Nancy ate her sandwich and smiled. The one glass
sufficed her; Crewe drank three. Presently, looking
at her with his head propped on his hand, he said
gravely:
‘I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall
have together?’
‘Who can say?’ she answered in a light
tone.
‘Some one ought to be able to say.’
‘I never make prophecies, and never believe
other people’s.’
‘Shows your good sense. But I make
wishes, and plenty of them.’
‘So do I,’ said Nancy.
‘Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,’
proposed Crewe, regarding her with eyes that had an
uncommon light in them.
His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a
moment.
They allowed themselves plenty of time to battle their
way as far as Westminster Bridge. At one point
police and crowd were in brief conflict; the burly
guardians of order dealt thwacking blows, right and
left, sound fisticuffs, backed with hearty oaths.
The night was young; by magisterial providence, hours
of steady drinking lay before the hardier jubilants.
Thwacks and curses would be no rarity in another hour
or two.
At the foot of Parliament Street, Nancy came face
to face with Samuel Barmby, on whose arm hung the
wearied Jessica. Without heeding their exclamations,
she turned to her protector and bade him a hearty
good-night. Crewe accepted his dismissal.
He made survey of Barmby, and moved off singing to
himself, ’Do not forget me—do
not forget me—’
The disorder which Stephen Lord masked as a ‘touch
of gout’ had in truth a much more disagreeable
name. It was now twelve months since his doctor’s
first warning, directed against the savoury meats and
ardent beverages which constituted his diet; Stephen
resolved upon a change of habits, but the flesh held
him in bondage, and medical prophecy was justified
by the event. All through Jubilee Day he suffered
acutely; for the rest of the week he remained at home,
sometimes sitting in the garden, but generally keeping
his room, where he lay on a couch.
A man of method and routine, sedentary, with a strong
dislike of unfamiliar surroundings, he could not be
persuaded to try change of air. The disease intensified
his native stubbornness, made him by turns fretful
and furious, disposed him to a sullen solitude.
He would accept no tendance but that of Mary Woodruff;
to her, as to his children, he kept up the pretence
of gout. He was visited only by Samuel Barmby,
with whom he discussed details of business, and by
Mr. Barmby, senior, his friend of thirty years, the
one man to whom he unbosomed himself.
His effort to follow the regimen medically prescribed
to him was even now futile. At the end of a week’s
time, imagining himself somewhat better, he resumed
his daily walk to Camberwell Road, but remained at
the warehouse only till two or three o’clock,
then returned and sat alone in his room. On one
of the first days of July, when the weather was oppressively
hot, he entered the house about noon, and in a few
minutes rang his bell. Mary Woodruff came to
him. He was sitting on the couch, pale, wet with
perspiration, and exhausted.
