Part 45 (1/2)
”Now!” exclaimed the old man, with hands trembling, and eyes appealing, lest his hearers should lose anything of what he disclosed; ”now look, look, look!” he cried, ”I fastened it down again, as it was before. A knife, quick! Now look here,” he said huskily, and he tried to insert the blade of the penknife given to him beneath the fly-leaf, groaning bitterly at his inability, when, with hands trembling nearly as much, Septimus took Bible and knife, loosened the paper round, and laid it open, when the first thing that met his eyes, in his father's clear handwriting, was the date of the marriage, and eighteen months after appeared the entry of his birth, while upon the opposite side, in a delicate woman's hand, were the words--
”Agnes Hardon.
_The gift of Uncle Octavius_.”
”There, there, there, sir! That's it, isn't it, sir?” cried the old man excitedly. ”I wouldn't rest till I'd got it, and 'twas hard work, for the poor girl clung to it as the gift of someone she loved; but the more she hung back, the more I was set upon having it. I knew enough of binding to see that the end-leaf was gummed down, and under that leaf I knew there was what I wanted. Here; breath!” he gasped; ”open the window.”
Septimus Hardon sat gazing dreamily at the entry in his hand; it was indisputable, though he could hardly believe in its truth, while the few words he heard coming from the weeping girl seemed only to add to the confused state of his mind; but it appeared to him now that the old man's condition was the first thing to consider, and placing the book in his pocket, he begged that he might try and have him removed to his own lodgings.
”No,” said Matt feebly, ”no; I won't leave here, for somehow these people love me after their way, and I seem to think that the end should be much what the life has been; and as to doctor, sir, why I've got one here,” he said, gazing fondly up in Lucy's weeping face, ”and if she'll stop here, and let me hold her hand, G.o.d bless her! I can go easy, for it will seem to keep ill away. No other doctor's any use, sir. I'm worn out, sir, worn out!”
But Septimus would not be satisfied, and leaving Lucy by the old man's side, he fetched a.s.sistance to his old friend.
”No hope at all?” he said, as the doctor and he walked together afterwards through the dingy shop.
”Not the slightest,” said the surgeon once more, as he stood upon the doorstep. ”He has never thoroughly recovered from the effects of the operations he suffered, and besides, it's the old tale with the poor fellow--sorrow, misery, starvation, on the one hand; dissipation, drink, late hours on the other. The poor old fellow speaks the truth; he is worn out.”
Night came, and Lucy and Septimus still waited by the old man's dying bed. He had slept for some little time, during which interval Lucy had replied to her stepfather's many queries--replied as she thought of the despair that must have prompted the awful plunge into futurity. Then the old man woke, and talked eagerly for awhile of the future prospects of the family. But soon a change came over his face, his head tossed wearily from side to side of his dirty pillow, while often he would raise it and stare wildly from face to face, but recognising none, sink back again with a pitiful moan.
”Lost life, lost life! Worn out, worn out!” he kept on muttering as he tossed restlessly from side to side, frequently starting and looking round as if not knowing where he was. Then he seemed to sleep peacefully for awhile, to open his eyes once more, and smile feebly at his visitors, beckoning them to come nearer.
”G.o.d bless you both!” he muttered; ”it's all over.”
Septimus half-rose and would have fetched the doctor again, but Matt whispered ”No.”
”Don't go,” he said. ”He can do no good now, nor anyone else; I'm past all that. It's been coming for days past, and I've fought it out; kept on till my work was done. I've never been much good, sir; but now I'm worn out. P'r'aps I might have been different, if I'd had other chances; but I was always weak, sir; weak.”
He paused again; and Lucy's sobs were the only sounds that broke the silence.
”Ah!” said Matt again, feebly; ”I've justified many a line, sir; line by line--`line upon line,' don't it say somewhere? but I can't justify myself. Dropping out of the old forme, sir; fast--fast now. But there, sir, hold up; for I'm happy enough. You did me a good turn once, and I've tried to pay it back; and since I've known you, and you've been ready to be my friends, I've seemed to get proud, and wouldn't do anything that should disgrace Miss Lucy here. But I began too late, and I never deserved such friends as I've found; for I've been a poor, weak, helpless drinking old galley-slave. But there, sir,” he said with a smile, ”my case is foul; the sorts are out; and I'm putting away my stick for good.”
”May I fetch Mr Sterne?” whispered Septimus.
”No, no, no,” said the old man wearily; ”we were never friends; and I can't play the hypocrite, sir. It's too late, sir; too late! What I've done, I've done. Let me die in peace, here, with your loving faces by me; and fetch poor old Ike in, by and by, for he loves me in his way.
No, sir; it would be the act of a hypocrite, I fancy, for me to send for a clergyman now. No, Mr Hardon, sir; stay with me to the last; and let me hold tightly by this little white hand, and I can go from you hopeful and in peace. For if the great G.o.d who sent me here, struggling on through a life of care, has made hearts so gentle, and true, and loving, that they can weep and sorrow over my poor old battered case, can't I hope that He who knows all, and has seen all my helpless weakness, will be merciful? I know, sir, I know. I might have done better: but it's been a life of drive and struggle--money to-day, starve to-morrow, and drink always, to hold up and do the work. I'm sorry, sir, sorry; but the sorrow came too late. I've had a hard life, sir; the wish for better things came too late, when I was worn, and shattered, and used up; when the day was too far spent, sir; and now the night's coming on faster and faster. Hold my hands tight,” he whispered, ”for it's growing dark and darker; and I'm losing my way.”
And now once more there was a long silence, when the old man looked eagerly round.
”What time is it?” he asked; and Septimus told him, then, turning towards Lucy, the old man whispered--
”Put your hand to my lips, that I may kiss it once before I go;” but she leaned over and tenderly kissed him, when he smiled, and some words pa.s.sed, but they were too faint to be heard. Then he was restless for a while; but soon started again, to stare wildly round. ”What's that?” he asked.
”Nothing but the wind moaning round the houses,” whispered Lucy.
”No,” he said with a smile, ”nothing but the wind--nothing but the wind waiting to scatter the dust.”
And now he lay so still and peaceful, that, in answer to Lucy's inquiring look, Septimus bent over him again and again; but as he looked in that sorrow-ploughed face he could see that the old man still slept, while, with the light strong upon her face as she knelt, Lucy seemed no mean representative of the angel watching by the old man's side.
”An angel, sir, an angel, sir!” he had mattered again; and then he seemed to doze off, muttering the words to himself.
”Worn out!” said Septimus Hardon, as he listened time after time to the faintly-borne chimes of Saint Clement's; and then he thought of the present revelation, which seemed almost dearly bought in the old man's death; of the past; the office in Carey-street, and its sorrows; the bitter struggle for mere life; the lodging in Bennett's-rents; and the shabby old compositor in his frayed suit, pinching himself that he might supply their wants; the watchful care and jealousy with which he had tended Lucy to and from the warehouse; the secret they had shared, and the old man's chivalrous endurance in tracing out the information; spite of all blurs or blots upon his character, ever the same tender, true-hearted man, devoted to his friends' interests, and ready with his offering, even though it were humble as the cup of cold water that should not be without its reward; and now worn out--the poor old setting battered and worthless, but the heart true and bright to the last.