Volume Three—Chapter Nine.
By Night.
Old Matt Space had a certain amount of pride in his composition, and, like most people, he suffered for it. He would gladly have received assistance of the most trifling nature from Septimus Hardon the day they returned from Finsbury; but his companion seemed so dejected and doleful that he had not the heart to bring forward his own troubles, and so it followed that the same night he was complaining to himself about hard times—those ever-recurring, inhospitable seasons when mental storms beat upon the rocks of a man’s faith, and many a shipwreck follows. Hard times—times that the science, charity, and statistics of our days soften so little. Warm sunshine, genial rain, bright skies, have but little influence, and the times keep hard for some, though others, by means of softening mediums, contrive to remain uninjured.
In his dry way old Matt would sometimes say that if he did not cut up well when he died, he should certainly cut up streaky—like thin bacon; for times so fluctuated with him that before a small layer of fat was well established, the lean would again commence; while, if it is fair so to speak of a man whose life had been one long struggle for bare existence, Matt had been somewhat improvident. What he called runs upon the bank were common events with the old printer—times when there were no deposits made, and trade was slack; it was a pleasant trade, printing, he said—nothing to do to-day, and to-morrow busy, up all night afterwards, and then perhaps another long rest.
Old Matt stood in front of the Royal Exchange that night at eleven o’clock, weak from his long illness, tired and faint too, as he lingered there thinking of how he would like to make an onslaught upon the Bank of England, and fill his pockets, now reduced to the lowest ebb, for he had not sixpence wherewith to pay for a night’s lodging. He had not been to the mansion of Mr Gross to sleep but once since his return from the hospital; for he was largely indebted to that gentleman, and though scarcely anything had been said, Mrs Gross had dropped just a mild hint, what she considered an exceedingly mild hint, to the effect that, when it was convenient, they would be glad to receive one or two instalments on account.
This made Matt more shy, and after a day or two he stopped away altogether, so that when Septimus Hardon sought at his lodgings, he found him not, and had to inspect the interior of two or three hostelries favoured by the fraternity before he found him out.
“Ah, sir,” said Matt, as he hugged a lamp-post, “the times that I’ve seen them lugging the little chests and barrels in there—heavy so that they could scarcely lift them, and any one of ’em would have set me up for life. Specie, they call it, sir; species as I was always unable to collect much of in my rambles through life; and it wouldn’t take a deal to make me comfortable, anyhow. Precious cold here, sir, for an old man like me, and I don’t know that I’d say no, just now, to one of those little iron bedsteads with its clean sheets in the hospital—leastways, if one could feel sure nobody had just died upon it, for the thought of that gives one a turn like, and seems to fidget. Precious cold, sir! Talk about the internal heat of the earth, I wish there was a little more external. Crust of the earth, sir? Yes, sir, there’s plenty of crust, and precious little crumb. Red-hot fluid state inside, eh? Then I shall move, sir—move. I was a good will to when I was in the hospital; but I think I shall make up my mind soon, for the world ain’t safe—a volcanic, earthquaky place. I shall flit, as they say down north.”
“Cold, cold, cold, sir!” shivered the poor old fellow after a pause, as he looked down the long deserted City streets, that teemed so with busy life in the daytime. “That scamp of a valet never reminded me of my greatcoat—a scoundrel. Thinks a deal more of his own confounded self, sir, than he does of his master. Now look here, sir—There; I know, of course—it’s all right; I’m a-going on, I am. ‘Move on,’ says you; but make the most of it, old chap; for you won’t have me to move on much longer.”
The old man spoke sadly as an approaching policeman cut short his address; but he went on before he could be told, and made his way slowly down into Cannon-street, where he stopped before another post.
“Now look here, sir,” said Matt, as though he had not been interrupted for an instant, “we want an establishment here in town—a club for gentlemen in my position to-night—where we could go and have a basin of hot tea or coffee, or gruel if you like, and a decent, dry, clean, warm bed under shelter, without going to the workhouse. Now, sir, when my ship comes in, I mean to establish just such a place, and make it self-supporting. None of your casual wards in workhouses, but a decent place where honest people can go and do their bit of work over night or in the morning, to earn their bed and board. Let the idle vagabonds and tramps, sir, go to the casual ward; for there’s hundreds of decent people in town every night would be glad to do a bit of work and get their meal and bed. Seems hard, sir,” said Matt pitifully, as the cold night wind swept down the street, and he shivered miserably, “seems hard, sir, that in this great place where the wealth is almost running over the side, things are so, that an old chap like me should stand here to-night, as I’ve stood scores of times before, wanting the work and means for a meal and bed, and not able to get ’em. Now, let’s see, sir; what shall we call my place? Hotel? No, that’s too fine and grand. Home? Well, no; that sounds like humbugging the poor creatures. ‘There’s no place like home!’ I wish I was at home, I do,” shivered the old man. “There, now, there it is again! Another policeman. Public streets, indeed! Ain’t I one of the public, and haven’t I a right to be in them? Strange thing a man can’t address a few words in confidence to a friend without one of these fellows sticking his nose in. There, I’m a-going. I ain’t going to commit a burglary upon the post and walk off with the gas. I wish there wasn’t a policeman on the face of the blessed earth! I’m a-going;” and in obedience to the wag of the constable’s head, the old man walked on towards London-bridge; but before he was halfway there, he made another stoppage beneath a lamp.
