 CHAPTER XVIII. Not for six weeks, at least, Johnny judged. Johnny begged the day's holiday that was to take him and Bessie back to the forest, and it might be more. That would be in July or even August, and probably the weather would be more trustworthy then. As for Bessie, she counted the days on the almanac and tapped the yellow-faced ol' barometer that had been grandad's a dozen times a day. Johnny laughed at her impatience and invented endless weather prophecies, just from America, putting the weather for the whole of July at every possible shade of unpleasantness, from blizzards to floods and thunderstorms. The days went quietly, they were even dull. Mr. Butson did what he could to make himself agreeable, and several times praised a set of calipers that Johnny had made, a set of calipers that Johnny in fact thought very well of himself, so that he seemed not such a bad fellow, perhaps after all, though a bit of a sponge. There was nothing to cause it to all seeming, but it was a fact that just now Nan May grew thoughtful and absent of manner. She would pause in the midst of needlework, as though to think, and more than once, at such a time, Bessie, looking up from her own work, saw that her mother's troubled gaze was fixed on herself. Nan May put away the anxious look as well as she might, and bent to her work again. But Bessie wondered. Johnny too fancied that his mother was scared so cheerful, as was her want, though he thought of it less than Bessie, but one Sunday afternoon, meeting her by her bedroom door, he took her cheeks between his palms and looked hard in her face. Mother, he said, I believe you've been crying, what's up? She put a hand on each of his wrists and made a shift to smile, that's nonsense, she said, and tried to pull his hands down. You're getting too strong for your poor old mother to keep you in order, but she brightened always when Mr. Butson came in the evening, though Mr. Butson's conversation scarce seemed of so inspiring a character as to account wholly for the change. Still it interested her. It was mostly about his grievances at the hands of the world, and Nan May was a ready sympathizer. It was very near to the day, at last fixed, for the excursion. When Bessie woke in the night of the striking of a match, her mother was lighting a candle, her back toward the bed. She took the candle and passed out into Johnny's room at the back. Bessie listened, but she heard no talk, heard nothing, indeed, but Johnny's heavy breathing. So still was the night. Presently, her mother returned and stood over her, still with the candle, gazing on her face. It seemed to Bessie, as well as she could see through half-closed eyes, much as she had gazed when she paused in her needlework, though now her cheeks were wet with tears. With that Bessie opened wide her eyes, and, Mother, she said, what's the matter? Are you ill? Nan May turned and blew out the light. No, Bess, no, I'm all right, she said, and crept into bed. It's not not much. I woke up that's all. What a bad dream. She kissed the girl and put her arm around her neck. You've always been a good girl, Bessie, she went on. You wouldn't turn against me, would you? Why no, Mother, but not whatever happened? No, of course not. She kissed her mother again. But why? It's nothing, only the dream. Just the dream, Bess. Go to sleep. End of Chapter 18, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 19 of To London Town. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. To London Town by Arthur Morrison Chapter 19 The longed-for holiday came with a fine Monday morning and Bessie and a Muslim frock that her mother had helped to make for the occasion was impatient. An hour too soon because Johnny lingered in bed enjoying the luxury of losing a quarter without paying the penalty. But Johnny was ready for breakfast before 8 and seeing the shop door open ran to take down the shutters. A thing his mother commonly did herself because of his absence at work. I always put him up and for once I'll take him down. He said, prancing in with the first, look out, mother, or I'll bowl you over. Oh no, Johnny. She said, leave him, I'll only have to. And at that she stopped. Only have to what, Johnny asked, going for another. Only have to serve the customers, eh, because the shops open. Of course you will. It ain't your holiday. You know. It's ours. Look out again. Shoo! Bessie rattled at the old barometer still. Though for half an hour it had refused to move its hand to shade. And she asked Johnny for the fiftieth time if he were perfectly sure that the proper train wasn't earlier than they were supposing. And when at last Johnny admitted that it was time to start, Nan may kiss them and bade them goodbye with so wistful and earnestness that Johnny was moved to pleasantry. All right, mother, he said, we're coming back someday, you know. They were scarce halfway to the railway station when Bessie said, Johnny, I don't think mother's been very well lately. There'll be another train soon. Shall we go back in? And just see if she's all right. First, Johnny laughed. That's a good idea, he said. And then I suppose we'd better miss the next. And go back to see how she's getting on then. And the one after that, eh? Mother's all right. She's been thinking a bit about, you know, granddad and all that. And because we're going to the forest it reminds her of it. Come on, don't begin the day with dumps. There was interest for both of them in the railway journey. They changed trains at Stepney. And after a station or two, more came in distant sight of a part of the road they had traversed on Bank's Cart when they came to London, two winters back. There was the great, low, desolate wilderness, treeless and void of any green thing seen now from nearer the mist, with the road bounding it in the distance. And here was the chemical manure factory, close at hand this time, with its stink at short-hitting range, so that every window in the train went up with a bang and everybody in the long third-class carriage coughed, or grimaced, or spat, or swore, according to sex and habit. Then, out beyond Stratford, through Layton and Laytonstone, they saw that the town had grown much in twenty months and was still growing. Close, regular streets of little houses, all of one pattern, stared in raw brick, or rose with a forlorn air of crumbling, sponginess, amid sparse sticks of scaffolding. Bessie wondered how the butterflies were faring in the forest and how much farther they had been driven since she left, then the wide country began to span past, and pleasant single houses and patches of wood. The hills about Chigwell stood bright and green across the roading valley, as the low ground ran away between, and the high forest land came up, at the other side of the line, till the train stood in Lawton Station. Through the village Bessie flushed an eager, stumped and swung at a pace that kept Johnny walking his best. Staple Hill was the nearest corner of the forest, and for Staple Hill they made direct, once past the street end, it rose before them, round and gay, deep and green in the wood that clothed it. Boys were fishing in the pond at its foot, and the stream ran merrily under the dusty road. Come, Johnny, Bessie cried, straight over the hill. Nor did she check her pace till the wide boughs shaded them, and her crutch went softly on the mossy earth among old leaves. Then she stood and laughed aloud, and was near crying, Smell it, Johnny! She cried, Smell it! Isn't it heavenly? They went up the slope, across tiny glades, and between thick clumps of undergrowth, gay with dog roses, Bessie's eyes and ears alerted for everything, tree, bird or flower, now spying out some noisy jay that uprated their intrusion, now standing to hark for a distant woodpecker. Johnny enjoyed the walk too, but with a sober or delight, as became an engineer taking a day's relaxation amid the scenes of childish play now half forgotten. Down the other side of the hill they went, and over the winding stream at the bottom, truly it seemed a tiny stream now, and Johnny wondered that he should ever have been proud of jumping it. He found a bend where the water rushed through a narrow channel by the side of a bed of clean washed gravel, and got Bess across, though she scrambled down and up with little help. Such was her enthusiasm. Then the trees grew sparser, and over the deep growing flat of Debeden, Slade, Bessie stopped again and again to recognize some well-remembered wildflower, and little brown butterflies skimmed over the rushes and tall grass, the sun mounted higher, and everything was brisk and bright and sweet smelling. Brother and sister climbed the hill before them slowly, often staying to look back over the great prospect of rolling woodland, ever widening as they rose, till at last they stood at the point of the ridge, in the gap through the earthwork made by ancient Britons. This, beyond all others, was the spot that Bessie had loved best. This ragged ring of crumbling rampart and ditch, grown thick with fantastic horn beams, pollarded out of all common shape. Its inner space a crowded wonder of tall bracken, with rare patches of heather, its outer angles watching over the silent woods below, and dominating the hills that ranked beyond. This was the place where best an old book from the shelf would fill a sunny afternoon, for the camp was a romance in itself, a romance of closer presence than anything printed on paper. Here, two thousand years ago, the long-haired savages had stood, in real fact, with spears and axes, brandishing defiance to foes on the hillside. Here they had entrenched themselves against the Roman legions, they in their chief, fierce Cassie Valanus, more to her than a name in an old history book, for had not she seen the Wild Prince a hundred times in her daydreams, stocking under the oaks, and the sheeted druids, till the wood grew alive with phantoms, and she hid her face in her book, and now she sat here again, in the green shade, and looked out over the thousand treetops, merry with the sunlight, how long had she left at all? What was that fancy of a ride to London, of shipyards, and of a Chandler's shop? But Johnny whistled to a robin on a twig, and she turned and looked at him. To see that here was the engineer, indeed, and the painter of the Chandler's shop. Still, which was the dream, that, or this? Left alone, Bessie would have sat here all the day. But there were other places not to be forgotten, as Johnny