DISINHERITED
When Thyrza left the two at tea and went downstairs, she knocked at the
door of the front parlour on the ground floor. The room which she
entered was but dimly lighted; thick curtains encroached upon each side
of the narrow window, which was also shadowed above by a valance with
long tassels, whilst in front of it stood a table with a great pot of
flowering musk. The atmosphere was close; with the odour of the plant
blended the musty air which comes from old and neglected furniture.
Mrs. Grail, Gilbert Grail's mother, was an old lady with an unusual
dislike for the upset of household cleaning, and as her son's
prejudice, like that of most men, tended in the same direction, this
sitting-room, which they used in common, had known little disturbance
since they entered it a year and a half ago. Formerly they had occupied
a house in Battersea; it was given up on the death of Gilbert's sister,
and these lodgings taken in Walnut Tree Walk.
A prominent object in the room was a bookcase, some six feet high,
quite full of books, most of them of shabby exterior. They were
Gilbert's purchases at second-hand stalls during the past fifteen
years. Their variety indicated a mind of liberal intelligence. Works of
history and biography predominated, but poetry and fiction were also
represented on the shelves. Odd volumes of expensive publications
looked forth plaintively here and there, and many periodical issues
stood unbound.
Another case, a small one with glass doors, contained literature of
another order--some thirty volumes which had belonged to Gilbert's
father, and were now his mother's peculiar study. They were
translations of sundry works of Swedenborg, and productions put forth
by the Church of the New Jerusalem. Mrs. Grail was a member of that
church. She occasionally visited a meeting-place in Brixton, but for
the most part was satisfied with conning the treatises of the mystic,
by preference that on 'Heaven and Hell,' which she read in the first
English edition, an old copy in boards, much worn.
She was a smooth-faced, gentle-mannered woman, not without dignity as
she rose to receive Thyrza and guided her to a comfortable seat. Her
voice was habitually subdued to the limit of audibleness; she spoke
with precision, and in language very free from vulgarisms either of
thought or phrase. Her taste had always been for a home-keeping life;
she dreaded gossipers, and only left the house when it was absolutely
necessary, then going forth closely veiled. With the landlady she held
no more intercourse than arose from the weekly payment of rent; the
other lodgers in the house only saw her by chance on rare occasions.
Her son left home and returned with much regularity, he also seeming to
desire privacy above all things. Mrs. Jarmey had at first been disposed
to take this reserve somewhat ill. When she knocked at Mrs. Grail's
door on some paltry excuse for seeing the inside of the room, and found
that the old lady exchanged brief words with her on the threshold, she
wondered who these people might be who thought themselves too good for
wonted neighbourship. In time, however, her feeling changed, and she
gave everybody to understand that her ground-floor lodgers were of the
highest respectability, inmates such as did not fall to the lot of
every landlady.
Gilbert was surprised when, of her own motion, his mother made
overtures to the sisters who lived at the top of the house. Neither
Lydia nor Thyrza was at first disposed to respond very warmly; they
agreed that the old lady was doubtless very respectable, but, at the
same time, decidedly queer in her way of speaking. But during the past
few months they had overcome this reluctance, and were now on a certain
footing of intimacy with Mrs. Grail, who made it no secret that she
took great interest in Thyrza. Thyrza always entered the sitting-room
with a feeling of awe. The dim light, the old lady's low voice, above
all, the books--in her eyes a remarkable library--impressed her
strongly. If Grail himself were present, he was invariably reading;
Thyrza held him profoundly learned, a judgment confirmed by his
mother's way of speaking of him. For Mrs. Grail regarded her son with
distinct reverence. He, in turn, was tenderly respectful to her; they
did not know what it was to exchange an unkind or an impatient word.
Thyrza liked especially to have tea here on Sunday. The appointments of
the table seemed to her luxurious, for the tea-service was uniform and
of pretty, old-fashioned pattern, and simple little dainties of a kind
new to her were generally forthcoming. Moreover, from her entrance to
her leave-taking, she was flattered by the pleasantest attentions. The
only other table at which she sometimes sat as a guest was Mrs.
