Loe raamatut: «Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes», lehekülg 11

Volume Two – Chapter Three.
Another Funeral

Septimus Hardon leaped to his feet, as suddenly a key turned and the bedroom-door opened; there was a sharp scuffling noise, as of a swarm of rats leaping hurriedly from the bed, and tearing over one another, in their haste to reach the hole; a wild shriek from a woman, a heavy fall, and then all was again silent.

As soon as he could recall his scattered energies, Septimus Hardon raised the woman’s head and bathed her face, when she soon opened her eyes and sat up, gazing at him with a horrified aspect.

“Hush!” he said softly; “don’t be alarmed. My name is Hardon; I came to see my father for the last time. I think I used to know you in the town?”

“O, yes; I remember you now, sir,” stammered the woman; “but you gave me a dreadful turn.”

“Hush! Come down-stairs now,” whispered Septimus, and he motioned her to follow him to the door.

The woman was about to obey, but, glancing round the room, she pointed to the freshly-gnawed wood and the heap of chips.

Septimus shuddered, and they went together and closed the coffin-lid.

“Stop a minute, sir, please,” said the woman – a poor cottager’s wife from the town, who followed the same road in Somesham adopted by Mrs Sims of Lincoln’s-inn, – “stop a minute, sir, please, and I’ll be back directly.” The poor thing trembled so that her teeth chattered, as she hurried away; but she returned in a few minutes with a huge black cat, which struggled from her arms and ran, with dilated eyes, towards the rats’ hole, where it softly couched, motionless but for the writhings of its lithe tail, as it sat there watching for the coming of its enemies.

There were funeral cake and wine upon the table below, and an extra supply of the former was cut up and sealed in squares of paper, bearing a couple of verses of a psalm, and the pastrycook’s name and address as a serious advertisement.

After waiting a couple of hours, most of which he spent wandering about the old house, Septimus Hardon took his old place in the little dining-room, opposite to the sealed-up bureau and cupboards. The undertaker and his man had arrived, and soon after came Doctor Hardon’s rival, who had been called in to the deceased. The undertaker knew Septimus and bowed; the surgeon, too, knew him again and shook hands, not being at all surprised to see him there; while he invited him to dinner before he should leave the town. But although Doctor Hardon, who came soon after, well knew Septimus Hardon, he was surprised to see him there, and did not shake hands, but started as though someone had struck him a violent blow. Mr Keening – Keening and Keening – then entered the room, when the gentlemen all took wine in a heavy, impressive way, and talked in a low tone about matters as far removed as possible from the purpose for which they had met together.

Then came the undertaker to ask in a subdued way if any gentleman wished to go up-stairs; but no gentleman save the son wished to go; and he stole away to stand and gaze for a few moments upon the calm pale features, and then returned to where the undertaker was distributing gloves of the best black kid, asking the size each gentleman took with a smooth oily courtesy. Scarves were then produced of the richest and stiffest corded-silk, cloaks were tied on, and as each mourner was dressed for his part of the performance, he was inspected all round, and from top to toe, by the undertaker before he was allowed to reseat himself. Then more wine, and more subdued conversation followed, interrupted by the grating of wheels upon the gravel drive. Heavy footsteps overhead now; trampling; someone slipping upon the stairs, and the balustrade heard to creak loudly as an exclamation was heard; a shuffling noise; more footsteps heavily descending; a sharp pattering of feet on the passage oilcloth, and much rustling past the room-door, followed by an interval of a few minutes, and the noise of wheels going and wheels coming; and then the undertaker stood bowing in the open door, and motioned Septimus Hardon to follow.

This was almost too much for Doctor Hardon, who had ordered that everything possible to make the funeral impressive should be done. The large hearse and two mourning-coaches had been hired expressly from the county-town; velvet and ostrich plumes were in plenty; and, as chief mourner, the doctor had reckoned upon a very imposing spectacle, one that should to a certain extent erase the horrors of his brother’s end, and help to raise him, the doctor, in the estimation of the inhabitants of Somesham. But now this was spoiled by the coming of the shabby, worn son, towards whom the undertaker had leaned in the belief, in his ignorance, that he was the chief mourner.

