_London Bridge, and an unexpected scene upon it._
It was about four o'clock--sometime before daylight--one morning, nearly
a month after the events last described, that Mr. Lupton and Colin might
have been seen wending their way along the chilly and silent streets, in
the direction of London Bridge. Saving the deliberate footfalls of
the night-watch, the far-heard rattle of some early carriage over the
resounding pavement, or perhaps now and then the smothered asthmatical
cough of some poor old creature or other turned out thus early, in cloak
and covered chair, to sit with charcoal fire and coffee in the streets,
there were no audible signs that any soul existed there besides
themselves. London was asleep. This Goliah of earthly cities had lain
itself down wearied, and for a time lost itself in forgetfulness of all
the world. Its labours suspended, its pleasures wearied into pains,
and laid all aside, its virtue dreaming innocently, its vice steeped
painfully in the burning phlegethon of disturbed stupor, like a
half-dreamed hell; its happy, hopeful of the morrow; its miserable,
dreading the approach of another sun. While itself, the carcass of the
great city, lay stretched athwart the banks of the broad river, as,
overpowered with the mighty labours which it had achieved within the
last four and twenty hours, and unconsciously receiving strength from
repose for that additional exertion, whose repetitions day by day, year
by year, and age after age, no man can count to the end.
“Five o'clock exactly,” said Colin, “is, I think, the time appointed,
and on the city side of the bridge.”
As he said this he drew from his pocket the communication to which
allusion was made at the conclusion of the last chapter, and again
perused it.
The reader must here be informed that the letter now in Colin's hands
had been addressed to him in the first instance at Mr. Veriquear's, and
thence had been forwarded to his present residence. It came from some
anonymous correspondent, evidently residing not far from the place to
which James Woodruff had been carried; but as its contents will perhaps
better explain themselves than would any description of mine, I will
give it:--
“Sir,--I am given to understand that you feel some interest in the fate
of a Mr. James Woodruff. That man is now in my power, either to liberate
or to detain for life, according as you may answer this favourably or
unfavourably. You HAVE AN OBJECT TO CARRY OUT, SO have I. If you are
prepared to serve me, I will put this Woodruff into your hands in
return: if not, neither you nor his daughter may ever see him more. Meet
me _alone_ at the north end of London Bridge, at five o'clock on the
morning of the --th, and I will explain particulars. At that time it will
be as secret there as in a desert, and you will feel more secure. You
will know me to be the writer of this when you see a man make a cross
with his finger in the air.”
This strange communication Colin had laid before Mr. Lupton; and the
only probable conjecture they could form respecting it was, that it
had been written by Doctor Rowel's brother, who,--having heard of the
imprisonment of that gentleman,--had resorted to this expedient in the
hope of compromising the matter by, as it were, exchanging prisoners,
and perhaps stipulating for all farther proceedings against the Doctor
being stayed. To be sure, there were objections to this interpretation,
but, nevertheless, it seemed altogether the only plausible one they
could hit upon.
However, as Mr. Lupton suspected that very possibly some treachery might
be concealed under this uncommon garb, and that it was a plot on the
part of the Doctor's friends to be revenged on Colin,--he himself
determined to accompany him; but on their arrival near the place
appointed to fall back, in order to avoid suspicion, though still
keeping sufficiently near to distinguish a preconcerted signal which
Colin was to give in case of need.
The bridge was now at hand. Over the parapet to the left, and
considerably below them, long rows of lights, illuminating the walls and
doorways of life-deserted warehouses, filled with merchandise from all
parts of the world, pointed out the site of that thronged and noisy
gully Thames Street. Before them, farther on, lost in mist, and yet
lingering smoke, which gave to sky, buildings, and water, one common
neutral colour, rose beyond the water one solitary tower, looming darker
than all around it, but relieved still farther back by a flush of
dull, mysterious light, which, though it showed nothing distinctly, yet
emphatically marked the existence, to an undefined extent, of many
an unseen mass of building like that by which they were immediately
surrounded. And now they are on the bridge alone. It is not yet five.
