the reluctant Jim and his 
 ponderous Bible with her; and after the readings, 
 if Mr. Chackles seemed to be in a pretty good 
 humour, she would occasionally inaugurate a little 
 solo singing, her husband gloomily helping her 
 through with the choruses, when there were any. 
 
 This went on until it happened that one Sunday 
 afternoon while Mr. Chackles was taking his 
 customary nap, Mrs. Chackles slipped quietly out 
 and went into the Sawyers’, just in time to catch 
 them setting out to meeting. 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Sawyer,” she said, tearfully, “my man’s 
 been saying such things again about our poor Phil, 
 it’s made me downright miserable. I can’t believe 
 he means all he says; but he is so hard, and Phil 
 may be home soon. I thought perhaps you could 
 read something to-night that might show him how 
 he’s wrong and ought to forgive the lad-” 
 
 “Why, Jim!” interrupted Mrs. Sawyer, ex¬ 
 citedly. “ The Prodigal Son ! Read him that. 
 The very thing!” 
 
 And Jim promised that he would. Before 
 coming in that evening he looked up the parable 
 and marked the place ; so that as soon as they 
 were all settled down and ready, he at once opened 
 the book at the right page and began. He read 
 earnestly, and with all the expression he could 
 master, his voice trembling now and then with 
 momentary feeling; but Mr. Chackles listened 
 stoically, without grasping the personal application 
 of the proverb at all, or in any way connecting it 
 with his own son. 
 
 “‘I will arise,’” Jim went on in tremulous 
 tones; “‘an’ go to my father an’ say unto him, 
 Father, I have sinned—against heaven an’—an’ 
 before thee—an’—an’—’ ” 
 
 The words seemed to stick in his throat; he 
 struggled with them desperately, but could not go 
 on, and with a sudden inarticulate cry, covered 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 177 
 
 his face with his hands and dropped it down till 
 it rested on the book he had been reading, his 
 whole figure shaken and convulsed with sobbing. 
 
 It was terrible to see a man like Jim Sawyer 
 give way to such violent emotion. His wife was 
 at his side in a moment, leaning over him, plying 
 him with anxious questions; and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Chackles stood up, too startled to do anything but 
 look on and wonder, and wait for him to speak. 
 They were so amazed and preoccupied that 
 neither of them heard the sound of footsteps on 
 the path without or knew that the door had been 
 unceremoniously pushed open until, feeling a rush 
 of cold air, they glanced round quickly; and 
 there was a tall, bronzed, manly young fellow 
 coming eagerly into the room ; and in the same 
 instant, with his name on her lips, Mrs. Chackles 
 ran to meet him, and was clasped in his arms. 
 
 “ Darn me ! ” roared Mr. Chackles, excitedly ; 
 “it’s Phil!” 
 
 He was round the room in three great strides, 
 and seizing one of Phil’s hands, stood shaking it 
 frantically, gasping and gurgling and stamping his 
 foot in a paroxysm of delight. 
 
 “ Plere he is !” he burst forth at last. “ Lor’, 
 mother there ain’t nothing to cry for. Never 
 you mind, lad, what any on ’em says ; you and 
 me ’ll soon pull things straight. I warned you it 
 was no good out there. But never mind—I say ! 
 How he’s growed ! Got a moustache, too ! Lor’ 
 bless us! Give us yer hand agen!” He had 
 been holding it all the while and never stopped 
 shaking it yet. “ Get him something to eat, 
 missus. Why, we was just goin’ to read about 
 the fatted calf, an’ here he is! ” 
 
 He laughed and slapped his thigh in an ecstas}^. 
 
 “An’ here’s ole Jim Sawyer,” he continued, 
 
 “been an’- Here, Jim ! Hi ! It’s Phil! 
 
 What’s the matter with yer?” 
 
 12 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 178 
 
 “ Hush !” said Mrs. Chackles, sympathetically. 
 “ He was reading about the Prodigal Son, thinking 
 of our Phil, and he broke down.” 
 
