Warburton's mother was dead. The first effect upon him of the certainty
that she could not recover from the unconsciousness in which he found
her when summoned by Jane's telegram, was that of an acute remorse; it
pierced him to the heart that she should have abandoned the home of her
life-time, for the strangeness and discomfort of the new abode, and
here have fallen, stricken by death--the cause of it, he himself, he so
unworthy of the least sacrifice. He had loved her; but what assurance
had he been wont to give her of his love? Through many and many a year
it was much if he wrote at long intervals a hurried letter. How seldom
had he cared to go down to St. Neots, and, when there, how soon had he
felt impatient of the little restraints imposed upon him by his
mother's ways and prejudices. Yet not a moment had she hesitated, ill
and aged, when, at so great a cost to herself, it seemed possible to
make life a little easier for him. This reproach was the keenest pain
with which nature had yet visited him.
Something of the same was felt by his sister, partly on her own, partly
on his account, but as soon as Jane became aware of his self torment,
her affection and her good sense soon brought succour to them both. She
spoke of the life their mother had led since coming into Suffolk,
related a hundred instances to prove how full of interest and
contentment it had been, bore witness to the seeming improvement of
health, and the even cheerfulness of spirits which had accompanied it.
Moreover, there was the medical assurance that life could not in any
case have been prolonged; that change of place and habits counted for
nothing in the sudden end which some months ago had been foretold. Jane
confessed herself surprised at the ease with which so great and sudden
a change was borne; the best proof that could have been given of their
mother's nobleness of mind. Once only had Mrs. Warburton seemed to
think regretfully of the old home; it was on coming out of church one
morning, when, having stood for a moment to look at the graveyard, she
murmured to her daughter that she would wish to be buried at St. Neots.
This, of course, was done; it would have been done even had she not
spoken. And when, on the day after the funeral, brother and sister
parted to go their several ways, the sadness they bore with them had no
embitterment of brooding regret. A little graver than usual, Will took
his place behind the counter, with no word to Allchin concerning the
cause of his absence. He wrote frequently to Jane, and from her
received long letters, which did him good, so redolent were they of the
garden life, even in mid-winter, and so expressive of a frank, sweet,
strong womanhood, like that of her who was no more.
Meanwhile his business flourished. Not that he much exerted himself, or
greatly rejoiced to see his till more heavily laden night after night,
by natural accretion custom flowed to the shop in fuller stream;
Jollyman's had established a reputation for quality and cheapness, and
began seriously to affect the trade of small rivals in the district. As
Allchin had foretold, the hapless grocer with the drunken wife sank
defeated before the end of the year; one morning his shop did not open,
and in a few days the furniture of the house was carried off by some
brisk creditor. It made Warburton miserable to think of the man's doom;
when Allchin, frank barbarian as he was, loudly exulted. Will turned
away in shame and anger. Had the thing been practicable he would have
given money out of his own pocket to the ruined struggler. He saw
himself as a merciless victor; he seemed to have his heel on the other
man's head, and to crush, crush--
At Christmas he was obliged to engage a second assistant. Allchin did
not conceal his dislike of this step, but he ended by admitting it to
be necessary. At first, the new state of things did not work quite
smoothly; Allchin was inclined to an imperious manner, which the
newcomer, by name Goff, now and then plainly resented. But in a day or
two they were on fair terms, and ere long they became cordial.
Then befell the incident of Mrs. Cross' Martha.
Not without uneasiness had Warburton suggested a servant on the
recommendation of Mrs. Hopper, but credentials seemed to be fairly
good, and when, after a week or two, Mrs. Cross declared herself more
than satisfied, he blessed his good luck. Long ago he had ceased to
look for the reappearance at the shop of Bertha Cross; he thought of
the girl now and then, generally reverting in memory to that day when
he had followed her and her mother into Kew Gardens--a recollection
which had lost all painfulness, and shone idyllically in summer
sunlight, but it mattered nothing to him that Bertha showed herself no
more. Of course she knew his story from Rosamund, and in all likelihood
she felt her self-respect concerned in holding aloof from an
acquaintance of his ambiguous standing. It mattered not a jot.
Yet when the tragi-comedy of Martha's outbreak unexpectedly introduced
him to the house at Walham Green, he experienced a sudden revival of
the emotions of a year ago. After his brief meeting with Bertha, he did
not go straight back to the shop, but wandered a little in quiet
by-ways, thinking hard and smiling. Nothing more grotesque than the
picture of Mrs. Cross amid her shattered crockery, Mrs. Cross pointing
to the prostrate Martha, Mrs. Cross panting forth the chronicle of her
woes; but Mrs. Cross' daughter was not involved in this scene of
pantomime; she walked across the stage, but independently, with a
simple dignity, proof against paltry or ludicrous circumstance. If any
one could see the laughable side of such domestic squalor, assuredly it
was Bertha herself; of that Will felt assured. Did he not remember her
smile when she had to discuss prices and qualities in the shop? Not
many girls smile with so much implication of humorous comment.
He had promised to look out for another servant, but hardly knew how to
go to work. First of all, Mrs. Hopper was summoned to an interview in
the parlour behind the shop, and Martha's case was fully discussed.