“Now, policemen are all very well, sir,” he said, “but they’re too officious. Now, what did that chap do but put a stop to as fine a bit of philanthropy as was ever devised for the benefit of humanity at large? Only think, now, of the crowds of poor folks flocking there of a night! There’s your proper officers to see that there’s neither talking nor noise; there’s your clean kitchen, with its great soup-coppers, and rows upon rows of mugs and basins; there’s your dormitories, with their long ranges of beds, every one separate, clean hay in ticks, and a couple of warm rugs; place heated by hot-water pipes, and all orderly and regular—a place for sleep and rest, and no one allowed to disturb it; baths and washhouses attached, and every chance given for a poor creature to get Rest, Refreshment, and a Rinse—the three graces of everyday life, sir. Open always, sir, until it was fall; while the fact of a good, fair bit of work being done first or after, would keep a good many of the canting casuals away. I mean to say, sir,” said Matt, “that it might be made self-supporting after the first start; and such a place for the male and female poor of London, sir, would be an honour to the people. Now then, once more, sir, what shall we call it? ‘Hotel’ won’t do; ‘home’ won’t do; ‘hospital’ sounds too sickly. Tell you what, sir, we’ll call it ‘Space for All,’ in honour of its projector. Why, confound it, sir, I’d have it got up by a penny subscription, if my ship happened to sink and I couldn’t do it myself. And mind you, sir, I’m not going to have my money fooled away in a grand architectural building, where all the space is taken up by rooms for the officers; I want it all for the poor privates, the soldiers fighting in the war of life. I’m not going to have all my money spent in outside show; I want it for furnishing and the inside—furnishing the inside of the building and the inside of the people. I want something plain and useful, clean and simple, with kind, quiet, firm people to attend, and see that things go right, and guard against imposition. But there, sir, we should be safe to be imposed upon some time or another, more or less; but then look at the good we should do. Ah! you may well twinkle, and laugh, and blink, old fellow, for that would be something like a job done, and one worth talking about.”
Old Matt gave the lamp a parting slap, and shuffled on towards the bridge, where he stopped in one of the recesses, and tried to get himself into a comfortable position.
“Ugh-h-h, how cold these seats are! Rich corporation like the City, too, and not have the decency to put a few cushions for a poor fellow! Just like to put stone seats round the table on Lord Mayor’s Day. Wonder how the aldermen, sheriffs, and common council would like it! Spoil their appetites, I know!”
“There,” said he after a while, as he looked over the parapet, and down at the stone steps leading to the water, “that would be a better place than this, and more quiet and sheltered. There’s t’other steps leading down to Thames-street there; but then there’s sure to be a dozen more, and I ain’t fond of company. But a fellow must sleep somewhere, so where shall it be—steps, ’Delphi arches, or the Park? Park’s too far off, and the ventilation too powerful, seeing as there’s so much water to cool the wind—makes it chilly sometimes. Rather like the Park, though; something respectable about it; genteel neighbours; soldiers on duty; air sweet; water clean. But there’s the rails to get over, and I ain’t up to rails to-night; and, besides, they tear. But there, with this suit, I could stand a tear or two as well as anyone; and I don’t s’pose I could tell myself which was the new slit if the spear-head of the rail wasn’t in it. Down the steps is all very well; but the company ain’t select, and you run the risk of being robbed. So you do down the arches; but then there’s something suitable about them—handy to work in the morning. That’s the spot for me, so here goes. Pity I came all this way, though, now the penny-boats don’t run.”
But the weary old man seemed in no hurry to move, for with his chin resting upon his hands, he stopped, gazing down into the hurrying black stream far beneath—black and stealthy as it hurried through the arches, lamps here and there twinkling and showing like blurred stars in the swift waters; and a stealthy, gliding race was that of the river as it bore along its stolen secrets towards the sea—secrets unknown to those who watched from far above; but there were rich spoils and treasures, dropped from the side of lighter and vessel, swept out of sewers; secrets, too, of life and death; and now and then something strange and bloated and sodden was whirled round, to rise to the surface and stare up, as if appealing with its lack-lustre eyes to the star-sprinkled heaven above—gazing fearfully upwards, but swept round again the next moment by the eddy, and forced on by the hurrying stream, dashed against prow, borne under slimy keel, forced savagely, and entangled amongst chains, thrown upon mudbanks, and left by the tide half buried in the black ooze; swept clear again, and borne off up the river, down the river, scraping along bridge-pier or stone wharf, buttress or caisson, ever hideous, bloated, horrible—these of the river secrets glided along.
“Ah!” muttered Matt softly, “who can say that there is poverty here in London, when everywhere the gold is looking out of the great works in which it has been sunk. There are ships, ships, ships, and steamer, lighter, and barge; and how many of ’em loaded with what I should call a large fortune!” And now with a sigh he leaned his forehead upon his hands, and gazed along the river at the dimly-seen wharves and warehouses, with here and there a light flashing from the river. Then he thought of his own weary life, of Septimus Hardon and his sorrows, pondering long upon the ill-success that had attended their efforts, and seeing too plainly how ineffective they had been; and then he sighed again loudly, and started, for a small hand was laid firmly upon his shoulder with a tight clutch, and turning quickly round, there, with the light of the gas shining full upon it, he saw as it were the face of an angel, seen through the thin veil of sin and misery that sullied its beauty—a beauty that still clung to features fair and girlish.
