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............