Kathleen Norris - "Undertow"

Matthew White, Jr. - "Two Boys and a Fortune"

John Masefield - "John M. Synge: A Few Personal Recollections, with Biographical Notes"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedie of Othello, the Moore of Venice"

The Unclassed

G >> George Gissing >> The Unclassed




"That would betray me; it would be folly to face such a risk. If I
can escape, then you shall come to me."

"Oh, you will leave me!" she cried. "I shall lose you, as I did
before, but this time for ever! You don't love me, Paul! And how can
I expect you should? But let me go as your servant. Let me dress
like a man, and follow you. Who will notice then?"

He shook his head.

"I love you, Emily, and shall love you as long as I breathe. To hear
you speak to me like this has almost the power to make me happy. If
I had known it, I shouldn't have stayed so long away from you; I
hadn't the courage to come, and I thought the sight of me would only
be misery to you. I have lived a terrible life, among the poorest
people, getting my bread as they did; oftener starving. Not one of
my acquaintances was to be trusted. I have not seen one face I knew
since I first heard of my danger and escaped. But I had rather live
on like that than fall into the hands of the police; I should never
know freedom again. The thought maddens me with fear."

"You are safe here, love, quite safe!" she urged soothingly. "Who
could know that you are here? Who could know that Maud and I were
living here?"

There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Enderby started to it, turned the
key, and then asked who was there.

"Emily," said Miss Bygrave's voice, "let me come in--or let Paul
come out here and speak to me."

There was something unusual in the speaker's tone; it was quick and
nervous. Paul himself went to the door, and, putting his wife's hand
aside, opened it.

"What is it?" he asked.

She beckoned him to leave the room, then whispered:

"Some one I don't know is at the front door. I opened it with the
chain on, and a man said he must see Mr. Enderby."

"Can't I go out by the back?" Paul asked, all but voiceless with
terror. "I daren't hide in the rooms; they will search them all. How
did they know that I was here? O God, I am lost!"

They could hear the knocking below repeated. Paul hurried down the
stairs, followed by his wife, whom Theresa in vain tried to hold
back He knew the way to the door which led into the garden, and
opening this, sprang into the darkness. Scarcely had he taken a
step, when strong arms seized him.

"Hold on!" said a voice. "You must come back with me into the
house."

At the same moment there was a shriek close at hand, and, as they
turned to the open door, Paul and his captor saw Emily prostrate on
the threshold, and Miss Bygrave stooping over her.

"Better open the front door, ma'am," said the police officer, "and
ask my friend there to come through. We've got all we want."

This was done, and when Emily had been carried into the house, Paul
was led thither also by his captor. As they stood in the hall, the
second officer drew from his pocket a warrant, and read it out with
official gravity.

"You'll go quietly with us, I suppose?" he then said.

Paul nodded, and all three departed by the front door.

It was midnight and before Mrs. Enderby showed any signs of
returning consciousness. Miss Bygrave and Maud sat by her bed
together, and at length one of them noticed that she had opened her
eyes and was looking about her, though without moving her head.

"Mother," Maud asked, bending over her, "are you better? Do you know
me?"

Emily nodded. There was no touch of natural colour in her face, and
its muscles seemed paralysed. And she lay thus for hours, conscious
apparently, but paying no attention to those in the room. Early in
the morning a medical man was summoned, but his assistance made no
change. The fog was still heavy, and only towards noon was it
possible to dispense with lamp-light; then there gleamed for an hour
or two a weird mockery of day, and again it was nightfall. With the
darkness came rain.

Waymark had come to the house about ten o'clock. But this was to be
no wedding-day. Maud begged him through her aunt not to see her, and
he returned as he came. Miss Bygrave had told him all that had
happened.

Mrs. Enderby seemed to sleep for some hours, but just after
nightfall the previous condition returned; she lay with her eyes
open, and just nodded when spoken to. From eight o'clock to midnight
Maud tried to rest in her own room, but sleep was far from her, and
when she returned to the sick-chamber to relieve her aunt, she was
almost as worn and ghastly in countenance as the one they tended.
She took her place by the fire, and sat listening to the sad rain,
which fell heavily upon the soaked garden-ground below. It had a
lulling effect. Weariness overcame her, and before she could suspect
the inclination, she had fallen asleep.

