which I daily attended; but being more interested in palaeography than
in modern practice, and intending to make that my particular branch of
effort, I spent much of my time at the Public Record Office; indeed, a
portion of every working day. The track between R---- Buildings and
Rolls Yard must have been sensibly thinned by my foot-soles; there
can have been few of the frequenters of Chancery Lane, Bedford Row and
the squares of Gray's Inn who were not known to me by sight or
concerning whom I had not imagined (or discerned) circumstances
invisible to their friends or themselves to account for their acts or
appearances. Among these innumerable personages--portly solicitors,
dashing clerks, scriveners, racing tipsters, match-sellers, postmen,
young ladies of business, young ladies of pleasure, clients descending
out of broughams, clients keeping rendezvous in public-houses, and
what not--Quidnunc's may well have been one; but I believe that it was
in Warwick Court (that passage from Holborn into the Inn) that, quite
suddenly, I first saw him, or became aware that I saw him; for being,
as he was, to all appearance an ordinary telegraphic messenger, I may
have passed him daily for a year without any kind of notice. But on a
day in the early spring of 1886--mid-April at a guess--I came upon him
in such a way as to remark him incurably. I saw before me on that
morning of tender leafage, of pale sunlight and blue mist contending
for the day, a strangely assorted pair proceeding slowly toward the
Inn. A telegraph boy was one; by his side walked, vehemently
explaining, a tall, elderly solicitor--white-whiskered, drab-spatted,
frock-coated, eye-glassed, silk-hatted--in every detail the trusted
family lawyer. I knew the man by sight, and I knew him by name and
repute. He was, let me say--for I withhold his real name--George
Lumley Fowkes, of Fowkes, Vizard and Fowkes, respectable head of a
more than respectable firm; and here he was, with his hat pushed back
from his dewy forehead, tip-toeing, protesting, extenuating to a slip
of a lad in uniform. The positions of the odd pair were unaccountably
reversed; Jack was better than his master, the deference was from the
elder to the brat. The stoop of Fowkes's shoulder, the anxious angle
of his head, his care to listen to the little he got--and how little
that was I could not but observe--his frequent ejaculations of "God
bless my soul!" his deep concern--and the boy's unconcern, curtly
expressed, if expressed at all--all this was singular. So much more
than singular was it to myself that it enthralled me.
They stopped at the gateway which admits you to Bedford Row to finish
their colloquy. The halt was made by Fowkes, barely acquiesced in by
his companion. Poor old Fowkes, what with his asthma, the mopping of
his head, the flacking of his long fingers, exhibited signals of the
highest distress. "I need hardly assure you, sir ..." I heard; and
then, "Believe me, sir, when I say...." He was marking time, unhappy
gentleman, for with such phrases does the orator eke out his waning
substance. The lad listened in a critical, staring mood, and once or
twice nodded. While I was wondering how long he was going to put up
with it, presently he jerked his head back and showed Fowkes, by the
look he gave him, that he had had enough of him. The old lawyer knew
it for final, for he straightened his back, then his hat, touched the
brim and made a formal bow. "I leave it so, sir," he said; "I am
content to leave it so;" and then, with every mark of respect, he went
his way into Bedford Row. I noticed that he walked on tiptoe for some
yards, and then more quickly, flapping his arms to his sides.
The boy stood thoughtful where he was, communing by the looks of him
quite otherwhere, and I had the opportunity to consider him. He
appeared to be a handsome, well-built lad of fifteen or so, big for
his age, and precocious. By that I mean that his scrutiny of life was
mature; that he looked capable, far beyond the warrant of his years.
He was ruddy of complexion, freckled, and had a square chin. His eyes
were light grey, with dark lashes to them; they were startlingly light
and bright for such a sunburnt face, and seemed to glow in it like
steady fires. It was in them that resided, that sat, as it were,
enthroned, that mature, masterful expression which I never saw before
or since in one so young. I have seen the eyes of children look as if
they were searching through our world into another; that is almost
habitual in children. But here was one, apparently a boy, who seemed
to read into our circumstances (as you or I into a well-studied book)
as though they held nothing inexplicable, nothing unaccounted for.
Beyond these singular two eyes of his, his smiling mouth, with its
reminder of archaic statuary, was perhaps his only noticeable feature.
He wore the ordinary uniform of a telegraphic messenger, which in
those days was grey, with a red line down the trousers and a belt for
the tunic. His boots were of the service pattern, so were his
ankle-jacks. His hands were not cleaner than they ought to have been,
his nails well bitten back. Such was he.
