IN BLOOMSBURY.


It was the evening of the day after Yorke had listened to his own
biography, and night had long fallen upon the shivering woods of
Crompton; the rain fell heavily also upon roof and sky-light with thud
and splash. It was a wretched night, even in town, where man has sought
out so many inventions to defy foul weather and the powers of darkness.
The waste-pipes could not carry off the water from the houses fast
enough, choke and gurgle as they would; the contents of the gutters
overflowed the streets; and wherever the gas-lights shone was reflected
a damp glimmer. In a large room on the ground-floor of Rupert Street,
Bloomsbury, sat a woman writing, and undisturbed by the dull beating of
the rain without. She often raised her head, intermitted her occupation,
and appeared to listen; but it was to the voices of her Past that she
was giving heed, and not to the ceaseless patter of the rain. What power
they have with us, those voices! While they speak to us we hear nothing
else; we know of nothing that is taking place; there is no Present at
all; we are living our lives again. If purely, so much the better for
us; if vilely, viciously, there is no end to the contaminating
association. It is to escape this that some men work, and others pray.
The furniture of the room was peculiar to the neighborhood; massive, yet
cheap. It had been good once; but long before it came into the hands of
her who now owned it. There was the round bulging looking-glass; the
side-board was adapted for quite a magnificent show of plate and
tankards--only there were none; a horse-hair sofa, from which you would
have seen the intestines protruding had it not been for the continuous
gloom. If the sun ever visited Rupert Street, it shone on the other side
of the way. On the mantel-piece were two of those huge shells in which