Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
“Don’t ask questions,” said the doctor abruptly. “It is enough for you to know that it is so, and that the money comes at a time when we want it badly.”
“Then we have no business to have been wanting it badly!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon; “and I shall make it my business to go to Keening’s one of these days, and ask them the state of your affairs.”
“Yes, you had better!” snarled the doctor, displaying a bright speck of the gold setting of his teeth.
“But such a saint as poor Lavinia always seemed!” said Mrs Hardon. “I should never have thought it of her; and if it was not that the poor thing is dead and gone, I should have called it quite disgraceful. But there, we can’t afford to talk about such matters, I’m sure;” and she began to rock herself to and fro in her chair and to sob: “O, Tom! you drove that poor girl away, – you did. She would never have left if – ”
“Hold your tongue!” cried the doctor fiercely.
“But you did, Tom; and I shall never forget her look that day I met her in the street – it went like a knife to my heart.”
Mrs Hardon sat crying silently for some time, while the doctor savagely rustled his paper, but all the while reading not a word, for his lips moved, and he talked fiercely to himself.
“There!” cried Mrs Hardon at last, “I won’t take on, for it seems of no use, and whether she or I live or die, don’t seem to matter to you, Tom. And now I want to know about Octavius’s property. How much is it? and are you certain that there was no will?”
“I’ve told you there was none ten times over,” said the doctor; “and now wait till the funeral’s over, for I won’t be bothered.”
“But, Tom,” said Mrs Hardon, “I want to know what is the extent – what it is really worth, and how much you owe.”
“Never mind,” said the doctor.
“But I have a right to know,” cried Mrs Hardon.
“There! I don’t know myself,” said the doctor.
“Then perhaps your solicitors do,” said Mrs Hardon; “and I shall, as I have often threatened, ask them.”
“And much good it will do you,” muttered the doctor; but, not liking to run the risk of any exposure of his present differences with his wife, he compromised. “Well,” he said, “what is it that you wish to know?”
“Why, I told you,” said Mrs Hardon; “what Octavius’s property is worth, and whether you are quite sure that Septimus – ”
“You are wanted, sir, if you please,” said the maid, appearing at the door.
“Who is it?” said the doctor testily, for this was an hour when he objected to being disturbed.
“Wouldn’t give any name, sir,” replied the girl.
“Send him round to the surgery,” said the doctor.
“Please, sir, he’s in the front passage, and he said he didn’t want the sudgery.”
“What sort of a man is it?” said the doctor.
“Look’s like a poor man, sir,” said the girl.
“How many times have you been told not to leave strangers in the passage!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon angrily. “There’ll be another coat gone directly; go and stay with him till your master comes.”
The maid disappeared, giving the door so loud a shut that it sounded almost like a bang, when the doctor began to complain of fatigue, and being worn out, and Mrs Hardon, who wished to propitiate, offered to go.
“Do, please, my love,” murmured the doctor, in the most gentle of tones – the professional.
Mrs Hardon slightly drew down the corners of her mouth in a contemptuous grimace as she left the room, but returned in a few minutes looking pale and scared; and then she carefully closed the door after her.
“It’s quite taken my breath away!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “He frightened me: what made you tell me that Septimus was dead?”
“Well, isn’t he?” said the doctor, shuffling hastily round in his chair.
“Dead?” exclaimed Mrs Hardon. “If he is, it’s his ghost that has come down: that’s all.”
“Come down?” cried the doctor, turning of a dirty pallid hue.
“And he’s walked all the way from London. And you never saw such a poor, deplorable-looking object in your life. He looks twenty years older, that he does.”
“What does he want?” cried the doctor, panting in spite of his efforts to keep down his emotion.
“Says he’s come down to see his father, and to attend to his affairs.”
“Well, tell him to go to Keening’s. I won’t see him – I won’t see him. My nerves won’t bear it; they have not recovered from the last shock yet, let alone that horrible night of the robbery.”
“But you’d better see him,” said Mrs Hardon, whose woman’s heart was touched by her visitor’s aspect.
“No, no; I can’t – I can’t bear it, and it’s better that I should not;” and as he spoke there was no dissimulation in the doctor’s words or mien: he was undoubtedly very much moved.
“But you must see him; and besides, it will seem so strange if it’s known in the town that you sent him away like that.”
