THE DAWN OF A TO-MORROWBy FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT I There are always two ways oflooking at a thing, frequentlythere are six or seven; but two ways of looking at a London fog are quiteenough. When it is thick and yellow in the streets and stings a man’sthroat and lungs as he breathes it, an awakening in the early morning iseither an unearthly and grewsome,or a mysteriously enclosing, secluding, and comfortable thing. If oneawakens in a healthy body, and with a clear brain rested by normal sleepand retaining memories of a normally agreeable yesterday, one may lie watching the housemaid building the fire;and after she has swept the hearthand put things in order, lie watching the flames of the blazing and cracklingwood catch the coals and set themblazing also, and dancing merrily and filling corners with a glow; and in solying and realizing that leaping light and warmth and a soft bed are goodthings, one may turn over on one’sback, stretching arms and legsluxuriously, drawing deep breaths and smiling at a knowledge of the fogoutside which makes half-past eight o’clock on a December morning asdark as twelve o’clock on a December night. Under such conditionsthe soft, thick, yellow gloom has its picturesque and even humorous aspect. One feels enclosed by it at oncefantastically and cosily, and is inclined to revel in imaginings of the pictureoutside, its Rembrandt lights andorange yellows, the halos about the street-lamps, the illumination of shop-windows, the flare of torches stuck up over coster barrows and coffee-stands, the shadows on the faces of the men and women selling and buyingbeside them. Refreshed by sleepand comfort and surrounded by light, warmth, and good cheer, it is easy toface the day, to confront going out into the fog and feeling a sort ofpleasure in its mysteries. This is one way of looking at it, but only one. The other way is marked by enormousdifferences. A man–he had given his nameto the people of the house as Antony Dart–awakened in a third-storybedroom in a lodging-house in a poor street in London, and as his consciousness returned to him, its slow andreluctant movings confronted thesecond point of view–marked byenormous differences. He had notslept two consecutive hours through the night, and when he had slept hehad been tormented by dreary dreams, which were more full of misery becauseof their elusive vagueness, whichkept his tortured brain on a wearying strain of effort to reach some definiteunderstanding of them. Yet whenhe awakened the consciousness ofbeing again alive was an awful thing. If the dreams could have faded intoblankness and all have passed withthe passing of the night, how hecould have thanked whatever godsthere be! Only not to awake–only not to awake! But he hadawakened. The clock struck nine as he didso, consequently he knew the hour. The lodging-house slavey had arousedhim by coming to light the fire. She had set her candle on the hearth anddone her work as stealthily as possible, but he had been disturbed,though he had made a desperate effort to struggle back into sleep. Thatwas no use–no use. He was awakeand he was in the midst of it all again. Without the sense of luxurious comforthe opened his eyes and turnedupon his back, throwing out his arms flatly, so that he lay as in the formof a cross, in heavy weariness andanguish. For months he had awakened each morning after such a nightand had so lain like a crucified thing. As he watched the painful flickeringof the damp and smoking wood andcoal he remembered this and thought that there had been a lifetime of suchawakenings, not knowing that themorbidness of a fagged brain blotted out the memory of more normal daysand told him fantastic lies which were but a hundredth part truth. He couldsee only the hundredth part truth, and it assumed proportions so huge thathe could see nothing else. In sucha state the human brain is an infernal machine and its workings can only beconquered if the mortal thing which lives with it–day and night, nightand day–has learned to separate its controllable from its seeminglyuncontrollable atoms, and can silence its clamor on its way to madness. Antony Dart had not learned thisthing and the clamor had had itshideous way with him. Physicianswould have given a name to hismental and physical condition. Hehad heard these names often–applied to men the strain of whose lives hadbeen like the strain of his own, and had left them as it had left him–jaded, joyless, breaking things. Some of them had been broken and haddied or were dragging out bruised and tormented days in their own homesor in mad-houses. He always shuddered when he heard their names,and rebelled with sick fear against the mere mention of them. Theyhad worked as he had worked, theyhad been stricken with the delirium of accumulation–accumulation–as he had been. They had beencaught in the rush and swirl of the great maelstrom, and had been borneround and round in it, until having grasped every coveted thing tossingupon its circling waters, theythemselves had been flung upon the shore with both hands full, the rocks aboutthem strewn with rich possessions,while they lay prostrate and gazedat all life had brought with dull,hopeless, anguished eyes. He knew–if the worst came to the worst–what would be said of him, becausehe had heard it said of others. “He worked too hard–he worked toohard.” He was sick of hearing it. What was wrong with the world–what was wrong with man, as Man–if work could break him like this? If one believed in Deity, the livingcreature It breathed into being must be a perfect thing–not one to bewearied, sickened, tortured by thelife Its breathing had created. Amere man would disdain to builda thing so poor and incomplete. A mere human engineer who constructed an engine whose workingswere perpetually at fault–whichwent wrong when called upon todo the labor it was made for–whowould not scoff at it and cast it aside as a piece of worthless bungling? “Something is wrong,” he mut-tered, lying flat upon his cross and staring at the yellow haze whichhad crept through crannies in window- sashes into the room. “Someoneis wrong. Is it I–or You?” His thin lips drew themselvesback against his teeth in a mirthless smile which was like a grin. “Yes,” he said. “I am prettyfar gone. I am beginning to talk to myself about God. Bryan did it justbefore he was taken to Dr. Hewletts’ place and cut his throat.” He had not led a specially evillife; he had not broken laws, butthe subject of Deity was not onewhich his scheme of existence hadincluded. When it had hauntedhim of late he had felt it an untoward and morbid sign. The thinghad drawn him–drawn him; hehad complained against it, he hadargued, sometimes he knew–shuddering– that he had raved. Somethinghad seemed to stand