With a pleasant smile upon his countenance, and a bunch of watercresses
in his hand, Septimus Hardon hummed loudly, like some jocular bee, as he
entered his rooms one day, when he ceased, for there was a visitor
gazing with sympathising eyes upon the flush-cheeked child lying upon
Mrs Hardon's arm.
"I think you had better have advice, Mrs Hardon," said the visitor, the
Rev. Arthur Sterne, the calm, earnest, quiet-looking curate of the
neighbouring church.
Lucy Grey, now budding into womanhood, was seated upon the floor by the
couch, with a little boy in her lap, and letting the hands of the child
on her mother's arm stray amongst the glossy tresses of her hair.
"Advice? What? doctor?" said Septimus, gazing in his wife's anxious
face; "is Letty really ill, then?" and then in a bewildered way he began
rubbing his hands together as if washing them in emptiness, and
afterwards drying them upon nothing.
"Let me send in a doctor," said Mr Sterne kindly, as he took his hat to
leave; "there are symptoms of fever, I think. Don't let it get too firm
a hold before you have advice."
"Thank you, thank you; do send him, please," said Septimus helplessly.
"But--" He was about to alter his request, for just then his hand came
in contact with the light leather purse in his pocket, but the curate
had hurriedly left the room. Then taking his step-child's place by the
sofa the father parted the golden hair upon the sick girl's forehead,
and anxiously questioned Mrs Septimus respecting the illness.
As the night came on the little one grew wild and restless, and what the
mother had taken to be but a slight childish ailment, began to assume a
form that added anxiety where it was hardly needed. The doctor had
been, and spoken Seriously, and the medicine he had sent had been
administered; but the fever seemed to increase, for the child grew
worse, starting from fitful sleeps, and calling for sister Lucy to take
something away from her. Septimus looked weakly from face to face for
comfort, and then wandered about the room, wringing his hands and trying
to think this new trouble some horrible dream.
And so days passed--days of trouble and anxiety--during which Mrs
Septimus forgot her own ailments, and watched and nursed in turn with
Lucy. The doctor had talked as so many doctors will talk, in an
indefinite strain, which left the anxious parents in a state of doubt
and bewilderment, though it never occurred to Septimus Hardon that so
great an affliction could fall upon him, as that he should lose his
little one.
About a week after the seizure, Mrs Septimus was watching by the child,
who, after partaking eagerly of some tea, had apparently dropped off to
sleep.
"Take little Tom down into the office," whispered Mrs Hardon, "perhaps
she will sleep awhile if we keep her quiet."
So Septimus Hardon, looking dazed and worn with mental anxiety, took his
boy in his arms, and Lucy being asleep after watching nearly all night,
he left Mrs Septimus with the sick child, and carried the little fellow
down into the dusty, unused office, where, taking advantage of his
father's abstraction, the child proceeded to make a heap of type upon
the floor, thoroughly covering himself with the black dust, and even
going so far as to try the flavour of some of the pieces of metal.
At last the little one began to grow tired, and tried to gain the
attention of its father--no light task, for with his face buried in his
hands he was seated at his desk trying to see his way clearly through
the future--a task so many of us attempt, and some even fancy we have
achieved, but only to find the falseness of our hopes when the days we
looked forward to have come upon us.
But the child was at last successful, and as Septimus raised his head
from the desk, he became aware of the presence of the old man of a few
days before, and apparently as far from prosperity as ever.
"Nothing doing; no work," said Septimus.
"Any little job will do, sir," said the old man. "Just come to get out
of debt, that's all. What's it to be, sir?"
"Another time," said Septimus. "I've--"
A loud cry from above cut short his words, and darting to the door,
forgetting his customary indecision, he bounded up the stairs, while,
finding himself left with a stranger, the little fellow burst into a
dismal wail.
"O, Sep, Sep, Sep!" cried his wife, throwing herself into his arms, "is
it always to be sorrow; is there always to be a black cloud over our
lives?" then tearing herself away she frantically caught the child from
Lucy, who, pale and frightened, sat nursing.
