The Salt of the Earth

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　Strong and silent the tide of Thames flowed upward, and over it swept themorning tide of humanity. Through white autumnal mist yellow sunbeamsflitted from shore to shore. The dome, the spires, the river frontagesslowly unveiled and brightened: there was hope of a fair day.Not that it much concerned this throng of men and women hastening to theirlabour. From near and far, by the league-long highways of South London,hither they converged each morning, and joined the procession across thebridge; their task was the same to-day as yesterday, regardless of gleam orgloom. Many had walked such a distance that they plodded wearily, lookingneither to right nor left. The more vigorous strode briskly on, elbowingtheir way, or nimbly skipping into the road to gain advance; yet these alsohad a fixed gaze, preoccupied or vacant, seldom cheerful. Here and there acouple of friends conversed; girls, with bag or parcel and a book for thedinner hour, chattered and laughed; but for the most part lips were muteamid the clang and roar of heavy-laden wheels.It was the march of those who combat hunger with delicate hands: at thepen's point, or from behind the breastwork of a counter, or trusting tobare wits pressed daily on the grindstone. Their chief advantage over thesinewy class beneath them lay in the privilege of spending more than theycould afford on house and clothing; with rare exceptions they had no hope,no chance, of reaching independence; enough if they upheld the threadbarestandard of respectability, and bequeathed it to their children as asolitary heirloom. The oldest looked the poorest, and naturally so; amidthe tramp of multiplying feet, their steps had begun to lag when speed wasmore than ever necessary; they saw newcomers outstrip them, and trudgedunder an increasing load.No eye surveying this procession would have paused for a moment on ThomasBird. In costume there was nothing to distinguish him from hundreds ofrather shabby clerks who passed along with their out-of-fashion chimney-potand badly rolled umbrella; his gait was that of a man who takes no exercisebeyond the daily walk to and from his desk; the casual glance could seenothing in his features but patient dullness tending to good humour. Hemight be thirty, he might be forty--impossible to decide. Yet when a ray ofsunshine fell upon him, and he lifted his eyes to the eastward promise,there shone in his countenance something one might vainly have soughtthrough the streaming concourse of which Thomas Bird was an unregardedatom. For him, it appeared, the struggling sunlight had a message of hope.Trouble cleared from his face; he smiled unconsciously and quickened hissteps.For fifteen years he had walked to and fro over Blackfriars Bridge, leavinghis home in Camberwell at eight o'clock and reaching it again at seven.Fate made him a commercial clerk as his father before him; he earned morethan enough for his necessities, but seemed to have reached the limit ofpromotion, for he had no influential friends, and he lacked the capacity torise by his own efforts. There may have been some calling for which Thomaswas exactly suited, but he did not know of it; in the office he provedhimself a trustworthy machine, with no opportunity of becoming anythingelse. His parents were dead, his kindred scattered, he lived, as forseveral years past, in lodgings. But it never occurred to him to think ofhis lot as mournful. A man of sociable instincts, he had manyacquaintances, some of whom he cherished. An extreme simplicity marked histastes, and the same characteristic appeared in his conversation; an easyman to deceive, easy to make fun of, yet impossible to dislike, ordespise--unless by the despicable. He delighted in stories of adventure, ofbravery by flood or field, and might have posed--had he ever posed atall--as something of an authority on North Pole expeditions and thegeography of Polynesia.He received his salary once a month, and to-day was pay-day: theconsciousness of having earned a certain number of sovereigns always sethis thoughts on possible purchases, and at present he was revolving thesubject of his wardrobe. Certainly it needed renewal, but Thomas could notdecide at which end to begin, head or feet. His position in a leading housedemanded a good hat, the bad weather called for new boots. Livingeconomically as he did, it should have been a simple matter to resolve thedoubt by purchasing both articles, but, for one reason and another, Thomasseldom had a surplus over the expenses of his lodgings; in practice hefound it very difficult to save a sovereign for other needs.When evening released him he walked away in a cheerful frame of mind,grasping the money in his trousers' pocket, and all but decided to makesome acquisition on the way home. Near Ludgate Circus some one addressedhim over his shoulder.'Good evening, Tom; pleasant for the time of year.'The speaker was a man of fifty, stout and florid--the latter peculiarityespecially marked in his nose; he looked like a substantial merchant, andspoke with rather pompous geniality. Thrusting his arm through the clerk's,he walked with him over Blackfriars Bridge, talking in the friendlieststrain of things impersonal. Beyond the bridge--'Do you tram it?' he asked, glancing upwards.'I think so, Mr. Warbeck,' answered the other, whose tone to hisacquaintance was very respectful.'Ah! I'm afraid it would make me late.