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m 
 
THE 
 
 /«7 
 
 / ^!i^ 
 
 ROMANCE OF A BACK STREET 
 
 % iofatlrtfe. 
 
 BY 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OP "SICONO COUBIM BARAH," "LITTLB KATB RIRBT," "FOR HBR BAKK,*^ 
 
 "NO MAM'S rRIBND," BTC., VTO. 
 
 Qi;ovanto: 
 
 HUNTER, ROSE & COMPANY. 
 
 1875- 
 
 h< 
 
 \ 
 
PR fZ33 
 
 Entered accordins to the Act of the Par- 
 liament of Canada, In the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and seventy-flve. by HUNteb, 
 Rose & Co., in the Office of the Miniater of 
 .Igriculture. 
 
 iS 
 
 tlttNTKK, K08B AND CO., 
 
 PRINTRlUt AND BINDKKI), 
 TORONTO. 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 

 
 c^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 John Dax .' i 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Left in Trust 8 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 A Double Confession 14 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Cast Down 22 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Time OF Trial 27 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Confession : 39 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Cruel Truth 43 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Ellen is Grateful 48 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Happy Together 54 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 K»l 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A BACK STREET. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JOHN DAX. 
 
 I HE fancy repository in Gibbon Street, Lambeth, was no 
 ephemeral affair — none of your fly-away businesses sub- 
 ject to strange accidents, defalcant tenants and missing keys, 
 at those embarrassing quarters of the year when the land- 
 lord wants his rent. Meagre and poor to look at, " Morison's 
 Repository " had evidently been a good one to go, if the board 
 between the first-floor windows could be relied on for veracity, 
 the business having been established in the year of our lx)rd 
 one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight No one doubted 
 the fact in Gibbon Street ; the oldest inhabitant had no recol- 
 lection of any name save Morison over the little square win- 
 dows of the shop, where business was far from brisk, despite 
 the date of its first start, and the claims of old associations 
 which it asserted over all new comers to the neighbourhood. 
 
 There were i;wo Morisons left to manage the shop at the 
 date our story opens — two pale-faced young women, who 
 would have been pretty in another sphere, with a fancy reposii 
 
The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 tory off their minds, and a struggle to keep afloat in the world 
 less perceptibly manifest. Morison's Repository could not be 
 doing well down that shadowy back street, where grim facts were 
 more patent to the locality than fancy goods ; there was little in 
 the window <to attract the attention of passers-by making their 
 short cuts to Waterloo Road and Kennington, and the regular 
 custorfters were always few and far between. The stock did 
 not change much from year's end to year's end ; there were 
 wooden and leather dolls, that seemed as old and time-stained 
 as the bricks of the edifice ; there was a superior wax doll, 
 under a cracked glass shade, which had been once the glory 
 of the firm, but which had let in the flies of late days, and spot- 
 ted irretrievably the image of youthful beauty still simpering 
 beneath it. In their proper seasons there were a few new half- 
 penny balls, shuttlecocks, marbles, and kites ; but they went 
 off slowly, and there was always a heavy percentage of them lying 
 in odd corners of the window, long after the demand for them 
 had subsided. The rent was not paid by the profits on these 
 fancy goods we may assert at once. A written announcement, 
 in Italian hand, framed and glazed, and hung up at the back of 
 the window, told the old stpry of hard work and small pay : 
 " Dressmaking done here," had been formally announced three 
 months after old Morison had died, leaving a second wife and 
 two daughters to the mercies of Gibbon Street, and then dress- 
 making killed the second wife off-hand, and made of the 
 
yohn Dax. 
 
 id 
 
 daughters two sunken-eyed, hollow-cheeked, sad-looking young 
 women, whom the neighbours respected and pitied, and helped 
 with orders when they were able. Time was when the Morison 
 girls had been considered stuck up \ that was when their father 
 was alive, a clerk in the Customs, with a scanty salary that 
 helped towards paying the rent, and kept him every evening 
 in fours of whisky and water hot, at the " George," over the 
 way. People said, till he died, that he had made a pretty penny 
 by the business; and then his wife and daughters half ruined 
 themselves with the expenses of his funeral, and it began to be 
 whispered abroad that they were " down on their luck," even 
 for the denizens of Gibbon Street. Still they never gave way, 
 never acknowledged that they were poor or hard pressed, even 
 when the mother died, and three years afterwards they were 
 still the Misses Morison, of the Repository, with a smile and 
 a nod — the former forced at times — to those who gave each 
 in her turn good day at the front door, or in the murky recesses 
 of the shop. 
 
 They were young women seldom, if ever, seen together — 
 work would not allow it, or the shop stopped the way to the 
 society of each other ; for if there were no pressure of business, 
 there were many questions as to the price of goods, from pen- 
 niless children of an enquiring turn of mind and with much time 
 upon their hands. One week Mary Morison, the younger sister, 
 worked at dress-making behind the counter, and Ellen, the elder 
 
The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 by two years, and only one-and-twenty, was to be seen, over 
 the wire-blind of the parlour door, stitching quickly and 
 steadily, and thinking of old times, perhaps ; and next week 
 the position would be reversed, and Mary would be indoors, 
 and Ellen waiting for all customers. They went to church 
 twice every Sunday, and were good young women, who did 
 not run after the chaps on Sabbath evenings, as was the fashion 
 amongst the girls of Gibbon Street, take them in the aggregate. 
 It was remarked by curious folk that they did not go to church 
 together, but that each went her own way and to her own par- 
 ticular place of worship, as though their religions differ^id, or a 
 week's hard work together had rendered them weary of each 
 other's company. And Sundays, or week days, they always 
 looked gravely at the world before them and took life as a 
 serious undertaking, which it was to them. They kept no com- 
 pany, and they never called upon their neighbours, save in 
 the way of " measuring," and " fitting," and taking home their 
 work ; want of time was their excuse, whenever excuse was 
 necessary, to those who would have liked to call them friends. 
 Mary and Ellen Morison had no friends, unless we except 
 John Dax, who was their " humble and obedient servant to 
 command," and who came every morning at seven, and every 
 evening at ten, to take down and put up the shutters before 
 the windows of the establishment This was an occupation 
 that had begun when John Dax was a lanky youth of seven- 
 
yohn Dax, 
 
 teen, and before old Morison had gone the way of all flesh, 
 and for five years or more had been continued. John Dax 
 had been first discovered on the door-step of the fancy reposi- 
 tory, quietly shivering himself to death, until he had been 
 helped in by father and daughters, and supplied with some- 
 thing warm and filling for the nonce. Then they had learned 
 John's history — that he was out of work and times were bad, 
 and his father was a vocalist, that is, a gentleman whose es- 
 pecial mission it was to howl nautical ballads in the street, and 
 to depend upon the patronage of those who stopped to hear him. 
 It had been hard work that winter with John's father, whose 
 voice gave way about the same period as his legs, which were 
 taken suddenly with paralysis, and spoiled business, and so 
 John Dax from that time forth had done his best to work for 
 his father and himself, not always with success, and not at any 
 time to the satisfaction of his parent, who was an exacting 
 man, a mercenary man and hard to please. When John Dax 
 came home with less than one-and-sixpence, John Dax's father 
 swore profanely ; and when John brought no money home at 
 all — which was occasionally the cas*" -the father would fling 
 his crutches at him, and bid hiin keep away until he was of 
 service to him, and money could be had in some fashion. 
 
 " Gort^s truth — ain't there any hankerchers hanging out of 
 back pockets, now?" he screamed forth one day in his rage ; 
 but this might have been in a moment of excitement, and not 
 
The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 intended as a hint to his son and heir, standing by the door- 
 way, and keeping a watchful eye upon the crutch. At all 
 events, John Dax never brought home pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 though he loitered much about the streets when there was no 
 work for casual hands to be found in the factories, and no 
 spare cash to hire a barrow, and heap it up with damaged fruits, 
 and go costering in the New Cut and Lower Marsh. 
 
 John Dax was not a strong youth, and hard work and in- 
 different living had told against him, till the night of his col- 
 lapse on Mr. Morison's doorstep, as they were telling against 
 him, even more forcibly, five years and some odd months after- 
 wards. He was the shadow of a young man at that time, a 
 patient and uncomplaining being, whom the wise folk down his 
 court, where his father lived, considered " half a fool " — he was 
 so awfully quiet, and took his troubles with such strange philoso- 
 phy. The life of the boy was the life of the man, with very 
 little difference, luck having been dead against John Dax from 
 the unfortunate day of his birth — factory life, street-barrow life, 
 shoeblack life, life from hand to mouth, which means the mouth 
 wide open and nothing for the hand to put into it. 
 
 Patience and perseverance in this weak, old-fashioned young 
 man ought to have accomplished something for John Dax, if 
 there be any truth in aphorisms ; but there were certain obsta- 
 cles in his way, and he was only surmounting them by degrees. 
 Five years ago he had been unable to read and write, and Mary 
 
te, 
 th 
 
 s. 
 
 h 
 
 . 
 
 yohn Dax. 
 
 Morison had told him she was ashamed of him for that, and 
 he had begun in odd moments afterwards, and under terrible 
 difficulties, his father's grave objection being one of them. He 
 had succeeded partly in his efforts — that is, he could write his 
 own name and spell a few facts out of the columns of a 
 newspaper. Mary Morison, unwittingly, was another obstacle 
 to his advancement, for we may say at once that John Dax 
 was over head and ears in love with her, and would have de- 
 clined any situation under the sun that would have prevented 
 his opening and shutting the repository, and catching a glimpse 
 of Mary's face, and of being warmed to the heart's core by 
 Mary's sad, but pleasant smile. Mary was a princess to this 
 ill-clad, ill-fed young man — a divinity in rusty black — and as 
 far above his dreams, or his ambitions, as the other goddesses. 
 She was a fair obstacle in the way of his advancement, never- 
 theless, but she never guessed it, and as for imagining that he 
 loved her, she would as soon have dreamed of love from the 
 fly-blown doll, under the glass case in the window. He was 
 no hero to her — only a poor sickly mortal, who put the shut- 
 ters up for ninepence a week, and went cowering home after- 
 wards in the shadows of the narrow streets beyond, where crime 
 was rife and penury was plentiful. 
 
