Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

One evening when the moon hung high in air, waiting the fading of day before shedding her pale light, Jean sat in his usual place in the window, dreaming of scenes of which he had read, and thinking himself in some sweet woodland home, forgetting the presence of squalor and misery, and even of the cages, as he listened to the twittering of the many birds hung around his head. There was a brightness in his eye and a smile upon his lip, for he was gazing across the court at just such a scene as once almost spellbound the curate. Merrily romping with the child, he could see Lucy in Jarker’s room, flitting backwards and forwards past the open window. The child’s happy laugh could be heard mingled with its shouts of pleasure, for the pent-up joyousness of its little nature was now having free vent.

All at once Jean’s look of quiet enjoyment changed to one of unutterable rage and despair; the lips, but now apart in a soft smile, were drawn, as if by some fearful pain, his teeth were clenched, and his eyes wild and dilated. He tried to rise, but his helplessness was such that he sank back in his chair panting; but, raising his crutch, he struck savagely on the casement, shivering two or three of the little panes. He tried again and again to get up, and inarticulate sounds came from his lips. It was pitiful to gaze upon the struggle between the strong mind and the weak body, which would not obey his will as he tried again to rise; till, with a savage, guttural cry, more like that of some disappointed beast of prey than a human being, he threw himself towards the open window, as in his efforts his chair was overturned and he fell upon the floor, where he lay agonisingly writhing in his impotence, as he absolutely foamed at the mouth.

Just then the door behind him opened, and, with a book beneath his arm, Mr Sterne entered the room; when seeing, as he thought, the cripple in a fit, he sprang forward and raised him in his arms to place him in a chair, at the same time running over in his own mind what would be the best course of action. But as he gazed in the poor fellow’s dilated eyes, and saw their look of unutterable despair, one of Jean’s hands was fiercely clutching his shoulder, and the other was pointing and waving frantically towards the open window.

The next instant, as if some strange suspicion had flashed upon his mind, the curate was gazing across the court, to utter almost the counterpart of the cry that had issued from the throat of Jean, as he caught sight of Lucy, frightened and horror-stricken, backing towards the room door, and Jarker, evidently half-mad with drink, holding her tightly by one arm; for he had returned unexpectedly, and taking advantage of the girl’s preoccupation, had stolen softly into the room and closed the door.

Arthur Sterne saw this at one glance, and his face turned pale as ashes with the thoughts that this hasty look engendered. The next moment he had half-climbed from the window and stood holding by one hand, measuring the distance across the court, as he stooped, lithe and elastic, ready for the bound; but reason told him that it was utter madness to attempt so wild a leap—a leap certainly death for himself, and probably worse than death for her he sought to save; and dashing back into the room he tore down the staircase.

Recovering somewhat, Jean now let himself slide down upon the floor, and, panting heavily, began to walk painfully across the room; for a moment he looked at the window, but the next he was making for the door, and then lowering himself from stair to stair. But before he was down the first flight, there was rescue at hand for Lucy. Bounding up the frail old staircase of the opposite house, Arthur Sterne dashed frantically on, so that at every leap the woodwork cracked and trembled as if ready to give way. The height never seemed so great before, as landing after landing was passed, till he reached the last, to launch himself against the frail door, which, driven from its hinges, fell with a crash; and the next moment, dropping like some inert mass from the blow which fell upon his face, Jarker made the old place quiver beneath his weight. And there he lay, stupid and helpless from the sudden shock; the effect of the blow being apparently enough to destroy life, for the ruffian did not move.

Hardly breathing, and uttering no sound, the child crouched fearfully in a corner; while Lucy, trembling and half-fainting, clung to the curate, as sob after sob burst from her breast; and at last, as if stricken by death, she sank back pale and inanimate upon his supporting arm.

But there were no looks of love in Arthur Sterne’s face; for, with brow knit, nostrils distended, and every vein in his face swollen and knotted, he stood with his heel crushed down upon Jarker’s bull-throat, no mean incarnation of vengeance. Soon, though, the breath he had drawn with difficulty as he stood there holding the fainting girl to his throbbing heart, came more lightly, the expression of rage fled from his features, and as he gazed tenderly upon the pale face so near his own he pressed his lips reverently upon her forehead.

“Lucy, my poor dove,” he whispered, “will you not give me the right to protect you, and take you from this place?”—“Our beauty, some of us,” seemed sighed at his ear.

“A lie, a base lie!” he muttered fiercely; though even then a change came over his face, the veins swelled once more in his forehead, and an agony of strange thoughts passed through his breast. And now, pale and anxious, two or three of the women lodgers came trembling to the door, amongst whom was Mrs Sims, ready to take possession of the child, as, hurriedly passing through the wondering group, the curate bore his light burden to her home.