Septimus, rousing up and crossing the room to kiss the soft cheek held up so lovingly to him – “I won’t, pet Lucy; and I’ll try again, that I will;” and he returned to his seat.
“Yes, do; yes, do!” cried Lucy, with smiles and tears at one and the same time. “Don’t mind what they said; you are so clever, you must succeed.”
Septimus screwed up his face, but Lucy shook her head at him, still busily stitching, while, with his head resting upon his hand, Septimus gazed on that budding figure before him, growing fast into the similitude of the woman who had first taught him that he had a heart; but she looked up again, and Septimus turned to his papers.
“Were there many mistakes, dear?” said Lucy.
“Well, not so many,” said Septimus; “only the writing I copied from was so bad; and I’ve put in the contractions where I ought not, and altered them where they should have stayed; and you see, my child, I don’t know how it is, but I do get so wild in my spelling. I know when the worst of it was, it was when Tom would sit on my knee and put his fingers in the ink-bottle; and that is distracting, you know, when one copies crabbed handwriting. But the worst fault was what I didn’t see – and how I came to put it in, I’m sure I don’t know, but it was a part of that line of Goldsmith’s, ‘But times are altered, trade’s unfeeling train.’ I don’t know how it came there, only that it was there, and I must have written it when I was half-asleep. Let me see, it was – ah, yes, here it is, in folio 15, and I began that at half-past two this morning. I couldn’t say anything, you know, my child, could I? for of course it didn’t look well in amongst a lot about a man’s executors and administrators, and all that sort of thing. It’s a bad job, ain’t it?”
Poor Lucy looked up at the wretchedly-doleful face before her, hardly knowing whether to smile or be serious; and then, in spite of the trouble they were in, and perhaps from the fact of tears being so near akin to smiles, they both laughed merrily over the disaster; and Septimus set to work to try and remedy the wrong doings, by rewriting several of the sheets – a task he was busily engaged upon when old Matt came with his tap at the door and entered.
“And how’s Mrs Hardon, sir?” said Matt respectfully.
A faint voice responded from the back-room, for Mrs Septimus spent much of her time in a reclining position.
“Busy as ever, miss, I see,” said Matt; “and bright as a rose.”
Lucy, bright as a rose truly, but only as the pale white blossom that shows the faintest tinge of pink, looked up from the hard sewing which made sore her little fingers, and smiled upon the old man.
“And how’s the writing, sir?” said Matt.
“No good – no good, Matt,” said Septimus wearily. “I’m out of my element, and shall never do any good at it, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t have nothing to do with it, then, sir; come and finger the types again. I’ve no opinion of copying, only as a combination of law-stationers to do honest printers out of their work. Try setting again, sir, and I’ll give you grass first time I get a chance.”
“Grass!” said Septimus absently.
“Well, yes, sir; put you on a job instead of doing it myself; first chance I have.”
Septimus shook his head, went and thrust some sheets of paper into the fire, and then walked to the window, where his apathetic air passed off for an instant, as he seemed to recognise the face of a woman who passed quickly from the opposite house, and then hurriedly made her way out of the court.
“Strange!” muttered Septimus to himself; “but there, it couldn’t be her.”
“And where’s my little di’mond?” said Matt to Lucy.
“Asleep by mamma,” replied Lucy.
“Bless him! I’ve brought him a steam-ingin,” said Matt, bringing a toy-model, with a glorious display of cotton-wool steam, out of his pocket; “and I don’t know what this here’s meant for,” he continued, drawing a wooden quadruped from the other pocket. “Stands well, don’t he, miss? Wonder what it’s meant for! ’Tain’t a horse, nor a halligator, nor a elephant – can’t be a elephant, you know, because they haven’t got these Berlin-wool-looking sides; no, nor it ain’t no trunk neither. Let’s call it a hippopotamus, and see how he’ll tie his pretty little tongue in a knot, bless him! a-trying to say it when he wakes. You’ll tell him Uncle Matt brought ’em, won’t you, miss?” he said, holding them behind his back.
Lucy nodded, while Matt blew out and arranged the cotton-wool steam as carefully as if it was a matter of the greatest importance, or a jewel for a queen; and who shall say that the old printer’s task was not of as great importance, and that the pleasure of the child is not of equal value with that of the greatest potentate that ever ruled; while as to the amount of enjoyment derived, there can be no doubt.
“And what time is the work to go home, miss?” said Matt, after contriving with great difficulty to make the wild quadruped use his four supports in the way intended by his manufacturer – the beast’s idea being that its nose was the proper front rest for its body, and that by rights it was a tripod.
“I’m afraid I shall not be ready before eight,” said Lucy, bending to her task.
“I’ll be here to the moment, brushed up and smart,” said the old man. “Why, how proud you ought to be of having such a bodyguard, Miss Lucy!”
The girl looked up and smiled, half sadly, at the old man as she held out her hand, which he took in his own for a moment, kissed respectfully, and then he shuffled from the room.
Ten minutes after, old Matt’s step was again heard upon the stairs, and he directly after appeared with a pot of porter in one hand, and something tied up in a cotton handkerchief in the other; while, as he entered, he glanced stealthily from face to face to see what effect his proceedings would have before he spoke.
“You see, Mr Hardon, sir, it’s a busy morning with me, and as I’m so far from my lodging – what a fib!” he thought to himself – “I thought I’d ask the favour of being allowed to have a bite here.”
Of course there was no objection raised, and the old man’s roast potatoes were soon warming, while Lucy left her work to frizzle the large portion of prime steak over the fire.
“No, no, miss; none of that,” said Matt, taking the fork out of Lucy’s hand; “I’ve cooked hundreds of bits of steak, miss, and I’m too particular to trust you; and, besides, you’ll be keeping me waiting to-night when it’s time the work was taken home; and my time’s the only valuable possession I’m worth.”
Here old Matt directed a very knowing wink at Septimus Hardon; but he was deep in thought, with his head resting upon his hand. However, Lucy understood the old man’s quaint kindness, and resumed her work; but there was a tear twinkling in her eye.
“Lord, Miss Lucy,” said Matt, turning the steak upon the gridiron, and distributing a most appetising odour through the room, where more than once of late hunger had sat gaunt and staring, – “Lord, Miss Lucy, how I should like to see you with one of those new machines; stitch away they do, and the work comes running out by the yard.”
Lucy sighed, and pressed a sore finger to her rosy lips.
“’Spose I may put the cloth on, miss, mayn’t I?” said Matt, who was quite at home in the place.
Lucy nodded;
