In the faint light of early morning, some ten years after the scene
described in the last chapter, at that cold dank hour when the struggle
is going on between night and day, and the former is being slowly and
laboriously conquered,--when Chancery-lane looked at its worst, and the
passed-away region of Bennett's-rents more sordid and desolate than
ever. The gas-lamps still glimmered in the street, while the solitary
light at the end of the Rents yet burned dimly, and as if half-destroyed
by mephitic vapour, when the door of Number 27 was opened, closed
loudly, and a man clattered heavily over the broken pavement, creating
an unnecessary amount of noise as he slowly made his way out through the
narrow archway into the street, but watching on either side with
observant eye the while. It seemed darker when he reached the Lane,
where, after glancing hastily up and down for a minute, he softly thrust
off his boots,--a pair of heavy lace-ups,--and then, taking them in his
hand, he ran lightly back, with the stooping gait and eager hound-like
air of some savage beast on the trail of its prey. But the next moment
he was at the door he had quitted, had opened it softly and slipped in,
ignorant that a face at the third-floor window opposite was watching his
movements with looks yet keener than his own.
Holding his breath, the man stood in the passage of the old house for a
few seconds; then, passing along softly, he stole down the damp,
half-rotten cellar-stairs, starting once and giving vent to a
half-suppressed ejaculation as a cat dashed hastily by him, when he
paused to wipe the cold perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve.
Then he stood at the bottom in front of the cellar-door, in the damp
dark place where ashes gritted beneath his feet, and the foul smell of
half-decayed vegetable refuse arose. Apparently guided by caution, he
now carefully felt around him, letting his hands glide along the wall,
while his feet probed every corner to insure that he was alone, before,
after listening an instant at the foot of the stairs, he slipped quickly
through the door, and stood in the large front cellar.
It was lighter here, for the morning was struggling down through the
grating; and now, after a careful tour of inspection, peering into every
dim corner, the man passed through a low archway and into a back-cellar,
darker and damper than the first,--a place that had once been used for
wine, and into every one of whose cobweb-hung and sawdust-floored bins
the man looked in turn, as he made his way farther from the light.
He was a big, heavy man; but there was something soft and cat-like in
his movements as he passed along the dark cellar. The obscurity seemed
to have but little effect upon him, for the way appeared familiar; and
when right at the end he stopped to listen attentively for a few moments
before, going down upon hands and knees, he crawled rapidly, and more
cat-like than ever, into one of the darkest bins. Then there was a low
grating noise heard, as if a heavy stone had been pushed aside; there
was a deep expiration, as of one moving a weight; a rustling, the
grating sound once more, and then for a few minutes silence.
The light descending the grating struggled hard to illumine the obscure
place; but this was one of the strongholds of darkness--a spot where it
lurked through the bright hours of the day; and the efforts of the light
only served to faintly illumine the front cellar, where stood a huge
water-butt with a pipe leading to it for the supply of the house; and
here now began an echoing drip, drip, drip; while from the tap came a
strange, sighing, hissing sound, as the air was forced by distant
pressure along the pipe.
Now came the sharp crack of a stair, the very faint rustle of a dress,
and then slowly and cautiously appeared, coming forward, as it were, out
of the gloom like one of the phantoms of a nightmare, the face that had
been gazing from the opposite window, an old, eager, hawk-like, pinched
woman's face, peering through the opening of the ajar door, and followed
directly by the shabbily-clothed body.
Cautiously, and with eyes peering in every direction, the woman advanced
into the cellar, her head thrust forward, with her thin grey hair pushed
behind her ears, which twitched and seemed on the alert to catch the
faintest sound. Close behind her followed a cropped poodle-dog, which
now ran forward, when at a menacing gesture it half stood up, but the
raised hand made it shrink down instantly, and crouching to the earth it
crawled for a few moments and then lay motionless, while its mistress,
as if walking in the steps of the man, nimbly examined the cellar, even
peering behind and in the great butt, which her thrust-in hand showed
her was nearly full of water.
She then softly made her way to the dark arch, and with one hand holding
by the side leaned in and tried to penetrate the darkness, but without
avail; when, muttering softly to herself, she stepped in, but only to
pass out the next moment shaking her head, as with one hand she busily
searched her pocket, from which she drew forth a box of matches.
Stepping once more beneath the arch she struck a match upon the damp
wall, and a long phosphorescent line of light shone feebly out, but the
match did not blaze.
Impatiently throwing down the splint of wood, the woman tried another
and another, but without effect, till she rubbed one upon the outside of
the box, when it ignited silently, and illumined the place for a little
distance round, when eagerly catching up the tiny splints thrown down
she lit first one and then another, and as they burned their brief span
a hasty examination was made. Everywhere the same features: old
cobwebbed wine-bins, damp and fungoid growths, and though the woman
peered even into the bin where the man had so lately crawled, nothing
presented itself to her hurried gaze more than in the others, and as her
last lit splint burned out she stepped lightly back to the entrance.
As she stood within the front cellar she turned once more to gaze down
the dark place she had quitted, when a low grating noise struck her ear,
and starting back she was about to run to the steps; but, making an
effort over herself, she stood, trembling, and listened.
The noise continued for a few seconds, then came the sound as of clothes
rustling against a wall, then the heavy breathing, the grating once
more, and then silence as, turning her back to both entrances, the woman
stole softly to where her dog lay crouching upon the damp floor.
The next moment a sharp yelp and a succession of howls came from the
stricken dog as the woman caught it by the thick curled hair of its
neck, and beat it savagely.
