The lark was silent once more; and now from the open door of the
first-floor, rising and falling, with a loud and rapid "click, click,
click," came the sound of Lucy Grey's sewing-machine--"click, click,"
the sharp pulsations of the little throbbing engine, whose needle darted
in and out of the soft material held beneath it by those white fingers.
But as one of the stairs gave a louder crack than ordinary, the machine
stopped, and the quiet, earnest, watching face of Lucy Grey appeared at
the door, which she now held open, bowing with a naive grace in answer
to the curate's salutation.
"My mother wished me to watch that you did not go down without seeing
her to-day," said Lucy apologetically; for Mrs Hardon was far from well
that week, and, since the long discussion that morning between old Matt
and Septimus, she had been bemoaning her lot in a weak spiritless way,
till, finding all his attempts at consolation of none effect, Septimus
had taken his hat and gone out for a walk with his boy. To-day Mrs
Septimus would be tolerably well; to-morrow, in a weak fit, exacting
sympathy from husband and child in a way that would have wearied less
loving natures. Now she would refuse food, upon the plea that it could
not be afforded for her; consolation, because she was a wretched,
miserable burden; and medicine, because she was sure that it would do
her no good.
"Be patient with her, my darling," Septimus would say to Lucy--a
needless request. "Think of the troubles she has gone through, and then
look at me."
"What for?" Lucy would cry, laughingly prisoning him by seizing his
scrubby bits of whisker in her little fingers, and then kissing him on
either cheek,--"what for? To see the dearest father that ever lived?"
And then memories of the past would float through Septimus Hardon's
brain as he smoothed down the soft braided hair about the girl's white
forehead. But there were tearful eyes above the smiling lips, and
Septimus Hardon's voice used to tremble a little as he said, "God bless
you, my darling!"
"Our beauty, some of us," seemed vibrating in the curate's ears as Lucy
spoke; but the bright look of welcome, the maidenly reserve, and sweet
air of innocence emanating from the fair girl before him, seemed to waft
away the words, and, returning to the present, he followed her to where
Mrs Hardon was lying down. Drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated
himself, to listen patiently to the querulous complaints he had so often
heard before--murmurings which often brought a hot flush to Lucy's cheek
as she listened, until reassured by the quiet smile of the curate--a
look which told her how well he read her mother's heart, and pitied her
for the long sufferings she had endured,--sickness and sorrow,--which
had somewhat warped a fond and loving disposition.
Perhaps it was unmaidenly, perhaps wrong in the giver and taker, but,
seated at her sewing-machine in the next room, Lucy would watch through
the open door for these looks, and treasure them up, never pausing to
think that they might be the pioneers of a deeper understanding. She
looked forward to his visits, and yet dreaded them, trembling when she
heard his foot upon the stairs; and more than once she had timed her
journeys to the warehouse so that they might take her away when he was
likely to call; while often and often afterwards, long tearful hours of
misery would be spent as she thought of the gap between them, and bent
hopelessly over her sewing-machine.
A long interview was Mr Sterne's this day, for Mrs Hardon was more
than ordinarily miserable, and had informed him two or three times over
that she was about to take to her bed for good.
"But it does not matter, sir; it's only for a little while, and then
perhaps I shall be taken altogether. I'm of no use here, only to be a
burden to that poor girl and my husband. But for me and the different
fancies I have, that poor child need not be always working her fingers
to the bone. But she will grow tired of it, and Mr Hardon's health
will fail, and our bit of furniture will be seized; and I'm sure I'd
rather die at once than that we should all be in the workhouse."
"But," said Mr Sterne, smiling, "don't you think matters might just as
likely take the other direction? See now if it does not come a brighter
day to-morrow, with a little mental sunshine in return for resignation;"
and he whispered the last few words.
Now there was some truth in what Mrs Septimus Hardon said; for had it
not been for her liking for strange luxuries when her sick fits were on,
Lucy need not have worked so hard. At other times Mrs Hardon was
self-denying to an excess; but when in bed, probably from the effort of
complaining, her appetite increased to a terrible extent, and she found
that she required sticks of larks roasted, fried soles, oysters, pickled
salmon, or chicken, to keep her up, while port-wine was indispensable.
But if she had preferred ortolans to larks, game and truffles to chicken
and oysters, if the money could have been obtained she would have had
them. And many a day Septimus and Lucy dined off bread-and-cheese, and
many a night went supperless to bed, that the invalid's fancies might be
gratified.
The conversation went on, and Lucy at her work more than once raised her
eyes; but when her mother's complaints were like the last, she bent her
head, and the tears she could not restrain fell hot and fast upon the
material before her.
"What have I to hope for?" moaned Mrs Hardon, taking refuge in tears
herself when she saw how Lucy was moved. "What have I to hope for?"
"Hope itself, Mrs Hardon," said the curate firmly. "You suffer from a
diseased mind as well as from your bodily ailment; and could you but
come with me for once, only during a day's visiting, I think you would
afterwards bow your head in thankfulness even for your lot in life, as
compared with those of many you would see."
