Chapter Twenty Four.
Love fights his Way into the beautiful Palace.
Reginald recollected little of what happened on that terrible night when he found himself suddenly face to face with his dead enemy.
He had a vague impression of calling the landlady and of seeing the body carried from the pestiferous room. But whether he helped to carry it himself or not he could not remember.
When he next was conscious of anything the sun was struggling through the rafters over his head, as he lay in the bed beside Love, who slept still, heavily but uneasily.
The other lodgers had all risen and left the place; and when with a shudder he glanced towards the corner where the sick man last night had died, that bed was empty too.
He rose silently, without disturbing his companion, and made his way unsteadily down the ladder in search of the woman.
She met him with a scowl. She had found two five-pound notes in the dead man’s pocket, and consequently wanted to hear no more about him.
“Took to the mortuary, of course,” said she, in answer to Reginald’s question. “Where else do you expect?”
“Can you tell me his name, or anything about him? I knew him once.”
She looked blacker than ever at this. It seemed to her guilty conscience like a covert claim to the dead man’s belongings, and she bridled up accordingly.
“I know nothing about him—no more than I know about you.”
“Don’t you know his name?” said Reginald.
“No. Do I know your name? No! And I don’t want to!”
“Don’t be angry,” he said. “No one means any harm to you. How long has he been here?”
“I don’t know. A week. And he was bad when he came. He never caught it here.”
“Did any doctor see him?”
“Doctor! no,” snarled the woman. “Isn’t it bad enough to have a man bring smallpox into a place without calling in doctors, to give the place a bad name and take a body’s living from them? I suppose you’ll go and give me a character now. I wish I’d never took you in. I hated the sight of you from the first.”
She spoke so bitterly, and at the same time so anxiously, that Reginald felt half sorry for her.
“I’ll do you no harm,” said he, gently. “Goodness knows I’ve done harm enough in my time.”
The last words, though muttered to himself, did not escape the quick ear of the woman, and they pleased her. She was used to strange characters in her place, seeking a night’s shelter before escaping to America, or while hiding from justice. It was neither her habit nor her business to answer questions. All she asked was to be let alone and paid for her lodgings. She knew Reginald had her in a sense at his mercy, for he knew the disease the man had died of, and a word from him out of doors would bring her own pestiferous house about her ears and ruin her.
But when he muttered those words to himself she concluded he was a criminal of some sort in hiding, and criminals in hiding, as she knew, were not the people to go and report the sanitary arrangements of their lodgings to the police.
So she mollified towards him somewhat, and told him she would look after her affairs if he looked after his, and as he had not had a good night last night, well, if no one else wanted the bed to-night he could have it at half-price; and after that she hoped she would have done with him.
Reginald returned to the foul garret, and found Love still asleep, but tossing restlessly, and muttering to himself the while.
He sat down beside him and waited till he opened his eyes.
At first the boy looked round in a bewildered way as though he were hardly yet awake, but presently his eyes fell on Reginald and his face lit up.
“Gov’nor,” he said, with a smile, sitting up.
“Well, old boy,” said Reginald, “what a long sleep you’ve had. Are you rested?”
“I ’ave ’ad sich dreams, gov’nor, and—my, ain’t it cold!” And he shivered.
The room was stifling. Scarcely a breath of fresh air penetrated through its battered roof, still less through the tiny unopened window at the other end.
“We’ll get some breakfast to make you warm,” said Reginald. “This horrible place is enough to make any one feel sick.”
The boy got slowly out of bed.
“We ’ave got to earn some browns,” he said, “afore we can get any breakfast.”
He shivered still, and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. Then he gathered himself together with an effort and walked to the ladder. Reginald’s heart sank within him. The boy was not well. His face was flushed, his walk was uncertain, and his teeth chattered incessantly. It might be only the foul atmosphere of the room, or it might be something worse. And as he thought of it he too shivered, but not on account of the cold.