Suddenly she was awake again, wide awake, it seemed to her, without
any interval of half-consciousness, and staring horror-struck at the
scene before her. The shaded lamp stood on the chest of drawers at
one side of the room, and by its light she saw her mother in front
of the looking-glass, her raised hand holding something that
glistened. She could not move a limb; her tongue was powerless to
utter a sound. There was a wild laugh, a quick motion of the raised
hand--then it seemed to Maud as if the room were filled with a
crimson light, followed by the eternal darkness.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A fortnight later Miss Bygrave was sitting in the early morning by
the bed where Maud lay ill. For some days it had been feared that
the girl's reason would fail, and though this worst possibility
seemed at length averted, her condition was still full of danger.
She had recognised her aunt the preceding evening, but a relapse had
followed. Now she unexpectedly turned to the watcher, and spoke
feebly, but with perfect self-control.

"Aunt, is madness hereditary?"

Miss Bygrave, who had thought her asleep, bent over her and tried to
turn her mind to other thoughts. But the sick girl would speak only
of this subject.

"I am quite myself," she said, "and I feel better. Yes, I remember
reading somewhere that it was hereditary."

She was quiet for a little.

"Aunt," she then said, "I shall never be married. It would be wrong
to him. I am afraid of myself."

She did not recur to the subject till she had risen, two or three
weeks after, and was strong enough to move about the room. Waymark
had called every day during her illness. As soon as he heard that
she was up, he desired to see her, but Maud begged him, through her
aunt, to wait yet a day or two. In the night which followed she
wrote to him, and the letter was this:

"If I had seen you when you called yesterday, I should have had to
face a task beyond my strength. Yet it would be wrong to keep from
you any longer what I have to say. I must write it, and hope your
knowledge of me will help you to understand what I can only
imperfectly express.

"I ask you to let me break my promise to you. I have not ceased to
love you; to me you are still all that is best and dearest in the
world. You would have made my life very happy. But happiness is now
what I dare not wish for. I am too weak to make that use of it
which, I do not doubt, is permitted us; it would enslave my soul.
With a nature such as mine, there is only one path of safety: I must
renounce all. You know me to be no hypocrite, and to you, in this
moment, I need not fear to speak my whole thought, The sacrifice has
cost me much To break my faith to you, and to put aside for ever all
the world's joys--the strength for this has only come after hours
of bitterest striving. Try to be glad that I have won; it is all
behind me, and I stand upon the threshold of peace.

"You know how from a child I have suffered. What to others was pure
and lawful joy became to me a temptation. But God was not unjust; if
He so framed me, He gave me at the same time the power to understand
and to choose. All those warnings which I have, in my blindness,
spoken of so lightly to you, I now recall with humbler and truer
mind. If the shadow of sin darkened my path, it was that I might
look well to my steps, and, alas, I have failed so, have gone so
grievously astray! God, in His righteous anger, has terribly visited
me. The most fearful form of death has risen before me; I have been
cast into abysses of horror, and only saved from frenzy by the mercy
which brought all this upon me for my good. A few months ago I had
also a warning. I did not disregard it, but I could not overcome the
love which bound me to you. But for that love, how much easier it
would have been to me to overcome the world and myself.

"You will forgive me, for you will understand me. Do not write in
reply; spare me, I entreat you, a renewal of that dark hour I have
passed through. With my aunt I am going to leave London. We shall
remain together, and she will strengthen me in the new life. May God
bless you here and hereafter.
MAUD ENDERBY."

