Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.
A Battle: Science Wins.
“What! another operation?” said old Matt with a groan.
“To be sure,” said the house-surgeon cheerily; “why not?”
“But I’m so much better,” said Matt; “and I’ve no end of work to get through.”
“I daresay, my man,” said the surgeon sadly, “and so we all have; and I fear that when the day comes upon which we are called away, we shall have as much to do as ever.”
“But I’m so much better now; all but my head, sir, and I can’t quite think as I used to. Things bother me, and when I want to remember one particular matter, I get confused.”
“We shall put you all right this time, my man, and then start you off to make room for someone else. We don’t want a parcel of great lazy fellows here, fattening on our wine and jelly.”
Old Matt smiled grimly as he said: “I say, sir, is it really necessary?”
“Why, of course, my man. We did you a great deal of good last time, did we not?”
“Ye-e-e-s, yes,” said Matt; “you did, certainly, sir; but is it necessary that my poor old carcass should be touched again? It ain’t for the sake of experiment now, is it, sir? I’m afraid, you know, you’ll kill me; and, just for the sake of being fair, as you’ve had one turn at me, wouldn’t it be better to try it on someone else—on some other subject?” And “O, dear!” thought the old man to himself, “what a difference between a Queen’s subject and a doctor’s subject!”
“Pooh, nonsense, old friend!” said the surgeon, laughing; “we’ll make a man of you again; so cheer up, or you’ll be working your nerves too much. Why, you’ve picked up wonderfully this last day or two.”
“What’s the use of picking up, sir, if you get knocking me down again, eh, sir?”
The surgeon smiled and continued his round, and old Matt sat and grumbled by his bedside, for he was now up, and able to walk about the ward.
“Now let’s see,” muttered the old man. “I always did fancy, and it always seems so, that the more you try to think straightforward of a thing, the more it bothers you; so let’s try and get round to it back-way, if I can. Well, here goes. Now here’s Mr Septimus Hardon—a man—well, not clever, but what of that? I hate your clever men; they’ve no room to be amiable, or time to be generous. He’s a good one, and that’s sufficient. Well, he’s kept, say, for sake of argument, out of his rights by his rogue of an uncle. Now he proves his baptism and his father’s marriage, and then he wants to prove the date of his birth to have been after the marriage. Easy enough that seems; but how to do it when t’other party has took possession, and declares all the other way. Doctor’s books will do it, failing any other means; and as we do fail other means, why we want the doctor’s books. I tell you what it is; I believe we have both bungled the matter from beginning to end, and ought to have gone to a good lawyer. But there, what’s the good of talking? We had no money, and people without money always bungle things. Now where’s the doctor’s books, or the doctor? Doctor’s dead—safe; but then are his books dead—cut up—burnt? That’s the question. I say no, because I’m sure I saw that entry somewhere; and here’s the nuisance. When I was situated so that it would have been almost a blessing to be shut up here in hospital, I wasn’t ill; now I want all my energies, I’m chained by the leg. I’d give up bothering about the thing, but I’m sure I read it somewhere, and I’m sure, too, I recollected once where it was; and it was while I was so bad,” he said, pulling out his tattered memorandum-book, and referring to the hieroglyphics it contained. “No,” he said, after a long inspection; “I have read a good deal, and taken some copy in my time, but I never thought I should live to write stuff I couldn’t read myself. There, it’s of no use; it’ll come some day.” And he closed his eyes, and leaned his head upon his hand; for his brain seemed weary and restless with his long and painful illness.
A morning or two after, the old man was again seated at his bedside, trying to amuse himself with a book; but with little success, for his eyes were weak.
“I shall let well alone,” growled the old man; “and if they want to operate, they may cut and carve someone else. I shall do for the few years I have to live; but they might find a poor fellow a scrap of snuff, hang ’em!”
“Here, you Number 19, into bed with you directly!”
“Why, I’m only just up,” grumbled Matt, who was the said number.
“Never mind, old fellow,” said the speaker; “be smart, for they will be after you directly.”
Old Matt shivered and trembled, and his lips moved as he slowly returned to his bed, and there lay waiting. He had almost determined to be content, and bear his burden to the grave; for, said he, “I can’t live much longer.” But then he thought of the wondrous skill and care of those in whose hands he would be, and of the rest that would afterwards be his were his life spared.
“I won’t turn coward now,” he muttered, letting his eyes rest upon some flowers in a window near his bed, and gazing at them in a strange earnest way,—“No, I won’t turn coward, not even if they kill me. But that’s hard to think of, that is. Mine has been a rough life, and I’ve put up with a deal; but I never tired of it—not to say thoroughly tired of it, though I’ve been very near more than once; and I should like to keep grinding on for a long time yet. Life’s sweet, somehow, when you’ve got friends, and I seem to have found ’em at last. I should have liked to have helped him out with that entry, though. Where did I see it?”
The old man paused thoughtfully, and kept passing his hand across his dew-wet forehead; but the memory was still defective, and he sighed wearily: “Why didn’t I begin sooner, or make him begin? Ah, that’s it—that’s it! why don’t we begin hundreds of things sooner, and not leave them till it’s too late!”
The old man paused again, and his lean, bony fingers clutched and clawed restlessly to get at the flowers. But his old train of thought now seemed to have returned, for he continued: “Don’t often see anything about hospital operations, but I have had copy about them—‘Death from the Administration of Chloroform.’ What an ugly word that first is, and what a shiver it seems to give one when we think of it in connection with ourselves, though it seems so little when it has to do with anyone else! Wonder whether any of the old ’stab or piece hands would get hold of it to set, and feel sorry for the battered old stamp they used to laugh at, and whether it would get into the papers if I was to—”
The old man stopped once more, and wiped the dew from his wet forehead.
“Well, well,” he said half-aloud, “what is to be will be. God help me well through it all, for I’m a miserable coward; and if it’s to be the end of old Matt, why, I don’t think I’ve been so very bad, and—there, hang it!” he whined, “they might have left me a pinch of snuff. Here, I say, though,” he cried, rousing up, “this won’t do. I’m on the wrong folio, and shall have to re-set.”
