Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.Prove it.A quarter of an hour after leaving the church, Jared was at the door of the vicar’s residence, where his summons was answered by the old Lincolnshire woman who had come up to London with “Maister,” and filled the posts of cook and housekeeper.Now, most people would have told their servants to say, “Not at home,” to such-and-such a person; but the vicar had his own ideas upon such matters, and the old woman was ready for the expected visitor, for she exclaimed—“Maister said he wouldn’t see you, if you called, Mr Pellet; and if you wanted to say anything, you was to write.”“But did he say”—ventured Jared.“No; he didn’t say not another word,” said the old housekeeper; and Jared turned disconsolately away, walking down the street in a purposeless manner, until, moved by another idea, he roused himself and hurried in the direction of Mr Timson’s stores, where he found the head of the establishment, very stern and important, in his counting-house, but apparently ready to listen to reason.“It’s all a mistake, sir; I’m as innocent as a child,” exclaimed Jared.“Hadn’t you better shut the door first, sir?” said Timson, drily; when Jared hurriedly closed the glass-door of communication with the warehouse. “That’s better,” said he. “As well not to let all the world know.”“It’s all a mistake though, Mr Timson,” again exclaimed Jared.“Just so—just so, Mr Pellet, sir; but prove it;” and Timson thrust his fingers into his waistcoat, and then drew himself back as far as he could.“That key has been in my locker for weeks and weeks now,” said Jared. “I saw it lying there, and thought it might have been left by somebody. It never occurred to me that it would open the poor-boxes.”Mr Timson raised his eyebrows, and looked deeply into the account-book before him, and then he placed three fingers upon the three columns—pounds, shillings, and pence—and slowly and methodically thrust them up the paper, as if calculating the amount of all three at one and the same time. He muttered, too, several indistinct words, which sounded like the names of various sums of money, before he turned again to Jared.“I always told the vicar it was false keys, Mr Pellet; but if we’ve put the saddle upon the wrong horse, or the boot upon the wrong foot, why the wearer must kick it off, sir.”“But you don’t think that I did it, sir?” exclaimed Jared, pitifully.“Well, I don’t know, Mr Pellet—I don’t know,” said the churchwarden. “I don’t know, indeed, sir. I don’t want to think it’s you; but what are we to do? Mr Gray comes to me, lays his hand on my shoulder, and he says—only last night, mind, sir”—(Mr Timson had his apron on, and therefore he said “sir”)—“‘Timson, I’ve found out the culprit’.”“‘Then I hope you’re satisfied, sir,’ I said.“‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not at all; I’ve found him out, but now I wish to goodness that I had not, for it seems a cruel thing.’“‘Who is it, sir?’ I said.“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘it’s poor Pellet I found a false key at the bottom of his book-locker when I took the organist of St Chrysostom’s to try our instrument.’“‘Pooh!’ I said, ‘nonsense, sir! stuff!’“‘What!’ he says; ‘why, you suspected him yourself, and said you were sure he was the culprit only the other day.’”“Oh Mr Timson!” groaned Jared. “Now don’t you be in a hurry,” grumbled the churchwarden, pettishly. “Hear me out, can’t you. You young fellows always will be so rash.”Jared raised his hands deprecatingly, and the churchwarden continued—“‘Very true, sir,’ I said, ‘so I did everybody in turn; but, depend upon it, ’tain’t Pellet.’ Those were the very words that passed, Mr Pellet; and now you’ve got to prove yourself innocent, that is, if you can, sir; for, though I stuck up for you to the vicar, I must say that it looks very black against you. We wanted to find the key to the mystery, and we found it, sir, in your box, so you’ve got to prove yourself an honest man, and show how the key got there.”“But I can’t, Mr Timson,” said Jared. “I’ve not the slightest notion.”“Then it looks all the blacker against you, Mr Pellet, that’s all I can say—blacker than ever—Kyshow at the very least, without so much as a dust of green to relieve it.”Jared groaned.“Why, sir, not saying it was you,” continued Mr Timson, excitedly, “a man must be a terrible scoundrel to go and rob the poor, even if he was poor himself, when he was situated as you are, and knew that the vicar, or somebody else not far from you at the present time, might—I do not say would, sir—might have helped him out of a difficulty if he had been in a corner.”Standing hat in hand, Jared looked at the churchwarden, while for a moment the little glass-enclosed office seemed to swim round him; but only for a moment; then came a choking sensation in his throat, and a blank dreary hopelessness settled down upon him. He tried to speak, but the words would not come; he endeavoured to make up some defence, to think out some plan of action, but, blank, blank, blank—all seemed blank and hopeless, and it almost appeared to him now that he really was the thief they took him for.“Prove it, sir—prove it,” resumed Timson, placing his thumb upon the edge of his desk, and pressing it down as if he had Jared beneath it, and was keeping him there until he proved his innocence. “I’m sorry, sir, very sorry, sir, and so is the vicar. Don’t you go and think, Mr Pellet,” he continued, in quite an indignant tone,—“don’t you go and think that we wanted the poor-boxes robbed; we didn’t, you know; and we didn’t want to find out that it was you.”Jared waved his hand deprecatingly.“Well, well, well, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Prove it, sir, prove it—as I said before, prove it,” and he pressed the thumb down harder and harder.“But, man, how can I?” exclaimed Jared, desperately.“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo;—shoo—shoo!” ejaculated Timson. “Don’t raise your voice like that, sir, or I shall be indignant too. It won’t do, Mr Jared Pellet. You’re in the wrong, sir—you’re in the wrong.”“I know, I know, Mr Timson,” said Jared, imploringly; “but what can I do?”“Prove it, sir, prove it,” said Timson again. “I want to see you proved innocent; and if we are wrong, there’s my hand—leastwise, there it is when you’ve proved it;” and for fear that Jared should seize upon it, he tucked it under the tail of his coat, turned his back to the fire, and then stood looking fiercely at the dejected man before him.But Jared had no thought of seizing the churchwarden’s hand, for as he stood there, bent and wrinkled of brow, he was going over, for the fiftieth time, the contents of the vicar’s letter, and then thinking of those at home, and the poverty that this loss of his situation must bring upon them. Then he thought of the disgrace, from which he felt that he must free his character; and in imagination he saw himself once more proud and erect in the presence of his accusers, but refusing with scorn the prayer of the vicar that he should continue to be organist. No! that would never be; he would fulfil the duties to the last, and then, once more clear in character, he would seek for some fresh means of subsistence for the family in Duplex Street.No organ here—no glass reflector in Timson’s counting-house; but Jared was still dreaming of being cleared from the accusation, when he awoke with a start, as the churchwarden exclaimed again—“Prove it, sir, prove it!”“Ay! prove it; but how?” and desolate, despairing, and half broken-hearted, Jared Pellet left the office, seeing nothing external, but mechanically making his way into the streets, where he wandered about, hour after hour, aimless and dejected; his mind a very chaos of conflicting thoughts, save in one instance, where brightly and strong shone a ray from his clouded imagination, and that ray was before him always.Other plans were made, broken, and confused, but this still stood out clearly before him—come what might, they must not know of this at home—for he felt that the secret lay almost in his own breast, since a few words to Purkis and Ruggles would ensure their silence.
A quarter of an hour after leaving the church, Jared was at the door of the vicar’s residence, where his summons was answered by the old Lincolnshire woman who had come up to London with “Maister,” and filled the posts of cook and housekeeper.
Now, most people would have told their servants to say, “Not at home,” to such-and-such a person; but the vicar had his own ideas upon such matters, and the old woman was ready for the expected visitor, for she exclaimed—
“Maister said he wouldn’t see you, if you called, Mr Pellet; and if you wanted to say anything, you was to write.”
“But did he say”—ventured Jared.
“No; he didn’t say not another word,” said the old housekeeper; and Jared turned disconsolately away, walking down the street in a purposeless manner, until, moved by another idea, he roused himself and hurried in the direction of Mr Timson’s stores, where he found the head of the establishment, very stern and important, in his counting-house, but apparently ready to listen to reason.
“It’s all a mistake, sir; I’m as innocent as a child,” exclaimed Jared.
“Hadn’t you better shut the door first, sir?” said Timson, drily; when Jared hurriedly closed the glass-door of communication with the warehouse. “That’s better,” said he. “As well not to let all the world know.”
“It’s all a mistake though, Mr Timson,” again exclaimed Jared.
“Just so—just so, Mr Pellet, sir; but prove it;” and Timson thrust his fingers into his waistcoat, and then drew himself back as far as he could.
“That key has been in my locker for weeks and weeks now,” said Jared. “I saw it lying there, and thought it might have been left by somebody. It never occurred to me that it would open the poor-boxes.”
Mr Timson raised his eyebrows, and looked deeply into the account-book before him, and then he placed three fingers upon the three columns—pounds, shillings, and pence—and slowly and methodically thrust them up the paper, as if calculating the amount of all three at one and the same time. He muttered, too, several indistinct words, which sounded like the names of various sums of money, before he turned again to Jared.
“I always told the vicar it was false keys, Mr Pellet; but if we’ve put the saddle upon the wrong horse, or the boot upon the wrong foot, why the wearer must kick it off, sir.”
“But you don’t think that I did it, sir?” exclaimed Jared, pitifully.
“Well, I don’t know, Mr Pellet—I don’t know,” said the churchwarden. “I don’t know, indeed, sir. I don’t want to think it’s you; but what are we to do? Mr Gray comes to me, lays his hand on my shoulder, and he says—only last night, mind, sir”—(Mr Timson had his apron on, and therefore he said “sir”)—“‘Timson, I’ve found out the culprit’.”
“‘Then I hope you’re satisfied, sir,’ I said.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not at all; I’ve found him out, but now I wish to goodness that I had not, for it seems a cruel thing.’
“‘Who is it, sir?’ I said.
“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘it’s poor Pellet I found a false key at the bottom of his book-locker when I took the organist of St Chrysostom’s to try our instrument.’
“‘Pooh!’ I said, ‘nonsense, sir! stuff!’
“‘What!’ he says; ‘why, you suspected him yourself, and said you were sure he was the culprit only the other day.’”
“Oh Mr Timson!” groaned Jared. “Now don’t you be in a hurry,” grumbled the churchwarden, pettishly. “Hear me out, can’t you. You young fellows always will be so rash.”
Jared raised his hands deprecatingly, and the churchwarden continued—
“‘Very true, sir,’ I said, ‘so I did everybody in turn; but, depend upon it, ’tain’t Pellet.’ Those were the very words that passed, Mr Pellet; and now you’ve got to prove yourself innocent, that is, if you can, sir; for, though I stuck up for you to the vicar, I must say that it looks very black against you. We wanted to find the key to the mystery, and we found it, sir, in your box, so you’ve got to prove yourself an honest man, and show how the key got there.”
“But I can’t, Mr Timson,” said Jared. “I’ve not the slightest notion.”
“Then it looks all the blacker against you, Mr Pellet, that’s all I can say—blacker than ever—Kyshow at the very least, without so much as a dust of green to relieve it.”