The strange couple gazed earnestly at one another for a few moments, when the girl spoke huskily:
“You weren’t thinking of that, were you?”
“Thinking of what, my lass?” said Matt quietly.
“Going over?” said the girl, with almost a sob, and at the same moment catching his wrist and holding it with both hands tightly, as he tried to withdraw it, while her nostrils seemed to distend, and her breath came heavily as she held him firmly, fearing lest her words might prompt him to the desperate leap.
“No, no, my lass, no,” said Matt wearily, as he sank in a sitting posture upon the stone seat. “I have thought of such a thing—time back; but not lately. I have thought that it would be putting an end to a weary way when one gets very footsore, and that no one would miss a poor, worn-out fellow like me; but I’ve thought better of it, and I’ll wait till I’m called, my lass. I was only thinking a bit.”
“You looked as if you meant to,” said the girl, loosing his wrist, and kneeling upon the seat in the very attitude the old man had taken a short time before. “But one can’t help thinking of it sometimes, and almost feeling as if the river drew you like. It seems as if you’d go to sleep then, and wake no more. Not much to leave here, is there?” she added slowly.
Old Matt shook his head, and, leaning forward unseen by his companion, he took a firm hold of her dress, for the girl went on dreamily as she looked down on the black water.
“I saw one of our girls once; she went off Waterloo, and they got her out, and she looked so quiet and happy like. But there,” she added in a reckless, offhand way, “I sha’n’t do it, I haven’t the heart. There, you needn’t hold me, old man;” and she snatched her dress from his grasp.
A deep, hollow cough checked her for a few minutes; and Matt sat in the cold recess gazing on the slight, graceful form, as the well-dressed girl knelt upon the seat—frail, fair, and apparently not twenty.
“Lend me threepence, old man!” she exclaimed suddenly, as she turned to him.
“What for?” said Matt.
“Glass of brandy,” said the girl, holding her hand pressed to her side, and then battling hard once more with her cough.
“I haven’t a halfpenny left,” said Matt drearily, “or I shouldn’t be sitting here, my lass. But you’re better without the brandy, and there’s no place open now.”
“There! I don’t want your money, old man,” said the girl; “only one gets so used to asking, it comes natural. Are you hard up?”
“Yes,” said Matt drearily, “close as I can be.”
“Here!” she exclaimed, holding out sixpence. “You may as well have it, as for me to take it back.”
The old man stared at his companion for a moment, and then raised his hand to take the money, but he suddenly lowered it again.
“No, my lass, no,” he said; “thank you all the same, but I can do without it.”
The girl’s eyes flashed as she looked angrily at the old man, and then raising her hand, she dashed the money over the parapet, and sank down upon the seat sobbing violently.
“There!” she exclaimed passionately, as Matt spoke soothingly to her; “I know, and I deserve it all. I wish I was dead—I wish I was dead!”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Matt kindly. “Now go home, my lass, and try and forget it.”
“Home!” said the girl, with a forced mocking laugh. “Yes, when it’s time. Good-night old man. You didn’t meet Marian, did you?”
“Who?” said Matt absently.
“Marian,” said the girl; “I’m looking for her. But you don’t know her; good-night;” and she went lightly off, humming the snatch of a popular air as she went towards the City; while, after waiting until the girlish form had disappeared, old Matt rose himself and began to shuffle back the same way as he had come; looking longingly at a passing hay-cart bound for the market, and thinking of the fragrant stack whence the load had been taken, and how pleasant it would have been to have dragged out a heap to nestle in. For the old man was cold, weary, and ill; and as he slowly shuffled along, many a thought of those who rested upon luxurious couches came to his mind. He crossed the great echoing cathedral yard, and passed slowly from gaslight to gaslight, too weary now to talk. Now and then he would encounter a policeman, who turned to look after the slow, shambling figure. At intervals, a cab would rattle by him, while once, with its hollow, heavy rumble, a fire-engine dashed by, the light flashing back from the shining helmets of the firemen; then there was a short, rushing vision of something red covered with figures, and drawn by two steaming, plunging horses, a faint dying away of the hurrying wheels, and then all still once more, for it was now the most silent hour of the whole twenty-four in great London. Dull and dreary looked the streets, with hardly a wayfarer in sight, and those, perhaps, women who paced wearily along or talked noisily to a companion. But no one heeded Matt as he still shuffled onward, more than once as he passed through Fleet-street gazing up at the gas-lit windows of the newspaper-offices.
Past Lower Series-place, looking in the dark night like the mouth of a sewer, emptying itself by the bridge—Temple Bar; past Essex-street, to stand and gaze down it for a few moments thoughtfully; past the last of the four churches, and the street leading to the “Bridge of Sighs.” Onward still, and then into one of those hilly lanes, up which in busy day came clattering the heavy teams of wagon—horses with their black load—down one of those river lanes along which came sighing the damp-laden winds, whispering of being lost upon the great stream, and of having wandered from the green trees, where in summer the reeds rustled, and the silver water glided past emerald banks—whispering of cooling groves, and the gladdening, sparkling, dancing wavelets, sheltered woody islets, and the sweet, pure country air; but now lost in wintry weather upon the breast of the great river,—lost, after wandering by muddy pile and slimy, horrid, loathsome drain and sullying sewer; lost, as they had swept past wharf, bridge, pier, and barge; they came in despair, weeping tears from their misty burden, sweeping amongst the gloomy houses, and causing a shiver as they passed along.
