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CHAPTER XXIV. RICHARD AND WINGFOLD
Barbara had more than once or twice heard Mr. Wingfold preach, but had not once listened, or oven waked to the fact that she had not listened. Unaccustomed in childhood to any special regard of the Sunday, she had neither pleasant nor unpleasant associations with church-going; but she liked a good many things better, and as she always did as she liked except she saw reason to the contrary, she had hitherto gone to church rather seldom. She might perhaps have sooner learned to go regularly but for her mother’s extraordinary behaviour there: certainly she could not sit in the same pew with her reading her novel. Since Mr. Wingfold had taken the part of the prophet Nathan, and rebuked her, she had indeed ceased to go to church, but Barbara, as I have said, was as yet only now and then drawn thitherward.
Mr. Wingfold was almost as different from the clergyman of Richard’s idea, as was Richard’s imagined God from any believable idea of God. The two men had never yet met, for what should bring a working-man and the clergyman of the next parish together? But one morning—he often went for a walk in the early morning—Richard saw before him, in the middle of a field-path, seated on a stile and stopping his way, the back of a man in a gray suit, evidently enjoying, like himself, the hour before sunrise. He knew somehow that he was not a working-man, but he did not suspect him one of the obnoxious class which lives by fooling itself and others. Wingfold heard Richard’s step, looked round, knew him at once an artisan of some sort, and saw in him signs of purpose and character strong for his years.
“Jolly morning!” he said.
“It is indeed, sir!” answered Richard.
“I like a walk in the morning better than at any other time of the day!” said Wingfold.
“Well, sir, I do so too, though I can’t tell why. I’ve often tried, but I haven’t yet found out what makes the morning so different.”
“Come!” thought the clergyman; “here’s something I haven’t met with too much of!”
Richard remarked to himself that, whoever the gentleman was, he was certainly not stuck-up. They might have parted late the night before, instead of meeting now for the first time!
“Are you a married man?” asked Wingfold.
“No, sir,” answered Richard, surprised that a stranger should put the question.
“If you had been,” Wingfold went on, “I should have been surer of your seeing what I mean when I say, that to be out before sunrise is like looking at your best friend asleep—that is, before her sun, her thought, namely, is up. Watching her face then, you see it come to life, grow radiant with sunrise.”
“But,” rejoined Richard, “I have seen a person asleep whose face made it quite evident that thought was awake! It was shining through!”
“Shining through, certainly,” said Wingfold, “not up. I doubt indeed if during any sleep, thought is quite in abeyance.”
“Not when we are dead asleep, sir?—so dead that when we wake we don’t remember anything?”
“If thought in such a case must be proved, it will have to go for non-existent. Yet, when you reflect that sometimes you discover that you must, a few minutes before, wide awake, have done something which you have no recollection of having done, and which, but for the fact remaining evident to your sight, you would not believe you had done, you must feel doubtful as to the loss of consciousness in sleep.”
“Yes; that must give us pause!”
“Hamlet!” said the clergyman to himself. “That’s good! You may have read from top to bottom of a page, perhaps,” he went on, “without being able to recall a word: would you say no thought had passed through your mind in the process?—that the words had suggested nothing as you read them?”
“No, sir; I should be inclined to say that I forgot as fast as I read; that, as I read, I seemed to know the thing I read, but the process of forgetting kept pace for pace alongside the process of reading.”
“I quite agree with you.—Now I wonder whether you will agree with me in what I am going to suggest next!”
“I can’t tell that, sir,” said Richard—somewhat unnecessarily; but Wingfold was pleased to find him cautious.
“I think,” the parson continued, “that what I want in order to be able afterward to recollect a thing, is to be not merely conscious of the thing when it comes, but at the same moment conscious of myself. To remember, I must be self-conscious as well as thing-conscious.”
“There I cannot quite follow you.”
“When I learn the meaning of a word, I know the word; but when I say to myself, ‘I know the word,’ there comes a reflection of the word back from the mirror of my mind, making a second impression, and after that I am at least not so likely to forget it.”
“I think I can follow you so far,” said Richard.
“When, then,” pursued the parson, “I think about the impression that the word makes upon me, how it is affecting me with the knowledge of itself, then I am what I should call self-conscious of the word—conscious not only that I know the word, but that I know the phenomena of knowing the word—conscious of what I am as regards my knowing of the word.”
