“Stop, stop!” cried a voice, as he turned into the Rents; and the next moment, with his hand to his side, old Matt stood by him, gasping. “I ain’t the thing to-night, sir; I’m ill, but I’ve got it here—here somewhere,” he said, tapping his forehead, “and I can’t get it out. It’s here, though. It’s ‘medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon—so much,’ isn’t it? That’s it, sir, ain’t it?”
Septimus stared wonderingly at him.
“You may well look, sir,” said Matt, panting still; “but that’s it, and I’ve seen it somewhere, and I’ll tell you where directly. It all came like a flash just after I left you; there it was, just as I saw it written down: ‘Medicine and attendance, Mrs Hardon—so much;’ and I can keep seeming to see the words dance before my eyes now. I saw them written down somewhere once, and I can’t just now say where; but I seem to feel that I’ve got them all right, and I shall have it. Good-night, sir. Remember me to Miss Lucy;” and the old man staggered away, muttering aloud, “Medicine and attendance—medicine and attendance;” while more than one person in the street turned to look at the bent figure, to shake a sapient head, and mutter, “Or hospital.”
For poor old Matt looked sick unto death, though Septimus Hardon, deep in his own thoughts, had taken but little notice of the old man’s indisposition.
Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.
Lucy’s Best.
Night after night, noticed by the curate during his wanderings, by ma mère, and by Mr William Jarker, birdcatcher, when distant trips had detained him until late hours, there still burned a feeble light in one of the windows at Bennett’s-rents; and by its gleam, until the moon rose above the houses, and looked inquisitively down upon her paper, shedding a silvery light that seemed to quench the rushlight’s sickly yellow flame, now sat Lucy Grey far into the long watches, with naught to interrupt her but the occasional long-drawn breath or sigh from the back-room, or the rumble of some vehicle through the distant streets. Once she started up and stood trembling, for a shrill scream rang upon the night breeze, but silence soon reigned again, and she retook her seat. Patiently bending over her task, with her large eager eyes strained to follow the work of her fingers, the pale girl was busily toiling on. Toiling on at what? Not at the sewing-machine, for its busy throbbing pulse was still, but carefully and slowly writing line after line in a common school copy-book to improve a handwriting already fine, delicate, and ladylike. A slate covered with figures lay too upon the table, while beside it was a French grammar, and the words written in the copy-book were in the same tongue.
And this had been Lucy’s task night after night, till the red-rimmed eyes would keep open no longer, and, wearied out, she lay down to dream dreams that brought smiles to her lips, for her visions were of the prize for which she studied. But these nights of toil and the anxiety of her heart had told upon her, and upon this night, the one succeeding the journey to Finsbury, Lucy sat, looking more pale and wan than usual, and her work progressed but slowly. The place too, and the summer heat, had had their share in producing her sickly pallor, for in Bennett’s-rents there was a faint lung-clinging odour that almost seemed to tell that Death had passed over the place to put his seal upon those soon to pass away. Or was it the foul incense men burn to his dread shrine, calling him to their homes—the thin invisible mist rising from filth and rottenness, to blight the rosy cheek of health? There was enough in Bennett’s-rents to drive away health, strength, and youth; for premature old age lurked in the foul cisterns, rose from the drains, and dwelt in the crowded habitations, houses made to accommodate six, yet containing perhaps thirty or forty, souls. But Lucy was sick at heart as well. Months upon months had she dwelt in the wretched court, though until now its impurities had not seemed to touch her as she passed to and fro.