“I wonder whether it’s hard to die?” he muttered, after another pause. “Don’t seem as if it was, for they look almost as if they were asleep, and wanting to be woke up again. One must go sometime or another; but it would have been happier like to have had hold of someone’s hand, and seen two or three faces round one’s bed, faces of people sorry I was going—going. There, there,” he gasped, “I can’t stand it. They sha’n’t touch me. It’s like running headlong into one’s grave. They sha’n’t touch me, for I must live and find out about the doctor, for that poor helpless fellow in the Rents; or he’ll never do it himself. They sha’n’t touch me, for I am nearly clear now, and I can grub on as I am; while, if my chronics kill me in time, why they do, and there’s an end of it. They sha’n’t—”
“Now, Number 19,” said a voice, and to his dismay poor old Matt saw a couple of porters enter the ward with a stretcher.
The old man moaned and closed his eyes, muttering the whole while as he resigned himself, meekly as a child and without a word of opposition, to the men, who tenderly lifted him upon their portable couch, and then bore him along the whitewashed passages, whose walls seemed so familiar to him, and struck him as being so particularly white and clean—white as were ceiling and floor. He only saw one cobweb, and that was out of reach in a far corner; and in his nervous state this greatly attracted his attention, so that he could fancy the large spider grinned at him as if he were a larger kind of fly in the trammels of a net. He felt that he should have liked for the men to set down the stretcher and remove that cobweb, but he stifled the desire to speak. Then he noticed how strangely the hair of his foremost bearer grew, and this, too, troubled him: there were no short hairs on the poll, and for some distance up the back of his neck was a barren land. Then he fell to studying the man’s coat-buttons, the depth of his collar, and how easily he tramped along with the handles of the portable couch, whose motion was so easy with the light, regular, springy pace of the man; while the dread of what was impending seemed quite to have passed away, and he began, now the peril was so near, to think of himself as though he were someone else in whom he took an interest; and then came a very important question:
How would they bring him back?
Would he be lighter with the loss of blood, and would he be gradually stiffening, and growing colder and colder, till the icy temperature of death pervaded him through and through? And then, too, what would they do with him? He had no relations—no one to come and claim his body. And even this thought seemed to trouble him but little, for he smiled grimly, muttering to himself:
“Cause of science, sir, cause of science; and besides, it won’t matter then.”
On still, with a light swinging motion and an easy tread, the porters bore their load, and in the minute or two the removal occupied old Matt thought of the last time he had made that journey, and his sensations then: how that he had looked upon it all as a dream, and felt that he should soon wake up to find himself in bed. But the old man’s musings ceased as he was borne into the theatre, save for an instant when the thought flashed across his mind, Suppose he died without seeing the entry? and this troubled him for a few moments; but directly after he was gazing up with anxious eye at the tier upon tier of benches, some crowded, some nearly empty, and looking from face to face; but there seemed not one that sympathised with him, as, after a glance when he was first borne in, a quiet light, chatty conversation was carried on in an undertone. Then there was almost perfect silence, and the old man felt himself to be the centre upon which every eye was fixed. His heart told him now that in the low-murmured buzz of conversation that rose, students who had again and again stood at his bedside were discussing his case, and that if the operation were unsuccessful or unskilfully performed, they would merely say that the patient did not rally, and then go home or to their studies, regardless of the little gap left in the ranks of life; while Septimus Hardon would probably never succeed in his endeavours to recover his lost position.
Then he half-smiled as he thought of the importance with which he rated himself, and looked eagerly round. Close by he could see the earnest, study-lined faces of several older men, many of them grey-haired and thoughtful-eyed—men of eminence in their profession, but strongly imbued with the belief of the man of wisdom, that we are ever but learners. Then he looked straight above, even at the skylight, where he could see that the sun illumined the thick ground-glass; and now once more, in a quiet musing vein, he set to wondering how it would be after the operation.
Plenty of faces round, but mostly cool, calm, and matter-of-fact. Here were the hospital dressers and assistants, standing by the table—a curious-looking table in the centre of an open space; and a hasty glance showed him sponges, and water, and cloths, and lint, and mahogany cases, that at another time, if some other sufferer were to have been operated upon, would have caused him to shudder. But all that was past now, and he merely looked earnestly round till his gaze rested upon a stout grey-haired, keen-eyed man, whose black clothes and white neck-tie were spotless, and who now advanced to the table with a quiet business-like aspect, as he bowed somewhat stiffly to the assembled surgeons and students, and then spoke a few cheering words to the patient as he felt his pulse.
“I hope he won’t turn nervous over it,” thought Matt. “Be serious to a man in his position, with so many looking on.—Can’t I have the chloroform?” he then whispered to a dresser by his side.
“Yes, of course: here he is with it,” said the man; and for the second time in his life Matt gazed curiously at a polished mahogany box which was being brought forward.
“I say,” whispered Matt earnestly to the man at his side, “if anyone comes afterwards—afterwards, you know, and asks for me, you’ll say, ‘Medicine and attendance,’—there, don’t laugh—it’s particular—you’ll say, ‘Medicine and attendance;’ and that old Matt tried to think it out to the last. You’ll do that for me?” he whispered earnestly.
The man repeated the words over, and smiled as he made the required promise.
“Tell him not to give me too much,” said Matt, now with the first display of anxiety, as he glanced at the inhaling apparatus.
The time since old Matt had been brought into the theatre might be reckoned by moments; and now, in the midst of a profound stillness, the grey-haired man calmly raised his eyebrows, turned up his sleeves, and then walked a step or two from the patient, now inhaling the wondrous vapour of that simple-looking limpid fluid, whose first effect was to cause him to push away the apparatus and struggle feebly with those who administered it. But there was a strong hand upon his pulse and a pair of stern eyes watching him, and, as the mouthpiece was kept firmly against his face, old Matt gave one or two more inspirations and became insensible. Then every eye was fixed upon the calm, business-like man, whose nerves seemed of kindred material to the blades he drew from their delicate purple-velvet resting-places and quietly inspected for an instant, his eyes flashing brightly as their grey-hued blades—knives whose keen edges were formed of the finest-tempered metal that human skill and ingenuity could produce.