With much protesting and circumlocution, Mrs. Hopper brought herself at
length to own that Martha had been known to "take too much," but that
was so long ago, and the girl had solemnly declared, etc., etc.
However, as luck would have it, she did know of another girl, a really
good general servant, who had only just been thrown out of a place by
the death of her mistress, and who was living at home in Kentish Town.
Thither sped Warburton; he saw the girl and her mother, and, on
returning, sent a note to Mrs. Cross, in which he detailed all he had
learnt concerning the new applicant. At the close he wrote: "You are
aware, I think, that the name under which I do business is not my own.
Permit me, in writing to you on a private matter, to use my own
signature"--which accordingly followed. Moreover, he dated the letter
from his lodgings, not from the shop.
The next day brought him a reply; he found it on his breakfast table,
and broke the envelope with amused curiosity. Mrs. Cross wrote that
"Sarah Walker" had been to see her, and if inquiries proved
satisfactory, would be engaged. "We are very greatly obliged for the
trouble you have taken. Many thanks for your kind inquiries as to my
health. I am glad to say that the worst of the shock has passed away,
though I fear that I shall long continue to feel its effects." A few
remarks followed on the terrible difficulties of the servant question;
then "Should you be disengaged on Sunday next, we shall be glad if you
will take a cup of tea with us."
Over his coffee and egg, Will pondered this invitation. It pleased him,
undeniably, but caused him no undue excitement. He would have liked to
know in what degree Mrs. Cross' daughter was a consenting party to the
step. Perhaps she felt that, after the services he had rendered, the
least one could do was to invite him to tea. Why should he refuse?
Before going to business, he wrote a brief acceptance. During the day,
a doubt now and then troubled him as to whether he had behaved
discreetly, but on the whole he looked forward to Sunday with pleasant
expectation.
How should he equip himself? Should he go dressed as he would have gone
to the Pomfrets', in his easy walking attire, jacket and soft-felt? Or
did the circumstances dictate chimney-pot and frock-coat? He scoffed at
himself for fidgeting over the point; yet perhaps it had a certain
importance. After deciding for the informal costume, at the last moment
he altered his mind, and went arrayed as society demands; with the
result that, on entering the little parlour--that name suited it much
better than drawing-room--he felt overdressed, pompous, generally
absurd. His cylinder seemed to be about three feet high; his gloves
stared their newness; the tails of his coat felt as though they wrapped
several times round his legs, and still left enough to trail upon the
floor as he sat on a chair too low for him. Never since the most
awkward stage of boyhood had he felt so little at ease "in company."
And he had a conviction that Bertha Cross was laughing at him. Her
smile was too persistent; it could only be explained as a compromise
with threatening merriment.
A gap in the conversation prompted Warburton to speak of a little
matter which was just now interesting him. It related to Mr. Potts, the
shopkeeper in Kennington Lane, whom he used to meet, but of whom for a
couple of years and more, he had quite lost sight. Stirred by reproach
of conscience, he had at length gone to make inquiries; but the name of
Potts was no longer over the shop.
"I went in and asked whether the old man was dead; no, he had retired
from business and was lodging not far away. I found the house--a rather
grimy place, and the door was opened by a decidedly grimy woman. I saw
at once that she didn't care to let me in. What was my business? and so
on; but I held firm, and got at last into a room on the second floor,
an uncomfortable sitting-room, where poor old Potts welcomed me. If
only he had known my address, he said, he should have written to tell
me the news. His son in America, the one I knew, was doing well, and
sent money every month, enough for him to live upon. 'But was he
comfortable in those lodgings? I asked. Of course I saw that he wasn't,
and I saw too that my question made him nervous. He looked at the door,
and spoke in a whisper. The upshot of it was that he had fallen into
the hands of a landlady who victimised him; just because she was an old
acquaintance, he didn't feel able to leave her. 'Shall I help you to
get away?' I asked him, and his face shone with hope. Of course the
woman was listening at the keyhole; we both knew that. When I went away
she had run half down the stairs, and I caught her angry look before
she hid it with a grin. I must find decent lodgings for the old fellow,
as soon as possible. He is being bled mercilessly."
"How very disgraceful!" exclaimed Mrs. Cross. "Really, the meanness of
some women of that class!"
Her daughter had her eyes cast down, on her lips the faintest
suggestion of a smile.
"I wonder whether we could hear of anything suitable," pursued her
mother, "by inquiring of people we know out at Holloway. I'm thinking
of the Boltons, Bertha."
Mr. Potts' requirements were discussed, Bertha interesting herself in
the matter, and making various suggestions. The talk grew more
animated. Warburton was led to tell of his own experience in lodgings.
Catching Bertha's eye, he gave his humour full scope on the subject of
Mrs. Wick, and there was merriment in which even Mrs. Cross made a show
of joining.
"Why," she exclaimed, "do you stay in such very uncomfortable rooms?"
"It doesn't matter," Will replied, "it's only for a time."
"Ah, you have other views?"
"Yes," he answered, smiling cheerfully, "I have other views."