Part 5 (1/2)
He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of his handkerchief.
”Well, Julian,” he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, ”a year more school, I suppose, and then--business; what?”
”Yes, uncle.”
The boy spoke cheerfully, but yet not in the same natural way as before.
”I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought to be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'll find to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes, might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'm afraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil,--and the patent medicines. It's a poor look-out for you, Julian.”
There was a silence.
”Harriet isn't quite well yet, is she?” Smales went on, half to himself.
”No, she looked poorly to-night.”
”Julian,” began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more nervously than ever.
”Yes, uncle?”
”I wonder what 'ud become of her if I--if I died now? You're growing up, and you're a clever lad; you'll soon be able to s.h.i.+ft for yourself.
But what'll Harriet do? If only she had her health. And I shall have nothing to leave either her or you, Julian,--nothing,--nothing! She'll have to get her living somehow. I must think of some easy business for her, I must. She might be a teacher, but her head isn't strong enough, I fear. Julian--”
”Yes, uncle?”
”You--you are old enough to understand things, my boy,” went on his uncle, with quavering voice. ”Suppose, after I'm dead and gone, Harriet should want help. She won't make many friends, I fear, and she'll have bad health. Suppose she was in want of any kind,--you'd stand by her, Julian, wouldn't you? You'd be a friend to her,--always?”
”Indeed I would, uncle!” exclaimed the boy stoutly.
”You promise me that, Julian, this Christmas night?--you promise it?”
”Yes, I promise, uncle. You've always been kind and good to me, and see if I'm not the same to Harriet.”
His voice trembled with generous emotion.
”No, I sha'n't see it, my boy,” said Smales, shaking his head drearily; ”but the promise will be a comfort to me at the end, a comfort to me.
You're a good lad, Julian!”
Silence came upon them again.
In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses standing in gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt, Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were small and dark; the furniture spa.r.s.e, old-fas.h.i.+oned, and much worn; there were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. On entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were not carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was no sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.
Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered the front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faint daylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the mantelpiece hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were the Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters. The centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the sole articles of furniture. The table was spread with a white cloth; upon it were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and two gla.s.ses.
Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite dark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood upon the table. She was tall, very slender, and with a face which a painter might have used to personify the spiritual life. Its outlines were of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subdued by, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strength which could convert suffering into triumph. Her garment was black, of the simplest possible design. In looking at Maud, as the child rose from the chair, it was scarcely affection that her eyes expressed, rather a grave compa.s.sion. Maud took a seat at the table without speaking; her aunt sat down over against her. In perfect silence they partook of the milk and the bread. Miss Bygrave then cleared the table with her own hands, and took the things out of the room. Maud still kept her place. The child's manner was not at all constrained; she was evidently behaving in her wonted way. Her eyes wandered about the room with rather a dreamy gaze, and, as often as they fell upon her aunt's face, became very serious, though in no degree expressive of fear or even awe.
Miss Bygrave returned, and seated herself near the little girl; then remained thoughtful for some minutes. The breath from their lips was plainly visible on the air. Maud almost s.h.i.+vered now and then, but forced herself to suppress the impulse. Her aunt presently broke the silence, speaking in a low voice, which had nothing of tenderness, but was most impressive in its earnest calm.