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(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
THE IMPENDING SWORD.
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
THE
IMPENDING SWORD.
A Novel.
BY
EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF 'BLACK SHEEP,' 'THE ROCK AHEAD,' 'THE YELLOW FLAG,' ETC.
ETC.
'Put we our quarrel to the will of Heaven,
Who, when He sees the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on the offenders' heads.'
SHAKESPEARE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1874.
[_The right of translation, dramatic adaptation, and reproduction is
reserved._]
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
Book the Second.
THE CRIME.
CHAP.
I. DOWN TO LIVERPOOL.
II. TRAPPED.
III. HELEN'S JOURNAL.
IV. 'SCOT FREE.'
V. A BLAZE OF TRIUMPH.
VI. STARTLING NEWS.
VII. ONLY TOO TRUE.
VIII. THORNTON CAREY.
Book the Second.
THE CRIME.
CHAPTER I.
DOWN TO LIVERPOOL.
Bryan Duval had not forgotten his promise to Miss Montressor. Early in
the morning of that eventful day, when she and Mr. Dolby had parted so
strangely, and before she had even yet shaken off the extra slumber
occasioned by the fatigue of the Richmond dinner, the fair actress had
received a letter from her _entrepreneur_ which ran thus:
'My dear Clara,--The business which I feared might possibly have
detained me has been smoothed over, and we positively sail on
Saturday, in the Cuba. We shall go down to Liverpool by the twelve
o'clock train, on Friday, stop the night at the Adelphi, and have
plenty of time to see our traps--and what with music scores,
promptbooks, and costumes, I have a tolerable amount of
luggage--comfortably on board one of the first tenders which will be
despatched to the ship. I think we shall be a pleasant party. I have
concluded engagements with Mrs. Regan, for old women and heavies, with
Skrymshire for first low comedy, and with Cooington for walking
gentleman and utility. He is a nice-looking young fellow, can make-up
very fairly, and will, consequently, make an excellent foil for me;
all the other people I can get over there, but these are absolutely
necessary. Cooington will be especially valuable. You are young, and
your ideas of the dreadful are, probably, vague, but when you have
once seen an American _jeune premier_, with his peculiar style of hair
and costume, they will immediately become definite.
'By the way, my dear, talking about costumes, I think it would be
advisable that you should have two first-rate evening gowns--don't fly
into a rage now. Your toilette yesterday was particularly good, and I
have no doubt you show quite as much good taste in your evening dress,
but I want something exceptionally stylish; you will be seen a great
deal more in public over there than you are here. You will probably
have a reception, as they call it, from one of their artistic
societies, and on off-nights will have to show-up at the opera, or one
of the other theatres; and as our good friends on the other side
attach immense importance to dress--and rightly too, according to my
notions--I want you at once to send a pattern-body to Madame Lagrange,
118 Rue Vivienne. That's all! You need take no further trouble about
the matter. I have written to old Lagrange by this post--I have known
her ever since I was a boy--and told her exactly what you want; for my
sake the old lady will put on all steam, and you will have your gowns
in time to pack them for America. I have also desired Madame Lagrange
to send the bill to me, a liberty which, I trust, under the
circumstances, you will excuse.
'I have an enormous number of things to get ready before I start; the
rehearsal of _Pickwick's Progress_ to superintend at the Gravity, and
an action to bring against a rascal in the North who has been
producing an exact copy of the _Cruiskeen Lawn,_ fights, songs, Irish
wake, and all under the title of the _Jug of Punch_. The copyright law
in this country is disgraceful. By the way, did you see those absurd
remarks in the _Earwig_ about me and Mr. Dickens, in connection with
Pickwick's Progress? I mention this in case I may not be able to call
upon you before we start, so that you may be perfectly sure to be at
Euston very soon after eleven. Till then good-bye.
'Yours always,
'BRYAN DUVAL.
'P.S.--What a good dinner it was yesterday, and how very jolly we all
were! I have taken a great fancy to Foster, he seems to be an
exceptionally good fellow. He talks of coming down to Liverpool to
see us off. If he does, I shall make a point of giving him a dinner at
the Adelphi the night before we sail--they have some green turtle
there--but women don't understand these things.'
