"No good, miss; every seat gone, and not even standing room. Bless you, they've been waiting 'ere for hours."
She turned away again, and went round again to the front of the theatre. The last belated comers were hurrying in, and the crowd had gone; she stood there helpless. Moving away a little, she came to a board hung against the wall of the theatre; there in small print was Jimmy's name. Glancing about her quickly, and seeing that she was alone, she softly touched that name with her fingers, with infinite tenderness, before she turned away.
"Jimmy," she said in a whisper, "you might have remembered, dear."
She did not go back at once, she paced the streets for a long time; perhaps then some hardness was growing up in her heart – some new bitterness at the fashion in which everything and everyone seemed to have conspired to set her aside. When at last she turned her steps towards Locker Street it had grown very late, and she was very tired; she walked with lagging feet.
She got to the house and let herself in; the house was dark and silent. Going slowly up the stairs, she had a mental picture of what she must find when she reached her own rooms – Patience asleep in her chair, or Patience asleep in her bed in her own small room. Perhaps, worst of all, Patience asking questions – demanding querulously to know where she had been; perhaps speaking of Jimmy. No – she would not face that yet; she could not face it now. And so she halted on her way, and listened at the door of Charlie's room for a sound within; rapped lightly, and, getting no reply, turned the handle. The room was empty.
But the fire burned brightly, and the room held a welcome for her after the wet and chilly streets. Charlie would come in presently, and they could talk for a little while before she went to bed. For quite desperately she wanted someone to whom to talk to-night – someone who loved her; and Charlie had said, times without number, how much he loved her. Poor Charlie, who was unsuccessful, and yet had always a good word for her – always a smile with which to greet her.
She took off her hat and laid it down; presently stretched herself at length on the shabby old sofa, and laid her cheek on her palm and looked into the fire. The room was very silent; only the fire ticked a little as it fell together; even the streets were quiet. Lying there, she thought of what her life was to be, in all the days that were coming to her – days of poverty and of struggle such as she had known for so long.
"Charlie and I will be together – and perhaps I shall be able to help him," she murmured to herself. "It won't be so bad – with the firelight in the winter – and a quiet room; and in the summer, when the sun shines, the streets and the parks – and perhaps sometimes a glimpse of the country. It won't be so bad – and there will be Charlie. And perhaps Jimmy will – "
She broke off there, because her eyes had filled with tears, and she could not go on. She turned her face a little, so that her arm hid it from the fire; she seemed to murmur there a little brokenly: "Jimmy – you might have remembered" – and again, "Jimmy!"
Then from sheer weariness she slept, and dreamed that she was back again in the old days and the sun was shining. London was but a far-off dream, and she did not know what it would be like. And so, when presently Charlie Purdue opened the door and looked in, he saw her.
He came slowly across the room, and stood looking down at her; saw her lying warm and rosy in the firelight, with the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. As she murmured in her sleep, he suddenly stooped, and fell upon one knee, and put his arms about her; it was his kiss upon her lips that woke her to some consciousness of where she was.
"Moira! my Moira!" he whispered. "I didn't hope to find you here."
Still almost with that dream upon her, she wound her arms about his neck, and nestled her head against his shoulder, as she might have done as a little child, long, long before. Still in that dream, as it seemed, and yet with a half memory of who she was and where she was, she whispered, with her lips against his:
"Let me stay with you; don't send me away. I can't – I can't bear cold looks to-night; don't speak to me. Let me stay; I want love to-night!"
It was his shame that he did not understand; his shame that he saw in her only what he might have seen in any other woman he could meet and conquer, in such an hour and under such circumstances. He wound his arms about her and held her close, and put his lips to hers. And the fire fell, and died down, and dropped to ashes.
The dawn was stealing in faint and grey, and the room was very cold. She stood against the door looking at him shamed and frightened, she shrank away from him when he would have held her; she beat him off with feeble hands.
"I didn't know, Charlie – I didn't understand," she breathed. And said it over and over many times.
