"Eh! what? Going to which?" exclaimed Tim, startled.

"Am I going to die, and go away?" said the child again.

"I'm blessed!" muttered Tim; "who's agoing to answer questions like that? Why, we're all of us going to die some day, my pretty," said Tim, aloud, and in quite a cheery voice, whose fire he directly after damped by singing, in a peculiar reedy, cracked voice--

"Oh! that'll be joyful!

Joyful, joy-yoy-ful, joy-hoy-ful!"

but in so melancholy a fashion that it was evident that Tim Ruggles did not look forward to the joyful event with much pleasure.

"Yes, I know that," said little Pine, dreamily; "but am I going to die soon, and go to my own mother? Mrs Johnson, who lived up-stairs, used to take cod-liver oil, and she soon died."

"Bother Mrs Johnson!" exclaimed Tim, fiercely. "I say, you know, you mustn't talk like that, my pet; it makes one feel just as if cold water was running all down one's back. You ain't Mrs Johnson, and you're taking that there stuff to make you strong and well. Now, come on, and let's say catechism."

"No, please, not this morning," little Pine would say; "my head does ache so, so much, and catechism makes me cough;" and then the sharp little elbow would rest upon the thin knee, and the child lay her head upon her hand, and listen to the tailor as he tried to tell her stories raked up piecemeal out of his memory, where they had rested for so many years that they had grown rusty, and hardly recognisable. Puss would somehow manage to get into the wrong boots, and perform wonders in the famed seven-league pair; a sensational story would be compiled out of the exploits of Jack the Giant-killer, Jack Sprat, and the hero of the bean-stalk; while to make out from Tim's description where Robinson Crusoe's adventures began, and Sinbad the Sailor's ended, would have puzzled the most learned.

For, after the fashion of his craft, Tim would baste one piece on to another, and fit in here, and fit in there, according to the circ.u.mstances of the case; the invariable result being that little Pine would begin to nod; when Tim would steal softly off his board, and closer and closer to her till he could let the weary little head rest against his breast, kneeling there in some horribly uncomfortable position until the short dose was over, and the child would once more start into wakefulness, to gaze up in a frightened way in his face.

Then, seeing who held her, she would smile, and close her heavy eyelids, nestling down closer and closer, within the open waistcoat, the little thin arms trying to clasp her protector tightly; Tim anxiously watching the while, with contracted brows, the painful catching of the child's breath, and the spasms of pain that contracted her little features.

The church duties took Mrs Ruggles much away now, to the softening of these latter days of the poor child's life; and many and many an hour would Tim spend in the way described--hours which he had to work far into the night to redeem, when others were sleeping; so that the item of paraffin became so heavy in the domestic economy that Tim had to replenish the can on the sly, after the manner of the cod-liver oil bottle; and the consequence was, that his ordinary moderate amount of beer-money seldom found its way to the publican's.

How swiftly sped those minutes spent with poor little Pine! and how slowly would the hours crawl on, when, with his shaded lamp throwing its glow upon his work, Tim would sit st.i.tching patiently away like what he was--a little, shrunken, shrivelled tailor!

Volume 1, Chapter XXII.

TIM SEEKS SYMPATHY.

"I don't know what to make of that child, ma'am," said Tim, on one of his visits to Duplex Street. "I'm afraid she's in a bad way, and that we ought to see another doctor;" and as he spoke he gazed vacantly at a guinea-pig on the hearth, a present from Monsieur Canau to one of the children, and brought from Decadia.

"Then why not take her to one, Mr Ruggles?" said Mrs Jared, rather tartly, for she strongly disapproved of Tim's obedience to his better half.

"Expense--expense--expense, ma'am," said Tim. "You see, Mrs Ruggles keeps the purse, and has her own ideas about money. Wonderfully clever woman; but I don't quite think she sees how bad poor little Pine is."

"Mr Ruggles, I don't like your wonderfully clever women," said Mrs Jared; "they are not worth much generally. I like to see a woman clever enough to do her duty to her husband and family; and if she knows that, and does it well, she is quite clever enough to my way of thinking."

