Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

“Yes,” she said; and then she turned, for a hand was laid upon her arm, and one of the jurymen led her on a few steps talking long and earnestly, till after repeating something aloud two or three times he walked away; and Matt and the girl, two of the waifs of London streets, went slowly on, not noticing that they were watched.

“Poor, poor Marian!” sobbed the girl, stopping by a doorway. “Told me to read the words she had marked in the Bible, and then to go and do that!”

“Well, well, well,” said the old man, “let’s hope she has gone to a better world; and now, my lass, where are you going?”

“Back to my lodging,” said the girl wearily.

“That gentleman told you to call somewhere, didn’t he?” said Matt.

“Ah, yes,” said the girl abstractedly, “I think so.”

“Now I don’t believe you remember it,” said Matt; “but I happened to hear it, and I’ll write it down. Now, look here;” and he brought out his old, ragged memorandum-book and the lead-pencil stump; and then, using the crown of his hat for a desk, he wrote down the address carefully, tore out half a leaf, and gave it to the girl.

“There, my lass,” he said, “take my advice, and go there; and now I want you to let me have that Bible.”

“What for?” and the girl looked wonderingly at him.

“It’s a whim of mine, that’s all,” said Matt. “But you’ll – ”

He paused, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turning round he stood face to face with the juryman who had spoken to the girl.

“What paper was that you gave to the girl?” he said roughly.

“The one you ought to have given,” said Matt, resenting the question, and the tone of voice in which it was asked.

“What do you mean?” said the stranger.

Old Matt was weak and ill, or he would have retorted angrily; but he only said, “An address.”

“What address?” said the juryman dubiously.

“Well, then, yours, if you must know,” said Matt.

The juryman looked keenly at the old printer, who met his gaze without flinching. “It was easy to remember,” said the former.

“I know that,” said Matt, “but I thought she’d forget; and you seemed to mean well by the poor lass. I watched you, sir, at the inquest.”

“God knows I do, my man,” said the juryman softly; “and I ask your pardon for playing the spy; for I must confess to having had my doubts of you.”

“It’s all right, sir; and we can cry quits,” said Matt. “I had my doubts, too; and was in two minds about writing down the address; but if you can do anything towards saving the country the cost of another inquest, for God’s sake do. No, thank you, sir; I don’t want your money. I don’t like taking it where I haven’t earned it. It’s a weak point of mine, and has stood in the way of my comfort more than once: and I’m old now, sir, and can’t break myself of bad habits. Good-day, sir.”

The juryman smiled as they parted, and old Matt hurried off talking to himself; for the girl had disappeared while he had been detained.

“I want to see that Bible,” he muttered, “and he’s hindered me dreadfully. But, yes; no; yes; that’s her; there she is,” and he shuffled on after a slight figure he saw crossing the road, some distance down the street. “Hang the folks, how they do get in your way when you’re in a hurry,” he growled. “Now, stoopid, which way is it to be?” And then he hurried and panted along to overtake the retreating figure, which had again disappeared. Dodging amongst the vehicles he encountered, he crossed the road, pressing on, with everyone he met apparently resenting his hurry, till passing a turning, he looked down, to see the figure he had followed nearly at the bottom.

“Gets over the ground well,” muttered the old man, wiping his forehead; “but I’m safe of her now. Must have that Bible; there may be some clue there, and I want to have this matter cleared up; but how can I tell Miss Lucy?”

The old man reached the bottom of the street, and stood within twenty yards of the figure he sought to overtake, when hurrying on he caught up to her, saying —

“My lass, you’ll let me have that book, won’t you?”

The figure turned sharply round, as Matt touched her shoulder lightly; but the face was strange, and, taken aback and confounded, the old man made a rough apology, and stood panting as he clung to the railings of a house hard by.

Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.

Mr Jarker is Wanted

Mr William Jarker had had a long holiday from the public school where her Majesty’s officers try to instil lessons of good, while their refractory pupils resent them to the best of their ability. So long had been Mr Jarker’s holiday, that the police had grown uncomfortable at their inability to bring something home to him, but he was wanted, at last, on account of a collection of plate and valuables that had suddenly disappeared after a few linnets and finches had been netted some thirty miles down in Hertfordshire, though even here the burglary would not have drawn Mr Jarker into trouble had it not been for a confederate who had “peached” in consequence of what he called an unfair division of the spoil.

