"Such a beautiful, well-cut letter too!" said old Matt Space, as he
stood looking at the empty type-rack from whence the cases had been
taken to furnish money for Septimus Hardon's present expenses. "In such
good order too. Puts me in mind of being so low down that I had to sell
my own stick. Fellow always seems so badly off when he gets selling his
tools."
A tap at the door, following the sound of wheels, interrupted the old
man's soliloquy, and going to the door he admitted the undertaker, who
had just arrived with his shabby Shillibeer hearse and mourning-coach in
one, with which he performed the economic funerals so frequent in his
district.
"Here you are, then," said old Matt, grimly surveying the new-comer.
"Yes, here we are," said the undertaker, in a subdued, melancholy tone;
and then he drew out a pocket-handkerchief and wiped his eye, as if to
remove a tear--in fact, he did remove a tear--though not sorrow-shed,
for Mr Pawley was in very good spirits just then; but he had an eye
afflicted with a watery weakness which necessitated the constant
application of a handkerchief, and this had passed with a certain class
of people for the manifestation of sorrow for their griefs. Some said
that this eye had been a little fortune to him. Perhaps it had, but
doubtless the crowded courts clustering round Lincoln's-inn had done
more to keep up the incessant "rat-tat-tat-tat" heard in his shop, a
sound as if grim Death were tapping with those bony fingers of his at
the door.
"Such a feeling man!" said Mrs Sims, who was always at home upon such
occasions as this, and had now come to mind Septimus Hardon's boy, and
help; "if she could be of service leastways, for it's few berrins take
place about here, mom, that they don't send for me," she said with a
sniff, and the corner of her apron to her eye.
"Here you are, then," said old Matt to the undertaker.
"Yes, here we are," said Mr Pawley; "but you ain't a-going, are you?"
"Well, who said I was?" said Matt gruffly. "You're a-going, ain't you?
and that's enough for you."
Mr Pawley took so much pride in his funerals being properly performed,
that going himself did not seem enough for him, and he continued to gaze
doubtfully over a very uncomfortable white cravat, one of which the bow
was supposed to be tied behind, giving him a good deal the aspect of a
man who had been decapitated, and then had his head secured in its place
by a bandage.
But old Matt did not give the undertaker an opportunity for a long
inspection of his shabby black clothes, for having announced the grim
functionary, that gentleman went up the creaking stairs upon the points
of his toes to proceed with the duties he had in hand; while, as old
Matt stood in the passage watching his long black body it seemed to him
that the stairs cracked and creaked mournfully, as if resenting the feet
laid upon them, in anticipation of a heavier descent.
But there was to be no heavy load for them to bear this time, for it was
but a little coffin--a little white coffin that had been gazed into for
the last time, where the gentle waxen features seemed to wear a smile,
so sad, speaking such a tender farewell in its sweetness, that Lucy Grey
sobbed aloud with the parents, until Mrs Sims entered the room,
whispered to Septimus, and then they all slowly passed out to give place
to Mr Pawley. And then standing in the next room, Mrs Septimus, weak
and ailing, almost fainted as she heard the harsh noise of the driver as
it slipped first in one and then another of the screws.
But now the last screw had been tightened, the light burden placed in
the receptacle, and Mrs Sims, quite a regular aid to Mr Goffer,
arranged the scarf upon Septimus Hardon's hat; pinned and tied the hoods
and cloaks upon mother and daughter; and then, in a simple but feeling
way, wept many a salt tear into her black-alpaca apron, sniffing
terribly the while Mr Pawley, satisfied in his mind that the
respectability of his performance was not to be damaged by so doubtful a
character as the old compositor, stood holding open the door of the
carriage with one hand, wiping his eye with the other, and awaiting the
mourners' descent.