For a moment some bright recollection of the past seemed to strike the old man, and he paused thoughtfully beneath a gas-lamp; but old Matt’s memories of waving reed and rustling tree were few, and he sighed and passed on, thinking only of his sought-for resting-place. Onward, and down beneath the great black yawning arch, to where he could hear voices, while above the faint damp fever-reek of the place, came the fumes of tobacco-smoke. On still, with hands outstretched to avoid collision with cart or wagon, but more than once he tripped over a shaft, as some stabled horse rattled halter or chain through the ring of its manger, and Matt sighed with envy as he thought of the warm straw.
To a miserable fire at length, with several miserable objects huddled round, and amidst jest, laughter, and foul language, a voice yelled out a verse or two of a current song, a man and woman dancing hard by, their shadows cast, wildly distorted and grotesque, upon the reeking brickwork, where they almost seemed to cling. Then, too, came that peculiar “glug-glug” sound of liquid passing from a bottle, and a voice shouted to the old man:
“Come on, matey; heaps o’ room to-night. Give’s a pipe o’ baccy.”
“All right,” replied Matt, backing into the darkness, and shaking his head, as he shuffled hurriedly along till he reached the Strand once more.
“Can’t stand that now,” muttered Matt; “nerves too weak. No idea there was such a pressure of business in the hotel. Foreign gentleman that, dancing—wonder whether his organ’s down there.”
Heavily, listlessly, and with drooping head, old Matt walked slowly back towards the City, now stopping in a doorway, or resting leaning against a shutter; but soon to shuffle on again, as his heart seemed to whisper, “O, that it were day once more!”
Tramp, tramp through the silent streets of the great wilderness. Thoughtful after a strange, numbed, weary mode, the old man made his way into Thames-street, looking hopelessly about the while for some dry sheltered spot, where, unnoticed by the police, he might coil up as hundreds do nightly in our streets, trying to forget the present as they wait for the coming of the desolate future.
At last, less particular now, he was nearing the dry arch of London-bridge, and thinking of the steps as a place to rest his aching bones, when, from his half-sleepy state he suddenly roused up, for down from a turning in front came a couple of policemen with a stretcher, while, hurried and excited in her manner, her long hair lank and curl-less with the dank night wind, followed the poor girl he had seen upon the bridge, now talking earnestly to one of the constables.
The new-comers did not notice Matt, and after walking onwards for a short distance, with the old man closely following, they suddenly turned down between two large piles of warehouses, along a narrow passage up which came the odour of the river borne on the moaning wind, where the rugged broken pavement was wet and slimy.
There was no feeling of fatigue and misery now to bear down the old man, as, led by some impulse, he followed the police, his heart beating wildly as he glanced at the stretcher and recalled the hospital. There was something weird and strange-looking in the oil-caped figures as, seen in the misty darkness, they passed along; and the eager voice of the girl sounded hollow and echoing. Down to the river-side, where the muddy water could be heard rushing amidst the floating piers and moored barges, with a hurried whispering secret sound,—here where barge and lighter were moored closely together and steamers were buoyed, waiting for the coming day. High warehouses towered above them, with cranes jutting out, gallows-like, at intervals as if just deprived of some malefactor’s body that had swung to the chain, and then dropped in the river to be swept away. Piles were driven thickly here; slimy, mysterious-looking stone steps led down into the water, right down into its secret muddy depths; and an old boat or two floated hard by, secured by small chains, which rattled backwards and forwards over their gunwales as the tide lifted, and bore them to and fro in its ebbing and flowing and eddying currents.
But there was light here, sparsely shed over the scene by a single flickering lamp, whose panes seemed bedewed with tears. The pale blue flame jumped and danced, burning bluely as it was nearly extinct, and then flashed up again with regular throbs, from water collected in the pipe. And now as Matt drew nearer, he saw the light flash from the shiny wet cape of another policeman, standing talking to a couple of nondescript waterside men in Guernsey shirts and heavy mudlark boots, who stood leaning against the mooring-posts and smoking hard; while all three seemed to be keeping vigil over something lying upon the ground covered with an old sack and some matting, upon whose uncouth form the blinking gaslight looked down; now showing its shudder-engendering proportions, now leaving it all but in darkness. But as the light flashed up, there was a tiny trickling stream sluggishly flowing from beneath the sack in a tortuous way to the edge of the landing-place, where it dripped slowly with a little echoing plash into the running waters, which beat against the stones and leaped and rose, and fell with a monotonous lap-lap as if seeking to rise, and drag back the secret taken from their bosom.
It was strange, but far off in the country, in Somesham town, Doctor Hardon clenched his hands and groaned in his sleep, as the perspiration stood in big beads upon his forehead; but though in his dream he saw the stern faces of his brother and nephew, and went through the church-yard-scene once more, it was, perhaps, merely a fit of indignation, or on account of certain speculations which had threatened to prove failures, even though, after his fashion, he had made vows at his conscience-shrine, and promised to seek out his lost child, and to do something for Septimus Hardon should they succeed.
And ’twas strange, too, that Mrs Doctor Hardon should wake up with a wild cry from an oppressing slumber, and then, trembling from a strange sense of dread, cry hysterically, and he for hours thinking of her child. Strange, perhaps; but such things have been.
