MR. PODMORE WISHES TO BE INSTRUCTED UPON THE DOCTRINE OF
RESPONSIBILITY, AND DECLARES THAT HE HAS A PRESENTIMENT.
Eventful as this night had been to Lily, and destined as it was to
live for ever in her memory, it was pregnant with yet deeper meaning
for her future, and an event was to occur which was to draw closer
together the links of the chain of pure and unworthy love which bound
her. On this night she saw clearly what before had been but dimly
presentable to her. She saw that Felix loved her; and also that Mr.
Sheldrake had a passion for her. She was instinctively conscious that
there was nothing in common in the sentiments of these two men. Their
feelings for her were as wide apart as were their characters; and she
had already estimated these correctly, although she did not realize
the depth of baseness from which Mr. Sheldrake's passion sprung. She
was too pure and innocent for that.
When the party left for the theatre, Old Wheels found the time pass
slowly enough, and for the purpose of whiling away a few minutes, he
went up to Gribble junior's room, and found that worthy man and his
wife working cheerfully as usual. Gribble junior's father, the victim
of co-operative stores, was sitting in a corner nursing the baby, and
had as usual been descanting upon the evils of co-operation, when Old
Wheels entered. Mr. and Mrs. Gribble junior were laughing heartily at
something their father had just uttered.
"What do you think we're laughing at, Mr. Wheels?" asked Gribble
junior, as the old man sat down.
Old Wheels expressed a desire to be enlightened.
"Father just said, that he supposed they would be trying next to bring
babies into the world by co-operation."
At which, of course, the laughter recommenced.
"Why not?" grumbled Gribble senior. "You can buy pap at the stores,
and you can buy coffins. Mind, John, when I'm dead, get my coffin made
by an honest tradesman. If you was to buy one at a co-operative
stores, I shouldn't rest in my grave."
"Time enough for that, father," replied Gribble junior, in a
business-like tone, and yet with affection; "you're good for twenty
years yet, I hope and trust."
"I should be, John, if trade was allowed to go on in a proper way. But
co-operation'll be the death of me long before my proper time."
"My girl's gone to the theatre," observed Old Wheels, to change the
subject.
"It'll do her good," paid Mrs. Gribble; "she's been looking pale of
late."
"I'm going to take father to the Music Hall to-night," said Gribble
junior. "He's never been to one. You see, Mr. Wheels, what I complain
of in father is, that he won't keep moving."
"It's too late, John; it's too late. My joints are stiff."
"Perhaps so, but there's no occasion to make 'em stiffer. All work
and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Go in for everything, I say--go in
for work, and go in for play; and keep moving. How do you think baby's
looking, Mr. Wheels?"
Old Wheels pinched the baby's cheek, and said gaily that the
co-operative store couldn't turn out a baby like that.
"Do you hear that, father?" cried Mrs. Gribble junior, with a merry
laugh. "Do you hear that?"
"Mr. Wheels is quite right," replied Gribble senior, faithful to his
theories; "it ain't likely that anything good and wholesome can come
out of co-operation."
"How's trade, Mr. Gribble?"
"Well, it's no use grumbling, but it ain't as good as it should be. I
had an idea yesterday, though. It was raining, you know, and I had no
jobs on hand. The hospital ain't as full as it ought to be. I went out
in the rain yesterday with three new umbrellas under my arms, and one
over my head. What for, now? you'll ask. To sell 'em? no; people never
buy umbrellas in rainy weather of their own accord; they always wait
for a fine day. No; I had an idea, and I carried it out in this way. I
saw a respectable man, with an umbrella over his head that wanted
mending. I followed him home, and just as he knocked at his door, I
went up to him, and said I was an umbrella-maker, and would like the
job of mending his umbrella. 'But I've only got this one,' he said,
'and I want to go out again.' 'I'm prepared for that, sir,' I said;
'here's my card; and here's a new umbrella as good as yours. I'll
leave this with you to use till I bring back your own, properly
mended.' He was tickled at the idea, and was more tickled when I told
him that, trade being slack, I had come out on purpose to look for
umbrellas that wanted mending. 'You're an industrious fellow,' he
said, with a laugh. 'Yes, sir,' I answered, 'if work won't come to
you, you must go to work. Keep moving, that's my motto. If you can't
get work, make it.' Well, he gave me his second-hand umbrella, and
took my new one. In this way, in less than three hours, I got rid of
my four new umbrellas, and got four jobs. I took them back this
afternoon, and--would you believe it, Mr. Wheels?--not only did I get
paid well for the jobs, but two of the gentlemen bought two of my new
umbrellas, and said I deserved to be encouraged. And I think I do,"
added Gribble junior complacently. "I made a good job of that idea,
and I daresay it'll bring me in some money. You see, an umbrella is
such an awkward thing to get mended, when it's out of order. Not one
person out of twenty knows where to take it to. Well, go to them. I
hope it'll rain to-morrow."