 Still John Dax had his romance, and that is why the history 
 of it, and all that came of it, may be worth telling in these 
 pages. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 LEFT IN TRUST. 
 
 HEN it was Ellen Morison's turn to keep watch and 
 ward behind the counter of the little shop in Gib- 
 bon Street, John Dax saw but little of the younger sister. 
 Ellen was equally kind in her quiet way, equally gentle and sym- 
 pathetic in her patronage, but the kindness and the patronage 
 were not Mary's. 
 
 One evening in Ellen's week, John Dax became suddenly 
 more absent and confused than ordtnary, and Ellen, an ob- 
 servant young woman, even when work was pressing, detected 
 a change in his demeanour before he had put up the third 
 shutter of the shop, and nearly succeeded in driving the corner 
 of it through the upper glass window. 
 
 When he came in for shutter No. 4, she said, without look- 
 ing up from her work — 
 
 " Is anything the matter, John ?" 
 
 " Yes — there is — a little the matter," he said, in a hesitating 
 manner. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " asked Ellen Morison. 
 
 ) 
 
 \ 
 
Left in Trust. 
 
 " No, I ain't ill," answered John Dax, " but the old 'un is."' 
 
 "Your father?" 
 
 " Yes ; he's going off the hooks, at last." 
 
 John was not refined in his discourse — even in his grief the 
 poor fellow was slangy; and there was real grief at the bottom of 
 his heart for the man who had brought him up badly, and been' 
 never grateful for a son's attention. 
 
 Ellen Morison said a few words of comfort to him, quoted! 
 one or two texts applicable to his condition, and stitched on in 
 her usual swift and silent manner. John listened, nodded gravely 
 and went away, returning a moment afterwards, and leaning; 
 across the counter to say, in a husky voice — 
 
 "Tell her." 
 
 "Tell whom?" asked Ellen Morison, surprised. 
 
 " Miss Mary ; she was asking after the guv'nor last week." 
 
 Ellen moved her head slightly, as if in acquiescence. 
 
 " She is well, I suppose ? " asked John, glancing askance at 
 the wire blind. 
 
 " She is quite well, thank you," answered the elder sister. 
 
 " She was looking very pale last week, I fancied," said John. 
 
 Miss Morison did not reply to this, and John, after waiting 
 a minute, as if for his answer, took himself off the premises* 
 The next morning, when he knocked at the door of the 
 repository, he was agreeably surprised to find it was Mary 
 Morison who opened the door to him. He had arrived a. 
 
 »% 
 
lO 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street 
 
 quarter of an hour earlier than usual, and Mary was the first 
 down stairs. 
 
 "You are before your time, John," she said, as he began 
 to unscrew the inner bolt of the shutters. 
 
 " Yes, I thought I'd come eariier — I couldn't rest." 
 
 " What is the matter, then ? " 
 
 ** The guv'nor died in the night. I said he would." 
 
 " Your father dead ! " exclaimed Mary. " I'm very sorry for 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you," answered John ; " it's kind to say so. You've 
 been expecting it, mayhap." * 
 
 "No, I've not." 
 
 " Didn't Miss Ellen tell you last night, I thought it would 
 be soon ? " 
 
 " No." . 
 
 " Oh ! she forgot, I s'pose." 
 
 " Very likely," answered Mary, "she is busy just now." 
 
 John thought of this reply after he had taken the shutters 
 down, and was disposed to believe that there was a lack of sym- 
 pathy with his orphanage, until Mary said — 
 
 " Is there anything I can do for you in this distress, John ? " 
 
 " God bless yer. Miss, nothing," he blurted forth. 
 
 " I'm afraid you cannot do much for yourself, my poor 
 feUow." 
 
 " I must leave it to the parish," said John. 
 
 i 
 
Left in Trust. 
 
 II 
 
 first 
 
 'gan 
 
 for 
 
 Ve 
 
 lid 
 
 
 In the evening he came as usual, but this time with a de- 
 puty — an overgrown, bullet-headed youth of stolid aspect. 
 John came in with his face very white, and his hands shaking 
 with excitement, and Ellen Morison, at her old post behind the 
 counter, thought he had been drinking. 
 
 " I couldn't stop away and leave you in the lurch," he said 
 at once ; " but I ain't up to the shutter business — I ain't well — 
 I've been flurried and flustered, and somethink has 'appened 
 and took me off my feet, and off my head, I think. I can't 
 tell you now." 
 
 There was an old cane-botton^^d chair on his side of the 
 counter, and he dropped into it, spread his thin hands before 
 his face, and began to cry, keeping all the noise to himself, and 
 only gurgling internally now and then. 
 
 "I'm better now — don't mind me," he said at last. 
 
 "Is your father dead, then ? " asked Ellen Morison. 
 
 "Yes ; didn't Miss Mary tell you all about it?" 
 
 Ellen Morison hesitated for an instant, as if there were a dif- 
 ficulty in replying to this question. 
 
 " No, she did not," was the decisive answer at last 
 
 " I told her this morning, when I came to open the shop, 
 and she seemed cut up to hear it." 
 
 " We have lost a father, too, John," said Miss Morison, sadly. 
 
 " I'm glad of that — I mean I'm glad you know what my feel- 
 ings is about it ; not that that's floored me, all of a heap, 
 
12 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street 
 
 like this, but somethink else, which I'll let you know of pre- 
 sently — not now, I'm too flustered — wait." 
 
 " I should go home and rest,'' Miss Morison suggested ; still 
 with the idea on her mind, that grief had driven John Dax to 
 the gin-shop. 
 
 " I will — thankee — I will. You won't mind his doing the 
 work for a day or two, 'till the funeral's over ? " he said, dragging 
 forward his deputy by the fragile lappel of his jacket. " He's 
 to be trusted, or I wouldn't have brought him, 'pon my soul !" 
 
 He went away, to return again after his old fashion. It was 
 a habit of John Dax to con* back for a last word, or to hazard 
 a final remark \ and even in his excitement he seemed bound to 
 re-appear. On this occasion it was with a purpose, at any rate. 
 
 " I nearly forgot it," he said, as he stooped and took up a bun- 
 dle from the floor. " I put it down when I came in first, and 
 there I might have left it altogether — only at the corner of the 
 street I thought of it. What a lark to leave it there ! " And 
 to the surprise of the listener, he began laughing so hysteric- 
 ally that it was a mercy when he came to a full stop. 
 
 He placed the bundle on the counter — it seemed very heavy, 
 and very tightly tied together — and pushed it towards Ellen 
 Morison. % 
 
 " Will you ask Miss Mary to take care of this till I come 
 back again ? " he said ; " will you— will you mind my giving it 
 her myself? " « 
 
Left in Trust 
 
 n 
 
 pre- 
 
 And then, for the first time in his life, he took the liberty of 
 walking to the parlour door, turning the handle, and entering 
 the room where Mary Moribon was supposed to be at work. 
 But Mary was sitting at the table with her work unheeded, on 
 her lap, and her hands spread before her face. John thought 
 she was asleep, till the hands dropped and showed she had been 
 crying, and then John said, ouickly — 
 
 " Oh, Miss Mary, what is it with you ? — what is it ? " and 
 forgot his bundle till it fell with a crash on the floor. 
 
 " How dare you come into the room ? " cried Mary, indig- 
 nantly ; " who told you to enter ? What do you want ? " 
 
 " I — I beg parding — I am very rude — but I'm going to be 
 
 away a bit, and I want you to mind this till I come back." 
 
 " What is it, John," asked Mary, softening at his appeal, and 
 at his wistful looks towards her. 
 
 " I want you to mind it, not the 'tother one," he said ; " to 
 keep it and what's in it, if you don't see me any more — that's 
 all — good bye." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Mary, curiously. 
 
 But John did not answer her. He backed out of the shop and 
 ran away from Gibbon Street, and it was six months before the 
 dressmakers saw him again. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DOUBLE CONFESSION. 
 
 VsWOHN DAX came back to Gibbon Street in the winter 
 time, when the snow was falling. He had been away 
 six months, and the Morisons might have forgotten him alto- 
 gether, had there not been a bundle in the bed-room cup- 
 board to remind them of the goods he had left in trust. He 
 came back to find nothing changed in the repository ; the win- 
 dow stock was unaltered, the doll still simpered beneath its 
 cracked glass-shade, the gas burned as dimly and fitfully as 
 ever ; one sister sat at work behind the counter, grave as Fate, 
 and by the fireside in the parlour worked the other at the eternal 
 dressmaking. He had hardly expected to find the place and 
 those who had endeared it to him, in the same condition ; there 
 had been so great a change to him that he could not believe in 
 life flowing on in as silent and monotonous a fashion as he had 
 known it in his day. He had turned into Gibbon Street with 
 an awful heart-sinking ; he had wondered what he should do 
 if the shop were closed, and an announcement- that the 'pre- 
 mises wQie to let was affixed upon the shutters he had put up 
 and taken down so often ; he had prayed even that all might be 
 
A Double Confession. 
 
 15 
 
 as he had left it, as he stepped from the deep snow-drift into 
 the well-known shop. 
 
 It was Ellen's week again, and he knew it. He had even- 
 calculated the weeks to make sure of it, for a reason of his own 
 that will presently appear. He entered the premises so changed 
 himself, for all the snow upon his shoulders, that Ellen Mori- 
 son did not know him, to begin with. 
 
