emotions. Your brother has always seemed to me not sufficiently
susceptible. Supposing I were to lend you a book of my favourite
poetry, and you were to read to him, and endeavour to excite an
interest in him for higher and better things--who knows?"
Miriam had no special professional acquaintance with the theory of
salvation, but she instinctively felt that a love of drink was not to
be put down by the "Keepsake" in red silk.
She was still silent. At last she said--"I am much obliged to you,
aunt; I will take anything you may like to lend. You have a good deal
of influence, doubtless, over uncle. If you can persuade him to say
what he can in case application is made to him for a character, I shall
think it very kind of you."
"My dear Miriam, I have no influence over your uncle. His is not a
nature upon which I can exert myself. I think some pieces in this
would be suitable;" and Mrs. Dabb offered Miriam a volume of Mrs.
Hemans' works.
Miriam took it, and bade her aunt good-bye.
She was now face to face with a great trouble, and she had to encounter
it alone, and with no weapons and with no armour save those which
Nature provides. She was not specially an exile from civilisation;
churches and philosophers had striven and demonstrated for thousands of
years, and yet she was no better protected than if Socrates, Epictetus,
and all ecclesiastical establishments from the time of Moses had never
existed.
She did not lecture her brother, for she had no materials for a sermon.
She called him a fool when she came home; and having said this, she had
nothing more to say, except to ask him bitterly what he meant to do.
What could he do?--a poor, helpless, weak creature, half a stranger in
London; and without expostulating with her for her roughness with him,
he sat still and cried. It was useless to think of obtaining a
situation like the one he had lost. He could prove no experience, he
dared not refer to his uncle, and consequently there was nothing before
him but a return to clockmaking, or rather clock repairing. Here
again, however, he was foiled, for his apprenticeship was barely
concluded, and he had never taken to the business with sufficient
seriousness to become proficient. After one or two inquiries,
therefore, he found that in this department also he was useless.
The affection of Miriam for her brother, never very strong, was not
increased by his ill-luck. She began, in fact, to dislike him because
he was unfortunate. She imagined that her dislike was due to his
faults, and every now and then she abused him for them; but his faults
would have been forgotten if he had been prosperous. She hated misery,
and not only misery in the abstract, but miserable weak creatures. She
was ready enough, as we have seen, to right a wrong, especially if the
wrong was championed by those whom she despised; but for simple
infirmity, at least in human beings, she had no more mercy than the
wild animals which destroy any one of their tribe whom they find
disabled. There was more than a chance, too, that Andrew would
interfere with her own happiness. If he could not get anything to do,
they must leave London, for living on the allowance from Cowfold was
impossible. Reproof, when it is mixed with personal hostility,
although the person reproving and the person reproved may be
unconscious of it, is never persuasive; and as a tendency to whisky and
water requires a very powerful antidote, it is not surprising that
Andrew grew rather worse than better.
One evening Montgomery called. He had come to ask them both to the
hall. He was in a very quiet, rational humour, for he had not as yet
had his threepennyworth. Andrew had been out all day, had come home
none the better for his excursion, and had gone to bed.
"Your brother not at home?"
"Yes; but he is not very well, and is upstairs."
"I've brought you a couple of tickets for next week. I hope you will
be able to go; that is to say, if you were not disgusted when you were
last there."
"Disgusted! I am afraid, Mr. Montgomery, you have a very poor opinion
of my 'gusts' and disgusts."
It was unfortunate for Miriam that she had no work before her, such as
sewing or knitting. She abominated it; but in conversation, especially
between a man and a woman who find themselves alone, it is useful. It
not only relieves awkwardness, but it prevents too much edge and
directness during the interview.
"Well, you might reasonably have been offended with both the songs and
the company."
"Neither. As to the company, I did not see much of it, thanks to your
kindness in getting us such a good place; and as to the songs, to say
nothing of the way in which they were sung, there was a
straight-forwardness about them that I liked.
"I don't quite know what you mean."
"Well," said Miriam, with a little laugh, which was not exactly the
light effervescence of gaiety, "your people, if they love one another,
say so outright, without any roundaboutness."
Mr. Montgomery was puzzled. He did not quite know what to make out of
this girl. There was something in her way of speaking and in her
frankness which offered itself to him, and yet again there was
something which stopped him from attempting any liberties. She did not
classify herself in any of the species with which he was familiar.
At last he said--"You object, then, to all roundaboutness in such
matters."
"Well, yes; but perhaps I might be misunderstood. I should like people
to be plain both ways, about their dislikes as well as their likes."
"Good gracious me, Miss Tacchi, what a pretty world you would live in.
There would be no fun in it. Half the amusement of life consists in
trying to find out what we really think of one another underneath all
our fine speeches."