"Gently, my dear, gently," said Jared; for Mrs Pellet was growing rather warm, and--as is peculiar to the female s.e.x--loud; but Jared's words acted like oil, and his wife's feathers grew smooth directly.

Some time had elapsed since Tim Ruggles had made his appearance in Duplex Street, for the trousers trade had been brisk, and he had been busy enough at home, while messages from the foreman of the shop for which he worked were constantly being borne to Carnaby Street to know "whether Ruggles meant to wear out that last pair of trousers as well as make them;" or, "if he did not mean to make those last two pair, to send them back and let somebody else." "When, you know," said Tim, "at my place it was all board; I had my breakfast on the board, my dinner on the board, my tea on the board, my supper on the board, and for two or three nights the only sleep I had was an hour or two when I lay down on the board; and once I dreamed that I was a sewing-machine, and that Mrs Ruggles was turning my handle, when she was only shaking my arm because it was morning, and time for me to be up and at work again."

There was peace in the domestic grove at Duplex Street; the little ones were all in bed; Patty was thinking of Janet and her goldfish, and sometimes of Harry Clayton, as she sewed on b.u.t.tons and strings where small garments needed them; and Mrs Jared was industriously embroidering a workhouse-window pattern upon one of a basketful of stockings, some of which strongly resembled the Irishman's knife, for it was a difficult matter to make out any portion of the original hose, so covered were they with Mrs Jared's darnings.

Jared himself was busy with his glue-pot, the constant companion of his leisure evenings. That glue-pot was to Jared Pellet what a pocket-knife is to some people, and a ball of string to others--it was a perfect treasure, and with it he performed feats strongly allied to those of Robin, Houdin, or Wiljalba Frikell, without taking into consideration the money it earned him. Boots and shoes were renovated to a wonderful extent; wall-paper torn down by tiny mischievous fingers was replaced; broken chairs had their limbs set; in fact, Jared looked upon glue as a panacea, even going so far as to pop sc.r.a.ps in his mouth, though it cannot be avowed that he swallowed them, and it may only have been for the purpose of cleaning his fingers. And yet, it was a nasty little pot, being of a vicious character, and given to boiling over and covering Mrs Jared's hobs and polished black bars with a nasty sticky slime that would not come off; while, when she remonstrated with Jared, being naturally proud of her black-leading, he quietly told her that it was of the nature of glue to stick, and that the little pot ought to have been watched. Just as if it was of any use to watch the treacherous little object; for one moment it would be calm, and the next in a state of violent eruption, hissing, bubbling, and sending forth noxious jets of steam to an extent which made it unapproachable.

Tim Ruggles sat very silent after Mrs Jared had spoken, for he entertained a most profound respect for her expressions of opinion; and the upshot of that conversation was, that, in spite of his wife's opposition, he took little Pine to a doctor--a hint, however, which he dropped at home relative to the possibility of a cessation of certain payments, in the event of what he called "anything happening," somewhat softened Mrs Ruggles' opposition. The next time, too, after that conversation that Tim went to Bedford Row to draw the bi-monthly payment, he ventured to suggest that a little medical advice was necessary for the child, when the gentleman who took his receipt said, "Oh!" in a quiet manner, as much as to say, "I quite agree with you; and you think so, do you?"

"Her cough tears her poor little chest terrible, sir," said Tim, respectfully.

"Indeed!" said the legal gentleman, who was very pale, smooth, and cool.

"Her sleep's broken a good deal, too, sir," said Tim, warming to his task.

"Ah!" said the legal gentleman, with a quiet, well-bred smile, which no amount of torturing would have turned into a laugh.

"It wherrits me to hear her, sir--awful," said Tim; "and I think if them as belongs to her knowed, they'd--"

"Give instructions? eh!" said the legal gentleman. "There, there! she's in capital hands--couldn't be in better. Try a little magnesia, or dill water, or squills, or what you like. Good morning, Mr Ruggles. You have the note, I think. This day two months, mind."