 “ Thinking of me ? ” cried Phil, smiling. “ Why, 
 who calls me a prodigal now ? ” 
 
 “ Nobody,” declared Mr. Chackles, unblush- 
 ingly, and with a warning look at his wife. “ I 
 only said you ought to ha’ taken my advice, 
 instead o’ goin’ and wastin’ your money, my boy, 
 and doin’ no good-” 
 
 “Who’s done no good ?” inquired Phil, laughing 
 again. 
 
 “ Why, you know-” Mr. Chackles paused 
 
 and drew back to scan him critically. “ Well, it 
 do seem to me as you ’re dressed up rather, Phil, 
 considerin’, eh ? ” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! Nell knows all about it now,” cried 
 Phil; “I’ve told her everything, so you needn’t 
 keep it up any longer.” 
 
 “ Keep what up ? ” 
 
 Mr. Chackles looked over Phil’s shoulder, and 
 there was Nell herself looking on at them from the 
 doorway. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, coming forward, with mock 
 reproachfulness, “I had no idea you could be so 
 dreadfully sly.” 
 
 “ Sly?” gasped Mr. Chackles. 
 
 “ Yes; pretending Phil was so very, very 
 poor-” 
 
 “ So he was. He said so.” 
 
 “ No,” laughed Phil. 
 
 “ Yes,” persisted Mr. Chackles. “ Why, Jim 
 Sawyer read it out.” 
 
 “ Impossible ! How could I have sent you those 
 little presents-” 
 
 “ What little presents ? ” 
 
 Phil looked thoroughly mystified. 
 
 “ Didn’t I send you a banker’s draft in my first 
 letter for-” 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 1 79 
 
 “No,” interrupted Mr. Chackles. “Ask Jim 
 there. You said-” 
 
 “ But Jim wrote back and said you had got it, 
 and would be glad of a little more if-” 
 
 “ Jim did ? Jim, do you-” 
 
 “And I sent another draft in my second letter.” 
 
 “Never had ’em!” declared Mr. Chackles. 
 “You ask Jim Sawyer. There he is. He read 
 the letters.” 
 
 “ It—it’s true, mate. I kept ’em both,” groaned 
 Jim, without raising his head. “ I didn’t read out 
 all them letters, an’ I pretended to read some as 
 wasn’t in ’em, mate. I’m a thief, an’—it’s me 
 that’s no more worthy—it’s me !” 
 
 His voice died awa}^ in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 “ She’s not to blame,” he added presently, 
 pointing to his wife, who stood horror-stricken 
 beside him ; “ she knowed nothing about it.” 
 
 There was a silence; nobody seeming to know 
 what to say or do. Then Mr. Chackles went up to 
 the table and smote it with his fist, and told 
 Jim Sawyer roundly that he was a scamp and an 
 hypocrite. 
 
 “ Mate,” said Jim, miserably, “ I was a thief; 
 an’ when it came home to me, I’d gambled most of 
 the money away an’ was ashamed to face you till 
 I’d saved up and could pay it back.” 
 
 “ You ’re a thief an’ a vampire, Jim Sawyer ! ” 
 raged the old man. “ Wish I was five years 
 
 younger, an’ by George ! I’d-’Taint the money. 
 
 But here’s you an’ me been friends all these years, 
 
 an’-No; I don’t want to hear nothin’ about 
 
 temptation. You go out o’ this house and keep 
 out. Go on. I ain’t goin’ to listen ! Go on.” 
 
