Volume Two—Chapter Ten.
On the Search.
Doctor Thomas Hardon, of Somesham, seemed likely to have full enjoyment of his brother’s property, for Time kept on busy at work over his harvest. Septimus Hardon slowly and laboriously did copying for the law-stationers, apparently quite content with his lot, for he scarcely ever gave a thought now to the quest he had commenced with old Matt; Lucy toiled on incessantly at her sewing-machine, the bright needle flashing up and down, and the treadles set in motion by her feet were hardly ever still. Journeys were made to and from the warehouse from whence she had her work, but mostly alone, for Lucy had lost her protector: he had not returned since the day upon which he had been taken ill, and they knew not where he lodged. The information might have been obtained from Agnes, but save a short note or two enclosed in the regular letters sent to Mrs Jarker, in which she implored her to watch over the child, Lucy had not heard from her. Mr Sterne came and went, visiting them as he would have visited at any other house, treating Lucy with a calm, cold deference that made her weep bitterly after each visit, and grow paler day by day; for the curate told himself that he had at last conquered a foolish fancy, that he had triumphed as became him, and that all he felt now was a sublime pity which prompted him to watch her when she went out alone, and follow her at a distance till he saw her once more in safety, when he would hurry home; for his heart was very full of pity for Lucy Grey, even though he knew not of the tears she shed in secret.
As to carrying on his researches alone, the very thought of such a proceeding never occurred to Septimus Hardon—it seemed to border too much upon the impossible; and besides, he was deep in that Slough of Despond—poverty, which, instead of prompting men to energetic action, too often enervates and breeds despair. So he waited on day after day, hoping to see old Matt again, and yet dreading the prosecution of his claim-shrinking when it was named, for he seemed to grow less hopeful as time wore on. The curate had hinted more than once how willing he would be to aid him; but Septimus always shrank so from entering upon the matter, that Mr Sterne, from motives of delicacy, soon ceased to broach the subject.
The sewing-machine clicked on early and late, and Jean’s lark, when he heard it, would set up his crest and whistle away, waking the echoes of the court, while at the open window, when the bird was silent, Jean Marais himself would crane forward and listen eagerly to the fragment of some mournful little air which he could just catch at times, as the machine stopped, and Lucy arranged a portion of her work. But the sweet notes from the first-floor seemed to rouse the lark to fresh exertions, when its master would angrily chide it, and perhaps cover it with a handkerchief, but only to snatch it away hurriedly.
“For she loves to hear him whistle,” he would say; and then he would smile again, as the bird burst forth once more in its joyous carol.
At times Lucy would ascend to the attic to take up a bunch of green food she had bought for the birds, or a few flowers for the cripple, whose eyes brightened when he saw her, but these visits were mostly paid when ma mère was from home; for in spite of her civil words, there was something in the old woman’s quiet smile that chilled her; so that she dreaded meeting her more than if her looks had been those of anger. But she knew not the bitter words that had passed between mother and son upon the subject, when ma mère once angrily crushed a bunch of violets Lucy had taken up to the suffering youth.
The sewing-machine was clicking away merrily one day, so that Mrs Jarker could hear it from her sick-bed; Septimus Hardon was busily copying at his little table, and the lark jocund as ever, when a slow step was heard upon the stairs. Lucy stopped her machine to listen, and even Septimus raised his head from his work. But there was no mistake—it was not a visitor for up-stairs, but old Matt’s own shuffling footstep, and Lucy run to admit him.
Paler, thinner, more haggard, he came slowly into the room, rubbing his hands and smiling with pleasure at the warmth of the greeting he received.
“Never better,” he said; “capital, thank you; been ill, though, and not able to get out before, though I was afraid you would get all the work done without me. What have you done since I saw you, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Septimus quietly.
“Didn’t expect you had,” said Matt drily. “No offence, sir; but I thought perhaps you might want me; so if you’ll get your hat, sir, we’ll start at the point where we left off, and see after the doctor.”
“But you will not be well enough,” said Septimus, hanging back from the task—more on his own account than on that of the old man.
“Don’t you be afraid of that, sir. I should have been well weeks ago if it hadn’t been for fidgeting about your affairs, and wanting to get out. I’m as strong as a lion now, sir; but let’s be at it. I want a new suit of clothes out of the estate, you know, sir, when you get it;” and the old man chuckled and nodded at Lucy.
Septimus slowly wiped his pen, and carefully put away his paper, sighing the while, for he was unwilling to start, and the fit of eagerness had long ago evaporated; but at last he declared himself to be in readiness, and the pair once more started off upon their search.
Upon this occasion they directed their steps at once to Finsbury, and, after a slow, and what seemed to Matt a painful, walk, they reached their destination.
“Here is the house,” said Septimus, after a reference to his pocket-book; “this is the number.”
“H’m!—‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants,’” read Matt from the board over the door. “This isn’t the doctor’s. Sure of the number, sir?”
“Yes,” said Septimus, referring once more to his pocket-book; “yes; this is the number I took down.”
“So it is,” said Matt, after a reference to his own memorandum-book. “That’s right enough; but wait a bit, one never knows where to be right or wrong with numbers; they always were things as bothered a man; for you have your numbers so-and-so a, and b, and c, and goodness knows how many more, until you’re regularly puzzled. Perhaps that’s an a, or a b, or something of that kind, and the number we want is somewhere else.”
“Let’s walk on a little,” said Septimus; and they went slowly down one side and up the other, but this proved to be the only house numbered as they wanted.
“Do you know of a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, in this neighbourhood?” said Septimus to the first policeman they met.
The man of order shook his head, beat his white gloves together, and then rearranged the shaken head in his shiny stock before continuing his walk.
“Let’s go to the fountain-head at once,” said Matt; “perhaps they know something about him. Here we are again—‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants.’ Let’s see what Mr Tollicks knows about him.”
“Stop a minute,” said Septimus, to keep procrastination alive for a few moments longer. “Perhaps there is another door.”
“No more doors there, unless they’re backdoors,” growled Matt; and leading the way, they stood in a floor-clothed room,—the office itself,—furnished with a green—baize—covered table, bearing a stencil-plate, inkstand, and brush; and beside the wall a long bench, upon which sat apparently one of the servants waiting to be hired from ten to four, as announced by a bill in the window, which spoke of cooks, housemaids, and general servants as being regularly in attendance; but most probably the others, tired, had gone home for the day, for the damsel in question was the only one visible. She was “Corrnwall sure,” as indicated by the shape of her nose, though any ignorant person might have been excused for mistaking her for an inhabitant of the sister isle.
The door gave a sharp “ting” as it was opened, and another as it was closed,—the refinement of the old jingling door bell of the chandler’s shop,—when the young lady on the bench rose, and made a bob and sat down again, and someone from an inner chamber cried, “Coming!” Then a small dog with a very apoplectic voice barked loudly to the tune of a little bell secured to its neck, and came waddling round the counter to smell Septimus Hardon’s legs; when visiting old Matt for the same purpose, that gentleman favoured him with a pinch of snuff dropped softly towards his nose, provoking a most violent fit of sneezing, and a loud and agitated jingling of the tiny bell.
With the exception of the sneezing, there was now silence in the office for a few moments, till the sound of rattling milk-cans upon the pavement was heard. A man gave vent to the well-known melodious London yodel, and then opened the door, which again said “ting,” when from the inner chamber appeared a tall, stoutish, elderly-young female of very grand deportment, which she displayed to great advantage by making a most ceremonious salute—one that would have been invaluable to a governess in a large-minded family of small means. So elegant was the salute, that even old Matt was staggered, and performed an operation rather rare with him—he took off his hat.
“The side-door, my good man,” said the lady to the milkman, who grinned, winked to himself, and drew the door after him, when, quietly placing the customary “ha’porth” in a cream-tin, he set it in a corner by the door, jangled his cans as he took them up, and then yelled his way down the street.
“Mrs Tollicks?” said Septimus, raising his shabby hat.
“Miss Tollicks,” said the lady, with another profound courtesy almost equal to the former. “Perhaps you will be seated, sir.”
Perhaps he would have been; but as there was only the form upon which the auburn-haired damsel sat whilst waiting to be hired, Septimus merely bowed again, and said, “Thank you,” at the same moment inadvertently directing a glance at the maiden in question.
“Thoroughly trustworthy, and has an excellent character from her last place,” said Miss Tollicks, who had seen the glance; “a very good cook—plain cook, early riser, strictly temperate; in fact, a disciple of the late Father Matthew. Requires no followers, and only one half-day out in the month. Only twenty-two; wages twelve pounds; and a capital washer.”
The damsel had risen, and stood with her eyes half-closed, head on one side, and her rather large mouth squeezed up into a modest smirk; and as Septimus Hardon knew nothing of the maiden, he was bound to accept Miss Tollicks’ eulogium; but as to the last-named quality, it was very evident that the girl was not a capital washer of self, while a detergent applied to her hair would have made a manifest improvement.
“Indeed,” said Septimus, bowing; “I am obliged, but—”
“Only twelve pounds wages,” said Miss Tollicks with emphasis.
“And very reasonable,” said Septimus; “but—”
“You will find very few general servants willing to go for less than fourteen,” said Miss Tollicks.
“I suppose not,” said Septimus; “but at present—”
“Then you don’t think this young person would suit your requirements?” said Miss Tollicks.
“Decidedly not,” said Septimus eagerly, for he was getting so exceedingly confused, that had Miss Tollicks pressed her point, he would most probably have ended by hiring the damsel off-hand; for every glance directed for help at old Matt glanced off the impenetrable armour in which the old man had encased himself.
“Mary Donovan,” said the lady of the house with dignity, “it is five minutes past four; you need not wait any longer to-day.”
Mary Donovan rose at the instant, and made a bob to Miss Tollicks, and one each to Matt and Septimus—bobs that were a disgrace to her after the elaborate obeisances she had so lately seen made; and then she took her departure, played out by a couple of “tings,” Miss Tollicks smiling blandly, and courteously holding her head on one side as she stood waiting to know the object of her visitors’ call.
Miss Tollicks was a lady whom no one would have supposed to have been born a genius, from the utter absence of ennobling qualities in her face; but for all that she made-up showily, possessed a good figure, had two little corkscrew curls on either side of her face, a suspicion of thinness about her hair—parting, which on a small scale exhibited somewhat the appearance of certain stout ladies’ dresses in the back when they have been without assistance in the hooking department; for the said parting began correctly, and then gradually opened out, but only to contract again and finish evenly some distance farther back. By way of head-dress, Miss Tollicks wore a black-velvet blackbird, with handsome gold-bead eyes, the said ornithological head-dress being kept in its place by means of a fillet of black-velvet and gold twist. A very thick, plain-linked, jet chain was round her neck, a very glossy buckle at her waist, fastening the cincture of her very rusty black-silk dress, slightly rubbed at the plaits; so that altogether Miss Tollicks presented the aspect of a lady superior at the very least.
“We merely called,” said Septimus, after an awkward pause, during which he had been waiting for Matt to begin, “to—er—er—to—er—that is to ask if you could give us any information respecting a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, who once resided here.”
“Dear me, how disappointing!” said Miss Tollicks. “Now do you know I thought you had come after servants; I did indeed.”
“Really,” said Septimus sadly, “I am sorry to have caused you disappointment; but it was important that I should know, and I called—urgent—troubled you,” he stammered again, looking in vain at Matt, who only took snuff.
“O, don’t apologise, pray,” said Miss Tollicks; “come in and sit down, and let’s—let me,” she said, correcting herself,—“let me hear what it is. There, don’t laugh at me, for one is obliged to be so particular how one speaks to the grand people who come for servants.”
Miss Tollicks led the way into her inner chamber, where the fat dog slept snoringly in the sunshine; and, after a little hesitation, her two visitors took the proffered chairs.
“Mr Flips, surgeon,” said the lady of the place, after a little preliminary conversation, “no, I never heard the name, and I’ve been here two years this next week, when my landlord will most likely call. He says he has a bad memory, but he always recollects the quarter-days. He lives down in Dorsetshire, and when he comes up I can ask him if you like; perhaps he would know; or you might write; but he’s sure to write to me directly to say he is coming, so that, as he says, I may be ready for him, just as if one ever was ready for one’s landlord. Two years—yes, just two years,” she continued musingly. “There was a whole year at the millinery, which didn’t half-pay the rent; for people here don’t seem to wear bonnets, and when they do, they’ve been turned and cleaned and altered or somethinged or anothered, although I put my prices so low that there was no room for a bit of profit. Then there was the fancy stationery three months, which was worse, for the only kind of stationery the people fancied was penny-stamps, which cost me a penny a-piece, and then people either wanted them to be stuck on their letters, or else wrapped, up in paper. Then there was the newspaper and periodical trade, which was worse than all; for, as if just out of aggravation, the people always came and asked for the very thing you had not got. I declare that if it wasn’t that you can sit down and read your stock, the periodical trade would be unbearable. Only think of the trouble people gave you by ordering things regularly and never coming and fetching them; so that the back numbers used to get piled up most terribly. And now, you know, I’ve been six months at this, and it’s so trying, you can’t think; for, you see, I’m worse off than anybody: I’ve not got to please the missuses—I beg pardon, the mistresses only, but the servants; and really, after my experience I can say that there’s no pleasing anyone.”
