Mad Part 42

"Do I not say the police hunt him? They have been here to seek him,"

hissed his mother; "and when I have taken his honey I will show his empty nest, and they will send him to the galleys. Yes, yes. But come, fool. There," she said, kissing him, "thy _mere_ loves thee, Jean. No, no, lean on me; you must leave the crutch, it is noisy. No, no, he dare not come back here to be taken."

_Ma mere_ placed a piece of candle in her pocket, along with a box of matches. She then led Jean to a chair by the door, left him seated, and went softly back to the window, which she opened, and then gazed down into the court and anxiously at the windows where there were lights.

Then once more closing the window, she returned to her son, opened the door, and listened. But there were voices on the stairs, so thrusting Jean back, she leaned over the bal.u.s.ters to try and hear who waited below, but without avail, so she returned to the room.

"But we will be rich, Jean--rich," she whispered, "and there shall be no more of this pinching for bread. You shall not have poor workers but ladies glad to see you smile, _mon fils_" and the old woman cast her lean arms round the cripple's neck, kissing him fondly, though he remained thoughtful and impa.s.sive, apparently listening to the impatient movements of some sleepless bird.

"But listen, Jean--it was very horrible; but I saw all, and I shall tell some day when it is time. I saw the Jarker strike the preacher down, for I had been watching too. I came back late, and saw the Jarker and hid myself; because he is a savage, and I would not meet him by night never since I knew his secret; but when I was hid, and he had struck down the preacher, I saw him run this way to cross the road, but the painted woman dash at him and hold him, fighting fiercely with him, till I would have helped her--but I was old and weak, Jean. Then he struck her down, Jean--such a coward, cruel blow--but she clung to his legs, and he kicked her, so that I hear his boot upon her poor head, and I felt sick, Jean, but I dare not speak; and as he came closer I shrunk in the doorway and watched, for he ran into the court; but the painted woman was up, and ran again, and caught hold of him, and held on, and I could hear her say just inside the court there, `Give me my child, give me my child!' and he struck her down again. But once more she held to his legs gasping, and saying, `My child, give me my child!' and in her fierce, angry way she seemed to crawl and wind up him like a serpent, while--ah, Jean, I am old and coward, and I s.h.i.+vered and trembled to see it all. There was no noise, only the fierce whisper, `Give me my child!' and the struggling, and I saw him strike at her again and again in the face, while she held her poor head down in his breast that he should not hit her; till at last they fell, and I heard her poor head strike the stones, and I sink down on the pa.s.sage-floor, Jean, for I could not bear it, and I don't know how long for, but when I look out again there was nothing in the court--nothing but the miserable light-- and I dare not go out and see, Jean, for I was frightened. I think perhaps he killed her, poor painted woman, and I am sorry, for she loved her child as I love you, Jean, and would die for you; but stop, and then the police shall know, and they will take him--but not yet. Poor painted woman! I have not seen her since, and the preacher has her child. And it is not ungrateful like you, Jean. Ah! do I not cry long hours for you, and you do not mind, for you think always of the doll, and I hate her. She coaxed you from me with her soft white skin and her cat's ways. She is deceitful, and tries to make the preacher marry her; but he shall not yet, for I will tell him something that shall frighten him. But there, bah! let him marry her, and take, too, her old imbecile of a father and the weak, crying mother--let him marry them all. But you--you shall be rich, Jean, and keep no more birds. You shall have doctors, and get rid of your crutch, and people will be proud to know you."

But Jean spoke not; only sat listening to his mother's words as he built up some bright future and thought of Lucy Grey.

At last _ma mere_ rose again from the seat she had taken, and went to the head of the staircase; but still there were voices to be heard, and this time, without coming back, she sat down with her pinched cheek leaning against the bal.u.s.ters, where she remained patiently listening for quite an hour, when she softly rose and whispered to Jean as she supported him; and then slowly and painfully the strange couple made their way down to the pa.s.sage, where, after waiting for a few minutes, they crossed the empty court and stood in the dark entry of the opposite house.

Late as it was--nearly twelve--the door stood open; but even if the old woman's catlike step and the slow painful shuffle of her son had been heard, they would have excited no attention, as stealthily she helped Jean along, until they stood at the head of the cellar-steps.

"Ah!" hissed _ma mere_ as she kicked against something soft, "but it is that Bijou who has followed us.--Back, then!" she hissed, striking at the dumb brute, whose soft patter was now heard along the dark pa.s.sage as the animal scuffled away. "Now, mind," whispered _ma mere_ as they descended slowly, while once Jean slipped and nearly dragged the old woman headlong to the bottom; but he saved himself by grasping the rough railing, and after recovering his panting breath another trial was made, and they stood at the bottom, when, feeling her way along, _ma mere_ led him till, still in the dark, they stood in the front cellar, where the water dripped hollowly into the tub. But the woman well knew her way; and, with one arm round her son, she helped him along to the arch, warned him of the step down, and so drew him into the back-cellar and along to the end, where she left him leaning against one of the bins while she stole softly back to the cellar-steps to listen for awhile before returning to strike a match and light her piece of candle, which she screened by holding it far into the bin.

"No, Jean," she muttered, "he dare not come back, for there is a police always on the watch for him, though I have not told. But, hus.h.!.+ don't speak," she whispered, as a heavy step was heard to pa.s.s along the court; and all the while the light shone strangely upon her sharp withered features and the sallow face and wild eyes of Jean. "Hold this now," she said softly, and once more she went nimbly back to the cellar-door to listen, when, closing it gently, she hurried to the side of her trembling son. "You fool!" she muttered sneeringly, "you shake, and there is nothing to fear. Now hold the candle low, and shade it with your coat;" and then, going down upon hands and knees, she crawled into the bin before her--one that was deep and narrow; and, panting and sighing with the exertion, she sc.r.a.ped away a little of the blackened sawdust, and thrust her hands beneath what appeared to be the brick end of the bin, lifted it a little and then thrust sideways, when the whole back slowly slid along, disclosing an opening which the whitewashed stone had before covered.

A little more hard thrusting and Jean could see that there was apparently room to pa.s.s into what appeared to be another cellar, while a cold, damp, foul-smelling vapour rushed through, and nearly extinguished the candle.

"Come, quick, Jean," panted _ma mere_, making her way through the opening, when Jean crawled into the bin and handed her the guttering candle before following her through the hole, against which he kneeled hesitating; but directly after he crept through and stood beside his mother in a little cellar surrounded by bins similar to those in the one they had left; then, having stuck the candle amongst the loose damp sawdust, _ma mere_ drew the stone flag back into its place, for it ran in a rough brick groove at the bottom, while at the top it was kept from falling by a large iron bar roughly laid in a couple of staples.

"Now look, now look," hissed _ma mere_, taking the candle in her hands and peering about; "wine, old wine in bottles, put here and forgotten; and what is this?--my faith, it is a melting-pot;" and she paused curiously by a large black-lead crucible, fitted upon a rough brick furnace, whose chimney was a piece of iron piping, carried up apparently into one of the house flues. By its side in an old box was a quant.i.ty of charcoal; and in another several pounds of saltpetre, evidently used to augment the fierceness of the fire, while by the side lay a pair of bellows--instruments which had before now caused angry words to issue from Mr Jarker's lips. "Now look, Jean; but what ails you, fool? Look at the boxes; there, that is where the rich things are;" and her lean fingers clutched and clawed and opened and shut as she held a hand out towards a rough chest.

Jean was gazing with astonished eyes around him at the gloomy place; at the bins half full of empty bottles; at a couple of boxes that lay in one; but, as his mother spoke, he was leaning towards one corner of the cellar where there seemed to be an opening, which was lightly covered with an old box-lid.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"What? fool!" exclaimed _ma mere_, going to the lid and lifting it; when the foul wind rushed up, and once more nearly extinguished her candle.

