"Hush!" cried _ma mere_, recovering from her tremor; "but I have another
piece. You fool, Jean! are you afraid to be in the dark? Here is the
candle, but where are the matches?" and the old woman kept on feeling
about in her huge pocket, but found them not. "You have the matches,
Jean!" she exclaimed at last.
"No," said the cripple; "you had them, _ma mere_."
"Ah, yes; and I left them in the other place; but I will fetch them.
Where are you?"
"I am here," whispered Jean, whom the darkness seemed to oppress, so
that he could not speak above his breath.
"But where?" hissed his mother. "I cannot tell, not yet; where is the
stone?"
"Don't move," whispered Jean hoarsely; "there is the hole, and you will
fall down."
"Then, come you," hissed his mother; "we cannot stay here in the dark;
and I am not come to go back with empty hand."
"What can I do?" cried Jean angrily. "I am afraid to move. Why did you
not let me have my crutch?" And now he began to feel slowly along the
wall in search of the stone, but his hands only came in contact with the
brick bins and empty bottles.
"Have you found the opening, Jean?" whispered his mother from the other
side of the cellar; and then a cold shudder ran through the cripple as
he stood with his hand upon the stone, for there was the sound of
someone falling over a piece of board, and _ma mere_ shrieked out, "O,
_mon Dieu_, I am lost!" while standing there in the fearful darkness,
and knowing his own helplessness, Jean almost swooned with horror.
"Here, quick, Jean, your hand!" cried his mother huskily; and on
crawling towards the sound, Jean clutched his mother's arms, and dragged
at her, for she was lying with part of her body in the hole, but in no
real danger, though unnerved and terrified, her fancy having magnified
the peril a hundredfold before she lay panting on the damp sawdust
beside her son.
"Not deep, not deep," she muttered; "but, ah, Jean, it was very
dreadful! I felt as if the painted woman was dragging me down."
"Hush!" whispered Jean as they crawled farther away; "what is that
noise?"
"_Bete_! would you frighten me?" hissed the old woman; and then she
paused, for now distinctly heard, and as if ascending into the cellar
through the hole, came a low blowing, panting noise; at first very soft,
then louder and louder, as it came mingled with a plashing, scraping
sound; nearer and nearer, and more plainly, as if someone was forcing a
way along; while, at last, the panting noise was almost painful, for it
was as of some hunted animal fighting for its breath.
Nearer and nearer came the noise; and with blood seeming to freeze and
grow sluggish in their veins, mother and son crept farther away from the
hole, till they crouched, clinging together, against one of the bins,
when Jean's elbow came in contact with an empty bottle, which clinked
loudly. And still nearer came the sound, more rustling, more loud
panting, echoing and hollow, as if sent through some large pipe; and,
hardly daring to breathe, as they listened to the heavy throb, throb of
their hearts, mother and son waited the result.
Now there was a muttering noise heard along with the panting; then more
rustling, and all louder and plainer; till, as mother and son crouched
there with starting eyes, they could in imagination see a dripping
figure emerge from the hole, and stand within a few feet of them.
Then there was a silence so horrible that to the trembling couple it
seemed worse than the coming of the noises. But there was relief at
last in the sound as of one searching amongst bottles; and then the snap
as of the opening of a box, followed by the striking of matches, first
one and then another. The sweat gathered upon the listeners' faces as
they thought of the result of the discovery, and the probable fate of
her whose veil they had seen. But, as in the sewer, nothing but faint
lines of light ensued, and tiny spots where the damp matches were
thrown; when, as if to show that this was no supernatural visitant, a
deep husky voice growled the word "damp!" as the box was thrown
impatiently down.
Then a heavy foot crunched upon Jean's hand, which he had rested upon
the ground to thrust himself close to the wall; but though the pain was
acute, he uttered no cry, sitting almost frozen with fear, as he heard
the click of a bottle, the breaking of glass, the trickling of liquid
upon the floor, followed by the sound of someone drinking; taking a long
breath; drinking heavily again and again; and then something struck the
young man heavily, his face was splashed with wine, and a broken bottle
fell upon the floor.
Once more there was the silence, only broken by the heavy breathing of
the new-comer; and then the hearts of mother and son bounded as they
heard first the gliding of a hand upon a wall, and then a rough grating,
which they both recognised as that of the stone being very softly and
slowly slid back for a few inches, while it appeared that the new-comer
was listening; and once more in the painful silence it seemed certain
that he would hear the laboured beating of their hearts.
Once again, though, there was the grating, and they could tell that the
opening was now fully exposed; then followed the rustling as of a body
passing through, and, as they listened, the faint fall of steps passing
along the court fell upon their ears, seeming refreshing, as it linked
them once more with things of the upper world; but the next moment came
the rustling sound, then the grating of the stone, and once more all was
silent as the grave.
"Ah!" sighed _ma mere_ with almost a groan, as she once more breathed
freely; while in a husky voice Jean whispered, "Let's go."
"Stop," whispered his mother; "I dare not move yet. He will not be
gone; only waiting for a chance to get past the police; and if he see us
he will hide his rich things;" and the thought of the contents of the
place seemed to lend force to the old woman's failing nerves; though,
for what seemed half an hour to Jean, they sat in the silent darkness,
waiting; a silence broken now and then by a peculiar sighing noise from
the sewers, which made its hearers shudder.
"Was it him?" whispered Jean at last.
