As Gold in the Furnace

Chapter 1

'AGE I. THE WORM TURNS ----- I II. WHAT THE POOR ARE TO THE POOR - - 17 III. 'ON FORTUNE'S CROWNING SLOrE' - - 32 IV. TWO FAIR SISTERS - - - - - 46 V. AFTER LONG YEARS WE MEET - - - - 60 VI. A SLANDERED MEMORY - - - - - 74 VII. A THORNY ROSE - - - - - 87 VIII. A WARNING .--... 102 IX. RENUNCIATION - - - - - - Il6 X. HUMPHREY'S MASTERPIECE .... 129 XI. STOLEN LAURELS - - - - - - I44 XII. 'MY DEAREST DREAM IS TRUE'- - - - 160 XIII. PURELY SENTIMENTAL ----- 176 XIV. 'HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR' - - l8S XV. ON THE BRINK ------ 203 XVI. HUMPHREY'S CONFESSION - - - . 215 XVII. ROSA EXPLAINS ------ 228 XVIII. 'SWEET FRIENDS, DEAR FRIENDS, GOOD-BYE!'- -

CHAPTER I. THE WORM TURNS.

It was a mere strip of a street, with tall dingy warehouses and offices ; through the grimy windows one caught glimpses of oil-cans, bulging sacks, and big barrels, and the air was heavy with the smell of soap, cheese, pickles, and tar; a narrow break in the monotonous line of buildings gave a view of the dull November sky, with the stately masts of some ocean-going vessels black against it, and the wreath ing mist seemed like the cold breath of the great Mersey, which was restlessly heaving to and fro, dark and dreary and troubled. Those who could do so, had long since gone to their homes ; merchants and brokers had retreated to their suburban dwellings, and the offices were abandoned to clerks and watchmen. Half-way up a stone staircase in one of the dingy build ings there was an office, which consisted of a square room scantily furnished with two shabby leather chairs, an ink stained desk and a table, some ledgers on a shelf, a map of the town, a price-list, and an almanac ; a very small fire was sulking in a very large grate, and before it, trying to toast a biscuit on the point of a pen, was a youth, just verging on manhood.

He was thin and pale, as if under fed, and his intelligent face was darkened with the clouds of anxiety and care. His hair was dark, and so were his I eyes ; a keen observe would not fail to anticipate a bright future for one whose features and expression gave such evident indications of both genius and goodness. He was very poorly dressed, his clothes seemed to be gradually receding from his legs and arms, and they shone like glass at the seams. Though actually engaged with the biscuit, his mind was occupied with his own concerns, for the out look of his future was hopelessly dark, and he was brooding over the possibility of breaking free from associations which were as painful to him as they were depressing. He had succeeded in blackening one side of the biscuit, when a light tap was heard at the door, followed by the appearance of a man's head, and a bony hand extending a small tin kettle. ' I say, sir,' the man said in a husky voice, ' would you bile this 'ere for me ?

It's to warm my 'ands, for I ain't got no fire, and the blessed gas is cut off, because we ain't paid for it' He laughed at this, but not very mirthfully. ' Would you jest bile this for me ?' ' Yes, if I can,' the boy said, with a doubtful glance at the fire, whose capabilities were not unlimited ; ' you can come in if you like. We put our coals on with a teaspoon, as you see.' ' Times are bad with most folk just now,' the man said resignedly. He came in, however, and adroitly balanced the little kettle on top of a faint and feeble blaze. ' I hope I shan't get you into trouble ; every door is shut but yours, and my 'ands were that froze I couldn't work. But what keeps you 'ere to this time ? What's doing in your line ?' ' I'm waiting for my father to come back,' the youth said, as he thrust the lid of an old cigar-box into the grate, supplementing it with a handful of corks, which he pro duced from a cupboard which seemed to be used as a store for wine-bottles, both empty and full. ' Your father ?

I'm sure I thought you was the office boy!' ' I am not quite so fortunate,' the lad said, half to him self ; and the man held his blue, benumbed hands over the fresh blaze. ' That's luxury, that is. The only thing I envy rich folk for is their fires. If ever I make a fortune, I'll spend 'alf of it on coals. There is nothing in the world so comforting as warmth.' 'A good many have to do without it' ' That they 'ave, more's the pity, and there's a deal of misery afoot now ; one trade's worse than another, and the 'ardest work you can do only keeps body and soul together. It's killing yourself to keep yourself alive.' He was so absorbed in the enjoyment of the fire, and the youth in watching the kettle lest it should boil over, that neither had heard an ascending step, and both started at the sound of a voice, ' harsh as the wild-fowl's harshest cry.' ' So this is how you attend to business, is it, Philip ?' A gentlemanly-looking man, with handsome aquiline features, faultlessly attired, but evidently flushed with wine, entered the office, and a strong odour of good cigars entered with him.