"Pah!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; "a way down into the drains, and O, my faith, Jean, but it is the rat's hole; but," she chuckled, "he dare not come, the ferrets and dogs are after him, and he will soon feel their teeth.

So, my faith! he had two holes."

As she spoke she hastily closed the place once more, listening the while to a musical trickling noise which came whispering up; but, led by some strange impulse, Jean went down upon his knees by the hole, and lifted the lid again, peering down into the black darkness, and listening to the hollow echoing noise, while from apparently a distance came a rus.h.i.+ng sound as of a stream through a large sewer, and the young man shuddered as he listened to its strange wild cadence.

"Come here, fool!" hissed _ma mere_; "come, hold the candle;" and broken gla.s.s crackled beneath her feet as she crossed the cellar towards a box in one of the bins. "Come, Jean, here are the treasures, boy; but O, look here! It is what I thought: here is the painted woman's veil;" and she picked up a small net fall, that had evidently from its torn appearance been s.n.a.t.c.hed hastily from a bonnet. "He must have dragged her down here, Jean; and then--there is that hole!"

Mother and son stayed gazing at one another with dilated eyes and parted lips, till, dropping the lid, Jean crawled shuddering away, as an echoing sound came up caused by the falling cover. Mother and son seemed fascinated for a few moments, as they pictured in their own minds the scene that might have taken place in the damp cavernous place where they stood; and then, forgetful of her main object, _ma mere_ crept closer to her son.

"But it is very horrible!" she murmured; and as she spoke she wiped her forehead with the sc.r.a.p of lace in her hand, but only to throw it down with a shudder the next moment.

"Do you think he killed her, then?" whispered Jean in a harsh dry voice.

"Hus.h.!.+ don't speak, don't talk of it," hissed the old woman, who seemed quite unnerved, and trembled violently.

"But where do the drains go to?" whispered Jean.

"Into the big river," said _ma mere_; "but come quick, there are the boxes, Jean, and let us get away from here. I hardly breathe. But O, my faith, look there!"

Jean Marais gave a cry of horror as he clutched his mother's gown; and then they remained silent for a few moments.

The candle had burned out!

Volume Three, Chapter XIII.

PEACE.

What were the thoughts of Aunt f.a.n.n.y as she ushered in Lucy Grey, the bearer of her answer to a note she had received? Strange thoughts, no doubt--thoughts of the time when her own hands were like her cheeks, plump and soft, and dimpled; but she said no word, only kissed the visitor tenderly, held her in her arms a minute to gaze in the blus.h.i.+ng face, and then with a sigh, half of pleasure, half sorrowful, she led the way to the door and opened it for the humbly-dressed girl--nay, not humbly dressed, for Heaven had clothed her with a beauty that in a higher sphere would have been called peerless. Aunt f.a.n.n.y then closed the door, and went back to the sitting-room to smoothe the stiff plaits of her poplin and black ap.r.o.n, and shed a few tears.

Aunt f.a.n.n.y stood by the window gazing into vacancy, but her look could not penetrate to where Lucy was kneeling, like some fair penitent, beside the easy-chair where Arthur Sterne sat propped up by pillows.

There was a desire to flee again when once she was there, but Lucy's hands were prisoned, and even for a time the eyes were downcast; but then those words, powerful in their eloquence--words which made the young girl's heart beat quickly--had their effect, and soon the flushed face was raised, and in the long unflinching gaze that met his own, there was all that doubting man could desire.

Ah, Arthur Sterne, you may have mumbled so that poor Aunt f.a.n.n.y had to move her seat in church, but there was something now in the true eloquence of your words that must have thrilled the heart of the fair girl by your side; for the tears of happiness fell fast as her face was buried in your breast.

Explanations? Yes, all he could wish for; and how could he blame the loving tender heart, which saw not as the world saw, but was ready to stretch forth her hand to help the lost soul struggling in the slough of sin? How could he blame as he listened to the story of Agnes Hardon's sorrow, and how she had made herself known, begging again and again so earnestly, as she asked Lucy's protection for her child, that Septimus or Mrs Hardon might never be told of their intimacy, lest they should be of the world worldly, and cast the wretched woman from this last hold upon something pure?

