Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
For a few minutes Septimus Hardon stopped, leaning against the window-sill, trembling and undecided, till, mustering his strength of mind and body, he slowly drew himself up, climbed within the room, and then as the blind fell back to its place, stood in the presence of the dead, listening to the “rap-rap” of the blind-lath against the window-frame, and a sharp vicious gnawing that proceeded from behind the wainscot of the old house, and all the while not daring to turn his eyes in the direction of the bed whose position he knew so well, and upon which he could feel that the coffin was resting.
Gnaw, gnaw; tear, tear; sharp little teeth savagely working at the thin hard wood, and evidently making rapid progress towards their goal.
The sound was hideous, and the sweat dropped from Septimus Hardon’s forehead with a tiny plash upon the bare boards, where he could see more than one little star-like mark, and then rousing himself, he ran towards the spot from whence the noise proceeded, and kicked furiously at the wainscot, when there was a scuffling noise, followed by a deep stillness, broken only at intervals by the gentle rapping of the blind-lath upon the window-frame.
And there stood the careworn man in his own old room – the old plainly-furnished room that he might have slept in but the previous night, so unaltered was everything, as, with eyes putting off that which he had come to see until the very last, he gazed around. There were the quaint old black-framed prints of Hudibras, whose strange, uncouth figures had frightened him as a boy – figures that, in the half-lights of evening or early morn, he had looked upon until they had seemed to stand forth from the frames as he lay quaking with childish terror; there was the old wall-paper, in whose pattern he had been wont to trace grotesque faces; there again the marbled ceiling, whose blue veins he had been used to follow in their maze-like wanderings, when he lay fevered and wakeful with some childish ailment; the same strips of lean-looking striped carpet; the same old hook in the beam, round which the flies darted and circled in summer; the same rickety corner washstand, with its cracked ewer, and quaint water-bottle and glass, which tinkled when a footstep passed along the passage; the fire-board, which blew down on windy nights, and almost frightened him into a fit, while there it was, even now, half-fallen and leaning against a chair, with a faint dust of the old fine soot, just as it used to be, scattered upon the hearthstone; the same drawers, whose old jingling brass knobs caught in his pinafore, and held him that dark night when he let fall the candle, and stood screaming for help; the same shells upon the chimney-piece – shells that of old he had held to his ear to listen to the roaring sea; even the old rushlight shade – big, and pierced with holes – was there, the old shade that used to stand upon the floor in the wash-hand basin, and throw its great hole-pierced shadow all over ceiling and wall – while each hole formed a glaring eye to stare at him and frighten away sleep.
Familiar sights that made him disbelieve in the lapse of time, and think it impossible that he could be standing there an elderly man; for all his association with the room seemed those first-formed impressions of childhood. But he cast away the dreamy, musing fit; for he felt that he had driven it to the last, and he must look now. Yes; there was his old bed, with the great black-cloth coffin, nearly covered by its lid, now drawn down a little from the head.
“Tap-tap, tap-tap,” went the blind-lath; while outside shone the sun, and through the open window came the cheery twitter of the birds. Within the room Septimus Hardon could hear the heavy beating of his own heart. Then again, close behind him, came the sound of hurried scuffling beyond the wainscot; then a shrill squealing; and directly after, the loud sharp tearing of hungry teeth, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw incessantly, for the scared rats had again returned to the charge.
Septimus Hardon roused himself from his stupor, and kicked angrily at the wainscot, and once again he heard the hurrying rush of the hunger-driven little animals as they fled, and a shuddering sensation ran through his veins as he recalled the past.
And now he nerved himself to approach the bed, and stretched out his hand to remove the coffin-lid; but for some time he stood with his hands resting upon it. A dread had overshadowed him that he was about to gaze upon something too hideous for human eyes to bear; but at last he thrust the covering aside, and it fell upon the bed, when, with swimming head, he clung to the bedstead for a few minutes to save himself from falling. But the tremor passed off, for he was once more roused by the indefatigable gnawing of the rats; and he asked himself how long it would be before they would work their way through the thin oaken panel, and then whether they would attack the coffin.
Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw incessantly, till he once more angrily struck at the wall, when the noise ceased. And now Septimus Hardon strode firmly up to the bedside and gazed upon his father’s face, not hideously disfigured, or frightful to look upon, but pale, calm, stern, with the brow slightly contracted, and, seen there in the twilight of that shaded room, apparently sleeping.
Dead – not sleeping. Gone from him without a word, without a sign, of forgiveness; leaving him a beggar with a name that was fouled and stained for ever in the sight of men. Gone – taking with him a secret of such vital importance; but Septimus Hardon thought not now of all this, for his memory was back amidst those early days when his mother was living, and his father would relax from his stern fits, so that for a while happiness seemed to dwell within their home. Then came the recollection of his mother’s death, and the cold indifference into which his father had sunk. Then again all the sorrows and pains were forgotten, and the old man’s virtues shone forth, as his shabby, travel-stained son sank upon his knees by the coffin and buried his face in his hands.
The sun streamed through the loose corner of the blind and shone like a golden bar-sinister across the kneeling man; the sparrows twittered in the eaves, and ever upon the window-frame the blind kept up its monotonous tap, tap, tap, at regular intervals, while at times a puff of light air made it shiver and shudder from top to bottom. But, above all, came from behind the wainscot the incessant gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, as though the rats knew, that their time was short, and that their prey would soon be beyond their reach; gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, as though splintering off large pieces of the woodwork, while now no angrily-stricken blow scared them off; gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, until little ragged splinters and chips began to be thrust out beneath the skirting-board; then more, and more, and more, till a tiny, light heap, that a breath would have scattered, appeared close to a ragged hole. Then heap and hole grew larger, and as the noise increased a sharp nose was seen moving quickly, as a rat worked vigorously, till, as it obtained room to tear away at the board, the heap grew bigger, fragments were thrust out hastily into the room, and at last the little archway afforded space for the passage of the worker, a sharp-eyed, keen-looking, little animal, which, after peering about eagerly for a few moments, darted into the room, darted back again, and then renewed its attack upon the skirting-board until the hole was enlarged.
Then for a while all was silent, but a keen observer might have detected within the darkness the sharp nose of the rat, and the eager glint of its watching orbs. Then came a faint rustle, and the rat seemed to glide out into the room; then another head appeared at the hole, and another lean, vicious animal was out, but a louder tap than usual from the blind sent them darting back to their lair.
Another five minutes and they were out again – one, two, three; another, and another, and another – a swarm of rats, savage with hunger; but now the loud, chirrupping squabble of a pair of sparrows which settled on the window-sill scared the little animals once more, and they fled in haste to their corner.
Out again, for all was silent; first one peering into the room, with its black, bead-like eyes scanning the place, then darting back at some false alarm, but out again directly, followed by its fellows, till there was a swarm once more, now running a few feet, now darting back to the hole; and still Septimus Hardon knelt, as he had knelt for hours, motionless beside his father’s coffin.
The golden bar shone into and across the room, a bar-sinister no longer, for it played upon the features of the dead, seeming to illumine them with a smile; the sparrows twittered in the eaves, the faint whistle of a carter, cheering his way with some old minor strain, was heard from the road; the blind still tapped softly and shuddered from top to bottom; but the gnawing sounds from the skirting-board had ceased, and the kneeling man remained motionless by the bedside.
Tap, tap, tap, in a strange warning way, as the shuddering motion of the old blind continued. Warning taps, as if softly made by unseen watchers – signals to rouse the kneeling figure whose face was buried in his hands, and whose worn, lean fingers touched the black-cloth of the coffin; taps that now grew louder, for there was a faint, scratching noise, as of little vicious claws passing over a counterpane.
Volume Two – Chapter Two.