'Mr. Foster is an exceptionally good fellow,' said Miss Montressor,
laying down the letter, 'and you are another, Bryan Duval. This
experience confirms me in my opinion, that whenever you hear men
bitter and disparaging in their remarks about a man who is before the
world, and who is successful, he is sure to prove remarkably pleasant,
agreeable, and kind-hearted. Now I am sure nothing could be more
thoughtful or more delicate than Mr. Duval's suggestion about those
gowns, and what a queer fellow he is too!' she said, taking up the
letter again; 'fancy his writing about a "pattern-body"--he seems to
know everything.'
By this time the fact of the great actor-author's departure for
America, taking with him a select troupe for the purpose of playing
certain of his own pieces, had been heralded in the newspapers, and
had created as much excitement as even he could have wished. Most of
the journals congratulated Mr. Duval on the engagement, and the
Americans on the fact that they were about to renew their acquaintance
with that distinguished combination of literature and art, who would
add fresh laurels to the wreath which had already adorned his brows,
and from this they proceeded in a tone of patronage towards the
Western hemisphere generally, telling it how thankful it ought to be
in having such a school of talent as England to draw upon for its
artists.
Some of the other journals, however, the conductors or writers of
which had a personal pique against Mr. Duval, did not think so
strongly on the matter. They averred, roundly enough, that the autumn
was the usual time for English actors to go out to America, and not
the spring; and that probably the reason which induced Mr. Duval to
take his departure from his native country at the present time was
that he was entirely played out and used up there, and he hoped to
recoup himself by repeating his previous success in America, an
expectation which would be undoubtedly disappointed.
Mr. Duval read these various reports with equal delight. He liked
being praised; but he did not in the least mind being found fault
with.
'I like to see 'em pitch in,' he would say, slowly rubbing his hands
together, with a broad grin, such as those who had only seen him in
his melo-dramatic parts on the stage, could never believe him capable
of giving. 'I like to see them pitch in; it shows their interest in
me. I would sooner that they would write about me with bradawls dipped
in vitriol, rather than that they should say nothing. This,' touching
one of the journals before him, 'is Cosby's doing. Cosby is a stupid
ass. I have told him so in print and by word of mouth many a time and
oft. I have dropped down hot and heavy upon Cosby frequently, and he
don't forgive that. When my _Varco the Vampire_ was produced at the
Parthenon, Cosby's original comedy of _Gold and Gloom_ (taken from a
play of Maquet and Dumas, produced at the Porte St. Martin in '52--I
have it there in the bookcase, and can show it to you) was brought out
at the Gravity. _Varco_ ran for one hundred and fifty nights, when I
stopped it myself, as I wanted a little chamois shooting in Styria,
and _Gold and Gloom_ fizzled out in a fortnight. Cosby didn't like
that--he don't like the notion that my _Pickwick's Progress_ is about
to be produced at the Gravity, which he looks upon somewhat as his own
theatre; he don't like, what he knows to be the fact, that I have a
splendid engagement with Van Buren in New York, and so he writes these
lies about me, thinking to rile me and to draw me out. No good, dear
Cosby; no good, dear boy. There is nothing makes a venomous ruffian
like that so wild as to completely ignore his attack, and if you
chance to meet him in the street, greet him with the utmost
politeness; you need not take his hand, but you also need not put your
fist into his face. Cosby will watch the papers daily, looking for an
indignant letter from me in reply to his screed; but he will find
none; and if I see him at the first night of _Pickwick's Progress,_ I
shall wag my head at him, and express a hope that he is pleased with
the entertainment.'
But though he declined to resent this newspaper controversy, Mr. Duval
found more than enough to occupy his mind and to fill up his time.
