The Story of Jael/Chapter VIII

left the eating-house, left the neighbourhood of the Rotherhithe Docks, found her way from the Surrey side of the Thames into London proper, and thence, as quickly as she could, disentangled herself from the endless, monotonous, and hideous streets of the outskirts of the great city that sprawled to the east and north-east. She had plenty of intelligence, and though she had lost her power of speech under provocation, found it when she had occasion to ask her way. She was not without money, though she had not taken any of the contents of the preserved ginger pot. Her father had been wont to entrust some of his weekly earnings to her, and she had this with her, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. It was not much, but it was sufficient for her modest requirements—enough to enable her to take a ticket on the Great Eastern Railway back to Colchester, but it did not occur to her to take it. Indeed, she had asked solely for the road to Colchester; she could not think out what was best to be done under the circumstances. She acted on the impulse of the moment, and when she had discovered how unworthy Jeremiah Mustard was of the trust she had reposed in him, she felt the necessity for her immediate return to her father—and the nearest town, the market town, the point of gravitation for all the neighbourhood to which she belonged, was Colchester. Accordingly, she asked the road to Colchester. Of Bishopsgate Street Station she knew nothing. That it was possible for her to get across by a ticket from Rotherhithe, by Wapping and Whitechapel, to Shoreditch, could not occur to her, profoundly ignorant of London topography, and the routes and ramifications of the lines.

She was content to cross to Limehouse, and through Poplar, to reach the road by Barking to Chelmsford.

But Jael did not get far along this road at once. The exposure to rain, to sea-water and cold, the distress of her mind, her disappointment, and her wrath at the insult offered her by the man to whom she had clung, combined to break down her robust health. She knew that she was going to be ill, she felt that fever had hold of her, and she fought against it. She walked on, determined not to yield.

There were tramps on the road. There had been a gaol delivery that morning, and some of those who had come forth were starting on the eastern circuit. She was caught up by men in ragged clothes, with short hair, and repulsive faces, large jaws, and retreating brows, who sought to get into conversation with her, who joked, and attempted familiarities. They mistook her for one of themselves, or at least for a tramp, in her draggled garments, battered straw hat, with her uncombed hair, and because unencumbered with luggage. She halted, to let them pass. She affected to be lame, that she might not detain them, but time was not precious to persons of this sort. They would lounge along, by choice, slowly; a brisk walk was what they did not affect. Then, when Jael discovered this, she put forth her utmost strength, and these fellows, out of wickedness suspecting her intention, strode out at her side.

Tears of mortification and anger came into her eyes. This was all part of the shame and humiliation brought on her by Jerry. She hated him, she clenched her teeth, when she thought of him. How much she owed him which she could never repay! Oh! if only the chance should come to her, when she could settle her account with him. To escape the odious persecutions of her companions she turned down a side road, and along this they were indisposed to follow her. She would not travel by the main highway, she would ramble along the coast. If she followed the coast she must, in time reach Bradwell Point, with its ancient chapel, a point she could see from Brightlingsea. Then she would manage to get put by boat across the mouth of the Blackwater, and walk to Fingringhoe, and thence take the ferry to Wyvenhoe, and so along the well-known line, home to the little wooden hut by the bridge. Now she found herself more entangled than she had been in the suburbs of London. There she was able to give a clear direction when she asked her way, now, she could not. When she inquired, she was told to return to the high-road.

After wandering ineffectually for some time she returned to the great artery of traffic.

A man with a cart was going along as she entered it, and in the cart were coals. She was very tired, the hedges danced before her eyes, and her knees gave way under her. She went to the driver and asked if he were going far on the road.

‘A matter of three or four miles,’ he replied.

Would he give her a lift? She would pay him. Yes, she might step up on the shaft, and sit in front, and if she wanted something for her back, there was a sack of coals not clean, to be sure, but, as he judged, her gown was past taking much hurt from coals.

He helped her up, and she took her place.

‘From town?’ he asked, looking scrutinisingly at her.

She nodded.

‘But you ain’t a cockney, I can see.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘No; gals from London ain’t got your complexion. Been in London long?’

‘No—a very little while.’

He whipped the horse, and the cart went on. The position was not a comfortable one that Jael occupied. She held the front of the cart on which she sat with both hands firmly to keep herself in place. She did not like to lean back against the filthy coal sacks.

Her feet swung very near the tail of the horse, and now and then the horse switched his tail and drew the long hairs over her soiled boots. The horse was a chestnut, with very light mane and tail, the colour of tan. Jael looked down, in a dream, and watched the muscles in the back of the horse as he went heavily on. She was thinking of Jeremiah; anger simmered in her heart. Had she ever loved him? She did not know. She had liked him, had believed in him; but she had never felt hot and dominant love for him. Now she felt nothing but hatred against him, and a consuming desire to revenge herself on him. Why had she not snatched up the knife on the table, when he struck her, and driven it into his heart? It had not occurred to her at the moment to do so. Dazzled by the blow, she had not seen the knife. Had she seen it then, undoubtedly she would have killed him with it. She would have been sent to prison and been hanged, had she killed him. She laughed. That was nothing to her. She would gladly die to be able to revenge herself on him.