When he would have touched her, she crouched away from him, and looked with wild eyes at the grey dawn that was coming in from the world outside, as though this were a new world on which she looked, and she was afraid of it. And presently fled up to her room, sobbing to herself as she went.
END OF BOOK II
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
"IT'LL BE ALL RIGHT"
There fell upon the little house in Locker Street, Chelsea, a silence greater than had fallen before. Charlie Purdue dashed upstairs no more with his laugh and his shout; Charlie Purdue was perplexed and a little afraid. The thing that that happened – the careless, brutal thing of a moment – had cut him off from the girl more completely than anything else could have done; in a sense, he could not meet her eyes; in a sense, it brought him back to what he was and to what he must do. At the mere thought of her – the mere sight of her – he recognised the desperate necessity for doing something with his life – making something of himself for her sake. If she would only have spoken to him – if she would have appealed to him in any set form of words to which he could have replied – he would have been better satisfied and less ashamed; but the tragedy of it was that she said nothing. Forced to remain there in the very house with him, she avoided him, spoke always, when the necessity arose, in mere monosyllables, and with hesitation. And that barrier he failed to break down for a long time.
He strove to bring to bear upon the situation something of his old cheery light-heartedness, however forced it might be; made something of a foil of Patience, the better to rouse the girl. But she bent always over her work, and only answered when actually challenged to do so by Patience.
Moira went no more to his room; she seemed to live a new life, apart from him. When once or twice he carried some new project to her, in the hope to rouse her sympathy, she answered dully enough; the old enthusiasm had gone. It was not given to him to understand her, or to know all that she felt, or what new outlook on life she took at that time; he was merely resentful that she should avoid him; merely bitter with himself that he should have driven her in that sense from him. There were no reproaches; he saw no tears; merely she withdrew into herself, and held him and the world at arms' length, and fought out this new fight for herself. How the battle went he could not know, and he dared not ask.
Now and then he persuaded himself that it would all be forgotten with any new change of circumstances; other women had been willing enough to forget – why not she? No one would ever know anything; the time was coming when he would marry her, and when they would begin to live out their lives together. He did her that grave injustice to believe that if the world prospered with him, and he could take her legitimately to his heart, she would be glad and relieved; he had no understanding of all her trembling fears at that time – no knowledge of the many hours when she wept in her bruised and troubled heart, and saw herself cut off from the rest of the world for ever, by reason of what she called her sin. She never spoke of it, because there was no one to whom she might speak; but she looked out on the world from that time with different eyes – with the eyes, sadly enough, of one who weeps for the might-have-been.
Stories she had read and heard came back to her – old scraps of poems, forgotten, or but dimly understood until this time – poems that touched this, the greatest of all tragedies. She knew now how to class herself – was afraid of what any who had loved her might have said, had they known the truth about her. She grew afraid to pray; in one bitter moment of self-abandonment and shame was glad to think that Old Paul was dead. Old Paul – who had wondered once what love would do to her in the great world!
And this had not been love; bitterly she declared that to herself again and again. She was of the stuff that would have walked barefoot through hell in the service of a man to whom her heart had been fully given; and lo! it had been her fate to fall in so poor a fashion as this. That was the shame of it in her eyes.
She went once or twice to the house in which Jimmy lived. Not to see him, because she told herself that she was never to see him again; that, of all people in the world, he most of all must know nothing of her – must forget her. She never acknowledged to herself why that should be; she only thought of it with tears, many and many a time, as of something she had lost and could never regain. Jimmy, who was once to have said a word in a great crisis of her life – Jimmy, who had not said that word; he was the one above all others who must not know anything of this. Yet it was something of a comfort at that time to go to the house wherein he lived; even to stand in the cold streets, and look up at his windows and wonder what he was doing and how he fared. She found that she could say a prayer for him easily and earnestly, even while she could not pray for herself.
