"A Story of Dust and Ashes" (continued 5)

And now the importunities of the child by her knee aroused the poor woman to a forgetfulness of self in motherly cares, when the curate took his leave, but in nowise hurried by the savage shake that Jarker gave to the ladder—a shake which brought down a few scraps of plaster, to fall upon the cages and make the songsters flutter timidly against their prison-bars.

Half-way down the stairs Mr Sterne encountered the woman with whom he had seen Lucy in the Lane; the woman he presumed to be the mother of the child Mrs Jarker had now for some time nursed.

For a moment he stopped, as if to speak; but he remembered the next instant that he had no right to question her, and he stood gazing sternly at her, while, as she shrank back into a corner of the landing, her look was keen and defiant—the look of the hunted at bay. Once he had followed her for some distance, and then perhaps he would have spoken; but now the desire seemed gone, and linked together in his mind were Lucy, ma mère, the ruffian he had left up-stairs, and this woman.

“But what is it to me?” he thought bitterly; and, hurrying down the stairs, he stood for a moment at the doorway, heedless of the children scampering over the broken pavement—heedless that, with hot eyes and fevered cheeks, Lucy had left her sewing-machine and stepped back from the window that she should neither see nor be seen—heedless of all around; for his thoughts were a strange medley—pride, duty, and passion seeking to lead him by different roads. Then for a while he remembered the poor woman he had left, whose leave-taking he felt was near—a parting that he could not but feel would be a happy release from sorrow and suffering.

At last, turning to go, he cast his eyes towards the open window that Lucy had so lately left, when, with knitted brow and care gnawing at his heart, he passed out into the street, and walked towards his lodgings; but even there, in the midst of the busy throng, where the deafening hum of the traffic of the great city was ever rising and falling, now swelling into a roar, and again sinking to the hurried buzz of the busy workers, ever rang in his ears the bitter words of the old Frenchwoman—“Our beauty, some of us!”

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Documentary Evidence.

“Now, sir,” said old Matt, as he appeared, brushed-up and smart for the occasion, punctual to his appointment; “now, sir; here we are—baptism, marriage, and doctor. First ought to come last, you know, only Saint Mark’s Church comes before Finsbury, don’t you see?”

Septimus Hardon rose from his writing with a sigh, for he was far from sanguine of success, and would fain even now have given up his task entirely, so feeble seemed to him the likelihood of any advantage accruing; but in obedience to instructions from Mrs Septimus, old Matt rattled on about the future, thoroughly doing his duty in keeping the shrinking man to his part; and so they started.

They made their way out into Holborn, and then up Skinner-street, past the frowning walls of Newgate, and into the street of the same name; when old Matt could not get along for stopping to admire the various joints displayed, and giving his opinion upon their merits.

“Here, let’s go this way, sir,” he said, turning into Warwick-lane. “Pretty game this, sir, isn’t it? Slaughtered sheep, and murdered novels, and books of all sorts close together. Authors’ sheep’s-heads, and butchers’ sheep’s-heads cheek by jowl. Rum thing for both trades to get so close together. Regular bit of philosophy if you like to take it up, sir; stomach and brains, you see, food for both—books for the brains, meat for the stomach; and then backwards and forwards, one feeds the other, and one couldn’t get on without the other; and here they are situated close to the very heart of the City. Look at the circulation going on—wonderful, ain’t it, sir?”

Old Matt stopped by a slaughter-house, not to pity the simple animal just killed, but to point out sundry choice portions that might be had bargains, if they could have availed themselves of the opportunity.

“Wouldn’t do, though, to go about such a job as we have on hand carrying a sheep’s-head, would it, sir?” he observed to Septimus.

“No; pray come along, and let’s get our task over,” exclaimed the latter.

“To be sure,” said Matt, coming to himself, and the next minute they were in Paternoster-row. “Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt, stopping short in the middle of the narrow way, to be hustled by boys laden with sheets of paper fresh from the press, lads carrying reams, or newly-bound works tied between boards; men with blue bags over their shoulders heavily laden with books; men with oblong “mems” in their hands which they consulted as they hurried from swinging door to swinging door, collecting the publications of the different firms. Once the old man was nearly run over by a truck full of type-galleys driven by a pair of reckless imps of some neighbouring printing-office; while at least four times he came into contact with the fruit-baskets of the nymphs in stout boots and flattened bonnets, whose haunt is the labyrinth of learning known as “the Row.”—“Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt as his companion looked bewildered, and was thrust off the pavement; on to it again; into booksellers’ where he did not want to go; and once against the muddy wheel of a cab, whose driver roundly abused him for nearly getting himself injured.—“Lots of my old friends here. Ah, you needn’t mind a bit of pushing, sir—it’s a busy place. Now, you know, if I liked to hunt about, I could find more than one bit of my work here, for I’ve done things and bits of things that’s come out in more than half these places. All sorts of stuff; and what a sight of work a man can be put upon in a matter of fifty year, from playbills to prayer-books, and down again to penny-a-lining and posters! Law and physic’s been my strongest points: but there; I’ve been on your magazines, and newspapers, and three-volume novels, and pamphlets, and everything else that’s printed on a leaf, ’cept’ last dying-speeches and halfpenny songs; and I never did get down, quite so low as that. I’ve taken hold of author’s copy so queer that it’s made you scratch your head and torn the paper t’other way up to see which is tops and which is bottoms, and then back again, for you’ve been as wise as ever. Talk about ants and bluebottles running over the paper with inky feet, that’s nothing, sir. You’ve seen them painter-chaps, sir, graining the shetters of shops?”

