Mad Part 32

A calm heavy sleep soon fell upon Matt, but he was not free from trouble then. There was the entry continually worrying him; now he knew he had seen it, now he felt that it was only a dream, or a dream within a dream. At last, though, a change came over the scene, and all was prosperity; he had entered into partners.h.i.+p with Septimus Hardon, and purchased the copyright of the Times, whose columns they regularly filled every day with a complete exposure of Doctor Hardon.

But the dream was not founded upon fact, for Septimus Hardon, with hope in his breast, had been to the entrance of the hospital, thinking that now Matt was so much better he would perhaps be ready with some information. But the visitor had been told of the operation, and the old man's present critical state, while being advised not to see him at that visit; and receiving a promise that a message should be sent in the event of a change for the worse, Septimus Hardon slowly, and sadly disheartened, returned to his law-copying.

END OF VOLUME TWO.

Volume Three, Chapter I.

THE BREAKING OF A BARRIER.

It was about this time that Aunt f.a.n.n.y, in the large room at Surrey-street, took to complaining of her neck, and wore a narrow strip of flannel beneath the stiff white-muslin kerchief, while night and morn her servant had to rub the said neck with hartshorn and oil. And truly the old dame's neck was stiff, and cold might have had some share in producing the stiffness; but undoubtedly it was princ.i.p.ally caused by the many sage shakes she gave her head when pondering over her nephew's state; for in spite of all the medicaments which he patiently allowed her to administer, the old lady effected no cure, and was in consequence sorely troubled in her own mind.

But she was not so sorely troubled as the object of her interest, who angered himself in vain because of the chaotic state of his mind.

Battle, battle--ever the same useless struggle, till he was ashamed of his weakness and want of self-control. To-day victor, to-morrow vanquished; now reviling himself for his want of faith and cruel suspicions, which he owned were almost baseless; the next day a slave to duty, and forbidding his heart to harbour further thoughts of her he now called his enemy. Work seemed the only refuge, and he toiled on. Study he could not; but he visited from house to house in the fold of Bennett's-rents, where the tainted sheep of his flock were gathered; and hiding from himself his real feelings--a shallow pretence--he knew the while how anxious he was respecting that little ewe-lamb.

But he drew a mask over his face, telling himself it was his true countenance; and with a calmness that was but on the surface, he called frequently to see the invalid mother, timing, however, his visits that they might be made while Lucy was absent--for duty's sake (and he now knew pretty well when she was likely to visit the warehouse); while, when he had visited the Bents, and returned without seeing her, he credited duty largely, and praised his own self-denial. All steps, he flattered himself, towards the final conquest which he would achieve; but though casting out the weak thoughts, he told himself that it was his duty to satisfy his heart concerning the doubts which so constantly tormented him.

How often the hours came when he scorned his dissimulation, and tore off the mask, none knew; but his face grew more pale and livid, and the grey hairs that sprinkled his temples were thicker than of old.

It happened one day, though, when he and Lucy had not encountered since he saw her bending over the child from Mrs Jarker's room, that, visiting from house to house and room to room, Mr Sterne stood in front of Mrs Sims'; but that lady was from home; so hearing the merry voice of the laughing child, he had ascended the stairs to find Lucy in the bird-catcher's attic. For the little face had been pressed against the blackened window, and a pair of bright little eyes had peered, hour after hour, from beneath the tangled golden hair, watching the busy fingers at the sewing-machine, till with heart aching for the neglected babe, and to study her mother, who objected to its being brought into the room, Lucy had crossed the court, and gone up and played with the little thing, laughing merrily at the child's delight, though a tear stood in her eye more than once as she evaded the child's eager, oft-repeated question of "When mammy come back?" Bill had gone out with his nets, and most probably would not be back until night; so the child had been left alone with some food in the dreary room, to play or cry itself to sleep, unless Mrs Sims should be there to attend to its wants. But there was that one spot by the window where she could look down upon Lucy; and there, day after day, she would stand without murmuring, attracted by that wondrous sense which draws children to the loveable and true. Lucy's heart yearned as she gazed up from time to time at the child, and she longed earnestly for the season when its mother should make fresh arrangements; but for some reason she came not, and Lucy had not seen her since Mrs Jarker's death.

And now the golden hours for which the little soul had longed had come again. Lucy was with her, and, herself a child for the time, she laughed merrily at the little one's delight.

Panting, tumbled, and flushed with exercise, Lucy stood at last, returning an escaped curl to its bondage, a bright smile playing round her ruddy lips, which parted to display the white teeth beneath, when the door opened, and, with a frown upon his brow, the curate stood in the entrance gazing upon the scene before him.