"Run, run, Lucy!" cried Septimus hoarsely as he caught a glimpse of his
blue-eyed darling's face; "the doctor, quick!" and then, as the
frightened girl ran from the room, he threw himself upon his knees
beside his sobbing wife, praying that they might be spared this new
sorrow. But before the doctor could reach Carey-street the agonised
couple had seen the little weary head cease its restless tossings from
side to side, the blue eyes unclose, dilate, and gaze wildly, as if at
some wondrous vision; then a plaintive shuddering sigh passed from the
pale lips, and Septimus Hardon and his wife were alone, though they knew
it not.
The Rev. Arthur Sterne was at the door as Lucy returned, overtaken by
the doctor's brougham at the same moment; but to the agony of all the
man of medicine gave one glance at the little form in its mother's lap,
shook his head, and left the room on tiptoe.
"O, sir, Mr Sterne," cried Lucy, turning with quivering lips and
streaming eyes to the clergyman, "tell me, tell me," she sobbed,
clasping one of his hands in hers; "tell me--is it, is it death?"
There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then placing his
disengaged hand upon the fair head of the weeping girl, the curate, in
low reverent tones, but loud enough to thrill the hearts of the living,
said, "No, it is life--the life eternal!"
And now, amidst the bitter sobs of those who mourned, the curate stepped
softly from the room, and left the house with bended head. Then there
was silence, till a step was heard upon the stairs, which stopped by the
partly-closed door, where stood the old compositor with little Tom
asleep in his arms, the bright, soft, golden locks mingling like dashes
of sunshine with the old man's ragged, grizzly whiskers. For a few
moments the old printer stood gazing into the room, when, waking to the
consciousness of the affliction that had befallen its inmates, he
turned, and with halting step descended to the office.
At last the recollection of the living came to the stricken mother's
heart, and wildly sobbing as she clasped Lucy in her arms, she asked for
her boy.
Half-stunned with this new shock, Septimus Hardon staggered down to
where he had left the child, having till his wife spoke forgotten its
very existence; but when he reached the office, stricken as he was, he
could not but stop to gaze at the group before him. Seated upon a low
stool, beneath the dingy skylight of the back-office, where the light
that filtered through the foul panes looked dim and gloomy, was the old
man with the child in his lap, gazing, too, intently down at the little
fair face which so wonderingly looked up into his own--not fearfully,
but with a puzzled expression, as if some problem were there that the
little brain could not solve; while the biscuit the tiny fist held was
hardly touched, but told its own tale of how the old man had carried the
child to the nearest baker's for its purchase. The printer's back was
towards Septimus as he stood in the doorway, and as he listened the old
man was apostrophising the child:
"Why, God bless your little innocent face, this is me, old Matt--Matthew
Space--old Quad, as they call me; a battered, snuff-taking, drinking old
scamp; and here have I been these two hours drinking innocence, and
feeling my heart swell till it cracked and the scales fell off. Why--
save and bless his little heart, sir!" he cried, for the child saw its
father and sprang up--"see how good he is! Work's slack, sir; let him
stop, for it seems to do one good--it does indeed, sir. Why, how rich
you must be!"
Septimus Hardon thought mournfully of the treasure he had just lost,
and, taking the child, he hurriedly bore it to its mother, telling the
old man to wait.
Matthew Space, compositor, waited until the owner of the office came
down, when, friendless as he was, Septimus Hardon was glad to turn even
to this rough old waif of the streets in his helplessness.
"Why, I wouldn't do that, sir," said the old man, after listening for
some time in silence; "you may want it to-morrow."
"But I want money to-day," cried Septimus fiercely. "Will you give me
money? will the world outside? will anybody here in this city of wealth
trust me the money to bury my child? Would you have me go to the
parish?" He stopped, and the animation that had flashed into his face
began to fade again, to leave it dull and despairing.
"Why, as to the first, sir," said the old man, "I would, upon my soul,
if I had it,--I would indeed; but as to the people outside--" and he
began to shake his head grimly. "Poor men have no friends, sir--as a
rule, you know--as a rule."
