Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes
Mr William Jarker ascended the stairs after having had “a drop” at the corner – that is to say, two pints of porter with a quartern of gin in each; and upon hearing the noise of the bellows he uttered what he would have denominated “a cuss,” since he bore no love for Mrs Sims, and her sniff annoyed him; but when, upon ascending higher, he found that the sound did not proceed, as he expected, from the second-floor, but from his own room, he began to growl so audibly that the women heard him coming like a small storm, and trembled, since Mr Jarker was a great stickler for the privacy of his own dwelling, which he seemed to look upon as a larger sort of cage in which he kept his wife.
But although forbidden to enter the room, Mrs Sims glanced at the pallid sufferer lying in the bed, with the feeble light of a rush candle playing upon her features; and muttering to herself, “Not if he kills me,” resolved not to abdicate; and then, after a few final triumphant puffs, dropping at the same time a tear upon the top of the bellows – a tear of weakness and sympathy – she laid down the wind instrument upon which she had been playing, and thrust an iron spoon into the gruel upon the fire, stirring it round so energetically that a small portion was jerked out of the saucepan upon the glowing cinders, and hissed viciously, forming a fitting finale to Mr Jarker’s feline swearing.
But the gruel did not hiss and sputter as angrily, nor did the erst glowing cinders look so black, as did Mr William Jarker when he found “the missus still abed,” and Mrs Sims in possession.
“I have said as I won’t have it,” growled Mr Jarker; “and I says agen as I won’t have it. So let people wait till I arsts ’em afore they takes liberties with my place. So now p’r’aps you’ll make yourself scarce, Missus Sims;” and then the birdcatcher crossed over to, and began muttering something to, his wife.
But Mrs Sims was nothing daunted; she was in the right, and she knew it, and though her hands trembled, and more of the gruel fell hissing into the fire, as the tears of weakness fell fast, she stood her ground firmly.
“When I’ve done my dooty by her, as other people, whom I won’t bemean myself to name, oughter have done, Mister Jarker, I shall go, and not before,” said Mrs Sims. “It’s not me as could sit down-stairs and know as that pore creetur there was dying for want of a drop of gruel, and me not come and make it, which didn’t cost you a farden, so now then!” Here Mrs Sims bridled a great deal and sniffed very loudly; a couple of tears falling into the fender “pit-pat.”
“Don’t jaw,” said Bill gruffly, making a kind of feint with his hand as he stooped down to light his short black pipe by thrusting the bowl between the bars.
Mrs Sims flinched as if to avoid a blow, to the great delight of Mr Jarker; but exasperated him directly after by sniffing loudly, over and over again, producing, by way of accompaniment to each sniff, a low and savage growl and an oath.
“Well, I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs Sims, “how polite we’re a-growing!” But catching sight of the smouldering fire in the ruffian’s eye, she hastily poured out the gruel, repenting all the while, for the poor woman’s sake, that she had spoken; but upon taking the hot preparation with some toast to the invalid she found her kindness unavailing, for though Mrs Jarker sat up for a minute and tried to take it, she sank back with a faint sigh, and with an imploring look, she whispered her neighbour to please go.
“Not till I’ve seen you eat this, my pore dear soul,” said Mrs Sims boldly, though, poor woman, she was all in a tremble, and kept glancing over her shoulder at Jarker, who, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, glowered and scowled at the scene before him. Mrs Sims passed her arm round the thin, wasted form, and supported the invalid; but, after vainly trying to swallow a few spoonfuls, the poor woman again sank back upon her pillow, sighing wearily, while the sharp, pecking sound made by one of the caged birds against its perch, sounded strangely like the falling of a few scraps of soil upon a coffin – “Ashes to ashes – dust to dust.” And then, for some minutes, there was silence in the room, till Mrs Jarker turned whisperingly to her friendly neighbour, to beg that she would go now and not rouse Bill, who was a bit odd sometimes.
