Brooks saw the card made out for that little cottage at
Hastings, and enclosed with the railway ticket Owston was picking up
fast there--and smiled faintly. He saw the girl on her breathless way
home with the good news, saw her wet face heaven turned for the first
time for many a month. There were men and women in the world with
hearts then. They were not all puppets of wood and stone, even as those
bank directors. Then, too, she would believe again that there might be
a God.
Ghosts! They were plentiful enough. There was the skin-dresser--his
fingers still yellow with the dye of the pith. Things were bad in
Bermondsey. The master had gone bankrupt, the American had filched away
his trade. No one could find him work. He was sober enough except at
holiday time and an odd Saturday--a good currier--there might be a
chance for him in the country, but how was he to get there? And in any
case now, how could he? His wife had broken down, lay at home with no
disease that a hospital would take her in for, sinking for want of good
food, worn out with hard work, toiling early and late to get food for
the children until her man should get a job.
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