Jared groaned.
“Why, sir, not saying it was you,” continued Mr Timson, excitedly, “a man must be a terrible scoundrel to go and rob the poor, even if he was poor himself, when he was situated as you are, and knew that the vicar, or somebody else not far from you at the present time, might—I do not say would, sir—might have helped him out of a difficulty if he had been in a corner.”
Standing hat in hand, Jared looked at the churchwarden, while for a moment the little glass-enclosed office seemed to swim round him; but only for a moment; then came a choking sensation in his throat, and a blank dreary hopelessness settled down upon him. He tried to speak, but the words would not come; he endeavoured to make up some defence, to think out some plan of action, but, blank, blank, blank—all seemed blank and hopeless, and it almost appeared to him now that he really was the thief they took him for.
“Prove it, sir—prove it,” resumed Timson, placing his thumb upon the edge of his desk, and pressing it down as if he had Jared beneath it, and was keeping him there until he proved his innocence. “I’m sorry, sir, very sorry, sir, and so is the vicar. Don’t you go and think, Mr Pellet,” he continued, in quite an indignant tone,—“don’t you go and think that we wanted the poor-boxes robbed; we didn’t, you know; and we didn’t want to find out that it was you.”
Jared waved his hand deprecatingly.
“Well, well, well, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Prove it, sir, prove it—as I said before, prove it,” and he pressed the thumb down harder and harder.
“But, man, how can I?” exclaimed Jared, desperately.
“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo;—shoo—shoo!” ejaculated Timson. “Don’t raise your voice like that, sir, or I shall be indignant too. It won’t do, Mr Jared Pellet. You’re in the wrong, sir—you’re in the wrong.”
“I know, I know, Mr Timson,” said Jared, imploringly; “but what can I do?”
“Prove it, sir, prove it,” said Timson again. “I want to see you proved innocent; and if we are wrong, there’s my hand—leastwise, there it is when you’ve proved it;” and for fear that Jared should seize upon it, he tucked it under the tail of his coat, turned his back to the fire, and then stood looking fiercely at the dejected man before him.
But Jared had no thought of seizing the churchwarden’s hand, for as he stood there, bent and wrinkled of brow, he was going over, for the fiftieth time, the contents of the vicar’s letter, and then thinking of those at home, and the poverty that this loss of his situation must bring upon them. Then he thought of the disgrace, from which he felt that he must free his character; and in imagination he saw himself once more proud and erect in the presence of his accusers, but refusing with scorn the prayer of the vicar that he should continue to be organist. No! that would never be; he would fulfil the duties to the last, and then, once more clear in character, he would seek for some fresh means of subsistence for the family in Duplex Street.
No organ here—no glass reflector in Timson’s counting-house; but Jared was still dreaming of being cleared from the accusation, when he awoke with a start, as the churchwarden exclaimed again—
“Prove it, sir, prove it!”
“Ay! prove it; but how?” and desolate, despairing, and half broken-hearted, Jared Pellet left the office, seeing nothing external, but mechanically making his way into the streets, where he wandered about, hour after hour, aimless and dejected; his mind a very chaos of conflicting thoughts, save in one instance, where brightly and strong shone a ray from his clouded imagination, and that ray was before him always.
Other plans were made, broken, and confused, but this still stood out clearly before him—come what might, they must not know of this at home—for he felt that the secret lay almost in his own breast, since a few words to Purkis and Ruggles would ensure their silence.
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.A Telegram.Upon the principle that it never rains but it pours, trouble seemed just now to be rife, and Patty took upon herself more than her share. Janet used to say again and again that her friend must visit her no more, but sorrow only seemed to link them more and more together. Janet, however, was a good deal at Duplex Street, and there used to be some mournful old minor quartettes played. Patty presiding at the piano, while Jared scraped the bass out of an old violoncello, to Canau and Janet’s first and second violin.But somehow, at this time, Decadia seemed to have a fascination for Patty, and though Mrs Jared was ready to complain, she saw that her child was suffering, and did not give utterance to her thoughts.The consequence was that Patty was more and more at the dingy house, her light step passing, as it were, too quickly over the pollution around to take taint therefrom. There were times, though, when the incidents at the place seemed to repel her, and she would determine to stay away; but Janet’s troubles, and the unvarying kindness of Canau would have been sufficient to draw her there without the yearning look in Janet’s great pleading eyes when her friend had been longer away than usual. And when suspicion had fallen upon the house, let people think what they might, Patty told herself that it was her duty to cling to her friends the closer for their troubles.Now, if in these nineteenth century busy hurrying days we were in want of a seer, we should hardly go to the ranks of the constabulary to seek him; but all the same it seemed as if police constable James Braid was right in his prophetic mind when, in allusion to various visits that he had seen paid by Lionel Redgrave to Decadia, he shook his head, and exclaimed, “You’ll go there wunst too often—wunst too often, my fine fellow.”Police constable James Braid must have been right; for it came to pass one day that Harry Clayton was seated in his rooms with the “oak sported,” a wet towel round his weary head, and his mind far away in the antique, when there was a summons at the door, and his attendant placed a telegram in his hand. He took the envelope eagerly, for to a nearly friendless man, messages, even letters, were but occasional visitants; but his countenance rapidly assumed a pained expression, as he comprehended more fully the meaning of the abrupt words he read, and associated them with the past.The message was as follows:—“From Richard Redgrave, Regent Street, to Harry Clayton, Caius College, Cambridge.—Pray come to me directly: Lionel has disappeared.”For a few moments Harry stood with the paper half crushed in his hand, a flood of recollections, dammed back by hard study, now sweeping all before it, and causing him intense suffering.“I feared as much—I might have known it would come to this,” he said, bitterly; and then he paced rapidly up and down his room, his brow knit and the face of Patty seeming to torture him, as he tried to drive it from his mind.Within an hour, he was at the Cambridge Station, and in due time reached Lionel’s chambers in the Quadrant, to obtain the following brief information from Mr and Mrs Stiff.That Lionel Redgrave had gone out one evening—this was the eighth day since—and had not returned. That they had waited three days, and then, feeling very uneasy, they had written down to Elton Court to Sir Richard Redgrave, who had immediately come up to town.Sir Richard was now absent, but ten minutes later he returned, to greet Harry most warmly.He was a tall, stern, military-looking, old man, but there was a mild, appealing look in his eye, and he seemed worn out with trouble and anxiety, for he was clinging to his last straw—to wit, the hope that Harry Clayton would remember enough of his son’s haunts to give some clue to his whereabouts, and thus relieve him of his horrible suspense.“Sit down, Sir Richard,” said Harry, seeing his exhaustion.The old man—as a rule, haughty and unbending—seemed as obedient as a child, and taking a chair, sat attentively watching the younger’s thoughtful face, as he rested his forehead upon his hand.“He went out a week yesterday?” said Harry, after a few moments.“Yes; this day makes the eighth.”“Do you know what money he had?”“Nothing for certain; but I sent him a cheque for fifty pounds in excess of his allowance, and at his wish, only two days before. See here!”Sir Richard opened his tablets and showed Harry the memorandum.“And look here,” continued the anxious father; “he had taken this off—roughly too,” and the speaker drew from his pocket the large old-fashioned signet-ring which the young man always wore, and which Harry well knew, from its tightness, to have been never off the young man’s finger.Harry took the ring, and turned it over in his hand to find that it had been cut through in the thinnest part, evidently by the nippers of a bullet-mould, such as he knew to be in a pistol-case in the bedroom—a fact that he proved by opening the case, expecting that a pistol had been taken out; but though the nippers corresponded exactly with the cut, the pistol was in its place.“He does not seem to have had any jewellery with him,” continued Sir Richard, “unless they are fresh purchases which I have not seen him wear. Watch, chains, solitaires, studs, rings, are all there, but no money.”“Ring for the landlord,” said Harry abruptly; and, soon after, Mr Stiff entered the room, to stand mildly rubbing his hands, and smoothing a few greasy strands over the bald place on his head.“Mr Stiff!”“Sir to you,” said the landlord, arranging his head in his all-round collar, where it looked like a ball in a cup.“Have you any reason to believe that Mr Redgrave had lately been in the habit of visiting either of the low districts—Decadia, for instance?”Harry winced as he uttered these last words, but his brow was knit, and there was an air of determination in his face that told of a set purpose.“Well, sir, I don’t see as I can say. You know what a gent he was for birds and things of that sort.”“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Harry, eagerly; “and who brought them?”“Well, you see, sir, sometimes one, and sometimes another; often it would be a little devil’s imp in breeches and charity-cap, as said his name was Ikey Bod; ketched him, I did, sliding down the French-polished bannisters more than once when I’d gone up with things to the drawing-room. Very often too it was that little lame man as come about the dog being lost. But there’s been nothing of that sort, sir, since my good lady, sir, Mrs Stiff, made a few words about Mr Redgrave having so much live-stock—tarriers, and ferrets and such—in the house.”“That will do, Mr Stiff,” said Harry, quietly.“But if I might make so bold as to say, sir—”“That will do for the present Mr Stiff,” said Harry again; and the landlord wore quite an aggrieved aspect as he turned to leave the room.“Do you think, then, that you have a clue?” exclaimed Sir Richard, eagerly, as soon as they were alone.“I do not know—I hope so—I fear so,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “But stay a while—tell me first what steps you have taken.”Sir Richard looked disappointed, but he went on speaking.“I directly placed myself in communication with the police, but so far they have done nothing. But I am upon thorns—what do you know?”“Nothing for certain, Sir Richard; but let me try alone—let me see what I can do,” said Harry, thoughtfully; for he was trying to arrange his plan of action, as he sought to pierce the cloud that seemed to be ahead. He knew but too well, from old associations, the character of the region which he now felt, from his own reasoning, Lionel had been in the habit of visiting, and with this thought came a sense of misery that crushed him.He called up from the past a soft gentle face, and rage and jealousy seemed for a while to make him half mad, till they passed away to make room for a feeling of pity, as he muttered two words, “Flight—France!” and then wiped the cold dew of perspiration from his forehead.In a few minutes, though, he was once more himself, and sternly devoted to the object in view.“Yes,” he said, after a pause, during which Sir Richard had watched him as if life depended upon his words, “let me go first;” for he thought to spare the old man pain, and prevent more than one angry scene, if that which he surmised should prove to be true.Sir Richard seemed too much prostrated with that which he had gone through during the past days to offer resistance to his plans, and, besides, he had great faith in the young man’s foresight and discernment. So, yielding at once, he consented to stay, while, with throbbing temples, Harry Clayton turned from the house and made his way through the labyrinth of streets which led to Decadia.
Upon the principle that it never rains but it pours, trouble seemed just now to be rife, and Patty took upon herself more than her share. Janet used to say again and again that her friend must visit her no more, but sorrow only seemed to link them more and more together. Janet, however, was a good deal at Duplex Street, and there used to be some mournful old minor quartettes played. Patty presiding at the piano, while Jared scraped the bass out of an old violoncello, to Canau and Janet’s first and second violin.
