He says he has a bad memory, but he always recollects the quarter-days.

He lives down in Dorsetshire, and when he comes up I can ask him if you like; perhaps he would know; or you might write; but he's sure to write to me directly to say he is coming, so that, as he says, I may be ready for him, just as if one ever was ready for one's landlord. Two years-- yes, just two years," she continued musingly. "There was a whole year at the millinery, which didn't half-pay the rent; for people here don't seem to wear bonnets, and when they do, they've been turned and cleaned and altered or somethinged or anothered, although I put my prices so low that there was no room for a bit of profit. Then there was the fancy stationery three months, which was worse, for the only kind of stationery the people fancied was penny-stamps, which cost me a penny a-piece, and then people either wanted them to be stuck on their letters, or else wrapped, up in paper. Then there was the newspaper and periodical trade, which was worse than all; for, as if just out of aggravation, the people always came and asked for the very thing you had not got. I declare that if it wasn't that you can sit down and read your stock, the periodical trade would be unbearable. Only think of the trouble people gave you by ordering things regularly and never coming and fetching them; so that the back numbers used to get piled up most terribly. And now, you know, I've been six months at this, and it's so trying, you can't think; for, you see, I'm worse off than anybody: I've not got to please the missuses--I beg pardon, the mistresses only, but the servants; and really, after my experience I can say that there's no pleasing anyone."

Septimus Hardon glanced hopelessly at Matt, but he would not see him, and took pinch after pinch of snuff furiously, with a comical expression upon his countenance the former could not interpret.

"You see, though," continued Miss Tollicks, who seemed to have made up her mind to thoroughly enjoy herself with a good talk; "you see, though, there is one advantage--there's no stock required, and it is genteel; but really, after all, it is so vexatious and pays so badly that I think I shall give it up, and take to tobacco. I suppose it's a business that pays well, and people do use it to such an extent that it's quite wonderful. But let me see! Phillips--Flips--Flips--no, I never even heard of the name; but, do you know, I shouldn't wonder if a doctor did once live here; for there's a regular street-door bell that rings down-stairs, and another that rings up in the second-floor front, just as the night-bell used to at Doctor Masters's, where I once lived at, as--ahem, ahem!--excuse my cough, pray," said Miss Tollicks, colouring; "but there!" she said sharply the next moment, "where I lived as lady's-maid, and I don't see why I should be ashamed of it."

"Hear, hear!" said old Matt, speaking for the first time.

"But can you tell who lived here before you?" said Septimus.

"O, yes; a dairy," replied Miss Tollicks; "but it was only here six months, and my landlord told me the people didn't pay any rent, but went off in the night so shabby, leaving nothing behind but a black-and-white plaster cow, and a moss-basket with three chalk eggs, in the window; and my landlord says that's why he looks so sharp after me, which isn't nice, you know; but then you can't be surprised. Let me see, I think it was a coffee-house before that."

"Perhaps," said Septimus, rising, "you will find that out for me when your landlord calls. I don't think we will trouble him by writing; and maybe you'll ask him how long it is since a Mr Phillips lived here, and if he can tell you to where he removed."

"That I will," said Miss Tollicks pleasantly; "and if you would not mind taking one of my cards, you might be able to recommend me to one or two patrons; and you too, sir," she continued, handing one to Matt, which he took with a comical amused expression, and carefully placed inside the lining of his hat.

"Hadn't you better ask for the landlord's address, and write at once?"

growled Matt, as soon as they were outside the house.

"Perhaps it would be better," said Septimus, hesitating; "but no, we won't trouble her again; and it would only hasten the matter a day or two--possibly not at all. She has been very civil and obliging."

"Very," said Matt. "Good sort of woman, she seems; but what a tongue!

As soon as ever she had trapped us in that room, `Matt, my lad,' I said, `the people in this world are divided into two cla.s.ses--talkers and listeners. You belong to the second cla.s.s, so keep your place;' and I did, sir, as you know. I never attempt to tackle a woman on her own ground, sir, which is talking. I can talk, sir, leastwise I could when I was well; but it's my humble opinion that that woman would have rapped out three words to my one."

"There," said Matt, after they had walked a little way along the street, he all the while rubbing his forefinger slowly round and round his pill snuff-box, "I've taken all my snuff, as ought to have lasted till to-morrow night, and all through that precious woman's tongue. Let's go in here, sir, and get a penn'orth."

