HAS IN IT, ALAS! NOTHING THAT IS NEW.
The winter was moving away thus, and Thomas Wanless was rapidly losing
his vigour. Hard work and constant vigils, coupled with a sore heart,
and a weak appetite, pulled the man down, and by February he had to
confess that the long walks were too much for his strength. Mercifully,
the weather often made it impossible for him to go out at night, and
when it did clear up, he contented himself with going somewhere to watch
the stream of people passing by. "I will wait," he said to himself, "for
my darling to come to me." He could not even stand very long, but
usually sought the rest of a friendly doorstep, and at times a recess on
a bridge, watching, with tender wistfulness, the stream of life hurrying
on around him. Strange to say, he had more than once seen Adelaide
Codling since that night at the theatre, and somehow that always gave
him hope. Her face seemed to say to him, "Your daughter cannot be far
away."
Often the "unfortunates" came and talked to him, not rudely in their
wantonness--alas! poor, forsaken waifs--forsaken by all save God--but
soberly, as if moved to speak to this still, sad-eyed, grey-faced old
man, who looked out on the world so keenly, and withal, with such
tenderness in his look. They would tell him fragments of their
stories--sad enough all, and wonderfully alike--tales of seduction, and
heartless desertion, varied only by the degree of turpitude usually
exhibited in the man. At one time it would be the tale of a light-headed
girl, seduced by her master--a married man--who huddled her out of
sight, to hide his shame. Many came from garrison towns, the seduced of
the officers there; quiet country parsonages gave their quota of girls
educated to feel, and therefore hurrying the faster to their doom, when
once cut off from their families by the devices of their betrayers. One
woman excited Thomas's pity deeply. Though wasted and fast dying, she
still had traces of great beauty when he first met her, leaning wearily
on the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, looking out on the water below. She
flashed defiance--the defiance of a hunted being--at him when he first
spoke to her, but he soon won her heart, and got her story. A fair
blonde, oval-faced English girl, she had been comely to look upon, and
was wholesome at the heart even yet, for all her misery. She was the
victim of a parson, now high in the counsels of the church. The villain
was but a curate when he seduced her--the only child of her mother, and
she a widow. He promised to marry her, of course, and wiled his way to
her heart. Then when he had got all he wanted, and found that she was
with child, he cast her off, daring her to lay the babe to his
paternity, and spreading a story to the effect that he had found other
lovers at her heels. Broken hearted, she buried her head and obeyed, but
the shame killed her mother. "I could not die," the daughter said to
Wanless; "I have often tried to kill myself, but fear keeps me back now,
after all that's past, and it kept me back then. My child died, thank
Heaven! I was alone in the world. I drifted to London seeking work, and
found it hard to get. When I offered myself for a servant's place,
people said I was too well educated, and suspected that something must
be wrong. I could have taught in a school, perhaps, but had no one to
recommend me. I was hungry; I hated mankind, and cursed them. I said I
would betray and destroy men for revenge! and the way was easy! oh, so
easy. It has led me here; and now if I could but jump over and be done
with it all!"
Involuntarily Thomas put forth his hand to hold her back; but he needed
not to do so. The poor woman sank fainting at his feet. He tried to
rouse her, but could not; and finally put her in a cab and took her to
the hospital. Within a week she died there of brain fever. The doctors
said her strength had been too much reduced by privation before the
disease seized her for her to be able to survive it. And she was only
one among tens of thousands all pressed down the same loathsome course
by our "Christian civilisation." Nay, forgive the epithet, there is
nothing Christian about it. It is only the civilisation of a priest-born
respectableness. The droning hypocrites that we are!
At times Wanless stood by the doors of low music halls and of theatres,
but the door-keepers usually ordered him off. He looked too like a
detective for their taste. Then he would watch the doors of
confectioners' shops, too--those shops which cloak brothels of the
vilest type--staring there in the face of day, unheeded by the
authorities, who must wink at some kind of outlet for the suppressed
brutal passions of polished society. More than once Adelaide Codling had
crossed his path at such times, and still in the company of Wiseman; but
each succeeding time he saw her, Wanless thought the boldness of her
manner had an increased dash of despair in it. The fate that she had
come after was eating into even her light, giddy heart. The last time he
spied her was one night when he stood close by the door of a cafe near
Regent Street. The light fell full on her face as the Captain and she
passed in from their cab, and her face was painted. Already, then, the
bloom of youth has vanished, Thomas thought. Her hard but not unmusical
laugh had given place to a grating cackle, and a leer of affected gaiety
had replaced the merry eye. Poor, erring wanderer, and had a few months
brought you to this? Already was the shadow of society's ruthless
judgment upon you; could you even now see the blight of your life, the
dreary street, the hard world's scorn, the early grave? Ah! yes, and who
shall describe the devouring agony that gnawed at that girl's heart? Did
she not see day by day the ebbing away of Wiseman's love? Love? God
forgive me for defiling that sacred word. It was only his brutish
passion that was dying. He was becoming tired of this toy his handling
had smudged, and she saw it all--prepared herself for the hour when he
would turn his back upon her and go to hunt down other prey. And only
six months ago! Ah, parson, parson, has the iron not entered your soul?
