in his mind, for he shut the knife with a snap, and thrust it into his pocket; and now he appeared to be moved by that spirit which prompts so many people who can hardly keep themselves to have dumb animals about their homes, probably for the reason that the dumb brutes are faithful, and friends are few – who knows?
“I think I shall have a dawg,” said Mr Jarker to himself, as a louder yelp than usual rang across the court; when he shut the window, and went and stood gazing into the fire once more, till he heard the returning step of his wife, when he roused himself:
“Yes,” said Mr Jarker half-aloud; “I’ll have a bull-pup.”
Volume One – Chapter Six.
The Sorrows of Septimus Hardon
With a pleasant smile upon his countenance, and a bunch of watercresses in his hand, Septimus Hardon hummed loudly, like some jocular bee, as he entered his rooms one day, when he ceased, for there was a visitor gazing with sympathising eyes upon the flush-cheeked child lying upon Mrs Hardon’s arm.
“I think you had better have advice, Mrs Hardon,” said the visitor, the Rev. Arthur Sterne, the calm, earnest, quiet-looking curate of the neighbouring church.
Lucy Grey, now budding into womanhood, was seated upon the floor by the couch, with a little boy in her lap, and letting the hands of the child on her mother’s arm stray amongst the glossy tresses of her hair.
“Advice? What? doctor?” said Septimus, gazing in his wife’s anxious face; “is Letty really ill, then?” and then in a bewildered way he began rubbing his hands together as if washing them in emptiness, and afterwards drying them upon nothing.
“Let me send in a doctor,” said Mr Sterne kindly, as he took his hat to leave; “there are symptoms of fever, I think. Don’t let it get too firm a hold before you have advice.”
“Thank you, thank you; do send him, please,” said Septimus helplessly. “But – ” He was about to alter his request, for just then his hand came in contact with the light leather purse in his pocket, but the curate had hurriedly left the room. Then taking his step-child’s place by the sofa the father parted the golden hair upon the sick girl’s forehead, and anxiously questioned Mrs Septimus respecting the illness.
As the night came on the little one grew wild and restless, and what the mother had taken to be but a slight childish ailment, began to assume a form that added anxiety where it was hardly needed. The doctor had been, and spoken Seriously, and the medicine he had sent had been administered; but the fever seemed to increase, for the child grew worse, starting from fitful sleeps, and calling for sister Lucy to take something away from her. Septimus looked weakly from face to face for comfort, and then wandered about the room, wringing his hands and trying to think this new trouble some horrible dream.
And so days passed – days of trouble and anxiety – during which Mrs Septimus forgot her own ailments, and watched and nursed in turn with Lucy. The doctor had talked as so many doctors will talk, in an indefinite strain, which left the anxious parents in a state of doubt and bewilderment, though it never occurred to Septimus Hardon that so great an affliction could fall upon him, as that he should lose his little one.
About a week after the seizure, Mrs Septimus was watching by the child, who, after partaking eagerly of some tea, had apparently dropped off to sleep.
“Take little Tom down into the office,” whispered Mrs Hardon, “perhaps she will sleep awhile if we keep her quiet.”
So Septimus Hardon, looking dazed and worn with mental anxiety, took his boy in his arms, and Lucy being asleep after watching nearly all night, he left Mrs Septimus with the sick child, and carried the little fellow down into the dusty, unused office, where, taking advantage of his father’s abstraction, the child proceeded to make a heap of type upon the floor, thoroughly covering himself with the black dust, and even going so far as to try the flavour of some of the pieces of metal.
At last the little one began to grow tired, and tried to gain the attention of its father – no light task, for with his face buried in his hands he was seated at his desk trying to see his way clearly through the future – a task so many of us attempt, and some even fancy we have achieved, but only to find the falseness of our hopes when the days we looked forward to have come upon us.
But the child was at last successful, and as Septimus raised his head from the desk, he became aware of the presence of the old man of a few days before, and apparently as far from prosperity as ever.
“Nothing doing; no work,” said Septimus.
“Any little job will do, sir,” said the old man. “Just come to get out of debt, that’s all. What’s it to be, sir?”
“Another time,” said Septimus. “I’ve – ”
A loud cry from above cut short his words, and darting to the door, forgetting his customary indecision, he bounded up the stairs, while, finding himself left with a stranger, the little fellow burst into a dismal wail.
“O, Sep, Sep, Sep!” cried his wife, throwing herself into his arms, “is it always to be sorrow; is there always to be a black cloud over our lives?” then tearing herself away she frantically caught the child from Lucy, who, pale and frightened, sat nursing.
“Run, run, Lucy!” cried Septimus hoarsely as he caught a glimpse of his blue-eyed darling’s face; “the doctor, quick!” and then, as the frightened girl ran from the room, he threw himself upon his knees beside his sobbing wife, praying that they might be spared this new sorrow. But before the doctor could reach Carey-street the agonised couple had seen the little weary head cease its restless tossings from side to side, the blue eyes unclose, dilate, and gaze wildly, as if at some wondrous vision; then a plaintive shuddering sigh passed from the pale lips, and Septimus Hardon and his wife were alone, though they knew it not.
The Rev. Arthur Sterne was at the door as Lucy returned, overtaken by the doctor’s brougham at the same moment; but to the agony of all the man of medicine gave one glance at the little form in its mother’s lap, shook his head, and left the room on tiptoe.
“O, sir, Mr Sterne,” cried Lucy, turning with quivering lips and streaming eyes to the clergyman, “tell me, tell me,” she sobbed, clasping one of his hands in hers; “tell me – is it, is it death?”
There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then placing his disengaged hand upon the fair head of the weeping girl, the curate, in low reverent tones, but loud enough to thrill the hearts of the living, said, “No, it is life – the life eternal!”
And now, amidst the bitter sobs of those who mourned, the curate stepped softly from the room, and left the house with bended head. Then there was silence, till a step was heard upon the stairs, which stopped by the partly-closed door, where stood the old compositor with little Tom asleep in his arms, the bright, soft, golden locks mingling like dashes of sunshine with the old man’s ragged, grizzly whiskers. For a few moments the old printer stood gazing into the room, when, waking to the consciousness of the affliction that had befallen its inmates, he turned, and with halting step descended to the office.
At last the recollection of the living came to the stricken mother’s heart, and wildly sobbing as she clasped Lucy in her arms, she asked for her boy.
Half-stunned with this new shock, Septimus Hardon staggered down to where he had left the child, having till his wife spoke forgotten its very existence; but when he reached the office, stricken as he was, he could not but stop to gaze at the group before him. Seated upon a low stool, beneath the dingy skylight of the back-office, where the light that filtered through the
