“But,” said Zachariah, “is that all? Why, you are nearly seventy years old. You must have something more to tell me.”
“No. I don’t know as I have; that seems about all.”
“But what became of your father? He was well off. What became of his money when he died?”
“I’d had my share.”
“Had you no brothers nor sisters to help you?”
“Yes, I had some.”
“Did they let you come here?”
“Why, you see, as I’ve told you before, I was dull, and my wife wasn’t strong. They never came much to see me. It was my fault; I never had nothing to say to them.”
“Had you no children?”
“Yes, I had a son and daughter.”
“Are they alive now?”
“Yes—both of them; at least I haven’t heard as they are dead.”
“And able to keep themselves?”
“They used to be.”
“And do you mean that your son and daughter let you go to the workhouse?”
The old man was a little disturbed, and for a moment some slight sign of nervous excitement revealed itself in his lustreless eyes.
“I haven’t see anything of ’em for years.”
“Did you quarrel?”
“No, we didn’t quarrel; but they left off visiting us. They both of them married, and went out a good bit, and were gayer than we were. We used to ask them, and then they’d look in sometimes: but never except when they were asked, and always seemed to wish to get away. We never had nothing to show anybody, nor nothing to give anybody; for we didn’t drink and I never smoked. They went away too, both of them, from Liverpool, somewhere towards London.”
“But when you broke down didn’t you inform them?”
“No. I hadn’t heard anything of them for so long. I thought I might as well get into the House. It will do very well.”
“Didn’t you know anybody belonging to your church or chapel?”
“Well, we went to church; but when the business dropped we left off going, for nothing much seemed to come of it, and nobody ever spoke to us.”
“Wouldn’t you like to get out of this place?”
“No—I don’t know as I should now; I shouldn’t know what to do, and it won’t last long.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixty-five.”
It puzzled Zachariah that the man’s story of his life was so short—all told in five minutes.
“But did you never have any adventures? Did you never hear about anything, or see anybody worth remembering? Tell me all about yourself. We’ve got nothing to do.”
“I don’t recollect anything particular after I came to Liverpool. Things seemed to go on pretty much in the same way.”
“But you got married, and your wife died?”
“Yes—I got married, and she died.”
“What was your wife’s name?”
“Her name was Jenkins; she was the daughter of the saddler that lived next door.”
“Couldn’t her friends have helped you?”
“After she died they had nothing more to do with me.”
“And you really cannot tell me any more?”
“No—how can I? What more is there to tell? It’s all alike.”
The old pauper was called away, and went shuffling along to the door, leaving Zachariah to his meditations.
Another day passed, and he was lying half asleep when a visitor was announced, and close upon the announcement stood before him—who should it be?—no other than Mrs. Carter, out of breath, radiant, healthy, impetuous.
“God bless the poor dear man!” she burst out; “to think of finding you here, and not to have told us before. But I suppose you couldn’t. Directly as I got your letter off I came, and here I am, you see.”
Her presence was like the southwest wind and sunlight after long northeasterly gloom and frost. Astonishing is that happy power which some people possess which enables them at once to dispel depression and even disease. A woman like Mrs. Carter comes into a house where there is misery and darkness; where the sufferer is possessed by demons; unnameable apprehensions, which thicken his blood and make him cry for death, and they retreat precipitately, as their brethren were fabled to retreat at the sign of the cross. No man who is so blessed as to have a friend with that magnetic force in him need disbelieve in much of what is recorded as miraculous. Zachariah felt as if a draught of good wine had been poured down his throat. But he instantly asked:
“How is my wife?”
“She is all right; but you mustn’t bother about her. You must come out at once. You mustn’t go back to Manchester just yet—not as they’d care much about you now; Nadin’s got plenty of work to do, and wouldn’t concern himself about you—but you aren’t well enough and are better away. Now, look here—I’ll tell you what I’ve been and done. I’ve got a cousin living here in Liverpool, as good a soul as ever lived. I goes to her and tells her you must stay there.”
“But how can I? Just think of the trouble and expense. I don’t know her.”
“Lord a mercy, there you are again—trouble and expense! What trouble will you be? And as for expense, one would think you’d been living like a Lord Mayor to hear you talk. What are we made for if not to help one another?”
“I can’t walk; and shouldn’t I be obliged to get the doctor’s permission?”
“Walk! Of course you can’t. And what