A breathless silence ensued, and the gay thoughtless aspect was gone from the young faces crowding the benches. Here and there an assumed cynical smile could be seen, but the effects of a strange clutching at the heart, a curious vibration of the nerves, was visible in the pallor of cheeks and fevered aspect of the onlookers of the upper seats. Two young men right at the back surreptitiously drank from small flasks, and when wiping their lips paused, too, to pass their handkerchiefs over their damp foreheads, before thrusting them in their moist palms as the great surgeon—one who had climbed by slow degrees to his present eminence in the profession, and upon whose knowledge and skill now depended the life of a fellow-creature—gave his quick, sharp orders, and changed the position of one or two assistants at the operating-table, pointing, like a general preparing for battle, with the keen blade he held in his hand. Short, quick orders as he grasped the flashing steel and made ready for the fight—for the combat à l’outrance, with the grim, slow-crawling, dragon disease—a fight where skill and genius took the place of physical force and daring.
A painful silence, and then, while every eye was fixed upon his movements, the great surgeon gave a hasty glance round to see that all was in readiness for the time when moments were more than grains of gold, and would add their weight in one scale of the balance—life or death; but all seemed there, ready hands and the many appliances for checking the rapid flow of life’s stream, and then, with almost an air of nonchalance, he stretched out his arms to secure freedom of action.
Not a whisper, not a movement, the spectators of the scene with craning necks, immovable as groups of statuary, as they gazed from their tiers of benches in this modern amphitheatre down upon the gladiatorial combat taking place, even as of old the Roman citizens may have watched some fight for life or death.
A keen bright flash of the blade in the softened light, and the surgeon thoughtfully describing an imaginary curve in the air with the point just above the insensible patient; then, with a satisfied nod, he leaned forward. There was once more a bright flash of the knife, followed by a bold, firmly-directed cut, deep and long, but clear of vital parts in the wondrous organisation. Then came the spouting gush from many a vessel as the old man’s life-blood rushed from its maze; busy fingers at work, here upon arteries to stay their waste, there applying sponge; one blade changed for another, more manipulation, and orders performed after being given in a calm impressive whisper; a few more busy moments, and the throbbing flow of life arrested; rapidly-moving fingers with sponges, silk, strapping, towels; and the great surgeon softly wiping his hands, cool, calm, and unruffled.
“Very little loss, Mr Grant,” to the next general in command.
“Extremely little,” with a bow and a smile; “most successful operation.”
“Well, well, I think so,” said the great man, unbending somewhat as he arranged his cuffs and brushed off an imaginary speck of dust. He then felt the patient’s pulse for a few moments, nodded with a satisfied air, said a few words to the chief of his staff, bowed once more, and by the time the hospital-dressers had finished their task and the patient was lifted back upon his portable conch, the operator was in the brougham waiting in the street.
Then came once more the murmuring buzz of voices, the reaction and the pallor tried to be laughed down, the porters, and then in a few minutes old Matt was once more in his bed and comfortably arranged before he recovered consciousness.
The house-surgeon and an assistant were beside his bed as he opened his eyes and stared vacantly about, trying to recall what had taken place.
“How sick and faint—what a nasty dream!” he muttered; “but I don’t know, sir,—been as well if it had been true.”
“What would?” said the surgeon, smiling.
“Why, I dreamed, sir, that—why, so it was—so it was, then,” muttered the old man fervently; “thank God, thank God!”
A calm heavy sleep soon fell upon Matt, but he was not free from trouble then. There was the entry continually worrying him; now he knew he had seen it, now he felt that it was only a dream, or a dream within a dream. At last, though, a change came over the scene, and all was prosperity; he had entered into partnership with Septimus Hardon, and purchased the copyright of the Times, whose columns they regularly filled every day with a complete exposure of Doctor Hardon.
But the dream was not founded upon fact, for Septimus Hardon, with hope in his breast, had been to the entrance of the hospital, thinking that now Matt was so much better he would perhaps be ready with some information. But the visitor had been told of the operation, and the old man’s present critical state, while being advised not to see him at that visit; and receiving a promise that a message should be sent in the event of a change for the worse, Septimus Hardon slowly, and sadly disheartened, returned to his law-copying.
End of Volume Two.
Volume Three—Chapter One.
The Breaking of a Barrier.
It was about this time that Aunt Fanny, in the large room at Surrey-street, took to complaining of her neck, and wore a narrow strip of flannel beneath the stiff white-muslin kerchief, while night and morn her servant had to rub the said neck with hartshorn and oil. And truly the old dame’s neck was stiff, and cold might have had some share in producing the stiffness; but undoubtedly it was principally caused by the many sage shakes she gave her head when pondering over her nephew’s state; for in spite of all the medicaments which he patiently allowed her to administer, the old lady effected no cure, and was in consequence sorely troubled in her own mind.
But she was not so sorely troubled as the object of her interest, who angered himself in vain because of the chaotic state of his mind. Battle, battle—ever the same useless struggle, till he was ashamed of his weakness and want of self-control. To-day victor, to-morrow vanquished; now reviling himself for his want of faith and cruel suspicions, which he owned were almost baseless; the next day a slave to duty, and forbidding his heart to harbour further thoughts of her he now called his enemy. Work seemed the only refuge, and he toiled on. Study he could not; but he visited from house to house in the fold of Bennett’s-rents, where the tainted sheep of his flock were gathered; and hiding from himself his real feelings—a shallow pretence—he knew the while how anxious he was respecting that little ewe-lamb.
But he drew a mask over his face, telling himself it was his true countenance; and with a calmness that was but on the surface, he called frequently to see the invalid mother, timing, however, his visits that they might be made while Lucy was absent—for duty’s sake (and he now knew pretty well when she was likely to visit the warehouse); while, when he had visited the Bents, and returned without seeing her, he credited duty largely, and praised his own self-denial. All steps, he flattered himself, towards the final conquest which he would achieve; but though casting out the weak thoughts, he told himself that it was his duty to satisfy his heart concerning the doubts which so constantly tormented him.
How often the hours came when he scorned his dissimulation, and tore off the mask, none knew; but his face grew more pale and livid, and the grey hairs that sprinkled his temples were thicker than of old.