So Mr Jarker was wanted just at a time when he felt very comfortable and secure. He had certainly felt rather uneasy for a few days past, and read, or rather stumbled through, the various newspapers, taking particular interest in passages relating to discoveries of bodies, and inquests, but now this uneasiness had worn off, and no further notice having been taken of his behaviour by the Hardon family, he felt in very good spirits; though for all that, he had kept away from Bennett’s-rents, so that he might not encounter the Reverend Arthur Sterne, who had been assaulted, he heard; and on the principle of giving a dog a bad name and then hanging him, Bill thought he might be accused of the assault. As to the child, he learned that the curate had taken it to his own home.

Mr Jarker’s notice was drawn to the fact of his being wanted, one day when making his way from the Dials into Holborn. Naturally given to casting his eyes about him, he became aware of a quiet-looking man following him at a distance; and no sooner did Mr Jarker catch sight of that face, than horrors of the past untold danced before his eyes for an instant; but the next moment he thrust his hands into his pockets, drew a long breath, and began to whistle, all the while looking out ahead for what he next expected to see – a policeman in uniform.

It might be supposed that the whistler intended to give the person who followed him so closely into custody, but this was not the case, for Mr Jarker imagined that no sooner was there a policeman in sight, than the quiet-looking man would begin to close up.

But it might be somebody else who was wanted, so Mr Jarker crossed the road – so did the quiet man; Bill crossed again – so did the quiet man; and, though the weather was cold, the bird-catcher perspired, as he muttered —

“I wonder what it’s for?”

However, he appeared to take matters very coolly, and peeped here and there into the bird-fanciers’ shops, and so made his way into Holborn, now and then directing a peep at his quiet friend, who was apparently not taking the slightest heed of his proceedings, but all the same thoroughly realising the difficulty of finding one of his brotherhood when wanted.

Passengers were plentiful here, and the crowd thickened as Jarker went on, till a good opportunity seemed to present itself.

“Now for it!” thought Bill, and after a glance over his shoulder, he dodged in and out and about for five minutes, making more than one feint of having turned out of the main street; then, being apparently very much taken with the contents of a draper’s window, he stopped short, and glanced to the right to find the quiet-looking man in precisely the same place, and worse still, probably in obedience to a sign from the said quiet man, to the left there was a policeman closing up quickly.

“Meant for me!” muttered Bill; and again, as he turned hotter, “I wonder what it’s for?” while once more glancing to the right, there was the quiet man also closing in quickly.

But not so quickly as Jarker made a leap backwards into the road, dodged right under a horse’s legs, round an omnibus, past cabs, carts, and wagons, and in and out and about like an eel, invulnerable to the tread of horses’ feet or the passage of wheels. Ordinary people would have been run over half-a-dozen times, but Bill Jarker was not, and on he tore, with the two constables in full chase.

Jarker had not much start, but he made the most of it, with the full determination of making his escape if possible; perhaps even for a small robbery he might have run hard, and fought hard, to avoid capture; but at the present time there was a look of desperation in his face that prevented more than one willing hand from attempting his seizure; and away he sped, in and out of the vehicles coming and going upon the slippery road. All at once he caught sight of a new peril; right in front there was another policeman, and if, to avoid him, he took to the pavement, so great was the crowd of passengers, that he must have been hemmed-in and captured directly. So on dashed Jarker, right at the constable in front, coming down upon him with the impetus of a battering-ram. Over he went, and on dashed Bill with the other constables in close pursuit, and shouts and cries rising on all sides. “Stop thief! stop thief!” with the tail of followers increasing each moment.

Jarker’s breath came hot and thick, and he felt that a few more minutes past, and he would be marching through the street handcuffed and with his liberty stopped; he thought no more of that, but shuddered, while, at the same moment, hope animated his breast, for he could see, far in front, a haven of safety: right before him the street was up, and the boards and bricks told of repairs to the sewers, while the large heap of earth pointed out the depth down at which they lay.

