The rushlight danced and flickered, and a few drops of rain pattered against the window as the night breeze sighed mournfully down the court; first one and then another bird scraped at its perch, roused as it had been by the noise and light, so that it sounded again and again like the earth upon the coffin-lid; some loose woodwork amongst the pigeon-traps upon the roof swung in the wind, and beat against the tiles, and then all was very quiet and still in the wretched attic.
“Bill—Bill, dear,” murmured a voice after a while—a strange harsh-sounding voice, as if it came from a parched and fevered throat; “Bill!”
No answer, only the heavy breathing of the ruffian, and the pattering as of earth upon the coffin-lid.
“Bill—Bill, dear—water!” whispered the voice once more; but there was no answer, only the restless pattering noise of the birds. Then again silence so still and profound that it seemed hardly to be London. But the silence was broken by a little liquid trilling laugh, the laugh of the child, as some bright-hued happy dream passed over its imagination; though there was silence again the next moment, to be broken once more by the strange husky voice, a voice that seemed new to the place, as in almost agonising tones it whispered:
“Kiss me, Bill!”
But there was for response only the sound as of the earth pattering upon the coffin-lid more fitfully and hollow. While now, slowly and timidly, a thin white arm was raised, and, seen there in the dim light, it was as though it was waved threateningly above the drunken ruffian’s head; but no—there was no threat in the act—no calling down of judgment from on high; for the arm was passed lovingly, tenderly, round the coarse bull neck, and still there was no response to the appeal.
“Kiss me, Bill!” was once more whispered; but a long, deep-drawn, stertorous breath told that William Jarker slept heavily, as the arm lay motionless, clasping his neck; and then came a sigh, as piteous and heart-rending as ever rose from suffering breast.
On sped the hours; the rushlight burned down into the socket, flickered once, and expired; the distant sounds of traffic floated by once or twice; the customary heavy tramp of the policeman was heard to pass along the court; and now and then the ruffian breathed more stertorously than usual, or ejaculated some unconnected words in his sleep. Then the child started and whimpered for a few minutes, but sank to sleep again; and still through the night came that restless, pattering noise, that hollow rattle as of dry earth—“ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—the sound as of dry earth falling upon a coffin-lid.
The stars paled as they set; the morning came, and the red-eyed lamplighter hurried from post to post, extinguishing the sickly-looking gas-jets; the noises in the streets grew louder and louder, and many a weary client lodging near woke to wonder whether his case would come on that day. The men in Bennett’s-rents who had work slowly tramped to it, many who were without rose to seek it, while others, again, to use their own words, took it out in sleep, and amongst these was Mr William Jarker.
“Mammy, mammy!” at length rang in pitiful tones upon the ruffian’s ear, and as he woke to the sensations of a hot, aching, fevered head and furred tongue, he tried to clear his misty, spirit-clouded faculties.