Half a dozen needy persons belonging to the theatrical profession--not
adventurers, and in no way dishonest--simply men and women who, from
stress of circumstances, had undertaken to do something for which they
were not in the least qualified, and who consequently had gone to the
wall, were simultaneously struck with the brilliant idea that it would
be a remarkably good thing for Mr. Duval if he took a temporary
farewell of the British public in a performance the proceeds of which
should be devoted to their benefit. Others there were who addressed
him on the strength of having read that he was about to take a company
with him to perform his pieces in the United States, and at once
expressing themselves as perfectly certain that such company would not
be complete unless they, the writers, joined it in prominent positions
with high salaries. In fact, the notice of his departure brought upon
him all the horde of impertinent correspondents who prey upon a public
man's time, and rob him of such leisure as he might otherwise have;
autograph hunters, photographers, who could make it convenient to
receive him at any time, sanctimonious begging-letter writers, who
declared that his path across the ocean would neither be happy nor
successful unless he were blessed with the inward consciousness of
having left behind him half a crown to succour modest misery in
distress.
Applications such as these Mr. Duval treated with sovereign
contempt--he had quite enough real business on hand. His rooms in
Vernon-chambers were very much changed from their normal condition;
all the nick-nacks were put away, all the pictures and handsome
furniture covered over, and in the midst stood enormous boxes, some
crammed to repletion, others yet gaping as it were for food, all
bearing the great actor's name in large red letters, all marked with
the word 'Hold.'
Thither, threading their way among the packages which littered the
landings as well as the apartments, came those anxious to have a last
few words with Mr. Duval. Mr. Moss Marks, the manager of the Gravity,
was there, nervously anxious about the forthcoming _Pickwick's
Progress_, and constantly endeavouring to cut down costly items of
furniture and decoration which Duval had insisted upon being provided.
Mr. Hodgkinson, too, came to impress upon his friend his parting
injunctions, that if he saw anything in the States likely to make a
sensation, any 'fakement' likely to hit up the British public, he
should wire him at once and send it over by the next boat. There, too,
was the great impresario, Wuff, who began to find that camels and
coryphées spelt bankruptcy as well as Shakespeare, and he was eager to
beg a few last words of advice from the omniscient Bryan Duval before
he started. Mr. Foster looked in, too, once or twice, to see how his
friend was getting on, and to ask whether he could be any use in
helping him in his preparations for the voyage.
Nor was Miss Montressor without her visitors. Two days after the
announcement of her intended visit to America appeared in the Sunday
papers, a mysterious old lady, neatly dressed in black silk, with an
old-fashioned bonnet, appeared at the Brompton villa, and giving her
name as Mrs. Porter, begged permission to speak for a few minutes to
the lady of the house. The page, who, though a sharp boy, was not yet
sufficiently versed in his business to gauge the social position of
visitors, was about to usher the old lady into the drawing-room, but
Justine, happening to pass downstairs at the moment, promptly bade her
take a seat in the hall, and took upon herself the task of announcing
her arrival.
Miss Montressor started very much at tearing the name, but recovering
herself, desired that the visitor should be shown to her bedroom. The
old lady bowed when she received the summons; and Justine noticed that
she trembled very much as she ascended the stairs. What passed during
the interview Justine did not exactly know, though she loitered about
the passage to gather as much as she could. First, she heard her
mistress's voice in high sharp tones of rebuke, and the old lady
apparently pleading. Miss Montressor's voice then softened very much,
and the conversation was carried on in a low earnest undertone,
mingled, so Justine thought, with sobs from one, if not from both, and
just before the door opened she could have sworn she heard a sound as
of many kisses, broken with words of blessing and farewell. And Miss
Montressor's eyes were very red, and her brilliant complexion rather
tear-blurred, after her visitor's departure; and though she speedily
rectified this irregularity, she remained singularly quiet and subdued
all that evening.
Also, just before the day of her departure, arrived Miss Thomasina
Campbell and Miss Georgina Goss, formerly Miss Montressor's colleagues
at the T.R.D.L., where they had many a bitter quarrel together; but
now that she was going to rid them of her presence, and to interfere
no more, her devoted friends. The visit of these young ladies was
ostensibly to bid their dear Clara good-bye, but in reality to
endeavour to ascertain from her what terms she had got, and what
parts she was likely to play, and to look at the dresses she was
going to take with her. As regards the first items, they failed
lamentably--Miss Montressor spoke vaguely of enormous sums, and of
'leading business,' but declined to enter into any particulars--but as
regards the latter, they were gratified to the highest extent. Miss
Montressor showed them all her pretty things, and even went to the
extent of unpacking an enormous trunk for the sake of displaying the
two splendid gowns which had duly arrived from Madame Lagrange, and
which were pronounced by staid Miss Campbell to be 'truly superb,' and
by giggling Miss Goss to be 'perfect ducks.' When they had seen all
the pretty things, and partaken of sherry and seltzer-water, with
which gay little Miss Goss moistened a cigarette, they took their
leave, not without warning their hostess to beware of the fascinations
of Bryan Duval, who, they insinuated, was a heartless wretch who made
love to everybody.