Once she was bold enough to climb the stairs of the house, on the pretext of seeing him, and to wait outside the door of his rooms in the darkness of the staircase; she put her face against the door, and listened, almost thinking that she would go in for a moment, just to touch his friendly hand – just to look into his eyes. But there came from the room a shout of laughter, and the sounds of men's voices; she hurried away again, and went home.
Meanwhile, the affairs of Charlie Purdue prospered not at all. He had scandalised the little house in Locker Street by getting deeply into debt with the landlady, and his constant assurances that he would be able to pay very soon were beginning to be regarded with suspicion. Always with that idea in his mind that presently something wonderful was to happen – something which should mean to him unlimited money, earned at the least possible expenditure of time or energy – he had racked his brains to discover any and every person from whom he could borrow, and had pretty nearly exhausted the list. The weeks had grown into months, and Charlie had lost something of his gaiety and his brightness; quite unused to trouble or responsibility, he fretted under the weight of both, and became morose and taciturn and embittered. He got to that easiest of all stages in such a career, wherein a man tells himself that to fight any longer is absurd, and that the world must have its way, and must do what it will with him. That further stage, wherein Charlie told himself (and others who would listen) that he had a father, if you please, with no one in the world dependent upon him; a father with a fat living and a private income to boot; yet here was poor Charlie Purdue (if you would but look at him for a moment) without a sixpence to call his own, and with no prospects in the world. Charlie conveniently forgot to mention how long-suffering the father in the fat living had been; that was a mere matter of detail that did not concern the question. The fact that Charlie, at the end of every such expression of opinion, declared with much heartiness that all he wanted in this world was plenty of work, if only someone would give it to him, commended him to such as did not know him, and caused him to be referred to sighingly and pityingly as "Poor Charlie Purdue."
He stooped to the depth of a meanness that was in a sense accidental when he strove to borrow from Patience. Instinctively he chose a time when Moira was away; and he was careful to explain to the old woman that this was merely a temporary matter, and that he expected to be in funds again in the course of a day or two; he seemed to suggest that it was only a question, on the part of Patience, of paying it out with one hand, and receiving it back with the other almost at once. Patience, however, had other views; she asked questions as to what Charlie was going to do in the near future. Evidently she had kept her eyes open, and had, moreover, heard whispers regarding those shadowy prospects of his of which he had suspected nothing.
"Well, you see, my dear Patience," Charlie explained, as carelessly as he could, "it isn't for my own sake exactly; it has to do with Moira."
"With Moira?" The old woman looked at him under lowering brows, and with a new note of suspicion in her tones. "Why with her?"
"Oh, I know nothing's been said about it yet," he went on, a little lamely, "but it's settled between us that we're going to be married. Don't look at me like that; we're awfully fond of each other – and I shall do better with her than I should alone."
"I can quite believe that," replied Patience steadily. "But how are you going to live?"
"That's the same old silly question that everyone seems to ask in this world," retorted Charlie. "You don't seem to realise that I'm a man – strong and healthy – and with all the world before me. I may have failed in one or two things; but I shan't fail in everything. Moira and I will be all right; it's only just at this present moment that things are a little tight with me, and that I want a little temporary assistance. You knew me in the old days, Patience – and you've seen something of me recently – "
"Yes – I've seen a great deal of you," said the old woman; "but that doesn't seem to have anything to do with it. You talk of love; what right have you to speak of love, when you're simply an idler in the world, unable to support yourself?"
"My dear Patience," he exclaimed, with some indignation, "you forget who I am, and what my education has been. I've done my best; it's not my fault if I've failed in – in various ways."
"It's not for me to blame you, Mr. Purdue," said the old woman steadily; "and I'm not sure I was thinking about you. I was thinking about the girl – Moira. What's going to become of her?"
"Oh – that'll be all right," he exclaimed. It was his invariable reply in regard to everything, although be it noted it had grown a little fainter and less confident during the past two or three months. "Moira understands me; we shall get on splendidly."