He was evidently a man who was well satisfied with himself, and knew how to secure the comforts, and even the luxuries, and perhaps also the self-indulgences, of life, with a most provoking heedlessness of the disabilities under which he might place others who were dependent on him. A keen reader of character would at once have guessed that he was a spoilt only child, whose every whim had been met from his infancy, and who had grown up to manhood with the idea that the world was arranged for his delectation, and that all with whom he had to do were but the ministrants of his pleasures, but it never struck him that their ministry might involve serious suffering and sacrifice. His face indicated more than average natural ability, but suggested that he would be likely to prefer scheming to working, and appearance to reality ; and as in early life he had known no lack of money, and no sort of restraint in spending it, he could but regard his own necessities and indulgences as the matter for first consideration now that he had become poor.

The gentlemanly dress, the cigars, and the wine produced an altogether false impression con cerning his circumstances. He seemed to be what he was not. But that was his character, and he maintained it to the end of his life, with what mischievous influence upon those with whom he had to do, and what moral perils for himself, it may be that this story will unfold. As Mr. Beresford entered the room, the man stumbled to his feet, but the youth remained as he was, only uplifting a pale, sharp profile to the incomer. ' No offence, sir, I 'ope, no 'arm done,' said the man. ' I was only getting some water biled to warm my 'ands. I 'ope you'll excuse the liberty.' A long white hand was waved disdainfully to the door, and the man retreated, with a deprecating glance at the boy, and a murmur that he hoped he hadn't got him into trouble. ' Get up when I speak to you, Philip ; you have the manners of a street arab.

As soon as my back is turned, you bring in all the riffraff of the neighbourhood, it seems. Who is that fellow ?' ' He is a printer, who works upstairs. I did not think there was any harm in doing what he asked ; he looked poor and cold and hungry ; and it didn't cost you any thing.' ' It will cost me enough to find the office broken into and robbed some of these mornings, and that is likely enough to happen. Did anyone call, or were you too fully occupied with your vagabond friends to attend to them ?' ' Two men called, and kicked up a row about their accounts. They both asked when they were likely to find you in, so I told them.' ' And why did you do that ? You know very well that you should have said that I was out of town, and would settle things when I came back.' ' I have said that so often that no one believes it.

I don't think you can dodge them for ever, either.' ' You are disgustingly vulgar, Philip. No wonder, seeing what your companions are.' He hastily wrote some letters, stamped them, and threw them across the table. ' Post these ; and then wait here until I come back again, and remember that this office is private.' Philip took up the letters, walked slowly to the door, and then came back again with a kind of desperation on his face. ' Father, will you give me a half-holiday to-morrow ?' Then, in explanation of this astounding request, ' I want to try and find something to do.' ' There's plenty of that here, if you would do it.' ' Yes.' He stammered a little, then went on more courageously, ' But I want to be able to buy clothes, and — and other things, not to be all my life an office-boy without wages, or an uneducated, unpaid clerk.

That is what I am and what I shall be, unless I make some effort to help my self. You say you cannot do anything more for me ; let me try to do something for myself.' Philip had never before spoken to his father in such an independent way. He had hitherto borne the burden of his life only too meekly. The new mood evidently sur prised his father ; but his amazement soon gave place to an expression of sarcasm and disdain. In his sublime in difference to the feelings or the necessities of anyone beside himself, he could not conceive of his son as restless under his present conditions, or as touched with an ambition to gain some position in the world, and to win noble things. Philip ought to be satisfied with what was done for him. He answered him sharply, as if he would once for all close up all reference to so unreasonable a matter as his son's independent desires. ' What could you do, pray ?

Sweep a crossing ? Your brain is turned with reading penny dreadfuls, Philip. Now, listen to me. It does not become you to reproach me with my poverty, and you know very well that I cannot possibly afford to give you more money. What would you do with it, in any case ? You have a good home, and food and clothes, and no very hard work to do. It is not my fault that I cannot send you to Oxford or Cambridge, and bring you up in idleness. Better lads than you have to sleep in the streets — ay, and go barefooted, too. You have nothing to complain of, but your own ingratitude and discontent and ill-temper, and I don't want any more exhibitions of it, mind that. Let me hear no more of this kind of rubbish. File those lists, and keep yourself out of mischief until I come back, if you can.' When Philip returned from posting the letters, he had the office to himself again, so he put on his shabby over coat, and raked the dying embers of the fire together, that by its light he might read the book in which he was then so greatly interested.