"But, sir," exclaimed Tim, eagerly, "if you was to put it to them."

"Exactly," said the legal gentleman; "Parker & Tomlin's abstract on office-table. Coming!" he exclaimed, replying to some imaginary call.

"Good morning, Mr Ruggles; this day two months."

Tim found himself the next minute in the entry, holding the money he had received very far down in his pocket with one hand, as if every one in Bedford Row and its vicinity was intent upon garrotting him, and bearing off his cash.

"Squills, indeed! magneshy!" muttered Tim, indignantly; "I'd like to give him magneshy--a brute. It's my opinion as they wouldn't much mind if something was to happen, and this sorter thing could be dropped;" and he left hold of his money, drew forth that hand and slapped his pocket; but only to thrust back the hand and once more hold tightly to his treasure, for he told himself that some of it should go in comforts for the child, or he'd know the reason why.

Tim crossed Holborn, and made his way into a retired street, where he gave vent to a deep sigh, and, as if continuing his interrupted train of thought, he muttered--

"I can't say as I shall only go once, or whether it'll be twice, or a hundred times, to fetch this; but it's my opinion something will happen."

The thought of "something" happening seemed to cut Tim to the quick, for as if to force back the rising grief, he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and hurried through the streets to his abode, where he found Mrs Ruggles waiting to take charge of the money.

"Of course not," exclaimed that lady, as soon as Tim, taking advantage of the child having dropped into one of her short slumbers, had related his conversation with the lawyer. "What would they care? Glad of it, as hundreds more would be; but we'll disappoint them; they're not going to get off so easy as they expect."

Tim hugged himself in secret as he saw the effect of his words; for after that, for a season, Mrs Ruggles was very particular in seeing that the child took her medicine, and was at the dispensary regularly at the proper hours for receiving advice.

But this did not last long; Mrs Ruggles declaring that she thought, after all, there was not much the matter, and returning to her old ways, though even her hard fierce nature shrank from treating so severely as had been her former custom the poor suffering child surely fading away before her eyes.

Volume 1, Chapter XXIII.

HARRY'S EMPLOY.

The letter which Harry Clayton found at his chambers was in answer to an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _Times_; for, finding himself somewhat straitened for money, and, in his pride, determined not to apply to Richard Pellet, Harry had offered his services to read with some young patrician preparing for college. The result of the ensuing correspondence was, that he became what he termed bear-leader to one Lionel Redgrave, son of a wealthy baronet; the affair being quickly settled, and the old baronet, who had been favourably impressed by Harry's frank, manly bearing, warmly expressed his confidence that the result would be highly advantageous to his son.

Harry knew that his expectations were good; but a growing distaste for the life at Norwood had kept him away more and more, so that, save for occasional visits paid for the sake of seeing his mother, there was very little communication kept up; and, judging from Richard Pellet's behaviour, it seemed likely that there would be less still in the future. So Harry eagerly made his arrangements, and a short time after, the young men were together in town, where Lionel Redgrave had determined to have chambers for the present, an arrangement in nowise distasteful to Harry Clayton, who pa.s.sed his days in a state of feverish anxiety at Cambridge, in spite of his determination to read; telling himself that, after all, if he expected to win Patty, he ought not to cease to strive to see her, however unlucky he had hitherto been.

He was to meet her soon though, little as he expected it, and in a way that should take him by surprise, so much so, that he returned from his encounter bitter and annoyed.

It was evening, and the roar of fashionable Regent Street came incessantly through the entresol window.

Harry Clayton was reading, and Lionel Redgrave--a tall, well-made young fellow--was lolling back in his chair, smoking with all his might.

Three or four times over the latter impatiently shifted his position, going through the performance of one who is terribly bored; but his fidgeting attracted no attention till, in a bluff loud voice, he exclaimed--

"My dear Harry, what a serious old cad you are! Throw away those books."