They descended the ladder, and for a little while the boy seemed revived by the fresh morning air. Reginald insisted on his taking their one coat, and the boy seemed to lack the energy to contest the matter. For an hour they wandered about the wharves, till at last Love stopped short and said,—
“Gov’nor, I don’t want no breakfast. I’ll just go back and—”
The sentence ended in a whimper, and but for Reginald’s arm round him he would have fallen.
Reginald knew now that his worst fears were realised. Love was ill, and it was only too easy to surmise what his illness was, especially when he called to mind the boy’s statement that he had been taking shelter in the infected lodging-house ten days ago, during his temporary exile from Shy Street.
He helped him back tenderly to the place—for other shelter they had none—and laid him in his bed. The boy protested that he was only tired, that his back and legs ached, and would soon be well. Reginald, inexperienced as he was, knew better, or rather worse.
He had a battle royal, as he expected, with the landlady on the subject of his little patient. At first she would listen to nothing, and threatened to turn both out by force. But Reginald, with an eloquence which only extremities can inspire, reasoned with her, coaxed her, flattered her, bribed her with promises, and finally got far enough on the right side of her to obtain leave for the boy to occupy Durfy’s bed until some other lodger should want it. But she must have a shilling down, or off they must go.
It was a desperate alternative,—to quit his little charge in his distress, or to see him turned out to die in the street. Reginald, however, had little difficulty in making his choice.
“Are you comfortable?” said he to the boy, leaning over him and soothing the coarse pillow.
“Yes, gov’nor—all right—that there ache will be gone soon, and see if I don’t pick up some browns afore evening.”
“Do you think you can get on if I leave you a bit? I think I know where I can earn a little, and I’ll be back before night, never fear.”
“Maybe you’ll find me up and about when you comes,” said the boy; “mayhap the old gal would give me a job sweeping or somethink.”
“You must not think of it,” said Reginald, almost sternly. “Mind, I trust you to be quiet till I come. How I wish I had some food!”
With heavy heart he departed, appealing to the woman, for pity’s sake, not to let harm come to the boy in his absence.
Where should he go? what should he do? Half a crown would make him feel the richest man in Liverpool, and yet how hard, how cruelly hard, it is to find a half-crown when you most want it!
He forgot all his pride, all his sensitiveness, all his own weariness—everything but the sick boy, and left no stone unturned to procure even a copper. He even begged, when nothing else succeeded.
Nobody seemed to want anything done. There were scores of hungry applicants at the riverside and dozens outside the printing-office. There were no horses that wanted holding, no boxes or bags that wanted carrying, no messages or errands that wanted running. No shop or factory window that he saw had a notice of “Boys Wanted” posted in it; no junior clerk was advertised for in any paper he caught sight of; not even a scavenger boy was wanted to clean the road.
At last he was giving it up in despair, and coming to the conclusion he might just as well hasten back to his little charge and share his fate with him, when he caught sight of a stout elderly lady standing in a state of flurry and trepidation on the kerb of one of the most crowded crossings in the city.
With the instinct of desperation he rushed towards her, and, lifting his hat, said,—
“Can I help you across, ma’am?”
The lady started to hear words so polite and in so well-bred a tone, coming from a boy of Reginald’s poor appearance, for he was still without his coat.
But she jumped at his offer, and allowed him to pilot her and her parcels over the dangerous crossing.
“It may be worth twopence to me,” said Reginald to himself as he landed her safe on the other side.
How circumstances change us! At another time Reginald would have flushed crimson at the bare idea of being paid for an act of politeness. Now his heart beat high with hope as he saw the lady’s hand feel for her pocket.
“You’re a very civil young man,” said she, “and—dear me, how ill you look.”
“I’m not ill,” said Reginald, with a boldness he himself marvelled at, “but a little boy I love is—very ill—and I have no money to get him either food or lodging. I know you’ll think I’m an impostor, ma’am, but could you, for pity’s sake, give me a shilling? I couldn’t pay you back, but I’d bless you always.”