It happened one day, though, when he and Lucy had not encountered since he saw her bending over the child from Mrs Jarker’s room, that, visiting from house to house and room to room, Mr Sterne stood in front of Mrs Sims’; but that lady was from home; so hearing the merry voice of the laughing child, he had ascended the stairs to find Lucy in the bird-catcher’s attic. For the little face had been pressed against the blackened window, and a pair of bright little eyes had peered, hour after hour, from beneath the tangled golden hair, watching the busy fingers at the sewing-machine, till with heart aching for the neglected babe, and to study her mother, who objected to its being brought into the room, Lucy had crossed the court, and gone up and played with the little thing, laughing merrily at the child’s delight, though a tear stood in her eye more than once as she evaded the child’s eager, oft-repeated question of “When mammy come back?” Bill had gone out with his nets, and most probably would not be back until night; so the child had been left alone with some food in the dreary room, to play or cry itself to sleep, unless Mrs Sims should be there to attend to its wants. But there was that one spot by the window where she could look down upon Lucy; and there, day after day, she would stand without murmuring, attracted by that wondrous sense which draws children to the loveable and true. Lucy’s heart yearned as she gazed up from time to time at the child, and she longed earnestly for the season when its mother should make fresh arrangements; but for some reason she came not, and Lucy had not seen her since Mrs Jarker’s death.
And now the golden hours for which the little soul had longed had come again. Lucy was with her, and, herself a child for the time, she laughed merrily at the little one’s delight.
Panting, tumbled, and flushed with exercise, Lucy stood at last, returning an escaped curl to its bondage, a bright smile playing round her ruddy lips, which parted to display the white teeth beneath, when the door opened, and, with a frown upon his brow, the curate stood in the entrance gazing upon the scene before him.
“In that ruffian’s room—there of all places in the world!” doubt whispered to him; at a time, too, when their chance meetings had been attended by a cold reserve on Lucy’s part—a reserve which his doubting heart misinterpreted; for he could not in his blindness see the cost at which it was maintained. And yet this reserve had pleased him while it pained, for he at times acknowledged the interest he took in her welfare. But it mattered not, he said, for his desire was but to try and save her from evil, nothing more; and the oftener he listened to these delusive whisperings the stronger grew a voice within, telling him that his reasoning was false, and that he was forgetting duty, position—all, in a love for one who grew colder and more distant at every meeting. Wearily, though, he kept on building up a wall between them—a wall built upon the sand. Stone by stone he laid, telling himself that it was for duty’s sake, as he toiled on helplessly at his self-imposed task. True, he might have satisfied himself of the motive for Lucy’s actions, which to him wore a blurred and strange aspect; but to others her name seemed a sealed book, one which he shrank from opening, lest he should at the same time reveal the secret of his own heart.
And now he stood at the door of that beggarly room, where was the bed over which he had so lately bent to whisper comfort to the suffering woman, or knelt by its side to ask mercy for the poor sufferer and a blessing on the helpless child. There was the same bare look of misery in the wretched place; but as the sun streamed through the great leaden lattice, all seemed glorified and brightened by the presence there. Unseen he gazed on, while the glow of orange light flooded the room, and played round the graceful form of Lucy, as, starting again, she was pursued by the laughing child, varying her attitude each moment as she eluded its grasp.
Suddenly the child struck itself sharply against a chair, and broke into a whimpering cry; but the caressing arms, the words of endearment, and the loving kiss soothed the pain instantly, and a smile came over the sunny face once more; when Lucy stood as if transfixed, the merry light faded from her eyes, the smile from her lip, and then the blood flushed to her temples, but only to retreat and leave her deadly pale, for in an instant the wall so laboriously built up, and at so great a cost in suffering, was swept down by the flood of passion. Arthur Sterne knew that the battle had been in vain, and that he was but man; while doubt, everything, was cast to the winds as he was by her side, her hands clasped in his, telling her of his beaten-down love, his hopes, his fears,—all, all in the impassioned burst of words raised by the tempest of a strong man’s love; for the sandy foundation was undermined, and the last trace of the barrier swept away.
And what said she? No words came in reply to his appeal. At first, startled, confused, overcome, she shrank from him, pale and trembling; but as his words came pouring forth, making cheek and neck burn, she knew that no greater bliss could be hers; and the trembling lids of her dark-blue eyes were slowly lifted to meet his, when, as if scathing her once more, came the recollection of his bitter, contemptuous look, his long coldness, and even scorn; and snatching away her hands, she burst into tears and darted from the room.
Pale and troubled in mind as to what to attribute Lucy’s behaviour, his brain in a whirl of doubt, Arthur Sterne stood gazing at the door, until, turning, he became aware that the opposite attic window was being opened. The lark began to twitter as the hand of Jean Marais secured it outside; and then he saw the wild dark eyes of the youth begin to earnestly watch the room.
Turning with a few kind words to the astonished child, who crouched in a corner, Arthur Sterne made his way from the house; and a sad evening spent Aunt Fanny, in her anxiety for the “wilful boy” who angrily rejected her advice. He was not ill, he said; but the good dame nipped her lips together; while, retiring at last, the curate spent the night pacing his chamber-floor, trying to examine the tangle in his heart, but only to conclude that, come what might, difference of position should be no bar between him and Lucy; for, driving away, as he thought successfully, the doubt that still assailed him, he declared to himself that she possessed virtues before which birth and dowry paled and became as naught.
“Unstable as water,” muttered the curate to himself, though, days after, when meeting with Lucy alone in the front-room of their place in Bennett’s-rents, the barrier was again broken down—the barrier that time had forced him to renew—while the words he could not but utter came pouring forth, to bring no response.
Septimus was away with his boy, and Mrs Hardon slept in the back-room; and the words of Arthur Sterne were low and deep as the passion that prompted them. But there was no response—no loving look in reply—naught but the pale cheek and quivering eyelid, tears and looks of half-anger; for still clung to Lucy the recollection of his scorn and contempt, his misinterpretation of her motives; and the hands he clasped were cold and drawn away.
Then anger took the place of love—a foolish, mad anger, which robbed him of his self-control, and made him utter words beneath whose passion the poor girl bent as bends flower before the storm. He uttered words then that an hour after he would have given anything to recall; telling her angrily of ma mère and her slighting hints, of Jarker’s familiarity, and lastly of the meeting he had witnessed in the Lane; unheeding the hands held up so deprecatingly, the appealing looks, and the tear-wet, pallid cheeks; for, as he told himself again and again that night, he was mad—mad in his passionate love for one unworthy—mad in his words; and he writhed as he recalled the way in which he felt that he had lowered himself.
“I insist—I hold it as a right!” he had exclaimed; “tell me, Lucy, who was that woman? Do you know her character?” And he clutched her wrist angrily as he spoke.
He said no more then, for Lucy’s face was aflame, and she started hastily to her feet, facing him almost as it were at bay, and vainly trying to free her hand from his grasp.