Septimus, seeing that he was expected to say something, roused himself from his brown study, and nodded.

“Well,” continued Matt, “you see they have what they call a tool, though it’s only a flat brush made like a comb, and with that they make lines cross and across the panels, all about the same distance apart, and then they dab them lightly with a long soft brush to keep the grain from looking too stiff and hard. Well, I’ve had copy that’s looked as if the author had used one of these tools dipped in ink, and streaked it across and across the paper, and then dabbed it, not with a very soft brush, but with a very hard one, shoving in, too, a few smears and blots, just to fill up as knots and specimens of cross-grain. Up one goes to the overseer and asks him to help you, giving the other men a side-grin at the same time. He takes it, looks at it, turns it over, and then can’t make anything of it, though he won’t say so; for overseers must of course seem to know everything. So he sticks it back in your hand, and says he, ‘Go and make the best you can of it; for I’m busy.’ Well, you go back, and make the best you can of it; puzzles out one word, jumps at another, puts in two, and guesses two more, while you make a couple more out of the next line fit in somewhere after ’em; and so, one way or another, it gets scrambled up, and the proof goes to the reader, who cuffs his boy’s head because he blunders so over the stuff he can’t make head nor tail of, though he’s as much bothered as his boy; while, though some of them are clever, intelligent fellows, some of those readers, sir, have about as much imagination as a mop. They’re down upon a wrong letter, or bad pointing or spelling, and stick a big qy? against a bit of slack grammar, like lightning; but give ’em a take of stuff where the author goes a little out of the regular rut, and it bothers them as much as the bit of copy I’m talking about. Well, sir, corrections get made, and the proof is sent in to the author, who most likely don’t know it again; but he sends it back so as one has a better chance of getting it together; and so it goes on, backwards and forwards, till it’s all right, and they write ‘press’ in one corner, when it’s printed, and, as far as we’re concerned, there’s an end of it. Strange ways, ain’t they, sir?”

Septimus Hardon stared in a bewildered manner at the speaker, but did not answer.

“Blest if I think he’s heard a word I’ve said,” muttered the old fellow.

“Strange?” said Septimus, rousing himself; “yes, very.”

“’Tis, sir,” said Matt, who was interested in his subject. “Now, do you know, sir,” he continued after they had walked part of the way along the Row,—“do you know that if I was younger, I should be for founding a society, to be called the ‘Printers’ Spectacle Association,’ supported by contributions from writers for the press, who by this means would supply us with glasses, for often and often they quite destroy our sight.”

Old Matt’s dissertation was put an end to by the driver of one of the Delivery carts, when, returning to the matter which had brought them from home, the strange couple were soon threading their way along Cheapside.

There was but little difficulty in getting access to the registers of the old church, and a not very long search brought the seekers to the entry, in brown ink upon yellow paper, of the baptism of Septimus, son of Octavius and Lavinia Hardon, January 17—; but though the ages of the children before and after were entered, by some omission, his was absent.

A copy was taken by both, and then they stood once more in the open street.

“Just as I told you, sir,” said Matt, “isn’t it? there’s the date; but it don’t say how old you were.”

“No,” replied Septimus; “but still it is satisfactory, so far. Now we’ll see about the marriage, and then visit Finsbury.”

“You know the church?” said Matt.

“Well, not exactly,” said Septimus dreamily.

“There are two in the street; but it was at one of them.”

“Good,” said the old man; and soon after they stood in the street of two churches, and, taking the most imposing, they obtained admission to the vestry, where, after a long and careful search of the time-stained register, they were compelled to give up, for there was no result; while the regular way in which the leaves followed proved that none were missing.

“Try t’other,” said Matt laconically; and soon after they entered the damp, mouldy-smelling receptacle of the registers at the second church—a quaint, queerly-built place that looked as if architecture had been set at defiance when it was erected.

Old Matt was quiet and laconic enough in his speech; but as leaf after leaf was turned over, it was evident that the old man was more deeply interested than Septimus himself; for he grew so excited, that he was quite voracious with his snuff, his nose becoming a very devouring dragon of Scotch and rappee, till the supposed date of the marriage was neared, when the snuff was hastily pocketed.