Finally, Mr. Foster paid his first and last visit to the young lady in
whom he seemed to have taken so kindly an interest.
'You are surprised to see me here, Miss Montressor,' he said, 'more
especially when you recollect that you never asked me to call upon
you.'
'I am very much delighted to see you, Mr. Foster,' said Miss
Montressor frankly, extending her hand to him, 'and I should be more
pleased if I did not think that your presence here meant that there
was no chance of your sailing with us in the Cuba, on Saturday.'
'It does mean that, indeed,' said Mr. Foster. 'I shall not be able to
complete my business so early, but I hope to follow you in a very
short time. You are kind enough to say you wish I were coming with
you, Miss Montressor, but you cannot regret the impossibility half so
much as I do. I am home sick, and that talk which we had the other day
about my wife and my belongings has made me more than ever anxious to
get back to them.'
'I verily believe it was the chance of another chat about them that
procured me the pleasure of this visit,' said Miss Montressor. 'But,
however, you shall not be gratified this time. You shall talk to me of
nothing but what I shall do in New York, where I shall go, what I
shall see, and to whom I must make myself most gracious and agreeable
in order to insure my success. By the way,' she added, turning
suddenly round to him, 'one thing struck me in thinking over our talk
the other day. This business of which you think so much, and in
connection with which you came over here, it must be still going on in
New York, is it not?'
'Certainly.'
'But not by itself; you must have left it in somebody's charge?'
'Of course, in the charge of my most intimate friend.'
'O, indeed,' said Miss Montressor. 'And Mrs. Foster, she is doubtless
with her family--father or mother, or something of that sort?'
'No, indeed, poor Helen is an orphan; she remains at home, in our own
house, but I have desired my friend to look after her.'
'The same friend?' inquired Miss Montressor.
'The same friend!'
'O, indeed,' said Miss Montressor, in the same tone. 'It must be a
great comfort to you to think that there is some one to whom you can
confide your business and your wife with a perfect feeling of
security.'
And then they talked of subjects connected with theatricals and New
York until Mr. Foster took his departure.
At length the eventful Friday morning arrived, and though, from the
ordinary condition of the Euston Station, it would seem impossible
that there should ever be any extra bustle there, some little
additional excitement might have been noticed. Mr. Bryan Duval, never
oblivious of the chances of advertisement, had written to the traffic
manager, enclosing a slip cut from the newspaper, announcing his
departure, and requesting some extra facilities in the way of
transport. The traffic manager, with great politeness, had ordered a
saloon carriage to be placed at the disposal of the theatrical party;
and thus their intended arrival became known. People who were waiting
about on the platform, ordinary passengers and their friends, saw the
handsome saloon carriage, and concluding immediately that it must be
for some member of the Royal Family, or some other equally
distinguished personage, lingered round it in the pleasant expectation
of being gratified with the sight of a hat or a beard, the skirt of a
robe or the end of a bonnet-string.
They were not, however, much disappointed when, upon inquiry, they
learned who were really to be the occupants of the carriage. A live
actor or actress in their ordinary citizen garb has an immense
attraction for the many-headed, and Bryan Duval was both well known
and popular; his very luggage, arriving, as it did, in a huge break,
interested them much, and they studied the enormous red letters
announcing 'Bryan Duval, passenger per Cuba, New York, U.S.A.,' and
the mysterious word 'Hold,' with a feeling akin to awe. The
well-informed told the ignorant of the plays he had written and what
characters he had played, what a magnificent fortune he had, and what
a number of duchesses and marchionesses were dying of love for him.
