Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
He was angry and half-maddened to feel how helpless he was, and what a sway the impulse now moving him had obtained; to think that he – the minister of religion, the teacher of others – should have so little power over self that he should be swayed here and driven there helplessly; the whole current of his quiet life turned from its course, and that too in spite of the way in which he had battled, while the doubts that assailed him only added to his misery.
Now as he hurried on he would meet some policeman, who turned to watch him; now it would be some drunken reveller, or a wretched homeless being just started from some corner where he had been sleeping, and compelled to wander the streets till daybreak; but ever and again he would encounter the flauntingly – dressed outcast humming the snatch of a popular air with a wretched attempt at gaiety, which lasted till she had passed, and then almost broke into a wail. But he managed that they should always meet face to face beneath some gas-lamp, when he would sigh and pass on, for not one that he met during his search was the woman of the Lane.
Mrs Jarker did not know her name, nor yet where she lodged; but the little girl was to be called Agnes. That was all the information the curate could obtain; and at times he would frown, bite his lips, and give up the search, but only to take it up once again for what he always told himself was the last time. Then he would play the hypocrite, and tell himself that his motives were unselfish; that to marry a girl in Lucy’s position of life would be folly – absurd: he was only anxious for her well-being and future life.
But these fits lasted only for a short time, and then, smiling bitterly, he would, as upon this night, betake himself to the search once more.
And yet it was not on his account she came not to Bennett’s-rents, for Agnes Hardon knew not of his quest; she had other reasons, though the visits to her child and Lucy were the only bright spots in her wretched life. Lucy heard from her from time to time through old Matt, who bore her notes always under protest, but still obediently, though Lucy was the only one who knew the poor creature’s secret, and she dared not make it known to Septimus lest he should forbid their meetings; for, abandoned by all, hopeless, and in misery, Agnes Hardon clung to her connection with Lucy as the only hope left on earth for self and child. Her appeals to Somesham remaining unanswered, she had ceased to send, and, removing from lodging to lodging, any attempt upon Mrs Hardon’s part to find her would have been vain. She had shrunk from the keen searching glances of the curate when they had met, seeing in everyone now an enemy whose object was to break her intimacy with Lucy, whom she, therefore, saw only by stealth. Her heart bled for the misery of the family, for she learned all from time to time at their meetings; while, knowing full well that there was a will made, to which she had signed her name as witness, yet could she not declare her knowledge, from a shrewd suspicion that the doctor had made away with it, and she told herself that she had already brought sorrow and shame enough upon her home.
And to meet her, night by night stole Arthur Sterne through the streets, ever hating himself for his madness, ever resolving that each search should be the last, and still weakly yielding to the one great anxiety that troubled him. Now he would be seeing Lucy’s candid face reproachfully gazing at him, and directly after would come again the bitter, spiteful countenance of the Frenchwoman, and he seemed to hear her words, “Our beauty, some of us;” and at such times all faith in the girl had gone. “Our beauty, some of us!” How the words seemed to ring in his ears; they were borne to him in the echo of the far-off vehicle, chimed by the clocks; the very air seemed alive with the words, till he hurried on through street after street again to try and thoroughly wear himself out, that sleep might come, and with it rest from the mental anxiety and doubt he suffered.
At last he stood on one of the bridges, leaning against the parapet and gazing down at the hurrying river, feeling the soft sweet breeze of early dawn sweep up with the tide, whispering of the moaning sea and far-off reaches where the green reeds sighed and rustled, and the wide green marshes were spread out. There was a faint light coming in the east, and the stars were paling, as the gas grew sickly-hued and dim. All was still and peaceful, so that he could hear the lapping of the water far below as it seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit, telling of the far-off sea and its mysteries, the hopes and fears there buried, and then of the many lost whom the river had borne down, when, from perhaps where he then stood, they had taken the last fearful plunge. And who were they? he asked himself; who were they that plunged daringly into the rushing river? and for reply the faint breeze seemed to whisper, and the tide to sigh, “Our beauty, some of us!” And then trembling he leaned his hot brow against the cold stone balustrade, fighting with the thoughts that oppressed him, with duty, religion, the world, till, with almost a groan, burst from his lips:
“Save her? My God! yes, as I hope to be saved!”
