The National tribune., 1892-09-01


his clothes were not of a
cut to display his figure to advantage. And
the worst of it was that he possessed keen
critical faculty, and was good deal ashamed
of that commonplace exterior OF his.
Moreover, he had expensive tastes, for he
came of q good though impecunious family !;
he liked cultivated society, fine surroundings,
| well-cooked dinners, and he possessed EGO a
year. and an uncle from whom lie had expecta-
tions; but he had had the expectations SO long
that he had come to take them IS a matter OF
| course and would have been surprised to see
them changed into realities.
He was very unhappy, poor Tom; he was
oppressed by his sordid surroundings, depressed
| by his own lack of social qualifications, I'M
pressed by the stern realities of existence.
Moreover, he was in love; so much in love
that when OF an evening he leaned out of his
window and smoked the pipe which was his
one and only luxury, he looked away from the
busy. ragged, noisy crowds, which quarreled
and fought. and made their purchases, and did
their rough courting up to the still heavens,
and felt at peace so much SO that he heard not
the oaths or the laughter, or the loud talking
beneath him, but only the low tones of Helen
Power speaking to him kindly in the dimly-it
conservatory; SO much so too. that as she was
his world, and all the other world but as a
shadow across his path, he felt it would be
better that death should come to him than that
he should have to live without her.
For he would have to live without her. He
knew that we'll enough. Even If he already
possessed the money which one day might be
his, he would have no chance, and certainly he
had none as it was. Talented, wealthy, beanti-
full and good, there were great and clever and
distinguished men who would be proud to have
her for wife, and he would never have dared
even to let her know that he loved her, for
though he was but too we'll aware of the fact,
he did not wish her to tell him that it was i'm
possible she could care for him.
Out of a mistaken kindness a city friend had
asked Tom Cheadle to go and stay with him
and have little shooting and Tom, who was
weak in some respects, could not refuse the
chance of two weeks ease and comfort and
pleasure though he knew from bitter expert
ence that he would feel out OF place.
1t was while on this visit that Tom met Miss
Power, and lost at once his heart and his peace
of mind. He was so altogether beneath her
notice that he thought it kind of her to pay as
much attention to him as she did. 1t was a
mistaken kindness arising out OF her pity tor
the small, ordinary man, who ate so much at
meal times and said so little
There we're two other gentlemen staying in
the house. both society men, one Of them bril-
liantly clever, and they were willing to do more
than firt with her; perhaps it was to escape
their attentions that she asked Tom Cheadle
SO many questions about himself. and proved
how sympathetic a listener she could be.
The holiday came to an end. He had shaken
hands with her, and walked the length OF the
great dining room with tears in his eyes, due
to the consciousness that he would in all
probability never see her again, aud q miser-
able feeling that he must be cutting sorry
figure before her in that old short coat of his
which had seen so much service. The pathos
Of daily life often arises from details which may
seem ludicrous to lookers-on.
He had gone back to his seat in the Office
and to his dingy lodgings to his insufficient
meals and his monotonons evenings, with q
weight of pain which yet was mingled with joy,
and which he would not have been without.
One evening he went to see the same friend
who had invited him into the country. They
played cards, and there was much whisky. At
first poor Tom was incapable of taking much
interest in the game, but by and by he grew
lively even noisy. He felt gay and light
hearted as he had not done for weeks, and that
though he lost-but they played so low the loss
was inconsiderable. He went home humming
a song.
The next day his friend gave him small
parcel; he was as good hearted fellow as ever
lived.
"Tom," he said, blushing, "you praised my
whisky last night and-and you seemed to like
it, old chap. l wish you would accept q bottle.
1t comes in useful sometimes"
the whisky which had put 80 much spirit in
him last night, in more senses than one. He
took it home with him, and he opened it that
evening.
He had been poor BEFORE but now he seemed
to be harder-up than ever, and shabbier and
less respectable, and by and by his possessions
began to diminish The silver.mounted pipe,
| which his uncle had given him in fit of un-
wonted generosity, found its way to an uncle" I"
who was the brother Of neither his father nor
his mother, and the little teapot of Worcester
china, which had been a valued memento of
the latter. performed the gymnastic feat of
going "up the spout" while one or two odds
aud ends of some slight value, which had been
wont TO lie about on his mantlepiece, were
now. as he informed the landlady's daughter,
"put sway"
The landIady's daughter was sorry. She
took tender interest in Tom, did Polly VIM
ter. She knew he was q gentleman, and she
pitied him because he was lonely, and because,
from experience, she knew what it was to be
out Of harmony with ones surroundings, and
| the mere fact that beyond the greetings of or
| dinary courtesy he never was familiar with
herself, was, according to Polly's standerd, a
point in his favor.
And so it was a real grief to her when one
evening he met her on the stairs and muttered
some indistinct remark to her, smiling idiotic-
ally.
ono lOOkcu at nlLu Will dSLoAlSulucuLt dhu
| then she ran into her room and threw herself
| on her bed and cried.
And from that day sue regarded Tom anx-
| iously when she saw him, and still more anx-
| iously did she regard the bottle which he kept
| in his cupboard, and which was renewed more
often than she cared to see.
One day Tom heard st the Office that Miss
Power WAS engaged to be married to a member
Of Parliament.
He did not go home that afternoon, for lie
hated the thought of that little room OF his; in
stead, he turned in the other direction an
| plunged into the heart Of the city.
He went down Fleet street at break meek
| pace, and on and on he strobe till he found
| himself in Whitechapel. He had no reason
| for going there, only he felt he must go some-
| where, and that did as we'll as anywhere else.
| He looked about him. Squalor was here,
| poverty, misery, want. Look at tue coarse
faced women and the brutal men; look at the
crowds of dirty children. How they swarmed
| Look at the shops with their cheap wares aud
| their faring gaslights
| What did those cheap wares mean?
| What but cruelty? The youth aud the
| strength Of girls had gore to make them, the
| health of women. the Joy of children. Pah
| 1t was hard world, in which every man strove
| for himself, and his gain meant the loss Of an
other. He was sick Of this existence.
He went home very late, but he was not at
| all druRk. He was tired, but quite calm. He
smiled bitterly as he went mp the stairs This
was his home; there would be no one TO greet
him. no supper would be prepared for him, and
L i, h~A Lev tal food hat doxy avxl