When Old Wheels was in his room again, it was natural that his
thoughts should dwell much on the conversation that had taken place
between himself and Lily. It brought the past before him, and he was
painfully startled by the resemblance which the present crisis in the
life of his darling bore to that other event in the life of her mother
which had wrecked the happiness of that unhappy woman, He opened the
cupboard, and saw the little iron box. Very sad were the thoughts it
suggested as he brought it to the table and opened it. There was a
little money in it, sufficient for a few weeks' expenses of their
humble home; two or three mementoes of Lily, such as a piece of ribbon
and a flower she had worn in her hair; and some old letters and papers
worn and faded. He took them from the box, and sadly read one and
another. Among them were letters from Lily's father to her mother
during their days of courtship; and certain terms of expression in
them brought to him the remembrance of sentiments almost similarly
expressed by Alfred. The same vague declarations of being able to make
large sums of money by unexplained means; the same selfishness, the
same boastfulness, were there embodied. But not the same remorse which
Alfred had already experienced; that was to come afterwards, and the
despair which ever accompanies it. "We were happy then, my daughter
and I," the old man murmured; "happy before he came. My daughter's
life might not have ended as it did, in misery; might not have been
passed, as it was, in miserable repinings. He brought a blight upon
us." And then came the thought, "Like father, like son." He paced the
room with disturbed steps. "Alfred's father," he thought, "wrecked
the happiness of the woman who loved him, who trusted implicitly in
him--wrecked the happiness of my daughter, who was once as bright as
my darling Lily. And how she changed under the consequence of his vice
and his folly! How she drooped, and drooped, until life became
torture! As she trusted him and believed in him, and sacrificed
herself for him, so Lily trusts and believes and is ready to sacrifice
herself for Alfred. Shall I allow her to do this blindly? The end
would not be the same, for Lily could not live through it. How can I
save my darling? Would it not be better to inflict a sharp pain upon
her now, than to see her walk blindly, confidingly, lovingly, to
a desolate future?" At this point of his musings he heard the
street-door open and shut, and heard a stumbling step in the passage
below. Looking over the papers in the iron box, he came upon two which
he opened and read. They were the last two documents connected with
the career of Lily's father. One was a full quittance for a sum of
money which the unhappy man had embezzled; the wording of the other
was as follows:
"In consideration of my father-in-law paying the money due to Mr.
James Creamwell, which I have wrongfully used, I solemnly promise not
to trouble my wife with my presence as long as I live, and not to make
myself known to my children in the future, should we meet by any
chance. For the wrong that I have done, I humbly ask their
forgiveness.
"RICHARD MANNING."
"He has kept his word," mused Old Wheels; "from that time I have never
seen him, never heard of him. No one but I has ever read this paper,
unless Alfred, when he took the money from this box---- But no; he
could have had no thought for anything but his unhappy purpose."
Old Wheels was interrupted in his musings by the whining of a dog at
the door. "That's Snap's voice," he said, and going to the door, he
saw the faithful dog waiting for him. Snap, directly he saw the old
man, looked in his face appealingly, and walked towards the stairs.
Old Wheels, taking the candle, followed the dog down-stairs, and found
Jim Podmore asleep at the bottom. Snap, having fulfilled his mission,
waited patiently for the old man to act.
"Come, Mr. Podmore," said Old Wheels, gently shaking the sleeping man;
"you mustn't sleep here. Come up-stairs, and get to bed."