"In that ruffian's room--there of all places in the world!" doubt whispered to him; at a time, too, when their chance meetings had been attended by a cold reserve on Lucy's part--a reserve which his doubting heart misinterpreted; for he could not in his blindness see the cost at which it was maintained. And yet this reserve had pleased him while it pained, for he at times acknowledged the interest he took in her welfare. But it mattered not, he said, for his desire was but to try and save her from evil, nothing more; and the oftener he listened to these delusive whisperings the stronger grew a voice within, telling him that his reasoning was false, and that he was forgetting duty, position--all, in a love for one who grew colder and more distant at every meeting. Wearily, though, he kept on building up a wall between them--a wall built upon the sand. Stone by stone he laid, telling himself that it was for duty's sake, as he toiled on helplessly at his self-imposed task. True, he might have satisfied himself of the motive for Lucy's actions, which to him wore a blurred and strange aspect; but to others her name seemed a sealed book, one which he shrank from opening, lest he should at the same time reveal the secret of his own heart.

And now he stood at the door of that beggarly room, where was the bed over which he had so lately bent to whisper comfort to the suffering woman, or knelt by its side to ask mercy for the poor sufferer and a blessing on the helpless child. There was the same bare look of misery in the wretched place; but as the sun streamed through the great leaden lattice, all seemed glorified and brightened by the presence there.

Unseen he gazed on, while the glow of orange light flooded the room, and played round the graceful form of Lucy, as, starting again, she was pursued by the laughing child, varying her att.i.tude each moment as she eluded its grasp.

Suddenly the child struck itself sharply against a chair, and broke into a whimpering cry; but the caressing arms, the words of endearment, and the loving kiss soothed the pain instantly, and a smile came over the sunny face once more; when Lucy stood as if transfixed, the merry light faded from her eyes, the smile from her lip, and then the blood flushed to her temples, but only to retreat and leave her deadly pale, for in an instant the wall so laboriously built up, and at so great a cost in suffering, was swept down by the flood of pa.s.sion. Arthur Sterne knew that the battle had been in vain, and that he was but man; while doubt, everything, was cast to the winds as he was by her side, her hands clasped in his, telling her of his beaten-down love, his hopes, his fears,--all, all in the impa.s.sioned burst of words raised by the tempest of a strong man's love; for the sandy foundation was undermined, and the last trace of the barrier swept away.

And what said she? No words came in reply to his appeal. At first, startled, confused, overcome, she shrank from him, pale and trembling; but as his words came pouring forth, making cheek and neck burn, she knew that no greater bliss could be hers; and the trembling lids of her dark-blue eyes were slowly lifted to meet his, when, as if scathing her once more, came the recollection of his bitter, contemptuous look, his long coldness, and even scorn; and s.n.a.t.c.hing away her hands, she burst into tears and darted from the room.

Pale and troubled in mind as to what to attribute Lucy's behaviour, his brain in a whirl of doubt, Arthur Sterne stood gazing at the door, until, turning, he became aware that the opposite attic window was being opened. The lark began to twitter as the hand of Jean Marais secured it outside; and then he saw the wild dark eyes of the youth begin to earnestly watch the room.

Turning with a few kind words to the astonished child, who crouched in a corner, Arthur Sterne made his way from the house; and a sad evening spent Aunt f.a.n.n.y, in her anxiety for the "wilful boy" who angrily rejected her advice. He was not ill, he said; but the good dame nipped her lips together; while, retiring at last, the curate spent the night pacing his chamber-floor, trying to examine the tangle in his heart, but only to conclude that, come what might, difference of position should be no bar between him and Lucy; for, driving away, as he thought successfully, the doubt that still a.s.sailed him, he declared to himself that she possessed virtues before which birth and dowry paled and became as naught.

"Unstable as water," muttered the curate to himself, though, days after, when meeting with Lucy alone in the front-room of their place in Bennett's-rents, the barrier was again broken down--the barrier that time had forced him to renew--while the words he could not but utter came pouring forth, to bring no response.

Septimus was away with his boy, and Mrs Hardon slept in the back-room; and the words of Arthur Sterne were low and deep as the pa.s.sion that prompted them. But there was no response--no loving look in reply-- naught but the pale cheek and quivering eyelid, tears and looks of half-anger; for still clung to Lucy the recollection of his scorn and contempt, his misinterpretation of her motives; and the hands he clasped were cold and drawn away.

Then anger took the place of love--a foolish, mad anger, which robbed him of his self-control, and made him utter words beneath whose pa.s.sion the poor girl bent as bends flower before the storm. He uttered words then that an hour after he would have given anything to recall; telling her angrily of _ma mere_ and her slighting hints, of Jarker's familiarity, and lastly of the meeting he had witnessed in the Lane; unheeding the hands held up so deprecatingly, the appealing looks, and the tear-wet, pallid cheeks; for, as he told himself again and again that night, he was mad--mad in his pa.s.sionate love for one unworthy--mad in his words; and he writhed as he recalled the way in which he felt that he had lowered himself.

"I insist--I hold it as a right!" he had exclaimed; "tell me, Lucy, who was that woman? Do you know her character?" And he clutched her wrist angrily as he spoke.

