Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

“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 Seven.

The Doctor and his Dame

“A tom-cat, smooth-coated, purring rascal,” said old Octavius when he heard the news. “Doctor Hardon, indeed; doctor, bah!” And many of the townspeople of Somesham, though they did not use Octavius Hardon’s language, agreed with him in spirit, and sneered at the new doctor’s visit to Scotland, and the paragraph that by some means found its way into the paper, congratulating the people on the acquisition to their town of a physician. Of course the doctor himself did not know of its existence until it was pointed out to him at one of the public meetings, when he looked perfectly astonished, and declared that it was a matter that he meant to have kept a profound secret from everybody. However, as it was made so public, and in such a manner, of course he felt himself bound to take steps to inform his friends and patients that the fact of his being a physician should make no difference, that he looked upon the degree merely in the light of an honour; and hoped for many years to come to be the simple country apothecary, in whose humble skill his fellow-townsmen would have confidence. Guinea-fees and prescriptions had never been in his thoughts, the honour having been completely thrust upon him, so he said, for he knew that he could command a practice as a country apothecary while he would have starved as a physician. For he had practised for many years in Somesham, while he was greatly annoyed that his brother Octavius would reside there, as the doctor told his lady, to quarrel with him and lower him in the eyes of the people. Doctor Hardon had stood at many sick-beds in the district; spoken smooth nothings respecting the various increases in families which took place beneath his watchful eyes; when in every case, whatever the sex, the child was sure to be the finest he had ever seen in the whole course of his career as a medical practitioner. But the doctor had also worn a great many pairs of black-kid gloves, and many a long-flowing silk scarf upon those other occasions – at those stopping-places of the journey of life; and ill-natured persons had been known to declare that one of Mrs Hardon’s dresses had been composed of these long black-silk strips sewn together. But then people will be ill-natured.

“Thomas Hardon, Esq, MD,” sat at his breakfast-table in his dressing-gown, but his black frock-coat lay upon a chair at his side, ready brushed, and the rest of his costume was of the correct doctorial black. He did not even allow himself to sit down in slippers, but wore boots of the most lustrous black until bedtime. Of an imposing presence, with fine grey hair, a good complexion, sufficiently stout, he was the very acmé of a quiet family doctor; and even if he was not so skilful as he might have been, there was that in his quiet ease and assumption which often gave confidence, and insured faith in trembling patients – matters which had before now worked wonders when the doctor’s medicine alone would have failed. The world is much given to taking people at their own value, and undoubtedly by those who merely looked at the surface, a much higher price would have been set upon the doctor in that imposing suit of black, and that stiffest of stiff white neckcloths, than upon friend Matthew Space in his black shabbiness. But then, of course, the doctor’s double gold eyeglass, gold-chain, studs, diamond ring, and the shape of his repeater seen through the soft black kerseymere waistcoat, added weight in people’s estimation, without taking into consideration that air of profundity, and shake of the noble grey head, which implied so much at so little expense of thought. People at Somesham shook their heads with the doctor, and declared him to be a man of worth; while other people there were who shook their heads with his brother Octavius, and considered him a sham.

But people joined in speaking well of his wife – downright, blunt, plain-spoken Mrs Hardon – who now sat, pale-faced and anxious, opposite to her husband, supplying his wants, while she waited for an answer to her last question, her hand slightly trembling as it held a letter the doctor had lately passed to her.

“You will let me answer this, Tom, won’t you?” she said gently, with all the motherly woman in her tones, and the hard, business, doctor’s wife, who often made up his medicines, and even prescribed in simple cases in his absence, gone. “You will let me answer this, Tom?”

The doctor kept his paper before his face, and read on without condescending to reply.

“Tom,” she repeated, leaning towards him, “Tom, be tender and gentle now, Tom; and – ”

Mrs Hardon stopped; for a maid had entered the room with a note, which she handed to Mrs Hardon.

“Confound you!” hissed the doctor as soon as the door was closed; and then, instead of the mild, beaming doctorial countenance, there was his brother’s angry face scowling on his wife – “Confound you! how many times have I told you not to ‘Tom’ me before the servants? No, no, no! if you will have an answer,” he shouted; “let her starve – let her die – let her jump off one of the bridges if she likes; she left me, and she may suffer for it. She sha’n’t come back here to disgrace me in my profession.”

