Although Lewis Stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his
studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his
command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady
resolution which might be almost styled heroic. To tear out the
illustrations was impossible, for Nita's portrait was stamped on every
page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. Success,
however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular
course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the "moraine"
which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and Emma, who
ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their
souls to the Good Physician. This professional work he did as a sort of
amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend Lawrence,
whose extending practice included that district. It happened also to be
the district in which Mrs Roby's new "cabin" was situated.
These labourers, in what Dr Tough had styled the London gold fields,
not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of
them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a
diamond, which was quite a prize. One such was found by Lewis about
this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered,
proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear
it himself. He and Emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they
found old Mrs Roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about
the peculiarities of the Captain and his boy.
"By the way," said Mrs Roby to Lewis, when they rose to go, "a poor
woman was here just before you came, askin' if I knew where she could
find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. The two have
come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they
appear to be very poor. I could not give her Dr Lawrence's new
address, for I don't know it, so I advised her to apply to the nearest
chemist. Perhaps, Mr Lewis, you'll go yourself and see the poor man?"
"Willingly, and I shall myself call for Lawrence on my way home and send
him, if necessary. Come, Emma. Perhaps this may be a case for the
exercise of your philanthropy."
They soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly
opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor.
"Ah, sir, you're too late, he's dead," said the woman, in reply to
Lewis's inquiry.
"O how sad!" broke from Emma's sympathetic spirit, "I am _so_ sorry we
are too late. Did you find a doctor?"
"No, ma'am, I didn't, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so I
ran back to tell the poor young thing that I'd go fetch one as quick as
I could, and I found him just dying in her arms."
"In whose arms? are not you the daughter--" said Emma.
"Me, miss! oh dear, no. I'm only a neighbour."
"Has she any friends?" asked Lewis.
"None as I knows of. They are strangers here--only just came to the
room. There it is," she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner
door.
Lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again.
Still no answer. He therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter.
It was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all
furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on
which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. Abject
poverty was stamped on the whole place. On the bed lay the dead man,
covered with a sheet. Beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a
woman. Her dress was a soiled and rusty black. Her hair, fallen from
its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. Her arms clasped the
dead form.
"My poor woman," whispered Emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand
timidly on her shoulder.
But the woman made no answer.
"She has fainted, I think," exclaimed Emma, rising quickly and trying to
raise the woman's head. Suddenly Lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the
woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face.
"Nita!" he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering
the poor faded face with kisses; but Nita heard not. It seemed as if
the silver chord had already snapped. Becoming suddenly aware of the
impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, Lewis hastily bore
the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the
old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while Emma aided him to restore
consciousness. They were soon successful. Nita heaved a sigh.
"Now, Emma," said Lewis, rising, "this is _your_ place just now, I will
go and fetch something to revive her."
He stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet.
There was no mistaking the handsome face of the Count even in death. It
was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last
from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance.
On returning, Lewis found that Nita had thrown her arms round Emma's
neck and was sobbing violently. She looked up as he entered, and held
out her hand. "God has sent you," she said, looking at Emma, "to save
my heart from breaking."
Lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no
power to utter a word. Presently, as the poor girl's eye fell on the
bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. "Oh, how he loved me!--and
how nobly he fought!--and how gloriously he conquered!--God be praised
for that!"
She spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. To distract her mind,
if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, Emma ventured to
ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar
questions. Little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking
words and tears, the sad story came out.
Ever since the night when her father met with Lewis at Saxon, he had
firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. God had opened his ear to
listen to, and his heart to receive, the Saviour. Arriving in London
with the money so generously lent to them by Lewis, they took a small
lodging and sought for work. God was faithful to His promises, she
said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. Her father taught music, she
obtained needlework. All was going well when her father became suddenly
ill. Slowly but steadily he sank. The teaching had to be given up, the
hours of labour with the needle increased. This, coupled with constant
nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold
out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for
a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work.
Then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to
sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they
had begun to accumulate about them.
"Thus," she said, in conclusion, "we were nearly reduced to a state of
destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, God
mercifully took my darling father home--and--and--I shall soon join
him."
"Say not so, darling," said Emma, twining her arms round the poor
stricken girl. "It may be that He has much work for you to do for Jesus
_here_ before He takes you home. Meanwhile, He has sent us to claim you
as our very dear friend--as our sister. You must come and stay with
mamma and me. We, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity,
which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor Nita, but we are
comparatively well off now. Mamma will be so glad to have you. Say you
will come. Won't you, dearest?"
Nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and
again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow.