Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume One – Chapter Twelve.

Friends from Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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