– 22 –

Chapter III.

We do not usually cry and make a fuss when a great grief comes upon us: we leave the crying for smaller matters. Many times, in looking back in after years on his father's death, Jack Stanley may have shed tears, but he did not at the time. He did not know how to act in any one thing; he understood nothing about the preparations for the funeral; he had only a few shillings in his pocket, and a few pounds in the pocket-book taken from his father; so he made up his mind, in a couple of hours after his father's death, to go to Mr. Denby.

The morning was clearer than it had been on the day before, and the walk did Jack good; but it seemed so strange to be going along the streets of London under his changed circumstances. He felt as if he was raised above the crowds he passed full of business, and toil, and occupation, by the great grief which he had in his breast, of which they knew nothing.

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Mr. Denby was at home—that is, in his office, and Jack was shown up at once.

“Stanley?” said the lawyer, glancing up at him as his clerk closed the door: “bless me! oh, yes! I suppose you are Mr. Stanley's son: I thought it was your father.”

“My father is dead, sir,” said Jack, speaking and feeling almost fiercely; “he was killed yesterday; he was knocked down in the fog and killed. I don't know what to do, I have come to ask you.”

“Killed! dead!” said the lawyer. “Good Heavens! how did it happen? Who was with him?”

“I know very little more than I have told you,” Jack answered. “He is at St. Bartholomew's Hospital: he died a few hours ago; his back was broken.”

The boy spoke as calmly as if he had learnt a lesson, and was repeating it off by rote. Mr. Denby walked across the room, and took Jack by the hand.

“And what made you come to me?” asked he, kindly.

“He told me to come. He said that you will tell me his past history, which he has always intended to tell himself.” Jack spoke as if his father was still living: he could not yet remember that he was dead.

“So I will another day; not now. You say your poor father was taken to St. Bartholomew's. You had better leave all arrangements to me, my dear boy. Meanwhile, what are you going to do with yourself? Where are you going when you leave this?”

“I don't know,” answered Jack, hopelessly: he felt

– 24 –

disposed to add, “and I don't care.” He had not thought whether he would return to the hospital, or go to the house where his father and he had lodged. Probably he would have done the former, without considering for a moment that he could not remain there.

“You had better come with me,” said Mr. Denby, presently rising and reaching down his hat. At the same moment he touched a bell, and when the clerk appeared, desired him to call a cab.

The cab was at the door almost as soon as Mr. Denby and Jack were, and getting into it, the lawyer gave the address of Mr. Stanley's lodgings. As soon as they arrived there, Mr. Denby said to Jack,

“Now, John Stanley, go in and pack up all your things. How long will it take you to do so, do you think?”

There are lots of books, sir, and—and—I hardly know what.”

“Then pack up your wearing apparel, and put all the books and everything else that may belong to you into the sitting-room and bed-room which your poor father occupied. I will ensure that they shall not be touched. Go at once. I will be back in two hours: you have no time to lose.”

Even at this moment, although Jack could not have explained the feeling in words, it annoyed him to hear his dead father spoken of as “your poor father.” The pitying tone which the living assume towards the dead is very galling to those who have already, in the acuteness

– 25 –

of their first sorrow, exalted the lost one into something sublime. I suppose people mean it in kindness, but it is a mistake. Jack felt relieved, therefore, when the good-natured Mr. Denby left him to himself; and after briefly explaining to the woman of the house what had happened, and hiring the sitting-room and bed-room still for the occupation of Mr. Stanley's things, and charging Mrs. Bennett, above all things, to avoid intruding upon Jack with her sympathy or condolence, he left the house for St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

No sooner was the rattle of the cab-wheels out of hearing than Mrs. Bennett presented herself at the sitting-room door. Now, there is no doubt that every individual of us in this world is adapted to some special purpose. Mrs. Bennett was not a woman of any learning or much discretion, but she was warm hearted, and a good packer. Upon first opening the sitting-room door, her only intention was that of comforting Jack in his affliction; though in all probability her way of comfort would have been very jarring to his sensitiveness. She began at once:

“My poor dear blessed boy! only to think that it should come to this! and he, poor dear gentleman, only this time yesterday as well as me, and better; but we are here today and gone to-morrow, as the saying is, Master Stanley, and what's our loss is his gain, we may say.”

I dare say she would have gone on for half an hour in this way, if she had not caught sight of the manner in which Jack had dragged a quantity of wearing apparel on

– 26 –

to the floor, and the hopeless way in which he was looking at a portmanteau which he intended to fill.

“Bless the boy!” she exclaimed, “whatever is he after? You don't ever expect to get them things in in that way, Master Stanley? Here, let me do it for you, my dear. Just you pick up the things from off the floor and hand them to me, and I'll do it for you in no time.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett,” said Jack, meekly. “I am not very used to packing, and I don't quite know how to begin.”

“So it seems,” said the landlady; “you needn't tell me. Now hand me those boots, sir; those which are lying on the bosom of that shirt—now the others. Are these here empty bottles to go?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Bennett,” said Jack; “I hardly know what I have put there on the floor.”

“Here's the hearth-broom for one,” said the old woman, talking with scarcely a pause; for she was afraid of trusting herself to look at her companion, and afraid of leaving off talking, lest she should break down at the sight of the many things belonging to the dead man. “Never mind; we'll get everything in its place after a bit.” And so she went on packing until, to Jack's surprise, the mass of things which had been lying on the floor was reduced to order, and he found that all his own clothes were comfortably folded and in the portmanteau. “And now, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennett, “if you will excuse my making so free, Mr. Denby said as he couldn't be back under a

– 27 –

couple of hours, and only half of that time is gone; so just you come down into the back parlour and have a bit of dinner. It's ill fretting on an empty stomach, as the saying is, and I think it isn't much as has passed your lips to-day.”