reminded her, over the heather they went then, to monk wood, where the trees were greater and the flowers were more abundant than anywhere else in the forest, and they did not leave it till Johnny insisted on dinner. Now this dinner was a great excitement, for at setting out, Johnny had repelled every suggestion of sandwiches in a bag, and now dauntlessly marched into an inn on the main road and ordered whatever was ready, with two glasses of beer. Bessie overwhelmed by the audacity of the act, nevertheless preserved her appetite, and even drank a little of the beer, and the adventure cost Johnny four shillings. Mothers having her dinner alone, said Bessie in a flutter of timid delight, she doesn't guess we're having ours at the red deer. Hence it was not far, by the lanes, to the high churchyard, for the flowers gathered in monk wood were for granddad's grave, and it was a duty of the day to mark the condition of the little headstone. All was well with it, and it surprised them to find the grass cut neatly, and a little clump of pansies growing on the mound. Bessie suspected Bob's small piece, and so went a perfect day, their tea they took in Bob's small piece's lodge. The keeper admitted having gone over old Mr. May's grave with the grass shears just once or twice, he avoided making any definite reply to Johnny's and Bessie's invitations to come to Harbor Lane again. Perhaps he'd come again, he said, someday. Meanwhile, had they seen the cottage? As they had not, they set out all three together and looked at it. The new tenancy had made little change. Down the glen the white walls first peeped from among the trunks, and then the red tiles, just as ever. The woodman was at work mending the old fence. It was always being mended somewhere. The turbulent little garden still tumbled and surged against it, threatening to lay it flat at any moment. Very naturally, the woodman and his wife, though perfectly civil, took less personal interest in Johnny and Bessie than Johnny and Bessie took in them and the cottage. So that it was not long ere a last look was taken at the old fence, and Bob's small piece went off another way on his walk of duty. Shadows grew long and thickets dark. To revisit every remembered nook had been impossible, but they had seen and lingered in all them that had most delighted Bessie in old times, all but worm-laten pits. Johnny had turned that way once, thoughtlessly, but no, Bessie said, almost whispered, with her hand on his arm. Not that way, Johnny. And now they turned their backs on the fast darkening forest and took a steep lane for the village below. The sweet smells that go up at the first blink of the evening star met them on the breeze, and when they turned for the last look toward the woods, the trees on the hilltop, tall sentinels of the host beyond, barred the red west, and knotted them and the sun goodbye. Out of the stony lane, Lawton was lighted, and at the end of a dusty road was a small constellation of gas lamps and railway signals. Now it was plain that both were a little tired, Bessie perhaps more than a little. But the train gave a welcome rest, and there were no passengers to see, even if she slept, for they were alone in their compartment. They had passed two stations when Johnny, who had been standing to look out at the opposite window, turned and saw that his sister was dozing, with her head bent forward in her face hidden by the crutch handle. It was so holy, her figure, as she sat in the cab at the old man's funeral, that Johnny started and sat where he stood, though he had never once called the thing to mind since that day. And he took the crutch gently away to look at her face, but it was calm and untroubled, and he put his hand at the farther side of it and pressed it to his shoulder. For plainly she was tired out, and there were no questions in the carriage. It was nearing ten o'clock when at last they turned into harbour lane. From a back street came the old watchman's cry. Past nine o'clock, as he went his round in search of orders to wake early risers, and lights in bedroom windows told of early risers already seeking sleep. Nobody was in the shop, but as they came in, Johnny thought he saw his mother's face vanish from beside the Muslim curtain that obscured the glass in the back parlor door. They passed through the shop and into the back parlor, their mother and Mr. Butson sat facing them, side by side. Mr. Butson had a new suit of clothes, and their mother wore her best, and smiles and tears were in her face. Something had happened. What was it? Bessie and Johnny, scarce within the door, stood and stared. Johnny, Bessie, Nan faltered, looking from one to the other. Have you enjoyed your holiday? Won't you kiss me, Johnny? She rose and made a step toward them. But something struck them still, and they looked, wondering, from Nan to Butson, and back to their mother again. What was it? Johnny moved first and kissed his mother absently, gazing at Mr. Butson the while. Mr. Butson, who was smoking, said nothing, but lay back in his chair and considered the ash of his cigar. Nan's anxiety was plain to see. She put a hand on Johnny's shoulder and an arm on Bessie's neck. I, we, you won't be vexed because I didn't tell you, will you? She said, pale, but trying to smile. I, we, Mr. Butson, Johnny, Bessie, don't look so. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she bent her head on Johnny's other shoulder. We've been married today. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 of To London Town. This is a Labour Box recording. All Labour Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit labourbox.org. To London Town by Arthur Morrison. The shock left Johnny and Bessie numb. And, though Bessie was quicker, the change took Johnny two or three days to realize, even to understand. His first distinct impression was one of injury and resentment. He had been tricked, wood-winked, his mother. Even his mother had deceived him and Bessie. Why? Why not tell them first? She would have told them. He was sure. She told them everything. Butson had persuaded her to keep them in ignorance till the thing was done, lest they should rebel, and perhaps bring her to a change of mood. And Johnny's guess was a good one. Fourth, with his resentment, became something more hate. Mere hate for this man who had come between him and his mother. This catcher of suppers thrusting himself into their intimate life. And yet, perhaps this was simple anger at the slight and the deception. Jealousy had finding a stranger as dear to his mother as himself was. Butson might turn out none so bad a fellow. He was very decent over the calipers. For instance, cursed the calipers. Johnny's anger was not to be reasoned down. On Sunday he had his own mother. Now there was nothing but Butson's wife. More. The man was his father, his stepfather, chief authority in the house, with respect and obedience due to him. That seemed intolerable. For a moment Johnny had mad notions of leaving home altogether and shifting for himself, going aboard ship, abroad, anywhere. But that would be to leave Vess alone and his mother. His mother might need him yet. He told Long Hicks, as they dreamt to work over the locks and bridges in the bright morning, early and still. And it surprised him to see Hicks' tacit concern at the news. The long man reddened and stuttered and checked himself suddenly at an imminent outburst of speech. But that was all. He offered no opinion and made no remark. And as he was given to suppressed excitement on small occasion, Johnny presently forgot it. As for Bessie, her distress, quiet as it was, was beyond telling. Her association with her mother had been so intimate that this change was dark bereavement. And for Butson and his coarse pretense, her feeling was sheer repulsion. Neither boy nor girl had the habit of dissimulation. And though they said little, it needed small discernment to guess something of their sentiments. Poor Nan was dismayed to perceive that they did not take to Butson instant on the news of the novel relationship. Indeed, it perplexed her. For in her simple view, he was a resplendent person of finer mold. So are hit by a cruel world. And entitled to the respectful sympathy, at least and coldest, of the merest stranger. More, nobody could be more completely devoted than he to the interests of Johnny and Bessie. He had most vehemently assured her of it again and again. But after all, the thing was sudden. They must realize his true worth soon. Though meantime, she was distressed extremely. Butson saw plainly enough. But for the present cared not at all. He had won his game. And for a little time, unwanted plenty and comfort satisfied him. Though he was not insensible that this was a place wherein he must do something more to make himself absolute master. Uncle Isaac got the news on Tuesday evening when he came for supper. For a week or ten days he had been little seen at Harbor Lane because of an urgent job involving overtime. A thing not to be neglected in these lean years. He had suspected nothing moreover. Supposing Butson to be so often attracted to Nance by the mere prospect of supper. Now, when he was told he was near as astonished at Johnny had been, he sat at random, fortunately on a chair, and opened his mouth and eyes. But ere his mouth closed, he had resolved on his own course. The thing was done and passed on doing. He sprang to his feet and seized one of Butson's hands, the nearest in both his own. Mr. Butson, he said. Butson, me old friend Ernie, me dearest, oops, and wishes is rewarded. Nan, you're done most due default, the confidentialist all my intentions. For what was my confidential intentions? Er, I says. Confidential to me self. Er is my niece, a young woman as I wish every possible good fortune too. Though I says it me self. A very suitable young woman, oh some little property with two children and a business. Two children and a business was my reflection. What's more, Er's my very respected friend, Butson, than which none more so fashionable by a bit and connections. With no children and no business, them considerations be in thus what folders. What's the cause and pediment to all the matrimony? Far be it from me, says I, to dictate. But I'll take them in to tea anyhow, and I'll do whatever else is nisri use. I'll do it, says I, as is my duty. I'll work if it's mortal possible, whether grateful or not I'll do it, and I done it. Uncle Isaac punched his left palm with his