For this was no grand funeral; there had been no mutes standing with
draped staves at the door; there was no squadron of men with scarves and
brass-tipped truncheons; no tray of black plumes to be carried in
advance; no high-stepping, long-tailed black horses, with velvet
housings and tossing heads; nothing to make a funeral imposing and
attractive. But there were spectators even for this: inhabitants of
Carey-street were stealthily watching from door-steps, or from the
corners of windows, as if afraid of intruding upon the mourners' sorrow;
a knot of dirty children from Bennett's-rents had collected, many of
whom toiled beneath shawl-wrapped burdens of heavy babies almost equal
to themselves in bulk; two women stood upon the opposite side with arms
wrapped in their aprons; a ticket-porter, in apron and badge, leaned
against the nearest lamp-post; the apple-woman at the corner did
something unusual, she left her basket, knocked the ashes out of her
short black pipe, and then rubbed a tear--a bright, gem-like tear--off
her poor old cheek, withered as one of her own pippins, before placing
her pipe in her pocket, and leaning with arms akimbo against the
railings to see the hearse pass with a little customer of hers, for whom
she had always picked out the best lot, and in her simple homely way
called down heavenly favour with a hearty "God bless you!" An old
law-writer, a man who reckoned life as a long brief in so many folios,
old and snuffy, and shabby almost as Matt himself, walked by house and
hearse to the office where he worked, pretending to whistle; but no
sound came, and he blew his nose in a way that raised an echo in the
silent street as soon as he was a few yards past the place; even the
policeman, beating his Berlin gloves together, quietly sent off the
children gathered in the way, and posted them at a distance, that they
might not annoy the sad party so soon to leave the house.
And now a tall dark woman, carrying a child, appeared upon the scene,
and stood with dimmed eye watching till the mourners descended, when,
catching sight of Septimus Hardon's bent form, she stepped forward
eagerly, but only to shrink back shivering as she clutched her babe to
her breast, pressing her lips upon its plump cheek, while an air of
wonderment came into the woman's face as the announcement above the door
now caught her eye:--"S Hardon, Legal and General Printer."
For there was sorrow in Carey-street that day--sorrow of a novel kind.
All the neighbourhood knew why the blinds were down at Hardon's; for all
knew the tall graceful girl who led about the two golden-haired children
that seemed so out of place in the legal region; all knew that one of
these little ones had passed away--that the little flower, sweet and
fragrant, so lately blooming in the cold harsh place, and raising its
heaven-whispering head amongst them, had been cut down by the cold winds
that swept the weary waste. "Our client" had stopped at this oasis in
the desert he was crossing, for he had often paused to look up at the
golden head at the upper window, gazed at it awhile, and then passed on,
refreshed and gladdened in heart. Every dweller in the neighbourhood
had had a kind word or look for Lucy's charges; and there was a sun in
those golden tresses, a warm light, that would often melt the icy frost
of some old lawyer's countenance, and bring there a smile of pleasure.
But a month before, two men were passing Carey-street with Punch, bound
westward to the district where there is less constraint and
mind-engrossing; and the man who bore the show, following the usage
which to him was second nature, looked up at the dirty windows with
wandering eye, caught sight of the blue-eyed fairy, looked at her with
doubt for an instant, and then pitched his theatre, to the astonishment
of his drum-and-pan-pipe "pardner," who would as soon have thought of
playing in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.
"Jest five minutes," whispered his mate, pointing upwards; when, as if
by magic, the pipes squeaked, the drum rolled, raising up the wondering
ghosts of echoes from amidst the pouncy dust of ages, while the yellowy,
torn green baize fell, to conceal the motive power of the puppets; and
then for "jest five minutes" "our client" was startled, the parchments
in the offices crackled, dust floated from ledges out upon the murky
air, and the sanctity of the place was broken by the ribald jokes of our
old friend. Then, just as an astonished troop of children came with a
rush out of Bennett's-rents, up went the green curtain; there came a
friendly nod from one of the men, who placed himself Atlas-like beneath
his drum, a broad grin from the other at the child's delight, and then
off due west.
And now the change had come; the cold blast that sweeps down
Carey-street had been colder and keener; the fragile flower-stalk was
broken; the white coffin was in its place, the mourners in the coach;
the door banged gently, for the wood had warped. Mr Pawley had climbed
beside his red-nosed driver, and sat wiping his eye; while the poor old
broken-kneed black horse ambled and shambled off with its head down, as
if ashamed of the false tail that it knew was fastened to the crupper of
its harness.
Then the rest,--the sad rite, the solemn words, the swelling hearts
aching to leave so sweet a form in so cold and damp a bed, loth to
believe that what they had loved could turn to corruption, and then to
the dust of the earth. Then back to the shabby carriage, whose driver
had refreshed himself with gin, which attacked his nose; while the horse
yet twisted an obstinate wisp of hay that hung sideways in his bit, and
would not be ground into nutriment. Once more the banging of the door,
and Mr Pawley up beside the driver, with his grief still unassuaged;
while as the poor beast that drew the carriage shambled back, his load
was so little lightened that he knew not the difference.
