"Jean, Jean! but you are _bete--fou_!" exclaimed his mother, trembling with fear and rage at this folly, as she thought of the money he had given for the birds.

"I hate him, I hate him!" hissed Jean furiously, while, watching him through her closed eyes, the old woman nodded quickly to herself, as she muttered and thought of her own early days, and it seemed to her that Jean's heart was as easy to read as that printed book at his side.

But at this time Mr Jarker was slouching out of his room, and shouldering his way down the stairs, stopping the blowing of Mrs Sims'

fire for an instant, as he growled audibly in pa.s.sing; then down into the court, where the index fingers of his hands were thrust into his mouth, and he was about to make a long and piercing whistle for the delectation of some pa.s.sing pigeons as they flew over the strip of heaven seen from the flags of the court; but a glance at the first-floor window where dwelt the Hardons checked him. The next minute, though, the birds repa.s.sed, and Bill whistled loudly again and again; but the birds would not listen to this shrill voice of the charmer, the charmer himself, side-locks and all, went and stood at the bottom of the court, against the bright blue gilt-lettered boards of the public, where he rubbed the shoulders of his sleeve-waistcoat shiny, as he stood slouching about, and sucking one end of his spotted neck-tie.

"Whatcher going to stand, Bill?" said a gentleman of his acquaintance, a gentleman with a voice singularly like one that had been heard in the old Grange at Somesham upon a memorable night. This gentleman had a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, his coiffure being of the same order as that of Mr Jarker, while, being evidently of a terpsich.o.r.ean turn of mind, he enlivened the street with a "pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pit-pit, pat," toe-and-heel dance upon the cellar-flap of the public-house, where, his boots being stout and well-nailed, and the flap very hollow beneath, his efforts were attended with so much noise that the potboy of the establishment thrust out a closely-cropped head between the swing doors, where he held it as if in the process of being shorn off, at the same time requesting the light-heeled gentleman to "Drop that 'ere now, come!"

But instead of standing anything to quench the thirst of the new-comer, Mr Jarker stood upon the order of his going; for just then, laden with a large parcel of work, Lucy Grey pa.s.sed out of the court and encountered Mr Sterne, who saluted, and then turned with a grave, pained countenance to gaze after her, as he saw Jarker follow, slouching along as if his boots were soled with lead, diver fashion, and he of so ethereal a nature that the ponderous metal was necessary to prevent him from shooting up into heaven like a stickless rocket minus the tail of fire.

The curate turned thoughtfully up the court, and began his round of visits, listening to complaints here, supplications there, but finding nowhere rest. He went thoughtfully through his round of duties that day, hearing and speaking mechanically, for always before his eyes there was the light, graceful form of Lucy, followed by the hound-like Jarker, and as he thought the lines grew deeper and deeper in his forehead. He listened to Mrs Sims' praises of the child--praises delivered in a lachrymose tone, as a strong odour of rum pervaded the place. He listened to _ma mere's_ complaints of Jean, and felt an insinuation against her fellow-lodger's fair fame stab him as it were to the heart; while surprised he gazed upon the fury with which the son turned upon his mother; and then descending, his task nearly done, the curate sat by the bedside of Mrs Hardon.

There stood the sewing-machine in the next room; there was the chair in which Lucy had been so lately seated, and where even now he could picture her form. But, silent and abstracted, he listened for the twentieth time to the story of the murmuring woman's troubles, and what she had suffered since they had been in town. He listened, but he was asking himself the while whether Lucy merited the love he would pour at her feet--asking himself whether it was possible for a pure, fair, spotless lily to bloom amidst the pollution around. Still, too, came the remembrance of the words of the old Frenchwoman--"Our beauty, some of us." Once admitting doubt to his breast, the strange thoughts teemed in, bringing up the woman he had seen and tracked in vain, and above all the low ruffian whom he had seen d.o.g.g.i.ng the fair girl's footsteps but that very day, when love had whispered, "Follow!" and pride cried, "Nay, stand aloof!" for he recalled their last interview. Then, again, he asked himself how dared he believe words that slurred her fair fame, when his conscience whispered to him that they were like their source-- vile; but, surrounded as he was by vice and misery, might he not well wonder whether Lucy's fair face spoke truth in its candour-tinged aspect, or was like the hundreds he encountered in his daily walks--fair to view, but with a canker within?

