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

done away with; but you’ll never make white men of ’em, never, sir; and they all look just as if, when their father Ham was cursed, he scowled like a naughty boy, and was cross and pouted his lips, and so all his children have looked thick-lipped since. But there, sir, that’s neither here nor there, as you may say; though I’ve begun here in Carey-street and got right over into Africa; and that’s the way I always do go on when I’m speaking in public. Now look here, sir; now what am I, eh? a battered, worn-out, seedy old stamp – good for nothing. ‘Whose fault is that?’ you say. ‘Halves!’ I cry, with the world: we share the blame between us. I’ve been foolish: I’ve given way good-humouredly in the squeeze for place, and everyone has pushed by me and got in front. Now, sir, what ought I to have done, eh? Why, told the world that I was a big man; caressed those who believed me, and kicked and bullied those who did not. I ought to have shoved my way through the crowd; and what would have followed, eh? why, people would have pushed again and grumbled; but they would have given way until I got a good standing. Now look at that man, sir, – Hardon, sir, a gentleman every inch of him, but as helpless and unbusiness-like as a baby. Why, he’ll starve, sir, before he’ll ask for help, if his father don’t send. ‘More fool he,’ says the world. To be sure: what business has he with a heart and feelings and nerves, that make him flinch because he has got an ugly shell over his beautiful works, and so feels every slight put upon him. Why, he’s just one of those men who would go in despair and make an end of himself; and then you have your inquest, and people say ‘How shocking!’ and never stop to think that such things keep on happening every day; and will, too, so long as the world goes round; and I’m blest sometimes if I believe that it does go round, sir, or else things would come right in time for everybody. But they don’t, for they mend worse every day. Here we are, with one man rolling in riches he never did a stroke to gain, and don’t even know the value of; and here’s Septimus Hardon, with a sick wife, and with hardly common necessaries. I might have introduced myself to your notice, sir, but present company is always excepted. The fact of it is, sir, that things are all wrong; and though I’ve been studying the matter these twenty years I can’t see how to put ’em all right.”

      Old Matt drew a long breath, for he had been speaking loudly and with vehemence; and now, upon reaching another post, he began gesticulating fiercely, for he had warmed to his subject.

      “But if I had time, sir, I’d go into the matter, sir. I’d take the poor man as he stands, and the rich man as he stands; and I’d – ”

      “Now, come; that’s about enough for one night, anyhow. I don’t mind a little, now and then, but they’ll be hearing of you acrost the square d’reckly.”

      “I’d take him, sir,” continued Matt, “and hold him up for the whole world – ”

      “O, ah! all right,” said Matt’s interrupter, the policeman on the beat; “I dessay you would; only the world wouldn’t look at him. For why? ’cause the world’s too busy. Good-night, old chap.”

      “Good-night,” said Matt, cooling down suddenly, and shuffling off in a quiet spiritless way, the fire out, and his head bent as he thrust his hands in his pockets. “Ah, he’s about right; so he is. ‘The world’s too busy!’ so it is; and I ain’t got a morsel of snuff left.”

      Volume One – Chapter Ten.

      Brotherly Love

      “There, there, there; sit down, sit down, sit down!” croaked old Octavius Hardon as he cowered over a miserable fire in his paper-strewn room. “Sit down, sit down, sit down,” he kept on repeating, after just glancing over his shoulder as his brother, sleek, pompous, and black-clothed, entered the room – “such a gentlemanly man,” as the old women of Somesham declared over cups of tea. “Sit down, Tom,” croaked the withered, dry old man, pulling his black skull-cap close down to his yellow ears, and peering sideways from under his shaggy grey eyebrows at the chair he meant his brother to take. There was a dry, mocking sneer upon his thin lips, while the grey unshorn beard wagged and twitched about as he spoke, as, without taking further notice of his visitor, he made his chair scroop on the worn carpet as he dragged it closer to the fire and warmed his lean shins.