“Oh, I couldn't eat anything, Mrs. Bennett, thank you,” said Jack.

“Yes, you could, my dear, and it's your duty so to do. I'm not much of a educated woman, Master Stanley, as would't beseem perhaps my station, but I know one thing that concerns us all alike, and that is this: that whatever happens, it is our duty to bear up and make the best of things. It is a hard trial to you losing your dear Pa, but that will not be an excuse for making yourself ill; so just you come down with me and eat some dinner: you'll find it will do you good. You look quite pale and knocked up now, you do; and you'll want your strength to do your duty.” Mrs. Bennett was a sensible woman, though an uneducated one; and as she went downstairs, talking all the way, Jack felt obliged to follow her.

He was chilly with want of rest during the past night, and really in want of food, though he would not acknowledge it, and the warmth of Mrs. Bennett's cheerful fire did him good. The strained feeling which came partly from over-fatigue began to wear away; and when the old woman brought him a basin of hot soup, which she must have been at some pains to make, and which had been simmering on the kitchen hob the whole morning, he had

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no inclination any longer to resist her wishes; his hand shook as he took it from her, and said, “You are very kind, Mrs. Bennett.”

But very likely even then he might have recovered himself, and sustained his manliness, if kind-hearted Mrs. Bennett had not spoilt everything by taking his hand in hers, and patting it tenderly. Jack could not stand it any longer, but laid his head upon the back of his chair and burst into tears. Then the old woman said,

“Never fear, my boy: you was a good son to him as is gone, and the blessing of God will be with you. God blesses good children in this world also. You was the comfort and the happiness of his life, he have told me so. That's right, do cry; it ain't right and it ain't natural not to cry; it will do you a deal of good, my dear.”

And the old lady sat down beside Jack, the hand which she had been holding in hers went round her neck, and somehow Jack Stanley found himself crying on Mrs. Bennett's shoulder, instead of the back of the chair.

He would have been very much surprised if any one had told him, only a few days before, that he should ever find himself on such terms with the landlady, whom he had been used irreverently to speak of as “old Mother Bennett” to his schoolfellows. But we never know, until circumstances occur to bring it out, how much goodness may be hidden in those of whom we think little.

It was a comfort to Jack to have his cry out, and then, after having taken his soup, to talk over things with his

– 29 –

newly-made friend; and he felt sorry when Mr. Denby once more stopped at the door in a cab, and appeared to ask him if he was ready. He thought he would sooner have remained with Mrs. Bennett than encounter more strangers; but his father had referred him to Mr. Denby, and he thought that he ought to attend to the wishes of that gentlemen in every way that he could.

Although on several occasions Jack had seen Mr. Denby in company with his father, he had never before encountered his wife, and it was a surprise to him that a lady upon whom he looked as a complete stranger should evince such a knowledge apparently of his affairs. From the first moment of their meeting, Mrs. Denby, as it were, took possession of him and of his interests. She talked of “your poor dear father,” and “our poor friend,” and “the dear worthy man,” all of which meant Mr. Stanley, as if she had intimately known him for years. She dismissed the subject of the funeral and of the spot where the body was to be buried, and suggested arrangements in connection with either, as if all these things depended upon her.

“John Stanley will have everything as quiet as possible, my dear,” said she to her husband, without any reference to John Stanley's wishes.

It is true that Jack would prefer all the arrangements to be as quiet as possible, but it irritated him when suggested by Mrs. Denby. Besides, Mrs. Denby could afford to view the whole thing in the most cheerful light, for the

– 30 –

death of Mr. Stanley was no subject of regret to her; but Jack could not view it in the same manner, yet she insisted upon his being also cheerful and resigned.

I am afraid that Mrs. Denby's influence upon Jack was not for his good, and her platitudes about resignation and the effect of time, and many other truisms which have been said hundreds of times, yet which always irritate in the same manner the bereaved and sore at heart, had a very contrary effect from that which she may have intended. They resulted in his taking a very violent dislike to Mrs. Denby, and feeling her society so irksome to him that he shunned it as much as possible. This did not signify so far as the lady herself was concerned, for she was much too well satisfied with her own peculiarities to notice that they were not satisfactory to every one else.

Jack had a yearning feeling towards two people in the world—the very small world of his acquaintance, and these two were rather incongruous. They were the young man, the house surgeon at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Bernard, and the old woman of his lodgings, Mrs. Bennett. Jack would have been, perhaps, half-ashamed of acknowledging that, at this juncture, he would have preferred the society of the so-called vulgar old Mother Bennett to that of the so-called lady, Mrs. Denby; but it was a fact that he would have done so, and, perhaps, in the real sense, Mrs. Bennett was the better lady of the two.

So the funeral passed off like a dull dream, as if it had been somebody else who had been looking on at the burying

– 31 –

of some one whom Jack knew very little about. Mr. Denby put his handkerchief to his face, and old Mrs. Bennett, who attended uninvited, sobbed out loud; but Jack, as Mrs. Denby aftewards observed, showed a wonderful want of feeling. He had to listen during the remainder of that day to Mrs. Denby's commonplaces, sometimes addressed to her husband, and sometimes to himself. There was a decorum to be kept up for the day; but once the funeral was over, Mr. Stanley became a thing of the past. This decorum prevented Jack from being allowed to go to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It was natural enough that he should have conceived a friendship, or rather a strong feeling of regard, for the young man who had sympathized with him in his first great sorrow, apart from the fact that Jack was at an age when we easily learn to love. His great wish was to see Bernard again; but when he proposed doing so to Mrs. Denby, she quietly talked him out of his resolution with arguments of decorum and respect for the dead and such things, until Jack felt as if he had been almost wrong to wish to see his newly-made friend so soon after his father had been buried.