"A Story of Dust and Ashes" (continued 6)

Septimus sold his boots to Isaac Gross, in Lower Series—place, after trying hard to get another day’s wear out of them. It had been a fierce battle, and he had found the arguments adduced by his leather friends too strong to be resisted. He parted from them with regret, although they had never been to him the friends he tried to believe. To begin with, they had always pinched him terribly, raising blisters upon his heels, painfully chafing his toes, bringing a tender place upon one foot, and fostering a corn upon the other; but now they had been parted with in exchange, with so much current coin added, for a pair of Isaac Gross’s translations.

It might reasonably be supposed that old Matt had introduced Septimus as a customer; but no, this would have been introducing him to the abode of which he was ashamed; and Septimus had long since discovered the spot for himself, and come to the conclusion that it was a place where he could well suit himself, or rather the requirements of his pocket.

Isaac was smoking away as usual, and giving the finishing touch to a boot-sole by means of a piece of broken glass, whose keen edge took off minute shavings of the leather. Mrs Slagg was busily carrying on trading transactions with a dirty man, and giving the best price for a barrowful of old newspapers; but both Isaac and Mrs Slagg seemed out of spirits, and when a customer presented himself in the shape of Septimus Hardon, the translator put down his work slowly, sighed, laid his pipe upon a shelf, and seemed to carry out his bargain with more than his usual heaviness. As a rule, Isaac was a man given to smiling—smiling very slowly, and bringing his visage back to its normal state, a solid aspect; but there was no smile visible now; and when his visitor for “three-and-nine and the old uns,” became the lucky possessor of a pair—no, not a pair—of two Oxonian shoes, Isaac took the money with another sigh, put it in an old blacking-bottle upon the shelf, which he used as a till, dropped the old boots upon a heap close by, took up his pipe, smoked, sighed, and then scraped away at his boot-sole without taking a single peep at his neighbour.

For Isaac Gross was sore at heart concerning the state of his old friend Matt, as sore at heart as was his customer; and when, slightly limping and pinched, Septimus creaked away in his new shoes, Mrs Slagg having finished her paper purchases, and retaken her seat inside her door,—a seat she seldom quitted, making her customers perform the weighing and lifting when practicable,—she peeped round the door-jamb twice in vain; and though trade was prosperous as her love, in spite of its being enshrined so softly in fat, Mrs Keziah Slagg’s heart was also sore, and she too sighed.

The feeling that everyone was watching him was stronger than ever upon Septimus Hardon that morning as he made his way along the big streets and alleys on his way towards one of the hospitals, and after letting the matter sleep as it were for some time, he had now awakened to the fact that he should like to prosecute his claim; though he told himself frequently that he was too weak and wanting in decision to go on without help—the help he could not now obtain. He knew that Mr Sterne would willingly assist him, but his was not the required help; and he shrank from making him his confidant, while he eagerly sought the aid of the old printer now it was not forthcoming.

There are some strange contradictions in the human heart; and at the present time, had old Matt presented himself to go on with the search in the unbusiness-like way already followed, the chances are that Septimus Hardon would have shrunk from it, or allowed himself unwillingly to be dragged into farther proceedings.

But old Matt was not present; and now, with the idea troubling him that much time had been wasted, and the matter must be at once seen to, Septimus Hardon made his way towards the hospital; not that he was ill in body, though troubled greatly in mind concerning the man who had been his friend in the hardest struggle of his life. For there were strong passions in the vacillating soul of Septimus Hardon, and he had been greatly moved when, after another long absence, during which he had anxiously waited for the old man, a letter had been delivered, telling how that Matthew Space lay seriously ill in a hospital-ward.

For the first few days after their parting, Matt’s last words had strangely haunted Septimus, and he could not rest for thinking of them; but they grew fainter with the lapse of time; Matt came not to spur him once more to his task, and he sank lower and lower, while Doctor Hardon of Somesham, portly and smiling, grew great in the estimation of the people of the little town.

Septimus had tried more than once in his unbusiness-like, haphazard way to find out the residence of old Matt, at such times as the thoughts of his last words were strong upon him. “He said he was ill, and then talked of medicine and attendance. He was wandering,” said Septimus. “I remember I had great difficulty in getting him along. Perhaps he is dead. Well, well; so with all of us. Let it rest, for I’ll take no farther steps.”

A rash promise to make, as he felt himself when one day came the few lines written in a strange hand, asking his attendance at the hospital. Only a few lines in a crabbed hand, without a reference to the search; but now the desire had risen strong in him once more, though he called himself selfish to think of his own affairs at such a time.

Septimus was not long in responding to the note, but he found the old man delirious. The second time, Lucy begged to go and see her old friend, and wept bitterly over his shrivelled hand; but the old man was incoherent, and knew them not.

And now for the third visit Septimus made his way to the hospital, where he found the old man apparently sinking from the effects of some operation. The doctor had just left, when one of the nurses, a great, gaunt, bony woman, with a catlike smile, and a fine high colour in her cheeks, ushered the visitor to the bedside—a bed, one of many in the light, clean, airy ward.

Septimus Hardon was shocked at the change which had taken place in the old man, as he lay with his hands spread out upon the white coverlet of the bed, pale and glassy-eyed, and rather disposed to wander in his speech; but his face seemed to light up when he heard his visitor’s voice.

“No; no better,” he whispered. “Let’s see, I told you, didn’t I? Mrs Hardon, medicine and attendance, wasn’t it? To be sure it was. Yes, medicine and shocking bad attendance here. That’s it; and I can’t tell you any more. I’m falling out of the forme, sir, unless some of these doctors precious soon tighten up the quoins.”

“No, no,” said Septimus cheerily, “not so bad as that; a good heart is half the battle.”

“Yes, yes, yes, so it is,” whispered the old man feebly; “but, I say, is she gone?”

Septimus told him the nurse had left the room, and the old man continued:

“You can’t keep a good heart here, sir, nohow. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known all I know now. You saw her, didn’t you?”

“The nurse?” said Septimus.

“Yes, her,” replied the old man, shuddering; “she’s a wretch, with no more feeling in her than a post. She’ll do what the porters shrink from, sir. They have to carry the—you know what I mean, sir—down to the deadhouse; and I’ve known her laugh at the young one, and do it herself in a way that makes your blood run cold. Just wink, sir, if you see her coming. She’ll be here directly with my wine or jelly: says I’m to have some on the little board, don’t it?”

Septimus looked at the board above his head, and found that wine was ordered.

“Yes,” said the old man, “the doctors are trumps, sir, everyone of them; and no poor fellow out of the place could get the care and attention I’ve done here. My doctor couldn’t do more if I paid him ten pound a day; and I always feel wonderful after he’s gone; seems to understand my chronics, sir, as you wouldn’t believe in. But those nurses, sir—don’t tell ’em I said so, but they’re devils, sir, devils. Medicine and attendance, sir; it’s all the first and none of the last.”

“Hush,” said his visitor, seeing as he thought that the old man was beginning to wander, “Mrs Hardon would have liked to see you, and Lucy; but she could not leave her mother to-day.”

“God bless her!” said the old man fervently. “He asleep in the bed there told me she came the other day, looking like an angel of comfort in this dreary place, sir. God bless her! Tell her, sir, that the old man’s true as steel, sir; the old blade’s notched and rusty, but he’s true as steel, sir. Do you hear? tell her that old Matt’s true as steel. But these nurses, sir,” he whispered, holding by his visitor’s coat, and drawing him nearer, “they’re devils, sir, regular devils!”

“Not quite so bad as that,” said Septimus, smiling.

