Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they were
darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow’s house crossed
London Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into the backways,
lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield; with no more
fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their windings, and
baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.
It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a
drowsy watchman’s footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamplighter
on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke
mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even
from these partakers of his lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or
doorway while they passed, issued forth again when they were gone and so
pursued his solitary way.
To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan
and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to
the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old
barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal things--but not
so dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and
sleepers are by thousands; a houseless rejected creature. To pace
the echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull chimes of the
clocks; to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to think what
happy forgetfulness each house shuts in; that here are children coiled
together in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth,
all equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common
with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven’s gift to
all its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by the
wretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly alone and
cast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of suffering, on
which the rivers of great cities close full many a time, and which the
solitude in crowds alone awakens.
The miserable man paced up and down the streets--so long, so wearisome,
so like each other--and often cast a wistful look towards the east,
hoping to see the first faint streaks of day. But obdurate night had
yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no
relief.
One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of lights;
there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers,
and there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of laughter. To this
place--to be near something that was awake and glad--he returned again
and again; and more than one of those who left it when the merriment
was at its height, felt it a check upon their mirthful mood to see him
flitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost. At last the guests departed,
one and all; and then the house was close shut up, and became as dull
and silent as the rest.
His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead of
hastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause to shun,
he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin upon his hand,
gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though even they became a
refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and round, came back to the
same spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and once, with a hasty
movement, crossed to where some men were watching in the prison lodge,
and had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost them. But
looking round, he saw that the day began to break, and failing in his
purpose, turned and fled.
He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to and
fro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean street, when
from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry arose, and there came
straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping and calling to each other,
who, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in smaller
groups.
Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him a
safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when they
were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted
window, or other indication of the place whence they had come. It was
so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they
had but turned up there, missing their way, and were pouring out again
when he observed them. With this impression, and finding there was no
outlet but that by which he had entered, he was about to turn, when from
a grating near his feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound
of talking came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers
were, and to listen to them.
The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a man
ascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked and held
open the grating as for the passage of another, who presently
appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and uncommon
self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion.
‘Good night, noble captain,’ said he with the torch. ‘Farewell,
commander. Good luck, illustrious general!’
In return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue, and
keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar injunctions,
with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.
‘Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,’ returned the torch-bearer
in a lower voice. ‘My captain flies at higher game than Miggses. Ha, ha,
ha! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings.
My captain breaketh hearts as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast.’
‘What a fool you are, Stagg!’ said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the
pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had
contracted in his passage upward.
‘His precious limbs!’ cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles. ‘Shall a
Miggs aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain. We will inveigle
ladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves
with blooming beauties, captain.’
‘I’ll tell you what, my buck,’ said Mr Tappertit, releasing his leg;
‘I’ll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach certain
questions unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when
you’re spoke to on particular subjects, and not otherways. Hold
the torch up till I’ve got to the end of the court, and then kennel
yourself, do you hear?’
‘I hear you, noble captain.’
‘Obey then,’ said Mr Tappertit haughtily. ‘Gentlemen, lead on!’ With
which word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or retinue) he
folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity down the court.
His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and then
the observer saw for the first time, from his place of concealment, that
he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick
ear of the blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch
towards him, for he turned suddenly and cried, ‘Who’s there?’
‘A man,’ said the other, advancing. ‘A friend.’
‘A stranger!’ rejoined the blind man. ‘Strangers are not my friends.
What do you do there?’
‘I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone. I
want a lodging.’
‘A lodging at this time!’ returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn as
though he saw it. ‘Do you know the day is breaking?’
‘I know it,’ rejoined the other, ‘to my cost. I have been traversing
this iron-hearted town all night.’
‘You had better traverse it again,’ said the blind man, preparing to
descend, ‘till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste. I don’t
let any.’
‘Stay!’ cried the other, holding him by the arm.
‘I’ll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog it
is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood besides,
if you detain me,’ said the blind man. ‘Let me go. Do you hear?’
‘Do YOU hear!’ returned the other, chinking a few shillings together,
and hurriedly pressing them into his hand. ‘I beg nothing of you. I will
pay for the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as
you! I have come from the country, and desire to rest where there are
none to question me. I am faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let
me lie down, like a dog, before your fire. I ask no more than that. If
you would be rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.’
‘If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,’ muttered Stagg,
yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a
footing on the steps--‘and can pay for his accommodation--’
‘I will pay you with all I have. I am just now past the want of food,
God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion have you
below?’
‘None.’
‘Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way. Quick!’
The blind man complied after a moment’s hesitation, and they descended
together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the words could be
spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he had had time to
recover from his first surprise.
‘May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?’ said the man,
glancing keenly round. ‘You will not mind that?’
‘I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your choice.’
He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his
conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly.
Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there
alone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was
burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it.
His host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him any
further. But directly he fell asleep--and he noted his falling into a
slumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have done--he knelt
down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but carefully over his face
and person.
His sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a
muttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and his
mouth firmly set. All this, the blind man accurately marked; and as if
his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already some inkling
of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression may be used, and
listening, until it was broad day.