Mrs Hardon was not at all afraid of her husband, and in many of their little matrimonial differences she had been known to come off the better. The blood rose to her cheeks, and she was about to answer angrily, but she checked herself, and, crossing over, laid her hand upon her husband’s shoulder.

“Tom!” she whispered.

“Damn! I tell you I won’t have it!” roared the doctor.

“Hush!” said Mrs Hardon sternly, but with a touch of softness in her voice. “You know I was ill, Tom, when I came back from town last week.”

“Well?” said the doctor, shuffling impatiently in his seat.

“I did not tell you the reason, Tom.”

“Well, what of that?” said the doctor savagely.

“O, Tom!” she said, her voice breaking as she sank at his feet, “I saw her; I met her. She passed me as I was going to my cab, wild-eyed, pale, worn-looking; and O, Tom, if you had seen her too – seen her as I saw her then, when I held out my arms to her and she fled away shamefaced before me – you would have felt, as I did, as I do now, something tugging at your heartstrings, and whispering to you that it was your child that you did not use well, and telling you that if you had done your duty by her she would never have gone to Octavius, and then fled with that base villain. Tom,” she continued softly, “I feel all this. We are getting old, Tom, and what are we to say at the last hour, what forgiveness can we ask for, if our own child is driven from us? She hurried from me then; but see now how it has made her write. Look at the address here; where is it? some horrible part of – O, Tom!”

The exclamation was hardly shrieked from Mrs Hardon’s lips before the letter the doctor had snatched from her hand was blazing upon the fire, he fiercely dragging off his dressing-gown, and preparing to put on his black coat; while, the softness gone from her face, Mrs Hardon stood before him frowning and hard; but far from noticing her husband’s acts, she was gazing introspectively, and trying to recall the address she had so lately read; an address which the more she tried to bring back, the more it seemed to glide from her mind; first a number, then a word, then the whole, and it was gone.

The doctor pulled on his coat by snatches, ejaculated, and went through many of the evolutions favoured by persons who wish to impress others with the fact that they are in a tempestuous passion; but he had resisted the advances made by his wife when she had thrown off the mask that years of worldliness had fixed there, and now she was ready to engage him with his own weapons. As to his real or simulated anger, she valued it not in the least, holding it in the most profound contempt, while a stranger would hardly have believed her to be the same woman who a few minutes before had kneeled at the doctor’s feet.

“I want some money before you go out,” said Mrs Hardon coldly; and the doctor started with surprise at the change the conversation had taken. “I want some money,” said Mrs Hardon in a louder key.

“How much?” said the doctor, calming down as his wife seemed disposed to take the upper hand.

“Twenty-five – thirty pounds,” said Mrs Hardon.

“What for?” said the doctor.

“What for?” said Mrs Hardon fiercely. “Not to send away – not for that, but for the tradespeople’s bills; since you are so proud of your reputation – your professional reputation – have them cleared off. Richards has sent twice, and threatens proceedings;” and she held out the note the maid had brought in; “and now I insist upon knowing how you stand. I will not be kept here in the dark over these speculations. I know matters are going wrong; and do you suppose that I will sit by like a child and see ruin come upon my home; I who was always trusted to keep your books and purse, until you became a physician? There is something wrong, Thomas Hardon, or there would not always be this pinching and holding back of every sovereign. You drive me from your side – me, the wife of five-and-thirty years – when I would be the loving woman. Now, then, I will be the firm woman of the world, and be satisfied upon these points at issue. You had better write me a cheque at once; for I will not be disgraced by the tradespeople, since we are to stand so upon our dignity.”

Doctor Hardon looked viciously at his wife, spoiling his generally placid countenance to a degree that, had one of his best patients seen him then, it would have been a serious loss to the doctor and a gain to the rival practitioner; but he made no movement towards drawing the cheque for which Mrs Hardon stood waiting, till, seeing that nothing was to be gained, she left the room in anger; but the next minute she had returned, to once more lay her hand gently upon the doctor’s arm:

“Have you a heart, Tom?” she whispered. “Is our old age to be an old age of regret? Think of Octavius and his son; look at his desolate, wretched life, and don’t let ours be quite the same.”

