Octavius Hardon's book was at a standstill, and the world still in the
thick darkness of ignorance as regarded political reform upon his basis,
for Septimus Hardon was ill, sick almost unto death. He had slowly
grown listless and dull, careless of everything, daily becoming weaker,
until, apparently without ailment, he had taken to his bed, over which
his uncle, Doctor Hardon; his assistant, Mr Reston, a handsome,
cynical-looking man, and the rival practitioner of the town, had all
concurred in shaking their heads and declaring that nothing could be
done, since Septimus Hardon was suffering from the effects of an
internal malformation.
They were quite right; the poor fellow had too much heart; and though
the wise of this earth declare that people do not die of or for love,
yet most assuredly Septimus Hardon would slowly have faded from his
place among men, and before many months had passed over his head gone
where there is rest.
But there was medicine of the right kind coming, and the very perusal
with lack-lustre eyes of the prescription brought to his bedroom sent a
flash of light into the glassy orbs, and in the course of a few weeks
Septimus disappointed the doctors by getting well, Nature having
arranged respecting the internal malformation.
"I don't think you did him a bit of good, Mr Brande; not a bit--not a
bit--not a bit," said Octavius to the rival practitioner. "He never
took any of your stuffs. Now, come and set me up again, for I'm wrong."
"Better, yes, he's better," said the old man to Mr Reston.
"Good-morning--good-morning--good-morning."
Doctor Hardon had sent his assistant over; but in place of seeing the
patient he found himself bowed out; and on loudly complaining to the
doctor, not on account of missing his interview with the patient, but
for reasons of his own, Doctor Hardon now called.
"Well, Tom--well, Tom--well, Tom?" said Octavius, smiling cynically, and
looking his younger brother well over from top to toe. "What is it,
Tom?"
"O, about Septimus?"
"There, be off; I'm busy. Septimus is getting on, and Mr Brande will
physic him if he wants any more. A man who can't morally physic his own
children can't do other people's good."
Doctor Hardon, portly and pompous, rose to speak; but Octavius took hold
of his arm and led him to the door, giving him his hat at the same time.
"Good-bye, Tom--good-bye--good-bye. Don't come till I send for you
again. You always were a fool, and an ass, and an idiot, and a humbug,
Tom--always--always--always."
There was a slight storm at Doctor Hardon's that day, and neither his
wife nor daughters ventured much into his presence; but when, some weeks
afterwards, the doctor knew of a scene that took place in his brother's
house, he smiled softly, and after a fashion of his own he purred, while
that night he was graciousness itself.
Octavius Hardon sat writing, and listening to the words of his son till,
as he grew interested, the pen ceased to form letters, and at last he
pushed back his chair, overturning the inkstand, so that the sable
current streamed across a fresh paragraph of his book. He thrust up his
glasses and sheltered his eyes to look at his son--the son who had
obeyed his every word and look, who had never seemed to have a thought
of his own--the son who was even now, in spite of his forty years, but a
boy; and as he looked, he saw that he seemed inches taller, that there
was an elate look in his countenance, which it would have been hard at
that moment to have called plain.
"Going to be what?" gasped the father.
"To be married," said the son firmly.
"Married?"
"Married, father."
"And to whom? One of those hussies, your cousins?"
"To Mrs Grey," replied Septimus.
"What?" gasped the old man. "To a woman--a widow with a family--a
proper inmate for the union--a pauper!"
"Hush, father!" cried Septimus. "I love her;" and he said those simple
words with such reverence, such tenderness, that the old man paused and
gazed almost wonderingly at the aspect worn by his son; but by degrees
his anger gained the ascendant, and a stormy scene ensued in which the
father threatened and besought in turn, while the son remained calm and
immovable. Once he shrunk back and held up his hands deprecatingly,
when the old man spoke harshly of the stricken woman; but directly after
his face lit up with a pride and contentment which almost maddened the
speaker.
"You cannot keep a wife!" he gasped.
Septimus smiled.
"You were always a helpless, vacillating fool, and you have nothing but
the few hundreds from your mother."
Septimus bowed his head.
"Dog!" roared the old man, "I'll leave every penny I have to your
uncle's hussies if you dare to marry this woman."
The son smiled sadly, but remained silent.
"Why don't you speak?" roared Octavius, foaming with rage.
"What would you have me say, father?" said Septimus calmly.
"Say!" gasped the old man; "why, that you are a thankless, graceless,
unnatural scoundrel. But where do you mean to go?"
"To London," said Septimus.
"To London!" sneered the old man; "and what for? No; go to Hanwell, or
Colney Hatch, or sink your paltry money at a private asylum, if they
will take you. To London, to leave me to my infirmities, with my book
unfinished! But you'll take my curse with you; and may yon brazen,
scheming woman--"
"Hush!" cried Septimus fiercely, as he laid his hand upon his father's
lips, when, beside himself with fury, Octavius struck his son heavily in
the face, and then, as he fell back, the old man seized the poker, but
only to throw it crashing back into the fender.
Just at that moment, the door opened, a tall, dark, handsome girl
hurried into the room, and stood between father and son, gazing in an
agitated way from one anger-wrought countenance to the other.
"Septimus! Uncle!" she cried, "what is the matter?"
"He's a villain, girl--an unnatural scoundrel. He's going to marry that
woman--Grey's wife--widow--relict--curse her!"
"What, poor Mrs Grey?" said the girl, with the tears springing to her
eyes.
"God bless you for that, Agnes!" cried Septimus passionately, as he
caught her in his arms, and kissed her affectionately.
"Yes, _poor_ Mrs Grey," sneered the old man, looking savagely at the
pair before him. "But there, let him go; and mind _you_, or you won't
have what I've got. But there, you will, and your sisters will have
something to fleer and jeer at then, and your father will purr in my
face, and spit and swear behind my back. Bah! a cursed tom-cat humbug!"
"Hush, uncle dear!" whispered Agnes, laying one hand upon his arm and
the other upon his breast, her lip quivering as she spoke,--"hush! you
are angry.--Don't say any more, Septimus."
"No," replied Septimus sternly, "I have done."
"No, _no_, no! you have not," roared the old man, firing up again. "You
have to beg my pardon, and tell me that this folly is at an end."
"I'll beg your pardon, father," said Septimus sternly, "and I do ask it
for anything I have done amiss; but I have pledged my word to the woman
I have loved these ten years." And again there was the look of proud
elation on Septimus Hardon's countenance.
"And you are going to London, eh?" said Octavius.
"To London," said Septimus calmly.
The old man frowned, pressed his lips tightly together, and, holding
Agnes firmly by her shoulder, he stood pointing with one hand towards
the door.
"Then go!" he said; "go--go!"
"O, Septimus!" cried Agnes in appealing tones,--"uncle!"
"You're mad, Septimus Hardon," said the old man coldly. "Mad--stark
mad: a private asylum, Septimus--an asylum--mad! You're mad--stark mad!
Go!"
Volume One, Chapter III.