“I understand so far, sir—at least I think I do.”
“Then you will allow that a word with its reflection and mental impact thus operated upon by the mind is not so likely to be forgotten as one understood only in the first immediate way?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well, then—mind I am only suggesting; I am not proclaiming a fact, still less laying down a law; I am not half sure enough about it for that—so it is with our dreams. We see, or hear, and are conscious that we do, in our dreams; our consciousness shines through our sleeping features to the eyes that love us; but when we wake we have forgotten everything. There was thought there, but not thought that could be remembered. When, however, you have once said to yourself in a dream, ‘I think I am dreaming;’ you always, I venture to suspect, remember that experience when you wake from it!”
“I daresay you do, sir. But there are many dreams we never suspect to be dreams while we are dreaming them, which yet we remember all the same when we come awake!”
“Yes, surely; and many people have such memories as hold every word and every fact presented to them. But I was not meaning to discuss the phenomena of sleep; I only meant to support my simile that to see the world before the sun is up, is like looking on the sleeping face of a friend. There is thought in the sleeping face of your friend, and thought in the twilight face of nature; but the face awake with thought, is the world awake with sunlight.”
“There I cannot go with you, sir,” said Richard, who, for all the impression Barbara had made upon him, had not yet thought of the world as in any sense alive; it was to him but an aggregate of laws and results, the great dissecting-room of creation, the happy hunting ground of the goddess who calls herself Science, though she can claim to understand as yet no single fact.
“Why?” asked Wingfold.
“Because I cannot receive the simile at all. I cannot allow expression of thought where no thought is.”
Here a certain look on the face of the young workman helped the parson toward understanding the position he meant to take, “Ah!” he answered, “I see I mistook you! I understand now! Sleep she or wake she, you will not allow thought on the face of Nature! Am I right?”
“That is what I would say, sir,” answered Richard.
“We must look at that!” returned Wingfold. “That would be scanned!—You would conceive the world as a sort of machine that goes for certain purposes—like a clock, for instance, whose duty it is to tell the time of the day?—Do I represent you truly?”
“So far, sir. Only one machine may have many uses!”
“True! A clock may do more for us than tell the time! It may tell how fast it is going, and wake solemn thought. But if you came upon a machine that constantly waked in you—not thoughts only, but the most delicate and indescribable feelings—what would you say then? Would you allow thought there?”
“Surely not that the machine was thinking!”
“Certainly not. But would you allow thought concerned in it? Would you allow that thought must have preceded and occasioned its existence? Would you allow that thought therefore must yet be interested in its power to produce thought, and might, if it chose, minister to the continuance or enlargement of the power it had originated?”
“Perhaps I should be compelled to allow that much in regard to a clock even!—Are we coming to the Paley-argument, sir?” said Richard.
“I think not,” answered Wingfold. “My argument seems to me one of my own. It is not drawn from design but from operation: where a thing wakes thought and feeling, I say, must not thought and feeling be somewhere concerned in its origin?”
“Might not the thought and feeling come by association, as in the case of the clock suggesting the flight of time?”
“I think our associations can hardly be so multiform, or so delicate, as to have a share in bringing to us half of the thoughts and feelings that nature wakes in us. If they have such a share, they must have reference either to a fore-existence, or to relations hidden in our being, over which we have no control; and equally in such case are the thoughts and feelings waked in us, not by us. I do not want to argue; I am only suggesting that, if the world moves thought and feeling in those that regard it, thought and feeling are somehow concerned in the world. Even to wake old feelings, there must be a likeness to them in what wakes them, else how could it wake them? In a word, feeling must have put itself into the shape that awakes feeling. Then there is feeling in the thing that bears that shape, although itself it does not feel. Therefore I think it may be said that there is more thought, or, rather, more expression of thought, in the face of the world when the sun is up, than when he is not—as there is more thought in a face awake than in a face asleep.—Ah, there is the sun! and there are things that ought never to be talked about in their presence! To talk of some things even behind their backs will keep them away!”
Richard neither understood his last words, nor knew that he did not understand them. But he did understand that it was better to watch the sunrise than to talk of it.
