Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes. Fenn George Manville
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.
This reminded Mr Jarker of his own birds, and, stepping back growling, he looked to see if the little cages hung over his nets all contained water, which they did.
“And a blessed good job for her as they do!” he muttered on finding that his wife had performed this duty. Then walking again towards the front he watched the opposite window, where he could see a pale, sallow face eagerly looking at the birds, while from behind came the sharp sound as of the lash of a whip striking the floor, followed by the shrill yelp of a dog.
Mr Jarker stood thoughtfully watching and listening, as if in doubt upon some particular subject; and as he watched he pulled out that ugly clasp-knife of his that he had opened a short time before in the cellar, and now opening and closing it again, his brow lowered – that is, a trifle more than usual. But he seemed to grow easier in his mind, for he shut the knife with a snap, and thrust it into his pocket; and now he appeared to be moved by that spirit which prompts so many people who can hardly keep themselves to have dumb animals about their homes, probably for the reason that the dumb brutes are faithful, and friends are few – who knows?
“I think I shall have a dawg,” said Mr Jarker to himself, as a louder yelp than usual rang across the court; when he shut the window, and went and stood gazing into the fire once more, till he heard the returning step of his wife, when he roused himself:
“Yes,” said Mr Jarker half-aloud; “I’ll have a bull-pup.”
Volume One – Chapter Six.
The Sorrows of Septimus Hardon
With a pleasant smile upon his countenance, and a bunch of watercresses in his hand, Septimus Hardon hummed loudly, like some jocular bee, as he entered his rooms one day, when he ceased, for there was a visitor gazing with sympathising eyes upon the flush-cheeked child lying upon Mrs Hardon’s arm.
“I think you had better have advice, Mrs Hardon,” said the visitor, the Rev. Arthur Sterne, the calm, earnest, quiet-looking curate of the neighbouring church.
Lucy Grey, now budding into womanhood, was seated upon the floor by the couch, with a little boy in her lap, and letting the hands of the child on her mother’s arm stray amongst the glossy tresses of her hair.
“Advice? What? doctor?” said Septimus, gazing in his wife’s anxious face; “is Letty really ill, then?” and then in a bewildered way he began rubbing his hands together as if washing them in emptiness, and afterwards drying them upon nothing.
“Let me send in a doctor,” said Mr Sterne kindly, as he took his hat to leave; “there are symptoms of fever, I think. Don’t let it get too firm a hold before you have advice.”
“Thank you, thank you; do send him, please,” said Septimus helplessly. “But – ” He was about to alter his request, for just then his hand came in contact with the light leather purse in his pocket, but the curate had hurriedly left the room. Then taking his step-child’s place by the sofa the father parted the golden hair upon the sick girl’s forehead, and anxiously questioned Mrs Septimus respecting the illness.
As the night came on the little one grew wild and restless, and what the mother had taken to be but a slight childish ailment, began to assume a form that added anxiety where it was hardly needed. The doctor had been, and spoken Seriously, and the medicine he had sent had been administered; but the fever seemed to increase, for the child grew worse, starting from fitful sleeps, and calling for sister Lucy to take something away from her. Septimus looked weakly from face to face for comfort, and then wandered about the room, wringing his hands and trying to think this new trouble some horrible dream.
And so days passed – days of trouble and anxiety – during which Mrs Septimus forgot her own ailments, and watched and nursed in turn with Lucy. The doctor had talked as so many doctors will talk, in an indefinite strain, which left the anxious parents in a state of doubt and bewilderment, though it never occurred to Septimus Hardon that so great an affliction could fall upon him, as that he should lose his little one.
About a week after the seizure, Mrs Septimus was watching by the child, who, after partaking eagerly of some tea, had apparently dropped off to sleep.
“Take little Tom down into the office,” whispered Mrs Hardon, “perhaps she will sleep awhile if we keep her quiet.”
So Septimus Hardon, looking dazed and worn with mental anxiety, took his boy in his arms, and Lucy being asleep after watching nearly all night, he left Mrs Septimus with the sick child, and carried the little fellow down into the dusty, unused office, where, taking advantage of his father’s