 ** What can I serve you with, sir ? " she asked, after waiting 
 for orders in vain. 
 
 " Misi Morison, don't you know me ? " he exclaimed, leaning 
 over the counter, and looking hard into her face. She recoiled 
 at his impulsive movement, and put her hands to the bosom of 
 her black dress as if afraid to look at him ; then she drew a 
 long deep breath of relief, and came close to her side of the 
 counter, regarding him more critically. 
 
 " I don't think I know you," she said, hesitatingly. 
 
 " My name is John Dax," he said. 
 
 "JohnDax," repeated Miss Morison, "not — not the man 
 who used to come here every day — to — " 
 
 " To help with the shutters — yes." 
 
 " You have altered very much," she said, extending her hand 
 to him, as to an old friend, " and I am glad to see it." 
 . " Thankee," said John. 
 
 He had altered very )much for the better, Ellen Morison 
 meant, and John took it as a compliment, and was grateful for 
 
i6 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 her opinion. He had tried hard to better himself from the day 
 of his father's funeral, and he was glad that he had succeeded — 
 that he had not striven in vain. He was still thin and pale, 
 but he had grown a big brown beard, which became him, 
 and rendered him more manly of appearance ; he held his 
 head erect, and looked steadily, not furtively, at his opposite 
 neighbour ; he was well-dressed, and it was difficult to associate 
 Jiim with the rags and squalor of six months ago. 
 
 " Nothing has changed here much," said John, looking round. 
 
 " Nothing — much," was the echo. 
 
 •'* Miss Mary," he said, with a great gulp, " is there ? " 
 
 **Yes!" . ' 
 
 *♦ And well?" 
 
 "Quite well." 
 
 « 
 
 " She sits by the fire just as she used — it's a picter — picture," 
 lie said, correcting himself, " I have often seen whilst I have 
 been away." 
 
 Miss Morison looked critically at him again, and then re- 
 sumed her stitching. 
 
 " rn sit here with my back to the parlour, if you don't mind," 
 John said, "because I should like to ask you a few questions 
 before she knows I'm here, because I should like to tell you, 
 her sister, straight out, what's upon my mind." 
 
 Miss Morison resumed her stitching after another critical 
 glance in his direction. 
 
 
A Double Confession, 
 
 17 
 
 t) 
 
 re- 
 
 ** You was both — I should say, you were both very kind to 
 me when I was fighting hard to live : for years I came back'ards 
 and for'ards, always meetin' with kind words, often with kind 
 help when you seemed — don't mind my saying of it now, miss — 
 hardly able, the two of you, to help yourselves. This shop was 
 a kind of heaven to me, and I was very wretched out of it. 
 Then my father died." 
 
 ** Yes," said Ellen Morison, softly, as he paused. 
 
 *' Died rich." 
 
 The dressmaker left off work in her surprise. 
 
 " There was saved up in the mattress of his bed one hun- 
 dred pounds, in five-pound Bank of England notes, and about 
 as much in soverins — sovereigns, I should say. He had been 
 scraping and slaving all his life for this, and no one a bit the 
 worse save hisself, and it was only by chance I found all about 
 it, after he was dead." • 
 
 " I congratulate you on your good fortune, John." 
 
 " My first idea was, it had all been stolen," John continued, 
 " for the guv'nor kept bad company, and rum people came to 
 talk to him when I was out. On the' day you last saw me 
 what do you think I did?" 
 
 " I don't know," was the simple answer. 
 
 " I took the notes to the Bank of England— making up my 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 mind to be took — taken up — with 'em, if they knew the num- 
 bers, as I thought they would." 
 
 " That was an honest act, John," said Ellen, warmly. 
 
 " No, it wasn't," answered John, quickly, "for if the numbers 
 
 had been known, I could have said how I had found the notes, 
 
 you see, and got clear off. She^^ he added in a whisper, 
 
 " would have had the gold." 
 
 " What gold 1 " 
 
 " The hundred pounds in the bundle I left here — they could 
 
 not have proved the money belonged to any one in partickler, 
 
 and she would have been the better for it." 
 
 " This was wrong," exclaimed Ellen Morison. 
 
 ** Yes, I suppose it was ; but I didn't know wrong from 
 right very clearly, and I only wanted to help her. Nobody 
 could have proved the gold belonged to her, and I wanted to 
 help her, you see," he said again. > . 
 
 "I see," repeated Ellen. 
 
 " The perlice — the police — ^would have bagged the lot ; it 
 would have gone to the Crown, or something, if it had been 
 found along with the notes ; and what good would the money 
 have done anybody then ? '* 
 
 " This is shallow reasoning, John," said Ellen ; " the news- 
 paper would have betrayed you, too, and told us the whole 
 story." 
 
 " You never read the paper." 
 
A Double Confession, 
 
 19 
 
 ney 
 
 '' We should have heard it from our neighbours." 
 
 " I should not have given my own name."; 
 
 "Well, well," said Ellen Morison, resuming her needlework, 
 " the notes were not stolen, and you have come back for your 
 money." 
 
 She arose as if with the intention of fetching it, when John 
 Dax leaped across the counter and seized her by the arm. 
 
 " No, no 1 God forbid ! " he cried ; " sit down, please, 
 whilst I tell you the rest of my mind. She's not looking up ; 
 she's brooding over the fire just as I have seen her a score of 
 times before, and does not know that anybody's here." 
 
 " What is there more to say about her ? " asked Ellen, sitting 
 down again, thus adjured. 
 
 " Something much worse, you'll think, I dare say," he said ; 
 " but I can't help it. It's on my mind, I say again ; and I want 
 to tell you, to begin with." 
 
 " Well ? " asked Ellen, as he paused. 
 
 " I've kept away six months in order to learn to read and 
 write in earnest, and be less like the wreck of a chap I was," he 
 said frankly, " in order to be fit to be your friend and hers — es- 
 pecially hers. You've been a couple of angels to me, and I 
 want to make a kind of a return with that money for both of 
 you, for I shall never want it." 
 
 "Thank you, John, but we are never likely to take it," was 
 the proud reply. . . 
 
wimmmm 
 
 wpa 
 
 20 
 
 TAe Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 I ■' 
 
 " I want you not to think of that at present," he said, " to 
 let it wait there for me, then, till I come to fetch it. But I 
 want to tell you, outright, now, how I love your sister — how 
 I have been loving her for years and years — right on, by God, 
 without a break ! " 
 
 It was a strangely excited face now that glared across at 
 Ellen Morison — it was full of pathos and passion, and a terrible 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Why do you tell me this ? " cried Ellen Morison, in a now 
 harsh voice. 
 
 She was excited herself, and scarcely heeded his wild looks. 
 
 ** Because you can help me — because you can tell me if she 
 is liked by anyone else — if there will ever be a chance of her 
 learning to like me — not now, of course not ! — if I may come 
 here as a friend at first, a humble friend, teaching hisself to 
 be worthy of her by degrees — if she would mind my coming, 
 not knowing that I liked her yet — not guessing at it for an in- 
 stant." 
 
 '' Would you come if there was no chance for you? " asked 
 Ellen. 
 
 " No," he said, after a pause, " I fancy not. Then I should 
 be glad to hook it, for good." 
 
 ** There is not a chance," affirmed Miss Morison, severely ; 
 " and you are a poor fool to think there is." 
 
 " I didn't think there was," muttered John Dax, hanging down 
 
 I 
 
4^ Double Confession, 
 
 21 
 
 his head ; « I didn't dream of it hardly— but I thought I'd ask." 
 '' Ask for yourself, and see what she will say," said Ellen. 
 " No, no ; I can believe you," said John, shrinking at the 
 
 suggestion. « God bless her, why should I trouble her ? But 
 
 if some day you will say to her " 
 
 « Don't take my word for anything," cried Ellen, as excited as 
 
 himself; " don't tell me what to say-don't ask me to speak to 
 
 her. She and I have not spoken to each other for three years / " 
 
•jir i\...:i^ tsx: 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CAST DOWN. 
 
 OHN DAX was completely prostrated by Ellen Mori- 
 son's avowal. His strength for a while suddenly de- 
 serted him, and he relapsed into the old cane-bottomed chair, 
 wrung his hands ♦logether piteously, and glared at her who 
 had bewildered h:m by a strange and awful statement. 
 
 What could it mean ? What terrible secret did it portend ? 
 — Beneath the everyday exterior of this monotonous business, 
 the placid surface of what had ever seemed to him, two gentle, 
 patient, uneventful lives, what deadly grievance, or cruel ill- 
 feeling had prevailed ? V 
 
 He was in a dream, and stupefied by all its wonderments. 
 What mystery of the past, what irreparable wrong, could have 
 held those two young women in silence for three years, living 
 and working together, and sleeping under the same roof, u*iJ yet 
 never exchanging a word with one another ? 
 
 " For three years," he faltered forth at last, " and you two 
 not speaking all the time ! " 
 
Cast Down, 
 
 23 
 
 «' 
 
 Mori- 
 
 |r de- 
 
 :hair, 
 
 who 
 
 end? 
 ness, 
 ntle, 
 1 ill- 
 
 ;nts. 
 lave 
 ving 
 yet 
 
 two 
 
 We have grown used to the position — it is not painful to 
 either of us now." 
 
 " But will you teU me " 
 
 "John, I cannot tell you anything more," said Ellen, firmly ; 
 *' I have betrayed too much already. You are never likely to 
 know what has estranged my sister from me, or me from her, and 
 why we hate each other very bitterly." 
 
 " No, no — don't say that — it is not possible — you two ! " he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Ask her presently, if you will. Hear what she says — repeat 
 to her what I have told you," said Ellen Morison excitedly 
 again, " and then tell her your own story if you dare." 
 