The great actor was the first to arrive. Ordinary people travel in
rough clothes, and drive to the station in a cab. Not so Mr. Bryan
Duval. His belief in the necessity of advertising himself remained
with him to the last, and the hoofs of the spanking chestnuts, as
their master tooled them under the archway, roused the echoes of the
Euston courtyard. No sign of vulgar luggage appeared in Mr. Duval's
trap--the only hint that he was about to travel might have been found
in the natty morocco-leather courier's pouch, slung over his shoulder
by a trap; otherwise he might have been going down to a picnic at St.
Albans, for he was dressed in a suit of gray dittos, wore a crimson
tie, shiny-tip jean boots, and his usual curly-brimmed hat.
The little crowd gathered round him as he drew up to the station, but
he pretended to take no notice of them, and to be absorbed in giving
directions to his groom. When these were concluded, he was apparently
about moving off, when the groom touched his hat, and said, with
something like a quiver in his voice, 'Take the liberty of wishing you
good-bye, sir--happy voyage and a safe return.'
'Thank you, James, very much,' said Mr. Duval, in his clearest tones.
'Take care of the horses--see that Black Bess and Tantivy are always
properly exercised, and remember me very kindly to your wife.' And Mr.
Duval moved off midst a murmur of sympathetic admiration from the
crowd.
'Sharp fellow that James,' he muttered to himself, as he entered the
ticket office; 'spoke that line I taught him deuced well. I shall
probably be able to make something of him on the stage when I come
back.'
His elation was a little dazed at the sight of Mrs. Regan, who,
running up to him, clasped him by both hands, and whose appearance was
scarcely calculated to impress bystanders with admiration. This worthy
old person, who was of Hibernian descent, and had what is known
amongst her countrymen as a 'potato' face, was dressed in a voluminous
chintz gown, like bed furniture, and, slung on her arm, carried a
check wicker basket, like a soft chess-board, with what was obviously
the neck of a bottle protruding from it. He was gratified, however, by
the appearance of Mr. Cooington, who, with a feeling that he was about
to spend ten days on the ocean, arrived at Euston Station in a
yachting costume, a straw hat with a very narrow brim, and a ribbon
with 'Plover' in gold letters round it. Mr. Skyrmshire, the low-comedy
man, had apparently adopted some of his theatrical wardrobe for
travelling purposes, and consequently arrived in a suit of such
enormous stripes, that in it he looked like a zebra on his hind legs.
He was a practical as well as a poetical humourist too, and combining
jocosity with business, carried about with him a number of small
labels, printed 'Go and hear Skrymshire, the brilliant Momus,' and
gummed at the back, with which he adorned the velveteen jackets of all
the porters with whom he came in contact.
And then Mr. Foster arrived, and then Miss Montressor, looking very
pretty, and dressed with great simplicity and good taste. Mr. Duval
offered her his arm, and led the way to the saloon carriage, the
others following. Then rushed out to take a last look that the baggage
was all safe, to compliment the inspector and tip the porters, and
returned. A whistle, a shriek, Mr. Skrymshire said, 'Give him his
head, John,' Mrs. Regan breathed hard and cried, 'Now we're off,' the
train moved on a little, and then stopped.
A porter put his head into the carriage in which the actor's party had
already begun to lean back, and realise the fact that they had
started, and inquired whether the gentleman who owned the portmanteau
left at the station an hour ago, and which he had just put into the
van, according to orders, was there. The occupants of the carriage
glanced at each other, shook their heads in a general negative, and
Bryan Duval answered for them, 'No, the gentleman was not there.'
'Beg pardon, gentlemen,' said the porter, 'but I can't find the owner
of the portmanteau.'
'And you want your tip, I suppose?' said Bryan Duval, in an undertone,
to the man, who was standing on the step of the carriage, with his
hands on the door.
'No, sir, I don't,' said the man; 'the gentleman paid me to look after
the portmanteau. I only wanted to make sure that he was here, so as it
shouldn't go amongst missing luggage, but I can't find him--he isn't
in the train.' He fell back, made a sign to the guard, and the train
moved on this time, to pursue its way unbrokenly.
'What a horrid nuisance!' said Miss Montressor to Mr. Foster. 'I can't
imagine anything more worrying than losing one's luggage.'