But somehow, at this time, Decadia seemed to have a fascination for Patty, and though Mrs Jared was ready to complain, she saw that her child was suffering, and did not give utterance to her thoughts.
The consequence was that Patty was more and more at the dingy house, her light step passing, as it were, too quickly over the pollution around to take taint therefrom. There were times, though, when the incidents at the place seemed to repel her, and she would determine to stay away; but Janet’s troubles, and the unvarying kindness of Canau would have been sufficient to draw her there without the yearning look in Janet’s great pleading eyes when her friend had been longer away than usual. And when suspicion had fallen upon the house, let people think what they might, Patty told herself that it was her duty to cling to her friends the closer for their troubles.
Now, if in these nineteenth century busy hurrying days we were in want of a seer, we should hardly go to the ranks of the constabulary to seek him; but all the same it seemed as if police constable James Braid was right in his prophetic mind when, in allusion to various visits that he had seen paid by Lionel Redgrave to Decadia, he shook his head, and exclaimed, “You’ll go there wunst too often—wunst too often, my fine fellow.”
Police constable James Braid must have been right; for it came to pass one day that Harry Clayton was seated in his rooms with the “oak sported,” a wet towel round his weary head, and his mind far away in the antique, when there was a summons at the door, and his attendant placed a telegram in his hand. He took the envelope eagerly, for to a nearly friendless man, messages, even letters, were but occasional visitants; but his countenance rapidly assumed a pained expression, as he comprehended more fully the meaning of the abrupt words he read, and associated them with the past.
The message was as follows:—
“From Richard Redgrave, Regent Street, to Harry Clayton, Caius College, Cambridge.—Pray come to me directly: Lionel has disappeared.”
For a few moments Harry stood with the paper half crushed in his hand, a flood of recollections, dammed back by hard study, now sweeping all before it, and causing him intense suffering.
“I feared as much—I might have known it would come to this,” he said, bitterly; and then he paced rapidly up and down his room, his brow knit and the face of Patty seeming to torture him, as he tried to drive it from his mind.
Within an hour, he was at the Cambridge Station, and in due time reached Lionel’s chambers in the Quadrant, to obtain the following brief information from Mr and Mrs Stiff.
That Lionel Redgrave had gone out one evening—this was the eighth day since—and had not returned. That they had waited three days, and then, feeling very uneasy, they had written down to Elton Court to Sir Richard Redgrave, who had immediately come up to town.
Sir Richard was now absent, but ten minutes later he returned, to greet Harry most warmly.
He was a tall, stern, military-looking, old man, but there was a mild, appealing look in his eye, and he seemed worn out with trouble and anxiety, for he was clinging to his last straw—to wit, the hope that Harry Clayton would remember enough of his son’s haunts to give some clue to his whereabouts, and thus relieve him of his horrible suspense.
“Sit down, Sir Richard,” said Harry, seeing his exhaustion.
The old man—as a rule, haughty and unbending—seemed as obedient as a child, and taking a chair, sat attentively watching the younger’s thoughtful face, as he rested his forehead upon his hand.
“He went out a week yesterday?” said Harry, after a few moments.
“Yes; this day makes the eighth.”
“Do you know what money he had?”
“Nothing for certain; but I sent him a cheque for fifty pounds in excess of his allowance, and at his wish, only two days before. See here!”
Sir Richard opened his tablets and showed Harry the memorandum.
“And look here,” continued the anxious father; “he had taken this off—roughly too,” and the speaker drew from his pocket the large old-fashioned signet-ring which the young man always wore, and which Harry well knew, from its tightness, to have been never off the young man’s finger.
Harry took the ring, and turned it over in his hand to find that it had been cut through in the thinnest part, evidently by the nippers of a bullet-mould, such as he knew to be in a pistol-case in the bedroom—a fact that he proved by opening the case, expecting that a pistol had been taken out; but though the nippers corresponded exactly with the cut, the pistol was in its place.
“He does not seem to have had any jewellery with him,” continued Sir Richard, “unless they are fresh purchases which I have not seen him wear. Watch, chains, solitaires, studs, rings, are all there, but no money.”
“Ring for the landlord,” said Harry abruptly; and, soon after, Mr Stiff entered the room, to stand mildly rubbing his hands, and smoothing a few greasy strands over the bald place on his head.
“Mr Stiff!”
“Sir to you,” said the landlord, arranging his head in his all-round collar, where it looked like a ball in a cup.
“Have you any reason to believe that Mr Redgrave had lately been in the habit of visiting either of the low districts—Decadia, for instance?”
Harry winced as he uttered these last words, but his brow was knit, and there was an air of determination in his face that told of a set purpose.
“Well, sir, I don’t see as I can say. You know what a gent he was for birds and things of that sort.”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Harry, eagerly; “and who brought them?”
“Well, you see, sir, sometimes one, and sometimes another; often it would be a little devil’s imp in breeches and charity-cap, as said his name was Ikey Bod; ketched him, I did, sliding down the French-polished bannisters more than once when I’d gone up with things to the drawing-room. Very often too it was that little lame man as come about the dog being lost. But there’s been nothing of that sort, sir, since my good lady, sir, Mrs Stiff, made a few words about Mr Redgrave having so much live-stock—tarriers, and ferrets and such—in the house.”
“That will do, Mr Stiff,” said Harry, quietly.
“But if I might make so bold as to say, sir—”
“That will do for the present Mr Stiff,” said Harry again; and the landlord wore quite an aggrieved aspect as he turned to leave the room.
“Do you think, then, that you have a clue?” exclaimed Sir Richard, eagerly, as soon as they were alone.
“I do not know—I hope so—I fear so,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “But stay a while—tell me first what steps you have taken.”
Sir Richard looked disappointed, but he went on speaking.
“I directly placed myself in communication with the police, but so far they have done nothing. But I am upon thorns—what do you know?”
“Nothing for certain, Sir Richard; but let me try alone—let me see what I can do,” said Harry, thoughtfully; for he was trying to arrange his plan of action, as he sought to pierce the cloud that seemed to be ahead. He knew but too well, from old associations, the character of the region which he now felt, from his own reasoning, Lionel had been in the habit of visiting, and with this thought came a sense of misery that crushed him.
He called up from the past a soft gentle face, and rage and jealousy seemed for a while to make him half mad, till they passed away to make room for a feeling of pity, as he muttered two words, “Flight—France!” and then wiped the cold dew of perspiration from his forehead.
In a few minutes, though, he was once more himself, and sternly devoted to the object in view.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause, during which Sir Richard had watched him as if life depended upon his words, “let me go first;” for he thought to spare the old man pain, and prevent more than one angry scene, if that which he surmised should prove to be true.
Sir Richard seemed too much prostrated with that which he had gone through during the past days to offer resistance to his plans, and, besides, he had great faith in the young man’s foresight and discernment. So, yielding at once, he consented to stay, while, with throbbing temples, Harry Clayton turned from the house and made his way through the labyrinth of streets which led to Decadia.
Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.In Quest.Harry Clayton’s brain was very busy, for he was able to evoke from his imagination much of that which had in reality occurred. He did not give Lionel the credit of being worse than most young men of his age, but he could easily surmise that he would be sure to repeat his visits to Brownjohn Street, and now it was that he cursed his own weakness, and blamed himself as the cause of all that had happened.“Had I acted like a man,” he groaned, “I might have saved her.”Had he not had proofs from the landlord that a regular correspondence had been kept up with the shop in Decadia, and, as he argued, Patty would doubtless be often there, and feel flattered by the attentions of a baronet’s son. The purchases must have been made at D. Wragg’s shop, and Patty had been used as a decoy-bird.The character of the people seemed to increase in iniquity, as he thought upon all the surroundings. Then he thought he would go to Duplex Street first, but he cast the idea aside.“They are honest people, and doubtless I should find them broken-hearted,” he mused.It was all plain enough—thought only strengthened the conviction—the Brownjohn Street shop had been used as a trap, and Patty the bait. The prophecy uttered had come true—Lionel had gone there once too often.But what had been the result? Had he gone away—not alone?—or was there some dark deed here to be brought to light?His thoughts changed the next moment, and, as he hurried along, he told himself that he was, after all, perhaps only exaggerating; that this was the nineteenth century, and that now-a-days people were not inveigled and entrapped; that robbery was certainly common, and often accompanied with violence; but that murder was rare, and, when committed, was for the sake of greater gain than could be obtained from a young man going to keep an assignation.Harry winced as that last word occurred to him, and he strode on swiftly, as if moved by profound agitation. Then once more he slackened speed a little, his thoughts reverting to Jared and his wife. No; they would never encourage anything of the kind, he was sure. Whatever meetings had been held, must have been without their knowledge; and he had been fool enough to clear the way at the first rebuff! Or was he ashamed of the associations?—which was it?Harry groaned as he strode on, and now began to try and cast aside his fears for Lionel’s safety, telling himself once more that his imagination was clothing the affair with a tinge of romance which it did not merit.Brownjohn Street was as of old when he last visited the region. Idleness was rife; and, as if waiting for work to fall into their hands, or, more likely, not waiting for it at all, there were stout, sturdy, soft-palmed young fellows loitering about by the score. Some were talking, others chewing straws, and again others engaged in gambling with halfpence on secluded portions of the pavement.One and all had a sidelong glance for the well-dressed stranger passing along, and many a nod and wink was given as heads were turned, more than one of which attracted the notice of Harry; and he shudderingly wondered what would be the consequences if he were to come here frequently—perhaps by night—to visit some particular house, lolling insolently and carelessly along, as he had seen Lionel do, with a contemptuous defiant look in reply to every scowl?Harry shuddered again as he wondered, and then he hastened his steps involuntarily till he reached the abode of Mr D. Wragg.Without pause, he walked boldly in, to find all apparently as when he had seen the place last—birds, animals, all were there; but there was no dove-scene, and in place of the soft lineaments of Patty he encountered the swarthy face and harsh look of Janet, who was working behind the counter, her wiry little fingers rapidly continuing the work, although her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the new-comer.It seemed to Harry that the girl gazed angrily at him from beneath her dark brows, and set her teeth firmly together as she unflinchingly met her visitor’s gaze.A dull heavy feeling of misery now seemed to press harder than ever upon the young man’s heart, as his fears in one respect seemed to meet with confirmation. The next moment, sternly and angrily, he approached Janet, holding her as it were with his eye, and, leaning over the counter, he said in a low voice—“I want his address!”Janet did not speak, but stared at him wonderingly for a few moments, and then, in a puzzled way, repeated his words—“You want his address—you want his address!”“Yes,” said Harry, hastily, “I want his address;” and as he looked he could see that, in spite of the bold way in which his eye was met, Janet was trembling.Harry waited for an answer, but the only words that came were—“You want his address!”“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, sternly. “Where is he—where has he gone? You need not be afraid.”“Afraid!—afraid of what?” said Janet, harshly.“There—there! let us have none of this fencing,” cried Harry, angrily—“afraid to tell me. Where is he? Has he taken her abroad? Look here! I do not want to go to her home, for they must be in trouble.”Janet burst into a mocking laugh; but Harry went on without heeding it—“He has a father, and the old man is in despair. He fears that mischief has befallen him. We know that he is young and foolish, and that he has been here often to meet her.”“I do not understand you—what do you mean?” said Janet, coldly, though it was evident that she was greatly moved.Harry saw it, and never for a moment relaxing his gaze, went on—“If they have gone away together, at least let me know for certain that he is safe—that we may expect to hear from him again soon; and I will not press you further than for information that will prove to me the truth. I speak plainly, for this is a most painful case.”Harry paused, astonished at the change which had come over Janet, who, as the meaning of his words dawned upon her to their full extent, started back, and with one hand tore hastily at her throat, as if to check the strangling sensation that would arise. Then as she leaned towards him, as if fascinated by his eye, she gasped forth—“Do you mean—do you mean?” she cried, hoarsely repeating her words, as her face assumed a livid aspect.“Yes, yes; you know whom I mean—Mr Redgrave—”“Mr Redgrave!” she said, hastily.“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, “that gentleman who came here with me. He disappeared a week since. Tell me where they have gone, and you shall be rewarded.”Still her gaze was wild and fixed, and no words fell from her lips, till in his impatience, and feeling that she was playing with him. Harry seized one of the bony wrists, when, the touch galvanising her into action, she snatched her hand away, and, as if fleeing from the memory of some past horror, tottered into the back-room; but not to escape, for she was closely followed by Harry.
