Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

For a good hour together Mr Jarker would rest in a broken-bottomed chair, smoking a short black pipe, his hands supporting his heavy chin, and his elbows making pits in his knees, as, like some hideous old cathedral gargoyle, he sat gazing fixedly at the little wondering face of the child. From time to time he reversed his position to re-refresh himself with a draught of his favourite beverage—gin and beer, a beverage which always produced a loud smack from his thick negro lips. If there was no fascination in the child’s face for Bill Jarker, there was most certainly fascination in the ruffian’s face for the child; and unconsciously imitating his attitude, it would rest its dimply plump cheeks upon its tiny fists, and gaze again wonderingly, without a thought of moving, till the lids slowly sank over the violet eyes, and the little golden-haired, soft, lovable head sank sideways, with all those prettiest of pretty motions seen in one of the most beautiful sights in nature—a child dropping off into its simple trusting sleep of innocence; but soon it would start into wakefulness again, with a frightened air, and its little face drawn and ready to cry; but a glance at the hideous face before it subdued the disposition, and once more the same long, weary gaze commenced.

This took place day after day, and a stranger seeing it might have fancied that in this case innocence was exercising its power over guilt; but one who knew Mr Jarker well would have arrived at the right idea, namely, that this gentleman was making his plans. A pipe or two of tobacco, a pint of beer strengthened with gin, and a long stare at the face of his wife when living, a cat, a dog, or of late the child, had been the preliminaries of more than one desperate burglary in a country place somewhere within a circle of fifty miles’ radius, taking Saint Paul’s as the centre. Bill’s confrères in the bird-catching profession contented themselves with trips countryward to the extent of eight or ten miles; but, though on the whole Bill and his two or three companions caught fewer birds, he never let distance interfere with his pursuits, and used to boast that the birds he netted were of a rarer kind. Bill would travel third-class almost any distance to find good pitches for his nets; and even then, perhaps, after a three or four days’ trip, and returning with hardly a bird, he seemed to be so infatuated with the place and its prospects, that he would gather together his two or three intimates, and go down again, travelling slowly by road, setting off too in such a hurry, in a miserable cart drawn by a wretched-looking hack, that friends and self would entirely forget nets and call-birds, when they would console themselves with the remark that they might take a few nightingales.

So that Mr Jarker was not undergoing a softening process as he sat staring at the child, for he was really making his plans; and this time these plans had nothing to do with either birds or nocturnal visits. There was something particular in Mr Jarker’s head, or else he would not have burdened himself with the child for a single day; while he had carefully retained it in his custody now for many weeks; and the ruffian’s ideas must have been of a somewhat strange character, for now and then he would shake his head at the drowsy child, and say:

“Yes, my little chickin’, you do for a bait.”

So of late, apparently for the sake of the child, Mr Jarker had suffered the bellows; and, in consideration of a small sum weekly, Mrs Sims had sniffed about the room, and, to use her own expressive words, “done for him.” But now, probably from too much spiritual exercise, Mrs Sims was ill, and no one dared go near the ruffian’s room but Lucy, whose heart bled for the little thing. Left still for hours together alone in the dreary room, sometimes but half fed, afraid to do more than whimper softly, her sole amusement was to press her little face against the closed window, and watch until she could catch a glimpse of her neighbour, when the tiny hands would be clapped with glee. The neighbours said it was a shame; but they had their own affairs to attend to, and said no more. While, as might be expected, Lucy seized every opportunity of tending the child most lovingly; watching for Jarker’s absence, and then hurrying up and spending perhaps an hour in the miserable attic.

“She must be ill,” Lucy would think, “or something is wrong; for surely it was fancy on her part that he should wish to retain the child;” and, though anxious that it should be better tended, she looked forward with dread to the time when it should be taken away; while, as anxiously she watched for a visit from Agnes. Night after night the candle burned in her window, as she worked on at some exercise; but Agnes Hardon came not, telling her weary heart that it was for Lucy’s good.

Sometimes Jarker would omit to turn the key he always left in his door, as if to provoke inquiry into his affairs, and to show the guilelessness of his life; and then, after waiting until his footstep became inaudible, the child would steal softly down step by step, fleeing back if she heard a door open or a foot upon the stairs, but only to persevere till, unobserved, she reached the entrance, when, watching till the attention of the children of the court was directed elsewhere, she would dart across the pavement, enter the opposite house, creep up to the first-floor, and then crouch down by the step which led into the front-room, and peer beneath the door, through the opening made by the long hard wear of feet for a century and a half-watching, perhaps for a couple of hours, the bright guiding spirit of the sewing-machine. But at last Lucy would catch sight of the two round bright eyes, peering beneath the door; and to her mother’s great annoyance at one time, and supreme satisfaction upon another, she would fetch in the child, when according to Mrs Hardon’s mood she would act; for if the invalid was fretful and weary, the little thing would be taken up to Jean, where she would stay willingly amongst the birds, as the cripple eagerly tried to be of service to his beautiful neighbour. But there were difficulties here, for Jean could only render this aid when ma mère was absent, though this was more frequently now since Bijou had learned to stand upon his head, and so brought in more remuneration, without taking into consideration his later accomplishment of climbing two chairs, rail by rail, forefeet upon one, hindfeet upon another, and then smoking a tobacco-less pipe in triumph upon the summit, as he spanned the distance between the two chairs, and turned himself into a canine arch. But Bijou doubtless did not enjoy his pipe for remembering how that he was bête, and for thinking of the whip, and the rapping his poor legs received before he was able to obey his mistress’s commands—that is if dogs can think.

There seemed to be a tacit understanding between ma mère and Lucy; an acknowledged dislike upon the old woman’s part, which made the latter carefully avoid her, shrinking back into the room if she heard her footstep, so as not to encounter the quiet bitter smile and sneering gaze of the old woman, while ma mère reviled Jean angrily, calling him nurse-girl, bonne, when by chance she learned of his past occupation. But Jean cared not, so long as there was something that should bring Lucy to his attic, where he could feast greedily upon her bright face and graceful form; and, could he have gone about, he would have followed her like a dog.

Jean’s lark sang more loudly than ever, and Lucy’s eyes had brightened as she told the cripple again and again how she loved its sweet notes; and, watching her press her lips once to the cage-wires, inviting the speckled bird to take a seed from the rosy prison, Jean’s eyes dimmed as he gazed at her with a reverence approaching adoration. Visitor after visitor came to that attic, and went, buying and selling, and the little prisoners were constantly being changed; but the lark was there still, though more than once of late Jean had pressed its acceptance upon Lucy Grey; but with a sweet smile she had thanked him, begging that he would keep it for her sake; and he kept it, in spite of many an angry word from ma mère when some advantageous offer had been made by a visitor; and it still whistled from its perch in the window.

“I will sell the bird myself; it is waste, it is pity, when we are so poor,” ma mère would exclaim; and then Jean would turn upon her a peculiar soft, sweet smile, and whisper, “No, ma mère, you will not sell my bird, because I love it;” when passionately the old woman would now scold, now fondle the cripple, as she hung over the back of his chair.