"A Story of Dust and Ashes" (continued 3)

However, a few more glasses of wine were drunk, and then the men proceeded to methodically ransack the place, finding a tolerable booty of old-fashioned plate in the sideboard; while from the bureau, another gold watch, with its old-fashioned broad chain and seals; a ring or two, some quaint jewellery, and a few sovereigns and small change were obtained.

The cords which bound the brothers were then carefully examined, and a knot or two tightened, so that the doctor winced; then the candles were extinguished, and the big-jawed man growled in the doctor’s ear, “Now, jest you move, that’s all; and I’m gallussed—”

The fellow did not finish his speech verbally, but again illustrated his meaning with a tap of the life-preserver.

“We ain’t a-goin’ yet,” growled Number 8; “so don’t you think it. I have used this ’ere, and I ain’t used it,” he said, showing his clasp-knife; “but it’s a sharp un—so I tell you; and where it does go, it goes—so look out.”

“This one’s been a-drinkin’; smell his breath,” said Number 2, nodding at old Octavius, as he cast the light from the lantern upon his wild face.

Just then the doctor gave a loud groan, for his cords hurt him.

“Shove a bit in his mouth, Bill, or he’ll begin to pipe, p’r’aps,” growled Number 8.

“He’d best not,” said Bill savagely; “but how-so-be he shall have it; there’s some knives in that there drawer.”

Doctor Hardon’s eyes rolled in their sockets as he saw one of the men go to the sideboard drawer and bring out a large table-knife. Then the head of the party took it from his companion’s hand and held the blade between the bars, where the fire yet glowed, when the effect in a few minutes was to loosen the handle, for the resin melted, and the blade slipped out. The man then took the handle, untied and slipped off the doctor’s white cravat, and then turning his back, rolled the knife-haft tightly in its folds; while, wondering what was to follow, the horror-stricken captive began to groan dismally.

“Now for it,” cried Bill sharply, seizing the bound and helpless man by the throat, when, fancying that his last hour had come, the doctor opened his mouth to cry out, when the knife-handle was thrust between his teeth, and the cravat tightly tied behind his head, keeping the gag securely in its place, and thoroughly robbing him of the power of even crying out.

“Now t’other,” said Bill. “Get another knife out.”

“Ah! he’s all right,” said Number 2. “I’d leave him.”

“P’r’aps you would,” said Bill; “but we two don’t want to be blowed on, if you do.”

“But he’s a-most dead now,” said Number 2; “and if you stop his mouth that way, I’m blessed if I don’t think he will be quite afore morning.”

“And what then?” said Bill contemptuously; “what if he is? What’s the good of an old cove like him? Yah!”

However, that part of the ceremony was left undone. The doctor heard the door close, open again, for the key to be dragged out of the lock and replaced in the other side; when once more the door was closed and double-locked. Then followed the sound as of a whispered dispute, and again silence, till it was broken by a faint scream from upstairs; while, with every nerve on the stretch, the doctor listened for the next movement, as, still somewhat confused in mind, he kept fancying that the stertorous breathing of his brother was that of one of the ruffians on guard at the door.

An hour must have passed, during which time the doctor still fancied there was a man on guard, and dared not move, though at that time the three visitors were coolly taking their tickets of a sleepy porter, the only one of the railway company’s servants in charge of the station, and soon after they were being whirled up by the night mail which called at Somesham for the letter-bags at two o’clock. But at last, as the doctor’s mind became clearer, he made out that the breathing must be that of his brother; and rousing himself, he tried to free his hands. The cord only cut deeply into his plump flesh, though, and a sharp pain was the sole result, though he could tell that his arms and legs were swelling, and that the circulation was almost stopped. He tried to get rid of the gag in his mouth, but only made it press the harder upon his false teeth, so that the gold setting seemed almost to crush his gums. Then he waited awhile, to gain strength, and as his head grew clearer, he recalled how that the will had been destroyed, and thought of how, had he known what was to happen, he would have opened and read it. If now Octavius would neglect to make another! He was old and helpless, and no doubt getting to be imbecile—at least, in his doctorial eyes; and if he would but neglect to make another! Then he remembered how the villains had denuded his person, and he writhed with fury so that his chair cracked.

Back to the thoughts of the will and of Septimus Hardon; and for a time so deep was his musing, that the doctor almost forgot his own position till the pain recalled him, and he found he was fast growing numb and cold.

All at once a terrible shudder ran through his frame, for a rustling and squeaking behind the oak wainscot startled him.

“Rats!” he thought to himself; and he recalled how the house was said to swarm with them, and how that they had once attacked a child in bed. Started upon that train of thought, there were plenty of anecdotes to startle him with the reputed courage of the fierce little animals when hunger-driven.

Another hour passed in the darkness, as regularly and slow came the stertorous breathing of Octavius, interrupted at times by the fierce scratching of the rats behind the wainscot, or their scampering beneath the floor in their many galleries; and again and again the doctor shivered with fear, as he sat listening and longing for help.

But no help came—neither was it likely to come, since the lonely house might have been passed again and again without there being a suspicion excited of anything being wrong. Besides, late in the night it was a great chance if a soul passed. He knew, from his professional habits, that no surprise would be felt at home because of his absence, and he had not said where he was going.

Another hour passed, and the doctor sat listening eagerly for his brother’s breath, which, from being loud and stertorous, had now become so faint as to be hardly perceptible; indeed at times it appeared to have ceased, and in his then excited condition he began to dread that the overdose of laudanum, or the shock, had been too much for the old man, and that he was to pass the remainder of the night with a corpse. He dreaded the corpse horribly, but did he dread that such was the case—that his brother was dead? He was old and useless certainly, but he was rich, and his will was destroyed; and were there no Septimus, or could he be put aside, that property would come to him. But was his brother dead? Death was nothing new to him; he had stood by hundreds of deathbeds; but under these circumstances, bound down there, with nerves unstrung, numbed, cold, and in agony, Doctor Hardon had at times a difficult matter to contain himself, and he trembled fearfully with a new horror lest he should lose control over himself.

He listened, and the breathings had ceased; the only sounds he could hear were the horrible gnawings of the vermin. At last, though, he heard a breath; but he shuddered again, for his excited fancy told him that it was the harsh, rattling expiration that he had often heard—that last effort of the lungs ere stilled for ever.

The tearing and scratching of the vermin now grew louder, and the doctor asked himself why? as, beside himself with horror, he sat listening. His temples throbbed, the cold sweat stood upon his face, and he struggled again and again to free himself, but only to tighten the well-tied knots. At times he could hardly breathe, while at last a thrill ran through him—a thrill of indescribable terror—such a shock as would have made him yell, had he been able; for quickly, and with a sharp scratching, he felt something run up one of his bound legs, across his lap, and then he heard the soft “pat” as a rat leaped upon the carpet.

Doctor Hardon could bear no more; horrible, stifled groans burst from his breast, as, mad with dread, he leaped and bounded spasmodically in his seat, making the cords cut deeply into his flesh till, in one of his agonised convulsions, the chair went over backwards with a crash; when, stunned and helpless, the wretched man lay in a wild dream of horror, from which he only awoke to relapse again and again.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

At the County Arms.

The people of Somesham, whom Doctor Hardon regulated as to their internal economy, were of opinion that there was not such another town as theirs in the whole kingdom; and no doubt they were right. It was situated at the foot of a range of chalky wolds, and in dry weather always gave the visitors an idea that its inhabitants were a slovenly race, and had not dusted their town lately. There was a long, white, dusty road that led to it on one side, and a long, dusty road that led to or from it on the other side; there was one long, dusty street, with shops and private houses mixed up anyhow; there were a few dusty cross streets which led nowhere; a market-place where pigs squealed and butter was sold on Tuesdays; a town-hall, combined with a corn-exchange and an assembly-room, forming an ugly dust-coloured building, which was like the memoranda and papers in people’s pocket-books when they are advertised as lost—of no value to anyone but the owners; and the sole use it would have been to them was to sell it for old building-materials. There were public-houses, and, above all, a commercial inn, kept by one Mrs Lower, a stout, elderly lady, who had formerly occupied the post of nurse in Octavius Hardon’s house until such times as a nurse was no longer required, when she did needlework, and helped in the domestic concerns till her mistress died, and then acted as housekeeper up to the advent of Agnes Hardon, when one John Lower, keeper of the County Arms in Somesham market-place, persuaded her to say “Yes” to the question he had so many times asked her, and she became landlady of the goodly inn; nurse again to the failing old man her husband; and lastly, sole owner of the goods, chattels, and tenements of the said John Lower, who went to his long sleep with a blessing upon his lips for the good woman who had smoothed the last hours of his life.

Mrs Lower made a very comfortable widow—one whose hostelry was much frequented by commercial gentlemen, and those given to running down from town once or twice a week for the purpose of having a turn with the Low Wold hounds; stout, as a matter of course, for no woman could be expected to make a good landlady who was angular or pointed in her person. Mrs Lower was stout, but not uncomfortably so, and this stoutness she kept in its proper proportion by a comfortable diet, and by being a woman without one of those unpleasant parasites known as cares. Doubtless she had plenty of the little troubles of life to encounter—those little three-cornered affairs that bother everyone—matters that to some people would be cares; but in her case, being a mild, cheerful, and amiable woman, they made but little impression, the consequence being that these acidities of life never ate into her countenance, running down it in wrinkles, and puckers, and channels; and at an age one never dare mention in her presence, or out of it either, for fear of not being believed, she was plump of face, rosy, and comfortable-looking, to an extent that made more than one well-to-do farmer, and tradesman too, make her an offer that she would not accept.