So, saucepan in hand, Mrs Sims wished the invalid “Good-night;” and then, trembling visibly, sidled towards the door, evidently fearing to turn her back to Mr Jarker, who was still growling and muttering, as if a storm were brewing and ready to burst; but Mrs Sims’ agitation caused her first to drop her iron spoon from the saucepan, and then, as she stooped to recover it, to flinch once more, to the ruffian’s great delight, as he made another pugilistic feint – a gymnastic feat that he had learnt through visiting some marsh or another when a fight was to come off between Fibbing Phil and Chancery Joe – a feat that consisted of a violent effort to throw away the right fist, and a quick attempt at catching it with the left hand. But Mrs Sims managed to get herself safely outside the door, and lost no time in hurrying down, the stairs, breathing more freely with every step placed between her and the ruffian; but she shrieked loudly on reaching the first landing, and dropped both saucepan and spoon, for the door was savagely thrown open, and the bellows came clattering after her down the stairs; and all in consequence of Mr Jarker being a bit odd.
“A bit odd!” – in one of those fits which had often prompted him to strike down his weak, suffering, patient wife with dastardly, cruel hand, and then to kick her with his heavy boots, or drag at her hair until her head was bleeding – oddness which made the tiny child in the room shrink from him; while before now it had been traced on the poor woman’s features in blackened and swollen bruises. But shrieks, and the falling of heavy blows, were common sounds in Bennett’s-rents, and people took but little notice of Mr Jarker’s odd fits.
Bill took no heed to the weary, strangling cough which shook his wife’s feeble frame, but smoked on furiously till the fire went out. She would not get up to put on more coals, and he wasn’t agoing to muck his hands; for, as has been before hinted, Mr Jarker had soft, whitish hands, which looked as though they had never done a hard day’s work; and at last, when the place looked more cheerless and dull than usual, he prepared himself for rest.
“You’re allus ill,” growled the ruffian, who had had just drink enough to make him savage; “and it’s my belief as you wants rousing up.” But there came no answer to his remark. The little one slept soundly upon the two chairs which formed its bed, and, with half-closed eyes, the woman lay, breathing very faintly, as her lips moved, forming words she had heard from Mr Sterne.
Bill felt himself to be ill-used, and was very sulky, a feeling which made him kick his boots to the end of the room, where one knocked over a linnet’s cage, when, still growling, the owner had to go and pick it up, which he did at the expense of his dignity, and there and then shook the cage till the unoffending bird rustled and fluttered about, panting and terror-stricken, to be half-drowned by the water he poured into its little glass the next minute. For, what business had his wife to be ill and allus having parsons and Mrs Simses a-pottering about in his place? Hadn’t he made a row about it when she came when the kid was born, and hadn’t she allus come at uncomfortable times since? Didn’t she come when it died, and weren’t things uncomfortable now, and she a-making them worse? He wouldn’t have it – that he wouldn’t; and, growling and swearing in a low tone, Mr Jarker divested himself of a part of his attire, and threw himself upon the bed.
The rushlight danced and flickered, and a few drops of rain pattered against the window as the night breeze sighed mournfully down the court; first one and then another bird scraped at its perch, roused as it had been by the noise and light, so that it sounded again and again like the earth upon the coffin-lid; some loose woodwork amongst the pigeon-traps upon the roof swung in the wind, and beat against the tiles, and then all was very quiet and still in the wretched attic.
“Bill – Bill, dear,” murmured a voice after a while – a strange harsh-sounding voice, as if it came from a parched and fevered throat; “Bill!”
No answer, only the heavy breathing of the ruffian, and the pattering as of earth upon the coffin-lid.
“Bill – Bill, dear – water!” whispered the voice once more; but there was no answer, only the restless pattering noise of the birds. Then again silence so still and profound that it seemed hardly to be London. But the silence was broken by a little liquid trilling laugh, the laugh of the child, as some bright-hued happy dream passed over its imagination; though there was silence again the next moment, to be broken once more by the strange husky voice, a voice that seemed new to the place, as in almost agonising tones it whispered:
“Kiss me, Bill!”
But there was for response only the sound as of the earth pattering upon the coffin-lid more fitfully and hollow. While now, slowly and timidly, a thin white arm was raised, and, seen there in the dim light, it was as though it was waved threateningly above the drunken ruffian’s head; but no – there was no threat in the act – no calling down of judgment from on high; for the arm was passed lovingly, tenderly, round the coarse bull neck, and still there was no response to the appeal.
“Kiss me, Bill!” was once more whispered; but a long, deep-drawn, stertorous breath told that William Jarker slept heavily, as the arm lay motionless, clasping his neck; and then came a sigh, as piteous and heart-rending as ever rose from suffering breast.