'And yet,' said Mr. Foster, 'it is one of those things no one gets
pitied for. For my part, I always stick to mine in this country, where
matters of that kind are certainly not regulated with the intelligence
and attention to public convenience they are amongst us. However, I
daresay this gentleman and his portmanteau will not be long parted.
That porter was an honest fellow. Shall I pull the window up?'
'No, thanks,' said Miss Montressor. 'I am perfectly comfortable. You
have very good notions of travelling, Mr. Foster, and have chosen my
seat with admirable discretion. Where is the library?--O, overhead, I
see. Not that I care much for reading in a train; it tries one's eyes.
Do you always read in the train?'
'That depends on my company,' said Mr. Foster. 'I don't feel inclined
to read to-day.'
'Then suppose we make a law that nobody is to read?' said Miss
Montressor, looking round upon her companions with the proud
consciousness of being a leading lady in every sense of the word.
'Never make a law unless you are sure of its being obeyed,' said Bryan
Duval drily, as he settled his travelling cap, and ensconced his head
in a convenient angle of the partition between his seat and that of
his fair neighbour, opposite to whom Mr. Foster was placed, and
immediately immersed himself in the pages of the _Times_.
The journey was a very pleasant one; every one was good-humoured, and
Miss Montressor had her own way. She and Mr. Foster talked a good deal
more than any of their companions, but the tone of the conversation
was necessarily general. Thus, there was no reference on his part to
the domestic circumstances which had annoyed Miss Montressor when he
confided them to her at Richmond, and her versatile nature had enabled
her almost entirely to dismiss the recollection of her sister Bess,
except in the general sense of being rather glad than otherwise that
she should have an opportunity of seeing her.
In her present sanguine mood, Miss Montressor doubted not that she
should be able to induce Bess to say, or to leave unsaid, precisely
whatever she pleased to indicate--at the worst, this was an annoyance
to be postponed for consideration, until after her arrival on the
other side; she was not going to trouble herself about it prematurely.
To tell the truth about Miss Montressor, she thought very little of
Mr. Dolby during the pleasant hours of her journey to Liverpool. It
would be good fun finding him in New York, and either making up the
quarrel which had marked their parting or not making it up, precisely
as it should suit her humour and her convenience, when the time had
arrived. That, too, she need not think of beforehand. Altogether, Miss
Montressor could recall few days in her life which had passed more
completely to her satisfaction than that of her departure from London,
and she mentioned the fact to Mr. Foster, when, for the first time,
she found herself out of hearing of her companions on the arrival of
the train, when he gave her his arm to walk along the platform at
Lime-street.
During a momentary pause in order to rally their party, the attention
of Miss Montressor and Mr. Foster was attracted to the unloading of
the luggage van. A solitary portmanteau had been chucked upon the
platform with a contemptuous indifference, which is the destiny of
waifs and strays among luggage.
'I am sure that is the unclaimed portmanteau,' said Miss Montressor;
'looks new too. What will they do with it?'
'Put it in the parcel-office, of course,' said Mr. Foster, 'for the
present, and then they forget all about it.'
The portmanteau, a shiny black one of the most commonplace appearance,
lay upon the pavement until all the claimed luggage had been disposed
of and wheeled away on trucks to its various destinations; then the
waif was carried by a porter to the parcel-office and there deposited,
with a brief intimation to the official who resided behind a sliding
window, amid huge barricades of packing-cases, hampers, and every
description of impedimenta, from camel trunks to brown-paper parcels
and stray hand-bags, 'That this 'ere box, name o' Dunn, hadn't been
owned.'
Travellers to Liverpool by all trains, at all hours, are a motley
crew; all ranks and classes of society, all industries, all
circumstances, may be found represented in the voyagers going towards
the great outlet of England. The train which conveyed Bryan Duval and
his troop was no exception, but rather a notable example of this
truth. Only two components of the crowd which were whirled from the
great social to the great commercial capital on that particular day
have any interest for us; they are our theatrical friends, and one
other man, a solitary and insignificant unit among the number.
