A St John Adcock

It was not an ordinary love affair, and the tenants of Filter’s Rents laughed when they first heard about it, yet laughed good-naturedly, too. The male element of the tenantry was divided in its admiration of his cheek and her devotion; the feminine element said openly that, though nobody could blame him, poor fellow, she was a fool, but said it half-heartedly, and, in secret, cherished a sympathetic interest in both of them. Only the very young were puzzled because they could not fathom her motives, for only the very young expect to understand a woman or look for a reason in everything or anything she may do.

There cannot be less than two chief actors in any love story; in this there were three, and the odd one was a man. One roof covered them all. The woman, who was still under five and twenty, lived alone in a front room on a second floor; one of the men, Dave Kirk, occupied the back room opening on to the same landing; and the other, Bob Harris, resided, with his aged mother, down in the basement.

Perhaps the most unusual circumstance in connection with this episode was that Dave Kirk had no legs; he lost them four years before in the explosion of a gas retort, at the works where he had been employed. But he was a man of an independent, self-reliant spirit, and on his discharge from hospital was, by his own wish, carried back to his old room in Filter’s Rents, resolute to resume the task of earning his own living.

Without being parsimonious, he had always been rationally careful of his money, and drawing now on his small capital in the savings bank, he fitted himself out with a specially constructed wooden trolley on four small wheels, and set up in business as a shoe black. The trolley was low enough for him to be able to reach the ground easily, and paddle himself to and fro with his hands, whilst a long iron handle, hinged on at the front, supplied a ready means of traction, when a casual friend was disposed to oblige him by pulling.

There were inconveniences, of course, in such systems of life and locomotion, but Dave was wise enough to accommodate himself to the inevitable, and so by degrees recovered much of his former cheerfulness of demeanour, and discovered that existence without legs was not only bearable, but even to be enjoyed. Since he could no longer climb into bed, he realised the bedstead and disposed his mattress on the floor. His table and chairs being practically inaccessible heights, he sawed their legs off short, and dwarfed all his furniture.

‘If I can’t get up to them,’ he said, cheerily, ‘I can bring them down to me, an’ they look as tidy on their stumps as I do on mine, an’ chance it!’

For an infinitesimal salary, he retained the services of an able-bodied moucher to look after his trolley, and carry him up and down stairs; and finding that his business was liberally patronised, and, moreover, that he could not mount or descend the kerbs unaided, he presently increased the stipend of this menial, on condition that he drew him daily to and from his pitch by Dalston Station.

To this coming and going in state there was but one objection. The menial, though he rarely possessed visible means, had a tendency to get miraculously drunk quite early in the day, and hence could not be depended upon to draw the trolley home at night, in anything like a direct line. He generally tacked along the pavement, from side to side, as if the vehicle were a preposterous yacht making headway in the teeth of a gale, and this practice grew upon him, until twice he went too far in one direction, and, the wheels of the trolley slipping off the edge of the kerb, Dave was deposited in the road.

After the second of these mishaps, Dave began to look about him for a new and more reliable man; and was luckier in finding one than he had expected to be.

It was just about this time that Bob Harris and his mother arrived in the basement of the house in Filter’s Rents, and Bob, in particular, took an immediate and friendly interest in the crippled lodger on the second floor back. He came up of evenings to chat with him, and hearing of the moucher’s imperfections, generously volunteered to replace him. He was a warehouse porter, and passed Dalston Station every morning and evening on his way to the City and back.

‘Why not?’ he urged, when Dave demurred. ’I go right by the very place. It’s no trouble to me, y’see, an’ it’ll save you a bit—eh?’

He was so persistent that, satisfied he was in earnest, Dave gratefully availed himself of the offer.

And for the next eighteen months he did his daily travelling in perfect safety, the friendship between him and Bob Harris thriving apace. There were evenings when Dave was invited down to tea in the basement, and evenings when he shone as a host, and Bob Harris and his mother came up and sat on the reduced chairs about his undersized table. And on these latter occasions Nell Wyatt, the occupant of the adjoining room, was one of the party, having, as a matter of fact, with her own hands got the tea ready before she came to it.

For, you must know, there was not a girl in Filter’s Rents—no, not in all London, nor in all the world—more kindly hearted, truer, gentler, or more compassionate than was Nell. She was not beautiful; her dress was poor and coarse, her hands were rough with work, but the purity of her heart, the womanly sweetness of her whole nature so lit up her eyes and her quiet, homely features that the worst of men were softened by the influence of her presence, so that if there had been any incorrigible beast in the court who could have offered her an indignity, there would have been no lack of honester hands to break his head extemporaneously, and pitch him into the street.

Nell was no natural denizen of Filter’s Rents; she had come there from the country, some time before Dave knew her, a dainty maiden enough, with the roses in her cheeks, and in her eyes a light gathered from brighter skies and clearer air. The roses were faded now, but the light was still undimmed.

The aunt she came to live with died during Dave’s absence in hospital, and when he returned home he found her, as she had no other relation to go to, living on there by herself. A pleasant acquaintance had sprung up betwixt her and Dave during the six months preceding his accident, and now she was not long in proving herself the best and staunchest friend he had.

She had cried at first for very pity, seeing him so maimed and helpless; but her sympathies were eminently practical, and ever after she had met him with a cheerful face and voice and sought in every way she could to lighten the burden of his affliction.

It was Nell who kept his room so clean and neatly ordered. It was Nell who, every morning shortly before seven, knocked on his door to know if he was up, and carried in his breakfast all ready on a tray; and it was Nell—who else could it be?—that of an evening had his tea laid on the table, and, in winter weather, the fire lighted against his home coming.

If in the early days of his calamity Dave had fretted over some unspoken hope that was now become an impossible dream of the past, he had striven with himself so manfully that no word of his despair ever found its way to his lips until one memorable evening—the most memorable of any he had ever known.

There was nothing exceptional about the evening itself, as Dave sat by Dalston Station drumming tunes on his box with the blacking-brush, shouting the cry of his trade to passers-by, with an incessant jangle of tram-bells and rumble of traffic all around him, and the lantern he hung after dark on the end of the trolley-handle, a mere blot of yellow in the grey mist that had been thickening since sunset. Business had been slack, he was cold and hungry, and more than commonly thankful, at last, when Bob Harris attached himself to the handle and the trolley went rattling along homewards.

The kettle was singing on a ruddy fire in his room, the tea-things were on the table, and Bob Harris, who was as thoughtful as if he had something on his mind, invited himself to sit down and have a cup.

‘I want to hev a private chat with you, Dave,’ he began by and by. ‘I’ve been a-wanting to a long while. If you ain’t guessed it—an’ I shouldn’t wonder if you had—I’m a-goin’ to let you into a secret.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Bob Harris blushed nervously, and wriggled his neck as if his collar was strangling him. He was a tall, thin, colourless fellow, Bob was; younger than Dave, but older looking by reason of his shrunken, melancholy countenance. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m—I’m fair in love—that’s straight!’

Dave regarded him dubiously.

‘I haven’t told her yet—’

‘Told who?’ Dave interrupted sharply.

Bob Harris winked, without the least appearance of mirth or slyness.

‘Why, Nell Wyatt, o’course. I thought you’d ha’ noticed.’

‘Noticed what?’ demanded Dave, gruffly.

‘Oh—I dunno! I’ve loved that gal, though, ever since I fust see ’er. I was fair struck all of a heap right off. I ain’t talked about it—it—well, it seems rather silly like, don’t it? I ain’t a lady’s man neither, I ain’t. But I made sure you’d ha’ noticed it.’

Dave shook his head without speaking.

‘D’yer think she’s guessed it? I suppose she ain’t never give you no hint, like? No? I rather fancy she has guessed, though, an’—sometimes I think it’s all right, and sometimes I think she don’t care no more for me than a brass farden. She—she’s never arst you nothing about me?’

Dave shook his head again and said ‘No’, and Bob Harris was too self-absorbed to be startled by the tone in which he said it.

‘She thinks a deal o’you, Dave,’ Bob resumed, ‘an’ she praised me once, she did, because she said I was a decent sort of cove to you; something like that. I’ve come up with her odd times when she’s bin takin’ her work ’ome, but she won’t never let me carry it, though I’ve walked aside of her an’ talked. It’s always bin about you, too; I s’pose I started it, ’cos I didn’t know what else to talk of. She’s downright sorry for you, old chap; she says she feels as if you was her own brother. “So do I,” says I. An’ that seemed to make us sort o’ related, as it might be, an’ yet I hadn’t got the pluck to say what I wanted to, even then.’ He fell into a gloomier mood and went on, ‘If I was to speak up an’ she says “No,” I reckon it ’ud break my ’art. Sounds silly, don’t it? But if you’d ever bin in love you’d know what I mean. Was you ever in love, Dave?’

Dave hesitated.

‘Once,’ he said abruptly.

‘And how did you tell ’er? If you could give me the tip, like—’

‘I never told ’er,’ Dave cut in, irritably.

‘P’raps you found out she didn’t cotton to you, an’—’

‘Look here!’ growled Dave. ‘Is it likely I was goin’ to be such a tomfool as to go and trouble her after that?’ He pointed impatiently to his maimed limbs. ‘Very well, then!’

Bob Harris was contrite for five minutes.

‘Another thing I was a-thinkin’ of,’ he pursued, ‘I told you Nell Wyatt thought a deal o’ your opinions, an’ so on. Well, you can talk confidential to her, same as if she really was your own sister, an’ I thought, p’raps, you wouldn’t mind doin’ me a turn by sayin’ a good word for me an’ lettin’ me know ’ow she takes it?’

Dave did not reply immediately; yet Bob Harris had done him many friendly services, and he was not ungrateful.

‘I doubt—whether it would be much use,’ he faltered, huskily. ‘Hadn’t you better—speak to her—yourself?’

‘I ain’t got the pluck, that’s a fact,’ cried Bob. ‘If I knew it was all right, then I’d do it like a shot. But if she ain’t got to care for me yet, it ’ud be best to wait a bit longer afore I tries my luck. If she was to say “No”, it ’ud break my ’art; it would that!’

‘If you think anything I could say—’

‘That’s it. She thinks a deal o’ you. I’d like you to say to her like this: “Miss Wyatt,” says you, “I happen to know a young bloke what’s fonder of a particular gal I know than any other gal on earth. He’s fair struck.” Put it delicate, like that. “Oh?” says she. “Yes,” says you, “he’s been ’ankerin’ after her for a rare long while, but ’e ain’t got the pluck to tell her.” Then if she blushes an’ looks pleased, you can bet it’s all right. “He said ’e was sure you’d guessed it,” says you. “Who is he?” says she. “It’s Bob ’Arris downstairs,” says you; “I know ’im well for a steady-goin’ chap as any man need be, I do.” Something nice, like that. “If he was to arst you,” says you, confidential, “what d’ yer think of him?” You can let me know what she says, an’ I can speak out or shut up according. See?’ Dave was a little ashamed of his own ungraciousness, he was so long in replying and so grudgingly gave the promise that was required of him.

‘Will you try it this evening? I dessay you’ll have a chance when she looks in to clear away the tea things,’ Bob observed eagerly. ‘Anyhow, I’ll nip up a bit later an’ see if she’s said anything. Eh?’

Dave nodded mechanically, and was glad to be left alone.

He felt it was the wildest folly to be hankering wistfully, as he was, after those unforgotten whisperings of his heart which it would, mayhap, have been happier for him if he had never heard. He had taken refuge in a dull resignation; he had told himself a thousand times that there was not, there could not be hope for him any longer, and yet now—

‘I thought I heard Mr Harris go down.’

Nell was looking in upon him from the doorway. He threw off his depression and assumed an air of gaiety that was but too obviously forced.

‘Nell,’ he cried, bent upon carrying out his undertaking without allowing himself further time for thought or uncertainty; ‘I have got something very particular to say to you.’

She put her filled tray back on the table, and stood waiting for him to continue.

‘I wanted to tell you;’ his voice was not so steady as he had meant it to be; a strange bewilderment came upon him suddenly, and it was only by fortifying himself with a reminiscence of Bob Harris’s ideal dialogue that he avoided breaking down at the very outset; ‘there’s a young fellow I know—who—who thinks the world of—of a girl that’s—that’s known to me too, but he—well, he daren’t tell her so.’

Nell caught her breath, and the colour left her face and then came tingling back again, but she did not speak.

‘He daren’t tell her,’ Dave stammered, awkwardly, ‘because if she—she—if he found she cared nothing for him, he says, it would break his heart, Nell.’

Her lip quivered, and as he ventured to glance up at her their eyes met, and he saw that her’s were full of tears. Flurried, and feeling that his advocacy was succeeding only too well, he went on confusedly:

‘You don’t ask who he is or she is, Nell, but—but he thought perhaps you—you might guess at it…’

She was down on her knees beside him; her arms were about his neck, her face hidden close against his, so that he could not see how the roses had blown again in her cheeks and that the light of a divine compassion was shining in her eyes with a radiance caught from no heaven that ever spanned this motley earth.

‘Oh, she guessed it, Dave—she did guess it long ago,’ she sobbed, ‘but she wanted to be sure, and she waited—waited until now. She guessed it, though you tried to hide it from her, and shrank from asking her to share your life with you because you were so crippled and helpless, but—oh, Dave! she loved you before that, and—and it grieved her sometimes to think you could fancy she didn’t love you now—now when you need her love far more than ever.’

What could he say? All he had desired was his, when he was fearing it was wholly lost to him; he had blindly accepted despair and it had changed to hope as he grasped it, and he was not stoical and unselfish enough to relinquish it again.

‘But I am a mere wreck,’ he faltered, feebly, ‘and nigh helpless—’

‘The more you’ll need my help.’

‘I shall never be fit for other work than I’m doing, and I—I doubt if what I can earn—’

‘I can earn more than sufficient for myself, Dave—never think of that any more.’

Her womanly pity, her fearless and self-sacrificing love for him filled him with wonder and intense thankfulness. He could not understand it, he could scarcely even believe the reality of his own happiness.

‘I don’t deserve it,’ he said, ‘I can never deserve it—’

But she placed her hand upon his lips, and would hear no more.

Later, when they were both calm, he told her of Bob Harris, and frankly confessed what had led him to speak to her as he had done, and how, in pleading Bob’s cause, he had involuntarily pleaded his own.

‘And the only thing that troubles me,’ he concluded, ‘is that I must tell him the truth, Nell—I feel almost as if I had wronged him, and—he said it would break his heart.’

‘You have not wronged him, Dave, for I never should have cared for him,’ she said gravely. ‘I am sorry for him too; but, dear, one had to be broken—which would you rather it was, his heart or mine?’