“And is he gone?” asked Mary, her face white.
“Gone! I suppose he is, indeed. She had ’im out that blessed evenin’. She’s one o’ the holy sort, an’ trust them to stand no jolly doin’s.”
Tears started to Mary’s eyes. She could not but believe the old man’s words, and it was terrible to think that she, of all people, had been the cause of fresh misfortune to George. She had known him first—a poor man, so poor that he had a hard struggle to live, and then she had seen the difference in him when luck had come his way. He had told her many of his troubles, and, when she had allowed interest to creep in, sympathy and friendship had followed.
The day seemed to have grown darker, the light to have faded. She felt herself a blight, a malignant influence which had come into this man’s hard life and made it harder. She would have given anything to hide her distress from Bumpett, but she could not, and he sat gloating in his chair over the effect he had made.
“You’re a bad man,” she said, when she had managed to control herself a little, “I’ve heard it said of you, and God knows it’s true.”
The Pig-driver’s reply was cut short by the opening of the shop door and the entrance of a customer. She dried her eyes quickly, and he, finding that he could no longer monopolize his victim, departed, and went away a satisfied and contented man, feeling well towards this life. A little boy begged of him in the street and he gave him a halfpenny.
The old woman for whom Mary worked did not generally descend from her room overhead till late in the afternoon. The girl had charge of everything during the greater part of the day, but, at five o’clock, her mistress would come down and take her place behind the counter, leaving her free to do as she pleased and go where she would. She was never asked to give any account of her doings, and was only expected to be back at nine o’clock to put away things in the shop and to close up the house. Sometimes she would stay on in her place, taking out her book, for she still tried to teach herself, and sometimes, since summer had begun, go out into the scented evening, communing with her own soul and drawing peace from the peace around.
To-night, though she had little heart to leave the house with, she found her mind unable to fix itself on the letters of the simple pages she was spelling out. It flew off continually to George—George unemployed, George despondent, George disgraced because he had not consented to forego the infinitesimal part she had been willing to give him in her life.
It was striking six by the town clock as she went out. The street was a quiet one and there were few people in it, but as her hand left the latch she saw Williams coming towards her. She went hurriedly on to meet him.
“Come,” she exclaimed, without other greeting, “I want to see you.”