This man wore a sailor's dress, and carried a parcel, done up in a bit
of tarpaulin, under his arm. He had arrived at Euston Station a few
minutes before the party whose departure had formed a feature of the
day; had stood wholly unnoticed among the third-class passengers
crowding that portion of the platform opposite to the pens appointed
for their use, and had quietly taken his seat in the farthest corner
of the last compartment in the train. There was nothing remarkable in
this man's appearance or manner. His sailor's clothes were clean, and
fitted with characteristic looseness. He did not remove his cap or
relinquish his hold of his tarpaulin bundle, which he placed upon his
knees, and folding his arms upon it, kept them there during the whole
of the journey. He exchanged not a word with his fellow passengers,
except a mechanic and his family about to exchange the used-up old
world for the new and happy land--though they thought him a morose
surly sort of fellow, no doubt; but they were full of their own hopes,
interests, and regrets, which they discussed with the simple unreserve
of the poor, and, after a few minutes, did not notice him.
He was a dark-complexioned man, with a rough red beard and hair to
match, and had probably but recently adopted the avocation of a
sailor, for his hands were rather delicate for a man of that class,
and had evidently had no prolonged acquaintance with the ropes or
great familiarity with tar. Though he travelled down the whole way to
Liverpool without appearing to be conscious of the presence of his
immediate companions, this sailor seemed to have some attraction
towards the more distinguished passengers by the train. He lingered
for a few minutes on the platform on their arrival at Lime-street,
though he had put no luggage in the van, and had no occasion to wait
while its contents were being turned out and sorted; and during this
delay he surveyed,--with an intentness probably caused by his
knowledge of their celebrity,--the party of actors as they took their
way to the exit. He was but a few steps behind them when they reached
the entrance of the station, and he stood in the doorway while they
crossed the street on foot and entered the hospitable portals of the
Adelphi Hotel, where their rooms had been engaged. When they had gone
in, and were quite hidden from his view, he still lingered; indeed,
the greater part of the burden which the train had carried had been
discharged from the station before this desultory mariner moved on.
Even then he only crossed the street, still hugging his tarpaulin
bundle under his arm, and slouched along under the windows of the
Adelphi, as though the place had some attraction for him.
The contrasts offered by London itself are hardly greater than those
to be found in Liverpool; the physical division of the great town into
high and low is not more marked than its moral division into luxury
and want, into respectability and infamy, into leisure and toil. There
is a calm, tranquil, well-bred comfort about some of the uncommercial
districts of Liverpool as characteristic and as striking as the
splendour of its great streets, the long line of shops, each
displaying the products of the teeming wealth of many countries, and
are lost in those wonderful masses of warehouses, stores, factories,
and shipping offices, which epitomise the whole history of commerce in
its greatest forms, while they exhibit it in its minutest detail. The
actual story of the world in its most practical, and at the same time
not in its least romantic, aspect may be read by him who runs--if his
hurried way should take him past the great landing-stages which
project upon the Mersey. All the interests of life in its present
crowded phase, and in its extended intercourse of business and of
greatness, find their symbols there; its transitoriness, its change,
its tumultuous variety, its youthful hope, its keenest anxieties, its
bitterest partings, have found their theatre there since the first
ship brought in the wealth of a foreign land, and the first ship
carried out the produce of our own. The steadiest industry, the most
inveterate vagabondism, find their representatives among the
population of Liverpool; there is no place in existence in which the
student of human nature may discover more to interest, to edify, to
puzzle, and to appal him.
The sailor who had travelled by the five-o'clock train to Liverpool
was seemingly possessed by a great curiosity concerning the commercial
city. He had not eaten or drunk since early in the day; but this
circumstance, rarely devoid of interest to persons of his class,
seemed to trouble him but little. He had not turned into any
eating-house, he had not visited any drinking-bar; but he took his way
slowly, and always meditatively, along the streets which led to the
water-side. In Water-street he lingered long. The great business
centres and conduits were emptying themselves of the swarms of human
beings whose business lies in the deep waters, who, if they did not go
down to the sea in ships themselves, spent their lives in business
matters connected with those who do; hurrying crowds jostled the
sailor upon the pathways, crowds whose backs were turned upon the
direction in which he was going; and as he took his way at a lounging
pace, which contrasted curiously with the vigorous hurry and
breaking-up air of bustle around him which marks the close of the
business day in Liverpool, and the 'coming on of evening mild,' with
its welcome recreation, at home or elsewhere, according to the
diversity of tastes. The water-side was almost deserted when he
debouched upon it from Water-street under the shadow of the huge
warehouses.
