Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

Volume Two – Chapter Seven.

With Mrs Jarker

Always at the call of the poor of his district, the Reverend Arthur Sterne sighed as, slowly descending towards the court, he tried to drive away the words that seemed to ring in his ears; but in vain, for the next moment he was muttering them once more; and the thought came upon him that, for many months past, he had been gazing at the Hardon family through a pleasant medium – a softening mist, glowing with bright colours, but now swept away by one rude blast, so that he looked upon this scene of life in all its rugged truthfulness. He told himself that the mist had once opened to afford him a glimpse, while again and again he smiled at the folly which had led him to expect romance in a London court. The pleasant outlines and softened distance, toned down by the light mists, were gone now, and he gazed upon nothing but the cold, bare reality. It was strange; but he did not ask himself whether the bitter blast might not have brought with it some murky, distorted cloud, whose shade had been cast athwart the picture upon which, he now woke to the fact, he had dearly loved to gaze; and still muttering to himself, he slowly went down step by step.

“So young, so pure-looking! But who could wonder, living in this atmosphere of misery? But what is it to me?” he cried angrily; for strange thoughts and fancies came upon him, and his mind was whispering of a wild tale. The thoughts of the past, too, came – of the happy days when, in early manhood, he had loved one as fair and bright – one whom another bridegroom had claimed, as having been betrothed to him from her birth. The cold earth had been her nuptial-bed, and he, the lover, became the gloomy retired student until his appointment to a city curacy, and the devotion of his life to the sorrows of the poor. But again he bit his lip angrily, at making the comparison between the dead and the living. What connection was there between them, and of what had he been dreaming? What indeed! After years upon years of floating down life’s stream, – a calm and sad, but placid journey, unruffled but by the sorrows of others, – he now awoke to the fact that unwittingly he had halted by a pleasant spot, where he had been loitering and dreaming of something undefined – something fraught with memories of the past; and now he had been rudely awakened and recalled to the duties he had chosen.

He passed into the court, and stood for a few moments gazing at where there was a cellar opened, with half a score of children collected to drop themselves or their toys down; while, being a fresh arrival upon the scene, a cluster of the little ones began to get beneath his feet, and run against him, or give themselves that pleasant cramp known as “a crick in the neck,” by staring up in his face; but he freed himself from his visitors by hastily entering the opposite house.

More than one door was opened, and more than one head thrust out, as Mr Sterne ascended the staircase; but in every instance there was a smile and a rude curtsey to greet him, for he had that happy way of visiting learned by so few, and his visits always seemed welcome. Those who, moved by curiosity, appeared, were ladies, who directly after became exceedingly anxious concerning their personal appearance. Aprons, where they were worn, were carefully stroked down; hair was smoothed or made less rough; sundry modest ideas seemed to rise respecting a too great freedom of habit where a junior was partaking of nourishment; but everywhere the curate met with cordial glances, till he once more stood in front of an attic and entered.

Mr Sterne had so far only encountered females; for “the master” of the several establishments was out at work, or down in the country after the birds, or at the corner of some street where there was a public-house, at whose door he slouched, in the feeble anticipation that work would come there to find him, or that the landlord or a passing friend would invite him to have “a drain;” but Mr William Jarker was, as has been seen, at home, though, with the exception of his legs, invisible; for he was among his pigeons, emulating the chimneys around by the rate at which he smoked – chimneys smoking here the year round, since in most cases one room formed the mansion of a family.

But Mr Sterne had not come to see Jarker, but at the summons of his wife, in whom some eighteen months had wrought a terrible change. She sat wrapped in an old shawl, shivering beside the few cinders burning in the rusty grate – shivering though burned up with fever, the two or three large half-filled bottles of dispensary medicine telling of a long and weary illness. The wide windows admitted ample light, but only seemed to make more repulsive the poverty-stricken place, with its worn, rush-bottomed chairs, rickety table, upon which stood the fragments of the last meal; the stump bedstead, with its patched patchwork counterpane; the heaped-up ashes beneath the grate; the battered and blackened quart-pot from the neighbouring public-house standing upon the hob to do duty as saucepan; while here and there stood in corners the stakes and nets used by Mr Jarker in his profession of birdcatcher. A few cages of call-birds hung against the wall; but Mr Jarker’s custom was, when he had captured feathered prey, to dispose of it immediately – pigeons being his “fancy.”