“Do your parents know of your meetings?” he exclaimed.
“No, no, no!” she cried excitedly, as she glanced towards the back-room door.
“Then I must—nay,” he added with almost a cowardly look of triumph, for the weakness of the man was triumphant that afternoon, and he yielded to all that he had hitherto triumphed over—“I will tell them,” he said, “for your good.”
“For pity’s sake,” whispered Lucy, “Mr Sterne. Ah, pray, sir, stop—pray stay! Do not think ill of me—”
But there Lucy ceased, for she was alone; and once more scornfully, with the cold bitter look, Mr Sterne had dashed her hand from him in contempt and turned from the room, into which Mrs Hardon now came to find Lucy weeping as though her heart would break.
Volume Three—Chapter Two.
Snuff.
Old Matt did not wake again for many hours, but, as the days slipped by, he partook with avidity of all that was allowed him, and grumbled for more. His friend the house-surgeon, whom he could look at now without imagining that he took notes inimical to his friend Septimus Hardon’s interest, reported favourably of his condition; while Septimus himself came again and again, each time more eager to get at that which was hidden by the confusion in old Matt’s brain.
“If he had only been so jolly anxious about the Somesham affair, first start off, what a difference it would have made!” grumbled Matt.
But it seemed useless to try and draw the old man’s attention to things he had talked of in the days shortly before his entry of the hospital, for here all seemed blank.
“Well, yes, sir,” Matt would say, “I have some faint recollection of saying something about medicine and attendance; but do you know, sir, I begin to think that one’s memory is in one’s blood? and they took so much out of me that last time, that I can’t remember anything at all. ‘Medicine and attendance,’ did I say? Why, it must have been the medicine and attendance here, and those old cats of nurses. My thinking apparatus is terribly out of order, sir; and when I try to look back at anything, it’s like peeping at it through a dirty window. P’r’aps it won’t come bright and clean again, eh?”
“Don’t try to think,” said Septimus with a sigh. “You will recollect some day; so let it rest.”
“Well, sir, that’s just what I should like to do; but since you’ve asked me, I can’t; for things won’t go just as I like, and I feel all in a muddle. Let’s see, now: you said something about this at your last visit, didn’t you, sir? when I asked you about that talking woman and the office for servants; for I do recollect that, you know.”
“Yes,” replied Septimus, “at every visit.”
“Just so,” said Matt; “I thought you did; but I can’t tell a bit about it now. Sometimes it seems that I heard it; sometimes that I read it, or saw it against a wall, or dancing before my eyes; but let’s see,” he said vacantly, as he held his hand to his head, “what was it we wanted to find?”
“The doctor’s books, or the doctor,” said Septimus.
“To be sure,” said the old man; “I haven’t got it right yet; and really you know, sir, this isn’t a first-class place to get right in, and they won’t part with me yet, though I do long now to be well, and at liberty for a peep at the old law-courts and Lincoln’s-inn once more. I mean to have a holiday, and spend it among all the posts in the old square as soon as I’m out; I’m getting so light-hearted and jolly, sir. Why, it will be quite a treat to be somewhere amongst a bit or two of dirt once more; we’re so clean here.”
“Only a little longer, Matt,” said Septimus smiling.
“You see,” said Matt, “there’s so much to upset one about. What with the screen round this bed, and the screen round that bed, and the groans and sighs, ah, and even shouts sometimes, there’s plenty to make a poor fellow feel low-spirited. Now there’s a chap over there in that bed seems to have taken it into his head that he suffers more than anyone who ever came into the place, and howls and goes on terribly; while the bigger and stronger people are, sir, the more weak they seem to me to be in bearing pain. I believe, after all, you know, sir, that the little weak women beat us hollow.”
“Ah!” said the patient spoken of, surmising from Matt’s gestures that he was being referred to—“ah! Mr Space, you are talking about me, sir, and my groans, and it’s very hard and unfeeling, sir. You may suffer yourself some day.”
The visitor felt uncomfortable; but old Matt took it up directly.
“That’s cool, anyhow,” he gasped; “why, what do you mean? haven’t I suffered as much as any of you, and been through two operations, and lived ’em out too? Why, what more would you have? It would have killed a big fellow like you, I know.”
The patient replied with a groan, and began muttering about the unfeeling behaviour of those about him, from whom, he said, he had expected a little sympathy.
This roused the ire of a neighbour who had lost a leg through being run over by a coal-wagon, and he now took up the matter, followed by several others; so that a wordy warfare seemed imminent.
“That’s it, go on,” growled Matt in an undertone. “They’re all getting better, sir; and, consequently, they’re as cross as two sticks. What a thing it is! There seems to be no gratitude amongst them; and really, sir, if it wasn’t for the nurses, it wouldn’t be such a bad place to come to—that is, for a man with strong nerves, you know. Now just look at ’em, how they are going it!”
The murmurings and dissensions of the other patients seemed to have quite a good effect upon old Matt, who forgot his own pains in the troubles of those around him.
“You don’t know how much longer you will be here?” said Septimus.
“Not for certain, sir; but I think only for a few more days. But it’s wonderful what a difference they have made in me. I mean to go in for a fortune, sir, as soon as I’m out; and then I shall make my will, and leave half to the hospital. Now I’ve got the worst of it all over, I amuse myself with taking a bit of notice of what goes on around me, and listening to what’s said; and it’s wonderful what an amount of misery comes into this place—wonderful. I’ve known of more trouble since I’ve been in here, sir, than I should have thought there had been in the whole of London; and that’s saying no little, sir. Lots die, you know; but then see how many they send out cured. I don’t see all, but one hears so much from the talking of the nurses. I expected when I came here that there would be plenty of accidents, broken bones—legs, arms, and ribs, and so on; but there, bless you, the place is full of it; and they’re getting to such a wonderful pitch now, with their doctoring and surgery, that they’ll be making a new man next, out of the odd bits they always have on hand here.”
“I suppose so,” said Septimus drily.
“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said Matt; “but it’s wonderful to what a pitch surgery has got. Now, for instance, just fancy—”
“There,” cried Septimus, “pray stop, or I must leave you. I fancy quite enough involuntarily, without wishing to hear fresh horrors. It’s bad enough having to come into the place.”
