Chapter VI.

NEXT morning I was a little amused and a little surprised to think over all that had happened. The idea of having a friend, who stayed with me till after nine, and helped to put baby to bed, and interfered with Lizzie, and turned over all our few books, and asked all sorts of questions, was the oddest thing in the world to me; and of course when I told Harry I heard all sorts of jokes from him about female friendship, and inquiries how long it would last, which made me extremely angry. Are men’s friendships any steadier, I wonder? I should say male friendship, to be even with him. Mr. Thackeray is delightful; but he puts a great deal of stuff into young men’s heads. I allow he may joke if he likes—to be sure, he does not mean half of it—but do you suppose they may all follow his example? Not that I mean to infer anything on Harry’s part that I could not pay him back quite comfortably. But not meaning Harry in the least, I don’t see why I should not do my little bit of criticism. I was just beginning to read books at that time, and everything was fresh to me. All the foolish lads think they are quite as wise as Mr. Thackeray, and have quite as good a right to think themselves behind the scenes. I suppose there never was anybody who did not like to feel superior and wiser than his neighbours. I would put Domenico’s laurel wreath on Mr. Thackeray’s head; but I should like to put an extinguisher on the heads of the Thackerians. I should think the great man would be disposed to knock down half the people that quote him, could he only hear, and behold, and note.

However, that has nothing to do with my story. I knew Lizzie must be in a highly excited state from long repression of her manifold gleanings of intelligence respecting last night’s arrival; and I went to her as soon as Harry was out lest any explosion should happen. Lizzie, however, looked rather downcast as, baby being asleep, she went about her work upstairs. My first idea was that some jealousy of Miss Cresswell had invaded the girl’s mind, but that did not explain all the peculiarities of her manner. She certainly allowed herself to{192} be drawn into an account of Domenico’s proceedings, which gradually inspired and animated her; but even in the midst of this she would make a hurried pause, now and then, and listen, as if some painful sound had reached her ear.

“It was a very grand dinner. Eh, I never saw onything like the way he steered, and twisted, and mixed, and watched,” said Lizzie; “he maun be a real man-cook, like what’s in books; and took up everything separate, six different things one after the ither; and Sally says there was as mony plates as if it had been a great party; and the minute before and the minute after, what was the gentleman doing but smoking like as if he was on fire; and eh, mem, he maun be a great man yon! Domenico kissed his hand; but after that,” continued Lizzie, blushing and turning aside with a strong sense of impropriety, “the gentleman kissed him!”

“That is how foreigners do,” said I, in apology.

“And after the dinner there was that sound o’ tongues through the house, you would have thought the walls would ha’e been down. Eh, sic language for Christians to speak! but, mem, they’re no Christians, they’re Papishers—is that true?” said Lizzie, with a little anxiety. “Such a blatter o’ words, and no one a body could understand. No’ that I was wantin’ to understand; but it’s awfu’ funny to hear folk speakin’, and nae sense in’t. Eh, whisht! what was that?” cried Lizzie, starting and stopping short in her tale.

It certainly was, or sounded, very like a moan of pain.

“What is it, Lizzie?”

“Eh, to think of us speaking of dinners, and sic nonsense!—and, mem, it’s a poor man like to dee with pride, and sickness, and starvation! What will I do? What will I do?” cried Lizzie. “If naebody else in the house durst, it maun be me. I’ll no keep quiet ony langer—he canna be ill at me that was destitute mysel’. I’ll gang and steal the bairn’s beef-tea, and tell him lies, that it’s his ain. Mem, let me gang. I canna bear’t ony mair!”

I stopped her, however, growing very much excited myself. “What is it? What do you mean?”

Lizzie, who was choking with distress, eagerness, and excitement, pointed her finger up, and struggled to find her voice. It burst upon me in a moment. The poor gentleman in the attic, the threadbare wistful man who went out to dine, had not been visible for some days. Lizzie told me in gasps what the landlady had told her. He was ill; he was very poor; deeply in Mrs. Goldsworthy’s debt. They had noticed that{193} his usual work had not been on his table for some time, and that no domestic stores of any kind were in his little cupboard; three days ago he had become too ill to go out, they did not think he had anything to eat, and he would accept nothing from them. All yesterday they had not ventured to enter his room. Sick, starving, friendless—what a picture it was! No wonder he had hungry, wistful eyes. I lost no time as you may suppose. I sent Lizzie flying downstairs for the beef-tea. As for asking whether he would admit me or not, whether he would think it impertinent or not, I never stopped to think. Another of those moans, more audible this time because I was listening for it, thrilled me through and through before Lizzie came back. Bless the girl! in no time at all she had got the whitest napkin to be had in the house for the tray; and the beef-tea smoked and smelt just as it ought. I was at the door of the room before I thought anything about how I was to excuse myself. By mere instinct I opened the door first; then knocked, merely to warn the inmate of my coming, and in another moment stood all by myself in a new world.