 “ I ’ll pay back every farthing,” Jim pleaded 
 wretchedly, “ what Phil sent you, an’ what you an’ 
 Mrs. Chackles gave me to send-” 
 
 “ Never give you nothing to send him! 
 blustered Mr. Chackles; “said I wouldn’t, and I 
 
i8o 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 didn’t. I ain’t one o’ the knucklin’ under sort. 
 No, I didn’t. Don’t tell me ! You go out of here. 
 Go on, now ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Sawyer was too bewildered to do anything 
 but cry, and pull at Jim’s sleeve, and beg him to 
 come away; and he was miserably thankful to get 
 up and go. He lingered a moment near the door 
 and, without looking round, said in a low, unsteady 
 voice : 
 
 “ I deserve what you’ve said, mate; but I mean 
 to put it right, an’ I shan’t face you agen without 
 the money. If so be you feel as you can—forgive 
 me afore then, an’ll just play ‘ Auld lang syne’ 
 some evenin’, mate, I ’ll hear it—an’ know what it 
 means.” 
 
 And so he went away home, humbled and 
 wretched. 
 
 In their own way, he and old Philip had been 
 good friends for a long time; but when he had 
 been tempted to rob him, he had soothed his 
 conscience with the reflection that young Phil had 
 made a fortune by which his father would so far 
 benefit that he would never be really the poorer 
 for such a comparatively small loss. He had a 
 vague hope that he might never be found out. 
 Australia was very far off; young Phil might settle 
 down there, and send for Nell and his father and 
 mother to join him; there were a thousand 
 chances in his favour. 
 
 It was not until nearly all the money had been 
 squandered that he had begun to realise the perils 
 of his position, and to feel the promptings of fear 
 and remorse. In this frame of mind, he fell in 
 with the Mission Hall people, and, eager for relief 
 from his own terrors and self-reproaches, became 
 an easy convert; then, under the influence of a 
 wider morality than he had hitherto had know¬ 
 ledge of, his regret and repentance separated 
 themselves from his mere dread of punishment and 
 
PHIL THE PRODIGAL. l8l 
 
 became sincere. The mistake he had made was 
 in not then, at once, confessing everything, instead 
 of waiting on, even with the best of intentions, 
 until now, when his old friend had learned the 
 truth from other lips and driven him from his door 
 in righteous indignation. 
 
 Day after day went by, and every evening, as he 
 worked about his garden or sat at rest in his quiet 
 little parlour, Jim was always listening wistfully, 
 and always for one sound ; but night after night he 
 went to bed with less and less of hope, until, at 
 length, there came an evening when, as he sat 
 indoors in the halfdight before the lamp was lit, 
 he suddenly started, thrilled by a faint noise that 
 set him trembling in every nerve. It was the 
 familiar gasp and wheeze of Mr. Chackles’ old 
 accordion. 
 
 And it was Mr. Chackles himself who was play¬ 
 ing it. 
 
 It happened that Phil had been to the city in the 
 afternoon and had brought Nellie back with him; 
 and after tea the conversation came round to the 
 crime of Jim Sawyer. 
 
 “ We’ve had all the luck,” said Phil, “ and he's 
 had none. Nellie wants us to forgive him, and I 
 have forgiven him. He was poor, and it was a 
 temptation to him ; and it has done him no good.” 
 
 “ I’ve told you before, Phil,” returned the old 
 man, stubbornly, “ that’s my business. I’ve said 
 I won’t, an’ I won’t; you ought to know me well 
 enough to know that. He’s a vagabond ! ” 
 
 Even when Nellie fetched the accordion from its 
 box and begged him, as a favour to herself, to play 
 Jim Sawyer’s pardon on it, he obstinately refused. 
 He even threatened to burn the accordion to prove 
 that he meant what he said; and no argument or 
 persuasion could soften him at all. 
 
 But when Phil got ready to take Nellie home 
 again, the old man complained that he could not 
 
I 82 
 
 PHIL THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 walk with them to the station on account of his 
 rheumatism, and urged Mrs. Chackles to escort 
 them for him. She seemed to think the young 
 people could find their way alone; but he was 
 persistent, said that the air would do her good, 
 that Phil would be glad of her company, and, in 
 the end, she gave way and went to pacify him. 
 
