CHAPTER I

DESPAIR

The sense that every struggle brings defeat, Because Fate holds no prize to crown success: That all the oracles are dumb, or cheat, Because they have no secret to express:-- That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain Because there is no light behind the curtain, That all is vanity and nothingness! _The City of Dreadful Night._

The curtain rises on an empty stage.

Managers assure those of us who try to write plays nowadays that we must lay our scenes in well-to-do circles if we wish to attract an audience.

The scene before us now has few recommendations, either as a romantic or a tragic background. It is not quite wretched enough to suggest dark deeds; it is not nearly old enough to convey a hint of mystery: it is merely the back parlor of a London lodging-house of the meaner kind.

On a certain murky day in March it lay bare to the eye of anyone who was desirous of exploring.

The street of which it formed a narrow section was small and dreary. The front parlor window of this particular house was discreetly veiled with curtains which had once been white. Between them stood an artificial aspidistra in a ginger-colored pot, envied by some of the other dwellers in the immediate neighborhood.

This front parlor, at the date in question, was unlet. It had folding-doors, affording the sole entrance to a very small room behind, generally let as a bedroom, with the front room as sitting-room. For the past month this back parlor had been tenanted by one who was far too poor to think of needing more than one room in which to starve. Moreover, he was there on the understanding that he would vacate should a better let offer itself.

Had the curtain risen on that back room, the eye would have taken but one glance to feel assured of destitution on the part of the absent occupier. There was a bed, a washstand, a table, a chair. There was a cupboard, the door hanging open on one hinge, revealing the fact that an empty mug formed its sole contents. There was no carpet on the floor, no cloth on the rickety table--the only trace of occupancy was in a penny bottle of ink and a few sheets of paper which lay upon the table.

The smoke-dimmed window looked sheer down upon a mazy labyrinth of railway lines. Day by day trains rumbled by, and sent up each its contribution of soot and grime to choke the atmosphere and darken the unlovely prospect.

This window--it was more correctly a glass door--was open; and without was a mean iron railing, with a flight of corroded steps, which, at the time the house was built, probably led to the garden. The encroaching line had shorn away all the garden, leaving the iron steps overhanging the abyss with a futility that moved to pity the soul of the present occupier when he had a thought to spare from the anguish of his own condition.

So much for the stage. The actor, when at last he made his abrupt appearance, bursting in, as an actor should, dramatically, through the center doors--seemed to have been cast by Nature for a leading part.

He was still young, and somewhat tall; and, though his cheeks were sunken, his eyes rimmed with red, his hair rough, his beard some days old, and his clothes soiled and ragged, he yet kept that air of the dominant race, that carriage of the head and movement of the shoulders that tells of the public school if not the university.

But it was not merely this air of incongruity with environment which made him noticeable. It was a certain atmosphere that clothed him--a peculiar expression which cut him off from any other young man of his age and class--a quality of isolation which hung about him like some poisonous exhalation.

The eyes of the young look forward. Not always with hope or eagerness; sometimes with apprehension, or terror, or anxiety. But, in some wise, they do look forward. Life, whether it be good or bad, is still to come.

This man's eyes had ceased to travel on. He had done with life. He came into the room, as the last flicker of a flame may leap up in burnt paper. Though he still existed, hope and fear were alike dead in him. All was over: he had given up the contest with Fate.

In no sense was he any longer a part of his surroundings. He had severed himself, by an act of will, from the struggle and the fret. His pilgrimage--evil and brief--was ended.

He fastened the folding-doors behind him with deliberation, and, advancing to the table, laid down one or two packages upon it.

The largest of these must have been instantly recognized by any expert as rejected manuscript. Some irate publisher, at the end, probably, of a morning's fruitless search for something worth publishing, had scrawled in blue pencil upon the outside of the parcel: "Why the deuce don't you get your stuff typewritten?" In addition to this derisive question, the title of the bulky package was clearly legible, printed in large ink letters: "THE TRUMPET CALL TO REVOLUTION."

Seating himself by the table, the owner of the despised treasure drew from his pocket a very small bottle, labeled "Laudanum." He rose, searched the mattress of his bed, and extracted from various holes three other small bottles of the same size. Then he produced a paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and spread it upon the table. A letter, upon good, thick writing-paper, stamped with an address--Normansgrave, Cleveshire.

