"A Story of Dust and Ashes" (continued 2)

The doctor may have had a heart, but it was thoroughly unmoved by all that his wife had said; in fact the appeal had come at a wrong time, since the same post which brought the letter he had passed over to Mrs Hardon had given him other letters whose contents he so thoroughly knew that he had not even opened them, but, glancing at their directions, thrust them hastily into his pocket, where they acted as so much fuel to feed the fire of his wrath. There was something so unmistakable in the particularly-distinct handwriting upon the envelopes—something so very blue about the paper—that, expecting unpleasant communications, the doctor detected them at a glance, and mentally he went over the contents.

The fact was the doctor was short of cash, and that through more than one unfortunate speculation in which he had embarked. Like a great many more men of moderate income, he had been bitten with the desire to increase it, though the bite came in the first instance from his wife, who scolded him fiercely when, after the MD honour had been thrust upon him, he gave up the union practice, which entailed the loss of the regular salary of one hundred pounds per annum. The doctor said that it was not becoming for a physician to be the medical attendant of the parish; and Mrs Hardon, who was then in a worldly, everyday phase, declared that it was “all fiddlesticks’ ends,” when there was his cheque regularly at certain times, while the greater part of the work could be done by the assistant, who would do very well for the poor people. It was a sin and a shame, she declared, though how connected with fiddlesticks’ ends was best known to herself. There was, however, something relating to the musical science in the matter, for Mrs Doctor Hardon kept harping upon the same string until the doctor snapped it by furiously threatening her if another word was said about it—threats which Mrs Hardon noticed so much that she certainly held her tongue; and she held her hand too, and tried to annoy the doctor by keeping a bad table, which she said so great a loss every year necessitated. Poor woman! she little knew that the time would come when such economy would be forced upon her. What, she asked the doctor, was honour without money? What was the use of her being a physician’s wife if they had nothing to support it with? And, then, too for him to be such an ass—the doctor started and puffed out his cheeks at this—“Yes, ass,” said Mrs Hardon, “as to play into your adversary’s hand like that, when he was on the verge of ruin, as everybody said, and could not have kept on another six months; for you to throw the union practice and a hundred a-year into his lap, and supply him with the material for carrying on the war!”

Mrs Doctor Hardon spoke of the rival practitioner, a poor, gentlemanly man, who had set up some years before in the dusty town of Somesham, and had been fighting ever since with difficulties; for, as in all small country towns in this land of liberty, every new-comer was looked upon as an intruder—a foreigner—and one who will probably interfere with the fine old conservative notions of the place. They don’t want him, and they won’t have him if they can help it. He is clever, perhaps; but they don’t want clever people, and they would prefer being half-killed by the old practitioner to being cured by the new. Trade or profession, it is just the same; and perhaps the acts of the town are only the acts of the country in miniature. Hospitality we have in plenty, and our share of the virtues, no doubt; but truly we English have most strongly in us the propensity for turning our backs upon those who are trying to fight their way on, until they can manage to do without help, when we turn round, smiling with the features that frowned before, pat the successful man upon the back, and say, “Well done!”

Mr Brande, “the new man,” as he was called, had found all this, and had been ready to despair again and again through the many years he had been trying to make a practice; but now the turning-point had come in the honours of Thomas Hardon, Esq, MD; not that he had reaped much present advantage, and it was doubtful if he would have had the practice at all if Doctor Hardon had not had immediate want for a hundred and fifty pounds, and, trusting to Mr Brande’s honour as a gentleman, offered to throw up the parish work on condition of receiving that sum, which Mr Brande gave him in bills, and, what was more, screwed, economised, and met them as they fell due. But Mrs Doctor Hardon did not know this, nor yet the extent of the liabilities her lord had incurred; while the deeper he sunk in that black, clinging mire of debt, the more reticent he grew.

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Mr Pawley’s Performance.

“Such a beautiful, well-cut letter too!” said old Matt Space, as he stood looking at the empty type-rack from whence the cases had been taken to furnish money for Septimus Hardon’s present expenses. “In such good order too. Puts me in mind of being so low down that I had to sell my own stick. Fellow always seems so badly off when he gets selling his tools.”

A tap at the door, following the sound of wheels, interrupted the old man’s soliloquy, and going to the door he admitted the undertaker, who had just arrived with his shabby Shillibeer hearse and mourning-coach in one, with which he performed the economic funerals so frequent in his district.

“Here you are, then,” said old Matt, grimly surveying the new-comer.

“Yes, here we are,” said the undertaker, in a subdued, melancholy tone; and then he drew out a pocket-handkerchief and wiped his eye, as if to remove a tear—in fact, he did remove a tear—though not sorrow-shed, for Mr Pawley was in very good spirits just then; but he had an eye afflicted with a watery weakness which necessitated the constant application of a handkerchief, and this had passed with a certain class of people for the manifestation of sorrow for their griefs. Some said that this eye had been a little fortune to him. Perhaps it had, but doubtless the crowded courts clustering round Lincoln’s-inn had done more to keep up the incessant “rat-tat-tat-tat” heard in his shop, a sound as if grim Death were tapping with those bony fingers of his at the door.

“Such a feeling man!” said Mrs Sims, who was always at home upon such occasions as this, and had now come to mind Septimus Hardon’s boy, and help; “if she could be of service leastways, for it’s few berrins take place about here, mom, that they don’t send for me,” she said with a sniff, and the corner of her apron to her eye.

“Here you are, then,” said old Matt to the undertaker.

“Yes, here we are,” said Mr Pawley; “but you ain’t a-going, are you?”

“Well, who said I was?” said Matt gruffly. “You’re a-going, ain’t you? and that’s enough for you.”

Mr Pawley took so much pride in his funerals being properly performed, that going himself did not seem enough for him, and he continued to gaze doubtfully over a very uncomfortable white cravat, one of which the bow was supposed to be tied behind, giving him a good deal the aspect of a man who had been decapitated, and then had his head secured in its place by a bandage.

But old Matt did not give the undertaker an opportunity for a long inspection of his shabby black clothes, for having announced the grim functionary, that gentleman went up the creaking stairs upon the points of his toes to proceed with the duties he had in hand; while, as old Matt stood in the passage watching his long black body it seemed to him that the stairs cracked and creaked mournfully, as if resenting the feet laid upon them, in anticipation of a heavier descent.

But there was to be no heavy load for them to bear this time, for it was but a little coffin—a little white coffin that had been gazed into for the last time, where the gentle waxen features seemed to wear a smile, so sad, speaking such a tender farewell in its sweetness, that Lucy Grey sobbed aloud with the parents, until Mrs Sims entered the room, whispered to Septimus, and then they all slowly passed out to give place to Mr Pawley. And then standing in the next room, Mrs Septimus, weak and ailing, almost fainted as she heard the harsh noise of the driver as it slipped first in one and then another of the screws.

But now the last screw had been tightened, the light burden placed in the receptacle, and Mrs Sims, quite a regular aid to Mr Goffer, arranged the scarf upon Septimus Hardon’s hat; pinned and tied the hoods and cloaks upon mother and daughter; and then, in a simple but feeling way, wept many a salt tear into her black-alpaca apron, sniffing terribly the while Mr Pawley, satisfied in his mind that the respectability of his performance was not to be damaged by so doubtful a character as the old compositor, stood holding open the door of the carriage with one hand, wiping his eye with the other, and awaiting the mourners’ descent.

For this was no grand funeral; there had been no mutes standing with draped staves at the door; there was no squadron of men with scarves and brass-tipped truncheons; no tray of black plumes to be carried in advance; no high-stepping, long-tailed black horses, with velvet housings and tossing heads; nothing to make a funeral imposing and attractive. But there were spectators even for this: inhabitants of Carey-street were stealthily watching from door-steps, or from the corners of windows, as if afraid of intruding upon the mourners’ sorrow; a knot of dirty children from Bennett’s-rents had collected, many of whom toiled beneath shawl-wrapped burdens of heavy babies almost equal to themselves in bulk; two women stood upon the opposite side with arms wrapped in their aprons; a ticket-porter, in apron and badge, leaned against the nearest lamp-post; the apple-woman at the corner did something unusual, she left her basket, knocked the ashes out of her short black pipe, and then rubbed a tear—a bright, gem-like tear—off her poor old cheek, withered as one of her own pippins, before placing her pipe in her pocket, and leaning with arms akimbo against the railings to see the hearse pass with a little customer of hers, for whom she had always picked out the best lot, and in her simple homely way called down heavenly favour with a hearty “God bless you!” An old law-writer, a man who reckoned life as a long brief in so many folios, old and snuffy, and shabby almost as Matt himself, walked by house and hearse to the office where he worked, pretending to whistle; but no sound came, and he blew his nose in a way that raised an echo in the silent street as soon as he was a few yards past the place; even the policeman, beating his Berlin gloves together, quietly sent off the children gathered in the way, and posted them at a distance, that they might not annoy the sad party so soon to leave the house.

And now a tall dark woman, carrying a child, appeared upon the scene, and stood with dimmed eye watching till the mourners descended, when, catching sight of Septimus Hardon’s bent form, she stepped forward eagerly, but only to shrink back shivering as she clutched her babe to her breast, pressing her lips upon its plump cheek, while an air of wonderment came into the woman’s face as the announcement above the door now caught her eye:—“S Hardon, Legal and General Printer.”