 When they had been gone some five minutes he 
 strolled down the garden and leaned over the 
 fence to convince himself that they were out of 
 hearing. Then he returned to the house and sat 
 down for some time in silence thinking vaguely of 
 Jim Sawyer, and of what they had been to each 
 other for so many years, and what Phil had said 
 about him; and presently, almost without notic¬ 
 ing what he was doing, he picked up the old 
 accordion and carelessly fingered its yellow keys 
 in the gathering dusk. 
 
 And two doors away Jim Sawyer heard it and 
 listened with all his heart, wondering whether any 
 harmony would ever grow out of the random and 
 jarring discord, when suddenly the sounds stopped 
 entirely. A minute later they commenced again, 
 and this time the notes deliberately followed each 
 other and evidently co-operated in melody of some 
 sort; and by dogged degrees the tune disentangled 
 itself and gathered in clearness and volume until, 
 in spite of the flat notes, wrong notes, and notes 
 that would not sound at all, it was impossible to 
 mistake it any longer. 
 
 Mrs. Sawyer caught the strains and was startled 
 at the same moment by a stifled sob ; she threw 
 a swift glance across the room at Jim, but he 
 had leaned farther back into the shadow, so 
 that she could not see his face. 
 
Santa Clans in St. (Giles's. 
 
 r “ Go it, Morgan ! Give it him ! ” 
 ,) “ Stand back ! Give ’em room ! ” 
 
 ETCH him another swipe ! ” 
 
 JJp “ Hurrah ! Land him another, Finigan ! ” 
 
 “ Damn yer ! Let go ! ” 
 
 “ Two to one on Morgan ! Knock it out of him! 
 Bravo, Linigan! ” 
 
 “ That’s got him ! Down he goes ! Ah-h ! ” 
 
 And the yelling, excited crowd breaks and pushes 
 backwards as the two unsteady combatants, locked 
 in a close embrace and savagely pounding at each 
 other’s features,reel in amongst it, shuffle,scramble, 
 and roll over together in a confused and struggling 
 heap at the very feet of a new arrival who has just 
 come quietly into the court. 
 
 He stoops and, picking up the topmost hero, 
 roughly props him against the wall and peers into 
 his bruised and blood-bespattered face. 
 
 “ Hullo, Morgan !” he ejaculates, his own utter¬ 
 ance being none of the clearest, “ what’s the 
 
 row ? ’ 
 
 “Row?” Mr. Morgan vaguely inquires. “All 
 ri’. No row. Where’s Finigan? Finigan, yer 
 
 blarsted-Here ! I say,” he interrupts himself 
 
 to look fixedly at the new comer in the dim lamp¬ 
 light, “ain’t it Tom Cowles? It is. Hi-i! It’s 
 ole Tom Cowles ! ” 
 
 The crowd swarms effusively about them, eager 
 to shake hands with Tom Cowles, and question 
 and congratulate him. Mr. Finigan is picked up, 
 and, after wiping the blood from his own counte- 
 
184 SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 
 
 nance on his sleeve, shakes hands first with Mr. 
 Cowles and afterwards with Mr. Morgan; then, 
 as a means of propagating that peace and good¬ 
 will which he acknowledges ought to be encour¬ 
 aged on Christmas Eve, he generously proposes 
 an adjournment to the “ Spotted Leopard ” at his 
 private expense. 
 
 “Tom Cowles cornin’ back out o' the jug on 
 Chrishmash Eve when he wasn’t expected till nex’ 
 week, what’s gorror fighting?” he inquires, argu¬ 
 mentatively. “ Who says drinks ? ” 
 
 Everybody says it, Mr. Morgan with especial 
 heartiness. Everybody says it but Tom Cowles, 
 who maintains a surly silence. 
 
 “ Come on,” urges Mr. Finigan, in an injured 
 tone. “ It’s Chrishmash.” 
 
 “ I ’ve had all I want,” Tom growls : “ met some 
 pals on the way here-” 
 
 “ Come on,” Mr. Finigan insists. “ We ain’t 
 goin’ to go without you.” 
 
 “Where’s my missies?” Mr. Cowles inquires. 
 