"None!" said Septimus bitterly; "none!"
"But it would be a pity," said the old man; "such a new, well-cut letter
too; and you'll get next to nothing for it. Gave 'most half-a-crown a
pound for it, I dessay?"
Septimus nodded.
"Thought so, sir, and--well, if you must, sir, I'll help you all the
same, and gladly--only too gladly; but I don't like to see it pawned or
sold. You helped me, sir, when it was harder with me than ever it was
in my life before, sir; and damme, sir, I'll sell my shirt, sir, to help
you, if it will do any good. In the morning, then, sir, I'll be here
with a barrow."
"A barrow?" said Septimus.
"Yes; you know, type's heavy stuff."
"Matthew Space," said the snuffly old fellow, screwing his face up as if
with disgust, when he stood once more in Carey-street, "Matthew Space,
follower of the profession of noble Caxton, as a rule, sir, I respect
you. I don't despise you for your poverty, or your seedy coat, for you
are a man of parts and education; but at the present moment, sir, I'm
disgusted with you. You have been drinking innocence from the tiny
prattling lips of that little child--God bless it!" he cried earnestly,
dashing a maundering tear from one eye--"God bless it! a child like that
would have made another man of me; and now that poor fellow has lost one
like it. But there, sir, I'm disgusted with your ways: a man does what
nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand wouldn't do--lends
you almost his last shilling--and now, sir, that an opportunity offers
of helping him in his trouble, you make empty professions, false
promises, and offer to sell your shirt, you humbug, you--to sell your
shirt, sir, when you haven't got a shirt in the world!"
"That's true enough," said the old man, after walking a little way,
"true, if it ain't decent; but it's a kind of poverty that buttons will
always conceal, which they won't if it's a coat; while if there is
anything that looks beggarly, it's the want of boots. I'd sooner be
without a hat any day in the week. But you're taking fresh copy, Matt
Space, before you've finished the old, and leaving out your points."
The old man cocked his hat very fiercely over the left ear, stuck his
hands into his coat-tail pockets, and walked on for some distance,
muttering, "Poor fellow--good sort--trump." All at once he stopped
short before a lamp-post, drew his hands from his pockets, and took a
pinch of snuff; he then slapped the cold iron upon the shoulder, and, as
if addressing the post confidentially, he exclaimed:
"His name's Hardon, sir; but he isn't a hard un. He's as soft as
butter, sir, easy as a glove, sir, deep as a halfpenny plate. You might
turn him inside out like a stocking. He'd never get on here, he's too
honest. Business! why, he's about as business-like as--as--as--well,
sir, as I am. He'd never any business to be in business; but after all,
what's the good of being a business man, and sharp, and knowing, and
deep, if it's to be hammering on, beating out money day after day to
make a hard case for a man's heart, so as there ain't room for a kind
thought to get in, or a gentle word to come out?"
Old Matt stuck his hat a little more on one side, and giving the post a
parting slap, he left the freshly-lit light, quivering and winking down
at him as he gave it a nod, and then he crossed the road diagonally to
the next post, which he favoured as the last.
"Damme, sir," he cried, "don't tell me. I ought to know what the world
is, and I think I do. That man's a trump, sir, if I know anything of
character. Soft? well, suppose he is. Don't tell me: men were never
made to be sharp-edged tools, chiselling and cutting one another as hard
as ever they can, while the keenest ones chisel the most. They weren't
meant for it; but that's what they are. And what's worse, they do so
much under the cloak of religion, and snuffle and cant, and tell you to
do the same. Things are all wrong, sir, all wrong; and I'm wrong, and
according to some people, I'm I don't know what; but there, sir; there;
I've done."
Old Matt walked to another post, to prove he had not done, and began
again; but someone coming along the pavement, he shuffled off to the
public-house he frequented in Bell-yard, where he discoursed for long
enough upon human nature in general, to the great delight of his
audience, till his pint of porter was finished, when he hurried off
through the wet streets to his lodging.
Volume One, Chapter VII.