Septimus Hardon glanced hopelessly at Matt, but he would not see him, and took pinch after pinch of snuff furiously, with a comical expression upon his countenance the former could not interpret.
“You see, though,” continued Miss Tollicks, who seemed to have made up her mind to thoroughly enjoy herself with a good talk; “you see, though, there is one advantage—there’s no stock required, and it is genteel; but really, after all, it is so vexatious and pays so badly that I think I shall give it up, and take to tobacco. I suppose it’s a business that pays well, and people do use it to such an extent that it’s quite wonderful. But let me see! Phillips—Flips—Flips—no, I never even heard of the name; but, do you know, I shouldn’t wonder if a doctor did once live here; for there’s a regular street-door bell that rings down-stairs, and another that rings up in the second-floor front, just as the night-bell used to at Doctor Masters’s, where I once lived at, as—ahem, ahem!—excuse my cough, pray,” said Miss Tollicks, colouring; “but there!” she said sharply the next moment, “where I lived as lady’s-maid, and I don’t see why I should be ashamed of it.”
“Hear, hear!” said old Matt, speaking for the first time.
“But can you tell who lived here before you?” said Septimus.
“O, yes; a dairy,” replied Miss Tollicks; “but it was only here six months, and my landlord told me the people didn’t pay any rent, but went off in the night so shabby, leaving nothing behind but a black-and-white plaster cow, and a moss-basket with three chalk eggs, in the window; and my landlord says that’s why he looks so sharp after me, which isn’t nice, you know; but then you can’t be surprised. Let me see, I think it was a coffee-house before that.”
“Perhaps,” said Septimus, rising, “you will find that out for me when your landlord calls. I don’t think we will trouble him by writing; and maybe you’ll ask him how long it is since a Mr Phillips lived here, and if he can tell you to where he removed.”
“That I will,” said Miss Tollicks pleasantly; “and if you would not mind taking one of my cards, you might be able to recommend me to one or two patrons; and you too, sir,” she continued, handing one to Matt, which he took with a comical amused expression, and carefully placed inside the lining of his hat.
“Hadn’t you better ask for the landlord’s address, and write at once?” growled Matt, as soon as they were outside the house.
“Perhaps it would be better,” said Septimus, hesitating; “but no, we won’t trouble her again; and it would only hasten the matter a day or two—possibly not at all. She has been very civil and obliging.”
“Very,” said Matt. “Good sort of woman, she seems; but what a tongue! As soon as ever she had trapped us in that room, ‘Matt, my lad,’ I said, ‘the people in this world are divided into two classes—talkers and listeners. You belong to the second class, so keep your place;’ and I did, sir, as you know. I never attempt to tackle a woman on her own ground, sir, which is talking. I can talk, sir, leastwise I could when I was well; but it’s my humble opinion that that woman would have rapped out three words to my one.”
“There,” said Matt, after they had walked a little way along the street, he all the while rubbing his forefinger slowly round and round his pill snuff-box, “I’ve taken all my snuff, as ought to have lasted till to-morrow night, and all through that precious woman’s tongue. Let’s go in here, sir, and get a penn’orth.”
“Here” was a very dirty-looking little tobacconist’s and news-agent’s; and, so as to leave no stone unturned, Matt, whilst being served, made inquiry touching Mr Phillips, a surgeon.
“No,” said the woman who served, as she allayed the irritation of her nasal organ by rubbing it with the back of the hand which held the snuff-scoop, and so provoked a loud fit of sneezing,—“no, not in my time.”
“How long has that been?” said Matt.
“Five years,” replied the woman.
Septimus Hardon walked out of the shop, and, after paying for his snuff, old Matt followed him into the street, and they bent their steps homewards.
“I’m dull and stupid and not right, you see,” said Matt, “or else I should have known why the name wasn’t in the newest of those two Directories. One, you see, was more than ten years old, and the other—well, it wasn’t the newest. But you leave it to me, sir, and I’ll try and find a medical directory, for I think there is such a thing. I know there is a legal one, for I helped print it; and there’s one for the parsons, so there’s safe to be one for the doctors. I’ll ferret it out, sir; and I shall be better to-morrow. Those look nice, don’t they?” said the old man, stopping short in front of a pork-butcher’s shop.
“Very,” said Septimus dreamily, and without glancing at the freshly-made chains of sausages hanging from the hooks in the window.
“You may always buy your sausages here, and depend upon ’em,” said Matt; “and if you’ll listen to my advice, you’ll take a pound back with you. They’ll wrap ’em in a bit of paper for you, and you can slip them in your pocket, and have a nice fry for tea when you get home, and then rest content; for, though we haven’t done much, and I should have liked you to have taken that landlord’s name and address, yet things are getting in train, I can tell you. So you wait quietly at home, sir, till I come again, for I suppose you won’t want to do anything yourself. I shall be stronger and better to-morrow or next day, I hope, for somehow I can’t get along as I used, and feel weak and muddled. But there, sir, slip in and get them sausages, and have a bit of patience, and don’t try to build any more till our mortar’s a bit settled.”
Septimus Hardon smiled sadly at the idea of his being impatient to go on with the search, and, obeying his companion’s hest, he obtained the pound of flesh; and then they walked slowly on till they were once more within the shadow of the law.
“And now I’m off, sir,” said Matt, stopping short in Carey-street. “I think I shall go and lie down.”
“Can I do anything for you?” said Septimus earnestly.
“Yes, sir,” said Matt; “let me have my own way, please. You let me go my way, and I’ll work the matter out for you if it’s possible, so that it shall be in trim for the lawyers, and then I’ll give up. But there, I won’t do anything without consulting you first, and—no, thank you; I’d rather not. No; I like sausages well enough sometimes, but not to-day, thank you; I’m off in a moment. Don’t you do anything, whatever you do, to put your uncle on his guard. Depend upon it, he thinks now, after all this time, that you’ve given it quite up; while, if things go on as I hope, we shall come down upon him one of these days in a way that shall startle him—shake his nerves so that he sha’n’t find a tonic for them.”
Old Matt shuffled off, once more steadily refusing to partake of any refreshment; while Septimus slowly and thoughtfully made his way towards the entrance to the Rents, pondering over his visit to the churches some weeks back, and then thinking that it would be better to settle down contentedly in his present state, for fear that after research, labour, and endless publicity, the words of his uncle should prove to be those of truth, and his condition worse than it was at the present time.
