The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (322 page)

‘God knows! it might—it might!’

Tobias was very urgent upon the poor creature to tell her story, to beguile the tedium of the time of waiting, and after some amount of persuasion she consented to do so.

The Mad Woman’s Tale

You shall now hear (she said to Tobias), if you will listen, such a catalogue of wrongs, unredressed and still enduring, that would indeed drive any human being mad; but I have been able to preserve so much of my mental faculties as will enable me to recollect and understand the many acts of cruelty and injustice I have endured here for many a long and weary day.

My persecutions began when I was very young—so young that I could not comprehend their cause, and used to wonder why I should be treated with greater rigour or with greater cruelty than people used to treat those who were really disobedient and wayward children.

I was scarcely seven years old when a maiden aunt died; she was the only person whom I remember as being uniformly kind to me, though I can only remember her indistinctly, yet I know she was kind to me. I know also I used to visit her, and she used to look upon me as her favourite, for I used to sit at her feet upon a stool, watching her as she sat amusing herself by embroidering, silent and motionless sometimes, and then I asked her some questions which she answered.

This is the chief feature of my recollection of my aunt: she soon after died, but while she lived, I had no unkindness from anybody; it was only after that that I felt the cruelty and coldness of my family.

It appeared that I was a favourite with my aunt above all others whether in our family or any other; she loved me, and promised that, when she died, she would leave me provided for, and that I should not be dependent upon anyone.

Well, I was, from the day after the funeral, an altered being. I was neglected, and no one paid any attention to me whatsoever; I was thrust about, and nobody appeared to care even if I had the necessaries of life.

Such a change I could not understand. I could not believe the evidence of my own senses; I thought it must be something that I did not understand; perhaps my poor aunt’s death had caused this distress and alteration in people’s demeanour to me.

However, I was a child, and though I was quick enough at noting all this, yet I was too young to feel acutely the conduct of my friends.

My father and mother were careless of me, and let me run where I would; they cared not when I was hurt, they cared not when I was in danger. Come what would, I was left to take my chance.

I recollect one day when I had fallen from the top to the bottom of some stairs and hurt myself very much; but no one comforted me; I was thrust out of the drawing-room, because I cried. I then went to the top of the stairs, where I sat weeping bitterly for some time.

At length, an old servant came out of one of the attics, and said, ‘Oh! Miss Mary, what has happened to you, that you sit crying so bitterly on the stair-head? Come in here!’

I arose and went into the attic with her, when she set me on a chair, and busied herself with my bruises, and said to me, ‘Now, tell me what you are crying about, and why did they turn you out of the drawing-room, tell me now?’

‘Ay,’ said I, ‘they turned me out because I cried when I was hurt. I fell all the way down stairs, but they don’t mind.’

‘No, they do not, and yet in many families they would have taken more care of you than they do here!’

‘And why do you think they would have done so?’ I enquired.

‘Don’t you know what good fortune has lately fallen into your lap? I thought you knew all about it.’

‘I don’t know anything, save they are very unkind to me lately.’

‘They have been very unkind to you, child, and I am sure I don’t know why, nor can I tell you why they have not told you of your fortune.’

‘My fortune,’ said I; ‘what fortune?’

‘Why, don’t you know that when your poor aunt died you were her favourite?’

‘I know my aunt loved me,’ I said; ‘she loved me, and was kind to me; but since she has been dead, nobody cares for me.’

‘Well, my child, she has left a will behind her which says that all her fortune shall be yours: when you are old enough you shall have all her fine things; you shall have all her money and her house.’

‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘who told you so?’

‘Oh, I have heard of it from those who were present at the reading of the will that you were, when you are old enough, to have all. Think what a great lady you will be then! You will have servants of your own.

‘I don’t think I shall live till then.’

‘Oh yes, you will—or, at least, I hope so.’

‘And if I should not, what will become of all those fine things that you have told me of? Who’ll have them?’

‘Why, if you do not live till you are of age, your fortune will go to your father and mother, who take all.’

