Part 41 (2/2)
”Let's get out; it's no use to go splas.h.i.+ng along here; if he isn't drowned, all we can do is to wait for him.”
”He ain't drowned,” said a policeman, thrusting his lantern up a drain and peering in; ”he's too much of a rat hisself, and I wouldn't mind laying that he's worked his way up to light before now.” And the man stopped, gazing up the black noisome channel before him as if it possessed some attraction.
”Gone up there, safe,” said the quiet man, laughing. ”Go up, Tom, and see; I'll wait for you.”
”Officers allus goes fust to lead the way, and privates follers,” said the policeman. ”Nice place, though, ain't it?”
”Whereabouts are we now?” said the quiet man.
”Don't zackly know,” said the man in the hair-mask. ”Not far from Holborn, I should say.”
”Going up there, Tom?” said the quiet man, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the top of a small dram-flask.
”Arter you, sir,” said the policeman.
The quiet man took the ”arter you” to apply to the dram-flask, which he pa.s.sed to his follower; and as no one seemed disposed to crawl on hands and knees along the narrow place, the party slowly retraced their steps to where they had descended, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the clear night air.
Volume Three, Chapter XII.
WHAT MA MERE KNEW.
”You mad fool, Jean! you shall listen, and you shall hear all,” cried _ma mere_ furiously; ”and I will torment you till you see that you are _bete_. The little worker--the pink doll--is not for you; and you shall not have her. But it was good sport, Jean--rare sport, Jean. That sniff woman, poor fool! told me. He carried her down the stairs-- carried her down in his arms, of course, for he loves her; and let him marry her if he will; who cares? for she is not for you. Do you hear, _bete_? he carried her lovingly down in his arms.”
Jean winced as he sat in his old place at the window, but pretended not to hear, though from the working of his nostrils it was plain how eagerly he drank in every word.
”No, Jean, she is not for you,” cried the old woman. ”I hate her, and you shall not love her, but someone else; for she has always set you against me. I know--I know all--all--all!” she exclaimed, muttering and nodding her head; ”he struck down the Jarker--big wretch; and then the Jarker waited hour after hour, hour after hour, into the dark night, and watched for him till he was talking to the painted woman, and struck him down too; and then I saw more too, and I was not going to tell--O no-- though I think he killed her. But no, no, Jean, I would not tell, for I have my plans; and pah! there are plenty more painted women. But no, no, Jean, you shall not have the pink doll. You must love me, Jean, till I tell you to marry.”
The young man writhed in his chair, but he spoke no word; while his mother knitted furiously, clicking her needles and smiling maliciously as she watched him sideways.
”No, no, Jean, you shall not have the pink doll; and you cannot see her now--they are gone.”
”But she will come,” cried Jean angrily, with something of his mother's spirit bursting forth.
”No, no!” half-shrieked his mother; ”she shall not--I will not have her.
But no, she will not come, you _bete_, for the preacher is ill with the Jarker's blow, and she nurses him and smoothes his pillow. Fool!” she cried in a sharp, cracked voice, ”I will torment you to death if you tear not the hateful little thing from your foolish heart. You shall only love me till I tell you. But now listen: it is dark now, and I have my plans. The Jarker is away, and the police hunt him. Now listen, fool, while I tell you. They may take him, but I hope not yet; for you shall be rich, Jean--you shall have money and all that the great people have, and plenty of fine dolls shall be proud to have you, Jean; for I am proud of you; and what was she? Bah! nothing. I know the Jarker's secret--I know it two years; but he does not think it, for I have been still and waited two years, Jean--more. He suspect me once, but he dare not touch me, and I have given him no chance since. And should I tell till it was time? No, no!”
_Ma mere_ leaned over towards her son, and casting down her knitting in her eagerness, one of the dogs ran to pick it up, but she struck the poor thing angrily with Jean's crutch, and it ran yelping back to its corner. And now she whispered long and eagerly in the young man's ear, till his cheek flushed and eyes sparkled, for he was coupling all he heard with the name of Lucy Grey.
”Gold and silver--much silver and rich things, Jean,” hissed _ma mere_.
”But have you seen them?” cried Jean eagerly.
”Bah! no; but what then? Why was he out night after night? To catch birds? Bah! no, but to pluck birds of their fine feathers, gay feathers, rich feathers, and he has a store, I know it.”
”But he may come back,” said Jean huskily.
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