It was late before Arthur Sterne left Bennett's-rents that night.
Septimus Hardon had been terribly excited--talking long and wildly of
his poverty being the cause of the insult offered to his child. He had
walked hurriedly up and down the room, gesticulating and threatening the
scoundrel who had so repaid Lucy's kindness; and again and again it was
upon the curate's lips to speak of the little one, and of Lucy's strange
intimacy with its mother; but his spirit revolted from the task. In
another case he would have spoken instantly; but here duty seemed to
move in fetters that he could not break. In all concerning the poor
girl he seemed bound to preserve silence till such time as some
explanation should be given, and through all he had been in constant
dread lest he should give her pain.
"I must prosecute the villain!" exclaimed Septimus.
"But the pain--the exposure--your child?" said the curate.
"What! would you have him go unpunished?" exclaimed Septimus.
"I would say `No!' directly," replied the curate; "but I cannot help
thinking of the painful scene in court, the public examination, and the
cross-examination by the prisoner's counsel; and these men can always
among themselves manage to get some able person to undertake their
cause. It would be a most painful position in which to place your
child. Her actions would be distorted to suit a purpose; and such a
scene--"
Mr Sterne's speech dwindled off, and became inaudible; for he felt that
he had spoken unadvisedly, and a strange chill came over him as he
thought, in the event of the affair being in court, what hold the
opposing counsel could take of certain acts in Lucy's life; for, let
them he ever so innocent, the light in which they would place her would
be of the most painful character; and his lips were rather white as he
said, "Sleep on it, Mr Hardon, sleep on it."
"I will," said Septimus proudly. "We are poor, Mr Sterne; but there is
no act in my dear child's life that will not bear the light of day."
"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the curate in a low tone; "but, believe
me, my advice is given with the best of wishes and intentions, Mr
Hardon. Have I not always tried to be a friend? And if there was
somewhat of selfishness in my advances, I feel no shame in owning to you
that I am moved by a feeling of more than esteem for Miss Grey; to whom
any proceedings would, I am sure, be as painful as to myself."
Septimus Hardon started, for this was as sudden as unexpected. Such a
thought had never entered his breast, and he gazed wonderingly at the
calm, pale face before him; as in the silence which ensued they both sat
listening to the painful, low sob which came now and again from the next
room, where, forgetful of her own infirmities, Mrs Hardon had been
trying to soothe the agitated girl.
And then, hour after hour, Septimus sat talking with Mr Sterne--for the
first time now giving himself up entirely to his advice, and promising
to give up all thought of prosecution, while he sought at once for some
more suitable home for his wife and child, though, as he thought of his
narrow, precarious income, he made the latter promise with a sigh. He
talked long and earnestly, too, about his own affairs, being ready now
to take the counsel that Mr Sterne so freely offered; and when, with a
lighter heart, the curate rose to leave, Septimus shook hands, with a
puzzled expression upon his face, as if he hardly believed in the events
of the past evening.
Upon slowly descending and reaching the door, Mr Sterne drew back,
asking himself whether he should be content, or seize the opportunity
that now offered for him to know that of which it was evident, from his
language, Septimus Hardon was still ignorant. The desire was strong to
know more, and he yielded to it; for there before him, standing in the
open court, and gazing anxiously up at the lighted window, was the woman
who had caused him so much uneasiness; but neither he nor the woman saw
that in the shade of the opposite doorway a villainous pair of eyes were
on the watch.
Again and again he had encountered this woman since he had determined to
question her--upon the bridge at early dawn; by night, in the crowded
streets, dressed in the extreme of fashion; shabbily dressed by day; but
she always fled, and contrived to elude him. Who was she? What was
she? How came she intimate with Lucy? Was it merely for the child's
sake? Then why Lucy's dread?
The opportunity was here, he told himself, and he would know; and then,
as he formed the determination, he stepped quickly out; but no sooner
did Agnes Hardon catch sight of the curate's pale, stern face by the
sickly flicker of the one lamp than she turned and fled, while, without
pausing to think, the curate closed the door and pursued her.
