Eight per Cent.

CHAPTER VI.-(Continued.)

N Monday evening, as soon as work was over, Ingram went to Hailesworth for his rents. It was late, but he could not get away earlier, and he would not allow Isaac to go on account of the small-pox. There was no risk for himself, as he had had the disease, but he would not let the boys go into danger.

Perhaps it was that he had never been in Stour Street so late; perhaps that Mr. Stansfield had caused him to have a keener perception of the misery which met his eyes; but it certainly struck him that the houses looked more forlorn, and the people more wretched, than ever.

He knocked at Mrs. Lambert's door, but there was no reply, so he looked in, and a big man, with black hair and sunken eyes, swore at him, and asked what he wanted.

Ingram told him.

Rent is it! Then you'd better go next door: my missus is there. Happen she'll pay you, happen she won't: I knows nought about it.' It would be a deal better if you did,' returned Ingram; 'if you'd the rent instead of drinking so much.'

pay

A pretty chap you are to talk!' said Lambert, rising unsteadily from his chair and towering above his landlord: a pretty chap you are to come preaching against drink! Don't you know, without wanting me to tell you, that it's you that makes folk drink? you respectable, religious chaps, as gets hold of a house that's not fit to put a dog in, and crams it full of people! Come and live in Stour Street yourself, and you'll take to drink before a week is out.'

'You took to drink long enough afore you come here, Ben Lambert! Put the saddle on the right horse, man! drink brought you to these housen, but it wasn't the housen as made you drink.'

'And there is your parson as is always about the place,' continued Lambert, whose beer-sodden brain seemed hardly able to take in the sense of Ingram's words: he's a-talking to the folk above a bit, telling them they must do this, that, and the other. He'd better talk a bit to you, I'm thinking. Do you go to church, mate?'

Ingram, seeing he was half tipsy, humoured him and said, 'Yes.' 'I used to go-a good while ago though, but still I minds summat about it, and I saw my missus a-saying of her prayers in this very room only last night. Think of that now!' he continued, with drunken gravity; think of anybody as lives here going down on their knees and saying of their prayers!'

'I don't see why they shouldn't,' said Ingram, feeling uncomfortable. 'Then I'll tell you. We're all give up to the devil, we are; he's got it all straightforward here, and you'll have to go along with the But we was nigh giving him the slip once.'

rest.

'How?'

'When Moseley sold it, Mr. Lloyde come to him and wanted the place; but he weren't willing as he should have it. The devil put him up to that, don't you see, lest folk should talk about the sort of place it was when it come to be put in order; so Moseley hung off, and wouldn't give no answer, and then he heard of you wanting it, and sold

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it sharp afore Mr. Lloyde knew. That was it, mate, and the devil put you up to buy it, knowing as when poor folk are poor folks' landlords he's sure to get his own.'

It was not a pleasant view of matters which Lambert, with his solemn drunken manner, put before him, and Ingram did not like the reason which had caused Moseley to prefer him to Mr. Lloyde.

'How do you know aught about Mr. Lloyde wanting it? I never heard tell as he did.'

'I heard him and Moseley talking when they didn't know I was by. I'm not blaming you, master; but the devil will have his own and you've helped to give it to him.'

Lambert was prepared to talk for another half hour, but Ingram, wishing him good-night, left the room, saying he would look for Susan. Although the man was drunk it vexed him to hear his talk, and he wanted to get away from it.

There was a murmur of voices as he stood by the next door, which was partly open. Pushing it a little wider he could see into the room. Jenny Clarkson sat in her old place by the fire, her face bent over the child which lay on her knees. It was dying: the pinched face and hollow little cheeks hardly hore a sign of life, but the eyelids quivered now and then, and the eyes seemed trying to find some familiar object through the darkness which was gathering so rapidly over their sight.

Jenny bent down and kissed it. Mother's here, darling,' she whispered.