The sight is magnificent. Behold these two sides of a mighty city
separated by a scarcely-seen gulf, on which streams of light, reflected
from night-lamps afar off, ripple as though so many of the pillars of
fire that lighted the Israelites of old were on the waves. Up the great
stream, or down it,--the uprear-ing of men's hands,--house, church, and
palace appear alike illimitable. All those mean and minor details, which
confound the eye and distract the attention during daylight, are now
swallowed up and resolved into one broad whole. The dense and unmeasured
mass of building which meets the sight every way, seems resolved into
a solid. Line on line and height on height extending away till lost
utterly in the far obscurity of the void horizon. Without any great
strain of the imagination this scene might be mistaken for a splendid
dream of Tyre or Palmyra, or of Babylon on the Euphrates, great cities
of old, whose giant memories loom in the mind as images that cannot be
fully compassed from their very vastness. While under our feet flows the
ghastly river, the dull, deceptive stream that has borne on its bosom
the wealth of kingdoms; that has found in its bed a thousand last
resting-places for human misery, when the link that bound unhappiness
and life together became too galling to be any more endured; and that in
its stormy wrath has swallowed happiness suddenly, when jollity forgot
in its temporary delirium that boats are frail, and that but a slender
plank, which a wave might founder, stood between itself and a deep
grave.
As Colin cast a scrutinizing eye around, in the hope of meeting with his
appointed and unknown correspondent, the city clocks far and near, some
together, and some after each other, chimed five. Almost with the last
stroke of the bell footsteps were heard rising upon the city side of the
bridge. A bricklayer s labourer, with a short pipe in his mouth, passed
by; and then a woman,--if woman she could be called,--torn, dirty, and
deplorable to look upon, staggering forwards under the influence of the
last night's excesses: but neither made a sign. Behind them followed
an old man, roughly clad in the costume of the poorer classes of the
residents of our country villages, saving that a long coat supplied the
place of smock-frock, while his nether extremities were finished off
with quarter boots, tightly laced up to the ankles with leathern thongs.
An unaccountable feeling, which displayed itself in his flushed
features, shot through Colin's veins as the first momentary sight of
this man came across him. Had he seen him before? It almost seemed so;
but when? where? on what occasion?
The old man hesitated a moment or two as he gazed on Colin, and then
cast a searching glance around, in order to ascertain whether he was
alone. The figure of Mr. Lupton was dimly visible at some distance.
Colin leaned idly against the wall with his eyes fixed intently on the
old man, who now again approached him. In another moment the sign was
made--the cross in the air--and our hero advanced and accosted him.
“I believe, sir, you wish to speak to me: you sent a letter addressed to
me a short time ago.”
“Nay--nay, now!” replied the old man, “what occasion have you to tell
_me_ that? If I wrote you a letter I know it without your explanation;
and your appearance here is a sufficient assurance to me that you have
duly received it. Do you know who I am?”
“I do not,” said Colin, “though it seems to me as though I had seen you
before somewhere or other.”
“Humph! well--well!” exclaimed the old man, “then you are now talking to
old Jerry Clink, your own grandfather.”
“Your name Clink!” ejaculated the young man, astonished, “and my
grandfather!”
“Now, why ask me again? Hav'n't I just now answer'd 'em. And if you
can't believe me the first time, I 'm sure you won't on a repetition.”
“But is it possible? I never knew I had a grandfather.”
“Ay, ay, I see how it is,” replied Jerry; “I'm a poor man, and you are
apeing the gentleman. But I risked my life once to be revenged for
you, only some busy meddler came across and baulked me. I'll do it yet
though; and I want you to help me. The cause is yours as well as mine;
for the injury is of a mother to you, though of a daughter to me:
and the man who will not defend his mother's honour, or revenge her
disgrace, ought to be cast into the bottomless pit for everlasting!”
Colin stood astonished at this speech. He scarcely knew what he said,
but faltered out, “Who, sir, has dared to say anything to my mother's
dishonour, or to bring her into any disgrace?”
The old man tapped him with serious significance on the shoulder as he
replied, “Your father, my boy,--your father!”
“How!” exclaimed the young man in a tone of deep excitement: “who is he?
for I never knew who was my father.”
“You!” replied Jerry bitterly, “ought never to have been born!”
“What can you mean, man, by all this?” demanded Colin.
“I tell you,” answered the old man, “your father is a villain, and
you--you are--but never mind. Since you _are_ born, and _are_ alive,
show that you are worthy to live by properly resenting your mother's
everlasting injuries. _My_ vengeance has been untiring, but it has
not succeeded yet. Together we can do anything. True, the man must be
called, as he is, your father. What then? The punishment of such fathers
cannot come from better hands than their own sons. As they sow the wind,
let them reap the whirlwind.”
