“No, no, no,” said the old man wearily; “we were never friends; and I can’t play the hypocrite, sir. It’s too late, sir; too late! What I’ve done, I’ve done. Let me die in peace, here, with your loving faces by me; and fetch poor old Ike in, by and by, for he loves me in his way. No, sir; it would be the act of a hypocrite, I fancy, for me to send for a clergyman now. No, Mr Hardon, sir; stay with me to the last; and let me hold tightly by this little white hand, and I can go from you hopeful and in peace. For if the great God who sent me here, struggling on through a life of care, has made hearts so gentle, and true, and loving, that they can weep and sorrow over my poor old battered case, can’t I hope that He who knows all, and has seen all my helpless weakness, will be merciful? I know, sir, I know. I might have done better: but it’s been a life of drive and struggle—money to-day, starve to-morrow, and drink always, to hold up and do the work. I’m sorry, sir, sorry; but the sorrow came too late. I’ve had a hard life, sir; the wish for better things came too late, when I was worn, and shattered, and used up; when the day was too far spent, sir; and now the night’s coming on faster and faster. Hold my hands tight,” he whispered, “for it’s growing dark and darker; and I’m losing my way.”
And now once more there was a long silence, when the old man looked eagerly round.
“What time is it?” he asked; and Septimus told him, then, turning towards Lucy, the old man whispered—
“Put your hand to my lips, that I may kiss it once before I go;” but she leaned over and tenderly kissed him, when he smiled, and some words passed, but they were too faint to be heard. Then he was restless for a while; but soon started again, to stare wildly round. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Nothing but the wind moaning round the houses,” whispered Lucy.
“No,” he said with a smile, “nothing but the wind—nothing but the wind waiting to scatter the dust.”
And now he lay so still and peaceful, that, in answer to Lucy’s inquiring look, Septimus bent over him again and again; but as he looked in that sorrow-ploughed face he could see that the old man still slept, while, with the light strong upon her face as she knelt, Lucy seemed no mean representative of the angel watching by the old man’s side.
“An angel, sir, an angel, sir!” he had mattered again; and then he seemed to doze off, muttering the words to himself.
“Worn out!” said Septimus Hardon, as he listened time after time to the faintly-borne chimes of Saint Clement’s; and then he thought of the present revelation, which seemed almost dearly bought in the old man’s death; of the past; the office in Carey-street, and its sorrows; the bitter struggle for mere life; the lodging in Bennett’s-rents; and the shabby old compositor in his frayed suit, pinching himself that he might supply their wants; the watchful care and jealousy with which he had tended Lucy to and from the warehouse; the secret they had shared, and the old man’s chivalrous endurance in tracing out the information; spite of all blurs or blots upon his character, ever the same tender, true-hearted man, devoted to his friends’ interests, and ready with his offering, even though it were humble as the cup of cold water that should not be without its reward; and now worn out—the poor old setting battered and worthless, but the heart true and bright to the last.
The quarters chimed again. Isaac had been to set up a fresh candle, and then retired to his weeping partner; while, now seated upon an old work-bench, Septimus Hardon still let his thoughts wander, pausing long upon the poverty of the crowded streets of the great City; the prosperity crushing down the misery; the swiftly-hurrying stream of life, and the striving of the throng to keep afloat, as others pressed upon them, climbed upon their shoulders, or, in the madness of despair, clung to their legs and dragged them down to the muddy ooze at the bottom. He thought too once more of his own misery, and that of this waif, after its long encounter with the storms of life, cast up torn, weary, and breathless upon the shore.