“Rayther rheumatic spot this, I should think,” said Matt to the sexton, so as to appear quite at his ease.

“Well, yes, it is damp,” said the sexton, who would have had no difficulty in passing himself off as Matt’s brother; “but we have a fire here on Sundays all through the winter.”

“Don’t have many berrin’s now, I s’pose,” said Matt, again bringing out the snuff, but this time for hospitable purposes.

“Bless you, no,” said the sexton, “ain’t had one for years upon years. All cemetery work now.”

“To be sure, of course,” said Matt, trying to converse in a cool pleasant way, but with one eye fixed upon the trembling searcher; for some of Matt’s eagerness seemed now to be transferred to his companion.

“There’s a great piece of the book out here,” said Septimus suddenly—“most of the year before the baptism.”

“Torn out, by Jove!” muttered Matt, shaking his head, and looking suspicion’s self.

“Dessay there is, sir,” said the sexton coolly; “the damp here would spile the binding of any book.”

“But, I say; look here, you sir; here’s a good four months gone: no Jennywerry, nor Feberwerry, nor March, nor April. Looks precious queer,” said Matt.

“Ah, so there is—good big bit gone; all but a leaf here and there.” And then, to get a better look, the sexton took out an old leathern case, drew out his spectacles, replaced the case very carefully, wiped the glasses upon the tail of his coat, and then very leisurely put them on, a process not directly completed; for, like their master, the springs of the spectacles had grown weak, and were joined by a piece of black tape, which had to be passed carefully over the sexton’s head to keep the glasses in their place. “Ah,” he said again, while the searchers looked on, astonished at his coolness, “so there is—a good big bit gone; but ’tain’t no wonder, for the thread’s as rotten as tinder, and—”

“I say, old un, don’t tear any more out,” cried Matt excitedly; for the sexton was experimentally disposed, and testing the endurance of the thread and glue.

“There’s plenty loose,” said the old sexton, “and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find a lot more gone.”

Septimus Hardon looked at Matt, who returned the look, for the feeling of suspicion was now fully shared. However, they still went on carefully searching.

“It’s of no use,” said Septimus at last, mournfully; “we may as well go. I never had any hope.”

“Don’t be in a hurry, sir,” said Matt. “You know there are other ways of killing the cat, as the old saying says; wait a bit. Looks suspicious, certainly,” he said, treating himself to a fresh pinch of snuff.—“I say, guv’nor, you haven’t got the loose leaves lying about anywheres, have you? Not been taken away that you know of, eh?”

The sexton shook his head, thrust his hands to the bottoms of his trousers-pockets, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then stood gazing at his visitors with his spectacles high up on his forehead.

“No,” said he, “nobody never meddles with ’em, ’cept a lawyer’s clerk now and then; and they’re very civil, and just copies out something, and gives me a shilling, and then goes.”

Septimus Hardon took the hint in its first acceptation, while the mouldy old sexton removed one hand from his pocket to accept the proffered shilling held to him, before his visitors were about to take the second part of the hint.

As they moved off through the damp old church, Septimus Hardon wondered whether, upon some bright morning half a century before, his father and mother had knelt before that altar and been made one. He sighed as he walked on, meeting in the entrance a tall, gentlemanly—looking man who was passing in.

“What’s to be done next, Matt?” said Septimus, in a dispirited tone.

“Pint of porter and crust o’ bread-and-cheese,” said the old man decidedly. “I’m faint, sir—got a fit of my chronics; but it’s taking me the wrong way to-day; I’m hungry, and you must want support. Keep your chin in the air, sir; we can’t win every time. You’ve had two tries this morning, and one’s come all right. That register looks suspicious, certainly; but after all you can’t even go and swear that your old people were married in that church; and even if you could, and had the copy of the stiffikit, that ain’t all we want, for it don’t prove that you weren’t a year old then.”

“Hi!” cried a voice behind them; and upon the cry being repeated, they both turned to find that the old sexton was telegraphing them to come back, by wagging his head in the direction of the church-door.

“What’s up now?” said old Matt when they reached him.

“Parson wants to see you in the westry,” was the reply.

Anxiously following the old man, Septimus Hardon found himself in the presence of the gentleman he had encountered at the door.

“I think,” said he, “that you have been complaining of the bad state of our registers, and really we deserve it. I have only been here a few weeks, and have done but little towards getting them right. However, I have quite fifty loose leaves and pieces arranged here ready for pasting back, though I can assure you it is no light task.”

As he spoke, he took down from a little closet on the wall a heap of damp-stained, ragged, worthless-looking paper, and then set himself to try and help discover the required name.

“Hardon,” he said,—“Hardon, Octavius Hardon and Lavinia Addison. We’ll lay those that are done with down here, if you please; for, though they do not appear so, the leaves are in a certain order. Hardon, Hardon, Octavius, and Lavinia Addison,” he kept on muttering, as Septimus and he carefully examined column after column amongst the dilapidated leaves; though Septimus progressed but slowly, for his hand trembled and a mist swam before his eyes.