Another world! a world of misery, endurance, voiceless passion, and persistence, altogether unknown to me. He was lying on some chairs before the fireplace, supporting his gaunt shoulders against the end of his bed,—before the fireplace, in which there was no fire, nor had been. It was trim and well-blacked, and filled up with faded ornamental chippings of paper. His table was beside him, and he leaned one arm on it; nothing on the table, not even a book, except some old pens, blotting-paper, and an ink-bottle. His coat buttoned close up to his neck, with dreadful suggestive secrecy, plainly telling how little there was below; and the hungry sad eyes, glaring wolfish and frenzied out of his worn face. He gave a great start when I came in, and either in passion or weakness thrust one of the chairs from under his feet, so that it fell with a great noise on the floor. The sound and the movement made my heart beat. But he took no further notice, only stared at me. I went forward and put the tray before him on the table, uncovered the basin, placed everything within his reach. All the while he stared at me, his eyes contracting and dilating as I never saw the eyes of any human creature before. I scarcely think he was a human creature at that moment; at least he was holding to his manhood only by that frantic hold of pride, which hunger and misery were rending before my very eyes. He began to tremble dreadfully; the sight of the food excited his weakness; but he tried to resist till the last gasp.{194}

“Who are you? and how dare you come to my room and intrude upon me!” he said hoarsely, and trembling like a palsied man.

“I am your fellow-lodger. You used to notice my baby when you went downstairs; and they told me you were ill, and could not go out. When one is ill there is nothing so good as beef-tea,” said I, trembling a good deal myself; “even if you cannot eat, you might drink a little, and it would refresh you. Do pray try, it will do you good.”

“And how do you know?” he said trembling more and more, till his very utterance was indistinct, “that I cannot have beef-tea or—or anything else I like, of my own. Ah!” he ended, with a sharp cry. He put forward his hand towards it; then he stopped in a dreadful spasm of resistance, and glared at me. I obeyed my first impulse, and went out of the room hurriedly. He would not take it while I was there.

In about five minutes after I went back again with some coals and wood, in one of Mrs. Goldsworthy’s old coal scuttles. I thought I saw how to manage him—never to ask permission or make apologies, but simply to do what was needful. He had emptied the basin, I saw at a glance, and had a piece of bread in his hand, which he put down when I came in. He said nothing, but stared at me as I lighted the fire. When my back was turned to him I fancied he made another stealthy application to the bread. He would hide the full amount of his misery if it were possible; but it was only a partial victory he could obtain over himself.

“Who, who are you?” he said at last. “You—you are a lady, eh? It is not your business to make up fires?”

“Yes,” said I, as cheerfully as I could; “but we are poor; and when one has not much money one has many things to do.”

At this the poor gentleman gave a great groan. Then, after a little, gasped, in broken words, “Thank God! creatures like you don’t know the truths they say.”

I understood him at once. “No,” said I, “it is quite true; but God knows all about it, that is a comfort always. Don’t you think if I put the pillows behind you, you would be more comfortable? Try this. I am quite sure it is better so.”

“Ah! but how do you know I can’t have pillows as I please, and whatever I want of my own?” cried the jealous, delirious pride, waking up again in his big hollow eyes.{195}

“I don’t know anything about it,” said I; “but you have nobody with you just now. If you will not send for any friends, you can’t help having neighbours all the same.”

He said, “Ah!” again, and relapsed into his silent stare. But for the frenzy of desperate want and desperate pride, which only flickered up by moments, he was too far benumbed with want and suffering to do anything in the way of resistance. After I had settled him a little comfortable I went downstairs again, and as soon as baby’s second bowl of beef-tea, which had been hastily made to take the place of the first, was ready, I stole that also, and went up with it again. Baby, who was as fat as possible, could quite well do without it; and I remember having read that people, who had been in great want, should get food very often but not much at a time. The poor gentleman was lying with his head on the pillow and his eyes half shut, the light of the fire glimmering over him, and a kind of quiet in his attitude. When he opened his eyes they grew wolfish again for a moment; but he was subdued—the first frenzy was gone. Somehow he did not seem alone any longer, with that dear good charitable fire blazing and crackling, and making all the noise it could, as if to show what company it could be. And this time he actually drew the basin towards him, and ate its contents before me. I went to the little window and cried a little privately. Oh, it was pitiful! pitiful! That morning I am sure he had laid himself down upon these chairs, mad with want, bitterness, and solitude, to die.