Mrs Lower sat very comfortably enjoying her breakfast in the bar of the County Arms, which bar was a pleasant-looking glass bower, with a view one way of the sawdusty passage leading out into the market-place, and in the other direction a prospect of divers pendent articles of consumption—to wit, a turkey, joints of mutton and beef, poultry, and a couple of long-tailed pheasants. There was a cozy air about Mrs Lower’s bar, for everything in it looked snug, from the big-stomached bottles to the great tom-cat blinking on the hearth-rug. No fireplace ever shone to such an extent as Mrs Lower’s, for it was a very race between black-lead and flame which should glow most, the result being a warm combination, in which the fender, copper tea-kettle, and fire-irons joined, and which every bottle, glass, and object with shine in its composition laughed over and reflected. Everything in Mrs Lower’s cozy bar seemed in keeping, and as if belonging to it—beginning with the principal object animate, Mrs Lower herself, and descending through the blind, fat spaniel and the black, blinking tom-cat, to the stout bullfinch in the cage hung in the window—a finch so fat that he very seldom hopped, while there was a general aspect about him that his feather jacket was too tight, for it never seemed smooth. There was a tradition that this bullfinch used to pipe “God save the King;” but that when William the Fourth died, he went into mourning for him, and had never opened his beak to honour the successor. True or not, Mrs Lower believed it; and at all events, if people doubted the bird’s age, she could declare the part of the story to be true which related to its never opening its beak to pipe the anthem in its altered form.

Mrs Lower mostly had “a snack,” as she termed it, for her breakfast; such snack being generally something very savoury and appetising, and frequently taking the form of mushrooms, devilled drumsticks, or kidneys; while Hides, the butcher in the market-place, had been known to tell fibs, his wife said, on Mrs Lower’s account, and to deny that he had any sweetbreads when even aristocratic customers had wanted them, so that Mrs Lower might not be disappointed. But then Mrs Lower was no mean customer; and Hides said, with a wink to his wife, her money was always there when he wanted it, and that was more than some people’s was who held their heads very high. Mrs Hardon had been heard to say that she believed Hides’ calves never had any sweetbreads—a remark conveyed, per the cook, to Hides himself, at a time when that gentleman evinced very little pleasure in supplying the Hardon house, and always made a point of sending in dry beef and mean tough mutton.

But Mrs Lower could always have sweetbreads, and she was enjoying one cooked to perfection, sipping too, from time to time, a fine rich cup of tea, with an odour of a great-many-spoons-to-the-pot power, when Charles, head—and foot—waiter, made his appearance at the bar-door, with his head on one side, and a sharp cocksparrow-look about him, from his beaky nose, prominent chest, and thin legs,—his tail-coat aiding the simile.

“Heard the news, mem?” said Charles, raising the napkin he carried over his arm, and nearly wiping his nose upon it by mistake.

“No, Charles,” said Mrs Lower, peeping into the pot by raising the lid.

“The whole town, mem, ’s in a—”

“Take that pot out, Charles, and put in one cupful,—not more, the tea-kettle’s low, and the water’s all furry.”

“Yes, mem; town’s in a fermin, mem, and—”

“One cupful mind, Charles,” said Mrs Lower, interrupting him.

“Fermin, mem,” continued Charles, “and—”

“Bless the man, go and fill the pot!” exclaimed Mrs Lower. “No—no! not fill it—one cup, Charles;” and the waiter disappeared.

“And now what’s the matter?” said Mrs Lower blandly, as, somewhat ruffled and reticent, Charles brought back the pot, having forgotten that the most important matter to Mrs Lower at meal-time was the meal itself.

“Matter, mem—why, everything’s the matter—burglary and robbery, and murder almost; and all sorts, mem,” said Charles, again making a dash at his napkin, but recollecting himself in time in favour of a red-silk handkerchief.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs Lower, thoroughly enjoying a piece of the very brownest sweetbread outside, rich in glorious osmazome; “nonsense, Charles!” and so far from being startled, she cut two or three dice-shaped pieces of bread, soaked them in the rich gravy, and went on enjoying her breakfast.

“Fact, mem, I assure you,” said Charles. “That’s what Keenings sent for our fly for, mem.”

“What for? the burglars or the murderers, Charles?” said Mrs Lower composedly.

“No, mem; neither, mem; but ordered it at eight, mem, to go to the Grange, to fetch the doctor, mem.”

“What, Mr Brande?” said Mrs Lower, taking a little more interest in the matter.

“No, mem; old Hardon, mem,” said Charles.

“But he never goes to the Grange, Charles; it’s all a mistake.”

“No, mem, not a bit,” exclaimed Charles. “Jem’s in the yard now, mem, just come back from Hardon’s, and he helped the doctor in and out, too; and Mrs Hardon coming flying down in her dressing-gownd as soon as they got him down home, and a-going on dreadful, and saying it was all a judgment for not forgiving Miss Hagniss; and the doctor taking three men to carry him, being heavy and cold, and almost dead; and Mr Brande’s with him, mem, they say now.” Charles paused for breath.

“But what was it all? what does it mean?” cried Mrs Lower, stirring her tea with her knife.

“Why, mem, that’s what I’m a-telling you: it’s a burglary, you know,” said Charles excitedly. “The Grange attacked by robbers, and the doctor tied in a chair with the clothes-line, and laid down on his back, as Mr Keening and Doctor Brande found him, with a knife stuck in his throat.”

“But not dead?” exclaimed Mrs Lower.

“O, no, mem, only stuck so as he couldn’t speak.”

“And where was Squire Octy?” cried Mrs Lower, quite forgetting the remains of her sweetbread.

“Why, didn’t I tell you, mem? Tied down in another chair, and Mrs Berry, the housekeeper, tied down in her bed, with a blanket over her head, and she got loose at six o’clock this morning, and came over and alarmed the town. Says she’ll never go back any more. Gang of ten ruffians with black faces, and the police are on their tract.”

“But about Squire Octy, Charles. How’s he?”

“Not hurt a mossle, mem, so they says. Jem says that he heard as Mr Keening cut the rope when he went in, and the old gentleman got up and shook hisself, and then took a spoonful of loddlum, and he was all right again directly, and stood laughing at his brother, the doctor, mem, who was strange and bad.”

“And no one knew anything about it?” said Mrs Lower.

“Not a word, mem,” cried Charles, “and it’s a mercy as we weren’t all murdered, I’m sure. And Jem says he saw old Squire Octy laugh when they lifted the doctor into the fly, while he’d got no chain, nor studs, nor rings, as you know he wears a lot of them things, mem.”

Mrs Lower nodded.

“And I hear as all the plate’s gone; and they’ve had the wine, and I don’t know what, mem; but what caps all, mem, was for the squire, old Mr Octy, mem, to be quite laughing like, and Jem says he looks more like an old ghost than anything, mem, with a black-velvet cap and a dressin-gownd.”

A ringing bell summoned Charles away, and, quite forgetful of the remainder of her breakfast, Mrs Lower sat thinking of her old master in his present character of the facsimile of a ghost in a black-velvet cap and a dressing-gown, thinking of the changes in the family, wondering, too, what had become of the doctor’s daughter, Agnes; but above all, of the shabby-looking elderly man whom she always spoke of as “Master Sep.”

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

Matt Makes a Discovery.

People about Lincoln’s-inn began in these days to turn their heads and look after the shabbily-dressed old printer, who passed them to stop every now and then at a lamp-post, and then go on again, shaking his head like an anglicised mandarin, for old Matt was sorely troubled about the state of affairs in Bennett’s-rents. At times he would be for making a confidant of Mr Sterne, and asking his advice and guidance, but somehow there always seemed a certain amount of suspicion on either side, and Matt and the curate maintained a gap between them which neither attempted to cross. But the old man was after all not unhappy, for he was enjoying that supreme pleasure which fills the heart, making it swell almost painfully—that pleasure which never satiates, while it is like the seed of the parable cast into the ground, some may be blighted, some trampled down, but there are always certain grains which flourish and give to the sower a hundredfold of grain in return. Old Matt was enjoying the pleasure of doing good and helping a fellow-man in distress. It may be questioned whether the old man’s path was ever easier or more brightly irradiated than during his connection with the Hardons. True, his income was of the very smallest; but then it is not the extent of a man’s income that gives him pleasure in this life, but the secret of having all the possible enjoyment out of it. Some with wealth seek for this enjoyment after a wrong fashion, and find only bitterness, while in the homes of poverty joy often finds an abiding-place.

Septimus Hardon often wondered afterwards how they had managed to live in this time of trouble; but one way and another the days passed by. Now he would make a few shillings by his copying, then there was Lucy’s work, while, in spite of remonstrances, old Matt persisted in enjoying his income after his own fashion, playing his little miserable farces to his own satisfaction, and then grinning to himself over the little bits of deceit. He never stopped, shrewd as he was, to ask himself whether his subterfuges were not of the most transparent; they gained him his end, and he considered that it was a novel and a neat way of managing the matter, when a hint at lending money would have given offence.

One day succeeded another, with the family struggling on, Mrs Septimus helping Lucy when she could, while, as for Septimus, the most satisfactory work he obtained was that of copying sermons out for Mr Sterne; though, strange as it may seem, that gentleman never once used Septimus Hardon’s clear, unblurred transcript, but put it away week after week, sighing that his income was not greater.

Septimus had now given up all hope of hearing from his father, and, resigned somewhat to his fate, he bent over his writing-table trying to make up by perseverance what he wanted in ability—a capital plan, and one that has succeeded where talent has made a miserable failure, as old Aesop knew hundreds of years ago. As for asking his uncle for aid, such a thought never crossed Septimus Hardon’s mind, and perhaps it was well, for it spared the poor sensitive man the unpleasantry of a refusal.