--Oh, by the bye, Tom, I'm reallyashamed--most awkward that this kind of thing happens so often, but--couldyou, do you think?--No, no; one sovereign only. Let me make a note of it bythe light of this shop-window. Really, the total is getting quiteconsiderable. Tut, tut! You shall have a cheque in a day or two. Oh, itcan't run on any longer; I'm completely ashamed of myself. Entirelytemporary--as I explained. A cheque on Wednesday at latest. Good-bye, Tom.'They shook hands cordially, and Mr. Warbeck went off in a hansom. ThomasBird, changing his mind about the tram, walked all the way home, and withbent head. One would have thought that he had just done somethingdiscreditable.He was wondering, not for the first time, whether Mrs. Warbeck knew orsuspected that her husband was in debt to him. Miss Warbeck--AlmaWarbeck--assuredly had never dreamed of such a thing. The system of casualloans dated from nearly twelve months ago, and the total was now not muchless than thirty pounds. Mr. Warbeck never failed to declare that he wasashamed of himself, but probably the creditor experienced more discomfortof that kind. At the first playful demand Thomas felt a shock. He had knownthe Warbecks since he was a lad, had always respected them as somewhat hissocial superiors, and, as time went on, had recognised that the differenceof position grew wider: he remaining stationary, while his friendsprogressed to a larger way of living. But they were, he thought, no lesskind to him; Mrs. Warbeck invited him to the house about once a month, andAlma--Alma talked with him in such a pleasant, homely way. Did theirexpenditure outrun their means? He would never have supposed it, but forthe City man's singular behaviour. About the cheque so often promised hecared little, but with all his heart he hoped Mrs. Warbeck did not know.Somewhere near Camberwell Green, just as he had resumed the debate abouthis purchases, a middle-aged woman met him with friendly greeting. Herappearance was that of a decent shopkeeper's wife.'I'm so glad I've met you, Mr. Bird. I know you'll be anxious to hear howour poor friend is getting on.'She spoke of the daughter of a decayed tradesman, a weak and overworkedgirl, who had lain for some weeks in St. Thomas's Hospital. Mrs. Pritchard,a gadabout infected with philanthropy, was fond of discovering such cases,and in everyday conversation made the most of her charitable efforts.'They'll allow her out in another week,' she pursued. 'But, of course, shecan't expect to be fit for anything for a time. And I very much doubtwhether she'll ever get the right use of her limbs again. But what we haveto think of now is to get her some decent clothing. The poor thing haspositively nothing. I'm going to speak to Mrs. Doubleday, and a few otherpeople. Really, Mr. Bird, if it weren't that I've presumed on your goodnature so often lately--'She paused and smiled unctuously at him.'I'm afraid I can't do much,' faltered Thomas, reddening at the vision of anew 'chimney-pot.''No, no; of course not. I'm sure I should never expect--it's only thatevery little--however little--does help, you know.'Thomas thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a florin, which Mrs.Pritchard pursed with effusive thanks.Certain of this good woman's critics doubted her competence as a trustee,but Thomas Bird had no such misgiving. He talked with kindly interest ofthe unfortunate girl, and wished her well in a voice that carriedconviction.His lodgings were a pair of very small, mouldy, and ill-furnished rooms; hetook them unwillingly, overcome by the landlady's doleful story of theirlong lodgerless condition, and, in the exercise of a heavenly forbearance,remained year after year. The woman did not cheat him, and Thomas knewenough of life to respect her for this remarkable honesty; she was simplyan ailing, lachrymose slut, incapable of effort. Her son, a lad who hadfailed in several employments from sheer feebleness of mind and body,practically owed his subsistence to Thomas Bird, whose good offices had atlength established the poor fellow at a hairdresser's. To sit frequentlyfor an hour at a time, as Thomas did, listening with attention to Mrs.Batty's talk of her own and her son's ailments, was in itself a marvel ofcharity. This evening she met him as he entered, and lighted him into hisroom.'There's a letter come for you, Mr. Bird. I put it down somewheres--why,now, where did I--? Oh, 'ere it is. You'll be glad to 'ear as Sam did hisfirst shave to-day, an' his 'and didn't tremble much neither.'Burning with desire to open the letter, which he saw was from Mrs. Warbeck,Thomas stood patiently until the flow of words began to gurgle away amidgroans and pantings.'Well,' he cried gaily, 'didn't I promise Sam a shilling when he'd done hisfirst shave? If I didn't I ought to have done, and here it is for him.'Then he hurried into the bedroom, and read his letter by candle-light. Itwas a short scrawl on thin, scented, pink-hued