Studying him closely over the top of my newspaper, by-and-by he fixed
me with his intent, bright eyes. My heart beat quicker; but when he
smiled--like the Pallas of AEgina--I smiled too. Then, without varying
his expression, even while he smiled upon me, he vanished.
Vanished! There's no other word for it: he vanished; I did not see him
go; I don't know whether he went or where he went. At one moment he
was there, smiling at me, looking into my eyes; at the next moment he
was not there. That's all there is to say about it. I flashed a
glance through the gate into Bedford Row, another up to R----
Buildings, and even ran to the corner which showed me the length and
breadth of Field Place. He was not gone any of these ways. These
things are certain.
Now for the sequel. Mere fortune led me at four that afternoon into
Bedford Row. A note had been put into my hands at the Record Office
inviting me to call upon a client whose chambers were in that quarter,
and I complied with it directly my work was over. Now as I walked
along the Row, the boy of that morning's encounter was going into the
entry of the house in which Fowkes and Vizards have their offices. I
had just time to recognise him when the double knock announced his
errand. I stopped immediately; he delivered in a telegram and came
out. I was on the step. Whether he knew me or not he did not look his
knowledge. His eyes went through me, his smiling mouth did not smile
at me. My heart beat, I didn't know why; but I laughed and nodded. He
went his leisurely way and I watched him, this time, almost out of
sight. But while I stood so, watching, old Fowkes came bursting out of
his office, tears streaming down his face, the telegram in his hand.
"Where is he? Where is he?" This was addressed to me. I pointed the
way. Old Fowkes saw his benefactor (as I suppose him to have been)
and began to run. The lad turned round, saw him coming, waved him
away, and then--disappeared. Again he had done it; but old Fowkes, in
no way surprised, stood rooted to the pavement with his hands extended
so far toward the mystery that I could see two or three inches of bony
old wrist beyond his shirt-cuffs. After a while he turned and slowly
came back to his chambers. He seemed now not to see me; or he was
careless whether I saw him or not. As he entered the doorway he held
up the telegram, bent his head and laid a kiss upon the pink paper.
But that is by no means all. Now I come, to the Richborough story,
which all London that is as old as I am remembers. That part of
London, it may be, will not read this book; or if it does, will not
object to the recall of a case which absorbed it in 1886-87. I am not
going to be indiscreet. The lady married, and the lady left England.
Moreover, naturally, I give no names; but if I did I don't see that
there is anything to be ashamed of in what she was pleased to do with
her hand and person. It was startling to us of those days, it might be
startling in these; what was more than startling was the manner in
which the thing was done. That is known to very few persons indeed.
I had seen enough upon that April day, whose events form my prelude,
to give me remembrance of the handsome telegraph boy. The next time I
saw him, which was near midnight in July--the place Hyde Park--I knew
him at once.
I had been sharing in Prince's Gate, with a dull company, an
interminable dinner, one of those at which you eat twice as much as
you intend, or desire, because there is really nothing else to do. On
one side of me I had had a dowager whom I entirely failed to interest,
on the other, a young person who only cared to talk with her left-hand
neighbour. There was a reception afterward to which I had to stop, so
that I could not make my escape till eleven or more. The night was
very hot and it had been raining; but such air as there was was balm
after the still furnace of the rooms. I decided immediately to walk to
my lodging in Camden Town, entered by Prince's Gate, crossed the
Serpentine Bridge and took a bee-line for the Marble Arch. It was
cloudy, but not at all dark. I could see all the ankle-high railings
which beset the unwary passenger and may at any moment break his legs
and his nose, imperil his dignity and ruin his hat. Dimly ahead of me,
upon a broad stretch of grass, I presently became aware of a
concourse. There was no sound to go by, and the light afforded me no
definite forms; the luminous haze was blurred; but certainly people
were there, a multitude of people. I was surprised, but not alarmed.
Save for an occasional wastrel of civilisation, incapable of
degradation and concerned only for sleep, the park is wont to be a
desert at that hour; but the hum of the traffic, the flashing cab
lamps, never quite out of sight, prevent fear. Far from being afraid I
was highly interested, and hastening my steps was soon on the
outskirts of a throng.
A throng it certainly was, a large body of persons, male and female,
scattered yet held together by a common interest, loitering and
expectant, strangely silent, not concerned with each other, rarely in
couples, with all their faces turned one way--namely, to the
south-east, or (if you want precision) precisely to Hyde Park Corner.