“Not so bad, sir? Worse, sir, worse; ever so much worse. They’d do anything. There’s no Sisters of Mercy here, sir, like they’re talking of having at some places; they’re sisters of something else—she-demons, sir, and one daren’t complain or say a word. They’d kill a poor fellow as soon as look at him, and do, too,—dozens.”

“Nonsense,” said Septimus, smiling, “don’t be too hard, Matt.”

“’Tain’t nonsense, sir,” whispered the old man eagerly. “I ain’t wandering now, though I have been sending up some queer proofs—been touched in the head, you know, and thought I was going; but it didn’t seem to matter much if I could only have been easy in my mind, for I wanted to be out of my misery. But I couldn’t be comfortable on account of the medicine and attendance, and your uncle. What business has he to get himself made head doctor here, sir, just because I came; and then to set the nurses against me to get me out of the way? He knows I’m against him, and mean you to have your rights, and he’s trying with medicine and attendance to—no, stop, that’s not it,” whispered the old man, “I’ve got wrong sorts in my case, and that’s not what I wanted to say.” And then for a few moments it was pitiable to witness the struggle going on against the wandering thoughts that oppressed him; but he seemed to get the better of his weakness, and went on again.

“There, that’s better, sir; your coming has seemed to do me good, and brightened me up. I get like that sometimes, and it seems that I’ve no power over my tongue, and it says just what it likes. Tell Miss Lucy I’m getting better, and that I want to get out of this place. I know what I’m saying now, sir, though I can’t make it quite right about that medicine and attendance that we wanted to know about; for it bothers me, and makes my head hot, and gets mixed up with the medicine and attendance here. But I shall have it right one of these days; I did nearly, once, but it got away again.”

In his anxiety now to know more, Septimus drew out paper and pencil.

“Don’t think about it now,” he said; “but keep these under your pillow, and put it down the next time you think anything.”

Old Matt smiled feebly, and drew forth his old memorandum-book, and slowly opening it, showed the worn stumpy piece of pencil inside.

“I’d thought of that, sir, and should have done so before, only I was afraid that I might put down the wrong thing—something about the nurses, you know, when they would have read it, and then, perhaps, I shouldn’t have had a chance to say any more. And ’tisn’t really, sir, it isn’t nonsense about them. You think I’m wandering, and don’t believe it; and it’s just the same with the doctors—they don’t believe it neither. There was one poor chap on the other side of the ward, down at the bottom there—he told the doctor his nurse neglected him, and drank his wine, putting in water instead, beside not giving him his medicine regular; so the old doctor called for the nurse, and—”

“But you must not talk any more,” said Septimus kindly, “you are getting exhausted.”

“I ain’t,” said the old man angrily; “it does me good, revives me; and you don’t believe me, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, I do, indeed,” cried Septimus. “Then let me finish,” whispered the old man. “Doctor Hardon called and asked her where she saw the entry. There, now, there,” whimpered Matt, “see what you’ve done: you made me upset a stickful of matter, and got me all in a pye again. No; all right, sir, I see, I see—he asked her about it before the patient, speaking very sharply, for the doctors mean well, sir. And then what did the old crocodile do, sir, but just turn her eyes towards the whitewash, smooth her apron, raise her hands a bit, and then, half smiling, looks at the doctor like so much pickled innocence, but never says a word; while he, just to comfort the poor fellow, told him to keep up, and it should all be seen to; and then there was a bit of whispering between the doctor and the nurse, and then he went off. But I could see who was believed, for I heard the doctor mutter something about sick man’s fancies as he came across to me. That poor chap died, sir!”

Just then, Septimus gave the old man a meaning look, for one of the nurses came up with a glass of wine, and smiled and curtsied to the visitor.

“I hope he ain’t been talking, sir?” said the woman, in a harsh grating voice with the corners a little rubbed down; “getting on charming, ain’t he, sir? only he will talk too much.—Now drink your wine up, there’s a good soul. Don’t sip it, but toss it down, and it will do you twice as much good;” and while the old man, with the assistance of his visitor, raised himself a little, she gave his pillow two or three vengeful punches and shakes as she snatched it off the bed, the result of her efforts being visible in a slit across the middle, which she placed undermost.

“Yes,” muttered Matt when the woman had gone. “Yes; toss it down, so as not to taste it. Why, that was half water—beautiful wines and spirits as they have here, sir. That’s the very one herself, sir. She killed him.”

“Killed who?” exclaimed Septimus, horrified.

“Don’t shout, sir; leastwise, not if you want to see me again,” said Matt grimly. “Killed that poor fellow I was telling you about. She never forgave him, and a week afterwards and there was the screen round his bed, and the porters came and carried him away. She killed him, sure enough, and I ain’t agoing to tell you about the bother there was with his friends about the doctors, and what they did to him afterwards, it might upset you. It almost does me; not that I care much, for it don’t matter when you’re gone, and I’ve got no friends.”

“Hush, pray; it can’t be so,” exclaimed Septimus, shuddering.

“No, of course not,” chuckled the old man, brightening up from the effects of his stimulant, “O, no; sick man’s fancies, sir, ain’t they? Just what everyone would say; but she killed him all the same, just as dozens more have been killed here. It don’t take much to kill a poor fellow hanging in the balance—him in one scale, and his complaint in the other. The doctor comes and gets in the same scale with him, and bears him down a bit right way; but then as soon as the doctor’s gone, the nurse goes and sits in the other scale, and sends him wrong way again. Good nursing’s of more consequence sometimes than the doctoring, I can tell you, sir, and if I’d had good nursing I shouldn’t have been here at all. Ikey means well, you know, sir; and so does Mother Slagg, eh? but you don’t know them, sir, and it don’t matter.”

“But had you not better be silent now?” hinted Septimus.

“No,” said the old man testily; “being so quiet, and having no one to talk to has half-killed me as it is. I don’t want to be killed, I want to get out, sir. And, mind you, I don’t say about that poor fellow that she poisoned him, or choked him, or played at she-Othello with the pillow, sir; but there’s plenty of other ways of doing it. The doctor knows the man’s condition, and his danger, and orders him such and such things to keep him going, and bring him round, eh?”

Septimus nodded, for the old man paused for breath; though the wine he had taken made him talk in a voluble and excited manner, but still with perfect coherence.

“Well, sir; and who’s got to carry out the doctor’s orders? Why, the nurse, to be sure. Just push the pillow a little more under my head, sir; she’s made it uncomfortable. That’s it; thanky, sir. Well, you nor no one else won’t believe that a nurse here would do anything wrong. But now, look here: suppose you see that a lamp wants trimming, what do you do? You give orders for it to be trimmed, sir, don’t you?”

Septimus nodded again.

“Well, then,” whispered the old man, hooking one of his long fingers in a buttonhole of his visitor’s coat; “suppose they don’t trim the lamp; suppose it isn’t trimmed, eh? what then?”

“It goes out!” said Septimus.

“To be sure—exactly, sir; and there have been lots of lamps go out here. They won’t trim them, or forget to trim them, and tell themselves they’re only sparing the poor creatures misery, while no one dares to speak about it. Talk of death, sir, they think no more of it here, sir, than one does of snuffing out a candle. You see, decent women won’t come to a place like this to do the work these nurses do. It’s only to be done for money or love. Now it’s done for money, and while it’s done for money it can only be done by hard, heartless, drinking creatures who’ve got women’s shapes and devils’ hearts, sir. But the doctors are all right, sir, only that they don’t see all we poor patients see. If skill and doctoring will put me right, sir, I shall be put right, sir. But I’m scared about it sometimes, and half afraid that some of those beauties will weight the wrong scale so heavily that the doctors won’t pull me square. Sick man’s fancies, sir, eh? Wanderings, ain’t they?”

