late, and she'd like to know as soon as possible.'
'Oh, surely it'll do in the mornin'!' exclaimed Mrs. Hewett, who had followed the conversation in silent anxiety.
Clara paid no attention, but at once put on her hat again. Then she said, 'I won't be long, father,' and moved towards the door.
Hewett did not look round.
'Will you let me walk part of the way with you?' Sidney asked abruptly.
'Certainly, if you like.'
He bade the two who remained' Good-night,' and followed Clara downstairs.
CHAPTER IV
CLARA AND JANE
Rain no longer fell, but the gusty and bitter wind still swept about the black streets. Walking side by side without speech, Clara and her companion left the neighbourhood of the prison, and kept a northward direction till they reached the junction of highways where stands the 'Angel.' Here was the wonted crowd of loiterers and the press of people waiting for tramcar or omnibus—east, west, south, or north; newsboys, eager to get rid of their last batch, were crying as usual, 'Ech-ow! Exteree speciul! Ech-ow! Steendard!' and a brass band was blaring out its saddest strain of merry dance-music. The lights gleamed dismally in rain-puddles and on the wet pavement. With the wind came whiffs of tobacco and odours of the drinking-bar.
They crossed, and walked the length of Islington High Street, then a short way along its continuation, Upper Street. Once or twice Clara had barely glanced at Kirkwood, but his eyes made no reply, and his lips were resolutely closed. She did not seem offended by this silence; on the contrary, her face was cheerful, and she smiled to herself now and then. One would have imagined that she found pleasure in the sombreness of which she was the cause.
She stopped at length, and said:
'I suppose you don't want to go in with me?'
'No.'
'Then I'll say good-night. Thank you for coming so far out of your way.'
'I'll wait. I may as well walk back with you, if you don't mind.'
'Oh, very well. I shan't be many minutes.'
She passed on and entered the place of refreshment that was kept by Mrs. Tubbs. Till recently it had been an ordinary eating-house or coffee-shop; but having succeeded in obtain a license to sell strong liquors, Mrs. Tubbs had converted the establishment into one of a more pretentious kind. She called it 'Imperial Restaurant and Luncheon Bar.' The front shone with vermilion paint; the interior was aflare with many gas-jets; in the window was disposed a tempting exhibition of 'snacks' of fish, cold roast fowls, ham-sandwiches, and the like; whilst farther back stood a cooking-stove, whereon frizzled and vapoured a savoury mess of sausages and onions.
Sidney turned away a few paces. The inclemency of the night made Upper Street—the promenade of a great district on account of its spacious pavement—less frequented than usual; but there were still numbers of people about, some hastening homewards, some sauntering hither and thither in the familiar way, some gathered into gossiping groups. Kirkwood was irritated by the conversation and laughter that fell on his ears, irritated by the distant strains of the band, irritated above all by the fume of frying that pervaded the air for many yards about Mrs. Tubbs's precincts. He observed that the customers tending that way were numerous. They consisted mainly of lads and young men who had come forth from neighbouring places of entertainment. The locality and its characteristics had been familiar to him from youth upwards; but his nature was not subdued to what it worked in, and the present fit of disgust was only an accentuation of a mood by which he was often possessed. To the Hewetts he had spoken impartially of Mrs. Tubbs and her bar; probably that was the right view; but now there came back upon him the repugnance with which he had regarded Clara's proposal when it was first made.
It seemed to him that he had waited nearly half an hour when Clara came forth again. In silence she walked on beside him. Again they crossed by the 'Angel' and entered St. John Street Road.
'You've made your arrangements?' Sidney said, now that there were few people passing.
'Yes; I shall go on Monday.'
'You're going to live there altogether?'
'Yes; it'll be more convenient, and then it'll give them more room at home. Bob can sleep with the children, and save money.'
'To be sure!' observed the young man with bitter irony.
Clara flashed a glance at him. It was a new thing for Sidney to take this tone with her; not seldom he had expressed unfavourable judgments by silence, but he had never spoken to her otherwise than with deference and gentleness.
'You don't seem in a very good temper to-night, Mr. Kirkwood.' she remarked in a suave tone.
He disregarded her words, but in a few moments turned upon her and said scornfully:
'I hope you'll enjoy the pleasant, ladylike work you've found! I should think it'll improve your self-respect to wait on the gentlemen of Upper Street!'
Irony is not a weapon much in use among working people; their wits in general are too slow. With Sidney, however, it had always been a habit of speech in indignant criticism, and sympathy made him aware that nothing would sting Clara more acutely. He saw that he was successful when she turned her head away and moved it nervously.
'And do you suppose I go there because the place pleases me?' she asked in a cold, hostile voice. 'You make a great mistake, as you always do when you pretend to know anything about me. Wait till I've learned a little about the business; you won't find me in Upper Street then.'
'I understand.'
Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing Clerkenwell Close, and had to pass a corner of the prison in a dark lane, where the wind moaned drearily. The line of the high blank wall was relieved in colourless gloom against a sky of sheer night. Opposite, the shapes of poverty-eaten houses and grimy workshops stood huddling in the obscurity. From near at hand came shrill voices of children chasing each other about—children playing at midnight between slum and gaol!
'We're not likely to see much of each other after to-night,' said Sidney, stopping.
'The less the better, I should say, if this is how you're going to talk to me.'
'The less the better, perhaps—at all events for a time. But there's one or two things on my mind, and I'll say them now. I don't know whether you think anything about it, but you must have seen that things are getting worse and worse at home. Your mother—'
'She's no mother of mine!' broke in Clara angrily.
'She's been a mother to you in kindness, that's certain, and you've repaid her almost as ill as you could have done. Another girl would have made her hard life a bit easier. No; you've only thought of yourself. Your father walks about day after day trying to get work, and how do you meet him when he comes home? You fret him and anger him; you throw him back ill-tempered words when he happens to think different from you; you almost break his heart, because you won't give way in things that he only means for your good—he that would give his life for you! It's as well you should hear the truth for once, and hear it from me, too. Anyone else might speak from all sorts of motives; as for me, it makes me suffer more to say such things than it ever could you to hear them. Laugh if you like! I don't ask you to pay any heed to what I've wished and hoped; but just give a thought to your father, and the rest of them at home. I told him to-night he'd only to trust