‘Then they would sooner I die than live.’

‘What makes you think so?’ she enquired.

‘Why,’ said I, ‘they don’t care anything for me now, and they would have my fortune if I were dead—so they don’t want me.’

‘Ah, my child,’ said the old woman, ‘I have thought of that more than once; and now you can see it. I believe that it will be so. There has many a word been spoken truly enough by a child before now, and I am sure you are right—but do you be a good child, and be careful of yourself, and you will always find that Providence will keep you out of any trouble.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

‘And be sure you don’t say who told you about this.’

‘Why not?’ I enquired; ‘why may I not tell who told me about it?’

‘Because,’ she replied, ‘if it were known that I told you anything about it, as you have not been told by them they might discharge me, and I should be turned out.’

‘I will not do that,’ I replied; ‘they shall not learn who told me, though I should like to hear them say the same thing.’

‘You may hear them do so one of these days,’ she replied, ‘if you are not impatient: it will come out one of these days—two may know of it.’

‘More than my father and mother?’

‘Yes, more—several.’

No more was said then about the matter; but I treasured it up in my mind. I resolved that I would act differently, and not have anything to do with them—that is, I would not be more in their sight than I could help—I would not be in their sight at all, save at meal times—and when there was any company there I always appeared.

I cannot tell why; but I think it was because I sometimes attracted the attention of others, and I hoped to be able to hear something respecting my fortune; and in the end I succeeded in doing so, and then I was satisfied—not that it made any alteration in my conduct, but I felt I was entitled to a fortune.

How such an impression became imprinted upon a girl of eight years old, I know not; but it took hold of me, and I had some kind of notion that I was entitled to more consideration than I was treated to.

‘Mother,’ said I one day to her.

‘Well, Mary, what do you want to tease me about now?’

‘Didn’t Mrs Carter the other day say my aunt left me a fortune?’

‘What is the child dreaming about?’ said my mother. ‘Do you know what you are talking about, child?—you can’t comprehend.’

‘I don’t know, mother, but you said it was so to Mrs Carter.’

‘Well, then, what if I did, child?’

‘Why, you must have told the truth or a falsehood.’

‘Well, Miss Impudence!—I told the truth, what then?’

‘Why, then, I am to have a fortune when I grow up, that’s all I mean, mother, and then people will take care of me. I shall not be forgotten, but everything will be done for me, and I shall be thought of first.’

My mother looked at me very hard for a moment or two, and then, as if she was actuated by remorse, she made an attempt to speak, but checked herself, and then anger came to her aid, and she said, ‘Upon my word, miss! what thoughts have you taken into your fancy now? I suppose we shall be compelled to be so many servants to you! I am sure you ought to be ashamed of yourself—you ought, indeed!’

‘I didn’t know I had done wrong,’ I said.

‘Hold your tongue, will you, or I shall be obliged to flog you!’ said my mother, giving me a sound box on the ears that threw me down. ‘Now hold your tongue and go upstairs, and give me no more insolence.’

I arose and went upstairs, sobbing as if my heart would break. I can recollect how many bitter hours I spent there, crying by myself—how many tears I shed upon this matter, and how I compared myself to other children, and how much my situation was worse than theirs by a great deal.

They, I thought, had their companions—they had their hours of play. But what companions had I—and what had I in the way of relaxation? What had I to do save to pine over the past, and present, and the future?

My infantile thoughts and hours were alike occupied by the sad reflections that belonged to a more mature age than mine; and yet I was so.

Days, weeks, and months passed on—there was no change, and I grew apace; but I was always regarded by my family with dislike, and always neglected. I could not account for it in any way than they wished me dead.

It may appear dreadful—very dreadful indeed—but what else was I to think? The old servant’s words came upon my mind full of their meaning—if I died before I was one-and-twenty, they would have all my aunt’s money.

‘They wish me to die,’ I thought, ‘they wish me to die; and I shall die—I am sure I shall die! But they will kill me—they have tried it by neglecting me, and making me sad. What can I do—what can I do?’

