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

one began to grow tired, and tried to gain the attention of its father – no light task, for with his face buried in his hands he was seated at his desk trying to see his way clearly through the future – a task so many of us attempt, and some even fancy we have achieved, but only to find the falseness of our hopes when the days we looked forward to have come upon us.

      But the child was at last successful, and as Septimus raised his head from the desk, he became aware of the presence of the old man of a few days before, and apparently as far from prosperity as ever.

      “Nothing doing; no work,” said Septimus.

      “Any little job will do, sir,” said the old man. “Just come to get out of debt, that’s all. What’s it to be, sir?”

      “Another time,” said Septimus. “I’ve – ”

      A loud cry from above cut short his words, and darting to the door, forgetting his customary indecision, he bounded up the stairs, while, finding himself left with a stranger, the little fellow burst into a dismal wail.

      “O, Sep, Sep, Sep!” cried his wife, throwing herself into his arms, “is it always to be sorrow; is there always to be a black cloud over our lives?” then tearing herself away she frantically caught the child from Lucy, who, pale and frightened, sat nursing.

      “Run, run, Lucy!” cried Septimus hoarsely as he caught a glimpse of his blue-eyed darling’s face; “the doctor, quick!” and then, as the frightened girl ran from the room, he threw himself upon his knees beside his sobbing wife, praying that they might be spared this new sorrow. But before the doctor could reach Carey-street the agonised couple had seen the little weary head cease its restless tossings from side to side, the blue eyes unclose, dilate, and gaze wildly, as if at some wondrous vision; then a plaintive shuddering sigh passed from the pale lips, and Septimus Hardon and his wife were alone, though they knew it not.

      The Rev. Arthur Sterne was at the door as Lucy returned, overtaken by the doctor’s brougham at the same moment; but to the agony of all the man of medicine gave one glance at the little form in its mother’s lap, shook his head, and left the room on tiptoe.

      “O, sir, Mr Sterne,” cried Lucy, turning with quivering lips and streaming eyes to the clergyman, “tell me, tell me,” she sobbed, clasping one of his hands in hers; “tell me – is it, is it death?”

      There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then placing his disengaged hand upon the fair head of the weeping girl, the curate, in low reverent tones, but loud enough to thrill the hearts of the living, said, “No, it is life – the life eternal!”

      And now, amidst the bitter sobs of those who mourned, the curate stepped softly from the room, and left the house with bended head. Then there was silence, till a step was heard upon the stairs, which stopped by the partly-closed door, where stood the old compositor with little Tom asleep in his arms, the bright, soft, golden locks mingling like dashes of sunshine with the old man’s ragged, grizzly whiskers. For a few moments the old printer stood gazing into the room, when, waking to the consciousness of the affliction that had befallen its inmates, he turned, and with halting step descended to the office.

      At last the recollection of the living came to the stricken mother’s heart, and wildly sobbing as she clasped Lucy in her arms, she asked for her boy.

      Half-stunned with this new shock, Septimus Hardon staggered down to where he had left the child, having till his wife spoke forgotten its very existence; but when he reached the office, stricken as he was, he could not but stop to gaze at the group before him. Seated upon a low stool, beneath the dingy skylight of the back-office, where the light that filtered through the foul panes looked dim and gloomy, was the old man with the child in his lap, gazing, too, intently down at the little fair face which so wonderingly looked up into his own – not fearfully, but with a puzzled expression, as if some problem were there that the little brain could not solve; while the biscuit the tiny fist held was hardly touched, but told its own tale of how the old man had carried the child to the nearest baker’s for its purchase. The printer’s back was towards Septimus as he stood in the doorway, and as he listened the old man was apostrophising the child:

      “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;