For there was sorrow in Carey-street that day—sorrow of a novel kind. All the neighbourhood knew why the blinds were down at Hardon’s; for all knew the tall graceful girl who led about the two golden-haired children that seemed so out of place in the legal region; all knew that one of these little ones had passed away—that the little flower, sweet and fragrant, so lately blooming in the cold harsh place, and raising its heaven-whispering head amongst them, had been cut down by the cold winds that swept the weary waste. “Our client” had stopped at this oasis in the desert he was crossing, for he had often paused to look up at the golden head at the upper window, gazed at it awhile, and then passed on, refreshed and gladdened in heart. Every dweller in the neighbourhood had had a kind word or look for Lucy’s charges; and there was a sun in those golden tresses, a warm light, that would often melt the icy frost of some old lawyer’s countenance, and bring there a smile of pleasure. But a month before, two men were passing Carey-street with Punch, bound westward to the district where there is less constraint and mind-engrossing; and the man who bore the show, following the usage which to him was second nature, looked up at the dirty windows with wandering eye, caught sight of the blue-eyed fairy, looked at her with doubt for an instant, and then pitched his theatre, to the astonishment of his drum-and-pan-pipe “pardner,” who would as soon have thought of playing in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

“Jest five minutes,” whispered his mate, pointing upwards; when, as if by magic, the pipes squeaked, the drum rolled, raising up the wondering ghosts of echoes from amidst the pouncy dust of ages, while the yellowy, torn green baize fell, to conceal the motive power of the puppets; and then for “jest five minutes” “our client” was startled, the parchments in the offices crackled, dust floated from ledges out upon the murky air, and the sanctity of the place was broken by the ribald jokes of our old friend. Then, just as an astonished troop of children came with a rush out of Bennett’s-rents, up went the green curtain; there came a friendly nod from one of the men, who placed himself Atlas-like beneath his drum, a broad grin from the other at the child’s delight, and then off due west.

And now the change had come; the cold blast that sweeps down Carey-street had been colder and keener; the fragile flower-stalk was broken; the white coffin was in its place, the mourners in the coach; the door banged gently, for the wood had warped. Mr Pawley had climbed beside his red-nosed driver, and sat wiping his eye; while the poor old broken-kneed black horse ambled and shambled off with its head down, as if ashamed of the false tail that it knew was fastened to the crupper of its harness.

Then the rest,—the sad rite, the solemn words, the swelling hearts aching to leave so sweet a form in so cold and damp a bed, loth to believe that what they had loved could turn to corruption, and then to the dust of the earth. Then back to the shabby carriage, whose driver had refreshed himself with gin, which attacked his nose; while the horse yet twisted an obstinate wisp of hay that hung sideways in his bit, and would not be ground into nutriment. Once more the banging of the door, and Mr Pawley up beside the driver, with his grief still unassuaged; while as the poor beast that drew the carriage shambled back, his load was so little lightened that he knew not the difference.

The house in Carey-street had looked sad and gloomy for days past, for even the lodgers had drawn down their blinds, and ascended the stairs carefully and even stealthily, speaking, too, in whispers; but now the light was freely admitted, and Mrs Sims had blown up a good fire, only stopping to sniff, and drop a tear or two upon the bellows now and then, the last being a domestic implement that she had run home to the Square and fetched for the occasion. The tea was prepared, and she had made what she called the most of the place,—not that that was much,—ready for the mourners’ return; while old Matt was ruining the knees of his trousers by making himself a horse, and crawling up and down the dirty printing-office floor with the little boy upon his back. The rooms looked almost cheerful now, for, save in the returned mourners’ hearts, all was over, and the solemn scene, the dark, damp grave, the catching of the breath as the first earth fell, the long last look at the white coffin—all things of the past.

Old Matthew Space was a wise man in his way; and as soon as he thought that there had been time for the changing of habiliments,—that is to say, about a quarter of an hour after Mr Pawley had presented his account, been paid, and taken his departure, offering old Matt sixpence, which he indignantly refused to take,—he put on a bright face, and took the little fellow in his charge upstairs, crowing and chattering with delight at riding upon the old man’s shoulders.

“No, thankee, sir,” said the old man, in answer to Septimus Hardon’s invitation to stay to tea; and as he declined he glanced down at his clothes.

“I did not ask the clothes,” said Septimus warmly, “but the man who has shown sympathy in this weary time of trouble; and God knows I did not expect to find friends where I have,” muttered the dejected man, who looked ten years older; while at times his eyes wandered in a weary abstracted way about the room, and his hands were wrung together, till Lucy came to his side and spoke to him, when the lost, helpless look would pass off, and he would brighten up for a few minutes.

“Such a beautiful, well-cut letter, though!” muttered old Matt as he took the chair placed for him by Mrs Sims, when the little fellow forced himself off his mother’s lap, and climbed upon the old man’s knee.

“You must hold up, mum,” whispered Mrs Sims to poor, broken-down, invalid Mrs Septimus. “I know what it all is; for when I lived in the Rents, mum, I lost four; and all within three year.”

“You did!” said Mrs Septimus, laying a tender hand upon the poor woman’s arm.

“O yes!” said Mrs Sims. “It was before I went to mind the house in the Square, and used to wash; but it was sich work, mum! nowhere to dry except a bit of leads, and the strings tied across the room, and the blacks allus a-coming down like a shower, while every drop o’ water had to be fetched from right at the bottom of the house. One was obliged to do it, though, for times were very hard just then; but having so much washing ain’t good and healthy for children, let alone being stived up so closte. You see, ’m, it’s a bad place to live in, them Rents, there’s too many in a house, and there’s so much wants doing; but then, when you’re a bit behind with your rent, you can’t grumble, or there’s your few bits of sticks taken, and plenty more glad to have your room. But the way the poor little children is snatched off there, mum, ’s terrible, though I do sometimes say, as it’s a happy release. Mr Pawley, mum, he ’ave told me that them Rents is as good as an annuity to him; for you see, though it isn’t a big place, there’s a many families in each house; and where there’s families, mum, there’s mostly children.”

Mrs Septimus sighed bitterly at the last word, while, poor woman, she was too much intent upon her cares to notice the wisdom of the speech.

“But you hold up now, mum, there’s a good creetur. I know it’s very hard, but then we all has to suffer alike, and you’ve got to recklect what you owes to that poor dear child there, and young miss, and the master.”

As for Septimus Hardon, he was talking in an abstracted way to old Matt, who was discussing business matters, and urging energetic measures in the office; but talking to Septimus Hardon was a difficult matter, and put you much in mind of catching a grazing horse: you held a bait before him, and then gradually edged him up into a corner, when, just as you thought you had him, he was off and away full gallop to another part of the mental field; and so the work had to be done all over again. Old Matt found it so, and after several times over waking to the fact that while he was talking upon one subject Septimus Hardon was thinking upon another, he rose and took his departure.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Old Matt on Manners.

Old Matt Space came daily to Carey-street in search of a job, and generally made an excuse for seeing little Tom, for whom he had a cake, a biscuit, or some small penny toy, purchased of one of the peripatetic vendors in the street.

“I always like to support honest industry,” said the old man; and when in work, and with a few shillings in his pocket, he would take a walk along the busy streets, and perhaps spend a couple of his shillings with the people whose place of business is the edge of the pavement. “Well, suppose I am a fool for doing it, what then?” said Matt one day. “Ain’t ninety per cent of the inhabitants of this precious country of ours what you call fools; and if I, in my folly, help twenty or thirty poor folks up a step in getting their bit of a living, where’s the harm? Don’t tell me,” old Matt would say to his fellow-workmen, beginning to unload the pockets which made his coat-tails stick out almost at right angles; “I don’t buy the things because I want them, I do it to help them as wants it; and their name, as it says in the Testament, is ‘legion.’ Now, that’s a jumping frog, made of wood, a bit of paint, a bit of string, and a bit of my friend Ike’s wax. That’s an ingenious toy, that is: who’ll have it? whose got a youngster?”

Speaking in a large printing-office, amongst twenty or thirty men, there was soon a market for the jumping frog; and then the old man drew out a scrap of something soft and flabby, and held it up.

“You wouldn’t tell what that is in a hurry,” said Matt. “All to encourage industry, you know; that’s a big indy-rubber balloon, that is, only I couldn’t pocket it, so I made it collapse first; so that’s no good to nobody—pitch it away. Here we have—ah, this is an out-and-out toy, this is, only I’ve broke the stick, and it wants a bit of glue—who’ll have a climbing monkey?”

And so the old man would pull out perhaps twenty toys, balls, dolls, gelatine cards, to the infinite amusement of his companions, who laughed on, but without discomposing Matt in the least, who practised his humble philanthropy as long as he had money, and often, in consequence, went without a meal; for saving was an utter impossibility with the old man—a feat, he said, he had often tried to accomplish; but how, he said, could a man keep money in his pocket when he saw others wanting? “It is done,” said Matt; “but old as I am, I can’t quite see it.”

But there had been no toy distributions lately, for old Matt had found times very hard, and even if they had been better, there would have been no more such amusements for the denizens of the offices he worked at, for there was another way for Matt’s philanthropical purchases to go, namely, to Carey-street, to Septimus Hardon’s little boy, for whose special benefit the old man had made several purchases on credit, which was freely accorded by those to whom he was known; but as to work at Septimus Hardon’s printing-office, there was none for him, further than that of disposing of type and materials at one or another of the brokers’, which duties he performed without recompense, grumbling sorely the while at the wretched sums he obtained for the goods.

