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 X.