What is this that your Christian civilisation has done to your daughter?
Has it made you ashamed even to look for her? Poor, hide-bound,
"respectable" sinner that you are, you shall behold her again, though
you sought her not--though her mother bade you close your heart and home
against her for ever, because she had with that mother's help allowed
herself to be betrayed.
One cold March night Thomas Wanless had strayed on to Waterloo Bridge in
his coal-begrimed dress. Something, he could not have said what, had
impelled him to go there that night. He had taken a hasty supper at a
coffee-house near the coal yard to save time. He felt he was
"superstitious," yet he went, whispering to his heart "who knows but I
may see my child to-night," and trying to be cheerful.
Paying the toll at the north side, he wandered backwards and forwards
till the chill from the river began to enter his bones. The one he
looked for came not to him--still he could not drag himself away. He sat
down in a recess and cowered below the parapet for shelter, waiting for
he knew not what. It might have been ten o'clock. He had sat quite an
hour, and was nearly going to sleep with weariness, inaction, and cold,
when a rustle of a woman's dress near him spurred his faculties into
active watchfulness. Peering into the darkness, made visible by the
feeble shimmer of the lamp on the parapet, he discovered a woman
approach him, crouching down in the recess on the other side of the
bridge, weeping bitterly, though almost in silence. Raising himself on
his elbow, he was about to speak to her when she started up with a wild
despairing gesture, and, jumping on the seat, flung away her shawl.
"Yes," he heard her say to herself, with a wailing resoluteness, "I'll
do it; I'll die," and with one look of farewell to the world, where no
hope was left for her, a look of despair and horror that gleamed through
the darkness, she clutched the parapet and drew herself on to it.
It was all the work of a moment, a flash of time, but Wanless had sprung
to his feet at the sound of her voice, and was half across the bridge by
the time the woman got upon the parapet. Then he saw her last look, and
the gleam of a neighbouring lamp revealed her features. She was Adelaide
Codling, and the recognition so startled Wanless that he staggered and
for a moment stopped short. In that moment she was lost. Even as the cry
burst from his lips, "Adelaide Codling, Adelaide, Adelaide," she threw
herself over, as if the sight of a man approaching her had given the
last spur to her despair. He reached the parapet but in time to hear the
dull splash of her body in the dark tide rolling beneath. As she felt
the water close round her, a cry--weird, unearthly, terrible,--broke
from the girl's lips, and then all was silent, till the waves threw her
up again on the other side of the bridge, when a hollow, dying wail
wandered over the river--the last farewell of this poor waif of
humanity, sacrificed to the pleasures of the scoundrels who "bear rule"
among us, and call themselves refined.
Wanless was already at the toll-house, panting and hardly able to speak.
But his look was enough, and presently there arose a shouting to
lightermen and bargemen. Boats were put off by those who had heard the
splash and the cry. A crowd gathered to see. In little more than a
quarter of an hour a shout rose from the water far down towards
Blackfriars, for the tide was running out, and the girl had gone rapidly
down stream. "Saved! saved!" was the cry, and they had, indeed, found
the body of Adelaide Codling. She herself had gone. The cold had killed
her rather than the length of time she had been in the water--the cold
and the shock.
Thomas waited to hear the result of the doctor's efforts at the police
office, and then saw the body deposited in a neighbouring deadhouse. No
clue to her identification was found upon the body, the poor girl had
taken care of that, more mindful of her friends in death than they of
her living. But Thomas felt bound to tell the police sergeant what he
knew. He gave his own address and that of the Rev. Josiah Codling, but
could not tell where the girl lived, or what had been the immediate
cause of her suicide. The police, seeing that the upper classes were in
question, decided to keep names quiet for the present--but communicated
with the girl's father, and arranged that the inquest should be delayed
for two days to permit him to attend. Thomas himself was told that he
would be summoned as a witness, and then went his way.
He hardly knew how he got home to his lodgings that night.