Septimus rose, and moved towards the door, while Doctor Hardon hesitated to obey the beckoning finger of the undertaker; but the dread of drawing attention to his tremor made him more himself, and, putting a white-cambric kerchief to his face, he followed his nephew, to be directly after shut up with him in the mourning-coach. But Septimus noticed him not, as he sat stern and with knitted brow, no muscle betraying the wild emotions struggling within.

The surgeon and solicitor followed in the next coach; and then the funeral procession moved slowly off towards the town, making as great a show as the undertaker’s strict adherence to his employer’s orders could effect. Doctor Hardon said he wished to keep up appearances for his dear brother’s sake; but he had not reckoned upon the presence of the stern, careworn man by his side, and he shrank into his corner of the mourning-coach, angry, but at the same time fearful lest a scene might ensue which should damage his reputation in the good town of Somesham; besides, it would have been so painful to the feelings of his three daughters – he only thought of three, even though one was married and two resided at a distance. Nothing could have been more unfortunate than the appearance of Septimus at such a time, and during the silent ride the doctor’s wishes were anything but loving towards his nephew; while upon reaching the church the gall of bitterness was made more bitter, for the doctor again found himself made of secondary importance by Septimus, who seemed to have roused himself into action for the time, and strode on in front, close behind the coffin, to take his place in the church so crowded with familiar recollections. There, bowed down in the same pew, but with very different thoughts, uncle and nephew listened to the service ere they stood together by the bricked vault prepared for the remains of old Octavius, and here again the doctor seemed to have shrunk into a nonentity, for every eye was fixed upon the shabby mourner by his side.

The clergyman had concluded, and, closing his book, was slowly walking away; the clerk had followed, and at the church-gate the foremost mourning-coach stood waiting, with a crowd of children and idlers around, the hearse being drawn up at a distance, already half denuded of its plumes by one of the deputies of the furnisher. There was a crowd, too, thickly clustered amidst grave and tombstone in the churchyard, for plenty of interest attached to the death of old Octavius Hardon, and the people of Somesham seemed bound to see the matter to the end.

Nothing now remained for the mourners but to take a last glance at the coffin and come away. Septimus had stood for a few moments looking down into the vault, with the stern aspect of resolution fading from his face, to give way to one of helpless misery, when, turning to leave, he encountered the mourning brother advancing with drooping head and raised handkerchief to take his farewell look.

Septimus Hardon shrank back as from a serpent, and made room for his uncle to pass; but the next moment a sudden rage possessed him, and, stepping forward, he laid a hand upon the doctor’s shoulder, whispering a few words in his ear.

Hastily confronting his nephew, the doctor turned, when, shaking a threatening finger in his face, Septimus exclaimed: “Hypocrite! I know – ” But before he could finish the sentence, the doctor started back as if to avoid the threatening hand; his foot slipped upon the very edge of one of the boards, and the next moment, before a hand could be stretched out to save him, he fell with a crash into the vault.

For a while no one moved, a thrill of horror running through the assembled crowd; but soon help in plenty was there to raise the fallen man from the coffin upon which he lay, apparently senseless, and amidst a buzz of suggestions the sexton nimbly descended, rope in hand, and, slipping the strong cord around the doctor’s chest, he was dragged out and borne to the waiting coach.

Septimus, shocked, and almost paralysed at the effect of his threatening gesture, stood for a few minutes looking on, till, seeing relief afforded to the fallen man, he turned slowly away, people giving place right and left to allow him to pass. On reaching the second coach, he hastily disencumbered himself of his trappings of woe, and threw them to the astonished man at the door, who had never before witnessed such unseemly conduct at a funeral. Then, after another hasty glance towards the crowd around his uncle, Septimus strode off in the direction of the County Arms; while, gaping, talking, and wondering, the people slowly dispersed, saving such as followed the coach to the doctor’s residence in the High-street, where they hung about, clinging helplessly to the iron railings, and staring at the dining-room windows, until Mr Brande, the surgeon, and Mr Keening, the solicitor, came out together, looking very important, and walked down the street; when several of the railing barnacles followed at a distance, as if the gentlemen had brought out a printed account of the gossip-engendering scene in their pockets ready for distribution.