notepaper. Would he do Mrs.Warbeck the 'favour' of looking in before ten to-night? No explanation ofthis unusually worded request; and Thomas fell at once into a tremor ofanxiety. With a hurried glance at his watch, he began to make ready for thevisit, struggling with drawers which would neither open nor shut, anddriven to despair by the damp condition of his clean linen.In this room, locked away from all eyes but his own, lay certain relicswhich Thomas worshipped. One was a photograph of a girl of fifteen. At thatage Alma Warbeck promised little charm, and the photograph allowed herless; but it was then that Thomas Bird became her bondman, as he had eversince remained. There was also a letter, the only one that he had everreceived from her--'Dear Mr. Bird,--Mamma says will you buy her some moreof those jewjewbs at the shop in the city, and bring them onSunday.--Yours sincerely, Alma Warbeck'--written when she was sixteen,seven years ago. Moreover, there was a playbill, used by Alma on the singleoccasion when he accompanied the family to a theatre.Never had he dared to breathe a syllable of what he thought--'hoped' wouldmisrepresent him, for Thomas in this matter had always stifled hope.Indeed, hope would have been irrational. In the course of her teens Almagrew tall and well proportioned; not beautiful of feature, but pleasing;not brilliant in personality, but good-natured; fairly intelligent andmoderately ambitious. She was the only daughter of a dubiously activecommission-agent, and must deem it good fortune if she married a man withthree or four hundred a year; but Thomas Bird had no more than his twelvepounds a month, and did not venture to call himself a gentleman. In Alma hefound the essentials of true ladyhood--perhaps with reason; he had neverheard her say an ill-natured thing, nor seen upon her face a look whichpained his acute sensibilities; she was unpretentious, of equal temper,nothing of a gossip, kindly disposed. Never for a moment had he flatteredhimself that Alma perceived his devotion or cared for him otherwise than asfor an old friend. But thought is free, and so is love. The modest clerkhad made this girl the light of his life, and whether far or near the raysof that ideal would guide him on his unworldly path.New shaven and freshly clad, he set out for the Warbecks' house, which wasin a near part of Brixton. Not an imposing house by any means, but anobject of reverence to Thomas Bird. A servant whom he did notrecognise--servants came and went at the Warbecks'--admitted him to thedrawing-room, which was vacant; there, his eyes wandering about thegimcrack furniture, which he never found in the same arrangement at twosuccessive visits, he waited till his hostess came in.Mrs. Warbeck was very stout, very plain, and rather untidy, yet hercountenance made an impression not on the whole disagreeable; with her wideeyes, slightly parted lips, her homely smile, and unadorned speech, shecounteracted in some measure the effect, upon a critical observer, of thepretentious ugliness with which she was surrounded. Thomas thought her astraightforward woman, and perhaps was not misled by his partiality.Certainly the tone in which she now began, and the tenor of her remarks,repelled suspicion of duplicity.'Well, now, Mr. Thomas, I wish to have a talk.' She had thus styled himsince he grew too old to be called Tom; that is to say, since he wasseventeen. He was now thirty-one. 'And I'm going to talk to you just likethe old friends we are. You see? No nonsense; no beating about the bush.You'd rather have it so, wouldn't you?' Scarce able to articulate, thevisitor showed a cheery assent. 'Yes, I was sure of that. Now--better cometo the point at once--my daughter is--well, no, she isn't yet, but the factis I feel sure she'll very soon be engaged.'The blow was softened by Thomas's relief at discovering that money wouldnot be the subject of their talk, yet it fell upon him, and he winced.'You've expected it,' pursued the lady, with bluff good-humour. 'Yes, ofcourse you have.' She said ''ave,' a weakness happily unshared by herdaughter. 'We don't want it talked about, but I know you can hold yourtongue. Well, it's young Mr. Fisher, of Nokes, Fisher and Co. We haven'tknown him long, but he took from the first to Alma, and I have my reasonsfor believing that the feeling is mutial, though I wouldn't for the worldlet Alma hear me say so.'Young Mr. Fisher. Thomas knew of him; a capable business man, and son of aworthy father. He kept his teeth close, his eyes down.'And now,' pursued Mrs. Warbeck, becoming still more genial, 'I'm gettinground to the unpleasant side of the talk, though I don't see that it needbe unpleasant. We're old friends, and where's the use of being friendly ifyou can't speak your mind, when speak you must? It comes to this: I justwant to ask you quite straightforward, not to be offended or take it ill ifwe don't ask you to come here till this business is over and settled. Yousee? The fact is, we've told Mr. Fisher he can look in whenever he likes,and it might happen, you know, that he'd meet you here, and, speaking likeold friends--I think it better not.'A fire burned in the listener's cheeks, a noise buzzed in his ears. Heunderstood