Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes. Fenn George Manville

in consequence of low diet, that after making his way out of the Inn, across Carey-street, and into the rags of the legal cloak, that is to say into Bennett’s-rents, he resolved to take advantage of there being a “public” at either end of the rents, and regardless of the whooping children who dashed by him, he went in and had “three-ha’porth” of the celebrated cream gin advertised outside upon a blue board with golden legend. After which enricher of his milk of human kindness, Mr Jarker wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he passed through the swinging doors, hugged his cage against his ribs, muttered, “Didn’t oughter be allowed in the public streets,” and then forcing a way through a noisy tribe of children, he paused at Number 27 in the Rents – a dismal-looking old house, worse perhaps by broad daylight than in the early dawn, when some of its foulness had remained concealed. It had been a mansion once, in the days of the Jameses probably, when fresh air was a more abundant commodity in the City, and was not all used up long before it could penetrate so narrow a thoroughfare.

      Mr Jarker slowly tramped up flight after flight of stairs till he came to the attic-floor, when, without removing his hands from his pockets, he kicked open the badly-hung door, and entered the bare room.

      “O, you’re here agen, are yer?” he said sulkily to a dark, well-dressed woman, in black silk and fashionable bonnet, strangely out of place in the wretched room, whose other occupant was pale-faced, weary-looking Mrs Jarker, whose crimply white hands betokened a very late acquaintanceship with the washtub by the steamy window. “O, you’re here agen, are yer?” said Mr Jarker.

      “Yes, Bill,” said Mrs Jarker timidly, every word she spoke seeming to flinch and dart out of reach of hearing almost before it was uttered. “Yes, Bill, she’s come again, and we’ve been talking it over – and – and – and – if you wouldn’t mind, Bill, I’d – ”

      “How much?” growled Mr Jarker.

      “Five shillings,” said his wife timidly; “five shillings a-week.”

      “’Tain’t enough,” said Mr Jarker; “it’s worth six. Look at the trouble.”

      Mrs Jarker looked from her husband to the stranger and back again, and was about to speak, when her lord exclaimed roughly, “Shut Up!”

      The visitor’s eyes flashed for a moment, and then she glanced hastily round the room, her gaze resting for a moment upon the ruffianly, bull-dog face of Jarker, and she hesitated; but another glance at the timid, gentle countenance of his wife seemed to reassure her, and she said hoarsely, with her look fixed upon the flinching woman, “I’ll give you six.”

      “And if ’tain’t paid up reg’lar, I’m blest if I sha’n’t chuck it outer winder, or somethin’; so look out,” said Mr Jarker.

      The visitor’s lips quivered, but, still gazing fixedly upon the woman, she said in the same hoarse voice: “I shall bring the money once a-week.”

      “In advance, yer know,” growled Mr Jarker.

      “Yes, yes; only be kind to it,” exclaimed the visitor with something like a sob, but without removing her eyes.

      “O, ah! in course we will. We’re the right sort here, ain’t we, Poll?” growled Mr Jarker.

      “Yes, Bill,” said his wife in a husky whisper.

      “And now,” said Mr Bill Jarker, with what was meant for a pleasant smile, but which consisted of the closing of his eyes, and the display of his teeth, – “and now as we’ve made it all snug, you’ll stand somethin’; that’s what you’ll do, ain’t it now?”

      Still without removing her eyes from the pale-faced woman before her, the visitor drew a shilling from a little bead-purse, and laid it upon the table, her lips now moving as if trying to form words for Mrs Jarker to understand.

      “Go away now, Bill,” whispered she to her husband.

      “What for?” growled Bill, untying the knots of his handkerchief with his teeth, to set his cage at liberty, and nearly frightening the soul out of the tiny, fluttering, panting body contained therein. Then, by way of reply to a whisper, he sullenly took the shilling from the table, bit it, spat upon it, and spun it up, before depositing it in his pocket; made his way to the back part of the attic, where birdcages and the paraphernalia of his profession lay thick; ascended a ladder to a trap in the ceiling, and then, only his legs visible as he stood upon one of the top rounds, Mr Jarker, with half his body above the tiles, busied himself amongst his pigeons, and started them for a flight over the houses.

      The next moment, after a hurried glance at the ceiling, where the light streamed down past the ruffian’s legs, the visitor’s face was seen to work, and, rising from her seat, she went down upon her knees before poor Mrs Jarker, kissing her work-worn hands, and bathing them with the tears that streamed from her eyes.

      “God – God bless you!” she whispered passionately. “O, be kind to it!”

      But Mrs Jarker could not answer for something swelling in her throat; and the next minute she too was weeping, with her hand resting upon her visitor’s shoulder.

      This paroxysm of tears seemed to have its effect upon the visitor, for, forcing back her own emotion, she appeared more at ease within herself, as, gazing once more into the pale, worn, common face of the birdcatcher’s wife, she kissed her in so loving and sisterly a way, that the tears flowed faster from Mrs Jarker’s eyes. And yet, knowing full well who was her visitor, Mrs Jarker did not shudder, but rose from her choir, glanced timorously at the open trap, and then drew the stranger towards a box – a common deal-box, with the blue-stained paper that had once covered it hanging here and there in rags. She went upon her knees now, and raised the creaking lid, when an impatient movement of the feet upon the ladder made her start up hastily, and close the lid again. But a long, loud whistling from above showed her that Mr Jarker was still busy with his birds; so once more raising the lid, the poor creature thrust her hand down to a well-known spot beneath the few rags of clothes the box contained, and brought out a pair of little, stained red boots, which she pressed passionately to her lips, the tears gushing from her eyes the while, and a broken hysterical wail burst from her overladen breast. But it was checked instantly, for Jarker’s feet scraped on the ladder, and the boots were hidden beneath the woman’s apron; then the whistling was heard again, and the little boots were brought forth once more.

      A pair of tiny red boots, the only relic she had of something that was not – something that she had once warmed within her breast – the breast before now bruised and blackened by a ruffian hand, but beneath which was the same warm, God-implanted love for her offspring that glows in the bosom of the noblest of her sex.

      For a moment or two the younger woman gazed in the other’s eyes with a soft, tender, pitying look – a look in this case of true sympathy; and the hand of the lost rested lovingly upon Mrs Jarker’s breast as she whispered softly: “How old was it?”

      “Only a twelvemonth,” was the reply, followed by a moan. “But perhaps it was best – perhaps it was best.”

      The visitor’s hand still rested upon the other’s breast, and she was about to speak, when an impatient shuffle startled both, for it seemed that Mr Jarker was about to descend; but he came not. And now a look of ineffable sweetness and content came over the well-moulded features of the visitor. She was satisfied now respecting the step she was about to take; for Mrs Jarker’s heart had been laid open to her. A true chord of sympathy existed between them, and she could feel that her little one would be taken to a motherly breast, and protected – protected; but who, she asked herself, would injure one so tender and frail?

      But there was no time for further communion between these motherly hearts, for a loud rasp on the ladder told that Mr Jarker was descending, and the visitor prepared to leave.

      “You’ve been a-pipin’ again,” growled Mr Jarker to his wife, who had hastily concealed the boots – “pipin’ about that ’ere kid as has gone; and a good thing too. Wot’s the good when here’s another a-coming?” and he looked menacingly at the shivering woman. “I say,” he continued to the visitor, who now stood at the door, “you’ll pay up reg’lar, and in advance!”

      “Yes,