I have remarked upon the silence: that was really surprising; so also
was the order observed, and what you may call decorum. There was no
ribaldry, no skylarking, no shrill discord of laughter without mirth
in it to break the solemnity of the gracious night. These people just
stood or squatted about; if any talked together it was in secret
whispers. It is true that they were under the watch of a tall
policeman; yet he too, I noticed, watched nobody, but looked steadily
to the south-east, with his lantern harmless at his belt. As my eyes
grew used to the gloom I observed that all ranks composed the
company. I made out the shell jacket, the waist and elongated limbs of
a life-guardsman, the open bosom of an able seaman. I happened upon a
young gentleman in the crush hat and Inverness of the current fashion;
I made certain of a woman of the pavement and of ladies of the
boudoir, of a hospital nurse, of a Greenwich pensioner, of two
flower-girls sitting on the edge of one basket, of a shoeblack (I
think), of a costermonger, and a nun. Others there were, and more than
one or two of most categories: in a word, there was an assembly.
I accosted the policeman, who heard me civilly but without committing
himself. To my first question, what was going to happen? he carefully
answered that he couldn't say, but to my second, with the
irrepressible scorn of one who knows for one who wants to know, he
answered more frankly, "Who are they waiting for? Why, Quidnunc.
Mister Quidnunc. That's who it is. Him they call Quidnunc. So now you
know." In fact, I did not know. He had told me nothing, would tell me
no more, and while I stood pondering the oracle I was sensible of some
common movement run through the company with a thrill, unite them,
intensify them, draw them together to be one people with one faith,
one hope, one assurance. And then the nun, who stood near me, fell to
her knees, crossed herself and began to pray; and not far off her a
slim girl in black turned aside and covered her face with her hands. A
perceptible shiver of emotion, a fluttering sigh such as steals over a
pine-wood toward dawn ran through all ranks. Far to the south-east a
speck of light now showed, which grew in intensity as it came swiftly
nearer, and seemed presently to be a ball of vivid fire surrounded by
a shroud of lit vapour. Again, as by a common consent, the crowd
parted, stood ranked, with an open lane between. The on-coming flare,
grown intolerably bright, now seemed to fade out as it resolved itself
into a human figure. A human figure at the entry of the lane of people
there undoubtedly was, a figure with so much light about him, raying
(I thought) from him, that it was easy to observe his form and
features. Out of the flame and radiant mist he grew, and showed
himself to me in the trim shape and semblance, with the small head and
alert air of a youth; and such as he was, in the belted tunic and
peaked cap of a telegraph messenger, he came smoothly down the lane
formed by the obsequious throng, and stood in the midst of it and
looked keenly, with his cold, clear eyes and fixed and inscrutable
smile, from one expectant face to another. There was no mistaking him
whom all those people so eagerly awaited; he was my former wonder of
Gray's Inn, the saviour of old Mr. Fowkes.
But all my former wonder paled before this my latter. For he stood
here like some young Eastern king among his slaves, one hand on his
hip, the other at his chin, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed
but unblinking. Meantime, the crowd, which had stretched out arms to
him as he came, was now seated quietly on the grass, intently waiting,
watching for a sign. They sat, all those people, in a wide ring about
him; he was in the midst, a hand to his chin.
Whether sign was made or not, I saw none; but after some moments of
pause a figure rose erect out of the ring and hobbled toward the boy.
I made out an old woman, an old wreck of womanhood, a scant-haired,
blue-lipped ruin of what had once been woman. I heard her snivel and
sniff and wheeze her "Lord ha' mercy" as she went by, slippering
forward on her miserable feet, hugging to her wasted sides what
remnant of gown she had, fawning before the boy, within the sphere of
light that came from him. If he loathed, or scorned, or pitied her, he
showed no sign; if he saw her at all his fixed eyes looked beyond her;
if he abhorred her, his nostrils did not betray him. He stood like
marble and suffered what followed. It was strange.
Enacting what seemed to be a proper rite, she put her shaking left
hand upon his right shoulder, her right hand under his chin, as if to
cup it; and then, with sniffs and wailings interspersed, came her
petition to his merciful ears.