The tiny fingers closed over her hand, and a little sigh crossed the pallid lips.

Susan Lambert, who had been on the other side of the room, came and knelt down by the dying child.

'Nellie is going to sleep,' she said, in a low, distinct voice, which struck upon Ingram's ear as strangely subdued and soft. Nellie is going to sleep, and she'll wake up where there's flowers, and birds, and sunlight, and pretty things. Nellie's going to a happy place! and Jesus will take her up in His arms and take care on her, for He loves little children same as their mother does! Nellie will like to go

there?'

'Yes,' whispered the child.

Nellie and mother.'

A low cry rang through the room.

Mother can't come. He won't have mother!' wailed Jenny, bending down again to kiss the little one, who was so fast slipping away from her grasp-slipping away for ever, as she thought in her great despair. Then Nellie will stay with mother!'

But even as the words were uttered a slight shiver ran through her frame, and she had gone away on that long journey which even little children must take alone.

'Let the child be give me some drink!' muttered a harsh voice from the corner where the bed was placed. 'I'm parched wi' thirst! Give me a drink, I say! and don't bother about the child, she's well enough.'

"Ah!' said Susan, rising, she is well! never better, for the Lord's took her clean out of Stour Street. She's in Heaven by now, Bill Clarkson!' she continued, as she crossed the room with a cup of water,

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'She's not dead?' asked the man anxiously. Nellie's not dead? Why, she weren't half as bad as I be. Let me see; she's only in a bit of faint, I reckon.'

There was a sound as if he were trying to get out of bed, followed by a sigh.

'I'm weak as grass.'

'Lie still, I'll bring her,' said Susan; and she returned to the fireplace where Jenny was sitting, and still gazing with wide-open, tearless eyes, at the little face upon her knees.

Jenny, let me carry her to her father.'

'I'll take her,' said her mother, in a strong hard voice: and she gathered the child up in her arms and went towards the bed. Ingram stepped inside the door and stood in the shadow.

There, Bill,' said his wife, going close to him; 'there's your work! You've killed three children-three little children as God sent for you to take care on; they're all gone now. You've drunk the

money as should have given 'em food, and fire, and housen fit to live in: and you've beat 'em, and clemmed 'em, and starved 'em. But they're dead now, all of 'em-dead and gone out of your wicked reach! You can't hurt 'em no more; and I thank the Lord as you're lying there sick and I've a chance to tell you what you've done. I've never said a word afore, you'd have killed me if I had; and there was the little ones to see to, I couldn't leave 'em alone wi' you, but I'll speak now: you've murdered 'em all, you and the man as owns these housen, where children die by scores.'

'I never hurt the child,' muttered Bill, shrinking back from the little face which was held so near his own, while Susan Lambert tried to draw Jenny away.

'Never hurt her! Look here!' and the poor mother pointed to a purple bruise on the forehead, and then her voice rose to a shrill cry, but sank as she clasped the dead child to her bosom. Never hurt her, Bill! I don't know whether there is a God up in Heaven: if there is, He don't take much heed of Stour Street folk; but I pray Him, if He ever hears what we do say, to punish you for all you've done to them as is gone; to punish you hard and bitter, day and night, for ever and

Hush, Jenny! hush! you don't know what you're saying!' cried Susan, trying to stop her. But Jenny went on,—

'I know well enough; haven't I had it in my mind for years, with never a chance to tell him till now? Let me alone, Susan Lambert; you've got religion, you have, but you've felt as bad as I do afore the parson come and put you in the other road.'

'That's true,' sighed Susan; 'I was worse than you, but now I knows better. You let be, Jenny; let be, and leave the Lord to do. His work as He has a mind. He won't forget nothing, for He's seen it all, though He don't seem to take no notice. Happen Bill's on his death-bed now; more folk dies of the sickness than gets over it, they do say; and then, Jenny, when you'd put him in the ground you'd be sorry for what you've said to night.'