“Take a glass of wine,” said the curate kindly, producing a decanter and glass from the little cupboard; “you seem agitated.”

Septimus took the glass with trembling hand, and then resumed his task with increased energy, till at last there were not above half a dozen leaves to scan, when he uttered an exclamation of joy, for there, upon a scrap before him—torn, stained, and almost illegible—was the sought-for entry, bearing the well-known signature of his father, and the trembling handwriting of his mother.

“Here, here, Matt,” he whispered, “look!” and the paper quivered in his hands—“‘Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison,’ and signed by her old friend Miss Morris.”

“Right it is, so far,” said Matt, holding his glasses to his eyes wrong way foremost, with both hands, “and just a year and a half before the baptism. Now you know, sir, I pitched it pretty strong before now, so as you shouldn’t expect too much; but it’s my belief that, after all said and done, we’ve got enough documentary evidence; and things seeming so very regular, if you had begun as you should have done, unless there was something very strong on the other side that we can’t see through, you must have got a verdict. But then I hardly like for you to try on this only; for the law’s a ticklish thing to deal with, and though this all looks so straightforward, it don’t prove against what your uncle says, and will bring witnesses to swear.”

“But how can he?” exclaimed Septimus, in a whisper.

“Ah,” said Matt, refreshing himself after his wont, “how can he? Why, by means of that comical stuff as he’s been so anxious to get hold of. Why, sir, he could find witnesses as would swear to any mortal thing on the face of this earth; they’d almost undertake to prove as you weren’t born at all, sir. Mind, I don’t say that they’d carry the day, sir; but I’m only telling you of what villainy there is in this world, and how you must be prepared, even to fighting the dev— I beg your pardon, sir,” said Matt bashfully, as he pulled up short, having in his earnestness forgotten the presence of the third party.

“I’m sorry to say that there’s a great deal of truth in what you assert,” said the curate quietly; for Septimus was looking at him in an appealing way as if expecting that he would demolish all that Matt had advanced. “Suborned witnesses are nothing new in this world of ours.”

“Pull out your note-book, sir, and let’s take it down,” said Matt; and as he spoke, he drew out an old dog’s-eared memorandum-book and a stumpy fragment of lead pencil that would not mark without being kissed and coaxed every moment, when he copied the entry most carefully, compared it with the original, and then with that just made by Septimus Hardon.

“Really,” said the clergyman at parting, “I am extremely glad to have met you this morning, and you may depend upon finding us in better order at your next visit.”

“There has been no trickery there you see, Matt,” said Septimus, as they stood once more in the street; “all seems straightforward.”

“Just so, sir; your uncle seems to have some game of his own that I can’t quite see through as yet; but stop a bit. Good sort o’ chap that young parson. I’ll ask him to dinner some day, though he didn’t say, ‘Take a glass of sherry, Matthew Space.’ Then how careful you ought to be! Now I should have been ready to swear that your precious uncle had been at them books. S’pose he ain’t so much older than you, sir?”

“Not many years,” replied Septimus. “He was my poor father’s younger brother. But now for the doctor!” he said in an elated tone.

“Thanky, sir, but suppose we have the porter and bread-and-cheese first. You youngsters are so rash and impatient; and besides, I didn’t taste that fine old dry sherry, you know. One thing at a time’s the best plan, and it seems to me that a little refreshment’s the next thing wanted. ’Tain’t no use to suppose, sir, that because a horse has won one race he’ll go and polish off the next the same hour. D’yer see, sir?”

Septimus expressed himself as being able to see, and he submitted forthwith to his companion’s guidance.

Now most people would imagine that Matt entered the first inviting open portal that presented itself, where the gorgeously-emblazoned boards announced the retailing of So-and-so’s entire; but no. Old Matt seemed very particular and hard to please, passing house after house before he could meet with one to his satisfaction; and in a quarter of an hour’s brisk walk a few public-houses can be passed in London streets. But Matt had something else on his mind besides draught stout; and at last, when Septimus Hardon’s patience was well-nigh exhausted, the old man stopped short before a place where the window displayed a notice to the effect that the Post-office Directory was at the bar.

“There,” said Matt, pointing to the window, “thought me a nuisance now, didn’t you, sir? But that’s what I wanted. So now we’ll have our stout and cheese, and a look at the doctors too.”

Seated in the public-house parlour, fragrant with the fumes of flat beer and stale tobacco, they were soon discussing the foaming stout and more solid refreshments, though Septimus spent the greater part of his time poring over the volume he had laid open upon the gum-ringed table—a volume that Matt considered would be as useful as a medical directory. Surgeons there were in plenty; but only one answering to the name of Phillips, and he was practising at Newington.

“Moved there, perhaps,” said Matt.

Septimus Hardon shook his head, and read again, “Phillips, EJ, Terrace, Newington.”