right fist, and looked from husband to wife, with the eye of the righteous defying censure. Nan flushed and smiled, and indeed she was relieved. No consideration of her on a custom secrecy had given her more doubt than that. It must shut her off from Uncle Isaac's advice, loss enough in itself, and probably an offense to him. This, Uncle Isaac went on, taking his chair once more, and drawing it up to the table. This is a great and happy occasion, and as sitch it should be kept up. Nan, is there sitch a thing as a drop of spirits in the house? There was most of a small jar of whiskey. The first purchase Mr. Butson had caused on his change of condition. It was brought with tumblers, and Uncle Isaac celebrated the occasion with full honors and much fragmentary declamation. He drank the health of bride and bridegroom. For separately and then together he drank the health of the family, completed and adorned by the addition of Butson. He drank success to the shop, long life to all the parties concerned, happiness to each of them, and a certain forgetfulness ensuing. He began his toast list afresh, in conscientious precaution list something had been omitted. See there, Bess. See there, Miguel. He exclaimed with some thickness of utterance, turning to Bessie, whose one desire was to remain unnoticed and making a semi circular swing of the arm in Butson's direction. Your father, new stepfather, local apprentice. As a cripple and a burden it's your duty to be grateful for the circumstance. Being a witterer, a long ex-experience myself, I'm grateful for us surrounding privileges, which is your duty to respect. See, duty to respect and obey, likewise honor, because if shillin' don't, speck and bay wash good sea catechism. Bay washed catechism. A. Uncle Isaac's voice grew loud and fierce. Wash become catechism, I say. Nalvoid. Catechism's Nalvoid. Here, pausing to look round at Mr. and Mrs. Butson, he lost his argument all together and stared awlishly at the wall. Aus, omidiver. Occasion, be in the state and pediment. O uly matrimony. Corden to confidential tensions. Nothin' remains, but esk you all join me in drinkin'. D, drinkin'? Er, er, they'll drop more. Uncle Isaac subsided with his face on the table and his eyes closed so that it grew necessary for Mr. Butson to shake him and bring him to a perpendicular, whereupon, being duly invested with his hat, he was safely set in his way on the narrow pavement of Harbour Lane. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of To London Town This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org To London Town by Arthur Morrison. Twice or thrice more, Uncle Isaac came to supper, though he was dimly aware that his visits were in some way less successful than they had been their want. In so much that he took nothing home with him for breakfast, nor even went so far as to hint his desire in Butson's presence. For Butson welcomed him not at all, and his manner grew shorter at each meeting, and this with full intent. Because Mr. Butson perceived that, as first step toward being master in his own house, he must get rid of Uncle Isaac, mere curtness of manner, even gruffness, would never drive Uncle Isaac from his prey. It operated only to make him more voluble, more strenuously, land eloquent, till one evening after supper, as he lay back in his chair sacking noisily at lips and teeth. He resolved to venture a step in the matter of the lapsed grants in aid of breakfast. Johnny and Bessie were out of the house. They went out more often now. Nan was serving in the shop, and Mr. Butson sat with his back partly turned and smoked in uncivil silence. Ah, quote Uncle Isaac, with a slight glance at his ungracious host, that's an uncommon nice tin of spiced beef we just add a cut of. Uncommon. Mr. Butson made no answer. It's a great credit to your business instincts that tin of spiced beef. I almost wish I had took another slice or so now. As a fact, Uncle Isaac had not been offered a further helping, perhaps because he had already taken three. I almost wish I had. Never mind. It'll do another time. Come now. I've affed a mind to get Nan to warp it up for my breakfast. The suggestion was made as of a novel in striking idea. But Mr. Butson showed no flash of enthusiasm. He swung his chair slowly round on one leg till he faced Uncle Isaac. Then he put his cigar carefully on the mantelpiece and said, Look, ear, Mr. Mundy. The sudden severity of his voice drew Uncle Isaac's eyes from the ceiling and his feet from under the table simultaneously. Look, ear, Mr. Mundy. Your bin so kind is to celebrate this air-widen old mine with four good heavy suppers and about a pint whiskey at my expense. I'm very grateful for that. And I won't trouble you no more. See? This is the end of the celebration. I'm going to eat my supper in future. Me and my wife. Without your assistance. And breakfast, too. Understand? Uncle Isaac's feet retreated under his chair and his eyes advanced to an alarming protrusion. See what I mean? Butson went on with growing a fence in his voice. Just you buy your own suppers and eat them at home or else go without. Speech was denied Uncle Isaac. He blinked and choked. What did it mean? Was it a dream? Was he Uncle Isaac? Respected and deferred to. The man of judgment and influence? And was he told? Thus outrageously. To buy his own supper? Use, said Butson, as though an answer to his thoughts. I mean it. Where at, Uncle Isaac? With a gasp and a roll of the eyes found his tongue. Mr. Butson, he said, in a voice of dignified but grieved surprise. Mr. Butson, I—I think I must erred wrong. Otherwise I might put it as you may be sorry for Sitch's words. Perhaps, remarked Butson, cynically laconic. In which case, replied Uncle Isaac the Adroit, it is freely took as offered and nothing more need be said between of friends after Sitch and some apologies give and took. And reconciliation resumes. It's Armini, a cordon. Butson glared, grr. He growled, apologies. What I say I mean. You've done very well at cheap suppers and what not, heir. And tonight you've had your last. I'm master, here now. And you can get out as soon as you like. What? Get out. You ought to be ashamed all yourself, cried the disinterested Butson indignantly. Come and cage in suppers. Get out. Meet suppers. Why, in a hurry. Butson, I brought you, heir. Out, old the gutter. Out, old the gutter. And fed ye. Ah, a lot you fed me. And mighty anxious to do it, wasn't ye? You clear out, oh, ear. Oh, I'll go. And I'll see about countermandin, a paper or two, for I go to bed, and my small property. Your small property. Put in Butson with slow scorn. Your small property. Where is it? What is it? Want to know my opinion, oh, you? You're an old umbug. That's what you are. A old umbug. Uncle Isaac grew furious and purple. Umbug, he said. Umbug. Them words to me. A safety from starvation. Umbug yourself. You and your connections and bears and what not. Why, ye don't know your own trade. I wouldn't trust ye to grind a cafe mill. With that the shop door opened, and Nan stood between them. She had heard high voices. And at the first cessation of custom, she came to see. Uncle Henry, what is it? She asked with alarm in her face. This is what it is. Said Butson. Now near as purple is Uncle Isaac. This, air, Uncle, oh yours. Mrs. Butson. Or whatever ye is. Ain't come in air, Cajun. Is grub any more. Not so long as I gotta say in it, ye ain't. See? So now you better say goodbye to him if ye want to. Cause he's going. Quick, oh use. Said Uncle Isaac, speaking to his niece. But glaring at Butson. I'm going, Mrs. Butson. And much better, may you be for it. After what I done for you and all. Sort a grattitude, I might. Uh, expected. Oh, Uncle. Exclaimed the distracted Nan. Why, whatever's the matter? I know you've always been very good. Henry, what's it all about? About putting an end to this, air, blood second. That's all. Blood second. Exclaimed Uncle Isaac. Use. You know something about that. Pity you don't know your trade F as well. Then perhaps you'd earn your living. Stead, oh Spongin. Unpeople in deluding a fool of a woman to keep ye lazy. Go on, go on. Commanded Butson with increasing wrath. No, Uncle. Stop a minute. Intreated poor Nan. Don't, Henry. Don't let's quarrel. Go on, oh use. I'll go. Perhaps you'd like to call the police. Butson caught breath at the word. And something crossed his face like a reflection from a white screen. But he repeated, go on with a gesture toward the door. Use, use. Said Uncle Isaac, with his hat on his head. I'm going. And not sorry neither. Ho. You're a bright sort for a local Prentice. You are. Uncle Isaac may have been at odds with the phrase in local Prentice. Uncommon neat pattern. And he walked out into the dark street. A small model of offended dignity. Oh, Henry. Cried Nan in tears. What have you done? I've done. Answered Butson. Reaching for his cigar. Just what I meant to do. That's all. Cause it suited me. See? Nan felt the course overbearance of his stare. And dropped her gaze beneath it. And with that misgiving fell upon her. The shadow her punishment flung before it. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of To London Town This is a Libra Fox recording. All Libra Fox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org To London Town by Arthur Morrison. Mr. Henry Butson had fallen on good fortune. No more would he endure the humiliation of begging a job of a non-sympathetic gaffer. In future his life would be one of ease. Free from ignoble exertion and unashamed by dungary overhauls. And he made it so. For a little while. His wife seemed to indulge in an absurd expectation that he would resume his search for occupation of one sort or another. Once she even hinted it. But he soon demolished that fancy. And in terms that prevented any more hints. He had little patience with such foolishness. Indeed. The matter was simple enough. Why did a man work? Merely to get shelter and food and clothes and comfort. And hair oil. Whatever he wanted to drink and smoke. And his necessary pocket money. A man who could get these things without working would be a fool to work. More. He would behave inhumanly to his fellow man by excluding him from a job. As for himself. He got what he needed easily enough. Without the trouble of even taking down the shop shutters. A vulgar act repellent to his nature. So he rose at ten. Or eleven. Or twelve. As the case might be. And donned fine-rain-ment. The most fashionable suit procurable from the most fashionable shop. In Altgate. He began at Altgate. But in time he grew more or fast it is. And went to a tailor in Leiden Hall Street. A tailor whose daily task was to satisfy the tastes of the most particular among the shipbrokers clerks of St. Mary Acts. His toilet complete. His curls well oiled. Mr. Butson descended to a breakfast of solitary state. Nance had been hurried over hours ago. The rest of the day was given as occasion prompted. When the weather was fine. Nothing pleased him better. Nor more excellently agreed with his genteel propensities. Then to go for a stroll up west. When Harbour Lane was quiet and empty. He seemed to choose such times for going out. He would slip round to the station. And by train and omnibus gained the happy region. He was careful to take with him enough money to secure some share of the polite gratifications proper to the quarter. And minutely acquainted himself with the manners and customs of all the bars in the Strand and about Piccadilly Circus. And although he was a little astonished when first he was charged 18 pence for an American drink, he was careful not to show it. And afterwards secretly congratulated himself on the refined instinct that had pitched on so princely a beverage in the dark, so to speak. He took air to Enhide Park to the great honour of his whiskers and much improved his manner of leaning on a rail and of sitting in a green chair. In the evening he tried perhaps a music hall, but always some of the bars and arrived home at night rather late. Sometimes a trifle unsteady and usually in a bad temper. Bad temper was natural indeed in the circumstances. After so many hours indulgence in the delights of fashionable society, it revolted his elegant nature to have to return at last to a vulgar little Chandler's shop in a riverside street, where a wife in a print bodice and a white apron was sitting up for him, sometimes even crying for nothing at all, as if the circumstances were not depressing enough for him already. These little excursions cost money, of course. But then what was the good of keeping an ignoble little shop if you couldn't get money out of it? And the shop did very well. Mrs. Butson and the girl, the cripple, were boiling bacon. The smell was disgusting, all day long, and they sold it as fast as it was cold, and other things sold excellently too. From the time when she took the shutters down in the morning to the time when the lad Johnny put them up at night, Mrs. Butson was unceasingly at work serving, unless she were boiling, and scarce had five minutes for her meals. And often the girl had to leave the bacon and help in the shop too. Very well. All that meant profit. The woman couldn't make him believe that it didn't. Merely because the wretched details of trade failed to interest him, that was the way of people in that class of life. There was a touch of the miser about all of them. No matter how the money came in, they persisted in their narrow views as to spending it. And there was other income in addition. The lad Johnny, he was almost a man to look at, brought his mother eight shillings a week at the time of the wedding, and then ten shillings, and then twelve more. It would increase two shillings a year. But in truth, his mother was unduly extravagant in buying him clothes. Still at any rate, there was something. And there might be more if only Mrs. Butson would turn the girl out to earn a little, instead of letting her waste her time reading, and confirming her inhabits of idleness. And there was the rent from the cottage. This came every week by postal order from Bob Smallpeace. And since it was fitting that a husband should open letter sent his wife by a single man, Mr. Butson cashed the orders without troubling her in the matter at all. So that indeed he was not at all wasteful, considering both his income and the society he moved in, for he was not slow in making acquaintances among the affable gentility of the bars. In fact, he would have done it cheaper still, but for the pestilent uncertainty of spring handicaps, it would seem impossible for him to put half a sovereign on any horse without dooming it to something very near the last place. The distinguished society of the bars was profoundly astonished, indeed distressed, at his ill luck, but gave him more excellent information for future events. Information, however, that brought even worse luck with it. His wife showed no sympathy for his troubles. And of course there are vexations and disappointments, such as those of the spring handicaps, which are inseparable from fashionable life, but rather aggravated them with hole and corner sniveling, and ridiculous attempts at persuading him to a mean and inglorious way of life. She even hinted vulgar suspicion of his West End friends, and suggested that he should associate with a long fool called Hicks. Living next door, a common working man. For a long time, many months in fact, he bore it with what patience he might, retaliating only in such terms as seemed necessary to close her mouth, and to convince her of his contempt for her low habit of mind, and indeed for herself. And when at last it grew plain that personal punching was what was needed. He was so considerate as not to punch her about the face, where Marx would advertise the state of his domestic affairs, careful also, to operate not other than quietly, when they were alone on the same grounds of decency, and he knew that she would tell nobody, for at least she had self-respect enough for that. Of these things, Johnny knew nothing, and Bessie only a little. Both were glad that their stepfather was so much from home, and though Johnny's sentiment toward him was a mere sullen contempt, the lad made no parade of the fact, rather aimed, indeed, at keeping things quiet for his mother's sake. But Bessie fretted in secret. Please visit LibriVox.org To London Town by Arthur Morrison Johnny's months went uneventfully, at maid, mint, and herds. He applied himself zealously to his trade, the more because home was a dull place now, and he was as smart a lad as any in the shop of his age, or perhaps of a few months older, he could turn back an eyelid, too, and whip away an iron filing, or a speck of emery grit, with such address and certainty as might astonish a surgeon. The operation was one that every engineer's apprentice grew apt at, and exceptional dexterity, like Johnny's, was a matter of pride, a distinction zealously striven for, and accomplishment to exercise at every opportunity. Johnny felt that he had passed with honors on the memorable day when caught him. The gaffer roared to him from the other end of the shop to come and attend to his eye, afflicted with a sharp grain of brass. No, not you, quote Mr. Cottam. In answer to instant offers of help from those hard-buy, this arrow sticked like a nail in a barn door. Where's young May? Dear, where's young Jack May? Much of his practical knowledge Johnny owed to Long Hicks, that recluse, whose soul friend hither too had been his accordion, now declared for a second hobby, which was to turn Johnny into the best workman at maidment and hersts. Before his time was out, you've got all the chances, said Long Hicks, your servant, your time on small work, always best for training a first-rate man. I'm reckoned a good fitter, but I served time mostly on big work, or died a bin better. He recommended Johnny to qualify as a marine engineer when his apprenticeship was over, even if he intended to live a short life. You get your certificates, and then you're all right, he would say. And the better certificates you get, the better you'll do, a float or a shore. So as soon as your time's out, off you go and serve your year at sea as fourth or fifth of a good boat, if you can get the job. The rest'll be easy as winking to a quick young chap like you. You can draw nice and neat. I can put a thing down accurate enough, but I can't draw it neat. And what with one thing and another? I believe you could pass your second now. I ought to have done it, perhaps, but I loose mead at anything like a examination, and I never add over much schooling. Them compound multiplications add ev me over every time. I suppose you don't think nothing of a compound multiplication. Johnny admitted that he had gone a long way beyond that rule of arithmetic. Use, Hicks answered. I've got beyond it, too, teaching myself. I know how to do them well enough, but Lord, what a strain they are. Tons, hundred weights, quarters, pounds, ounces, and grains, and multiply them by 527,683. There ain't no end to a job like that, and your brain on the stretch all the time goes a tick. I don't make it about a million tons wrong in the end. It'd send me foam and mad at examination and all, with a chap waiting for the sum, whew, and long Hicks forehead when clammy at the fancy. But there, he proceeded, you're all right. You'll knock off your second examination easy as marbles, and then you'll do your chiefs and extra chiefs all in one, and then you'll do the board, oh trade, and be a guarantee chief or anything you like. You will, by George, and the length man gazed in Johnny's face. Johnny was sitting on Hicks' bed with much respect and admiration, being fully persuaded, in the enthusiasm of the moment, that the lad had already as good as achieved the triumphs he prophesied. But there was work to do, and Johnny did it. Mechanical drawing, when its novelty had worn off, was less delightful than the fancy free draftsmanship he had practiced as a schoolboy, and it had an arid twang of decimals and vulgar fractions. Still, for a time there was a charm in the gradual unfolding of the inner principles of his work, and in the disclosure, piece by piece, of the cunning complication that stood the destrant on the main simplicity of a great steam engine, till the beauty of the thing in its completeness came in sight with something of surprise in it. Though this, too, grew a common place as familiarity cheapened it, and then his work was more merely, and so it went till half the time of his apprenticeship was over, and he was eighteen, and a sinewy young fellow. Sometimes he drew at home, and sometimes in Hicks' room. Hicks had a few books, editions a little out of date, some of them, but all useful, and these were a Johnny's service. Seton's manual reads handbook, Donaldson's drawing, and rough sketching, and the like. Hicks' room was inconvenient for drawing, but nothing would tempt Hicks next