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He roused himself directly. "My dear girl, you entirely mistake me!"

The reply was as ready as usual; but it was spoken rather absently.
Only that moment, he had decided on informing Phoebe (to some extent,
at least) of the purpose which he was then meditating. He would
infinitely have preferred using Mrs. Sowler as his sole accomplice. But
he knew the girl too well to run that risk. If he refused to satisfy
her curiosity, she would be deterred by no scruples of delicacy from
privately watching him; and she might say something (either by word of
month or by writing) to the kind young mistress who was in
correspondence with her, which might lead to disastrous results. It was
of the last importance to him, so far to associate Phoebe with his
projected enterprise, as to give her an interest of her own in keeping
his secrets.

"I have not the least wish," he resumed, "to conceal any thing from
you. So far as I can see my way at present, you shall see it too."
Reserving in this dexterous manner the freedom of lying, whenever he
found it necessary to depart from the truth, he smiled encouragingly,
and waited to be questioned.

Phoebe repeated the inquiry she had made at the tavern. "Why do you
want to know where Mr. Ronald is buried?" she asked bluntly.

"Mr. Ronald's tombstone, my dear, will tell me the date of Mr. Ronald's
death," Jervy rejoined. "When I have got the date, I shall go to a
place near St. Paul's, called Doctors' Commons; I shall pay a shilling
fee, and I shall have the privilege of looking at Mr. Ronald's will."

"And what good will that do you?"

"Very properly put, Phoebe! Even shillings are not to be wasted, in our
position. But my shilling will buy two sixpennyworths of information. I
shall find out what sum of money Mr. Ronald has left to his daughter;
and I shall know for certain whether Mrs. Farnaby's husband has any
power over it, or not."

"Well?" said Phoebe, not much interested so far--"and what then?"

Jervy looked about him. They were in a crowded thoroughfare at the
time. He preserved a discreet silence, until they had arrived at the
first turning which led down a quiet street.

"What I have to tell you," he said, "must not be accidentally heard by
anybody. Here, my dear, we are all but out of the world--and here I can
speak to you safely. I promise you two good things. You shall bring
Mrs. Farnaby to that day of reckoning; and we will find money enough to
marry on comfortably as soon as you like."

Phoebe's languid interest in the subject began to revive: she insisted
on having a clearer explanation than this. "Do you mean to get the
money out of Mr. Farnaby?" she inquired.

"I will have nothing to do with Mr. Farnaby--unless I find that his
wife's money is not at her own disposal. What you heard in the kitchen
has altered all my plans. Wait a minute--and you will see what I am
driving at. How much do you think Mrs. Farnaby would give me, if I
found that lost daughter of hers?"

Phoebe suddenly stood still, and looked at the sordid scoundrel who was
tempting her in blank amazement.

"But nobody knows where the daughter is," she objected.

"You and I know that the daughter has a deformity in her left foot,"
Jervy replied; "and you and I know exactly in what part of the foot it
is. There's not only money to be made out of that knowledge--but money
made easily, without the slightest risk. Suppose I managed the matter
by correspondence, without appearing in it personally? Don't you think
Mrs. Farnaby would open her purse beforehand, if I mentioned the exact
position of that little deformity, as a proof that I was to be depended
on?"

Phoebe was unable, or unwilling, to draw the obvious conclusion, even
now.

"But, what would you do," she said, "when Mrs. Farnaby insisted on
seeing her daughter?"

There was something in the girl's tone--half fearful, half
suspicious--which warned Jervy that he was treading on dangerous
ground. He knew perfectly well what he proposed to do, in the case that
had been so plainly put him. It was the simplest thing in the world. He
had only to make an appointment with Mrs. Farnaby for a meeting on a
future day, and to take to flight in the interval; leaving a polite
note behind him to say that it was all a mistake, and that he regretted
being too poor to return the money. Having thus far acknowledged the
design he had in view, could he still venture on answering his
companion without reserve? Phoebe was vain, Phoebe was vindictive; and,
more promising still, Phoebe was a fool. But she was not yet capable of
consenting to an act of the vilest infamy, in cold blood. Jervy looked
at her--and saw that the foreseen necessity for lying had come at last.

"That's just the difficulty," he said; "that's just where I don't see
my way plainly yet. Can you advise me?"