“You ought to find fault then, sir,” he would say to Septimus; “I can’t help it; but I’m ashamed, that I am, to think that people will give such a beggarly price. It grieves me, sir, to see the stuff go like that.”

But Septimus did not find fault, only smiled feebly; for in this time of his sore distress he had so aged, and grown so helpless and wanting in reliance, that he trusted to the old compositor in almost everything.

“Might rob him right and left, sir,” said old Matt to a favourite lamp-post in Carey-street. “He’s no business up here at all. I could quarrel with him sometimes for being so simple, if it wasn’t that he’s such a thorough good sort at bottom. What’s to become of them when the things are all gone, goodness knows; for he’ll never do what I’ve done, sir—lived two days upon a large dose of sleep, a penn’orth of snuff, and three back numbers of the London Journal.”

For troubles now came thickly crowding on Septimus Hardon’s horizon. His wife’s health failed fast, and the means were wanting to procure her the necessary comforts. But there is always light behind the darkest cloud; and now it was that Lucy, young in years, but a woman in self-reliance, proved a stay to the family. Ever busily plying her needle, ever cheerful, she was a ray of sunshine in their sad home, shedding her brightness in the darkest hours. And though Septimus Hardon querulously complained of his standing so friendless in the world, there was another who watched anxiously the failing fortunes of the family, and was always ready with counsel and aid—the Reverend Arthur Sterne, who became more constant in his visits as the affairs of Septimus grew darker. Old Matt and he, too, often met, but somehow not without feelings of distrust on either side—distrust perhaps excusable on the side of the clergyman; for the ways of Matthew Space shed no softening lustre upon his outer man.

One day old Matt went into Carey-street to find the broker in possession; for Septimus was far behind with his heavy rent, and the landlord was alarmed at seeing his tenant’s worldly possessions shrinking at so rapid a rate; while, when the old man made his way into the sitting-room, he found weary-looking Septimus waiting with aching heart for a reply to the appealing letter he had sent to his father.

Old Matt went again, day after day, asking himself how he could be such an old idiot as to care for other people’s affairs to the neglect of his own; but there was always the same weary shake of the head, and the same answer—“No letter, Matt.”

At last there was a cart at the door, and Septimus Hardon, roused up into something like energy for the time being, busily helped old Matt to remove the remnants of his furniture to the rooms the old man had secured for him in that salubrious court, Bennett’s-rents.

“’Tain’t the nicest of spots,” old Matt had owned; “but then look at the convenience; and for what you are going to do, sir, you must be right on the spot; for though law’s very slow work for them as goes into it, it’s very quick, sharp work for them as does the copying.”

That evening Septimus Hardon looked dolefully round the front room of the two the old man had secured for him; then he glanced at his wife, who tried to smile; at Lucy, busily arranging; and lastly at old Matt, who looked very cheerful and happy as he helped Lucy in her arrangements, and was now lustily polishing a table that did not require it with a duster.

“Good luck to you, sir, don’t look like that; why, you’re fetching the tears into Miss Lucy’s eyes—as is quite bright enough without,” muttered Matt to himself. “Don’t be down, sir, the wheel’s always going round—bottom spokes to-day, top spokes to-morrow; and not the best place neither, for folks often knocks their heads through going too high. This ain’t nothing, bless you; this is riches, this is—cheerful prospect of ten foot in front; pigeons on the roof; birds a-singing upstairs; children a-rollicking in the court; orgin three times a-day; writers popping in and out at the corner this side, public at the corner on t’other—brown stout threepence a pot in your own jugs; side-view almost into Carey-street, through the alley. Why, you’re well off here, sir; and I’ve known the time when a ha’porth o’ snuff and a recess in one of the bridges has been board and lodging to me; and—Servant, sir.—Anything more I can do for you to-day, Mr Hardon? If not, I’ll go, sir,” said the old man, suddenly becoming very distant and respectful; for a new-comer appeared upon the scene in the shape of Mr Sterne; when, after a very stiff bow all round, old Matt departed, stumbling more than once as he descended the worn stairs.

Matthew Space’s cheerfulness was gone as soon as he left the court, and it took him some considerable time to reach his resting-place—a neighbouring public-house; for he was troubled and anxious, and had to stop every now and then to think; but he could not think aloud to his old friends the lamps, on account of its being daylight; though after an hour or two’s sojourn at first one and then another of his places of resort when making his way homewards, he paused frequently and long.

“Now I tell you what it is, sir!” he exclaimed, on stopping at the corner of Carey-street once more, and slapping a favourite post on the shoulder, “things are coming to a pretty pass; here we are sending our thousands to prison and penal servitude for dishonesty, robbery, and petty theft; and out of those thousands no end wanted to be honest, and we would not give them the chance. There are thousands wanting to get an honest living, and we won’t let them. Rogue, sir!” he cried, excitedly slapping the cold iron with such energy that his hand ached, “don’t tell me; you may talk of your charity and benevolence till all’s blue; but I mean to say that, in the eyes of the world, sir, there isn’t a greater rogue than a poor man. Beat him, kick him, turn him out, off with him—a vagabond, what business has he to be poor?”

Old Matt was out of breath, and strode on to another post.

“What business has he to be poor—a villain? What do we want with a Septimus Hardon, legal and general printer, and poor man? ‘Nothing at all,’ says the world, and it won’t go to his shop; ‘see him starve first,’ says the world; ‘we’ll go to the people who don’t want help, who keep their carriages and country-seats; and if the little men fail and become bankrupt, serve ’em right, too, what business had they to aspire? why weren’t they content as shopmen or journeymen? Too many already! Pooh! then let them get out. Let them plod and crawl, or turn agricultural labourers, and earn eight or nine shillings a-week. Won’t they get premiums, sir, for bringing up their families without parish help, eh? And what more can they want in this great and glorious land? Won’t that do? Well, then, let ’em go to the workhouse, where there’s every convenience for letting ’em die off out of the way.’”

The old man crossed the muddy street to another lamp, chuckling to himself the while, when, laying both hands upon the post, he began again: “It’s a strange thing, sir, a wonderful thing, how lonesome a man may be here in this great city of London: he may work till he drops for a living, and not get it; and he may then go and lie down and die, and all that, while nobody has known him or helped him; but when he’s found there’s a fuss in the papers for a few hours, and then—on we go again. We’re all wrong, sir. What’s the use of our spending our hundreds of thousands, sir, in converting a few Indians, or Africans, or Australians, sir, and then holding our meetings, with the Bishop of Somewhere-or-another coming home to hold forth upon the benefits that have followed the missionary enterprise, but saying nothing about the miseries that have followed wherever the white man has set his foot? Very fine, sir; very fine, this civilisation, and town and village and church springing up; but what has become of the Indian? what has become of the Australian? and what will become of the New Zealander? It’s aggrandisement from beginning to end, sir,—dead robbery; call it conquest if you will; but there, it’s all for the extension of our glorious empire. Let’s see, sir,” said Matt, stopping; “I’m getting it into a knot; what was I going to say? How dare we go on so busily cleaning other people’s houses when our own is in a state that we ought as a nation to blush for? Convert savages, benighted heathen! Why, I can take you, sir, where, here in the heart of this Christian city, London, you shall see savages ten times worse than any you shall find in Africa—more cruel, more licentious. There, hang it, sir, if it warn’t for the fear of being eaten, I’d sooner trust myself amongst the blacks ten times over than the whites, hang me if I wouldn’t! I know what you’ll say to me, sir! ‘Go and preach the Gospel to every creature!’ Ah, but oughtn’t we to be fit to do it first? oughtn’t we to look at home first? I say yes, sir, yes; and what we’re doing now, sir, ’s playing the Pharisee and whitening the outside of the sepulchre; and there’s no mistake about it, sir, some parts of this London of ours make a very foul sepulchre indeed.”

Another fifty yards brought Matt to the next post, where he again stopped.

“I’m a leveller, am I, sir? P’r’aps so; but we levellers make the way smooth for those poor folks who are to tramp the road of life in days to come. I’m very sorry for the blacks, sir; and no doubt here and there you may find one who, under proper management, would turn out bright; but they can’t be much account, or else they would have made some progress among themselves, whereas they’re just where they were hundreds of years ago. It’s a good job slavery is done away with; but you’ll never make white men of ’em, never, sir; and they all look just as if, when their father Ham was cursed, he scowled like a naughty boy, and was cross and pouted his lips, and so all his children have looked thick-lipped since. But there, sir, that’s neither here nor there, as you may say; though I’ve begun here in Carey-street and got right over into Africa; and that’s the way I always do go on when I’m speaking in public. Now look here, sir; now what am I, eh? a battered, worn-out, seedy old stamp—good for nothing. ‘Whose fault is that?’ you say. ‘Halves!’ I cry, with the world: we share the blame between us. I’ve been foolish: I’ve given way good-humouredly in the squeeze for place, and everyone has pushed by me and got in front. Now, sir, what ought I to have done, eh? Why, told the world that I was a big man; caressed those who believed me, and kicked and bullied those who did not. I ought to have shoved my way through the crowd; and what would have followed, eh? why, people would have pushed again and grumbled; but they would have given way until I got a good standing. Now look at that man, sir,—Hardon, sir, a gentleman every inch of him, but as helpless and unbusiness-like as a baby. Why, he’ll starve, sir, before he’ll ask for help, if his father don’t send. ‘More fool he,’ says the world. To be sure: what business has he with a heart and feelings and nerves, that make him flinch because he has got an ugly shell over his beautiful works, and so feels every slight put upon him. Why, he’s just one of those men who would go in despair and make an end of himself; and then you have your inquest, and people say ‘How shocking!’ and never stop to think that such things keep on happening every day; and will, too, so long as the world goes round; and I’m blest sometimes if I believe that it does go round, sir, or else things would come right in time for everybody. But they don’t, for they mend worse every day. Here we are, with one man rolling in riches he never did a stroke to gain, and don’t even know the value of; and here’s Septimus Hardon, with a sick wife, and with hardly common necessaries. I might have introduced myself to your notice, sir, but present company is always excepted. The fact of it is, sir, that things are all wrong; and though I’ve been studying the matter these twenty years I can’t see how to put ’em all right.”

