Her bad news was unfortunately true enough.  For half a year Mr. Boddy had been breaking up; the process began very suddenly, and was all the harder to bear.  Under any circumstances he could not have held his own in the battle with society much longer—­the battle for the day’s food of which society does its best to rob each individual—­and the catastrophe in the home of the girls who were dear to him as though they had been his own children, sounded the note of retreat.  Thyrza was not so much to him as Lydia, but still was very much, and the sorrow which darkened Lydia’s life was to him the beginning of the end of all things.

Yes, he hid the state of things very skilfully from Lydia’s eyes.  He told her that he was working, when he had no work to do; he laughed at her questions as to whether he had comfortable meals, when he had had no meal at all.  The Bowers never invited him to come to the parlour now and sit at their table; they were so indifferent about him, so long as he paid his rent, that for a long time they did not know how hard beset he was.  Lydia had ventured to ask him if he would change his lodgings, provided she found him a room in a house where she could visit him without unpleasantness; but the old man avoided her request.  If he moved, all sorts of things would become known to Lydia which at present he was able to conceal.

One thing he could not hide.  His hand had become so unsteady that the bow would no longer strike true notes from the violin; so he ceased to play to the girl when she came.  Lydia did not press him, thinking that probably it was too painful for him to revive memories of the old days.  When hardships thickened, he would have sold the instrument, in spite of every pang, but for the certainty that Lydia would miss it from his room.

He lived more and more to himself.  Till the beginning of November he was able just to keep body and soul together after paying his rent, then the rent was no longer forthcoming.  Not one article remained to him for which he could obtain money, not one save the violin.  He durst not sell it.  In spite of everything, he clung to a vague hope that someone would find work for him.  To Ackroyd he could not go; that would be the same as telling Lydia, for he could trust no one in the state of mind which he had reached; even to strangers he was afraid to appeal with overmuch earnestness, lest stories should get about.  Still an odd shilling came to him now and then.  Poor old fellow, he did sad things.  One morning he took the old blacking-brushes which he had used for years for his one boot, and a little pot of blacking, and an old box, and walked far away across the river, to a place where no one could know him, and there tried to earn a little by rivalling with the shoeblacks.  It was useless; in three days he had earned but as many pence; he could not waste time thus.  It was a terrible moment when he had first to tell Mrs. Bower that he could not discharge his due to her.  He tried to put on a half-jesting air, to make out that his difficulty was of the most passing kind.  Mrs. Bower ungraciously bade him not to trouble himself, to pay as soon as he could.  But when the second day of default came, the landlady was even less gracious.