ON a cold day, with a grey sky and an east wind, Leonard for the first time walked down the Commercial Road to call upon the newly-found cousins. It is a broad thoroughfare, but breadth does not always bring cheerfulness with it; even under a warm summer sun some thoroughfares cannot be cheerful. Nothing can relieve the unvarying depression of the Commercial Road. It is felt even by the children, who refuse to play in it, preferring the narrow streets running out of it; the depression is felt even by the drivers and the conductors of the tram-cars, persons who are generally superior to these influences. Here and there is a chapel, here and there is a model lodging-house or a factory, or a square or a great shop. One square was formerly picturesque when the Fair of the Goats was held upon it; now it has become respectable; the goats are gone, and the sight provokes melancholy. North and south of the road branch off endless rows of streets, crossed by streets laid out in a uniform check pattern. All these streets are similar and similarly situated, like Euclid’s triangles. One wonders how a resident finds his own house; nevertheless, the houses, though they are all turned out according to the same pattern, are neat and clean and well kept. The people in them are prosperous, according to their views on prosperity; the streets are cheerful, though the road to which they belong is melancholy. “Alas!” it says, “how can such a road as myself be cheerful? I lead to the Docks, and Limehouse, and Poplar, and Canning Town, and the Isle of Dogs.”
Mr. Galley’s house was on the north side, conveniently near to a certain police-court, in which he practised daily, sometimes coming home with as much as three or four half-crowns in his pocket, sometimes with less—for competition among the professional solicitors in the police-courts is keen, and even fierce. Five shillings is a common fee for the defence of a prisoner, and rumour whispers that even this humble sum has to be shared secretly with a certain functionary who must be nameless.
A brass plate was on the door: “Mr. Samuel Galley-Campaigne, Solicitor.” It was a narrow three-storied house, quite respectable, and as depressing as the road in which it stood.
Leonard knocked doubtfully. After a few moments’ delay the door was opened by a boy who had a pen stuck behind his ear.
“Oh, you want Mrs. Galley!” he said. “There you are—back-parlour!” and ran up the stairs again, leaving the visitor on the doormat.
He obeyed instructions, however, and opened the door indicated. He found himself in a small back room—pity that the good old word “parlour” has gone out!—where there were sitting three ladies representing three stages of human life—namely, twenty, fifty, and seventy.
The table was laid for tea; the kettle was on the old-fashioned hob—pity that the hospitable hob has gone!—and the kettle was singing; the buttered toast and the muffins were before the fire, within the high old-fashioned fender; the tea-things and the cake and the bread-and-butter were on the table, and the ladies were in their Sunday “things,” waiting for him. It was with some relief that Leonard observed the absence of Mr. Samuel.
The eldest of the three ladies welcomed him.
“My grand-nephew Leonard,” she said, giving him her hand, “I am very glad—very glad indeed to make your acquaintance. This”—she introduced the lady of middle life—“is my daughter-in-law, the widow—alas!—of my only son. And this”—indicating the girl—“is my grand-daughter.”
The speaker was a gentlewoman. The fact was proclaimed in her speech, in her voice, in her bearing, in her fine features. She was tall, like the rest of her family; her abundant white hair was confined by a black lace cap, the last of the family possessions; her cheek was still soft, touched with a gentle colour and a tender bloom; her eyes were still full of light and warmth; her hands were delicate; her figure was still shapely; there were no bending of the shoulders, no dropping of the head. She reminded Leonard of the Recluse; but her expression was different: his was hard and defiant; hers was gentle and sad.