"I would rather amuse myself in some other way. I have often dreamt of
an island in which everybody should say exactly what was in his mind.
Of course it would be very shocking, but I do really believe that in
the end we should be happier. It would be delightful to me if my
cousins were to tell me, 'We hate you--you are dirty, disagreeable, and
ugly; and we do not intend to call upon you any more.' For mind,
people would then believe in expressions of affection. They do not
believe in them now."
"Yes; your island would be all very well for attractive young women,
but what would it be for poor devils such as I am. I _know_ that
nobody can care twopence for me, but the illusion of politeness is
pleasant. It is a wonderful thing how we enjoy being cheated, though
we know we are cheated. A man will give a cabman sixpence more than
his fare for the humbug of a compliment, and I confess that if people
were to say to my face what I am certain they say behind my back, I
should hang myself. Illusion, delusion--delusion, illusion," he hummed
it as if it were the refrain of a ballad; "it is nothing but that from
the day we are born till the day we die, and the older we become the
more preposterously are we deluded, until at last--but the Lord--to
think of preaching," and he laughed--"you must have made me do it;" and
he rose and played with his favourite toys, the wax apples, pitching
them up to the ceiling alternately and catching them in one hand. "I
must be off."
Miriam did not appear to take any notice,
"Pray," said he, "if you lived in this island of which you dream, would
you tell me you hated me? I am beginning to be rather nervous."
"We are not living in it just yet."
"But in one just as disagreeable, for it is pouring with rain."
Miriam gave a sudden start. She unconsciously looked that the
conversation would prolong itself in the same interior strain.
Reference to the outside world was impossible to her just then, and
that Mr. Montgomery was capable of it was a shock like that of cold
water. She came to herself, and went to the window.
"Must you go out in this storm?"
"Must; and what is more, I haven't got a minute to spare. I may take
it for granted, then, you and Andrew will come."
"Yes, certainly."
He hastily put on his coat; shook hands--nothing more--and was off.
Miriam ran upstairs into her bedroom, went to the little box in which
she kept her treasures, unlocked it, took out the little note--the only
note she had ever had from him--read it again and again, and then tore
it into twenty pieces, each one of which she picked up and tried to put
together. She then threw herself on the bed, and for the first time in
her life was overcome with hysterical tears. She dared not confess to
herself what she wanted. She would have liked to cast herself at his
feet; but notwithstanding her disbelief in form and ceremony, she could
not do it. She cursed the check which had held her so straitly while
she was talking with him, and cursed him that he dealt with her so
lightly. The continued sobbing at last took the heat out of her, and
she rose from her bed, collected the pieces of the note, went
downstairs, and put them one by one deliberately in the fire.
It was time now that they should seriously consider how they stood.
Andrew had nothing to do, and the wages paid him in advance were nearly
exhausted. They decided that they would move into cheaper lodgings.
They had some difficulty in finding any that were decent but they
obtained three miserable rooms at the top of a house occupied by a man
who sold firewood and potatoes in one of the streets running out of the
Blackfriars Road. They left Miss Tippit without bidding her good-bye,
for she was still unwell, and in bed. They actually began to know what
poverty was, but Miriam as yet did not feel its approach. There were
thoughts and hopes in her which protected her against all apprehension
of the future, although the cloud into which they must almost
inevitably enter was so immediately in front of her.
The evening came on which she and Andrew were to go to the hall, but
Andrew had gone out early to look for some employment, and had not
returned. Miriam's hatred rose again, and again assumed an outward
garb of the purest virtue. She sat for some time in rapid debate with
herself as to what she dare do. Even she recoiled a little from going
to a music hall without her brother, but passion prevailed. She did
not simply determine to go knowing it to be wrong, but with great
earnestness demonstrated to herself that she was right; and then, as a
kind of sop to any lingering suspicions, left a note on the mantelpiece
for Andrew, upbraiding him for delay, and directing him to follow. No
Andrew appeared. She now began to feel how strange her position was.
She might easily before she started have conjectured that Andrew might
fail, and might have pictured to herself how difficult and awkward it
would be to sit there throughout the evening alone and return alone;
but she did not possess the faculty of picturing uncertainties any
distance ahead, although the present was generally so vivid. She could
never say to herself: "Probably this arrangement now proposed will
break down, and if it does; I shall stand in such and such a situation;
what, in that situation, ought I to do?" She had, in fact, no
strategical faculty--certainly none when temptation was strong. She
dreaded turning out into the street with the rough crowd, and she
wondered if Montgomery would come to her assistance. The audience
gradually departed; she was nearly the last, and she determined that
she would walk round to the door by which she knew Montgomery usually
left, and try to encounter him casually. She paced up and down a few
moments, and he met her. He was much surprised, and she, with some
excitement, explained to him that she had left home a little before
Andrew, expecting him to overtake her, but that she had seen nothing of
him.