Old Matt drew a long breath, for he had been speaking loudly and with vehemence; and now, upon reaching another post, he began gesticulating fiercely, for he had warmed to his subject.

“But if I had time, sir, I’d go into the matter, sir. I’d take the poor man as he stands, and the rich man as he stands; and I’d—”

“Now, come; that’s about enough for one night, anyhow. I don’t mind a little, now and then, but they’ll be hearing of you acrost the square d’reckly.”

“I’d take him, sir,” continued Matt, “and hold him up for the whole world—”

“O, ah! all right,” said Matt’s interrupter, the policeman on the beat; “I dessay you would; only the world wouldn’t look at him. For why? ’cause the world’s too busy. Good-night, old chap.”

“Good-night,” said Matt, cooling down suddenly, and shuffling off in a quiet spiritless way, the fire out, and his head bent as he thrust his hands in his pockets. “Ah, he’s about right; so he is. ‘The world’s too busy!’ so it is; and I ain’t got a morsel of snuff left.”

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

Brotherly Love.

“There, there, there; sit down, sit down, sit down!” croaked old Octavius Hardon as he cowered over a miserable fire in his paper-strewn room. “Sit down, sit down, sit down,” he kept on repeating, after just glancing over his shoulder as his brother, sleek, pompous, and black-clothed, entered the room—“such a gentlemanly man,” as the old women of Somesham declared over cups of tea. “Sit down, Tom,” croaked the withered, dry old man, pulling his black skull-cap close down to his yellow ears, and peering sideways from under his shaggy grey eyebrows at the chair he meant his brother to take. There was a dry, mocking sneer upon his thin lips, while the grey unshorn beard wagged and twitched about as he spoke, as, without taking further notice of his visitor, he made his chair scroop on the worn carpet as he dragged it closer to the fire and warmed his lean shins.

Doctor Hardon slowly subsided into a seat, giving a hasty glance round the cheerless room as he did so, and then finishing with a long curious look at the lean figure before him, with its wrinkled bony face and attenuated form showing through the faded dressing-gown drawn tightly round him, and tucked-in between his knees, while the trembling hands were stretched out over the fire.

“How are we?” said Octavius after a long silence, broken with an effort by his brother; “how are we? Shall I put out my tongue, Tom? Would you like to feel my pulse, Tom, and sound my chest, eh, Tom? Come and try, Tom, and perhaps I shall knock you down—you humbug, you; for I’m sound as a roach yet, Tom, and shall live a score of years. Only seventy-five, Tom; that’s boyish, isn’t it? Better than being sixty, and fat, and a humbug like you, ain’t it? ‘How are we?’ Ugh! drop that professional cant, or else stand up and rub your hands together softly, as you ought. What did you come for? Did you come to quarrel?”

“I came because you sent for me, sir,” said Doctor Hardon with dignity, settling his chin in his voluminous white neckcloth and using a gold toothpick as he leaned back in his easy-chair.

“Sent for you—sent for you? Well, yes; so I did—so I did, Tom,” chuckled Octavius; “but not to doctor me, Tom, nor to send ‘the mixture as before,’ nor to send ‘the pill at bedtime and the draught in the morning.’ No, Tom, no. How long would it take you to kill me decently, Tom, eh?—decently and respectably; eh, Tom, eh?”

“Fond of your joke as ever, Octy,” said the doctor with a sickly smile.

“Just so, Tom; just so,” croaked and chuckled Octavius; “but you are no joke, Tom. I’m not fond of you. Brande’s bad enough, but you’re a devil, Tom.”

“I’ve been thinking of coming over to see you several times,” said the doctor, trying to change the conversation; “and I should have called when passing, only you will misconstrue my ways, Octy.”

“Me? misconstrue? No, no, Tom, not I,” chuckled Octavius; “I don’t misconstrue. I believe you want to come, that I do. Now what’s up, Tom, eh?” said the old man, fixing his keen grey eyes upon the doctor. “You want money, Tom, don’t you? But, there, you won’t own to it like a man, but be indignant and offended. You’ve a soul above money, you have, Tom; and you wouldn’t stoop to borrow money of your poor brother, Tom, even if he’d lend it to you.”

The doctor moved uneasily in his chair, glancing again and again round the room, while his brother continued to watch him with his keen unflinching eyes.

“Yes, I sent for you, Tom,—I sent for you,” continued Octavius; “but not to doctor me. I should be afraid of your not thoroughly understanding my constitution, Tom, and overdosing me. But look here, Tom,” chuckled the old man, leaving his seat and coughing drily, as, bent and failing, he crossed the room to a bureau and brought out a silver teaspoon and a bottle containing some dark liquid. “Look here, Tom,” he said, reseating himself, and then pouring with trembling hand a portion of the liquid into the spoon, and in the act spilling a few drops over the side. “There,” he said, smacking his lips after swallowing the fluid, and then stooping fumbling about in the fender for the stopper, that had slipped through his fingers.

“There, Tom, there; that’s nectar, Tom; that’s son, and daughter, and wife, and brother, and doctor, and friend, and everything but lawyer. That’s how I doctor myself, Tom; that’s how I doctor myself. ’Tain’t lawyer, Tom; but I can manage that myself and arrange about my few bits of things. You’d like my mourning-ring when I’m gone, wouldn’t you now, my dear brother?”

Doctor Hardon did not speak, but again shuffled in his chair, glancing uneasily at the sneering face before him; and as he thought of the goodly lands lying fallow, and the tenements in ruins, belonging to his brother, he recalled a case where he had been one of the certifiers respecting the sanity of an elderly lady; and then he wondered whether his brother had made a will, and what it specified.

“That’s how I doctor myself, Tom. That’s a cure for every kind of ache, Tom; try it. It’s good for runaway scoundrels of sons, and it’s good for runaway daughters, Tom, and runaway nieces, Tom. It’s good for everything, Tom; and I live on it,” chuckled the old man. “I didn’t want you for that, you see. You all left me; Septimus, and your jade of a girl, and you keep away; so I have it all to myself.”

“You are not going to take any more of that now?” said the doctor, as his brother once more drew the stopper from the bottle.

“No, no; not yet, not yet, Tom,” said the old man, placing the bottle on the chimney-piece. “Not yet, Tom, till after business. I wanted you about my will, Tom. D’ye hear? about my will.”

Doctor Hardon could not conceal the start he gave at hearing this last sentence; but he made an effort, and began to take snuff from a massive gold box.

“Ha, ha! I thought that would interest you, Tom,” chuckled the old man, watching his brother narrowly, and shading his keen eyes with his hand. “My will, Tom, my will, and what I shall do with my money; for I haven’t a soul belonging to me; not a soul, Tom. So you were coming to see me, Tom, were you, eh? Then you want money, don’t you? What have you been at, now? Mining-shares, eh? Just like one of your fool’s tricks.”

“Hadn’t you better refer to your solicitor?” said the doctor with assumed nonchalance, and not noticing the latter part of the speech.

“What for—what for, eh? No, no; I can do what I want with little help; and I have had nearly all I want done; and you can do the rest. It’s about money, Tom; and you always worshipped it—always—always. Now look here, Tom,” he continued, going back to the bureau and taking out a large envelope; “that’s my will, Tom, and I want it witnessed; d’ye hear, Tom?—witnessed. I’ve had it made for years; and it only wants another signature and then I think it will do, and it will be off my mind and be at rest; for I want to finish my reform work, Tom,—reform—reform—reform. Now look here, Tom; but see first that there’s no one listening at the door.”

Doctor Hardon rose and went across the room upon the points of his toes, peered out into the passage, closed the door silently, and then returned smiling, without having made a sound. But the smile of self-satisfaction at his successful management gave way the next moment to a look of astonishment, and then of anger, as Octavius exclaimed, “You sleek-looking, tom-cat humbug, you! I almost wish I had not sent for you—you treacherous-looking, smooth-coated rascal!”

Doctor Hardon turned almost purple with rage, but by an effort he choked it down.

“So you are, Tom; so you are,” snarled the old man, watching him keenly, and enjoying his discomfiture; “but you can’t afford to be affronted, Tom, can you?”

The doctor tried to laugh it off. “You always did love to tease me, Octy,” he said, with a twist of his whole body, as if the mental torture shot through every nerve.

“Tease!” snarled the old man—“yes; call it teasing if you like; but look here,” he said, drawing out the will, and folding it back so that only the bottom was visible—“bring that pen and ink, and come to the table here and sign;” and then he placed both hands tightly upon the paper, holding it down upon the table, and just leaving room for his brother to sign his name, all the while watching him suspiciously.

