"A Story of Dust and Ashes" (continued 9)

Explanations! ay, many; and could he have done so he would have knelt to Lucy, as, weeping, she whispered to him of her wounded heart, and of how gladly she would have told him all, but that she feared his condemnation and contempt.

But there, love-scenes should be matters of the strictest privacy; and if Arthur Sterne gazed long and lovingly in the pure candid face before him with a look of fond protection which saw nothing then in humbleness or poverty, and Lucy Grey returned that look with one from her tear-wet eyes, that saw in his face everything that was great, noble, and to be desired by the tender, untouched heart of woman—if these two joined their lips in one long kiss of love, why it seems to be only natural, and what might be expected under the circumstances.

“And poor Agnes?” whispered Lucy from where she nestled.

“Have you not seen her since?” said the curate.

And then followed much long happy planning for the future, in which Agnes Hardon and her little golden-haired child had their share, and Somesham was more than once mentioned in connection with reconciliations.

Time will fly at such times, and after Arthur Sterne had told of his arrangements that he had already made for the child, and once more related his interview with Agnes, smiling at the pain of Lucy as he lightly touched upon his mishap, one that he gloried in as he felt the maiden’s soft cheek laid to his throbbing heart—after all this, and much more that both had forgotten as soon as spoken, the curate discovered that the interview had lasted more than two hours, though much of that time had been spent in a silence that neither felt disposed to break—a silence quite in unison with the doctor’s orders, since he had left instructions that for some days yet the patient was to be kept perfectly undisturbed.

But there is an end to all things, and Arthur Sterne did not look much the worse for his visitor, when Aunt Fanny tapped gently at the door to announce another in the shape of Septimus Hardon come to escort his step-child back to their new home.

And that night, upon her way back, the something new that appeared to have come over the spirit of Lucy Grey was more than ever manifest; the ever-anxious look had departed, and her step was light, bounding, and elastic as she walked on by Septimus Hardon’s side; a strange contrast—now quiet and hopeful, now elate and light-hearted, as she conversed, while every topic was tinged with the future.

“And what did Mr Sterne want?” said Septimus as his eyes twinkled, half from merriment, half from sadness, as he drew the graceful arm he held farther through his own.

Lucy was serious in a moment, and as she turned beneath a street-lamp and looked in her stepfather’s face, he abused himself roundly, for he could see tears glittering in the bright eyes that met his own.

“Don’t, don’t ask me, dear,” whispered Lucy. “Don’t talk of it now, for indeed, indeed, I could not leave you.”

“Hush, hush,” whispered Septimus soothingly, for they passed another post, and he could this time see how fast the tears were falling, and now he tried to change the conversation.

“But he’s getting better now very fast, eh? my darling,” whispered Septimus.

“O, yes, yes,” murmured Lucy. “I think so.”

“And—but there, I’m making you worse. Let’s talk of something else.”

But Septimus Hardon’s attempts at starting fresh subjects for conversation were one and all failures, and Lucy was silent until they reached Essex-street; though hers were not tears kindred to those she had shed days—weeks—months back, and, as to her dreams that night, they must have been sweet to cause so happy a smile to play upon her lip; for though a tear once stole from the fringed lid, and lay like a pearl upon her cheek, it did not seem like a tear wrung from the heart, neither did the sigh which followed betoken sorrow; for it was a sigh like that sweet expiration some of us have heard when a confession has been wrung from lips we love, and those lips, when pressed, have hardly been withdrawn, but pouted sweetly, looking more ruddy for shame.

Only yesterday that they wore that look; it can’t be further back than the day before, or, say last week; and—the sweet recollection clings—“There, I do wish to goodness, dear, you would not always make a point of firing off into conversation directly I sit down to read or write. Now what is it? ‘Young Fitzpater was too attentive to Maude last night?’ Pooh! nonsense! sugar-candy! Why, the child isn’t seventeen yet, and—”

That could not have been last week, after all. How time does fly!

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

In the Rat’s Hole.

“Hush!” cried ma mère, recovering from her tremor; “but I have another piece. You fool, Jean! are you afraid to be in the dark? Here is the candle, but where are the matches?” and the old woman kept on feeling about in her huge pocket, but found them not. “You have the matches, Jean!” she exclaimed at last.

“No,” said the cripple; “you had them, ma mère.”

“Ah, yes; and I left them in the other place; but I will fetch them. Where are you?”

“I am here,” whispered Jean, whom the darkness seemed to oppress, so that he could not speak above his breath.

“But where?” hissed his mother. “I cannot tell, not yet; where is the stone?”

“Don’t move,” whispered Jean hoarsely; “there is the hole, and you will fall down.”

“Then, come you,” hissed his mother; “we cannot stay here in the dark; and I am not come to go back with empty hand.”

“What can I do?” cried Jean angrily. “I am afraid to move. Why did you not let me have my crutch?” And now he began to feel slowly along the wall in search of the stone, but his hands only came in contact with the brick bins and empty bottles.

“Have you found the opening, Jean?” whispered his mother from the other side of the cellar; and then a cold shudder ran through the cripple as he stood with his hand upon the stone, for there was the sound of someone falling over a piece of board, and ma mère shrieked out, “O, mon Dieu, I am lost!” while standing there in the fearful darkness, and knowing his own helplessness, Jean almost swooned with horror.

“Here, quick, Jean, your hand!” cried his mother huskily; and on crawling towards the sound, Jean clutched his mother’s arms, and dragged at her, for she was lying with part of her body in the hole, but in no real danger, though unnerved and terrified, her fancy having magnified the peril a hundredfold before she lay panting on the damp sawdust beside her son.

“Not deep, not deep,” she muttered; “but, ah, Jean, it was very dreadful! I felt as if the painted woman was dragging me down.”

“Hush!” whispered Jean as they crawled farther away; “what is that noise?”

“Bête! would you frighten me?” hissed the old woman; and then she paused, for now distinctly heard, and as if ascending into the cellar through the hole, came a low blowing, panting noise; at first very soft, then louder and louder, as it came mingled with a plashing, scraping sound; nearer and nearer, and more plainly, as if someone was forcing a way along; while, at last, the panting noise was almost painful, for it was as of some hunted animal fighting for its breath.

Nearer and nearer came the noise; and with blood seeming to freeze and grow sluggish in their veins, mother and son crept farther away from the hole, till they crouched, clinging together, against one of the bins, when Jean’s elbow came in contact with an empty bottle, which clinked loudly. And still nearer came the sound, more rustling, more loud panting, echoing and hollow, as if sent through some large pipe; and, hardly daring to breathe, as they listened to the heavy throb, throb of their hearts, mother and son waited the result.

Now there was a muttering noise heard along with the panting; then more rustling, and all louder and plainer; till, as mother and son crouched there with starting eyes, they could in imagination see a dripping figure emerge from the hole, and stand within a few feet of them.

Then there was a silence so horrible that to the trembling couple it seemed worse than the coming of the noises. But there was relief at last in the sound as of one searching amongst bottles; and then the snap as of the opening of a box, followed by the striking of matches, first one and then another. The sweat gathered upon the listeners’ faces as they thought of the result of the discovery, and the probable fate of her whose veil they had seen. But, as in the sewer, nothing but faint lines of light ensued, and tiny spots where the damp matches were thrown; when, as if to show that this was no supernatural visitant, a deep husky voice growled the word “damp!” as the box was thrown impatiently down.

Then a heavy foot crunched upon Jean’s hand, which he had rested upon the ground to thrust himself close to the wall; but though the pain was acute, he uttered no cry, sitting almost frozen with fear, as he heard the click of a bottle, the breaking of glass, the trickling of liquid upon the floor, followed by the sound of someone drinking; taking a long breath; drinking heavily again and again; and then something struck the young man heavily, his face was splashed with wine, and a broken bottle fell upon the floor.

Once more there was the silence, only broken by the heavy breathing of the new-comer; and then the hearts of mother and son bounded as they heard first the gliding of a hand upon a wall, and then a rough grating, which they both recognised as that of the stone being very softly and slowly slid back for a few inches, while it appeared that the new-comer was listening; and once more in the painful silence it seemed certain that he would hear the laboured beating of their hearts.