Harry Clayton’s brain was very busy, for he was able to evoke from his imagination much of that which had in reality occurred. He did not give Lionel the credit of being worse than most young men of his age, but he could easily surmise that he would be sure to repeat his visits to Brownjohn Street, and now it was that he cursed his own weakness, and blamed himself as the cause of all that had happened.
“Had I acted like a man,” he groaned, “I might have saved her.”
Had he not had proofs from the landlord that a regular correspondence had been kept up with the shop in Decadia, and, as he argued, Patty would doubtless be often there, and feel flattered by the attentions of a baronet’s son. The purchases must have been made at D. Wragg’s shop, and Patty had been used as a decoy-bird.
The character of the people seemed to increase in iniquity, as he thought upon all the surroundings. Then he thought he would go to Duplex Street first, but he cast the idea aside.
“They are honest people, and doubtless I should find them broken-hearted,” he mused.
It was all plain enough—thought only strengthened the conviction—the Brownjohn Street shop had been used as a trap, and Patty the bait. The prophecy uttered had come true—Lionel had gone there once too often.
But what had been the result? Had he gone away—not alone?—or was there some dark deed here to be brought to light?
His thoughts changed the next moment, and, as he hurried along, he told himself that he was, after all, perhaps only exaggerating; that this was the nineteenth century, and that now-a-days people were not inveigled and entrapped; that robbery was certainly common, and often accompanied with violence; but that murder was rare, and, when committed, was for the sake of greater gain than could be obtained from a young man going to keep an assignation.
Harry winced as that last word occurred to him, and he strode on swiftly, as if moved by profound agitation. Then once more he slackened speed a little, his thoughts reverting to Jared and his wife. No; they would never encourage anything of the kind, he was sure. Whatever meetings had been held, must have been without their knowledge; and he had been fool enough to clear the way at the first rebuff! Or was he ashamed of the associations?—which was it?
Harry groaned as he strode on, and now began to try and cast aside his fears for Lionel’s safety, telling himself once more that his imagination was clothing the affair with a tinge of romance which it did not merit.
Brownjohn Street was as of old when he last visited the region. Idleness was rife; and, as if waiting for work to fall into their hands, or, more likely, not waiting for it at all, there were stout, sturdy, soft-palmed young fellows loitering about by the score. Some were talking, others chewing straws, and again others engaged in gambling with halfpence on secluded portions of the pavement.
One and all had a sidelong glance for the well-dressed stranger passing along, and many a nod and wink was given as heads were turned, more than one of which attracted the notice of Harry; and he shudderingly wondered what would be the consequences if he were to come here frequently—perhaps by night—to visit some particular house, lolling insolently and carelessly along, as he had seen Lionel do, with a contemptuous defiant look in reply to every scowl?
Harry shuddered again as he wondered, and then he hastened his steps involuntarily till he reached the abode of Mr D. Wragg.
Without pause, he walked boldly in, to find all apparently as when he had seen the place last—birds, animals, all were there; but there was no dove-scene, and in place of the soft lineaments of Patty he encountered the swarthy face and harsh look of Janet, who was working behind the counter, her wiry little fingers rapidly continuing the work, although her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the new-comer.
It seemed to Harry that the girl gazed angrily at him from beneath her dark brows, and set her teeth firmly together as she unflinchingly met her visitor’s gaze.
A dull heavy feeling of misery now seemed to press harder than ever upon the young man’s heart, as his fears in one respect seemed to meet with confirmation. The next moment, sternly and angrily, he approached Janet, holding her as it were with his eye, and, leaning over the counter, he said in a low voice—
“I want his address!”
Janet did not speak, but stared at him wonderingly for a few moments, and then, in a puzzled way, repeated his words—
“You want his address—you want his address!”
“Yes,” said Harry, hastily, “I want his address;” and as he looked he could see that, in spite of the bold way in which his eye was met, Janet was trembling.
Harry waited for an answer, but the only words that came were—“You want his address!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, sternly. “Where is he—where has he gone? You need not be afraid.”
“Afraid!—afraid of what?” said Janet, harshly.
“There—there! let us have none of this fencing,” cried Harry, angrily—“afraid to tell me. Where is he? Has he taken her abroad? Look here! I do not want to go to her home, for they must be in trouble.”
Janet burst into a mocking laugh; but Harry went on without heeding it—
“He has a father, and the old man is in despair. He fears that mischief has befallen him. We know that he is young and foolish, and that he has been here often to meet her.”
“I do not understand you—what do you mean?” said Janet, coldly, though it was evident that she was greatly moved.
Harry saw it, and never for a moment relaxing his gaze, went on—
“If they have gone away together, at least let me know for certain that he is safe—that we may expect to hear from him again soon; and I will not press you further than for information that will prove to me the truth. I speak plainly, for this is a most painful case.”
Harry paused, astonished at the change which had come over Janet, who, as the meaning of his words dawned upon her to their full extent, started back, and with one hand tore hastily at her throat, as if to check the strangling sensation that would arise. Then as she leaned towards him, as if fascinated by his eye, she gasped forth—
“Do you mean—do you mean?” she cried, hoarsely repeating her words, as her face assumed a livid aspect.
“Yes, yes; you know whom I mean—Mr Redgrave—”
“Mr Redgrave!” she said, hastily.
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry, “that gentleman who came here with me. He disappeared a week since. Tell me where they have gone, and you shall be rewarded.”
Still her gaze was wild and fixed, and no words fell from her lips, till in his impatience, and feeling that she was playing with him. Harry seized one of the bony wrists, when, the touch galvanising her into action, she snatched her hand away, and, as if fleeing from the memory of some past horror, tottered into the back-room; but not to escape, for she was closely followed by Harry.
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.Janet’s Kindness.Harry Clayton stopped short upon entering D. Wragg’s parlour, as if he had been smitten, for he found himself face to face with Patty, who stood before him pale and trembling, but who met his gaze with a calm look that disarmed him.For a moment he could not speak, but stood as if petrified.“You here!” he exclaimed. “Thank God!” and then he was silent again, struggling with the emotion that troubled him—a mingling of pleasure and doubt. “Miss Pellet—Patty!” he said at last, regardless of the bent and desolate figure crouching at her side, and he caught the young girl’s hand in his—“Mr Redgrave? he has been here a good deal lately to see you.”“I believe,” said Patty, coldly, as she withdrew her hand, “Mr Redgrave has been sometimes, sir, to the shop.”“But,” exclaimed Harry, earnestly, “do you know where he now is? If you do, pray tell me.”“I cannot tell you—I do not know. I heard all your questions. He has not been here for quite a fortnight.”“He was here eleven—twelve day since,” said a voice.Harry turned sharply, to find himself face to face with the little Frenchman, who courteously raised his pinched old hat.“Twelve days since!” repeated Harry, “and for what purpose?”“Ma foi!” exclaimed Canau, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Perhaps Monsieur will walk with me, and we will talk. Not here!” Puzzled and anxious, Harry followed the new-comer into the shop, where he stood amidst the noise of the restless birds and animals, as if ready to answer the visitor’s queries.But not at first; it was not until after some preliminary fencing, by which the shrewd little foreigner gained a little insight into Harry’s object and character, though the young man was frank and open as the day.Canau, suspicious at first, soon saw this, and in his turn seemed to meet the visitor upon his own ground, apparently speaking openly and to the point.“But he is young—a boy—and foolish; he does not understand my girls—I call them ‘my girls,’ Monsieur. He makes mistakes; but we forgive him. She,” he said, nodding towards the inner room, “is young too, and we like to have her here—to visit Janet. Perhaps it was to see her he came. But we forgive him, and he has not been much of late.”Harry looked fixedly at the little Frenchman, as he spoke in his strange halting fashion, meeting the young man’s gaze with a shifting look. Were these words of truth, or was there something hidden? Was this man frank, or only an old deceiver, who could mask his face to suit any character when he was at war with society? Still there was such an air of candour in all that was spoken, and so much quiet dignity in the Frenchman’s words, that it was with a feeling he could not have explained that Harry thanked him for what had been said.“But you do not seem to realise the fact,” exclaimed Harry. “He has disappeared so suddenly, and knowing him to have been a visitor here, we naturally looked towards this place with suspicion.”“Yes, yes, but I see,” said Canau, quietly; “but he is not here. We do not know. This is a bad place round about, but we are quiet people here; and if they—these girls, knew anything, they would tell directly. I hope he has not been robbed. There are many here at night it would not be safe to meet. But there! he is young, he is gone upon some voyage, some travel; be at ease: he will return, and the old man be happy.”Canau’s words were so calm, that forgetting place, and the Frenchman’s abject appearance, Harry seemed to recognise in him so much of the gentleman that he raised his hat, the salute being as courteously returned.“If you can give me any information, pray do so,” said Harry, “for we are ill at ease respecting him.”He added the Regent Street address to his card, and handed it to the Frenchman, who seemed to brighten up and look elate as he spoke with Harry.“My best endeavours shall be at the service of Monsieur,” he said; and then in answer to a few more words, he gave an affirmative nod. Then together they entered the little room to find Patty bending over Janet, whose face was buried in her hands.“I am afraid,” said Harry, addressing Patty, “that I have startled her by my vehemence. I see now that I have been labouring under a gross misapprehension, and can only ask your forgiveness. Pray make my excuses to her when she grows more calm. I am very anxious about my friend.”He stopped, hesitated for a few moments, and approaching and taking Patty’s hand, he said, huskily, “You say that you heard all my words, and in memory of old times, I cannot leave without saying more. I see that I was grievously in error. You must attribute it to ignorance; but I must ask you before I go, to forgive the injustice, the wrong I have done you.”Patty did not speak; she tried, but no words came to her lips. She looked anxious and troubled, and there was a feeling as of a great sorrow at her heart—a sorrow which made her bosom heave till she recalled the manner in which Harry had treated her before Lionel Redgrave, and what she looked upon as his false pride. Then came, too, the scene which she had witnessed upon the Essex lawn, and the words she had heard spoken, and it seemed to her that he was mocking—insulting her.She withdrew her hand, and just bent her head in reply, leaving Harry to quit the room with the scene photographed in his mind of Patty leaning down over the weeping girl at her side.But could he have stayed, he would have seen Janet start up, wild and angry, to catch Canau by the arm, as she fixed upon him her wild dark eyes.“What have they done with him?” she half shrieked. “You know—he knows. There is some foul play here, and mischief has been done for the sake of his wretched money. Oh! that I should stay here in this place, where such scenes are acted! But it shall not be; they shall be told where he is and what has been done.”“But, my child, you are mad and wild, and do not know what it is you say. We do not know where this foolish young aristocrat can be.”“What!” cried Janet, “has it not been shameful? Has not advantage been taken of his visits here, and he has been led on and on by Wragg, to get his money? Has it not been cruel, scandalous, abominable to her and our friends at Duplex Street? If they had known, would they have allowed her to come once? and you have not tried to stay it! But it shall all be made plain. She came here from her tender love for me, and that—that—that man took advantage of it, and has tried all he knew, constantly, to win her to stay in the wretched shop, so that he might sell some miserable bird. It is villainy—villainy!”“Hush—hush, little one!” said Canau; “you talk at random—you speak wildly. Patty, my child, take her up-stairs; let her lie down and be at peace. We shall soon hear news of this unfortunate boy.”
Harry Clayton stopped short upon entering D. Wragg’s parlour, as if he had been smitten, for he found himself face to face with Patty, who stood before him pale and trembling, but who met his gaze with a calm look that disarmed him.
For a moment he could not speak, but stood as if petrified.
“You here!” he exclaimed. “Thank God!” and then he was silent again, struggling with the emotion that troubled him—a mingling of pleasure and doubt. “Miss Pellet—Patty!” he said at last, regardless of the bent and desolate figure crouching at her side, and he caught the young girl’s hand in his—“Mr Redgrave? he has been here a good deal lately to see you.”
“I believe,” said Patty, coldly, as she withdrew her hand, “Mr Redgrave has been sometimes, sir, to the shop.”
“But,” exclaimed Harry, earnestly, “do you know where he now is? If you do, pray tell me.”
“I cannot tell you—I do not know. I heard all your questions. He has not been here for quite a fortnight.”
“He was here eleven—twelve day since,” said a voice.
Harry turned sharply, to find himself face to face with the little Frenchman, who courteously raised his pinched old hat.
“Twelve days since!” repeated Harry, “and for what purpose?”
“Ma foi!” exclaimed Canau, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Perhaps Monsieur will walk with me, and we will talk. Not here!” Puzzled and anxious, Harry followed the new-comer into the shop, where he stood amidst the noise of the restless birds and animals, as if ready to answer the visitor’s queries.
But not at first; it was not until after some preliminary fencing, by which the shrewd little foreigner gained a little insight into Harry’s object and character, though the young man was frank and open as the day.
Canau, suspicious at first, soon saw this, and in his turn seemed to meet the visitor upon his own ground, apparently speaking openly and to the point.
“But he is young—a boy—and foolish; he does not understand my girls—I call them ‘my girls,’ Monsieur. He makes mistakes; but we forgive him. She,” he said, nodding towards the inner room, “is young too, and we like to have her here—to visit Janet. Perhaps it was to see her he came. But we forgive him, and he has not been much of late.”
Harry looked fixedly at the little Frenchman, as he spoke in his strange halting fashion, meeting the young man’s gaze with a shifting look. Were these words of truth, or was there something hidden? Was this man frank, or only an old deceiver, who could mask his face to suit any character when he was at war with society? Still there was such an air of candour in all that was spoken, and so much quiet dignity in the Frenchman’s words, that it was with a feeling he could not have explained that Harry thanked him for what had been said.
“But you do not seem to realise the fact,” exclaimed Harry. “He has disappeared so suddenly, and knowing him to have been a visitor here, we naturally looked towards this place with suspicion.”
“Yes, yes, but I see,” said Canau, quietly; “but he is not here. We do not know. This is a bad place round about, but we are quiet people here; and if they—these girls, knew anything, they would tell directly. I hope he has not been robbed. There are many here at night it would not be safe to meet. But there! he is young, he is gone upon some voyage, some travel; be at ease: he will return, and the old man be happy.”
Canau’s words were so calm, that forgetting place, and the Frenchman’s abject appearance, Harry seemed to recognise in him so much of the gentleman that he raised his hat, the salute being as courteously returned.
“If you can give me any information, pray do so,” said Harry, “for we are ill at ease respecting him.”
He added the Regent Street address to his card, and handed it to the Frenchman, who seemed to brighten up and look elate as he spoke with Harry.
“My best endeavours shall be at the service of Monsieur,” he said; and then in answer to a few more words, he gave an affirmative nod. Then together they entered the little room to find Patty bending over Janet, whose face was buried in her hands.
“I am afraid,” said Harry, addressing Patty, “that I have startled her by my vehemence. I see now that I have been labouring under a gross misapprehension, and can only ask your forgiveness. Pray make my excuses to her when she grows more calm. I am very anxious about my friend.”
He stopped, hesitated for a few moments, and approaching and taking Patty’s hand, he said, huskily, “You say that you heard all my words, and in memory of old times, I cannot leave without saying more. I see that I was grievously in error. You must attribute it to ignorance; but I must ask you before I go, to forgive the injustice, the wrong I have done you.”
Patty did not speak; she tried, but no words came to her lips. She looked anxious and troubled, and there was a feeling as of a great sorrow at her heart—a sorrow which made her bosom heave till she recalled the manner in which Harry had treated her before Lionel Redgrave, and what she looked upon as his false pride. Then came, too, the scene which she had witnessed upon the Essex lawn, and the words she had heard spoken, and it seemed to her that he was mocking—insulting her.
She withdrew her hand, and just bent her head in reply, leaving Harry to quit the room with the scene photographed in his mind of Patty leaning down over the weeping girl at her side.
But could he have stayed, he would have seen Janet start up, wild and angry, to catch Canau by the arm, as she fixed upon him her wild dark eyes.
“What have they done with him?” she half shrieked. “You know—he knows. There is some foul play here, and mischief has been done for the sake of his wretched money. Oh! that I should stay here in this place, where such scenes are acted! But it shall not be; they shall be told where he is and what has been done.”
“But, my child, you are mad and wild, and do not know what it is you say. We do not know where this foolish young aristocrat can be.”
“What!” cried Janet, “has it not been shameful? Has not advantage been taken of his visits here, and he has been led on and on by Wragg, to get his money? Has it not been cruel, scandalous, abominable to her and our friends at Duplex Street? If they had known, would they have allowed her to come once? and you have not tried to stay it! But it shall all be made plain. She came here from her tender love for me, and that—that—that man took advantage of it, and has tried all he knew, constantly, to win her to stay in the wretched shop, so that he might sell some miserable bird. It is villainy—villainy!”
“Hush—hush, little one!” said Canau; “you talk at random—you speak wildly. Patty, my child, take her up-stairs; let her lie down and be at peace. We shall soon hear news of this unfortunate boy.”
Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.Flickered—Gone.“But you’ll sit down, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, kindly, as the little man stood with one arm resting upon the chimney-piece, heedless of the chair Patty had set for him.“No, ma’am, not to-night,” said Tim, dreamily; “I must go now—I must go. I thought I’d just drop in for a minute to see how you all were. The little ones all quite well, I hope, ma’am—all strong?”“Thank God, yes,” said Mrs Jared, softly, and the tears stood in her eyes as she spoke, and stood watching poor Tim as he leaned there brushing where the nap should have been upon his shabby hat, and then fidgeting and re-arranging the piece of glossy new black cloth which shone so conspicuously against the rusty head-piece.For Tim Ruggles was in deep mourning, consisting of his Sunday-clothes, wrinkled and creased as his own worn face, the above-named band, and a pair of brand-new black cloth gloves.“We have no troubles here, thank Heaven!” said Mrs Jared, and she glanced across at her husband, who grew deeply interested directly in the day before yesterday’s paper—there was noEchoin those days—while Patty turned away to hide her troubled face.This was Friday, and for the whole week Tim had not done a stroke of work, but dressed himself in his best, morning after morning, and gone out,—Mrs Ruggles never knew where, but Mrs Jared guessed, and though the poor little fellow had carefully rubbed them, there were still earthy stains upon the knees of his trousers, that no amount of rubbing could remove—stains that were renewed afresh each day. And every night that week Tim had called in at Duplex Street, for he had thought nightly he would just drop in to see how they all were, and then stood gazing from child-face to child-face with a lingering eager look that was pitiful to see.No one questioned Tim, for he had come in on the Sunday night just as Jared, Patty, Janet, and Canau had returned from St Runwald’s, where the latter had sat in the organ-loft, according to a regular custom of late, to aid his friend with the stops.Poor Tim! he came in holding his black-banded hat before his breast, as if to shield his wounded heart, that was too sorely hurt for him to lay it before so many friends.There was no thought there of Tim’s shabby mourning, where threadbare clothes were familiar; and pitiful as was poor Tim’s appearance, there was something in his hopeless look that made its way to Mrs Jared’s heart; so that in spite of his expostulating, “No, ma’am, no,” she would gently take him by the hand and press him back into a seat, where, with his eyes shaded, he would sit a while in silence.There was no need for words—they all knew that at last a keener blast had put out the flickering little flame which Tim had so long and carefully screened; and respecting the blow which had fallen upon him, child after child was carefully schooled not to ask after, or press upon Tim some rough plaything for little Pine; while Mrs Jared knew that sooner or later their humble friend would ease his loaded heart by making them the confidants of his trouble.It was indeed a genuine sorrow that bowed down the head of Tim Ruggles; and, save to sleep, for days past he had hardly rested in the home that now seemed so desolate. It was nothing to him that his wife spoke to him almost gently—his spirit revolted against the woman; and the first morning he tore the whalebone rib angrily from the wall, thrust and stamped it into the fire, watching it with a fierce delight, as it spat and crackled and writhed like a serpent in the glowing flame; and then hurried from her presence, to return though at night, worn and subdued. He hastened off again early the next morning, where Mrs Jared rightly guessed, but no one but the gatekeeper of Kensal Green Cemetery could have told for certain.On Saturday evening, Patty, agitated and anxious, had stolen down to Brownjohn Street, to find Janet feverish and restless, but thoughtful enough to insist upon D. Wragg seeing her friend to the better-lighted streets. She kissed Patty, though, as they parted, saying, “It shall all be made clear yet.”Patty and Jared met upon the door-step, both too much troubled to notice each other’s pained face; and soon after entering, Patty hurried to answer the faltering knock at the door which betokened the arrival of Tim Ruggles. “Just dropped in to see how they all were;” while his poor seamed face looked more haggard than ever.“Poor little man!” whispered Mrs Jared to her husband; “what did he do that he should have such a wife?”Not that Tim was untidy, for he was as carefully dressed as his garments would allow. Clean shaved too was Tim; but there was a desolate look in his face that sorely troubled Mrs Jared, who more than once hinted to her husband that she hoped the poor man would not do anything dreadful, and then felt almost hurt at the apparent indifference of Jared, who, hardened by his own troubles, could not bring his mind to bear upon those of others.Jared was right, though, when he said that there was no fear, for Tim’s was genuine unselfish sorrow, that in all earnestness he had bent his back to carry—bearing himself humbly, now that the first wild paroxysms of his grief were past.The children were in bed, and Tim, as they left the room, had kissed most tenderly and blessed each one, as it came to say “Good-night.”“Ah! Mr Pellet, sir,” he half moaned, “you’re a rich man, sir—a rich man, sir. God has been very good to you, sir. All strong and well—all strong and well!”Jared winced as he tried to read his paper, but could not turn his eyes from one spot—a police report of a servant who had stolen money from her employer’s box, and he made no reply.And now Tim stood in his old attitude by the chimney-piece.“It’s coming to-night,” whispered Mrs Jared to Patty, and she, poor girl, had run out of the room to sob for a few minutes, and then returned, red-eyed and flushed, to sit down to her work.“I hope I haven’t troubled you very much,” said Tim, gently. “I’ve been in many times, but I’ve not been myself, you know, and could not trust what was here to speak. It wasn’t me, Mrs Pellet, ma’am,” he continued, turning himself from Jared, so that it should only be a tender-hearted mother who read his quivering lips and tears; “it wasn’t me, but a poor broken-down wretch, who could not be man enough to fight against his troubles. You always said I ought to have been a woman, ma’am; and you were right—quite right. But I am better now, ma’am, and I shall be at work next week. Poor people can’t afford to be sorrowful, ma’am. Your rich folk can be in mourning every day, outside and inside, ma’am; we poor people can only do that once a week. I couldn’t sit on the board this week for thinking, ma’am. Come sorrow, one must fight it out—come hard times the same. But one’s as much as such a man as me can bear.”Mrs Jared sighed, and worked on busily at some little domestic repair done with needle and thread.“Had you not better sit down, Mr Ruggles?” she said.“No, ma’am,” said Tim; “it is time I was gone.”Then the room was once more very still, so that Jared almost started as Tim spoke again very slowly, for his thoughts were back at the organ-loft, and the question was troubling him once more, “What shall I do?”“Week to-morrow since we buried her, ma’am—like my own child, ma’am, and not a soul to say good-bye to her but me—no father—no mother. Ah! it was cruel, cruel! and how those whom God has given children can leave them in strange hands to pine away and die, is more than I can understand. I would not own that she was so ill, ma’am, not to a soul. I told myself it wasn’t so; and all the time it was. ‘Grim death won’t come and take that gentle, loving-hearted girl away, Tim,’ I said, ‘when there’s your rough worthless old carcase close at hand.’ But that’s what he does, ma’am; he’s idle though he’s busy, is death; and to save blunting that scythe of his, he goes on mowing down the sweet, gentle, bright-coloured tender flowers, and leaves the dry, harsh, old stalks like me to be snapped off by the wind.“But I knew it was coming, ma’am, faster and faster; and yet I couldn’t help thinking as there might be a change for the better. To have seen her, you might have hoped she was getting well, for she seemed to be easier towards the last, and for two or three days the pain was as good as gone, ’cept when her cough troubled her, and nothing wouldn’t stop that a bit. Never complained neither, she didn’t, but kept up dressed and about to the very last. I couldn’t help knowing that she was bad; but I didn’t think it was quite so bad; it’s a sort of thing that you can’t seem to believe, ma’am. It won’t come home to you until it’s too late, and then—then—then—”Tim’s voice grew very husky here, and, as he broke off, his hand covered his eyes once more.“I’m very weak, ma’am,” he said at last, apologetically. “It’s not like most men, I know, to take on so about that child; but, you see, my poor first wife loved her, and she seemed to be quite left to me to take care of; and now that she’s gone it don’t seem to me that I did my duty by her.”Here Mrs Jared and Patty murmured strongly in dissent, and Jared cleared his throat with a loud hem, blowing his nose, too, violently the moment after.“I can’t think that I did,” said Tim, “but I did try; and if I’d interfered more when Mrs Ruggles—wonderful woman, you know, ma’am—when Mrs Ruggles corrected, I’m sadly afraid that it would have been worse when I was away. I went twice—three times—four times to Bedford Row, and told them how bad the child was getting, and they said they would communicate, and that was all there; for—God forgive me if I wrong any man!—I believe him as owned my poor little darling wanted to hear that she was—”Tim broke down and sobbed like a child for a moment, but he dashed away the tears and continued—“I wasn’t satisfied with the doctor, because he shook his head and looked serious; and when I got another doctor, who smiled and chatted, and said pleasant things, I felt angry with myself because I had not gone to him sooner.“What’s the good of earning money and trying to save up a few pounds, if there is not going to be health and strength, ma’am? But it was of no use, to any one but the doctor, ma’am, his coming; and the poor child got to be weaker and weaker; and though she liked to go, and I would have carried her all the way till she could have sat down on a seat in the Park, where she could have leaned her head against me, and watched the people go by, the doctor said to me she must not go out, for the days were getting too short and cold.“So I made her a little sofy on my board, where she could lie and see me work, and thread fresh needles for me, and hold my twist, and wax, and scissors, and hand me fresh buttons. Then too she used to like to have a few flowers; but she would sooner go without them than me to leave her while I went to fetch them. But she used to get a good many; for Turfey Dick, who goes round with the chickweed, used often to bring us a bunch from out of the country, and—and God bless him for it!—he never took a penny, for he said he loved little ones, and wanted to bring her a bird.“She did not seem to mind at all; but she must have known what was coming, and could not bear me out of her sight for a moment. While now it was, ma’am, that she showed what she felt towards some one else—shrinking and shutting those little soft eyes every time some one came nigh.“I don’t believe in people’s hearts breaking, ma’am,” continued Tim, picking at the band of his hat; “but I could have held my head down and cried bitterly any time when she was so ill, and yet so still and uncomplaining.“Night after night I lay down on the board so as to sleep by her, for it seemed to please the poor darling. ‘Let me hold your hand,’ she’d say; and when I gave it to her, she’d hold it tightly, and lay it on her pillow, and put her little hot cheek upon it till I took it away to get her cough medicine, and then held her up in my arms to take it. I don’t make a fuss, ma’am, about what I did—it only came natural; and I couldn’t have slept and known that her little lips were hot and dry for want of drink; while when I held her up like that, she’d nestle close to me, and creep her little thin arms under my weskit, and ask, in her pretty gentle way, whether she might stay so, because she could sleep there.“And there she would sleep, only starting up now and then to look in my face, as if to see whether she was safe. Then she’d lay her head down again, and whisper to me that something kept pulling her away, and try to tell me about what she had been dreaming. But her poor little feverish head was all wrong, and her words broken and muddled like.“‘Somebody’s calling—somebody’s calling,’ she kept on whispering to me the last day. ‘There!’ she’d say, with a start, ‘didn’t you hear somebody call “Pine, Pine!”’ and then she would call eagerly, ‘Yes, yes!’ and turn to me and whisper, ‘Was that my mamma?’“What could I do, ma’am?—what could I do but bend my head down over the poor darling, and not let her see the hot tears come rolling down my cheeks. It was then that I felt most how I had been cheating myself and holding myself up with false hopes, and all the time that what she said was true; for though I was holding her tightly to me—tightly as she clung, it was all of no use, for something was drawing her slowly and surely away.“I tried more than once to smile and say something cheery to her, but she only looked strange at me, and said, ‘Don’t, please;’ and then, soon after, she said, in a sort of dreamy way, ‘Tell me what it’s like, and whether I shall see my mamma there!’“‘What what’s like, my pet?’ I says, shivering the while to hear her talk so.“‘What heaven’s like, and all about going there!’“What could I tell her?—what could I say, a poor ignorant man like me? I felt frightened-like, ma’am, to hear her so regularly talking about something drawing her away. I know now that it was from the dreamy troubled state of her head; while she always talked so about her mamma, and never said a word about him. I taught her to say that, you know, ma’am, for I hoped some day she would have been fetched into her proper speer, to be well off; and that’s why I did my best to improve her mind, and taught her catechism, and so on. And so she is well off, and better than she could ever have been here, and fetched into her proper speer, she is; for if ever there was a little angel here, it was my poor darling. But I couldn’t, bear to part with her, and it was not in that way I meant.”Time after time Tim glanced wistfully from face to face, as if to see what effect his words had; and then he altered and re-arranged the mourning-band around his hat, smoothing it, brushing it with his gloves, and at last setting it upon the table.“It seems to do me good telling you all about it, Mrs Pellet, ma’am; but for all that, the words seem to run and run; only I know that you all here used to like and take kindly to the little ill-used thing—for she was ill-used!” he exclaimed, passionately. “But anybody must have taken to and loved her; and do you know,” said Tim, solemnly, “that that’s why I think she was took away—because she was too good for the life below here. You don’t lose no little ones, ma’am, because they are happy and well off, and well treated. Nothing comes drawing of yours away, like it did my poor pet, as I can always hear whispering to me; and when I wake of a night for a few moments, I always seem to feel her little hot hand nestling in my breast, and feeling after mine to put under her burning cheek.”Mrs Jared shivered, and looked as if about to run up-stairs and see whether her own little ones were all safe.“But she was wanted,” said Tim, sadly, “and I shall never forgive myself—never, never!” and sinking back in the chair behind him, Tim Ruggles gave free vent to his sorrow, bowing his head almost to his knees, covering his face with his hands to conceal its working and the tears. His sobs seemed to tear their way from his breast, as, heedless now of all but his overwhelming grief, he rocked himself to and fro in the bitterness of his anguish.For some time nothing was heard but sobs in that common room. Mrs Jared and Patty crept closer together to weep in unison, Mrs Jared making it appear—though a piece of base dissimulation—that she was only comforting Patty; while Jared rose to rest a hand upon his visitor’s shoulder, telling himself that his was not the only trouble in the world.Tim wept on passionately, for the grief which had been thrust down and dammed back for days past, now burst forth with a violence that could not be stayed, as, still blaming himself for his weakness and lapse of duty towards the child, he groaned in the anguish of his spirit.“I shall never forgive myself,” cried Tim at last, leaping from his chair, “never! I lay down beside her for a bit that night, with her cheek upon my hand, and dropped off; but she moaned in her sleep, and it woke me directly. I gave her some drink, when, ‘Please take me,’ she whispered, and her little voice sounded, oh! so cracked, and harsh, and strange. So I took her in my arms—so light she was!—and then, having been watching night after night, I felt drowsy again. I propped myself with my back to the wall in the corner of the board, with that little hand nestled, as it had been scores of times, close against my breast. Her little arms were round me, and then I rocked her to and fro gently till she began to moan again quite softly, as she had often done of late in her sleep; and then, instead of keeping awake, I dropped off again, and slept for hours, till the light came peeping in through the sides of the blinds.“Pale and cold and scaring looked the light that morning; and as I woke, cramped, tired, and stiff, a horrible thought flashed through me, tearing me so that for a long time I dared not move nor look down. I seemed to have known all that had taken place, and to have felt it all, just as if I had been awake all night. I didn’t dream it, you know, ma’am, so I can’t explain myself; but I knew well enough that while I had slept, the something that had been drawing the poor darling away for so long had come at last and borne her off.“I knew it all well enough in an instant of time—that what I held so tightly in my arms as I sat there was not little Pine, but only her shape, and fast growing colder, colder, and colder—oh! so fast. And yet I could not move.“There was no moaning now—no sigh—no rattling in her poor little chest—no twitching restless moving of her poor little hands—no starting wildly from a half sleep to kiss me—but one terrible stillness; and I’d have given all I had only to have heard once more the dreadful painful cough that was gone now for ever.“I shall never forgive myself,” cried Tim, with a fresh burst of emotion. “Only to think of it!—only to think that I could not keep awake to watch over her to the last!” and Tim buried his face once more in his hands.Poor weary watcher that he was! he could not see the loving hand that had pressed down his burning eyelids, but accused himself angrily—the watcher alone through weary night after weary night—the watcher who had fought with all-conquering sleep till it could be resisted no more, and he was spared the sight of the last faint struggle!“Yes,” said Tim, after a pause, “a week to-morrow since we buried her, ma’am, and I’m going to begin work again on Monday. You said that I ought to have been a woman, ma’am; so you won’t be so very hard upon me for what you have seen to-night. I’m better now, for that was there and wanting to come; and,” he said, piteously, “you’re the only friends I have in the world, and I wanted to tell you all my trouble, but couldn’t before to-night.”No sooner had Tim left the house with Jared—heartsore himself, and glad of such companionship—to walk part of the way home with him, than Mrs Jared rushed up-stairs to kiss and cry over every one of her numerous progeny, as she satisfied herself that they were all safe. And sadly were the poor children disturbed by the process, for the light was cast upon their eyes, and Patty was consulted as to whether this one did not look pale, and that one flushed, which last was undoubtedly the case, for it had to be fished from beneath the bed-clothes, its unintelligibly mumbled words being taken for threatenings of delirium and fever.Mrs Jared descended at last, and Jared vowed that she got up six times that night to go into the various bedrooms—and she herself owned to three—while Jared lay telling himself he ought to make a confidant of his wife, and tell her all; but he shrank from the task, as he said, “Poor thing! no; she has enough to bear as it is.”It was true, for Mrs Jared’s trials were any thing but light, and she hid many a tear in her turn from Jared. But for all that, that night, after hours had passed, she had another to spare, as she thought of the dead child, and felt for it more than ever a strange yearning; while the tear that made wet her cheek was as much for it as for the sorrows of poor Tim Ruggles.Tears—tears! there were many shed that night; for in her own little room Patty too lay sleepless, thinking of Janet and her trouble—of the missing man, and of poor Pine as well; but somehow, in spite of her sadness, her thoughts would veer round to him who had first made her heart to beat, and that was Harry Clayton.
“But you’ll sit down, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, kindly, as the little man stood with one arm resting upon the chimney-piece, heedless of the chair Patty had set for him.
“No, ma’am, not to-night,” said Tim, dreamily; “I must go now—I must go. I thought I’d just drop in for a minute to see how you all were. The little ones all quite well, I hope, ma’am—all strong?”
“Thank God, yes,” said Mrs Jared, softly, and the tears stood in her eyes as she spoke, and stood watching poor Tim as he leaned there brushing where the nap should have been upon his shabby hat, and then fidgeting and re-arranging the piece of glossy new black cloth which shone so conspicuously against the rusty head-piece.
For Tim Ruggles was in deep mourning, consisting of his Sunday-clothes, wrinkled and creased as his own worn face, the above-named band, and a pair of brand-new black cloth gloves.
“We have no troubles here, thank Heaven!” said Mrs Jared, and she glanced across at her husband, who grew deeply interested directly in the day before yesterday’s paper—there was noEchoin those days—while Patty turned away to hide her troubled face.
This was Friday, and for the whole week Tim had not done a stroke of work, but dressed himself in his best, morning after morning, and gone out,—Mrs Ruggles never knew where, but Mrs Jared guessed, and though the poor little fellow had carefully rubbed them, there were still earthy stains upon the knees of his trousers, that no amount of rubbing could remove—stains that were renewed afresh each day. And every night that week Tim had called in at Duplex Street, for he had thought nightly he would just drop in to see how they all were, and then stood gazing from child-face to child-face with a lingering eager look that was pitiful to see.
No one questioned Tim, for he had come in on the Sunday night just as Jared, Patty, Janet, and Canau had returned from St Runwald’s, where the latter had sat in the organ-loft, according to a regular custom of late, to aid his friend with the stops.
Poor Tim! he came in holding his black-banded hat before his breast, as if to shield his wounded heart, that was too sorely hurt for him to lay it before so many friends.
There was no thought there of Tim’s shabby mourning, where threadbare clothes were familiar; and pitiful as was poor Tim’s appearance, there was something in his hopeless look that made its way to Mrs Jared’s heart; so that in spite of his expostulating, “No, ma’am, no,” she would gently take him by the hand and press him back into a seat, where, with his eyes shaded, he would sit a while in silence.
There was no need for words—they all knew that at last a keener blast had put out the flickering little flame which Tim had so long and carefully screened; and respecting the blow which had fallen upon him, child after child was carefully schooled not to ask after, or press upon Tim some rough plaything for little Pine; while Mrs Jared knew that sooner or later their humble friend would ease his loaded heart by making them the confidants of his trouble.
It was indeed a genuine sorrow that bowed down the head of Tim Ruggles; and, save to sleep, for days past he had hardly rested in the home that now seemed so desolate. It was nothing to him that his wife spoke to him almost gently—his spirit revolted against the woman; and the first morning he tore the whalebone rib angrily from the wall, thrust and stamped it into the fire, watching it with a fierce delight, as it spat and crackled and writhed like a serpent in the glowing flame; and then hurried from her presence, to return though at night, worn and subdued. He hastened off again early the next morning, where Mrs Jared rightly guessed, but no one but the gatekeeper of Kensal Green Cemetery could have told for certain.
On Saturday evening, Patty, agitated and anxious, had stolen down to Brownjohn Street, to find Janet feverish and restless, but thoughtful enough to insist upon D. Wragg seeing her friend to the better-lighted streets. She kissed Patty, though, as they parted, saying, “It shall all be made clear yet.”
Patty and Jared met upon the door-step, both too much troubled to notice each other’s pained face; and soon after entering, Patty hurried to answer the faltering knock at the door which betokened the arrival of Tim Ruggles. “Just dropped in to see how they all were;” while his poor seamed face looked more haggard than ever.
“Poor little man!” whispered Mrs Jared to her husband; “what did he do that he should have such a wife?”
Not that Tim was untidy, for he was as carefully dressed as his garments would allow. Clean shaved too was Tim; but there was a desolate look in his face that sorely troubled Mrs Jared, who more than once hinted to her husband that she hoped the poor man would not do anything dreadful, and then felt almost hurt at the apparent indifference of Jared, who, hardened by his own troubles, could not bring his mind to bear upon those of others.
Jared was right, though, when he said that there was no fear, for Tim’s was genuine unselfish sorrow, that in all earnestness he had bent his back to carry—bearing himself humbly, now that the first wild paroxysms of his grief were past.
The children were in bed, and Tim, as they left the room, had kissed most tenderly and blessed each one, as it came to say “Good-night.”
“Ah! Mr Pellet, sir,” he half moaned, “you’re a rich man, sir—a rich man, sir. God has been very good to you, sir. All strong and well—all strong and well!”
Jared winced as he tried to read his paper, but could not turn his eyes from one spot—a police report of a servant who had stolen money from her employer’s box, and he made no reply.
And now Tim stood in his old attitude by the chimney-piece.
“It’s coming to-night,” whispered Mrs Jared to Patty, and she, poor girl, had run out of the room to sob for a few minutes, and then returned, red-eyed and flushed, to sit down to her work.
“I hope I haven’t troubled you very much,” said Tim, gently. “I’ve been in many times, but I’ve not been myself, you know, and could not trust what was here to speak. It wasn’t me, Mrs Pellet, ma’am,” he continued, turning himself from Jared, so that it should only be a tender-hearted mother who read his quivering lips and tears; “it wasn’t me, but a poor broken-down wretch, who could not be man enough to fight against his troubles. You always said I ought to have been a woman, ma’am; and you were right—quite right. But I am better now, ma’am, and I shall be at work next week. Poor people can’t afford to be sorrowful, ma’am. Your rich folk can be in mourning every day, outside and inside, ma’am; we poor people can only do that once a week. I couldn’t sit on the board this week for thinking, ma’am. Come sorrow, one must fight it out—come hard times the same. But one’s as much as such a man as me can bear.”
Mrs Jared sighed, and worked on busily at some little domestic repair done with needle and thread.
“Had you not better sit down, Mr Ruggles?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” said Tim; “it is time I was gone.”
Then the room was once more very still, so that Jared almost started as Tim spoke again very slowly, for his thoughts were back at the organ-loft, and the question was troubling him once more, “What shall I do?”
“Week to-morrow since we buried her, ma’am—like my own child, ma’am, and not a soul to say good-bye to her but me—no father—no mother. Ah! it was cruel, cruel! and how those whom God has given children can leave them in strange hands to pine away and die, is more than I can understand. I would not own that she was so ill, ma’am, not to a soul. I told myself it wasn’t so; and all the time it was. ‘Grim death won’t come and take that gentle, loving-hearted girl away, Tim,’ I said, ‘when there’s your rough worthless old carcase close at hand.’ But that’s what he does, ma’am; he’s idle though he’s busy, is death; and to save blunting that scythe of his, he goes on mowing down the sweet, gentle, bright-coloured tender flowers, and leaves the dry, harsh, old stalks like me to be snapped off by the wind.