“What is it?” demanded Colin, interrupting him, “that you would propose
to me?”
“See you,” said the old man, drawing closer, “you are in love with a
girl, named Fanny Woodruff. Nay, nay, do not interrupt me, I know better
than you do. I tell you you love her, and can never marry any one else.
Her father is confined as a madman. He is now in my power. I am his
keeper. You want to liberate him, and rightly too. _He_ has told me all
about it, and I believe him. Now, let me see the spirit of a true man
in you; take up your mothers cause, and never forgive till you are
revenged, and he shall by me be set at liberty. Join hand and heart with
me against the villain called your father.”
“Who is he?” again demanded Colin.
“Lupton of Kiddal,” answered Jerry.
“Mr. Lupton my father!”
“The same. I shot at him once.”
“You?”
“I, with this same right hand.”
“And I,” added Colin, “prevented it, and saved you from the gallows.”
The old man stood mute--confounded. His whole countenance changed with
deadly fury, and in the next moment he rushed upon Colin with apparently
the desperate intention of forcing him over the balustrades of the
bridge.
A moment sufficed for his signal call, which brought Mr. Lupton
instantly to the spot. The mutual recognition between Jerry and himself
was but the process of a moment; and, while the latter strove all in his
power to secure the former without violence, Jerry as desperately
and madly aimed to bury in his bosom a long knife, which it was now
discovered he held opened in his hand. The combined exertions of Mr.
Lupton and Colin were, however, too much for him, and would eventually
have achieved his capture, had not Jerry, with a degree of reckless
desperation and agility, which struck both his assailants with momentary
horror and astonishment, leaped the wall of the bridge on finding
himself at the point of being taken, and casting his knife and coat from
him, in an instant plunged headlong from about the centre of one of the
arches into the Thames.
It was a wild leap, an insane flight into the arms of death. There was
no splash in the water, but a dull, leaden sound came up, as when a
heavy weight is plunged into a deep gulf. It was as if the water made no
aperture, and threw up no spray; but gulfed him sullenly, as though such
prey was not worth rejoicing over.
Father and son seemed petrified into mere statues; not more from what
they had seen than--in the case of the latter, at least--he had heard
from the lips of the suicide. For that a suicide he was who could doubt?
Who might take that giddy leap, and live?
During a brief space they dared not even cast their eyes down the
fearful height; the deed had paralysed them. But, as Colin's eyes were
fixed intensely on the waves, a something living seemed to struggle
through and across a ripple of light. Could it indeed be the old man? He
dared not hope, and could say nothing.
Boats were subsequently got out, the river was traversed, and both
banks were searched, in hopes of finding him; but all the efforts of the
boatmen proved ineffectual.
The cause of Mr. Lupton's kindness was a secret to Colin no longer.
But in how different a relative position did he seem to stand to that
gentleman now to what he had done formerly; so recently, even, as one
brief hour ago! Within that space what painful truths had passionately
been cleared up to him; what difficulties and embarrassments thrown on
almost every hand around his future conduct towards nearly every person
with whom he was connected, and in whose fate his heart was most deeply
interested! But the case of his old grandfather, so resolutely bent
on spilling the blood of his own father, out of a stern principle of
mistaken justice, seemed to him the worst. He foresaw that, unless it
_had_ so happened that Jerry was drowned,--an event which he scarcely
knew whether to feel satisfied under, or to regret,--all his address
would be required in the time to come to settle the hostility between
that man and his father, without the bitter and ignominious consequence
resulting, which would doom him to behold his mother's parent expiate
upon a public scaffold his double crime of having twice deliberately
attempted the assassination of Mr. Lupton. So deeply was he overwhelmed
with the fearful transactions of the morning, that he begged the Squire
to allow him a day or two's quiet and reflection before he undertook
the duty of explaining to him what had passed between the old man and
himself. But it was on one condition only that Mr. Lupton consented to
acquiesce in this request. That condition was--to be then and there
told who his assailant could possibly be. Colin hesitated awhile, but at
length burst into tears as he uttered the words--“My mother's father!”
The Squire turned pale as ashes when those words reached his ear, while
a very sensible tremor shook his whole frame. He grasped Colin's hand,
but said nothing. Those words called up something in each mind, which
now made both dumb. They shook hands repeatedly, and parted.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
End of Project Gutenberg's Colin Clink, Volume II (of III), by Charles Hooton