Once again, though, there was the grating, and they could tell that the opening was now fully exposed; then followed the rustling as of a body passing through, and, as they listened, the faint fall of steps passing along the court fell upon their ears, seeming refreshing, as it linked them once more with things of the upper world; but the next moment came the rustling sound, then the grating of the stone, and once more all was silent as the grave.

“Ah!” sighed ma mère with almost a groan, as she once more breathed freely; while in a husky voice Jean whispered, “Let’s go.”

“Stop,” whispered his mother; “I dare not move yet. He will not be gone; only waiting for a chance to get past the police; and if he see us he will hide his rich things;” and the thought of the contents of the place seemed to lend force to the old woman’s failing nerves; though, for what seemed half an hour to Jean, they sat in the silent darkness, waiting; a silence broken now and then by a peculiar sighing noise from the sewers, which made its hearers shudder.

“Was it him?” whispered Jean at last.

“Yes; the Jarker,” hissed ma mère; “but get up now. Let me help you, and we will take all we can and go. Be still and careful; and there, now you are up. But, my faith, Jean, I am cramped! Now, the boxes were here; and—”

Ma mère ceased speaking, and stood trembling, with the sense as of something lifting the hair of her bare head, for at that moment came the sound of the grating stone pushed quickly aside; there was the sharp rustling as of one passing through, and the stone was thrust back, while the old woman could hear the panting, hard breath of someone close to her. She would have crouched away, but she stood as if paralysed, calling up the old interview with Jarker in the front cellar, and his great knife and ominous words, and she felt now that her hour was come, as a voice muttered the words “Two there!” and a heavy hand was laid upon her bare head. It was a horrible moment; but she could not move, and stood with her tongue glued to her palate, waiting for what she felt must follow; though, could she have turned, she would have clasped her withered arms round the ruffian, and cried to her son to escape. But ma mère was motionless, while the hideous yell that now rang in a dull, smothered way through the vault froze her blood into stagnation. Still the hand was not moved, but lay motionless upon her head, trembled and shook violently for a few moments, and then the old woman was free; for, in a horrible voice, the ruffian shrieked:

“Come back! come back!” when there was a heavy crash as of a body falling amongst a quantity of broken bottles, and all was silent once more.

No word spoke ma mère, but catching her son’s hand, she drew him after her to the opening, seized the stone, which seemed to glide away at her touch, and then she thrust hurriedly at Jean as he crawled through, one hand being stretched back to seize on Jarker, should he recover from his swoon and try to touch her boy. Then she felt that there was room, and crept through herself, closed the stone with some difficulty, and made her way shuddering out into the cellar. Here ma mère clutched Jean round the waist, and stopped to listen, but all was silent and apparently no pursuit, so hurrying him along, they stood trembling once more in the passage, expecting to be seized from behind, ma mère seeming to feel the knife of Jarker, as she clutched at her throat and pressed on. Upon passing out into the court, though, there was a policeman, but beyond a glance, he took no heed of them till they had entered their own passage and closed the door, when he quietly made his way through the entrance they had that moment quitted.

“Cognac, Jean; drink it, fool, you want it,” said ma mère, when they were once more safe in their own room. Before she would partake herself, the old woman forced some upon her son. “Another time, though, Jean, another time. I thought he would not dare to come back; but he will go now, and it will be safe. My faith, though, to see those boxes and touch nothing!” she exclaimed, and her hands clawed again as she spoke. “No, Jean, he will come no more, for it was as I thought; he is a murderer, and afraid. He did kill the poor painted woman; and then he was frightened, and thrust her poor body down into the sewer. But he was frightened, and fainted away, for he thought it was his poor victim come back. Did you not hear him shriek it? But I will tell the police when I have his gold and silver. But a little, but a little, and then all will be right.”

They neither of them felt that they could sleep, and ma mère drew out her knitting, but did little, sitting thoughtfully in her chair; at last, though, Jean slept heavily till his mother woke him in the early dawn, and together they looked down, trying to pierce the fog which hung in the court, when the first thing that their eyes fell upon was the glazed top of a policeman’s hat.

“But you will not go again?” whispered Jean.

“But you are bête!” cried the old woman angrily. “Should I leave the treasure I have discover, and let the police have all? No,” she cried, hooking her skinny fingers, “I will have all myself, and we will be rich, Jean. Ah! what—you sigh? But you are bête, and it is for the little worker who come between us, Jean. You loved your poor mother till she come, and I hate her for it, and I could slay her, for I am mad and disappointed; but I had my revenge for long. I told the preacher something, and he believed me; and you are all fools, you men. But I am not angry, Jean, for you are my own Jean, and you shall be rich yet. What! you push me away? I care not, for you shall be like your father—a gentleman—before he died, and left me in this cold, cold, cold, miserable London. But we will have the Jarker’s treasure, Jean, that I have watched, and we will laugh then at the world.”

Jean sat silently gazing down into the court, wincing at times as he heard the bitter words of his mother, while his eyes would then flash as he seemed ready to turn; but he spoke no word, as he thought over the past night and restrained himself. He knew the value of money, and his face would brighten as he thought of it in connection with Lucy; but a weary, sad smile came directly after, for he knew such thoughts were folly, and he turned them to Jarker, as he seemed to feel that his duty was to point out the wretch’s hiding-place, though he flinched from the task. And still he sat on, hour after hour gazing down into the court, where a strange man, like an artisan out of work, was lounging about smoking a short black pipe, and apparently very intent upon a small birdcage tied up in a blue-spotted handkerchief beneath his arm. There was something of the shoemaker and more of the tailor about him—nothing at all of the detective-policeman, and doubtless it must have been very unpleasant for a man of his income to smoke such bad tobacco, and pay for so many half-quarterns of rum for Mrs Sims, who was very communicative concerning the last time Jarker was at home, while a policeman in uniform would have acted as a seal upon her lips. So Mrs Sims chattered, the strange man watched, and for a time the uniform of the police-force was not seen in Bennett’s-rents.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Taken.

A heart at peace, doubtless, had much to do with the rapid strides towards convalescence taken by the Reverend Arthur Sterne, who, in direct opposition to the hints of his medical man and the uplifted hands of Aunt Fanny, resumed his work; and not many days after the visit from Lucy he found himself late one afternoon in the place where so much of his past life had derived its interest. Pale and weak, he climbed slowly up to the garret of ma mère; but she was absent with the dogs, though Jean, more sallow than ever, sat cowering over his fire, and thinking of the events of a couple of nights before.

Jean could not restrain the deep frown that came over his forehead as his visitor entered; still there was an inborn politeness in the way he asked him to be seated, but after replying in a constrained way to the questions put touching his health, he painfully made his way to the window, and appeared to be watching the proceedings in the court below.

But for a while Jean saw nothing, for his gaze was introspective, and the secret he held seemed more than he could bear. Ever pictured in his brain were the scenes his mother had described, and sleeping or waking he saw again and again the wild, agonised face of the murdered woman; while the knowledge that he could point out the murderer’s lair, while the officers of the law watched and waited in ignorance, made him angry that he should be bound; for he felt that he was bound, as he thought of his mother’s rage and disappointment should Jarker’s retreat be discovered before she had ventured again to secure a portion of his spoil; and that night she was to return early, and they were to go. Jean shuddered as he thought of the last visit, and trembled for the one to come; and, could he have divested himself of certain cares that gnawed his heart, and looked upon Mr Sterne merely as the friend and pastor, undoubtedly, moved as he then was, he would have told all.

Mr Sterne had hoped to have found ma mère at home, and to have derived from her some information respecting Agnes Hardon. Once he was on the point of questioning Jean respecting her; but he refrained. He was anxious to see her now that he knew her secret, and certain in his own mind of Septimus Hardon, he hoped yet to procure a reconciliation at Somesham; while, at the same time, there was a dim something in his mind that he could not quite shape, as it seemed to point towards Agnes Hardon knowing something of her uncle’s arrangements during his last years: but at present he could define nothing, make no plans, though he seemed to be finding the ends of the threads he sought, and felt hopeful yet of a happy termination of much misery. His duty seemed to be to bring all these people into unison if possible; if not, to call in the strong arm of the law, should he feel, after a long and patient investigation, that there was right upon Septimus Hardon’s side.