door, and once or twice Mr. Butson had come home when Johnny's drawing board and implements littered the table in the shop, parlor, and made objections. My eye, exclaimed Hicks, one evening, in face of a crankshaft, elevation, and dissections, as Johnny held it up on the board. Why, that's a drawn good enough to put in a frame. I tell you what, Milad, with a bit more practice, and a bit old, the regular professional touch, you'll be good enough for a draftsman's job. Lord, you'll be a master someday, and I'll come and get a job of you. Look, Air, no more all this gropin' about alone. Round you go to the Institute, and chip into the mechanical drawn class. That's your game. They'll put you up to the regular drawn office capers. Thus urged, Johnny went to the Institute. This was an evening school, founded by a shipbuilder 20 years earlier. Here a few lads, earnest as Johnny, came to work and to learn, and a great many more, differently disposed, came to dabble. There was a gymnasium, too, and a cricket club, and plenty of boxing, and girls came to learn cookery and dressmaking, and there were sometimes superior visitors from other parts, oozing with inexpensive patronage, who spoke of Johnny and his companions as the degraded classes, who were to be raised from the depths. And so in the Institute, Johnny drew and learned the proper drawing, office manner of projection, learned also the muscle grinder and the long arm balance on the horizontal bar, and more particularly learned to pop in a straight left, to duck and counter, and to give and take a furious pounding for three minutes on end, without losing wind or good humor, so that his attention was diverted from home, and for long he saw nothing of the misery his mother suffered in secret, nothing of the meek endurance of Bessie, and for the more reason because both studied to keep him ignorant, and to show him cheerful faces. But there came an evening when his eyes were opened, in some degree, at least. Perhaps something especially perverse had happened in a spring handicap. Spring handicaps were just beginning. Perhaps it was some other of the vexations that beset a gentle manly career. But certainly Mr. Henry Butson came into Harbor Lane in no amiable mood. At the corner were a public house shed light across the street. He ran into a stout, bare-armed girl in a faded, ultramarine hat, and made to push her roughly aside. But the girl stood her ground and planted an untender elbow near the spot where his watch chain hung resplendent. Garn, she cried, bought the street, aviar, and then as he saw it to pass on, the year ye got your collar and your chain wears your muzzle. No wise, mollified by this outrage, Mr. Butson came scowling in at the shop door, and taking no notice of Nan, who stood at the counter, entered the back parlor, and slammed the door behind him. It was barely nine o'clock, and so early a return was uncommon. Bessie sat by the fireside, sewing. Mr. Butson was angry with the world, sorely needing someone to bully. And Bessie was providentially convenient. He put a cigar into his mouth and strode across the shelf in the corner, shoving the girl in her chair and her crotch out of his way in a heap. The shelf carried Bessie's tattered delight of old books and dragging a random handful of leaves from among them. While a confused bunch fell on the floor, he twisted up one leaf and thrust it into the gas flame. Bessie seized his arm. Oh, don't! She pleaded, please don't. Not out of the book. There's a lot I made on the mantelpiece. Don't! Oh, don't! Indeed, a glass face stood full of pipe lights, but he jerked his elbow into her face, knocking her backward, and swore savagely. He looted his pipe with the precious leaf, and then, because Bessie wept, he took another handful from the shelf and pitched it on the fire, at this pleading the harder. She limped forward to snatch them off. But Mr. Butson, with a timely fling of the foot, checked her sound leg and brought her headlong on the fender. Use, he roared, furious at the contumacy. You take him off. When I put him on, go on and see what I'll do to ye. Damn lazy skew-shanked effer. He took her by the shoulder as she made to rise and pushed her forward. Go and earn your livin'. Yeah, you little slut. Nan, in the shop, heard from the beginning and trembled. Her impulse to interfere, she checked as she might, for she knew well that would worsen Bessie's plight, but it was choking hard. In the midst, Johnny burst in from the street, whistling, Why, mother, he said. What's up, ill? You look. What's that? No, nothing. Johnny, don't go in. I'll go. Stay. But there was a cry and a noise of falling. Johnny flung open the parlor door and stood aghast. Butson pushed the girl forward. Go and earn your livin'. Yeah, you little slut. Get out, oh this. For a second Johnny stared. Then he reached Butson at a spring and knocked him backward with the swing of his right fist. The crutch lay behind the man's heels and tripped him so that he sat backward on the floor, mightily astonished. Johnny snatched the poker and waved it close about Butson's head. Don't you move. He cried, Wait with passion. Don't you try to get up or I'll beat your head in. Mr. Butson raised his arm to save his skull but caught a blow across the bone that sent it numb to his side. Johnny, don't. cried Nan, snatching at his arm. Oh, Henry, pray don't. Get away, mother, said Johnny, or I'll have to hit his head. You black-guard coward. You, you're a meaner hound. Even then I took you for. You'll touch my sister. A lame girl, will you? At the thought he struck, but again Nan caught at him and only Mr. Butson's shoulder suffered. Don't, Johnny, his mother entreated. Think of the neighbors. They can hear next door. So they could. And for the sake of trade the proprieties of Harbor Lane must be respected. To have a row in the house was a scandal unpardonable in Harbor Lane. In the height of his anger, Johnny remembered and instinctively dropped his voice. Very well, he said. Then call a policeman. I'll lock him up. Johnny's anger kept his reason half astray yet. Or he would have remembered that to have a member of the household taken off by a policeman would be more disgraceful than 20 rows. But Mr. Butson's consternation, though momentary, was plain, Johnny, Johnny, pleaded poor Nan. Think of the disgrace. Do let's make it up. For my sake, Johnny. Bessie was crying in a corner and Nan was choking and sobbing. Johnny wavered and the poker stopped in midair. Butson took heart of grace and moved to get up. Though he kept his eye on the poker. Better take him away, he growled to Nan. If you don't want me to smash him. Straight away the poker waved again and Mr. Butson changed his mind as to getting up. Smash me, Johnny asked. Smash me, eh. Keep a civil tongue. Or you shall have it now. See? And he thrust the point against Mr. Butson's nose, leaving a black smear. Don't think I care for you. If this was anywhere else, I'd have broken your head in 20 places. Now you sit there and listen to me, Mr. Butson. What you are, we know. You came here starving. With about half a suit or boiler clothes in the world. And my mother fed you. Out, oh charity. And worse luck. She fed you. And she put clothes on your lazy carcass. And you, Keged. And begged as a mongrel dog wouldn't. Stop where you are. Or you'll have it. This with another flourish of the poker and another smear on the nose. Mr. Butson set up again. A figure of ignominity. You talked to my mother over. And you married her. And you've lived on her ever since. Like a gentle man. Or like what you think's a gentle man. You, not worth boys, pay on a mud barge. Now see here. I'm not a boy now. Or at any rate, I'm not a little one. I'm within half a head as tall as you. I'm not so strong as you now, perhaps. And I know I'm not as big. But someday I shall be stronger. Because you're rotting yourself with idleness and booze. And then I'll give you a bigger hiding than you can carry. For what I saw just now. You look forward to that. Until then, if you put your hand within a foot of my sister again, I'll brain you with this poker. Or I'll stick something into you. I'll go for you with whatever I can lay hold of. Now you remember that. Johnny's voice was loud again. And once more Nan appealed. All right, mother, he answered. More quietly. But I'll make him understand. I shall keep a little more at home in the evenings now. My fine fellow. And I shall take all this table to draw on. Whether you like it or not. Unless my sister or my mother want to use it. I've got more right here than you. And if I go out, I'll ask about your behavior when I come in. I've kept quiet and knuckled under you for the sake of peace. And so as not to worry, mother. There's been enough, O that. If you want rouse, you shall have them. I'll make you as frightened of me as you are of the police. You know what I mean. Johnny had no idea of what he meant himself. But he had been sharp enough to observe the effect of his earlier illusion to the police. And he followed it up. You know what I mean. You'd look a deal more at home in jail than here. In a white shirt. Eating other people's victuals. Mr. Butson decided that Bluster would not do just at present. He wondered if Johnny really did know anything and how much. But surely not. Or he would go a good deal farther. Anyway, best be cautious. So Mr. Butson growled. Oh, alright. Damn lot of fuss to make over nothing. I don't want no words. And Bessie, still crying, took hold of her brother's arm and said, Don't say any more. Johnny, please. I, I perhaps I oughtn't to have done what I did. What you did, Johnny answered. Not so cheaply appeased. You do what you like, Bess. I'll see you don't interfere. He says you don't want any words. He shan't have them. He'll have something harder if he touches you. Let go of my arm a minute. Go on. You can get up now. This to Butson with the black nose. You better go and wash yourself. But none or your tricks. If you try to lay hold of me from behind or anything like that, you'll get it. With anything I can catch hold of. So now you know. And Mr. Henry Butson, growling indistinctly, went out to wash his face. Close a watch by Johnny, poker in hand. Next door, on one side, heads were thrust out at the back door to listen to the unwanted noise of quarreling at the chamblers. And on the other side, other heads were thrust out at the front door, because the law of irregularity in the building of Harbour Lane decreed a back garden to the one house and a front garden to the other. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of To London Town This is a Labour Box recording. All Labour Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit labourfox.org to London Town by Arthur Morrison. His home in Harbour Lane grew less sufferable than ever to Mr. Butson's tastes. His contempt remained for the sordid surroundings, the vulgar trade, the simple wife, for everything about the place, in fact, with the reasonable exceptions of the money he extracted from it and the food he ate there, and now there was the new affliction of an unsubmissive Stepson, a Stepson, moreover, who watched and who kept alert ears for any expedient exertion of authority where at he might raise mutiny, a most objectionable Stepson in every way, far too big and growing bigger every day, who would not forget bygones, and who had a nasty, suggestive way of handling the poker, a large poker, an unnecessarily heavy poker for a sitting room, and he seemed to suspect things too and talked unpleasantly of the police, a thing that turned one hot and cold together. So Mr. Butson went more up west and saw it longer solace in the society of the bars, as for Johnny finding Butson ceasing, so far as he could see, from active offense, he gave thought to other things, though watching still. His drawing was among the other matters that claimed his care, but chief of them all was a different thing altogether, for at the institute he found the girl he first saw on the dark morning when he set out to be an engineer, he had seen her since, once as he was on his way to his ship lunch, and twice a little later, then not at all for 18 months at least, till he began to forget, but now that he saw her again and found her a woman or grown as much a woman as he was grown a man, he wondered that he could ever have forgotten for a moment more, when he had seen her twice or thrice and knew the turn of her head and the nearing of her step, he was desperately persuaded that nothing in the world nor time nor tide could make him forget again, so that he resolved to learn to dance. But the little society that danced at the institute saw nothing of her, this radiant unforgettable. She came twice a week to the dressmaking class, wherein she acted as monitor or assistant to the teacher, being, as Johnny later discovered, by vast exertions, a dressmaker herself in her daily work. She made no friendships, walked sedately apart, and was in some sort of mystery. Being for these reasons regarded as stuck up by the girls of the class, and so made a target for many small needle thrusts of spite, Johnny had a secret notion that she remembered him, because she would pass him with so extreme an unconsciousness in her manner, so very blank and unacquaintanced in her eyes, neat and gray in her dress. She had ever a placid gravity of air, almost odd by contrast with the unceasing smirk and giggle of the rest of the girls of the institute, and her name, another happy discovery attained at great expense of artless diplomacy was Nora Sansom. And now for a while the practice of orthographic projection suffered from neglect and abstraction of mind. Long hicks, all ignorant of the cause, was mightily concerned and expostulated with a face of perplexed surprise, much poking of fingers through the hair and jerking at the locks, thus separated, but it was a great matter that tugged so secretly at Johnny's mind and daily harder at his heartstrings till he blushed in solitude to find himself so weak a creature. Nora Sansom did not come to the dancing. She knew nobody that he knew she was unapproachable as, as a Chinese Empress, how to approach Nora Sansom and at the thought he gulped and tingled and was more than a little terrified, he was not brought to a stand by contemplation of any distinct interposing labyrinth of conventional observance, such as he who can see can pick his way through in strict form, but by a difficulty palpable to instinct rather than figured in mind. An intangible barrier that vexed Johnny to madness so that he hammered the institute punching ball with blind fury. And again, because the world was now grown so many heavens wider, he would sit and dream of things beyond its farthest margin yet and between plan and section, crankshaft and piston. He would wake to find himself designing monograms of the letters NS and JM, altogether becoming a sad young fool, such as none of us ever was in the like circumstances. But an angel, two angels to be exact, both of them rather stout, came one night to Johnny's aid. They came all unwitting in a cab, being man and wife, and their simple design was to see for themselves the upraising of the hopeless resident. They had been told, though they scarce believed, that at the institute, far east, much farther east than White Chapel, and therefore, without doubt, deeper sunk in dirt and iniquity, the young men and women danced together under regular ballroom conventions, neither balling choruses nor pounding one another with quart pots. It was even said that partners were introduced in proper form before dancing. A thing so ludicrous in its incongruity is to give no choice but laughter. So the two doubters from the West End, it was only Bayswater, really, took a cab to see these things for themselves. But having taken no pains to inform themselves of the order of things at the institute, they arrived on an evening when there was no dancing. This was very annoying, and they said so with a serbity. They were, indeed, so very indignant at the disconformity of the arrangements to their caprice, and so extremely and so obviously important. And the Lady waggled her guilt-handled Lord Nun with such offended majesty that it was discussed among those in direction whether or not something might be done to appease them. And in the end, after a few hasty inquiries, the classes were broken up for the evening, and an offhand dance was declared to the music extracted from the institute piano and the fiddle of a blushing young amateur. The girls came in gay and chattering from the dressmaking class, and the lads rushed to exchange gymnasium flannels for the clothes they had come in, all unconscious that they were to be made a show of. They who kept their dancing shoes on the premises triumphed in their foresight, and Johnny was among them. As for him, he had seen Nora Sansom coming in with the others, alone and a little shy, and he resolved to seize occasion with both hands, and he did so very gallantly. With less trepidation than at a calmer moment he would have judged possible. First a quadril was called, and Johnny's courage rose. For as yet he had no great confidence in his dancing in general, but he did know the figures of a quadril. Having learned them by rote, as most boys learn Euclid, he laid hands on the mild young shopman who had unexpectedly found himself appointed master of ceremonies, and in two minutes he was standing in a set with Nora Sansom at his side. The sheer pride of it disorganized his memory, so that it was lucky they were a side couple, or they would have been a route in the first figure. Johnny's partner knew very little or nothing of dancing, but she was quick to learn, and Johnny, a rank beginner himself, had a proud advantage in his knowledge of the figures, unstable as it was, so that the thing went very joyfully, and the girl's eyes grew brighter and her face gayer each moment to the end. For her life had been starved of merriment, and here was merriment in plenty of the sort a girl loves. Four or five dances were all there were, for the play shut at ten. To dance them all with Nora Sansom were impossible and scandalous, for everybody was very particular at the institute. But Johnny went as far as to and a sit-out, and extracted a half promise that she would come and dance some other time. More he walked two streets of the way home with her, and the way was paved with clouds of glory. Why he might go no farther he could not guess, but there he was dismissed quite unmistakably, though pleasantly enough. Fair, very fair were the poor little streets in the moonlight as Johnny walked home, and very sweet the air. It was a good world, a kind world, a world as one may see it, who has emptied a bottle of good champagne. Johnny would have shaken hands with anybody on the way, probably even with Butson if he had met him, but nobody made the offer. And even the baked chestnut man, he was still there by the high wall, growled merely when Johnny gave him good night. And so Johnny went to dreams of gentle gray eyes in a dimpled face with brown hair about it. For few of the song book beauties were Nora Sansoms. Her hair was neither golden nor black, but simple brown, like the hair of most other people, and her eyes were mere gray. Yet Johnny dreamed. As for the two angels from Bayswater, who caused all these things to come to pass, they looked at the dancing from the gallery and said that it was really very credible, considering, quite surprising indeed, for people of that class, and they hoped it didn't lead to immorality. And they went home virtuously conscious of having done their duty toward the submerged. But the lady left her guilt handled large none in the cab, whereof the gentle man hadn't thought to take the number. And the lady said a great many times before they went to bed and after that it was just like a man. End of chapter 24. Chapter 25 The weeks went and the time neared when dancing at the institute would end for the season. Would end with a bang and a dazzle in a long night when dancing would be kept up shamelessly till something nearer one o'clock than twelve. Johnny counted. First the weeks, then the days, and last the hours. Not because of the dancing, although that was amusing, but because he was to take Norr Samson with his double ticket. For himself she may have counted days and hours, or may not. But true it was that she sat up late on several nights with nuns veiling and ribbons making a dress for the occasion, the first fine frock that had been hers, and every night she hid it carefully. Each dressmaking class night of late, it had been Johnny's privilege to guard her home going to the end of that second street, never farther. Twice she had come to dancing, and by that small practice was already Johnny's superior at the exercise. For a big-shouldered novice of eleven stone, too, is a slower pupil than any girl of eighteen in the world. And they were very