With his mourning habiliments Septimus Hardon seemed to have cast off the interest the crowd might be supposed to have taken in him; for no one followed the thin shabby man in dusty clothes and battered hat, as he strode on, till abreast of the old inn, where he paused, as if about to enter; but the next moment, shaking his head wearily, he walked on, and was soon past the first mile-stone on his way to the great city.

Volume Two – Chapter Four.
After a Lapse

“Do, sir?” exclaimed old Matt, pausing in his occupation of pulling the string to make a lathen figure throw out arms and legs for the delectation of little Tom, – “do, sir? Why, what I’ve always told you, and you say the parson’s told you, – go in for it, you’ve nothing to lose; so if anything happens, you must win. A year last spring now since I come running in here with that para thinking I’d made your fortune for you, sir; and now – Look there, what you’ve done, you’ve pulled one of his legs off!” – This in a parenthesis to the little boy between his knees. – “And where are you? Certainly, you get on a bit with the writing, sir; but if it was me I couldn’t have settled down without making him prove his words.”

“But, you see,” said Septimus, looking up from his copying, “I’m not clever, I’m not a business man; and what could I do without money for legal advice? It’s a sad life this; and ours is, and always was, a miserable family, and my uncle’s too. Look at him: his children are always away, while Agnes came to us through some love-affair with the assistant, and soon after I came away she disappeared, and has never been heard of since. Did you speak?”

“No,” said Matt, whose face was puckered up, while he had been trying to catch the eye of Lucy, who sat at the window busily preparing some work for a bright new sewing-machine which had lately been supplied to her from the warehouse where she was employed.

“He has the money,” continued Septimus, “but that can’t compensate for the loss of his child. Poor Agnes!”

“Don’t speak of her,” exclaimed Mrs Septimus angrily, “she was a very weak, bad woman, and – ”

“Hush!” said Septimus sternly, “we are all weak; and who made us judges?”

Mrs Septimus fidgeted about in her easy-chair, looking nettled and angry as she sat near the window, while with flushed cheek Lucy bent lower and lower over her work, once only catching Matt’s eye, when the old man looked so alarmingly mysterious that the flush upon her face deepened, and she rose and left the room.

“You see, sir,” said Matt, continuing a conversation that had evidently been broken off, “it’s been let go by so long now, when steps ought to have been taken at once. No offence meant – you won’t be put out if I speak plain?”

Septimus shook his head, and went on copying.

“You see,” said Matt, “you ought to have gone to Doctors’ Commons, and entered a something against your uncle, and done a something else, and had a lawyer to engage counsel, and then this precious uncle of yours couldn’t have touched the property till the matter had been tried in the Court of Probate; when, of course, you must have come out with flying colours. But here, you see, you do nothing; first letting one month slip away, and then another, and all the while he goes to work, gets uninterrupted possession, sticks tighter and tighter to it, and for aught you know, he’s spent it all by this time. You ought, you know, to have carried on the war at once.”

“And about the sinews?” said Septimus drearily, without raising his head.

“Blame them sinews!” cried the old man; “they’re about the tightest, and hardest, and toughest things in the whole world. It seems to me, you know, sir, thinking it over – and I’ve had it in bed with me scores of nights – it seems to me that your uncle rather reckoned on his meeting no opposition; and on your – snuff, snuff, snuff,” muttered the old man in a confused way, as he fumbled about in his pockets.

“Say it out, Matt,” said Septimus with a sad smile, “my weakness – no doubt of it, for he could never have believed his own words.”

“Well, that was the word, certainly, sir,” said Matt; “and after all your fuss, I don’t know that a man’s any the better for being strong, mind you. I wasn’t going to say weakness, for I was hanging fire for a word that meant the same with the corners rubbed off a bit; but there wasn’t letter enough in the case to make it up.”

“Can’t help it, Matt,” said Septimus, removing a hair from his pen by wiping it upon his coat-tail, and then smearing his forehead with his inky fingers, ready for Lucy, who entered the room directly after, to take his careworn head upon her arm, wet a corner of her handkerchief between her rosy lips, and then wipe away the obstinate smear – Septimus the while as still and patient as possible, till the fair girl concluded her performance with a kiss, when he went on with his task. “Exors – ecutors – and assigns,” muttered Septimus, writing. “Can’t help it, Matt, I suppose it’s my nature to be weak.”

