CHAPTER V.

Homeless.

[Illustration]

"SHALL I go to Percival to-day or not?" was the question which I asked myself as I looked out—not for first or second time that morning—from the window, dimmed by pattering rain.

The day was one of the worse to be seen, even in London; the sky blotted out by dense smoke; the pavement brown and wet, and the road all mud; the rain pouring down incessantly; and the wind howling dismally in the chimneys. Now and then a foot-passenger hurried past, struggling to prevent his dripping umbrella from being turned inside out by the gale.

Sometimes a cab was driven along the miry road, appearing for a few moments, then disappearing in the misty gloom. I had attempted to hail one which was empty; but the driver took no notice. No cab-stand was near: so if I should sally forth it must be on foot, with a river of mud to ford. I was, however, ashamed of my hesitation: on so dreary a day, my invalid friend would specially welcome a visit; so I took my umbrella and sallied forth.

I knocked at the door of Percival's lodging, which was opened, as usual, by the landlady in her mob cap. She cast uneasy glances at the mud-prints left by my boots on the old oil-cloth in her hall. On the narrow staircase I met the maid of all work carrying down an untasted, and by no means tempting-looking, dinner. Dirty and slip-shod the girl always was; but now she looked sulky also.

"He won't eat nothin'," she said, almost angrily, as she pushed past me. And the odour of the meat which she was taking away, quite accounted for the invalid's want of appetite for his meal.

"Of all dreary, miserable places in the world, a lodging in Fog Street must be the worst," I muttered to myself, as I reached the top of the long narrow staircase.

The sight of the room which I entered by no means altered my opinion. A pane of glass had been smashed in the window; and through the aperture swept the cold wind and the driven rain, the latter making tiny rivulets on the damp carpetless floor.

"How is this? How comes that pane to be broken?" I exclaimed. "The window was all right yesterday."

"It is only a bit of Polly's handiwork; or more correctly, elbow-work," answered Percival with a smile. "The girl put her elbow through the glass yesterday evening, when she brought in my supper."

"You don't mean to say that the window has remained in that state all night; with the rain drifting on to your bed, and the wind making the room like an ice-house!"

As I spoke, I was vigorously stopping up the hole with a many-tinted towel, which Percival had been using for his painting.

"I could not get at the window myself. Mrs. Bond was out taking tea with a neighbour; and Polly was in one of her little tempers: so I had just to make the best of my position," said my friend.

"But have you not suffered from this inexcusable carelessness?" I asked, seeing a look of suppressed pain on the pale countenance of the artist.

"Only a touch of neuralgia," was Percival's reply, its cheerful tone contrasting with the appearance of suffering on his pallid features.

I made the invalid as comfortable, or rather as little uncomfortable, as circumstances permitted; and then took a chair by his side.

"Percival, I cannot bear to see you in this depth of discomfort!" I cried.

"One could descend a good deal lower than this," was the playful reply. "I have a roof over my head; a good bed under me; food, when I can eat it; my palette; and my friend: and more, much more besides," Percival added more gravely, as he glanced at the Bible which lay by his side.

Seyton. You are the most long-suffering of men! But is not even your patience strained to the snapping point in a wretched lodging like this?

Percival. Very nearly, sometimes, I confess: at least it was so a little time since. Not great trials, but little ones, made it almost give way. It is not the heavy blow; but constant friction, that wears out the chain. I bore with tolerable fortitude the doctor's verdict which condemned me to a life of helplessness and pain, with no prospect of my sufferings ending on this side the grave; I saw before me a cross, and was given grace to take it up; but—but—

Seyton. But the thousand and one worries of existence in Fog Street; a servant's slatternly habits and sullen temper; bad cooking; loneliness; the absence of anything to give a colour to existence—would make a saint's temper and patience give way.

Percival. I own that I was anything but philosophic in regard to some cornet practice in the room just below this. Every evening, sometimes till late in the night, the horrid discordant blare effectually chased sleep from my eye-lids. Difficult passages were practised over and over with a resolute patience which all but exhausted mine. A hundred times I felt disposed to strike the floor violently with my stick, in hopes of stopping my tormentor below. In fact I did strike more than once: but the trumpeting went on all the same; its noise, perhaps, overpowering that which I made.

Seyton. Why did you not speak to your landlady about the annoyance?

Percival. I did; but was silenced by her reply, "Oh dear, yes: the poor gentleman loves his horn as if it were his child. I think it is the only pleasure he has; for he is hard at work in his office all day, and never goes out of an evening." Then I asked myself whether it would be reasonable or right to tax the kindness of a stranger by asking him to forego his one indulgence; and that a harmless one too. Would it not be better, thought I, to train my own mind to bear the petty annoyance?

Seyton. Not a petty one to an invalid, with a refined taste for music. Did you succeed, my dear fellow, in training your mind?

Percival. Fairly well—after a time. I was most helped by trying to fix my thoughts on the daily trials which were, no doubt, the Master's portion on earth. We are apt to think of the great temptation in the wilderness, and the sufferings in Gethsemane and on Calvary; as though they included almost all that Christ had to endure: but there were doubtless a thousand minor links of pain and annoyance which made Christ's earthly life a net-work of trial.

Seyton. Yes, even His brethren did not believe in Him; and his dull-minded disciples were always mistaking His meaning.

Percival. I was alluding to commoner trials than these. Hunger; thirst; the sense of privation; the extreme weariness, which caused the Lord to sleep on in the midst of a tempest: very often must such trials have oppressed Him, who was "made like unto" us in all things. Our Saviour travelled on foot: how often must He, like ourselves, have felt "the languid pulse, the aching limb;" have longed in the noonday for shade; or, dragging His weary steps along the dusty highway, have wished for some stream in which to lave His burning feet!

Percival proceeded: I pondered on these things till thought took its usual form—on canvas. I made this sketch; and, slight as it is, it has had a wondrous effect in allaying my natural impatience of disposition, and the irritability of nerves caused by my illness.

Seyton. I see that you have depicted the Master walking alone on the side of a hill. The landscape around is dreary and almost devoid of vegetation, save that thorn-bushes overgrow the path: some fluttering fragments of white clothing upon them denote that a way has had to be forced with difficulty through them. The Wanderer's feet look bruised; and there are red traces on His hands.

Percival. Yes, many were earth's thorns which wounded Christ's mortal frame, before they—as a climax—crowned His sacred brow.

Seyton. You have written under your sketch, "The Son of Man hath not where to lay His head;" and the picture forms a comment on the words. The sky above is dark and louring, showing that a storm is about to burst: we see lightning already flashing in the background. The Wanderer has no heavy mantle to wrap around His slightly clad form: every heavy drop will penetrate and chill. Christ's eyes are raised towards the mass of threatening clouds above Him. We see that He would willingly seek shelter; but none is near.

Percival. None for Him, the Lord of Creation. But notice yon small hole in the side of the sandy bank. The little fox of Palestine finds its home there; the fierce storm will not reach it. The wild creature knows more of comfort than does the Master! Seyton, when I had drawn this feeble picture of One who was homeless on the earth which He had made, I felt humbled and ashamed at ever having felt impatient under the slight annoyances which, cheerfully borne, will be found amongst the all things which work together for good to them that love God.

Here the conversation closed; but I may mention that by an arrangement with a kind relative of my own, Percival passed the short remainder of his life in comparative freedom from all trials from which woman's tenderness and considerate kindness could shield him.

[Illustration]