Loe raamatut: «Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes», lehekülg 8

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.