The early untainted breeze breathed upon his fevered lips as it rode upon the breast of the coming tide; the stars paled more and more, the faint pearly light in the east became roseate; and at last Arthur Sterne stood gazing up towards the glowing cross of the great cathedral, glittering as it was in the morning sun, while now, weary and jaded, he turned to seek his home, but only to gaze with doubting eyes, for he stood face to face with the woman he had sought through the night.
Volume Two – Chapter Ten.
On the Search
Doctor Thomas Hardon, of Somesham, seemed likely to have full enjoyment of his brother’s property, for Time kept on busy at work over his harvest. Septimus Hardon slowly and laboriously did copying for the law-stationers, apparently quite content with his lot, for he scarcely ever gave a thought now to the quest he had commenced with old Matt; Lucy toiled on incessantly at her sewing-machine, the bright needle flashing up and down, and the treadles set in motion by her feet were hardly ever still. Journeys were made to and from the warehouse from whence she had her work, but mostly alone, for Lucy had lost her protector: he had not returned since the day upon which he had been taken ill, and they knew not where he lodged. The information might have been obtained from Agnes, but save a short note or two enclosed in the regular letters sent to Mrs Jarker, in which she implored her to watch over the child, Lucy had not heard from her. Mr Sterne came and went, visiting them as he would have visited at any other house, treating Lucy with a calm, cold deference that made her weep bitterly after each visit, and grow paler day by day; for the curate told himself that he had at last conquered a foolish fancy, that he had triumphed as became him, and that all he felt now was a sublime pity which prompted him to watch her when she went out alone, and follow her at a distance till he saw her once more in safety, when he would hurry home; for his heart was very full of pity for Lucy Grey, even though he knew not of the tears she shed in secret.
As to carrying on his researches alone, the very thought of such a proceeding never occurred to Septimus Hardon – it seemed to border too much upon the impossible; and besides, he was deep in that Slough of Despond – poverty, which, instead of prompting men to energetic action, too often enervates and breeds despair. So he waited on day after day, hoping to see old Matt again, and yet dreading the prosecution of his claim-shrinking when it was named, for he seemed to grow less hopeful as time wore on. The curate had hinted more than once how willing he would be to aid him; but Septimus always shrank so from entering upon the matter, that Mr Sterne, from motives of delicacy, soon ceased to broach the subject.
The sewing-machine clicked on early and late, and Jean’s lark, when he heard it, would set up his crest and whistle away, waking the echoes of the court, while at the open window, when the bird was silent, Jean Marais himself would crane forward and listen eagerly to the fragment of some mournful little air which he could just catch at times, as the machine stopped, and Lucy arranged a portion of her work. But the sweet notes from the first-floor seemed to rouse the lark to fresh exertions, when its master would angrily chide it, and perhaps cover it with a handkerchief, but only to snatch it away hurriedly.
“For she loves to hear him whistle,” he would say; and then he would smile again, as the bird burst forth once more in its joyous carol.
At times Lucy would ascend to the attic to take up a bunch of green food she had bought for the birds, or a few flowers for the cripple, whose eyes brightened when he saw her, but these visits were mostly paid when ma mère was from home; for in spite of her civil words, there was something in the old woman’s quiet smile that chilled her; so that she dreaded meeting her more than if her looks had been those of anger. But she knew not the bitter words that had passed between mother and son upon the subject, when ma mère once angrily crushed a bunch of violets Lucy had taken up to the suffering youth.
The sewing-machine was clicking away merrily one day, so that Mrs Jarker could hear it from her sick-bed; Septimus Hardon was busily copying at his little table, and the lark jocund as ever, when a slow step was heard upon the stairs. Lucy stopped her machine to listen, and even Septimus raised his head from his work. But there was no mistake – it was not a visitor for up-stairs, but old Matt’s own shuffling footstep, and Lucy run to admit him.
Paler, thinner, more haggard, he came slowly into the room, rubbing his hands and smiling with pleasure at the warmth of the greeting he received.
“Never better,” he said; “capital, thank you; been ill, though, and not able to get out before, though I was afraid you would get all the work done without me. What have you done since I saw you, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Septimus quietly.
