which could hold him no dearer were he a king upon a throne.
Jabez North goes for a doctor, and returns presently with a gentleman, who, on seeing Jim the labourer, pronounces that he had better go to bed at once; “for,” as he whispers to the old woman, “he’s got rheumatic fever, and got it pretty sharp, too.”
The girl they call Sillikens bursts out crying on hearing this announcement, but soon chokes down her tears—(as tears are wont to be choked down in Blind Peter, whose inhabitants have little time for weeping)—and sets to work to get ready a poor apology for a bed—a worn-out mattress and a thin patch-work counterpane; and on this they lay the bundle of aching bones known to Blind Peter as Jim Lomax.
The girl receives the doctor’s directions, promises to fetch some medicine from his surgery in a few minutes, and then kneels down by the sick man.
“O Jim, dear Jim,” she says, “keep a good heart, for the sake of those who love you.”
She might have said for the sake of her who loves you, for it never surely was the lot of any man, from my lord the marquis to Jim the labourer, to be twice in his life loved as this man was loved by her.
Jabez North on his way home must go the same way as the doctor; so they walk side by side.
“Do you think he will recover?” asks Jabez.
“I doubt it. He has evidently been exposed to great hardship, wet, and fatigue. The fever is very strong upon him; and I’m afraid there’s not much chance of his getting over it. I should think something might be done for him, to make him a little more comfortable. You are his brother, I presume, in spite of the apparent difference between you in station?”
Jabez laughed a scornful laugh. “His brother! Why, I never saw the man till ten minutes before you did.”
“Bless me!” said the old doctor, “you amaze me. I should have taken you for twin brothers. The likeness between you is something wonderful; in spite, too, of the great difference in your clothes. Dressed alike, it would be impossible to tell one from the other.”
“You really think so?”
“The fact must strike any one.”
Jabez North was silent for a little time after this. Presently, as he parted from the doctor at a street-corner, he said—
“And you really think there’s very little chance of this poor man’s recovery?”
“I’m afraid there is positively none. Unless a wonderful change takes place for the better, in three days he will be a dead man. Good night.”
“Good night,” says Jabez, thoughtfully. And he walked slowly home.
It would seem about this time that he was turning his attention to his personal appearance, and in some danger of becoming a fop; for the next morning he bought a bottle of hair-dye, and tried some experiments with it on one or two of his own light ringlets, which he cut off for that purpose.
It would seem a very trivial employment for so superior and intellectual a man as Jabez North, but it may be that every action of this man’s life, however apparently trivial, bore towards one deep and settled purpose.
Chapter III
A Golden Secret
Mr. Jabez North, being of such a truly benevolent character, came the next day to Blind Peter, full of kind and sympathetic inquiries for the sick man. For once in a way he offered something more than sympathy, and administered what little help he could afford from his very slender purse. Truly a good young man, this Jabez.
The dilapidated house in Blind Peter looked still more dreary and dilapidated in the daylight, or in such light as was called daylight by the denizens of that wretched alley. By this light, too, Jim Lomax looked none the better, with hungry pinched features, bloodshot eyes, and two burning crimson spots on his hollow cheeks. He was asleep when Jabez entered. The girl was still seated by his side, never looking up, or taking her large dark eyes from his face—never stirring, except to re-arrange the poor bundle of rags which served as a pillow for the man’s weary head, or to pour out his medicine, or moisten his hot forehead with wet linen. The old woman sat by the great gaunt fireplace, where she had lighted a few sticks, and made the best fire she could, by the doctor’s orders; for the place was damp and draughty, even in this warm June weather. She was rocking herself to and fro on a low three-legged stool, and muttering some disconnected jargon.
When Jabez had spoken a few words to the sick man, and made his offer of assistance, he did not leave the place, but stood on the hearth, looking with a thoughtful face at the old woman.
She was not quite right in her mind, according to general opinion in Blind Peter; and if a Commission of Lunacy had been called upon to give a return of her state of intellect on that day, I think that return would have agreed with the opinion openly expressed in a friendly manner by her neighbours.
She kept muttering to herself, “And so, my deary, this is the other one. The water couldn’t have been deep enough. But it’s not my fault, Lucy dear, for I saw it safely put away.”
“What did you see so safely put away?” asked Jabez, in so low a voice as to be heard neither by the sick man nor the girl.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, deary?” mumbled the old hag, looking up at him with a malicious grin. “Don’t you very much want to know, my dear? But you never will; or if you ever do, you must be a rich man first; for it’s part of the secret, and the secret’s gold—as long as it is kept, my dear, and it’s been kept a many years, and kept faithful.”
“Does he know it?” Jabez asked, pointing to the sick man.
“No, my dear; he’d want to tell it. I mean to sell it some day, for it’s worth a mint of money! A mint of money! He doesn’t know it—nor she—not that it matters to her; but it does matter to him.”
“Then you had best let him know before three days are over or he’ll never know it!” said the schoolmaster.
“Why not, deary?”
“Never you mind! I want to speak to you; and I don’t want those two to hear what I say. Can we go anywhere hereabouts where I can talk to you without the chance of being overheard?”
The old woman nodded assent, and led the way with feeble tottering steps out of the house, and through a gap in a hedge to some broken ground at the back of Blind Peter. Here the old crone seated herself upon a little hillock, Jabez standing opposite her, looking her full in the face.
“Now,” said he, with a determined look at the grinning face before him, “now tell me,—what was the something that was put away so safely? And what relation is that man in there to me? Tell me, and tell me the truth, or——” He only finishes the sentence with a threatening look, but the old woman finishes it for him,—
“Or you’ll kill me—eh, deary? I’m old and feeble, and you might easily do it—eh? But you won’t—you won’t, deary! You know better than that! Kill me, and you’ll never know the secret!—the secret that may be gold to you some day,