The policemen stopped, and set down their stretcher, saying something in an undertone to their fellow; the two men smoking left their posts, and, beneath the lamp, the girl leaned against the wall trembling visibly, as again and again she coughed and pressed her hand against her heaving chest.
Old Matt drew nearer and nearer, his claw-like fingers working convulsively, as if to tear off the wet covering before him; his head was craned forward, his dry lips parted, and then he stopped short as one of the men stooped and lifted the sack, so that the light flashed across a pale face “dreadfully staring through muddy impurity,” for with a wild, wailing cry, the girl started forward and threw herself on her knees, sobbing bitterly; and the men, hardened though they were to such scenes, fell back a step or two, with some show of respect for the sorrow before them.
The wind moaned and sighed, and mingled with the poor girl’s cries; the chains rattled noisily, and the waters seemed to leap and dash angrily at the steps, rising higher and higher minute by minute, fearful of losing their prey; while Matt stole nearer and nearer, trembling in every limb—nearer and nearer still, with his eyes fixed upon that pale, staring face, till a policeman laid a hand upon his breast to stay him from interrupting the mourner’s sorrow; but, putting back the hand, Matt pressed on with a chaos of thoughts hurrying through his brain, bright amongst which seemed to shine forth the face of Lucy Grey, as, stooping lower, he now looked down upon this countenance which he had, ere now, seen raised wildly and appealingly to his, when he had gruffly talked of time, and then, shivering as if stricken with some paralysing seizure, he gasped almost to himself—“It’s that poor girl!”
Volume Three—Chapter Ten.
By Day.
The public might have been present in force, but they were not; for inquests upon bodies found in Thames’ stream are common events, such as find their way into corners of the morning papers in the shape of short paragraphs. And in this instance there was a very seedy-looking staff to represent the Press—namely, a man who winked solemnly at old Matt as he passed him on his way to a side-table beside the jury. The necessary witnesses were there apparently, and the inquest dragged on its slow length as they told all they knew. But Matthew Space must be quoted as an exception; he did not tell all, only that he knew the poor woman by sight, while he rightly said that he was ignorant of her name and home. It would be time, he thought, to tell all when there was no more danger of publicity, and so he allowed himself to be huffed by the coroner for taking up his valuable time.
But now came forward a pale, well-dressed, weeping girl, who stated that her name was Eleanor.
“Eleanor what?” said the coroner, frowning very severely, and oozing all over his very high, bald forehead with the quintessence of morality; for the poor girl shivered before him, and looked appealingly from face to face of the jurymen. “Eleanor what?” said the coroner again, with quite a snap.
“Anderson,” said the girl sobbing; and then for a few minutes she could not proceed to tell her tale; how that for a year past she had always tried to see those girls who were taken out of the river. She hardly knew why, only that she had known some of them, as she knew poor Marian; and there seemed something which drew her towards the river. She met the policemen, and they let her go with them, for she was looking for Marian, and somehow she was not surprised to find her there.
Had known her a long time—years, she thought—and they lodged together. She had often said that she was tired of life, but never talked about her friends, or anything of the past: thought she came from the country. Had not seen her before for days, and had been uneasy, and fancied she had gone over the bridge, as many did—could not tell why, unless because she was tired of her life, and had the feeling of being drawn to do it. Her name was Marian—that was what she was called—but thought it was not her real name; did not know why; but many girls like her gave themselves fresh names. She gave witness a little Bible once, with passages marked in it, but there was no name in it. Never spoke of anyone else, or of herself, but was always very kind, and had nursed witness once through a bad fever, not long back, and never left her night or day, when no one else dared come near; and now she was gone.
There was a pause here longer than those made while the coroner had taken down the depositions, during which he had frowned very severely; and now appeared greatly annoyed at the unbusiness-like sobbing of the poor girl, who sat down again upon a form behind old Matt, who tried to whisper a few words of comfort, as the jurymen mostly seemed very intent upon the paper before them.
Then followed the doctor to tell of his horrible task, and express his opinion respecting the marks of blows upon the face of deceased, such, though, as might have been caused by striking against some part of the bridge in falling; he was of opinion that she must have struck twice, as there was a fracture upon the back of the skull; and she had evidently been dead some days.
“Found dead.”
And then there was a little quiet bustle, and scraping of chairs upon the oilcloth, for the inquest was over; and old Matt and the weeping girl were standing outside by some railings.
“Strange as we should meet again after talking as we did.”
“Yes, yes,” said the girl sadly; “but why didn’t you say you knew her when I spoke to you?”
“Didn’t know her by that name,” said Matt; “and I had only seen her a few times, hardly to speak to. But about that Bible?”
“Well!” said the girl sadly.
“Have you got it now?”
“Yes,” she said; and then she turned, for a hand was laid upon her arm, and one of the jurymen led her on a few steps talking long and earnestly, till after repeating something aloud two or three times he walked away; and Matt and the girl, two of the waifs of London streets, went slowly on, not noticing that they were watched.
“Poor, poor Marian!” sobbed the girl, stopping by a doorway. “Told me to read the words she had marked in the Bible, and then to go and do that!”
“Well, well, well,” said the old man, “let’s hope she has gone to a better world; and now, my lass, where are you going?”
“Back to my lodging,” said the girl wearily.
“That gentleman told you to call somewhere, didn’t he?” said Matt.
“Ah, yes,” said the girl abstractedly, “I think so.”