Explanations! ay, many; and could he have done so he would have knelt to Lucy, as, weeping, she whispered to him of her wounded heart, and of how gladly she would have told him all, but that she feared his condemnation and contempt.

But there, love-scenes should be matters of the strictest privacy; and if Arthur Sterne gazed long and lovingly in the pure candid face before him with a look of fond protection which saw nothing then in humbleness or poverty, and Lucy Grey returned that look with one from her tear-wet eyes, that saw in his face everything that was great, n.o.ble, and to be desired by the tender, untouched heart of woman--if these two joined their lips in one long kiss of love, why it seems to be only natural, and what might be expected under the circ.u.mstances.

"And poor Agnes?" whispered Lucy from where she nestled.

"Have you not seen her since?" said the curate.

And then followed much long happy planning for the future, in which Agnes Hardon and her little golden-haired child had their share, and Somesham was more than once mentioned in connection with reconciliations.

Time will fly at such times, and after Arthur Sterne had told of his arrangements that he had already made for the child, and once more related his interview with Agnes, smiling at the pain of Lucy as he lightly touched upon his mishap, one that he gloried in as he felt the maiden's soft cheek laid to his throbbing heart--after all this, and much more that both had forgotten as soon as spoken, the curate discovered that the interview had lasted more than two hours, though much of that time had been spent in a silence that neither felt disposed to break--a silence quite in unison with the doctor's orders, since he had left instructions that for some days yet the patient was to be kept perfectly undisturbed.

But there is an end to all things, and Arthur Sterne did not look much the worse for his visitor, when Aunt f.a.n.n.y tapped gently at the door to announce another in the shape of Septimus Hardon come to escort his step-child back to their new home.

And that night, upon her way back, the something new that appeared to have come over the spirit of Lucy Grey was more than ever manifest; the ever-anxious look had departed, and her step was light, bounding, and elastic as she walked on by Septimus Hardon's side; a strange contrast-- now quiet and hopeful, now elate and light-hearted, as she conversed, while every topic was tinged with the future.

"And what did Mr Sterne want?" said Septimus as his eyes twinkled, half from merriment, half from sadness, as he drew the graceful arm he held farther through his own.

Lucy was serious in a moment, and as she turned beneath a street-lamp and looked in her stepfather's face, he abused himself roundly, for he could see tears glittering in the bright eyes that met his own.

"Don't, don't ask me, dear," whispered Lucy. "Don't talk of it now, for indeed, indeed, I could not leave you."

"Hush, hush," whispered Septimus soothingly, for they pa.s.sed another post, and he could this time see how fast the tears were falling, and now he tried to change the conversation.

"But he's getting better now very fast, eh? my darling," whispered Septimus.

"O, yes, yes," murmured Lucy. "I think so."

"And--but there, I'm making you worse. Let's talk of something else."

But Septimus Hardon's attempts at starting fresh subjects for conversation were one and all failures, and Lucy was silent until they reached Ess.e.x-street; though hers were not tears kindred to those she had shed days--weeks--months back, and, as to her dreams that night, they must have been sweet to cause so happy a smile to play upon her lip; for though a tear once stole from the fringed lid, and lay like a pearl upon her cheek, it did not seem like a tear wrung from the heart, neither did the sigh which followed betoken sorrow; for it was a sigh like that sweet expiration some of us have heard when a confession has been wrung from lips we love, and those lips, when pressed, have hardly been withdrawn, but pouted sweetly, looking more ruddy for shame.

Only yesterday that they wore that look; it can't be further back than the day before, or, say last week; and--the sweet recollection clings--"There, I do wish to goodness, dear, you would not always make a point of firing off into conversation directly I sit down to read or write. _Now_ what is it? `Young Fitzpater was too attentive to Maude last night?' Pooh! nonsense! sugar-candy! Why, the child isn't seventeen yet, and--"