Up came the child of heaven, conquering in the truth, in the might of essential being. It was no argument, but the presence of God that silenced the racked heart of Job. The men stood lost in the swift changes of his attendant colours—from red to gold, from the human to the divine—as he ran to the horizon from beneath, and came up with a rush, eternally silent. With a moan of delight Richard turned to his gazing companion, when he beheld that on his face which made him turn from him again: he had seen what was not there for human eyes! The radiance of Wingfold’s countenance, the human radiance that met the solar shine, surpassed even that which the moon and the sky and the sleeping earth brought out that night upon the face of Barbara! The one was the waking, the other but the sweetly dreaming world.
Richard refused to let any emotion, primary or reflex, influence his opinions; they must be determined by fact and severe logical outline. Whatever was not to him definite—that is, was not by him formally conceivable, must not be put in the category of things to be believed; but he had not a notion how many things he accepted unquestioning, which were yet of this order; and not being only a thing that thought, but a thing as well that was thought, he could not help being more influenced by such a sight than he would have chosen to be, and the fact that he was so influenced remained. Happily, the choice whether we shall be influenced is not given us; happily, too, the choice whether we shall obey an influence is given us.
Without a word, Richard lifted his hat to the stranger, and walked on, leaving him where he stood, but taking with him a germ of new feeling, which would enlarge and divide and so multiply. When he got to the next stile, he looked back, and saw him seated as at first, but now reading.
CHAPTER XXV. WING FOLD AND HIS WIFE
Thomas Wingfold closed his book, replaced it in his pocket, got down from the stile, turned his face toward home, crossed field after field, and arrived just in time to meet his wife as she came down the stair to breakfast.
“Have you had a nice walk, Thomas?” she asked.
“Indeed I have!” he answered. “Almost from the first I was right out in the open.”—His wife knew what he meant.—“Before the sun came up”, he went on, “I had to go in, and come out at another door; but I was soon very glad of it. I had met a fellow who, I think, will pluck his feet out of the mud before long.”
“Have you asked him to the rectory?”
“No.”
“Shall I write and ask him?”
“No, my wife. For one thing, you can’t: I don’t know his name, and I don’t know what he is, or where he lives. But we shall meet again soon.”
“Then you have made an appointment with him!”
“No, I haven’t. But there’s an undertow bringing us on to each other. It would spoil all if he thought I threw a net for him. I do mean to catch him if I can, but I will not move till the tide brings him into my arms. At least, that is how the thing looks to me at present. I believe enough not to make haste. I don’t want to throw salt on any bird’s tail, but I do want the birds to come hopping about me, that I may tell them what I know!”
As near as he could, Wingfold recounted the conversation he had had with Richard.
“He was a fine-looking fellow,” he said, “—not exactly a gentleman, but not far off it; little would make him one. He looked a man that could do things, but I did not satisfy myself as to what might be his trade. He showed no sign of it, or made any allusion to it. But he was more at home in the workshop of his own mind than is at all usual with fellows of his age.”
“It must,” said Helen, “be old Simon Armour’s grandson! I have heard of him from several quarters; and your description would just fit him. I know somebody that could tell you about him, but I wish I know anybody that could tell us about her—I mean Miss Wylder.”
“I like the look of that girl!” said the parson warmly, “What makes you think she could tell us about my new acquaintance?”
“Only an impertinent speech of that little simian, Vixen Lestrange. I forget what she said, but it left the impression of an acquaintance between Bab, as she called her, and some working fellow the child could not bear.”
“The enmity of that child is praise. I wonder how the Master would have treated her! He could not have taken her between his knees, and said whosoever received her received him! A child-mask with a monkey inside it will only serve a sentimental mother to talk platitudes about!”
“Don’t be too hard on the monkeys, Tom!” said his wife. “You don’t know what they may turn out to be, after all!”
“Surely it is not too hard on the monkeys to call them monkeys!”
“No; but when the monkey has already begun to be a child!”
“There is the whole point! Has the monkey always begun to be a child when he gets the shape of a child?—Miss Wylder is not quite so seldom in church now, I think!”
“I saw her there last Sunday. But I’m afraid she wasn’t thinking much about what you were saying—she sat with such a stony look in her eyes! She did seem to come awake for one moment, though!”
“Tell me.”