On sped the hours; the rushlight burned down into the socket, flickered once, and expired; the distant sounds of traffic floated by once or twice; the customary heavy tramp of the policeman was heard to pass along the court; and now and then the ruffian breathed more stertorously than usual, or ejaculated some unconnected words in his sleep. Then the child started and whimpered for a few minutes, but sank to sleep again; and still through the night came that restless, pattering noise, that hollow rattle as of dry earth – “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” – the sound as of dry earth falling upon a coffin-lid.
The stars paled as they set; the morning came, and the red-eyed lamplighter hurried from post to post, extinguishing the sickly-looking gas-jets; the noises in the streets grew louder and louder, and many a weary client lodging near woke to wonder whether his case would come on that day. The men in Bennett’s-rents who had work slowly tramped to it, many who were without rose to seek it, while others, again, to use their own words, took it out in sleep, and amongst these was Mr William Jarker.
“Mammy, mammy!” at length rang in pitiful tones upon the ruffian’s ear, and as he woke to the sensations of a hot, aching, fevered head and furred tongue, he tried to clear his misty, spirit-clouded faculties.
“Mammy, mammy!” again cried the child, who had climbed upon the bed, and was shaking her foster-mother; “mammy, mammy!” she cried more pitifully, and then burst into a loud wail at her inability to wake her.
“Yah-h-h-h!” roared Bill without moving; when, at the dreaded sound, the little thing ceased its cry, and, cowering beside the sleeping woman, laid a sunny head upon her cheek, and passed two tiny, plump arms round her neck, in a soft, sweet embrace that has power in its innocent love to warm even the coldest, though futile here.
“Blame it, how cold!” growled Mr Jarker, trying to raise the arm that had lain upon his neck the long night through; but it was stiff and heavy; and, shrinking hastily away, the frightened man sat up, gazed for an instant at the face beside him, and then leaping, with a howl of terror, from the bed, rushed half-clad from the room.
And why did he flee? Was it that there was still the sound as of falling earth rattling upon a coffin-lid? For what was there to fear in the pale face of that sleeping woman, with the earthly pains and sorrow-traces faded away, to leave the countenance calm, softened, and almost beautiful; for there had come back something of the old, old look of maidenhood and happier times, when she had looked with admiration upon the stalwart form of the ruffian she had wed, and believed in him, wedding him to become his willing slave? Hers had been a hard life; born in misery and suffering, growing under sorrow and poverty and vice; yet had she been a woman with a woman’s heart. But now she slept, to wake, we hope, where justice is tempered by mercy, and the secrets and sorrows of every heart are known. But now she slept, and her sleep must have been peaceful – happy – for the lines of sorrow had passed away, and there was a smile upon her lip.
Nothing to fear. Guilt fled, but Innocence stayed, and the soft, silky curls of the child were mingled with the thin dark locks of the woman, as a tiny smooth round cheek rested upon the marble temple, and a little hand played in the cold breast that should never warm it more.
Nothing to fear; though the simple people who soon assembled in the room spoke in whispers, passing in and out on tiptoe, many with their aprons to their eyes; while poor Mrs Sims, when she returned to her own room with the child, quieted it by means of a large slice of sugared bread-and-butter, and relieved her own mind by sitting down to have a good long, soft blow at the fire, what time the tears pattered down plenteously on the bellows.
Nothing to fear; for calm and still was the face of the sleeping woman, who with her latest breath had rendered the love she had sworn to her husband, and now in peace she rested; but still through the long day, through the long night, and when the hard, harsh shape of the coffin stood in the room, there came at intervals the sharp, hollow, rattling noise, as of earth falling upon its lid, when the listeners’ ears would strain to catch those awful accompanying words – “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”
Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen.
Sick Man’s Fancies
There was a strange battle in the breast of the Reverend Arthur Sterne about this time. Now he would feel satisfied in his own mind that he had obtained the victory over self, while directly after, an encounter with Lucy, or some little incident that occurred during one of his visits, would teach him his weakness. Pained, and yet pleased, he left Septimus Hardon’s rooms on the day after Mrs Jarker’s death, for he had been gazing upon a picture that an artist would have been delighted to copy: Lucy Grey weeping over the sunny-haired child she had just fetched from Mrs Sims’ room. He was pained, for the scene had brought up the thoughts of its mother, and her strange intimacy with Lucy, though the gentle, loving interest shown for the helpless, worse than orphan child, made his heart swell and beat faster as he thought of the mine of wealth, the tenderness the fair girl could bestow were she all he could have wished.