“Well – er – well – perhaps I had better,” said the doctor; “where is he? I’ll go to him, or – no, let him come in here; but put away the wine first.”
Mrs Hardon took no notice of the last remark, but went out, and returned directly with Septimus Hardon, footsore, dusty, and travel-stained.
“Good-evening, Mr Septimus,” said the doctor, in the tone of voice he had heard so often from his patients, and as he spoke he slightly bent forward, but lay back again directly in his chair, without offering his visitor a seat. “Good-evening, Mr Septimus. I suppose we must say Hardon?”
“If you please, uncle,” said Septimus, somewhat startled at his strange reception – a reception more chilling even than in his diffidence he had anticipated.
“Sit down, Septimus, you look tired,” said Mrs Hardon, pouring out a glass of wine for the visitor, who drank it with avidity, for he was faint and agitated, feeling somewhat like the Prodigal, though this was no prodigal’s welcome.
“How do you find business, Mr Septimus?” said the doctor, perspiring freely, but now speaking calmly and slowly.
“Bad – bad,” said Septimus. “I have lost all, and been put to great shifts, while my poor wife is a confirmed invalid.”
“Dear me, dear me!” said the doctor blandly, “how sad! I might perhaps be able to give her advice. I suppose she could not call at my surgery any morning before ten?”
“She always was delicate,” put in Mrs Hardon hastily, for she was annoyed at her husband’s behaviour; while something kept, as it were, whispering to her, “He is from London, and may know something of my poor girl.”
There was a dead silence then for some few minutes, which the doctor broke.
“I – er – er – I – er – I think you have hardly come on a visit of ceremony,” he said; “you wished to see me?” and after coughing away something which seemed to form in his throat, he spoke in his most unguental tones – in the voice he kept for married ladies upon particular occasions.
“I came down,” said Septimus, in a broken voice, “upon seeing my poor father’s death. It was shown to me – by a friend – newspaper – torn scrap – I have walked down – weak – and ill.”
Mrs Hardon uttered an exclamation, for Septimus had risen as he spoke, and stood working his hands together, as he gazed appealingly at his uncle; and then, as he trailed off in his speech, he reeled and clutched at the table, sweeping off a wine-glass in his effort to save himself from falling.
“Better now,” said Septimus faintly, as he sank into the chair behind him. “I am sorry, but I feel overcome, and weak, and giddy. I have had much sorrow and trouble lately, and my father’s death was so sudden.”
The doctor winced a little, but recovered himself in a moment, for he was used to witnessing trouble, and could bear it.
“Yes – yes – a sad thing, – very sad – mournful I may say,” he observed. “But my poor brother always was so distant and peculiar in his dealings with his relations. Of course you know that the funeral takes place to-morrow?”
“No,” replied Septimus; “I know nothing beyond what I have told you, and I come to my father’s brother for information.”
“Yes, just so,” said the doctor; “but I can not refrain from blaming my poor brother; doubtless you had given him great cause of offence, but he ought to have made some provision for you.”
“I did write to him again and again,” said Septimus, “but I suppose he felt too angry, and – let it rest now; I have struggled through all my trouble without his help, and I do not complain.”
“Just so,” said the doctor; “but it would have been more just if he had made some provision.”
“You have seen his will, I suppose?” said Septimus.
“O no!” said the doctor, “there is no will.”
“Then he has left no legacies?” said Septimus.
“Not one,” replied the doctor; “but I am not surprised – he never was a business man.”
“I am sorry too,” said Septimus softly, “for the sake of my cousins and yourselves;” and Septimus started as he saw the wince Mrs Hardon gave at the mention of the word “cousins.”
“Yes,” said the doctor blandly; “it would have been more just towards you. For even if he had only left you a hundred or two they would have been acceptable, no doubt.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Septimus.
“I was alluding to your being left so unprovided for,” said the doctor. “It seems so sad.”
“But you told me he left no will,” said Septimus wonderingly; “and I am his only child.”
The doctor smiled compassionately upon his nephew, with the air of a man removing a leg or an arm.
“There, for goodness’ sake don’t go on torturing the poor fellow in that way!” cried downright Mrs Hardon. “Why don’t you speak out? You see, Septimus – ”
“I beg that you will be silent, Mrs Hardon,” exclaimed the doctor.
“I shall be nothing of the kind,” cried Mrs Hardon. “The poor man has enough to suffer as it is, without being grilled over a slow fire.”