What she precisely asked of him, muttering, wheezing, whining,
snivelling, as she did, repeating herself--with her burthen of "O
dear, O dear, O dear!"--I don't know. Her lost girl, her fine
up-standing girl, her Nance, her only one, figured in it as needing
mercy. Her "Oh, sir, I ask you kindly!" and "Oh, sir, for this once ...!"
made me sick: yet he bore with her as she ran on, dribbling
tears and gin in a mingled flood; he bore with her, heard her in
silence, and in the end, by a look which I was not able to discover,
quieted and sent her shuffling back to her place. So soon as she was
down, the life-guardsman was on his feet, a fine figure of a man. He
marched unfalteringly up, stiffened, saluted, and then, observing the
ritual of hand to shoulder, hand to chin, spoke out his piece like the
honest fellow he was; spoke it aloud and without fear, evenly and
plainly. I thought that he had got it by heart, as I thought also of
another person I was to hear by-and-by. He wanted, badly it seemed,
news of his sweetheart, whom he was careful to call Miss Dixon. She
had last been heard of outside the Brixton Bon Marche, where she had
been seen with a lady friend, talking to "two young chaps" in
Volunteer uniform. They went up the Brixton Road toward Acre Lane, and
Miss Dixon, at any rate, was never heard of again. It was wearing him
out; he wasn't the man he had been, and had no zest for his meals. She
had never written; his letters to her had come back through the "Dead
Office." He thought he should go out of his mind sometimes; was afraid
to shave, not knowing what he might be after with "them things." If
anything could be done for him he should be thankful. Miss Dixon was
very well connected, and sang in a choir. Here he stopped, saluted,
turned and marched away into the night. I heard him pass a word or two
to the policeman, who turned aside and blew his nose. The hospital
nurse, who spoke in a feverish whisper, then a young woman from the
Piccadilly gas-lamps, who cried and rocked herself about, followed;
and then, to my extreme amazement, two ladies with cloaks and hoods
over evening gowns--one of them a Mrs. Stanhope, who was known to me.
The taller and younger lady, chaperoned by my friend, I did not
recognise. Her face was hidden by her hood.
I was now more than interested, it seemed to me that I was, in a
sense, implicated. At any rate I felt very delicate about overhearing
what was to come. It is one thing to become absorbed in a ritual the
like of which, in mid-London, you can never have experienced before,
but quite another thing to listen to the secret desires of a friend in
whose house you may have dined within the month. However--by whatever
casuistries I might have compassed it--I did remain. Let me hope, nay,
let me believe of myself that if the postulant had proved to be my
friend, Mrs. Shrewton Stanhope, herself, I should either have stopped
my ears or immediately retired.
But Mrs. Stanhope, I saw at once, was no more than _dame de
compagnie_. She stood in mid-ring with bent head and hands clasped
before her while the graceful, hooded girl approached nearer to the
mysterious oracle and fulfilled the formal rites demanded of all who
sought his help. Her ringed left hand was laid upon his right
shoulder, her fair right hand upheld his chin. When she began to
speak, which she did immediately and without a tremor, again I had the
sensation of hearing one who had words by heart. This was her burden,
more or less. "I am very unhappy about a certain person. It is Captain
Maxfield. I am engaged to him, and want to break it off. I must do
that--I must indeed. If I don't I shall do a more dreadful thing. I do
hope you will help me. Mrs. ----, my friend, was sure that you would. I
do hope so. I am very unhappy." She had commanded her voice until the
very end; but as she pitied herself there came a break in it. I heard
her catch her breath; I thought she would fall,--and so did Mrs.
Stanhope, it was clear, for she went hurriedly forward and put an arm
round her waist. The younger lady drooped to her shoulder; Mrs.
Stanhope inclined her head to the person--not a sign from him, mind
you--and gently withdrew her charge from the ring. The pair then
hurried across the park in the direction of Knightsbridge, and left
me, I may admit, consuming in the fire of curiosity and excitement
which they had lit.
Petitions succeeded, of various interest, but they seemed pale and
ineffectual to me. Before all or nearly all of the waiting throng had
been heard I saw uneasiness spread about it. Face turned to face, head
to head; subtle but unmistakable movements indicated unrest. Then, of
the suddenest, amid lifted hands and sighed-forth prayers the youthful
object of so much entreaty, receiver of so many secret sorrows, seemed
to fade and, without effort, to recede. I know not how else to
describe his departure. He backed away, as it were, into the dark. The
people were on their feet ere this. Sighs, wailing, appeals, sobs,
adjurations broke the quietness of the night. Some ran stumbling after
him with extended arms; most of them stayed where they were, watching
him fade, hoping against hope. He emptied himself, so to speak, of
light; he faded backward, diminishing himself to a luminous glow, to a
blur, to a point of light. Thus he was gone. The disappointed crept
silently away, each into silence, solitude and the night, and I found
myself alone with the policeman.
