Mournfully moaned the wind down the court and at the back of the house, making cowls creak and spin, and rattling worn old windows; for it was no bright starry night, the clouds gathered black overhead, and sent down a pitiless rain to empty the streets, and be caught by the wind and dashed against the panes. By the feeble light in the front shop, Isaac could be seen with his head against the wall sleeping heavily; and, worn out with watching, his wife had returned to the next house. Now faintly heard in the lulls of the wind came the striking of Saint Clement’s clock and its laboured chiming, which sounded wild and strange upon the night air.
Suddenly Lucy and her stepfather started, for the old man was sitting up in bed with one hand raised as if to command silence, and loud, clear, and strange, his voice seemed to thrill through the silence as the tones of the bells came louder upon the wind.
“Hush!” cried the old man, “the bells! I set it once, and I’ve never forgotten it— ‘Ring out the false, ring in the true’—never forgotten it,” he muttered, as he sank heavily back and spoke in a whisper—“‘Ring out the false, ring in the true.’ Hands—hands—once again; they’re ringing out a false and coward heart, and ringing in the true.” Then he began to mutter from time to time words connected with his trade—wild incoherent words, but strangely fitted to his past life and present state; while at times he spoke with such wild bitterness that his hearers shuddered, and Isaac came trembling in, leading with him Mr Sterne, anxious at their protracted absence.
And so an hour passed, when the dying man had been for some time silent, but another kneeling figure had offered a prayer at the bedside; then once more the old man began to mutter, at first in a low tone, then slowly and aloud.
“Gold, sir, cold; bitter cold for an old man like me—dreary streets, sir, and the lamps out—dark, dark—the dull courts and the foggy alleys—misery—beggary—starvation. Bright fields—light and darkness. No hypocrite, sir—humbly, with an angel’s kiss upon my old lips—a seal—purity. Hark! Copy and proof—copy and proof—blurred and blotted—foul—foul—spelling—outs and doubles—corrections—too late—too late. Wages on Friday night, air; wages, sir—wages of sin—wages—death—death—poor girl!—Bleeping—found drowned—the Bible—Agnes Hardon—wages—wages—darker and darker—but no hypocrite, sir—with an angel’s kiss—an angel’s—forgive—forgive—for ever and ever—and ev—”
Silence in the room, and the watchers stealing away.