interest in me—just, I am convinced, to make the use of me that he did.'
He was silent, and began rowing again.
'What happened them?' asked Monica.
'I mustn't make out that I was a faultless boy,' he continued, with the smile that graved wrinkles about his eyes; 'quite the opposite. I had a good deal of my father's temper; I often behaved very badly to my mother; what I needed was some stern but conscientious man to look after me and make me work. In my spare time I lay about on the shore, or got into mischief with other boys. It needed my mother's death to make a more sensible fellow of me, and by that time it was too late. I mean I was too old to be trained into profitable business habits. Up to nineteen I had been little more than an errand and office boy, and all through the after years I never got a much better position.'
'I can't understand that,' remarked Monica thoughtfully.
'Why not?'
'You seem to—to be the kind of man that would make your way.'
'Do I?' The description pleased him; he laughed cheerfully. 'But I never found what my way was to be. I have always hated office work, and business of every kind; yet I could never see an opening in any other direction. I have been all my life a clerk—like so many thousands of other men. Nowadays, if I happen to be in the City when all the clerks are coming away from business, I feel an inexpressible pity for them. I feel I should like to find two or three of the hardest driven, and just divide my superfluous income between. A clerk's life—a life of the office without any hope of rising—that is a hideous fate!'
'But your brother got on well. Why didn't he help you?'
'We couldn't agree. We always quarrelled.'
'Are you really so ill-tempered?'
It was asked in Monica's most naive tone, with a serious air of investigation which at first confused Widdowson, then made him laugh.
'Since I was a lad,' he replied, 'I have never quarrelled with any one except my brother. I think it's only very unreasonable people that irritate me. Some men have told me that I was far too easy-going, too good-natured. Certainly I desire to be good-natured. But I don't easily make friends; as a rule I can't talk to strangers. I keep so much to myself that those who know me only a little think me surly and unsociable.'
'So your brother always refused to help you?'
'It wasn't easy for him to help me. He got into a stockbroker's, and went on step by step until he had saved a little money; then he speculated in all sorts of ways. He couldn't employ me himself—and if he could have done so, we should never have got on together. It was impossible for him to recommend me to any one except as a clerk. He was a born money-maker. I'll give you an example of how he grew rich. In consequence of some mortgage business he came into possession of a field at Clapham. As late as 1875 this field brought him only a rent of forty pounds; it was freehold property, and he refused many offers of purchase. Well, in 1885, the year before he died, the ground-rents from that field—now covered with houses—were seven hundred and ninety pounds a year. That's how men get on who have capital and know how to use it. If I had had capital, it would never have yielded me more than three or four per cent. I was doomed to work for other people who were growing rich. It doesn't matter much now, except that so many years of life have been lost.'
'Had your brother any children?'
'No children. All the same, it astonished me when I heard his will; I had expected nothing. In one day—in one hour—I passed from slavery to freedom, from poverty to more than comfort. We never hated each other; I don't want you to think that.'
'But—didn't it bring you friends as well as comfort?'
'Oh,' he laughed, 'I am not so rich as to have people pressing for my acquaintance. I have only about six hundred a year.'
Monica drew in her breath silently, then gazed at the distance.
'No, I haven't made any new friends. The one or two men I care for are not much better off than I used to be, and I always feel ashamed to ask them to come and see me. Perhaps they think I shun them because of their position, and I don't know how to justify myself. Life has always been full of worrying problems for me. I can't take things in the simple way that comes natural to other men.'
'Don't you think we ought to be turning back, Mr. Widdowson?'
'Yes, we will. I am sorry the time goes so quickly.'
When a few minutes had passed in silence, he asked,—
'Do you feel that I am no longer quite a stranger to you, Miss Madden?'
'Yes—you have told me so much.'
'It's very kind of you to listen so patiently. I wish I had more interesting things to tell, but you see what a dull life mine has been.' He paused, and let the boat waver on the stream for a moment. 'When I dared to speak to you last Sunday I had only the faintest hope that you would grant me your acquaintance. You can't, I am sure, repent of having done me that kindness—?'
'One never knows. I doubted whether I ought to talk with a stranger—'
'Rightly—quite rightly. It was my perseverance—you saw, I hope, that I could never dream of giving you offence. The rule is necessary, but you see there may be exceptional cases.' He was giving a lazy stroke now and then, which, as the tide was still, just moved the boat onwards. 'I saw something in your face that compelled me to speak to you. And now we may really be friends, I hope?'
'Yes—I can think of you as a friend, Mr. Widdowson.'
A large boat was passing with four or five young men and girls who sang in good time and tune. Only a song of the music-hall or of the nigger minstrels, but it sounded pleasantly with the plash of the oars. A fine sunset had begun to glow upon the river; its warmth gave a tone to Monica's thin cheeks.
'And you will let me see you again before long? Let me drive you to Hampton Court next Sunday—or any other place you would choose.'
'Very likely I shall be invited to my friend's in Chelsea.'
'Do you seriously think of leaving the shop?'
'I don't know—I must have time to think about it—'
'Yes—yes. But if I write a line to you, say on Friday, would you let me know whether you can come?'
'Please to let me refuse for next Sunday. The one after, perhaps—'
He bent his head, looked desperately grave, and drove the boat on. Monica was disturbed, but held to her resolution, which Widdowson silently accepted. The rest of the way they exchanged only brief sentences, about the beauty of the sky, the scenes on river or bank, and other impersonal matters. After landing, they walked in silence towards Chelsea Bridge.
'Now I must go quickly home,' said Monica.
'But how?'
'By train—from York Road to Walworth Road.'
Widdowson cast a curious glance at her. One would have imagined that he found something to disapprove in this ready knowledge of London transit.
'I will go with you to the station, then.'
Without a word spoken, they walked the short distance to York Road. Monica took her ticket, and offered a hand for good-bye.