"Yes; the Jarker," hissed _ma mere_; "but get up now. Let me help you,
and we will take all we can and go. Be still and careful; and there,
now you are up. But, my faith, Jean, I am cramped! Now, the boxes were
here; and--"
_Ma mere_ ceased speaking, and stood trembling, with the sense as of
something lifting the hair of her bare head, for at that moment came the
sound of the grating stone pushed quickly aside; there was the sharp
rustling as of one passing through, and the stone was thrust back, while
the old woman could hear the panting, hard breath of someone close to
her. She would have crouched away, but she stood as if paralysed,
calling up the old interview with Jarker in the front cellar, and his
great knife and ominous words, and she felt now that her hour was come,
as a voice muttered the words "Two there!" and a heavy hand was laid
upon her bare head. It was a horrible moment; but she could not move,
and stood with her tongue glued to her palate, waiting for what she felt
must follow; though, could she have turned, she would have clasped her
withered arms round the ruffian, and cried to her son to escape. But
_ma mere_ was motionless, while the hideous yell that now rang in a
dull, smothered way through the vault froze her blood into stagnation.
Still the hand was not moved, but lay motionless upon her head, trembled
and shook violently for a few moments, and then the old woman was free;
for, in a horrible voice, the ruffian shrieked:
"Come back! come back!" when there was a heavy crash as of a body
falling amongst a quantity of broken bottles, and all was silent once
more.
No word spoke _ma mere_, but catching her son's hand, she drew him after
her to the opening, seized the stone, which seemed to glide away at her
touch, and then she thrust hurriedly at Jean as he crawled through, one
hand being stretched back to seize on Jarker, should he recover from his
swoon and try to touch her boy. Then she felt that there was room, and
crept through herself, closed the stone with some difficulty, and made
her way shuddering out into the cellar. Here _ma mere_ clutched Jean
round the waist, and stopped to listen, but all was silent and
apparently no pursuit, so hurrying him along, they stood trembling once
more in the passage, expecting to be seized from behind, _ma mere_
seeming to feel the knife of Jarker, as she clutched at her throat and
pressed on. Upon passing out into the court, though, there was a
policeman, but beyond a glance, he took no heed of them till they had
entered their own passage and closed the door, when he quietly made his
way through the entrance they had that moment quitted.
"Cognac, Jean; drink it, fool, you want it," said _ma mere_, when they
were once more safe in their own room. Before she would partake
herself, the old woman forced some upon her son. "Another time, though,
Jean, another time. I thought he would not dare to come back; but he
will go now, and it will be safe. My faith, though, to see those boxes
and touch nothing!" she exclaimed, and her hands clawed again as she
spoke. "No, Jean, he will come no more, for it was as I thought; he is
a murderer, and afraid. He did kill the poor painted woman; and then he
was frightened, and thrust her poor body down into the sewer. But he
was frightened, and fainted away, for he thought it was his poor victim
come back. Did you not hear him shriek it? But I will tell the police
when I have his gold and silver. But a little, but a little, and then
all will be right."
They neither of them felt that they could sleep, and _ma mere_ drew out
her knitting, but did little, sitting thoughtfully in her chair; at
last, though, Jean slept heavily till his mother woke him in the early
dawn, and together they looked down, trying to pierce the fog which hung
in the court, when the first thing that their eyes fell upon was the
glazed top of a policeman's hat.
"But you will not go again?" whispered Jean.
"But you are _bete_!" cried the old woman angrily. "Should I leave the
treasure I have discover, and let the police have all? No," she cried,
hooking her skinny fingers, "I will have all myself, and we will be
rich, Jean. Ah! what--you sigh? But you are _bete_, and it is for the
little worker who come between us, Jean. You loved your poor mother
till she come, and I hate her for it, and I could slay her, for I am mad
and disappointed; but I had my revenge for long. I told the preacher
something, and he believed me; and you are all fools, you men. But I am
not angry, Jean, for you are my own Jean, and you shall be rich yet.
What! you push me away? I care not, for you shall be like your father--
a gentleman--before he died, and left me in this cold, cold, cold,
miserable London. But we will have the Jarker's treasure, Jean, that I
have watched, and we will laugh then at the world."
Jean sat silently gazing down into the court, wincing at times as he
heard the bitter words of his mother, while his eyes would then flash as
he seemed ready to turn; but he spoke no word, as he thought over the
past night and restrained himself. He knew the value of money, and his
face would brighten as he thought of it in connection with Lucy; but a
weary, sad smile came directly after, for he knew such thoughts were
folly, and he turned them to Jarker, as he seemed to feel that his duty
was to point out the wretch's hiding-place, though he flinched from the
task. And still he sat on, hour after hour gazing down into the court,
where a strange man, like an artisan out of work, was lounging about
smoking a short black pipe, and apparently very intent upon a small
birdcage tied up in a blue-spotted handkerchief beneath his arm. There
was something of the shoemaker and more of the tailor about him--nothing
at all of the detective-policeman, and doubtless it must have been very
unpleasant for a man of his income to smoke such bad tobacco, and pay
for so many half-quarterns of rum for Mrs Sims, who was very
communicative concerning the last time Jarker was at home, while a
policeman in uniform would have acted as a seal upon her lips. So Mrs
Sims chattered, the strange man watched, and for a time the uniform of
the police-force was not seen in Bennett's-rents.
Volume Three, Chapter XV.