Doctor Hardon took the inkstand from a side-table, and placed it beside the will, glancing as he did so at the paper, but only to gaze upon the blank space. He then drew out a morocco case, and set at liberty an elaborate pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, ignoring for the time being the hand some double eyeglass hanging by a black ribbon from his neck. The glasses were wiped upon a delicately-scented cambric handkerchief; there was a soft professional cough given as they were fitted in their place; and then, taking a fresh dip of ink, the doctor again advanced majestically towards the table.

All this while Octavius Hardon had been watching his every action with a cynical smile upon his withered face, apparently deriving great pleasure from the ostentatious performance of his brother.

“Why don’t you purr, eh, Tom?” he snarled; “why don’t you purr, eh?”

Doctor Hardon tried to laugh pleasantly, but it was only a fat copy of his brother’s snarl; and then, once more dipping the pen, he leant over the table, placing a hand upon the paper, while at the same moment Octavius slid one of his own on one side, to give more room—perhaps to save it from touching the doctor’s plump, white, beringed digits.

The lamp was shaded, and cast a light full down upon the paper; and as the doctor stooped to write, he suddenly started as if he had been stung, and then stood trembling and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“Humbug, Tom! humbug!” snarled his brother; “that’s your baggage of a girl’s name; but it don’t upset you like that? What did you act like a brute for, and drive her away, eh? You did, Tom; you did!”

“But I cannot sign the paper without knowing its contents,” stammered the doctor.

“Bah, fool! tom-cat! humbug!” snarled the old man, snatching up the paper, and trying with trembling hands to force it back into the envelope. “It’s my will, I tell you. There, be off!” and he began to shuffle back again to his chair.

“I’ll sign,” said the doctor reluctantly.

Octavius took not the slightest notice, only reseated himself.

“I’ll sign the paper, Octy,” said the doctor, in a tone of voice that seemed to prove his brother’s words—that he could not afford to offend him.

“You can do as you like,” croaked Octavius, shuffling the envelope into the breast-pocket of his dressing-gown, where it stuck out tantalisingly before the doctor, who would have given a week’s income to have known its contents. “You can do as you like, Tom—as you like.”

“I know that,” growled the doctor, in an undertone; but the old man heard him.

“There, go!” he shouted, in a harsh, cracked voice.

“Don’t I tell you I’ll sign?” said the doctor, in a lachrymose, injured tone.

The old man looked at him from beneath his hand for a few moments, with a cynical grin wrinkling up his eyes, and then, slowly leaving his seat, he took out and replaced the paper upon the table, jealously holding it down with both hands; and then the doctor signed his name just beneath the fair, clear characters of his daughter’s writing, while he ended with a flourish and a ponderous “MD.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Octavius, snatching the paper up hastily, and then holding it over the lamp, and afterwards to the fire to dry the ink.

“MD! Ha, ha, ha! Got your diploma framed and glazed, Tom? you purring, sleek, tom-cat humbug, you!” Then, without waiting to double the will in its original folds, the old man hastily replaced it in the envelope, took the shade and globe from the lamp, an old gold signet-ring and a stick of wax from the bureau; and then with his half-palsied hand he sealed the great envelope, and stamped the sprawling, blotchy patch of wax with the crest in the ring.

“There, Tom; that’s done!” chuckled the old man, replacing the will in the bureau, turning the key, and dropping it on the carpet as he tried to place it in his pocket. “Now, look here, Tom,” he said, taking the poker, and making a hole in the fire, “that envelope isn’t to be opened till I’m gone, Tom; and I’ll tell you this—you’re one of the executors, and then you’ll know what’s in it, eh?—what’s in it. Now, I won’t tamper with it any more, and no one else shall.” As he spoke he dropped the fine old ring into the hot pit he had prepared for its reception, and sat down, chuckling at his brother.

Doctor Hardon sat down breathing heavily, with strange thoughts in his heart, as he looked upon the weak old man before him, and thought of his possessions.

“Now, Tom,” said Octavius, chuckling and placid, as he took the little bottle and spoon from the chimney-piece, “there’s a decanter with some old port in that sideboard cellaret, and a glass with it. Help yourself, Tom; help yourself; this is my wine.”

“But you took a quantity of that laudanum just now,” said the doctor.

“You’re a fool, Tom! You’re a purring, sleek-coated fool!” chuckled the old man, hastily filling the spoon again, and swallowing its contents, “Help yourself—you like port, Tom—and then go, and don’t come here any more till you’re sent for.”

Doctor Hardon drew himself up to display his offended dignity, but the old man only watched him and chuckled sneeringly; so he slowly rose, and with his professional roll walked to the sideboard and back, filled his glass, and then placed the decanter upon the table. He then sat down, curiously watching his brother, who lay back in his chair, apparently gazing into the fire. The doctor raised the glass to his lips, lowered it once more, and then his fat white hand played nervously round his mouth, for there were strange thoughts in his heart again—strange, undefined thoughts that did not take any particular shape, though there was the glint and chink of money in them all, and its uselessness to the wreck before him; while the hints he had wanted to give him respecting a loan had been passed for want of opportunity.

The doctor sighed, and seemed relieved; and then he wiped his forehead, which had turned damp; performed the same operation upon his hands, till the neat white cambric handkerchief was reduced to a miserable wisp; when, apparently further relieved, he took up his glass and drained it, but only to fill it again directly.

The port was good, certainly. The doctor played with his glass amorously, touching the rim with his lips, sipping at the bell of the ruby flower like some mammoth bee; held it before the light, and closed one eye to get a more concentrated look at the deep, rich, tawny hue of the fine old wine. Soon he sipped again—largely this time—and rinsed the generous liquor round his mouth, assuming all the airs of a connoisseur; and then he finished the second glassful, and sighed gently, for the effect was decidedly mollifying.

All this while Octavius Hardon never moved, but lay back in his chair. The doctor drew out his watch, and found it was ten; but he felt in no hurry to move, for he was accustomed to being late, and it would cause no uneasiness at home; besides, something might come of this, he thought; and as the idea crossed his mind, his forehead again turned slightly moist, and he glanced uneasily at the motionless figure before him. Then he started, for there was a rustle in the passage, and a tap at the door, which was directly after opened, and the housekeeper brought in a chamber-candlestick.

“Shall I wait up till you go, sir?” she said to the doctor.

“O, no; not for me,” said he. “My brother will let me out. Good-night, Mrs Berry!” And the doctor’s voice was soft and amiable.

“Good-night, sir!” said the woman, and then the door closed. There was once more the rustle in the passage, the sound of a chain and bolts being shot somewhere in the back, the closing of a door, which sent a hollow echo through the deserted house; and then there was silence—a stillness that was quite oppressive; for Octavius lived with but one servant here at the Grange, a middle-aged woman, who attended to the whole of his simple wants. And now the wind sighed mournfully through the trees, a few spots of rain pattered against the window, and the doctor thought uneasily of his long walk home, but not for long, for, softly rubbing his hands, he now turned once more to the decanter.

“A good glass of wine, brother. I think I’ll take another,” he said unctuously; but there was no reply. So the doctor took another; and then, after thoroughly enjoying that glass, another; when now feeling decidedly comfortable, and that the awkward, sharp-cornered, acid crystals his brother’s words had caused to form in his nature were dissolved by the good wine, he rose, smiling, put the decanter carefully away, and began to don his overcoat, which lay across a chair.

It is possible that had the doctor been less intent upon his thoughts and the wine, he might have heard something more than the pattering of a drop or two of rain upon the window, the soughing of the wind, and the regular “tick-tick” of his own large gold watch—a something that sounded like the working of a sharp gimlet boring through the panel of a door, cautiously and softly, to render that door pervious to a sharp, bright eye; but the doctor heard no sound, and turning towards Octavius, he said, “Good-night, Brother Octy!”

There was no answer, and the doctor repeated his valediction, but still without effect; so he knocked the glass over, making it jingle loudly against the lamp, and still Octavius did not move.

Doctor Hardon’s forehead grew damp again, but very slightly now; he drew out his watch—it was half-past eleven, and he was surprised to see how the time had gone. He walked round in his soft, silent way, in those boots of his that never creaked, to the fireplace on the other side of his brother; took the phial, removed the stopper, and smelt at the contents; replaced the bottle, and after looking in the withered face for a few moments, he lightly rested a finger upon the uncovered wrist before him.

Apparently satisfied, he leaned over the fire where the signet-ring had been cast; then stooped to pick up the tongs, but shook his head, rose again, and stepping silently towards the door, he gave one glance at the bureau, when his toe struck something, kicking it along the carpet.

The doctor stopped and stooped again, feeling about the floor; took the lamp from the table, whose glass jingled loudly, so that he stopped to gaze at his brother, who, however, never stirred; while, after a moment’s search, the doctor picked up the bureau-key, and then replacing the lamp, stood beside the table quite irresolute. He glanced at his brother, then at the door and window, and lastly at the bureau; sighed, laid down the key beside the lamp, said “Good-night” again, stepped softly to the door, passed through and closed it after him; when, for the space of five minutes, there was a silence in the room, broken only by the sighing of the wind, and the tinkle of the cinders falling into the ash-pan.

Did Octavius Hardon, in his opium-produced sleep, dream of his son struggling with sorrow and despair in the desolation of his heart; of the son who had appealed to him again and again for the help the father’s obstinacy refused? Perhaps so, for more than once he moaned, but so softly that it might have been but the wind with whose sighs the sound was strangely mingled.