He told himself that he could watch her no longer--that he could not play the spy; and once again he prayed for strength to conquer the pa.s.sion that seemed to sway him at its will; for he could not comprehend the behaviour of its object. Love he had thought to be buried for ever with his betrothed; but from her grave the seed seemed to have returned to him untainted by time, and with all its quickening, germinating powers ready to shoot forth and blossom in a wealth of profusion for another. And he knew that it must be lavished upon Lucy, even though she still repulsed him. And now, again, his eye brightened as, dashing down the sinister thoughts, he would see only her faith and truth, smiling at poverty when he called up the riches of her heart--riches that he saw poured forth for the murmuring parent, for whose wants she toiled on incessantly, winning for her many a comfort that the sick woman could not else have enjoyed; and even then with the overflowings of her young heart ready for the neglected child.

"For the neglected child!" What a gloomy starting-point for another train of thought, embracing its mother, tall, dark, and rouge-cheeked; Jarker, the ruffian, tracking Lucy's steps; and lastly, _ma mere_, who seemed even then whispering in his ear, "Our beauty, some of us!"

Arthur Sterne acknowledged that he was weak, though he fought hard with his soul-a.s.sailing enemies; while the track of the storm he was encountering was marked in his face, as he strolled slowly homewards, but only to pause startled at the mouth of the court.

Volume Three, Chapter IV.

LUCY'S TROUBLE.

Lucy's eyes turned very dim as soon as she had pa.s.sed Mr Sterne, and things wore a strangely blurred aspect. She would have given worlds to have thrown herself upon his breast, and told all--of Agnes Hardon and her sorrow, confided to her alone, as the suffering woman begged of her to love her for her child's sake, and not to turn upon her the cold bitter eyes of the world at large; and again and again Lucy had taken the pa.s.sive, wasted, tearful face of Agnes to her breast, in the rare and stealthy meetings they had had, and wept over her, little knowing that Agnes possessed a secret which she felt that she could not divulge for the sake of those whom she had injured. Again and again Lucy had implored her leave to confide in Septimus Hardon, but Agnes had refused so firmly, telling her that the day her presence was betrayed would be that of their last meeting--telling her so angrily, but only to kneel at her feet the next moment, and ask her to bear for a little longer with an erring woman, whose stay in this world might not be for long. And so Lucy toiled on, bearing the scathing breath of calumny; pointed at by suspicion; and wounded again and again in her tenderest feelings by the only man she had ever felt that she could love. They were her own words, poor girl, though little had she seen of the world at large. She told herself that it was cruel of him to treat her as he did; but what could she do? And then she shivered as she thought of stolen meetings by night--meetings which should take place no more--while she wept bitterly as she hurried through the streets thinking of the misery of her lot.

She had no veil to her shabby bonnet, and it was only at last by a strong effort that she forced back the tears; for she felt that people were staring hard at her as she pa.s.sed. But it was no unusual thing for people to look hard at Lucy Grey, while there was variety in those glances; there were, from women, the glance of envy, the look of sisterly admiration, and that bordering upon motherly love; and there were the hard stare from puppydom, the sn.o.bbish ogle, looks of love and respect, every glance that could dart from human eye; but the poor girl hurried on as in a dream, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but bent upon the object of her journey. It was nothing to her that behind at a few yards' distance came Mr William Jarker, favouring everyone with a fierce scowl in return for the glances bestowed upon her, as he tracked her with the pertinacity of a bloodhound, turning when she turned, crossing when she crossed. Once only on her way back did Lucy tremble, when a fiercely-bearded, middle-aged dandy half stopped in front of her, so that she was compelled to turn a little out of her path, as with a heightened colour her eyes sunk before the fellow's insulting stare.

But she did not hear his words, as, fervently wishing old Matt were by her side, she hurried on.

It sometimes happens, though, that those who are working for their own devices do us many a good turn; and it was so here, for as the studiously-dressed and bejewelled dandy turned and followed the fair girl, he suddenly became aware of a rough shoulder forcing him aside, when turning angrily, with umbrella raised to strike, he gazed full into the heavy, bull-dog countenance of Mr Jarker, whose white teeth gleamed beneath his flattened nose as though he were preparing to fasten on his victim.