On tore Jarker, racing over the ground with a long, loping run, and on came the police, with the tag of idlers; but the goal was reached. With one bound Jarker cleared the barrier, ran and stumbled over the loose earth for some distance, and then dropped to the first platform, slid down ladder after ladder, passed man after man, too astonished and startled to attempt to seize him, sometimes falling, sometimes climbing, with the deal planks springing, and brickbats and clods of earth falling after him. One man made a blow at him with his spade, but it came too late, for Jarker reached the bottom, leaped into the black stream, here but little over his knees, went splashing away under the echoing dark arch of the sewer, into the dense black passages that run for so many miles under London, and was out of sight long before the first policeman was half-way down the great opening.

The main sewers were not made in those days, and the quiet man stopped for an instant to give some instructions to one of his constables, the result being that he leaped into a hansom cab, and very soon after, as the tide was up, a Thames-police row-galley was being pulled slowly backwards and forwards in front of the mouths of two large openings which lent their black, affluent streams to the great river.

On through the darkness went Jarker, always with the stream, his hands outstretched in front, and his head turned from time to time to catch a glimpse of the flash of some bull’s-eye lantern. On he pressed, but not unpursued; since for some distance a couple of policemen, the one in plain clothes and he who had been knocked down and made vicious by the blow, came plashing along.

Once the ruffian stopped, drew out a heavy life-preserver, and with an oath turned back, but directly after he was pressing on again, carefully feeling his way by the slimy wall, for the water grew deeper and deeper, and more than once his quick ear detected the light scuffling noise as of some little animal running, and a plash as of something leaping into the murky stream.

At last Jarker stopped, for the long-continued silence and the thick darkness taught him that he was unpursued; but he knew well enough that though the pursuit had perhaps ceased, the entrances to the sewers would be carefully watched; and he felt too now that there would be no home for him again in Bennett’s-rents.

“They’re gallus clever!” growled the ruffian when, after pressing on a little further, he once more stopped short – “they’re gallus clever, them p’lice, but they don’t know everythink.”

And now, after listening long and carefully, he turned off short round to the right, and waded onward for a few minutes, when he stopped again to draw forth a box and light a match; but he found that they were wetted, and nothing followed but faint streaks of phosphorescent light; when with a curse he threw the useless splints away and pressed on.

Dark, plashing, echoing paths, with noisome mephitic smells and the sound of hurrying waters – paths that might in ignorance be traversed for days and days, until the weary wanderer sank down for the black stream to bear him out to the great river. Here there would be a smaller sewer off to the right, here one to the left; while drain-pipe and culvert emptied their filthy streams, augmenting always the larger sewer where the ruffian waded; as the current swelled and rose and rolled swiftly on, at times with almost sufficient force to render his footing insecure.

At one time the water was up to his breast, but it soon shallowed when he entered a branch and faced the stream, guiding himself ever with his hand upon the slimy wall, as if thoroughly acquainted with his road, and proceeding the while at no mean rate along the gloomy way; for Jarker had been here before, and he pressed on fearless of darkness or rats, thinking that the only danger that could assail him would be a rush of water after a heavy rain. At times, though, he stopped splashing and beating the stream, and imitating the snapping, snarling bark of a dog, for something would run scratching over him – then another, and another – keen, hunger-bitten little animals; then there followed splash after splash, as they leaped into the water. Now he was clear of them again, and stopped puzzled, feeling along the wall on both sides for something he could not find – some guide-mark or open sewer-mouth; but now again came the little eager animals, hunger-driven and fierce, crowding and swimming round him, swarming up his back and breast, and biting sharply with their little keen teeth as the wretch leaped and bounded about, tearing half-a-dozen off to make room for a score.

“If I only had one of their gallus lights!” shrieked the ruffian, forgetful of the risk of being heard, and of the ruse he had before successfully practised, and in the horror of his position ready even to have given himself up as he cursed and yelled in a frightful manner – the hideous noises echoing along the vaulted sewer, and sounding doubly frightful.