 “Round at the ‘Leopard’ with Mrs. Finigan. 
 Come on.” 
 
 But Tom Cowles irritably jerks himself away 
 from their friendly clutches. 
 
 “Where’s — where’s” — there is an uneasy, 
 shamefaced brusqueness in his manner—“anyone 
 know how the kid is?” 
 
 “ He’s all ri’. Don’t you worry. You can’t do 
 nothin’ for him. Coinin’ ?” 
 
 For a moment he stands irresolute; but his 
 wandering glance travels up to a window high 
 in one of the noisome, ruinous old houses, and 
 catches a glimmer of light shining from within 
 through the patched and broken panes. 
 
 “No, I’m not!” he cries, with a passionate 
 
 oath. “ Let go o’ my arm. By G-! if you 
 
 don’t-” 
 
 He shakes them forcibly from him, and they 
 
SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 185 
 
 hesitate, somewhat startled by his vehemence; 
 and before they can recover he has gone on and 
 in at one of the narrow entries, and is groping up 
 the dark and rickety stairway. Up, up, to the 
 top landing, and there, pushing open the crazy 
 door, he passes into an unwholesome, grimy, evil¬ 
 smelling room, lighted and made more gruesome 
 by the yellow flare of a smoky candle. 
 
 This is the light that had been dimly visible to 
 him and to the drunken brawlers in the court 
 below; and faint and feeble as it is, it yet had 
 strength to shine down into the secret darkness of 
 his degraded nature, and touch and awaken the 
 one true feeling that still slept within him, and 
 draw him here. Here, into this bare, neglected 
 room, where it shines mistily over the dirty odds 
 and ends of decrepit furniture, and over some sort 
 of tumbled bed in a corner, vaguely revealing the 
 slight outline of a little, little figure lying under 
 the ragged coverings, and on the pillow such a 
 small white face, so thin and sharp, so hollow and 
 sunken, so blighted in every feature by suffering 
 and disease, with all the childish sweetness and 
 simplicity so utterly crushed out of it, that a 
 choking agony gathers blindly/ about the father's 
 heart as he stands and looks upon it. 
 
 He walks unsteadily across the room ; and open¬ 
 ing its heavy eyes, the child sees him and starts 
 up with a strained, quavering cry of pleasure, 
 stretching out its poor wasted arms and, as he 
 drops upon his knees beside it, clasping them 
 eagerly about his neck with a love that has no 
 knowledge or no memory of the meanness or the 
 baseness that has made him the petty gaol-bird 
 that he is. There isn’t another in the world that 
 could kiss his hardened cheek or love him so 
 tenderly, or have such trust in him; and it so 
 touches him that for a moment he cannot speak, 
 and his eyes are blinded with unwonted tears. 
 
1 86 SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 
 
 Then, with an almost womanly tenderness, he 
 lays the little fellow back upon his pillow, and 
 leans over to kiss him with a half-conscious feeling 
 of relief that there is nobody by to see him. 
 
 “ What, Charley, old chap,” he says lightly, 
 affecting to laugh ; “ didn’t expect me to-night, 
 did yer ? ” 
 
 “ No, dad,” the little fellow answers, smiling up 
 at him; “ they said it ’ud be nex’ week, an’ I was 
 afraid whether I wouldn’t see yer no more.” 
 
 “ Not see me no more ? ” echoes the man, trying 
 not to understand. “ Why—what d’yer mean, 
 Charley ? ” 
 
 “ There was a lady corned this morning,” says 
 the child, speaking slowly and with occasional 
 difficulty; “she was a good un’, dad. Fetched 
 me things to eat an’ drink, she did, an’ wanted to 
 take me away somewheres—but a doctor chap as 
 she brought, he said I could not be moved. I 
 heern him tell her arterwards it couldn’t be more 
 nor a day or two. I knowed what he meant. But 
 it—it don’t matter. Yer ain’t cryin’, dad, are yer?” 
 