Phoebe started, and drew back from him. _"I_ advise you!" she
exclaimed. "It frightens me to think of it. If you make her believe she
is going to see her daughter, and if she finds out that you have robbed
and deceived her, I can tell you this--with her furious temper--you
would drive her mad."

Jervy's reply was a model of well-acted indignation. "Don't talk of
anything so horrible," he exclaimed. "If you believe me capable of such
cruelty as that, go to Mrs. Farnaby, and warn her at once!"

"It's too bad to speak to me in that way!" Phoebe rejoined, with the
frank impetuosity of an offended woman. "You know I would die, rather
than get you into trouble. Beg my pardon directly--or I won't walk
another step with you!"

Jervy made the necessary apologies, with all possible humility. He had
gained his end--he could now postpone any further discussion of the
subject, without arousing Phoebe's distrust. "Let us say no more about
it, for the present," he suggested; "we will think it over, and talk of
pleasanter things in the mean time. Kiss me, my dear girl; there's
nobody looking."

So he made peace with his sweetheart, and secured to himself, at the
same time, the full liberty of future action of which he stood in need.
If Phoebe asked any more questions, the necessary answer was obvious to
the meanest capacity. He had merely to say, "The matter is beset with
difficulties which I didn't see at first--I have given it up."

Their nearest way back to Phoebe's lodgings took them through the
street which led to the Hampden Institution. Passing along the opposite
side of the road, they saw the private door opened. Two men stepped
out. A third man, inside, called after one of them. "Mr. Goldenheart!
you have left the statement of receipts in the waiting-room." "Never
mind," Amelius answered; "the night's receipts are so small that I
would rather not be reminded of them again." "In my country," a third
voice remarked, "if he had lectured as he has lectured to-night, I
reckon I'd have given him three hundred dollars, gold (sixty pounds,
English currency), and have made my own profit by the transaction. The
British nation has lost its taste, sir, for intellectual recreation. I
wish you good evening."

Jervy hurried Phoebe out of the way, just as the two gentlemen were
crossing the street. He had not forgotten events at Tadmor--and he was
by no means eager to renew his former acquaintance with Amelius.

CHAPTER 6

Rufus and his young friend walked together silently as far as a large
square. Here they stopped, having reached the point at which it was
necessary to take different directions on their way home.

"I've a word of advice, my son, for your private ear," said the New
Englander. "The barometer behind your waistcoat points to a downhearted
state of the moral atmosphere. Come along to home with me--you want a
whisky cocktail badly."

"No, thank you, my dear fellow," Amelius answered a little sadly. "I
own I'm downhearted, as you say. You see, I expected this lecture to be
a new opening for me. Personally, as you know, I don't care two straws
about money. But my marriage depends on my adding to my income; and the
first attempt I've made to do it has ended in a total failure. I'm all
abroad again, when I look to the future--and I'm afraid I'm fool enough
to let it weigh on my spirits. No, the cocktail isn't the right remedy
for me. I don't get the exercise and fresh air, here, that I used to
get at Tadmor. My head burns after all that talking to-night. A good
long walk will put me right, and nothing else will."

Rufus at once offered to accompany him. Amelius shook his head. "Did
you ever walk a mile in your life, when you could ride?" he asked
good-humouredly. "I mean to be on my legs for four or five hours; I
should only have to send you home in a cab. Thank you, old fellow, for
the brotherly interest you take in me. I'll breakfast with you
to-morrow, at your hotel. Good night."

Some curious prevision of evil seemed to trouble the mind of the good
New Englander. He held Amelius fast by the hand: he said, very
earnestly, "It goes against the grit with me to see you wandering off
by yourself at this time of night--it does, I tell you! Do me a favour
for once, my bright boy--go right away to bed."

Amelius laughed, and released his hand. "I shouldn't sleep, if I did go
to bed. Breakfast to-morrow, at ten o'clock. Goodnight, again!"

He started on his walk, at a pace which set pursuit on the part of
Rufus at defiance. The American stood watching him, until he was lost
to sight in the darkness. "What a grip that young fellow has got on me,
in no more than a few months!" Rufus thought, as he slowly turned away
in the direction of his hotel. "Lord send the poor boy may keep clear
of mischief this night!"

Meanwhile, Amelius walked on swiftly, straight before him, careless in
what direction he turned his steps, so long as he felt the cool air and
kept moving.

