Suddenly there was a step in the long corridor--one of many, but a step that he seemed to know; and then followed low voices, and the sound of a woman sobbing.

It had come at last--he had waited, and it was here--and a bitter smile trembled, it did not play, round the lips of Doctor Hardon, as he once more drew forth the bottle.

"This, this, this!" he kept on hissing in a harsh whisper as he smiled, thinking that the dark curtain which trembled in front would show him the future and not the present. And now he tried to draw forth the little stopper, but it was immovable. He tore at it fiercely, and then seized it with his teeth, but it broke short off, and he spat the piece angrily upon the floor.

"Now, now!" he muttered, as though there was not a moment to spare, while with trembling hand he seized the poker, and, holding the bottle above the wine-gla.s.s, struck it sharply, shivered it to atoms, and the liquid, mingled with sharp fragments, fell into the vessel, a large portion splashing over the table and moistening the doctor's hand.

"Now, now!" he muttered, seizing the gla.s.s; and as he gave one glance at the bright blue wintry sky, he raised the little vessel hesitatingly to his lips. Then the door was pushed open, Mrs Hardon stepped in, shrieked, and dashed the undrained gla.s.s from her husband's hand, so that it fell shivered upon the cold hearthstone, when, falling at his feet and clutching his knees, the unhappy woman sobbed loudly:

"O Tom, Tom, ask him to forgive us!" but the doctor only stood glaring at his visitor.

"Indeed, indeed, Septimus, I never knew it," sobbed Mrs Hardon.

"It is of the past--let it rest," said her nephew, who could not remove his eyes from his uncle, now smiling feebly and pointing to the chamber-door.

"Why would you provoke this painful scene?" he said in an injured tone.

"You must have known, sir, that the interview would be most unfortunate.

Pray go. My solicitors, Messrs. Keening. Every arrangement has been made, and the funeral will take place to-morrow."

Mrs Hardon started up, and stood clasping one of her husband's hands as she looked aghast in his face, while he continued in the same feeble voice:

"No will, sir--illegitimate--pray leave--most painful," and with his disengaged hand he still pointed towards the door. "My solicitors, sir, Messrs. Keening."

"Pray--pray go," whispered Mrs Hardon. "He is worn out, and ill with anxiety. I'll--I'll write, Septimus," and she hurried her visitor to the door. "But don't--don't punish us for what is past," she said imploringly.

The look of Septimus Hardon was sufficient as he turned to the unhappy woman; and then he stepped into the pa.s.sage with the intention of fetching medical a.s.sistance, for, as the door closed, he once more heard the doctor's voice: "My solicitors, sir, Messrs. Keening. Pray go."

Volume Three, Chapter XVIII.

THE LAKE UNCAGED.

That was only a poor wedding that Jean Marais, with a bright spot in each of his sallow cheeks and a wild look in his dark eyes, gazed down upon from the gloomy old gallery of the church; only a quiet wedding that those two eager eyes had gazed upon, when their crippled owner had climbed slowly and laboriously up to the gallery to watch unseen, while the ceremony was performed which gave Lucy Grey to her happy husband; but beneath those wild eyes there were convulsed features, cracked and quivering lips.

And the lark? He bore his treasure with him, the bird she had loved to hear; it nestled in his breast, and a stall-keeper hard by took charge of the cage. And there watched Jean unseen, while Lucy, turning her eyes upon her husband, accompanied him into the vestry.

Then below in the nave there was the buzz of expectation as the party came from the vestry--Lucy, blushing and fair, leaning upon the curate's arm; and he, proud of the treasure he had won, walking happy and elate by her side. But it was only a poor wedding--poor in the show that was made and in those who a.s.sembled; for Bennett's-rents was empty that morning, and Mrs Sims' sniff was heard again and again, just inside the chancel; while the only wonder was that some of the children gathered together were not crushed beneath the wheels of the conveyances.

It was only a poor affair, but there was a light in many a face there that would have outshone the glories of a fashionable wedding. Even Mrs Septimus forgot her troubles, and confided more than once to Aunt f.a.n.n.y that she thought her complaint had got the turn.

But there knelt Jean the cripple, alone in the gallery, till the last looker-on had left, the last wheel rolled from the gate, and a sad stillness had fallen upon the empty church, when, with a bitter, heart-wrung cry, the young man crouched lower and lower, burying his face in his hands. Then he slowly rose, and taking his crutch, painfully made his way towards the narrow door, his looks worn and weary, but with a strange light in his eye.

Pausing at length in the busy street, he took from his breast the bird he had so long tended, and started slightly, but with a bitter smile upon his lips, for in his emotion he had crushed the poor thing, and it panted feebly, with half-closed eye and open beak; but Jean only smiled.