“Will not your mother soon return, Jean?” said the curate at last.

“No,” said the young man moodily; “these busy nights are profitable, and we have little money, while two nights she has spent watching.”

“Watching?” said the curate.

Jean started and turned round, making as though he would speak to his visitor; but he turned his back the next moment, when the scene that met his eye chased everything else before it, and, wild and excited, he cried, “Now he is here, and you can take him! I was frightened, and dare not; come you, sir. It was he who beat you down in the street. Here, look!” he hissed between his teeth, standing almost erect as he spoke, and clenching his fists. “If I could strike him down!”

The rage in the young man’s face seemed for the moment reflected in that of the curate, as, starting forward, he flung the window open, and recalled the last time he had gazed from where he stood; but the next instant horror predominated as he looked upon the sight which had so excited the cripple.

There was a heavy mist falling, and the lamps were just alight; but out upon the housetop, and plainly seen in relief, was the figure of Jarker struggling out through the trap-door on to the platform where he kept his pigeons. He was making his way out slowly as Mr Sterne flung open the window, for it seemed that someone was dragging at him from beneath; and this proved to be the case, for as Jarker struggled out, kicking and striking savagely, the head and shoulders of a policeman appeared, and in the fierce struggle which ensued the man clung so firmly to the ruffian’s legs, that he brought him down with a crash, which shivered and crushed the frail cages and traps to atoms; and then ensued a battle for life which chilled with horror those who were looking on, both too helpless to interfere.

The platform was but frail, and cracked and broke away as the two men wrestled together, while more than one poor bird was crushed to death. Once they rose for a few moments, and rocked to and fro, but Jarker seemed to trip and fall, dragging the policeman with him, and then from the crackling and breaking tiles arose a sound more like the encounter of two wild beasts, as the men writhed and twisted, every instant nearer and nearer to the edge, where there was only a low brick parapet some six inches high; and death for both seemed inevitable.

Jean stood as it were riveted to the spot, his lips apart, eyes distended, and chest heaving: while clutching his shoulder was Mr Sterne, expecting every moment to see the bodies of the struggling men part the air, and fall with a sickening crash into the court beneath.

But no. Jarker freed one arm, and twined it round one of the platform supports, giving himself a savage wrench, and stopping the slow, gliding motion which had taken him nearer and nearer to the little parapet. Another wrench, and a savage kick, and Jarker was almost at liberty, when down came the frail platform, to fall bodily into the court.

Shouting at the ruffian, Mr Sterne now called the attention of the gathering people below to what was going on, for it was time; but before it was possible for aid to be rendered, Jarker had forced the policeman’s head back, and dragged his other hand at liberty; then came the sound of a heavy blow as the ruffian raised and dashed his adversary’s head against the tiles. Then followed another fierce struggle, the officer fighting for his life, and he held on tenaciously to his opponent; but Jarker was uppermost, and using his great brute strength, he raised and dashed the man’s head down again and again, till his hold relaxed, and he rolled over into the gutter, where he lay to all appearance dead; while, with savage cruelty, Jarker loosened a tile so as to have a firm hold, and then with his free hand he seized his enemy and tried to force him over into the court.

But he was arrested by shouts from ma mère’s room and the open trap, at which now appeared in the dim light the eager countenance of the artisan-like man who had been hanging about the court; and now, active as a cat, with the man in full pursuit, Jarker went along upon hands and knees, over slate and tile ridge, along gutter, and past stack after stack of chimneys, to where there was a similar platform to his own; but he was disappointed—the trap-door was fast. On he went again, with Nemesis upon his track, over roof after roof again, towards a house with a dormer-window in the sloping slates; but the slates were covered with a redundant moisture, and to his horror he found that he was slowly gliding down to certain death—faster and faster—as he sat as it were upon his iron-nailed boots. A few seconds would have ended his career; but with a frightful oath, such as none but a drink-maddened ruffian would have uttered, he threw himself at full length, and rolled rapidly over and over to a chimney-stack, to which he clung, as he lay upon his face, with his feet so near the awaiting destruction, that his toes rested in the slight iron gutter.

He lay there for a few moments, trembling and unnerved by the danger he had escaped, and than painfully climbing up in the angle formed by the wall of the next house, which stood a little higher, he reached the ridge, and sat astride, panting and showing his teeth at the coming officer, who was making his way more cautiously; while dragging off first one and then the other of his heavy boots, Jarker hurled them at his pursuer before continuing his flight.

The dangerous slope Jarker had crossed gave him an advantage over the officer; for now unable to escape by the trap or window for which he had aimed, the ruffian had doubled, and was working his way rapidly back to his own garret, which now seemed his last resource.

For an instant he stood by the ruins of his pigeon-traps, gazing at the man lying in the gutter—now showing signs of animation—and listening at the opening; but though there were voices enough in the court, all seemed silent in his room, and with one glance at his fast-nearing foe upon the roof, Jarker lowered himself through his trap; while as Mr Sterne hurried out of the room, with Jean following him slowly, the ruffian stood once more opposite to the bed of his dead wife, to be confronted by another watching policeman.

Not of the same stuff this man; for a moment’s struggle, and Jarker was free, leaping down the stairs, which seemed ready to fall with his weight—nearly to the bottom, with the man in full pursuit; when in the buzz of voices be heard a cry for a light below, which flashed upon the hat of yet another officer.

Panting, mad, hemmed-in on all sides, foes above and foes below, knowing that there was blood upon his hands, and—for aught he knew to the contrary—that the gallows waited for him, the ruffian, as a last resource, dashed open the window upon the first landing, while, as hands actually touched him, he dropped into the backyard.

One man leaned out directly, while another hand was at the window; but they saw Jarker in the dim light below recover himself. Then there was the hanging of a door, and one of the men bounded down the stairs just in time to strike the ruffian back as he made a dash along the passage to force his way through the crowd. But he was not taken yet; though it was with a smile that the policeman wiped his dripping face as he posted himself at the top of the cellar-steps, and sent a companion out to watch the grating in the court.

And now it seemed that they had run their game to earth; for after one or two ineffectual attempts to escape during the past forty-eight hours—attempts frustrated by the careful watch kept upon the premises he occupied—Jarker had that evening made his way up through the cellar in a half-maddened state, produced by fear and the wine he had drunk to drive it away, for it was many hours since food had passed his lips. But Mr Jarker’s course was run, and, though ignorant of the offence for which he was sought, there were heinous matters enough upon his conscience to make him fight for liberty to the last gasp; while, upon this last attempt being made, he had been sighted by the man on watch, who saw him in the passage and drove him back, when, horrified at the idea of going back to the cellar, Jarker had bounded upstairs, to be chased as has been described.

There was no lack of policemen now upon the spot, and while the crowd was kept back, place was given to Mr Sterne, who, with Jean hanging upon his arm, slowly descended the cellar-steps, preceded by the policemen, with staves in hand and open lanterns.

“Keep a good look-out on the stairs,” said the artisan-looking man—the quiet man of a day or two before, and one in authority. And now, inch by inch, the cellar was searched; then bin after bin of the inner vault; when the men turned and looked at their leader.

“O, he’s here, somewhere,” said the sergeant, and taking a lantern in hand, he peered long and carefully into every bin, while, trembling with eagerness, Jean pressed forward to see if the discovery would be made. He was not kept long in suspense; for, after directing his light carefully along the sawdust, the keen-eyed man suddenly exclaimed, “There’s someone been through here. Here’s fresh candle-grease and matches; and what’s this?”

Jean pressed forward with the others, and “this” proved to be a fragment of a stuff dress caught in an old nail between the bricks, a scrap which Jean recognised as a piece of his mother’s dress.