"I suppose you think, Mr. Purdue, that I'm a rich woman – eh?" she asked after a pause, during which she had swung a bunch of keys on one finger, for the tantalising of the man who hoped that one of those keys might unlock temporary wealth for him.
"Oh – I know that you're all right," retorted Charlie, with a laugh. "And you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that it's on Moira's account as much as on mine. She wouldn't like to see me suffer, I know." He smiled expectantly, as he looked at the old woman.
"Very well, I'll talk to Moira about it," was her surprising reply, as she dropped the keys back into her pocket and turned away.
But that would not suit Charlie at all; Moira might learn it afterwards, but not now. "No – no – you mustn't do that," he exclaimed hurriedly. "It might – might trouble her, you understand; I don't want her to think that I'm worried to such an extent that I have to come to you. I wouldn't say anything to Moira, Patience."
The old woman looked at him keenly. "Either I speak to Moira, or I let the matter alone altogether," she said.
"Very well – let it alone altogether then," he exclaimed violently. "It's only what I might have expected; anyone with any money in this world seems to desire to stick to it, whether they actually need it or not; there's no charity – no open-handedness – no disposition to help any poor devil who has fallen by the way. Keep your money."
"I will," said the old woman imperturbably.
Whether or not Patience waited, in the hope or expectation that Moira would say something to her concerning that all-important engagement, it is impossible to say; certainly she made no attempt to question the girl. She watched her intently at times; would look across at her over the rims of her spectacles, and would note the bowed head and the close-drawn lips; but she said nothing. She saw, perhaps with a pained perplexity, that Moira grew quieter and quieter as the weeks went on; that she sat more often in an attitude of dejection, staring into the fire; but still she said nothing. Until at last one night, when they sat alone together, Moira rose quickly from her chair, and made a movement towards the door; it was as though she had suddenly made up her mind to a thing that must be done.
"Where are you going?" asked the old woman, almost in a whisper.
"I'm going down – down to see Charlie," she replied, and laughed a little, as though to reassure not only the anxious old woman, but herself. "Only for a moment or two," she added.
Patience rose as the girl left the room; she stood still, with her hand resting on the table; she watched the door through which Moira had disappeared. Then, with set lips, and some new determination in her eyes, she crossed the room on tip-toe, and went out on to the landing. There she stood and looked over, and listened, and presently stole down the stairs, and stood outside the door. Hearing but little, she yet understood what the girl's errand was – seemed to understand in a flash all that the change in the girl had indicated – all that the old woman herself had been until that night unable to understand.
Charlie had turned, with some note of surprise in his tones, to greet the girl; for this was the first time she had been to his rooms for some three months. With something of his old cheery manner he welcomed her, and set a chair for her near the fire. She moved across to it, but did not sit down; instead, she leaned upon the back of it, and looked steadily into the flames, as though debating in what form of words she should say what was in her mind.
"Why, my dear girl – it's an age since you've honoured me with a visit," he said. "And how solemn you look; quite tragic." He made a movement towards her, as though he would have dropped an arm about her shoulders; saw the eyes that were turned upon him, and recoiled. For the eyes were swimming in tears, and there was in them such an agony of despair and misery that it struck him dumb. He stood looking at her for a moment or two with a dropped jaw.
"Why, old girl," he blurted out at last, "what's wrong? Why do you look at me like that?"
"Charlie – don't you – don't you know?" It was a mere whisper, but he heard it, and partly understood, even while he told himself in his heart that he would not understand and would not believe. As he moved towards her she dropped her head on the back of the chair, and he heard the sobbing cry that broke from her.
"Dear God! – what shall I do?"
He stood for a moment like one stunned; then he took her roughly by the shoulders and twisted her round. She hid her face, and while he strove to drag her hands away he spoke brutally, because of his own terror.
"You're wrong – you don't know what you're talking about. Come now – look at me – speak to me – tell me."
