Hardly breathing, and uttering no sound, the child crouched fearfully in a corner; while Lucy, trembling and half-fainting, clung to the curate, as sob after sob burst from her breast; and at last, as if stricken by death, she sank back pale and inanimate upon his supporting arm.

But there were no looks of love in Arthur Sterne's face; for, with brow knit, nostrils distended, and every vein in his face swollen and knotted, he stood with his heel crushed down upon Jarker's bull-throat, no mean incarnation of vengeance. Soon, though, the breath he had drawn with difficulty as he stood there holding the fainting girl to his throbbing heart, came more lightly, the expression of rage fled from his features, and as he gazed tenderly upon the pale face so near his own he pressed his lips reverently upon her forehead.

"Lucy, my poor dove," he whispered, "will you not give me the right to protect you, and take you from this place?"--"Our beauty, some of us,"

seemed sighed at his ear.

"A lie, a base lie!" he muttered fiercely; though even then a change came over his face, the veins swelled once more in his forehead, and an agony of strange thoughts pa.s.sed through his breast. And now, pale and anxious, two or three of the women lodgers came trembling to the door, amongst whom was Mrs Sims, ready to take possession of the child, as, hurriedly pa.s.sing through the wondering group, the curate bore his light burden to her home.

Volume Three, Chapter VII.

A MEETING AND ITS RESULT.

It was late before Arthur Sterne left Bennett's-rents that night.

Septimus Hardon had been terribly excited--talking long and wildly of his poverty being the cause of the insult offered to his child. He had walked hurriedly up and down the room, gesticulating and threatening the scoundrel who had so repaid Lucy's kindness; and again and again it was upon the curate's lips to speak of the little one, and of Lucy's strange intimacy with its mother; but his spirit revolted from the task. In another case he would have spoken instantly; but here duty seemed to move in fetters that he could not break. In all concerning the poor girl he seemed bound to preserve silence till such time as some explanation should be given, and through all he had been in constant dread lest he should give her pain.

"I must prosecute the villain!" exclaimed Septimus.

"But the pain--the exposure--your child?" said the curate.

"What! would you have him go unpunished?" exclaimed Septimus.

"I would say `No!' directly," replied the curate; "but I cannot help thinking of the painful scene in court, the public examination, and the cross-examination by the prisoner's counsel; and these men can always among themselves manage to get some able person to undertake their cause. It would be a most painful position in which to place your child. Her actions would be distorted to suit a purpose; and such a scene--"

Mr Sterne's speech dwindled off, and became inaudible; for he felt that he had spoken unadvisedly, and a strange chill came over him as he thought, in the event of the affair being in court, what hold the opposing counsel could take of certain acts in Lucy's life; for, let them he ever so innocent, the light in which they would place her would be of the most painful character; and his lips were rather white as he said, "Sleep on it, Mr Hardon, sleep on it."

"I will," said Septimus proudly. "We are poor, Mr Sterne; but there is no act in my dear child's life that will not bear the light of day."

"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the curate in a low tone; "but, believe me, my advice is given with the best of wishes and intentions, Mr Hardon. Have I not always tried to be a friend? And if there was somewhat of selfishness in my advances, I feel no shame in owning to you that I am moved by a feeling of more than esteem for Miss Grey; to whom any proceedings would, I am sure, be as painful as to myself."

Septimus Hardon started, for this was as sudden as unexpected. Such a thought had never entered his breast, and he gazed wonderingly at the calm, pale face before him; as in the silence which ensued they both sat listening to the painful, low sob which came now and again from the next room, where, forgetful of her own infirmities, Mrs Hardon had been trying to soothe the agitated girl.

And then, hour after hour, Septimus sat talking with Mr Sterne--for the first time now giving himself up entirely to his advice, and promising to give up all thought of prosecution, while he sought at once for some more suitable home for his wife and child, though, as he thought of his narrow, precarious income, he made the latter promise with a sigh. He talked long and earnestly, too, about his own affairs, being ready now to take the counsel that Mr Sterne so freely offered; and when, with a lighter heart, the curate rose to leave, Septimus shook hands, with a puzzled expression upon his face, as if he hardly believed in the events of the past evening.

Upon slowly descending and reaching the door, Mr Sterne drew back, asking himself whether he should be content, or seize the opportunity that now offered for him to know that of which it was evident, from his language, Septimus Hardon was still ignorant. The desire was strong to know more, and he yielded to it; for there before him, standing in the open court, and gazing anxiously up at the lighted window, was the woman who had caused him so much uneasiness; but neither he nor the woman saw that in the shade of the opposite doorway a villainous pair of eyes were on the watch.

Again and again he had encountered this woman since he had determined to question her--upon the bridge at early dawn; by night, in the crowded streets, dressed in the extreme of fashion; shabbily dressed by day; but she always fled, and contrived to elude him. Who was she? What was she? How came she intimate with Lucy? Was it merely for the child's sake? Then why Lucy's dread?

The opportunity was here, he told himself, and he would know; and then, as he formed the determination, he stepped quickly out; but no sooner did Agnes Hardon catch sight of the curate's pale, stern face by the sickly flicker of the one lamp than she turned and fled, while, without pausing to think, the curate closed the door and pursued her.

A dark, gusty time, late, for two had struck but a minute before by church after church--some sending their booming announcement clearly out upon the night air, others discordantly, and jangling with the bells of others. Turning towards the end of the court, Agnes ran swiftly, her dress rustling, and fashionable boots pattering upon the pavement; but her pursuer was quick of foot, and followed her along the end row, through Harker's-alley, Ray's-court, along one labyrinth and down another of the old district, now falling beneath the contractor's pick, till they had nearly returned to the point from whence they started.