Septimus gazed from uncle to aunt in a strange bewildered way, prepared for some new shock, but unable to comprehend what blow Fate meant to deal him now.
“You see, Septimus,” continued Mrs Hardon, without heeding her husband’s uplifted hands, – “you see the property comes to my husband as next of kin.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Septimus, as if relieved that his aunt’s communication was of no more weight. “I am the only child, and besides, I have a son.”
“Now just see what a painful scene you have brought about,” whined the doctor, reproachfully eyeing his wife.
“Indeed,” interrupted Septimus, “I am sorry that the matter should be discussed, for it appears unseemly at such a time: before my poor father’s remains are beneath the earth.”
“If you would only have been silent,” continued the doctor, not heeding the interruption. – “Now pray, my good sir,” he said, turning to Septimus, “go to Messrs Keening and Keening, my solicitors, and – ”
“Tell me what it all means, aunt, or I shall go mad!” cried Septimus, catching Mrs Hardon’s hand in both of his, and gazing imploringly in her face.
“Well, the plain truth of the matter is this,” said Mrs Hardon —
“Pray be silent, Mrs Hardon,” said the doctor. “My solicitors – ”
“You were not born in wedlock,” said Mrs Hardon.
“Who dares say that is true?” shouted Septimus, with eyes flashing; “who dares speak in that way of my poor mother?” he exclaimed. “It’s a lie – a base lie!” and in spite of Septimus Hardon’s plainness, his years, the dust and shabby clothing, there was in him a nobleness of aspect that made the doctor look mean by comparison, as he stood there furiously eyeing both in turn, and thinking then no more of his father’s money than if it had been so much dirt beneath his feet. That such an aspersion should be cast upon the fame of the mother whose memory he tenderly loved seemed to him monstrous; and it was well for Doctor Hardon that he did not think it necessary to answer the sternly-put question; for most assuredly, had he replied, Septimus would have taken him by the throat.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs Hardon. “All I know is, that it’s very sad, and I’m very, very sorry for you.”
But Doctor Hardon, taken aback at first by the fierce mien of Septimus, had now somewhat recovered his confidence, while the anger of the nephew was as short-lived, so utterly bewildering was the news he now heard; the insult to his mother’s memory, the snatching away of the competence that seemed in his hands, the cool self-possession of his uncle, – all completely staggered him, and he knew not what to say or do.
“Sir,” said the doctor, rising and placing a hand within his waistcoat as he spoke with great dignity, – “sir, I must beg that this scene, this unseemly brawling, may not be continued in my house. You can find my solicitors, who will give you all the information you may require. The funeral takes place to-morrow, and, under the circumstances, I have taken upon myself the duty of seeing that proper respect is paid to the departed. You are folly aware that your presence would not have been even tolerated for an instant in my brother’s house during his lifetime, and you presume on my forbearance by treating me as you do. Under the circumstances, I decline to hold any further communication with you. Had you come in humbleness and treated me with respect, I will not say what I might not have been tempted to do for you out of pity. As to your assumption of ignorance of your illegitimacy, it is simply absurd, for it is a matter of which you must have been fully aware. You know well, that when my brother declined to hold any further communication with you, it was not merely on account of your opposition to his wishes, but because it was painful to his feelings to be constantly reminded in daily life of the sins of his youth. I think too, now, that if you have any right feeling left, you will have the decency to end this most unseemly meeting by leaving at once, for it is to me, after my late sufferings, most painful. My poor brother!”
Doctor Hardon paused to bury his face in his handkerchief, and congratulate himself upon the very effective way in which he had acted his part. He then made a show of wiping away a tear, and Mrs Hardon did likewise; but in the one case the tear was genuine, in the other counterfeit coin.
As for Septimus Hardon he had never made but one enemy in his life – himself; but had he owned a score, and they had stood around him at that minute, not a man of them could have struck a blow at the abject, crushed, spiritless, broken man, as, without word, almost without thought, he mechanically glanced round the room, turned, and then slowly walked out, closely followed by Mrs Hardon, who passed something into his hand as she closed the door upon his retreating form.
Volume One – Chapter Sixteen.