But the pain and sorrow predominated as he left the house and slowly descended, for he encountered ma mère upon the staircase, and he felt the colour mount to his temples as he met her sardonic smile and thought of her words; and then he hurried away, feeling at times that he must leave the place and seek another home, for his present life was wearying in the extreme. He would have done so before but for one powerful thought, one which he could feel would maintain its sway, so that he would be drawn back and his efforts rendered useless – efforts that he made to break the chain that fettered him. For her part, Lucy avoided him, meeting him but seldom, and then with flushed cheek and averted eye; while though in any other instance he would have declared instantly that flush to have been that of shame or modesty, yet here, tortured by doubt, he could not satisfy himself, for at such times as he tried to be content came the memory of the scene in the Lane, and the words of the old Frenchwoman.
Lucy had fetched the child from across the court, but it was only admitted by Mrs Septimus under sufferance, for she was in one of her weak fits that day, and if it had not been that Septimus encouraged the act, the little thing would have remained in Mrs Sims’ charge.
“Keep her, at all events, till I come back,” Septimus had said, and his evident desire to go out had somewhat shortened the curate’s visit, for the desire was strong now upon Septimus to gain fresh information touching the legitimacy of his birth. The more now that obstacles sprung up, the more he felt disposed to assert his right; but he acknowledged to himself that it was but a passing fit, and that he would soon return to his old weakness and despondency. Still there was a warm feeling of friendship for Matt to prompt him to revisit the hospital at an early day, and, soon after the curate had left Bennett’s-rents, Septimus was on his way to the sick-bed of the old man.
He thought a great deal of old Matt’s assertion that he had seen an entry somewhere; but the more he thought, the more it seemed that this was merely a hallucination produced by his illness, for he could not but recall how he had confused it with matters of the past and present.
The old man slept when Septimus reached his bedside, and some time elapsed before he unclosed his dim eyes, and then they gazed blankly into his visitor’s before he recognised him, when a light seemed to spread across his features, and he smiled faintly.
“Come again? That’s right. I wanted to ask you something, sir,” he said.
“Indeed!” said Septimus eagerly, for he felt that it had to do with the matter in which he was interested.
“Why,” said the old man, hesitating, “it was about the nurses, and your father, and – do you think that they had anything to do with the rats?”
Shuddering, and with the cold sweat breaking out upon his face at the bare recollection, Septimus laid a hand upon the old man’s breast, and gazed wonderingly at him.
“Hush,” said Matt in a whisper, “don’t speak loud, sir. I’ve been trying to put it all into shape. I think they had; and it’s that woman who drinks my wine that knows all about it. They’re keeping you out of your rights, sir, and they’re all in the plot. Stoop down, please, a little closer; I want to whisper,” and he drew his visitor nearer to him, so that his lips nearly touched his ear. “Medicine and attendance, sir, eh? That was it, wasn’t it?”
Septimus felt his heart sink with disappointment, as he slowly nodded his head.
“I’ve found it out, sir,” continued the old man; “found it out for you after travelling all over London. They think I’ve been here all the time; but, bless you, I’ve been out every night, and had it over with the posts in the street. They don’t know it, bless you; but I’ve been tracking that entry, and, after the doctor has dodged me all over London, I’ve followed him here. It’s not Doctor Hardon, sir, and yet it is, you know; but I’ve not quite separated them, for they’re somehow mixed up together, and I’ve not had time to put that quite right; but I’ll do it yet. Interest for that shilling you once gave me, sir, just at the time I was that low that I’d nearly made up my mind to go off one of the bridges, and make a finish. But just see if either of the nurses is coming, sir, and tell me, for they’re all in it, and they’ll keep you and Miss Lucy out of your rights. Tell her I’m true as steel, sir, will you?”
“Yes, yes,” said Septimus anxiously, for the old man seemed to be growing excited.