“Lor’ bless you, sir,” said Matt, “you should listen to the nurses, when one of ’em happens to be in a good humour. Do you know when that is, sir?”
“When pleased, I suppose,” said Septimus.
“Just so, sir; the very time. And when do you suppose that last is?”
Septimus shook his head.
“You don’t know, of course, sir. Why, when the patients are getting better.”
“I might have supposed that,” said Septimus wearily.
The old man chuckled, and looked brighter than he had looked for weeks. “Yes,” he said, “it’s when the patients are getting better, and there’s plenty of port-wine and gin on the way. That’s the time to find the nurse in a good humour; and she’ll tell you anything, or do anything for you.”
Septimus Hardon looked weary and anxious, and fidgeted in his chair, as if he longed to change the conversation, but the garrulous old man kept on.
“Tell you what, sir, these nurses seem to get their hearts hardened and crusted over; and then when you give them a little alcohol, as the teetotallers call it, the crust gets softened a bit, and things go better. I used to growl and go on terribly at first; but it’s no use to swim against the stream. I used to grumble when I found that they drunk half my wine and watered my gin; but I’m used to that sort of thing now: for which is best—to drink all one’s liquor, or keep friends with the nurse? Last’s best; and they say I’m a dear patient old creature. I look it too, don’t I?” said the old man with a grim smile.
“But,” said Septimus, “I must soon go; and I should like a word or two about my affairs first.”
“All right, sir; we’ll come to that directly. I’m an invalid, and you must humour me. But this is the way of it. My nurse comes to me, like an old foxey vixen as she is, and—‘Now, my dear, how are we?’ she says. ‘Only middling, nurse,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought you a glass of wine to cheer you up,’ she says. ‘Don’t care about it a bit,’ I say; ‘don’t feel wine-hungry.’ ‘O,’ she says, ‘but the doctor ordered it. Now, take it, like a good soul. You must want it.’ ‘Not half so bad as some people do,’ I say. ‘Toss it off, nurse; and just punch my pillow up a bit, it’s got hard and hot.’ ‘Bless my heart, no,’ she says, ‘I couldn’t think of such a thing!’ so she sets the wine down, and puts my head a bit comfortable. ‘The wine’s for you; so, now, take it directly; I couldn’t touch it—I don’t care for wine.’
“‘Of course you don’t,’ I say to myself; and then I begin to talk to her a bit, and to tell her that she must have a sad wearing life of it, when the old tabby sets up her back and purrs, and likes it all—looking the while as tigerish, and sleek, and clawey, as the old cats can look. Then I tell her she wants more support, and so on, when all at once she finds out that there’s some one else to attend upon, and I must drink my wine directly; so I take the glass and perhaps drink it; but more often I only just put it to my lips and set it back upon the tray, when she’s satisfied. Of course, you know, it would be instant dismissal for a nurse to drink a patient’s wine or spirits if it was known; but any thing left is different altogether. You know, sir, it’s a dreadfully beggarly way of going to work, only as the saying goes, you must fight some one we know of with his own weapons: and now we are the very best of friends possible. You’d be surprised how we get along, and all through going without a glass now and then. The best of it is, though, that she never thinks of watering it now, like she would for another patient; so that what I miss in quantity I get in strength, and, you know, she’ll do anything for me in a minute—that is, if she feels disposed.”
“But,” said Septimus, “it seems strange that you should be so left at the mercy of these women.”
“What can you do?” said the old man.—“There, I ’ve just done, sir, and we’ll go into that directly.—Who can you get to go through what these women do, unless it’s these Sisters of Mercy, who many say are to become general? Suppose there was a strike, eh? Look how few people you can get to come and run the risk of fevers and all sorts of diseases. Sisters of Mercy, eh? God bless them for it then, if they will; but I hope I may never want their help, all the same. But there, we won’t talk about it, only you want iron women a’most to go through it all, and it’s not a life to be envied. Why, if it ain’t almost leaving-time, sir, and you’ve kept me chatting about my affairs here, and yours are nowhere. How are you getting on?”
“Badly, Matt, badly. But I’ve very little to say, Matt, for I was unable to get on without you,” replied Septimus, smiling at the old man’s coolness.
“’Spose so,” said Matt laconically; “let’s see, sir, I think you never went any more to Finsbury?”
“Where was the use,” said Septimus drearily; “who can tell where a day-book fifty years old can be?”
“True,” said the old man thoughtfully; “butter-shop, most likely; and it wouldn’t pay to go all over London buying half-pounds of ‘best Dorset,’ on the chance of getting the right sheet. I can’t see it yet, sir; and still I seem to fancy we shall do it, though everything about it seems to be all in a muddle.”
Septimus Hardon seemed to be of the same opinion, for he sighed, took his hat, and went homeward in a frame of mind that made him feel disposed to bury the past and its cares, and look only to the future; while old Matt picked up a newspaper, and began mechanically folding it into small squares—butter-shop size.
“No,” he muttered, “not much chance of finding that particular scrap of paper, if we don’t get hold of the book through the old doctor’s heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns. And that’s where we ought to begin; putting ads in the Times, and setting private inquirers to work, and all on to that tune; only, to play that tune, sir, you want money. Some careless hussy has burnt that scrap of paper, sir, long ago, to light a fire; or it has been used for twisting-up screws of tobacco, or ha’porths of toffee, or hundreds of other things as some beggarly shop or another is licensed to deal in. Only fancy someone lighting his pipe with that valuable little scrap of paper! ‘Medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon, two, twelve, six!’ I’ll be bound to say that was the figure, and I’d give something to get hold of that bit. Wonder whether it’s selfishness, and thinking of what it would be worth to me? S’pose be; for this is a rum world, and I’m no better than I should be. But who’d ever have thought this would have come out of my going to his office and asking for a job? Don’t matter, though, about what I feel, for he’d have come to see me here safe enough, even if it had not been about his affairs; for he’s a trump, sir, a trump: but all the same, it’s a pity he ain’t got more in him—worldly stuff, you know.”
Old Matt sat very thoughtfully for awhile, and then began to mutter again.