The tired man murmured "All right," and settled himself comfortably to
continue his nap. But Old Wheels shook him more roughly, and he rose
to his feet wearily, and leaning against the wall, seemed disposed to
fall asleep again in that position.
"Come, pull yourself together," urged Old Wheels, taking Jim Podmore's
arm; "you'll be more comfortable in your own room than here."
Thus advised, and being well shaken, Jim "pulled himself together,"
and with many incoherent apologies, accompanied Old Wheels up-stairs.
When he arrived at the first landing, he appeared to think he had gone
far enough, and quite naturally he stumbled into the old man's room,
and fell into a chair.
"I'm not going to allow you to fall asleep again," persisted Old
Wheels. "Bed's the proper place for you."
"I should like," murmured Jim, "to go to bed--and sleep--for a month."
Old Wheels laughed slightly at this.
"You wouldn't expect to wake up at the end of the time," he said,
continuing to shake Jim Podmore.
"I don't know--I don't care--I'd like to go to bed--and sleep--for a
year. All right, Mr. Wheels--don't shake me--any more!--I'm
awake--that is, as awake--as I shall be--till to-morrow morning. I beg
you--a thousand pardons--for troubling you. I suppose--you found me
asleep--somewhere. Where?"
"On the stairs."
"Ah--yes. I thought--I should ha' fell down in the streets--as I
walked along. I was so--dead-beat. I'm glad--_you_ woke me up--for I
wanted--to ask you something."
Old Wheels thought it best not to interrupt the current of Jim's
thoughts, and therefore did not speak. Jim shook himself much as a dog
does when he comes out of the water, and having, it is to be presumed,
by that action, aroused his mental faculties, proceeded.
"We've had a talk--to-day--me and some mates--and I made up my
mind--that I'd speak--to some one--as might know--better than us. I
meant you."
"Yes--what were you speaking about?"
"Well, you see--it come in this way. I never told you--about Dick
Hart--did I?"
"No--not that I remember," replied Old Wheels.
"He was a man o' our'n--Dick Hart was. As good a fellow--as ever
drawed--God's breath. He was working--on our line--a many months ago.
He ain't working there now--not him--ain't working anywhere--can't get
it. Willing enough--Dick Hart is--and a-breaking his heart--because he
can't get it. He's a doomed man--Mr. Wheels--a doomed man!--and might
as well--be dead--as alive. Better--a dooced sight better--if it
warn't for his wife--and kids."
Jim Podmore was evidently warming up. His theme was powerful enough to
master his fatigue. Old Wheels listened attentively.
"It might have happened--to me--it _might_ happen--to me--any
night--when I'm dead-beat. What then?" he asked excitedly, to the no
small surprise of Snap, to whom this episode was so strange that
he stood aside, gazing gravely at his master. "What then?" Jim
repeated. "Why, I should be--what Dick Hart is--a-wandering about--in
rags--a-starving almost. I should be worse than him--for when I
think--of the old woman up-stairs--asleep--and my little Polly--that
is my star--my star, Polly is!--and think of them--with nothing to
eat--like Dick Hart's old woman and kids--I shouldn't be able--to
keep my hands--to myself. And I shouldn't try to--I'm damned if I
should!"
Old Wheels laid his hand with a soothing motion on the excited man's
shoulder.
"Be cool, Mr. Podmore," he said. "Tell me calmly what you want. You
are wandering from the subject."
"No, I ain't," responded Jim Podmore doggedly. "I'm sticking to it.
And it ain't likely--begging your pardon--for being so rough--that I
_can_ be calm--when I've got what I have got--in my mind."
"What's that?"
Jim Podmore looked with apprehension at Old Wheels, and then turned
away his eyes uneasily.
"Never mind that--it's _my_ trouble--and mustn't be spoken of. Let's
talk of Dick Hart."
"You were about," said Old Wheels gently, "to tell me some story
connected with him."
"He was as good a fellow--as ever drawed breath--and had been in the
Company's service--ever so many years. There was nothing agin him.
He did his work--and drawed his screw. Little enough! He got
overworked--often--as a good many of us gets--a-many times too
often--once too often for poor Dick--as I'm going to tell you, short.
