‘You’re a bad husband and a beast!’ was Bessie’s retort.

Shortly after that Bessie received information of such grave misconduct on her husband’s part that she all but resolved to forsake the house, and with the children seek refuge under her parents’ roof at Woolwich.  Sam had been seen in indescribable company; no permissible words would characterise the individuals with whom he had roamed shamelessly on the pavement of Oxford Street.  When he next met her, quite sober and with exasperatingly innocent expression, Bessie refused to open her lips.  Neither that evening nor the next would she utter a word to him—­and the effort it cost her was tremendous.  The result was, that on the third evening Sam did not appear.

It was a week after Clem’s trial.  Jane had been keeping to herself as much as possible, but, having occasion to go down into the kitchen late at night, she found Bessie in tears, utterly miserable.

‘Don’t bother about me!’ was the reply to her sympathetic question.  ’You’ve got your own upsets to think of.  You might have come to speak to me before this—­but never mind.  It’s nothing to you.’

It needed much coaxing to persuade her to detail Sam’s enormities, but she found much relief when she had done so, and wept more copiously than ever.

’It’s nearly twelve o’clock, and there’s no sign of him, Perhaps he won’t come at all.  He’s in bad company, and if he stays away all night I’ll never speak to him again as long as I live.  Oh, he’s a beast of a husband, is Sam!’

Sam came not.  All through that night did Jane keep her friend company, for Sam came not.  In the morning a letter, addressed in his well-known commercial hand.  Bessie read it and screamed.  Sam wrote to her that he had accepted a position as country traveller, and perhaps he might be able to look in at his home on that day month.

Jane could not go to work.  The case had become very serious indeed; Bessie was in hysterics; the four children made the roof ring with their lamentations.  At this juncture Jane put forth all her beneficent energy.  It happened that Bessie was just now servantless.  There was Mr. Scawthorne’s breakfast only half prepared; Jane had to see to it herself, and herself take it upstairs.  Then Bessie must go to bed, or assuredly she would be so ill that unheard-of calamities would befall the infants.  Jane would have an eye to everything; only let Jane be trusted.

The miserable day passed; after trying in vain to sleep, Bessie walked about her sitting-room with tear-swollen face and rumpled gown, always thinking it possible that Sam had only played a trick, and that he would come.  But he came not, and again it was night.

At eight o’clock Mr. Scawthorne’s bell rang.  Impossible for Bessie to present herself; Jane would go.  She ascended to the room which had once—­ah! once!—­been her own parlour, knocked and entered.

‘I—­I wished to speak to Mrs. Byass,’ said Scawthorne, appearing for some reason or other embarrassed by Jane’s presenting herself.