“O, thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Miss Tollicks, taking the proffered arm, and still sobbing loudly; “but you are sure that people cannot see I have been crying?”
“Certain,” said Septimus as they walked on.
“And so you think,” said Miss Tollicks, “that they are neglected and die, do you, Mr Hardon? and I’m afraid the poor things are. I’ve just been to see my poor sister that the doctor recommended to go in, and she’s been telling me such dreadful tales about the nurses; and I can’t tell whether it’s the truth, or whether the poor thing is only light-headed. It was horrible to listen to her, that it was; and you’ve been to see some one too, Mr Harding?”
“Yes,” replied Septimus, “the poor old gentleman who was with me when I called upon you.”
“Dear, dear, dear, what a sorrowful world this is!” sobbed Miss Tollicks; “nothing but trouble, always trouble; and how is he, poor man?”
“Not long for this world, I fear,” said Septimus softly.
“And did he say anything about the nurses too?” sobbed Miss Tollicks.
“Yes, yes,” said Septimus hastily; “but it can’t be true. No woman could be such a wretch.”
“O, I don’t know, Mr Harding; but is my veil quite down? there—thank you. We’re strange creatures, and we are either very good or else very bad—especially servants, Mr Harding,” sobbed Miss Tollicks. “I’m afraid that it’s all true enough, and if they’d only let me stop and nurse my poor sister, I wouldn’t care. The business might go and take its chance, for what’s the good of money without life? But O, Mr Harding, I did ask my landlord, and he said—and he said—but O! you must not ask me now.” And here the poor woman burst out sobbing, quite hysterically, so that more than one person turned round to gaze upon her; but her troubles attracted little notice, for this was no uncommon scene in the long dreary street: the inhabitants were too much accustomed to the sight of weeping friends coming from the great building, where, but a few minutes before, they had been taking, perhaps, a last farewell of a dear one whom they would see no more—a dear one whose face was perhaps already sealed by the angel of death; a sad parting, maybe, from one whose hopeless malady had rendered it necessary for the interior of the hospital to afford the attentions that took the place of those that would have been supplied at home. Poverty and sickness, twin sisters that so often go hand-in-hand, brought here their victims to ask for aid; and those who dwelt hard by paid little heed to pallid out-patients seeking their daily portion of advice, some on crutches, some leaning upon the arms of friends, some in cabs. They were used to painful scenes, and knew by sight patient, student, and doctor; and therefore hardly bestowed a thought upon the sad couple passing slowly down the street, at the end of which Septimus saw poor weeping Miss Tollicks into a cab, and left her unquestioned to pace slowly back towards Bennett’s-rents.
He walked on and thought—thought of all his troubles, and the want of decision in his character; of how he ought boldly to have investigated his uncle’s claim, setting aside his own feelings for the sake of those dependent upon his arm for their support; and he sighed again and again as he took himself to task. And then a prayer rose to his lips as he recalled the scene which he had left—a prayer fervently breathed there in the midst of London’s busy flowing stream, as fervent as ever emanated from devotee kneeling in some solemn fane—a prayer that, for the sake of those at home, he might be spared from the smiting of sickness; and then he shuddered as he remembered his father’s words, and thought of his wife’s increasing helplessness.