A sad smile lit up the woman’s face as the curate entered, – a face once doubtless pleasing, but now hollow, yellow, and ghastly; where hung out flauntingly were the bright colours which told of the enemy that held full sway in the citadel of life.

“I knew you would come, sir,” she whispered, letting her thin white fingers play amongst the golden curls of a little head, but half-concealed in her lap, where one bright round eye as peeping timidly out to watch the stranger; and then, as the curate took one of the broken chairs and sat beside the sick woman, whenever she spoke it was in a whisper, and with many a timid glance at the ladder and open trap in the roof, where her master stood, as though she feared to call down punishment upon her head, – “I knew you would come; and Bill was easy to-day, and come and fetched you, though he came back and said you were busy, and would not stop.”

“Look alive, there, and get that over!” cried Mr Jarker from the trap. “I ain’t a-goin’ to stand here all day;” and by way of giving effect, or for emphasis, this remark was accompanied by a kick at the ladder, and a shake of the trap. Then followed an interval of peace, during which the presence of the domestic tyrant was made known only by the fumes of his tobacco, which floated down into the room, and made the poor woman cough terribly.

Once Mr Sterne was about to tell the fellow to cease, but the look of horror in the woman’s face, and the supplicating joining of her hands, made him pause, for he knew that he would be but adding to her suffering when his back was turned. The open trap seemed to act as a sort of retiring-room for Mr Jarker when anyone was in the attic that he did not wish to see; but every now and then during the earnest conversation with the suffering woman, there came a kick and a growl, and a shake of the ladder, which made Mr Sterne frown, and the poor woman start as if in dread. And so, during the remainder of the curate’s stay, the consolatory words he uttered were again and again interrupted; while at last the voice came growling down as if in answer to a statement Mrs Jarker had just made:

“Don’t you tell no lies, now, come, or I shall make it hot for yer!” When in the involuntary shudder the woman gave, there was plainly enough written for the curate’s reading the long and cruel records of how “hot” for her it had often been made.

And now the importunities of the child by her knee aroused the poor woman to a forgetfulness of self in motherly cares, when the curate took his leave, but in nowise hurried by the savage shake that Jarker gave to the ladder – a shake which brought down a few scraps of plaster, to fall upon the cages and make the songsters flutter timidly against their prison-bars.

Half-way down the stairs Mr Sterne encountered the woman with whom he had seen Lucy in the Lane; the woman he presumed to be the mother of the child Mrs Jarker had now for some time nursed.

For a moment he stopped, as if to speak; but he remembered the next instant that he had no right to question her, and he stood gazing sternly at her, while, as she shrank back into a corner of the landing, her look was keen and defiant – the look of the hunted at bay. Once he had followed her for some distance, and then perhaps he would have spoken; but now the desire seemed gone, and linked together in his mind were Lucy, ma mère, the ruffian he had left up-stairs, and this woman.

“But what is it to me?” he thought bitterly; and, hurrying down the stairs, he stood for a moment at the doorway, heedless of the children scampering over the broken pavement – heedless that, with hot eyes and fevered cheeks, Lucy had left her sewing-machine and stepped back from the window that she should neither see nor be seen – heedless of all around; for his thoughts were a strange medley – pride, duty, and passion seeking to lead him by different roads. Then for a while he remembered the poor woman he had left, whose leave-taking he felt was near – a parting that he could not but feel would be a happy release from sorrow and suffering.

At last, turning to go, he cast his eyes towards the open window that Lucy had so lately left, when, with knitted brow and care gnawing at his heart, he passed out into the street, and walked towards his lodgings; but even there, in the midst of the busy throng, where the deafening hum of the traffic of the great city was ever rising and falling, now swelling into a roar, and again sinking to the hurried buzz of the busy workers, ever rang in his ears the bitter words of the old Frenchwoman – “Our beauty, some of us!”