Jarker’s hiding-place, or rather this entrance to his hiding-place, owed much of its strength to its very openness; for, with the house and cellar-doors as it were free to the neighbourhood, many of the other tenants of the court even coming at times for water, no one would suspect the existence of a secret lair, though a careful examination of the long deep bin, now that attention was so fully directed to it, soon robbed the spot of its mystery.

“Crowbar,” said the sergeant abruptly, and a man departed in search of the implement; while one whispered to another his opinion that, if there was another way out, they were done, after all.

But now a new-comer forced her way upon the scene, after quite a battle with the constable on duty at the head of the stairs; and but for the request of Mr Sterne, she would not have obtained her desire. And now bitterly in French ma mère reproached her son for betraying her secret, though he as eagerly denied it, appealing to the curate, who freely exonerated the young man from having made any communications to the police.

“But what is the secret, ma mère?” he said to her in her own tongue.

“Come away, come away,” she whispered, wringing her hands; but Jean would not move, and the old woman was compelled to be a spectator of what followed.

A few blows from the crowbar, when it was brought, shivered the thin end stone to pieces, and Jean shuddered as he felt the cold damp air rush through the black opening, as the sergeant exclaimed:

“That’s sewers, my lads: there’s another way out. Now, who’ll go first?”

No one moved; but ma mère groaned.

“Who wants promotion?” said the sergeant again.

The muttering that followed seemed to intimate that all three of the men present wanted it, but not at the cost of thrusting his body into the black hole before him.

“Then I hope you’ll make matters straight if I’m hurt, my lads,” said the sergeant grimly.

“That we will, sir,” chorussed the men, and then there was quite a competition for the second post of honour; as, without another moment’s hesitation the sergeant crept into the bin, thrust his lantern forward as far as he could, looked eagerly round, and then, staff in hand, he regularly shot himself forward, and called to his men to follow. But there was no enemy to encounter: nothing to be seen but bins round the cellar, a box or two, the open hole, and the furnace.

“Who’d have thought of there being this place here?” said the sergeant to Mr Sterne, when ma mère and her son both stood shuddering in the cellar with them; the Frenchwoman creeping towards the boxes, her fingers working the while. “Old houses, you see, sir; gentlemen’s houses once; and this was an old cellar; wine in it, too, seemingly, and forgotten. Melting-pot, of course,” he continued, pointing to the crucible. “Nice handy spot for it; and of course he has made himself all right before now. Gone down to one of the sewers, I suppose,” he said. “And while we were hunting him t’other day, he had crawled up here, and was taking his port. Boxes, eh? what’s in the boxes?” One of the men was already examining the treasure-chests, and the agony in the old Frenchwoman’s face was pitiful, as she saw the lids opened of first one and then the other, to find in place of the riches she had pictured, broken glass, worn out crucibles, and brickbats that had formed part of the furnace.

“Rubbish!” said one of the men, when the old woman reeled, and would have fallen if the curate had not caught her in his arms and seated her upon one of the boxes.

“Nice place to go down, sir; take that old lady out in the fresh air,” said the sergeant, peering at the black opening, and listening to the quick rush of water. “There,” he said to one of his men, “you needn’t stew. I ain’t going to send you where I wouldn’t go myself.”

The man spoken to held up his hand to command silence, for at that moment there came a strange rustling noise, mingled with the fierce rush of the water, while before they could recover from their surprise, drenched with the foul stream, his distorted face looking absolutely fiendish and inhuman, the head of Jarker appeared for a moment at the hole.

“Help!” he gasped, with a cry that rung through the place, but before hand could touch him he had fallen back with a heavy splash: there was the sound of water rushing furiously along with a hollow, echoing, gurgling noise; and the men stood looking at one another.

“Here, for God’s sake, men,” cried Mr Sterne, “do something!” and, weak, and trembling with horror, he stepped towards the hole; but the sergeant had his arms round him in a moment.

“Keep still, sir,” he said sternly; “we’ve done our part, I think. It’s certain death to go down there; they’re flushing the sewers, I should say, or else there’s a heavy fall of rain somewhere. He’s half-way to the Thames by now.”

The next moment Mr Sterne was telling himself that he had left his room too soon, for a strange sick feeling came over him, and the place around looked misty and indistinct; but his was not the only sleepless couch that night, for the old Frenchwoman moaned bitterly at the destruction of the Château en Espagne which she had raised.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Worn Out.

A heavy step upon the stairs, a heavy knock upon the door, and a heavy-eyed, heavy-countenanced man asking for Septimus Hardon.

“And he wants you, too, Miss,” said the man. “O dear, O dear! he was the only friend I ever had, and he came back the night afore last, after you’d been to ask for him. Not seen him, we hadn’t, for long enough; and then to come back like this!” and the great fellow sat down unasked upon a chair, and sobbed like a child.

“He wants to see you, sir,” he said again, “and we’ve done all we could,” he cried pitifully; “but you see he’s old, sir, and there ain’t nothing of him as’ll hold together, and he knows it, sir; and he only laughed and said, he says, ‘Ikey, old man,’ he says, ‘it must be all new stuff,’ he says, ‘for the stitches won’t hold no longer;’ and he was the only friend I ever had. ‘Go and tell them,’ he says, ‘as old Matt’s taken his last copy, and would like to see ’em afore he takes the wages he’s earned.’ You’ll come and see him, won’t you, sir? though it’s no sort of a place to come to; and the missus is breaking her heart about him.”

Half-an-hour after, Septimus Hardon and Lucy were in Lower Series-place, where, in the dingy back-room, close to the waste-paper, lay poor old Matt, with Mrs Gross upon her knees beside his bed, crying bitterly, as the poor old man lay calm and apparently sleeping; but he started when Lucy knelt down and took his hand, to let a tear-fall upon it.

“God bless you!” he whispered earnestly, as his dim eyes recognised the face bending over him. “Come like an angel to a dying man. God bless you, sir, I’m glad you’ve come; I was in mortal fear that you would be too late. Tell her—but no, I will.—Mother Slagg, you and Ikey go for a bit, please.”

The weeping woman put her apron to her eyes, and went out with her husband. It was a heavy afternoon, and the fog was settling down fast over the City. The light struggled feebly through the window, half-covered as it was with boots; but the great landlord returned directly with a thick, strong-smelling candle, stuck upon a block of wood between three nails.

As soon as the door was once more closed—a rare position for it, and one which it resented for some time, until Ikey had poked the corners clean with an awl, and oiled the lock—old Matt said huskily:

“Put your hand, sir, under my pillow. That’s it, that there little Bible. Know it, sir?” he said, for Septimus Hardon had changed colour, and his hands were trembling. “That took me a long time to get, sir,” and then he slowly and painfully told what he said he would have spared Miss Lucy if he could, but it was not to be; how he had seen Agnes Hardon lying dead, she whom he knew now to have been Agnes Hardon; how he had attended the inquest, and then tried to get a Bible that had been there mentioned, seeking for it day after day, night after night, ready to drop always, but feeling that he should succeed in spite of all. He searched the streets, he said, but all in vain; and at last he began to fear that the poor girl to whom Agnes gave the Bible had emulated her fate, when he recalled the address of the juryman, found to his delight she had been there, and through the stranger’s influence obtained the prize he sought.

“And now,” said Matt, “I’m happy. I can feel, sir, that I’ve done one little bit of good in my life, and I can go easy. Now, sir that book.”

Septimus, wondering and surprised, turned from Matt to Lucy, sobbing and horror-stricken at the old man’s recital, for much of what he heard now had yet to be explained to him; but the old man was intent upon the little Bible, one that Septimus remembered to have seen at home in his father’s desk.

“Now!” exclaimed the old man, with hands trembling, and eyes appealing, lest his hearers should lose anything of what he disclosed; “now look, look, look!” he cried, “I fastened it down again, as it was before. A knife, quick! Now look here,” he said huskily, and he tried to insert the blade of the penknife given to him beneath the fly-leaf, groaning bitterly at his inability, when, with hands trembling nearly as much, Septimus took Bible and knife, loosened the paper round, and laid it open, when the first thing that met his eyes, in his father’s clear handwriting, was the date of the marriage, and eighteen months after appeared the entry of his birth, while upon the opposite side, in a delicate woman’s hand, were the words—

“Agnes Hardon. The gift of Uncle Octavius.”