Mrs Hardon had had a hard battle with self, and crushed down the angry feelings that had been fighting for exit; for there was the thought of her child in her heart – maternity asserting itself and thrusting aside in its greatness all that was petty and contemptible; but as she stood there appealing to the doctor the struggle grew harder. Obstinate, bitter, cruel, the doctor masked all beneath his cold, calm, professional aspect, treating the weeping woman with a cutting indifference that roused her indignation thoroughly at last; and to conceal her anger she hurried from the room, but this time not to return.

The doctor may have had a heart, but it was thoroughly unmoved by all that his wife had said; in fact the appeal had come at a wrong time, since the same post which brought the letter he had passed over to Mrs Hardon had given him other letters whose contents he so thoroughly knew that he had not even opened them, but, glancing at their directions, thrust them hastily into his pocket, where they acted as so much fuel to feed the fire of his wrath. There was something so unmistakable in the particularly-distinct handwriting upon the envelopes – something so very blue about the paper – that, expecting unpleasant communications, the doctor detected them at a glance, and mentally he went over the contents.

The fact was the doctor was short of cash, and that through more than one unfortunate speculation in which he had embarked. Like a great many more men of moderate income, he had been bitten with the desire to increase it, though the bite came in the first instance from his wife, who scolded him fiercely when, after the MD honour had been thrust upon him, he gave up the union practice, which entailed the loss of the regular salary of one hundred pounds per annum. The doctor said that it was not becoming for a physician to be the medical attendant of the parish; and Mrs Hardon, who was then in a worldly, everyday phase, declared that it was “all fiddlesticks’ ends,” when there was his cheque regularly at certain times, while the greater part of the work could be done by the assistant, who would do very well for the poor people. It was a sin and a shame, she declared, though how connected with fiddlesticks’ ends was best known to herself. There was, however, something relating to the musical science in the matter, for Mrs Doctor Hardon kept harping upon the same string until the doctor snapped it by furiously threatening her if another word was said about it – threats which Mrs Hardon noticed so much that she certainly held her tongue; and she held her hand too, and tried to annoy the doctor by keeping a bad table, which she said so great a loss every year necessitated. Poor woman! she little knew that the time would come when such economy would be forced upon her. What, she asked the doctor, was honour without money? What was the use of her being a physician’s wife if they had nothing to support it with? And, then, too for him to be such an ass – the doctor started and puffed out his cheeks at this – “Yes, ass,” said Mrs Hardon, “as to play into your adversary’s hand like that, when he was on the verge of ruin, as everybody said, and could not have kept on another six months; for you to throw the union practice and a hundred a-year into his lap, and supply him with the material for carrying on the war!”

Mrs Doctor Hardon spoke of the rival practitioner, a poor, gentlemanly man, who had set up some years before in the dusty town of Somesham, and had been fighting ever since with difficulties; for, as in all small country towns in this land of liberty, every new-comer was looked upon as an intruder – a foreigner – and one who will probably interfere with the fine old conservative notions of the place. They don’t want him, and they won’t have him if they can help it. He is clever, perhaps; but they don’t want clever people, and they would prefer being half-killed by the old practitioner to being cured by the new. Trade or profession, it is just the same; and perhaps the acts of the town are only the acts of the country in miniature. Hospitality we have in plenty, and our share of the virtues, no doubt; but truly we English have most strongly in us the propensity for turning our backs upon those who are trying to fight their way on, until they can manage to do without help, when we turn round, smiling with the features that frowned before, pat the successful man upon the back, and say, “Well done!”

Mr Brande, “the new man,” as he was called, had found all this, and had been ready to despair again and again through the many years he had been trying to make a practice; but now the turning-point had come in the honours of Thomas Hardon, Esq, MD; not that he had reaped much present advantage, and it was doubtful if he would have had the practice at all if Doctor Hardon had not had immediate want for a hundred and fifty pounds, and, trusting to Mr Brande’s honour as a gentleman, offered to throw up the parish work on condition of receiving that sum, which Mr Brande gave him in bills, and, what was more, screwed, economised, and met them as they fell due. But Mrs Doctor Hardon did not know this, nor yet the extent of the liabilities her lord had incurred; while the deeper he sunk in that black, clinging mire of debt, the more reticent he grew.

Volume One – Chapter Eight.

Mr Pawley’s Performance

“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.