Volume Two – Chapter Eight.

Documentary Evidence

“Now, sir,” said old Matt, as he appeared, brushed-up and smart for the occasion, punctual to his appointment; “now, sir; here we are – baptism, marriage, and doctor. First ought to come last, you know, only Saint Mark’s Church comes before Finsbury, don’t you see?”

Septimus Hardon rose from his writing with a sigh, for he was far from sanguine of success, and would fain even now have given up his task entirely, so feeble seemed to him the likelihood of any advantage accruing; but in obedience to instructions from Mrs Septimus, old Matt rattled on about the future, thoroughly doing his duty in keeping the shrinking man to his part; and so they started.

They made their way out into Holborn, and then up Skinner-street, past the frowning walls of Newgate, and into the street of the same name; when old Matt could not get along for stopping to admire the various joints displayed, and giving his opinion upon their merits.

“Here, let’s go this way, sir,” he said, turning into Warwick-lane. “Pretty game this, sir, isn’t it? Slaughtered sheep, and murdered novels, and books of all sorts close together. Authors’ sheep’s-heads, and butchers’ sheep’s-heads cheek by jowl. Rum thing for both trades to get so close together. Regular bit of philosophy if you like to take it up, sir; stomach and brains, you see, food for both – books for the brains, meat for the stomach; and then backwards and forwards, one feeds the other, and one couldn’t get on without the other; and here they are situated close to the very heart of the City. Look at the circulation going on – wonderful, ain’t it, sir?”

Old Matt stopped by a slaughter-house, not to pity the simple animal just killed, but to point out sundry choice portions that might be had bargains, if they could have availed themselves of the opportunity.

“Wouldn’t do, though, to go about such a job as we have on hand carrying a sheep’s-head, would it, sir?” he observed to Septimus.

“No; pray come along, and let’s get our task over,” exclaimed the latter.

“To be sure,” said Matt, coming to himself, and the next minute they were in Paternoster-row. “Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt, stopping short in the middle of the narrow way, to be hustled by boys laden with sheets of paper fresh from the press, lads carrying reams, or newly-bound works tied between boards; men with blue bags over their shoulders heavily laden with books; men with oblong “mems” in their hands which they consulted as they hurried from swinging door to swinging door, collecting the publications of the different firms. Once the old man was nearly run over by a truck full of type-galleys driven by a pair of reckless imps of some neighbouring printing-office; while at least four times he came into contact with the fruit-baskets of the nymphs in stout boots and flattened bonnets, whose haunt is the labyrinth of learning known as “the Row.” – “Lots of my old friends here,” said Matt as his companion looked bewildered, and was thrust off the pavement; on to it again; into booksellers’ where he did not want to go; and once against the muddy wheel of a cab, whose driver roundly abused him for nearly getting himself injured. – “Lots of my old friends here. Ah, you needn’t mind a bit of pushing, sir – it’s a busy place. Now, you know, if I liked to hunt about, I could find more than one bit of my work here, for I’ve done things and bits of things that’s come out in more than half these places. All sorts of stuff; and what a sight of work a man can be put upon in a matter of fifty year, from playbills to prayer-books, and down again to penny-a-lining and posters! Law and physic’s been my strongest points: but there; I’ve been on your magazines, and newspapers, and three-volume novels, and pamphlets, and everything else that’s printed on a leaf, ’cept’ last dying-speeches and halfpenny songs; and I never did get down, quite so low as that. I’ve taken hold of author’s copy so queer that it’s made you scratch your head and torn the paper t’other way up to see which is tops and which is bottoms, and then back again, for you’ve been as wise as ever. Talk about ants and bluebottles running over the paper with inky feet, that’s nothing, sir. You’ve seen them painter-chaps, sir, graining the shetters of shops?”

