Spring-Heel'd Jack, The Terror of London — page 219: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a SPRING-HEEL D JACK: THE TERROR OF LONDON. Now it was no longer home to her, but a spot where misery had raised its head, and sin and bloodshed had dimmed its lustre for ever, blotted out its influence, and blackened its dearest memories. No wonder, then, that her footsteps faltered as she neared it, after parting with Jack at. the grave of her suicide husband. No wonder, then, that she shuddered as she gazed upon it through the dim light of early morning. Never did the house look so wretched to her. Alas! poor woman! it was the same neat, clean little dwelling as ever, —the wretchedness and misery was in her own heart. ; A cold shudder pervaded her frame as she stepped across its threshold into the dark passage, and the bang of the door, as it closed behind her, echoed dismally throughout the dwelling. Cold and cheerless seemed all within, and in imagination the poor woman detected the odour of blood. She entered the little parlour, and sank down upon the sofa with a sigh—that couch on which she used to sit side by side with her husband, and listen while he read from some book, or! vut something seemed to urge her in that talked to her of their future prospects and hopes. Alas! how had the one false step he had taken blighted them ! how had his guilt shattered to their base the fairy castles then built ! A chaos had that happy home become,—a very wreck of life, love, and hope. So thought Jane Slater now, as she sat on the sofa in the dark room, and leaned her throbbing brow upon her cold, thin hand. The last tie which bound her to that place was broken. She could remain there no longer. She felt that to do so would bea diserace to her honest and well-being neighbours ; and she also felt that she could not bear the gaze of those who knew her—their looks of pity, indignation, and disgust. | Would they not point her out to each other as a felon’s and a suicide’s widow? Would she not be the observed of all observers in that lgcality ? She must be—she was sure she must be; and therefore she must flee from it. Flee far, far away from the scene of her great trouble ; flee anywhere, but God only knew where. She had made every preparation for her de- parture ere the men had come who were to convey her husband to his unconsecrated grave. It did not take her long to do so, for few, indeed, were the things she resolved to take _ with her. . A change of linen, and the likeness of her husband was all the stock; all else she determined to leave behind. ) Long did she struggle against the temptation of even carrying with her the likeness of James Slater—that likeness presented to her in happier days ; that likeness she had oft caressed ere the form it represented had been suffered to clasp her to his heart. Not one other article would she remove—all else might become the property of strangers ; for to her they were but so many memories of re- collections she would fain forget. Rising from her seat, after a time, she ap- proached the table in the centre of the room, and felt for the little bundle she had placed | her. upon it during the day; and, having grasped it, she turned towards the door, and placing her neue upon the side-post, she sobbed rather than said— “Oh! thou spot so full of dear and cursed recollections! I now leave thee for ever, to go Heaven only knows where. Home! the dearest of all earthly joys, we must part. Fare- well, for ever!” By an effort she dashed the tears away that had sprang to her eyes, and, staggering along the little passage, opened the front door, and passed out into the cold, grey twilight of the early dawn. The cool morning air fanned her fevered brow and burning cheeks, and for a moment she paused to gaze up at the neatly-curtained window of that room where her husbana had sent his soul, unbidden, to meet its Maker. Her lips trembled, but she uttered no word. Then, pressing her hand upon her heaving bosom, she turned away, and with slow and tottering steps made her way towards the scene of her husband’s burial. Why she took that route she could not tell, direction. The light, fleecy clouds of morning floated. up, and night’s dark canopy rolled slowly away before them. ‘The air became more fresh and warm, and the first golden ray of the rising sun glittered athwart the cold grey vapours, spreading and widening its cheerful light, vill it awoke Nature’s feathered songsters to herald in its coming. - But the music of the birds found no response in the heart of Jane Slater: that heart was cold and passionless—hardened by grief, seared by sorrow—dead to every feeling of hope and oy. ‘Then, in its chariot of burnished gold, the orb of day rose in the horizon, and threw its golden beams upon her face and form, and kissed her pale cheek with its warm rays. But it could not chase the pallor from her face, or drive the misery from her heart ; and on—on she went, till she reached the cross roads, in the centre of which an oblong piece of new- dug ground showed her the last resting-place of him who had both cheered and crushed her confiding soul. ets To this spot she tottered, and, sinking down upon her knees upon the yielding soil, clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven. A look of the most unutterable agony swept over her face, and her bosom rose and fell like a heaving sea. But no tear-drop dimmed her eye—the foun- tain of her heart was dried up, and madness was seizing upon her brain. Tears alone could serve, and they were denied A loud, hoarse laugh broke from her lips at length, but so unearthly in its tones that the birds upon the trees at the roadside hushed their songs in horror, and fled in dismay from the vicinity of the spot. “Hatha! ha!” again rang out in unearthly tones upon the morning air as_ Jane, with claring eyeballs, flung her arms wildly above her 221 —_— ee S$ ———— eS eee ee se™q eee ee Eee (Q) | OL EL HOOKS