welcome one to the other, at acquaintance better day by day. Once Johnny ventured a question about the adventure of the morning, now more than three years ago. But learned little from Miss Sansom's answer, the lady who was ill was her relations, she said, and she found her, and then she talked of something else. And so till the evening before the long night, it was the rule of the institute to honor the long night with gloves and white ties by way of compromise with evening dress, and Johnny bought his gloves with discretion and selected his tie with care. Then he went to the institute, took a turn or two at the bars, climbed up the rope, and gave another member a lesson with the gloves. Thus refreshed, he dressed himself in his walking clothes, making sure that the tie and gloves were safe in his pocket and set out for home. There was no dress making class that night, so that he need not wait, but outside and plainly waiting for him was Nora Sansom herself. Johnny thought she had been crying, as in fact she had. Oh, Mr. May, she said, I'm very sorry, but I thought you might be here, and I'm afraid I shan't be able to come tomorrow. Not come, but why? I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, Mr. May, but I can't tell you really. There was a quiver of the lip, and her voice was a little uneven. As though there were danger of more tears, but Johnny was not disappointed merely, he was also angry, and it was hard to conceal the fact. So he said nothing, but turned and walked a few steps by her side. I hope you won't mind. She pursued uneasy at his silence. I'm very much disappointed, very much indeed, and it was plain that she was. But there'll be a good many there, and you'll have plenty of partners. This last she found a hard thing to say. I don't care how many'll be there, Johnny replied. I shan't go. No. It was said curtly, almost angrily, but Nora Sansom heard it with an odd little tremor of pleasure. Though she merely said, but why not? There's no reason why you should be disappointed too. Anyhow I'm not going, he said, and after a pause added, perhaps you might have gone if I hadn't asked you. Oh, I shouldn't. She answered with tears and eyes and voice. You know I shouldn't. I never go anywhere. Johnny instantly felt himself a brute. No, he said. I know you don't. I didn't mean anything unkind, but I won't go. Do you really mean it? Of course. I'm not going without you. He might have said something more, but a little group of people came straggling past, and the girl with her eyes on this group said the first thing that came to her tongue. Where will you go then? Oh, anywhere. I don't know. Walk about perhaps. She looked shyly up in his face, and down again. I might go for a walk, she said. Johnny's heart gave a great beat. Alone, he asked. I don't know, perhaps. But she would be questioned into nothing definite. If she took a walk, she might go in such and such a direction, passing this or that place at seven o'clock or half past. That was all. And now she must hurry away, for she had already been too long. What mattered the dance to Johnny now? A fig for the dance. Let them dance, that liked, and let them dance the floor through if it pleased them. But how was it that Nora Sansom could take a walk tomorrow evening, yet could not come to the institute? That was difficult to understand. Still, hang the dance. For Nora it would be harder to speak, albeit indeed the destruction of the look for evening's gladness. In her first fine frock had been a bitter thing. But that day her hiding place had been discovered, and now the dress that had cost such thoughtful design and such hopeful labor was lying, rolled, and ticketed on a pawnbroker's shelf. End of Chapter 25, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 26 of Two London Town This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon To London Town by Arthur Morrison Chapter 26 That the must-come-to-Blackwell Pier was assured, for there were no streets, no crowds, no rumbling wagons, there were the wide sky and the unresting river, the breeze, the ships, and the endless train of brown-sailed barges. No unseemly garden seats dishonored the key then, and strolling lovers sat on the bullards, or chains, or sat not at all. Here came Johnny and Nora Sansom. When the shrinking arc of daylight was far and yellow in the west, and the Kentish hills away to the left drew dusk and mysterious. The tide ran high and tugs were busy, a nest of them with steam up, lay under the wharf wall to the right of the pier barge, waiting for work. Some were already lighted, and on the rest men were trimming the lamps, or running them up. While a cheerful glow came from each tiny cabin and engine room, rascal boys flitted about the keys and gangways, the boys that were always near boats and water ever failing to get drowned, and ever dodging the pestered men who tried to prevent it. The first star of the evening steadied and brightened, and soon was lost amid other stars. Below the river set its constellations as silently one after another, trampling and blinking, and meteor tugs shot across its firmament in white and green and red. Along shore the old artichoke tavern gables and piles darkened and melted away, and then lit into a little Orion, a bright cluster in the bespangled riverside. Ever some new sail came like a ghost, up reach out of the gloom, rounded the point, and faded away, and by times some distant voice was heard in measured cry over water. They said little for what need to talk. They loitered a while near the locks and saw the turning trinity light with its long, solemn wink, heard a great steamer hoot, far down, Woolwich reach. Now the yellow in the sky was far and dull indeed, and a myriad of stars trembled over the brimming water. A tug puffed and sobbed, and swung out from the group under the wharf, beating a glistening tale of spray and steaming off at the head of a train of lighters. Out from the dark of Woolwich reach came a sailing ship under bare spars drawn by another tug. In the middle of the river the ship dropped anchor, and the tug fell back to wait, keeping its place under gentle steam. They walked on the wharf by the iron cranes, under the windows of the abandoned Brunswick Hotel. Here they were quite alone, and here they sat together on a broad and flat-topped old ballard. Presently said Johnny, Are you sorry for the dance now, Nora? and lost his breath at the name. Nora, he called her Nora. Was she afraid or was she glad? What was this before her? But with her eyes she saw only a twinkling river with the lights and the stars. Presently she answered, I was very sorry, she said slowly, of course. But now Nora, still she saw but the river and the lights. But she was glad, timid too, but very glad. Johnny's hand stole to her side, took hers and kept it. No, she said, not sorry now. Say, Johnny, What was before her mattered nothing? He sat by her, held her hand. Not sorry now, Johnny? Why came tears so readily to her eyes? Truly they had long worn their path, but this was joy. He bent his head and kissed her. The wise old trinity light winked very slowly and winked again. So they sat and talked, sometimes whispered. Vows, promises, nonsense all. What mattered the words to so wonderful a tune? And the eternal stars, a million ages away, were nearer, all nearer, than the world of common life about them. What was for her she knew now and saw? She also a new heaven and a new earth. Over the water from the ship came swinging and slow a stave of the chanty. I'm a flying fish sailor straight home from Hong Kong. I, I blow the man down. Blow the man down, bully. Blow the man down. Oh, give us some time to blow the man down. You're a dirty black baller just in from New York. I, I blow the man down. Blow the man down, bully. Blow the man down. Oh, give us some time to blow the man down. Time went, but time was not for them. Where the tug engineer, thrusting up his head for a little fresh air, saw but apprentice lad and his sweetheart on the bull art, there sat man and woman enthroned and exultant in face of the worlds. The ship swung round on the tide, bringing her light square and her stem for the opening lock. The chanty went wailing to its end. Blow the man down, bully. Blow the man down. To my eye, I blow the man down. Sing a poor harbor to gay London town. Oh, give us some time to blow the man down. The tug headed for the dock and the ship went in her wake with slow state, a gallon shadow amid the blue. Soon the tide stood and stood and then began its ebb. For a space there was a deeper stillness and the dimwars hung in mid-mist and water and sky were one. Then the air stirred and chilled, stars grew sharper, and the Thames turned its traffic seward. End of chapter 26, recording by John Brandon. Chapter number 27 of Two London Town. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Matthew Tink. To London Town by Arthur Morrison. Chapter 27. Happiness never stayed long with Nora Sansom. Little indeed had been her portion, and it was a poor thought at best. But this new joy was so great that it must needs be short of life. And in truth she saw good reason. From the moment of parting with Johnny, doubts had troubled her, and doubts grew to distress, even to misery. She saw no end, no end but sorrow. She had been carried away, she had forgotten, and in measure, as her sober senses awoke, she saw that all this gladness could but end in heartbreak and bereavement. Better than end all quickly and have done with the pang. But herein she misjudged her strength. Doubts and complexities assailed Johnny also, though for a time they grew to nothing sharper. He would have gone home straight away, proud and joyful if a little sheepish, to tell his mother the tale of that evening. But Nora had implored him to say nothing yet. She wanted time to think things over, she said. And she left him at the familiar corner, two streets beyond the institute, begging him to come no farther, for this time at any rate. Next evening was the evening of the dressmaking class. He saw her for a few minutes on her way through those two familiar streets, and he thought she looked unwell. A few nights later, he saw her again. Plainly, she had been crying. When they came to a deserted street of shut-up walls, he asked her why. Only, only I've been thinking, she said. What about? About you, Johnny. About you, and me. We, I think. We're very young, aren't we? That had not struck him as a difficulty. Well, he