It must ha' been--eight months ago--full--when Dick Hart--worked off
his legs--with long hours--and little rest--had a accident. He took a
oath afterwards--that he was that dead-beat--before the accident--that
he felt fit to drop down dead with fatigue. He couldn't keep--his eyes
open--as I can't sometimes--and when the accident--takes place--he
goes almost mad. But that doesn't alter it. The accident's done--and
Dick Hart's made accountable. He's took up--and tried--and gets six
months. If what he did--had ha' been his fault--he ought to have
been--hung--but they didn't seem--quite to know--whether he was to
blame--or whether--he wasn't--so they give him six months--to
make things even, I suppose. While Dick's in prison--his wife's
confined--with her second--and how they lived--while he's away from
'em--God knows! Some of us gives a little--now and then. I give
twice--but what Dick's wife got--in that way was--next to nothing--as
much as we--could afford. Dick Hart--comes out of prison--a little
while ago--and tries to get work--and can't. He gets a odd job--now
and then--by telling lies about himself--and his old woman--gets a
little charing--but they've not been able--to keep the wolf--from the
door. It's got right in--and they are--pretty-nigh starving--him and
the old woman--and the kids."
Jim Podmore's drowsiness coming upon him powerfully here, he had as
much as he could do to keep himself awake. He indulged himself with a
few drowsy nods, and then proceeded as though there had been no
interval of silence.
"Well, we had a talk about him--to-day, me and my mates. We made up--a
little money--about six shillings--and sent it to his old woman. But
we can't go on--doing this--and one of the men said--that if it comes
to the officers' ears--or the directors'--that we'd been making up
money--for a man as has been discharged--and's been in prison--and's
cost the Company a lot o' money in damages--(for they had to pay two
men--who was able--to afford a lawyer; there was others--as was
poor--who couldn't afford a lawyer, consequently--they got
nothing)--that if it come--to the directors' ears--we should
likely--get into trouble ourselves."
Having come to the end of Dick Hart's story, Jim Podmore dozed off
again, and would have fallen into deep sleep but for Old Wheels
nudging him briskly.
"Well?" asked the old man.
"Ah, yes," said Jim; "I was almost forgetting. What I want to know
is--is Dick Hart responsible--for what he's done? Is it right--that a
respectable man--a hardworking man--a honest man--should be
compelled--to work until he's lost--all control over himself--till
he's ready to drop--as I've told you before--and as I've been ready to
myself--and that then--when a accident happens--which wouldn't have
happened--if he'd been fresh--or if a fresh man had been--in his place
is it right, I want to know," and Jim Podmore raised his arm slowly
and lowered it, and raised it again and lowered it again, as if it
were a piston, "that that man--should be put--in prison--should be
disgraced--should lose his honest name--shouldn't be able to get
work--for his old woman--and the young uns--and that they should be
almost starving--as Dick Hart's people's doing now?"
Fortunately for Old Wheels, who would have found these questions very
difficult to answer, Jim Podmore was too tired and too sleepy to wait
for a reply.
"If I don't go upstairs--immediate," he said, rising slowly to his
feet, "you'll have--to carry me. So I'll wish you--good-night, Mr.
Wheels, and thank you."
He paused at the door for the purpose of asking one other question.
"Did you ever feel--that something was going to happen--without
exactly knowing what it was?"
"Yes," replied Old Wheels good-humouredly, "but it never did happen."
"Ah," pondered the puzzled man, "but this will, though."
"What will?"
"Didn't I tell you--I didn't know what? But it'll happen--as sure as
my name's--Jim Podmore. It's buzzing about my head now,--and I can't
make it out."
"Nervousness," suggested Old Wheels, "brought on by overwork."
"Mayhap, but there it is. What would you call it, now? Give it a
name."
"It is a presentiment, I should say."
"That's it. I've got--a presentiment. Thank you. Good-night, Mr.
Wheels. I've got--a presentiment--and it'll come true--as sure as my
name's--Jim."
With that Jim Podmore staggered upstairs, with faithful Snap at his
heels, and within an hour Old Wheels heard the street-door bell ring,
and hurried downstairs.