“And let everyone kick you,” said Matt to himself. – “Well, sir,” he continued aloud, “it’s my belief that this uncle of yours, not to put too fine a point upon it, is a rogue. He’s a deep one, that’s what he is; but then, you know, he isn’t the only deep one in the world, and if you’d begun when you should have done – there, I won’t say so any more,” he exclaimed hastily, for Septimus made an impatient movement. “Now, you see, you’ve taken this sudden whim – very well, sir, all right – we’ve talked you into it, say then – and you mean now to see if you can’t go on with the matter. Better late than never, say I; so now, how does it stand? He has possession, and that’s what they call nine points of the law; and he’s had possession for above a year, and you haven’t taken a step to dispute his right. – Well, I can’t go into the thing without speaking of the rights and wrongs of it, can I?” exclaimed the old man in an injured tone, for Septimus shuffled nervously in his seat.

“There, go on!” said Septimus.

“But, there, p’raps I’m making too free,” said the old man, snatching at the string so angrily that he broke the other leg of the figure he had brought the child. – “Never mind, my man,” he whispered; “I’ll bring you such a good un next time I come.”

“Go on, Matt,” said Septimus quietly; “you ought to make allowances for me.”

“So I do, sir, so I do – heaps,” cried the old man eagerly.

“We have not so many friends,” continued Septimus, laying down his pen and stretching out his hand, “that we can afford to behave slightingly to their advice, even if it is unpalatable.”

Old Matt took the proffered hand, and shook it warmly, before going on with his subject.

“Well, sir,” said Matt, “you say he told you out flat that you were a – a – well, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, yes,” said Septimus drearily, for he had so familiarised himself in thought with the word, that it had ceased to bring up an indignant flush to his cheek.

“Well,” said Matt, “then the whole of our work – I say ‘our,’ you know – ”

Septimus nodded.

“The whole of our work consists in proving him false.”

“Exactly,” said Septimus, sticking his pen behind his ear; “but how?”

“Documentary evidence,” said the old man, “that’s it; documentary evidence,” and he took snuff loudly. “Marriage stiffikits, baptism registers, and so on. Let’s see; I don’t think there was any regular registration in those days. Now then, to begin with, sir. Where were your father and mother married? – that is, if they were,” muttered the old man in what was meant for an undertone, but Septimus heard the words.

“O yes,” he said quietly, “they were married in the City.”

“Very good,” said Matt. “Then suppose we get a copy of the marriage stiffikit, sworn to and witnessed, how then?”

“Well, that proves the marriage,” said Septimus.

“To be sure,” said Matt; “but then you’ll find he bases his claim upon your being born before. You don’t think he denies that your father and mother were married? He don’t, does he?”

“No,” said Septimus wearily, as he opened a pocket-book and drew out a frayed and broken letter, which had separated here and there in the folds from frequent reference. “You are right, Matt,” he said, after reading a few lines. “The marriage register would be no good.”

“Yes, it would,” said Matt; “it’s documentary evidence, and it will be one brick in the tower we want to build up; so don’t you get sneezing at it because it ain’t everything. It will be one thing; and so far so good, when we get it. You see it’s a ticklish thing, and before you put it in a solicitor’s hands – a respectable solicitor’s hands, for cheap law’s the dearest thing in Lincoln’s-inn – you must have something to show him. Now, so far so good, only recollect your uncle’s on firm ground, while as yet you’re nowhere. Now say we go to a good solicitor. ‘Were you born in wedlock?’ says he. ‘Yes,’ says you. ‘Now then,’ says he, ‘prove it.’”

Septimus sighed, and began to wonder whether his uncle was right.

“Now, then,” said Matt, “family Bible with birth in, eh?”

“We had one, full of plates,” said Septimus, recalling the old Sunday afternoons, when he had leaned over the table, amusing himself with the engravings; “but there were no entries in it, only my grandfather’s name. I fancy, though, now you mention it, my father had a little pocket-Bible with some entries in, but I never took particular notice.”