the motive of this frank request; humble as ever--never humblerthan when beneath this roof--he was ready to avow himself Mr. Fisher'sinferior; but with all his heart he wished that Mrs. Warbeck had found someother way of holding him aloof from her prospective son-in-law.'Of course,' continued the woman stolidly, 'Alma doesn't know I'm sayingthis. It's just between our two selves. I haven't even spoken of it to Mr.Warbeck. I'm quite sure that you'll understand that we're obliged to make afew changes in the way we've lived. It's all very well for you and me to becomfortable together, and laugh and talk about all sorts of things, butwith one like Alma in the 'ouse, and the friends she's making and thecompany that's likely to come here--now you do see what I mean, don'tyou, now? And you won't take it the wrong way? No, I was sure you wouldn't.There, now, we'll shake 'ands over it, and be as good friends as ever.' Thehandshaking was metaphorical merely. Thomas smiled, and was endeavouring toshape a sentence, when he heard voices out in the hall.'There's Alma and her father back,' said Mrs. Warbeck. 'I didn't thinkthey'd come back so soon; they've been with some new friends of ours.'Thomas jumped up.'I can't--I'd rather not see them, please, Mrs. Warbeck. Can you preventit?' His voice startled her somewhat, and she hesitated. A gesture ofentreaty sent her from the room. As the door opened Alma was heard laughingmerrily; then came silence. In a minute or two the hostess returned and thevisitor, faltering, 'Thank you. I quite understand,' quietly left thehouse.For three weeks he crossed and recrossed Blackfriars Bridge without meetingMr. Warbeck. His look was perhaps graver, his movements less alert, but hehad not noticeably changed; his life kept its wonted tenor. Theflorid-nosed gentleman at length came face to face with him on Ludgate Hillin the dinner-hour--an embarrassment to both. Speedily recoveringself-possession Mr. Warbeck pressed the clerk's hand with fervour and drewhim aside.'I've been wanting to see you, Tom. So you keep away from us, do you? Iunderstand. The old lady has given me a quiet hint. Well, well, you'requite right, and I honour you for it, Tom. Nothing selfish about you; youkeep it all to yourself; I honour you for it, my dear boy. And perhaps Ihad better tell you, Alma is to be married in January. After that, same asbefore, won't it be?--Have a glass of wine with me? No time? We must have aquiet dinner together some evening; one of the old chop houses.--There wassomething else I wanted to speak about, but I see you're in a hurry. Allright, it'll do next time.'He waved his hand and was gone. When next they encountered Mr. Warbeck madebold to borrow ten shillings, without the most distant allusion to hisoutstanding debt.Thomas Bird found comfort in the assurance that Mrs. Warbeck had kept hersecret as the borrower kept his.Alma's father was not utterly dishonoured in his sight.One day in January, Thomas, pleading indisposition, left work at twelve. Hehad a cold and a headache, and felt more miserable than at any time sincehis school-days. As he rode home in an omnibus Mr. and Mrs. Warbeck wereentertaining friends at the wedding-breakfast, and Thomas knew it. For anhour or two in the afternoon he sat patiently under his landlady's talk,but a fit of nervous exasperation at length drove him forth, and he did notreturn till supper-time. Just as he sat down to a basin of gruel, Mrs.Batty admitted a boy who brought him a message. 'Mother sent me round, Mr.Bird,' said the messenger, 'and she wants to know if you could just comeand see her; it's something about father. He had some work to do, but hehasn't come home to do it.'Without speaking Thomas equipped himself and walked a quarter of a mile tothe lodgings of a married friend of his--a clerk chronically out of work,and too often in liquor. The wife received him with tears. After eightweeks without earning a penny, her husband had obtained the job ofaddressing five hundred envelopes, to be done at home and speedily. Temptedforth by an acquaintance 'for half a minute' as he sat down to the task, hehad been absent for three hours, and would certainly return unfit for work.'It isn't only the money,' sobbed his wife, 'but it might have got him morework, and now, of course, he's lost the chance, and we haven't nothing morethan a crust of bread left. And--'Thomas slipped half-a-crown into her hand and whispered, 'Send Jack beforethe shops close.' Then, to escape thanks, he shouted out, 'Where's theseblessed envelopes, and where's the addresses? All right, just leave me thiscorner of the table and don't speak to me as long as I sit here.'Between half-past nine and half-past twelve, at the rate of eighty an hour,he addressed all but half the five hundred envelopes. Then his friendappeared, dolefully drunk. Thomas would not look at him.'He'll finish the rest by dinner to-morrow,' said the miserable wife, 'andthat's in time.'So Thomas Bird went home. He felt better at heart, and blamed himself forhis weakness during the day. He blamed himself often enough for this orthat, knowing not that such as he are the salt of the earth.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *