Part 30 (1/2)
”`Mrs Hardon; medicine and attendance.' I wonder whether it's true, or only a sick man's fancy?” muttered Septimus aloud, as he went down the steps, and stood once more in the open air, feeling as though a weight had been raised from his spirits. ”Poor creatures, poor creatures! left to the tender mercies of those women, and often neglected and left to die.”
”No, no, no! pray don't say so,” sobbed a voice at his elbow. ”It's bad enough, I know; but not so bad as that, please!” And then a burst of sobs choked the speaker's utterance.
Septimus started, for the voice seemed familiar, and he saw beside him a tall, well-dressed female, with a thick wool-veil drawn down over her face, so that he could not distinguish her features.
”I knew you again, Mr--Mr--Mr--you did tell me your name, but I've forgotten it; and I asked him, and he said--but dear, dear,” she sobbed, ”can you see that I have been crying? And have you been in that dreadful place?”
”Yes,” replied Septimus; ”but I really do not know to whom I am talking.”
”O dear, O dear!” sobbed the woman, ”it's me; you know me, that you called on in Chiswell-street; and I can't take up my fall, for my poor eyes are so red with crying, and people would see. Registry--office for servants, you know; and O dear, O dear!” and she sobbed more loudly than ever.
”Indeed, I beg your pardon,” said Septimus kindly; ”but I could not know you through that thick veil.”
”Then you could not see that I had been crying?” sobbed the poor woman.
”No, indeed,” replied Septimus, ”and--”
”Don't speak to me yet,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Miss Tollicks; ”I'm almost heart-broken, and you set me off saying those cruel words. I'd give anything for a place where I could sit down and have a good cry, if it was only a doorstep, where people could not see me. I'm nearly blind now, and can't tell which way to go. It's ever so much worse than any trouble I ever had with my business.”
”Take my arm,” said Septimus gently, after an apologetic glance at his shabby clothes. ”Lean upon me, and we'll walk slowly down this street.
It is quieter here, and you will feel relieved soon.”
”O, thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Miss Tollicks, taking the proffered arm, and still sobbing loudly; ”but you are sure that people cannot see I have been crying?”
”Certain,” said Septimus as they walked on.
”And so you think,” said Miss Tollicks, ”that they are neglected and die, do you, Mr Hardon? and I'm afraid the poor things are. I've just been to see my poor sister that the doctor recommended to go in, and she's been telling me such dreadful tales about the nurses; and I can't tell whether it's the truth, or whether the poor thing is only light-headed. It was horrible to listen to her, that it was; and you've been to see some one too, Mr Harding?”
”Yes,” replied Septimus, ”the poor old gentleman who was with me when I called upon you.”
”Dear, dear, dear, what a sorrowful world this is!” sobbed Miss Tollicks; ”nothing but trouble, always trouble; and how is he, poor man?”
”Not long for this world, I fear,” said Septimus softly.
”And did he say anything about the nurses too?” sobbed Miss Tollicks.
”Yes, yes,” said Septimus hastily; ”but it can't be true. No woman could be such a wretch.”
”O, I don't know, Mr Harding; but is my veil quite down? there--thank you. We're strange creatures, and we are either very good or else very bad--especially servants, Mr Harding,” sobbed Miss Tollicks. ”I'm afraid that it's all true enough, and if they'd only let me stop and nurse my poor sister, I wouldn't care. The business might go and take its chance, for what's the good of money without life? But O, Mr Harding, I did ask my landlord, and he said--and he said--but O! you must not ask me now.” And here the poor woman burst out sobbing, quite hysterically, so that more than one person turned round to gaze upon her; but her troubles attracted little notice, for this was no uncommon scene in the long dreary street: the inhabitants were too much accustomed to the sight of weeping friends coming from the great building, where, but a few minutes before, they had been taking, perhaps, a last farewell of a dear one whom they would see no more--a dear one whose face was perhaps already sealed by the angel of death; a sad parting, maybe, from one whose hopeless malady had rendered it necessary for the interior of the hospital to afford the attentions that took the place of those that would have been supplied at home. Poverty and sickness, twin sisters that so often go hand-in-hand, brought here their victims to ask for aid; and those who dwelt hard by paid little heed to pallid out-patients seeking their daily portion of advice, some on crutches, some leaning upon the arms of friends, some in cabs. They were used to painful scenes, and knew by sight patient, student, and doctor; and therefore hardly bestowed a thought upon the sad couple pa.s.sing slowly down the street, at the end of which Septimus saw poor weeping Miss Tollicks into a cab, and left her unquestioned to pace slowly back towards Bennett's-rents.
He walked on and thought--thought of all his troubles, and the want of decision in his character; of how he ought boldly to have investigated his uncle's claim, setting aside his own feelings for the sake of those dependent upon his arm for their support; and he sighed again and again as he took himself to task. And then a prayer rose to his lips as he recalled the scene which he had left--a prayer fervently breathed there in the midst of London's busy flowing stream, as fervent as ever emanated from devotee kneeling in some solemn fane--a prayer that, for the sake of those at home, he might be spared from the smiting of sickness; and then he shuddered as he remembered his father's words, and thought of his wife's increasing helplessness.
”Stark mad! Yes, I must have been,” he muttered; ”and yet no, why was I to crush down my unselfish love?” And then he stopped short to examine himself as to whether his love had really been unselfish. But he pa.s.sed on again unsatisfied, lost in abstracting thoughts, heedless of being jostled here, pushed there, a walking ensample in his short walk of what he was in his longer journey of life, a man whom everyone would expect to give place, while he full readily made way. Now he was shouted at by a cabman as he crossed the road, then dragged back by a crossing-sweeper as he was about to step in front of an omnibus. But he looked elate, and thoughts of a brighter future rose before his mind as something seemed to whisper that all would yet be well; and as brighter thoughts came lighting in upon his heart's dark places, he saw old Matt well, and finding the entry that should restore him to ease and comfort; his wife and Lucy happy and smiling upon him; and then his head was lifted, his form grew more erect, his nerves and muscles became terse, and, swinging his arms, he strode forward till, turning down a side-street, he set off and ran--ran hard to the bottom, in the lightness of spirit that had come over him. He had no object in view, no reason for hastening, and the act seemed one of folly in a man of his years; but he felt the desire come upon him, and he ran, inflating his chest with the free air; and perhaps there have been times when, moved by similar impulses, men of the present day have felt, if they have not acted, the same as Septimus Hardon.
On again once more, this time to come in contact with a baker, whom he swung round basket and all, and when sworn at he apologised so cheerfully, and with such an aspect of genuine contrition, that the baker closed his voluble harangue with ”Well, don't do it again, that's all.” And perhaps, after all, the acts of Septimus Hardon were not of so very insane a character. True, they seemed strange for a man who had just come from a bed of sickness, and whose own affairs were in a most unsatisfactory state; but may there not have been something reactive after the oppression of much sorrow, the elasticity of life a.s.serting itself? Be it what it may, certain it is that Septimus Hardon, aged fifty, acted as has been described, though it seemed strange conduct in a man who had suffered as he had.
Breathed again, he once more ran on, full of resolutions for the future, touching the vigorous prosecution of his claim, smiling, too, as he made the vows in doubt as to their fulfilment, for he knew his weakness; but he ran on, feeling more light-hearted than he had felt for years, till suddenly he stopped and proceeded at a more moderate pace; for he trembled for his shoes, in whose durability he had not much faith, trusting their strength but little, for, placing the standard of boot-strength at twenty-six s.h.i.+llings, he remembered that he stood at three s.h.i.+llings and ninepence, plus his old ones, and he trembled.
Near home at last, where he arrived just in time to encounter _ma mere_ the sinister, with her poodles, starting to give select entertainments through the evening in the far West; and, as he turned into the court, his light-heartedness pa.s.sed away, the many hopeful thoughts vanished, and he sighed, for truly it was being under a cloud literally, as well as figuratively, to enter the precincts of Bennett's-rents.
Volume Two, Chapter XV.
THE COMMON LOT AGAIN.