“Rotten reed – a rotten reed,” said the old man. “You are not sure; and even if you were, your uncle’s been foxy enough to hunt the place over and over, and that book’s gone up the chimney in smoke, or under the grate in ashes, long enough ago. No will, you say?”

“Not that I could hear of,” said Septimus.

“We might, p’r’aps, find the nurse, or doctor, or some old friend; but then, unless they can bring up documentary evidence, ’tain’t much good. You know, when old folks are made to swear about things that took place fifty years ago, people shake their heads and think about failing memories, and so on. You see we must have something strong to work upon. If we could get the date of your birth, and the marriage stiffikit, we should be all right, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes, they would prove all we want,” said Septimus.

“Exactly so,” said Matt; “and if we couldn’t get the date of your birth, how about date of baptism?”

“That would do just as well,” exclaimed Septimus.

“No, it wouldn’t,” said the old man, “without it’s got in how old you were when the parson made a cross on your forehead – eh?”

Septimus was damped directly.

“It’s no use to be sanguine, you know, sir. What we’ve got to do is to expect nothing, and then all we do get is clear profit. Now, where were you baptised – do you know that?”

“Yes,” said Septimus.

“Well, that’s all right, if it contains the entry of your age at the time, but we won’t be sure; and if it does, you see if your uncle don’t bring someone to swear it’s false, and that they nursed you a twelvemonth before you really were born. Most likely, you know, there’d be half-a-score done at the same time as yours, and they never asked your age. I don’t say so, you know, only that perhaps it was so. Now, what do you call your birthday, sir?”

“Tenth of January 17 – ,” said Septimus.

“Very good, sir; but then, that’s only what you say, mind, and a bare word’s not worth much in a court of law when a case is being tried. ‘’Tis,’ says you. ‘’Tisn’t,’ says your uncle, who’s rich, and prosperous, and respectable, and has the money, and lives in a big house, with plenty of well-to-do friends round him. ‘Prove your case,’ says the judge to you; and mind you, sir, this is the ticklish point; it ain’t a question of who’s to have your father’s money. He’s got it, and it’s a question of your turning him out. So, ‘Prove your case,’ says the judge. ‘You’ve left this man in possession for a year, and now you say he does not hold the property lawfully. Prove your case.’ ‘Can’t my lord,’ says you – ‘no documentary evidence.’ And now do you know what the judge would say?”

Septimus shook his head dismally.

“‘Judgment for the defendant’ – that’s your uncle, you know.” And then, as if highly satisfied with his logical mode of putting the case. Matt snapped his fingers loudly after a large pinch of snuff.

“But,” said Mrs Septimus, “my doctor told me that he always kept a register of all the births he attended.”

Mrs Septimus said no more, for old Matt’s fist went down upon the table with a bang that made some of the ink leap from the stand, but fortunately not upon Septimus Hardon’s clean sheets of paper.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am!” cried Matt, hurriedly sopping up the ink with his wisp of a handkerchief; “but blame me if I don’t wish I’d been born a woman! trust them for getting to the bottom of everything. Why, Lord bless you, sir, there you are – there’s the case in a nutshell! – that’s the matter hit right in the bull’s-eye! Why didn’t you begin about it before? You’re right as a trivet. There’s the date of the marriage, and there’s the doctor’s book – such-and-such a day, such-and-such a time; medicine and attendance, two pound twelve shillings and sixpence. Hallo!” exclaimed Matt, scratching his head, “that comes very pat; where did I hear those words before? But there, look here, sir; I think we’ve got hold of the right end of the tangle, and here it is. You go down to Somesham and tell nunky how it stands. ‘Here we are,’ says you, ‘and now give up peaceable and quiet, and I’ll say nothing at all about what’s gone by.’ Of course he won’t, and begins to talk big about kicking out of the house, and all that sort of thing. ‘Two can play at that,’ says you; and as he won’t be civil, he must have it hot. Back you come; put it in a decent solicitor’s hands; with your good documentary evidence out he goes – in you go; and my di’mond has a pony with a long silky tail; Miss Lucy a carriage, and missis here an invalid chair, and old Matt to push it – eh, ma’am?”