The lamp burned brightly, shedding a well-defined halo for a certain space around; but the shadows that it cast in the distant parts of the room were wild and grotesque. The motionless figure of Octavius Hardon, with the light full upon the skull-cap, was thrown in strange relief upon the ground in the semblance of a sleeping goblin; chairs were elongated, while the easy prie-dieu that the doctor had occupied seemed turned into some strange beast stooping for its spring upon the sleeping man. The corners of the room were full of dark moving shades, as the lamp-flame danced; while the tall bureau and bookcases looked in their black solemnity the repositories of mysteries untold.

Suddenly the door opened again very softly, and Doctor Hardon’s face appeared. His brother had not moved—he was satisfied of that before he entered. He came in, closed the door, and stepped softly up to the chair, and touched the sleeping figure; but there was no pretence, as far as he could tell—it was the heavy stupor produced by laudanum. The doctor paused for a few moments irresolutely, then, taking up the key from beside the lamp, crossed to the bureau, when, turning the key in the lock, the bolt flew back with a loud snap, while, starting round, the doctor stood gazing with pallid face at the sleeping man, who, however, did not move. To cross to where the wine stood in the sideboard cupboard was the next act, and, removing the stopper, the doctor drank eagerly from the decanter’s mouth. This gave him fresh courage; and, replacing the wine, he crossed once more to the bureau, opened it quickly, stepped back again, and walked over to his brother, still motionless; then once more to the door, to open it and peer out.

All silent; and he returned to the bureau.

There was the large blue envelope with its great seal; and now, with his forehead covered with big drops, where before it had been but damp, the doctor, trembling visibly, put the paper to the light, when a sharp cry as of pain from his brother made him drop it upon the table, and turn as if to flee. But the old man only moaned the word “Septimus” in a bitter tone of voice, and then all was silent.

Assuring himself once more that all was well, the doctor again took the envelope and held it to the light to see if it was transparent enough for him to make out anything of its contents; but no: all was firm and close—close and secret as Octavius himself: the folds would not give way, nor bulge so that he could look inside, the great seal was fast, and nothing was to be seen but the words, “My Will—Octavius Hardon,” scrawled in a large hand upon the front.

The doctor stood irresolute. There was the fire, with its warm glow; and he thought of how soon it would devour the will; and how that if there was no will he would be the next of kin; and—but about Septimus? Perhaps Septimus was dead; for he had not heard of him for years; and besides, possession—and—yes—that would do, if he should ever show himself. Then Doctor Hardon smiled bitterly, for he had been Castle-building, and thinking of the matter as if his brother were past away; while now, even if the will were destroyed, Octavius would suspect him and make another. But why wish it destroyed? It might contain all he could desire! Could he but have seen inside—and the paper crackled as his trembling hands bent the envelope here and there. Should he break the wax and reseal the envelope? He looked in the fire, but could not see a trace of the ring; while, upon comparing his own massive seals with the impression upon the wax, there was not one that bore the faintest resemblance, so as to give him a chance of deception.

Sighing, he replaced the will, locked the bureau, and threw the key upon the carpet, and had once more reached the door, when a sudden thought struck him. He darted almost, in spite of his weight, to the bureau, the slow ponderous motions giving place to an eager activity.

He tried to open it with his nails inserted beneath the lid, forgetting that it was locked; but he soon had the key again, opened the flap, and seizing the will, stood with it by the lamp, whose shade and glass he removed with trembling hands.

Holding lamp in one hand and envelope in the other, he turned the lamp sideways, so that the oil began to flow, and the light to sputter, and go out on one side of the wick; but out flowed the clear oil—drip, drip, drip—upon the envelope, till a tiny pool was formed upon the paper. This he spread lightly over the front with his finger, and held the envelope to the fire for a few minutes, when, returning to the lamp, he could distinctly trace, in faint characters, through the now transparent paper, “Son Septimus Hardon the whole of houses, lands, hereditaments—” then the paper was folded, so that no more was visible, but he knew enough now: he knew that Septimus was forgiven, and if living, that he would be in possession of his father’s property. But would he if there were no will? Could it be managed that he should not succeed? Doctor Hardon apparently thought it could, for there was a strange smile upon his countenance. But what should he do? replace the soiled envelope in the bureau? or should he burn it? How it would burn now, soaked in oil as it was! And what if his brother thought he had destroyed it? What mattered? he had evidently left him nothing. But he was not sure of that; he might have left him something—something pitiful—a mourning-ring, as he hinted; or a watch, or suit of mourning. Better play the bold game, and burn the will; he might never make another—he might not live; and as his thoughts took this bent, the doctor shudderingly gazed at the laudanum-bottle.

Once he advanced towards the fire, and then shrunk back; a second time he advanced and receded, trembling visibly, for it was an act of felony he thought of performing; then, fiercely crushing the envelope in his hand, he stepped forward, when the lamp was dashed over, and as he started round a cold chill struck through him, for he was forced upon his knees, while, ever tightening and crushing down even the gurgling cry he half uttered, there was a bony set of fingers at his throat.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

Hard Times.

Times were hard with Septimus Hardon, and too often he was quite in despair. There was that difficult problem before him, always waiting to be solved, and he not able to solve it: given so many mouths to feed, how to do it. It was a problem that many a better man had failed over, and those who knew him, while commiserating, saw how weak and helpless and unfitted he was for the task. But times might have been worse; for he learned now that even in the lowest depths of poverty, whatever may have been written to the contrary, there are such people as friends, any one of whom, in his genuine truth of heart, is worth a score of the parasites who cling to a man in the hours of his prosperity. Old Matthew Space, oddly as his acquaintanceship had begun, was such a friend; and so, to a certain extent, was Mr Sterne; but there was, and he knew it too, a tinge of selfishness in the latter’s friendship towards Septimus Hardon, and though he battled with it, and thought again and again that he had beaten it down, there it still was in spite of all. The mistrust he had felt for old Matt had somewhat softened down, after seeing his disinterested attention towards the Hardon family; while the curate argued, upon seeing the old man with Septimus Hardon’s child, that no man could be bad at heart who had so true a love for innocence as embodied in a child, almost fresh and pure from the hands of its Maker. But somehow, he and Matt never seemed to get a jot nearer to each other. Difference of position had nothing to do with it, for Arthur Sterne was ready to extend the hand of friendship to the humblest dweller in the court, and aid and teach to the best of his ability. But Matt said he daresay it was all right, but somehow he was one who did not like to be patronised; while as to being taught, the clay had grown too stiff, and hard, and cracked, to submit to the moulding of the potter’s hands. “And you see, sir, to be able to do anything with me, you must moisten my clay with beer, which softens me a little; and it isn’t likely as a clergyman is going to supply me with my malt liquor, and all for the sake of giving me a few lessons. I respect him, sir, and always shall, but we don’t seem the sort to mix.” This to Septimus Hardon.

Mr Sterne, finding his advances of no avail, ceased to make any; and soon he and old Matt were upon a friendly neutral ground, while the extent of their communications was a bow upon either side. Their visits to the first-floor in Bennett’s-rents were frequent, and in time they so arranged their calls that they should not clash; while, for further convenience, by a tacit understanding, it was come curate, go printer; and vice versâ.

“I much wish you had chosen some better neighbourhood,” said Mr Sterne one day, “for your wife and child’s sake; and this is not a nice place for Miss Grey.”

Lucy looked up in the curate’s subdued face with a grateful smile; and then there was a faint blush upon her cheek as she looked down again.

“No, it’s not a nice place—not at all nice,” said Septimus drearily; “but then it seemed right in the thick of the law-writing, which I’m trying to acquire; but it’s very hard work—it’s so crooked and crabbed and hard to make out. One ought to have begun young. I’ve been trying for weeks now; but they all find fault with my hand.”

“It is too good—too flowing and clear,” said the curate, looking at some sheets of foolscap Septimus laid before him. “But patience, and you will do it. Keep your elbow more away from your side—so.” And he leaned over the paper, and wrote a couple of lines so rapidly, and exactly in the style required, that Septimus looked on in admiration, but only to sigh directly after for his own want of skill.

“Never mind,” he said, “I shall manage it some day;” and he smiled cheerfully, for he had just caught sight of the worn face of his wife. “’Tis a bad neighbourhood this, sir,” he said, to change the conversation; “but it’s cheap for London, I suppose.”

“Doubtless—doubtless,” said the curate; “but it is a sad place; and I know it well, as you may easily suppose. And now, Mr Hardon,” he said as he rose to leave, “do not let me be so great a stranger to you. Ask my advice on matters, and take me into your counsels at all times. Come; you promise?”

Septimus Hardon did not speak, but wrung the curate’s hand; and in the future he did precisely what might have been expected of him—let matters get from bad to worse, and never once spoke to the visitor upon his dreary prospects—prospects that from delicacy the curate forbore to inquire into, while to old Matt, Septimus was openness itself.

One day Septimus sat gnawing his nails in despair, for some law-copying that he had hoped would bring him in a few shillings had been thrown back upon his hands, with some very sharp language from the keen, business-like law-stationer who, after many solicitations, had employed him.

“Don’t grieve, papa,” whispered Lucy, looking up from the paid warehouse needlework she was employed upon—“don’t grieve, papa, they will pay me for this when I take it home;” and the words were spoken in a sweet soothing strain that comforted the poor fellow in his trouble.

“He said I must be a fool to undertake work I could not perform,” said Septimus lugubriously; “and I suppose I must be.”

“Don’t, don’t talk so, dear,” whispered Lucy, glancing uneasily at the door of the back-room. “Don’t let her hear you.”