Septimus Hardon knew not what to say, but whispered such comfort as he could.

“Something ought to be done, you know,” said the old man feebly; “but don’t hint a word of what I’ve said, sir, to a soul—please don’t,” he said pitifully. “You see that all these goings on prey upon a poor fellow’s mind; and if he isn’t low-spirited lying in a hospital-ward, when is he likely to be? One wants sympathy and comfort, sir, and to feel that there’s someone belonging to you who cares for you, and is ready to smooth your pillow, and lay a cold hand upon your hot forehead, and say ‘God bless you!’ and I’ve no one, no one;” and the old man’s voice grew weak and quavering.

“Come, come,” whispered Septimus, “take heart, Matt; we’ll come as often as they will let us. And you are getting better; see how you have chatted. You are only low now from the reaction. Try and rest a bit, and get rid of some of these fancies.”

Old Matt’s eyes turned angrily upon his visitor as he exclaimed, “I tell you they are not fancies, sir, but truth. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known, for I’ve seen men drink, and women drink; but never anyone like these she-wolves. Would you trust anyone you loved to the care of a woman who drank, sir?”

“No!”

“They say they must have support, and I suppose they must; but it’s hard, hard, hard!” groaned the old man, and he shut his eyes, seeking out the hand of his visitor, and holding it tightly, until, by the rules of the place, he was obliged to leave.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Mr Jarker is “A Bit Odd.”

There had been no occasion for Mr William Jarker to carry out the threat he had once made, for in all the long space of time during which Agnes Hardon’s child was in Mrs Jarker’s care, the money was always paid, faithfully and regularly, once a week, but at how great a cost to its mother none but the Seer of all hearts could tell; and always, in spite of sickness and misery, pain, and the hard bondage of her life, Jarker’s wife was tender and loving to the little one within her charge. Perhaps it was the memory of another pair of bright eyes that had once gazed up into her own, perhaps only the loving promptings of her woman’s heart; but when, by stealth almost, Agnes Hardon came to kiss her child, she left tearfully but rejoicing, for there was proof always before her of the gentle usage in the fond way in which the little thing clung to its nurse. The preference may have wrung her heart, but it was but another sorrow to bear, and, bending beneath her weight of care, she came and went at such times as seemed best for avoiding Jarker, the curate, and Septimus Hardon.

It was in her power to have let Lucy know where old Matt lodged; but of late they had met but little, and then, in their hurried interviews, his name was not mentioned, for the sorrows of the present filled their hearts.

But now Agnes Hardon was in greater trouble, for something whispered her that this sickness of poor Mrs Jarker was a sickness unto death, and her soul clave to the suffering, ill-used woman who had filled the place of mother to her child; while, at the same time, she trembled for the future of her little one after each visit—ever feeling the necessity, but ever dreading, to take it away, for truly there was a change coming; and time after time when she left the garret, it was with a shudder, for there seemed to be a shadow in the room.

It was almost impossible to ascend the creaking stairs to the garret tenanted by Mr Jarker without hearing Mrs Sims, who, through some spiritual weakness, had left the house in the square to return once more to the Rents—a court honoured by most of those unfortunates who, from unforeseen circumstances, fell from the heights of the square; while the latter was always looked up to, in its topmost or basement floors, for promotion by the more fortunate tenants of the Rents; and now an ascending visitor was almost certain to hear the melancholy, sniffing woman blowing her fire. Generally speaking, we see bellows hang by the mantelpiece, with a time-honoured, bees’-waxy polish glossing them, as though they were family relics whose services were seldom called into requisition; but chez Mrs Sims, the bellows had rather a bad time of it, and were worked hardly enough to make them short-winded. They already wheezed so loudly that it was impossible to take Mrs Sims’ bellows for anybody else’s bellows; and this was probably due to their having inhaled a sufficiency of ashy dust to make them asthmatic, while the nozzle was decayed and burned away from constant resting upon the specially-cleared bottom-bar; the left half of the broken tongs doing duty for the vanished poker, borrowed once to clear the grating in the court, and never returned, for the simple reason that it found its way to Mrs Slagg’s marine-store shop, where it stayed in consideration of the porter receiving the best price given, namely, twopence.

Your boots might creak, and, as was their wont, the stairs would crack and groan, but still there was the sound of the bellows to be heard as you ascended the staircase—puff, puff, puff; and the stooping woman’s stays crackled and crumpled at every motion, for Mrs Sims, from always requiring support, external as well as internal, sought the external in whalebone, though for the internal she preferred rum. There was always “suthin’ as wanted a bit of fire:” perhaps it was washing-day, which, from the small size of Bennett’s-rents’ wardrobes, happened irregularly, with Mrs Sims three times a week, when the big tin saucepan used for boiling divers articles of wearing-apparel, in company with a packet of washing-powder, would be placed upon the little damaged grate, upon which it would sit like Incubus, putting the poor weak fire quite out of heart, when it had to be coaxed accordingly. Sometimes the bellows were required to hurry the “kittle,” a battered old copper vessel that never boiled if it could help it, and, when compelled by the said hurrying, only did so after passing through a regular course of defiant snorts, even going so far as to play the deceiver, and sputter over into the fire, pretending to be on the boil when many degrees off, and so spoiling Mrs Sims’ tea—never the strongest to be obtained. Sometimes, again, the bellows were required to get a decent fire to cook a bit of steak for the master’s dinner, or even “to bile the taters.” At all events, of all Mrs Sims’ weaknesses, the principal lay in her bellows, and she could generally find an excuse for a good blow, accompanied sometimes by a cry over the wind-exhalers, as she sniffed loudly at her task.

There is no doubt but that in her natural good-heartedness Mrs Sims would have operated quite as cheerfully upon any neighbour’s fire as she did now upon the handful of cinders in Mrs Jarker’s grate; for, in spite of her sniffs, her weakness for the internal and external support, and her whining voice, Mrs Sims was one of those women who are a glory to their sex. Only a very humble private was she in the noble army, but one ever ready for the fight: fever, cholera, black death, or death of any shade, were all one to Mrs Sims, who only seemed happy when she was in trouble. If it was a neighbour who could pay her, so much the better; if it was a neighbour who could not, it mattered little; send for Mrs Sims, and Mrs Sims came, ready to nurse, comfort, sit up, or do anything to aid the needy; and old Matt had been heard more than once to wish she had been a widow.

Poor Mrs Jarker would have suffered badly but for this woman’s kindness; many a little neighbourly act had been done by Lucy, but Mrs Jarker’s need was sore, and beyond minding the child for her occasionally, Lucy’s powers of doing good were circumscribed. And now, one night, sat Mrs Sims, sniffing, and forcing a glow from the few embers in the Jarker grate as she made the sick woman a little gruel.

Mr William Jarker ascended the stairs after having had “a drop” at the corner—that is to say, two pints of porter with a quartern of gin in each; and upon hearing the noise of the bellows he uttered what he would have denominated “a cuss,” since he bore no love for Mrs Sims, and her sniff annoyed him; but when, upon ascending higher, he found that the sound did not proceed, as he expected, from the second-floor, but from his own room, he began to growl so audibly that the women heard him coming like a small storm, and trembled, since Mr Jarker was a great stickler for the privacy of his own dwelling, which he seemed to look upon as a larger sort of cage in which he kept his wife.

But although forbidden to enter the room, Mrs Sims glanced at the pallid sufferer lying in the bed, with the feeble light of a rush candle playing upon her features; and muttering to herself, “Not if he kills me,” resolved not to abdicate; and then, after a few final triumphant puffs, dropping at the same time a tear upon the top of the bellows—a tear of weakness and sympathy—she laid down the wind instrument upon which she had been playing, and thrust an iron spoon into the gruel upon the fire, stirring it round so energetically that a small portion was jerked out of the saucepan upon the glowing cinders, and hissed viciously, forming a fitting finale to Mr Jarker’s feline swearing.