 John felt already that he dared not, that in the past life of 
 Mary Morison lay the barrier to any confession of the wild 
 dream that he had had, and to any hope which he had formed. 
 It would have been wiser if he had not told the elder sister — if 
 his avowal had not, as it were, wrung forth the secret which 
 these two silent women had jealousy guarded from the world : he 
 thought he would have been happier to have lived on in 
 ignorance of so terrible a truth. 
 
 He rose and walked towards the door in a dream-like fashion, 
 as though the vision lasted still that had oppressed him. This 
 wcis not real life yet — the stem reality of all his after-time. At 
 the threshold he turned, for the sweet pale face of Mary was 
 looking towards him from the half-open door leading into the 
 
33= 
 
 "^ 
 
 24 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 little parlour — he felt that she had left her work and was nearer 
 him, before he had glanced round. She remembered him, too, 
 and that was marvellous, considering how Ellen had been per- 
 plexed at the first sight of him. She oame towards him at once 
 with hands extended, and a faint smile of welcome flickering 
 at her lips. 
 
 " Surely it is our old friend John Dax," she cried, " and he 
 has not deserted us for good I " * 
 
 " Not for good, Miss Mary " stammered the man. " I 
 thought I would come and have a look at the old shop, just for 
 once !" he added. 
 
 " For once ! " she repeated, wonderingly. " Yes — I am going 
 away presently — not yet," he said with a great effort. 
 
 " Well, it was kind of you to think of us, John." 
 
 " As if I was likely to forget you, and your sister," he said, 
 [" as if I haven't been telling her already how I remember the 
 goodness of you both when I was without a friend in the world." 
 
 " We could not help you much," said Mary, " but I hope we 
 did our best." 
 
 •* You saved me," said John Dax. 
 
 " Oh ! no — you saved yourself — with heaven's help," answered 
 Mary, warmly. 
 
 This was unlike a girl who could bear malice in her heart, 
 and live for years in enmity with her sister — surely it was Ellen's 
 fault that the great difference had arisen, and existed. Mary 
 
 $\ 
 
's 
 ry 
 
 Cast Down. 
 
 25 
 
 ^.^ 
 
 $\ 
 
 was a woman all gentleness and sympathy. Why had he acted 
 so rashly in the first moments of his return and ^told Mary's 
 enemy the great secret, the great ambition of his life ? 
 
 Looking at Mary Morison, he felt that he could not lightly 
 surrender his one hope, or believe in all that Ellen had told him. 
 He would wait and watch for awhile — no one understood his 
 real character yet — the shadow of the streets was still upon him. 
 
 Mary Morison talked to him as to an old friend, rather than 
 an old servant ; she heard the little story he had already related 
 to his sister, with the exception of the money in trust upstairs, 
 and that he was silent concerning, and Ellen stole away and lef>. 
 them together. The elder sister offered him his chance to speak* 
 his opportimity to learn the truth for himself, but he would not 
 avail himself of it. He was afi-aid to ask any questions bearing 
 on the past, or appertaining to the future — he had not the courage 
 to risk so much again. To tell all that was in his heart, was to 
 shut away "this dear face for ever from him; he could come no 
 more after his mad avowal of attachment. He would be more 
 discreet , he would be content with seeing her for awhile, and 
 letting time plead for or against him j under any circumstances 
 it was beyond his strength to say good-bye. 
 
 He thanked her for past kindness, as he had thanked her sister 
 Ellen, but he hinted not at the romance which had brought him 
 to Gibbon Street. He expressed a wish to look in at the Gibbon 
 Street shop now and then, and talk of old times, to ask her ad- 
 
26 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street 
 
 vice, and her sister's, as to his future course in life, and she said 
 that she should be glad to see him when he was disposed to 
 visit them. He went away almost happy with that assurance, 
 until all that Ellen Morison had told him rose up like a wall 
 between him and his dream-land. In his own room in the 
 Waterloo Road — he had never been far away from them — he 
 was not sanguine of results, and his spirits sank to zero at the 
 misty prospect lying beyond that day. 
 
 1 
 
 
 •«i» 
 
 •^'r 
 
aid 
 to 
 ice, 
 irall 
 the 
 -he 
 the 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A TIME OF TRIAL. 
 
 yjrlATIENCE was one of the rare virtues of our common- 
 «=€>' place hero. He had borne much in the old days without 
 a murmur ; in the time of his prosperity, and with a new ordeal 
 to face, he was still the same uncomplaining individual He 
 was a man content to wait after all ; for six months he had had 
 the courage to keep away from Gibbon Street, for six months 
 more he played the part of humble friend, and bided his time, 
 although in the first impulse of his despair he had told Ellen 
 Morison that he could not come there. 
 
 True, he had another mission in life at first, and this kept him 
 strong. If he were unrewarded by a sign of affection, still he 
 was Mary's friend, in a way, and there came no one else to Gib- 
 bon Street ; and the new task that he had set himself was to 
 help towards a better understanding between the two sisters, 
 and to endeavour by degrees, and by some common object of 
 interest, to draw those two together who had drifted so strangely 
 and awfully apart. It was a giant's task, and beyond his 
 strength, buc he did not learn that readily. He had faith in his 
 
28 
 
 The Romance of a Dock Street, 
 
 powers in this direction, and the more he saw of the sisters 
 Morison, the less he could believe in their unforgiving natures, 
 or deep-seated wrongs. Either sister apart was gentle and 
 affable, with the rare art of saying kind words in a kind fashion ; 
 little acts of neighbourly attention, of friendly service to folk 
 poorer than themselves, told of earnest, thoughtful, charitable 
 women, as forcibly as in the time when John Dax was poor. 
 How was it possible that to each other these two should remain 
 obdurate as fate ? Poor John was not a philosopher, or a man 
 of any degree of depth j his little efforts to make them friends 
 were exceedingly transparent, his futile appeals on trivial matters 
 from one to another, when by some chance they were together, 
 were very plain, and at times awkward, and finally they brought 
 the schemer into trouble. 
 
 It was Mary Morison who faced him with reproof on this 
 occasion. The days were drawing out towards the summer 
 then, and John Dax called once or twice a week. 
 
 " I have seen for S' ;me time, John, that you are acquainted 
 with a secret which my sister and I had hoped to hide from most 
 people," she said to him one evening \ " will you tell me why 
 you interfere ? " 
 
 " You do not speak ; I cannot understand how so long a. 
 quarrel as this can last," he answered readily. " You will not 
 blame me, Miss Mary, for trying in my humble way to end it ? " 
 Why should you ? " she inquired. 
 
 i( 
 
A Time of Trial, 
 
 29 
 
 
 " It ain't natural ; you and Miss Ellen should be the best of 
 friends." 
 
 '' It is unnatural, John, but it is not to be prevented. Do not 
 
 interfere between us, please, or " 
 
 She paused and looked steadily at the young man, who said — 
 " Or wht^t, Miss Mary ? Don't be hard with me." 
 " Or it will be my place and hers to ask you not to come near 
 us again — to keep away for good. For the good," she added a 
 moment afterwards, " of the three of us." 
 
 John was crestfallen. He could do no more after this. His 
 own position, wherein he fairly hoped at times he had advanced 
 a little, was in jeopardy, and he could not afford to be dismissed 
 unceremoniously, and for ever, from her presence. If he could 
 only save her from the misery of this isolation by taking her to 
 himself — if she would step some day from the eternal silence 
 and gloom of that dreadful house — it had become dreadful to him 
 now, knowing the ill-feeling that was in it — and let him devote 
 his life to making hers more happy than it possibly could be in 
 her home. If she would only pity him — and herself ! Loving 
 Mary Morison very truly, if very madly, it became natural on 
 his part to distrust by degrees the elder sister, and to fancy that 
 he redd in Ellen's thoughtful gaze at him, a growing dislike 
 towards himself. He had sided indirectly with Mary ; he had 
 disregarded the advice of EU^n ; he was there as often as excuses 
 could take him to the house ; he could not believe in any faults 
 
30 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 of the younger sister bringing about the cause of offence or 
 distrust ; in his place, and despite his effort, there was no stand 
 to be taken on the neutral ground. Love held the scales, and 
 turned the balance in Mary's favour. 
 
 " How long is this to last ? " Ellen asked of him one day. 
 
 "Is what to last?" rejoined John, for the want of a better 
 reply at the moment. 
 
 " This wasting of your life," was the sharp explanation proffered. 
 
 " Until I know the truth concerning her." 
 
 " And yourself, you mean ? " 
 
 "Yes." :. _, '■( ■ -■■--•■■>' :-..,.-• 
 
 "It is very plain to see, but you come here with closed 
 eyes," she said ; " it is as I told you in the winter time, and 
 when you took no warning." 
 
 " I will hear all from your sister — ^let her give me my answer 
 in good time." 
 
 " I am not likely to interfere between you ; but you are not 
 sane, John Dax, to dream on in this wilful fashion." 
 
 " It is not to be helped now," John said, moodily. 
 
 And it was not. He had erected his idol — it had been his 
 task from the days of his vagabondage, when Mary Morison was 
 first kind to him, and when it collapsed it would crush him. 
 
 John Dax was not idle during his term of faithful service ; in 
 acquiring money he had learned tl^e value of it, and the neces- 
 sity of storing it He was not living wholly on his means ; he 
 
 
A Time of Trial. 
 
 31 
 
 had found employment, if not any great degree of pay, at a book- 
 binder's, where he was slowly and laboriously, being somewhat 
 dull of application, learning the craft. It would come in handy 
 some day, when Mary had learned to like him, he thought at 
 times, in the few sanguine moments which he had, and to which 
 a kinder word or a brighter smile than ordinary, would give 
 birth. She blushed crimson, and tinned her head from him at 
 times too — he was sure of that. Six months passed completely, 
 and it was summer time beyond the murky precincts of Gibbon 
 Street, when Mary was missing from her customary post. The 
 place behind the counter was occupied by Ellen Morison, but 
 the gas was turned low in the parlour when the long daylight 
 had gone, and there was no one now at work within. John 
 noticed this on the first visit, and it was so uncommon an occur- 
 rence — so out of the common track of the dullness of life at the 
 repository, that he said quietly, even nervously — 
 
 "Where's Miss Mary?" 
 