aside andwatch his being and his thinking. Something which filled the universe had seemed to wait, and to havewaited through all the eternal ages, to see what he–one man–woulddo. At times a great appalled wonder had swept over him at his realizationthat he had never known orthought of it before. It had beenthere always–through all the agesthat had passed. And sometimes–once or twice–the thought had insome unspeakable, untranslatable way brought him a moment’s calm. But at other times he had said tohimself–with a shivering soul cowering within him–that this was onlypart of it all and was a beginning, perhaps, of religious monomania. During the last week he hadknown what he was going to do–he had made up his mind. Thisabject horror through which othershad let themselves be dragged tomadness or death he would notendure. The end should come quickly, and no one should be smitten aghastby seeing or knowing how it came. In the crowded shabbier streets ofLondon there were lodging-houseswhere one, by taking precautions,could end his life in such a manner as would blot him out of any worldwhere such a man as himself had been known. A pistol, properly managed,would obliterate resemblance to any human thing. Months ago throughchance talk he had heard how itcould be done–and done quickly. He could leave a misleading letter. He had planned what it should be–the story it should tell of adisheartened mediocre venturer of his poor all returning bankrupt andhumiliated from Australia, endingexistence in such pennilessness that the parish must give him a pauper’sgrave. What did it matter where aman lay, so that he slept–slept–slept? Surely with one’s brainsscattered one would sleep soundlyanywhere. He had come to the house thenight before, dressed shabbily with the pitiable respectability of adefeated man. He had entereddroopingly with bent shoulders andhopeless hang of head. In his ownsphere he was a man who held himself well. He had let fall a fewdispirited sentences when he hadengaged his back room from thewoman of the house, and she hadrecognized him as one of the luckless. In fact, she had hesitated amoment before his unreliable lookuntil he had taken out money fromhis pocket and paid his rent for aweek in advance. She would havethat at least for her trouble, he had said to himself. He should not occupythe room after to-morrow. Inhis own home some days would passbefore his household began to makeinquiries. He had told his servants that he was going over to Paris for achange. He would be safe and deepin his pauper’s grave a week before they asked each other why they didnot hear from him. All was inorder. One of the mocking agonieswas that living was done for. Hehad ceased to live. Work, pleasure, sun, moon, and stars had lost theirmeaning. He stood and looked atthe most radiant loveliness of land and sky and sea and felt nothing. Success brought greater wealth each day without stirring a pulse ofpleasure, even in triumph. Therewas nothing left but the awful days and awful nights to which he knewphysicians could give their scientific name, but had no healing for. Hehad gone far enough. He would gono farther. To-morrow it wouldhave been over long hours. Andthere would have been no publicdeclaiming over the humiliatingpitifulness of his end. And what did it matter? How thick the fog was outside–thick enough for a man to lose himself in it. The yellow mist whichhad crept in under the doors andthrough the crevices of the window- sashes gave a ghostly look to theroom–a ghastly, abnormal look, hesaid to himself. The fire wassmouldering instead of blazing. But what did it matter? He was goingout. He had not bought the pistollast night–like a fool. Somehowhis brain had been so tired andcrowded that he had forgotten. “Forgotten.” He mentallyrepeated the word as he got out of bed. By this time to-morrow he shouldhave forgotten everything. THISTIME TO-MORROW. His mind repeatedthat also, as he began to dresshimself. Where should he be? Should he be anywhere? Suppose heawakened again–to something asbad as this? How did a man getout of his body? After the crashand shock what happened? Did onefind oneself standing beside the Thing and looking down at it? It wouldnot be a good thing to stand andlook down on–even for that whichhad deserted it. But having tornoneself loose from it and its devilish aches and pains, one would not care–one would see how little it allmattered. Anything else must bebetter than this–the thing forwhich there was a scientific namebut no healing. He had taken allthe drugs, he had obeyed all themedical orders, and here he was after that last hell of a night–dressinghimself in a back bedroom of acheap lodging-house to go out andbuy a pistol in this damned fog. He laughed at the last phrase ofhis thought, the laugh which was amirthless grin. “I am thinking of it as if I wasafraid of taking cold,” he said. “And to-morrow–!” There would be no To-morrow. To-morrows were at an end. Nomore nights–no more days–nomore morrows. He finished dressing, putting onhis discriminatingly chosen shabby- genteel clothes with a care for theeffect he intended them to produce. The collar and cuffs of his shirt werefrayed and yellow, and he fastened his collar with a pin and tied his wornnecktie carelessly. His overcoat was beginning to wear a greenish shadeand look threadbare, so was his hat. When his toilet was complete helooked at himself in the cracked and hazy glass, bending forward toscrutinize his unshaven face under the shadow of the dingy hat. “It is all right,” he muttered. “It is not far to the pawnshopwhere I saw it.” The stillness of the room as heturned to go out was uncanny. Asit was a back room, there was nostreet below from which could arise sounds of passing vehicles, and thethickness of the fog muffled suchsound as might have floated from the front. He stopped half-way to thedoor, not knowing why, and listened. To what–for what? The silenceseemed to spread through all thehouse–out into the streets–through all London–through allthe world, and he to stand in themidst of it, a man on the way toDeath–with no To-morrow. What did it mean? It seemed tomean something. The worldwithdrawn–life withdrawn–soundwithdrawn–breath withdrawn. Hestood and waited. Perhaps thiswas one of the symptoms of themorbid thing for which there wasthat name. If so he had better getaway quickly and have it over, lest he be found wandering about notknowing–not knowing. But nowhe knew–the Silence. He waited–waited and tried to hear, as ifsomething was calling him–callingwithout sound. It returned to him–the thought of That which hadwaited through all the ages to seewhat he–one man–would do. He had never exactly pitied himself before–he did not know that hepitied himself now, but he was aman going to his death, and