But the gruel did not hiss and sputter as angrily, nor did the erst glowing cinders look so black, as did Mr William Jarker when he found “the missus still abed,” and Mrs Sims in possession.

“I have said as I won’t have it,” growled Mr Jarker; “and I says agen as I won’t have it. So let people wait till I arsts ’em afore they takes liberties with my place. So now p’r’aps you’ll make yourself scarce, Missus Sims;” and then the birdcatcher crossed over to, and began muttering something to, his wife.

But Mrs Sims was nothing daunted; she was in the right, and she knew it, and though her hands trembled, and more of the gruel fell hissing into the fire, as the tears of weakness fell fast, she stood her ground firmly.

“When I’ve done my dooty by her, as other people, whom I won’t bemean myself to name, oughter have done, Mister Jarker, I shall go, and not before,” said Mrs Sims. “It’s not me as could sit down-stairs and know as that pore creetur there was dying for want of a drop of gruel, and me not come and make it, which didn’t cost you a farden, so now then!” Here Mrs Sims bridled a great deal and sniffed very loudly; a couple of tears falling into the fender “pit-pat.”

“Don’t jaw,” said Bill gruffly, making a kind of feint with his hand as he stooped down to light his short black pipe by thrusting the bowl between the bars.

Mrs Sims flinched as if to avoid a blow, to the great delight of Mr Jarker; but exasperated him directly after by sniffing loudly, over and over again, producing, by way of accompaniment to each sniff, a low and savage growl and an oath.

“Well, I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs Sims, “how polite we’re a-growing!” But catching sight of the smouldering fire in the ruffian’s eye, she hastily poured out the gruel, repenting all the while, for the poor woman’s sake, that she had spoken; but upon taking the hot preparation with some toast to the invalid she found her kindness unavailing, for though Mrs Jarker sat up for a minute and tried to take it, she sank back with a faint sigh, and with an imploring look, she whispered her neighbour to please go.

“Not till I’ve seen you eat this, my pore dear soul,” said Mrs Sims boldly, though, poor woman, she was all in a tremble, and kept glancing over her shoulder at Jarker, who, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, glowered and scowled at the scene before him. Mrs Sims passed her arm round the thin, wasted form, and supported the invalid; but, after vainly trying to swallow a few spoonfuls, the poor woman again sank back upon her pillow, sighing wearily, while the sharp, pecking sound made by one of the caged birds against its perch, sounded strangely like the falling of a few scraps of soil upon a coffin—“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust.” And then, for some minutes, there was silence in the room, till Mrs Jarker turned whisperingly to her friendly neighbour, to beg that she would go now and not rouse Bill, who was a bit odd sometimes.

So, saucepan in hand, Mrs Sims wished the invalid “Good-night;” and then, trembling visibly, sidled towards the door, evidently fearing to turn her back to Mr Jarker, who was still growling and muttering, as if a storm were brewing and ready to burst; but Mrs Sims’ agitation caused her first to drop her iron spoon from the saucepan, and then, as she stooped to recover it, to flinch once more, to the ruffian’s great delight, as he made another pugilistic feint—a gymnastic feat that he had learnt through visiting some marsh or another when a fight was to come off between Fibbing Phil and Chancery Joe—a feat that consisted of a violent effort to throw away the right fist, and a quick attempt at catching it with the left hand. But Mrs Sims managed to get herself safely outside the door, and lost no time in hurrying down, the stairs, breathing more freely with every step placed between her and the ruffian; but she shrieked loudly on reaching the first landing, and dropped both saucepan and spoon, for the door was savagely thrown open, and the bellows came clattering after her down the stairs; and all in consequence of Mr Jarker being a bit odd.

“A bit odd!”—in one of those fits which had often prompted him to strike down his weak, suffering, patient wife with dastardly, cruel hand, and then to kick her with his heavy boots, or drag at her hair until her head was bleeding—oddness which made the tiny child in the room shrink from him; while before now it had been traced on the poor woman’s features in blackened and swollen bruises. But shrieks, and the falling of heavy blows, were common sounds in Bennett’s-rents, and people took but little notice of Mr Jarker’s odd fits.

Bill took no heed to the weary, strangling cough which shook his wife’s feeble frame, but smoked on furiously till the fire went out. She would not get up to put on more coals, and he wasn’t agoing to muck his hands; for, as has been before hinted, Mr Jarker had soft, whitish hands, which looked as though they had never done a hard day’s work; and at last, when the place looked more cheerless and dull than usual, he prepared himself for rest.

“You’re allus ill,” growled the ruffian, who had had just drink enough to make him savage; “and it’s my belief as you wants rousing up.” But there came no answer to his remark. The little one slept soundly upon the two chairs which formed its bed, and, with half-closed eyes, the woman lay, breathing very faintly, as her lips moved, forming words she had heard from Mr Sterne.

Bill felt himself to be ill-used, and was very sulky, a feeling which made him kick his boots to the end of the room, where one knocked over a linnet’s cage, when, still growling, the owner had to go and pick it up, which he did at the expense of his dignity, and there and then shook the cage till the unoffending bird rustled and fluttered about, panting and terror-stricken, to be half-drowned by the water he poured into its little glass the next minute. For, what business had his wife to be ill and allus having parsons and Mrs Simses a-pottering about in his place? Hadn’t he made a row about it when she came when the kid was born, and hadn’t she allus come at uncomfortable times since? Didn’t she come when it died, and weren’t things uncomfortable now, and she a-making them worse? He wouldn’t have it—that he wouldn’t; and, growling and swearing in a low tone, Mr Jarker divested himself of a part of his attire, and threw himself upon the bed.

The rushlight danced and flickered, and a few drops of rain pattered against the window as the night breeze sighed mournfully down the court; first one and then another bird scraped at its perch, roused as it had been by the noise and light, so that it sounded again and again like the earth upon the coffin-lid; some loose woodwork amongst the pigeon-traps upon the roof swung in the wind, and beat against the tiles, and then all was very quiet and still in the wretched attic.

“Bill—Bill, dear,” murmured a voice after a while—a strange harsh-sounding voice, as if it came from a parched and fevered throat; “Bill!”

No answer, only the heavy breathing of the ruffian, and the pattering as of earth upon the coffin-lid.

“Bill—Bill, dear—water!” whispered the voice once more; but there was no answer, only the restless pattering noise of the birds. Then again silence so still and profound that it seemed hardly to be London. But the silence was broken by a little liquid trilling laugh, the laugh of the child, as some bright-hued happy dream passed over its imagination; though there was silence again the next moment, to be broken once more by the strange husky voice, a voice that seemed new to the place, as in almost agonising tones it whispered:

“Kiss me, Bill!”

But there was for response only the sound as of the earth pattering upon the coffin-lid more fitfully and hollow. While now, slowly and timidly, a thin white arm was raised, and, seen there in the dim light, it was as though it was waved threateningly above the drunken ruffian’s head; but no—there was no threat in the act—no calling down of judgment from on high; for the arm was passed lovingly, tenderly, round the coarse bull neck, and still there was no response to the appeal.

“Kiss me, Bill!” was once more whispered; but a long, deep-drawn, stertorous breath told that William Jarker slept heavily, as the arm lay motionless, clasping his neck; and then came a sigh, as piteous and heart-rending as ever rose from suffering breast.