One day, all in a hurry and bustle, up came old Matt, just at dinner-time, to find Mrs Septimus making a sorry failure in her attempt to find an invalid’s dinner in some bread and a long slice of cheese that a laundress would easily have seized by mistake, under the impression that it was “best yellow soap.”

“There, just like me!” exclaimed the old man, with a hasty glance round the room; “just like me; but you won’t mind, I know. I always drop in at mealtimes.—There, give us a kiss, my man. God bless you! ‘What I dot for ’oo?’ There’s a pretty way to talk! Why, let’s see; I think there’s something here—down in here somewhere;” and the old man began to dive behind into one of his pockets. “To be sure, here it is!” he cried; “and if all the rich jam isn’t coming through the paper! Here we are,” he cried, bringing out of a little bag a small oval paste-dish with a crimped edge, full of a very luscious treacly-looking preserve, one that, ten minutes before, had been danced over by the flies in the pastrycook’s shop in the Lane.

Off went little Tom rejoicing, to prepare himself for the after-dinner wash by gumming his chubby face and hands with the jam.

“You won’t mind, sir; and, ma’am, I hope?” said Matt apologetically. “But I’m full of work, and haven’t time to go home—my lodgings you know; and if you wouldn’t mind. I’m as hungry as a hunter—money-hunter, you know; and there’s as nice a bit of roast veal and bacon, piping hot, in the Lane as ever I did see, and that’s saying a good deal. Talk about the smell of it! there, you didn’t look in at the shop-door or you’d never give a fellow such a cold-shouldery look, ma’am. Whatever you do, ma’am, lend me a couple of plates; I won’t intrude long.”

Mrs Septimus hesitated and glanced at her husband, who was making a feint of eating.

“There,” cried old Matt, making a grimace, and glancing at Lucy, “I knew it would come to this; they’re growing proud, and I may go. They might have put it off another day, and not showed it just when I feel so well and jolly, and could have enjoyed a bit of dinner, which ain’t often with me.”

Septimus Hardon saw his wife’s appealing glance, and peered about him in every direction, as if to avoid giving an answer; but on one side there was Tom, sticky and happy with the old man’s bounty; before him was his invalid wife, with her wretched face; again, there was Lucy working, and relieving hunger by occasional mouthfuls of the bread-and-cheese at her side; while on turning his eyes in another direction, there stood Matt, just as he had stood on the day when he borrowed a shilling on their first encounter.

What was he to do? He had as much pride, or false pride, as most men, and he would gladly have been independent of old Matt’s assistance; but there seemed no help for it, and once more in his life, humbled and mortified, he nodded to Mrs Septimus; and the next moment old Matt stood irresolutely by the table clattering a couple of plates together, to the great endangering of their safety, as he seemed to be turning them into a pair of earthenware cymbals.

“There, sir; don’t, now,” said Matt earnestly; “don’t let’s have any more pretence or nonsense about it; don’t be put out because I’m doing this, sir. ’Tain’t that I don’t respect you; I didn’t get on the stilts, sir, when you helped me. I asked you for it, which is a thing I know you couldn’t do; but when it’s offered you free and humble-like, don’t take on, sir, and fancy I respect you any the less. I sha’n’t forget my place, sir, ’pon my soul I sha’n’t, begging your pardon, ma’am, and Miss Lucy’s; but you see I’m in earnest, and it worries me to see Mr Hardon here put out, because—because—Well, you know,” said Matt, with a twinkle in his eye, “because an old battered type of humanity like me wants to sit down and have a bit of dinner here, and it’s all getting spoilt; best cut’s gone, you know, I’m sure. I know I am shabby.”

Septimus waved his hand deprecatingly.

“There, sir; there,” continued Matt; “don’t be down; don’t let the world see as there’s no more fight in you. See what a son and daughter you’ve got. Why, God bless ’em, they’re enough to make a man of a chap if he’s ever so bad. Never say die, sir. I’m often in the downs, I am, you know; but then I say to the world, ‘Come on, and let’s have it out at once and done with it.’ Let’s take it like a dose of physic, and then have the sugar that’s to come and take the taste out of one’s mouth afterwards. Sure to be a bit of sugar to come some time, you know, sir; some gets more than others, but then there’s always a share for you if you won’t be soft enough to get your mouth out of taste and fancy it’s bitter when it comes, and so not enjoy it. Lots do, you know, sir; while lots more, sir, think so much of their sugar of life, sir, that they spoil it, sir,—foul it, and damp it, and turn it into a muddy, sticky, dirty treacle, sir; and then, sir, loving nothing but pleasure,—or sugar, as we call it,—how they buzz about it like so many flies, till they are surfeited and get their legs and wings fixed, and die miserably, sir. Sugar’s no good, sir, unless you have a taste of bitter before it. You don’t want to be having all pleasure, you know; it wouldn’t do. Bound the wheel of fortune, you know, sir; now down, now up, just as times go.”

All these meant-to-be-philosophical remarks old Matt accompanied by a cymbalic tune upon the two plates, while Septimus sat moody and silent.

“Now, you see, sir,” said Matt gently, “I know what you feel,—you don’t like having such a battered old hulk about your place, and feel a bit offended at me for imposing upon your good-nature.”

Septimus made a gesture of dissent.

“Well then, sir, we won’t play with the matter. You don’t like my having a bit of dinner here, and all that sort of thing; but don’t you make no mistake, sir, I ain’t kicked about in a selfish world all these years without ketching the complaint. I was never vaccinated against selfishness, sir, so I’ve took it badly, I can tell you. You may look out, sir, for I’ve a long score chalked up against you, and you’ll have it some day.”

And then old Matt stuck his hat on very fiercely and shuffled out of the room, muttering and chuckling as he went down, “Ho, ho, ho!—creditor! New position for me as have been in debt all my life!”

The old man soon returned after his fashion, bringing in a large portion of the veal and bacon from the cook-shop in the Lane; for the best cuts were not all gone. Then followed the old farce of what he called his chronometric complaint, from its always coming on just at mealtimes; and helping himself to a slice of bread, in spite of all appeals, the old man took a sticky kiss from Tom and shuffled out of the room.

It was a sight worth seeing—the satisfaction of that grim old man, as he went chuckling down the creaking stairs, and out into the court. His was not the shape a painter would have chosen for the embodiment of gratitude; but there it was—even the battered, ill-used carcass of that old printer—a body misused by the hard world till he had grown careless of it himself, and misused it in his turn. Alone in the world, what had he to care for beyond a little present enjoyment? For as to the future, it is to be feared that Mr Sterne would have pronounced him as being beneath a dense black cloud. Twice was the old man stopped by lamp-posts, but he recollected himself and continued his route to where the open door of the cook-shop sent out a thick, kitcheny vapour, pleasant or the reverse, according to whose organs it assailed—to the well-fed perhaps disgusting, but to the poor and hungry an odour as of paradise. There upon the shining pewter dishes, that in the early morn had been such a dry metallic desert, were now displayed, in gravy-oozing majesty, what Matt looked upon as all the delicacies of the season. There were round of beef and brisket, boiled; roast leg, shoulder, and loin of mutton; roast beef, and the remains of the veal; while as to gravy—whence comes the gravy that meanders in streams over cook-shop joints, flooding the dishes, and making glad the hearts of the hungry?—there was gravy to an extent never known in private life, for the joints soaked in the tissue-renovating fluid.

Ah! that fat cook-shop-keeper, as he wielded his long-bladed, keen carver, and equitably and glibly sliced it through fat and lean, well-done, under-done, and brown, with a facility that made one think he had been apprenticed to a ham in the palmy days of Vauxhall—dealing with the porcine joint with similar intentions to those of the gold-beater with his morsel of the yellow ore. Ah! that fat, rosy-faced man in the white cap and jacket had much to answer for in the way of tempting hungry sinners. Fat! he might well be fat, for was he not existing upon the very essences of the meats always beneath his nostrils, which must have inhaled sustaining wealth at every breath he drew, to the saving of both teeth and digestion?

But he did not tempt old Matt, who entered and asked for a “small German,” for which he paid twopence, asking no questions regarding its composition, while it was delivered to him after the fashion that buns are presented to our old ursine friends at the “Zoo”—stuck at the end of a fork.

Old Matt turned his back stolidly upon the luxuries of the cook-shop, strolled into the big street, and began to nibble his small German, in company with the dusty, fluey slice of bread he brought out of his pocket. There was a parish pump there, with its swinging copper handle; and regardless of medical reports, and chemical analyses, and cholera germs contained in the clear, sparkling fluid, old Matt had a hearty draught, and smacked his lips after as if he enjoyed it—and doubtless he did. There was the prospect of a murky old inn down a gateway, and the busy throng of people passing him; but Matt noticed nothing, for his thoughts were upon matters in Bennett’s-rents—though, for all that, he was enjoying his simple meal, which was eaten without a thought of the prime veal and bacon, or his sad complaint, which had now fled till next dinner-time, as, by way of amusement, he turned down Castle-street to witness the performance of a gentleman in tights and spangles—a gentleman evidently high in his profession, but blessed with a nose of the Whitechapel mould, black, greasy, tucked-under hair, confined by a blue ribbon, slightly oiled; a pimply face, and a body apparently furnished with gristle in the place of bones.

As Matt came up, the gentleman was balancing a peacock’s feather upon the tip of his nose, to the accompaniment of a popular air performed by a partner upon drum and pan-pipes—the arrangement of the air apparently necessitating more muscular action with the arms than from the lungs; for though now and then a shrill and piercing note was heard from the pipes, it was not often, while the rumble of the beaten drum was incessant. The next performance was the balancing and twirling of a barrel on the acrobat’s feet, he all that time lying down upon a cushion in a very uncomfortable, determination-of-the-blood-to-the-head position, what time the band, tucking his pipes inside his coat and setting his drum on end, came round the attentive circle, shaking the performer’s greasy, private-life cap in the observers’ faces, after the fashion of zealous deacons in churches of high proclivities—save that in this case the cap was of very common cloth, while in the other the little bags would probably be of red velvet, lined with white satin.