“Didn’t expect you had,” said Matt drily. “No offence, sir; but I thought perhaps you might want me; so if you’ll get your hat, sir, we’ll start at the point where we left off, and see after the doctor.”
“But you will not be well enough,” said Septimus, hanging back from the task – more on his own account than on that of the old man.
“Don’t you be afraid of that, sir. I should have been well weeks ago if it hadn’t been for fidgeting about your affairs, and wanting to get out. I’m as strong as a lion now, sir; but let’s be at it. I want a new suit of clothes out of the estate, you know, sir, when you get it;” and the old man chuckled and nodded at Lucy.
Septimus slowly wiped his pen, and carefully put away his paper, sighing the while, for he was unwilling to start, and the fit of eagerness had long ago evaporated; but at last he declared himself to be in readiness, and the pair once more started off upon their search.
Upon this occasion they directed their steps at once to Finsbury, and, after a slow, and what seemed to Matt a painful, walk, they reached their destination.
“Here is the house,” said Septimus, after a reference to his pocket-book; “this is the number.”
“H’m! – ‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants,’” read Matt from the board over the door. “This isn’t the doctor’s. Sure of the number, sir?”
“Yes,” said Septimus, referring once more to his pocket-book; “yes; this is the number I took down.”
“So it is,” said Matt, after a reference to his own memorandum-book. “That’s right enough; but wait a bit, one never knows where to be right or wrong with numbers; they always were things as bothered a man; for you have your numbers so-and-so a, and b, and c, and goodness knows how many more, until you’re regularly puzzled. Perhaps that’s an a, or a b, or something of that kind, and the number we want is somewhere else.”
“Let’s walk on a little,” said Septimus; and they went slowly down one side and up the other, but this proved to be the only house numbered as they wanted.
“Do you know of a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, in this neighbourhood?” said Septimus to the first policeman they met.
The man of order shook his head, beat his white gloves together, and then rearranged the shaken head in his shiny stock before continuing his walk.
“Let’s go to the fountain-head at once,” said Matt; “perhaps they know something about him. Here we are again – ‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants.’ Let’s see what Mr Tollicks knows about him.”
“Stop a minute,” said Septimus, to keep procrastination alive for a few moments longer. “Perhaps there is another door.”
“No more doors there, unless they’re backdoors,” growled Matt; and leading the way, they stood in a floor-clothed room, – the office itself, – furnished with a green – baize – covered table, bearing a stencil-plate, inkstand, and brush; and beside the wall a long bench, upon which sat apparently one of the servants waiting to be hired from ten to four, as announced by a bill in the window, which spoke of cooks, housemaids, and general servants as being regularly in attendance; but most probably the others, tired, had gone home for the day, for the damsel in question was the only one visible. She was “Corrnwall sure,” as indicated by the shape of her nose, though any ignorant person might have been excused for mistaking her for an inhabitant of the sister isle.
The door gave a sharp “ting” as it was opened, and another as it was closed, – the refinement of the old jingling door bell of the chandler’s shop, – when the young lady on the bench rose, and made a bob and sat down again, and someone from an inner chamber cried, “Coming!” Then a small dog with a very apoplectic voice barked loudly to the tune of a little bell secured to its neck, and came waddling round the counter to smell Septimus Hardon’s legs; when visiting old Matt for the same purpose, that gentleman favoured him with a pinch of snuff dropped softly towards his nose, provoking a most violent fit of sneezing, and a loud and agitated jingling of the tiny bell.
With the exception of the sneezing, there was now silence in the office for a few moments, till the sound of rattling milk-cans upon the pavement was heard. A man gave vent to the well-known melodious London yodel, and then opened the door, which again said “ting,” when from the inner chamber appeared a tall, stoutish, elderly-young female of very grand deportment, which she displayed to great advantage by making a most ceremonious salute – one that would have been invaluable to a governess in a large-minded family of small means. So elegant was the salute, that even old Matt was staggered, and performed an operation rather rare with him – he took off his hat.
“The side-door, my good man,” said the lady to the milkman, who grinned, winked to himself, and drew the door after him, when, quietly placing the customary “ha’porth” in a cream-tin, he set it in a corner by the door, jangled his cans as he took them up, and then yelled his way down the street.