On sped the hours; the rushlight burned down into the socket, flickered once, and expired; the distant sounds of traffic floated by once or twice; the customary heavy tramp of the policeman was heard to pass along the court; and now and then the ruffian breathed more stertorously than usual, or ejaculated some unconnected words in his sleep. Then the child started and whimpered for a few minutes, but sank to sleep again; and still through the night came that restless, pattering noise, that hollow rattle as of dry earth—“ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—the sound as of dry earth falling upon a coffin-lid.

The stars paled as they set; the morning came, and the red-eyed lamplighter hurried from post to post, extinguishing the sickly-looking gas-jets; the noises in the streets grew louder and louder, and many a weary client lodging near woke to wonder whether his case would come on that day. The men in Bennett’s-rents who had work slowly tramped to it, many who were without rose to seek it, while others, again, to use their own words, took it out in sleep, and amongst these was Mr William Jarker.

“Mammy, mammy!” at length rang in pitiful tones upon the ruffian’s ear, and as he woke to the sensations of a hot, aching, fevered head and furred tongue, he tried to clear his misty, spirit-clouded faculties.

“Mammy, mammy!” again cried the child, who had climbed upon the bed, and was shaking her foster-mother; “mammy, mammy!” she cried more pitifully, and then burst into a loud wail at her inability to wake her.

“Yah-h-h-h!” roared Bill without moving; when, at the dreaded sound, the little thing ceased its cry, and, cowering beside the sleeping woman, laid a sunny head upon her cheek, and passed two tiny, plump arms round her neck, in a soft, sweet embrace that has power in its innocent love to warm even the coldest, though futile here.

“Blame it, how cold!” growled Mr Jarker, trying to raise the arm that had lain upon his neck the long night through; but it was stiff and heavy; and, shrinking hastily away, the frightened man sat up, gazed for an instant at the face beside him, and then leaping, with a howl of terror, from the bed, rushed half-clad from the room.

And why did he flee? Was it that there was still the sound as of falling earth rattling upon a coffin-lid? For what was there to fear in the pale face of that sleeping woman, with the earthly pains and sorrow-traces faded away, to leave the countenance calm, softened, and almost beautiful; for there had come back something of the old, old look of maidenhood and happier times, when she had looked with admiration upon the stalwart form of the ruffian she had wed, and believed in him, wedding him to become his willing slave? Hers had been a hard life; born in misery and suffering, growing under sorrow and poverty and vice; yet had she been a woman with a woman’s heart. But now she slept, to wake, we hope, where justice is tempered by mercy, and the secrets and sorrows of every heart are known. But now she slept, and her sleep must have been peaceful—happy—for the lines of sorrow had passed away, and there was a smile upon her lip.

Nothing to fear. Guilt fled, but Innocence stayed, and the soft, silky curls of the child were mingled with the thin dark locks of the woman, as a tiny smooth round cheek rested upon the marble temple, and a little hand played in the cold breast that should never warm it more.

Nothing to fear; though the simple people who soon assembled in the room spoke in whispers, passing in and out on tiptoe, many with their aprons to their eyes; while poor Mrs Sims, when she returned to her own room with the child, quieted it by means of a large slice of sugared bread-and-butter, and relieved her own mind by sitting down to have a good long, soft blow at the fire, what time the tears pattered down plenteously on the bellows.

Nothing to fear; for calm and still was the face of the sleeping woman, who with her latest breath had rendered the love she had sworn to her husband, and now in peace she rested; but still through the long day, through the long night, and when the hard, harsh shape of the coffin stood in the room, there came at intervals the sharp, hollow, rattling noise, as of earth falling upon its lid, when the listeners’ ears would strain to catch those awful accompanying words—“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Sick Man’s Fancies.

There was a strange battle in the breast of the Reverend Arthur Sterne about this time. Now he would feel satisfied in his own mind that he had obtained the victory over self, while directly after, an encounter with Lucy, or some little incident that occurred during one of his visits, would teach him his weakness. Pained, and yet pleased, he left Septimus Hardon’s rooms on the day after Mrs Jarker’s death, for he had been gazing upon a picture that an artist would have been delighted to copy: Lucy Grey weeping over the sunny-haired child she had just fetched from Mrs Sims’ room. He was pained, for the scene had brought up the thoughts of its mother, and her strange intimacy with Lucy, though the gentle, loving interest shown for the helpless, worse than orphan child, made his heart swell and beat faster as he thought of the mine of wealth, the tenderness the fair girl could bestow were she all he could have wished.

But the pain and sorrow predominated as he left the house and slowly descended, for he encountered ma mère upon the staircase, and he felt the colour mount to his temples as he met her sardonic smile and thought of her words; and then he hurried away, feeling at times that he must leave the place and seek another home, for his present life was wearying in the extreme. He would have done so before but for one powerful thought, one which he could feel would maintain its sway, so that he would be drawn back and his efforts rendered useless—efforts that he made to break the chain that fettered him. For her part, Lucy avoided him, meeting him but seldom, and then with flushed cheek and averted eye; while though in any other instance he would have declared instantly that flush to have been that of shame or modesty, yet here, tortured by doubt, he could not satisfy himself, for at such times as he tried to be content came the memory of the scene in the Lane, and the words of the old Frenchwoman.

Lucy had fetched the child from across the court, but it was only admitted by Mrs Septimus under sufferance, for she was in one of her weak fits that day, and if it had not been that Septimus encouraged the act, the little thing would have remained in Mrs Sims’ charge.

“Keep her, at all events, till I come back,” Septimus had said, and his evident desire to go out had somewhat shortened the curate’s visit, for the desire was strong now upon Septimus to gain fresh information touching the legitimacy of his birth. The more now that obstacles sprung up, the more he felt disposed to assert his right; but he acknowledged to himself that it was but a passing fit, and that he would soon return to his old weakness and despondency. Still there was a warm feeling of friendship for Matt to prompt him to revisit the hospital at an early day, and, soon after the curate had left Bennett’s-rents, Septimus was on his way to the sick-bed of the old man.

He thought a great deal of old Matt’s assertion that he had seen an entry somewhere; but the more he thought, the more it seemed that this was merely a hallucination produced by his illness, for he could not but recall how he had confused it with matters of the past and present.

The old man slept when Septimus reached his bedside, and some time elapsed before he unclosed his dim eyes, and then they gazed blankly into his visitor’s before he recognised him, when a light seemed to spread across his features, and he smiled faintly.

“Come again? That’s right. I wanted to ask you something, sir,” he said.

“Indeed!” said Septimus eagerly, for he felt that it had to do with the matter in which he was interested.

“Why,” said the old man, hesitating, “it was about the nurses, and your father, and—do you think that they had anything to do with the rats?”

Shuddering, and with the cold sweat breaking out upon his face at the bare recollection, Septimus laid a hand upon the old man’s breast, and gazed wonderingly at him.

“Hush,” said Matt in a whisper, “don’t speak loud, sir. I’ve been trying to put it all into shape. I think they had; and it’s that woman who drinks my wine that knows all about it. They’re keeping you out of your rights, sir, and they’re all in the plot. Stoop down, please, a little closer; I want to whisper,” and he drew his visitor nearer to him, so that his lips nearly touched his ear. “Medicine and attendance, sir, eh? That was it, wasn’t it?”

Septimus felt his heart sink with disappointment, as he slowly nodded his head.

