"the question is"—it was the red-haired girl who spoke, and her tone suggested that the silence marked a lull in some debate—"how much do you mean to advance me this year from the housekeeping?"
the younger of the two knitters answered without looking up.
"i've told you before; it depends upon circumstances."
"i see no circumstances."
"don't you? i thought it was you who were so sure about stephen's coming home?"
"that makes no difference. if he doesn't come i [pg 16] shall go away. if he does i shall go away and stay away. in that case i shall want more money, shan't i? not less." minnie dug her sharp elbows into the table and thrust out her chin.
"you'll have to want," said kate. "you know perfectly well that if he is here none of us can go away. we must keep together."
"why must we?"
"because it's cheaper."
"and suppose i choose to go? what's to keep me?"
"to keep you?"
"i see. you mean there won't be a penny to keep me?"
kate was silent.
"if it hadn't been for stephen i could have kept myself long ago—by my music. that's what i wanted."
"well, you didn't get what you wanted. women seldom do."
"i want to go to the tanquerays. there's no reason why i shouldn't get that."
"you can't go to the tanquerays as you are."
minnie gazed at her clothes, then at her reflection in the opposite looking-glass.
she wore a shabby, low-necked gown of some bluish-green stuff, with a collar of coarse lace; also a string of iridescent shells. under the flame of her hair her prettiness showed haggard and forlorn.
"yes, you may well look at yourself. you must have new things if you go. that means breaking into five pounds."
minnie's eyes were still fixed on the face in the looking-glass.
"it would be worth it," said she.
"it might be if you stopped five months. not unless." [pg 17]
"look here, kate. it's all very well, but i consider that the house owes me that five pounds. mayn't i have it, stephen or no stephen?"
"it's no use asking me now. it will depend on stephen."
"and stephen, i imagine, will depend on us."
"probably. do you hear what minnie says, mother?"
the old woman's hands knitted fiercely, while her sharp yellow face crumpled into an expression half peevish, half resigned.
"i hear what you both say, and i think i've got enough to worry me without you talking about stephen coming home."
her voice was so thin that even minnie, not hearing, had missed the point. as for the man outside, he was still struggling with emotion, and had caught but a word here and there.
kate's voice was jagged like a saw and carried farther. it was now that he really began to hear.
"do you suppose he's made any money out there?"
"did you ever hear of stephen making money anywhere?"
"if he has he ought to be made to pay something to the housekeeping. it's only fair."
"if he's made anything," said minnie, "he's spent it all. that's why he's coming. look at the supper!"
the table before her was laid for the evening meal. she pointed to the heels of two loaves, a knuckle of ham, a piece of cheese, and some water in a glass jug. oatmeal simmered on a reeking oil-stove in a corner of the room.
"how much will it cost to keep him?"
kate's narrow, peaked face was raised in calculation. [pg 18] kate's eyes became mean homes for meaner thoughts of which she was visibly unashamed.
"ten shillings a week at the very least. fifty-two weeks—that's twenty-six pounds a year. or probably fifteen shillings—a man eats more than a woman, at any rate more butcher's meat—that's thirty-nine pounds. that's only what he eats," she added significantly. "what did you say, mother?"
the old lady raised her voice, and the man outside took hope. "i say i think you're both very unfeeling. for all you know, poor fellow, he may be quite reformed."
"he may be. i know the chances are he won't," said kate.
"how do you know anything about it, my dear?"
"i asked dr. minify. he has a wide enough experience of these cases."
minnie turned fiercely round. "and what made you go and blab to him about it? i think you might wash your dirty linen at home."
"it's only what you'd have done yourself."
"not to him."
"why not?"
there was terror in minnie's face. "he knows the tanquerays."
"well—it's your own fault. you went on about it till it got on my nerves, and the anxiety was more than i could bear. the porridge will be boiling over."
"well?"
"well, i can't mind porridge and my knitting at the same time."
minnie threw herself back, pushing her chair with her feet. she rose and trailed sulkily across to the stove. as she moved a wisp of red hair, loosened from [pg 19] its coil, clung to her sallow neck. she was slip-shod and untidy.
she removed the porridge abstractedly. "what did he say?" she asked.
"he was extremely kind and sympathetic. he treated it as a disease. he said that in nine cases out of ten recovery is impossible."
"well, i could have told you that. anything more?"