a light, cold sweat broke out on him andit seemed as if it was not he whodid it, but some other–he flungout his arms and cried aloud wordshe had not known he was going tospeak. “Lord! Lord! What shall I doto be saved?” But the Silence gave no answer. It was the Silence still. And after standing a few momentspanting, his arms fell and his head dropped, and turning the handle ofthe door, he went out to buy thepistol. II As he went down the narrow staircase, covered with its dingy andthreadbare carpet, he found thehouse so full of dirty yellow hazethat he realized that the fog must be of the extraordinary ones which areremembered in after-years as abnormal specimens of their kind. Herecalled that there had been one of the sort three years before, and thattraffic and business had been almost entirely stopped by it, that accidentshad happened in the streets, and that people having lost their way hadwandered about turning corners until they found themselves far from theirintended destinations and obliged to take refuge in hotels or the houses ofhospitable strangers. Curious incidents had occurred and odd storieswere told by those who had feltthemselves obliged by circumstances to go out into the baffling gloom. He guessed that something of a like nature had fallen upon the townagain. The gas-light on the landings and in the melancholy hallburned feebly–so feebly that onegot but a vague view of the rickety hat-stand and the shabby overcoatsand head-gear hanging upon it. Itwas well for him that he had buta corner or so to turn before hereached the pawnshop in whosewindow he had seen the pistol heintended to buy. When he opened the street-doorhe saw that the fog was, upon thewhole, perhaps even heavier andmore obscuring, if possible, than the one so well remembered. He couldnot see anything three feet beforehim, he could not see with distinctness anything two feet ahead. Thesensation of stepping forward wasuncertain and mysterious enough to be almost appalling. A man notsufficiently cautious might have fallen into any open hole in his path. AntonyDart kept as closely as possibleto the sides of the houses. It would have been easy to walk off the pavementinto the middle of the streetbut for the edges of the curb and the step downward from its level. Traffichad almost absolutely ceased, though in the more important streets link-boys were making efforts to guidemen or four-wheelers slowly along. The blind feeling of the thing wasrather awful. Though but fewpedestrians were out, Dart foundhimself once or twice brushing against or coming into forcible contact withmen feeling their way about likehimself. “One turn to the right,” herepeated mentally, “two to the left, and the place is at the corner of theother side of the street.” He managed to reach it at last,but it had been a slow, and therefore, long journey. All the gas-jetsthe little shop owned were lighted, but even under their flare the articlesin the window–the one or twoonce cheaply gaudy dresses andshawls and men’s garments–hungin the haze like the dreary, dangling ghosts of things recently executed. Among watches and forlorn piecesof old-fashioned jewelry and odds and ends, the pistol lay against the foldsof a dirty gauze shawl. There itwas. It would have been annoyingif someone else had been beforehand and had bought it. Inside the shop more danglingspectres hung and the place wasalmost dark. It was a shabby pawnshop, and the man lounging behindthe counter was a shabby man withan unshaven, unamiable face. “I want to look at that pistol inthe right-hand corner of your window,” Antony Dart said. The pawnbroker uttered a soundsomething between a half-laugh anda grunt. He took the weapon fromthe window. Antony Dart examined it critically. He must make quite sure ofit. He made no further remark. He felt he had done with speech. Being told the price asked for thepurchase, he drew out his purse and took the money from it. Aftermaking the payment he noted thathe still possessed a five-pound note and some sovereigns. There passedthrough his mind a wonder as towho would spend it. The mostdecent thing, perhaps, would be togive it away. If it was in his room –to-morrow–the parish would notbury him, and it would be safer that the parish should. He was thinking of this as heleft the shop and began to cross the street. Because his mind was wanderinghe was less watchful. Suddenlya rubber-tired hansom, movingwithout sound, appeared immediately in his path–the horse’s headloomed up above his own. He madethe inevitable involuntary whirl aside to move out of the way, the hansompassed, and turning again, he wenton. His movement had been tooswift to allow of his realizing the direction in which his turn had beenmade. He was wholly unaware thatwhen he crossed the street he crossed backward instead of forward. Heturned a corner literally feeling his way, went on, turned another, andafter walking the length of the street, suddenly understood that he was ina strange place and had lost hisbearings. This was exactly what had happenedto people on the day of thememorable fog of three years before. He had heard them talking of suchexperiences, and of the curious and baffling sensations they gave rise toin the brain. Now he understoodthem. He could not be far fromhis lodgings, but he felt like a man who was blind, and who had beenturned out of the path he knew. He had not the resource of the people whose stories he had heard. Hewould not stop and address anyone. There could be no certainty as towhom he might find himself speaking to. He would speak to no one. He would wander about until hecame upon some clew. Even if hecame upon none, the fog wouldsurely lift a little and become a trifle less dense in course of time. Hedrew up the collar of his overcoat, pulled his hat down over his eyesand went on–his hand on the thinghe had thrust into a pocket. He did not find his clew as hehad hoped, and instead of lifting the fog grew heavier. He found himselfat last no longer striving for anyend, but rambling along mechanically, feeling like a man in a dream–a nightmare. Once he recognizeda weird suggestion in the mysteryabout him. To-morrow mightone be wandering about aimlessly in some such haze. He hoped not. His lodgings were not far fromthe Embankment, and he knew atlast that he was wandering along it, and had reached one of the bridges. His mood led him to turn in uponit, and when he reached an embrasure to stop near it and lean upon theparapet looking down. He couldnot see the water, the fog was toodense, but he could hear some faint splashing against stones. He hadtaken no food and was rather faint. What a strange thing it was to feelfaint for want of food–to standalone, cut off from every otherhuman being–everything done for. No wonder that sometimes, particularly