 “ No,” he says gruffly, and turning his head 
 away as if to look round the room. “Where’s 
 mother ? ” 
 
 “ Mrs. Finigan come for her. I heern her say 
 it was Crissmas, an’ they thought I was asleep 
 an’ went out. I know what Crissmas is, dad ; do 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ The lady was a tellin’ me this mornin’. She 
 give me a picture. She pinned it just here on the 
 wall, so’s I could lie an’ look at it. It’s too dark 
 now, but yer can see it if yer bring the candle, 
 dad.” 
 
 He gets up and quietly brings a candle from the 
 mantelpiece, and shines it on to a gaudy oleograph 
 on the wall which the little chap eagerly points 
 out to him. 
 
SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 187 
 
 The central figure in the picture is a burly, 
 ruddy, fur-coated Santa Claus, carrying a huge 
 bag bursting with wonderful and innumerable 
 toys that are breaking through the sides and 
 protruding from the mouth of it; his pockets are 
 crammed full of them, too, so that the ends of 
 them are sticking out and can’t be pushed in. He 
 is thickly powdered with snow, but laughing all 
 over his jolly face, and coming into a cosy room 
 where two little children lie sleeping. 
 
 “ That’s him, dad. There he is! ” cries Charley, 
 excitedly. “ She told me all about him. His 
 name’s Santy Claws. He comes at Crissmas 
 when you ’re asleep, an’ brings toys and things to 
 children like me.” Then he adds, wistfully : “ She 
 said so, dad. But he never brought me none yet, 
 did he? Reckon he don’t bring ’em to folk like us, 
 eh?” 
 
 The man does not answer; he stands holding 
 the candle above his head and making a pretence 
 of looking closer at the picture. 
 
 “ I said so to her, dad ; an’ she says she’ll bring 
 me some to-morrer, but I told her that ain’t the 
 same. I want him to bring ’em. She read some 
 out of a book to me. It wasn’t about Santy 
 Claws, it was about someone else ; so I says to 
 her read about Santy Claws, but she says it’s the 
 same thing, an’ I asks her, what does that other 
 one bring then ? I didn’t quite make out what it 
 was, but she says it’s better ’un this ’ere one 
 brings. Wonder what it is, dad ? ” 
 
 The man shakes his head gloomily, without 
 answering. 
 
 “ Anyhow,” the little fellow goes on, thought¬ 
 fully glancing at the picture, “ I’d like this one to 
 bring me somethin’. It’s to-night he comes, dad. 
 P’r’aps if he seen a light in our winder, an’ looked 
 in an’ seen me here asleep, he might bring some¬ 
 thin’ in for me, dad, don’t you think ? ” 
 
l88 SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 
 
 The man nods. 
 
 “ Yes,” he answers huskily, “very likely.” 
 
 He walks away, and puts the candle back on 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 “ Say, Charley,” he says, without looking round, 
 “you’d best not talk, old chap. You get to sleep 
 now. Santy Claws won’t come in if he sees 
 you ’re awake, yer know. You go to sleep; I ’m 
 just goin’ to look for mother, see ?” 
 
 “All right, dad,” he cries, cheerily. “Good¬ 
 night ! ” 
 
 The man mutters a “ Good-night,” and, still not 
 turning his head, goes out of the room ; but pauses 
 half-way downstairs, and comes back in a shame¬ 
 faced, hesitating manner, saying he forgot to tuck 
 him up. He kneels beside the child again, pulls 
 the bed-clothes about him, then kisses him 
 hurriedly, without speaking, rises, and hastens 
 straightway down the dark stairs and out into the 
 court. 
 
 For the moment the court is empty, and he 
 lurches furtively out through the gloomy archway 
 into the street beyond. He stops to look along 
 the street at the neighbouring “ Spotted Leopard,” 
 all ablaze with light and roaring with jovial 
 drunken harmony ; then shuffles off in the opposite 
 direction, reeling a little as he goes, but pushing 
 on with the dogged air of a man who knows 
 where he wants to go and means to get there. Up 
 one dingy little back street and down another, till 
 he slackens his pace, and loiters before a small 
 cosmopolitan establishment that is neither a 
 tobacconist’s, a newsagent’s, a sweetstuff shop 
 nor a toyshop, but a combination of all four; and 
 having satisfied himself that there are no 
 customers inside, he pulls himself together and 
 sneaks sheepishly in. 
 