“Well, I won’t,” said Septimus, rousing up and crossing the room to kiss the soft cheek held up so lovingly to him—“I won’t, pet Lucy; and I’ll try again, that I will;” and he returned to his seat.

“Yes, do; yes, do!” cried Lucy, with smiles and tears at one and the same time. “Don’t mind what they said; you are so clever, you must succeed.”

Septimus screwed up his face, but Lucy shook her head at him, still busily stitching, while, with his head resting upon his hand, Septimus gazed on that budding figure before him, growing fast into the similitude of the woman who had first taught him that he had a heart; but she looked up again, and Septimus turned to his papers.

“Were there many mistakes, dear?” said Lucy.

“Well, not so many,” said Septimus; “only the writing I copied from was so bad; and I’ve put in the contractions where I ought not, and altered them where they should have stayed; and you see, my child, I don’t know how it is, but I do get so wild in my spelling. I know when the worst of it was, it was when Tom would sit on my knee and put his fingers in the ink-bottle; and that is distracting, you know, when one copies crabbed handwriting. But the worst fault was what I didn’t see—and how I came to put it in, I’m sure I don’t know, but it was a part of that line of Goldsmith’s, ‘But times are altered, trade’s unfeeling train.’ I don’t know how it came there, only that it was there, and I must have written it when I was half-asleep. Let me see, it was—ah, yes, here it is, in folio 15, and I began that at half-past two this morning. I couldn’t say anything, you know, my child, could I? for of course it didn’t look well in amongst a lot about a man’s executors and administrators, and all that sort of thing. It’s a bad job, ain’t it?”

Poor Lucy looked up at the wretchedly-doleful face before her, hardly knowing whether to smile or be serious; and then, in spite of the trouble they were in, and perhaps from the fact of tears being so near akin to smiles, they both laughed merrily over the disaster; and Septimus set to work to try and remedy the wrong doings, by rewriting several of the sheets—a task he was busily engaged upon when old Matt came with his tap at the door and entered.

“And how’s Mrs Hardon, sir?” said Matt respectfully.

A faint voice responded from the back-room, for Mrs Septimus spent much of her time in a reclining position.

“Busy as ever, miss, I see,” said Matt; “and bright as a rose.”

Lucy, bright as a rose truly, but only as the pale white blossom that shows the faintest tinge of pink, looked up from the hard sewing which made sore her little fingers, and smiled upon the old man.

“And how’s the writing, sir?” said Matt.

“No good—no good, Matt,” said Septimus wearily. “I’m out of my element, and shall never do any good at it, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t have nothing to do with it, then, sir; come and finger the types again. I’ve no opinion of copying, only as a combination of law-stationers to do honest printers out of their work. Try setting again, sir, and I’ll give you grass first time I get a chance.”

“Grass!” said Septimus absently.

“Well, yes, sir; put you on a job instead of doing it myself; first chance I have.”

Septimus shook his head, went and thrust some sheets of paper into the fire, and then walked to the window, where his apathetic air passed off for an instant, as he seemed to recognise the face of a woman who passed quickly from the opposite house, and then hurriedly made her way out of the court.

“Strange!” muttered Septimus to himself; “but there, it couldn’t be her.”

“And where’s my little di’mond?” said Matt to Lucy.

“Asleep by mamma,” replied Lucy.

“Bless him! I’ve brought him a steam-ingin,” said Matt, bringing a toy-model, with a glorious display of cotton-wool steam, out of his pocket; “and I don’t know what this here’s meant for,” he continued, drawing a wooden quadruped from the other pocket. “Stands well, don’t he, miss? Wonder what it’s meant for! ’Tain’t a horse, nor a halligator, nor a elephant—can’t be a elephant, you know, because they haven’t got these Berlin-wool-looking sides; no, nor it ain’t no trunk neither. Let’s call it a hippopotamus, and see how he’ll tie his pretty little tongue in a knot, bless him! a-trying to say it when he wakes. You’ll tell him Uncle Matt brought ’em, won’t you, miss?” he said, holding them behind his back.

Lucy nodded, while Matt blew out and arranged the cotton-wool steam as carefully as if it was a matter of the greatest importance, or a jewel for a queen; and who shall say that the old printer’s task was not of as great importance, and that the pleasure of the child is not of equal value with that of the greatest potentate that ever ruled; while as to the amount of enjoyment derived, there can be no doubt.

“And what time is the work to go home, miss?” said Matt, after contriving with great difficulty to make the wild quadruped use his four supports in the way intended by his manufacturer—the beast’s idea being that its nose was the proper front rest for its body, and that by rights it was a tripod.

“I’m afraid I shall not be ready before eight,” said Lucy, bending to her task.

“I’ll be here to the moment, brushed up and smart,” said the old man. “Why, how proud you ought to be of having such a bodyguard, Miss Lucy!”

The girl looked up and smiled, half sadly, at the old man as she held out her hand, which he took in his own for a moment, kissed respectfully, and then he shuffled from the room.

Ten minutes after, old Matt’s step was again heard upon the stairs, and he directly after appeared with a pot of porter in one hand, and something tied up in a cotton handkerchief in the other; while, as he entered, he glanced stealthily from face to face to see what effect his proceedings would have before he spoke.

“You see, Mr Hardon, sir, it’s a busy morning with me, and as I’m so far from my lodging—what a fib!” he thought to himself—“I thought I’d ask the favour of being allowed to have a bite here.”

Of course there was no objection raised, and the old man’s roast potatoes were soon warming, while Lucy left her work to frizzle the large portion of prime steak over the fire.

“No, no, miss; none of that,” said Matt, taking the fork out of Lucy’s hand; “I’ve cooked hundreds of bits of steak, miss, and I’m too particular to trust you; and, besides, you’ll be keeping me waiting to-night when it’s time the work was taken home; and my time’s the only valuable possession I’m worth.”

Here old Matt directed a very knowing wink at Septimus Hardon; but he was deep in thought, with his head resting upon his hand. However, Lucy understood the old man’s quaint kindness, and resumed her work; but there was a tear twinkling in her eye.

“Lord, Miss Lucy,” said Matt, turning the steak upon the gridiron, and distributing a most appetising odour through the room, where more than once of late hunger had sat gaunt and staring,—“Lord, Miss Lucy, how I should like to see you with one of those new machines; stitch away they do, and the work comes running out by the yard.”

Lucy sighed, and pressed a sore finger to her rosy lips.

“’Spose I may put the cloth on, miss, mayn’t I?” said Matt, who was quite at home in the place.

Lucy nodded; and the old man soon had the cloth spread, and the steak done; when, pulling a long face, he groaned heavily.

“There!” he exclaimed, “that’s always the way. Who’d be troubled with a complaint? Thought I could just pick a bit; but now it’s all nice and ready, and as prime as can be, I’m done. Such a steak as that is, too, juicy and done to a twist, and the very best cut out of the whole beast. But there, don’t let it be spoiled, miss, please;” and before anyone could stay him the old man was shuffling down the stairs, chuckling to himself as he made his way into the court, while Septimus, stung to the heart by his poverty, and overcome by the old man’s kindness, left his chair, and began to pace the room wringing his hands.

“O, that it should have come to this! O, that it should have come to this!” he groaned; but the next moment Mrs Septimus had forgotten her own trouble, and was weeping upon his breast, while Lucy had work enough to pacify the frightened child.

“Don’t, don’t, darling,” whispered Mrs Septimus in a supplicating voice. “I know it is all my fault, and I’m thinking of it constantly; but don’t let me think that you reproach me, or it will kill me outright.”

There was such agony of spirit in Mrs Hardon’s words that Septimus forgot his own wounded pride and misery by turn, in busily trying to soothe the poor invalid, who gladly took her seat at the table, while Septimus, with a smile upon his countenance, kept on vowing how hopeful he would be, as, casting pride to the winds, he distributed old Matt’s much-needed steak, not hesitating to partake himself of the old man’s bounty.

A gleam of hopeful sunshine seemed to have darted into the room that afternoon as Septimus sat busily writing, and the sharp click of needle upon thimble could be heard from the back-room, where Mrs Septimus was busy helping Lucy, so that the work might be finished in time, though every now and then it fell to someone’s lot to amuse the little boy, who, a very spoiled tyrant, seemed bent upon being as capricious and unreasonable as children can be at times. But ever and again the wrinkles would deepen upon Septimus Hardon’s forehead, and he would lay down his pen, in dread lest he should include some of his busy thoughts in his copying. What should he do to better his condition? Time back it had seemed so easy a task, that of keeping his wife and children; but, put to the proof, how difficult. Some that he saw were almost without trouble; wealth poured in upon them in return for their bright thoughts. And why should not he be rich when schemes in plenty came flashing to his brain? There were scores of fortunes to be made had he but capital—that golden key that should open the treasure-house; but he was poor—a beggar, as he told himself again and again, when, to drive away the thoughts, he stooped over his copying, but only to lay it aside once more and sigh.

Old Matt came again that evening, vowing that he was much better, for he had been trying a favourite remedy of his—abstinence. “A first-rate thing, sir, for indigestion,” said Matt; “rather lowering, certainly, but surprisingly efficacious as a medicine, while it costs nothing, and saves at the same time. A good walk helps, too, but then that requires what the shoe-shops call a pair of ‘stout walking,’ and my old feet want an easy style of boot. I wouldn’t use a new boot on any consideration,” said Matt, stretching out a dilapidated and crushed Wellington, polished to the highest pitch of lustre by a scarlet-coated brigadier. “I study comfort, sir; ease before appearances.”