The band stopped opposite old Matt, who had loudly applauded the performance, for he had felt so at peace with the world at large, that he was in the humour to be pleased with any and everything. So the old man thrust a willing hand into his pocket, and the band smiled expectant; but the next moment Matt’s face turned very serious, and with the loud taunt of the band ringing in his ears, he shuffled down Castle-street and into Cursitor-street, in the direction of the office where he had a job; far more piercing than the shrillest note of the pipes, and more impressive than the heaviest bang of the drum, came the words of the musician:—

“Well, if I hadn’t ha’ had a brown I’d ha’ said so, and not made believe.”

For the old printer’s pocket did not contain a coin of any description, the last two having been expended for his simple meal; so hurrying along the old fellow looked very serious for quite fifty yards; then he began to whistle; then he stopped at a lamp-post, but wrenched himself away again directly and hurried down Fetter-lane, for the clocks were striking two, and his dinner-hour was over. But before turning into Typeland Matt entered into one of those well-known places of business with swinging doors, and shuffling up to the pewter-covered counter, asked for a pint of porter on trust.

And went away wiping his mouth upon the back of his hand, of course? Nothing of the kind; for the landlord smiled pleasantly, shook his head, and declared that whenever he gave trust he lost a customer. So old Matt slinked away, and soon came to another swing-door, when, passing through, a far different odour saluted his nostrils—an odour commingled of steam, oil, treacle, glue, turpentine, stale breath, fresh paint, wet paper, and gas; where there was a continual noise of hissing, and rumbling of wheels, rattling of straps and bands, with a constant vibration of the great building, which heavily brooded over the reeking mass, as if hatching earthquakes. Up a staircase, whose walls shone with the marks of inky and oily hands, past dirty-faced boys in paper-caps and aprons, whose shirt-sleeves were rolled high above their elbows; past a window, a glance through which showed mighty engine and machine rushing off their work in never-tiring mode, wheels spinning, cylinders slowly revolving, with white sheets of paper running in, printed sheets running out, to be piled in stacks; here the portion of a magazine whose pages should rivet the attention of some fair reader; there the newspaper, to be spread in thousands through the length and breadth of the land; while again, close at hand, lumbered the heavy press to turn off by hand copies of the broad-margined, large-typed, thick-papered Chancery bill, whose legible words should nearly drive some weary disputant mad, although but a short time before its well-paid pages and open work had made glad the heart of a round-shouldered compositor—sower of the dragons’ teeth of knowledge. Up still went old Matt Space—past boys bearing proof-sheets—boys who read copy in a sing-song, nasal, pointless twang to keen-eyed readers, ready to give angry stabs at ill-spelt words, to stick their pens through eyeless i’s, and condemn the mutilated letters to the melting-pot; past pressmen toiling—down, Benjamin-Franklin-like, with heavy forms of type; up—up, till he reached the top story, where, beneath rows of skylights, men formed themselves into the hotbeds that generated disease, as they toiled on day after day at the cases of type, before a pair of which old Matt posted himself, took a pinch of snuff, and then prepared for work.

In a few more minutes he was hard at his task, picking up letter by letter the component parts of the words spoken the day before at a public meeting, where an orator discoursed at length upon the financial greatness of this our country; after which he dived into statistics, so that the old compositor was soon realising the facts, and revelling in sums of money eight figures in length, and that, too, without a single penny in his pocket.

Click, click; click, click; letter after letter passing into the metal composing-sticks; thirty men busily engaged, and not a word spoken beyond the occasional muttering whisper of the worker, who sought to impress his MS more fully upon his mind by reading it aloud; while old Matt, poring over his copy by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, now and then paused for a stimulator from the snuff loose by accident in his coat-pocket hanging from a nail in the wall—snuff that had to be hunted into corners and brought forth in pinches, the greater proportion of which consisted of flue and crumbs.

“Pound, nine, comma; eight, four, three, comma; six, four, two,” muttered the old man, arranging the figures. “Ah, bless my soul! now, what could I do with nine—nearly ten millions of money? And that sum’s nothing at all. Poverty? Pooh! all humbug! There isn’t such a thing; it’s all a mistake. Somebody’s got more than his share, and made things crooked.”

Old Matt finished his task, and, on applying to the overseer for a fresh supply, he was set to correct a slip proof, when, taking the long column of type from which it had been printed, the old man was soon busy at work once more, correcting a misspelt word in this paragraph, removing a broken letter in that, and all the while muttering to himself, to the great amusement of the other men. But all at once he stopped short and stared at his work, looked eagerly round the office, as if to assure himself that all was real, and then devoured the words before him. Then he went on with his work in a flurried, nervous way, dropping words, misplacing letters, scattering type upon the floor, and making his fellow-workmen look up with wonder—attentions that made the old man more nervous and fidgety; until, as his nervousness increased, so did his task become more difficult of completion, the perspiration standing upon his forehead, and the expression of his face growing pitiful in the extreme.

But it was complete at last, though, through anxiety, old Matt had been twice as long as he would have been in an ordinary way; and then secretly tearing off a portion of the proof, he slipped it into his pocket, made an excuse to the overseer that he was unwell, and hurried into the street, where he jostled first one, and now another; now walking in the road, now upon the pavement, but all the while with one hand clasping tightly a scrap of paper he held in his pocket. As to what was going on around him he seemed so utterly oblivious that twice over he was nearly knocked down by passing vehicles. Again and again he would have stopped, but for the busy throng constantly hurrying along the street; and for the time being the old man strongly resembled a cork tossed about in some busy eddying stream; but he had evidently some object in view, for he kept pressing on in one particular direction, and his lips were incessantly in motion, forming words that savoured continually of that much-sought-for object—money.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Another Visitor from Town.

How ever great the shock of his night’s adventure may have been to his system, Dr Hardon, beyond missing his attentions to a few patients, displayed very little of it to the world at large comprised in Somesham and its neighbourhood. There were certainly two or three discolorations about his face, caused by the playful taps of the burglar’s life-preserver, but they very soon disappeared. The doctor’s greatest grievance was the loss of his numerous articles of jewellery, though even upon that subject he talked lightly and affably to his patients, evidently having a soul above the loss of such trifles, and people thought more of him than ever. The police had certainly been upon what waiter Charles of the County Arms called the “tract” of the burglars, but only discovered that they had entered the house by opening a window and stepping in; that they had taken all the plate; that three heavy-featured men came from London by the down-mail on the night of the robbery, arriving at Somesham at half-past ten; and the porter thought he gave tickets to three stoutish men who went by the up-mail at 2:30; when the police-sergeant came to the conclusion that it was a prearranged affair, and people talked about it for a few days, till they had something else to take their attention.

Doctor Hardon, portly and comfortable-looking, sat reading the evening paper just delivered from the stationer. No one to have seen him could have imagined that care had ever sat for a moment upon his ample forehead; and though, taking into consideration the incidents of the past few weeks, it might have been expected that he would look anxious and worn, on the contrary, he seemed greatly at ease within himself, and turned and rustled his newspaper importantly, refreshing himself from time to time with a sip of port from the glass at his elbow.

“I declare!” he exclaimed, suddenly throwing down the paper; “it’s abominable—it’s disgusting.”

“What is?” said Mrs Hardon, roused from the thoughtful mood into which she seemed to have fallen.

“Why, to have the privacy of one’s life dragged into publicity in this way. The matter ought to have been hushed-up.”

“But what do you mean?” said Mrs Hardon. “Is it anything about—”

“Yes, of course it is!” cried the doctor savagely. “They’ve got it in the London papers, condensed from the County Press—a filthy penny rag. Just look here—made into a sensation paragraph.

“‘Eaten of Rats.—A shocking discovery was made at Somesham on Monday last. A rather eccentric gentleman, named Hardon, residing entirely alone at a short distance from the town, was found in bed with his lower extremities horribly mutilated by the rats which infest the place. The medical evidence at the inquest showed that death had probably taken place some eight-and-forty hours before the body was discovered; while the bottle of laudanum and teaspoon at the bedside pointed to an end which the post-mortem examination proved to have been the case; an overdose of the subtle extract having evidently been the cause of death. The deceased was without servants; for, in consequence of a burglary committed at the house shortly before this discovery, his housekeeper had left him, and her place remained unsupplied. As may be supposed, this tragic affair, following so closely upon the burglary, has caused intense excitement throughout the neighbourhood.’

“Isn’t it disgusting?” exclaimed the doctor, after a few moments’ pause; while during the reading he had not displayed the slightest emotion, but read the paragraph from beginning to end without faltering. Receiving no answer, he looked up to see Mrs Hardon sitting staring at him with a horrified aspect, while her fingers were stopping her ears.

“O, Tom!” she gasped at last, “haven’t we had enough of that horrid affair lately without bringing it up again? I shall be glad when it’s all over, and we begin to look upon it as a thing of the past. I declare I shall never like to use any of the money; I shall fancy a curse hangs to it. But do you think Septimus is dead?”

“Of course I do,” said the doctor; “and if he is not, what does it matter?”

“Nothing at all, I suppose,” replied Mrs Hardon; “but really, Tom, it came upon me like a thunder-clap. Was that what poor Octavius sent for you about—to tell you that? I often thought there must be some reason for his long-continued obstinacy. What did he say to you about it?”

