In the Year of Jubilee. George Gissing

the illuminations, and walk about, with intervals devoted to refreshments, for several hours more. Beyond sat a working-man, overtaken with liquor, who railed vehemently at the Jubilee, and in no measured terms gave his opinion of our Sovereign Lady; the whole thing was a ‘lay,’ an occasion for filling the Royal pocket, and it had succeeded to the tune of something like half a million of money, wheedled, most of it, from the imbecile poor. ‘Shut up!’ roared a loyalist, whose patience could endure no longer. ‘We’re not going to let a boozing blackguard like you talk in that way about ‘er Majesty!’ Thereupon, retort of insult, challenge to combat, clamour from many throats, deep and shrill. Nancy laughed, and would rather have enjoyed it if the men had fought.

      At Westminster Bridge all jumped confusedly into the street and ran for the pavement. It was still broad daylight; the sun—a potentate who keeps no Jubilee—dropping westward amid the hues of summer eventide, was unmarked, for all his splendour, by the roaring multitudes.

      ‘Where are you going to leave us?’ Nancy inquired of her brother.

      ‘Charing Cross, or somewhere about there.’

      ‘Keep by me till then.’

      Barmby was endeavouring to secure her companionship. He began to cross the bridge at her side, but Nancy turned and bade him attend upon Miss. Morgan, saying that she wished to talk with her brother. In this order they moved towards Parliament Street, where the crowd began to thicken.

      ‘Now let us decide upon our route,’ exclaimed Barmby, with the air of a popular leader planning a great demonstration. ‘Miss. Lord, we will be directed by your wishes. Where would you like to be when the lighting-up begins?’

      ‘I don’t care. What does it matter? Let us go straight on and see whatever comes in our way.’

      ‘That’s the right spirit! Let us give ourselves up to the occasion! We can’t be wrong in making for Trafalgar Square. Advance!’

      They followed upon a group of reeling lads and girls, who yelled in chorus the popular song of the day, a sentimental one as it happened—

      ‘Do not forget me, Do not forget me, Think sometimes of me still’—

      Nancy was working herself into a nervous, excited state. She felt it impossible to walk on and on under Barmby’s protection, listening to his atrocious commonplaces, his enthusiasms of the Young Men’s Debating Society. The glow of midsummer had entered into her blood; she resolved to taste independence, to mingle with the limitless crowd as one of its units, borne in whatever direction. That song of the streets pleased her, made sympathetic appeal to her; she would have liked to join in it.

      Just behind her—it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall—some one spoke her name.

      ‘Miss. Lord! Why, who would have expected to see you here? Shouldn’t have dared to think of such a thing; upon my word, I shouldn’t!’

      A man of about thirty, dressed without much care, middle-sized, wiry, ruddy of cheek, and his coarse but strong features vivid with festive energy, held a hand to her. Luckworth Crewe was his name. Nancy had come to know him at the house of Mrs. Peachey, where from time to time she had met various people unrecognised in her own home. His tongue bewrayed him for a native of some northern county; his manner had no polish, but a genuine heartiness which would have atoned for many defects. Horace, who also knew him, offered a friendly greeting; but Samuel Barmby, when the voice caught his ear, regarded this intruder with cold surprise.

      ‘May I walk on with you?’ Crewe asked, when he saw that Miss. Lord felt no distaste for his company.

      Nancy deigned not even a glance at her nominal protector.

      ‘If you are going our way,’ she replied.

      Barmby, his dignity unobserved, strode on with Miss. Morgan, of whom he sought information concerning the loud-voiced man. Crewe talked away.

      ‘So you’ve come out to have a look at it, after all. I saw the Miss Frenches last Sunday, and they told me you cared no more for the Jubilee than for a dog-fight. Of course I wasn’t surprised; you’ve other things to think about. But it’s worth seeing, that’s my opinion. Were you out this morning?’

      ‘No. I don’t care for Royalties.’

      ‘No more do I. Expensive humbugs, that’s what I call ‘em. But I had a look at them, for all that. The Crown Prince was worth seeing; yes, he really was. I’m not so prejudiced as to deny that. He’s the kind of chap I should like to get hold of, and have a bit of a talk with, and ask him what he thought about things in general. It’s been a big affair, hasn’t it? I know a chap who made a Jubilee Perfume, and he’s netting something like a hundred pounds a day.’

      ‘Have you any Jubilee speculation on hand?’

      ‘Don’t ask me! It makes me mad. I had a really big thing,—a Jubilee Drink,—a teetotal beverage; the kind of thing that would have sold itself, this weather. A friend of mine hit on it, a clerk in a City warehouse, one of the cleverest chaps I ever knew. It really was the drink; I’ve never tasted anything like it. Why, there’s the biggest fortune on record waiting for the man who can supply the drink for total-abstainers. And this friend of mine had it. He gave me some to taste one night, about a month ago, and I roared with delight. It was all arranged. I undertook to find enough capital to start with, and to manage the concern. I would have given up my work with Bullock and Freeman. I’d have gone in, tooth and nail, for that drink! I sat up all one night trying to find a name for it; but couldn’t hit on the right one. A name is just as important as the stuff itself that you want to sell. Next morning—it was Sunday—I went round to my friend’s lodgings, and’—he slapped his thigh—‘I’m blest if the chap hadn’t cut his throat!’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Betting and forgery. He would have been arrested next day. But the worst of it was that his beverage perished with him. I hadn’t a notion how it was made; he wouldn’t tell me till I planked down money to start with; and not a drop of it could be found anywhere. And to think that he had absolutely struck oil, as they say; had nothing to do but sit down and count the money as it came in! That’s the third man I’ve known go wrong in less than a year. Betting and embezzlement; betting and burglary; betting and forgery. I’ll tell you some time about the chap who went in for burglary. One of the best fellows I ever knew; when he comes out, I must give him a hand. But ten to one he’ll burgle again; they always do; burglary grows on a man, like drink.’

      His laughter rang across the street; Barmby, who kept looking back, surprised and indignant that this acquaintance of Miss. Lord’s was not presented to him, paused for a moment, but Nancy waved to him commandingly, ‘Straight on!’

      They reached Charing Cross. Horace, who took no part in the conversation, and had dropped behind, at this point found an opportunity of stealing away. It was Crewe who first remarked his absence.

      ‘Hollo! where’s your brother?’

      ‘Gone, evidently.—Hush! Don’t say anything. Will you do something for me, Mr. Crewe?’

      ‘Of course I will. What is it?’

      Nancy pursued in a low voice.

      ‘He’s gone to meet Fanny French. At least, he told me so; but I want to know whether it is really Fanny, or some one else. He said they were to meet in front of the Haymarket Theatre. Will you go as quickly as you can, and see if Fanny is there?’

      Crewe laughed.

      ‘Like a bird!—But how am I to meet you again?’

      ‘We’ll be at the top of Regent Street at nine o’clock,—by Peter Robinson’s. Don’t lose time.’

      He struck off in the westerly direction, and Barmby, looking round at that moment, saw him go. Engrossed in thought of Nancy, Samuel did not yet perceive that her brother had vanished.

      ‘Your friend isn’t coming any further?’ he