"Ah, then, _mechant chien_, bad tog, how I have looked for you!" she
cried. "Why do you steal down here? There, there, there!" and each
word was followed by a blow, while the wretched little animal lay
cowering and yelping on the ground, till, lifted by its ears, the skin
seemed drawn out of place, the eyes elongated, and the poor brute, now
silent, the most abject specimen of canine misery imaginable.
There was a quick step behind the woman, and, as if surprised, she
started, and turned to gaze at the evil face behind her, for the man had
stepped close to the entrance-door.
"Ah! Meester Jarker, but you did frighten me. My bad tog he runs away.
What shall I do wis him?"
The man looked keenly at the speaker, and slowly drew a large
clasp-knife, which he opened, and the woman could hardly repress a
shudder as there in the dim light she saw him run his thumb along the
edge.
"Ah, yes!" she said with a half-laugh; "he deserves, but I cannot spare
him; I must teach him better than to come into uzzer people's house. I
look everywhere before I think of dis cellar."
The man did not speak, but glanced first at the mistress, then at the
dog, and then at his knife and the great butt, and then involuntarily
his suspicious looks turned to the dark arch of the inner cellar, when
once more their eyes met in a long penetrating stare.
"I once knowed somethin' as got its throat cut for coming into this here
cellar. I ain't sure, but I think that 'ere was a dawg," growled the
man.
"O yes, he must not come any more, Meester Jarker; but you will not cut
my troat. O, no," laughed the woman jeeringly, as sending her dog on
first, and fixing her eyes upon the man, she slowly backed out of the
cellar. "O, no, for we will both be good and come no more."
As she slowly made her way to the cellar-stairs, the man stood looking
after her; but as she mounted them he followed softly, and listened till
he heard her rustle along the passage, when he slipped through the
cellar and caught sight of her from the rusty grating as she crossed the
court, when he once more went back to the dark arch and looked about
him.
All at once his keen eye caught sight of something upon the floor--a
newly-burned scrap of match, and snatching it up, he held it to his
cheek to try and detect whether it was dry or damp. It seemed to be
dry, so after once more going to the door, and from thence to the
stairs, to make out whether he was sure to be free from interruption, he
returned hastily, drew forth a tin match-box, lit a scrap of wax-candle
from his pocket, and then shading the light with his cap and carefully
examining the floor, he picked up three more tiny pieces of half-burned
match, lying here and there amongst the blackened dirt and sawdust.
These scraps he carefully placed in his pocket along with the piece of
candle, and then hurried out, with his lips drawn away from his teeth,
and his face wearing a diabolically savage aspect. But the next moment
he gave his head a shake, and stole softly up the stairs muttering:
"It must have been arter the dawg."
Mr William Jarker walked out into the court with his boots on now, and
his hands very far down in his pockets, and then made his way into the
Lane, where he paused in doubt as to whether he should go to the right
or to the left; but as in the latter direction there was a policeman,
Mr Jarker betook himself to the right, and made his way into the
Strand, now nearly empty, while church-spire and chimney-pot stood out
clear in the unsmoked morning air. But the street-sweepers were busy,
the butchers' carts from westward came rattling along, bound for
Newgate-market; watercress-girls tramped by from Farringdon, making up
their dark-green bunches as they walked; while every now and then a red
newspaper-cart dashed by with its universal budget for the various
railway termini. London was waking again, the great heart was beating
fast, and the streams of life beginning to ebb and flow through the
street-veins of the City.
But all this affected Mr Jarker very little, he only seemed interested
at times during his walk, being apparently in a very contemplative mood.
Once he half-stopped as a tall, dark, fierce-eyed woman walked hastily
by in company with a slightly-formed girl; but they noticed him not, and
were soon out of sight, while Mr Jarker continued his walk, with eyes
directed at the ground, as if he thought that being an early bird he
must get the first peck at the worms--worms that might take the form of
some valuable waif. However, not meeting with any reward from the earth
he turned his eyes heavenward, where he could see no waifs, but an
occasional stray in the shape of a pigeon, darting across the clear
strip of atmosphere above his head, or settling upon the housetop, and
so much did these gentle birds attract his notice, that he would now and
then stop, and inserting a couple of tolerably clean, soft, unworked
fingers in his mouth, whistle to them.
For the pigeons are many in London, and at early morn single birds may
be seen darting in swift flight like airy messengers; flocks may be seen
in circle round their home, or cooing in company upon the tower of some
lofty church--one of the many hidden amidst the labyrinths of bricks and
mortar--cooing softly sweet notes, heard plainly now, but soon to be
drowned in the roar of the busy streams of life ebbing and flowing
through the streets; now but a gentle hum as of a honey-seeking bee, but
soon increasing in intensity as the bees swarm.
There was no help for it this time, for suddenly turning a corner, Mr
Jarker come upon a sergeant and a dozen policemen walking with measured
step, on their way to relieve those who had been on duty through the
night.
"I'm gallussed!" muttered Mr Jarker, trying to look unconcerned, and
slouching on; and it was observable that though Mr Jarker looked
straight before him and whistled, the policemen, one and all, looked
very hard at Mr Jarker, as if they knew him and felt hurt at his pride;
while one man was even seen to wink to himself, and smile a very
peculiar, hard smile--the kind of smile only seen upon policemen's
faces, and one that means so much that its interpretation would be a
task of difficulty.
"I'm gallussed!" muttered Mr Jarker again, when he was well past the
men in uniform, and then, apparently satisfied with the length of his
morning walk, he took a short cut to make his way back to
Bennett's-rents, while, upon thus once more having his thoughts directed
homeward, he again muttered--"It must have been arter the dawg."
Volume One, Chapter IV.