Now, what in the name of God was all this? I asked him, and must have
it. He gave me some particulars, admitting at the outset that it was a
"go." "They seem to think," he said, "that they will get what they
want out of him--by wire. Let him bring them a wire in the morning;
that's the way of it. Anything in life, from sudden death to a
penn'orth of bird-seed. Death! Ah, I've heard 'em cringe to him for
death, times and again. They crawl for it--they must have it. Can't do
it theirselves, d'ye see? No, no. Let him do it--somehow. Once a week,
during the season--his season, I should say, because he ain't here
always, by no means--they gets about like this; and how they know
where to spot him is more than I can tell you. If I knew it, I
would--but I don't. Nobody knows that--and yet they know it. Sometimes
he's to be found here two weeks running; then it'll be the Regent's
Park, or the Knoll in the Green Park. He's had 'em all the way to
Hampstead before now, and Primrose Hill's a likely place, they tell
me. Telegrams: that's what he gives 'em--if he's got the mind. But
they don't get all they want, not by no means. And some of 'em gets
more than they want, by a lot." He thought, then chuckled at a rather
grim instance.
"Why, there was old Jack Withers, 'blue-nosed Jack' they calls him,
who works a Hammersmith 'bus! Did you ever hear of that? That was a
good one, if you like. Now you listen. This Jack was coming up the
Brompton Road on his 'bus--and I was on duty by the Boltons and see
him coming. There was that young feller there too--him we've just had
here--standing quiet by a pillar-box, reading a letter. One foot he
had in the roadway, and his back to the 'bus. Up comes old Jack,
pushing his horses, and sees the boy. Gives a great howl like a
tom-cat. 'Hi! you young frog-spawn,' he says, 'out of my road,' and
startled the lad. I see him look up at Jack very steady, and keep his
eye on him. I thought to myself, 'There's something to pay on
delivery, my boy, for this here.' Jack owned up to it afterwards that
he felt queer, but he forgot about it. Now, if you'll believe me, sir,
the very next morning Jack was at London Bridge after his second
journey, when up comes this boy, sauntering into the yard. Comes up to
Jack and nods. 'Name of Withers?' he says. 'That's me,' says old Jack.
'Thought so,' he says. 'Telegram for you.' Jack takes it, opens it,
goes all white. 'Good God!' he says; 'good God Almighty! My wife's
dead!' She'd been knocked down by a Pickford that morning, sure as a
gun. What do you think of that for a start?
"He served Spotty Smith the fried-eel man just the very same, and lots
more I could tell you about. They call him Quidnunc--Mister Quidnunc,
too, and don't you forget it. There's that about him I--well, sir, if
it was to come to it that I had to lay a hand on him for something out
of Queer Street I shouldn't know how to do it. Now I'm telling you a
fact. I shouldn't--know--how--to--do it."
He was not, obviously, telling me a fact, but certainly he was much in
earnest. I commented upon the diversity of the company, and so learned
the name of my friend Mrs. Stanhope's friend. He clacked his tongue.
"Bless you," he said, "I've seen better than to-night, though we did
have a slap-up ladyship and all. That was Lady Emily Rich, that young
thing was, Earl of Richborough's family--Grosvenor Place. But we had a
Duchess or something here one night--ah, and a Bishop another, a Lord
Bishop. You'd never believe the tales we hear. He's known to every
night-constable from Woolwich to Putney Bridge--and the company he
gets about him you'd never believe. High and low, and all huddled
together like so many babes in a nursing-home. No distinction. You saw
old Mother Misery get first look-in to-night? My lady waited her turn,
like a good girl!" His voice sank to a whisper. "They tell me he's the
only living soul--if he _is_ a living soul--that's ever been inside
the Stock Exchange and come out tidy. He goes and comes in as he
likes--quite the Little Stranger. They all know him in Throgmorton
Street. No, no. There's more in this than meets the eye, sir. He's not
like you and me. But it's no business of mine. He don't go down in my
pocket-book, I can tell you. I keep out of his way--and with reason.
He never did no harm to me, nor shan't if I can help it. Quidnunc!
Mister Quidnunc! He might be a herald angel for all I know."
I went my way home and to bed, but was not done with Quidnunc.