said. I don't know about that. I suppose we are, like others. But I shall be out on my time in two years and a half, or not much more, and then. Yes, then, she said, catching at the word. Perhaps then it will be different, and I mean, we shall be older and know better, Johnny. And now we can often see one another and talk like friends, and she looked up to read his eyes, trembling. Something cold took Johnny by the throat, and checked his voice. But what? You don't mean that? Yes, she said. Though it was bitter hard. It'll be best, I'm sure. Johnny. Johnny gulped, and his voice hardened. Oh, he said. If you want to throw me over, you might say so in straight English. Oh, don't talk like that, Johnny, she pleaded, and laid her hand on his arm. It's unkind. You know it's unkind. No, it's only plain and honest. I don't understand this half and half business, seeing each other like friends, and all that. One more effort she made to hold her position, but her strength was near gone. It'll be better, Johnny. Truly it will. You. You might meet someone you'd like better, and that's my lookout. Time to talk about that when it comes. The other night, you let me kiss you, and you kissed me back. Told me you loved me. Now you don't? Maybe you've met someone you like better. She held out no more. Her head fell on his shoulder, and she broke into an agony of tears. Oh, Johnny. Johnny, that is cruel. You don't know how cruel it is. I shall never like anybody better than you. Never half so much. Don't be unkind. I've not one friend in the world but you, and I do love you more than anything. With that, Johnny was ready to kick himself for a ruffian. He looked about, but nobody else was in the shadowy street. He kissed Nora. He called himself hard names, and he quieted her, though she still sobbed. And there was no more talk of mere friendship. She had tried her compromise and had broken down. But presently, Johnny ventured to ask if she foresaw any difficulty with her parents. Father's dead, she said simply. He's been dead for years. This was the first word of her family matters that Johnny had heard. Should he come to see her mother? The question struck her like a blow. No, no, Johnny, she said. Not yet. No, you mustn't. I can't tell you why. I really can't, at any rate, not now. Then, after a pause, oh Johnny, I'm in such trouble, such trouble, Johnny. And she wept again. But tell her trouble, she would not, at any rate, not then. And in the end, she left Johnny much mystified, and near as miserable as herself. Because of his blind helplessness in this unrevealed affliction. Inexpert in mysteries. He was all in comprehension. What was this trouble that he must not be told of? He did not even know when Nora lived. Why shouldn't she tell him? Why did she never let him see her as far as home? This much he knew that she had a mother, but had lost her father by death. And this he had but just learned from her under stress of tears. He was not to see her mother, at least not yet. And Nora was in sore trouble, but refused to say what the trouble was. That night, he moped and brooded. And at Maidment and Hurst's next morning, it was Saturday, Mr. Cottom, the gaffer, swore and made remarks about the expedience of being thoroughly awake before dinnertime. More. At one o'clock, Johnny passed the pay box without taking his money and turned back for it when reminded, amid the chaff of his shopmates, many offers of partnership and some suggestions to scramble the slighted cash. Not far from the yard gate, he saw a small crowd of people about a public house. And as he neared, he perceived mother born drunk in the midst of it. The publican had refused to serve her. Indeed, had turned her out. And now she swayed about his door and proclaimed him at large. Shulting a lady, she screamed hoarsely. Can't go in places without being sheltered. Sheltered by lowly common public gouge. I won't have it. Don't you stand a ducky, sang out a boy. You give him what for. For a moment, she seemed inclined to turn her wrath on her natural enemy, the boy. But I fell on a black bottle with a broken neck, lying in the gutter. Give him what for, she hiccuped, stooping for the bottle. Yesh, I'll give him what for. And with that, flung the bottle at the largest window in sight. There was a crash, a black hole in the midst of the plate glass and a vast spider of cracks to its farthest corners. Mother born drunk stood and stared, perhaps a little sobered. Then a barman ran out, tucking in his apron and took her by the arm. There were yells and screams and struggles and cheers from black guard boys. And mother born drunk was hauled off, screaming and sliding and stumbling between a policeman and the publican. Johnny told his mother when he reached home that her older acquaintance Emma Pacey was like to endure a spell of jail. But what occupied his mind was Nora's trouble. And if he got mother born drunk for three or four days, then came the next evening of the dress making class at the institute. And he went, never doubting to meet Nora as she came away. At the door the housekeeper who was also haul porter beckoned and gave him a letter, left earlier in the day. It was addressed to him by name in a weak and straggling female hand. And for a moment he stared at it, not a little surprised. When he tore open the envelope he found a blotchy tear-stained rag of a letter and read this. My dearest Johnny, it is all over now and I do hope you will forgive me for not telling you before. This is to say goodbye and God bless you and pray forget all about me. It was wrong of me to let it go so far but I did love you so Johnny and I could not help it and then I didn't know what to do. I can never come to the classes again with all this disgrace and everything printed in the newspapers and I must get work somewhere where they don't know me. I would rather die but I must look after her as well as I can Johnny because she is my mother. Burn this at once and forget all about me and someday you will meet some nice girl belonging to a respectable family and nothing to be ashamed of. Don't try to find me that will only make us both miserable. Goodbye and please forgive me. Yours affectionately, Nora Sansom. What was this? What did it all mean? He stood in the gymnasium dressing room to read it and when he looked up the gaslight danced and the locker spun about him. The one clear thing was that Nora said goodbye and was gone. Presently his faculties assorted themselves and he read the letter again and then once more it was all over and she asked him to forgive her for not telling him before. Telling him what? She told him nothing now. She would never come to the institute again and he didn't know her address and he mustn't try to find her. But then there was everything printed in the newspapers. Of course he must look at the newspapers. Why so long realizing that? He went to the reading room and applied himself to the pile of papers and magazines that littered the table. One paper after another he searched and searched again but saw nothing that he could connect with Nora by any stretch of imagination till he found a stray sheet of the day before with rings of coffee stain on it. The police intelligence lay uppermost and in the midst of the column the name Emma Sansom in italic letters caught his eye. She was 41 and was charged with drunkenness and willful damage. Her sentence more and everything stood displayed as by a flash of lightning for he had witnessed the offense himself on Saturday. Emma Sansom was the married name of Emma Pacey whom the boys called mother born drunk and the woman was Nora's mother. Now it was plain all from the very beginning when the child wandered in the night seeking her strayed and drunken mother and inquired for her with the shamed excuse that she was ill. This was why he was not decor to see Nora's mother and it was for this that Nora hindered him from seeing her home. There was the shameful report all at length. The publican's tale was simple and plain enough. He had declined to serve the prisoner because she was drunk and as she refused to leave he had her turned out though he said she made no particular resistance. Shortly afterward he heard a crash and found a broken bottle and a great deal of broken glass in the bar. He had gone outside and saw the prisoner being held by his barman. His plate glass window was smashed and it was worth 10 pounds. There was little more evidence. The police told his worship that the prisoner had been fined small sums for drunkenness before but she was usually inoffensive except for collecting crowds of boys. This was the first charge against her involving damage. She was the widow of a ship's officer lost at sea and she had a small annuity but was chiefly supported of late by her daughter address maker a very respectable young woman. The daughter was present the reporter called her a pre-possessing young female in great distress and she wished to be allowed to pay the damage in small installments but in the end her mother was sent to prison for a month in default of payment of fine and damage for indeed the daughter was a minor and her undertaking was worthless. One thing Johnny looked for eagerly but did not find the prisoner's address where the consideration for the daughter had prompted the reporter to that suppression or whether it was due to accident Johnny could not guess in other reports in the same column some addresses were given and some not but straight away Johnny went to beg the housekeeper that he might rummage the store of old papers for those of the day before for the dessert Nora now in her trouble was a thing wholly inconceivable and so far from burning the letter he put it envelope and all in his safest pocket and felt there more than once to be assured of its safety but the address was in none of the papers in fact the report was in no more than three and in one of those it was but five lines long what should he do he could not even write her one line of comfort and he had been going on with his work placidly all Monday while Nora had been standing up in a police court weeping and imploring mercy for her wretched mother if he had known he could scarce have done anything to aid her but helplessness was no consolation rather the cruelest of aggravations well there stood the matter and raving would not help it nor would beating the table nor even the head with the fist he must somehow devise a way to reach Nora end of chapter 27