“Stop a bit, sir,” said Matt, rising and catching the ring hung from the ceiling, and pulling the bell.—“Here, fill that pint again, my man; and, I say, got another of these d’rectories anywheres?”

“Yes,” said the pot-boy, “there’s another somewheres—an old un.”

“That’s the ticket, my lad, bring it in.”

The boy performed the, to him, satisfactory feat of pitching the pot in the air, and catching it with one hand as he went out, though the performance was somewhat marred by the vessel turning in its flight, and announcing its descent by a small frothy brown shower, which sprinkled the performer’s countenance. However, he was soon back with the refilled measure, and a very dirty, very dusty, and dog’s-eared old copy of the Directory, with one cover torn off, and a general aspect of its having been used for generations as the original London Spelling-book.

Septimus seized the bulky tome, and soon had the right page found; and in this volume there was no mention of EJ Phillips of Newington.

“Young beginner,” said Matt hollowly; for he had the pewter-vessel to his lips. “Anyone else same name?”

“Two more!” cried Septimus in a husky voice: “Phillips, Thomas, Camden-town; Phillips, Nicholas, Chiswell-street.”

“Hooray!” cried Matt, thumping down the pewter-pot, so that a portion of the contents splashed over into the cheese-dish. “That’s the man we want, sir; so finish your crust and cheese, and then off we go.” And shrewd old Matt forgot to ask himself in his excitement how it was that the name was not in the Directory often years later date, but acted up to what he was advising, and, then late in the afternoon, they again started on their search.

It was not a very long walk from Walbrook to Chiswell-street; but old Matt made very little progress, halting at times as if in pain, while in answer to inquiries he only smiled and declared that it was his “chronics.” Now he panted and seemed out of breath, then he paused at one of his favourite halting-places, but too short of breath to make a speech, even had he felt so disposed. At the last stoppage, induced by Septimus Hardon’s eager strides, the old man panted out:

“Let’s see, sir; you walked down to Somesham, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Septimus somewhat surprised at the question. “Come along;” for he was now as eager to continue the quest as he had formerly been to avoid it.

“That’s all very well,” said Matt, panting; “but I shouldn’t have liked to walk with you, and if Chiswell-street had been t’other side the square, you’d have had to carry me, so I tell you; and—”

“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Septimus anxiously, for his companion had turned very pale and haggard.

“Not much,” he gasped; “better d’rectly—out of breath rather.”

But he seemed to grow so much worse, that all thought of farther search was forgotten in the anxiety to get the old man to the principal thoroughfare, for he stoutly refused to hear of a cab being called; though he sank back thoroughly exhausted in a corner of the omnibus, when at last the right one passed with room inside.

A quiet cup of tea and an hour’s rest seemed to restore the old man, and he rose to leave Bennett’s-rents, firmly refusing to allow Septimus to walk home with him, though it was only by slow stages and great exertion that he reached his lodging.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

The Curate at Home.

The task of the Reverend Arthur Sterne was weary, and one that might have made him sigh had he known no other troubles. Work, work, work, of the most disheartening character for the most part; and it was only in rare instances that he could feel in his own heart that his labours had been of any avail. Here he would listen to a hypocritical tale of woe, there to a story of real sorrow; now his task would be to try and point out some foolish reckless piece of extravagance; then to call to account for folly and idleness. Everywhere there was the same display of live to-day, and let to-morrow take care of itself. Forethought and providence seemed to know no home in Bennett’s-rents and the neighbourhood, perhaps because hope had often been so long deferred that the sickened hearts believed in it no more. Dirt everywhere, drunkenness frequently, vice often, with their followings of sorrow, repentance, disease, and death. Years, however, had made him to be looked upon as a friend, and his step was always welcomed, while, effecting what good he could, he toiled patiently on; fearing no fever, dreading no epidemic, but ever ready, he visited the bedside of the stricken—the vilest or the most unfortunate—ready to join his prayers to theirs for pardon—to point out the long neglected road that should have been taken—to teach the ignorant the words they had never known, or perhaps forgotten years upon years before. His was a task that knew but little earthly recompense, save the knowledge of duty done; but many a parting soul blessed him with lips soon to be motionless for ever, or thanked him with those glazing eyes from which the wild despairing look had faded, as he knelt in intercession for one whose opportunity for better things had never come, but who, born into the misery and wretchedness of a great town, had passed in it the life now about to be given up at the stern call that knows no refusal.