“Dear, dear!” said the lady, “it’s very sad—just at Christmas-time, too. Poor little fellow! Here’s something for him. I think you look honest, young man; I hope you are, and trust in God.”
And to Reginald’s unbounded delight she slipped two half-crowns into his hand and walked away.
He could only say, “God bless you for it.” It seemed like an angel’s gift in his hour of direst need, and with a heart full of comfort he hastened back to the lodgings, calling on his way at a cookshop and spending sixpence of his treasure on some bread and meat for his patient.
He was horror-struck to notice the change even a few hours had wrought on the sufferer. There was no mistaking his ailment now. Though not delirious, he was in a high state of fever, and apparently of pain, for he tossed incessantly and moaned to himself.
The sight of Reginald revived him.
“I knowed you was comin’,” said he; “but I don’t want nothing to eat, gov’nor. On’y some water; I do want some water.”
Reginald flew to get it, and the boy swallowed it with avidity. Then, somewhat revived, he lay back and said, “I ’ave got ’em, then?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s smallpox,” said Reginald; “but you’ll soon be better.”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Say, gov’nor, you don’t ought to stop here; you’ll be cotchin’ ’em too!”
“No fear of that,” said Reginald, “I’ve been vaccinated. Besides, who’d look after you?”
“My! you’re a good ’un to me!” said the boy. “Think of that there Medlock—”
“Don’t let’s think of anything so unpleasant,” said Reginald, seeing that even this short talk had excited his patient unduly. “Let me see if I can make the bed more comfortable, and then, if you like, I can read to you. How would you like that?”
The boy beamed his gratitude, and Reginald, after doing his best to smooth the wretched bed and make him comfortable, produced the Pilgrim’s Progress and settled down to read.
“That there Robinson ain’t a bad ’un,” said Love, before the reading began; “I read ’im while I was a-waitin’ for you. But ’e ain’t so good as the Christian. Read about that there pallis ag’in, gov’nor.”
And Reginald read it—more than once.
The evening closed in, the room grew dark, and he shut the book. The boy was already asleep, tossing and moaning to himself, sometimes seeming to wake for a moment, but dropping off again before he could tell what he wanted or what was wrong with him.
Once or twice Reginald moistened his parched mouth with water, but as the evening wore on the boy became so much worse that he felt, at all hazards, he must seek help.
“I must bring a doctor to see him,” said he to the landlady; “he’s so ill.”
“You’ll bring no doctor—unless you want to see the boy chucked out in the road!” said she. “The idea! just when my lodgers will be coming home to bed too!”
“It’s only eight o’clock; no one will come till ten. There’ll be plenty of time.”
“What’s the use? You know as well as I do the child won’t last above a day or two in his state. What’s the use of making a disturbance for nothing?” said the woman.
“He won’t die—he shall not die!” said Reginald, feeling in his heart how foolish the words were. “At any rate, I must fetch a doctor. I might have fetched one without saying a word to you, but I promised I wouldn’t, and now I want you to let me off the promise.”
The woman fretted and fumed, and wished ill to the day when she had ever seen either Reginald or Love. He bore her vituperation patiently, as it was his only chance of getting his way.
Presently she said, “If you’re bent on it, go to Mr Pilch, round the corner; he’s the only doctor I’ll let come in my house. You can have him or nobody, that’s flat!”
In two minutes Reginald was battering wildly at Mr Pilch’s door. That gentleman—a small dealer in herbs, who eked out his livelihood by occasional unauthorised medical practice—happened to be in, and offered, for two shillings, to come and see the sick boy. Reginald tossed down the coin with eager thankfulness, and almost dragged him to the bedside of his little charge.
Mr Pilch may have known very little of medicine, but he knew enough to make him shake his head as he saw the boy.
“Regular bad case that. Smallpox and half a dozen things on the top of it. I can’t do anything.”
“Can you give me no medicine for him, or tell me what food he ought to take or what? Surely there’s a chance of his getting better?”