“Now I don’t believe you remember it,” said Matt; “but I happened to hear it, and I’ll write it down. Now, look here;” and he brought out his old, ragged memorandum-book and the lead-pencil stump; and then, using the crown of his hat for a desk, he wrote down the address carefully, tore out half a leaf, and gave it to the girl.
“There, my lass,” he said, “take my advice, and go there; and now I want you to let me have that Bible.”
“What for?” and the girl looked wonderingly at him.
“It’s a whim of mine, that’s all,” said Matt. “But you’ll—”
He paused, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turning round he stood face to face with the juryman who had spoken to the girl.
“What paper was that you gave to the girl?” he said roughly.
“The one you ought to have given,” said Matt, resenting the question, and the tone of voice in which it was asked.
“What do you mean?” said the stranger.
Old Matt was weak and ill, or he would have retorted angrily; but he only said, “An address.”
“What address?” said the juryman dubiously.
“Well, then, yours, if you must know,” said Matt.
The juryman looked keenly at the old printer, who met his gaze without flinching. “It was easy to remember,” said the former.
“I know that,” said Matt, “but I thought she’d forget; and you seemed to mean well by the poor lass. I watched you, sir, at the inquest.”
“God knows I do, my man,” said the juryman softly; “and I ask your pardon for playing the spy; for I must confess to having had my doubts of you.”
“It’s all right, sir; and we can cry quits,” said Matt. “I had my doubts, too; and was in two minds about writing down the address; but if you can do anything towards saving the country the cost of another inquest, for God’s sake do. No, thank you, sir; I don’t want your money. I don’t like taking it where I haven’t earned it. It’s a weak point of mine, and has stood in the way of my comfort more than once: and I’m old now, sir, and can’t break myself of bad habits. Good-day, sir.”
The juryman smiled as they parted, and old Matt hurried off talking to himself; for the girl had disappeared while he had been detained.
“I want to see that Bible,” he muttered, “and he’s hindered me dreadfully. But, yes; no; yes; that’s her; there she is,” and he shuffled on after a slight figure he saw crossing the road, some distance down the street. “Hang the folks, how they do get in your way when you’re in a hurry,” he growled. “Now, stoopid, which way is it to be?” And then he hurried and panted along to overtake the retreating figure, which had again disappeared. Dodging amongst the vehicles he encountered, he crossed the road, pressing on, with everyone he met apparently resenting his hurry, till passing a turning, he looked down, to see the figure he had followed nearly at the bottom.
“Gets over the ground well,” muttered the old man, wiping his forehead; “but I’m safe of her now. Must have that Bible; there may be some clue there, and I want to have this matter cleared up; but how can I tell Miss Lucy?”
The old man reached the bottom of the street, and stood within twenty yards of the figure he sought to overtake, when hurrying on he caught up to her, saying—
“My lass, you’ll let me have that book, won’t you?”
The figure turned sharply round, as Matt touched her shoulder lightly; but the face was strange, and, taken aback and confounded, the old man made a rough apology, and stood panting as he clung to the railings of a house hard by.
Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.
Mr Jarker is Wanted.
Mr William Jarker had had a long holiday from the public school where her Majesty’s officers try to instil lessons of good, while their refractory pupils resent them to the best of their ability. So long had been Mr Jarker’s holiday, that the police had grown uncomfortable at their inability to bring something home to him, but he was wanted, at last, on account of a collection of plate and valuables that had suddenly disappeared after a few linnets and finches had been netted some thirty miles down in Hertfordshire, though even here the burglary would not have drawn Mr Jarker into trouble had it not been for a confederate who had “peached” in consequence of what he called an unfair division of the spoil.
So Mr Jarker was wanted just at a time when he felt very comfortable and secure. He had certainly felt rather uneasy for a few days past, and read, or rather stumbled through, the various newspapers, taking particular interest in passages relating to discoveries of bodies, and inquests, but now this uneasiness had worn off, and no further notice having been taken of his behaviour by the Hardon family, he felt in very good spirits; though for all that, he had kept away from Bennett’s-rents, so that he might not encounter the Reverend Arthur Sterne, who had been assaulted, he heard; and on the principle of giving a dog a bad name and then hanging him, Bill thought he might be accused of the assault. As to the child, he learned that the curate had taken it to his own home.
Mr Jarker’s notice was drawn to the fact of his being wanted, one day when making his way from the Dials into Holborn. Naturally given to casting his eyes about him, he became aware of a quiet-looking man following him at a distance; and no sooner did Mr Jarker catch sight of that face, than horrors of the past untold danced before his eyes for an instant; but the next moment he thrust his hands into his pockets, drew a long breath, and began to whistle, all the while looking out ahead for what he next expected to see—a policeman in uniform.
It might be supposed that the whistler intended to give the person who followed him so closely into custody, but this was not the case, for Mr Jarker imagined that no sooner was there a policeman in sight, than the quiet-looking man would begin to close up.
But it might be somebody else who was wanted, so Mr Jarker crossed the road—so did the quiet man; Bill crossed again—so did the quiet man; and, though the weather was cold, the bird-catcher perspired, as he muttered—
“I wonder what it’s for?”
However, he appeared to take matters very coolly, and peeped here and there into the bird-fanciers’ shops, and so made his way into Holborn, now and then directing a peep at his quiet friend, who was apparently not taking the slightest heed of his proceedings, but all the same thoroughly realising the difficulty of finding one of his brotherhood when wanted.