After an interval of a day Waymark wrote as follows to Miss Bygrave:--

"Doubtless you know that Maud has written desiring
me to release her. I cannot but remember that she is scarcely yet
recovered from a severe illness, and her letter must not be final.
She entreats me not to write to her or see her. Accordingly I
address myself to you, and beg that you will not allow Maud to take
any irrevocable step till she is perfectly well, and has had time to
reflect. I shall still deem her promise to me binding. If after the
lapse of six months from now she still desires to be released, I
must know it, either from herself or from you. Write to me at the
old address."





CHAPTER XXXVIII

ORDERS OF RELEASE




Waymark and Casti spent their Christmas Eve together. They spoke
freely of each other's affairs, saving that there was no mention of
Ida. Waymark had of course said nothing of that parting between Ida
and himself. Of the hope which supported him he could not speak to
his friend.

A month had told upon Julian as months do when the end draws so
near. In spite of his suffering he still discharged his duties at
the hospital, but it was plain that he would not be able to do so
much longer. And what would happen then?

"Casti," Waymark exclaimed suddenly, when a hint of this thought had
brought both of them to a pause, "come away with me."

Julian looked up in bewilderment.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. To some place where the sun shines."

"What an impossible idea! How am I to get my living? And how is she
to live?"

"Look here," Waymark said, smiling, "my will is a little stronger
than yours, and in the present case I mean to exercise it. I have
said, and there's an end of it. You say she'll be away from home
to-morrow. Good. We go together, pack up your books and things in
half an hour or so, bring them here,--and then off! _Sic volo, sic
jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas!_"

And it was done, though not till Waymark had overcome the other's
opposition by the most determined effort. Julian understood
perfectly well the full significance of the scheme, for all
Waymark's kind endeavour to put a hopeful and commonplace aspect on
his proposal. He resisted as long as his strength would allow, then
put himself in his friend's hands.

It was some time before Julian could set his mind at rest with
regard to the desertion of his wife. Though no one capable of
judging the situation could have cast upon him a shadow of blame,
the first experience of peace mingled itself in his mind with
self-reproach. Waymark showed him how utterly baseless any such
feeling was. Harriet had proved herself unworthy of a moment's
consideration, and it was certain that, as long as she received her
weekly remittance--paid through an agent in London,--she would
trouble herself very little about the rest; or, at all events, any
feeling that might possess her would be wholly undeserving of
respect. Gradually Julian accustomed himself to this thought.

They were in the Isle of Wight; comfortably housed, with the sea
before their eyes, and the boon of sunshine which Casti had so
longed for.

Waymark gave himself wholly to the invalid. He had no impulse to
resume literary work; anything was welcome which enabled him to fill
up the day and reach the morrow. Whilst Julian lay on the couch,
which was drawn up to the fireside, Waymark read aloud anything that
could lead them to forget themselves. At other times, Julian either
read to himself or wrote verse, which, however, he did not show to
his friend. Before springtime came he found it difficult even to
maintain a sitting attitude for long. His cough still racked him
terribly. Waymark often lay awake in the night, listening to that
fearful sound in the next room. At such times he tried to fancy
himself in the dying man's position, and then the sweat of horror
came upon his brow. Deeply he sympathised with the misery he could
do so little to allay. Yet he was doing what he might to make the
end a quiet one, and the consciousness of this brought him many a
calm moment.

However it might be in those fearful vigils, Julian's days did not
seem unhappy. He was resigning himself to the inevitable, in the
strength of that quiet which sometimes ensues upon despair. Now and
then he could even be, to all appearances, light-hearted.

With the early May he had a revival of inspiration. Strangely losing
sight of his desperate condition, he spoke once more of beginning
the great poem planned long ago. It was living within his mind and
heart, he said. Waymark listened to him whilst he unfolded book
after book of glorious vision; listened, and wondered.

There was a splendid sunset one evening at this time, and the two
watched it together from the room in which they always sat. Seas of
molten gold, strands and promontories of jasper and amethyst,
illimitable mountain-ranges, cities of unimagined splendour, all
were there in that extent of evening sky. They watched it till the
vision wasted before the breath of night.

"What shall I read?" Waymark asked, when the lamp was lit.

"Read that passage in the Georgics which glorifies Italy," Julian
replied. "It will suit my mood to-night."