It was a weary task amidst so poor and wretched a flock; but could the curate have been at rest, he would have been happy in the good he effected, and the simple confidence now placed in him by those he visited. Even Bill Jarker had of late taken to pulling off his fur-cap and picking it when they met; and there was no hypocrisy in the salutation, for it was wrung from him by the genuine respect he felt. But then the curate was not at rest, for he had now thoroughly awakened to the germs which had rooted themselves in his heart, growing more and more till his very life was interlaced with the strong fibres. Now, he would deliberately try to eradicate the growth, tearing and lacerating himself in his efforts to rid himself of the unbidden guest; but the progress he made was slow in comparison with the growth he fought against. Blindly, though, he would tell himself that he had conquered, that the last root was torn out, and the door of his heart closed against further entrance. And then, in the pride of his believed victory, he would tell himself of how he had been about to lavish riches upon one beneath him, and unworthy, when his heart would reply that love was a leveller, and laugh to scorn the subtle distinctions of caste; reminding him, too, that this maiden had grown up as it were beneath his eye, that he had watched her for years, while she was as well born, perhaps, as he. And then, in his heart, there would shoot forth a tiny green blade, then there was the opening leaf, and soon again the blossom; while roots spread here and there lacing and interlacing stronger and stronger than ever, as if he had been by his efforts merely preparing the soil for a richer growth of the ever-verdant clinging plant that he sought in vain to tear away.

So wearily on, day after day, passed the curate’s life, a struggle between the natural affection and self-imposed duty, while night after night in his sleepless hours he heaped up reproaches upon himself for work neglected, and the dreamy musings into which he was wont to fall. Self-deceiving, he had gone on taking more and more interest in the Hardon family, blinding himself to his real sentiments, until now that the veil had been so rudely snatched from his eyes he writhed hourly, maddened almost, that he should have allowed his peace to have been disturbed for what he fiercely told himself was worthless.

It was not a long walk from the Bennett’s-rents region to Surrey-street, where he had rooms in a gloomy wilderness of a house, which he shared with a solicitor, an accountant, and a company that seemed to be composed of a small secretary and a large heap of prospectuses. Here he would seek for the rest he could not find, anxious and worn, day after day, since his last visit to the Hardons, much to the discomposure of Aunt Fanny, who dwelt with him in the double capacity of housekeeper and companion.

A prim, pleasant old dame, proud of her great age, and of her bright silver hair, smoothed in bands beneath her quaint old widow’s cap; sitting or standing, ever with her arms crossed over her black corded-silk apron, while a mitten-covered hand clasped each elbow. A prim, pleasant-looking old dame, always dressed in lavender poplin, whose stiff plaits seemed to have been carved out of the solid, as she stood at the window watching for the coming of her boy. For “Arty” always had been, and doubtless always would be, a boy in her pleasant old eyes—eyes that spoke the truth of her tender old heart; though there was one point upon which Aunt Fanny would err, and that was her age. Unlike ladies of a certain time of life, she was proud of her years, and, doubtless from some haziness in her arithmetic, she was given to adding to them, so that more than once in her arguments respecting points of time, she somewhat upset her calculations.

“Why, aunt,” the curate would say, “you cannot be so old as you say by eight years.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy, how can you know anything about it? I’m eighty-two.”

“Then,” he would say loudly, “you must have been thirty when you were married.”

“Nonsense, child; how can you be so silly! And you need not shout so. I was twenty-two when your poor uncle led me to the altar.” And then she would fall to smoothing her black apron, and arranging the folds of her dress, with hands that trembled in an agitated manner, a tear standing in one of the still bright eyes, as the old recollections sprang up, when, ceasing the discussion, her nephew would tenderly kiss her hand, and sit affectionately gazing in her handsome old face. Indeed time had paid a certain respect to Aunt Fanny, so that she looked years younger than she really was, while all her faculties save one were bright as ever; for proud though she was of the fine stitching placed with her own needle round Arty’s shirt-fronts—stitching aided by no spectacles—and ignorant though she was of her failing, yet Aunt Fanny was terribly deaf.

But she hardly felt the affliction, speaking of it as a slight weakness which affected her when she had a cold, always remaining unconscious that what she looked upon as a whisper was a conversation carried on in a loud key. Poor Aunt Fanny could not hear very well from her pew in the gallery, right in front of the organ, for the thing would make, she said, such a terrible buzzing sound; so a seat was provided for her just beneath the pulpit, which she found necessary, for clergymen were not what they used to be. On the following Sunday, her nephew had ascended to his place, spread out the black-velvet case she had made for his sermons, prayed, and given out his text twice, when, before the first words of the sermon were uttered, Aunt Fanny began to mutter to herself, though her muttering was so loud that everyone present in the little church must have heard it, her nephew himself being overwhelmed with confusion.

“Dear, dear, dear!” she exclaimed; “it’s of no use, and I can’t hear a bit. I might just as well have stayed where I was. O Arty, Arty, you sad boy, why will you mumble so?”

