“Whatcher going to stand, Bill?” said a gentleman of his acquaintance, a gentleman with a voice singularly like one that had been heard in the old Grange at Somesham upon a memorable night. This gentleman had a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, his coiffure being of the same order as that of Mr Jarker, while, being evidently of a terpsichorean turn of mind, he enlivened the street with a “pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pit-pit, pat,” toe-and-heel dance upon the cellar-flap of the public-house, where, his boots being stout and well-nailed, and the flap very hollow beneath, his efforts were attended with so much noise that the potboy of the establishment thrust out a closely-cropped head between the swing doors, where he held it as if in the process of being shorn off, at the same time requesting the light-heeled gentleman to “Drop that ’ere now, come!”
But instead of standing anything to quench the thirst of the new-comer, Mr Jarker stood upon the order of his going; for just then, laden with a large parcel of work, Lucy Grey passed out of the court and encountered Mr Sterne, who saluted, and then turned with a grave, pained countenance to gaze after her, as he saw Jarker follow, slouching along as if his boots were soled with lead, diver fashion, and he of so ethereal a nature that the ponderous metal was necessary to prevent him from shooting up into heaven like a stickless rocket minus the tail of fire.
The curate turned thoughtfully up the court, and began his round of visits, listening to complaints here, supplications there, but finding nowhere rest. He went thoughtfully through his round of duties that day, hearing and speaking mechanically, for always before his eyes there was the light, graceful form of Lucy, followed by the hound-like Jarker, and as he thought the lines grew deeper and deeper in his forehead. He listened to Mrs Sims’ praises of the child—praises delivered in a lachrymose tone, as a strong odour of rum pervaded the place. He listened to ma mère’s complaints of Jean, and felt an insinuation against her fellow-lodger’s fair fame stab him as it were to the heart; while surprised he gazed upon the fury with which the son turned upon his mother; and then descending, his task nearly done, the curate sat by the bedside of Mrs Hardon.
There stood the sewing-machine in the next room; there was the chair in which Lucy had been so lately seated, and where even now he could picture her form. But, silent and abstracted, he listened for the twentieth time to the story of the murmuring woman’s troubles, and what she had suffered since they had been in town. He listened, but he was asking himself the while whether Lucy merited the love he would pour at her feet—asking himself whether it was possible for a pure, fair, spotless lily to bloom amidst the pollution around. Still, too, came the remembrance of the words of the old Frenchwoman—“Our beauty, some of us.” Once admitting doubt to his breast, the strange thoughts teemed in, bringing up the woman he had seen and tracked in vain, and above all the low ruffian whom he had seen dogging the fair girl’s footsteps but that very day, when love had whispered, “Follow!” and pride cried, “Nay, stand aloof!” for he recalled their last interview. Then, again, he asked himself how dared he believe words that slurred her fair fame, when his conscience whispered to him that they were like their source—vile; but, surrounded as he was by vice and misery, might he not well wonder whether Lucy’s fair face spoke truth in its candour-tinged aspect, or was like the hundreds he encountered in his daily walks—fair to view, but with a canker within?
He told himself that he could watch her no longer—that he could not play the spy; and once again he prayed for strength to conquer the passion that seemed to sway him at its will; for he could not comprehend the behaviour of its object. Love he had thought to be buried for ever with his betrothed; but from her grave the seed seemed to have returned to him untainted by time, and with all its quickening, germinating powers ready to shoot forth and blossom in a wealth of profusion for another. And he knew that it must be lavished upon Lucy, even though she still repulsed him. And now, again, his eye brightened as, dashing down the sinister thoughts, he would see only her faith and truth, smiling at poverty when he called up the riches of her heart—riches that he saw poured forth for the murmuring parent, for whose wants she toiled on incessantly, winning for her many a comfort that the sick woman could not else have enjoyed; and even then with the overflowings of her young heart ready for the neglected child.
“For the neglected child!” What a gloomy starting-point for another train of thought, embracing its mother, tall, dark, and rouge-cheeked; Jarker, the ruffian, tracking Lucy’s steps; and lastly, ma mère, who seemed even then whispering in his ear, “Our beauty, some of us!” Arthur Sterne acknowledged that he was weak, though he fought hard with his soul-assailing enemies; while the track of the storm he was encountering was marked in his face, as he strolled slowly homewards, but only to pause startled at the mouth of the court.