Waymark took down his Virgil.

"Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra,
Nec pulcher Ganges atque auro turbibus Hermus
Laudibus Italiae certent, non Bactra, neque Indi,
Totaque turiferis Panchaia pinguis arenis."

Julian's eyes glistened as the melody rolled on, and when it ceased,
both were quiet for a time.

"Waymark," Julian said presently, a gentle tremor in his voice, "why
do we never speak of her?"

"_Can_ we speak of her?" Waymark returned, knowing well who was
meant.

"A short time ago I could not; now I feel the need. It will give me
no pain, but great happiness.',

"That is all gone by," he continued, with a solemn smile. "To me she
is no longer anything but a remembrance, an ideal I once knew. The
noblest and sweetest woman I have known, or shall know, on earth."

They talked of her with subdued voices, reverently and tenderly.
Waymark described what he knew or divined of the life she was now
leading, her beneficent activity, her perfect adaptation to the new
place she filled.

"In a little while," Julian said, when they had fallen into thought
again, "you will have your second letter. And then?"

There was no answer. Julian waited a moment, then rose and, clasping
his friend's hand, bade him good night.

Waymark awoke once or twice before morning, but there was no
coughing in the next room. He felt glad, and wondered whether there
was indeed any improvement in the invalid's health. But at the usual
breakfast-time Julian did not appear. Waymark knocked at his door,
with no result. He turned the handle and entered.

On this same day, Ida was visiting her houses. Litany lane and Elm
Court now wore a changed appearance. At present it was possible to
breathe even in the inmost recesses of the Court. There the fronts
of the houses were fresh white-washed; in the Lane they were
new-painted. Even the pavement and the road-way exhibited an
improvement. If you penetrated into garrets and cellars you no
longer found squalor and dilapidation; poverty in plenty, but at all
events an attempt at cleanliness everywhere, as far, that is to say,
as a landlord's care could ensure it. The stair-cases had ceased to
be rotten pit-falls; the ceilings showed traces of recent care; the
walls no longer dripped with moisture or were foul with patches of
filth. Not much change, it is true, in the appearance of the
inhabitants; yet close inquiry would have elicited comforting
assurances of progressing reform, results of a supervision which was
never offensive, never thoughtlessly exaggerated. Especially in the
condition of the children improvement was discernible. Lodgers in
the Lane and the Court had come to understand that not even punctual
payment of weekly rent was sufficient to guarantee them stability of
tenure. Under this singular lady-landlord something more than that
was expected and required, and, whilst those who were capable of
adjusting themselves to the new _regime_ found, on the whole,
that things went vastly better with them, such as could by no means
overcome their love of filth, moral and material, troubled
themselves little when the notice to quit came, together with a
little sum of ready money to cover the expenses of removal.

Among those whom Ida called upon this afternoon was an old woman
who, in addition to her own voluminous troubles, was always in a
position to give a _compte-rendu_ of the general distress of the
neighbourhood. People had discovered that her eloquence could be
profitably made use of in their own service, and not infrequently,
when speaking with Ida, she was in reality holding a brief from this
or that neighbour, marked, not indeed in guineas, but in "twos" of
strong beverage, obtainable at her favourite house of call. To-day
she held such a brief, and was more than usually urgent in the
representation of a deserving case.

"Oh, Miss Woodstock, mem, there's a poor young 'oman a-lyin' at the
Clock 'Ouse, as it really makes one's 'art bleed to tell of her! For
all she's so young, she's a widder, an' pr'aps it's as well she
should be, seein' how shockin' her 'usband treated her afore he was
took where no doubt he's bein' done as he did by. It's fair cruel,
Miss Woodstock, mem, to see her sufferin's. She has fits, an' falls
down everywheres; it's a mercy as she 'asn't been run over in the
public street long ago. They're hepiplectic fits, I'm told, an' laws
o' me! the way she foams at the mouth! No doubt as they was brought
on by her 'usband's etrocious treatment. I understand as he was a
man as called hisself a gentleman. He was allus that jealous of the
pore innocent thing, mem--castin' in her teeth things as I
couldn't bring myself not even to 'int at in your presence, Miss
Woodstock, mem. Many's the time he's beat her black an' blue, when
she jist went out to get a bit o' somethink for his tea at night,
'cos he would 'ave it she'd been a-doin' what she 'adn't ought--"

"Where is she?" Ida asked, thinking she had now gathered enough of
the features of the case.

