Hilda Lessways

Ca

ng a glimmer of gas in the lobby. Ere Mrs. Lessways could descend from her ti

read you want. Just give

r flying upstairs, and burning her into a fever, as with the assured movements of familiarity she put on her bonnet, mantle, ‘fall,’ and gloves in the darkness of the chamber. She held herself in leash while her mother lifted a skirt and found a large loaded pocket within and a

air,” she thought. “Pooh!

had cried, “Here! I fairly give you up! Go out and buy your own dinner! Then perhaps you’ll get what you want!” And the child, without an instant’s hesitation, had seized the coins and gone out, hatless, and bought food at a little tripe-shop that was also an eating-house, and consumed it there; and then in grim silence returned home. Both mother and daughter had been stupefied and frightened by the boldness of the daughter’s initiative,

the intense excitement of the reckless and supercilious child in quest of its dinner. The only difference was that the recent reconcilia

so much as a railway station—rail-head of a branch line. Turnhill was the extremity of civilization in those parts. Go northwards out of this Market Square, and you would soon find yourself amid the wild and hilly moorlands, sprinkled with iron-and-coal villages whose red-flaming furnaces illustrated the eternal damnation which was the chief article of their devout religious belief. And in the Market Square not even the late edition of the Staffordshire Signal was cried, though it was discreetly on sale with its excellent sporting news in a few shops. In the hot and malodorous candle-lit factories, where the real strenuous life of the town

d the Square

stayed therein for at least five minutes, emerging with a miraculously achieved leisureliness. A few doors away was a somewhat new building, of three storeys—the highest in the Square. The ground floor was an ironmongery; it comprised also a side entrance, of which the door was always open. This side entrance showed a brass-plate, “Q. Karkeek, Solicitor.” And the wire-blinds of the two windows of the first floor

f, “but I don’t care, and I don’t care!” At the top of the stairs was a passage, at right angles, and then a glazed door with the legend in black letters, “Q. Karkeek, Solicitor,” and two other doors myste

o see Mr.

at her sourly,

han’t be able to stand th

idge County Court. But if you’re in such a hurry like, you’d better see Mr.

Hilda repea

t na

e I shall have to tell him!” she sai

f course it’s Lessways! And don’t I know all about you!” And Hilda was ove

sk, just under a gas-jet. He spoke low, like a conspirator, into the mouthpiece of the tube. “Miss Lessways—to see you, sir.” Then very

his stool. At the same time he put a long inky penholder, which h

a whirl of horrible misgivings, “never have I done

i

lawyer! It seemed incredible! A few minutes ago she had been at home, and now she was in a world unfamil

t and reflected afterwards. She was frightened, but ra

rty?” said Mr. Cannon amiabl

ed his long soft moustache; the chin was blue. He was smartly dressed in dark blue; he had a beautiful neck-tie, and the genuine whiteness of his wristbands was remarkable in a district where starched l

remember seeing him in the streets!” She was in awe of him. He was indefinitely

out the rent-colle

stonished that he could thus

your mother

consult you myself. Mother doesn’t know. I’m nearly twenty-one,

asy, friendly smile. But he was most obviously startled. He looke

ore like a fellow-creature, and less like

nearly tw

loss. “The fact is, I don’t think mother will be quite able to look after the pro

, and I was thinking perhaps Mrs. Lessways

t to be done. She’s decided to collect our Calder Street rents herself, and she isn’t fitted to do it. And then there’s the question of the repairs.... I know the rents are going down. I expect it’s all mother’s

ut the will,” s

u d

s, magi

e at Toms and Scoles’s. I was the

ossible unpleasant consequences of her escapade, but also from

it perfectly. Your mother is what we call tena

uptly. “All I want to k

thout upsettin

t her. She b

y,” she s

your mother thinks of collecting the rents herself.... Well, young lady, it’

always saying—she’s th

me think it over

l I call

what can be done. Of course it would never do f

nything would be better than that. Bu

ainly

im. And she was very content so fa

een here,” she said timidly. “Becau

find out,” he

ion. But when, at the end of the interview, he came round the large table which separated them, and she rose and looked up at him, close, she was suddenly very afraid of him. He was a tall and muscular man, and he stood like a monarch, and she stood like a child. An

py and fearful and expectant.... It was done! She h

“I was there!” she said. “He is still there.” The whole town, the whole future, seemed to be drenched now in rom