“Don’t ask questions,” said the doctor abruptly. “It is enough for you to know that it is so, and that the money comes at a time when we want it badly.”

“Then we have no business to have been wanting it badly!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon; “and I shall make it my business to go to Keening’s one of these days, and ask them the state of your affairs.”

“Yes, you had better!” snarled the doctor, displaying a bright speck of the gold setting of his teeth.

“But such a saint as poor Lavinia always seemed!” said Mrs Hardon. “I should never have thought it of her; and if it was not that the poor thing is dead and gone, I should have called it quite disgraceful. But there, we can’t afford to talk about such matters, I’m sure;” and she began to rock herself to and fro in her chair and to sob: “O, Tom! you drove that poor girl away,—you did. She would never have left if—”

“Hold your tongue!” cried the doctor fiercely.

“But you did, Tom; and I shall never forget her look that day I met her in the street—it went like a knife to my heart.”

Mrs Hardon sat crying silently for some time, while the doctor savagely rustled his paper, but all the while reading not a word, for his lips moved, and he talked fiercely to himself.

“There!” cried Mrs Hardon at last, “I won’t take on, for it seems of no use, and whether she or I live or die, don’t seem to matter to you, Tom. And now I want to know about Octavius’s property. How much is it? and are you certain that there was no will?”

“I’ve told you there was none ten times over,” said the doctor; “and now wait till the funeral’s over, for I won’t be bothered.”

“But, Tom,” said Mrs Hardon, “I want to know what is the extent—what it is really worth, and how much you owe.”

“Never mind,” said the doctor.

“But I have a right to know,” cried Mrs Hardon.

“There! I don’t know myself,” said the doctor.

“Then perhaps your solicitors do,” said Mrs Hardon; “and I shall, as I have often threatened, ask them.”

“And much good it will do you,” muttered the doctor; but, not liking to run the risk of any exposure of his present differences with his wife, he compromised. “Well,” he said, “what is it that you wish to know?”

“Why, I told you,” said Mrs Hardon; “what Octavius’s property is worth, and whether you are quite sure that Septimus—”

“You are wanted, sir, if you please,” said the maid, appearing at the door.

“Who is it?” said the doctor testily, for this was an hour when he objected to being disturbed.

“Wouldn’t give any name, sir,” replied the girl.

“Send him round to the surgery,” said the doctor.

“Please, sir, he’s in the front passage, and he said he didn’t want the sudgery.”

“What sort of a man is it?” said the doctor.

“Look’s like a poor man, sir,” said the girl.

“How many times have you been told not to leave strangers in the passage!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon angrily. “There’ll be another coat gone directly; go and stay with him till your master comes.”

The maid disappeared, giving the door so loud a shut that it sounded almost like a bang, when the doctor began to complain of fatigue, and being worn out, and Mrs Hardon, who wished to propitiate, offered to go.

“Do, please, my love,” murmured the doctor, in the most gentle of tones—the professional.

Mrs Hardon slightly drew down the corners of her mouth in a contemptuous grimace as she left the room, but returned in a few minutes looking pale and scared; and then she carefully closed the door after her.

“It’s quite taken my breath away!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “He frightened me: what made you tell me that Septimus was dead?”

“Well, isn’t he?” said the doctor, shuffling hastily round in his chair.

“Dead?” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “If he is, it’s his ghost that has come down: that’s all.”

“Come down?” cried the doctor, turning of a dirty pallid hue.

“And he’s walked all the way from London. And you never saw such a poor, deplorable-looking object in your life. He looks twenty years older, that he does.”

“What does he want?” cried the doctor, panting in spite of his efforts to keep down his emotion.

“Says he’s come down to see his father, and to attend to his affairs.”

“Well, tell him to go to Keening’s. I won’t see him—I won’t see him. My nerves won’t bear it; they have not recovered from the last shock yet, let alone that horrible night of the robbery.”

“But you’d better see him,” said Mrs Hardon, whose woman’s heart was touched by her visitor’s aspect.

“No, no; I can’t—I can’t bear it, and it’s better that I should not;” and as he spoke there was no dissimulation in the doctor’s words or mien: he was undoubtedly very much moved.

“But you must see him; and besides, it will seem so strange if it’s known in the town that you sent him away like that.”

“Well—er—well—perhaps I had better,” said the doctor; “where is he? I’ll go to him, or—no, let him come in here; but put away the wine first.”

Mrs Hardon took no notice of the last remark, but went out, and returned directly with Septimus Hardon, footsore, dusty, and travel-stained.

“Good-evening, Mr Septimus,” said the doctor, in the tone of voice he had heard so often from his patients, and as he spoke he slightly bent forward, but lay back again directly in his chair, without offering his visitor a seat. “Good-evening, Mr Septimus. I suppose we must say Hardon?”

“If you please, uncle,” said Septimus, somewhat startled at his strange reception—a reception more chilling even than in his diffidence he had anticipated.

“Sit down, Septimus, you look tired,” said Mrs Hardon, pouring out a glass of wine for the visitor, who drank it with avidity, for he was faint and agitated, feeling somewhat like the Prodigal, though this was no prodigal’s welcome.

“How do you find business, Mr Septimus?” said the doctor, perspiring freely, but now speaking calmly and slowly.

“Bad—bad,” said Septimus. “I have lost all, and been put to great shifts, while my poor wife is a confirmed invalid.”

“Dear me, dear me!” said the doctor blandly, “how sad! I might perhaps be able to give her advice. I suppose she could not call at my surgery any morning before ten?”

“She always was delicate,” put in Mrs Hardon hastily, for she was annoyed at her husband’s behaviour; while something kept, as it were, whispering to her, “He is from London, and may know something of my poor girl.”

There was a dead silence then for some few minutes, which the doctor broke.

“I—er—er—I—er—I think you have hardly come on a visit of ceremony,” he said; “you wished to see me?” and after coughing away something which seemed to form in his throat, he spoke in his most unguental tones—in the voice he kept for married ladies upon particular occasions.

“I came down,” said Septimus, in a broken voice, “upon seeing my poor father’s death. It was shown to me—by a friend—newspaper—torn scrap—I have walked down—weak—and ill.”

Mrs Hardon uttered an exclamation, for Septimus had risen as he spoke, and stood working his hands together, as he gazed appealingly at his uncle; and then, as he trailed off in his speech, he reeled and clutched at the table, sweeping off a wine-glass in his effort to save himself from falling.

“Better now,” said Septimus faintly, as he sank into the chair behind him. “I am sorry, but I feel overcome, and weak, and giddy. I have had much sorrow and trouble lately, and my father’s death was so sudden.”

The doctor winced a little, but recovered himself in a moment, for he was used to witnessing trouble, and could bear it.

“Yes—yes—a sad thing,—very sad—mournful I may say,” he observed. “But my poor brother always was so distant and peculiar in his dealings with his relations. Of course you know that the funeral takes place to-morrow?”

“No,” replied Septimus; “I know nothing beyond what I have told you, and I come to my father’s brother for information.”

“Yes, just so,” said the doctor; “but I can not refrain from blaming my poor brother; doubtless you had given him great cause of offence, but he ought to have made some provision for you.”

“I did write to him again and again,” said Septimus, “but I suppose he felt too angry, and—let it rest now; I have struggled through all my trouble without his help, and I do not complain.”

“Just so,” said the doctor; “but it would have been more just if he had made some provision.”

“You have seen his will, I suppose?” said Septimus.

“O no!” said the doctor, “there is no will.”

“Then he has left no legacies?” said Septimus.

“Not one,” replied the doctor; “but I am not surprised—he never was a business man.”

“I am sorry too,” said Septimus softly, “for the sake of my cousins and yourselves;” and Septimus started as he saw the wince Mrs Hardon gave at the mention of the word “cousins.”

“Yes,” said the doctor blandly; “it would have been more just towards you. For even if he had only left you a hundred or two they would have been acceptable, no doubt.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Septimus.

“I was alluding to your being left so unprovided for,” said the doctor. “It seems so sad.”

“But you told me he left no will,” said Septimus wonderingly; “and I am his only child.”

The doctor smiled compassionately upon his nephew, with the air of a man removing a leg or an arm.

“There, for goodness’ sake don’t go on torturing the poor fellow in that way!” cried downright Mrs Hardon. “Why don’t you speak out? You see, Septimus—”

“I beg that you will be silent, Mrs Hardon,” exclaimed the doctor.

“I shall be nothing of the kind,” cried Mrs Hardon. “The poor man has enough to suffer as it is, without being grilled over a slow fire.”

Septimus gazed from uncle to aunt in a strange bewildered way, prepared for some new shock, but unable to comprehend what blow Fate meant to deal him now.

“You see, Septimus,” continued Mrs Hardon, without heeding her husband’s uplifted hands,—“you see the property comes to my husband as next of kin.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Septimus, as if relieved that his aunt’s communication was of no more weight. “I am the only child, and besides, I have a son.”

“Now just see what a painful scene you have brought about,” whined the doctor, reproachfully eyeing his wife.

“Indeed,” interrupted Septimus, “I am sorry that the matter should be discussed, for it appears unseemly at such a time: before my poor father’s remains are beneath the earth.”

“If you would only have been silent,” continued the doctor, not heeding the interruption.—“Now pray, my good sir,” he said, turning to Septimus, “go to Messrs Keening and Keening, my solicitors, and—”

“Tell me what it all means, aunt, or I shall go mad!” cried Septimus, catching Mrs Hardon’s hand in both of his, and gazing imploringly in her face.

“Well, the plain truth of the matter is this,” said Mrs Hardon—

“Pray be silent, Mrs Hardon,” said the doctor. “My solicitors—”

“You were not born in wedlock,” said Mrs Hardon.