Meetings
With something like the wondering pleasure that must have been felt by the first photographer who applied his developing liquid to a sensitised plate and then saw spring out by magic, as it were, first faint, then stronger lines, feature by feature, the lineaments of a beautiful face, gazed old Matt Space upon Lucy Grey as Time, that wonderful developer, caused her day by day to take more and more the aspect of a beautiful woman. Yesterday almost it seemed to him that she was a mere girl, a child; but the transition had been rapid. True, hers was a time of life when the bud is seen to expand rapidly; but here there had been forcing powers at work. In fact, in quiet self-dependence, thought, and her managing ways, Lucy had been for years a woman, and the friend and counsellor of her mother in many a sore trial. Familiarity with sorrow, poverty, her step-father’s struggles, and their life in the busy streets of London, had all tended to develop the mind of Lucy Grey, who might truly be said never to have known a girlhood: nurse to her little sister and brother in sickness and health, attendant of her ailing mother, housekeeper, cheerer of Septimus Hardon’s misery, and now busy worker for the family’s support, it were strange indeed if she had not stepped as it were from child to woman, for in such cases as hers years seem secondary.
But the years had not been stationary, for Lucy Grey was now seventeen, and the old printer used to gaze with pride upon the fair girl, who chose him gladly for her companion to and from the warehouse for which she worked.
But Matt was angry and annoyed, for he had been made the half confidant of a secret which galled and worried him. Twenty times a day he vowed that he would have no more of it; and at such times the consumption of his snuff was terrible. There was hardly a lamp-post in Carey-street to which he had not fiercely declared that he would “split,” nodding mysteriously the whole while; but night after night, when he met the appealing look of Lucy, all his resolutions faded like mist in the sun, and he would whisper the next post he passed that he was getting to be a fool in his old age.
The old man had carried the letter he received to Lucy, giving it to her at dinner-time, while Mrs Hardon was lying down; and then furtively watched the eager looks, the flushing cheeks, and tear-wet eyes, as the reader devoured the contents.
“You’ll be here to-night, Mr Space?” said Lucy, looking up. “You’ll go with me?”
“Old Matt Space, miss, is your humble servant, and he’ll do what you tell him; but he don’t like that at all. He don’t like secrets;” and the old man pointed to the note. “Why not tell her?” and he nodded towards the inner room.
“No, no,” whispered Lucy hurriedly.
“All right, miss, all right. I’ll be here at seven. Be taken bad, I suppose, and slip off for an hour.” And at the appointed time the old man hurried from the office where he was employed, at the great risk of being told that he would be wanted no more, and accompanied Lucy to where in the dusk of evening, she stood talking to the dark, showily-dressed woman, whose agitated, mobile countenance made the paint upon her cheeks look weird and strange. She had hold tightly of Lucy’s hand, and more than once old Matt saw her kiss it fondly, clinging to it as if it were her last hold upon innocence and purity.
Twice during their interview the old man advanced, signing that it was time they went, by many a hasty jerk with his thumb; but the appealing looks he encountered sent him muttering back to his former post beneath a lamp, where he stood watching uneasily.
And old Matt had something to watch, too; for twice he saw the villainously-countenanced Mr Jarker slink by on the opposite side of the way, trying very hard to appear ignorant of a meeting taking place, but failing dismally, for from time to time his head was turned in the direction, besides which many a passer-by paused to gaze, with something like effrontery, upon the sweet, candid face of Lucy, while more than one seemed disposed to turn back. All this troubled the old man, and made him redouble his watchfulness as he walked a little nearer to the speakers; but he did not see that, some fifty yards down the street, standing in a doorway, there was another watcher, from beneath whose broad white brow a pair of keen grey eyes were fixed uneasily upon the group, with a troubled, puzzled expression.
“God – God bless you!” whispered the woman; “you must go now, my darling!” just as a well-dressed man sauntered back, cigar in hand, and, slightly stooping, addressed some observation to the startled girl; when old Matt, who had been watching his movements and followed close behind, suddenly shouldered him on one side, and so vigorously, that he stepped into the road to save himself from falling. Then there was a shout from a passing cabman, a half-uttered cry, and the daintily-dressed lounger was rubbing the marks of a muddy wheel from his dark trousers, while old Matt, with a gruff “Come along, miss!” drew Lucy’s arm through his own, and with a short, sharp nod to her companion, marched her off.
But Matt did not turn back to see the next change in the scene, or he might have looked upon Mr William Jarker crossing the road and speaking to the dark woman, who replied fiercely and shortly, as she turned from him in an abrupt manner, but only to return and say a few words quietly ere she hurried off. Then the city dandy, recovered from his fright, followed the steps of old Matt and Lucy, till a firm hand was laid upon his shoulder, when turning, he encountered the calm, fixed gaze of a man of some one- or two-and-thirty, dressed as a clergyman.