“But I knew it was coming, ma’am, faster and faster; and yet I couldn’t help thinking as there might be a change for the better. To have seen her, you might have hoped she was getting well, for she seemed to be easier towards the last, and for two or three days the pain was as good as gone, ’cept when her cough troubled her, and nothing wouldn’t stop that a bit. Never complained neither, she didn’t, but kept up dressed and about to the very last. I couldn’t help knowing that she was bad; but I didn’t think it was quite so bad; it’s a sort of thing that you can’t seem to believe, ma’am. It won’t come home to you until it’s too late, and then—then—then—”
Tim’s voice grew very husky here, and, as he broke off, his hand covered his eyes once more.
“I’m very weak, ma’am,” he said at last, apologetically. “It’s not like most men, I know, to take on so about that child; but, you see, my poor first wife loved her, and she seemed to be quite left to me to take care of; and now that she’s gone it don’t seem to me that I did my duty by her.”
Here Mrs Jared and Patty murmured strongly in dissent, and Jared cleared his throat with a loud hem, blowing his nose, too, violently the moment after.
“I can’t think that I did,” said Tim, “but I did try; and if I’d interfered more when Mrs Ruggles—wonderful woman, you know, ma’am—when Mrs Ruggles corrected, I’m sadly afraid that it would have been worse when I was away. I went twice—three times—four times to Bedford Row, and told them how bad the child was getting, and they said they would communicate, and that was all there; for—God forgive me if I wrong any man!—I believe him as owned my poor little darling wanted to hear that she was—”
Tim broke down and sobbed like a child for a moment, but he dashed away the tears and continued—
“I wasn’t satisfied with the doctor, because he shook his head and looked serious; and when I got another doctor, who smiled and chatted, and said pleasant things, I felt angry with myself because I had not gone to him sooner.
“What’s the good of earning money and trying to save up a few pounds, if there is not going to be health and strength, ma’am? But it was of no use, to any one but the doctor, ma’am, his coming; and the poor child got to be weaker and weaker; and though she liked to go, and I would have carried her all the way till she could have sat down on a seat in the Park, where she could have leaned her head against me, and watched the people go by, the doctor said to me she must not go out, for the days were getting too short and cold.
“So I made her a little sofy on my board, where she could lie and see me work, and thread fresh needles for me, and hold my twist, and wax, and scissors, and hand me fresh buttons. Then too she used to like to have a few flowers; but she would sooner go without them than me to leave her while I went to fetch them. But she used to get a good many; for Turfey Dick, who goes round with the chickweed, used often to bring us a bunch from out of the country, and—and God bless him for it!—he never took a penny, for he said he loved little ones, and wanted to bring her a bird.
“She did not seem to mind at all; but she must have known what was coming, and could not bear me out of her sight for a moment. While now it was, ma’am, that she showed what she felt towards some one else—shrinking and shutting those little soft eyes every time some one came nigh.
“I don’t believe in people’s hearts breaking, ma’am,” continued Tim, picking at the band of his hat; “but I could have held my head down and cried bitterly any time when she was so ill, and yet so still and uncomplaining.
“Night after night I lay down on the board so as to sleep by her, for it seemed to please the poor darling. ‘Let me hold your hand,’ she’d say; and when I gave it to her, she’d hold it tightly, and lay it on her pillow, and put her little hot cheek upon it till I took it away to get her cough medicine, and then held her up in my arms to take it. I don’t make a fuss, ma’am, about what I did—it only came natural; and I couldn’t have slept and known that her little lips were hot and dry for want of drink; while when I held her up like that, she’d nestle close to me, and creep her little thin arms under my weskit, and ask, in her pretty gentle way, whether she might stay so, because she could sleep there.
“And there she would sleep, only starting up now and then to look in my face, as if to see whether she was safe. Then she’d lay her head down again, and whisper to me that something kept pulling her away, and try to tell me about what she had been dreaming. But her poor little feverish head was all wrong, and her words broken and muddled like.
“‘Somebody’s calling—somebody’s calling,’ she kept on whispering to me the last day. ‘There!’ she’d say, with a start, ‘didn’t you hear somebody call “Pine, Pine!”’ and then she would call eagerly, ‘Yes, yes!’ and turn to me and whisper, ‘Was that my mamma?’
“What could I do, ma’am?—what could I do but bend my head down over the poor darling, and not let her see the hot tears come rolling down my cheeks. It was then that I felt most how I had been cheating myself and holding myself up with false hopes, and all the time that what she said was true; for though I was holding her tightly to me—tightly as she clung, it was all of no use, for something was drawing her slowly and surely away.
“I tried more than once to smile and say something cheery to her, but she only looked strange at me, and said, ‘Don’t, please;’ and then, soon after, she said, in a sort of dreamy way, ‘Tell me what it’s like, and whether I shall see my mamma there!’
“‘What what’s like, my pet?’ I says, shivering the while to hear her talk so.
“‘What heaven’s like, and all about going there!’
“What could I tell her?—what could I say, a poor ignorant man like me? I felt frightened-like, ma’am, to hear her so regularly talking about something drawing her away. I know now that it was from the dreamy troubled state of her head; while she always talked so about her mamma, and never said a word about him. I taught her to say that, you know, ma’am, for I hoped some day she would have been fetched into her proper speer, to be well off; and that’s why I did my best to improve her mind, and taught her catechism, and so on. And so she is well off, and better than she could ever have been here, and fetched into her proper speer, she is; for if ever there was a little angel here, it was my poor darling. But I couldn’t, bear to part with her, and it was not in that way I meant.”
Time after time Tim glanced wistfully from face to face, as if to see what effect his words had; and then he altered and re-arranged the mourning-band around his hat, smoothing it, brushing it with his gloves, and at last setting it upon the table.
“It seems to do me good telling you all about it, Mrs Pellet, ma’am; but for all that, the words seem to run and run; only I know that you all here used to like and take kindly to the little ill-used thing—for she was ill-used!” he exclaimed, passionately. “But anybody must have taken to and loved her; and do you know,” said Tim, solemnly, “that that’s why I think she was took away—because she was too good for the life below here. You don’t lose no little ones, ma’am, because they are happy and well off, and well treated. Nothing comes drawing of yours away, like it did my poor pet, as I can always hear whispering to me; and when I wake of a night for a few moments, I always seem to feel her little hot hand nestling in my breast, and feeling after mine to put under her burning cheek.”
Mrs Jared shivered, and looked as if about to run up-stairs and see whether her own little ones were all safe.
“But she was wanted,” said Tim, sadly, “and I shall never forgive myself—never, never!” and sinking back in the chair behind him, Tim Ruggles gave free vent to his sorrow, bowing his head almost to his knees, covering his face with his hands to conceal its working and the tears. His sobs seemed to tear their way from his breast, as, heedless now of all but his overwhelming grief, he rocked himself to and fro in the bitterness of his anguish.
For some time nothing was heard but sobs in that common room. Mrs Jared and Patty crept closer together to weep in unison, Mrs Jared making it appear—though a piece of base dissimulation—that she was only comforting Patty; while Jared rose to rest a hand upon his visitor’s shoulder, telling himself that his was not the only trouble in the world.
Tim wept on passionately, for the grief which had been thrust down and dammed back for days past, now burst forth with a violence that could not be stayed, as, still blaming himself for his weakness and lapse of duty towards the child, he groaned in the anguish of his spirit.
“I shall never forgive myself,” cried Tim at last, leaping from his chair, “never! I lay down beside her for a bit that night, with her cheek upon my hand, and dropped off; but she moaned in her sleep, and it woke me directly. I gave her some drink, when, ‘Please take me,’ she whispered, and her little voice sounded, oh! so cracked, and harsh, and strange. So I took her in my arms—so light she was!—and then, having been watching night after night, I felt drowsy again. I propped myself with my back to the wall in the corner of the board, with that little hand nestled, as it had been scores of times, close against my breast. Her little arms were round me, and then I rocked her to and fro gently till she began to moan again quite softly, as she had often done of late in her sleep; and then, instead of keeping awake, I dropped off again, and slept for hours, till the light came peeping in through the sides of the blinds.
“Pale and cold and scaring looked the light that morning; and as I woke, cramped, tired, and stiff, a horrible thought flashed through me, tearing me so that for a long time I dared not move nor look down. I seemed to have known all that had taken place, and to have felt it all, just as if I had been awake all night. I didn’t dream it, you know, ma’am, so I can’t explain myself; but I knew well enough that while I had slept, the something that had been drawing the poor darling away for so long had come at last and borne her off.
“I knew it all well enough in an instant of time—that what I held so tightly in my arms as I sat there was not little Pine, but only her shape, and fast growing colder, colder, and colder—oh! so fast. And yet I could not move.
“There was no moaning now—no sigh—no rattling in her poor little chest—no twitching restless moving of her poor little hands—no starting wildly from a half sleep to kiss me—but one terrible stillness; and I’d have given all I had only to have heard once more the dreadful painful cough that was gone now for ever.
“I shall never forgive myself,” cried Tim, with a fresh burst of emotion. “Only to think of it!—only to think that I could not keep awake to watch over her to the last!” and Tim buried his face once more in his hands.
Poor weary watcher that he was! he could not see the loving hand that had pressed down his burning eyelids, but accused himself angrily—the watcher alone through weary night after weary night—the watcher who had fought with all-conquering sleep till it could be resisted no more, and he was spared the sight of the last faint struggle!
“Yes,” said Tim, after a pause, “a week to-morrow since we buried her, ma’am, and I’m going to begin work again on Monday. You said that I ought to have been a woman, ma’am; so you won’t be so very hard upon me for what you have seen to-night. I’m better now, for that was there and wanting to come; and,” he said, piteously, “you’re the only friends I have in the world, and I wanted to tell you all my trouble, but couldn’t before to-night.”
No sooner had Tim left the house with Jared—heartsore himself, and glad of such companionship—to walk part of the way home with him, than Mrs Jared rushed up-stairs to kiss and cry over every one of her numerous progeny, as she satisfied herself that they were all safe. And sadly were the poor children disturbed by the process, for the light was cast upon their eyes, and Patty was consulted as to whether this one did not look pale, and that one flushed, which last was undoubtedly the case, for it had to be fished from beneath the bed-clothes, its unintelligibly mumbled words being taken for threatenings of delirium and fever.
Mrs Jared descended at last, and Jared vowed that she got up six times that night to go into the various bedrooms—and she herself owned to three—while Jared lay telling himself he ought to make a confidant of his wife, and tell her all; but he shrank from the task, as he said, “Poor thing! no; she has enough to bear as it is.”
It was true, for Mrs Jared’s trials were any thing but light, and she hid many a tear in her turn from Jared. But for all that, that night, after hours had passed, she had another to spare, as she thought of the dead child, and felt for it more than ever a strange yearning; while the tear that made wet her cheek was as much for it as for the sorrows of poor Tim Ruggles.
Tears—tears! there were many shed that night; for in her own little room Patty too lay sleepless, thinking of Janet and her trouble—of the missing man, and of poor Pine as well; but somehow, in spite of her sadness, her thoughts would veer round to him who had first made her heart to beat, and that was Harry Clayton.