And with the same sad look he replaced the bird in his bosom, and then slowly and laboriously crept along, side by side, with the hurrying stream of pa.s.sengers. Toiling on slowly and patiently, his crutch sounding loudly upon the pavement, with the same bitter look fixed as it were upon his lip, Jean Marais slowly toiled on till he was lost in the crowd.

Only a poor wedding; but Aunt f.a.n.n.y was there, laughing and crying by turns, and vowing that she heard every word of the service, and that Arthur never spoke out so well before. And what a dress the old lady wore! surely no poplin ever before displayed such plaits; and then, forgetful of dress, plaits, muslin, everything, was it not a treat to see her take Lucy to her warm old heart when they had returned to Ess.e.x-street, as the fair girl knelt at her feet, the large eyes gazing up so appealingly, and seeming to say--"Don't despise me for being so humble!" But, there; had she been a princess, she could have had no warmer nook in the old dame's heart, for was not Arthur happy? And then those arms, that of old lay so placidly across her black-silk ap.r.o.n-- worn even at the return from the wedding, and brought in a reticule-- became restless to a degree, ever animated by the desire to embrace her children.

Did she love Lucy? Had not Arthur, the wisest of men, chosen her? and did not that spread such a mantle of holiness around the maiden that, even had Aunt f.a.n.n.y never seen her, she would have battled for her to the death? Would he have chosen any but the purest and n.o.blest of heart? she asked herself again and again. So she divided her love between them, and then, upon the return from church, laughed and cried by turns; for, said she, "I must leave poor Arty now."

Arthur Sterne was silent, but he smiled as he saw two soft round arms circle Aunt f.a.n.n.y's neck, prisoning her as their owner whispered words whose import he could guess.

A quiet repast, and a short interval of preparation before the start for a trip, only some miles from town, an easy drive, for a few days' visit to where the sweet breath of the country blew; and then the elders standing at the door watching the departing vehicle, and the waving hands, as the wheels rattled along the echoing street; and then upstairs, for Aunt f.a.n.n.y and Mrs Septimus to talk of their children, while Septimus Hardon roamed the streets.

"O, the bright lovely country!" cried Lucy, as the carriage rolled on between hedgerows here and there silvered with the scented May, whose fragrance was borne by the light breeze through the open windows. "O, the bright lovely country!" she cried; "am I not foolish, Arthur?" she sobbed; "but the tears will come, for I feel that this happiness cannot last!"

The word "Arthur" was spoken hesitatingly, as if it were strange to her lips, and she hardly dared to use it; her eyes were fixed for a moment upon those of her husband, and then she glided down to the bottom of the fly and kneeled at his feet, as he fondly parted the hair upon her broad forehead.

"You are not angry with me for being so childish?" she murmured.

"Angry!" he replied, and the tone in which he said that word was sufficient.

"Don't think me foolish," she said; "but let us walk a little here, where the gra.s.s borders the road; for it seems wrong to hurry past the lovely green trees, after the close misery of London. They are new to me, Arthur; and look! look! there are flowers, and birds; and see how the bright sunshine dances amongst the leaves. But, there," she said sadly; "you smile at my folly, and forget what all this is to me, after years of prisoning London."

But the next minute the fly had stopped, and, relieved of its load, resumed its way; and, happy and proud, Arthur Sterne looked down upon his newly-wedded wife, elate to see the pure, intense love of all that was beautiful in nature which emanated from this escaped prisoner of life; while Lucy was divided between delight of the scene around her, and reproach for her so-called indifference towards her husband. And so they walked, inhaling the sweets of the early summer afternoon, and finding in them joys known only to those who have escaped but freshly from the great City's miseries. And still on and on, almost in silence, enveloped as they were in the happiness of the present.

"Listen!" cried Lucy, as she stopped suddenly, and laid a finger upon her husband's lip--a finger now white and delicate, once fretted and work-worn. "Listen!" she whispered, "and close your eyes. Might not that be poor Jean's lark?" and then both stood listening, as in those days of the past, when their prisoned souls had gazed up eagerly into the bright blue sky, and they had drunk in the pure gushing lay of the speckled songster.

"Tears, more tears, Lucy?" whispered the curate. "Are you not happy?"

No words came for a reply, nothing but a look; as the bright eyes brimmed over, and a sob rose from the burdened heart.

"It seems too much--as if it could not last," whispered Lucy; "and that song brought back so many sorrows, dear--the court, and so much of the past. But you will forgive me, Arthur?"

Again the same hesitating speech, as if it were an a.s.sumption upon her part to call him by his name, and she half dreaded rebuke.

"What does the driver want?" said Mr Sterne; for the man was shouting and making signs.

