“When I’ve done my dooty by her, as other people, whom I won’t bemean myself to name, oughter have done, Mister Jarker, I shall go, and not before,” said Mrs Sims. “It’s not me as could sit down-stairs and know as that pore creetur there was dying for want of a drop of gruel, and me not come and make it, which didn’t cost you a farden, so now then!” Here Mrs Sims bridled a great deal and sniffed very loudly; a couple of tears falling into the fender “pit-pat.”
“Don’t jaw,” said Bill gruffly, making a kind of feint with his hand as he stooped down to light his short black pipe by thrusting the bowl between the bars.
Mrs Sims flinched as if to avoid a blow, to the great delight of Mr Jarker; but exasperated him directly after by sniffing loudly, over and over again, producing, by way of accompaniment to each sniff, a low and savage growl and an oath.
“Well, I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs Sims, “how polite we’re a-growing!” But catching sight of the smouldering fire in the ruffian’s eye, she hastily poured out the gruel, repenting all the while, for the poor woman’s sake, that she had spoken; but upon taking the hot preparation with some toast to the invalid she found her kindness unavailing, for though Mrs Jarker sat up for a minute and tried to take it, she sank back with a faint sigh, and with an imploring look, she whispered her neighbour to please go.
“Not till I’ve seen you eat this, my pore dear soul,” said Mrs Sims boldly, though, poor woman, she was all in a tremble, and kept glancing over her shoulder at Jarker, who, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, glowered and scowled at the scene before him. Mrs Sims passed her arm round the thin, wasted form, and supported the invalid; but, after vainly trying to swallow a few spoonfuls, the poor woman again sank back upon her pillow, sighing wearily, while the sharp, pecking sound made by one of the caged birds against its perch, sounded strangely like the falling of a few scraps of soil upon a coffin—“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust.” And then, for some minutes, there was silence in the room, till Mrs Jarker turned whisperingly to her friendly neighbour, to beg that she would go now and not rouse Bill, who was a bit odd sometimes.
So, saucepan in hand, Mrs Sims wished the invalid “Good-night;” and then, trembling visibly, sidled towards the door, evidently fearing to turn her back to Mr Jarker, who was still growling and muttering, as if a storm were brewing and ready to burst; but Mrs Sims’ agitation caused her first to drop her iron spoon from the saucepan, and then, as she stooped to recover it, to flinch once more, to the ruffian’s great delight, as he made another pugilistic feint—a gymnastic feat that he had learnt through visiting some marsh or another when a fight was to come off between Fibbing Phil and Chancery Joe—a feat that consisted of a violent effort to throw away the right fist, and a quick attempt at catching it with the left hand. But Mrs Sims managed to get herself safely outside the door, and lost no time in hurrying down, the stairs, breathing more freely with every step placed between her and the ruffian; but she shrieked loudly on reaching the first landing, and dropped both saucepan and spoon, for the door was savagely thrown open, and the bellows came clattering after her down the stairs; and all in consequence of Mr Jarker being a bit odd.
“A bit odd!”—in one of those fits which had often prompted him to strike down his weak, suffering, patient wife with dastardly, cruel hand, and then to kick her with his heavy boots, or drag at her hair until her head was bleeding—oddness which made the tiny child in the room shrink from him; while before now it had been traced on the poor woman’s features in blackened and swollen bruises. But shrieks, and the falling of heavy blows, were common sounds in Bennett’s-rents, and people took but little notice of Mr Jarker’s odd fits.
Bill took no heed to the weary, strangling cough which shook his wife’s feeble frame, but smoked on furiously till the fire went out. She would not get up to put on more coals, and he wasn’t agoing to muck his hands; for, as has been before hinted, Mr Jarker had soft, whitish hands, which looked as though they had never done a hard day’s work; and at last, when the place looked more cheerless and dull than usual, he prepared himself for rest.
“You’re allus ill,” growled the ruffian, who had had just drink enough to make him savage; “and it’s my belief as you wants rousing up.” But there came no answer to his remark. The little one slept soundly upon the two chairs which formed its bed, and, with half-closed eyes, the woman lay, breathing very faintly, as her lips moved, forming words she had heard from Mr Sterne.
Bill felt himself to be ill-used, and was very sulky, a feeling which made him kick his boots to the end of the room, where one knocked over a linnet’s cage, when, still growling, the owner had to go and pick it up, which he did at the expense of his dignity, and there and then shook the cage till the unoffending bird rustled and fluttered about, panting and terror-stricken, to be half-drowned by the water he poured into its little glass the next minute. For, what business had his wife to be ill and allus having parsons and Mrs Simses a-pottering about in his place? Hadn’t he made a row about it when she came when the kid was born, and hadn’t she allus come at uncomfortable times since? Didn’t she come when it died, and weren’t things uncomfortable now, and she a-making them worse? He wouldn’t have it—that he wouldn’t; and, growling and swearing in a low tone, Mr Jarker divested himself of a part of his attire, and threw himself upon the bed.