The writing upon the bluish-tinted sheet was fine and clear:

"DEAR FELIX,--Bearing in mind the circumstances which led to your disgrace, you cannot, I think, upon your first emergence from prison, reasonably expect me to intrust you with money. I have placed a certain sum in the hands of the police-court missionary, with instructions to him to pay you so much a week from it, so as to give you time to seek honest employment. I have made it clear to him that, should you hold any kind of communication with the murderous gang of anarchists who have brought you to this pass, you are to forfeit all further right to your allowance.

"Once again let me entreat you to make a fresh start, and endeavor to atone, by a future of steady work, for the aberrations of your early manhood. Should you show any signs of a real effort to improve, I shall not refuse to receive you here once more as my father's son. But to do so now, before you have proved yourself, would be an injustice both to myself and you.--I remain, your brother, DENZIL VANSTON."

After carefully reading through this letter Felix Vanston took up a sheet of paper from among two or three lying near, and wrote as follows:

"DEAR PHARISEE,--You have sent the publican to his just doom. He goes to it with the publican's old prayer upon his lips. 'God be merciful'--for certainly man is not. You may continue to fast twice in the week and give tithes of all you possess to other objects than your disreputable brother--FELIX."

This letter he folded, addressed, and arranged with the other in the center of the table, marked thus:

"TO BE READ BY THE CORONER AT THE INQUEST ON MY BODY. (N.B.--No room for suspicion of insanity)."

This done, he took his bundle of MS. in his arms and went to the empty grate. Tearing off a few leaves, he pushed them through the bars, produced a box still containing two or three matches, and set them alight. He sat by on the grimy floor tearing off more and feeding the flames with it until the whole book was consumed.

The world, he found, was an oyster that he could not open. He had declined to try the usual kind of knife--that provided by custom for him, in the shape of an office stool. He had imbibed socialistic theories somehow in early boyhood, and his half-brother, Denzil Vanston, had from that moment assured him that he was lost.

The late Squire Vanston, of Normansgrave, had made a foolish second marriage. He had been caught by a designing young woman whom he met at a Brighton hotel. While Felix was still a child, his father died, leaving the widow a life interest in the property. Poor Denzil had cause to feel displeasure. The second Mrs. Vanston filled the house with a crew of very second-rate journalists, music-hall artistes, and sporting men. Her son, Felix, was most imprudently indulged; her stepson, Denzil, had no home as long as she lived. His own mother had been the exact reverse of his father's second wife--a good, rather dull woman, affectionate and sincere, but hard and prim. Denzil, brought up on these lines, was unspeakably shocked by the proceedings which at Normansgrave followed his father's death.

Mrs. Vanston was killed in a carriage accident, after a reckless ten years of very frivolous widowhood. This is putting the case with an extreme mildness, which the inhabitants of the neighborhood might class as euphemism. She died intestate, and was found to have spent the whole of the money which the Squire had left to her, with a view to its coming to Felix after her death. His will bequeathed all the property and all the money, with the exception of this sum, to his elder son. Felix was unprovided for.

At this time he was eighteen years old, and studying at a Continental university. Oxford and Cambridge were not Bohemian enough for him. His brother was willing to make him an allowance, on condition of his qualifying for some profession; and although the only profession for which he would show interest was journalism, and though Denzil profoundly, and perhaps excusably, mistrusted journalism after his experience of his stepmother's set, he did help him, and did make him an allowance, until debts and irregular habits and bad associates convinced him that Felix would do no good until he had actually to work for his living.

Actuated by the best intentions, the elder brother said he would stop supplies until Felix really buckled down to work. The next thing was that the police raided a Dynamite Club in Soho, and Felix was arrested, brought to trial, and convicted. He had served the greater part of his two years' sentence. And now the end had come. At the age of twenty-three Felix Vanston decided that life was not worth living.

It is possible that journalism was not his destined medium. It is certain that nobody would pay him for what he wrote. With hunger comes depression. Moreover, Felix, from the moment when he donned his prison garb, had lost his self-respect. There was nothing to hold him back from the thing he contemplated. He had nothing to lose.