“But about that doctor, sir, and the entry,” he continued, “it’s here, sir; it’s the house-surgeon, and I saw him make a memorandum here by my bedside: ‘Medicine and attendance: Mrs Hardon.’ He put it down in his pocket-book, after sharpening his pencil upon a bright shining lancet; and he did not know that I was watching him. Take him by the throat, sir, as soon as you see him, and make him give it to you.”
“Try and compose yourself, Matt,” said Septimus sadly, for he now felt that the whole history of the entry was but the offspring of a diseased mind. For a while he had suffered himself to hope that by some strange interposition of chance, with the old man for instrument, the whole matter was likely to be cleared up; but now the air-built castles were broken down – swept away by the sick man’s incoherent speeches, and, after seeing him turn upon his side and close his eyes, the visitor rose to leave.
But old Matt heard the movement of his chair, and unclosed his eyes directly.
“You’ll come again, sir, won’t you?” he said, speaking quite calmly. “That always seems to make me clearer – shutting my eyes and having five minutes’ doze. I’m weak, sir – very weak now; but I’m getting right, and I’ll turn that over in my mind about the entry against you come again, when I can talk better, and try to set it right. But stop; let me see,” he exclaimed, – “stop, I have it. I remember now, I did think all about it, and where it was I saw the entry; and for fear it should slip my mind again, I did as you told me, and as I always meant to do – put it down in my pocket-book under the pillow here;” and he drew forth the tattered memorandum-book, and held it out to his visitor.
Septimus turned over the leaves with trembling hands, coming upon technical references to trade matters, – amounts in money of work done; calculations of quantity in pages of type. Then there were the baptismal and marriage entries they had made out, and beneath them some tremblingly – traced characters, evidently formed by the old man when in a reclining position; but, with the exception of the one word “Hardon,” they were completely illegible. He then turned to the old man; but his eyes were closed, and he seemed sleeping; so he replaced book and pencil beneath the pillow, and then, passing between the beds of other sufferers, each intent upon his own misery, he came suddenly upon the smiling nurse, evidently waiting to see if there was a gratuity ready for her hand.
It was hard work parting with that shilling; but Septimus felt it to be a duty to slip it into the Jezebel’s hand, and to whisper a few beseeching words that she would be kind and attentive to the old man.
“A quiet, patient old creature; you may rest quite happy about that, sir,” said the nurse. “I’ll treat him just as I would my own brother.”
“He will get better?” said Septimus interrogatively.
The woman screwed her lips up very tightly as she said she hoped he might, but Septimus thought of the expiring lamp and its supply of oil; and it was little of his own affairs, and the possibility of there being an entry locked in the old man’s clouded memory, that he thought of as he stammered, “Pray do all you can for him. I am sorry I can offer you no more.”
“Bless you, sir, you needn’t even have done that. If it had been a guinea, it would have been all the same, and I shouldn’t have thought a bit the better of you. We have a painful duty to perform here, sir, and it’s an unthankful task, for there’s no gratitude from the patients; but when a friend or relative makes one a little offering, why, setting aside the value, sir, it does seem to make things better, and to sweeten the toil. We never do expect any praise; while as to some of the tales the patients make up, you’d be surprised. Poor things! you see, their minds wander a bit, and they always seem to take a dislike to those who are like mothers to them. But there, sir, I always says to myself, I says, it’s no use to take any notice of the poor things’ whims, so long as we know we do our duty by them.”
“I suppose,” said Septimus, “their complaints weaken their intellects a good deal?”
“Wonderfully, I do assure you, sir. Now I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that poor gentleman, your friend, has been telling you all sorts of things?”
Septimus did not believe all that Matt had said, but he evaded the question.
“You’d be surprised, sir, if you only knew one-half the tales they make up, sir. There, I can’t help it, sir; I laugh, I do, when I think of them; for we must be able to eat and drink like bore-constructors, sir, to manage a quarter of what they says. They say we eat their chicking and jelly, and drink their wine, and gin, and fancy things the doctors order for them. Some even goes further than that; but then the doctors know what people are in such a state, and don’t take any notice of them.”
“‘Mrs Hardon; medicine and attendance.’ I wonder whether it’s true, or only a sick man’s fancy?” muttered Septimus aloud, as he went down the steps, and stood once more in the open air, feeling as though a weight had been raised from his spirits. “Poor creatures, poor creatures! left to the tender mercies of those women, and often neglected and left to die.”
