‘I suppose you never thought of trying it?’
he asked. ’Yet I fancy you might do well,
if only you could have a few months’ training,
just to start you. Of course it all depends on
knowing how to go about it. A little money would
be necessary—not much.’
Clara made no reply. On the way home she was
mute. Scawthorne took leave of her in Upper Street,
and promised to look in again before long. . . .
Under the heat of these summer days, in the reeking
atmosphere of the bar, Clara panted fever-stricken.
The weeks went on; what strength supported her from
the Monday morning to the Saturday midnight she could
not tell. Acting and refraining, speaking and
holding silence, these things were no longer the consequences
of her own volition. She wished to break free
from her slavery, but had not the force to do so;
something held her voice as often as she was about
to tell Mrs. Tubbs that this week would be the last.
Her body wasted so that all the garments she wore
were loose upon her. The only mental process
of which she was capable was reviewing the misery
of days just past and anticipating that of the days
to come. Her only feelings were infinite self-pity
and a dull smouldering hatred of all others in the
world. A doctor would have bidden her take to
bed, as one in danger of grave illness. She bore
through it without change in her habits, and in time
the strange lethargy passed.
Scawthorne came to the bar frequently. He remarked
often on her look of suffering, and urged a holiday.
At length, near the end of July, he invited her to
go up the river with him on the coming Bank-holiday.
Clara consented, though aware that her presence would
be more than ever necessary at the bar on the day of
much drinking. Later in the evening she addressed
her demand to Mrs. Tubbs. It was refused.
Without a word of anger, Clara went upstairs, prepared
herself for walking, and set forth among the by-ways
of Islington. In half an hour she had found a
cheap bedroom, for which she paid a week’s rent
in advance. She purchased a few articles of food
and carried them to her lodging, then lay down in
the darkness.
THE LAST COMBAT
During these summer months Sidney Kirkwood’s
visits to the house in Clerkenwell Close were comparatively
rare. It was not his own wish to relax in any
degree the close friendship so long subsisting between
the Hewetts and himself, but from the day of Clara’s
engagement with Mrs. Tubbs John Hewett began to alter
in his treatment of him. At first there was nothing
more than found its natural explanation in regret
of what had happened, a tendency to muteness, to troubled
brooding; but before long John made it unmistakable
that the young man’s presence was irksome to
him. If, on coming home, he found Sidney with
Mrs. Hewett and the children, a cold nod was the only
greeting he offered; then followed signs of ill-humour,
such as Sidney could not in the end fail to interpret
as unfavourable to himself. He never heard Clara’s
name on her father’s lips, and himself never
uttered it when John was in hearing.