Mr Pilch laughed quietly.
“About as much chance of his pulling through that as of jumping over the moon. The kindest thing you can do is to let him die as soon as he can. He may last a day or two. If you want to feed him, give him anything he will take, and that won’t be much, you’ll find. It’s a bad case, young fellow, and it won’t do you any good to stop too near him. No use my coming again. Good-night.”
And the brusque but not unkindly little quack trotted away, leaving Reginald in the dark without a gleam of hope to comfort him.
“Gov’nor,” said the weak little voice from the bed, “that there doctor says I are a-goin’ to die, don’t he?”
“He says you’re very ill, old boy, but let’s hope you’ll soon be better.”
“Me—no fear. On’y I wish it would come soon. I’m afeared of gettin’ frightened.”
And the voice trembled away into a little sob.
They lay there side by side that long restless night. The other lodgers, rough degraded men and women, crowded into the room, but no one heeded the little bed in the dark corner, where the big boy lay with his arm round the little uneasy sufferer. There was little sleep either for patient or nurse. Every few minutes the boy begged for water, which Reginald held to his lips, and when after a time the thirst ceased and only the pain remained, nothing soothed and tranquillised him so much as the repetition time after time of his favourite stories from the wonderful book, which, happily, Reginald now knew almost by heart.
So the night passed. Before daylight the lodgers one by one rose and left the place, and when about half-past seven light struggled once more in between the rafters these two were alone.
The boy seemed a little revived, and sipped some milk which Reginald had darted out to procure.
But the pain and the fever returned twofold as the day wore on, and even to Reginald’s unpractised eye it was evident the boy’s release was not far distant.
“Gov’nor,” said the boy once, with his mind apparently wandering back over old days, “what’s the meaning of ‘Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen,’ what comes at the end of that there prayer you taught me at the office—is He the same one that’s in the Pilgrim book?”
“Yes, old boy; would you like to hear about Him?”
“I would so,” said the boy, eagerly.
And that afternoon, as the shadows darkened and the fleeting ray of the sun crossed the floor of their room, Love lay and heard the old, old story told in simple broken words. He had heard of it before, but till now he had never heeded it. Yet it seemed to him more wonderful even than Robinson Crusoe or the Pilgrim’s Progress. Now and then he broke in with some comment or criticism, or even one of his old familiar tirades against the enemies of his new hero. The room grew darker, and still Reginald went on. When at last the light had all gone, the boy’s hand stole outside the blanket and sought that of his protector, and held it till the story came to an end.
Then he seemed to drop into a fitful sleep, and Reginald, with the hand still on his, sat motionless, listening to the hard breathing, and living over in thought the days since Heaven in mercy joined his life to that of his little friend.
How long he sat thus he knew not. He heard the voices and tread of the other lodgers in the room; he heard the harsh groan of the bolt on the outer door downstairs; and he saw the candle die down in its socket. But he never moved or let go the boy’s hand.
Presently—about one or two in the morning, he thought—the hard breathing ceased, and a turn of the head on the pillow told him the sleeper was awake.
“Gov’nor, you there?” whispered the boy.
“Yes, old fellow.”
“It’s dark; I’m most afeared.”
Reginald lay on the bed beside him, and put an arm round him.
The boy became more easy after this, and seemed to settle himself once more to sleep. But the breathing was shorter and more laboured, and the little brow that rested against the watcher’s cheek grew cold and damp.
For half an hour more the feeble flame of life flickered on, every breath seeming to Reginald as he lay there motionless, scarcely daring to breathe himself, like the last.
Then the boy seemed suddenly to rouse himself and lifted his head.
“Gov’nor—that pallis!—I’m gettin’ in—I hear them calling—come there too, gov’nor!”
And the head sank back on the pillow, and Reginald, as he turned his lips to the forehead, knew that the little valiant soul had fought his way into the beautiful palace at last, and was already hearing the music of those voices within as they welcomed him to his hero’s reward.