What did he mean by that hint about Argent Soames’ daughter Julia? Jael knew that Julia Soames was reputed to be a good-looking girl, but not a beauty.

What was Jeremiah going to do now that his fine scheme of going to America had fallen through? He wanted to start in Canada on her—Jael’s—money. If he had got that money into his possession, he would have retained it for himself and given her—Jael—the go-by. He was capable of any meanness.

She had not thought it possible that a man could be so base.

She was startled from her reverie by the voice of the carter.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Essex.’

‘We’re in Essex now. S and X are two letters, but there’s a lot of space between them.’

‘Near Colchester.’

‘You have not been long in town?’

‘No—I said not.’

‘I know you’ve not, or you would have lost the sun’s kisses off your cheeks. Have you relations there?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been in a situation?’

‘No.’

‘Nor friends there?’

‘No.’

‘What then took you there?’

Jael was silent. She could not answer him.

‘Any brothers and sisters, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Mother and father alive?’

‘Father.’

‘Did you go alone to town?’

Again she was silent.

Then he laughed, and said, ‘Had enough of town, eh?’

She did not answer him.

Then with the end of his whip he nudged her ribs and under her arm, and said giggling, ‘I see it all. The old story. Went with a sweetheart, eh?’

She was silent. Her brows were drawn together and over her eyes, and her fingers clenched the rail of the cart as if they would drive their way into the hard wood. ‘And he’s deserted you. The old tale, the old tale!’

He put up his whip end again to jog her in the side, but she flared up in rage, wrenched it from his hand, and lashed with it—this way, that way—at him, at the horse, crying out, blind and bewildered with anger, and fever, and delirium, thinking that she was striking at Jeremiah, that the carter was he, and he was jeering her, and making merry at her misery.

Then the chestnut horse dashed forward, and the whip fell from her hand, and she remembered no more, only that the tawny tail of the horse was not a tail at all, but a wave of the sea that rushed over her; and that the rattle of the cart was not the rattle of the cart at all, but the rumble and roar of the thunder, that followed the summer lightning. But why there was thunder and no lightning, and why the wave washed over her without chilling her—that she could not understand. The chestnut horse was too old, unaccustomed to run, too used to the whip, and too heavily taxed with the coals to run far and run fast. The carter was after him, shouting, and the chestnut was speedily brought to a standstill. Then with curses the fellow scrambled up on the shaft and saw that Jael had fallen back among the coal sacks and was unconscious.

‘Here’s a go,’ said the man. ‘Dang me if I know what is to be done. Whether she’s a crazy thing or whether she’s sick. How am I to know? However, she can lie as she is.’ He whipped on the horse. ‘We ain’t far from Romford, and the relieving officer lives just outside. I can knock him up, and chuck her in at his door.’

The sun had set, and the soft summer twilight had descended as a veil over the landscape. Lights were kindled in the windows of Romford, and the glow over London in the rear began to take the place of the haze of smoke that marked the site of the metropolis during the day—even a summer’s day.

The carter drew up at a house in the outskirts of the town of Romford, and knocked at the door.

‘I say,’ he remarked to the florid man who came out, ‘ere’s a pretty kick-up. ’Tain’t a corpse, it’s a poor lost creature I’ve got in my cart tumbled in somewhere among the coals. There’d be no peace for me if I were to take such as she home; the missus would sweep her out with one end of the besom, and give my back and head a taste of the other.’

‘She must go to the workhouse,’ said the relieving officer. ‘Take her there at once.’

‘Oh, yes,’ retorted the carter. ‘But I’ve my coals. I’m not going out of the way with her. What be you called a relieving officer for, but because you’re paid by the rates to relieve us of the nuisance of caring for the sick and the poor and the old?’

‘Get out, hussy!’ shouted the functionary of mercy, going to the side of the cart and hammering with his fist on the shaft. ‘Now then! No shamming. I know your ways—you’re all alike,’ then he turned to the carter and with raised eyebrows inquired, ‘Drunk?’

‘Don’t know,’ answered the fellow. ‘Can’t be sure; didn’t smell any spirits. But she’s gone on in a wonderfully comical style. Nigh on upset the cart, she did.’

‘Drunk,’ said the relieving officer. ‘We’ll see to her! We’ll make her dance! We’ll bring her to her senses! Come along, you! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself wallowing in the coals that fashion? Ugh! You old Jezebel.’

‘She’s quite young—not above nineteen, and un-common pretty,’ said the carter.

‘Is she so?’ asked the officer; then in a soft and winning tone to Jael, ‘Come, my pretty. Hop up, my duck! I’ll see to your comforts and take you to the workhouse, and there you shall have a nice supper and a bed, and—and—and after them coals you’ll want it—a good wash.’