A dark, gusty time, late, for two had struck but a minute before by
church after church--some sending their booming announcement clearly out
upon the night air, others discordantly, and jangling with the bells of
others. Turning towards the end of the court, Agnes ran swiftly, her
dress rustling, and fashionable boots pattering upon the pavement; but
her pursuer was quick of foot, and followed her along the end row,
through Harker's-alley, Ray's-court, along one labyrinth and down
another of the old district, now falling beneath the contractor's pick,
till they had nearly returned to the point from whence they started.
But flight was of no avail, and soon Arthur Sterne overtook the panting
woman, himself breathless, and, heedless of her fierce looks, caught her
by the wrist.
"Come with me," he said sternly, as he drew her towards the entrance of
the dark court where they stood.
"Why, why?" she exclaimed passionately, struggling with him the while.
"Why do you stop me? Why do you pursue me--you, too, a clergyman?"
The answer to the taunt was a cold look, which Agnes Hardon saw and
felt; for the next moment she was weeping passionately. "Why do you
track and follow me, sir?" she exclaimed through her tears. "Let me go;
you hurt my arm!"
"Will you stand and answer my questions, then?" said the curate, as they
now stood at the entrance of the court--a dark, gloomy archway, with a
doorway here and there.
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Agnes wearily, "if you will be quick; but there, I
know what you would say, and it is of no use; I am past all that!"
"Past all what?" cried the curate sternly.
"Hope of better things," said the woman with so weary and despondent a
wail, that her hearer shuddered.
"Hush!" he said; "you speak rashly, and without thinking;" and releasing
her wrist, he laid his hand gently upon her arm. "Listen," he said;
"you have your woman's feelings yet!"
"No," she replied hastily, "all--all gone; driven out of me--dead. Let
me go, please; it's late, sir. I am a wretch, and it is useless to
talk."
"But why do you pursue that young girl?" he said, pointing across the
street to where Bennett's-rents debouched. "Would you tempt her to be
your companion?"
"No, no, no; my God, no!" half-shrieked Agnes, as she caught at his
hands; "don't think that, sir."
"Then you _have_ some womanly feeling left," said Mr Sterne.
"Towards her, perhaps, yes."
"And your child?"
"Yes, yes, yes," wailed Agnes; "but don't torture me. What do you
know?--what do you wish me to do?--why do you follow me?"
"What is your name?" said the curate sternly; "and how came you to know
her?" and he pointed again towards Bennett's-rents.
"Don't ask me, I cannot tell you," sobbed Agnes.
"But you bring misery on her and on her home. You have some hold upon
her?"
"No, no, no," sobbed Agnes hysterically; "none, none; but she knows who
I am, and pities me and my poor child. God's blessing on her!"
"Amen!" muttered the curate under his breath, and his companion sobbed
so convulsively that she could not speak, while, as they stood in the
dark entry, a policeman came slowly by, flashed the light of his
bull's-eye upon them for an instant, recognised the curate and passed
on, and, till he was out of hearing, Agnes Hardon clutched the curate's
arm.
"You are not afraid of the world and it's opinions," she said bitterly;
"it cannot hurt you. Stay with me and I will tell you all, for I
believe you mean me well."
The curate bowed his head.
"I am miserable, wretched," she sobbed, "and what can I do? That man in
the court has my poor child, and for some reason he will not give it up.
I have tried to get it away again and again, even to stealing it, sir--
my own little one; but something has always prevented me, and he watches
me till, hardened as I am, I am afraid of him, for he comes over my
spirit like the shadow of some great horror about to crush me. I love
my child, my pure little angel, for--O sir, have pity on me, have
pity!--I am its mother, and what else have I here to cling to? Can you
not think how I must love it though I left it with that poor dead woman?