“Stand back, sir, or I give you into custody for insulting that young lady,” he said, in quiet, hard, measured tones.
“Young what?” was the reply; but there was a something so firm and convincing in the look of the keen grey eyes upon him, that, muttering inaudibly, the fellow shrank back, and was soon lost in the passing crowd.
The Reverend Arthur Sterne then looked hastily round, to see that Lucy Grey had passed down the next street, to whose corner he hurried, where he could see her nearly at the bottom, with old Matt striding fiercely along. He then turned to look for the woman who had been Lucy’s companion, but she had disappeared. However, he walked hastily in the direction she had taken, and searched eagerly for some distance, now thinking that he caught sight of her bonnet on this side, now upon that, but always disappointed; several times he was about to return, but a delusive glimpse of some figure in the distance led him on, till, tired and disheartened, he turned to reach his apartments, when he encountered, first, the ill-looking countenance of Mr William Jarker, who made a sort of slouching attempt at a bow, and directly after, a quiet-looking individual, with a straw in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, whom Mr Sterne passed without notice, though he had recognised the birdcatcher, whose wife he had from time to time visited. But Mr Sterne was not aware that he had been followed by the ruffian, as a bull-dog would follow his master, or a hound his quarry – though it is disgracing the latter simile to use it. Nor was Mr Jarker aware that that quiet-looking individual had been following him in turn till he was once more about to track the curate, when for a moment he and the quiet individual stood face to face, apparently without seeing one another; but it was observable that Mr Jarker immediately went off in quite another direction, while, after slowly twisting his straw and winking to himself, the quiet man slowly took the same route as Mr Sterne.
Volume Two – Chapter Three.
Another Funeral
Septimus Hardon leaped to his feet, as suddenly a key turned and the bedroom-door opened; there was a sharp scuffling noise, as of a swarm of rats leaping hurriedly from the bed, and tearing over one another, in their haste to reach the hole; a wild shriek from a woman, a heavy fall, and then all was again silent.
As soon as he could recall his scattered energies, Septimus Hardon raised the woman’s head and bathed her face, when she soon opened her eyes and sat up, gazing at him with a horrified aspect.
“Hush!” he said softly; “don’t be alarmed. My name is Hardon; I came to see my father for the last time. I think I used to know you in the town?”
“O, yes; I remember you now, sir,” stammered the woman; “but you gave me a dreadful turn.”
“Hush! Come down-stairs now,” whispered Septimus, and he motioned her to follow him to the door.
The woman was about to obey, but, glancing round the room, she pointed to the freshly-gnawed wood and the heap of chips.
Septimus shuddered, and they went together and closed the coffin-lid.
“Stop a minute, sir, please,” said the woman – a poor cottager’s wife from the town, who followed the same road in Somesham adopted by Mrs Sims of Lincoln’s-inn, – “stop a minute, sir, please, and I’ll be back directly.” The poor thing trembled so that her teeth chattered, as she hurried away; but she returned in a few minutes with a huge black cat, which struggled from her arms and ran, with dilated eyes, towards the rats’ hole, where it softly couched, motionless but for the writhings of its lithe tail, as it sat there watching for the coming of its enemies.
There were funeral cake and wine upon the table below, and an extra supply of the former was cut up and sealed in squares of paper, bearing a couple of verses of a psalm, and the pastrycook’s name and address as a serious advertisement.
After waiting a couple of hours, most of which he spent wandering about the old house, Septimus Hardon took his old place in the little dining-room, opposite to the sealed-up bureau and cupboards. The undertaker and his man had arrived, and soon after came Doctor Hardon’s rival, who had been called in to the deceased. The undertaker knew Septimus and bowed; the surgeon, too, knew him again and shook hands, not being at all surprised to see him there; while he invited him to dinner before he should leave the town. But although Doctor Hardon, who came soon after, well knew Septimus Hardon, he was surprised to see him there, and did not shake hands, but started as though someone had struck him a violent blow. Mr Keening – Keening and Keening – then entered the room, when the gentlemen all took wine in a heavy, impressive way, and talked in a low tone about matters as far removed as possible from the purpose for which they had met together.