“Wish I had a pinch of snuff once more. There now; I’m blest. Only to think of that! me having my box in my pocket, and to forget all about it—shows what my head’s worth now. Bravo! though; that seems to clear one’s head wonderfully. I shall recommend its use in lunatic asylums for mental diseases; fine thing, I believe. Only to think, though, for me to get that into my head about that entry I had seen, and trying to write it down, and then for it to be clean gone once more! S’pose I did think of something of the kind, or see it, or something. Heigho!” he sighed; “I must have been precious bad though, sir, confoundedly bad. Thank goodness it’s all over, though, for this time; and I’m going to walk out soon, instead of, as I expected, being taken to the students’ lodgings in small pieces, wrapped up in paper—paper—waste-paper—by jingo! though, I’ll have a go at the waste-paper everywhere. I’ll search every waste-paper shop in London, beginning at Mother Slagg’s—beg her pardon, Gross by this time I suppose, and—and—hooray!” he shouted wildly, to the intense astonishment of the fellow-patients, as he tossed his newspaper in the air. “Snuff for ever! that pinch did it. Only let me get out of this place. At last!”
Volume Three—Chapter Three.
Mr Jarker’s Traits.
Men of business cannot afford to continue their grief for any length of time, hence at a very short date after the death of his wife, Mr William Jarker, bird-fancier, bird-catcher, and pigeon-trapper, to be heard of at any time at the Blue Posts, Hemlock-court, by such gents as wanted a few dozen of blue-rocks or sparrows for the next trap-match at Wormwood Scrubbs, stood before a piece of looking-glass nailed to the wall of his room with three tin-tacks, a ragged, three-cornered, wavy-looking scrap, from which, if a little more of the quicksilver had been rubbed off, it would never again have been guilty of distorting the human face divine. Upon this occasion it played strange pranks with the expressive countenance of Mr Jarker, as he stood, with oily fingers, giving the required gloss and under-turn to his side-locks, which were of the true “Newgate-knocker” pattern, their length denoting how long a time Mr Jarker had been running fancy free without troubling her Majesty’s officials for his daily rations and lodging, in return for which he would scrub, polish, and clean to order. Mr Jarker seemed to take extra pains over his toilet, arranging his neck-tie and the silver-mounted lens, buttoning-up his red-plush waistcoat with the fustian back and sleeves, cleaning his finger-nails with the broken-out tooth of a comb, before he stood in front of the glass and smirked at himself.
Now this was a mistake on Mr Jarker’s part, for his was a style of countenance that would not bear a smirking; there was too much stiffness of contour in the various features, a blunt angularity which resisted the softening sweetness of a smirky smile, and the consequence was, that if he had smirked at a stranger, the said stranger would have flinched, from a very strong impression that Mr Jarker was rabid and about to bite. However, mistaken or not, Mr Jarker smirked several times, and after various patterns, before he frowned, which gave a much more respectable cast to his countenance, the scowl being most thoroughly in harmony. Mr Jarker frowned, for one of the side-locks would not keep in position and retain the required bend when he had crowned himself with his slouchy fur-cap; so the erring hair had to be again oiled, combed, and wetted with a solution of brown sugar, which the operator moistened in a natural way in the palms of his hands, then the lock was smoothed and tucked under, and proved a fixture; and now the cap was again placed in position, and displayed a thin wisp of crape fastened round it by means of a piece of string; for being a soldier engaged in the battle of life, Mr Jarker did not doff his uniform, but confined himself to the above slight manifestation of the fact that he was a widower.
Apparently satisfied with his aspect, which was a little more villainous than usual, Mr Jarker turned his attention to the child, who crouched in a corner of the room with a piece of bread in her hand, watching him with her large blue eyes, very round and staring, but evidently pressing her little self as far away from the fellow as possible.
“Ah! and so she comes and plays with the kid when I’m out, does she?” said Mr Jarker, in a ruminating tone. “Ah! we knows what that means, my chicking, don’t we?”
The little thing pressed herself closer to the wall, and Mr Jarker stood very thoughtfully at the window for a few minutes, gazing down at where Lucy’s sewing-machine beat rapidly; but Mr Jarker was not aware that in his turn Jean Marais was watching him fiercely, his dark eyes seeming to flash beneath his overhanging penthouse brows, as he eagerly scanned every motion of the ruffian, looking the while as if prepared to spring across the court at his throat.
“Ah! we knows what that means, don’t we, my chicking?” repeated Mr Jarker, turning once more from the window. “Come here to yer daddy, d’yer hear!”
But though hearing plainly enough, the little thing only shrank back closer into her corner; when, with an oath, the fellow took two steps forward and seized the little thing by its pinky shelly ear, and dragged it, whimpering and trembling, into the middle of the attic, where he made “an offer” at it as if to strike, but the frailty and helplessness of the little one disarmed even him, and as his eyes wandered to the window to see that no opposite neighbour could watch them where they stood, his arm fell to his side as he sat down.
“Now, then!” cried Mr Jarker, “no pipin’; don’t you try none of them games with me, my young warmin’. ’Cos why, it’s ware hawks to yer if yer does. Now hook it back to that there corner.”
The child’s eyes were turned timidly and wonderingly up to his, as it shrank back once more to the corner of the attic.
“Now, then!” cried Jarker sharply, “come here again.”
Like an obedient dog in the course of training, the little thing crept back to his side, and then the tiny face grew more wondering and timid, the eyes more round, and it was very evident that the little brain, soft, plastic, and ready to receive any impression, was working hard to understand the meaning of the ruffian’s words. Bright and beautiful as the faces shown to us on canvas as those of angels, the little countenance, shining the brighter for the squalor around, was turned up more and more towards Jarker, gazing so fixedly and earnestly at him that he grew uneasy, fidgeted and shuffled his feet, and then his eyes sank, guilt cowering before innocence; for, quite disconcerted by the long, steady gaze, the ruffian rose and turned away, growling and muttering, “She’s gallus deep for such a little un.” He then took a short peep at his pigeons, walked back to the window, and stared long and heavily at the white hands he could see busy at the sewing-machine, and then turned once more to the wondering atom, trying to soften himself as he stooped down, but the child only flinched as from a coming blow when he patted the soft, bright curls.
“Here, come here,” he said gently, and he drew the child between his knees as he sat down.
“Now mind this here: nex’ time she comes and plays with you, my chickin’, perhaps she’ll say, ‘Would you like me to be your new mammy?’ she’ll say; and then, ‘Yes,’ says you; d’yer hear? ‘yes,’ says you. Now say it.”