“Better the present doubt and obscurity,” he muttered. “Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison, Ellen Morris—all witnesses to the truth, but dead, dead.”
“Stop, stop!” cried a voice, as he turned into the Rents; and the next moment, with his hand to his side, old Matt stood by him, gasping. “I ain’t the thing to-night, sir; I’m ill, but I’ve got it here—here somewhere,” he said, tapping his forehead, “and I can’t get it out. It’s here, though. It’s ‘medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon—so much,’ isn’t it? That’s it, sir, ain’t it?”
Septimus stared wonderingly at him.
“You may well look, sir,” said Matt, panting still; “but that’s it, and I’ve seen it somewhere, and I’ll tell you where directly. It all came like a flash just after I left you; there it was, just as I saw it written down: ‘Medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon—so much;’ and I can keep seeming to see the words dance before my eyes now. I saw them written down somewhere once, and I can’t just now say where; but I seem to feel that I’ve got them all right, and I shall have it. Good-night, sir. Remember me to Miss Lucy;” and the old man staggered away, muttering aloud, “Medicine and attendance—medicine and attendance;” while more than one person in the street turned to look at the bent figure, to shake a sapient head, and mutter, “Or hospital.”
For poor old Matt looked sick unto death, though Septimus Hardon, deep in his own thoughts, had taken but little notice of the old man’s indisposition.
Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.
Lucy’s Best.
Night after night, noticed by the curate during his wanderings, by ma mère, and by Mr William Jarker, birdcatcher, when distant trips had detained him until late hours, there still burned a feeble light in one of the windows at Bennett’s-rents; and by its gleam, until the moon rose above the houses, and looked inquisitively down upon her paper, shedding a silvery light that seemed to quench the rushlight’s sickly yellow flame, now sat Lucy Grey far into the long watches, with naught to interrupt her but the occasional long-drawn breath or sigh from the back-room, or the rumble of some vehicle through the distant streets. Once she started up and stood trembling, for a shrill scream rang upon the night breeze, but silence soon reigned again, and she retook her seat. Patiently bending over her task, with her large eager eyes strained to follow the work of her fingers, the pale girl was busily toiling on. Toiling on at what? Not at the sewing-machine, for its busy throbbing pulse was still, but carefully and slowly writing line after line in a common school copy-book to improve a handwriting already fine, delicate, and ladylike. A slate covered with figures lay too upon the table, while beside it was a French grammar, and the words written in the copy-book were in the same tongue.
And this had been Lucy’s task night after night, till the red-rimmed eyes would keep open no longer, and, wearied out, she lay down to dream dreams that brought smiles to her lips, for her visions were of the prize for which she studied. But these nights of toil and the anxiety of her heart had told upon her, and upon this night, the one succeeding the journey to Finsbury, Lucy sat, looking more pale and wan than usual, and her work progressed but slowly. The place too, and the summer heat, had had their share in producing her sickly pallor, for in Bennett’s-rents there was a faint lung-clinging odour that almost seemed to tell that Death had passed over the place to put his seal upon those soon to pass away. Or was it the foul incense men burn to his dread shrine, calling him to their homes—the thin invisible mist rising from filth and rottenness, to blight the rosy cheek of health? There was enough in Bennett’s-rents to drive away health, strength, and youth; for premature old age lurked in the foul cisterns, rose from the drains, and dwelt in the crowded habitations, houses made to accommodate six, yet containing perhaps thirty or forty, souls. But Lucy was sick at heart as well. Months upon months had she dwelt in the wretched court, though until now its impurities had not seemed to touch her as she passed to and fro.
The work went on slowly, and, weary and sad at heart, she stopped at times, gazing up at the bright moon, till, recalling her wandering thoughts, she again bent eagerly to her task. Still her thoughts would not be controlled, and soon the slate took the place of the paper, and her pencil formed two words over which she bent lovingly, and yet with a shudder, as if it were ominous to her hopes that she had written these words, for the pencil gritted loudly over the slate, and the last stroke was made with a harsh grating shriek which sounded loudly in the silence of the night. Still she bent lovingly over the characters, until, drip, drip, drip, the tears fell upon them, and then, as her white forehead sank upon her hands, the long gleaming clusters of her bright hair swept over the slate, and the words were gone, while the girl wept long and bitterly, for her dream of the future seemed rudely broken—that happy dream of her life whose rosy hues had served to soften the misery of her lot. Toiling hard by day to supply the wants of her suffering mother, working by night to make herself more worthy—to raise herself if but a step nearer to him; and now it seemed to her that she had been roughly dashed from the point to which she had climbed, by the words and looks of a low ruffian whose very presence was repelling.
Suddenly Lucy raised her head, for the night was hot, and the window open, and in the stillness of the hour she heard approaching footsteps—steps that she seemed to know, and her pulses beat tumultuously as they appeared to stop at the end of the court for a few minutes, and then pass on; when, as if a weight had been removed from her heart, the poor girl sighed, breathed more freely, and again bent over her books.
An hour passed, and then once more Lucy looked up, for, clear and sharp, “tap, tap, tap,” came the sound as of something hard, a tiny shot, a pebble striking against the window-panes, and then once more there was silence.
Lucy rose softly, her cheeks pale and lips apart, and stole on tiptoe to the door of the back-room and listened.
All was silent there but the heavy breathing of sleepers, so she again crossed the room, and with the nail of one finger gave a sharp tap upon the pane, then hastily tying on her bonnet and drawing on a shawl, she once more stood trembling and eagerly listening at the back-room, her pale young face wearing a strange, frightened expression, and then slowly and softly she stole to the door, opened it quietly, and closed it again, to stand outside upon the dark landing gazing fearfully up and down, as if in dread of being molested.
Slowly down she then passed step by step, with the old worn boards now and again creaking sharply beneath her light weight, every rustle of her dress sounding loud and distinct in the silence—down slowly to the dark passage and the front-door, left always on the latch for the convenience of the many lodgers. And now Lucy’s heart beat heavily, for she had passed along the entry in an agony of fear, lest she might encounter someone sleeping upon the floor, for at times homeless ones had stolen in and rested there, glad of such a refuge from the night wind.
But Lucy stood at the door in safety, and raised the latch. The paint cracked loudly as the door opened, and admitted the faint light of moon and lamp, while now the wind sighed mournfully down the court. The next moment the door was closed, and a dark figure had seized Lucy by the hand, and drawn her towards one of the many gloomy entrances, as the heavy step of a policeman was heard to pass the end of the court, his ringing paces gradually growing fainter and fainter, till once more all was still but the moaning sigh of the night wind, as it seemed at times almost to wail for the miseries of Bennett’s-rents.
A quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour passed; but save the occasional rattle of wheels in the great thoroughfare, all was silent. The many doorways in Bennett’s-rents seemed to frown darkly and mysteriously as the one lamp flickered, while, where the moonbeams did not fall, there were gloomy shadows. But at last came the light step of Lucy and the soft rustle of her dress as she crept up to the door, passed through to steal once more up the creaking stairs, to throw off bonnet and shawl, and sit down panting and trembling, her breath coming hardly for a while, till tears came to her relief, when she wept long and bitterly, the heavy booming of a neighbouring clock sending a shudder through her frame.
Now pushing back her hair from her forehead, she looked out angrily upon the night, now drooping and weeping bitterly, her head again sank upon her hands as the tears of hopeless misery gushed from her eyes. The moonbeams shed their silvery lustre upon her head as she bent there, playing amidst the riches of her beautiful hair, caressing it, hiding and glancing from amidst the thick tresses, lingering there, and seeming to shed a halo around. But slowly the radiant orb rode on till but half the bright tresses were in the light, and still slowly the shadows increased as the rays swept by, flooding first one and then another part of the room. Soon all within was darkness, while the court was light; and then slowly the shadow began to climb the houses on the other side, making their dingy walls less loathsome as seen through the silvery medium. But before the lower part of the court was quite in darkness, a heavy, slouching figure might have been seen to creep up to the house on the opposite side and enter the door. A few minutes after, Lucy Grey started and listened, for, in the strange stillness of the time, a rustling was heard upon the stairs, followed by a faint but laboured breathing; while, though her light was extinguished, Lucy crouched trembling in her chair, for it seemed to her that she had been watched, and that even now there was a piercing eye at the keyhole, which fixed her to her seat so that she dare not move. But at last, from sheer exhaustion, her fair young head drooped lower and lower towards the table, sinking upon her shapely arms; when once more came the rumble of a vehicle in the street, the heavy tread of the policeman upon the pavement—this time right along the court—in firm, ringing steps, that gave wrong-doers ample notice of his coming, and then again silence.
They were wild dreams that made fevered the sleep of Lucy Grey. Now it was Arthur Sterne; now ma mère and her son, or the low, bull-dog face of Jarker, that disturbed her rest, and she moaned in her sleep again and again as the night wore on. The writing upon her slate was gone; the copies were blurred and tear-blistered, and the poor girl slept heavily and painfully. Now she sighed, now she started, for her heart was rent and torn—as gentle a heart as ever beat in woman’s breast; but, like a blight, the breath of suspicion had rested on her, and she had shrunk back scathed before the man for whose coming it had been the pleasure of her life to watch.
What was there to live for now? she asked herself again and again. Was life to be only a dreary blank—a struggle for mere existence? And then she blamed herself for her folly and ambition. Had Arthur Sterne never crossed the light of her life she could have patiently toiled on, never wearying of the plaints of her mother; but now, after months, almost years of hopefulness, to come to this! Well might the sleep be fitful, and the dreams those which brought trouble, for the sun of her life seemed clouded, and hope a thing of the past.
Again a sigh, and a few muttered words, and then the weary head was turned a little so that when the first grey dawn of the coming day crept down the court, and struggled into the room, driving forth shadow after shadow, it rested smilingly upon Lucy’s cheek, pausing lovingly upon the first pure thing it had encountered that morning in the misery-smitten region around. Had Arthur Sterne known all, he would have given position, advancement, all, to have pressed his lips where the pale light now rested, and asked for pardon. But he knew only that which he had seen, and, racked by suspicion, he wearied himself with doubt and surmise without end.
Again a sigh, and again a restless turn, when the colour flushed through Lucy’s pale cheeks. It was sunrise, and some hopeful thoughts must have come with its brightness; or was it that the words breathed far off above the rushing river had at length reached their goal? But the cheeks soon paled again, the sigh was repeated, and Lucy slept heavily.
“Tsu weet, tsu weet, tsweet, tsweet, tsweet!” sang in long and joyous trill the speckled-breasted lark, as, raising its crest and the plumage of its throat, it fluttered by the prison-bars, and poured forth that joyous song whose every note told of bright skies, pure air, and the daisy-sprinkled mead; of waving cornfields, rippling brooks, and many-tinted woods. “Tsweet, tsweet, tsweet!” sang the bird of the joyous heart-stirring song, prisoned here in a foul court, but panting for the elastic air and some loving mate.
Lucy started up and looked confusedly round, then gazing towards the sky she became conscious that Mr William Jarker was upon the housetop amongst his pigeons and sooty lathen architecture, gazing heavily down upon her window. There was a frown upon her brow as she slowly and wearily put aside books and slate, bathed her throbbing temples, and smoothed the escaped locks; and then she stole softly to the corner of the window, where, unseen from above, she could lean her cheek against the paintless frame, and listen to the song of the bird. Sighing heavily as it ceased, she uncovered her sewing-machine, wiped off the dust, and prepared her work for the coming day. Now she had to cross the room and make sundry little domestic arrangements; now to seek here, now there; but all was done silently, so as not to rouse the sleepers in the next room; though there was none of the old elasticity, for she moved about wearily, sighing as she went.
And now, first one and then another familiar sound told her that the time for labour—that morning was there once more; many steps were heard descending the stairs and passing along the court, the cooing of the pigeons came from the housetops, and the rattle of vehicles rose more loudly from the distant streets.
“Up and dressed, Lucy?” said a voice from the adjoining room.
“Yes, mother dear,” was the reply; and now, after waiting some time for this signal, the wheel spun round, the keen needle darted up and down, and with its sharp click, click, click, sped on Lucy’s sewing-machine.
Then the bedroom-door opened, and Septimus Hardon made his appearance—a worn expression struggling hard with the smile that greeted Lucy, as he tenderly kissed her, and then hurrying out, he went for his morning walk, to puzzle over his own weakness, his poverty, and the great problem of things in general.
Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
In Hospital.
The more a poor and sensitive man confines himself within doors, the more he troubles himself with the fancy that everyone he meets is staring at and watching him when he stirs out; and this fancy was very strong on Septimus Hardon one day—one very miserable sloppy wet day, as he made his way towards Lower Series-place, on account of dilapidations in his boots.