His thoughts were not at first occupied with the doubtful question of
his marriage; the lecture was still the uppermost subject in his mind.
He had reserved for the conclusion of his address the justification of
his view of the future, afforded by the widespread and frightful
poverty among the millions of the population of London alone. On this
melancholy theme he had spoken with the eloquence of true feeling, and
had produced a strong impression, even on those members of the audience
who were most resolutely opposed to the opinions which he advocated.
Without any undue exercise of self-esteem, he could look back on the
close of his lecture with the conviction that he had really done
justice to himself and to his cause. The retrospect of the public
discussion that had followed failed to give him the same pleasure. His
warm temper, his vehemently sincere belief in the truth of his own
convictions, placed him at a serious disadvantage towards the more
self-restrained speakers (all older than himself) who rose, one after
another, to combat his views. More than once he had lost his temper,
and had been obliged to make his apologies. More than once he had been
indebted to the ready help of Rufus, who had taken part in the battle
of words, with the generous purpose of covering his retreat. "No!" he
thought to himself, with bitter humility, "I'm not fit for public
discussions. If they put me into Parliament tomorrow, I should only get
called to order and do nothing."

He reached the bank of the Thames, at the eastward end of the Strand.

Walking straight on, as absently as ever, he crossed Waterloo Bridge,
and followed the broad street that lay before him on the other side. He
was thinking of the future again: Regina was in his mind now. The one
prospect that he could see of a tranquil and happy life--with duties as
well as pleasures; duties that might rouse him to find the vocation for
which he was fit--was the prospect of his marriage. What was the
obstacle that stood in his way? The vile obstacle of money; the
contemptible spirit of ostentation which forbade him to live humbly on
his own sufficient little income, and insisted that he should purchase
domestic happiness at the price of the tawdry splendour of a rich
tradesman and his friends. And Regina, who was free to follow her own
better impulses--Regina, whose heart acknowledged him as its
master--bowed before the golden image which was the tutelary deity of
her uncle's household, and said resignedly, Love must wait!

Still walking blindly on, he was roused on a sudden to a sense of
passing events. Crossing a side-street at the moment, a man caught him
roughly by the arm, and saved him from being run over. The man had a
broom in his hand; he was a crossing-sweeper. "I think I've earned my
penny, sir!" he said.

Amelius gave him half-a-crown. The man shouldered his broom, and tossed
up the money, in a transport of delight. "Here's something to go home
with!" he cried, as he caught the half-crown again.

"Have you got a family at home?" Amelius asked.

"Only one, sir," said the man. "The others are all dead. She's as good
a girl and as pretty a girl as ever put on a petticoat--though I say it
that shouldn't. Thank you kindly, sir. Good night!"

Amelius looked after the poor fellow, happy at least for that night!
"If I had only been lucky enough to fall in love with the
crossing-sweeper's daughter," he thought bitterly, _"she_ would have
married me when I asked her."

He looked along the street. It curved away in the distance, with no
visible limit to it. Arrived at the next side-street on his left,
Amelius turned down it, weary of walking longer in the same direction.
Whither it might lead him he neither knew nor cared. In his present
humour it was a pleasurable sensation to feel himself lost in London.

The short street suddenly widened; a blaze of flaring gaslight dazzled
his eyes; he heard all round him the shouting of innumerable voices. For
the first time since he had been in London, he found himself in one of
the street-markets of the poor.