"Yes, yes, yes, I know," sobbed the poor woman; "but don't be angry with
me. I know how weak and wicked I am to murmur, when they study me as
they do; but when I am like this, this weary time comes on, I am never
satisfied. Don't--don't be angry with me."
Mrs Hardon's sobs became so violent that Lucy hurried to the bed and
took the weary head upon her breast; when, drawing his chair nearer, the
curate took the thin worn hand held out so deprecatingly to him.
"Hush!" he whispered; and as he breathed words of tender sympathy that
should awaken her faith, the mother looked earnestly on the sad smile on
the speaker's face, a smile that mother and daughter had before now
tried to interpret, as it came like balm to the murmuring woman, while
to her child it spoke volumes; and as her own yearned, it seemed to see
into the depths of their visitor's heart, where she read of patience,
long-suffering, and crushed and beaten-down hopes.
All at once a heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and Lucy started
from her mother's side as a loud rough noise called "Mrs Hardon! Mrs
Hardon!" But before she could reach the door of the other room, the
handle rattled, and the curate could hear a man's step upon the floor.
"Hush!" exclaimed Mrs Hardon, "it must be a letter;" and involuntarily,
as he rose from his chair to leave, the curate had to stand and listen,
gazing upon Lucy, who stood in the middle of the next room, now flooded
with light from the sunshine which streamed through staircase window and
open door, and he could not but mark the timid face of the girl as she
stood wrapped as it were in the warm glow.
But it was no letter, only Mr William Jarker, who, invisible from where
the curate stood, was telling Lucy in familiar easy tones that his
"missus wanted to see the parson afore he went."
As Mr Sterne stepped forward and saw the ruffian's leering look and
manner, and the familiar sneering smile upon his coarse lips, he
shivered and turned paler than was his wont before knitting his brows
angrily, while, troubled and confused, Lucy looked from one to the other
as if expecting Mr Sterne should speak.
But the look made no impression upon Mr Jarker, who directed a
half-laugh at Lucy, and then, nodding surlily towards the curate, he
turned, and directly after there came the sounds of his heavy descending
steps as he went down, leaving the room impregnated with the odour of
the bad tobacco he had been smoking.
"Our beauty, some of us," rang in the curate's ears once more, and like
a flash came the recollection of the meeting he had witnessed in the
street. His mind was in a whirl with thoughts that he could not
analyse; while as his eyes met those of Lucy, the girl stood with face
aflame, trembling before him--looks that might have meant indignation or
shame, as, with the smile still upon his lip, but so altered, the curate
turned to go; but he stopped for a moment at the door, where out of
sight of Mrs Hardon, he could again confront the shrinking girl with a
long inquiring gaze; but trembling, agitated, with lips void of
utterance, though parted as if to speak, Lucy stood back, her eyes now
cast down, and, when she raised them once again, he was gone.
Then, with the colour slowly fading, to leave her face ashy pale, Lucy
stood with outstretched hands, gazing at the closed door. Something
seemed rising in her throat which she tried to force back, and it was
only by an effort that she kept from crying out, as, falling upon her
knees by a chair, she buried her face in her hands, choking down the
sobs, lest her mother should hear; though she, poor woman, slowly turned
her face to the wall, ignorant of her child's suffering, and slept.
And now again came ringing down the sweet clear trill of Jean's lark,
till, worn out with the impetuosity of her grief, the poor girl raised
her head, smoothed back her dark hair, and half-sitting, half-kneeling,
listened to the strain.
The song ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and the void was filled
by a long, loud whistling; when, with lips set firm, and angry
countenance, Lucy rose and stepped lightly across the room to her
sewing-machine by the open window, where, raising her eyes, she could
see Mr Jarker, pipe in hand, presenting himself once more as a
half-length study, as he whistled and cheered on his flight of pigeons,
which sailed round and round, till the whirring and flapping of their
wings brought up early days of her childhood, and Lucy seemed to gaze
upon some half-forgotten woodland scene in the country, with ring-necked
stockdoves crowding on a bending branch after their return from flight.
But no such visions floated before the mind's eye of Mr Jarker, for his
pipe was out; so, ceasing his whistle, he proceeded to ignite a match
upon the blackened pipe-bowl, screening the tiny flame between his hands
till the tobacco was in a glow--all the while in happy oblivion of a
pair of indignant flashing eyes that rested upon him till their
brightness was once more dimmed by tears. Heedless, too, was Mr Jarker
of the strange sardonic leer directed at him from the attic-window
opposite his own, where _ma mere_, with her dim grey eyes, glanced at
him from time to time as she busily knitted, or stabbed her ball of
worsted; for Mr Jarker was evidently interested in what was taking
place beneath him, as he glanced through his trap from time to time.
And now once more, with rapid beat, rose the "click, click, click," of
Lucy's sewing-machine, as, flashing in and out of the fine material the
needle laid in its chain-like stitches; but Lucy Grey's finely-stitched
lines were far from even that afternoon.
Volume Two, Chapter VII.