“Mrs Tollicks?” said Septimus, raising his shabby hat.
“Miss Tollicks,” said the lady, with another profound courtesy almost equal to the former. “Perhaps you will be seated, sir.”
Perhaps he would have been; but as there was only the form upon which the auburn-haired damsel sat whilst waiting to be hired, Septimus merely bowed again, and said, “Thank you,” at the same moment inadvertently directing a glance at the maiden in question.
“Thoroughly trustworthy, and has an excellent character from her last place,” said Miss Tollicks, who had seen the glance; “a very good cook – plain cook, early riser, strictly temperate; in fact, a disciple of the late Father Matthew. Requires no followers, and only one half-day out in the month. Only twenty-two; wages twelve pounds; and a capital washer.”
The damsel had risen, and stood with her eyes half-closed, head on one side, and her rather large mouth squeezed up into a modest smirk; and as Septimus Hardon knew nothing of the maiden, he was bound to accept Miss Tollicks’ eulogium; but as to the last-named quality, it was very evident that the girl was not a capital washer of self, while a detergent applied to her hair would have made a manifest improvement.
“Indeed,” said Septimus, bowing; “I am obliged, but – ”
“Only twelve pounds wages,” said Miss Tollicks with emphasis.
“And very reasonable,” said Septimus; “but – ”
“You will find very few general servants willing to go for less than fourteen,” said Miss Tollicks.
“I suppose not,” said Septimus; “but at present – ”
“Then you don’t think this young person would suit your requirements?” said Miss Tollicks.
“Decidedly not,” said Septimus eagerly, for he was getting so exceedingly confused, that had Miss Tollicks pressed her point, he would most probably have ended by hiring the damsel off-hand; for every glance directed for help at old Matt glanced off the impenetrable armour in which the old man had encased himself.
“Mary Donovan,” said the lady of the house with dignity, “it is five minutes past four; you need not wait any longer to-day.”
Mary Donovan rose at the instant, and made a bob to Miss Tollicks, and one each to Matt and Septimus – bobs that were a disgrace to her after the elaborate obeisances she had so lately seen made; and then she took her departure, played out by a couple of “tings,” Miss Tollicks smiling blandly, and courteously holding her head on one side as she stood waiting to know the object of her visitors’ call.
Miss Tollicks was a lady whom no one would have supposed to have been born a genius, from the utter absence of ennobling qualities in her face; but for all that she made-up showily, possessed a good figure, had two little corkscrew curls on either side of her face, a suspicion of thinness about her hair – parting, which on a small scale exhibited somewhat the appearance of certain stout ladies’ dresses in the back when they have been without assistance in the hooking department; for the said parting began correctly, and then gradually opened out, but only to contract again and finish evenly some distance farther back. By way of head-dress, Miss Tollicks wore a black-velvet blackbird, with handsome gold-bead eyes, the said ornithological head-dress being kept in its place by means of a fillet of black-velvet and gold twist. A very thick, plain-linked, jet chain was round her neck, a very glossy buckle at her waist, fastening the cincture of her very rusty black-silk dress, slightly rubbed at the plaits; so that altogether Miss Tollicks presented the aspect of a lady superior at the very least.
“We merely called,” said Septimus, after an awkward pause, during which he had been waiting for Matt to begin, “to – er – er – to – er – that is to ask if you could give us any information respecting a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, who once resided here.”
“Dear me, how disappointing!” said Miss Tollicks. “Now do you know I thought you had come after servants; I did indeed.”
“Really,” said Septimus sadly, “I am sorry to have caused you disappointment; but it was important that I should know, and I called – urgent – troubled you,” he stammered again, looking in vain at Matt, who only took snuff.
“O, don’t apologise, pray,” said Miss Tollicks; “come in and sit down, and let’s – let me,” she said, correcting herself, – “let me hear what it is. There, don’t laugh at me, for one is obliged to be so particular how one speaks to the grand people who come for servants.”
Miss Tollicks led the way into her inner chamber, where the fat dog slept snoringly in the sunshine; and, after a little hesitation, her two visitors took the proffered chairs.