"Here" was a very dirty-looking little tobacconist's and news-agent's; and, so as to leave no stone unturned, Matt, whilst being served, made inquiry touching Mr Phillips, a surgeon.

"No," said the woman who served, as she allayed the irritation of her nasal organ by rubbing it with the back of the hand which held the snuff-scoop, and so provoked a loud fit of sneezing,--"no, not in my time."

"How long has that been?" said Matt.

"Five years," replied the woman.

Septimus Hardon walked out of the shop, and, after paying for his snuff, old Matt followed him into the street, and they bent their steps homewards.

"I'm dull and stupid and not right, you see," said Matt, "or else I should have known why the name wasn't in the newest of those two Directories. One, you see, was more than ten years old, and the other-- well, it wasn't the newest. But you leave it to me, sir, and I'll try and find a medical directory, for I think there is such a thing. I know there is a legal one, for I helped print it; and there's one for the parsons, so there's safe to be one for the doctors. I'll ferret it out, sir; and I shall be better to-morrow. Those look nice, don't they?"

said the old man, stopping short in front of a pork-butcher's shop.

"Very," said Septimus dreamily, and without glancing at the freshly-made chains of sausages hanging from the hooks in the window.

"You may always buy your sausages here, and depend upon 'em," said Matt; "and if you'll listen to my advice, you'll take a pound back with you.

They'll wrap 'em in a bit of paper for you, and you can slip them in your pocket, and have a nice fry for tea when you get home, and then rest content; for, though we haven't done much, and I should have liked you to have taken that landlord's name and address, yet things are getting in train, I can tell you. So you wait quietly at home, sir, till I come again, for I suppose you won't want to do anything yourself.

I shall be stronger and better to-morrow or next day, I hope, for somehow I can't get along as I used, and feel weak and muddled. But there, sir, slip in and get them sausages, and have a bit of patience, and don't try to build any more till our mortar's a bit settled."

Septimus Hardon smiled sadly at the idea of his being impatient to go on with the search, and, obeying his companion's hest, he obtained the pound of flesh; and then they walked slowly on till they were once more within the shadow of the law.

"And now I'm off, sir," said Matt, stopping short in Carey-street. "I think I shall go and lie down."

"Can I do anything for you?" said Septimus earnestly.

"Yes, sir," said Matt; "let me have my own way, please. You let me go my way, and I'll work the matter out for you if it's possible, so that it shall be in trim for the lawyers, and then I'll give up. But there, I won't do anything without consulting you first, and--no, thank you; I'd rather not. No; I like sausages well enough sometimes, but not to-day, thank you; I'm off in a moment. Don't you do anything, whatever you do, to put your uncle on his guard. Depend upon it, he thinks now, after all this time, that you've given it quite up; while, if things go on as I hope, we shall come down upon him one of these days in a way that shall startle him--shake his nerves so that he sha'n't find a tonic for them."

Old Matt shuffled off, once more steadily refusing to partake of any refreshment; while Septimus slowly and thoughtfully made his way towards the entrance to the Rents, pondering over his visit to the churches some weeks back, and then thinking that it would be better to settle down contentedly in his present state, for fear that after research, labour, and endless publicity, the words of his uncle should prove to be those of truth, and his condition worse than it was at the present time.

"Better the present doubt and obscurity," he muttered. "Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison, Ellen Morris--all witnesses to the truth, but dead, dead."

"Stop, stop!" cried a voice, as he turned into the Rents; and the next moment, with his hand to his side, old Matt stood by him, gasping. "I ain't the thing to-night, sir; I'm ill, but I've got it here--here somewhere," he said, tapping his forehead, "and I can't get it out.

It's here, though. It's `medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon--so much,' isn't it? That's it, sir, ain't it?"

Septimus stared wonderingly at him.

"You may well look, sir," said Matt, panting still; "but that's it, and I've seen it somewhere, and I'll tell you where directly. It all came like a flash just after I left you; there it was, just as I saw it written down: `Medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon--so much;' and I can keep seeming to see the words dance before my eyes now. I saw them written down somewhere once, and I can't just now say where; but I seem to feel that I've got them all right, and I shall have it. Good-night, sir. Remember me to Miss Lucy;" and the old man staggered away, muttering aloud, "Medicine and attendance--medicine and attendance;"

while more than one person in the street turned to look at the bent figure, to shake a sapient head, and mutter, "Or hospital."