“I’ve found it out, sir,” continued the old man; “found it out for you after travelling all over London. They think I’ve been here all the time; but, bless you, I’ve been out every night, and had it over with the posts in the street. They don’t know it, bless you; but I’ve been tracking that entry, and, after the doctor has dodged me all over London, I’ve followed him here. It’s not Doctor Hardon, sir, and yet it is, you know; but I’ve not quite separated them, for they’re somehow mixed up together, and I’ve not had time to put that quite right; but I’ll do it yet. Interest for that shilling you once gave me, sir, just at the time I was that low that I’d nearly made up my mind to go off one of the bridges, and make a finish. But just see if either of the nurses is coming, sir, and tell me, for they’re all in it, and they’ll keep you and Miss Lucy out of your rights. Tell her I’m true as steel, sir, will you?”

“Yes, yes,” said Septimus anxiously, for the old man seemed to be growing excited.

“But about that doctor, sir, and the entry,” he continued, “it’s here, sir; it’s the house-surgeon, and I saw him make a memorandum here by my bedside: ‘Medicine and attendance: Mrs Hardon.’ He put it down in his pocket-book, after sharpening his pencil upon a bright shining lancet; and he did not know that I was watching him. Take him by the throat, sir, as soon as you see him, and make him give it to you.”

“Try and compose yourself, Matt,” said Septimus sadly, for he now felt that the whole history of the entry was but the offspring of a diseased mind. For a while he had suffered himself to hope that by some strange interposition of chance, with the old man for instrument, the whole matter was likely to be cleared up; but now the air-built castles were broken down—swept away by the sick man’s incoherent speeches, and, after seeing him turn upon his side and close his eyes, the visitor rose to leave.

But old Matt heard the movement of his chair, and unclosed his eyes directly.

“You’ll come again, sir, won’t you?” he said, speaking quite calmly. “That always seems to make me clearer—shutting my eyes and having five minutes’ doze. I’m weak, sir—very weak now; but I’m getting right, and I’ll turn that over in my mind about the entry against you come again, when I can talk better, and try to set it right. But stop; let me see,” he exclaimed,—“stop, I have it. I remember now, I did think all about it, and where it was I saw the entry; and for fear it should slip my mind again, I did as you told me, and as I always meant to do—put it down in my pocket-book under the pillow here;” and he drew forth the tattered memorandum-book, and held it out to his visitor.

Septimus turned over the leaves with trembling hands, coming upon technical references to trade matters,—amounts in money of work done; calculations of quantity in pages of type. Then there were the baptismal and marriage entries they had made out, and beneath them some tremblingly—traced characters, evidently formed by the old man when in a reclining position; but, with the exception of the one word “Hardon,” they were completely illegible. He then turned to the old man; but his eyes were closed, and he seemed sleeping; so he replaced book and pencil beneath the pillow, and then, passing between the beds of other sufferers, each intent upon his own misery, he came suddenly upon the smiling nurse, evidently waiting to see if there was a gratuity ready for her hand.

It was hard work parting with that shilling; but Septimus felt it to be a duty to slip it into the Jezebel’s hand, and to whisper a few beseeching words that she would be kind and attentive to the old man.

“A quiet, patient old creature; you may rest quite happy about that, sir,” said the nurse. “I’ll treat him just as I would my own brother.”

“He will get better?” said Septimus interrogatively.

The woman screwed her lips up very tightly as she said she hoped he might, but Septimus thought of the expiring lamp and its supply of oil; and it was little of his own affairs, and the possibility of there being an entry locked in the old man’s clouded memory, that he thought of as he stammered, “Pray do all you can for him. I am sorry I can offer you no more.”

“Bless you, sir, you needn’t even have done that. If it had been a guinea, it would have been all the same, and I shouldn’t have thought a bit the better of you. We have a painful duty to perform here, sir, and it’s an unthankful task, for there’s no gratitude from the patients; but when a friend or relative makes one a little offering, why, setting aside the value, sir, it does seem to make things better, and to sweeten the toil. We never do expect any praise; while as to some of the tales the patients make up, you’d be surprised. Poor things! you see, their minds wander a bit, and they always seem to take a dislike to those who are like mothers to them. But there, sir, I always says to myself, I says, it’s no use to take any notice of the poor things’ whims, so long as we know we do our duty by them.”

“I suppose,” said Septimus, “their complaints weaken their intellects a good deal?”

“Wonderfully, I do assure you, sir. Now I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that poor gentleman, your friend, has been telling you all sorts of things?”

Septimus did not believe all that Matt had said, but he evaded the question.

“You’d be surprised, sir, if you only knew one-half the tales they make up, sir. There, I can’t help it, sir; I laugh, I do, when I think of them; for we must be able to eat and drink like bore-constructors, sir, to manage a quarter of what they says. They say we eat their chicking and jelly, and drink their wine, and gin, and fancy things the doctors order for them. Some even goes further than that; but then the doctors know what people are in such a state, and don’t take any notice of them.”

“‘Mrs Hardon; medicine and attendance.’ I wonder whether it’s true, or only a sick man’s fancy?” muttered Septimus aloud, as he went down the steps, and stood once more in the open air, feeling as though a weight had been raised from his spirits. “Poor creatures, poor creatures! left to the tender mercies of those women, and often neglected and left to die.”

“No, no, no! pray don’t say so,” sobbed a voice at his elbow. “It’s bad enough, I know; but not so bad as that, please!” And then a burst of sobs choked the speaker’s utterance.

Septimus started, for the voice seemed familiar, and he saw beside him a tall, well-dressed female, with a thick wool-veil drawn down over her face, so that he could not distinguish her features.

“I knew you again, Mr—Mr—Mr—you did tell me your name, but I’ve forgotten it; and I asked him, and he said—but dear, dear,” she sobbed, “can you see that I have been crying? And have you been in that dreadful place?”

“Yes,” replied Septimus; “but I really do not know to whom I am talking.”

“O dear, O dear!” sobbed the woman, “it’s me; you know me, that you called on in Chiswell-street; and I can’t take up my fall, for my poor eyes are so red with crying, and people would see. Registry—office for servants, you know; and O dear, O dear!” and she sobbed more loudly than ever.

“Indeed, I beg your pardon,” said Septimus kindly; “but I could not know you through that thick veil.”

“Then you could not see that I had been crying?” sobbed the poor woman.

“No, indeed,” replied Septimus, “and—”

“Don’t speak to me yet,” ejaculated Miss Tollicks; “I’m almost heart-broken, and you set me off saying those cruel words. I’d give anything for a place where I could sit down and have a good cry, if it was only a doorstep, where people could not see me. I’m nearly blind now, and can’t tell which way to go. It’s ever so much worse than any trouble I ever had with my business.”

“Take my arm,” said Septimus gently, after an apologetic glance at his shabby clothes. “Lean upon me, and we’ll walk slowly down this street. It is quieter here, and you will feel relieved soon.”

“O, thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Miss Tollicks, taking the proffered arm, and still sobbing loudly; “but you are sure that people cannot see I have been crying?”

“Certain,” said Septimus as they walked on.

“And so you think,” said Miss Tollicks, “that they are neglected and die, do you, Mr Hardon? and I’m afraid the poor things are. I’ve just been to see my poor sister that the doctor recommended to go in, and she’s been telling me such dreadful tales about the nurses; and I can’t tell whether it’s the truth, or whether the poor thing is only light-headed. It was horrible to listen to her, that it was; and you’ve been to see some one too, Mr Harding?”

“Yes,” replied Septimus, “the poor old gentleman who was with me when I called upon you.”

“Dear, dear, dear, what a sorrowful world this is!” sobbed Miss Tollicks; “nothing but trouble, always trouble; and how is he, poor man?”

“Not long for this world, I fear,” said Septimus softly.

“And did he say anything about the nurses too?” sobbed Miss Tollicks.

“Yes, yes,” said Septimus hastily; “but it can’t be true. No woman could be such a wretch.”