on such days as these, therewere plunges made from the parapet–no wonder. He leaned fartherover and strained his eyes to seesome gleam of water through theyellowness. But it was not to bedone. He was thinking the inevitable thing, of course; but such aplunge would not do for him. Theother thing would destroy all traces. As he drew back he heardsomething fall with the solid tinkling sound of coin on the flag pavement. When he had been in the pawnbroker’s shop he had taken the goldfrom his purse and thrust it carelessly into his waistcoat pocket, thinkingthat it would be easy to reach when he chose to give it to one beggaror another, if he should see somewretch who would be the better forit. Some movement he had madein bending had caused a sovereign to slip out and it had fallen upon thestones. He did not intend to pick it up,but in the moment in which hestood looking down at it he heardclose to him a shuffling movement. What he had thought a bundle ofrags or rubbish covered with sacking –some tramp’s deserted or forgottenbelongings–was stirring. It wasalive, and as he bent to look at it the sacking divided itself, and a smallhead, covered with a shock of brilliant red hair, thrust itself out, ashrewd, small face turning to lookup at him slyly with deep-set black eyes. It was a human girl creature abouttwelve years old. “Are yer goin’ to do it?” shesaid in a hoarse, street-strained voice. “Yer would be a fool if yer did–with as much as that on yer.” She pointed with a reddened,chapped, and dirty hand at thesovereign. “Pick it up,” he said. “You mayhave it.” Her wild shuffle forward was anactual leap. The hand made asnatching clutch at the coin. Shewas evidently afraid that he waseither not in earnest or wouldrepent. The next second she was onher feet and ready for flight. “Stop,” he said; “I’ve got moreto give away.” She hesitated–not believinghim, yet feeling it madness to lose a chance. “MORE!” she gasped. Then shedrew nearer to him, and a singularchange came upon her face. It wasa change which made her look oddlyhuman. “Gawd, mister!” she said. “Yercan give away a quid like it wasnothin’–an’ yer’ve got more–an’yer goin’ to do THAT–jes cos yer ‘ad a bit too much lars night an’ there’sa fog this mornin’! You take itstraight from me–don’t yer do it. I give yer that tip for the suvrink.” She was, for her years, so ugly andso ancient, and hardened in voice and skin and manner that she fascinatedhim. Not that a man who has noTo-morrow in view is likely to beparticularly conscious of mentalprocesses. He was done for, but he stood and stared at her. What part of thePower moving the scheme of theuniverse stood near and thrust himon in the path designed he did notknow then–perhaps never did. Hewas still holding on to the thing in his pocket, but he spoke to her again. “What do you mean?” he askedglumly. She sidled nearer, her sharp eyeson his face. “I bin watchin’ yer,” she said. “I sat down and pulled the sackover me ‘ead to breathe inside it an’ get a bit warm. An’ I see yer come. I knowed wot yer was after, I did. I watched yer through a ‘ole in mesack. I wasn’t goin’ to call a copper. I shouldn’t want ter be stoppedmeself if I made up me mind. Iseed a gal dragged out las’ week an’ it’d a broke yer ‘art to see ‘er tear ‘er clothes an’ scream. Wot business‘ad they preventin’ ‘er goin’ offquiet? I wouldn’t ‘a’ stopped yer–but w’en the quid fell, that made it different.” “I–” he said, feeling the foolishness of the statement, but makingit, nevertheless, “I am ill.” “Course yer ill. It’s yer ‘ead. Come along er me an’ get a cup ercawfee at a stand, an’ buck up. Ifyer’ve give me that quid straight– wish-yer-may-die–I’ll go with yeran’ get a cup myself. I ain’t ‘ad a bite since yesterday–an’ ‘t wa’n’t nothin’but a slice o’ polony sossidge I found on a dust-‘eap. Come on, mister.” She pulled his coat with hercracked hand. He glanced down atit mechanically, and saw that someof the fissures had bled and theroughened surface was smeared withthe blood. They stood together inthe small space in which the fogenclosed them–he and she–theman with no To-morrow and thegirl thing who seemed as old ashimself, with her sharp, small nose and chin, her sharp eyes and voice–and yet–perhaps the fogsenclosing did it–something drewthem together in an uncanny way.Something made him forget the lostclew to the lodging-house–something made him turn and go with her–a thing led in the dark. “How can you find your way?”he said. “I lost mine.” “There ain’t no fog can lose me,”she answered, shuffling along by his side; ” ‘sides, it’s goin’ to lift. Look at that man comin’ to’ards us.” It was true that they could seethrough the orange-colored mist the approaching figure of a man whowas at a yard’s distance from them. Yes, it was lifting slightly–at leastenough to allow of one’s making aguess at the direction in which one moved. “Where are you going?” heasked. “Apple Blossom Court,” sheanswered. “The cawfee-stand’s in astreet near it–and there’s a shopwhere I can buy things.” “Apple Blossom Court!” heejaculated. “What a name!” “There ain’t no apple-blossomsthere,” chuckling; “nor no smellof ’em. ‘T ain’t as nice as its nime is–Apple Blossom Court ain’t.” “What do you want to buy? Apair of shoes?” The shoes hernaked feet were thrust into wereleprous-looking things through which nearly all her toes protruded. Butshe chuckled when he spoke. “No, I ‘m goin’ to buy a di’mondtirarer to go to the opery in,” she said, dragging her old sack closerround her neck. “I ain’t ad a nooun since I went to the last Drorin’- room.” It was impudent street chaff, butthere was cheerful spirit in it, and cheerful spirit has some occult effectupon morbidity. Antony Dartdid not smile, but he felt a faintstirring of curiosity, which was, after all, not a bad thing for a man whohad not felt an interest for a year. “What is it you are going tobuy?” “I’m goin’ to fill me stummickfust,” with a grin of elation. “Three thick slices o’ bread an’ drippin’ an’a mug o’ cawfee. An’ then I’mgoin’ to get sumethin’ ‘earty to carry to Polly. She ain’t no good, porething!” “Who is she?” Stopping a moment to drag up theheel of her dreadful shoe, sheanswered him with an unprejudiceddirectness which might have beenappalling if he had been in the mood to be appalled. “Ain’t eighteen, an’ tryin’ to earn‘er livin’ on the street. She ain’t made for it. Little country thing,allus frightened to death an’ ready to bust out cryin’. Gents ain’t goin’to stand that. A lot of ’em wantscheerin’ up as much as she does. Gent as was in liquor last nightknocked ‘er down an’ give ‘er ablack eye. ‘T wan’t ill feelin’, but he lost his temper, an’ give ‘er aknock casual. She can’t go outto-night, an’ she’s been ‘uddled up all day cryin’ for ‘er mother.” “Where is her