"All gone! All gone! The work of seven years. The result of a lifetime. Gone! gone! gone!"
He reeled and would have fallen but that Hanbury caught him and supported him.
Williams appeared and between Williams and Hanbury the dwarf was led into the private bar in which his learning and occult knowledge had brought him distinction and respect.
A chair was fetched by Binns the potman and Leigh was set upon it with his back to the window, so that his eyes might not look upon the grave of his labour.
"All gone! All gone! Nothing left! Nothing left! The work of seven years day and night! Day and night! Day and night! Gone, all gone!"
"But, Mr. Leigh," said the pale-faced Williams, in a low and very kindly voice, "it might have been ever so much worse."
"Worse! How could it be worse? There is nothing saved."
"Why, thank God, Mr. Leigh, you are saved. It was said in some of the papers and we all believed you were burned in the fire."
"And what if I was? I wish I was."
"You oughtn't say that, Mr. Leigh. It is not right to say that. You ought to be grateful for being saved."
"Grateful for being saved! Who? I! Who should be grateful that I am saved? Not I, for one."
"Well, your friends are very glad, any way. Didn't you hear how the people cried out with fear first, for they thought you were a ghost, and didn't you hear how they cheered then when they saw it was you yourself, alive and well?"
"I! Who am I? What am I? My clock, sir, was all I had in this whole world. It was the savings bank of my heart, of my soul, and now the bank is broken and I am beggared."
"But, Mr. Leigh, you are not beggared indeed. You have plenty of money still," said Williams in the soft tone one uses to a reasonable child.
"Money, sir, what is money to me? I am not a pauper, but what good is mere money to me? Can I dance at balls, or ride fine horses or shoot? What good is money to me more than to get me food and drink for my body? and what a body! Who will feed my soul? What will feed my soul? How am I who am but a joke of nature to live with no spiritual food? My clock was my life, and my soul, and my fame, my immortal part and now-! Gone! gone! gone!"
"But how did you escape, Mr. Leigh? We saw you winding up after you left this, and you nodded to us as usual, when the easy part of the winding came, half-way through."
"I did. Curse my mandarin neck. If I had minded nothing but my clock it would be safe now, or I should be dead with it."
"But how did you escape, Mr. Leigh?"
"The devil takes care of his own, Mr. Hanbury," he said, speaking for the first time to the young man. "Whatever way you are going I should like to go, if you would have no objection? I have no way of my own now except the way common to us all."
"I shall be very glad to have your company," said Hanbury, who was sincerely moved at the loss and grief of the little clockmaker.
"Shall we walk or would you prefer to drive?"
"Let us drive, please. I have lost my stick. Ay, I have lost my crutch, my stick, my prop. You are very kind to let me go with you."
"Indeed I am very glad to be of any use I can."
And leaning on the arm of John Hanbury, Oscar Leigh limped out of the private bar of the Hanover.
CHAPTER XXXVI OPEN CONFESSION
"If you will rest awhile here," said Hanbury, "I'll fetch a cab. I cannot see one up or down the street."
"No,"
said Leigh, a shudder passing through his frame. "Let us walk, if you do not mind. I could not bear to stay near this place any longer. Is it not strange that you should have wanted a cab in this spot forty-eight hours ago, and I should want it here now?"
"It is strange," said Hanbury, "but the world is very small, and our absolute wants in it are very closely circumscribed." The manner of Leigh had changed in a marked manner since they emerged from the door of the Hanover. His steps had become slow and more dragged, his breathing more laboured, and he had lost all swagger and bounce, and self-assertiveness.
"I know I am going very slowly. But I cannot get along quicker. I have had a great shock, and a slow step is becoming at a funeral."
"Pray, do not apologise. I assure you I have absolutely nothing to do."
"Nor I, nor shall I ever have anything to do in this world again. Sir, this slow pace befits a funeral. This is my funeral."
"Oh, you mustn't say so. I am sure your clock must have been a terrible loss, but not irreparable."
"Do you mean that the clock is reparable?"
"No. I am well aware the clock is past repair, but the loss may be repaired."
"No, sir. It may not. I do not want ever to see this street or that corner again. I have lived there seven years. I have toiled and planned there night and day for seven years, and now I am going away shorn of the growth of all my labours. Men of my make are never long-lived. When they meet a great shock and a great loss such as this they die. There is a hansom, but don't call that. Call a four-wheeler. It is more like a hearse, and this is a funeral. Let us dress the rehearsal of the play, the real play, as well as we can. I am rather glad I am done with life-"