"Of course you will let me accompany you to your lodgings?"
"Thank you; it is very kind of you."
She took the arm he offered her. She thought she detected he was a
little unsteady, and after a word or two he became silent.
She was not particularly well acquainted with the district round the
hall, but she soon perceived that they were not on the straight road
for her house.
"Is this our nearest way?" she asked.
"No, I can't say it is; but I thought you would not object to just a
turn round. It's a lovely night--a lovely night!"
Presently they came into a very shabby street, and he stopped. The
cold air had begun to upset him a little.
"These are my quarters," he stammered. "I'm rather tired, and I should
think you must be tired too. Just come in for a moment and have
something, and then we will go on."
"Oh no, thank you," said Miriam, who was becoming alarmed. "I must go
back at once."
"Won't you come? Do come; just a moment."
But Miriam steadfastly refused.
"Nonsense, come in just for a second till I----" and he used some
little force to compel her. She looked round, and without any mental
process of which she was conscious determining her to action, instantly
slipped from him, and ran with furious haste. She inquired her way of
a policeman, but otherwise she saw nothing, thought nothing, and heard
nothing till she was at her own door. She opened it softly--it was
late; she went into their little parlour, and there lay Andrew on the
floor. He had fallen against the fender, his head was cut open, and he
was senseless. A half empty whisky bottle told the rest of the story.
There was nobody stirring--her landlord and landlady were strangers; if
she called them, and they saw what was the matter, she might have
summary notice to quit. What was she to do? She took some cold water,
washed his face, unfastened his neckcloth, and sat down. She imagined
it was nothing but intoxication, and that in a few hours at most he
would recover. So she remained through the dreadful night hearing
every quarter strike, hearing chance noises in the general quietude, a
drunken man, a belated cart, and worse than anything, the slow
awakening between four and five, the whistle of some early workman who
has to light the engine fire or get the factory ready for starting at
six--sounds which remind the sleepless watcher that happiness after
rest is abroad.
She hid the whisky bottle and glass; and as her brother showed no signs
of recovery, she went to seek advice and help as soon as she heard
somebody stirring. The woman of the house, not a bad kind of woman,
although Miriam had feared her so much, came upstairs instantly.
Andrew was lifted on the bed, and a messenger was despatched for the
doctor. Miriam recognised him at once: he was the doctor who had asked
her to stay with Miss Tippit. He said there was concussion of the
brain--that the patient must be kept quiet, and watched night and day.
To her surprise, her landlady instantly offered to share the duty with
her. A rude, stout, hard person she was, who stood in the shop all day
long, winter and summer, amidst the potatoes and firewood, with a
woollen shawl round her neck and over her shoulders. A rude, stout,
hard person, we say, was Mrs. Joll, fond of her beer, rather grimy,
given to quarrel a little with her husband, could use strong language
at times, had the defects which might be supposed to arise from
constant traffic with the inhabitants of the Borough, and was utterly
unintelligent so far as book learning went. Nevertheless she was well
read in departments more important perhaps than books in the conduct of
human life, and in her there was the one thing needful--the one thing
which, if ever there is to be a Judgment Day, will put her on the right
hand; when all sorts of scientific people, religious people, students
of poetry, people with exquisite emotions, will go on the left and be
damned everlastingly. Miriam was at once sent to bed, and it was
arranged that she should take charge during the following night.
Afterwards the night duty was to fall equally between them. She was so
shut up in herself that she did not recognise the full value of Mrs.
Joll's self-sacrifice, but she did manage to express her thanks, and
ask how Mrs. Joll could leave the business.
"That's nothing to you, Miss; my gal Maud has a head on her shoulders,
and can keep an eye on the place downstairs. Besides, I've allus found
that at a pinch things will bear a lot of squeezing. I remember when
my good man were laid up with the low fever for six weeks, and I had a
baby a month old, I thought to myself as I should be beaten; but Lord,
I was young then, and didn't know how much squeezing things will take,
and I just squeezed through somehow."
"He ain't very strong, is he?" continued Mrs. Joll. "I don't mean in
his constitution, but here," and she tapped her head. "Likes a drop or
two now and then?"
Miriam was silent.
"Ah! well, as I said about Joll's brother when I was a-nussing of
him--he was rather a bad lot--it's nothing to me when people are ill
what they are. Besides; there ain't so much difference 'twixt any of
us."
The night came. Miriam rose and went down to her brother's room. She
tried to read, but she could not, and her thoughts were incessantly
occupied with her own troubles. Andrew lay stretched before her--he
might be dying for aught she knew; and yet the prospect of his death
disturbed her only so far as it interfered with herself. Montgomery
was for ever in her mind. What was he that he should set the soul of
this girl alight! He was nothing, but she was something, and he had by
some curious and altogether unaccountable quality managed to wake her
slumbering forces.
