For a good hour together Mr Jarker would rest in a broken-bottomed
chair, smoking a short black pipe, his hands supporting his heavy chin,
and his elbows making pits in his knees, as, like some hideous old
cathedral gargoyle, he sat gazing fixedly at the little wondering face
of the child. From time to time he reversed his position to re-refresh
himself with a draught of his favourite beverage--gin and beer, a
beverage which always produced a loud smack from his thick negro lips.
If there was no fascination in the child's face for Bill Jarker, there
was most certainly fascination in the ruffian's face for the child; and
unconsciously imitating his attitude, it would rest its dimply plump
cheeks upon its tiny fists, and gaze again wonderingly, without a
thought of moving, till the lids slowly sank over the violet eyes, and
the little golden-haired, soft, lovable head sank sideways, with all
those prettiest of pretty motions seen in one of the most beautiful
sights in nature--a child dropping off into its simple trusting sleep of
innocence; but soon it would start into wakefulness again, with a
frightened air, and its little face drawn and ready to cry; but a glance
at the hideous face before it subdued the disposition, and once more the
same long, weary gaze commenced.
This took place day after day, and a stranger seeing it might have
fancied that in this case innocence was exercising its power over guilt;
but one who knew Mr Jarker well would have arrived at the right idea,
namely, that this gentleman was making his plans. A pipe or two of
tobacco, a pint of beer strengthened with gin, and a long stare at the
face of his wife when living, a cat, a dog, or of late the child, had
been the preliminaries of more than one desperate burglary in a country
place somewhere within a circle of fifty miles' radius, taking Saint
Paul's as the centre. Bill's _confreres_ in the bird-catching
profession contented themselves with trips countryward to the extent of
eight or ten miles; but, though on the whole Bill and his two or three
companions caught fewer birds, he never let distance interfere with his
pursuits, and used to boast that the birds he netted were of a rarer
kind. Bill would travel third-class almost any distance to find good
pitches for his nets; and even then, perhaps, after a three or four
days' trip, and returning with hardly a bird, he seemed to be so
infatuated with the place and its prospects, that he would gather
together his two or three intimates, and go down again, travelling
slowly by road, setting off too in such a hurry, in a miserable cart
drawn by a wretched-looking hack, that friends and self would entirely
forget nets and call-birds, when they would console themselves with the
remark that they might take a few nightingales.
So that Mr Jarker was not undergoing a softening process as he sat
staring at the child, for he was really making his plans; and this time
these plans had nothing to do with either birds or nocturnal visits.
There was something particular in Mr Jarker's head, or else he would
not have burdened himself with the child for a single day; while he had
carefully retained it in his custody now for many weeks; and the
ruffian's ideas must have been of a somewhat strange character, for now
and then he would shake his head at the drowsy child, and say:
"Yes, my little chickin', you do for a bait."
So of late, apparently for the sake of the child, Mr Jarker had
suffered the bellows; and, in consideration of a small sum weekly, Mrs
Sims had sniffed about the room, and, to use her own expressive words,
"done for him." But now, probably from too much spiritual exercise,
Mrs Sims was ill, and no one dared go near the ruffian's room but Lucy,
whose heart bled for the little thing. Left still for hours together
alone in the dreary room, sometimes but half fed, afraid to do more than
whimper softly, her sole amusement was to press her little face against
the closed window, and watch until she could catch a glimpse of her
neighbour, when the tiny hands would be clapped with glee. The
neighbours said it was a shame; but they had their own affairs to attend
to, and said no more. While, as might be expected, Lucy seized every
opportunity of tending the child most lovingly; watching for Jarker's
absence, and then hurrying up and spending perhaps an hour in the
miserable attic.
"She must be ill," Lucy would think, "or something is wrong; for surely
it was fancy on her part that he should wish to retain the child;" and,
though anxious that it should be better tended, she looked forward with
dread to the time when it should be taken away; while, as anxiously she
watched for a visit from Agnes. Night after night the candle burned in
her window, as she worked on at some exercise; but Agnes Hardon came
not, telling her weary heart that it was for Lucy's good.
Sometimes Jarker would omit to turn the key he always left in his door,
as if to provoke inquiry into his affairs, and to show the guilelessness
of his life; and then, after waiting until his footstep became
inaudible, the child would steal softly down step by step, fleeing back
if she heard a door open or a foot upon the stairs, but only to
persevere till, unobserved, she reached the entrance, when, watching
till the attention of the children of the court was directed elsewhere,
she would dart across the pavement, enter the opposite house, creep up
to the first-floor, and then crouch down by the step which led into the
front-room, and peer beneath the door, through the opening made by the
long hard wear of feet for a century and a half-watching, perhaps for a
couple of hours, the bright guiding spirit of the sewing-machine. But
at last Lucy would catch sight of the two round bright eyes, peering
beneath the door; and to her mother's great annoyance at one time, and
supreme satisfaction upon another, she would fetch in the child, when
according to Mrs Hardon's mood she would act; for if the invalid was
fretful and weary, the little thing would be taken up to Jean, where she
would stay willingly amongst the birds, as the cripple eagerly tried to
be of service to his beautiful neighbour. But there were difficulties
here, for Jean could only render this aid when _ma mere_ was absent,
though this was more frequently now since Bijou had learned to stand
upon his head, and so brought in more remuneration, without taking into
consideration his later accomplishment of climbing two chairs, rail by
rail, forefeet upon one, hindfeet upon another, and then smoking a
tobacco-less pipe in triumph upon the summit, as he spanned the distance
between the two chairs, and turned himself into a canine arch. But
Bijou doubtless did not enjoy his pipe for remembering how that he was
_bete_, and for thinking of the whip, and the rapping his poor legs
received before he was able to obey his mistress's commands--that is if
dogs can think.
There seemed to be a tacit understanding between _ma mere_ and Lucy; an
acknowledged dislike upon the old woman's part, which made the latter
carefully avoid her, shrinking back into the room if she heard her
footstep, so as not to encounter the quiet bitter smile and sneering
gaze of the old woman, while _ma mere_ reviled Jean angrily, calling him
nurse-girl, _bonne_, when by chance she learned of his past occupation.
But Jean cared not, so long as there was something that should bring
Lucy to his attic, where he could feast greedily upon her bright face
and graceful form; and, could he have gone about, he would have followed
her like a dog.
Jean's lark sang more loudly than ever, and Lucy's eyes had brightened
as she told the cripple again and again how she loved its sweet notes;
and, watching her press her lips once to the cage-wires, inviting the
speckled bird to take a seed from the rosy prison, Jean's eyes dimmed as
he gazed at her with a reverence approaching adoration. Visitor after
visitor came to that attic, and went, buying and selling, and the little
prisoners were constantly being changed; but the lark was there still,
though more than once of late Jean had pressed its acceptance upon Lucy
Grey; but with a sweet smile she had thanked him, begging that he would
keep it for her sake; and he kept it, in spite of many an angry word
from _ma mere_ when some advantageous offer had been made by a visitor;
and it still whistled from its perch in the window.
"I will sell the bird myself; it is waste, it is pity, when we are so
poor," _ma mere_ would exclaim; and then Jean would turn upon her a
peculiar soft, sweet smile, and whisper, "No, _ma mere_, you will not
sell my bird, because I love it;" when passionately the old woman would
now scold, now fondle the cripple, as she hung over the back of his
chair.
One evening when the moon hung high in air, waiting the fading of day
before shedding her pale light, Jean sat in his usual place in the
window, dreaming of scenes of which he had read, and thinking himself in
some sweet woodland home, forgetting the presence of squalor and misery,
and even of the cages, as he listened to the twittering of the many
birds hung around his head. There was a brightness in his eye and a
smile upon his lip, for he was gazing across the court at just such a
scene as once almost spellbound the curate. Merrily romping with the
child, he could see Lucy in Jarker's room, flitting backwards and
forwards past the open window. The child's happy laugh could be heard
mingled with its shouts of pleasure, for the pent-up joyousness of its
little nature was now having free vent.
