FRUITS OF THE DEAD SEA.
THE company he was engaged to meet were assembled in Fleet Street. He
had walked some time along the Strand, amidst a crowd of those wretches
who wait the uncertain wages of prostitution, with ideas of pity suitable
to the scene around him and the feelings he possessed, and had got as far
as Somerset House, when one of them laid hold of his arm, and, with a
voice tremulous and faint, asked him for a pint of wine, in a manner more
supplicatory than is usual with those whom the infamy of their profession
has deprived of shame. He turned round at the demand, and looked
steadfastly on the person who made it.
She was above the common size, and elegantly formed; her face was thin
and hollow, and showed the remains of tarnished beauty. Her eyes were
black, but had little of their lustre left; her cheeks had some paint
laid on without art, and productive of no advantage to her complexion,
which exhibited a deadly paleness on the other parts of her face.
Harley stood in the attitude of hesitation; which she, interpreting to
her advantage, repeated her request, and endeavoured to force a leer of
invitation into her countenance. He took her arm, and they walked on to
one of those obsequious taverns in the neighbourhood, where the dearness
of the wine is a discharge in full for the character of the house. From
what impulse he did this we do not mean to enquire; as it has ever been
against our nature to search for motives where bad ones are to be found.
They entered, and a waiter showed them a room, and placed a bottle of
claret on the table.
Harley filled the lady’s glass: which she had no sooner tasted, than
dropping it on the floor, and eagerly catching his arm, her eye grew
fixed, her lip assumed a clayey whiteness, and she fell back lifeless in
her chair.
Harley started from his seat, and, catching her in his arms, supported
her from falling to the ground, looking wildly at the door, as if he
wanted to run for assistance, but durst not leave the miserable creature.
It was not till some minutes after that it occurred to him to ring the
bell, which at last, however, he thought of, and rung with repeated
violence even after the waiter appeared. Luckily the waiter had his
senses somewhat more about him; and snatching up a bottle of water, which
stood on a buffet at the end of the room, he sprinkled it over the hands
and face of the dying figure before him. She began to revive, and, with
the assistance of some hartshorn drops, which Harley now for the first
time drew from his pocket, was able to desire the waiter to bring her a
crust of bread, of which she swallowed some mouthfuls with the appearance
of the keenest hunger. The waiter withdrew: when turning to Harley,
sobbing at the same time, and shedding tears, “I am sorry, sir,” said
she, “that I should have given you so much trouble; but you will pity me
when I tell you that till now I have not tasted a morsel these two days
past.”—He fixed his eyes on hers—every circumstance but the last was
forgotten; and he took her hand with as much respect as if she had been a
duchess. It was ever the privilege of misfortune to be revered by
him.—“Two days!” said he; “and I have fared sumptuously every day!”—He
was reaching to the bell; she understood his meaning, and prevented him.
“I beg, sir,” said she, “that you would give yourself no more trouble
about a wretch who does not wish to live; but, at present, I could not
eat a bit; my stomach even rose at the last mouthful of that crust.”—He
offered to call a chair, saying that he hoped a little rest would relieve
her.—He had one half-guinea left. “I am sorry,” he said, “that at
present I should be able to make you an offer of no more than this paltry
sum.”—She burst into tears: “Your generosity, sir, is abused; to bestow
it on me is to take it from the virtuous. I have no title but misery to
plead: misery of my own procuring.” “No more of that,” answered Harley;
“there is virtue in these tears; let the fruit of them be virtue.”—He
rung, and ordered a chair.—“Though I am the vilest of beings,” said she,
“I have not forgotten every virtue; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have
left, did I but know who is my benefactor.”—“My name is Harley.”—“Could I
ever have an opportunity?”—“You shall, and a glorious one too! your
future conduct—but I do not mean to reproach you—if, I say—it will be the
noblest reward—I will do myself the pleasure of seeing you again.”—Here
the waiter entered, and told them the chair was at the door; the lady
informed Harley of her lodgings, and he promised to wait on her at ten
next morning.
He led her to the chair, and returned to clear with the waiter, without
ever once reflecting that he had no money in his pocket. He was ashamed
to make an excuse; yet an excuse must be made: he was beginning to frame
one, when the waiter cut him short by telling him that he could not run
scores; but that, if he would leave his watch, or any other pledge, it
would be as safe as if it lay in his pocket. Harley jumped at the
proposal, and pulling out his watch, delivered it into his hands
immediately, and having, for once, had the precaution to take a note of
the lodging he intended to visit next morning, sallied forth with a blush
of triumph on his face, without taking notice of the sneer of the waiter,
who, twirling the watch in his hand, made him a profound bow at the door,
and whispered to a girl, who stood in the passage, something, in which
the word CULLY was honoured with a particular emphasis.