“I could hardly take my eyes off her, my heart was so drawn to her. There was a mingling of love and daring, almost defiance, in her look, that seemed to say, ‘If you are worth it—if you are worth it—then through fire and water!’ All at once a flash lighted up her lovely child-face—and what do you think you were at the moment saying?—that the flower of a plant was deeper than the root of it: that was what roused her!”
“And I, when I found what I had said, thought within myself what a fool I was to let out things my congregation could not possibly understand!—But to reach one is, in the end, to reach all!”
“I must in honesty tell you, however,” pursued Mrs. Wingfold, “that the next minute she looked as far off as before; nor did she shine up once again that I saw.”
“I will be glad, though,” said Wingfold, “because of what you tell me! It shows there is a window in her house that looks in my direction: some signal may one day catch her eye! That she has a character of her own, a real one, I strongly suspect. Her mother more than interests me. She certainly has a fine nature. How much better is a fury than a fish! You cannot be downright angry save in virtue of the love possible to you. The proper person, who always does and says the correct thing—well, I think that person is almost sure to be a liar. At the same time, the contradictions in the human individual are bewildering, even appalling!—Now I must go to my study, and think out a thing that’s bothering me!—By the way,”—he always said that when he was going to make her a certain kind of present; she knew what was coming—“here’s something for you—if you can read it! I had just scribbled it this morning when the young man came up. I made it last night. I was hours awake after we went to bed!”
This is what he gave her:—
A SONG IN THE NIGHT
A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree,
Sang in the moonshine, merrily,
Three little songs, one, two, and three,
A song for his wife, for himself, and me.
He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high,
Filling the moonlight that filled the sky,
“Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive!
Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!”
He sang to himself, “What shall I do
With this life that thrills me through and through!
Glad is so glad that it turns to ache!
Out with it, song, or my heart will break!”
He sang to me, “Man, do not fear
Though the moon goes down, and the dark is near;
Listen my song, and rest thine eyes;
Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!”
I folded me up in the heart of his tune,
And fell asleep in the sinking moon;
I woke with the day’s first golden gleam,
And lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!
CHAPTER XXVI. RICHARD AND ALICE
One evening Richard went to see his grandfather, and asked if he would allow him to give Miss Wylder a lesson in horseshoeing: she wanted, he said, to be able to shoe Miss Brown—or indeed any horse. Simon laughed heartily at the proposal: it was too great an absurdity to admit of serious objection!
“Ah, you don’t know Miss Wylder, grandfather!” said Richard.
“Of course not! Never an old man knew anything about a girl! It’s only the young fellows can fathom a woman! Having girls of his own blinds a man to the nature of them! There’s going to be a law passed against growing old! It’s an unfortunate habit the world’s got into somehow, and the young fellows are going to put a stop to it for fear of losing their wisdom!”
As the blacksmith spoke, he went on rasping and filing at a house-door key, fast in a vice on his bench; and his words seemed to Richard to fall from his mouth like the raspings from his rasp.
“Well, grandfather,” said Richard, “if Miss Wylder don’t astonish you, she’ll astonish me!”
“Have you ever seen her drive a nail, boy?”
“Not once; but I am just as sure she will do it—and better than any beginner you’ve seen yet!”
“Well, well, lad! we’ll see! we’ll see! She’s welcome anyhow to come and have her try! What day shall it be?”
“That I can’t tell yet.”
“It makes me grin to think o’ them doll’s hands with a great hoof in them!”
“They are little hands—she’s little herself—but they ain’t doll’s hands, grandfather. You should have seen her box Miss Vixen’s ears for making a face at me! Her ears didn’t take them for doll’s hands, I’ll be bound! The room rang again!”
“Bring her when you like, lad,” said Simon.
It was moonlight, and when Richard arrived at the lodgeless gate, he saw inside it, a few yards away, seated on a stone, the form of a woman. He thought the first moment, as was natural, of Barbara, but the next, he knew that this was something strange. She sat in helpless, hopeless attitude, with her head in her hands. A strange dismay came upon him at the sight of her; his heart fluttered in a cage of fear. He did not believe in ghosts. If he saw one, it would but show that sometimes when a person died there was a shadow left that was like him! There might be millions of ghosts, and no God the more! What are we all but spectres of the unknown? What was death but a vanishing of the unknown? What are the dead but vanishments! Yet he shuddered at the thought that he had actually come upon one of the dead that are still alive, of whom, once or twice in a long century, one is met wandering vaguely about the world, unable to find what used to make it home. He peered through the iron bars as into a charnel-house: one such wanderer was enough to make the whole vault of night a gaping tomb.