He said no more then, for Lucy's face was aflame, and she started hastily to her feet, facing him almost as it were at bay, and vainly trying to free her hand from his grasp.

"Do your parents know of your meetings?" he exclaimed.

"No, no, no!" she cried excitedly, as she glanced towards the back-room door.

"Then I must--nay," he added with almost a cowardly look of triumph, for the weakness of the man was triumphant that afternoon, and he yielded to all that he had hitherto triumphed over--"I will tell them," he said, "for your good."

"For pity's sake," whispered Lucy, "Mr Sterne. Ah, pray, sir, stop-- pray stay! Do not think ill of me--"

But there Lucy ceased, for she was alone; and once more scornfully, with the cold bitter look, Mr Sterne had dashed her hand from him in contempt and turned from the room, into which Mrs Hardon now came to find Lucy weeping as though her heart would break.

Volume Three, Chapter II.

SNUFF.

Old Matt did not wake again for many hours, but, as the days slipped by, he partook with avidity of all that was allowed him, and grumbled for more. His friend the house-surgeon, whom he could look at now without imagining that he took notes inimical to his friend Septimus Hardon's interest, reported favourably of his condition; while Septimus himself came again and again, each time more eager to get at that which was hidden by the confusion in old Matt's brain.

"If he had only been so jolly anxious about the Somesham affair, first start off, what a difference it would have made!" grumbled Matt.

But it seemed useless to try and draw the old man's attention to things he had talked of in the days shortly before his entry of the hospital, for here all seemed blank.

"Well, yes, sir," Matt would say, "I have some faint recollection of saying something about medicine and attendance; but do you know, sir, I begin to think that one's memory is in one's blood? and they took so much out of me that last time, that I can't remember anything at all.

`Medicine and attendance,' did I say? Why, it must have been the medicine and attendance here, and those old cats of nurses. My thinking apparatus is terribly out of order, sir; and when I try to look back at anything, it's like peeping at it through a dirty window. P'r'aps it won't come bright and clean again, eh?"

"Don't try to think," said Septimus with a sigh. "You will recollect some day; so let it rest."

"Well, sir, that's just what I should like to do; but since you've asked me, I can't; for things won't go just as I like, and I feel all in a muddle. Let's see, now: you said something about this at your last visit, didn't you, sir? when I asked you about that talking woman and the office for servants; for I do recollect that, you know."

"Yes," replied Septimus, "at every visit."

"Just so," said Matt; "I thought you did; but I can't tell a bit about it now. Sometimes it seems that I heard it; sometimes that I read it, or saw it against a wall, or dancing before my eyes; but let's see," he said vacantly, as he held his hand to his head, "what was it we wanted to find?"

"The doctor's books, or the doctor," said Septimus.

"To be sure," said the old man; "I haven't got it right yet; and really you know, sir, this isn't a first-cla.s.s place to get right in, and they won't part with me yet, though I do long now to be well, and at liberty for a peep at the old law-courts and Lincoln's-inn once more. I mean to have a holiday, and spend it among all the posts in the old square as soon as I'm out; I'm getting so light-hearted and jolly, sir. Why, it will be quite a treat to be somewhere amongst a bit or two of dirt once more; we're so clean here."

"Only a little longer, Matt," said Septimus smiling.

"You see," said Matt, "there's so much to upset one about. What with the screen round this bed, and the screen round that bed, and the groans and sighs, ah, and even shouts sometimes, there's plenty to make a poor fellow feel low-spirited. Now there's a chap over there in that bed seems to have taken it into his head that he suffers more than anyone who ever came into the place, and howls and goes on terribly; while the bigger and stronger people are, sir, the more weak they seem to me to be in bearing pain. I believe, after all, you know, sir, that the little weak women beat us hollow."

"Ah!" said the patient spoken of, surmising from Matt's gestures that he was being referred to--"ah! Mr s.p.a.ce, you are talking about me, sir, and my groans, and it's very hard and unfeeling, sir. You may suffer yourself some day."

The visitor felt uncomfortable; but old Matt took it up directly.

"That's cool, anyhow," he gasped; "why, what do you mean? haven't I suffered as much as any of you, and been through two operations, and lived 'em out too? Why, what more would you have? It would have killed a big fellow like you, I know."

The patient replied with a groan, and began muttering about the unfeeling behaviour of those about him, from whom, he said, he had expected a little sympathy.

This roused the ire of a neighbour who had lost a leg through being run over by a coal-wagon, and he now took up the matter, followed by several others; so that a wordy warfare seemed imminent.

"That's it, go on," growled Matt in an undertone. "They're all getting better, sir; and, consequently, they're as cross as two sticks. What a thing it is! There seems to be no grat.i.tude amongst them; and really, sir, if it wasn't for the nurses, it wouldn't be such a bad place to come to--that is, for a man with strong nerves, you know. Now just look at 'em, how they are going it!"