The house in Carey-street had looked sad and gloomy for days past, for
even the lodgers had drawn down their blinds, and ascended the stairs
carefully and even stealthily, speaking, too, in whispers; but now the
light was freely admitted, and Mrs Sims had blown up a good fire, only
stopping to sniff, and drop a tear or two upon the bellows now and then,
the last being a domestic implement that she had run home to the Square
and fetched for the occasion. The tea was prepared, and she had made
what she called the most of the place,--not that that was much,--ready
for the mourners' return; while old Matt was ruining the knees of his
trousers by making himself a horse, and crawling up and down the dirty
printing-office floor with the little boy upon his back. The rooms
looked almost cheerful now, for, save in the returned mourners' hearts,
all was over, and the solemn scene, the dark, damp grave, the catching
of the breath as the first earth fell, the long last look at the white
coffin--all things of the past.
Old Matthew Space was a wise man in his way; and as soon as he thought
that there had been time for the changing of habiliments,--that is to
say, about a quarter of an hour after Mr Pawley had presented his
account, been paid, and taken his departure, offering old Matt sixpence,
which he indignantly refused to take,--he put on a bright face, and took
the little fellow in his charge upstairs, crowing and chattering with
delight at riding upon the old man's shoulders.
"No, thankee, sir," said the old man, in answer to Septimus Hardon's
invitation to stay to tea; and as he declined he glanced down at his
clothes.
"I did not ask the clothes," said Septimus warmly, "but the man who has
shown sympathy in this weary time of trouble; and God knows I did not
expect to find friends where I have," muttered the dejected man, who
looked ten years older; while at times his eyes wandered in a weary
abstracted way about the room, and his hands were wrung together, till
Lucy came to his side and spoke to him, when the lost, helpless look
would pass off, and he would brighten up for a few minutes.
"Such a beautiful, well-cut letter, though!" muttered old Matt as he
took the chair placed for him by Mrs Sims, when the little fellow
forced himself off his mother's lap, and climbed upon the old man's
knee.
"You must hold up, mum," whispered Mrs Sims to poor, broken-down,
invalid Mrs Septimus. "I know what it all is; for when I lived in the
Rents, mum, I lost four; and all within three year."
"_You_ did!" said Mrs Septimus, laying a tender hand upon the poor
woman's arm.
"O yes!" said Mrs Sims. "It was before I went to mind the house in the
Square, and used to wash; but it was sich work, mum! nowhere to dry
except a bit of leads, and the strings tied across the room, and the
blacks allus a-coming down like a shower, while every drop o' water had
to be fetched from right at the bottom of the house. One was obliged to
do it, though, for times were very hard just then; but having so much
washing ain't good and healthy for children, let alone being stived up
so closte. You see, 'm, it's a bad place to live in, them Rents,
there's too many in a house, and there's so much wants doing; but then,
when you're a bit behind with your rent, you can't grumble, or there's
your few bits of sticks taken, and plenty more glad to have your room.
But the way the poor little children is snatched off there, mum, 's
terrible, though I do sometimes say, as it's a happy release. Mr
Pawley, mum, he 'ave told me that them Rents is as good as an annuity to
him; for you see, though it isn't a big place, there's a many families
in each house; and where there's families, mum, there's mostly
children."
Mrs Septimus sighed bitterly at the last word, while, poor woman, she
was too much intent upon her cares to notice the wisdom of the speech.
"But you hold up now, mum, there's a good creetur. I know it's very
hard, but then we all has to suffer alike, and you've got to recklect
what you owes to that poor dear child there, and young miss, and the
master."
As for Septimus Hardon, he was talking in an abstracted way to old Matt,
who was discussing business matters, and urging energetic measures in
the office; but talking to Septimus Hardon was a difficult matter, and
put you much in mind of catching a grazing horse: you held a bait before
him, and then gradually edged him up into a corner, when, just as you
thought you had him, he was off and away full gallop to another part of
the mental field; and so the work had to be done all over again. Old
Matt found it so, and after several times over waking to the fact that
while he was talking upon one subject Septimus Hardon was thinking upon
another, he rose and took his departure.
Volume One, Chapter IX.