“Curse ’em! I shall be gnawed to death!” shrieked Jarker, as he could not help recalling the times when he had gloated with delight over the performances of some steel-teethed terrier in a pit amidst a dozen rats; and now, as he fought there, splashing about in the water, and tearing off rat after rat to crush them in his powerful hands, he could not but feel how the tables were turned, and groaned piteously as a great dread came upon him – a horror blacker than the black darkness around. But Jarker fought on savagely for his life, while the diminutive size of his adversaries formed their protection again and again. He had his life-preserver out now, and struck with it at random, fierce and heavy blows, each of which would have beaten the life out of a dozen rats, but only once or twice had they any effect, and then he struck the brick side of the sewer, when the lead knob was loosened and fell from the whalebone handle into the rushing water, and with a curse Jarker dashed the useless fragment away.

Faint and harassed, his great brute strength of no avail, his hands and face streaming with blood, Jarker now made a fierce rush up stream; but his progress was slow with the water so deep; when, as if fearing to lose their prey, the rats redoubled their efforts and leaped upon him furiously, till, half-mad with the horror of their fearful assault, one he had never known before in his many sewer wanderings through having been provided with a light, Jarker drew in a long breath, exhaled it again, thoroughly inflated his lungs as he beat off his assailants, and then plunged beneath the water, groping his way slowly up stream, and keeping under the foul water for nearly a minute, when he raised his head for breath, and plunged under again and again.

His plan succeeded; for, evidently at a loss, the tribe of rats had gone down with the stream; and then he was alone and afraid to stir, lest he should bring them back, as he stood panting and dripping with the noisome water, and leaned against the slippery wall.

“I did say as I’d keep a dawg,” growled Jarker at last; “and if I’d ha’ had one – ” And then he burst out into a hideous string of oaths and curses at what he called his ill luck, as, after listening for some time, he resumed his way in the echoing subterranean labyrinth, trembling lest the rats should have heard his voice.

But he did not go far before he stopped as if puzzled, and stood thinking, and listening to the rush of the stream and the trickling of drain after drain as it emptied itself into the main current, itself but a tributary of a greater. He dared not retrace his steps on account of the rats, but went slowly on; stopped, went on again; stopped once more to scratch his dripping head; and then he gave a leap and a cry of terror as he felt an enemy swim up once more and try to effect a lodgment. Then he hurried forward through the dense black darkness, then back a little way in a strange, excited way, tearing and splashing about furiously as a new horror assailed him; and at last muttering low blasphemies, muttering them in a low whisper lest they should be heard by the rats, he made another push on for many yards, cursing the police, the rats, and his ill luck. Once he stumbled and fell with a heavy splash, to be swept along over and over by the stream before he recovered his footing to stand half-drowned and clinging to the bricks, giving vent now to a whimpering, sobbing howl, that seemed as if it had come from a dog; for, with his courage gone and his head in a whirl, he stood now in the intense darkness afraid to move, as his imagination peopled the sewers around him with horrors at the very thought of which he shuddered; for in spite of scores of rambles in these subterranean channels, with whose many turns he had considered himself perfectly familiar, Bill Jarker had lost his way.

The police turned back after pursuing Jarker for a short distance along the sewer; but though not disposed to follow him along the dark subway, they had not given him up, for the outlets were carefully watched both by the places where repairs were going on and also at the mouths in the Thames’ bank; while, after proper arrangements had been made, the sewers were searched that night with lanterns; the principal man engaged more than once announcing in a very loud voice, which went echoing along the arched ways, that he (Jarker) might just as well give up as be starved out; but for all that, Mr Jarker was not found.

“Not much use hunting along here,” muttered one man to another; “here’s a hundred places where he could hide till we got by.”

“Remember that poor chap we found just here, Joe?” said one man, evidently quite at home in the place – a rough fellow in a Guernsey shirt and high boots, and wearing a hair-mask.

“Ah,” said another, “well.”

“What was that?” said the quiet man, who was also here.

“Chap we found all along here,” said the other, “and brought him out in a basket.”