mother?” “In the country–on a farm.Polly took a place in a lodgin’-‘ouse an’ got in trouble. The biby wasdead, an’ when she come out o’Queen Charlotte’s she was took in by a woman an’ kep’. She kicked ‘erout in a week ‘cos of her cryin’. The life didn’t suit ‘er. I found ‘er cryin’ fit to split ‘er chist one night–corner o’ Apple Blossom Court–an’ I took care of ‘er.” “Where?” “Me chambers,” grinning; “toploft of a ‘ouse in the court. If anyone else ‘d ‘ave it I should be turnedout. It’s an ‘ole, I can tell yer– but it ‘s better than sleepin’ underthe bridges.” “Take me to see it,” said AntonyDart. “I want to see the girl.” The words spoke themselves. Whyshould he care to see either cockloft or girl? He did not. He wantedto go back to his lodgings with that which he had come out to buy. Yet he said this thing. Hiscompanion looked up at him with anexpression actually relieved. “Would yer tike up with ‘er?”with eager sharpness, as if confronting a simple business proposition. “She’s pretty an’ clean, an’ shewon’t drink a drop o’ nothin’. Ifshe was treated kind she’d becheerfler. She’s got a round fice an’ light ‘air an’ eyes. ‘Er ‘air ‘s curly. P’raps yer’d like ‘er.” “Take me to see her.” “She’d look better to-morrow,”cautiously, “when the swellin ‘s gone down round ‘er eye.” Dart started–and it was becausehe had for the last five minutes forgotten something. “I shall not be here to-morrow,”he said. His grasp upon the thingin his pocket had loosened, and hetightened it. “I have some more money in mypurse,” he said deliberately. “Imeant to give it away before going. I want to give it to people who needit very much.” She gave him one of the sly,squinting glances. “Deservin’ cases?” She put it tohim in brazen mockery. “I don’t care,” he answered slowlyand heavily. “I don’t care a damn.” Her face changed exactly as hehad seen it change on the bridgewhen she had drawn nearer to him. Its ugly hardness suddenly lookedhuman. And that she could lookhuman was fantastic. ” ‘Ow much ‘ave yer?” she asked.” ‘Ow much is it?” “About ten pounds.” She stopped and stared at himwith open mouth. “Gawd!” she broke out; “tenpounds ‘d send Apple Blossom Courtto ‘eving. Leastways, it’d take some of it out o’ ‘ell.” “Take me to it,” he said roughly. “Take me.” She began to walk quickly, breathingfast. The fog was lighter, andit was no longer a blinding thing. A question occurred to Dart. “Why don’t you ask me to givethe money to you?” he said bluntly. “Dunno,” she answered as bluntly. But after taking a few steps farther she spoke again. “I ‘m cheerfler than most of ’em,”she elaborated. “If yer born cheerfle yer can stand things. When Igets a job nussin’ women’s bibiesthey don’t cry when I ‘andles ’em. I gets many a bite an’ a copper ‘coso’ that. Folks likes yer. I shallget on better than Polly when I’mold enough to go on the street.” The organ of whose lagging, sickpumpings Antony Dart had scarcelybeen aware for months gave a sudden leap in his breast. His bloodactually hastened its pace, and ran through his veins instead of crawling–a distinct physical effect of anactual mental condition. It wasproduced upon him by the merematter-of-fact ordinariness of hertone. He had never been a senti-mental man, and had long ceased tobe a feeling one, but at that moment something emotional and normalhappened to him. “You expect to live in that way?”he said. “Ain’t nothin’ else fer me to do. Wisht I was better lookin’. ButI’ve got a lot of ‘air,” clawing her mop, “an’ it’s red. One day,”chuckling, “a gent ses to me–heses: `Oh! yer’ll do. Yer an uglylittle devil–but ye ARE a devil.’ “ She was leading him through anarrow, filthy back street, and she stopped, grinning up in his face. “I say, mister,” she wheedled,“let’s stop at the cawfee-stand. It’s up this way.” When he acceded and followedher, she quickly turned a corner. They were in another lane thickwith fog, which flared with theflame of torches stuck in costers’barrows which stood here and there– barrows with fried fish upon them,barrows with second-hand-lookingvegetables and others piled withmore than second-hand-looking garments. Trade was not driving, butnear one or two of them dirty, ill- used looking women, a man or so,and a few children stood. At acorner which led into a black holeof a court, a coffee-stand was stationed, in charge of a burly ruffian incorduroys. “Come along,” said the girl. “There it is. It ain’t strong, butit ‘s ‘ot.” She sidled up to the stand, drawingDart with her, as if glad of hisprotection. ” ‘Ello, Barney,” she said. ” ‘Ere ‘s a gent warnts a mug o’ yer best. I’ve ‘ad a bit o’ luck, an’ I wants one mesself.” “Garn,” growled Barney. “Youan’ yer luck! Gent may want amug, but y’d show yer money fust.” “Strewth! I’ve got it. Y’ aint gotthe chinge fer wot I ‘ave in me ‘and ‘ere. ‘As ‘e, mister?” “Show it,” taunted the man, andthen turning to Dart. “Yer wantsa mug o’ cawfee?” “Yes.” The girl held out her handcautiously–the piece of gold lying upon its palm. “Look ‘ere,” she said. There were two or three menslouching about the stand. Suddenly a hand darted from betweentwo of them who stood nearest, thesovereign was snatched, a screamedoath from the girl rent the thickair, and a forlorn enough scarecrow of a young fellow sprang away. The blood leaped in Antony Dart’sveins again and he sprang after him in a wholly normal passion ofindignation. A thousand years ago–as it seemed to him–he had been agood runner. This man was not one,and want of food had weakened him. Dart went after him with strideswhich astonished himself. Up thestreet, into an alley and out of it, a dozen yards more and into a court,and the man wheeled with a hoarse,baffled curse. The place had nooutlet. “Hell!” was all the creature said. Dart took him by his greasy collar. Even the brief rush had left him feeling like a living thing–which wasa new sensation. “Give it up,” he ordered. The thief looked at him with ahalf-laugh and obeyed, as if he felt the uselessness of a struggle. Hewas not more than twenty-five years old, and his eyes were cavernous withwant. He had the face of a manwho might have belonged to a better class. When he had uttered theexclamation invoking the infernalregions he had not dropped theaspirate. “I ‘m as hungry as she is,” heraved. “Hungry enough to rob a childbeggar?” said Dart. “Hungry enough to rob a starvingold woman–or a baby,” witha defiant snort. “Wolf hungry–tiger hungry–hungry enough tocut throats.” He whirled himself loose andleaned his body against the wall,turning his face toward it. Suddenly he made a choking soundand began to sob. “Hell!” he choked. “I ‘ll giveit up! I ‘ll give it up!” What a figure–what a figure, ashe swung against the blackened wall, his scarecrow clothes hanging on him,their once decent material makingtheir