By the time they had overtaken the vehicle, the man had dismounted and was by the bank, stooping over a reclining figure; and on approaching nearer, the curate recognised the cripple, Jean, lying apparently asleep, holding his lark to his lips, while his crutch was by his side.

But if the master slept, it was not so with the bird; for its soft feathers were ruffled, its wings half-open, and the lids drawn partly over the little dark, bead-like eyes; the crest lay smooth, the throat-feathers rose not, the wings had fluttered for the last time; the bright, gushing lay would thrill through prisoned hearts in Bennett's-rents no more--the lark was dead.

And its master? To get one more look, one farewell glance, he had toiled wearily on, mile after mile, towards the village where he had heard they would rest; and on he pressed, with a strength evoked by the despair of his heart, till he had sat down to rest by the wayside and sunk back exhausted.

In an instant Lucy was upon her knees by his side and had raised his head, while her husband's hand was in the cripple's breast. Then he slowly opened his eyes and stared wildly round till they rested upon her who supported his head, when his features softened, and a smile came once more upon his lips as they seemed to part to form the words "Good-bye!"

And then slowly and imperceptibly the smile faded from his lip, the light from his eye; and as they gazed upon him, a cold sternness stole over the poor youth's countenance, till, with agony depicted in her every feature, Lucy looked up appealingly at her husband.

But Jean was dead--pa.s.sed away; for he had toiled through the streets, nerved by a stern determination--a wild despair--on through the suburbs, and so out into the country; the one purpose always in his mind--to be where she would come once more; on still, slowly, painfully, hour after hour, till he sank exhausted, to die of a ruptured blood-vessel.

And still, of a summer's evening, may the lounger in the great streets of the West come upon a knot of idlers; and, pausing for a few moments, listen to divers sharply-uttered commands given in French to a pair of wretched poodles; who fetch and carry, rise erect, and march about with aspect doleful and disconsolate, till a few of the bystanders drop halfpence in the basket one of the dogs carries in his mouth. Then a fresh pitch is made; the performance again gone through; and then on again; on after _ma mere_ of the sharp and eager look--the harsh, cracked voice; on again, with drooping ears and tail--unlionlike of aspect; on again, perhaps to cast a look of envy at some free and rollicking idle dog, or of condolence at the miserable sharp-eyed monkey performing on the table, rapid in every moment, but more rapid in the glance of its little dark, blow-watching eye. And at last, when the streets grow thin of pa.s.sengers, and the dogs tired and blundering, home to the court where they dwell--a court yet standing, though Bennett's-rents is no more; another court, where the flags lie broken, and the refuse-choked channel festers with the water from the hard-used pump; where the children revel by day in the dirt and filth, and Death oft and oft again beckons the undertaker to come with his shambling horse and shabby Shillibeer-hea.r.s.e; where the pigeons cl.u.s.ter upon the housetops and coo at daybreak, and then circle in flights, while men of the Jarker stamp urge them on. Home, to another old house, and up the groaning stairs, where even by night the twittering of birds can be heard in lodgers' rooms--prisoners dwelling in a prison within a prison; here, too, the click of a sewing-machine--patent--man's make; there, the sigh of a sewing-machine--not patent--G.o.d's make; and up the rickety stairs to another attic, where cages hang--empty cages, kept because they were those of Jean; where the crutch stands in the corner beneath the lark's home, brought back by the neighbour who keeps a stall, but empty too: canaries, linnets, finches, pa.s.sed away; while the lark lies upon the breast of its master--the cripple Jean--and the turf grows green above his resting-place at Highgate.

"_En avant--venez donc--mes chiens_! Home!" though it be not Bennett's-rents.

Volume Three, Chapter XIX.

MAD.

In one of those vast piles of building a short distance down the main line of a great railway, a strange-looking elderly man, and one whose dress bespeaks the clergyman, are pa.s.sing from ward to ward upon a visit. The man with them, in his quiet livery, raises the bra.s.s-chained key he carries to open lock after lock--one key for hundreds--and they pa.s.s on by sights of the most sorrowful; for they are amongst those of their fellows in whom the light of reason burns but dimly or is extinct.

At last they stand by a window looking upon an extensive yard, where some fifty patients clothed in grey serge walk about for exercise--some hurriedly, some talking, some excited, others calm. And now one visitor lays a trembling hand upon his companion's arm as, nearing the window, comes a portly, grey, smiling man, rolling solemnly along with imposing gait, wearing a stiff white-paper cravat, with a card snuff-box in his hand and a straw-plait chain meandering over his grey serge vest. Quiet and harmless, he goes about the yard feeling the pulses of his fellow-patients, and nods at them and smiles encouragement.