The next moment the lemon-gloved hands were covering chain and pin, and the heavy swell of the London current subsided slowly and disappeared, leaving Lucy unmolested as she hurried on, followed still closely by her self-const.i.tuted bodyguard, of whoso presence she was ignorant; while, five minutes after, he made a side-bound into a doorway, where he stood peering round the post and smiling like some hideous satyr of old, as Lucy encountered Agnes Hardon, and stopped in the quiet street where they then were.

The sight must have been very gratifying to Mr Jarker, for he stood leering, and rubbing his soft, whitish hands, pausing every now and then to have a good gnaw at the nails, already nearly worn down to the quick; and then stepping lightly from his concealment, he pa.s.sed close behind Agnes as she was whispering:

"G.o.d bless you! Don't stay talking to me; go now. I'll get it away directly he will let me. I have been five times already; but he was either there, or some one of his companions waiting about."

Mr Jarker gave a short, husky, forced cough as he pa.s.sed, when, turning hastily, fear and anger seemed to combine in Agnes Hardon's face, as she caught Lucy's hands in her own, interposing herself, as if for protection, till Mr Jarker had disappeared, when she hurried her away by another route, and hastily took her leave. But Lucy did not see her troubled, anxious face following at a short distance, and keeping her in sight till she reached the end of the court in time to encounter Mr Sterne, who saw almost at one glance Lucy, with Jarker standing aside to let her pa.s.s as he bestowed upon her a familiar smile and nod, and Agnes Hardon some fifty yards beyond, turning hastily and hurrying off; but her he followed angrily, and with a suffocating sensation at his breast, as if he were, knight-errant like, about to attack one of the evil genii who shadowed the life of her he loved. Fifty yards in advance, though, was Agnes, when he commenced following her steps, till a crowd around that common object of our streets, a fallen horse intercepted his view; and, when he had pa.s.sed the throng, the figure he sought had disappeared.

"O, this weary, weary deceit!" sobbed Lucy, throwing herself on her knees by her bedside and weeping bitterly. Then, sighing, she rose, folded her mantle, and bathed her eyes before going to the sitting-room, where in a few more minutes her sewing-machine was rapidly beating until Septimus came and, with one loving hand laid across her red eyes, took away the candle.

Volume Three, Chapter V.

MATT'S DISCOVERY.

"Hold hard here!" cried a voice from a cab-window; and the driver of as jangling a conveyance as ever rattled over London stones drew up at the corner of Carey-street, Chancery-lane.

"I'll get out here," cried the voice; and very slowly, and with the aid of a stick, old Matt extricated himself from amongst the straw, a part of which he managed to drag out into the road.

The next minute the cabman was paid and had driven off. The boy who, with a basket slung across his back, had stopped to witness the disembarkation, and cut his popular song in half the while, resumed the refrain and went on along the Lane; while, with a smile on his pale face, old Matt slowly made his way down Carey-street, stopping to rest at the first lamp-post.

"Here I am," he said; "King s.p.a.ce come back to my dominions. I wasn't going to ride and lose the pleasure of seeing it all. Thank G.o.d there's no whitewash here, and everything's just as I left it; things looking as if they hadn't stirred a peg; and I don't suppose they have, if they haven't been costs, which certainly do grow and flourish well here.

Lord, sir, how beautiful and smoky and natural everything looks once more! There's Hardon's old printing-office--ah, to be sure! `Grimp, Deeds copied.' That's the trade to flourish here. Now then, sir, good-morning! Let's get on a bit farther."

According to his old custom, and heedless now of its being broad daylight, Matt made his way slowly to the next post, making his crippled state an excuse now for stopping, though there was hardly a soul to be seen in Carey-street, and those who pa.s.sed were too intent upon their own affairs to notice him.

"Slow work, sir," said Matt, stopping again, "glad to see you, though, once more. Thought at one time, if ever I did it would have been upon a cork-leg, sir; for I couldn't have stood a wooden peg, sir, anyhow; a cork-leg all springs and watchwork, like old Tim Christy's, as used to squeak with every step he took, just as if, being of cork, someone was trying to draw it; and he never oiled that leg, for fear it should go too easy. But there, I'm all right again," he continued, taking a pinch of snuff, "and I call this real enjoyment, sir--real enjoyment. Only wait till I've put him all right upon that point, and I'll have a bit of dissipation. Let's see: the Vice-chancellor will be sitting like a great G.o.d, listening to the prayers of the pet.i.tioners in Chancery.