His book was burnt. The incoherent ravings of a boy caught by catchwords, not understanding what he thought or wished or hoped, knowing little, comprehending less--it was all ashes now. The wild heart of him had gone out into its formless sentiments. Nonsense as it was, he had burned with the necessity of expressing it. Now it was gone; and the world finally went out with it. The last flicker, oddly enough, took him back to a boyish episode, when the gardeners had a big bonfire at Normansgrave in the autumn long ago. He saw, as he crouched by the rusty grate, a dream-picture of October woods, rising in billows of color upon the swelling uplands that cradled the old red-brick house. He saw the drift of blue smoke between his eyes and the distance, smelt the aromatic fragrance of burning wood and smoldering leaf. He could feel again the warmth of his big brother's hand as he stood, in his fur and velvet and plumed cap, shouting to Denzil to make it blaze. He saw his mother coming along the garden walk, somewhat hurried. She had a smile for the men who fed the fire, and for the two boys--the little and big--watching. Then she ordered them away. She said Felix must not be out in the cold air. Denzil, kindly enough, tried to draw away the small boy, who, spoilt and uncontrolled, declined to go--stamped, shrieked, and fought. In the midst of his fighting the fire blazed up higher--just near where they were standing. He saw his mother, with a furtive, sweeping look round at the men, whose backs were turned as they lifted more fuel on the flames with a fork--he saw her make a swift movement and fling into the glowing red part of the fire some letters which she had clasped in her hand.

The fire was very fierce; they were ashes in a moment; and, stroking her boy's smooth cheek, she said, laughingly: "Let him stay a while, Denzil, if he cares so much."

Then the child was conscious of a silence--an interchange of glance between his mother and her step-son. Denzil knew that Mrs. Vanston had come down to the bonfire to burn something--that she had desired to send him and Felix away that they might not see her do so; that the sudden opening of a glowing hot hole in the fire quite near had made her risk detection and toss in what she came to destroy. Felix had not understood. He thought Denzil looked severely at "Ma" because she spoilt him, Felix, and let him have his way when he roared. But as his paper fire flared and died down and blackened, the memory of the little scene floated to him through the mist of years; he saw the sweet place, the faint sunlight, the privet hedges and green archways of the vegetable garden; and for one moment there swept over him a desire to live--a desire to see the Cleveshire hills again.

It expired with the last red glow in the flapping ash of paper. Life was over. Nobody there at Normansgrave wanted him. Nay, more, they would be devoutly thankful to know that he was dead.

He rose from his crouched attitude and straightened himself as well as he could for the gnawing pains of hunger. Then he took the mug from the cupboard and carried it to the table. He paused, looking round. The bed was unmade, its unwholesome grayish linen crumpled and tossed. Since he was to lie there to sleep his last sleep, it might as well be smooth. He made it hurriedly, for the wolf that gnawed him was growing clamorous, and came back to the table, where stood the bottles of oblivion. Pouring the brown syrup into the mug, he raised it to his lips.

"A health to Denzil Vanston, of Normansgrave!" he cried aloud; and then, just as the rim of the mug touched his mouth, a shadow fell before his eyes, some dark thing passed swiftly across the window, there was a heavy thud, and a muffled shriek.

The suicide started as if he had been shot. He trembled in every limb. What, in Heaven's name, could it be? Something, someone, was hanging doubled over the sooty iron railing outside his open window.

He put down the cup. He staggered forward. A human body was hanging across the rail. It writhed; in one instant more it would have fallen, and it must fall upon the railway lines below.

That human instinct which comes into action before thought sent him flying to the rescue. He seized the limp, twisting body, and drew it with difficulty, for he was very weak, back over the rail till the feet rested upon the small iron balcony beside him.

It was a girl--a girl about sixteen, with a torrent of bright brown hair. She was very thin; her face seemed to him of a bluish tinge. The moment he touched her she began to cry out. When she was on her feet she began to struggle.

"Let me go! Let me go! Don't touch me, I must kill myself! How dare you hold me! Let me go, I say!"

Stupefaction held Felix mute for a minute or two. To be consistent, he should have helped her over the verge. The bare thought of so doing made his head swim. With no words, but still obeying imperious instinct, he pulled her, struggling feebly against him, into his desolate apartment. He dragged her to the bed, so recently prepared for the accommodation of another guest, and having pushed her upon it, ran to the window and fastened it, with an overmastering dread lest she should make a dash for her freedom, and he not have the strength to stop her.