The inquest on the body of Adelaide Codling was held in the upper room
of a low-class public house in Upper Thames Street. Thomas Wanless
obtained liberty to absent himself from work that day, at his own
charges, of course, and punctually at three in the afternoon--the
appointed hour--he entered the parlour of the inn. He was carefully
dressed in the now threadbare and shiny suit of black, which had been
his Sunday costume for many years.
A small knot of men had gathered in the room, and a desultory kind of
chat was going on when Thomas entered. Two or three were grumbling at
the nuisance of these "coroner's 'quests," which took men away from
their business, the majority were "having something to drink," and all
were utterly indifferent to the business that had brought them there.
Presently the coroner bustled into the room with his clerk. The latter
hurriedly called over some names, which were answered, and then produced
a greasy-looking volume in leather which he called "the book." This
talisman he put into the hands of the man nearest him, to whom he
mumbled some cabalistic words, at the end of which the book was passed
along and kissed in a foolish sort of way by the chosen twelve. Having
in this manner "constituted the jury," proceedings commenced with a
procession to "view the body," led by the coroner. It lay in a rough
wooden shell coffin, in a dark hole attached to an old city church, and
used as a mortuary. Wanless followed the little crowd in a stunned sort
of way. To his simple, rustic mind it was a dreadful thing that men
should be able to go so carelessly about such a solemn duty. At the
mortuary he was surprised to see the Vicar. The old man stood by his
child's head, gazing at it in a helpless, dazed way, as if hardly
conscious of what it all meant. No emotion was visible on his face, no
tears broke from his eyes when a policeman, softened by the sight, led
him gently away to the inn parlour out of the way of coroner and jury.
The "viewing" over, the Court returned to the inn to take evidence. Of
that there was very little, beyond the personal testimony of the police,
until Thomas Wanless was called. When his name was mentioned, Thomas saw
the old Vicar start, and for the first time look up with something like
intelligence in his glance, then a scared, shrinking sort of expression
stole across his features, as if he had suddenly thought of home and
cruel village tongues. But he listened quietly to all the old labourer
had to say. It was not much, for a proper-minded coroner would not have
suffered "family secrets" to be too freely exposed, nor had Wanless
himself any desire to tell more than was absolutely needful.
"I saw the deceased," he said, "climb upon the parapet of Waterloo
Bridge opposite where I sat, and I ran towards her, but before I could
reach her she had gone over. As she prepared to spring she gave one last
look behind her, and I knew her to be our Vicar's daughter. I called her
by name, but it was too late."
The sad cadence of Thomas's voice, and his obvious superiority of mien,
did not prevent one of the jury from asking him in a brutal tone--
"And what were _you_ doing there, my man?"
"I was looking for my own child," answered the old labourer. "At first
I thought I had found her, till I saw the face."
"Ah!" ejaculated the coroner. "Had you then----?" but his better impulse
stopped him, and he did not finish the question. Thomas, however,
understood it, and replied at once, almost under his breath--
"Yes, your Honour, I have lost a daughter, and Captain Wiseman, the same
ruffian destroyed her that enticed away the Vicar's poor lass now lying
yonder."
His words sent a shudder through the room, and Thomas was vexed he had
spoken them ere they were well out of his mouth, for they seemed to goad
the Vicar into a state of active terror which gave him energetic
utterance. The more vulgar of the jury pricked up their ears at the
sound of scandal, and one of them said--"Can you give us a clue then as
to how this poor girl came to drown herself?"
"Oh, for God's sake don't," the Vicar interposed, starting to his feet,
and stretching forth his hand beseechingly towards the labourer; "for
God's sake don't expose it, Wanless." Then he collapsed again, and began
to weep violently, so that Wanless felt sorry for him, and was relieved
when the loud voice of the coroner was heard again ruling that "it was
quite unnecessary to rake up disagreeables." He saw the "aristocracy in
the business," in short, and it pleased him to be strict. Thomas,
therefore, was asked a number of venture questions, whether he knew
where the deceased lived, or whether he was aware of her circumstances,
&c., questions to which he had mostly to answer "No." His examination
was, therefore, soon ended, and the coroner was beginning to tell the
jury that it was a common case, requiring the usual verdict, "Suicide
while in a state," merely, when, to everybody's surprise, the Vicar
intimated that he had a statement to make.
He rose, trembling visibly, and looked round with a vacant eye till he
caught sight of Wanless, who had fallen back, and was standing near the
door. Then his look changed, and, with something like energy, he
exclaimed--"I wish to ask you, gentlemen, not to believe what that man
says. He has a spite against my family, and against the family at----"
Here he stopped suddenly, afraid to mention the name of his child's
destroyer, and the solemn voice of the peasant was heard saying--"God
forgive you, Josiah Codling," softly, as if to himself. But the Vicar
heard, and his trembling increased so much that when a blunt juryman
interposed with--"How do you account for your daughter's suicide then?"
he could only stammer a feeble--"I'm sure I cannot say."
"But surely you knew her whereabouts--what she was doing?"
"N-n-no, I cannot say I did quite. My wife--that is her mother--told me
that she was visiting an aunt in Kent, and I believed it was so."
"But were there no letters, then? Didn't your daughter write to you at
times?" persisted the juryman, though the coroner began to fidget and
look black.
"Letters!" repeated the Vicar, as if struck with a new idea; "no, I
believe not. Yes, I think she did write to her mother--to my wife that
is to say. At least I saw the envelope of one letter. I picked it out
of the coal scuttle in the breakfast room, but Adelaide--that is my
daughter--did not write to me--not that I recollect."
"Humph! I see, 'grey mare the better horse,'" muttered the juryman--a
bluff, not unkindly-looking man, and then there fell a moment of deep
silence on the Court. The Vicar stood, bearing himself up with his hands
on the table before him, and seemed to have more to say. But when after
a brief pause, the impatient Coroner ejaculated--"Well, sir! have you
done?" the Vicar answered--"Y-yes, I think so. I only wished you not to
judge my child hastily," and sat down.
A few moments more and the jury had given their verdict--"the usual one"
as the coroner described it--a verdict permitting the corpse to have
Christian burial, and all was over. The majority of the jury adjourned
to the bar to refresh themselves, and interchange opinions on, what one
of them called, "this jolly queer case." The bar-keeper himself joined
in the conversation, and Wanless heard him enlarging upon the
corruptions of the "Hupper classes," as he followed the Vicar down
stairs. But there was no danger that comments of this kind would get
into the newspapers. A paragraph about the suicide did, indeed, appear
in several morning journals, but there was no mention of the seducer's
name. Such a thing as an adjournment to obtain Wiseman's evidence was
not even hinted. The coroner, jury, press, and all might have been
bought up by the Wiseman family, so discreet was the silence--and,
perhaps, some of them were. The press, at all events, was well gagged by
an infamous law of libel; and as there had been no sensational or
melodramatic incidents connected with the girl's end, it was easy to
bury all the story in oblivion--for _time_. The "gallant" Captain might
roll serenely on his way. Nothing could disturb him here except disease
and the moral leprosy bred of his crimes. "After death comes the
judgment."
When the little gathering had dispersed, the Vicar and Thomas Wanless
found themselves alone together. Both had waited to let the unfamiliar
faces disappear. Neither had thought at the moment that this shyness
would bring them face to face. The peasant was the first to realise the
situation, and as he looked at the broken-down old man before him, he
was stirred with pity. On the impulse of the moment he went to where
Codling stood, and laying his hand on his arm, said--
"Can I be of any use to you, sir?"
The Vicar started and turned hastily away, shaking Thomas's hand from
his arm, at the same time answering--"No, no, Thomas Wanless, I have
nothing to say to you. You have done me enough mischief for one day!"
"I have done you no mischief, sir. God forbid that I should harm you.
Had it been possible I would have saved you this pain,--I would have
rescued your daughter."
"Rescued my daughter, would you?" and Codling laughed a low, bitter
laugh. "Rescued my daughter! Why cannot you look after your own, Thomas
Wanless? I do not want your help."
"I watch for my child night and day," said the peasant solemnly. "It was
in seeking her that I met yours--too late. There is ever a prayer in my
heart that when I find my Sally I may not be too late for her also. Ah!
poor Sally!" he sighed, and the Vicar, taking no more notice of him, he
presently added--"Come out of this place, sir. It is not wise for you to
stop here when there is so much yet to be done."
The Vicar took Wanless's words as insinuating that he wanted to drink,
which was far enough from what Thomas intended. But the guilty are ever
prone to think themselves in danger, and it was with more heat and
energy of manner than he had yet shown that the Vicar turned and faced
his fellow-villager.
"Go away, you loafing, good-for-nothing fellow," he almost shouted,
"surely you have gratified your revenge sufficiently for one day,
without standing there to mock at my sorrow, as you have already done
your best to make my name a by-word." With that he moved towards the
door. But Thomas stood dumbfounded between him and it, and the Vicar,
too impatient now to wait for the peasant's slow motions, actually gave
him a shove on one side, and hurried outside, muttering to himself as he
went.