“O, I don’t know, Mr Harding; but is my veil quite down? there—thank you. We’re strange creatures, and we are either very good or else very bad—especially servants, Mr Harding,” sobbed Miss Tollicks. “I’m afraid that it’s all true enough, and if they’d only let me stop and nurse my poor sister, I wouldn’t care. The business might go and take its chance, for what’s the good of money without life? But O, Mr Harding, I did ask my landlord, and he said—and he said—but O! you must not ask me now.” And here the poor woman burst out sobbing, quite hysterically, so that more than one person turned round to gaze upon her; but her troubles attracted little notice, for this was no uncommon scene in the long dreary street: the inhabitants were too much accustomed to the sight of weeping friends coming from the great building, where, but a few minutes before, they had been taking, perhaps, a last farewell of a dear one whom they would see no more—a dear one whose face was perhaps already sealed by the angel of death; a sad parting, maybe, from one whose hopeless malady had rendered it necessary for the interior of the hospital to afford the attentions that took the place of those that would have been supplied at home. Poverty and sickness, twin sisters that so often go hand-in-hand, brought here their victims to ask for aid; and those who dwelt hard by paid little heed to pallid out-patients seeking their daily portion of advice, some on crutches, some leaning upon the arms of friends, some in cabs. They were used to painful scenes, and knew by sight patient, student, and doctor; and therefore hardly bestowed a thought upon the sad couple passing slowly down the street, at the end of which Septimus saw poor weeping Miss Tollicks into a cab, and left her unquestioned to pace slowly back towards Bennett’s-rents.

He walked on and thought—thought of all his troubles, and the want of decision in his character; of how he ought boldly to have investigated his uncle’s claim, setting aside his own feelings for the sake of those dependent upon his arm for their support; and he sighed again and again as he took himself to task. And then a prayer rose to his lips as he recalled the scene which he had left—a prayer fervently breathed there in the midst of London’s busy flowing stream, as fervent as ever emanated from devotee kneeling in some solemn fane—a prayer that, for the sake of those at home, he might be spared from the smiting of sickness; and then he shuddered as he remembered his father’s words, and thought of his wife’s increasing helplessness.

“Stark mad! Yes, I must have been,” he muttered; “and yet no, why was I to crush down my unselfish love?” And then he stopped short to examine himself as to whether his love had really been unselfish. But he passed on again unsatisfied, lost in abstracting thoughts, heedless of being jostled here, pushed there, a walking ensample in his short walk of what he was in his longer journey of life, a man whom everyone would expect to give place, while he full readily made way. Now he was shouted at by a cabman as he crossed the road, then dragged back by a crossing-sweeper as he was about to step in front of an omnibus. But he looked elate, and thoughts of a brighter future rose before his mind as something seemed to whisper that all would yet be well; and as brighter thoughts came lighting in upon his heart’s dark places, he saw old Matt well, and finding the entry that should restore him to ease and comfort; his wife and Lucy happy and smiling upon him; and then his head was lifted, his form grew more erect, his nerves and muscles became terse, and, swinging his arms, he strode forward till, turning down a side-street, he set off and ran—ran hard to the bottom, in the lightness of spirit that had come over him. He had no object in view, no reason for hastening, and the act seemed one of folly in a man of his years; but he felt the desire come upon him, and he ran, inflating his chest with the free air; and perhaps there have been times when, moved by similar impulses, men of the present day have felt, if they have not acted, the same as Septimus Hardon.

On again once more, this time to come in contact with a baker, whom he swung round basket and all, and when sworn at he apologised so cheerfully, and with such an aspect of genuine contrition, that the baker closed his voluble harangue with “Well, don’t do it again, that’s all.” And perhaps, after all, the acts of Septimus Hardon were not of so very insane a character. True, they seemed strange for a man who had just come from a bed of sickness, and whose own affairs were in a most unsatisfactory state; but may there not have been something reactive after the oppression of much sorrow, the elasticity of life asserting itself? Be it what it may, certain it is that Septimus Hardon, aged fifty, acted as has been described, though it seemed strange conduct in a man who had suffered as he had.

Breathed again, he once more ran on, full of resolutions for the future, touching the vigorous prosecution of his claim, smiling, too, as he made the vows in doubt as to their fulfilment, for he knew his weakness; but he ran on, feeling more light-hearted than he had felt for years, till suddenly he stopped and proceeded at a more moderate pace; for he trembled for his shoes, in whose durability he had not much faith, trusting their strength but little, for, placing the standard of boot-strength at twenty-six shillings, he remembered that he stood at three shillings and ninepence, plus his old ones, and he trembled.

Near home at last, where he arrived just in time to encounter ma mère the sinister, with her poodles, starting to give select entertainments through the evening in the far West; and, as he turned into the court, his light-heartedness passed away, the many hopeful thoughts vanished, and he sighed, for truly it was being under a cloud literally, as well as figuratively, to enter the precincts of Bennett’s-rents.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

The Common Lot Again.

All the renters appertaining to Bennett’s were either out in the court, or at door and window, on the day that Mrs Jarker was buried; while Lucy gladdened the heart of Jean Marais by taking charge of the little golden-haired child and carrying it up to his room to see the birds and dogs. Women stood in knots talking, with their arms rolled in their aprons, and a strong smell of rum, of the kind known as “pine-apple,” and vended at the corner, pervaded these little assemblies. The sports of the children were interrupted, and slapping was greatly in vogue in consequence of mothers never having known their offspring to have been so tiresome before. Hopscotch was banished from the court, tops and buttons confiscated, and there was not a boy or girl present who, in the face of so much tyranny, would not have emigrated to some more freedom-giving district, but for the fact that there was a “berryin;” and the shabby Shillibeer hearse, and its doleful horse and red-nosed driver, already stood at the end of the court, where the public-house doors were so carefully strapped-back for the convenience of customers.

The time at which the funeral would take place was already well-known, but for hours past the court had been in a state of excitement which prevented domestic concerns from receiving due attention. It was an observable fact that quite a large trade was done at the chandler’s shop in halfpenny bundles of wood, consequent upon fires being neglected, and doing what fires will do, going out. Babies screamed until they were hoarse, and then fell asleep to wake up and scream again. There were no bones broken, on account of the elasticity of the juvenile framework; but several children in the quadrupedal stage of development were known to have fallen down flights of stairs during their maternal search; while another diversion had been caused by a morsel forcing its foot through the grating over the drain, and refusing to be extricated. It was also observable that there were very few men about, and those visible confined themselves to the cellar-flap of one of the public-houses, only looking down the court at intervals.

At last there was an increased interest, for Mr Pawley and one of his men had entered the house, women parting left and right to let them through. Then there was a buzz of excitement, for Mr Jarker had been seen to enter the public and come out, to stand wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, apparently undecided as to which way he should go; but at length, pale and scared-looking, walking up the court and following the undertaker.

And now the Jarkers were thoroughly canvassed, and many allusions made concerning Bill’s treatment of his poor wife. Worn, dejected, hard—featured women, whose lives had been as hard a bondage as that of the one passed away, but who made their brick without straw unrepining, told of her sufferings, and of how she had always been weak and sickly; while it was on all sides allowed that though, as a matter of course, a master might be a little hard sometimes, Jarker had been too hard, as she was so sickly. One thought it was the drains, another fancied the place wasn’t quite healthy; but all agreed that there was nothing better to be had at the price; while the market was so handy. What was to become of the child too, formed a surmise in which Mrs Sims took great interest; while, as soon as that lady’s back was turned, it was universally agreed that she was “a good soul.”