She was in love with him, but it was not desire alone which had tired
her, and made her pace up and down Andrew's sick chamber. Thousands of
men with the blackest hair, the most piercing eyes, might have passed
before her, and she would have remained unmoved. Neither was it love
as some select souls understand it. She did not know what it was which
stirred her; she was hungry, mad, she could not tell why. Nobody could
have predicted beforehand that Montgomery was the man to act upon this
girl so miraculously--nobody could tell, seeing the two together, what
it was in him which specially excited her--nobody who has made men and
women, his study would have wasted much time in the inquiry, knowing
that the affinities, attractions, and repulsions of men and women are
beyond all our science.
Brutally selfish is love, although so heroically self-sacrificing.
Miriam thought that if Andrew had not been such an idiot, the
relationship with Montgomery might have remained undisturbed. He might
still have continued to call, but how could she see him now? The
sufferer lay there unconscious, pleading for pity, as everything
lifeless or unconscious seems to plead--no dead dog in a kennel fails
to be tragic; but Miriam actually hated her brother, and cursed him in
her heart as a stone over which she had stumbled in the pursuit; of
something madly coveted but flying before her.
It was midnight. She went to the window and looked out. The
public-houses were being closed, and intoxicated or half-intoxicated
persons were groping their way homewards. Suddenly she caught sight of
one man whom she thought she recognised. He was with a woman, and his
arm was round her waist. Softly she opened the window, and as it was
only one story high, she caught a full view of him as he came under the
gaslight. It was Montgomery beyond a doubt. He reeled just a trifle,
and slowly disappeared in the gloom. The moment he had passed she was
not quite sure it was he. She went downstairs in the dark, having
taken off her shoes to prevent any noise. She put on her shoes again,
drew back the bolts softly, left the door upon the latch, and crept out
into the street. Swiftly she walked, and in a few moments she was
within half-a-dozen yards of those whom she followed. She could not
help being sure now. She continued on their track, her whole existence
absorbed in one single burning point, until she saw the pair disappear
into a house which she did not know. She stood stock still, till a
policeman was close upon her, and roused her from her reverie; and then
hardly knowing what she was doing, she went home, and returned to her
room. Every interest which she had in life had been allowed to die
under the shadow of this one. Every thought had taken one
direction--everything had been bitter or sweet by reference to one
object alone; and this gone, there followed utter collapse. She had no
friends, and probably if she had known any they would have been of
little use to her, for hers was a nature requiring comfort of a
stronger kind than that which most friends can supply. It was
unfortunate, and yet she was spared that aggravation of torture which
is inflicted by people who offer vague commonplaces, or what they call
"hopes;" she was spared also that savage disappointment to which many
are doomed who in their trouble find that all philosophy fails them,
and the books on their shelves look so impotent, so beside the mark,
that they narrowly escape being pitched into the fire.
Andrew began to recover slowly, but he could do no work, and Miriam had
to think about some employment for herself in order to prevent deeper
immersion in debt. It was very difficult to find anything for a girl
who had been brought up to no trade; but at last, through the kindness
of her landlady, she obtained second-hand an introduction to the
manager of an immense drapery firm which did a large business through
circulars sent all over the country. Miriam was employed in addressing
the circulars. It was work which she could do at home, and by writing
incessantly for about seven hours a day she could earn twelve shillings
a week. The occupation was detestable, and it was with the greatest
difficulty that she could persevere with it; but after some time it
ceased to be quite so repulsive.
Her relief, however, was the relief of stupefaction and not of
reconciliation. Sorrow took the form of revolt. It had always been so
with her whenever anything was the matter with her: it was the sense of
wrong which made it so intolerable. What had she done, she said to
herself a hundred times a day, that she should have been betrayed into
wretched poverty, that she should have been deserted, and that her
fortunes should have been linked with those of an imbecile brother.
Andrew was still very weak--he could hardly speak; and as he lay there
impassive, Miriam's hatred of his silent white face increased. She had
too much self-control to express herself; but at times she was almost
on the point of breaking out, of storming at him, and asking him
whether he had no pity for her. One night, as she sat brooding at the
window, and her trouble seemed almost too much for her, and she thought
she must give way under it, a barrel organ stopped and began playing a
melody from an opera by Verdi. The lovely air wound its way into
Miriam's heart; but it did not console her. It only increased her
self-sympathy. She listened till she could listen no longer, and
putting her hands over her ears she rested her head upon the table, and
was overcome with unconquerable emotion. Poor Andrew stared at her,
utterly incapable of comprehending the scene. When she had recovered,
he quietly asked her what was the matter.