Septimus, seeing that he was expected to say something, roused himself from his brown study, and nodded.

“Well,” continued Matt, “you see they have what they call a tool, though it’s only a flat brush made like a comb, and with that they make lines cross and across the panels, all about the same distance apart, and then they dab them lightly with a long soft brush to keep the grain from looking too stiff and hard. Well, I’ve had copy that’s looked as if the author had used one of these tools dipped in ink, and streaked it across and across the paper, and then dabbed it, not with a very soft brush, but with a very hard one, shoving in, too, a few smears and blots, just to fill up as knots and specimens of cross-grain. Up one goes to the overseer and asks him to help you, giving the other men a side-grin at the same time. He takes it, looks at it, turns it over, and then can’t make anything of it, though he won’t say so; for overseers must of course seem to know everything. So he sticks it back in your hand, and says he, ‘Go and make the best you can of it; for I’m busy.’ Well, you go back, and make the best you can of it; puzzles out one word, jumps at another, puts in two, and guesses two more, while you make a couple more out of the next line fit in somewhere after ’em; and so, one way or another, it gets scrambled up, and the proof goes to the reader, who cuffs his boy’s head because he blunders so over the stuff he can’t make head nor tail of, though he’s as much bothered as his boy; while, though some of them are clever, intelligent fellows, some of those readers, sir, have about as much imagination as a mop. They’re down upon a wrong letter, or bad pointing or spelling, and stick a big qy? against a bit of slack grammar, like lightning; but give ’em a take of stuff where the author goes a little out of the regular rut, and it bothers them as much as the bit of copy I’m talking about. Well, sir, corrections get made, and the proof is sent in to the author, who most likely don’t know it again; but he sends it back so as one has a better chance of getting it together; and so it goes on, backwards and forwards, till it’s all right, and they write ‘press’ in one corner, when it’s printed, and, as far as we’re concerned, there’s an end of it. Strange ways, ain’t they, sir?”

Septimus Hardon stared in a bewildered manner at the speaker, but did not answer.

“Blest if I think he’s heard a word I’ve said,” muttered the old fellow.

“Strange?” said Septimus, rousing himself; “yes, very.”

“’Tis, sir,” said Matt, who was interested in his subject. “Now, do you know, sir,” he continued after they had walked part of the way along the Row, – “do you know that if I was younger, I should be for founding a society, to be called the ‘Printers’ Spectacle Association,’ supported by contributions from writers for the press, who by this means would supply us with glasses, for often and often they quite destroy our sight.”

Old Matt’s dissertation was put an end to by the driver of one of the Delivery carts, when, returning to the matter which had brought them from home, the strange couple were soon threading their way along Cheapside.

There was but little difficulty in getting access to the registers of the old church, and a not very long search brought the seekers to the entry, in brown ink upon yellow paper, of the baptism of Septimus, son of Octavius and Lavinia Hardon, January 17 – ; but though the ages of the children before and after were entered, by some omission, his was absent.

A copy was taken by both, and then they stood once more in the open street.

“Just as I told you, sir,” said Matt, “isn’t it? there’s the date; but it don’t say how old you were.”

“No,” replied Septimus; “but still it is satisfactory, so far. Now we’ll see about the marriage, and then visit Finsbury.”

“You know the church?” said Matt.

“Well, not exactly,” said Septimus dreamily.

“There are two in the street; but it was at one of them.”

“Good,” said the old man; and soon after they stood in the street of two churches, and, taking the most imposing, they obtained admission to the vestry, where, after a long and careful search of the time-stained register, they were compelled to give up, for there was no result; while the regular way in which the leaves followed proved that none were missing.

“Try t’other,” said Matt laconically; and soon after they entered the damp, mouldy-smelling receptacle of the registers at the second church – a quaint, queerly-built place that looked as if architecture had been set at defiance when it was erected.

Old Matt was quiet and laconic enough in his speech; but as leaf after leaf was turned over, it was evident that the old man was more deeply interested than Septimus himself; for he grew so excited, that he was quite voracious with his snuff, his nose becoming a very devouring dragon of Scotch and rappee, till the supposed date of the marriage was neared, when the snuff was hastily pocketed.