“There, there, there, sir! That’s it, isn’t it, sir?” cried the old man excitedly. “I wouldn’t rest till I’d got it, and ’twas hard work, for the poor girl clung to it as the gift of someone she loved; but the more she hung back, the more I was set upon having it. I knew enough of binding to see that the end-leaf was gummed down, and under that leaf I knew there was what I wanted. Here; breath!” he gasped; “open the window.”

Septimus Hardon sat gazing dreamily at the entry in his hand; it was indisputable, though he could hardly believe in its truth, while the few words he heard coming from the weeping girl seemed only to add to the confused state of his mind; but it appeared to him now that the old man’s condition was the first thing to consider, and placing the book in his pocket, he begged that he might try and have him removed to his own lodgings.

“No,” said Matt feebly, “no; I won’t leave here, for somehow these people love me after their way, and I seem to think that the end should be much what the life has been; and as to doctor, sir, why I’ve got one here,” he said, gazing fondly up in Lucy’s weeping face, “and if she’ll stop here, and let me hold her hand, God bless her! I can go easy, for it will seem to keep ill away. No other doctor’s any use, sir. I’m worn out, sir, worn out!”

But Septimus would not be satisfied, and leaving Lucy by the old man’s side, he fetched assistance to his old friend.

“No hope at all?” he said, as the doctor and he walked together afterwards through the dingy shop.

“Not the slightest,” said the surgeon once more, as he stood upon the doorstep. “He has never thoroughly recovered from the effects of the operations he suffered, and besides, it’s the old tale with the poor fellow—sorrow, misery, starvation, on the one hand; dissipation, drink, late hours on the other. The poor old fellow speaks the truth; he is worn out.”

Night came, and Lucy and Septimus still waited by the old man’s dying bed. He had slept for some little time, during which interval Lucy had replied to her stepfather’s many queries—replied as she thought of the despair that must have prompted the awful plunge into futurity. Then the old man woke, and talked eagerly for awhile of the future prospects of the family. But soon a change came over his face, his head tossed wearily from side to side of his dirty pillow, while often he would raise it and stare wildly from face to face, but recognising none, sink back again with a pitiful moan.

“Lost life, lost life! Worn out, worn out!” he kept on muttering as he tossed restlessly from side to side, frequently starting and looking round as if not knowing where he was. Then he seemed to sleep peacefully for awhile, to open his eyes once more, and smile feebly at his visitors, beckoning them to come nearer.

“God bless you both!” he muttered; “it’s all over.”

Septimus half-rose and would have fetched the doctor again, but Matt whispered “No.”

“Don’t go,” he said. “He can do no good now, nor anyone else; I’m past all that. It’s been coming for days past, and I’ve fought it out; kept on till my work was done. I’ve never been much good, sir; but now I’m worn out. P’r’aps I might have been different, if I’d had other chances; but I was always weak, sir; weak.”

He paused again; and Lucy’s sobs were the only sounds that broke the silence.

“Ah!” said Matt again, feebly; “I’ve justified many a line, sir; line by line—‘line upon line,’ don’t it say somewhere? but I can’t justify myself. Dropping out of the old forme, sir; fast—fast now. But there, sir, hold up; for I’m happy enough. You did me a good turn once, and I’ve tried to pay it back; and since I’ve known you, and you’ve been ready to be my friends, I’ve seemed to get proud, and wouldn’t do anything that should disgrace Miss Lucy here. But I began too late, and I never deserved such friends as I’ve found; for I’ve been a poor, weak, helpless drinking old galley-slave. But there, sir,” he said with a smile, “my case is foul; the sorts are out; and I’m putting away my stick for good.”

“May I fetch Mr Sterne?” whispered Septimus.

“No, no, no,” said the old man wearily; “we were never friends; and I can’t play the hypocrite, sir. It’s too late, sir; too late! What I’ve done, I’ve done. Let me die in peace, here, with your loving faces by me; and fetch poor old Ike in, by and by, for he loves me in his way. No, sir; it would be the act of a hypocrite, I fancy, for me to send for a clergyman now. No, Mr Hardon, sir; stay with me to the last; and let me hold tightly by this little white hand, and I can go from you hopeful and in peace. For if the great God who sent me here, struggling on through a life of care, has made hearts so gentle, and true, and loving, that they can weep and sorrow over my poor old battered case, can’t I hope that He who knows all, and has seen all my helpless weakness, will be merciful? I know, sir, I know. I might have done better: but it’s been a life of drive and struggle—money to-day, starve to-morrow, and drink always, to hold up and do the work. I’m sorry, sir, sorry; but the sorrow came too late. I’ve had a hard life, sir; the wish for better things came too late, when I was worn, and shattered, and used up; when the day was too far spent, sir; and now the night’s coming on faster and faster. Hold my hands tight,” he whispered, “for it’s growing dark and darker; and I’m losing my way.”

And now once more there was a long silence, when the old man looked eagerly round.

“What time is it?” he asked; and Septimus told him, then, turning towards Lucy, the old man whispered—

“Put your hand to my lips, that I may kiss it once before I go;” but she leaned over and tenderly kissed him, when he smiled, and some words passed, but they were too faint to be heard. Then he was restless for a while; but soon started again, to stare wildly round. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Nothing but the wind moaning round the houses,” whispered Lucy.

“No,” he said with a smile, “nothing but the wind—nothing but the wind waiting to scatter the dust.”

And now he lay so still and peaceful, that, in answer to Lucy’s inquiring look, Septimus bent over him again and again; but as he looked in that sorrow-ploughed face he could see that the old man still slept, while, with the light strong upon her face as she knelt, Lucy seemed no mean representative of the angel watching by the old man’s side.

“An angel, sir, an angel, sir!” he had mattered again; and then he seemed to doze off, muttering the words to himself.

“Worn out!” said Septimus Hardon, as he listened time after time to the faintly-borne chimes of Saint Clement’s; and then he thought of the present revelation, which seemed almost dearly bought in the old man’s death; of the past; the office in Carey-street, and its sorrows; the bitter struggle for mere life; the lodging in Bennett’s-rents; and the shabby old compositor in his frayed suit, pinching himself that he might supply their wants; the watchful care and jealousy with which he had tended Lucy to and from the warehouse; the secret they had shared, and the old man’s chivalrous endurance in tracing out the information; spite of all blurs or blots upon his character, ever the same tender, true-hearted man, devoted to his friends’ interests, and ready with his offering, even though it were humble as the cup of cold water that should not be without its reward; and now worn out—the poor old setting battered and worthless, but the heart true and bright to the last.

The quarters chimed again. Isaac had been to set up a fresh candle, and then retired to his weeping partner; while, now seated upon an old work-bench, Septimus Hardon still let his thoughts wander, pausing long upon the poverty of the crowded streets of the great City; the prosperity crushing down the misery; the swiftly-hurrying stream of life, and the striving of the throng to keep afloat, as others pressed upon them, climbed upon their shoulders, or, in the madness of despair, clung to their legs and dragged them down to the muddy ooze at the bottom. He thought too once more of his own misery, and that of this waif, after its long encounter with the storms of life, cast up torn, weary, and breathless upon the shore.

Mournfully moaned the wind down the court and at the back of the house, making cowls creak and spin, and rattling worn old windows; for it was no bright starry night, the clouds gathered black overhead, and sent down a pitiless rain to empty the streets, and be caught by the wind and dashed against the panes. By the feeble light in the front shop, Isaac could be seen with his head against the wall sleeping heavily; and, worn out with watching, his wife had returned to the next house. Now faintly heard in the lulls of the wind came the striking of Saint Clement’s clock and its laboured chiming, which sounded wild and strange upon the night air.

Suddenly Lucy and her stepfather started, for the old man was sitting up in bed with one hand raised as if to command silence, and loud, clear, and strange, his voice seemed to thrill through the silence as the tones of the bells came louder upon the wind.