But she had a mother's heart, and was kind to it always. I could see
it in my darling's blue eyes even when it racked my heart; but I was
glad, though it would not come to me, and called her mother. I was
happy then, for did not she--she you say I injure--watch over it for me,
and tell me of its bright eyes and sunny hair and winning ways, while,
when I have listened to her, the tears have come gently to quench the
fire in my brain, and I could think of home and the past, while she--she
who loves my little one--lets me weep upon her breast, and I forget for
a while that I am lost, lost, lost for ever!"
"Lost, lost, lost for ever!" She uttered these words so hopelessly,
with such a wail of agony, that they seemed to echo along the archway,
and to float off upon the night breeze, rising and falling, an utterance
never to fade away, but to go on for ever and ever while this world
lasts; to smite upon the sleeping ears of the cruel, the dissolute, and
the profligate; to awaken here, perhaps, one sorrowful thought for wrong
done, one thought of repentance; there, a desire to pause, ere it be too
late, on the brink of some iniquity that should break a trusting woman's
heart.
Tenderly, and with such a strange feeling of compassion in his heart as
might have pervaded that of his Master whose words he taught, Arthur
Sterne took the weeping woman's hands in his, as, sobbing more bitterly
than ever, she sank upon her knees on the cold stones at his feet,
weeping as though her heart would break; nay, as if through the torn
walls of that broken citadel the flood of tears went seething and
hissing, the ruins yet smouldering and burning with the fire of the
fatal passion that had been their fall.
"What shall I do, sir?" she cried at length, wearily looking up in the
face that bent over her. "I would take my little one away and go near
the place no more, for I have been seldom lately, not liking that he
should see me with her, for he followed us once, and I did not like it.
I would have told her not to go near my child, but there is a woman
sometimes there. He will not let me take it away. But tell me what to
do, sir," she said wearily, "and I will do it."
"What!" she cried, starting up, "what!" she half-shrieked, as he related
to her the incident of the past night; "and this through me? Am I to
bring misery everywhere? O God, O God!" she cried, "that my weakness,
my sin, should be ever growing and bringing its misery upon others! But
stop, sir; listen," she exclaimed huskily, as she clung to his arm;
"what shall we do? If I could have seen this, sir, I'd have died sooner
than it should have happened; believe me, I would."
The curate bent his head once more, as they stood facing the street, and
said, in low, impressive tones, "I do believe you;" but he took no heed
to a light, stealthy pace in the alley behind.
"What shall I do, sir?" cried Agnes eagerly.
"Take the child away at once," replied Mr Sterne, "and leave this life.
But will you?"
"If the gates of heaven were opened, sir, and One said, `Come in, poor
sinner, and rest,' should I go?"
The stealthy step came nearer, but was unnoticed.
"Now tell me your name, and how came the intimacy of which I complain,"
said Mr Sterne.
"I--I knew the family; I knew Lucy--Miss Grey--before her father--and--
pray, pray ask me no more," gasped Agnes appealingly. "I will do all
you wish, sir. Help me to get my child, and I will go anywhere you may
tell me; but don't ask me that, sir."
"Nay," said Mr Sterne, with beating heart, for he felt that her reply
would drive away his last doubt, "tell me now; you may trust me."
"Yes, yes," sobbed Agnes; "I know, but I cannot."
The step sounded very close now, while the light from the lamp in the
alley was for a moment obscured.
"I will do all that you ask," sobbed Agnes. "Tell me what else you
wish, and I will be as obedient as a child, but--"
"Prove it, then, by telling me how began your intimacy with Miss--"
There was a wild scream from Agnes Hardon as she thrust the curate
aside; but too late, for a heavy, dull blow from behind crushed through
his hat, and stretched him upon the pavement, where, for an instant, a
thousand lights seemed dancing before his eyes, and then all was blank.
It was no unusual sound that, a woman's shriek, especially the
half-drunken cry of some street wanderer; but one window was opened, and
a head thrust out, whose owner muttered for a moment and then closed the
sash, for though he had seen a woman struggling with a man, he did not
hear the words that passed, nor could he see that the man was trying
hard to extricate himself from the woman's grasp; but there were other
wakeful eyes upon the watch.
Volume Three, Chapter VIII.