Putting his key in the lock made a sharp little noise. The figure started up, her face gleaming white in the moon, but dropped again on her stone, unable to stand. Richard could not take his eyes off her. While closing the gate he dared not turn his back to her. She sat motionless as before, her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. He stood for a moment staring and trembling, then, with an effort of the will that approached agony, went toward her. As he drew nearer, he began to feel as if he had once known her. He must have seen her in London somewhere, he thought. But why was her shadow sitting there, the lonely hostless guest of the night’s caravansary?
He went nearer. The form remained motionless. Something reminded him of Alice Manson.
He laid his hand on the figure. It was a woman to the touch as well as to the eye. But not yet did she move an inch. He would have raised her face. Then she resisted. All at once he was sure she was Alice.
“Alice!” he cried. “Good God!—sitting in the cold night!”
She made him no answer, sat stone-still.
“What shall I do for you?” he said.
“Nothing,” she answered, in a voice that might well have been that of a spectre. “Leave me,” she added, as if with the last entreaty of despair.
“You are in trouble, Alice!” he persisted. “Why are you so far from home? Where’s Arthur?”
“What right have you to question me?” she returned, almost fiercely.
“None but that I am your brother’s friend.”
“Friend!” she echoed, in a faint far-away voice.
“You forget, Alice, that I did all I could to be your friend, and you would not let me!”
She neither spoke nor moved. Her stillness seemed to say, “Neither will I now.”
“Where are you going?” he asked, after a hopeless pause.
“Nowhere.”
“Why did you leave London?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I think you will tell me!”
“I will not.”
“You know I would do anything for you!”
“I daresay!”
“You know I would!”
“I don’t.”
“Try me.”
“I will not.”
Her voice grew more and more faint and forced. Her words and it were very unlike.
“Don’t go on like that, Alice. You’re not being reasonable,” pleaded Richard.
“Oh, do leave me alone!”
“I won’t leave you.”
“As you please! It’s nothing to me.”
“Alice, why do you speak to me like that? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Everything is wrong. Everybody is wrong. The whole world is wrong.”
Her voice was a little stronger. She raised herself, and looked him in the face.
“I hope not.”
“I hope it is!”
“Why should you?”
“To think things were right would be too terrible! I say everything’s wrong.”
“What’s to be done, then?” sighed Richard.
“I must get out of it all.”
“But how?”
“There is only one way.”
“What is that?”
“Everybody knows.”
“Alice,” cried Richard, nearly in despair like herself, “are you out of your mind?”
“Pretty nearly.—Why shouldn’t I be? There are plenty of us!”
“Alice, if you won’t tell me what is the matter with you, if you won’t let me help you, I will sit down by you till the morning.”
“What if I drop?”
“Then I will carry you away. The sooner you drop the better.” Her resolution seemed to break.
“I ‘ain’t eaten a mouthful to-day,” she said.
“My poor girl! Promise me to wait till I come back. Here, put on my coat.”
She was past resisting more, and allowed him to button his coat about her.
But he was in great perplexity: where was he to get anything for her? And how was she to live till he brought it! It was terrible to think of! Alice with nothing to eat, and no refuge but a stone in the moonlight! This was what her religion had done for Alice!
“Miss Wylder’s God!” he said to himself with contempt.
“He’s well enough for the wind and the stars and the moonlight! but for human beings—for Alice—for creatures dying of hunger, what a mockery! If he were there, it would be a sickness to talk of him! Beauty is beauty, but for anything behind it—pooh!”
He stood a moment hesitating. Alice swayed on her seat, and would have fallen. He caught her—and in the act remembered a little cottage, a hut rather, down a lane a short way off. He took her in his arms and started for it.
She was dreadfully thin, but a strong man cannot walk very fast carrying a woman, however light she be, and she had half come to herself before he reached the cottage.
“Richard, dear Richard!” she murmured at his ear, “where are you carrying me? Are you going to kill me, or are you taking me home with you? Do set me down. Where’s Arthur? I will let you be good to me! I will! I can’t hold out for ever!”