 The face of the elder sister took a deeper shade of gloom as 
 she answered, reluctantly — 
 
 " She is unwell to-day." 
 
 " Not very unwell ?" he asked. ■ •: " 
 
 " No ; not very, I hope." 
 
 John was not content with these laconic replies, but was com- 
 pelled to accept them. He went away in a moody and dissatis- 
 fied condition, and the next morning he passed round by Gibbon 
 
32 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 Street on his way to business. The house was open, but there 
 was no one in the shop or parlour, and he sat down and waited 
 with shaking hands and quivering lips for some one to appear. 
 His passion had taken a strong hold upon him now, and he was 
 a very child in his excitement. He did not know how weak he 
 was ; he hardly knew how deep had become his reverence for 
 Mary Morison, until there seemed some hidden danger threaten- 
 ing her. 
 
 Presently Ellen came down stairs very pale and stern, and 
 stared with surprise at John's early visit. 
 
 " I could not go to work until I knew how your sister was," he 
 said humbly and apologetically. 
 
 " She is no better," was the answer. 
 
 ** Has a doctor been sent for ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What does he say ? what does he think?" asked John. 
 
 " He says she is very weak and low." 
 
 " Pray have further advice — let me — " 
 
 " She is in good hands — she will have the best attention," 
 Ellen replied gravely. 
 
 John Dax reappeared in the evening once more — and once 
 more had to wait in the deserted shop wherein the absence of its 
 owner made but little difference to the business. He had some- 
 thing on his mind now which he wished to unburthen to Ellen 
 Morison, and had been brooding upon it all day. It had stood 
 
 r ^~ummu^mmmmmmimtBm^v«*i'«iM\\ 
 
A Time of Trial. 
 
 33 
 
 
 between him and any honest application, to work, and, at all 
 hazards, he must say it. 
 
 When Ellen came down stairs at last, she said quietly, as if 
 she had expected to find him waiting there — 
 
 " She is no better, John." 
 
 It was the same information as he had received from her in 
 the morning, but it foreboded sadder news to him. 
 
 " No better," he cried, " and you so calm as this ! " 
 
 " Hush I hush !" she said, as an expression of pain flitted 
 across her face ; " it is my duty to be calm." 
 
 " Is she in any danger ?" 
 
 " God knows ! " sh6 replied. " The doctor tells me there is 
 nothing to fear at present." 
 
 ''At present/ Then—" • ' . 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm by way of caution." 
 
 " You are too loud-voiced, John, and the sick-room is only a 
 few stairs above us. She is sleeping now — don't wake her for the 
 world.'' 
 
 " I beg pardon — I am very sorry," he said, in his new confused 
 way, " but you know — oh ! you can guess how her illness troubles 
 
 me. 
 
 )> 
 
 " Yes," she said, " looking at him sorrowfully, " it is not hard • 
 to guess. But do you think I have no trouble, too ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, you must have now, for all these long years of 
 injustice towards her.'* 
 
! 
 
 34 
 
 The, Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 " You are foolish and cruel," Ellen returned, half-angrily ; 
 " how do you know I have been unjust? " 
 
 " You told me." 
 
 " It is she, poor woman, who — but there, I cannot explain to 
 you. You must not talk of it at a time like this." 
 
 " You are kinder in your heart towards her — she is lying ill, 
 dangerously ill — you speak to her now ? " 
 
 "She does not speak to me," was the reply; "to hear my 
 voice is to aggravate her fever." 
 
 " She shall not lie like this neglected. Who is the doctor ? — 
 let me seek him out — let me tell him — " 
 
 " Nothing of our lives, or of our enmity, if enmity it be now," 
 she said, interrupting him. " John Dax, you must not interfere. 
 Leave her to me and to God." 
 
 She put her hands to her face and murmured some low words, 
 as of prayer, before she took them down again ; and John Dax 
 had it not in his heart to distrust any more then. It was only 
 in the streets, which he paced that night till a late hour, that the 
 old doubts came back with tenfold force, that he thought down 
 all the manifestations of the elder sister's grief, and read from 
 the blurred pages of his heated brain a wild history of neglect and 
 apathy — possibly revenge. He must interfere ; he must warn 
 some one of Ellen Morison and of the old feud between her and 
 her sister ; he must not remain passive, with the woman whom 
 he loved in danger, and that other woman, who surely hated her, 
 
 
A Time of Trial, 
 
 35 
 
 M 
 
 
 her only nurse. His distrust was weakeLjd again by the calm 
 force of Ellen Morison's demeanour, when, more white and 
 haggard than herself, he faced her the next morning. 
 
 Before he could ask the question she had answered him, and 
 for the third time with the old heart-crushing words — 
 
 "She is no better ! " 
 
 "She is dying," John Dax raved, "and you are keeping it from 
 
 >i 
 
 me. 
 
 " No, no— there is hope — great hope j I pray," said Ellen, 
 " don't think that, my poor, weak fellow." 
 
 " Why do you leave her to herself— that is to yourself— when 
 kind words, kind looks, are wanted to keep her brave and 
 strong ?" he cried. " Great heaven ! to think I can do nothing — 
 that she is lying there without a friend." 
 
 " I am the best friend she has in the world, perhaps," she 
 murmured. ' : ' . . " 
 
 " It is not true — it can't be true," cried John ; " you have 
 quarrelled with her, she never hears your voice." 
 
 " It would not benefit her now," said Ellen, wildly. 
 
 "You are wrong." 
 
 " No, I am right, she does not know who I am, or where 
 she is ; she is delirious." 
 
 John wnmg his hands in his despair. He would have raved 
 forth again in his grief had not Ellen's hand, as on the first day 
 of tribulation, rested on his arm and checked him. 
 
36 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 " I asked you yesterday to leave her to me and to God," she 
 said very sternly. " I demand it to-day as my right. You must 
 not come again to unnerve me ; if you are thus childish, you 
 had better keep away, for her sake." 
 
 John was awed by her manner — once again the belief that he 
 had misjudged her stole to his mind — once again when he was 
 away from her all the doubts returned. By these doubts beset 
 he sought out the doctor who attended at the sick house and 
 harassed him with many questions, troubling him with injunc- 
 tions as to secrecy as regarded his visit, and puzzling that 
 worthy, but small practitioner, very much. 
 
 " She is in a critical state," he said, when closely pressed by 
 John Dax's inquiries, " but in no immediate danger. She may 
 rally suddenly from the fever, even, for she is young." 
 
 " Is she well nursed — well cared for ? " 
 
 " She has her own sister, who watches night and day. Ellen 
 Morison is killing herself with over nursing." 
 
 " Tell her so, please- 
 
 » 
 
 " I have told her so already, but it is no use." 
 
 John Dax groaned. 
 
 " Are you in any way related to my patient ? " the doctor 
 asked, curiously. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! a sweetheart perhaps," he said, with an effort to "^ 
 put a cheerful tone upon the subject of discourse, "if so, 
 
A Time of Trial. 
 
 17 
 
 
 I hope I may give you permission to see her in a day or 
 two." 
 
 " No, sir, not a sweetheart," he answered mournfully, " but if 
 I might only see her — only be sure- 
 
 it 
 
 And then he came to a full stop, lest he should do Ellen 
 Morison an irreparable injury by his doubts of her. There was 
 innate heroism in this weak fellow's character — he was distrust- 
 ful, but he would not injure her by a word whilst there were only 
 his own doubts to fight against. 
 
 The next day there was the same soul-depressing news, but on 
 the day that followed there came hope. 
 
 " She is a little better." 
 
 On the day following that she was conscious, but very weak. 
 It was the weakness now which Mary had to fight against, the 
 doctor had said only a few minutes ago, and from that she might 
 sink if great care were not exercised. John waited for the doctor, 
 who told him the same facts, regarding him very curiously and 
 critically meanwhile. 
 
 On the third day of better news Ellen Morison came down 
 and faced him with the old grave aspect. 
 
 "Not worse?" he cried, in new alarm. 
 
 " No, not worse." 
 
 "Better then?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 ** The doctor has been ? " 
 
38 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 " Yes. He tells me that Mary is very anxious to see you." 
 
 " To see me ! " exclaimed John ; " she has thought of me 
 then— spoken of me ? " 
 
 " Yes. Will you go up stairs and see her ? Can I trust you 
 to be calm; whatever she says ? " 
 
 " You can." 
 
 " Her Ibt may be in your hands, remember, but she will see 
 you now." 
 
 " I am so glad of th?a ! " 
 
 " Ah ! do not be mistaken in this hour, for the truth is very 
 near to you." 
 
 " Do you know what she is going to say then?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I think I do." 
 
 John looked inquiringly at her, but she pointed to the narrow 
 stairs on the right pf the parlour, and he went up them with a 
 faltering step and a heart that beat wildly with surprise, fear, and 
 
 f 
 
 even joy. 
 
}} 
 
 
 me 
 
 yovL 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 see 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 ery 
 
 3W 
 
 a 
 bd 
 
 i 
 
 '.vr' 
 
 ^^pOHN DAX went softly into the room where the one 
 romance of his life was sinking fast away. Surely sinking 
 from life, as well as from romance, was the wan and wasted 
 figure lying there, with two great anxious eyes regarding him very 
 wistfully as he entered. 
 
