But he could not live so.  There was now a danger that the shadow of misery would darken into madness, Little by little he resumed his studious habits, yet with prudence.  At thirty his bodily strength seemed to have consolidated itself; if he now and then exceeded the allotted hours at night, he did not feel the same evil results as formerly.  His sister was a very dear companion to him; she had his own tastes in a simpler form, and woman’s tact enabled her to draw him into the repose of congenial talk when she and her mother were troubled by signs of overwork in him.  He purchased a book as often as he could reconcile himself to the outlay, and his knowledge grew, though he seemed to himself ever on the mere threshold of the promised land, hopeless of admission.

Then came his sister’s death, and the removal from Battersea back to Lambeth.  Henceforth it would be seldomer than ever that he could devote a shilling to the enrichment of his shelves.  When both he and Lizzie earned wages, the future did not give much trouble, but now all providence was demanded.  His brother in the Midlands made contribution towards the mother’s support, but Henry had a family of his own, and it was only right that Gilbert should bear the greater charge.  Gilbert was nearing five-and-thirty.

By nature he was a lonely man.  Amusement such as his world offered had always been savourless to him, and he had never sought familiar fellowship beyond his home.  Even there it often happened that for days he kept silence; he would eat his meal when he came from work, then take his book to a corner, and be mute, answering any needful question with a gesture or the briefest word.  At such times his face had the lines of age; you would have deemed him a man weighed upon by some vast sorrow.  And was he not?  His life was speeding by; already the best years were gone, the years of youth and force and hope—­nay, hope he could not be said to have known, unless it were for a short space when first the purpose of his being dawned upon consciousness; and the end of that had been bitter enough.  The purpose he knew was frustrated.  The ‘Might have been,’ which is ‘also called No more, Too late, Farewell,’ often stared him in the eyes with those unchanging orbs of ghastliness, chilling the flow of his blood and making life the cruellest of mockeries.  Yet he was not driven to that kind of resentment which makes the revolutionary spirit.  His personality was essentially that of a student; conservative instincts were stronger in him than the misery which accused his fortune.  A touch of creative genius, and you had the man whose song would lead battle against the hoary iniquities of the world.  That was denied him; he could only eat his own heart in despair, his protest against the outrage of fate a desolate silence.