In the dim light the prosaic landing-stage looked almost
picturesque--shortly to be turned to a silver radiance by the yet
unrisen moon; the waters of the Mersey lay in solemn calm; in the dim
light, the long lines of huge warehouses, with their cumbrous
apparatus of crank and pulley, of windlass and stage, looked more than
ever like a series of gigantic gallows, prepared for a general
execution. The mind speedily loses itself in the mere contemplation of
their resources in the way of sacks and bales. To stray into
considerations of cotton is to get lost, to think of pig-iron is
distraction; the best way is to accept it all as a picture, happily
unaccompanied at that hour of the night by the maddening noise of the
day-time, and to be satisfied, without attempting to comprehend them,
with the vastness, with the wealth, of Liverpool.
Probably this was not the line on which the sailor's thoughts were
running when he examined the before-mentioned long range of
warehouses, which lie parallel to the great landing-stage, with the
wide roadway lying between, to inspire the observer with constant
wonder how, by any effort of human industry, it is ever kept in a
state of repair. His examination was minute, careful, and marked by
one peculiarity. He laid his hand on every door as he passed it by,
giving the sturdy panel a strong and stealthy push; in every instance
but one, the response to this movement was the steady resistance of a
stout bolt. One door, very far down the range, and in a place where
already the profoundest tranquillity reigned, fell open at his touch,
and the sailor, with a lounging gait of perfectly idle curiosity,
ready, if challenged, to apologise for an intrusion on that score,
passed into the yard to which the complying portal gave admittance.
It was some minutes before he emerged and began to retrace his steps
towards Water-street; but he had now discarded his lounging gait, his
step was purpose-like, quick, and wholly out of unison with his dress
and appearance; nor had he any longer the uncertain discovery-making
manner of a man unacquainted with the locality in which he finds
himself for the first time.
He threaded his way with great rapidity through a number of small
streets and lanes, best described by the generic term of 'slums,'
quite regardless of the sights and sounds in perfect harmony with the
neighbourhood, which was a particularly villanous one; he bent his
steps to a low public-house, and close to the river.
Here he called for bread-and-cheese, of which he ate sparingly, and
for a pot of beer, of which he drank a very small quantity--the meal
did not seem to recommend itself to his palate; here, too, he spoke no
word, and looked no one in the face, but he passed in and out quite
disregarded.
The drinking-den--for it was hardly more--was, indeed, crowded, as it
was at most hours of the day, and as far into the night as the police
would permit but its occupants were either drinking or quarrelling, or
both, and too much engaged in these pursuits to notice the surly
newcomer.
Having thus sparingly satisfied the hunger and thirst which he must
have been experiencing, the sailor sought for a place of repose. He
selected for this purpose a common lodging-house, much in use by men
of his craft when on shore, under circumstances which may be briefly
described as 'down on their luck.' It was a dirty, ill-ventilated,
wretched place, where beds of the very coarsest sacking, with very
repulsive-looking bed-clothes, were stretched out in long lines on two
sides of the low whitewashed room; a carpetless and matless lane ran
up the centre, encumbered with the discarded garments of the occupants
of the beds, and every accessory of the scene was unpleasant. The
sailor seemed indisposed to avail himself of even the full extent of
the accommodation which this uninviting hostelry afforded, limited as
it was; he abstained from undressing himself, but flung himself down
in his clothes upon the bed which was pointed out to him, and which he
was congratulated by the proprietor of this hideous retreat upon
having been so fortunate as to secure, as it was the only one which
had not already a tenant.
This was not exactly a place in which good order might be expected to
reign. Its temporary occupants were in many instances drunk, in very
few decent, in almost all noisy; but the new-comer contributed no more
to the horrid merriment of the sleeping den than he had contributed to
the conviviality of the drinking den during that day. He met all
attempts at questioning with a sullen growl; and placing his tarpaulin
bundle under his head for a pillow, he soon fell, or seemed to fall,
into a heavy slumber.