George Fenn - Mad - A Story of Dust and Ashes

Still without removing her eyes from the pale-faced woman before her, the visitor drew a shilling from a little bead-purse, and laid it upon the table, her lips now moving as if trying to form words for Mrs Jarker to understand.

“Go away now, Bill,” whispered she to her husband.

“What for?” growled Bill, untying the knots of his handkerchief with his teeth, to set his cage at liberty, and nearly frightening the soul out of the tiny, fluttering, panting body contained therein. Then, by way of reply to a whisper, he sullenly took the shilling from the table, bit it, spat upon it, and spun it up, before depositing it in his pocket; made his way to the back part of the attic, where birdcages and the paraphernalia of his profession lay thick; ascended a ladder to a trap in the ceiling, and then, only his legs visible as he stood upon one of the top rounds, Mr Jarker, with half his body above the tiles, busied himself amongst his pigeons, and started them for a flight over the houses.

The next moment, after a hurried glance at the ceiling, where the light streamed down past the ruffian’s legs, the visitor’s face was seen to work, and, rising from her seat, she went down upon her knees before poor Mrs Jarker, kissing her work-worn hands, and bathing them with the tears that streamed from her eyes.

“God – God bless you!” she whispered passionately. “O, be kind to it!”

But Mrs Jarker could not answer for something swelling in her throat; and the next minute she too was weeping, with her hand resting upon her visitor’s shoulder.

This paroxysm of tears seemed to have its effect upon the visitor, for, forcing back her own emotion, she appeared more at ease within herself, as, gazing once more into the pale, worn, common face of the birdcatcher’s wife, she kissed her in so loving and sisterly a way, that the tears flowed faster from Mrs Jarker’s eyes. And yet, knowing full well who was her visitor, Mrs Jarker did not shudder, but rose from her choir, glanced timorously at the open trap, and then drew the stranger towards a box – a common deal-box, with the blue-stained paper that had once covered it hanging here and there in rags. She went upon her knees now, and raised the creaking lid, when an impatient movement of the feet upon the ladder made her start up hastily, and close the lid again. But a long, loud whistling from above showed her that Mr Jarker was still busy with his birds; so once more raising the lid, the poor creature thrust her hand down to a well-known spot beneath the few rags of clothes the box contained, and brought out a pair of little, stained red boots, which she pressed passionately to her lips, the tears gushing from her eyes the while, and a broken hysterical wail burst from her overladen breast. But it was checked instantly, for Jarker’s feet scraped on the ladder, and the boots were hidden beneath the woman’s apron; then the whistling was heard again, and the little boots were brought forth once more.

A pair of tiny red boots, the only relic she had of something that was not – something that she had once warmed within her breast – the breast before now bruised and blackened by a ruffian hand, but beneath which was the same warm, God-implanted love for her offspring that glows in the bosom of the noblest of her sex.

For a moment or two the younger woman gazed in the other’s eyes with a soft, tender, pitying look – a look in this case of true sympathy; and the hand of the lost rested lovingly upon Mrs Jarker’s breast as she whispered softly: “How old was it?”

“Only a twelvemonth,” was the reply, followed by a moan. “But perhaps it was best – perhaps it was best.”

The visitor’s hand still rested upon the other’s breast, and she was about to speak, when an impatient shuffle startled both, for it seemed that Mr Jarker was about to descend; but he came not. And now a look of ineffable sweetness and content came over the well-moulded features of the visitor. She was satisfied now respecting the step she was about to take; for Mrs Jarker’s heart had been laid open to her. A true chord of sympathy existed between them, and she could feel that her little one would be taken to a motherly breast, and protected – protected; but who, she asked herself, would injure one so tender and frail?

But there was no time for further communion between these motherly hearts, for a loud rasp on the ladder told that Mr Jarker was descending, and the visitor prepared to leave.

“You’ve been a-pipin’ again,” growled Mr Jarker to his wife, who had hastily concealed the boots – “pipin’ about that ’ere kid as has gone; and a good thing too. Wot’s the good when here’s another a-coming?” and he looked menacingly at the shivering woman. “I say,” he continued to the visitor, who now stood at the door, “you’ll pay up reg’lar, and in advance!”

“Yes, yes!” she said hoarsely, almost fiercely, as she turned to him with a steady contemptuous look, which made the great brute shuffle about uneasily – “yes, yes, so long as I live;” and the next moment the door closed upon her retreating form.

“Long as you live? Yes; I should just think you will, or else there’ll precious soon be a kid found at somebody’s door, with the perlice, cuss ’em, taking the brat to the workus. – And don’t you pipe no more,” he snarled to the trembling woman, who slowly retreated to the washtub. “A taking of it to the workus, cuss ’em,” muttered Mr Jarker again, removing his fur cap and passing his hand over his cropped head, as if the name of the police, and their probable future duty, had reminded him of former injuries. “Now then, you!” he shouted, as if calling his dog, and he threw the shilling upon the table – “d’yer hear?”

“Yes, Bill,” said the woman meekly, and hastily passing her hands over her dull red eyes before she turned to him the face from which all that was attractive had long since fled.

“Tripe!” said Mr Jarker.

“Yes, Bill,” said his wife.

“Pipe and screw,” growled Mr Jarker.

“Yes, Bill,” said the woman, hurriedly tying on a miserable bonnet.

“And here, you!”

“I wasn’t going, Bill,” said the woman meekly.

“Who said you was?” growled the ruffian; “don’t you be so sharp, now, then. Now, where’s that money?”

“What money, Bill?”

The next moment the ruffian had seized her by the front of her dress and dragged her to him, so that she went down upon her knees. “Don’t you try to put none of your games on me. What did she give you when I was out of sight?” And he put his black face down close to hers, as, half from fear, half from bitterness, her lower lip worked as she tried to keep back the tears, and to answer; but no words would come.

“D’yer hear? What did she give yer?”

“Nothing, Bill,” whispered the woman.

He looked at her fiercely; but though faded and lack-lustre, her eyes blenched not, but gave him back the same true steady look that had always shone for him since – young, ignorant, ill-taught, weak – she had believed he cared for her, and she could be happy with him: not the first of Eve’s daughters that has made the same mistake.

“Get up!” snarled Jarker, loosing his hold; and his wife rose hastily without a word.

“Pint of porter, with half-a-quartern of gin in it.”

“Yes, Bill,” she whispered, and drew on a washed-out shawl.

“And no fiddling, you know; put all the gin in.”

“Yes, Bill,” said the woman, hastily taking the shilling, and descending the creaking stairs to procure her lord’s refreshments; tripe stewed, and gin and beer, being special weaknesses of his when in funds.

“Don’t let her forget to bring some inguns, that’s all,” he muttered as he listened to the retreating steps. He then crushed down the fire with the heel of his heavy boot, and, putting his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, his fingers came in contact with two or three scraps of burnt match, which he took out, looked at thoughtfully, and then burned. “She must have been arter the dawg,” he muttered, and walking to one of the lattice-windows, he opened it and framed himself as he leaned out with his arms resting upon the rotten sill, a splinter of which he picked off to chew. Then he gazed steadfastly across the court at the opposite window, which was hung round with birdcages, whose occupants twittered sweetly, while one, a lark, seemed to fill the court with his joyous song.