She murmured behind her hands; he bent his head to listen. Then he got away from her and walked across to the fireplace, and stood there, beating his foot impatiently on the floor and biting his lips. Presently he came back to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, and spoke steadily:
"Now, look here – don't be silly – and don't give way. It'll be all right; you can take that from me, now, Moira; it'll be all right. You may be mistaken; I don't know anything about that; but in any case, it'll be all right. Do you understand?"
She shook her head in a dull, feeble sort of way, and he took her in his arms and soothed her, and kissed away her tears. Over and over again he impressed that upon her; it would be all right.
"Money or no money, we'll get married; it's only a little earlier than I meant – and no one can say a word against you then. I'm not a blackguard; I'll do the right thing. I'll get money from somewhere – from my father, if necessary; and I'll make him give me something to do – work of some sort."
"Soon?" she whispered.
"At once," he exclaimed. "I'll go down to-morrow; he's a good sort really, and he won't leave us in the lurch. There now" – he took her by the shoulders, and shook her rallyingly, and looked into her eyes – "the tears are gone – aren't they? That's right; give me a smile, if it's only an April one. And keep that in your mind clearly, my dear; it'll be all right."
Patience crept away upstairs noiselessly; when presently Moira came in, she saw the old woman seated in her chair as usual, with her eyes closed, and apparently asleep. But that night, when Moira lay wakeful – thinking long thoughts, and striving to look into a future that was dark and frightening, the door of her room was softly opened, and the old woman came in.
For a moment or two the queer-looking old figure in night array stood looking at the girl with a trembling lip; she was a little afraid to go near her. Then, stirred to tenderness by some understanding of the girl's desperate need, she set down her candle, and stretched out her thin arms; and with a cry Moira rose to meet her, and the two faces – the young and the old – the one of the woman with no experience, and the other of the woman who had learned so much – were bent together, and the kindly rain of tears fell from them and eased their hearts. There seemed no need for real words; it was the mere confused murmur of one woman to another, in a matter that only a woman could know and understand. Dawn, striking into the poor room, saw Moira sleeping in the old woman's arms, and Patience, cramped and tired, keeping watch with her, as she had done through the long night.
By the morning Charlie was gone. To do him justice, he carried with him the remembrance of the girl's tear-stained face, and of her broken, dejected figure as she had leaned on the back of the shabby old chair, and whispered the dread that was in her heart. That made him valiant to face his father – to secure something for the future that should mean not only something for himself, but for Moira. He was very indefinite about it in his own mind; he only told himself, again and again, as he had told her, that something must be done, and – that it would be all right.
He strode through the little town of Daisley Cross with his head erect; albeit he was a shabbier figure than he had been in the old days. It was a curious feeling, because he could not remember ever having been shabby in that place before; and yet with that new virtue on him he was not ashamed. In a sense, he felt that he could meet his father, because that father must inevitably recognise that here had been no squandering of money; but that Charlie, though unfortunate, must have lived hard and lived carefully. Which was the impression he desired to create.
The Rev. Temple Purdue walked in his somewhat neglected garden that morning, looking thoughtfully at all the decay and débris of the dead year, and thinking perhaps of the decay of his own hopes. He raised his eyes at the click of the gate – stood still, expectant, with a flushed face, as Charlie advanced towards him. Something of his love for the young man shone in his eyes for a moment, and was in his grasp when he gave a reluctant hand; then in a moment he was the stern father again, waiting to hear what Charlie had to say.
To begin with, Charlie was repentant; he saw now how much he might have done had he been more careful. It must not be understood, according to Charlie's account, that he whined about it; no – he was simply ready to face whatever future might be given him, and to face it boldly. He wanted it to be understood that he had learned his lesson, and learned it well; the Rev. Temple Purdue heard with some astonishment that this remarkable son thanked his father for having given him the opportunity of learning that lesson.
They went to the house together, with a better understanding growing between them than there had been for a very long time. The heart of the old man had ached with longing for some such moment as this, and he had not believed that it could ever arise; yet here was the prodigal, smiling at him, and thanking him, and promising anything and everything. The old man furtively wiped his eyes more than once as he listened to what Charlie had to say. And Charlie, as might have been expected under emotional circumstances, said too much.
