Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

But the children did not have the channel all up themselves, for at early dawn the pigeons from the housetops paid it visits, and, in spite of broken, dissipated-looking chimney-pots, falling-out mortar, and shattered, soot-covered tiles, there were many soft-eyed, iridescent—hued birds dwelling upon the roofs of the houses in Bennett’s-rents; and, more especially upon Sunday mornings, an observer from some high edifice might have seen dirty-faced men, in hairy caps, rising out of trap-doors in roofs, like “Mr F’s aunt” through the factory-floor, and, when half-way out, and forming prominent objects among little wildernesses of sooty, lath-made cages and traps, amusing themselves by waving red-cotton handkerchiefs tied to the end of sticks, for the purpose of keeping their flights of pigeons high in air.

A rumour had spread through the court that something was to be seen in the neighbouring street, when out trooped the children from the narrow entrance, and comparative silence reigned, till place and echoes were alike mocked by a man with his cry of “Rag—bone!” but his was labour in vain: he took nothing further from the Rents to glut the shop of Mrs Slagg, and, reaching the end of the place, he departed with his bag still light, and the court knew him no more that day, though there were rags enough in every house to have filled his sack again and again, and drawn down the index of his portable weighing-machine to the furthest limit. Still there was another sound to be heard, for Mr William Jarker, of the heavy jaw, flattened nose, and general bull-dog aspect, was above his attic, whistling to his pigeons, as the Reverend Arthur Sterne stood by the reeking channel, gazing up into the strip of blue sky above his head, and following the circling flight of the birds as he muttered sadly to himself, “O, that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly away and be at rest!” but the next instant he smiled sadly, as he recalled work undone, duties to perform, and then thought of the rest and fate of these birds, wondering, too, how it came that they should form the “fancy” of the roughest of the rough. Then he paused with his foot upon the threshold of the house where Septimus Hardon lodged, for there, in the hot, close London court, came gushing down in tones of purest liquid melody, the wild, heaven-gate trill of a lark: “Tsweet-tsweet-tsweet-tsweet!” every trill an intoxicating, magic draught, drunk in by the ear, and—a very opium—bearing the hearer far, far away to green fields, shady woodlands, golden hill-sides, and sparkling brooks; louder, louder and more rapturous, thrilling the air around; rising and falling, echoing from far and near, but ever sweet and pure, even joyous at times; and praise the song of the wild bird as you may, there is that in the trill of its caged brother in some close London alley that shall sound the sweeter in the sadness engendered by the surroundings, for it whispers of brighter scenes and purer homes, bearing you with it far, far away from the misery where you stay.

Even Bill Jarker ceased waving his handkerchief, took his short, black pipe from his mouth, and listened; the curate thought of days when, with a soft white hand in his, he had wandered over the downs, listening to those ever-sweet English notes; while from the window above was stretched forth the fair, shapely head of Lucy Grey, her eyes sparkling, and lips apart, as if to command silence; and then, as the curate looked up, there was a slight start, a faint flush of colour in the girl’s pale cheeks, and her head was quickly withdrawn.

A tall, slight, careworn man was the curate of Saint Magdalen’s; hair sprinkled with grey, deep lines crossing his brow, and yet there was a smile of ineffable sweetness lingering about his mouth—a smile which, far from telling of weakness, whispered of sorrow, tenderness, patience, and charity.

The few minutes of tranquillity had passed. The door of the house stood open—as, in fact, did that of every other house in the thickly-inhabited court; the children began to troop back, Bill Jarker took to his pipe and pigeon-flying, and with thoughts trembling between the ideal and the real, the curate entered the door before him.

It was not a Saturday, or he would have found the ascent of the stairs troublesome; but he well knew the manners and customs of the natives, and abstained from making his visits on that day of the week, for on Saturdays there was a rule carried out (one set in force by the landlady), that the attics cleaned down to the second-floor, the second-floor to the first, the first-floor to the passage, which last portion fell to the lot of the occupants of the parlours, front and back—two families who took it in turns to make the dirt upon the said passage wet, and then to smear it from side to side with a flannel, so that the boards always wore the aspect of having been newly hearthstoned with a lump of brown clay, if the simile will stand. Consequently, upon this seventh day of the week, when the lodgers were busy, and Mrs Sims could be heard sniffing as she “did Hardons’ bit,” the journey upwards was dangerous, for if the traveller avoided the snares and pitfalls formed by divers pails and brown pans, or even, maybe, a half-gallon can from the public at the corner if the pail was engaged; if he saved himself from slipping on the sloping, wet boards, and fell over no kneeling scrubber in a dark corner, he most certainly heard low-muttered abuse heaped upon his head for “trapesing” over the newly-cleaned stairs—abuse direct or indirect, according to the quality of the traveller.

Not, then, being a Saturday, Mr Sterne entered the house known as Number 7—by tradition only, for the brass number, after being spun round by one pin for some months, suddenly disappeared—passed along to the worn stairs, two flights of which he ascended, creaking and cracking the while beneath his weight, and every one sloping, so that it seemed hanging to the wall to save itself from falling. He paused for an instant upon the landing opposite Septimus Hardon’s rooms, and listened to the rapid beating “click-click” of Lucy’s sewing-machine; then up two more flights; and again, without pause, up two more, which groaned with weakness and old age; while sunken door-frames, doors that would not shut, and various other indications, told of the insecure condition of the house. And now once more he paused upon the top landing, where some domestic spider had spun a web of string, stretching it from rusty nail to rusty nail, for the purpose of drying clothes—garments now, fortunately for the visitor, absent.

Here fell upon the ear the twitterings of many birds, and the curate’s face again lighted up as the song of the lark once more rang out loud and clear, apparently from outside the window of the attic before whose door he stood. But his reverie was interrupted by a sharp shrill voice, which he could hear at intervals giving orders in a quick angry tone. Then followed the lashing of a whip, a loud yelp, or the occasional rapid beat of a dog’s tail upon the floor. At last, turning the handle of the rickety door, the visitor entered.

“En avant! Halte là! Ah-h-h! bête! O, ’tis monsieur,” were the words which greeted Mr Sterne as he entered the sloping-roofed attic, one side of which was almost entirely window—old lead-framed lattice, mended in every conceivable way with pasted paper and book-covers; and there, in the middle of the worn floor, stood the thin, sharp-faced woman of the cellar, holding in one hand a whip, in the other a hoop; while two half-shaven French poodle-dogs crouched at her feet. Seated by the open window surrounded by birdcages, conspicuous among which was that of the lark whose notes enlivened the court, was a sallow, dark-haired, dark-eyed youth, eager-looking and well-featured, but sadly deformed, for his head seemed to rest upon his shoulders, and the leg twisted round the crutch which leaned against his chair was miserably attenuated.

“Bon jour! How are the pupils, Madame la Mère?” said the curate, taking a broken chair and seating himself.