PRELIMINARIES.
At last, just as the nephew was positively fainting from
exhaustion, in came his kind old aunt to bed. She talked a good deal to
herself, did Mrs. Quarles, and Simon heard her say,
"Poor fellow--poor, dear Simon, he was taken bad last night, and has
seemed queerish in the head all day: pray God nothing's amiss with the
boy!"
The boy's heart (he was forty) smote him as he heard: yes, even he was
vexed that Aunt Bridget could be so foolishly fond of him. But he would
go on now, and not have all his toil for nothing. "I'm in for it," said
he, "and there's an end."
Ay, Simon, you are, indeed, in for it; the devil has locked you in--but
as to the end, we shall see, we shall see.
"I shouldn't wonder now," the good old soul went on to say, "if
Simon's wentured out without his hat to cool a head-ache: his
grand-father--peace be with him! died, poor man, in a Lunacy 'Sylum:
alack, Si, I wish you mayn't be going the same road. No, no, I hope
not--he's always so prudent-like, and wise, and good; so kind, too, to a
poor old fool like me:" and the poor old fool began to cry again.
"Silly boy--but he'll take cold at any rate: Sarah!" (here Mrs. Quarles
rung her bell, and the still-maid answered it.) "Sarah Stack, sit up
awhile for Mr. Jennings, and when he comes in, send him here to me. Poor
boy," she went on soliloquizing, "he shall have a drop or two to comfort
his stomach, and keep the chill out."
The poor boy, lying _perdu_, shuddered at the word chill, and really
wished his aunt would hold her tongue. But she didn't.
"Maybe now," the affectionate old creature proceeded, "maybe Simon was
vexed at what I let drop last night about the money. I know he loves his
sister Scott, as I do: but it'll seem hard, too, to leave him nothing. I
must make my will some day, I 'spose; but don't half like the job: it's
always so nigh death. Yes--yes, dear Si shall have a snug little
corner."
The real Simon Pure, in his own snug little corner, writhed again. Mrs.
Quarles started at the noise, looked up the chimney, under the bed,
tried the doors and windows, and actually went so near the mark as to
turn the handle of the shower-bath; "Drat it," said she, "Sarah must ha'
took away the key: well, there can't be nothing there but cloaks, that's
one comfort."
Last of all, a thought struck her--it must have been a mouse at the
preserves. And Mrs. Quarles forthwith opened the important cupboard,
where Jennings now well knew the idol of his heart was shrined. Then
another thought struck Mrs. Quarles, though probably no unusual one, and
she seemed to have mounted on a chair, and to be bringing down some
elevated piece of crockery. Simon could see nothing with his eyes, but
his ears made up for them: if ever Dr. Elliotson produced clairvoyance
in the sisters Okey, the same sharpened apprehensions ministered to the
inner man of Simon Jennings through the instrumental magnet of his
inordinately covetous desires. Therefore, though his retina bore no
picture of the scene, the feelers of his mind went forth, informing him
of every thing that happened.
Down came a Narbonne honey-pot--Simon saw that first, and it was as the
lamp of Aladdin in his eyes: then the bladder was whipped off, and the
crock set open on the table. Jennings, mad as Darius's horse at the
sight of the object he so longed for, once thought of rushing from his
hiding-place, taking the hoard by a _coup de main_, and running off
straightway to America: but--deary me--that'll never do; I mustn't leave
my own strong-box behind me, say nothing of hat and shoes: and if I stop
for any thing, she'd raise the house.
While this was passing through the immaculate mind of Simon Jennings,
Bridget had been cutting up an old glove, and had made one of its
fingers into a very tidy little leather sacklet; into this she deposited
a bright half sovereign, spoil of the day, being the douceur of a needy
brush-maker, who wished to keep custom, and, of course, charged all
these vails on the current bill for mops and stable-sponges.
"Ha!" muttered she, "it's your last bill here, Mr. Scrubb, I can tell
you; so, you were going to put me off with a crown-piece, were you? and
actually that bit of gold might as well have been a drop of blood wrung
from you: yes--yes, Mr. Scrubb, I could see that plainly; and so you've
done for yourself."
Then, having sewed up the clever little bag, she dropped it into the
crock: there was no jingle, all dumby: prudent that, in his aunt--for
the dear morsels of gold were worth such tender keeping, and leather
would hinder them from wear and tear, set aside the clink being
silenced. So, the nephew secretly thanked Bridget for the wrinkle, and
thought how pleasant it would be to stuff old gloves with his own yellow
store. Ah, yes, he would do that--to-morrow morning.
Meanwhile, the pig-skin is put on again, and the honey-pot stored away:
and Simon instinctively stood a tip-toe to peep ideally into that
wealthy corner cupboard. His mind's eye seemed to see more honey-pots!
Mammon help us! can they all be full of gold? why, any one of them would
hold a thousand pounds. And Simon scratched the palms of his hands, and
licked his lips at the thought of so much honey.
But see, Mrs. Quarles has, in her peculiar fashion, undressed herself:
that is to say, she has taken off her outer gown, her cap and wig--and
then has _added_ to the volume of her under garments, divers night
habiliments, flannelled and frilled: while wrappers, manifold as a
turbaned Turk's, protect ear-ache, tooth-ache, head-ache, and face-ache,
from the elves of the night.
And now, that the bedstead creaks beneath her weight, (as well it may,
for Bridget is a burden like Behemoth,) Simon's heart goes thump so
loud, that it was a wonder the poor woman never heard it. That heart in
its hard pulsations sounded to me like the carpenter hammering on her
coffin-lid: I marvel that she did not take it for a death-watch tapping
to warn her of her end. But no: Simon held his hand against his heart to
keep it quiet: he was so very fearful the pitapating would betray him.
Never mind, Simon; don't be afraid; she is fast asleep already; and her
snore is to thee as it were the challenge of a trumpeter calling to the
conflict.