Spring-Heel'd Jack, The Terror of London — page 243: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

SPRING-HEEL’D JACK! THE TERROR OF LONDON. of dirty glass, and still the door remained closed on which the dull eye of the woman was fixed with an anxious gaze. “Not yet—not yet ; and still the sands run quickly out,’ she said. “And my eyes grow more dim, and my pulse more feeble. Not yet —not yet!” Lower and lower down the window crept the sun-ray, and over the carpetless floor of the apartment towards the bed, and finally rested upon the white face of the sufferer, who, by an effort, rolled her head back upon the. bolster to avoid it, for it dazzled her vision as she gazed at the door. “Nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘“ Yes, ‘tis nine o'clock. That streak of light has been my only time-plece for years, and never yet deceived me. It has reached the mark on the wall, and it is nine o'clock ; and still the boy does not come— still he does not come. Yesterday I thought when the ray of licht rested where it does now I should have relieved my overburdened heart, and have taken my departure from this cold, cruel world. But I am deceived. Alas! how have I been deceived for years! But I am past deceiving now. The grave will not deceive me. Oh! no—no: Oh, no! I am hurrying to it. Oh that he would come !—ere its portals open to receive me—ere it is too late for him to learn the truth so long hidden from him—ere it is too late to atone for the terrible wrong I have done him—ere I can unfold to him my own wicked- ness, and the bright future that must open upon hin! The light creeps up the wall, the moments fly swiftly by, death draws nearer and nearer this wretched pallet, and yet he comes not—he comes not !” And the woman sighed heavily. Hark! there is a tottering footstep on the stairs. | lt reaches the invalid’s ears, The woman summoned all her strength, and raised herself upon her sharp elbows in the bed. The lids are extended wide open, and the lustreless eyes start forward as she fixes them with intense anxiety upon the panels of the door. Her breath came in short gasps, and her haggard face lightens up with the momentary excitement of hope. Up comes the step. The footfall is louder as it nears the room. It pauses on the landing before the door, A hand is run over the panels, and the woman, claspiug her hands together, shouts in her weak tones— Richard! Richard! My boy! my boy The excitement is too much for her weakened _ frame, and with a sob she sinks back upon the pillow as the door is flung open, and a young man staggers into the room. His face was pale as that of her who lay, with clasped hands and closed eyes, on that wretched pallet ; his eyes and cheeks were as sunken, and his lips as thin and white. Illness, want, and misery were stamped there ; and the woman, as she opened her eyes and looked towards him, uttered an exclamation of surprise and pain. 19? 245 | The young man staggered forward towards the wretched bed, and dropped on one knee beside it, exclaiming— . ‘Great heaven! Mother ! isit thus I find you? Alone, ill, and in want? Fate has indeed been cruel to us both—very cruel.” He pressed her shrivelled hand in his, and, placing one arm beneath her head, raised her tenderly up, and gazed with a look of anguish in her wan face. ‘* Mother,” he said, ‘I could not reach your side earlier. I started the instant I re- celved news of your illness. I had no money for conveyance, and had to walk nearly the whole way. Oh! what a thing it is to be poor, espe- cially at a time like this, when you want so much!’ ‘““T want nothing now, Richard, that you are here,” she replied, looking from under her half- closed lids into his face. ‘*‘The wish to see you ere I died has alone kept me clinging to life. Thank God you have come! and the last prayer of the guilty, dying woman has been granted.” ‘Guilty, mother ?” cried the youth. ‘Ay, boy. Guilty—very guilty.” “Of what? Towards whom ?”’ “Towards you and” “Me, mother ?” “Ay. But call me not mother, Richard ; call me not by that endearing name,” cried the woman, in a low, yet impassioned tone. “Not call you mother!” said the youth, gazing upon her in surprise. ‘* No, boy —no.” ‘“ Wherefore not? You have ever been to me a kind and tender parent.” And as he spoke he bent his head down and kissed the pale, thin cheek. “ Because, Richard” — and her voice was husky with emotion—* because, boy, that title belonged to another. Jam not your mother.” The youth sprang to his feet. His pale cheeks became bloodless white, and his lips quivered. For a moment he stood gazing upon the form which, losing his support, had again sank back ; then, in a whisper, he hissed, rather than spoke— “Not—my—mother ! ” “No, Richard. One who is now an angel in heaven gave you being. I am but the guilty wretch who substituted my own babe for hers— who robbed you of your birthright, that a villain might enjoy it.” ‘‘ Mother, mother! you are raving! Youknow not what you say. Your mind wanders. Want and misery have brought you to this. I will go for a doctor, who will give you something to calm your mind and cool your burning brain.” And he hastily picked up the hat he had flung from his head on entering the apartment. Hold! Richard !’’ cried the woman. ‘ No earthly aid can save me now. Death has set his seal upon me, and the unknown world opens before me. Stay, I say ! for I have not long to live. But in the moments there are yet allotted to me, I have an act of justice to perform—a reparation to make. Come, kneel beside me ; for my yoice is weak, and my tones must reach ' moa am (E JOOKSHGOM