Arty did not mumble any more that evening, but dashed headlong into his discourse; so that when they returned, Aunt Fanny thought she rather liked the new seat the better of the two. Still it was of no avail; the old lady could never hear well in that church; for rector and curate had both got into a bad habit of speaking in a low tone, and drawling out their words. But Aunt Fanny’s pity was sublime in the case of a friend also troubled with deafness; though he knew it, and did not scruple to make an ear-trumpet of his hand, though this was needless when Aunt Fanny was the speaker; for her sentences were always perfectly audible. “Poor Edwards!” she would say, as she smoothed down her apron, “what a nice man you would be if you weren’t so deaf! It’s a pity—a great pity!” And then she would sigh, in profound ignorance that “poor Edwards’s” confusion was caused by her habit of thinking aloud.

And this was the companion of Arthur Sterne’s solitude; but there were pleasant smiles to welcome him, and beneath their sunny rays the deeply-cut lines that seamed his forehead grew less marked, while the light of the pleasant old sunny face was reflected in his own.

Aunt Fanny had seen the change that had come over her nephew, and waited patiently for his complaints, which came not; and after many days, unable to contain her anxiety, she crossed to where the curate was sitting, and, taking his hand, frowned severely as she felt his pulse.

“Well, aunty, and how is it?” he said, smiling at the earnest countenance beside his.

But Aunt Fanny was too much occupied with her thoughts to speak, and only nodded, and then shook her head, as, in her own mind, she went over her long catalogue of simples suited to the various ills of human life, till at last she settled upon camomile-tea as being the most efficacious remedy for her nephew’s complaint, which she settled to be disorder of the liver, produced from over-work, and not a word would she hear to the contrary.

“Now, don’t shout, my dear; I’m not deaf. You know you do too much; and if you won’t petition the bishop for a change, I shall. What do you say to a pleasant curacy in some pretty country place?”

Nothing. What could he say, when he had wakened to the fact that, in spite of pride and doubts, that court was all the world to him?

Appeal was useless; so, yielding with as good a grace as he could, the curate suffered himself to be doctored for his complaint, turning to his books for rest at every reprieve. If it had not been for the heat of the next few days, he would not have been allowed to stir out without the thick muffler that had been aired for his throat; while the many appellants who visited the lodging of a morning were answered by Aunt Fanny herself; for many came to ask advice and comfort of the curate, more especially from amongst the poor Irish; but though they came ostensibly for spiritual, they generally managed to explain that a little solid help would be most acceptable.

Till now, living in their quiet, simple way, the relations between them being more like those existent with mother and son, Arthur Sterne had had no secret from the dame; but now, when he would gladly have eased his burdened heart by confidence, he shrank from laying bare its secrets, even though he was in that state when men are most prone to be confidential. But there was to him something repugnant in the idea of shouting words that seemed to demand that they should be whispered in the twilight of some calm eve, when the reassuring pressure of that time-marked hand would have been loving and tender. For she had been to him as a mother, taking that duty on herself when he had been left an orphan, and now there seemed ingratitude in keeping back any of the troubles of his life. He had no doubts respecting Aunt Fanny. Did he but bring there a wife, and say, “I love this woman,” she would take her to her heart and believe in her; for, saving the mumbling in his speech, Arthur Sterne could not, in her eyes, do wrong. Still the secret was kept—feverishly kept—and brooded over in the sleepless nights, or in those dark watches, when, impatiently quitting the pillow that brought no rest, he walked the streets of the sleeping city, alone, or in company with some policeman; when mostly his steps would lead him to the end of the court, where, in Septimus Hardon’s window, generally glimmered a feeble light—one whose purpose he often asked himself.

At times he would determine to flee the place, and in some far-off country retreat try again to root out the love that had taken hold on him; for here he felt that he could not reason with himself. In vain he conjured up visions of a calm, pale face, whose marble cheek he had once kissed, an hour before it was laid in the grave; in vain he told himself that he was faithless to that old love, and failing in his duty. There still was the sweet, gentle face of Lucy Grey haunting him ever; and though he recalled the words of the old Frenchwoman, and her sinister meaning—the meeting in the Lane, and, above all, the look of shame and confusion—there was the same sense of love beating down all else. But he had made a resolve at last; and that was, to see and question the woman he had seen in Lucy’s company; he would see her, and then seek for rest somewhere, since the idol he had unconsciously set up was sullied and broken.

Twice over he had met this woman, but now his efforts to see her seemed in vain. He called at the Jarkers’ again and again; but, in place of her coming, as Mrs Jarker said, to see her child and leave the weekly payment for its support, week after week, as if she knew that she was watched, she came not, but sent money-orders by post. He shrank from speaking to Mrs Jarker concerning her connection with Lucy; while Lucy herself he had not seen. Watching seemed useless, for the woman came not; and at last, almost in despair, he had determined to undertake that which his heart shrank from—the questioning of Lucy herself.

At last, after a long and busy day, as now had become his wont, he wandered through the streets for hours, apparently feeling no fatigue, till, late in the night, he stopped by the Rents, walked slowly up the deserted court, lit by its solitary flickering lamp, whose broken glass made the flame dance and tremble, while when an extra puff of wind passed down the court it was but extinct. There was the faint light, though, in one of the rooms occupied by the Hardons, and after standing watching it for some time he hurried away, calling himself foolish, romantic, boy, madman. It was but a passing fancy, he told himself, such a one as might have moved him in his youth; but his heart would not harbour the belief, and mockingly cast it forth.

