“Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!” she cried, kneeling by his box, and putting her arm round him. “To think of this. But it could not have been, James; she never could have been for you. Don't take on, my poor lad.”
“Oh mother, I never thought it!” he cried; “I never thought it; but I loved her so, loved her with all my life, and to think—oh Carry, Carry!” he broke out wildly; “oh that I who loved you so, was helpless to protect you! oh that I must sit here and be able to do nothing to avenge you—to think that you, so good, so kind, so gentle, are gone—oh mother, mother! I shall go mad!”
In vain Mrs. Holl endeavoured to calm the lad; his wild excitement, his grief, and his sense of helplessness, turned his brain; hour after hour he raved, and before night was in a state of raging fever. Mrs. Holl sent a neighbour off for a doctor, who ordered his hair to be cut off, and ice to be placed on his temples, but for the next few days his life was despaired of, and John was obliged to stay at home to assist Sarah with the delirious lad, and enable her to slip away for half an hour three times a day to the broken-hearted old man in New Street.
CHAPTER X.
WHO WAS IT?
The shop in New Street is shut up, and has been so for the last ten days. Two days after Carry's disappearance, an enterprising young rival a few doors off made an arrangement through Mrs. Holl with Stephen Walker, to take the business off his hands, and to supply his customers with newspapers. There was an hour's bustle as the books and stock were taken across the road in a hand cart, and then the shutters were put up, a notice affixed stating that the business was transferred to No. 27 over the way, and Stephen Walker remained alone by his deserted hearth. Great was the excitement and talk in New Street upon those first few days. Not a little was the matter discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses by the young clerks who had so long bought their morning papers and tobacco at the shop of Stephen Walker, when they first heard of the reason of its sudden closing, at the new establishment at No. 27. For a few days indeed the matter was talked over almost to the exclusion of every other topic. Men's comments upon an affair of this sort are very different from those of women. Women discuss it quite theoretically. Comparatively few women ever are greatly tempted, and they can therefore neither understand nor make allowance for those who are so tried. Their blame thus falls almost wholly upon the woman. Upon her they are pitiless. She becomes as one who is dead, and her name is no more to be spoken by pure lips. To the man they are very lenient. There may be a little coolness, but it soon passes over, and in a short time they will again feast him at their tables, and offer him their lambs in marriage. Men, upon the other hand, reason from what they know. In these matters they live altogether in a different atmosphere to that which women inhabit. They can understand the old sad story of temptation and weakness, of loving trust, and broken promises, and their censure falls wholly upon the man. There was no word of blame for poor Carry on the lips of those by whom the matter was discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses. For her there was pity and even sorrow; while had his name been known, he would have fared but badly at the hands of more than one of the young fellows who had once hoped to win the pretty tobacconist's daughter for their wife.
In the meantime Stephen Walker sat alone in the little parlour behind the empty shop, like one stunned, crouching silently by the fire;—for although the autumn sun shone warm and bright, he was chilled to the bone: so he sat from morning to night. He seldom moved; he never spoke; he hardly even thought. He sat there in an apathy of despair. Everything around remained as it had been left. There was Carry's workbox. There in the window hung her birdcage, with the canary, to which she would chirrup and sing, and which would reply in such loud jubilant carollings; but the bird, missing its mistress's presence and attention, had ceased to sing, and sat silent upon its perch, a mere ball of rough disordered yellow feathers. There at his feet was the stool upon which Carry was so fond of sitting. Everything reminded him of her, but yet he could hardly think of the past. He was too utterly crushed and hopeless to rouse himself into active thought, but sat there hour after hour and day after day, with the one despairing cry,—where was she, where was she? That question to which no answer came.
Many of the neighbours would have gladly done any kind offices for the old man in his trouble, but he would admit two only. One was Mrs. Holl, who brought him in his meals, and stopped to see him eat them—which he would not otherwise have done—talking to him in the meantime, and trying, as she said, to comfort him up a bit. The talking, however, was all upon her side, for Stephen Walker sat as if he did not hear her, as if he was scarcely aware that she was in the room. His only other visitor was A 56. These interviews were not long ones. As the Policeman entered Stephen Walker would look up with blood-shot eyes, and trembling lips, which could hardly frame the words, “No news?” and would pause with almost more of fear than of hope for an answer. But day after day A 56, with his usually set face softened before this great sorrow, could only shake his head. “No news to-day, Mr. Walker, and no news, you know, is good news;” and then, after a few more cheery words which the bent-down figure before him seemed not to hear, the Policeman would turn quietly, and go off to his duty. But one day the Policeman's step was less firm than usual, and his face was very grave and serious. Almost before he entered the room Stephen Walker felt instinctively that this time there was something to tell. He rose from his chair, made a step forward, leaned one hand upon the table for support, and held the other before him as if to ward off a blow.
“What is it?” he asked, almost in a whisper.