pinning together of buttonless places, their looseness and rents showing dirty linen, more abject than anyother squalor could have made them. Antony Dart’s blood, still runningwarm and well, was doing its normal work among the brain-cells whichhad stirred so evilly through the night. When he had seized the fellow bythe collar, his hand had left hispocket. He thrust it into anotherpocket and drew out some silver. “Go and get yourself some food,”he said. “As much as you can eat. Then go and wait for me at the place they call Apple Blossom Court. Idon’t know where it is, but I amgoing there. I want to hear howyou came to this. Will you come?” The thief lurched away from thewall and toward him. He stared upinto his eyes through the fog. Thetears had smeared his cheekbones. “God!” he said. “Will I come? Look and see if I’ll come.” Dartlooked. “Yes, you ‘ll come,” he answered,and he gave him the money. “I ‘mgoing back to the coffee-stand.” The thief stood staring after himas he went out of the court. Dartwas speaking to himself. “I don’t know why I did it,” hesaid. “But the thing had to bedone.” In the street he turned into hecame upon the robbed girl, running, panting, and crying. She uttered ashout and flung herself upon him,clutching his coat. “Gawd!” she sobbed hysterically,“I thort I’d lost yer! I thort I’dlost all of it, I did! Strewth! I ‘m glad I’ve found yer–” and shestopped, choking with her sobs andsniffs, rubbing her face in her sack. “Here is your sovereign,” Dartsaid, handing it to her. She dropped the corner of thesack and looked up with a queerlaugh. “Did yer find a copper? Did yergive him in charge?” “No,” answered Dart. “He wasworse off than you. He was starving. I took this from him; but I gavehim some money and told him tomeet us at Apple Blossom Court.” She stopped short and drew backa pace to stare up at him. “Well,” she gave forth, “y’ ARE aqueer one!” And yet in the amazement on herface he perceived a remote dawningof an understanding of the meaningof the thing he had done. He had spoken like a man in adream. He felt like a man in adream, being led in the thick mistfrom place to place. He was ledback to the coffee-stand, where now Barney, the proprietor, was pouringout coffee for a hoarse-voiced coster girl with a draggled feather inher hat, who greeted their arrivalhilariously. “Hello, Glad!” she cried out. “Got yer suvrink back?” Glad–it seemed to be the creature’swild name–nodded, but heldclose to her companion’s side, clutching his coat. “Let’s go in there an’ change it,”she said, nodding toward a small pork and ham shop near by. “An’ thenyer can take care of it for me.” “What did she call you?” AntonyDart asked her as they went. “Glad. Don’t know as I ever ‘ada nime o’ me own, but a little cove as went once to the pantermine toldme about a young lady as was FairyQueen an’ ‘er name was Gladys Beverly St. John, so I called mesself that. No one never said it all at onct–they don’t never say nothin’ butGlad. I’m glad enough this mornin’,” chuckling again, ” ‘avin’ theluck to come up with you, mister. Never had luck like it ‘afore.” They went into the pork and hamshop and changed the sovereign. There was cooked food in the windows– roast pork and boiled hamand corned beef. She bought slicesof pork and beef, and of suet-pudding with a few currants sprinkledthrough it. “Will yer ‘elp me to carry it?”she inquired. “I ‘ll ‘ave to get afew pen’worth o’ coal an’ wood an’a screw o’ tea an’ sugar. My wig,wot a feed me an’ Polly ‘ll ‘ave!” As they returned to the coffee-stand she broke more than once into a hop of glee. Barney had changedhis mind concerning her. A solidsovereign which must be changedand a companion whose shabby gentility was absolute grandeur whencompared with his present surroundings made a difference. She received her mug of coffee andthick slice of bread and dripping with a grin, and swallowed the hot sweetliquid down in ecstatic gulps. “Ain’t I in luck?” she said, handingher mug back when it was empty. “Gi’ me another, Barney.” Antony Dart drank coffee also andate bread and dripping. The coffeewas hot and the bread and dripping, dashed with salt, quite eatable. Hehad needed food and felt the better for it. “Come on, mister,” said Glad,when their meal was ended. “I wantto get back to Polly, an’ there ‘s coal and bread and things to buy.” She hurried him along, breakingher pace with hops at intervals. She darted into dirty shops and broughtout things screwed up in paper. She went last into a cellar and returnedcarrying a small sack of coal over her shoulders. “Bought sack an’ all,” she saidelatedly. “A sack ‘s a good thingto ‘ave.” “Let me carry it for you,” saidAntony Dart “Spile yer coat,” with her sidelongupward glance. “I don’t care,” he answered. “Idon’t care a damn.” The final expletive was totallyunnecessary, but it meant a thing he did not say. Whatsoever was thrustinghim this way and that, speakingthrough his speech, leading him todo things he had not dreamed ofdoing, should have its will with him. He had been fastened to the skirts ofthis beggar imp and he would go onto the end and do what was to be done this day. It was part of the dream. The sack of coal was over hisshoulder when they turned intoApple Blossom Court. It wouldhave been a black hole on a sunnyday, and now it was like Hades, lit grimly by a gas-jet or two, smalland flickering, with the orange haze about them. Filthy, flagging, murkydoorways, broken steps and brokenwindows stuffed with rags, and thesmell of the sewers let loose hadApple Blossom Court. Glad, with the wealth of the porkand ham shop and other riches inher arms, entered a repellent doorway in a spirit of great good cheerand Dart followed her. Past a roomwhere a drunken woman lay sleepingwith her head on a table, a childpulling at her dress and crying, up a stairway with broken balusters andbreaking steps, through a landing,upstairs again, and up still farther until they reached the top. Gladstopped before a door and shookthe handle, crying out: ” ‘S only me, Polly. You canopen it.” She added to Dart in anundertone: “She ‘as to keep it locked. No knowin’ who’d want to get in. Polly,” shaking the door-handle again, “Polly ‘s only me.” The door opened slowly. On theother side of it stood a girl with a dimpled round face which was quitepale; under one of her childishlyvacant blue eyes was a discoloration, and her curly fair hair was tucked upon the top of her head in a knot. As she took in the fact of AntonyDart’s presence her chin began toquiver. “I ain’t fit to–to see no one,”she stammered pitifully. “Why didyou, Glad–why did you?” “Ain’t no ‘arm in ‘IM,” said Glad. ” ‘E’s one o’ the friendly ones. ‘E give me a suvrink. Look wot I’vegot,” hopping about as she showedher parcels. “You need not be afraid of