"he says the chances are that he won't hold out much longer; his health must have broken up after all these years. i don't know how i can stand it, if it is. when i think of all the things that may happen. paralysis perhaps, or epilepsy—that's far more likely. he's just the age."
"is he? how awful! but, then, he'll have to go somewhere. you know we can't have him epilepsing all over the place here."
the old lady dropped her knitting to raise her hands.
"minnie! minnie! have a little trust. he may never come at all."
"he will. trust him."
"after all," said kate reflectively, "why should he?"
"why? why?" the girl came forward, spreading her large red hands before her. "because we've paid all his debts. because we've saved money and got straight again. because we're getting to know one or two decent people, and it's taken us fifteen years to do it. because we're beginning to enjoy ourselves for the first time in all our miserable lives. because i've set my heart on staying with the tanquerays, and fred tanqueray will be there. because"—a queer, fierce light came into her eyes—"because i'm happy, and he means to spoil it all, as he spoilt it all before! as if i hadn't suffered enough."
"you? what have you suffered?" kate's sharp [pg 20] face was red as she bent over a dropped stitch. her hands trembled. "you were too young to feel anything."
"i wasn't too young to feel that i had a career before me, nor to care when it was knocked on the head. if it hadn't been for him my music wouldn't have come to an end as it did."
"your music! if it hadn't been for him my engagement wouldn't have been broken off—as it was."
"oh that? it was the one solitary good day's work stephen ever did."
the old lady nodded shrewdly over her needles. "yes, my dear, you might be thankful for that mercy. you couldn't have married mr. hooper. i'm afraid he wasn't altogether what he ought to be. you yourself suspected that he drank."
"like a fish," interposed minnie.
"i know"—kate's hands were fumbling violently over her stitch—"but—but i could have reclaimed him."
her eyes lost their meanness with the little momentary light of illusion.
minnie laughed aloud. "if that's all you wanted, why didn't you try your hand on stephen?"
"don't, minnie."
but minnie did. "fred tanqueray doesn't drink; i wouldn't look at him if he did. what's more, he's a gentleman; i couldn't stand him if he wasn't. catch him marrying into this family when he's seen stephen."
"minnie, you are too dreadful."
"dreadful? you'd be dreadful if you'd cared as much for charlie hooper as i do for fred tanqueray."
"and how much does mr. tanqueray care for you?"
a dull flush spread over minnie's sallow face; her lips coarsened. "i don't know; but it's a good deal [pg 21] more than your hooper man ever cared for anybody in his life; and if you weren't such a hopeless sentimentalist you'd have seen that much. of course i shan't know whether he cares or not—now."
and she wept, because of the anguish of her thirty years.
then she burst out: "i hate stephen. i don't care what you say—if he comes into this house i'll walk out of it. oh, how i hate him!" her loose mouth dropped, still quivering with its speech. her face was one flame with her hair.
but kate was cool and collected.
"don't excite yourself. if it's only to influence fred tanqueray, he won't come," said kate.
then the red-haired woman turned on her, mad with the torture of her frustrate passion.
"he will come! he will come, i tell you. i've felt him coming. i've felt it in my bones. i've dreamt about it night after night. i've been afraid to meet the postman lest he should bring another letter. i've been afraid to go along the station road lest i should meet him. i'm afraid now to look out of that window lest i should see him standing there with his face against the pane."
she crossed to the window and drew down the blind. for a moment her shadow was flung across it, monstrously agitated, the huge hands working.
the man outside saw nothing more, but he heard his mother's voice and he took hope again.
"for shame, minnie, for shame, to speak of poor steevy so. one would think you might have a little more affection for your only brother."
"look here, mother" (minnie again!), "that's all sentimental humbug. can you look me in the face and honestly say you'd be glad to see your only son?" [pg 22]
(the son's heart yearned, straining for the answer. it came quavering.)
"my dear, i shall not see him. i'm a poor, weak old woman, and i know that the lord will not send me any burden that i cannot bear."
he crept from his hiding-place out into the silent lane. he had drawn his breath tight, but his chest still shook with the sob he had strangled. "my god!" he muttered, "i'll take off the burden."
then his sob broke out again, and it sounded more like a laugh than a sob. "the dollars—they shall have them. every blessed one of the damned five million!"
he looked at his watch by the light of the gas-lamp in the lane. he had just time to catch the last train down; time, too, to stop the carrier's cart with the gifts that would have told the tale of his returning.
so, with a quick step, he went back by the way he had come, out of the place where the dead had buried their dead—until the day of judgment.