A sixpence had been given him, and it had put him in possession of fairyland, an enchanted realm of king and knight and lovely lady, of a refuge and a haven wherein his throbbing pulses grew calm, and his wounded heart ceased aching. It was Scott's romance of ' Ivanhoe.' Over the pages he pored until the last spark of the fire had died out, and it was impossible any longer to distinguish the words ; then, half unconsciously, he found himself call ing up the scenes of his past life to animate the darkness. He could dimly remember golden days ; a lovely home, a kind grandfather, stately yet indulgent, whose frequent visits were marked by tendernesses of word and deed ; and then a chaos of clamorous creditors, reckless dissipation, and the crash of a ruined home, followed by meaner quarters, a cheap school, associates of an inferior type, the sinking to a lower level, and the blotting out of all the beauty and gladness of his childhood.

He knew now, by the light of maturer, though still boyish understanding, in what ways his father had squandered his substance, just as well as he knew why home comforts were lacking still, why he had been taken from school to be a wretched little office drudge, without a single companion of his own age, without a single pleasure or pursuit to relieve the sordid, loveless monotony of his existence. Alas ! over how many young hearts and lives, fair hopes and noble aims, has the car of self-interest and self-indulgence been driven ! It is not always, perhaps not often, that there is energy enough left in the crushed ones to break away from influences that make noble living wholly impossible. Self-centredness can be mischievous and cruel. It has broken many a heart, it has ruined many a life, it has filled many an untimely grave.

Philip's father was one of those men who are so often described as being no one's enemy but their own. And this as often means that their career has brought sorrow, suffering, and disaster on all belonging to them ; thus the sins of the fathers are visited on the children — by the fathers. Mr. beresford had sown his wild oats with the liberality of his kind, and left others to reap the bitter harvest ; he had gratified every desire, and beheld others paying the penalty unmoved ; there were, indeed, times when he considered himself a victim, and could wax eloquent over the malice and ingratitude of base humanity. When one hears a man loudly denouncing the wickedness and treachery of his fellow-creatures, it is generally safe to conclude that he has been dishonest in his own dealings with them, and has been found out ; when a man declares that he has no faith in others, he raises a danger-signal against his own trustworthi ness.

Philip had kept hoping that better times would return for the family, and that he would be enabled to resume his education, and gain fitness for some honourable and useful life-work, but he had at last lost all hope. He knew that his father was content with existing circumstances ; that, at once recklessly extravagant and cruelly mean, he was inured to the atmosphere of ever-increasing and never-to-be-paid debt, to the just wrath and reproach of tradespeople ; that he was satisfied with debasing pleasures and low associates ; content to see his eldest-born growing up with capacities and abilities undeveloped, trained only to subterfuge and distrust ; and with this knowledge Philip felt that he had reached the limit of endurance, and that within himself deliverance must be sought. The kind grandfather had faded from his life, alienated and estranged, and there were no others to whom he could appeal ; besides, who would hear the appeal of a boy against his father ?

The intense cold and heavy tread and jingle of keys roused him from his moody thoughts, and he rose hurriedly ; the building was about to be closed for the night. In no way alarmed by his father's non-appearance, because experience enabled him to account for it, he ran downstairs, and into the now deserted, silent street. A few sharp turns brought him into a gayer quarter of rattling cabs, flaring music-halls, and well-baited drinking-traps. He went into one of the latter and saw his father leaning gracefully against the bar drinking brandy, the centre of an admiring group prepared to agree with every word he uttered, so long as he paid the score. ' What the deuce do you want here ?' he demanded, as his eye fell on the youth. ' I was told not to go home without you,' Philip replied, and the other was suddenly overcome by a maudlin affec tion. ' Well, well, you're a good boy, Phil, and you shall drink my health.

Here's my glass, and drink it up like a man, bless you !' ' You're a chip of the old block, ain't you ?' one of the satellites playfully asked ; 'take it, lad, it'll warm you.' Philip's cold fingers closed round the glass ; the stuff within was less fiery than the chilled blood in his veins had become as he surveyed the sodden, debauched faces, and thought how dear had such as these cost him and his ; how, for such as these, every duty had been left undone, every just and sacred claim rejected ; his eyes flashing with pas sionate resentment of past and present, he poured the contents of the tumbler on the sawdust at his feet. Perhaps it was well for him that the action was not observed. Half an hour later he was sent to get a cab, as his father had become unable to walk home ; and they were driven to a third-rate suburb of jerry-built houses, and small shops, and semi-detached brick dwellings, each with two square yards of garden in front.

