CHAPTER XXXV.

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.