“Hush!” cried the old man, “the bells! I set it once, and I’ve never forgotten it— ‘Ring out the false, ring in the true’—never forgotten it,” he muttered, as he sank heavily back and spoke in a whisper—“‘Ring out the false, ring in the true.’ Hands—hands—once again; they’re ringing out a false and coward heart, and ringing in the true.” Then he began to mutter from time to time words connected with his trade—wild incoherent words, but strangely fitted to his past life and present state; while at times he spoke with such wild bitterness that his hearers shuddered, and Isaac came trembling in, leading with him Mr Sterne, anxious at their protracted absence.

And so an hour passed, when the dying man had been for some time silent, but another kneeling figure had offered a prayer at the bedside; then once more the old man began to mutter, at first in a low tone, then slowly and aloud.

“Gold, sir, cold; bitter cold for an old man like me—dreary streets, sir, and the lamps out—dark, dark—the dull courts and the foggy alleys—misery—beggary—starvation. Bright fields—light and darkness. No hypocrite, sir—humbly, with an angel’s kiss upon my old lips—a seal—purity. Hark! Copy and proof—copy and proof—blurred and blotted—foul—foul—spelling—outs and doubles—corrections—too late—too late. Wages on Friday night, air; wages, sir—wages of sin—wages—death—death—poor girl!—Bleeping—found drowned—the Bible—Agnes Hardon—wages—wages—darker and darker—but no hypocrite, sir—with an angel’s kiss—an angel’s—forgive—forgive—for ever and ever—and ev—”

Silence in the room, and the watchers stealing away.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

“My Solicitors, Sir!”

It never rains but it pours, and the storm fell heavily now upon the head of Doctor Hardon of Somesham. Through the instrumentality of Mr Sterne he was served with the requisite legal notices, which seemed to be of the nature of seeds calling up a variety of legal plants, which coiled, and twined, and curled round the doctor, threatening to strangle him with their powerful tendrils; for he was deeply involved in numerous speculative matters, and the fact of his being legally summoned to give up his brother’s estate, now reduced to quite one-half—for he had disposed of all that he could—roused the aggressiveness of the law—a law which seemed omniscient as regarded failing men’s affairs; and a few days after, from information he had received, as the policemen say, Septimus Hardon learned that his uncle was in Cursitor-street.

“I would go and see him,” said Mr Sterne; “he may feel disposed to give up all quietly; and I presume that you would take no steps to enforce restitution of what he has sold during his occupation of your rights?”

“No, no; no, no!” exclaimed Septimus; “he is a ruined man.”

Septimus Hardon shuddered as he turned into Cursitor-street—dirty, cheerless, sponging-housey Cursitor-street of those days, with its legal twang and the iron-barred windows of the sheriffs’ houses. There was no difficulty in finding the residence of Mr Barjonas, for the brass-plate was on the door, though from its colour it was only by supposition that the plate was termed brass. The windows were coated with a preservative paste of dirt, while the same composition entered strongly into all the domestic arrangements. In front, the pavement was marked all over with cabalistic signs, over which hopped and danced dirty children—young clients, perhaps—in company with pieces of broken plate, there called “chaney;” the road was decorated with parsnip-cuttings and potato-peelings, after the mode adopted in Bennett’s-rents; while sundry indications pointed to the fact that coffee was much in favour, for the grounds found a resting-place in the gutter. A bashaw-like cock was scratching over some scraps of parchment and sawdust-sweepings, but they seemed dry, so he refrained from calling up the ladies of his harem—two—both of whom were of the breed known as “five-toed Dorkings,” and in duty bound to be white, but they were of a peculiar tint, like mouldy robes.

Septimus Hardon walked up to a thick-lipped gentleman upon the doorstep, and, as he seemed disposed to bar the way, told him of his business.

“Show this gedt idto dudber seved,” said the officer; for such he was, though only holding commission from the sheriff.

A fluey-headed boy, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his shoulders to display two very thin arms, at the end of one of which he carried a black waiter, came forward, performing a sort of shaving operation with the edge of the said waiter on his smooth chin, and beckoning to the visitor, ushered him into the room known as number seven, where Septimus stood in presence of his uncle, and gazed with wonder at the change. For the doctor’s clothes were growing looser upon him hour by hour, and his cheeks hung flabby and in folds above his dirty white neckcloth.

But more than at this Septimus Hardon gazed at his uncle’s strange lost aspect, as he stood with his gold pencil-case in one hand and a letter in the other—a letter which he had read over again and again, and then paused to wipe his forehead with his hand. But it was only a letter of upbraiding from his wife, enclosing to him a small scrap which the wretched woman had clipped from a newspaper—a paper weeks old, but which Fate had ordered should be sent to her; while now she asked her ruined lord who was the woman taken from the river, the woman who had nursed Eleanor Anderson, and had asked their help and forgiveness at that very time. Upbraidings, words almost of rage, she had sent him in that letter, telling him of his obstinacy, and reminding him of the times she had implored his forgiveness. And now these words had come at an hour when he could bear no more. He had read letter and paragraph in a dreamy, misty way, thinking of his losses—of his wrongs to his nephew, while now the man himself stood before him, perhaps to add his revilings. Worn out with anxiety and sleeplessness, faint with hunger and weary calculations of his affairs, the doctor strove for an instant to regain command of himself; then stared piteously at his visitor for an instant, staggered, grasped at his neckcloth, and fell heavily upon the floor.

Time passed; and as soon as the proper legal arrangements were completed, Septimus Hardon was to be possessed of his father’s much reduced property—an estate shorn of its extent, but still what, to a poor man, seemed wealth. In obedience to his wishes, the affairs had been arranged in the quietest manner, Septimus Hardon’s not being a nature to trample upon a fallen man—fallen indeed; for his next visit to his uncle was at one of the debtors’ prisons, from which there seemed no likelihood of his release, so deeply was he involved.

Mrs Doctor Hardon had been to Essex-street the night before begging that he would come, for the poor woman was in despair and dread at the turn matters were taking; for there the doctor sat as he had sat the night through in his shabbily-furnished room, sitting with a heavy frown upon his forehead, wrinkled as though the spirit of evil pressed down upon him heavily. Three times over he had sternly bade the weeping woman begone—the wife of many years—who, her fit of bitter anger passed, now hung about the gates of a morning until they were opened, and would then have laid her grey head upon his shoulder as she whispered comfort. But no; her lot was to pace wearily up and down; and the doctor sat alone, hour after hour, brooding over his fall; the proofs brought forward that his was a fraud; the curse that had seemed to attend the money; the failure of venture after venture that he had looked upon as certainties; the gnawing agony of his heart for the daughter he had lost, but who was to have been forgiven at some future time—always at some time in the future—a season put off till it was too late, and she had gone for forgiveness elsewhere; while, above all, there was a strange wild impending dread overtopping every cloud and driving him to turn over and over in his pocket a small-stoppered bottle—a bottle without a label, and held so long in his hand that the glass was hot.

A noble mansion had the doctor built in imagination: one that should be wondrous in its prosperity and endurance, but it had no foundation—a bit had crumbled here, a wall there cracked, then a corner had given way (a key to the whole), and with a crash the fabric had come down—so that the builder’s spirit was crushed as here he sat, shrunk and limp, waiting for the news of some fresh calamity, some new fall that should crush him yet more; for in his wild dreams he had seen his brother threatening him, and Septimus triumphantly shaking the will in his face. And so he sat on, hour after hour, clasping the tiny bottle in his hand—containing what? But a spoonful of some limpid fluid; while the stricken man still listened as if for something that he expected to happen that day.

There he sat, without fire, but feeling not the cold, hearing not the imploring whispered words of his wife—words uttered at the door after he had dismissed her, to wander up and down or sit shivering, and refusing the offered hospitality of some feeling fellow-prisoner.

Deeper grew the wrinkles upon the doctor’s brow as he sat. He had taken nothing for many hours, but a wine-glass stood upon the table, and more than once a trembling hand had been stretched out to grasp it. But he would wait another hour, he would wait until that other crushing news came, that other news hidden from his sight as by a black curtain, which ever trembled as though about to be raised. He would wait until the clocks struck again, just to think; though each stroke of hammer upon bell sounded funereally upon his ear. Again another hour, and another, and so on through the long night, through the grey, cold dawn, and again after the bright rising of the sun, which brought no hope to him.