"You've got to understand, sir, that I'm a different sort of man from what I was," he said, wagging his head strenuously at that disreputable figure of himself now rapidly vanishing into the background. "I've got responsibilities, and I mean to live up to them. I hope I know my duty to myself, as well as to others. That's why I want to make a start; that's what I mean when I say I'm going to live a different sort of life."
The father caught only one or two words, and clung to them; he looked round quickly at his son. "Responsibilities? To others?"
"Yes," said Charlie, not quite so boldly nor so bravely; "one other, at any rate. There's – there's a woman." He had decided, on the mere impulse of the moment, not to mention that woman's name; it was no use making the case harder against himself than was necessary.
The old man stiffened and set his lips. "A woman?" he asked, in a different tone.
"Yes – someone I'm very fond of – someone who is very fond of me. I want – want to marry her."
Mr. Purdue's face cleared. "My dear boy – you quite startled me for the moment; forgive me that I did not understand," he said. "But we need not talk about that now; I applaud your desire to settle down, and to lead a more regular life; but when you are established there will be time enough to arrange about your marriage. If this girl is worthy of you, she will wait, my boy."
"She can't wait – it's impossible," blurted out the son. "That's why I'm here to-day; that's what my responsibility means, I must marry her – and at once."
His father took a step towards him, and looked into his face; drew his breath sharply. "You mean – "
Charlie nodded slowly, without looking up. His father looked at him for a long minute, and then turned and walked to the door, and opened it. He seemed to brace himself in a curious fashion for what he had to say, but he was none the less resolute in his determination to say it. He seemed, as he drew himself up, to look taller than Charlie had ever seen him.
"So this is the meaning of your new resolution – of your sudden desire to get into a decent position, and to secure some money – is it?" he asked. "Not content with the wrong you have done yourself, and the shame you have brought upon me, you have involved some wretched woman in deeper shame yet."
"She's a good woman," muttered Charlie.
"That is impossible," retorted the other quickly. "But I will not discuss the matter with you; I have finished with you for good and all. Get out of my house." He pointed to the door as he spoke, but kept his face averted from his son.
"Oh, very well." Charlie lounged towards the door, stopped for a moment close to the old man to speak. "You'll do nothing for me – or for her?"
"Your companions and your friends do not concern me. Your duty, which you appear to know so clearly, points you straight to her, and demands that you shall do her justice and shall marry her; but with that I have nothing to do."
"Very good." Charlie heaved a deep sigh, and turned towards the open door. "I've promised her it'll be all right – and I'll keep my word, even if we starve together. And I hope you'll never remember, at some time when you'd be glad to forget, what you've said to me. Good-bye – and this for the last time."
He flung out of the house, and across the garden, and disappeared into the wind-swept road. After a moment of silence the old man turned, and put a hand across his eyes; then swayed to the door, and went out quickly. "Charlie!" he called. "Charlie!" But there was no response, and the garden and the road seemed empty.
Charlie paced the station for an hour or more, waiting for a train to take him back to London; and the longer he paced, and the more he thought about matters, the deeper and the more fixed became his resolution to do that right thing on which he had set his mind, and regarding which he had made so many promises. Even in the railway carriage at last, on his way back to London, he nodded across at the opposite seat, as though the girl sat there and could hear him, and told her what he would do.
"It'll be all right," he said. "Money, or no money, we'll get married – and no one shall point a finger at you. Then the old man'll be sorry; he'll understand that I've done the right thing, and am in that sense a better Christian than he is, in spite of his cloth. Don't you worry, Moira – because there's nothing to worry about. When once I get back to London, I'm going to take up real work; I'll decide before the end of the week whether I'll go in for painting, or writing, or something else easy like that. After all, perhaps it's best that this has happened; it'll put strength into me, and make me do things for the sake of somebody else. I shouldn't be surprised to find in the long run that there was quite a Providence in it for us both."