“I think she'll be with us,” answered my father.
“Nothing like food for bringing people together,” said Hasluck. “Good-night.”
The door closed, but Something had crept into the house. It stood between my father and mother. It followed them silently up the narrow creaking stairs.
Chapter VII.
Of the Passing of the Shadow.
Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. None but a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring commonplace as that. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot joint to table, and on every day there was pudding, till a body grew indifferent to pudding; thus a joy-giving luxury of life being lost and but another item added to the long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat and drink without stint. No need now to organise for the morrow's hash. No need now to cut one's bread instead of breaking it, thinking of Saturday's bread pudding. But there the saying fails, for never now were we merry. A silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that no longer we laughed and teased as over the half pound of sausages or the two sweet-scented herrings; but talked constrainedly of empty things that lay outside us.
Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guilford Street. Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which they now spoke on all subjects save the one, my mother and father would discuss the project; but always into the conversation would fall, sooner or later, some loosened thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went by, and the cloud grew.
Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had died suddenly in his counting house.
“You are going to her?” said my mother.
“I have been sent for,” said my father; “I must—it may mean business.”