Seeking Hospitality
“Why, if it ain’t you, Master Sep, as I thought we were never going to see no more!” cried Mrs Lower to the desolate-looking man outside her snug bar. “But, my; you do look bad, and it’s close upon ten years since I’ve set eyes upon you. There, do come in and sit down. Yes; that’s poor Lower’s chair; he’s been gone years now, Master Sep, and I’m left a lone widow, my dear; but your name was one of the last words he spoke – your name and poor Miss Agnes’s. Do you ever see her in the big city, Master Sep?”
Septimus shook his head.
“Has she left here?” he said.
“Didn’t you know?” said Mrs Lower. “Ah, yes, long enough ago!” and she stooped her head and whispered in her visitor’s ear. “But there, we needn’t talk about troubles now. How haggard and worn you do look! And how’s Mrs Septimus? I always think of her as Mrs Grey. But what’s it to be now? Isn’t it awful about poor master, whom I’d never have left if I’d known what was to happen? No, Master Sep, not to marry a dozen Lowers, and be the mistress of fifty County Arms; though, rest him! poor Lower was a good, kind husband, for all we were elderly folk to wed, and had forgotten how to make love. Now, say a hot cup of tea, Master Sep, or a hot steak with a little ketchup. If you’d been a bit sooner, there was a lovely sweetbread in the house; but there, it’s no use to talk of that; so say the steak and tea. I am glad to see you, my dear boy!”
Septimus signified his desire for the tea, and Charles was summoned, and dismissed with his orders, but not without making a tolerable investigation of the guest whom his mistress delighted to honour – an investigation apparently not very satisfactory, from the imperious way in which he gave his orders in the kitchen.
“Now, just a toothful of my orange cordial, Master Sep. Now, don’t say no, because you must. I make it myself, and the gentlemen take it on hunting-days. Now, tip it up like a good boy; and here’s a biscuit. See now; don’t it put you in mind of old times, when you were a naughty child, and wouldn’t take your physic? How time does go, to be sure; why, it’s only like yesterday. But there, I won’t bother you. Have a pair of slippers and a comfortable wash. Did you bring any luggage?”
Ten minutes passed, and then Septimus was again seated in the snug bar, with the kettle singing its song of welcome upon the hob; a savoury steak was before him; and the comely old dame, in her rustling black silk, smilingly pouring out the strong tea she had been brewing, taking a cup too herself, “just for sociability sake,” as she told her visitor.
“And so poor master’s gone, and you’re coming down to the old place again?” said Mrs Lower.
Septimus groaned.
“Ah, Master Sep, I can respect your feelings; but though poor master’s dead and gone, he had his failings, while he never did his duty either by you or your poor mother.”
Septimus Hardon nearly dropped his cup as he gazed blankly in his old nurse’s face.
“What – what do you mean?” he exclaimed.
“Why, he was always hard, and – But there, poor man, he’s dead and gone, and we all have our failings, and plenty of them. But come, my dear boy, pray do eat something.”
Septimus tried to eat a few morsels, but his appetite was gone, and he soon laid down his knife and fork.
“Of course you’ll come down and live at the old place, Master Sep?” said Mrs Lower.
Septimus shook his head sadly.
“O, Master Sep!” cried the old lady, “don’t sell it; don’t part with it, it would be a sin.”
“But it will never be mine!” cried Septimus passionately. “O, nurse, nurse! this is a hard and a bitter world. I came down here almost in rags, tramping down like a beggar, and now, in cold and brutal terms, my uncle tells me that I am a bastard – that I have no right to enter my own father’s house; while, if this is true, I am a beggar still.”
Mrs Lower looked astounded. “What,” she exclaimed, “does he mean to say? But there, it’s nonsense. You can soon prove to him that you are not.”
“How?” exclaimed Septimus wearily. “Everything goes against me. I have been away ten years; my father sent me from his house; he refused all communications with me; and now I return on the day before the funeral.”
“O, but you must go to the lawyers!” cried Mrs Lower. “They can put you right.”
The couple sat talking for some time. It was refreshing to Septimus to find so sincere a welcome, for he had put Mrs Lower’s hospitality to the test on the strength of the sovereign his aunt had slipped into his hand. But the old dame could give him no information touching his birth, and but little respecting the place and time of his father’s marriage.
Weary at length of the subject, Septimus listened to the history of Somesham during the past few years, till, taking compassion upon her visitor’s jaded looks, Mrs Lower showed him his bedroom, where he tried to forget his present sorrows in sleep.
