"You ought to have been a woman, Mr Ruggles," said Mrs Jared, one
Sunday, when Tim came to see them after church, bringing with him little
Pine. "He had taken her for a treat," he said, "to hear Mr Pellet play
the organ;" and now, having accepted Mrs Jared's pressing invitation to
dinner, he had been explaining to that lady the various plans he had
adopted for keeping the child warm, for Mrs Jared had been taking quite
a motherly interest in the gentle little thing, and recommending
flannels and wrapping.
But Tim had forestalled her, as he triumphantly showed, for there was
flannel in various forms, neatly stitched and adapted. The little
jacket the child wore was built by Tim, and in various ways he displayed
how thoroughly he loved his charge.
Sundays were glorious days for Tim and little Pine, since Mrs Ruggles
would spend so much of her time at St Runwald's. Sometimes Tim would
take the child to church, and sit as close to the organ as possible,
that Pine might catch a glimpse of Jared through the curtains, and
listen to the strains he made the grand old instrument pour forth; for
Jared kept to the old fashion of playing a symphony between each verse
of psalm or hymn, at times, too, forgetting himself and lengthening out
his extempore scraps to a strange extent. But vicar and congregation
murmured not; Mr Timson was the only objector, and when he found fault,
Jared always apologised so pleasantly, that the most rigid of
churchwardens ought to have been satisfied, though Mr Timson was not,
for he would say to the vicar, "Why, he'll forget all about it by next
Sunday;" and Mr Timson was quite right.
But little Pine used to say it made her think, and would lay her head
against the boards, and close her eyes as though in rapt attention.
"It makes me think about her," she would whisper to Tim, if he rose to
go before Jared had finished his voluntary; and then Tim would look
mournful, as he reseated himself, and took hold of the little wasted
hand raised to make him stay.
And then what walks they would have--those two--now to Regent's, now to
St James's Park--walks of toil for Tim, whose heart would sink as he
found the child less and less able to bear the exertion; stopping
occasionally to rest, or looking pitifully up in his face to say--"Don't
walk so fast, please." I wonder how many miles Tim would carry that
child upon a fine Sunday? Day of rest! It was a day of hard labour for
Tim; but it was a labour of love. If the day were cold, he would trudge
along merrily; while, if it were warm, he would still go on, his face
shining with pleasure, and the perspiration standing in beads amongst
the wrinkles. "If we could only manage a kerridge," he had said once;
but little Pine flinched from the idea.
"It would look so childish for me to ride in one," she said, wearily,
and Tim gazed wonderingly at the strange old look upon the child's face,
as she passed a finger across her forehead and temples to smooth back
the stray hairs, now on this side, now on the other, where they lay
lightly on the broad blue-veined expanse.
One of Tim's favourite spots was the lodge in Hyde Park, where curds and
whey were sold; but the little invalid did not seem to care much for the
treat, as Tim called it, but she used to sit, spoon in hand, and sip and
sip, looking longingly the while at the flowers.
It must have been on account of this love that little Pine showed for
flowers that Tim braved Mrs Ruggles's displeasure by becoming terribly
enamoured of them himself, buying pots of musk and geraniums, and little
rose trees, which all brought a light into the child's eye, though in
that close room in Carnaby Street the plants soon lost their bloom,
fading day by day, now dropping a blossom, now a leaf, in spite of such
fresh air as could be obtained, watering, and placing them in the sun so
long as it shone on the back-room windows.
"They wants more fresher air," Tim would say; and then, as he threaded
his needle, he would look across the room at little Pine, and sigh
softly to himself as he thought of how she too seemed to want fresher
air, such as he could only give her once a week, while, if it happened
to be a wet Sunday, though he would willingly have staggered along,
carrying the child, with an umbrella held over her, he dared not take
her into the damp air, but sat at home to tell her wondrous stories of
the good old times, or read her what he considered to be entertaining
and instructive scraps from _The Weekly Despatch_. Some people might
have considered his selections unsuitable; but they proved beneficial to
the child, for they invariably sent her to sleep.
Poor Tim anxiously watched and trimmed that little lamp of life, whose
flame wavered so whenever the cold easterly winds blew down the streets
or drove the choking smoke back into the room. Oil, oil, oil, and more
oil, and more oil, and then for a while the flame would brighten, and so
would Tim, and chuckle and rub his hands, and stitch on night and day as
if trying to do without sleep. No mornings were too dark or too cold
for Tim, who could wake to five minutes, at three, four, or five o'clock
in the dark; and there he would be with open waistcoat, cross-legged
upon his board, glasses mounted and lamp shaded, stitch--stitch--stitch,
hour after hour, to make up for the time lost with little Pine.
How he reckoned minutes and hours between times, so that the medicine
should be administered to the moment--an observance which he held to be
absolutely necessary to ensure efficacy; and more than once he was
almost in agony for fear that Mrs Ruggles should have administered a
couple of doses too closely together. Never did doctor have nurse so
exact in carrying out his instructions, and, could attention have
ensured it, little Pine would soon have grown strong.
But it was not to be; the little eyes grew brighter, and the fragile
form more thin day by day; day by day a weary listlessness crept over
the child, while, as if compassionating her sufferings, Nature was kind,
and continued to soothe her often with a gentle loving sleep.
More oil, and more again, and then a flicker and a leap up of the flame
that had for days been sinking slowly. But the flashes, though bright,
were evanescent, and he who trimmed so diligently oft felt his heart to
sink.
But Tim's despondency never lasted long. "She'll be better soon as the
wind changes," he would say; but the wind changed, and still Pine sank.
"Oil's not so strong as the last," then Tim would say; and the next time
the stock grew low he would trot off to a fresh chemist's, whose
medicament would have no better effect than the last. So poor Tim would
try, in his anxiety, another and another, until he had put every chemist
within range under contribution, but with no more satisfactory result.
"I'm sure it ain't so strong," he would exclaim half-a-dozen times a
day; and then he would bring out his own stock from under a little pile
of cloth shreds, remove the cork, and apply the bottle-neck first to one
and then to the other nostril, shaking his head afterwards in a most
learned manner, and vowing that it was the most cruel thing he knew to
adulterate a medicine.
Tim would even go so far as to feel the child's pulse after the fashion
of the dispensary doctor, when, having no watch, he would attentively
gaze the while at the swinging pendulum of the old Dutch clock. And
though it is extremely doubtful whether he could tell any difference in
the regularity of the beats, yet he always seemed to derive a great deal
of satisfaction from the proceeding.
But little Pine seldom complained, and then only softly to Tim, as she
crept to him for comfort. She never hesitated to take from his hands
her nauseous medicine, and day after day Tim carefully, anxiously
trimmed the little lamp, which, in spite of all his care, burned lower
and lower, flickering in the socket, until such time as a harsher blast
than usual should beat it out.