“Basket?” said the quiet man.

“Ah!” said the other; “bones lying all along here; trod on ’em as you went – picked clean.”

“Pooh, nonsense!” said the quiet man, who had not shuddered before for at least ten years.

“Right enough,” said the other sulkily; “rats!”

“Here, let’s get out,” said the quiet man, “we are doing no good;” and he made the light of his bull’s-eye lantern play along the surface of the water to where he could just see a little head above the stream as its owner swam rapidly away, leaving an ever-widening track behind. “Let’s get out; it’s no use to go splashing along here; if he isn’t drowned, all we can do is to wait for him.”

“He ain’t drowned,” said a policeman, thrusting his lantern up a drain and peering in; “he’s too much of a rat hisself, and I wouldn’t mind laying that he’s worked his way up to light before now.” And the man stopped, gazing up the black noisome channel before him as if it possessed some attraction.

“Gone up there, safe,” said the quiet man, laughing. “Go up, Tom, and see; I’ll wait for you.”

“Officers allus goes fust to lead the way, and privates follers,” said the policeman. “Nice place, though, ain’t it?”

“Whereabouts are we now?” said the quiet man.

“Don’t zackly know,” said the man in the hair-mask. “Not far from Holborn, I should say.”

“Going up there, Tom?” said the quiet man, unscrewing the top of a small dram-flask.

“Arter you, sir,” said the policeman.

The quiet man took the “arter you” to apply to the dram-flask, which he passed to his follower; and as no one seemed disposed to crawl on hands and knees along the narrow place, the party slowly retraced their steps to where they had descended, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the clear night air.

Volume Three – Chapter Twelve.

What Ma Mère Knew

“You mad fool, Jean! you shall listen, and you shall hear all,” cried ma mère furiously; “and I will torment you till you see that you are bête. The little worker – the pink doll – is not for you; and you shall not have her. But it was good sport, Jean – rare sport, Jean. That sniff woman, poor fool! told me. He carried her down the stairs – carried her down in his arms, of course, for he loves her; and let him marry her if he will; who cares? for she is not for you. Do you hear, bête? he carried her lovingly down in his arms.”

Jean winced as he sat in his old place at the window, but pretended not to hear, though from the working of his nostrils it was plain how eagerly he drank in every word.

“No, Jean, she is not for you,” cried the old woman. “I hate her, and you shall not love her, but someone else; for she has always set you against me. I know – I know all – all – all!” she exclaimed, muttering and nodding her head; “he struck down the Jarker – big wretch; and then the Jarker waited hour after hour, hour after hour, into the dark night, and watched for him till he was talking to the painted woman, and struck him down too; and then I saw more too, and I was not going to tell – O no – though I think he killed her. But no, no, Jean, I would not tell, for I have my plans; and pah! there are plenty more painted women. But no, no, Jean, you shall not have the pink doll. You must love me, Jean, till I tell you to marry.”

The young man writhed in his chair, but he spoke no word; while his mother knitted furiously, clicking her needles and smiling maliciously as she watched him sideways.

“No, no, Jean, you shall not have the pink doll; and you cannot see her now – they are gone.”

“But she will come,” cried Jean angrily, with something of his mother’s spirit bursting forth.

“No, no!” half-shrieked his mother; “she shall not – I will not have her. But no, she will not come, you bête, for the preacher is ill with the Jarker’s blow, and she nurses him and smoothes his pillow. Fool!” she cried in a sharp, cracked voice, “I will torment you to death if you tear not the hateful little thing from your foolish heart. You shall only love me till I tell you. But now listen: it is dark now, and I have my plans. The Jarker is away, and the police hunt him. Now listen, fool, while I tell you. They may take him, but I hope not yet; for you shall be rich, Jean – you shall have money and all that the great people have, and plenty of fine dolls shall be proud to have you, Jean; for I am proud of you; and what was she? Bah! nothing. I know the Jarker’s secret – I know it two years; but he does not think it, for I have been still and waited two years, Jean – more. He suspect me once, but he dare not touch me, and I have given him no chance since. And should I tell till it was time? No, no!”