These thoughts were the current matter of my mind, and how often do they recur to my recollection now I am in this dull, dreadful place! I can never forget the past. I am here because I have rights elsewhere, which others can enjoy, and do enjoy.

However, that is an old evil. I have thus suffered long. But to return. After a year had gone by—two, I think, must have passed over my head—before I met with anything that was at all calculated to injure me. I must have been nearly ten years old, when, one evening, I had no sooner got into bed, than I found I had been put into damp—I may say wet sheets.

They were so damp that I could not doubt but this was done on purpose. I am sure no negligence ever came to anything so positive, and so abominable in all my life. I got out of bed, and took them off, and then wrapped myself up in the blankets, and slept till morning, without wakening anyone.

When morning came, I enquired who put the sheets there?

‘What do you mean, minx?’ said my mother.

‘Only that somebody was bad and wicked enough to put positively wet sheets in the bed; it could not have been done through carelessness—it must have been done though sheer wilfulness. I’m quite convinced of that.’

‘You will get yourself well thrashed if you talk like that,’ said my mother. ‘The sheets are not damp; there are none in the house that are damp.’

‘These are wet.’

This reply brought her hand down heavily upon my shoulder, and I was forced upon my knees. I could not help myself, so violent was the blow.

‘There,’ added my mother, ‘take that, and that, and answer me if you dare.’

As she said this she struck me to the ground, and my head came into violent contact with the table, and I was rendered insensible.

How long I continued so I cannot tell. What I first saw when I awoke was the dreariness of the attics into which I had been thrust, and thrown upon a small bed without any furniture. I looked around and saw nothing that indicated comfort, and upon looking at my clothes, there were traces of blood. This, I had no doubt, came from myself.

I was hurt, and upon putting my hand to my head found that I was much hurt, as my head was bound up.

At that moment the door was opened, and the old servant came in.

‘Well, Miss Mary,’ she said, ‘and so you have come round again? I really began to be afraid you were killed. What a fall you must have had!’

‘Fall,’ said I; ‘who said it was a fall?’

‘They told me so.’

‘I was struck down.’

‘Struck, Miss Mary? Who could strike you? And what did you do to deserve such a severe chastisement? Who did it?’

‘I spoke to my mother about the wet sheets.’

‘Ah! what a mercy you were not killed! If you had slept in them, your life would not have been worth a farthing. You would have caught cold, and you would have died of inflammation, I am sure of it. If anybody wants to commit murder without being found out, they have only to put them into damp sheets.’

‘So I thought, and I took them out.’

‘You did quite right—quite right.’

‘What have you heard about them?’ said I.

‘Oh! I only went into the room in which you sleep, and I at once found how damp they were, and how dangerous it was; and I was going to tell your mamma, when I met her, and she told me to hold my tongue, but to go down and take you away, as you had fallen down in a fit, and she could not bear to see you lying there.’

‘And she didn’t do anything for me?’

‘Oh, no, not as I know of, because you were lying on the floor bleeding. I picked you up, and brought you here.’

‘And she has not enquired after me since?’

‘Not once.’

‘And don’t know whether I am yet sensible or not?’

‘She does not know that yet.’

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I think they don’t care much for me, I think not at all, but the time may come when they will act differently.’

‘No, Miss, they think, or affect to think, that you have injured them; but that cannot be, because you could not be cunning enough to dispose your aunt to leave you all, and so deprive them of what they think they are entitled to.’

‘I never could have believed half so much.’

‘Such, however, is the case.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing, my dear, but lie still till you get better, and don’t say any more; but sleep, if you can sleep, will do you more good than anything else now for an hour or so, so lie down and sleep.’

* * * *

The old woman left the room, and I endeavoured to compose myself to sleep; but could not do so for some time, my mind being too actively engaged in considering what I had better do, and I determined upon a course of conduct by which I thought I should escape much of my present persecution.