Another buzz of excitement. Mr Jarker has been seen to come out with a crape scarf fastened upon his fur-cap, while a short skimpy cloak hangs awkwardly from his ample shoulders. Mr Jarker is very low-spirited, and finds it necessary to take something short once more in the way of a stimulant, and imbibes half-a-quartern of gin at the public-house, his emblems of woe inducing a great amount of respect being paid to him by the occupants of the place, while one end of the scarf will keep getting in his way.

Mr Jarker is a very great man this day, and comports himself with much dignity; he feels that he is being looked up to, and that he deserves it, but for all that he seems nervous and uncomfortable, and is now fetched back by the undertaker, who regularly takes him into custody, for he rightly fears that very little would make Mr Jarker run off altogether and show himself no more for some days, when perhaps there might be a difficulty about the payment of the expenses. Not that Mr Pawley has much fear upon that score, for there was always a certain pride respecting a decent “berryin” at Bennett’s-rents; and supposing any one was very much pressed, there were always friendly hands ready to add their mites, with the understanding that one good turn deserved another. Mr Pawley never suffered much in his transactions at the Rents, of which place he had the monopoly; and he always made a point of insisting that all funerals should be not only what he termed economic, but strictly respectable.

“It’s a dooty we owe to the departed,” he would observe, while never once could he recall a dissentient, though assistance was often called in to defray the cost, and the well-known avuncular relative of the poor appealed to. Not that Mr Pawley had very hard work to induce the poor of the district to do their “dooty” by the departed, for the desire was always there to pay the last sad rites decently and in order, even those who were obliged to stoop to get an order for a parish coffin often raising a tiny fund to induce Mr Pawley to embellish the hard outlines of the common plain elm shell with a plate and a few rows of nails, to take off the workhouse look of the charity they grudged to accept.

Mr Pawley managed to get Jarker safely back to the house, and then the excitement increased, for after the former gentleman had prisoned his client in a lodger’s room he came down wiping his eye, that seemed more moist than ever, and stood mute-like at the door, surrounded by half the inhabitants of the court, whom he calmly informed that they were coming down directly. Mr Pawley spoke slowly and impressively, for he was a man who had not much to say, but who made the most of it, as if his words were gold and to be beaten out to cover the largest space at the least possible cost. He considered his words of value, and as he doled them out people listened eagerly, looking upon the day’s performance as something of which not the slightest item should be lost; while Mr Pawley made much of his funerals, regarding each one as an advertisement to procure another, as he laboured hard to impress upon the dwellers of Bennett’s-rents how friendly were his feelings towards them, and how little he thought of the money.

“Now they’re a-coming!” he whispered, motioning the people away right and left—a very marshal of management—and then there was the shuffling of feet, the creaking and groaning of the stairs, and the chipping of the wall, as down flight after flight the coffin was carried, resting at the landings, and more than once some neighbour’s door was sent flying open. Mrs Sims’ was the first, as one of the bearers backed against it, and a lodger’s on the first-floor was the next; but the occupiers were down in the court, and so escaped being disturbed.

At last, with the top covered with the powdery whitewash chipped from wall and ceiling, the coffin stood in the passage, then in the court for an instant, before being borne into the shabby Shillibeer hearse; while, amidst a suppressed hum of voices, more than one genuine tear was seen to fall, and more than one apron to be held up by those who saw the poor woman’s remains borne away. Then back came Mr Pawley on tiptoe with his handkerchief to his eye, and disappeared in the house, from which he soon reappeared with his prisoner, followed by two relatives; and, as Bill Jarker was marched down to the hearse with his ill-fitting cloak, and long crape scarf hanging from his fur-cap, he held his hands together in a strange, peculiar way—a way that, but for the trappings of woe, would have suggested that Mr Jarker was really in custody, and bore steel handcuffs upon his wrists.

Then there was a crowding towards the entrance of the court to see Mr Jarker shut in, Mr Pawley mount beside his red-nosed driver, and then the old broken-kneed horse went bowing its head and shambling along through the streets, with no more way made for it than if its doleful load had been so much merchandise.

Septimus Hardon had stood at his window watching the proceedings, as he slowly wiped again and again his pen upon a coat-tail; for the scene brought up a sad day in Carey-street, and he could not but recall the bright-eyed, yellow-haired child he had lost, and this set him thinking of the little one up-stairs in Lucy’s charge. But Septimus Hardon never thought very long upon any one particular subject; and, sighing deeply, he returned to his writing, while the people in the court slowly flocked back to form groups and talk until such time as it was necessary to get “master’s tea.” There was a considerable amount of thirst engendered though, and the public-houses at the top and bottom of the court must have done quite a powerful stroke, of trade that day in cream-gin and pine-apple rum; for the dull soft bang of the strapped-back doors was heard incessantly. For now, à la militaire, people’s feelings seemed to undergo a reaction; children played and hooted again unabashed; the organ-man played the Olga waltz to a select circle of youthful dancers, while admiring mammas looked on and smiled; a party of “nigger” serenaders arrived at the lower public-house, and played and sang for a full hour, the coppers rattling in the reversed banjo freely, after the fortunes of the celebrated Old Bob Ridley had been musically rendered by a melodious gentleman of intense blackness, who had thrummed the wires of his instrument until his fingers were worn white. Then, too, after the departure of the sable minstrels, a lady volunteered a song; but she sang not, for an interdict was placed upon the proceedings by the landlord, who “couldn’t stand none o’ that, now.” Then an altercation ensued, which ended in an adjournment, and the voluble declaration of some half-dozen departing matrons that they’d have no more to do with the goose-club.

But Mrs Sims was not there. Ten minutes after the starting of the shabby funeral she went up to Septimus Hardon’s rooms to fetch the little girl, but had to ascend to the attic, where she found her leaning against Lucy, who was seated upon the floor, laughing at the little thing’s delight as first one and then the other of the poodles stood up and carried a stick in its mouth, while the dark eyes of Jean were fixed upon the beautiful group before him, ardently though with a speechless admiration.

With many thanks Mrs Sims bore away the tiny girl, whose sleeves Lucy had tied up with bows of crape, and, as she accompanied the woman down the stairs it was only by an effort that she refrained from snatching the little one back and bearing it into her own room. But Mrs Sims bore the prattling little thing away and seated it upon the carpet in her lodging, when, preparing to relieve herself after so much sorrow, she took up the bellows: but as the fire was out she only made a dust, and, laying the pneumatic comfort aside, she took to “spazzums,” which necessitated the sending of Marry Hann, a neighbour’s child, for half-a-quartern of rum, which relieved the pain so much that she repeated the dose more than once, and, carrying the little girl with her, went down again for a social chat, being now insensible to pain. Half-an-hour had not elapsed, though, before a fresh twinge induced her to try another instalment of her “spefizzick,” and now she not only became insensible to pain but to everything else. Mr Jarker did not at once return after the funeral, but parted with his fellow-mourners without a word, after stopping at a public-house honoured by Mr Pawley, and settling the expenses readily over some gin and beer, accompanied by pipes; and, though more than one neighbour declared they saw him enter the door quite late, and come out early next morning, it was certain that he did not go up to his attic, a place which for some time he shunned after dark.

Mrs Sims declared she saw nothing of him, and doubtless her testimony was very trustworthy, for she had not the slightest recollection of what took place that night after the last administration of the “spefizzick,” nor of how she came into her own room till her angry husband explained. For when in the dusk of evening Lucy returned from the warehouse with a fresh pile of work, she found Mrs Sims seated nodding upon the doorstep with the sleeping child in her flaccid arms, and in momentary danger of falling upon the broken flags. So taking the little thing, Lucy bore it to her own room; and from that time forth it often came to pass that she crossed the court when Mr Jarker was from home, and attended to the wants of the little neglected child.

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.