 “What, Mr. Cowles!” exclaims the proprietor, 
 a weazened old man in a black skull-cap, who 
 
SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 1 89 
 
 stands behind the counter; “didn’t expect to see 
 you agen so soon, sir. How are you? Merry 
 Christmas ! ” 
 
 “ Same to you, Mr. Barker.” 
 
 “Thanky. What’s it to be, sir ? ’Baccer?” 
 
 “ No-o. I—I—just wanted some sort of a toy 
 thing, yer see, for the youngster,” Mr. Cowles 
 stammers uncomfortably. 
 
 “ Oh, yeS. Poor little chap! How is he, sir? 
 No better? No? Ah! If he pulls through to 
 the spring, you never know, they picks up won¬ 
 derful in the spring sometimes. Take a look 
 round, Mr. Cowles — drums, trumpets, horses, 
 carts—take a look round.” 
 
 Mr. Cowles does take a look round, and if he is 
 aware that the proprietor is narrowly watching 
 his movements all the while, he probably respects 
 him all the more, as a man who knows how to 
 mind his own business. 
 
 But birds and beasts and musical instruments 
 make no impression on Mr. Cowles to-night; what 
 does attract him is a sturdy wooden soldier, 
 wearing a red tunic and a fur hat, and a pair of 
 trousers that are as natural a military fit as if they 
 had been made by contract, with a liberal allow¬ 
 ance of boots painted on his feet, and a mechanical 
 exclamation inside him which he emits every time 
 you press his stomach as if he is shocked and 
 indignant at your taking such a liberty with him. 
 
 “ How much this soldier, Mr. Barker ? ” 
 
 “That soldier? Fourpence, sir,” Mr. Barker 
 briskly makes answer. 
 
 But when Mr. Cowles moodily searches through 
 his pockets he finds that he has only got three¬ 
 pence. 
 
 “ Honour bright, Mr, Barker,” he adds, ear¬ 
 nestly ; “ I ’ll bring you the other penny to-morrer.” 
 
 Mr. Barker hesitates, for his business is almost 
 necessarily a ready-money or a no-money-at-all one. 
 
igo SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 
 
 “Well,” he says at length, “you can have it. 
 I don’t think you’ll have any humbug with me 
 over-” 
 
 Mr. Cowles swears a lurid oath that he will not, 
 pays his threepence, and carries the soldier away 
 buttoned up under his coat. He slouches heavily 
 along, meeting nobody until he reaches the very 
 entrance to the court, and there he comes plump 
 upon a solemnly drunken deputation that is on 
 its way to look for him. 
 
 “ Why here he is! Where are yer bin to, Tom ? ” 
 they demand. “Your missus went to fetch yer 
 an’ she ain’t come back.” 
 
 “ I’m just going up to see if the kid’s all right,” 
 says Mr. Cowles, nervously, “an’ then I’ll come 
 on round to you.” 
 
 “He’s all ri’. Your missus is up there with 
 him. Don’t want two on yer. Come on ! ” 
 
 They get him amongst them, persuading, lead¬ 
 ing, and dragging him, and he is ashamed to 
 refuse any longer, but consoles himself with the 
 reflection that he has got the soldier all right, and 
 will be home in plenty of time to put him on 
 Charley’s pillow, so that he may find him there 
 when he wakes. 
 
