“Have a little more sugar,” said Miss Tollicks to the man of the bitter cup. “What a tiresome world this is! And only to think of me buying that very paper, and the great dirty ruffian of a man bringing it home, and wanting to buy half-a-pound of tobacco before I began business and had a license; and then asking me if I had any old boots, while he chipped two of the jars shamefully.”
“Only think,” muttered old Matt as they went slowly homewards, “for me to have had that entry under my very nose, and then only turned it up and wouldn’t look at it.”
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!”