For poor old Matt looked sick unto death, though Septimus Hardon, deep in his own thoughts, had taken but little notice of the old man's indisposition.

Volume Two, Chapter XI.

LUCY'S BEST.

Night after night, noticed by the curate during his wanderings, by _ma mere_, and by Mr William Jarker, birdcatcher, when distant trips had detained him until late hours, there still burned a feeble light in one of the windows at Bennett's-rents; and by its gleam, until the moon rose above the houses, and looked inquisitively down upon her paper, shedding a silvery light that seemed to quench the rushlight's sickly yellow flame, now sat Lucy Grey far into the long watches, with naught to interrupt her but the occasional long-drawn breath or sigh from the back-room, or the rumble of some vehicle through the distant streets.

Once she started up and stood trembling, for a shrill scream rang upon the night breeze, but silence soon reigned again, and she retook her seat. Patiently bending over her task, with her large eager eyes strained to follow the work of her fingers, the pale girl was busily toiling on. Toiling on at what? Not at the sewing-machine, for its busy throbbing pulse was still, but carefully and slowly writing line after line in a common school copy-book to improve a handwriting already fine, delicate, and ladylike. A slate covered with figures lay too upon the table, while beside it was a French grammar, and the words written in the copy-book were in the same tongue.

And this had been Lucy's task night after night, till the red-rimmed eyes would keep open no longer, and, wearied out, she lay down to dream dreams that brought smiles to her lips, for her visions were of the prize for which she studied. But these nights of toil and the anxiety of her heart had told upon her, and upon this night, the one succeeding the journey to Finsbury, Lucy sat, looking more pale and wan than usual, and her work progressed but slowly. The place too, and the summer heat, had had their share in producing her sickly pallor, for in Bennett's-rents there was a faint lung-clinging odour that almost seemed to tell that Death had pa.s.sed over the place to put his seal upon those soon to pa.s.s away. Or was it the foul incense men burn to his dread shrine, calling him to their homes--the thin invisible mist rising from filth and rottenness, to blight the rosy cheek of health? There was enough in Bennett's-rents to drive away health, strength, and youth; for premature old age lurked in the foul cisterns, rose from the drains, and dwelt in the crowded habitations, houses made to accommodate six, yet containing perhaps thirty or forty, souls. But Lucy was sick at heart as well. Months upon months had she dwelt in the wretched court, though until now its impurities had not seemed to touch her as she pa.s.sed to and fro.

The work went on slowly, and, weary and sad at heart, she stopped at times, gazing up at the bright moon, till, recalling her wandering thoughts, she again bent eagerly to her task. Still her thoughts would not be controlled, and soon the slate took the place of the paper, and her pencil formed two words over which she bent lovingly, and yet with a shudder, as if it were ominous to her hopes that she had written these words, for the pencil gritted loudly over the slate, and the last stroke was made with a harsh grating shriek which sounded loudly in the silence of the night. Still she bent lovingly over the characters, until, drip, drip, drip, the tears fell upon them, and then, as her white forehead sank upon her hands, the long gleaming cl.u.s.ters of her bright hair swept over the slate, and the words were gone, while the girl wept long and bitterly, for her dream of the future seemed rudely broken--that happy dream of her life whose rosy hues had served to soften the misery of her lot. Toiling hard by day to supply the wants of her suffering mother, working by night to make herself more worthy--to raise herself if but a step nearer to him; and now it seemed to her that she had been roughly dashed from the point to which she had climbed, by the words and looks of a low ruffian whose very presence was repelling.

Suddenly Lucy raised her head, for the night was hot, and the window open, and in the stillness of the hour she heard approaching footsteps-- steps that she seemed to know, and her pulses beat tumultuously as they appeared to stop at the end of the court for a few minutes, and then pa.s.s on; when, as if a weight had been removed from her heart, the poor girl sighed, breathed more freely, and again bent over her books.

An hour pa.s.sed, and then once more Lucy looked up, for, clear and sharp, "tap, tap, tap," came the sound as of something hard, a tiny shot, a pebble striking against the window-panes, and then once more there was silence.

Lucy rose softly, her cheeks pale and lips apart, and stole on tiptoe to the door of the back-room and listened.