Now experience has taught that holes or seediness generally of the other apparel may to a certain extent be managed, and something like a decent appearance made; the hat may be sponged and ironed, while the brown napless spots are inked, and the bruises, to a certain extent, rubbed out; holes in the coat may be fine-drawn, and a vigorous brushing will always do something towards renovating the nap, even as soap and flannel will remove the grease; then, too, a good button-up, and a paper collar neatly arranged beneath a clean face and shortly-cut hair, give a finish to a costume by no means rare in London streets. It is only when in company with dirt and squalor that long hair shows to its greatest advantage; and if the hair be long, vain are the efforts made to reform a shabby garb. Your artist may fancy he paints the better by saving the sixpences that should by rights find their way into the pocket of the man of the long tongue and sharp scissors; your poet with rolling eye may also find some hidden advantage, some Samson-like strength in flowing locks; and no doubt Italian liberty would suffer, and Vaterland be blotted and wiped out, if from foreign heads much of the collar-greasing, eye-offending, cheek-tickling appendage were shorn off. We know how the strength of the old judge lay in his locks, and when we meet some brawny hirsute fellow, we are apt to consider him a very Hercules of strength; but when we encounter long hair in a state of wealth, petted, perfumed, and glossed, after the fashion of the dandies of the Merry Monarch’s time, how the mind will feel disposed to look upon the owner of the flowing locks, not as a star of the intellectual sphere, but as a comet of weak intensity; while, when the same lengthy locks are met with in a state of poverty, even the short prison-barber coiffure of the Jarker kind seems preferable.
Taught by adversity, Septimus Hardon had learned to contend with the dilapidations in his clothes,—at times quite ingeniously,—but, like far better men, he had not been able to control his boots. Custom has so much to do with matters of dress, that though shabbiness will pass unnoticed in the throng, any departure from the ordinary laws will draw as much attention to the offender as if he were a visitor from some foreign clime. Sandal-shoon were of course once the correct thing for promenading the crust of the earth; but who now, unless he were an extreme Ritualist, would think of traversing our muddy streets with bare feet strapped to a sole, and great-toes working in a most obtrusive manner? Certainly not a man of Septimus Hardon’s retiring disposition, though, had he felt so disposed, he could not have done so in the present instance, since his boots almost lacked soles. Their decay had been so rapid, that scarcely anything remained but the uppers. He had even taken to wearing his wife’s goloshes, until the policeman became more attentive to his quiet footfall than was agreeable. But there is a stretch beyond which even the elasticity of indiarubber will not extend; and now, after putting up with much hard usage, the goloshes had succumbed, and, suffering under a complete reverse of circumstances, the indiarubber was itself completely rubbed out.
As before said, there are many little contrivances for bettering worn costume; but somehow or another a boot bothers the cleverest. String is a wonderful adjunct to garments generally, often acting as a substitute for buttons or braces; in fact, for a man wrecked on a desert island, there would not be the slightest cause for despair so long as he had string; but even it falls powerless before boots; glue is useless from the damp; while as to paste, it is no better than sealing-wax or grim. Taken altogether, boots are a great nuisance to a poor man; and when they have arrived at such a pitch that they are not worth mending, the best plan to adopt is not to throw them away, or offer them up as an odorous sacrifice to the goddess of poverty upon your household fire, watching their life-like contortions as the leather twists and turns in the hot blaze, but to do as Septimus Hardon did, with many a sigh, as though they had been old friends—sell them.
Septimus sold his boots to Isaac Gross, in Lower Series—place, after trying hard to get another day’s wear out of them. It had been a fierce battle, and he had found the arguments adduced by his leather friends too strong to be resisted. He parted from them with regret, although they had never been to him the friends he tried to believe. To begin with, they had always pinched him terribly, raising blisters upon his heels, painfully chafing his toes, bringing a tender place upon one foot, and fostering a corn upon the other; but now they had been parted with in exchange, with so much current coin added, for a pair of Isaac Gross’s translations.
It might reasonably be supposed that old Matt had introduced Septimus as a customer; but no, this would have been introducing him to the abode of which he was ashamed; and Septimus had long since discovered the spot for himself, and come to the conclusion that it was a place where he could well suit himself, or rather the requirements of his pocket.
Isaac was smoking away as usual, and giving the finishing touch to a boot-sole by means of a piece of broken glass, whose keen edge took off minute shavings of the leather. Mrs Slagg was busily carrying on trading transactions with a dirty man, and giving the best price for a barrowful of old newspapers; but both Isaac and Mrs Slagg seemed out of spirits, and when a customer presented himself in the shape of Septimus Hardon, the translator put down his work slowly, sighed, laid his pipe upon a shelf, and seemed to carry out his bargain with more than his usual heaviness. As a rule, Isaac was a man given to smiling—smiling very slowly, and bringing his visage back to its normal state, a solid aspect; but there was no smile visible now; and when his visitor for “three-and-nine and the old uns,” became the lucky possessor of a pair—no, not a pair—of two Oxonian shoes, Isaac took the money with another sigh, put it in an old blacking-bottle upon the shelf, which he used as a till, dropped the old boots upon a heap close by, took up his pipe, smoked, sighed, and then scraped away at his boot-sole without taking a single peep at his neighbour.
For Isaac Gross was sore at heart concerning the state of his old friend Matt, as sore at heart as was his customer; and when, slightly limping and pinched, Septimus creaked away in his new shoes, Mrs Slagg having finished her paper purchases, and retaken her seat inside her door,—a seat she seldom quitted, making her customers perform the weighing and lifting when practicable,—she peeped round the door-jamb twice in vain; and though trade was prosperous as her love, in spite of its being enshrined so softly in fat, Mrs Keziah Slagg’s heart was also sore, and she too sighed.
The feeling that everyone was watching him was stronger than ever upon Septimus Hardon that morning as he made his way along the big streets and alleys on his way towards one of the hospitals, and after letting the matter sleep as it were for some time, he had now awakened to the fact that he should like to prosecute his claim; though he told himself frequently that he was too weak and wanting in decision to go on without help—the help he could not now obtain. He knew that Mr Sterne would willingly assist him, but his was not the required help; and he shrank from making him his confidant, while he eagerly sought the aid of the old printer now it was not forthcoming.
There are some strange contradictions in the human heart; and at the present time, had old Matt presented himself to go on with the search in the unbusiness-like way already followed, the chances are that Septimus Hardon would have shrunk from it, or allowed himself unwillingly to be dragged into farther proceedings.
But old Matt was not present; and now, with the idea troubling him that much time had been wasted, and the matter must be at once seen to, Septimus Hardon made his way towards the hospital; not that he was ill in body, though troubled greatly in mind concerning the man who had been his friend in the hardest struggle of his life. For there were strong passions in the vacillating soul of Septimus Hardon, and he had been greatly moved when, after another long absence, during which he had anxiously waited for the old man, a letter had been delivered, telling how that Matthew Space lay seriously ill in a hospital-ward.