“Who dares say that is true?” shouted Septimus, with eyes flashing; “who dares speak in that way of my poor mother?” he exclaimed. “It’s a lie—a base lie!” and in spite of Septimus Hardon’s plainness, his years, the dust and shabby clothing, there was in him a nobleness of aspect that made the doctor look mean by comparison, as he stood there furiously eyeing both in turn, and thinking then no more of his father’s money than if it had been so much dirt beneath his feet. That such an aspersion should be cast upon the fame of the mother whose memory he tenderly loved seemed to him monstrous; and it was well for Doctor Hardon that he did not think it necessary to answer the sternly-put question; for most assuredly, had he replied, Septimus would have taken him by the throat.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs Hardon. “All I know is, that it’s very sad, and I’m very, very sorry for you.”

But Doctor Hardon, taken aback at first by the fierce mien of Septimus, had now somewhat recovered his confidence, while the anger of the nephew was as short-lived, so utterly bewildering was the news he now heard; the insult to his mother’s memory, the snatching away of the competence that seemed in his hands, the cool self-possession of his uncle,—all completely staggered him, and he knew not what to say or do.

“Sir,” said the doctor, rising and placing a hand within his waistcoat as he spoke with great dignity,—“sir, I must beg that this scene, this unseemly brawling, may not be continued in my house. You can find my solicitors, who will give you all the information you may require. The funeral takes place to-morrow, and, under the circumstances, I have taken upon myself the duty of seeing that proper respect is paid to the departed. You are folly aware that your presence would not have been even tolerated for an instant in my brother’s house during his lifetime, and you presume on my forbearance by treating me as you do. Under the circumstances, I decline to hold any further communication with you. Had you come in humbleness and treated me with respect, I will not say what I might not have been tempted to do for you out of pity. As to your assumption of ignorance of your illegitimacy, it is simply absurd, for it is a matter of which you must have been fully aware. You know well, that when my brother declined to hold any further communication with you, it was not merely on account of your opposition to his wishes, but because it was painful to his feelings to be constantly reminded in daily life of the sins of his youth. I think too, now, that if you have any right feeling left, you will have the decency to end this most unseemly meeting by leaving at once, for it is to me, after my late sufferings, most painful. My poor brother!”

Doctor Hardon paused to bury his face in his handkerchief, and congratulate himself upon the very effective way in which he had acted his part. He then made a show of wiping away a tear, and Mrs Hardon did likewise; but in the one case the tear was genuine, in the other counterfeit coin.

As for Septimus Hardon he had never made but one enemy in his life—himself; but had he owned a score, and they had stood around him at that minute, not a man of them could have struck a blow at the abject, crushed, spiritless, broken man, as, without word, almost without thought, he mechanically glanced round the room, turned, and then slowly walked out, closely followed by Mrs Hardon, who passed something into his hand as she closed the door upon his retreating form.

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

Seeking Hospitality.

“Why, if it ain’t you, Master Sep, as I thought we were never going to see no more!” cried Mrs Lower to the desolate-looking man outside her snug bar. “But, my; you do look bad, and it’s close upon ten years since I’ve set eyes upon you. There, do come in and sit down. Yes; that’s poor Lower’s chair; he’s been gone years now, Master Sep, and I’m left a lone widow, my dear; but your name was one of the last words he spoke—your name and poor Miss Agnes’s. Do you ever see her in the big city, Master Sep?”

Septimus shook his head.

“Has she left here?” he said.

“Didn’t you know?” said Mrs Lower. “Ah, yes, long enough ago!” and she stooped her head and whispered in her visitor’s ear. “But there, we needn’t talk about troubles now. How haggard and worn you do look! And how’s Mrs Septimus? I always think of her as Mrs Grey. But what’s it to be now? Isn’t it awful about poor master, whom I’d never have left if I’d known what was to happen? No, Master Sep, not to marry a dozen Lowers, and be the mistress of fifty County Arms; though, rest him! poor Lower was a good, kind husband, for all we were elderly folk to wed, and had forgotten how to make love. Now, say a hot cup of tea, Master Sep, or a hot steak with a little ketchup. If you’d been a bit sooner, there was a lovely sweetbread in the house; but there, it’s no use to talk of that; so say the steak and tea. I am glad to see you, my dear boy!”

Septimus signified his desire for the tea, and Charles was summoned, and dismissed with his orders, but not without making a tolerable investigation of the guest whom his mistress delighted to honour—an investigation apparently not very satisfactory, from the imperious way in which he gave his orders in the kitchen.

“Now, just a toothful of my orange cordial, Master Sep. Now, don’t say no, because you must. I make it myself, and the gentlemen take it on hunting-days. Now, tip it up like a good boy; and here’s a biscuit. See now; don’t it put you in mind of old times, when you were a naughty child, and wouldn’t take your physic? How time does go, to be sure; why, it’s only like yesterday. But there, I won’t bother you. Have a pair of slippers and a comfortable wash. Did you bring any luggage?”

Ten minutes passed, and then Septimus was again seated in the snug bar, with the kettle singing its song of welcome upon the hob; a savoury steak was before him; and the comely old dame, in her rustling black silk, smilingly pouring out the strong tea she had been brewing, taking a cup too herself, “just for sociability sake,” as she told her visitor.

“And so poor master’s gone, and you’re coming down to the old place again?” said Mrs Lower.

Septimus groaned.

“Ah, Master Sep, I can respect your feelings; but though poor master’s dead and gone, he had his failings, while he never did his duty either by you or your poor mother.”

Septimus Hardon nearly dropped his cup as he gazed blankly in his old nurse’s face.

“What—what do you mean?” he exclaimed.

“Why, he was always hard, and—But there, poor man, he’s dead and gone, and we all have our failings, and plenty of them. But come, my dear boy, pray do eat something.”

Septimus tried to eat a few morsels, but his appetite was gone, and he soon laid down his knife and fork.

“Of course you’ll come down and live at the old place, Master Sep?” said Mrs Lower.

Septimus shook his head sadly.

“O, Master Sep!” cried the old lady, “don’t sell it; don’t part with it, it would be a sin.”

“But it will never be mine!” cried Septimus passionately. “O, nurse, nurse! this is a hard and a bitter world. I came down here almost in rags, tramping down like a beggar, and now, in cold and brutal terms, my uncle tells me that I am a bastard—that I have no right to enter my own father’s house; while, if this is true, I am a beggar still.”

Mrs Lower looked astounded. “What,” she exclaimed, “does he mean to say? But there, it’s nonsense. You can soon prove to him that you are not.”

“How?” exclaimed Septimus wearily. “Everything goes against me. I have been away ten years; my father sent me from his house; he refused all communications with me; and now I return on the day before the funeral.”

“O, but you must go to the lawyers!” cried Mrs Lower. “They can put you right.”

The couple sat talking for some time. It was refreshing to Septimus to find so sincere a welcome, for he had put Mrs Lower’s hospitality to the test on the strength of the sovereign his aunt had slipped into his hand. But the old dame could give him no information touching his birth, and but little respecting the place and time of his father’s marriage.

Weary at length of the subject, Septimus listened to the history of Somesham during the past few years, till, taking compassion upon her visitor’s jaded looks, Mrs Lower showed him his bedroom, where he tried to forget his present sorrows in sleep.

But sleep came not, and he tossed feverishly from side to side, bewildered by the thoughts that rushed through his brain: old faces, old scenes, and, foremost among them, home, and the stern countenance of his father, came crowding back. Now he would doze, but to start up in a few minutes under the impression that he was called. He dozed off again and again, but always to start up with the same fancy, and once he felt so sure that he leaped out of bed and opened his door; but the dark passage was empty, and all without quite still, so he returned to his bed, sat there for a few minutes thinking, and then went to the window, drew the blind, and stood gazing out upon the buildings of the familiar market-place.

The wind swept by, swinging the old sign to and fro, while all looked so calm and peaceful that he returned to his bed, and again tried for rest, falling into a fevered, half sleeping, half waking state, wherein the old faces still came crowding back, now nearer and nearer, now seeming to vanish away into nothingness, till at last that one old face seemed to exclude all others, and he saw his father as he saw him last, frowning harshly upon him; but soon the face assumed an aspect of pity, a look that told the suffering man that he was forgiven, before it changed into the frigid hardness of death.

Septimus Hardon started up in bed and gazed at the dim, shaded window, hardly realising where he was, as he tried to get rid of the dread image which oppressed him; but the night through, hour after hour, as soon as he closed his eyes, there was the same cold, stern face, as though impressed upon his brain, and wanting but the exclusion of the light for him to direct his gaze inward upon the fixed lineaments. So on, hour after hour, dozing and starting up, till the first streaks of the coming day appeared in the east, and as they grew stronger, peering in through the bedroom window, and holding forth to view the various objects in the room in a half-shadowed, ghostly manner that completely chased away the remaining desire for sleep that lingered with the unnerved man.

“Knocked three times, mem,” said Charles, “and can’t make him hear.”

“Never mind,” said Mrs Lower. “I’ll go myself presently.”

Mrs Lower had carefully prepared what she considered a snug breakfast, and put her regular body to no slight inconvenience by waiting past her usual hour for the morning meal; but she thought of her visitor’s fatigue and trouble.

“He can’t do better than sleep, poor boy,” she muttered, descending the stairs, after listening at the bedroom door for the third time; when she sat in the bar and waited for quite an hour, till suddenly a thought struck her, which set her trembling and wringing her hands, and her comely old face worked as she tried to keep back the tears.

“O, if he has—if he has! O, my poor boy!” she exclaimed, hurrying up the staircase, and stumbling at every second step in her agitation. “O, Charles, come with me!”