She seemed to be dreaming—apparently about their meeting in Regent-street; or perhaps she was delirious from want of food. He walked on without attempting to answer her. Some great wrong had been done her, and his heart sank within him; for he believed in no judgment, no final setting right of wrongs. He knew of nothing better than that the wronged and the wronger would cease together. Certainly, if his creed represented fact, the best thing in existence is that it has no essential life in it, that it cannot continue, that it must cease: the good of living is that we must die. The hope of death is the inspiration of Buddhism! His heart ached with pity for the girl. His help, his tenderness expanded, and folded her in the wings of a shelter that was not empty because his creed was false.
“She belongs to me!” he said to himself. “The world has thrown her off: ‘be it lawful I take up what’s cast away!’ Here is the one treasure, a human being! the best thing in the world! I will cherish it. Poor girl! she shall at least know one man a refuge!”
The cottage was a wretched place, but a labourer and his family lived in it. He knocked many times. A sleepy voice answered at last, and presently a sleepy-eyed man half opened the door.
“What’s the deuce of a row?” he grunted.
“Here’s a young woman half dead with hunger and cold!” said Richard. “You must take her in or she’ll die!”
“Can’t you take her somewhere else?”
“There’s nowhere else near enough.—Come, come, let us in! You wouldn’t have her die on your doorstep!”
“I don’ow as I see the sense o’ bringin’ her here!” answered the man sleepily. “We ain’t out o’ the hunger-wood ourselves yet!—Wife! here’s a chap as says he’s picked up a young ‘oman a dyin’ o’ ‘unger!—‘tain’t likely, be it, i’ this land o’ liberty?”
“Likely enough, Giles, where the liberty’s mainly to starve!” replied a feminine voice. “Let un bring the poor thing in. There ain’t nowhere to put her, an’ there ain’t nothin’ to give her, but she can’t lie out in the wide world!”
“‘Ain’t you got a drop o’ milk?” asked Richard.
“Milk!” echoed the woman; “it’s weeks an’ weeks the childer ‘ain’t tasted of it! The wonder to me is that the cows let a poor man milk ‘em!”
Richard set Alice on her feet, but she could not stand alone; had he taken his arm from round her, she would have fallen in a heap. But the woman while she spoke had been getting a light, and now came to the door with a candle-end. Her husband kept prudently in her shadow.
“Poor thing! poor thing! she be far gone!” she said, when she saw her. “Bring her in, sir. There’s a chair she can sit upon. I’ll get her a drop o’ tea—that’ll be better’n milk! There’s next to no work, and the squire he be mad wi’ Giles acause o’ some rabbit or other they says he snared—which they did say it was a hare—I don’ow: take the skin off, an’ who’s to tell t’one from t’other! I do know I was right glad on’t for the childer! An’ if the parson tell me my man ‘ill be damned for hare or rabbit, an’ the childer starvin’, I’ll give him a bit o’ my mind.—‘No, sir!’ says I; ‘God ain’t none o’ your sort!’ says I. ‘An’ p’r’aps the day may be at hand when the rich an’ the poor ‘ill have a turn o’ a change together! Leastways there’s somethin’ like it somewheres i’ the Bible,’ says I. ‘An’ if it be i’ the Bible,’ says I, ‘it’s likely to be true, for the Bible do take the part o’ the rich—mostly!’”
She was a woman who liked to hear herself talk, and so spoke as one listening to herself. Like most people, whether they talk or not, she got her ideas second-hand; but Richard was nowise inclined to differ with what she said about the Bible, for he knew little more and no better about it than she. Had parson Wingfold, who did know the Bible as few parsons know it, heard her, he would have told her that, by search express and minute, he had satisfied himself that there was not a word in the Bible against the poor, although a multitude of words against the rich. The sins of the poor are not once mentioned in the Bible, the sins of the rich very often. The rich may think this hard, but I state the fact, and do not much care what they think. When they come to judge themselves and others fairly, they will understand that God is no respecter of persons, not favouring even the poor in his cause.
Richard set Alice on the one chair, by the poor little fire the woman was coaxing to heat the water she had put on it in a saucepan. Alice stared at the fire, but hardly seemed to see it. The woman tried to comfort her. Richard looked round the place: the man was in the bed that filled one corner; a mattress in another was crowded with children; there was no spot where she could lie down.
“I shall be back as soon’s ever I can,” he said, and left the cottage.