But sleep came not, and he tossed feverishly from side to side, bewildered by the thoughts that rushed through his brain: old faces, old scenes, and, foremost among them, home, and the stern countenance of his father, came crowding back. Now he would doze, but to start up in a few minutes under the impression that he was called. He dozed off again and again, but always to start up with the same fancy, and once he felt so sure that he leaped out of bed and opened his door; but the dark passage was empty, and all without quite still, so he returned to his bed, sat there for a few minutes thinking, and then went to the window, drew the blind, and stood gazing out upon the buildings of the familiar market-place.
The wind swept by, swinging the old sign to and fro, while all looked so calm and peaceful that he returned to his bed, and again tried for rest, falling into a fevered, half sleeping, half waking state, wherein the old faces still came crowding back, now nearer and nearer, now seeming to vanish away into nothingness, till at last that one old face seemed to exclude all others, and he saw his father as he saw him last, frowning harshly upon him; but soon the face assumed an aspect of pity, a look that told the suffering man that he was forgiven, before it changed into the frigid hardness of death.
Septimus Hardon started up in bed and gazed at the dim, shaded window, hardly realising where he was, as he tried to get rid of the dread image which oppressed him; but the night through, hour after hour, as soon as he closed his eyes, there was the same cold, stern face, as though impressed upon his brain, and wanting but the exclusion of the light for him to direct his gaze inward upon the fixed lineaments. So on, hour after hour, dozing and starting up, till the first streaks of the coming day appeared in the east, and as they grew stronger, peering in through the bedroom window, and holding forth to view the various objects in the room in a half-shadowed, ghostly manner that completely chased away the remaining desire for sleep that lingered with the unnerved man.
“Knocked three times, mem,” said Charles, “and can’t make him hear.”
“Never mind,” said Mrs Lower. “I’ll go myself presently.”
Mrs Lower had carefully prepared what she considered a snug breakfast, and put her regular body to no slight inconvenience by waiting past her usual hour for the morning meal; but she thought of her visitor’s fatigue and trouble.
“He can’t do better than sleep, poor boy,” she muttered, descending the stairs, after listening at the bedroom door for the third time; when she sat in the bar and waited for quite an hour, till suddenly a thought struck her, which set her trembling and wringing her hands, and her comely old face worked as she tried to keep back the tears.
“O, if he has – if he has! O, my poor boy!” she exclaimed, hurrying up the staircase, and stumbling at every second step in her agitation. “O, Charles, come with me!”
The door yielded to her touch, and almost falling against the bed, Mrs Lower found it empty, while the pillow was quite cold.
“O, look round – look round, Charles!” she gasped, as she sank upon her knees at the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes.
“No one here, mem,” said Charles, after a cursory glance round – not being able to comprehend his mistress’s emotion.
“O, look behind the door, Charles!” gasped Mrs Lower; “and at the bedposts.”
“Silk dress behind the fust, and wallance and hangings on the seconds,” said Charles methodically. “What next, mem?”
“Can’t you see him, Charles?” said Mrs Lower, slowly raising her head.
“No, mem,” said Charles; “he’s gone, safe. Did he pay, mem?”
“Nonsense!” cried Mrs Lower angrily; “he was a friend of mine;” and then the doubting dame carefully examined the room, looking in the most impossible of corners for the missing visitor, and only stopping as she was about to peer up the chimney by seeing a half-concealed grin upon the face of Charles.
“I’ll ask Boots if he’s seen him, mem,” said Charles, to get out of his difficulty.
But that gentleman had neither seen Septimus Hardon nor the articles of clothing after which he was named; so that it seemed evident that the visitor had taken his unbrushed boots and departed.
“So very strange!” muttered Mrs Lower to herself.
“The seediest pair of boots we’ve ever had in the place,” said Charles in confidence to the chambermaid; and then, after due cogitation, he came to the conclusion that if many of the visitors to the County Arms were like the unknown of the past night, his situation would not be worth the energy he displayed for the comfort of all who sought there rest and refreshment.
Volume One – Chapter Seventeen.
“Nothing like Leather.”
The very morning upon which waiter Charles of the County Arms, Somesham, spoke so disparagingly of Septimus Hardon’s boots, the maker, or rather re-maker, of the said boots sat, as soon as it was broad daylight – not an extremely early hour in his home – industriously plying his craft, till, after divers muttered anathemas, a voice growled:
