Throughout his life until that day of Clara's disappearance he had
seemed in no danger from the deadliest enemy of the poor; one taste
of the oblivion that could be bought at any street-corner, and it
was as though drinking had been a recognised habit with him. A year,
two years, and he still drank himself into forgetfulness as often as
his mental suffering waxed unendurable. On the morrow of every such
crime--interpret the word rightly--he hated himself for his
cruelty to that pale sufferer whose reproaches were only the
utterances of love. The third year saw an improvement, whether owing
to conscious self-control or to the fact that time was blunting his
affliction. Instead of the public-house, he frequented all places
where the woes of the nether world found fierce expression. He
became a constant speaker at the meetings on Clerkenwell Green and
at the Radical clubs. The effect upon him of this excitement was
evil enough, yet not so evil as the malady of drink. Mrs. Hewett was
thankful for the alternative. But when she was no longer at his
side--what then?
His employment was irregular, but for the most part at
cabinet-making.
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