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 versa_.
"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.
"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 XII.