"I said at the Clock 'Ouse, mem. Mrs. Sprowl's took her in' mem, and
is be'avin' to her like a mother. She knew her, did Mrs. Sprowl, in
the pore thing's 'appy days, before ever she married. But of course
it ain't likely as Mrs. Sprowl can keep her as long as her pore life
lasts; not to speak of the expense; its a terrible responsibility,
owin' to the hepiplectic ailment, mem, as of course you understand."

"Can't she get into any hospital!"

"She only just came out, mem, not two weeks ago. They couldn't do no
more for the pore creature, and so she had to go. An' she 'asn't not
a friend in the world, 'ceptin' Mrs. Sprowl, as is no less than a
mother to her."

"Do you know her name?"

"Mrs. Casty, mem. It's a Irish name, I b'lieve, an' I can't say as
I'm partial to the Irish, but--"

"Very well," Ida broke in hastily. "I'll see if I can do anything."

Paying no attention to the blessings showered upon her by the
counsel in this case, blessings to which she was accustomed, and of
which she well understood the value, Ida went out into the Lane, and
walked away quickly. She did not pause at the Clock House, but
walked as far as a quiet street some little distance off, and then
paced the pavement for a while, in thought. Who this "Mrs. Casty"
was she could have little doubt. The calumnies against her husband
were just such as Harriet Casti would be likely to circulate.

For a moment it had seemed possible to go to the public-house and
make personal inquiries, but reflection showed her that this would
be a needless imprudence, even had she been able to overcome herself
sufficiently for such an interview. She went home instead, and at
once despatched Miss Hurst to the Clock House to discover whether it
was indeed Harriet Casti who lay there, and, if so, what her real
condition was. That lady returned with evidence establishing the
sick woman's identity. Harriet, she reported, was indeed m a sad
state, clearly incapable of supporting herself by any kind of work.
Her husband--Miss Hurst was told--had deserted her, leaving her
entirely without means, and now, but for Mrs. Sprowl's charity, she
would have been in the workhouse. This story sounded very strangely
to Ida. It might mean that Julian was dead. She wrote a few lines to
Waymark, at the old address, and had a speedy reply. Yes, Julian
Casti was dead, but the grave had not yet closed over him. Harriet
had been in receipt of money, and need have wanted for nothing; but
_now_ she must expect no more.

The result of it all was that, in the course of a week, Harriet was
informed by Miss Hurst that a place was open to her in a hospital
near London, where she could remain as long as her ailments rendered
it necessary; the expense would be provided for by a lady who had
been told of the case, and wished to give what aid she could. The
offer was rejected, and with insult. When next she visited Litany
Lane, Ida learnt that "pore Mrs. Casty," after a quarrel with her
friend Mrs. Sprowl, had fallen downstairs in a fit and broken her
neck.

Waymark lived on in the Isle of Wight, until a day when there came
to him a letter from Miss Bygrave. It told him that Maud's resolve
was immutable, and added that aunt and niece, having become members
of "the true Church," were about to join a sisterhood in a midland
town, where their lives would be devoted to work of charity.

Not many days after this, Ida, in London, received a letter,
addressed in a hand she knew well. There was a flush on her face as
she began to read; but presently came the pallor of a sudden joy
almost too great to be borne. The letter was a long one, containing
the story of several years of the writer's life, related with
unflinching sincerity, bad and good impartially set down, and all
leading up to words which danced in golden sunlight before her
tear-dimmed eyes.

For an hour she sat alone, scarce moving. Yet it seemed to her that
only a few minutes were allowed to pass before she took her pen and
wrote.

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