Seated on the edge of the bed, she doubled herself together and moaned. Her rescuer, sinking dizzily upon the one chair, stared in dumb contemplation. The girl was evidently in terrible pain. Probably she had broken all her ribs. Ought he to go and fetch a hospital ambulance? Dare he leave her alone within reach of that window? Whence had she fallen, and why did she want to kill herself? In spite of hunger, he almost thought he must postpone his own exit until he knew what prompted this child to attempt hers.

After two or three bewildered minutes he went up to her, sat down beside her, and said weakly, "There, there! Tell me where you have hurt yourself."

She uncovered her face and shot a look at him. They had a simultaneous impulse of surprise. Looking at each other, they knew, intuitively, each that the other was not the kind of person you would expect to find in Hawkins Row, Deptford.

For the first time since the gates of the jail closed behind him, Felix forgot to be lonely. He had a sudden, wholly ridiculous sense of being wanted. The moment he saw the face of the girl beside him he knew that she must be saved.

Cautiously he lowered her to the pillow, lifted her legs upon the bed, laid her flat, and bent over her.

"Where do you feel the pain?" he urgently asked.

"Everywhere--all over me. Oh, what shall I do? Why couldn't you let me die?"

"I don't know," said Felix, staring stupidly.

She sobbed aloud, drawing each breath with a groan. He sat by, his mind hardly working, vaguely wondering what would happen next. Presently he was conscious that her moaning had ceased, and he looked up with a sudden leap of his heart in his exhausted frame lest she should be dead. But her eyes were wide open, and roaming round the room.

"Do you live here?" she asked, timidly.

He laughed miserably. "I have contrived to support existence here for ten days," he said. "Now I can't stick it any longer. I was just going to take poison, that very moment that you--came."

She turned her head right round on the dirty pillow to look at him with horror. "You were going to kill yourself? How wicked!" she said, with tremendous emphasis.

He peered at her from under his heavy lashes with a real curiosity. "You say wicked? But you were going to do the same thing yourself?"

"Yes, but that was different. If I had been a man I wouldn't. It is cowardly for a man to bolt. It is the only thing a girl can do--sometimes."

He took a long look at her. There were so many things to say--such crushing replies to make to her artless philosophy. But he was too weak and shaken to make them.

"Come," he said, "shall I take you to a hospital, or will you wait here while I go and see if I can find the parish doctor?"

She waved her small frail hand to the mug on the table. "I'll share that stuff with you."

Felix sat reflecting. He could not give her poison. Why could he not? Which was wrong--his former despair, or his new-found sentiment? He could not determine, but he was bracing himself up to resist her. "There's not enough to kill us both," he said, weakly, "and I am not going to let you throw yourself on those lines down there."

She made no reply to this, but lay with her eyes closed. He ventured a question, "How far did you fall?"

"Only from the room just above this. He locked me in."

"Who did?"

"The man who calls himself my uncle." She pushed up her sleeve, showing a livid bruise upon her arm. "Look," she said, "there are worse on my back and shoulders."

Felix clenched his hands, quite instinctively.

"If he comes back," she sobbed, "he'll--he said he'd do worse than kill me. And you're not strong enough to fight him, are you?"

"Let's run away," said Felix, without an instant's reflection.

She sat up, propping herself upon her arms, while she stared at him. "Have you got any money?"

"Not a halfpenny." He sank back in despair. This hunger of his must be appeased, or he must die.

"I've got a shilling and three-halfpence," said the girl. "It would get us something to eat. But I won't go to those night refuges; I had much rather jump down on the railway lines. And I won't go to a reformatory, or any institution place; so it is no use to try and persuade me...." She reflected a while. "It would be no good to try and get more poison; they wouldn't sell any to me or to you."

Felix had in his pocket the doctor's prescription which had enabled him to purchase what he already had. But he did not say so. She should not know. His eyes had lit up at the bare mention of food.

"See," he said, "I am really, actually starving. I'm in such pain, I hardly know what I am saying just now. Let us go out together and get some food, and then think what we can do afterwards. Do you feel as if you could walk?"

She slipped off the bed and stood up. "I feel very bad," she said, hesitatingly; "but I can walk. Yes--let us get away from here and have something to eat; And then we can jump off a bridge to-night, if there seems nothing else to do."