I'll have an hour there, sir, and then take a sniff of the ink in one of the old offices; and confound it all, sir, I wish you could join me!

I'll have half-a-pint of porter in Fetter-lane. I'm in for a regular round of dissipation, I am, just to make up for all this being shut up."

On again went the old man, rather short of breath, till he was well in sight of the hospital at the end of the street; when, raising his eyes just as he was about to stop, he caught sight of a pale, weary face at one of the windows, and shuddered and turned away; but the next moment he had stopped and turned, and was waving a hand to the patient gazing from his prison-window.

"G.o.d bless you, mate!" said Matt aloud, "and may you soon be out of it!"

And then there was a reply waved to his salute, and the old man turned down the courts to the left, and soon stood in Bennett's-rents.

"What, Matt!" cried Septimus Hardon, hurrying to open the door as he heard his slow step upon the stairs; while Lucy took the old man's other hand and helped him to a seat.

"What's left of me, sir--what's left," said the old man cheerily; "and here I am right and clear-headed, and I did see it all, sir: and I've recollected it, and got it all put down here, so as you can read it, and safe in my head too. It wasn't fancy, it was all right; and I did see it, as I told you, in what must have been the old doctor's books."

"But where? when?" cried Septimus eagerly.

"And there was the name--`Mrs Hardon, medicine and attendance, so much;' but of course I thought nothing of it then."

"But," cried Septimus, as he hooked a finger in a b.u.t.ton-hole of the old man's coat, "where was it?"

"Gently, sir, gently," said Matt, unhooking the finger; "mind what you're after: stuff's tender. But there: you'll fit me out with a new suit when you're all right--won't you, sir, eh?"

"A dozen, Matt, a dozen!" cried Septimus eagerly.

"And Miss Lucy here's to have as full a compa.s.sed pianner as can be got, without having one as would burst and break all the strings--eh, miss, eh?"

Lucy smiled sadly.

"But where did you see it, Matt--where was it?" exclaimed Septimus, inking his face in his excitement, and totally destroying his last hour's work.

"Why, sir, no farther off than at my lodgings," cried Matt triumphantly.

"I did mean to be of use to you if I could, and I've lived to do it, sir, and I'm thankful; but come along, sir--come along. I'm weak and poorly yet, and there seems to be a deal of water collected in my system--a sort of dropsy, you know; and it all flies to my eyes on the least provocation, and comes dripping out like that, just as if I was a great gal, and cried, d'ye see?"

There was a tear in Septimus Hardon's eye as he warmly wrung the old man's hand, and ten minutes after they were standing in Lower Series-- place, with Matt smiling grimly at a freshly-painted set of skeleton old bone letters upon a glossy-black board, announcing "Isaac Gross, Dealer in Marine-stores;" but that was the only alteration visible, for Isaac and the stout lady occupied the same places as of yore, and were at that very moment engaged in an affectionate, smiling game of bo-peep.

"Might have waited for me to dance at the wedding," muttered Matt.

But there had been very little dancing at the said wedding; while the trip necessary upon such occasions was one made to the Rye House, where Isaac's attention was princ.i.p.ally taken up by the jack-boot shown amongst the curiosities--a boot which filled his imagination for days after, as he sighed and thought of the evanescent nature of his own manufacture.

The greeting was warm on both sides, Isaac smiling at a quicker rate than had ever before been known. But the visitors meant business, and Matt exclaimed:

"Now, Ike, we want to go over the waste-paper."

Matt was outside as he spoke, and then Mrs Gross, whose head had been stretched out to listen, found that what had been her property was in question, so she cried, "Stop!" and waddled from her seat to where Matt stood, seized him by the arm, and waddled him into Isaac's workshop, from whence she waddled him into the back-parlour, where his bed, now the only one in the room, was neatly made up, and the place somewhat tidier than of yore, though the waste-paper heap was bigger than ever.