      Doctor Hardon slowly subsided into a seat, giving a hasty glance round the cheerless room as he did so, and then finishing with a long curious look at the lean figure before him, with its wrinkled bony face and attenuated form showing through the faded dressing-gown drawn tightly round him, and tucked-in between his knees, while the trembling hands were stretched out over the fire.

      “How are we?” said Octavius after a long silence, broken with an effort by his brother; “how are we? Shall I put out my tongue, Tom? Would you like to feel my pulse, Tom, and sound my chest, eh, Tom? Come and try, Tom, and perhaps I shall knock you down – you humbug, you; for I’m sound as a roach yet, Tom, and shall live a score of years. Only seventy-five, Tom; that’s boyish, isn’t it? Better than being sixty, and fat, and a humbug like you, ain’t it? ‘How are we?’ Ugh! drop that professional cant, or else stand up and rub your hands together softly, as you ought. What did you come for? Did you come to quarrel?”

      “I came because you sent for me, sir,” said Doctor Hardon with dignity, settling his chin in his voluminous white neckcloth and using a gold toothpick as he leaned back in his easy-chair.

      “Sent for you – sent for you? Well, yes; so I did – so I did, Tom,” chuckled Octavius; “but not to doctor me, Tom, nor to send ‘the mixture as before,’ nor to send ‘the pill at bedtime and the draught in the morning.’ No, Tom, no. How long would it take you to kill me decently, Tom, eh? – decently and respectably; eh, Tom, eh?”

      “Fond of your joke as ever, Octy,” said the doctor with a sickly smile.

      “Just so, Tom; just so,” croaked and chuckled Octavius; “but you are no joke, Tom. I’m not fond of you. Brande’s bad enough, but you’re a devil, Tom.”

      “I’ve been thinking of coming over to see you several times,” said the doctor, trying to change the conversation; “and I should have called when passing, only you will misconstrue my ways, Octy.”

      “Me? misconstrue? No, no, Tom, not I,” chuckled Octavius; “I don’t misconstrue. I believe you want to come, that I do. Now what’s up, Tom, eh?” said the old man, fixing his keen grey eyes upon the doctor. “You want money, Tom, don’t you? But, there, you won’t own to it like a man, but be indignant and offended. You’ve a soul above money, you have, Tom; and you wouldn’t stoop to borrow money of your poor brother, Tom, even if he’d lend it to you.”

      The doctor moved uneasily in his chair, glancing again and again round the room, while his brother continued to watch him with his keen unflinching eyes.

      “Yes, I sent for you, Tom, – I sent for you,” continued Octavius; “but not to doctor me. I should be afraid of your not thoroughly understanding my constitution, Tom, and overdosing me. But look here, Tom,” chuckled the old man, leaving his seat and coughing drily, as, bent and failing, he crossed the room to a bureau and brought out a silver teaspoon and a bottle containing some dark liquid. “Look here, Tom,” he said, reseating himself, and then pouring with trembling hand a portion of the liquid into the spoon, and in the act spilling a few drops over the side. “There,” he said, smacking his lips after swallowing the fluid, and then stooping fumbling about in the fender for the stopper, that had slipped through his fingers.

      “There, Tom, there; that’s nectar, Tom; that’s son, and daughter, and wife, and brother, and doctor, and friend, and everything but lawyer. That’s how I doctor myself, Tom; that’s how I doctor myself. ’Tain’t lawyer, Tom; but I can manage that myself and arrange about my few bits of things. You’d like my mourning-ring when I’m gone, wouldn’t you now, my dear brother?”

      Doctor Hardon did not speak, but again shuffled in his chair, glancing uneasily at the sneering face before him; and as he thought of the goodly lands lying fallow, and the tenements in ruins, belonging to his brother, he recalled a case where he had been one of the certifiers respecting the sanity of an elderly lady; and then he wondered whether his brother had made a will, and what it specified.

      “That’s how I doctor myself, Tom.