 There is a large circle of Mr. Cowles’ friends, 
 however, awaiting him in the “ Spotted Leopard’s” 
 retail department, and as each separate friend 
 feels it is essential that Mr. Cowles should have at 
 least one separate drink with him at his expense, 
 it is not very long before he has forgotten all 
 about his depression, has obliged the company 
 with a comic song, and assisted in the execution 
 of choruses to quite an extensive variety of songs, 
 sentimental and otherwise ; and finally becomes so 
 hilarious that he produces the wooden soldier 
 from under his coat and squeezes his exclamation 
 out of him for the general entertainment. This 
 performance is received with shrieks of laughter : 
 
SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. igi 
 
 the soldier is in great request immediately; he is 
 handed round and invited to drink, and gets a 
 great deal of beer spilt over him. His exclama¬ 
 tion is so much sought after, is knocked out of 
 him on the edge of the counter, pressed, bumped, 
 and hammered out of him in such various and 
 violent ways, that when he comes back to Mr. 
 Cowles again he has lost his fur cap and one leg, 
 and is, on the whole, in a highly disreputable con¬ 
 dition, with not so much as a wheeze in him 
 where his voice used to be. 
 
 Mr. Cowles pays very little heed to the shattered 
 state of his constitution, but buttons him up under 
 his coat again, and is favouring an appreciative 
 audience with another melody, when closing time 
 arrives, and they are all politely and firmly dis¬ 
 missed and bolted out. 
 
 They go straggling away in twos and threes, 
 each gravitating with more or less of certainty 
 towards the place he calls home ; and when he 
 has found his, Mr. Cowles experiences considerable 
 difficulty in getting up all the stairs to his own 
 room. He slips down once or twice during the 
 ascent, and sleepily speculates on the advisability 
 of lying where he has fallen until morning, but a 
 hazy sense of having a duty to fulfil in connection 
 with the soldier urges him to a further effort, and 
 he finally accomplishes the journey on all fours, 
 rises carefully to his feet on the top landing, and 
 gropes his way into the room, where the candle 
 has burnt low, and is flaring dismally with a long, 
 smoking wick. 
 
 He steadies himself across the room and dimly 
 distinguishes the outline of little Charley asleep 
 in his bed, and a bulkier outline on a rough bed in 
 another corner, which he decides must be the out¬ 
 line of Mrs. Cowles; then sinking into a chair, he 
 fumbles inside his coat for the soldier, but that 
 warrior has gone. He unbuttons the coat that his 
 
192 
 
 SANTA CLAUS IN ST. GILES’S. 
 
 eyes may corroborate his hands, and there is no 
 doubt of it, the soldier has been lost. 
 
 He reflects about it dreamily, trying to remember 
 whether he left it behind at the “ Spotted Leopard,” 
 wondering whether it dropped out in the street, or 
 as he was coming upstairs ; then—then—then- 
 
 He starts up suddenly, just in time to save him¬ 
 self from tumbling headlong off the chair; is 
 settling himself comfortably again, when it occurs 
 to him that it is daylight. He re-opens his eyes, 
 glares drowsily about him, sees the chilly sunshine 
 gleaming on the window, and instantly some 
 recollection of the soldier, a remorseful feeling 
 that Charley will have awakened and found that 
 “ Santy Claws ” has not brought him anything, 
 rushes in upon him, and arouses him. 
 
 He turns quickly and looks down. The child is 
 not awake yet. A stray slant of sunshine rests 
 upon his quiet face, but—my God ! there is a look 
 upon that face that brings the man instantly down 
 upon his knees beside it with a gasping, inarticu¬ 
 late cry, such as might come from some dumb 
 animal in agony. 
 
 “ Charley ! Charley ! ” 
 
 Down on his knees beside him with the tears of 
 unutterable anguish welling into his bloodshot 
 eyes, and a wild yearning of regret and self- 
 reproach surging within him, and breaking into a 
 wail of ineffable tenderness. 
 
 “ Charley ! Charley ! ” 
 
 But the good Santa Claus had come to the little 
 fellow while he was sleeping, and brought him 
 that gift which is as far above any earthly gift as 
 heaven itself is above earth. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 / 
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUHLISHF.R. 
 
RARE BOOK 
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 PR6001 
 
 .D3