The sound of wheels had brought to the gate of one of these latter, a tall, angular, shrewish, and sickly-looking woman, who was wrapped in a woollen tidy. ' This is a nice time to come home !' she said, as the cab stopped and its occupants alighted ; ' and a nice sight you are, too, and me waiting and watching for you these hours, and the child as cross as two sticks ! Get in with you, do ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! And you go off to bed, Philip; my health won't stand much more of this.' ' I have had nothing to eat since breakfast,' said Philip quietly ; though with his over-wrought feelings he could not refrain from adding, ' Will my health stand much more of that ?' ' What do you say ?' exclaimed his father, who was still under the influence of drink, and was in the mood to be angry either with speech or with silence ; ' complaining again, are you ?

Beg my pardon for your behaviour to-day, sir, or it will be worse for you.' ' You should rather beg mine,' Philip said deliberately, for he was now thoroughly roused, and his father stared aghast. ' Beg your pardon ! And for what — for what ?' ' For all the wrongs you have done me,' Philip retorted, ' for depriving me of all that is worth having, for your neglect of every want of mine and every duty of your own, for the shame you have made me feel, and, most of all, for the example you have set me !' The man raised his arm menacingly, but Philip stood his ground, grasping the back of a chair. ' Don't come one inch nearer,' he said ; ' you shall never strike me again as long as you live !' The answer came in the shape of an inkstand, which bruised his temple, and then shattered itself against the wall.

The lady gave a slight scream, then, seizing his arm, forced him, half stunned as he was, from the room. 'Go to bed, Philip,' she urged; 'you know what his temper is, and the sight of you only makes him worse.' ' I know that,' Philip returned bitterly, but he obeyed ; his feelings towards his father's second wife were mostly pitiful, for she was no woman to inspire a lad's respect, or to secure his confidence. She was one of those mentally weak and indolent beings who will drift with the tide of wrong-doing rather than take the trouble of opposing it ; who are wholly selfish in their own way, and are helped in their selfishness by a low tone of physical vitality. Sub mission is to such people not virtue, but self-indulgence, it is so simple and easy ; it saves exertion and avoids un pleasantness.

Sbe had become a fretful, careworn woman, acting, as Philip also did, as a buffer between her husband and his creditors, fabricating excuses and listening to reproaches for his sake ; he must be spared all trouble and annoyance, let the cost be to others what it might, and whatsoever economy had to be practised perforce in the household it did not affect him ; ' he called for his pipe and called for his glass,' like old King Cole, and had both, when butter was a too expensive luxury for home con sumption. The faint sparks of a thought which had been again and again in Philip's heart during the evening had become the fire of resolution as he crept upstairs, halting a moment by a half-closed door to give a farewell glance at a child-sleeper ; he dared not risk more than that, for he was tenderly attached to his little half-brother, who fully returned his affection.

Then he passed on tiptoe to his own bare little apartment, where he sat sleepless all the night, his head aching from the blow, his mind racked with memories — the bitter memories of a neglected mother's forgotten grave, of his own forlorn youth, of the sordid misery of his life, its brutality, its impotence. Long before any of the others were awake he stole downstairs in the darkness, fully dressed ; the remains of a supper were on the table, and he gathered some fragments of bread and cheese together, wrapping them in a paper, and thus equipped for the battle of life, he lest for ever the house of bondage, which he had been obliged to regard as his home. The morning air was raw and cold, and the straggling lamps burned feebly through the gloom ; he seemed to be the only person astir — the only person in the world.

He had no defined plan of action, no distinct idea of what he must do, realizing nothing very clearly beyond the necessity for immediately getting occupation of some kind, it mattered little what, and as soon as possible he would leave this city and its associations behind. He felt that nothing worse could await him than he had already endured ; he was now his own master, and if he had neither a penny nor a friend in the world, he had youth and health and courage. Tired by a sleepless night, his pace involuntarily slackened ; the streets and roads were still deserted, but here and there a light gleamed in some window, and the darkness was less impenetrable ; he now became aware of steps beside his own that were echoing through the quiet street, and he paused, feeling that he could less anxiously and fearfully follow that tread than listen to its following of his own.

Presently the figure of a man came in sight, plodding heavily and wearily on ; he was bent by toil, and under the gaslight Philip saw how thin and pinched his face was, how poverty and want had dug caverns for his eyes, and wasted the strong sinews of his frame; he was poorly clothed, and looked like what he actually was — a workman out of woik. 'It is a cold morning,' Philip said. He was no longer afraid, seeing a fellow-creature apparently as desolate as himself. 'It is that,' came the answer in tired tones. 'You're surely a small chap to be afoot so soon. Are you going to town ?' 'Yes, to find work.' ' Lord 'elp you ! I've been tramping the country nine weeks and more seeking it, and 'aven't got it yet, nor signs of it, and I'm goin' 'ome beaten. I don't know 'ow they've lived there all this while if the missis as 'ad to be idle too.