Bower's; between the shopkeeper's gross good-nature and the
well-mannered kindness of Mrs. Grail there was a broad distinction, and
Thyrza was very ready to appreciate it. For she was sensible of
refinements; numberless little personal delicacies distinguished her
from the average girl of her class, and even from Lydia. The meals
which she and her sister took in their own room might be ever so poor;
they were always served with a modest grace which perhaps would not
have marked them if it had depended upon Lydia alone. In this respect,
as in many others, Thyrza had repaid her sister's devotion with subtle
influences tending to a comely life.
Once, when she had gone down alone to have tea, she said to Lydia on
her return. 'Downstairs they treat me as if I was a lady,' and it was
spoken with the simple satisfaction which was one of her charming
traits.
Till quite lately Gilbert had scarcely conversed with her at all. When
he broke his habitual silence he addressed himself to Lydia; if he did
speak to the younger girl it was with studied courtesy and kindness,
but he seemed unable to overcome a sort of shyness with which she had
troubled him since the beginning of their acquaintance. It was
noticeable in his manner this evening when he shook hands with a
murmured word or two. Thyrza, however, appeared a little less timid
than usual; she just met his look, and in a questioning way which he
could not understand at the time. The truth was, Thyrza wondered
whether he had heard of her escapade of the night before; she tried to
read his expression, searching for any hint of disapproval.
The easy chair was always given to her when she entered. So seldom she
sat on anything easier than the stiff cane-bottomed seats of her own
room that this always seemed luxurious. By degrees she had permitted
herself to lean back in it. She did so want Lyddy to know what it was
like to sit in that chair; but it had never yet been possible to effect
an exchange. It might have offended Mrs. Grail, a thing on no account
to be risked.
'Lyddy has Mary Bower to tea,' she said on her arrival this evening.
'They're going to chapel. You don't mind me coming alone, Mrs. Grail?'
'You're never anything but welcome, my dear,' murmured the old lady,
pressing the little hand in both her own.
Tea was soon ready. Mrs. Grail talked with pleasant continuousness, as
usual. She had fallen upon reminiscences, and spoke of Lambeth as she
had known it when a girl; it was her birthplace, and through life she
had never strayed far away. She regarded the growth of population, the
crowding of mean houses where open spaces used to be, the whole change
of times in fact, as deplorable. One would have fancied from her
descriptions that the Lambeth of sixty years ago was a delightful
rustic village.
After tea Thyrza resumed the low chair and folded her hands, full of
contentment. Mrs. Grail took the tea-things from the room and was
absent about a quarter of an hour. Thyrza, left alone with the man who
for her embodied so many mysteries, let her eyes stray over the
bookshelves. She felt it very unlikely that any book there would be
within the compass of her understanding; doubtless they dealt with the
secrets of learning--the strange, high things for which her awed
imagination had no name. Gilbert had seated himself in a shadowed
corner; his face was bent downwards. Just when Thyrza was about to put
some timid question with regard to the books, he looked at her and said:
'Do you ever go to Westminster Abbey?'
The intellectual hunger of his face was softened; he did not smile, but
kept a mild gravity of expression which showed that he had a pleasure
in the girl's proximity. When he had spoken he stroked his forehead
with the tips of his fingers, a nervous action.
'I've never been inside,' Thyrza made answer. 'What is there to see?'
'It's the place, you know, where great men have been buried for
hundreds of years. I should like, if I could, to spend a little time
there every day.'
'Can you see the graves?' Thyrza asked.
'Yes, many. And on the stones you read who they were that lie there.
There are the graves of kings, and of men much greater than kings.'
'Greater than kings! Who were they, Mr. Grail?'
She had rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, and her fingers just
touched her chin. She regarded him with a gaze of deep curiosity.
'Men who wrote books,' he answered, with a slight smile.