All at once Jean's look of quiet enjoyment changed to one of unutterable
rage and despair; the lips, but now apart in a soft smile, were drawn,
as if by some fearful pain, his teeth were clenched, and his eyes wild
and dilated. He tried to rise, but his helplessness was such that he
sank back in his chair panting; but, raising his crutch, he struck
savagely on the casement, shivering two or three of the little panes.
He tried again and again to get up, and inarticulate sounds came from
his lips. It was pitiful to gaze upon the struggle between the strong
mind and the weak body, which would not obey his will as he tried again
to rise; till, with a savage, guttural cry, more like that of some
disappointed beast of prey than a human being, he threw himself towards
the open window, as in his efforts his chair was overturned and he fell
upon the floor, where he lay agonisingly writhing in his impotence, as
he absolutely foamed at the mouth.
Just then the door behind him opened, and, with a book beneath his arm,
Mr Sterne entered the room; when seeing, as he thought, the cripple in
a fit, he sprang forward and raised him in his arms to place him in a
chair, at the same time running over in his own mind what would be the
best course of action. But as he gazed in the poor fellow's dilated
eyes, and saw their look of unutterable despair, one of Jean's hands was
fiercely clutching his shoulder, and the other was pointing and waving
frantically towards the open window.
The next instant, as if some strange suspicion had flashed upon his
mind, the curate was gazing across the court, to utter almost the
counterpart of the cry that had issued from the throat of Jean, as he
caught sight of Lucy, frightened and horror-stricken, backing towards
the room door, and Jarker, evidently half-mad with drink, holding her
tightly by one arm; for he had returned unexpectedly, and taking
advantage of the girl's preoccupation, had stolen softly into the room
and closed the door.
Arthur Sterne saw this at one glance, and his face turned pale as ashes
with the thoughts that this hasty look engendered. The next moment he
had half-climbed from the window and stood holding by one hand,
measuring the distance across the court, as he stooped, lithe and
elastic, ready for the bound; but reason told him that it was utter
madness to attempt so wild a leap--a leap certainly death for himself,
and probably worse than death for her he sought to save; and dashing
back into the room he tore down the staircase.
Recovering somewhat, Jean now let himself slide down upon the floor,
and, panting heavily, began to walk painfully across the room; for a
moment he looked at the window, but the next he was making for the door,
and then lowering himself from stair to stair. But before he was down
the first flight, there was rescue at hand for Lucy. Bounding up the
frail old staircase of the opposite house, Arthur Sterne dashed
frantically on, so that at every leap the woodwork cracked and trembled
as if ready to give way. The height never seemed so great before, as
landing after landing was passed, till he reached the last, to launch
himself against the frail door, which, driven from its hinges, fell with
a crash; and the next moment, dropping like some inert mass from the
blow which fell upon his face, Jarker made the old place quiver beneath
his weight. And there he lay, stupid and helpless from the sudden
shock; the effect of the blow being apparently enough to destroy life,
for the ruffian did not move.
Hardly breathing, and uttering no sound, the child crouched fearfully in
a corner; while Lucy, trembling and half-fainting, clung to the curate,
as sob after sob burst from her breast; and at last, as if stricken by
death, she sank back pale and inanimate upon his supporting arm.
But there were no looks of love in Arthur Sterne's face; for, with brow
knit, nostrils distended, and every vein in his face swollen and
knotted, he stood with his heel crushed down upon Jarker's bull-throat,
no mean incarnation of vengeance. Soon, though, the breath he had drawn
with difficulty as he stood there holding the fainting girl to his
throbbing heart, came more lightly, the expression of rage fled from his
features, and as he gazed tenderly upon the pale face so near his own he
pressed his lips reverently upon her forehead.
"Lucy, my poor dove," he whispered, "will you not give me the right to
protect you, and take you from this place?"--"Our beauty, some of us,"
seemed sighed at his ear.
"A lie, a base lie!" he muttered fiercely; though even then a change
came over his face, the veins swelled once more in his forehead, and an
agony of strange thoughts passed through his breast. And now, pale and
anxious, two or three of the women lodgers came trembling to the door,
amongst whom was Mrs Sims, ready to take possession of the child, as,
hurriedly passing through the wondering group, the curate bore his light
burden to her home.
Volume Three, Chapter VII.