Then came the undertaker to ask in a subdued way if any gentleman wished to go up-stairs; but no gentleman save the son wished to go; and he stole away to stand and gaze for a few moments upon the calm pale features, and then returned to where the undertaker was distributing gloves of the best black kid, asking the size each gentleman took with a smooth oily courtesy. Scarves were then produced of the richest and stiffest corded-silk, cloaks were tied on, and as each mourner was dressed for his part of the performance, he was inspected all round, and from top to toe, by the undertaker before he was allowed to reseat himself. Then more wine, and more subdued conversation followed, interrupted by the grating of wheels upon the gravel drive. Heavy footsteps overhead now; trampling; someone slipping upon the stairs, and the balustrade heard to creak loudly as an exclamation was heard; a shuffling noise; more footsteps heavily descending; a sharp pattering of feet on the passage oilcloth, and much rustling past the room-door, followed by an interval of a few minutes, and the noise of wheels going and wheels coming; and then the undertaker stood bowing in the open door, and motioned Septimus Hardon to follow.
This was almost too much for Doctor Hardon, who had ordered that everything possible to make the funeral impressive should be done. The large hearse and two mourning-coaches had been hired expressly from the county-town; velvet and ostrich plumes were in plenty; and, as chief mourner, the doctor had reckoned upon a very imposing spectacle, one that should to a certain extent erase the horrors of his brother’s end, and help to raise him, the doctor, in the estimation of the inhabitants of Somesham. But now this was spoiled by the coming of the shabby, worn son, towards whom the undertaker had leaned in the belief, in his ignorance, that he was the chief mourner.
Septimus rose, and moved towards the door, while Doctor Hardon hesitated to obey the beckoning finger of the undertaker; but the dread of drawing attention to his tremor made him more himself, and, putting a white-cambric kerchief to his face, he followed his nephew, to be directly after shut up with him in the mourning-coach. But Septimus noticed him not, as he sat stern and with knitted brow, no muscle betraying the wild emotions struggling within.
The surgeon and solicitor followed in the next coach; and then the funeral procession moved slowly off towards the town, making as great a show as the undertaker’s strict adherence to his employer’s orders could effect. Doctor Hardon said he wished to keep up appearances for his dear brother’s sake; but he had not reckoned upon the presence of the stern, careworn man by his side, and he shrank into his corner of the mourning-coach, angry, but at the same time fearful lest a scene might ensue which should damage his reputation in the good town of Somesham; besides, it would have been so painful to the feelings of his three daughters – he only thought of three, even though one was married and two resided at a distance. Nothing could have been more unfortunate than the appearance of Septimus at such a time, and during the silent ride the doctor’s wishes were anything but loving towards his nephew; while upon reaching the church the gall of bitterness was made more bitter, for the doctor again found himself made of secondary importance by Septimus, who seemed to have roused himself into action for the time, and strode on in front, close behind the coffin, to take his place in the church so crowded with familiar recollections. There, bowed down in the same pew, but with very different thoughts, uncle and nephew listened to the service ere they stood together by the bricked vault prepared for the remains of old Octavius, and here again the doctor seemed to have shrunk into a nonentity, for every eye was fixed upon the shabby mourner by his side.
The clergyman had concluded, and, closing his book, was slowly walking away; the clerk had followed, and at the church-gate the foremost mourning-coach stood waiting, with a crowd of children and idlers around, the hearse being drawn up at a distance, already half denuded of its plumes by one of the deputies of the furnisher. There was a crowd, too, thickly clustered amidst grave and tombstone in the churchyard, for plenty of interest attached to the death of old Octavius Hardon, and the people of Somesham seemed bound to see the matter to the end.
Nothing now remained for the mourners but to take a last glance at the coffin and come away. Septimus had stood for a few moments looking down into the vault, with the stern aspect of resolution fading from his face, to give way to one of helpless misery, when, turning to leave, he encountered the mourning brother advancing with drooping head and raised handkerchief to take his farewell look.