Thyrza dropped her eyes. In her thought of books it had never occurred
to her that any special interest could attach to the people who wrote
them; indeed, she had perhaps never asked herself how printed matter
came into existence. Even among the crowd of average readers we know
how commonly a book will be run through without a glance at its
title-page.
Gilbert continued:
'I always come away from the Abbey with fresh courage. If I'm tired and
out of spirits, I go there, and it makes me feel as if I daren't waste
a minute of the time when I'm free to try and learn something.'
It was a strange impulse that made him speak in this way to an untaught
child. With those who were far more likely to understand him he was the
most reticent of men.
'But you know a great deal, Mr. Grail,' Thyrza said with surprise,
looking again at the bookshelves.
'You mustn't think that. I had very little teaching when I was a lad,
and ever since I've had very little either of time or means to teach
myself. If I only knew those few books well, it would be something, but
there are some of them I've never got to yet.'
'Those _few_ books!' Thyrza exclaimed. 'But I never thought anybody had
so many, before I came into this room.'
'I should like you to see the library at the British Museum. Every book
that is published in England is sent there. There's a large room where
people sit and study any book they like, all day long, and day after
day. Think what a life that must be!'
'Those are rich people, I suppose,' Thyrza remarked. 'They haven't to
work for their living.'
'Not rich, all of them. But they haven't to work with their hands.'
He became silent. In his last words there was a little bitterness.
Thyrza glanced at him; he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and
his face had the wonted look of trouble kept under.
Then Mrs. Grail returned. She sat down near Thyrza, and, after a little
more of her pleasant talk, said, turning to her son:
'Could you find something to read us. Gilbert?'
He thought for a moment, then reached down a book of biographies,
writing of a popular colour, not above Thyrza's understanding. It
contained a life of Sir Thomas More, or rather a pleasant story founded
upon his life, with much about his daughter Margaret.
'Yes, that'll do nicely,' was Mrs. Grail's opinion.
He began with a word or two of explanation to Thyrza, then entered upon
the narrative. As soon as the proposal was made, Thyrza's face had
lighted up with pleasure; she listened intently, leaning a little
forward in her chair, her hands folded together. Gilbert, if he raised
his eyes from the page, did not look at her. Mrs. Grail interrupted
once or twice with a question or a comment. The reading was good;
Gilbert's voice gave life to description and conversation, and supplied
an interest even where the writer was in danger of growing dull.
When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself with the sigh which
follows strained attention. But she was not in a mood to begin
conversation again; her mind had got something to work upon, it would
keep her awake far into the night with a succession of half-realised
pictures. What a world was that of which a glimpse had been given her!
Here, indeed, was something remote from her tedious life. Her brain was
full of vague glories, of the figures of kings and queens, of courtiers
and fair ladies, of things nobly said and done; and her heart throbbed
with indignation at wrongs greater than any she had ever imagined. When
it had all happened she knew not; surely very long ago! But the names
she knew, Chelsea, Lambeth, the Tower--these gave a curiously fantastic
reality to the fairy tale. And one thing she saw with uttermost
distinctness: that boat going down the stream of Thames, and the dear,
dreadful head dropped into it from the arch above. She would go and
stand on the bridge and think of it.
Ah, she must tell Lyddy all that! Better still, she must read it to
her. She found courage to say:
'Could you spare that book, Mr. Grail? Could you lend it me for a day
or two? I'd be very careful with it.'
'I shall be very glad to lend it you,' Gilbert answered. His voice
changed somehow from that in which he usually spoke.
She received it from him and held it on her lap with both hands. She
would not look into it till alone in her room; and, having secured it,
she did not wish to stay longer.
'Going already?' Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise.
'Lyddy 'll be back very soon,' was the reply. 'I think I'd better go
now.'
She shook hands with both of them, and they heard her run up the
thin-carpeted stairs.
Mother and son sat in silence for some minutes. Gilbert had taken
another book, and seemed to be absorbed in it; Mrs. Grail had a face of
meditation. Occasionally she looked upwards, as though on the track of
some memory which she strove to make clear.
'Gilbert,' she began at length, suggestively.
He raised his eyes and regarded her in an absent way.
'I've been trying for a long time to remember what that child's face
reminded me of. Every time I see her, I make sure I've seen someone
like her before, and now I think I've got it.'
Gilbert was used to a stream of amusing fancifulness in his mother;
analysis and resemblances were dear to her; possibly the Biblical
theories which she had imbibed were in some degree answerable for the
characteristic.
'And who does she remind you of?' he asked.
'Of somebody whose name I can't think of. You remember the school in
Lambeth Road where Lizzie used to go?'
She referred to a time five-and-twenty years gone by, when Gilbert's
sister was a child. He nodded.
'It was Mrs. Green's school, you know, and soon after Lizzie began to
go, there was an assistant teacher taken on. Now can you think what her
name was? You must remember that Lizzie used to walk home along with
her almost every day. Miss--, Miss--. Oh, dear me, what _was_ that
name?'
Gilbert smiled and shook his head.
'I can't help you, mother. I don't even remember any such thing.'
'What a poor memory you have in ordinary things, Gilbert! I wonder at
it, with your mind for study.'
'But what's the connection?'
'Why, Thyrza has got her very face. It's just come to me. I'm sure that
was her mother.'
'But how impossible that you should have that woman's face still in
your mind!' Gilbert protested, good-humouredly.
'My dear, don't be so hasty. It's as clear to me as if Lizzie had just
come in and said, "Miss Denny brought me home." Why, there _is_ the
name! It fell from my tongue! To be sure; Miss Denny! A pale,
sad-looking little thing, she was. Often and often I've been at the
window and seen her coming along the street hand in hand with your
sister. Now I'll ask Thyrza if her mother's name wasn't Denny, and if
she didn't teach at Mrs. Green's school. Depend upon it, I'm right,
Gilbert!'
Gilbert still smiled very incredulously.
'It'll be a marvellous thing if it turns out to be true,' he said.
'Oh, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I always used to think
there was something very good in that teacher's look. I don't think I
ever spoke to her, though she went backwards and forwards past our
house in Brook Street for nearly two years. Then I didn't see her any
more. Depend upon it, she went away to be married. Lizzie had left a
little before that. Oh yes, it explains why I seemed to know Thyrza the
first time I saw her.'
Mrs. Grail was profoundly satisfied. Again a short silence ensued.
'How nicely they keep themselves!' she resumed, half to herself. 'I'm
sure Lydia's one of the most careful girls I ever knew. But Thyrza's my
favourite. How she enjoyed your reading, Gilbert!'
He nodded, but kept his attention on the book. His mother just glanced
at him, and presently continued:
'I do hope she won't be spoilt. She is very pretty, isn't she? But
they're not girls for going out much, I can see. And Thyrza's always
glad when I ask her to come and have tea with us. I suppose they
haven't many friends.'
It was quite against Mrs. Grail's wont to interrupt thus when her son
had settled down to read. Gilbert averted his eyes from the page, and,
after reflecting a little, said:
'Ackroyd knows them.'
His mother looked at him closely. He seemed to be absorbed again.
'Does he speak to you about them, Gilbert?'
'He's mentioned them once or twice.'
'Perhaps that's why Lydia goes out to chapel,' the old lady said, with
a smile.
'No, I don't think so.'
The reply was so abrupt, so nearly impatient, that Mrs. Grail made an
end of her remarks. In a little while she too began to read.
They had supper at nine; at ten o'clock Mrs. Grail kissed her son's
forehead and bade him good-night, adding, 'Don't sit long, my dear.'
Every night she took leave of him with the same words, and they were
not needless. Gilbert too often forgot the progress of time, and spent
in study the hours which were demanded for sleep.
His daily employment was at a large candle and soap factory. By such
work he had earned his living for more than twenty years. As a boy, he
had begun with wages of four shillings a week, his task being to trim
with a knife the rough edges of tablets of soap just stamped out. By
degrees he had risen to a weekly income of forty shillings,
occasionally increased by pay for overtime. Beyond this he was not
likely to get. Men younger than he had passed him, attaining the
position of foreman and the like; some had earned money by inventions
which they put at the service of their employers; but Gilbert could
hope for nothing more than the standing of a trustworthy mechanic, who,
as long as he keeps his strength, can count on daily bread. His heart
was not in his work; it would have been strange if he had thriven by an
industry which was only a weariness to him.