“Only one other hour,” said the crouching man, and the words hissed between his fevered lips. “Only another hour!” he muttered, while his bloodshot eyes seemed to dilate as he drew forth the bottle and held it up to the light, shook it, and, watched the bright beads that trickled down the sides of the glass. His unshorn beard and sunken cheeks gave him a strangely haggard look; such that those who had known him in former days would have passed him without recognition.

Suddenly there was a step in the long corridor—one of many, but a step that he seemed to know; and then followed low voices, and the sound of a woman sobbing.

It had come at last—he had waited, and it was here—and a bitter smile trembled, it did not play, round the lips of Doctor Hardon, as he once more drew forth the bottle.

“This, this, this!” he kept on hissing in a harsh whisper as he smiled, thinking that the dark curtain which trembled in front would show him the future and not the present. And now he tried to draw forth the little stopper, but it was immovable. He tore at it fiercely, and then seized it with his teeth, but it broke short off, and he spat the piece angrily upon the floor.

“Now, now!” he muttered, as though there was not a moment to spare, while with trembling hand he seized the poker, and, holding the bottle above the wine-glass, struck it sharply, shivered it to atoms, and the liquid, mingled with sharp fragments, fell into the vessel, a large portion splashing over the table and moistening the doctor’s hand.

“Now, now!” he muttered, seizing the glass; and as he gave one glance at the bright blue wintry sky, he raised the little vessel hesitatingly to his lips. Then the door was pushed open, Mrs Hardon stepped in, shrieked, and dashed the undrained glass from her husband’s hand, so that it fell shivered upon the cold hearthstone, when, falling at his feet and clutching his knees, the unhappy woman sobbed loudly:

“O Tom, Tom, ask him to forgive us!” but the doctor only stood glaring at his visitor.

“Indeed, indeed, Septimus, I never knew it,” sobbed Mrs Hardon.

“It is of the past—let it rest,” said her nephew, who could not remove his eyes from his uncle, now smiling feebly and pointing to the chamber-door.

“Why would you provoke this painful scene?” he said in an injured tone. “You must have known, sir, that the interview would be most unfortunate. Pray go. My solicitors, Messrs Keening. Every arrangement has been made, and the funeral will take place to-morrow.”

Mrs Hardon started up, and stood clasping one of her husband’s hands as she looked aghast in his face, while he continued in the same feeble voice:

“No will, sir—illegitimate—pray leave—most painful,” and with his disengaged hand he still pointed towards the door. “My solicitors, sir, Messrs Keening.”

“Pray—pray go,” whispered Mrs Hardon. “He is worn out, and ill with anxiety. I’ll—I’ll write, Septimus,” and she hurried her visitor to the door. “But don’t—don’t punish us for what is past,” she said imploringly.

The look of Septimus Hardon was sufficient as he turned to the unhappy woman; and then he stepped into the passage with the intention of fetching medical assistance, for, as the door closed, he once more heard the doctor’s voice: “My solicitors, sir, Messrs Keening. Pray go.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

The Lake Uncaged.

That was only a poor wedding that Jean Marais, with a bright spot in each of his sallow cheeks and a wild look in his dark eyes, gazed down upon from the gloomy old gallery of the church; only a quiet wedding that those two eager eyes had gazed upon, when their crippled owner had climbed slowly and laboriously up to the gallery to watch unseen, while the ceremony was performed which gave Lucy Grey to her happy husband; but beneath those wild eyes there were convulsed features, cracked and quivering lips.

And the lark? He bore his treasure with him, the bird she had loved to hear; it nestled in his breast, and a stall-keeper hard by took charge of the cage. And there watched Jean unseen, while Lucy, turning her eyes upon her husband, accompanied him into the vestry.

Then below in the nave there was the buzz of expectation as the party came from the vestry—Lucy, blushing and fair, leaning upon the curate’s arm; and he, proud of the treasure he had won, walking happy and elate by her side. But it was only a poor wedding—poor in the show that was made and in those who assembled; for Bennett’s-rents was empty that morning, and Mrs Sims’ sniff was heard again and again, just inside the chancel; while the only wonder was that some of the children gathered together were not crushed beneath the wheels of the conveyances.

It was only a poor affair, but there was a light in many a face there that would have outshone the glories of a fashionable wedding. Even Mrs Septimus forgot her troubles, and confided more than once to Aunt Fanny that she thought her complaint had got the turn.

But there knelt Jean the cripple, alone in the gallery, till the last looker-on had left, the last wheel rolled from the gate, and a sad stillness had fallen upon the empty church, when, with a bitter, heart-wrung cry, the young man crouched lower and lower, burying his face in his hands. Then he slowly rose, and taking his crutch, painfully made his way towards the narrow door, his looks worn and weary, but with a strange light in his eye.

Pausing at length in the busy street, he took from his breast the bird he had so long tended, and started slightly, but with a bitter smile upon his lips, for in his emotion he had crushed the poor thing, and it panted feebly, with half-closed eye and open beak; but Jean only smiled. And with the same sad look he replaced the bird in his bosom, and then slowly and laboriously crept along, side by side, with the hurrying stream of passengers. Toiling on slowly and patiently, his crutch sounding loudly upon the pavement, with the same bitter look fixed as it were upon his lip, Jean Marais slowly toiled on till he was lost in the crowd.

Only a poor wedding; but Aunt Fanny was there, laughing and crying by turns, and vowing that she heard every word of the service, and that Arthur never spoke out so well before. And what a dress the old lady wore! surely no poplin ever before displayed such plaits; and then, forgetful of dress, plaits, muslin, everything, was it not a treat to see her take Lucy to her warm old heart when they had returned to Essex-street, as the fair girl knelt at her feet, the large eyes gazing up so appealingly, and seeming to say—“Don’t despise me for being so humble!” But, there; had she been a princess, she could have had no warmer nook in the old dame’s heart, for was not Arthur happy? And then those arms, that of old lay so placidly across her black-silk apron—worn even at the return from the wedding, and brought in a reticule—became restless to a degree, ever animated by the desire to embrace her children.

Did she love Lucy? Had not Arthur, the wisest of men, chosen her? and did not that spread such a mantle of holiness around the maiden that, even had Aunt Fanny never seen her, she would have battled for her to the death? Would he have chosen any but the purest and noblest of heart? she asked herself again and again. So she divided her love between them, and then, upon the return from church, laughed and cried by turns; for, said she, “I must leave poor Arty now.”

Arthur Sterne was silent, but he smiled as he saw two soft round arms circle Aunt Fanny’s neck, prisoning her as their owner whispered words whose import he could guess.

A quiet repast, and a short interval of preparation before the start for a trip, only some miles from town, an easy drive, for a few days’ visit to where the sweet breath of the country blew; and then the elders standing at the door watching the departing vehicle, and the waving hands, as the wheels rattled along the echoing street; and then upstairs, for Aunt Fanny and Mrs Septimus to talk of their children, while Septimus Hardon roamed the streets.

“O, the bright lovely country!” cried Lucy, as the carriage rolled on between hedgerows here and there silvered with the scented May, whose fragrance was borne by the light breeze through the open windows. “O, the bright lovely country!” she cried; “am I not foolish, Arthur?” she sobbed; “but the tears will come, for I feel that this happiness cannot last!”

The word “Arthur” was spoken hesitatingly, as if it were strange to her lips, and she hardly dared to use it; her eyes were fixed for a moment upon those of her husband, and then she glided down to the bottom of the fly and kneeled at his feet, as he fondly parted the hair upon her broad forehead.

“You are not angry with me for being so childish?” she murmured.

“Angry!” he replied, and the tone in which he said that word was sufficient.

“Don’t think me foolish,” she said; “but let us walk a little here, where the grass borders the road; for it seems wrong to hurry past the lovely green trees, after the close misery of London. They are new to me, Arthur; and look! look! there are flowers, and birds; and see how the bright sunshine dances amongst the leaves. But, there,” she said sadly; “you smile at my folly, and forget what all this is to me, after years of prisoning London.”

