It is probable that there is not in all the wide world a man--no matter
how depraved, or ill-favoured, or unattractive--who cannot find some
sympathetic soul, some one who will be glad to see him and find more or
less pleasure in his society. Coarse in body and mind though Philip
Sparks was, there dwelt a young woman, in one of the poorest of the poor
streets in the neighbourhood of Thames Street, who loved him, and would
have laid down her life for him.
To do Martha Reading justice, she had fallen in love with Sparks before
intemperance had rendered his countenance repulsive and his conduct
brutal. When, perceiving the power he had over her, he was mean enough
to borrow and squander the slender gains she made by the laborious work
of dress-making--compared to which coal-heaving must be mere child's
play--she experienced a change in her feelings towards him, which she
could not easily understand or define. Her thoughts of him were mingled
with intense regrets and anxieties, and she looked forward to his visits
with alarm. Yet those thoughts were not the result of dying affection;
she felt quite certain of that, having learned from experience that,
"many waters cannot quench love."
One evening, about eight o'clock, Phil Sparks, having prosecuted his
"business" up to that hour without success, tapped at the door of
Martha's garret and entered without waiting for permission; indeed, his
tapping at all was a rather unwonted piece of politeness.
"Come in, Phil," said Martha, rising and shaking hands, after which she
resumed her work.
"You seem busy to-night," remarked Sparks, sitting down on a broken
chair beside the fireless grate, and taking out his bosom companion, a
short black pipe, which he began to fill.
"I am always busy," said Martha, with a sigh.
"An' it don't seem to agree with you, to judge from your looks,"
rejoined the man.
This was true. The poor girl's pretty face was thin and very pale and
haggard.
"I was up all last night," she said, "and feel tired now, and there's
not much chance of my getting to bed to-night either, because the lady
for whom I am making this must have it by to-morrow afternoon at
latest."
Here Mr Sparks muttered something very like a malediction on ladies in
general, and on ladies who "_must_" have dresses in particular.
"Your fire's dead out, Martha," he added, poking among the ashes in
search of a live ember.
"Yes, Phil, it's out. I can't afford fire of an evening; besides it
ain't cold just now."
"You can afford matches, I suppose," growled Phil; "ah, here they are.
Useful things matches, not only for lightin' a feller's pipe with, but
also for--well; so she _must_ have it by to-morrow afternoon, must she?"
"Yes, so my employer tells me."
"An' she'll not take no denial, won't she?"
"I believe not," replied Martha, with a faint smile, which, like a gleam
of sunshine on a dark landscape, gave indication of the brightness that
might have been if grey clouds of sorrow had not overspread her sky.
"What's the lady's name, Martha?"
"Middleton."
"And w'ere abouts may she live?"
"In Conway Street, Knightsbridge."
"The number?"
"Number 6, I believe; but why are you so particular in your inquiries
about her?" said Martha, looking up for a moment from her work, while
the faint gleam of sunshine again flitted over her face.
"Why, you see, Martha," replied Phil, gazing through the smoke of his
pipe with a sinister smile, "it makes a feller feel koorious to hear the
partiklers about a lady wot _must_ have things, an' won't take no
denial! If I was you, now, I'd disappoint her, an' see how she'd take
it."
He wound up his remark, which was made in a bantering tone, with another
malediction, which was earnest enough--savagely so.
"Oh! Phil," cried the girl, in an earnest tone of entreaty; "don't, oh,
don't swear so. It is awful to think that God hears you, is near you--
at your very elbow--while you thus insult Him to his face."
The man made no reply, but smoked with increasing intensity, while he
frowned at the empty fire-place.
"Well, Martha," he said, after a prolonged silence, "I've got work at
last."
"Have you?" cried the girl, with a look of interest.
"Yes; it ain't much to boast of, to be sure, but it pays, and, as it
ties me to nothin' an' nobody, it suits my taste well. I'm wot you may
call a appendage o' the fire-brigade. I hangs about the streets till I
sees a fire, w'en, off I goes full split to the nearest fire-station,
calls out the engine, and gits the reward for bein' first to give the
alarm."
"Indeed," said Martha, whose face, which had kindled up at first with
pleasure, assumed a somewhat disappointed look; "I--I fear you won't
make much by that, Phil?"
"You don't seem to make much by that," retorted Phil, pointing with the
bowl of his pipe to the dress which lay in her lap and streamed in a
profusion of rich folds down to the floor.
"Not much," assented Martha, with a sigh. "Well, then," continued Phil,
re-lighting his pipe, and pausing occasionally in his remarks to admire
the bowl, "that bein' so, you and I are much in the same fix, so if we
unites our small incomes, of course that'll make 'em just double the
size."
"Phil," said Martha, in a lower voice, as she let her hands and the work
on which they were engaged fall on her lap, "I think, now, that it will
never be."
"What'll never be?" demanded the man rudely, looking at the girl in
surprise.
"Our marriage."
"What! are you going to jilt me?"
"Heaven forbid," said Martha, earnestly. "But you and I are not as we
once were, Phil, we differ on many points. I feel sure that our union
would make us more miserable than we are."
"Come, come," cried the man, half in jest and half in earnest. "This
kind of thing will never do. You mustn't joke about that, old girl,
else I'll have you up for breach of promise."
Mr Sparks rose as he spoke, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it
in his waistcoat pocket, and prepared to go.
"Martha," he said, "I'm goin' off now to attend to my business, but I
haven't made a rap yet to-day, and its hard working on a empty stomach,
so I just looked in to light my pipe, and enquire if you hadn't got a
shillin' about you, eh!"
The girl looked troubled.
"Oh, very well," cried Sparks, with an offended air, "if you don't
_want_ to accommodate me, never mind, I can get it elsewhere."
"Stop!" cried Martha, taking a leathern purse from her pocket.
"Well, it _would_ have been rather hard," he said, returning and holding
out his hand.
"There, take it," said Martha, "You shouldn't judge too quickly. You
don't know _why_ I looked put out. It is my--"