'He won't die!" said Jenny, sullenly; and if he did I've spoke the truth.'

'Ah, that you have! trust you for that, you wild-cat!' cried the

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man, savagely. I'm not going to die; I'll be up and about after a bit, and I'll pay you out for this.'

Jenny turned-the dead child in her arms-and looked at him.

'Do you think I'm going to stop with you now the little one is gone? You'll never have the chance to touch me again, Bill Clarkson.' And as she said so she went out of the room and sank down on the doorstep, with her dead babe still at her breast. The poor woman had the wild light of despair in her eyes, but Mrs. Lambert had followed

her out and now persuaded the young mother to come back to her wretched home. Gently she got her to give up the dead child, and she laid it reverently on a little table on one side. For a time Jenny gazed at her with tearless eyes, and then suddenly she started from her seat, and hurried out of the house without a word.

But Ingram had seen her face, and he knew what she was going to do, though he never shaped the thought into words. She passed him close, but the shade kept him concealed, and once outside in the passage she turned towards the yard-door. Ingram let her open it and then he followed. She was out in the court then, looking round eagerly into the darkness; but all was silent, for people did not come into the yard at that hour. Gleams of light from the uncurtained windows fell upon the stones, upon the worn, brown windlass, and lighted the way towards the well. Jenny went close to it. For one moment she stooped down and looked into its black depths, and saw the reflection of a star shine up at her from the gloom.

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Any one seeing her there would have thought she was going to draw some water; but Ingram knew better, and he made another step towards the crouching form. All at once she stood upright, and with a scream that echoed through the night she threw up her arms and plunged into the well. Ingram sprang forward, but his foot slipped and he almost fell, clutching her dress in both hands as she went down; but the thin, worn-out garment could not stand the strain. With a rending tear it gave way and she was gone!

A dozen people were in the court before he could regain his feet, for her scream had roused the tenants, and they came out to see what had happened.

'Here, lads, lend a hand!' shouted Ingram; we'll save her yet!' 'What's up, master?' inquired Ben Lambert, who had come out with the rest. 'Save who?'

Jenny Clarkson is down the well!'

The words sent a shiver through the crowd.

'Down the well?'

'Yes, and I'm going after her. Hold on now to the windlass, and give me a light. Steady there, Ben, and don't go too fast.'

The men did not require teaching; used as most of them were to coal-pits, they well knew how to lower away in case of accident. Ingram's orders were obeyed without a word.

'Will the rope hold?' he asked, as he stood on the brink with a candle in his hand.

'I don't know,' replied Ben, doubtfully.

'Never mind, we must risk it. Let go!' and he began the descent. Run, Jack Lucas, and get another rope. There'll be one at Brown's; in case this breaks we'll have a second handy,' said Ben Lambert, whose head was clear enough now.

Lucas, a wiry young fellow, ran out of the court, and the windlass worked round with a steady swing. The frightened crowd huddled together near the well, and one woman began to sob.

Hold thy noise!' said Lambert, sharply, or how can we hear if he calls?'

After that there was no sound except the creak of the straining rope, until a faint splash told that the bucket had reached the water. Plenty of lights were flaring in the people's hands, and a sort of hushed sigh went through the crowd as Lambert held up his finger and the windlass stopped. Then came a silence, and the listeners hardly dared to breathe. Lambert bent down and peered into the darkness, but he saw nothing save Ingram's light glimmering far beneath him; what he was doing it was impossible to make out.

'Has he got her?' whispered Susan, who was standing close to her husband.

'Not yet.' And then there was another pause.

Give me a yard more rope,' came up in a faint shout from the well; and the demand was instantly complied with.

'Don't go no farther, Bill,' whispered Susan, hurriedly; 'it's terrible rotten towards the end.'

Stop!' said Ben, for he saw that the coils still unpaid out were frayed and jagged.

'We can't give you no more, master,' he cried down to Ingram.