He never went to Owen's place or sent any communication to Ruth, nor did she ever send him any; but although Easton did not know it she frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child out she often called to see Mrs Owen.

As time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perhaps some little justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew within him an immense desire for reconciliation--to start afresh and to forget all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed.

Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely from selfish motives. The money he earned seemed to melt away almost as soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not nearly so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been formerly, and the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the wintry days dragged slowly by. Sometimes--when he had the money--he sought forgetfulness in the society of Cra.s.s and the other frequenters of the Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same pleasure in the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had found it--as he now sometimes wondered to remember--so entertaining as to almost make him forget Ruth's existence.

One evening about three weeks before Christmas, as he and Owen were walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for the first time to their former conversation. He spoke with a superior air: his manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great generosity. He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the child. Of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar inst.i.tution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to that, and he knew that her stepmother would not take it.

'If you can persuade her to return to you, we'll take the child,' said Owen.

'Do you think your wife would be willing?'

'She has already suggested doing so.'

'To Ruth?'

'No: to me. We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would like to have the child.'

'But would you be able to afford it?' said Easton.

'We should manage all right.'

'Of course,' said Easton, 'if Slyme comes back he might agree to pay something for its keep.'

Owen flushed.

'I wouldn't take his money.'

After a long pause Easton continued: 'Would you mind asking Mrs Owen to suggest it to Ruth?'

'If you like I'll get her to suggest it--as a message from you.'

'What I meant,' said Easton hesitatingly, 'was that your wife might just suggest it--casual like--and advise her that it would be the best way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.'

'No,' replied Owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the other's manner, 'as things stand now, if it were not for the other child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you. You seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being "willing" to have her back, but she's better off now than she was with you. I see no reason--except for the other child--why she should go back to you. As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you ill-treated her.'

'I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her--at least only once, and then I didn't hurt her. Does she say I ill-treated her.'

'Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but I'm drawing my own conclusions. You may not have struck her, but you did worse--you treated her with indifference and exposed her to temptation.

What has happened is the natural result of your neglect and want of care for her. The responsibility for what has happened is mainly yours, but apparently you wish to pose now as being very generous and to "forgive her"--you're "willing" to take her back; but it seems to me that it would be more fitting that you should ask her to forgive you.'

Easton made no answer and after a long silence the other continued:

'I would not advise her to go back to you on such terms as you seem to think right, because if you became reconciled on such terms I don't think either of you could be happy. Your only chance of happiness is to realize that you have both done wrong; that each of you has something to forgive; to forgive and never speak of it again.'

Easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwards, their ways diverging, they wished each other 'Good night'.

They were working for Rushton--painting the outside of a new conservatory at Mr Sweater's house, 'The Cave'. This job was finished the next day and at four o'clock the boy brought the handcart, which they loaded with their ladders and other materials. They took these back to the yard and then, as it was Friday night, they went up to the front shop and handed in their time sheets. Afterwards, as they were about to separate, Easton again referred to the subject of their conversation of the previous evening. He had been very reserved and silent all day, scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had been engaged in made it necessary to do so, and there was now a sort of catch in his voice as he spoke.

'I've been thinking over what you said last night; it's quite true.

I've been a great deal to blame. I wrote to Ruth last night and admitted it to her. I'll take it as a favour if you and your wife will say what you can to help me get her back.'

Owen stretched out his hand and as the other took it, said: 'You may rely on us both to do our best.'

Chapter 51

The Widow's Son

The next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o'clock Hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had better come on Monday in case some work came in. They accordingly went on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing 'came in' of course they did not do any work. On Thursday morning the weather was dark and bitterly cold. The sky presented an unbroken expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless streets. Owen--who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of the conservatory at Sweater's house the previous week--did not get to the yard until ten o'clock. He felt so ill that he would not have gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn if there was anything to do. Strange though it may appear to the advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any money. On the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able to afford to have proper food or clothing. Every week most of the money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the necessaries of life. They had broken boots, shabby, insufficient clothing, and barely enough to eat.

The weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of p.a.w.n, and that week they had to almost starve. Not that it was much better other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a day--from eight-thirty in the morning till four o'clock in the evening, and on Sat.u.r.day only four and a half hours--from half past eight till one. This made his wages--at sevenpence an hour--twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week--that is, when there was work to do every day, which was not always. Sometimes they had to stand idle three days out of six. The wages of those who got sixpence halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence--when they worked every day--and as for those who--like Sawkins--received only fivepence, their week's wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence.

When they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a few hours, their 'Sat.u.r.day night' sometimes amounted to half a sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. Then most of them said that it was better than nothing at all.

Many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries. They had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on 'skim' milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea. Many of these children--little mites of eight or nine years--went to work for two or three hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening after school, and all day on Sat.u.r.day, carrying butchers' trays loaded with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil, selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk. As soon as they were old enough they got Half Time certificates and directly they were fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day. When they were old enough some of them tried to join the Army or Navy, but were found physically unfit.

It is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of Liberal and Tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to rule over them.

When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the dirty pots in the paint-shop. The noise he made with the sc.r.a.ping knife prevented him from hearing Owen's approach and the latter stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. The stone floor of the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a tomb.

The boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old ap.r.o.n girt about him.

Because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it.

As he watched the poor boy bending over his task, Owen thought of Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would ever be in a similar plight.

When he saw Owen, the boy left off working and wished him good morning, remarking that it was very cold.

'Why don't you light a fire? There's lots of wood lying about the yard.'

'No,' said Bert shaking his head. 'That would never do! Misery wouldn't 'arf ramp if 'e caught me at it. I used to 'ave a fire 'ere last winter till Rushton found out, and 'e kicked up an orful row and told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn't feel the cold.'

'Oh, he said that, did he?' said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly suffused with blood. 'We'll see about that.'

He went out into the yard and crossing over to where--under a shed--there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of places where Rushton & Co. had made alterations, he gathered an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted him.

'You mustn't go burnin' any of that, you know! That's all got to be saved and took up to the bloke's house. Misery spoke about it only this mornin'.'

Owen did not answer him. He carried the wood into the shop and after throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and, applying a match, produced a roaring fire. Then he brought in several more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. Bert took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came, but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the benefit of the heat.

Owen waited for about half an hour to see if Hunter would return, but as that disciple did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer.

Before leaving he gave Bert some instructions:

'Keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can sc.r.a.pe off those things and any other old paint or rubbish that's here, and whenever it grows dull put more wood on. There's a lot of old stuff here that's of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter says anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to keep it burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.'

'All right,' replied Bert.

On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the latter thought of the talk there had been about Owen being mad, and felt half afraid of him.