His hours were from six in the morning to seven at night. Ah, that
terrible rising at five o'clock, when it seemed at first as if he must
fall back again in sheer anguish of fatigue, when his eyeballs throbbed
to the light and the lids were as if weighted with iron, when the
bitterness of the day before him was like poison in his heart! He could
not live as his fellow-workmen did, coming home to satisfy his hunger
and spend a couple of hours in recreation, then to well-earned sleep.
Every minute of freedom, of time in which he was no longer a machine
but a thinking and desiring man, he held precious as fine gold. How
could he yield to heaviness and sleep, when books lay open before him,
and Knowledge, the goddess of his worship, whispered wondrous promises?
To Gilbert, a printed page was as the fountain of life; he loved
literature passionately, and hungered to know the history of man's mind
through all the ages. This distinguished him markedly from the not
uncommon working man who zealously pursues some chosen branch of study.
Such men ordinarily take up subjects of practical bearing; physical
science is wont to be their field; or if they study history it is from
the point of view of current politics. Taste for literature pure and
simple, and disinterested love of historical search, are the rarest
things among the self-taught; naturally so, seeing how seldom they come
of anything but academical tillage of the right soil. The average man
of education is fond of literature because the environment of his
growth has made such fondness a second nature. Gilbert had conceived
his passion by mere grace. It had developed in him slowly. At twenty
years he was a young fellow of seemingly rather sluggish character,
without social tendencies, without the common ambitions of his class,
much given to absence of mind. About that time he came across one of
the volumes of the elder D'Israeli, and, behold, he had found himself.
Reading of things utterly unknown to him, he was inspired with strange
delights; a mysterious fascination drew him on amid names which were
only a sound; a great desire was born in him, and its object was seen
in every volume that met his eye. Had he then been given means and
leisure, he would have become at the least a man of noteworthy
learning. No such good fortune awaited him. Daily his thirteen hours
went to the manufacture of candles, and the evening leisure, with one
free day in the week, was all he could ever hope for.
At five-and-twenty he had a grave illness. Insufficient rest and
ceaseless trouble of spirit brought him to death's door. For a long
time it seemed as if he must content himself with earning his bread. He
had no right to call upon others to bear the burden of his needs. His
brother; a steady hard-headed mechanic, who was doing well in the
Midlands and had just married, spoke to him with uncompromising common
sense; if he chose to incapacitate himself, he must not look to his
relatives to support him. Silently Gilbert acquiesced; silently he went
back to the factory, and, when he came home of nights, sat with eyes
gazing blankly before him. His mother lived with him, she and his
sister; the latter went out to work; all were dependent upon the wages
of the week. Nearly a year went by, during which Gilbert did not open a
book. It was easier for him, he said, not to read at all than to
measure his reading by the demands of his bodily weakness. He would
have sold his handful of books, sold them in sheer bitterness of mind,
but this his mother interfered to prevent.
But he could not live so. There was now a danger that the shadow of
misery would darken into madness, Little by little he resumed his
studious habits, yet with prudence. At thirty his bodily strength
seemed to have consolidated itself; if he now and then exceeded the
allotted hours at night, he did not feel the same evil results as
formerly. His sister was a very dear companion to him; she had his own
tastes in a simpler form, and woman's tact enabled her to draw him into
the repose of congenial talk when she and her mother were troubled by
signs of overwork in him. He purchased a book as often as he could
reconcile himself to the outlay, and his knowledge grew, though he
seemed to himself ever on the mere threshold of the promised land,
hopeless of admission.
