upon her visitor’s shoulder.
This paroxysm of tears seemed to have its effect upon the visitor, for, forcing back her own emotion, she appeared more at ease within herself, as, gazing once more into the pale, worn, common face of the birdcatcher’s wife, she kissed her in so loving and sisterly a way, that the tears flowed faster from Mrs Jarker’s eyes. And yet, knowing full well who was her visitor, Mrs Jarker did not shudder, but rose from her choir, glanced timorously at the open trap, and then drew the stranger towards a box – a common deal-box, with the blue-stained paper that had once covered it hanging here and there in rags. She went upon her knees now, and raised the creaking lid, when an impatient movement of the feet upon the ladder made her start up hastily, and close the lid again. But a long, loud whistling from above showed her that Mr Jarker was still busy with his birds; so once more raising the lid, the poor creature thrust her hand down to a well-known spot beneath the few rags of clothes the box contained, and brought out a pair of little, stained red boots, which she pressed passionately to her lips, the tears gushing from her eyes the while, and a broken hysterical wail burst from her overladen breast. But it was checked instantly, for Jarker’s feet scraped on the ladder, and the boots were hidden beneath the woman’s apron; then the whistling was heard again, and the little boots were brought forth once more.
A pair of tiny red boots, the only relic she had of something that was not – something that she had once warmed within her breast – the breast before now bruised and blackened by a ruffian hand, but beneath which was the same warm, God-implanted love for her offspring that glows in the bosom of the noblest of her sex.
For a moment or two the younger woman gazed in the other’s eyes with a soft, tender, pitying look – a look in this case of true sympathy; and the hand of the lost rested lovingly upon Mrs Jarker’s breast as she whispered softly: “How old was it?”
“Only a twelvemonth,” was the reply, followed by a moan. “But perhaps it was best – perhaps it was best.”
The visitor’s hand still rested upon the other’s breast, and she was about to speak, when an impatient shuffle startled both, for it seemed that Mr Jarker was about to descend; but he came not. And now a look of ineffable sweetness and content came over the well-moulded features of the visitor. She was satisfied now respecting the step she was about to take; for Mrs Jarker’s heart had been laid open to her. A true chord of sympathy existed between them, and she could feel that her little one would be taken to a motherly breast, and protected – protected; but who, she asked herself, would injure one so tender and frail?
But there was no time for further communion between these motherly hearts, for a loud rasp on the ladder told that Mr Jarker was descending, and the visitor prepared to leave.
“You’ve been a-pipin’ again,” growled Mr Jarker to his wife, who had hastily concealed the boots – “pipin’ about that ’ere kid as has gone; and a good thing too. Wot’s the good when here’s another a-coming?” and he looked menacingly at the shivering woman. “I say,” he continued to the visitor, who now stood at the door, “you’ll pay up reg’lar, and in advance!”
“Yes, yes!” she said hoarsely, almost fiercely, as she turned to him with a steady contemptuous look, which made the great brute shuffle about uneasily – “yes, yes, so long as I live;” and the next moment the door closed upon her retreating form.
“Long as you live? Yes; I should just think you will, or else there’ll precious soon be a kid found at somebody’s door, with the perlice, cuss ’em, taking the brat to the workus. – And don’t you pipe no more,” he snarled to the trembling woman, who slowly retreated to the washtub. “A taking of it to the workus, cuss ’em,” muttered Mr Jarker again, removing his fur cap and passing his hand over his cropped head, as if the name of the police, and their probable future duty, had reminded him of former injuries. “Now then, you!” he shouted, as if calling his dog, and he threw the shilling upon the table – “d’yer hear?”
“Yes, Bill,” said the woman meekly, and hastily passing her hands over her dull red eyes before she turned to him the face from which all that was attractive had long since fled.
“Tripe!” said Mr Jarker.
“Yes, Bill,” said his wife.
“Pipe and screw,” growled Mr Jarker.
“Yes, Bill,” said the woman, hurriedly tying on a miserable bonnet.
“And here, you!”
“I wasn’t going, Bill,” said the woman meekly.
“Who said you was?” growled the ruffian; “don’t you be so sharp, now, then. Now, where’s that money?”
“What money, Bill?”
The next moment the ruffian had seized her by the front of her dress and dragged her to him, so that she went down upon her knees. “Don’t you try to put none of your games on me. What did she give you when I was out of sight?” And he put his black face down close to hers, as, half from fear, half from bitterness, her lower lip worked as she tried to keep back the tears, and to answer; but no words would come.
“D’yer hear? What did she give yer?”
“Nothing, Bill,” whispered the woman.
He looked at her fiercely; but though faded and lack-lustre, her eyes blenched not, but gave him back the same true steady look that had always shone for him since – young, ignorant, ill-taught, weak – she had believed he cared for her, and she could be happy with him: not the first of Eve’s daughters that has made the same mistake.
“Get up!” snarled Jarker, loosing his hold; and his wife rose hastily without a word.
“Pint of porter, with half-a-quartern of gin in it.”
“Yes, Bill,” she whispered, and drew on a washed-out shawl.
“And no fiddling, you know; put all the gin in.”
“Yes, Bill,” said the woman, hastily taking the shilling, and descending the creaking stairs to procure her lord’s refreshments; tripe stewed, and gin and beer, being special weaknesses of his when in funds.
“Don’t let her forget to bring some inguns, that’s all,” he muttered as he listened to the retreating steps. He then crushed down the fire with the heel of his heavy boot, and, putting his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, his fingers came in contact with two or three scraps of burnt match, which he took out, looked at thoughtfully, and then burned. “She must have been arter the dawg,” he muttered, and walking to one of the lattice-windows, he opened it and framed himself as he leaned out with his arms resting upon the rotten sill, a splinter of which he picked off to chew. Then he gazed steadfastly across the court at the opposite window, which was hung round with birdcages, whose occupants twittered sweetly, while one, a lark, seemed to fill the court with his joyous song.
This reminded Mr Jarker of his own birds, and, stepping back growling, he looked to see if the little cages hung over his nets all contained water, which they did.
“And a blessed good job for her as they do!” he muttered on finding that his wife had performed this duty. Then walking again towards the front he watched the opposite window, where he could see a pale, sallow face eagerly looking at the birds, while from behind came the sharp sound as of the lash of a whip striking the floor, followed by the shrill yelp of a dog.
Mr Jarker stood thoughtfully watching and listening, as if in doubt upon some particular subject; and as he watched he pulled out that ugly clasp-knife of his that he had opened a
