Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes. Fenn George Manville

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.

      But now the last screw had been tightened, the light burden placed in the receptacle, and Mrs Sims, quite a regular aid to Mr Goffer, arranged the scarf upon Septimus Hardon’s hat; pinned and tied the hoods and cloaks upon mother and daughter; and then, in a simple but feeling way, wept many a salt tear into her black-alpaca apron, sniffing terribly the while Mr Pawley, satisfied in his mind that the respectability of his performance was not to be damaged by so doubtful a character as the old compositor, stood holding open the door of the carriage with one hand, wiping his eye with the other, and awaiting the mourners’ descent.

      For this was no grand funeral; there had been no mutes standing with draped staves at the door; there was no squadron of men with scarves and brass-tipped truncheons; no tray of black plumes to be carried in advance; no high-stepping, long-tailed black horses, with velvet housings and tossing heads; nothing to make a funeral imposing and attractive. But there were spectators even for this: inhabitants of Carey-street were stealthily watching from door-steps, or from the corners of windows, as if afraid of intruding upon the mourners’ sorrow; a knot of dirty children from Bennett’s-rents had collected, many of whom toiled beneath shawl-wrapped burdens of heavy babies almost equal to themselves in bulk; two women stood upon the opposite side with arms wrapped in their aprons; a ticket-porter, in apron and badge, leaned against the nearest lamp-post; the apple-woman at the corner did something unusual, she left her basket, knocked the ashes out of her short black pipe, and then rubbed a tear – a bright, gem-like tear – off her poor old cheek, withered as one of her own pippins, before placing her pipe in her pocket, and leaning with arms akimbo against the railings to see the hearse pass with a little customer of hers, for whom she had always picked out the best lot, and in her simple homely way called down heavenly favour with a hearty “God bless you!” An old law-writer, a man who reckoned life as a long brief in so many folios, old and snuffy, and shabby almost as Matt himself, walked by house and hearse to the office where he worked, pretending to whistle; but no sound came, and he blew his nose in a way that raised an echo in the silent street as soon as he was a few yards past the place; even the policeman, beating his Berlin gloves together, quietly sent off the children gathered in the way, and posted them at a distance, that they might not annoy the sad party so soon to leave the house.

      And now a tall dark woman, carrying a child, appeared upon the scene, and stood with dimmed eye watching till the mourners descended, when, catching sight of Septimus Hardon’s bent form, she stepped forward eagerly, but only to shrink back shivering as she clutched her babe to her breast, pressing her lips upon its plump cheek, while an air of wonderment came into the woman’s face as the announcement above the door now caught her eye: – “S Hardon, Legal and General Printer.”

      For there was sorrow in Carey-street that day – sorrow of a novel kind. All the neighbourhood knew why the blinds were down at Hardon’s; for all knew the tall graceful girl who led about the two golden-haired children that seemed so out of place in the legal region; all knew that one of these little ones had passed away – that the little flower, sweet and fragrant, so lately blooming in the cold harsh place, and raising its heaven-whispering head amongst them, had been cut down by the cold winds that swept the weary waste. “Our client” had stopped at this oasis in the desert he was crossing, for he had often paused to look up at the golden head at the upper window, gazed at it awhile, and then passed on, refreshed and gladdened in heart. Every dweller in the neighbourhood had had a kind word or look for Lucy’s charges; and there was a sun in those golden tresses, a warm light, that would often melt the icy frost of some old lawyer’s countenance, and bring there a smile of pleasure. But a month before, two men were passing Carey-street with Punch, bound westward to the district where there is less constraint and mind-engrossing; and the man who bore the show, following the usage which to him was second nature, looked up at the dirty windows with wandering eye, caught sight of the blue-eyed fairy, looked at her with doubt for an instant, and then pitched his theatre, to the astonishment of his drum-and-pan-pipe “pardner,” who would as soon have thought of playing in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

      “Jest five minutes,” whispered his mate, pointing upwards; when, as if by magic, the pipes squeaked, the drum rolled, raising up the wondering ghosts of echoes from amidst the pouncy dust of ages, while the yellowy, torn green baize fell, to conceal the motive power of the puppets; and then for “jest five minutes” “our client” was startled, the parchments in the offices crackled, dust floated from ledges out upon the murky air, and the sanctity of the place was broken by the ribald jokes of our old friend. Then, just as an astonished troop of children came with a rush out of Bennett’s-rents, up went the green curtain; there came a friendly nod from one of the men, who placed himself Atlas-like beneath his drum, a broad grin from the other at the child’s delight, and then off due west.

      And now the change had come; the cold blast that sweeps down Carey-street had been colder and keener; the fragile flower-stalk was broken; the white coffin was in its place, the mourners in the coach; the door banged gently, for the wood had warped. Mr Pawley had climbed beside his red-nosed driver, and sat wiping his eye; while the poor old broken-kneed black horse ambled and shambled off with its head down, as if ashamed of the false tail that it knew was fastened to the crupper of its harness.

      Then the rest, – the sad rite, the solemn words, the swelling hearts aching to leave so sweet a form in so cold and damp a bed, loth to believe that