 " Oh 1 poor Mary," murmured the man as he advanced with 
 noiseless step to the bedside, where she seemed to vanish for 
 awhile in the thick mist which rose before him. 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, for John was mastering 
 his emotion and growing brave by slow degrees. He had pro- 
 mised Ellen Morison that he would not break down, and was 
 fighting hard to keep his word. It would disturb Mary, too, 
 and that was of more importance than any promise he had 
 made. Presently Mary spoke, and in so faint a whisper that he 
 had to lower his head to catch her words. 
 
 " You must not mind me asking you to my room, John," she 
 said, " but it is hard to guess when I may be downstairs again. 
 
40 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 I have been anxious about you for some time — very, very anxious 
 to tell you something." 
 
 " I am listening," said John, " don't hurry. There is plenty of 
 time." 
 
 He sat r'own by the bedside and laid his hand for an instant 
 on htr arm, vvhich was too weak to stir beneath his gentle pres- 
 sure. The misc rose up before his eyes again, and his heart beat 
 very fast. W?p she going to tell him that she had read his 
 secret — h w})o ' adnade no sign of his affection, and had been 
 always grave, aiu:i >?Vnt; and subservient, like the poor waif 
 whom her ch ::.Tit> hacJ njed to love long years ago ? Was 
 she going to pity hiKi, cxnti say good-bye ? Was she going to 
 tell him that with health and strength returning she might even 
 learn to love him in good time, and that he must take heart and 
 grieve for her no longer ? Had the feud ended between the 
 sisters, as at such time as this it should have done, and had Ellen 
 told her of his passion ? Was he as near the truth, as she was 
 nigh unto death, in that hour ? 
 
 " You seem to have been my friend so long, John," she con- 
 tinued) " to be the only one left to me." 
 
 " You are very kind to say so, Mary. May I call you Mary 
 now ? " 
 
 ** If you will," she answered ; " if you wish it." 
 
 " Yes, I wish it," he murmured ; " and if it is no offence to 
 you," he added anxiously, " for after all — I — ." 
 
 
Confession. 
 
 41 
 
 
 " You are the one friend I have," she repeated ; " when I 
 came back from all those dreadful dreams, I thought of you first 
 as one on whom I could rely." 
 
 " God bless you for that" 
 
 " I knew you would aid me, and not be tco severe with me." 
 
 " I am glad to help, of course," replied John, somewhat 
 bewildered. 
 
 " I cannot ask Ellen — you know I dare not speak to her," 
 she said in a more excited whisper. 
 
 " Not now ! will she not speak even in this hour ? " asked 
 John; "well—." 
 
 " Hush ; not her fault, but mine," said she, interrupting him. 
 " I am weighed down by an awful oath which I dare not, will 
 not break. There is no help for it, unless you help me." 
 
 " Is it in my power ? " 
 
 " I pray it is — I think it is," she answered. 
 
 " Ah ! there is no happier task you can set me Mary," he 
 cried. 
 
 " You were always warm-hearted, John — kind, unselfish, faith- 
 ful," murmured Mary ; " The little good I ever brought to your 
 life will be repaid a hundred-fold to-day." 
 
 " What can I do ? " 
 
 " You must put your hand on mine again, and promise to 
 forgive the poor, weak girl lying here before you. That is the 
 beginning, John, of— of all that is to come ! " 
 
42 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 She was very feverish and nervous again. In the excitement 
 she struggled hard to raise her voice, and he hastened to assure 
 her and to calm her. 
 
 " I promise to do everything, Mary, but you know, you must 
 know I have nothing to forgive," he cried ; '* great Heaven 
 what have you ever been to me, but the one blessing of my life.'* 
 
 "A man different from yourself might learn to curse me, 
 John." • 
 
 "No— no." 
 
 " For I have been very weak and guilty, and it is my crime 
 that has helped to lay me low," she replied. " I — I discovered, 
 long ago, that there was money in that parcel which you left in 
 trust to me — and I ha\^e spent it all ! — given it all away to bring 
 back hope to me. Pity me, forgive me. I could not live on 
 in my misery any longer." 
 
lent 
 lure 
 
 mst 
 ven 
 fe." 
 me. 
 
 me 
 ed, 
 ; in 
 
 on 
 
 1 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE CRUEL TRUTH. 
 
 EARY MORISON'S avowal was a revelation unlooked 
 for by John Dax, but he bore it with equanimity. He 
 was startled, even thunderstruck for an instant by the confes- 
 sion of the sick girl, but not a muscle of his countenance be- 
 trayed him. 
 
 " Is that all?" he said cheerfully; "why it was yours ! — it was 
 always intended for you, Mary." 
 
 For him and her if they should ever marry — for her if he 
 should die — for her at any time even if distress were near and 
 money wanted, and surely it had been wanted at a time of need, 
 for her hand to touch it without consulting him. He could not 
 blame her ; could not express even surprise lest she should 
 think he was sorry, and if it could make her happy, or set her 
 mind at rest to say that it was freely hers, why let him say it 
 readily. He did not grudge her the possession of it, 
 
 " For me — that money," she said wonderingly. 
 
44 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 *' Yes, for you. What did I want with it, when you were 
 struggling on here ? " 
 
 " You did not say so." 
 
 " I thought you understood it ? " 
 
 " If I had it might have saved me many weeks of mental 
 torture, John," she said; "and— why should I have had the 
 money?" 
 
 " You were kind to me in the old days." 
 
 " Ah, so was Ellen." 
 
 " Lut not with your kindness. There — say no more about 
 it," he urged, " your cheeks are red— this is putting you out — I 
 won't listen." 
 
 " John, I must tell you all," she cried, " I shall never rest 
 till you know my miserable story." 
 
 " Cannot your sister Ellen tell me as well as you ? " asked 
 John. 
 
 " Yes — presently ; part of the story, not all. She does not 
 know about the money." 
 
 " We have explained all that, Mary." 
 
 " Not why I took it — why I robbed you." 
 
 " It was not robbery — but go on, my poor girl." 
 
 " Why Ellen and I for years have stood apart, she will tell 
 you in good time — what a cruel jealousy arose — what bitter 
 quarrels — misunderstandings, for we were both in love with him." 
 
 "With him/^' repeated John in his amazement. 
 
The Cruel Truth 
 
 45 
 
 1 were 
 
 nental 
 id the 
 
 ibout 
 lit— I 
 
 rest 
 
 iked 
 
 not 
 
 ell 
 
 ter 
 
 11 
 
 " But I loved him best though latest — I did not know, to 
 begin with, that I was breaking Ellen's heart to love him, and 
 to let him love me back — but I think it broke when he liked 
 me," Mary continued. " She turned upon us then — she sepa- 
 rated us — she set my poor father and mother against him — 
 even me, for a while, and in despair he enlisted for a soldier. 
 Then my heart broke too, I think sometimes " — 
 
 " This is the story your sister should tell me — not you," said 
 John Dax, very moodily ; " for God's sake spare yourself." 
 ^ " And me," he might have added in that hour of his bitterest 
 discomfiture. 
 
 "Well, well, you guess now why Ellen and I can never 
 speak. When I discovered it was by her means he had been 
 led to doubt me, I swore to Heaven that I would not speak 
 to her in all my life again, till he came back to me. It was 
 wrong — but I have kept my word — I may die keeping it. It is 
 best perhaps to face my Maker without a lie upon my lips." 
 
 " You will live, don't talk like this," said John Dax. 
 
 " I may live if he comes back to me. Oh ! John, I love 
 him so dearly — he is the one hope of my life — he is true to me 
 still I would be at peace with Ellen — and for this, and more 
 than this I have been working on for years, with Ellen aiding 
 me, in silence." 
 
 " I do not make out " he began in his old confused man- 
 ner, when she commenced anew — 
 
46 
 
 The Romatue of a Back Street. 
 
 I 
 
 " Let me finish, please, before my voice gives way," she en- 
 treated ^ 
 
 " Yes, Ellen and I have been working on for years to pur- 
 chase his discharge, and we have been always balked at the 
 eleventh hour. It has been impossible to save— . have tried 
 hard, and we have been always poor I He seemed beyond 
 all hope when the regiment was ordered to India, until the dis- 
 covery and the temptation of your money came to me — not 
 Ellen — never to her, who had outlived all love for him. I 
 schemed on — I wrote to the Commander-in-chief's office — I 
 studied all the rules by which he might be rescued ; finally? 
 in desperation, with your money, John — forgive me or>re again — 
 I bought his liberty — his passage home — and he his way 
 
 to me at last." 
 
 She had forgotten her fault in the thought of his return. John 
 Dax could see that by the light upon her face. Ah ! woman 
 is weak. 
 
 " When will he return ? " asked John, in a hoarse voice. 
 
 " Soon, I hope," she whispered, *• very soon." 
 
 There was a long pause ; the confession had been made, and 
 John Dax had offered all the absolution in his power. But he 
 did not move away at once from the bedside ; he sat there like 
 a man stupefied by the revelation which had been made, and 
 which had cut down every fair green shoot of promise his own 
 folly had allowed to spring up. He had served long, and waited 
 
 
 w<rmm 
 
The Cruel Truth, 
 
 47 
 
 long — and failed. There are some men who seem bora to wait 
 always and to fail in everything on which their hearts are set ; 
 and John Dax was one of these. 
 
 " You have not told me again, I am forgiven," said Mary, 
 faintly at last. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," replied John, as he rojic, 
 ** always believe I meant the money for you, I never thought of 
 it for myself." 
 
 He wished that he could have spent the money in her cause, 
 as she had spent it — that was the one regret he had concerning 
 it. And it was of the man who had been saved, and not of the 
 money which had saved him, that kept him very thoughtful. 
 
 " You say this to set my mind at ease," she added. 
 
 " Don't think that ;" 
 
 " Presently we shall pay you back ; when Alec " 
 
 " Don't say anything more to me now, please. You are very 
 weak still. Goodbye." 
 