Then came his sister's death, and the removal from Battersea back to
Lambeth. Henceforth it would be seldomer than ever that he could devote
a shilling to the enrichment of his shelves. When both he and Lizzie
earned wages, the future did not give much trouble, but now all
providence was demanded. His brother in the Midlands made contribution
towards the mother's support, but Henry had a family of his own, and it
was only right that Gilbert should bear the greater charge. Gilbert was
nearing five-and-thirty.
By nature he was a lonely man. Amusement such as his world offered had
always been savourless to him, and he had never sought familiar
fellowship beyond his home. Even there it often happened that for days
he kept silence; he would eat his meal when he came from work, then
take his book to a corner, and be mute, answering any needful question
with a gesture or the briefest word. At such times his face had the
lines of age; you would have deemed him a man weighed upon by some vast
sorrow. And was he not? His life was speeding by; already the best
years were gone, the years of youth and force and hope--nay, hope he
could not be said to have known, unless it were for a short space when
first the purpose of his being dawned upon consciousness; and the end
of that had been bitter enough. The purpose he knew was frustrated. The
'Might have been,' which is 'also called No more, Too late, Farewell,'
often stared him in the eyes with those unchanging orbs of ghastliness,
chilling the flow of his blood and making life the cruellest of
mockeries. Yet he was not driven to that kind of resentment which makes
the revolutionary spirit. His personality was essentially that of a
student; conservative instincts were stronger in him than the misery
which accused his fortune. A touch of creative genius, and you had the
man whose song would lead battle against the hoary iniquities of the
world. That was denied him; he could only eat his own heart in despair,
his protest against the outrage of fate a desolate silence.
A lonely man, yet a tender one. The capacity of love was not less in
him than the capacity of knowledge. Yet herein too he was wronged by
circumstance. In youth an extreme shyness held him from intercourse
with all women save his mother and his sister; he was conscious of his
lack of ease in dialogue, of an awkwardness of manner and an
unattractiveness of person. On summer evenings, when other young
fellows were ready enough in finding companions for their walk, Gilbert
would stray alone in the quietest streets until he tired himself; then
go home and brood over fruitless longings. In love, as afterwards in
study, he had his ideal; sometimes he would catch a glimpse of some
face in the street at night, and would walk on with the feeling that
his happiness had passed him--if only he could have turned and pursued
it! In all women he had supreme faith; that one woman whom his heart
imagined was a pure and noble creature, with measureless aspiration,
womanhood glorified in her to the type of the upward striving soul--she
did not come to him; his life remained chaste and lonely.
Neither had he friends. There were at all times good fellows to be
found among those with whom he worked, but again his shyness held him
apart, and indeed he felt that intercourse with them would afford him
but brief satisfaction. Occasionally some man more thoughtful than the
rest would be drawn to him by curiosity, but, finding himself met with
so much reserve, involuntary in Gilbert, would become doubtful and turn
elsewhither for sympathy. Yet in this respect Grail improved as time
went on; as his character ripened, he was readier to gossip now and
then of common things with average associates. He knew, however, that
he was not much liked, and this naturally gave a certain coldness to
his behaviour. Perhaps the very first man for whom he found himself
entertaining something like warmth of kindness was Luke Ackroyd.
Ackroyd came to the factory shortly after Gilbert had gone to live in
Walnut Tree Walk, and in the course of a few weeks the two had got into
the habit of walking their common way homewards together. As might have
been anticipated, it was a character very unlike his own which had at
length attached Gilbert. To begin with, Ackroyd was pronounced in
radicalism, was aggressive and at times noisy; then, he was far from
possessing Grail's moral stability, and did not care to conceal his
ways of amusing himself; lastly, his intellectual tastes were of the
scientific order. Yet Gilbert from the first liked him; he felt that
there was no little good in the fellow, if only it could be fostered at
the expense of his weaker characteristics. Yet those very weaknesses
had much to do with his amiability. This they had in common: both
aspired to something that fortune had denied them. Ackroyd had his idea
of a social revolution, and, though it seemed doubtful whether he was
exactly the man to claim a larger sphere for the energies of his class,
his thought often had genuine nobleness, clearly recognisable by
Gilbert. Ackroyd had brain-power above the average, and it was his
right to strive for a better lot than the candle-factory could assure
him. So Grail listened with a smile of much indulgence to the young
fellow's fuming against the order of things, and if he now and then put
in a critical remark was not sorry to have it scornfully swept aside
with a flood of vehement words. He felt, perchance, that a share of
such vigour might have made his own existence more fruitful.
