‘Ah, but I can’t help speaking of it,’ said Cheeseman, feelingly. ‘Miss Hood, you probably don’t know what I refer to; you were a very little lady in those days. They were hard times with me; indeed, I’ve never known anything else. I was saying to your good father yesterday that he could no longer talk of his ill-luck. Many a day he and I have encouraged each other to face fortune, but that’s all over for him; he’s got his foot on firm ground, thank heaven! I’m still catching at straws, you see; I dare say it’s a good deal my own fault; and then I never had a good wife to look after me, and a daughter growing up to teach me prudence. Well but, Miss Hood, I was saying that your father did me a great service; he lent me what was a large sum for him in those days—’
‘Not a little one even in these, Mr. Cheeseman,’ remarked Mrs. Hood.
‘Well, well, but in those times it was a thing few men in his position would have done. He lent me a ten-pound note, Miss Hood, and it’s right you should know it. Years have gone by, years, and any one would think I’d kept out of the way to avoid paying the money back. I assure you, Mrs. Hood, and to you, Miss Hood, I give my solemn word of honour, that I’ve never from that day to this had more money than would just keep me in bread and cheese and such poor clothing as this you see on me. Why, even yesterday, as no doubt your good father has told you, I had but a sixpenny-piece in the world, but one coin of sixpence. Ah, you may well look sad, my good young lady. Please God, you’ll never know what that means. But one sixpence had I, and but for my old friend I should have been hard driven to find a place of rest last night. Now do I look and speak like an ungrateful man? Mrs. Hood, I’ve come here this day because I felt in duty bound to call on you, being so near. I didn’t know your address, till that meeting by chance yesterday. When my old friend left me, I got restless; I felt I must see you all again before I went south, as I hope to do—tomorrow, perhaps. I felt I must clear myself from the charge of in gratitude; I couldn’t live easy under it. It was too much like a piece of dishonesty, and that I’ve never yet been guilty of, for all I’ve gone through, and, please God, never shall. My old friend Hood and I, in days even before he had the happiness to meet you, Mrs. Hood, we used to say to each other—Let luck do its worst, we’ll live and die honest men. And, thank heaven, we’ve kept our word; for an honester man than James Hood doesn’t walk the earth, and no one ever yet brought a true charge of dishonesty against Alfred Cheeseman.’
He looked from mother to daughter. The former sat in helpless astonishment, gazing about her; Emily had hardened her face.
‘You find it a sad tale,’ Cheeseman proceeded. ‘Why, so it is, dear ladies. If ever I had owned a ten-pound note, over and above the price of a loaf of bread and a night’s lodging, it should have been put aside with the name of James Hood written on the back of it, and somehow I’d have found him out. And I say the same thing now. Don’t think, Mrs. Hood, that I’m pleading my poverty as a way of asking you to forgive the debt. The debt shall be paid; be assured of that. If I can only get to London, there’s a prospect before me; I have a project which I explained to my old friend yesterday. You shall have the money, and, what’s more, you shall have interest—four per cent. per annum. Oh yes, you shall. Only let me somehow get to London.’
The gate sounded again.
‘Emily,’ exclaimed Mrs. Hood, ‘there’s your father!’
She was pale, and the hand with which she pointed could not steady itself.
‘Mother,’ said the girl, just above her breath, ‘go! He is coming in!’
Mrs. Hood rose and left the room. Cheeseman could not but observe that some strange agitation possessed them both. Possibly he explained it by the light of his own conscience. He sat, smiling at Emily rather uneasily. Then, seeing that there was likely to be a delay before Hood entered, he bent forward to speak confidentially.
‘Miss Hood, I see it in your face, you’re as kind and warm-hearted as your father is, and that’s saying much. You won’t think hardly of a poor fellow who oftener misses a dinner than gets one? Every word I’ve said to you’s as true as the light of heaven, And my only chance is to get to London. I’ve made an invention, and I feel sure I know a man who will buy it of me. It took my last farthing to get here from Hebsworth. You don’t think hardly of me? I don’t drink, on my word I don’t; it’s sheer hard luck. Ah, if I had a home like this! It ‘ud be like living in the garden of Eden. Well, well!’
The door opened, and Hood came in, followed by his wife. He was laughing, laughing loudly; the voice was so unlike his that this alone would have caused Emily to gaze at him in astonishment.
‘So you’ve looked us up!’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand. ‘Why, you couldn’t have done better; I was sorry afterwards I hadn’t asked you. My wife tells me you’ve had dinner; you won’t mind sitting by whilst I eat? And what do you think of Emily, eh? Grown a little since you saw her last—ha, ha! So you’ve made up your mind to go to London? Emily had dinner? Why, of course you have; I was forgetting. Baked potatoes! Remember my old weakness for them baked, Cheeseman? We used to buy ‘em in the street at night, halfpenny apiece, eh? Old man with one arm, remember? We used to hear him coming when he was half a mile off; what a voice! And the man who sold peas; remember him? “All ‘ot! All ‘ot!” We were lads then, eh, Cheeseman? Emily, just a mouthful, with butter? Let me tempt you. No?—What train did you come by?’
He talked ceaselessly. There was a spot of red in the midst of each of his sallow cheeks, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. On leaving the mill a sudden thirst had come upon him, and he had quenched it with a glass of spirits at the first public-house he passed. Perhaps that had some part in his elation.
Emily almost immediately withdrew and went up to her bedroom. Here she sat alone for more than an hour, in fear lest her mother should come to the door. Then she heard the gate open, and, looking from the window, saw her father and his friend pass into the road and walk away together, the former still talking in an excited way. A minute or two later came the knock which she dreaded. She opened the door, and her mother entered.
‘Emily, did you ever know your father so strange?’ Mrs. Hood asked, in a tone of genuine alarm. She had sunk upon a chair, and looked to the girl as if overcome with physical weakness. ‘What can it all mean? When I asked him why he had told that story about the money, he only laughed—said it was a joke, and he’d explain it all before long. I can’t think where the money came from! And now he’s gone to pay that man’s fare to London, and no doubt to lend him more money too.’
Emily made no reply. She stood near the window, and looked out at the clouds which were breaking after a brief shower.
‘Wherever the money may have come from,’ pursued her mother, ‘it’s cruel that it should go in this way. We never wanted it worse than we do now. It’s my belief he’s borrowed it himself; a nice thing to borrow for one’s own needs, and then throw it away on such a good-for-nothing as that.’
Emily turned and put a question quietly.
‘Are you in more than usual need of money?’
‘Well, my dear, you know I always try to say as little about such things as I can, but now your father’s been and borrowed—as of course he must have done—there’s no choice but to tell you. The house at Barnhill’s going to be empty at the end of the quarter, and our rent here’s going to be raised, and, all things coming together, we’ve had a good deal to make us anxious. It’s just like your father—wanting to make me believe that things are better than they really are; it always was his way, and what’s the good of it I never could see. Of course he means it well, but he’d far better have been open about it, and have told me what he was going to do.’