But flight was of no avail, and soon Arthur Sterne overtook the panting woman, himself breathless, and, heedless of her fierce looks, caught her by the wrist.

"Come with me," he said sternly, as he drew her towards the entrance of the dark court where they stood.

"Why, why?" she exclaimed pa.s.sionately, struggling with him the while.

"Why do you stop me? Why do you pursue me--you, too, a clergyman?"

The answer to the taunt was a cold look, which Agnes Hardon saw and felt; for the next moment she was weeping pa.s.sionately. "Why do you track and follow me, sir?" she exclaimed through her tears. "Let me go; you hurt my arm!"

"Will you stand and answer my questions, then?" said the curate, as they now stood at the entrance of the court--a dark, gloomy archway, with a doorway here and there.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Agnes wearily, "if you will be quick; but there, I know what you would say, and it is of no use; I am past all that!"

"Past all what?" cried the curate sternly.

"Hope of better things," said the woman with so weary and despondent a wail, that her hearer shuddered.

"Hush!" he said; "you speak rashly, and without thinking;" and releasing her wrist, he laid his hand gently upon her arm. "Listen," he said; "you have your woman's feelings yet!"

"No," she replied hastily, "all--all gone; driven out of me--dead. Let me go, please; it's late, sir. I am a wretch, and it is useless to talk."

"But why do you pursue that young girl?" he said, pointing across the street to where Bennett's-rents debouched. "Would you tempt her to be your companion?"

"No, no, no; my G.o.d, no!" half-shrieked Agnes, as she caught at his hands; "don't think that, sir."

"Then you _have_ some womanly feeling left," said Mr Sterne.

"Towards her, perhaps, yes."

"And your child?"

"Yes, yes, yes," wailed Agnes; "but don't torture me. What do you know?--what do you wish me to do?--why do you follow me?"

"What is your name?" said the curate sternly; "and how came you to know her?" and he pointed again towards Bennett's-rents.

"Don't ask me, I cannot tell you," sobbed Agnes.

"But you bring misery on her and on her home. You have some hold upon her?"

"No, no, no," sobbed Agnes hysterically; "none, none; but she knows who I am, and pities me and my poor child. G.o.d's blessing on her!"

"Amen!" muttered the curate under his breath, and his companion sobbed so convulsively that she could not speak, while, as they stood in the dark entry, a policeman came slowly by, flashed the light of his bull's-eye upon them for an instant, recognised the curate and pa.s.sed on, and, till he was out of hearing, Agnes Hardon clutched the curate's arm.

"You are not afraid of the world and it's opinions," she said bitterly; "it cannot hurt you. Stay with me and I will tell you all, for I believe you mean me well."

The curate bowed his head.

"I am miserable, wretched," she sobbed, "and what can I do? That man in the court has my poor child, and for some reason he will not give it up.

I have tried to get it away again and again, even to stealing it, sir-- my own little one; but something has always prevented me, and he watches me till, hardened as I am, I am afraid of him, for he comes over my spirit like the shadow of some great horror about to crush me. I love my child, my pure little angel, for--O sir, have pity on me, have pity!--I am its mother, and what else have I here to cling to? Can you not think how I must love it though I left it with that poor dead woman?

But she had a mother's heart, and was kind to it always. I could see it in my darling's blue eyes even when it racked my heart; but I was glad, though it would not come to me, and called her mother. I was happy then, for did not she--she you say I injure--watch over it for me, and tell me of its bright eyes and sunny hair and winning ways, while, when I have listened to her, the tears have come gently to quench the fire in my brain, and I could think of home and the past, while she--she who loves my little one--lets me weep upon her breast, and I forget for a while that I am lost, lost, lost for ever!"

"Lost, lost, lost for ever!" She uttered these words so hopelessly, with such a wail of agony, that they seemed to echo along the archway, and to float off upon the night breeze, rising and falling, an utterance never to fade away, but to go on for ever and ever while this world lasts; to smite upon the sleeping ears of the cruel, the dissolute, and the profligate; to awaken here, perhaps, one sorrowful thought for wrong done, one thought of repentance; there, a desire to pause, ere it be too late, on the brink of some iniquity that should break a trusting woman's heart.

Tenderly, and with such a strange feeling of compa.s.sion in his heart as might have pervaded that of his Master whose words he taught, Arthur Sterne took the weeping woman's hands in his, as, sobbing more bitterly than ever, she sank upon her knees on the cold stones at his feet, weeping as though her heart would break; nay, as if through the torn walls of that broken citadel the flood of tears went seething and hissing, the ruins yet smouldering and burning with the fire of the fatal pa.s.sion that had been their fall.

"What shall I do, sir?" she cried at length, wearily looking up in the face that bent over her. "I would take my little one away and go near the place no more, for I have been seldom lately, not liking that he should see me with her, for he followed us once, and I did not like it.

I would have told her not to go near my child, but there is a woman sometimes there. He will not let me take it away. But tell me what to do, sir," she said wearily, "and I will do it."

"What!" she cried, starting up, "what!" she half-shrieked, as he related to her the incident of the past night; "and this through me? Am I to bring misery everywhere? O G.o.d, O G.o.d!" she cried, "that my weakness, my sin, should be ever growing and bringing its misery upon others! But stop, sir; listen," she exclaimed huskily, as she clung to his arm; "what shall we do? If I could have seen this, sir, I'd have died sooner than it should have happened; believe me, I would."