This was Gilbert Grail at the time with which we are now concerned. His
mother believed that she had discovered in him something of a new mood
of late, a tendency to quiet cheerfulness, and she attributed it in
part to the healthfulness of intercourse with a friend; partly she
assigned to it another reason. But her assumption did not receive much
proof from Gilbert's demeanour when left alone in the sitting-room this
Sunday night. Since Thyrza's departure, he had in truth only made
pretence of reading, and now that his mother was gone, he let the book
fall from his hands. His countenance was fixed in a supreme sadness,
his lips were tightly closed, and at times moved, as if in the
suppression of pain. Hopelessness in youth, unless it be justified by
some direst ruin of the future, is wont to touch us either with
impatience or with a comforting sense that reaction is at hand; in a
man of middle age it moves us with pure pathos. The sight of Gilbert as
he sat thus motionless would have brought tears to kindly eyes. The
past was a burden on his memory, the future lay before him like a long
road over which he must wearily toil--the goal, frustration. To-night
he could not forget himself in the thoughts of other men. It was one of
the dread hours, which at intervals came upon him, when the veil was
lifted from the face of destiny, and he was bidden gaze himself into
despair. At such times he would gladly have changed beings with the
idlest and emptiest of his fellow-workmen; their life might be ignoble,
but it had abundance of enjoyment. To him there came no joy, nor ever
would. Only when he lay in his last sleep would it truly be said of him
that he rested.
At twelve o'clock he rose; he had no longing for sleep, but in five
hours the new week would have begun, and he must face it with what
bodily strength he might. Before entering his bedroom, which was next
to the parlour, he went to the house-door and opened it quietly. A soft
rain was falling. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped out into the street
and looked up to the top windows. There was no light behind the blinds.
As if satisfied, he went hack into the house and to his room.
The factory was at so short a distance from Walnut Tree Walk that
Gilbert was able to come home for breakfast and dinner. When he entered
at mid-day on Monday, his mother pointed to a letter on the
mantel-piece. He examined the address, and was at a loss to recognise
the writing.
'Who's this from, I wonder?' he said, as he opened the envelope.
He found a short letter, and a printed slip which looked like a
circular. The former ran thus:
'Sir,--I am about to deliver a course of evening lectures on a period
of English Literature in a room which I have taken for the purpose,
No.--High Street, Lambeth. I desire to have a small audience, not more
than twenty, consisting of working men who belong to Lambeth.
Attendance will be at my invitation, of course without any kind of
charge. You have been mentioned to me as one likely to be interested in
the subject I propose to deal with. I permit myself to send you a
printed syllabus of the course, and to say that it will give me great
pleasure if you are able to attend. I should like to arrange for two
lectures weekly, each of an hour's duration; the days I leave
undecided, also the hour, as I wish to adapt these to the convenience
of my hearers. If you feel inclined to give thought to the matter, will
you meet me at the lecture-room at eight o'clock on the evening of
Sunday, August 16, when we could discuss details? The lectures
themselves had better, I should think, begin with the month of
September.
'Reply to this is unnecessary; I hope to have the pleasure of meeting
you on the 16th.--Believe me to be yours very truly,
'WALTER EGREMONT.'
'Ah, this is what Ackroyd was speaking of on Saturday,' Gilbert
remarked, holding the letter to his mother. 'I wonder what it means.'
'Who is this Mr. Egremont?' asked Mrs. Grail.
'He belongs to the firm of Egremont & Pollard, so Ackroyd tells me. You
know that big factory in Westminster Bridge Road--where they make
oil-cloth.'
Gilbert was perusing the printed syllabus; it interested him, and he
kept it by his plate when he sat down to dinner.