Sometimes I think when I do get a job I shan't be able for it for want o' meat. If you don't eat as you should, you cannot work as you should.' 'I have some food here,' Philip said eagerly, 'far too much for myself. You won't mind taking half of it, will you ? It's better than nothing.' The poor fellow's eyes filled. ' It's a shame to take it off a little chap like you, but I'm nigh starving, and what's to come of the children if anything 'appens me ? If it 'adn't been for them, I'd 'ave given in long since. And where's your father, my boy?' ' I have no father.' ' Nor mother ?: ' She is dead. I have no home, no friends, but in a city as rich as this I shall surely earn enough to keep myself alive.' A look of wonderful pity and compassion came over the haggard face. ' My lad, you're going to a place you don't know much about, and where you may easily fall into bad 'ands that aren't easily got out of, particular when there's no one to look after you.

I'm as poor as I look, but if you like to come with me, you shall 'ave a shelter as long as I 'ave it myself, or till you find a better. It's all I can give you, but you're welcome, meantime.' The unexpected kindness touched Philip deeply; his heart seemed suddenly to rise to his lips, blocking the way of speech, but the man did not misunderstand the silence. ' And what is your name, lad ?' he asked. Philip had decided to cast his proper name aside as a relic of past misery ; not because he thought it would help his father to find him, for Philip knew that he was not likely to be troubled by making any search for him, and he could almost hear the philosophic and consoling comment which would certainly be made : ' Philip will come back like a bad shilling ; he will soon tire of his freak, and the lesson will do him good ; he will know how to appreciate his home,' an easy absolution from responsibility and further concern on his son's behalf. ' St. John,' he said ; ' at least, that is all I mean to claim as my name.' ' It's a queer one.

What can you do ?' ' I can keep books pretty well ; I am a good writer, too.' Talking in this strain, they reached the city, which was now broad awake : the roar of its traffic had already begun ; many people were astir, shivering in the sharp air ; shops were being opened, pavements swept, and the toil of another day was entered on. Philip followed his companion to a poor and narrow street of mean houses blackened by city grime, the air being heavy with fumes from tall chimneys, and the wretched dwellings shaken by the incessant clang of hammers and whirl of machinery ; there was no bright spot in all its dismal length but the gaily-painted public-house, where business had already commenced ; it seemed a region over flowing with beer and miserable children. One house looked a trifle better than the rest, for its small window was clean, its narrow step had been washed, and here the man halted, knocking.

In a moment a woman appeared, a woman who looked mere skin and bone ; a child was in her arms, and two others were clinging to her skirts. She gave a cry of ' Oh, Jim !' and, flinging her arm round his neck, burst into tears. ' There, there, missus !' he said soothingly, ' don't take on.' They were now in a fireless kitchen, its scanty bits of furniture as clean as hands could make them. Poverty, pain, and labour had robbed the woman's face and form of any beauty that it might once have possessed; her] hands were coarse and roughened ; from the wan attenuation of her features her eyes looked forth with hopeless patience. ' I've come back as poor as I left you, lass,' the man said, ' and what I'm to do now only th' Lord knows. How've you getten through ?' She shook her head, and her lips trembled. ' Th' landlord was in last night, and said as he wouldn't wait any longer ; he said we couldn't expect as he should, and I gave in as he'd been very patient.

He said as he'd wait till to-morrow mornin', and then we must go out' She looked rather wildly round the four walls, and from her children to her husband, who stood sickened to despair; then she looked at Philip. ' And who's with you, Jim ?' ' A lad as 'asn't 'ome or friends ; I thought we could give 'im at least a shelter. Oh, my God ! how am I to bear it ? I've the will to work and the strength, and I've tried my best to get it, and still I'm to see my children starve and be turned into th' street !' A silence, broken only by the terrible sound of a man's sobbing, followed ; then Philip, with a kind of timid yet desperate eagerness, touched his arm. 'You have a day,' he said, 'nearly a whole day; a good deal might happen in a few hours. This is such a rich city, such a great city ; there are so many wealthy and powerful in it who can help if they will.' ' Help seldom comes from the gloved hand,' the woman said, a trifle bitterly ; but the man roused himself. ' You're right, lad ; a good deal might be done in a day, and I can but try, whatever the end may be.' ' I will try, too,' Philip said resolutely.