 He rested his thin hand upon hers again for an instant, and 
 then passed out of the room. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ELLl J IS GRATEFUL. 
 
 Qii 
 
 [LT was thus that the idol fell which John Dax had worship- 
 ped. A wild fancy had given way to reality, and Mary 
 Morison, of Gibbon Street, was a poor weak mortal after all. In 
 her passion and despair, she had betrayed the trust which John 
 had placed in her, and taken his money to restore a lover 
 to her side. The man's legacy had been the means of destroy- 
 ing the one hope that he had ever had ; he had shut himself 
 out of the daylight for good. He understood now why Mary 
 had blushed and trembled of late days, and before her illness, 
 at meeting him occasionally — it was remorse. There was no 
 wild thrill of pleasure at that recollection now — his romance 
 was at an end. After all, it was only the romance of a back 
 street, and what could such a hero as John Dax have ex- 
 pected. 
 
 He went downstairs into the parlour, where Ellen awaited 
 him. She looked anxiously into his face and said, reprovingly — 
 
 "You have let her talk too much; you have been incon- 
 siderate." 
 
 He was always in the wrong, poor fellow. 
 
 r' j. r ^8 W M !fM t ' ..u* 'w 
 
ted 
 
 ' 
 
 Ellen is Grateful, 
 
 49 
 
 " I have been as careful as I could," he said, by way of ex- 
 cuse, "but your sister had a great deal to tell me." 
 
 "Of our long quarrel?" she inquired, moodily, "ah, it was 
 hardly necessary you should know it." 
 
 " I think it was," he answered, thoughtfully. 
 
 " And yet she was anxious about you of late days — there was 
 a reason for it, I suppose," she asked, a little curiously. 
 
 John Dax saw his opportunity here. Even in his disappoint- 
 ment, he was considerate for the woman he loved. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Ellen, there was a reason. The money upstairs — 
 you remember." 
 
 "What of that?" was the quick inquiry, "she — she 
 never " 
 
 " It was lent to her to buy Alec's discharge ; to pay his pas- 
 sage back to England ; to help him in any way upon his jour- 
 ney," said John Dax, coolly and firmly. 
 
 " Lent by you — for her sake ! " exclaimed Ellen. 
 
 " What use was the money to me, when she was fretting for 
 the soldier ? " 
 
 " You can never be repaid," said Ellen. 
 
 " I don't care to be," answered John, " though I am not 
 so sure of it for all that." 
 
 " John," said Ellen, seizing his hands in her's, " I did not 
 think you could be so kind and generous. Why did you not 
 tell me before ? " 
 
50 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 »> 
 
 " It was a little surprise of mine/' he said, with a short laugh. 
 
 " A surprise, indeed — and you have known Mary's love story 
 all this while, and S3rmpathized with her, and helped her, and 
 forgotten your own poor foolish dreams, and yet^^ " 
 
 John interrupted her second train of thought. 
 
 " I have not known everything very clearly until to-day," he 
 said ; " there was a little mystery — not much — and Miss Mary 
 has set that right at laf t. As for Alec " — ^he spoke as if he had 
 known his rival, and been interested in him for years, and 
 his manner of recital helped to deceive his listener, *' althoueh 
 I shall be glad to see him back for your sister's sake, I think 
 I shall be gladder for yours. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " His coming will end the long quarrel, won't it ? 
 
 She flushed crimson, and wrung her hands together. 
 
 ^' She was never to speak to me till he came back again," she 
 murmured, " and he is on his way. Yes," she added, gravely, 
 " for that one reason I shall be glad to see him." 
 
 " I thought you would ; you dc n't bear malice now ?*' 
 
 " Malice ! " she repeated, quickly, " do you think I 
 then she paused and looked at John, attentively, and substi- 
 tuted another question for the one that remained half-finished 
 on her lips. 
 
 " Has Mary told you the story of our quarrel ? " 
 
 '' Most of it ; she said you would tell me the rest." 
 
 »>» 
 
 » 
 
Ellen is Grateful 
 
 51 
 
 »> 
 
 '< How I loVed Ale<r Williamson first, and how she came be- 
 tween us?" 
 
 " Yes, and how you continued to separate them until—" 
 
 " Until, in the bitterness of his disappointment, he enlisted 
 for a soldier, poor martyr," she said, sadly rather than bitterly. 
 " Well, well, John, let her version of the story stand, it is not 
 deserving iiurther explanation, and I am too proud to o£fer 
 it" 
 
 She looked a very proud woman at that moment, John 
 thought, and he regarded her as an enigma very difficult to solve. 
 For an instant there flitted across the dull mind of this one- 
 idead man the suspicion that it was Ellen Morison who had 
 been injured and cast down, and who was deserving of all 
 kindly consideration, from the early days of a cruel disappoint- 
 ment until now, and then he thought of Mary, lying ill up- 
 staurs, and his charity sided with his pity of her. Mary had 
 been deceived, and her unforgiving sister Ellen was the evil 
 genius of her life — that was how he read the legend to the 
 last. 
 
 " There is one feivour I want to ask you before I go away 
 this morning," John said, after a long silence between them. 
 It had been in his mind ever since Mary's revelation, and he 
 had not found the courage to mention it till he was standing at 
 the door ready to depart. 
 
52 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street 
 
 
 ''You cannot ask a favour of us that will be refused, if it lie 
 in our power to grant it," she exclaimed readily. 
 
 " It is in your i)ower only." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " When I first came back, I spoke of my foolish love for the 
 poor girl upstairs." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It died out, of course — that is, any hope I had died off clean 
 when I heard about the soldier, and when we were arranging 
 our plansfto buy him off, and so on." 
 
 " I am glad you did not brood upon it at all," said Ellen. 
 
 " And my only trouble now is that Mary — Miss Mary as I ^ 
 ought to call her still " — he added, apologetically, " should ever 
 hear of my silly fancy for her. I don't want anybody to know 
 this. I wish I'd never told you a word about it now." 
 
 " It might do her good to hear the story some day," mused 
 Ellen. 
 
 " No, it wouldn't," John said, flatly contradicting her, " and 
 it makes me look soft and stupid. I'm both — I know that — 
 you know it too, and are smiling at me, though you try hard to 
 look serious ; but I couldn't help liking her a great deal once. 
 But don't tell her so — ever — will you ?" 
 
 " I will not," Ellen Morison promised. 
 
 "That's right," said John, evidently relieved in his mind^ 
 « I can go back to my work now, jolly ; it seems all squaring 
 
 TSl g i LlLgjgiai i liLiarBn i rii i at ii 
 
Ellen is Grateful. 
 
 53 
 
 round so well. Miss Mary getting strong — ^forgetting and 
 forgiving everything you have done to her — and her young man 
 coming back i6 make her heart light for ever and ever. Why, 
 this is capital." 
 
 "And all this your domg," said Ellen gratefully, and her 
 hands were extended towards him again, "it is from your 
 sacrifice that the happiness will spring. What have we done 
 to deserve it ?" 
 
 "You were kind to me in the old days," he stammered 
 forth, " I can't forget it" 
 
 " And, John, we will never forget you." 
 
 " Thank'ee, thank'ee," he said twice. 
 
 " Our only friend— our best friend ; God bless you," she 
 said, gratefully ; then she released his hands and let him go 
 away, standing and watching his thoughtful progress down the 
 street, and whispering her blessing after him again. 
 
 He was not deserving of it; he had not acted as she 
 thought he had. Mary had not left him the chance. of being 
 worthy of one poor woman's gratitude. Of these three shadowy 
 characters of Gibbon Street, not one fairly understood the other 
 to the 2nd of time. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HAPPY TOGETHER. 
 
 OHN DAX had become a hero in spite of himself, and 
 there was no dropping the charac».ter. There were 
 two young women grateful to him ; Mary for his forgive- 
 ness, his warmheartedness, and all he had said to assure 
 her that the money was her own to dispose of as best pleased 
 herself j and Ellen because hi had done so much to bring 
 happiness to the repository. It had not come yet, but he 
 was none the less a hero. Heroism had been thrust upon him, 
 and it did not seem, at first glance, as though it was agreeing 
 with him. A good action had hardly been its own reward, and 
 he was dull and grave until the question came uppermost one 
 day — Did he regret all that he had done to help them ? 
 
 No, no ! he did not regret it. He was not sorry he had 
 parted with his money to bring back Alec Williamson — he was 
 glad of it, but he should not be truly happy until the lover's 
 return. 
 
 This, or something like this, was his reply. He was only 
 
 -.L 
 
Happy Together, 
 
 55 
 
 
 thoughtful for fear that his efforts had been in vain^ and that 
 the better times would never come. 
 
 For these assurances he was always welcome to Gibbon 
 Street. Mary knew why he talked in this strain, and took the 
 task on himself to screen her from suspicion. Ellen only read 
 a noble and disinterested nature in the man who had done so 
 much for them. There were bright smiles and friendly pres- 
 sures of the hand for John Dax now. The shadow of his past 
 estate did not rest upon him , they had forgotten their rescue 
 of him from the streets in the winter's snow, and respected 
 him, nay reverenced him as a man who had done much to clear 
 away the clouds about their lives. 
 
 He came every day till Mary was downstairs again, and 
 Ellen at her old post behind the counter. Here was the same 
 situation as of old, but they were waiting for the change to it. 
 There was a shimmer of happiness already about the house. 
 There were smiles between the sisters. There was no bitter 
 wrong between them, only the affliction of a rash vow, which 
 both were truly sorry for, and of which both were longing to see 
 the end. 
 
 And the beginning of the end came when Mary had been 
 downstairs a fortnight. 
 
 John Dax was proceeding at his usual slow rate down Gibbon 
 Street one evening, when Ellen, cloaked and bonneted, met 
 
56 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street. 
 
 him on his way to the repository. He would have passed 
 without seeing her had she not caught him by the arm. 
 