On either side of the road, the barrows of the costermongers--the
wandering tradesmen of the highway--were drawn up in rows; and every
man was advertising his wares, by means of the cheap publicity of his
own voice. Fish and vegetables; pottery and writing-paper;
looking-glasses, saucepans, and coloured prints--all appealed together
to the scantily filled purses of the crowds who thronged the pavement.
One lusty vagabond stood up in a rickety donkey-cart, knee-deep in
apples, selling a great wooden measure full for a penny, and yelling
louder than all the rest. "Never was such apples sold in the public
streets before! Sweet as flowers, and sound as a bell. Who says the
poor ain't looked after," cried the fellow, with ferocious irony, "when
they can have such apple-sauce as this to their loin of pork? Here's
nobby apples; here's a penn'orth for your money. Sold again! Hullo,
you! you look hungry. Catch! there's an apple for nothing, just to
taste. Be in time, be in time before they're all sold!" Amelius moved
forward a few steps, and was half deafened by rival butchers, shouting,
"Buy, buy, buy!" to audiences of ragged women, who fingered the meat
doubtfully, with longing eyes. A little farther--and there was a blind
man selling staylaces, and singing a Psalm; and, beyond him again, a
broken-down soldier playing "God save the Queen" on a tin flageolet.
The one silent person in this sordid carnival was a Lascar beggar, with
a printed placard round his neck, addressed to "The Charitable Public."
He held a tallow candle to illuminate the copious narrative of his
misfortunes; and the one reader he obtained was a fat man, who
scratched his head, and remarked to Amelius that he didn't like
foreigners. Starving boys and girls lurked among the costermongers'
barrows, and begged piteously on pretence of selling cigar-lights and
comic songs. Furious women stood at the doors of public-houses, and
railed on their drunken husbands for spending the house-money in gin. A
thicker crowd, towards the middle of the street, poured in and out at
the door of a cookshop. Here the people presented a less terrible
spectacle--they were even touching to see. These were the patient poor,
who bought hot morsels of sheep's heart and liver at a penny an ounce,
with lamentable little mouthfuls of peas-pudding, greens, and potatoes
at a halfpenny each. Pale children in corners supped on penny basins of
soup, and looked with hungry admiration at their enviable neighbours
who could afford to buy stewed eels for twopence. Everywhere there was
the same noble resignation to their hard fate, in old and young alike.
No impatience, no complaints. In this wretched place, the language of
true gratitude was still to be heard, thanking the good-natured cook
for a little spoonful of gravy thrown in for nothing--and here, humble
mercy that had its one superfluous halfpenny to spare gave that
halfpenny to utter destitution, and gave it with right good-will.
Amelius spent all his shillings and sixpences, in doubling and trebling
the poor little pennyworths of food--and left the place with tears in
his eyes.

He was near the end of the street by this time. The sight of the misery
about him, and the sense of his own utter inability to remedy it,
weighed heavily on his spirits. He thought of the peaceful and
prosperous life at Tadmor. Were his happy brethren of the Community and
these miserable people about him creatures of the same all-merciful
God? The terrible doubts which come to all thinking men--the doubts
which are not to be stifled by crying "Oh, fie!" in a pulpit--rose
darkly in his mind. He quickened his pace. "Let me let out of it," he
said to himself, "let me get out of it!"

BOOK THE SIXTH

FILIA DOLOROSA

CHAPTER 1

Amelius found it no easy matter to pass quickly through the people
loitering and gossiping about him. There was greater freedom for a
rapid walker in the road. He was on the point of stepping off the
pavement, when a voice behind him--a sweet soft voice, though it spoke
very faintly--said, "Are you good-natured, sir?"

He turned, and found himself face to face with one of the saddest
sisterhood on earth--the sisterhood of the streets.

His heart ached as he looked at her, she was so poor and so young. The
lost creature had, to all appearance, barely passed the boundary
between childhood and girlhood--she could hardly be more than fifteen
or sixteen years old. Her eyes, of the purest and loveliest blue,
rested on Amelius with a vacantly patient look, like the eyes of a
suffering child. The soft oval outline of her face would have been
perfect if the cheeks had been filled out; they were wasted and hollow,
and sadly pale. Her delicate lips had none of the rosy colour of youth;
and her finely modelled chin was disfigured by a piece of plaster
covering some injury. She was little and thin; her worn and scanty
clothing showed her frail youthful figure still waiting for its
perfection of growth. Her pretty little bare hands were reddened by the
raw night air. She trembled as Amelius looked at her in silence, with
compassionate wonder. But for the words in which she had accosted him,
it would have been impossible to associate her with the lamentable life
that she led. The appearance of the girl was artlessly virginal and
innocent; she looked as if she had passed through the contamination of
the streets without being touched by it, without fearing it, or feeling
it, or understanding it. Robed in pure white, with her gentle blue eyes
raised to heaven, a painter might have shown her on his canvas as a
saint or an angel; and the critical world would have said, Here is the
true ideal--Raphael himself might have painted this!

"You look very pale," said Amelius. "Are you ill?"

"No, sir--only hungry."

Her eyes half closed; she reeled from sheer weakness as she said the
words. Amelius held her up, and looked round him. They were close to a
stall at which coffee and slices of bread-and-butter were sold. He
ordered some coffee to be poured out, and offered her the food. She
thanked him and tried to eat. "I can't help it, sir," she said faintly.
The bread dropped from her hand; her weary head sank on his shoulder.

Two young women--older members of the sad sisterhood--were passing at
the moment. "She's too far gone, sir, to eat," said one of them. "I
know what would do her good, if you don't mind going into a
public-house."

"Where is it?" said Amelius. "Be quick!"

One of the women led the way. The other helped Amelius to support the
girl. They entered the crowded public-house. In less than a minute, the
first woman had forced her way through the drunken customers at the
bar, and had returned with a glass of port-wine and cloves. The girl
revived as the stimulant passed her lips. She opened her innocent blue
eyes again, in vague surprise. "I shan't die this time," she said
quietly.

A corner of the place was not occupied; a small empty cask stood there.
Amelius made the poor creature sit down and rest a little. He had only
gold in his purse; and, when the woman had paid for the wine, he
offered her some of the change. She declined to take it. "I've got a
shilling or two, sir," she said; "and I can take care of myself. Give
it to Simple Sally."

"You'll save her a beating, sir, for one night at least," said the
other woman. "We call her Simple Sally, because she's a little soft,
poor soul--hasn't grown up, you know, in her mind, since she was a
child. Give her some of your change, sir, and you'll be doing a kind
thing."

All that is most unselfish, all that is most divinely compassionate and
self-sacrificing in a woman's nature, was as beautiful and as undefiled
as ever in these women--the outcasts of the hard highway!

Amelius turned to the girl. Her head had sunk on her bosom; she was
half asleep. She looked up as he approached her.

"Would you have been beaten to-night," he asked, "if you had not met
with me?"

"Father always beats me, sir," said Simple Sally, "if I don't bring
money home. He threw a knife at me last night. It didn't hurt much--it
only cut me here," said the girl, pointing to the plaster on her chin.

One of the women touched Amelius on the shoulder, and whispered to him.
"He's no more her father, sir, than I am. She's a helpless
creature--and he takes advantage of her. If I only had a place to take
her to, he should never set eyes on her again. Show the gentleman your
bosom, Sally."

She opened her poor threadbare little shawl. Over the lovely girlish
breast, still only growing to the rounded beauty of womanhood, there
was a hideous blue-black bruise. Simple Sally smiled, and said, "That
_did_ hurt me, sir. I'd rather have the knife."

Some of the nearest drinkers at the bar looked round and laughed.
Amelius tenderly drew the shawl over the girl's cold bosom. "For God's
sake, let us get away from this place!" he said.

The influence of the cool night air completed Simple Sally's recovery.
She was able to eat now. Amelius proposed retracing his steps to the
provision-shop, and giving her the best food that the place afforded.
She preferred the bread-and-butter at the coffee-stall. Those thick
slices, piled up on the plate, tempted her as a luxury. On trying the
luxury, one slice satisfied her. "I thought I was hungry enough to eat
the whole plateful," said the girl, turning away from the stall, in the
vacantly submissive manner which it saddened Amelius to see. He bought
more of the bread-and-butter, on the chance that her appetite might
revive. While he was wrapping it in a morsel of paper, one of her elder
companions touched him and whispered, "There he is, sir!" Amelius
looked at her. "The brute who calls himself her father," the woman
explained impatiently.

Amelius turned, and saw Simple Sally with her arm in the grasp of a
half-drunken ruffian; one of the swarming wild beasts of Low London,
dirtied down from head to foot to the colour of the street mud--the
living danger and disgrace of English civilization. As Amelius eyed
him, he drew the girl away a step or two. "You've got a gentleman this
time," he said to her; "I shall expect gold to-night, or else--!" He
finished the sentence by lifting his monstrous fist, and shaking it in
her face. Cautiously as he had lowered his tones in speaking, the words
had reached the keenly sensitive ears of Amelius. Urged by his hot
temper, he sprang forward. In another moment, he would have knocked the
brute down--but for the timely interference of the arm of the law, clad
in a policeman's great-coat. "Don't get yourself into trouble, sir,"
said the man good-humouredly. "Now, you Hell-fire (that's the nice name
they know him by, sir, in these parts), be off with you!" The wild
beast on two legs cowered at the voice of authority, like the wild
beast on four: he was lost to sight, at the dark end of the street, in
a moment.

"I saw him threaten her with his fist," said Amelius, his eyes still
aflame with indignation. "He has bruised her frightfully on the breast.
Is there no protection for the poor creature?"

"Well, sir," the policeman answered, "you can summon him if you like. I
dare say he'd get a month's hard labour. But, don't you see, it would
be all the worse for her when he came out of prison."

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