Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

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

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

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

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

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

All silent; and he returned to the bureau.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume One – Chapter Eleven.

Hard Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grass!” said Septimus absently.

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

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

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

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

“Asleep by mamma,” replied Lucy.

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

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

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