Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes. Fenn George Manville
yet twisted an obstinate wisp of hay that hung sideways in his bit, and would not be ground into nutriment. Once more the banging of the door, and Mr Pawley up beside the driver, with his grief still unassuaged; while as the poor beast that drew the carriage shambled back, his load was so little lightened that he knew not the difference.
The house in Carey-street had looked sad and gloomy for days past, for even the lodgers had drawn down their blinds, and ascended the stairs carefully and even stealthily, speaking, too, in whispers; but now the light was freely admitted, and Mrs Sims had blown up a good fire, only stopping to sniff, and drop a tear or two upon the bellows now and then, the last being a domestic implement that she had run home to the Square and fetched for the occasion. The tea was prepared, and she had made what she called the most of the place, – not that that was much, – ready for the mourners’ return; while old Matt was ruining the knees of his trousers by making himself a horse, and crawling up and down the dirty printing-office floor with the little boy upon his back. The rooms looked almost cheerful now, for, save in the returned mourners’ hearts, all was over, and the solemn scene, the dark, damp grave, the catching of the breath as the first earth fell, the long last look at the white coffin – all things of the past.
Old Matthew Space was a wise man in his way; and as soon as he thought that there had been time for the changing of habiliments, – that is to say, about a quarter of an hour after Mr Pawley had presented his account, been paid, and taken his departure, offering old Matt sixpence, which he indignantly refused to take, – he put on a bright face, and took the little fellow in his charge upstairs, crowing and chattering with delight at riding upon the old man’s shoulders.
“No, thankee, sir,” said the old man, in answer to Septimus Hardon’s invitation to stay to tea; and as he declined he glanced down at his clothes.
“I did not ask the clothes,” said Septimus warmly, “but the man who has shown sympathy in this weary time of trouble; and God knows I did not expect to find friends where I have,” muttered the dejected man, who looked ten years older; while at times his eyes wandered in a weary abstracted way about the room, and his hands were wrung together, till Lucy came to his side and spoke to him, when the lost, helpless look would pass off, and he would brighten up for a few minutes.
“Such a beautiful, well-cut letter, though!” muttered old Matt as he took the chair placed for him by Mrs Sims, when the little fellow forced himself off his mother’s lap, and climbed upon the old man’s knee.
“You must hold up, mum,” whispered Mrs Sims to poor, broken-down, invalid Mrs Septimus. “I know what it all is; for when I lived in the Rents, mum, I lost four; and all within three year.”
“You did!” said Mrs Septimus, laying a tender hand upon the poor woman’s arm.
“O yes!” said Mrs Sims. “It was before I went to mind the house in the Square, and used to wash; but it was sich work, mum! nowhere to dry except a bit of leads, and the strings tied across the room, and the blacks allus a-coming down like a shower, while every drop o’ water had to be fetched from right at the bottom of the house. One was obliged to do it, though, for times were very hard just then; but having so much washing ain’t good and healthy for children, let alone being stived up so closte. You see, ’m, it’s a bad place to live in, them Rents, there’s too many in a house, and there’s so much wants doing; but then, when you’re a bit behind with your rent, you can’t grumble, or there’s your few bits of sticks taken, and plenty more glad to have your room. But the way the poor little children is snatched off there, mum, ’s terrible, though I do sometimes say, as it’s a happy release. Mr Pawley, mum, he ’ave told me that them Rents is as good as an annuity to him; for you see, though it isn’t a big place, there’s a many families in each house; and where there’s families, mum, there’s mostly children.”
Mrs Septimus sighed bitterly at the last word, while, poor woman, she was too much intent upon her cares to notice the wisdom of the speech.
“But you hold up now, mum, there’s a good creetur. I know it’s very hard, but then we all has to suffer alike, and you’ve got to recklect what you owes to that poor dear child there, and young miss, and the master.”
As for Septimus Hardon, he was talking in an abstracted way to old Matt, who was discussing business matters, and urging energetic measures in the office; but talking to Septimus Hardon was a difficult matter, and put you much in mind of catching a grazing horse: you held a bait before him, and then gradually edged him up into a corner, when, just as you thought you had him, he was off and away full gallop to another part of the mental field; and so the work had to be done all over again. Old Matt found it so, and after several times over waking to the fact that while he was talking upon one subject Septimus Hardon was thinking upon another, he rose and took his departure.
Volume One – Chapter Nine.
Old Matt on Manners
Old Matt Space came daily to Carey-street in search of a job, and generally made an excuse for seeing little Tom, for whom he had a cake, a biscuit, or some small penny toy, purchased of one of the peripatetic vendors in the street.
“I always like to support honest industry,” said the old man; and when in work, and with a few shillings in his pocket, he would take a walk along the busy streets, and perhaps spend a couple of his shillings with the people whose place of business is the edge of the pavement. “Well, suppose I am a fool for doing it, what then?” said Matt one day. “Ain’t ninety per cent of the inhabitants of this precious country of ours what you call fools; and if I, in my folly, help twenty or thirty poor folks up a step in getting their bit of a living, where’s the harm? Don’t tell me,” old Matt would say to his fellow-workmen, beginning to unload the pockets which made his coat-tails stick out almost at right angles; “I don’t buy the things because I want them, I do it to help them as wants it; and their name, as it says in the Testament, is ‘legion.’ Now, that’s a jumping frog, made of wood, a bit of paint, a bit of string, and a bit of my friend Ike’s wax. That’s an ingenious toy, that is: who’ll have it? whose got a youngster?”
Speaking in a large printing-office, amongst twenty or thirty men, there was soon a market for the jumping frog; and then the old man drew out a scrap of something soft and flabby, and held it up.
“You wouldn’t tell what that is in a hurry,” said Matt. “All to encourage industry, you know; that’s a big indy-rubber balloon, that is, only I couldn’t pocket it, so I made it collapse first; so that’s no good to nobody – pitch it away. Here we have – ah, this is an out-and-out toy, this is, only I’ve broke the stick, and it wants a bit of glue – who’ll have a climbing monkey?”
And so the old man would pull out perhaps twenty toys, balls, dolls, gelatine cards, to the infinite amusement of his companions, who laughed on, but without discomposing Matt in the least, who practised his humble philanthropy as long as he had money, and often, in consequence, went without a meal; for saving was an utter impossibility with the old man – a feat, he said, he had often tried to accomplish; but how, he said, could a man keep money in his pocket when he saw others wanting? “It is done,” said Matt; “but old as I am, I can’t quite see it.”
But there had been no toy distributions lately, for old Matt had found times very hard, and even if they had been better, there would have been no more such amusements for the denizens of the offices he worked at, for there was another way for Matt’s philanthropical purchases to go, namely, to Carey-street, to Septimus Hardon’s little boy, for whose special benefit the old man had made several purchases on credit, which was freely accorded by those to whom he was known; but as to work at Septimus Hardon’s printing-office, there was none for him, further than that of disposing of type and materials at one or another of the brokers’, which duties he performed without recompense, grumbling sorely the while at the wretched sums he obtained for the goods.
“You ought to find fault then, sir,” he would say to Septimus; “I can’t help it; but I’m ashamed, that I am, to think that people will give such a beggarly price. It grieves me, sir, to see the stuff go like that.”
But Septimus did not find fault, only smiled feebly; for in this time of his sore distress he had so aged, and grown so helpless and