“But about finding the doctor,” said Septimus sadly.

“Well, yes – true, to be sure,” said Matt, over a fresh pinch of snuff; “but I think we can manage that part, sir. Don’t you see, we can tell our road now we’ve got our line cut out; and we’ve only got it to do. There’s some pye in the case, of course, but we can correct as we go on, eh? There’s a doctors’ directory, and we can soon find him.”

“There’s a hitch directly,” said Septimus. “I don’t know his name.”

“Phillips!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon excitedly.

“There we are again,” cried Matt; “who’d be without a good partner?”

“But how do you know?” said Septimus.

“I remember in your mother’s last illness,” said Mrs Septimus, “that she told me how she longed for her old doctor, for she felt sure Mr Thomas Hardon did not understand her complaint; and that was the first cause of disagreement between your father and Dr Hardon. I heard your father tell him afterwards that he had killed his Sister, and to leave the house.”

“But the name?” said Septimus, anxious to change the conversation.

“Phillips – the same as my own; and that was why it made an impression upon my memory.”

“Talk about cards to play, sir!” cried Matt, “why, that’s winning: your partner has played the leading trump.”

Septimus Hardon rose from his seat to begin anxiously pacing up and down the room. He could see plainly enough the value of the position he was nerving himself to fight for, but he shrank, as he had shrunk again and again, from the exposure certain, whether he succeeded or not. Vacillating in the extreme, he was at one time telling himself that it was his duty to try and clear his mother’s fame, though the next moment would find him shrinking from the task, while his brow wrinkled up as he sighed and looked from face to face, lastly on that of old Matt, who, having relieved himself of the child, was taking snuff extravagantly, and chuckling and rubbing his hands in anticipation of the coming triumph.

“Now, sir,” he said upon catching the troubled man’s eye, “about this doctor.”

“Dead before now,” said Septimus. “Allowing him to have been quite young for a doctor, he would be eighty now, and how few men reach that age!”

“Pooh! nonsense!” cried Matt; “scores do – hundreds do – ninety either. Eighty? Pooh! nothing! youth, sir. Why, I’m past sixty, and see what a boy I look, eh? Why, I believe Miss Lucy would pick me out from scores to take care of her, – wouldn’t you, miss?”

Lucy looked up from her work, nodded and smiled.

“But now business,” said the old man. – “Where did you live, sir, before you went down in the country?”

“Finsbury,” said Septimus.

“And you were born there, eh?”

“I believe so,” said Septimus, wondering in his own mind whether it was worth all this trouble, perhaps to gain nothing.

“To be sure,” cried Matt; “and now we shall soon find it out. Brass plate on the door – ‘Mr Phillips, Surgeon;’ big lamp sticking out, red bull’s-eye one side, green t’other, like railway signals; ‘danger’ and ‘all right’ to the people in the street.”

Old Matt rose to go, after appointing to meet Septimus on the following morning to take the first steps for obtaining the “documentary evidence” so necessary for their future plans.

“Ten to the moment, you’ll see me, sir,” said Matt. “Good afternoon, ma’am, and – Ah, Miss Lucy’s gone!”

But Septimus only sighed, and sat down once more to his weary copying, sheets of which he so often spoiled by letting his thoughts wander from the task in hand.

“No more business in him, sir,” said Matt as he descended the stairs, “than – Ah, here we are, then! Thought I was going away without seeing you again, miss;” for he had encountered Lucy upon the stairs.

“Hush!” she whispered, “I only wanted to ask you to please be careful. I was so frightened this afternoon.”

Old Matt buttoned up his coat as tightly as if his honour were inside it, pursed up his lips, nodded his head seriously, and then laying one finger upon the side of his nose he shuffled off, looking as mysterious as if he were the repository of state secrets, and ready to bid defiance to all the racks and thumbscrews of the good old times.

Lucy Grey stood for a minute gazing after the shabby figure, and then, turning to ascend, she coloured slightly upon finding herself face to face with the old Frenchwoman who occupied the attic floor, and who now, with a sneering smile upon her thin lips and an inquisitive light peering from her half-closed eyes, looked at her, and then passed softly and silently as a cat down the stairs without saying a word.