“Rayther rheumatic spot this, I should think,” said Matt to the sexton, so as to appear quite at his ease.

“Well, yes, it is damp,” said the sexton, who would have had no difficulty in passing himself off as Matt’s brother; “but we have a fire here on Sundays all through the winter.”

“Don’t have many berrin’s now, I s’pose,” said Matt, again bringing out the snuff, but this time for hospitable purposes.

“Bless you, no,” said the sexton, “ain’t had one for years upon years. All cemetery work now.”

“To be sure, of course,” said Matt, trying to converse in a cool pleasant way, but with one eye fixed upon the trembling searcher; for some of Matt’s eagerness seemed now to be transferred to his companion.

“There’s a great piece of the book out here,” said Septimus suddenly – “most of the year before the baptism.”

“Torn out, by Jove!” muttered Matt, shaking his head, and looking suspicion’s self.

“Dessay there is, sir,” said the sexton coolly; “the damp here would spile the binding of any book.”

“But, I say; look here, you sir; here’s a good four months gone: no Jennywerry, nor Feberwerry, nor March, nor April. Looks precious queer,” said Matt.

“Ah, so there is – good big bit gone; all but a leaf here and there.” And then, to get a better look, the sexton took out an old leathern case, drew out his spectacles, replaced the case very carefully, wiped the glasses upon the tail of his coat, and then very leisurely put them on, a process not directly completed; for, like their master, the springs of the spectacles had grown weak, and were joined by a piece of black tape, which had to be passed carefully over the sexton’s head to keep the glasses in their place. “Ah,” he said again, while the searchers looked on, astonished at his coolness, “so there is – a good big bit gone; but ’tain’t no wonder, for the thread’s as rotten as tinder, and – ”

“I say, old un, don’t tear any more out,” cried Matt excitedly; for the sexton was experimentally disposed, and testing the endurance of the thread and glue.

“There’s plenty loose,” said the old sexton, “and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find a lot more gone.”

Septimus Hardon looked at Matt, who returned the look, for the feeling of suspicion was now fully shared. However, they still went on carefully searching.

“It’s of no use,” said Septimus at last, mournfully; “we may as well go. I never had any hope.”

“Don’t be in a hurry, sir,” said Matt. “You know there are other ways of killing the cat, as the old saying says; wait a bit. Looks suspicious, certainly,” he said, treating himself to a fresh pinch of snuff. – “I say, guv’nor, you haven’t got the loose leaves lying about anywheres, have you? Not been taken away that you know of, eh?”

The sexton shook his head, thrust his hands to the bottoms of his trousers-pockets, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then stood gazing at his visitors with his spectacles high up on his forehead.

“No,” said he, “nobody never meddles with ’em, ’cept a lawyer’s clerk now and then; and they’re very civil, and just copies out something, and gives me a shilling, and then goes.”

Septimus Hardon took the hint in its first acceptation, while the mouldy old sexton removed one hand from his pocket to accept the proffered shilling held to him, before his visitors were about to take the second part of the hint.

As they moved off through the damp old church, Septimus Hardon wondered whether, upon some bright morning half a century before, his father and mother had knelt before that altar and been made one. He sighed as he walked on, meeting in the entrance a tall, gentlemanly – looking man who was passing in.

“What’s to be done next, Matt?” said Septimus, in a dispirited tone.

“Pint of porter and crust o’ bread-and-cheese,” said the old man decidedly. “I’m faint, sir – got a fit of my chronics; but it’s taking me the wrong way to-day; I’m hungry, and you must want support. Keep your chin in the air, sir; we can’t win every time. You’ve had two tries this morning, and one’s come all right. That register looks suspicious, certainly; but after all you can’t even go and swear that your old people were married in that church; and even if you could, and had the copy of the stiffikit, that ain’t all we want, for it don’t prove that you weren’t a year old then.”