At twelve o'clock he rose; he had no longing for sleep, but in five hours the new week would have begun, and he must face it with what bodily strength he might. Before entering his bedroom, which was next to the parlour, he went to the house-door and opened it quietly. A soft rain was falling. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped out into the street and looked up to the top windows. There was no light behind the blinds. As if satisfied, he went hack into the house and to his room.
The factory was at so short a distance from Walnut Tree Walk that Gilbert was able to come home for breakfast and dinner. When he entered at mid-day on Monday, his mother pointed to a letter on the mantel-piece. He examined the address, and was at a loss to recognise the writing.
'Who's this from, I wonder?' he said, as he opened the envelope.
He found a short letter, and a printed slip which looked like a circular. The former ran thus:
'Sir,I am about to deliver a course of evening lectures on a period of English Literature in a room which I have taken for the purpose, No.High Street, Lambeth. I desire to have a small audience, not more than twenty, consisting of working men who belong to Lambeth. Attendance will be at my invitation, of course without any kind of charge. You have been mentioned to me as one likely to be interested in the subject I propose to deal with. I permit myself to send you a printed syllabus of the course, and to say that it will give me great pleasure if you are able to attend. I should like to arrange for two lectures weekly, each of an hour's duration; the days I leave undecided, also the hour, as I wish to adapt these to the convenience of my hearers. If you feel inclined to give thought to the matter, will you meet me at the lecture-room at eight o'clock on the evening of Sunday, August 16, when we could discuss details? The lectures themselves had better, I should think, begin with the month of September.
'Reply to this is unnecessary; I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you on the 16th.Believe me to be yours very truly,
'WALTER EGREMONT.''Ah, this is what Ackroyd was speaking of on Saturday,' Gilbert remarked, holding the letter to his mother. 'I wonder what it means.'
'Who is this Mr. Egremont?' asked Mrs. Grail.
'He belongs to the firm of Egremont & Pollard, so Ackroyd tells me. You know that big factory in Westminster Bridge Roadwhere they make oil-cloth.'
Gilbert was perusing the printed syllabus; it interested him, and he kept it by his plate when he sat down to dinner.
'Do you think of going?' his mother inquired.
'Well, I should like to, if the lectures are good. I suppose he's a young fellow fresh from college. He may have something to say, and he may be only conceited; there's no knowing. Still, I don't dislike the way he writes. Yes, I think I shall go and have a look at him, at all events.'
Gilbert finished his meal and walked back to the factory. Groups of men were standing about in the sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring; some talked and joked, some amused themselves with horse-play. The narrow street was redolent with oleaginous matter; the clothing of the men was penetrated with the same nauseous odour.
At a little distance from the factory, Ackroyd was sitting on a door-step, smoking a pipe. Grail took a seat beside him and drew from his pocket the letter he had just received.
'I've got one of them, too,' Luke observed with small show of interest. There was an unaccustomed gloom on his face; he puffed at his pipe rather sullenly.
'Who has told him our names and addresses?' Gilbert asked.
'Bower, no doubt.'
'But how comes Bower to know anything about me?'
'Oh, I've mentioned you sometimes.'
'Well, do you think of going?'
'No, I shan't go. It isn't at all in my line.'
Gilbert became silent.
'Something the matter?' he asked presently, as his companion puffed on in the same gloomy way.
'A bit of a headache, that's all.'
His tone was unusual. Gilbert fixed his eyes on the pavement.
'It's easy enough to see what it means,' Ackroyd continued after a moment, referring to Egremont's invitation. 'We shall be having an election before long, and he's going to stand for Vauxhall. This is one way of making himself known.'
'If I thought that,' said the other, musingly, 'I shouldn't go near the place.'
'What else can it be?'
'I don't know anything about the man, but he may have an idea that he's doing good.'
'If so, that's quite enough to prevent me from going. What the devil do I want with his help? Can't I read about English literature for myself?'
'Well, I can't say that I have that feeling. A lecture may be a good deal of use, if the man knows his subject well. But,' he added, smiling, 'I suppose you object to him and his position?'
'Of course I do. What business has the fellow to have so much time that he doesn't know what to do with it?'
'He might use it worse, anyhow.'
'I don't know about that. I'd rather he'd get a bad name, then it 'ud be easier to abuse him, and he'd be more good in the end.'
Their eyes met. Gilbert's had a humorous expression, and Ackroyd laughed in an unmirthful way. The factory bell rang; Gilbert rose and waited for the other to accompany him. But Luke, after a struggle to his feet, said suddenly:
'Work be hanged! I've had enough of it; I feel Mondayish, as we used to say in Lancashire.'
'Aren't you coming, then?'
'No, I'll go and get drunk instead.'
'Come on, old man. No good in getting drunk,'
'Maybe I won't but I can't go back to work to-day. So long!'
With which vernacular leave-taking, he turned and strolled away. The bell was clanging its last strokes; Gilbert hurried to the door, and once more merged his humanity in the wage-earning machine.
Two days later, as he sat over his evening meal, Gilbert noticed that his mother had something to say. She cast frequent glances at him; her pursed lips seemed to await an opportune moment.
'Well, mother, what is it?' he said presently, with his wonted look of kindness. By living so long together and in such close intercourse the two had grown skilled in the reading of each other's faces.
'My dear,' she replied, with something of solemnity, 'I was perfectly right. Miss Denny was those girls' mother.'
'Nonsense!'
'But there's no doubt about it. I've asked Thyrza. She knows that was her mother's name, and she knows that her mother was a teacher.'
'In that case I've nothing more to say. You're a wonderful old lady, as I've often told you.'
'I have a good memory, Gilbert. You can't think how pleased I am that I found out that. I feel more interest in them than ever. And the child seemed so pleased too! She could scarcely believe that I'd known her mother before she was born. She wants me to tell her and her sister all I can remember. Now, isn't it nice?'
Gilbert smiled, but made no further remark. The evening silence set in.
CHAPTER VII
THE WORK IN PROGRESS
On the sheltered side of Eastbourne, just at the springing of the downs as you climb towards Beachy Head, is a spacious and heavy-looking stone house, with pillared porch, oriel windows on the ground floor of the front, and a square turret rising above the fine row of chestnuts which flanks the road. It was built some forty years ago, its only neighbours then being a few rustic cottages; recently there has sprung up a suburb of comely red-brick houses, linking it with the visitors' quarter of Eastbourne. The builder and first proprietor, a gentleman whose dignity derived from Mark Lane, called the house Odessa Lodge; at his death it passed by purchase into the hands of people to whom this name seemed something worse than inappropriate, and the abode was henceforth known as The Chestnuts.