He was angry and half-maddened to feel how helpless he was, and what a sway the impulse now moving him had obtained; to think that he—the minister of religion, the teacher of others—should have so little power over self that he should be swayed here and driven there helplessly; the whole current of his quiet life turned from its course, and that too in spite of the way in which he had battled, while the doubts that assailed him only added to his misery.

Now as he hurried on he would meet some policeman, who turned to watch him; now it would be some drunken reveller, or a wretched homeless being just started from some corner where he had been sleeping, and compelled to wander the streets till daybreak; but ever and again he would encounter the flauntingly—dressed outcast humming the snatch of a popular air with a wretched attempt at gaiety, which lasted till she had passed, and then almost broke into a wail. But he managed that they should always meet face to face beneath some gas-lamp, when he would sigh and pass on, for not one that he met during his search was the woman of the Lane.

Mrs Jarker did not know her name, nor yet where she lodged; but the little girl was to be called Agnes. That was all the information the curate could obtain; and at times he would frown, bite his lips, and give up the search, but only to take it up once again for what he always told himself was the last time. Then he would play the hypocrite, and tell himself that his motives were unselfish; that to marry a girl in Lucy’s position of life would be folly—absurd: he was only anxious for her well-being and future life.

But these fits lasted only for a short time, and then, smiling bitterly, he would, as upon this night, betake himself to the search once more.

And yet it was not on his account she came not to Bennett’s-rents, for Agnes Hardon knew not of his quest; she had other reasons, though the visits to her child and Lucy were the only bright spots in her wretched life. Lucy heard from her from time to time through old Matt, who bore her notes always under protest, but still obediently, though Lucy was the only one who knew the poor creature’s secret, and she dared not make it known to Septimus lest he should forbid their meetings; for, abandoned by all, hopeless, and in misery, Agnes Hardon clung to her connection with Lucy as the only hope left on earth for self and child. Her appeals to Somesham remaining unanswered, she had ceased to send, and, removing from lodging to lodging, any attempt upon Mrs Hardon’s part to find her would have been vain. She had shrunk from the keen searching glances of the curate when they had met, seeing in everyone now an enemy whose object was to break her intimacy with Lucy, whom she, therefore, saw only by stealth. Her heart bled for the misery of the family, for she learned all from time to time at their meetings; while, knowing full well that there was a will made, to which she had signed her name as witness, yet could she not declare her knowledge, from a shrewd suspicion that the doctor had made away with it, and she told herself that she had already brought sorrow and shame enough upon her home.

And to meet her, night by night stole Arthur Sterne through the streets, ever hating himself for his madness, ever resolving that each search should be the last, and still weakly yielding to the one great anxiety that troubled him. Now he would be seeing Lucy’s candid face reproachfully gazing at him, and directly after would come again the bitter, spiteful countenance of the Frenchwoman, and he seemed to hear her words, “Our beauty, some of us;” and at such times all faith in the girl had gone. “Our beauty, some of us!” How the words seemed to ring in his ears; they were borne to him in the echo of the far-off vehicle, chimed by the clocks; the very air seemed alive with the words, till he hurried on through street after street again to try and thoroughly wear himself out, that sleep might come, and with it rest from the mental anxiety and doubt he suffered.

At last he stood on one of the bridges, leaning against the parapet and gazing down at the hurrying river, feeling the soft sweet breeze of early dawn sweep up with the tide, whispering of the moaning sea and far-off reaches where the green reeds sighed and rustled, and the wide green marshes were spread out. There was a faint light coming in the east, and the stars were paling, as the gas grew sickly-hued and dim. All was still and peaceful, so that he could hear the lapping of the water far below as it seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit, telling of the far-off sea and its mysteries, the hopes and fears there buried, and then of the many lost whom the river had borne down, when, from perhaps where he then stood, they had taken the last fearful plunge. And who were they? he asked himself; who were they that plunged daringly into the rushing river? and for reply the faint breeze seemed to whisper, and the tide to sigh, “Our beauty, some of us!” And then trembling he leaned his hot brow against the cold stone balustrade, fighting with the thoughts that oppressed him, with duty, religion, the world, till, with almost a groan, burst from his lips:

“Save her? My God! yes, as I hope to be saved!”

The early untainted breeze breathed upon his fevered lips as it rode upon the breast of the coming tide; the stars paled more and more, the faint pearly light in the east became roseate; and at last Arthur Sterne stood gazing up towards the glowing cross of the great cathedral, glittering as it was in the morning sun, while now, weary and jaded, he turned to seek his home, but only to gaze with doubting eyes, for he stood face to face with the woman he had sought through the night.

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.