me,”Antony Dart said. He paused asecond, staring at her, and suddenly added, “Poor little wretch!” Her look was so scared and uncertaina thing that he walked awayfrom her and threw the sack of coal on the hearth. A small grate withbroken bars hung loosely in the fireplace, a battered tin kettle tilteddrunkenly near it. A mattress, from the holes in whose ticking strawbulged, lay on the floor in a corner, with some old sacks thrown over it. Glad had, without doubt, borrowedher shoulder covering from thecollection. The garret was as cold as the grave, and almost as dark; thefog hung in it thickly. There werecrevices enough through which itcould penetrate. Antony Dart knelt down on thehearth and drew matches from hispocket. “We ought to have brought somepaper,” he said. Glad ran forward. “Wot a gent ye are!” she cried. “Y’ ain’t never goin’ to light it?” “Yes.” She ran back to the rickety tableand collected the scraps of paperwhich had held her purchases. They were small, but useful. “That wot was round the sausagean’ the puddin’s greasy,” sheexulted. Polly hung over the table andtrembled at the sight of meat andbread. Plainly, she did notunderstand what was happening. Thegreased paper set light to the wood, and the wood to the coal. All threeflared and blazed with a sound ofcheerful crackling. The blaze threw out its glow as finely as if it had been set alight to warm a better place. The wonder of a fire is like thewonder of a soul. This one changedthe murk and gloom to brightness,and the deadly damp and cold towarmth. It drew the girl Pollyfrom the table despite her fears. She turned involuntarily, made twosteps toward it, and stood gazingwhile its light played on her face. Glad whirled and ran to the hearth. “Ye’ve put on a lot,” she cried;“but, oh, my Gawd, don’t it warmyer! Come on, Polly–come on.” She dragged out a wooden stool,an empty soap-box, and bundled thesacks into a heap to be sat upon. She swept the things from the table andset them in their paper wrappings on the floor. “Let’s all sit down close to it–close,” she said, “an’ get warm an’ eat, an’ eat.” She was the leaven which leavenedthe lump of their humanity. Whatthis leaven is–who has found out? But she–little rat of the gutter–was formed of it, and her mere pure animal joy in the temporary animalcomfort of the moment stirred anduplifted them from their depths. III They drew near and sat uponthe substitutes for seats in acircle–and the fire threw up flame and made a glow in the fog hangingin the black hole of a room. It was Glad who set the batteredkettle on and when it boiled madetea. The other two watched her,being under her spell. She handedout slices of bread and sausage and pudding on bits of paper. Polly fedwith tremulous haste; Glad herselfwith rejoicing and exulting in flavors. Antony Dart ate bread and meat ashe had eaten the bread and dripping at the stall–accepting his normalhunger as part of the dream. Suddenly Glad paused in the midstof a huge bite. “Mister,” she said, “p’raps thatcove’s waitin’ fer yer. Let’s ‘ave‘im in. I’ll go and fetch ‘im.” She was getting up, but Dart wason his feet first. “I must go,” he said. “He isexpecting me and–“ “Aw,” said Glad, “lemme goalong o’ yer, mister–jest to showthere’s no ill feelin’.” “Very well,” he answered. It was she who led, and he whofollowed. At the door she stoppedand looked round with a grin. “Keep up the fire, Polly,” shethrew back. “Ain’t it warm andcheerful? It’ll do the cove good to see it.” She led the way down the black,unsafe stairway. She always led. Outside the fog had thickenedagain, but she went through it as if she could see her way. At the entrance to the court thethief was standing, leaning against the wall with fevered, unhopefulwaiting in his eyes. He movedmiserably when he saw the girl, and she called out to reassure him. “I ain’t up to no ‘arm,” shesaid; “I on’y come with the gent.” Antony Dart spoke to him. “Did you get food?” The man shook his head. “I turned faint after you left me,and when I came to I was afraid Imight miss you,” he answered. “Idaren’t lose my chance. I boughtsome bread and stuffed it in mypocket. I’ve been eating it whileI’ve stood here.” “Come back with us,” said Dart. “We are in a place where we havesome food.” He spoke mechanically, and wasaware that he did so. He was apawn pushed about upon the boardof this day’s life. “Come on,” said the girl. “Yercan get enough to last fer threedays.” She guided them back through thefog until they entered the murkydoorway again. Then she almostran up the staircase to the room they had left. When the door opened the thieffell back a pace as before an unex- pected thing. It was the flare offirelight which struck upon his eyes. He passed his hand over them. “A fire!” he said. “I haven’tseen one for a week. Coming outof the blackness it gives a man astart.” Improvident joy gleamed in Glad’seyes. “We ‘ll be warm onct,” shechuckled, “if we ain’t never warmagaen.” She drew her circle about thehearth again. The thief took theplace next to her and she handed out food to him–a big slice of meat,bread, a thick slice of pudding. “Fill yerself up,” she said. “Thenye’ll feel like yer can talk.” The man tried to eat his food withdecorum, some recollection of thehabits of better days restraining him, but starved nature was too much forhim. His hands shook, his eyesfilled, his teeth tore. The rest of the circle tried not to look at him. Glad and Polly occupied themselveswith their own food. Antony Dart gazed at the fire. Here he sat warming himself in aloft with a beggar, a thief, and ahelpless thing of the street. He had come out to buy a pistol–its weightstill hung in his overcoat pocket– and he had reached this place ofwhose existence he had an hour agonot dreamed. Each step which hadled him had seemed a simple, inevitable thing, for which he had apparentlybeen responsible, but which heknew–yes, somehow he KNEW–hehad of his own volition neitherplanned nor meant. Yet here he sat–a part of the lives of the beggar, the thief, and the poor thing ofthe street. What did it mean? “Tell me,” he said to the thief,“how you came here.” By this time the young fellow hadfed himself and looked less like awolf. It was to be seen now thathe had blue-gray eyes which weredreamy and young. “I have always been inventingthings,” he said a little huskily. “I did it when I was a child. I alwaysseemed to see there might be a wayof doing a thing better–gettingmore power. When other boyswere playing games I was sitting in corners trying to build models outof wire and string, and old boxesand tin cans. I often thought I saw the way to things, but I was alwaystoo poor to get what was needed towork them out. Twice I heard ofmen making great names and fortunes because they had been able to finish what I could