But the next minute the fly had stopped, and, relieved of its load, resumed its way; and, happy and proud, Arthur Sterne looked down upon his newly-wedded wife, elate to see the pure, intense love of all that was beautiful in nature which emanated from this escaped prisoner of life; while Lucy was divided between delight of the scene around her, and reproach for her so-called indifference towards her husband. And so they walked, inhaling the sweets of the early summer afternoon, and finding in them joys known only to those who have escaped but freshly from the great City’s miseries. And still on and on, almost in silence, enveloped as they were in the happiness of the present.

“Listen!” cried Lucy, as she stopped suddenly, and laid a finger upon her husband’s lip—a finger now white and delicate, once fretted and work-worn. “Listen!” she whispered, “and close your eyes. Might not that be poor Jean’s lark?” and then both stood listening, as in those days of the past, when their prisoned souls had gazed up eagerly into the bright blue sky, and they had drunk in the pure gushing lay of the speckled songster.

“Tears, more tears, Lucy?” whispered the curate. “Are you not happy?”

No words came for a reply, nothing but a look; as the bright eyes brimmed over, and a sob rose from the burdened heart.

“It seems too much—as if it could not last,” whispered Lucy; “and that song brought back so many sorrows, dear—the court, and so much of the past. But you will forgive me, Arthur?”

Again the same hesitating speech, as if it were an assumption upon her part to call him by his name, and she half dreaded rebuke.

“What does the driver want?” said Mr Sterne; for the man was shouting and making signs.

By the time they had overtaken the vehicle, the man had dismounted and was by the bank, stooping over a reclining figure; and on approaching nearer, the curate recognised the cripple, Jean, lying apparently asleep, holding his lark to his lips, while his crutch was by his side. But if the master slept, it was not so with the bird; for its soft feathers were ruffled, its wings half-open, and the lids drawn partly over the little dark, bead-like eyes; the crest lay smooth, the throat-feathers rose not, the wings had fluttered for the last time; the bright, gushing lay would thrill through prisoned hearts in Bennett’s-rents no more—the lark was dead.

And its master? To get one more look, one farewell glance, he had toiled wearily on, mile after mile, towards the village where he had heard they would rest; and on he pressed, with a strength evoked by the despair of his heart, till he had sat down to rest by the wayside and sunk back exhausted.

In an instant Lucy was upon her knees by his side and had raised his head, while her husband’s hand was in the cripple’s breast. Then he slowly opened his eyes and stared wildly round till they rested upon her who supported his head, when his features softened, and a smile came once more upon his lips as they seemed to part to form the words “Good-bye!”

And then slowly and imperceptibly the smile faded from his lip, the light from his eye; and as they gazed upon him, a cold sternness stole over the poor youth’s countenance, till, with agony depicted in her every feature, Lucy looked up appealingly at her husband.

But Jean was dead—passed away; for he had toiled through the streets, nerved by a stern determination—a wild despair—on through the suburbs, and so out into the country; the one purpose always in his mind—to be where she would come once more; on still, slowly, painfully, hour after hour, till he sank exhausted, to die of a ruptured blood-vessel.

And still, of a summer’s evening, may the lounger in the great streets of the West come upon a knot of idlers; and, pausing for a few moments, listen to divers sharply-uttered commands given in French to a pair of wretched poodles; who fetch and carry, rise erect, and march about with aspect doleful and disconsolate, till a few of the bystanders drop halfpence in the basket one of the dogs carries in his mouth. Then a fresh pitch is made; the performance again gone through; and then on again; on after ma mère of the sharp and eager look—the harsh, cracked voice; on again, with drooping ears and tail—unlionlike of aspect; on again, perhaps to cast a look of envy at some free and rollicking idle dog, or of condolence at the miserable sharp-eyed monkey performing on the table, rapid in every moment, but more rapid in the glance of its little dark, blow-watching eye. And at last, when the streets grow thin of passengers, and the dogs tired and blundering, home to the court where they dwell—a court yet standing, though Bennett’s-rents is no more; another court, where the flags lie broken, and the refuse-choked channel festers with the water from the hard-used pump; where the children revel by day in the dirt and filth, and Death oft and oft again beckons the undertaker to come with his shambling horse and shabby Shillibeer-hearse; where the pigeons cluster upon the housetops and coo at daybreak, and then circle in flights, while men of the Jarker stamp urge them on. Home, to another old house, and up the groaning stairs, where even by night the twittering of birds can be heard in lodgers’ rooms—prisoners dwelling in a prison within a prison; here, too, the click of a sewing-machine—patent—man’s make; there, the sigh of a sewing-machine—not patent—God’s make; and up the rickety stairs to another attic, where cages hang—empty cages, kept because they were those of Jean; where the crutch stands in the corner beneath the lark’s home, brought back by the neighbour who keeps a stall, but empty too: canaries, linnets, finches, passed away; while the lark lies upon the breast of its master—the cripple Jean—and the turf grows green above his resting-place at Highgate.

“En avant—venez donc—mes chiens! Home!” though it be not Bennett’s-rents.

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Mad.

In one of those vast piles of building a short distance down the main line of a great railway, a strange-looking elderly man, and one whose dress bespeaks the clergyman, are passing from ward to ward upon a visit. The man with them, in his quiet livery, raises the brass-chained key he carries to open lock after lock—one key for hundreds—and they pass on by sights of the most sorrowful; for they are amongst those of their fellows in whom the light of reason burns but dimly or is extinct. At last they stand by a window looking upon an extensive yard, where some fifty patients clothed in grey serge walk about for exercise—some hurriedly, some talking, some excited, others calm. And now one visitor lays a trembling hand upon his companion’s arm as, nearing the window, comes a portly, grey, smiling man, rolling solemnly along with imposing gait, wearing a stiff white-paper cravat, with a card snuff-box in his hand and a straw-plait chain meandering over his grey serge vest. Quiet and harmless, he goes about the yard feeling the pulses of his fellow-patients, and nods at them and smiles encouragement.

“Is there any prospect of his recovery?” says the clergyman to the warder, who is looking unconcernedly on.

“Whose, sir?” says the attendant. “His? the doctor’s? O no, sir, not the least. Stark mad!”

The End.

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Volume 1 Chapter 1

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Volume 1 Chapter 2

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Volume 1 Chapter 3

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Volume 1 Chapter 4

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Volume 1 Chapter 5

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Volume 1 Chapter 6

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Volume 1 Chapter 7

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Volume 1 Chapter 8

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Volume 1 Chapter 9

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Volume 1 Chapter 10

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Volume 1 Chapter 11

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Volume 1 Chapter 12

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Volume 1 Chapter 13

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Volume 1 Chapter 14

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Volume 1 Chapter 15

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Volume 1 Chapter 16

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Volume 1 Chapter 17

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Volume 2 Chapter 1

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Volume 2 Chapter 2

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Volume 2 Chapter 3

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Volume 2 Chapter 4

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Volume 2 Chapter 5

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Volume 2 Chapter 6

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Volume 2 Chapter 7

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Volume 2 Chapter 8

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Volume 2 Chapter 9

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Volume 2 Chapter 10

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Volume 2 Chapter 11

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Volume 2 Chapter 12

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Volume 2 Chapter 13

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Volume 2 Chapter 14

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Volume 2 Chapter 15

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Volume 2 Chapter 16

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Volume 3 Chapter 1

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Volume 3 Chapter 2

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Volume 3 Chapter 3

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Volume 3 Chapter 4

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Volume 3 Chapter 5

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Volume 3 Chapter 6

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Volume 3 Chapter 7

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Volume 3 Chapter 8

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Volume 3 Chapter 9

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Volume 3 Chapter 10

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Volume 3 Chapter 11

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Volume 3 Chapter 12

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Volume 3 Chapter 13

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Volume 3 Chapter 14

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Volume 3 Chapter 15

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Volume 3 Chapter 16

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Volume 3 Chapter 17

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Volume 3 Chapter 18

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Volume 3 Chapter 19

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