'Do you think of going?' his mother inquired.
'Well, I should like to, if the lectures are good. I suppose he's a
young fellow fresh from college. He may have something to say, and he
may be only conceited; there's no knowing. Still, I don't dislike the
way he writes. Yes, I think I shall go and have a look at him, at all
events.'
Gilbert finished his meal and walked back to the factory. Groups of men
were standing about in the sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring; some
talked and joked, some amused themselves with horse-play. The narrow
street was redolent with oleaginous matter; the clothing of the men was
penetrated with the same nauseous odour.
At a little distance from the factory, Ackroyd was sitting on a
door-step, smoking a pipe. Grail took a seat beside him and drew from
his pocket the letter he had just received.
'I've got one of them, too,' Luke observed with small show of interest.
There was an unaccustomed gloom on his face; he puffed at his pipe
rather sullenly.
'Who has told him our names and addresses?' Gilbert asked.
'Bower, no doubt.'
'But how comes Bower to know anything about me?'
'Oh, I've mentioned you sometimes.'
'Well, do you think of going?'
'No, I shan't go. It isn't at all in my line.'
Gilbert became silent.
'Something the matter?' he asked presently, as his companion puffed on
in the same gloomy way.
'A bit of a headache, that's all.'
His tone was unusual. Gilbert fixed his eyes on the pavement.
'It's easy enough to see what it means,' Ackroyd continued after a
moment, referring to Egremont's invitation. 'We shall be having an
election before long, and he's going to stand for Vauxhall. This is one
way of making himself known.'
'If I thought that,' said the other, musingly, 'I shouldn't go near the
place.'
'What else can it be?'
'I don't know anything about the man, but he may have an idea that he's
doing good.'
'If so, _that's_ quite enough to prevent me from going. What the devil
do I want with his help? Can't I read about English literature for
myself?'
'Well, I can't say that I have that feeling. A lecture may be a good
deal of use, if the man knows his subject well. But,' he added,
smiling, 'I suppose you object to him and his position?'
'Of course I do. What business has the fellow to have so much time that
he doesn't know what to do with it?'
'He might use it worse, anyhow.'
'I don't know about that. I'd rather he'd get a bad name, then it 'ud
be easier to abuse him, and he'd be more good in the end.'
Their eyes met. Gilbert's had a humorous expression, and Ackroyd
laughed in an unmirthful way. The factory bell rang; Gilbert rose and
waited for the other to accompany him. But Luke, after a struggle to
his feet, said suddenly:
'Work be hanged! I've had enough of it; I feel Mondayish, as we used to
say in Lancashire.'
'Aren't you coming, then?'
'No, I'll go and get drunk instead.'
'Come on, old man. No good in getting drunk,'
'Maybe I won't but I can't go back to work to-day. So long!'
With which vernacular leave-taking, he turned and strolled away. The
bell was clanging its last strokes; Gilbert hurried to the door, and
once more merged his humanity in the wage-earning machine.
Two days later, as he sat over his evening meal, Gilbert noticed that
his mother had something to say. She cast frequent glances at him; her
pursed lips seemed to await an opportune moment.
'Well, mother, what is it?' he said presently, with his wonted look of
kindness. By living so long together and in such close intercourse the
two had grown skilled in the reading of each other's faces.
'My dear,' she replied, with something of solemnity, 'I was perfectly
right. Miss Denny _was_ those girls' mother.'
'Nonsense!'
'But there's no doubt about it. I've asked Thyrza. She knows that was
her mother's name, and she knows that her mother was a teacher.'
'In that case I've nothing more to say. You're a wonderful old lady, as
I've often told you.'
'I have a good memory, Gilbert. You can't think how pleased I am that I
found out that. I feel more interest in them than ever. And the child
seemed so pleased too! She could scarcely believe that I'd known her
mother before she was born. She wants me to tell her and her sister all
I can remember. Now, isn't it nice?'
Gilbert smiled, but made no further remark. The evening silence set in.