 *'Ah ! Ellen, is that you? There's nothing the matter I 
 hope/' he added, as he became aware that she was paler than 
 usual. 
 
 " There is nothing wrong — but there is something the matter, 
 John," said Ellen. " Can't you guess what it is ?" 
 
 " Yes, I think I can," he answered. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few steps, then John said — 
 
 " He has come back ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He is at the repository? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " Was Mary very pleased to see him ? " was the third ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Very pleased," answered Ellen. " I did not hear what she 
 said. I came into the street and left them together. I could 
 not stop." 
 
 " Not to speak a word to Mary after all these awful years," 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 " I shall see her presently," replied Ellen, becoming a shade 
 paler beneath his sharp reproof. ^" I did not wish to mar the 
 first moments of their meeting by my interference. They will 
 not miss me, and I thought I would come and meet you." 
 
 John did not thank her for the trouble she had taken — did 
 
 ■rrs'sirsss^tammgg^ 
 
Happy Together. 
 
 56 
 
 , 
 
 not think of thanking her. It did not strike him that she had 
 left her work and come out of her way to spare him the sting 
 of the first shock — to prepare him for the fact of Alec William- 
 son's return. He did not even know that he needed prepara- 
 tion, but Ellen Morison did. She had watched him closely of 
 late days, and knew how weak he was, for all his air of self- 
 command. 
 
 ^'The happiness has come at last. I am glad," he said, in 
 a low tone, as Ellen turned and walked back with him in the 
 direction of home. 
 
 " Very glad ? " she asked, curiously. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, with more firmness than she had antici- 
 pated. " It settles the matter, you see." 
 
 " I think I see more than this," she said. 
 
 " What's that," he asked with cogency. 
 
 " That you are the most unselfish man whom I have ever 
 met." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense." ' - 
 
 " The one unselfish man, I might have said, more truly," 
 she added dryly, " and yet there was a time when Mary and 
 I looked down upon you, pitied you and patronized you." 
 
 " And if it had not been for your pity and your patronage — " 
 
 " Pray don't be grateful to us any more," said Ellen, shiver- 
 ing. " The times are changed, and we have changed places 
 with them. Here is home." 
 
58 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 i:;i 
 
 ii 
 
 " It will be like home at last, I hope," said John. 
 
 " Amen. I hope so," answered Ellen Morison, fervently. 
 
 They walked into the shop together. John hung back, anJ 
 took a long deep breath as they approached the parlour, but 
 Ellen Morison went in with an unflinching gaze, and a step that 
 faltered not She had the courage to face the old love boldly 
 —but then the love had died out, and was past any chance of 
 
 revival. 
 She went towards her sister, sitting by her lover's side, with 
 
 her hand in his, and said : — 
 
 "Mary." 
 
 The younger sister was weak still, she rose, trembling in every 
 limb, and put her wasted arms round Ellen's neck. 
 
 " At last," she whispered, then both' women were unnerved 
 for a little while. 
 
 Ellen was the first to recover. She turned to John, and con- 
 fronted him with Alec, a tawny-haired and handsome Scotch- 
 man, for ever on the smile— as well he might be at that early 
 stage of his return. 
 
 " This is the best friend we have ever had in our lives," said 
 Ellen. " Your best friend too. Alec, for it was his sovereigns 
 that saved you." 
 
 " Sir, I thank ye," said Alec, in a broad accent, as he rose 
 and crushed our hero's fingers somewhat remorselessly in his 
 
Happy Together. 
 
 59 
 
 own. '' I am prood to make yeer acquaintance. A fireend of my 
 Mary's is a freend of mine for life, sir — for life." 
 
 " You are very good," said John, when he had got his hand 
 out of the vice. 
 
 "You will be glad to hear, John," said Mary, "that Alec 
 has seen some of his relations, and he is likely to obtain a 
 situation almost at once." 
 
 " Yes. I am glad of that," echoed John. 
 
 " In a wholesale warehouse — somewhere; then we shall begin 
 saving for you," cried Mary, "putting by something every 
 week — ." 
 
 " If ever so little," added Alec cautiously. 
 
 " to pay off the debt we owe you." 
 
 " You need not trouble about that — for a year or two," an- 
 swered John. 
 
 " Sit ye down, mon, sit ye down — ^ye have been a guid freend 
 to us," cried Alec heartily, and John sat down for a few mo- 
 ments, and stared at the fire, and thought himself very much in 
 the way of all this happiness, which had come in a great rush to 
 Gibbon Street at last 
 
 He was uncomfortably conscious, too, that Ellen Morison 
 watched him more furtively than he watched the lovers, and he; 
 resented this in his heart. 
 
 He did not like to meet her eyes, to see in them a concern for 
 him ; a fear that he should break down, and make a scene 
 
6o 
 
 I 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street 
 
 there, as if he were not above that kind of thing, and strong as 
 a lion. He had accomplished his task, and every one was con- 
 tent, and it would soon be time for him to leave these lovers to 
 themselves, although it was difficult to quit them in the face of 
 their united protestation for him to remain. Presently they seemed 
 to forget him more, and to talk in a lower tone of the past and 
 the future, without much respect for the " proprieties." Alec 
 put his arm round Mary's waist and drew her closely to his side, 
 whilst the fair young head drooped trustfully and affectionately 
 upon the shoulder of her lover. Now and then Alec ad- 
 dressed the company generally, talked a gr^^at deal of his 
 chances in the world, and a great deal more about himself, 
 allowing his listeners to see, if they cared to see, that he had a 
 very strong idea in his mind that he was a clever sort of 
 fellow. He was hardly the hero whom John had pictured 
 claiming Mary Morison — he was too big and boisterous 
 and beefy — but he loved the little dressmaker very much, and 
 Mary was very fond of him, and they would live happily for ever 
 afterwards. 
 
 John Dax was interested in his conversation. 
 
 " I should think soldiering not a bad i<^ ^ ^ ke it 
 
 altogether," he observed. 
 
 " Ay, for a mon who goes awa* to serve his cou'^ trie honestlv," 
 cried Alec, " for there's glory in it. But its vera ill soldiering 
 with a trooble or awrang at the heart." 
 
 M 
 
 r^ZF-^-Jl-iL^ilULi ' 
 
Happy Together, 
 
 6i 
 
 " Ay, but for a fellow with no ties, no wrongs, no troubles, 
 nothing to keep him at a trade, and only an empty top room 
 that he can call home, I should say the army was the thing 
 now." 
 
 " Why, you are not thinking of the army, John," said Mary, 
 with a merry little laugh at the idea. 
 
 " Why should I ? " rejoined John, laughing too for a minute, 
 and whilst Mary was looking at him, and then the subject was 
 dismissed, and the lovers began to whisper together again. 
 
 John Dax was sure that he must be considerably in the way 
 — he was quite sure of it when Alec and Mary forgot him alto- 
 gether, and Alec's big red whisker — the left one — was crushed 
 against the cheek of his betrothed, and Alec looked down into 
 her eyes, and once kissed her unblushingly before company. 
 There was no particular etiquette about this kind of thing in 
 Gibbon Street, and John was not shocked at the demonstration. 
 He was only certain that it would be perfectly advisable to get 
 away from it all, and when a chance customer took Ellen away, 
 he seized the opportunity of the door being ajar to walk softly 
 from the parlour too. He was right. Alec and Mary did not 
 know that he had gone, that he was passing cautiously, almost 
 on tip toe, across the step towards the fresh air beyond. He 
 looked at Ellen, and nodded a good night, and from her post 
 behind the counter she said : — 
 
 " Wait an instant, John." 
 

 if ' 
 
 i 
 
 62 
 
 The Romance of a Back Street, 
 
 He waited at her request till iuz customer was served, stand- 
 ing at the door, and looking dreamily down the ill-lighted 
 street Ellen Morison startled him at last by her hand upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Have you bidden them good-bye]? *' she asked. 
 
 " N — no. They were busy ." 
 
 <'Busy?" 
 
 " That is, they were very happy, sweet-hearting," he said, 
 "and it was a pity to distiurb them." 
 
 " But you are going away for a long while ? " 
 
 "How do you know?" asked John surprised at this exhi- 
 bition of dear sightedness. 
 
 " I read it in your face to night. Is it not true ? " 
 Well — yes — for— 
 
 « 
 
 » 
 
 f "For what?" 
 
 'iAi*;'* 
 
 \i " For it's no use coming to trouble either of you again. I — I 
 
 shan't wantto come now." ' ' • -^ ' li 
 
 " They will be glad to see you at the wedding." ^r 
 
 " Oh ! no," cried John, " no, thank you ! " x -t^ 
 
 " You are her friend and mine, and we are short of friends. 
 
 Mary will go soon to her new home, and I shall be very lonely 
 
 here, if even you will not look in to say good evening some- 
 
 times. 
 
 Her voice faltced, but he did not perceive it If she were 
 making love feo him, he never knew it, never took the hint, 
 
Happy Together, 
 
 63 
 
 conveyed by Ellen's manner, never thought it possible to be 
 loved even by a good-looking girl, a little older than himself. 
 He had sketched forth his future too — and he went away that 
 night in search of it. 
 
 He bade Ellen good-bye, he desired her to remember him 
 kindly, most kindly to Mary and to Alec, he promised to write 
 some day soon, that they might know where to send the money 
 to him when they wanted, and then Ellen Morison watched 
 him out of her sight into the night mists, that were thick in 
 Gibbon Street, and through which the lonely man was never 
 seen returning to a woman still more lonely than himself. 
 
 John Dax enlisted for a soldier, and died of fever on the Gold 
 Coast, before he had ever smelt powder, is/ven in the pursuit of 
 glory, it was his ill-fortune to meet Yellow Jack instead. He 
 was one of the many who are for ever out of luck's way. 
 
 THE END.