Lucy was soon ready, and then, with a couple of inches added to his stature, the old man proudly escorted her through court, lane, and street, to the warehouse; and then patiently waited till her business was transacted. Many a glance was directed at the strangely-assorted couple, but he would have been a bold man who would have insulted the poor girl, who leaned so trustingly upon the old printer’s arm till they reached the court, where he allowed her to go first, stopping and scratching his cheek viciously as he saw Lucy tremblingly hold out her hand to a woman who hurriedly passed from the house opposite that occupied by Septimus. They seemed to have met before; but old Matt looked vexed and undecided. Once he closed up, but a glance from Lucy sent him back, when he passed the rest of his time in returning with interest the bold, inquisitive stare of Mr William Jarker, who stood with a couple of friends in the entrance of the court, watching Lucy and the stranger with some degree of interest, till Mr Jarker caught Matt’s eye, when he turned to his companions, said something, and they walked off together, Matt’s quick ear catching the words, “9:30,” and a click or two as if one of the men carried tools in the pocket of his shooting-jacket.

Directly after, the stranger passed old Matt with a quiet appealing look, to which he replied with a nod of a very undecided description, half civil, half angry; and then, still scratching his silver-stubbled cheek, he wished Lucy good-night, shaking his head the while, to which she replied, “Please don’t be angry,” in a way that brought a smile into the old man’s countenance; a sunny smile that began at one corner of his month, and then spread through stubbly whisker, and over wrinkle, till it was all over his face, clearing away the shadow that had lain there; but as old Matt turned away, his head began to shake, and the shadow that had been lurking in the farther whisker crept back again, slowly and surely, as night crept down over Bennett’s-rents to hide the sordid misery that chose the court for its home.

“What’s ‘9:30’?” said Matt to himself, as passing out of the court his thoughts took a fresh direction. “Nice-looking party that. ’Spose I button up my coat over my gold repeater. They were thinking about what’s o’clock, they were, hang ’em.”

Old Matt Space suited the action to the word, bursting off a button in the operation, and then carefully picking it up and saving it, as he strode off muttering.

“‘Nine-thirty’? What’s their little game?”

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Friends from Town.

“For God’s sake, Octy,” gurgled Doctor Hardon almost inaudibly, so tightly were the fingers clutching his throat,—“don’t! don’t! I was only looking.”

“Turn on the glim, Joe,” croaked a harsh voice; when a bright light flashed in a broad, well-defined, ever-widening path right across the room, leaving the untouched portion in a darkness of the blackest; but the light shone where the doctor could see his brother upon the floor, with a rough fellow kneeling beside him, while a coarse, big-jawed ruffian, the upper portion of whose face was covered with crape, held on tightly by the doctor’s throat with fingers whose bony force he had at first taken for his brother’s. It was evident that another man was present holding the lantern; but from the position of the light he was in the shadow, and so invisible.

“Light that there lamp again,” croaked the same voice; and at the same time the doctor felt himself dragged at until he rose to his feet, when he was backed into a chair, one hand being loosened from his throat. Directly after a heavy blow fell upon his head, causing the light to dance and sparkle before his eyes.

“There,” growled the voice; “that’s jest a reminder, that is. That didn’t hurt, that didn’t; but it’s jest to show what we could do if yer get to be troublesome. Now, then,” growled the ruffian to his companion, who was stooping over the fire, “light that lamp, d’yer hear? You’re gallus sharp, you are.”

“Who’s to light the butcherly thing when hain’t got no ile in?” growled the ruffian addressed.

“I wish you’d got a little more ile in you,” croaked the first speaker in a voice that seemed to ascend through a tubular rasp. “Hang on here, will yer, and give us holt.”

The doctor felt himself delivered over into another pair of hands, the change not being for the better; for the new gaoler seemed to be experimentalising, and trying to find out the best place for holding on by when doing a little modern Thuggee, consequently the doctor’s was not a pleasant situation.

Directly after, a little oil was spilt upon the fire, causing it to blaze up and illumine the room, displaying to the doctor’s starting eyes the three costermonger-like figures of the men in the room; when, seeing his quiescence, the one acting as gaoler called attention to a couple of candles in old bronze-holders upon the chimney-piece, and, loosing his hold of his prisoner, leaned forward to reach them down.

It was a tempting moment for the doctor, and, without pausing to think of its uselessness, he seized the bell-rope within his reach, and dragged at it heavily. But the next instant he had fallen back in his chair from a well-planted blow between the eyes, and then, half-stunned, he listened to the faint tones of the bell as the men produced what seemed to be so much clothes-line from a small carpet-bag, with which they dexterously and firmly bound him to his chair.

“You improves, you do,” growled the first ruffian to the man lighting the candles. “Been all the same if that there jangler had alarmed the whole blessed country.”

“How was I to know as he’d jump up like so much watchworks?” said the other, placing the lighted candles, whose tops were encrusted with ash from the fire, upon the table.

“Know! not you; but you knows how to claim yer share of the swag.”

Then the poor old man upon the floor, whose wild, staring eyes seemed to betoken some violent seizure, was lifted into a chair opposite his brother, and bound after the same fashion, when the spokesman of the party shook the heavy leaden knob of that misnamed article a life-preserver in the doctor’s face, saying: “Don’t you try no more games, my kiddy, or else”—a playful tap illustrated his meaning. “She’s safe in bed, and tied up so as she won’t answer no ringing nohow. She’s tucked up all right, she is; d’yer hear?”

The preserver-handle was very elastic, and the knob tapped playfully upon the doctor’s forehead as the ruffian spoke; but the bound man was too confused to answer, and though what followed seemed to him like a wild dream, yet his heart leaped once as he saw the fellow snatch the will from the floor, where it had fallen, tear open the seal, and hold the paper to the light.

“What’s in it, Bill?” growled another of the gentry.

“Gallussed if I know,” said the other; “but ’tain’t no good;” and the doctor saw it crushed together and thrown upon the fire, where it blazed up and was soon consumed. But confused as the doctor was, the next proceedings of the ruffians produced groan after groan from his breast, as they attacked his vanity, and metaphorically rolled him in the dust; for removing a fur cap that he wore, so as to cool his brain perhaps, and displaying thereby a very closely-cropped bullet-head, the leader of the gang, as he seemed to be, first snapped the doctor’s gold-chain, and set it and watch at liberty; for the doctor’s bonds would have impeded their being taken off in the normal fashion. Then followed, one after the other, to be placed in a small carpet-bag with the watch and chain, the spectacle-case and gold eyeglass; the handsomely-chased gold snuff-box from one pocket, gold toothpick from another. The set of studs were dragged from the cambric front; a massively-set diamond ring from the doctor’s right hand, and a signet from his left; while as the various ornaments were passed from one to the other, and deposited in the bag, a broad grin followed each groan from the doctor.

“Where’s his puss, Bill?” said Number 8 ruffian, who was the Judas Iscariot of the party, and carried the bag.

“Here it is,” growled Bill, whose hands were wonderfully active for so heavy, burly-looking a man, diving in and out of pocket after pocket, and now drawing forth a very handsome, elaborately-gilt, russia-leather portemonnaie—half purse, half pocket-book—and grinning as he opened it, he drew out and laid upon the table, first a railway insurance ticket, next a lancet, then a crooked sixpence, and lastly a threepenny-piece.

“Here, lay holt o’ this ’ere, and slit it up,” said Number 2 ruffian, handing his companion an open clasp-knife.

The gentleman called Bill took the knife and ripped the purse all to pieces, tearing leather from lining everywhere; but no notes fell out, no secret pocket was disclosed; and throwing the remains of the purse upon the fire with an aspect of the most profound disgust upon his face, the fellow exclaimed, “I’m gallussed!”

“Let’s wet it, Bill, afore we goes any further,” said Number 8, and as he crossed silently to the sideboard, and brought out the port and another decanter, the doctor saw that the men were without boots, which accounted to him for their sudden attack.

The wine and glasses were placed upon the table, and the burglars very coolly proceeded to refresh themselves—one seating himself upon the table, another upon a chair, and the last taking his place upon the coal-scuttle—treating it as if it were a saddle.

“Here’s towards yer, old un!” growled the big-jawed gentleman called Bill, tossing, or rather pouring, a glass of wine down his bull throat as he looked at the doctor—his companions paying the same compliment to Octavius, who, however, seemed to be perfectly insensible.

All at once a faint scream was heard from another part of the house, when one of the men rose.

“She thinks as we’re gone, Bill,” said ruffian Number 2, with a grin. “Just go and show her that mug of yours, and she’ll soon shut them pipes.”

Bill of the big jaw rose, displaying his teeth so that the lips seemed to assimilate with the gums; and he, apparently taking his comrade’s remark for a compliment, walked out on the points of his toes, in a peculiar fashion of his own; when, winking to his companion, Number 2 stole softly to the sideboard, looked about a bit, and then seizing a small silver salver, doubled it by main force, and slipped it into the pocket of his velveteen coat. He then darted back to his place, whispered “halves” to his companion, and began helping himself to more wine, just as Bill hurried in again, glancing suspiciously about him with his peculiarly restless, chameleon-like eyes, which seemed to be on the watch for plunder, trickery, and Nemesis, at one and the same time, and now it was evident that he suspected a march to have been stolen upon him.