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 mere_ 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 mere_
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 XV.