have finished if Ihad had a few pounds. It used todrive me mad and break my heart.” His hands clenched themselves andhis huskiness grew thicker. “Therewas a man,” catching his breath,“who leaped to the top of the ladder and set the whole world talking andwriting–and I had done the thingFIRST–I swear I had! It was allclear in my brain, and I was halfmad with joy over it, but I couldnot afford to work it out. Hecould, so to the end of time it will be HIS.” He struck his fist upon hisknee. “Aw!” The deep little drawlwas a groan from Glad. “I got a place in an office at last. I worked hard, and they began totrust me. I–had a new idea. Itwas a big one. I needed money towork it out. I–I rememberedwhat had happened before. I feltlike a poor fellow running a race for his life. I KNEW I could pay backten times–a hundred times–whatI took.” “You took money?” said Dart. The thief’s head dropped. “No. I was caught when I wastaking it. I wasn’t sharp enough. Someone came in and saw me, andthere was a crazy row. I was sentto prison. There was no more trying after that. It’s nearly two yearssince, and I’ve been hanging aboutthe streets and falling lower andlower. I’ve run miles panting after cabs with luggage in them and nothad strength to carry in the boxeswhen they stopped. I’ve starvedand slept out of doors. But thething I wanted to work out is inmy mind all the time–like somemachine tearing round. It wantsto be finished. It never will be. That’s all.” Glad was leaning forward staringat him, her roughened hands withthe smeared cracks on them claspedround her knees. “Things ‘AS to be finished,” shesaid. “They finish theirselves.” “How do you know?” Dartturned on her. “Dunno ‘OW I know–but I do. When things begin they finish. It’s like a wheel rollin’ down an ‘ill.” Her sharp eyes fixed themselves onDart’s. “All of us ‘ll finish somethin’– ‘cos we’ve begun. You will–Polly will–‘e will–I will.” She stopped with a sudden sheepishchuckle and dropped her foreheadon her knees, giggling. “Dunno wotI ‘m talking about,” she said, “but it’s true.” Dart began to understand that itwas. And he also saw that thisragged thing who knew nothingwhatever, looked out on the worldwith the eyes of a seer, though she was ignorant of the meaning of herown knowledge. It was a weirdthing. He turned to the girl Polly. “Tell me how you came here,”he said. He spoke in a low voice andgently. He did not want to frighten her, but he wanted to know how SHEhad begun. When she lifted herchildish eyes to his, her chin began to shake. For some reason she didnot question his right to ask what he would. She answered him meekly,as her fingers fumbled with the stuff of her dress. “I lived in the country with mymother,” she said. “We was veryhappy together. In the spring there was primroses and–and lambs. I–can’t abide to look at the sheepin the park these days. They remind me so. There was a girl inthe village got a place in town and came back and told us all about it. It made me silly. I wanted tocome here, too. I–I came–” She put her arm over her face andbegan to sob. “She can’t tell you,” said Glad. “There was a swell in the ‘ousemade love to her. She used to carry up coals to ‘is parlor an’ ‘e talked to‘er. ‘E ‘ad a wye with ‘im–“ Polly broke into a smothered wail. “Oh, I did love him so–I did!”she cried. “I’d have let him walkover me. I’d have let him killme.” ” ‘E nearly did it,” said Glad. ” ‘E went away sudden an’ she ‘snever ‘eard word of ‘im since.” From under Polly’s face-hidingarm came broken words. “I couldn’t tell my mother. Idid not know how. I was too frightened and ashamed. Now it’s toolate. I shall never see my motheragain, and it seems as if all the lambs and primroses in the world was dead. Oh, they’re dead–they’re dead–and I wish I was, too!” Glad’s eyes winked rapidly and shegave a hoarse little cough to clear her throat. Her arms still claspingher knees, she hitched herself closer to the girl and gave her a nudgewith her elbow. “Buck up, Polly,” she said, “weain’t none of us finished yet. Look at us now–sittin’ by our own firewith bread and puddin’ inside us–an’ think wot we was this mornin’. Who knows wot we ‘ll ‘ave this timeto-morrer.” Then she stopped and looked witha wide grin at Antony Dart. “Ow did I come ‘ere?” she said. “Yes,” he answered, “how didyou come here?” “I dunno,” she said; “I was ‘erefirst thing I remember. I lived with a old woman in another ‘ouse in thecourt. One mornin’ when I wokeup she was dead. Sometimes I’vebegged an’ sold matches. SometimesI’ve took care of women’s childrenor ‘elped ’em when they ‘ad to lie up. I’ve seen a lot–but I like to see alot. ‘Ope I’ll see a lot more afore I’m done. I’m used to bein’ ‘ungryan’ cold, an’ all that, but–but Iallers like to see what’s comin’ to- morrer. There’s allers somethin’else to-morrer. That’s all aboutME,” and she chuckled again. Dart picked up some fresh sticksand threw them on the fire. Therewas some fine crackling and a newflame leaped up. “If you could do what you liked,”he said, “what would you like todo?” Her chuckle became an outrightlaugh. “If I ‘ad ten pounds?” she asked,evidently prepared to adjust herself in imagination to any form of un-looked-for good luck. “If you had more?” His tone made the thief lift hishead to look at him. “If I ‘ad a wand like the one Jemtold me was in the pantermine?” “Yes,” he answered. She sat and stared at the fire a fewmoments, and then began to speak in a low luxuriating voice. “I’d get a better room,” she said,revelling. “There ‘s one in thenext ‘ouse. I’d ‘ave a few sticks o’ furnisher in it–a bed an’ a chairor two. I’d get some warm petticuts an’ a shawl an’ a ‘at–witha ostrich feather in it. Polly an’me ‘d live together. We’d ‘avefire an’ grub every day. I’d getdrunken Bet’s biby put in an ‘ome. I’d ‘elp the women when they ‘ad tolie up. I’d–I’d ‘elp ‘IM a bit,”with a jerk of her elbow toward the thief. “If ‘e was kept fed p’r’aps ‘ecould work out that thing in ‘is ‘ead. I’d go round the court an’ ‘elp themwith ‘usbands that knocks ’em about. I’d–I’d put a stop to the knockin’about,” a queer fixed look showingitself in her eyes. “If I ‘ad money I could do it. ‘Ow much,” withsudden prudence, “could a body ‘ave –with one o’ them wands?” “More than enough to do all youhave spoken of,” answered Dart. “It ‘s a shime a body couldn’t ‘aveit. Apple Blossom Court ‘d be adifferent thing. It’d be the sime as Miss Montaubyn says it’s goin’ tobe.” She laughed again, this time as if remembering something fantastic,but not despicable. “Who is Miss Montaubyn?” “She ‘s a’ old woman as lives nextfloor below. When she was youngshe was pretty an’ used to dance in the ‘alls. Drunken Bet says she wasone o’ the wust. When she got oldit made ‘er mad an’ she got wusser. She was ready to tear gals eyes out,