Passengers were plentiful here, and the crowd thickened as Jarker went on, till a good opportunity seemed to present itself.
“Now for it!” thought Bill, and after a glance over his shoulder, he dodged in and out and about for five minutes, making more than one feint of having turned out of the main street; then, being apparently very much taken with the contents of a draper’s window, he stopped short, and glanced to the right to find the quiet-looking man in precisely the same place, and worse still, probably in obedience to a sign from the said quiet man, to the left there was a policeman closing up quickly.
“Meant for me!” muttered Bill; and again, as he turned hotter, “I wonder what it’s for?” while once more glancing to the right, there was the quiet man also closing in quickly.
But not so quickly as Jarker made a leap backwards into the road, dodged right under a horse’s legs, round an omnibus, past cabs, carts, and wagons, and in and out and about like an eel, invulnerable to the tread of horses’ feet or the passage of wheels. Ordinary people would have been run over half-a-dozen times, but Bill Jarker was not, and on he tore, with the two constables in full chase.
Jarker had not much start, but he made the most of it, with the full determination of making his escape if possible; perhaps even for a small robbery he might have run hard, and fought hard, to avoid capture; but at the present time there was a look of desperation in his face that prevented more than one willing hand from attempting his seizure; and away he sped, in and out of the vehicles coming and going upon the slippery road. All at once he caught sight of a new peril; right in front there was another policeman, and if, to avoid him, he took to the pavement, so great was the crowd of passengers, that he must have been hemmed-in and captured directly. So on dashed Jarker, right at the constable in front, coming down upon him with the impetus of a battering-ram. Over he went, and on dashed Bill with the other constables in close pursuit, and shouts and cries rising on all sides. “Stop thief! stop thief!” with the tail of followers increasing each moment.
Jarker’s breath came hot and thick, and he felt that a few more minutes past, and he would be marching through the street handcuffed and with his liberty stopped; he thought no more of that, but shuddered, while, at the same moment, hope animated his breast, for he could see, far in front, a haven of safety: right before him the street was up, and the boards and bricks told of repairs to the sewers, while the large heap of earth pointed out the depth down at which they lay.
On tore Jarker, racing over the ground with a long, loping run, and on came the police, with the tag of idlers; but the goal was reached. With one bound Jarker cleared the barrier, ran and stumbled over the loose earth for some distance, and then dropped to the first platform, slid down ladder after ladder, passed man after man, too astonished and startled to attempt to seize him, sometimes falling, sometimes climbing, with the deal planks springing, and brickbats and clods of earth falling after him. One man made a blow at him with his spade, but it came too late, for Jarker reached the bottom, leaped into the black stream, here but little over his knees, went splashing away under the echoing dark arch of the sewer, into the dense black passages that run for so many miles under London, and was out of sight long before the first policeman was half-way down the great opening.
The main sewers were not made in those days, and the quiet man stopped for an instant to give some instructions to one of his constables, the result being that he leaped into a hansom cab, and very soon after, as the tide was up, a Thames-police row-galley was being pulled slowly backwards and forwards in front of the mouths of two large openings which lent their black, affluent streams to the great river.
On through the darkness went Jarker, always with the stream, his hands outstretched in front, and his head turned from time to time to catch a glimpse of the flash of some bull’s-eye lantern. On he pressed, but not unpursued; since for some distance a couple of policemen, the one in plain clothes and he who had been knocked down and made vicious by the blow, came plashing along.
Once the ruffian stopped, drew out a heavy life-preserver, and with an oath turned back, but directly after he was pressing on again, carefully feeling his way by the slimy wall, for the water grew deeper and deeper, and more than once his quick ear detected the light scuffling noise as of some little animal running, and a plash as of something leaping into the murky stream.
At last Jarker stopped, for the long-continued silence and the thick darkness taught him that he was unpursued; but he knew well enough that though the pursuit had perhaps ceased, the entrances to the sewers would be carefully watched; and he felt too now that there would be no home for him again in Bennett’s-rents.
“They’re gallus clever!” growled the ruffian when, after pressing on a little further, he once more stopped short—“they’re gallus clever, them p’lice, but they don’t know everythink.”
And now, after listening long and carefully, he turned off short round to the right, and waded onward for a few minutes, when he stopped again to draw forth a box and light a match; but he found that they were wetted, and nothing followed but faint streaks of phosphorescent light; when with a curse he threw the useless splints away and pressed on.
Dark, plashing, echoing paths, with noisome mephitic smells and the sound of hurrying waters—paths that might in ignorance be traversed for days and days, until the weary wanderer sank down for the black stream to bear him out to the great river. Here there would be a smaller sewer off to the right, here one to the left; while drain-pipe and culvert emptied their filthy streams, augmenting always the larger sewer where the ruffian waded; as the current swelled and rose and rolled swiftly on, at times with almost sufficient force to render his footing insecure.
