because it couldn't last for ever;but these rheumatics come to live and die with you.Your aunt was took before the time came;never had an ache to mention.Now I lie all night in my single bed and the blood never warms in me;this knee of mine it seems like lighted up with rheumatics;it seems as though you could see to sew by it;and all the strings of my old body ache,as if devils was pulling 'em.Thank you kindly;that's someways easier now,but an old man,my dear,has little to look for;it's pain,pain,pain to the end of the business,and I'll never be rightly warm again till I get under the sod,'he said,and looked down at her with a face so aged and weary that she had nearly wept.
'I lay awake all night,'he continued;'I do so mostly,and a long walk kills me.Eh,deary me,to think that life should run to such a puddle!And I remember long syne when I was strong,and the blood all hot and good about me,and I loved to run,too -deary me,to run!Well,that's all by.You'd better pray to be took early,Nance,and not live on till you get to be like me,and are robbed in your grey old age,your cold,shivering,dark old age,that's like a winter's morning';and he bitterly shuddered,spreading his hands before the fire.
'Come now,'said Nance,'the more you say the less you'll like it,Uncle Jonathan;but if I were you I would be proud for to have lived all your days honest and beloved,and come near the end with your good name:isn't that a fine thing to be proud of?Mr.Archer was telling me in some strange land they used to run races each with a lighted candle,and the art was to keep the candle burning.Well,now,I thought that was like life:a man's good conscience is the flame he gets to carry,and if he comes to the winning-post with that still burning,why,take it how you will,the man's a hero -even if he was low-born like you and me.'
'Did Mr.Archer tell you that?'asked Jonathan.
'No,dear,'said she,'that's my own thought about it.He told me of the race.But see,now,'she continued,putting on the porridge,'you say old age is a hard season,but so is youth.You're half out of the battle,I would say;you loved my aunt and got her,and buried her,and some of these days soon you'll go to meet her;and take her my love and tell her I tried to take good care of you;for so I do,Uncle Jonathan.'
Jonathan struck with his fist upon the settle.'D'ye think I want to die,ye vixen?'he shouted.'I want to live ten hundred years.'
This was a mystery beyond Nance's penetration,and she stared in wonder as she made the porridge.
'I want to live,'he continued,'I want to live and to grow rich.I want to drive my carriage and to dice in hells and see the ring,I do.Is this a life that I lived?I want to be a rake,d'ye understand?I want to know what things are like.I don't want to die like a blind kitten,and me seventy-six.'
'O fie!'said Nance.
The old man thrust out his jaw at her,with the grimace of an irreverent schoolboy.Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy.Then he took out of his bosom a long leather purse,and emptying its contents on the settle,began to count and recount the pieces,ringing and examining each,and suddenly he leapt like a young man.'What!'he screamed.
'Bad?O Lord!I'm robbed again!'And falling on his knees before the settle he began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his deceiver.His eyes were shut,for to him this vile solemnity was prayer.He held up the bad half-crown in his right hand,as though he were displaying it to Heaven,and what increased the horror of the scene,the curses he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted -old age and poverty,rheumatism and an ungrateful son.Nance listened appalled;then she sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her hand upon his mouth.
'Whist!'she cried.'Whist ye,for God's sake!O my man,whist ye!If Heaven were to hear;if poor Aunt Susan were to hear!Think,she may be listening.'And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a corner of the kitchen.
His eyes followed her finger.He looked there for a little,thinking,blinking;then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon the settle,the bad piece still in his hand.So he sat for some time,looking upon the half-crown,and now wondering to himself on the injustice and partiality of the law,now computing again and again the nature of his loss.So he was still sitting when Mr.Archer entered the kitchen.At this a light came into his face,and after some seconds of rumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand.
'Mr.Archer,'said he,as soon as they were alone together,'would you give me a guinea-piece for silver?'
'Why,sir,I believe I can,'said Mr.Archer.
And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment.The blood shot into her face.
'What's to do here?'she asked rudely.
'Nothing,my dearie,'said old Jonathan,with a touch of whine.
'What's to do?'she said again.
'Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,'returned Mr.Archer.
'Let me see what he hath given you,Mr.Archer,'replied the girl.'I had a bad piece,and I fear it is mixed up among the good.'
'Well,well,'replied Mr.Archer,smiling,'I must take the merchant's risk of it.The money is now mixed.'
'I know my piece,'quoth Nance.'Come,let me see your silver,Mr.Archer.If I have to get it by a theft I'll see that money,'she cried.
'Nay,child,if you put as much passion to be honest as the world to steal,I must give way,though I betray myself,'
said Mr.Archer.'There it is as I received it.'
Nance quickly found the bad half-crown.
'Give him another,'she said,looking Jonathan in the face;and when that had been done,she walked over to the chimney and flung the guilty piece into the reddest of the fire.Its base constituents began immediately to run;even as she watched it the disc crumbled,and the lineaments of the King became confused.Jonathan,who had followed close behind,beheld these changes from over her shoulder,and his face darkened sorely.