“Mr Flips, surgeon,” said the lady of the place, after a little preliminary conversation, “no, I never heard the name, and I’ve been here two years this next week, when my landlord will most likely call. He says he has a bad memory, but he always recollects the quarter-days. He lives down in Dorsetshire, and when he comes up I can ask him if you like; perhaps he would know; or you might write; but he’s sure to write to me directly to say he is coming, so that, as he says, I may be ready for him, just as if one ever was ready for one’s landlord. Two years – yes, just two years,” she continued musingly. “There was a whole year at the millinery, which didn’t half-pay the rent; for people here don’t seem to wear bonnets, and when they do, they’ve been turned and cleaned and altered or somethinged or anothered, although I put my prices so low that there was no room for a bit of profit. Then there was the fancy stationery three months, which was worse, for the only kind of stationery the people fancied was penny-stamps, which cost me a penny a-piece, and then people either wanted them to be stuck on their letters, or else wrapped, up in paper. Then there was the newspaper and periodical trade, which was worse than all; for, as if just out of aggravation, the people always came and asked for the very thing you had not got. I declare that if it wasn’t that you can sit down and read your stock, the periodical trade would be unbearable. Only think of the trouble people gave you by ordering things regularly and never coming and fetching them; so that the back numbers used to get piled up most terribly. And now, you know, I’ve been six months at this, and it’s so trying, you can’t think; for, you see, I’m worse off than anybody: I’ve not got to please the missuses – I beg pardon, the mistresses only, but the servants; and really, after my experience I can say that there’s no pleasing anyone.”
Septimus Hardon glanced hopelessly at Matt, but he would not see him, and took pinch after pinch of snuff furiously, with a comical expression upon his countenance the former could not interpret.
“You see, though,” continued Miss Tollicks, who seemed to have made up her mind to thoroughly enjoy herself with a good talk; “you see, though, there is one advantage – there’s no stock required, and it is genteel; but really, after all, it is so vexatious and pays so badly that I think I shall give it up, and take to tobacco. I suppose it’s a business that pays well, and people do use it to such an extent that it’s quite wonderful. But let me see! Phillips – Flips – Flips – no, I never even heard of the name; but, do you know, I shouldn’t wonder if a doctor did once live here; for there’s a regular street-door bell that rings down-stairs, and another that rings up in the second-floor front, just as the night-bell used to at Doctor Masters’s, where I once lived at, as – ahem, ahem! – excuse my cough, pray,” said Miss Tollicks, colouring; “but there!” she said sharply the next moment, “where I lived as lady’s-maid, and I don’t see why I should be ashamed of it.”
“Hear, hear!” said old Matt, speaking for the first time.
“But can you tell who lived here before you?” said Septimus.
“O, yes; a dairy,” replied Miss Tollicks; “but it was only here six months, and my landlord told me the people didn’t pay any rent, but went off in the night so shabby, leaving nothing behind but a black-and-white plaster cow, and a moss-basket with three chalk eggs, in the window; and my landlord says that’s why he looks so sharp after me, which isn’t nice, you know; but then you can’t be surprised. Let me see, I think it was a coffee-house before that.”
“Perhaps,” said Septimus, rising, “you will find that out for me when your landlord calls. I don’t think we will trouble him by writing; and maybe you’ll ask him how long it is since a Mr Phillips lived here, and if he can tell you to where he removed.”
“That I will,” said Miss Tollicks pleasantly; “and if you would not mind taking one of my cards, you might be able to recommend me to one or two patrons; and you too, sir,” she continued, handing one to Matt, which he took with a comical amused expression, and carefully placed inside the lining of his hat.
“Hadn’t you better ask for the landlord’s address, and write at once?” growled Matt, as soon as they were outside the house.
“Perhaps it would be better,” said Septimus, hesitating; “but no, we won’t trouble her again; and it would only hasten the matter a day or two – possibly not at all. She has been very civil and obliging.”
“Very,” said Matt. “Good sort of woman, she seems; but what a tongue! As soon as ever she had trapped us in that room, ‘Matt, my lad,’ I said, ‘the people in this world are divided into two classes – talkers and listeners. You belong to the second class, so keep your place;’ and I did, sir, as you know. I never attempt to tackle a woman on her own ground, sir, which is talking. I can talk, sir, leastwise I could when I was well; but it’s my humble opinion that that woman would have rapped out three words to my one.”