The door yielded to her touch, and almost falling against the bed, Mrs Lower found it empty, while the pillow was quite cold.

“O, look round—look round, Charles!” she gasped, as she sank upon her knees at the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes.

“No one here, mem,” said Charles, after a cursory glance round—not being able to comprehend his mistress’s emotion.

“O, look behind the door, Charles!” gasped Mrs Lower; “and at the bedposts.”

“Silk dress behind the fust, and wallance and hangings on the seconds,” said Charles methodically. “What next, mem?”

“Can’t you see him, Charles?” said Mrs Lower, slowly raising her head.

“No, mem,” said Charles; “he’s gone, safe. Did he pay, mem?”

“Nonsense!” cried Mrs Lower angrily; “he was a friend of mine;” and then the doubting dame carefully examined the room, looking in the most impossible of corners for the missing visitor, and only stopping as she was about to peer up the chimney by seeing a half-concealed grin upon the face of Charles.

“I’ll ask Boots if he’s seen him, mem,” said Charles, to get out of his difficulty.

But that gentleman had neither seen Septimus Hardon nor the articles of clothing after which he was named; so that it seemed evident that the visitor had taken his unbrushed boots and departed.

“So very strange!” muttered Mrs Lower to herself.

“The seediest pair of boots we’ve ever had in the place,” said Charles in confidence to the chambermaid; and then, after due cogitation, he came to the conclusion that if many of the visitors to the County Arms were like the unknown of the past night, his situation would not be worth the energy he displayed for the comfort of all who sought there rest and refreshment.

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

“Nothing like Leather.”

The very morning upon which waiter Charles of the County Arms, Somesham, spoke so disparagingly of Septimus Hardon’s boots, the maker, or rather re-maker, of the said boots sat, as soon as it was broad daylight—not an extremely early hour in his home—industriously plying his craft, till, after divers muttered anathemas, a voice growled:

“Confound it, Ike, I wish that old lapstone was at the bottom of the Thames. Who’s to sleep?”

“Get up, then,” said the lapstone-smiter slowly and heavily.

“Get up!” growled the voice, “get up!”

“What, in the middle of the night! Ain’t six yet, is it?”

“Just struck,” said the lapstone-man, following the example of the clock, and hammering vigorously at a scrap of leather about to be used in the repair of an old boot before him; while from sundry smothered growls coming from the room behind the shop where the shoemaker was at work, it was evident that the idler had buried a portion, if not the whole of his face, beneath the blankets, and again offered sacrifice to the sleepy god.

It had always been a matter of dispute amongst the confraternity as to where Matthew Space slept. Some said that he reposed nightly amongst the casuals at Saint Martin’s Workhouse; but as, when he had work, he would often be at it by half-past eight in the morning, it was evident that he did not lodge there; for the most industrious would not be at liberty for another hour, on account of the work to be done in payment for the lodging. Others talked of the Adelphi, and the recesses of Waterloo Bridge. In short, there was always plenty of chaff flying concerning old Matt’s lodgings; but the cleverest never threshed out the grain of wheat they sought, for the old man was as close a tusk as was ever attacked by flail. His club was generally considered to be the mouldy, fungoid-looking house in Hemlock-court, where he could mostly be found of an evening, if the seeker had failed to see him sitting over his pint-pot in Bell-yard; and, according to circumstances, he dined at various places. If trade flourished, and the ill wind that blew misery to Chancery suitors wafted half-crowns to his pocket, he dined in state at the cook-shop, shut up in one of the little elbow-cramping boxes, where there were dirty table-cloths, and everything was steamy and sticky with the pervading vapour, whose odour was as that of the soup-copper after the “inmates” have had their pauper repast; sometimes in the street, as we have seen, when his dinners varied—kidney-pies, saveloys, peas-pudding served on paper, or perhaps only the warm tuber taken from a potato can; though, when funds were low, Matt generally leaned towards the kidney pieman, an old friend with a red nose and a white apron, augmented at night by very business-like white sleeves, when, extinguishing the coke-fire of his tin, he became a trotter himself for the time being, as he went from public-house to gin-palace disposing of his stock of succulent sheep’s-feet. There was a great deal of the epicure in Matt Space, and had he been a Roman emperor he might have been as lavish in the recorded worship of the gastric region. As it was, he had always looked upon money as of value only for the pleasure it afforded his palate, till better feelings had been roused within him. Well versed was Matt in the edibles best suited for families of large size but small income; he was deep in tripe, was old Matt Space, and he knew the shop in Clare-market and Newport-market best worthy of confidence. You never caught him buying sausages at random, nor yet purchasing his baked sheep’s-heads or fagots in Leather-lane. No; Matt knew better; and if he could not get the prime article, he would content himself with a penny-loaf and two ounces of single Glo’ster. No one could get such scraps from the butcher’s as Matt; and if any one of his acquaintance wanted a pound or two, it was almost worth their while to ask the old man to dinner, for the sake of getting him to undertake the commission. For did not the old fox always go into the Lane by Lincoln’s-inn, where such a trade was done in chops that the butcher must have bought his sheep nearly all loin, and that, too, of the primest, for the legal gentlemen of the district were rather particular. As to distance Matt never studied that when he was bent upon any delicacy, being ready to visit Saint Martin’s-lane for hot black-puddings, Leadenhall-market for cocks’-heads or giblets, Billingsgate for cockles or mussels; but all to oblige friends.

Now, although old Matt made great shifts over his dinners, he revelled in his tea; that is to say, his evening coffee—coffee-shop tea being a decoction, as the tea is carefully boiled to the extraction of all its strength, but to the destruction of all flavour, and Matt foolishly preferred the simple infusion of everyday life. So Matt enjoyed his evening coffee—a half-pint cup for a penny, and three large greasy slices of bread-and-butter for the same coin—the butter being always the best Dorset, slightly rank in the eating, and prepared by some peculiar Dutch process without the assistance of cows. Old Matt never missed his tea if his funds would at all hold out; for at this delectable coffee-house there were newspapers and, better still, magazines of so tempting a nature that they often made the old man late back to his duties. The real enjoyment that he felt over his book must have flavoured the repast, for he always seemed to relish these meals immensely. Generally speaking, men of his trade—haunters of his haunts—are rabid politicians; but not so Matt: missing a glance at the morning or evening paper never troubled him; but still there were times when the old printer took an interest in questions current; and if “the poor man” happened to be on the tapis, Matt digested the leading articles most carefully.

But no one knew where Matt slept, and many a job he lost in consequence; though this he set down to the score of his ill-luck. And yet he need not have been so nervous about anyone tracking him to his den; for Lower Series-place was once the resort of many of the choice spirits of a bygone age: lordly gallants strutted there in the showy costumes of their day; here, too, was the famous Kit-cat Club; but the glory had departed when Matt chose the court for his resting-place: where the wits made their rendezvous, were misery and dirt, frouzy rotting tenements, vice and disease. Trade was in the place, but in its lowest and least attractive forms; for there might be bought “half-hundreds” of coals in little sacks; ginger-beer; great spongy-shelled oysters, opened by dirty women, ready to place a discoloured thumb upon the loosened bivalve, and to rinse it in the muddy tub from which it was fished; fruit, too, in its seasons; potatoes and greens always; mussels, farthing balls of cotton, brass thimbles, comic songs, and sweets. But the two most flourishing trades here were those of translating, and dealing in marine-stores—businesses carried on next door to one another by Isaac Gross and Mrs Slagg. And a busy shop was Mrs Slagg’s, a shop where, in place of the customary gibbeted black doll, hung a painted and lettered huge bladebone that might, from its size, have belonged to the celebrated vastotherium itself, only that it was composed of wood, carved in his leisure hours with a shoemaker’s knife, as a delicate attention to Mrs Slagg, by her neighbour, Isaac Gross. Gay was Mrs Slagg’s shop with gaudily-illustrated placards, touching the wealth, ease, and comfort to be obtained by carrying all the worn apparel, rags, bones, and old iron to Slagg’s; serving-maids were walking out in the gayest of dresses bought with kitchen-stuff; men were fitting on impossible tail-coats and solid-looking hats bought with old iron, brass, and pewter; while the demand for white and coloured rags, waste-paper, bones, and horsehair, appeared insatiable; and to obtain them, it seemed that Mrs Slagg was ready to ruin herself outright by giving unheard-of prices. A wonderfully heterogeneous collection was here of the odds and ends of civilisation: one pane of the window resembled the foul comb of some mammoth bee, filled up as it was with bottles presenting their ends to the spectator, who shuddered as he thought of the labels that once decked those vials, such as “The draught at bedtime,” “The mixture as before,” “A tablespoonful every two hours,” etc; while many a wild and fevered dream that shudder brought back, of nights followed by days of pain and misery, aching heads, watching, anxious faces, sleek doctors of the Hardon class, wondering thoughts of the future, and of past hours unappreciated, unvalued. Every medicine-bottle in Mrs Slagg’s shop was a very telescope, which, if applied to the eye, presented such a diorama of sickness and sorrow as caused sensations as of grits getting into the cogs of the wheels of life and staying their would-be even course. Mrs Slagg’s was an obtrusive shop, irrespective of the flaming placards that literally shouted at you, and the black board, painted in old-bony skeleton letters, with the legend “Keziah Slagg, Dealer in Marine-stores,” though the terrene ruled to the exclusion of the marine. In its way, it was in everybody’s way, and seemed to have taken the disease rampant in the region of Lowther Arcadia—“a breaking out”—in this case a hideous leprosy of loathsome objects, that would have at you, catching skirt or umbrella, or being run over after they had been kicked in the way by racing children. The shop was gorged, and its contents oozed out, ran over, and trickled down the steps into the cellar, which was also full and repulsive, sending foul fungoid growths up through the trap to the pavement, and also apparently dipping under where the traffic lay to force its way up on the other side, where the growth spread again along the wall, so that passengers had to run the gauntlet on their journey to and from Temple Bar. In fact, Mrs Slagg’s shop was a very refiner’s furnace for old refuse, which boiled and bubbled over into court and cellar, as we have seen; while in front of the shop of Mr Isaac Gross, extended trays of old iron, bundles of white and coloured rags, odorous bones, crippled tools, wormy screws, screws without worms, odds and ends—odds without ends, and ends that seemed at odds with the world, and tried to trip it up as it went by.