For the first few days after their parting, Matt’s last words had strangely haunted Septimus, and he could not rest for thinking of them; but they grew fainter with the lapse of time; Matt came not to spur him once more to his task, and he sank lower and lower, while Doctor Hardon of Somesham, portly and smiling, grew great in the estimation of the people of the little town.
Septimus had tried more than once in his unbusiness-like, haphazard way to find out the residence of old Matt, at such times as the thoughts of his last words were strong upon him. “He said he was ill, and then talked of medicine and attendance. He was wandering,” said Septimus. “I remember I had great difficulty in getting him along. Perhaps he is dead. Well, well; so with all of us. Let it rest, for I’ll take no farther steps.”
A rash promise to make, as he felt himself when one day came the few lines written in a strange hand, asking his attendance at the hospital. Only a few lines in a crabbed hand, without a reference to the search; but now the desire had risen strong in him once more, though he called himself selfish to think of his own affairs at such a time.
Septimus was not long in responding to the note, but he found the old man delirious. The second time, Lucy begged to go and see her old friend, and wept bitterly over his shrivelled hand; but the old man was incoherent, and knew them not.
And now for the third visit Septimus made his way to the hospital, where he found the old man apparently sinking from the effects of some operation. The doctor had just left, when one of the nurses, a great, gaunt, bony woman, with a catlike smile, and a fine high colour in her cheeks, ushered the visitor to the bedside—a bed, one of many in the light, clean, airy ward.
Septimus Hardon was shocked at the change which had taken place in the old man, as he lay with his hands spread out upon the white coverlet of the bed, pale and glassy-eyed, and rather disposed to wander in his speech; but his face seemed to light up when he heard his visitor’s voice.
“No; no better,” he whispered. “Let’s see, I told you, didn’t I? Mrs Hardon, medicine and attendance, wasn’t it? To be sure it was. Yes, medicine and shocking bad attendance here. That’s it; and I can’t tell you any more. I’m falling out of the forme, sir, unless some of these doctors precious soon tighten up the quoins.”
“No, no,” said Septimus cheerily, “not so bad as that; a good heart is half the battle.”
“Yes, yes, yes, so it is,” whispered the old man feebly; “but, I say, is she gone?”
Septimus told him the nurse had left the room, and the old man continued:
“You can’t keep a good heart here, sir, nohow. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known all I know now. You saw her, didn’t you?”
“The nurse?” said Septimus.
“Yes, her,” replied the old man, shuddering; “she’s a wretch, with no more feeling in her than a post. She’ll do what the porters shrink from, sir. They have to carry the—you know what I mean, sir—down to the deadhouse; and I’ve known her laugh at the young one, and do it herself in a way that makes your blood run cold. Just wink, sir, if you see her coming. She’ll be here directly with my wine or jelly: says I’m to have some on the little board, don’t it?”
Septimus looked at the board above his head, and found that wine was ordered.
“Yes,” said the old man, “the doctors are trumps, sir, everyone of them; and no poor fellow out of the place could get the care and attention I’ve done here. My doctor couldn’t do more if I paid him ten pound a day; and I always feel wonderful after he’s gone; seems to understand my chronics, sir, as you wouldn’t believe in. But those nurses, sir—don’t tell ’em I said so, but they’re devils, sir, devils. Medicine and attendance, sir; it’s all the first and none of the last.”
“Hush,” said his visitor, seeing as he thought that the old man was beginning to wander, “Mrs Hardon would have liked to see you, and Lucy; but she could not leave her mother to-day.”
“God bless her!” said the old man fervently. “He asleep in the bed there told me she came the other day, looking like an angel of comfort in this dreary place, sir. God bless her! Tell her, sir, that the old man’s true as steel, sir; the old blade’s notched and rusty, but he’s true as steel, sir. Do you hear? tell her that old Matt’s true as steel. But these nurses, sir,” he whispered, holding by his visitor’s coat, and drawing him nearer, “they’re devils, sir, regular devils!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” said Septimus, smiling.
“Not so bad, sir? Worse, sir, worse; ever so much worse. They’d do anything. There’s no Sisters of Mercy here, sir, like they’re talking of having at some places; they’re sisters of something else—she-demons, sir, and one daren’t complain or say a word. They’d kill a poor fellow as soon as look at him, and do, too,—dozens.”
“Nonsense,” said Septimus, smiling, “don’t be too hard, Matt.”
“’Tain’t nonsense, sir,” whispered the old man eagerly. “I ain’t wandering now, though I have been sending up some queer proofs—been touched in the head, you know, and thought I was going; but it didn’t seem to matter much if I could only have been easy in my mind, for I wanted to be out of my misery. But I couldn’t be comfortable on account of the medicine and attendance, and your uncle. What business has he to get himself made head doctor here, sir, just because I came; and then to set the nurses against me to get me out of the way? He knows I’m against him, and mean you to have your rights, and he’s trying with medicine and attendance to—no, stop, that’s not it,” whispered the old man, “I’ve got wrong sorts in my case, and that’s not what I wanted to say.” And then for a few moments it was pitiable to witness the struggle going on against the wandering thoughts that oppressed him; but he seemed to get the better of his weakness, and went on again.
“There, that’s better, sir; your coming has seemed to do me good, and brightened me up. I get like that sometimes, and it seems that I’ve no power over my tongue, and it says just what it likes. Tell Miss Lucy I’m getting better, and that I want to get out of this place. I know what I’m saying now, sir, though I can’t make it quite right about that medicine and attendance that we wanted to know about; for it bothers me, and makes my head hot, and gets mixed up with the medicine and attendance here. But I shall have it right one of these days; I did nearly, once, but it got away again.”
In his anxiety now to know more, Septimus drew out paper and pencil.
“Don’t think about it now,” he said; “but keep these under your pillow, and put it down the next time you think anything.”
Old Matt smiled feebly, and drew forth his old memorandum-book, and slowly opening it, showed the worn stumpy piece of pencil inside.
“I’d thought of that, sir, and should have done so before, only I was afraid that I might put down the wrong thing—something about the nurses, you know, when they would have read it, and then, perhaps, I shouldn’t have had a chance to say any more. And ’tisn’t really, sir, it isn’t nonsense about them. You think I’m wandering, and don’t believe it; and it’s just the same with the doctors—they don’t believe it neither. There was one poor chap on the other side of the ward, down at the bottom there—he told the doctor his nurse neglected him, and drank his wine, putting in water instead, beside not giving him his medicine regular; so the old doctor called for the nurse, and—”
“But you must not talk any more,” said Septimus kindly, “you are getting exhausted.”
