"About a fortnight."

Zachariah was too weak to say anything more, and fell asleep again.

Next day he was better, and he then thought of his wife; he thought of Caillaud, the Major, and Pauline; but he had no power to reflect connectedly. He was in that miserable condition in which objects present themselves in a tumbling crowd, one following the other with inconceivable rapidity, the brain possessing no power to disentangle the chaos. He could not detach the condition of his wife, for example, and determine what ought to be done; he could not even bring himself to decide if it would be best to let her know where he was.

No sooner did he try to turn his attention to her, even for a moment, than the Major came before him, and then his other friends, and then the workhouse and the dread of death there. Mercifully he went to sleep again, and after another long night's rest he was much stronger. He was able now--first sign of restored power--to settle that he ought before everything to communicate with Mrs. Carter, and he inquired of the old man if he could write.

"Oh, yes, I can write," said he, and something like a gleam of light pa.s.sed over his countenance at being asked to practise an art almost forgotten in those walls.

A letter was accordingly written to Mrs. Carter, at her sister's address, telling her briefly what had happened, but that she was not to be alarmed, as the writer was rapidly recovering. He was able to sign his name; but when the letter was finished, he reflected that he had not got a coin in his pocket with which to pay the postage. One of the inst.i.tutions of the workhouse was, however, a kind of p.a.w.nshop kept by one of the under-masters, as they were called, and Zachariah got a shilling advanced on a pocket-knife. The letter, therefore, was duly despatched, and he gave his secretary a penny for his trouble. This led to a little further intimacy, and Zachariah asked him how he came there.

"I don't know," he replied. "I was born in the country, and when I was fourteen, my father apprenticed me to the watchmaking. He was well off--my father was--and when I was out of my time he set me up in business in Liverpool. It was a business as had been established some time--a fairish business it was. But when I came to Liverpool I felt dull."

"What do you mean by dull? Stupid?"

"No, not exactly that. You know what dull means, don't you?--low- spirited like--got nothing to talk about. Well, I can't tell how it come about, but I was always dull, and have been so ever since. I got married soon after I was settled. My wife was a good sort of woman, but she wasn't cheerful, and she wasn't very strong. Somehow the business fell off. Customers as used to come didn't come, and I got no new ones. I did my work pretty well; but still, for all that, things went down and down by degrees. I never could make out why, except that people liked to be talked to, and I had nothing particular to say to any of them when they came in. The shop, too, ought to have been painted more often, and I ought to have had something in the window, but, as I say, I was always dull, and my wife wasn't strong. At last I was obliged to give up and go to journey-work; but when I got old I couldn't see, and was put in here."

"But," said Zachariah, "is that all? Why, you are nearly seventy years old. You must have something more to tell me."

"No. I don't know as I have; that seems about all."

"But what became of your father? He was well off. What became of his money when he died?"

"I'd had my share."

"Had you no brothers nor sisters to help you?"

"Yes, I had some."

"Did they let you come here?"

"Why, you see, as I've told you before, I was dull, and my wife wasn't strong. They never came much to see me. It was my fault; I never had nothing to say to them."

"Had you no children?"

"Yes, I had a son and daughter."

"Are they alive now?"

"Yes--both of them; at least I haven't heard as they are dead."

"And able to keep themselves?"

"They used to be."

"And do you mean that your son and daughter let you go to the workhouse?"

The old man was a little disturbed, and for a moment some slight sign of nervous excitement revealed itself in his l.u.s.treless eyes.

"I haven't see anything of 'em for years."

"Did you quarrel?"

"No, we didn't quarrel; but they left off visiting us. They both of them married, and went out a good bit, and were gayer than we were.

We used to ask them, and then they'd look in sometimes: but never except when they were asked, and always seemed to wish to get away.

We never had nothing to show anybody, nor nothing to give anybody; for we didn't drink and I never smoked. They went away too, both of them, from Liverpool, somewhere towards London."

"But when you broke down didn't you inform them?"

"No. I hadn't heard anything of them for so long. I thought I might as well get into the House. It will do very well."

"Didn't you know anybody belonging to your church or chapel?"

"Well, we went to church; but when the business dropped we left off going, for nothing much seemed to come of it, and n.o.body ever spoke to us."

"Wouldn't you like to get out of this place?"

"No--I don't know as I should now; I shouldn't know what to do, and it won't last long."

"How old are you?"

"Sixty-five."

It puzzled Zachariah that the man's story of his life was so short-- all told in five minutes.

"But did you never have any adventures? Did you never hear about anything, or see anybody worth remembering? Tell me all about yourself. We've got nothing to do."

"I don't recollect anything particular after I came to Liverpool.

Things seemed to go on pretty much in the same way."

"But you got married, and your wife died?"

"Yes--I got married, and she died."

"What was your wife's name?"

"Her name was Jenkins; she was the daughter of the saddler that lived next door."

"Couldn't her friends have helped you?"

"After she died they had nothing more to do with me."

"And you really cannot tell me any more?"

"No--how can I? What more is there to tell? It's all alike."

The old pauper was called away, and went shuffling along to the door, leaving Zachariah to his meditations.

Another day pa.s.sed, and he was lying half asleep when a visitor was announced, and close upon the announcement stood before him--who should it be?--no other than Mrs. Carter, out of breath, radiant, healthy, impetuous.

"G.o.d bless the poor dear man!" she burst out; "to think of finding you here, and not to have told us before. But I suppose you couldn't. Directly as I got your letter off I came, and here I am, you see."