Watching over her treasures would sit Mrs Slagg, just inside her door, stout, happy, and dirty, in a bower of old garments, which waved in every passing breeze; and, saving when clients came to obtain the unheard-of prices for the rags and metal, and the bones and grease, upon which this ogress lived, Mrs Slagg’s time was divided between shouting, “You bring that ’ere back!” to the children, and playing “Bo-peep” with Mr Isaac Gross, who, also working just inside his shop, would lean out occasionally to look at Mrs Slagg; though it took upon an average about nine peeps before both peeped together, when Mrs Slagg would nod and smile at Mr Gross, and Mr Gross would nod and smile at Mrs Slagg; and then work would be resumed, while it was understood in the court that something was to come of it.

But, beyond what has been described, there was another fact which pointed towards something coming of the neighbours’ intimacy; for Mrs Slagg’s cellar being, as she termed it, “chock!” a portion of her stock-in-trade had worked its way into Mr Gross’s back-parlour, and there stood in the shape of a large heap of waste-paper—a heap that Mr Gross would look at occasionally, and then smile in a very slow, heavy manner, as if smiling was a difficult task, and took time, for fear it should be broken if hastily performed, and become a laugh.

And a nice spot was Lower Series-place! Like Bennett’s-rents, it seemed as if every house was a school, and it was always leaving-time; for if, for a short cut, you hazarded a walk through the court, you were attacked by hordes of little savages, who pegged at you with tops, ran hoops between your legs, yelled in your ears, knocked tipcats in your eyes, kicked your shins at hopscotch, drove shuttlecocks upon your hat, lassoed you with skipping-ropes, and forming rings around, apostrophised you in tuneful, metrical language.

No doubt old Matt was used to all this, and so enjoyed a second nature; for be it known that he lodged with Mr Isaac Gross, boot and shoemaker, in Lower Series-place, otherwise Rogue’s, otherwise Shire-lane.

Matt’s landlord was a big bachelor of six-and-thirty, with much more body than he seemed to have muscles to control, the effect being that he was slow—Mrs Slagg said, “And sure,” which is doubtful. Mr Gross had round high shoulders, and more hair than he knew what to do with, or he would have had it cut; but he did not, only oiled it, brushed it down straightly, parted it in the middle, and then stopped it from falling down over his eyes when at work, by confining it with a band of black ribbon crossing his forehead and tied behind—the effect altogether, when taken in conjunction with his fat, heavy, sparsely-bearded face, being decidedly pleasing—judging by Mrs Slagg’s standard. He was not a dirty man, but he never by any chance looked clean, on account of a peculiar tinge in his skin, due perhaps to his trade, the short pipe in his mouth from morn till night, and the salubrious air of the court. Mr Gross was a doctor in his way, buying boots and shoes in the last stage of consumption, and then, by a grafting, splicing, and budding process, with the sounder portions of many he produced a few wearable articles, which, blacked to the highest pitch of lustre, shone upon his board to tempt purchasers from amongst those who could not afford the new article. You might buy a pair of boots from Isaac whose component parts were the work, perhaps, of the cordwainers of many lands, which scraps he would build up again as if they were so many bricks, or perhaps mere bats, rough with mortar; and in this way Isaac Gross lived and flourished.

It was from first wearing his boots that old Matt came to lodge with Isaac Gross, sharing with him the back-parlour, turned for their accommodation into a double-bedded room without bedsteads; but of itself a pleasant grove, whose fruitful sides teemed with boots and shoes in every stage of decay or remanufacture, hung upon nails wherever a nail would hold, the window-frame and its cross-bars not being spared. As to the large and ever-increasing pile of waste-paper owned by Mrs Slagg, old Matt resisted the encroachment with some bitterness; but still it grew, and though the old man grumbled, he would not move, for he liked his abode for its freedom from all restraint, since he could go to bed when he liked, stay as long as he liked, and use his own discretion respecting the removal of boots or other articles of clothing. The place was dirty, but that he did not mind; odorous, but then it was the true sherry twang; but what suited Matt best was, that his landlord troubled him little about rent, leaving him to pay when so minded, and never hinting at arrears; while still another advantage was that, next to a lamp-post, old Matt found his landlord the most satisfactory listener he knew, one ready to be talked to upon any subject, and to fall into the talker’s way of thinking.

On the morning when the words at the head of this chapter were spoken, in spite of the hammering, Matt continued to sleep on until nearly eight, when he rose, had his boots polished at half-price in the shade of Temple Bar, and then walked to the barber’s, declaring a brushing to be the finest thing in the world for corns. Here he had an easy shave and a wash for a penny; breakfasted heartily and sumptuously to the surprise of habitués and waitress, by calling for a rasher of bacon, and having a crumpled, greasy, brown dog’s ear brought him to devour with his bread-and-butter and coffee. For Matt was in high spirits: he was in full work upon a newspaper for a few days, and he had discovered the paragraph which, in spite of the drawback of its terrible contents, was a piece of news that should give Mr Septimus Hardon the income and position “of what I always said he was, sir,—a gentleman.” So old Matt breakfasted, as he said, “like a prince,” for fivepence, spent the change of his sixpence in a morning paper, and walked back to his lodging to read it at leisure, for his work would not begin till the afternoon.

Mr Isaac Gross had finished his economical bachelor breakfast, consisting of bread-and-butter and packet-cocoa, combining cheapness, succulence, and convenience. The breakfast-things were cleared away—not a long task—and Isaac was about to add a pile of old account-books to the waste-paper heap in the back-room.

“She bring them in?” said Matt.

Isaac, with his pipe in his mouth, nodded, and said in a gruff, slow growl, “Waste-paper.”

“So it seems,” said Matt, opening one or two of the books, and then closing them with an air of disgust, when his landlord took them up, added them to the heap, and before returning to his bench, had a peep out towards Mrs Slagg’s; but evidently the look was wasted, for he sighed, and took up his stirrup-leather, while old Matt drew down his mouth and bestowed a grim, contemptuous smile upon him as he rustled his paper, and, sitting down on a low workman’s bench, began to read.

“Ah!” said Matt, stopping in his reading to refresh himself with a pinch of snuff from a pill-box, “I thought so; they had an adjourned inquest about that case I told you of; but there’s only a short para here.”

“Umph!” ejaculated Isaac, taking a good pull at his wax-end, and then readjusting his boot in the stirrup, but directly after disarranging it, to take a peep at Mrs Slagg—this time with success; but he frowned at her—a telegram that she knew meant the lodger was at home, and that friendly communications must stop.

“They’ve brought it in—”

“Ain’t seen my wax, have you?” said Isaac slowly.

“Accidental death,” said Matt, not noticing the interruption; “and it’s my opinion that—What?”

“I want my wax,” said Isaac, hunting about.

“Well, get it,” growled Matt, rather annoyed at being interrupted.

“Ain’t seen it, have you?” said Isaac.

“No!” growled the old man, turning over his paper.

“Had it along with the dubbin just before breakfast,” said Isaac.

“And then,” continued Matt, “the coroner gave his order for the burial, and—”

But Isaac Gross, who, in his slow fashion, was as industrious as the bees, like them, could not get on without his wax, so he interrupted the speaker with, “I want my wax,” as he routed amongst his tools for the missing necessary.

“You’re waxing a great nuisance, Ike,” said Matt, “and I wish you’d find your wax;” and then he readjusted his spectacles, and had another pinch of snuff. “Hullo!” he growled, starting up and going to the door to speak to a woman who stood there, and who eagerly, whispered a few words as she passed a note and a shilling into his hand. “Yes; I’ll take the note, but I don’t want that,” he said, refusing the shilling, which fell upon the door-step. “Now, look here,” he said aloud, and very gruffly—for the woman had already turned to go—“I don’t like this business at all; but if I’m to do it, I don’t want paying for it; and if you don’t take back that money, I sha’n’t take the letter.”

“Hush, pray!” whispered the woman, glancing at Isaac’s round, wide-open eyes. “Don’t be angry with me, please—don’t speak so loud.”

The appealing voice somewhat softened the old man, but he kept on growling and muttering, as, after a few more words, the woman—the same who had visited the Jarkers—picked up the shilling and left him, watched all the while most eagerly by Mrs Slagg, who did not seem to be easy in her mind respecting female visitors to her neighbour’s place of business.

“It won’t do, it won’t do,” muttered the old man, taking his seat after glancing at the note. “I don’t like it.—Well,” he said aloud, “have you found that wax?”

“It was in my pocket,” said Isaac, slowly and seriously pointing to the discovered necessary covered with bread-crumbs, tobacco-dust, and flue.

“Now then, let’s have a bit more news,” said Matt, once more settling himself.

“Ain’t there a murder nowheres?” said Isaac, whose work was now progressing.

“No, there ain’t!” said Matt gruffly. “Nice taste you’ve got; but here’s two fires—p’r’aps they’ll do for you?”

“Ah!” said Isaac slowly, “let’s have them;” but again, to Matt’s annoyance, further progress was stayed by the entrance of a man to dispose of three pairs of old boots.