“I ain’t,” said the old man angrily; “it does me good, revives me; and you don’t believe me, that’s what it is.”
“Yes, I do, indeed,” cried Septimus. “Then let me finish,” whispered the old man. “Doctor Hardon called and asked her where she saw the entry. There, now, there,” whimpered Matt, “see what you’ve done: you made me upset a stickful of matter, and got me all in a pye again. No; all right, sir, I see, I see—he asked her about it before the patient, speaking very sharply, for the doctors mean well, sir. And then what did the old crocodile do, sir, but just turn her eyes towards the whitewash, smooth her apron, raise her hands a bit, and then, half smiling, looks at the doctor like so much pickled innocence, but never says a word; while he, just to comfort the poor fellow, told him to keep up, and it should all be seen to; and then there was a bit of whispering between the doctor and the nurse, and then he went off. But I could see who was believed, for I heard the doctor mutter something about sick man’s fancies as he came across to me. That poor chap died, sir!”
Just then, Septimus gave the old man a meaning look, for one of the nurses came up with a glass of wine, and smiled and curtsied to the visitor.
“I hope he ain’t been talking, sir?” said the woman, in a harsh grating voice with the corners a little rubbed down; “getting on charming, ain’t he, sir? only he will talk too much.—Now drink your wine up, there’s a good soul. Don’t sip it, but toss it down, and it will do you twice as much good;” and while the old man, with the assistance of his visitor, raised himself a little, she gave his pillow two or three vengeful punches and shakes as she snatched it off the bed, the result of her efforts being visible in a slit across the middle, which she placed undermost.
“Yes,” muttered Matt when the woman had gone. “Yes; toss it down, so as not to taste it. Why, that was half water—beautiful wines and spirits as they have here, sir. That’s the very one herself, sir. She killed him.”
“Killed who?” exclaimed Septimus, horrified.
“Don’t shout, sir; leastwise, not if you want to see me again,” said Matt grimly. “Killed that poor fellow I was telling you about. She never forgave him, and a week afterwards and there was the screen round his bed, and the porters came and carried him away. She killed him, sure enough, and I ain’t agoing to tell you about the bother there was with his friends about the doctors, and what they did to him afterwards, it might upset you. It almost does me; not that I care much, for it don’t matter when you’re gone, and I’ve got no friends.”
“Hush, pray; it can’t be so,” exclaimed Septimus, shuddering.
“No, of course not,” chuckled the old man, brightening up from the effects of his stimulant, “O, no; sick man’s fancies, sir, ain’t they? Just what everyone would say; but she killed him all the same, just as dozens more have been killed here. It don’t take much to kill a poor fellow hanging in the balance—him in one scale, and his complaint in the other. The doctor comes and gets in the same scale with him, and bears him down a bit right way; but then as soon as the doctor’s gone, the nurse goes and sits in the other scale, and sends him wrong way again. Good nursing’s of more consequence sometimes than the doctoring, I can tell you, sir, and if I’d had good nursing I shouldn’t have been here at all. Ikey means well, you know, sir; and so does Mother Slagg, eh? but you don’t know them, sir, and it don’t matter.”
“But had you not better be silent now?” hinted Septimus.
“No,” said the old man testily; “being so quiet, and having no one to talk to has half-killed me as it is. I don’t want to be killed, I want to get out, sir. And, mind you, I don’t say about that poor fellow that she poisoned him, or choked him, or played at she-Othello with the pillow, sir; but there’s plenty of other ways of doing it. The doctor knows the man’s condition, and his danger, and orders him such and such things to keep him going, and bring him round, eh?”
Septimus nodded, for the old man paused for breath; though the wine he had taken made him talk in a voluble and excited manner, but still with perfect coherence.
“Well, sir; and who’s got to carry out the doctor’s orders? Why, the nurse, to be sure. Just push the pillow a little more under my head, sir; she’s made it uncomfortable. That’s it; thanky, sir. Well, you nor no one else won’t believe that a nurse here would do anything wrong. But now, look here: suppose you see that a lamp wants trimming, what do you do? You give orders for it to be trimmed, sir, don’t you?”
Septimus nodded again.
“Well, then,” whispered the old man, hooking one of his long fingers in a buttonhole of his visitor’s coat; “suppose they don’t trim the lamp; suppose it isn’t trimmed, eh? what then?”
“It goes out!” said Septimus.
“To be sure—exactly, sir; and there have been lots of lamps go out here. They won’t trim them, or forget to trim them, and tell themselves they’re only sparing the poor creatures misery, while no one dares to speak about it. Talk of death, sir, they think no more of it here, sir, than one does of snuffing out a candle. You see, decent women won’t come to a place like this to do the work these nurses do. It’s only to be done for money or love. Now it’s done for money, and while it’s done for money it can only be done by hard, heartless, drinking creatures who’ve got women’s shapes and devils’ hearts, sir. But the doctors are all right, sir, only that they don’t see all we poor patients see. If skill and doctoring will put me right, sir, I shall be put right, sir. But I’m scared about it sometimes, and half afraid that some of those beauties will weight the wrong scale so heavily that the doctors won’t pull me square. Sick man’s fancies, sir, eh? Wanderings, ain’t they?”
Septimus Hardon knew not what to say, but whispered such comfort as he could.
“Something ought to be done, you know,” said the old man feebly; “but don’t hint a word of what I’ve said, sir, to a soul—please don’t,” he said pitifully. “You see that all these goings on prey upon a poor fellow’s mind; and if he isn’t low-spirited lying in a hospital-ward, when is he likely to be? One wants sympathy and comfort, sir, and to feel that there’s someone belonging to you who cares for you, and is ready to smooth your pillow, and lay a cold hand upon your hot forehead, and say ‘God bless you!’ and I’ve no one, no one;” and the old man’s voice grew weak and quavering.
“Come, come,” whispered Septimus, “take heart, Matt; we’ll come as often as they will let us. And you are getting better; see how you have chatted. You are only low now from the reaction. Try and rest a bit, and get rid of some of these fancies.”
Old Matt’s eyes turned angrily upon his visitor as he exclaimed, “I tell you they are not fancies, sir, but truth. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known, for I’ve seen men drink, and women drink; but never anyone like these she-wolves. Would you trust anyone you loved to the care of a woman who drank, sir?”
“No!”
“They say they must have support, and I suppose they must; but it’s hard, hard, hard!” groaned the old man, and he shut his eyes, seeking out the hand of his visitor, and holding it tightly, until, by the rules of the place, he was obliged to leave.