But the little one only continued her wondering gaze till the fellow left her, and slouched out of the room, after raking the last cinder from the fire, in performing which he knocked the bottom of the grate from its frail hold, and then, in his endeavours to replace it, burned his fingers, and ejaculated so loudly that the eyes of the child were turned upon him more wonderingly than ever.
And then—was it that sympathy for the child moved the inmate of the opposite attic, or that he had a natural hatred for Jarker? Jean turned angrily from the window to a cage of half-a-dozen linnets the fellow had brought him an hour or two before, and to his mother’s rage and astonishment, seemed about to wreak his fury upon the birds. He seized one in his hand, and was about to wring its neck, but ma mère leaped forward to stay him, when his fierce gesture sent her back to her seat to watch him. But he did not kill the birds, but carried the cage to the window, and then let them go, one by one, till the last bird hesitated at the wire door for a few moments, and then fled, with a wild chirp of joy, far away into the smoky air.
“Jean, Jean! but you are bête—fou!” exclaimed his mother, trembling with fear and rage at this folly, as she thought of the money he had given for the birds.
“I hate him, I hate him!” hissed Jean furiously, while, watching him through her closed eyes, the old woman nodded quickly to herself, as she muttered and thought of her own early days, and it seemed to her that Jean’s heart was as easy to read as that printed book at his side.
But at this time Mr Jarker was slouching out of his room, and shouldering his way down the stairs, stopping the blowing of Mrs Sims’ fire for an instant, as he growled audibly in passing; then down into the court, where the index fingers of his hands were thrust into his mouth, and he was about to make a long and piercing whistle for the delectation of some passing pigeons as they flew over the strip of heaven seen from the flags of the court; but a glance at the first-floor window where dwelt the Hardons checked him. The next minute, though, the birds repassed, and Bill whistled loudly again and again; but the birds would not listen to this shrill voice of the charmer, the charmer himself, side-locks and all, went and stood at the bottom of the court, against the bright blue gilt-lettered boards of the public, where he rubbed the shoulders of his sleeve-waistcoat shiny, as he stood slouching about, and sucking one end of his spotted neck-tie.
“Whatcher going to stand, Bill?” said a gentleman of his acquaintance, a gentleman with a voice singularly like one that had been heard in the old Grange at Somesham upon a memorable night. This gentleman had a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, his coiffure being of the same order as that of Mr Jarker, while, being evidently of a terpsichorean turn of mind, he enlivened the street with a “pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pit-pit, pat,” toe-and-heel dance upon the cellar-flap of the public-house, where, his boots being stout and well-nailed, and the flap very hollow beneath, his efforts were attended with so much noise that the potboy of the establishment thrust out a closely-cropped head between the swing doors, where he held it as if in the process of being shorn off, at the same time requesting the light-heeled gentleman to “Drop that ’ere now, come!”
But instead of standing anything to quench the thirst of the new-comer, Mr Jarker stood upon the order of his going; for just then, laden with a large parcel of work, Lucy Grey passed out of the court and encountered Mr Sterne, who saluted, and then turned with a grave, pained countenance to gaze after her, as he saw Jarker follow, slouching along as if his boots were soled with lead, diver fashion, and he of so ethereal a nature that the ponderous metal was necessary to prevent him from shooting up into heaven like a stickless rocket minus the tail of fire.
The curate turned thoughtfully up the court, and began his round of visits, listening to complaints here, supplications there, but finding nowhere rest. He went thoughtfully through his round of duties that day, hearing and speaking mechanically, for always before his eyes there was the light, graceful form of Lucy, followed by the hound-like Jarker, and as he thought the lines grew deeper and deeper in his forehead. He listened to Mrs Sims’ praises of the child—praises delivered in a lachrymose tone, as a strong odour of rum pervaded the place. He listened to ma mère’s complaints of Jean, and felt an insinuation against her fellow-lodger’s fair fame stab him as it were to the heart; while surprised he gazed upon the fury with which the son turned upon his mother; and then descending, his task nearly done, the curate sat by the bedside of Mrs Hardon.
There stood the sewing-machine in the next room; there was the chair in which Lucy had been so lately seated, and where even now he could picture her form. But, silent and abstracted, he listened for the twentieth time to the story of the murmuring woman’s troubles, and what she had suffered since they had been in town. He listened, but he was asking himself the while whether Lucy merited the love he would pour at her feet—asking himself whether it was possible for a pure, fair, spotless lily to bloom amidst the pollution around. Still, too, came the remembrance of the words of the old Frenchwoman—“Our beauty, some of us.” Once admitting doubt to his breast, the strange thoughts teemed in, bringing up the woman he had seen and tracked in vain, and above all the low ruffian whom he had seen dogging the fair girl’s footsteps but that very day, when love had whispered, “Follow!” and pride cried, “Nay, stand aloof!” for he recalled their last interview. Then, again, he asked himself how dared he believe words that slurred her fair fame, when his conscience whispered to him that they were like their source—vile; but, surrounded as he was by vice and misery, might he not well wonder whether Lucy’s fair face spoke truth in its candour-tinged aspect, or was like the hundreds he encountered in his daily walks—fair to view, but with a canker within?
He told himself that he could watch her no longer—that he could not play the spy; and once again he prayed for strength to conquer the passion that seemed to sway him at its will; for he could not comprehend the behaviour of its object. Love he had thought to be buried for ever with his betrothed; but from her grave the seed seemed to have returned to him untainted by time, and with all its quickening, germinating powers ready to shoot forth and blossom in a wealth of profusion for another. And he knew that it must be lavished upon Lucy, even though she still repulsed him. And now, again, his eye brightened as, dashing down the sinister thoughts, he would see only her faith and truth, smiling at poverty when he called up the riches of her heart—riches that he saw poured forth for the murmuring parent, for whose wants she toiled on incessantly, winning for her many a comfort that the sick woman could not else have enjoyed; and even then with the overflowings of her young heart ready for the neglected child.
“For the neglected child!” What a gloomy starting-point for another train of thought, embracing its mother, tall, dark, and rouge-cheeked; Jarker, the ruffian, tracking Lucy’s steps; and lastly, ma mère, who seemed even then whispering in his ear, “Our beauty, some of us!” Arthur Sterne acknowledged that he was weak, though he fought hard with his soul-assailing enemies; while the track of the storm he was encountering was marked in his face, as he strolled slowly homewards, but only to pause startled at the mouth of the court.