"if this don't beat everything! Don't you know us MajorJackman?"
"Halloa!" says the Major. "Who calls on Jemmy Jackman?" (and more out ofbreath he was, and did it less like life than I should have expected.)
"Why here's Mrs. Edson Major" I says, "strolling out to cool her poorhead which has been very bad, has missed her way and got lost, andGoodness knows where she might have got to but for me coming here to dropan order into my coal merchant's letter-box and you coming here to smokeyour cigar!--And you really are not well enough my dear" I says to her"to be half so far from home without me. And your arm will be veryacceptable I am sure Major" I says to him "and I know she may lean uponit as heavy as she likes." And now we had both got her--thanks beAbove!--one on each side.
She was all in a cold shiver and she so continued till I laid her on herown bed, and up to the early morning she held me by the hand and moanedand moaned "O wicked, wicked, wicked!" But when at last I made believeto droop my head and be overpowered with a dead sleep, I heard that pooryoung creature give such touching and such humble thanks for beingpreserved from taking her own life in her madness that I thought I shouldhave cried my eyes out on the counterpane and I knew she was safe.
Being well enough to do and able to afford it, me and the Major laid ourlittle plans next day while she was asleep worn out, and so I says to heras soon as I could do it nicely:
"Mrs. Edson my dear, when Mr. Edson paid me the rent for these farthersix months--"
She gave a start and I felt her large eyes look at me, but I went on withit and with my needlework.
"--I can't say that I am quite sure I dated the receipt right. Could youlet me look at it?"
She laid her frozen cold hand upon mine and she looked through me when Iwas forced to look up from my needlework, but I had taken the precautionof having on my spectacles.
"I have no receipt" says she.
"Ah! Then he has got it" I says in a careless way. "It's of no greatconsequence. A receipt's a receipt."
From that time she always had hold of my hand when I could spare it whichwas generally only when I read to her, for of course she and me had ourbits of needlework to plod at and neither of us was very handy at thoselittle things, though I am still rather proud of my share in them tooconsidering. And though she took to all I read to her, I used to fancythat next to what was taught upon the Mount she took most of all to Hisgentle compassion for us poor women and to His young life and to how Hismother was proud of Him and treasured His sayings in her heart. She hada grateful look in her eyes that never never never will be out of mineuntil they are closed in my last sleep, and when I chanced to look at herwithout thinking of it I would always meet that look, and she would oftenoffer me her trembling lip to kiss, much more like a little affectionatehalf broken-hearted child than ever I can imagine any grown person.
One time the trembling of this poor lip was so strong and her tears randown so fast that I thought she was going to tell me all her woe, so Itakes her two hands in mine and I says:
"No my dear not now, you had best not try to do it now. Wait for bettertimes when you have got over this and are strong, and then you shall tellme whatever you will. Shall it be agreed?"
With our hands still joined she nodded her head many times, and shelifted my hands and put them to her lips and to her bosom. "Only oneword now my dear" I says. "Is there any one?"
She looked inquiringly "Any one?"
"That I can go to?"
She shook her head.
"No one that I can bring?"
She shook her head.
"No one is wanted by _me_ my dear. Now that may be considered past andgone."
Not much more than a week afterwards--for this was far on in the time ofour being so together--I was bending over at her bedside with my ear downto her lips, by turns listening for her breath and looking for a sign oflife in her face. At last it came in a solemn way--not in a flash butlike a kind of pale faint light brought very slow to the face.
She said something to me that had no sound in it, but I saw she asked me:
"Is this death?"
And I says:
"Poor dear poor dear, I think it is."
Knowing somehow that she wanted me to move her weak right hand, I took itand laid it on her breast and then folded her other hand upon it, and sheprayed a good good prayer and I joined in it poor me though there were nowords spoke. Then I brought the baby in its wrappers from where it lay,and I says:
"My dear this is sent to a childless old woman. This is for me to takecare of."
The trembling lip was put up towards my face for the last time, and Idearly kissed it.
"Yes my dear," I says. "Please God! Me and the Major."
I don't know how to tell it right, but I saw her soul brighten and leapup, and get free and fly away in the grateful look.
* * * * *
So this is the why and wherefore of its coming to pass my dear that wecalled him Jemmy, being after the Major his own godfather with Lirriperfor a surname being after myself, and never was a dear child such abrightening thing in a Lodgings or such a playmate to his grandmother asJemmy to this house and me, and always good and minding what he was told(upon the whole) and soothing for the temper and making everythingpleasanter except when he grew old enough to drop his cap down Wozenham'sAiry and they wouldn't hand it up to him, and being worked into a state Iput on my best bonnet and gloves and parasol with the child in my handand I says "Miss Wozenham I little thought ever to have entered yourhouse but unless my grandson's cap is instantly restored, the laws ofthis country regulating the property of the Subject shall at lengthdecide betwixt yourself and me, cost what it may." With a sneer upon herface which did strike me I must say as being expressive of two keys butit may have been a mistake and if there is any doubt let Miss Wozenhamhave the full benefit of it as is but right, she rang the bell and shesays "Jane, is there a street-child's old cap down our Airy?" I says"Miss Wozenham before your housemaid answers that question you must allowme to inform you to your face that my grandson is _not_ a street-childand is _not_ in the habit of wearing old caps. In fact" I says "MissWozenham I am far from sure that my grandson's cap may not be newer thanyour own" which was perfectly savage in me, her lace being the commonestmachine-make washed and torn besides, but I had been put into a state tobegin with fomented by impertinence. Miss Wozenham says red in the face"Jane you heard my question, is there any child's cap down our Airy?""Yes Ma'am" says Jane, "I think I did see some such rubbish a-lyingthere." "Then" says Miss Wozenham "let these visitors out, and thenthrow up that worthless article out of my premises." But here the childwho had been staring at Miss Wozenham with all his eyes and more, frownsdown his little eyebrows purses up his little mouth puts his chubby legsfar apart turns his little dimpled fists round and round slowly over oneanother like a little coffee-mill, and says to her "Oo impdent to miGran, me tut oor hi!" "O!" says Miss Wozenham looking down scornfully atthe Mite "this is not a street-child is it not! Really!" I bursts outlaughing and I says "Miss Wozenham if this ain't a pretty sight to you Idon't envy your feelings and I wish you good-day. Jemmy come along withGran." And I was still in the best of humours though his cap came flyingup into the street as if it had been just turned on out of thewater-plug, and I went home laughing all the way, all owing to that dearboy.
The miles and miles that me and the Major have travelled with Jemmy inthe dusk between the lights are not to be calculated, Jemmy driving onthe coach-box which is the Major's brass-bound writing desk on the table,me inside in the easy-chair and the Major Guard up behind with a brown-paper horn doing it really wonderful. I do assure you my dear thatsometimes when I have taken a few winks in my place inside the coach andhave come half awake by the flashing light of the fire and have heardthat precious pet driving and the Major blowing up behind to have thechange of horses ready when we got to the Inn, I have half believed wewere on the old North Road that my poor Lirriper knew so well. Then tosee that child and the Major both wrapped up
getting down to warm theirfeet and going stamping about and having glasses of ale out of the papermatchboxes on the chimney-piece is to see the Major enjoying it fully asmuch as the child I am very sure, and it's equal to any play when Coacheeopens the coach-door to look in at me inside and say "Wery 'past that'tage.--'Prightened old lady?"
But what my inexpressible feelings were when we lost that child can onlybe compared to the Major's which were not a shade better, through hisstraying out at five years old and eleven o'clock in the forenoon andnever heard of by word or sign or deed till half-past nine at night, whenthe Major had gone to the Editor of the _Times_