All was silent there but the heavy breathing of sleepers, so she again crossed the room, and with the nail of one finger gave a sharp tap upon the pane, then hastily tying on her bonnet and drawing on a shawl, she once more stood trembling and eagerly listening at the back-room, her pale young face wearing a strange, frightened expression, and then slowly and softly she stole to the door, opened it quietly, and closed it again, to stand outside upon the dark landing gazing fearfully up and down, as if in dread of being molested.

Slowly down she then pa.s.sed step by step, with the old worn boards now and again creaking sharply beneath her light weight, every rustle of her dress sounding loud and distinct in the silence--down slowly to the dark pa.s.sage and the front-door, left always on the latch for the convenience of the many lodgers. And now Lucy's heart beat heavily, for she had pa.s.sed along the entry in an agony of fear, lest she might encounter someone sleeping upon the floor, for at times homeless ones had stolen in and rested there, glad of such a refuge from the night wind.

But Lucy stood at the door in safety, and raised the latch. The paint cracked loudly as the door opened, and admitted the faint light of moon and lamp, while now the wind sighed mournfully down the court. The next moment the door was closed, and a dark figure had seized Lucy by the hand, and drawn her towards one of the many gloomy entrances, as the heavy step of a policeman was heard to pa.s.s the end of the court, his ringing paces gradually growing fainter and fainter, till once more all was still but the moaning sigh of the night wind, as it seemed at times almost to wail for the miseries of Bennett's-rents.

A quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour pa.s.sed; but save the occasional rattle of wheels in the great thoroughfare, all was silent.

The many doorways in Bennett's-rents seemed to frown darkly and mysteriously as the one lamp flickered, while, where the moonbeams did not fall, there were gloomy shadows. But at last came the light step of Lucy and the soft rustle of her dress as she crept up to the door, pa.s.sed through to steal once more up the creaking stairs, to throw off bonnet and shawl, and sit down panting and trembling, her breath coming hardly for a while, till tears came to her relief, when she wept long and bitterly, the heavy booming of a neighbouring clock sending a shudder through her frame.

Now pushing back her hair from her forehead, she looked out angrily upon the night, now drooping and weeping bitterly, her head again sank upon her hands as the tears of hopeless misery gushed from her eyes. The moonbeams shed their silvery l.u.s.tre upon her head as she bent there, playing amidst the riches of her beautiful hair, caressing it, hiding and glancing from amidst the thick tresses, lingering there, and seeming to shed a halo around. But slowly the radiant orb rode on till but half the bright tresses were in the light, and still slowly the shadows increased as the rays swept by, flooding first one and then another part of the room. Soon all within was darkness, while the court was light; and then slowly the shadow began to climb the houses on the other side, making their dingy walls less loathsome as seen through the silvery medium. But before the lower part of the court was quite in darkness, a heavy, slouching figure might have been seen to creep up to the house on the opposite side and enter the door. A few minutes after, Lucy Grey started and listened, for, in the strange stillness of the time, a rustling was heard upon the stairs, followed by a faint but laboured breathing; while, though her light was extinguished, Lucy crouched trembling in her chair, for it seemed to her that she had been watched, and that even now there was a piercing eye at the keyhole, which fixed her to her seat so that she dare not move. But at last, from sheer exhaustion, her fair young head drooped lower and lower towards the table, sinking upon her shapely arms; when once more came the rumble of a vehicle in the street, the heavy tread of the policeman upon the pavement--this time right along the court--in firm, ringing steps, that gave wrong-doers ample notice of his coming, and then again silence.

They were wild dreams that made fevered the sleep of Lucy Grey. Now it was Arthur Sterne; now _ma mere_ and her son, or the low, bull-dog face of Jarker, that disturbed her rest, and she moaned in her sleep again and again as the night wore on. The writing upon her slate was gone; the copies were blurred and tear-blistered, and the poor girl slept heavily and painfully. Now she sighed, now she started, for her heart was rent and torn--as gentle a heart as ever beat in woman's breast; but, like a blight, the breath of suspicion had rested on her, and she had shrunk back scathed before the man for whose coming it had been the pleasure of her life to watch.

What was there to live for now? she asked herself again and again. Was life to be only a dreary blank--a struggle for mere existence? And then she blamed herself for her folly and ambition. Had Arthur Sterne never crossed the light of her life she could have patiently toiled on, never wearying of the plaints of her mother; but now, after months, almost years of hopefulness, to come to this! Well might the sleep be fitful, and the dreams those which brought trouble, for the sun of her life seemed clouded, and hope a thing of the past.