At one time the water was up to his breast, but it soon shallowed when he entered a branch and faced the stream, guiding himself ever with his hand upon the slimy wall, as if thoroughly acquainted with his road, and proceeding the while at no mean rate along the gloomy way; for Jarker had been here before, and he pressed on fearless of darkness or rats, thinking that the only danger that could assail him would be a rush of water after a heavy rain. At times, though, he stopped splashing and beating the stream, and imitating the snapping, snarling bark of a dog, for something would run scratching over him—then another, and another—keen, hunger-bitten little animals; then there followed splash after splash, as they leaped into the water. Now he was clear of them again, and stopped puzzled, feeling along the wall on both sides for something he could not find—some guide-mark or open sewer-mouth; but now again came the little eager animals, hunger-driven and fierce, crowding and swimming round him, swarming up his back and breast, and biting sharply with their little keen teeth as the wretch leaped and bounded about, tearing half-a-dozen off to make room for a score.
“If I only had one of their gallus lights!” shrieked the ruffian, forgetful of the risk of being heard, and of the ruse he had before successfully practised, and in the horror of his position ready even to have given himself up as he cursed and yelled in a frightful manner—the hideous noises echoing along the vaulted sewer, and sounding doubly frightful.
“Curse ’em! I shall be gnawed to death!” shrieked Jarker, as he could not help recalling the times when he had gloated with delight over the performances of some steel-teethed terrier in a pit amidst a dozen rats; and now, as he fought there, splashing about in the water, and tearing off rat after rat to crush them in his powerful hands, he could not but feel how the tables were turned, and groaned piteously as a great dread came upon him—a horror blacker than the black darkness around. But Jarker fought on savagely for his life, while the diminutive size of his adversaries formed their protection again and again. He had his life-preserver out now, and struck with it at random, fierce and heavy blows, each of which would have beaten the life out of a dozen rats, but only once or twice had they any effect, and then he struck the brick side of the sewer, when the lead knob was loosened and fell from the whalebone handle into the rushing water, and with a curse Jarker dashed the useless fragment away.
Faint and harassed, his great brute strength of no avail, his hands and face streaming with blood, Jarker now made a fierce rush up stream; but his progress was slow with the water so deep; when, as if fearing to lose their prey, the rats redoubled their efforts and leaped upon him furiously, till, half-mad with the horror of their fearful assault, one he had never known before in his many sewer wanderings through having been provided with a light, Jarker drew in a long breath, exhaled it again, thoroughly inflated his lungs as he beat off his assailants, and then plunged beneath the water, groping his way slowly up stream, and keeping under the foul water for nearly a minute, when he raised his head for breath, and plunged under again and again.
His plan succeeded; for, evidently at a loss, the tribe of rats had gone down with the stream; and then he was alone and afraid to stir, lest he should bring them back, as he stood panting and dripping with the noisome water, and leaned against the slippery wall.
“I did say as I’d keep a dawg,” growled Jarker at last; “and if I’d ha’ had one—” And then he burst out into a hideous string of oaths and curses at what he called his ill luck, as, after listening for some time, he resumed his way in the echoing subterranean labyrinth, trembling lest the rats should have heard his voice.
But he did not go far before he stopped as if puzzled, and stood thinking, and listening to the rush of the stream and the trickling of drain after drain as it emptied itself into the main current, itself but a tributary of a greater. He dared not retrace his steps on account of the rats, but went slowly on; stopped, went on again; stopped once more to scratch his dripping head; and then he gave a leap and a cry of terror as he felt an enemy swim up once more and try to effect a lodgment. Then he hurried forward through the dense black darkness, then back a little way in a strange, excited way, tearing and splashing about furiously as a new horror assailed him; and at last muttering low blasphemies, muttering them in a low whisper lest they should be heard by the rats, he made another push on for many yards, cursing the police, the rats, and his ill luck. Once he stumbled and fell with a heavy splash, to be swept along over and over by the stream before he recovered his footing to stand half-drowned and clinging to the bricks, giving vent now to a whimpering, sobbing howl, that seemed as if it had come from a dog; for, with his courage gone and his head in a whirl, he stood now in the intense darkness afraid to move, as his imagination peopled the sewers around him with horrors at the very thought of which he shuddered; for in spite of scores of rambles in these subterranean channels, with whose many turns he had considered himself perfectly familiar, Bill Jarker had lost his way.
The police turned back after pursuing Jarker for a short distance along the sewer; but though not disposed to follow him along the dark subway, they had not given him up, for the outlets were carefully watched both by the places where repairs were going on and also at the mouths in the Thames’ bank; while, after proper arrangements had been made, the sewers were searched that night with lanterns; the principal man engaged more than once announcing in a very loud voice, which went echoing along the arched ways, that he (Jarker) might just as well give up as be starved out; but for all that, Mr Jarker was not found.
“Not much use hunting along here,” muttered one man to another; “here’s a hundred places where he could hide till we got by.”
“Remember that poor chap we found just here, Joe?” said one man, evidently quite at home in the place—a rough fellow in a Guernsey shirt and high boots, and wearing a hair-mask.
“Ah,” said another, “well.”
“What was that?” said the quiet man, who was also here.
“Chap we found all along here,” said the other, “and brought him out in a basket.”
“Basket?” said the quiet man.
“Ah!” said the other; “bones lying all along here; trod on ’em as you went—picked clean.”
“Pooh, nonsense!” said the quiet man, who had not shuddered before for at least ten years.
“Right enough,” said the other sulkily; “rats!”
“Here, let’s get out,” said the quiet man, “we are doing no good;” and he made the light of his bull’s-eye lantern play along the surface of the water to where he could just see a little head above the stream as its owner swam rapidly away, leaving an ever-widening track behind. “Let’s get out; it’s no use to go splashing 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, unscrewing 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 passed 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.